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Snow
She used to watch the snow fall for hours when she had been a little girl, a book on her lap she would get lost in for hours, resting on the ledge of the window, she would watch the snow fall, hear the wind outside and read books about the Age of Heroes.
But time was a cruel mistress; it kept moving on, the snow fell, it melted, and the dog she had when she was young grew up; she became fierce, her favorite dog. Her father had many hunting dogs, but Lacrima was her favorite. Her father used to say she would become their best hunting dog.
On the first hunt, her father returned, carrying Lacrima's body with a sled. A bear had gotten them. Lacrima had protected her father fearlessly, but the bear had shown no mercy. But the bear had been busy feasting on her to notice the axe from her father swinging down on her head.
Despite her father's wishes, Lyarra had grabbed a shovel and buried her dog herself. In the place just outside the walls, a place she loved to play with the other dogs they had.
They lived deep into the mountains. Their castle wasn't the fiercest in the North, but the way it was built, many considered it hard to be conquered. Her father had made sure to teach her hunting. She had been five name days when her father took her on the first hunt. With her crimson bow and arrow, she had killed four rabbits. She had wanted to hunt a deer she had seen, but her father had stopped her, telling her.
'My little girl. In nature all animals eat other animals to survive, that's how it has worked for thousands of years, even before the First Men, but animals hunt only as much as they need. Remember this, you already got four rabbits. That deer will run free, and possibly have children. Never hunt more than you need.'
But time kept moving; it never stopped, and it could never be stopped. Lyarra remembered when her father told her they were invited to Winterfell.
She remembered her first time meeting Rickard Stark, her first cousin; she had slapped him after he had insulted her, saying she was no different than the Wildlings beyond the Wall because she didn't eat properly.
But eventually, throughout the years, as they got to know each other, she started seeing him in a new light; she remembered him going to her home for the first time. He had apologized to her for calling her a 'Wildling' because they lived in the Mountains. Lyarra had accepted his apology.
One day, they were betrothed; Lyarra still remembered the first time she laid her eyes on Brandon. Her baby boy. She had thought to herself. 'How can a baby be so beautiful?
Now, as she walked through the snow, her feet effortlessly sliced through it like a hot knife. She felt like a ghost walking through the halls of the place she had called home for many years. She wanted to hear Brandon's voice and Rickard's snarky remarks. She wanted to see her precious little girl ride her horse, her laughter echoing through the walls.
Setting foot on the Crypts of Winterfell, she could feel the eyes of the past Starks, the Kings of Winter, their status judging her. At the foot of the stairs were the statues of two of the biggest Direwolves of House Stark.
Sōna and Morghon
The statues did them no justice; Sōna and Morghon were said to be giants amongst Direwolves, beasts that could never be truly tamed.
As she strode across the Crypts, their eyes watched her every move; she could almost see their stone eyes moving. Rickard used to say that a man could not lie in the Crypts; if they did, they would be punished, but she ignored them.
The Dead Couldn't Talk.
Soon, she felt the eyes of the man she loved and Brandon. She had heard tales as much as poor Benjen tried to stop the spread of the words she had heard from Lady Poole's mouth if her words were to be believed.
The Mad King had made a spectacle when he had executed her most precious people; he had laughed as her poor boy strangled himself to death trying to save his father from being cooked alive inside his armor. Lyarra closed her eyes, and a suppressed sob escaped her lips, tears welling up. Her mind conquered images of Brandon and Rickard. She could almost hear their screams.
Her eyes looked at the stone face that was supposed to be her son. His sword was as it always had been by his side, and his father was standing next to him. He, too, was stone. Cold and Dead. They were no more, and she was left alone. Waiting for the arrival of her daughter and Ned. If Gods were good, her precious daughter would still be alive.
Her walk outside the crypts felt like a fever dream until she heard from Tami Snow that Lord Stark was returning home. Lyarra moved faster than she thought capable of moving; she had run to the gates with the guard following her. She saw Lady Catelyn and Lady Poole had gathered, one holding Robb Stark, who was covered in clothes to keep him warm.
Her grey-dark eyes caught sight of Ned riding in the front; he looked nothing like the little boy she remembered; he looked older, almost like his father, with dark bags under his eyes, and he seemed skinnier than she remembered, but as she tried to see where her daughter was...
Her heart froze; she couldn't see Lyanna anywhere, and when her eyes caught sight of a wagon carrying a large wooden box with blue flowers on top. Her heart froze, and tears rolled down her cheeks; it took everything for her not to scream or sob in front of everyone.
Her precious daughter was gone.
Crypts
Lyarra looked at Lyana's stone face. She had mourned for her daughter, for her precious daughter, for four days now.
Someone Lyarra loved the most out of all her children. Her father always told her that using a sword and riding horses weren't things she needed to learn, but Lyarra had always talked him down, reminding him how she was raised and that Lyanna could learn whatever she wanted. Lyarra had always given her daughter all the Freedom she wanted, sometimes perhaps a little too much Freedom.
Once, her daughter had thrown mud at Brandon using a sling from a secret place she used quite often not to be noticed by guards and servants, but when questioned if she knew who did it, Lyanna had said that a servant had done that instead.
The servant was sent out of Winterfell the next day after spending a night in the dark cells without food; when Lyarra learned that her daughter had done that, she forced her daughter to publicly apologize to her brother in the main hall of Winterfell to let everyone know that she was the one who threw the mud, not the servant.
Lyanna loved to make fun of people, but sometimes, she went a little too far with her antics until Lyarra had a long conversation with her. After that day, Lyanna grew up to become a gentler person who helped other people, and that's how she was all the way to the end.
' "Come in," Lyarra said to whoever was knocking on the door, but she knew only one person who knocked like that. She heard the door opening, and upon seeing her daughter's face, Lyarra knew right away that her first meeting with Robert had gone wrong.
"Lya, come here." She told her daughter she said nothing, but she looked displeased, with a clear frown on her face as she walked up to her; Lyarra kissed her forehead before patting the chair near her for her to sit.
"I take it from your face. It didn't go well." Lyarra said that as she offered her daughter some tea, it always helped to clear her mind.
"No. Robert is not for me. Ned kept going on about how he is the best man to have ever lived; one would think he's the one being offered to Robert, nor me." Lyarra chuckled slightly but kept mostly a stoic face. When her husband had agreed to have Lyanna betrothed to Robert, Lyarra hadn't been pleased; she had wanted to meet the young lord first, for Lyanna to meet him first before any decision was made, but she still tried to make the best of the situation.
"If you are in a bad situation, crying about it will not fix it. Always try to make the best of every bad situation you are in." That's what her father had told her, and she always listened to his words, even if it had been a decade since she had last seen him.
After her husband gave the news of their betrothal, Lyanna had been angry, but Lyarra had been there to have a conversation with her.
"Lyanna, you are old enough to understand that you will eventually marry someone. So don't act like this. I understand you don't like this betrothal, but I want you to meet this Robert first; don't judge without even knowing him."
But it seemed her plan had failed, and as her daughter told her everything about their little walk in the garden. She sighed; on one side, she knew nothing about Robert Baratheon. Rickard had called her 'Wildling' when they first met, so should this Robert be completely off the table? Lyarra didn't know but knew she could talk with Rickard to change his mind.
"He kept bragging about the many women he fucked; he then talked about the way they had screamed when his breath stunk—" Lyanna told her everything, and after she was done, Lyarra again tried to think of any way to fix this. While how she described Robert, he didn't sound like a pleasant man, the problem was that her husband wanted Lyanna to marry someone from the South, and Robert Baratheon was the only one available who was the son of a Great House; they were sons of other lesser houses available for Lyanna, but Rickard would never agree to them and neither would Lyarra. If they asked her, she would marry Lyanna in the North, where she belonged; she wasn't made for the South. The Southerners always said the Starks are like snow, and they melt when they reach the South.
"Lya. I will talk with your father. Maybe I can convince him to end this betrothal since it is not public yet." Lyarra promised, kissing her daughter's forehead tenderly. '
Lyarra had promised her daughter to change her father's mind like she had done so many other times, but Rickard's mind was set: their daughter would marry Robert Baratheon, whether she liked it or not, and Ned considered the boy like his own brother, she had screamed and threatened, but her husband had not changed his mind.
No matter how many times she talked with him, it never worked. She told him that his daughter's happiness was worth more than whatever alliance he wanted to make, but Rickard did not listen, not on this one.
And Rhaegar Targaryen had kidnapped her daughter; Lyarra was sure there was more to it; she had heard her daughter drop a few comments about the Prince in secret. Lyarra knew her daughter liked the Prince, so the whole Kidnapping thing did not make sense to her; the same night she had told Rickard that their daughter wasn't kidnapped, her husband had agreed with her, but in the middle of their conversation, a guard had walked inside, informing them that Brandon Stark has left for King's Landing, to take Rhaegar's head.
After executing Rickard and Brandon Stark, The Mad King had called for the heads of Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon, and with the rumors of Rhaegar kidnapping Lyanna Stark spreading everywhere. That's when the Rebellion started. There was no other choice: either the King was dead, or her son would be burned alive or strangled.
She had hoped to see her daughter again, but the fate was cruel. Her face was stone, just like her brother and father; at least she was with them now.
Because of her mourning, Lyarra barely paid attention to the baby her son had brought to Winterfell. But Lady Poole had told her his name was Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard.
Lyarra was perplexed to hear that her son had a bastard son; it didn't sound like Ned. Her son told her he was seeing Lady Ashara Dayne during the Tourney, but Lyarra knew Ned would never lay with the woman unless they were married.
Upon hearing that, Lyarra found Ned in the crypts, and together, they prayed for Lyanna, Brandon, and Rickard. After praying, they both walked to God's Wood, a place she often visited with Rickard; now she was with Ned.
Ned looked much older than his years; he seemed as if he had aged a decade since the last time she saw him before the Rebellion. Lyarra took him in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder as she kissed his forehead tenderly while stroking his back, something she used to do with Lyanna whenever she was afraid.
"I missed you, my dear boy." She said gently; Ned sighed, almost in relief.
"I'm happy to see you too, mother. I missed you." His words felt like daggers in her heart. They both sat together on the foot of the Weirwood Trees and for the longest time, they sat there, saying nothing to one another.
Ned asked about Benjen. Lyarra explained that Benjen wasn't doing well, but she had talked to him and helped him. Benjen had wanted to join the Night's Watch, but Lyarra had threatened him, saying that the day he joined the Watch, she would throw herself from the old tower of Winterfell after a lot of screaming between one another. Benjen vowed in front of the Weirwood Tree that he wouldn't join the Watch; only then Lyarra had allowed him out of her sight.
Soon, they both left the God's Wood.
"Ned, what happened with Lyanna? I want to know everything?" Lyarra eventually demanded. She wanted to know how all this mess started; for so many days, she had thought to herself that if she had done something different, something would have changed, but her father's words echoed in her ears, words he had said to her after her mother's death.
'Never waste time on what ifs. You think if I had known this or that, something would have changed. It's over. The past is a lesson, and the future is a test; you should learn from the past; if you don't, you will fail again.'
Ned told her that Rhaegar had never kidnapped Lyanna. She had gone with him willingly and had married him in the Isle of Faces under the Old Gods. Ned had found her on her deathbed, dying from a sickness.
After listening to everything he said, Lyarra closed her eyes; her daughter should have talked with her; she should have never just gone with Prince Rhaegar without making sure she told me, she thought. But, it was Over. She could cry for the dead all day long, but her tears wouldn't bring them back.
"What were Lyanna's last words?" Lyarra's voice cracked, but she forced herself to speak firmly. Her son didn't answer right away; he opened and closed his mouth before finally answering her.
"Promise me, Ned. Promise me."
"...What Promise?"
"That I would bury her in the Crypts," Ned answered reluctantly as they reached the yard before walking upstairs.
"I hear you have a bastard son. Who is the mother?" Lyarra questioned with a little edge on her voice as she looked at Ned like a hawk; she had never expected Ned to have a bastard.
"Her name is Wylla." That's all Ned said, looking away from her, but Lyarra had known him for longer than he had known himself.
Lyarra excused herself; it didn't take long for her to find the infirmary upon stepping inside. She caught sight of Robb Stark's crib; her grandson was sleeping quietly in his small crib, but the sight of his red hair made her frown slightly. She didn't want to admit it, but she would have preferred that he was born looking like a Stark instead of a Southern, but she wouldn't allow herself to love him any less because of something the boy couldn't control.
She looked around the infirmary, but her other grandson was nowhere to be seen; the door opened, and she whirled around to see one of the new Wet Nurses that Lady Tully had brought with her from the South.
"My lady?"
"Where is my grandson?" Lyarra demanded right away, her voice sharp like Valyrian steel.
"He's right behind you, my lady?"
"Do you think me foolish, my lady?" Lyarra continued before the Wet Nurse could answer. "I know it's cold in the North, but I didn't expect your brain to have frozen over already. Now, where is my other Grandson? Jon Snow." At the mention of the name, the wet nurse wrinkled her nose. Lyarra was tempted to slap her across the face, but she let this one slide.
"The basta-" "If you finish that sentence. You will leave Winterfell by tomorrow morrow." Lyarra said sharply before the nurse could finish her word. Lyarra always believed in second chances; if she didn't, then she would have always viewed Rickard as a fool and Lyanna as someone who made fun of people sometimes without thinking of the consequences, but the Wet Nurse was really annoying her right now.
"I was ordered to put him in the other infirmary." Her words made Lyarra glare at her; the wet nurse looked down, her legs shaking now.
"I don't recall my son giving you that order?"
"It was Lady Stark, your grace." Lyarra almost growled in anger. No, this wouldn't do; if it had been her son, then her son was more of a fool than she had thought, but this lady had taken orders from someone who had no power whatsoever in the North besides being Lord Stark's wife.
"Who is the ruler of Winterfell?"
"Your son, Lord Stark." The Wet Nurse answered her voice, cracking and realizing her mistake.
"So why did you accept an order from Lady Tully?" The silence was the only answer she received; the nurse kept her head low, and she whimpered, but Lyarra didn't care.
"I will talk with my son. I can't allow people who accept orders from everyone to work here. Now, Get out of my sight." Lady Stark ordered the wet nurse, who looked on the verge of tears as she left the chamber. It was one thing to obey harmless orders, but when orders heavily involved Lord Stark's children, then the servant should have asked Lord Stark first before doing anything.
It didn't take long for Lyarra to reach the other infirmary; thankfully, her grandson was the only baby in the infirmary.
Lyarra strode towards him; she saw his dark hair sticking out of the clothes wrapped around him. She lifted up the cloth that covered his tiny face; the baby let out a soft cry.
"Shhh, don't worry. Your grandma is here." She cooed softly; his eyes opened upon hearing her voice, and her heart almost dropped from the shock. Bright purple eyes looked back at her and his face; her dark eyes looked at the boy's face; he was just a baby, but he looked so much like Lyanna when she, too, had been a bundle of joy in her arms.
No, this is... Ned would have never tried to keep this from me, she told herself; as she grabbed her grandson in her arms, she revealed more of his face, his hair dark like a crow; he seemed around four months old.
The boy should be much younger if her son had laid with this 'Wylla' during the Rebellion. If Lady Ashara were the mother, the boy would be much older, perhaps eight months old or more. No, only one person could have given birth to Jon Snow.
Lyarra felt her tears rolling down her cheeks like a hot knife; she hugged her grandson, who had stopped crying and was now looking at her strangely. She quickly wiped the tears away before looking down at him once again. He looked so tiny but so beautiful. She nuzzled her nose against his, something she had done only with Lyanna, and just like her, Jon let out a cute giggle.
"You're precious, little one." She whispered softly; she sat there with her grandson in her arms before returning him to the family's infirmary where he belonged. She wanted to stay longer with him, but she wanted answers from her son, and she wanted them now. Before leaving, she told Jory Cassel to place two guards in the infirmary and not allow anyone to touch Jon.
Upon arriving in his Rickard's solar— her son's solar, she found him reading through pages of the recent wildling attacks, but the moment she entered unannounced, he placed down the letters before addressing her; he seemed exhausted.
"Mother?"
"When were you going to tell me?" Lyarra demanded as she slowly approached him like a wolf; her son's face paled slightly, but he kept his composure.
"About what?"
"You have me believe that Jon is your son, but you lied to me. Why didn't you tell me that he is Lyanna's son?" She demanded, barely keeping herself together; she was furious with him. She understood not telling Lady Fish, but she didn't understand not telling her.
Her son paled; he looked like Maester Luwin in his bad days. Usually, she would feel bad, but right now, she was too furious to care.
"How do you know?" At least he didn't try to lie again, but he knew better than to keep playing the silly game.
"He might be a boy, but I can see the similarities between him and my daughter, the same daughter I raised since she was born. Why didn't you tell me?" Her son remained as silent as a grave. She expected him to say something, but her son remained silent; she understood that he wouldn't say any excuse.
"What is your plan for him? You brought him here, so I'm sure you have a plan for his future." Lyarra questioned; her voice was louder this time, echoing through the walls like a horn. If Ned had wanted to, he could have given the boy to Robert or Tywin, so her son lying about his identity was a start, but now she wanted to know his plan for Jon's future.
"Not right now, but I have been thinking that when he comes of age, he can go to the Wall." His words might as well have been a slap to her face; for a brief moment, she didn't want to believe that her son had said those words.
"To the Wall. You think sending your nephew to the Wall is the best choice?!" She almost shouted in fury, but somehow, she kept herself in control. She always did, but right now, she was furious as she slammed her hands on the table.
"He will be safe there."
"Eddard Stark, you know there's more to life than just living; what is the point when you will spend your whole life not enjoying it? Not being able to live, but just living for the sake of living." Lyarra said with disappointment.
"What is his Targaryen name?"
"Prince Daemon of House Targaryen." Daemon, of course, she chose that name, Lyarra thought, her eyes burning with unshed tears, remembering how much Lyanna loved to read about the Rogue Prince, The Black Queen, and Laena Velayron.
"The Wet Nurse that your dear wife brought here. I want her out of Winterfell. As for Jon, I will have his crib brought to my chambers."
"Why?"
"Ask your dear wife, Ned," Lyarra said almost mockingly, shaking her head in disappointment before leaving the chamber.
As she made her way to the infirmary. Lyarra had already decided that her grandson would never live his life thinking he was lesser than anyone else. He was the True Born son of her precious Lyanna. She would make sure her son grows strong and healthy and one day. Everyone in Westeros will know his name.
Or the entire World.
After that day, it became clear to everyone in Winterfell that Lyarra Stark and Lady Stark couldn't really see each other eye to eye. It didn't take long for Lady Trout to realize that her servant from the South was sent away by Lord Stark's orders.
Lyarra hadn't been there when it had happened, but apparently, her son had been angry with his wife for the order she gave to the servant involving Jon before telling her that she's not to make any other decisions involving the children without talking to him first.
Lyarra had received ravens from her father; he wanted her to visit him, but she was busy raising Jon and helping Ned rule The North. Her son had just become a Lord and needed her help.
Nothing happened for a month, and Lyarra had made sure her grandson would sleep in her chambers. She had a wet nurse named Lady Bella, whom she trusted completely to feed him whenever needed. For a month, nothing happened until Ned told her that he would build a Sept. A fucking Sept of the Seven in Winterfell. In the heart of the North.
' "My son, have you lost your wits?" She asked; she wasn't even japing; she was genuinely concerned that perhaps the grief and the loss of almost their whole family had impacted him more than she had realized.
"Mother, I'm not a young man. Catelyn is of the South; she follows the Seven, and I don't want to deprive her of it. And it's not much. I have already ordered the workers to build a small sept, and a septa will come from the South here." Lyarra couldn't believe what she was hearing; the North would never let something like this slide; she doubted they would fully revolt because of a Sept, but why make them angry in the first place?
"Ned, your father would never agree to this, nor will your banners. I will tell you right now, Ned. Do not do this, the Old Gods won't be pleased that a sept was built in the North. I understand you want to please your wife, but not in this." Lyarra said disapprovingly; her son suddenly looked lost; she felt like she was once again staring at her young boy, who used to jump up and down on her lap.
"Mother, I know you don't like my lady wife. If gods had been good, she would have married the man she loved, not me. Brandon would have been the one sitting here, not me. The sun of her life has already set; I'm a mere candle in comparison. I will build this sept for her and won't change my mind. Not on this one." Lyarra looked away; her eyes burned; her sweet boy had left this world trying to save his father. Loyal to the End.
Lyarra wondered when her son started talking like a proper lord. She didn't know, but as long as he talked like that, she knew he would be able to command his troops in the future if it was needed.
"I see. I hope you don't come to regret it one day." Lyarra still thought his decision was a mistake, but she knew he wouldn't change his mind.'
Four Years Later - Jon
You are a bastard, Jon repeated the words in his head. He wondered what that meant. It sounded wrong, and the way Lady Stark looked at him when he was spending time with Robb, he knew she didn't want him anywhere near him, but his grandmother always made sure to be there for him.
Jon wonders why she loves Robb and hates him. He wonders what is wrong with him. His father smiles at both of them, lets them sit in his lap, and pats them on the head when they have fallen over and are trying hard to be brave and not cry. His grandmother loved him more than she loved Robb. Every time any sweet cake was made in the castle, she would always give him some.
Uncle Benjen lets them both ride on his shoulders so they can reach the high branches in the Godswood, and Maester Luwin smiles at both of them when they remember which King came after Brandon the Shipwright.
Lady Stark never hits him, never yells at him, or pinches him, but he can still feel her disapproval every time she sees him. Her anger. Her hatred. In truth, she never says anything to him at all, but Jon thinks that might be the worst thing of all. Her eyes on him are cold and blue, cutting him deep. He wondered what he did wrong.
He remembered that some moons ago, when he had only just turned four, he had knocked over a vase of flowers in her chambers where he and Robb were playing, and it had shattered on the floor, the edges of the broken pieces as sharp as her eyes.
He thinks this might be why she dislikes him so, but he is not entirely sure, for he cannot remember kind words and gentle smiles and hugs before that either. Jon thinks that if he gives her a pretty gift, she may grow to love him as much as Robb. But when he had asked his grandmother about it, she had told him that Lady Stark's opinion wasn't important.
"In our lives, we always are judged by other people; some do it for fun, and some want to see you do something bad so they can say, 'I knew it.' You don't have to worry about what everyone says; some people spend their whole lives caring more about what others think rather than living their own lives. You decide who's opinion is really important to you."
.
.
The day is bright and warm, and a gentle breeze caresses Jon's hair as he picks flowers in the Godswood. The sun is glinting in the deep pool beneath the Heart tree, and Weirwood's red eyes seem less sad than he is used to and not quite so scary. The flowers are growing freely here, Goldencup and Lady's Lace and Evening Stars, and Jon picks as many as he can fit in his little hand. His fingers are sticky, and the sun is too bright in his eyes, but he stays until he has a flower of every color he can find.
He sees her walk across the courtyard, her hair in a long braid, her belly large with the little brother or sister Jon will soon meet. He runs towards her, almost grabbing the skirt of her gown before he remembers to stop himself, and lifts the flowers towards her.
His breathing is quick, his hands are sticky, and his heart flutters in his chest. "These are for you". He smiles at her, wondering if she may stroke his hair or hug him.
"My Lady," he says, suddenly uncertain when she remains quiet, studying him.
"And why would I want those weeds, bastard? " She asks, her voice low, her eyes cold and blue. She turns and walks away as his hand sinks, his fingers opening to spill the flowers on the ground, and his heart breaking in his chest.
A bastard, he understands then, is a boy Lady Catelyn can spare no smiles, hugs, or sweet words for. A bastard is a boy of almost five years who will never know her love. The flowers mixed with the dirt on the ground, sticky and withering, one of every color he could find.
That night, he cried on his bed, but when his grandmother asked what was wrong, he refused to say; when she realized that he didn't want to talk, she held him close and caressed his hair gently.
"Shh, your grandmother is here my sweet boy." She says gently; as she caresses his hair, Jon eventually calms down, his eyes burning from all the crying, and his chest feels a little heavy, hard to breathe.
"Grandmother, you love me, right?" Jon asked, his tiny voice cracking like ice; his grandmother seemed like she wanted to ask why he was talking like that, but whatever question she had wanted to make, she swallowed it down before smiling sweetly, kissing his cheeks tenderly.
"No matter what happens. I will love you, always."
Tomorrow
The morning came unusually chilly. Within the tiny sliver of a courtyard framed by his window, Jon could see men bundled in furs stamping their feet to stay warm, their breath misting in the morning air. Curious, he touched his fingers to the glass and quickly withdrew as the warmth started to bleed out of his body.
Inside, the maester's study was still warm as ever. Maester Luwin dozed silently in his chair, seemingly oblivious to the two boys seated before him. Haphazardly placed stacks of books and parchment littered the room, casting strange shadows that flickered in the firelight. When he was younger and had a more active imagination, Jon had almost been frightened of them. His eyes slid over them as he turned around to see how Robb was faring.
His brother chewed on his quill and fidgeted; his brow furrowed as he attempted to hack his way through one of the master's more onerous creations. Robb probably wished that he had the use of a sword right now, not that it would do him any good. The art of sums, as re-imagined by their maester, seemed more like a sinuous, ever-changing knot that required deep thought and careful introspection. Qualities somewhat foreign to a Stark, Jon thought with a rueful smile, along with the ability to sit still.
It had taken him some effort to solve the problem, and he couldn't help but feel a bit proud for beating Robb at sums yet again. He was glad as well, for there were so many other things to think about - his assured pummeling of Robb later this day on the training grounds, the hot pies baking in the kitchens.
Beside him, Robb ripped up his parchment and started anew.
Jon sighed, eyed the maester to ensure it was safe, and scribbled down a few choice hints on a piece of parchment before sliding it over to Robb.
Several minutes later, Robb's whoop of joy almost jolted Maester Luwin out of his chair.
"I take it that you are finished?" he asked, all smiles.
Robb nodded eagerly and slid his parchment across the table.
Maester Luwin leaned over and examined it closely. "I see...yes, very good. I will let your lady mother know that you have done well today." He then glanced at Jon's parchment and added, "And you too, Snow."
Jon had an inkling that Lady Catelyn would most likely not be hearing about his progress.
"May we go?" asked Robb.
"Yes, you may go," the maester nodded.
"Thanks for the help," he said as soon as the door closed behind him. "But don't expect me to cut you any slack on the training grounds today in return."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Jon grinned. "Not that I'd need it."
Robb laughed and rubbed his forehead with a calloused hand. "And that was definitely one of the worst ways to spend the morning. I can feel a headache settling in already."
"And we both know what the best cure for a headache is."
"Pie, of course! Race you down to the kitchens?"
Any cautionary thoughts he might have about what Catelyn would say if she caught them racing in the castle again disappeared as soon as he saw Robb's eager smile.
Their footsteps rang and echoed through the stone hallways as they ran downstairs, dodging serving girls along the way. Robb beat him to the first turn, but he caught up before they reached the second bend. They both narrowly missed running over Septa Mordane as they turned another corner.
Jon laughed out loud as they raced down a flight of stairs. He felt like the wind, with all of Winterfell flying past him.
In the end, Robb narrowly beat him to the kitchen's back door, and per their usual agreement, the loser had to go inside and get the pies by hook or crook. Jon sighed and tightened his belt. It was much easier for Robb.
The kitchen smelled of warm dough, Dornish spices, and apples from the Reach. He spotted the head cook placing out rows of apple pies to cool and quickly looked around for a diversion.
Five minutes later, he came flying out. "What happened?" asked Robb.
Jon laughed. "The head cook threw me out after I tried to talk to his daughter."
"But did you get the pie?"
"Naturally." He smiled and held out the pie he had hidden in his bag amongst his parchment and quills.
"Excellent! Shall we go outside?"
Jon had a brief vision of hot apple pie on a cold, almost wintry day. "That'd be wonderful," he replied, reminding himself to save Sansa a piece for later. "After you, Ser Robb."
"Ser Robb the Valiant," he corrected.
"After your performance earlier today, perhaps we should rather call you Ser Robb the Stumped."
Robb grimaced. "Maester Luwin knows I lack the abilities to solve his more fiendish problems, yet he doesn't ever let up."
"I agree, he does know," said Jon, "and he also knows in which direction he wants you to develop."
"I intend to develop in many directions, but not the one Maester Luwin has in mind. Let the maesters in their towers wrestle with the greater questions of the mind. I will have more practical matters to deal with."
Jon smiled and did not reply. There was no arguing with Robb when he had decided on a course of action. For his part, he was actually rather fond of the maester's questions. There was a rare, elusive beauty to them, almost as if they were suffused in magic.
The training grounds were deserted this early in the morning, which suited them perfectly well. Jon laughed and watched while Robb leaped and twirled around, a wooden sword in one hand and a piece of the pie in the other.
"I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight!" Robb called out as he threw his sword in the air and caught it.
Jon swallowed another bite of pie and asked, "I don't know, was the Dragonknight particularly fond of pie?"
"Hmm, I suppose not. What a pity." He did a little pirouette and slashed at an invisible enemy with his sword. "I think I shall be Ser Arthur Dayne instead then. And who shall you be?"
"Another great defender of pie," Jon laughed. "The Lord of Winterfell!"
"What did you say?" asked a voice, soft and deadly.
Jon turned around and felt his high spirits immediately sink as he came face to face with Catelyn. The Lady of Winterfell stepped out onto the training grounds, cloaked in blue. "Do not make me repeat myself, bastard," she spat. "What were you saying to my son?"
"Mother, we were just playing..." Robb started to say before his mother cut him off.
"Septa Mordane informed me that you two were running in the castle again. Is this true?"
Robb sighed and hung his head. "Yes, Mother."
"Despite my repeated warnings not to? What do you have to say for yourself, Robb? Was this his idea?"
"No, it was mine."
Catelyn ignored him and directed her wrath again at Jon. "So after I had to leave off going over accounts with Ser Rodrik because of your foolishness, what do I happen to hear? The bastard proclaiming himself Lord of Winterfell? Or do my ears deceive me?"
Jon was ready to defend himself when he fell to the ground; his cheek burned more than fire did, and the tears burned even more. Why?
Under his mother's eye, even Robb did not dare show him any sympathy. They walked back inside, leaving Jon alone on the training grounds.
Gathering himself up, he ran to his chambers as fast as his little legs could take him; he expected to be alone so he could cry; his grandmother was always with his father during this time of day, and the tears were already dropping down from his face when he opened the door. Lady Bella called out his name with concern, but Jon did not answer her; he closed the door before jumping on his bed. Now that he was alone, he could cry.
His tears felt like a trail of fire on his face; he used the blanket to wipe them away. His grandmother would always get concerned when he cried, but he knew she wouldn't be done for at least another hour. He was alone.
"Jon." He suddenly heard her voice; he didn't even have time to say anything before the door opened, revealing his grandmother and Lady Bella standing behind her.
Jon figured she must have told his grandmother he had run to their chambers crying.
"Grandma." She didn't say anything but turned and looked at Lady Bella.
"Thank you, my lady. You can leave now." She ordered; the lady bowed her head before leaving without saying a word, her footsteps getting further away until silenced completely when his grandmother closed the door.
"Jon. Look at me." He couldn't; he didn't want to cause problems. He had made a mistake. He shouldn't have called himself the Lord of Winterfell. He felt her hands cupping his cheek, looking up at her eyes; her thumb caressed his red cheek like fire.
"What happened?" Jon closed his eyes, and another tear rolled down. He was afraid that his grandmother would get angry, but she was never angry with him. The only time she had been angry with him was when he had once gotten a cut on his little finger by grabbing a shard of glass when he had found a shattered window.
"Will you get angry with me?" He could handle Lady Catelyn's glares but not his grandmother's glare. He didn't want her to look at him that way. Never. Anything but that.
"I promise in the old gods."
Lyarra
After Jon told her everything, it had taken a lot of effort for her not just to go and find that whore right away, but she waited until Jon fell asleep; she told Lady Bella to stay inside in case he woke up.
Once that was done, she looked around Winterfell halls like a wolf stalking its prey until a soldier told her she was inside Lord Stark's solar. She thanked the good men and walked inside; the guards didn't try to stop her, and the moment she walked inside, her eyes found the fish talking with her son. She didn't know what they were talking about and didn't care as she walked up to her.
"My lad-" Lady Catelyn didn't finish her words when the slap rang loudly, echoing through the solar walls like a horn had just blown inside.
She was suddenly on her knees, holding her cheek with a horrified look on her face, her lower lip bleeding a little, and Lady Lyarra loomed over her like a giant. Her own hand burned from what she did; she had never used so much strength before, but did she regret it?
Never.
"Mother, what is the meaning of this?" Her son quickly kneeled to his wife's level, who still covered her cheek with her hands; looking down at the floor, she let out small whimpers but dared not to say anything.
"Your lady wife slapped Jon. He and Robb were playing Kings and Dragons. It was Jon's turn to play the role of Lord of Winterfell, and your Lady Wife heard him and slapped him. For a child's game." She spoke the words with rage and loathe; Ned's face changed to shock as he helped her stand up. Her eyes had turned red, but no tears were shed; her cheek had turned bright red, like a bad burn.
"You don't touch Jon again, Lady Stark. My son is the lord of Winterfell, so consider yourself lucky." Lyarra said with venom in every she spat before turning to look at her son.
"My father sent me a letter. I will ride there tomorrow morrow, and Jon is coming with me." Lyarra said with a voice that made it clear that she wouldn't change her mind.
"Mother, there's no need for this. I want Jon here, he is my blood." Ned said defensively, but with a hint of pleading, as he approached her. She knew he loved Jon, that much was clear, but she still remembered what he had told her; it might have been four years, but his words still felt like a dagger in her heart.
"And yet you wanted him to the Wall." Lyarra snarled, glaring at her son. His face fell, and he looked like she had just thrown a bucket of cold water on his face.
"What about Robb? He and Jon are good friends. You wish to separate them?"
"Only a year, Ned. I will return soon. As for Robb, he can play with Ser Jory's son, Braun Cassel." Lyarra said with a definitive voice; her son tried for a whole hour to change her mind, but she didn't listen until he eventually gave up.
The following day, Jon and Robb said goodbye to one another while crying but promised to one another to start training, and once he returned, they would fight.
"I will miss you, brother," Robb whispered as he hugged Jon. "My mother can call you whatever she likes, but you will always be a brother." Jon had shed tears and smiled brightly upon hearing his words, knowing whatever happened.
They will be Brothers.