Prologue: The Wayfarer

Jon – Date Unknown

The whistling winds of winter and the snow crunching beneath his boots was all he knew, for the most part. Occasionally, he would come across a copse of trees, bent, or broken by the prevailing storm, and sometimes, what had once been a flowing river.

Where he was, he did not know, and yet, his feet carried him aimlessly through the storm, onwards to nowhere.

Why he continued to walk was something he pondered often. Nonetheless, he pressed on.

It hadn't always been this way he was sure. He vaguely remembered a time where there were others like him, well, perhaps not so much, but he hadn't been alone.

Their faces still haunted his now, even if he could not remember their names.

Snow…

That was his name, and he only retained it for that was what surrounded him. As far as the eye could see was a stark whiteness on a background of white, painful to look upon but unrelenting.

His gloved hand rested on the frozen pommel of his sword; the red-eyed, white wolf, just like one of the few living things he caught sight of.

The rippled steel sung as he drew the blade, something he had to do often so that it did not freeze within the scabbard. It had happened once before and freeing it had been no easy task.

Returning it, he scooped up a handful of snow and placed it in his mouth, allowing it to melt in a bid to satiate his thirst. Water was at least plentiful, though the same could not be said for food.

If fortune favoured him and he happened upon a frozen beast, he would hack away at it desperately, eating it raw. It was impossible to light a fire here.

He had forgotten what it was like to feel warmth and wondered how it was he yet lived without it. Perhaps it was that he had once found himself in the icy grip of the other that he seemed to thrive here.

Absentmindedly, his hand drifted to his chest where the scars remained of that encounter and he shook his head.

It would not do to dwell on what little he did remember. It was most unpleasant to say the least.

No, it was best to keep walking until his journey came to an end.

To what end?

There was no sunset nor sunrise, so there was no telling how long he had travelled. He had past several abandoned keeps along the way, none of which were familiar to him.

Most were little more than a pile of rubble, and those that were not, he dared not rest within them. The few times he had they had come for him.

The shiver that ran down his spine had little to do with the chill, but the icy blue eyes that haunted him. Thousands of them, but one pair in particular had been the bane of his existence for as long as he could remember.

The one that wore the crown.

It was as though the demon that stalked him across the land took pleasure in doing so, and just when he felt safe, it would come for him once more; its sword of ice clashing with his own born of fire.

He was under no illusion that the creature could have killed him if it so wished, yet it never struck the killing blow when the opportunity arose. Instead, it would leer at him and allow him on his way, watching every step he took.

Snow had become accustomed to living in such fear. It was as familiar to him as breathing, and even though he had begged for the creature to take his life and end his suffering, he clung to a final vestige of hope that there was something out there.

So, onwards he went, pausing as he caught sight of a gathering of protruding, frozen towers on the horizon.

As he approached, he could see through the ice that they were black as though they had been burned by a great fire.

Snow frowned as he passed them by, not testing fate by venturing inside the walls.

As with every other keep, he would find nothing here.

Instead, he continued on his way, only to pause again shortly after as he spied a large cluster of trees. These too were frozen, but not bent nor broken like the others. It was curious and it was his curiosity that led him towards them.

Instinctively, he ducked as the familiar swish of the icy sword of his foe cut through the air, barely missing him.

As ever, the attack had come from nowhere.

Snow groaned as he drew his own and parried the blow that followed, the force jarring his arm painfully. In vain, he stepped backwards from another swing, jabbing the tip of his blade towards the creature.

It mocked him with the ease it avoided his probing and retaliated with an overhand strike.

Snow braced himself for the impact, taking hold of the pommel with both hands to lessen the force and it used the moment as he turned and aimed for the creature's head.

It glared at him having ducked below it, and Snow knew the game was over.

Blow after blow rained down on him, and all he could do was retreat, parry, and step out of the path of them until the Night King grew bored as he inevitably would.

However, Snow knew that something was different this time.

The attacks were always ferocious, but there was something desperate about it this time, as though the creature truly was trying to finally put an end to him. Before he could ponder it further, he groaned as he tripped backwards and found himself submerged in the snow that blanketed the ground.

Groaning, his sat up, his hair and beard quite frozen as he was met with thousands upon thousands of pairs of blue eyes, but none more bight than those only a few feet from him.

The Night King was furious and he unleashed a screech forcing Snow to cover his ears.

Around a dozen of the dead charged forwards, raising their rusted swords, axes, and maces, but as Snow stood to greet them with his own blade, they exploded in shards of ice, his sword meeting nothing as he swung it.

Snow frowned in confusion his senses piqued as he felt something in the air around them. He knew that he was far from the true north beyond the wall, but suddenly, it felt as though he was there once more.

Turning, he found that he was stood before the cluster of trees, as white as bone beneath the snow that covered them.

Could it be?

Wiping at the trunk closest to him, his frown deepened at the visage of the red, crude, smiling face that had been carved into the tree.

It meant something, though he couldn't remember what.

What he did know, however, was that the dead, even the Night King could not approach it, and for the first time in many moons, a chuckle escaped his lips. Here, he was safe from them, for what good it would do.

'Snow…'

He froze as the voice carried on the wind.

'Snow…'

He turned sharply towards the Night King only to find it was no longer there, nor were the rest of the dead.

'Snow…"

The voice was coming from the trees.

"Hello?" he called; his voice hoarse from the lack of use.

'Snow…'

Keeping a firm grip on his sword, he began navigating his way through the trees until he came upon, untouched by the snow, the face appearing as though it was laughing at him.

'Snow…'

It was louder now, more urgent, and he placed his hand on the tree before resting his ear against the trunk. As he did so, everything seemed to spin before him and he collapsed to the ground.

Cursing under his breath, he pushed himself to his feet for the second time in only a matter of moments, stilling as he somehow found himself in a cave. Most shocking, however, was the man seated before him, tangled in what appeared the roots of a tree.

The one red eye he had almost reminded him of his sporadic companion, but the other was milky white. There was something familiar about this odd man, but Snow was certain he had never made his acquaintance.

Even his addled brain would not forget such a strange figure.

"Snow. I have been waiting for you."

"Who are you?" Snow asked, his hand remaining on the pommel of his sword.

"I am known as many things to many people, but I was born Brynden Rivers."

The name was familiar and Snow wracked his brains until he came upon a distant memory of being seated in front of a fireplace whilst an elderly woman told a tale of a Brynden Rivers.

"Bloodraven," Snow whispered. "Didn't you vanish beyond the wall and wasn't heard from again?"

The strange man offered him a smile as he nodded.

"I did," he confirmed, "and I remained there until the great other took me."

"Then how are you here?"

"Magic, Jon Snow, or should I call you Targaryen?"

"Jon," Snow whispered.

That had been his name, well, the name he had been given. He had later learned that the man he believed to be his father was truly his uncle, and his mother the sister he spoke seldom of.

She had bestowed the name Daemon upon with her final breath as she'd pleaded with her brother to care for her son.

Jon swallowed at the memory of learning that.

He may have the blood of the dragon, but in his heart of hearts, he was a wolf of the north. He had grown there, been shaped in the ways of the people, and had served at the wall, though he doubted he should have had he been told the truth.

"Jon is fine," he replied.

Bloodraven nodded.

"Then let us speak plainly, Jon, for our time here is short. You failed in your duty."

"My duty?" Jon asked, a frown marring his features.

"As a king."

"I was never…"

Bloodraven held up his hand, cutting Jon off.

"You should have been," he murmured. "It was your right and you would have had the support you needed to see it so. Daenerys was no queen, as much as she wished she was."

Jon swallowed deeply as the name was uttered.

Daenerys.

His mind was flooded with images of a beautiful, silver-haired woman with violet eyes. She had been his aunt, and yet, that had not stopped them becoming lovers.

No, it had not been only the primal urges that had drawn them to one another. They had fallen deeply in love, and Jon had been blinded by it.

The Northerners had never accepted her, and even when they'd negotiated peace with the south, they had not come to fight, not trusting a young woman who knew nothing of Westeros.

Daenerys had arrived with her dragons staking a claim that she had no right to.

The Targaryens had been defeated by Robert Baratheon, and were there to be a reclamation, the throne should have been Jon's. The very thought sickened him.

He'd never wanted to be king, and that had never changed.

"She only wanted to help…"

"Her heart was in the right place, but her mind was warped by her own entitlement, Snow. She believed that the throne was hers when she did nothing to earn it. She brought a foreign army here to conquer, and in doing so, sealed her own fate, but now, it is yours that interests me."

Jon chuckled humourlessly as he gestured around the room.

"There's nothing to salvage," he pointed out.

"There is not," Bloodraven agreed, "but it appears as though the gods truly do favour you. Whether it is the Lord of Light, the Seven, or the Old Gods, I do not know, but you have been blessed, nonetheless."

"Blessed?" Jon asked cautiously.

"Or perhaps cursed," Bloodraven added. "You are to be given a chance to right the wrongs of the world, Jon Snow, to rewrite history as we know it now in the hope that you can prevent the winds of winter blowing to coldly."

"What do you mean?" Jon queried worriedly.

He did not like the look Bloodraven was giving him.

"You are to plunge that sword of yours into me and you will be taken to a place where you need to be. I do not know where but I suspect it will be quite unfamiliar to you."

"What if I refuse?"

"Will you?"

There was much that Jon wasn't being told but he did not believe Bloodraven was attempting to fool him. If anything, the man was being as transparent as he could with what little he knew.

"Is this the part where I wake up being stalked through the snow?" he sighed.

Bloodraven shook his head.

"No, this is the part where you wake up and do what must be done."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Only you can decide that, Jon Snow. Now, the gods are calling for me. Plunge the blade into my heart and see it done."

Tentatively, Jon drew the sword.

He was no stranger to taking a life, but to see one so willing to feel the bite of his blade was not something he was familiar with.

"Do it, Jon Snow, before it is too late!"

It was almost as though another guided his arm, lunging him forward and sinking the sword into Bloodraven's chest, all the way to the hilt.

Jon could only look on in morbid fascination as Bloodraven offered him a final smile before his body crumbled to dust, leaving Jon alone to stare at the black liquid dripping from his blade and onto the roots.

It was only a moment later that he heard a creaking sound, his eyes widening as they came alive, seizing and pulling him into an abyss until he knew nothing but darkness.

Lyanna – 279 AC

"Come on!" she called impatiently, running ahead of her brothers.

As ever, only Benjen who was as eager as her, quickened his pace to catch up. Both Brandon and Eddard merely laughed at the younger Starks, so Lyanna left them in her wake as she entered the Godswood with her youngest brother.

Without preamble, she removed her woollen dress having dressed in her riding clothes earlier in the morning.

Whilst Brandon had been taking lessons with Maester Lewin, Benjen and Eddard had been with the Master-at-Arms, Rodrick Cassel.

Eddard had returned only a few days prior for a visit from fostering in the Vale with Jon Arryn. He would be here for only a moon or so before going back.

"What is it?" Lyanna huffed as Benjen tugged on her tunic.

The boy said nothing but pointed towards the heart tree and Lyanna froze at the sight of a figure laying beneath it.

Whoever it was would be in trouble. Only the Starks were allowed here.

"Do you think he's alive?" Benjen asked worriedly. "He's not moving."

Lyanna frowned and began approaching the man only to be halted by the voice of Brandon.

"Lya, stay still!" he said sharply as he drew his sword.

"It's not like he can do anything," Lyanna huffed.

"No, but that can," Brandon whispered.

Lyanna looked to where he was pointing and felt her stomach filled with dread. There was little in the world she feared other than the wrath of her father, but a giant wolf as white as snow with red eyes was quickly added to the list.

The beast simply stared at her almost questioningly and Lyanna glanced towards the unmoving man.

"Wait, I think it is his wolf," she whispered. "Look, the pommel on his sword is the wolf."

"Don't be stupid. No one has a pet direwolf," Benjen said matter-of-factly.

"Then what is it doing here?" Lyanna fired back irritably.

"I don't know, but direwolves have not been south of the wall in centuries," Eddard murmured. "Lya, what do you think you are doing?"

Lyanna had taken a tentative step forward and the wolf bared its teeth at her in warning.

"It's okay," she cooed, trembling, and already chastising herself for her foolishness.

"By the gods, Ned, go and get father!" Brandon commanded.

Lyanna heard the retreating footsteps of her brother and took another of her own.

"I don't mean him any harm," she reassured the wolf.

She got the impression that it understood her, and it even relaxed, laying down next to the man and nudging him with its nose.

"I'm not going to hurt him," Lyanna reiterated, close enough now that she could reach out and touch the creature if she so wished.

Instead, she brushed the man's dark locks out of his eyes and rested her hand on his cheek. He was cold, but somehow, he was not dead.

"He's alive," she called back to the dumbstruck Brandon and Benjen.

Taking in his features, the man seemed to be at peace, even if the scars on his face told a different story entirely. What could be done for him, she didn't know, but he would be in the capable hands of Maester Lewin at the very least.

"Brandon, throw me my dress," she instructed.

"You're completely out of your mind," Brandon sighed as he did so, keeping his sword in hand and eyes on the wolf who was still trying to rouse the man.

Not knowing what else to do, Lyanna covered him with the thick wool and waited for the inevitable arrival of her father.

The man could be a criminal for all she knew, but she didn't think so. A beast as noble as wolf would not associate with such a man.

It was the sigil of House Stark, after all, and Lyanna could not imagine their own chosen animal bringing a bad omen to their home.

Rickard

"How is Brandon faring in his lessons, Luwin?" Rickard enquired.

"Well, my lord," the maester answered with a bow. "He is a bright young man. His time with Lord Dustin has served him well."

Rickard grunted as he shifted his attention towards Rodrick Cassel.

"He is a fine sword," the man declared. "His temper still gets the best of him, but I am sure he will calm down."

Rickard snorted as he shook his head.

"The boy has the wolf's blood in him. Lyanna is the same," he added fondly.

"Aye, she is," Rodrick agreed with a smirk. "She was waiting for Eddard and Benjen to finish in the yard."

"She will have them in the Godswood," Rickard sighed. "I often think it would be easier to just let her join your lessons."

"She would be most welcome," Rodrick assured him. "Is Lady Lyarra still reluctant?"

"Aye, she is not fond of the idea, but I think she is at the point of accepting that Lyanna will continue to defy her wishes. I shall speak with them both soon. What of Eddard and Benjen?"

"Eddard will be a fine warrior, my lord," Rodrick answered. "It is clear he has been spending time with the Royces. He has not learned to wield a blade as he does from the Arryns. Benjen too will be an exceptional fighter. Three capable sons is quite the feat."

Rickard nodded proudly before a deep frown marred his features and he retrieved a missive from within a drawer of his desk.

"There is one other matter I wish to discuss with you both, but I must insist it goes no further than the three of us for the time being."

He handed the note to Luwin who read it carefully. When he was done, he handed it to Rodrick who took a little longer to understand the contents.

"What are your thoughts?" Rickard questioned. "I would prefer frankness in this matter."

"Well," Luwin began carefully, "I will not pretend to know the northerners as well as you, my lord, but I am not certain they would be pleased by the idea."

"Aye," Rodrick agreed. "She may one day be the Lady Stark and they will afford her the respect, but they will not truly accept her. She is a Riverlander. She follows the Seven, and you know how they look upon our gods."

Rickard nodded thoughtfully.

"I have considered the same thing," he mused aloud. "I do not know what Hoster Tully is playing at."

"He knows that his grandchild will be the future Warden of the North," Rodrick pointed out. "He's a shrewd man is Tully. He wouldn't be offering his daughter to live in the harshness here if he wasn't getting something out of it."

"He would not," Luwin murmured. "If you wish for me to speak honestly, my lord, there are many vassal houses of your own that have eligible daughters who would offer no such complications. Of course, the decision is yours to make."

Rickard shook his head as he replaced the missive back in the drawer.

It was something to ponder for another day, though he could think of no reason why he would agree to a marriage between Brandon and the Tully girl. The north would, as Hoster pointed out, receive considerable support in grain and other essential supplies, but it felt as though it would be a betrayal to his people.

The north had managed just fine without the support of the Riverlands, and they would continue to do so.

Before he could broach any other subject with the two men, the door to his solar suddenly burst open and a wide-eyed and panting Eddard entered the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" Rickard demanded, alarmed by his usually calmer son's demeanour.

"Man…wolf…Godswood," he gasped. "There's an unconscious man in the Godswood…with a direwolf."

Rickard simply gaped at his son for a moment, wondering if the boy had either lost his mind or was playing a foolish trick.

No, it was not in Eddard's nature to do such a thing.

"Direwolf?"

Eddard nodded frantically.

"Lyanna.."

Rickard's heart sunk into his stomach, and he grabbed Ice from the enormous scabbard it rested.

"Rodrick, fetch the guards," he instructed, sprinting from the solar and through the halls of Winterfell, receiving odd looks from the servants who had likely never seen their Lord in such a state.

It had been years since Rickard had moved so quickly, and as he crossed the training yard and passed the family crypt, he barrelled through the gate leading to where he often came to pray, pausing in shock at the sight that greeted him.

Brandon and Benjen were a short distance away, the former with his own blade in hand, but Lyanna was kneeling next to an unmoving form beneath the weirwood tree.

Most shocking, however, was the enormous white wolf, the size of a small horse, resting its chin on the man.

"Lyanna, get away, now!" he pleaded.

Such a beast would tear the girl to shreds before Rickard could reach her.

"Father, he is safe," Lyanna whispered, "but he needs help," she added, nodding towards the man.

"He's alive?"

Lyanna nodded worriedly.

A dozen questions ran through Rickard's mind, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of clattering armour as the guards Rodrick had sent for arrived, headed by the Master-at-Arms himself.

"By the old gods," the man choked as he took in the scene before him.

"Father, please, he needs help!"

"Lyanna, get away from there," Rickard said firmly, taking a step forward.

The wolf stood and bared its fangs at him and the guards each knocked an arrow, aiming their bows towards the beast.

"NO!" Lyanna said desperately, standing in front of the creature. "He's just trying to protect him. He won't hurt anyone. Put your weapons away!"

"Lya, you need to move," Brandon tried.

Rickard shook his head.

It was no good. The girl was too stubborn to listen.

"Alright, lower your bows," he instructed as he took a reluctant step backwards. "See, no one will hurt him."

Lyanna glared at him the same way her mother did whenever Rickard had provoked her ire. Eventually, she nodded and turned towards the wolf.

"They are going to help him. Will you let them?" she asked gently.

The red eyes of the wolf swept over each of the men before it sat in front of the girl as though it was little more than a harmless pup.

Rickard was in a state of disbelief.

"Luwin, check on him."

"Me, my lord?"

"You are the maester here, aren't you?"

Luwin opened his mouth to speak but found no words. With no other choice, he tentatively walked towards the man, his fearful gaze remaining on the wolf who did not react. Instead, it allowed Lyanna to pet it and Rickard found himself despairing the wolf's blood that plagued his family.

"He is alive," Luwin called. "We must get him inside so I can examine him properly. He is in quite a bad way, my lord. I'm no certain he will make it."

"Any idea who he is?"

"I have never seen him before, my lord," Luwin answered. "He looks like a Northman, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"I see some of the south in him too, Dornish perhaps. It could even be Valyrian."

Rickard frowned in confusion.

He could think of no northern family that had gone south nor any southern family that had come this far north, and there had certainly been no interaction between northerners and Valyrians since Aegon the Conqueror had brought his dragons here and taken the north into the fold of the other kingdoms.

"Take his weapons," Rickard instructed, "and take him inside."

"What of the wolf?" Brandon asked.

"The wolf cannot come into keep," Rickard said firmly.

"I will stay with him out here," Lyanna offered.

"Lya…"

Rickard knew he'd already lost the argument before it had begun. Lyanna would not be parted from it despite what punishment he administered.

Lyarra might just kill him this time.

"He likes me," Lyanna pointed out, giggling as the wolf licked her cheek.

Rickard thought that it looked as though the beast was basting her, but it looked at him as though it was assuring the man he was no danger to his daughter.

Rickard shook his head.

Direwolves had not been so far south in centuries, so what was this one doing here? Was it truly a companion of the mysterious man? If so, it could only be a sign of sorts from the gods themselves. The direwolf was of House Stark.

But what did it mean?

"Fine, but the guards will remain with you. If it shows any sign of aggression, they will kill it."

"He won't," Lyanna said cheerily.

Rickard was baffled by the sudden turn of events the day had taken. Had any told him this would happen he would think them mentally bereft.

"One wrong move, kill it," he murmured to the guards as he followed Luwin and the two men who were carrying the stranger. "Brandon, stay with your sister."

He felt better knowing his eldest son was watching over her. What he could do if the wolf decided to attack, he didn't know, but he needed to be with Luwin whilst he tended to the man.

Who he was, Rickard did not know, but he would have the answers he sought if the man woke.

"Have we received any reports of deserters from the wall?"

Luwin shook his head.

"Not in half a dozen moons and he was caught in Last Hearth."

Rickard hummed as he wracked his brains for an explanation.

The man was not familiar to him, though he could not see much beyond the thick locks of wavy hair covering his face.

No, he would have to wait until Luwin's work was done and the man woke before he would get to the truth of the matter.

Lyanna

This was undoubtedly the most surreal thing that had ever happened to her. Finding a strange man in the Godswood had been one thing, but his direwolf companion…

Lyanna shook her head as she reached out a tentative hand. The wolf had not moved since the man had ben taken. It had simply lied there with its head resting on its paws with a sad look about it.

"Lya, what are you doing?" Brandon demanded to know.

Lyanna merely frowned at her older brother and held her breath as she placed her hand on the wolf's brow. It's fur was so soft to the touch, and when she was confident it would not react poorly, she exhaled.

"He will be fine," she whispered. "Maester Luwin will look after him."

The wolf whined gently and Lyanna scratched him behind the ear, eliciting a disapproving headshake from Brandon.

It was odd.

She did not know the wolf yet it almost seemed as though she could feel what he was experiencing in a way.

"You're hungry," she murmured. "Brandon, get him some food."

Brandon scowled at being bossed around by his sister but he took pity on the creature.

"There's a stag I took down a few days ago," he huffed. "Would you mind fetching it from Gage?" he asked two of the guards.

They offered him a bow before taking their leave of the Godswood and Lyanna continued to pet the wolf.

"You're worried about him, aren't you?" she asked.

The wolf only looked at her in response.

"You really care about him."

The wolf whined once more.

She said nothing else whilst she waited for the men to return, and when they did, they left the carcass of the stag around a dozen feet away, not daring to get any closer.

"Come on," Lyanna urged. "I'll take you."

Cautiously, the wolf followed, and as what its nature, it pounced on its meal, tearing a leg clean of the animal with such ease, its powerful jaws biting through the bone as though it was flesh.

Lyanna was grateful that it had not decided she should be its next meal.

"Better?" she asked amusedly.

Brandon and the others had looked on in horror as the wolf ate its fill, but it was happier now it had been fed.

"Do you play games?" she asked curiously, picking up a piece of a broken antler and throwing it amongst the trees. "Go on, boy, get it."

"Lya, it's not a bloody dog," Brandon snorted.

"Well, he might like to play!"

Much to her surprise, the wolf did fetch the antler and placed it back in front of her. Ly a grinned triumphantly at her brother who could only shake his head in disbelief.

She didn't know how long Luwin would take to help the man but keeping the wolf busy seemed to be the best idea to distract it.

Throwing the antler again, she giggled as it bounded after it as though it was a pup.

She'd missed out on her swordplay, but she could think of much worse ways to spend an afternoon.

Rickard

The man had been laid upon a bed in one of the guest chambers within the keep, and Luwin had been tending to him for several minutes now. Rickard stood back silently, waiting for the maester to give his thoughts, though he stepped forward when he gasped in shock.

"What is it?" he asked.

Luwin's expression was one of befuddlement, and he shook his head as he inspected the man, removing the thick leather he wore.

"These wounds," he murmured, gesturing for Rickard to approach.

The man's chest was littered with almost a dozen scars; thick, puckered, and purple.

"What of them?"

Luwin swallowed audibly as he ran his fingers across each one.

"These are not cuts, my lord. These are stab wounds."

Rickard shook his head.

"If that was true…"

"He would be dead," Luwin whispered. "I do not understand how he is alive."

"Are you certain?"

Luwin nodded.

"All of them penetrated deeply," he explained, pointing to each in turn, "but this one was directly to the heart."

Rickard looked closer. The scar was thick and unlike any simple cut he'd ever seen. The skin where the blade entered was sunken in comparison to the outermost part which was raised prominently.

"Unbelievable," he whispered. "How could he have survived it?"

"Only the will of the gods."

Such a sentiment sounded ridiculous, but Rickard had no other explanation. If a maester the calibre of Luwin was perplexed, it could only be by divine intervention the man lived.

"I expect we will have to wait for him to explain," Rickard mused aloud. "What else can you tell me about him?"

"Well, it is as I thought," Luwin sighed. "I believe he is a man of the north but with the blood of perhaps Dorne or even Valyria. Regardless, he has likely spent no time in either, not for many years at least."

"How can you tell?"

"His skin is pale," Luwin pointed out. "He has not been anywhere warm for many years, perhaps ever."

"Then where can he have come from? Men do not just appear in the Godswood and with a direwolf as a companion. Do you think he is a wildling?"

"It had crossed my mind," Luwin answered thoughtfully, "but I do not believe so. His leather is of the finest quality and was made for him. Perhaps he has been beyond the wall. For what reason, I cannot fathom, but direwolves…"

"Have not been seen this far south in centuries."

Luwin nodded.

"And there is his sword," he continued. "The pommel is made of materials not available beyond the wall. The wildling weapons are crude and they do not waste time on frivolous things."

Rickard grunted as he picked up the scabbard leaning against the wall, the mystery of the man only deepening as he drew the blade.

"It's Valyrian steel," he whispered, taken aback.

The pommel and handle were impressive enough, but the blade was nothing like he had never seen. Similar to Ice, this blade had the tell-tale smoky ripples of the famed steel, but there were accents of white mingled with the grey in this one.

Was that normal in Valyrian steel.

"It is rather unique," Luwin commented as his eyes roamed over the blade. "Nothing in the citadel mentions Valyrian steel contain any other colour other than grey."

Rickard could only shake his head.

The man only became more mysterious the more they discovered.

For the first time since he'd come upon him, he glanced towards his features, scoffing as he was once more taken aback. More scars littered his brows, though more faded than those on his chest, but it was his appearance that elicited such a response.

The man looked like a Stark.

Rickard could see there was indeed something else mixed with the features, but for the most part, he looked like one of his own children.

"You see it too, my lord," Luwin murmured.

Rickard nodded as he stepped forward to take a closer look. He had thought perhaps it was the lighting or the angle he had been looking from, but he could not deny it.

The man truly did resemble the Starks.

"What colour are his eyes?" he asked curiously.

Most northerners were either brown or blue-eyed. Only the Karstarks and his own, descendants of the first men, had…

"Grey, my lord," Luwin answered.

The more Rickard looked at the unconscious man, the more the resemblance became uncanny. Even with the smaller nose, thinner jaw, and pronounced cheekbones, he looked like a Stark.

Before he could comment on it, however, a knock sounded at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Eddard," the voice of his son replied. "Mother is looking for you," he added as he entered.

"How is Lyanna?"

Eddard shook his head.

"She fell asleep with the wolf under the weirwood tree," he explained. "She was playing fetch with it earlier."

Rickard cursed under his breath.

"The girl will be the death of me," he grumbled. "Is Brandon with her?"

Eddard nodded.

"He fed it his stag. The wolf ate the lot."

"Well, it's best if it stays out there," Rickard mused aloud.

"Wouldn't it be better in here, my lord?" Luwin questioned. "If they are companions, it will be good for him to have something familiar here when he wakes up."

"I don't like the idea of the wolf in the keep," Rickard sighed. "Has it shown any sign of aggression?"

"No," Eddard assured him. "He just seems worried about him."

Rickard rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Alright," he conceded. "Have Lya bring it here if she can. I'll place have a dozen guards with crossbows outside the door, just in case. Luwin, I want you to fetch me the moment he wakes up."

"Of course."

With a final, curious look at the man, Rickard gestured for his son to follow him from the room with more questions than he had answers.

Who was this man?

It was as concerning as it was intriguing, but Rickard would get to the bottom of it.

"Lyanna is not to stay in the room with him," he said firmly. "We do not know this man and don't know what state he will be in if he wakes up."

"Of course," Eddard complied, peeling off towards the Godswood whilst Rickard went to find his wife.

Lyarra had undoubtedly heard of the unexpected guest, though he did not have the explanation she would expect.

How could he explain that a man who could pass for a Stark had arrived in the Godswood in Winterfell with a direwolf as a companion?

It sounded ludicrous in his head, let alone if he spoke the madness out loud.

Jon

It had felt similar to the aftermath of when he'd been betrayed at Castle Black. His very essence had been torn from his body, and he'd soon found himself residing within Ghost, looking upon his own body in the familiar Godswood of Winterfell.

The appearance of the somewhat familiar girl had started him, but he'd needed to get closer to the be certain he wasn't seeing what he'd first thought.

No, this young girl wasn't Arya, and the boys that accompanied her had not been Robb, Rickon, or Bran. It wasn't until he'd heard their names that Jon knew something was sorely amiss.

Bloodraven had told him he would be going to a place where he could fix the wrongs of men, where they could be united against wat was coming for him. Jon had thought perhaps he'd be sent back to the moment he had woken after Melisandre had brought him back, but no, he was much further in the past than that.

Lyanna.

The girl who'd approached him had been the mother he'd never gotten to know beyond the statue in the crypts of Winterfell, and yet, he she was, throwing an antler for him to chase.

He humoured her, overjoyed at being able to spend time with her, even if he was a wolf.

But what would happen when he would inevitably wake in his own body? How would he explain who he was?

He couldn't.

Jon knew the people of the north well enough to know that he would be deemed mad if he spoke the truth he knew. No, he would need to earn the trust of his grandfather before he dared utter such fantastical tales of what he'd seen.

The one reprieve here was that he could still be Jon Snow, a bastard of the north that did not know his parentage. He could claim that he was raised in Molestown, born to a whore, and he ran away from his home to Skagos where he lived off the land at a young age.

Explaining Longclaw, however, could be difficult. Perhaps he could claim to have killed some wildlings that ambushed him and took it for himself?

It could work.

He was not so young that it could be disproven, and not so old that he could be accused of anything nefarious.

It was the best he could come up with, and it helped that his memory was still hazy from the cold he'd endured for what had seemed to be endless moons as he drifted through Westeros.

Whether Rickard Stark would believe him was another thing entirely, but he had been sent here for a reason. He would have to earn the trust of the Starks, and to do that, he would need to make a rather bold move where his honour could not be brought into question.

Doing so would serve more than one purpose, even if it was risky.

It had exhausted him pondering what he would do, and eventually, he had fallen asleep under the weirwood with Lyanna Stark nestled into his side.

Jon had been woken rather abruptly and had been lured into the keep by the very same girl who'd asked him not to attack anyone he saw.

Cautiously, Jon followed, keeping his head low to the ground so none could mistake him for being a threat. It would not do to startle any more than his mere presence already did.

It was warm in the room he'd been shown into, and Lyanna had been taken away, much to her consternation, but Jon was here with himself, a younger Maester Luwin, and several men pointed crossbows at him.

With nothing else to do, he'd rested in front of the fire where he eventually drifted to off to sleep.

Warmth.

It was something that Jon had lacked for much of the time since he'd departed Winterfell and headed to the wall for the first time. Castle Black had seldom been warm enough, even when all of the fires were lit.

Here, in this little room, however, he simply revelled in it for several moments before he deigned to open his eyes.

The roaring fire and a couple of sconces on the wall were the only sources of light, and as he moved, he heard the clicking of a crossbow against mail as one of the guards pointed it towards him.

"Don't move," the man growled, his northern accent strong an assertive.

"Where am I?" Jon asked ignorantly, holding up his hands.

"Winterfell," the man grunted. "Our Lord wishes to speak with you.

Jon frowned and nodded.

He felt nervous but seeing the sigil of House Stark on a set of armour warmed him more than the fire, and he remained still as one of the guards left the room.

"It's okay, Ghost," he assured the wolf who had raised his head. "Just stay where you are."

"It's your wolf then?" the guard pointing the crossbow at him asked. "How did that happen?"

Before Jon could answer, the door opened and Maester Luwin stepped in and offered him a tentative smile.

"It is good to see you awake, young man," he greeted Jon. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm not sure," Jon answered honestly. "Confused."

"Understandable," Luwin replied. "I'm the Maester here at Winterfell. You had a very narrow escape. It was lucky you were found in time, though I am curious how you found yourself in the Godswood."

"As am I," a stern voice echoed the sentiment.

Jon had only ever seen the statue of Rickard Stark in the crypts, but the man in person was much more imposing.

"I don't know," Jon murmured. "I'm sorry, I don't remember much."

"Do you have a name, lad?" Rickard pressed.

Jon nodded, wetting his dry lips.

"Jon Snow."

Rickard grunted.

"I can tell by your accent you're a northerner, Jon Snow. Where are you from?"

"Molestown," Jon answered. "My mother was a whore from somewhere south. She died giving birth to me. I do not know who my father was."

"Where in the south?"

"I was never told. The ladies who raised me said she had fair skin and silver hair."

"Valyrian then," Rickard said to Luwin who nodded. "What of the wolf?"

"Ghost has been with me since he was a pup," Jon answered truthfully. "I found him suckling at his dead mother. He reminded me of me, so I couldn't leave him behind."

"So, you just decided to raise a direwolf?"

"Ghost chose to stay with me," Jon explained. "He has always been free to leave."

The wolf whined sadly as it stood and rested its head on the edge of the bed next to Jon.

"Remarkable," Rickard commented. "What of the wounds on your chest?"

Jon released a deep breath.

"I was set upon beyond the wall…"

"Beyond the wall?"

"I left Molestown when I was young and found myself on Skagos. They spoke about what it was like beyond the wall and I wanted to see it for myself. It was a stupid idea."

"Very stupid," Rickard agreed. "The wildlings do not like outsiders."

"I met some that were nice," Jon argued, "but others weren't. I got ambushed by some of them. I thought I was dead, but then I woke up."

"You just woke up?"

"I think so," Jon answered. "I don't remember much, but I was underneath a weirwood tree. The gods must have been looking over me."

"You follow the old gods?"

Jon nodded.

"I do."

Rickard regarded him for several moments before nodding.

"You have no reason to trust me fully," he sighed. "We are strangers, and yet, your life has been spared because of mine. You are welcome to stay, Jon Snow, but I would like the complete truth from you one day. I sense that you are an honourable man, if one that has his secrets. Bring no harm to my people and you shall not be harmed in return. Is that fair?"

"It is more than fair."

Rickard offered him a half-smile.

"Good. It was, in fact, my daughter who saved you, and even kept your wolf company whilst you were being tended to."

"She saved me?" Jon asked.

Rickard nodded.

"She will ask for nothing from you, though I have a final question. How did you come by your sword?"

"It came from one of the men that ambushed me," Jon lied. "Mine broke in the fight and as I killed all of them, I thought I'd earned it for my final moments of life."

"You did," Rickard agreed. "It is yours by right, even if many will not believe a bastard worthy to carry such a fine blade."

Jon winced at the word he had come to loath. It had been the bane of his existence as a boy, a cloak he believed he'd shed upon being made King of these lands.

It was a term he would have to get use to again.

"Would it be possible to meet the lady that saved me?" he asked. "I would like to thank her and I'm sure Ghost would like to see her again."

Ghost raised his head interestedly.

"I do not see the harm considering she is listening in to our conversation already," Rickard replied, shaking his head. "Lyanna, you may as well come in."

The door opened and the girl entered looking towards her father with wide, watery eyes.

Jon did not fall for it the same way Rickard did. Arya used to use the very same tactic when she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.

"It is rude to eavesdrop, young lady."

"I'm sorry, Father," Lyanna replied.

Rickard huffed as he shook his head once more.

"This young man wishes to speak with you."

Lyanna turned towards him and Jon swallowed deeply, doing his utmost to hide the many emotions he was experiencing.

"Your father explained that you saved my life," he said quietly.

"I found you."

"And you got me help. You looked after Ghost for me."

"Ghost?"

"He's very quiet for a wolf and you can't see him in the snow," Jon chuckled.

Lyanna grinned at the wolf who padded his way towards her, butting her chest with his head. She giggled as she made a fuss of him, much to the confusion and amusement of her father.

"Meeting Ghost made it worth it."

Jon nodded as he sat up.

"He's been my best friend for a very long time," he explained, "and I was always taught that a price could never be put on a man's honour. You saved my life, my lady, and I am in your debt. With your permission, Lord Stark?" he added, gesturing towards Longclaw.

Rickard quirked an eyebrow in surprise before nodding and Jon stood. Retrieving his blade, he took a knee in front of the confused girl.

"I have nothing of value other than my sword. If you will have it, I pledge it to you. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be," he murmured solemnly, his gaze not leaving hers. "I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

It was a rather drastic offering, but given the circumstances, Jon did not know what else he should do. Robert's Rebellion had occurred in part due to Lyanna Stark, and he knew if he could prevent that from taking place, it would be pivotal in the victory over the dead.

If he could keep Lyanna safe, there would be no cause for rebellion.

That did not mean he would allow her to be married to Robert Baratheon, however. The man was a drunken whoremonger and he would not see his mother tied to him.

No, he didn't have it all figured out yet, but to him, this felt like the right move to make.

"I don't understand," Lyanna whispered apologetically.

"Jon is offering his service as your Sworn Sword, Lyanna," Rickard explained. "It is not something done lightly by any man and is not something that should be accepted lightly. Jon will become your bodyguard, your eyes, and ears, and even your Champion should an occasion call for it."

"What should I do, Father?" the girl asked.

"It is to you Jon is pledging himself, Lyanna," Rickard replied. "It is your choice if you wish to accept him into your service."

"Can he teach me to fight?" she asked excitedly.

"If you asked it of him," Rickard sighed.

"So, he will do anything?"

"No," Rickard said firmly. "He will not act in a way that bring you or himself dishonour. You cannot simply ask him to kill someone for a frivolous reason. Any who accepts a Sworn Sword into their service should do so with the intent of respecting their honour and not asking anything of them that would sully it."

Lyanna nodded her understanding.

"What do you think I should do, Father?"

Rickard smiled.

"Well, the first thing you want to know is if he can wield a sword well enough to competently protect you."

"So, I should see him fight first?"

"That would be my recommendation," Rickard chuckled. "What good is a Sworn Sword that cannot fulfil his duty?"

Jon nodded his understanding, as did Lyanna.

"I'll accept your vow once I've seen you fight," she decided.

"That is fair, my lady," Jon returned, offering her a bow before replacing his sword against the wall.

"For now, I believe Jon needs his rest," Rickard declared. "I am afraid I must leave the guards at your door until your vow is accepted."

"It's fine," Jon said dismissively. "It's like you said yourself, we are strangers. I do not mean anyone harm and I hope you are able to see that soon enough."

"As do I, Jon Snow," Rickard replied thoughtfully. "It is also good manners to address the Lord of his keep by his given title."

"Of course, Lord Stark," Jon returned.

Rickard offered him another half-smile.

"Until tomorrow, Jon. Sleep well. I expect you will be put through your paces in the training yard come the morning."

Lyanna gave Ghost a final pet and waved as she and her father took their leave of the room.

Jon released a deep breath.

The meeting had gone as well as he could have expected. He was not so comfortable lying to Rickard Stark, but it was not the right time for the entire truth to come out yet.

No, as much as he wished he could simply declare who he was, Jon knew it could not be. The best he could hope for was to be accepted into Lyanna's service where he would be prime to keep her safe from whatever came her way.

Then, and only then, could he consider the future and the war that was already looming on the horizon.