Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it really means a lot. Thank you.

For anyone reading both this and Before the Dawn: the mirroring of chapters is entirely unintentional. Sorry about that!

Chapter Six: Troubles in the Ranks

Quite understandably, Bran had been miserable since he came round from his coma to find himself crippled. Like the others, Jon could only look on helplessly as his little brother slipped further into a morass of despondency. All their hopes were pinned on the plans for the especially adapted saddle that Lord Tyrion Lannister had left with them. Robb dismissed it before he had even seen it; Theon blindly agreed with Robb without even questioning it. Only Maester Luwin shared his optimism.

When the day came for them to finally test it out, Jon was up early and straight out into the yard. Hodor was already there, with Bran on his back. Despite their misgivings, Robb and Theon were already saddled and gearing up to go. Surprised they had started without him, Jon looked up at them, taking them in each in turn and wondering why they hadn't woken him sooner. Theon himself had told him they were riding out at mid-morn.

"Hold up and wait for me," he said, thinking little of it. "I want to come with you."

"We're leaving now," replied Robb, tersely. He didn't even look at Jon; instead studying the tips of his riding gloves intently.

Jon glanced over at Bran, who was still being strapped into the special saddle. It would take at least another five minutes to get him secured in that contraption. More than enough time for Jon to get on his own horse. But when Robb noticed him looking, he second guessed what he was thinking.

"I need you to stay here and look after the Castle with Maester Luwin."

The obvious brush-off left Jon reeling.

"But you're taking him!" he retorted, gesturing dismissively to Theon. The Ironborn smirked back at him from the top of his horse; irritating Jon intensely. "Mind you, you can't leave an Ironborn in charge of a castle. They'll loot anything that's not nailed down."

With that icy parting shot, Jon was about to turn and trudge away in high dudgeon. But Robb's voice called him back, cold and stern as though he were rebuking an errant pup.

"You will apologise to Lord Theon right away."

Jon whipped round, looking back at his brother defiantly. "Will I, indeed?"

With that, he stalked away. Not even Bran calling out to him could tempt Jon back and he even pushed past Maester Luwin on his way. He didn't even trust himself to look back at Theon Greyjoy and see, with his own two eyes, the look of smug satisfaction on his face. In that moment, he would have given anything to be able to strike him down.

Under any other circumstances, the mood he was in would have taken him to the library. A place where he could simmer down without anyone bothering him. But what was left of his favoured place of solitude was still smouldering in the cold winter air. He shot a dark glance at it as he passed, cursing the catspaw who sneaked into their home and turned their lives upside down.

Wanting to be with his mother, he entered the crypts. Just in time to see Robb, Theon and Bran riding out of the castle gates with Hodor lumbering behind them. He paused in the doorway, keeping a watchful eye on Bran. Seeing his little brother restored to a semblance of independence was enough to raise his spirits. But as soon as they were out of sight without him, he slumped back down and sank into the shadows of the crypts.

The lantern he took from the entrance gave off only an unsteady light. A bug was trapped inside, crawling up the inside pane of glass and casting a strange, oblong shadow across the floor. At least I'm not completely alone, he thought to himself wryly.

He followed the familiar pathway between the tombs. By now, he knew every stone faced Stark he passed and could recite them in both order and manner of death. He knew which ones had swords that had rusted away to just a stain on the granite and he knew every crack in the paving. Sometimes, he felt as though these crypts – that once scared him half to death – had become a second home.

When he reached his mother, he could see that King Robert's floral offering was still perched in the palms of her hands. Wilted and brown now, it was no longer possible to tell what type of flowers they were and he kicked himself for bringing none of his own to replace them. He turned his living gaze to her stone one, his expression full of regret.

"I'm sorry," he told her, touching her face.

He glanced left and right, to his uncle and grandfather. Brandon's sword still looked brand new and he wondered whether his father had been sharpening it in his spare time. Cautiously, he reached out and touched the edge of the blade, running the pad of his forefinger along it. Wincing when the edge bit through the skin and drew blood.

Just then, the sound of metal clinking resonated through the chamber of the crypts. Wiping the blood on his grey woollen jacket, he looked about for the source of the noise. As it drew closer, it sounded like chains. A brief and childish fear reared up inside him; of waking ghosts by touching their stuff. But a few moments later, Maester Luwin appeared bearing another lantern. He held it up high so the shadows swung across the walls as it swayed from side to side.

"Maester, you startled me," he said, stepping away from his mother's tomb.

Luwin smiled kindly. "Forgive me, Lord Stark. But I thought you would be down here."

The only people in Winterfell who knew his parentage were Lord and Lady Stark and Robb. Not a single other soul had been entrusted with the knowledge. Not even Luwin and the fact that he had noticed Jon's increased visits made his nerves jar.

"I like to look," he said, almost defensively. "At my uncle and grandfather. And the others."

Luwin came to a halt right in front of him and set the lantern down. The aging Maester looked almost cadaverous in the pale yellow light. His sunken cheeks more hollow than ever. So insubstantial looking that Jon wondered how he kept his head up with that large metal chain around his neck. Every time he moved, it creaked and clanked the links together. Never had it been so noticeable than down in the resonant tombs. But when he spoke, his tone was as warm as ever.

"What happened this morning?" he asked, leaning against Lord Rickard's stone direwolf. "Between yourself and Robb, I mean."

Jon cast down his gaze towards the toe caps of his boots and shrugged. "I wish I knew. He seemed angry with me and I don't know why. But I think Theon has been telling him tales about me. He's always trying to stir up trouble."

Luwin listened patiently, considering what he had said. Jon liked that about the Maester: he always considered what people were saying, even if it was patently ludicrous.

"I don't think you helped matters by being so sullen," he replied, at length. "Has the transition been hard for you?"

Not knowing what he meant, Jon frowned. He was also more than a little stung at being accused of sullenness. "What transition?"

"The transition Robb has made from being your brother to being your lord," explained Luwin. "When he asked you to apologise-"

"He didn't ask; he ordered!" Jon cut in, growing defensive again.

"And he is entitled to do so, Jon. You're duty bound to do as he says now."

It was only a few weeks passed that Robb was offering to support his claim to the Iron Throne. Suddenly, Jon wished more than ever that he could shout it from the rooftops. But he could not and homed in again on Theon.

"Greyjoy saw me with Lord Tyrion and he said he was going to tell Robb," he countered. "That's what this is. It's Theon making trouble between us."

Luwin sighed deeply in resignation. "Be that as it may, you would have been better to apologise as ordered. Now all you've done is gifted Theon more grievances to use against you."

Realising the truth of what Luwin was saying, Jon did not answer. He was in no mood to admit that he might have been wrong. In the event, Luwin seemed to take his silence as agreement and allowed the matter to drop. Jon wasn't about to give up so easily, however.

"Why is Theon even still here? Surely Balon can be trusted now and we can just send Theon back," he said, sounding hopeful. The thought of living with that smirk forever made him want to cry.

Luwin was not so enthused by the idea. "I'm afraid not, Jon. So learn to live with him."

He tried to tell himself that, had he gone to the Wall, he would have been living with worse than Theon Greyjoy. But the argument was redundant. Sick of discussing the issue, he turned to study his mother's tomb again. He could still see where his father had dug out Rhaegar's harp and his mother's wedding cloak. Sad relics of their isolated wedding, attended by no one except witnesses who were also cold in their graves. He didn't notice how Luwin was studying him, as he studied the crypts.

"The defining thing about us Maesters is that we are rather clever," he said, sagely.

"I suppose it is," Jon concurred. "Why do you say so?"

A small smile curled at the edge of the Maester's lips. "I remember when you were taken and how, when you were brought back, Lady Stark had suddenly accepted you into her life-"

"It was guilt," Jon interjected, throwing him off the scent. "That was all. She caused me to run away and then she blamed herself for Lord Bolton finding me."

But Luwin continued as though he hadn't said a thing. "She became almost like a step-mother and, at the same time, you stopped asking about your birth mother. That, and you suddenly started spending a lot of time down here, among the dead."

Jon felt the first vibrations of having been rumbled. "Maester's are too clever for their own good."

Luwin laughed, something Jon had never heard him do before.

"I suppose we are!"

The silence that followed was not as tense as it could have been. But Jon was aware of Luwin's penetrative gaze boring right through his skull. It was a measured and calculating look, as though his very thoughts were being read. Like his mind was an open book.

"Rhaegar Targaryen," he said.

It was a statement of fact, a deduction he had made. But Jon nodded. "He was not a rapist. She went of her own free will, Maester. They were secretly married."

He held up his hands defensively. "It's all right, Jon. Most people disbelieve that story anyway. It's something King Robert tells himself so he feels better at nights when he's haunted by the ghosts of Elia and her babes."

Jon fixed him with a quizzical look. "Maester, did you know all along?"

Luwin shook his head. "No. I suspected Lord Stark was not your father and it always did baffle me why he could not just say your mother's name. Well, it all makes sense now."

Jon hesitated a moment before asking his next question. It was one that made him feel timid and small. Like he was blindly groping his way through an intricate maze. But he held the Maester's piercing gaze and asked:

"What should I do? You can advise me as a Stark of Winterfell and I need your advice now. What should I do with this knowledge? Robb knows and has already offered to support my claim to the Iron Throne, should it come to that. But I … I never could have imagined myself as King. Even if I have the right, I don't know if I could or should or would want to."

It made him dizzy. It almost made him want to be the Bastard of Winterfell again, just for the beautiful simplicity of that former life. Maester Luwin's brow knotted, making the wrinkles on his brow so much deeper. He seemed troubled, almost disturbed. Just as Jon was about to apologise for asking such an unanswerable question, however, the Maester's face slackened again. His eyes cleared and he almost smiled.

"It's simple, Jon," he answered. "You must do as you will. King Robert has established peace and the realm is prosperous."

"I would never rise against Robert," he quickly pointed out. "But Joffrey. Robb detests him and said he will refuse to bend the knee to him."

"Robb may be your Lord, but you mustn't let him pull you into a needless fight with the crown," Luwin advised. "I oversaw your education myself and you're a clever boy, Jon. But you were taught nothing of running a Kingdom. Joffrey has, and still is, being tutored for just that. He will grow up and things will change. And in your heart of hearts, I don't think you want it."

He didn't. He wanted to own a castle of his own and establish his own family as a cadet branch of the Starks, preferably with a northern girl as his wife.

"No. I want to stay here and fight for Robb, among other things," he said, picking up his lantern. He noticed that the bug had died in the heat from the candle.

Luwin smiled approvingly. "Please try and make peace with Theon Greyjoy. Someone in your delicate position cannot afford to have enemies. Especially not ones with a family as fractious as the Greyjoys."

He was right, of course. But Jon merely nodded. "I'll try."

Maester Luwin shivered inside his roughspun tunic. A sign that they had been lingering in the cold and dark for too long. Picking up both their lanterns, Jon led the way back outside.

"If ever you want to speak with a man who knew your birth father well, my colleague at Castle Black was his great uncle. Aemon Targaryen. He's old, but you could still seek him out," Luwin said as they reached the stairwell.

"I never knew that!" Jon retorted.

"Speaking to him may just help you adjust … as well as put some distance between yourself and Theon Greyjoy," Luwin added. "Give it some thought. I'm sure Robb would let you go, seeing as he knows the situation."

After an offer to prepare tea that Luwin gratefully accepted, Jon continued their outbound journey. Emerging blinking into the bitter cold day, they paused for a deep breath of clean air. But as he scanned the horizon, he caught sight of five figures rushing towards the portcullis. Robb, Theon, Bran on Hodor's back and a woman in rough attire he had never seen before in his life.

"Who's that?" he asked, looking up at the Maester.

It was something not even the Maester from the Citadel could answer.

Catelyn and Ser Rodrick had tarried for a week at King's Landing. She had caught up with the girls and stayed long enough to witness the opening of the Tourney of the Hand. Such splendours she had not seen since she was last at Court, but she found them just as tedious. Preening knights in gold and silver plated armour who had not seen a single moment's real combat. Maidens swooning and drunken musicians making a discordant racket.

With no wish to hang around, she prepared to leave the same morning the charade began. But, before they departed, she wanted one more meeting with Eddard. She had no idea when they would see each other again and the girls were being looked after by Septa Mordane.

"It's not much of a Hand's Tourney if the Hand is absent," she observed, walking into Ned's tower rooms.

He was still working behind his desk. But when he looked up, he smiled warmly. "I've already told Baelish and the others that the Hand wants nothing to do with it."

This was a rare occasion on which she found her husband's northern grimness truly endearing. When he rose to his feet, she wrapped her arms around his middle, holding him tight. Parting ways was always difficult. Now it was more so.

"I will miss you so much," she said, tremulously. Even with his arms around her, strong and unyielding, it wasn't quite as secure as it once was. "I know the boys all miss you, too."

The smile he raised was weak and pained. "Would that we could all be together again. Would that it be soon, at least."

Catelyn let her face rest in the crook of his shoulder, breathing in his scent for one last time. The journey ahead of her was long and fraught. On land, along the King's Road and all the way to the Eerie. Then to the Riverlands to visit her father and search for two lost direwolves. Composing herself, she pressed her lips to his and kissed him deeply.

"I know not what I would have done without you, all these years," said Ned as they broke apart. "I love you so much."

She recalled those early days, after the war when he had to settle to a life of duty he was hardly prepared for. He looked like he had wandered off a pier and only just noticed the ground giving way beneath him. Startled and floundering.

"And I love you, until the day I die," she answered, kissing him again.

But once that was done, she had to rip off the bindings and walking away. No drawing it out, no lingering farewells that eroded their resolve. There was just time for last hug and kiss with Arya and Sansa before she had to meet Ser Rodrick. When they did leave, Catelyn leaned from her carriage window as they passed the Tower of the Hand and looked up at his window. When she met his gaze, she kissed the palm of her hand and blew it up to him. With a grin on his face, he made a fist as he pretended to catch it. She watched, with tears standing in her eyes, as he reclined from view, hand raised in a solemn gesture of farewell.

Startled by the knock at his door, Robb almost dropped the quill he was holding. "Enter," he called out, replacing it in the inkwell. It was too late; he had already blotted his copy book.

Jon appeared round the door, peering at first but then entering properly. He sat at the opposite side of the desk which still felt oddly formal to him. Only slowly was he adapting to being Lord of Winterfell and losing some of the familiarity he had with those around him. But, the memory of that morning came back to him, bringing with it the lingering resentment.

"How am I supposed to be respected as Lord of Winterfell when people flagrantly ignore my commands?" he asked, tersely.

Jon looked back at him askance. "I'm still your brother, Robb."

"All the more reason!" he countered. "And it's not the first time, is it. Theon told me all about your private meetings with the Imp."

They drank together. They talked about him and his running of Winterfell. He had even been told that Jon was making excuses for his rejection of Lannister – despite everything that had happened. The revelations had left him embarrassed and disappointed. Now he wanted to hear Jon's side of the story and was privately glad that he came here. But Jon pointedly looked back at him.

"Lord Tyrion is a decent man, Robb," he said, yet again. "He wants to know what happened to Bran as much as we do. And you saw for yourself how that saddle worked. It wasn't Tyrion's fault you got attacked by Wildlings."

Robb sighed heavily, kneading at a knot of tension in his temples. Some days, he was left with pounding headaches after being up all night balancing the books. Now he had to work their hostage, Osha, into the equations. To cap it all, two men he regarded as brothers were at each other's throats and he felt like he was being pushed and pulled between them both.

"I did not want that man in my halls," he said, exasperated. "Why could you not just respect my wishes?"

"Because I thought you were making a mistake," Jon replied.

"Even if I am, that is my business," he shot back. "You have no right to gainsay me and I would thank you if you stopped."

Jon's eyes widened, affronted and half-way between standing up again. "You have to realise that your mistakes now affect us all, Robb."

"You think I don't know that? But if there were consequences, I would have dealt with them myself. You meddled and all Theon did was tell me. I'm glad he did because you were in no hurry to do it."

Robb drew back and made a conscious effort to relax by letting his shoulders drop. He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves and letting it soothe him. Theon and Jon at each other's throats was one thing. But him and Jon, as well as Jon and Theon bickering was even worse.

"I was just showing the man some friendship, Robb," said Jon, his tone carefully measured. "I don't see what I did so wrong-"

"The Lannisters are our enemies!" Robb snapped, all his earlier efforts at relaxation wasted. "You, essentially, were breaking bread with people who have done us harm."

Jon looked as though he were about to argue back, but then changed his mind. He slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes, rubbing the space between his eyes. It looked as though Robb's wasn't the only sore head in the room.

"If that's how you want to view it then fine. But I didn't come here for a scolding," he eventually said. "I only came to tell you that I'm going to Castle Black-"

"Oh, not this again!" Robb cut in, angrily. "Things aren't going your way so you're skulking off to take the black. You can't keep doing this, Jon. Just say sorry to Theon and stay put, where I commanded you to be."

The tension mounted in the silence that fell. All the while, Jon was looking dark and mutinous. Robb defied him to carry on sulking. Each silently challenging the other to make a move. Eventually, Jon broke.

"If you had let me finish," he began. "But look, I have a relative there who can help me. I'll only be gone for a few months at most. Then I'll be straight back here."

Despite his anger, Robb breathed a sigh of relief. Under any other circumstances, he would have apologised.

"I know uncle Benjen would be happy to see you-"

"It's not him," Jon cut in, curtly.

Now his curiosity was stirred. Robb fixed his gaze on Jon, trying to work out who could be up there that he needed to speak with so badly.

"Aemon Targaryen; Rhaegar's great uncle, or something like that. Luwin told me about him," said Jon, filling in the blank for him. "Robb, please let me go. If I don't speak to him soon, I may never get the chance at all and he's the only Targaryen relative I have who knew my father. I promise I'll follow your every command to the letter when I get back. I'll even kiss Theon's arse if you want me to."

Robb's anger dissipated fast. "There's no need to go that far, brother," he said, trying to laugh. "When will you leave?"

"As soon as I can," he replied, also sounding more composed. "And I will return as soon as I can."

"I'll hold you to that." Robb got to his feet and rounded the table. When Jon also stood up, he pulled him into a bear hug. Brief and firm. "I can't have you and Theon fighting like shadowcats in heat. I'm being torn between the two of you and I can't stand it."

Guilt coloured Jon's face, his gaze dropping as it always did when he was in a spot of bother. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I really am."

But Robb only sighed again, in resignation. "Fuck this," he cursed. "Let's go and drink for the rest of the night and to the seven hells with everything else!"

Although reluctant at first, Jon soon perked up at the suggestion. "Best idea you've ever had, brother. Come on, we're wasting time."

With that, they left. No problems truly resolved, but at least put on hold. It was the best he could have hoped for.

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