Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story. Especially to those who have taken time to review. Thank you!

Also, special thanks to Mx4 for the advice on Targaryen swords.

Chapter Eight: The Star of the Sea

Although it had only been a matter of months since Ghost became Jon's companion, he missed his direwolf acutely. So much so that on the night of his arrival at Castle Black, Jon dreamed of him. He dreamed he was curled up by the fire in Robb's solar, pining for himself and lifting his head expectantly every time the door opened. Inevitably, it would be Robb or Theon walking in and his head dropped back to his paws, dejected and feeling abandoned. Robb scratched his ears and made soothing noises, he even brought Grey Wind in so they could play together. But nothing worked and his listless torpor continued until Jon awoke, confused and disconcerted.

Strange dream, he thought to himself and wasted no time in slipping back into a deep sleep. When he opened his eyes again, there was a woman of extraordinary beauty standing before a weirwood tree. It wasn't Winterfell's weirwood; this was somewhere out in the open snow. But it was the woman who had his full attention, in her gown of ivory satin and lace. A cloth of silver cloak was draped around her shoulders. She wore her silver hair down to her waist in thick tresses; as he drew closer he could see her eyes were mismatched – one blue and one green. A defect she embraced by wearing about her neck a heavy chain of blue sapphires and green emeralds. The gems were dazzling in the bright white light; they glittered as her chest rose and fell with her breathing.

She extended one hand towards him, beckoning him closer. "We've been waiting for you, Jaehaerys. But you're not the one we want."

When she moved, her hair swung gently about her hips. Her lips were parted as she studied him closely through those mismatched eyes. Like Tyrion Lannister, he thought to himself. It was enough to make her seem a little less mesmerizingly beautiful.

"So why are you waiting for me?" he could not help but ask.

He realised he was still in his night things. A linen shirt he'd worn in the day that reached a few inches above his knees. Suddenly, he felt painfully self-conscious. But when a large, dark raven with three eyes flapped out of nowhere, Jon stumbled back in a panic, remembering his last dream in which it attacked him. This time, however, the raven settled on the woman's shoulder; coal black feathers stark against her silver hair. It still had three disconcerting eyes.

"We still need you, but there is one of your number who is much more important to us," she explained, opaquely. "When the time is right, you must not try to stop him coming to us."

Jon hoped his smile was a self-effacing one. "I know my place, my lady." Noting her use of 'us', he looked again at the three-eyed raven. "Are you including the bird in that?"

The woman's expression did not waver in the face of his scepticism. She continued, as she did at all times, to look upon Jon as though he were something ethereal from far away.

"Take my hand," she said, extending her arm further. "Take it."

Jon looked at it suspiciously before complying. When their skin made contact, she gripped him and pulled him up a small snowy hill, closer to the weirwood. Together, they stood beneath its ruby boughs and sheltered from the drifting snow. So close together, he could feel a renewed intensity from her gaze, she was thoroughly searching him. Had his mind become an open book, to be perused at leisure?

"Soon, you will have a choice to make," she said, softly and earnestly. "A choice between the family you have always known and the family you didn't even know existed. You hold in your hands a balance so delicate it is as though your very fingers are the blades of the finest knives. Kingdoms will rise and fall based on the decision you make."

Jon's breath hitched in his throat as a tremor of fear gripped him, but he held her gaze defiantly. Not even the three-eyed raven flinched. He drew a deep breath and tried to inject some steel in his tone: "I am a Stark of Winterfell, I have only one family-"

"So why are you here?" she asked. "You're a Stark of Winterfell out of mere convenience-"

"You don't know anything about me!" he countered, angry at her presumption.

"Just because you have never seen me before, doesn't mean I haven't been watching you," she replied, unmoved. "Soon, the choice will come and your heart will be torn in two."

Jon heaved a sigh. "So what should I do?" he asked, playing along in hope that she would let him go.

"Only you can decide that," she said. "But know this: Jon Snow must die and Jaehaerys Targaryen must be born. Only then can this realm be healed."

With that, she tried to turn away. "Remember this place. There's a secret here and you will need it in the not-too-distant future."

"Wait!" Jon called after her. "At least tell me who you are!"

She looked back over her shoulder and smiled. "Oh, don't worry. We will meet again."

Then, she covered his eyes with her hand and whispered in his ear something he could not make out. With a heavy backwards shove, he stumbled into the darkness and only awoke again back in his ante-chamber at Castle Black. Breathing heavily, he took a long moment to compose himself before swinging his legs out of the cot bed Sam Tarly had made up for him. It was in an ante-chamber just off his great uncle's main residence. Close at hand but in a private space. When he did stand again, he crossed to the only window in the chamber and looked out over the courtyard, as though the mystery woman might be out there, looking back at him. But only the shadows of a fading night met his gaze.

Later that morning, Samwell Tarly came to take Maester Aemon to meet with the Lord Commander. Jon was on his own, reading through his father's letters and nibbling at a breakfast that was growing rapidly cold as the letters took up his concentration. His troubled night's sleep was just that: inconsequential dreams that were like the wind; just blowing through his restless mind.

Now that he had his first full day of letter reading ahead of him, his mind was fully focused. Sometimes, they dealt with the trivial and mundane – cures for minor ailments or book recommendations. They discussed history and politics, both seemed disheartened by the spiralling madness of King Aerys II. Others, however, dealt with matters of the esoteric: prophesies and predictions for the future. The sort of things stout northerners such as himself scoffed at. Another letter mentioned an item of great importance that Aemon was sheltering, or had sheltered at some point. The only frustrating thing was that he didn't have Aemon's replies so was only getting half the story. They were clues tantalising and infuriating in equal measure, Jon soon found. However, he set these curious letters aside intending to ask Aemon for more information as soon as he returned.

"Hello there, what are you reading?"

Sam's voice startled Jon out of his concentration. "Seven hells, Sam. You scared me!"

"Sorry," he replied. Jon could see he was carrying thick scrolls of blank parchment. "But Maester Aemon told me to come in and see if you needed a hand. He said you might need assistance with making copies of some old letters because you're researching for a book about the Targaryens."

Jon was impressed with the cover story. It made him look supremely academic. "That's right," he replied, eagerly. "But I don't think there's anything you can do just yet. I need to speak with the Maester first."

The boy looked dejected at that, so Jon hastily pulled out another chair that was set around his table in the library.

"But I wouldn't mind the company," he said, by way of discreet invitation. "That is if you're not needed out in the drill yard."

Sam looked immensely relieved as he allowed his parchments to fall to the table. "Not at all, Lord Stark."

They lapsed into amiable chatter as Jon sorted through his letters. In the sunlight spilling through the widow behind him, he could see that Sam was sporting fresh cuts and bruises. Inwardly, he found himself wondering whether the other boys wouldn't kill this one before too long. He said ignored the insults, but no one could ignore blows raining down on them from several different people at once. Although he felt that Sam wouldn't want his pity, it stirred in Jon anyway.

"Have you told Lord Commander Mormont what they're doing to you?" he blurted out, unable to contain it any longer. Even if Sam pretended it wasn't happening, Jon would not.

"What?" he asked. "You mean the fights? I doubt there's much he can do. Anyway, I just ignore it. There's plenty of books in this library and that sees me right."

"But don't you fight back?" he asked, exasperated.

Sam shrugged. "How? I'm useless with a sword."

Jon was about to give up, when an idea hit. He put his letters back in their box and closed the lid. "Come with me," he said. "I'll teach you while I'm waiting for Maester Aemon to return."

He had it on good authority that the library was the most underused building in the whole of Castle Black. The vast majority of recruits, these days, were illiterate anyway. But still, Jon hid the box on the nearest shelf before following a highly reluctant Sam outside. Moments later, when they were taking up swords and jeering crowd soon gathered around to watch. Jon shot them all a scathing look before issuing the first instruction; determined to make Sam a fighter.

"I'm going to attack and you need to block like this," he said, demonstrating the move first. Then, he attacked. Sam panicked and dropped his wooden sparring sword, where it splashed into a half-frozen muddy puddle and Jon accidentally bashed him on the head with his own weapon. With a sigh, he bore the wall of jeers from the onlookers with as much grace as he could muster.

"Well, all right. Let's try that again, shall we?" he suggested, undeterred.

Sam only whimpered in response.

Catelyn remained at her father's bedside for as long as she could. It was left to Rodrick to organise a minor search for Sansa and Arya's wolves, but inwardly she had already vowed to get them dogs instead. Within days of her arrival, both she and Edmure had written to Lysa and begged her to come down and see Lord Hoster before it was too late. Now, weeks had passed and Lysa's continued silence was almost deafening. If Lysa could not even bother herself to come see their dying father, Catelyn would not be rushing to the Eerie any time soon.

Occasionally, her father stirred. 'Wait for me, little Cat…' she could hear him still. She could remember watching him from the very same window in this very same chamber, as he rode out to war or to counsel. And always she waited; faithful and dutiful, willing him home safe. Now he was a restless wisp; a shadow of towering man he once was. Worse, he was fading even as she watched. Only summoning enough strength to call out nonsense in his endless slumbers.

"Father…" she said, periodically.

Some part of her still hoped the word might reach him through the layers of age and fragility. But he never once showed signs of recognition.

"I can't stay any longer," she said, voice tremulous with emotion. "I have to go home; to my children."

Bran woke up months ago and she had not seen him. Robb was as good as alone and needed her. Rickon had probably forgotten what she even looked like. Now her father was dying and her heart was torn between here and the north. But, as with everything, her children won out.

"Sister."

Edmure's voice jolted her out of her reverie. She looked up just as he stepped quietly into the chamber. Once more, he was wringing his cap in his hands and looking painfully out of place. Still, he sat down on the opposite side of the bed to her and met her gaze.

"Uncle Brynden has arrived," he informed her. "But he has not brought Lysa with him. She is refusing to leave the Eerie."

Half of her wanted to rejoice at Brynden's arrival; the other half sank in disappointment over Lysa.

"Fine. On her conscience be it," she said. "I've tarried here too long, Edmure. It's been almost a month and I need to get back to Winterfell."

Edmure buried his face in his hands, raking his fingers through his auburn hair in agitation. "Can't you visit Lysa? It's as good as on your way home. Just make sure she's all right."

"I cannot," she said, adamantly. "At least, not until I have seen my children."

Edmure sighed deeply, but realised there was little he could say to change her mind at this stage. He turned his eyes to their father, who slept on oblivious to the anguish of his children. Both of them started at a knock on the door. A moment later, their Maester stepped in and removed a scroll of parchment from his sleeve, just as Luwin always did.

"From King's Landing, my lord," he said, passing it to Edmure.

Catelyn's heart leapt. "Is there news of Ned, brother?"

"Let's see," he replied, dismissing the Maester with a nod. Then, he read the letter through in silence. "It seems our King has gotten into a fight with a boar. He's injured. Oh look, it's actually from Ned. But he doesn't say anything else."

"Robert's an idiot!" Catelyn said, almost laughing. "You should have seen him, Edmure. A drunken letch."

Edmure grinned. "That's no way to speak of your King."

Cat rolled her eyes. "Well, Ned better take care of him or I'll be hanged for treason."

At least King Robert's misfortunes gave her cause to smile. A smile that soon faded as she turned back to her father.

"I don't understand. Did my father have me just so I could make up the third head of his house sigil? All the dragons are dead so it doesn't matter if they have one head or ten!" Jon was becoming exasperated with his father's prophesising. He was back in Maester Aemon's chambers two weeks after his arrival and still getting his head around the prophesies. They were just words. Words that could be twisted.

Aemon was sitting on the opposite side of the table, leaning towards the nearby fire. "Don't you see? Your mother was chosen for more than just her beauty. It was her blood and her breeding."

He made Lyanna sound like a brood mare, but Jon let it slide. "And mine is the song of ice and fire," he said, recalling the words of one letter. "But he freely admitted saying the same thing about Aegon. We can't all be the songs of ice and fire, or the promised princes or the third heads of the dragon."

Now, he failed to see how it even mattered anymore. Rhaenys and Aegon were dead and the dragon was back to having just the one head. Tired, he rubbed his eyes and reached for a goblet of wine.

"Rhaegar was not infallible, Jon," said Aemon. "Maybe he got it wrong. He has a sister and brother still living: Daenerys and Viserys. They are in the Free Cities."

Jon had almost forgotten about them. He looked over the rim of his goblet as he sipped deeply. The family he never knew he had. His aunt and uncle, he and Aemon, all making the last blood of the dragon.

"I think you need to join them," Aemon added. "Together, you make three. You are Rhaegar's surviving heir; you are the Prince that was Promised: to them. Maybe that was something your father got right, even though he had misinterpreted the rest."

Jon felt his grip on the stem of the goblet tighten, turning his knuckles white. "There is nothing special about me," he said, plaintively. "I have nothing to offer, and I would that I could. But I have no army, nor money; not so much as a spare sword."

Aemon lapsed into one of his thoughtful silences and Jon did not mind. He turned his gaze to the window overlooking the yard where the last drills were being held. Two weeks of careful training and now even Sam Tarly was at least raising a shield to defend himself. Jon had to admit defeat on that front too: poor Sam would never be a warrior. But, besides Aemon, he was Jon's favourite person at Castle Black. A train of thought that brought him round to Benjen, who still had not returned from his ranging.

"What you have to offer is more than arms or victuals," Aemon said, breaking the silence. "It is support of an altogether different kind."

"The first night I came here, I dreamt I met a woman by a weirwood tree and she told me I would have to choose between my family and the family I never knew existed," he said, quietly. "She said that the realm would not be healed until I made that decision but wouldn't tell me what the right answer was."

He half expected to be laughed at. But Aemon did no such thing. So Jon went on to describe her as he recalled her distinctive Targaryen looks. He remembered every tiny detail about her and how she told him to remember the strange place they were in, for what he really needed was right there. When he lapsed back into silence, he could see tears standing in Aemon's eyes; his expression distant as though his mind was elsewhere, in a time long ago.

"The lady you describe is precisely how I remember Shiera Seastar," he said, his voice soft again. "She was the lover of Brynden Rivers, bastard son of Aegon IV."

Jon frowned, leaning forward in his seat. "He was Lord Commander," he said. "But vanished beyond the wall."

"See, you do know some of your family history," Aemon said, sounding encouraged. As though he had read Jon's thoughts, he added: "Brynden is not Benjen. So try not to worry."

But knowing that the woman in his dream had a name was disconcerting. It was more opaque words, looking for a meaning in a morass of confusion.

"It was just a dream," he said, more to reassure himself than anything else. "She just … looked so real."

"I know what's in that weirwood tree, Jon," he said, paying no heed to Jon's words. "I know what's there, because I helped to hide it. It's buried deep and protected, so you will need help retrieving it."

"What is it?" asked Jon, his voice barely a whisper.

Aemon seemed to gather himself, his blind eyes darting around the room as though searching for eavesdroppers. After what seemed an age, he said: "Dark Sister."

Jon's focus sharped and the breath hitched in his throat. Outside, he was dimly aware of the sounds of men packing up and vanishing into the garrison. Darkness was settling fast.

"The sword?" he asked, stupefied.

"The sword," Aemon confirmed. "You must go to it, Jon. If you are the Prince That was Promised, it was meant for you. If you are not, then you are the last hope we have of bringing the Targaryens back to Westeros and must take it regardless."

Jon's head was in a whirl. Even though he was still sitting down, he felt compelled to grab the edge of the table to keep himself steady.

"I can't take it," he replied, hoarsely. "I-I-I… -"

Aemon, however, seemed resolved. "Then who else? You, Daenerys and Viserys are all that's left. You are meant to have that sword; I can feel it."

Was it the dream of Shiera Seastar that convinced him? Jon could not tell. But nor could he deny that part of him yearned to see the legendary Dark Sister, never mind wield it in his own two hands. Just like its twin, Blackfyre, the rest of the realm thought Dark Sister was ancient history. But then, the rest of the realm thought that the Targaryens were long gone, too.

"I can't leave my brother," he said, composing himself. "I can't choose between families."

"Ignore the dream, Jon," Aemon advised. "You need not do anything yet."

But suddenly, after a lifetime of waiting, it seemed that everything was moving faster than ever. Jon could feel himself being almost overtaken by events. He gave the contents of his goblet a swirl than knocked the wine back in one go, letting the liquid soothe his troubles.

"I'll get it," he said. "But where is it? I didn't recognise that place."

"It's beyond the wall, but not that far," Aemon answered. "Take a brother of the Night's Watch with you. I'll give you the location. Go there together and retrieve it."

Jon drew a deep breath, trying to collect his wits. After a moment of grappling with his own thoughts, he pushed back his chair and excused himself to go outside for some fresh air. When Aemon nodded his ascent, Jon strode purposefully out of the room. Once outside, he leaned against the pre-fab wall of an out building and doubled over, his hands braced against his knees. The cold was restorative and slowly cleared his foggy head.

'Shiera' was right; he was feeling torn between two families and he had already pledged to Robb. From that day, until his last. He could never turn his back on Robb; not while their father was away. His aunt and uncle would have to wait until things were at least more settled – whenever that may be.

When he stood up straight again, he could see Sam Tarly ambling back into Castle Black.

"Hey, Sam!" he called out. "Wait up!"

Sam beamed as he turned to face Jon. "Hullo there."

"Where are you going? Can I come too?" Jon asked, as he drew level with the other boy.

"Sure," replied Sam, leading the way inside.

Up until now, Jon had only been inside with Maester Aemon, and then only on the ground floor. So Sam took he through the halls, where the brothers all ate and socialised in their quiet time. It was a welcome break from pouring over Rhaegar's letters and deciphering his cryptic prophecies. Plus, he had grown genuinely fond of Sam, who was yet to take his vows to the Watch. As they walked, Sam told him several interesting facts about the wall itself and the history of the watch (still, as he was, under the impression Jon was penning a scholarly work on History).

It was as they reached the Lord Commander's Tower that they were interrupted by a terrified shout. Both of them froze, whipping round to the source of the noise and running up the stairs two at a time. They ran down a corridor, Sam grabbing a lantern as they went, and kept running until they reached Lord Commander Mormont being attacked by an intruder. Jon hadn't brought his knife and had no sword, so tried to grab Sam's.

For some reason, Mormont wasn't even fighting back. He held up his own lantern, gaping wide-eyed at his attacker. Jon was dumbfounded, tempted to slap the man out of his stupor. But Sam acted quickly and swung the lantern at the attacker's head, smashing the glass and the flame of the candle suddenly taking hold. Realising what he was doing, Jon snatched at Mormont's lantern and did the same to fan the flames and beat back intruder.

It was then, as he looked into the attackers eyes, that he saw what dazed the Lord Commander. The wight reeled back, shrivelling in the flames and dying. Again. Sam pushed past the Lord Commander, reaching for a blanket to smother the flames before the whole of Castle Black went up in smoke. Together, they doused the flames while others ran to fetch buckets of water.

Breathless and dazed, they stood back several moments later as the furore died down. Mercifully, Mormont came too and realised he was naked. He went to cover up while Jon and Sam pretended they hadn't noticed. Meanwhile, Jon looked up at Sam in amused admiration.

"You killed it," he said. "You killed a wight."

Up until that moment, Jon wasn't even been aware that wights were real. He thought they were just one of Old Nan's scary stories, told to them as children while sat around her hearth fire. Sam's jaw had hit his chest and, when he returned, Mormont was more dazed by that than he was the wight.

"Seven hells, Tarly!"

Sam blushed to the roots of his hair. Now, once the moment passed, he seemed to revert back to the gibbering wreck as he stammered and pointed at the charred wreck in the passageway. Jon was immensely gratified by the number of Sam's bullies who were now gathered around, staring in stunned silence.

Finally, as an aside in his mind, Jon also knew who would be coming with him beyond the Wall.

Lord Stark put down his pen and blew dry the ink on the parchment. His movements were laboured and stiff as he folded each of the seven letters and affixed his seal. Once it was done, he paused and looked at them splayed out on the desk. It was done and now they only needed sending. One for Robb; one for Stannis; one for Hoster Tully; one for Mace Tyrell; one for Doran Martell …. He assumed Tywin Lannister wouldn't be needing one, but there was also one for him regardless. The last was for Balon Greyjoy, as if he would care either way.

The truth would be out there and there would be no going back. Still, Ned hesitated. Anguished and torn, he paced the length of his chambers inside the Tower of the Hand. Robert would die soon, time was limited. He could feel it running out; a thousand clocks all ticking in his head. Joffrey is a bastard and soon the whole realm would know it.

It was the right thing to do, he told himself. Do the right thing. It was how he had lived his whole life.

Without giving it much more thought, he got his wits together and attached each letter to a raven. He carried them to the window himself and set them to flight. From his wide window looking out over the Blackwater, he watched the tiny birds until they were nothing more than specks on the distant horizon. Tomorrow, he would confront the Queen.

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