Eddard Stark reread the report on his desk and checked over his map of his lands. The area surrounding the Wolfswood was smattered with ink dots with a trail leading from Winterfell, along the river that led into the Wolfswood, Crofter's Village, and a few dotting the Kingsroad. All of them were areas that had been searched without a single sign of his quarry.

The Lord of Winterfell closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was getting out of hand; the smallfolk were talking, and other Lords were asking questions he had no answers to. Then again, this was something he doubted anyone would have an answer for. On top of all of this, the letter from Kings Landing detailing Jon Arryn's death sat at the edge of his desk, and the knowledge that Robert would soon be arriving weighed heavy on his shoulders.

A fist knocked on his door, followed by his bark of "Enter." And Jory Cassel stepped into his solar.

"My Lord." Jory said with a bow of his head.

Ned rose and asked, "Jory, any sign of him?"

Jory's lips pressed into a tight line when he said, "The search party has just returned, my Lord. Not a trace."

The Warden of the North closed his eyes as disappointment, worry, anger, and fear all surged through him.

"My Lord?" Jory asked hesitantly. When Eddard looked back up at him, he said, "We've combed as much of the Wolfswood as possible without encroaching on other lands. Our best hunters and trackers have failed, and the men are getting more and more anxious at the prospect of what we are looking for."

"Speak plainly, Jory." Eddard Stark rumbled.

"My Lord, we've searched almost every day. No one can find him. The other Houses are talking, as are the smallfolk. They grow restless and spread rumors."

Ned stared at Cassel with an intense frown and narrowed eyes, "He is my blood, Jory." Ned Stark growled, "I will not rest until I bring him back."

"My Lord, he doesn't want to be found. Even if we do find him…" Here, Jory paused and visibly collected himself, "After…after what happened, should he be brought back to Winterfell?"

There was a pause before Ned Stark scowled, "Return to your post, Cassel. I will not hear any more of this."

Jory bowed his head in deference with an "Aye, my Lord." And quickly left his solar.

Ned let out a sigh from the depths of his soul and scanned the map to see if Jon's location would magically reveal itself for what felt like the hundredth time before giving up when it failed to do so once again. Gods, he was tired. So very, very tired. A lack of sleep from worry saw to that; fretful nights staring out the window from an empty bed. He and Catelyn were still sleeping in separate rooms. His children had grown distant with him as well with Robb putting his emotions to work in the training yard, Arya hiding from the world in the godswood with Bran silent and sullen. Even Sansa was affected in her own way. She was quieter, much quieter. Theon was, too. Even Rickon picked up on the gloom that hung over his castle nowadays.

Ned dragged a hand over his face. His desperate prayers in the Godswood had gone unanswered, and he was losing hope fast. Despite himself, his mind wandered back to the day everything went to the Seven Hells…

It had started like any other day. He awoke feeling rested, kissed his wife good morning, dressed, and went down to the Great Hall to break his fast. He greeted his children as they trickled in to join him and said his greetings to what bannerman and smallfolk arrived.

Then, Jon staggered in with blood leaking from EVERYWHERE.

His tunic and pants were soaked through from what had to be dozens of wounds. Bloody bootprints trailed behind him as he limped into sight while cradling his stomach, and there were open marks on his face that made him resemble the face of a weirwood tree.

Someone screamed.

For a moment, they locked eyes, and his nephew had gotten out a weak, "Father?" With blood bubbling past his lips before he collapsed. Ned had screamed his name and leapt over the table to get to Lyanna's boy while others ran to his side.

Luwin was called for while they worked to cut through Jon's clothes to get begin addressing wounds. What lay underneath made Ned's heart nearly stop. From head to toe, Jon was covered in stabs, cuts, slashes, punctures, gouges, and what even looked like bite marks! Not a single inch of him was unharmed. Jon had to be stripped to his smallclothes to staunch the bleeding in what was unmistakably an arrow hole in his right thigh with another two in his left shoulder and back. The worst, though, were the scores of knife wounds across his belly, and the sight made Ned's heart want to jump out of his throat.

All the while, Jon was shivering violently, his skin icy cold to the touch, and was muttering in a feverish tone, "Survives, survives, survives…" over and over again as he bled out all over the floor. A minute passed and the floor, along with everyone trying to staunch the bleeding, were soaked in blood. Another minute, and Luwin finally arrived; the old maester taking one look at Jon with wide eyes before dropping to his knees to assist.

Then, Ned felt Jon's heart stop. Black despair crushed his soul, and for a moment, he was back in the Tower of Joy, his hands gripping Lyanna's as she gasped out her final words…

Then Jon lurched upright with a heaving gasp of air before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed unconscious but breathing. They carried him to his room where Luwin could properly begin dressing his wounds while Ned ordered Winterfell put on lockdown and Cat and the children under guard.

"What happened? Did someone try to kill Jon?" Robb had asked with an expression of mingled fear and fury. It was one Ned shared. The thought of an attempt on Jon's life was alarming in more ways than one. On one hand, someone could have ordered one of his children dead, and the killer had gotten Jon. The list of suspects was narrow, the motive even more so, but the thought alone had his wolfsblood boiling and commanding him to tear whoever DARED to pieces with his teeth! Instead, he remained focused on keeping his family safe and Jon kept alive, as he spoke to his son and heir, "All of Winterfell and Wintertown are being searched. The guards are on high alert. No one is to leave the castle until we find who did this. If the killer still resides in these walls, I want you all protected."

After his family were taken care of, Ned went about seeing what his captain of the guard had discovered and was not happy with the results.

"Say again, Jory?" Ned demanded.

Jory grimaced and repeated himself, "My Lord, everyone who saw Jon said he was hale and hearty throughout the morning. None of my men heard or saw anything around Jon's room while he slept, either."

Ned's fingernails Dug into his palms and he spoke through gritted teeth, "Are you saying there is nothing?"

Jory looked as frustrated and infuriated as he felt, and Ned suspected Jory was taking this personally as he was responsible for Winterfell's security. That, and the fact that Jon was of Winterfell, and the North looked after their own.

"Everyone says the same thing!" Jory growled, "Jon woke, left for the hall and…that's it! There's blood right before the entrance, but that's all! Everyone who saw him swears he was alone, hells, no one was even close enough to…to…" The man's voice trailed off as he no doubt pictured Jon's many and various wounds. Both Ned and Jory were warriors and had spilled their own and other men's blood, but the state Jon's body was enough to turn anyone's stomach.

The search continued long into the hour of the wolf and into the next morning but hide nor hair of an assassin were found. Any and all who had seen Jon were questioned as to both Jon's and their whereabouts between the previous night and into the morning, and all Ned found was still absolutely nothing.

Finally, he received word from Jon's sickbed.

"He will live, my Lord." Was the first thing a very haggard Luwin said the minute he stepped out of the room. The wave of sheer relief that followed those words made Ned feel light-headed.

"Thank you Luwin." Ned said breathlessly and laid a shaking hand on his maester's shoulder, "Thank you."

Luwin looked like he was about to collapse himself, "I have never seen anyone so grievously wounded survive…" He said with a shaky voice and a deeply troubled expression, "So many stitches, and the wounds in his belly…my Lord, what happened to him?"

"I do not know, but I will find whoever did this." Ned responded in a tone of barely contained frustration and rage.

Luwin's expression did not change as he wiped his hands on his robe. Ned saw that he had washed them, but they were still stained a faint red, and splotches of Jon's blood dotted the gray fabric.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, the maester spoke up again, "I thank the gods that Jon lives. Such wounds should be fatal, but he lives. It…it is a miracle, but…" He trailed off, lost in thought.

"Speak your thoughts, Luwin." Ned gently urged.

"My lord, he…he should be dead!" Luwin exclaimed.

Ned did not focus on those words, did not think back to when he felt Jon's body grow cold and the thump of his heart cease beneath his very fingertips.

Instead, he asked to be informed the moment Jon awoke.

That moment turned out to be the next morning. Cloths boiled in hot water and soaked in salves that prevented infection and encouraged healing covered the boy's body, and true to word, so many of Jon's wounds were sewn shut to the point that his body resembled the aftermath of Arya's needlework. What injuries were not had been cleaned and left to heal on their own. Luwin's admittance that Jon should be dead floated back to him, but Ned did his best to disregard those words, the bucket full of blood-soaked rags off to the side, how Jon was frightfully pale and covered by a sheen of sweat and focused only on that his nephew was alive.

"Jon!" Ned beamed in relief as all his stress and anxiety ebbed upon seeing his nephew alive on the bed. Jon's eyes had been closed, but the moment he spoke, they flew open and stared at him in a way that made Ned freeze.

The marks on Jon's cheeks and brow had scabbed over. Coupled with his pale complexion, the red lines emphasized the lost and wild look in his dark eyes that pierced Ned's very soul. He had seen eyes like that before on soldiers after a bloody battle where the only thing breaking the silence were the screams of the wounded and dying, and the smell of death filled the air. Jon's eyes were old, haunted, and shadowed; the eyes of one who had seen too much war, death, and horror.

His nephew should not have those eyes.

Ned just stared at Jon, and Jon stared right back. There seemed to be no recognition in his gaze, only a wild emptiness. It was like Ned was in the room with a stranger and not his nephew. Not his sister's son; the blood of his blood. Ned swallowed passed the dry lump in his throat and called, "Jon?"

Jon's mouth worked for a moment and he blinked. A building tension Ned had not even realized vanished, and Jon's smile was as flimsy as summer ice when he said, "Hello, Father."

No culprit had ever been caught, and Jon was no help either. He answered every question as to his whereabouts that day the same as all the others had, with no memory of an attacker and waking up screaming in pain on the floor of the great hall. All of Winterfell was on edge when no one was brought to justice. With no explanation or suspect, and rumors began spread about just what had happened the day the bastard of Winterfell was attacked by Ghost Knives. Some claimed the gods tried to strike him down, some claimed Jon did it to himself, some even claimed that the Lady Stark had finally had enough and hired a Faceless Man, and some wondered if she did the deed herself. Ned was quick to see those particular rumors quashed.

Still, time awaited no man, and life had a tendency to move on. Jon began recovering from his wounds at a seemingly miraculous pace according to Luwin. All Ned cared about was that his nephew was healing and that a sense of normalcy was returning to Winterfell. Preparations for the Kings arrival were still in order, although Ned kept a close eye on his secret nephew while tripling the castle's security.

As for Jon, he seemed alright for the most part. People began to avoid him, believing him to be cursed, but he didn't seem to pay any mind this latest treatment unto his person. In fact, he didn't seem to pay much mind to anything. He was quieter, much, much and never seemed to smile. When he did, it was the same weak facsimile he had given Ned after he had woken up. Ned desperately wanted to speak to the boy in private, but Jon was avoiding everyone as much as they avoided him, even him and his siblings.

At first, Ned believed that Jon was still reeling from what had happened to him, but then one quiet afternoon as he watched Jon from the ramparts overlooking the training yard, he was approached by his youngest daughter.

Arya spoke the words softly as if she were worried someone might hear, "Father…something's wrong with Jon."

It had been a week since Luwin declared Jon to be able to move freely again. The boy had made a miraculously swift recovery, and against Luwin's wishes, had went right back into the training yard. Ned looked at Arya and then out towards where his nephew stood alone in front of a practice dummy. A sword was in his hands, but he did swing, but stood there, still as a statue.

"He doesn't talk to anyone anymore. He's always in the Godswood or in the crypts-" Arya continued.

"The crypts?" Ned asked, surprised and confused.

"-And he won't talk to me or Robb about what happened to him!" His daughter sounded hurt and distressed when she sent a look in Jon's direction. The boy still had not moved and was just standing there, staring at the dummy. His daughter seemed to be on the verge of tears, and he bent down to pull her into a hug.

"Arya, Jon is alive, but he was badly hurt. What happened to him can change a man's view of life. Just give him time, Arya; he'll come round."

Ned wanted to believe those words as much as he did Arya, especially when he heard a loud crack of splitting wood and looked up to see Jon had suddenly decapitated the dummy in a single stroke.

"Your bastard was in the library today." Catelyn had said out of the blue that evening.

Ned froze from undoing his tunic and stared at his lady wife, who sat brushing her hair before her nightstand without meeting his eyes. The day of the Ghost Knives had her fearing for them and the children's lives, and she had been as adamant as he was about their protection and was kept abreast of the investigation, and while no outward concern for Jon was shown, she had asked to be updated of his condition as well. Ned hoped it was out of concern, at least.

"Oh?" Was all he could say. Catelyn rarely spoke of Jon at all unless put upon.

"He was reading about the Targaryen dynasty, as well as a few other old tomes." She said bluntly.

A complex fist of panic and fear gripped his heart for a moment before he quelled his nerves and looked towards his wife. She never wavered in her brushing, nor did she meet his eyes, but stared into her own reflection with a stony expression that was marred by the distracted furrow of her brow.

"He is still taking the black, yes?" She asked.

"Jon has not said anything otherwise." Ned rumbled, "Why?" He asked, confused and a bit worried at Catelyn's behavior.

She said nothing for a moment, before she finally put down her brush and stared at it with a complicated expression. "Just making sure." She said after a moment. Another passed before she rose and headed to bed. Ned followed her, but sleep did not come easy that night. He wanted to talk with Jon, and soon.

The next morning, Jon shattered Theon's practice sword into pieces.

Jon's behavior had rapidly deteriorated over the course of the month, but the strangest change, and by far the most worrying, was how he avoided sparring with anyone and instead turned practice blades on the practice dummies and targets, damn near hacking them all to pieces with brutal efficiency. Rodrick Cassel had made some odd comments about Jon as well, stating how the boy's whole fighting form had seemingly changed overnight; shaped up and sharpened into that of a seasoned warrior. It was something his Master of Arms had tried to investigate further, but Jon always had an excuse when Rodrick began digging for answers.

That morning, Theon had approached the Bastard of Winterfell and openly, and loudly, challenged him to a spar. When Jon declined, Theon tried to goad him further. When Jon declined further, Theon insulted him. When Jon flat out refused him and turned to leave, Theon had called him a coward on top of a bastard. Jon had frozen in his tracks, according to witnesses, and stood there long enough for people to wonder if Theon had finally pushed Jon Snow too far.

Ned had not known if something happened between them, but ever since Jon had recovered, he went out of his way to avoid the Ironborn at all costs. All he'd been told as to what happened next was that Jon strode over to seize a practice sword from the rack and marched towards the Greyjoy heir with death in his eyes. Rodrick had seen the change in Jon and called for a stop, but Jon was on Theon before his Master at Arms could get the words out. The bout was over quick and brutal with Jon disarming Theon in seconds and punching him hard enough to send him to the ground with a bloody nose. Jon had tossed his sword and stormed off, ignoring Ser Rodrick's demands for him to return and explain himself. Theon was having none of it. He rose and went for Jon with the practice blade still in his hand and swung for Jon's back. Jon had spun around in the blink of an eye and batted the dulled steel away with the flat of one palm while smashing the heel of his other into Theon's nose at the same time in a move Cassel certainly hadn't taught him, but that was not what was most noteworthy.

The noteworthy part was at Jon's touch, Theon's practice sword had been described as freezing and shattered into pieces.

Theon had hit the ground with a broken nose and sword, and for a long moment, everyone had stopped and stared. Jon stared, too, at his hands with a look that had been described as utterly horrified. Then he had ran, and no one had been able to find him since.

That night, Ned descended into the crypts to visit Lyanna. He wanted to beg, to apologize, and plead; for forgiveness, for guidance, for answers he did not have and would never get, but the pull to stand before the grave of his long dead sister was too strong.

He was not the only one.

Ned froze when his torch illuminated a figure in a black, hooded cloak standing in front of Lyanna's tomb, and a deep voice rumbled through the crypts.

"You lied to me."

The voice was familiar, but at the same time was not, and Ned's heart damn near froze in his chest when the man turned his head to look at him.

"Jon?" Ned muttered. His first instinct was to berate his nephew for the fact he had disappeared for the whole day, but now? Something was off about Jon, something he could not put his finger on and made him swallow fatherly instincts.

"You lied to me." Jon repeated, and Ned discovered part of what had unsettled him so. His nephew's voice was deeper and rougher, the voice of a man.

"Jon," Ned called and walked towards his unrecognized nephew, "Please, talk to me! Since you healed, you've changed! You are scaring all of us! Your siblings-"

"Cousins."

Ned stopped dead in his tracks.

"…What?" He whispered.

Jon turned fully to face him, and Ned realized with a shock that the boy had, for lack of a better description, aged! Beneath the hood was the face of a man grown; not by much in height, but he saw it from how he met the lad's eyes, how his shoulders were broader, his arms thicker, his forehead more pronounced, and his nose and chin fuller. What was more, Ned saw that the scruff that adorned Jon's face had thickened into a beard and mustache. The wounds on his face had scarred over, and even the way he held himself was different. He stood with the countenance of a lord, straight-backed and unyielding, not the downcast eyes and head of the bastard of Winterfell.

The only thing that had not changed were Jon's eyes; still dark and shadowed.

…And angry.

"And you-" Jon spoke the words as if they tore at his throat like they did at Ned's heart, "-Are not my father! You are my uncle!"

Ned stood rooted to the spot. He could do nothing, say nothing, think nothing! A numb horror had swept through him, and he stood utterly paralyzed while his nephew spoke the lie he had been placed in for protection like it was common knowledge.

"I may not have your name, but I have your blood! That's what you told me!" Jon shouted. His eyes, Lyanna's eyes, reflected the torchlight; wide, hurt, furious, and something else that made Ned's jaw tighten, "You lied! You were the most honorable man I knew, and you lied to me! To your wife! To everyone! I do have a name, UNCLE, and it is not Jon or Snow! It is Aegon Targaryen!" Jon's voice cracked at the end. His eyes were wet, and his face was set in a combination of rage, guilt, remorse, desperation, and regret.

"Who told you?" Came Ned's horrified whisper.

"My mother was Lyanna Stark! My father was Rheagar Targaryen! I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!" He gasped the words as if he did not believe them, did not want them. Jon was crying, now; small tears rolling down his cheeks to wet the ground by Lyanna's tomb.

"WHO TOLD YOU!?" Ned roared in shock, anguish, and grief.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Jon…changed. The tears stopped, his face went eerily blank, and his frame stiffened. A cold wind swept through the crypts and guttered Ned's torch.

"That's all you can ask? Who told me?" Jon asked quietly. His nephew stared at him, hard and sharp, before he said, "Bran did."

"What?" Ned breathed, dumbfounded.

"Bran told me." Jon repeated in a steady, matter-of-fact tone of voice, "After he became the Three-Eyed-Raven. He told me when I returned to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen, my aunt. Her dragon Viserion was killed by the Night King and the Wall had fallen to the Others while Cersei Lannister sat the Iron Throne!" Jon spat the words out with a deadly finality.

Ned stared at his nephew. What in the seven hells-

"Everyone was dead when it was over…everyone! I was the last of my family…both of them." He choked, "Westeros was either frozen in winter or scorched by wildfire. Cersei attacked while we fended off the Others. Arya got her in the end, though." Jon's face twisted into a harsh smile at that last part, "Then it was just me and the Night King…we would have killed each other, but…" Here, Jon visibly snarled, "That Red Witch! She was burning everything! She set off the casks of Cersei's wildfire! Smuggled whatever she could get her hands on and planted it all over the Seven Kingdoms! Burning it all for her Lord of Light! She left a trail of ashes behind her as she made her way North again. She…she wanted to be there when it happened…when I became her god's chosen. The Prince That Was Promised. Azor Ahai…" Jon chuckled mirthlessly. It was a cold and empty sound; one that chilled Ned to the bone, "But there was nothing left to burn, when she found us. She always did. Magic, I suppose. She's a withered hag without her brooch, you know that? Bet Stannis didn't…" Jon trailed off with a dark sneer, heaving for breath and stared at the statue of his mother, "We made a deal, him and I." Came Jon's feverish whisper, "There was nothing left, and he was once a Stark…"

"…Jon?" Ned croaked. He felt sick. Had Jon gone mad? What was happening? Mayhaps, he himself had gone mad and this was all some terrible nightmare.

"He could have it all, but I get a second chance." Jon breathed.

Another gust swept through the crypt, and Ned suddenly realized that the cold he was feeling was not just from Jon's words. The temperature was dropping inside the crypt, his breath was coming out in steam, and his torch was flickering against the cold.

Jon's eyes reminded Ned of cracked ice on a lake; hard, but one wrong move would shatter it all when he said, "I'm going to stop the coming wars, uncle. The King's children are not his children. Don't go South or you lose your head, Arya disappears, and Sansa is taken hostage if you bring them! Don't trust Littlefinger, either! The Greyjoy's are rebuilding the Iron Fleet and are going to attack at the first sign of war! Don't let Robb die as King in the North! Don't let Bran fall and keep Rickon safe! Lady Stark, too! Please, uncle…father…" Jon's voice broke in desperation, "The dead are marching on the Wall! I was given a chance and I must take it!"

The chilling wind sweeping through the crypts seemed to emanate from his nephew and not the entrance. Ned's torch guttered lower, the air grew colder, and he swore he saw frost coating the ground around Jon's feet! A sudden and terrible feeling overtook the lord of Winterfell, that if he let this madness continue, he would lose Jon forever.

Ned started forward.

"Jon, what are you talking about! What wars! What deal!" He begged to know as he approached. Because that last part was what held his attention the most. The way Jon spoke made it seem like he had done something terrible for an even worse price.

"I gave him part of me so he could live, but I took some of him to come back." Jon said hollowly as he stared at him with eyes that were broken and afraid.

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives…but I'm not a wolf, am I father?"

The torch finally gave out, plunging them into darkness.

And within the black, two glowing blue eyes opened.

"Not anymore…"

Ned ran for his nephew.

"JON!"

"Goodbye, father."

There was the rush of freezing wind and the sound of someone running past him at incredible speed, and Ned's glove closed around air.

And Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, vanished into the night.

Ned had dedicated all of Winterfell's forces to finding Jon since then. No explanation as to what happened, just a mass order of all guardsmen and able-bodied men to find Jon Snow and bring him home.

Catelyn had finally had enough and demanded an answer from him. Overwhelmed by everything that had happened with Jon in the past month and shaken by their encounter in the crypts, Ned told her. He told her everything.

To say that she had not taken it well was a grave understatement. Family, Duty, Honor; the words of house Tully, and she felt she had sullied those words with how she had treated her goodsister's babe, Lyanna's boy.

Then, there was the matter of their own children. He could at least spare them the truth. All he told them was that Jon had vanished, and that they were looking for him.

No matter what happened, however, he had to protect his nephew.

"Promise me, Ned…promise me…"

No matter what he had become…