Chapter 2: Talking Game of Thrones with Eddard Stark
The North — Winterfell, the Great Keep
As sunlight pierced through the morning mist, the towering Great Keep of Winterfell slowly awakened from the gloom.
This ancient fortress had stood upon this land for thousands of years. It was said that Winterfell's history was as old and enduring as the continent of Westeros itself.
When the bells of the clock tower rang, the servants of Winterfell stirred from their sleep. Those who rose early were already moving through corridors and stairwells, beginning the day's work.
"Good morning, Jon!"
"Good morning."
"You're up early again today!"
Along the way, the servants greeted Jon Snow warmly. Though none dared address him as "young master," his status as a bastard still placed him above them, yet not high enough for overfamiliarity.
The Great Keep of Winterfell was a cylindrical stone tower. After exchanging greetings with the guards at the entrance, Jon Snow passed through the main doors and stepped inside.
Just as he began ascending the stairs, a cold gaze struck him like a drawn blade.
Jon looked up and saw a red-haired, middle-aged woman descending toward him.
Her features were refined, with slightly high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Combined with her dignified bearing, she appeared noble and elegant.
Lady Catelyn Stark of House Tully.
Born of Riverrun in the Riverlands, she was usually gentle and courteous—but never when facing Jon Snow.
To her, Jon was a thorn buried deep in her heart, a living reminder that her husband had once broken his vows.
Jon Snow felt conflicted toward this aunt-by-marriage. Logically and emotionally, he had no reason to hate her.
Yet the humiliation and cold treatment etched into the original owner's memories still echoed within him.
Still, thinking that he would not need to endure her icy gaze for much longer, Jon felt a measure of relief.
"Good morning, Lady Catelyn."
"Mm."
As always, she responded with a curt sound and passed him without another glance.
Jon continued onward, heading toward the private chambers of the Great Keep.
At this moment, he felt impatient.
If he were the former Jon Snow, he might have endured in silence until the king's arrival.
But now, with a different soul guiding this body, he could not wait.
The present Jon Snow was like a dragon longing to break free of its lair—no one could stop him from soaring and changing his fate.
In the corridor, he nearly collided with Lord Eddard Stark, who had just finished straightening his clothes and was on his way to breakfast.
"What is it, Jon? Is something wrong?"
Eddard Stark appeared around fifty years of age. In Jon Snow's memories, he had always looked this way—stern, reserved, and rarely smiling.
"I… Lord Eddard, there is something I must tell you. I wish to speak with you alone."
As Jon spoke, his eyes flicked toward a nearby doorway.
An old man stood there, wearing a brown-grey robe. His bald head gleamed faintly in the morning light, and his eyes were filled with curiosity.
Maester Luwin.
Hearing Jon's formal tone, the maester froze briefly, clearly unaccustomed to such seriousness from him.
"Jon?" Eddard paused, then nodded. "Very well. Maester Luwin, you may leave us."
"Jory. You and another man stand guard at the door. If anything happens, report it immediately. No one else is to enter."
"Yes, my lord."
Maester Luwin, though puzzled, obeyed without question. As the maester of Winterfell, he faithfully carried out Lord Stark's command.
Click.
The door closed.
Jon Snow exhaled quietly, while Eddard Stark studied him with a searching gaze.
Eddard led Jon toward the fireplace and sat down, gesturing for Jon to take the seat opposite him.
"I had a dream."
Jon spoke carefully, choosing his words.
"…Hmm?"
"I know many things now," Jon continued. "And I know my true identity, my uncle."
"What did you say?"
Eddard Stark shot to his feet.
"How could you know? No—this must be a dream. Jon, you are my son. Your mother was Wylla—"
"My mother was Lyanna Stark," Jon said calmly, remaining seated. "And my father was—"
He paused only briefly.
"Rhaegar Targaryen."
Clatter—thud.
Eddard staggered backward, knocking over his chair. It struck a small table behind him, sending a fruit platter crashing to the floor.
"My lord!"
Knock, knock, knock—
Jory Cassel's anxious voice sounded from outside the door.
"No one enters," Eddard barked. "From this moment on, no one is to approach this chamber. This is an order from the Warden of the North. Do you understand?"
"…Yes, my lord!"
Though confused, the guards obeyed. They moved farther from the door, trusting both their lord's strength and their familiarity with Jon Snow.
Eddard took a deep breath.
"What kind of dream… did you truly have?"
"If you are willing to listen," Jon said quietly, "I can tell you everything. It is a very long story—so long that even I find it difficult to believe. But it is real. As real as if I lived it myself."
Though his voice was steady, his trembling shoulders betrayed his tension.
He knew what he was about to say could change the fate of this world.
"…Go on."
As Jon spoke, revelations poured forth.
"The Lannister twins are committing incest."
"They pushed Bran from the tower."
"Robert's children carry Lannister blood."
"King Robert will die from a boar."
"You will die in King's Landing."
Jon's storytelling was rough, but he delivered the crucial points clearly.
At first, Eddard interrupted, refuted, and grew visibly agitated—especially whenever House Lannister or Robert Baratheon was mentioned.
But as time passed, he fell silent.
Slowly, he began to connect Jon's words with things he himself knew.
And to his growing alarm, some of it… made sense.
Robert Baratheon was his brother-in-arms. Eddard knew of nearly all of Robert's bastards—sometimes better than Robert himself. The matter of royal bloodlines had always troubled him.
"You're saying the White Walkers—the one capable of killing a dragon—did not truly die… but instead warged into Bran?"
Learning that his second son would become the Three-Eyed Raven and later king stirred deep emotion in him.
Yet Eddard sensed conspiracy woven into Jon's claims.
"I haven't slept since waking last night," Jon replied. "These feel less like dreams and more like memories. I believe Bran left something behind before being controlled—something that allowed me to see all this."
By now, Jon had lost his earlier nervousness and spoke with practiced confidence.
Some of these explanations were conjecture—but if the fate of House Stark alone was not enough, then the fate of the world itself might sway Eddard.
After all, Eddard Stark was the only man alive who could prove Jon's true identity.
Logically. Emotionally.
Jon had to save this uncle.
"Do you truly believe… these memories?" Eddard asked after a long silence.
"I know you," Jon said quietly. "I know how you would act. Your honor would soften your heart—and that is exactly why you would die at the hands of the Lannisters."
Eddard grimaced.
He could not refute it.
Because deep down, he knew… he would act exactly that way.
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