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The raven had arrived with the dawn, black wings cutting through the grey morning sky like an omen. Ned stared at the parchment in his hands, Robert's familiar scrawl demanding immediate action in language that brooked no argument. The Iron Islands have risen in rebellion. Gather your banners and sail south. Your friend has need of you. Ned, let's crush those Iron Born like we crushed the Targaryens.
Ned set the letter down with more force than necessary, the sound echoing in his solar like a hammer blow.
"Trouble, my lord?" Maester Luwin inquired, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer. The old man had seen enough ravens bearing bad news to recognize the signs—the tight set of Ned's jaw, the way his fingers drummed against the desk.
"Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands," Ned said flatly. "Robert wants the northern lords to help crush this rebellion before it spreads."
Another war. Another separation from everything that matters. The thought tasted bitter as old wine. He'd only been home from the last war for five years—five precious years watching his sons grow from babies into boys, seeing Sansa take her first steps, trying to build some semblance of a normal life in the ruins of everything he'd lost.
"How many men will you need?" Luwin asked, already reaching for parchment and quill.
"All of them. But we'll start with the major houses—Umber, Karstark, Mormont, Bolton, Manderly. Send ravens to every lord who owes fealty to Winterfell." Ned moved to the window, staring out at the training yard where he could see two small figures wielding wooden swords with more enthusiasm than skill.
Jon and Robb, barely five years old but already inseparable, were taking turns trying to knock each other down while Ser Rodrik shouted encouragement and corrections in equal measure. They're so young, Ned thought, watching Jon duck under one of Robb's wild swings. Too young to understand why their father keeps leaving them.
"Your family will want to know how long you expect to be gone," Luwin said, his quill scratching across parchment.
How long? That was the question, wasn't it? Wars had a way of stretching on longer than anyone expected, consuming months and years and the precious moments that could never be recovered. "Long enough to remind Balon Greyjoy why the Iron Islands bent the knee in the first place."
"A diplomatic answer, my lord, but not particularly helpful for planning provisions."
Despite everything, Ned found himself almost smiling. "Six months, if we're lucky. A year if we're not. The Greyjoys are raiders, not soldiers. They'll break quickly once they realize the realm is loyal to Robert."
Robert. His oldest friend, his brother in all but blood, the man who'd helped him survive the war that had taken everything else.
"The households will need to be reorganized in your absence," Luwin continued, making notes. "Lady Catelyn will serve as regent, of course, but there are certain matters that require—"
"Catelyn can handle whatever needs handling," Ned interrupted, perhaps more sharply than he'd intended. "She's proven herself capable enough these past years."
Capable. That was the word that always came to mind when he thought of his wife—capable, dutiful, competent. All admirable qualities in a lady, but somehow they felt insufficient when measured against memories of violet eyes and whispered promises in Dornish towers. Stop it, he told himself firmly. Ashara is dead, and Catelyn is here, raising your children and managing your household while you run off to fight other men's wars.
The guilt was familiar by now, a constant companion that had taken up residence in his chest. Guilt over Ashara, guilt over Catelyn, guilt over the children who would grow up thinking their father cared more about duty than family.
A burst of laughter from the yard drew his attention back to the window. Sansa had toddled out to watch her brothers, clapping her hands with delight every time one of them fell down. At three, she was all auburn curls and bright smiles, convinced that the world existed solely for her entertainment. She'd started calling both boys "brother" with the same enthusiasm, blissfully unaware of the complicated truths that separated Jon from the rest of them.
She'll be four when I return at least, Ned realized with a start. If I'm lucky. Old enough to have forgotten what I look like, old enough to be shy with a father who's become a stranger.
"Perhaps," Luwin said carefully, "you might consider leaving with one of the boys. For company, and to help with—"
"Both boys stay here," Ned said firmly. "This is their home, and they're too young for war."
"I wasn't suggesting you take them to war, my lord. Merely that... well, young Lord Robb might benefit from seeing more of the realm. And Jon..." Luwin paused delicately. "Jon might find opportunities elsewhere that he couldn't have at Winterfell."
Opportunities. Another careful euphemism. What Luwin meant, of course, was that a bastard's prospects were always limited in his father's house, overshadowed by the trueborn children who would inherit everything. Better to send Jon away early, before he could grow too attached to things that would never be his.
"Jon stays," Ned repeated, his voice brooking no argument. "He's my son, and his place is here."
For now, at least. Eventually, Jon would need to find his own path in the world—Ned did not know yet where his place would be in the world, but Ned had swore that his son would have a good place. But not yet. Not while he was still small enough to need his father's protection, still innocent enough to believe that love was more important than names.
"As you wish, my lord." Luwin's tone was neutral, but Ned could hear the unspoken concerns. The maester thinks I'm being foolish. Perhaps he's right.
"How long to gather the banners?" Ned asked, pushing aside thoughts he couldn't afford to dwell on.
"A fortnight, perhaps three weeks if the weather holds. Longer if we have early snows."
Three weeks. Enough time to explain to the boys why their father had to leave, to help Catelyn prepare for ruling alone, to memorize the sound of his children's laughter before duty called him away.
"Begin the preparations," Ned said finally. "And send word to Robert that the North will answer his call."
The ravens would fly south with their promises of men and swords and northern steel. Another war, another separation, another chance for the people he loved to grow distant while he served a crown that demanded everything and gave nothing in return.
But that was the price of honor, wasn't it? The price of being Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, loyal friend to kings and faithful servant to duty.
Even when it broke his heart.
Jon Snow - Three Weeks Later
Jon's throat felt scratchy when he woke up, like he'd been eating sand, but he forgot about it when he saw all the horses in the courtyard. There were so many men with swords and armor that it looked like one of Old Nan's stories about knights and battles, except these men were real and they were taking Father away.
Why does Father have to go? Jon didn't understand wars. Maester Luwin had tried to explain about bad men on islands who were being mean to the king, but Jon didn't know any kings and he didn't care about islands. He only cared that Father's face looked serious and sad, the way it got when grown-ups talked about important things that children weren't supposed to understand.
"Look at all the swords!" Robb said, bouncing on his toes next to Jon. Robb always got excited about sword things and warrior things, but Jon just felt scared. "Father's going to fight bad guys and win!"
Jon wished he could be brave like Robb, but his stomach felt funny and twisty. Father was wearing his armor—the good armor that made him look big and scary—and his horse was stamping its hooves like it wanted to run away. What if Father doesn't come back? The thought made Jon's eyes feel hot and prickly.
"Boys," Father called. He knelt down so he was the same height as them, which always made Jon feel important. "Come here."
Jon ran to Father faster than Robb did, even though his throat hurt when he swallowed. Father's armor was cold and hard when Jon hugged him, not warm and soft like his regular clothes, but he smelled the same—like leather and steel and something that was just Father.
"I have to go away for a while," Father said, putting one arm around Jon and one around Robb. "But I'll come back as soon as I can."
"How long?" Jon asked, even though asking made his throat hurt worse.
"I don't know, son. But not forever. Never forever."
But what if it feels like forever? Jon thought. Sometimes when Father went to his solar for work, it felt like forever even when it was just one day.
"Are you going to kill bad guys?" Robb asked, his eyes bright with excitement. "With your big sword?"
"I'm going to do what kings ask lords to do," Father said carefully. "To protect the realm and keep everyone safe."
Jon didn't care about realms. He just wanted Father to stay home and teach them more sword fighting with wooden swords, and read them stories, and be there when Jon had bad dreams about monsters in the dark.
"I don't want you to go," Jon said quietly, pressing his face against Father's shoulder. The words came out rough and scratchy, but he hoped Father understood.
"I know, Jon. I don't want to go either." Father's voice sounded sad, which made Jon feel even worse. "But sometimes fathers have to do things they don't want to do."
That's stupid, Jon thought but didn't say, because you weren't supposed to call grown-up things stupid even when they were.
"You'll take care of each other while I'm gone?" Father asked, looking at both of them. "Robb, you'll look after Jon?"
"Yes, Father," Robb said seriously, puffing out his chest. "I'll protect him from everything."
"And Jon, you'll help Robb be brave?"
Jon nodded even though he didn't feel brave at all. His throat hurt and his stomach hurt and now his chest hurt too, like something was squeezing him from the inside.
Father hugged them both tighter, and Jon tried to memorize how it felt so he could remember when Father was gone. Maybe if I hold on tight enough, he won't be able to leave, Jon thought desperately, wrapping his arms around Father's neck.
"I love you boys," Father whispered. "More than anything in the world. Don't ever forget that."
"Love you too, Father," Jon managed, even though the words scraped his throat like thorns.
Then Father was standing up, and Jon felt cold without his arms around him. Lady Catelyn was there with baby Sansa, who was too little to understand what was happening. Sansa just giggled and reached for the shiny things on Father's armor.
"Be good for your mother," Father told Robb, kissing the top of his head.
Then he looked at Jon, and his face got that sad expression again. "Be good, Jon. And remember—you're my son. Always."
Father kissed Jon's forehead, and Jon wanted to grab onto him and never let go, but his hands felt weak and shaky. Maybe I'm getting sick, he thought, but he pushed the thought away because Father was leaving and that was more important than feeling bad.
Father mounted his horse, and suddenly he looked very far away even though he was right there. The horse danced sideways, eager to go, and Jon felt like crying but he didn't want to be a baby in front of all the soldiers.
"Until we meet again," Father called down to them, using the old words that meant goodbye in the North.
"Until we meet again," Robb called back bravely.
Jon tried to say it too, but his voice wouldn't work right. He just watched as Father rode through the gates with all his men, getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared completely.
The courtyard felt empty and cold without them. Jon's throat hurt worse now, and he was starting to feel hot even though the morning air was chilly.
"Come on, Jon," Robb said, taking his hand. "Let's go play swords. I'll teach you that move Ser Rodrik showed us."
But Jon didn't want to play swords. He wanted Father to come back and hug him again and tell him everything would be all right.
Instead, he followed Robb inside, swallowing against the pain in his throat and trying not to think about how long forever might be.
Two Weeks Later - Catelyn Tully
The fever had come on suddenly, striking the boy down like a hammer blow in the middle of what had seemed like an ordinary morning. One moment he'd been playing with wooden knights in the nursery alongside Robb, and the next he was burning with heat and covered in the telltale red spots that made Catelyn's blood turn to ice.
Pox. The word whispered through Winterfell's corridors like a curse, carrying with it memories of children who'd sickened and died, of noble houses brought low by a disease that cared nothing for bloodlines or wealth. Of all the times for this to happen, Catelyn thought grimly, why now? Why when Ned is gone and I'm alone to deal with it?
"Get Robb away from him," she ordered sharply, sweeping into the nursery where Maester Luwin was already examining the boy. "Now."
"My lady," Luwin said carefully, not looking up from his patient, "the pox is not easily transmitted. The risk to young Lord Robb is minimal if we take proper precautions."
"I said get him away." Catelyn's voice carried the steel of absolute authority. She would not—could not—risk Robb's life for the sake of a bastard, no matter how pitiable the boy looked lying there with his violet eyes glazed with fever.
Violet eyes. Even now, burning with sickness, those eyes reminded her of the woman who'd given them to him. Ashara Dayne, the beauty of Starfall, the woman who'd captured Ned's heart during the war and given him a son to remember her by. She's dead now, Catelyn reminded herself. Dead and gone, but her boy remains.
"Mother?" Robb's voice was small and confused as one of the servants led him from the room. "Why can't I stay with Jon?"
He needs you to stay healthy, Catelyn thought fiercely. He needs you to live and inherit Winterfell and carry on your father's name. Aloud, she said, "...Jon... needs rest, darling. You can see him when he's better."
If he gets better. The thought came to her, followed immediately by a stab of something that might have been guilt. The boy was innocent of his mother's sins, innocent of the circumstances that had brought him to Winterfell. He was just a child, and children didn't deserve to suffer for the choices of their parents.
"How bad is it?" she asked Luwin once Robb was safely away.
The maester's expression was grave as he continued his examination. "Severe, but not necessarily fatal. The boy is strong, and he's had good care. These things often look worse than they are in the early stages."
Often, but not always. Catelyn had seen enough of sickness to know that hope and prayers were sometimes all that stood between a child and the grave. The boy's breathing was labored, his small body wracked with tremors, and the spots were spreading across his skin like spilled wine on white linen.
"What can be done?"
"Willow bark for the fever, honey and wine for his throat, cool cloths to bring down the heat. Beyond that..." Luwin spread his hands helplessly. "We wait, and we pray."
Pray to which gods? Catelyn wondered. The Seven, who'd blessed her marriage and given her children? The old gods of the North, who'd watched over the Starks for thousands of years? Would they even listen to prayers for a bastard?
"I'll arrange for additional servants," she said instead, falling back on the practical concerns that had always been her strength. "Someone to sit with him at all times, to change the linens, to—"
"My lady," Luwin interrupted gently, "perhaps you should consider who will be caring for the boy during his illness. The servants are already frightened, and if the fever worsens..."
They'll abandon him. The unspoken words hung in the air between them. Servants could be replaced; their own health and the health of their families came first. Who would sit vigil over a dying bastard when their own children might be at risk?
"I'll see to it," Catelyn heard herself saying, though the words felt strange on her tongue. Why? Why should I care if Ned's bastard lives or dies?
But even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. Because for all her resentment, for all the pain his presence caused her, the boy was still a child. Still Ned's son, blood of the man she'd married, bone of the father who'd claimed him. And because, in the deepest parts of her heart where she rarely dared to look, she'd grown almost fond of the quiet, serious little boy who never demanded anything and always seemed grateful for the smallest kindness.
Ashara Dayne's son, she reminded herself firmly. Not mine. Never mine. She is a threat to Robb, never forget this, she reminded herself fiercely
"The household is already talking," she said, watching as Luwin prepared his medicines. "Asking if the boy will survive."
"Children are resilient, my lady. More than we often give them credit for."
Some children. But bastards, especially bastards with uncertain futures and no powerful protectors, sometimes seemed to carry an extra burden. As if the world itself conspired against them, testing their right to exist.
"Send word to Lord Stark," Catelyn decided. "Let him know of the boy's condition."
"Of course, my lady. Though I should mention—ravens to the Iron Islands are... unreliable at present. The message may not reach him for some time."
So I'm truly alone in this. The weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders like a winter cloak. Whatever happened to the boy, whatever choices had to be made, they would be hers to bear.
"Do whatever can be done," she said finally. "Spare no expense. When Lord Stark returns, I want him to know that his son received every care."
His son. Not hers, never hers, but Ned's nonetheless. And for Ned's sake, if not for the boy's, she would see this through.
Even if it meant watching vigil over the child of the woman who'd had everything Catelyn had never been given—Ned's love, his passion, his heart.
Ashara Dayne is dead, she told herself again. But her son lives. For now.
Jon Snow - Three Days Later
Everything hurt and nothing made sense. Jon felt like he was floating and sinking at the same time, like when you jumped in the hot pools but the water was too deep and you couldn't touch the bottom. His skin felt like it was on fire, but he was also shivering, and people kept putting wet cloths on his head that felt cold and mean.
I want Father, Jon thought, but Father was far away fighting bad men, and Jon couldn't remember if that was real or if he'd dreamed it. Everything mixed together—real things and dream things and scary things that might be both.
Jon was in a garden that smelled like flowers he'd never smelled before. The sun was warm and golden, not like the pale northern sun, and there were orange trees with fruit hanging down like jewels. He wasn't sick anymore—he felt good and strong and happy.
"Jon," said a voice like music.
He turned around and saw the most beautiful lady in the whole world. She had long dark hair that shined in the sunlight, and her eyes were purple just like his. Purple like flowers, Jon thought, remembering what Robb had said once. She wore a dress that was the color of water, and when she smiled at him, Jon felt warm all the way down to his toes.
"Are you my mother?" Jon asked, because he'd never seen anyone with purple eyes except in mirrors, and Father said his eyes came from his mother's family.
The beautiful lady knelt down and took his hands in hers. Her hands were soft and warm, and they didn't feel like dream hands—they felt real. "I love you, my sweet boy," she said. "I love you so much."
"Why did you leave me?" Jon asked, because that's what he'd always wondered. "Did I do something bad?"
"Oh, no, darling. Never." The lady's eyes got shiny like she might cry. "I didn't want to leave you. I wanted to stay and watch you grow up and teach you things and sing you songs. But sometimes... sometimes mothers can't stay, even when they want to more than anything."
Jon didn't understand that, but he liked how she called him 'darling' and how her voice was gentle. "Will you come back?"
"I'm here now," she said, and she hugged him tight. She smelled like flowers and something else, something sad and sweet. "I'm always watching over you, even when you can't see me."
Then the garden started to fade away, getting blurry around the edges like when you rubbed your eyes too hard.
"Don't go!" Jon called, but the beautiful lady was already disappearing.
"Be strong, my love," her voice whispered from far away. "Be brave."
Jon was standing in the great hall of Winterfell, but it was different somehow—bigger and brighter, with more banners hanging from the walls. There were lots of people there, all dressed in fancy clothes, and they were all looking at him.
"Kneel before Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell!" someone shouted, and Jon looked around to see who they were talking about. But everyone was looking at him, and then people started getting down on their knees.
That can't be right, Jon thought. Lords don't kneel to bastards.
But in the dream, he was wearing fine clothes with a wolf sewn on the front, and there was a heavy sword at his side that he somehow knew how to use. When he walked, people bowed and said "My lord" and "Lord Stark," and it felt good and right and wonderful.
Robb was there too, but he was bowing just like everyone else. "Hello, brother," Robb said, but he said it different than usual—more formal, like how people talked to Father.
"Why are you calling me Lord Stark?" Jon asked. "I'm just Jon Snow."
"Not anymore," Robb said, smiling. "Father came back from the war and told everyone the truth. You're not a bastard—you're a trueborn son. You're my brother, really and truly, and now everyone knows it."
Jon felt so happy he thought he might fly. Father told everyone I belong. In the dream, he could see Father standing nearby, looking proud and happy, nodding like Jon had done something wonderful just by existing.
"Lord Jon! Lord Jon!" people were chanting, and Jon felt tall and important and loved.
But then the dream started to crack, like ice breaking on a pond, and Jon felt himself falling through the floor.
Jon was in the crypts under Winterfell, but something was terribly wrong. He was inside one of the stone men—inside a statue that looked like him—and he couldn't move. His arms and legs were stone, his mouth was stone, everything was cold and hard and dead.
Help! he tried to scream, but no sound came out because stone men couldn't talk.
"No one can hear you," said a voice that sounded like wind through old bones.
Jon looked around with stone eyes and saw that all the other statues were moving, turning their heads to look at him. Kings of Winter with swords across their knees, lords who'd been dead for hundreds of years, all staring at him with empty stone eyes.
"You don't belong here," said one of the dead kings. "Bastards don't get statues."
"Bastards don't get to rest with the kings," said another.
"You'll be stuck forever," whispered a voice that might have been Brandon Stark, Father's dead brother. "Stuck between the living and the dead, never belonging to either."
Jon tried to cry, but stone men couldn't cry either. The other statues laughed, a sound like rocks falling, and Jon felt more alone than he'd ever felt in his life.
"Please," he tried to say. "I just want to go home."
"This is your home now," the dead voices whispered. "Forever and ever and ever."
The stone felt like it was getting tighter, squeezing him until he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't—
This dream was the strangest of all. Jon wasn't Jon anymore—he was something else, something small and furry and quick. He had four paws instead of hands and feet, and everything smelled different, stronger. He could smell mice in the walls and fish in the kitchen and people's feelings like they were real things floating in the air.
I'm a cat, Jon realized with dream-logic that made perfect sense. I'm a big black cat.
But something was wrong with his sight—he could only see out of one eye. The other side was dark and empty, but it didn't hurt. It just was.
He was in a castle, but not Winterfell. This castle was different—warmer, with round towers and pools of water that sparkled in the sunlight. Everything was orange and gold instead of grey and white, and the air tasted like spices and sunshine.
Jon-the-cat padded through corridors on silent paws, following a sound that made his cat-heart happy. Someone was singing, a girl's voice that rose and fell like music.
He found her in a garden courtyard, a girl with long dark hair and purple eyes who looked older than Robb—maybe as old as some of the bigger children in Winterfell. She was sitting by a fountain, reading from a book, but she looked up when she saw him.
"Balerion!" she said happily, and Jon-the-cat somehow knew that was his name in this dream. "There you are, silly cat. I was wondering where you'd gone."
She knows me, Jon realized. This girl knows this cat.
The girl—she looked like she might be nine, with serious purple eyes that reminded Jon of looking in mirrors—patted her lap, and Jon-the-cat jumped up. Her hands were familiar as she scratched behind his ears, like she'd done it many times before.
"Did you have a good morning hunting?" she asked, settling the book aside. "Cook was complaining that someone knocked over the milk again. That wasn't you, was it?"
Jon purred, even though he didn't remember knocking over any milk. Everything felt familiar but strange, like remembering a dream from inside another dream.
"You're being extra affectionate today," the girl observed, running her fingers through his black fur. "Usually you just sit and stare at me with that one good eye of yours, like you're thinking deep thoughts. But today you're purring like you actually like me."
I do like you, Jon wanted to tell her. You're nice, and you have purple eyes like mine, and you don't seem to think there's anything wrong with being different.
"I finished reading about the dragons today," she continued, opening her book again. "Do you want to hear about Balerion the Black Dread? The dragon you're named after?"
Jon-the-cat settled more comfortably in her lap, one-eyed gaze fixed on her face. She had a nice voice, clear and musical, and she seemed smart in the way that some of the older children were smart.
"He was the biggest dragon that ever lived," she read. "Black as midnight, with fires so hot they could melt stone. Aegon the Conqueror rode him when he conquered Westeros." She looked down at Jon-the-cat and smiled. "Much more impressive than you, I'm afraid. You're just a cat who knocks over milk and steals fish from the kitchens."
But I'm not just a cat, Jon thought, though he couldn't explain how he knew that. I'm something else too.
"Sometimes I pretend you understand every word I say," the girl continued, stroking his head. "Sometimes I think you're the only one who really listens to me. Papa is always busy with important things, and the maesters only want to teach me boring lessons about history and letters."
Jon could hear the loneliness in her voice, the same loneliness he felt sometimes at Winterfell when Lady Catelyn looked through him like he wasn't there, or when servants called Robb "young lord" and called him just "Jon."
"Do you ever feel like you don't quite belong anywhere?" she asked quietly. "Like you're caught between different worlds, and neither one really wants you?"
Yes, Jon thought with surprise. Yes, I do feel like that.
The girl was quiet for a moment, just petting him and thinking. "I'm not supposed to talk about sad things," she said finally. "Septa Eglantine says princesses should always be cheerful and graceful. But it's hard to be cheerful when everyone you love keeps going away."
Princess?
"At least you're still here," she murmured, scratching under his chin. "Even if you are just a cat. Even if you can't really understand me."
But I do understand, Jon wanted to tell her. I understand about being lonely and feeling like you don't belong and wishing people would stay instead of going away.
The warm sun made him drowsy, and the girl's gentle petting made him feel safe and cared for. He could feel himself starting to drift, becoming less cat and more something else, but he didn't want to leave this warm place with this sad, kind girl who had purple eyes like his.
"Don't go to sleep yet, Balerion," she said, as if she could sense him fading. "Stay with me a little longer?"
But Jon was already falling away, back through the dream toward his own body, his own bed, his own sickness. The last thing he heard was the girl's voice calling "Balerion? Balerion, where did you go?" before everything went dark and he was just sick little Jon Snow again, alone and burning with fever in the cold stone castle of Winterfell.
Who was she? he wondered dimly as consciousness slipped away. And why did she feel so important?
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