Winterfell, The North, 287 AC
Ned POV
Ned Stark stood atop the battlements of Winterfell, his cloak tugged by the cold northern wind. Below, the courtyard was filled with the lively sounds of children's laughter. Robb, with his wooden sword held high, led the charge against some imagined foe, his voice clear and full of joy. Jon, always at his side, mimicked his older brother's movements, eager to match Robb's energy and bravery. And then there was Harrion, trailing behind, his quiet green eyes focused on something unseen, observing the world more than engaging with it.
A smile tugged at the corner of Ned's mouth, though it was tinged with sadness. "They grow faster than I ever expected," he said softly, watching them.
"Aye," Ser Rodrik Cassel replied at his side, his own gaze fixed on the boys. "Robb looks like a young lord already, and Jon's right there with him." He hesitated before adding, "And Harrion… well, he's different."
Ned didn't respond immediately, his eyes following Harrion's small, thoughtful form. Harrion was different. Even at such a young age, he stood apart, not in an alienating way, but in a quiet, introspective one. Jon's grey eyes and dark hair made him look like the Stark he was raised to be. But Harrion—his green eyes were vivid, almost unnatural in their intensity, a reminder of how little he resembled either Stark or Tully.
"He's not like the others, but there's strength in him," Ned finally said, though his tone carried a note of uncertainty.
Rodrik nodded, though his expression remained cautious. "It's those eyes… I've never seen the like before, my lord. Not in Winterfell, nor Riverrun."
Ned's jaw tightened slightly, though he knew Rodrik didn't mean harm. Everyone had noticed Harrion's eyes. Everyone had whispered about it. Harrion, with his quiet demeanor and piercing gaze, was a mystery, even within his own home. Jon blended into the Stark household, but Harrion felt more like a visitor—a part of their world, but not quite of it.
From the courtyard, Robb's voice rang out as he made a final, sweeping motion with his wooden sword, declaring victory. Jon followed suit, mimicking his brother's every move. Harrion, however, stayed behind them, watching the scene unfold with that same distant curiosity. He bent down, picking up a stick from the ground, but instead of joining the mock battle, he studied it, turning it over in his hands as though it held some secret meaning.
Rodrik cleared his throat. "Do you think Lady Stark will ever come to accept them?"
Ned's expression hardened. He didn't answer immediately. Catelyn had always been distant with Jon, never fully accepting him into the family. Harrion, though, was another matter entirely. She was more than distant. With Harrion, she was cold—bitter, even. That bitterness had only grown over the years, simmering beneath the surface of their household like a fire waiting to be stoked.
"I don't know," Ned replied after a long silence. "She tries to keep her distance. She tolerates them, but there's a wall between her and the boys. Especially Harrion."
Rodrik sighed, his eyes still on the children. "They don't deserve that. Jon and Harrion are as much a part of this family as Robb."
"They are," Ned agreed, though he felt the weight of the unspoken truth between them. His promise to Lyanna had brought Jon and Harrion into their lives, but the secret of their true parentage made everything more complicated. Catelyn's resentment wasn't without cause—she believed Harrion and Jon to be a constant reminder of betrayal. But there was more to her unease, especially when it came to Harrion.
Catelyn had seen things Ned couldn't explain. Strange, unexplainable occurrences had followed Harrion since his earliest days. The fire in the hearth that had flared up suddenly one night. The branch in the godswood that had snapped and fallen, barely missing the boys as they played. The maesters called them accidents, but Catelyn had been there. She had seen Harrion standing nearby, his eyes watching the scene with unsettling calm. She had looked at him afterward with something close to fear.
The sound of soft footsteps interrupted Ned's thoughts. He turned to see Catelyn approaching, her face set in its usual stony expression. She came to stand beside him, her gaze fixed on the children below. Jon and Robb had resumed their game, their laughter ringing out through the courtyard. Harrion, as always, hung back, content to watch.
"They've been out here all morning," Catelyn said, her tone distant. "Robb and Jon, at least. Harrion... he's always watching. Always so quiet."
Ned glanced at her, frowning slightly. "They're children, Catelyn. They play as children do."
Catelyn's lips pressed into a thin line. "Robb plays like a child should. Jon follows his brother's lead. But Harrion… he doesn't join them, not really."
Ned watched Harrion for a moment. The boy had finally joined Jon and Robb, but his movements were slower, more measured. He swung the stick in imitation of his brothers, but there was no real enthusiasm behind it. He was there, but always apart.
"He's just different," Ned said quietly. "He's thoughtful. There's nothing wrong with that."
Catelyn's eyes flashed with something unreadable. "Is there not?" She turned to face him fully, her voice lowering. "You see what I see, Ned. Those eyes… they don't belong here. Not in Winterfell. Not in Riverrun."
Ned's jaw tightened. He had heard this before—Catelyn's unease, her quiet accusations. She had never accepted Jon, but with Harrion, there was something more than mere resentment. There was fear.
"He's our son," Ned said firmly, though the words felt heavier than they should.
"Is he?" Catelyn's voice was sharp, biting. "Is he truly ours? I look at him and I see a stranger in my own home. His eyes… they're not like ours. They're not like anyone's."
Ned turned fully toward her, his own voice hardening. "He is a part of this family. Both of them are. You may not feel it, but they belong here."
Catelyn didn't look away, her expression stony. "He doesn't belong here, Ned. I feel it every time I look at him. The way things happen around him. It's not natural."
"He's just a boy," Ned replied, though the doubt in his heart was hard to ignore. "A good boy."
"Good?" Catelyn's voice was cold. "He's different. And you know it. You've seen the way the fire flares when he's near. The way the godswood seems to react to him. Even Jon isn't like that. Jon is just a boy." She hesitated, her voice softening, but her fear remained. "But Harrion… he's something else."
Ned remained silent, unwilling to voice the doubts that had been plaguing him. Lyanna's words haunted him still: Promise me, Ned. He had promised to protect Jon and Harrion, to raise them as his own, but with each passing year, that promise felt more like a weight than a shield. Harrion was different. There was something in him that Ned couldn't explain, something that made him more than just a boy.
Catelyn turned her gaze back to the children, her voice quiet now, almost resigned. "The Seven protect us all. I hope they watch over him, too."
Without another word, she walked away, leaving Ned alone on the battlements once more. He watched her go, his heart heavy with the weight of secrets and promises that he could never share.
As he turned back to the courtyard, he saw Harrion swinging the stick again, this time with a small smile on his face as he joined Jon and Robb in their game. For a moment, he looked like any other child—innocent, carefree. But the godswood loomed in the distance, its ancient trees standing watch over them all, and Ned knew that whatever secrets Harrion held, they would not stay hidden forever.
Winter was coming, and with it, the truth. Whether they were ready for it or not.
Jon POV
The cold air bit at Jon's cheeks as he ran through the godswood, his feet crunching over the snow-covered ground. Ahead of him, Robb charged through the trees, his wooden sword held high, shouting commands to an imaginary army. Robb was always the leader in their games. Jon didn't mind. He liked following, liked the way it felt when they were all together—him, Robb, and Harrion. Even if Robb was the loudest, the boldest, Jon knew they were a team, brothers fighting side by side.
"Hurry up, Jon!" Robb's voice rang out through the trees, full of excitement. "The wildlings are getting away!"
Jon grinned, his breath misting in the cold air as he quickened his pace, the chill biting at his face but doing nothing to dampen his spirits. They were knights, warriors of Winterfell, and there was no better feeling in the world than running through the godswood with his brothers. Jon's heart pounded in his chest, not just from the running, but from the thrill of the game. The godswood always felt magical to him, like something from Old Nan's stories, and every time they played there, it was as if the ancient trees were watching, their red leaves whispering secrets in the wind.
Jon glanced back over his shoulder, making sure Harrion wasn't too far behind. His brother was there, not lagging, but moving at his own pace. Harrion held his stick tightly, pretending it was a sword, his face serious but with a hint of a smile that Jon always noticed, even when others didn't. Harrion wasn't as boisterous as Robb, but that didn't mean he wasn't a part of their adventures. He might be quieter, more thoughtful, but he was always there. Jon knew Harrion was just as much a part of the team as Robb and himself, even if he didn't shout or charge with the same enthusiasm.
"Harrion, come on!" Jon called, his voice light with laughter as he leapt over a fallen branch. "We can't let Robb beat us!"
"I'm coming!" Harrion called back, a little breathless but smiling as he hurried to catch up, his stick raised like a sword. Jon slowed slightly, letting Harrion fall into step beside him, the two of them running together toward the heart tree where Robb had stopped. Robb was always faster, always more eager to claim victory, but Jon didn't care. It was enough to be a part of it—to be with his brothers, fighting side by side, just like the warriors in the songs Old Nan would sing.
As they neared the heart tree, Robb pointed his sword toward it, his face serious as he declared, "Look! The wildlings are hiding there! We have to charge and take them down!"
Jon's heart raced with excitement, and he readied his stick, pretending it was a real sword. He could feel the weight of the game settling over him, making everything seem more real. The heart tree stood tall and ancient, its white bark gleaming against the snow, its red leaves rustling softly in the breeze. Harrion slowed as they neared the tree, his eyes fixed on it, his grip on the stick tightening. Jon noticed, but he didn't say anything. Harrion always looked at the godswood that way, like it was speaking to him, telling him things Jon couldn't hear.
Robb charged forward without hesitation, yelling at the top of his lungs, and Jon followed, his feet pounding the snow as he ran after his older brother. Harrion wasn't far behind, quieter than Robb but just as determined. He didn't shout, but there was a purpose in his movements, his stick raised as they reached the heart tree.
Together, they came to a stop, panting from the chase, their breaths visible in the cold air. Robb slammed his wooden sword into the snow at the base of the heart tree, pretending to drive it through their invisible foes.
"We did it!" Robb declared, his grin wide as he turned to Jon and Harrion. "Winterfell is safe!"
Jon laughed, jabbing his stick into the ground beside Robb's. "No wildlings are getting past us!" He turned to Harrion, waiting for him to join in.
Harrion was standing a few steps back, his breathing heavy, but he smiled at Jon, his stick resting in the snow. "We did it," he said softly, his eyes flickering back to the heart tree for just a moment. Jon saw something in his brother's expression—something distant, as if Harrion was thinking about something else, something deeper than their game. But the smile was there, and that was enough for Jon.
Robb threw his arm around both of them, pulling them close, his grin as wide as ever. "The three of us together? No one stands a chance!"
Jon felt a swell of pride in his chest. This was what it meant to be brothers, to be a team. He nodded eagerly, glancing at Harrion. "Right, Harrion?"
Harrion smiled again, though it was quieter, more subdued. "Yeah," he agreed. "We are."
For a moment, the three of them stood together, their arms linked, looking out over the godswood as if it was theirs to protect. The wind rustled the red leaves of the heart tree, and Jon shivered slightly, pulling his cloak tighter around him. He had always felt something strange in the godswood, like the trees were watching, listening. The heart tree, with its carved face, seemed to be staring right at them, and Jon couldn't help but feel like it knew something they didn't.
"You feel it too?" Harrion's quiet voice broke the silence, and Jon looked over at him, surprised.
"Feel what?"
"The godswood," Harrion said softly, his green eyes lifting to the heart tree. "It's… different. Like it's watching us."
Jon blinked, unsure of what to say. He had felt it too, but he hadn't expected Harrion to voice it. Jon glanced up at the heart tree again, its red leaves rustling in the wind, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if they were still playing a game or if something real was happening. "Maybe," Jon said slowly, his voice uncertain. "But it's just a game, right?"
Harrion smiled faintly, though his gaze remained on the tree. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Just a game."
Robb, oblivious to the quiet exchange, was already moving on, his eyes bright with excitement. "Let's go back! I want to practice with my real sword!"
Jon shared a look with Harrion, but they both stayed silent. Whatever it was they had felt in the godswood, it wasn't something Robb seemed to notice. It was enough for Jon to know that Harrion had sensed it too—that they both felt the godswood was more than just a place to play. Maybe it was something they'd understand later, when they were older. For now, it was enough to know they weren't imagining it.
They followed Robb back through the godswood, their pace slower now as they neared the edge of the trees. The cold air still bit at Jon's cheeks, but the excitement of their game lingered in his chest. He glanced over at Harrion, who walked beside him, his stick resting against his shoulder. Harrion seemed calmer now, more at ease, and Jon felt a warmth spread through him. Whatever made Harrion different, whatever made him quieter, more thoughtful—it didn't matter. They were brothers. That was all Jon needed to know.
They broke free from the godswood and stepped into the courtyard, where the familiar stone walls of Winterfell loomed large and comforting. Jon felt the tension in his shoulders ease as they neared the entrance to the keep. It was cold out here, but inside, the warmth of the hearths and the smells of supper waiting would greet them.
But as they approached the entrance, Jon's heart sank slightly when he saw Lady Catelyn standing there, her arms wrapped around Sansa, her gaze cool and distant. She always looked like that when she saw him and Harrion. Her smile softened for Robb as he ran ahead, but when her eyes landed on Jon and Harrion, the warmth drained from her expression, leaving only a chill that rivaled the winter air.
Robb bounded up to her, his voice excited. "Mother! We caught the wildlings! Winterfell is safe!"
Catelyn smiled at Robb, brushing a hand through his auburn hair. "That's wonderful, Robb. You're becoming quite the warrior."
Jon and Harrion stood back, unsure whether to approach. Jon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his stomach tightening as Catelyn's gaze flicked over him and his brother. He felt that coldness again, the way her eyes lingered on them with something between disinterest and discomfort. Harrion, as always, stood beside him, calm and unreadable. But this time, Jon noticed something different—just a flicker in Harrion's eyes, a brief shadow of something deeper.
For the first time, Jon saw Harrion's grip tighten on the stick he held, just slightly, and there was the smallest crease in his brow. If Catelyn's coldness stung him, Harrion rarely let it show, but today, Jon could sense it—the tension in his shoulders, the slight clench of his jaw. It wasn't much, but it was there, and Jon felt it too, a shared ache they both carried.
"Jon, Harrion," Catelyn said, her voice lacking the warmth she had shown Robb. "It's late. You should go inside and clean up."
Jon lowered his head slightly, feeling the weight of her words like a dismissal. "Yes, my lady," he muttered, glancing at Harrion. His brother's face had returned to its usual calm, but Jon could sense the frustration simmering beneath the surface, even if Harrion wouldn't say it aloud.
Robb, completely unaware of the shift in tone, was already running inside, eager to tell their father about their game. Jon and Harrion followed more slowly, walking side by side, the silence between them growing heavier with each step.
As they passed by Catelyn, Jon risked a glance at her, but her eyes were fixed on Harrion, her expression hardening. Jon quickly looked away, his stomach twisting. He had felt this before—this distance between them and her—but it never stopped hurting. He didn't know why she looked at them like that, why she treated them so differently from Robb. But he felt it, always.
Once inside, the warmth of Winterfell's great hall wrapped around them, easing the tension that had built in Jon's chest. Robb was already ahead, racing toward their father, who sat near the hearth. Jon slowed his steps, turning slightly toward Harrion as they lingered near the entrance.
"Does it bother you?" Jon asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn't know why he asked—it was something they never spoke about—but the words slipped out before he could stop them.
Harrion turned his green eyes toward Jon, his expression calm but thoughtful. For a moment, Jon thought his brother might brush it off like he usually did. But instead, Harrion's gaze shifted toward the door where Catelyn had stood, and he let out a small sigh.
"A little," Harrion admitted softly, his eyes clouding for a brief moment with something like frustration. "But it doesn't matter. We have each other."
Jon wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that it didn't matter, that Catelyn's coldness didn't affect them. But the weight of it was always there, pressing down on him, making him feel like he didn't quite belong. Still, if Harrion could admit it—even if just a little—Jon felt a strange sense of comfort. Maybe they didn't need to be strong all the time. Maybe it was okay to feel it.
They made their way further into the hall, where Ned Stark was listening intently as Robb recounted their victory in the godswood. Their father's face lit up with pride as he smiled at his eldest son, his warm gaze filling Jon with a sense of security. Ned looked up as Jon and Harrion approached, his expression softening as he saw them.
"Jon, Harrion," Ned called out, his voice welcoming. "Come join us. I want to hear all about the wildlings you chased off."
Jon hesitated for just a moment, but Harrion nudged him gently. "Come on," Harrion said, his voice quiet but encouraging, a flicker of his earlier tension easing away.
Jon smiled slightly and nodded, stepping forward to join their father and Robb. As he sat beside Harrion near the hearth, he felt a warmth spread through him that eased the cold he'd been carrying. Whatever the world threw at them—Catelyn's coldness, the unknowns of the godswood, the weight of feeling different—they would face it together.
For now, they had each other, and in Winterfell, that was enough.
Catelyn POV, Days Later
Winter had wrapped Winterfell in its thick, unyielding embrace. From her window, Catelyn Stark watched as the snow piled high in the courtyard below, where her children's laughter rang out through the cold air. Robb, her eldest, led the way with his wooden sword, charging into battle with the same confident abandon that she had come to expect from him. He was strong, already showing the makings of a leader, and it filled her with both pride and a deep, quiet sorrow—her firstborn, already growing so fast.
Behind him, Jon and Harrion followed. The twins. They were so young still, only four years old, and yet each time she saw them, they seemed so far removed from the innocence their age should grant them. Jon chased after Robb with all the eagerness of a boy desperate to prove himself, his face bright with determination, always seeking approval. Harrion, on the other hand, moved with a slower, quieter purpose. His green eyes—so unlike those of the Starks or the Tullys—seemed to take in everything, watching his brothers play, but keeping himself at a distance.
Catelyn's fingers curled against the cold stone of the windowsill. No matter how hard she tried, she could not feel at ease when she looked at the twins. Jon was a reminder of the betrayal she could never forget, a constant wound that had never fully healed. Her coldness toward him, though painful, was something she understood. But Harrion… Harrion was different. He didn't seek her approval the way Jon did, didn't plead with his eyes or his words. And yet, there was something about him that made her uneasy, something she couldn't name but could never quite shake.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. "Enter," she said, her voice sharper than she had intended.
Maester Luwin stepped inside, his expression as calm as ever. In his hand, he held a scroll. "A message from Riverrun, my lady."
Catelyn's heart tightened at the mention of her home. Riverrun. It had been so long since she had seen her father, so long since she had felt the warmth of the Riverlands. She took the letter from Luwin and unrolled it, her father's familiar script unfolding before her eyes. She read slowly, her eyes tracing each word with a growing sense of unease:
To my dearest daughter, Catelyn,
The winds of winter are starting to make their way even to the Riverlands, though I suspect they are gentler here than in the North. Riverrun feels emptier without you, and I long for the day when we can once again sit by the hearth and speak as we used to. It has been too long since I last saw your face, or that of your children.
I hear Robb is growing strong, as one would expect of the heir to Winterfell. And little Sansa—though still a babe, I'm sure her beauty will one day match her mother's. I long to hold her in my arms, to remind myself of the warmth that family brings. It is my hope that when spring comes, you will return home, even if only for a time, so that your children may know their Tully kin.
However, there are matters weighing heavily on my mind, and I fear I must speak them plainly. It is not easy for a father to address such things, especially when they concern the pain of his daughter, but I can no longer keep silent. You know I have always trusted your judgment, but the presence of Jon and Harrion at Winterfell troubles me deeply. They are young now, innocent perhaps, but time changes all things.
The Seven teach us that bastards are born from broken vows, and the path they walk is often fraught with darkness. It grieves me to say this, but bastards rarely grow into men of honor. There is a wildness in them, a curse of sorts, and though Ned may love them as his own, I fear what kind of men they will become. Their origins, born outside the sacred bonds of marriage, cannot be ignored. I have seen what becomes of such children, and my fear, Catelyn, is that they will one day bring strife into your family, as many bastards do.
I know that you are dutiful, and that you have taken Jon and Harrion into your household as honor demands. But do not let this duty blind you to the dangers they may present in the years to come. They are still boys, yes, but boys grow into men, and it is not only their actions that concern me—it is how others will see them. Here, in the Riverlands, men of faith do not look kindly on bastards, and the lords speak of them as creatures of misfortune, destined for trouble. I have heard the whispers, and I fear those whispers may follow you to Winterfell, or worse, to Riverrun should you ever bring them here.
You must think of Robb and Sansa. They are your trueborn children, and one day, Robb will sit where Ned sits now. Do not let Jon and Harrion be a wedge between them, or a source of tension in your household. The North may look on these boys differently, but in the eyes of the Seven, they are not equal to your trueborn heirs.
I do not mean to hurt you with these words, but as your father, it is my duty to warn you of what the future might hold. Be careful, Catelyn, that your heart does not soften too much where it should remain guarded. You are a mother, and your first loyalty must be to those children who are rightfully yours.
Still, know that you are always welcome at Riverrun, along with your children. Come in the spring, when the rivers thaw and the flowers bloom again. Let us speak then, and perhaps these dark thoughts will seem less pressing under the warmth of the sun.
Yours always,
Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun
Catelyn stared at the letter for a long moment after she had finished reading. Her father's words weighed heavily on her heart, the cold truth of his concerns sinking deep into her chest. She had always known that Jon and Harrion were bastards in the eyes of others, but hearing her father speak of them as a threat, as something that could bring strife to her family… it was like a wound reopening, a wound she had thought she could manage.
They were only four years old—so young, so innocent. But her father was right. Boys grew into men. What kind of men would Jon and Harrion become? Would they, as her father feared, one day bring division between Robb and Sansa? Between her and Ned?
Her feet moved almost without thinking, carrying her down the stone halls and into the courtyard, the cold wind biting at her cheeks. The children were still playing, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her. Robb was shouting, his voice clear and bright as he swung his wooden sword. Jon and Harrion followed, though Harrion, as always, lingered at the edges, more watcher than participant.
"Mother!" Robb called, waving her over. "Look at what we built! Harrion made the walls strong so Jon can try to break through!"
Catelyn forced a smile, though the warmth that should have come from seeing her children at play felt distant, muted by the weight of her father's words. "It looks like a fine castle," she said softly. Her gaze drifted to Jon, who stood nearby, his eyes wide with hope. He always looked to her for approval, and each time she failed to give it, she saw the light dim in his eyes.
But she could not help herself. Her nod to him was brief, stiff. She saw the way his shoulders slumped, the way the brightness in his expression faded, but still, she said nothing.
"Harrion," she called, her voice sharper than she intended.
Harrion looked up from the snow fort, his calm green eyes meeting hers. He did not seek her approval in the way Jon did, but there was a flicker of something behind his steady gaze—something that told her he felt the weight of her coldness, even if he did not show it as openly as Jon. His hesitation before standing, the way his gaze lingered on her just a moment longer—it was enough to make her wonder how much of her distance he had absorbed over the years.
"It's getting late," she said, her voice softer now. "You should all come inside soon. Supper will be ready."
Jon muttered, "Yes, my lady," his head bowed as he brushed snow from his hands. Harrion, as usual, said nothing. He simply nodded, his movements measured, but now she could see the subtle ways her distance affected him. She had spent so long telling herself that Harrion didn't care, that he was indifferent to her, but that was not the truth. He felt her coldness just as Jon did, even if he did not plead for her approval.
"Just a little longer, Mother!" Robb called, his voice filled with energy. "Jon's about to break through Harrion's wall!"
Catelyn glanced again at Jon, who hovered near Harrion, seeking something from his brother that he could not get from her. Harrion, though quieter, gave Jon something solid to hold on to, something steady in a world where approval was often hard to come by. And now, for the first time, Catelyn saw that Harrion's quietness was not indifference. He had absorbed the weight of her rejection, perhaps even more deeply than Jon.
Her father's words echoed in her mind. Be careful, Catelyn, that your heart does not soften too much where it should remain guarded. But how could she harden her heart further, when the hurt she had already caused was so clear?
"Very well," she relented, her voice softer than before. "But not too long. Supper will be ready soon."
As she turned to leave, her gaze lingered on the twins. Jon had already returned to the game, attacking the snow fort with renewed determination. But Harrion was slower, his green eyes following her retreat for just a moment longer before he bent down to help Jon. His movements were careful, deliberate, and now she could see the weight he carried—the weight of her coldness, the weight of being something she could not fully embrace.
She stepped back into the warmth of the keep, but the cold lingered. Even with the firelight flickering around her, the chill in her heart remained.
The cold followed her as she stepped back into the keep, lingering in her bones despite the warmth of the fire that flickered against the stone walls. No matter how tightly she wrapped her cloak around herself, she couldn't shake the chill that had settled in her heart.
Her father's words echoed in her mind. Be careful, Catelyn, that your heart does not soften too much where it should remain guarded. But how could she continue to harden her heart when the weight of her coldness had already left its mark on Jon and Harrion? Could she carry that burden forever? What kind of mother would she be to Robb and Sansa if she let her bitterness for the twins fester?
Catelyn made her way through the winding halls of Winterfell, her thoughts still tangled in the memory of the letter. She passed servants and guards, nodded to a few familiar faces, but her mind was elsewhere. The notion of visiting Riverrun hadn't left her since she first read her father's words. Could it help? Could time at home, surrounded by her family, give her the clarity she needed?
She found Ned in his solar, bent over a map of the North, his face lit by the soft glow of candlelight. The sight of him—so steady, so sure—made her heart ache with the weight of what she needed to say. He looked up as she entered, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Catelyn," he greeted, his voice low and warm. "The boys are still at play, I imagine?"
She nodded, stepping closer to him. "Yes. They've built a fort in the snow. Harrion and Jon are helping Robb strengthen the walls."
Ned's smile widened, but he saw the tension in her face, the weight of something unspoken. He set the map aside, his attention fully on her now. "What is it?"
Catelyn hesitated, the words heavy on her tongue. She had never been one to bring up her father's concerns without reason, but the letter… It had stirred something in her. Something that needed to be addressed.
"I received a letter from my father today," she began, her voice measured but carrying the strain of her thoughts. "He… he asks us to come to Riverrun, when spring comes. He wants to see the children."
Ned's brows furrowed slightly, but he waited for her to continue.
"He misses us. He misses Robb, Sansa, and…" She hesitated. "And he's worried about Jon and Harrion."
Ned's face darkened just slightly at the mention of the twins. He loved them both fiercely, and Catelyn knew that any suggestion that others saw them as less than his trueborn children would cause him pain. But she couldn't shy away from the truth of her father's letter.
"He fears for what the lords of the Riverlands will say about them," she admitted, her voice growing quieter. "They are bastards in the eyes of the Seven, Ned. And you know what my father's faith teaches him about such things."
Ned's jaw tightened, though he remained silent. His hand reached for hers, and she let him take it, the warmth of his touch a small comfort.
"What did he say, exactly?" Ned asked, his voice careful, though there was a tightness in his words.
Catelyn swallowed. "He… he worries that they will be seen as a threat, that one day they might bring strife to our family. He doesn't want them to drive a wedge between Robb and Sansa."
She saw the hurt flicker in Ned's eyes, but it was quickly masked by his usual calm. "And do you believe that?" he asked, his voice quiet but steady.
Catelyn felt the weight of his question pressing on her. "I don't know," she confessed. "I see the way Jon looks at me, the way he longs for something I can't give him. And Harrion… he doesn't ask for my approval, but I know he feels my coldness. I've tried, Ned. I've tried to be the mother they deserve, but—"
"You are their mother," Ned interrupted, his tone firm. "Perhaps not by blood, but by duty, by the vows I took when I brought them into this home."
Catelyn bit her lip, her heart aching at the truth of his words. She wanted to be what Jon and Harrion needed, but her heart had not softened, not in the way it should have. And now, her father's letter had only deepened her uncertainty.
"I think…" she began slowly, trying to choose her words carefully. "I think a visit to Riverrun might do us good. The children could meet their Tully kin. And perhaps… perhaps it will give me the clarity I need."
Ned studied her face for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He could see the conflict within her, the weight she had been carrying. And he knew how much Riverrun meant to her, how much her father's words would stir in her heart.
"A visit to Riverrun…" he murmured, turning the idea over in his mind. "And you would bring the twins with us?"
Catelyn hesitated. "I don't know if my father is ready to see them, Ned. He has always been a man of faith, and bastards…" She trailed off, the word lingering in the air between them. "But I know they are your sons, and you would not leave them behind."
Ned's gaze softened, and he squeezed her hand. "If we go, we go as a family. All of us."
Catelyn nodded slowly, her heart swelling with a mixture of relief and apprehension. She knew that taking Jon and Harrion to Riverrun would not be easy, not for her father, not for the lords of the Riverlands who still whispered about the rebellion. But perhaps this trip, this return to her roots, would give her the space she needed to come to terms with her own feelings toward the twins.
"I'll write to my father," she said quietly. "We'll go in the spring, as he asked."
Ned smiled softly, his grip on her hand reassuring. "We'll face this together, Catelyn. Whatever comes."
She leaned into his touch, letting the warmth of his presence ease the cold that had settled in her heart. For now, at least, there was some comfort in knowing that whatever path lay ahead, she would not walk it alone.
Harrion POV (Slightly before)
Harrion crouched low in the snow, packing the cold, powdery flakes into the wall of their snow fortress. The chill of Winterfell was biting, but it was familiar—so constant that it had become a part of him. He hardly noticed the cold anymore. His small fingers moved quickly, smoothing the surface of the wall, making it strong and solid. The fortress had to be good enough to withstand Jon's attack.
Beside him, Jon was giggling, trying and failing to build a snow tower. His grey eyes sparkled with excitement, his cheeks flushed from the cold. Every time the tower collapsed, Jon let out a breathy laugh, brushing snow from his gloves. Harrion smiled as he watched him—Jon's energy was infectious, and even though Harrion preferred the quiet focus of building, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of joy at his brother's excitement.
"You're not packing it tight enough," Harrion said softly, a teasing note in his voice. "It keeps falling over."
Jon flashed him a wide, mischievous grin. "I know," he admitted, laughing as he tried again, determined to make it work. "But I'm going to get it right this time."
"You've said that before," Harrion pointed out, chuckling under his breath.
"Yeah, but this time I mean it!" Jon's eyes were bright with excitement as he gathered more snow, his breath puffing out in little clouds. His stick—his "sword"—was leaning against the half-built fortress, waiting for the moment when he would charge.
Robb, a few steps away, was directing them with all the authority of a future lord of Winterfell. "Harrion, you need to make that wall higher!" Robb called out, his voice full of excitement. "Jon's going to knock it down soon, and it has to be strong enough to stop him!"
Harrion smiled as he worked. "Don't worry, Lord Robb. It'll be strong enough." He liked Robb's leadership—it gave their games structure, a clear purpose. Harrion didn't mind letting Robb take charge. He liked these moments, the quiet satisfaction of working with his brothers, even if he wasn't as loud or boisterous as they were. He liked feeling like part of something, even if his role was quieter.
He glanced at Jon again, who was still packing snow into his tower, his face full of concentration. Jon always threw himself fully into whatever Robb dreamed up, whether it was building a snow fortress or pretending to fight wildlings. Harrion admired that about Jon—his boundless energy and enthusiasm. Harrion was more reserved, but that didn't mean he wasn't enjoying himself. He just expressed it differently.
"Ready, Jon?" Robb called, raising his stick sword dramatically. "Get ready for the attack!"
Jon grinned, bouncing on his toes as he gripped his stick. "Ready!"
Robb took a step back, giving Jon space to charge. "Harrion, reinforce that side! Jon's going to come at it hard."
Harrion nodded, his fingers moving faster as he packed more snow onto the wall. "Almost done," he muttered, his focus entirely on making the fortress as strong as possible. He wanted it to hold, to make Jon's attack a real challenge.
Just as Harrion was finishing the last touches on the wall, the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow reached his ears. He looked up, his heart sinking slightly as he saw Lady Stark walking toward them from the keep, her cloak pulled tightly around her. Her presence was like the cold wind—a sharp reminder of something that always made him uneasy.
"Mother!" Robb called, waving to her with a broad grin. "Look at what we built! Harrion helped make it stronger so Jon can try to break through."
Harrion looked down at the snow again, his fingers automatically smoothing the wall's surface. He could feel her eyes on him, and his stomach tightened. Lady Stark's gaze was always heavy, always full of something he couldn't quite understand. She never spoke to him the way she spoke to Jon and Robb. There was always a distance, a coolness that made him feel like he didn't fully belong.
"It looks like a fine castle," Lady Stark said, her voice soft but cool. Harrion sensed the shift in her tone as she spoke to Jon. "Yes, my lady," Jon mumbled, looking up at her briefly before quickly returning his attention to the game.
"Harrion," she said suddenly, her tone sharper.
Harrion's fingers paused in the snow, and he looked up at her slowly. His green eyes met hers for just a moment before he dropped his gaze again, focusing on the fortress. He didn't need to see her face to feel the coldness there. He had grown used to it, but it still made his chest tighten. He didn't know why she was like this with him, but it didn't matter. It was something he had learned to accept.
"It's getting late," Lady Stark continued, her voice softening slightly. "You've all been out here long enough. It's time to come inside."
Harrion nodded, his hands resting in the snow. He didn't argue. There was no point. He had learned long ago that it was easier to stay quiet when Lady Stark spoke to him. He couldn't change the way she felt about him, no matter what he did. He had Jon and Robb, and that was enough.
Jon, eager to obey, stood up and brushed snow from his cloak. "Yes, my lady," he said, though his eyes were still bright with excitement for the game.
Robb, however, wasn't ready to leave just yet. "Just a little longer, Mother! Jon's about to break through Harrion's wall!"
Lady Stark hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering on Harrion. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, that familiar unease tightening in his chest. She didn't trust him. He didn't know why, but he could feel it in every look, every word.
"Very well," she said at last. "But don't be too long. Supper will be ready soon."
She turned and walked back toward the keep, her cloak trailing behind her. Harrion watched her go, a flicker of sadness settling in his chest. He didn't know why her coldness still stung after all this time, but it did. Even though he had Jon and Robb, there was always that small hollow feeling left behind after one of Lady Stark's long, searching glances.
But Harrion shook the feeling off. He wasn't going to let it ruin the game. He still had Jon and Robb. That was what mattered.
As soon as Lady Stark was out of sight, Robb gave Jon the signal. "All right, Jon! Attack!"
Jon grinned and charged at the snow fortress, his stick held high like a true knight preparing for battle. Harrion stood back, watching as Jon slammed into the wall with all his strength. The snow crumbled under Jon's attack, sending chunks flying in every direction. Jon's triumphant shout filled the courtyard as the fortress collapsed.
"You did it!" Robb cheered, clapping Jon on the back. "You broke through!"
Jon beamed, his cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement. "I told you I would!" He turned to Harrion, still grinning. "But your wall was really strong! It almost stopped me!"
Harrion smiled, brushing some snow from Jon's shoulder. "Next time, I'll make it even stronger. You'll have to try harder."
Jon laughed, his eyes sparkling. "I will!"
For a moment, the three of them stood together, the remnants of their snow fortress scattered around them, their breath visible in the crisp winter air. Harrion felt a quiet warmth in his chest. Even though Lady Stark's coldness still lingered in the back of his mind, these moments with Jon and Robb made him feel like he belonged. With them, he didn't feel different. He felt like a part of something solid, something warm.
But as they began gathering their things, Harrion's gaze drifted toward the godswood. The towering trees loomed dark and silent in the distance, and he felt the familiar pull in his chest. There was something about the godswood that always called to him, something he couldn't explain but couldn't ignore.
"I'll catch up in a minute," Harrion said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jon frowned slightly but nodded. "All right, Harrion. Just don't be too long. Supper's soon."
Harrion nodded and watched as Jon and Robb ran toward the keep, their laughter fading into the distance. He stood still for a moment, his eyes fixed on the godswood, before his feet began to move, carrying him toward the sacred grove.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he entered the godswood, the towering trees casting long shadows over the ground. The heart tree stood at the center, its red leaves rustling softly in the wind. Harrion moved toward it slowly, drawn by an invisible pull that he couldn't understand.
He knelt beside the heart tree, his fingers brushing against the rough bark. The sensation was strange—familiar, but not from this life. The wind stirred the branches above, and Harrion closed his eyes, letting the quiet of the godswood wash over him. This was the only place in Winterfell where he felt truly calm, where the rest of the world seemed to fall away.
As he sat there, memories began to surface—flashes of images, sounds, and sensations that didn't belong to this world. He saw a battlefield, heard the clash of steel, felt the weight of something heavy in his hands. The smell of smoke and blood filled his nostrils, sharp and overwhelming. His heart raced as the sounds grew louder, the voices around him shouting in a language he didn't recognize.
The images were vivid, too real to be a dream. Harrion felt the heat of the flames, the weight of a sword in his hands. He could almost hear the battle cries echoing in his ears. But just as quickly as the memories had come, they disappeared, leaving him breathless and disoriented.
He opened his eyes, his hand still resting on the heart tree's bark. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind still buzzing with the remnants of the memory. What had that been? It felt too real to be a dream, but it didn't belong to this life. It was something else, something old and forgotten.
Harrion stood slowly, his fingers lingering on the bark for a moment longer. The warmth inside him hadn't faded—it was still there, pulsing quietly beneath his skin. Something had woken up inside him, something powerful and ancient, though he didn't yet understand what it was.
Weeks passed, and the feeling didn't go away. In fact, it grew stronger. At first, it was subtle—a flicker of fire in the hearth when he walked by, or the wind shifting unnaturally when he stood in the godswood. But each time, the feeling intensified. Whatever was waking up inside him was becoming harder to ignore.
One evening, after another quiet day in Winterfell, Harrion found himself in the godswood again. This time, he stood at the edge of the clearing, watching the way the wind stirred the red leaves of the heart tree. The air was still, but Harrion could feel it—the hum inside him growing louder, more insistent.
He raised his hand, just slightly, and for a brief moment, the wind seemed to respond, bending toward him as if answering a silent call. His heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. He stepped closer to the heart tree, his fingers brushing the bark once more.
The wind stilled, and Harrion felt it again—that quiet hum of power, stronger now, more certain. Something was waking up inside him, and though he didn't fully understand it yet, he knew one thing: he couldn't ignore it any longer.
As he stood in the quiet of the godswood, the world seemed to shift around him. Harrion knew, deep down, that he wasn't just Harrion Snow.
He was something more.
He just didn't know what yet.
A/N: Sorry about the wait, it's been a chaotic couple of weeks. Hope you all enjoyed. I'm experimenting with having multiple POVs per chapter, but I'm considering limiting it to just one or two for simplicity. All reviews are appreciated, and the next chapter should be up a lot sooner than this one was.
For clarification about the ages: Harrion and Jon are 4 at the end of this chapter, Robb is 5, and Sansa is 1. Arya and the rest aren't born yet.