His mind was reeling. Jon was actually his trueborn cousin rather than his bastard brother. And he had traveled back in time! It seemed as if it came from a song: A secret time-traveling king raised as a bastard. A king! Jon was a rightful king! Jon would be a good King, he supposed. Fair, humble, observant and kind, but stern and serious all the same.

And the time travel thing! Robb, being a descendant of the First Men, had some knowledge of magic himself, but was taught that it died out long ago. The thought of magic bringing Jon back to life seemed almost absurd! And Bran doing it! It was proof that the Old Gods were more than just myth, despite what his mother always believed.

He turned his gaze to the woman in question. His mother was aghast, wet tears rolling down her ashen face. Was she shocked? Angry? Sad? He tried to figure out what she was feeling, but couldn't. If he was her, he would be feeling everything at once. Finding out that your husband's bastard, whom you treated with disdain, was time traveling royalty would sure do that to a person.

He faintly heard his brother (cousin?) clearing his throat.

"We don't have to do this right now if you want. I mean, if you all need time to mull things over… The information I need to tell you needs to be, well, told, but we have years to implement action. We can wait a day. I understand that it's a lot."

"To say the least," Robb added with the smallest hint of humor.

"Yes we would like some time, Jon. Thank you for informing us of this," his father paused to formulate his thoughts, "You may be much older in mind, Jon, but in body you are still young. The Jon Snow today has to align with the Jon Snow of yesterday, no matter how many years between the two."

Jon nodded, aware, but Robb understood that anyone who truly knew Jon would notice the differences right away. This new, older Jon was blunt and battle-hardened, as well as being even more stoic and serious than normal, which was quite a feat. He was no green boy anymore, that was for sure. He was a man, a leader, the heir to the Iron Throne.

The solar was blanketed by stagnant silence, everyone adjusting their minds to the changes in their lives. His father finally spoke.

"You and Robb have lessons with Ser Rodrik right around now. You may have been an accomplished sword fighter in your time, Jon, but now you are no better than Theon or Robb. Your only advantage would be your knowledge, which does very little in actions. Practice wisely."

With those words, Robb's father stood up and walked out of the room, brisk, with his mother following behind as if pulled by an invisible string.

Logically, Robb knew that he wasn't alone in the solar. His brother (he decided that despite Jon being his cousin, he was still his brother in everything but blood) sat beside him, charcoal eyes tracking the sporadic movements of the fire.

But oddly enough, even in Jon's company, a sense of loneliness settled upon Robb like a dark storm cloud. Did he even know his brother anymore?

And what about Jon's feelings about him? Jon hasn't seen Robb in what- ten years? (Even if Robb had seen him yesterday). If Robb hadn't seen anyone in ten years he was sure that their relationship would change.

Robb eyed Jon's solemn face and dark eyes. The way Jon sat was different. He sat straighter, but at the same time he was hunched. Proud but exhausted, Robb determined, that's why he sat the way he did. Robb finally cleared his throat.

"Lessons, then?"

Jon looked up, meeting Robb's eyes, and he was shocked to see a small flicker of excitement in them, "Yes, lessons. Hopefully my skills will progress quickly so I can knock you to the dirt every time."

Robb gaped, "Well let's see, dear brother, who will be knocking the other into the dirt."

The fact that Jon's mouth loosened slightly when Robb called him 'brother' was not lost to the redhead. The spell of stillness then shattered as they both pushed out their chairs and made their way to the door.

"I have to say that I'm quite surprised, Snow. I don't remember you being this confident yesterday."

"Just over a decade of fighting will do that to a man, Stark. Plus, as you may recall," his voice dropped to a whisper, "I do have royal blood."

Even though Jon chuckled, Robb stayed silent, still slightly uncomfortable with the new information.

Jon eyed him, "To be honest with you, Robb, I'm not sure how I feel about that. Even though there's no speculation left about my parentage, I still feel unsure, I suppose. My father was a prince," his voice was heavy with disbelief, "my grandparents were king and queen."

He looked toward Robb, "See? Doesn't that sound like a lie?"

It did, it really did. The words sounded cursed, forbidden, blasphemous, almost. In another life, Robb realized, Jon would've ruled the Iron Kingdoms. And with another fleeting thought, that could happen in this life, if the gods will it. The realization shook him, but he just nodded in response.

"I reckon I have more wolf blood than dragon blood," Jon continued, "I'm strong in the magic of the First Men, and much weaker in that of Valyria, as well."

Robb raised his eyebrows, "Magic?"

"Yes, Magic. You have a little as well, I think. Warging."

Robb couldn't help but guffaw, "Warging?"

"Yes, with your direwolf, Grey Wind," the amusement was clear in Jon's voice, but Robb was anything but amused.

"My direwolf? You can't be serious!"

"Really, Robb?" They stopped at the training yard to finish their conversation, and Jon tilted his head back, soaking in the warm rays of the sun like a man who had never known summer, "When am I known to jest?"

But I don't know you anymore, he wanted to say, how am I supposed to know? Even with these thoughts, Robb spared a second to envision Jon as a court jester and nearly burst out laughing. I guess somethings don't change about a person, he thought. Jon was just as solemn as always.

"Boys!" Ser Rodrik called out, "There you are! Have any idea where Theon is?

"Probably down in Wintertown, still" Robb replied, "He got shitfaced drunk last night."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jon wincing at the Ironborn's name. He'll have to ask him about what happened with Theon later. Or wait to hear it in his tale.

The northern knight sighed disappointedly, "Well then I suppose we could start without him," and then more quietly, barely above a whisper. "It's his fault he would rather disgrace himself than learn how to defend himself."

Jon and Robb looked at each other, small smiled etched upon their faces. Theon will be Theon and Ser Rodrik will be Ser Rodrik.

"Anyway, grab those blunted tourney swords. You'll be sparing while I take notes on your technique and faults."

"Theon's not here, Stark, so I guess I have to take my anger out on you. Ready to eat dirt?"

Yes, he would have to ask Jon about Theon.

"You wish, Snow," he answered.

Ser Rodrik looked on amusedly, no doubt being reminded of his youth, "Go on, pick out your sword of choice."

Robb immediately dove for the shiniest, with the premise that it was the newest. And while testing out in his hand, he decided that it, in fact, wasn't a bad pick after all. It felt balanced and natural.

Jon, on the other hand, took his sweet old time picking out his sword. He must've tried ten, picking each up, feeling the weight of it in his hands, and putting it away, dissatisfied. Finally, he begrudgingly picked up an older looking one.

Jon muttered something under his breath about it not being something called Longclaw, but that it was good enough. Robb wondered absentmindedly if this Longclaw was Jon's tried-and-true sword in the future, that no blunted tourney sword here could compete with. It probably was.

"Ready Boys?" Ser Rodrik questioned, "Three, two, one, begin!"

Robb and Jon observed each other for a few moments, circling around. Jon look was predatory and wolfish, he noticed. Primal. His eyes seemed to scan Robb's stance, and Robb barely had a chance to think that Jon had the strategic advantage in this battle before his brother attacked, swinging his right hand wide and above his head. Robb hastily put his sword up to block the blow, surprised at both Jon's confidence in the offensive, as well as his strength.

Robb lunged, swinging his sword at a head angle to Jon's gut, be he swiftly sidestepped and continued his observant gaze. Then Jon thrusted forward landing blow after blow upon Robb's sword. He was quick and sharp, and Robb was barely able to parry them all.

Jon's style was most definitely not what Ser Rodrik taught them as children. It was more fluid, but also more sharp. More unorthodox, more primitive. He tried to spare a thought to about where Jon had learned this, but he had no time, too preoccupied with the deluge of attacks he was fending off.

Jon's style was better suited to kill, Robb realized with a start. He wasn't used to fighting with the intent to disarm, but rather to fatally wound. This admittingly shook him, and the heir found his arms moving slower, with less vigor. The fact that his brother had to fight in order to survive made these run of the mill blunted-sword practices seem a lot less fun.

Jon must've noticed his distraction, dodging to the right, and arching long at Robb's sword. He was barely able to fend him off. Jon stepped back to take a few breaths, which was a more than welcome break for Robb.

Sweat dampened his hair and dripped down the back of his neck. His breaths were quick and heavy. He forced his eyes to study Jon. There was a hint of frustration in his face, Robb noticed. He remembered what his father said to Jon before he left:

"Your only advantage would be your knowledge, which does very little in actions."

Jon couldn't even rely on muscle memory, because his muscles have no yet memorized these actions. And the memory of muscle memory probably didn't do much for his performance, after all.

Robb went in for a blow but was weakly parried by Jon. He went in for another blow.

If I could just tire him enough…

Jon did some complicated twisting gesture with his sword, and Robb's sword clattered to the dirt. Robb looked up in astonishment. What was that?

The two opponents looked at each other for a few moments. Jon winked as if to say, I was just toying with you all along, but in fact Robb knew the wink should be interpreted more along the lines of, I only learned how to do that in the future. I'll teach you if you'd like?

Robb winked back.

"Jon, lad!" Ser Rodrik called out, "I never taught you that! Have you been practicing, or has this just happened overnight?"

Overnight, Robb answered in his head, but also over the span of fifteen years.

"Uh, yes Ser," Jon replied, "I've been practicing."

"Ah, well Robb, looks like you're going to have to admit defeat," said the knight.

Robb let out an incredulous chuckle, "I admit defeat, Ser."

A small voice snapped them out of their conversation.

"Wow, Jon! You have to teach me!"

Little Arya came racing into the yard, her dress dragging in the mud.

Jon smiled, "Maybe one day, when you could pick up a sword without toppling over."

"I can do that now!" she answered, a little offended by the looks of it.

"Perhaps," Robb joined in, "but are you sure you have enough strength in those arms to swing it?" He nearly burst out laughing at Arya's responding pout.

"I'll be a great swordswoman one day! I'll be able to beat all my brothers. Like Aunt Lyanna!"

Robb searched Jon's face for sadness at the mention of his secret mother, but none appeared.

"You will be a great swordswoman, someday," Jon said with certainty, "but now you have to learn how to be a great sewer. I think you're ditching your lessons."

"Yes, little one," said Ser Rodrik authoritatively. "Go to your lessons."

Arya pouted and ran away mumbling about Sansa and Jeyne Poole and embroidery. Robb wondered what that was about.

"Arya!" Jon called out to her retreating figure, "Needles are really just miniature swords, aren't they?"

Arya looked back and laughed.