Bear Keep

301 AC - Three Moons Later

It was snowing again.

Pearly white clouds had filled the sky, though they certainly were not thick enough to completely block out the gaze of the sun, which had been rising far in the east on such a lovely winter morning. And out on the balcony which was connected by a door to the Lord's Chambers on the top floor of Bear Keep, Starag Mormont sat in his wooden armchair, watching the flakes of snow ever so gently glide down onto the sturdy pine beams, and the courtyard far below him.

He'd just finished training with the men an hour ago. After that, he'd washed away the sweat and the salt from his skin, and then dressed. Then he came out here, if only to give himself a moment of peace.

Unconsciously, as he listened to the wind howl and whistle along the mountain slopes, he felt his mind begin to reorganize itself, along with his thoughts.

A sickeningly familiar, uncomfortable feeling had come over him then. One he was utterly disgusted by.

Boredom.

Mormont had readjusted to the usual business of running his holdings, of course. Ever since he returned to Bear Island three moons prior, he'd quickly taken on the workload again. Not that there was much to it in comparison to being in charge of the finances of the Crown itself.

He was happy enough to simply relieve Rhaenys of her duties so she could return to her personal passions, her books, and to raising their children. And to let his aunt get back to raising her own cubs. That had been a reward in itself.

He'd more or less had everything set up to run on its own in case he was away, or at least to be able to run with someone else in charge, provided they were competent. As Mormont had expected, Dacey had no issues running Westhelm on her own. Alysane was more or less the same, though she'd consulted Rhaenys a few times out of a moon regarding her own slice of their family's holdings down on the Stony Shore. And the Wildling settlement on the northern coast led by Sigmund rarely needed anything from him, only sending the regular shipments of pinewood and other such goods to Frostgate, along with their taxes.

Mormont was thankful that he'd handled that little bug when the Wildlings initially settled in. Sigmund had not taken well to the concept of taxation, of course. Mormont couldn't blame him. He'd lived tax-free roaming all across Westeros for the better part of his life and could sympathize with the wildlings. Still, Sigmund and his wildlings had been efficient in earning their keep, and that was good enough for him.

So… what was left for him to manage? Bear Island? Frostgate? There wasn't much to it anymore. Frostgate was piling in revenue with each passing moon. Mormont thought that it might actually be high time to make extensions to Bear Keep, perhaps make it larger, or even extend the castle into the mountain itself.

Alternatively, Mormont considered actually creating an easier way to get to Bear Island or Sea Dragon Point by land. A branch off the Kingsroad? Probably cutting through the foothills along the northern border of the Wolfswood. He'd need Robb's permission for that. And he knew that Galbart Glover would want to get his own say. Glover was always a remarkably unexceptional man, though admittedly both good and loyal to House Stark. He'd been chief among the other Lords Vassals of the North in bashing Mormont's claim to Sea Dragon Point. Should've asked for it first, you bloody lout.

Mormont wasn't terribly surprised when his detractors in the North grew even louder since his return, and since he'd revealed that his own wife was none other than Rhaenys Targaryen. He was actually more surprised that those who'd already been on his side prior had still wanted to keep themselves on good terms with his house when it seemed the overwhelming majority actually hated him.

Wyman Manderly was the first to offer his continued support, and more or less acted as if nothing had happened. Manderly actually wrote that he'd decided to cut down on his eating habits, if only because of Mormont's influence on him. A pleasant turn of events, for sure. Then there was Greatjon Umber, who made his support clear in a firm, yet short letter. With the end tag politely asking him for more Braavosi Firebrand.

But the rest of them? Well, Mormont knew he had work to do on that. The Dustins, the Hornwoods, the Tallharts, the Karstarks… not many of his fellow bannermen had liked him personally even before he became Lord of Bear Island, and fewer still had liked him after his ascension.

He supposed that he hadn't exactly done himself any favors on that front, and marrying the Mad King's granddaughter certainly added fuel to that fire.

The Lords of the North had cause to hate the Targaryens. Both Rickard Stark and Brandon were killed by them. And after all… the North remembers.

It'll be hard to find matches for my children… might even have to look to the South. I'll figure it out in any case.

The lock on the door to his left gently clicked open. Rhaenys came out, holding two mugs of freshly brewed coffee, and humming the tune of 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' to herself. She was wearing one of her thick woolen morning dresses, so as to protect herself from the cold. Her dark red hair was loose and shining from having just been washed and dried, with the lone platinum-gold strip begging Mormont to reach out and touch it, and perhaps even pull at it.

Rhaenys took her seat on the chair opposite his own, resting their mugs on the small square wooden table between them, and pulled her feet up away from the cold balcony floor. She gave him a warm smile when he looked at her.

Mormont smiled back, took his mug, sipped at the hot caffeinated liquid spiked with a generous spoonful of sweet honey, and then gazed back out at the snowfall in reflection.

What would come next for him?

To his knowledge, the world did not require saving. And Jon was now sitting on the Iron Throne. Job well done, he supposed. Arthur's Ghost was likely brimming with pride right about now.

The Others were trapped beyond the Wall, though they hadn't been active in the last year or so. Westeros was finally united under the Stark banner, albeit reluctantly so. But Mormont knew that was more or less the most they would have gotten out of the Seven Kingdoms. It wasn't as if every Lord Paramount was expected to get along with one another right away.

That said, it certainly helped now that the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms was keenly aware of the possibility of a potential threat rising from across the Narrow Sea. It was better than letting them fight each other.

Mormont mentally shrugged. It wasn't really his problem anymore. He instead decided to simply enjoy the silence presented to him, the peace that the Old Gods had given him on a silver platter. Even if he knew that at some point, he'd grow tired of it.

Or more likely, that something else would come along in its place.

He also noted, with a short glance at his wife, that she too was enjoying the airy snowfall. Rhaenys probably wanted to converse but knew that Mormont wished to savor the moment instead. His heart warmed briefly before he looked back out at the light-gray sky above him and the small flakes of snow which came from it.

Should get Duncan started with the sword, he thought to himself. He recalled the canvas-wrapped package which arrived recently all the way from King's Landing, and which now rested on the large war table within his office.

Naturally, it had come from Jon. The accompanying letter had been written by him. Jon finally figured out what to do with the sword Blackfyre, or more accurately, who he would give it to. It was Mormont's responsibility now.

The matter of adding Daenerys Targaryen to the mixture also provided yet more problems to be solved. As House Targaryen had reclaimed its ancestral home of Dragonstone, the matter of who would succeed Daenerys had also come up. Unofficially, Mormont knew the girl's story, and that she was barren, or so she believed. Unless she found a way to birth human children and not more dragons, then one of Mormont's own children would be next in line for House Targaryen.

Thalia? Jeor? Arthur? Mormont scratched his beard in contemplation. He'd figure it out. He always did. It would be years until one of them came of proper age anyways.

He heard fabric shift slightly to his immediate left. "What are you thinking about?"

Mormont glanced back at his wife, who was now looking at him with a completely relaxed gaze. Having posted her chin up on her right palm while she held her mug of coffee with the other.

"About which one of our children I'd ship off to Dragonstone." He said unceremoniously. "What were you thinking about?"

Rhaenys grinned. "That Thalia has been behaving rather well since you've returned."

"I should think so."

"She wasn't particularly cooperative while you were gone, you know."

"What'd she do?"

His wife had a rather mirthful gleam in her violet eyes. She held her mug with both hands now. "Well, you didn't hear this from me," She began, "Supposedly when Maege told her not to play with her venison stew, our daughter instead chose to take her bowl and throw its contents onto Maege's lap."

Mormont couldn't prevent the smile that crossed his lips. "And I suppose this impolite behavior got exactly what it deserved?"

"Oh, naturally." Rhaenys nodded. "Maege picked her up with one hand, dragged her out to the fountain, and threw her into it. Our daughter likely felt somewhat betrayed when I didn't bother to stop what was happening at the time."

"Somewhat?" Mormont snorted. "Brat deserves it, though. I would've done worse."

"Oh, please." His wife shook her head. "As if Thalia would do that while you're around. With you, it's always 'Yes Papa?', 'Okay, Papa' with those bloody twinkling blue eyes of hers. With myself and Maege, it's like pulling teeth."

Mormont smirked. "A bit like her mother, then."

Rhaenys pursed her lips, instead deciding to pout and fold her arms in response. She didn't bother trying to hide the blush which crept into her cheeks. "Yes, I suppose she is."

He looked back out at the snowfall, contemplating his options. Mormont considered the possibility that Thalia would simply turn out more or less like his cousins. Nothing less than a competent warrior would appeal to her. No soft southern knights from the Reach, nor pompous lordlings from the Westerlands for her. Perhaps a Northman, or even a Wildling?

Jeor presented a better option. He looked the most Targaryen out of all of his trueborn children. Platinum-gold hair, violet eyes. Almost like Rhaegar, but he'd inherited Mormont's tough mountainous Northerner build. It would probably be better to send him off to Dragonstone when he turned seven and ten, however. Mormont wanted his second-born son to be opinionated, and unwavering in support of House Stark. It would be a good standard to set for the Crownlands, especially House Velaryon if they got any funny ideas to make the odd "suggestion". They could do with a bit of stern northern leadership. And it would give Mormont the chance to do away with the Blackfyre sword. Jeor could have it once he earned it.

"I'll send Jeor." He decided. "When he's old enough, of course. He can take Blackfyre with him and become Master of Ships after Rykker moves on from the position. I don't imagine Thalia would take well to the South, nor that any Southern knight would appeal to her. But we shall see."

"I agree," Rhaenys said happily. "Though it might break Maege's heart to see Jeor go."

"She'll get by." He waved it aside. "Wouldn't surprise me if he came back with one of your aunt's dragons as well." He said with a shake of his head. "But they've all got to leave the nest someday. Might as well help them on their way out."

He felt his wife's warm hand slip into his own and squeeze gently. He looked her in the eyes and saw the love and admiration within them. He squeezed her hand gently in turn.

They enjoyed that moment together before Mormont resumed his smile. "Go on, then. What's got to be done?" He asked, nodding to the book which rested on the left arm of Rhaenys' chair.

She opened the book, setting it down between them. "A few ravens came in the night from some of our more disgruntled fellow bannermen. Unofficially, they're hoping that we don't burn down their holdfasts, and have politely, though reluctantly, asked that relations be improved between our Houses. These requests came from House Tallhart, House Glover, House Ryswell, House Hornwood, and House Whitehill. There have been others, of course." She moved on. "Also, Sigmund has reported sightings of wildling boats heading for the Northern Mountains. He believes they'll be going for Queenscrown and the Gift."

Mormont nodded. "Send word to Lord Wull and Lord Knott. They'll be able to handle these wildling raids while Robb sends over someone to rule Queenscrown."

Rhaenys went ahead and wrote something down with her charcoal pen. "Another thief in Frostgate was caught stealing from a well-known merchant. He's currently being held in the dungeons."

"I'll deal with him later," Mormont said. "Anything else?"

His wife turned over to the next page. "Dacey said that there were some Captains hailing from the Far East who wished to speak with you personally. Shall I schedule an appointment?"

Mormont shook his head. "No, have Dacey deal with them."

Rhaenys jotted down the note. "Oh! And today you said you wanted to take Duncan hunting."

"Ah yes," Mormont smiled, thankful for the reminder. "Best clear off everything else. I'll handle the thief's punishment upon our return. We'll be out for a few days, regardless. Rotting in the dungeons should prove to be therapeutic for him." He downed his coffee in two consecutive gulps and stood up from his seat.

His wife went ahead and scratched out some figures in her book. "We don't have any petition sessions lined up for the next three days, so it'll mostly be administrative duties that'll need to be handled while you two are hunting. Was there anything you wanted done in particular?"

"Yes, actually," Mormont said. "Have the men assemble building supplies. There's a plot of land by Frostgate that I want to put to good use. An arena of sorts, where the smallfolk can be entertained. We can get started on construction later in the week, of course." He grinned to himself. "And I suppose there was one other thing…"

"What would that be?" Rhaenys seemed fully concentrated, ready to write down whatever he was going to say next.

Mormont decided to surprise her. He swiftly but gently scooped his wife up into his arms. He almost laughed when he saw her go through several expressions in the course of about a few seconds. Ranging from shock, to pleasantly surprised, to acceptance, and then finally, to delight. Rhaenys' looped her arms around his neck in surprise and forgot about her book entirely, leaving it on the table while Mormont pulled open the door with one hand and stepped inside.

All that could be heard before the door clicked shut, was husky girlish laughter.


Two hours later, Mormont had been sitting in the saddle once again.

His sturdy warhorse, Bear, had been returned to him by Jorge and Orin. And as Mormont was a man of his word, he knighted both men upon his arrival to Bear Island. They were the first 'Knights of the North' so to speak, even if the title held less sway than it did in the South.

Mormont was nonetheless thankful, and a part of him was even excited to get on with the hunting trip he'd cooked just for both himself and Duncan.

Speaking of which, his eldest trueborn son had been trotting at a slow pace behind him, on an admittedly large pony named Gretta. Duncan had ridden a horse before, but certainly not by himself. As such the experience was very new to him, and it showed due to his calculating, yet uncomfortable expression.

Packed on Mormont's own saddle were a few days' worth of provisions. Bread, stale cheese, dried meat, and water. Though the whole point was to really find something to kill and then eat it. At the same time, Mormont did not expect his son to even hit anything right away. It would be the same lesson that his own father had taught him so long ago, and it would continue to be a tradition that Duncan one day passed onto his own sons.

"Father, where are we going?" Duncan asked.

Mormont smiled. "Somewhere." He replied as they reached the bottom of the mountain, just before the winding road which led directly up to the White Gate, and Bear Keep beyond it.

"Where?" His son asked again.

"Somewhere else."

Duncan, at that point, decided that he probably wasn't going to get a straight answer, and stopped talking.

Mormont had brought along two bows: a short bow and a longbow. Along with a quiver containing twenty-four arrows. He felt the yew branches brush up against his leg with every second step that Bear took. He hated using bows and rather preferred to throw a spear or to use Tempest. Yet he also liked to eat venison cooked over a fire. And so, his love of food won out in the end. If all went as he expected it would, then he wouldn't need to use it anyways, since Duncan was primarily going to be the one doing the shooting.

The road would continue to lead on towards Frostgate. Mormont instead decided to take one of the branching pathways that led into the southwestern forest. The smallfolk were wary of heading into those parts, as Sigmund's wildlings often hunted along the western side of the island. That, and he knew there was less game. The task he would give to Duncan would be that much harder to achieve.

It was a perfect time to get right and thoroughly lost.

Roughly an hour later, they'd arrived in a small clearing within the depths of the snowed-in forest. Mormont stopped for a moment and looked at the ground for any potential trails. The snowfall wasn't thick enough to cover up any tracks, and out here, it was quiet and calm. A solid hunting ground.

Mormont climbed down from his saddle. They'd leave the horses and set up camp here. If any predators came by, then the horses would bolt.

He looked around the clearing some more, and behind him, he heard Duncan get down from his own saddle. "Are we staying here, Father?"

"Yes, but not for long." Said Mormont. He looked at his son. "Go get some firewood."

"But we just-"

Mormont hadn't said anything, only staring blankly at his eldest son until Duncan nodded his head and left the clearing on foot.

Mormont went about collecting stones for the eventual campfire. He quickly found the candidates he was looking for and began setting up the ring. By the time he'd unloaded the packs from the horses, Duncan had come back lugging dozens of large branches, twigs, and even bits of birch bark.

When his son had dropped the pile of wood by the ring of stones, he began dusting himself off. Duncan was about to sit down when Mormont spoke up again.

"Come here," He said.

Duncan stopped and then made to crouch across the cold fire pit from his father.

Mormont finished setting up the ring of stones and had taken out the kit he'd brought along with him, handing it over to his son. "Do you remember what I taught you about lighting a fire?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Duncan nodded and got to work. He set the twigs and branches into the pit, having cleared away any snow. Then he'd taken the birch bark and pine needles that he'd found and put them into a small cluster. From there, he struck steel against flint, attempting to light the small bit of cotton afforded to him.

In a matter of minutes, his son had gotten a small fire going and was visibly pleased with his work.

So too was Mormont, with how efficiently his son had gotten the fire started. But that was just the start.

Mormont threw some snow onto the fire, dousing it out early. The accompanying hiss came from the contact between hot and cold.

"What?" Duncan looked sharply at him. "Why did you do that?"

"You'll make another one later," Mormont said as he stood up and went over to the horses, taking the longbow from Bear's saddle and looping it over his right shoulder. Likewise, he took the quiver of arrows, and the shortbow from Gretta's saddle.

His son's brow was furrowed in frustration by the time Mormont approached him. Though, Duncan obviously knew better than to talk back to his own father.

Mormont handed him the short bow and the quiver. "You are hunting for deer. Not we. You." He said firmly. "Understand?"

Duncan looked at the surrounding wilderness and then back at him in stark bewilderment. And at what he was being commanded to do. "Now?"

"Now."

"But…" Duncan's tone was uncertain. "I don't know where to start…"

Mormont nodded off to the woods behind his son. He only wore an amused smile.

"You start by looking for deer."


Jon Stark was about ready to jump out of his seat.

His seat in question was the Iron Throne itself.

In the following moons since Starag's departure from King's Landing, Jon and his Small Council had been handling the administration of the city, and of the Seven Kingdoms themselves, rather well. Progress had been made. The new sept at the Iron Gate had begun to expand, meanwhile, the ruins of Baelor's Sept had been cleared, allowing for the removal of debris and any stones which could be reused. Reconstruction of the King's Gate had been well underway and was nearing completion. And after some back and forth with the Iron Bank, Jon had uncovered Petry Baelish's own personal hoard of proceeds taken from his investments and illicit dealings.

He was initially surprised at how much gold Baelish had been able to amass during his relatively short tenure as Master of Coin, but it was probably best in this situation to not look the gift horse in the mouth.

It was, for the most part, enough to remove most of the debt that the Crown had accrued with both the Iron Bank and the Lannisters. Though Jon was fairly confident that he would be able to pay the rest of it off within the next two years.

Gold was flowing back into the treasury, and Jon was putting it to good use on various projects within the city.

Life was… well, it certainly wasn't easy, but it was 'easier' than it had been before.

Today Jon Stark had scheduled in time to address the petitioners. It was the case for every third day out of the week, and normally, it would be one of the first things he'd do in the morning. This was so he could conserve his energy for any remaining tasks on his schedule.

And yet, today of all days, Jon Stark simply couldn't stand it.

It was not because of the sometimes inane and foolish questions that would eventually grate on his nerves and challenge his patience.

It wasn't even because of the two-hour period from which he wouldn't move from the most uncomfortable chair in the Known World…

It was because precisely thirteen hours earlier, Margaery had gone into labor, and had been taken into the nursery within Maegor's Holdfast. All the while, Jon could do little else but follow the schedule he'd set into stone days prior.

Of course, Jon had been deprived of sleep, as it had happened in the middle of the night. He was only able to sleep for a few hours after training himself to exhaustion in the courtyard with Garlan. And even then, it did little to soothe his nerves.

Right now, his woman was doing her damnedest to bring their child into the world. His child, no less. Jon wanted to be there for her. Even if the only thing he could do was to hold her hand.

"...he didn't even blink twice, Your Grace." Said the farmer standing in the middle of the room. "Told me, 'In the name of His Grace, King Jon, I must relieve you of your livestock.'" He held his worn hat in both hands. "But he didn't even give me a reason, Your Grace! There was naught else I could do, not with his men armed to the teeth and all."

Jon felt his temples pulse with irritation, and he forced himself to be ice-cold. It wouldn't help anyone if he simply took out his foul temper on the peasants. "I gave no such order for livestock to be taken from the people. This man tricked you. Did he tell you his name?"

The small, stubborn, and insignificant dregs of Aegon's forces still remained in the countryside. Those who had not been captured had either fled back across the Narrow Sea or had resorted to harassing the local farmers, fishermen, and merchants who roamed the Kingsroad. Two possibilities came to mind: the first was that these men were selling the goods they'd relieved from the workmen so they could afford passage to Braavos. Or, less likely, they were continuing to fight in Aegon's name out of some misplaced sense of honor and martyrdom.

It would be better to remove such pests, of course. Yet Jon understood very well how quickly small pockets of well-trained and well-armed men could move around. To send out a fleet of knights after them wouldn't achieve much. Perhaps he could utilize a much smaller task force instead? He would ponder the matter once he was in higher spirits.

"Underhill was what he called 'imself, Your Grace." Replied the farmer.

Just as Jon had suspected. 'Underhill' was easily a fake name. That had not been the first he'd heard of it, either. This Underhill probably considered himself an artist and had the gall to trade caravans all while knowing that word of his little spree would make its way back to the capital.

A small group instead. 'Underhill' likely had over fifty men at his disposal. Jon would assign over a hundred to deal with him. But he'd keep the matter quiet.

Jon Stark sighed. "Your holdings will be inspected and verified. If your story holds true, you shall be compensated for your losses. Speak with my aid after this session."

The farmer couldn't resist giving him a warm, brown-tinted smile. "Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you!"

Jon decided to move it along. "Next." He said, waving his hand idly towards the woman who'd stood at the front of the long line itself.

As the smallfolk shuffled back and forth, the twin doors on his right by the edge of the hall had opened outward. Jon raised a curious eyebrow and nearly jumped out of his seat once he saw Ormand walking briskly towards him, of course having properly bowed once he was in proximity of the Iron Throne itself. There was a thin sheen of sweat running down his brow, Jon had noticed.

Margaery.

His anger at having put himself in this position, that he'd be stuck in this chair for the next hour or so all because he'd scheduled this session for today, had suddenly increased a hundredfold. Of all bloody days…

And yet, the moment Ormand arrived at the foot of the Iron Throne itself, Jon did not sense worry within the older man. In fact, what he saw was…

Relief. Solace. Happiness.

"Your Grace," Ormand bowed once again. "Forgive me for the interruption, but the Queen has requested your presence. She's-"

Jon did not allow him to finish. He looked at the court. "That will be all for today. You may bring your matters here on the morrow."

A small quiet collective of groans had escaped from those at the back of the line, though it seemed that their anger was directed at those in front of them. It was more or less standard, as when it came to petitioners, it was first come, first serve.

Slowly, the horde of smallfolk shuffled out of the Great Hall. It took all of Jon's willpower to not simply jump up from his seat on the Iron Throne, bolt down each of the thirty-three steps, burst by Ormand, and make a mad dash for the nursery.

Hours passed by in those few moments, as the people simply took their bloody time. Come on, hurry it up! Jon gripped the cold iron arms of the throne, feeling the dulled metal blades dig into his skin.

And finally, when the great bronze doors shut closed behind the backs of the last of the peasantry, Jon seized his chance. He stood sharply from his throne and elected to calmly march down the steps one by one. "You were saying, Ormand?" he asked, internally throttling his nerves with great effort.

The Grand Maester dipped his head and wiped his brow. "Yes, of course. Well, the birth was quite successful. Queen Margaery is well, and your-"

Jon decided that was enough for him. "Thank you, Ormand." He said, placing his hand on the older man's shoulder. Then, unceremoniously, with his iron crown still firmly placed on top of his head, Jon had gotten by Ormand and broke into a sprint heading straight for the twin doors on the right side of the hall.

Not a single thought had gone through his mind as he dashed down the winding marble halls.

Not even as he passed by the dozens of servants and guardsmen on patrol, not even as they looked at their own King in bewilderment. Though, it wasn't as if they'd question him, either.

Each corner, each twist, each turn had faded into one another. Time hadn't existed for him then. There was only the knowledge that right now, he was needed.

Jon found himself outside then. He paid no mind to the cold flurries of fresh snow that flew with the wind, nor to the crunching underneath his feet. He set his eyes on Maegor's Holdfast and bolted.

Ser Barristan was standing guard at the bridge. He stepped aside once he saw Jon running his way and bowed his head. "Your Grace." He said, with a knowing smile.

Jon merely nodded back but didn't have the time to greet the old knight. He sprinted across the wooden drawbridge and braced himself for the impact of the main doors, pushing them open with little effort. From there he took the first left turn and immediately set eyes on the tall oak door which belonged to the nursery.

He flew to the door and pushed it open easily. Jon scanned the room, passing over the startled wet nurses and handmaidens, until he set eyes on Margaery's crown of golden brown hair.

Margaery's doe-brown eyes had fluttered lightly upon seeing him, and he could see that she was weak. Her normally tanned skin was pale with a cold sweat, her hair soaked and sticking to her brow and cheeks, and all around her the sheets were stained with blood. Jon found himself next to her bed, and holding her hand in his own, squeezing it gently so as to put feeling back into her body.

"You're here…" She gave him that blasted crooked smile of hers. "You came…"

"Of course, I'm here," Jon grunted as if it was obvious.

His wife gave a weak cough into her palm. "What about the… the petitioners?"

"Bah! They could wait another day."

Another pause as Margaery collected her thoughts. The wet nurse next to her gently poured some water into her mouth. She swallowed it weakly, and then looked back at Jon.

"Do you…" She began. "Do you want to meet him?"

Him? Him. His child. His son? Of course…

"What sort of question is that?" He asked, then looking at the wet nurse who stood on the opposite side of the bed. He nodded to her, and she bowed in response and left them.

A few moments later, she came back. This time, with a small bundle wrapped in clean linen in her arms. Within the bundle itself was a baby, having already been washed by the wet nurses. On the top of his head was a small tuff of brown-black hair.

And when Jon took the babe in his arms and looked down into the small face, he found himself gazing into the tiny gray eyes that stared quietly back at him.

"He was 'owling like a wolf before you came in, Your Grace." Said the girl with a happy smile. "A strong, healthy babe by the sound of it."

Yet Jon could not find the right words to say. He'd, somehow, never felt more uncertain than when he held this being that had come from him but was not him.

Was this how his father had felt with the rest of his siblings? And perhaps even, with Jon himself? Certainly. It was then that Jon Stark cracked a smile and laughed.

And the small face that stared back at him had grinned back at him. Those gray eyes flashed with amethyst in the light, before they closed shut completely. Almost as soon as the babe had been placed in his arms, he fell asleep, snoring away softly.

Jon sat on a chair close to the bed. He felt Margaery's eyes on him, watching him.

"He's wonderful, isn't he?" She asked.

"Hmmm," Jon grunted. "I suppose he'll be as bright as his mother."

Margaery gave her lopsided grin. "And as brave as his father."

Jon nodded. "That too." He saw it now. Perhaps what his own father had seen in him a long time ago. This child, His child… was the future. The representation of limitless potential to do things both great and terrifying.

Fascinating, indeed.

And then, a question came to mind… What would he name this child? His child?

A strong name would do. Like the Kings of Winter, or the other Lords of the North who came before him.

Of all the historical names which flooded through Jon Stark's mind within those next few moments, only one really stood out to him. One which brought warm memories, that had reminded him of a much simpler time, and a name that had brought light into so many other lives.

"Eddard." Jon smiled. Out of honor for the man who raised him as his own son. For the man who Jon had called 'Father'.

"His name will be Eddard."