Hello everybody! I'm sorry for the delay, I did not have access to Internet for a few days so I could not upload the chapter beforehand... To apologize I'm delivering to you my longest chapter and it is 100% Jon snow concentrated! The next chapter is almost edited too, so do not worry it will arrive very soon!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything apart from the plot, original characters, and some new notions and ideas. Every right goes to GRRM for the ASOIF world, and HBO for their great adaptation.
Good read!
Reading his mother's letter had the effect he had expected it would. It shattered him. Every possible scenario and theory he had made up about his mother during his youth and the lonely nights on the Wall were but a rumble of filth in front of the truth. He was a fucking Prince.
A bitter laugh escaped him at the thought. Four nights ago he was only the Honorable Ned Stark's baseborn son, a member of the Night's Watch and its Lord Commander. Now, he was the rightful heir to the throne : a Prince both from the Targaryen and the Stark side, released of its duty as a Crow and free to play the deadly game of thrones if he so wished to do.
However, that did not heal the wounds he had. His uncle has raised him as his own son, showing him unconditional love, protecting him against everything : the Lady Stark, the Baratheons… he educated him as much, and maybe even more than Robb (considering the lessons in High Valyrian, and Robb's reluctance to study more than he had to), in matters of strategy, warfare and politics, he trained him to be one of the best swordsman in the North. He would always remain his father in all but seed. The blood, he already shared.
But, without a mother's love, even his father's could not be enough. Seeing Lady Stark nurture and love tenderly each one of her children day after day cut him deeply more and more. He was only a bastard, the result of her husband's treason in her eyes, and he received cold gazes only. Disdainful words, avoidance and contempt. She hated him for what he represented and the threat he posed, in her mind, to her children. Rationally, he could understand, that to the standards of their world, she had even been kind compared to other highborn wives, but the feelings of a young boy could never be healed by rationality.
The absence of a warm touch, a soft voice singing lullabies, kisses full of love and adoration, the remarks made for his own good were things he had been missing dearly.
Now, reading this letter, Jon had been torn by the fact he knew without doubt, none of those things he will ever experience. He had hoped against hope that maybe his mother was still alive, hiding from him for whatever reason, and that still she loved him. It would have been hard to accept but he knew ultimately he would have forgiven everything with one gentle sweep of her hand against his cheek.
His mother did indeed love him but she was not present and alive in this world anymore. She had done everything to protect him, even made her brother promise to raise him as his own, but he would never have the opportunity to see the great beauty she was rumored to be, nor feel the affection of a mother's love.
Learning about his father, on the other hand, was a completely different and peculiar experience. He felt detached, he already had a father, the best one could ask for, and he would never forget him; and at the same time it also touched a deep part of him. Questions arose instantly when he thought about his real father.
Who was really the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen? Was the love they shared as great as it seemed to be? Did his father love him, or was he only the third child, a second Prince for the crown? Did Jon look a little like him? Or maybe, had he some shared characteristics in personalities?
Shock had coursed through him when he read the truth. But it also was muted. As if, subconsciously he was expecting it.
And somehow, he knew he did. He looked towards the entrance of the cave and saw Viserion lounging on the stone floor, serene but never completely unaware. How else would he be bonded to a fucking giant white dragon if dragon blood did not run through his veins? Ygritte seemed to be right again "You know nothing Jon Snow" she had said, and mostly it was true, but maybe he did not wish to learn. It makes reality harder to see the truth.
Fatigue invaded him further than satiety had already done. He was tired of thinking, troubling himself with matters as old as he was and he was tired of self pity. He could not and will not be a craven, he had to be brave, as his mother had said, embrace the hardships, because Winter is Coming. He had to make his family proud.
It did not stop, however, the few tears, remnants of his youth and vulnerability, to slide down his cheeks as he was falling asleep while embracing Ghost.
He woke up slowly with the morning peeking through the entrance of the cave, the direwolf gone from his side, the fire only embers struggling to keep the stone walls as warm as possible for its inhabitants.
Jon remained there next to the dying flames, brooding on everything he learned the day before. An image of him in the same position in his old bed in Winterfell reminded him that Robb would at that moment make fun of his silent and brooding tendencies, and Arya would simply poke him to death while screaming in his ear until he got up.
Thinking about his siblings (could he really for even a slight moment consider them as only cousins?) made his heart ache but also gave him strength to conquer the day.
He got out of the empty cave, alone, he did not know where his companions could be, and went to get some more wood. Valyrian steel was indeed as useful in chopping heads, as cutting barks of trees, he noted with a little amusement at the irony of the most dangerous metal in existence being used to cut simple wood. He made a few back and forth to the cave to make a small mount of wood that would last him for a few days.
His first task done, he went out again to scout the surroundings, learn perfectly the terrain, and picked whatever he could along the way to eat. He determined that the cave he had holed himself in was actually part of the beginnings of the northern mountains. Really, it was only, at first, a small mount which slowly evolved in the frozen stone the great mountains were know for.
The woods were generally dense with only a few sparse areas he saw some guards passing through. His steps had been silent and his breath calm. They had not detected him and he could observe them quietly.
Both wore the sigil of House Bolton, the flayed man, head on the bottom, body attached to a cross and a pink background representing flesh. They did not seem like really competent in battle skills but the way they held their swords indicated him, they still had some modicum of training. Reclaiming Winterfell will be harder than hoped, indeed, with trained men trying to keep it, but not impossible.
"Remind me again Arick, why are walking though those damn frozen bushes in this fucking cold like headless chicken?!" one of the guards snarled angrily.
"'parently some guy infiltrated and then escaped the castle. Ramsay is furious. The orders were to catch him and get him as alive as possible to him. Guess what he wants to do to him, hmm?" he smirked at the end.
"Ooouh. I love myself some flay on the cross. The bastard sure does have a talent to make them scream!" the first that had spoken laughed with mirth. "Remember what he did to the Greyjoy lad? No cock anymore. Now he's running around, calling himself Reek and obeying every single word the bastard says."
"No Theon, Theon dead! Dead! Reek... Reek now, master!" the second one imitated and both laughed cruelly.
Jon was torn between part satisfaction that Theon suffered after his betrayal, and part horrified at the torture and cruelty he had gone through under the sick Bolton bastard. He had never really held the Greyjoy ward close to his heart, but still, they have grown up together, drank their wits out for first time all three of them together in the dark smelly cave under the kitchens, trained together in the yard and bruising themselves purple with wooden sticks until their whole body ached.
He waited in the hollow of a dead tree for them to go farther away, and slowly followed them. At the same time, he used the respite to regroup his emotions and regain his calm.
A few moments after, the two members of the patrolling crew separated and went away in two different directions, one towards Winterfell, the other deeper in the Wolfswood.
Some dozens of trees and a small pond of frozen water later, he felt Ghost not far from him, and a smirk adorned his face at the irony of the second guard's words before going for the castle "look out man, famished wolves are lurking in those fucking woods". He signaled discreetly silently to the direwolf to attack the lone man and kill him, he couldn't afford any loud sound, for the missing partner was not too far away.
He approached quietly the dying body of the Bolton scum, the throat missing a piece of flesh on the left side, blood pouring out, on the cold floor, of the torn artery and saw the Bolton's man's eyes widen as he spoke the motto of House Stark, and promptly took his clothing. He divested himself of his own tattered furs and leathers, and after putting the new ones on himself (a little tight but it would do under the circumstances) he placed them on the now dead body, it succumbed from blood loss and frost in the short time he used.
Ghost bit at some parts as the legs, arms and stomach to make it look like wolves did the deed. He had to make them discover the body as soon as possible to avoid a possible wight in the walls of Winterfell (who knew exactly how far the Cold's magic affected the fallen bodies?) and suspicion at the real cause of death, so he promptly screamed what seemed like a terrorized cry out and Ghost howled as high as possible multiple times. Then, they scampered fast to the cave and concealed before that any trace of his presence.
As he sat down next to the fire while eating the remaining comestibles he decided to delve further in the wooden box that rocked his world.
The lid open, he first saw his mother's letter he had put back in before going out of the cave. Softly, he took it out and placed it beside the ornamented wood. He looked down again and saw books, he guessed they were the journals his mother mentioned, two smaller boxes underneath them and three separate parchments.
He took one randomly in hands and opened it carefully so that he would not damage it. He did not know what it could be, maybe another letter or a legality of some sort. Instead, what he had in his possession was the official document stating his parents' wedding, executed both in front of a weirwood and a Septon, and his birth as a royal heir.
'Jon Jaehaerys Stark Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm'
… He had been proclaimed King. By the Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen. His paternal grandmother.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck…
Apparently he was not really a Prince, as he had thought. A Sixth King enters the game. He could not believe it! Him, a King? He was a bastard some days ago!
Frustration, anxiety, terror and doubt circled inexorably in his mind without a stop. He was not worthy of his title, even if by some miraculous chance he did gain the throne! How could he be a King? He did not want to be one! He only wanted justice for the Stark family and household, repayment for treason both the Night's Watch's one and the Bolton/Frey one, and to exterminate the threat that the great Cold represented to humankind. He did not wish to play politics with pompous lords, only scheming behind his back to get the most power they could suck out of him.
The same thoughts ran around his mind incessantly for a long while. Then, he stopped pacing the cave (he had apparently gotten up without conscious knowledge) and stayed still, breathing big waves of air in and out of his lungs to calm himself. It would not do to panic, and act like an inexperienced child, he had been Lord Commander on the Wall, won battles, killed unnatural creatures, learned about death when it touched you closely, he could not shame himself by acting like a scared babe.
At that moment, he decided he would not dwell on the title that perturbed him so much. He would only focus on the duty it gave. Protector of the Realm. Let the others, power hungry mongrels fight for the so called power the position held.
He sat back down again and took one of the journals his mother left for him, it seemed logical to take that one since it was the one that looked the most used, and thus older. The beginning was always a nice place to start, when reading a story.
During the next few days he repeated the same routine with very few variations: wake up, eat the leftovers (if any) of the previous evening, go out and grab wood, explore the surroundings, exercise his swordsmanship, train with his companions be it by mentally sending messages or flying on Viserion while commanding 'dracarys' (he was immensely grateful to his father in those instants for the painful lessons of Valyrian), maybe go to the small lake and bathe himself as quickly as possible without any dwindling, and then, go back to the cave and read further the first journal he was gifted.
He learned in his mother's words, how much Arya resembled her as a young girl. Lyanna had been wild, willful and the most stubborn child in the world. She had trained by herself in the yard archery while escaping her crone of a teacher (thankfully it had not been a septa considering that the Faith only appeared at Winterfell after Lady Catelyn married into the House, or else the poor woman would have had a stroke). She had forced the master of arms and various guards to teach her swordplay, she knew how to manipulate every situation to her advantage, even if her Lady mother had not been the most enthusiastic at the idea of her daughter being a prey to harm. The wolf's blood had been strong in her veins.
Jon saw how much she had been loved, tolerated and cherished in her family. Her parents had adored her and gave her as much time as possible while still handling their duties and her brothers. His grandfather, Rickard (and the only one he was willing to call that, considering who the Mad King was) had been a stern but loving man. Lyarra, his other grandmother, a strong but compassionate woman. Her loss had wounded Lyanna very deeply and she mourned her for years.
Her older brother, Brandon had been as wild as her, but also a lot more reckless. In her stories, where they had various escapades and adventures together, her brother was always the one that took things too far. He also was as much of a ladies man as Theon claimed and dreamed himself to be years before. Lyanna had suspected that Brandon had a few bastards already, even before the announcement of his betrothal to the Tully girl. She had not been afraid to chastise him and nag about his dishonorable ways shaming the family as a whole.
And Ned had always joined her in her criticism. He had noted through the journals how much Eddard Stark stayed consistent in his life. As a child he had always been very serious and he took the Stark values the closest to his heart amongst all the siblings. Honor, duty and courage had always been the lines and principles of life he tried to uphold. He was the quiet wolf, silent, patient but deadly. However, Lyanna loved him the most. Ned had a particular place in her heart. She wrote: "Ned is like the other side of my person. Where I am reckless, he is the voice of conscience. Where I am too wild, he is the peace that calms my storm. When sometimes I become too soft and compassion takes hold of me, Ned is the necessary rigidity and strength. When I doubt, he puts the action in movement. Had we not different name days, I would think we were twins, two complimentary parts of one harmonious whole". When he went away to become a ward in the Eyrie, it was as if a part of her abandoned her too. Jon surmised their relationship was as strong as his with Arya, and very similar too.
Benjen had long been a baby in his sister eyes, childish innocence and adventurous spirit in a small body. However, as he grew older, he became the embodiment of a great part of his siblings in one. He had Brandon's thirst for action, Ned's honorable dutifulness, and her compassion. Lyanna had been an elder sister and a mother all in one to her smallest brother. In the journal (he had only read the first one almost entirely, not willing to rush and under appreciate the treasure he held in his palms) she gave him all her attention, teaching him, hugging him. The love she held for him was boundless, and at that moment, Jon saw that Lyanna would have been the mother he had always dreamed he had. It tore his heart in a way, reminding him of the all encompassing void, but it also warmed him from the inside to learn that his mother would have loved him and cared for him so much, had she had the chance to do so.
He had not yet reached the beginning of the turbulent years, and he suspected that this, he would read in the following journals. Although, he had already read the moment when Eddard came back from the Vale, almost a grown man, as strong and silent as ever, and with a joyous cocky boy at his side compensating his quietness with too much useless loudness. Lyanna had hated the Baratheon heir at first sight, and his attitude had only furthered her opinion on him. She tolerated his presence as much as possible for Ned. Her brother considered him his best friend, and after so many years with only him in the vicinity it was not really a surprise he had to settle with that, she remarked. Jon had laughed at the description she made of the now dead King.
She called him a worthless oaf with air instead of wits in his brain. She hated the way he strutted down every time she saw him walking somewhere, as if he owned the place or as if he was somehow better than all of them. On the one hand he complained about freezing balls in the cold wasteland, and on the other hand he followed her everywhere calling her the most beautiful winter rose that the North could ever create. She despised him purely, and simply.
Often, she had berated her older brother for his man whoring, but he was nothing next the whoremonger that was Robert Baratheon. Wine, ale, gluttony and whores were consummated by his one person in the amounts needed for a dozen of normal men. And he wanted her to succumb to his charms?!
Instead, Lyanna Stark, the girl that had never backed down from a fight, steered clear as much as possible from her brother's friend. And when she did see him, it was not always pretty to observe.
Sometimes, she went intentionally in the yard, chose a close target and while practicing archery grazed him with blunter arrows. When he looked angrily at her she would always invoke her stupid woman's hands, not strong and able enough to shoot correctly. Every time he would only smile stupidly and flirt, as if it was a sign of her liking of him. "Witless men…"
Other times, she would sabotage him in all the possible more subtle ways. She loved to take him down a notch in everybody's esteem, and particularly, her brother's. Manipulating whores, cooks and circumstances in her home base was easy for someone like Lyanna, cunning and well loved by everybody.
Ned was aware of her dislike of his friend and suspected her of the various miseries that befell him, but he was torn between his friendship that was the only joyous presence in his life for so many years in the distant Vale, and his most loved sister he missed terribly. He remained as neutral as possible, but most of the time if he pronounced himself in the undeclared war between the two, Lyanna won. As usual.
Already, Jon could glimpse at the beginning of the spread lies about his mother. She had not been a frail damsel in distress, and he could not imagine such a strong woman to let herself be kidnapped and held against her will for so long. Rape?! How? Robert had been so enamored with the fantasy he created for himself that he was blind and intolerant of everything differing from his ideal.
It had already been almost two weeks spent in the cave to the monotonous rhythm he imposed himself. Not much excitement was found. He mostly spent his time training with Viserion. Jon was aware that the white dragon would be instrumental in the fight against the Others and he would not let himself rely on simple instinct, without any concrete knowledge and shared experience to back his fighting on.
His bond with the magical creature strengthened day by day. With each minute spent with the dragon, he felt their connection more present and accessible. Now, he could communicate with Viserion without a conscious effort, where before he had to call for him and simultaneously find the mental link to tug on it.
With only a look, or a small gesture, Viserion understood perfectly his intention and acted on it. Sometimes it would be firing torrents of flames, or going up in the airs with one powerful swipe of wings. Jon practiced fighting on the dragon's back and the different ways he could mount his bonded.
Painfully, he learned that, unless no other solution, it would not be advisable to grab the leathery wings, they were very sensitive, so it hurt the dragon and consequently, Viserion, by pure reflex, either shoved him off or grazed him with his claws or teeth.
Also, he learned that, while very strong and fierce, the horns and multitude of pikes he had were particularly tickling spots for the dragon. Especially the base of the outer bones.
Viserion loved to be scratched and petted between his eyes, the top of his head and under his wings, but he hated the touch of anyone on his tail. Once, Jon slipped in an attempt to kneel on the back of his dragon, and, even if they were not far from the water (most of the time for their aerial training, they went to the Bay of Ice) he did not want to wet himself with the coldness of the sea, so he grabbed the long appendage. The screech the white creature emitted would always be remembered by him and the few poor souls living not far from the coast.
Furthermore, after the more needed aerial practice, Jon, Ghost and Viserion exercised and trained together to make a cohesive and battle ready group. He will not dwell on the subject, but Jon was confident that the trio of sword, claws and teeth would most certainly be formidable against anyone, or anything.
That day, after the extraneous activities, before going for the cave, he needed badly to bathe and wash his clothes. He approached cautiously the slightly bigger lake that was nearer Winterfell, not wanting to alert a patrol and slowly took off all his clothes. Being naked as the sun was setting was not really comfortable in this part of the world to say the least, but he braved the cold, not wanting to disgust himself any further.
As he approached the calm water, he was about to drop down his stolen wools and breaches, and wash them, but the image that mirrored him was most disturbing. He had expected to see the usual reflection of his. Instead he saw a few, but most troubling, changes.
Where usually his head has always been a full mass of black curls, now there was a slightly wide strand of silvery white hair at the exact same place his hair always became somehow straighter than the rest on the side of his head, clearly visible but not at the forefront either. He had always had a darker right eye, but now that darkness transformed in a deep amethyst. His cheekbones were now higher, his jaw even stronger and his lips slightly fuller. Jon had never been ugly, at least he did not think so, but now it was different to say the least. He imagined he looked a little less pure northern now.
He did not know how, but apparently, being torched in flames and bonding with a dragon, woke also the more physical aspects of his Targaryen blood.
Jon, considering his previous reaction to the letters, expected himself to freak a little bit. But, surprisingly, it seemed that all the recent discoveries and shocks made him more cooler headed. He took it in stride and after a few moments of perturbed gazing down to the watery mirror, he finished the task he had undertaken previously.
He returned to the cave, after a swift bath and sand scrubbing, drenched clothing in hands, furs keeping him from freezing and mind slightly pensive.
On the morrow of that particular day, before even beginning his day of usual routine he heard a scuffing sound at the entrance of the cave. Slowly, he took hold of Longclaw, the Valyrian steel Joer Mormont gave him, and glanced under his lashes at the source of sound.
He observed that Viserion was absent from his resting place, and Ghost was already on his haunches gazing at the intruder with teeth peeking under his taut furry skin. The man walking in the cave looked very much from the North: bearded long face, dark curled and loose hair with a braid on the side and towering height. Somehow, his instinct maybe, or his body language, told Jon that he was as surprised to see him as he was. He did not seem to wish him harm, but he could not be cautious enough.
Jon stood up confidently, raised his sword and opened his mouth.
"Who are you? What do you want?" He asked the fellow northerner.
"I am Torrel Harclay, from the Harclay mountain clan. I am coming back from Wooden Motte where I accompanied the young and elders for their journey away from the winter. Who are you?"
Jon paused for a small moment. He knew that the identity of the northerner was probably true, before the harshest period of Winter, the mountain clans always made their most vulnerable members go in the various villages around the rocky areas, and Winter Town in hope to make them survive the cold. However, Jon did not know how to present himself, he could not risk any betrayal. He decided to go with simplicity and a half-truth.
"My name is Jon Snow, Ned Stark's son."
Torrel's eyes opened wide for a moment with surprise, then, he schooled his features down after a few instants and replied to him.
"I am sorry for your losses then. If you so desire, you are most welcome to accompany me to Harclay Hill. House Harclay has always been, and will always be faithful to House Stark. We will help you in whatever way we can."
He thought for a while about the idea and nodded. He could not stay indefinitely in this small cave, and planning for the retake of Winterfell without any allies was not very conclusive and productive, especially in those dire times.
"Thank you. Until then, please sit. There is still some game from the evening and a handful of roots if you wish to eat."
"I appreciate very much. Thank you." He then glanced at the huge white wolf gazing at him silently in the corner. "Will he attack if I approach?"
"Do not worry, that is my companion direwolf, Ghost. If you do not wish me any harm, none will befall you either."
While they were eating and chatting aimlessly, Jon sent a mental message to Viserion to stay away from the cave and remain as discreet as possible. The dragon answered agreeing but he sensed unrest and worry in him too. The newly revealed Targaryen did not wish to reveal his cards without any guarantee of loyalty and meeting the clan's head so, most of the time, he either stayed quiet or directed conversation to less problematic subjects.
The day after, he prepared himself as usual, the benefit of not having anything he guessed, and only took under his arm the precious wooden box. He saw Torrel glance at it, again, but thankfully he did not say anything just as the previous day.
Slowly, they went out of the cave and went north. The march was long and strenuous. They had to climb up the crescendo stronger base of the northern mountains, while still being on the look out for any Bolton man, or possible spy. The walk was hard but nothing too much for Jon's physical state. Going out and exercising every day after a rejuvenating pyre maintained him well it seemed.
On the journey, they were ambushed by the cold sizzle of the winter rain. He preferred much more a harsher cold than the wet feeling seeping frost into his bones.
The early morrow on the second day of walking without stopping for the night, saw them arrive near a vast hill in between two very high mountains where a large settlement was installed. From their vantage point he could see a larger stone building probably housing the clan head, and a multitude of surrounding houses made of stones and wood. Chimneys everywhere let smoke run up in the air. The paths between the houses and the unique proper road leading to the main building were bustling with activities. People prepared everything they could find to survive as much as possible the coming months that would most probably be the harshest in this winter. Only adults and able bodies could be observed, not a child or older man to be seen, they would never resist against the coming frosts and snows.
When they arrived at the wooden arch signaling the beginning of the village, the people that noticed them regarded him strangely, a little melting of fright and suspicion. It was not often indeed that strangers came to their home, and never one accompanied by a huge white wolf walking on guard at his side. They all took a wide berth around them, not wanting to become the dinner of the large animal.
A few moments after, they were welcomed in the head household, apparently Torrel was the son of the current Harclay head. He was led by a servant to a small room where he took a much needed warm bath and clothed himself in fresh breaches, tunic and cloak. While he seemingly came back to life, he turned on his brain to consider every possible path his discussion with The Harclay would take. What actions would he take in each case. Better be prepared.
At the same time he connected with Viserion to see through his eyes. Currently, the dragon was flying over the mountains on the side of the Bay of Ice. Jon asked him to be careful and to find a spot to land in the nearing mounts of this place. In case something bad happened.
He was interrupted by a knock on the heavy wooden door, and when he opened it, it was the same servant woman standing before him, eyes to the ground.
"The Harclay is ready to see you, if you are freshened."
I hope that you all liked it!
As usual, the same speech, if you have any question, recommendation, criticism, grammatical or selling error to point out, or would simply like to tell me what you taught of the exclusively Jon chapter lease do so by reviewing!
See you very soon for the next chapter!
