One Moon Later
Jon Snow had always known that he was a bastard.
Oh, his mother had tried her hardest to shield him from it, he knew, and he understood in his heart of hearts that he was luckier than most. Since he was six years old, he had rarely heard the word 'bastard' used around him; he knew his mother had made it so, and why. She and Father treated him no differently than they did his brothers and sisters, and for long stretches of time, Jon could forget that his name was not Stark, but Snow.
Yet on days like these, his bastardy would sneak up behind him and batter him about the head, leaving him with a dark, sinking feeling in his gut.
The king was due to arrive any day now—Jory has already been dispatched to meet them on the road with an honour guard—and today Amma had pulled him into her solar and placed a hot mug of spiced mead before him. Jon had looked at the steam rising from the golden drink and felt foreboding creep up his back. Spiced mead was his favourite, but Amma always said it was bad for the teeth.
She waited until he had taken a long sip before she spoke, her brow knotted.
"Jon, as you know, the king is arriving very soon with the queen and much of the royal retinue."
"Of course." He took another sip. If she was about to tell him something upsetting, he might as well get the most out of the treat.
"Right." A pause. "You may also have heard that the Lannister queen is rather…proud."
Jon frowned, searching his mind, but he had never paid much attention to some queen who had no bearing on his life.
"Well, she is," she said. Another pause. And then,
"Jon, you must know that your father and I love you very much, do you not? That you are our son no matter what your name is?"
"I…of course. You are my mother and father."
The foreboding spread like ice. Now her hands were fumbling nervously with the sleeve of her gown. It had been a very long time indeed since either of his parents had brought to the surface this thorn that was always stuck beneath his skin. What in all hells was going on?
"Amma?"
His mother closed her eyes and sighed, and when she opened them again they had a determined glint about them.
"I only wished to tell you that you will not be sitting by the high table with your brothers and sisters when we are entertaining the king and queen. The queen does not look kindly on children...like you, and we cannot offend her. Do you…do you understand? It is not your fault, and I wish it were not so, but..."
She did not look at him as she spoke, and distantly, Jon knew that it must not be easy for her, this task of informing him. She sounded as if she had rehearsed her words, and she always did that before she was forced to cause upset.
His head was buzzing, and his face and ears were burning as if with fever. In all the harvest feasts and celebration banquets Father had held at Winterfell, Jon had always sat with his siblings, either at the high table or just beneath it.
The mean, logical voice in his head reminded him that he had always known it was not the done thing anywhere else—he had caused many a shocked look and whisper behind a hand during the banquets of his childhood—but his parents had always acted like it was where he belonged, and he had come to expect it. Stupid, stupid. He should not be surprised now. Father ruled the North, but he owed fealty to the king. It would not do to cause offence by parading a bastard before the queen.
Now he swallowed. He could not look up at Amma either. He only stared into the steam still rising from the mug before him and tried not to cry, because to his abject horror he could feel tears pricking his eyes.
You are seventeen, he tried to scold himself. Stop being a child and embarrassing yourself. It's only a banquet, and you didn't even care about the queen a moment ago.
"Jon?" He took a breath and forced his eyes up. She must have seen something terrible in his face, for she looked as if someone had just struck her hard across the cheek. Now a generous helping of guilt mixed with the swamp of humiliation and anger pooling in his stomach.
He looked away again, because if he had to look at his mother's pained expression for another moment more, he really would cry.
"I understand," he mumbled at the table, and before she could come to him he had fled the room. Again she called after him, her desolate voice bouncing off the walls, but he pretended not to hear.
000
He had been six years old the first and only time he had asked his mother about his bastardy. He and his siblings had been playing in one of their chambers in the evening when Sansa, suddenly hungry, had asked if they could sneak extra lemon cakes from the kitchens. Arya immediately volunteered herself, but they all agreed that she was not quiet enough. Jon, having then lost a round of Boulder-Leather-Sword to Robb, had been the one to creep down to the kitchens.
Two of the scullery maids were working to scrub the floors, and Jon had pressed his back into the shadows, listening to them moon over one of the stable hands, waiting for them to leave.
Their conversation had bored him, and he had nearly dozed off when the word 'bastard' had caught his ear. Jon knew that was what he was—he was not sure how he'd known, but he did—and though he was not entirely certain what it meant, he knew it was nothing good. Bastards were supposed to be liars, wicked and slovenly, and Jon didn't want to be any of that, so he never asked his mother or his father about the word. If they didn't explain it to his face, he could at least pretend it was not true.
"Should have known it was foolish to trust a bastard," the one who sounded like a bird was saying. "The man took Da's coin and never came back. Should have known Snows are as crooked as they say."
"Well, not all," said the one with the nasally voice. "The helper in the butcher's shop always gave us fried pork skin when he thought no one was looking, remember?"
"I s'pose, but that were stealing from the butcher, weren't it?"
"You didn't think it were stealing when you took the skin."
"Oh, shut your mouth."
"I will not. I don't buy the talk about bastards bein' bad folk. Not all. And Lord Stark's bastard seems a fine sort."
Jon gasped, then pressed a hand over his mouth, praying they hadn't heard him.
"He's only six. How'd you know what sorta man he'll be?" said the bird-like girl, undisturbed. "And besides, he's always dour-like. Lord Robb is a much sweeter child."
"No," said the nasally-voiced girl. "No, Lord Jon's sweet too. I saw him put a baby sparrow back in a tree once."
He remembered the bird from some moons ago. It had fallen from a low branch, and was miraculously still alive. He had scooped it up, placed it in his collar, and climbed the little tree, proud of his newly acquired skills. Jon didn't know what became of the bird—he hadn't thought of it since. He hoped now that it had survived.
"Hmm," said the other. "Mayhaps you're right, but do you know what they say?"
"What?"
"Well, I've heard that maybe Lord Jon isn't a bastard after all. Or, not meant to be."
"How'd you make that out?"
He could hear the smile in the girl's voice as she spoke, relishing in her gossip.
"Some of the women working in the laundry say Lord Jon's actually Lady Stark's boy."
The nasally girl gasped, though Jon did not think he understood.
"No way in all hells!"
"They say he's Lady Stark's natural son, born before she married Lord Stark in King's Landing. She would have been grievin' her brother's death when Lord Stark went to return the famous sword. You know how these things happen."
"But Lord Stark was the one what killed her brother."
"Lady Stark don't seem too angry about that now, does she?. It was war. I bet her brother was trying to kill Lord Stark too."
"I guess so. You won't believe the things I've heard in the mornings when I'm lighting the fires on their floor."
Both girls giggled, though Jon didn't understand what was so funny. He didn't understand anything at all, it seemed. His head felt like a slug dragging itself through its slime.
"Anyhow, they would have asked that Jon be legitimised, but Lord Robb's grandda is the lord of the Riverlands, and he'd be eggy 'bout it, because the two little lords are so close in age."
The air in the darkened hallway seemed suddenly damp and heavy, and Jon found that breathing hurt his chest.
"So this Riverlands lord thinks Lady Stark would want her own son to be the heir to Winterfell if he were legitimate?
"Makes sense, don't it? And Jon's got her colouring and everything, and she treats him like one of her own babes. Janey's stepma married her pa when she was a babe, too, and the woman beats her all the time."
"Nah, Lady Stark wouldn't beat no one. Heart's too soft for that. And she treats Lord Robb no different neither. Lord Robb most certainly isn't hers."
"Still, I buy it. Half our food comes from the Riverlands this winter, don't you know? Lord Stark would want to keep them happy. Besides, you really buy that story about Lord Jon's ma being a fisherman's daughter?"
The nasally-voiced girl scoffed.
"More than your long-nosed tale. Who'd let their son be a bastard if they can help it?"
"Don't you know anything? Lady Stark's from Dorne, you daft cow. In Dorne, they don't care if someone's a bastard."
He had forgotten all about Sansa's lemon cakes.
Jon did not remember how he had left the kitchen, but the next thing he knew, he was racing up the Great Keep to his parents' chambers.
The whole way there, the mean little voice in his head told Jon to stop being stupid, forcibly reminding him of his mother's words.
"You call me Amma, and I love you with all my heart, Jon. But you must not forget that your mother gave her life to bring you into the world, do you understand?"
She had said the same to Robb, and surely she would not have lied, though while she talked of a Lady Catelyn with red hair and blue eyes, Amma never told Jon the name of the woman who had given birth to him.
But the kitchen girl's words had sparked a little light in him that would not die. What if what she said was true? She was right, he did have Amma's dark hair, and even his eyes could look very dark purple if he saw them reflected just the right way.
And what if the reason Amma never told him his mother's name was because she had given birth to him all along? Maybe she told him these things so Robb would not feel left out. His brother always grew sulky when he was reminded that he looked like no one else in the family.
What if he wasn't a bastard after all, Jon thought, a giddy rush passing over him. Then all those bad things that bastards were meant to be wouldn't have anything to do with him. He didn't want to be a liar, or wicked, or a sloven. Maybe, just maybe…
He would not even be angry if Amma lied to him about this. He would even keep up the ruse if it made Robb feel he wasn't alone. Jon just wanted to hear her tell him that he was not a bastard, not truly.
He had found Amma in the nursery, rocking the twins' cradle with her foot while she read. She looked up when he sped in, a confused smile on her mouth.
"Everything alright, love? I thought you were with the others in Sansa's room."
Suddenly, Jon could not speak. A huge lump had formed in the back of his throat, and it hurt to swallow. Amma frowned, coming to crouch before him, holding his hands in her very warm ones.
"What's wrong, Jon? Did you have a fight—"
"Is it true I'm not really a bastard?" The words had shot out of his mouth like an accidental arrow, clumsy and wild. They seemed to strike her dumb for a moment, and she only blinked at him.
"What did you say?" she finally asked, her voice very low.
"Is it true you were the one who really gave birth to me, but you can't make me not a bastard because Robb's grandfather won't let you?"
"Where...Jon, how do you even..."
"I know Father can't upset him. You don't have to make me not a bastard. Just...tell me, Amma, please. They say bastards are all liars and wicked and slovenly, and I don't want to be! I'm not a bastard, right? I'm not those bad things?"
He tried not to cry, he did, but the tears came anyway, burning his skin as they rolled over his cheek. Angrily, he dashed them away with his sleeve.
"Oh, my sweet child, of course you are none of those things!" Her hand was smoothing away his tears now. "You must never believe that!"
She pulled him into her arms and held him so tightly that for a moment all felt and good and right. Amma was very warm, sweet-smelling and familiar, but her next words made him cold once more.
"Jon, you are my son, love, but I did not lie to you. The woman who was your mother is with the gods now. I'm sorry, my darling. I am so very sorry."
He should have known it was too good to be true. He should have known. Stupid, stupid Jon.
She had still held him when she spoke, but now she pulled back to look at him, and suddenly Jon didn't care so much about her words or his being a bastard. What he saw terrified him. There were tears on her face, and her red-rimmed eyes were shiny as the gem on the bracelet Uncle Oberyn had sent Sansa for her name day.
Jon shook his head, but it felt like someone else was doing it for him. No, Amma didn't cry. His parents weren't supposed to cry. What had he done?
He barely remembered the words that came next. He thought she had asked him how he had heard such a thing, and perhaps she had assured him that all those things people said of bastards were cruel nonsense, that he mustn't pay them any mind. It didn't matter. All Jon could see—all that played in his mind—was that he had made his mother cry.
Later that night, when he was tired of tossing in his bed, he slipped from his chambers to that of his parents at the end of the hall. Father had given him and Robb stern words about being grown-up now and never sneaking into their chambers at night, but Jon wouldn't sneak. He would knock.
Yet when he came to their doors and tried to knock, he realised that they would not hear him. Voices came from inside—loud, like shouting—but they were so muffled that he could not make out a single word. His parents had a large floating turret room accessible only from their chambers, and it served as Amma's personal library. It was two stories high, it's walls lined with tapestries and books. When you were in there, it was as if the world outside those walls dropped away, for all was silent save for the occasional passing raven.
They must be in there, Jon thought, pressing his ear into the barred door. He recognised his father's voice, booming and low, and over it came his mother's, sharp and angry. They were fighting, he realised, though he had never heard them fight before.
He and Robb fought. Sometimes, Arya would pull Sansa's hair, and they would fight, Arya making up words to hurl when she could not think of the right ones. But his mother and father—they never fought. They were best friends, and they always liked each other. They never fought.
But they're fighting now. You made Amma cry today. Now you've made them yell at each other.
They were fighting about him. They had to be. Jon knew it in his gut, and the knowledge hit him like a blow, making him double over.
His fault, his fault. Perhaps he was wicked after all, though he always tried desperately not to be. He had made his mother cry. And now he had made his parents fight. Amma loved him—she said so—but he was just a bastard. When would she decide he was not worth the trouble of loving?
000
Jon had spent the morning riding alone in the woods around Winterfell. When he came back, he made three japes in a row about Robb being a "carrot-knob" until he had goaded his brother into a fight in the practice yard.
It was unkind of him, Jon knew, and the actions of a sulking boy. Robb has always been painfully aware that he looked as if he did not belong in their family, with his flaming hair and Tully blue eyes. Sometimes Jon even felt badly for his brother, for though a bastard, at least his own dark hair and grey eyes looked like Father's.
But Jon had been angry, and had known just how to goad his brother into a fight. Robb had managed to slug him hard in the shoulder, and the pain of it had been cleansing.
"What'd you go and say that for, Jon? What's wrong with you?" His brother had asked as they both sprawled in the yard afterwards, panting and sore.
"Nothing," Jon lied, even knowing Robb would see him at the far table with the young squires when the king came, and realise exactly what was wrong with him now. "Just keeping you on your toes."
"Others take you," Robb winced as he rose. "I hope your shoulder throbs all week." But he had seen Jon's face, and decided not to pry.
Later, they had been heading to change clothes when they found their sisters sitting on the floor before their parents' chambers as angry voices floated out into the hall. Sansa was holding her sleeping wolf pup—she had named her Lemons, much to everybody's bewildered amusement—while she watched Nymeria wrestle with Mouse. Arya and Lia both had their ears on the door.
"What do you think they're fighting about?" whispered Elia, eyes wide, her face slightly squashed from pressing against the wood.
"Shh," Arya hissed, her face similarly distorted. "I thought I caught a word just now!"
"Are we camping out here?" called Robb. "What's happening?" He came to a jolting stop when he heard the shouting.
"Shhhhhhh!" That came from both Lia and Arya, and Sansa frowned up at them.
"Mother and Father have been yelling at each other for an hour now. They're in Amma's library though, so we can't hear a single word." Her eyes grew wide, and she clutched Lem closer into her.
"I've never heard them shouting so."
Robb had his ear against the door now, too, but Jon could hear their raised, angry voices just fine from where he stood. Something seemed to smash against a wall, and all five of them flinched.
Jon felt frozen to the floor, and wished for a moment that it would open and swallow him, so that he melted into the Winterfell walls.
"Do you think it's about the king?" whispered Arya. "He is coming soon. Maybe Amma doesn't want him here."
"It isn't Father's fault the king's coming," said Robb. "And news of the king came a moonturn ago. Why'd they fight about that now?"
Arya shrugged.
"I think...I heard the word 'Dawn' just now," said Lia, eyes narrowing. Arya gasped.
"Do you think something reminded Amma of her brother? Maybe that's why she's angry."
"Is that really true, about how Ser Arthur was killed?" Sansa asked quietly. "I always hear talk that Father killed Amma's brother, but that can't be right, surely."
Arya rolled her eyes.
"Of course it is. Father won't tell us anything because he doesn't want to upset our mother. But the old soldiers talk of it all the time."
Sansa looked unconvinced, but Jon did not speak up to correct any of them. His parents were not fighting about Ser Arthur Dayne. Lia had not heard 'Dawn.' He could still remember the pained way his mother had looked at him in her solar that morning, and suddenly, her tear-stained face from all those years ago flashed in his mind. He had never seen her tears ever again.
They were fighting about him now—he was certain of it. The word his sister heard had most probably been 'Jon.' The last time their shouts had carried into the hall thus, he had been six, intent on sneaking into the chamber because he could not sleep. He had made them fight then, and he must be the reason now. They never fought over anything else.
It had been a great many years since Jon had entertained the possibility that his mother would no longer love him. That was not how love worked—not for parents and their children, anyway. It had been a ridiculous, childish notion—he was her son, and it hardly mattered that she had not given birth to him. And yet, he could not halt the sinking feeling opening up in his gut, threatening to pull him into its black depths.
What good was he, if all he ever did was make his family unhappy? No doubt they loved him, but they could not help it. His parents were his parents. They had to love him. But it did not mean that he deserved it.
O~O~O~O~O
Even the moon hid its face from Ned tonight as he paced the parapets of the Great Keep, his mind a jumble of tangled wires. He had come out here in no more than his doublet, hoping the late chill would calm the restless gnawing that had been impossible to put out since he had quarrelled with his wife this day.
Ashara had cornered him in their chamber after midday, her eyes blazing, and shut them into her library turret, where they could not be overheard. She had told him of her talk with Jon that morning, and insisted again that he use this visit from Robert to ask for Jon's legitimisation.
This was a well-worn quarrel between them—the only one that remained resolutely unresolved all these years—and though his mind knew her reasons and arguments held sense, he could not help the dread that bit at him every time he imagined Robert sitting up in realisation of the truth, sending armed men to turn his son into a bloody mess on the marble floor.
Perhaps nothing would come of drawing attention to his "bastard son" by asking Robert to legitimise him. But it was not a common thing for a lord, especially when he had legitimate heirs, and Ned could simply not stomach the risk, not even to ease Jon's heart. To grow up under the burden of bastardy was better than being murdered before he had a chance to grow up at all, and Ned had stubbornly insisted that the way things were was best. The rumours and mystery and their guarded tongues kept Jon safe.
Yet today, she had not come to him armed with her usual arguments of the mind and heart, but instead hurled accusations at him from the start, her voice so fierce he thought the windows might break. His wife had always known just what to say to make anyone feel at ease. She could charm even the likes of Brynden Tully and Rickard Karstark, and he should have known by now that her tongue could just as easily cut like snowy wind. Yet her accusations of heartlessness and cruelty had still struck him dumb.
"You say it is for love, to keep Jon safe, but I say you are being a fucking coward, Ned Stark! You cannot see past your own damn irrational fears, and you would make Jon suffer for them!"
Finally, he had felt his own frustrations flair, and bellowed right back, though now he could barely recall all the words they exchanged. There had only been one other time she had come to him like this, as if she wore her bleeding heart on her sleeve, and it had scared him then as it scared him now.
They had been married six years when Ashara had pulled him into the turret tower late at night, her eyes glittering in the moonlight.
"You must ask the king to legitimise Jon," she had said, almost pleading. "Please, Ned, you must. I will not have him grow up thinking he is somehow wicked and unwanted from no fault of his."
She had told him of the incredible rumours she had uncovered after Jon came to her that evening, but when he had shaken his head at her request—for it was courting danger, to bring Robert's notice on Jon thus—she had raged at him as she'd never done in the near decade he had known her.
Ned had done his best to assure her they would not let Jon be harmed by this—that they could dismiss the servants who talked such rumours, and treat him the same, just as they'd always done—but she had been inconsolable.
"It will raise eyebrows all over the kingdoms!" he had tried to reason. "We Starks have never asked the king of such a thing, not when the lord had legitimate heirs."
She had not wished to hear him, and Ned had spent the night sleeping in his solar.
The next day, she had disappeared into the storerooms where the maesters always kept old parchments and records, and it was not until she emerged in the evening with a grim determination on her face that he had found the chance to speak with her.
"Perhaps you were right about your Stark history. I couldn't find documents asking the king to legitimise a bastard son unless it was for want of an heir. But this is not over, Ned Stark. I simply cannot stomach being angry with you anymore."
And she was as good as her word. Over the years, she had come to him with various arguments and appeals, and he had conceded by inches, rebuilding Moat Cailin and promising that one day, when Jon was to wed and take the new castle as lord, he would write to Robert and ask that Jon be called Stark. It would not make Robert suspicious, perhaps, if there was a real reason behind the asking. And he hoped that when the time finally came, enough years would have passed that Robert would not even remember Jon's age.
Ned had thought that they had finally resolved their quarrel, but this afternoon…
When he thought their fight could not possibly grow any fiercer without the walls collapsing around them, Ashara had hurled a pitcher at the wall—though perhaps he should be thankful it had not been aimed at him—and then, to his horror, she had burst into tears. His own anger had evaporated like smoke in the night. Never in all their years together had Ned made her weep, but then, he had never shouted at her so.
"Ash? No, please don't—I'm sorry I shouted at you, I shouldn't have—"
"No, damn you," she gasped between sobs, pressing her face into his chest and pounding on his shoulder. "It's not that, you dolt. If you'd only seen the look on Jon's face today...Damn you Ned Stark—the hurt you've put on my poor son."
He had left her sleeping on a tufted chair in the turret tower, exhausted from their fight, and slipped from their chambers to go for a ride and clear his head. As he had opened their chamber door, he could hear unmistakeable footsteps echoing down the hall, and Ned had pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no danger that his children had heard any words, but their shouts had certainly spread into the hall.
Now he stood before his chamber door once more, the cold of the night having done nothing to calm his fraying nerves. Tentatively, he knocked, hoping she would at least let him in so they could speak.
She came to the door so quickly it was as if she had been standing just on the other side, and he was pleased to see that her eyes were no longer rimmed with red.
"I should not have lost my temper so," she said finally, when he had lowered himself onto their bed and she sat with her back to him, her legs crossed. "It was rather unseemly, and I'm sorry for the things I said. I didn't mean them. You are not…you could never be—"
"They're already forgotten," he interrupted her, though in a dark corner of his mind, her words about his cowardice did not seem so misplaced. The fear overtook him like some demon any time his mind wandered to what Tywin Lannister had done to those Targaryen children.
"I should not have shouted back at you."
"And the pitcher," she said. "I was not aiming to hit you, I promise."
He offered a dry laugh.
"That I know. You would not have missed."
He heard her weak laugh, and then they lapsed into silence once more.
"You understand why I cannot ask Robert now, don't you?" he finally asked, hoping he would not incite her anger again.
"You say that he will ask to see Jon, and you fear he will recognise his mother in him," she said softly. "But all anyone sees when they look at Jon is your face, Ned. Surely you know that."
"Nonetheless. There is the possibility he would see something else, especially with Arya next to him. I cannot risk it."
She sighed, a deep sigh, weary to the bone.
"When the king leaves, then. Before his next name day, at the latest. Construction on Moat Cailin is nearly finished now. You must at least take Jon to see it, and tell him it will be his. Promise."
"Very well. I promise." he said, for Jon would be eight and ten in the coming year. Ned was running out excuses to draw out this stagnant state of affairs.
And his promise to Lyanna…"When he comes of age," she had said. "Tell him of his father when he comes of age." He had waited too long as it was, but he could not bear the thought of telling Jon that he, Ned, was not in fact his father. At least in this Ashara had not pressed him often-only once on the day after Jon turned sixteen. He had stared at her, not knowing what to say, and she had sighed, kissed his hand and left him alone with his ghosts.
"I promise," he said again, and she turned to him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He closed his eyes briefly, drinking in her warm scent and soft hand on his back, for the world beyond her was cold and empty and harsh.
"And you might tell your plans about Moat Cailin to some of the guards and trading men in passing. Allow the rumours to spread. In a few years time, I won't have Jon's marriage prospects diminished because his father was too stubborn to set aside his unreasonable reservations."
Hells, but the truth stung coming from her mouth.
He nodded his agreement, heaving his own exhausted sigh, and they fell back onto the mattress together, holding each other and watching as the shadows flickered on the canopy overhead.
"I love you, Ned Stark," he thought he heard her murmur just before he dozed off to sleep. "You are infuriating and unreasonable, but I cannot help myself."
A/N: So, writing a lot of this felt like actual child abuse. Very unpleasant. Not sure I will ever attempt again.