I.
White Harbour was certainly different to days of riding on horseback, Robb agreed with him. Jon could smell the sea a while before they even got a glance; the sharp gusts of wind that stabbed them became crisper and saltier. He said as such to his cousin.
"Of course it's by the sea dummy! When have you ever seen a harbour not by the ocean?" Robb had admonished with an easy smile. Smiles never came as often to Jon.
"I've never seen the ocean."
"Sorry," Robb suddenly appeared abashed, "I forgot. You'll love it, I know."
Jon often wished that he could forget things as easily as his trueborn cousin did. Robb was all carefree smiles and aimless remarks, whilst he was quick to frown and slow to speak. Jon was taller, Robb was stronger. Dark hair, red hair. His cousin had two loving parents and siblings to go with them, whilst Jon was orphaned and without brother or sister. But most importantly, Robb was born on the right side of the sheets, and Jon simply wasn't. It always came down to the fact Jon was a bastard.
Differences aside however, he was his best friend. That doesn't change the fact he's the biggest idiot in the Seven Kingdoms, but they'd practically shared all of their years together, even though Jon was a little older. His uncle wouldn't speak about his birth or his father much, at all.
"Looks like they're opening the gates, little lords." Jory Cassel said to them, the captain of the household guards. True enough, the ironwood gates had opened, and an escort was riding out to meet them. His uncle urged his horse to a stop between Jon and Robb.
"I want you on your best manners whilst we're here, alright?" Eddard Stark told them, looking at them both.
"Yes Lord Stark. "Yes father." They said at once. Jon wasn't going to mess up his first chance at seeing the North. Whilst his uncle had taken Robb to visit his bannermen many times before, this was something new to him. The only castle outside of Winterfell he'd been to was Castle Cerwyn, but only because it was half a day's ride from home.
Home, he wondered, where would that be? Jon was forever grateful that his uncle had allowed him to live with his cousins, but Lady Stark had made sure it never felt like a home to him. "Why did you bring him to Winterfell?" He'd heard her ask Lord Stark once, "you're putting your own children at risk. He has a strong claim through Brandon." It had been the only time he'd seen his uncle rebuff Catelyn so harshly, and she hadn't taken it well.
Lady Stark was the main reason he spent a third of his time with the Cerwyns.
Jon remembered the argument he had with uncle Ned not so long ago. A strange confidence had filled him and made him bold enough to ask about his mother, but it had all been for naught. His uncle remained steadfastly secretive.
In shame he'd avoided him for as long as he could, until one day he was dragged to the Great Hall by Robb. To his great surprise, Lord Eddard had announced they were visiting White Harbour, him, Robb, Jon and ten guards. Just the look on Lady Catelyn's face alone would've made him accept.
They rode down the Kingsroad as far as Castle Cerwyn, before following the cold waters of the White Knife south. The six days that it had taken to reach the city were some of the best Jon could remember. Every day brought a new adventure for him and his cousin, like when they saw the graves of the First Men in the grassy plains. At night him and Robb would watch the stars in the sky, whilst the wind whipped and howled, before waking up in the morning to a meal of blood sausage or chicken and ale soup.
They crossed a handful of streams and brooks, before fording the White Knife once. Robb and Harwin had goaded them into crossing by horse rather than bridge, so they found a section of the river with shallow banks and a lazy current to cross. The cold water got so high that it had filled Jon's boots, and it's sufficient to say Lord Eddard wasn't happy, but it had been fun. Harwin insisted they had gained a whole day's ride because of it.
From there on out it had been miles of moorland and blooming heather, with occasional craggy areas where your horse could easily snap its leg. They avoided them. Jon tried to keep quiet around his uncle, out of fear of another argument, but he found that his worries were unfounded. Soon enough, everything had worked out for the better. Gone was the friction between him and Lady Stark, and Jon almost forgot for a day or two his bastard status.
But that was all coming to an end now, with the approaching Manderly guards in their strange blue-green cloaks and tridents. Jon would once more become a mouse, quiet and small. Only to speak when spoken to and judged by most everyone, because he was a bastard.
"Well met, Ser Marlon." Lord Eddard called out to the leader of the escort.
"Lord Stark!" Marlon Manderly hailed. "Welcome to White Harbour, my lord cousin awaits you in the Merman's court, if it please you."
Lord Stark nodded as the trident wielding escort fell in line. Ser Marlon wheeled his horse around to ride next to Jon.
"Are these two lads your sons, Lord Stark? If so, I wish them long and hale lives." The captain smiled flatteringly. His uncle's smile was less jovial, but he seemed amused.
"This is my son and heir Robb," Robb did his best to look imposing, "and this is my nephew Jon, he's Brandon's son."
Jon saw doubt and surprise flash in Ser Marlon's eyes as he looked at Jon again. It was nothing he wasn't used to, as Jon looked more like his uncle's son than his cousin did, which often led to confusion.
"Good day, my lord." He greeted quietly. Ser Marlon nodded stiffly, before his eyes darted back to his uncle.
"We've had troubling reports, my lord. We thank you for arriving on such short notice."
"We'll see how we handle things from here on out, ser." His uncle responded seriously.
"Will there be a feast?" Robb butted in. "My lord." He added hastily after a sharp glance from Lord Eddard.
"If I know my cousin, most definitely."
II.
Jon wasn't ignorant to the odd glances he got from further down the hall, and he knew why he was getting them.
The household knights and lords sworn to the Manderly's must have taken it as a slight to their honour that the bastard sat so close to Lords Stark and Manderly.
The Merman's court had been altered to be able to hold the welcoming feast for Uncle Ned. A long, spruce table was placed down the length of the hall, upon which was enough food for what looked like an army. Honeyed capons and creamed swans sat neatly on silver platters, there were sugared pears and sweet plums the size of Jon's hand and apples dipped in glazes that glimmered in the candlelight.
But by far the most common delicacy found on the ornate table, was the vast arrangements of seafood. Jellied eels infused with lemons, buttered muscles with garlic and clams the size of plates, smoked salmon served with lobster stew that left your belly warm. Mounds of cockles and fired trout surrounded by the curling tentacles of fried octopus. And finally-
"The best lamprey pie you'll ever taste, that I can guarantee you!" Lord Wyman Manderly rubbed his fat hands together proudly, fingers like plump sausages.
Lord Manderly and Lord Stark sat at the head of the table, the place of the highest honour. Next to them were their son's and heirs, Robb to his father's left and Ser Wylis to Lord Manderly's right. To Robb's left was lady Wynafryd, Lord Manderly's granddaughter, then Jon, then to Jon's left was lady Wylla, Wynafryd's sister who dyed her hair green. Across the table from him was Ser Wylis's wife, Leona, who was flanked by Ser Wendel and Jory.
He'd been introduced to so many people today that it was hard to keep their names straight in his head. He tried to match all their names to the people but struggled. Wylla had green hair and Wynafryd was overly fond of Robb, or was it the other way around? Ser Wendel was attacking a smoked swordfish and Ser Wylis was… why does everyone's name begin with 'w'?
"It's always fun to see guests try and figure it out." Wylla Manderly spoke quietly next to him, startling him out of his thoughts. Jon looked at her strangely, how did she know what I was thinking about?
"Pardon, my lady?"
"I take it there's not so much silverware in Winterfell." She smiled. Wylla stuck out the most at the Merman's court, with long plats of hair dyed light green. She was a couple years younger than Jon, but he found himself letting her take the knife from his hands. "You were using the steak knife when eating fish." She explained carefully.
"Oh. Of course."
"It's no matter." She giggled. "For the most part, use the cutlery from the outside inwards, get it?"
He didn't. "Yes, thank you, my lady."
"You're most welcome." Jon would've assumed that was the end of the conversation, but she carried on in a high and thin voice. "What's it like, growing up at Winterfell?"
"It's amazing, I'm very lucky to be there." Because I'm a bastard. Wylla just smiled at him prettily. "The people are all very kind."
"Are there lots of children?"
"Yes, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran… although they are quite a bit younger." Jon placed a sugared plum on his plate and hovered a hand over a fork, looking at the green haired girl questioningly. She shook her head.
"No not that one, this one, it's a fruit fork you see." He just nodded, he found he was warming to Wylla Manderly. "Are you close to Robb?"
"Yes, we have a friendly rivalry, but we're as close as brothers." Jon explained carefully, sometimes even he didn't understand their relationship.
"What do you to do together? That you and him really enjoy?" She asked sweetly.
"Well… riding through the Wolfswood, Robb's the much better rider, you see." He explained. "We train at swords together, under Ser Rodrik. I'm a bit better." Jon admitted quietly.
"Is Robb interested in other-"
He was interrupted by said cousin's roaring laughter and Wynafryd's girlish giggling. Jon rolled his eyes at the two of them good naturedly. Lord Manderly seemed pleased at it, though Lord Stark raised an eyebrow. Jon turned back to see Wylla had a cross expression on her face, which she washed away with a weak smile.
She's jealous of her sister and Robb, he realised glumly, that's why she's asking about Robb so much.
With that realisation, Jon found that he had lost his appetite. He excused himself as politely as possible, aware that as he retreated to the living chambers Wylla Manderly moved into his seat to get closer to his redhead cousin. It's fine, he didn't care all too much.
It was dark, the only light being the pale fingers of moonlight seeping through the shutters of the window. He moved to open them, washing the chambers in a silver hue.
He sat on the sill of the open window, looking out over White Harbour with his knee raised up. It was a beautiful city, with whitewashed buildings all the way from the base of the New Castle to the sea itself. A road of paved marble ran from the docks to the castle, statues of mermaids and mermen lined the pavement with conch shells that glowed a soft amber.
Further away was another castle, grey and crumbling. Lord Manderly said that it served as a prison nowadays. In the distance, the sea was a calm sheet of steely grey water, a mirror to the moon, with small tufts of white languidly tumbling over themselves. Small boats were pulled onto the shore, dragged all the way onto the sand. By the docks three war galleys sat in the waters, which his uncle said was a large part of the strength of the North at sea.
Without realising it, his hand drifted to the bracelet on his right arm, circling it around and around his skinny wrists absentmindedly. He found the feeling of it on his skin soothing. In truth it was hardly any great work, only threaded ribbons of purple and silver, that had proved surprisingly well-made.
"I-I have a present!" She'd been so excited to give to him, all the enthusiasm of a four-year-old suddenly showing itself. "Purple and silver, like- like your eyes!"
The memory made him smile despite everything.
Sansa had made it almost two years ago, his autumn-haired cousin back at Winterfell, before she'd armoured herself in a lady's courtesy. It had been sweet when she gifted it, now she seemed almost ashamed to have been so close to him. Jon kept it to remind him of easier times, when none of them understood the meaning of what 'bastard' truly meant. ("He has a strong claim through Brandon.")
Jon didn't remember falling asleep, but he found his eyes opening once more to the moon glowing in a different spot. Robb was in his bed, the soft whistle of his breathing told him he was asleep. No doubt he'd had enough of the Manderly sisters.
He ought to do the same, but found his bones yearned for movement. As quietly as he could, he slinked out of the room.
The hallway outside was long, displaying images of the sea; a school of fish, a great kraken fighting a ship, all on a backdrop of white and sea green. It was dark, so the colours looked black and grey, but Jon could see light shining from beneath a door not too far away.
Robb's not here, so I guess I'll be the reckless one tonight, he thought as he made his way to the room.
Every step closer to the door seemed louder than the last, and he was certain whoever it was would hear him, but, with his heart in his throat, he reached the oaken door.
Back to the wall, he reached out and opened the door with excruciatingly slow precision. His uncle's solemn voice entered the hallway.
"-and do you know for a certain, that these men are who you think they are?" There was an uneasy creak of wood from inside.
"I wouldn't have messaged you if I didn't." Lord Wyman said in unusual seriousness for the jovial lord. "They have taken at least a dozen folk from three different villages."
"Lord Locke is reporting the same, my lord. We had a raven not an hour ago." Ser Wylis, Wyman's son, spoke. There was the ruffling of paper, before a long, tense silence. Uncle Ned exhaled heavily.
"This cannot stand." He said simply. A fourth voice spoke up, though softer and feminine.
"My lords, could it not be the Greyjoys?" She said quietly. "Were we not at odds with them not too long ago?"
"Be quiet woman," Ser Wylis reprimanded, "my mother may be dead, but that does not make you Lady Manderly yet."
"I just supposed-"
"No need, let those who know of war speak-"
"No." Lord Stark's voice cut through. "I would have your thoughts, Lady Leona."
"It's only, what trouble have we given to the Tyroshi?" Leona asked demurely.
Tyrosh? Is that what this is about? We're going to war with the Tyroshi? Jon wondered, before opening the door slightly more ajar.
"The Tyroshi slavers," Lord Wyman began, "are notoriously aggressive. I would not put it past them to think they can get away with this. The Greyjoy's wouldn't dare to attack the North with the old kraken's son in Lord Eddard's care."
Lady Leona nodded sadly. "So it is Tyrosh."
"We must meet them on the sea, my lord." Ser Wylis declared, Jon's uncle didn't seem to disagree.
"I agree with my son, Lord Stark. We must drive them from our shores, before the other slavers see us as weak and come flocking to our coasts." Lord Manderly agreed. Lady Leona didn't say anything anymore, only looking on worriedly.
Lord Eddard shifted uncomfortably beneath his fur cloak in the blazing room. "I will send a message to King Robert, asking for the aid of the Royal Fleet and Lord Stannis. I'll also send one to Lord Arryn, for the assistance of the Vale. They will have no choice but to fight or flee."
"My lord," Lord Wyman objected, "we must not act to the beck and call of the South. It would make us appear weak."
Solemn Ned Stark almost glared at Wyman as he stepped towards the Lord of White Harbour. "We are subjects of His Grace, King Robert Baratheon, hm? Did Stark and Manderly men not fight on the battle of the Trident besides those of Arryn and Baratheon? Are you so fast to forget that Starks and Manderlys both died by the orders of a Mad King before Robert overthrew him, mine very own brother Brandon and Father Rickard, and your cousin Medrick, Lord Manderly? I have a duty as Warden to defend the coasts of the North, and I will not balk, my lord."
Silence reigned in the stifling heat of the solar, only the heavy breathing of Lord Wyman to be heard above the crackles and sputters of the hearth.
My brother Brandon and father Rickard, Uncle Ned had said, but Jon heard his father's and grandfather's names, causing the breath to catch in his throat. Lady Leona must have heard, for her head snapped to the door, where their eyes met. Panicking, Jon launched himself off the wall behind him and ran…
… Only to soon find thick plump arms surrounding his waist, squeezing any breath in his lungs out of his body.
"A spy!" Said Ser Wylis as he dragged Jon into the room, where everyone was looking at him. He refused to meet their eyes.
"Ser Wylis, please unhand my nephew." Jon could hear the disappointment in his voice.
"Oh, apologies Lord Stark I didn't-"
"How much did you hear?" Lord Eddard ignored the red-faced fool.
"Some." Jon admitted, looking up. Eddard raised an eyebrow. "Most of it. Are we really at war with Tyrosh?"
"Don't worry lad, we'll give that snail eating city a taste of Northern steel." Lord Wyman gave a hearty laugh. Lord Eddard crouched down to Jon's level and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Not much is certain right now, but what is certain is that you cannot tell anyone." He said serious as ever.
"Yes Lord Stark."
"This trip may be longer than we thought it to be, I would like you and Robb to return to Winterfell."
"No." He blurted, before backtracking. "I mean, if I could stay. Lord Stark."
"It may come to war, Jon, and I would not like you two in danger." His uncle said firmly.
"But I'll be eleven next year," he objected with confidence he wasn't used to, "King Daeron was fourteen when he became King and invaded Dorne. I'm not even asking to fight, I just want-want to… watch. See. Know."
Uncle Ned sighed, though from disappointment or defeat he did not know. He patted him on the shoulder and smiled sadly.
"There's more of Brandon in you than I thought." Lord Wyman said quietly from behind Ned, with another sad smile.
His uncle looked older than ever. "Very well, but under no circumstances will you be fighting."
"Thank you, my lord." He remembered his courtesies.
"No doubt Robb will insist too, and Westeros will whisper of how I brought children to war. Catelyn forgive me." Lord Stark muttered, his face unreadable, before striding towards the window and opening it. The cool air collapsed into the room unceremoniously, washing away the tenseness. "Lord Wyman, your ships will be needed. Are these three yours?"
"And a fourth on its return from Sisterton." Lord Wyman confirmed.
"Send the three here to Oldcastle and join your strength to the Locke's, keep the fourth when it arrives. Send a raven to Widow's Watch to do the same."
"Why Oldcastle, my Lord?" Ser Wylis asked, confused.
"It's the furthest castle south and closer to the Vale. My cousin has a galley of his own, as well as Lady Lyessa Flint."
"Your cousin?" Lady Leona asked, though it was on Jon's mind to. Lord Stark smiled.
"My father's cousin in truth, most forget my grandmother was a Locke."
"What is he like?" Jon wondered.
"Old." Lord Wyman said simply, which his uncle nodded to absentmindedly.
"How many slavers were spotted, my lord?"
"Six or seven ships." Ser Wylis answered.
"And we'd only have five." Jon had counted.
"Which is why we need the Royal fleet." Lord Stark turned back around with a stern look on his face. "I will not allow our people to suffer under bondage, we'll ride for Oldcastle in three days time."
Everyone nodded, except Wyman, who spoke up. "Lord Stark, you'll forgive me if I send my son in my place. My fighting days are over." Lord Eddard nodded his consent. "Also, I might recommend you leave on the morrow, if you want to catch the wedding."
"What wedding?" His lord uncle asked, genuinely perplexed.
"Sybelle Locke is to wed Robett Glover, I would've thought you knew." Lord Wyman explained carefully. Lord Stark's face darkened. Jon knew that to marry without your liege's consent was a crime.
"I did not." Ned turned to Jon. "Seems we have a wedding to attend."
III.
Oldcastle was a modest keep, built with thick walls of basalt above jagged cliffs of the same material. Beneath the cliffs, hidden in a foggy bay was a small village. The houses were built with slate roofs and mostly of fishing stock. Further out into the protected coves, four galleys bobbed in the early morning mist, three Manderly sails and one Locke.
"Snow! You going to help or what?"
Jon smiled at the voice. The wooden slats of the pier clacked against his boots as he strode over to Malcolm, the clear salty air clearing his previous thoughts.
"Sorry, I was just-"
"Ogling my castle up, I'll say, thinking 'I wish Winterfell was so magnificent'."
Jon had to laugh. Malcolm Locke was of an age with him, the son of Lord Locke's second son, so by no means was the castle his. In the very short while they'd been at Oldcastle, Jon had found he liked this lean, coltish boy.
The night before, Malcolm's aunt had married Robett Glover in the godswood, the same day Jon's uncle had arrived with his entourage. Most the adults were asleep now, after the rigorous celebration of the marriage. The great hall still had people in it when Jon woke this morning, though they slumbered in puddles of ale and other… fluids.
However bizarre, Jon liked weddings. Malcolm had found him there, and told him a fishing boat had just arrived, asking if he'd like to check it out. Jon accepted for lack of a better thing to do.
"It does have a certain charm, though." Jon told him as he slid his hands into the gloves. "I quite like the idea of a castle by the sea."
"Aye, but I'm sure you'd miss your fancy castle with boiling oil running through the walls, to keep all you lot warm." Malcolm pointed out, a small smile tugging on his lips.
"Water. There's boiling water in the walls." Jon matched the smile. Locke gave him a pointed look.
"Enough you two, I want that crate o' lobsters carried proper. No dropping it, yes?" The weathered fisherman shouted at them.
"Yessir." Malcolm and he shouted, and lifted the box, finding it surprisingly heavy. "I imagine he wouldn't be speaking to us like that if he knew us as sons of lords."
"But I'm only a nephew."
"And me a son of a second son, so I ain't doing so well either Badger."
The Locke boy had proposed they take fake names, calling Jon 'Badger' for whatever reason.
"Well your skin's paler than milk and your hair's dark as night, so y'know. A badger." Malcolm explained. "Gimme a name."
Locke's hair was sandy blond, his eyes blue like the sky. What animal would that be? His cheeks were red from the early morning chilliness. Red.
"Crabs." Jon settled on. Malcolm almost dropped the crate.
"Crabs?!"
"Well it ain't much better than Badger! Your cheeks are red, like a crab."
"Crabs don't have cheeks." Malcolm huffed dramatically. Jon rolled his eyes and found himself smiling more, as they carried the box down the pier.
"There's always 'Lobster' if you don't like- ow!" Malcolm had hit him with a lobster.
"That's what I think of Lobsters."
"Less talk!" The captain shouted.
Later, after their mummer's act, they sat on a wall of unmortared stone in the village square. The day was still young and the crisp chill in the air proved it. The buildings were all grey, with darker roofs of slate, though bright bunting flapped violently in the wind. A bird was dragging a hunk of black meat across the square. Jon found himself wondering if Robb would like Malcolm, though he seemed happy enough to stay hidden up in the castle.
"Mate, you don't understand how annoying my little sister is when she goes on about your cousin," Malcom complained, "Look how handsome he is, and, he looks so strong! Pfft."
"It doesn't change wherever we go." Jon laughed. Malcolm wasn't put off.
"It annoys me to no end."
Jon put on his most fake lordly voice. "The Locke's should be honoured at the possibility of a betrothal."
"My entire family is mad, Jon, I tell you." Locke picked up a stone and threw it at the bird, who was still stubbornly dragging the meat. "My grandfather and aunt have lost their wits to marry her to some Glover. He's so dull."
"Not all marriages are for love."
"No, you're right, but my aunt has fallen madly in love with him, cousin, I tell you."
"Cousin?"
"Well my grandfather's your grandfather's cousin. So that makes us third cousins."
So many cousins, Jon wondered blithely, no living relative is closer than cousin or third cousin or uncle. Father, you left me your family, but where's mine? Where are the half-siblings that the woman told me of?
The wedding, which Jon had enjoyed so, had brought bitter, unwanted thoughts. Sybelle Locke wasn't the most beautiful woman there ever was, but under the branches of weirwoods and sentinel trees, clothed in white lambswool, she had an undeniable austere beauty.
My mother, did she ever marry? Before, or after me? Was she some bastard, same as me, or a southern flower who felt free from propriety with my father? Jon wasn't a fool. Most likely she was some farmer's get, or a whore. A milkmaid or a fisherman's daughter. That fisherman today could've been my grandfather for all I know.
The only haze of a memory he had of his mother was distant, just without his reach. A calming voice and dark hair, walls that were red stone. The woman said something about Dorne, last night.
Lord Ondrew Locke had given away his daughter, though he struggled to stay upright. Lord Ondrew was a kind man, Jon found, but incredibly old. He would be the same age as Jon's father's father. Lord Locke's children were polar opposites to each other. His heir, Ser Donnel, was older than Lord Eddard, and seemed to always be bitter about something. Malcolm's father, Jason Locke, was cocky and loud, whilst his twin sister Sybelle was quiet and tremendously proper.
The wedding feast afterwards was a draining affair, with songs and shouting and what some would call singing, others torture. Lord Eddard suffered it all well, at the top of the dais with the couple and Lord Ondrew. Jon could see Ser Wendel devouring a plate of ribs, whilst showing a squire a game with a knife that would not end well. Robb seemed happy, talking to a man with a mailed fist on his surcoat. Jory had a woman in his lap, though he looked uncomfortable and his cheeks were pink. Harwin was shouting something incoherent as he drank deeply with a knight or a young lord.
Jon didn't like all the noise, or the odd looks he was getting. "Brandon," the whispers on lips travelled louder than the shouting, "he's Brandon's son. Sired before the war, he has the look." It was all too much to bear any longer than he had to. He remembered his courtesies and confirmed that he was in fact Lord Eddard's nephew when asked, until he managed to sneak his way out.
The godswood was eerily silent, no twittering of birds or rattling of tree branches, just the soft compacting of earth beneath his feet. In comparison to the godswood at Winterfell, it was relatively small. There were no hot springs or any such body of water, the trees were shorter and denser for the most part, but there were easily twice as many weirwood trees. In Winterfell there were only a dozen of the pale, red canopied trees, if that, but the Oldcastle of the Lockes had many and more, a brooding tangle of roots paler than bone and red leaves that looked like bloody hands.
There were still some braziers alight around the heart tree, left there from the wedding ceremony not an hour past. The face carved into the pale bark was the image of misery, and Jon wondered if he should pray before the old gods, but he was never pious. Instead he traced his hands along the branches in silent contemplation. The tree was hard and cold, but beautiful, an accurate embodiment of the North.
"You look more like your uncle, child."
The voice had caught him off guard, and when he turned around, he saw a figure in the shadows of the trees. They were dressed in black and with dark hair, making it more difficult to see them, but by the voice and shape of her body he could tell it was a woman.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" Jon asked tentatively.
"You hold yourself like your uncle did too, when he was just the second son." She stepped closer to the brazier, and soon he could see her in the light. The woman was tall, with dark hair tied in a knot behind her head. She had a refined beauty and holding a certain gravitas of poise and dignity, but her voice was like shattered glass. "I wonder if you really are Brandon's. Might be that honourable Lord Eddard forgot himself once."
"You have no right to say-" Jon's anger flared.
"Ahh, there we are. Much closer to what I would expect. The wolf blood." She glided closer, reached out and held his head gently in her hands, looking down at him slightly. Softly she spoke. "You have his eyes, though."
"What?" Jon choked out, confused. He was sensitive about the fact his eyes were different colours.
"Silver, not grey. Lyarra's eyes, but also Brandon's. If you were Eddard's, that eye would be dull grey, my child. But it's silver."
My child. "Are… are you my-my…"
"Mother?" She spoke even quieter, gentle as a mother would be. "I… I could only wish. I loved your father enough to give him a child, but the gods never blessed us so."
"You knew my father?"
"More intimately than anyone. He was my father's ward, but also my lover. We were to be married," the woman seemed lost in a memory long ago, before her face dropped. "until his father betrothed him away. To a southerner, a Tully."
"Lady Catelyn." Jon remembered. She nodded.
"Yes, I suspect you two don't get on well. Me and you share that. But I must ask, why are you here?" Jon suddenly felt very defensive.
"Why are you here?"
"Sybelle and I are friends, though I lost interest in her wedding when Lord Eddard appeared." The woman removed her hands from his face and took his hand, leading him under the heart tree. It had started to rain. "No, I ask, why you are here, Jon. You, and not the other bastards Brandon sired?"
"I… I don't-"
"Why did your uncle raise you in Winterfell, where all the world could see you, and not the other bastard nephews and nieces?"
"I-I have… s-siblings?"
"Many and more." The mystery woman looked at him with pity. "Brandon's own blood, yet you are the only one Lord Eddard raised with his own. Why would he do that, if not for love?"
This is madness, I don't even know this woman's name. Jon knew, but… I'm desperate enough.
"Love?"
"Of your mother." She was looking at his purple eye, he knew. "Speak to him. Your uncle. Tell him you know."
"Know what?" This entire conversation was confusing him beyond measure.
"Dorne. That is where she is from, I am certain." She smiled slightly, lightly tracing the cheekbone beneath his purple eye with a finger. "If I can do anything for Brandon, it's this. Right some wrongs, but it isn't my place to say."
The rain had picked up, puddles forming in the earth and dimming the braziers. He could hear the squelching of footsteps.
"Goodbye Jon Snow, son of Brandon." She floated away.
"Jon!" Robb shouted over the rain. "Father was wondering where you are. You missed the bedding ceremony!"
"I'm here." Jon said, before repeating it quieter. "I'm here." Why am I here, and not the others? My siblings who know little and eat less.
"You okay there?"
Jon turned to see Malcom's concerned face, "You've been staring at that bird for quite a while."
"Yeah," He rasped, throat suddenly dry, "I'm alright."
IV.
Jon stared up at the canvas ceiling of the pavilion, listening to the light patter of rain and the howling of the winds. To the right of his bed, a fire hummed low in a stone pit, providing a small amount of warmth to dispel the chill from his bones. He twirled the ribbons around his wrist absentmindedly.
The canvas above illuminated briefly, sharply jolting Jon from his thoughts. He counted the time between the flash and the crack of thunder, the way Uncle Benjen had taught him.
The deep rumbling echoed at fifteen seconds. Three miles away, then.
That moment, a very wet Malcom Locke stepped into the pavilion, foot tapping with the same nervous energy that surrounded the coltish boy. He smiled and shrugged off his overcoat.
"Bloody thunderstorm out there," Malcolm shivered. Jon sat upright and raised an eyebrow.
"You don't say." He chuckled. Locke tutted and collapsed next to the fire, stretching out like a cat along the carpet. The commotion woke Robb in the bed parallel.
"Good morning Cousin Stark, finally decided to join us?" Malcolm smiled mischievously.
"I'll have you know I was up late, Cousin Locke." Robb yawned, half-heartedly running his fingers through his red hair. Jon winced at the mention of the night before. Between the Starks, the Manderlys, the Lockes and the Flints, four hundred men had been mustered to defend the coasts of the North. Robb and Jon had spent the night before witnessing the ruckus which was a war council, at the insistence of his uncle.
"You two will be present tonight," Lord Stark had told them, "hopefully you'll learn the basics of war. One day, the time will arise for you to lead men in the field, and you must know how to."
So far, war appeared nothing like what he had imagined when his uncle told stories of the rebellion. A boisterous shouting match between every different lord and knight seemed more apt of a description.
Jon was surprised to be addressed alongside Robb, though his cousin thought nothing of it. After the observing the 'council', he'd approached Lord Stark, who, overcome with fatigue and appeared to be nursing a headache, had collapsed into a seat. The dark expression on his face lifted when he saw him.
"Lord Stark, if I may, why did you permit my presence at the meeting?" He had pressed, Eddard shook his head and smiled.
"Jon, have you ever thought on what you want to do when you come of age?" His uncle had asked in reply. Jon shook his head, though in truth it had always been a cause of anxiety. Lord Stark slid down from his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye.
"Well…" He broke his silence under the pointed look of his uncle, "I had thought about the Night's Watch and Uncle Benjen."
"An honourable calling, to be sure," Uncle Ned sighed, "or when the time comes, you could act as one of your cousin's master-at-arms, or captain of the guards."
Jon had felt his face light up into a smile.
"Robb?" He asked quickly. Lord Stark's smile faltered slightly.
"More likely little Bran, I'm afraid." Stark admitted, though he carried on. "I've spoken to Benjen about a plan to resettle The Gift, and mayhaps one day, a man of Stark blood will lead those efforts." Ned grinned slightly.
Jon couldn't believe his ears, though his heart swelled with gratitude and joy at the prospect of maybe, just maybe, getting a keep of his own. Ned moved his hand from Jon's shoulder to his cheek, beneath his grey eye.
"You may not be my son, Jon, but you are the last living part of someone I loved so very much, and I will do everything I can to help you." Jon surged forward and pressed his head to his uncle's shoulder. His eyes were wet. "Stark blood is ancient, but also powerful. It is the bloodline of the Kings who waged war with winter and won. It is the blood of ice, of wolves, and it is the blood that runs through your veins, Jon, just as much as mine. Don't ever forget that."
A hard punch to the shoulder pulled him away from the memory as Jon gave out an undignified yelp.
"Quit zoning out Jon," Malcolm rubbed his knuckles, "you have really bony shoulders."
"All that thinking can't be good for your brain, Jon." Robb joined in, settling next to the fire.
"You're right," Jon smiled knowingly.
"We are?" they both asked.
"I should be like you two and charge headfirst into every problem I ever face." Incredulous cries met his remark.
"That's not true!"
"I'll have you know-"
"How about we go for a ride along the beach?" Jon suddenly asked with a smirk. Malcolm looked to the flaps of the tent and shook his head.
"It's raining, Jon."
"It's my turn to reckless," he responded, grabbing the Locke by his collar and yanking him out.
The rain had passed, though the wind still whipped and howled, so the three of them quickly saddled their horses and rode out past the perimeter. The encampment grew smaller in the distance, shrinking into a black and brown smudge in a sea of pale grasses.
Soon enough, Malcolm began to goad his brown horse onwards at a faster speed, overtaking Robb and him. Robb retaliated and kicked his steed into a full gallop. It didn't take long for it to transform into a full-blown race.
Jon wasn't even sure he was in first place for a moment before one of the other two caught up, but he still found himself grinning immensely at the little competition. The wind stole the warmth from his cheeks and blood roared in his ears, or maybe that was also the wind.
The race ended when they reached a cliff overlooking the grey sea. The waves lapped haplessly at the rounded pebbles, an endless expanse of cold, grey steel. The gusts of wind whipped so violently even the gulls appeared to struggle in the currents, seemingly hovering in the air as they flapped their wings futilely.
Using a crumbling path even Robb's sure-footed horse struggled with, they carefully wound their way to the pebbled beach. Dismounting, they explored the shoals and tiny pools of water, looking for anything of interest. Malcolm won when he found a crab behind a boulder, which Jon told him was ironic considering his nickname. Malcolm disagreed.
"Oh." Malcolm sighed when Jon was trying to lift a stone much heavier than seemed possible.
"What?" Jon strained, face red from exertion. He gave it up, the boulder tumbled back down with a thud.
"Your uncle's guards have found us." He frowned. Jon looked up.
In the distance five horses sped towards them along the beach, kicking up pebbles behind them as they rode. They all sighed collectively in defeat and sulked their way away from the cliffs. An opening in the clouds allowed a small ray of sunlight to shine, causing the armour of the riders to shine gold. Jon smoothed the sides of his horse's coat.
Wait, gold-
"Those aren't Northmen." Jon muttered. They weren't flying any colours either.
"Pardon?" Robb asked.
"Those aren't Northmen," He said with more urgency, climbing onto his horse. "they're wearing golden scales!"
"King Robert's men, maybe?" Robb swung up on to his horse with natural skill, Malcolm followed. "The Tyroshi shouldn't have horses."
The riders were getting closer, and Jon could see a purple sash on their uniforms.
"No, those aren't Westerosi to be sure." Malcolm's eyes widened. "Fuck."
The three of them spurred their already tired horses into action, pushing the horses as hard as they could go. Looking back, the Tyroshi were gaining on them.
"They're going to catch us!" He warned.
"Should we turn and face them?" Robb asked worriedly, though he seemed to already know they answer.
"They outnumber us and are better armed!" Malcolm screamed over the wind. "No!"
Their horses were worn out from the race stunt they had pulled off previously, and they couldn't seem to find grip on the pebbles. They were unarmed and unarmoured, and hopelessly outnumbered. Slavers were famed for their ferocity and skill. Doing the maths quickly in his head, Jon realised chance of escape seemed low.
He heard the Tyroshi shouting behind them in their foreign tongue. One word travelled over the wind the loudest, a mutilated, twisted version of the word 'Stark'.
Jon saw Malcolm come to the same realisation, as they both looked over their shoulders to see Robb's white direwolf cloak thrashing in the winds. Stark. They both nodded.
Jon snatched the silky fabric from Robb's shoulders and quickly overtook him so that he was in the middle of the three. He ignored Robb's worried questioned shout.
The slavers couldn't have been more than twenty feet behind them now, however the path up the cliff was up ahead.
Malcolm caught his eye and a moment passed. Never had there been more charged energy between two gazes.
Jon shut his eyes and tugged his horse to slow.
"Jon!? What are you doing?" Robb screamed, "JON!" He ignored him.
Jon wheeled his horse around, with one hand on the reins and the other holding the cloak over his shoulder and charged his horse forward. The Tyroshi spat that mutilated 'Stark' again.
("He has a strong claim through Brandon.")
("Are these two lads your sons, Lord Stark?")
("There we are. Much closer to what I would expect. The wolf blood.")
("Stark blood is ancient, but also powerful. It is the bloodline of the Kings who waged war with winter and won. It is the blood of ice, of wolves, and it is the blood that runs through your veins.")
"TYROSHI!" Jon shouted, "I am a STARK of WINTERFELL, just as my father was, and his, and his before him!" They were set for a collision course, he knew, the five horses in front of him shied as he spurred his onwards. They slowed slightly, his horse snorted uncertainly. He saw the apprehension in the slaver's eyes as he raced forward, faster and faster.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. One last push." He whispered, mainly to his horse, though partly to himself. Robb has to make it off this beach.
Again, the sun gleamed on their swords as they pulled them from their sheathes.
Too late.
In a final burst of energy his horse crashed through the five and broke through them. Their horses tripped over themselves trying to avoid him.
A nervous laugh escaped his throat, before it choked up.
Speeding along the shore in the other direction from Robb and Malcolm, he couldn't see them behind him anymore. Good.
Just as the Tyroshi finally regrouped and sped towards him, his horse collapsed beneath him, knees buckling and stones flying, catapulting him forward into the pebbles headfirst.
His head split in enormous pain and he heard something in his chest crack. Belatedly, he realised his mouth was filling with blood. He spat out part of his tongue, and at least three teeth alongside it. A whimper escaped his lips. The sky darkened. Blood filled his eyes.
The Tyroshi dragged him across the pebbles, he thought he saw two horses on the clifftops. Something between a sob, a laugh and a hiccup was released from his burning chest, accompanied by a thick black-red liquid. Robb was safe.
They threw him onto the ship. His head slammed into the solid deck. Jon blacked out as the sky spun into an endless void.
I wrote this quite a while ago and recently unearthed it in my archives, so I decided there might be someone out there who would like to read it lol.
This is intended to be a one-shot, but if people want me to I have a few ideas to extend it.
Peace, love, etc
Xander