Dirt kicked up beneath his feet as he ran, trees became a blend of greens and browns. The air was crisp and cool as it ran through his fur. He stopped and sniffed the air. It differed from home, where it smelt of ice and snow, peat and smoke. The air here smelt warm and damp, of fresh grass and the river. He lifted his head and howled. His brothers and sisters answered back. One brother was close by, amongst the pack of men they'd traveled south with. His other brother and two sisters were north. They traveled closer by the day, but still they were too far.

Something rustled in the branches and leaves. He sniffed the air. Prey. He could smell the hot blood, the fresh meat. Hunger sunk its claws into his belly. He wove in and out through the bramble and brushes, stalking silently towards the noise. Leaves reached out, sticking to his white fur. Though it was dark, he could see the doe just ahead. It was clear as ever. He crouched low to the ground, prepared to pounce, when the doe lifted her head. Her gaze snapped to the east before it bounded away.

He huffed. Slaverpooled in his mouth. So close. Curiosity got the better of him. Instead of chasing after his meal he stood and listened for what had spooked the doe. In the distance, in the opposite direction of his man pack, he heard clanging and shouts. Man sounds. But these weren't men he knew. He headed off towards the sound and did not travel far before the lights of cook fires spotted the horizon. Another pack of men had put up their strange cloth dens. He sniffed the air. These men did not smell like his pack. He crept closer through the bramble. The sharp sticks men used like claws glinted in the air, as well as the metal skins they dressed themselves in. Strange cloths hung in the air, beasts he did not recognize.

A howl echoed in the distance. Brother. The sky took on a strange tint as the sun rose. He turned tail on the strange men and sped off towards his man pack.

Jon jerked awake. Early morning sunlight crawled through the gaps in his tent and the sounds of camp bled through. Strange smells stuck in his nose. He rubbed his forehead. An odd dream. He stretched and shifted to sit on the edge of his cot. He looked around. When he'd fallen asleep, Ghost was curled at the entrance of his tent. "Ghost?" Ghost nosed aside the flap of his tent, coming to sit at his feet. "Where have you been?" He scratched behind his ear. Leaves and small twigs stuck to his coat and dirt stained his paws. "Been hunting, have you?" Ghost let out a low whine and nosed at his hand. Memories of walking through bushes flooded his mind. He shuddered.

Jon dressed for the day before flopping back onto his cot. He tried to put the dream–for that was all it was–from his mind. In its place rushed forth the revelations of the past few days. Dark Sister glinted from its place in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut. The sword was perhaps the only thing to come out of the meeting with Lord Reed that did not cause his head to ache. It was a beautiful blade, lighter than any sword he'd held and sharper still. And yet I cannot wield it. It burned him to have to keep it tucked away. But how was he to explain it? One did not just come across a sword such as that. Valyrian steel was rare, and hard to miss. Few swords made from it remained, if his lessons from Maester Luwin proved true.

If only I could have the sword without the burden. Though he'd been glad to see Riverrun grow smaller in the distance, it felt as though guilt only grew larger. Nearly the entire way he'd ridden towards the back of the host with the men. How am I to look at Robb? At Bran? The face of their father's deception. They still called him their brother, Arya and Bran and Robb, but how much of that was the truth? Do they only say that for my sake?

He'd spent nearly his entire childhood imagining who his mother might be. Whether she was northern or southern, highborn or lowborn. For some time, he'd even held onto the hope that she may be alive. But as the years went on, he disposed of that notion. For if his mother had lived, would she not have sought him out? Unless she was highborn, he'd argue with himself. Jon had spent many a sleepless night painting pictures of her in his mind, never able to get her face just right. Even when he couldn't picture her, he'd taken comfort in the thought that he knew who his father was, that he had his brothers and sisters. But that had all been a lie. His real father, butchered in the Trident. The man who raised him, slaughtered for false treason. His brother and sister by blood, butchered for the throne that was now his by right.

Heir to the Iron Throne, King of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon's teeth clenched at the thought. The hidden bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark was one thing, but their trueborn son? He'd never wanted that, never wished for it. But haven't I? How many times had he wished to be lord of something, heir to something, so they would not see him as lesser than his siblings. Something of his own, something that his siblings–cousins–had. Was that not why he wanted to join the Night's Watch? To rise high on his own merit, to have something for himself?

He allowed himself to picture it. A throne made of a gnarled mass of swords that belonged to him, a crown and castle he'd never before laid eyes on. A whole bloody country. He could picture it. A mass of faceless lords and ladies kneeled before him. A woman, a blur of light, stood proudly at his side. A wife, who I could give a name to. She was as faceless and nameless as his mother once was, but she was there. He'd have a wife, a castle, all the things he'd never dared to hope for as a boy. I'd have a name. He could take the name Targaryen, if he wished. He wouldn't be a Snow or a Sand. He tried it on his tongue, but it felt as gnarled and twisted as the throne in his mind.

The picture didn't feel right. As a boy, when he pictured a keep of his own, a wife and children of his own, it had always been in the north. Never in the south, never the Iron Throne. When he tried to picture King's Landing, all he could conjure was his father–uncle–dead on the ground and Sansa alone, frightened and alone. The faceless bodies of his brother and sister by blood stained the brick as well. I don't want the damned thing. His thoughts twisted and turned, his head pounded.

The letter his mother wrote remained close at hand, tucked safely into a pocket in his jerkin. He tried to imagine his mother, stuck in a tower and writing a letter not to him, but to his father. Not my father, my uncle. Ned Stark is not my father. He'd read it over and over again, committing the words to memory. She'd still been pregnant with him when she wrote it, and the desperation in her words haunted him. I never meant for this to happen, she wrote. Rhaegar promised I'd be free, but the Kingsguard won't let me leave. Forgive me, Ned. I should never have gone. The last of her letter struck him most of all. She went willingly. She begged for Ned to come save her, in the letter. Is that why the letter was never sent? When he tried to imagine what his mother may have looked like, images flicked through his mind. They say Arya looks much like her. But Arya was only a girl. Jon couldn't imagine her as a mother. My mother was younger than I am now. She was just a girl.

The flap of his tent pushed open. Alysanne waltzed in, the sunlight streaming behind her. "Good, you're up. You're coming with me."

Jon squinted into the light. "Am I?"

"Yes," she reaffirmed. "You've been brooding, avoiding me. It's tiring."

"I'm supposed to run the men through drills," he rushed out. He left out that he'd be done before midday.

Alysanne smiled at him. "I've had Theon handle it. He's worried about you as well, you know. Says that no matter how he prodded, you wouldn't bite back. The poor man is terribly confused."

Jon exhaled a laugh. "When is he not?" Even Theon had approached him to try and root outwhat bothered him. I'll tell him. Soon. Theon had always made a nuisance of himself, but Jon minded less and less as they grew older. Perhaps it's because his jibes grew less cruel. Lord Stark spoke to Theon after Alysanne pushed him into the dirt, and from then on Theon hadn't once made mention of his mother or his status as a bastard. His japes and teasing evolved into what Jon imagined an older brother's might be. Would Aegon have japed with me that way? It crossed his mind that Theon was mayhap more of his friend than he once thought. Alysanne waited patiently in front of him. "And what if I don't want to come with you?" He knew exactly what conversation she wished to have. I've been successful in avoiding it so far.

Alysanne lifted her nose imperiously. "Then I'll simply have Ser Addam drag you along." Ser Addam stepped into the entrance of his tent and placed a hand on his sword, a teasing smile gracing his face. That would certainly be less tiring than whatever she has planned. She kicked him lightly in the shin. "Get up. We haven't got all day."

Jon groaned and pulled himselfto his feet. Alys beamed at him, and he followed her out of the tent. Ser Addam fell in behind them, as well as Jorelle, who Jon hadn't seen waiting outside. They walked through the camp, the smells of food cooking wafting through the air. His stomach grumbled, but Alys did not seem intent on stopping. Men stepped aside as they approached, clearing the way for them. For her, more like. Some men bowed, some kneeled as they passed by. Murmurs of "your grace" and "my queen" reached their ears, and Jon watched as Alys nodded graciously and greeted each of them.

They did not stop as they reached the grassy field surrounding their camp, but they slowed their pace. Alysanne at his left and Ghost at his right. Ser Addam and Jorelle still trailed behind, just out of earshot. It was not unusual to find Ser Addam following after Alysanne, but Jorelle was new that day. Must be at Ser Addam's suggestion. He was always pushing her to take on another guard, and Alys always argued against it. She claimed she had quite enough between Ser Addam, Robb, and Grey Wind, but Jon couldn't help but agree with Ser Addam. Especially as they caught up to the Lannister host.

A grassy field stretched in front of them, greener than anything Jon had seen in the north. The treeline was ahead of them, and if their scouts were right, the Lannister host several leagues beyond it. You saw it. Last night. Jon suppressed a shudder. It was just a dream.

"You've been avoiding me," Alysanne began. "And Robb." Guilt crawled over him, relentless vines twisting and turning. He hadn't been avoiding them on purpose, not truly. But what was he to say? His father, uncle, lied to Lady Catelyn for years. Lied to them. All for him. When he didn't reply, she continued. "Nothing has changed,"

Jon cut her off. "Everything has changed," he hissed. "My father isn't my father, my entire life has been a lie."

She looked at him sympathetically, then wrapped her arm around his as they walked. "Will you let me finish? Nothing has changed in Robb's eyes. You're still his brother. Arya and Bran feel the same, they've made that clear."

Jon winced. That had not been a simple conversation. Robb had given him the grace of a day after Lord Reed gave them the truth before he called the rest of his family together. They showed Lady Catelyn, Bran, and Arya the same things Lord Reed had shown them. The ornate chest with the cloaks, the letter in Lyanna Stark's hand, the two dragon eggs, Dark Sister. Seeing everything again had been no easier than seeing it for the first time.

Lady Catelyn hadn't spoken a word to him before she left to treat with Lord Renly. What is she to say to me? Her husband lied for years. Because of me. Jon couldn't entirely blame her for avoiding him. He had made no effort to seek her out, either.

"I don't know what to do," Jon admitted. Targaryen. When Jon thought of Targaryen's, he thought of Aerys, of Aerion and his wildfire. "They say the Targaryens were mad. I don't want to be a-"

Alysanne stopped short, jerking him to a stop as well. "A Targaryen?" She narrowed her eyes. "My mother was a Targaryen. Or have you forgotten? In this, we're equal parts, Jon."

Shame flushed through his face. "I didn't mean it that way," he apologized. He'd forgotten about her mother. She didn't look like a Targaryen, but then again neither did he. He'd always thought her a Lannister first, and now a Stark before that. Never a Targaryen. She claimed a dragon egg for her own, just as I did.

Alysanne gave him a sidelong glance before she took his arm again. "I know you didn't." They continued walking. "You've always been family to me, Jon. Long before I married Robb. The only thing that has changed is now we know we share blood."

Jon peered down at her as she walked. Her hair shone in the sunlight, beaten gold against the light grey of her dress. Stark colors, once again. He grimaced. "The last two Targaryens."

She hummed. "We're not. We have an aunt and uncle, somewhere across the narrow sea. Daenerys and Viserys."

How could I forget? He'd learned of them, once. When their father told them of the rebellion. He told them of how Stannis didn't make it to Dragonstone before Viserys and the newborn Daenerys escaped, and how King Robert blamed him for it. Whatever became of them? "Do you think they're still alive?"

Alys shrugged. "I hope so. I asked my grandfather once. If they still lived. A long time ago."

Jon snapped his attention to her. "And? What'd he say?"

Alysanne wrinkled her nose. "He wouldn't tell me. He told me I shouldn't ask such things, and that was that." She snickered. "I wonder what he'd do, if he knew what Lord Reed told us." She went silent for a moment, lost in her own thoughts. What must this be like for her? She'd spent her entire life isolated from her family, with no one left on her mother's side. Alys moved herself closer to his arm. "Did you bring yours? Your egg," she said in a low tone.

"No," Jon answered. "I left mine with Arya." The dragon egg unnerved him. When he first picked it up out of the chest, he hadn't expected it to feel so… alive. It had felt warm, as though someone had left it sitting on hot coals. So he'd left it behind in Riverrun. Safe, hidden amongst Arya's things. Or as safe as something can be with Arya.

Alysanne smiled slyly. "I'm sure she was pleased with that." Between Dark Sister and the eggs, Jon couldn't quite tell which Arya was most like to steal out from under his nose.

Jon snorted. "She would much rather have preferred to come with us." Arya informed them she'd be leaving Riverrun with them rather than asking. Lady Catelyn had been beside herself and had wasted no time in forbidding it. Lord Edmure was to hold Riverrun, and Arya with it. Under lock and key, if need be. Arya had raged for what felt like hours at the injustice of it all. "I'm just as good as Bran, better even," she'd argued. Jon was inclined to agree. He'd watched as she trained nearly every day since she returned to them from King's Landing. Day in and day out, she sparred with Syrio. And when he grew tired, she sparred with any who accepted her challenge.

"Were it up to me, I would have allowed it. Robb as well."

Jon frowned. "He's the King. You're the Queen."

Alysanne shot him a reproving look. "I shan't go behind Lady Catelyn's back in such a way." She returned her gaze forward and muttered, "especially not now." Jon was well aware of the tension between Alys and Lady Catelyn. He hadn't known the extent of it, though. She departed from Riverrun on the same day they did, however she journeyed south to Bitterbridge. The farewell between her and Alysanne had been less than warm.

His curiosity got the better of him. "What happened between the two of you?"

Alysanne tensed. "She is grieving, and worried for Sansa and Rickon."

Jon watched her. She would not meet his eyes. "Is that all?"

"Yes, Jon," she answered sharply. She was quick to change the subject. "You should speak with Robb." Jon's gaze lingered a moment before he turned back to the field in front of them. She'll tell me when she wants to. "He misses you."

Jon sighed. "I haven't gone anywhere. He sees me in council meetings."

Alysanne stared at him exasperatedly. "You linger in the back and hardly speak. You've been avoiding him," Jon opened his mouth to argue. "Don't deny it."

Jon glanced briefly over his shoulder. Ser Addam and Jorelle remained out of earshot, ever watchful. "He doesn't need me. He has you, and the other lords."

"He does need you, Jon. He needs you by his side in this. I know politics, but not war. Not like he does. He hasn't said as much, but he rests easier when you help form the plans, more so when you approve of them. It gives him confidence. He loves Theon like a brother, and he values the rest of the lords, but they can only say so much." She stopped walking and placed herself in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You're his brother, his best friend, Jon. Speak to him."

Jon's eyes found his feet. "Aye, I will."

Alysanne nodded. "Good," she pulled him around and the started back towards camp. She did not allow for a moment of silence on their way back. She told him of Wylla and her plots, the camp followers she was attempting to win the trust of. Beth and Eddara had stayed behind in Riverrun, though she missed them terribly. Bran had taken it upon himself to follow after her as a guard when Jorelle or Ser Addam could not. It was odd to think of Bran as a knight. Jon still thought of him as the young boy trailing after Ser Addam, running along the rooftops of Winterfell. He still remembered the day poor Jory Cassel was made to chase after him.

As much as Lady Catelyn had wanted to, she couldn't prevent Bran from joining them. He was a knight now, as Bran had argued. It was odd to think of Bran as a knight. Jon still thought of him as the young boy trailing after Ser Addam, running along the rooftop of Winterfell and making the guards lives hell. He'll ride into battle with us, when the time comes. The thought terrified him. I won't leave his side.

Alysanne stopped at the edge of camp. "Jon?" He faced her. "You're still a Stark. Don't forget that." She disappeared before he could respond. Her words twisted his stomach, and he turned away from them.

The rest of the day passed quickly. The men were all on edge, and the camp was abuzz. His nerves rose as well. Jon circled through the different encampments, weaving between the tents and passed the makeshift training yards. Some men quelled their nerves by sparring, the clash of steel ringing out into the air. Other men gambled with dice, and some spoke with the women who followed their host. Jon wondered which of those women would be reporting back to Wylla.

As quickly as it rose, the sun began to fall. Jon started the walk back to Robb's tent. Alysanne had made it clear that he was to join them for dinner, along with Bran and Theon. He suspected the nerves were encroaching on her as well. It would be her father they would meet in the field, after all. Anytime now. Though he lingered towards the back, Jon had paid enough attention during the war councils to know that they only waited on word to reach them from Lord Bolton's host.

Ghost waited for him outside the tent and followed close behind as Jon pulled back the flap of the tent and ducked in. Theon and Bran were already seated across from Alysanne and Robb. The meal was as it'd been nearly every night on the march. A hearty beef stew and trenchers of bread. Mugs of ale sat at each place. As the sun dipped below the sky, the candles lit around the table were the only source of light. In the middle of the large table lay a map, various wooden markers placed atop it. Even with the map, there was plenty of room to eat their meal without risk of dirtying it.

Jon took a seat next to Bran, which proved to be a mistake. He hardly stopped talking long enough to eat his meal. He spoke of how he'd won a spar against Jory that morning, bragging about how he'd caught him behind the leg. To hear Bran tell it, he'd almost bested Theon as well. Theon loudly disagreed, which sparked a heated debate between the two. Jon was ready to up and leave when Alysanne put an end to the argument. He'd taken the last few meals alone in his tent, but the speed with which Alys stepped in suggested that this argument was not the first of its kind. I've missed this.

Bran finished his meal and took his leave first. He mentioned something or other about Edd Karstark and Daryn Hornwood, and he was off. Theon was not far behind, and then it was Alysanne. She brushed past him, following the latter two. Alys gave him a pointed look, nodding to Robb who slumped in his chair. She let the tent flap fall closed behind her.

Jon cleared his throat, and Robb's head snapped up. His face lit with hope, and the guilt returned. He should be mad at me. Robb settled back into his seat and Jon shifted forward. He had not spoken to Robb since they revealed the truth of his parents to the rest of his family. Not truly.

"Your wife accosted me this morning," he offered with a slight chuckle.

Robb grinned. "Aye, she has a habit of doing that."

The silence that stretched between them was tense and made Jon uneasy. He stood and stepped into it, leaning over the table. He tapped a finger on the map. "Still no word from your aunt?" Jon, admittedly, had paid little attention in the war council before they departed Riverrun. But he remembered Lady Catelyn suggesting they send another raven, and there were no markers on the map to represent the Vale.

Robb sighed and picked up a lion's head marker. He rolled it in his fingers. "Nothing. That's five ravens now. Five. One must have certainly reached her."

Jon hummed. "What does your Uncle Brynden say? He served her, did he not?"

"He did," Robb stood and leaned over the map. "He couldn't convince her before he left. He was hoping she'd see reason, change her mind." Robb placed the lion marker just above Stone Hedge. "Even if she were to reply, it's too late now. I've sent out small raiding parties, none of Lannister's patrols have returned to him. Once we hear word from Lord Bolton's camp, we'll attack. It could be any time now." It will be tonight, a voice warned. Jon ignored it. It was only a dream.

Jon studied the map, and the markers placed upon it. Wolves and lions, spread across the Riverlands. "We'll be fine without the Vale." He pointed to Darry. "You have Lord Bolton from the east, and Lord Edmure holds Riverrun. You have him pinned." Jon furrowed his brow. There's something missing. "Where's Lord Tywin?"

Robb pointed just east of Pinkmaiden. "Last reports have him here. They won't reach each other in time. He's not a problem. Yet." Robb gestured to Casterly Rock. "Theon wants me to let him bring an offer to his father. An alliance. We support their independence, and he gives me ships. Says if we attack Casterly Rock from the sea, it will draw Lord Tywin back."

Jon scoffed. "Does he think Lord Tywin left it undefended?"

Robb smirked at him. "That's what Alys said. Her grandfather likely left his brother-by-law in charge."

"Are you going to let him? Go to his father?" It hadn't taken long for Theon's father to declare himself King once more. Theon's lucky he waited until now. Any earlier, and Theon may have found himself without a head. Theon is right. We need the ships. But Robb's father had killed Theon's brothers, Lord Balon's sons. "Your father killed his sons. You won't be his first choice for an alliance."

Robb looked at him queerly, but shook his head. "That's what Alysanne said," Robb sat down once more and tapped his fingers on the table. "I like her plan better," he muttered.

Jon shifted his weight. "It's a good plan, Robb." He gestured to the map. "All of it."

Robb gave him a wan smile. The silence stretched onwards, broken only by Grey Wind gnawing on a bone from dinner. Jon cleared his throat and prepared to excuse himself when Robb spoke once more. "Are you alright?"

Jon raised a brow. "Am I alright?" Robb gestured to the seat next to him and Jon took it.

Robb leaned back and picked up his mug of ale. "You know," he waved his hand. "Your mother. Father. It's a lot, Jon. Is that why you've been avoiding me?"

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face."I haven't–" Jon snapped his mouth shut. Who am I fooling? "What am I to say? Your father lied to your mother for years. Because of me."

Robb scowled. "He was your father too, Jon."

Rhaegar Targaryen. Rhaegar and Lyanna. "He's not–" Robb stood to his feet. "Am I not your brother?" Robb set his mug down harshly. "We were raised together, Jon. You were my brother first. Before Bran was born, before Rickon. If he's not your father, then what am I?" Jon placed his head in his hands. "You don't understand-" Robb barreled over him. "Then help me-" Jon heaved himself to his feet. "He lied to me!" Jon roared. "He lied about my mother, and he lied about my father. My entire life, Robb. It's all a lie."

Robb quieted. He slowly sat back down. "He loved you, Jon. That wasn't a lie." Jon scoffed. He loved me, and lied to me. I was never a Stark. Robb continued talking, ignoring his scoff. "He raised you. He was your father. That doesn't mean you can't be angry with him for the lie."

That doesn't sound like Robb. Jon narrowed his eyes. "Those aren't your words."

Robb grew sheepish. "My mother's words. I was angry with him, too. I still am."

Jon rubbed at his brow and focused on Ghost, gnawing on a bone in the corner. He was my father, and I loved him. He didn't even know what Rhaegar Targaryen looked like. "I suppose she's right."

Robb's chair creaked as he leaned back. "Alysanne says I need to name a hand." Grey Wind lumbered over to Robb and placed his head in his lap. Robb scratched behind his ear. "I tried to name her, we argued about it for days but she wouldn't have it."

Jon huffed a laugh. "Why not? She does half the work for you anyway."

Robb laughed. "She does not." He crumpled a piece of parchment and threw it at him. It shattered the tension in the air. "'Says she has her own duties. Wants me to pick someone northern."

Jon leaned back in his chair as well. "Did the King's of Winter even have Hands?"

Robb shrugged. "I don't think so. But it couldn't hurt, could it? To have someone I trust help me. Someone loyal."

He nodded. The Greatjon had been a loyal supporter of Robb's after Grey Wind took his fingers. He wouldn't be an awful choice. Robb's Uncle Brynden wouldn't be a terrible choice either. He survived several wars, won countless battles, and was well respected. Or perhaps Lord Karstark. Robb told him he'd been complaining about wanting a host to command. That should shut him up. Jon said as much to Robb.

Robb shook his head. "I don't know Lord Karstark well enough and the Blackfish is too southern. The Greatjon wouldn't be a horrible choice, but I had someone else in mind."

"Who then?" Jon asked. "Do you plan to name Bran?" Both he and Robb laughed at the suggestion. Perhaps someday.

Jon took a sip of the ale sitting in front of him. "No, not Bran," Robb chuckled. "I had meant to name you."

Jon sputtered, spitting ale across the table. "Me?"

Robb stifled a laugh. "You."

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Why? I'm a bastard, and a-" he cut himself off and rubbed a hand over his face. A Targaryen.

"You're not a bastard," Robb reminded him.

"I may as well be," Jon argued back. "What proof is there that my mother and father married? All we have are the cloaks. Not even her letter makes mention of it, Robb." Who would believe me, anyway? It was all too convenient. The hidden bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen, coming to take the throne from Joffrey.

"You don't need proof. It doesn't matter," Robb held up a hand before he could argue. "Look." He picked up a piece of parchment from the table and passed it to him. Jon read over it once, twice, and once again. Robb already signed it at the bottom, sealed it as well. The direwolf wax seal snarled up at him, the words Jon Stark glared. "I wrote it in Riverrun, before Lord Reed asked to speak to us."

"I'm not a Stark," Jon muttered.

"Not this again," Robb groaned. "You're a Stark. It doesn't matter who your father was. I can legitimize you however I like, I'm the King."

Jon's lips twitched. "I don't think that's how it works, Robb."

Robb took a gulp of his ale. "Either way. If you don't want it, I'll burn the paper here and now. But please Jon, I need you by my side. You're my brother. Say yes, and I'll name you Prince Jon Stark, Hand of the King."

Jon swallowed. "And what if I want the throne?" He met Robb's eyes. "What if I want to make my claim known?"

Robb raised a brow. "Do you?"

Jon slumped back into his seat. "I don't think so. I haven't decided." No, he thought. I don't want the stupid throne.

"Then you have no reason to refuse me."

A shout startled them before Jon could answer. "Robb!" Olyvar called. They could hear him long before they could see him. He burst through the tent, hand on the hilt of his sword. "We have word from Lord Bolton," he thrust a folded piece of parchment forward.

Robb scrambled to his feet and eagerly grabbed it. He grinned, an echo of Grey Wind who stalked forward. "Tell the Greatjon to ready the men." His squire sprinted out of the tent.

Ghost rose with Jon, coming to a stop beside Grey Wind. "It's time?"

Robb nodded. "Aye. It's time."