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Chapter Seven: Some Mother's Son.
Robb was giving Jon the most peculiar look, but all would soon become clear. In the meantime, he carried on doing what was doing. Barring his chamber door, closing and shuttering the windows, lighting candles and stoking the fire. With the shock of the truth still sending shockwaves through his body, he felt like he was committing high treason just thinking about it all. Before he could feel safe actually speaking those thoughts aloud, he wanted to be sure. At least if there was a Baratheon spy hiding up his chimney, they'd soon have the arse burned out of them. Jon smiled as the flames climbed the flue.
"Jon, what is all this?" Robb sounded worried now. "It can't be that bad."
When the last candle was lit, he sat beside his brother on the bed and told him everything the Queen had told him. He was only telling Robb because he trusted him implicitly and because he had promised. It was a promise he made before the hunting party left, before even he realised how dangerous the truth was.
"It's Lyanna and Rhaegar," said Jon. "They're my real parents and I never even saw it coming."
Robb rocked back as if absorbing a blow to the body. "Gods, Jon, are you being serious? I heard you said this to my mother and father told her you were just lashing out-"
"Because father doesn't trust her with the truth," he interjected. "I'm not even supposed to be telling you. When father came to see me on the day of the hunt, he told me to tell no one. Not even you – remember?"
Robb nodded. "Now we know why. Now we know why everything was so secret." He paused, lost in thought for a moment. Then, he laughed. "All these years… All these years you've been the bastard of Winterfell. Now you're the lost prince. You have to admire the irony."
"It's no laughing matter!"
"No, no you're right and I apologise." But Robb was still smirking as he tried to pull himself together. "This makes no difference. We're brothers until we die. Understand? When I am Lord of Winterfell, I want you on my side and, preferably, by my side."
Sensing a 'but' coming, Jon remained silent to let him continue.
"But, this gives you more opportunities than you ever dared to hope for," continued Robb. "You can't go running off to the Wall now. You know that, don't you? Go south and prosper."
"And if anyone finds out-"
"Have they found out so far?" Robb cut in. "Lyanna buried you so deep you don't need to worry about that. Just keep pretending Lord Stark is your father and they'll never know any better."
He wished Robb had used some other word than 'buried', but he had a point. "I don't want to get on in life just because my mother is the Queen."
"You won't," said Robb. "She can't show you any favour. She can't give you anything. You said she told you that herself. And, anyway, where has this pride come from? You actually have choices now, which you did not before. You would be a fool to spurn her. In fact, I'm not even going to let you. I'm going to force you-"
The rest of what he was saying was lost as Jon burst out laughing. "Force me? How? In fact, don't answer. One thing I know, I cannot hide in here for the rest of her stay. Come, I need to fight someone and you're almost as good as me now."
"Almost?" Robb scoffed at the implication, but helped Jon extinguish the candles all the same. "I suppose I'm expected to let you win now that you're a fucking prince."
"Robb!" Jon retorted. "You can't even jest about this. Just, pretend I never told you."
His brother held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Calm down, already."
Jon rolled his eyes as he lifted the bar from his chamber door. He supposed he ought to be calm about it all. But he'd been as jumpy as a cat tied to a stick since Lyanna had told him everything. When the hunt returned that morning, he avoided make eye-contact with King Robert, as if the Gods gave the King the power to read minds. All these years, Lyanna had masked the truth from him and he tried to take that same logical view she clearly took.
He knew what he needed. To get back in the training yard and do what he did best.
The blunted tourney swords met with a dull clangour. A basic attack in which Robb appeared to have the upper hand but Jon met it effortlessly. The sparrers circled each other, keeping their distance and waiting for the other to make the next move. Jon feigned it, tricking Robb into attacking just so he could parry and twist, almost dragging the sword from his brother's hands. All the while, Lyanna watched from the timber balustrade overlooking the practise yard, one hand wrapped around a support beam.
Remembering her son's wine fuelled bragging from the night of the feast, she was keen to see what he was really like. As with everything he did, she had received progress reports and they were more than favourable. But from what she had seen so far, he was almost lazily defending against Robb's attacks. Whether preserving his strength or just sluggish, she could not tell. But she continued to watch with deep interest.
She would have wielded a sword herself, had Lord Rickard allowed it. All these years later, what little had she been able to learn on the sly had long since faded away. Her continued interest was purely academic, helping to search for talent that might be of use to King Robert's household. Hopeful contenders in search of wealthy patrons flocked through the galleries of the Red Keep, but precious few ever went on to make a name for themselves. Fewer still lived to see old age.
These days, her main interests lay with her first love: horses and equestrianism. Robert had had new stables constructed in the Red Keep as a wedding gift to her. He built extensions on the existing ones and added more stalls and bays as well as a breeding ground for the finest of her studs. There was everything from sturdy little garrons for long distances to destrier war horses used only in battle and tourneys. Mercifully, the demand for destriers had slumped since Robert won the war but the Lords still required them even if only for a boost to their status. Destriers were the Valyrian steel of horses.
While lost in her thoughts, Lady Stark had appeared at the foot of the steps leading up to the balustrade. Lyanna greeted her with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, but pulled up at the worried look on her face. When they were level with each other, Catelyn withdrew a small scroll of parchment that had been concealed up the dagged sleeve of her cloak. The broken seal was the vivid blue of House Arryn.
"A letter," she explained. "From Lysa."
Lyanna turned her back on the sparring match below and read it through quickly. "Jon Arryn was murdered. By the…"
Lannisters was left unspoken. Instinctively, she turned back to the yard below where she had seen the eye-catching golden armour and white cloak of Ser Jaime among the growing crowds of spectators ringing the practise yard. He was there still, watching Jon now fighting both Theon Greyjoy and Robb at the same time. There was nothing lazy about her son now, he was knocking both contenders into the dirt. But she no longer had time to think about that.
"That fever came out of nowhere," she recalled, looking back to Catelyn. "Robert said as much, Cat. And I saw it too. Burned through him like dragon fire. Even Pycelle said he'd never seen the likes in all his long years." Remembering the blue rose from the night before, she added: "There are have been altogether too many odd occurances, these last few months."
"So, you agree?" Cat asked. "Jon Arryn was poisoned?"
"I'm saying it could have been poison," she said, keeping an open mind. "What other evidence does she have?" She paused there and dropped her voice to barely more than a whisper. "What evidence does she have for the Lannisters being behind it? You must understand, I cannot urge Robert to act against Tywin because of one letter written after the fact. I need more."
Catelyn shrugged her shoulders. "Everything I know comes from that letter. But there's also the small matter of her fleeing the capital as soon as Lord Arryn died, taking the boy with her. She must have been in fear of her life. How was she when you saw her last? Tell me truly."
Lyanna hesitated, automatically touching the place over her left eye where Lysa's nails had raked her flesh at the mere suggestion of Tywin fostering Little Robert. If anything, she thought it more likely that Lysa had gone to raise the Lords of the Vale to march on Casterly Rock, never mind fearing for her life. However, out of sensitivity for addressing Lysa's sister, she tried to be tactful.
"She was certainly out of sorts," she said.
"Ned told me about the eye," Catelyn stated. "People attack when they're afraid."
"True," Lyanna agreed. "But Lysa had been out of sorts for some time. Even before Jon's death. She was never happy in King's Landing."
Being of a similar age and as close to kin as could be through marriage, Lyanna had tried to befriend Lysa. Before Robert was born Lysa was in her household, they dined together and spent free time in each other's company. But beyond their husbands, they had little in common and they both gave up trying.
"When did this arrive?" she asked, handing the letter back.
Catelyn thought for a second. "The same day you arrived. Luwin handed it to me the morning after the feast."
"Once we're out from beneath your feet, Lady Stark, perhaps you could visit her and find out what's really happening," Lyanna suggested. "As it stands, there's little I can do."
"I should see her anyway," Catelyn agreed. "It's been altogether too long."
They turned to watch the sparring match that was still going on in the yard below. Robb was on his knees in the dirt, hands held up and yielding to Jon. Jon didn't hang around to savour his victory. He immediately lunged at Theon Greyjoy while kicking a third opponent into the side lines, ducking neatly beneath the other boy's blade as he did so. All in one graceful movement.
"Gods, he's good," she murmured. He wasn't bragging the other night, he was understating. Or just venting his pent up frustration out on the poor unfortunates meeting him in the sparring yard.
"Hmm," Catelyn replied.
Lyanna turned to look at Catelyn. She was still watching the scene below, a look of distaste on her face. There really was little effort to hide her contempt for the cuckoo in her nest.
"I heard about the altercation last night," she said. "Jon shouldn't have said those things."
Catelyn even flinched at the sound of his name. Almost imperceptible, but just enough to notice.
"Bastards suffer envy, they lie to compensate for their shortcomings," she said, curtly.
Lyanna's gaze flickered to where Jon had just knocked seven bells out of her son and was now making short work of Theon Greyjoy and another lad. "I am certain he has a lot to be, er, envious of."
"They can't help it," she said, making it sound like some deep concession to nature. "So, do you have any notion of why he decided to name you in particular as his mother?"
Lyanna sighed heavily. "I'll do what I can to help Lysa, Lady Stark. But I am not prepared to stand here and listen to you insulting Jon. He didn't just knock your son, as well as three older lads, into the dirt out of envy, he did it out of skill and talent. Talent we need in the capital and that's where I intend to take him."
Catelyn's body had stiffened, but she dared not argue back. "Take him wherever you want. He's certainly not welcome here."
"Let us give him the Stark name," she said. "Agree, then you'll never have to see him again."
Catelyn met her gaze, shrewd and calculating. "And if I disagree?"
"Why would you do that?" Lyanna asked, genuinely curious. Her brow creased, looking her sister by law up and down, taking her measurements and trying to figure her out. "Let me rephrase that, Lady Stark. Do you think Jon would pose some sort of threat to Robb?"
"Of course I do!" she retorted. "Give him the Stark name and what else will he want?"
"A chance to forge a new life in the capital, far from Winterfell," she replied. "He will be working for me. Listen, allow our Lord to give him the Stark name and I will have it written in as a precondition that Jon has no claim to any of Lord Stark's titles, lands or properties. If Jon tries to take it by force, he is guilty of rebelling against his rightful lord and will be dealt with accordingly."
She knows this would never happen. Lyanna herself knows it, the dogs skulking around the edge of the curtain walls know it. Still Catelyn looked as if she were chewing on a thistle.
"Make him swear it," she stated, plainly. "Make him swear fealty to my son, to never take up arms against him, he relinquishes all claims to the North, then you do it."
"He can't relinquish all claim to the North because he hasn't got one to begin with," Lyanna pointed out. "But you're not for moving, so I'll ask speak with him. If he agrees to these terms, I'll have Robert draw up a contract-"
"If the boy doesn't agree, what will become of him?" Catelyn asked.
Lyanna shrugged. "That's up to him. But if you do this for him, he might just come to respect you. It's better than sending him off into the world harbouring a grudge against you. And by the looks of things, he will grow to be a formidable foe."
The sparring was done and a crowd had gathered. Robert stepped into the ring and gave Jon a hearty slap on the back that almost knocked him over. Only Lord Stark had stopped Jon's fall. Seeming not to have noticed, Robert was now in his element as he dished out advice to the boys, showing them stances and balancing a blade in his hands. Robert always preferred his hammer, but he was more than skilled with a sword too. She watched him now, as he joked with Robb and Ned. Jon, removing himself from the scene with stealth, watched darkly from the side lines. How easily he slipped away, an unnoticed afterthought quickly forgotten. It made her sad.
Eddard and Robert took up a blade each and the crowds parted with a great cheer. Lyanna turned to Catelyn, smiling brightly. "Come on, Cat. We can't stand around here being all serious when those two are about to make great lunks of themselves."
The corners of Lady Stark's mouth twitched. But she seemed determined not to see the funny side. "Ned will be honour bound to let Robert win."
"Oh, I don't know about that." Down below, the fight began in earnest.
Having been left aching all over from the sparring match, Jon let himself soak in the hot waters of Winterfell's large stone baths. Motionless and weightless in the perfumed waters, he let himself languish there. For once, there was no one else around. Everyone else was preparing for the night's royal banquet. Just a few more days of this and the court would be leaving again. Arya and Sansa would be going, too. Bran to follow in a year. Then there was him.
Jon let his body go limp so that he'd sink beneath the surface of the water. Winterfell was the only home he had ever know. He knew he had been born in the south, and he realised then that he'd never even considered the possibility of going back there. He would never see the Red Mountains of Dorne, or King's Landing, or Braavos, or the Mountains of the Moon… so many places he would never go. Now the world had opened up to him, revealing a jewel there for the taking.
He broke the surface of the water again, blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision. His skin was now mottled and pink, as wrinkled as Old Nan. As he got his breath back, he thought of the future and realised he was going south with his mother. His feet found the bottom of the stone bath and he stood upright with a sense of purpose far greater than the action required. He was going south and he was going to make something of himself. He didn't yet know what. But it would be something.
Once dried off and dressed in clean clothes, he set off back into the castle with a renewed sense of purpose. Passing down galleries and corridors he had roamed since infancy, he began to wonder when exactly the royal party was leaving. How long did he have left to make his goodbyes? They'd all only arrived a few days ago, but they wouldn't be stopping long. A week or two, at most. It didn't seem long to make so many farewells.
"Jon!"
Lyanna's voice stopped him in his tracks as he headed across the yard toward the common hall. He turned to watch as she strode toward him with a rolled up parchment in her hands. She brandished it at him like an assassin's dagger.
"Here," she said. "I wrangled this out of Lady Stark."
Jon took the parchment, breaking the royal seal with a sharp snap. "What is it?"
She nodded toward it, urging him to read for himself. He read it through once, oblivious to the small snowfall that had started all around him. Some of the flakes landed on the page, blurring the words where the ink on his decree of legitimisation had barely dried. It didn't seem real, it didn't even seem possible.
"Is it real?" he asked, looking up at her.
Snow was melting in her dark brown hair, her smile fading somewhat and he realised there was a clause attached. "All you have to do is swear fealty to Robb and swear never to take up arms against him."
Was that all? Jon almost laughed with relief. "Robb knows I would never do that. But if Lady Stark requires this bit of theatre, I will let her have it."
"And she has said she never wants to see you back in Winterfell again," she added. "But, Jon, it's meaningless. Whatever else she is, Catelyn Tully is not Warden of the North or Lord of Winterfell. If Robb says you may return, you may return."
Even this empty demonstration of how much Catelyn resented him came like a kick in the gut. He almost recoiled from it. She always had a way of sucking out whatever joy he could glean from a situation. Only now, it angered him where once it would have hurt him.
"Does Robb have the backbone to stand up to her?" asked Lyanna.
"I think he does," replied Jon. "And I wouldn't want to come back to Winterfell while she's still here, anyway. Thrice damn her!"
He gave himself a moment to seethe, during which Lyanna reached out and tucked a lock of still wet hair behind his ear. It was a tender gesture that took him strangely by surprise.
"Come inside before you catch your death, child," she said. "It's almost time to eat-"
"Wait," he cut in. "There's something I need to tell you. I want to come with you. I want to come south with you, to King's Landing. Does your offer still stand?"
Lyanna breathed a sigh of what he hoped was relief, running a gloved hand through her hair. "Of course it still stands. Come here."
Smiling brightly, she pulled him into a hug and squeezed him surprisingly tightly. She held him the way Catelyn held her children, letting the embrace linger. Reluctantly at first, he returned the hug, almost self-conscious of it. But she was his mother, he realised. He was somebody's son. Some mother's son. It felt good.
Lyanna was still smiling when they drew apart and she led him toward the common hall, where supper was being served. Already, the sun was going down on another day. Now that he had committed himself to this course of action, he felt a wide open space appearing ahead of him. A space he had to fill and, all of a sudden, he had no idea what to fill it with. What he'd told himself in the bath had seemed like a solid plan. Now it seemed as flimsy as gossamer thread. If the last few days had taught him anything, it was that anything could happen. And it probably would.
"Where do we go from here?" he asked, stopping her just short of the common hall.
For a brief moment, she seemed puzzled by the question. "You and I have a lot of catching up to do. No, more than that. You and I need to get to know each other. We are perfect strangers and, soon enough, we'll have a thousand miles to travel. You and I could go farther than that, though."
Jon smiled at the notion of it. The realm was huge and vast, stretching out all around him in every direction. Like the realms of possibility, it went on forever. And, that evening, Winterfell felt small.
They sat at the high table together, where Robb and Lord and Lady Stark were already seated. For the first time in his life, he ignored Catelyn with ease. It was really quite simple, because she no longer mattered. When the others had gone, and it was just him and the Starks left in the hall, he drew a sword and laid it at his brother's feet. Robb blushed and shot furious looks at his mother while Jon said some words. Words are wind, and like all winds this passed through the hall and barely made a ruffle.
Back straight, head held high, Jon rose to his feet as a legitimised Stark.
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Next Update: Sunday, as usual. (13th August).
