To Be Watched
He was the wolf and he was Jon Snow and he was something else, something older, wearing a crown of bronze and iron while ravens circled overhead screaming prophecies in voices that tasted of winter...
Snow-soft-prey-blood-pack-danger-watching
Ghost's thoughts cut through the haze, sharp as freshly-honed steel. A rabbit crouched beneath a thorny bramble, its heart a frantic drumbeat in the darkness. The wolf dropped low, belly brushing snow, red eyes fixed on his quarry. One step. Another. The rabbit tensed, whiskers twitching—
WATCHING
The warning blazed through Ghost's mind into Jon's, and suddenly they were both looking up, up into the heart tree's bone-white branches where something perched that was not quite a raven. Its third eye opened, bleeding sap red as summer wine, and the world twisted—
He was running through different snow now, ancient snow, wearing a different skin. Iron crown heavy on his brow, Valyrian steel singing in his grip as creatures came gliding through the trees like living shadows, their eyes burning with a cold blue fire that promised only death. But he was Brandon the Builder's blood, and the wolf's blood, and the Wall rose behind him mile-high and impossible, singing with spells woven into its very ice...
The sky fractured like broken glass, spinning him through fragments of other lives, other dreams:
—thrusting a blade through a brother's heart while tears froze on his cheeks, duty and love warring in his soul—
—soaring over endless ice fields on wings dark as night while a third eye opened in his mind—
Ghost's howl yanked him back to the hunting dream, but everything had changed. The heart tree's face wept blood now, and the raven-that-was-not-a-raven spoke with a voice like rustling leaves:
"The old powers wake, son of ice and fire. The long night comes, and the dead with it. You must be ready."
Its third eye blazed like a red star, and suddenly Jon could see—truly see—as the barriers between past and present dissolved like spring snow. He saw a great battle beneath a bleeding star, saw ice spiders big as hounds skittering across the Wall, saw a dragon of shadow and flame battling a dragon of ice while armies clashed below. He saw a throne of Valyrian steel swords drinking the blood of kings, saw direwolves running through summer snows...
The visions came faster now, a torrent of blood and fire and ice.
A heart tree in a storm, its leaves whispering his true name...
A tower in the red mountains, where blue roses grew from a wall of ice...
A promise made in blood and grief, binding honor and love in chains of duty...
Ghost's jaws closed on the rabbit, hot blood flooding his mouth, and reality snapped back like a drawn bowstring. But the raven remained, its three eyes boring into Jon's soul.
"The wolf's blood runs strong in you," it said, "stronger than you know. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Remember."
"Who—" Jon tried to speak, but he had Ghost's tongue, Ghost's throat. The words came out as a silent snarl.
"You know who I am," the raven said. "You've always known. Blood calls to blood, ice calls to ice. The songs are waking, Snow. Listen for them in the dark."
The rabbit's death-scream pierced the night, and suddenly Jon was falling, falling through layers of dream and memory, while ravens' wings beat against his face and a woman's voice cried "Promise me!" with such anguish it tore at his heart...
"Jon! Jon, wake up!"
He surged upright with a gasp, sweat-soaked sheets tangled around his legs. For a moment, he could still taste blood on his tongue, still feel Ghost's fur bristling along his spine. Then reality reasserted itself, and he found Arya perched on the edge of his bed, her grey eyes wide with concern.
"You were thrashing," she said. "And making weird noises."
Jon's heart was still hammering against his ribs. He ran a shaking hand through his sweat-damp curls, trying to hold onto the fragments of the dream—but they were already fading like mist in morning sun, leaving only impressions: Blood on snow. A three-eyed raven. A crown of winter roses. A promise made in sorrow...
"I'm fine," he managed, though his voice came out hoarse. "Just a dream."
"What kind of dream?" Arya demanded, drawing her knees up to her chin. In the pre-dawn gloom, her long face looked more Stark than ever. "You kept muttering about ice and fire."
"I..." Jon frowned, trying to remember. "I was Ghost, at first. Hunting in the godswood. But then there was this raven..."
Even as he spoke, the details were slipping away. But the feeling remained.
A scratching at the door made them both jump. When Jon opened it, Ghost padded in, his white fur ghostly in the darkness. His muzzle was stained with fresh blood.
Jon stared at his direwolf, remembering his uncle's words from the feast: The old powers are stirring. Perhaps that's why your wolf found you.
Ghost met his gaze with eyes red as weirwood sap, and for a moment Jon could have sworn he saw a third eye opening, bleeding flames...
Then Ghost yawned, curled up by the hearth, and was simply a wolf again.
"Are you alright?" Arya asked, her face scrunched with worry. She was perched on the edge of his bed like a little bird, her dark hair wild from sleep.
"I'm fine, little sister." Jon managed a smile, though his hands still trembled. "Just dreams."
Arya's face darkened. "I hate dreams. I had one where Father made me marry Joffrey and wear stupid dresses forever." She flopped back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "Mother says I have to go to King's Landing. That I need to learn to be a proper lady, like Sansa." Her voice turned bitter. "Jeyne Poole called me Arya Horseface again today. Even the princess was laughing."
Jon's chest tightened. He glanced at the bed's underside, where Needle lay wrapped in oiled cloth, waiting. Not yet, he told himself. Soon.
"Well, I'd rather be a horse than a sheep," he said instead, earning a ghost of a smile. "Besides, horses are noble creatures. Strong, fast, free."
"Mother doesn't want me to be free. She wants me to be like Sansa, all songs and curtsies and 'oh, my prince, how gallant you are!'" Arya's impression of her sister was so spot-on that Jon had to laugh, though it hurt to hear the pain beneath her mockery.
"Come on," he said, standing. "Let's go find Robb. He'll be in the yard by now."
They found their brother in the practice yard, already working up a sweat against the quintain. His face lit up when he saw them, though Jon noticed the shadows under his eyes. The weight of being heir was wearing on him lately, especially with all the talk of court intrigue and southern politics.
"Finally awake, are you?" Robb called, lowering his practice sword. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep through the whole royal visit."
"Some of us don't need to practice quite so desperately," Jon replied with a smirk, though his mind flickered unbidden to a day three years past, when he'd learned the price of being too good.
The clash of steel rang through the yard as Jon's blade found the gap in Robb's guard again and again. He was faster that day, sharper, everything flowing like water. When he finally disarmed his brother with a move he'd practiced in secret for weeks, triumph surged through him—until he looked up and saw Lady Stark watching from the covered bridge, her face carved from ice.
That night, after she'd called him bastard and upstart in front of half the household, he'd been sent to his room without supper. Lord Stark was away at Last Hearth, and would be for a fortnight more. By the time he returned, Jon had grown familiar with hunger pangs and the ache of shoulders strained from endless hours of labor. Three days of missed meals and endless tasks—mucking stables, scrubbing floors, hauling water—while Lady Stark's cold eyes followed his every move...
"Jon?" Arya's voice pulled him back. "You went away again."
"Just remembering," he said quietly. Then, louder, to Robb: "Working on your footwork? You're still favoring your right side too much."
"Says the man who hasn't picked up a sword yet today," Robb retorted, but there was no heat in it. He'd always accepted Jon's advice about swordplay, even after... that day. It was one of the things Jon loved most about his brother—his complete lack of pride when it came to learning.
"Maester Luwin's been drilling me on the southern houses," Robb said as they walked toward the armory. "All their bloody banners and words and allegiances. Don't suppose you've read anything useful about them?"
Jon hesitated. He had, actually—several histories smuggled from the library in the dead of night, courtesy of the Maester who seemed to conveniently "forget" books in odd corners where Jon might find them. He knew the tangled web of southern politics better than he probably should, but...
"Some," he said carefully. "Though not as much as you, I'm sure."
Robb snorted. "Gods, I hope you know more than me. I can barely keep the Tyrells and Tarlys straight, let alone all their bloody vassals. At least you can read whatever you like without Luwin hovering over your shoulder demanding essays on proper lordly conduct."
The casual way he said it—acknowledging Jon's secret studies without resentment—made something warm bloom in Jon's chest. But still, habit made him deflect: "When would I have time to read? Between mucking stables and polishing armor?"
"Don't." Robb's voice turned serious. "Don't pretend you're stupid, Jon. Not with me. I've seen the histories in your room, the star charts, the books on strategy. You're better at this than I am, and we both know it."
Jon stared at his brother, throat tight. "Robb..."
"I'm not blind, and I'm not father." Robb gave him a crooked smile. "Though I try to be as honorable as him, I'm not... I don't care about the proper place of bastards and trueborn sons. You're my brother. Your mind is as much a gift to our house as your sword arm."
"Some might not see it that way," Jon said quietly, thinking of icy blue eyes and missed meals.
"Some can go fuck themselves," Robb declared, making Arya giggle. "Now, tell me what you know about the Reach lords, brother. And don't spare my feelings—I need to know this if I'm to be any kind of lord while father's in the South."
The way he said it—casual, matter-of-fact—made Jon blink. "While father's...?"
"Oh." Robb's face fell slightly. "I thought... he hasn't told you yet? He's to be Hand of the King. He'll be leaving within the month, and I'll be acting Lord of Winterfell." He swallowed hard. "I'll need your help, Jon. Your real help, not whatever careful distance you think you have to keep."
Jon's mind whirled. Father leaving? The implications struck him like physical blows—the loss of his protector, the shift in power… But looking at his brother's face, seeing the fear beneath the brave front, he knew there was only one answer he could give.
"Always," he said softly. "Whatever you need." He meant them, with all his heart, yet something twisted in his gut—a ache he couldn't quite name.
Robb clapped him on the shoulder, his smile bright but brittle around the edges. "Good. Because I'm already drowning in Maester Luwin's lessons on crops and granary management." He grimaced. "Who knew being Lord of Winterfell involved so many ledgers?"
"The ledgers are the easy part," came a new voice, cultured and amused. "It's the lords you have to worry about."
All three turned to find Tyrion Lannister watching them from the shadow of the armory, a leather-bound book tucked under one arm. The dwarf's mismatched eyes glittered with intelligence as he waddled forward, and Jon was struck by how his shadow stretched long and twisted in the dawn light.
"Lord Tyrion," Robb said stiffly, his Northern courtesy a pale echo of their father's. "You're abroad early."
"The benefits of being a disappointment to one's family," Tyrion replied cheerfully. "No one expects you at breakfast." His gaze settled on Jon, sharp and knowing. "And you must be the famous bastard of Winterfell. I've heard interesting things about you."
Jon felt his jaw tighten. "Have you?"
"Oh yes. The servants talk, you see. They say you're better with a sword than your trueborn brother." Tyrion's smile was razor-edged. "They say you spend your nights in the library, reading histories and poetry by candlelight. They say you have the wolf's blood, like your aunt Lyanna." He cocked his head. "Tell me, does it bother you? Being so... exceptional, yet forever in the shadows?"
"Jon doesn't live in shadows," Arya burst out, fierce as her little direwolf. "He's better than any stupid trueborn—"
"Arya." Jon's voice was quiet, but she fell silent, though her grey eyes still flashed with indignation. To Tyrion, he said carefully, "I know my place, my lord."
"Do you? How terribly dull." Tyrion opened his book, seemingly absorbed in its pages. "You know, in my admittedly vast reading of history, I've found that the most interesting bastards are the ones who didn't know their place. Daemon Blackfyre, Bloodraven, even Orys Baratheon—though he was clever enough to call himself a friend rather than a brother."
"Those are dangerous examples," Robb said, a warning in his voice.
"Life is dangerous, young Stark. Especially for those born on the wrong side of the sheets." Tyrion's mismatched eyes found Jon's again. "Tell me, Snow. What do you do when the world tells you to be less than you are?"
The question struck something deep in Jon's chest, he asked, "What do you do, my lord?"
Tyrion's smile turned genuine, though no less sharp. "I read. I learn. I cultivate my mind until it's sharper than any sword. And I wear my nature like armor." He gestured to his stunted form. "Let them call me Imp. Let them mock and jeer. Their words are wind, and I am a lion of Casterly Rock."
"I'm no lion," Jon said softly. "I'm a wolf."
"Are you? Then why do you let them muzzle you?" Tyrion's voice turned knife-edged. "I've watched you these past days, Snow. You pull your strikes in the practice yard when Lady Stark appears. You duck your head and mumble 'my lord' when any southron knight passes-"
"You know nothing about me," Jon snapped, anger finally breaking through his careful control.
"I know that all dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes," Tyrion said softly. "And I know what it is to be born wrong in the eyes of the world."
Before Jon could reply, a horn blast echoed from the Hunter's Gate. Robb straightened. "The hunting party. Father will expect us."
"Of course he will," Tyrion said, his voice dry as desert sand. "Run along, young lords. And you, Snow... think on what I said. A mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone." He waggled his own tome.
The hunting party lasted well past midday, though Jon stayed to the edges as usual. But Tyrion's words kept echoing in his mind, mixing with the fragments of his strange dream until he could hardly focus on the chase.