TSOTWR - Chapter IV

Chapter IV

Lyanna

She ran her finger through the thick fur on Ghost’s head as she gazed into the distance from atop the inner wall of Winterfell. Her father, Brandon, and Jon had left hours ago, and Lyanna was waiting for any sign of their return.

It was often she was given reason to worry in life. The keep was always warm, even in the coldest days of the North, the fare was ample, and she was safe from the often-dangerous world that existed beyond her home.

Now, however, with her father, brother, and her sworn sword having ventured out of Winterfell to hunt down the invading Ironborn, Lyanna was feeling deeply unsettled.

“They won’t be back yet,” Benjen said grumpily from her left.

The boy was feeling put-out that he had not been taken along. Their mother had explained that he was too young, and she was right. He was good with a sword for a boy of his age, but he was far from battle-ready.

“I know,” Lyanna murmured. “I just want to sit and wait.”

“Mother says you have to come in for dinner.”

Lyanna released a deep breath as she nodded.

It would not do to defy her mother, not when the woman was just as worried and edgy as she felt. Lyarra Stark was gentle for the most part, firm when she needed to be, but a she-wolf at heart, especially where the pack was concerned.

With her father and Brandon both away and likely to be in battle, the she-wolf was only a hair’s-breadth from baring her teeth.

Giving a final, worried glance towards the horizon, she followed the sulking Benjen with the enormous, silent wolf in tow.

Jon

They had taken only short rests so that their mounts could drink as they thundered towards the second village they’d identified on the map of the North. Fortunately, the horses were as hardy as the men atop of them and they did not falter as they were urged onwards throughout the day.

As the sun set, Jon brought his small group to a halt and dismounted to stretch his legs and catch their bearings. It would be a cold night, but the thought of the inevitable fighting ahead alone kept him warm.

“We should eat,” he suggested, “but no fires.”

The men groaned as they sunk to the floor and began removing their rations of dried venison and ale.

“We are still hours away,” Rodrik murmured as he took a seat next to Jon on the trunk of a fallen tree.

“We will make it before sun rise.”

Rodrik nodded.

“Aye, we will,” he agreed as he took a bite from a leg of mutton. “Are you ready, Snow?”

“Aye,” Jon replied simply.

Rodrik stared at him speculatively.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Fight?”

“Battle,” Rodrik chuckled humourlessly. “I can see it in your eyes, Snow. You did not hone your skills with a blade in the training yard.”

“The world is a harsh place.”

“Aye, it is. I suppose I’ve been fortunate to live my life within the walls of the keep. It has shielded me from the outside, the violence, and everything else that comes with it.”

“It’s not pretty,” Jon snorted. “Bandits, wildlings, and all manner of beasts that won’t think twice about killing you for no other reason that you’re there.”

“The Wildlings,” Rodrik sighed. “I’ve met more than my fair share.”

Jon nodded.

“They’re not bad people really,” Jon sighed. “I will never condone their actions, but they do what they need to for survival. They’re mostly unfortunate that they were simply on the wrong side of the wall when it was built. Don’t get me wrong, some are just bloodthirsty, but others are just normal people wanting to live and provided for their families. There’s just not much to beyond the wall.”

“You’ve spent time with some?”

“Aye, and they were good people. Most of them.”

Rodrik frowned.

“I would not let Lord Stark hear you speak of them in such a way. The wildlings have raped and murdered far too many Northerners.”

“And we have killed hundreds of theirs,” Jon pointed out as he stood. “Today is not about the Wildlings. We have Ironborn to hunt. Come on, before we have another razed village on our hands.”

Rickard

It was the smell of smouldering wood in the distance that was the first sign that they had not reached the village in time, and the bodies of the men who had fought to the bitter end was what greeted them amongst the ashes and charred remains of the homes only clarified it.

“Bastards!” Brandon seethed, his leather gloves squeaking with how tight he was gripping is sword.

Rickard would usually chastise his heir for such a crass and emotional outburst, but he could not bring himself to. Brandon had surmised his own thoughts on the matter rather accurately.

“They died as warriors,” Rickard declared. “The North remembers.”

His men echoed the sentiment, and though Rickard remained calm on the surface, below it, his fury burned with the icy chill of his homeland.

“They will be buried,” he announced.

“Where are the women and children?” one of the younger Stark men asked worriedly.

“The Ironborn will have taken them as salt wives and slaves,” Rickard grumbled. “Come, there is no time to waste. They did not return the way they came, so it will be Jon and Rodrik they reach next.”

“Will we make it?” Brandon asked bluntly.

“I do not know,” Rickard murmured, “but let us hope we do. Ice is screaming to carry out some northern justice on those that have harmed our people.”

Brandon nodded grimly, and the men urged their horses on into the darkness of the trees once more, wanting only to catch up with the Ironborn who were defiling their home.

(Break)

“They’ve not made it this far,” Rodrik whispered as they surveyed the sleepy, unsuspecting village.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief as he nodded.

“It won’t take them long, not if they didn’t hang around at the last and have been dealt with already.”

“Do you think it likely?”

Jon shook his head.

“They would be foolish to linger in one place for too long. I don’t know what they think they can achieve here, but I would bet my life they’re not expecting such a fast response. We have the element of surprise on our side.”

“Do you still think boarding them is best?”

“I do,” Jon murmured. “The river is too narrow for them to come through two abreast. If we jump on one boat, it will be isolated. The others will have to land and come aboard or flee.”

“The fucking cowards will run,” Rodrik growled.

“Straight into the waiting Lord Stark.”

Rodrik chuckled darkly.

“We’ll be outnumbered,” he pointed out.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Jon asked with a grin, clapping the man on the shoulder. “You five, get across the river. We’ll be best to get on board from both sides, but arrows first. The prisoners will not be kept on deck, so anything that moves, dies.”

“Aye,” one of the men agreed, gesturing for the four others to follow.

“What now?” Rodrik asked.

“We wait,” Jon answered simply.

It was only a few moments later that he received a whistle to signify the other men had taken up their positions on the other side of the river, and then only the sound of the gently flowing water could be heard.

Jon could not be certain how long they remained unmoving on the banks when a roar of distant laughter broke the silence.

“It’s them,” he murmured.

The men were all ready with their bows as they squinted through the darkness for any sign of the approaching boats.

“There,” Rodrik whispered when the first came into view.

It was a modest boat compared to the larger longships the Ironborn used at sea, so would be much easier to climb and board.

Jon watched as the two ships drifted slowly towards them, the men and women sailing through the North doing so without a care in the world.

Evidently, they were not expecting trouble, a mistake on their part.

“Come on,” Rodrik urged the Ironborn restlessly.

Jon nodded his agreement and readied his own bow as he looked beyond the boats for any sign of Rickard and his men. There was none, and as they’d prepared for on the journey here, the Stark men would be outnumbered.

That was nothing new for Jon.

He shuddered at the thought of the chill the Night King brought with his army but quickly pushed it aside in favour of focusing on the moment at hand.

“Hold,” he whispered.

He could feel the tension of the men around him, and it only increased as the front of the first ship began passing them by.

“NOW!”

The sound of a dozen arrows being unleashed from their bows filled the air, followed by the screams of the Ironborn that were felled by them. The deck of the boat was in disarray, and the Stark men got off another volley before their presence was noted.

“SHIELDS!” one of the Iron born men shouted, attempting to see into the dark.

As Jon had anticipated, the boat behind was powerless to help the first, and with that in mind, he charged, driving his blade through the chest of a man who attempted to cleave through him with an axe as he scaled the side of the smaller vessel.

Despite not being as big as a longship, there was enough room for the northerners to still be outnumbered. The initial onslaught of arrows had helped, but the odds were not in their favour.

Nonetheless, the Stark men scrambled over the side of the boat and immediately into the fray.

Jon quickly found himself set upon by an enormous man wielding a great axe, swinging it wildly as he roared.

His foe was slow and his strikes telegraphed so that they were easy to avoid. Before the man could find a rhythm, Jon ducked below a vicious swing of the axe and removed the man’s hands with a return swing of his own.

The axe hit the deck with a dull thud and the large man looked at his stumps in shock. It was the expression he died with as his severed head bounced across the deck.

Without delay, Jon threw himself into another fight, engaging two Ironborn at once, unaware of how the rest of his group was faring.

Finding himself on the defensive, he parried one of the strikes into the path of the other attacking man and seized the opportunity to even the odds in his favour.

The Valyrian steel blade glided through the sternum seamlessly, and his third victim simply collapsed to the ground, clutching the wound in a state of disbelief.

“BASTARD!” the other man bellowed, only for his rebuttal to be his own downfall.

Overreaching with his axe, which seemed to be a recurring trait in the fighting style, the returning slash from Jon saw the man’s guts spill out across the deck.

Taking the briefest of moments to survey the scene, he was relieved to see the other Stark men holding their own against the superiors numbers, though three appeared to be missing.

It was when Jon caught side of the red blade that had been mentioned by `Rickard as being wielded by the particularly vicious Lord Drumm, he understood what had happened.

Laying around him was three dead Stark men, and another would join them shortly if Drumm wasn’t killed.

The larger man looked towards Jon, the bodies of the Ironborn around him, and stalked towards him with his blade poised.

“Those men were my friends,” Drumm growled.

“And the villagers you murdered, raped, and kidnaped were my people,” Jon returned, his grip tightening around the handle of his own sword.

Drumm eyed it questioningly, but Jon did not wish to trade any more words with the man.

“A Stark?” Drumm questioned, licking his lips hungrily.

As one, they struck, the Valyrian steel playing a deadly symphony as the two blades crashed together as the chaos continued to ensue around them,

Rickard

It was the clashing of steel somewhere ahead of them that spurred them to urge their horses into a gallop. Rickard and his much larger group of men had missed the Ironborn, but it seemed that Jon, Rodrik and their men had caught them in time.

“Come on,” Rickard encouraged his mount as the sound of fighting grew closer.

It was when they emerged from the next bend that he caught sight of the two small boats with Ironborn spilling from the one at the rear in an attempt to reach the one on in front.

The river, though narrow, was deep enough to hinder them greatly and left them at a distinct disadvantage as the party of Stark men fell upon them.

Rickard drew Ice from its enormous sheath and ensured Brandon was at his side as he drove the great sword through the throat of the first enemy within reach.

With a blade so large, the head was lopped off, and Rickard intercepted a blow from another with practiced ease. He may not spend as much time in the training yard as he had in his youth, but his reflexes remained sharp and his skill with his ancestral sword as competent as ever.

Quickly realising they were outclassed by the well-trained soldiers of the North, the Ironborn that could, attempted to flee to the opposite bank where they could make an escape.

“COWARDS!” one of those that remained behind yelled.

“ARROWS!” Rickard ordered.

His men complied, and those running from the skirmish were prevented from doing so.

Their cries of pain only added to the cacophony of screaming all around them, the smell of blood and evacuated bowels that filled the air. It was enough to turn the stomach of even the most seasoned fighter.

“Where are Jon and Rodrik?” Brandon asked, echoing the very same question that Rickard was contemplating.

“My lord, they are on the first ship,” one of the men informed him.

With a nod and a gesture to his heir, Rickard began carving his way towards the first ship, cutting down any that stepped into his path. The Ironborn were infamously vicious in their ways but having seemingly been caught off guard and proving to lack discipline, they were falling fast.

It was the sight of Jon and Rodrik fighting back-to-back as they fended off a determined attack by five men that greeted the Warden of the North, the former covered from head to toe in blood and his expression feral.

Now more than ever, Jon Snow resembled one of the winter kings of old, his sword in hand as he defended the North from any would-be invaders.

Rushing to assist them, Rickard pulled himself up the side of the boat with Brandon in tow and marvelled at the sheer number of Ironborn that had been slaughtered by the modest group he’d sent here.

Only around a dozen remained, most of whom having shifted their attention to Jon and Rodrik.

Rickard barrelled into one of the Ironborn, sending the man overboard, and he swelled with pride as he watched Brandon throw himself into the thick of the fighting.

His son’s presence gave Jon and Rodrik a needed reprieve to gather themselves, and immediately, the wayward bastard engaged a larger man wielding a red blade.

Drumm.

He was known for being particularly violent and hungry for the flesh of the fairer sex.

What became quickly apparent was that the man was simply outclassed by Jon who wielded his blade with a fine mixture of aggression and finesse. With Brandon and Rodrik fending off the others, Jon could focus his attention on the feared Lord of Old Wyk.

What concerned Rickard, however, was not Drumm, but the sight of another that emerged from the galley wielding a pair of axes.

Andrik the Unsmiling.

Andrik was renowned across Westeros as the best warrior the Ironborn had to offer. What he was doing here conducting raids against villages, Rickard didn’t know, but the man was less welcome than the one he served in Drumm.

“WATCH OUT, JON!” Rickard warned as the hulking man charged towards the battling duo.

With Ice poised, he moved to intercept Andrik, only to be impeded by a duo of eager Ironborn.

Dispatching of the two, his eyes widened at the sight of Drumm’s arm being lopped off by Jon’s sword. The man roared in agony as he collapsed next to it, staring at the limb that still clutched his own famous blade in shock.

Andrik took exception to the maiming and unleashed a roar of his own as he brought both of his axes down towards Jon.

Rickard breathed a sigh of relief as the young man evaded the fatal blow, but quickly found himself once more with a fight of his own.

Jon

His new foe was far more refined than any of the others he had faced thus far. Wielding two axes, his movement, attacks, and defence was fluid, and Jon knew he had a real fight on his hands.

He’d never seen this man before, but it was clear he had spent many years perfecting the use of his weapons and had coupled it with the aggression the Ironborn were known for.

Finding himself on the backfoot, Jon watched for any opening as he defended himself, parrying strikes and stepping out of the way of others where possible. His opponent was relentless, but it was nothing Jon had not faced before.

Inevitably, the man would make a mistake or leave a gap for his blade to be worked in. He merely needed to be patient, bide his time, and strike when the opportunity presented itself.

Fighting a man with two axes required a different approach than facing another with a sword.

Short axes were fast and exceptionally effective in enclosed spaces. The boat they fought upon was the ideal setting for such weapons.

Nonetheless, Jon had fought alongside the very best of Westeros and against them at one time or another throughout his life. Although he despised Aliser Thorne, the man had been meticulous in teaching the brothers of the Night’s Watch how to fend off attackers with axes, the often-preferred weapon of the Wildlings.

Having fought them himself many times and spending hours sparring with the likes of Tormund, Jon was ready for this fight.

His foe was fast, his blows powerful, but he was far from being the Night King, nor was he the Dothraki Jhogo whose strikes were powerful enough to rattle bones even when blocked.

No, this man was good, but Jon had faced and defeated better.

Not that his opponent was to know this. He fought on, undeterred by Jon’s ability to parry his blows with little difficulty, step away from others, and slip by him at a whim.

Soon enough, he began to tire, and with a guttural roar, he unleashed another ferocious though controlled attack.

“Fucking fight you cunt!” he spat.

With a shrug, Jon complied, striking out with a speed that caught the Ironborn off guard, and it was he who now found himself on the backfoot and unable to keep up with the new pace.

Jon was surprised with how well he did defend himself, even if only a moment later he relieved the man of one of his axes and landed a slash across his thigh. Blood immediately began to spill from the wound, and the Ironborn began to favour it, hobbling backwards as best he could, a look of concern replacing the smug arrogance he had approached Jon with.

He was out of his depth and he knew it.

Still, his technique did not falter as he fought back. He did so until the very end and his efforts proved to be in vain. As he aimed a killing blow at Jon’s neck, he quickly found himself looking down at a blade protruding through his chest.

Jon had spun behind the man and rammed the Valyrian steel through his spine, down to the hilt.

The Ironborn turned to look at him, wide-eyed as blood began to spill from his mouth before he fell lifeless to ground into a pool of the viscous liquid.

“No!” Drumm gasped into the shocked silence. “Impossible.”

“Looks like you fucked with the wrong people,” Rodrik growled as he approached the downed Lord of Old Wyk. “You should never have come to the North.”

Drumm said nothing as he stared dumbly at the fallen axe-wielding man.

“Are you alright, Jon?” Rickard asked.

Jon nodded.

“I don’t think any of the blood is mine.”

Rickard snorted.

“No, but you spilled enough of the Ironborn’s,” he pointed out. “I’m proud you, lad. All of you,” he added to gathered Stark men. “They’ll be a feast when we make it back to Winterfell.”

“What about him?” Jon asked, nodding to Drumm.

Rickard hummed thoughtfully.

“I should take his head.”

“I have a better idea,” Jon replied. “Send him home as a message to the others. Pile up the bodies on the boats, take the sword hands of the survivors and send them back with a warning.”

Rickard frowned deeply.

“It is harsh, but it will show the Ironborn that there is nothing but death for them here,” Rodrik broke in. “The people they murdered and captured here deserve Northern justice.”

Rickard nodded.

“Aye,” he agreed. “Release our people and gather the survivors. I think this belongs to you,” he added, picking up the red, Valyrian steel blade and handing it to Jon. “You defeated Drumm, it is yours by right.”

“I won’t have my blade wielded by a fucking Stark!” Drumm spat.

Jon chuckled humourlessly as he accepted the sword and pried the dismembered hand from it. He threw it to Drumm and leaned down to retrieve the scabbard from around his waist.

“It’s a good job I’m just a lowly bastard then,” he murmured, enjoying the look of shock from the Ironborn lord.

“A bastard?”

Jon nodded as he stood.

“A bastard.”

“Get him away, and make sure he doesn’t die,” Rickard commanded irritably.

Two of the men took him down into the galley where the Northern prisoners had just been released.

“Your homes will be rebuilt,” Rickard assured them, “or you are all welcome to make a life for yourselves in Wintertown. House Stark will not forget about any of you.”

They were women and small children; unlikely to survive outside of a strong community with the men to provide for them. Their husbands, older sons, and brothers had been slaughtered.

There would be nothing left for them at the homes they had been taken from.

“Let’s get moving,” Rickard urged. “I long for home. Brandon, tend to the woman and children. If there is anything they need, see that they have it. Who’s that?” he asked with a frown.

“This would be Lord Harlaw,” Brandon revealed with a feral grin. “He tried to flee with the others and caught an arrow in the shoulder.”

Rickard grunted as he approached the wincing man.

“That looks painful,” he murmured. “What were you doing here?”

“Taking what we needed,” Harlaw said defiantly.

“Instead, you got what you deserved.”

With a swing of Ice, Harlaw’s head rolled across the deck of the boat and Rickard cleaned his blade on the man’s surcoat before sheathing it.

“If that doesn’t send a message, I do not know what will. Speaking of which, someone fetch me a raven. I must write to the king.”

With that, he began barking further instructions at the other men, and Jon found himself being clapped on the shoulder by Rodrik.

“You’re a fucking mad man, Snow. Andrik is a nasty shit.”

“Not anymore he isn’t.”

Rodrik guffawed.

“Aye, thanks to you. Come on, let’s get this mess cleaned up so we can go home.”

“Do you want this?” Jon asked, offering his newly obtained blade to the man.

Rodrik shook his head as he frowned.

“It’s yours. You won it and you should keep it. Even if you don’t use it, it’s a trophy of your victory here. Besides, I like my own blade more. Hang it on your wall, Jon, if you’re not going to wield it.”

Jon nodded as he attached the belt around his own waist.

The blade itself was of course of incredible quality, but it was not the one he had carried and grown comfortable with for several years now. No, it was unlikely he would use it, but in the coming years, Red Rain would be an invaluable commodity when the dead came for them.

Lyanna

Every day without fail, she spent much of her time watching the treeline in the distance from the top of Winterfell, waiting for any sign of the returning Stark men. It had been eleven days now, and there had been none.

With each day that passed, Lyanna only grew more concerned. How long could it take to find the Ironborn?

What if her father had been killed, or Brandon, or Jon?

The very idea did not bear thinking about.

“RIDER!” one the few guards that were chosen to remain behind suddenly announced.

Lyanna squinted into the distance and saw a single figure approaching atop a horse, the Stark banner billowing in the wind behind him.

“Come Ghost,” she urged, sprinting all the way through the keep until she was in the courtyard with her mother and Benjen.

“Who goes there?” the guard called warily after some moments.

“It’s Morgan,” the rider announced himself in a familiar northern brogue. “I have been sent to inform you that Lord Stark and his entourage will be returning within the hour and to give a report to Lady Stark.”

“Open the gates,” the guard instructed.

Morgan rode into the courtyard a moment later, dismounted from his horse and offered a bow to the waiting Starks.

“My Lady. Lord Stark sends his greetings. He and Lord Brandon are unharmed and were successful in hunting down the Ironborn. Lord Harlaw has been executed by Lord Stark, Lord Drumm was defeated in combat by Jon Snow and returned to the Iron Islands, minus his sword arm, to deliver a strong warning. Andrik the Unsmiling was defeated in single combat by Jon Snow and is dead. The surviving invaders were sent home without their sword hands as a reminder to those that would bring harm upon the Northern people. Both Lord Stark and his heir fought valiantly and bring with them women and children who no longer have a home. Another has already been sent to Wintertown with instructions to prepare for their arrival, my lady.”

Lyanna watched her mother breathe a sigh of relief as she nodded gratefully.

“Thank you, Morgan,” she offered sincerely. “Am I to prepare a feast?”

“You are, my lady,” Morgan confirmed. “Lord Stark asks that it is held in honour of Jon Snow, Rodrik Cassel, and the small party of men they led to intercept the Ironborn.”

“Very well,” Lyarra said with a smile. “Get some rest, Morgan. I expect you will need it.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“They’re all okay?” Lyanna asked.

Morgan beamed.

“They are all well, my lady,” he assured her with a bow before taking his leave.

Lyanna felt herself relax for the first time in several days.

“Come on,” her mother urged. “You have time to bathe and dress before your father returns.”

“Mother!” Lyanna groaned but allowed herself to be led away by one of the chambermaids.

Her bath was readied quickly and she scrubbed herself before drying off in front of the fire where she attempted to tame her hair. She had gotten used to Jon doing it for her, and despite her best efforts, she couldn’t do it as well as he could.

Not that she cared.

Being what her mother would consider somewhat presentable, she rushed back into the courtyard and waited with the others for the return of her father.

“Lord Stark approaches,” the guard announced only a few moments later, and as the gate opened to admit the sizable party of men, Lyanna wasted no time, throwing herself into her father’s arms as soon as he dismounted.

“Have you been behaving?” he asked with a chuckle.

Lyanna nodded as she gave him her best look of innocence and the man ruffled her hair affectionately. However, her eyes were already seeking out another, and her father laughed once more.

“Go on,” he sighed amusedly.

Lyanna didn’t need telling twice, and she sprinted straight into Jon, almost knocking the wind out of him, followed by Ghost who sent the pair sprawling.

“I’m fine,” Jon wheezed. “Get off me!”

Those gathered in the courtyard laughed at the antics of the wolf as he bounced around excitedly like a common pup with his tail wagging.

Lyanna managed to extract herself from the mass of white fur and the limbs of her sworn sword.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“I wasn’t,” Jon grumbled but offered her a smile, nonetheless. “Have you been practicing?”

Lyanna nodded and took him by the hand, dragging him to where the rest of the Starks were becoming reacquainted.

“I received a letter from Ned,” Lyarra explained to Rickard. “He sent it from the inn at the crossroads, so was away from the Ironborn in time.”

Rickard breathed a sigh of relief and Lyarra began to fuss over a protesting Brandon.

“You need a bath,” she declared. “All of you smell of blood and sweat.”

“Aye, we do,” Rickard said proudly. “Get your rest men. Tonight we will feast.”

Those that had returned from the fighting cheered their approval and Rickard turned towards Jon, Brandon, and Rodrik.

“You all served the North as it should be in a time of need. I am incredibly proud of each of you. Brandon, you did all that any Lord could ever ask of his heir. You will be a fine successor.”

Brandon nodded as he stood a little straighter.

“The two of you are as mad as any men I have met,” Rickard added to Jon and Rodrik. “Without you both, things could have been very different. We would not have reached them in time.”

“I was just along for the ride, my lord,” Rodrik snorted. “I followed Jon, and he saw us through it.”

“Aye, defeating Drumm is no easy feat. I did not expect Andrik to be there.”

“Who is Andrik?” Jon asked.

“Andrik the Unsmiling,” Rickard said with distaste. “He is said to be the greatest warrior of the Iron Islands. He’s vicious, and I had not seen him in some years. He came to the North with a raiding party before but escaped to his ship when we caught up to them. His death alone will send a clear message to Greyjoy to keep his lot away from us. You did well, Jon. Thank you.”

Jon offered the man a bow.

“I suppose Lyanna will want to pester you for the rest of the day. Let the man rest, girl. You can bother him later,” he added with a wink.

Lyanna nodded reluctantly.

“Go, get your rest,” Rickard urged. “You’ve all more than earned it.”

“I will have a bath sent for you, Jon,” Lyarra informed him. “Thank you,” she added, placing a kiss on his cheek. “The North remembers.”

“The North remembers,” Jon echoed.

Lyarra smiled and offered him a nod of approval before following Rickard into the keep.

“I think I’m going to wash the blood off me,” Jon declared. “I don’t think I need your help with that. Ghost, stay with her.”

Lyanna scowled at the grinning man and rolled her eyes as she thought of something she could do to occupy her time before the feast would commence. Maybe she would spend some time in the Godswood, and offer her thanks for the return of her father, Brandon, and Jon.

The latter seemed to do that a lot, holding the Gods closer to his heart than most others in Winterfell.

Rhaegar

Being granted the seat of Dragonstone upon his marriage to Elia had been the greatest of reliefs for the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. It wasn’t that he was particularly fond of his wife, but she was a good and loyal woman who had given him the greatest gift any man could ask for.

Despite their problems, Rhaenys was loved by them, and by all overs who had come to pay tribute shortly after she had been born.

The exception of this was of course the King who had been less than pleased by his first grandchild.

‘She looks like one of the filthy, Dornish whores!’ he had proclaimed loudly.

Rhaegar had swallowed his anger and returned his family to Dragonstone. Being the Crown Prince, however, meant there was no escape from his father, even more so for his mother and younger brother.

Nonetheless, there was little Rhaegar could do.

Without the needed support, he could not simply take the throne from his father, even if it would be best for all if he did. No, he would be branded a usurper, likely burned alive, and his wife and daughter with him.

Worse still, the King took it upon himself often to send for him, and as a good and loyal son, he found himself sailing from Dragonstone more than he wished, without Elia and Rhaenys.

He would spare them from the monster his father was becoming.

“HOW DARE HE?”

Rhaegar frowned as he entered the throne room to find his father in the midst of one of his mad ravings.

“I WANT STARK HERE WITHIN THE MONTH TO EXPLAIN HIMSELF!”

“What is happening, Merryweather?” Rhaegar asked the Hand of the King calmly.

“A letter from the North, My Prince,” the man answered and handed it to Rhaegar who read it.

To King Aerys II, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,

It is my duty to inform you that the lands of the North were recently invaded by a large party of Ironborn men and women. Two villages were raided, dozens of men murdered, and several women and children snatched with the intention of becoming salt wives to their captors.

As is my duty as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, the Ironborn were pursued.

As a result, Lord Harlaw was executed in your name for his crimes. Lord Drumm was spared, losing his sword hand in combat, and Andrik the Unsmiling was killed in single combat by a Northern Warrior.

Lord Drumm was allowed to return home to Old Wyk with the survivors, who also had their sword hands removed as a warning to not set foot on Northern shores again.

I ask that you send your own condemnation to the Lords of the Iron Islands in the hope they heed my words.

If they do not, and as this has become a repeated offence, I will be left with no choice but to sail my armies to the Iron Islands and crush them to ensure the safety of my people.

I thank your grace for his time.

Lord Rickard Stark,

Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell

“I’LL SEE HIM BURN FOR THIS!”

Rhaegar released a deep breath.

The Northern Kingdom had always proven to be the least problematic of them all. For the most part, they kept themselves away from others, paid their taxes, and caused no issue for the crown.

For Stark to have reacted in such a way, the Ironborn must truly have provoked his ire.

“How many times has the Ironborn raided the North?” he asked.

“We have twelve reports from the last eight years, My Prince,” Merryweather answered.

“And what has the crown done about it?”

“Nothing.”

Rhaegar hummed as. He turned his attention to his father.

“You should do as Lord Stark has requested,” he advised. “If he has been fending them off for so long with not even an acknowledgement, he is within his rights to be furious.”

“His Kingdom is my Kingdom!” Aerys spat.

Rhaegar shook his head.

“His Kingdom is the one that is most neglected by the crown,” he pointed out. “When was the last time they received a royal visit?”

“They haven’t, My Prince,” Merryweather answered once more. “Tohrren Stark bent the knee to Aegon, and the North has been left alone since.”

“Unacceptable,” Rhaegar sighed. “I’m surprised they remain loyal to us.”

“Stark wouldn’t dare!” Aerys snarled.

“If he did, what could we do to stop him?”

“I would march an army to his front door…”

He glared as Rhaegar chuckled.

“Father, the North is a vast land and makes up a third of the land mass of the Kingdoms. It is colder than you can imagine, harsh, and your losses, even if you were successful, would leave the crown severely weakened. I would say that winning a war in the North would be all but impossible given that us southerners do not know the land. Merryweather, what is the current total of fighting men the North can muster?”

“At last count a few years ago, Lord Stark claims he could amount a force of around fifty thousand fighting men.”

“That does not take into account that Moat Calin, even in its current state, could be manned by one hundred men that would hold any army at bay. The Neck would be a poor choice to attempt to march an army through, and even the Royal Fleet would struggle in the conditions up there.”

“Aegon made the bastards kneel!” Aerys reminded them.

“Aegon had dragons,” Rhaegar pointed out. “Tohrren Stark kneeled to save his people from them. Father, chastise the Iron Islands and send Lord Stark an apology for the oversight by the crown for not acting sooner. Perhaps a gift would not go amiss.”

Aerys nodded like a petulant child and Rhaegar bid his father farewell.

His ravings were only becoming worse, and the Kingdoms would suffer if something wasn’t done. Not all of his memories of Aerys were unpleasant, but in recent years, he could scarcely remember any of those he may have once been fond of.

TSOTWR - Chapter III

Chapter III

Robert

He would never get used to the cold.

He had only been in Winterfell for three days, and Robert was convinced he would never feel his toes or fingers again. Ned had provided him with some gloves lined with fur, but they didn’t stave off the icy chill that permeated the North.

If this was summer, he dreaded to think what winter was like. Robert had heard that the North were a hardy lot, toughened by the harsh conditions, and he had come to readily believe it, even if he did not like all of those he had met.

He hadn’t spoken much to the bastard, but everywhere he turned, the young man was there with his wolf, escorting Lyanna Stark wherever she wished to go.

The girl was never without one or the other, preventing Robert from having the opportunity to speak with her alone.

He was intrigued by her.

Her dark hair, pale skin, and grey eyes… Robert had become enamoured with her almost immediately, and yet, he would seemingly not be able to pursue it, not unless he was able to get the bastard out of the way.

In truth, Robert had nothing against the man other than he had become an obstacle to his desires. Ned and the other Starks liked him well enough, and if nothing else, Robert had learned that Ned, although naïve, was an excellent judge of character.

He just wished Jon Snow wasn’t so steadfast in his duty.

“What do you think, brother?” Stannis asked.

It was the first day since arriving in Winterfell that Robert had risen early enough to see how the Northerners trained here. Ned had been good with a sword when he arrived in the Vale, and under Lord Corbray and Yohn Royce, he had only gotten better.

In the last several moons that he had seen his friend, Ned had improved even more.

“These Northerners know how to fight,” he answered thoughtfully.

“You are yet to see what the bastard can do,” Stannis said with an unusual air of excitement in his voice.

Robert looked on curiously as Snow took to the yard himself after having spent the time thus far instructing the Starks and much of the guard in Winterfell. Why Lord Rickard would trust a man so young to train those responsible for the protection of his family, Robert didn’t know, but he was certainly about to find out.

His eyebrows rose in surprise as the bastard gestured to three of the guards to attack him at once.

“Now remember, if you are facing more than one opponent, you have to time your attacks. Do not be foolish and try to stand your ground. Move your feet or you won’t last very long.”

He spoke so casually as the guards swung their swords with all their might, doing their utmost to land blow after blow on the man, to no avail.

Was this a rehearsed routine?

If it was, it looked more authentic than many of the fights Robert had seen in the various mummer’s shows he’d witnessed throughout his life.

He watched as Snow demonstrated what he’d been preaching, his footwork almost cat-like in speed and sureness. When the opportunity, all but a split-second, arose, he struck back, his blade a blur as he dispatched of the three men in a matter of seconds.

Robert stood in surprise at the feat, at the speed and power of what he had witnessed. Ned had not been joking when he’d said the bastard was gifted with a sword, and yet, to see it for himself was something else.

He nodded appreciatively, his own hand clenching as though he was gripping his hammer.

Snow could well prove to be a challenge to him if he wasn’t so much smaller.

Robert applauded politely with the rest of the onlookers. He could not deny that what he’d witnessed was impressive, and he would always give credit where it was due, particularly in martial merit.

He prided himself in his own ability.

It had been so long since he had been bested in the yard, his dedication and hard work to his craft paying dividends.

Snow seemed to be of a similar mind and had undoubtedly spent years honing his skills.

“Impressed?” Stannis asked.

“It’s nothing I have never seen before,” Robert replied dismissively, though even he was not convinced by his own tone.

During his youth, he’d visited King’s Landing, and even attended the tourney Tywin Lannister had held in honour of Prince Viserys’ birth. Robert had seen the very best in the realm, the Kingsguard amongst them, and yet, none had fought the way he had seen Jon Snow wield a blade so briefly.

With a hammer in hand, Robert felt all but invincible to any who would dare stand before him, but he had always lacked the finesse required for swordplay.

It hadn’t been until his father suggested his weapon of choice that Robert ever felt he truly would become a warrior, but since he’d first held it, he’d never picked up another sword since.

He was born to wield the hammer, to use his enormous frame to swing it with such force that no man would rise from the blow they were struck with.

So, why did he feel a sense of insecurity having witnessed what Snow was capable of?

Robert didn’t know, but he reminded himself of his own prowess, and as his gaze shifted towards Lyanna Stark, his resolve to bed the girl, through marriage, of course, only grew stronger.

Jon Snow may be the man in her life, whether he had shared her bed or not, but Robert Baratheon would be the one to possess her truly in all the ways that mattered.

No bastard could compete with him, not even one as talented as Jon Snow, the sword of the girl he had quickly become infatuated with.

(Break)

Ned

He stood before his mother and father whilst the latter scratched away with a quill. It was several moments later that he finished and looked towards Ned speculatively.

“Jon Arryn is pleased with the progress you have made during your time in the Vale. From the report I received, you have been diligent in your studies, your training, and have comported yourself well as a son of the Warden of the North. I am pleased and proud of you, Eddard.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The man offered him a smile.

“You are to spend another year of fostering, and then you will return North. What do you see in your future, son?”

Ned frowned thoughtfully at the question.

He had considered it, but he knew what would become of his life relied on the need of him from his father, and then Brandon when his brother became the Lord of Winterfell.

“What would you suggest?”

“I am asking what you would like, Ned,” his father pressed gently. “You will always have a place at Winterfell if that is your wish. I had thought that you would perhaps like a holdfast of your own.”

“A holdfast?”

Ned had not even thought of such a possibility.

His father nodded.

“What I am to say will remain between us,” he said firmly. “Recently, I have been pondering the idea of rebuilding Moat Calin so that it is habitable once more. I am assured that much of the stone is salvageable.”

“Why rebuild it?” Ned asked curiously.

“Along with the Neck, it is the gateway into the North,” his father answered. “A force of one hundred can keep any army at bay, and I would see our lands secure once more.”

“But we aren’t at war,” Ned pointed out confusedly.

“We are not,” his father agreed. “But that an always change on the whims of fools who seek such glory.”

Ned nodded his understanding.

“You would want me to live there?”

“With your own force, your own people, and your own family,” Rickard said with a smile. “It is not so far from Winterfell that you cannot visit at your leisure, and it would be a position of the utmost importance and prestige for you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Ned replied.

“Say nothing for now,” his father urged. “Not a word to no one.”

“Of course, Father,” Ned complied with a respectful bow.

“Do you believe it will be something that would suit you? I would have honesty, Ned. If you feel that is not the life for you, then I will propose the idea to Benjen when he is older.”

“I will do it,” Ned declared. “I will be the gatekeeper of the North.”

Rickard beamed at him, and Ned could feel the pride of his father.

“What about Benjen?” Ned asked curiously. “Brandon will be the Lord of Winterfell one day, but Benjen…”

“Will also be giving a holdfast of his own,” Rickard assured him. “I have been blessed with three able and honourable sons. I would have each of you serve the people of the North and live full and prosperous lives.”

“And Lyanna?”

His father frowned at the question.

“Your mother and I have not decided.”

“Robert has expressed an interest in her,” Ned returned quietly.

“I am aware,” his father responded. “He has presented himself well here, and I will take it under consideration. I expect he would treat Lyanna well, but I do not like the thought of her being so far from home. She is of the North, Ned. It would be much better for relations with my own people if she was to marry a Northerner.”

“Should I relay that to Robert?”

His father shook his head.

“I will allow him to prove himself. If I deem him worthy and Lyanna is receptive enough, I will not dismiss his interest. You can relay that to him if you wish.”

“I will,” Ned replied with a smile before taking his leave of the solar.

Robert would be pleased.

His somewhat proposal had not been outright rejected, so there was a chance the two of them truly would be brothers. In the morning, they would be returning to the Vale where Ned would spend a final year.

Although he did not feel ready to bid farewell to the North once more, he was looking forward to seeing Jon Arryn and many of the others he had grown close to throughout his time there.

Rickard

“Are you seriously considering a match between Lyanna and Robert Baratheon?” Lyarra asked.

Rickard frowned before shaking his head.

“I do not know,” he murmured thoughtfully. “If Lyanna is receptive, I may be amiable to it, but I do not think it likely.”

“Then why not outright refuse it?”

“It is a matter of respect,” Rickard answered. “If I was to refuse him without due consideration, it could be taken in offense. I would rather not offend anyone. Besides, Robert will be leaving on the morrow with Ned. He will likely forget all about Lyanna.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Lyarra sighed. “I have seen the way he looks at her. He is quite besotted.”

“Then we will cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, we have other things to focus on.”

“Are you sure about rebuilding Moat Calin? The crown may see it as an affront or an attempt to declare ourselves as our own kingdom.”

“The crown has not shown any damned interest in us for more than a hundred years!” Rickard snapped. “Whenever we have called for aide against the Wildlings or the Ironborn, have they sent anything? No! They care only for our taxes, and I would see us safe from their politicking and war if it comes to it. I will not send our people to die for any that would not do the same for us!”

Rickard deflated as Lyarra rubbed his shoulders soothingly.

“You know, it’s not often the wolfish side of yours is seen.”

“I’m sorry,” Rickard sighed.

Lyarra cupped his cheek as she turned him towards her.

“Never apologise for caring about your people, my lord,” she whispered firmly. “You will always have my support.”

“Aye, I know,” he replied gratefully. “I know what I am doing with the Moat, but what about Baratheon?”

“Do you not think you should see what Lyanna thinks of him before you make a decision? You know she is not so forthcoming in such things.”

Rickard nodded.

“Alec?” he called.

Only a few seconds later the head of his page peered around the door.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Could you fetch Jon Snow for me?”

“Of course, my lord.”

The door closed and Rickard took his seat behind his desk.

“Jon?” Lyarra pressed.

“If anyone knows her thoughts on Robert, it will be Jon.”

Lyarra giggled as she nodded her agreement.

“She’d be more likely to want to marry him, I think.”

Rickard shook his head.

“You know that could never be. The Northern Lords would despise that more than if I offered her to Baratheon. No, Jon will find a wife of his own one day, I expect. If he wishes too.”

Lyarra remained silent on the matter and a moment later, a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in, Jon,” Rickard bade.

The man entered the room, and as ever, the Lord of Winterfell was quite taken aback by just how much he resembled his own kin though in the flickering firelight of his office, he would swear he caught glimpses of a deep purple within the grey of his eyes.

“You asked to see me, Lord Stark?”

“I did,” Rickard confirmed, withdrawing from his thoughts. “Please, take seat.”

Jon did so with a curious frown and Rickard help up a hand.

“I assure you; I only wish to hear your opinion on a matter that was brought to me. It appears that Robert Baratheon has become rather enamoured with Lyanna.” 

Rickard did not miss the slight narrowing of Jon’s eyes.

“I take it you do not approve.”

“It is not my place to say, my lord,” Jon replied diplomatically.

“But if it was?”

Jon released a deep breath.

“If I was in a position to speak my mind, I would say it is more likely that you would see Lyanna stand beneath the weirwood with Ghost. I would say he has presented himself well enough to you and to Lady Stark, but Lyanna shows no fondness for him. According to her, he reeks of wine and whores, and is a lech with a pretty title.”

“That sounds exactly the kind of thing she would say,” Rickard snorted humourlessly. “So, I can expect that any attempt to make a match would be met with resistance.”

“It would,” Jon confirmed. “If you wish for me to be frank, my lord, I cannot say I would disagree with her. In the three days Lord Baratheon has been here, there has not been one where he hasn’t visited the whorehouse in Wintertown. I do not think he would treat Lyanna cruelly, but he would not honour her nor any wedding vows he made.”

“That is a rather honest assessment,” Rickard chuckled.

“I have also overheard his men talking of a child born to Robert in the Vale, as well as another in the Stormlands. It is not my place to judge given my own status, but I do not believe he is the right match for Lyanna. As a final point, if you were to consider the match and I ever felt he had dishonoured her, it would be my duty to ensure that it did not happen again. I do not think it would reflect well on any if I was forced to kill the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands for a slight that could easily be avoided.”

Rickard felt the corner of his lips tug into a grin and he nodded, ignoring the tittering laughter of his wife.

“Well, I think it would be rather detrimental to even consider the match, but I would see Robert leave here under the impression that he has not been refused so readily,” Rickard decided. “As ever, Jon, your counsel has been most valuable.”

Jon offered both Rickard and Lyarra a bow before accepting the dismissal and taking his leave of the room.

“Do you think he would kill Robert?” Lyarra asked interestedly.

“I think Jon will kill anyone he felt necessary to kill, to keep her safe” Rickard said sincerely. “Somehow, I sleep better at night knowing she has him to look after her.”

“And the boys,” Lyarra added. “He looks out for them too.”

“That he does,” Rickard agreed, his thoughts drifting back to what he was certain he had seen in Jon more than once now.

There was no doubt he was a Northerner, but Rickard was convinced there was much more to the young man than perhaps even Jon knew.

Jon

“Thank the Gods he’s leaving today?”

“Ned?”

Lyanna scowled at him.

“Baratheon!” she said irritably.

Jon chuckled as he held up his hands placatingly. He wasn’t threatened by the girl, but she was just as easy as Arya had been to annoy.

“Ned is leaving too,” he reminded her.

“I know,” Lyanna sighed. “I will miss him, but he’s an ass when he’s with Robert.”

“Well, if all goes well, you won’t have to see him again.”

Jon knew that wasn’t the truth, but he had to try to cheer Lyanna up. She’d been moping since Robert had arrived and she’d been unable to train.

“Will you take me to the Godswood when they’re gone?” she asked hopefully.

“I will,” Jon confirmed.

Lyanna smiled brightly, though it vanished as they stepped into the courtyard where the Baratheon entourage was readying themselves to leave. Lord Rickard had decided that a dozen Stark men would be sufficient to escort Ned to the Vale.

With the Baratheon men with them, it was unlikely they would be attacked by bandits. On the return trip, they would make their way to Gulltown and get a boat to White Harbour.

From there, Lord Manderly would provide a suitable escort back to Winterfell.

“I was pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Stark,” Robert offered with what he likely thought was a charming smile.

Lyanna hid her revulsion well as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

“Have a safe journey, Lord Baratheon,” she offered politely.

The man beamed, his gaze not leaving her until he’d mounted his horse and led his men out of Winterfell.

“Pig,” Lyanna muttered.

Jon shook his head amusedly as the girl flung herself into Ned’s arms.

“I’ll only be gone a year,” he assured her with a chuckle.

“You’d better be,” Lyanna warned.

Ned embraced tightly once more before shifting his attention to Jon and offered his hand.

“Thank you, Jon, for everything,” he said gratefully. “I might have spent most of the last few moons getting my arse kicked, but I learned a lot from you. Will you still be here when I come back?”

“Of course he will be,” Lyanna huffed. “He’s my Sworn Sword. He doesn’t get to leave unless I release him from his vow.”

“Aye, and I bet he’s regretting that decision now.”

Lyanna shrugged.

“It’s not like he can do anything about it.”

“Lya, Jon isn’t a tool for your amusement,” Ned chided.

“He is if I say he is!”

“Oh, someone has changed their mind about training today then?” Jon questioned.

“I have not,” Lyanna denied.

“Then you’d better be nice or you might find I come done rather unwell for the next weeks or so.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me,” Jon returned with a glare.

Lyanna narrowed her eyes at him at Ned laughed.

“Nice one, Jon. You’re learning how to handle her.”

“There’s not a single person here who could handle me,” Lyanna denied.

“If you say so,” Ned chuckled. “Good luck, Jon. I think you’re going to need it.”

“I think you’re right,” Jon replied.

Ned too mounted his horse after bidding another farewell to his parents. In only a matter of moments, the courtyard was empty once more and Jon was pulled from his musings by a sniffle from his charge.

“You’re not missing Robert already?” he quipped.

Lyanna growled and aimed a kick at him, only to find her laying in the dirt as Jon caught her leg.

“Come on. Let’s get some of the pent-up aggression out of you,” he suggested, making his way towards the Godswood.

Lyanna followed, cursing him under her breath, and Jon snickered to himself.

As different as she was to Arya, both had much of the wolf’s blood in them and were rather easy to irk. It had become something of a hobby of Jon’s during his time here, though with the arrival of Robert Baratheon, a sense of restlessness had set in.

The man’s presence reminded him of what was to come, and how soon it would be upon them. With so much to do, Jon knew there were things he would ned to change, and despite forging a good relationship with his family here, he’d never felt so alone at the thought of the scourge on the horizon.

Eventually, he knew he would need help.

Perhaps when Rickard came to trust him implicitly and would not deem him quite insane, he would be able to broach the topic of how he’d arrived here.

Until then, Jon was very much alone in the world where it mattered, and that feeling only became more of a burden the longer he spent here.

Rickard

It was never easy saying goodbye to one of his sons when he sent them off to live in the home and under the rules of another. Rickard had done so five times now, three with Brandon and twice with Ned.

Benjen would be next when he decided where he wished for his youngest son to go.

He had been considering the Karstarks of Karhold or perhaps with the Manderlys.

It was a decision he would need to make soon. Benjen was of an age that he should be fostered.

He’d even pondered sending Lyanna to the Mormonts on Bear Island for a time, though he had decided against it. He could only imagine what she would have learned from the she-bears.

The thought alone made him shudder.

“Are you still moping?” Lyarra asked.

“I’m not moping,” Rickard denied. “I already miss the lad.”

“Aye, me too,” Lyarra sighed. “He will be back before you know it.”

Rickard nodded as he climbed into bed.

Already Ned had changed so much. He had left Winterfell more than two years ago a boy and had returned a man. It made him feel old beyond his years, and only more so when he remembered that his other children were on the cusp of man and womanhood.

It was a frantic knock at the door that pulled him from his thoughts.

“Who is it?” he called irritably, immediately on edge.

The staff knew he and Lyarra were not to be bothered once they’d turned in unless it was of paramount importance.

“My lord,” Alec greeted him apologetically as he pushed the door open. “Rodrik asked me to send for you. Someone has arrived at the gates in quite a state. He mentioned something about reavers.”

Rickard cursed under his breath as he stood and hurriedly dressed.

“Lead the way, Alec,” he instructed.

When they reached the gate, it was to find a score of guards surrounding a pale and wide-eyed man. His clothing was torn and he had a mild wound on his shoulder.

“What is it?” Rickard asked.

“Ironborn,” the man croaked. “They attacked the fishing village was from here. My wife…my son!”

Rickard placed a calming hand on the man’s shoulder, though he felt anything but.

“How many?”

The man shook his head.

“Dozens, my lord,” he answered. “Two ships came and they headed inland when they were done.”

“Inland?” Rodrik snapped. “Are you certain?”

“I am, sir!”

Rickard cursed loudly, his anger boiling beneath the surface.

“Rodrik, fetch me one hundred of our best men.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The man hurried off to carry out his instructions and Rickard turned towards the arrival.

“You are welcome to remain here,” he said softly. “You will be fed and healed. I assure you; the bastards will pay for what they have done. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Not much, my lord,” the man murmured sadly. “One of the Reavers carried a strange sword. It was red and cut them down like…”

“Drumm,” one of the guards said knowingly. “Drumm is with them.”

“That means a Greyjoy or two won’t be far behind,” Rickard growled. “Drumm wouldn’t come without them. Any idea where they were heading?”

“I’m sorry, my lord, they didn’t say.”

“It’s alright, lad,” Rickard comforted. “We will find them. Take him to the hall and send for Luwin to clean him up. Feed him and find him a bed before he damn collapses.”

“Aye, my lord,” one of the guards complied, leading the man away.

“They’ll be ready soon enough, my lord,” Rodrik informed him as he returned.

“They will need to be,” Rickard muttered irritably as he gestured for the man to follow him into the keep so he could make his own preparations. “Drumm is with them.”

“Drumm? He wouldn’t come alone.”

“Exactly,” Rickard returned simply.

“My lord, should I rouse Jon Snow? I think I’d rather he was with us if Drumm is here. There’s no telling who else will be with him.”

“Jon is not a guard, Rodrik,” Rickard pointed out. “He is here to protect Lyanna.”

“The wolf can do that well enough.”

Rickard paused his steps and pondered the idea.

“If Lyanna allows it, I would have him join us,” he decided aloud.

Rodrik said nothing else as he turned and headed in the opposite direction whilst Rickard made his way to his own quarters where he would need to break the news to his wife that he would be leaving imminently.

Jon

It was a knock at the door that disturbed the little rest Jon had been granted over the past few days. With Robert Baratheon being here, he’d spent much of his time on guard, even when Ghost had returned from hunting in the Godswood.

“What’s happened?” he asked the grave Rodrik that greeted him.

“Ironborn have raided one of the fishing villages to the west. The witness who brought the news said they came inland. We’re not sure on numbers, but Lord Stark would have you with us, with Lady Lyanna’s permission.”

Jon nodded and put on a tunic before leading Rodrik the short walk to Lyanna’s room.

Knocking, he waited for her to answer.

“Who is it?” a voice demanded to know, just as Jon had taught her.

“Jon and Rodrik.”

The door opened and Lyanna looked questioningly at the two men.

“What’s happened?” she asked immediately.

“My lady, Ironborn have been raiding and your father has asked if Jon can accompany us and the other men to find them.”

Lyanna seemed apprehensive but she nodded.

“Of course he can go,” she said worriedly.

Jon offered the girl a reassuring smile.

“Ghost will stay with you until I’m back.”

Lyanna bit her lip nervously before wrapping her arms around him.

“Be careful, Jon,” she whispered.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Jon assured her. “Stay with Ghost and keep your dagger with you. You will be fine.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not going to be killed by a bunch of squids,” Jon chuckled.

“Aye, you won’t,” Lyanna sighed, relaxing somewhat. “You should still be careful.”

Jon offered her a nod before turning back towards his own room.

“We are meeting in the courtyard in one hour,” Rodrik informed him before leaving to prepare.

Jon entered his chambers and opened the small closet where he stored his clothes. Amongst them was his black boiled leathers, gloves, gauntlets and boots he had been wearing when he’d arrived.

Releasing a deep breath, he dressed before tying his hair back with a strip of leather and putting on his sword belt. It was an all too familiar feeling that washed over him upon doing so, battle.

He had spent months in these leathers, fruitlessly fighting for his life. From the battle of Winterfell until he’d arrived on the Isle of Faces, he had worn these leathers.

Now, he was donning them again, and it would not be the last time.

What the Ironborn were doing, Jon could only guess, but they could not be under any illusion that they would be allowed to plunder the north unhindered.

With Ned having left only this morning, Rickard would only be more eager to catch up with the invaders before the came across Ned, though they would more than likely avoid the entourage of Stark and Baratheon men.

No, it would be those who could scarcely defend themselves that the Ironborn would attack.

Taking his leave of his room, he made his way towards the courtyard where the Stark men were gathering.

“Snow, this way,” Rodrik called from the head of the column.

Rickard was with him and the duo were poring over a map.

“If they attacked here, it’s likely this village will be next,” Rickard murmured, tracing the route of the river further inland from where the Ironborn had struck first.

“We won’t make it on time, my lord,” Rodrik muttered irritably. “From there, they will either turn around and head back, or they will move on to this village on the riverbank. Can we get a message to Glover?”

“I’ll have Luwin send a raven,” Rickard decided. “What about the people there? We can’t abandon them, Rodrik,” he added, tracing his finger back to the village the Ironborn would reach next.

“If we don’t make it, my lord, we won’t be able to reach the next on time either,” Rodrik pointed out.

“Then we split the force,” Jon suggested. “If you get a message to Lord Glover, I can get ten men to the next village in less than a day if we ride hard. The Ironborn will be slowed down by where the river narrows here,” he added pointing to the map. “That way, both are covered and if when we make it there the Iron born haven’t made it, we can get through the forest to where you are in a few hours. At worst, your group will miss them and they will be stuck between the two forces.”

“That could work,” Rodrik murmured thoughtfully. “Only ten men?”

“I can work with ten men,” Jon assured the man.

“My Lord?”

Rickard frowned before his gaze came to rest on Jon.

“There could be dozens of them, lad.”

“Aye, and they will have to come through this pass on the river,” Jon explained pointing to the map once more. If we can block it, it won’t matter how many of them there are.”

“He’s right,” Rodrik confirmed. “They’ll have to come through one ship at a time. If they make it past the first village. What’s your plan, Snow?”

“We board them,” Jon answered simply. “One of their smaller ships will carry twenty fighting men at most. The bigger ones won’t even make it up the river. They won’t expect any force to board them.”

Rodrik chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re a mad cunt, Snow. I think that’s why I like you.”

“It is mad,” Rickard agreed.

“What choice do we have?” Jon questioned.

Rickard pondered it for only a moment before nodding.

“Aye, I’ll give you ten of our best,” he decided. “You’d best get moving, lad. It’s a long ride to make in such a short time.”

Jon nodded and turned to head towards the stables, pausing as Brandon approached them.

“I’m coming,” he declared.

Rickard eyed him critically.

“Is he ready?”

“I’m ready,” Brandon answered. “One day, it will be my responsibility to do this. Don’t you think I should be doing it now?”

“Rodrik?” Rickard pressed.

“Aye, the lad is ready.”

“Jon?”

“Better for him to get experience with you now than without you later.”

Rickard smiled as he nodded.

“Aye, you’re with me then. Rodrik, you go with Jon,” he instructed. “I’ll feel better knowing you’re together.”

Rodrik grinned as he wrapped an arm around Jon’s shoulder.

“Come on then, Snow,” Rodrik urged. “If I miss out on killing some Ironborn because of your idea, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Like you could,” Jon quipped, pleased to have the man at his side.

Rodrik quirked an eyebrow at him before turning his attention to the gathered Stark men.

“You ten, you’re with us,” he informed a group of them. “Leave the banners. We ride hard, and you can thank Snow if we all die.”

The men complied without question and they made their way to the stable.

“Why do I have a feeling we are in for it?” Rodrik asked gravely.

“Because we probably are,” Jon chuckled as he untied a stallion he had grown fond of since he’d arrived. “You’re not scared are you, Rodrik?”

“Of some squids?”

The man laughed uproariously as they led their group through the gates of Winterfell, waving farewell to the watching Rickard.

TSOTWR - Chapter II

Rickard

“Good, Brandon,” Jon praised as the Heir of Winterfell landed a combination on one of the guards that sent the man sprawling. “Take a break. Ned, get in there.”

Brandon nodded gratefully as the eager Ned took his place, and Rickard watched as his second son faced off with another of the guards.

Jon had been with them for three moons now, and the Warden of the North had not regretted a single moment of his presence. All of the children had grown close to the young man, as had all within the keep who had made his acquaintance.

Brandon, Ned, and Benjen had all improved considerably in their abilities with a sword under Jon’s tuition, and Lyanna had become all but inseparable from him.

At first, Rickard had been concerned that Rodrik would feel put-out by Jon’s inclusion, but the man had been accepting and even keen to work with him. Often they could be seen facing off with one another, and though Rodrik had not even come close to beating Jon, his own already impressive swordsmanship was getting better.

Jon too only seemed to thrive here. When he’d arrived and first fought against the guards, he had evidently not been at his best. Now that he was healthy after enjoying a roof over his head and several square meals a day, his talent had only become exceptionally more obvious.

He truly was a sight to behold with a blade in hand.

“Come on, Lyanna, get yourself in there,” Jon instructed as Ned dispatched of his foe.

Rickard shook his head amusedly as his daughter did as she was bid.

It had taken some time for her to accept that she wouldn’t be able to fight the way Jon or her brothers did. She simply did not have the strength to compete with the guards, but she was learning to use her speed, footwork, and cunning to great effect.

Lyanna was yet to beat any of the guards, but her determination and dedication would one day prevail.

Rickard grimaced as the guard rammed his shoulder into her, sending her to the ground.

As uncomfortable as it was for him to witness, Jon had been right when he’d said that anyone wishing her harm would not take it easy on her.

Lyanna seemed to just take it in her stride, and even grinned as she was helped out of the mud by her opponent who offered her praise for the skill she’d demonstrated.

“I still can’t beat you,” she huffed.

“Aye, and it will be some time before you manage it, Little Wolf,” the guard chuckled.

Rickard clapped politely and offered his daughter a nod.

Lyanna was doing well, and the encouragement from Jon she received after each bout brought a smile to her lips.

Shifting his attention back to the man, Rickard followed suit.

Jon simply belonged here, a true Northerner to the very core. He was diligent in his duty to Lyanna, even helping her in the stables with the horses. When he would leave Ghost with his charge, he could be found in the Godswood, the forge, or helping out around the keep where needed, and yet, he remained something of a mystery.

Rickard still had many questions he wished for answers to, but he was not inclined to push for them. He hoped that Jon would one day be able to open up of his own accord, though for now, he truly was most welcome.

Lyarra too had grown fond of the young man, still little more than a boy in her eyes, though one who had undoubtedly experienced more hardship than he’d speak of.

Jon was a hard man; hewn by the whatever life he had lived prior to coming to Winterfell. Still, he was gentle in nature for the most part, softly spoken, observant, but as mischievous as any of his own at times.

Those within the keep spoke highly of him and Rickard had come to think so.

Jon was a man he was pleased who have come into the lives of the Starks, and better yet, he kept Lyanna out of trouble.

A part of the agreement he’d made with the often-wayward girl was that she would attend her lessons and duties if she wished to be trained in combat; one that she was sticking to thus far.

Rickard had always been proud of all of his children, but since Jon had arrived, they had all become more diligent, more eager to learn, and dedicated to bettering themselves.

They looked up to Jon, and the man was proving to be an excellent example set for the Stark brood.

“Come on, Jon, you haven’t let us try to beat you for ages,” Benjen whined challengingly.

“Do you think you’re up for it?” Jon returned with a smirk.

“I am!” Brandon declared, charging forward.

Rickard could only shake his head as he did so, swinging his fist and missing as expected. Brandon cursed as Jon seized him by the gambeson he wore and hurled him a dozen feet into a pile of hay that had recently been mucked out with seemingly little effort.

Jon’s wiry build truly belied the strength of the man, something else that had become quite the talking point when he was discussed amongst the workers here.

Rickard had heard that he was an able lad, more than happy to help with the heavy lifting around the forge and moving the laden carts of supplies around when they arrived.

It wasn’t until he had been present for a delivery of ale from the Umbers that he had witnessed it for himself.

A cart that would usually take three strong men to move… Jon had moved it alone without bother. Rickard had not commented on the feat of strength but having tried to move the cart himself when the yard had cleared, he found it to be impossible.

Where such strength come from, he did not know. Perhaps it was simply a gift from the Gods?

He had watched Jon since, and him throwing Brandon such a distance, despite his son being of a bigger build should not be so easy, though it wasn’t so surprising now.

Jon simply seemed to possess an otherworldly strength. Just another thing to add to the mystery of the man.

Perhaps he should mention it?

“Ahh, now I’m covered in shit!” Brandon cursed as he emerged from the hay pile.

The others laughed and Rickard joined in.

It was good for his heir to be humbled from time to time, and it helped that there was no malice in it from ither Jon or his son. As such, Brandon chuckled amusedly as he was helped from the hay by Ned.

“GET HIM!” Benjen yelled.

Jon stood his ground as all three brothers attempted to seize a perceived advantage, to no avail. He simply manhandled all three at once, and in only a moment, Brandon, Ned, and Benjen were scrambling to free themselves from the hay and horse manure, much to the delight of Lyanna.

“You’ll never learn,” she mocked.

“He’s a bloody freak,” Brandon declared, levelling a finger at Jon. “I bet even Big Jon Umber wouldn’t be able to take him.”

Rickard nodded thoughtfully. That would be an interesting fight.

Jon Snow would undoubtedly win a contest with the sword, but a traditional, Northern wrestling match? That would be quite the contest.

“Riders are approaching, my lord,” Lyarra murmured in his ear, pulling Rickard from his thoughts.

The Warden of the North nodded.

Today was the day that Robert Baratheon would be arriving with his entourage, and Ned would soon be returning to the Vale for his final stint of fostering with Jon Arryn.

The Lord of Storm’s End had written a little over a week ago declaring his intention to meet Ned here so that they might arrive at the Vale together. Being a gracious host, Rickard had accepted this, curious to meet the southerner Ned thought so highly of.

“Aye,” Rickard acknowledged. “We’d best get this lot cleaned up then.”

Lyarra’s nostrils flared at the sight of the boys, though she could not hide her amusement.

“I’ll take them to the spring,” she sighed. “You can have a bath drawn up for Lyanna. Make sure she wears a dress, my lord, and don’t delegate informing her of it to Jon,” she added with a knowing smirk.

Rickard cursed under his breath.

If nothing else, Jon had been great to hand the responsibility of breaking unwelcome news to his daughter, but it seemed his wife had not been as ignorant to it as he’d believed.

“Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll tell her myself.”

Lyarra patted his cheek affectionately before taking her leave and Rickard looked towards his filthy sons.

Maybe he should have just volunteered to ensure they were presentable for their guest?

Jon

He had yet to tire from what most would consider to be a monotonous way of life in Winterfell. Jon did not take the peace, however temporary, for granted nor the ability to sleep somewhat peacefully in a warm bed or sitting at a table to eat meals with people.

It had taken time for him to recover physically from what he had endured before his meeting with Bloodraven, yet the mental scars remained. His sleep was often disturbed by the memories of the world he’d left behind. Some pleasant and others less so.

Still, he truly felt blessed by the Gods to be here now with the opportunity to change the fate of man, and that would begin imminently with the arrival of Robert Baratheon.

His memories of the man were among the unpleasant. A fat, whoremongering drunkard who had never been able to let go of the past which had led the seven kingdoms to ruin.

Jon snorted to himself.

Wasn’t he clinging to the past in his own way?

“Jon, can you help me?” the voice of Lyanna huffed, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Are you decent?”

“Yes,” the girl sighed.

Jon entered the girl’s room to find her wearing a woollen grey dress with her damp hair in disarray.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Lyanna warned.

“I wasn’t,” Jon replied with a smirk. “What do you need me to do?”

“Can you fix my hair?”

Jon nodded and took the offered brush from the girl. Leading her to a chair in front of a vanity table, he went through the motions of brushing it.

He remembered how those in Winterfell during his youth had spoken of the Lady Lyanna. Most compared Arya to her aunt, and though there were similarities between them, they were fewer than Jon had anticipated.

Arya tended to be difficult for no other reason than to annoy her southern mother and Sansa who was very much a southerner herself in all she did. Yes, Lyanna was rebellious and her mouth and impulsiveness could get her into trouble, but she was not difficult simply because she could be the way Arya had been.

Nonetheless, Jon still missed her and would never forget the vision of the young woman’s disembowelled corpse slung over the mutilated Gendry Baratheon.

Jon shook his head in attempt to rid himself of the image.

“There,” he declared having finished working through Lyanna’s tresses.

“Where did you learn how to plait hair?” she asked curiously as she took in her reflection in a hand mirror.

Jon had unwittingly followed the same routine he used to complete for Daenerys.

“My…someone I knew liked having their hair that way,” he answered.

Lyanna offered him a sad smile.

“What was she like, the woman you…?”

Jon didn’t know what to say. How could he summarise the woman that had been Daenerys Targaryen?

“She was caring,” he said thoughtfully. “So much so that she often lost her way when trying to protect those she loved. She could be stubborn, but she was equally as beautiful.”

“You still miss her.”

It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact and Jon nodded.

“I do,” he answered honestly.

Lyanna gave him a brief hug and cupped his cheek, a gesture that Jon could not put into words just how much it meant.

“You’ll be okay here with us,” she said reassuringly. “It’s okay to feel sad, but you shouldn’t forget that you can be happy too.”

“That’s quite the pearl of wisdom. Where did you hear that?”

“Old Nan said it when she told us a story. I can’t remember which one, but I remember that.”

Jon chuckled as he stood.

“Come on. I bet your mother won’t be happy if we’re late to meet our guests.”

Lyanna scowled as she was ushered from the room but perked up when she realised Ghost was waiting for her.

“Come on, boy,” she cooed, skipping along the corridor of the keep as the direwolf bounded after her.

“Have you got your…” Jon called after her.

Lyanna lifted up her dress in a most unladylike fashion showing the dagger she kept strapped to her thigh. It wasn’t as though she was ever without him or Ghost, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

With an amused shake of his head, Jon followed and caught up to her before she stepped into the courtyard, those gathered making room for the direwolf to pass.

Those within Winterfell had grown used to Ghost’s presence, but they remained rightfully cautious of him.

“Just on time,” Rickard commented.

Jon remained behind Lyanna as was expected and smirked at the sight of Brandon, Ned, and Benjen dressed in their finery with their hair tied up.

“Shut up, Snow,” Brandon grumbled.

Lyarra shot him a look of warning as the gates opened and a sizable entourage entered led by a man who could only be Robert Baratheon, though he was a far cry from the fat, red-faced, slovenly king Jon remembered.

Robert was tall, well over six and a half feet, and with the hulking frame of a man who could swing the hammer he carried on his back. His short black hair and beard were trimmed neatly, and Jon could not help but be reminded of Gendry.

The resemblance was almost uncanny save for the near-black eyes of the Baratheon that approached Rickard, beaming brightly.

“Lord Stark,” he greeted in a booming voice. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Ned speaks very highly of you and I value his opinion more than any other.”

Rickard offered a respectful bow.

“And you, Lord Baratheon,” he replied. “Please, accept Guest Right and be welcome amongst us. The rooms for you and your men are ready.”

Robert and the rest of his entourage accepted the bread and salt whilst Jon looked amongst them for any familiar faces. Much to his surprise, he recognised a young Stannis and he rested his hand on his chest, where the litany of scars remained.

He remembered vividly the man Stannis had become, his devotion to Melisandre and the Lord of Light. Stannis had burned his own daughter at the stake to please the god he followed so devoutly, only to die on the battlefield shortly after.

Jon would be watching both Stannis and Robert closely.

“Ned!” Robert greeted the middle Stark son enthusiastically when he’d consumed his bread.

Ned beamed, grunting as Robert pulled him into a tight embrace.

“It’s good to see you, Robert,” Ned murmured.

“And you, and you. Now, introduce me to the rest of your family. You’ve told me plenty about them.”

Ned chuckled as he gestured to his brothers.

“The older one is Brandon and the smaller one is Benjen.”

Robert greeted both boys with a firm handshake and a slap on the shoulder that almost sent Benjen sprawling.

“And this is my sister, Lyanna.”

Robert paused as he took in the sight of the girl who was smiling politely as she offered her hand. He took it and pressed his lips against her knuckles, his gaze boring into hers.

“By the Gods, what the fuck is that?” he choked, stepping back as Ghost pushed his way between them, his red eyes fixed on Robert.

The Baratheon men drew their weapons cautiously and Jon stepped forward drawing his own.

“Apologies, Lord Baratheon,” Rickard intervened. “You should have been warned about Ghost,” he added, shooting a look of disapproval towards Ned. “I can assure you he will not harm you.”

The pale Robert nodded and gestured for his men to put their weapons away.

“I thought it would be funny,” Ned murmured.

Robert unleashed a bellow of laughter as he nodded.

“Now that I know the beast isn’t going to rip my throat out, it is funny!”

The Baratheon men laughed less enthusiastically than their Lord, but it served to ease the tension and Jon put his sword away.

“Come, allow me to show you to your rooms,” Rickard offered. “You can get yourselves settled in before dinner.”

Robert and his men followed with Ned in tow, and Jon watched them until they disappeared into the keep.

“He smells like wine and the whorehouse in Wintertown,” Brandon muttered.

“And what would you know of it?” Lyarra asked.

“Nothing,” Brandon said dismissively as he joined the entourage.

Lyarra hummed before turning to Jon.

“I want both of you guarding Lyanna tonight,” she instructed. “I do not know these men. I’m not expecting trouble, but I’d rather there wasn’t any.”

“She will sleep in my chambers with Ghost. I will guard the door,” Jon assured the woman who smiled gratefully.

“You’re a good boy, Jon.”

With that, she entered the keep, taking Benjen with her.

“I don’t think I like him much,” an unusually subdued Lyanna whispered as she led Jon and Ghost to the Godswood.

“Robert?”

Lyanna nodded.

“He makes me…uncomfortable.”

“Aye, I don’t like him much either, but he is a Lord of a prominent house. We have to be polite until he leaves.”

“I know,” Lyanna sighed. “I’ll be respectful.”

“Good,” Jon said with a smile. “You know I won’t let him close, don’t you?”

“Jon, if you do anything to him… he’s the Lord of Storm’s End.”

Jon rested a hand on Lyanna’s shoulder and shook his head.

“King Aerys himself could come here, and if he attempted to harm you, I’d gut the cunt like a fish. My life for yours if needed, that was my vow to you.”

Lyanna smiled as she nodded.

“I know, but I wouldn’t want you to die.”

“I’m your Sworn Sword,” Jon snorted. “It’s my job to die for you. If that happens, you’d have Ghost to yourself.”

Lyanna tutted at him but grinned as the wolf waged his tail.

“You’d better watch yourself, Jon Snow. I think Ghost likes that idea more than I do.”

Ned

“I don’t know how you live up here,” Robert grumbled as he warmed his hands on the fire. “It’s bloody freezing.”

Ned chuckled amusedly.

“This is summer,” he pointed out.

“Summer? How cold does it get?”

“Cold enough that you can’t go outside without furs,” Ned explained. “The weather will kill you quickly if you don’t prepare for it.”

Robert shook his head as he cursed under his breath.

“You could have warned me about the wolf. You never mentioned your family had one.”

“I should have,” Ned said apologetically. “He’s not ours, he belongs to Jon.”

“Jon?” Robert pressed with a frown. “I’ve not heard of a Jon Stark.”

“He’s a Snow not a Stark. He came here a few moons ago with Ghost.”

Robert frowned.

“How is it that a bastard has a direwolf when you don’t?”

Ned shrugged indifferently.

“He said he’s had him since he was a pup.”

Robert snorted.

“You can’t let a bastard have what represents your family. I’m surprised your father didn’t take it from him.”

“I’d like to see someone try,” Ned chuckled. “I don’t know what death would be worse, being mauled by Ghost or slaughtered by Jon.”

“The bastard?”

Ned winced at the harshness of the tone his friend used.

“Jon is the best swordsman I’ve ever met,” he explained honestly. “He’s the best fighter I’ve met.”

“Better than everyone you’ve seen in the Vale?” Robert asked disbelievingly.

Ned nodded.

“None of them even come close, not even Corbray.”

“Ha, I’d cave his bastard skull in with my hammer,” Robert declared.

Ned had his doubts, though he didn’t voice them. Robert was frightening in combat, and his ability with the hammer that was his pride and joy, likely unmatched in all of Westeros.

One hit from it was enough to kill. Ned had seen it for himself when Robert had insisted on demonstrating on a pig. The beast’s head looked as though it had been put through a grinder.

“What about your sister?” Robert probed. “Lyanna?”

“What about her?”

“Is she married?”

Ned laughed; the very thought of Lyanna being married to any poor fool who would have her amusing him greatly.

“No, she’s not,” he replied. “Honestly, I don’t think anyone could handle her, not even a Northerner.”

“Why not?”

Ned shrugged.

“She’s got the wolf’s blood in her. She’s wild and won’t be tamed by anyone,” he explained. “Lyanna would be a terrible wife for anyone who was expecting a traditional lady. Besides, she’s got Jon and Ghost. She won’t ever have need of a husband.”

“She’s fucking the bastard?” Robert asked angrily.

“No, he’s her Sworn Sword,” Ned sighed. “Wherever Lyanna goes, Ghost and Jon follow. They look after her.”

Robert frowned and grumbled irritably under his breath; the word ‘bastard’ being used quite liberally.

“Robert don’t try to make trouble with him,” Ned pleaded. “Jon is loved by my family and everyone in Winterfell. It will end badly for you, even if you are Lord in your own right. Us Northerners take care of our own, and Jon is one of us.”

“I won’t harm a hair on his head,” Robert assured Ned, though he found it difficult to believe.

“What if I wanted to marry her?”

“Lyanna?”

Robert nodded and Ned frowned.

“Did you not hear what I said?”

“Come on, Ned. She just needs to find the right man, a strong man who will let her be herself. Would it be so bad having me as a brother?”

The thought brought a smile to Ned’s faced.

He had long thought of Robert as such since they’d met a few years prior. The two had spent almost every day together, and Ned felt as though he and Robert knew one another better than even their own siblings knew them.

“No, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Robert beamed as he clapped him on the shoulder.

Perhaps marriage would be good for his friend? It would stop him whoring at the very least.

Maybe Lyanna would be good for Robert, and him for her. The Lord of Storm’s End was unlike most others Ned had met. Robert was rather liberal in his ways, and if Lyanna was to marry, why not his best friend?

Maybe he would mention it to his father if that proved to be Robert’s true intentions.

Robert, however, was rather whimsical and changed his mind often enough. Chances are, he would have forgotten the idea by morning anyway.

“Did you hear about Whent and his tourney?” Robert asked excitedly.

“What tourney?”

“He’s hosting a tourney at Harrenhal to celebrate his daughter’s coming of age. Apparently, it’s going to be the biggest the land has ever seen.”

“Really?” Ned asked interestedly.

“From what I heard; he’s offering purses three times bigger than Lannister did for the tourney held for Prince Viserys.”

“By the Gods, that will set someone up for life,” Ned exclaimed. “How can he afford that?”

Robert shrugged.

“No idea, but he’s sending invites to every lord in Westeros to attend.”

“That’ll be huge and cause a lot of problems.”

“It will,” Robert chuckled amusedly. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think my father will attend. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

Robert frowned.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t go,” he pointed out. “I bet most of the Northerners will send their best.”

“Maybe,” Ned conceded.

The idea of such festivities sounded fun, but he was already convinced his father would not attend. Rickard Stark had spoken of his dislike for such frivolities over the years, but Robert was right.

It wasn’t as though he had to deprive his children of the experience.

(Break)

“Why did I have to have another bath?” Lyanna grumbled as Jon led her towards the Great Hall of Winterfell.

“Because you were filthy and you have guests.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes petulantly before pausing.

“Am I going to have to dance with them?”

Jon shrugged as a smirk tugged at his lips.

“Probably.”

“Jon, I don’t want to dance!”

Jon huffed amusedly.

“Lean on me,” he urged.

“Why?”

“Because I can say that you’ve injured yourself. We won’t be able to train for a few days, but you won’t have to dance.”

Lyanna beamed at him and put an arm around his shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were smart,” she whispered.

“I didn’t know you’d be such a pain in the arse.”

“How dare you to talk to a lady in such a way!”

Jon laughed heartily as they entered the hall and made their way towards to the main table.

“I could always tell your father you’re faking.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me,” Lyanna said confidently.

“Don’t push it.”

“Is everything okay?” Rickard asked with a frown.

“I’m afraid she over-exerted herself, my lord,” Jon explained. “It’s probably best if she rests her foot. It’s nothing permanent, just a strain.”

Rickard nodded and helped the girl into her seat.

“Ghost, stay by her side,” Jon instructed before heading to the table where the staff of Winterfell sat during mealtimes.

“Is the lady okay?” Luwin asked him. “She didn’t come to me.”

“She’s fine, maester,” Jon assured the man, catching sight of the scowl marring Robert Baratheon’s features from his place next to the Lord of Winterfell. “She’s just fine.”

Rickard

“I hope the food is to your liking, Lord Baratheon,” Lyarra enquired.

Robert nodded as he cut into another piece of venison. The man’s appetite was rather veracious.

“It is even better than Ned led me to believe,” he replied with a grin. “How is your foot, my lady?”

“It will be fine, my lord,” Lyanna said dismissively. “Jon knows what he’s doing.”

Rickard did not miss the scowl Robert levelled at the man. Why he felt such a way towards Jon was not clear, but he probably did not appreciate that a bastard was so well thought of.

Being one in the North was difficult enough, but the southerners were much less accommodating of those born on the wrong side of the sheets.

“Ned says he’s quite the warrior,” Robert commented. “How did he become your Sworn Sword?”

“I found him half-dead in the Godswood from the cold. I saved his life and he offered me his sword. He proved himself worthy enough.”

Rickard snorted amusedly.

Jon had more than proven himself capable, and even more so since his display in the training yard. The young man had found his place amongst them at Winterfell, and Rickard had grown fond of him.

He was quietly confident in his ways, and the many conversations they’d shared had always been enlightening. Jon was much more intelligent than he let on, though he never tried to belittle anyone, regardless of what their role within the keep was.

He was even known to help the cleaning staff in the kitchen after mealtimes when Lyanna had retired for the night with Ghost at her side.

“The wolf is an impressive creature,” a thoughtful voice broke into Rickard’s thoughts.

Stannis Baratheon had said little since he’d arrived with the rest of the Baratheon entourage. Robert was brash and self-assured, and Stannis was quiet and observant.

“He is magnificent,” Rickard declared, throwing an entire leg of venison to the wolf who bit it in half with little effort. “He makes for an excellent guard for my daughter.”

“I can see,” Stannis replied amusedly, watching Ghost devour the meat with fascination. “I do wonder how it was tamed.”

“He’s not,” Rickard warned. “Ghost is Jon’s companion. If anyone was to attempt to harm him, they would not live to tell the tale. He is friendly enough with us only because Jon is.”

“Do you think it wise to have it here?” Stannis asked.

“If I did not trust Jon, I would not,” Rickard answered, “but seeing as I trust him with Lyanna’s life, as I do Ghost, he is welcome within these walls,” he added, scratching the enormous wolf behind the ear.

Stannis shook his head in disbelief.

“I will warn the men not to upset Jon Snow,” he said dryly.

“It would be for the best,” Rickard replied with a smile. “Ah, it seems as though we are going to be treated to some music. Please, feel free to dance and share in the ale.”

Stannis did not dance, though he did help himself to a horn of the strong brew, grimacing as he took his first sip. Robert looked pointedly towards Lyanna and she boldly ignored him, continuing to eat her meal and drink ale as she spoke with Brandon and her mother.

Robert was evidently interested in the girl, but the feeling did not seem to be mutual.

The apparent admiration only served to remind him of the latest letter he’d received from Hoster Tully, asking for Rickard to reconsider his proposal for a match between Brandon and his eldest daughter.

He’d made the mistake of mentioning it to his son, only for Brandon to scoff at the very thought. Brandon had no interest in marrying a southerner, and Rickard refused to fallout with his heir over something he himself was not keen on.

Tully had even had the temerity to offer his second daughter for Ned, and it only raised more questions.

Why did the man desire a match with House Stark so strongly?

There was much more to it than simply building a stronger relationship between the neighbouring kingdoms, but what?

With a frown, Rickard stood.

“If you will excuse me, I have something I must attend to,” he explained to his guests before making his way towards the maester filling in for Walys. “Luwin, would you come with me?”

“Of course, my lord,” the maester complied.

“You too, Jon,” Rickard added. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on something.”

Perhaps Jon would have an insight that Rickard had not yet considered. Regardless, it would cause no harm to hear his opinion on the matter.

At the very least, he would have another he could confide in when it came to such matters. Jon was close to all of the Stark children and would always consider their thoughts and feelings. Rickard would admit that he did not always follow that example.

As the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, he needed to think of his land at large in all decisions he made.

Yes, Jon’s opinion would be a welcome one, and would perhaps offer a new perspective on what Tully was up to.

Jon

He frowned at the letter Rickard has presented to him, his memories of Catelyn Tully coming to the forefront of his mind. Jon had long let go of the treatment he had endured because of her, but that did not mean he’d ever forgiven the woman.

Ned, of course, had been partly to blame. The man had evidently never trusted his wife enough to share the truth with her, as he never had Jon before he’d been executed in King’s Landing. Nonetheless, it was no excuse for Catelyn to treat an innocent child so callously.

“What are your thoughts, Jon?” Rickard pressed gently.

“I’m assuming you’re not asking me to weigh up the pros and cons of accepting such an offer. You would have considered those for both the North and the Riverlands.”

“I have,” Rickard answered with a smile.

“Have you thought of the implications on a much larger scale?”

“Larger scale?” Luwin asked with a frown.

Jon nodded, considering how best to word his knowledge without his tone becoming accusatory. It was difficult to say the least, not when he thought so little of those he had met from the Riverlands.

“Well, the benefits would be negligible on a personal basis for Houses Stark and Tully, for the most part. The Riverlanders would likely be offended that their Lord Paramount has sent his eldest daughter North instead of strengthening ties with his own people, as would the Northerners who would expect the same of you.”

“It is something I have considered,” Rickard assured him.

“So, what becomes more troubling is the potential bigger picture,” Jon continued thoughtfully. “What could Tully possibly gain from this? Have you thought of the seven kingdoms at large? What are the relationships like between each?”

Rickard frowned deeply as he nodded.

“Tywin Lannister recently resigned as Hand of the King, so his relationship with the crown is not so good. The Reach is on excellent terms with the crown, as is Dorne. The future queen is Dornish, although without a male heir. The Riverlands are largely ignored by the crown, and we choose to isolate ourselves. That leaves the Vale, and they are much like us in that regard. I do not understand what Tully’s motivation could be.”

“If the Westerlands and the crown are at odds, it could potentially create problems elsewhere,” Luwin broke in once more. “The Reach is the second richest kingdom, but considerably less so than the Lannisters. If Tywin decides to be petty and imports his food and other trade from overseas, it could truly upset the balance amongst the kingdoms. The Reach won’t like that, and the crown will be forced to choose a side. It could become troublesome.”

“He’s looking to create ties with another land in case of war,” Rickard deduced. “Why us and not the Vale?”

“Because the Knights of the Vale are an excellent supporting force for their cavalry, but little else,” Luwin answered. “Besides, Jon Arryn would not go to war unless he truly felt he need to. He would simply sit it out in the Eyrie. I expect Tully would expect you to come to the aide of the Riverlands in such an event. If war was to occur, it would play host to much of the fighting.”

Rickard cursed under his breath as he stood and began pacing back and forth.

“Is it likely?”

“One can never say, my lord,” Luwin answered uncertainly. “Wars come and go and over the most foolish of things. Tully knows this and he is looking to secure his lands. The Northern army is considerable, and it appears he is trying to bring it to his side in anticipation. At worst, he would have to be content with a grandson as the future Lord of Winterfell where they would already be compelled to assist if war were to breakout.”

“It would be the same through marriage,” Jon interjected. “If you tied your hoses together, you would be beholden to one another. When was the last time the North went to war?”

“We deal with raids from the Iron Islands, the occasional Skagosi uprising, and Wildlings,” Rickard explained as he shook his head. “It seems a stretch to have such a foresight when there are no signs of war on the horizon.”

“We do not see the bigger picture in the smallest of details, my lord,” Luwin returned. “We keep out of the affairs of what is occurring in the south. Perhaps we should be paying more attention to it? When was the last time you received a report from one of your own men on the happenings below the Neck?”

Rickard hummed to himself.

“You have both given me much to consider. Thank you Luwin, and you, Jon, for broadening my vision on the matter. I cannot say for certain that you are right or wrong, but it makes little difference. Perhaps it would be beneficial for the North to have ties to other kingdoms, but I would like it to be for the right reasons. I am, however, of a mind to send some trusted men below the neck, and even to King’s Landing. I would like to know for myself the mood of the kingdom’s at large. Again, thank you both. I believe I have much to attend to,” Rickard finished with a tired sigh.

Jon offered the man a bow and took his leave with Luwin.

“That was quite the insight you had to offer, Jon,” the maester said appraisingly. “I admit, I had not considered it myself.”

“Maybe I’m just paranoid,” Jon chuckled.

Luwin followed suit and nodded.

“Maybe, but I do not think so. The whims of powerful men can change with the wind. It takes only a mood for the most unpleasant of shifts in the tide. History teaches us that war is a necessity from time to time. Let us just hope that it is not ours.”

Luwin patted him gently on the shoulder before heading towards his rooms and Jon towards the Great Hall, almost colliding with a figure in one of the corridors.

“Apologies,” he offered, not having been paying attention.

“It’s quite alright,” the familiar voice returned. “You are the bastard with the wolf.”

Jon met the calculating, icy eyes of Stannis Baratheon and nodded.

“I am, my lord.”

“Quite the interesting creature,” Stannis replied. “Most Lords would not tolerate its presence, nor that of a bastard. Lord Stark thinks highly of you.”

“I have proven my worth to him.”

“That I do not doubt,” Stannis said with a bow. “I would watch out for my brother. He seems to have taken a disliking to you.”

Jon shrugged.

“People often do, but I am still alive.”

Stannis’s gaze swept over him before he nodded.

“Good night, bastard.”

“And you, my lord.”

With that, the man who Jon now believed had never felt an ounce of warmth left his presence, and Jon could not deny he was pleased by it. He had nothing against Stannis, not really, but he could not forget the fanatic he became.

He’d died believing he was the Prince that was Promised.

The moniker sent a chill through Jon.

Melisandre believed he had been such a fabled hero from the stories of old, though he had always been dismissive of such foolishness.

No, Azor Ahai was one of those mythical beings, as were the others…

Choosing not to dwell on the truth of the latter part of his thoughts, Jon continued on his way to the Great Hall, his mood becoming rather maudlin as he was reminded of what was to come.

The war between men was one things, but what lie ahead of them all was another thing entirely.

Soon, he would have to begin making pathways towards a united Westeros. Where he would even begin, Jon did not know, but he had little choice. Unless the realms of men could stand shoulder to shoulder, they would not survive the coming storm.

TSOTWR - Chapter I

Chapter I

Rickard

It had been a restless night with his mind wandering to the many things he had to ponder. Hoster Tully’s proposal had come from all but nothing and Rickard could not help and think that there was more to it than a mere marriage.

Why would the man wish to subject his daughter to the harsh life here?

He had little to gain other than seeing one of his future grandchildren becoming the Warden of the North. Perhaps that would be enough for him, though Rickard was not convinced.

Hoster Tully was a wily man and did nothing unless it should benefit him.

“What is on your mind, my lord?” Lyarra pressed gently.

She often referred to him using his title, but it was done with the utmost affection. Rickard had gotten lucky to be matched with the woman. The two had fallen in love quickly and Brandon had been born within the year of them saying their vows.

“Tully,” he sighed, “and the boy.”

“Well, what do you plan on doing about our neighbour to the south?”

“I sent a raven last night explaining I would take his offer under consideration.”

“And will you?”

“I do not know,” Rickard murmured as he dressed in his surcoat. “I can see no benefit to the marriage for any involved. As Rodrick said, the girl would never be truly accepted by the people here.”

“She would not,” Lyarra agreed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “The Warden of the North should have a Northern bride.”

Rickard nodded.

“That does not mean I am unwilling to improve relations elsewhere,” he explained. “Ned fostering in the Vale has been good for him, so perhaps a wife from there would be suitable. I know Lord Royce has a daughter as do the Corbrays and the Redforts.”

“Not the Arryns?”

“Jon is childless, and I am unsure if Ronel or Alys have children. I will have to discuss it with Ned.”

“Why not offer Ned to Tully?”

“He would see it as an insult,” Rickard chuckled. “He would want a firstborn son for his daughter.”

Lyarra nodded.

“Well, it is not a decision that needs to be made today, is it? Rodrick is right though. Brandon should be married to a girl from the North. Did you discuss it with Luwin?”

“Aye, and he agreed,” Rickard informed her. “His counsel in Walys’ absence has been useful.”

“Walys would want you to accept the offer,” Lyarra snorted. “He may be a Maester, but he’s still a Riverlander.”

Rickard hummed thoughtfully.

“I am going to write to the citadel to request that Luwin is allowed to stay, if he is amenable. Walys will soon wish to spend his final years in the south, and Luwin seems to be making a home here already.”

“You have grown fond of him,” Lyarra said with a grin, her grey eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Most have,” Rickard pointed out. “He is a humble man and wise beyond his years. He spends his free time in Wintertown, healing the poor quite often.”

Lyarra smiled.

“I think he will do well by Brandon when his time comes to take over from you.”

“Not for many years yet,” Rickard chuckled. “I’m not so old.”

“No,” Lyarra agreed, “but I am hopeful I will have my husband to myself before we are too old to enjoy it.”

“We will,” Rickard assured her. “Now, what are we going to do about the girl?”

Lyarra frowned.

Lyanna had always been rambunctious, stubborn, and impulsive. Yesterday, however, she could have gotten herself mauled by the direwolf. She was fortunate it had been friendly.

“I do not know,” Lyarra huffed. “I am more concerned about this Jon Snow. Why would he offer his sword to a girl who has little to offer him?”

“She saved his life,” Rickard reminded her.

“But to make such a vow… He is a stranger to us, Rickard.”

“He is,” Rickard agreed, “but… I do not know how to explain it. There is something about him, Lyarra. I do not know what it is. He has not had an easy life and I cannot help but feel that he has somehow been blessed by the Gods. Speak with him,” he urged. “I am sure you will see it too.”

“I will, before Lyanna is given the chance to accept him as her sword. I would see him for myself.”

“Would you like me to…”

Lyarra waved him off.

“No, I would see him alone. If he is able to prove himself, I want to look in his eyes and see the truth of him.”

Without further preamble, she took her leave of the room and Rickard could only shake his head. His wife had a way of knowing if someone was dishonest. Maybe raising four children had given her that ability, but Rickard had never been able to mislead her.

Not that he’d ever tried.

Lyarra had always been an excellent judge of character and he was certainly interested to see what she would make of the strange arrival.

A part of him felt sorry for Jon Snow.

Where her children were concerned, his usually tame wife could be as vicious as the snarling wolf the Stark family of old had chosen as their sigil.

Jon

 He could not remember the last time he had slept so peacefully. The moons spent wandering the wilderness that Westeros had become had not been conducive to resting well, and often, Jon had simply passed out in the snow.

How he had woken again, he still didn’t know.

Nonetheless, being here now in Winterfell had made it all worth it, even if his memories of the life he’d left behind haunted him so.

Daenerys…

He remembered watching her fall from the back of Drogon after he had been hit with one of the projectiles of the Night King. Despite being on Rhaegal at the time, he had been able to do nothing.

Daenerys had been crushed beneath her dragon and Jon had plunged Longclaw into the beasts’ chest to prevent it becoming like Viserion.

It had all been for nothing.

Man, woman, and child had been cut down by the superior numbers of the dead, and even those that managed to hide and survive the initial onslaught had died from the hunger and cold they had been left with.

Jon had been the last one left.

Sam, Gilly, even little Sam… they were gone.

Arya, Sansa, Bran…

All of them. Every last person he’d met had eventually fallen to the dead.

He did find himself plagued with many questions that he knew he would never be able to answer. What he did know, however, was that he had been granted a chance, and he would not squander it.

Things could not be allowed to unfold as they had before.

He turned sharply towards the door as he was in the process of dressing. It had been swung open without warning, and he held a hand out towards Ghost as he stood, his hackles raised.

“It’s okay boy,” he murmured.

The woman that entered simply froze and gaped at him, evidently not having expected him to be in a state of undress.

“I apologise, my lady, I was not expecting company,” he offered.

It wasn’t as though he was entirely naked, but he had yet to put on his tunic.

“It should be me apologising,” the woman replied. “I should have knocked.”

“It would have saved us both the embarrassment,” Jon snorted.

The woman nodded as she continued to stare, and Jon took the opportunity take in her appearance. He was quickly left in no doubt that she was a Stark; the hair, the tell-tale eyes, and even the way she stood.

“My name is Lyarra Stark,” she introduced herself. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell.”

Jon bowed respectfully, internally excited to meet his grandmother. Not that the woman knew it.

“Jon Snow, my lady,” he replied.

Lyarra continued to stare at him for a moment as though he was a puzzle that needed to be figured out.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that the resemblance between you and my own is quite uncanny,” she whispered as she stepped forward to get a better look at him. “A stranger would only assume you are one of us.”

She gently cupped his cheek as she took in his features, pausing briefly as her gaze swept across the scars on his brow, and even longer as their eyes met. For what felt like minutes she looked into them before smiling.

“You have honest eyes, Jon Snow,” she murmured. “They are kind but hardened. You have seen things, haven’t you?”

“More than I would have liked.”

Lyarra offered him a sad smile.

“My husband said there was something about you, something that I needed to see for myself. I still find it odd that you are willing to pledge yourself to a girl who has little to offer, but you are not doing so to trick us or to gain anything. What do you want, Jon Snow?”

“Peace,” Jon answered without thought. “I just want peace in this life, and the next.”

Lyarra’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“That is a wise thing for one so young,” she said amusedly. “Only someone who has experienced true difficulty could ask for something so simple. My husband was right. There is something about you, Jon Snow. Maybe you have been blessed by the Old Gods,” she added, as she looked at the wounds on his chest. “I wish you luck today.”

She pressed a kiss on his cheek before leaving the room and Jon simply stared at the door for several moments after it had closed.

It had been an odd interaction to say the least. He had gotten the impression Lyarra Stark could see into his very soul, and it was as unsettling as it had been warming.

Shaking his head of the interaction, he finished dressing and retrieved Longclaw.

“Do not remove that blade,” one of the guards warned as he exited the room.

Jon handed the sword to him.

“I did not intend to,” he assured the man.

The guard nodded, and Jon found himself being escorted through the halls of Winterfell he had roamed as a child. The last time he had seen the place, it had been nothing short of a ruin, razed to the ground by dragon fire and the marauding dead.

By the will of the Gods, he was back here once more, against the odds, and after all he had endured, there was nowhere else he would rather be.

(Break)

Lyanna

“Do you even know what it means to have a Sworn Sword?” Ned asked.

“Father explained it to me,” Lyanna replied. “He said that it is like having a bodyguard, someone who will advise me, and will fight for me if I need him to.”

“His brain must have frozen if he wants to be Lya’s sword,” Brandon chuckled. “He has no idea what he’s getting himself into.”

“Shut up, Brandon!” Lyanna growled, aiming a kick at her older brother under the table.

“Why would he want to be Lyanna’s Sworn Sword?” Ned questioned thoughtfully. “There’s not much chance of glory for him.”

“I told you, his brain must have frozen.”

Lyanna glared at Brandon and he fell silent. He knew better than to push her too far. The last time he did, he’d woken up with horse manure in his boots.

“I haven’t even accepted him yet,” she explained. “Father says I should at least see if he can fight. He’s going to prove himself in the training yard today.”

“Rodrick won’t take it easy on him,” Ned predicted. “Especially if he wants to be your guard.”

Lyanna shrugged.

The entire previous day had been eventful. She’d found the man in the Godswood, had spent much of the rest of it caring for his direwolf, and then had met Jon who had offered his sword to her.

In truth, she didn’t know what to make of it, though her father had explained the seriousness of the vow Jon had given.

She hadn’t spent long enough with him to understand his motivation or character, but he seemed nice. As her father had said once they’d left him to rest, there was something familiar about Jon Snow that was both comforting and reassuring, despite the circumstances with which he had arrived.

“Well, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” Brandon declared. “If he’s decent enough with a sword, he’ll be useful to have around.”

“He has a Valyrian steel sword,” Lyanna informed them.

Brandon’s spoon clattered into his bowl.

“Valyrian steel? How did he get that?”

“He said he took from some wildlings that ambushed him.”

“He fought wildlings?”

“He killed them apparently,” Lyanna replied.

Brandon shook his head in disbelief.

“I met some that had been caught by Lord Dustin’s men. They were bloody savages. They were covered in scars and had been caught eating human flesh. I’d like to know how one of them got hold a Valyrian steel sword. Would they even know what it was?”

“Unlikely,” Ned murmured. “They probably killed whoever owned it beyond the wall or on a raid. There’s dozens of them dotted around and many have been lost.”

“True,” Brandon conceded. “Is that him?”

Lyanna nodded as Jon was led into the Great Hall.

“Seven Hells, he looks like one of us,” Ned observed.

The resemblance was remarked upon by the others within the room, but the man himself did not pay any attention to the stares and whispers. He simply sat at the table reserved for the stable boys and pages and helped himself to some oats.

“There’s no way he isn’t related to us,” Benjen whispered.

“Could be related to the Karstarks,” Brandon pointed out as he continued to stare at Jon.

“He looks like father,” Ned murmured.

“He said his father is Northern but he didn’t know who he was. His mother died giving birth to him,” Lyanna revealed what her own father had told her.

Ned nodded thoughtfully.

“Could be one of the mountain tribes,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose we will ever know.”

Lyanna watched Jon as he ate. He seemed calm despite every pair of eyes in the Great Hall being on him.

She heard the word bastard being murmured. Even in the North, being born on the wrong side of the sheets was frowned upon, just not as much as it was in the south.

A part of her wanted Jon to prove them all wrong, that even though he was a bastard, he was worthy to be seated amongst them.

“Jon Snow,” her father called. “You made a vow to a Lady of House Stark and it is now time for you to show you are worthy of being her protector.”

Jon merely nodded as he stood and was led away by the guards who had accompanied him into the room.

“Come along,” their father urged each of the Stark siblings. “I’m sure you are quite keen to see this.”

Lyanna fell in just behind her mother and father as they made their way towards his solar. Within the room was a balcony that overlooked the training yard where Jon would be judged by her and the rest of her family.

“You were right,” her mother whispered. “There is something about him. I do not understand it, Rickard, but I could feel it when I spoke with him. I asked him what he wanted. Do you know what he said?”

“I’m sure you will enlighten me.”

“He said he wanted peace.”

Her father seemed to be taken aback by the answer, but before the topic could be broached further, they arrived in the solar and were shown onto the balcony.

Jon was already there, stretching and preparing himself.

“Here, lad, you’ll want to put this on,” Rodrik advised, offering the leather training armour.

Jon shook his head.

“No thank you, it will only slow.”

Rodrik looked questioningly towards her father who merely shrugged in response. Fighting without armour was not the best idea. They may only be using training swords, but they still hurt to be hit with.

Lyanna knew that from experience.

Jon did wisely accept a pair of leather gloves and simply waited and Lyanna looked on with interest, with Brandon, Ned, and Benjen also leaning on the rail of the balcony in anticipation.

Rickard

“I would advise you not to hold back, Jon Snow,” he addressed the man. “I can assure you none here will take it easy on you. If you wish to protect a daughter of House Stark, you must prove you are able to do so.”

Jon Snow nodded as he picked up a training and Rickard peered at the man. Something in his eyes had shifted, akin to the gathering of dark clouds before the unleashing of an almighty storm.

“By your leave, Rodrik,” Rickard instructed.

The Master-at-Arms offered the Lord a bow.

“Are you ready, Jon Snow?”

Jon gestured he was, and Rickard looked on, ready to pass his own judgement on the young man.

“You first,” Rodrik instructed, pointing to one of the dozen or so Stark guards that had been chosen for the task.

The man unleashed a guttural roar, swinging his sword downwards in an attempt to split his foe in two down the middle. Had Rickard blinked, he would have missed the speed with which Jon Snow sidestepped the blow and felled the overreaching guard with a punch to the jaw.

The man slumped to the ground unmoving and Rickard raised an eyebrow.

Jon Snow was fast and had shown no sign of wavering. Yet, it wasn’t enough.

The next attacker Rodrick instructed was more calculated, luring Snow in with probing jabs with the tip of his blade, mixing it up with sporadic strikes that were repelled with ease at every turn.

When Jon responded, it was with a savagery that belied the calm nature of the man that Rickard had seen thus fur. What was odd, however, was that each swing of his sword was purposeful, precise, and fluid.

Each strike flowed from one to the next seamlessly, and yet, Jon never looked as though he was not ready to defend himself from any rebuttal.

“He’s good,” Brandon commented, applauding politely as Jon bested his opponent.

Rickard got the impression they hadn’t seen anything yet, and he held up two fingers towards Rodrik. Now it would get interesting.

Two more of the guards sprinted towards Jon who ducked below the blade aimed at his head and intercepted the second man, pinning his sword arm between his own and ramming his head into his attacker’s nose.

Not forgetting about the other, he turned sharply so that sword swinging towards his back impacted against the man he held. Releasing him immediately, Jon kicked to the wounded Stark guard in the chest, sending him sprawling with a groan.

Undeterred, the second guard continued his attack with Jon parrying three blows, stepping to his left on the third and slamming the flat edge of his sword into the man’s exposed back.

He stumbled before he fell into the dirt where the tip of Jon’s blade was pressed against his neck.

Rickard was impressed, but he was keen to challenge the man. Holding up three fingers this time, Rodrik complied and instructed three more of the guards to try their luck.

Believing they had a significant advantage now, they charged, and much to Rickard’s surprise, Jon picked up a second sword.

It was mesmerising to watch him retreat, meeting each blade as it was swung at him from different directions. His fluidity didn’t waver, and when the opportunity presented itself, he fought back, leaning out of range of a swing of the attacker in the middle, and spinning beneath the two other blades.

Rickard winced as Jon used his own swords to sweep the legs out of the middle man, and stepped on his blade to prevent him from using it as he continued to defend himself against the others.

Once more, he proved how proficient he was as he used the two guards’ own leverage against them, throwing one who had overreached into the path of the other’s attack.

The blow caught the man behind the ear, and he collapsed to the ground. Before the other could raise his blade again, the tip of Jon’s was at his throat.

Rickard clapped with the others.

Jon’s swordsmanship was certainly above that of the guards, but he was curious to see how he would fare against someone more seasoned. Rodrik Cassel was one of the very best the North had to offer. Rickard had known the man for many years and he’d always been impressed with his ability.

He’d not hesitated to appoint him as the Master-at-Arms in Winterfell, confident that he was the very best in the region to teach his children the art of combat.

“Rodrik,” Rickard called, offering nothing more than a nod.

With a bow, the Master-at-Arms retrieved a sword of his own and took up his potion in front of Jon Snow.

Now Rickard would see what the lad was made of.

“You’re making him fight Rodrik?” Brandon asked, surprised.

“Aye,” Rickard answered simply.

Jon deposited one of the swords he was carrying, and the two began circling one another.

As Rickard had become accustomed to seeing, Rodrik struck first, attempting to find his range and testing Snow’s defences. Jon seemed to take it in his stride and as the two traded blows, the sound of steel clashing across the yard, the Lord of Winterfell was able to truly see how able the younger man was.

He did fight with the savagery the North was known for, but he was no mere Northman. There was a little of the pageantry of southern nights; the way he twirled his blade and body with a grace that would please a crowd, though he did not do so simply for show.

No, it was done with purpose, just as every step he took and every movement he made were. Rodrik Cassel was an excellent warrior, but Rickard quickly realised that somehow, Jon Snow was better by a wide margin.

How had the boy become so proficient?

He had not balked, even when facing three men at once, and he was not intimidated by Rodrik. He seemed to simply take it all in his stride as though he had fought a dozen battles, and as Rickard caught a glimpse of Jon’s eyes, it certainly seemed he had.

The was something of a haunted expression, the look of a man who had fought for his life on more than one occasion, and even as he stepped away from Rodrik’s blows, he seemed to only be getting better with each passing moment: faster, stronger, and sharper.

Who was this man?

“He’s unreal,” Ned whispered. “I thought Lord Corbray was good.”

Rickard nodded at his son’s assessment.

Even Rodrik, as good as he was looked to be a beginner against Jon Snow.

What he had accepted to be an inevitably, Jon did get the better of the Master-at-Arms, his footwork, speed, and precision proving to be too much. With a single blow to the chest, Rodrik was on his back with Jon Snow standing over him.

“Yield?” the younger man asked.

Having had the wind knocked out of his lungs, Rodrik nodded and Jon offered him a respectful hand to assist him to his feet.

Once more, the yard filled with applause and Rickard found himself smiling as the two combatants shared some private words, both grinning from ear to ear as they parted.

Jon had certainly earned Rodrik’s respect, and he had returned it in kind. He had not boasted of what he’d done and had been both honourable and humble in victory.

Despite whatever blood flowed through his veins, he had proven himself a true Northman, and as those looking on fell silent, Jon took a knee below Rickard and the rest of the Starks.

“What do you think, Lyanna, has Jon Snow proven himself worthy of being your Sworn Sword?”

The question was rather redundant, but Rickard was beholden to the formalities.

“If she doesn’t want him, I’ll take him,” Brandon snorted.

Lyanna glared at her older brother but said nothing before she took her leave of the balcony. Only a few moments later, she stepped into the training yard and stood in front of the kneeling man.

“Why do you want to be my Sworn Sword?” she asked curiously.

The same question was plaguing Rickard.

If he so chose to, Jon could likely make a fortune travelling the land and entering the various tourneys that were held. He could probably be a Kingsguard if that was his ambition.

Rickard had never seen such a sword in person. He’d heard of the likes of the young Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, Duncan the Tall, and even his own ancestor, Cregan Stark.

Jon Snow was likely a name that could be spoken amongst them, yet, he was choosing to guard a young woman here in the cold North.

Peace

He had said that was all he sought, and he would certainly find that here, though they were words of a weary warrior who had known so much upheaval.

“You saved my life,” Jon answered simply. “You and your family are worth serving, if you will have me.”

“What if I say no?”

“That is your choice,” Jon answered solemnly as he looked up and met Lyanna’s gaze. “If I cannot find peace here, I will find it somewhere.”

Lyanna looked into his eyes for a moment before she nodded.

“You already gave me your vow, and now you shall have mine.”

Lyanna looked towards Rickard who gave her his blessing with a nod.

“I vow that you shall always have a place at my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Rickard led the applause this time as he turned towards Lyarra.

“I think we should dine privately tonight,” he suggested. “We can invite Jon and get to know him better.”

Lyarra nodded and Rickard turned his attention back to the young man.

Jon Snow was certainly interesting, and he was looking forward to getting to know him since he would evidently be remaining at Winterfell, shielding his daughter for as long as she wished to have him in her service.

It was certainly a relief for Rickard knowing there was someone else sworn to do so. Brandon was home from fostering, but Ned would be returning to the Vale in the coming moons.

Lyanna did have a tendency to get herself into trouble, but she had never truly been in danger here, though one could never be too careful.

No, having Jon sworn to his daughter was indeed odd, but Rickard got the feeling he would come to appreciate the man’s vow in the years to come. Lyanna was almost a woman frown, and one day, she would likely leave Winterfell for a life with a husband.

With Jon being there, the prospect was still daunting, but less so.

“Come on, let us get ready to eat,” Rickard urged, ushering his other children back into the keep.

Jon

He handed back the gloves he had borrowed and retrieved Longclaw from the guard who returned the sword with a respectful bow whilst Lyanna spoke to one of the washerwomen.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” the girl asked as they made their way back towards his room without the burden of being escorted.

“I picked things up along the way,” Jon answered honestly.

He had been taught by Ser Rodrik when he was a boy, by Aliser Thorne at the wall, and he’d spent much time among some of the greatest warriors in Westeros and beyond when he’d left.

He’d learned much from the Dothraki and Unsullied alike, but more than anything, it was his experience with a blade in hand that was Jon’s strength. For the hours he had toiled in the training yard throughout his life, he’d spent just as much fighting for it.

Although his encounters with the wildlings and the dead had been frightening, his skill had been honed to be razor sharp.

“Does being my Sworn Sword mean you will teach me?”

Jon nodded.

“I will,” he confirmed as they entered his room, “but if I am responsible for your life, you will follow my rules.”

“What rules?” Lyanna asked with a frown.

“I haven’t decided them yet,” Jon replied with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes at him and immediately went to pet the waiting Ghost.

“That’s my first rule,” Jon decided. “If for any reason I’m not with you, Ghost will be.”

“Really?” Lyanna asked excitedly.

“Yes, but he will follow my rules too. He likes you, but he listens to me. Remember that.”

Lyanna nodded her understanding.

“Good,” Jon sighed as he removed Longclaw from its scabbard.

Despite everything, it remained untarnished, even if it did look considerably different since he’d arrived here. The blade had been beautifully rippled with different hues of grey, and now, it was mostly white with a silvery tone.

It still felt like Longclaw always had, but it looked different now, and Jon knew it could no longer keep its name. It would certainly raise questions if his Valyrian sword shared a name with the Mormont’s.

“Does it have a name?” Lyanna whispered.

Jon shrugged.

“Maybe, but I never learned it.”

“A sword like that should have a name,” she pointed out. “All people who own a Valyrian steel weapon name it.”

“They do,” Jon conceded. “I’m just not sure what it should be called.”

“Well, it should be something meaningful, but something people will fear.”

Jon chuckled amusedly.

“What would you name it?”

Lyanna’s brow furrowed, and she looked a lot like Arya had when she was presented with a conundrum.

“I don’t know,” she huffed.

“I’m sure we will think of something,” Jon comforted, standing as a knock sounded at the door.

He opened it to be greeted by the sight of three women.

“We’ve brought you a bath, Jon Snow.”

“I didn’t…”

“I did” Lyanna declared as she stood. “If you’re going to protect me, I won’t have you filthy. You’re going to be bathed and have a haircut. I’ll have some clothes sent for you.”

She looked at him stubbornly and Jon chuckled once more.

“Fine,” he agreed. “Ghost, you with her,” he added as Lyanna left the room.

He stepped aside and allowed the women to enter. Two of them each carried one end of the tin tub and a large, steaming jug of water in the other. The third carried two jugs, and as the bath was placed in front of the fire, each emptied their loads into it.

“We will be back with more,” the woman who had spoken to him explained before they vanished.

Jon could only stare at the bath.

It had been so long that he’d had a wash, and his mind drifted back to the night he and Daenerys had shared the experience. He had washed her hair for her and she had returned the favour.

They had remained in the water until their skin had wrinkled and it was no longer warm before they’d fallen into bed as they were wont to do.

A lump formed in his throat at the memory.

She had died only two days later and Jon had never truly mourned for the woman he’d loved so dearly. He’d simply had to carry on, even when all was lost, he’d simply moved on.

He wiped away the tears that had spilled down his cheeks as the door opened once more and the women entered with another few jugs, some scissors, and a selection of oils they added to the tub.

“We will give you some time to get in.”

Once more, Jon was alone and he removed his clothes. Lowering himself into the water, he took a deep breath and took a moment to enjoy the feeling of the heat washing over him.

Again, the women returned, this time with a pile of clothing. Without saying a word, they set about washing his hair and Jon retrieved the bar of soap and began cleaning himself.

“Do you wear your hair long, Jon Snow?”

“Just enough that I can tie it,” he answered.

He caught sight of himself in the looking the glass in the corner of the room and realised he was long overdue a haircut. It had grown past his shoulders, and even his beard was scraggly and unkempt.

He would fix that himself when the women had finished fussing over him.

Jon appreciated their efforts, he truly did, but it wasn’t the same as when Daenerys had washed it for him and he doubted it ever would be.

Rickard

“He was impressive, wasn’t he?” Lyarra asked as she dressed for dinner.

She hadn’t said much since they’d taken their leave of the solar, lost in her own thoughts at what she had witnessed.

“He was,” Rickard agreed. “I have heard of those who are born to wield a blade. I expect Jon Snow is one of them. He will be quite an asset to Winterfell.”

Lyarra nodded.

“Under normal circumstances I would urge caution, but you were right. There is something about him. I don’t know what it is, it’s just him.”

Rickard felt the same.

He couldn’t quite understand it. There was just something about Jon Snow he could not help but trust. Perhaps it was that he was Northern, or it was the solemnity with which he spoke.

“Lyanna seemed pleased by the outcome.”

Lyarra’s nostrils flared in amusement.

“She will have Jon in the training yard teaching her.”

“Is that such a bad thing? Wouldn’t it be best for everyone if she could handle a blade?”

“Yes,” Lyarra sighed. “I just wish she was not so impulsive.”

“She gets that from you, my dear,” Rickard pointed out with a smirk.

Lyarra hummed.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“As radiant as ever,” Rickard replied without hesitation.

“Flattery will only get you so far, Lord Stark,” the woman said dryly. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

They left their chambers and made their way back to the solar where they always dined privately if they chose to do so. Already, Brandon, Ned, and Benjen were waiting for them, the later of the three attempting to replicate some of what he’d seen Jon do, though Benjen was armed with only a stick.

“Did you see how he spun under the sword?” he asked excitedly, falling on his behind as he attempted the move.

“I don’t remember him falling on his arse,” Brandon chortled.

Benjen scowled as his older sibling as Rickard pulled him to his feet.

“You’ve got years of learning the basics before trying anything so fancy, lad. Now, sit down. Jon and Lyanna will be here soon.”

It was his daughter who arrived first, and Rickard almost reach for Ice instinctively as the enormous wolf padded in after her. He’d caused no trouble since he’d arrived, and he looked almost comical with his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.

Ghost, however, was still a direwolf.

“Why is Jon’s wolf with you?” Benjen asked enviously.

Lyanna grinned at the boy as she took a seat, gesturing for the wolf to remain at her side.

“It’s one of Jon’s rules,” she announced.

“His rules?” Ned questioned.

Lyanna nodded.

“He said that if he is going to be responsible for my safety that whenever he isn’t with me, Ghost will be.”

It was a good rule and Rickard nodded approvingly.

As utterly terrifying as the wolf was, he would certainly feel better if it was following Lyanna around, even if he cut quite the imposing figure.

Then again, he wasn’t sure who would appear more intimidating now, the wolf, or the man he had chosen as a companion.

“Where is Jon?” Lyarra asked.

“I thought he could use a bath and a haircut,” Lyanna explained. “I told him that I wouldn’t have him around looking scruffy.”

The boys snickered and Lyarra tutted at their daughter.

“I bet he’s already regretting offering you his sword,” Brandon chuckled. “He has no idea what he’s getting himself in for.”

“Shut up, Brandon!”

“Both of you be quiet,” Lyarra cut in sharply. “Do you want Jon to think we are no better than savages?”

“Lya is a savage,” Brandon quipped, wincing as the girl kicked him under the table.

“I don’t think Ghost likes it when you insult me,” she cooed. “Maybe I can convince him to nip your arse if you annoy me.”

“Lyanna Stark!”

The girl knew she was in trouble when Lyarra used her full name.

“There won’t be any arses being nipped,” a voice sighed.

Rickard’s eyes widened at the sight of Jon Snow as he entered the solar. With his hair trimmed and tied back, and his beard shorn, his resemblance to the rest of those at the table was only more obvious.

When he stood next to Ghost, he looked as though he was one of the Kings of Winter buried in the crypts come to life, something the other Starks at the table seemed to notice.

“Go on, Ghost. Go hunt for some food. I’ll keep an eye on her for a while.”

He wolf licked Lyanna’s cheek before complying and Jon took a seat, aware of the odd looks he was receiving.

What took Rickard aback wasn’t merely the likeness he shared with his family, but how young the man was. With his long hair and beard, he could have been any age between thirty and forty namedays, but without it, he was undoubtedly much younger.

“How was your bath, Jon?” Lyanna asked.

“Much needed and appreciated,” he responded gratefully. “I feel like a new man.”

“You definitely needed it,” Lyanna snorted, her cheeks reddening slightly.

Was she attempting to flirt with him?

If she was, Jon either was or chose to remain oblivious to the fact.

“How old are you, Jon?” Lyarra asked the question Rickard had been pondering.

The man paused for a moment, seemingly thinking.

“Twenty,” he answered. “I will be twenty-one in a few moons.”

“How did you get so good at fighting? You’re not all that much older than me,” Brandon queried.

“Practice,” Jon answered. “Outside of here, there’s plenty of chances for that. There’s bandits, Wildlings, and even Iron Islanders if you wander too close to the coast.”

Rickard grunted.

The Iron Islands had not been cause of too many problems in recent years, but they came across to the mainland sporadically to try their luck.

“Ah, dinner is here,” he declared as some of the workers brought in plates laden with various foods and jugs of ale. “Help yourself, Jon. I’m sure you could use a hearty meal.”

The man nodded gratefully and Rickard continued to watch him.

He truly was intriguing to say the least.

“Do you have a wife and children?” Lyarra asked.

Rickard had not even considered the man might have a family, but as he saw Jon’s expression fall, he quickly realised it was a sore topic.

“No,” he answered quietly. “There used to be someone, but she died not so long ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Lyarra offered sincerely. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I’d have known.”

Jon smiled sadly as he waved her off.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “I’m still just getting used to it.”

The mood took a sudden turn, and as Rickard watched Jon picking at his meal, it appeared the young man had the entire weight of the world on his shoulders.

He hadn’t said as much, but it was clear he had endured considerable hardship. It appeared the death of the woman he’d loved had been only a part of it.

“Well, I have arranged for you to have your own rooms in the main keep,” Rickard informed him. “If you’re going to bear the burden of my daughter, you will need to be on hand.”

“You act as though I’m always getting into trouble,” Lyanna grumbled.

“You’re always causing trouble,” Ned snorted.

“I am not!”

“Yes you are!”

“Are they always like this?” Jon asked.

Rickard chuckled.

“You have no idea, Jon Snow.”

“Will you teach us some things with a sword?” Brandon asked Jon.

“Jon is going to teach me,” Lyanna answered before the man could.

“I can teach all of you, if your parents don’t mind,” Jon answered amusedly. “I don’t want to be stepping on Rodrik’s toes. He’s an excellent teacher.”

“I’m sure he would be grateful for your assistance,” Rickard returned. “This lot can be a handful.”

“I can see that,” Jon chuckled, eliciting a glare from Lyanna. “That look won’t work on me, and if I am going to teach all of you, you will follow my rules.”

“You still haven’t told me the rules yet,” Lyanna pointed out.

“Because I will make them up as I see fit,” Jon said with a grin. “Now, eat your dinner. If you want to train with me you will be up with the sun. I won’t accept any slacking, young lady.”

Lyanna looked horrified by the very idea, but much to Rickard’s surprise, she offered no smart remark or argument. Instead, she did as she was told, something she rarely did out of principle.

Rickard nodded approvingly as he met his wife’s gaze.

Jon Snow was an interesting man already; mysterious and perhaps a little broken, but Rickard was looking forward to seeing what the coming moons would bring.

TSOTWR - Prologue

Prologue: The Wayfarer

Jon – Date Unknown

The whistling winds of winter and the snow crunching beneath his boots was all he knew, for the most part. Occasionally, he would come across a copse of trees, bent, or broken by the prevailing storm, and sometimes, what had once been a flowing river.

Where he was, he did not know, and yet, his feet carried him aimlessly through the storm, onwards to nowhere.

Why he continued to walk was something he pondered often. Nonetheless, he pressed on.

It hadn’t always been this way he was sure. He vaguely remembered a time where there were others like him, well, perhaps not so much, but he hadn’t been alone.

Their faces still haunted his now, even if he could not remember their names.

Snow…

That was his name, and he only retained it for that was what surrounded him. As far as the eye could see was a stark whiteness on a background of white, painful to look upon but unrelenting.

His gloved hand rested on the frozen pommel of his sword; the red-eyed, white wolf, just like one of the few living things he caught sight of.

The rippled steel sung as he drew the blade, something he had to do often so that it did not freeze within the scabbard. It had happened once before and freeing it had been no easy task.

Returning it, he scooped up a handful of snow and placed it in his mouth, allowing it to melt in a bid to satiate his thirst. Water was at least plentiful, though the same could not be said for food.

If fortune favoured him and he happened upon a frozen beast, he would hack away at it desperately, eating it raw. It was impossible to light a fire here.

He had forgotten what it was like to feel warmth and wondered how it was he yet lived without it. Perhaps it was that he had once found himself in the icy grip of the other that he seemed to thrive here.

Absentmindedly, his hand drifted to his chest where the scars remained of that encounter and he shook his head.

It would not do to dwell on what little he did remember. It was most unpleasant to say the least.

No, it was best to keep walking until his journey came to an end.

To what end?

There was no sunset nor sunrise, so there was no telling how long he had travelled. He had past several abandoned keeps along the way, none of which were familiar to him.

Most were little more than a pile of rubble, and those that were not, he dared not rest within them. The few times he had they had come for him.

The shiver that ran down his spine had little to do with the chill, but the icy blue eyes that haunted him. Thousands of them, but one pair in particular had been the bane of his existence for as long as he could remember.

The one that wore the crown.

It was as though the demon that stalked him across the land took pleasure in doing so, and just when he felt safe, it would come for him once more; its sword of ice clashing with his own born of fire.

He was under no illusion that the creature could have killed him if it so wished, yet it never struck the killing blow when the opportunity arose. Instead, it would leer at him and allow him on his way, watching every step he took.

Snow had become accustomed to living in such fear. It was as familiar to him as breathing, and even though he had begged for the creature to take his life and end his suffering, he clung to a final vestige of hope that there was something out there.

So, onwards he went, pausing as he caught sight of a gathering of protruding, frozen towers on the horizon.

As he approached, he could see through the ice that they were black as though they had been burned by a great fire.

Snow frowned as he passed them by, not testing fate by venturing inside the walls.

As with every other keep, he would find nothing here.

Instead, he continued on his way, only to pause again shortly after as he spied a large cluster of trees. These too were frozen, but not bent nor broken like the others. It was curious and it was his curiosity that led him towards them.

Instinctively, he ducked as the familiar swish of the icy sword of his foe cut through the air, barely missing him.

As ever, the attack had come from nowhere.

Snow groaned as he drew his own and parried the blow that followed, the force jarring his arm painfully. In vain, he stepped backwards from another swing, jabbing the tip of his blade towards the creature.

It mocked him with the ease it avoided his probing and retaliated with an overhand strike.

Snow braced himself for the impact, taking hold of the pommel with both hands to lessen the force and it used the moment as he turned and aimed for the creature’s head.

It glared at him having ducked below it, and Snow knew the game was over.

Blow after blow rained down on him, and all he could do was retreat, parry, and step out of the path of them until the Night King grew bored as he inevitably would.

However, Snow knew that something was different this time.

The attacks were always ferocious, but there was something desperate about it this time, as though the creature truly was trying to finally put an end to him. Before he could ponder it further, he groaned as he tripped backwards and found himself submerged in the snow that blanketed the ground.

Groaning, his sat up, his hair and beard quite frozen as he was met with thousands upon thousands of pairs of blue eyes, but none more bight than those only a few feet from him.

The Night King was furious and he unleashed a screech forcing Snow to cover his ears.

Around a dozen of the dead charged forwards, raising their rusted swords, axes, and maces, but as Snow stood to greet them with his own blade, they exploded in shards of ice, his sword meeting nothing as he swung it.

Snow frowned in confusion his senses piqued as he felt something in the air around them. He knew that he was far from the true north beyond the wall, but suddenly, it felt as though he was there once more.

Turning, he found that he was stood before the cluster of trees, as white as bone beneath the snow that covered them.

Could it be?

Wiping at the trunk closest to him, his frown deepened at the visage of the red, crude, smiling face that had been carved into the tree.

It meant something, though he couldn’t remember what.

What he did know, however, was that the dead, even the Night King could not approach it, and for the first time in many moons, a chuckle escaped his lips. Here, he was safe from them, for what good it would do.

‘Snow…’

He froze as the voice carried on the wind.

‘Snow…’

He turned sharply towards the Night King only to find it was no longer there, nor were the rest of the dead.

‘Snow…”

The voice was coming from the trees.

“Hello?” he called; his voice hoarse from the lack of use.

‘Snow…’

Keeping a firm grip on his sword, he began navigating his way through the trees until he came upon, untouched by the snow, the face appearing as though it was laughing at him.

‘Snow…’

It was louder now, more urgent, and he placed his hand on the tree before resting his ear against the trunk. As he did so, everything seemed to spin before him and he collapsed to the ground.

Cursing under his breath, he pushed himself to his feet for the second time in only a matter of moments, stilling as he somehow found himself in a cave. Most shocking, however, was the man seated before him, tangled in what appeared the roots of a tree.

The one red eye he had almost reminded him of his sporadic companion, but the other was milky white. There was something familiar about this odd man, but Snow was certain he had never made his acquaintance.

Even his addled brain would not forget such a strange figure.

“Snow. I have been waiting for you.”

“Who are you?” Snow asked, his hand remaining on the pommel of his sword.

“I am known as many things to many people, but I was born Brynden Rivers.”

The name was familiar and Snow wracked his brains until he came upon a distant memory of being seated in front of a fireplace whilst an elderly woman told a tale of a Brynden Rivers.

“Bloodraven,” Snow whispered. “Didn’t you vanish beyond the wall and wasn’t heard from again?”

The strange man offered him a smile as he nodded.

“I did,” he confirmed, “and I remained there until the great other took me.”

“Then how are you here?”

“Magic, Jon Snow, or should I call you Targaryen?”

“Jon,” Snow whispered.

That had been his name, well, the name he had been given. He had later learned that the man he believed to be his father was truly his uncle, and his mother the sister he spoke seldom of.

She had bestowed the name Daemon upon with her final breath as she’d pleaded with her brother to care for her son.

Jon swallowed at the memory of learning that.

He may have the blood of the dragon, but in his heart of hearts, he was a wolf of the north. He had grown there, been shaped in the ways of the people, and had served at the wall, though he doubted he should have had he been told the truth.

“Jon is fine,” he replied.

Bloodraven nodded.

“Then let us speak plainly, Jon, for our time here is short. You failed in your duty.”

“My duty?” Jon asked, a frown marring his features.

“As a king.”

“I was never…”

Bloodraven held up his hand, cutting Jon off.

“You should have been,” he murmured. “It was your right and you would have had the support you needed to see it so. Daenerys was no queen, as much as she wished she was.”

Jon swallowed deeply as the name was uttered.

Daenerys.

His mind was flooded with images of a beautiful, silver-haired woman with violet eyes. She had been his aunt, and yet, that had not stopped them becoming lovers.

No, it had not been only the primal urges that had drawn them to one another. They had fallen deeply in love, and Jon had been blinded by it.

The Northerners had never accepted her, and even when they’d negotiated peace with the south, they had not come to fight, not trusting a young woman who knew nothing of Westeros.

Daenerys had arrived with her dragons staking a claim that she had no right to.

The Targaryens had been defeated by Robert Baratheon, and were there to be a reclamation, the throne should have been Jon’s. The very thought sickened him.

He’d never wanted to be king, and that had never changed.

“She only wanted to help…”

“Her heart was in the right place, but her mind was warped by her own entitlement, Snow. She believed that the throne was hers when she did nothing to earn it. She brought a foreign army here to conquer, and in doing so, sealed her own fate, but now, it is yours that interests me."

Jon chuckled humourlessly as he gestured around the room.

“There’s nothing to salvage,” he pointed out.

“There is not,” Bloodraven agreed, “but it appears as though the gods truly do favour you. Whether it is the Lord of Light, the Seven, or the Old Gods, I do not know, but you have been blessed, nonetheless.”

“Blessed?” Jon asked cautiously.

“Or perhaps cursed,” Bloodraven added. “You are to be given a chance to right the wrongs of the world, Jon Snow, to rewrite history as we know it now in the hope that you can prevent the winds of winter blowing to coldly.”

“What do you mean?” Jon queried worriedly.

He did not like the look Bloodraven was giving him.

“You are to plunge that sword of yours into me and you will be taken to a place where you need to be. I do not know where but I suspect it will be quite unfamiliar to you.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Will you?”

There was much that Jon wasn’t being told but he did not believe Bloodraven was attempting to fool him. If anything, the man was being as transparent as he could with what little he knew.

“Is this the part where I wake up being stalked through the snow?” he sighed.

Bloodraven shook his head.

“No, this is the part where you wake up and do what must be done.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Only you can decide that, Jon Snow. Now, the gods are calling for me. Plunge the blade into my heart and see it done.”

Tentatively, Jon drew the sword.

He was no stranger to taking a life, but to see one so willing to feel the bite of his blade was not something he was familiar with.

“Do it, Jon Snow, before it is too late!”

It was almost as though another guided his arm, lunging him forward and sinking the sword into Bloodraven’s chest, all the way to the hilt.

Jon could only look on in morbid fascination as Bloodraven offered him a final smile before his body crumbled to dust, leaving Jon alone to stare at the black liquid dripping from his blade and onto the roots.

It was only a moment later that he heard a creaking sound, his eyes widening as they came alive, seizing and pulling him into an abyss until he knew nothing but darkness.

Lyanna – 279 AC

“Come on!” she called impatiently, running ahead of her brothers.

As ever, only Benjen who was as eager as her, quickened his pace to catch up. Both Brandon and Eddard merely laughed at the younger Starks, so Lyanna left them in her wake as she entered the Godswood with her youngest brother.

Without preamble, she removed her woollen dress having dressed in her riding clothes earlier in the morning.

Whilst Brandon had been taking lessons with Maester Lewin, Benjen and Eddard had been with the Master-at-Arms, Rodrick Cassel.

Eddard had returned only a few days prior for a visit from fostering in the Vale with Jon Arryn. He would be here for only a moon or so before going back.

“What is it?” Lyanna huffed as Benjen tugged on her tunic.

The boy said nothing but pointed towards the heart tree and Lyanna froze at the sight of a figure laying beneath it.

Whoever it was would be in trouble. Only the Starks were allowed here.

“Do you think he’s alive?” Benjen asked worriedly. “He’s not moving.”

Lyanna frowned and began approaching the man only to be halted by the voice of Brandon.

“Lya, stay still!” he said sharply as he drew his sword.

“It’s not like he can do anything,” Lyanna huffed.

“No, but that can,” Brandon whispered.

Lyanna looked to where he was pointing and felt her stomach filled with dread. There was little in the world she feared other than the wrath of her father, but a giant wolf as white as snow with red eyes was quickly added to the list.

The beast simply stared at her almost questioningly and Lyanna glanced towards the unmoving man.

“Wait, I think it is his wolf,” she whispered. “Look, the pommel on his sword is the wolf.”

“Don’t be stupid. No one has a pet direwolf,” Benjen said matter-of-factly.

“Then what is it doing here?” Lyanna fired back irritably.

“I don’t know, but direwolves have not been south of the wall in centuries,” Eddard murmured. “Lya, what do you think you are doing?”

Lyanna had taken a tentative step forward and the wolf bared its teeth at her in warning.

“It’s okay,” she cooed, trembling, and already chastising herself for her foolishness.

“By the gods, Ned, go and get father!” Brandon commanded.

Lyanna heard the retreating footsteps of her brother and took another of her own.

“I don’t mean him any harm,” she reassured the wolf.

She got the impression that it understood her, and it even relaxed, laying down next to the man and nudging him with its nose.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Lyanna reiterated, close enough now that she could reach out and touch the creature if she so wished.

Instead, she brushed the man’s dark locks out of his eyes and rested her hand on his cheek. He was cold, but somehow, he was not dead.

“He’s alive,” she called back to the dumbstruck Brandon and Benjen.

Taking in his features, the man seemed to be at peace, even if the scars on his face told a different story entirely. What could be done for him, she didn’t know, but he would be in the capable hands of Maester Lewin at the very least.

“Brandon, throw me my dress,” she instructed.

“You’re completely out of your mind,” Brandon sighed as he did so, keeping his sword in hand and eyes on the wolf who was still trying to rouse the man.

Not knowing what else to do, Lyanna covered him with the thick wool and waited for the inevitable arrival of her father.

The man could be a criminal for all she knew, but she didn’t think so. A beast as noble as wolf would not associate with such a man.

It was the sigil of House Stark, after all, and Lyanna could not imagine their own chosen animal bringing a bad omen to their home.

Rickard

“How is Brandon faring in his lessons, Luwin?” Rickard enquired.

“Well, my lord,” the maester answered with a bow. “He is a bright young man. His time with Lord Dustin has served him well.”

Rickard grunted as he shifted his attention towards Rodrick Cassel.

“He is a fine sword,” the man declared. “His temper still gets the best of him, but I am sure he will calm down.”

Rickard snorted as he shook his head.

“The boy has the wolf’s blood in him. Lyanna is the same,” he added fondly.

“Aye, she is,” Rodrick agreed with a smirk. “She was waiting for Eddard and Benjen to finish in the yard.”

“She will have them in the Godswood,” Rickard sighed. “I often think it would be easier to just let her join your lessons.”

“She would be most welcome,” Rodrick assured him. “Is Lady Lyarra still reluctant?”

“Aye, she is not fond of the idea, but I think she is at the point of accepting that Lyanna will continue to defy her wishes. I shall speak with them both soon. What of Eddard and Benjen?”

“Eddard will be a fine warrior, my lord,” Rodrick answered. “It is clear he has been spending time with the Royces. He has not learned to wield a blade as he does from the Arryns. Benjen too will be an exceptional fighter. Three capable sons is quite the feat.”

Rickard nodded proudly before a deep frown marred his features and he retrieved a missive from within a drawer of his desk.

“There is one other matter I wish to discuss with you both, but I must insist it goes no further than the three of us for the time being.”

He handed the note to Luwin who read it carefully. When he was done, he handed it to Rodrick who took a little longer to understand the contents.

“What are your thoughts?” Rickard questioned. “I would prefer frankness in this matter.”

“Well,” Luwin began carefully, “I will not pretend to know the northerners as well as you, my lord, but I am not certain they would be pleased by the idea.”

“Aye,” Rodrick agreed. “She may one day be the Lady Stark and they will afford her the respect, but they will not truly accept her. She is a Riverlander. She follows the Seven, and you know how they look upon our gods.”

Rickard nodded thoughtfully.

“I have considered the same thing,” he mused aloud. “I do not know what Hoster Tully is playing at.”

“He knows that his grandchild will be the future Warden of the North,” Rodrick pointed out. “He’s a shrewd man is Tully. He wouldn’t be offering his daughter to live in the harshness here if he wasn’t getting something out of it.”

“He would not,” Luwin murmured. “If you wish for me to speak honestly, my lord, there are many vassal houses of your own that have eligible daughters who would offer no such complications. Of course, the decision is yours to make.”

Rickard shook his head as he replaced the missive back in the drawer.

It was something to ponder for another day, though he could think of no reason why he would agree to a marriage between Brandon and the Tully girl. The north would, as Hoster pointed out, receive considerable support in grain and other essential supplies, but it felt as though it would be a betrayal to his people.

The north had managed just fine without the support of the Riverlands, and they would continue to do so.

Before he could broach any other subject with the two men, the door to his solar suddenly burst open and a wide-eyed and panting Eddard entered the room.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rickard demanded, alarmed by his usually calmer son’s demeanour.

“Man…wolf…Godswood,” he gasped. “There’s an unconscious man in the Godswood…with a direwolf.”

Rickard simply gaped at his son for a moment, wondering if the boy had either lost his mind or was playing a foolish trick.

No, it was not in Eddard’s nature to do such a thing.

“Direwolf?”

Eddard nodded frantically.

“Lyanna..”

Rickard’s heart sunk into his stomach, and he grabbed Ice from the enormous scabbard it rested.

“Rodrick, fetch the guards,” he instructed, sprinting from the solar and through the halls of Winterfell, receiving odd looks from the servants who had likely never seen their Lord in such a state.

It had been years since Rickard had moved so quickly, and as he crossed the training yard and passed the family crypt, he barrelled through the gate leading to where he often came to pray, pausing in shock at the sight that greeted him.

Brandon and Benjen were a short distance away, the former with his own blade in hand, but Lyanna was kneeling next to an unmoving form beneath the weirwood tree.

Most shocking, however, was the enormous white wolf, the size of a small horse, resting its chin on the man.

“Lyanna, get away, now!” he pleaded.

Such a beast would tear the girl to shreds before Rickard could reach her.

“Father, he is safe,” Lyanna whispered, “but he needs help,” she added, nodding towards the man.

“He’s alive?”

Lyanna nodded worriedly.

A dozen questions ran through Rickard’s mind, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of clattering armour as the guards Rodrick had sent for arrived, headed by the Master-at-Arms himself.

“By the old gods,” the man choked as he took in the scene before him.

“Father, please, he needs help!”

“Lyanna, get away from there,” Rickard said firmly, taking a step forward.

The wolf stood and bared its fangs at him and the guards each knocked an arrow, aiming their bows towards the beast.

“NO!” Lyanna said desperately, standing in front of the creature. “He’s just trying to protect him. He won’t hurt anyone. Put your weapons away!”

“Lya, you need to move,” Brandon tried.

Rickard shook his head.

It was no good. The girl was too stubborn to listen.

“Alright, lower your bows,” he instructed as he took a reluctant step backwards. “See, no one will hurt him.”

Lyanna glared at him the same way her mother did whenever Rickard had provoked her ire. Eventually, she nodded and turned towards the wolf.

“They are going to help him. Will you let them?” she asked gently.

The red eyes of the wolf swept over each of the men before it sat in front of the girl as though it was little more than a harmless pup.

Rickard was in a state of disbelief.

“Luwin, check on him.”

“Me, my lord?”

“You are the maester here, aren’t you?”

Luwin opened his mouth to speak but found no words. With no other choice, he tentatively walked towards the man, his fearful gaze remaining on the wolf who did not react. Instead, it allowed Lyanna to pet it and Rickard found himself despairing the wolf’s blood that plagued his family.

“He is alive,” Luwin called. “We must get him inside so I can examine him properly. He is in quite a bad way, my lord. I’m no certain he will make it.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“I have never seen him before, my lord,” Luwin answered. “He looks like a Northman, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I see some of the south in him too, Dornish perhaps. It could even be Valyrian.”

Rickard frowned in confusion.

He could think of no northern family that had gone south nor any southern family that had come this far north, and there had certainly been no interaction between northerners and Valyrians since Aegon the Conqueror had brought his dragons here and taken the north into the fold of the other kingdoms.

“Take his weapons,” Rickard instructed, “and take him inside.”

“What of the wolf?” Brandon asked.

“The wolf cannot come into keep,” Rickard said firmly.

“I will stay with him out here,” Lyanna offered.

“Lya…”

Rickard knew he’d already lost the argument before it had begun. Lyanna would not be parted from it despite what punishment he administered.

Lyarra might just kill him this time.

“He likes me,” Lyanna pointed out, giggling as the wolf licked her cheek.

Rickard thought that it looked as though the beast was basting her, but it looked at him as though it was assuring the man he was no danger to his daughter.

Rickard shook his head.

Direwolves had not been so far south in centuries, so what was this one doing here? Was it truly a companion of the mysterious man? If so, it could only be a sign of sorts from the gods themselves. The direwolf was of House Stark.

But what did it mean?

“Fine, but the guards will remain with you. If it shows any sign of aggression, they will kill it.”

“He won’t,” Lyanna said cheerily.

Rickard was baffled by the sudden turn of events the day had taken. Had any told him this would happen he would think them mentally bereft.

“One wrong move, kill it,” he murmured to the guards as he followed Luwin and the two men who were carrying the stranger. “Brandon, stay with your sister.”

He felt better knowing his eldest son was watching over her. What he could do if the wolf decided to attack, he didn’t know, but he needed to be with Luwin whilst he tended to the man.

Who he was, Rickard did not know, but he would have the answers he sought if the man woke.

“Have we received any reports of deserters from the wall?”

Luwin shook his head.

“Not in half a dozen moons and he was caught in Last Hearth.”

Rickard hummed as he wracked his brains for an explanation.

The man was not familiar to him, though he could not see much beyond the thick locks of wavy hair covering his face.

No, he would have to wait until Luwin’s work was done and the man woke before he would get to the truth of the matter.

Lyanna

This was undoubtedly the most surreal thing that had ever happened to her. Finding a strange man in the Godswood had been one thing, but his direwolf companion…

Lyanna shook her head as she reached out a tentative hand. The wolf had not moved since the man had ben taken. It had simply lied there with its head resting on its paws with a sad look about it.

“Lya, what are you doing?” Brandon demanded to know.

Lyanna merely frowned at her older brother and held her breath as she placed her hand on the wolf’s brow. It’s fur was so soft to the touch, and when she was confident it would not react poorly, she exhaled.

“He will be fine,” she whispered. “Maester Luwin will look after him.”

The wolf whined gently and Lyanna scratched him behind the ear, eliciting a disapproving headshake from Brandon.

It was odd.

She did not know the wolf yet it almost seemed as though she could feel what he was experiencing in a way.

“You’re hungry,” she murmured. “Brandon, get him some food.”

Brandon scowled at being bossed around by his sister but he took pity on the creature.

“There’s a stag I took down a few days ago,” he huffed. “Would you mind fetching it from Gage?” he asked two of the guards.

They offered him a bow before taking their leave of the Godswood and Lyanna continued to pet the wolf.

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?” she asked.

The wolf only looked at her in response.

“You really care about him.”

The wolf whined once more.

She said nothing else whilst she waited for the men to return, and when they did, they left the carcass of the stag around a dozen feet away, not daring to get any closer.

“Come on,” Lyanna urged. “I’ll take you.”

Cautiously, the wolf followed, and as what its nature, it pounced on its meal, tearing a leg clean of the animal with such ease, its powerful jaws biting through the bone as though it was flesh.

Lyanna was grateful that it had not decided she should be its next meal.

“Better?” she asked amusedly.

Brandon and the others had looked on in horror as the wolf ate its fill, but it was happier now it had been fed.

“Do you play games?” she asked curiously, picking up a piece of a broken antler and throwing it amongst the trees. “Go on, boy, get it.”

“Lya, it’s not a bloody dog,” Brandon snorted.

“Well, he might like to play!”

Much to her surprise, the wolf did fetch the antler and placed it back in front of her. Ly a grinned triumphantly at her brother who could only shake his head in disbelief.

She didn’t know how long Luwin would take to help the man but keeping the wolf busy seemed to be the best idea to distract it.

Throwing the antler again, she giggled as it bounded after it as though it was a pup.

She’d missed out on her swordplay, but she could think of much worse ways to spend an afternoon.

Rickard

The man had been laid upon a bed in one of the guest chambers within the keep, and Luwin had been tending to him for several minutes now. Rickard stood back silently, waiting for the maester to give his thoughts, though he stepped forward when he gasped in shock.

“What is it?” he asked.

Luwin’s expression was one of befuddlement, and he shook his head as he inspected the man, removing the thick leather he wore.

“These wounds,” he murmured, gesturing for Rickard to approach.

The man’s chest was littered with almost a dozen scars; thick, puckered, and purple.

“What of them?”

Luwin swallowed audibly as he ran his fingers across each one.

“These are not cuts, my lord. These are stab wounds.”

Rickard shook his head.

“If that was true…”

“He would be dead,” Luwin whispered. “I do not understand how he is alive.”

“Are you certain?”

Luwin nodded.

“All of them penetrated deeply,” he explained, pointing to each in turn, “but this one was directly to the heart.”

Rickard looked closer. The scar was thick and unlike any simple cut he’d ever seen. The skin where the blade entered was sunken in comparison to the outermost part which was raised prominently.

“Unbelievable,” he whispered. “How could he have survived it?”

“Only the will of the gods.”

Such a sentiment sounded ridiculous, but Rickard had no other explanation. If a maester the calibre of Luwin was perplexed, it could only be by divine intervention the man lived.

“I expect we will have to wait for him to explain,” Rickard mused aloud. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“Well, it is as I thought,” Luwin sighed. “I believe he is a man of the north but with the blood of perhaps Dorne or even Valyria. Regardless, he has likely spent no time in either, not for many years at least.”

“How can you tell?”

“His skin is pale,” Luwin pointed out. “He has not been anywhere warm for many years, perhaps ever.”

“Then where can he have come from? Men do not just appear in the Godswood and with a direwolf as a companion. Do you think he is a wildling?”

“It had crossed my mind,” Luwin answered thoughtfully, “but I do not believe so. His leather is of the finest quality and was made for him. Perhaps he has been beyond the wall. For what reason, I cannot fathom, but direwolves…”

“Have not been seen this far south in centuries.”

Luwin nodded.

“And there is his sword,” he continued. “The pommel is made of materials not available beyond the wall. The wildling weapons are crude and they do not waste time on frivolous things.”

Rickard grunted as he picked up the scabbard leaning against the wall, the mystery of the man only deepening as he drew the blade.

“It’s Valyrian steel,” he whispered, taken aback.

The pommel and handle were impressive enough, but the blade was nothing like he had never seen. Similar to Ice, this blade had the tell-tale smoky ripples of the famed steel, but there were accents of white mingled with the grey in this one.

Was that normal in Valyrian steel.

“It is rather unique,” Luwin commented as his eyes roamed over the blade. “Nothing in the citadel mentions Valyrian steel contain any other colour other than grey.”

Rickard could only shake his head.

The man only became more mysterious the more they discovered.

For the first time since he’d come upon him, he glanced towards his features, scoffing as he was once more taken aback. More scars littered his brows, though more faded than those on his chest, but it was his appearance that elicited such a response.

The man looked like a Stark.

Rickard could see there was indeed something else mixed with the features, but for the most part, he looked like one of his own children.

“You see it too, my lord,” Luwin murmured.

Rickard nodded as he stepped forward to take a closer look. He had thought perhaps it was the lighting or the angle he had been looking from, but he could not deny it.

The man truly did resemble the Starks.

“What colour are his eyes?” he asked curiously.

Most northerners were either brown or blue-eyed. Only the Karstarks and his own, descendants of the first men, had…

“Grey, my lord,” Luwin answered.

The more Rickard looked at the unconscious man, the more the resemblance became uncanny. Even with the smaller nose, thinner jaw, and pronounced cheekbones, he looked like a Stark.

Before he could comment on it, however, a knock sounded at the door.

“Who is it?”

“Eddard,” the voice of his son replied. “Mother is looking for you,” he added as he entered.

“How is Lyanna?”

Eddard shook his head.

“She fell asleep with the wolf under the weirwood tree,” he explained. “She was playing fetch with it earlier.”

Rickard cursed under his breath.

“The girl will be the death of me,” he grumbled. “Is Brandon with her?”

Eddard nodded.

“He fed it his stag. The wolf ate the lot.”

“Well, it’s best if it stays out there,” Rickard mused aloud.

“Wouldn’t it be better in here, my lord?” Luwin questioned. “If they are companions, it will be good for him to have something familiar here when he wakes up.”

“I don’t like the idea of the wolf in the keep,” Rickard sighed. “Has it shown any sign of aggression?”

“No,” Eddard assured him. “He just seems worried about him.”

Rickard rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Have Lya bring it here if she can. I’ll place have a dozen guards with crossbows outside the door, just in case. Luwin, I want you to fetch me the moment he wakes up.”

“Of course.”

With a final, curious look at the man, Rickard gestured for his son to follow him from the room with more questions than he had answers.

Who was this man?

It was as concerning as it was intriguing, but Rickard would get to the bottom of it.

“Lyanna is not to stay in the room with him,” he said firmly. “We do not know this man and don’t know what state he will be in if he wakes up.”

“Of course,” Eddard complied, peeling off towards the Godswood whilst Rickard went to find his wife.

Lyarra had undoubtedly heard of the unexpected guest, though he did not have the explanation she would expect.

How could he explain that a man who could pass for a Stark had arrived in the Godswood in Winterfell with a direwolf as a companion?

It sounded ludicrous in his head, let alone if he spoke the madness out loud.

Jon

It had felt similar to the aftermath of when he’d been betrayed at Castle Black. His very essence had been torn from his body, and he’d soon found himself residing within Ghost, looking upon his own body in the familiar Godswood of Winterfell.

The appearance of the somewhat familiar girl had started him, but he’d needed to get closer to the be certain he wasn’t seeing what he’d first thought.

No, this young girl wasn’t Arya, and the boys that accompanied her had not been Robb, Rickon, or Bran. It wasn’t until he’d heard their names that Jon knew something was sorely amiss.

Bloodraven had told him he would be going to a place where he could fix the wrongs of men, where they could be united against wat was coming for him. Jon had thought perhaps he’d be sent back to the moment he had woken after Melisandre had brought him back, but no, he was much further in the past than that.

Lyanna.

The girl who’d approached him had been the mother he’d never gotten to know beyond the statue in the crypts of Winterfell, and yet, he she was, throwing an antler for him to chase.

He humoured her, overjoyed at being able to spend time with her, even if he was a wolf.

But what would happen when he would inevitably wake in his own body? How would he explain who he was?

He couldn’t.

Jon knew the people of the north well enough to know that he would be deemed mad if he spoke the truth he knew. No, he would need to earn the trust of his grandfather before he dared utter such fantastical tales of what he’d seen.

The one reprieve here was that he could still be Jon Snow, a bastard of the north that did not know his parentage. He could claim that he was raised in Molestown, born to a whore, and he ran away from his home to Skagos where he lived off the land at a young age.

Explaining Longclaw, however, could be difficult. Perhaps he could claim to have killed some wildlings that ambushed him and took it for himself?

It could work.

He was not so young that it could be disproven, and not so old that he could be accused of anything nefarious.

It was the best he could come up with, and it helped that his memory was still hazy from the cold he’d endured for what had seemed to be endless moons as he drifted through Westeros.

Whether Rickard Stark would believe him was another thing entirely, but he had been sent here for a reason. He would have to earn the trust of the Starks, and to do that, he would need to make a rather bold move where his honour could not be brought into question.

Doing so would serve more than one purpose, even if it was risky.

It had exhausted him pondering what he would do, and eventually, he had fallen asleep under the weirwood with Lyanna Stark nestled into his side.

Jon had been woken rather abruptly and had been lured into the keep by the very same girl who’d asked him not to attack anyone he saw.

Cautiously, Jon followed, keeping his head low to the ground so none could mistake him for being a threat. It would not do to startle any more than his mere presence already did.

It was warm in the room he’d been shown into, and Lyanna had been taken away, much to her consternation, but Jon was here with himself, a younger Maester Luwin, and several men pointed crossbows at him.

With nothing else to do, he’d rested in front of the fire where he eventually drifted to off to sleep.

Warmth.

It was something that Jon had lacked for much of the time since he’d departed Winterfell and headed to the wall for the first time. Castle Black had seldom been warm enough, even when all of the fires were lit.

Here, in this little room, however, he simply revelled in it for several moments before he deigned to open his eyes.

The roaring fire and a couple of sconces on the wall were the only sources of light, and as he moved, he heard the clicking of a crossbow against mail as one of the guards pointed it towards him.

“Don’t move,” the man growled, his northern accent strong an assertive.

“Where am I?” Jon asked ignorantly, holding up his hands.

“Winterfell,” the man grunted. “Our Lord wishes to speak with you.

Jon frowned and nodded.

He felt nervous but seeing the sigil of House Stark on a set of armour warmed him more than the fire, and he remained still as one of the guards left the room.

“It’s okay, Ghost,” he assured the wolf who had raised his head. “Just stay where you are.”

“It’s your wolf then?” the guard pointing the crossbow at him asked. “How did that happen?”

Before Jon could answer, the door opened and Maester Luwin stepped in and offered him a tentative smile.

“It is good to see you awake, young man,” he greeted Jon. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not sure,” Jon answered honestly. “Confused.”

“Understandable,” Luwin replied. “I’m the Maester here at Winterfell. You had a very narrow escape. It was lucky you were found in time, though I am curious how you found yourself in the Godswood.”

“As am I,” a stern voice echoed the sentiment.

Jon had only ever seen the statue of Rickard Stark in the crypts, but the man in person was much more imposing.

“I don’t know,” Jon murmured. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember much.”

“Do you have a name, lad?” Rickard pressed.

Jon nodded, wetting his dry lips.

“Jon Snow.”

Rickard grunted.

“I can tell by your accent you’re a northerner, Jon Snow. Where are you from?”

“Molestown,” Jon answered. “My mother was a whore from somewhere south. She died giving birth to me. I do not know who my father was.”

“Where in the south?”

“I was never told. The ladies who raised me said she had fair skin and silver hair.”

“Valyrian then,” Rickard said to Luwin who nodded. “What of the wolf?”

“Ghost has been with me since he was a pup,” Jon answered truthfully. “I found him suckling at his dead mother. He reminded me of me, so I couldn’t leave him behind.”

“So, you just decided to raise a direwolf?”

“Ghost chose to stay with me,” Jon explained. “He has always been free to leave.”

The wolf whined sadly as it stood and rested its head on the edge of the bed next to Jon.

“Remarkable,” Rickard commented. “What of the wounds on your chest?”

Jon released a deep breath.

“I was set upon beyond the wall…”

“Beyond the wall?”

“I left Molestown when I was young and found myself on Skagos. They spoke about what it was like beyond the wall and I wanted to see it for myself. It was a stupid idea.”

“Very stupid,” Rickard agreed. “The wildlings do not like outsiders.”

“I met some that were nice,” Jon argued, “but others weren’t. I got ambushed by some of them. I thought I was dead, but then I woke up.”

“You just woke up?”

“I think so,” Jon answered. “I don’t remember much, but I was underneath a weirwood tree. The gods must have been looking over me.”

“You follow the old gods?”

Jon nodded.

“I do.”

Rickard regarded him for several moments before nodding.

“You have no reason to trust me fully,” he sighed. “We are strangers, and yet, your life has been spared because of mine. You are welcome to stay, Jon Snow, but I would like the complete truth from you one day. I sense that you are an honourable man, if one that has his secrets. Bring no harm to my people and you shall not be harmed in return. Is that fair?”

“It is more than fair.”

Rickard offered him a half-smile.

“Good. It was, in fact, my daughter who saved you, and even kept your wolf company whilst you were being tended to.”

“She saved me?” Jon asked.

Rickard nodded.

“She will ask for nothing from you, though I have a final question. How did you come by your sword?”

“It came from one of the men that ambushed me,” Jon lied. “Mine broke in the fight and as I killed all of them, I thought I’d earned it for my final moments of life.”

“You did,” Rickard agreed. “It is yours by right, even if many will not believe a bastard worthy to carry such a fine blade.”

Jon winced at the word he had come to loath. It had been the bane of his existence as a boy, a cloak he believed he’d shed upon being made King of these lands.

It was a term he would have to get use to again.

“Would it be possible to meet the lady that saved me?” he asked. “I would like to thank her and I’m sure Ghost would like to see her again.”

Ghost raised his head interestedly.

“I do not see the harm considering she is listening in to our conversation already,” Rickard replied, shaking his head. “Lyanna, you may as well come in.”

The door opened and the girl entered looking towards her father with wide, watery eyes.

Jon did not fall for it the same way Rickard did. Arya used to use the very same tactic when she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“It is rude to eavesdrop, young lady.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Lyanna replied.

Rickard huffed as he shook his head once more.

“This young man wishes to speak with you.”

Lyanna turned towards him and Jon swallowed deeply, doing his utmost to hide the many emotions he was experiencing.

“Your father explained that you saved my life,” he said quietly.

“I found you.”

“And you got me help. You looked after Ghost for me.”

“Ghost?”

“He’s very quiet for a wolf and you can’t see him in the snow,” Jon chuckled.

Lyanna grinned at the wolf who padded his way towards her, butting her chest with his head. She giggled as she made a fuss of him, much to the confusion and amusement of her father.

“Meeting Ghost made it worth it.”

Jon nodded as he sat up.

“He’s been my best friend for a very long time,” he explained, “and I was always taught that a price could never be put on a man’s honour. You saved my life, my lady, and I am in your debt. With your permission, Lord Stark?” he added, gesturing towards Longclaw.

Rickard quirked an eyebrow in surprise before nodding and Jon stood. Retrieving his blade, he took a knee in front of the confused girl.

“I have nothing of value other than my sword. If you will have it, I pledge it to you. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be,” he murmured solemnly, his gaze not leaving hers. “I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

It was a rather drastic offering, but given the circumstances, Jon did not know what else he should do. Robert’s Rebellion had occurred in part due to Lyanna Stark, and he knew if he could prevent that from taking place, it would be pivotal in the victory over the dead.

If he could keep Lyanna safe, there would be no cause for rebellion.

That did not mean he would allow her to be married to Robert Baratheon, however. The man was a drunken whoremonger and he would not see his mother tied to him.

No, he didn’t have it all figured out yet, but to him, this felt like the right move to make.

“I don’t understand,” Lyanna whispered apologetically.

“Jon is offering his service as your Sworn Sword, Lyanna,” Rickard explained. “It is not something done lightly by any man and is not something that should be accepted lightly. Jon will become your bodyguard, your eyes, and ears, and even your Champion should an occasion call for it.”

“What should I do, Father?” the girl asked.

“It is to you Jon is pledging himself, Lyanna,” Rickard replied. “It is your choice if you wish to accept him into your service.”

“Can he teach me to fight?” she asked excitedly.

“If you asked it of him,” Rickard sighed.

“So, he will do anything?”

“No,” Rickard said firmly. “He will not act in a way that bring you or himself dishonour. You cannot simply ask him to kill someone for a frivolous reason. Any who accepts a Sworn Sword into their service should do so with the intent of respecting their honour and not asking anything of them that would sully it.”

Lyanna nodded her understanding.

“What do you think I should do, Father?”

Rickard smiled.

“Well, the first thing you want to know is if he can wield a sword well enough to competently protect you.”

“So, I should see him fight first?”

“That would be my recommendation,” Rickard chuckled. “What good is a Sworn Sword that cannot fulfil his duty?”

Jon nodded his understanding, as did Lyanna.

“I’ll accept your vow once I’ve seen you fight,” she decided.

“That is fair, my lady,” Jon returned, offering her a bow before replacing his sword against the wall.

“For now, I believe Jon needs his rest,” Rickard declared. “I am afraid I must leave the guards at your door until your vow is accepted.”

“It’s fine,” Jon said dismissively. “It’s like you said yourself, we are strangers. I do not mean anyone harm and I hope you are able to see that soon enough.”

“As do I, Jon Snow,” Rickard replied thoughtfully. “It is also good manners to address the Lord of his keep by his given title.”

“Of course, Lord Stark,” Jon returned.

Rickard offered him another half-smile.

“Until tomorrow, Jon. Sleep well. I expect you will be put through your paces in the training yard come the morning.”

Lyanna gave Ghost a final pet and waved as she and her father took their leave of the room.

Jon released a deep breath.

The meeting had gone as well as he could have expected. He was not so comfortable lying to Rickard Stark, but it was not the right time for the entire truth to come out yet.

No, as much as he wished he could simply declare who he was, Jon knew it could not be. The best he could hope for was to be accepted into Lyanna’s service where he would be prime to keep her safe from whatever came her way.

Then, and only then, could he consider the future and the war that was already looming on the horizon.