The Prince of Winterhall (Part I)

In a way, he felt free. The stone lair he had been in before had kept him from the scents on the wind and the sounds of the open country. Whenever night fell he would leap and bound through the fields after whatever scent he found enticing. Very rarely would he see his prey, but he did not rely on sight alone to hunt, and the signs of them were everywhere. He knew he still had to give the deer a wide berth, for he was alone and without his pack, but rabbits and squirrels were there in abundance, and what they lacked in sustenance they made up for in the thrill of chasing them down. He savored the taste of their blood in his jaws as he tore into them. There was something about live prey that was far more satisfying than the burnt meats he was fed during the day.

He was alone and without his pack. His brothers and sisters had remained behind in the stone lair to the North. There were times he thought he could hear them calling on the wind, but the further he traveled by day those calls grew fainter and fainter. A part of him wanted to respond, to look to the moon and let out a great howl, but it was not his way. They knew that as well. It felt strange to be without them, but he knew it would have been stranger to be without the boy. They understood one another in a way not even his brothers could fully comprehend. This was where he belonged. He knew he was tired. He returned to the boy's side and lay down beside him.

He was alone and without his pack, but he had the boy.

Jon woke to see Ghost curled up at his side. He gently placed a hand on the wolf's head and gave it a slight rub. Ghost lifted his head to look at him, and his red eyes returned an appreciative gaze. John had seen Sansa talking to her dire wolf, brushing her fur and calling her Lady, gushing about how good she was, but none of that was necessary between him and Ghost. Jon smiled and rose from the ground on which he had slept the night before. He had asked the King if he could sleep out in the open during their journey to the capital, and Rhaegar had readily agreed. Although the Queen had supported Jon vocally on that score (while expressly forbidding Baelor and Visenya from joining him), that had not seemed to have influenced her husband's decision. Jon hated the fact that even after that long talk in Lord Eddard's solar and weeks on the road together, his father's motives remained opaque to him. The King seemed to want to cultivate a familiarity with Jon while at the same time keeping his distance. Rhaegar had told him that he would like his half-brother Aegon. Supposedly everyone liked his half-brother Aegon. But Aegon had not nearly torn the Realm apart over a war for his mother, brought him into the world, and then ignored him for fifteen years. I did not think you had survived. The words had been sincere, but they had sounded strange. They were laden with emotion, but Jon could not tell if it was the emotion of a father who had finally found his son. There was so little he understood about his father and his family. It made him wonder how much he understood about himself. Jon began to get ready for the continued journey south, putting on a new tunic and fastening a black cloak about his shoulders. He brushed some hair out of his face and began to roll up the furs he had slept in. He could not stop thinking about that conversation.

"Awake at last, Your Grace." That is, until Jorah Mormont interrupted his train of thought. The Lord of Bear Island and the rest of Jon's fellowship seemed to have dressed already and had begun breaking their fast. Jorah took a bite of a roll in his hand and threw another one at Jon, who caught it and bit into it. It was hard and tasted somewhat stale, but he knew that it would help provide the nourishment he needed for the long day's ride ahead of him. Jorah smirked as he saw Jon's difficulty in chewing and swallowing it.

"It goes down easier if you have something to drink," he told him. "Of course, if you'd rather break your fast with your father's party—"

"No, I think there'll be plenty of time for southern comforts once we reach the capital, Lord Jorah," Jon replied. "I had best enjoy the North and her charms while I still can." Jorah laughed at that.

"Considering we're almost out of the North now, Your Grace, I suppose I can't blame you," he said. "We should pass by Moat Cailin today." Jorah motioned for Jon to follow him to the small fire where the rest of the fellowship was seated. The Smalljon seemed to be much like his father, already boasting about something as he took a swig of what Jon assumed was ale from his mug. Domeric Bolton must have just put himself together for the morning, and would have seemed to be listening intently were it not for the disinterested look in his eyes. Eddard Karstark sat sharpening his axe and occasionally grunting in assent whenever the Smalljon made said something that didn't sound too outlandish. Ser Martyn Cassel was there as well, named for his father who died at the Tower of Joy. Who had died protecting me. He had been part of the group of Stark men Lord Eddard had sent south. Jon bowed his head respectfully when he saw him. Words could not hope to repay the debt he owed Ser Martyn for what his father had done. Jon sat beside Ser Martyn, who seemed willing enough to make a space for him, and decided he would try to join the conversation.

"Ser Martyn, I hear we'll be passing by Moat Cailin today. Are you looking forward to seeing your cousin?"

"Aye, Jory's been too long in the swamps, I think. Last letter I received said he had caught some sort of illness, but that some crannogmen healers gave him a brew that seemed to be working."

"I'm not surprised," Domeric said. "I've heard living in such bad airs has forced them to learn much about the body, more even than the maesters. They know every plant in the Neck that can save a man's life…and every one that can end it."

"Bah! Poison is a woman's weapon!" roared the Smalljon. "It's no wonder you never see the crannogmen on the field of battle!"

"My…uncle said winning battles doesn't win you the war," Jon added. "And with the crannogmen he was right. The Freys lost a third of their strength in the Neck when they tried to push up the Causeway, and the crannogmen never met them in battle once."

"A move as foolhardy as turning on our fathers at the Trident was clever," said the Smalljon. "Not that those losses mean much to the Freys. They say Lord Walder is the only man who could field an entire army out of his breeches."

"At his age it's a miracle he can even do that!" declared Eddard Karstark. The rest of the fellowship shared a laugh in agreement.

"Lord Mormont, will the South hold any memories for you?" Domeric Bolton asked as he turned his attention to the Young Bear. "I've heard you won great glory in King Balon's War."

"Only because that fool Victarion Greyjoy wore full plate on the open seas!" Jon Umber burst in. "All Jorah had to do was push him overboard and he died drowning!"

"Had you ever been boarded by Ironmen you would know causing one to lose his footing on the deck of a ship is no easy task." Jorah retorted. "And it's not as if I let the sea do all the work. Longclaw gave him a few good scratches before it came to all that." Lord Mormont patted the hilt of the Valyrian steel bastard sword at his side. The sword of House Mormont, it was a magnificent weapon with the head of a bear as the pommel. Jon could not help but notice how the entire fellowship eyed it jealously.

"Still, it's not like what I did there will be remembered," Jorah went on. "They don't sing songs about you unless you're as pretty as the Kingslayer."

"You killed one bloody Greyjoy, Mormont!" chided Eddard Karstark. "It's not like you hacked your way through the garrison at Pyke and cut King Balon to pieces!"

"I think I'll take a little less glory if it means keeping both hands!"

"Lord Eddard told me stories about the Siege of Pyke," Jon said coldly. "He said Jaime Lannister fought like a man possessed. He and the rest of the besiegers were never less than ten paces behind him. By the time he got to the Seastone Chair he said he saw Ser Jaime seated on it in front of King Balon's body. Not that he could tell it was King Balon at first."

"That's war, Your Grace," Jorah spoke simply. "Especially when men fight with something to prove like Ser Jaime did. They say failing to protect Princess Elia weighed heavily on him after the Lannisters took hold of King's Landing."

"He couldn't save the Mad King from himself either, I've heard!" added Martyn Cassel. "No wonder he was the first man discharged from the Kingsguard. He was a lot better at killing kings than he was at keeping them safe!"

"They say he rules the Ironborn well now," said Domeric. "Or at least my father does. I'm told he keeps peaceful land and a quiet people." Jon shuddered at this.

"You know, Ser Martyn, it may not be wise to get into the habit of criticizing the Queen's brother and the son of the King's Hand," the heir to the Dreadfort continued. "The Lord Protector of the Iron Islands lost his left hand, not his right. Who knows, mayhaps he'll catch wind of our talk and come out from Pyke to skewer us." If this was meant as a joke, no one was laughing.

"I think my namesake your uncle had the right of it, Your Grace." Eddard Karstark. "Punish the Greyjoys for killing our men, and then be done with it."

"Losing a father was hard enough, I'm just glad your uncle avenged the death of mine own," Ser Martyn told Jon.

"Aye, Ser Rodrik was a good man," said Jorah. "He would have made a good castellan of the Westhold."

"To Ser Rodrik!" Jon lifted his mug up high, and was pleased to see the rest of the fellowship do the same. "To every man of House Cassel that fought and died for the North! May their sacrifices never be forgotten!" All drank deeply at that, and Jon was pleased to see a look of respect from Ser Martyn.

"Jaehaerys!" all turned and looked to see the King riding towards them upon his black destrier. Gone was the plate he had worn when he left Winterfell. Instead, Rhaegar wore what had to be some of the most ornate riding leathers Jon had ever seen, died black and red with three-headed dragons stitched into them. The King's pale blonde hair flew in the wind, almost obscuring his handsome features. As Rhaegar pushed a few strands out of his face, Jon was surprised to see that even this far south the King seemed to be ill-suited to the cold. While he was not shivering his lips were still a faint shade of blue.

"Are your men ready to depart?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Jon answered.

"Then let us be off," Rhaegar said, flashing a rare but charming smile. "I go not a day without my wife's complaining, but I think I will be glad to hear the end of her thoughts on travel." Eddard Karstark snorted in amusement at this, and the rest of Jon's fellowship got up and made for their horses.

"When you are mounted, come find me at the head of the procession," the King told Jon. "We have much to discuss." Jon finished his second roll and took a swig from his mug to wash it down before climbing on to his horse. Jorah rode up beside him and gave him a quizzical look.

"I take it you won't be riding with the men today, Your Grace?"

"As much as I'd like to, Lord Jorah, the King has summoned me to ride alongside him."

"A great honor, riding beside a King."

"I'll rejoin the men when His Grace and I are done talking," Jon said. "Shouldn't take that long, we usually don't have much to say to one another." With that Jon tried to smile and took off towards the head of the procession. He looked for Ghost and saw that the dire wolf had already begun to look for the day's game. Good hunting, he thought. It did not take long for him to catch up to the King. For all Rhaegar's talk of readying the Northmen it was many of the southerners who lagged behind. As he passed the Queen's wheelhouse, he could have sworn he saw an angry glare through one of the windows, though he could only guess to whom it belonged. Finally he saw the King, who was near the front of the procession alongside Ser Barristan.

"Your Grace," Jon greeted the King deferentially as his horse trotted up next to his.

"Ser Barristan, keep your distance," Rhaegar ordered. "This is not for you to hear." The old knight bowed in the saddle before slowing his horse, allowing Jon and the King to continue riding in relative isolation.

"Where is the wolf?" the King asked. Jon shrugged before responding.

"Nearby, Your Grace. He'll be back when we stop for rest."

"And how do you know this?"

"I just know, Your Grace. Ghost and I…we have an understanding."

"I see." The King was clearly intrigued. "Tell me, do you ever dream of Ghost? Do you ever dream of walking about in his skin?" The question caught Jon off guard. He had had dreams like that before, but he didn't understand how it could be that Rhaegar was aware of them.

"I suppose I have, Your Grace."

"And how vivid are these dreams? Can you remember scents from them? Can you remember taste?" Jon was beginning to find himself unnerved.

"I…suppose so, Your Grace." The King smiled warmly at him, as though he had just received some piece of good news.

"Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Jaehaerys. I had been reading a book about the close ties some men can form with their pets, and I wanted to see if the maester who wrote it was truly knowledgeable on the subject."

"Was he?" Jon asked.

"Decidedly not. But there are other matters we must discuss."

"And what would those be, Your Grace?"

"Those of your seat and betrothal. I think somewhere in the North would be fitting for the former, don't you agree?" Jon nodded.

"Would I be one of Robb's bannerman, then?"

"No, I would not subject you to such an indignity. Your lands and titles would be like that of the Prince of Summerhall of old. Your uncle seems determined to raise castles along the coast, and I think he can be prevailed upon to grant one to you." Those castles are being built to keep Targaryens out, thought Jon.

"So I'm to be the Prince of Winterhall, Your Grace?" Jon flashed a smile he knew was not as winning as the King's could be. Rhaegar recognized the jape and chuckled musically.

"A fine title. You may jest now but one day I might bestow it on you." For some reason the melancholy with which Jon had come to associate the King had crept back into his voice.

"As for your betrothed," the King continued, "my Master of Laws has sent his daughter to court to wait upon your sister Rhaenys. No doubt he hopes she will catch Aegon's eye. But that match is not to be. Aegon and Rhaenys are for each other. Instead it is you who will wed Margaery Tyrell." Jon knew the name Tyrell from his studies with Maester Luwin. They were the Lords of the Reach, the richest and most bountiful of the Seven Kingdoms. Supposedly they were so proud of their harvests their very sigil was a plant of some kind. It was a better match than he had ever dreamed of.

"Would a southern lady like Margaery Tyrell really want to live in the North, Your Grace? Lady Catelyn always said an unhappy marriage is a poor foundation for an alliance." Rhaegar snorted at this.

"Yes, I have heard her say that before. But the North is not without its charms, Jaehaerys, and I am sure you can make her see that. Winter roses were your mother's favorite; no doubt the Lady Margaery will grow fond of them as well." At the mention of his mother a shadow seemed to pass over the two men, and they both hung their heads in silence. Rhaegar exhaled before turning back to Jon.

"Have you thought what you might take as your sigil? As a personal coat of arms?" Jon shook his head.

"I haven't given it much thought, Your Grace."

"I was thinking a grey dragon upon a white field. The Targaryen sigil in the colors of House Stark. Does that not sound appealing?"

"I can see the appeal, Your Grace," Jon said meekly.

"But you are not convinced. Perhaps you have another suggestion, then?"

"A white wolf on black," Jon told the King, "with eyes of red." Rhaegar nodded sagely.

"You have time to make up your mind. Though I will have the dragon prepared for you."

"Will that be all, Your Grace?" Truthfully Jon was eager to leave the King's presence. He found himself missing the conversation with men he understood, where every word and gesture didn't feel like it had the weight of Seven Kingdoms resting on it.

"I think your Northern friends can wait, Jaehaerys," Rhaegar told him. "We have arrived." Jon looked up and saw Moat Cailin standing defiantly in the distance. The greatest fortress in the North after Winterfell, Lord Eddard had committed himself to rebuilding it after the Rebellion. Jon had been told that when his uncle had started, only three towers had remained from an ancient fortress raised by the First Men, and that none of them had been in good condition. He could still see which ones they were, for they still listed a bit despite the construction which had gone on around them and as he got closer he saw that the stone of which they were composed was more worn. But now twelve more towers had risen up to join them, and a great basalt curtain wall was once again being built around those. It was still smaller than the ancient fort had been, but from what Jon understood the three towers on their own had been enough to hold off an assault when fully manned. This new castle would be nigh impregnable. Supposedly there was even a smaller holdfast being constructed at the source of the Fever River to the West, to prevent any attempt to flank the castle itself. As a boy he had dreamed of being a lord here, of driving off Southron assaults in the name of his father, the Lord of Winterfell. Such dreams seemed even more foolish now than they had then. Jon did not think Lord Eddard would have granted such an important post to his bastard, and he was even less likely to grant it to the son of the man whose armies he wished to keep out.

The royal party decided to stop and rest outside the walls after the Queen complained that there was still too much construction going on inside. Jon and his fellowship were the exception, however, as they entered the busy fortress to greet Ser Martyn's cousin Jory. As they passed through Moat Cailin's main gate, Jon could see the small army of masons and craftsmen hard at work. Ser Jory Cassel received them in what was now the main hall, which though not ornate was large enough to accommodate a party as large as the King's. Ser Jory had already started his meal when they arrived, but rose to greet them, pulling his cousin into a warm embrace and clasping hands with every one of the Northmen who had joined the royal party at Winterfell. Finally, he turned to Jon.

"You Grace," he said politely.

"Jory, you've known me since I was a boy, you needn't stand on ceremony." This seemed to relax Jory a bit. "Please, call me Jon."

"As you wish, lad, though if I may speak plainly things would have been simpler had you remained Ned Stark's bastard." Jon winced at the mention of his bastardy but was able to come out with a smile.

"A few weeks on the road and I think I'm starting to agree with you." Once greetings and pleasantries were exchanged, Jory offered Jon and his fellowship some bowls of stew. Jon thanked him for it and spooned a mouthful to his lips, savoring the warmth of the broth and the taste of the meat and vegetables. Not as good as raw hare, he thought. Conversation soon turned to his talk with the King, and Jon told those around him everything he and Rhaegar had discussed. Well, almost everything. For some reason he felt uncomfortable repeating the King's questions about Ghost.

"I may be a bit biased, Your Grace," the Smalljon said. "But when it comes to a sigil, I think men would be more willing to follow a white wolf than a grey wyrm."

"Grey wyrm? Who would allow themselves to be called something like that?!" Eddard Karstark roared in laughter.

"Perhaps someone who wishes to unnerve his enemies," suggested Domeric.

"You would expect the son of the leech lord to say something like that," japed the Smalljon.

"What I don't understand is why Rhaegar wants to marry you to the Tyrell girl," Jorah mused. "If you're going to come back North, then you need a Northern bride."

"I suppose you're looking for a taker for Dacey?" Eddard Karstark flashed Jorah a lewd grin. "It's not a bad match, Your Grace. I've heard she-bears know how to keep a man warm at night."

"Careful Karstark, it's not wise to cross the only man here with a Valyrian blade," Jorah patted Longclaw and smiled back at Eddard. Jon was glad they were only joking.

"You have to marry Margaery because the King won't let Aegon," speculated Domeric. "He needs the continued support of the Great Houses that helped him win the Rebellion, and marriages are often how that support is retained. But as long as he insists on a betrothal of Rhaenys and Aegon his choices are limited. You'll have to take a southern wife, and it may be for the best that it's Margaery Tyrell. The King could always send you to Dorne to wed Arianne Martell, but she would probably strangle you during the bedding." Jon rose to his feet. Something was wrong.

"I meant no offense, Your Grace," Domeric apologized. "From what I've heard, the Lady Margaery is a great beauty."

"Peace, Domeric, it isn't that," Jon told him. "Lord Jorah, follow me. I think I'll need a man with Valyrian steel at my side." Jorah nodded and followed him as he took off towards the disturbance. He could feel anger, fear, and confusion welling up inside him. The urge to snarl. He just hoped he wasn't too late.