AN: Hi everyone, thanks so much for your support! I'm taking a little break after this chapter and will resume posting on 9/12/18.

The Lord's Solar, Winterfell, The North

After days of long silences and strained, too formal conversations with his wife, Ned was at his wits end. How had Brandon so easily navigated the southron waters of Catelyn Tully's mind? Upon returning to his childhood home as Lord Paramount of the North, she had proudly presented his heir, Robb Stark. Named for his oldest friend, she said, smiling brightly and red hair shining in the sunlight. Until she saw Dayne and the babe in his arms. News of the former Kingsguard's dishonor arrived before them. Her smile strained, then, and she clutched the red-haired babe close to her chest. Since then, her words and demeanor an icy polite that would have made his mother proud.

Now, finally, she had agreed to speak with him about the child who she was diligently ignoring. Ned is sitting behind his father's desk, his desk now, trying too hard not to fidget in the seat that is Brandon's by right. Was Brandon's. By the amused look on Dayne's face, his discomfort is not as well hidden as he had hoped.

"Well Stark," Dayne begins, "What, exactly, are you going to tell your fishwife?"

Ned gives him a sharp look, "Don't call her that, Dayne. She's the Lady Stark, give her the respect she deserves."

Dayne rolls his eyes and sits down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, legs stretching out in front of him. "She's a fish and your wife. And I'm not in the habit of respecting those that don't deserve it. Especially judgmental northerners. It's a lesson every Dornishman knows well."

Dayne may looked relaxed, stretched out like a cat in the sun, but Ned knows better than to lower his guard. Dornishmen are famous for their hot tempers, after all, and Ned has been burned by Dayne's temper before. He eyes the other man silently.

"I thought to tell her the truth," he finally says softly, waiting for the inevitable fight. Immediately Dayne shifts, straightening in his seat, eyes hardening. There it is, Ned thinks. Why is Dayne's mind so easy to predict, but Catelyn's is not?

"No," Dayne barks sharply. "We agreed, in King's Landing. We agreed at the tower, too. I'll not let you endanger that boy just because your fishwife refuses your bed."

Ned startles. How does he know what is happening in Ned's own home? He, red faced in a way that can only mean embarrassment, sputters, "That's not-"

"Don't lie to me, Stark. You're not nearly capable of that. You might feel guilty lying to her, but that's really why you want to tell her about Jon. Too busy thinking with your sword and not your head. You might be able to lie to everyone else in this frozen hell, but you can't lie to me."

"What am I to tell her, then?" Ned rages, a kind of restrained rage that suits the Quiet Wolf well. He usually wears discomfort well, but Dayne has a way of getting under his skin. Ashara was the same, he remembers suddenly. Something the two have in common, then.

"I'm sure she's at least bright enough to figure out what we agreed just on my presence here alone." Dayne condescends. "You needn't tell her anything. A disgraced Kingsguard and a babe, both of which you picked up in Dorne. It worked in King's Landing because it is already believable. The lie tells itself."

Ned mulled over Dayne's words. He was right. Catelyn need not know the truth. Jon had the Stark look for the most part and the eyes, a lavender so pale it looks gray in certain lights, would be explained by Dayne's presence. Dayne himself has his house's typical purple eyes. And his doting on the child which rivaled Ned's. The light raps on the door break the silence and mark his wife's arrival.

"What should I tell her?"

Arthur stands and walks towards the door, "What we agreed on. What you promised Lyanna. And remember, she may have been your brother's betrothed, but she's your fishwife now. In my experience, sometimes all a woman wants is a sign of respect."

He opens the door, revealing Catelyn. "Lady Stark," he says as he bows deeply, to deeply to not be an insult, and leaves with a flourish and a smirk. She scowls at him as deeply as her proper southron manners will allow and shuts the door with a thud.

"My Lord Husband," she says mildly, face placid, as she sits. "You wished to see me?"

Ned runs a hand down his face, "Yes, I did."

Her lips purse, "It's about the boy. The one Ser Arthur brought here with him."

"About Jon, yes, to some extent." He replies cautiously. "And Dayne, as well."

He watches as her back stiffens and her face blanks. He continues, "The king has granted Dayne clemency in exchange for never leaving the North without my permission. Dayne agreed to the king's terms and I've agreed to house and watch him."

"He brought a bastard with him. A Sand." Catelyn says lightly, as if her assumptions were correct, "Surely the boy belongs in Dorne with whatever woman tempted Ser Arthur from his vows."

Ned pauses. She has fooled herself, he thinks, and now I must dash her hopes. "In truth, My Lady, the boy is a Snow, not a Sand."

"Brandon's then, with that Dornish woman. The one from Harrenhal." Her voice has a slight quiver, her only concession to the pain borne from Brandon's shadow.

"The Lady Ashara." Ned stiffens in preparation for what he is about to say and his eyes narrow. "He isn't Brandon's."

She eyes him then. "Who's son is he?"

Ned pauses and catches her eye. He knows that he must tell her, but it will hurt. It will hurt the fragile peace they had brokered all those months ago in Riverrun. No doubt it would hurt Jon's relationship with his aunt as well, and Jon will suffer for it. Somehow, he knows, Dayne will make that all Ned's fault. And it will hurt Catelyn herself, perhaps more than anyone else.

"My Lord, whose son is he?" Catelyn asks, louder now, her voice more insistent. Still, Ned is lost in his own thoughts. Why did the lie come so easily in front of Robert?

The silence stretches on, and the room becomes more and more tense. Maybe if he waits long enough, she will figure it out on her own and he won't need to say the words. Maybe Dayne was right. Maybe his reasoning is skewed. Why, Ned asks himself, did he agree to this absurd plan in the first place? The answer comes to mind immediately. For Lyanna. So he steels his nerves. For Lyanna.

"Jon Snow is my son." He finally voices the lie and waits for her reaction.

Catelyn wilts for a moment, before surging up in anger. "Is that all, My Lord?" she bites, icy demeanor once more in place. Surely, given how quickly she assumed the child to be Brandon's, she had prepared for such things? But Ned is not Brandon, he knows, and has never truly been like him. There's no way Catelyn could have been given any indication that Brandon's vices were also Ned's, even if such a similarity is purely fiction.

"No!" Ned rises slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. "He is my bastard, aye, but you are my wife. Robb is my heir. I only wished to ask how to earn your understanding, My Lady."

"Send the boy away. Bastards are evil things, and a Dornish bastard can only become jealous and wanton. He will only bring trouble." She responds quickly, eyes defiant.

Ned closes his eyes in pain, "I cannot. He is my son. He will be raised with Robb and any other children the gods see fit to grant us, My Lady."

"He will be a blight on House Stark! The seven curse all bastards!" She raises her voice, a product of her composure slipping. "Like all bastards before him, he will rise up! He will try to usurp his brother, all bastards do!"

He glares at her then, a look that makes her flinch. His voice is hard and low as he says, "Your southron gods may curse the child, but this is the North! No child of Stark blood, bastard or trueborn, will be a curse! Jon is my son and he will be raised here! I'll not turn him away, no matter what some southron gods say."

"Then that is all, My Lord. Good day." Catelyn leaves in a flurry and Ned sinks back into his chair.

He was too harsh with his words, he knows. And he should not have attacked her gods, no matter how strange and cruel their edicts might be. He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. How do I earn her forgiveness? Maybe Dayne is right in this as well. Ned thinks, hunched over his father's desk, his forefathers' desk, and now his. A southron bride must follow southron gods, he decides. "A sept," he says to himself, "I shall build her a sept here."

Outside, a heavy wind picks up, a fierce howling that shakes the windows of the solar. Ned jumps. Such gales are unusual in spring, but not wholly unheard of. In the Godswood, the branches of the sacred trees shake violently, limbs cracking and red fingers twisting, and the Heart Tree begins to weep blood red tears.