AN: screwed up the formatting, hence the re-upload.

Chapter 2 – A Stark Perspective

288 AC - 5 Years after King Robert's Coronation

There's nothing wrong with trying to save people! –Emiya Shirou

"Do you understand what you did wrong, Jon?" The Lord of Winterfell leveled a steely gaze at his son, making clear the seriousness of his question.

The snow rained down upon both of them, forming a blanket of corpse-white. The ladle, held in Jon's hands next to the cauldron, still steaming with the juices of meat and broth was all too clear against the backdrop. His guilt was evident for his father to see.

"I just wanted them to not go hungry!" Jon argued. True, it was wrong to steal from the stocks. But it was winter, and some of the small-folk were beginning to go hungry. "We have more than enough food for all of us!"

"Robb, did you help Jon in this also?" Ned Stark turned to the side as he a heard the crunch of small steps on the snow, revealing his eldest son and Jon's half-brother, with a sheepish grin on his face and hands scratching his Tully Red hair.

I can only hope that Sansa will not grow to be as impetuous or trouble-making as these two, he thought, else I might need to send one or both of them to foster with one of the Noble Houses amongst my lords.

"Jon, perhaps you misunderstand me." Ned continued, "I do not disagree with your goal of making sure they do not go hungry. As a Stark and the Lord of Winterfell that is also one of my most cherished goals and heaviest of responsibilities. The problem however, is how you went about it when you and Robb elected to steal food from the stores."

"But we have more than enough food! Jon's right, there was no harm in giving some out" argued Robb in impassioned defense of his younger half-brother. Already thick as thieves, I hope they can become as close as Robert and I were.

"Has one of you been gifted by the Olds Gods with visions while I was not looking? If you are certain that there is no harm, one of you must be able to tell me how long this winter will last. One more year? Two years? Or will it be even longer, perhaps five to ten years?"

Their goals were admirable, but the North is harsh, and good intentions are not enough for good results in the North. Robb was the first to realize where his father was leading the conversation, face shifting into an ashamed frown, while Jon was still leveling a defiant look at him, grey eyes glinting like steel against the snow.

"So tell me my sons. We have enough in our stocks right now for one more year of Winter, two if we ration it further within the next few months. The rationing of our stocks is the first line of defense in ensuring that the smallfolk do not go overly hungry. After that, men who are of age will leave into the snow, telling their families that they are "hunting", hoping to spare their families a mouth to feed. You might have made some people happier today, but how many will you condemn to death or mourning for loved ones if you repeat this again next week or next month?"

Jon's eyebrows scrunched together in what was clearly a baffled expression. Perhaps they are too young to understand this lesson.

"Think upon what I have said, both of you may yet be boys, but you will one day be men. Upon the morrow, I will inquire again as to whether or not you have learned the lesson."

With those last words, Eddard Stark strode away and into Winterfell, the snow covering his tracks in the ground like a ghost passing through.

"Well," Robb genuflected. "On the whole, I think that turned out quite well!"

He'd been walking through a building that had been cut from some material that was not stone or wood. It had been of incredible symmetry, with perfectly cut squares of the material to fill out the shape of the structure, every cut and turn of the not-stone perfectly conveying the intent and flow of the builder.

"You should summon your Servant soon, Onii-chan" a beautiful white-haired girl had remarked as he walked at night. He wondered who that was—no he knew who she was—she was important—she was [ERROR – Corrupt Data]

He'd continued walking home, and then went to the shed just like he did every night. He sat down, grabbed a bar made of [ERROR – Incorrect Path] and made himself ready. A metal gear, a [Unreadable] barrel, cocked in his mind, and slammed forward. Pain, fire, and heat all raced through his back, along his spine, making him think that his eyes were about to explode, that he would faint from the pain. But he did not, tiny lances of molten lava felt as if they spread out from the center of his back, expanding to his ribs, his stomach, then arms and legs. On and on it went, the feeling of being stabbed, cut, burned, and paralyzed.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he had created his magic circuit.

Too slow, he thought to himself. He needed to practice more if it kept on taking so long.

He remembered what his father had told him, To be a magus is to walk with death.

Despite his father's best efforts, Jon Snow knew that there was something wrong with him in the eyes of most.

It was not the taint of his birth. Though some of the Great Lords and Lady Catelyn Stark might look on him with disapproval staining their gaze, it truthfully never bothered him. Though he would forever be barred from inheritance and branded with the name of Snow, Jon had never found himself caring too much about that.

Nor was it the lack of motherly affection in his life. He had never had affection of the maternal sort, how was it possible for the lack thereof to bother him?

No, what was wrong with him was that none of these matters affected him in the slightest.

The charitable amongst the servants and functionaries of Winterfell attributed this to the Stark hardiness. Those of less kind disposition whispered that it was the curse of bastardry, that his mind had been born wrong as a curse by the Old Gods at the dishonoring of Ned Stark's vows, that where fire and blood should heat a man's heart, only ice flowed in his.

Jon smiled as he put the finishing touches on his sweeping of the rooms. The castle staff had been somewhat put about at having their lord's son, bastard or no, aiding them with their duties, but they had grown used to the sight over the past year.

His father had been concerned if this was something his lady wife had put Jon up to, and remained as-yet skeptical of Jon's claims that it was of his own will.

For Jon, the happiness with which he volunteered to assist even the lowest of servants in their duties only served as proof that something with his mind had been struck wrong at his birth to those who maintained their suspicion.

Why must there be something wrong with me because I want to help people? He knew it was abnormal perhaps the extent to which he took it, but surely it was an exaggeration when some said that it felt like he was not altogether human.

He smiled at the maids as he walked by and made sure to inquire if there was anything else he could help with.

Last night, the dream was different. I wasn't on fire.

Jon made his way to his room. That explosion of pain, he remembered that it had been the precursor to all of his spells. If he could do that again, then maybe he could do magic. And if he had magic…maybe he could change the world. He restrained himself from rushing to test out his theory—he might trip and stumble someone in the tight confines of the castle if he walked in haste.

He sat down, folding his legs beneath him on the bed, arms inclined on his knees, and closed his eyes.

"Trace On." The metal device, no—the gun barrel, pulled open, then slammed forward.

Waves of energy slammed through Jon's body, eyes opening wide in surprise as he looked at his arms and legs. Lines of energy raced through him.

It hurt much less than in my dream. Does that mean I did it wrong? He wondered. Jon remembered at the very least that magic was dangerous. What if I'm almost killing myself each time I use it? I don't have a teacher like I did in the dreams…

Such thoughts didn't matter, Jon decided. He looked around the room and saw the broomstick he had been using earlier. Focusing his stare at the broom handle, he tried the [Structural Grasp] spell that he'd remembered from last night.

Wood carved by Bethany, first owner was Farlen for use in the Kennels of time 2.808 years, dogs repeatedly damaged the straws, Farlen repaired 89% of the straws and sheared 11.5% of the handle length, favored stroke technique is an inverse rotation starting from dominant hand….

Jon moved his arms to align the handle with what he'd just read/thought/experienced/understood and realized that he was able to clear the floor at almost twice the pace he normally swept thanks to the more efficient movement.

Could I use this to be a great servant? By knowing all their techniques and the best of their abilities, I could maybe do the work of an entire castle's cleaning staff! That meant he could make enough coin to pay for the food and housing of the same amount of peoples' families!

Jon calmed himself. I have plenty of time, I should learn all of my capabilities, and then I will decide.

After all, he was being hasty to think about being a maid. Maybe he could become a great cook? Or perhaps a blacksmith? Of course he could use this with swords, but unless he had a magical sword, it was hard for Jon to see this making that large of a difference.

Pleased with his work for the day, Jon immediately began planning for what he would experiment on next. This magic thing was far easier than it had looked in his dreams!