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Robb Returns by The Dark Scribbler
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: K+, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Robb S., Theon G., Domeric B., Words: 627k+, Favs: 6k+, Follows: 6k+, Published: Jul 16, 2015 Updated: Sep 287,742Chapter 19
Apologies for the delay in updating, but I spent a fortnight in Ireland and then I was plunged back into work. So here's a massive upload. Enjoy.
Aemon
The Maester of Winterfell knew his business, oh yes, Aemon thought as he sat in the study and listened to the crackling of the fire to his left. There was much to go through, much to collate and describe and pore over, but Luwin had made a good start on the documents that had been assembled so far.
It was night apparently but he had not yet retired to his bed. He had far too much to think on. His great-grand-nephew was in the keep. He was still stunned by that knowledge. He had thought the last of his direct kin to be across the Narrow Sea in Essos, in penurious exile, but instead he had a great-grand-nephew that he had not even known about.
He thought about the father of the child and repressed a snarl. Young fool. Aerys had been mad but Rhaegar… to have been obsessed by prophecy to the point of a different kind of madness, one that had led to the war that historians now called Robert's Rebellion… More than a fool. And now his son was here in Winterfell.
Lord Eddard Stark was… a remarkable man. Many in the Night's Watch who had heard of him spoke his name with praise. A man of honour. A good warrior and a cunning general. All traits that he admired. But there was something else. The man had deliberately made everyone think that Jon was his bastard son, a lie to protect him.
Because he knew that Lord Stark had spoken the truth when he said that had King Robert known of the boy's existence he would have had him killed at once, as the son of the rapist Rhaegar Targaryen. As 'dragonspawn'.
The boy would have to be protected. And he would eventually have to be told of his true heritage, as part Stark and part Targaryen. He nodded to himself. From what he had heard of him so far, and from what he had gleaned from quietly listening to him, Jon was a quiet, sensible young man who thought before he spoke. No wonder many thought of him as the son of Eddard Stark. He may have had the Stark looks – or so he was told – but he reminded him of his younger brother Aegon a little, gone these many years but still remembered so fondly by him.
He smiled slightly and then stilled that smile. Well now. The boy would have to learn a little of his real father as well as his family and in such a way that he would not panic at the very thought of being of the same blood as the 'Mad King'. And that would take a little tact. Fortunately Lord Stark could point to him as being a reassuring presence, to remind him that not all Targaryen blood was tainted with madness.
He sighed and ran a suddenly weary hand over his face. This was yet another burden, to add to the many that he already bore. But it was one that he could not shrink from. The boy was family. And Ned Stark was right – he had to be protected. He was part Targaryen and part Stark. Especially because the Others were coming. As was winter. And if the Starks were right about that, what else could they be right about?
Mikon
He'd been weighing up what to do for some time now. He had to get the ship into the nearest port in The Fingers and he was running out of time with every mile that the ship ploughed its way northwards. He'd thought up and discarded a dozen plans. Was an emergency needed. Yes. What kind of emergency? Stab the Northman and make it seem an accident? Bludgeon him perhaps? No, he was too wary and observant. Stab the nurse? No, she was too close to the boy and he wanted to make sure that the brat didn't scream at the sight of him. Poison the nurse? Same problem.
So instead he went for the most obvious solution – make Seaworth think that they had to get to a port at once. The first thing he'd done that night was to creep below and replace the chain for the pump – even a relatively new ship worked enough in open seas to let in a little water, forcing the crew to man the pump once or twice a day – with one that was old and worn and which would break easily. That was the first part. The second part of the plan was about to be carried out by him right now – sneaking into the bow and carefully arranging for the windlass for the starboard anchor to fail, making the ship lose the anchor itself. With a busted pump and only one anchor left, and with Seaworth being a good sailor, they'd have to find port quickly.
He was quite pleased with himself as he crept up to the windlass and inspected it. It was a cloudy night at the middle of the watch, so there was little if any chance of him being seen. He'd opened a small hatch to one side, which he'd slide into the moment that the windlass failed and the anchor-chain went roaring out of the side of the ship. It would be noisy to say the least.
Pulling out his knife he paused as he looked at the bloody thing. Now, how to do this? Perhaps… and then he felt a thin sharp blade being placed on the side of his neck. He froze.
"I've been sailing these many years," a voice said from behind him in low tones that came straight from Flea Bottom. Fuck. Seaworth. "And I have sailed with a great many men. Some were scoundrels and some were good men. And I soon learnt to pick out the scoundrels by their eyes. The moment I saw you, I knew that I were looking at a scoundrel."
Mikon was about to jerk away from the knife and use his own on the man when he saw the other shadows walking towards him. "Drop the knife. Or I'll slice your throat clean open." Steel glittered in the light of the moon, which chose that moment to break through the clouds and he sighed and then slowly threw the knife away.
"Now then," Seaworth said as the others arrived and pulled his hands behind his back, "Let us talk of what you were trying to do – and in whose name you were doing it. And unless you want to swim from hereon, I would advise you to tell us all."
Jory
He came awake the moment that someone knocked at the door to his small cabin, his hand reaching for the knife under the thin pillow in his bunk. He'd been on edge for the past day, he knew not why. Then he focussed his eyes. No danger nearby. "Come in," he croaked.
The door creaked open and Ser Davos peered in. "Ah, good, you're awake. May I come in?"
"Of course Ser Davos." He sat up and blinked at him. Then he caught the look on the face of the other man. "What's wrong?"
The older man grabbed a stool and jammed it against the wall behind him, before sitting. "We took on a few men at king's Landing. After we set sail I realised that one of them was a bad 'un. Something was wrong with him. And I was right. Tonight we found him creeping towards one of the anchors after disabling the chain pump. He gave up at once when my lads and I captured him."
Jory frowned. "Have you questioned him?"
Ser Davos smirked slightly. "Oh yes. Man has a very active imagination, which helps when you can hold up a knife and then hint at things." He held up his foreshortened hand and wiggled his fingers, before sobering. "His plan was to have the ship seek aid at the Fingers, where he was going to set fire to something, knife you and then escape with the little lordling."
Jory stared at the other man in shock. "Who is this blackguard?"
"Name's Mikon. He does a King's Landing accent quite well, but there's Vale in there and a bit of Riverlands as well. He comes over as a rogue and more than a blackguard, and I think that there's a lot of blood on that knife of his. As for the question of who sent him, there we sail out into murky waters. Dangerous waters."
There was a tone in his voice that made Jory deeply uneasy. He asked the question anyway: "Who sent him?"
Ser Davos scowled. "Lord Petyr Baelish. The Master of Coin on the Small Council. And a man that Lord Stannis trusts about as much as a rusty anchor chain." The last sentence seemed to surprise him a little, as if he had said too much and he shook his head for a moment. "I'll be taking this Mikon back to King's Landing, or perhaps back to Dragonstone. Lord Stannis needs to know about this. In the meantime I've posted guards on your quarters as well as that of young Lord Robert. And when we get to White Harbour we should talk at once to Lord Wyman Manderly. I think that you might need a stronger escort on your road to Winterfell."
He thought this through and then nodded. "Thank you Ser Davos, I agree with everything you have said. I gave my word to Lord Arryn that I would get his son to Winterfell and I will welcome any help that can be given."
Ser Davos nodded and then stood. "I will let you know what-"
And then he was interrupted as the door banged open and a furious Annah barged in. "Ser Davos! There you are! Your guard is all elbows and knees, like a young colt! He came barging in to my quarters, asked a lot of questions about if I'd talked to a man called Mikon and then he knocked the jar with young Lord Robert's medicine over. We've lost half of it – we'll need more if we are to get to Winterfell!" After a moment she seemed to notice Jory and blushed slightly. "Your pardon Jory Cassel."
Jory smiled awkwardly whilst Ser Davos sighed. "I am sorry for that Annah. I know of an apothecary in White Harbour who should be able to replenish your stock of medicine. Do you know what it is?"
"No," she said thoughtfully, "Lady Arryn had it made up by someone in The Vale. But surely an apothecary will be able to work out what it is?"
"I am certain that the man I know in White Harbour will be able to ascertain it," Ser Davos said confidently. "Now if you will pardon me I have go back on deck." And he stamped out, a thoughtful look on his face.
Jory looked at Annah for a moment. She was plain but there was something about her that attracted him for some reason that he did not understand. She looked back at him and then she seemed to recall where she was, before curtseying slightly and then leaving.
As she left he sighed and then stood up to get dressed. He had no doubt that he had a lot to plan once they got to White Harbour. And plenty to worry about before they even got there.
Theon
He heard the sound of the rowers first as he awoke. Slow and steady. Then he felt the lurch. A boat. He was on a boat? He had to wake up. He needed to open his eyes. But doing so seemed to take an age, as each eyelid was heavy, so very heavy. When he finally opened his eyes he then almost wished that he had not.
He was slumped at the end of a longboat with a furled sail. In front of him cloaked and hooded figures were at the rowlocks, fifty or so of them, two to each oar and all rowing slowly but in perfect unison. Theon peered at them, but could see nothing under their hoods, the shadows being too deep. He looked around. There was a shore in the distance, but not one that he recognised. There were trees. Ahead the sun was setting, deepening the shadows and… there was an island ahead. But the more he looked at it the deeper his foreboding became. There was something wrong with that black shape, but he could not say why.
He shook his head slowly and then frowned. His limbs felt heavier than lead, his head seemed to be stuffed with wool. And then he saw that he was wearing armour. There was a kracken on his chest. He almost smiled for a moment – and then he frowned. There was something wrong with it. The limbs were too thin, the body too twisted. It looked like a mockery of a kracken.
And then he noticed the smell. A sickly stench of rot and death. He looked about wildly. Where was it coming from? The sea was too calm, there was no wind. What was giving off that stench? He looked ahead at the island again. It was closer and it still felt so terribly wrong.
Something creaked behind him and he turned. There was another figure at the tiller, hooded and cloaked like the others. As he watched the figure gazed at the course it was keeping the longboat on and then looked down at him. And it terrified him.
It took him two tries but eventually he unstuck his tongue from the roof of his very dry mouth and then looked ahead. The island was closer now – black and desolate, bereft of life. "Steer away from there," he croaked. "Death lies on that island." And the moment that the words left his mouth he knew that it was true.
But the rowers kept to their slow steady work and the figure on the tiller remained steady on the course. The smell of death was stronger now and he looked at the other coastline. Weirwood trees. He could see them clearly. "Steer for the coast. Away from that island!"
The rowers paused slightly before resuming their work. Theon turned back to the tiller. "Obey my orders! Steer away from the island!"
The hooded man looked at him. "Why?" The word was asked in a voice that sounded like rotted leather crumbling. There was something oddly familiar about it.
"Death is on that island! Turn the tiller! Make for the trees!"
The figure turned back to the view ahead. "No."
Trembling in every limb Theon stood on shaking legs. "I am Theon Greyjoy, the son of Balon Greyjoy! You must obey me!"
The rowers finally paused – but to laugh. It was a noise that sounded like a cross between gurgling and wheezing and he looked at them in horror at the sound. The stench of death was growing and he had a sudden nasty feeling that some of it was coming from them. He turned back to the figure behind him and then noticed that one of its hands was visible. It was black with rot. And then as he watched that hand reached up and pulled its hood off. The face that emerged was a dead as the hand, black in places green in others. There was a terrible wound along one temple. Rodrik. It was Rodrik.
"But you're dead."
Theon whispered the words but the terrible figure in front of him simply smiled through a mouth of cracked and broken teeth. "What is dead may never die. And you cannot give me orders, little brother."
"Nor me." The new voice came from behind him and Theon stumbled around to see Maron sitting on the nearest bench. He too was a living corpse.
"I am dreaming," Theon breathed as he looked around. And then the men at the benches resumed their rowing, the long oars going back and forwards as they cut through the still water.
"Are you sure?" Rodrik hissed at him. He seemed almost amused.
"I am!" Theon shouted. "You are dead and this is a dream!"
The black hand on the tiller swept around and hit him on the side of the face, broken nails scoring bloody lines. He reeled away, clutching at the wound. "Are you sure, little brother?"
He steeled himself and then turned back. Dream or not, there was danger here. He felt it deep within his heart. "Turn away from the island."
"Why?"
"There is death there."
A shrug. "Death is but a doorway. It holds no terrors for me."
"I am not dead though. And I choose the other shore."
Rodrik stared at him with what appeared to be total contempt. "The other shore? You speak like a Greenlander, all soft and wet. You are supposed to be Ironborn, like we are."
Theon bristled. "I am Ironborn. And I chose that other shore."
Another shrug. "Why?"
"I want to live." Theon looked at the island again. It was still black and desolate, but he could see now that there was something on the nearest shore, something he could not see clearly yet. "And there is death on that island."
"You are Ironborn, boy," Maron shouted at him as he rowed. "Call yourself a Greyjoy? Father will never take you as an heir."
"Turn to the shore!" Theon bellowed the words. Whatever was on the shore was closer and clearer now. Something on a mound? And then the boat lurched slightly. He looked at the water and then flinched. Corpses. They were rowing through corpses. Some naked, others dressed. Some in their smallclothes and some in armour. And all of their eyes were open and seemed to be looking at him.
"No," said Rodrik, with deepening contempt. "I will not. This is the Old Way, boy. This is the way of the Drowned God."
"This is nothing but death," Theon croaked at he looked at the water again. "Just death."
"Everything has a price," shouted Maron. "And death is the best price of all."
Something creaked and Theon looked about wildly. Was the longboat safe? And then he saw that Rodrik was staring at him oddly. "Why are you so intent on reaching that shore?" His dead brother asked the question in a low, vicious voice. "Why? There are Weirwood trees there."
"Because the shore is safe!" Theon shouted desperately. He looked back at the island again. Yes, there was something on the mound. A throne? And a slumped figure on it?
"Safe? Why safe? Why the Weirwood? Are you that much of a Greenlander now?"
"Turn this boat to the shore!"
"I will not!" Rodrik roared at him, as his skin rippled and flaked. There was something under it, something foul and the smell increased to the point where Theon wanted to turn his head and void his guts, but he dared not. Rodrik glared at him – and then stared at the mast. "You!" he screamed the word out loud and Theon looked at him in bafflement. "No! What have you done?"
The mast rippled for a moment and then Theon gasped as it changed colour, turning as white as the trunk of a Weirwood tree. What had to be done, said a voice that was not a voice. Leave the boy alone.
"Weakling!" Rodrik screamed, but who Theon did not know.
Come to the Heart Tree, Theon Greyjoy, the voice breathed in his ear, and Theon turned and instinctively darted for the mast. He heard Rodrik scream again in rage, gabbling something about stopping the boy, and as he ran he saw rotted hands reaching for him. He kicked out and punched any that came near him, sending bits of bones and sinew and dead skin flying, before placing a hand in the mast. The wood rippled again and then a face appeared in it, the face of the Heart Tree at Winterfell. The eyes opened, displaying red orbs that seemed to bore into his very soul and then the mouth smiled at him. Welcome, Theon Greyjoy. We knew your ancestors.
Theon came awake in his bed at Winterfell, screaming. And when he felt the pain on his face and ran a hand on it he saw blood.
Jon Snow
There was something in the air when he broke his fast in the morning. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a faint air of tension over Father, who tore his bread apart with a slight scowl on his face. Jon watched him carefully but then eventually shrugged internally and moved on to his own bread and honey, whilst he mulled over whether or not to have extra piece of black pudding. Rodrik Cassel would be talking to him about strategy today and he knew that his brain would need extra food.
And then Theon Greyjoy came in and everyone stared. He looked terrible, hollow-eyed and tired, as if he hadn't had any sleep. And then there were the thin bloody lines down the right hand side of his face. Jon really stared at that. Had someone attacked him? Was that what had Father on edge? No – surely Father would have been far angrier if that had happened, and if Theon had attacked someone then he would have looked more hangdog. Instead he looked exhausted and faintly bewildered, as if he had been thinking very hard about something.
Father leant forwards. "Theon? What happened?"
The Greyjoy started slightly and then looked up from his perusal of his own piece of black pudding, like a man contemplating a dangerous risk. "What? Oh, my face. I don't know Lord Stark. I woke up from… this terrible dream and my face was bloody."
The various Starks along the table looked at each other, shrugged and then went back to eating. "Must have been quite some dream," Robb joshed lightly, and then stopped when he saw the look on Theon's face. "What did you dream of?"
"My brothers," Theon said distractedly as he pushed at the black pudding with a knife and then frowned at it. "Only they were dead. I was in a boat filled with dead men rowing. I've never had a dream like that before. It was… terrible. There was danger ahead. Great danger. And the sea… was full of corpses."
Jon looked up at that – and then stopped eating when he saw the look on the faces of Father and Robb, who had both gone very still in that uniquely Stark manner that came over them when absorbing news. Bad news at that. "Go on," Robb said thickly. "What else?"
"I tried to give orders to change direction to the other shore, the safer shore, but Rodrik didn't listen. He slashed my face." He smiled mirthlessly. "Some dream – I must have clawed at my own face as I slept." Then he paused. "The mast," he said eventually. "It turned into a Hearts Tree. And the eyes opened. There was this… voice. It saved me from Rodrik and the others." He shook his head like a dog shaking off water and then speared his piece of black pudding. "Your pardon. I'm rambling. Just a dream."
Father and Robb had gone completely white now and Lady Catelyn had also turned pale. Sansa and Bran were frowning and even Arya had noticed that something seemed to be wrong. Rickon on the other hand was busy making his porridge wobble now that all the grown-ups were distracted.
Theon took a bite out of his black pudding and then realised that Father and Robb were staring at him. "What? It was just a dream."
Father stood up, brushing the crumbs from his beard. "Theon, come to my solar at once. Robb, you too. Cat – can you join us there."
"Of course Ned," Lady Catelyn said distractedly, before noticing what Rickon was doing. "Sweetling, eat it, don't play with it. You'll make a mess."
Rather bewildered Theon stood and joined Father and Robb as they strode out of the room. Jon watched them go with a frown. Something was very wrong.
Robb
After Theon finished telling of his dream, a silence filled Father's solar. He welcomed that silence as it gave him a chance to reorder his scattered thoughts. By the look on his face Father was doing the same thing, whilst Mother was looking at Theon as if she had never seen him before. As for Theon he still looked bewildered.
After a moment Father stood up and then walked over to Theon and closely examined the thin bloody lines on his face. When he straightened up again his face was set. "Theon, I'd like you to see Maester Luwin today to have him look at that."
"Lord Stark, I'm fine, I must have flailed in my sleep and-"
"I insist. That wound… it is not right Theon. Something jagged did that, and your nails are not torn." Robb looked at Theon's hand and then nodded to himself. Father was right. And Father now sat back and looked intently at Theon. After a while he sighed slightly.
"Theon, I'm guessing that you've never had a dream like that before, have you?"
The Heir to Pyke shook his head, looking increasingly troubled.
And then Father stood and poured some wine into a cup before giving it to Theon. "Drink this."
Theon sniffed it appreciatively and then looked up with a frown. "It's rather early Lord Stark and-"
"You've been touched by the Old Gods, young man. The Old Gods themselves. And that wound you bear – I think that was a parting gift from the Drowned God."
There was a long moment of silence and then Theon drained the cup with a trembling hand before he could spill any. And then he coughed violently, perhaps from having breathed in at the wrong moment. When he stopped he looked back at Father in deep shock. "The… the Old Gods?"
"Aye," Father said quietly. "Your ancestors worshipped them a long time ago, in the time of the First Men, before they crossed the sea to Pyke and the Iron Islands. Where the Drowned God came from is… well, that's a tale I care not to know much about."
There was another pause whilst Theon's face ran through a range of emotions, starting with horror and ending with confusion. "Yes, but… the Old Gods… I thought that…"
"Theon," Robb said gently, "I have been touched by them too. And Father. That's a tale for another day – but you are not alone in this. Whatever this is."
Theon Greyjoy looked at him in some shock. And then he frowned. "That was what was wrong with you that morning, wasn't it?"
"Aye," Robb said gently. "But as I said, that is a tale for another day. Because what I have seen is… darker than this day."
This bought him a doubtful look from Theon, and a roll of the eyes. "Darker that a longboat full of dead men?" Theon asked with a slight smirk.
"Darker than that," Robb said flatly and the smirk vanished from Theon's face.
"A tale for later," Mother said with a quaver in her voice. "Much later."
Theon seemed to absorb this and then stood. "Then by your leave Lord Stark I must go and think on this." he paused. "May I go to the Godswood?"
"You may," Father sighed. "And if you have any further dreams, please let us know Theon. Especially of Heart Trees or the Old Gods. Much… much rides on this. More than you might think."
Theon drew himself up and nodded formally to them all, before walking out, closing the door behind him.
"Well," Father said eventually, "That was something of a shock was it not?"
"It was," Rob b replied thoughtfully. "In… my memories Theon never gave any signs of any such dream, nor was he marked like that. This is… well, new."
"But is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Mother asked thoughtfully.
"Good!" Father said forcefully. "We are changing what happened. And in the case of Theon… well, the Old Gods have touched him. Changed him perhaps. We must see what happens with him. I do not yet trust him, but if the Old Gods have touched him… mmm, I must think on this."
There was a knock on the door of the solar and Father looked over at it. "Enter."
The door opened to reveal Maester Luwin, who was escorting the ancient Maester Aemon. "Ah," Father said quietly. "Maesters. Thank you for coming. Robb, could you please find Jon and ask him to come here? We have… something to discuss with him."
Jon Snow
He liked sitting the Godswood in front of the Hearts Tree. It was… quiet. Peaceful. Still. He could pray in the morning and then return to think about life in general.
So he'd been rather surprised to discover Theon Greyjoy sitting in front of the Hearts Tree that morning. Very surprised indeed. The squid was just staring at the tree with a look that combined astonishment, confusion and deep uncertainty. They traded looks for a moment, before Greyjoy nodded slightly at him and then stood and wandered away.
Jon watched him go with a slight frown. Something was wrong with that squid, he didn't know what it was but he was sure that Father and Robb knew what it was. He considered the matter from as many angles as possible for a moment and then he shrugged and bent his head in prayer.
When he lifted his head again he saw Robb standing quietly to one side. "Father needs to see you at once," he said quietly. "In his Solar."
Jon nodded silently and then walked off. He'd had a feeling that something was wrong for these past few days. Something had been hanging in the air, something had been unsaid by Father whenever they had met, he knew it.
When he got to Father's Solar he was surprised though. Lady Catelyn was standing at the window and turned to give him a strained smile. And Maester Aemon was sitting by the side of Father's desk, which was laden with books and papers about the Old Gods and The Others. As for Father himself, he was standing by the fireplace, his face sombre and his hands behind his back. There was a strained expression on his face, something that made Jon pause, before closing the door behind him.
All of a sudden he felt the tension in the air, thick and heavy. He just didn't know why it was there. Was Father going to drop a hint about him joining the Night's Watch? No – that would not have been like Father at all. Besides it would have been him hinting at it to Father rather than the other way around.
"Sit down please Jon," Father said quietly. "I need to talk to you."
Jon nodded and then sat, but then had to wait as Father frowned at the floor, the wall behind him, the door, Lady Catelyn, the floor again and finally at him. "Father," Jon said quietly, "Have I done something wrong?"
A small snort escaped Father's lips, whilst Maester Aemon smiled slightly and Lady Catelyn shook her head with a sigh. "No, Jon," Father sighed eventually. "This is not about anything that you have done. This is about who you are."
Jon looked at Father, confused. "Who I am? I'm sorry Father, what do you mean?"
Father looked at him somberly. "Jon, I am sorry. This is something that I have put off for far too long. But I was afraid. I was burdened with a secret and an oath I swore not long after you were born. The oath your mother made me swear."
His… mother? Jon's head swam for a moment. Father was talking about his mother? The mother that he had always wondered about, always worried about. Always feared that… she might be dead. Dread pooled at the bottom of his stomach, nauseating him for a long moment.
Father sighed and then stared him in the eye. "You have to understand something Jon. It has always been my intention to keep you safe. That was why I have never spoken of your mother before. Because – her identity had be a secret if you were to be kept safe.
"Jon – you are a Stark. No-one should ever doubt that. But – and I am sorry for this blow, as it must be a bitter one, but as I said I had to keep you safe – I am not your father."
Jon stared at Father in shock as the ground seemed to fall to pieces beneath him and plunge him into an ocean of cold water that he never even suspected was there before. "I don't…" he paused to try and clear his suddenly dry throat. "I don't understand," he finally croaked. "Please Father – I don't understand. How can I be Stark if I am not your son?"
Father sighed yet again and then pulled his chair over and clasped Jon's hand. "Because you are a Stark. You are my nephew Jon. I would be very proud to call you my son, but you are in fact my nephew."
He looked at Father in confusion for a long moment, his brain racing. "Your… nephew? But… why would you want to keep me secret and safe…" Horror suddenly stole over him and he stared at Lady Catelyn. "I cannot be the son of Uncle Brandon can I?"
But Father shook his head. "No," he said sadly. "You are not the son of Brandon." He took a deep breath. "You are the son of my sister. Lyanna."
An image flashed though his face, the image of Aunt Lyanna's statue in the catacombs. He'd always been fascinated by that statue, by that face. The face of the woman whose abduction by Prince Rhaegar had started the War of Robert's Rebellion. Had led to the downfall of the Targaryens. "You mean that… my mother has always been in the catacombs?" He croaked the question that was laden with shock and he saw Lady Catelyn look at him with shock of her own in her eyes – and then sudden tears.
Father leant forwards. "Yes, and I am so sorry Jon. But her last request to me – her dying request to me – was that I should keep you safe. That meant pretending that you were my son. There was no other way that I could honour your mother's final request." He released his hands then slumped back in his seat. "She was dying. Birth fever. At a place called the Tower of Joy, on the border between the Stormlands and Dorne. She was guarded by three members of the Kings Guard. There were five of us. Five fought against three. Only two survived. Myself and Howland Reed. I found you and your mother in one of the rooms in the tower. The fools hadn't found a midwife for your mother. She might be alive if they had."
Silence filled the room for a moment before Jon finally thought things through. "Wait – my Aunt Lyanna is – was – my mother, then who was my father?"
Lord Eddard Stark looked around the room and then looked back at Jon – who had finally made that final connection. "My father is…. Rhaegar Targaryen?" He blurted the words in utter horror. "The son of the Mad King?"
"Yes," Father said sombrely. "He was. And… he was not his father. You have to understand that. His reasons were his own and we'll never know why he did what he did, but he was not mad."
"But you're saying that I'm part Targaryen," Jon mumbled in horror. "That my grandfather was… the Mad King!"
"Listen to me Jon Snow," Maester Aemon said as he leant forwards slightly and held out a pointed finger in emphasis. "It is said that when a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin to decide if they be sane or not. That is a lie, but there is just enough truth attached to the edges of it to make it sound true. Yes, Aerys was mad. Driven mad by his burden, by his past, by his own throne. But not all Targaryens were – are – mad." He sat back. "And old as I am, I should know."
Jon stared at the old man. Yes, he knew the he was the Maester of Castle Black and that his name was Aemon, but there was something about the way that he had spoken that had gotten the hairs on the back of his neck on edge. "Who are you?"
A mirthless smile played about the lips of the old man for a moment. "My father was Maekar, the First of his Name. My brother Aegon reigned after him, when I had refused the throne, and he was eventually followed by his grandson Aerys, whom they called the Mad King."
Jon swallowed. "You are Aemon Targaryen," he said wonderingly. "You refused the Iron Throne and took the Black."
"I did what I thought was right, just as your uncle has done the same to keep you safe. There are many men who would have killed you for your blood Jon Snow. Never forget that. And never forget that although you are half Stark you are also half Targaryen, and therefore my great-great-grandnephew. And that I have memories of my father and brother being good and just rulers."
The old man smiled wearily. "I have listened carefully to you over these days that I have been here Jon Snow. And I have heard many good things about you. You remind me of my brother, Aegon. A quiet boy who wanted to help people. Do not fear your blood, Jon Snow. And do not blame Lord Stark for not telling you of your true origins." The smile deepened. "As I said – he saved your life. And if he had not then I would not be sitting here and greeting one of my own blood."
Jon sat there, his thoughts whirling about like a seed pod caught in a stream. "I… Father…. I mean Uncle… I have much to think about and…" He paused. "I think that I must start by continuing to call you Father, must I not?"
"It would be safer," the Lord of Winterfell said with a sigh. And then he set his chin. "My wife has also given me some advice about you. I will write to the King and ask him to make you a Stark. It is what Lyanna would have wanted. It will protect you again, but it will also bind you closer to Winterfell – as if that was ever necessary."
And this was something that shocked even more than the fact that he now knew that he was the grandson of the Mad King. To be a Stark in name instead of a Snow… and to owe it to Lady Catelyn, who he knew had never liked him… He opened his mouth, closed it again and then felt such a look of total confusion come over his face that actually sparked a laugh out of Lady Stark.
"You pardon Jon, but you reminded me of the look on my brother's face the first time my sister hit him with a fish." She sobered. "Jon, as a legalised bastard you would come after Rickon in the succession, or any other sons that Ned and I might have. You must realise that."
"I would be happy just to be a Stark," he said in a choked voice. "That would be all I would ever need. Not to be a… that word." Tears blurred his vision and he wiped them angrily away. "Your pardon. Hay fever perhaps."
"Mayhaps it is," Father said with a cough and then a hasty smile. "Now – there is much I can tell you about your mother. And even some about your father."
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