Arthur Dayne - 294 AC
Summer snow, it was something that he knew was not uncommon in the North, but the phrase seemed an oxymoron to the Dornishman. It had been 10 years since he had come to dwell in the Starks domain, but it was not home. It could never be home, that would forever be Starfall.
Every morning, as he would wake to watch the namesake of his family blade, Ser Arthur Dayne wished they had moved more quickly from the tower of Joy. If they had, perhaps he would be home right now.
They hadn't stayed very long at the tower, just long enough to bury the bodies of the northmen who'd disobeyed orders, allowing Ned and Howland to rest for the ride.
Arthur had directed Ned to where they had placed the letters Lyanna had written, which they were ordered to shoot down to keep their location as unknown as possible, and the other gifts and things Rhaeger had brought there from Dragonstone upon his last visit before his death.
He'd made absolutely sure that the letter of annulment between his silver haired friend and Elia Martell, along with the marriage that followed was safely among the things kept under lock and key in the chest they hauled with them.
Princess Rhaenys had been more devastated than anticipated, when she was told the group was to split up for an unknown amount of time. For all any of them knew, it could be forever.
The quiet wolf had swept her up into his arms, comforting her as best as he knew how. Whatever the man said to her, it calmed her down enough to see reason. She had still been crying when she left with Gerold and Oswell, but she didn't fight it.
The hope that had blossomed in his heart had been shattered nearly the moment they set foot in Starfall. The procession of people heading towards the sept had him rightly uneasy. Someone had died, and whoever it was, was loved by a great many people.
Arthur could think of none but Ashara to match up with that. He had unfortunately been correct. Not two days before they'd arrived, Beric Dondarrion saw Ashara throw herself from the Palestone Sword, the tallest tower of Starfall, her body claimed by the sea and never found.
And just like that, the plan he had hoped would keep both his king and sister alive had shattered, only to be left with the initial plan that Ned Stark had given. To raise 'Jon' in Winterfell as his own.
Arthur had managed to make slight alterations to this plan, to leave it vague enough that people would assume Jon to a bastard of Neds, with room to reveal otherwise.
Never had the words 'my son' been said by the Lord of Winterfell, instead saying that Jon was 'his blood'. The entirety of Westeros had taken that to mean that Lord Eddard Stark was so ashamed of sullying his honor, he could not utter the words, but wanted the boy to be cared for nonetheless.
His thoughts were interrupted by the snap of a twig behind him. Turning, Ser Arthur Dayne saw his king walking in to the clearing, the place Arthur trained him in swordsmanship, to appease the Lady of Winterfell. The woman wanted Jon to be as separate from her own children as humanly possible.
The light of the rising sun was coming through the trees, casting itself onto the right half of his king's face. Arthur could not help but marvel at the way he was maturing. He was merely 10 name days but was already developing the posture and air of a predator.
Arthur pushed him far harder and longer then the Stark heir Robb was, by Ser Rodrick Cassel. While Robb Stark would not start his lessons until mid-morning, Arthur and Jon started at dawn.
At midday they would break for a meal and rest, afterwards Robb would head to Maester Luwin for his lessons, while Jon went back to training on the sword for another few hours. The residents of Winterfell had no idea how Jon fared with a blade except for Ned and Arthur, they merely assumed they stayed at it so long, because 'the bastard of Winterfell' was a slow learner.
Oh how wrong they were.
As their eyes met, Arthur was reminded of the absolute necessity of his presence here in the North. The eyes of the rightful king looked like the most violent of storms, a dark grey that almost seemed black unless directly set upon by a source of light. The wisps of violet that Ned had spoken of so long ago had widened and became more and more apparent as the boy grew. It now appeared as though the color of his eyes were half Stark and half Targaryen. The contrast was striking.
"Today, we'll start on something new." Arthur declared, once Jon stopped in his place before his mentor.
Jon said nothing, solemn and brooding expression on his face as was usual. When the sword of the morning tossed two training blades to his feet, the bastard of Winterfell merely rose a brow before picking them up.
Arthur Dayne may be rumored to be the greatest swordsman alive, but he had a feeling he'd be ousted of that position in a few years' time. Jon had not only inherited his father's brow and cheek bones, but his uncanny ability to learn just about anything he put the time towards.
Arthur would put everything he had into making sure that Jon became a king that not only deserved to sit on the throne but would be able to defend it with his own hands.
Jon gripped the blades, testing the weight and feel of having one in each hand. Arthur set into a stance that Jon soon did his best to copy, only truly needing minor adjustments.
"Now lad, let me see what you are truly capable of."
-LineBreak-
Rhaenys Targaryen
When the snow falls and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.
The moment in which those words had been spoken to her now only felt like a dream, and she could not remember what else her uncle Ned had said. Whatever it was, she remembered feeling better after hearing it.
The thing she remembered most about that day 10 years ago, was meeting her brother Jon, and the warmth of having the usurpers dog, as her dear uncle Viserys called him, hug her so tightly.
She sat on the chair of the balcony of their small abode in Lys, the heat of the day in this eastern country not affecting her nearly as harshly as her Aunt and Uncle.
Rhaenys was 14 name days now and could only recall small pieces of her time in her homeland of Westeros. The rest was lost in the storm and chaos that had been her travels since.
Travel from city to city had been a thing that she'd grown accustomed to, as they moved to avoid assassins looking for a hefty pay-day. Pentos, Braavos, Qarth, Myr, and now Lys, it seemed as though it would never end.
Truthfully, she didn't mind that part all too much. If there was one thing that had come up over the last few years she wished to change, it would be her uncle Viserys.
They had lost Ser Gerold Hightower 3 years ago, in an ambush of half a dozen men wanting her family to bleed dry. Before that had been Ser Willem Darry, who had just been too ill to continue.
With only one member of their guard left, it made acquiring funds much more difficult. Viserys had taken to selling the remains of the treasures of their family, the queens crown being the last of items with any real value.
Once that had happened, she noticed the volatile turn in her uncle's mind. One moment he would be smiling as he would have when they'd first met. The next he would be ranting about his right to the throne in their homeland, and the next he would be set upon her or his sister in pure rage.
Her aunt Danaerys would often be the initial target of his ire, until Rhaenys came into the room and took her place. The bruises were harder to see on her olive skin, but visible nonetheless.
She had overheard Ser Oswell one night, mumbling to himself, that he wished he could just off the boy for good. That the madness had already made itself known and would only get worse as days went by. But her uncle was of the royal family, so he had to hold himself back.
She had started to share the thoughts of their protector, after sharing one of her dreams with her younger Aunt.
Danaerys and herself had more of a sisterly bond than anything else, they traded thoughts, dreams and stories quite frequently. Last year, Rhaenys had a recurring dream of sitting in her old home of the red keep. There was a throne in between where Danaerys and herself sat.
In her dream, they were waiting for their king, their husband, with barely hidden smiles of anticipation. They were counting the moments until they could announce how their family was expanding.
Viserys had overheard at least part of it, because he became just as obsessed with having them both for his wives, as he was for the throne itself. I shall be Aegon the conqueror come again! Ever since, she would shudder as his hand traveled along her collar, cheek or back.
He must think himself some sort of Casanova, that he was irresistible, when truly he disgusted her.
In her dream, the king was not of the typical Targaryen visage. He had raven curls that hung from his head and almost down to his shoulders, Grey eyes with violet streaks that resembled lightning.
His smile was small but warm, his voice quiet but powerful. In Rhaenys' dreams, it was not Viserys but her brother Jon. The few times she had brought up her brother, Viserys had called her a stupid girl, that her brother had been murdered just as she had almost been.
After the 5th time Viserys had done this with her trying to correct him, she'd forgone mentioning her second brother at all. Ser Oswell was the only other one besides her among them, that knew of his existence, and he refrained from mentioning him all together for fear of some spy being close enough to catch any details.
The balcony door behind her burst open suddenly, getting Rhaenys to flinch and turn towards it. The thing she saw was the silver hair whipping in the wind, as Danaerys sprinted towards her, tears in her wide violet eyes.
"Rhaenys!" The girl of 10 name days called out through her sobs.
Rhaenys stood from her chair, opening her arms for the girl to run in to. Her aunt Dany rushed into them eagerly, sobbing into her chest, as she clung to her bright red flowing dress.
Her own brown and silver locks brushed against the crying girl's cheeks, absorbing some of the salty tears. Rhaenys stroked the back of her distraught aunt, gently trying to coax her down and speak of what ailed her.
It took a few moments, but Dany had eventually calmed down enough that her sobs turned into an occasional hiccup.
"What's the matter Dany?" Rhaenys asked. It had been quite a while since Danaerys had been so hysterical. She was normally strong, accustomed to the way her brother would yell at or occasionally hit them.
"Ser Oz! He's hurt! Viserys hurt Ser Oz!" Rhanenys went to immediately go and check on exactly what she was talking about, but Dany grabbed onto her arm, pulling back with her entire weight.
"No! Don't go, he'll hurt you too. He's really mad right now."
Rhaenys stepped towards the girl, placing her hand on her cheek. Why couldn't Viserys be like Dany? She was sweet and kind to a fault, always worrying over the well-being of those close to her.
"I won't let him hurt me Dany, I promise you. I merely want to find out what he's done to Ser Oswell." And how exactly a boy with no real training could accomplish such a thing against a battle tested member of the kingsguard.
Dany whimpered, but let go. She trusted Rhaenys above all others, as she'd been the most constant thing in her entire life.
Rhaenys walked through the rooms and to the stairs, listening intently. When she came halfway down to the first floor, she heard what she thought to be arguing.
She continued down, coming around the bend of the staircase towards the chambers of Viserys and Oswell. The arguing she thought she'd heard, ended up just being Viserys in another of his rants, though his voice sounded oddly tired.
She crept along the wall until she met the entrance to the second to last room, Ser Oswells.
"I told you NOT to mention the usurpers dog in that fashion in front of me!" She heard something that sounded oddly similar to when they saw butchers cutting meat of their herds in the markets.
"I am the one true king! I am the one who will bring the seven kingdoms to heel!" The sounded repeated twice more.
"The Starks, the Baratheons, the Lannisters, they will all burn for their treason against me!" She was close enough to peek into the room now but was suddenly feeling oddly hesitant in doing so.
This was on a different level from his usual ranting. He'd never outright claimed that he'd kill the great families of Westeros. He would go on and on about how they would be made to see the error of their ways and be brought to bend the knee.
If they don't, they will see why you should never wake the dragon he'd always say, but had never elaborated, and they'd never asked.
Rhaenys took in a quiet breath, and slowly peeked her head around the corner, and into the room.
Her eyes went wide at what she saw. In his chair, book on the floor, was Ser Oswell Whent. This was his usual place early in the afternoon, either taking a nap to be ready to guard them throughout the night or reading whatever book he had scooped up to occupy his time.
Viserys was standing beside the chair, back turned to her, with a bloody knife from the kitchen in his hand. The tunic of their guard was punctured and turning more and more crimson by the second, as the blood pooled from the body and down to the floor.
Rhaenys turned as Viserys growled, gripping the knife hard again. Her mind was a whirl of what she could and should do.
"Aaaaahhh!" She her heard her uncle yell, more sounds of him stabbing an already deceased body meeting her ears. She needed to grab whatever she could, take Dany, and run.
The room next to Ser Oswells belonged to her deranged uncle. It was also the only place were anything of value was kept, as Viserys shared nothing. The remnants of whatever gold or memories from the Targaryen family was all kept in the chest beside his bed.
She walked as quickly as was possible, to keep her steps quiet and unnoticed. Her uncle had the most lavish room. He thought himself the rightful king, and demanded his room reflect that.
The red silk tapestries along the window fluttered with the heated breeze. His bed fitted with sheets leagues more expensive and comfortable than hers of Dany's. To him, the women of his family were merely there to be used as either pawns in his conquest, or to bring him heirs. Probably both, truth be told.
If Viserys had not demanded to have such luxuries, they would have had a much easier time affording clothing and food. Ser Oswell would not have needed to seek the odd job here and there, perhaps the queens crown would even still be in their possession.
She saw the chest and made her way to it. Rhaenys threw it open, hoping that the quicker she did it, the less noticeable the creaking of the hinges would be. Most of the contents were maps of the various areas of Westeros.
Viserys had collected them, stolen really, from shops in the market of Lys and Braavos. She moved them aside for what she was looking for. She tossed a few of the gems onto the bed, 2 rubies, an emerald, and half a dozen sapphires.
Just below that was her true goal, a woven sack that held all the meager funds they had left. She took the sack out, loosening the straps and throwing the gems inside.
She cinched it closed and stood, her breath coming in heavy pants as her nerves started to act up. Viserys was starting to rant again, the thought of why he was yelling at a man he'd killed ran across her mind briefly, before she shook it away.
Rhaenys took large strides out of the room and towards the stairs, wanting nothing more than to get out of here and make sure she and Dany stayed safe. She wanted to go home, to see her brother and uncle Ned again. She couldn't do that, not if she were dead.
And with the way Viserys had just seemed to lose his mind completely, there were no doubts in her mind that he'd kill her. Now or later didn't matter.
Dany was still on the balcony, right where she'd been when Rhaenys went downstairs. Her aunt saw the look in her eyes, the bag in her hand, and quickly walked towards her with questioning eyes.
Rhaenys placed a finger over Dany's lips, telling her to keep absolutely silent.
"Not a sound Dany, do you understand me?" Her voice had never been delivered to Danaerys this way, so serious and demanding. When she saw Dany nod slightly Rhaenys continued.
"You and I are leaving now. Grab my hand, walk quickly but quietly and do not make a sound." When Dany nodded again, they turned and quietly made their way towards the door.
Rhaenys was not blind to how cruel the world could be. She knew the very real possibility of being kidnapped, raped or killed. But those were chances she was willing to take, against a sure thing of being killed by her uncle.
At least on their own, they had a chance. Remaining here was only a death sentence.
-LineBreak-
Eddard Stark
Ned could not count the times he wished that only the stresses of being Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North were all he had. That by itself, would have been enough for most men, as the North had the most land of any of the seven kingdoms.
There was more to patrol, more to guard from enemy threats, just…more. But no, on top of all of that, his Lady wife took it upon herself at least once a month, to antagonize him about Jon.
Their children presented no real added stress to him, he enjoyed each and every interaction he had with them, positive or negative. If they performed well, he would gladly praise them. If they had done something wrong, he would take the time to show them the error of their ways, and how to approach it the right way.
Ever since the Greyjoy rebellion, her tolerance of Jon had been on a steady decline. It had gotten to a point, where if he even looked towards Jon for too long, he would feel her icy blue gaze upon his person, condemning him for his betrayal. A betrayal that had never happened, but he could not risk telling her that.
"For 10 years I have asked, and for 10 years you have never answered. Why do you allow that bastard to reside in our home?" They were standing at the rail overlooking the training yard, where Robb and Theon were being lectured about the proper way to parry a blow.
In truth, Ned had responded to her question, just not as thoroughly as she'd like. His answer, year after year had always been, because I must.
After which, he would declare the subject done with and move on with his day, leaving his Lady wife fuming behind him. He did not trust himself to let the subject dwell too long at any given time, lest he reveal something he shouldn't.
He watched as Arya sprinted out from the keep, not paying any mind to the fact that the mud was flinging from her boots to her dress, right towards where Jon was just coming into view from the gates.
His youngest daughter adored Jon, as the lad had never criticized her about acting more ladylike as everyone else had recently started to do. It was like watching a reincarnation of his sister, wild, stubborn and fierce.
"Do you aim to wound me Ned? You let proof of your infidelity roam about where I must see and- ARYA! GET INSIDE, CHANGE YOUR DRESS, AND GET TO YOUR LESSONS!" Say what you may about Catelyn, she adored her children, and made sure they kept to their schedule as best as any mother of 4 could.
The girl of 5 turned towards them, looking for all the world wholly frustrated at being deterred from her favorite brother, before stomping back inside. It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he saw Jon truly frown for a moment.
His nephew almost always kept his solemn mask on, ever since he found out what being a bastard meant. Ned had heard that Bastards grew up quicker, but only now was he truly seeing what that meant.
No boy of 10 name days should have that sort of control over his facial expressions. It made his heart ache, knowing that his duties kept him absent for most of the time Jon was not training or in his own separate lessons. The times in which he was left to his own devices, was typically when Cat had a break from her own duties.
Ned wasn't sure what was worse, not hearing Jon call him father anymore, or knowing that his wife was the top reason for it. Now anytime he spoke to Jon, he was referred to by his proper title, Lord Stark. It didn't matter if they were alone or not anymore.
The boy had very little interaction with anyone close to his own age. His job made it damn near impossible to see him, Cat despised him, and Arthur had become a shadow of himself since learning of his sister's death. All the sword of the morning seemed to think about anymore, was preparing Jon for the inevitability of his birth becoming known.
He'd already thwarted the curious eyes of Dorne twice now, they'd grown suspicious over the years, with the reports coming from across the Narrow Sea. Specifically relating to a darker skinned girl traveling with the two known Targaryens. They had started to look more closely at the timeframe of his travels at the end of the rebellion.
"I do not understand your desire to make me see the proof that you loved another woman more than your wife."
Ned snapped his head over towards Catelyn. Her light blue eyes, normally as clear and radiant as the summer skies of the South, held a red hue to them now. Ned knew that he should not feel the things he was at this moment, but her accusation had crossed a line.
"That's enough Cat…" He was quickly growing angry. He prided himself on being a good, honorable and just man. His honor had been stained by the presence of Jon, but he had known that the moment they left Starfall. They had been left with no other choice.
But accusing him of breaking the vows he had taken before the old gods was another matter entirely. He had sworn to love none as he would love her. Ned Stark could be called many things, but an oath breaker would never be one of them.
"Your fondness for Ashara Dayne is no secret Ned. And having her brother here beside the boy? You may as well just pin the sigil of Starfall to his back."
His nostrils flared, as his wife took in a breath, his blood turning cold like the Northern winds of winter.
"I remember the feast at Harrenhal, the way people talked as they watched you dance with her and- ". He'd had enough.
"I said that's ENOUGH!" His voice carried out through the balcony, over the training yard and beyond.
Like dousing a torch in water, all ambient sound seemed to halt. His breath came in deeply, trying to will away the rage that her accusations had brought about.
His wife looked at him in a way he'd never seen before from her but was all too familiar from a time long passed. Fear, at this very moment his own wife was terrified of him.
The moment he recognized it, Ned wished that he could turn back time and keep himself under control. Their marriage may have been merely political, but he had come to love her unconditionally. Never would he wish to see her look at him this way.
But the gods were not so kind. He had no way to take back the way he had just humiliated his own wife in front of the very ones they ruled over, who trusted him to keep a level head and act rationally at all times.
Her face cooled into a neutral mask, much like the boy she despised so much always wore. But Ned knew that behind the emotionless veneer, was a level of rage that would be passively enacted over the course of several moons turn.
"As my Lord husband commands. With your leave, my Lord, I would ensure our daughter gets back to her lessons with the Septa." Ned merely nodded to her before she spun, cloak billowing out behind her as her strides took her towards the room of Arya.
Ned cast a glance over the yard, seeing his son and heir Robb looking to where his mother had stormed off, before sending him a questioning glance. Ned turned the opposite way his wife had gone, his solar the destination in mind.
-LineBreak-
Lord Varys
Keeping a calm front was not all that easy at times. It was a carefully crafted skill, sharpened and honed by being in the presence of the dozens, if not hundreds of vipers that dwelled within Kings Landing.
It had taken years to know which corners to turn, what alcoves to hover in, and what doors to press your ear to in order to learn the secrets of his fellow capitol residents.
It had taken just as long, to figure out how to avoid someone else from doing the same to him. The worst two, were the queen Cersei Lannister, and the master of coin Petyr Baelish, otherwise known as little finger.
Kings Landing was the prime spot for someone looking to make a profit from spying on someone else.
Nowhere else in the seven kingdoms did the fate of lives dwell on what someone may or may not hear, as much as in this shit infested city.
He had to crane his head fully to the left as his hood kept his peripheral blocked, to check passed the corner of the stones of the brothel where he was meeting one of his little birds.
The preliminary report had not been good, and he needed to hear the full thing in person.
He almost had not believed the sweet dove that had delivered the grave news from across the Narrow Sea, singing songs of a crazed silver dragon, stabbing his very own protector to death.
His breath had hitched at hearing his life work being nearly ruined by one of those he had worked so hard to save. The two girls, one of whom may very well become queen if all went well, and considering the Targaryen proclivities, had gone on the run. All thanks to the madness that laid in the blood of one of their very own family.
The prince Viserys had shown small signs as a boy, but he himself had written them off as childish outbursts before sending him to Essos, thinking all would level out in due time. It was not the first time he'd been wrong, but it was the first time his error had such potentially far reaching consequences.
His disguise this late afternoon, was that of a weathered old sailor, looking for the comfort offered in an establishment such as this. His cloak was salt stained and tattered, back hunched forward and a moderate limp from a long-recovered injury.
The entrance was darkened, the time of day giving him the chance to slip by unnoticed as the working girls were almost all busy with their patrons. The flutter of small feet ahead of him let Varys know that his little bird was close by, having scurried into a known safe location.
The hall led near the store room where the barrels of wine were kept, the room beside it left nearly empty as the owner had no current use for it. His company today was a small boy of 8, red hair matted down and dirty from his explorations of this cesspool of a city.
Varys pulled his hood back, looking into the boy's eyes pointedly. The boy met his gaze unflinchingly, searching his face for the features that never changed no matter what he might dress himself up as.
The boy nodded, feeling certain he had the right person, then waving him to lean close.
"The knight was slain by the mad dragon, copper and violet leaving, never to be seen again."
The news was as grave as he'd heard. It was the same news to be sure, but no less upsetting. Varys had been away when Robert had sent his last batch of assassins, and thus unable to sway the events that had led to Ser Gerold Hightower's death. Now, there were no guards to protect the gems of the future.
"Where have the gems fled, little bird?" Varys handed over a few coins and a nice little sweet from the keep to the boy, which was eagerly taken and devoured.
"They make for the titan."
Braavos? That was quite the trip from Lys. While not the best place they could have chosen, it was far from the worst. As long as they stayed away from slavers bay, he could probably work something out.
Hmmm…If only they had made way for Pentos. He had finally secured Illyrio Mopatis as an ever-silent accomplice to his little wager. The merchant had been quite difficult to persuade, without offering one of the girls to his personal service, something that he would never allow to happen. An old friend Illyrio may be, none could fault the man for trying to save himself from King Robert's wrath should they be discovered.
No, the rightful king was being raised by Starks, the most honorable one to live in generations if the stories were to be believed. He was quite surprised to learn that no one in Winterfell besides Lord Stark and Ser Arthur wondered just who Jon really was.
Varys thanked his friend and carefully made his way back out, being sure that he was not seen. Once back out onto the street, he continued his slow and limped walk towards where the sewers dumped, ready to rid himself of this back-breaking disguise.
Now how to handle this… Varys thought. The people of the lower part of kings landing paid him no mind, as the radiating smell lingering about took care of the traces of his usual preferred scent. To them he looked as though he'd come and gone from the ports dozens of times over the years.
Which was only part true, this disguise was one of the only ones he'd used more than once. The absence of a sailor for periods of time were nothing to bring anyone a modicum of suspicion.
The daughter of Elia was of 14 name days, his last report labeling her a girl of quick wit. Danaerys had still been too young to properly gauge as far as monarch qualities. If they slipped through the cracks now, it may be too late by the time he finds them again. He did not want an angry wolf, dragon, and sword of the morning coming for him.
An idea struck him suddenly, as he recalled something that had been delivered by raven no more than a moon's turn ago. If he remembered correctly, there was a certain exiled lord of the North, who had just fled Lys himself, headed for Braavos.
But if he wanted this all to play out, the man would no doubt want a pardon and only one man could give that in a way the northerner would accept. He would never fully understand the northerners and their honor.
In a fair amount of cases it made them predictable, thus easy to plan for. The timing of this mishap with the mad prince was poor. Now he would have to go straight for the long play.
He had not had contact with the Lord Eddard Stark since the rebellion, but the realm was where his loyalties would remain, so there was little choice in the matter. If things stayed on the current course, the post rebellion peace may not last much longer.
Varys did not like all of the extra work and travel that had just been placed on his shoulders. The lying and manipulating were only too easy, as he supposed anything could be with enough practice. He only needed to find the right pawns, the right motivations, and just the right wording to have it all work as planned.
The smallfolk in the capital alone were starving and suffering to a degree that was worrisome. If other areas were facing similar circumstances, it was only a matter of time before someone saw fit to make a move, forcing a shift in power.
As a servant of the realm, it was his job to ensure that power landed in the lap of one best suited to bring stability and peace. If a move needed to be made, Varys thought that perhaps it should be his own. King Robert was more likely to skewer himself on a blade in a drunken stupor then turn around his habits of whoring and spending.
-LineBreak-
Jon Snow
For some reason, yet again, Jon could not fall asleep. He craved it, to give him an escape from the throbbing of his body, as well as from the gazes and remarks of the people of Winterfell.
No matter how much Jon heard that it was like seeing Lord Stark as a boy again, he was never made to feel welcome. The day he found out what his birth truly meant, would be forever burned into his memory, even if he had forgotten how long ago it was.
Ser Arthur had given him an answer, after the first whisperings of the word reached his ears, and he realized that the people referred to him. The sun had yet to fully rise from the horizon, when Jon had asked.
What is a bastard?
His uncle - no, Jon would not call him that anymore - Ser Arthur had actually seemed surprised by something. Never before had Jon seen the man actually fault in a step before.
A child born to parents not married. That had been his answer after recovering himself.
His words were simple enough but didn't clear any of the confusion over the way he was looked at or spoken about, so he dug deeper himself. The library of Winterfell was vast and almost always empty.
That was where he learned of what he could never have, what he could never be. He was born of sin, outside of a union blessed by the gods. Jon would never carry titles or lands, never be able to carry on the name of the man he held above all others.
His…Sire, for he had no true father, no true family in the sense of the word as he understood it, had not created him from the love towards his wife. No, as far as Jon knew, the mother he had no knowledge of had just been there and available.
When Lord Stark had sailed for the Iron Islands, Lady Stark had taken it upon herself to make Jon understand his place in the world. The world seemed to lose its color after that. No longer did his dreams seem to be anything but gray, no longer could he play and spar with Robb, or speak with and hug Arya.
What was probably the most painful part, was how quickly the Iron-born boy Theon, had been accepted into the fold. Where Robb once sought out Jon, Theon took his place as Lady Catelyn would otherwise scold them.
It has been over a moon's turn since he'd said more than a good morning to Arya, nearly a year since Ser Rodrick had pulled Jon to spar with Robb, when Theon was ill and bedridden.
Jon rubbed at his shoulder, where he had been unable to avoid a rather hard blow from Ser Arthur today. Any negative emotion he had felt, Jon took it out in his training, letting his mind channel it through his body to ease his heart. Wielding a sword in each hand was only just starting to feel anything resembling comfortable.
He did not understand why Ser Arthur pushed him so hard, why it seemed so important that he be better with a sword than anyone he may clash with. That had translated just as easily, when he was pulled from the lessons shared between him and Robb.
Now Jon was given a stack of books, told to read them over as Ser Arthur sat in the room with him. Maester Luwin may not have been the easiest teacher to listen to for hours on end, but it was better than the way his eyes throbbed from staring into books.
Digesting the material had not been too hard, but it was horribly boring. Having someone to listen to and ask questions of was much better. Nevertheless, he never complained, because he did not miss the icy glares Lady Stark gave him anytime she peered into the room to ensure Robb was paying attention.
The only consolation from his isolation from the other children, was the lack of her ire being directly pointed at him every day. He missed Robb and Arya something fierce, Arya especially.
Jon could not place a particular reason as to why, but he had always felt more connected to her than any of the others. Robb had always been kind, but they now rarely had time to interact with one another, and the ever-arrogant Theon sullied those moments.
Sansa took after her mother, snubbing him at any available chance without seeking him out seemed almost a game to her. But Arya, he could see that she didn't understand or care why anyone else treated him differently.
To her, Jon was her brother, the circumstances didn't matter. Not that she was old enough to understand them. The youngest of them, Bran, was still too young to really be away from Lady Stark for long. He had yet to take up lessons with Maester Luwin or Ser Rodrick, while Arya had only just started hers after her 5th name day.
A tired sigh escaped him, and Jon stepped towards the small window of his chambers, the smallest available of course. The inky black sky was giving way to a brilliant show of the stars tonight. They glittered and twinkled with a brightness that was unusual.
Not for the first time, Jon made a vow to himself. One becoming almost like a mantra. He would not make this vow to the old gods, for while he respected, believed and followed them, they clearly held him in no regard.
No child shall be given the name Snow, not from me. No woman will be forced to carry that burden from mine own actions.
Something had happened during his training today, that had never happened before.
Jon had heard the whispers again, the people normally speaking in hushed tones not bothering to hide what they thought of him while he was sparring with Ser Arthur just out of view.
The Bastard
A stain on Lord Stark
Winterfell's Leech
Those words had brought Jon to think of Theon's smug smile and similar statements, and how much Jon just wanted to throttle the older boy in the face.
And then his vision went dark. The next thing he remembered was being on the ground, Ser Arthur standing above him with a strange look in his violet eyes. His hands were still sore from clenching onto his training blades so tightly.
Feeling restless and unable to sleep, Jon made his way to an area of Winterfell that he wasn't allowed. The crypts.
Housing the deceased members of the Stark family, Jon often came here when his mind kept him from sleeping. Creeping passed the guards was nothing, as long as he stayed in the shadows. The circular stairs down were the only place where he might have run into trouble, his slow and careful steps still giving a small echo through the stone walls.
Being a Snow, Jon was not supposed to be down here. Only those bearing the Stark name were allowed, with Lord Stark being the only one who did with any sort of frequency.
The last quarter turn came, and Jon thought he heard a voice. Slowing down to keep whatever noise he was making to a minimum, the boy peered around the corner.
Though the torch light was extremely dim, just enough to see where you were stepping, the voices were easy to distinguish.
"-a trait that supposedly died out many generations ago. His father never displayed anything like that, to my knowledge. When it happened, he matched my strength… And his eyes, Ned, his eyes flashed entirely violet. I've never seen anything like it."
It was Ser Arthur, his tone more serious than Jon had ever heard. The sword of the morning was never very jovial, but there was always this… ease with which he spoke. It was gone now, and Jon didn't know what to make of it.
There was a familiar sigh, one that Jon had learned to recognize immediately. Lord Eddard Stark.
What was he doing down here, meeting with Ser Arthur Dayne so late? What were they talking about? Who were they talking about? Lord Stark was Jon's father…right?
"The news we received from the spider only makes that more troubling. I thought the stories of their lineage having magic in their blood was akin to those that say Starks bred with the children of the forest. Ser Oswells telling of her dreams and descriptions of him have me doubting what I knew of the world."
Jon was feeling lost. He didn't know what they were talking about, and it almost felt like they were talking about him. But there was no way that his father could be anyone other than Eddard Stark. Everyone said that he looked like the Lord of Winterfell as a child.
However, there was no one else that Jon could think of that the Warden of the North, and the Sword of the morning would speak about.
"And what of the rest?" Ser Arthur questioned as Jon tried to peer over the corner to catch a glimpse of the men.
By the slimmest of margins, Jon managed to see them. With a torch in hand, Ser Arthur Dayne stood before Eddard Stark with that piercing violet stare, his Lord father looked more uncomfortable than Jon had ever seen him.
"I fear the inevitable is coming. Oberyn has yet to venture from Dorne himself, so we may yet have time. When Robert finds out that Ser Oswell is dead, he will have more spies and assassins sent. I doubt that Viserys will last long on his own."
Ser Arthur, a known Targaryen supporter throughout all of his life, merely nodded in easy acceptance.
"If the information is true, the realm may be all the better for it. The madness sprouted early in him."
Viserys was a name that Jon recognized from his studies. It was a Targaryen name, given to a son of the Mad King. Why were they talking about the exiled family of the old regime?
"I don't like this Arthur. I promised her that I would protect him. If Oberyn were to actually try to find those two, then he'd question how she managed to escape, which could lead him and Robert to Winterfell."
Even Jon could see that Lord Stark was just venting his worries, and for some reason Ser Arthur was the only one knowledgeable and trustworthy enough.
Jon found that strange. His lord father was no liar, and disliked omitting truth nearly as much. Lady Stark was only ever given anything but the full truth on one topic as far as anyone knew, the parentage of one Jon Snow.
A child he might be, but a bastard learned to grow up faster than others. They had to, for the world was not a kind place. Jon had it easier than most, being able to live within the same castle, but the ridicule was there all the same.
As things were Jon was not able to connect the dots as they were laid out for him. The only thing that became apparent to the boy of 10, was that his parents may not be what everyone expected or had been told.
END!
Almost all of this was written before I even put up the first chapter. I don't want you guys thinking that I can pump put a 7k chapter 2 days after an update. 4 days maybe, but that's only if the inspiration strikes just right.
I need a palette cleanser from the usual stuff I do, so I might focus on this one more than initially anticipated. The chapters might get shorter so I can update more frequently and keep things to one perspective per chapter. Plus I have to really go through and double check everything I have planned. Gotta make sure it makes sense cause GoT has so much going on at any given time. Those things may affect how quickly this gets updated.
OH! Before I forget. If you're wondering about Catelyn's little freakout. Having Arthur Dayne staying in Winterfell helps to connect the dots on who she thinks is Jon's mother, and its like a slap in the face to her. She has to put up with an illegitimate child of her husband while there's still other family that the boy could have gone to stay with.