Disclaimer: We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

Chapter 6: The Man Who Knew Too Much

Jon cast one last look around his room. It was the one he had grown up in and the only space he could call his own in Winterfell, yet even that had been borrowed, for he had always been reliant on the hospitality of Lady Catelyn. His few belongings were already stowed away in two packs on his horse. There wasn't much; just some clothing, whet stones, and provisions that he would need for his journey. Everything else he left on the shelves. There was a small wooden carved wolf that he had treasured as a boy and his small wooden practise sword. His father had given him and Robb one each on their fifth name day. Well, it had been Robb's name day. Jon never knew when his was and no one had ever told him. When his brother had his name day, he knew he was one year older too.

"I suppose that's it then?" said Damon. Jon almost drew his sword. Why did Damon always have to appear without warning when he was least expected to? If he did that a few more times, he might begin to suspect the sell-sword was one of the 'grumpkins and snarks' from beyond the Wall that Tyrion Lannister liked to mock.

"I know you do not approve, but I do not need your approval," said Jon, putting down the wooden sword on the shelf. He would leave all these things behind. That was in the past. He now faced a future of honour and purpose, and no one could say anything to convince him otherwise.

"Hey, I'm not your mother," said Damon. "Why should I care if you decide to throw your life away on some frozen waste?"

Thoughts of a previous conversation came unbidden to Jon. He still didn't know why he had told Damon of his decision to join the Watch. And no, he did not believe he had "subconsciously" asked for advice.

"Why would you want to join some celibate brotherhood and freeze your balls off on some wasteland guarding against fairy tales no one else seems to believe in?"

That had been the question Damon had asked while Robb had been occupied with business with Ned and King Robert. Theon had gone to visit the brothel, leaving Damon and Jon with a lot of time on their hands and no mood to do anything.

It was what everyone said to him whenever he mentioned joining the Watch, which was not all that often. But he had happened to make the mistake of mentioning it to Damon, thinking that he of all people would understand, being someone who had had to make his own way in the world. And there was more honour in taking the black than becoming a sell-sword, which was the only other path Jon could see himself taking.

He and Damon had been trying to teach Ghost to fetch sticks, with limited success. The pup had been looking at them as if saying, "What is the point of this? At least throw me a bone." Jon had given up. Damon had not.

"I want to make something of myself, Damon," Jon had said. "Don't you?"

"So you take the path that everyone else expects you to take because you're a bastard."

"I don't see what else there is for me, unless I want to become like you."

"There's nothing wrong with being a sell-sword. I ended up in a pretty good place, didn't I?"

"Not everyone is as lucky."

"And not everyone has Robb as a brother. If I were you, I…well, I wouldn't say I'd milk it, but, you know…I'd definitely make use of the connection, if you get my meaning."

But the last thing Jon wanted was to be a burden to Robb. He wanted to forge his own path, to make his name known for its sake alone, not because he was Robb's half-brother.

"I have made my choice. I don't even know why I'm talking to you about it."

"You're talking to me about it because you're not sure what you want and subconsciously, you want my advice because I've got the experience, the intelligence, and everything else that you haven't got.

"In fifty years, a hundred years, a hundred and fifty years, it won't matter that you were born on the wrong side of the sheets, Jon Snow. What they will remember is what you made of yourself after that."

"I can't even think of what will happen next year, Damon. I don't really care about what happens next century."

Perhaps he had lied, both to himself and to the sell-sword. He did care what they thought of him in a century. Would they whisper his name with admiration, or would they simply forget him, just as everyone else seemed to forget him?

"Hmm…" said Damon. "Maybe. Just don't say no one warned you when your idyllic future goes sour."

"Are you sure you're not subconsciously trying to convince me to stay because you have no idea how you are going to tolerate yourself without my companionship?"

"Whoa, Jon Snow, are we using big words now?"

"There is one thing that the Wall definitely has over Winterfell now that you're here. I won't have to put up with you anymore when I leave."

"Heh, you wouldn't have had the pleasure of my presence in Winterfell for much longer anyway. Lord Stark is taking me with him to King's Landing when he takes up the mantle of the Hand of the King."

The wagons, loaded with their dark oilcloth covered bundles and all the provisions they were going to need for a month long journey –two months, if things got tough− waited in the courtyard. It seemed as if all of Winterfell had come out to see off Lord Stark. Damon had never really appreciated how many people there were in the city, or the high regard in which they held the ruling house, until now.

A fine powdery rain had started falling, darkening the flagstones and casting a haze over everything. He drank in the sights and sounds and smells of the first city he had ever encountered in Westeros. It was hard to believe, but he would actually almost miss this place.

"Write to me as soon as Bran wakes up," Ned said gruffly to Catelyn as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Although not a man given to great displays of emotion, he was easy to read as…well, not even a book. He was more like one of those short succinct articles in newspapers written to accommodate the comprehension abilities of the lowest denominator in the masses. He hated to leave at a time like this when his son hung in the balance between life and death, but his duty called, and Eddard Stark would always put duty first. He was even more chronic than non-ripper Stefan.

"I will," said Catelyn. "Look after yourself and don't work too hard. You know how you can get."

"I promise I will remember to eat and sleep," said Ned.

He embraced Robb and patted Theon on the shoulder. Arya and Sansa would be coming with them to the capital and Jon would be riding with them to the Crossroads –they were very creative with names in Westeros.

Robb embraced Jon tightly. "Look after yourself, Snow," he said.

"And you too, Stark," said Jon, dredging up the most pathetic smile in the world. Damon could understand what they were feeling. He missed Stefan too, as he had done during the several times they had been separated, not that he would actually admit it. However, the Salvatores always had the chance of meeting each other again, whether it was fifty years later or a hundred years later. But unlike the Salvatores, Robb and Jon didn't have that luxury. Fifty years was more than a lifetime for the two young north men.

"Promise you'll write back," said Robb when he finally released Jon.

"You know I can't," said Jon.

"Then find someone who can help you. Promise me."

"I'll try."

As for the vampire, he had very few goodbyes to say. Oh, the girls would miss him, of course, but they were already setting their eyes on new targets, such as the acting lord of Winterfell. If that was their goal, Damon wished them good luck. Robb was…picky.

Bonnie was the only person who hugged Damon goodbye, but even that was a guise to exchange words with him that she didn't want others to hear.

Because Bran was yet to wake, Catelyn had requested that she stay behind to continue brewing her 'secret concoctions' for him. Damon had been rather reluctant to donate any more blood towards the cause. The boy was going to live. That was good enough for him. But Bonnie had insisted, saying he owed the Starks. Which he sort of did, but that was never anything he would actually admit, either out loud or to himself.

However, he actually liked Ned's sons well enough to relent at the very last, and now there were several vials of Sang de Damon sitting in a cold corner of a store room somewhere for Bonnie's potions.

"Behave," she hissed into his ear.

"Define that, witchy," he whispered back as he patted her back and pretended to say that he would miss her. He wouldn't. Not really. He doubted she'd miss him either.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he advised Theon once Bonnie was convinced that she'd convinced him to at least restrain himself from drinking any royals while in King's Landing – he was still curious, but it seemed a reasonable enough request.

"But there is nothing and no one you wouldn't do," said Theon. A look from Catelyn made him shut up with an apologetic look.

"With you out of the picture, Salvatore, it will be much easier to make sure he behaves," said Robb.

"I'm just afraid you'll get bored, milord," said Damon, bowing to him.

"Bored? Relieved is probably a better word," said Robb. "You have no excuse to not write back. I want to know everything about King's Landing; everything you hear, see, smell, taste…anything."

Was it just him, or did Robb seem a little envious? He was stuck in grey little Winterfell while his brother and his sisters all went off on adventures in distant places he had never been to. Envy was probably a very reasonable thing to be feeling in his case.

"Is that another way of saying you'll miss me, Lord Robb?" asked Damon.

"Hardly," said Robb. "Now go. If you tarry any longer, they will simply leave you behind."

The vampire bowed low with a flourish. "As you command, Lord Stark," he said.

Howling winds blew from the north. The landscape had become…well, he'd say 'stark' but that would be a bad pun, apparently. The grass grew sparser as they continued their way up north. The sun never shone, and all the streams and springs seemed to be frozen. Whenever anyone wanted water, they needed to break the ice to get to it. Sometimes they needed to boil ice for water.

It had been several days since Jon had parted from his father at the Crossroads. He missed him. He missed Winterfell. But he was determined to carve a place in a world that did not want him and nothing in the world could possibly make him turn back, no matter what Damon or anybody said.

Thick forests entangled them in their boughs, and the men were always on guard for predators…or other things. Only the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister, seemed unconcerned about whatever dangers lay on the road as he embarked on his quest to "piss off the Wall". He would sit contentedly reading by the fire. Jon had never seen anyone devour books the way he did, and he could not possibly see what was so interesting or useful about squiggles written on vellum.

"Why do you read so much?" he asked him one night as he sharpened his sword. The feel of stone against metal, the steady rhythm, and the ringing that reverberated with each stroke were comforting and familiar. Orange flames crackled, sending sparks up into the night sky like tiny stars rising to meet their greater distant cousins already up in the heavens. The sparks flared and swirled for a transient moment before fading away into black nothingness, none of them ever making it higher than the first branch of the shortest tree. The firelight made the asymmetry of the dwarf's face even more prominent, and his eyes were cast in shadows beneath his heavy brows.

"You whet your sword often, yes?" said Tyrion without looking up from his page.

"Yes," said Jon.

"You have your sword. I don't have a sword, but I have my mind and a mind needs books the way a sword needs a whetstone." At his confused silence, Tyrion finally looked up. "Swords do not change the world, young bastard. Ideas do."

"What did you call me?" asked Jon as he stiffened.

"I called you a bastard," said Tyrion quite calmly. "For that is what you are, Jon Snow. The sooner you learn that, the better. I am a dwarf, or the Imp, if you like. I own it."

The idea of simply accepting he was a bastard, and the fact that ideas rather than swords shaped the world was almost more than Jon could comprehend right now. It went against everything he had been taught; everything he had ever known.

He returned to sharpening his sword in silence.

Robb knocked on the door slowly, quietly, as if he were afraid of disturbing Bran's rest. Which was ironic, really, because everyone actually wanted him to wake up; the sooner the better. However, a few moments later, his mother opened the door. Her red hair, once so like Sansa's, was dull and tangled, and she seemed to have aged ten years.

"How is he?" asked Robb as he entered the sickroom and closed the door behind him.

"He sleeps still," said Catelyn.

"Has Bonnie been by with the medicine?"

His mother nodded. For a moment, Robb felt a little guilty, for he had taken the maidservant away so she could help Maester Luwin sort through the daily documents which came to the lord's attention. His father had taken the maester's assistants to King's Landing, and it was hard to find someone whose reading comprehension was at the right level to replace them. Bonnie read better than most, and she had been of invaluable aid to the maester who would otherwise have been swamped with paperwork.

And just like Bonnie, there were other duties that Catelyn needed to attend to. He watched her as she sat back down by Bran's bedside, weaving a prayer circle with depictions of the seven southern gods.

"You have to come out at some point, Mother," said Robb. "Rickon needs you. He's six, and he's scared. He spends all day clinging to my legs, asking what's going on and I don't know how to explain it to him." He tried to be firm and gentle, the way his father always was.

"They say he will never walk again," Catelyn blurted out suddenly.

Robb paused. Never walk again? He could not ever imagine Bran not climbing. His mother had always wanted him to stop climbing, but this was just a cruel trick by the gods. He didn't know which ones, and he didn't care. If they could do this to his brother, they were not his gods.

They remained silent, watching the light from the candles and the hearth flicker over Bran's face. And then there was more light; more than there ought to be. Robb ran to the window. He could see the orange glow lighting up the night sky and hear the shouts of panicking men. The town below the castle was aflame.

"You stay here," he said to his mother as he rushed out the door. "I will be back."

Men were already running around trying to douse the fire haphazardly. It hissed at them like an angry snake whenever someone threw water into the flames with no effect at all. They danced from roof to roof, taking hold on the tar tiles and straw thatching easily. The roofs caved in as they were eaten away by the fire.

Robb quickly organised the men the best he could. He could not fight the fire if he randomly attacked it, he knew, but he could contain it until it burnt itself out. Buckets and buckets were water were brought in and thrown onto the edge of the flames and the buildings that had yet to catch fire. Besides, there were more important things to worry about.

Winterfell was not the most flammable of places. The cold and damp meant hardly anything ever caught fire, at least not accidentally. There had been the occasional incident where someone had not been watching their hearths or had fallen asleep and knocked over a candle, but this…

This had to be deliberate.

Why would someone deliberately start a fire in Winter Town of all places? As far as he knew, the usual inhabitants had very few grudges against each other; at least, not grudges so big that they would risk destroying half the town to get vengeance. So it had to be something else.

He turned to the man-at-arms closest to him and tried to recall his name. Fagan? Dagan? He couldn't really remember; what he did remember was that he was the opposite of Damon's favourite person in all of Winterfell. "Tell the men to arm themselves. There may be an attack tonight. Bar the city gates. No one gets in or out without my say so," said Robb.

"But it is a fire, milord," said the man in confusion. Yes, he could see why the clever sell-sword had disliked him. He was as dull as Rickon's toy dagger and less useful.

"The fire is a diversion for something else," said Robb.

"It doesn't have to be. It could be an accident−"

Robb cut him off before he could complete his syllable. "If you are afraid of fighting the enemy, then perhaps you ought to fight the fire."

"Milord, I am a knight−" Robb did not let him finish. He snatched an empty bucket from one of the men thrust it at Damon's-least-favourite-person and pierced him with one of his scathing Tully glares. The man scurried off.

"Did I just see you touch a bucket?" asked Theon incredulously.

"Yes, you did," said Robb, snatching up another bucket and thrusting it into the Greyjoy's arms. "And look, I did it again."

"What am I supposed to do with this?" asked Theon.

Robb rolled his eyes. "You see what Bonnie is doing?" The girl was getting more water on her skirts than anywhere near the flames, but at least she would not be burned, and she was trying to help. He had to give her a little credit for that. "Help her."

Theon stared at him as if he wanted to slam the bucket over his head.

"Now, Theon," said Robb. As an afterthought, he added: "Please." There. That ought to keep him happy.

At first, it seemed futile, but the prolonged efforts of the men, and the lack of things to burn, killed it by morning. But the fire was not his main concern. All night, he was tense, wondering when the attack would come. Part of him wanted it to come, the sooner the better. He knew he could lead the men into battle. He had been trained to lead his whole life, and he was itching to do it. Another part was afraid; afraid that he would not live up to everyone's expectations.

The attack never came. Smoke wreathed the blackened streets of the town. A red gash appeared on the horizon. It remained quiet and sullen. He had made the men arm themselves in the middle of the night for nothing. What would they think?

"Robb!" Theon ran towards him, his face covered in soot. Beside him was Bonnie, also covered in soot. Both were unharmed. "Robb…Lady Stark…Bran…" Robb did not wait for him to catch his breath so he could utter a complete sentence.

He ran towards the sickroom.

The journey had been exciting at the beginning, but as it wore on, Arya began to feel it was more of the same thing over and over again. Every day, they would ride, stopping several times for rests and meals. At least in Winterfell, she was able to practise archery with her brothers. Now there was no one except Sansa, and she was off riding with Joffrey, not that Sansa would practise archery with anyone. Or sparring. Arya wished someone would teach her to spar. Jon would have, but he was at the Wall now and she didn't know when she'd see him again.

She sat by the quickly flowing river which rushed over the round rocks as if it were hurrying to get somewhere. Where else could it go but the sea? She began setting leaves, like little green boats, on the surface of the water and watching them bob away, turning on the currents and sometimes getting dashed against stones, wondering if they would make it to the sea. She had never seen the sea before. Robb had, and he'd said it was wild and wet and windy and grey; awe-inspiring, but not very fun at all. Boats would sooner be dashed against the cliffs than sail out onto the open ocean.

Horses and men passed by her as if she were simply another rock or log by the side of the river. No one took any notice of Sansa's little sister who wasn't nearly as pretty and who didn't know how to sew.

"Lady Arya." Arya looked up. A boy of thirteen, covered in dirt and freckles, was approaching her. His clothes were torn and stained with old blood from the animals his father killed. "Me da jus' lemme go. We were cuttin' up a pig fer t'night, see."

Arya couldn't care less about tonight's pig. She was just glad to see her friend. Mycah was the butcher's son. He wasn't particularly bright, he smelled like meat that had been left out for too long, and had a face that looked like it had been squashed into the ground by falling piece of pork, but he was her friend and the only one who was happy to help her practise sword fighting. Mycah swore he would become a knight someday, somehow. He hadn't figured it out quite just yet, but he was so certain he would get there one day.

She had to admit he wasn't too bad with a sword. Well, stick. She was the only one with a sword, and she didn't have anyone to stick the pointy end into. The sticks were almost the right length, and this would have to do for now until she found someone who was actually willing to teach her. She had her eye on Damon, actually, but he was too busy with 'duties', although she had seen him do nothing except wander around aimlessly, ribbing the men and offering pleasant flatteries to Sansa. Oh, and spending a lot of time standing guard outside her father's tent whenever he discussed matters with King Robert. That was an actual duty, she supposed.

Mycah struck the back of her hand with his stick. It would bruise later and Septa Mordane would scold her for it, but she didn't care. The sting and ache only made her want to win all the more. Was this what the men called 'battle fever'?

"Arya! What are you doing?"

She had been so engrossed in her sparring that she had not noticed Sansa and Joffrey riding up, Sansa upon her mare and Joffrey on his stallion the colour of molten sunlight. Sansa covered her nose as she approached and pulled to a stop beside the two of them. "Ladies do not fight with butcher's boys," she said in that haughty tone of hers that made Arya want to throw her into the stream. Or something. The sight of Sansa emerging from the water dripping and screaming with her hair and gown ruined would be very satisfying.

"Is that your sister, Sansa?" asked Joffrey, sounding louder than usual.

"Unfortunately, Your Highness," replied Sansa.

Joffrey dismounted a little unsteadily. As he neared, Arya smelled the summerwine on him.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked Mycah.

The boy's eyes were round with fear upon beholding the rich cloak and tunic of the prince, and the sword that hung by his side. Joffrey slowly drew his blade, which he called Lion's Tooth. Arya had remarked on it before to Damon that it was odd for him to name it after his mother's house rather than his father's.

"He can hardly name it 'Stag's Antler' unless he wants to be known as a cuckold forever," the man-at-arms had said. Arya had laughed then. She wasn't laughing now.

The blade rang lightly as it scraped against the side of the scabbard. Joffrey levelled it at Mycah, the tip pointing directly at his face. "What is your name, I asked."

"His name is Mycah, Your Highness. He's the butcher's son," said Sansa with disgust. She covered her nose as if something smelled bad.

"He's my friend," said Arya.

"Do you know what the penalty is for hurting my betrothed's sister, butcher's boy?" asked Joffrey.

"He didn't hurt me. We were sparring. It was an accident!"

Joffrey ignored her. "Take up your stick and let's see how well you spar, Ser Butcher," he sneered. Mycah shook his head. Dim as he was, he understood that he could not take up arms against a prince.

"Pick up your stick! Or do you only fight little girls?" The tip of the sword drew blood from Mycah's cheek.

She had to do something. She knew that look in Joffrey's eyes. It was the same look in the kitchen cat's eyes as he toyed with a mouse before he killed it just because he could. "Stop it!" she screamed, and before anyone could do anything to stop her, she'd struck Joffrey on the back of the head with her stick. Too late she remembered Damon advising Bran to hit at the temple rather than anywhere else because it was easier to kill a man that way.

The impact of the blow made Joffrey fall to the ground on his face and cracked her stick in two. "You!" snarled Joffrey. He forgot Mycah as he scrambled to his feet and lunged at Arya. She dodged, and just in time, or else he would have gutted her like a pig.

"Run, Mycah!" Arya shouted. The boy wasted no time in doing so.

Joffrey lunged at her again, but before he could strike, Nymeria had leapt at him. He yelled in fright and confusion as the pup's sharp teeth sank into his sword arm, making him drop his sword. "Damned dog! I'll have its pelt for a rug!" Yes, Joffrey, if only he could just dislodge her from his arm. At this rate, Nymeria would be making a rug out of Joffrey's pelt. It wouldn't be a very good rug, but it would be even more satisfying than…anything else Arya could think of.

She picked up Joffrey's sword before he could reclaim it and threw it as far as she could into the rushing river. It disappeared beneath the currents with a splash. Hopefully it would be washed all the way out to sea.

"Come, Nymeria!" she said. The wolf let the prince go. He still lay cradling his arm and screaming obscenities, but now more a like a snivelling trembling child than a prince who could rule the world. There would be consequences, Arya knew. She didn't wait to find out what they would be. The safety and shadow of the wood beckoned.

Ned called her name until his voice was hoarse, yet he had found no sign of his daughter or her direwolf. When he had first heard that Arya had attacked Joffrey, he had found it hard to believe, but the bite marks on the prince's arm were hard to deny.

The forest was so dark that even with torches, he could only see the silhouettes of the tangled trees and branches. White vapours swirled about his legs and the torch light illuminated the clouds emerging with each breath. An owl hooted and crows cawed as they were disturbed by the searchers.

"Anything, Salvatore?" he asked. The younger man had better eyes, and better tracking skills. Damon straightened himself from his crouch and dropped his handful of leaves.

"Not at all, milord," he said. "Are you sure she would not have gone back to camp?" He turned around slowly, blue eyes narrowed, as he surveyed the surrounding trees and underbrush. "Because the only thing that's been through here recently is a doe."

"If she had returned to camp, they would have sent word," said Ned.

Suddenly, there were shouts in the distance; panicked shouts and screams. Ned's heart almost stopped as he thought of what the knights could possibly have found to make them scream like children waking from nightmares. Had someone found his daughter? How was she? Where was she? He began to run, ignoring the pleas from his men for him to wait for them in case there was any danger. If there was danger, then he had to be there to protect Arya. He had to−

"It came out of nowhere!"

"It grabbed him!"

"What was it?!"

Men were running in all directions, their faces white with terror even in the dark. Some of them were so terrified they could not even talk and could only blabber when Ned demanded what was going on.

On the ground lay a broken body. Relief made Ned go weak at the knees even as concern seized his heart. The man's mouth was open in a silent scream, his face frozen forever in terror.

Two thin streams of blood trickled from the puncture wounds in his neck.

A/N: Ooh, who can that possibly be?