A Song of Death and Life

by Umbrakinetic

Ice and Fire. Death and Life. Two ways to say the same thing. One day, a depressed Jon Snow goes to bed wishing to meet his Mother. He encounters Ashara Dayne in his dreams every night after. As Jon explores his ability to commune with the dead spirit of Ashara, he finds himself plunged into a world more mystical than he ever could have imagined. R L J

2. Jon II

Remember that first-person narrators are usually biased and don't know everything. Especially when said narrator is a child.

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Jon II

"Ashara," Jon laughed. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Ashara ruffled his hair lovingly. "Given that I'm dead and here, I think it's unlikely that you'll ever have to find out."

Jon chuckled at that. "I know I'm not your son, but I'm grateful that I thought you were, that it was you who showed up here, and not anybody else."

Ashara looked away from him as she smiled faintly. "I'm glad I got this opportunity as well, but don't you think it's time to push beyond just me?"

Jon's face scrunched up. "What do you mean? Why would I need anyone but you?"

Ashara sighed and reached out for his hand. "I mean the ones above gave you this gift, don't you think you should explore the limits of it? You can talk to me, but don't you think that it's time to see if that is all you can do?"

Jon flexed his knuckles. "What do you have in mind? I don't even really know how I summoned you, shouldn't I just be grateful for this one gift? Why demand more and risk losing it all?"

"You'll get nowhere with no ambition!" Ashara snapped. She inhaled sharply and gently folded her hands over her lap. "The ones above didn't give you this gift without purpose, or for so little. When you receive a gift, it's so you can use it, nurture it and grow it."

"When a Lord is given land or a title, it is expected of them that they use the gift to grow both their and their overlord's authority, not sit still. Ambition turns a good gift into a great one, and one worth giving. You will not lose me Jon."

Jon looked away from her nervously, "I don't even know where to start," he mumbled half-heartedly.

Ashara clasped his hand tightly. "Start the same way you did with me, wish to see someone with all your heart when you go to sleep, and see what happens."

Jon nodded half-heartedly. "Who would I even wish to see? I have you, that's all I need," Jon insisted.

"Dammit, Jon!" Ashara snarled. "You're not thinking clearly, stop acting like a whipped puppy, and accept who you are meant to be! You have a gift, like none that any has ever seen before. You have the potential to learn history directly from the source! To receive instruction from the greatest minds in history! If you can summon anyone, then your potential is limitless! I like you Jon, but you are meant for so much more than this! Stop pretending that I'm your fucking mother, and use your gifts to the fullest of their potential!"

Jon flinched away from her screams and hid his head behind his arms as he cowered in the snow. This was supposed to be his safe place. She wasn't supposed to scream at him like Lady Stark.

Ashara fell silent for a few moments before Jon felt a hand on his knee. "I'm sorry to scream at you, I just hate to see you wasting your gifts. You have the potential to be greater than any man, and more than anything I want to see you become great. I had a rough day today, and it just boiled over." Ashara chuckled lightly at some hidden joke.

"Why don't we start small. Have you ever wanted to meet one of your dead relatives? Perhaps your grandfather Rickard Stark? Or your Uncle Brandon? Ned has been good to you, and you speak highly of his brother Benjen. Don't you think it would be nice to know his sister? Surely, she would treat you the same. You can have more family than just me."

That would be nice. Jon admitted quietly to himself. "I don't know that I can," Jon whispered instead. "I don't even know how I really summoned you."

Ashara stroked circles on Jon's back gently and soothed him. "I'm not expecting you to succeed the first time Jon," Ashara compromised. "Just try. Every night before you see me, wish to see someone else as well. Choose someone and focus on them as you drift to sleep."

"I'll try," Jon agreed honestly.

"You want to apply more pressure when scrubbing at wine stains. Even pressure, don't press in one spot," a servant said softly from across the room. "They don't come out easily."

Jon pressed harder with the towel as he scrubbed at the stone with more force this time. His knees hurt from kneeling on the stone for so long. It wasn't fair that they forced him to serve like this; he was the son of Lord Stark. He was a bastard, but he wasn't some servant. But Lady Stark ruled in Winterfell while his father was away, and she wanted him to suffer.

The other servant knelt down beside him. He was of an age with Jon, maybe younger. He was frail and thin. A tall and wiry frame with some definition and an ugly face with small red bumps all over it. Jon could see his cheekbones protruding from his skin, and wanted to look away.

"That stain is really in there," the servant commented idly. "You'll need more than just water to get rid of it. Say, why are you using plain water to clean stains?"

Jon grit his teeth and continued to scrub desperately. He just wanted to be done with this, he had been cleaning since his lessons at noon, and just wanted to be done with it. It had been three long hours, and he was sick of being treated like a servant. Once he finished this stupid spot, he would be done for the day.

"I know just the thing," the servant droned on, unaware of Jon's annoyance or just uncaring. He stood up and walked over to a cabinet before pulling out a flagon, an empty bucket, and some soap.

He walked back over to Jon and knelt down beside him dumping his supplies in front of him. "When there are wine stains in the stone like this, water just won't do." He grabbed Jon's bucket of water and poured some into the empty bucket. "You need a concoction, one made from parts water-" he held up the flagon; "white vinegar, and soap."

He poured all three into the previously empty bucket and stirred them together. "This should do the trick. Just dip your rag in here, instead of in the plain old water. This should easily do the trick."

Jon grit his teeth but figured that humoring him wasn't the worst idea ever. He angrily plunged his cleaning rag into the solution with a loud splash and then back to scrubbing the floor.

"Don't scrub up and down," the servant instructed. "It works better when you make circles."

Jon stopped and stared at the serving boy. "What?"

He grabbed his own rag and knelt beside Jon on his hands and knees. "Like this," he showed the technique on the already clean stone, moving his cloth in small circles with his wrist. "It's twice as fast as the way you are doing it."

Jon blinked at him. "Why?"

The servant shrugged. "Not sure, I just know it works." Jon continued to stare at him. "Go on, try it," the servant urged.

Jon rolled his eyes but tried scrubbing at the stain with the new technique and special cleaning solution. To his shock and slight awe, the new technique worked perfectly. He only had to scrub for a moment and the stain was expunged.

"Thank you," Jon said quietly when he was done. "I thought I'd be scrubbing that spot for hours." Again.

"Course," the serving boy replied nonchalantly. "It was painful for me, watching someone that bad at cleaning try to clean. You were taking far too long with this room, and it didn't seem like you would have time for your other tasks without some outside assistance."

"Other tasks?" Jon asked. "They assigned me to clean the floors of the mess hall, that was it. Now that I'm done early. I'll actually have the rest of the evening free."

The servant's eyes bulged. "This is your only job?"

"Aye," Jon replied with a tilted head.

"Lucky bastard," the servant muttered.

Jon glared at the insult.

"A-apologies, I meant no offense." he quickly apologized. "It's just that I have six jobs today and often more. I'm made to work from dawn until dusk to earn my coin. What kind of servant are you to only have one job a day?" He asked incredulously.

Jon puffed up his chest. "I'm not a servant!" He snapped imperiously. "I am Jon Snow, son of Lord Eddard Stark."

"Oh," the servant muttered. "Oh," he repeated. "Well, I have another task I need to take care of, so I'll be off." He quickly recused himself from the room and practically ran out the hall.

"Wait!" Jon called out after him.

The servant froze in the doorway. "Yes, milord?" He asked while shaking.

Jon's heart swelled at that form of address, even as he scowled. "I'm not a Lord," he spat. "Just a bastard."

The servant said nothing in reply but dipped his head. "What is your name?" Jon asked.

"Markus," he replied nervously.

Jon found himself smiling genuinely at Markus. "Thank you for your help, Markus. Perhaps, we can see each other again sometime? I apparently have a lot to learn if I'm to be assigned these chores."

"I'd like that," Markus agreed before fleeing.

Jon smiled after him and actually felt like he might mean it. Despite Markus being a simple servant, a commoner beneath him, Jon had enjoyed the fruits of their interaction. And he had enjoyed the respect. It wasn't something anyone in Winterfell gave him. He was friendly and kind, Jon had thought Ashara was the only person he had who could be friendly and kind. The only one who would provide Jon with a service expecting nothing in return.

Jon shook his head. Markus didn't matter. Jon had finished his tasks an hour before supper. He was actually free to do whatever he wanted. He could play with Robb!

A grinning Jon sprinted out the double doors into the snowy courtyard.

It was later than usual that night when Jon finally made his way to bed. Today was actually wonderful, for the first time in the six moons since his father went off to war. He had finished his work early thanks to Markus and gotten to spend a few hours rolling around in the snow with Robb. To play with his brother, even if Lady Stark had been glaring at him for most of the time.

Jon snuggled under his warm furs on the bed and closed his eyes. "I want to see Lyanna Stark," he whispered per Ashara's instructions. "I want to meet my Aunt Lyanna. I want to meet Lyanna Stark."

Jon knew absolutely nothing about his aunt. She was perhaps the only person his father spoke about as little as his mother. His uncle Brandon was a topic he didn't hesitate to answer questions on. So was his grandfather despite them being murdered by the Mad King. But his aunt? She was forbidden. Why?

Jon wanted to meet his aunt and find out what Ned Stark was hiding from him, but it was an idle curiosity, not the desperate yearning of meeting his mother. He was curious about Lyanna but he didn't yearn for her company.

And in the deep recesses of his heart, Jon was terrified. Ashara was his and his alone. If Jon brought Lyanna into his dreams, would he have to share Ashara with her? Would he lose the closest thing he had to a mother to his aunt- a trueborn Stark? He wanted to meet Lyanna, but he also didn't.

Jon sighed as sleep evaded him. It didn't matter what he wanted, Ashara had ordered Jon to try, and he knew it was his duty to obey. He wouldn't anger her by not trying to use his gifts as she wanted.

Jon forced his eyes shut and repeated the obligatory mantra until he fell asleep. "I want to meet Lyanna Stark. Let me see my Aunt Lyanna…"

When Jon opened his eyes, it was in the snowy paradise he felt most at home in. Ashara stood across from him with a frown. "Judging by the fact it's just you here, I'm assuming that it didn't work?"

Jon met her frown with a fake smile of his own. "Afraid not," he grumbled. "I guess-"

"You'll have to try again tomorrow," Ashara interrupted him. "Every night until you reach a breakthrough, try to summon someone. Don't give up," Ashara ordered.

Jon scowled but nodded.

Ashara smiled prettily at his agreement. "Now tell me about your day Jon," she asked warmly.

"We're starting training tomorrow!" Jon exclaimed eagerly upon arriving in his snow filled paradise.

"I see it's still just me and you here," Ashara remarked dryly. "How is it you could summon me so effortlessly but can't summon anyone else at all?"

Jon sighed. Ashara had been more curt since Jon had failed to oblige her requests that he summon someone else. Whether he was incapable or didn't want to, Jon wasn't entirely sure. She was already pulling away from him while it was just them, because Jon wasn't good enough. If he gave Ashara another option, she might truly stop caring about him. She might choose his aunt over him. She was adamant she wasn't his mother, after all, and had no previous attachment to him.

"I tried," Jon answered with a half truth. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"You have to want it," Ashara repeated stubbornly. "You have to need to see her, just like you needed to see me."

"I'm trying!" Jon snapped. "I can't do it!"

"You can!" Ashara gripped his hand and squeezed hard. "You can," she repeated again in a whisper. "You just haven't yet, you can't give up! You have to keep on trying."

"I will," Jon agreed half-heartedly.

Ashara gently pulled him into his arms. "Thank you," she whispered. When she pulled away, she had a wide grin and the happiness was back in her eyes. "Now what were you saying about starting training tomorrow?"

"Me and Robb are going to start learning the sword tomorrow!" Jon beamed, the previous frustration forgotten in his excitement at both it being with Robb and actually learning to fight for real.

Things had been better between him and Robb throughout the last few weeks. Ever since Markus had taught him the proper techniques on how to do his chores, his time working had been cut into a quarter. He had actual free time again. Time to spend with Robb.

However, Robb was still busy more often than he used to be. They played together sometimes, but anytime they wanted to fight, something came up. Lady Stark would call for Robb or they would find something else to do. He was back to spending time with Robb, but it wasn't the same. He missed clashing swords with Robb, and he would get to do so again tomorrow.

"That's exciting,' Ashara commented with a smile.

"I know right!" Jon exclaimed eagerly. "I thought that we'd have to wait until my Lord Father returned to start training!"

"I got no real weapons training of my own," Ashara confessed. "But my brothers made sure I was at least able to defend myself against an armed assailant."

"Ser Arthur taught you?" Jon asked with wide eyes.

"More so, Alastor, but yes."

"That's amazing!" Jon exclaimed.

Ashara shrugged. 'If you'd like, I can teach you some of the small amount I know before your lesson tomorrow."

"You would? Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Ashara laughed. "Gladly, although what I can teach is limited. You would need Arthur here if you wanted to really be a master."

Jon tightened his grip on the wooden training sword. They had only learned technique for the last two hours but now they would finally get to fight just once. Ser Rodrik had been clear there wouldn't be any rematch yet. Jon and Robb going against each other with real- almost real blades. They were made of wood, but they still counted. Jon couldn't wait to finally actually knock his brother on his ass. In a situation where he couldn't make some excuse to say it didn't count. And Jon had an ace up his sleeve to guarantee his victory this time. Thanks to Ashara.

Robb lunged at Jon first with an overhand swipe of his sword. Jon raised his blade and met it over their heads. He staggered back under the force of the blow and winced at the heavy weight he felt pushing down on him.

Jon pushed off to his left and twirled away from the blade. Robb stumbled without Jon holding up the forceful blow, and Jon didn't hesitate to capitalize. This was the opening that Ashara had told him about. The one she knew how to exploit, and now Jon did too.

As Jon stood to the side of Robb, he lunged forwards and stomped on the back of Robb's leg.

Robb cried out in pain, but Jon didn't show any mercy. He swung his sword into Robb's back with all of his strength. Robb fell into the dirt as he lost his grip on the sword.

Jon grinned as his brother groaned in pain. He had won! Easily.

"Snow!" Ser Rodrik snapped. "What was that?"

Jon dragged his vision away from the groaning Robb and met Ser Rodrik's eyes with a blank stare. Jon said nothing.

"That was not what I told you to do!" He roared. "You were supposed to practice the motions! Clash swords a few times! You were not supposed to cheat and try to injure your brother!"

Jon grit his teeth but said nothing as he was chastised for daring to win. Again. The bastard wasn't allowed to defeat the trueborn son. Anytime he did it was wrong. Robb had been trying to win too, swinging with force and to hurt Jon, but Jon was the one who won and he was the bastard so he got punished.

Ashara was once again waiting for Jon with her hands on her hips as he emerged in the winter wonderland. "You still haven't brought anyone else?" She asked rudely.

Jon said nothing but responded with a scowl. Truth be told, Jon hadn't bothered to even try tonight. There were more important things on his mind than failing again. He didn't want to deal with his aunt right now. He wanted the comfort of his mother- Ashara.

"I need you to figure this out Jon!" Ashara insisted as she had every night for a moon now. "If just wishing to see her isn't working, try something else!"

Jon's scowl deepened, and he turned his shoulder to her as she ranted. "In legends, blood was the key to most magic. Did you cut yourself when you first summoned me? Maybe that's the missing ingredient. Try slicing your palm before you go to bed."

Jon's scowl deepened. "Or maybe it's symbols that allowed you to summon me the first time. The Valyrians used runes in their magic, perhaps you were coincidentally sleeping in the position of some ancient rune."

Jon glared at the snowy ground and turned his back to her completely. Right now, he couldn't deal with it. He didn't care about bringing anyone else here right now. He didn't want to. This was his and Ashara's place. No one else's. Right now, Jon needed his mother, not his long dead aunt Lyanna. But more than Ashara, Jon wanted to meet someone else right now.

Jon sulked for a long while before he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Are you paying any attention Jon?" Ashara asked softly.

Jon's shoulders slumped, and he tried to pull out of her grip.

Ashara tightened her grip on his shoulder and forced him to look at her. "What's wrong Jon?" Ashara prodded gently.

The damn burst and Jon wrapped his arms around Ashara's waist as he buried his head in her stomach. He sobbed and Ashara gently rubbed his back with him in her stiff embrace. "Bad day?" She inquired.

Jon scowled at the reminder. "It was supposed to be great," he whispered. "Lady Stark gave birth yesterday. I have a sister now, Arya."

Ashara looked down at him with warm amethyst eyes. "Is that not a good thing?"

Jon shook his head in bitterness. "It is, but it isn't. I'm thrilled to have a sister but Lady Stark is- is- is a bitch." He scowled again. "I went to go see my new sister, after Robb told me about her," he paused briefly. "Since no one bothered to inform me of her birth before then."

"I went to go see her, but Lady Stark wouldn't let me in the room. No matter how much I pleaded, I'm not allowed to see my sister!" He squeezed Ashara's waist tighter. "It's not fair. She's my sister. My sister. Lady Stark has no right to not let me see her."

She rubbed his back soothingly and didn't say anything for a long moment. "Tully is a bitch," Ashara agreed. "It's not fair of her," Ashara affirmed once again without much conviction.

Jon buried his head back into her stomach and squeezed tightly, opting to take comfort in her arms. Things could've been different.

"Sorry I'm late," Robb huffed as he arrived in the courtyard for their lesson with Ser Rodrik. "I was with Arya."

Ser Rodrik glanced at him with bright eyes. "Given the circumstances, I won't press it. Just don't let it happen again."

Robb nodded gratefully. "Thank you Ser,"

Jon's hands tightened into fists at his side. How was that fair? Jon had shown up late yesterday and been made to run extra laps as a result. Jon was late for the same reason too- well, almost. He had been trying to visit Arya but was rebuffed by Lady Stark. Jon was only a minute late too, Robb was much later. It wasn't fair.

"Pick up your sword lads," Ser Rodrik instructed. "We'll be working on parrying today."

Robb and Jon both went to get a sword off the rack. Jon reached for the wooden bastard sword with a wide guard that was closest to him, but Robb snatched it first. This forced Jon to settle for a different blade because Robb got everything.

When they both had returned to their places across from Ser Rodrik, he spoke again. "Lord Robb, I need your help. Come up here with your sword and help me with a demonstration."

Jon ground his teeth together. How was that fair? Not only was Robb being rewarded despite being late, but Jon was the better swordsman! Nearly every time Jon and Robb had faced each other in the last few weeks, Jon had won. Yet every single time it was Robb who got to be Ser Rodrik's assistant. Why? It wasn't fair. Jon is just as important as his brother. The favoritism cut deep.

Robb beamed and eagerly rushed forwards to join ser Rodrik. Ser Rodrik held his own sword out in front of him as he stood across from Robb facing opposite directions, standing with their shoulders held to the side to make for a small target. Just like Ser Rodrik had instructed them.

"Try to hit me Lord Robb," Ser Rodrik instructed.

Robb grinned and took a swing at his instructor. Ser Rodrik twisted his wrist and caught the blade with his own before it could knick his chest plate. "Keep going," Rodrik demanded the moment the blades clashed.

Robb took another swing towards the left this time. Once again, Ser Rodrik twisted his wrist and easily caught Robb's sword on his own. "Don't stop now," he ordered.

Robb continued to take hefty swings as Ser Rodrik easily blocked every single one of them. "The key to parrying is to keep your arm in the same position. Move the wrist only when blocking a strike. If you move the arm then you leave yourself unable to counterattack and with your guard down for the next strike."

They continued to battle with Ser Rodrik giving the occasional tips to Robb before he finally called for a halt to the action. "Snow, it's your turn to face Lord Robb. Remember what you just saw me do, My Lord, and replicate it. You'll be on the offensive first, Snow." He instructed.

Jon grinned and gripped his sword tightly as he stood across from his brother. His brother smirked at him. "Come at me Snow," his brother goaded.

Jon lunged at Robb with a jab towards his flank. Robb, being the perfect student, mirrored the movements of Ser Rodrik and twisted his wrist to catch Robb's sword on his own.

"Well done Robb," Ser Rodrik complimented.

"You're a natural Lord Robb."

"Be gentle Snow."

"You're going to be a fearsome Lord one day."

"Your form is perfect."

"Stop swinging so wild, Snow."

"You're destined to be one of the best fighters in all of Westeros one day."

Every time Jon struck at Robb, he deflected the blow. Every time Robb deflected the blow, he received praise. Every time Robb received praise, his grin got wide. Every time Robb's grin got wider, Jon's scowl deepened. The repeated reprimands from Ser Rodrik towards Jon only made things worse. Why was everything Jon did wrong and everything Robb did right?

"Not so hard, Snow." Ser Rodrik reprimanded. "This is just practice."

Jon struck at Robb once more- aiming for above his sword this time- at the chest. Much to his frustration, he found the blow just barely blocked by Robb. Harder. Quick enough to get past his defenses.

"Settle down Snow," Ser Rodrik admonished. "Well done, my Lord," Robb received in turn.

Jon lunged at Robb again, in response to Ser Rodrik's continued praise of the perfect heir. He struck with all his might with a wild swing towards Robb's shoulder.

The sword hit Robb's temple hard. His brother crumpled to the ground instantly. The wooden sword splintered upon impact.

For a moment, Jon felt elated- he had gotten past his brother's impenetrable defenses and landed a colossal blow. Then the reality of the situation set in. There were voices screaming at him in an instant as a dazed Jon stared at his brother lying in a crumpled heap. Again.

This wasn't Jon's intention. Robb was supposed to block it. This wasn't his fault! It was Robb's! Jon was just faster than his brother was that time! It wasn't Jon's fault that his brother was slow!

Lady Stark cradled Robb's head in her lap. "Get the Maester!" she barked at Ser Rodrik. Robb wasn't moving. At all. His eyes were shut. Lady Stark held him and sobbed.

Jon had done this. He couldn't lay the blame on anyone else. Jon was the one who had chosen to swing at Robb with such force. He had given into the sinful urges of all bastards that Lady Stark's septa espoused. He had let anger control him and tried to hurt his brother. Ashara was wrong. Jon was the monster. Lady Stark was right to keep Jon away from Arya, he would only hurt her too.

Lady Stark looked away from her son and glared at Jon with icy blue eyes. "You did this bastard," she whispered. "You did this." Her stare bored holes into Jon's heart and he found himself unable to meet her eyes.

"Ned won't let you stay here, not after this," she vowed.

Jon ran. He wasn't sure where to go, but he fled all the same. He ran as fast as he could away from Lady Stark's threats and glares. Away from Robb's immobile form. Away from the consequences of his actions. He couldn't look at it- couldn't bear it right now.

As he blindly fled from the destruction he had caused, Jon found himself in a familiar environment. A place where he would often find his father, where there was always peace and where Lady Stark would never chase him. That was probably why he had ended up there. Lady Stark didn't like the Godswood, and she would never pursue Jon when he was there- of course, Jon had only twice been there without his father.

The trees were tangled together over his head- a canopy that stymied the fall of fresh snow above his head. The trees didn't have leaves but sharp needles. A familiar pale green color. The forest was filled with two colors of tree- a smooth pale grey and the rich brown of the oak trees. It was a lush forest. A full forest- he could hide in here, with the gods of his father. Surely, they would keep him safe, just as his father would have. Would he still after Jon attacked his trueborn brother?

He walked through the grove at a much slower pace as he breathed in the smell of nature around him. The smell of the North and the First Men. It was the smell of his father. The smell was not as pleasant today as it normally was. It stung his nostrils today. A reminder that Jon had betrayed his father. A reminder that Jon had hurt his brother.

Still, he would show respect. His father had made it clear that this was a sacred place. The one place they couldn't play in or run around during. He made them sit in silence and move carefully in respect to the Gods of their forefathers. He wouldn't disrespect them by running. They deserved silence and grace. Just as father had taught, just as father gave. The Old Gods didn't care if Jon was a bastard, they didn't care who a man was, just that he served them. That they worshiped them. At least that was what father said.

He came to a great weirwood tree. The bark as white as bone. A massive tree trunk that was a gnarled and twisted thing that looked like ten different trees braided together. The roots weren't buried under the ground like with most trees; they sat on the surface and there were more of them then Jon could count. The leaves stained red as if they had been dyed in blood.

The tree had a face. Eyes squeezed tight on a scrunched-up face as the tree wailed in agony. Red sap trailing down from them the slits like tears. The mouth was perpetually open in a scream of agony. It was like looking into a mirror. An eternal shout of pain and misery as he was dragged him between torments during every waking moment.

Jon walked past the pools of unnaturally black water and sat down in front of the base of the tree. This was where his father always sat when he came to pray. On that mossy rock just a foot off the ground. He would put his hand to the right of the face and pray.

Jon reached out for the trunk and his vision went black.

A man made his way through a vast expanse of brittle stalks, their golden heads bowed to the god of death. The ground beneath his feet was hard and dry, cracked from the relentless heat of the sun, only bearable because of the long shadow overhead. The field seemed to stretch on forever, an endless sea of pale, withered plants as far as the eye could see.

As the man walked, the stalks grew taller, reaching up to his waist. The rustling of the brittle plants was the only sound to be heard, broken only by the crunching of the hard ground underfoot.

Finally, he reached a riverbank. A river filled with jagged spires. It was unlike any river the man has ever seen. Black water despite the sun shining brightly overhead. The river looked as dead as the tall grass. There seed to be no life within it.

A gray trout with black spots jumped out from beneath the surface of the murky water. It's yellow fins cresting the surface as the man got a good look at it. The fish didn't have eyes just holes in the side of its head where the eyes could have been. Its mouth appeared to be sowed shut.

The man knelt down at the riverbank and cupped some of the dark water in his hands to drink it.

"Poison." A raven called.

"Poison."

"Poison."

"They will die, but only death can pay for your life." A man's voice said somberly.

A prince rode to the tallest tower on a white mare. A Valyrian steel sword of heroes was on his hip and the crown of champions on his brow. He looked like a man out of a song.

In his left hand he clutched the brow of a silver circlet with blue winter roses entwined around it, a beautiful crown fit for a queen.

The door to the tower was locked, but that didn't stop the prince. He set his sword aside and slipped the second crown around his wrist before he set to scaling the walls of the tower. He scaled the tower and entered through the small window at the top.

Once there, the Prince received his reward: the visage of the woman he wanted to crown. Her cute face with red cheeks and a brilliant smile through closed lips. She wore her hair in a simple braid, her dress pale and inelegant, but she was his choice so he stopped in front of her.

The queen of beauty knelt before the Prince as he slipped the ringlet of roses on her head. It looked perfect on her and her brilliant smile looked even better.

As the newly crowned Queen twirled in her brown dress, she laughed. The Prince smiled at her bemusedly.

As she twirled petals fell to the ground, no longer a vibrant blue but a muddy brown. Her laughter turned to moans and then wails as the petals continued to wilt and flake off the crown.

Sharp thorns grew from the perfectly trimmed stalks and cut through the silver. The thorns protruded menacingly from the crown. The soft petals once hid them but now there were no more flowers, only bristles. The thorns glistened with a sinister gleam in the moonlight.

The thorns cut into the queen of death and decay's brow as she sank to her knees. The throne continued to grow burrowing deeper and deeper into her skull as her hair became matted with blood and the red liquor ran down her face.

Cold eyes glared at the Prince as the thorns continued to grow, the man unable to stop them. "Why did you choose me?" she snarled with hate.

The thorns reached through the back of her skull and the once lovely Queen's body went limp.

A shadowy figure stood in an empty chamber. A large room filled with grandiose decor and large ornate pillars. Balconies individually larger than the great hall of Winterfell lined both sides of the chamber. The floors were even spotless and beautiful with marble underfoot.

To the far wall was a wall of Iron. A thousand and one swords with iron steps leading up to an ugly chair. Sharp edges lined the walkway and the seat itself. A throne. The Iron Throne of the conqueror.

The shadowy figure slowly crossed the room and ascended the steps. They sat down on the throne with an ornate silver crown upon their head.

A loud roar forced the shadow off the throne and to their feet. They turned around to face the sound coming from behind the throne.

To the left of the shadow sat a monster with teeth the size of swords. They were as black as the scales of the mighty beast.

A dragon. As if in confirmation of the realization, the dragon exhaled a puff of dirty gray smoke.

The shadow stepped towards the dragon and it leaned back on its haunches as it dipped its head in submission to its kin. The shadow patted it on the head before re-climbing the steps of the throne and retaking its seat on the lump of misshapen iron.

The dragon let out one more roar from the right of the monarch and unleashed a red flame towards the heavens that burned hotter than the sun. The bright light illuminated the dragon and made the black scales flash blood red.

The monarch grinned grimly in response.

"Burn them all."

A wolf as large as a horse raced through the wolfswood. The wolf's fur was the same color of the banners that flew above the ramparts of Winterfell but it was wild and untamed. The brush on it's back tangled up in a knotty mess. . The eyes of the wolf were striking, a dark gray, so dark it was almost black. He watched as the gigantic wolf jumped over a fallen ironwood tree and continued its sprint without slowing down.

A loud howl rang throughout the woods and the wolf sped up and continued its journey eastwards. Just when the wolf thought it would taste freedom, it came to a halt. A second wolf stood in its path.

This wolf differed from the first one. For starters, it stood a whole head taller with eyes of a brighter color. The second wolf had sleek and well-maintained fur that sat flat as if the wolf had been carefully groomed. It looked almost regal. It was in contrast to the first wolf that had wild uneven fur with tufts randomly sticking up all over the place.

The first wolf tentatively trotted over to the second and larger one. It sniffed at the exposed flank of the smaller one before letting out a pleased yelp. It flicked its tail across the smaller ones nose with a flourish before racing off back into the woods. With a playful bark, the first wolf tore off in pursuit of the second.

The two wolves raced through the woods with each other for days. They chased each other through the woods; they rolled around in the mud; they climbed trees together, and they splashed each other in the creek. The two wolves shared their meals and slept by each other every night.

The small wolf was sleeping now after they had feasted on a stag that night. The larger wolf remained awake as it starred up at the stars. It looked down at the smallest wolf and laid down beside it, their snout pressed against the neck of the little one,

The large wolf shut its eyes and opened its mouth. Its jaws clamped down over the throat of the smaller.

The first wolf's eyes fluttered open, and it looked up to the larger wolf with great pain. Why? I trusted you, brother. Why?

The monstrous wolf's jaw clamped shut and with a pained snarl it tore its head away from the first wolf. The taste of blood was on his tongue as he watched the life leave his companion.

The large wolf left the smaller now dead wolf in the snow with tears, trotting off; an obvious limp to their gait.

You don't belong here.

This is not your place.

Jon wandered through the crypts of Winterfell as the statues wielded their hatred at him like a sword. Jon tried to ignore them as he wandered further down with a torch in his left hand.

You have no right to be here.

"I have no right?" Jon snarled. "I have every right! The blood of the Starks is in my veins too!"

There is also another.

Jon ignored them and pushed on deeper.

Where darkness reigns, light cannot be.

Jon was plunged into darkness as the cold wind howled and extinguished the torch. In the dark, he groped at the walls of the crypt. His hands fumbled in the darkness as he tried to find a wall so he could follow it out of here- or further down. Just away from the icy chill and dark emptiness that was settling in.

His hand found the wall, and he pressed his palm flat against it. He started walking back the way he thought he had come from. The wall vanished and Jon stumbled forward.

He fell to his knees and leaned forward resting his head against a cool granite stone- likely supporting one of the statues. His hands came up to brace against the stone in order to push himself back to his feet. His right hand curled around the smooth stone base and his left went down to rest on top of it.

Suddenly, Jon felt a sharp pain in his hand. He let out a cry and pulled his hand back, but it was too late. The sharp iron spike tore through the smooth skin of his palm with ease. Blood fell down to the stones below with a splatter.

There was a fwoosh sound and fire sprang up where the blood fell. Every drop that hit the ground was instantly aflame. The blood that fell upon the statue was not but instead froze solid instantaneously.

Jon scampered away from the flaming ground at his feet, even if it didn't seem to burn him and ended up facing the statues from the front, as he held his throbbing hand away from him. Now that he could see in the light of his burnt blood, Jon took in the statue.

It was a crown that he had cut himself on made of iron with sharp spikes all around the band. It was also the only crown not on the head of a King of Winter. Jon knew this one must have belonged to Torrhen Stark, the King who knelt. The crown rested at his feet because of his fealty to the Targaryens.

You're a coward," Jon heard a young man taunt.

"I'm choosing to live. As should you. We can't win. Run while you still can and live to fight another day. This isn't a battle we can win."

There was a loud rattling noise from further down the tunnel.

"We don't have to fight."

Jon wandered further down the tunnel towards the strange noise that kept on getting louder.

"Call for a retreat! Then attempt to negotiate a peace!"

A figure stepped into the light. Their frame was skeletal with taut features pulled tight and a hollow face. They stumbled around unnaturally with large swinging steps as their body hung limp, their head looking at the ground. Their hair was a bright orange and their fingers were deformed and rotting.

"We will die if we stay and fight!"

"It's not about you! Think of all those who will die for your pride when we lose the battle."

The head of the figure tilted up as they got closer. Cold blue eyes met Jon's eyes and he trembled in place as he stopped his progress.

"They'll only be stronger next time."

"At least there will be a next time."

The blast of what sounded like a horn was deafening, vibrating through the air with a deep, guttural rumble. It seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, and Jon felt a shiver run down his spine as he heard it. The sound was like nothing he had ever heard before, and it seemed to echo on forever, growing louder and more intense with each passing moment. Jon could feel the pressure of the sound waves pounding against his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

The statues of old powerful Kings surrounding Jon cracked and hands clawed their way out from beneath the earth. One of them wrapped its bony fingers around Jon's right ankle and he squealed. He desperately kicked at the hand grabbing him but its grip was like steel.

"It's too late to win now. You've chosen death."

"No, I choose life."

Skeletons and rotting corpses clawed their way out of the ground and swarmed on Jon from deep down in the crypts. It was an army of deadmen stretching farther than the eye could see. They had varying looks but there was one thing they all had in common- ice-blue eyes that could see into his soul.

Heart pounding, Jon slid his foot out of his boot to finally free himself from the one grabbing him, and sprinted up to the surface of the crypts. He had never run as fast as he did at that moment. Long strides with his feet kicking up dirt in his wake.

He could see the entrance now, the scant rays of sunlight peeking through the entrance and illuminating the army behind him. He just had to escape and he would be fine, if he could only get out of here then he would live.

Jon kicked his legs faster as he felt a bony hand brush his calf. Freedom was close enough to taste and the small spark of hope inflamed to a raging inferno within his chest. His heart thudded and his legs burned beneath him as he rounded the last turn and made his way to the entrance. Just a few more seconds now.

A hand snagged Jon's left foot, and Jon fell flat on his face. His face stung, and he landed on his already injured left hand which caused him to bite down hard on his tongue in the pain. Everything hurt, but still Jon fought.

He kicked his foot free of the corpse that had grabbed him, and desperately pushed himself to his feet. He took a few long stumbling strides, still hunched over, before face planting again.

Long spindly fingers dug into Jon's thigh and tore at the skin. Jon screamed into the dirt as they tore out a strip of him. Another hand found its way into Jon's back and tugged at the skin. A third grabbed at his right arm and pulled it with supernatural strength, dislocating his arm instantly. The teeth of a disembodied head latched onto his hand.

Jon tasted vomit on his tongue as he saw his left foot lying beneath him. Dispatched from his body. Jon writhed on the ground in pain on top of a puddle of his own vomit. He was helpless to defend himself against the onslaught of dead men. Screams racked his throat, and his tears blinded him. Pain was the only thing that Jon could feel as they literally tore him to pieces.

A hand grabbed at the back of Jon's scalp and pulled hard. It wrenched his head back, and he hollered loud enough to shake the earth. Another rotting hand used the opening to reach into Jon's mouth and pulled down. Clawed fingers grappled with Jon's stomach and tore out his innards.

The two hands continued to pull Jon's head in opposing directions. Their impromptu game of tug of war came to an end when their game ended with Jon's skull splitting. For a moment of unbearable lucidity, Jon felt pain beyond words and then there was nothing… only the cold.

Jon sulked as they escorted him to the Maester's turret instead of to the courtyard for lessons with Ser Rodrik during their usually scheduled time. He knew he had hurt Robb, but it was an accident. They had to see that. Ashara had agreed with him albeit with no enthusiasm. He shouldn't be punished for an accident.

Yet, he was getting removed from the fun to sit in a dusty old tower with the equally as old maester. "Have a seat Jon," Luwyn instructed with a smile as Jon stood in the doorway.

Jon trudged to the open seat across from the Maester and flopped down into it. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the floor. His eyes drifted shut for a moment. A hand in his mouth, a hand tangled in his hair. Stretching and pulling. Pain.

"Do you know why you are here Jon?"

Jon looked up at him and blinked to reorientate himself.

"Do you know why you are here Jon?" Luwyn repeated patiently.

Jon bit down on his lip to suppress his retort.

"This isn't a punishment," he explained.

Jon couldn't silence the instinctual snort at Luwyn's lie.

The maester placed one of his wrinkled hands on Jon's arm. "You nearly killed your brother."

Jon made a noise of protest but Luwyn quickly silenced him. "That might not have been your intention, but that was the result. If those swords weren't wooden, your brother would be dead. Even a blunted steel sword would have seriously injured him."

"You're not in here talking with me instead of learning to fight with your brother as a punishment. You're here to learn to control your rage and not let it blind you when you eventually go back out there. So you don't kill someone- and yourself by mistake when using actual weapons."

Jon finally looked up from the floor and met the Maester's eyes although he still didn't respond. It was an accident, Robb should have blocked.

"Tell me Jon, why did you attack your brother like that?" Luwyn prodded. "I've heard several things from Lady Stark and Ser Rodrik, but no one has told me your perspective on the incident."

"We were sparring!" Jon protested. "I didn't assault my brother, I just tried to hit him per Ser Rodrik's instructions. It's not my fault!"

"And you succeeded," Maester Luwyn acknowledged. "What did you expect to happen when you succeeded?"

"I-I.." Jon trailed off uncertainly. He hadn't thought of the consequences of his actions when he was on the offensive. He had just wanted to win, to receive praise for his talent for once from someone other than Ashara. To get one over Robb.

"You weren't being careful, and if anyone, but Lord Stark was your father, they would cast you out of Winterfell. This isn't even the first time that an incident like this has occurred. You could have killed the heir because you ignored Ser Rodrik's instruction," Luwym explained patiently. "You are lucky there weren't serious consequences."

Jon's face was ashen as the reality of the situation finally dawned on him. Who was to say that his father wouldn't still cast him aside when he returned from war? He had screwed up and it might have cost him Robb and his home.

"Are you ready to learn now?" Luwyn asked gently. "Can we work on controlling your temper and being gentle when it's called for?"

Jon nodded stiffly.

"Good. Now tell me how you were feeling when you started acting so aggressively against Robb."

"It wasn't fair. Robb is always the one receiving praise, even though I beat him every time. I was constantly being criticized for doing better, and told to do worse. I was furious." Jon replied in a low voice.

"How was Ser Rodrik criticizing you?" Maester Luwyn asked patiently.

"He kept on yelling at me to…" Jon trailed off as it dawned on him. "...be gentle. To not swing so hard."

"Do you think you deserved the criticism in hindsight?" Luwyn prodded. "Was Ser Rodrik acting unjust?"

Jon scowled even if he agreed. "It's still not fair… he still doesn't ever say anything positive about me even when I do things correctly. Even when I do better than Robb." Jon was indigent and desperate to hold on to his righteous anger.

The Maester sighed. "Life isn't fair Jon. Robb is the heir to Winterfell, and you are a bastard who will inherit nothing. Be grateful for all that Lord Stark has given you and don't fight every little thing."

"I'm his son too! Why does it matter that I'm a bastard? In Dorne, they still treat bastards with respect."

Luwyn pursed his lips. "Perhaps they treat bastards better in Dorne, but they treat them worse in the other five kingdoms than how your father treats you. In some homes, your father would treat you worse than even Lady Stark treats you. Being considered dirt would be an improvement for some southern bastards. You don't realize how lucky you are Jon, many men would give up anything to be in your place."

Jon was certain that Luwyn didn't know about his nighttime activities so that statement baffled him and he didn't hesitate to express his confusion. "Those children are stupid then. I'm not lucky. Lady Stark treats me like dirt and won't let me see MY sister! I'm treated worse than Robb in anything and everything!"

Luwyn grabbed Jon's hand in an attempt to calm him and looked into his eyes. "Yes Jon, you are lucky. Your father treats you better than any other bastards are by their parents outside of maybe Dorne," Luwyn replied with passion. "You can count on one hand the amount of children in Winterfell with more privilege than you. If you were baseborn, you wouldn't even be trained in the sword at all. You'd be working all day and use a pike without significant training if Lord Stark called the banners. You likely would die in any war. Had you been born before Torrhen Stark knelt, you would have been offered as a human sacrifice to the Old Gods, as nearly all bastards were back then. You are exceedingly fortunate to be born as the son of Lord Stark in the year you were."

Jon frowned and sighed. He thought of Markus the servant who had seven times the workload that Jon did. He didn't complain at all despite him, a perfectly normal boy who was treated worse than Jon. Jon wouldn't trade lives with him. Perhaps things could be worse?

Things weren't fair for Jon, but they weren't fair for anyone. And that was the problem. A problem with no solution. Jon would always be treated worse than Robb and he had to accept that, just like Luwyn was telling him to, and just like Markus had.

Jon scrubbed at the floor of the stables with force. The floor was already clean, and he had finished his chore a half hour ago but he kept scrubbing. Robb was still in his lesson, and he would rather do something, even something so mindless and boring than nothing.

He was tired; he had barely slept for the last week- ever since those haunting visions in the Godswood. He didn't dream thankfully, instead visiting Ashara and seeking comfort in her, but sleep still evaded him. Every time Jon closed his eyes, he was revisited by what he had seen- what Ashara believed to be glimpses into the future masked in symbols.

All the visions were terrifying, but the last one was by far the most terrifying. Lady Stark possibly poisoning Jon, his Aunt Lyanna being crowned by Rhaegar, and dying because of it, the Targaryens reclaiming the Iron Throne, and a Stark turning on Jon. Or at least that is what Ashara believed the visions symbolized and Jon didn't think she was wrong. At least, about the first three. He refused to believe his siblings- and especially Robb like Ashara thought it would be- could betray his trust.

As horrified as he was over the possibility of his family betraying him, that vision rarely occupied his thoughts. The one that consumed all of his attention was the last one. Dead men living again, from beneath the crypts.

The contents of the vision itself was horrifying enough, but it wasn't just what he saw. The other people in the visions were mysterious figures. A man, a prince, a shadow, a wolf. But when he was in the crypts, it had been Jon who was there. Jon who was in control. He hadn't watched a stranger be killed- they had killed him. And he felt every moment of it. He felt the pain of it all; he didn't just see it.

As Jon dwelled on his nightmare despite his best efforts to distract himself, the vision appeared before his closed eyelids again. A skeletal hand with an iron grip on his ankle. A finger brushing his calf and tearing his trousers. Hands tugging on his foot and the taste of dirt.

Sharp fingernails digging into his thigh and cutting deep enough to hit bone. Cold bony hands on his back. His arm felt like they would rip it off. Teeth taking his fingers. His foot being literally ripped off his body. Fingers in his mouth and…

The plain brown destrier in the stall that Jon had been cleaning accidentally swished its tail against Jon's nose and catapulted him out of his nightmare and back to reality.

Jon forced his eyes open and rested his head against the wall of the stable. He panted loudly and found his face was drenched in sweat. His chest heaved up and down with every breath. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. It felt like his chest was being squeezed. He could feel the phantom pain where the scars of dead men lingered from his vision. A lingering pain that didn't seem to ever go away.

Jon inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. In and out. In and out. In and out. He could barely move. In and out. In and out. In and out. Maester Luwyn had taught him some calming breathing exercises to help him manage his anger. Jon more often used them to calm himself down after his flashbacks, it helped with the fear.

Once Jon had his breathing under control, he stood to his feet and looked to the horse that had brought him out of it before the worst parts. He was far from fine, but he knew wallowing would only cause another incident. He instead grabbed a brush and used the horse to anchor himself.

He climbed up a stool and combed at the neck of the horse. The horse neighed softly in pleasure as Jon gently brushed it. "You need a name," Jon decided. "I regularly clean your stall, and you just saved me. I'd like to think we're friends of sorts now, and I can't just keep calling you horse."

"Of course, it can't be just any name, it has to be special. It has to mean something." Jon hummed to himself for only a moment before resuming his ramble. "Winter?" He suggested and then shook his head. "No, that's stupid and not at all special. What about Sandor? Or Tyrek? Maybe Drogo?"

Jon threw out a hundred names as he rambled to no response from the horse in an effort to distract himself and not feel the hands of death itself on him again. "Comet," Jon eventually decided. "I'll call you Comet. After the most important person in my life. Her house sigil is part comet, and she loves to talk about the stars. Comet's also represent hope in the darkness in Old Nan's stories."

"Do you like the name Comet?" Jon asked as he brushed Comet's spine. The horse nuzzled his hand happily. "That's your name then," Jon decided with a weak smile.

"I'm scared, Comet," Jon confessed as he brushed. "There's an army of dead men here in Winterfell. In the crypts we sleep on top of. I'm terrified of what is lurking in the dark. Every time, I close my eyes, I see my death."

"Ashara says it's not real, that it's meant to be symbolism. That someone who is believed to be dead is secretly alive and will bring about my downfall. Or that I should be wary of my ancestors?"

Jon sighed and pressed his face into Comet's neck. "She's wrong," he whispered. "What I saw was real, what I felt was real. My death was real." He shook his head. "But Ashara is always right, she's the smartest person I know. Maybe I should trust her judgement over my own?"

"I'm scared," Jon repeated to himself more than the horse. "Father likes to say that the only time I can be brave is when he is afraid. Perhaps, I just need to choose to be brave?" Jon stood up straight and pat Comet on the back with a steely resolve in his eyes.

"I'm going to go down into the crypts and find out once and for all, if what I saw was real." Jon swallowed the painful bulge in his throat. "M-Maybe I die, but I'll know the truth."

The crypts were the exact same as they had been in Jon's memory. All the statues in the same exact order, an order Jon hadn't known before that vision. Under his boots, the dirt felt the same. The smell of decay was as ominous as ever. The only difference this time is that the voices were mercifully silent and they did not blow his torch out. He had light and the only sound was the padding of his feet.

As Jon descended to the next level, his confidence swelled. Ashara was right- as she always was. There were no monsters in the crypts, just stone and bones- unmoving bones. He was safe here- with the dead. Ashara was dead and she was his safe place. Why had Jon ever thought he wouldn't be safe here? That he wouldn't be welcome? This was more his home than the keep was with Lady Stark's frosty glares.

Jon froze as he saw the statue of Torrhen Stark. The face was carved exactly as it had been in his vision. His sword was laid across his lap, iron and immovable. He was in the same place with the same scratches on his shoulder and the stone was chipped in the same place on his thumb. Jon hadn't noticed all the details the first time he saw the statue, but he had in the hundreds of replays since.

The one difference between the statue that Jon had seen and the one in his vision was that this one had his crown on his head compared to the one he had previously seen that had the crown resting on the ground before him.

This was where the vision had turned into a nightmare. He had cut his hand on that crown and when he had wandered deeper; the mob of undead had torn apart him. He stared at it for a long moment. "The only time I can be brave is when I am afraid," Jon muttered to himself but didn't move.

"The only time I can be brave is when I am afraid," Jon repeated as he took a small step closer to the statue. "The only time I can be brave is when I am afraid," he said it louder this time, a mantra to himself as he prepared to face his demons head on.

"The only time I can be brave is when I am afraid," Jon repeated one last time before placing his hand on the crown of Torrhen Stark. His open palm on the sharp point, just like he had seen it. He felt a pinch on his palm and then his vision went black.

A man sat across from Jon, bound in iron chains. One was wrapped around his lap and something had wrapped the other around his forehead and bound his head to the back of his throne in a mockery of a crown. He thrashed in his chains and made harsh guttural sounds as he struggled to escape.

This was no ordinary man. His hair was as white as snow, and his beard of the same color reached his stomach. It was thin and lean with a gaunt figure. He had pale skin- impossibly so. It was white like milk with a slight bluish hue to it. Jon was certain that this thing wasn't human at all and unlike the creatures of his nightmare, this thing never had been.

The creature's every breath froze in the surrounding error and every click it made sent chills down Jon's spine. Its visage was hard and twisted with sharp lines and strange patterns in its skin. The eyes were like ice, a pale blue. There was an eerie similarity to the eyes that all the dead men had in Jon's previous vision, but more terrifying somehow. These eyes weren't just cold, they burned.

Jon yanked his hand off of the crown and was back in the crypts. He wheezed as he looked down at the cut hand. The incision was there, but it was frozen over. Like in his vision. His blood instantly turned into ice when it left his body. What he had seen was real.

Jon ran.

---

This chapter took a while and no promises on when the next one will come but I am working on it. It'll be the first chapter that's not from Jon's POV (And it'll be a bit until we go back to him directly).

I made some changes to the first chapter although they're minor and don't require re-reading it. I added a few lines implying that Poole tried to teach Jon some proper cleaning technique but Jon tuned him out because he's a kid who is angry about having to work at all. The initial plan for chapter one had this conversation and his first time cleaning to show his building rage but it was a boring scene to write and even worse to read so I scrapped it. I also added a few lines to imply that Jon being starved wasn't direct orders but the servants who were suppoosed to be feeding him misinterpreting grounding as something worse.

Read and review. Or don't.