A/N: I honestly didn't think this chapter would be finished before this year was over.

As 2016 winds down I want to take this time to thank everyone for the tremendous support you've given me and this story. It has been wonderful and humbling. Your encouraging feedback has been instrumental for this story's growth and success. You have my thanks and appreciation.

Have a safe and happy New Year.

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

32: Jon

"Promise me, Jon."

"I promise."

"Jon?"

He blinked. No longer was he on the shores of the Blackwater, but looking across the table to see Domeric Bolton was sending him a concerned look.

"Are you alright, Jon?" The heir to the Dreadfort asked.

"I'm fine." A lie was much easier than the truth.

Days after being told the truth, he still was wrestling with it. Even in his sleep his mind didn't rest, plaguing him with dreams of dragons and wolves. Fighting and clawing at one another within the depths of the tombs of Winterfell with the stone statues of Stark Kings looming over them silently watching.

The dreams always ended the same with the dragon breathing a pillar of flames but it never consumed the snow colored wolf. It was always directed at Jon. The last thing he'd see would be the bright orange flames coming towards him, the heat licking his face before he'd wake up in his room in a cold sweat.

It was a jape by the gods, he thought bitterly, to answer his boyhood prayers in such a twisted and cruel way. It was almost enough for him to laugh resentfully at the truth they bestowed upon him. The answers he coveted as a child to a simple question had spawned and spiraled to form a tangled mess that left him confused and frustrated at having everything he thought he knew to be so wrong.

To Jon that was what hurt the most.

"Very well," Domeric's dark eyes lingered on Jon's face, but he didn't challenge him on his answer.

It had mostly been a somber and quiet meal in the dining chambers within the Tower of the Hand between the three of them. Domeric and Sansa were leaving the city in the morning. A choice that had wrought division between the betrothed couple.

Jon looked over to his sister. Cousin, a small voice needled within his mind, correcting him. He hid the frown that nearly formed at a reminder that he didn't need at this moment.

Sansa even when sullen was an exemplary proper noblewoman. She sat straight with perfect posture, using her utensils and manners in equal parts as she went about her food. She ate quietly, smiled or talked when prompted. In those moments her bright blue eyes could conceal her disapproval of Domeric's insistence on leaving the capital.

If Jon didn't know her, he'd think nothing would be wrong, but he grew up with her. Jon had seen that slight barely noticeable pouting of lips often on the face of Arya when she was upset. It struck him in that moment just how similar Sansa and Arya could look and act despite their obvious differences in appearance and demeanor.

Arya, he felt a pang in his chest at his youngest sister who he adored and missed so much.

Cousin, the voice in his mind grew louder and more stubborn in its insistence in correcting him.

"The Princess came to see me today."

"What did she want?" Domeric asked mildly.

"She invited me to join her for needlework tomorrow afternoon."

Domeric tensed in his seat. "And what did you say?"

"I said yes."

His mouth began to form a frown, "Sansa," he sounded weary.

"A ruse," she assured him.

"That was clever," he admitted, a hint of approval in an otherwise tired tone.

"It was necessary," Sansa said softly.

"It was," Domeric agreed.

"Lord Domeric?"

All heads turned to see a Bolton man at arms enter the chambers where he was quick to bow before approaching Domeric, "Captain Rylen seeks an audience, m'lord."

"Very well," Domeric sighed, "Tell him I'll see to him presently in my chambers."

"Very good, m'lord."

Domeric stood from his seat. He moved towards Sansa's direction as if to give her a parting kiss or embrace, but hesitance stopped him in mid step. Awkwardly he stood for a heartbeat before the decision was made and he decided against it. He cleared his throat, "Forgive the intrusion," he apologized, "Please, enjoy the rest of your meal."

"We will," Sansa replied cordially.

He gave her a tight nod before stepping out of the room.

Sansa's eyes lingered on the closed door for a few passing seconds. A look flickered across her face: forlorn, regret; Jon wasn't sure because it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Sansa's expression steeled into resolve and she moved her attention back to her food where she began to eat quietly.

A crevice had formed between them, Jon observed sadly.

Lady whined.

Besides the briefest of winces, Sansa pretended as if she hadn't heard the noise.

It seemed he wasn't the only one to notice, Jon thought with a small smile. Not that he was surprised, he knew how observant their direwolves were. And how attuned these legendary creatures appeared to be with their masters. Jon had learned that from his time with Ghost and his experiences along the way to the capital.

Sansa could lie to herself, but she could not lie to Lady. She could hide this disagreement from all the capital, but not from her heart or her direwolf.

Lady moved towards the closed door, pawing at it, while whining softly.

"Lady," Sansa said in a stern tone, "To me."

The direwolf stopped and turned to her, inquisitive amber eyes that shone intelligence, cocking her head at her mistress before coming to her, but not before letting out one last softer whine in defeat.

"Good Lady," Sansa rewarded her submission with a piece of bacon that the direwolf took with only some hesitance as if in a final form of protest.

"We should be staying here."

Jon was taken aback by the abruptness of her words. Looking to see her eyes sparkled with certainty, her expression determined. He could tell this had been on her mind for some time and was certain that she had had this conversation with Domeric and her father.

"You and Domeric will be happier at Winterfell," he reminded her, and safer in the home of wolves then this snake pit.

"Happy?" She sounded insulted. "How can I be happy when my father and brother are stuck here in the capital?" She challenged, "When you are surrounded by schemes and threats."

Jon had no quick answer for that and Sansa pounced on his silence.

"We should leave together or not at all," she implored. "You must tell father this."

Uncle, the voiced pricked at his thoughts, rankling at his memories. He's not your father. He's your uncle.

This internal conflict would not leave him not even for a second so that he could talk to his sister.

Cousin.

Jon ground his teeth in frustration trying to thwart the shout that wanted to slip past his lips. He smothered his annoyance so that he could speak to Sansa to try to make her understand.

"I will not go against him on this," He saw the disappointment flicker in her eyes, before it diminished to form contempt.

"Sansa," he moved his hand across the table to get her attention and to try to shatter the disapproval that was showing in her expression. "I will not lie to you, we are in danger."

"That's why we should stay," she argued.

"No," he shook his head, "You can be used to manipulate our father and the north far more than me. You are his trueborn daughter and a Stark of Winterfell."

"I'm not a Stark," he admitted softly.

"You are to me!" Sansa insisted. "You're my brother."

Cousin, the word slithered in his mind like an insidious serpent.

He forced himself to smile even with the internal turmoil churning in his gut. He was touched by her sincerity and ferocity by including him and considering him her brother.

"I'm a bastard," he said bluntly. I remain a bastard, he corrected bitterly.

A cruel twist of truth that remained when he was told about his birth, instead of being the son of Lord Stark; he was the son of a married Prince who had a wife and a family.

"The capital is filled with them," he pushed on, "And will hardly care for one more."

Who was he?

A question that was bothering Jon ever since he was told the truth. Who was Rhaegar Targaryen?

The gallant prince, a curse on the king's lips, the bane of a dynasty that united and ruled Westeros for centuries.

The thought of being descended from them was overwhelming. He had grown up hearing stories about the Mad King, the last Targaryen king to sit upon the Iron Throne. Jon remembered Maester Luwin's lessons with Robb about the Rebellion that formed to overthrow the Targaryens. He and Robb when they played their games were always the rebels, fighting for a just cause in trying to rid Westeros of the Mad King.

King Aerys the second, his grandfather, acknowledging that made Jon's stomach twist violently, had killed his other grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

I'm one of them, he thought numbly. I'm the enemy.

Jon pushed that thought aside. Looking around hoping for a distraction and noticed that his walk through the Godswood had led him to the heart tree; a destination he believed was no coincidence.

There were others already gathered around the heart tree. It was easy to identify them in their leather jerkins with the flayed man stitched on it. There were a handful of them, armed and grim. They had spread out to form a protective circle around the son of their liege lord, and heir to the Dreadfort, Domeric Bolton, who was kneeling before the heart tree.

One of the guards spotted him, "Lord Snow," a title born more out of respect for his father then to mock his birth.

"I didn't mean to intrude." Jon apologized.

"Jon?" Domeric turned to him, a smile came to his face. "This is no intrusion." He assured him. "The old gods are for all men." He made a gesture with his hand and two of his guards stepped aside to allow Jon to approach.

Domeric returned his attention to the heart tree. "It isn't the same."

"Aye," Jon moved to stand beside Domeric, he too was disappointed that there was no weirwood tree within the Godswood of the capital. He understood why there was little presence of the sacred trees south of the neck, remembering his lessons with Maester Luwin on the wars between The First Men and the Children of the Forest and then later with the arrival of the Andals.

He missed the solemn gaze of the red eyes of the heart tree in Winterfell's Godswood. The feeling of peace nestled within him at knowing that the old gods could see him and hear his prayers. He found himself needing them now more than ever and feared that they had no power to help or ears to hear of his struggle with the truth.

Ghost had followed Jon over, the white direwolf approached Domeric who on his knees could look Ghost in the eyes. He showed no fear nor did his men tense up at the direwolf's presence. Domeric smiled, and lifted his hand slowly which Ghost sniffed before licking his fingers which made his smile widen, then the direwolf tried to lick Domeric's face which he deftly avoided while chuckling.

"To me," Jon chuckled. Ghost obeyed instantly withdrawing from Domeric and moved to sit on Jon's other side.

"I miss the cold," Domeric confessed wistfully.

"Only with the cold can you appreciate the warmth of the fire in your hearth," Jon recited. Remembering the words effortlessly that his Father-

Uncle, the voice persisted. He nearly cringed at the intrusion.

Used to tell them when they were younger, finishing his thought with more of a frown then the initial smile that had wanted to come to his lips as he recalled the memories of the lessons first besides Robb, and Sansa, and then Arya followed by Bran and Rickon.

Now this newfound truth seemed determine to spread its tendrils across his thoughts and memories in an attempt to try to unravel everything he thought he knew and everything he believed he was.

I never should have asked, he realized. I was better off not knowing.

It was easier and better believing my father was Lord Stark. That meant Robb was his brother, he had sisters in Arya and Sansa and younger brothers with Bran and Rickon. Now, he felt like all that had been taken away from him.

His true siblings were dead, a cold voice said in the back of his mind. His half brother and sister, Aegon and Rhaenys, were killed during the Sacking of King's Landing by the Lannister forces.

Their-Our father was dead, killed at the Trident by Robert Baratheon. Their mother, Princess Elia died at the hands of Lord Lannister's toadies. His mother, Lord Stark's sister, Lyanna died in Dorne away from her family and the north.

My family are ghosts.

In that moment of realization, Jon Snow just wanted to forget everything he was told.

"Jon?"

"Yes?" His voice sounded distant.

"Are you well?"

"Yes," Lies, that's all he could speak now.

"What of you?" Jon wanted to desperately change the topic. Remembering how Domeric had to leave during their meal together to speak with the Captain of his Guards.

"Very well," Domeric stayed kneeling. "I was informed that my men have reached Duskendale."

"Duskendale?"

"Yes," Domeric confirmed, "My men are seeking to buy passage on a ship on my behalf." His eyes met Jon's, and there was a glint in those dark eyes. "A ruse you see," Domeric pointed out, "All of the attention from the court's spies will be transfixed on Duskendale believing that is how we will leave."

"That ploy will believe they have time to stop our efforts at leaving from Duskendale. Not expecting the swift exit we will make when we leave in the morning." He said, "It's all been arranged."

"Clever," Jon couldn't fight the amused smile that came to his lips at seeing how his friend had potentially outmaneuvered the spies within the court.

"Yes, it is," Domeric agreed, but there was no pride or amusement in his tone. "These are precautions that need to be put in place to safeguard us from the Spider and the Queen's spies."

Jon knew his friend was right in wanting to be prepared in this snake pit.

"She's mad at me." Domeric said suddenly, more than a trace of sadness tinged his voice.

"She's frustrated with this situation," Jon corrected delicately.

That brought a faint chuckle out of Dom. "The trip is long from the capital to White Harbor hopefully she can forgive me and understand." He turned to look at Jon briefly. "I'll accept her anger if it means she's safe. That means so much more to me."

"She'll understand," Jon said, "Once you're all back in Winterfell she'll see the wisdom in the decision to leave."

"I will not be staying in Winterfell."

"What do you mean?" This was the first Jon was hearing of this.

"I will escort her to Winterfell but then I must leave for the Dreadfort," he clarified, "It is time I returned home and gotten to know the lands and the people that I will one day rule. And learn from my father what it means to be Lord of the Dreadfort."

He moved to stand up. "I pray for strength and guidance." Domeric moved towards the heart tree. "I mean to find my brother." He looked down at his hands which were clasped in front of him. "I will bring him to the Dreadfort with me. I'll find a place for him. He is my blood."

"He will appreciate that kindness," Jon was aware of his friend's intentions of meeting his bastard brother and to get to know him and to make him a part of his life.

"I'll face my father's anger if it means I can have my brother with me at the Dreadfort."

"They are safe."

"That is good news." Relief washed over Jon. He had been waiting anxiously all day to hear if Domeric and Sansa had left the city without being caught or delayed.

"It is," Lord Stark confirmed. "They had no bearings to stop them, but I feared the Queen would try some excuse to keep them close." His mouth twisted in disgust at what he was hinting at.

Jon found himself standing in his uncle's solar, a new name for the man who he called father for all his life. The word didn't come easily to his mouth going against his instincts and everything he always thought he knew.

"Now," His uncle's voice broke through from his reflection, "it is your turn."

"My turn?"

"Yes," he said, "For you to leave."

"I'm not leaving!" Jon protested hotly.

Lord Stark took his indignation without reaction. "You forget yourself, Jon."

Jon flinched, "I can't leave you."

"Yes, you can," Lord Stark's face softened, "You do not have a choice on this matter."

"You'll be alone," Jon argued.

"I have men to protect me," His uncle reminded him.

"Not enough."

"Your presence won't tip the scales, Jon."

"I can help."

"You will," his uncle's grey eyes were on him, "By leaving."

I thought I inherited those eyes from you, Jon thought sadly. He had always been silently pleased and proud that he had looked so much like him, that he had inherited his father's look. An empty boast now, he thought bitterly.

Jon opened his mouth to further argue, but he saw the cold look in his uncle's eyes, the challenging stare and clenched jaw, and quickly knew this was an argument he could not win.

"How?" He found himself asking, and a small part of him hated for having to concede to his uncle's plan and to abandon him in the capital.

If his uncle look pleased that he dropped the argument, he did not show it. "Do you recall Lord Beric Dondarrion?"

"Aye," Jon nodded his head slowly, the Stormlord was on everyone's tongue now that he had been appointed the leader of an expedition by his uncle to ride to the Riverlands and arrest the Mountain. They were setting out in the morning….

"His squire, Edric Dayne had to leave the capital immediately," his uncle revealed, "He has been recalled to Starfall to serve as its rightful lord."

"So I am to serve as Lord Beric's squire?"

"Yes, and no."

That confusing answer only caused Jon to frown.

"I would not send you out of this snake pit only to lead you directly into conflict with the Mountain."

Before Jon could press his uncle for further details about this plan, Steward Poole's voice came through the closed door, "Lord Stark, Lord Dondarrion, is here to see you."

"Send him in."

The door opened, Jon turned in his stance to see the man who would be taking him out of the city.

He was dressed in black breeches, a black doublet that had a fork of purple lightning stabbing across the cloth with white stars peppered throughout. He had red almost gold colored hair and a handsome face, with bright eyes that swept around the room before stopping on Jon.

"Lord Beric," His uncle got up from his seat to greet him. "Thank you for seeing me again on such short notice."

"It is an honor to be summoned by the Hand of the King," Lord Beric shook his hand, before returning his attention to Jon. "Is this him?"

"Lord Beric," Lord Stark said, "This is my son, Jon."

Nephew.

"I'm honored, my lord." Jon bowed his head but he had been around enough nobles to know those words were probably insignificant, "I'm thankful for this opportunity, my lord. I will not fail you."

"He'll do."

"You have my thanks, Lord Beric," His Uncle said swiftly, "But the Queen-"

"I don't serve lions, Lord Stark," Beric interjected. "I've sworn oaths to Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm's End, and to His Grace, Robert Baratheon, the King of Westeros," he finished with a smile. "I don't recall making any such oaths to lions."

"House Baratheon should be honored to have such dutiful and loyal bannermen."

The Stormlord bowed his head, "Everything has been arranged, my lord." He then turned his gaze back towards Jon. "You are expected to be at the stables before dawn. Your father will inform you of the duties I expect from you."

"He'll be there."

"Good," Beric nodded, and then left the solar without another word or glance in Jon's direction.

"You must trust me on this, Jon."

"I understand," Jon knew he said the right thing when he saw relief flicker in his uncle's eyes.

"I cannot complete my duty here until I know my children are safe."

I'm not your son, but Jon found the strength to ignore that voice. Instead, he pushed down the truth and remembered all those memories of the man before him and how he had raised him, meeting those grey eyes with his own.

"I won't let you down, Father."

It was an impressive sight before him, but Jon found himself too tired to be enthralled by it.

There in the yard, were dozens of armored men on horses, their armor glistening in the sunlight while the banners danced and swayed in the wind. Three banners stood proudly, and in front of the expedition force, first was the crowned stag of the king flying from the highest staff, then the direwolf of Lord Stark and House Dondarrion's forked purple lightning on shorter poles.

He had been up more than an hour before dawn. As the new acting squire for Lord Beric, he had to prepare the lord's horse and see to his weapons and supplies and to make sure everything was arranged and packed for their expedition into the Riverlands.

Jon had a brief, and quiet meal with his uncle before they departed, since Jon had to resume his duties as squire to Lord Beric.

It is only for a little while, his uncle had promised. Soon we'll all be back at Winterfell and celebrating the marriage between Domeric and Sansa.

Jon had smiled at that and hoped with all his strength that his uncle's words were true. His uncle had informed him of the plan that he and Lord Beric devised and would follow once they were safely out of the city and the reach of the Queen.

It should work, Jon thought, but yet even with its certain success, Jon couldn't ignore the sense of disappointment and regret he felt stew in his gut at having to leave.

"You're Lord Dondarrion's new squire?"

An accented voice broke Jon from his thoughts to see a man dressed in red robes approaching upon his horse which didn't look as garish or impressive as some of the other men in Lord Beric's retinue. The man was fat; with a bald head, and brown whiskers that covered his cheeks and chin.

"I am, my lord," Jon answered, adding the my lord, even though he was certain this man was no lord.

"Thoros of Myr, at your service," he greeted him, bowing his head with a smile as he gave his introduction. "And I'm no lord. I'm not even a Westerosi." His accented voice signaled the truth in his statement.

"Jon Snow," He inclined his head towards the man, the man's name sounded familiar having recalled hearing stories about Thoros of Myr and his flaming sword. Looking at it now to see it was sheathed with no hint of it combusting into flames.

"I saw your face in the flames, Jon Snow," Thoros told him solemnly.

At a loss of words by the man's sudden statement and serious tone, Jon fumbled for a response, but before he could articulate one, it died in his throat when a snort of amusement came out of Thoros' nose with laughter following behind, and just like that the solemn expression that he once had crumbled into a look of mirth.

Jon frowned, stiffening upon realizing he was the butt of some jape.

"Easy lad," Thoros seemed to sense his discomfort, "Only a jest," he assured him, "a little glimpse of my technique."

"Your technique?" Jon didn't understand.

"Yes, you'd be surprised how quickly those words will have milk maids spreading their legs for you," he winked. "And if we take down the Mountain," he let out a low whistle, "I'm sure there will be many thankful maids and a few innkeepers who'll thank us with some free pints."

"Jon Snow."

Both men turned to see Beric Dondarrion sitting atop his horse, Jon didn't need to be told twice answering the lord's summons and leaving Thoros of Myr behind him.

"Yes, my lord?" He asked, once he was near enough. Jon spotted Alyn, a short distance away, he had been chosen to carry the Stark banner, he was milling about with the other Stark men who were dispatched to go with Lord Beric. They were dressed in silvery mail with long grey cloaks.

Jon was disquieted upon realizing how many men his uncle was sending from his own household guard, but knew he could not dissuade his uncle or disobey him.

"Have you seen to the preparations?"

"I have, my lord," Jon answered, "Everyone is accounted for and are waiting upon your command."

"Good work, Jon," Beric nodded.

His horse whinnied nervously as Ghost silently approached. Jon's direwolf's scent stirred discomfort whenever the horses caught wind of it. One knight had already fallen from his horse from when it reared back upon sensing Ghost. Despite the protests of his men, Lord Beric had disallowed all talk of barring the direwolf, saying it could serve a purpose in the fights to come and would be less of a nuisance once they were out of the city.

Lord Beric calmed his horse with a touch. "Don't worry, Jon Snow, You'll be back in Winterfell before you know it." He gave the signal and the portcullis was raised.

Jon looked back at the Tower of the Hand, and of the Stark banner that snapped in the breeze upon its highest turret.

"I gave your father my word." Lord Beric assured him. "That I'll see you safely from this city."

It's him I'm worried about.

A/N: Jon's reaction to the truth will evolve as the story progresses, but I thought this was a good/believable starting point for him. Hopefully, I wasn't wrong. Also more on his thoughts/reactions to Lyanna, Rhaegar, and the Targs in general.

There was more that was said between Jon and Ned in their closing scene in chapter 28, and that info will be trickled in for the audience as the story goes.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire