A/N: I want to thank everyone for reading, alerting, and favoring this story.
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Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
28: Jon
Here he was.
Jon stood in the solar to the Hand of the King. He had made it. He had arrived to the capital.
It had been his destination since he had left the Wall and the Watch behind him so many weeks ago. He had dreamed and thought of the capital often as they traveled. His father's words never far from him, the promise he made when they departed Winterfell; Jon to go north to the wall while his father went to serve the king as the Hand.
However, the arrival felt hollow to him now. He was supposed to be arriving with Lord Tyrion. It had been Lannister who had made his generous offer to let Jon accompany him south to the capital. However, Lord Tyrion was not here. He had been taken captive.
Jon instinctively winced as the memory brought a prickle of pain to flare up from the wound he had gotten from that sellsword. He moved his hand to rub the sore spot on the back of his head. Even days after it had passed, he still couldn't understand what had possessed Lady Stark to make such a bold, and foolish decision by abducting Lord Tyrion.
Had she gone mad in grief? Jon knew she bore him no kindness. She showed him nothing but contempt since he was old enough to remember. So to realize that she had left him in that Inn in her mad dash after absconding with Lord Tyrion was not a surprise to him.
Thankfully, he had been saved from theft and abuse by Lord Tyrion's other traveling companion, Yoren. Jon could still remember waking up sore and confused. His hands were tied to his saddle. For a moment, he feared he had been taken prisoner by one of the sellswords or knights within the Inn or even by Lady Stark herself. His fear was alleviated when it was the wandering crow, Yoren who greeted him. Riding along them was Jon's direwolf, Ghost.
Yoren had told him of their race to reach the capital to inform his father what had happened on the road between Lady Stark and Lord Tyrion. Exhausted and sore they had reached the capital in a hasty two night, three day ride. Jon wouldn't forget the looks he and Yoren had gotten when they entered the city or the stares that followed Ghost when his direwolf trailed behind him.
Their reactions were comical and Jon did his best to hide his smile. He was certain it must have been a strange and even terrifying sight to see a creature from legend such as the direwolf. Large and fierce with eyes the color of blood running through the city.
When they finally reached the Red Keep, they were greeted by the Stark banner that waved down from them from above the highest turret of the Tower of the Hand. He remembered from his lessons with Maester Luwin that the family sigil of the Hand of the King flew above the Tower of the Hand. In this case it was his father's banner, the grey direwolf running across an ice field.
It was there that he had been separated from his traveling companion, Yoren. The Crow was taken to a room by Steward Poole who had been surprised to see Jon. He then instructed one of the Stark household guards to take Jon to Lord Stark's solar.
Jon looked around said solar. He noticed elegant metalwork along the metal bars that divided the solar in two; the bars had been carved to form a sprinting direwolf. This felt nothing like his father's study in Winterfell. Myrish carpet covered the floor in bright colors. Foreign and elegant carvings and statues were placed throughout the room to further give the appearance of opulence.
There was no warmth in this room. It was decadent and hollow.
He knew that Yoren was probably at this moment informing his father about what had happened on the road. His gut twisted at thinking how his father would react to what he had done when Lady Stark had tried to take Lord Tyrion. Jon hoped he'd understand, but he feared his father may see Jon's actions as him siding with the Lannisters over his blood.
Lady Stark isn't my blood, a small voice was quick to remind him. She was content with him to waste away at the Wall. It had been Tyrion who had shown concern for him and his future.
I spoke up for my blood, he told himself, For Robb, Bran, for Lord Stark and the honor of House Stark. An incident such as the one Lady Stark performed could tarnish a house's reputation. As well as earn the wrath of the powerful and feared House Lannister.
Jon remembered what Lord Tywin had done to his rebellious bannermen who had disrespected his family's house. Houses Reyne and Tarbeck were only remembered in songs to serve as a warning to those who roused the fury of the Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. He shuddered thinking about how Lord Tywin would react to the news that his son had been abducted.
Shuffling footsteps broke him out of his thoughts. Jon turned to the door when he heard loud sniffing. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ghost rising to his feet, red eyes on the door, tail swatting slowly. The door opened, and a blur of grey burst into the room, yipping happily as Lady made her way to Ghost.
Lady has grown, Jon noticed at once. She and Ghost had been the smallest of their litter. Ghost was now large and tall, and while Lady was smaller than his direwolf, she was no less intimidating. Ghost greeted his littermate by nipping her ear fondly while Lady nuzzled her head against his snow fur, tail wagging happily.
"Jon."
He just had time to turn before he found himself engulfed by Sansa. He awkwardly patted her back, her copper curls falling in front of his face, his nose twitched at the flowery scent he smelled. He couldn't quell the happiness he felt at being reunited with his sister.
Finally, they broke apart, and Jon was surprised to see Sansa like her direwolf had grown. She was always tall, but she was now slightly taller than him, which he didn't remember being the case when they all left Winterfell. She was dressed in silks and laces, and he noticed the ruby necklace that adorned her neck. She looked like a southern noblewoman, he realized.
"Jon." The heir to the Dreadfort moved forward to greet him. He was dressed in a dark doublet that proudly displayed his family's blazon.
Jon couldn't help but wonder how the Bolton flayed man was received here in the capital. He had to smother a snort of amusement at picturing the scandalous faces of the southern lords and ladies who saw it.
"Domeric."
He extended his hand and Jon shook it, before Domeric pulled him closer to slap his back with a chuckle. "You are a most welcomed surprise."
"Yes, you are," Sansa was smiling in agreement. "But, I don't understand," Sansa's smile dipped, her brows furrowed, "why are you here?"
"Did they make you a Wandering Crow?" Domeric asked.
"He didn't join."
Three heads turned to see Lord Stark step into his solar. His grey eyes were looking at Jon closely. He tried his best not to wince under his father's intense gaze, knowing that Yoren must have finished telling him what had happened at the inn.
"Really?" Sansa's tone colored with surprise. She turned to him, a hopeful look on her face.
"Yes," Jon answered, "I didn't join."
"That's wonderful," Sansa declared happily, before a touch of guilt flickered across her face, "I mean if that's what you wanted."
"It is," he was touched by her consideration.
"Good," Sansa looked pleased that it had been his decision.
"What happened?" Domeric had moved to stand beside his betrothed, but his eyes were shifting between Jon and to Lord Stark. "What's going on?"
"Jon and a brother of the Night's Watch came to warn me," Lord Stark said before Jon could answer.
"Warn you?" Sansa repeated.
"Yes," Lord Stark confirmed.
"I didn't mean-" His words were clumsy and awkward as he tried to explain himself, but he stopped when his Lord Father held up his hand.
"Yoren has told me everything."
Jon gulped nervously, unable to decipher his father's look. His face looked as if it was carved from stone, like the many Stark kings whose statues lined the crypts of Winterfell.
"Lord Stark?" Domeric asked respectfully, "What's happening?"
"Lady Stark has taken Lord Tyrion Lannister hostage under my orders," Lord Stark answered simply, but his eyes were on Jon when he spoke them.
"Father-" Jon protested at once, knowing that it couldn't be true.
"That is the truth of it, Jon," Lord Stark's voice brooked no argument.
Jon bowed his head, his objection dying on his tongue. Not wanting to see his father's stony expression, he looked over to see Domeric and Sansa were equal parts surprised and confused with this revelation. Jon couldn't blame them. He had difficulty understanding it and he had been there to witness it.
"Soon all of the capital will know," Lord Stark continued, "And they will know that she acted on my orders," he told them, "By Hand of the King."
Jon understood now. His father was shielding Lady Stark from a reprisal by Lord Tywin Lannister, the Warden of the West. By protecting her under the office of the Hand of the King, the Lord of Casterly Rock had to be more careful in how he would react to this embarrassment and insult to his house.
"Father, why?" Sansa had gasped at the news.
"That is not your concern," he said, "What's important is that we remain united," He looked at his eldest daughter expectantly, "You know why, right?"
"Yes, father." Sansa straightened up, "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."
"Aye, that's right, child," a proud smile came to his face. "We are that pack," he looked to Domeric and then Jon, his grey eyes lingering on him. "All of us."
Jon nodded at his father's words. He remembered being told them often at Winterfell growing up, but here at the capital after what had happened, the words meant more now. He wasn't a child anymore, safe behind the walls of the Stark's ancestral home. He was in King's Landing and he was ready to do his duty for his blood.
Lord Stark moved towards the hearth where Ghost and Lady were curled up beside each other, both direwolves raised their heads upon his arrival, watching him with silent interest.
"Summer is the time for squabbles," he reminded them. "In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths."
Jon looked to see Sansa had taken their father's words to heart. Determination shone in her Tully blue eyes, but despite Lady Stark's coloring, Jon saw their father in Sansa's expression.
Domeric too was listening intently to Lord Stark's words. His hand entwined with Sansa, but his focus was solely on the Lord of Winterfell.
"We have come to a dangerous place," He lowered his hand for the direwolves to sniff, Lady was first, sniffing only for a second before licking his outstretched fingers, "We have enemies who mean us harm, who mean to divide us."
He looked at them expectantly. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes," they chorused without hesitation.
"Then that is enough for tonight." He dismissed them.
"Father," Jon began softly watching as Sansa and Domeric were already moving towards the door. Jon knew he needed to speak before his courage left him.
Lord Stark turned to him. If he knew what Jon was going to say or ask, he did not show it.
"You promised me," Jon whispered, not certain what other words or pleas he could use to get his father to listen.
Those words seemed to crack his father's expression. Something flashed in his grey eyes, "Domeric?"
"Yes, my lord?" Domeric sounded surprised to be called on.
"You spoke of peaceful places on the Blackwater that you've found on your morning rides."
"Yes, my lord."
"I'll have you ride out on the morning with me to show me the best one."
"Of course, my lord."
"Good," Lord Stark turned to Jon, who felt hope blooming in his chest, "I have need of one. It is time for me to speak with my son of things long since promised."
"Jon," Sansa greeted him the following morning.
"Sansa," he yawned. He was quick to cover his mouth with his hand. "My apologies,"
His sister only giggled before shaking her head. "Did you not sleep well?"
"No," he took his seat across from her.
They were breaking their fast in the intimate dining chamber where the Hand could eat quietly with family or confidants without having to use the Small Hall where servants and guards of the household tended to eat.
"I'm sorry to hear that," She gave him a sympathetic look.
He had tossed and turned throughout the night. His stomach a bundle of nerves and excitement that was coiled together tightly.
The servants' arrival brought his attention to the meal before him to see them presenting a course that included fish fried with onions, and bacon, bread, and freshly squeezed juice.
He watched as Sansa skillfully instructed the servants of the Stark household. Seeing her now, he knew she should have no problem running the household at the Dreadfort. "Shouldn't we wait for Domeric and Father?"
"It's just the two of us this morning," she answered, "Father and Domeric have already ridden out."
That got Jon's attention. He felt the drowsiness slip away "Truly?"
"Yes," Sansa confirmed.
He looked down at his food. He found he had little appetite to eat.
"Jon," Sansa said gently.
He raised his eyes from his plate and met his sister's concerned gaze.
"You should eat," she encouraged.
He didn't respond.
"Jon," she repeated, a bit of steel in her voice, "eat."
"Yes, my lady," he replied dryly.
Sansa sent him a feigning glower for his tone and he returned it with a smile.
Jon then picked up his bread. Taking a cautious bite, he chewed and swallowed, and pleased to discover that his stomach wasn't protesting. Relieved, he then dipped his bread in his bacon grease and took a larger bite, savoring the taste.
Ghost nudged his arm. His red eyes were looking at him expectantly. Jon obliged him, giving his direwolf a piece of his bacon which Ghost took gently with his jaws before devouring it quickly.
Jon looked across the table wondering if Sansa would scold him for feeding his direwolf at the table only to see Sansa doting on Lady with a piece of her fish. He chuckled, getting his sister's attention; she looked sheepish at getting caught.
"Mayhaps, we should eat some of this food as well?" He joked.
Sansa giggled, "of course," she was spreading jam onto her bread, "I'm sure this is better than anything you've eaten on the road."
"It is," Jon took a loud bite of the crisp bacon.
Leaving the Wall and the days before they reached Winterfell, they ate dried jerky, apples, and bread. Not a bad meal, but a bland one. Though, once they crossed into the Riverlands they were able to find quality Inns thanks to Lord Tyrion and their meals were rich and fulfilling.
"Have you enjoyed the capital?"
"It has been pleasant," Sansa answered politely.
Jon frowned. He could tell that his sister didn't seem comfortable with providing him a further explanation so he didn't press further.
"How was the tournament?" Jon had seen the knights and lords during his travel south with Lord Tyrion, streaming on the road with their colorful banners and shimmering armor all venturing to the capital for the Tourney. In the evening, they crowded the halls of inns, talking and boasting about their skills and chances for anyone to hear.
Sansa immediately brightened at the question. "It was wonderful."
Jon smothered the teasing smile that threatened to slip at seeing a glimpse of his sister's past self. He could almost imagine Arya sitting beside her, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue. The reminder of his sister brought a pang of sadness to him.
Since leaving the Wall he had seen all of his siblings except for her since she was fostering with the Mormonts at Bear Island. Jon doubted he'd see her again until the wedding between Domeric and Sansa. An event that was still many months away.
I'll write to her, he'd let her know that he didn't join the Watch. The only regret would be that he wouldn't be able to see her face when she found out that he didn't take his oath. The thought of her reaction made him smile.
"How so?" Jon tried to keep the amusement out of his voice.
"Dom won," Sansa gushed, "and he was brilliant. He beat Ser Jaime and Ser Loras in the final tilts."
"Is that right?" Jon was a bit disappointed that he'd miss that. He'd enjoy the sight of seeing his friend putting several southern knights into the ground. Jon didn't even need to ask who Domeric had crowned his Queen of Love and Beauty.
"Yes," Sansa was clearly proud of her betrothed's accomplishments. Her hands instinctively went to her hair as if brushing a phantom crown.
"Sounds wonderful," He was cutting up his fish, aware that Ghost's eyes were on him.
"It was," Sansa told him, "Despite the efforts of certain stags."
Her shift in tone caught Jon by surprise. The warmth of her tone had cooled considerably. Jon knew of which stag she was referring to. He remembered just how spoiled the Crown Prince had been during his brief time at Winterfell.
After that they ate in relative silence. It was not an uncomfortable where neither knew what to say, but a peaceful quiet much like the ones he had sometimes shared with Robb back at Winterfell when they took their meals together in the great hall while their brothers and sisters were still sleeping.
It was odd, Jon thought, sitting across from Sansa, the sibling for the longest time who had the least interactions with him. She called him half brother and didn't seek him out or spend time with him. Unless he was with Robb and that was only when they were younger. Then she preferred to spend her time with Jeyne and Beth.
She had changed, matured. He could still remember being caught off guard when she cornered him one evening to apologize to him for her rude behavior and for calling him half brother. Jon had accepted it much to her relief, and the time between them had only improved from there.
"Have you seen much of the Red Keep?"
"No," Jon answered. As soon as he and Yoren arrived they were escorted straight to the Tower of the Hand.
"I'll be happy to give you a tour if you like?" Sansa asked hopefully.
"I'd like that," Jon smiled.
Sansa returned it. "Wonderful," she sounded pleased, "Some of it is rather impressive, but it's not Winterfell."
He detected the wistfulness in her voice. "No," he agreed without hesitation. "It isn't."
"You must go riding with us," Sansa insisted, "Lady loves the Blackwater Rush," she turned to her direwolf who met her gaze, tail wagging slightly. Sansa rewarded her with a bit of her bacon.
"How often do you go riding?"
"Domeric goes every day."
That didn't surprise Jon. He knew his friend loved to ride, remembering the many hunts and rides they went on in the Wolfswood outside of Winterfell, him, Theon, Robb and Domeric. Theon would jape that a flayed centaur would serve a better sigil for the Heir to the Dreadfort. Domeric didn't consider it a compliment.
Occasionally, they were joined by Sansa, Arya, and Bran, but when they were, they couldn't ride as fast or as far. Still those were some of Jon's favorites. Recalling the differences of his younger siblings and how they took to it.
Arya was determined and focus to match their speed. Often trying to race her brothers and Domeric to try to prove she belonged with them. She hardly won. However, seeing her smile and laugh as she trotted after them always brought a smile to Jon's lips.
Bran was their shadow. He was never far from Robb or Jon. He was always watching them. Seeing how they sat in their saddle, how they held the reins, how they adjusted as they rode. He tried to absorb everything he could.
Sansa's riding had been the poorest out of the three of them at the beginning. She had been taught to ride like a southern lady. That did her no good when they were trotting through the Wolfswood.
Soon, I'll be riding out with Father, the reminder brought a jolt of anxiety to strum through him. His stomach wriggled and grappled with that pending conversation where the truth would be finally told to him. Now, as he waited, so many emotions were warring within.
Nervousness, excitement, fear, happiness, he felt them all, but they were all tangled up in knots in his gut.
"Jon?"
"I'm fine."
"I'll be here for you afterwards," she hesitated, before adding, "If you want to speak."
He knew it wasn't curiosity but concern that prompted her invitation. Her words helped to soothe the nervous energy that was thrumming within his stomach. "Thank you," he nodded at her kindness.
"Now, tell me about the capital."
Thankfully, she understood, and she acquiesced.
For the remainder of their meal, Jon didn't think or worry about his conversation with his father and the revelations that would stem from it. He enjoyed his meal in the presence of his sister and their direwolves, smiling and talking.
He couldn't have asked for a better way to spend his morning.
Jon raised his practice sword just in time to deflect Domeric's thrust.
Their blades clashed.
A frown came to Domeric's features, certain he had his victory. Drops of sweat appeared on his brow, his face set in concentration.
Jon pushed his sword a way with a grunt. He had missed these practiced bouts. His arms ached. He felt sweat trickling down his face. He hadn't fought or trained since he left the Wall. Those had been overseen by the spiteful master-at-arms, Ser Alliser Thorne, whose black eyes glistened with hate, and who was always quick with an insult or a sneer.
Domeric backed away warily. Sword raised and ready for Jon's attack, but in the seconds that passed, he seemed almost thankful for the brief reprieve.
Jon lashed out suddenly to try catch his friend off balance. His sword raised high he delivered his strike. Domeric met it with his blade, trying to set his feet to help absorb the blow. Jon was quick to move his sword and thrust low which Domeric blocked, but his speed was seeping out of him.
He pushed forward before quickly pulling his sword away, Domeric faltered at the move and that was when Jon delivered the ending stroke. His sword moving swiftly before Domeric's sword could deflect it and the tip of his sword tapped Domeric's chest plate, "Yield?"
"I yield," Domeric admitted.
Jon let out a loose breath, feeling the aches and exertion taking their toll now that his concentration on the bout had ended. Despite the dull pain, Jon had relished it.
"You've gotten better," Jon said honestly. It had been some time since he had trained, and he was bit out of practice, but he couldn't deny that his friend had improved.
"An innocent enough compliment," Domeric remarked, "Though it makes your victory sweeter." He handed his sword to a waiting page. "No triumph in beating a poor opponent."
Jon only chuckled at his friend's dry tone. "The capital has made you suspicious."
"Aye," Domeric agreed. "But I thought I had you there."
"You nearly did," Jon pushed aside his brown hair that threatened to fall over his face.
"Shall we cross lances next?" Domeric asked innocently enough.
"No," Jon declined swiftly, but politely.
"Pity," Domeric's lips curved up.
As they moved to leave the training yard of Red Keep, they passed a pair of gossiping knights of House Lannister.
"All he does is heave and shit," the first one said.
"Some are calling him the privy prince," The second one replied.
"He'll be better soon," the first knight said, "this sickness can't keep a lion down for long."
"I heard he'll make an appearance tonight with his mother," the second one added, "To show his strength and to see he's on the mend."
Their voices faded away as Jon and Domeric walked deeper into the corridors that went through the Red Keep and led back to the Tower of the Hand.
"It was just at the feast of the closing of the tournament did I drink to the prince's health," Domeric remarked, "such a pity to hear of these stomach ailments."
Jon glanced over at his friend to see his eyes meet his, but the rest of his expression was carefully concealed to look impassive.
"You know Lord Stark is neither the first northerner nor Stark to hold the office of Hand of the King."
"Cregan Stark," Jon provided the answer, who was pleased with the change in conversation.
"He came into the fold on the side of Rhaeynra Targaryen," Domeric said, "During the Dance of the Dragons."
"The Pact of Ice and Fire," Jon remembered.
"Yes, a Princess Targaryen for House Stark." The two friends neared the Tower of the Hand. Even at its height, they could see the Stark banner swaying in the breeze, both knowing of the running direwolf on an ice field even if their eyes couldn't see it.
"Lord Dustin commanded the Winter Wolves," Domeric remarked, "A famous lord and a favorite tale among the people of Barrowton."
"Lord Stark followed Lord Dustin with his army," Jon said, "His forces were made up of men who were childless, unwed, second and third sons, and bastards." That part of Luwin's teaching always resonated with Jon as he learned it beside Robb and Sansa. "They joined to spare their families the burdens of having to support them in the winter."
Domeric frowned, but before he could speak up, they were greeted by two of House Stark's guards at the entryway into the Tower. They exchanged quick exchanges before they went inside.
"The Hour of the Wolf," Domeric recited.
"He saw over twenty men arrested for the murder of Aegon the second," Jon had always been proud of his ancestor and the work he had done in his brief time as Hand of the King. Now, he prayed that his Lord Father found similar success in rooting out those who were responsible for the death of the previous Hand, Lord Arryn.
"And presided over their trials and executions," Domeric said, "He killed them himself."
"That is the old way," Jon remembered his Father killing that deserter of the Night's Watch the day Robb found the dead direwolf and its litter of pups.
"Our way," Pride laced Domeric's tone. Just like House Stark, House Bolton was descended from the First Men. They honored the traditions that were passed down by their ancestors, such as the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
"I'm sure the southern nobles were scandalized by that," Domeric smiled.
"Aye, I bet they were." Jon chuckled, "He then left the capital after only staying for less than a week." He hoped his father's stay at the capital would be brief too.
"Do not forget that he once sparred with Ser Aemon the Dragonknight."
"And Ser Aemon claimed he had never fought a finer swordsman." The Dragonknight had always been one of Jon's favorite characters. How often had he claimed to be Ser Aemon when he and Robb played their games at Winterfell? Too many to count, he thought with a smile.
"He never got his Targaryen Princess," Domeric pointed out.
"No, he didn't," The idea of a Targaryen Princess marrying into his father's house felt strange to Jon. The image of silver haired and purple eyed Starks ruling the north from Winterfell seemed like an absurd notion.
"Jon," Steward Poole was coming to meet them. "Lord Stark is waiting for you at the stables."
Jon looked out to see his Lord Stark had instructed Jory and his household guards to fan out in order to prevent their conversation to be interrupted. Ghost stalked quietly along the Blackwater Rush, exploring the area around him with silent intensity, red eyes glancing this way and that. It had been his Father who had asked for Jon's direwolf to accompany them. A request Jon did not mind since he wanted the presence of Ghost anyways.
Now watching his direwolf stalk through the low branches of trees and bushes that had nestled on the banks of the river, Jon understood why his father wanted Ghost. The direwolf's keen senses would be able to snuff out any unwelcomed guest.
Jon turned away from his inquisitive direwolf to see his Lord Father was approaching him after giving his instructions to his household guard. He had yet to speak to Jon since they left the stables of the Red Keep.
His father was wearing what Bran called, His lord's face. That was when their father's warm expression hardened and his eyes turn into chips of stone. It was an intimidating gaze that brought a slight quiver to go through Jon making him unable to meet his father's stare.
"Jon," his father's voice was softer then his look.
Jon raised his head to see Lord Stark's lips quirk up ever so slightly, bringing a bit of relief to Jon's gnawing nerves. His lord's face had been put aside.
"I did not want you come to the capital."
Whatever relief Jon had just felt disappeared in an instant with his father's honest words.
"I couldn't, Father," Jon confessed, "I couldn't join them. It wasn't like it was supposed to be."
He wondered if his illusions of the Watch and the Wall were any different than the ones Sansa once had of the southern court? They had both been wrong to believe such foolish stories. Thankfully, they both realized the truth before it was too late.
"I am glad that you did not join the Watch, Jon."
"Father?" Jon hadn't been expecting that.
"You are young," Lord Stark said, "And I had hoped that you would stay at Winterfell to help Robb when I went south."
Gladly, Jon had wanted to say, but he kept quiet. He didn't need to name the reason why he didn't remain at Winterfell to help his brother.
"Lady Stark was adamant that you leave," Father said bluntly. "Maester Luwin had told me that you had shown an interest to join the Watch. He thought it an ideal solution and my Lady Wife agreed."
"By trying to honor my wife I failed you." He raised his arm, "Come, we have much to discuss."
Jon didn't trust his voice so he nodded instead. He fell into step with his father as they slowly walked towards the roaring river that stretched out before them.
"Do you know the words of House Arryn, Jon?"
Caught off guard by the question it took him a few seconds to remember them, "High as Honor."
"That's right," his father nodded, "Lord Arryn instilled them into me while I was a boy fostering in the Vale. Words I've tried to live by all my life."
Ghost emerged between bushes, red eyes on them for a second before moving towards the riverbank.
"I made you a promise, but I never imagined telling you the truth of your mother here," his eyes were looking in the direction of the capital.
"However, it is a promise I intend to keep."
Jon sagged in relief, "Thank you, Father."
"Don't thank me yet, Jon," he said cautiously. "You may not like the answers you get."
"What do you mean?"
His father sighed as they neared the riverbank. Ghost was already there, lapping up some of the water. He raised his head to regard them before he went back to drinking.
"I loved your mother, Jon." He admitted, "I loved her, stubborn and fierce as she was."
"I-Is she still alive?"
"No," his father's voice touched with sadness.
Jon took the news with a tight nod. He had feared as much. He had prayed and hoped that she lived and was out there, waiting for him to find her. A foolish dream, a small voice chided him. He blinked before tears could swell in his eyes.
"Who was she?"
His father put his hand on Jon's arm before pulling him closer."Lyanna Stark," Father whispered in his ear. His grip on Jon's arm tightened when he added, "Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen."