Some quick disclaimers:

This is an AU where the White Walkers do not invade the Seven Kingdoms. It will focus exclusively on Jon and his adventures. I've researched what I can in leu of rereading the books or rewatching the show, and while this story will include many of the canonical plot elements, I'll be taking a lot of liberties with the source material.

1. A Wish in Winter, Chapter 1

At five years old, Jon and Robb were strong enough to hold the smallest practice swords available to them. It was reason enough to pester their father endlessly about learning to wield them, and to quiet their complaints Ned finally allowed them to start their martial training earlier than most.

Ser Rodrick taught them the proper grip and how to hold an even stance, basics that the boys grasped only after several repeated urgings. They were then padded with layers of leather and set against each other, much to their delight. The little they'd just learned was immediately forgotten, of course, any semblance of form replaced with the same sort of frenzied whacking the two had as of yet played with whenever they happened to find sturdy enough sticks.

Ned was there watching from the sidelines, and Lady Catelyn was there holding baby Sansa on her lap, praying that Robb came out victorious as the true Stark heir even if this competition was admittedly a harmless one. Some others joined—Jory and a few other guardsmen, the steward Vayon Poole, Mikken the blacksmith. Even Maester Lewin and Old Nan were there. Winterfell's boys had finally come of a certain age, and the spectacle was worth a jest or two, especially when their first duel turned into more of a waddling match than any real test of skill.

Regardless, Jon and Robb had a good time of it at first. The adults kept chuckling even as the boys seemed to grow harsher in their competition, wooden swords coming down with a rising note of force. And then Robb uttered a cry, falling on the ground. Ned rose to his feet, but Catelyn was already on her way to them, Sansa dropped into Maester Lewin's waiting arms. Jon, thinking it a game, kept on whacking.

By the time Jon realized Robb wouldn't get back up, by the time he began to stop in sudden, scared confusion, Lady Catelyn was already pushing him roughly off her son. The glare she sent him then, filled with a disdain black as ink, was one Jon would remember for the rest of his life. Though this feeling had always bubbled in the back of his mind, it was the first time Jon had experienced such a clear strike against the safety of his home. It was the first time he ever truly felt as if he did not belong in Winterfell.

Robb was crying, holding his cheek. A purple blot began to grow upon it, Jon noticed. It had popped into existence at the touch of his sword. Their eyes met, and Jon saw with a sinking gut that Robb was scared of him still.

Lady Catelyn cooed at the hurt child, holding him close. She whispered into Robb's ear, and Jon could just barely make out her words.

Cry not, my son. Cry not. Be strong. You can be strong. He can only hurt.

At four and ten Jon sat in the godswood, back against the tall weirwood tree. The sun had just set, and night slowly encroached on the last visages of orange light.

Ghost lay beside him, red eyes silently staring out at the pond before them, at the hawthorns, the ironwoods, the orange leaves which fell from them to rest lazily on the still water. Jon watched these leaves fall too, thinking all the while on the Stark words with a wry light. Winter is coming, and I am leaving.

Well, that had hardly been decided, but Jon knew it all the same. The king had come to Winterfell to take his father south. He didn't know what would come of his half-siblings, but he did know Lady Catelyn would not suffer him if his father wasn't there to justify it. This was something he figured had always been bound to happen—one day, when he was no longer a child, he would have to go. Winterfell could hardly stomach a bastard, much less one fully grown.

He'd known that day would come, but now at the precipice of its arrival he found it unreal all the same. Jon Snow wouldn't find a home in Winterfell. But where else could a Snow like him call home? Was there anywhere in the north? Anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms? Anywhere at all?

Jon thought to join the Night's Watch. It was all he could think to do, save sell his sword or earn his chains in Oldtown. But there was no honor in mercenary work, and Jon had never been particularly thrilled for Maester Luwin's lessons. His uncle Benjen, a ranger, would be there at the feast, so Jon would ask then if he could ride north and take the black. The Night's Watch was an honorable calling. It defended the realms of men. It was more than enough for a bastard.

And yet…

And yet, as Jon stared down at the pond and found his reflection, a part of him, small and soft, considered that he would not think to take the black if he didn't feel the need to. If he wasn't forced into a corner, without options, maybe it wouldn't sound like enough. He put a hand on Ghost. The wolf had grown, still small, but a pup no more.

Ghost raised his head and looked not at Jon, but somewhere behind. Jon began to turn his head as well, and his cheek was struck by a blueberry.

Jon grunted while Ghost licked up the fallen fruit, gobbling it in one bite. Behind, Robb chuckled, holding a small pile of them in one hand, popping one in his mouth with the other. At his feet, Robb's direwolf Grey Wind ambled on towards his brother.

"Food's almost ready," Robb said. "I thought I might come find you in case you wanted to sneak a pastry out. Fresh off the oven."

"Not today," Jon said. "And I think you'd better not either. I imagine your lady mother should be extra strict tonight."

"Oh, what's a few spankings?"

Grey Wind nudged at Ghost's side, pouncing, jumping side to side. Ghost only looked on silently, until the other wolf nipped at his ear. Then the two were off, chasing each other around the trees.

Jon stood. Robb threw him another blueberry, one he caught and ate this time. "I suppose you'll be feasting with the royal family, while I sit with the men down the hall."

"Lucky you," Robb said, pushing his shoulder. The two began walking towards the gate, the castle looming high behind it already lit up with torchlight. "Don't spread this around, but they're all rather underwhelming."

"Really? What about the Kingslayer?"

"Oh, he's very intimidating from his post at the corner of the room. I'll expect to find him there during dinner as well if the king has anything to say about it."

Jon remembered the brief look he had of Jaime Lannister. Though the man's infamy preceded him, he'd looked the part of a true knight. "Perhaps royalty's all talk after all."

"Well, the princess seems sweet, and her mother's a real beauty," Robb said. "And the Imp has wit for someone so short."

The two laughed, crossing the gate. The castle grounds filled with the marching of guards, the rabble of men and women, all of them carrying something or other into or out from the castle. The king had brought a full company, and Jon had never seen Winterfell so busy.

On the way, they came across Sansa and their little sister Arya, who were being led along by Septa Mordane into the castle. Jeyne Poole was with them, and Sansa giggled along with her friend while Arya walked at the back of the group, arms crossed and brows drawn together. Two more direwolves followed the girls, perking up at the sight of their brothers.

Arya's wolf Nymeria immediately shot towards Ghost and Grey Wind, while Sansa's seemed content to sit and watch the three nip and bark at each other. The girls turned to see their arrival, and Septa Mordane's face grew pink. "Will you please quiet those beasts?" she said, raising her skirts and shuffling back. "We can't have them scaring our guests!"

"Lady is very well behaved," Sansa said, chin raised.

"Yes, but these other three…"

"I'll take them to the kennels," Jon said, crouching to gather them in his arms. The three wolves began licking at his face, and he smiled. "You can all go get ready for your grand entrance."

He saw Arya set her frown on him. The gown she'd been forced to wear for the king's welcoming was now a dirt-smeared, crumpled bundle of cloth. "You're lucky, Jon, even if it is unfair you can't sit with us," she said, holding her arms out. "I have to change into another one of these stupid things."

"Only because you ruined the one you already had on!" Sansa said.

Arya blew her a raspberry, and Sansa turned to Jeyne, sharing a sigh and a shake of the head with her friend. Watching them only incensed Arya further, and she kicked dirt up at Sansa's own dress. The older girl stumbled back, crying out like she'd stepped on excrement.

"Arya!" Septa Mordane said, clamping her hand on the girl's wrist. "That's not how a lady should behave!"

"I'm not a lady," Arya muttered.

"We can both agree on that!" Sansa said, glaring.

Robb stepped in, having watched the proceedings with the kind of exasperation which only came with years of repeated disappointment. "Alright, alright," he said, hands held out. "Arya, get changed already. Please? Before mother comes out here and scolds all of us?"

After a moment, Arya nodded, scowling.

"Will you take her, Septa?"

"It's what I'm here for, after all." Septa Mordane sighed, loosening her grip. "If you'll excuse me, my lord."

The two left, walking steadily into the castle. Robb turned to Sansa.

"She's a little beast!" Sansa said, hands fisted at her sides.

"Always has been, always will be," Jeyne said, quick to please.

Robb put a hand on his face, looking down at Jon, who could only shrug. "You know her, Sansa. Don't be too hard."

"You always take her side," Sansa said, huffing. With a quick turn of the heel, she walked into the castle as well, Jeyne following. As she left, the boys could hear her muttering to her friend. "Think the prince would like this? Ugh! I'll have to change too, now!"

The boys watched them disappear into Winterfell's halls. Jon took the time to reflect on how neither had once so much as glanced his way.

"I imagine it'll be like this until they both grow up a bit," Robb said, sighing. "That or until we marry them off."

"And I'm sure Arya will be thrilled when that happens," Jon said.

"Well, it'll be father's problem anyhow." Robb held a hand out to him. "I'll see you later?"

Jon took the offered hand, pulling himself up. "Of course, my lord."

That earned him a push of the shoulder. "Damn you, Snow," Robb said, turning around. "Try not to drink too much wine behind father's back."

"I'll save you some, Stark."

"Ha! No need to lie."

Jon waved at his retreating back. Then, he looked down at the direwolves, who sat looking up at him, tongues lolling. "Now for you three… Four?" He saw Lady, who had apparently stayed by him, somehow knowing not to follow Sansa inside even without an order. When their eyes met, the direwolf raised its head proudly, padding towards him while doing its best to ignore his presence all the while just as its owner would.

It wasn't the first time he'd noticed the strange intelligence held by their wolves, but he was unnerved nonetheless. Sometimes, when he spoke to Ghost out of some playful whim, it seemed to him as if the albino's red eyes sparkled with understanding at each word. Like if he could, Ghost would speak back.

When he reached the kennels, the direwolves snapping playfully at his ankles, Jon was surprised to find the two he wasn't leading already there. Summer lay calmly by one corner while Shaggydog barked the hounds into the other, terrifying a whole pack of dogs who were each at least twice his size.

"Hark, Jon!"

As his charges ran in to join their brothers, Jon looked up to see his little brother Bran sitting on the kennel's low overhang, legs kicking off the edge. "Hark, Bran," he said, hands on his hips. "I assume you're the one who led these two here?"

"That's right."

"Thank you. And I thought you've been told not to climb onto roofs anymore?"

"You won't tell, will you?" Bran said, grinning.

Jon smiled back. "I suppose not. As long as you don't tell that I didn't."

"It's a deal, then!"

Jon watched the wolves play amongst themselves. Summer stood to greet his siblings with the usual pounce. Even Lady joined in, as shy as she seemed when it came to roughhousing. The only one among them who didn't partake was Ghost, who watched the rest with frank, red eyes. It was what Ghost always did when all the direwolves were together. Jon wondered if his friend felt lonely, just watching.

"Shouldn't you be going back, Bran? Your siblings are getting ready."

Bran threw himself back, groaning. "I'd rather stay up here. Not like I have to escort anyone in."

"Jealous of Robb? I suppose anyone would like a princess on their arm…"

Bran shot up. "I'm not jealous!"

"I could go ask him to trade places with you. I'm sure the he wouldn't mind."

"No! Don't!" Bran heaved, face red. He hopped down from the overhang and landed with his hands to help break the fall. It was a dexterous fall, like a cat dropping onto sure and steady paws. "I'll go!"

Without another word, Bran ran off to the castle. Jon watched him go, smile waning the farther away he got. He listened to the direwolves barking and snarling and yipping, turning to Ghost, whose red eyes had come up to stare at his own. The two regarded each other for a moment.

"Interested in coming to a feast?"

Ghost stood. This time, Jon wasn't unnerved. He was just glad to have some company.

The yard was quiet and empty. A lone sentry stood high on the battlements of the inner wall, his cloak pulled tight around him against the cold. He looked bored and miserable as he huddled there alone, but Jon would have traded places with him in an instant. Otherwise the castle was dark and deserted. The sounds of feasting still carried out to them in the yard, and it was those sounds Jon had sought to escape from.

He'd prepared himself for it, but watching his family aligned without him had hurt. It had hurt as much as it always did whenever any other noble house came for a visit. He thought he'd gotten used to it by now, had become rather numbed. But knowing it would be the last time… something in him had crumbled.

Jon wiped away his tears on the sleeve of his shirt, furious that he had let them fall, and turned to go.

"Boy," a voice called out to him.

Surprised, Jon turned back around and looked up at Lord Tyrion Lannister, who stood up on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall. Jon wondered, face flushed, if the dwarf had seen him cry.

"Is that animal a wolf?" the Lannister asked.

"A direwolf," Jon said. "His name is Ghost." Said direwolf looked up at Tyrion just as its owner did, examining the small man with the same curiosity he examined everything else. "What are you doing up there? Why aren't you at the feast… um, my lord?"

He'd almost forgotten himself in his shock. The man might not have looked like much, and what little there was to look at was rather grotesque, but Tyrion was still a lord and the queen's brother besides.

The dwarf snorted. "Too hot, too noisy, and I'd drunk too much wine. I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?"

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?"

"Oh, bleed that," the little man said. He pushed himself off the ledge into empty air. Jon gasped, then watched with awe as Tyrion spun around in a tight ball, landed lightly on his hands, then vaulted backward onto his legs.

Ghost backed away from him uncertainly.

The dwarf dusted himself off and laughed. "I believe I've frightened your wolf. My apologies."

"He's not scared," Jon said, somewhat cross. He still felt some of what his uncle Benjen had told him, about how he was still too young for the Night's Watch. He knelt and called out. "Ghost, come here. Come on. That's it."

The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon's face, but he kept a wary eye on Tyrion, and when the dwarf reached out to pet him, he drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl.

"Shy, isn't he?" Tyrion said.

Now Jon's anger was turning into something like shame. He might not think the best of the Lannisters, but that was no reason for one to get mauled by a direwolf. Sighing, he lay a hand on Ghost's head, calming him. "Well… He's still young."

Tyrion's smile softened a tad, and Jon realized that, kneeling as he was, the two were at eye level for the first time. He remained there, petting Ghost until the little beast hid its canines once more. "We all are, at one point or another," the dwarf said. He held out a hand. "I am Tyrion Lannister, by the way. I suppose that's rather obvious."

Jon eyes the hand, both in apprehension and in surprise at its diminutive size. "Yes it is… I mean, not that you…" He fidgeted in place while Tyrion chuckled.

"Not too many men so short here in the North, I take it?" Tyrion said.

"Not many, no." Jon took the offered hand, if only to save himself the embarrassment. "Jon."

"Yes, Eddard Stark's bastard." Tyrion raised a brow when Jon flinched back at the deduction. "Sorry, did I offend you? It seems we're both prone to a lack of tact." He grinned. "If it makes you feel better, I see you have more of the north in you than your brothers."

"Half-brothers," Jon corrected, almost automatically. "But thank you, I guess."

"See? We're fast friends!" Tyrion leaned close, putting a hand on Jon's shoulder. Ghost perked up at that, though he didn't pounce with Jon's hand still weighing on his pelt. "So let me give you some counsel, bastard. Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength so it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you."

If it were any other time, he might've felt condescended to. But it seemed to Jon then that, despite the sharp words, perhaps the Imp had felt an inkling to escape the feast just as he had, and for similar reasons.

"I don't suppose you've some experience in such matters…"

Smiling, Tyrion heaved air out, sighing rather melodramatically. Jon fought the urge to smile himself, a losing battle.

"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes," Tyrion said. "So you see, Snow, if I were you I'd at least appreciate the legs your old gods blessed you with. Much less irritating than these stumpy things of mine." He smirked. "Of course, that's not to say anything about what's between them!"

Tyrion laughed, and Jon found himself chuckling along. Ghost, seemingly bored of their chatter, walked off somewhere, around the corner. The two watched the wolf leave, their laughter gently waning, and Jon to his surprise thought that it wasn't all that bad to be left alone with the Lannister.

"And what brings you out here, then?" Tyrion asked. "It didn't take me long to grow tired of my family's company, but I'd have thought a northern feast would have enough to entertain a boy your age."

Jon looked toward the windows. He could still see the people inside dancing and drinking and eating. He could still hear the music and the rabble, though those sounds had long faded to his ears and were only now rising back up with his attention. "I'm not much for feasts."

"Oh, so you'd rather wallow in solitude?" Tyrion clicked his tongue, backing away and turning to the windows himself. "Well, there are those types too. Your father isn't having any more fun in there than you were, I imagine. He seems rather dull."

Jon was almost offended, but he tempered the heat that threatened to crawl up to his face. He was slowly coming to understand that Tyrion's barbs were only sharp if he honed them when listening. "Lord Stark merely takes his duties seriously."

Tyrion fixed him with an unimpressed stare. Jon looked away.

"… Though I admit he can be… a bit dry, sometimes."

"Good! So you're not hopeless after all!" Laughing, Tyrion walked towards the door. "Well then, this has been wonderful, but I'm afraid I've sobered up enough for another cup of wine. I don't imagine you'll join me?"

Jon was tempted. But the thought of going back inside and seeing his family arrayed up in the high table, complete and whole and lacking nothing in his absence, made the decision for him. He stood, holding a hand up in farewell. "Not this time, my lord. I find myself growing sleepy."

Tyrion shrugged, standing on tiptoe to pull the door open. "In that case, good night to you, Snow. Try not to make that scowl permanent."

The dwarf went inside as Jon brought a hand to his forehead, rubbing the space between his eyes. The feasting grew loud as the door opened, then muted once more as it closed. He stood there, alone in the yard. Then he yawned.

The next day, Jon went to Mikken to procure a gift. It had cost him all the coin he had, not that Jon minded much. He wouldn't have need of it at the Wall, and picturing Arya's face upon getting it was worth the money anyway.

It was what he imagined even as he ran into the actual person just as he stepped out of the forge.

"Watch it Jon! I'm—"

Whatever the girl had been about to say was interrupted by the direwolf which leaped up at her from behind, knocking her down. Jon watched, chuckling as Arya wrestled Nymeria off.

"She's already reached your size, little sister," he said, offering a hand.

Arya scowled up at him, but she took it all the same. Jon noted the disheveled hair, already stringy so early in the morning after what he was sure had been a great effort on Septa Mordane's part.

"I'm not that small," she muttered. Nymeria began circling the two, at times pouncing, still in play. Arya pushed her away with her foot, but the wolf only started gnawing softly on her boot. "What're you doing here so early anyway?"

"I could ask the same of you," Jon said, walking off.

He heard her footsteps following after him, relieved to know she hadn't gone in to see Mikken just as the man started on what should be a surprise.

"I decided to go exploring!" Arya said. "Nymeria still hasn't seen the crypts."

"I don't know how much a direwolf would appreciate a tour like that." Jon narrowed his eyes at her. "And shouldn't you be with Sansa, entertaining the princess?"

Arya scowled at that, hands fisting at her sides. "And spin thread all day? No thanks. All those two ever talk about are stupid things, and Sansa can't shut up about Prince Joffrey." She said the name in a faux singsong tone.

Jon hummed. "Your mother won't like this," he said even as he began walking toward the crypts.

"Mother doesn't like anything I do anyway," Arya said simply, running ahead with Nymeria behind her.

Jon watched them go, following at his own pace, and he warred with the part of him that had felt happy to hear her say that. He didn't want Arya to resent her mother—at least, he knew he shouldn't want it. But Lady Catelyn being so hard on her youngest daughter put them on a kind of team. He and Arya against the rest, the good children. Though he loved all his siblings, they were liked too much to understand him the way Arya did.

Arya stopped at the old ironwood door, turning back to him, waiting, tapping her feet. Nymeria seemed to have calmed down some, though the wolf still walked along the nearby lychfield, strolling through the weathered, forgotten posts which marked the bodies which had by now surely turned to dust. Nearby, the First Keep loomed along with the broken tower, battered stone gargoyles lining it in rings. Looking up at it, Jon thought he saw something on its mossy walls, before it disappeared around the bend. Perhaps a squirrel, or one of the many bats that surely resided its abandoned interior?

"Hurry up, Jon!"

"What's the matter, little sister? Open up for us."

"Ha ha. You know it's too heavy for me."

Jon reached the door, both hands coming to push against it. "As always, your big brother wil have to do all the work," he said, and she stuck out her tongue at him. With a deep breath, Jon pushed, digging his feet against what he knew to be remarkably rusted hinges.

Much to his surprise, it slid open without much trouble. Jon stumbled inside, almost falling. Arya followed soon after, Nymeria on her heels. The morning light streamed in, a lone beacon against the deep shadows which hid the crypt walls from view.

At least that's what Jon expected. Instead, he found a crypt lit softly by something far into the corridor, and realized belatedly that it must be candlelight. Generations of candles, all under generations of Starks, each of their stoic faces carved for all time under Winterfell's mighty walls.

"Someone's here already," Jon said, thinking out loud. It was a rare thing to see the crypt already occupied, so he turned around. "We should—"

"No one ever comes here!" Arya said, whispering, striding in. Nymeria yipped as she followed, and Jon cringed at the sound as it echoed through the otherwise silent corridor.

Sighing, he closed the door behind him, and the crypt took on the orange hue of candles against the shadows which creeped at its every corner. He went after his sister, anxious at having interrupted whoever was clearly inside. This anxiety only increased when, upon turning the corner, he saw that the person they'd interrupted wore a crown.

Jon's eyes went to the gold immediately, its ring of antlers glinting in the candlelight. King Robert Baratheon at the feet of Rickard Stark, or rather on the feet, his great bulk turned from this statue towards the opposing wall, facing the other statue there. A statue of their aunt Lyanna, one stood over a stone coffin. A torch sat on the dust-coated floor beside him, burning still, joined by a flagon.

Both children, upon seeing the shaded figure of such a man, made to step out as quickly as they'd come. Even Arya, hardheaded or not, knew when to leave some things alone. But before either of them could, the king had already glanced over.

"Who goes there?" the man said, shooting to his feet. His voice boomed, echoing during the brief moment of silence that followed.

Jon and Arya froze, looking at each other.

The king stepped forward. "I can see you!" he said, demanding.

Seeing that his sister had well and truly frozen up, Jon cleared his throat, almost choking. "Your grace, it is Arya Stark and… company." Jon put a hand on his sister's shoulder, to calm himself as much as her. "We are sorry for the sudden entrance."

The king looked at them, still. Then, a great huff of air later, he plopped back down on his improvised seat. "Ah, Ned's girl. I'd thought some mongrel had finally seen fit to buy off my life." He laughed, a low, fading thing. "Well don't stand there in the dark. Come, let me have a look at my would-be assassins."

Jon and Arya stayed in place for a moment before the former pushed the latter gently into the light toward the king. They neared him, stopping a few arm lengths away. Nymeria was silent for once, seemingly cowed under the mood.

The king looked them over, his eyes resting on Arya, who for her part stared back with her chin raised. He smiled. "What's this then? Are you being dragged through catacombs against your will? Should I call my guards to come rescue you?"

Though he knew it was said in jest, Jon's hand snapped from Arya's shoulder to his side, and his head hung low, eyes on the ground.

Arya shook her head, cheeks tinting red in the soft orange light. "No, it was my idea to come here. Jon even tried to stop me!"

A lie, but Jon appreciated it nonetheless.

Robert waved his hand, the other coming down to grab his flagon. He took a large swig, some drops of wine spilling onto his jerkin. When he was done, he let out a heavy breath. "Don't worry, girl, I'm not about to get anyone in trouble for coming down here. Fuck's sake, I probably shouldn't be down here. Not so early in the day at least." He looked at Arya, brow raised. "And what would a young lady be doing in a place like this anyhow? Shouldn't you be frolicking about with my daughter?"

Arya glared at him, hands balling into fists. "I'm no lady! And your daughter's as boring as Sansa. I'd much rather hang around these statues!"

Robert broke into laughter, nearly dropping his flagon. He bent low to put it down, slapping his thigh in the meanwhile.

Seeing him like this, Jon was reminded of the king he'd seen the day before. The one who seemed more at home with a glass in hand than with a war hammer, and a woman in either case. Then, the laughter broke, slowing in strange hesitance.

"You are no lady, girl, I'll give you that," Robert said, scratching at his thick beard. He began combing through it, voice growing low. "Very much like your aunt. I'm sure you'd have gotten on well with her."

For the first time, Arya turned sideways at the statue of Lyanna. Jon followed her gaze, and the two looked at the dead Stark woman as Nymeria laid down before it, tail waving lazily at its feet. The statue, face cold and stern, stared emptily back. Jon examined the contours of this carved face. Despite its age and its unfeeling nature, he thought it very beautiful.

"Is it true that you loved her?" Arya said.

Jon turned back to the king, tepid. Of course, he'd heard the rumors as much as anyone.

"… Yes." Robert rubbed his eyes, slouching against his knees. "She'd have been my wife if it was up to me. If it wasn't for that thrice-damned dragon and his mad father." Sighing, he reached for his flagon again. "We'd have been related then. A king for an uncle. Not a bad thought, hm?" He drank, then wiped his lips. "But in this life… some things escape us."

Neither Jon or Arya knew quite what to say to that. The silence which followed was rather uncomfortable, and Arya began to turn, likely to say her goodbyes and walk away.

Before she could, the king's voice echoed again in the dark and narrow corridor. "You, boy," the king said, and Jon stilled, for he hadn't expected to be acknowledged in any sense. "You're Ned's too, am I right? The bastard."

Jon fought to keep a straight face at the word, and at the man who'd said it. He looked down at Arya, who shrugged, and steeled himself, clearing his throat once more.

"T-That's right, your grace. Eddard Stark is my father."

Robert stared at him, eyes half-lidded in a rather bored expression. Or, Jon thought, perhaps the wine had just begun weighing on the man's attention. "I'm told you're to go north to that blasted wall, to join those celibate icicles?"

"… I've thought to, your grace," Jon said. When the king didn't say anything more, he felt the need to fill the silence. "The Night's Watch is an honorable order. Even someone like me can be someone of value there."

Robert laughed. "Boy, you'll find nothing in that frozen waste other than a few rapists holding out against barbarians."

Jon felt his face flush. Before he could say anything, Arya rose to his defense. "Even if that's true, Jon's good enough to outweigh all those men put together! The Night's Watch would be lucky to have him!"

Laughter receding, Robert glanced at Jon again. "If that's true, you'd really be better off somewhere else. Trust me, boy, not much happens north of here other than the occasional wildling killing. You're young yet. Spending the rest of your life in some giant ice block, waiting for your balls to freeze off, that's no way for a man to live." He drank again, and his eyes went to nowhere in particular. Robert seemed to stare through the walls, into nothing. "Every man should know love… Even if it ruins him later."

Nymeria got up. She padded over to Arya, who bent down to pet her head, then began walking back toward the entrance.

"Look at that. Even the dog grows bored of me," Robert said, smiling, voice bellowing once more. "Well before you go, tell me something, boy. Has your father finally gotten himself a headsman, or does he still do the bloody work himself?"

Jon had by now abandoned whatever curiosity he might have for the king's motives. Now, he only wanted to go back to his room, or find Ghost. Whatever got him out of this corpse-infested place, where he could almost feel the ghosts flowing between the walls. "Lord Stark needs no headsman. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, so he says."

It was always a grisly scene to watch, but Jon had made himself stop looking away at it whenever his father brought him to a beheading. He still remembered the first time, when Ice swung down, its Valyrian steel rippling in the sunlight, slipping through the neck, the body dropping loose, blood oozing onto the grass. He'd looked away, that first time, and his father had for the only time in his life been truly disappointed in him. It hadn't been a disappointment he'd been eager to inspire again.

"I shouldn't have asked," Robert said, chuckling. "Of course he does. Bloody stubborn, that man. But a good killer."

Jon's face reddened again, and this time he couldn't help the outburst. "My father's no killer!"

Robert looked at him, brow raised in surprise. Jon looked at Arya, who was just as shocked. He realized then that he'd been louder than he meant to be. Coughing, he bowed his head. "Sorry, your grace. But Lord Stark merely does his duty. He doesn't like to kill. He's told me himself."

The king grunted. "No, I'm at fault. I don't mean to insult your father. Gods know he's the best damn friend I've got in this sad fucking life." Slowly, he sipped at his flagon, then looked into it. Apparently it was empty. He dropped it, and the tin container clattered onto the ground, scaring Nymeria. "Don't misunderstand me, boy. That he doesn't like to kill is what makes him a good killer. Not many of those. Much better than a bad one, and those aren't hard to come by. It's something to remember for when it's your turn to cut a man down."

Jon frowned. "Why should I cut anyone down?"

"Damned if I know!" the king laughed, a hand on his belly. "Why, haven't you trained in arms?"

"Of course. I mean," Jon looked away, "Lord Stark saw fit to have Ser Rodrik teach me along with Robb. In that sense, I'm very fortunate."

"Fortunate indeed," the king said. "Don't ask me why, boy, but you steel yourself for it. At the Wall or somewhere else, if there's anything to know for certain about a man trained in the sword it's that he'll kill."

After a moment of silence, the king waved them out. "Alright, now leave me be. I'm sure someone will call for me sooner or later. I'd rather have a moment's peace before then, if you don't mind."

"I… Yes, of course, your grace." Jon looked down at Arya, nudging her. "By your leave."

Arya nodded at the king. "Bye." She felt a push on her shoulder from Jon, and scowling, added "your grace."

Robert raised a hand, but didn't speak anymore. Another beat of awkward standing and the two children were off, following Nymeria back out of the crypts. As they walked, the candlelight began to fade, and the shadows in the corners creeped closer.

They reached the door, and Jon grabbed the handle, getting ready to pull. Before he could, he felt a hand take his.

"Arya?"

In the darkness, he could only make out the shape of her face. "Jon…" her voice whispered up through the shadows. "If I want to learn how to use a sword… Does that mean I have to kill someone too?"

Jon remembered his gift. "No. You don't have to kill anyone. Not unless Sansa finally crosses the line."

He meant it as a joke, and thankfully Arya laughed, though it was soft.

"If I do kill anyone, it'll only be evil men," Arya said. "Only the ones who deserve it, right?"

Jon didn't respond. He thought the men he'd seen his father kill deserved death. And yet he couldn't forget the look in their eye every time the sword swung down. It was a fear he'd yet to grow accustomed to seeing.

With a heave, he opened the door, and light seeped through to the dark. A clamor reached them, and the two saw that a crowd had built near the First Keep. Walking towards it, Jon heard the cries of a familiar voice.

AN:

Thank you for reading.

I got the idea for this story a while back. We'll be jumping around the first couple chapters, but will quickly settle into a fairly straightforward plot. I hope you've enjoyed so far, and hope you continue reading. Follow, favorite, review, etc. It'd be nice to know if others think this is in any way interesting, haha.

Until next time.