Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. So thank you. I forget how this worked in the show, but in the books Bran didn't name his wolf until after he regained consciousness. That's how it is in this story. So "the direwolf" refers to Summer.

Chapter Three: Parting Ways

Ever since Bran's fall their training had intensified. Every morning Jon, Robb and Theon trooped out into the cold; braving the late summer snows they took up live steel against each other in sparing matches that lasted until high noon. They only stopped when hunger, injury or exhaustion physically prevented them from going on. Often, they didn't call it a night until long after dark and the beacons were lit. The sound of steel ringing against steel could still be heard even after the flames were flickering against the falling night.

Something had gone from their sessions now. There was no longer any pretence that this was just a game. The camaraderie that once littered their childhood sparring matches had intensified into something urgent, frantic even. It was as though they were marching off to war next week. Although Robb had not said as much, Jon had more than a sneaking suspicion he was fighting to forget what happened to Bran, to feel like he was doing something to prepare for the worst. At least it was only the quintaine that suffered the brunt of his pent up frustration.

Not even on the eve of Lord Stark's departure did their new regime let up. By the time night fell, Jon was doubled over and gasping for breath, the sweat freezing on his brow. Every muscle in his body ached so much he had dropped his sword in the rushes. All the while, Sir Rodrick delivered a critical rundown of their every move and made suggestions for improvements. But Jon was too tired to listen. As soon as he could move again, he straightened up and reached for the cloak he had left draped over the perimeter wall.

As he shrugged the garment over his aching shoulders, he spotted a man watching the scene from afar. The same man he had spotted on a number of occasions. Tall and broad as a barn door, he usually wore a helm shaped like a dog's head. When he lifted that helm from his head, he revealed a face disfigured and heavily scarred by burns. It caused the man's expression to distort into a permanent scowl of contempt. In an attempt to cover the ruin of his face, his long hair was brushed over to the left. But those few lank strands only succeeded in drawing the eye even more. Just for the briefest of moments, the scarred man met Jon's gaze. Embarrassed at being caught looking, he swiftly averted his eyes and pretended to be struggling with the button at the neck of his cloak.

"Ah, now don't pretend you weren't looking, wolf boy."

The man's voice was a low, mocking growl. Inwardly, Jon flinched at the sound of it. To cover his awkwardness, he bid a quick farewell to Robb and the others before setting off across the yard with his head hung low. To his eternal dismay, his path took him directly in front of the scarred man.

"Did you hear me, boy?"

He sounded angrier now, but Jon kept his head down. "I noticed you Ser; I wasn't looking at you. There is a difference."

Up close, Jon could see the man's full imposing height. His armour was old and battered, bearing scratches from countless battles. The look in his iron grey eyes was malicious.

"I'm no Knight," he spat.

The man's blatant attempts at intimidating him were wearing thin on Jon. He had this from the likes of Roose Bolton in the past and he was no longer a boy. But before he could say anything, Mikken had displayed impeccable timing by stepping out of his forge. He still had his large leather apron and thick gloves on. Sweat was still beading his brow, Jon could see it shining in the dull orange light behind him.

"Is there something I can help you with, Clegane?" asked Mikken. "Otherwise, Jon, I need you in here."

Although grateful to Mikken, the breath caught in Jon's throat as he looked back at the scarred man. Clegane. The name turned his pumping blood to frozen ice. A coldness that actually seeped swiftly through his body. His eyes narrowed as he took a step closer to the scarred man.

"You won't hurt me," he said, his voice a low whisper. "You only kill defenceless women and babies."

The man's face contorted again, twisting the thick layer of scars even more. An odd expression clouded his eyes, but his lips pressed together in white fury.

"Jon!" Mikken called out, firmly. "Get in here now!"

A smile curled at the corner of Jon's lips as he watched Clegane. Even as he retreated, he held the man's gaze in open defiance. He felt the fear, but he would never show it. Not to this monster. Eventually, he turned and passed under Mikken's arm, entering the smoky, hot gloom of the forge.

Inside, the embers glowed bright orange, casting a light over the bulking equipment. Thick shadows formed, falling over the far walls. The heat, after being out in the cold so long, made Jon's face positively glow.

"You sounded like you were goading him," Mikken said, warningly.

Jon had become transfixed by the embers. A long, thin blade was still being forged at the heart of them.

"Not really," he replied, at length. "Just reminding him of what he is. A killer of women and children."

Mikken sighed heavily. "That man is Sandor Clegane, Jon. Not Gregor. They're just brothers."

"Fruits from the same tree," Jon retorted, dismissively. However, the revelation brought with it a stab of sudden guilt, as well as relief. Relief that the man who killed his real brother and sister was not within their walls, after all. Briefly, he considered apologising. But, when he remembered how Clegane had genuinely picked on him for no reason, he realised he would sooner eat horse shit.

With just a laboured eye-roll, Mikken made his disapproval felt. "Anyway, I only brought you in here because your sword really is almost ready. Are you sure this is what you want? It's a little small for actual battle."

Jon watched as Mikken plucked the long, thin blade from the heart of the smouldering coals. It was so hot, it was just a thin strip of molten orange, held up with heavy iron pincers. Mikken cast it a most suspicious look as he carried it to his anvil and started hammering at it. But Jon smiled brightly.

"It's perfect!" he called over the clangour.

It didn't seem to take long, then Mikken plunged the brand new blade into a large vat of cold water. A great hiss sounded as steam was belched up into the air around him. There, Mikken submerged the steel deep in the water and held it for several long minutes.

"You know, Jon, one blow with a longsword like your brother's and this little thing will snap like a dry twig, don't you?" Mikken asked, continuing to submerge the blade. He was frowning at Jon through the gloom, his face an upward glow of orange from the embers. He was also deeply suspect.

Jon grinned ruefully while shuffling his feet. "It was not my intention to mislead you, Mikken. But it's a gift for someone. Someone who is leaving us soon."

"And?" Mikken prompted. "Unless it's a present for the Prince to take back to King's Landing between his shoulder blades?"

Laughter from both of them dissolved the mild tension.

"Don't temp me," Jon retorted, after he composed himself. "But, it's for Arya."

"Oh Jon, Jon, Jon…" Mikken exclaimed on another heavy sigh. "If your father finds out, I have had no knowledge of this! You understand?"

Jon nodded eagerly. "I'll tell father you knew nothing. Which you didn't, until it's all too late. So, it's not even a proper lie, is it?"

"I don't think Lord Stark will quite see it that way," Mikken laughed. "But on your head be it, boy!"

He withdrew the blade, now dark from the fires but unmistakably sword like. It just needed a good session with the whetstone, which he would have time to do himself on the morrow. The blade was long and slender. Once finished properly, it would be deadly to the point. He loved it.

"Thank you, Mikken. Thank you so much. Arya will love it!"

With the final product inspected, Mikken turned to close up the forge for the night. Jon left, coated in sweat from the intense heat, and gratefully sucked in a lungful of clean night air. He had almost forgotten Sandor Clegane, but when he looked around there was no sign of the man anywhere. Given his mistake, Jon was eternally thankful for that. Now, he could sit back in the Hall and enjoy his father and sisters' final night at Winterfell. Them, and half their regular household staff, or so it seemed to Jon.

Only after the last ache had been soothed from his body did Robb climb out of his bath. The skin of his hands as shrivelled and pink. Steam from the hot water clung to him, even as he padded naked across the stone floor of the bath house, to where his robe lay waiting to dry him off. In the days since Bran's fall, he had put up a front that everything was fine. But underneath it all, he still couldn't understand why his father had to go.

Bran still hovered between life and death. Maester Luwin remained as bleak as ever about the young boy's prognosis. His mother was in bits. Never leaving his bedside, not eating, not sleeping. Even the baby, Rickon, detected the change and was scared, confused. All the while, Bran's wolf sat outside the sick room window, endlessly howling his grief into the night. A keening lament that was driving the castle's inhabitants to the brink of distraction. And it was amidst this chaos that Lord Stark was leaving them for a new life in the south. Despite his best efforts to understand, Robb could not suppress the twisting resentment that was snaking through his gut.

By the far wall, a stone basin was filled with refreshingly cool water. He cupped his hands and splashed some on his face, repeating the process twice. It helped revive him after a good hour spent languishing in the heat of the bath. But as soon as he was dried off, there was no more time to waste before heading to the Great Hall for dinner. He had no choice but to be there, given it was also the Baratheon's last night there. That was another thing that annoyed him: the royals staying on despite their situation. If he had to endure another sly look from Jaime Lannister he thought he might run him through while he slept.

His clean clothes stuck to his damp skin as he dressed. A feeling he hated but, mercifully, did not last long. Even his hair dried off quickly, but turned it to a shapeless mess of auburn curls as it did so. Heading straight to the Great Hall, he exchanged pleasantries with his Uncle Benjen and made his way to a seat at the high table. It seemed he was the last to arrive, but no one said anything. As he expected, his mother's seat was empty. Only his father remained, looking lonely without his wife and companion.

Robb and his father exchanged a terse greeting as he settled at his place. Without further ado, he reached for the venison and piled it unceremoniously onto his plate himself. A serving girl filled his cup with wine, but he only nodded his thanks to her. All the while, he was aware of his father glancing sidelong at him, as though wanting to speak. But if he did, he held off and allowed Robb to eat in peace. Even Jon kept his distance as he occupied a seat at a lower table, eating quietly by himself. Robb made a note to himself that, as soon as the last Lannister had been driven from the Castle, he would have Jon moved back to his right hand side and there he would stay. At least until the future was more certain.

Meanwhile, in the background, he could hear his uncle Benjen complaining about having to take Lord Tyrion Lannister back to the Wall. Robb almost choked on his meal, until he realised the Imp was only going for a short visit. He had noticed Jon in deep conversation with Tyrion. A sight that had set his teeth on edge, a discomfiture he had shared only with Theon. Speaking of the Ironborn, even he seemed more tense than usual. He kept to himself mostly, watching events unfold from the side lines.

Once he had eaten enough, Robb had no patience to remain there. He got straight up and left without a word to anyone. But before he had even gone five paces down the passageway outside, he heard his father calling to him. Reluctantly, he stopped and waited for Lord Stark to catch him up.

"I need to speak with you," he said. "Come with me."

Robb soon found himself being led to his father's solar. No candles had been lit in there. Normally, by this hour, Lord Stark was done with the place and the servants left it locked until morning. So he waited until his father had struck a flint and brought some light to the chamber. Only when the candle flames steadied did Robb notice Ice, the Starks ancestral longsword, propped against the back wall.

"You were quiet at the dining table this evening," Lord Stark observed, motioning for him to sit. "I can understand you being angry."

Robb drew a deep, steadying breath. "I'm not angry, father. I just wish there was some other way. Some other way that we could all stay together."

The look in his father's weary grey eyes told him he had struck a nerve. But that, also, there was simply nothing anyone could do. Instantly, guilt crept up on him as it dawned on him how difficult it was for everyone.

"Bran won't die, father," he said, as though that would make everything better.

As though he had heard Robb's sentiments, the wolf began to howl again. Mournful wavering cries reaching the stars. Sometimes Grey Wind, Ghost, Lady, Nymeria and Shaggydog also joined in. Usually late at night, as the castle tried to sleep. Now, their pitiable wailing simply formed part of Winterfell's background noise.

"Whatever happens, he won't be the same, Robb," his father advised. "Nothing will be the same anymore. But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You know that."

"Yes," he nodded. It was something drilled into them from childhood. "I will hold the North, father. I promise you."

They had a similar conversation only a few days ago. But it seemed his father needed a repeat.

"You have a good longsword," said Eddard. "I should know, I had it made myself back in the day."

Robb still had it belted at his hip. He unbuckled it and passed it over to his father. It was almost six foot long and heavy. Ned reached over to take it in his hands, whereupon he studied it closely. There were some nicks along the edge from that day's practise but, otherwise, it was in good shape.

"I'll have to run it over a whetstone," Ned observed, almost to himself.

Robb frowned. "I will take care of it."

Should he have done it as soon as practise ended? He started to worry that his father would be disappointed in him for not keeping the blade permanently in good shape. But the session had run on well after dark and he was hungry and tired. He was about to launch into an explanation, but his father was absorbed in the blade still, no longer paying him the faintest trace of attention.

"I'm sorry, father," he said, uncertainly.

Eddard gave a small start, as though jolted. "What?" he asked, looking back up at Robb. "What for? It's nothing. I'll have the blade honed again in the morning; we're not leaving until noon. It's easy fixed."

Robb let the matter drop. If his father wanted to fix his sword like the old days, he would let him. But Lord Stark did not hand it back, he merely weighed it up in his hands, getting a feel for it again and looking down the length of the steel blade. When he did finally put it down again, he reached for Ice and held it out to Robb.

"Take it," he said, nodding to the Valyrian sword.

It was the most beautiful weapon Robb had ever seen. A blade of the rarest, dragon forged steel. Carefully, he lifted it up. Still sheathed in its scabbard, it weighed twice as much as Robb's blade. Meanwhile, Eddard placed a hand on his shoulder. Unless Robb was much mistaken, there was almost a tear in his old, grey eyes.

"There you go son," he said. "Ice is yours now."

Dumbstruck, Robb almost dropped it. "What?" he spluttered, steadying his grip just in time.

Lord Stark sat back down again. "It is our ancestral Greatsword. It is for the defence of Winterfell and of the North. And that is your role now, son. So take it and use it wisely, at least until I return."

A temporary loan made more sense, but Robb was still struck dumb. He shook his head, even though merely holding such a sacred blade in his hands made him feel twenty foot tall. But, his father waved his protestations away and picked up Robb's sword again.

"It'll be nice to have this back," said Eddard. "This got me through the first half of Robert's Rebellion and it'll serve just as well in the south." He paused and looked at him again. "Now, no more protests. Run along and make Jon jealous. Then go to bed: tomorrow will be a long day."

Still reeling, Robb got to his feet and thanked his father. Outside in the corridor, he raised the blade and unsheathed it just enough to show the pure, Valyrian steel. He watched how it caught the dancing light of the torches set along the walls. A thrill of excitement coursed through him from head to toe.

On the morning of Lord Stark's departure, Jon waited for him outside his chamber. Outside, the royal family were already beginning to trickle through the gates. Sandor Clegane, he was relieved to see, among them. His Uncle Benjen had already gone, taking Tyrion Lannister with him. Jon grinned as he recalled the Imp slapping Joffrey after the Prince of Petulance had tried to refuse paying his respects to Lady Stark after Bran's fall. But the Imp was the only one of the lot he was sorry to see the back of.

"Father," he said, as Lord Stark appeared round the corner.

He looked rushed and hurried. "Jon, I don't have long. I'm sorry."

Inside Jon's chamber, Lord Stark pulled him into a brief hug. Parting again, he held Jon's face in his hands.

"There's no more time," he said, sounding apologetic. "But remember this: if there's any trouble, you're to head North for the Wall and your Uncle Benjen. You'll be protected there until it's safe for you to come south again. If the Wall is not an option, you're to head to the Neck and seek out Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch and he will protect you. Will you remember that? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Howland Reed was the only person outside the Stark family who knew truth and had known it from the start. With difficulty, Jon nodded. He had no intention of running away and hiding anywhere, however. "I understand."

To further assure his father, Jon noted both place names on a scrap of parchment. Only the names, with no reasons committed to paper. The Wall. Greywater Watch.

It seemed to Jon as though Winterfell had suddenly become a ghost town. That night, he looked out of his window and surveyed the silent, empty yards. Outside his chamber door, the passageways and galleries were still and silent as the crypt. With a cold shiver of dread, he remembered the dreams that once plagued his childhood. Dreams of a deserted castle and stables full of bones; that eerie voice in his head, compelling him to descend into the blackest depths of the crypts. Even now, as he breached his own adulthood, he had to mentally shake himself down to rid himself of the feeling.

Outside, the nameless wolf howled the night away. With the castle so empty, it only made the Direwolf's keening seem all the louder. To make himself feel useful, Jon left his room to go and shush the wolf up, or lock him in a kennel were he wouldn't disturb Lady Stark. But when he got there, the direwolf bared his teeth and growled menacingly whenever he tried to approach. Giving it up as a bad job, he returned to his chamber. Finding it no longer empty.

"Where's Greywater Watch?" Theon asked, holding the scrap of parchment in his fingers.

Jon scowled. "Who let you in here? Don't go through my things!"

He tried to take it back, but Theon snatched his hand away. "What's the big secret, Snow?"

Recognising the fact that Theon was merely trying to get a rise out of him, Jon held back and refused to give him the satisfaction. Even when Theon studied the parchment again.

"Oh, and the Wall. What's for you at the Wall?"

"My Uncle, you idiot," he retorted, finally grabbing the parchment. "Now what do you want?"

Outside, all of the direwolves now howled. It caused Jon to reflect on how badly he had not succeeded in silencing Bran's noisy wolf. Maybe Ghost, Shaggydog and Grey Wind were missing Lady and Nymeria, too. But the noise they made was unlike anything Jon had heard them make before. Meanwhile, Theon continued to be a pain in the arse.

"Robb's been looking for you, which is strange."

"How so?" Jon asked, not caring for his games.

"Well, you two seem to spend so much time together these days," replied Theon. "Your heads together talking in hushed tones. Don't think I haven't noticed you two falling silent whenever I walk into the room."

If Robb really was looking for him, Jon certainly did not have time for this.

"It's all in your head," he snapped. "Now leave me be. I'll go to Robb as soon as you're not snooping through my things."

Theon hesitated. For one agonising moment Jon thought he was going to protest further. Instead, he merely smirked his smug smirk and backed out of the room. All the while, fixing Jon with a calculating, steely look in his eye. Alone with the sound of howling wolves, Jon turned back to the rear of the room where his sable was draped over a chair. He picked it up and threw it over his shoulders, looking up in time to see the first tongues of flame licking the night sky. In a panic he froze, staring out of the window as though transfixed as the library of Winterfell suddenly blazed. The warning bells pealed out, cutting over the howls, before he had gathered his wits and started running to the source of the blaze.

Thank you again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a moment to spare.

I know Eddard handing over Ice was a touch out of character, but I couldn't bear to have Ice lost and melted down as per canon. Also, apologies to everyone suggesting ships to me. The most shipping in this story will be actual naval fleets joining the war. Unless you count Robb and Ice. I definitely ship Robb and Ice. They belong together and make a great couple. Anyway, more coming next Sunday. Thanks again!