Author's Note
I do not own Game of Thrones.
A raven awaited him at Deepwood Motte, bearing messages from both Cat and Maester Luwin.
Ned,
Our children are safe but something ails the bastard. Return home well.
Ned declined the offer to stay longer at Deepwood Motte in favour of immediately riding for Winterfell.
If Jon was ill…
Wasn't Jon meant to not fall ill?
Evidently those rumours were untrue.
They rode for home back through the Wolfswood, where Ned almost expected Lordling to leave their company at last. Perhaps his purpose had been to ensure Ned returned North. But instead the beast kept stride with his anxious horse, occasionally detouring to explore a few trees before returning.
He seemed as restless as Ned felt. Could he feel that anxiety?
Still, they had to stop and rest the horses, and most took the chance to sleep. Ned sat with his back against a tree and worked on polishing Ice. How could only Jon have fallen ill if their own babes were well? Did not these things normally touch all?
He tried to sleep some, but was woken by a hand touching his arm.
A child's hand.
Ned groaned as he sat up. "Theon, what is i–"
The boy crouched at the back of the wagon certainly wasn't Theon. He wore Stark colours, and his face–
"Jon?"
The boy shook his head and reached out to him. "You must come."
"Jon, what in all– Catelyn said you were sick?"
The boy jumped from the wagon, waving for him. Ned jumped down after him as the boy slipped into the foliage by the road as he began to think more truly. This couldn't be Jon. A trick of the forest, or something sent by the gods? Or worse, a magic thing from somewhere beyond?
But it had chosen to bear Jon's face. Jon's face, but eyes a haunting shade of purple so similar to another pair Ned had once seen.
Ned woke Rodrik and whispered for him to follow the not-Jon into the woods.
At worst, they'd have to kill the thing, and he had a sword of Valyrian steel.