A/N: I decided that from here, I'll be going around to different characters. So, for those who wished for different POVs before, hey guys, I'm finally making it happen. And another matter I want to address before someone notice it, I've been told that it's strange to read modern words in a medieval plotline but I am a bit too preoccupied to really lose sleep about it. Such as months where it's supposed to be moon's turn or something like that. Call it lazy or terrible writing but it's done and it would be strange to break the rhythm now. Like the Queen of Thorns once said, once the cow is milked there's no squirting it back up the rudders so here we are, seeing it through.

Plus, someone mentioned something down at the comments that I'm absolutely trying with all of my power to do but so far I've not completely had it figured out but hopefully, when we go back to Ned, it'll be there.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this and tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones is not mine.

Summary: When Ned finally told Catelyn about Jon Snow's mother, he had not expected for things to turn out the way they did in the end. It was so unfortunate that Robert had been smarter than Ned ever thought he was.

PART 3

ROBB

XI

Robb wanted to fling a table at his uncle's head.

They sat together for evening meal; him, his mother, his grandfather, his mother's uncle and his own aggravating, smug Uncle Edmure. Hoster Tully, his prodigal brother, and his heir had welcomed his and his mother's party of a hundred men five days ago, traveling almost continually from one lord's house to the other, gathering and reaffirming their support. If anyone were to ask, he had been simply visiting their bannermen to get to know them and they know him in return. As the future Lord of Winterfell and Liege Lord of the North, he had every right to meet his future bannermen and their heirs. At least, that is what they tell the lord's court. In the privacy of their solar, they plot to rescue Jon.

The Northern lords weren't all that surprised when he came to them with a retinue of a hundred men and his lady mother by his side but had expected his lord father, the solemn, honorable Quiet Wolf, to call them to arms once more instead of him. His father would have done just that had the Watch not sent him news of his little brother going missing Beyond the Wall and the threat of a wildling invasion. His father had gone Beyond the Wall to look for their uncle Benjen and see to the King Beyond Wall. If Robb hadn't already been stretched as thin as he was, that had nearly torn him to shreds. One by one, the people he loved are plucked away from him and he can't be in two places at once, not when they've vanished on opposite corners of the world.

So, here he was, dining with his mother's family, trying to secure the loyalty of his kin in the Riverlands for when they march down to retake his brother. Riverrun was his mother's ancestral home and her father the Liege Lord of the Riverlands but what was supposed to be more formality and a family visit for his mother, became a more difficult attempt than with his father's own sworn lords at convincing them to support their cause. He desperately wanted to run a hand down his face but doing so would be severely offensive, not to mention petty, and Robb is determined not to give his uncle even a small measure of the satisfaction of seeing him so incensed.

But apparently, his mother was not having any of it at all.

"They took an innocent boy hostage, brother!" Catelyn snapped, her words a barbed whip that resonated in the empty hall. "Bastard son of Rhaegar Targaryen he may be, but he is family! Remember our words, Edmure!"

"I remember them well enough, Cat, and that is exactly my point." Edmure infuriatingly insisted, scoffing cockily. He puffed his chest as if he's already the Lord of Riverrun instead of his father and it took all of Robb's willpower not to club that arrogant glint right off his eye. His grandfather and great uncle remained motionless and silent, listening almost distastefully at the way Edmure pompously brush off the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, if Robb had anything to say about it.

Good. Let them knock some sense into this fool. The Northerners will never forget and when we save Jon and place him on the Iron Throne, the North will remember this slight, too, Robb thought spitefully.

"He's a bastard!" Edmure scoffed. "He's no kin of ours. I would wage war if it was your lord husband or my dear nephew here, Robb, in a heartbeat because they are family but who is Jon Snow to me, to us? Why should we go to war for him? I'm perfectly agreeable to staying away from all this conflict in respect for the Starks but why should we spill Tully blood and risk our lives for a Blackfyre?"

There was a moment of tense silence and Robb thought his uncle was immensely fortunate they were dining alone as a family. His mother had gone completely livid judging from the way her hands shook that, if Robb had to guess, wanted nothing more than to wring her little brother's neck.

Robb was no better himself.

A low, dangerous growl was heard from behind Grey Wind's exposed teeth and his hackles rose, the only indicator of his master's darkening mood. Robb sat unmoving and rigid, face never betraying the inner rage that burned within him except for his eyes. His blue Tully eyes resembled a brewing winter storm that reminded them all that despite his coloring, he was a Stark of Winterfell and a Wolf of the North. His anger seeped coolly, smoldering the way only ice could burn. Edmure shifted restlessly under his cold gaze during the painfully long silence.

"Robert Baratheon captured a dragonspawn, did you not hear, Uncle?" Robb began with his deep baritone despite his age. Grey Wind began to stalk around the table, pacing agonizingly slow behind Edmure. "The last son of Rhaegar Targaryen, imprisoned and punished as he should be. He is the product of rape and madness, of fire and blood. Jon Snow, the seed of evil. Jon Snow, the villain. Surely, all those beatings were rightly deserved. Surely, torture could cleanse the dragon's bastard of his family's crimes."

Edmure swallowed uncomfortably, his eyes widening at the words. His grandfather and his great uncle were looking at Robb cautiously as if he were Grey Wind, himself, about to pounce. His mother gave him a worried glance, shocked by his words, but stayed silent knowing the truth of his claims. They heard the drunken stag's lies and excuses to keep Jon locked away and the reasons why he suffered. They heard what they did to him. It was never kept secret in the first place, boasted across the Seven Kingdoms as if the North will take it lying down.

"Did you hear what they did to him, Uncle Edmure?" He asked unnervingly calm. "They say his screams echo through the walls of the Red Keep. They say the king himself travels down to the Black Cells to beat him with his own fists. They say his direwolf's head hangs above the king's bed to remind himself of his triumph over a boy no older than five and ten. They say that when the king finally saw fit to have him treated by a maester, he was barely alive. My father was there with him in the Black Cells when they imprisoned him. He saw what they did when they laid Jon at the king's feet."

Robb's eyes met Edmure's, his blues eyes that had once shown with laughter was now almost rabid with cold rage.

"Robb," his mother pleads but Robb could not look away from his uncle, his fury climbing higher and higher, pulsing around them, humming with a power that Grey Wind emulates as his own, his growls and snarls growing louder and wilder.

"Jon Snow is being held captive by a cruel man with a crown on his head, Uncle Edmure." Robb nearly hissed. His teeth grinding together as he seethed. "The same man who looked upon the mangled bodies of Elia Targaryen and her children and condoned their rape and slaughter because they were Rhaegar's wife and Rhaegar's children. The same man who prefers torturing my brother to ruling the Seven Kingdoms because he is Rhaegar's son."

Edmure casted his eyes away but Robb wasn't finished. "He's not your blood, aye, we all know that. He's only the bastard son of a dead Dragon Prince." Robb growled. Behind Edmure, Grey Wind was ready to pounce. "But remember this, Uncle. When we march for King's Landing, when we defeat and unseat the usurper from the Iron Throne, when we take my brother back, who will rule the Seven Kingdoms? Who has the most legitimate claim to the Iron Throne? Who did the Reach, Dorne and the North fight a war to save?"

Grey Wind barked menacingly behind him and Edmure jumped at the sound, his eyes dawning at the realization. Robb felt immensely satisfied with the way the heir of Riverrun resembled a trout gaping at a wolf.

"I hope for your sake that you remember, Uncle." Robb counseled gravely, standing regally. "For the North has a long memory and I suspect dragons do so, too."

Edmure gulped and Robb strode to leave with Grey Wind shadowing his every step but his great uncle's words stopped him.

"Edmure may act and talk as if he's the damn lord of Riverrun, but he is not. Not yet." Bryden Tully groused, glaring at Edmure. Robb turned back and saw his mother give him an encouraging nod to come back. "My brother is very much alive, boy, and he still haven't had his say. I suggest you hear him out before you declare war on us, too."

Robb came closer but he did not sit back down. His grandfather carefully studied him with a stoic expression that reminded Robb of his father. After a moment, he spoke.

"Where our loyalty resides in this war was never in question, lad." Hoster Tully assured, his eyes burdened by age. Edmure's cheeks burned with shame, refusing to meet anyone's eye and gathered whatever remained of his dignity. "We fought with the wolves to defeat the dragons before and we will fight with them again to put the dragons back where they rightfully belong. Our words, remember our words. The Starks became family the moment Eddard Stark married my little Cat and gave her beautiful, honorable children."

Hoster gave Robb a pointed look and Robb's lips twitched in a relieved and grateful smile. Hoster gestured gently for him to be dismissed.

"Go now. You, too, my little Cat. Rest, the two of you, for I feel it will be a long journey ahead." Hoster said gravely. "Your work is not finished yet."

Robb gave him another grateful smile and he extended his arm for his mother to take. She rose with grace, looking at her son with a loving support only his mother could ever give him. He smiled softly at her.

As they left with Grey Wind trailing unfailingly behind them, he could hear his grandfather and his great uncle rebuking his Uncle Edmure in soft voices and then raised voices after they've turned a corridor.

Perhaps the table thrown at his head would have been a mercy.

"We've won Riverrun to our side." Robb said with a gleam of victory and relief. His mother nodded absentmindedly, staring into the flames of his temporary solar. He stood above a map of Westeros, planning their next move. Robb knew that his grandfather's support will not mean that the Riverlords will fight willingly for them as well. Just getting across the Twins had been a trying thing to accomplish with Walder Frey nearly refusing to let them pass. Robb thought it was almost worth it to just turn around and go the long way to his grandfather's castle but time was of the essence. In the end, Walder Frey gave him three young sons and grandsons to foster and a two daughters to serve as his sisters' companions. Arya, in particular, will not be pleased. But it had to be done. At least it wasn't a betrothal.

His mother had been strangely silent, sitting by the fire as if it held the answers they sought.

"It was never really in doubt." She admitted with a sigh. "My father would have ridden with us despite my brother's protest. Edmure could be… eccentric at times but he's a good man."

"He spoke ill of Jon." Robb nearly spat, the embers of his anger brought back to the surface. "He didn't deserve to be seen in such a way."

"I believe that's my fault." She confessed to him, eyes filled with regret. "I wrote home countless times about Jon in the first few years I was in Winterfell. None of the things I said were pleasant. How I hated that he looked more like Ned each passing nameday. How I feared that he seemed to have endeared himself to my children. I was resentful of the living embodiment of your father's shame and dishonor that lived under my household."

It was Robb's turn to sigh, coming closer to his mother. He sat opposite of her, taking her hand in his to let her know he understood. They've gone over this a hundred times and yet it never seems to abate its dark clutches over his mother's heart. Robb knew very well how his mother had taken to Jon in that year they'd known the truth. When she'd finally let go of the jealousy and hate that she harbored for Jon's mother, she saw Jon for himself. The brother Robb grew up with who was honorable and loving, who scarcely refused the whims of his siblings and protected them from all harm. The boy who carried a dry wit and a warm smile that made him look younger than he was underneath his brooding demeanor and grim face.

The boy who easily and readily forgave years of resentment and isolation and possessed a kindness and heart that was warmer than the braziers of Winterfell. The boy who went South with his father and never came back. The boy who'd been his brother for as long as Robb had been alive but taken from them by a drunken, whore mongering, vindictive king who only saw Jon's father instead of Jon himself as his mother had once done.

The boy whose suffering and torment never seems to end and Robb can't help but feel helpless to stop it.

"I was a horrible woman. I hated an innocent boy who didn't deserve it. Now, I see what you see in him, why you love him like you would your trueborn brother." His mother said, eyes closing briefly as if she were gathering more of her boundless strength to hold herself together. She held on to him like a lifeline. "He saved your father. He brought him home. He kept the rest of us safe. All his life, I hated him and he—"

"You're here now, trying to save him in return and that's what matters." Robb assured her firmly but not unkind. "We'll save him, mother. I promise."

"Don't make promises you cannot keep, Robb." She told him sadly. "Robert Baratheon may be lacking in allies now but he's a warrior, a veteran in the battlefield. He did not win the Iron Throne by luck."

"We have the Highgarden, Riverrun, Sunspear and the entire North on our side. We'll make them pay for hurting our family." Robb vowed vehemently. "Then, we go home and we'll be as we once were."

"War is not without its losses, my son." His mother warned, taking his face in her palm. "Remember what your father lost when he marched with Robert against Aerys Targaryen."

"It won't be like that. I won't let it." Robb insisted.

His mother did not look convinced but she nodded nonetheless and sighed. She rose and kissed him goodnight, leaving for her chambers to retire for the night. Robb drifted back to his maps, pouring over their plans. If Jon was here, he wouldn't give up. He won't let anything come between him and his family. He braved a snow storm to save Bran and he sacrificed himself to save their father. Robb would do the same for him in a heartbeat. He would tear down every obstacle in his way to get him back.

He brought out a parchment hidden underneath his maps.

Little birds whisper to me that a lion will destroy a stag and all that is his. All that is his resides within a Red Keep. Make haste, little wolf, for I, who serve a beast with wings, fear it will be soon. Our letters must be kept confidential. All walls have ears.

Robb gritted his teeth together and threw the parchment into the flames. He watched it turn to ash, keeping this secret as he was advised. He didn't know who this servant of a beast with wings is or what their intentions are but he knew enough about recent events to believe it was right.

The Lannisters are winning the war and it will not be long before they march for King's Landing to claim the throne.

Jon's throne, Robb thought. He sighed and plopped himself on a chair. And Jon himself.

A Targaryen, alone in the world, is a terrible fate, Maester Aemon had told him.

When he and Jon made that fateful journey up the Wall to meet the last Targaryen in Westeros, the maester had not been what Robb had envisioned a Targaryen would look like. Old, wrinkled, and blind, Aemon Targaryen was scarcely the Dragon Prince he must've once been. But he was ever sharp and saner than most men. He loved Jon the moment he knew the truth and held the other boy's face in his hands, eyes unseeing but almost weeping in joy. He told Jon about his father's family. The rich history of dragons and warrior kings and sister-queens told from the lips of one who'd lived it himself. The maester had not known Jon's father as well as he would have liked. He'd already been bound to the Wall by the time Rhaegar Targaryen was born. But he'd heard of him. How the prince had loved to sing, carrying with him a beautiful harp engraved with dragons wherever he went, and how graceful he fought in a fine black armor lined with rubies, a warrior worthy of songs. How he had two children, little Egg and Rhaenys, and Robb remembered how sad the maester's face had turned and Jon's eyes rimmed red, looking at Robb with almost fear and grief, as they remembered what became of Rhaegar's eldest children.

Robb wondered what would have happened if Aemon Targaryen had not refused the throne. He wondered if Jon would do the same as his brother never aspired to be anything more than a Stark.

And nothing good ever came to a Stark in King's Landing, Robb thought grimly, clenching his fists.

When Jon and his father journeyed South, Robb cannot be happier for his brother. None of them saw Jon differently despite the truth. In spite of it, his family had grown closer than it'd ever been. His father's shoulders did not seem like it labored under the weight of the world for once and his mother smiled more openly, her blue eyes brighter than they'd ever been.

As for Jon, his brother had unsurprisingly sulked and brooded in his room but after relentlessly trying to get it into his thick head that nothing would change in the way his cousins—no, siblings, for he was still their brother—saw him and with the gradual acceptance from his mother, Jon came out lighter and happier for it.

He no longer looked so solemn, with sad seeking grey eyes that looked more haunted than they were alive. The Bastard of Winterfell was also its ghost, Robb knew, no matter how hard he tried to change it. Robb had always tried his hardest to show Jon that he was as much his brother as Bran and Rickon, as loved and adored as Arya and Sansa.

When Jon told him the truth, Robb would admit that it took him time to adjust to the idea of Jon as a Targaryen. He didn't look like a dragon, with his grey eyes and somber face, but his blood was fire as well as ice. In the end, he decided that it mattered not for Jon is a Stark. They were a pack and this pack would survive.

Robb's pack will not follow the tragedy of their predecessors. He would protect them with every breath in his body. He would cut down each and every one that threatened his family and he knows where he can start.

Theon Greyjoy, the turncloak.

The betrayal had hurt. Theon had been like a brother to him and he'd foolishly thought the other boy saw them as his family as well. Now, he knew what those cold, hard eyes from the corner of the hall as they welcomed Jon into their midst and had him sat beside him meant. The sneers directed at Jon that grew more hostile made more sense. The violent turn of their spars in the yard had foretold.

Robb had seen it but he had been too naïve to believe what lay in front of him.

Now, his brother paid the price.

There's no forgiveness for betrayal, no ounce of mercy for treachery. Robb would see that bastard's head on a spike up the ramparts of Winterfell. His precious Pyke will burn and the fury of the North will come for every Greyjoy in the Iron Islands. He'll make sure Theon would taste the wrath of the direwolves.

Robb touched the marker on the maps symbolizing their armies amassing in White Harbor, disguised as merchants and farmers, weapons concealed in tents deep in the woods, waiting patiently for Ned Stark's return to sail for Pyke.

They'd been too lenient, too merciful, to the Ironborns.

It is time they paid their own iron price.