"That's Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard," he hears them say, and he trains harder than all of them, late into the night when the wind is icy and his fingers feel numb around the handle of the sword.

He is only eleven, and he holds a sword better than Ned Stark's own boy.

(Some would say that he, too, is Ned Stark's boy, but he is a Snow, and he knows enough to know that if he is not Catelyn's boy, he is not Ned's boy, not really).

Bastard.

The word shouldn't bother him like it does.

Because he dreams of her, sometimes, and he does not know why.

His mother.

He does not know her name, does not see her face, but he hears her voice, and it is gentle.

She was not just a woman his father took idly.

She was someone Ned Stark adored, this much Jon Snow knows.

"Jon Snow!"

The voice that calls him is stern, and he wheels around to find Lord Stark standing behind him.

"You were summoned," his father said sharply. "Why did you not come?"

"My lord?" By now he knows better than to say 'Father' or, gods forbid, Robb's more familiar 'Fa.' "I received no summons."

"I sent Robb an hour ago," Lord Stark said, his eyes narrowing. "Theon, where is Robb?"

"He left to find Lady Sansa, Lord Stark," Theon said, shifting uneasily, and when Lord Stark raised his eyebrows, he added, "He said Jon Snow could find his own way, my lord."

"Is that so?" Lord Stark's lips tightened into a thin line, and Jon guesses that Robb will not get off easy on this.

"No, sir," Jon lied quickly. "He found me. I didn't come because I—I wanted to finish practicing, my lord."

"And what did Robb tell you?" Lord Stark asked.

"Err"—

"As I thought," Lord Stark turned away. "Theon, find Robb and tell him I want to have a word with him immediately. Jon, I summoned you to talk about the visitors. The king and the Lannisters will be coming to Winterfell within a fortnight."

"Yes, my lord," Jon nodded.

"Cersei has asked that you are not part of the greeting party when she and her children arrive," his father called the queen by her name, and for a moment Jon sees resentment in the sharp lines of his face. "I have agreed."

Jon Snow looked away, across the courtyard at the men practicing and a home that was not truly his. "Yes, sir."

"However, she has no right to ask you to remain apart from the family outside of the day that she and her children arrive in the courtyard," Ned Stark continued.

"She is the queen," Jon Snow said sharply, and Ned's face darkened at his impudence. "Of course she has the right."

"There is only one queen in Winterfell," a small voice piped up, and they turned to find Arya standing shivering behind them, dressed only in her nightdress. "That's Mother."

Ned's face, which had softened momentarily when he saw his daughter, tightened imperceptibly. "Arya," he said sharply. "I will not hear you speak in such a way. Lady Cersei Lannister is King Robert's queen, and you will not forget that."

Arya pouted, and Lord Stark pulled off his cloak and wrapped it over her shoulders.

"You should be in bed, little one," he said more gently, and Arya moved comfortably into the circle of his arms.

"Why is Cersei"—

"The queen," Lord Stark corrected her, lifting her in his arms.

"Why is the queen treating Jon like that?" Arya was still pouting. "He's my brother."

"I'm not your brother"—he burst out.

"Yes you are!" she scowled at him, sticking out her tongue. "I'm his daughter, and you're his son just like Robb is"—

"Not like Robb," Jon Snow corrected her sharply. "I'm not his son. I'm his bastard."

He turned and walked away quickly, not caring if Arya would be angry with him later, not caring if Lord Stark would punish him later for his disrespect.

Jon did not turn back, but surprisingly enough, Lord Stark did not call for him; instead, the man turned and carried Arya back inside.

Jon Snow slept in the guest room at the far north corner of the castle that night, and he dreamed of her again.

His mother.

It was always here, close to the wild, icy wind that blew down from the north, that he felt her presence the most.

It was said that Lord Stark brought him back from the war as a babe, and so he had assumed his mother was of the south, but he never felt her presence there.

The wind of the north sang her song.

And tonight is special.

Tonight he sees her face.

She is dark-haired and grey-eyed and as wild as the Northern Sea in a storm. And tonight she smiles, stretches out her hand.

"My son," she calls softly, and he knows her, he knows her and he must have always carried her voice with him.

"Who are you?" he asks, and she just smiles.

"I am your mother." Her hand brushes his, and for half a wild moment he sees the wolf in her eyes, keen and dark and beautiful.

And then she is leaving—mounting a horse the way the northmen do, riding away from him into the fierce, cold wind, and her dark hair swirls behind her.

"Don't go!" he calls, but she does not turn, this wolf-maiden who rides the wind.

"Who am I, then?" he demands, and she does turn, now, her voice far-off and cold.

"Jon Stark," she calls, and the words reach him vaguely, torn and battered by the wind.

"I am not the son of Ned Stark!" he shouts angrily, and he wants her to deny it, to tell him that he is Ned's son and that she is more than the mother of a bastard—

She is gone, now, but though she is gone, he hears her voice in the wind that blows back to him from the north.

"Oh no, my love," she whispers. "You are the son of the dragon."

Jon Snow woke with tears streaming down his face.

He slipped out of bed and pulled on a shirt, his hands shaking as he tried to cling to the fading memory of the dream.

Perhaps his mother was a northern girl, after all. And in one sickening, blinding moment Jon Snow guesses exactly who she is.

It is midnight when Ned Stark finds him in the crypts, standing before Lady Lyanna Stark's tomb.

"What are you doing here?" Lord Stark asked gruffly, folding his cloak closer around him.

Jon Snow turned to face this man who was not his father. "I am Lyanna's son," he said confidently, waiting to feel the back of Ned Stark's hand. "I am not a bastard. I am the son of Lyanna Stark the she-wolf and Rhaegar Targaryen the dragon."

Ned Stark's eyes flamed, and he stepped forward, pushing Jon roughly against the wall.

Jon Snow did not flinch. "Tell me I am mistaken," he said quietly. "You have said I am your blood. You have not said I am your son."

Ned's face hardened. "You must never speak those words," he hissed. "If anyone hears, King Robert would have your head on a spike, and there would be nothing I could do to stop him."

"So it's true?" Jon asked fiercely. "Rhaegar loved her, didn't he? They always said he was a monster, but he loved her. I know it. And she's happy now."

For a moment, he thought Ned would grow angrier, but instead his face softened. "Aye," he said quietly. "Lyanna loved him. She could have had any man in the land—including King Robert—and she chose the dragon."

"He chose her, too," Jon Snow said. "And he rescued her from King Robert, and had no thought of what they would say of him."

"He could have had any gentle lady in the seven kingdoms," Ned said distantly, a small smile on his lips. "And he may have crowned Lyanna as the queen of Love and Beauty that day, but it was the day he saw her riding across the plain like a northman, her hair as wild as the north wind, that he loved her. He was the dragon, but she was the fiercest of the two. And he loved her for all that she was, which is something Robert could never have done."

"When I am older, they will all know," Jon said, and Ned Stark gripped his shoulder.

"They must never know," he said. "It was Lyanna's secret, and she died keeping it safe."

"Then I will guard it," he said. "And every day that they call me bastard, I will learn to fight them like a dragon."

"No, lad," Ned Stark smiled wryly. "You would do better to fight them like a wolf."