The Bastard Of Winterfell
Ned Stark's face bore that same mask of lordly patience that Jon had come to hate, the one that turned his father into a stranger. "You're six-and-ten, not yet a man."
"Old enough to swing a sword. Old enough to kill a man." Jon took a step forward, close enough to see the lines of exhaustion etched around his father's eyes. "Old enough to know who my mother was."
The word was hung between them like a blade. Past tense. Always past tense with her, whoever she had been.
"Jon." His father's voice wearied. "The king rides for Winterfell. Robert brings half his court with him. There will be feasts, hunts—"
"And Lady Stark won't want your bastard at the high table." The bitterness leaked through despite Jon's efforts. "Don't worry, Father. I know my place."
Something flickered in Ned Stark's eyes then—pain, perhaps, or guilt. It was gone before Jon could be certain. "Your place is here, in Winterfell. You're of my blood."
"But not your name." The words came unbidden, sharper than he'd intended. In the silence that followed, Jon could hear the scratch of ravens' claws from the rookery above, the distant clash of steel from the practice yard. All the sounds of Winterfell—his home, yet not his home.
His father stood, and for a moment Jon thought he might finally speak the truth. Instead, Lord Stark moved to the window, his back to Jon. "There are... things you don't understand. Cannot understand. Not yet." He turned, and there was something in his face that Jon had never seen before. "Promise me you'll be patient. Promise me you'll be careful when the king comes."
The plea in his father's voice made Jon's anger falter. "I don't understand."
"No," Lord Stark said softly. "You don't."
The silence stretched between them like a frozen lake, dangerous to cross. Finally, Jon gave a stiff bow. "If that's all, my lord, Robb will be waiting in the yard."
His father nodded, already turning back to the papers on his desk. Jon was at the door when Lord Stark spoke again. "Jon." He paused, hand on the iron handle. "You may not have my name, but you have my blood. Never forget that."
Blood, Jon thought as he descended the tower steps. But whose blood?
The practice yard was empty save for Robb and Theon Greyjoy. His brother was already working up a sweat, hammering at a practice dummy. Theon lounged against a post, wearing a perpetual smirk that made Jon's hand itch for his sword.
"Finally escaped the old man's lectures?" Theon called out. "Or did Lady Stark catch you skulking in the halls again?"
Jon ignored him, moving to the weapon rack to select a blunted practice sword. He tested its weight, letting the motion calm his racing thoughts.
"Leave off, Theon," Robb said, pausing in his assault on the dummy. He grinned at Jon, red-faced and breathless. "Come on, Snow. Show me what you've got."
Snow. The name didn't sting from Robb's lips, not like it did from others. From Robb it was almost affectionate, a shared jest between brothers. Jon managed a small smile as he took his stance.
Their swords met with a satisfying crack that echoed off the castle walls. Jon let his mind empty of everything but the dance of steel on steel, the subtle shifts of weight and balance that meant life or death in a real fight. Robb was stronger, but Jon was quicker, more precise. They'd trained together since they could lift wooden swords, knew each other's moves as well as their own.
"Getting slow, Snow," Robb taunted as he pressed forward with a series of heavy blows. "Too much brooding in the godswood?"
Jon answered with a lightning-fast riposte that nearly knocked the sword from Robb's hand. "Better than spending all day preening for the princess's arrival."
Robb laughed, and for a moment Jon felt that familiar warmth, the knowledge that here, at least, he belonged. Then he caught sight of Lady Stark watching from the covered bridge above, her face as cold as a northern winter, and the moment shattered like ice.
His distraction cost him. Robb's practice blade slipped past his guard, catching him hard in the ribs. Jon stumbled back, cursing.
"Ha!" Robb lowered his sword, grinning. "That's what you get for woolgathering, brother."
Brother. The word was both balm and blade. Jon straightened, ignoring the throb in his side. "Again?"
But Robb was already shaking his head. "Can't. Father wants me to review the household accounts before the king arrives." He clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Jon agreed, though something whispered that tomorrow would be different.
He watched Robb stride away, every inch the heir to Winterfell in his bearing. Theon followed, no doubt to suggest some new mischief. Left alone in the yard, Jon continued his practice, his sword biting deeper into the wooden dummy with each strike.
Bastard, each blow seemed to say. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.
The sun had set by the time he finally lowered his sword, arms trembling with exhaustion. In the gathering dark, his reflection caught in a puddle of melted snow: a long face, dark hair, grey eyes that seemed to hold secrets even he didn't know. His father's face, everyone said. But whose eyes looked back at him?
Somewhere in the castle, a wolf howled—one of the direwolf pups they'd found in the summer snows. Ghost, perhaps.
Jon Snow turned toward the howl, toward his wolf, toward whatever fate awaited him when the king's party arrived. He was a bastard, yes. But he was also a wolf of Winterfell.
And winter was coming.
...
The king's procession wound through Winterfell's gates like a great glittering serpent, all gold and crimson and polished steel. Jon stood among the stableboys and servants, far enough from the welcome party to avoid Lady Stark's disapproving glare, but close enough to see everything. Ghost pressed against his leg, still but a pup.
The royal children came first—the crown prince Joffrey, golden-haired; his younger siblings, Myrcella and Tommen, wide-eyed at the northern castle's grandeur. Then the queen in her wheelhouse, beautiful and cold as a winter rose. But it was the king himself who drew every eye.
That's Robert Baratheon? Jon thought. The stories painted him as a legendary warrior, the demon of the Trident who had crushed Rhaegar Targaryen's chest with a single blow. The man who dismounted before them was fat and red-faced, his beard shot through with grey. Yet when he embraced Lord Stark like a brother, Jon caught a glimpse of the warrior he must have been.
"Your Grace," his father said, bowing.
"You've got fat," the king declared. For a moment, silence hung thick as morning frost. Then both men burst out laughing, and the tension broke like spring ice.
Jon felt a tug at his sleeve. "Jon! Jon! Did you see the Kingslayer?" Bran's face was flushed with excitement, his direwolf Summer circling his feet. "He's wearing golden armor, just like in Old Nan's stories!"
"I saw him," Jon said, ruffling his little brother's hair. "Though I doubt he's slain any dragons lately."
"But he could if he wanted to," Bran insisted. "He's the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms!"
"Is he now?" A familiar voice cut in. "And here I thought my nephew knew better than to believe everything in those stories of his."
"Uncle Benjen!" Bran launched himself at the black-clad figure, who caught him with a laugh.
Jon felt his own face break into a genuine smile. His uncle had always treated him no differently than Robb or the others, one of the few who seemed to forget—or simply not care—about his bastard status.
"You've grown, Jon," Benjen said, clasping his shoulder after setting Bran down. "Another year and you'll be taller than me."
"What brings you to Winterfell?" Jon asked. "Surely the Lord Commander didn't send you just for the feast?"
A shadow crossed Benjen's face. "No, though the food and wine won't go amiss. Jeor sent me to speak with the king. Strange reports from beyond the Wall. Wildling villages found abandoned, rangers gone missing..." He shook his head. "But that's not talk for welcoming feasts. Tell me about these direwolves of yours instead. The whole castle's buzzing about them."
As if on cue, Ghost pressed closer, his red eyes meeting Benjen's dark ones. "Gods," his uncle breathed. "An albino. How fitting for you, Jon."
"He's different," Jon said.
"Different isn't always worse," Benjen replied, watching as Summer and Ghost circled each other. "Sometimes it's just different."
The feast that night was everything a royal celebration should be, even if Jon's view came from the lower tables where the bastards and hedge knights sat. The great hall blazed with torchlight, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Musicians played, servants scurried, and wine flowed freely.
Jon had more cups than usual himself, enough that when Benjen found him again, his tongue was looser than it might have been.
"Take me with you when you return to the Wall," he blurted out as his uncle sat beside him.
Benjen's face grew serious. "The Wall is no place for a boy, Jon."
"I'm not a boy. I'm almost a man grown, and I'm better with a sword than any of the recruits you've taken north."
"No doubt. But there's more to the Night's Watch than swinging a sword." Benjen studied him over his wine cup. "Do you know what you'd be giving up? The chance for lands of your own, a wife, children..."
Jon felt his face flush. "What does any of that matter? I'm a bastard. I'll never have lands or titles, and any children I might have would be bastards too."
"You're young," Benjen said softly. "You don't know what you'd be sacrificing."
"I know that I want to serve, to do something that matters!" The words came out louder than he'd intended. Heads turned at nearby tables, and Jon felt his face grow hotter.
His uncle's expression softened. "Tell you what. When I return to the Wall, you can ride with me. Stay for a moon's turn, see what the life is really like. But no vows, not yet. Give yourself time to be sure it's what you truly want."
Before Jon could reply, a commotion broke out near the high table. The crown prince was saying something to Sansa, who was blushing prettily, while Arya made gagging noises and flicked food at her sister. Lady Stark looked mortified, but the king only roared with laughter.
"Your sisters seem to be enjoying themselves," Benjen observed dryly.
Despite himself, Jon smiled. "Arya will be in trouble tomorrow."
"As usual." Benjen chuckled. "She reminds me of Lyanna sometimes. Same wild spirit."
Something in his uncle's tone made Jon look at him sharply, but Benjen was already changing the subject. "How's that wolf of yours settling in? The albino?"
"Ghost? He's..." Jon paused, considering. "He's different from the others. Quieter. He never makes a sound, but sometimes I think he understands more than he should. Sometimes I dream..." He stopped, embarrassed.
"Go on."
"Sometimes I dream I am Ghost," Jon admitted. "Running through the godswood, smelling things no man could smell, seeing in the dark. It sounds mad, I know."
"No madder than finding six direwolf pups south of the Wall," Benjen mused. "The old powers are stirring, Jon. Perhaps that's why your wolf found you."
The great hall had begun to empty, lords and ladies stumbling off to their beds, servants clearing away the remnants of the feast.
"What do you mean, old powers?" Jon leaned forward, wine forgotten.
Benjen's face grew thoughtful, the shadows deepening the lines around his eyes. "The First Men knew things we've forgotten, Jon. They didn't build the Wall with just stone and ice." He took a long drink from his cup. "Did you know there was a Brandon Stark who was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? Brandon the Builder's great-grandson. The chronicles say he could speak to ravens, know their tidings before they landed."
"Old Nan's stories," Jon said, but uncertainty crept into his voice.
"Perhaps. But consider Theon the Hungry Wolf. They say he could smell betrayal on a man's skin, like a beast in human form. He executed three lords for treason before they could draw steel against him." Benjen's eyes glinted. "The Starks of old weren't just kings, Jon. They were something more. Something older."
The words stirred something in Jon's blood, a resonance he couldn't explain. He thought of his dreams, running through the godswood with Ghost's senses, tasting the air with Ghost's tongue. "But what does it mean?"
"Seven hells, are we telling ghost stories?" A new voice broke in. Ser Jaime Lannister dropped onto the bench across from them, golden and perfect even after a night of feasting. "Don't let my sister hear you speaking of magic, Stark. She'll have the king burning weirwoods by morning."
Benjen's face cooled. "Ser Jaime. Come to hear tales of the Wall?"
"Gods, no. I've had enough of ice and snow already." The Kingslayer poured himself wine from their flagon. "Though I must say, watching you First Men and your solemn faces... it's almost enough to make me miss my vows." His smile never reached his eyes.
"The Watch still has need of good swords," Benjen said mildly.
Jaime laughed. "One white cloak is enough for any man. Though your nephew seems eager enough." He turned that sharp green gaze on Jon. "Tell me, boy, do you dream of glory on the Wall? Defending the realm from snarks and grumkins?"
"I dream of serving with honor," Jon said stiffly.
Something flickered across the Kingslayer's face. "Honor," he said, as if tasting something bitter. "Your father's son indeed. Tell me, what's more honorable – keeping your vows when they demand you watch a mad king burn men alive, or breaking them to save those very same men?"
"Ser Jaime." Benjen's voice carried a warning.
But the Kingslayer was already standing, his golden smile back in place. "No matter. Dream your dreams of honor, boy. The Wall will teach you what they're worth." He swept away, leaving silence in his wake.
Benjen watched him go, his face troubled. "There's a man who knows the cost of vows," he said finally. "Though perhaps not the lesson he thinks."
"What does he mean, about the mad king?" Jon asked.
"That's not my story to tell." Benjen sighed. "Your father would know better than I. He was there, at the end."
"Father never speaks of the war."
"No. Ned came back from the south changed. We all did." Benjen stared into his cup. "I sometimes think he carried more than just Lyanna's bones home from Dorne."
Jon's heart beat faster. "Did you know her? My mother?"
Benjen's eyes snapped to his face, startled. Then understanding dawned, followed by something like regret. "No, Jon. If I knew who your mother was, I'd tell you. Whatever secrets Ned keeps, he keeps them even from me." He gripped Jon's shoulder. "But know this – whatever drove him to break his marriage vows, it must have been something extraordinary. Your father is the most honorable man I know."
"Then why won't he tell me?"
"Some secrets..." Benjen paused, choosing his words carefully. "Some secrets protect more than just those who keep them. Remember that, when you judge him."
Jon frowned. "You sound like him now."
"Gods forbid." Benjen laughed, but there was an edge to it. "No, your father and I walked different paths after the rebellion. He came home to be Lord of Winterfell, to rebuild the North. I... I couldn't stay. Too many ghosts."
"But you found purpose at the Wall?"
"Purpose. Honor. Freedom, of a sort." Benjen's smile was wry. "The Watch strips away everything you were born to, good and bad. No family names, no old loyalties, no past sins. You begin anew."
"That's what I want," Jon said quietly. "To be more than just Ned Stark's bastard."
"You already are." Benjen's voice was fierce. "You have the wolf's blood, Jon. I see it in you, same as Lyanna had. Same as the old kings of winter." He gestured at Ghost. "The gods don't give direwolves to ordinary men."
"Then why do I feel so..." Jon struggled for the words. "So lost?"
"Because you're six-and-ten, and the world's a more complicated place than the stories tell us." Benjen refilled their cups. "When I was your age, I thought I knew what honor meant. What duty meant. The rebellion taught me otherwise. Sometimes there are no good choices, only different kinds of pain."
Jon thought of Jaime Lannister's bitter smile, of his father's haunted eyes whenever the war was mentioned. "How do you know which choice is right?"
"You don't. You make the best choice you can with what you know, and you live with the consequences." Benjen raised his cup. "To the choices that make us who we are."
Jon met his uncle's toast, the wine warming his belly. Around them, the great hall had grown quiet, the torches burning low. Outside, a wolf howled – Ghost, Jon knew somehow.
The old powers are stirring, Benjen had said. Jon wondered if perhaps the Wall wasn't calling to him just because he was a bastard seeking honor.
Who am I really? he wondered, not for the first time. The question felt different. Bigger. As if the answer mattered not just to him, but to something vast and ancient stirring in the North.
The wolves will come again, Old Nan used to say. And here they were, six direwolf pups found against all odds, one for each Stark child – and one white wolf, silent as snow, for the bastard of Winterfell.