October 15th, 1916
The Starks were spending Christmas in their Newport estate, Winterfell. Eddard Stark insisted at the time of its construction that the summer home have a dreary title, so in retaliation Catelyn vowed they would spend at least one winter in Winterfell. She was keeping her promise, insisting this year, 1916, was the year for it.
"Catelyn, we'd have to pay the staff, and they'd all have to come into work in the off season."
"They'll be happy with the extra income."
"But what about Christmas with their families?"
"They can all spend it at the estate."
"And their children?"
"They are welcome, too." She stated stubbornly, crossing her arms across her chest.
"Catelyn," Ned Sighed, "There are expectations, as you are always reminding me, of how we are to behave as a family of high society."
"Oh please. No one will be there but the family. We can swear them to secrecy. Really, who would know?"
"The expense Catelyn," Ned reminded her.
"Eddard Stark, you did not spend so many hours at the mill and at the office over the years so that you could earn money for the Greyjoys to hide away in their bank. Let us have a bit of frivolity from time to time." Ned sighed knowing no matter what he said, his wife would win the battle.
"Ned please," she implored him, "if any year is appropriate for such an endeavor, it is this year." He took her gently by the shoulders, running his hands up and down her arms. The way she looked at him, her blue eyes pleading, he knew he could deny her nothing.
"Alright my dear," he replied, "we will spend Christmas at Winterfell." An elated smile broke over her face.
"Oh, Ned! Thank you!" she kissed him eagerly and gratefully. She was always so genuine in her thanks that it was no wonder to Ned that he always bent to her every whim. It was a good thing she was practical by nature and modest in her requests. If she asked Ned to bring her the sun, he would spend all his time, effort, and capital finding a way to bring it down to Earth.
"I really should have let you name it whatever you wished instead of insisting on being clever. Then I wouldn't be in this mess."
"I promise you, it won't be a mess," she replied, "it will be wonderful."
"We still have to go to the Lannister's winter Ball. Cersei would not be happy with you if you snubbed her."
"Of course. But the very next day we must go, dear husband."
"As you wish, dear wife," he said with a kiss to her forehead. He watched as she left his study to go to her chambers. He suspected she would waste no time in writing the appropriate letters and making the necessary arrangements. He was happy and a bit relieved to see his wife smile again. The war that had been waging in the rest of the world had taken a toll on her. Her sister, Lysa, had married a man of the Royal British Navy and moved to London despite her family's concern. The war was declared, and he was off to fight. In May, word reached Catelyn that he had been killed. Now Lysa was alone save for her son Robin, grieving the loss of her husband, struggling to survive, and having no family to comfort her. Catelyn took the loss badly, and Ned worried he'd not see a smile reach her eyes again. Today, he saw a glimmer of hope in her again, and he prayed that meant his wife would come back to him. It was a start. He sat down and resumed reading his book. He had a lot of work to get done before December, so he would enjoy what little time he had to read at home.
"Sansa! Sansa!" Arya came through the hall, her brown, unruly hair catching in the air as she ran.
"Arya, you really shouldn't be running through the halls that way," Sansa frowned, "Mother would not approve." She looked back to her embroidery. The vine of ivy was coming along nicely.
"Then we just won't tell her, will we,' Arya flippantly declared. Sansa shook her head in disapproval and attempted to hide her amusement.
"You'll have to start behaving like a lady eventually,' Sansa said.
"Eventually,' Aryan pointed out, "not today." Sansa sighed in resignation.
'What is it you came to tell me?"
'Mother says we are spending Christmas in Winterfell,' she replied excitedly, "can you believe it? Winterfell! Isn't it wonderful?!"
'But we only go there in the summer," she said perplexed, "what about winter? The snow, the wind off the sea?"
"We have fireplaces in our rooms. We will be fine. Besides, can you imagine the snow? Oh my goodness the snow!" Arya had a faraway look like she was already there, running across the grounds of Winterfell.
"The only unfortunate part is we still have to go to the Lannisters for their winter ball." She spat the words like they were poison. Sansa focused intently on her embroidery again. She wouldn't meet Arya's eyes.
"We must keep up appearances," Sansa said evenly.
"How can you stand it Sansa?" Arya asked, "knowing what he is, what he did to you?"
"Keep your voice down," Sansa warned. Arya looked about her. She knew her mother was in her room and father in his study on the first floor, but she took the precaution anyways for Sansa's sake. Since late June, Arya had tried to be more considerate and kinder to her sister.
It was the first party of the summer season. Everyone was there at the lavish summer home of the Lannisters. Glittering gowns, rich food made by the finest New York chefs brought up to Newport for the occasion. They'd hired acrobats to perform on the grounds. They had music and dancing and fireworks. It was an evening of absolute splendor in the typical Lannister fashion. Before the fireworks began, Joffrey Baratheon invited Sansa to see the display from the gardens. He assured her it was a superior view compared to that of the balcony.
Joffrey was the son of Robert and Cersei Baratheon. When Robert died, he left his coal empire to Joffrey and Cersei as he had no living family left aside from his children. Cersei was a Lannister by birth, and in her grief she returned to her family home taking the place of the Lannister matriarch. Cersei doted on Joffrey, spoiled him as their father would say. Arya didn't like him, but Sansa found him charming. It was rumored Joffrey was planning on courting Sansa, and a bond between such prominent families was an appealing arrangement. Sansa knew the benefits, plus he was handsome and always smiled at her in such a way that it made her heart flutter. In order to appease him that night, Sansa accepted his invitation. Arya spotted them as Joffrey attempted to whisk Sansa away. She tugged on her older brother Robb's sleeve. He and Jon, her cousin, turned to her as she described what she saw. She was insistent that they should follow. Something about Joffrey made Arya wary, and it sent warning signals off in her head when she saw her sister disappear with him alone into the gardens hidden by the marigolds and lion topiaries. She found Sansa pushed against a column, the sleeve of her dress off her shoulder, her skirt torn, and her face stained by tears her frightened eyes had shed. Joffrey was the culprit, that was clear, especially since he was the one keeping her from escaping, his hands on her like vice grips.
"Sansa," Arya cried. Joffrey turned to be faced with three angry Starks. Arya ran to her sister, shoving past Joffrey. Joffrey tried to grasp at her as the fireworks began only to be stopped by Robb and Jon They stood menacing between the Stark girls and the Baratheon boy. Arya had never seen Jon or Robb so terrifying, the fireworks lighting their faces from time to time, accentuating their sharp features. Robb swung his fist in a mighty arc and made contact with Joffrey's mouth.
"Don't ever touch my sister again," Robb growled, "I will not restrict myself to one hit next time if I even suspect you've laid a hand on either of them."
"How dare you?" Joffrey spat, wiping blood from his mouth, "my mother will hear about this. Everyone will hear about this. They'll all know you're a brute."
"Me? A brute? Oh no, of course not! As far as I know you fell. Didn't you see him fall, Jon?"
"He definitely fell, Robb," Jon replied, 'Quite the fall, too. He split his lip and everything."
"Come on Joffrey," Robb said putting his arm around his shoulder, "let's get you cleaned up." Jon and Robb took Joffrey back to the house. Sansa stayed in the gardens, attempting to collect herself. Arya went to find Myrcella to ask her for her help. Myrcella was tall for her age, so she was able to lend Sansa a dress. When Myrcella and Arya reached Sansa in the gardens, she had collected herself and carried herself as if nothing had happened, as if her dress was meant to be in tatters and her hair disheveled. She calmly followed Myrcella to her room, and there Arya and Myrcella helped her change into another dress.
"If anyone asks, just tell them I spilled punch on my dress," Sansa had said, "I don't want anyone to know what happened tonight." She fixed her eyes on Arya before adding, "not even mother and father." Arya watched Sansa as she told Robb and Jon the same thing. Robb tried to argue with her, going on and on about it being a matter of honor.
"Any man who tries to strip a woman of her dignity has no honor, and no man such as that can ever take from me what he could not recognize if it was in front of his nose. I maintain my honor, and Joffrey has none, therefore it is not a matter of honor." Robb could not argue her point, and was flustered that such words had left his sister's lips. He begrudgingly agreed to keep the secret. All Sansa had to do was meet Jon's eyes. He gazed at her for a moment, something glimmering there. Arya couldn't tell if it was understanding, pride, or worry. It might have been all three.
"As you wish," he'd said. He did not say another word.
Arya had kept her promise. She hadn't told a soul. For that reason, they all still went to the Lannister's parties and dinners and outings putting on a brave and polite face for all to see. Arya hated it. The pretending was much too exhausting for her taste. She watched her sister focus on her embroidery. She tried to be careful with her next question.
"Why won't you tell Mother and Father, Sansa?"
"The Lannisters run the Pacific railroad lines. When Mister Baratheon died, he left the coal industry to Joffrey. Joffrey is merely a puppet of his mother's side of the family. He is the key to the coal their engines need. They are a powerful force here. Father supplies them with steel so they can expand their lines. If we told Father and Mother what Joffrey did, he would cut ties with the Lannisters off of principal. He can't afford to lose their business. We would all suffer greatly, but Father will suffer most. He'll consider himself at fault. So we can't tell Father and Mother."
"Fine," Arya said with a slump in her shoulders. Sansa smiled encouragingly.
"It won't be so bad," she said, "just a few formalities and then we will all be at Winterfell for Christmas." Arya returned the smile. Thoughts of Winterfell stayed with her throughout the day.
Sansa continued her embroidery. She tried not to think too much of the Lannister ball. If she was going to steel herself for December, she would start mentally preparing now. As she lay down to sleep that night, she prayed she wouldn't have the nightmares she got the nights before Lannister parties. The dreams where Arya, Robb, and Jon didn't show up in the gardens and she was trapped and alone with him there, his hot breath on her neck and his sardonic laughter ringing in her ears. She fell asleep afraid.
"Winterfell?" Jon asked, perplexed, "In winter?"
"Your aunt Catelyn's idea. After the Lannister's ball, of course. We must keep up appearances," Benjen drawled without looking up from the morning paper. Jon did not expect to be invited to the Lannisters' parties, but every season he was surprised to see his name on an invitation. It had been eight years since he entered the world of elite still wasn't used to it.
His father had been Benjen Stark's clerk, his most trusted clerk, and though the depravity of Jon's father's social status dictated that he could not have such a wealthy and socially important friend, he did. Benjen Stark never adhered to the rules of society, and he used his privilege of being a man of great wealth to do what he felt was right instead of what was expected. It was a trait that ran through all Starks, Jon had discovered. Benjen had celebrated when his friend Rhegar married Jon's mother, Lyanna. Rhegar and Lyanna Snow asked Benjen to be Jon's godfather. Benjen gladly accepted. Jon never knew his mother. Lyanna died in childbirth, and Benjen had grieved her death as if she was his own flesh and blood.
Benjen made sure Rhegar and his boy were taken care of. Jon and his father never went cold or hungry, Benjen made sure of it. Every Christmas, Jon and his father were invited to Christmas at the Stark's house despite being in a lower social class. There were many whispers, but Benjen never backed down from what he called his duty. The way he saw it, Rhegar, in all his inferiority, had been a better class of man, a more loyal friend, and all around more decent human being than those in Benjen's circle who claimed the title friend based on their tax bracket. So every Christmas, without fail, Jon and Rhegar were welcomed warmly into the Stark home. Then, when Jon was nine, soon to be ten, his father was trampled by a carriage of startled horses. As his godfather and guardian, Benjen Stark took Jon into his home. That Thanksgiving he asked Jon if he could ever consider him a father. Jon told him he already thought of Benjen as a father. That Christmas, Jon Snow became Jon Stark.
Benjen made sure Jon got the finest education, and when Jon was eleven, he and robb were sent to the same boarding school where they became closer friends than they were before. They were practically brothers. His first summer in elite society was quite the culture shock. Boarding school was a daunting transition, but goodness: learning how to dance, how to talk to those in the high society, what utensil was used for which food…all of it was so overwhelming. He figured out most of the etiquette and he learned to dance, though he avoided it when he could. Still, he was uncomfortable in the crowds of people bred with money. Any time he entered conversation, he was acutely aware of how much he did not belong. He was only comfortable around the Starks. The Starks felt like home.
"You'll like Winterfell in December," Benjen said, "it's gorgeous when covered in snow." Jon nodded. They were silent for a moment.
"I don't much like the Lannisters in December," Jon said carefully. Benjen took a sip of his coffee before looking at Jon over his paper.
"Only December?" he asked with a glint in his eye, "I am impressed. You are a better man than I my son. I don't like the Lannisters at any time of the year." Jon shared a smile with his godfather and swelled with pride like he did any time Benjen called him son. He was so grateful. Even with both parents gone, he wasn't an orphan. Jon was lucky.
"Your train leaves at noon. Are you ready?"
"Yes sir," Jon replied, "I've packed."
"Then we'd better get going." He folded his paper and stood from the table. Jon took the flowers the cook had gotten at market that morning. He and Benjen put on their coats and walked outside towards the church yard.
They spent the walk in silence. They walked through the gate of the cemetery down the rows of tombstones until they were in front of the two matching stones of Jon's parents. He placed the flowers in the small space between their graves making sure the flowers touched both of their plots. Jon liked to think of it as a bridge, a link by which his parents could still be connected.
"happy anniversary," he whispered as he placed a hand on both headstones, "I love you both." As he stood he felt his godfather's hand on his shoulder.
"They'd be proud of you, the man you are becoming." Jon swallowed the lump in his throatand tried to nod. He could only manage to stand still. They stood at the grave for a while, both men absorbed in their thoughts. They made their way back to the house in the same silence as when they walked to the cemetery. When they arrived, Jon's things were in a carriage bound for the train station.
"I'll see you in December,' Benjen said as he hugged him goodbye. Jon nodded. He got into the carriage and watched his godfather disappear as the carriage turned the corner. It was only then he allowed himself the tears that had been building. Eight years. Seventeen for his mother. He still missed them as much as before.