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 gave them reason enough to pester their father endlessly about learning to fight, 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 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 did during their playtime 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. 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, still 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 ever 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. The direwolf had grow ever since Jon found him, no longer a runt on the verge of death. Still small, but a pup no more.

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 advocate on his behalf. This 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.

But now at the precipice of its departure 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 about Maester Luwin's lessons. His uncle Benjen, a ranger of the Watch, 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 even 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.

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. He 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, at least until the other wolf nipped at his ear, and then the two were off chasing each other around the trees.

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

"Lucky you," Robb said. 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 held 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. 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 walked steadily into the castle, and Robb turned to Sansa, whose hands were fisted at her side. Much as she'd flowered into her ladyship, the girl still hadn't perfected the art of controlling her emotions.

"She's a little beast!" Sansa said.

"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 huffed, and 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 and Jon took the time to reflect on how neither girl 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 shove on 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.

Jon eventually reached the kennels, the direwolves snapping playfully at his ankles, and he 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, 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, 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.

"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 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!"

Jon watched him go into the castle, smile waning the farther away he got. He listened to the direwolves barking and snarling and yipping, then turned to Ghost and found the wolf's 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, and 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 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 and looked up at Lord Tyrion Lannister, who stood on the ledge above the door to the great hall. "Is that animal a wolf?"

He looked something like a tree stump bundled in furs and cloth, blonde fuzz leaping from his head in thick curls and limbs extending like short roots. A disturbing sight to one who'd never seen anything like it, but Jon saw too that Tyrion's eyes, beady and mismatched, glinted from his twisted face with an almost playful light.

"A direwolf," Jon said, face flushed. He wondered if the man had seen him cry. "His name is Ghost. What are you doing up there? Why aren't you at the feast… um, my lord?"

He'd almost forgotten himself in his shock. Tyrion might have looked strange, but he was still a lord and the queen's brother besides.

But the dwarf just snorted. "That hall is too hot, too noisy, and I've 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." Tyrion pushed himself off the ledge into empty air. Jon gasped, then watched with awe as the dwarf spun around in a tight ball, landed lightly on his hands, and vaulted backward onto his legs. Ghost backed away from him, wary, and seeing this Tyrion 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 young at one point or another." Tyrion held out a hand. "I am Tyrion Lannister, by the way. I suppose that's rather obvious."

Jon eyed the diminutive hand. "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?"

"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. "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 a need to escape the feast just as he had, and for similar reasons.

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

Tyrion heaved air out, sighing rather melodramatically, and Jon fought the urge to smile. 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 with his own ears. "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, listening.

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

Arya scowled up at him, but when he offered his hand she took it all the same. Jon noted her disheveled hair, already full of knots so early in the morning after what he was sure had been a great effort on Septa Mordane's part to comb it down.

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

"I could ask you the same," 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 entertaining the princess with Sansa? You're just looking for some excuse to get out of it, right?"

Arya scowled. "I don't want to sit around spinning thread all day with them. All they ever talk about are stupid things, and Sansa can't shut up about her Prince Joffrey." She said the name in a faux singsong tone.

"Your mother won't like this," Jon said. Still, he began walking toward the crypts with her.

"Mother doesn't like anything I do anyway."

Jon 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 trouble children stuck together by shared necessity. Though he loved all his siblings, they were liked too much to understand him the way Arya did.

Arya ran ahead and 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. "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 will have to do all the work," he said, and she stuck out her tongue at him. With a deep breath, Jon pushed and dug his feet against what he knew to be remarkably rusted hinges.

Much to his surprise the door slid open without much trouble and Jon stumbled inside, almost falling. Arya followed soon after, Nymeria on her heels as the morning light streamed in.

That light should have been the lone beacon against the deep shadows which hid the crypt walls from view. Instead, Jon and Arya 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. "We should go back—"

"No one ever comes here!" Arya whispered excitedly. She strode in and 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 so that 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, Jon saw that the person they'd interrupted wore a crown. His eyes went to the gold immediately, its ring of antlers glinting in the candlelight.

King Robert Baratheon sat at the feet of the deceased 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 late 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!"

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 by the mood.

The king looked them over, his eyes resting on Arya, who for her part stared back with her chin raised. He smiled, and his intimidating size suddenly took on a jolly tint. "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 big 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. For fuck's sake, even I probably shouldn't be down here." 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 with a strange hesitation. "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, but as Jon examined the contours of its carved face he thought it somehow beautiful.

"Is it true that you wanted to marry 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, us two. 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. "Th-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. "Then 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 still 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, staring 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, 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 he saw Ice swing 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, and his father had for once been truly disappointed in him.

"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 now 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, the fault is mine. I don't mean to insult your father, boy. Gods know he's the best damn friend I've got." 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. 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. 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, 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," she eventually said. "Only the ones who deserve it."

Jon didn't respond. He thought the men he'd seen his father kill deserved death, but he couldn't forget the look in their eyes. He'd said as much after that first time, and then he'd asked his father why a lord should take it upon himself to kill petty criminals.

"Most don't," Ned had told him, "Especially south past the Neck where the Andals reign." The man had looked at him then, meeting his eyes with an imploring stare. "But our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that… then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

Ned had always looked into the eyes of the men Jon saw him kill. He always heard those final words. And always he dealt out justice. Could Jon do the same should the life be his to take?

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.