When the Manderlys of White Harbor come to visit Wintefell, Jon is anxious for the musicians he knows will accompany the honored guests. He wonders if hearing a high harp in real life will compare to the ghostly melodies he often hears coming from the dark crypts. He may just end up discovering more than he bargained for.
Jon crouched in on himself as a flurry of activity swept through the hall, leaving him feeling suffocated. On this night, his deep frown on his too solemn face was out of place in the Great Hall. Around him, the people of Winterfell were alive with good cheer and excitement, especially now that the grand tables that had once taken up a majority of the hall were being pushed out of the way so that the dancing could begin.
Jon couldn't help but glance up at the raised dais, where his Father and siblings, and of course his siblings' Lady Mother sat. On his father's face was a frown that mirrored Jon's own, but the rest of his family, along with the Stark's honored guests, stared down at the proceedings below with broad smiles and anticipation gleaming in their eyes. Even Arya and Robb, who had once been indignant at having to be separated from their brother, were now practically bouncing with the joy of the night. Despite the bitterness that hung heavy in his chest, Jon could not fault his siblings their happiness. Visitors such as the Manderlys were rare in Winterfell, and for weeks this visit was all anyone in Winterfell would even talk about.
And at first, Jon was excited too. At least until it had been made clear to him that as a bastard, it would not be proper for him to treated as a trueborn son of Ned Stark, the way he normally was. Lady Stark had made it clear to him that such an esteemed family as the Manderlys could easily take offense at Jon's presence, and she would not allow that. But looking at the merry and overly large Lord Wyman, Jon highly doubted that his presence would cause the scandal that Lady Stark had implied. In fact, Jon thought that the only thing that would scandalize Lord Wyman would be a lack of food on his plate and drink in his cup.
Nevertheless, Lady Stark had been adamant, and with the backing of Maester Luwin, Lord Stark had ultimately caved in to his wife's demands. So Jon feasted at the lower tables, far away from his siblings. It had left him in a foul mood, with little patience for socialization. As a result, he sat at the edge of an isolated table next to Hodor, the simple stable boy, in an effort to not have to talk to anyone. He had been successful in that endeavor, now he just had to get through a few songs and he could easily leave the feast without any fuss.
Jon had to admit, he was curious to hear the songs of the musicians that the Manderlys had brought with them all the way from White Harbour. Singers were a rare treat in Winterfell, and while he had heard many stories from Old Nan, he had not had many opportunities to hear the song versions of these stories. Even better though, were the instruments they had brought along. There were beautifully crafted instruments of all sorts, most of which Jon could not even identify, but the one that caught his interest the most was the high harp that stood next to a young man with a pair of wide set eyes.
When the impending arrival of the Manderlys, the most notable members of the party being Wyman and his eldest son Wylis, had been announced, Sansa and her friend Jeyne had immediately begun squealing over the riches that would be accompanying them. Lord Stark had once told them of the time the Manderlys had visited when he was a boy, and the presents they had brought in the form of silks and other fine clothes, perfumes, jewels, dolls, and even weapons, though those were more for show than actual use. But the truest delight had been the storytellers and singers that had given new light to old stories. Surprisingly, Jon had shared in Sansa and Jeyne's delight, for he wondered if he would finally get to hear the high harp outside the delusions of his mind.
In the dark crypts of Winterfell, where the Kings of Winter and Wardens of the North alike were laid to rest, Jon would often hear the ghostly echoes of what he assumed was the high harp playing. He knew that his siblings, and most of Winterfell's inhabitants, found the crypts to be unsettling. He would have too, if it wasn't for the soft music that invoked such feelings of longing and hope that sometimes tears would come to Jon's eyes. That's why he didn't like to play in the crypts with Robb anymore, because once Robb had caught him crying and never let him forget it. The crypts don't frighten true Starks, and they definitely don't cry because of them. Robb's taunts had been cruel, especially given Jon's insecurities of being a Snow.
Robb and the others believed that Jon didn't go into the crypts anymore, and he was fine with letting them believe that. It was his own little secret that he actually went often, usually when he was upset. The melodies that only he seemed to be able to hear oddly enough brought him comfort. Maybe it should have bothered him that he was the only one to hear it, and that it seemed to always originate from his Aunt Lyanna's tomb, but he honestly just couldn't bring himself to care.
While he heard the music most clearly in the crypts, sometimes he would hear it late at night in his room, or even in the godswood. For that particular location, the closer he got to the heart tree, the clearer it became. It was something he hadn't even told his father about, mostly because he was afraid it might convince his father to send him away. Especially if it got back to Lady Catelyn that Jon sometimes heard things.
Jon was brought out if his reverie when the music started up in the hall, and people began to saunter their way to the center of the room to dance with their first round of dance partners. At ten years of age, Jon had little interest in dancing, though he did notice with slight amusement that a very enthusiastic Sansa was leading a blushing Robb to the dance floor. The Lady and Lord of Winterfell were already dancing, and even Lord Wylis was dancing with someone Jon didn't know. Lord Wyman was sitting comfortably at the table still, taking delicate sips from his goblet as he laughed at something the Greyjoy heir must have said.
The music that was playing now was nice, but the man sitting by the harp was sitting still, his fingers laced together in his lap. In a fit of impatience, Jon stamped his foot against the ground. The feast had not been fun for him, and he was anxious to leave once he got what he wanted. He knew no one would ask him to dance, and he had already isolated himself so he couldn't even pass the time by talking. Next to him, Hodor was humming out of tune to himself, the vacant look in his eyes making it clear that his mind was elsewhere.
For how long Jon stood there, staring off into space, he could not say. Probably not nearly as long as it felt, for the harpist finally lifted his hands to the instrument and began to delicately strum out notes to match the singer's new song. As the song wore on, the harpist began to play braver, plucking out a sweeping melody that almost began to overshadow the singer and other instruments. There could be no doubt of the man's talent, and if Jon had never heard a high harp before, he probably would have been as amazed at the display as his siblings. But as Jon stood with his full attention on the music, he was realizing that it didn't matter how good this harpist was, no one could ever compare to Jon's ghost harpist.
Jon had never understood the source of the music, and maybe it should have bothered him, but a part of him knew that the mysterious force behind it would never do him harm. That was why only he heard it, it was something meant just for him. When he was scared, it gave him comfort, when weary it gave him courage, and when he was alone, it spoke of a family who loved him and wished only for his happiness. This man playing in Winterfell could practice every second left to him in this life and never be as good as Jon's ghost player for the simple fact that he could not convey the same emotion. And with that epiphany, Jon decided he had heard enough, been at this feast long enough. Without a backwards glance, he left the hall, none the wiser of his father's eyes tracing his exiting form.
As he walked through the doors, Jon's first thought was to go to his room to retire for the night. Before he had been granted his own chambers, the idea would have been beyond appealing, for as much as he loved Robb, it felt nice to fall asleep by himself, especially on the nights that Robb snored. But it didn't matter so much anymore, and he felt himself being drawn towards the crypts anyways. And if he lost track of time down there again, at least this time there probably wouldn't be a frantic search party for him. He winced as he remembered the scolding he had gotten from his father that time half the castle was desperately looking for the missing bastard. Tonight, no one would miss him, not with how occupied everyone was with Winterfell's honored guests.
The air on this northern, summer night was crisp and refreshing after the heat of the Great Hall, prompting Jon to take his time as he headed in the general direction of the First Keep. The oldest part of Winterfell stood proudly even after eight thousand years, if the stories were to be believed, and Jon wondered if it would manage another eight thousand, and if so when it would finally fall to the force of time. The thought of Winterfell eventually turning to dust bothered Jon more than he cared for, and as he reached his destination he pushed the thoughts from his mind. In the shadow of the First Keep, Jon hefted the heavy ironwood door that led to the crypts aside, and made his way down the spiral steps until he reached the level that housed the most recently deceased of House Stark.
He had to wait for the music to start playing. That happened sometimes, and he sort of liked it when that happened. That meant that when the music inevitably started up, the harpist was playing it just for him. On days when he would come down here with the music already playing, he got the distinct feeling that while he was welcome to come and listen, he was not the intended audience. While waiting, Jon sat in front of his grandfather's statue, the solid, stern figure making him feel protected from any malevolent spirits of old. He hadn't come prepared to spend the night, and he knew the dangers of falling asleep in a place as cold as the crypts got, even on these summer nights, so he didn't let himself get too comfortable.
The music was so soft at first, that Jon barely heard it. He perked up as soon as he realized it was a tune he hadn't heard before, and his gaze immediately swept towards the statue of his Aunt, the woman that was supposedly so beautiful, the last dragon prince had fallen in love with her at first sight, and swept her away one night. At least that was the version Sansa always wanted told. She didn't like the part that came after, with their Uncle Brandon and Grandfather being murdered by the Mad King, and then demanding the heads of Ned Stark and the future King Robert. Of course, Sansa would always give a dramatic sigh at the part where King Robert slayed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident, effectively getting his vengeance against the man that had stolen the love of his life.
"How romantic!" She would say, "To be fought over by two such powerful and handsome men!"
One time she had expressed the sentiment in front of their father. That was the last time the story had been told outside of a purely academic scope, and they had all gotten the hint their opinion on the subject was not welcome within the old castle.
Usually Jon was content to just sit and appreciate the music, but this time he felt a stirring in him. How many times had he sat here and done nothing to figure out why this music played, and why he was the only one to hear it? Hearing the harp tonight had confirmed to Jon that it was not something his mind was making up to comfort the lonely boy. While the man in the Great Hall may not have been as good, there was no doubt that the instrument he was hearing now and the one he had heard earlier were one in the same. It wasn't possible for his mind to conjure such sounds if he had never heard them in real life before, was it?
So on this night, he got up and stood right in front of Lyanna's statue, staring into the statue's blank gaze, as if it might reveal it's secrets. When that failed, he put his ear against the cool stone of her leg on a whim, to see if the music was coming from inside the statue. Unsurprisingly, the music was not coming from within the statue, though there was a soft vibration against Jon's fingertips.
Sighing, Jon stepped away from the statue, only to see a flash of silver from the corner of his eye. With a gasp, Jon whirled around, trying to catch the intruder. No matter how much he squinted in the dim torchlight, Jon saw no one. Was it just him, or did the once chilly air suddenly feel downright cold? Goosebumps had sprouted all over his skin, and he realized that the music was no longer playing.
"That's weird." Jon said to himself, his words echoing in the long corridor. Usually the ghost harpist would play for at least a few hours, not mere minutes.
Unnerved, he turned back towards the statue, only to let out a blood-curdling scream.
"W-who are you?" Jon asked the man standing before him, taking a few steps away.
The man had moved in behind Jon when he had stepped away from Lyanna's statue to look for the strange man. Now he stood with his back to Jon, his form so tall that he had to tilt his head down slightly in order to get a good view of Lyanna's sitting form. At some point long ago his clothes, a simple, white tunic, breeches, and high black boots, were probably of the finest quality, but now they were ragged, stained and torn in numerous places. The fact that many of the stains were a reddish-brown color did not sit well with Jon. The only thing about the man that wasn't disheveled and in a complete state of disarray was his long, silver hair, held neatly away from his face with a red hair tie.
The tall man made no indication that he heard Jon, and instead continued to stare at the statue. Though Jon couldn't see the expression on the man's face, something about his posture made Jon think he was disappointed. In what, Jon could not say.
"You shouldn't be down here!" This time Jon spoke louder, hoping it would make him sound fiercer.
He may have failed in that, but at least he got a reaction out of the stranger, who was now turning around. Jon froze as he took in the stranger's face. High cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips, there was no doubt the man was beautiful, but it was the indigo eyes, the color barely visible in the dim light, that had Jon so stupefied. Because the man standing before him was exactly how the Targaryens in the stories were always described.
At his reaction, the Targaryen, for Jon had decided there was no way this man wasn't a Targaryen, no matter how impossible that may seem, gave a grim smile. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but only an odd croak came out. When the strange man realized he couldn't talk, he frowned and glanced down at his chest. The man's pale hands slowly raised to his chest as Jon eyes lowered to glance at the same spot. Jon took in the wreckage that had once been the man's chest, and let out a loud gasp.
"Your chest! Gods, you need to get to a Maester!" Jon insisted, wondering how the Targaryen even managed to stand when the wound looked like it should have already killed him.
The wound that covered his chest was ghastly, the thin, white material of his tunic doing little to cover the extent of the damage. Where the skin wasn't split open, allowing his life's blood to seep out, it was a mass of purple and yellow bruises. The upper right portion of his chest looked concaved, as if a great force had crushed that part of his body. Jon even fancied that he could see a rib poking out slightly from the wound and Jon felt ill from the sight.
The Targaryen finally looked up from his wound, but Jon was wrong in thinking that the man would be thankful for any help Jon might offer. Rather, the man reached out for Jon, his cold hand grabbing Jon's much warmer one, and pulled Jon over so that they were once again standing in front of Lyanna's statue, side by side.
Jon kept his gaze on the statue for only second before returning his gaze back to the mortally wounded man. "You don't need help, do you?" His voice was flat, almost a whisper. "You're already dead."
The man nodded, his eyes somber. They stood like that for a while, and Jon didn't know what else to say. It wasn't everyday that one found themselves in the presence of a dead person, and Jon wasn't stupid either, he had a strong suspicion of just who was standing next to him. Everyone knew that Robert had slain the Dragon Prince at the Trident by slamming his war hammer into the man's chest. It seemed like just another insult to the Stark's that the Prince would haunt his wolf maiden's tomb, years later. And maybe Jon should have felt indignation on his Aunt's behalf, and all of the other innocent northern lives that had been lost due to the Targaryen's actions. But honestly something about this situation just felt wrong, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Jon found himself standing next to a dead man.
"I know you can't talk, but I have a pretty good idea of who you are. And you should know that you're not really welcome here." Jon paused, not sure what he was getting at. "So you should, um, probably leave?" He hated that it came out as a question rather then a command.
A brief flash of amusement appeared in the man's eyes and he let out a noise that may have been a chuckle. He held out his fingers and brushed the pads along Lyanna's hair, before moving behind the statue, to stand next to the actual tomb. Putting both of his palms flat on the stone slab's surface, an intense look of concentration crossed his face.
BANG! BANG! Jon covered his ears, the noise echoing loudly throughout the crypt. He watched in complete disbelief as the Targaryen specter kept hefting his shoulders, using some sort of ghost force to apparently break open the tomb. And if the giant cracks in the tomb was anything to go by, Jon would hazard a guess and say it was working.
"Stop that!" Jon yelled and leapt forward to grab at the ghost's arms. He tried to yank them away from the tomb, to force him to break contact, but he proved to be much stronger than Jon.
"Please, you must stop!" He yelled more desperately this time, seeing that the ghost – Rhaegar, he remembered the name now – was nearing success.
But his pleads fell on deaf ears, and with one final Crack! the slab that guarded Lyanna's bones broke in half, the part further away from Jon falling to the ground.
Stunned, Jon tripped away from the ghost of Rhaegar. Is the ghost of Lyanna going to rise now? Jon thought. Will she exact her vengeance against the one who ruined her peaceful slumber? And would he unwittingly get dragged into this? But no ghost rose from the tomb, and all Rhaegar did was give one last longing look to the bones that lay inside. He then knelt in front of Jon, that same longing look in his eyes. His hand rose to caress Jon's cheek. And then Jon blinked and he was alone once again.
It took him a second to realize this, but when he did he looked around wildly. Anger rose in his chest. Not because some strange ghost had just ruined his father's beloved sister's tomb. Not even because this meant that Jon was either crazy or about to be in a lot of trouble, because really, how was he supposed to explain this? No, it was because for one brief moment, Jon had felt like he actually belonged, had felt the type of love that he knew Lady Catelyn reserved solely for her children. And now it was all gone. Well not all gone, at least the harp had started playing again.
Overcome with a sort of morbid curiosity, Jon went back up to the side of the tomb. He cautiously looked over the side, and gaped. While he pointedly ignored the stark white bones that had once been his Aunt, it was the masterfully crafted high harp that captured his attention. Age and negligence had barely affected its beauty, for while it's metal no longer shone, Jon could still detect every minute detail of the three dragons that circled around each other to form the harp's frame. In the flickering torchlight, the dragons came alive, their scales moving in and out to give the illusion of breath, and there was playfulness in the dragons' eyes and movements. These were not the terrifying beasts that could raze a city with their fiery breath alone, but dragonlings that promised protection and a bright future.
Jon stared at the condemning evidence a moment longer, and then ran. Ran from the music that haunted him. Ran from the harp, and all that is implied. Ran up the spiraling stairs, somehow managing to not trip over any of the steps. He ran hard, fast, and in no particular direction. He just ran, to breathe in as much of the cool northern air as he could possibly take. To escape the whirling and loud thoughts in his head, even for just a few moments.
He didn't realize his feet had been carrying him back to the Great Hall until he stood in front of its great wooden doors. Mechanically, he pushed open the door, and slipped back into the hall. The feast was still in full swing and no one noticed the lonely boy sneak back in. Except for one man. The same one man who had noticed the boy sneak out only a short while before. This man watched his son's face, curious of the emotions he saw there. Jon felt his father's gaze on him, and looked up to make eye contact.
Something on his face must have spooked his father, because he clearly saw the man stiffen. Jon stood still as his father made a hasty apology to his wife and the Lord sitting next to him, promising he would be back shortly. Neither seemed to mind too much, and his father quickly made his way over.
"My gods Jon, you look paler than usual. Where did you go?" Ned asked his son, clearly worried.
Jon shook his head. Most of the people in the room may have been preoccupied with the dancing and drinking, but there were still some casting glances their way, wondering what this conversation was about. After all, what could be so urgent that the Lord of Winterfell had to excuse himself from his honored guests? And for his bastard son no less? Jon knew that what he wanted so desperately to ask his father about was sensitive information, and so he grabbed his father's hand and lead him out of the hall. His father went along willingly and with no protest. Neither spoke until Jon stopped in the godswood.
"Jon?" His father questioned, slightly annoyed that he would have to be away from the feast longer then expected.
It took a moment for Jon to gather his thoughts and respond. This whole time so many ideas, some so scary and wild that he could barely even think on them, had been warring in his mind. What to voice first?
Finally he decided. Squaring his shoulders, and looking Lord Stark directly in the eyes, he spoke. "I found something in the crypts that shouldn't have been there, and I'm not sure how, but I think it has something to do with me."
He paused a moment, because what he was about to demand is quite possibly the only thing he's ever truly wanted from his father. And he would not, could not, take rejection this time.
"Tell me about my mother."