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Disclaimer: none of this is mine. Greatjon Umber's speech is quoted from "Game of Thrones" book one of A Song of Ice and Fire (and the TV show based on it). All belongs to HBO and GRR Martin.

Chapter Eleven: Nobody's Child

A hundred voices raised in anger was the first sound that reached Robb as he emerged from his chambers. There were no guards on the doors, meaning even they had been called inside. Whether to break up the argument or pick a side, he could not guess. In the outer-chamber, where he came to a standstill, the direwolves prowled with their fur bristling. He took a backwards step, removing himself from Shaggydog's path and closer to a disused ante-chamber. From there he could hear the muffled sounds of a woman sobbing.

"Mother," he said, approaching cautiously.

The sobbing ceased abruptly, but Lady Stark did not appear immediately. Meanwhile, behind the closed doors of the Great Hall, Theon's voice rang out against the others. He was appealing for calm, for them to wait for him – meaning Robb himself. The breath hitched in his chest as he whipped back around to glare at the closed oak doors. The weight of expectation settled like a stone in his gut.

"Robb."

His mother's voice sounded in his ear, hoarse but soft. She was still wearing a night robe, tied at the waist. Clearly, they hadn't even afforded her the time to dress properly. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Is it grandfather?"

That sounded desperate, even to his own ear. Somewhere deep inside him, he already knew. But to acknowledge that would be to make it real and he was not yet ready for that. His mother shook her head, the anguish written on her face.

"But Sansa wrote-"

That father would be allowed to take the black; dishonoured, but alive.

"Sansa wrote what the Queen told her to write," his mother filled in the blank he left. "She had no choice."

The explanation washed over him as reality slowly sank in.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, this isn't right; he can't be dead…"

His own grief betrayed him, choking the rest of his sentence. As though sensing his master's distress, Grey Wind came over and nuzzled him close. The wolf only gave way when Catelyn wrapped her arms around Robb, holding him close. He returned her hug, burying his face in her shoulder like he did when he was little and had skinned his knees in the yard. His grief felt almost beyond tears, but they fell anyway.

Behind him, the shouting continued, intruding upon his grief. Inwardly he cursed them; could they not even allow him this moment to mourn the father who had been the rock upon which his life was grounded? It felt obscene that he should be expected to step into his father's shoes when his body wasn't even cold yet; as if he had never existed.

"I want to kill them all," he sobbed. "Lannisters; Baratheons … all of them." He meant it, too.

He could feel her cold hands rubbing the back of his neck.

"And we will," she promised. "Just as soon as we have your sisters back."

As soon as Lady Stark broke the news to him, Jon was overcome with the urge to escape everyone and everything; to be alone with his grief. It was to the Godswood that he first fled. A place of stillness on which to hinge his storming emotions. But with half of the North camped within their walls, even that sacred space suddenly seemed too public. After a fretful five minutes of brooding beside the pool, he was on the move again.

With Dark Sister sheathed and gripped in one hand and a lantern in the other, he descended the steps of the crypts. As soon as the doors were closed, the voices of the men were muffled and then receded altogether as he reached the bottom of the stone steps. Then, it was just him and his grief, with the dead keeping them company.

Eddard Stark had not been afraid of his own death. When Jon reached his mother's effigy he noticed, for the first time, that his father's tomb was already open and waiting for him. It had been put there when Lyanna first died, but it was only now – now that Lord Stark really was dead – that it seemed catch his attention. Open and cavernous, the black space within yawned expansively. He had to tear his gaze away from it and back towards his mother. As he always did, he cupped her cheek with the palm of his hand.

"Your brother's coming back," he said, softly. Still the echo of the whisper carried through the vaults. "But for Uncle Ben you'll all be together again soon. That will make you happy, perhaps."

His gaze flickered sideways once more, towards Eddard Stark's empty tomb. Empty, but soon to be occupied. They would boil the flesh from his bones before the long voyage from King's Landing to Winterfell, via White Harbour and only the skeleton will be interred. The dry and dusty relics of a man he called his father.

Now he was truly an orphan. A realisation that made his heart twist in pain. He felt like a marionette that had had its strings cut. Hanging loose and cast adrift. But was it altogether bad? Now that he was nobody's child, he was finally free to be his own man.

Whether a Targaryen or a Stark – in that moment he saw himself as neither, almost like he was just a "Snow" again. He was just Jon: a boy on the cusp on manhood confronted with a fork in the road. In one direction he keep on going as before. Down the other, he could take a stand and exert himself, on his own terms. Neither Stark, nor Targaryen, nor Lannister, nor Baratheon. But something and someone new, untethered from the ancient hatreds that had riven their houses apart. He could be the blank canvas on which the realm was repainted anew.

But he knew he could never be entirely free. An imposter King had slain his father and Ned Stark was his father. The injustice burned at him; corrosive and destructive. Rhaegar Targaryen was a name in a book; a man who must have been there at the moment of his conception. But that was where his involvement ended. Jon could have been all three heads of the dragon rolled into one, but he still no longer cared. He didn't know a single thing about his aunt and she could be every bit as mad as her father, for all he knew. And he no longer trusted any of them.

He stepped back from his mother's effigy, looking into her blank stone eyes. His own living eyes misted over as he acknowledged he probably would not see her again. He still had the silver locket now worn around his neck. Her image was in there alongside Rhaegar's, with a lock of her hair. But war was coming now and he knew he would be in it; which meant he would not be in Winterfell with her mortal remains.

"I'm scared," he admitted to her, knowing she would keep his secrets. "And I don't know what I want. But I want to make them pay for what they've done: to father and the others; Jory and Septa Mordane. They killed them all. I don't know how to make things better, but I know I've got to try."

He willed her to give him a sign. Like one of those weeping statuettes in the southern Septs he kept reading about in history books. But Lyanna Stark remained stubbornly dry. While he was studying her, the crypt door opened and footsteps descended, joining him in the cold and darkness.

"Hello?" he called out. "Who is there?"

He was worried it was one of the men from one of the other houses. But it was Robb who appeared. Pale and dishevelled, dirty from where he had been working off his anger in the yard. Jon had passed him earlier that day, but couldn't bring himself to join in the sparring.

"Brother," said Robb. "I thought I would find you here."

They hadn't had a chance to discuss anything since his return from Castle Black. So Jon reached to the side of his mother's tomb and picked up Dark Sister, handing her to Robb.

"Did Mikken make this?" asked Robb, glancing down at it.

"Draw her and see for yourself," Jon replied, raising the lantern for better light.

Robb pulled at the pommel, exposing the shimmering Valyrian steel. His gasp echoed around the empty vaults, his brow furrowing and he drew Dark Sister completely. There was no mistaking the craftsmanship that went into it.

"What sword is this?" he asked, glancing up at Jon briefly before testing the weapon's balance.

"Aemon had it hidden beyond the Wall," he explained. "I had to go and get it. It's Dark Sister, Robb. Brynden Rivers took it north with him when he went to join the Night's Watch."

"Seven Hells, Jon. This blade was wielded by Visenya Targaryen herself," he said, awestruck.

Jon took the sword back in his own hands, sheathing it again. They all said Visenya's blade thirsted for blood and Jon was sure that thirst would be slaked again before too long.

"I know," he answered. "It's a Conqueror's sword and now it's mine."

Robb straightened himself up. "What are you telling me?"

"I know not," he replied. "But Joffrey is a false king holding our sisters to ransom. And who're the other two? Renly and Stannis? I'd rather see Balon Greyjoy on the Iron Throne than any of that lot."

Robb laughed drily. "I'd rather see an actual kraken on the throne than Balon, quite frankly."

And the squid would be preferable to Theon, thought Jon but kept it to himself.

"No one must know about me, Robb," said Jon. He had no plan, no idea what the end result would be. But he was beginning to fumble his way through the fog. "My blood is my advantage. If they don't know who I am, they won't even think to try and kill me. Their ignorance is my protection, as well as my advantage."

But Robb was frowning again. "They'll find out sooner or later, Jon-"

"Only when we want them to," he cut in. "Only when it serves us best. Until that moment, it stays as our secret."

Robb nodded, but Jon could tell he did not fully understand. Nor did Jon expect him to, beyond the element of surprise he had planned. After a surge of hope in planning their attacks on King's Landing, Robb soon sagged again as despondence set in.

"You know they killed Jory Cassel, Septa Mordane, Vayon Poole and the Others know how many besides? Why, Jon? Why did they kill the fucking Septa; she was a pain but she was harmless and no part in any of this."

"I know," he answered, feeling anger like bile rising in his throat. "But, as I said, we must remain cool and play this carefully. Sansa and Arya are still there and could be next if we make a false move. And I know I've given you no solid answers, brother. But I'll do what I can to bring the Lannisters to heel. If that means taking their crown, then so be it."

That was seemingly enough for Robb, who smiled crookedly. "Good. Now come back inside. We've been making plans without you."

Earlier that day Sandor Clegane had caught his reflection in a looking glass. For the first time in living memory, it wasn't the grotesque scarring that caught his eye. It was the white cloak of the Kingsguard that now adorned his armoured shoulders. He had been given it following the departure of Ser Barristan Selmy and, perhaps as a result, it felt like borrowed clothes. As though Selmy would soon come storming back through those doors and smash his face into the smouldering coals for taking his stuff without permission. He was conscious of it gnawing at the back of his mind. More so, since he was still not a knight.

Clegane was no fool. He knew the white cloak had not been bestowed upon him for any other reason than to add insult to Selmy's injuries. But, he did his duty and guarded the Stark girl's door. Night and day he heard her sobbing herself hoarse. He had watched as the other girl, Stark's little friend, was taken away and killed. More than likely, her head was up on the ramparts now.

Once more, he was outside her chambers and knocking on the door. There was no answer, so he let himself in. She was still there, looking pitifully broken and curled up on the bed. He remembered the night of the Hand's Tourney, when she had a headful of dreams about Knights and Chivalry. He had shouted at her then; seen to it that the silly dreams were ripped from her head. He had watched the fear drain from her face, replaced with sorrow. Now, she had been stripped and beaten on the Throne Room floor after watching her father's head cut from his shoulders.

"The King will see you this afternoon, little bird," he informed her, gruffly. "You might bathe and make yourself pretty for him."

The poor sweet fool thought she would be set free from him. Only, now she was so numb he thought she might not care anymore. Joffrey is as Joffrey does….

"You would do well to accommodate him," he advised, although he could not explain why. "It would make things easier for yourself."

But he had never been tutored in reassuring beaten maids before. Feeling inept, he backed out of the room and returned to his King. But all the same, his thoughts remained with the Stark girl. Until she appeared, scrubbed and cleansed but with eyes still puffy and red, on the battlements of the castle. Sandor stood aside, grimly curious about what fresh hell the King had in store for her today. Not that he couldn't guess already.

The heads were still fresh. Blood slowly congealed under the late summer sun, dripping down the pikes on which they were foisted. Sandor's lip curled into a snarl as he looked at them each in turn. There was Ned Stark; there was the old Septa and the men at arms who followed Stark everywhere. Eyes pecked out by carrion crows, their skins blistered and burned in the sun and wind. All the while, the girl pleaded and pleaded to be allowed to return to her chambers.

Just do it, he inwardly willed her. Just look and be done with it.

Almost as if she had read his thoughts, the girl fell silent. Sandor turned to look at her, to see what she was doing. Her expression was set grim, her lips white and thin as she studied her dead father's face. She was doing it and a great wave of relief washed over him. All the while, he looked on helpless as Joffrey drew out the girl's torture. Sandor looked at the boy king; at the glint in his green eyes. He was enjoying himself immensely.

"Look!" Joffrey called to the girl. "There's your septa, right next to your father. Soon, I'll complete the set and bring you your traitor brother's head too!"

His Little Bird had her back to him and he could not see the expression in her eyes as she answered: "Or maybe he'll bring me yours."

Brave girl; stupid girl, he thought to himself. It was all he could do not to flinch as Ser Meryn Trant stepped forward and delivered Joffrey's retribution. The sound of the blows rang out against the empty battlements. To her credit, she made no sound at all. A broken girl with nothing left to lose. He watched as Joffrey turned away nonchalantly, surveying the harvest of heads. Only from the corner of his eye did he see his Little Bird step forward, moving in to shove him off. It was clear what she was doing, at least to him.

You will hang! Without thinking twice, he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"My Lady," he said, guiding her back to safety. "Here, take this."

As she took the handkerchief, her sapphire eyes met his. They were clear now and full of cold fury at his circumventing her regicide attempt. I did not do it for him, he wanted to say, I did it for you.

Now, her only hope was that her brothers towed the line and discharged that army they had amassed at Winterfell. Otherwise, there would be nothing he could do to save her.

"We are the winter, my lords. And winter is coming for Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister," Robb's voice rang out across the Great Hall. Despite his earlier nerves, a thrill of excitement shivered through him as he leaned forwards and met their eyes. He almost laughed. "Or, should that be 'Joffrey Waters' given we all know where he's really come from." The assembled lords cheered and laughed in return, but Robb soon turned serious again. "My father, your Lord, sacrificed his life to bring us the truth of what's been going on in the capital for all these years. Renly Baratheon has returned to the Stormlands to amass an army. Stannis Baratheon is doing the same from Dragonstone. Soon, we will be called into war and we must decide, once and for all, who we will support."

He wanted to throw Jon's name into the ring. But his brother had Stark stubbornness to match his Targaryen blood. Instead, he kept the secret hidden and sat back down in his seat at the head of the table. He was Lord of Winterfell now and all these thousands of lives were in his hands. It was a burden he could feel himself slowly adapting to.

To his left he had Jon; to his right was his mother. He briefly turned to each of them, catching their eye and relishing the nods of approval they gave. Slowly, step by step, he was easing into his father's vacant space. Meanwhile, the argument erupted among the Lords again. But not for long before Greatjon Umber got to his feet and brought his tankard down hard on the wooden trestle table. The ensuing crash got everyone's attention.

Robb sat back, gesturing for him to continue. It wasn't so long ago that Grey Wind had eaten a few of Umber's fingers – to the hilarity of the man. He was huge, with thick furs covering his broad shoulders. The candlelight threw his shadow against the far wall, making him look even more bulky; like something carved from rock.

"My Lords! Here is what I say to these two Kings," Umber began in a booming voice, silencing everyone in a trice. As soon as all eyes were on him, he continued: "Renly Baratheon means nothing to me; nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the Wolfswood, or the Barrows of the First Men? Even their Gods are wrong. The Others take the Lannisters too, I've had a bellyful of them. Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we married and the dragons are all dead. There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to, my lords. The King in the North!"

It took Robb a full heartbeat to realise Umber was pointing at him. He almost checked behind his seat to make sure there wasn't some other poor sap there being taken by surprise. Soon, everyone in the hall was looking back at him, holding him in their expectant gazes. He could only see the whites of their eyes now. His mouth ran dry, his heartbeat racing as a chant went up around the room:

"The King in the North! The King in the North!"

Over and over again until it filled his head and it was all he could hear. Desperately, he looked over at his mother. It was clear that Catelyn had expected none of this. She was looking back at him, silent and stunned. Jon recovered his wits first, getting to his feet in what Robb hoped would be to appeal for calm. But he drew Dark Sister, laying it at Robb's feet.

"Remember what I said, brother, my sword is yours," he said, solemnly. Their eyes met and Jon added: "The King in the North."

'No! What are you doing? This isn't what he agreed!' he tried to reply, but the words stuck in his throat. He watched helplessly, eyes wide in silent appeal as others pledged fealty to him, Robb Stark – King in the North.

Thanks again for reading; please review if you have a moment. Thank you.

For "Adolf's" benefit: Greatjon Umber doesn't know that Jon is a Targaryen and Jon doesn't want him to know he's a Targaryen. It's called strategy. Apologies to anyone else who thought Jon would be on the Iron Throne within minutes of Ned losing his head. Sometimes, I wonder why I bother. Oh, and please, if you're going to flame my story please do learn the difference between "your" the possessive and "you're" for 'you are.' Sláinte.