Just like most fifteen year old boys, Robb Stark had never quite seen what was so great about his parents. He had an over protective mother who still made him a packed lunch to match those of his younger siblings and a father who made sure that he never missed a home game and that, he supposed, was enough for him. They didn't ask too many questions or expect him to get top marks at school and, for that, he was thankful. But, really, they were just parents. Still, as nondescript as he found them, he knew that a nondescript dad was much better than anything his friends could stake claim to.

The first time he had met Jon Umber's dad, the man had struck his son before vomiting on his own lap and falling asleep while Theon's dad had commited so many crimes that, when he had been arrested last, he had managed to accidently incriminate himself twice more in the interview room. Ned Stark, in his faded suit trousers and shiny blue ties seemed like a breath of fresh air compaired to those two, yet Robb had never fully appreciated him. Not until he was gone.

It was in trying to write a speech to read at the funeral that he had realised this. It was almost impossible to get it down but with Sansa's pretty words and Arya's silly stories about their father to keep them going, the three eldest Starks had compiled quite a memorial. Their father had been a model of a man, a hard worker, a loving father and a devoted husband and, the more he read over the words, the more Robb saw his father for what he had really been; the man he wanted to be when he grew up.

However, no matter how many times he recited the words in the safety of his bedroom, when it came to reading them in the church, he was next to useless. His hands gripped the reading too tightly and the tears that threatened to fall made it almost impossible to see what he'd written anyway... Despite the fact that he had every right to cry, the fifteen year old couldn't help but feel disappointed in himself; he was the man of the house now – he couldn't stand here in front of everyone and cry. That wasn't what his father would have done, at all!

And so, after rubbing away the tears, Robb dragged his eyes from his mother, her skeletal face hidden behind a veil of once vibrant red hair, and his little sisters, huddled closely as they shared tissues in a rare scene of unity and even his brothers, who never really seemed to grasp the concept that their daddy wasn't coming home, no matter how many times it was explained to them. He tore his gaze from them and focused, as best he could, on a spot at the back of the church, a large crack above the doors and he began to recite the words he had memorized over the past few days. As he spoke, he could almost feel his father watching him, the solemn grey eyes that only Arya had inherited boring into him and feeling his pain.

The trip to the graveyard seemed to drag on forever with Catelyn sniffling softly the entire ride and Bran and Rickon fighting over who had to sit in the middle of the family car but all Robb could think about was the feeling that his father was watching him. It was a comforting thought, or one that would have been comforting if it wasn't for his aunt Lysa who had somehow managed to convince Catelyn that she should be there for her. The entire car ride, she babbled on about some boy who'd been at the back of the church. "Looked just like your Ned, Cat. I swear on our Robert's life," she said, her lips pursed in a way that showed off her pruney lips, a sign of one too many cigarettes over the past few years. "He'll be one of Lyanna's lot, most likely. How many is it she's got now? Three? Could be Brandon's boy, mind you. He was always putting it about before he died. No doubt he's got his fair share of bastards up and down the country..."

It had been no secret that the Stark family had been a little strange – his aunt Lyanna had run off to Scotland with some politician's son and cut off all ties with her family at the age of sixteen while his uncle Benjen had gone missing four years ago, lost on a 'raid' in Afghanistan. Brandon, Robb was sure after hearing all his father's stories over the years, had been the only sane one of his father's siblings and he had died before Robb had had the chance to meet him. Still, he had assumed that his aunt would have turned up herself. Sending one of her sons seemed almost disrespectful... And yet, as the dark haired boy made his way up to the grave side, weaving his way through the multiple headstones with such care and consideration for where he put his feet, the eldest of the Stark children couldn't help but stare. In a black, leather jacket and faded black jeans that had seen better days he looked just like Ned did in an old photo of their mother's. Even his hair was similar...

It seemed silly to be so bothered by it but, as he was handed the rope alongside the likes of his Uncle Robert and Jory, his father's most trusted co-worker, he couldn't help but be annoyed by the boy's presence. How unfair was it that this boy – this nobody – looked so much like his father and yet he had spent hours that very morning, desperate to find something the tiniest bit 'Stark' in his face? What right did this boy have to be there? To stand there terrifying Robb's poor mother as he cried, silent sobs which racked his body while he tried so desperately to blend in with the crowd...

It plagued his mind for the short remainder of the funeral and was almost glad of it when the congregation began to depart. He could head back to the house with the rest of his family and maybe he and Theon could sneak a beer or two, try to put the whole, confusing thing behind him.. Or at least get the image of that bloody boy out of his head. "We should probably invite him back to ours," Arya said, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, her tiny hand cupping his in a way it hadn't done since she was toddling. "Him." She repeated, inclining her head towards the boy, who'd hung back and was simply staring at the grave.

"You don't even know who he is, Arya. Mum would have a fit if she were normal," Robb reasoned, not voicing the fact that he didn't want the boy in the house, in his place, looking more like Ned than he had any right to.

"He's family," the brunette whined, causing Robb to squeeze her hand gently. As strong as she pretended to be, the eleven year old was still a child. A child who still had knobbly knees and wiped her nose with the back of her hand and still believed that families worked the same way as they did in fairytales.

"You don't know that..."

"Robb, look at him. He looks just like me," she sighed, staring up at him with huge grey eyes so full of disappointment. "He's family. You can't leave family on their own. You can't because that's when bad things happen like Uncle Benjen or Uncle Brandon and then -"

"Right!" Robb barked, louder than he intended to. A few of the wellwishers who had waited to pay their sympathies to his mother turned to stare but the boy's eyes never left the grave. "I'll do it. Just... just wait."

It wasn't the most normal of conversation starters, and not one he ever thought he'd be having at his father's funeral but it was all he could think of as he neared the boy, tripping over his own feet. Close up, Robb could see that they were of an age, the boy short and broad of shoulder while Robb was lean and wirey like his Uncle Brynden. "You know him well?" It seemed a silly question, given how similar he was in colouring and looks.

There was a Northern twang to his voice that almost cemented the idea that he was one of Lyanna's sons though his voice seemed ragged and tired. "You could say that."
Instantly, Robb was filled with annoyance. Here he was trying to do the right thing, the thing his father – okay, and Arya – would have wanted him to do but all he could think about was how ungrateful this boy was. He was extending his hand, trying to invite him back to their family home and he was giving him nothing in return. "You one of Lyanna's kids? Aunt Lysa says she's got three now..."

"Lyanna? What? No... Who's Lyanna?" It was stupid, as tiny reflex really, but Robb noticed it. The way this boy's brow furrowed was just like Ned when he was disappointed; usually at Robb for something or other... He had been so caught up in thinking about this that he didn't even have a chance to reply. Instead, he stayed quite as the boy sighed before muttering, "Didn't think it'd be like this, that's for sure."

"Didn't think what? What are you talking about?"

"I'm Jon. Jon Stark. I'm Ned's son, too."