1 [A Day In The Life Of A Bastard]

Jon awoke just like any other morning - well before anyone else and with more vigour than he probably should have.

But Jon wouldn't have it any other way. He liked getting up before all others, even the servants, because it saved him the stares and whispers of everyone else in the castle who looked at him like he was some sort of walking eyesore.

Not that he needed the extra sleep either. He'd found out young he only needed five or so hours of sleep to be fully rested when compared to others in the castle.

At first Jon had thought he had some sort of condition, his lessons with Maester Luwin spawning all sorts of thoughts in his head and fuelling a fire of worry inside his chest. But a simple visit to the Maester had sorted all of that out and after Luwin had ran all his tests, he told the young Snow that all was well within his body and his smaller need for sleep was just another thing that made him different to others.

And Jon definitely knew he was...different. Whether it be academically or martially, Jon excelled and stayed utterly serious and devout to his studies. While his half-brother, Robb, and his father's ward, Theon were talented in their choice of weaponry - sword and bow, respectively - Jon was beyond just simply talented. No matter if you looked at learning speed or simply at his natural physicality, Jon had both of the young men beat. Something which earned him no small amount of scorn and displeasure from the Lady of House Stark, Catelyn Stark.

Jon knew why she disliked him and understood it. He was a bastard. A constant reminder of her husband's disloyalty. A talented bastard was a noble lady's worst nightmare, a talented AND hard-working bastard simply being a world-ending event in their eyes.

Mainly because he outshined her firstborn son, Robb, and she'd somehow got it in her mind that this would effect his inheritance of House Stark's lordship.

While he understood her disliking him, Jon couldn't for the life of himself figure out how she'd gotten to that conclusion. A conclusion he'd heard her sharing with his father, Lord Eddard Stark. Luckily, his father shared his opinion of how utterly ridiculous the notion sounded. But a part of him was hurt by it all the same.

And so, Jon kept to himself and focused on what he liked:

Training and studying.

Which is why despite the cold in the air of his room, Jon pulled his bed cover aside and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and setting them down on the cold floor of Winterfell. Despite the warm water travelling through the pipes underneath the floor, it was still cold to the touch - something Jon and many others had noted and knew it meant Winter was knocking at the doors of Westeros once more.

Pushing aside the thought at experiencing his first winter, Jon stood and began getting dressed for his early morning training. First came the hardy leather training trousers, followed by training boots which reached half-way up his calves.

They were well-worn but polished and well looked after. Jon didn't get new clothes when he asked for them, having to deal with getting new clothes every month or two. As was the woe of being a bastard, he presumed. Following that was a black tunic which Jon had repaired a few times over the last month, shown by the stitching and new material added over tears and cuts. Jon didn't mind it's patchy appearance, however, and pulled it over his head, letting the piece of clothing fit snugly against his well-muscled torso.

Then came more leather - specifically a training vest of hard-boiled leather, with the simple for House Stark ingrained into the left side of the chest area. Finally, two vambraces were tightly fitted around his thick forearms, born of all his intensive training with both sword, shield and bow.

Oddly, the vest, boots and vambraces all had little satchel-like pockets built into them. Like something was meant to be put in them.

Jon made his way to his door and exited his room into the ancient hallways of Winterfell. They were near-pitch black due to none of the servants having awoken to light the torches that lined the hallways but this made no difference to Jon - he'd lived in Winterfell for ten-and-six namedays and he'd dealt with pitch-black hallways since he was six namedays old and begun waking early to commit to his martial studies.

Not to mention that his eye sight was quite exceptional and allowed him more sense than a normal person, even when in near-blackness.

Making his way by memory and the little he could see, Jon soon found himself in the training courtyard. The sky was in that odd twilight state between night and dawn - lighter than the night but darker than the morning. Still, he made his way over to the racks lined with wooden weapons and shields.

He picked his preferred combo and the one he'd spent the most time practicing. The sword was a massive wooden thing, filled with a core of lead and made of ironwood. A wooden greatsword meant to be wielded with two hands and yet Jon easily lifted it with one, feeling the comforting weight resting in his palm. The shield he picked was one personally made for him - round, thick and made of ironwood just like his practice sword. The rim was lined with iron to both stop it being cut in half when blocking and to also serve as a deadly blunt edge that could be used to bash someone's head in.

Finally, Jon walked over to a nearby box. Opening it with his foot, he peered inside and saw everything was still in there. A few years ago, Theon and Robb had seen it funny to take what was inside and hide them all throughout the training yard.

...A swift beating from Jon under the guise of sparring soon stopped them. Didn't mean Jon didn't check they were still there ever since that day.

Bending down into a crouched position, Jon laid his greatsword and shield next to the box and reached into it, pulling out a brick of metal. An odd metal picked by the castle blacksmith after Jon asked him to make these specific body weights. Despite being rather slim and less like an ingot you'd use for forging, it weighed about ten kilograms. Regardless of the weight, Jon began loading the small slabs of metal into their holders on his vambraces, vest and boots.

He put six on each arm, eight on each leg and fitted twelve into the vest - six on his chest and six on his back. A total deadweight of four hundred kilograms on his person.

Jon stood with his arms back in his hands and began running around the yard. The added weight made every stride heavy and put a tremendous amount of strain on his entire body and within a few laps, his breathing had became somewhat rougher yet he continued on. This was his warm-up, after all.

The freezing cold air of the North, made even worse by the approaching winter, while horrible to others...to Jon, it was comfortable. It made him feel at peace, even with the intensive exercise he was putting himself through.

Maester Luwin said it was because he was a Stark, despite his bastard status, and because Stark's held the blood of the First Men in their veins, they were more resistant to the cold than most.

But Jon felt like it was something more. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Either way, Jon made twenty laps around the training yard for his warm-up and then began to go through the motions and stances he'd been taught by Winterfell's Master-At-Arms. The added weight made the motions harder but Jon kept repeating them exactly as he'd been taught tens of times, hundreds of times, thousands of times--he continued until his arms felt like lead and his legs refused to move even an inch more. Until his breathing sounded more like the billows of a forge than a human exhaling air.

Servants were walking to and fro by now, some casting glances at him with scorn written across their faces. Jon knew why they looked at him so - because he was a bastard aiming above his own station. He didn't want to stay in Winterfell or become a normal soldier among many in House Stark's army.

He wanted to see the world. Adventure. Visit the Free Cities of Essos. See the Titan of Braavos. Jon wanted to try and change his lot in life and people didn't like that. They saw his training as him trying to move beyond his bastard status - which in itself, was true, but not such a grievous crime like they believed. Jon had pondered many a time; is it truly such a crime to want more? To not have to deal with the scorn and the distasteful glances?

Every time he came to one answer: No.

But, by now, Jon was long used to the scorn and the glances. So, he just kept up with his training. He put his arms away and made his way over to something he'd constructed himself. Two thick metal poles about four feet apart, connected at the top with an equally thick metal bar. Reaching up, Jon held the bar with a grip so tight it would've crushed a man's bones if the bar had been a hand and not metal. Pulling himself up until his chin raised over the bar, he let himself go back down before repeating the motion.

Jon's arms screamed in protest but he continued on, making sure to get full motion into the muscles used to pull him up before he moved onto multiple other exercises, each one working a different part of his upper body.

He'd read in the tomes and scripts Maester Luwin owned that many great knights and strong men relied on their natural talents and physicality to become well-renowned. But Jon knew he couldn't afford such a thing, for he was baseborn and without the influence most of those knights and strong men held from their houses or connections.

Which is why, despite being born with exceptional natural strength and athleticism, Jon pushed himself every morning without fail. Sometimes every night, as well, if he felt like he could manage it without injuring himself.

Sadly, tonight wouldn't be one of those nights. Despite feeling like given some rest he could continue later on, tonight there was to be a feast for the King.

Robert Baratheon, first of his name. Demon of the Trident, killer of Rhaegar Targaryen and the Usurper. Jon had read much about the man and his rebellion and some part of him respected the man...while another part felt aggravated by him. He pulled the entire realm into a war because of a single woman. It was absurd - especially when there are many accounts of the King sleeping with serving girls and tavern wenches throughout his Rebellion. It made one think if he ever loved Lyanna Stark, Jon's aunt, in the first place.

Maybe Jon just didn't understand love in the same way as the King, he wondered as he dropped down from the bars, done with his exercises. Either way and thoughts aside, Jon did a few rounds of stretching with the weights still on and then another few with the weights removed.

Done with his shortened morning routine due to the arrival of the King, Jon busied himself with getting ready for it. He'd try and avoid it but it'd be for the best if he were ready for it anyway.

Making way for the baths in Winterfell, Jon came across his brother, Robb, and his father's ward, Theon. Jon was a tall lad, built with robust muscles, broad shoulders and thick arms and the same could be said for his brother, Robb, though to a lesser extent. Jon was north of six feet tall by a few inches while Robb must've been bang on six feet, while Theon was unlike the two brothers and was shorter by a few inches with a much more lithe build - one of an archer instead of a frontline combatant like the other two.

Jon had no doubt it irked the Greyjoy that both himself and Robb were taller and bigger than him despite being younger. Both of them being ten-and-six namedays old while Theon himself was nearing his twentieth nameday.

The two of them seemed to be heading for the baths as well, Jon noted, and when they noticed his arrival, Robb smiled slightly while Theon gave him the same sneer he always did.

"Up as early as ever, I see," Robb said as he slowed his walking down for Jon to catch up.

"Aye," Jon nodded in reply, a smirk coming across his face as he replied further, "Someone has to use the yard nowadays seeing as you two rarely do."

Robb chuckled at what he'd said, though Theon sneered at the perceived slight, "Not all of us have as much to prove as you, Snow." His reply earned him a sidelong glance from Robb but Jon ignored the use of his surname and what the Greyjoy meant by it and walked alongside his brother - seeing his words go ignored only caused Theon to grind his teeth but little else came from the squid's mouth. Jon was glad of it.

"The King and his party are arriving today," Jon said, to neither of them in particular, "Rarely do you get to see the servants walk like they're stepping on hot coals as they are today," he regarded a trio of servants carrying a chandelier through the halls and stepped aside for them to pass.

Robb tilted his head a little, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, "What can you expect, Jon? It's the King and who knows how he'd react if we showed a lackluster welcome."

Jon nodded in agreement but word's of disagreement came from his mouth moments later, "King Robert is Lord Stark's brother in all but blood. They grew up together. He's hardly the one who'd complain about a lackluster welcome," he scoffed, getting him a raised eyebrow from Robb, "The Lannisters, Stark. I'd say the preparations are more for them than the King. What do they say? A Lannister always repays his debts? Good ones, bad ones and perceived ones I've heard."

"A bastard should hold his tongue on things he has no right to speak of," came Theon's sharp reply, "I hear Queen Cersei is quite the vicious bitch though. Definitely the type to get offended over a bad welcome," he laughed before his smile took on the appearance of a lecher's, "And like all Southern ladies, I hear she's quite the sight too. Wouldn't mind having her warming my bed--" he was stopped from speaking any further by Robb who clipped him round the back of the head.

"You would do well to learn how to hold your tongue as well, Greyjoy. You're a ward, not the Heir to the Iron Islands, when you're here," Robb reprimanded with a serious tone, "One word of what you just said could get you killed and father in a whole pigsty of shit."

Theon muttered an apology and the three of them continued a short while before arriving at the baths. Robb and Theon had some people help them get undressed and help them wash themselves, as was the proper way for nobles like them, but Jon undressed himself and got to washing himself with a bristled brush.

Just like the cold didn't bother him, neither did the hot water the bath's were constantly filled with. In fact, it helped him relax just like the cold did. Jon hadn't mentioned anything like this, however, to the Maester because the blood of the First Men had nothing to do with heat.

Only Targaryen blood had something to do with the heat. This fact had been on Jon's mind for many a year, constantly circling round in his head; was his mother a Targaryen? Is that why his father refused to speak of her, knowing the consequences that would be brought on the two of them? One for laying with a Targaryen and the other for being dragonspawn? Parentage aside, Jon did what he always did when he found himself thinking about his mother - pushed it deep down into the deepest, darkest pits of his mind and focused on something else.

It only took Jon a few minutes of intense scrubbing with the brush to get all the grime and sweat off his skin, and then he was out, drying himself off and changing into some clothes left for him by a servant. He was afforded that much at least.

Once dried and dressed, Jon was off to the kitchens. He was feeling rather ravenous.

. . .

Bran was in the yard, back by his two eldest brothers, Jon and Robb. Right now he was trying to shoot a target at ten paces with a short bow that still seemed a little big for his stature as a boy only ten namedays old.

He let loose the bowstring, the bow itself shaking as his arm struggled under the exertion. As you'd expect, the poor form he was showing earned him an equally poor shot.

Robb let out a laugh while Jon watched on, a serious expression plastered over his face.

"And were you a marksman at ten, Robb?" came an accusatory voice from above the yard; Lord Eddard Stark. He was draped in black, his shoulders covered in a wolf belt and his black hair held back and out of his face. His grey eyes peered down at Bran, Jon and Robb, focusing on the latter with a look as hard as stone present in them.

Robb shirked back and stopped his laughter at his father's words and Jon took a step to Bran, "Widen you stance and square your shoulders, Bran," he said, kicked his feet a little further apart while holding his shoulders in place, "Draw your bow, little brother," he said in a lower volume. Bran did as he was told and looked at the target, his embarrassment at missing so horribly clouding his mind. Jon saw this and spoke gently, "Clear your mind and forget the last shot. Focus on the target and on your breathing. Keep yourself calm, brother."

With that, Jon backed away under the appreciative gaze of his father and the scrutinising look of Lady Catelyn Stark. Jon pondered what she thought he'd said to Bran - maybe that he was whispering some sort of dark magic into his ear? He restrained himself from smirking at the thought.

Seconds passed and Bran let loose the arrow, letting it fly. It hit the target but not the bullseye - nonetheless, it was a much improvement from his early shot that had missed the target entirely.

He turned to Jon who smiled at him before ruffling his hair a little. Then he got the same treatment from Robb. Bran seemed too happy to let the act of his two brother's ruffling up his hair annoy him and looked to his father and mother who both gave him a proud look.

"Good, Bran," Eddard Stark nodded with a slight smile across his hard features, "Now keep practicing," he said before his attention was called away by Ser Rodrik. Jon heard the start of the conversation and sighed - another deserter from the Night's Watch. He knew what was coming and made his way toward the stables. It wasn't the first time he'd been with his father when he executed a deserter and he always knew it was a rather gruesome affair. Someone getting executed always is.

Yet it wasn't the first time he'd saw a man die. Nor would it be the first time he'd killed a man if for some reason Lord Stark passed the ancestral sword, Ice, to him to pay out the judgement of the Realm. Jon had killed before - bandits, rogue knights, animals...he'd done plenty of killing in his life. The first time would've been when he was ten-and-three namedays old.

He'd gone out with Ser Rodrik to deal with bandits, of his own volition. He knew there was no use to just training in Winterfell; he needed real experience.

It was a bloody affair. He came back to Winterfell in a daze, covered in blood. He'd killed seven men that day. The coming years only got more bloody as his father saw his potential and sent him alongside Ser Rodrik whenever the need arose.

The only reason Jon sighed was because he knew Bran was coming along with them. It'd be his first time seeing someone die - the occasion would no doubt ruin his joy at finally hitting the archery target. Alas, Jon knew this was how the world was for House Stark - they weren't like the Houses down South. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, is how his father described it. And Jon agreed.

Soon, Theon, Robb and Bran arrived at the stables just as Jon was finishing up with his saddle. There were no japes from his brothers or insults from Theon - they knew where they were going. Knew the severity of the situation.

They just got to saddling their horses.

The rest of it passed like a breeze and the ride wasn't too long either, so we all found ourselves watching as the deserter was dragged to the execution block by a pair of guards - the block being an a low but wide stone*, partially carved and partially eroded by blood and countless necks placed on it into a curve.

(*A/n - I know it's a wood log in the show but it looks oddly like stone as well.)

He kept whispering about White Walkers, that much Jon could hear, and something in those words sounded so...truthful, to Jon. For a second, a chill ran up his back at the thought of those stories Old Nan spoke of being true.

The deserter spoke to Lord Stark, telling him about what he saw while all of us watched. Bran was right in front of Jon, so he placed a comforting hand on the young boy's shoulders, kneeling causing him to jump off of his horse, "Calm down, Bran," Jon started in a low voice, "Just keep calm and take deep breathes. Just like when you're shooting your bow," he tried to calm his younger half-sibling but his words seemed to have little effect though Bran still nodded in reply to them.

Jon held back a sigh and just watched on as the deserter kneeled and put his neck on the permanently blood-stained rock.

Lord Stark drew his greatsword, Ice, a sword of wonderful make and made of Valyrian steel - it was dark grey in colour and covered in ripples. If you listened closely enough, it seemed to vibrate in such a way that it almost sounded like singing as it passed through the air. Placing the tip of the blade into the grass and dirt below, Jon's father began to recite a prayer for the man while saying who gave him the right to execute him - King Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. He said the man's sentence...and then executed it and him.

Bran flinched but kept his eye on the act while Jon did so as well. He gave a comforting squeeze to Bran's shoulder before looking away from the man's corpse, his head filled with thoughts.

The ride back was a sombre one, with Jon thinking on what the man said. He knew he shouldn't have paid it more mind than he already had but the way he said it...it felt real. Not the murmuring of a madman but a common man scared out of his wits after seeing the ancient enemy of the living. Lord Stark had said it a madman sees what he wants to see but Jon could feel that the deserter was no mere madman.

His thoughts were put on hold when a guard shouted from ahead of them. Sharing a look with Robb, Jon and he got off their horses and walked to the front to see a giant Elk blocking the road ahead. It was torn to pieces, missing one of it's antlers and covered in flies and maggots.

Ignoring the urge to recoil from the smell, Jon looked over at his father just as Theon spoke up, "A bear attack?" he asked while Jon shook his head.

"Bear wouldn't be able to catch up to an Elk like this. Neither is it a bear's preferred prey," Jon said before bending down and looking at it's disembowelled stomach, "Whatever killed it has some impressive jaws on it. Ripped it open in one fell swoop."

Eddard Stark spoke up, following up after Jon, "There are no bears in these woods either," he looked around before seemingly spotting something. Jon followed where his father's gaze landed and could scarcely believe his eyes:

A Direwolf corpse. And six pups nestling next to it.