Disclaimer: In this alternative universe, Lyanna is a Northern name that is common throughout the realm and is given to girls of both common and distinguished births alike. Also, the Lyanna in this narrative is NOT the Lyanna Stark of the HBO and book cannon.

Chapter Thirteen: Kill the Boy

Mance Rayder eyed his son critically, carefully. Perusing his form and trying to find...what, exactly? Some sort of malady or malaise that suddenly struck and seized him into succumbing to this lunacy and madness. Looking at him now, there was nothing of note that marked a drastic change.

Except, mayhap this...

Gaging his now, assessing him further, the man standing before him was still Jon Snow. His son. The pride of the Free-Folk and the White Wolf of the North. Mance Rayder knew his son and was well pleased.

Although sharing his midnight hair (Jon's more luxuriant and tending to curl, possessing a natural luster), and long Northern face laden with travail and severity, the White Wolf before him was Lyanna's son completely. He had her look-large, winter-grey eyes, full lip, and quiet introspection.

So much like Lyanna…

The realization caused Mance's heart to lurch and throat to constrict. It had been two and ten years since her untimely passing and the wound never ceased in its hurt. Some days, there was naught but a dull, dry throb, yet other times, the wound would reopen, raw and festering. This pain was cyclical, never seeming to end.

Mance was the King of the Wildlings, the sovereign King-Beyond-the-Wall, revered by the Southrone nobles and Free-Folk alike. For years, he had worn the distinguished mantle with pride, for it became akin to a second skin. He was King (the Southrone lords sneered at the self-imposed title. King of what? they would oft inquire. Of shit and snow?) and his duty was foremost to his people and the uniting of the dissenting clans. Yet, all of that ceased to exist once Mance met Lyanna's eyes.

He had never believed in love. He had prided himself on being too smart, too wizened. Too jaded. After living among his former brothers in the Night Watch, and witnessing the horrors beyond The Wall that would have rendered any normal man to the brink of insanity, Mance Rayder would have readily dismissed love and its notion to that of a phantasm. A product equated to that of mermaids and dragons.

Fanciful stories reserved for old nursemaids and the superstitious. And yet...All of his previous skepticism melted away into nothingness once he met Lyanna. Beautiful Lyanna. His Lyanna.

Although only six and ten, Lyanna possessed more grace, more spirit, and more courage than the fiercest of his warriors. She was both sweet, yet unyielding. Gentle, yet unbreakable. Innocent, yet sage. So hauntingly beautiful, but sweetly unaware.

She was everything that he had not realized he had wanted and more, even still. A winter rose blooming among death and decay. She was his fire and oh, how Mance burned and incinerated!

...And then one winter's morning, the coldest in memory, that all-consuming fire had forever extinguished.

Mance railed at the gods. Cursing them, damning them into the deepest pit of the Seven Hells for taking his Lyanna away from him. She had been his reason-his purpose-for living. When succumbing to the deepest, darkest parts of himself had been so easy, so simple, she had been his tether and salvation. She had breathed life into him again and again, saving him so many times over.

And yet he had been unable to save her in the truest hour of need; unable to tether her back to Earth. To him.

Mance shook his head, the grief pulling him under yet again. Oh, how the gods loved to play their little ironies. He had wanted to join her, to wherever her soul ascended. To never be parted from her again. He had prayed for it fervently. Yet, the gods in their unrelenting cruelty ceased to honor his entreaty.

He did not understand it then, the unfairness and cruelty. Yet now, looking at his son, his and Lyanna's creation, Mance was grateful for this second chance at redemption and atonement. Lyanna had once more breathed life back into him and had given him purpose. Jon Snow was his purpose. Lyanna's boy.

And Mance could see the phantom of Lyanna in his son now. The once extinguished flame now but a spark and flicker. Faint and dim but there, present. Aye, he was truly grateful.

Yet, looking at Jon now, he could see Lyanna's obstinacy shining clear through. The firm tightness of his lip, his unwavering gaze. His wolf-son was unapologetic. He was always irrational, that Jon Snow. Lyanna oft japed that he had inherited that trait from him. Always quick to act, yet slow to speak.

Mance had oft feared that his son's temerity would come at a price. Now, he was almost all but certain. Gods, but what had he done?

"I am not sorry for taking her. I will never be sorry for that."

Mance knew when Jon was lying. For nine and ten years, he had ample practice in deciphering lies and deception. There was no duplicity in him now. Only raw, blistering truth.

A moment passed. Then two. The silence interminable.

"The girl is beautiful, I will give you that. Far more beautiful than any I have seen. But she is a Kneeler. Worse, a Stark. How long do you think it will be before her people come for her? You know they will."

Jon Snow swallowed tightly then. He was angry now. An all too familiar trait. It seemed as though he stayed angry. His growling, snarling wolf-son. A man full grown, but still very much a boy in many ways.

"No Southrone Kneeler has breached the Wall in over a thousand years. She is mi-ours. She is ours."

The slip was slight, unnoticeable almost, but Mance caught it instantly. She is mine...Gods be damned but his son was in love. Not the innocent flirtation and dalliances that he had experienced with Rowena and Bridget all those summers past, or that silly, near-obsession he had shared with Ygritte. No, this was different, substantial. If pressed further, Jon would deny it, argue that he wanted her only for her pretty face and warm body and naught else.

But Mance knew better. This possessiveness...this claiming...was the act of a man in love. It was the same fire and consumption that he held (and still possessed) for his Lyanna.

He realized then that he was fighting a losing battle, Mance was. He knew that it was pointless and all for naught. There was no retreat for them now. Only acquiescence and yielding.

Mance turned his back to his son then, effectively dismissing him. His mind was in a quandary. In one hand, he was proud of Jon, for his unwavering stance. In that moment, he was truly his son.

Yet, he also wanted to rant and rail at him and for his stupidity, for visiting this danger to his people. Gods, what fools these mortals be for all in the name of love! This was his son in truth, and therein lied the problem, the danger. The gods were a cruel and fickle lot. What if Jon was not meant to keep her? Then what?

How would he survive it?

Jon lingered for a moment, wanting to say more, but unable to. As he turned to leave the hut, he was once again stopped by Mance's words.

"A thousand years ago, a wildling king stole a Kneeler away from her home to take to wife. Thousands of men died on both sides to reclaim her. Is she worth it, this she-wolf?"

Jon weighed the answer carefully, meticulously. His answer was both steady and unwavering, his winter-grey eyes resolute.

"Yes."

Mance nodded, smiling briefly. "Good."

Jon left the tent, stunned. It was rare that Mance complemented him. Although both father and son loved and respected each other tremendously, theirs was not a relationship based on flowery sentiments and poetic words. It was not the wildling way.

Mance watched his son walk away, a prowling wolf then. The transformation was immediate and mesmerizing, for in his wake was no longer Lyanna's boy-temperamental and pugnacious. No, there was no boy before him now. The boy was dead, and in its place was a man full grown. A White Wolf.