A/N: Hey guys! Sorry this took so long, the second part of this chapter had me stumped for a good old while. I just wasn't sure how to do it, hopefully you'll understand what I mean when you read it! I hope you enjoy, and thanks for being so patient!

Guest: Thank you!

unnamed visitor: Thank you very much. Yes, unfortunately Jon is determined to fear the worst, but he might be best being on his guard for the moment. Jon will be travelling south very soon, but what happens next remains to be seen haha! Glad you enjoyed!

XBolt51: Nope, not dead. Just AWOL for a while, haha. Howland Reed though, is dead. He handed the letter over to Bran and his children before he died.

Guest: You're very welcome, I'm glad you're enjoying it. Thank you so much.

Right-ho folks, hope you enjoy!

:)

XIV

Aegon paced slowly up and down the tent. With each moment that went by he grew more and more tense. Part of him was beginning to think that Varys wasn't coming. He avoided looking towards Robb, who was sat at the table nursing a flagon of ale. The last thing he wanted to see was disappointment in his good-brother's eyes. Gods he hoped that Varys would come. Robb had warned him not to trust him, but he had also said that the man may well be the key to ending this damn siege. Aegon hoped he could be. He just wanted it over now. He wanted the Iron Throne to be in his hands so he could set about righting a thousand wrongs. More than that, he wanted to be able to send the Northmen home, and summon Sansa to his side. He missed her. She was guarded in her letters, he could tell. He understood her caution, but he missed the openness with which they could communicate when they were together.

As he turned to begin another lap of the tent he chanced a glance at Robb. Likely it was much the same for him. Worse, most like, given that he had a swiftly growing child to miss as well. How Aegon wished he could give them all a true answer as to when they could go home and begin to try and live in some kind of normalcy again. He almost snorted. If all went as he had long hoped, then his life would never be normal again. He would rule over the six kingdoms of the south. Slowly he let out a long breath, turning to retrace his steps once more. He got half way across the tent when one of the guards outside the tent spoke so lowly he had to strain to hear every word.

"A visitor, your Graces," he said.

Before Aegon could decide whether to reply or stride to the opening and pull it aside himself, the hooded visitor had already slipped inside. Aegon looked towards him expectantly, having come to a halt just behind the chair on which Robb was seated. Robb himself had his eyes fixed on the newcomer, his stance slightly stiffer than it had been before.

"Your Graces," the man lifted his hands to pull down his hood. A bright smile adorned his round face, an almost mischievous glint in his eyes. "Both of you here to greet me, I am most honoured. This has all come together more perfectly than I could ever have dreamed. Though, as you are both more than likely aware, there are problems still to overcome."

He clapped his hands together at that, bowing his head slightly. Aegon raised his brows a little, wondering what comment to make. He thought for a moment that Robb might speak up, but then remembered that his good-brother was intent on him taking the lead. After a breath, he decided he better do just that, before the silence went on too long.

"Sit," he gestured to the chair opposite where Robb was sat. Varys did as he was invited, still smiling cheerfully. "Can I offer you some wine?" Aegon asked, and he bowed his head.

"Thank you, your Grace," he said smoothly. Aegon went to pour two cups, assuming that Robb was still content with his ale. There had appeared to be plenty left in his tankard when Aegon had glanced down at it. He moved back to the table when he had filled the cups, placing one before Varys before taking a seat of his own next to Robb.

"You have risked much, coming out here to meet us," Aegon spoke as Varys took a drink. "I trust you are certain that you have not been seen, and will come to no harm when you return to the city?"

"I have made my way in and out of the city for years without detection," Varys smiled. "You know what they call me, I trust, your Grace?"

"I do," Aegon confirmed.

"It was I who mastered the plot to smuggle you from the city all those years ago," he went on. "Your mother was a clever woman, far cleverer than your Grandfather ever gave her credit for. It wasn't easy, doing it all under his nose, but together we managed it. I am only sorry there wasn't enough time to smuggle the princess away as well. That, of course, was the ultimate goal. Your mother was determined I took you first, and I did as she bid me, and here you are, all these years later. A man grown."

"Why did you stay?" Aegon asked.

"What would I gain from leaving?" Varys countered. "I was very useful to Robert Baratheon, he kept me alive. As he kept many others alive who had once been loyal to the Targaryens. I would have been a fool to try and leave his service. Besides, had I not stayed, I would not have the knowledge of all the Capitol to share with you now, would I?"

"So you stayed for me?" Aegon raised a brow, a sceptical smile coming to his face.

"Not entirely," Varys seemed unabashed. "I hoped, of course, that you would flourish in the east and grow into a man capable of challenging for the throne. But, this is a dangerous world we live it. You could have sickened and died. You could have been killed. Forgive me, you could have grown into madness, as many in your family have done over the centuries. None of us would have wanted another Aerys, though I have been satisfied for a long time that you were not made in his mould. Thank the Gods."

"I am…I am, him, then?" he asked awkwardly. "I am Aegon, this isn't a trick? I am truly him?"

"You are," Varys met his eyes as he said the words. "I assure you, I would not have risked my life a thousand times over for a bastard or an imposter. You are Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia of Dorne, rightful King of Westeros."

"Of the southern kingdoms," Aegon corrected quietly but firmly.

"Forgive me, of course," Varys said smoothly, "I was uncertain of what titles had been formally discussed between you, your Graces."

"Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident," Aegon gestured to Robb at his side.

"And quiet as his father before him," Varys smiled slightly.

"I'm glad you mentioned my father," Robb spoke for the first time, and Aegon took a deep breath. "There are some questions I would put to you, since you are the master of whispers. What happened to him? How was that bastard able to imprison him and take his head?"

"I am sorry to say, your Grace, that your father placed his trust in the wrong person," Varys said slowly, his eyes on Robb. "If he had listened to me, had trusted me in place of Lord Baelish, then perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps we would not all be sat here now. We will never know if it was for the better or not."

"Baelish?" Robb repeated, his voice dangerously low.

"Yes, Lord Baelish," Varys confirmed. "Your mother's childhood friend, doubtless Lord Stark thought he could trust his honour. A great shame, that Littlefinger has no honour, and even fewer scruples. He promised your father the Gold Cloaks, to arrest Joffrey and his mother. When the time came, however, they turned on him instead. To the prison he went, accused of treason. You know how the rest went, I don't believe you need me to remind you."

"Is Baelish still at the Capitol?" Robb asked next, his knuckles stretched white as he clenched his flagon hard.

"No," Varys looked slightly uncomfortable. "Were you unaware, your Grace, that he has recently been wed to Lady Arryn, your aunt?"

"Clearly," Robb almost spat. "That explains why I have had no response from her with regard to the war."

"And you will get none, not until Littlefinger is entirely certain who will triumph, only then will he release the armies of the Vale," Varys said.

"Bastard," Robb muttered.

"Indeed," Varys agreed, before turning his eyes back to Aegon. "Now, perhaps we ought to discuss this siege of yours, and exactly how we will go about ending it the right way."

"The right way?" Aegon repeated questioningly.

"You sat unharmed atop the Iron Throne," Varys smiled again.

"Have you word from Dorne?" Aegon asked.

"I have," Varys confirmed. "They are suspicious, of course, though curious as well. I believe they would come, especially if Oberyn has his way, but there is the small matter of the Reach being well and truly in the way. Dorne could not hope to march their armies through the Reach without being hindered by the Tyrells. Unless, of course, the Tyrells could be persuaded to turn a blind eye."

"And why would they do that?" Aegon asked, seeing Robb shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. There was a smile on his lips, though Aegon doubted it was one of joy.

"They would not do anything unless there was something in it for them," Robb spoke up before Varys could answer. "So what is it that they want?"

"You are astute indeed when it comes to them," Varys inclined his head towards Robb. "Though you may be overestimating them. The Tyrells do not have the power they once had. As we speak, Margaery Tyrell remains imprisoned in the Capitol. It is the work of Cersei, unmistakably, but it has played perfectly into our hands. Her family are desperate for her release, but that is not something the Lannisters will grant, even if they wanted to."

"I don't understand…" Aegon frowned.

"Cersei struck a deal with the faith," Varys looked smug. "It was foolish of her, to give them so much power. She has no control over them, she never did, though she would not have realised it. My little birds tell me that it will not be long before she is basking in a cell of her own. Her brother, too. When that day comes, well, I would not be surprised if the gates did not lower to you at once."

"Surrender? Just like that?" Robb snorted disbelievingly.

"The right word in the right ear," Varys said. "Kevan would never agree to a surrender, but Mace Tyrell has many men within the walls. If an agreement was reached, promises made for his daughter's safe release, assurances that he would be pardoned…"

"The Tyrells get away with their treachery once more, you mean?" Robb sounded irritable.

"Gods, no," Varys shook his head. "They know damn well they will never be trusted at court again, not now. If you show favour to Dorne, then it will no longer be the Dornish who fear the Reach, but the other way round. I believe there are two Dornish princes, perhaps one of them will make a fine match for Margaery Tyrell when her marriage to Tommen is annulled."

"You seem to have thought of everything," Aegon said, slight suspicion in his tone.

"It is merely a suggestion," Varys shrugged. "You must do what you feel is best, your Grace. But I do know, that if you allow me to whisper in the right ears, that you will soon be set atop that throne, and it will be far easier than you ever dared dream."

"Sounds too good to be true," Robb muttered.

"Your father didn't trust me either," Varys said sadly. "I wish he had, for I had a great liking for him, and never wished to see him dead."

"Yet you did nothing to prevent it? Though you knew what was happening? What Baelish was planning?" Robb was clearly seething.

"I was his only visitor in prison," Varys was looking directly at Robb now. "I smuggled a letter out for him, two in fact. One was to be enclosed within the other. I made certain they were delivered into the right hands."

"Whose hands?" Robb asked.

"Howland Reed," Varys answered. "The first was for him, the one within it, I believe, was to be given to your bastard brother – Jon Snow."

"Jon?" Robb frowned. Aegon glanced to the side, seeing an almost hurt look cross his features.

"He spoke often of you, of all his family," Varys said. "It was his only desire that you be safe, that is why he confessed in the end, of course. He hoped it would put a stop to your march south and to Sansa's stay in the Capitol. Of course, it did the opposite. He was never supposed to die, he was supposed to be given the opportunity to take the black. That is why I did nothing, your Grace, because none of us knew that Joffrey would call for his head atop the steps of the Sept. None of us. Not even Cersei."

"Utter your whispers," Aegon said quietly as Robb bowed his head towards the table. "Say what you must to get us inside the Capitol, and we will take it from there."

Catelyn was the first to enter the parlour. She looked around, seeing it recently tidied, a fire dancing happily in the grate. Likely the servants had not long been in. Already the new charges that Roslin had appointed seemed to be fitting smoothly into the everyday life in the keep. Catelyn twisted her hands together in front of her, unsure of what to do with herself. She had known when she left her chambers that she would be far too early for the gathering that had been called, and yet her footsteps had carried her straight to the parlour most often frequented by the family.

After another moment she moved her feet again, stepping slowly towards the fire and staring towards the flames. It was almost too hot, standing so close, but she didn't move away. The creeping discomfort was nothing to what she would soon be enduring. Catelyn had endured much already, there was no way of denying it. This, though. Well, this may be one of the most difficult yet. Everything else she had somehow found a way of moving on from.

When she had lost her mother she had found solace in her new baby brother. When Brandon was killed she hadn't had the time to truly mourn, Ned was upon her before she had the chance. Ned was good, gentle, it became him she prayed for at the feet of the Warrior, especially when she discovered she was carrying Robb in her belly. Her husband bringing Jon home…

She closed her eyes, she could no longer think of that the same way. Not now. Her fists clenched. Gods she was angry. Angry with herself. Angry with Ned. Angry for Jon, and all her children. Just, so angry, and yet she still had to stand poised and calm. Her children would have questions. Doubtless they would all react differently, all need something different from her to be consoled. That was the most endearing and frustrating thing about her children. They were all so different. Each had their similarities, of course, and all possessed good hearts and sound minds. But their characters…each were different, and each would need her comfort to be different.

The click of the door drew her attention, just as her mind threatened to engulf her with memories of her husband. She blinked, took two steps back from the fire, and turned to see who had come in. It was Jon. She swallowed hard. Even now it was hard not to think of him as Ned's son. She had to check herself, still faintly surprised when she didn't feel the stab of bitterness in her gut, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. That's how it had always been. The absence of it now was strange, though she did not mourn it.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Jon's lips twitched, almost a smile. He looked just as lost as she felt. Just as uncertain. The urge to mother him was stronger than it had ever been. She silently cursed Ned. Why could he not have told her, at least? She could have raised Jon with him then. She would have been happy to. Why had he not trusted her?

Voices echoed down the hallway, heard through the door that Jon had not yet closed behind him. She met his apprehensive eyes, swallowing hard. "Would you sit with me?" he asked shyly, and she nodded her agreement.

A moment later the source of the voices was revealed. Sansa and Roslin entered. The former looking politely confused, and the latter somewhat strained. Roslin did a good job of disguising her inner feelings. She did it daily. Catelyn could see it – though she doubted anyone else could. Sansa moved to perch herself on one of the sofas, and Catelyn watched her, a slight smile coming to her face as her daughter shifted her skirts neatly around her. She was developing a queen's poise, likely from trailing Roslin so much. Thankfully there was no outward sign yet of her pregnancy. Best that was hidden for as long as possible, Catelyn and Roslin had quickly agreed on that.

"Is something wrong, mother?" Sansa's question had her blinking again, her daughter looked confused, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"No," Catelyn managed a smile. "I was just admiring the lacing on your dress."

Sansa beamed, and Catelyn took a breath. When she looked away from her daughter she briefly met Roslin's eyes. She didn't need to ask to know what her good-daughter was thinking. Gods, she hoped the others would soon arrive. The last thing she wanted to do was force herself to participate in small talk. She could barely think coherently, let alone speak.

Thankfully, Osha and Hodor soon delivered Bran and Rickon, settling them before the wildling woman encouraged Hodor from the room. Catelyn admired her tact, and meant to thank her, but the words stuck in her throat. It felt as though she had been rendered mute. She couldn't even make her lips twitch up into a half smile. Roslin, however, found her voice, and her smile. Catelyn often found herself grateful that she had named her for Robb's choice of bride – this was another of those moments.

Arya finally arrived, dusty from the tiltyard and a tear in the tunic she was wearing. She looked like a common townsperson. Ordinarily Catelyn would have scolded her for her appearance. Arya knew damn well that she was supposed to clean up and make herself look presentable whilst within the keep. She was allowed to train in the tiltyard on that proviso. Right now though, Catelyn was still rendered mute, and so her daughter went un-scolded. Which was likely why she looked so suspicious as she moved to take a seat next to Roslin.

"What's going on? Why have we all been summoned here? Have you had news of Robb and the war? Is it bad?! Has something bad happened?!" Arya's questions became increasingly desperate, and on Roslin's other side Sansa paled, her fingers twitching around the fabric of her skirts.

"No," Roslin said calmly, her hand reaching to settle on Arya's knee for a moment. "It is Jon who would speak, he has something to tell you all."

There is was. She'd said it. There was no going back now. Jon was the only one still stood, hovering awkwardly next to the arm of the sofa that Catelyn was occupying. The space next to her was free for him, as he had requested, but he had seemed unsure of taking it. Now, though, with the eyes of all her children on him, he finally moved hesitantly to sit.

Catelyn watched each reaction carefully. A tiny frown creased between Sansa's brows, though her expression remained that of polite confusion. Rickon's frown was more pronounced, as was his blatant confusion. Catelyn's stomach knotted – he was too young for all this. Bran almost looked resigned, and she knew that he must have discussed the dream with Jojen – that he may have been making the connections, piecing together the dream, the letter, and now Jon's coming announcement.

It was Arya she focused on the longest, though. Seeing her expression span from worried, to suspicious, to an almost anger. There was fear in her eyes though. It was the fear that registered most prominently with Catelyn, and her stomach knotted even harder. She felt sick. She reached out before she could stop herself, wanting to find Ned's hand. Wanting him to steady her. It wasn't Ned's hand she found though, but Jon's.

That had Arya's eyes widening like dinner plates, and even Sansa could barely disguise her shock.

"What -?" Arya began.

"I found out who my mother is," Jon blurted out, cutting her off.

"Who?" it was Sansa who asked, leaning forwards slightly. Catelyn closed her eyes. Jon's hand twitched below hers. She wondered for a moment if she ought to let go, but her instinct had her squeezing tighter. Perhaps too tight. He didn't complain, nor pull his hand from beneath hers. She wanted to say something. To encourage him. No words came though. She was still frustratingly mute.

"Lyanna Stark," Jon said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"What?!" Arya burst out. Catelyn snapped her head to her, seeing the look of disgust. She shook her own head. No. Arya could not think of it like that. She could not think of her father that way. No.

"No," she finally found her voice. "No." It was all she could say. It seemed Arya understood, her stance relaxing, but only slightly.

"But…father?" Sansa now, all queenly poise abandoned. She looked like a crumpled little girl. Roslin slipped her arm around her shoulders, and Catelyn was grateful.

"Father wasn't your father, was he?" Bran asked the question, looking at Jon calmly. Jon shook his head, before his gaze fell to the floor.

"Oh," it was barely more than a squeak from Sansa's mouth, but Catelyn guessed that she, like Bran, had deduced who Jon's true father must be.

It seemed the only two who were still unaware were Arya and Rickon. Catelyn suspected that Arya's own ignorance was self-inflicted, whereas Rickon was just too young to understand.

"Is Jon not my brother?" Rickon asked quietly, his eyes wide and welling with tears.

Catelyn finally let go of Jon's hand, holding her arms out to her baby boy. He slipped from his armchair and came towards her. She enveloped him into her arms, rocking him gently while she tried to find the right words. "Jon will always be a brother to you, so long as you love him as a brother. I know he loves you as such," Catelyn told him, and he sniffed loudly. "Nothing has to change, Rickon. Not if you don't want it to."

She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, before resting her cheek atop his soft curls. It was a comfort, selfishly, to have him in her arms. Hopefully it was comforting him as well. Arya looked up to meet her eyes, and Catelyn almost flinched. Her daughter looked almost murderous, and it frightened her to see it. It was a look she had seen in Robb's features on occasion, and though she understood it from him, it was never something she enjoyed seeing. In Arya, though, it was something else entirely. It was chilling right to the very core of her.

"You never loved Jon," Arya's voice was low and accusing.

"Arya!" Roslin scolded in hushed tones, her eyes insistent, though Arya didn't look at her.

"You never did!" Arya stood up, her eyes flashing. "You never wanted him here! You never wanted any of us playing with him, not really! You didn't want him in our lessons! You never even let him sit up at the high table with us!"

Catelyn's eyes welled with tears.

"You wished that father had never brought him back from the war!"

"Enough!" Jon snapped, and Catelyn turned to him in shock. "You should never speak to your mother like that. You have no idea how lucky you are, to have a mother that loves you so much!"

Arya looked dumbstruck. Hurt featured most prominently for a moment. Then came the defiance. Catelyn steeled herself. She could almost sense the whole room holding its breath. Rickon even shifted himself slightly out of her embrace so he could look towards Arya. Defiance mingled with anger – almost loathing. Catelyn shook her head. She knew whatever Arya said next she would not mean, and that she would regret it.

"Well I wish father never brought you back either," she spat towards Jon.

Catelyn inhaled sharply. She wasn't the only one. Even Roslin looked lost for words. Bran simply looked disappointed. Jon seemed to crumple slightly in his seat, and Arya shot from the room before anyone could summon the words to stop her.

"She didn't mean that, Jon," Roslin found her voice first.

"No, she didn't," Bran agreed.

"You can still be our brother, if you want?" Rickon said shyly, reaching a hand out to touch Jon's shoulder.

Catelyn had a moment of fear, worried Jon would shrug him away and storm out exactly as Arya had. She may have tried to avoid Jon for the most part, but even she could never deny the similarity between him and her daughter. How close they became because of it. Given everything, Catelyn would not have blamed him if he wanted to run and hide.

He didn't.

He lifted his head, turned towards Rickon, and smiled.

"I would like that very much," Jon said softly.

"We all would," Bran said, and Jon nodded, his eyes shining.

"Perhaps I ought to find Arya…" Roslin looked unsure of herself, making to rise from the sofa.

"No," Jon shook his head, "I'll go."

"She really didn't mean it, Jon," Catelyn met his eyes, and he nodded once.

"I know," he said. Though he didn't sound entirely certain.

Before she could offer any other words of encouragement he had lifted himself from the sofa and slipped from the room. Catelyn hoped he would find Arya in a calmer state than the one she had left in. She also hoped that her daughter would apologise for her words, and not say anything else that she would regret.

"He's Aegon's brother, isn't he?" Sansa broke the heavy silence after a long moment.

"Yes," it was Roslin who answered.

"If you'll excuse me," Sansa looked slightly dazed as she rose up. No one spoke up to dissuade her from leaving. Catelyn had known from the start that each of her children would take it differently. She had known that her boys would likely accept it more easily. That Arya would be the most difficult. The exception to that assumption would be Robb – she couldn't quite guess how he would react. Only that it would be better than expected, or far worse than expected. There would be no halfway, and that worried her.

Roslin met her eyes then, and she could tell that she was thinking the exact same thing.

A knock came at the door before any comment could be made though. Roslin got up to answer it, Catelyn shifting Rickon from her lap and standing herself as she recognised Jeyne's voice. She moved towards the door.

"…sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't not say anything," Jeyne was saying as she came to Roslin's side. Catelyn was instantly assuming that Jeyne must have caught sight of Arya's storming from the keep.

"What is it?" Roslin asked.

"It's that man, the one you and Damon found in the crypts," Jeyne said, and Catelyn could see her apprehension. It had a frown creasing her brow at once.

"What of him?" Roslin asked next.

"He has night terrors," she said. "To be expected, of course, given the extent of the torture he has endured. He speaks, in his sleep, sometimes. I thought…perhaps if I listened to him, I might learn something of him. I have been piecing it all together, writing it all down. It could be that I am entirely wrong, but I know from Damon that there has been no sign of him at the Dreadfort nor anywhere else…"

"Jeyne, what is this? What are you saying?" Roslin was insistent now.

"My queen, I -," Jeyne faltered. "I think – I believe – that this man, this man, Reek. That his true name is – is – Theon Greyjoy."

A/N: Hope you guys aren't too mad at Arya. What she said was terrible, but she definitely didn't mean it. She's stubborn though, so, you know...

Hope you enjoyed!

:)