Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.
So I said it would likely be a while before things got going, and things still aren't completely planned out yet, but my boredom peaked, and has now proved me a liar.
Here's the next chapter!
Jon II
There were half a hundred banners that Jon didn't recognise, but only two that he needed to. The bright, crowned stag, antlers proud and sharp, and Lannister crimson and gold. For many within the walls of Winterfell those two banners would evoke very different emotions. It was the stag that had avenged Jon's grandfather, aunt and brother, who had liberated the realm from the madness of the festering, failing targaryen kings, but the lions had only marched after the war was won, when it was in their own interests, and furthered their own ends.
Such ambition was the prerogative of southern Lords; it had no place in the North.
The riders swept through the gate, spilling into the square and reigning their horses in to snort hot mist and paw at the cold cobbles in front of his siblings, father, Lady Stark and half of Winterfell.
The first were all in white, plate and cloaks as bright as milk, but gleaming cold like the frost in the Godswood.
'Ned!' The only splash of colour amongst them roared. 'Where is that frozen face of yours? I did not ride so far into this frigid wasteland you call home to linger on your threshold like a gold-browed brigand.'
The king was a ball of brown furs, and dark, stained leathers who vaulted from his saddle to stagger into the embrace of Jon's father, wielding a wineskin in one hand, and crushing his foster brother tightly in the other.
He was not the man Jon had been expecting.
The songs and tales spoke of a prince as tall as he was strong, with clear eyes as blue as the Trident, and strong, clean-shaven jaw. None of the stories he had heard of Robert Baratheon had mentioned the man's gut, the scraggly, black beard grown to hide a swelling, second chin, and the dark shadows beneath his brows. There had been warhammers, stags, dragons, roses and rubies, but not a single line dedicated to the way the King's horse sagged with relief, nor how his father's arms no longer reached all the way around his old friend's torso.
'Cat,' the King boomed, wrapping an arm around Lady Stark, who smiled kindly, but wrinkled her nose. 'As lovely as the last time I saw you.'
'My eldest,' his father introduced, 'Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon.'
'The nights of the North are long and cold,' the king laughed. Lady Stark pursed her lips, and for that Jon almost forgave Robert Baratheon his unkingly appearance.
'I want to see her, Ned,' the King demanded, far less loudly.
His father led him away towards the crypts, leaving no mystery as to who she had been. Jon frowned, glancing to the carriage where the Queen watched, thin-lipped. He had expected to dislike her for unwitting part in segregating him from his siblings, and for words he had overheard his father say of her, but now he just felt sorry for her to be so casually slighted in the sight of all. Heartless, his father had said sadly, but Jon could hardly blame her. Her husband loved a dead woman, and still chose her, and his whores, over his queen.
A second, far lighter pair of thuds signalled the dismounting of the nearest two of the Kingsguard. The first followed the king, but the other simply slipped his helm from his head to look around at the assembly.
There is a man who looks like a king ought to, Jon thought.
His hair, like the Queen's, might have been spun from gold, falling loose and wild around his ears, framing flashing, bright, emerald eyes. Ser Jaime Lannister they called him to his face, and Kingslayer they whispered when he turned his back. His blade had brought an end to the rule of the mad King Aerys, avenging Lord Rickard and Brandon, but Jon was well aware that his father did not approve of Jaime Lannister.
He broke his vows, his father had said disappointedly, and a knight without honour is little more a sword.
The knight's eyes drifted over his siblings, and across the arrayed people of Winterfell, passing over him, pausing, and returning to linger a little longer, a slight smirk spreading across his lips.
Shame welled within him.
Jon knew that look. It was the sly, satisfied smile of Lords and men who were glad to find that Eddard Stark was as human, as fallible, as they were, and he hated being the cause of it more than anything.
The white direwolf pup nipped his fingers playfully, pushing his cold nose against Jon's palm.
'Hungry?' He asked. Jon did not expect a reply. His siblings had named theirs within hours of meeting them. Grey Wind, Lady, Jon had rolled his eyes at Sansa's choice until Arya giggled, Nymeria, whom Arya was far too fond of, Summer, and Shaggydog. Rickon had yet to understand the difference between a wolf and a dog, let alone a direwolf. He'd waited, wanting to give the pup the right name, a good name, rather than the first one that sprang to mind. Names were important.
It was Ghost that he had chosen, for while his siblings whined, and mewled and howled when the mood took them Ghost never made a sound.
'There's a feast,' he told Ghost, 'soon there'll be plenty of food for both of us.'
The direwolf cocked its head, eyeing him with an air that could only be described as sceptical.
'Soonish,' Jon relented, sliding out of the crowd. If the king was here then there would almost certainly be some form of ceremony and circumstance beforehand.
He was right.
Slipping in early to wedge himself into one of the benches, had let him steal a seat beneath a torch, where it would be well lit for the duration of the evening, and remain a little warmer too, but it had not brought either him, or Ghost closer to food or drink until the procession and proprieties of the occasion had been observed.
The king and the queen had walked through first, a glitter of gold, bright emeralds, and smooth, pale skin beside a man who clad himself in silk, and wore a crown, but looked no more a king than he did slumped over the benches at the far end of the hall.
His father and Lady Stark followed, the Kingslayer, clad in crimson, crowned with natural gold, overshadowing his brother, the Imp, who was barely visible behind him. Every flaw the Gods had found with Tywin Lannister had been repaid in his second son. Mismatched eyes glinted beneath his heavy, hairy brow, one as green as grass, the other as dark as dragonglass. His disproportionately large head was covered with curls so blond they gleamed white, beneath the torches as he waddled beside his sibling. Someone had once told him that the shame of all great lords was in their lesser sons, Theon, he suspected, when the ward had been speaking with wine's bitter honesty.
The children came next, his siblings paired with the royal ones, walking proud and tall towards the dais. The king watched them past his wine goblet, and the queen smiled for the first time Jon had seen since arriving. A soft, gentle curve of rose-red lips that Jon recognised from the face of Lady Stark whenever his siblings excelled at something.
The dais filled slowly, and each time an empty seat vanished something twisted within him.
This is how things are, he reminded himself; it would not do to forget, hope was a more harrowing weapon than any sword.
Jon poured himself a cup of wine, sipping at it while Ghost stirred by his feet, disturbed by the noise, and the scent of arriving food.
It is not so bad, he told himself.
He might not be allowed amongst his family, but away from his father's stern gaze he could do as he pleased, and the summerwine slid down easily, even on a relatively empty stomach.
The men around him did not begrudge him his place among them below the flames, but they did not speak with him either. A bastard might be unfit to be seated at the same table as the king, but he was still the son of a lord, and that made them all uncomfortable, more so for him than for others, for his siblings were all doubtless lords and ladies, their station obvious, but Jon, Jon was not so easily placed. Address him too disrespectfully, and they feared his father's wrath, treat him too like his siblings, and Lady Stark's anger would make itself known.
Ghost pushed his nose into Jon's knee, bright, scarlet eyes staring up silently at Jon.
He chuckled, passing the nearest chicken down below the table to the wolf pup.
'I'm fairly sure your lord father instructed you not to bring the wolves.' Jory Cassel swung himself onto the bench, cheeks red from the cold.
'And the captain of the guard shouldn't be lingering here at the low tables, when his men freeze outside,' Jon retorted. The wine had heated his blood and sharpened his tongue.
'And yet here we both are,' Jory chuckled, snagging black, blood sausages from the gravy of a nearby trencher. 'Ghost will trouble nobody but the curs and bitches beneath the benches, and the walls of Winterfell will not fall for lack of my blade.'
'You wanted to see the Kingslayer,' Jon realised, finishing his cup, licking red summerwine from the corner of his mouth.
'And Barristan Selmy too, they are the last of Kingsguard that fought for the dragons, a different kind of knights to most of those you'll find there,' Jory told him sourly, dipping his head in the direction of the dais.
'A knight is a knight,' Jon frowned.
'There are knights, Jon, and then there are knights,' Jory laughed. 'Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, they would be ashamed of the men who now wear those cloaks.'
'I can't imagine they would be all that proud of Jaime Lannister either,' Jon pointed out.
'No,' Jory admitted, 'but he was chosen by the Sword of the Morning himself, so he must have once been just as special as the others. My father was killed by Ser Arthur Dayne, you know.'
'Oh?' This Jon had not heard. He knew, like many, that Martyn Cassel had been one of five men who had died fighting alongside his father when he had gone to find Lyanna Stark, but he had not known that it was the Sword of the Morning who had slain him.
'Lord Stark told me how he died,' Jory mused, 'felt he owed me the truth, I suppose.'
'Did he tell you what Ser Arthur Dayne was like?' Jon asked, staring at his reflection in the wine. 'What he looked like, how he was?'
'Why is that all boys only want to hear about the knight, and not the loyal bannerman?' Jory shook his head. 'I know little of Ser Arthur Dayne, only that he was blond-haired, indigo-eyed, and as swift with his wit as he was his sword and lance. I know more about the appearance of his blade than I do him,' he realised wryly, 'there's a none too subtle hint as to the true nature of knights.'
Something crunched under the table, and the two of them glanced down to watch Ghost prying apart the ribcage of the chicken Jon had slipped him. None of the castle hounds had dared try and challenge him for his prize, indeed they all shied away from his pale fur and hot, red eyes.
'I'm not going to be a knight,' Jon shrugged. 'Bran, Robb and Rickon will be knights, not me.'
'You're skilled with a sword,' Jory told him gently, 'better than any of your brothers, even if we had to pry you from your books to first swing one.'
'I don't remember that,' Jon laughed.
'We lured you from your pile of tomes and out into the yard with false promises,' Jory grinned. 'People used to wonder if you were Brandon's son, given his reputation, but within a few years you'd grown as quiet, and private as your father, and you've only grown more melancholy since. Your wolf suits you, Jon.'
'Thanks,' Jon replied dryly. He had little memory of the library tower, only recollections of finding stories there that spent themselves in bittersweet dreams, and Lady Stark's cold eyes.
'Don't thank me, we never did let the Septa teach you music,' Jory shrugged. 'Your father felt it wasn't the best idea, and I suppose he had a point, you'd have little use for it.'
'Probably a good thing,' Jon decided. 'None of my brothers have any gift for it, and Theon's drunken yammering is terrible enough.'
Jory screwed his face up, nodding grimly. 'That one shouldn't sing.'
A hand ruffled his hair, and he twisted about on the bench, catching his empty goblet just before it hit the floor.
'Had a few more cups of that than your father would approve of have you, Jon?' Uncle Benjen's blue-grey eyes twinkled in amusement. Clad in black, as befitted a man of the Night's Watch, and before the light of the torch he was little more than a shadow over the bench.
Jon said nothing, but Jory burst out laughing, drawing eyes from all across the hall, which said all it needed to his uncle. His father frowned down at them from the dais, and Jory hurriedly excused himself, vanishing back out to the guard.
'Ah well.' Benjen took Jory's seat. 'I was younger than you the first time I was truly drunk, Brandon thought it would be fun to take me to a feast in Karhold, and while he was off chasing skirts I was left to drink with Maege Mormont,' he shook his head, a rueful grin on his gaunt, sharp face, 'that was a mistake.'
He had deftly removed Jon's cup from reach though, stealing it for his own, as he poured himself a half measure.
'Don't you normally sit with your brothers and sisters?' Benjen inquired.
'Lady Stark was afraid my presence might cause offence, and father fears the king might follow his example and surround himself with his baseborn children.'
'The Lannister woman might not like that,' Benjen agreed.
'I am almost grateful,' Jon said wryly. 'The only two on the table who look like they're enjoying themselves are the King and Sansa.'
The former had been drinking heavily from the moment he had collapsed into his chair, and now, ruddy-cheeked and loud, he offered toast after toast to those around him, eating every dish within reach. In contrast Sansa picked at her food, doting on the attention of the crown prince, whose pouty-lipped, vain countenance turned Jon's stomach.
The rest of the table was awash with polite small talk, guarded courtesies, and feigned smiles.
'An astute observation,' Benjen nodded grimly. 'The King has much changed since last my brother saw him, I do not envy him this duty. Your father is not suited to the south, we Starks prefer the snow; we suffer in the sun.'
We, Jon's lips twisted.
'You're as good as,' his uncle reminded him, not missing the expression.
'Don't let Lady Stark here you say that,' Jon said flatly, 'she won't have you encouraging my dreams of stealing her children's birthright.' He regretted the bitterness that accompanied his tactless jest immediately. 'Sorry,' he apologised, 'sometimes it feels unfair.'
'Life isn't fair,' his uncle told him bluntly. 'I was a third son, little more than a footnote on the pages of history, but I've made a name for myself elsewhere, I'm sure you can do the same.'
'Join the Night's Watch?' Jon asked curiously. He had considered it. There was no place for him in the South, no honour in the East, and he could not remain here, so where else could go but North.
'It is an option,' Benjen said, 'and the gods know we need the men, but it's not a decision to take lightly.'
'I'll talk to father,' Jon decided, 'I can ride back North with you.'
His uncle looked at him wearily, opening his mouth to say something further, but thought better of it, and smiled instead. 'Wherever you go you'll excel,' he told him softly. 'You're able, dutiful, and determined, more than a match for whatever the Gods choose to throw your way.'
'Maybe I'll get lucky and be legitimised,' Jon snorted.
'Actually,' Benjen grinned, 'you could probably walk right up to the king and ask him. He'd likely do it, unless he's so drunk he mistakes you for your father.'
For the briefest moment Jon was tempted, tempted enough to straighten up in his seat and turn to look at the man, but the king seemed so inglorious, so terribly less, that he couldn't conceive of him doing something so important for him.
It wasn't Robert Baratheon's eye he caught, however, but the cold, blue eyes of Lady Stark, and he knew, in the instant their eyes met, that she was glad beyond words to see him so far away, happy to find him hurting, though he had never done anything to her save take his first breath.
Dreams are dust, he reminded himself.
'I need to be excused,' he said, jumping from the bench, ignoring his uncle's exclamation.
The serving girl twisted aside, spilling onions and gravy across the floor to the laughter of those around him, and hot tears burnt at the edges of his eyes, prickling at the humiliation.
He didn't look back up at the dais, but stormed straight out into the snow, Ghost on his heels.
He spied the familiar figure of Jory Cassel on the ramparts, huddled around the brazier with the sentry, but aside from those two shadows Winterfell seemed deserted, abandoned just as the ruined holdfast he had seen on the road past the Barrowlands had been.
It calmed him a little.
'Do you have any water, boy?' Tyrion Lannister was perched upon the ledge over the entry to the Great Hall, staring down at him like some oddly carved gargoyle with his mismatched eyes.
'No,' Jon answered. 'Why are you up there?'
'I drank too much,' the Lannister replied, 'so I left before I made a fool of myself. My sweet sister so hates it when I vomit upon her.'
Would that I had done the same.
'Is that a wolf?' He asked, peering down curiously.
'Ghost is a direwolf.' Jon was still wondering how the little man had managed to get up to his seat. Bran loved to climb, over the towers, up the battlements, and in the trees of the Godswood, but never here, not where Lady Stark would see and scold him.
'You're Ned Stark's bastard.'
'He is my father,' Jon gritted.
'You didn't deny it,' the dwarf nodded, looking oddly pleased. 'Good. The world won't let you forget what you are, boy, so don't you forget either.'
'I'm going to find somewhere people don't care,' Jon decided firmly.
'Ah,' the dwarf grinned, 'well when you do, send me a raven, I would be overjoyed to join you with the Grumpkins.' Jon snorted despite himself, and the little man chuckled with him. 'Best not to get your hopes up.' He paused, gauging the distance to the ground, then leapt, spinning to spring from his fingers to his feet, and dusting the snow from his hands. 'I'm Tyrion Lannister.'
'I know.' Ghost withdrew behind Jon's legs, fangs bared warily.
'My father still hopes the world will forget,' Lannister said sardonically, 'sadly nobody has yet.' He stared up at Jon, measuring him. 'There is a lot of the North in you,' he remarked, 'but that is not quite all there is, those cheekbones and that jawline, there's nothing Stark in those.'
'I don't know who my mother is,' Jon told him brusquely, but her name was in his head again. The one that was no longer whispered in Winterfell.
'Not from the North I would wager,' Tyrion Lannister shrugged, 'once you look past the eyes, hair, and nose from your father there's too elegant an air to your features for her to be of this cold wasteland.' His mismatched eyes met Jon's own, looking a touch softer than before. 'So where's this idyllic world of yours?'
'I'm going to accompany my uncle to the Wall,' Jon declared, far more certainly than he felt.
'The Night's Watch,' Lannister mused. 'Not an easy life, an honest one, but certainly harder than some you might choose. I'd not resign myself to something like that so soon if I were you. You might be a bastard, but there's more to the world that snow, boy, even one so short as I can see that.' With that he swivelled on the spot, eliciting another silent snarl from Ghost, and sauntered back into the Great Hall, likely in search of water.
AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does!
P.S. This patchwork of perspectives suits slightly shorter chapters than I was writing for my previous story, but the shorter they are, the quicker I'll post them!