To Me: Thank you. :) I try to keep things interesting.


Catelyn woke with a start. Something was pressing against her shoulder and her bleary mind conjured nightmarish images to associate with the feeling, still sleep befuddled. As her gaze focused, however, she recognised the face of her husband. Brandon was shaking her gently, concern etched upon his features. "Cat, can you hear me?"

A small moan slid past her lips as the awareness grew stronger. "Aye, husband. I'm not deaf." The weight lifted from her shoulder. And with it the warmth was gone as well. Catelyn drew the furs higher, to ward off the chill of early morning. So he had returned.

She studied the man for a few silent moments, taking in the pallor and clear weariness. He looked as if he could use a few more hours of rest. "When have you arrived, ser?" she questioned, brushing the remaining drowsiness from her eyes.

"A few hours past," Brandon offered. His light blue eyes remained upon her face. Catelyn wished she knew what to say to him. Despite the years of marriage between them there lingered an awkwardness she could not rid herself of. Her husband patted her covered side gently. "I have seen our daughter."

"Sansa, she is called Sansa," the mother supplied instinctively. A smile played upon her face. She wished Brandon had not been away. Alas, duty was duty and he could not refuse his father's orders no more than she could. "I am glad to have you back."

The furs fell away to reveal her cloth covered arms as she proceeded to embrace him. Catelyn wrapped both arms around her husband, her chin resting on his shoulder. She felt his body's movement as he finally sat down upon the bed's edge. His own arms came around her.

"I am glad to be back," he said. There was nothing in his voice to convince her of any true joy.

Disappointment rolled within her. Catelyn still held on to him however. Someone, she remembered not the name or the face, had once told her that between a man and woman there could be no greater bond than a child. The idea had seemed terribly romantic to her and she had embraced it wholeheartedly. Catelyn had become Brandon's wife with that ideal in mind. No doubt the person who she had spoken to believed those words as well and mayhap, for some, a child was the strongest bond there could be.

But not for her and her husband. Catelyn, as enamoured of Brandon as she'd been, had known very well that he did not share her infatuation. Still, she'd pressed on in hopes of changing at least his mind, if not his heart.

Alas, love could not be dictated to, although affection and respect could be earned. He cared for her in his own way. But neither children, nor the gods themselves could give her his heart. And she had resigned herself to the knowledge. Yet every now and again, pangs of pain registered when she saw him. A lifetime ago she had thought herself the luckiest maiden in Westeros.

Her husband drew back softly. Brandon rose to his feet. "There is something I must tell you." Worry bled into her placid mask. Brandon shook his head. "Nay, do not panic. 'Tis something to do with Lyanna."

Her good-sister? "What could possibly be the matter?" Last she'd written, Lyanna had merely spoken hat her son was not yet speaking and she'd asked Catelyn about Robb's progress. "Is it Jon?"

"Nay, Jon is well." His answer was met with a sullen look. Catelyn suspected that he wished to have a reaction out of her. For what purpose she knew not. "My good-brother is no longer alive."

Robert Baratheon was dead. Catelyn gave a shake of the head, disbelief wrapping tightly about her. "How can that possibly be?" Only a moon turn past Lyanna had been complaining that her lord husband had injured one of Storm's End best steeds and the beast had to be put out of its misery, for which her good-sister had been more than appalled as she had wanted the horse for her own.

Nay, it simply could not be true. Men like Robert lived a hundred years to torment those around them with their carelessness. She would believe it more easily if Brandon told her old Lord Frey had met the Stranger. At least that one had outlived his welcome by at least three decades.

"Lyanna's letter assured us that is the truth," Brandon murmured. "Catelyn, I have to leave again." The bluntness gave her pause. Patience was a virtue she had learned. "My sister needs me."

Her own brother and sister would do the same for her. "I see." That did not mean she wished him to go though. Their daughter had just been born. Yet she understood. "I had wondered at the lack of letters lately. Convey to her my condolences and my regret for not being able to be with her during such dark moments."

The Lyanna she had me had been a girl, it was difficult to imagine her as a woman, even more so as a widow. After all, it had been a mere three years. Her poor good-sister. Were she fit for travel, Catelyn would have demanded to join Brandon. There was after all a link of friendship between the tow of them despite having known one another for a short while only.

"I shall do so," her husband promised. "Cat, I'll strive to return as soon as I can."

She gave him a tremulous smile. There were times when eve their children could not take precedence. "We shall miss you," she spoke for her and the babes.

Brandon nodded is head and gave her one last look. There were no kisses shared, nor any other hugs. He bade her to return to her slumber. And then it was time for him to truly leave. Brandon Stark walked out the door of her bedchamber and she was left alone with the slowly ring sun warming her face and uncovered limbs.


Ademar looked his younger sister over with something akin to tenderness. "You look like mother," he said. Ashara gazed at her own reflection in the looking glass as those words reached her ears. She smiled, knowing her brother could see very well over her shoulder to the reflected image.

"My dream has finally come true then." Her laughter filled the chamber. Indeed, she had always wanted to be like mother, although mother had perished birthing Allyria. Ashara remembered the woman well. In fact, it was only Allyria herself that could not recall their lady mother. There were times when the loss still stung.

Scrutinising her mirrored image, Ashara concluded that Ademar was speaking the truth. She had her mother's face if not her colouring. A member of the famed Yronwood House, Ysolt Yronwood had been the one from whom Arthur and Allyria fair hair, and all of them shared her violet eyes. Ashara and Ademar had been blessed with their lord father's dark hair. It was considered so much of a blessing in their family that, when they were children, Arthur had asked Ademar how he could darken his own hair. What followed Ashara would never forget.

Ademar being himself and wishing more than anything for a victory over his younger brother had stated that one thing and one thing only could aid Arthur. Ink. Thus, the younger brother had downed a full inkwell of the concoction, was sick as a dog for a couple of days and sported teeth the colour of pitch for half a moon turn. Of course, Arthur had avenged himself after enough time had passed. Yet the incident became somewhat of a legend within the family.

"Now what could you possibly be smiling thus about?" Ademar questioned, hand resting upon her shoulder. Ashara blinked. "Well?"

"Nothing," she said softly, shaking her head. They had lingered within the chamber long enough. Ned would be waiting for them and she had grown tired of waiting herself. The sooner she became his wife, the better. Especially for her. "Come, my lord. You know a bride is always nervous."

As per their request, Ademar had accepted that they arrange a private wedding, although he had extracted a promise from Eddard that there would be a proper feast after the situation of Lady Baratheon found its solution. That did not mean he was pleased however.

"It can wait if you are unsure," her brother reiterated for what seemed like the thousandth time.

He would not shake her conviction though. "It might, but I cannot. 'Tis been long enough since I've wished myself a bride." She whirled around, throwing her arms about Ademar's shoulders. "Wish me happy."

The man smiled. "You know I do." He pulled away from the embrace and gallantly offered his arm. Ashara wasted not a moment in taking it. Finally, all her dreams were coming true. If it were possible to run without splitting the fine stitching of her gown, she would be tearing through the corridors like a wild creature.

Instead, she was forced into an awkward pace where Ademar was trying to slow them down as she wanted to increase their speed. The result was none too pleasant. She glared at Lord Dayne only to be treated to a knowing smile. "Patience," her brother murmured, his disposition taking an unnatural turn.

Ashara suspected he thought it his duty to keep her from the altar as long as he could. She would tolerate his attempt, but only because it was the only one he would ever have the chance of performing, as the young woman was certain her sister would not receive such a treatment.

The long lit corridor stretched out before them. The Dornishwoman had always considered her home to be beautiful, the carved walls and the marble floors that glittered in the sun. It had taken her breath away. But at the moment, her only wish was that her ancestors might have considered her feeling at least a tiny bit and decreased the marble use by building shorter hallways. It felt a journey in itself only to make it from her rooms to the lower level where the main hall was and where Ned waited with the witnesses.

At a long last, brother and sister finally reached the main hall. The septon motioned them over. Ashara knew very well that Ned would have much preferred the ceremony take place in a godswood, but in Dorne no one kept with the old gods any longer, and the Starfall godswood had long since perished under the lack of care of her great-great-grandfather. The unfortunate circumstance was overlooked in the end. It might have helped when Ashara promised their vows could be repeated in the first godswood they came upon, which meant the one of Storm's End.

Clearing his throat, the young septon nodded towards Eddard and then to Ashara. The two spoke their vows reverently, making it clear to their audience that for them the day was special with or without a large feast. Or so Ashara hoped.

She beamed at Ned as her brother unclasped the light cloak covering her shoulders and pulled it off of her, revealing the fine dress beneath. Ned took a moment to look at her, a smile of his own visible. He then wrapped the silver Stark cloak with its running direwolf.

And thus Ashara Dayne became Ashara Stark before gods and man.

Once the septon's speech was at an end, she waited no more to lean towards her husband and demand the kiss that was owed to her. Ned did not hesitate.

There was clapping and cheering from those present. Ashara even thought she heard a few less than innocent comments bandied about, yet they died out soon enough, presumably because Ademar had turned to glare at the gathering. Her brother could be frightening at times.

"Well then," she whispered as they parted for air, "we may leave whenever you wish."

"My lady," Ned murmured. She knew he wished to leave as soon as possible.

Perfunctory exchanges followed, along with tearful farewells. Ned did not try to rush her. Ashara attributed that to the trust he had in her and she felt her heart swell pleasantly. Indeed, she had made the right choice. And so, intent on proving his choice had been exactly right as well, Ashara took his hand and together they made their way into the courtyard where horses had been readied.

"Let us away then, my good ser," Ashara said, giving him one of her hands so he might help her mount. She could well understand his desire to reach Storm's end as soon as humanly possible and did not begrudge him that even at the price of a lavish wedding. It mattered little anyway.

"Lady wife, I do believe a man might search the Seven Kingdoms and not find a woman your like in a thousand years." He leaned over to press a quick, affectionate peck to her lips, his compliment delivered.

It might be that circumstances could have been more auspicious, but to Ashara the very knowledge that she was now a Stark was enough to soothe whatever sliver of disappointment wormed its way inside her heart. It would do little good do deny she had envisioned a different progression. Yet the result counted in this instance.

"Sweet talking already," she chided lightly. "I suppose practice cannot be ill intentioned." He laughed at that. Well, shall we be on our way or are we waiting for the sun to descend?"

Pressing her heels into the horse's flanks, Ashara sent the beast into a light trot. Ned followed, along with the men her brother had ordered to go with them. There was no Kingswood Brotherhood to fear any longer, but the Seven knew other lowlifes had taken their place soon enough.

"Are you certain we ought not to have asked for a wheelhouse?" her husband asked, to Ashara's mind concerned for her comfort.

While she appreciated the thought, a wheelhouse would slow them down; it would cost them many an hour on the road and it would make them an easier target. Certainly it would provide more comfort and under normal circumstances Ashara might have insisted that she be given one. However, speed mattered.

"Mayhap when we make for Winterfell," she replied. "I should like to perfect my riding skills." If only not to embarrass herself before Lady Baratheon. Lyanna had been, before her marriage, much praised for her riding skills. How would it look to her if Ashara made a muck of it?

Ned chuckled. "Your riding skills are fine, lady." They were not. Ashara had little cause to ride before and had preferred other activities to it.

"Hush, you," she countered. While it was not necessary to make a good impression, it would certainly ease her path and Ashara thought to herself that it was incentive enough. "If you truly wish to help, tell me what I should be doing."

"First, you ought to relax." His horse drew closer to hers as he continued instructing her.


A small smile played on Jon's lips. His plan was simply brilliant. The only foreseeable obstacle was his uncle. Jon did not for the life of him understand what it was that went on in his home. The situation, however, had clearly put his mother and his uncle at odds, which left him in the very odd position of not knowing who to turn to as that the conflict might end.

His first option had been Uncle Benjen and Lord Harry. However, his uncle seemed intent on finding something and had little time for Jon at the moment, while Harry Rogers spent his time arguing with great-uncle Harbert over something which made no sense to the child. His second option had been Renly. But the other boy had been severely punished for their last escapade and was not to be let out of the septa's sight at any time.

Mother herself had fallen in some sort of sullen mood. She came to see him every now and again, but her visits were brief and he could tell she was distracted. Yet he had a plan. Something that would make her feel better no doubt. If only he could find Betha.

Slinking against the hard stone wall, the boy drew closer towards the stairs, listening to the noises around him. It could not end well if he was caught by his uncle. In fact, Jon would be very glad if he was never given cause to stay for more than moments in the man's presence. There was something he disliked about his father's brother, something which made him weary. And he had upset his lady mother. Jon was not inclined to forgive the man, whatever his reasons.

He clambered down the stairs as swiftly as his legs could carry him. On the last step, his foot caught on a small protrusion, sending Jon tumbling to his knees. A sob of pain escaped past his lips as his knees collided with the stone edge, but he bit down of his lower lip to keep from attracting attention. Pain reverberated through his lower limbs as he forced himself back on his feet. Jon looked down. He ached, but there was no sight of blood yet. The breeches had not even ripped.

Sitting down upon the last stairs, the child pulled the leg of his garment up to inspect the wound, ignoring the tears streaming down his face. Though blood had not yet stained his breeches there was a cut. Jon traced his finger upon it and winced as it smarted, blood bubbling, reddening his skin. With a dissatisfied sound he sucked a finger in his mouth then spread saliva on the wound. If beasts did it, it had to help.

Then is attention turned to the other knee. The twin was merely bruised, glowing an angry red into the boy's face. At least his garments would not be strained beyond repair. After he had made himself presentable, Jon wiped away at the tears staining his face. Good fortune had been on his side. He could not afford to waste anymore time.

Resuming his mission, Jon rose to his feet and began walking despite the discomfort his wound produced him. He had had worse, after all. One time, Renly had been chasing him around the yard as the men were returning from the hunt. By some ill intervention, Jon had stumbled upon a sharp rock and titled forth, landing on his face. Of course it was then that one of the horses managed to escape the grip of his master and started galloping about, in Jon's direction, much to the horror of all.

The beast might have flattened him to the ground if Renly hadn't somehow managed to jump over him and roll them both away from danger. The result had been that Jon was not trampled over by ironshod hooves, but hit his head against the wall. There had been blood then as well and quite a bit of yelling. Master Cressen had nursed him back to health, however, and his mother interdicted either of them to be anywhere near the courtyard when guests arrived or father returned from the hunt. He never did learn what happened to the man and his horse though, but he'd not seen either around since that day.

There were many adventures to be had around the keep and many more that had been experienced and he wished never to hear of again. Yet Jon was truly pleased for all of them, despite his lady mother chiding both him and Renly afterwards. And it was better her than father; father never knew when to stop yelling.

Shaking the unpleasantness away, Jon leaned against one of the walls, trying to flatten his body as much as possible as two of the washer women passed from one hall to another before him. They were too bust whispering to notice him however, so he need not have worried. Jon sighed in relief. He was nearing the kitchens anyway.

Then he came upon the last flight of stairs he would have to battle. Drawing in a sharp breath, the boy squared his shoulder and stepped upon the first. These ones were wooden, lacquered, much less slippery and fairly even. Finally, he could find Betha and obtain what he had come down for.

He entered the kitchens and looked about at the servants gathered there. Some he'd seen before, others were strangers. Jon tiptoed along the wall, eyes searching for either the Cook or Betha. While the latter would be most appreciated, the former would do just as well.

"Here, Tilly, give those to me," an older woman instructed a girl who was barely older than Jon. "Go stir those pots over there."

Something was cooking on a spit by the fire. There was a man keeping watch over the meat, making sure the spit was never still. Fascinated, Jon stopped to watch. Why did it need to keep moving? He puzzled over the problem for a bit, before it occurred to him that if he were to sit in front of a fire, warming his hands, his back would be cold. But if he were to spin in front of the fire, all of his body would eventually warm.

With that understanding, Jon forced his gaze away and returned to his quest. The gods must have been smiling down upon him for he saw Betha coming out from one of the adjoined chambers in which various objects were kept. Not one to waste a perfect opportunity, Jon scurried past a few servants and reached Beth just as she was placing a large pot upon the table.

He promptly pulled on her skirts to gain her attention and winced when she let out a small shriek. Thankfully, the other servants did not look her way but a few moments. "My lord," she whispered when she looked down and saw him there. "What are you doing here?"

Jon merely tugged on her skirts once more and smacked his lips together. The servant girl rolled her eyes. "Nay. My lady has absolutely forbidden it that you be given sweets before mealtime." He persisted and she refused him once more. "Pray return to your chambers, little lord."

Her would not be deterred, however. Jon pouted and leaned against Betha, his eyes pleading for her to give in. The servant gazed at him for a few moments then looked away guiltily. A brief few heartbeats later she eyed him once more.

"Raspberry tarts or lemon cakes?" she grumbled none too pleased at having failed. Jon held up one finger. Betha gave a sharp nod of her head and went for the Cook. They whispered together for a few moments before a clean strip of cloth was rolled out and something was placed within it. Betha tied the ends together to make a small satchel.

Returning to Jon, she leaned in to give it to him. "'Tis be between the two of us, my lord. Your lady mother would tan my hide if she found out who you have these from."

Jon nodded his head dutifully, plastering his most serious expression yet. Seemingly pleased, Betha led him back to the stairs and shooed him away from the kitchens, issuing a warning that if she eve caught him there again, she would be tanning his hide. Not believing one single word, Jon clutched his prize to his chest and smiled at the woman. She smiled back, muttering something about cheeky brats.

His objective had been reached, thus Jon felt no need to remain upon the wooden stairs. He hurried away, making his way through the corridors until he reached the stone stairs once more. With a soft sound of worry he gazed behind. No one was there.

Heartened by that and the fact that his leg did not ache any longer, the child heaved his bundle towards the upper level of the keep, one step at a time, all the while thinking of how pleased his mother would be. Jon could barely wait.

The arduous climb was finally at its end when he placed one foot upon the last step. By that point he had broken out in a sweat and a tendril of hair was annoyingly stuck to his forehead. But his mission had been met with success.

Hurrying to his mother's chambers, Jon stopped before her door. His hands occupied, the child began kicking at the heavy door, not so much to force it open, as to attract his mother's attention. His scheme did not fail. The door swung open and Lyanna stood before him.

"Jon?" she questioned softly, looking down at him. A smile lit her face. "What are you doing here?" She took in the state of him. "And what have you there?" Mother ushered him in with a swift motion. She did not offer to take the bundle though, knowing her son would not renounce claim.

She helped him upon one of the stools and watched as he unknotted the cloth. "Raspberry tarts?" the she-wolf laughed. Jon grinned back at her, picked up a piece and waved it before her. Chuckling, Lyanna took the morsel and bit into it. Sweetness filled her mouth.

Jon followed his mother's example and filled his own mouth with food. Surely, she would not be angered, as he was sharing the meal with her. "I do not know whose cunning you have, child. I vow I was never quite so adept." The words spilled past her lips merrily. Jon took them to be a compliment.

Pride swelled in his breast. He nodded his head to signal he understood her and then took another tart. His mother had reached the last bite of her first piece and reached down for another. Jon stopped her hand mid-movement. He looked down at the small collection, the saw one that was bigger than the others. He took that in his other hand and held it towards his lady mother.

For some reason her eyes filled with tears. Jon frowned, not understanding. He'd done well, hadn't he? Mayhap something was wrong with the tart. His eyes travelled over its expanse. Jon could not find anything. At a loss, he gazed back at his mother.

"My sweet babe," Lyanna said taking it from him and breaking it in half. "Mother is not displeased. I am just very, very happy. Sometimes when people are very happy they cry." The explanation made little sense to him as people cried when injured or unhappy. But he could only shrug. "You shall understand some day" she promised.

Jon bit into his half of the tart, chewed and swallowed. His hands were sticky. The child wrinkled his nose and swiped his hands on his breeches only to brush over his earlier cut. He winced.

Alerted by he look upon his face, Lyanna abandoned her food and knelt before him, rolling up the leg of his breeches. A gasp left her lips. The other leg followed as well. "What is this?" she questioned. "Jon." A sigh followed. "I wonder if you shall ever learn."

Her son pouted and shook his head, as if to convince her it did not hurt. She knew better than to believe that. We shall put some salve on it." At the look of horror upon his face, laughter answered. "You've only yourself to blame."

The salve his mother spoke of was the unholy offspring of wine and some plants which Jon had forgotten the name of. Maester Cressen had created it some time ago and swore by it. His mother had somehow had need of it and after using it decided that she had permanent need of it. So the good maester kept producing it. For his part, Jon hoped the recipe was lost. He loathed the salve. It smelled strange, it was cold and it stung. If there was worse medicine, he'd not heard of it and hoped never to.

Despite his best attempt to pull away from his mother's care, the young boy was subjected to a healthy dose of thick salve spread upon his knees. A shudder travelled down his back. The she-wolf kneeling before him ignored the reaction and continued to massage the mattered limbs. It was nice to have her attention, Jon though, after she had been rather absent these days.

"One day, I shall ask you all about this ability to find trouble," he heard her say. "May the gods keep us both until then." Once done, she rose to her feet, wagging her finger in a forbidding manner before him. "Never hide your injuries from me again."

With a nod of his head Jon brought back her smile. He jumped to his feet as well and fell into her, gathering handfuls of her skirts. "I've missed you as well," Lyanna said, brushing his hair back leisurely. "My sweet child."

After the embrace was broken, Jon decided it was time to show her something else as well. Pushing her towards the stood, he waited until she was seated. Then he tugged on her hand, turning the palm upwards. Lyanna said nothing, but maintained the stance.

The child took in a deep breath. He searched his tunic for something and upon finding the objects pulled it out. His mother's eyes widened as he deposited it in her outstretched palm. "Jon, where do you have this from?"

It was the necklace. Or at least a necklace that looked somewhat like the necklace Stannis Baratheon had shown her. Jon watched her for a few moments as she turned it over and over in her palm. Once her attention was back upon him, he took a few paces away and searched his tunic once more. His mother was watching him carefully.

A small wooden figurine was produced. The piece was placed in the she-wolf's hand as well. And the Jon shrugged lightly as if to say he did not understand himself. Lyanna held the necklace up. "Did Ymme have it?" A nod was his response. "Did you find this in the godswood?" Jon nodded a second time.

His mother put both the jewellery piece and the figurine away. She leaned in and pulled him into a tight embrace. "I cannot thank you enough, my brave, sweet, smart child." She pressed light kisses against his forehead and cheeks. The small touches tickled. Jon could not help trembling in laughter.


A/N: Dear readers, you asked for it. I wrote it. You've read it. And now you've had your dose of Jon POV, I hope, for the time being. I hope you've enjoyed it and I'll leave the next clues for you now. ATTENTION: this is a double encryption: first solve the Letter Numbers cipher and then the Atbash cipher. I've already explained how both work.

1) 16-22-22-11 2-12-6-9 22-2-22-8 12-13 7-19-22 15-18-12-13

2) 14-5-24-20 3-8-1-16-20-5-18 19-20-1-14-14-9-19 16-21-14-3-8-9-14-7

3) 13-22-3-7 24-19-26-11-7-22-9 8-7-26-13-13-18-8 11-6-13-24-19-18-13-20

Now that I've complicated everything, I shall wish you good luck, minions. I'm off to my own business.

Before I forget, thank you to the reviewer who suggested that Jon use his figurines to show Lyanna who put what where. I don't recall your name right now, but I wanted you to know I'm grateful for the idea.

Tell me what you've thought of the chapter as always. Comments, questions and theories are welcome. :) Have a nice evening.