INotes:
1) You all wanted the next chapter? Well, here it is! I've got to start cutting these chapters down... they're getting too long.
2) So as it turns out, on top of everything, I have a minor eye infection and will need to limit my time in front of a screen for a while. I'll still try and get updates out as soon as possible, but things might slow down.
3) I feel like now would be a good time to remind after to keep in mind that characters are unreliable narrators, prone to their own bias and don't have all the information.
4) This chapter will have a few minor references to Elder Scrolls: Online, but nothing truly important.
5) I'll be making some small edits to previous chapters soon; nothing big, just an amusing little something that may or may not have been inspired by me finally seeing the new Fantastic Beasts movie.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Timeline
283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(Four days later) Robb Stark turns 14: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
Jon VI
It was that dream again; the one he always use to have. The same one he hadn't had since he left Winterfell. It was gray -not night and not day, just gray- and the castle was quite as snowfall. There was no sign off life; no ravens taking flight from the rookery, no sounds from the stables, no servants rushing about, and not even smoke rising from the chimneys. But then the dream changed from how it use to be; the solitude didn't scare him anymore -Jon had long since learned peace in silence rather than terror- and rather than racing around the castle trying to find someone, he found he was in no hurry at all.
In the past versions of this dream, Jon always found himself looking for someone, usually the man he believed to be his father but sometimes Arya or Robb. This time though, he didn't need to look for them because he knew exactly where they'd be. Jon made his way to the Great Hall, snow crunching under his feet. But, despite being clad in only light sleeping clothes, he wasn't cold and the icy snow never cut his feet. It was funny, growing up he was never bothered by the cold -aside from his sixth year when he was attacked by illness after illness until even a short walk in one of the courtyard was enough to wind him- which all the Starks had in common and something that Jon had always taken great pride in; but he was never bothered by the heat either, able to stay in the hot springs for much longer than any of the Stark siblings. Sometimes he stayed in so long, refusing to leave the comforting warmth, that Lord Stark had to pluck him from the water with a warning that Jon that the hot strings might turn him into soup.
He supposed that made sense now.
He arrived at the entrance to the Great Hall and through the thick doors came the sounds of feasting: music, laughter, and the scrapping of cutlery against plates. A booming laugh rang out and it made Jon's heart skip a beat. The Great Hall sounded joyous and welcoming, but Jon had rarely been permitted to attend feasts when other lords visited, even Northern lords with the exceptions of the Manderlys, the Mormonts, and the Karstarks. When he had been a little boy, before he understood that he was different -that he was a bastard- this hadn't been too bad. The head cook, Matlyn - a cranky spinster who never smiled but was always kind to Jon, unlike the servants who kept a polite distance out of fear of facing Lady Catelyn's displeasure- would make a small dinner of Jon's favorite foods. He'd been turned over to the care of Old Nan for the night and she'd spin any tale he'd ask for, stroking his hair as Jon enjoyed the supply of fresh spice cake before tucking him into bed. He had enjoyed the individualized attention and, unlike his siblings who were always useless and lethargic the day after a feast, Jon was always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning. The enjoyment faded as he aged and learned about how his perceived place in the world that kept him outside the doors of the Great Hall. So Jon now just turned away from those doors and left the lords and ladies to their merriment.
Then, as it has always been, Jon found himself in front of the door to the crypts, passing the gargoyles that guarded the entrance -would these come to life? Some of the ones he encountered in Skyrim did. Serana even kept one as a pet, called it Pookie- staring down into the inky depths. Though he no longer felt the bone-chilling terror he once did, the same reluctance to descend still sat heavy in his gut. The urging, insistent voice in the back of his mind told -no, commanded- him to go down was stronger than his fear though, so descend he did. Spiralling down and down into the pitch darkness for what felt like miles -feeling along the wall with his palm as he had no torch and felt no urge to cast Magelight or Candlelight in order to illuminate his past- until he standing in front of one of the old Kings of Winter, his face long and stern, sitting on his crumbling stone throne with his carved wolf curled around this feet and dull iron sword lying across his lap. The king's cold, hard eyes caused Jon no fear; he had spent his earlier, simpler years climbing onto the laps of these statues and playing hide-and-seek among the tombs -even if he never felt truly comfortable down here.
"This is not your place," the king said, his voice rough and dry.
"I know that; I am not a Stark."
"And yet here you must be, at least for a time." The king's direwolf lifted his head from his paws, head cocked to the side to the side as he watched Jon.
"Is that why you've been calling me down here for all these years?"
"Not I, Little One, nor any of my fellow kings."
"Someone else then?"
"Someone else or something else or both. Bones aren't always silent and stone isn't always dead."
"I don't understand."
"You will, Boy, if you only think to listen. Now, you must go further down and find what is still buried." The king raised his arm, cracks like spider webs growing on the stone, and point towards the section of the crypt that had long since been crumbled and been blocked off.
Jon wanted to protest; he couldn't go there, he wanted to say, it has been inaccessible since well before he had been born. But his feet started moving without permission and he passed straight through the rumble without obstacle, the dirt and rock parting around him. Then, as the king commanded, he went deeper into the darkness -further than any living soul must have traveled in decades. He didn't know how long he walked, but it grew warm. So warm that eventually, the ground under him grew so hot that Jon's may have burned if such a thing was possible. Yet still, he kept going, stopping only when he came to an old wooden door.
"Open it," Jon told himself. "You must open it."
But he couldn't, every time he tried reaching for the handle his hand snapped back at his side and when he tried to step back, he found himself unable to move his legs. Then he heard the tell-tale click of a lock coming undone and metal groaning; the door was opening from the other side.
BANG! The door flew open and Jon was engulfed by heat until he felt no more.
Jon was dripping with sweat when he came to; sitting up with a disgusted groan, he pushed back the damp pile of blankets and furs and winced when the stuck to him. Despite this, the air in the room was cool -the fire had dimmed to just smoldering embers during the night. He added more logs and retrieved the metal water pitcher that was kept by the fireplace so it didn't freeze. He wet a washcloth and began wiping himself down, 'The dreams are returning, have been ever since I set foot on land in Westeros.'
Jon had many dreams; in Skyrim, he dreamt of his hopes and fears like any man, but sometimes of something… more. He once dreamt of sitting by a fire in a forest with a silent Kodlak Whitemane, the old warrior's eyes kind and sad; Jon tried to ask the Harbinger of the Companions what troubled him but then gray mists overtook them both and he could see the man no longer. Three weeks later Kodlak lay dead on the floor of Jorrvaskr -slain in his own home- and Jon would carry guilt over the old man's death to his grave, along with a burning hatred of the Silver Hand. He had dreams where he slipped into the skins of different beasts; usually Ghost -with whom he shared part of his soul- but sometimes Winter, the female Karthwolf Shepherd given to him by Gat gro-Shargakh as thanks for clearing the Forsworn out of Kolskeggr Mine, or one of the other canines he owned. These dreams came easiest with dogs and wolves, but they came with birds too: Sweet Roll or Caller the crow or Blink, the albino owl that had shown up in Jon's dorm room at the College of Winterfell one morning and never left.
But the strangest dreams -the ones of blood and ice and fire and dead that speak- they had stopped when Jon had left Westeros behind. 'I should have known they would come back once I did,' he thought. It had been over two weeks since he and Enzo had arrived in Westeros, four days since coming to Winterfell, and nearly every other night that passed, something strange troubled his dreams. Sometimes of a vast, snow-covered forest that was empty aside from the stench of death that hung in the air. Sometimes he was in an empty field and watching the sun die, followed by the stars all flickering out one-by-one. Sometimes he didn't see anything at all, instead only hearing the sound of ice cracking so loudly that it almost deafened him. This was the first time he had dreamt of the crypts since he had been back, 'It was different this time too, I went further down than ever before.'
'But was it trying to tell me?' Jon had learned not to toss his dreams to the side, even if he could never be sure of their meaning -if and when they had any at all.
'The power of dreams is in your blood, Little Brother. Best you don't ignore them, or else Apocrypha may take you before your time.'
The voice was like boiling poison as it his head. Jon doubled over, eyes welded shut and hands clamped over his ears; a heavy, oppressive atmosphere swelled in his childhood bedroom. "Be quiet," the Last Dragonborn hissed. "You are not real."
The venom in his mind laughed, 'Would that make you feel better, Little Brother? If I was just some lie, a figment of your own mind. Your grandfather heard voices too, you know? Perhaps you'll end up like him.'
'I am nothing like him!'
'Not yet, you mean?' sneered the voice of the Betrayer.
Jon offered his most eloquent response,'Fuck off!'
Just like that, the heavy atmosphere dissipated and the young Dovahkiin felt a pop followed by a damp warmth on his lips. 'A nosebleed,' Jon realized as he touched fingers to his mouth and glanced out the window. Bleak rays of pale dawn light shown through the colored glass; it was too late to go back to sleep yet still too early for breakfast to be served. He had made plans to meet Robb and Theon in one of the practice courtyards, but that wouldn't be for several more hours. Jon still dressed for the day though -in simple clothes this time- cleaning his face and teeth then pulling a brush through his hair, not bothering with braids or ornamentation at the moment. He'd do later, right now there was someone he needed to see.
The halls and grounds of Winterfell were quiet and nearly empty as he moved about. 'Like my dream,' Jon thought. Not quite though, smoke rose from the kitchen chimneys and there were servants milling about, preparing for the day. The walked right past him, oblivious to his presence which was just how he preferred it; Jon had gotten extremely good at only being seen when he wanted to be. Eventually, he reached the entrance to the crypts, but when he went to open the door, he froze.
'On with it, you fool! You've been in the crypt three times in as many days to give Arya her lessons, but now you're letting a damned dream get to you? You slew Alduin the World Eater, yet you're afraid of some old bones and crumbling stone? Get on with it, you know what you have to do!'
With a hard, dry swallow Jon passed the gargoyles, pushing through the doors and descending downward; not as far as he did in his dream though, instead he stopped in front of three particular statues. Lord Rickard Stark looked like Ned Stark, if only slightly older and more worn, and Brandon Stark was similar in appearance as well -if broader in the jaw and more refined in the features. Jon lit a candle at each of their tombs, 'You'd both likely hate me if you were alive; I'm not sure I could blame you if I did. One of my grandfathers killed the other and took my uncle to boot. My own father was killed by his second cousin; somedays I fear ever having children because I think of the pain they could cause each other. Perhaps it means nothing, but I'm sorry. Neither of you deserved what happened.'
Then he moved on and came to the statue of Lady Lyanna Stark, his mother. Growing up he had dreamed of what the woman who gave birth to him was like almost as often as he dreamt of the crypts; at times these dreams had been so vivid he could almost make out her face and hear her voice. He dreamt she had been a highborn lady of great beauty and kind eyes. As it turns out, his dreams had right -though that hadn't been much of a comfort after he discovered the truth- and now here he stood in front of her motionless effigy. He didn't know how close the statue resembled the real thing but it was all he had, there were no paintings of her anywhere in Winterfell. Jon reached up to brush his fingertips against the cheek of the granite statue, feeling only cold stone. He didn't light a candle for her, instead, he scattered petals from a Blue Mountain flower at the foot of the statue.
He took a deep breathe, "I-"
"Jon? What are you doing down here?" Lord Stark stood at the mouth of the chamber, his hair and clothes rumpled -clearly having only woken up a short time ago.
"Just paying my respects," he tilted his head towards the line of statues.
"This early in the morning?"
"Woke up, couldn't get back to sleep." Jon carefully looked straight at his mother's granite visage -surely she couldn't have looked so stern in real life- as Lord Stark came to stand at his side. The man didn't say anything so Jon continued, hoping he could maybe prompt him into revealing what Jon already knew, "It's so strange; I know their stories and I've must have seen their statues half-a-hundred times growing up, but I never thought much about them or ever mourned them properly."
"That isn't surprising," Ned replied. "You never knew them; never had a chance to form any sort of bond. So while they're your kin and will always be connected to you, you shouldn't blame yourself for not feeling saddened by their deaths."
"I don't, not truly. I've seen enough death and mourn over too many bodies to be dwell on those I never met. Still, it was something I thought about often when I was in Skyrim and now that I'm here, I thought it be a good time to visit."
"That was thoughtful of you."
The pair stood together quietly for a moment in awkward silence before Lord Stark spoke up again, "I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to speak in private before now."
"There is much going on with Robb's nameday celebration and with King Robert coming; the royal party will be arriving today, correct?"
"Aye. This afternoon, hopefully, or later tonight, depending on the weather."
Jon nodded, "Winter weather is coming and it makes travel difficult."
"Unfortunately that's all too true, it's a good thing you came home when you did."
The Dragonborn gave his uncle a side glance, "For a visit, you mean. I came home for a visit."
"It doesn't have to be."
A pang of dread hit Jon's stomach, he already didn't like where this conversation was going. "What could you possibly mean by that?"
Lord Stark took Jon by the shoulders, forcing the younger to meet his eyes, "Jon, I realize that when I sent my letter asking you to come home I didn't present my case very well. I know you are supposedly happy in that strange land of yours, but it's not where you belong."
'I can't believe what I'm hearing.' "Are you seriously-"
"Please, just listen! I have holds that need lords. You had the same education as Robb did growing up; we'd have to catch you up on some things but I confident you'd be a good lord. Or you could go to White Harbor and become a knight; Lord Manderly is fond of you, he asked to foster you in the past so I'm sure he wouldn't mind hosting you. Either way, you could have your own name, your own family. You don't have to be a Snow anymore. If neither of those options appeals to you, there is always the honor of joining the Night's Watch."
Jon was stunned. Then he was angry. Through gritted teeth, he growled, "You'd honestly prefer I waste my life away at a glorified penal colony in this country than be happy and rich in a different one?"
The Lord of Winterfell at least had the decency to stutter out a hesitant reply, "Taking the black is an honorable life path, that's why your uncle choose took it. You spoke of it so often when you were younger, I thought it was what you wanted."
Anger boiled in Jon's stomach and he was close to seeing red. "First off, I haven't been a Snow for five years now. I am Jon Whitewolf, the Great Thane of Skyrim. Secondly, I was a child who wanted a place in the world; a way to validate my own existence! I heard the stories of the Night's Watch -how they were an honorable band of brothers that valiantly protected the realms of men from the horrors that lurked beyond the Wall- and I believed them; you let me believe them!"
"Jon, you're being unreasonable."
"Unreasonable? You want me to abandon all I've built for myself in Skyrim: loved ones, businesses, properties, my political standing, and reputation! I have responsibilities-"
"You have responsibilities here, to your family! Enough of this selfishness; I raised you better than that."
There was blood pounding in his ears and he wanted to shout. He stopped himself though -he knew the tongue he'd end up shouting in wouldn't be a human one- and took a deep breath. With fire tickling his throat and ice in his eyes, Jon hissed in a coldly polite tone, "Pardon me, Lord Stark, I have business I need to attend to."
The Dragon of the North shoved his way past the man who raised him and all but stomped out of the tombs, Lord Stark calling after him as. He slammed the door of the crypts behind him and -after briefly considering placing a locking ward on the door and sealing the Warden of the North in- he cast a calming spell. Using magick on himself was probably not the healthiest way to deal with negative emotions, but Jon didn't want risk shouting someone into Oblivion just because they bumped into him.
Not wanting to be forced into another painfully infuriating conversation with Lord Stark anytime soon, he wound his way through the various corridors of Winterfell. It was busier now, servants rushing to prepare for tonight. Eventually, Jon found himself in the main kitchen -Winterfell had two, the main one and an overflow kitchen used for big events- and looking for a particular face. Before long he found it in the process of terrifying a young dishwasher.
"Listen here, Boy! Take these dishes back and wash them properly this time or I will use you to make my soup stock!"
Jon couldn't help but laugh, "It's good to see that you haven't changed, Matlyn."
At the sound of his voice, the old cook spun around welding her soup ladle like a sword and dishwasher took this opportunity to flee, "You! I heard you were back, didn't even think to stop in and say hello, did you?"
"I'm here now."
There was a snort, "As if that counts." Her murky gray-green eyes scanned him and wrinkled lips pursed; Jon wasn't sure how old Madlyn was, younger than Old Nan -how old Old Nan was, he didn't know; he wasn't sure anyone knew, anyone who probably ever knew was likely dead- but when he was little he often thought she resembled a face on a weirwood tree. He actually mentioned this to Ser Rodrik once and ever since the man couldn't look at the woman without having to choke back laughter.
"You're still too skinny; not eating right in that place you ended up, I see. Sit there on that bench and don't you dare get up until I tell you to. You're not too big to be put over my knee, Boy. I have some things for you to taste."
With a smile, Jon did as ordered.
Thwunk!
"Fuck, would you look at that? I've never seen a bow with this kind of power." Theon crowed as he admired the glass arrow embedded halfway up the shaft into the dead center of a training dummy. "Hey, Wolf! You sure there isn't anyone in Westeros who can make more of these arrows?"
"Pretty sure, Squid. You're welcome to ask around, though." Jon drawled as he ready an ebony arrow, pulling Ash Rain -his fire damage enchanted ebony bow- taut. He aimed carefully and let it fly. Thwunk! Jon smiled when the arrow landed exactly where he wanted it too -three inches to the left of Theon's arrow; still a theoretical kill-shot but far enough away from the center to leave Theon with his pride.
"Not bad, but you're still no match for my skills."
Jon rolled his eyes and gave the cocky Kraken a rude gesture without any true heat behind it; these past four days had actually been the best of their acquaintanceship -aside from the few times Theon had gotten drunk enough to reveal the squishy, soft sentimental part of himself. He had even listened when Jon stated he didn't go by Snow anymore; he did, however, say that 'Whitewolf' was too much of a mouthful and that 'Wolf' was a good enough name. Jon retaliated by calling Theon, 'Squid'; which got him punched to the shoulder but nothing else.
He readied another arrow and released; it was true that archery had never been his strongest suit -that was swordplay- but he had grown his skill exponentially during his time in Skyrim. The many hours he had spent sneaking through old Nordic tombs, Falmer infested Dwarven ruins, and bandit hideouts with his bow drawn, sniping enemies from the shadows, had ensured that. He wasn't exactly the best -he'd never managed to best Sorine Jurard or Agni in a contest of skill- but he had managed to out-shoot Aela and Niruin more than once.
"Boys, boys, you're both pretty," Robb said sarcastically as he took his own, much less impressive, shot. "Grrr...how'd both get so good?"
"Practice," Jon and Theon answered simultaneously, amused by Robb's frustrated groan.
"Alright, you two have had your fun playing with sharp sticks and string. Jon, you promised me something!"
The Heir of Winter stuck out his hand with a demanding look on his face. The Dragonborn couldn't help but laugh even as he retrieved the desired package from his knapsack, "By the Gods, you're as bad as Rickon."
"Give me!"
"Spoiled brat."
Robb's eyes when wide with glee as he unwrapped the deer fur pelt from his nameday gift, a sheathed Stalhrim sword. The sheath was black leather embroidered a white frost pattern while the blade itself was a carefully honed longsword; the hilt was pale in color with twin sapphires embedded into both sides and bear's teeth crossing over the guard towards the fuller. Robb gasped, wonder twinkling in his eyes, as he ran a finger over the flat of the blade. His brow furrowed, "It feels cold, what is the sword made of?"
"A material called stalhrim. Long ago, it's natural coldness led it to be called enchanted ice, however, it's actually closer to rock -still stronger than steel though. In ancient times, Nords -that is what the people of Skyrim are called- used it to encased their dead as a form of protection and their kings would have armor made with it. But these days the only ones who can craft anything with it are an isolated tribe of people called the Skaal who live on the island Solstheim. They're fairly insular but I once saved the life of the village blacksmith, Baldor Iron-Shaper, and he was willing to forge the blade for me. I thought that -all things considered- it would be fitting for the Stark heir."
Robb gave the blade a few practice swings, testing the balance, before attaching it to his belt with a satisfied grin. He turned to Jon, his face warm and arms open, "Come here -you big softie."
With that, Jon was pulled in to another tight hug; Robb was taller than him -taller than Lord Stark too- so Jon had to stretch his neck in order to rest his chin on the other young man's shoulder. Robb clung to him tightly -for all that Robb called him a softie, it was the older of the two who had always been the neediest growing up; when they were babies he would wail if separated from Jon for too long- and while Jon enjoyed the closeness, some of the warmth he was feeling fled when he noticed Lady Stark glaring at him from across the yard. Feeling a bit cheeky, he gave her the brightest, most obnoxious smile he could muster and then turned his head to whisper in Robb's ear, "Your mother is here."
Jon pulled out of the embrace and went to gather up his weaponry, tucking them neatly into his knapsack. Though his back was turned, he could hear Catelyn sharp voice order, "Robb, stop fooling around! Tommy is waiting for you in the sables; it is time to get cleaned up for the feast. The king and his family will be there, we all need to look our best. That means you too, Greyjoy. Get going, the both of you."
He heard them both make noises of agreement and call their goodbyes to him, which Jon answered with an over-the-shoulder wave. Not too long after they left, he felt a presence behind him; the Lady of Winterfell had something to say but she wanted Jon to acknowledge her before doing so. So, naturally, the Dragonborn took his sweet time arranging his belongings -after all, he certainly didn't want any of the arrows poking a hole in the bag- and about a minute later he heard the sound of someone obviously clearing their throat. Jon bit back a smile and, rather than turn his head, began whistling to the tone of "Brundi and the Sea".
Another moment passed until he heard an annoyed huff and a sharp, "Snow!" which was Jon's cue to stand, sling on his knapsack, and start strolling out of the courtyard, whistling all the way. There was an indignant gasp followed by a frustrated growl and the rustling of skirts as Lady Catelyn came after him; finally barking out a harsh, "Whitewolf, I must speak to you."
Victory achieved, only then did Jon turn to face her; a carefully painted look of surprise on his face. "Oh, Lady Stark, my apologies. I'm afraid got lost in thought about this evening."
The scowl on her face etched itself deeper, clearly not believing him, "Yes, well about that, I'm sure you know that the royal court is coming-"
"Tonight, if all goes well. That must be very exciting for you all; sadly, Enzo and I have already decided to have our supper at the Golden Heart this evening."
"Y-you did?"
"Aye, Enzo is curious about the different types of wares the North has to offer so I promised to show him around Winter Town."
"O-oh, well, that-"
"-Means we don't have anything else to discuss. Good day, Lady Stark."
With that Jon spun on his heel and left the courtyard. He didn't look back to see what kind of expression Lady Stark had on her face; he wanted too, desperately, but instead just settled for what his own imagination come up with. He didn't consider himself a particularly malicious or bitter person, but gods it was it glorious.
If there was once thing Jon missed about Winterfell, it was the bathing pools. The castle was built upon many hot springs; that was how the Starks had thrived there, but many of them were subterranean and used to pump the hot water through the bronze pipes of Winterfell's walls. However, Bran the Builder had also created a hall of rooms that were built around surface hot springs to be used for bathing and laundry. Some of his favorite memories took place in these rooms when he was very small, splashing around in these pools with Robb until Lord Stark caught them both; chuckling as he scrubbed them down while the boys struggled and complained.
Jon tilted his head back, eyes closed as he breathed in the damp, earthy air. He felt, for the first time since he had gotten Arya's letter, truly relaxed.
"What in the seven hells are those things?"
'So much for that,' Jon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before reluctantly opening them to see Robb and Theon, both freshly shaven and with newly trimmed hair, shucking off their clothes.
"What are you talking about, Squid?"
"All those markings," Theon gestured over Jon's nude frame as he and Robb slid into the pool. "I never took you for the type to cover yourself in tattoos."
Jon winced, "Oh, those are...mementos from different adventures; it's a long story, you'd probably find it boring."
In truth, the black marks that covered his body were closer to brands. The Daedric Princes were greedy by nature; they liked to mark their claimed humans. Jon hadn't set out to become the 'champion' of over half-a-dozen daedric princes; but somehow, he had. Most of them he had stumbled his way into and when that happened, some he had helped eagerly, some accidentally, and some reluctantly. But, no matter how it had happened, he always walked away with a burning black icon somewhere on his body.
Azura had burnt a crescent moon and star on his right shoulder; on the other Hermaeus Mora had forced his own image of an eye surrounded by tentacles. Clavicus Vile -or perhaps Barbas- left a dog's paw no bigger than a septim on the outer part of his left ankle so it was perhaps fitting that on the outer part of his other ankle was Hircine's marking, a stag's head. Malacath might be Jon's favorite of the lot -he felt at home under the watchful eye of the patron of the spurned and ostracized- and his mark was three simple bands that wrapped around his left bicep. Under that, on his inner forearm, was the circle enclosed by a larger ring that Meridia placed on him. Jon hadn't wanted to become the champion of Mehrunes Dagon -he had intended to spare Silus Vesuius, but the man had attacked before Jon could calm him; they had struggled and, in the end, Vesuius had fallen from the mountain- so he was bitter whenever he saw the spiral that enclosed his right elbow.
Sanguine, never one for subtly, pinned a rose on him; the thorn-less stem wrapping around his right wrist and the flower growing on the back of his hand, petals blooming in the space between his thumb and pointer finger. The Prince of Debauchery had originally tried to leave his mark somewhere else, but Jon made him change it. Ever the jokester, Sheogorath stuck a butterfly on the small of his back; it tended to insight endless giggles from people whenever they saw it for the first time. Even Lady Luck herself, Nocturnal, who desired no worshipers, claimed him with the Nightingale symbol between his shoulder blades.
The Daedric Princes he had refused to do the bidding of -Boethiah, Mephala, Molag Bal, Namira, Peryite, and Vaermina- had left marks on him too. Mostly in the form of vicious scars, but that was a different story entirely.
"You both look like green boys," Jon said, amused as he took in their smooth faces.
"Get bent," Robb grumbled, sinking down into the water.
"At least we don't do up our hair like a woman. Besides, wenches prefer a man who is clean shaven, less chafing that way. Not that a maiden like you would know anything about that, Wolf." Theon sneered, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Jon rolled his eyes and tugged at one of his damp curls. The story of how he had developed his hairstyle was actually quite humorous; he had dozed off at the Ragged Flagon one day and woke to Vex and Sapphire twisting sections of his into thin, tight braids. He had attempted to wiggle away only for the two women to hold him down, threatening to rip his hair out if Jon tried to move again. So he was forced to remain seated on the stool as they finished and listen Delvin Mallory laughing at him with Vekel the Man while Brynjolf shot him sympathy -if extremely amused- looks. He hadn't offered t help though, so his sympathy meant nothing.
Eventually, the ladies finished up and set him loose with the threat that if he ruined their hard work, they'd come for him; Jon kept the braids in all day, as ordered, but took them out when he went to bed. The next day, as soon as the pair saw him, they pounced like sabre cats and re-braided his hair. This pattern continued for a month or so until Jon just started braiding his own hair to have them the trouble, after which Vex and Sapphire brought him the colored yarn and glass beads to add; he did so and, to his surprise, found he quite liked the way it looked and it had been his style ever since.
"I'm far from a maiden, Theon, and unlike you, I've never needed to pay women for their company."
"So you finally manned up enough to let some wench pluck your flower. Now tell me, who was it? Some sweet farm girl you saved from bandits or a lusty tavern worker who loosened your knots with enough drink to get you in bed?"
Jon recoiled in distaste, "Shut your mouth, Greyjoy! I wasn't anything like that, and I won't disgrace her by bragging about our relationship like it was some hunting trip."
"Come on, Jon," Robb encouraged as he scrubbed himself down with unscented soap, staring enviously at Jon's own bar of mint and clove. "I don't need the gritty details, but I want to know about the woman who was able to charm my brother into forgetting his fears."
Jon was silent for a moment, mulling over what to say. Eventually, he just shrugged and hoped his retelling of this tale would never get back get to Skyrim, else he would lose more than just his life. "Fine, but I won't tell you her name and if either of you ever repeats this, you'll find yourselves unable to enjoy the company of women ever again! I met her soon after my arrival in Skyrim; I was poor and needed a fast way to make coin, the... business she was with provided that. When we first met, she was cold to me -well, she was cold to just about everyone- but, as time passed, we became friendlier and she started to open up. One night, about a year-in-a-half, after we first met, I woke up to her climbing on top of me in bed. I was confused, asked her what she was doing; she said she wanted to sleep with me. I...well, my reaction was less than dignified.
I replied that I didn't want to dishonor her or risk getting her with a child. She smacked me upside the head, probably somewhere between amused and angry, but told me I was the only one she trusted in such matters. So, we slept together. It was awkward, at first. I was a boy of five-and-ten and had never been with anyone, so I didn't know what to do. She was older by a bit and not a maiden, but her only... experiences had been unpleasant. We learned together. We laid together a few more times after that night but eventually stopped."
"Why, did she grow bored of you?" Theon japed.
Jon splashed some water in his direction, "No, nothing like that. We enjoyed each other's company as close friends -still are to this day- and as lovers, but after a while, it started to feel... wrong to keep those two things separate. So I asked her to marry me; she laughed in my face, said she wasn't the marrying type. We kept to our separate beds after that, but are both better off after our time together."
"So this mystery woman, is she tell the only one you've ever been with?" Robb inquired curiously.
"No, but she was the most important one."
"Does that mean there is someone now?"
Black hair, bow lips, form-fitting leather armor, and a pair of burning crimson eyes popped up into Jon's mind and he felt his body flush with a heat that had nothing to do the water of the hot spring.
"Ah ha!" Theon pointed at Jon with a triumphant smirk, "Look at him blush! Tell us who has captured your heart, Wolf! Is it another older woman?"
'Oh, if only you knew.' The Dragonborn glared ar Greyjoy heir, "You should watch that mouth of yours, lest you lose your tongue one day. Besides, it's not like either of you have a woman, from what I hear you're not even betrothed!"
"Ugh," Robb groaned, rubbing his face. "Don't you dare say one thing about marriage! I hear enough about it from my mother. She wasn't happy about us horsing around in the courtyard, thinks I should be entertaining the visiting lords and their heirs."
"Should you not be?" Jon cocked his eyebrow at the auburn-haired young man.
"I have spent nearly three weeks shmusing and socializing our visitors; now it is my nameday and I want to spend some time with just my brothers. Especially since the feast tonight will be more about impressing the King and his family than anything else; Mother is hoping for a match between Sansa and the crown prince. She wants Southern matches for all of us, likes Margaery Tyrell for me."
"There is...sense to that." Jon offered; he had no warm feelings towards Lady Stark, but he also had no desire to speak ill of him in front of her eldest child.
Robb shrugged, "Perhaps, it'll never happen though. I wouldn't mind, Lady Margaery is a famed beauty, but Father has hinted that he intends Alys Karstark for me."
"How do you feel about that?"
"That the feast tonight will be long and irritating. Hopefully, Mother will be too busy shoving Sansa at the prince to watch me."
Jon snorted in amusement, "Aye, feasts tend to be more trouble than they're worth. I'm glad I won't be going."
Robb's eyes went soft and sad, "Are you sure you don't want to come? I could-"
"It's because of you, Lord Stark, and Wyman Manderly that I have been allowed to sit at the high table for the past three days. I'm grateful but it wouldn't be proper for me to sit there tonight and I have no desire to sit below the salt."
"Then where will you go?"
"Stop with those pleading puppy eyes, Robb; they mean nothing to me. Enzo-"
"That man scares me, I feel like he could pick me up and bend me in half," Theon mumbled under his breath.
"-and I are going shopping in Winter Town later; we're having supper at the Golden Hearth, I hear they have the most delicious honeyed ham."
"Fine, you go off and enjoy yourself while Theon and I to suffer through the feast."
Robb's voice was seemingly light and joking, but the set of his jaw told Jon that he wasn't happy. It was time to change the subject, "What about you, Theon; why aren't you wedded or engaged yet?"
The eldest of the three snorted, "I couldn't possibly wed; think of how many women would weep if I did."
"Oh yes, how could they possibly go on?" Jon drawled sardonically.
Ned II
"Lord of Winterfell, I will speak with you."
Ned jumped in his seat when the dark-skinned giant addressed him, 'It is not natural for a man that large to move so silently.' Vlast strolled confidently into Ned's solar, not bothering to close the door behind him, and stopped in front of the desk, towering above the seated lord. In the short time that he had known the man, Ned hadn't developed a positive opinion of the mysterious warrior; he behaved irreverently towards those he should have addressed with respect but always spoke with such a calm, clear voice that he never appeared impolite. Vlast was also never anything but perfectly pleasant with servants and, in return, they were more than happy to help him.
Above all though, Ned couldn't help but feel like the man was always testing him. 'He's doing it right now too,' the Lord of Winterfell realized. 'But I will not give him the satisfaction of besting me.' So he smiled as pleasantly as possible, "Of course, what do you need?"
"When I spoke to my companion this morning he seemed quite distressed. He would not tell me why but I did gather that he had spoken with you before we met up. I will know what you said, if you please."
Ned flinched; he knew that talk he had in the crypts with his son had gone… poorly, to say the least. But his boy couldn't have been that upset, could he? Jon had always been a sensitive child, wilting at even the smallest slight, even if he learned to hide it as he aged. But he was also a practical boy so surely after he had time to calm down, Jon would see that Ned only wanted what was best for him.
In the meantime, however, Ned felt no obligation to explain himself to this outsider. "It wasn't my intention to upset Jon, but the words spoken between us are none of your business; it was a family matter."
Vlast was not swayed, "That is exactly why it is my business, Lord of Winterfell. I told you that I am charged with protecting Jon for the duration of this trip, but what I did not say is that I am to protect him from threats both physical and emotional. So once more, I will know what you said, if you please."
Ned didn't like what the man was insinuating. "I assure you, a would never harm my son. I only want what is best for him."
"Hmm, I do believe that you love Jon. But you need to consider, Lord of Winterfell, that what you believe is best for him might actually be what is best for you."
The Warden of the North shot up in his seat, "Get out!"
Vlast scoffed, "I see."
Ned glared at the intruder as he left, collapsing back in his chair when he had gone and buried his face in his hands, suddenly exhausted.
"An interesting man, isn't he?"
Ned looked up to see the massive girth of Wyman Manderly filling the solar doorway, a knowing look on his face. After gesturing the man in he replied, "Interesting is probably not the word I'd use. What do you know about him?"
Wyman leaned back in his armchair -Ned winced when it creaked mournfully- his brow furrowing deeply. "Not much, I'm afraid. I know he's a skilled fighter -you should have seen him sparing with Wylis- and that he is very protective of Jon, Vkast trusts us with him about as far as he can throw us."
The Lord of White Harbor paused and cocked his head to the side, giving his stomach a pat, "Perhaps that is not the best turn of phrase to use in this situation."
"Nothing else?"
"Does the man strike you as a type to share his life story over a pint of mead?"
Ned let out a huff of amusement, "No, I suppose not. Still, knowing as little about him as I do, I'm not sure that I feel comfortable leaving Jon in his care."
"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that; he's clearly devoted to the boy, barely let Jon out of his sight while we were traveling. They seem to have quite the bond."
The word 'bond' left a bitter taste in Ned's throat, "And Jon, what do you think of the man he has become?"
"He's grown quite a bit, hasn't he? It's impressive really, Jon left on his own with nothing five years ago only to return with a name of his own choosing and a king's fortunate of his own making. He still the same in many ways though, very humble and kind; he actually tried to repay me for the supplies used by Vlast and himself on the journey here. I refused, of course; if anything I should have been the one repaying him for bringing me that trade deal with the East Empire Trading Company. I even tried, but the boy wouldn't take it so instead I insisted that he and Vlast accept a pair of horses from my stables -even that was a fight."
"So you approve of him?"
"Why of course, he's grown into a fine young man."
"Then there is something I must ask you; years ago when you first offered to foster Jon, I refused due to personal reasons -perhaps that was a mistake- but now I must ask if you are still open to the idea. Obviously, he is too old for fostering, but would you be willing to host him if he were to train for knighthood in White Harbor?"
Lord Wyman looked surprised, "I would be honored, my Lord. As I said, Jon is a fine lad and he gets along well with all of my family, especially my dear Wylla. But…"
"But what?"
"But why would he want to do such a thing? From what I gather, his return to Westeros is just a short visit; hardly enough time become a knight."
"I'm working on that; before long he'll see that his place is in the North, not some far off land," Ned assured with deep conviction, only to met with a doubtful look on Lord Manderly's face. "You don't think that is the case?" Ned snapped.
"I think that the hardest part of being a parent is letting your children grow and make their own decisions. I'd be thrilled to host your son, but I doubt he'd be thrilled to be hosted."
Now the Lord of Winterfell was quite fond of Lord Manderly -the older man had proven himself time and time again to be a steadfast ally and loyal friend, but that didn't stop him from wanting to rip the man's throat out for being the second person today to lecture Ned on how to best raise his children. But as he opened his mouth to do so, the solar door was thrown open with a bang.
Both men were startled the noise and the sudden appearance of a distraught, panting servant, "M-my lord, forgive the intrusion, b-but we received a raven. T-the riders you sent to wait for the King, they j-just sent word. They've spotted the r-royal party. The king will be here in the hour!"
*
*
*
'Fuck!'
'Robert always was one to do things at his own speed,' Ned mused as he studied the courtyard. The news of royal party's sooner-than-anticipated arrive had thrown the entire castle into a frenzy; servants had rushed to prepare rooms, cooks broke their backs working on meals, and the most important members of the Stark household had to ready themselves in a hurry. Sansa had actually cried with about how little time she had to work on her hair -which looked fine to Ned- and Arya, ever so different from her sister, had arrived wearing a cape and helmet of all thing. Catelyn wasn't thrilled about the lack of time either, barely able to pin her hair up in a southern style between making sure the boys were presentable and Arya didn't wander off. Robb and Theon were clearly unimpressed with the occasion -the looks on their freshly shaven faces showed it- but Robb had donned the new fur cloak and sword Jon had given him. Ned took the absence of his dark-haired son with equal parts relief and regret; on one hand, he wanted to speak with Jon about their argument this morning, but on the other, he wanted to keep the boy as far from Robert as possible.
The great thundering of hooves signaled the grand entry of the king's many horses and men. Near the front was the crown prince of the realm, Joffrey Baratheon; he was a comely young man, tall and lean, with Lannister blond hair and green eyes clad in ornate finery that was completely impractical for travel. Still, Sansa swooned when he rode closer. Behind the Heir of Westeros rode his personal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, or as he was better known -The Hound. The man, while not as massive as his older brother, was still nearly eight feet tall and an intimidating sight, fully clad in armor or not. Clegane rode a large, complete black warhorse and from atop it pulled his helm -designed to mimic his moniker, because when had Southerns ever known subtly?- up to reveal his scraggly long hair and the disfiguring burn scars on the left side of his face.
After the first set of riders, an enormous and incredibly lavish wheelhouse lumbered into the courtyard, certainly containing the queen and her younger two children. 'Something that large must have had trouble navigating the narrow and snowy northern roads,' Ned noted. Next came the king himself clad in the finest armor money could buy. Ned could feel his eyes widen as he took in the form of his oldest friend, now fat and red-faced; it was true that man had...grown around his middle by the time the Greyjoy Rebellion had occurred -gods' knew Ned had a bit more padding now than he did when he was younger- but this was…
Still, Ned knelt with everyone else when the king drew closer on his massive -and massively overworked- horse. The Lord of Winterfell didn't know if horses could feel relief, but if they could then this horse surely did when Robert climbed off his back and signaled for all to rise.
"Your Grace," Ned greeted, his head still bowed.
"You've got fat."
'Seriously, what about you?' Ned thought as gave Robert's midsection a pointed look. They locked eyes, and any tensions broke as the pair immediately started laughing. After a moment Robert's eyes slide to Catelyn and he smiled, pulling her in for a hug and peck on the cheek.
"Cat! Still as lovely as ever, I see."
"Your Grace, what a… wonderful compliment." Despite her words, Ned could see the affection had made her uncomfortable.
Robert chuckled, "It's been so many years since that damned Kraken first stirred up, why haven't I seen you since then? What the hell have you been doing?"
'Avoiding the South as much as humanly possible.' Ned thought. "Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."
The door to the wheelhouse opened and Cersei Lannister descended the steps with two young children trailing behind her. The queen wasn't called the most beautiful woman in the world for nothing; with flowing golden hair, emerald eyes, fair skin, and a slender, graceful build, she was a striking figure dripping with jewels and clad in a crimson velvet gown with a plush white fur pelt draped over her shoulders. However, even her beauty couldn't distract from the coldness in her eyes and the slight sneer on her lips as she surveyed the courtyard. The two children with her were far more agreeable; even if they were both shyly hiding behind their mother's skirts.
Arya took in the royal party, "Where's the imp?"
"Will you shut up?" hissed Sansa, only for Robb to chuckle.
The king turned toNed's brood, looking them over and addressing Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon in turn. "Now who do we have here? You must be Robb, you look like a strong land but not much like your old man. My, you're a pretty one; a complete vision, just like your mother. Now you must be Arya, do you know you look like your aunt? Ooh. Show us your muscles, Bran. You'll be a soldier for sure, maybe even a kingsguard. And this is your youngest? He looks like a handful-a-half. A fine brood, Ned, damn fine. You should be proud."
"I am, Your Grace, every day; thankful too."
"Aye. Now take me to your crypts. I want to pay my respects."
The queen approached, the Kingslayer clad in full Kingsguard armor following close behind. The knight -Ned could only use that term loosely- removed his helm, revealing a face that mirrored his twin's so closely it was almost unnerving. Ned offered Queen Cersei the proper greetings, echoed by his wife; she, in return, gave them a sharp nod before turning to her husband. "We've been riding for a month, my love. The children need to wash and rest; surely the dead can wait."
"The children are old enough to make their own decisions, you've got to stop colliding them. Ned, please, I need to see her."
The queen's face burned with humiliation and the Kingslayer's face twisted in anger; perhaps both emotions were justified but when Ned saw the pleading look in Robert's eyes, he couldn't help but give in.
The crypts were a place for Starks; a place where Ned's brother, father, and sister all rested and where Ned would join his ancestors one day. But that didn't change the fact that the stone faces and dark tunnels offered him no comfort. Perhaps it was the fight he had with Jon earlier that day in this very spot, or perhaps it was who he had with him.
"Did you have to bury her in a place like this? She should be on a hill somewhere with the sun and the clouds above her. Lyanna loved the wind blowing through her hair when she went on rides. There is no wind here, she can't be happy." The was a slight quiver in Robert's voice as he stared longingly at the carved face of what he believed to be his lost love. The stonemason hadn't managed to do her justice; he captured her features well enough, but the statue could never convey her inner strength or the willfulness in her eyes. The king placed a single white feather in the statue's hand, stepping on some blue flower petals that Ned hadn't noticed before.
"She was my sister and she was a Stark. This is where she belongs, with family."
"She belonged with me," Robert growled, but when he reached up to cup the statue's face, his touch was gentle. "Until that monster stole her away. I kill him every night in my dreams, you know? Then I wake happy; at least until I realize she is still gone."
'Oh my dear friend, Lyanna could have never belonged to anyone but herself. You could have tried to chain her, but it would have never been what you wish for.' Ned didn't say that, of course. He could never hurt his friend in that way, so instead, he turned away, "It's done, Your Grace. The Targaryens are gone."
"Not all of them," came the bitter reply. Ned shivered, 'No, not all of them. There is one close by and I pray you never set eyes on him.'
"Tell me about Jon Arryn; you mention in your letter that wanted to speak about him."
Robert sighed, settling his weight against a boulder and dragging a hand down his face. "He's… not doing well. It varies day by day; some days he's as robust as ever and others he can barely make it up a set of stairs. There are days he can recall the names of every member of the court and ones he forgets something that was just told to him."
"Could it be an illness?"
"An Illness of the heart or illness of the mind or maybe just damned old age. I know what's coming, but I'm not ready to say goodbye yet; I love that man."
"We both do." Ned agreed, 'I named my most precious secret after him.'
Robert gave a sharp, dry laugh, "He never had to teach you much, but me...oh I was a nightmare. You remember me at six-and-ten? All I wanted to do was gorge myself, crack skulls, and fuck girls. He showed me what it meant to be a true man."
"Aye," replied Ned, 'Well, no man is the perfect teacher.'
His friend seemed to catch Ned's disbelief, "Don't look at me like that. Not his fault I didn't listen."
The pair shared a bit of laughter -short but hearty- before Robert sighed again, "I'm throwing a tourney for him as soon as I get back to King's Landing, just something to celebrate his life and years of service. I want you to come."
"Thank you, Your Grace. But I do not have the time, winter is coming and I need to prepare the North."
"Stop with all that 'Your Grace' shit, we're above that! You need to come, Ned; Jon won't last much longer, he'll want to see you before he goes. If you really want, we can even talk about preparing this damned realm for the bloody winter. But you need to come, don't make me order you."
Ned was silent for a moment, pondering his choices; he was not fond of the South but he did love Jon Arryn like a father and a chance to beat the importance of winter preparations into the soft heads of southern didn't happen often. "Very well, I will join you when you head south -just for the tourney though. I cannot stay long, there is still much to do here in the North."
"Nothing but duty and honor, are you, Ned? It doesn't matter, it will be good to have you by my side -even if it is only for a short time. We were meant to stand together; I've always said that, ever since we were boys. If your sister had lived, we would have been bound by blood. It's not too late though. Your eldest girl, she's certainly flowered by now. I have a son, you have a daughter. We'll join our Houses and make a kingdom that lasts three times longer than the Targaryens ever did."
The proposal wasn't unexpected, but Ned still wasn't prepared for it. "My king… Robert, the offer is generous-"
"No, it's not; it's selfish. If your girl weds my son than you'll probably visit more often; it's mostly for my benefit. Besides, while my heir is useless he is still my heir and therefore the best match in the kingdom. So say yes and we can go get drunk."
'It would definitely please Catelyn and Robert's right about Joffrey being the best match in the realm but I know nothing about the boy.' So instead of an absolute agreement or refusal, Ned offered a compromise, "I'm not refusing the match. But I won't accept without speaking to my wife first or seeing how they get along. So, I will bring Sansa along when we travel south -it might do her well to experience life at court- and if I think she and the prince would be happy together then I will agree. However, I must insist that such a plan not to be made public yet, I don't want there to be any pressure on them."
"That sounds damned complicated, but alright -its a deal." Robert slapped Ned on the back and grinned broadly, "Let's go get fat and pissed."
It was probably too early for a proper dinner feast, but the royal party had arrived sooner than expected so that meant it was time to eat. The feast was a dubious pleasure; oh the food was delicious -although a bit too expensive for Ned's taste- and the music was lively. But the Lord of Winterfell really, really, didn't enjoy watching Robert grope at the busty serving girl on his lap.
Next to him, his wife was attempting to engage Queen Cersei in conversation; however, the queen only gave short, clipped statements as she glared daggers at her husband and drank deeply from her wine. Further down the table, Arya looked bored out of her skull -she'd start causing mischief soon, it was best that kept an eye on her- while Princess Myrcella, who was only a bit younger than she was, inquired about the kinds of tea parties they had in North while shooting brief, longing glances at Robb. Bran was getting along better with Prince Tommen -who passed one-and-ten namedays recently if Ned remembered correctly- as they chatted about their favorite kinds of animals. Rickon, for his part, was taking advantage of his lack of supervision to stuff his face with as many cakes as possible.
Robert laughed bawdily, squeezed the behind of the serving girl, and called to Robb, "You, Boy! I'm afraid that I'm a poor guest to your nameday feast; I haven't brought you a gift."
Robb tore his attention away from where he was glaring at Joffrey, who was flirting with Sansa. "It's quite already, my King. Your presence here is gift enough."
The king -either too drunk or too oblivious to catch the sarcasm in Robb's voice- pushed, "Come now, there must be something that you want. How about a nice new blade?"
It was a kind enough offer, even if Robb had already received nearly a dozen new weapons as gifts already, but his heir refused. "That is most generous, Your Grace. But I already have a new sword that I am extremely happy with."
Catelyn looked ready to scold their son but Robert's laughter stopped her, "That pretty thing with the sapphires in the hilt, right? It certainly looks nice, did your father give that to you."
"No, my brother did; along with this cloak."
"Oh really," Robert said, amusement coloring his voice. He peered down the table to Bran and Rickon, "Which one of you commissioned it?"
Bran shook his head, "Not us, it was Jon. He brought us all really neat gifts; I got a war axe."
The king snapped his head towards Ned, eyes wide in amazement. "Jon as in you bastard? He came back then! By the gods, Ned, I can't believe you didn't say anything! Where is he?"
"He's not here at the moment, Your Grace."
"Well, why in the blazes not? His king is visiting, he should be there!"
"We didn't think it was proper, my King, given his… station." Catelyn cut in; under different circumstances, Ned would have hurt upon hearing her particular terminology, but now he could only be grateful that she came up with an understandable reason for a member of the household to be missing during the king's visit.
"Fuck propriety! I held that boy in my arms when he was a babe and I'd like to see what he grew into; send someone to fetch him at once!"
Ned had to try and dissuade his friend, "He and his… companion are spending the evening in Winter Town, they could be at any number of establishments."
"I think he's actually still in the library with Mister Enzo; I heard a servant saying they asked for tea to be brought up about an hour ago." Arya chimed in, excited by the possibility that her favorite brother would be joining them.
"An hour is quite a long time, Arya. They likely already left." Catelyn said through clenched teeth.
"Well there's no harm in checking, is there?"
"Excellent point, girly!" Robert pointed to a nearby servant, one wearing a Lannister sigil, "You! Go up to the library and see if the missing pup is there. If he is then I want you to bring him down immediately, that is an order from your king!"
Ned watched as the servant bowed and scampered off to perform his appointed duty, 'Please Jon, don't be in the library.'
Enzo Vlast I
"That is your king?"
Jon looked up from the book he was copying, A life of the Grand Maester Aethelmure, "The royal party is here already? They weren't supposed to arrive for a few more hours at least."
He got up joined Enzo by the library window that overlooked the courtyard, "He is… not what I was expecting."
"Your king looks like a sload."
"He's not my king." Jon protested as he took in the royal party bellow, identify certain king members to him. Enzo scanned them carefully, suitably unimpressed by what he saw; the king was a steel-cover pile of flesh atop a surely overburdened horse, the prince could likely pass as a princess if stuck in a dress, and the wheelhouse favored appearance over practicality -something that it seemed to have in common with the queen. To be fair, it did look like there might be a decent warrior or two among the group; the big one with the dog-shaped helmet or the blond one in the ridiculous armor -that one he recognized from his companion's stories.
"Perhaps he is not your king, but he is the man who killed your father. How does that make you feel, knowing he is right there?"
The young Dragonborn pulled away from him, returning to his table to continue working, "I am trying very hard not to feel anything, thank you for asking."
The Ebony Warrior took a chair across from Jon, "And how well is that working out?"
"We should probably wait to head into town until the party is all clear out; I'd rather not bump into any of them as we're leaving." Jon didn't look up from the book, his fluid hand making swift work of the copy he was creating.
Enzo bit back a sigh; being in this place was affecting his friend greatly and even though Jon put on a brave face and a confident demeanor, Enzo could see the weight that was steadily growing on his shoulders. So far the boy had been able to ignore the glares of his uncle's wife, but Enzo could see the slight tenseness in his shoulders and clenching of his jaw whenever Jon heard the word 'bastard' or the name 'Snow'. Since the Redguard had already sworn that he would stab anyone, he instead took great delight in informing all who would listen of his companion's new name and the station he held in Skyrim; his plan to endear himself to castle's servants and spread this information among them was working beautifully, if he did say so himself.
'It is a good thing we will be leaving soon, less the Lord of Winterfell make headway on his plans to trap Jon here.' Enzo thought. He wasn't fond of the Lord of Winterfell; he had a begrudging amount respect for the man -perhaps even a bit gratitude; without him, Enzo likely would have never met his dearest friend- but he could never forgive him for all the anguish he put Jon through, either directly or indirectly. Perhaps Stark have saved his nephew from the Baratheons and the Lannisters, but physical care is only part of raising a child. 'Is it ironic that the man's desire to protect his loved ones has hurt them in the long run?'
If he was being honest, Enzo had found little to like about this land. Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. He had, despite a rather… rough introduction, grown to like Lord Walrus; the man had been generous host -the large palomino palfrey stallion he had been gifted was a lovely mount, Enzo had taken to calling him Steeltoe- and his family had all been welcoming, but he never let the man too close, calculating as he was. The castle of Winterfell was suitably impressive; the system of internal heating was truly extraordinary, something akin to Dwemer craftsmanship.
The children of the castle were also rather pleasant, for the most part. The heir, Robb, was a strong young man and would in all likelihood be a fine leader one day; it was also clear that he loved Jon dearly, even if he couldn't completely understand him. Sansa was the Stark child he had seen the least -which was almost certainly intentional- but he could tell she was very… young, still believing in the fanciful tales fed to her by a doting mother and caretakers; she'd need to be broken of that soon if she ever wanted to survive outside these stone walls. Arya was a delight, spirited and eager to learn -it was easy to tell why she had always been Jon's favorite; Enzo had joined the pair in Arya's nightly lessons and could tell the girl possessed true potential. Bran wanted to be a knight but the Redguard doubted he'd ever get there; he simply lacked the proper temperament and was surely destined for a different path. Rickon, however, might one day grow into an extremely fierce warrior.
The other one, Theon, was an interesting case. Jon had explained to him exactly how the Greyjoy boy had come to live with Starks and the precarious nature of his position in the household. A tragic fact of life was that when a war was waged, it was the women and children who suffered the most. This went far in explaining much about the boy; he was wild and cocksure, always sneaking off for meetups with tavern wrenches or brothel workers. Most would call this the result of a lack of discipline but Enzo knew better. He had been a wild boy too -when he was a child, Enzo had once snuck out of his home with plans of hunting down and riding a desert lion; he had been caught less than a mile away and dragged back to his parents by the ear- and knew that you gentled a child the same way you gentled a wild horse -a strong hand followed by a warm touch. The Lord of Winterfell may have applied a firm hand to the boy but, without a warm touch to follow it, the lesson would never stick. When Enzo had arrived home after his little adventure, his father had -with amused pride in his eyes- put him over the knee but afterward his mother had fixed Enzo a snack and asked him about his plans to track the lion. However, the Lady of Winterfell had about as much love for Theon as she did for Jon.
"If we leave soon, then there will still be time to write to your vampiric lady love when we get back." Enzo cackled when his friend blushed a pretty pink at his jest. When he was in Jon's room early that morning -what a disturbing feeling that had been, like looking through a man's own memories- he snuck a peek at Serana's most recent letter and the most disgustingly adorable thing he had ever seen.
To my beloved friend,
I have no idea how you put up with all these squalling lords and ladies! If I have to listen to Lord Hammer-Heart gripe about his wife ONE MORE TIME, he may just become my dinner. Other than that, I suppose everything is going alright, even if I did wish you were here with me. I helped the guards clear out a skooma den today, there were many of arrests but most of the addicts have been taken in for treatment. Jarl Balgruuf sends his regards, he hopes you are doing well and the cloak he gave you is warm enough. Next time I see you, you're going to have to be punished for not telling me about all your creatures. I can handle an abecean ratter cat and I can handle your whiterun wolfhound -Jarlson is such a good boy, he growls whenever Nazeem gets close!- but a sylvan nixad and a cobalt sep adder? Why do you even have those things? Lydia has been helping me wrangle them; she says hello, by the way.
I'm glad things are going well with your family, but you better not actually think of staying unless you want to find all thar beautiful black hair of yours suddenly urned pink. I'm jesting, of course; but if you do stay then you best make room for me because I'll be joining you. I think Arya and I could get along swimmingly, don't you? Just keep me away from Lady Trout, especially when I'm hungry.
Jokes aside, I miss you. Please don't be away too much longer.
With all my love -Serana.
'Those two really just needed to kiss and admit their feelings already,' Enzo mused. It wasn't as if Jon's lovelorn sighs and bright flushes weren't amusing, but there was only so much of it he could take!
"We will leave once you finish copying that chapter. Now write!"
Enzo looked down at his assigned work, History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall, and sighed. He picked up a quill, 'You are lucky I love you, Boy.'
"Excuse me, Jon Snow? I have been ordered to escort you to King Robert, please come with me. "
Enzo looked up at the servant; he didn't recognize this one but the golden lion embroidered on the man's crimson vest marked him as someone from the Lannister household. "There is no Jon Snow here, only Jon Whitewolf."
If the man was surprised by this, he didn't show it and instead bowed his head, "My apologies. Jon Whitewolf, please follow me, the king has summoned you."
Enzo breathed in sharply; if the King had somehow figured out the truth of his friend's parentage than they'd likely have to fight their way to freedom. It wouldn't be a hard fight, of course, but it would be one nonetheless. Jon closed his book, "Oh, do you know what he wants?"
The crimson-clad servant frowned, annoyed now, "That is between you and King Robert, but I believed that he simply wants to speak to you."
Enzo allowed himself to relax slightly; the danger wasn't gone but it had lessened. "Alright then, take us to meet the king."
"I'm sorry, my lord, but the summons was only for…." The man trailed off nervously as Enzo stood to his full height and pinned down the man with a dark look.
"Would it be possible to stop by my quarters first? What I'm wearing isn't exactly appropriate for such an occasion." Jon asked, gesturing down at his ink-stained dove gray tunic and black trousers. The servant agreed, possibly just to get away from Enzo -the warrior was amusing himself by staring down unblinkingly at Lannister man as he- and off they went.
Needless to say, Enzo's initial poor assessment of King Robert Baratheon didn't change once he saw the man up close; the king had wine stains on his doublet, gravy smeared around his mouth, and a pretty young girl who was most certainly not the queen on his lap. He pushed the girl off as the group of three neared, but not before giving her one final slap on behind.
"Your Grace, I have brought Jon Snow as ordered."
Enzo frowned at the name, which caused Jon to wince ever so slightly, and opened his mouth to correct the servant, only to be interrupted by Baratheon.
"By the Seven, he looks just like you, Ned!"
'No, he does not; not really,' Enzo thought as he glanced from Jon to his supposed father, who was offering the king a meek agreement. The two were similar enough in coloration, though Jon's hair and eyes were black and near-black while the Lord of Winterfell's had plain brown hair and slate gray eyes. Jon's features did have a long slant to them but were far more polished than those of his uncle. That was where any similarities ended between the pair though; his friend had a slender build and a comely face while the Lord of Winterfell had a taller, stockier build and a plain face. 'Perhaps we all only see what we want to see.'
"I have been told that many a time, Your Grace," Jon said with a bow that Enzo made a point not to repeat. "I hope you and the queen will accept these gifts as a token of my esteem for one of the realms most celebrated warriors and Lord Stark's oldest friend.
With another bow, the legendary Dragonborn offered a fur-wrapped package to the king and a red velvet drawstring pouch to the queen, who poured out a handful of gemstones. "These are a bit small, but I'm sure I can find some use for them," she said dismissively even as she held a flawless emerald up to admire.
Baratheon rolled his eyes at the queen's words but accepted his gift with a broad grin, pulling away the covering to reveal an ornate mammoth's tusk; identically to the one Jon had gifted to his uncle. "It's an ornamental mammoth's tusk, Your Grace. I already gifted it's twin to Lord Stark, so it is only fitting that this one goes to you.
"Astonishing, you got this from where you've been living?"
"Aye, Your Grace. I have called Skyrim my home for five years now; I've seen many wondrous sights and met amazing people, including my companion here."
'Sly boy, deflecting attention on to me,' Enzo thought wryly as the king turned his attention to the Redguard.
"You're a big one. What's your story then, I certainly didn't summon you."
"You may call me Enzo Vlast and I serve the Thane Whitewolf as both his companion and protector; in short, where he goes, I go."
Baratheon snorted and turned his sights back to Jon, "Thane Whitewolf, huh? I'm guessing that's you. Well, it sounds like you've got quite the story; I'd like to hear it. Pull up some chairs for the boy and his giant, your king commands it!"
Next chapter: The feast and its aftermath: some hunting, some sparing, and old faces.
Notes:
1) I swear I don't hate Ned, you guys! I actually like him a lot but don't agree with many of his choices. This is me working through that.
2) This is the second time I've written about Jon having meaningful conversation while naked in a bath...
3) If you all don't love Enzo by now than I HAVE FAILED!