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Catelyn Tully
The godswood was silent except for the whisper of wind through ancient branches, but Catelyn's heart hammered so loudly she was certain even the old gods could hear it. What am I doing here? The thought came to her as she knelt before the heart tree, her knees already aching against the cold, damp earth. I don't even believe in these heathen gods.
But desperation made believers of them all, didn't it? And she was desperate now, more than she cared to admit, more than made any sense at all.
The boy was dying. Maester Luwin's careful words couldn't disguise that truth, no matter how gently he'd phrased them. The fever has worsened. His breathing grows more labored. We must prepare ourselves for all possibilities.
All possibilities. Such a polite way to say that Ned's bastard might not see another dawn.
Why does it matter? Catelyn pressed her palms against her thighs, trying to still their trembling. He's not my son. He's nothing to me except a constant reminder of my husband's faithlessness.
But that wasn't entirely true anymore, was it? Somewhere in the past five years, without her noticing, the boy had become... well, not hers exactly, but something close to it. She'd watched him take his first steps, heard his first words—Mother, gods help her—seen him comfort Sansa when she cried and defer to Robb with a loyalty that was both touching and heartbreaking.
Ashara Dayne's son, she reminded herself fiercely. The son of the woman Ned truly loved.
The carved face of the weirwood stared down at her with its red, weeping eyes, ancient and impassive. Did it judge her for the resentment she'd harbored? For the coldness she'd shown an innocent child? For the nights she'd lain awake wondering what it would be like if the boy simply... disappeared?
I never wished him dead, she told herself, but the lie tasted bitter. There had been moments—dark, shameful moments—when she'd imagined how much simpler life would be without those violet eyes watching her, without the constant reminder of what she could never be to her husband.
"Please," she whispered to the tree, to the gods, to anyone who might be listening. "Don't let him die. Not like this. Not while Ned is away."
The wind picked up, rattling the leaves above her head, and Catelyn shivered. Her nightgown and robe were inadequate protection against the northern cold, but she couldn't bring herself to leave. Not yet. Not when the boy was fighting for his life while she knelt here in the dark, bargaining with gods she didn't understand.
"I know I haven't been... I know I've failed him," she said aloud, her voice barely audible above the wind. "I know I've been cold and distant and everything a mother shouldn't be. But he's just a child. He doesn't deserve to suffer for his parents' choices."
His parents' choices. Ned's choice to lie with Ashara Dayne. The beautiful, tragic lady of Starfall who'd captured his heart in ways Catelyn never could. She gave him something I never will—passion, desire, the kind of love that burns bright and leaves scars.
"If you let him live," she continued, the words coming faster now, "if you spare him, I swear...I'll love him as my own. I'll treat him as I should have from the beginning."
Can I keep such a promise? Even as she made it, Catelyn wondered if she was lying to the gods as well as herself. Love wasn't something you could simply will into existence, was it? You couldn't command your heart to feel what it had always refused to feel.
But she could try. Surely she could try.
"He calls me mother," she whispered, and felt tears sting her eyes. "He looks at me with such trust, such hope, and I... I turn away. I ignore him. I pretend he doesn't exist because it's easier than acknowledging what his presence means."
That Ned loved another woman. That their marriage is built on duty rather than desire. That she will always be second in her husband's heart.
"Please," she said again, pressing her forehead to the rough bark of the weirwood. "I'll do better. I'll be the mother he needs, the mother he deserves. Just... just don't take him away. Not now..."
The old gods offered no answers, only the endless whisper of wind through leaves and the weight of promises she wasn't sure she could keep. But she stayed there until dawn, kneeling in the cold earth, praying to gods she didn't believe in for the life of a child who wasn't hers.
Let him live, she begged silently. Let him live, and I'll find a way to keep my word.
The fever had broken sometime before dawn, leaving the boy pale and weak but blessedly, miraculously alive. Catelyn sat rigid in the chair beside his bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, trying to reconcile the relief flooding through her with the dread that had taken up residence in her stomach.
He's going to live. The knowledge should have brought her joy, should have felt like answered prayers and divine mercy. Instead, it felt like a sword hanging over her head, sharp and gleaming and ready to fall.
I made a promise. The memory of her desperate bargain in the godswood haunted her—every word, every vow, every impossible commitment she'd made in her terror and guilt. I swore I would love him as my own.
But in the pale morning light, with the crisis past and reason returning, the magnitude of what she'd promised felt crushing. How can I love Ashara Dayne's son? How can I look at those violet eyes every day and not think of her? Not think of what she had that I never will?
The boy stirred, his dark lashes fluttering against fever-pale cheeks. When his eyes opened—those damned, beautiful eyes that marked him as surely as a brand—they were clear and lucid for the first time in days.
"Mother?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and fragile as spun glass.
The word hit her. Mother. Not Lady Catelyn, not my lady, but the simple, trusting address of a child who saw her as the center of his small world. Who'd always seen her that way, despite every coldness, every rejection, every moment when she'd looked through him as if he didn't exist.
This is what you wanted, she told herself desperately. This is what you prayed for—his recovery, his trust, the chance to be better.
But even as she thought it, Catelyn felt something inside her recoil. The boy reached out one small, trembling hand toward her, and she saw in his face such hope, such absolute faith that she would take it, would comfort him, would be the mother he'd always needed her to be.
I can't. The realization struck her with stunning clarity. I can't do this. I can't love him. I can't pretend.
"Mother?" the boy said again, confusion creeping into his weak voice as she remained frozen, staring at his outstretched hand.
He trusts me. After everything, he still trusts me. The thought should have warmed her heart. Instead, it made her feel like a monster.
"I—" Catelyn began, then stopped. What could she say? How could she explain that seeing him alive and well only reminded her of all the reasons she'd resented him in the first place? That his recovery meant she'd have to face him every day, knowing she'd broken a sacred promise before the gods themselves?
Ashara Dayne's bastard. The familiar refrain echoed in her mind, as bitter and poisonous as ever. The living proof of my husband's love for another woman.
The boy's hand was still extended, trembling with weakness and hope. Waiting for her to take it, to offer comfort, to be what she'd sworn she would be.
Instead, Catelyn stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone floor with harsh finality.
"You need rest," she said, her voice coming out cold. "I'll send Maester Luwin to check on you."
Mother? The word was barely a breath now, confused and hurt and growing smaller with each passing second of her continued rejection.
Catelyn couldn't look at him. Couldn't bear to see the confusion in those violet eyes, the slow understanding that nothing had really changed, that her vigil at his bedside had meant nothing more than duty. That her prayers had been answered, but her heart remained as closed as ever.
I'm sorry, she wanted to say. I tried. I wanted to be better. But I can't. I just can't.
Instead, she fled.
The heavy door closed behind her with the sound of finality, leaving her alone in the corridor with the weight of her broken promise and the echo of a child's voice calling for a mother who would never truly be his.
Some promises are too hard to keep, she told herself, leaning against the stone wall as her composure finally crumbled. No matter how desperate you are when you make them. No matter how much you want to be better than you are.
Behind the door, she could hear the boy's quiet crying—soft, muffled sobs that spoke of a loneliness so profound it made her chest ache. But she didn't go back. Couldn't go back.
Forgive me, she thought, though she wasn't sure if she was asking the boy or the gods or herself. I tried to be what you needed. But I'm not strong enough. I'm not good enough.
I'm just not enough.
Jon Snow - Two Weeks Later (5)
Jon felt different, like he'd put on clothes that looked the same but felt new and strange. Everything seemed brighter somehow—the stones of Winterfell looked sharper, the sounds in the corridors were clearer, and even the taste of his morning porridge was more... more than it used to be. He couldn't explain it to anyone because he didn't have the right words, but it was like the world had gotten bigger while he was sick.
"Look, Jon!" Robb called from across the courtyard, waving a wooden sword. "Ser Rodrik taught me a new move while you were sleeping all those days!"
Sleeping. That's what everyone called it, but Jon remembered it differently. He remembered flying and floating and being a cat with one eye, and a beautiful lady with purple eyes who might have been his mother. But when he tried to tell Robb about the dreams, they sounded silly and made-up, so he kept them to himself.
"Show me," Jon said, picking up his own practice sword. It felt lighter in his hands than it used to,
Robb did a complicated spin-and-thrust move that would have impressed Jon before. Now, watching it, Jon could see exactly how Robb's feet were wrong and how his grip was too tight and where the opening was for a counter-attack. How do I know that? The knowledge felt strange and new, like someone had put thoughts in his head while he slept.
"That's good," Jon said, because Robb looked proud. "But what if someone did this?" He moved without thinking, his body knowing what to do even though his mind didn't understand why. His wooden blade slipped past Robb's guard and tapped him gently on the ribs.
Robb's mouth fell open. "How did you do that? I've been practicing that move for weeks!"
Jon shrugged, feeling embarrassed. "I don't know. Lucky guess?"
It wasn't luck. Somehow, Jon knew things now that he hadn't known before—like how people moved their feet before they swung a sword, or how their eyes looked just before they were going to lie. It was exciting and scary at the same time.
Later, in Maester Luwin's study, Jon found himself staring at the books on the high shelves. Before his sickness, letters had been hard and boring, all squiggly lines that didn't make sense. But now, looking at them, he could almost see the words trying to talk to him.
"Jon," Maester Luwin said, looking up from his writing. "Are you feeling well enough for lessons today?"
"Yes, Maester Luwin." Jon climbed onto the chair across from the old man's desk. "Can you show me more letters?"
Luwin's eyebrows went up in surprise. "More letters? Last time we tried, you said they gave you a headache."
That was true. Before, trying to read had made his head hurt and his eyes feel tired. But now the letters looked friendly, like they wanted to be read. "I think I'm better at them now."
"Very well." Luwin pulled out a simple book with big letters. "Let's see how you do with this."
Jon looked at the page, and the letters seemed to dance and rearrange themselves until they made sense. "The... the boy... had a... dog," he read slowly. "The dog was... brown and... liked to... run."
Luwin's quill stopped moving. "Jon, that's remarkable. You've just read an entire passage."
Jon felt proud and confused at the same time. Reading wasn't supposed to be easy—Robb still struggled with big words, and Robb was smart. "Is that good?"
"Very good indeed." Luwin's eyes were kind but curious, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Let's try something a bit more challenging."
The next book was harder, with smaller letters and longer words, but Jon found he could still make sense of most of it. When he got stuck, Luwin helped him, but not very often. It was like the sickness had unlocked something in his head that had been sleeping before.
"Can I take a book to my room?" Jon asked when the lesson was over. "To practice?"
"Of course." Luwin handed him a thin book about Northern history. "But don't strain yourself. Your body is still recovering."
Jon nodded, tucking the book under his arm carefully. As he walked through the corridors back to his chambers, he noticed things he'd never seen before—like how the servants' eyes flicked away when they saw him, or how some of the tapestries had tiny holes where mice had been nibbling. Everything felt more real somehow, more important.
In the great hall, he found Robb playing with wooden knights near the big fireplace. Jon sat down beside him, but kept the book hidden. He didn't want Robb to feel bad that reading was getting easier for Jon when it was still hard for him.
"Want to play knights?" Robb asked, holding up a carved figure with a tiny sword.
"Yes," Jon said, putting the book aside. "But this time, I get to be the knight who saves the princess."
"You can't be the saving knight," Robb protested. "You're always the dragon or the bad guy."
Why am I always the bad guy? Jon wondered, but he didn't ask because he was pretty sure he knew the answer. Bad guys were different from everyone else, and Jon was different too.
"Okay," Jon said instead. "But when I'm the dragon, I get to be a smart dragon who knows how to read."
Robb laughed. "Dragons can't read, silly!"
Maybe some dragons can, Jon thought, but he didn't say it out loud. Instead, he picked up the knight pieces and started building a castle for them to attack, his hands steadier and more careful than they'd ever been before.
Everything was different now. Jon was different. He just hoped different didn't mean bad.
Maester Luwin
Luwin set down his quill and rubbed his tired eyes, but his gaze inevitably drifted to the small figure hunched over a book in the corner of his study. Remarkable, he thought, watching Jon's dark head bent in concentration over a text that would challenge boys twice his age. Absolutely remarkable.
A month ago, the bastard boy had barely been able to sound out simple words. Now he was reading histories of the North that some lords' sons couldn't manage until their tenth nameday. What in seven hells happened during that fever?
Luwin had seen serious illnesses change children before—sometimes they emerged weaker, sometimes stronger, occasionally with their very temperaments altered. But he'd never witnessed anything quite like Jon's transformation. It wasn't just the reading, though that was extraordinary enough. The boy's handwriting had improved dramatically, his mathematical calculations were increasingly sophisticated, and yesterday he'd asked a question about stars that had genuinely surprised the maester.
"Why do stars move Maester? Is someone pushing them?"
Not the sort of inquiry one expected from a five-year-old bastard who'd previously shown little interest in scholarly pursuits.
"Jon," Luwin called softly. "How are you finding that text?"
The boy looked up with those striking violet eyes—Ashara Dayne's eyes, without question—and smiled. "It's about the Long Night, Maester Luwin. About the Others and the heroes who fought them. Were they real, do you think? Or just stories?"
"What do you think?" Luwin deflected, curious to hear the boy's reasoning.
Jon considered this with the same serious expression he'd worn increasingly often since his recovery. "I think... I think maybe they were real, but different from the stories. Stories get changed when people tell them over and over. Like when Robb tells about catching that fish—it gets bigger every time."
Luwin chuckled despite himself. The boy's logic was sound, his metaphor apt. Where is this coming from? Jon had always been a pleasant child, quiet and well-behaved, but this penetrating intelligence was entirely new.
Or perhaps not new. Perhaps simply... awakened.
The thought was both intriguing and troubling. Luwin had served House Stark long enough to know that unusual gifts often came with unusual burdens. The North remembered things the South preferred to forget—old magics, strange abilities, bloodlines that carried more than just noble names.
The boy's mother was Dornish, Luwin mused, but his father's blood runs back to the Kings of Winter. And there are stories about the Stark line, aren't there? Whispers of wolf dreams and stranger things.
"Maester Luwin?" Jon's voice interrupted his musings. "Are you feeling well? You look worried."
Perceptive little thing. "Just thinking, lad. Nothing for you to concern yourself with." Luwin rose from his desk and moved to the shelf where he kept his more advanced texts. "I believe you're ready for something more challenging. Would you like to try reading about the construction of the Wall?"
Jon's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Yes, please! I want to know how they made something so big."
Careful, old man, Luwin warned himself as he selected an appropriate volume. Don't let your fascination with the boy's progress create favoritism. Young Lord Robb is still the heir, still the one who matters most.
But even as he thought it, Luwin found himself drawn to Jon's quick mind and eager questions. The boy absorbed knowledge like dry sand absorbed water, and there was something deeply satisfying about teaching a student who genuinely hungered to learn.
Perhaps, Luwin thought as he watched Jon dive into the new book with rapt attention, perhaps Lord Stark's bastard will prove more valuable than anyone expects. Bastards often find unconventional paths to greatness, after all.
Time will tell, he decided. Time always tells.
One Week Later
The training yard felt different under Jon's feet, like he could feel every stone and know exactly where to step. He bounced on his toes, waiting for Ser Rodrik to finish adjusting Robb's practice armor, and everything seemed clearer—the sound of steel ringing from the real knights practicing nearby, the smell of leather and sweat, even the way the morning light hit the castle walls.
"Stop fidgeting, Jon," Robb said, struggling with his helm. "You look like you need to use the privy."
"I don't need the privy," Jon protested, though he was excited enough that maybe he did, a little. "I just want to practice!"
"Since when do you want to get beaten up with wooden swords?" Robb finally got his helm on straight and grinned at Jon. "Usually you complain that Ser Rodrik makes us do this too early."
"Maybe I just missed getting beaten up by you."
"Ha! You're going to miss it even more when I'm done with you today."
Ser Rodrik approached with their practice swords, his white whiskers twitching with amusement. "Big words from a boy who couldn't remember which end of the sword to hold last week, young lord."
"That was one time!" Robb's voice cracked with indignation. "And I was distracted because Jon kept making faces at me!"
"I was not making faces," Jon said innocently. "My face just looks like that."
"Your face looks stupid."
"Your face looks like a fish."
"A fish? That's the best you can do?"
Jon considered this seriously. "A really ugly fish. With big teeth and... and warts."
"Fish don't have warts, you nincompoop."
"This fish does. It's a special warty fish that looks like Robb Stark."
Ser Rodrik cleared his throat loudly. "If you boys are quite finished insulting each other's resemblance to water life, perhaps we could begin?"
They took their positions, wooden swords at the ready. Jon felt that strange new awareness settle over him—he could see how Robb was standing, could predict where he'd move before Robb even knew it himself. Don't be too good, Jon reminded himself. Robb doesn't like it when people are better than him at fighting.
"Begin!" Ser Rodrik called.
Robb came at him with his usual enthusiasm, all force and noise but not much thinking. Jon could have dodged easily and gotten three different openings for counter-attacks, but instead he let Robb's blade catch his and pushed back just hard enough to make it look like a real fight.
"Too slow, bastard!" Robb grunted, pressing his attack.
"Too loud, lordling!" Jon shot back, dancing away from a particularly wild swing.
They circled each other, wooden swords clacking together in a rhythm that felt almost like music to Jon's ears. He could hear everything—Robb's breathing, the scrape of his feet on the stones, even the little grunt he made before launching his favorite overhead strike.
There it is, Jon thought as Robb raised his sword high. Instead of blocking, Jon stepped sideways and let Robb's momentum carry him past, then gave him a gentle tap on the back with the flat of his blade.
"Got you," Jon said, grinning.
Robb spun around, eyes wide with surprise. "How did you... you've never dodged that before!"
"Lucky, I guess." Jon shrugged.
"Lucky my arse," Robb muttered, then glanced quickly at Ser Rodrik. "Sorry, Ser Rodrik. I meant lucky my... my behind."
"Much better, young lord. Language befitting a nobleman." Ser Rodrik's eyes were twinkling. "Again, boys. And Robb—perhaps consider that luck favors the prepared mind."
They went at it again, and this time Jon had to work harder to let Robb score some hits. It was like playing a game where he had to pretend to be worse than he was, which was actually kind of fun in its own way.
"You're different today," Robb panted during a break. "Faster or something."
"Bad different?"
"No, stupid. Good different. Like you've been practicing in secret." Robb's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Have you been practicing in secret?"
"When would I practice in secret? You're always with me."
"That's true. You never go anywhere without me." Robb considered this. "Maybe getting sick made you better somehow. Like when people say getting struck by lightning makes your hair grow faster."
"Does lightning really make hair grow faster?"
"I don't know. Old Nan told me that, but Old Nan says lots of things."
"Old Nan says the Others will come back if we don't eat our vegetables," Jon pointed out.
"The Others probably hate vegetables. That's why they're so mean."
Ser Rodrik called them back to training, and they spent the rest of the morning working on footwork and basic combinations.
"You did well today, Jon," Ser Rodrik said as they headed back toward the keep. "Your recovery seems to have given you new focus."
"Thank you, Ser Rodrik."
"And you, young lord," he continued to Robb, "showed good spirit. But perhaps consider watching your opponent's feet more carefully. They often telegraph intentions before the sword arm does."
As they walked, Robb bumped Jon's shoulder with his own. "Want to practice more after lunch? I want to figure out how you did that sideways thing."
Jon grinned. Teaching Robb the moves he somehow knew would be almost as fun as using them himself. "Sure. But next time I get to call you fish-face."
"Only if I get to call you wart-brain."
"Deal."
Three Months Later
Jon had never heard Lady Catelyn make sounds like that before—loud, painful sounds that seemed to come from deep inside her and made all the servants hurry around with worried faces. He, Robb, and Sansa sat on the stairs outside her chambers, listening to the strange noises and watching people rush in and out with hot water and clean linens.
"What's happening to Mother?" Sansa asked, her small voice worried. At four, she understood that something important was happening but not quite what.
"Mother's having the baby," Robb explained importantly, sitting up straighter like he was the expert. "It's supposed to hurt, but then we get a brother or sister."
Jon nodded, though he felt scared by the sounds. Old Nan had explained about babies coming, but hearing it was different from knowing about it.
A particularly loud cry came from behind the heavy door, and Robb jumped to his feet. "I want to see Mother. I want to help."
"Me too!" Sansa scrambled up after him. "I want to help Mother!"
One of the guards gently caught both of them as they tried to push past. "Not a place for little lords and ladies right now. Best to wait until it's all done."
"But she sounds hurt!" Robb protested.
"Women are stronger than they seem, lad. Your mother will be fine."
Jon hugged his knees to his chest and listened to the sounds, wondering if his own mother had made noises like that when he was born. Did anyone sit outside her door and worry about her? The thought made his chest feel tight and sad.
Seven hours later, when the sun was setting and Jon's bottom was sore from sitting on stone steps, the door finally opened and Maester Luwin emerged with a smile on his weathered face.
"You have a sister," he announced to all three children. "A healthy girl, born just as the sun touched the horizon. Your mother is tired but well."
"A sister!" Sansa clapped her hands together. "Is she pretty? Does she have pretty hair like mine?"
"Tomorrow you'll see for yourselves," Luwin promised. "Let them both rest tonight. But I can tell you this—she'll be called Arya Stark, and she has a fine pair of lungs on her."
Arya. Jon rolled the name around in his mind. It sounded strong and pretty at the same time, like the name of a girl who wouldn't be afraid of anything.
The next day, they were finally allowed into Lady Catelyn's chambers to meet their new sister. Jon followed Robb and Sansa nervously, wondering if Lady Catelyn would be even colder to him now that she had another child of her own to love.
Lady Catelyn was sitting up in bed, looking tired but happy, with a small bundle in her arms. When she saw them, her face lit up with joy—but Jon noticed that her smile dimmed slightly when her eyes found him standing behind the other two.
"Come meet your sister," she said softly, though Jon could tell she was really only talking to Robb and Sansa.
They approached the bed carefully, and Lady Catelyn shifted the blankets so they could see the baby's face. Jon's breath caught in his throat. The baby was tiny and perfect, with little fists waving in the air and a serious expression that reminded him of Father when he was thinking hard thoughts.
But it was her hair that made Jon's heart skip with excitement. Dark hair. Like mine.
"Oh," Sansa said, her voice slightly disappointed. "She has dark hair."
"She looks like Jon," Robb observed, grinning. "And like Father. Look, she has the same color hair!"
Sansa tilted her head, studying the baby. "I thought she might have pretty red hair like mine and Mother's. But I suppose dark hair is nice too." She leaned closer. "She's very small, isn't she?"
Jon barely heard Sansa's chatter. He was too fascinated by this tiny person who actually looked like him. Sansa and Robb had the red-gold Tully hair, but Arya—Arya had Stark coloring, the dark brown that Jon saw when he looked in mirrors.
Finally, he thought with a happiness so big it felt like it might burst out of his chest. Finally, someone who looks like me.
"Can I touch her?" Jon asked quietly, not wanting to make Lady Catelyn angry but desperate to be closer to this miracle sister.
Lady Catelyn's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but she nodded. "Gently."
Jon reached out one finger and touched Arya's tiny hand. Her fingers immediately curled around his, gripping with surprising strength for someone so small. When she did that, she opened her eyes—grey eyes, like Father's—and seemed to look right at him.
She sees me, Jon thought with wonder. She really sees me.
"Hello, Arya," he whispered. "I'm Jon. I'm your big brother."
"I'm your big sister!" Sansa announced importantly. "And I'm going to teach you how to be a proper lady. You'll need to learn about dresses and sewing and being graceful."
Arya made a small cooing sound at Jon's voice, and Jon felt his heart melt completely. This perfect little person with dark hair like his, holding his finger like she never wanted to let go—she was his sister, really and truly his sister.
"She likes Jon best," Robb observed, not sounding jealous, just curious. "Look how she's holding on to him."
"Babies don't have favorites yet," Sansa said with four-year-old authority. "They're too little to know anything. But when she's bigger, she'll like me best because I'm a girl like her."
Jon wanted to stay there forever, connected to Arya by her tiny grip, feeling like he finally belonged somewhere. But he could see Lady Catelyn's discomfort growing, the way her mouth got thin when she watched him with the baby.
She doesn't like that Arya likes me, Jon realized with a familiar stab of sadness. She doesn't want her real daughter to care about the bastard.
"She's beautiful," Jon said, pulling his finger gently free even though Arya made a small sound of protest. "She's perfect."
"Yes, she is," Lady Catelyn said, but her voice was cool and distant again.
Maester Luwin appeared in the doorway, smiling at the scene. "How are the new big brothers and sister getting along with Lady Arya?"
"She's the best sister ever," Robb announced. "And she looks like Jon and Father!"
"I wanted her to have red hair," Sansa said matter-of-factly, "but I suppose I can teach her to be pretty anyway."
"Indeed," Luwin agreed, his eyes twinkling. "The Stark look runs strong in this one."
The Stark look. Jon felt a warm glow at those words. Maybe he was a bastard, maybe Lady Catelyn would never love him, but he looked like a Stark. And now he had a sister who looked like a Stark too—a sister who had held his hand and looked at him like he mattered.
"Come, children," Luwin said gently. "Your mother needs her rest, and baby Arya needs hers too."
As they left the chamber, Jon looked back once more at little Arya. She was sleeping now, her dark lashes against pale cheeks, looking peaceful and content.
I'll take care of you, he promised silently. I'll be the best big brother ever. I'll teach you things and protect you and make sure you never feel like you don't belong.
Because Arya Stark, with her dark hair and grey eyes and tiny strong fingers, looked like she belonged to him just as much as she belonged to anyone else.
And that was something Jon had never felt before—the joy of someone belonging to him, too.
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