The owls are becoming more frequent. He knows he won't be able to hide the growing number of letters forever but he is thankful at least that Robb is too busy to notice anything amiss. He is less lucky with Sam, who is more adept at reading Jon and who asks him without uttering a word, but Jon isn't ready to talk to anyone about this. He isn't ready to read the letters.

He throws himself into quidditch, pushing his teammates till they're all too sore to do any more. He knows they think him mad but Jon doesn't care. He's not just pushing them to win the Quidditch Cup anymore. He doesn't even think he cares about winning. He just needs Joffrey to lose.

The thought of the Slytherin has his blood boiling underneath his skin. It's a feeling foreign to Jon. He has always prided himself in being a fairly level-headed boy, a stark contrast to Robb, who is all reckless impulse, driven by emotion more than reason. But Robb had the luxury of growing up with a loving family whose reputation allowed him certain liberties. Jon's upbringing was less as kind. His only source of comfort came in the close relationship he had with the Starks, but after that, Jon has always been on his own.

Even more so now after his mum's passing.

Jon rubs at his eyes. The cold shrill of autumn has now fully taken hold of Hogwarts. Red and gold leaves cover the grounds as trees bear their skeleton for all the world to see. It is a time of change; of shedding what is dead to the upcoming winter. He loved his mum, loved what she tried to do for him and loved her for understanding his need for the Starks in his life, but her death is wrought with questions Jon doesn't think he wants answered.

"I thought I'd find you here," Sam's voice reaches him and Jon turns to see his friend. "Why are you sulking?"

"I'm not sulking," Jon says but the expression on Sam's face has him rephrasing his words. "I am not sulking that much. I just needed some time to myself."

Sam nods and pauses in his steps. "Should I leave?"

"No, Sam," Jon offers his friend a small smile. "I wouldn't mind the company."

The Ravenclaw comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Jon and for a few seconds, the two friends stare out onto the grounds in silence, both leaning on the railing of the bridge. It's easy to lose oneself to the serenity of the castle at this time of hour. The bridge is far enough removed from the commotion below that barely a voice could be heard above the whistling winds. It's why Jon likes it here so much.

"Do you miss her?" Sam says after a while.

Jon nods. "Every day."

"She was a great woman," Sam offers and Jon is immediately reminded of Sansa and he feels a hollow ache he can't adequately explain away.

"She had her faults, Sam," Jon replies, just as he did that day. "Let's not delude ourselves just because she's gone now."

Sam sighs. "She loved you. I think that makes her a great woman. It's more than others get."

Jon glances at his friend and in the sombre expression he sees the timid eleven-year-old who cowered as members of his own house teased him relentlessly. Apparently being a Tarly meant something to a lot of people and the fact that Sam didn't live up to those expectations had turned him into the butt of many jokes. For all he hated the years his mum had forced him to move around the world, Jon was at least glad he had grown up primarily out of the circle of pureblood society. From what he's seen, he hates it.

"You have your mother's love," Jon reminds him. "And your sister's."

"Yes," he chuckles. "And you have the Starks."

Jon chuckles too in spite of his sullen mood. He may not have the blood of the pack but he knows he's as much a part of it as a true Stark. "Aye, that I do."

Another silence descends upon the two friends before Sam turns his body fully towards Jon to speak. "Sansa asked for you."

This surprises Jon and he arches a brow in question.

"She didn't say what it was about but you should probably go find her later," Sam suggests to which he nods quietly, wondering what exactly it is Sansa wants. His thoughts turn dark when he starts to conjure up images of Sansa cornered alone and afraid by that blonde-haired cunt. If not for his need to graduate Hogwarts with a good, clean record, he would gladly curl his hands around Joffrey Baratheon's neck and watch as his last glimmer of life fades away from those sadistic eyes.

"You went from sulking to murderous," Sam says in alarm. "Jon?"

"It's nothing."

Although news had quickly spread since that Friday over Jon and Sansa's altercation with Joffrey, no one knew who started what and her secret still remains hidden. Jon has no desire to break her trust now – he had even gone so far as to swear Ygritte from ever speaking of what she saw. It had caused an argument or two between them but ultimately she promised.

A distant hoot pulls Jon from his revelry and the two friends look up at the exact time a tawny brown old comes flapping towards them. It doesn't slow as it swoops into the bridge, dropping a letter into Jon's hand, before flying back to where it had come from.

"How many is that now?" Sam questions with incredulity. "You have to open one."

"Why? Why should I listen to anything the man says?" He crumples the letter in his hand and drops it onto the ground. He starts to walk away but even without having to glance back, he knows Sam has creased out the letter and is following diligently behind.

"Because you'll regret it if you don't," Sam says as he catches up to Jon.

"Regret?" Jon spits out vehemently. "Where was his regret the past seventeen years, Sam? Or is he only doing this now to clear his conscience because my mother is dead?"

"Maybe," Sam rubs at the nape of his neck. "Maybe he is. But you deserve to at least know. Find some peace of mind at last."

Peace of mind – that is a laughable notion. Jon doesn't think he's had peace of mind since her passing nearly six months ago now. And before that? He's not even sure what that was, but Jon stills and he exhales heavily. "You're asking a lot of me."

"I'm asking because I know you," Sam replies but there's a triumphant smile on his face as he hands over the letter. Jon takes it, avoiding the knowing eyes of his friend, and rips open the envelope.

He pulls the letter out slowly and braces himself for what he's about to read.

"Dear Jon," he says. "There is a lifetime of wrongs I have committed that I know you will never forgive me for and I do not expect you to. I understand this letter is seventeen years too late and I can list excuses for you in every shade and colour for my absence from your life and your mother's life, but it would not do us any good to begin this with lies. I left because I was selfish. And I stayed away because I was scared." Jon hisses through his teeth but now he has started reading, he can't stop. "But I truly want to make amends. I have followed your career at Hogwarts, Jon. You are an impressive young man and I only wish to make your acquaintance. I don't expect anything more than that. Please consider it. With regards, R. Targaryen."

"Bloody hell," Sam whispers. "You didn't – when you told me you knew who your father was, you never told me it was… Bloody hell."

"It doesn't matter who he is," Jon groans. "He'll never be my father. No matter what he says. I have no father."

"Jon -"

"Drop it, Sam."

He doesn't wait for another response. He turns from the spot and begins to walk back towards the castle. As he does, he reaches for his wand from the inside pocket of his robes and whispers an incantation that quickly lights the letter on fire.

Rhaegar Targaryen can go sod himself for all Jon cares.

By the time Halloween approaches, Jon was receiving at least a dozen letters a week – all of which he burns as soon as he sees them. He no longer cares if people know or if Robb continuously hounds him down about the letters or if Arya punches him in the shoulder for keeping secrets from her; he just does not have the energy to think about what writing back to Rhaegar means. Jon thinks if he sees the man in the flesh he might hex him repeatedly for all the hurt he's caused Jon's mum.

When a letter arrives for him during Charms class, Jon is fuming. He asks to be excused immediately, citing headaches and anything he can say to leave the curious eyes of his friends and girlfriend behind. When Professor Manderly finally lets him go, he races out of there as fast as he can manage. Frankly, he's tired of the questions, and god, he's even more tired of fighting with Ygritte about it. He tries to remember she is only asking because she cares but it's hard to constantly argue with someone who should know him well enough to leave him alone. His secrets are his and when he's ready he'll talk.

Jon doesn't head for the Hospital Wing as he says he will. He walks straight out of the castle doors, down past the courtyard and Hagrid's Hut, until he is standing in the shadowed walls of the Forbidden Forest. The name deters some of the younger students but most know that as long as you don't venture too far into the forest, you won't come to much harm – not that his own safety is even on his mind at the moment. Jon just needs a place to clear his head, to feel as if he's somewhere else, somewhere far from the stony castle walls.

The ground is damp underneath his feet from this morning's shower and the mud squishes as he paces. Sunlight is blocked by the thick canopy of trees above Jon and it leaves him in a muted grey world that already feels and smells so vastly different from Hogwarts. Everything in here feels so alive in spite of winter's foreboding.

Jon stands the for some time unaware of whether it is minutes or hours that pass him by. It's hard to find any distinction in the height of the sun in the sky. Inside the forest, everything looks the same but he can tell he's been there for some while by the numbness in his fingers and the biting cold around his nose and cheeks.

Jon leans his back against a tree, tilting his head upwards and closing his eyes. He tries to remember his mother's face – the grey eyes and curly dark hair that he has so clearly inherited. He wonders then if there is even anything of his father in him at all. He hopes not. He doesn't think he can stand to have even a single trait of Rhaegar Targaryen, whether physical or otherwise, but he wonders all the same. For anyone who looked at Lyanna and Jon together, the resemblance was uncanny and no one could deny them mother and son but to speak with them even for an hour and one might start to speculate whether Jon is Lyanna's son at all. While she is so vibrant, so full of life, Jon is her opposite. He knows the others describe him as solemn and grumpy but he prefers to think of himself as quiet. Unlike his mother, Jon never impulsively did anything. He always needed to think everything through several times over before acting – at least he tried. Sometimes there was a part of him so dark and primal that surged forward when the people he cared about were threatened. Jon doesn't know where it comes from or how even to control it but it's like having a dormant dragon slumbering inside him till someone is dumb enough to provoke it.

"Jon!"

His eyes snap open and at first he thinks someone's found him, ready to interrogate him once more about the letters, but then they fall on her red hair, her clear blue eyes and the rosy pink tinge of her cheeks. "Sansa, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same."

"Needed some peace and quiet," Jon answers truthfully.

She nods with understanding. "Same." She raises her left hand and shows him the book she's holding. "I've been coming here to read. I like the quiet and… it kind of reminds me of home."

"I know what you mean," Jon says. "It's the cold, isn't it?"

When Sansa laughs, he can't help but smile with her. She shakes her head, stepping towards him. "It must be annoying."

"What must be?"

"The constant questions. People wondering if you're okay all the time," Sansa says. "People always wanting to know about things they don't need to know about."

Jon realises then that she is the only person in his life not to badger him with questions. She is the only one to have kept her distance and allowed him the space he so desperately craves. He is also shameful to realise he has allowed that space to grow because he's been too self-involved to know it was there in the first place.

"Would you hate me then if I asked you how you're doing?" Jon pushes himself from the tree to close the distance between them. She laughs again and shakes her head. "How are you, Sansa?"

"Better," she answers. "How are you? I think it's only fair."

"Aye, you're right," Jon says and then shrugs his answer. "Frustrated? Perhaps irritable is a better word."

"I've been there," she says with a wry smile before pulling a blanket from her bag. She walks over to the tree he was just leaning against and shakes it out by its trunk. "So that's why we should skip dinner, skip the circus of people in there and stay here a little while longer."

"Aren't you cold?" Jon asks.

Sansa snorts in a rather unladylike way but Jon likes it. For a girl so possessed by her manners, he finds it disarmingly cute when she does something she wouldn't ever do in front of anyone else. "Never… But just in case, this blanket is charmed to warm us."

"What about food?"

"I have a thermos of hot chocolate and some lemon cakes."

This makes him laugh and it's the first real laugh he's had since the letters first started to arrive and it surprises him how something so simple as amusement over Sansa's predictability could pull that from him when nothing else has.

"What? Do you not like lemon cakes?" Sansa asks as she folds herself on the blanket.

"I love them," Jon answers and takes his seat beside her. "Though I don't believe anyone could love them quite like you do. You know your mum had baked me a lemon cake for my third birthday and you stuck your grubby little paws into it before I could even blow out the candles."

"No!" Sansa gasps with her hands to her mouth. "I didn't really, did I?"

"You did," Jon laughs and nudges her with his foot. "My birthday unknowingly created a monster."

"Jon," Sansa swats at him. "I am not that bad."

"I don't know. I think you might be."

She's rolling her eyes now at him and takes the container of lemon cakes and places it far from his reach. "Fine then you get none for mocking me."

"I am not above stealing your lemon cakes from you," Jon warns with a mischievous smile.

"You wouldn't dare, Jon Snow," Sansa is saying as she starts to back away from him, reaching for the container to hold it tightly into her side.

"I'm a quidditch captain and didn't you say we were all barbarians?" Jon inches closer towards her. "Maybe you aren't too far off."

"Jon…"

He cuts her off by lunging forward for the container. Sansa shrieks with surprise as she tries to roll away from him but Jon is blessed with years of training his reflexes so he's able to easily pin her down with both his hands on her wrists. He laughs as she tries to wriggle free.

"You are a horrible boy," Sansa breathes out but she's smiling so he knows he hasn't gone too far.

"A growing boy," Jon counters as he lets go of one wrist to lean down on his elbow. He's then pulling her other wrist forward so he can take the container from her hand, but he's thrown off-balance when Sansa suddenly shoves him on his back, her legs straddling him and the container held high above his head.

"Never underestimate a Stark," Sansa smirks. She opens the container and breaks off a piece of lemon cake to plop into her mouth. "Mhmm… Delicious."

"Okay, okay, I can admit defeat when I've been –" His words die on his lips as he watches her cardigan fall from her shoulder to reveal a yellowing bruise. "That… that son of a bitch!"

"Jon?" Sansa's eyes are wide but she follows his gaze to her shoulder and she's scrambling away from him, pulling the cardigan back up. "No, Jon, it's not…"

But he's already on his feet.

This time he doesn't think he'd be able to stop once he has the cowardly prick in his grasps. He doesn't think he even cares if he's expelled for it. All Jon cares about is ridding the world of Joffrey's evil and protecting Sansa from anyone who would ever dare to lay a finger on her.

"I'll kill him, Sansa," Jon says. "And then he'll never touch you again."

He starts to walk towards the castle but before he can move even two steps, Sansa is in front of him with her hands on his chest, pushing him back.

"Jon, please."

"Why are you protecting him!" Jon shouts in anger but he instantly softens when he sees her face. The plait she had her hair in falls now in loose tendrils with a dead leaf stuck at the top and those blue eyes are so pleading, so warm he feels remorse at having shouted at her at all. His rage isn't directed at her and he tries his hardest to understand the girl before him – this sweet, kind, intelligent girl – but he can't. "Sansa, you don't have to be scared of him. I can protect you."

"No one can protect me," Sansa says resolutely. "And I don't need your protection."

"I can… if you let me," Jon takes her hand in his. "Please let me."

She pulls away with a heavy sigh. "No, Jon. This isn't your fight. This is mine and… and the bruise isn't from Joffrey."

"Then who is it –"

"It's from Ygritte."

"What? No… I don't… I don't understand," Jon stammers out, his mind foggy with this admission from her.

"She's teaching me how to defend myself," Sansa tells him. "She made me promise not to tell you of it but she's helping me. And... I feel for the first time like I can actually stand up to him. Without you. Or Robb. Or anyone else to fight my battles for me."

For a second, he doesn't know how to respond or why her not needing him fills him with such anguish, but after the silence starts to make her fidget nervously, Jon pushes the cardigan from her shoulder. The bruise is mostly yellow with some purple discolouration but at least it means it's in its final stages of healing. He gently runs his thumb across her bare skin, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Sansa. "Is it sore?" he asks as his eyes flicker up to hers. She shakes her head. "I hate to see you like this."

Sansa's hand comes up to grip his. "I'm fine, I promise I can handle this."

"God, she really doesn't hold back, does she?"

"No," Sansa laughs and the sound is what he needs to let go of the tension in his shoulders. He drops his hand from hers and offers her a half-smile. "But I can see why you like her so much."

"What do you mean?"

"She's amazing," Sansa says. "So strong and capable, like she has no fear in the world. I can only wish to be more like her by the end of this."

"Aye, sometimes I think there is nothing Ygritte can't do," Jon says but then he's taking her hands in his again, forcing her to really look at him. "But you are strong in a way she isn't, Sansa. You're so loving and you're so perceptive to other people's emotions in a way that most people aren't. I don't think you give yourself enough credit. You're amazing too."

A/N: I hope you enjoyed that! Let me know what you think! Thank you anyways though for reading! 3