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Chapter Ten: Ash and Bone.

The night they arrived at Castle Darry, Jon had made a promise; when he awoke that morning, he intended to honour it. In that insufferably dull period between the travellers waking and everything getting ready to move on to the next stop, he found Arya in the common hall and led her through the castle grounds. They left their horses in the stables and made the journey on foot, taking full advantage of a morning that had dawned with rare beauty.

It was all golden sunshine falling on tall grass, lighting up the wide rivers that all merged to form the Trident. It flowed east, through Lord Horroway's Town that marked the boundary between the Riverlands and the Vale and out into the Narrow Sea to Braavos. On a clear day, like that morning, Jon could stand and just about make out the peaks of the Mountains of the Moon – or, so he thought. Closer at hand, he followed the flow of the river and watched the wading birds take flight, fish wriggling between their beaks. Dragonflies hovered over still water and the fresh smell of the rivers permeated the air he breathed.

Arya ran ahead and Jon was happy to let her go, so long as she stayed within his sight. Her hair was in a braid, her breeches rolled up above her bony knees and she clutched a small cloth bag in her hands. He thought she was lost in a world of her own before she abruptly stopped and spun around to face him.

"Is this where the battle happened?" she called back at him. "Just here, this is where the rubies will be."

Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he could tell her the truth. That this was where his blood father had been killed. But not for anything would he spoil her mood. It was a strange thought, too. That a tranquil land like this had once formed the backdrop of a vicious civil war.

"This is the Trident, little sister," he answered. "It must be the right spot. But if there's rubies to be found, they'll be in the parts where the waters run slow."

The rubies were long gone, he knew. He hoped she would not be disappointed when she came away from this little excursion empty handed. However, she seemed to be enjoying the adventure more than the prospect of actually finding anything. Arya was like that, she always had been.

She was standing on top of the large bump in the ground, shielding her eyes from the sun as she scanned the horizon. Her skinny frame in silhouette, her untidy braid falling out of its bindings. "Father led the vanguard that day, didn't he? Even though King Robert won, I bet father was still the best fighter there. Don't you think? He would easily have killed the prince, too, I reckon."

"I'm sure father fought bravely," he answered.

Arya was a little girl hero-worshiping her father, he reminded himself. All the same, it made him sad. He could no longer summon the enthusiasm he had once had for that time and he was pleased when she changed the subject and began nattering, once more, about the rubies she was convinced were still floating around in the river.

"Hey, what about over here?" He gestured to a place where the riverbanks gently reclined into flat land, bordered by a stony shore. It was easily visible, meaning he could let her go alone, it was well away from any bends in the river and it wasn't tidal. In fact, he thought it quite a pretty spot, where they could later share the food they brought from the castle. Of which he more in his own bag.

Arya agreed and immediately set off, running ahead and swinging a stick she found, cutting off the heads of grass as she sped past. Moments later, her footfalls crunched across the stony riverbank and Jon stood in the grass, spreading out his cloak for their picnic later on.

"Aren't you coming?" she called over to him.

"No, you go on."

Arya hesitated for a moment, but soon dropped to her knees as she began removing her boots. Large stones jutted from the water, forming a neat bridge from one side to the other. Nor was the water too deep, all the same, he had some final words of warning for her.

"Don't go too far and call out right away if you need help."

As soon as she was fully occupied, Jon rose picked up the sack-cloth bag he had brought with him and retreated a little further into the field. He soon found a spot he liked. A place were tall hedges grew along the borders of farmer's fields and straggly trees stooped and trailed their branches in the waters of the Trident. Tall grass reached his middle and wild flowers grew in bright little thickets all around him. For a long moment, he took it all in.

Before setting to his task, he looked back over his shoulder. Arya briefly came into view, where she hopped from stone to stone across the river, happily immersed in her own little world. She looked back at him, met his gaze and waved before darting out of sight again. When she was gone, he opened the bag and brought out his father's urn. He had snuck back into the cellars and collected it before breaking his fast.

He had lain awake much of that night, pondering the rights and wrongs of what he was about to do. Even Lyanna had told him the urn should be left where it was, but it didn't seem right to him. And he couldn't figure out why she showed him, unless she secretly agreed. Whatever else he was, Rhaegar was his blood father and he wanted better for his final resting place than a damp, dark cellar. Pushed to the back of a shelf like a family's dirty secret.

The black enamel shone in the morning light, giving the gold leaf lettering a red hue. Rhaegar Targaryen: 259 AC – 283 AC.

He was only twenty-four, he realised. Ten years old than he, Jon, was now. That made him sad. He tried to think of Rhaegar as his father, the man who made him on some night unremembered while the world spasmed to the early eruptions of the oncoming war. He tried to gain a sense of how he was among the last relics of a dead dynasty, but it all seemed so abstract, so completely unrelated to the life he had led. And that made him sad, too.

The urn was sealed with red wax, which Jon picked off with a dirk he wore in his belt. Once the lid was off, Jon reached inside and felt his fingertips brush against fine powdered ash and chunks of wood and bone. His father's bone, probably. Something stirred inside him, a feeling he couldn't identify. Sorrow for a life unlived, sadness for a father who was a stranger to him.

However much of Rhaegar was left in that urn, it amounted to little more than a handful of ash. Jon studied it as he withdrew his fist from the urn. Charred wood and splinters. Even a nail that had been hammered through the wood of Prince Rhaegar's funeral pyre. He wished he knew some prayers of the Faith, but he had none. Sansa would have known them, he realised. He wished he had asked her, even if he forgot half the words.

A small wind blew in from the river and Jon opened his hand, watching as what remained of his father scattered in slipstream. Out over the wild flowers and the waist high grass, carried in a fine cloud of grey, Rhaegar's mortal remains dispersed far and wide. He up-ended the urn, releasing the dust that adhered to the inside. The last of his blood father set free across the realm he died for.

Once the deed was done, Jon paused to gather his thoughts and feelings. He should have had a state funeral with all the trimmings. Instead, it was a secret and hurried affair involving an upturned urn while no one was looking. It felt tainted. That, also, made Jon feel sad.

"You've done it, then."

Startled, Jon looked up to see Lyanna approaching from the direction of Castle Darry. She wore a white woollen dress with a grey shawl wrapped around her shoulders, which she clasped together with one hand. The wind swept her hair away from her face, he could see her sad smile.

"I couldn't leave him there," he said. "I thought to take him to Harrenhal, actually. That was where it all began, wasn't it?"

"It's a nice thought," she agreed. "But I think Harrenhal has enough ghosts already. I think he would like it here better."

If she was upset that he had defied her instructions from the night before, she did not look it. She drew level with him and untied a small, leather pouch from her belt.

"I tried looking for you in the common hall, but it seems I missed you," she said. "I only wanted to pass this to you."

Curious, Jon watched her upend the pouch and a large, chipped ruby rolled into her open palm.

"I overheard Arya, last night, and the other girls giving her a hard time," she continued. "I thought, perhaps you could put this somewhere safe in the river, where the water's shallow and slow moving, then let her find it. It would be something nice for her, do you agree?"

Jon was delighted at the gesture. Already, he was thinking up ways to slip the gem into the riverbed without being seen. "Definitely, it'll make her day. Thank you, mother."

He planted a firm kiss on her cheek.

"And I'm afraid I was also sent by your father," she said. "We're about to set off in the next hour or so, and he says you're not to tarry too long here."

Jon nodded his understanding, then watched as she turned and began walking back to the castle. Life, he decided, was definitely better with her included.

It was an old dream, one that had not troubled Eddard in years. But two nights after leaving Castle Darry, it found its way into his sleeping brain like an old, stray dog back for more scraps. It was him and Ashara, dancing as they had at Harrenhal, except they were actually in the streets of King's Landing and the city was burning all around them. Oblivious to the fighting, ignoring the screams of Elia and the children, they swayed to a song only they could hear. Their feet glided through blood spilling down the streets, the death grunts of dying men kept their rhythm. They pirouetted through palls of thick, black smoke, as if they were curtains, revealing their moment upon the stage.

Their gaze met as they leaned into the kiss, her irises an incandescent purple. He has a wife. He has a child. Neither have anything to do with the woman now in his arms but his body is no longer his own. He could feel his hands riding up her thighs of their own volition, his amorous advances heralded by an explosion of wildfire, bright green and beautiful against the night sky. It was all for them. The carnage was all for them and this was their moment.

He awoke at dawn, breathless and full of fear and shame.

Hours later, he was back on the road and riding at the head of the procession that now stretched for miles. Robert rode at his left and Lyanna his right and they waved to and greeted the smallfolk as they passed. It was late in the summer, but they were gathering in the harvest and there was hope of one more before Winter made its presence felt.

All the while, he tried to stop thinking about that dream. It had always been absurd and bore little resemblance to what actually happened back then. All the same, its return disturbed him.

Or, was it Ashara that disturbed him? Like the dream itself, she rarely troubled him and he wondered why she was back now. Was it because he was so close to King's Landing again? Was it because of going over the past with Lyanna and Jon? Eddard was uncertain, but he wanted it to end. He wanted her ghost exorcised and banished back into the depths of his memory.

In the intervening years, if he did think of her, it was usually the last time they met. Something that hadn't occurred to him at the time was the smell of her home. The smell of citrus fruits: oranges and lemon trees; limes and others he could not name. If he smelled oranges now, it reminded him of Starfall. It was exotic, to a young Northman.

The last time they met, they stood in the shadow of the Palestone Sword – the same tower she would jump to her death from, just a few short weeks later. Why? Why did she do that? He analysed every word they spoke, searching for hidden clues that she was about to do what she did. He could drive himself mad, if he didn't force himself to stop. And, no matter how hard he tried, he could never find an explanation.

"Gods, you look particularly grim today," Robert noted as they passed down a wide stretch of the Kingsroad. "The further you get from the freezing snows, the more you look like a fish out of water."

Ned tried to laugh, but perhaps his smile hadn't thawed out yet. "It's been a long journey, your grace. One that cannot end too soon."

That was no lie.

"Robert, it's been the best part of a year since we left King's Landing," Lyanna pointed out. "Think about it. Four months on the outward journey, a month and a bit at Winterfell itself and now a four month return journey."

Robert looked back at her, a smile playing at his lips. "And somehow, despite all that time, I've managed to not miss a single one of those shits even a little bit."

Another couple of days and they had passed Harrenhal and were closing in on Rosby. Another castle where they could at least rest comfortably instead of having to pitch tents. Better still, the small council had ridden out from King's Landing and come to meet them there. An outrider had sent word to forewarn them.

By the time they actually reached Rosby, as exhausted as they were, they found themselves having to make the rounds and greet all the courtiers who had ridden out to meet them. Still several days ride from the capital, Ned found himself starting his new job earlier than he had anticipated.

Among the newcomers, there were some faces he recognised. Renly had grown into a handsome young man. Stannis was conspicuous only by his absence. Varys the eunuch looked broadly the same, but kept his distance from Ned. If the gossips were to be believed, it had been he who drove the Mad King mad.

Although Renly was still a boy when last they met, he greeted Ned warmly. "Good to see you again, Lord Stark, perhaps now we can have some order restored to the Small Council. Please excuse Stannis not being here to greet you, but he's in a high sulk and gone swanning off to Dragonstone with his terrible wife and worse daughter in tow. He thinks he should have been Hand of the King."

Eddard couldn't help but wonder if there was a little more to it than that, but he let the matter lie. Meanwhile, his children had arrived. Sansa climbed out of the back of a wheel house, with Lady at her side on a leash of pink silk. Arya and Jon had ridden through the gates mounted on chestnut chargers. Their wolves trotted at their sides, easily cutting a path through the crowds that had assembled in the yards.

"Mother have mercy, does that creature move fast."

Renly was watching a man in the crowds, now engaging Sansa in conversation he could not hear. He was short and thin, but rather younger than himself. His smile didn't reach his eyes and he wore a goatee beard, neatly trimmed. It wouldn't have been quite so disconcerting, but he looked at Sansa as if trying to decide which part of her he wished to cook and devour first.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"Petyr Baelish. Master of Coin and our resident brothel keeper. I hear he knew your late brother."

At Sansa's side, Lady's fur bristled and her teeth bared in a snarl. He trusted the wolf more than he trusted the man.

Thankfully, they weren't staying another day at Rosby. The night before, Jon had been invited to sit at the high table, alongside Lord Gyles Rosby and the Queen. All through dinner the old man hacked and coughed, spitting in a small silk hanky and he and Lyanna had to be polite enough to pretend they hadn't noticed. Thoroughly exhausted from this seemingly endless journey, he had then gone up to his bed and sunk into sleep before his head hit the pillow. What felt like ten minutes later, he was awoken to the sounds of a procession quickly gearing up to leave.

Just one more stretch of the Kingsroad to go and they would be in King's Landing. It would all be over, and he would know what it was to wake up in the same place more than two days in a row. The luxury of stability he felt like he'd forgotten already. He broke his fast with Arya in the common hall, while his father and Lyanna looked on. But they soon left to fetch their horses. As he passed, his father paused by their table and whispered in his ear: "Keep your sword handy."

Before Jon could ask why, Lord Stark had caught up with his sister and they left the hall together. Assuming the warning wasn't for nothing, Jon fetched his sword from his strongbox, where it had already been loaded onto a pack mule. He then buckled the heavy leather sword belt and went about his business.

As he went to fetch his horse he had to dodge out of the path of Jaime Lannister and a woman he assumed was his infamous twin sister. Both looked flushed in the face and she had a stray ear of corn tangled in her hair. Neither of them paid him much attention as they hurried back toward the royal procession. Only Jaime briefly stopped, to talk to an old man with white hair, before carrying on his way. That same old man followed Jon into the stables, and handed him the reins of his horse. He looked much too old to be a stable boy. Maybe, he thought, the man was a simpleton, like Hodor.

Accordingly, Jon schooled his response to a polite: "My thanks, ser."

He led his horse by the bridle out into the early morning sun. His father wasn't far away, talking to the Queen and King Robert. They were all mounted on beautiful, snowy white chargers for the final leg of their journey. Arya had gone already, but Sansa was sitting on a step reading a book about the Blackfyre rebellions. Not her usual fare, but she'd been engrossed in it for days now. Thinking to catch up with the queen, he hurried back into the stable to fetch a bag of oats for his horse and to be on his way. Only, the old man blocked his path and wouldn't allow him to pass.

"Pardon me, but I forgot something."

The answer was the ominous whisper of steel against leather as the man drew the sword at his hip. He stood there still, his hair was white as snow with age. There was no way Jon was going to fight him and risk cutting him down with one blow.

"Actually," he said, "it matters not. I bid you good day."

He tried to turn away, but the man moved dexterously to cut off his retreat. "Mistake number one: never turn your back on an opponent."

Jon bristled. "You're not an opponent, ser. I agreed to no duel now let me pass."

He reminded Jon of one of those small men who get seriously drunk in taverns and then pick fights with the biggest guy there. It was like they had some sort of issue with their own shortcomings.

"I could, but I want to see what m'lord is made of," came the answer.

Jon hesitated, but rested his hand on the pommel of his new sword. "This is absurd. Don't make me fight you. If it pleases you-"

"It pleases me to see what m'lord is made of," he persisted.

"I'm made of flesh and blood, like any other," said Jon, in one last attempt to diffuse the situation. "Now, if you excuse me."

"I don't excuse you."

Jon sighed, closing his eyes for only a split second while trying to decide what to do. His assailant was armed with fine castle forged steel, but he was as old as the hills and wore no breastplate either. Neither did Jon, but he had strength and youth on his side. Despite these obvious advantages, the old man remained completely undeterred. Disconcertingly, there was a shine in the old man's eyes. A light that made him think this one's senses hadn't dulled a day past twenty.

"I am not going to fight you," he stated, emphatically. "We've done nothing to warrant it and you're … oh, never mind."

Even as he said the words, the old man trained the sword at Jon's neck. The point touched the soft flesh at the base of his throat, pressing in ever so slightly. Instinctively, he stepped back to clear himself of the edge while simultaneously drawing his own blade and whipping the old man's sword out of the way, almost knocking it out of his hands. The air momentarily rang with the sound of steel on steel, before echoing into nothing. It was a defensive move, he reasoned to himself, resolving not to attack.

However, before he could walk away, and with a speed and dexterity that belied his age, the man regained his posture and attacked properly. Jon blocked and parried, soon changing his mind about not attacking as he realised the old man's might. His opponent was skilled, too skilled. Almost unnaturally skilled. But Jon was able to match him, just. To buy himself some time and space, he retreated by vaulting the stable door and getting it between him and his attacker. Only to have the man vault the obstacle with just as much ease and dexterity as Jon himself had possessed. It made him angry. No one that ancient had any business being that bloody agile.

"Fuck you, Grandpa!" he snapped as he lunged at the old man.

The man parried, sword held casually in one hand as if rubbing salt into Jon's injured pride. Not one of his blows landed where he wanted it to, not one slash of his sword came close to even scratching the mad old goat. From the tail of his eye, he turned to see where his father had gotten to. Surely, he had heard the commotion and come running back to help him. On the contrary, Lord Stark was standing at a distance watching with a keen interest. Not too far behind him, the Lannisters were pretending to not watch, but glancing over every few seconds. Jory Cassel was there too, soothing the horse that had bolted during the early stages of the fight. Explanations would be demanded, he resolved. Sansa dropped the book and ran for their father, the pages of history left blowing in the wind.

"Did an old man catch m'lord off-guard?" the white-haired attacker asked, almost tauntingly.

"I'm not your lord," Jon retorted, failing to land another attack.

He only just managed to block the next attack, but it was so strong the force of the block alone sent him reeling backwards and sprawling in the hard-packed earth. He didn't need to yield. The old man raised his sworn and brought it slamming, point first, into the earth an inch from Jon's face. He could see it from the tail of his eye, wobbling slightly under the force of the blow, half buried.

"And I'm not your Grandfather," the old man replied, sounding heartily amused.

A smattering of applause rose from the small number of spectators and Jon inwardly cringed. His father reappeared, a rare smile of approval on his face as he leaned down to help him up.

"Well fought, Jon. Very well fought," he said, setting him on his feet again.

From where was standing, Jon thought, he'd been beaten into the dirt by someone he should have vanquished with one blow. Nonetheless, he was pleased his father so clearly disagreed with his assessment. Perplexed, and still more than a little irritated, he watched as his father turned to his "attacker" and shook him by the hand.

"Well, Ser Barristan, what do you make of him?" Lord Stark asked.

Jon closed his eyes and groaned inside. Only a clap on the back from the living legend himself snapped him out of his self-recriminations.

"You show promise, young man," said Ser Barristan, still half-smiling. "Great promise. But soon, you'll do a lot better than that, I assure you. Your training begins tomorrow, at noon, and you'll be on time."

Although he knew full well there was no shame in being beaten into the dirt by the finest swordsman that ever lived, Jon smiled sheepishly all the same. "Thank you, ser."

With that, he watched as his father and Ser Barristan launched straight into a discussion about the campaigns they had fought in. They had only fought alongside each other once: during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion. At the Trident, they fought against each other but if there was any animosity, it did not show at all. They mounted up at last, the three of them riding out of the gates together and Jon hung on every word they spoke.

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Update coming next Sunday, as usual (3rd September).