Chapter Text
The castle was buzzing with action. Servants came and went carrying things; tables, chairs, candles, almost anything and everything Jon could imagine. Places in Winterfell where a young boy like Jon could seek some solitude, little used halls and rooms, were now in constant use. It was how the seven year old wound up hiding under a side table in an anteroom off the Great Hall. He just wanted a place to avoid Lady Stark’s gaze and play with his old wooden dragon. It had been a gift from Queen Lyanna, and he loved it fiercely.
Sometimes, though, it was good to just get away from everyone. He loved his family. All of them. Even Sansa. He knew he was lucky for a bastard. His Lord Father could have left him from wherever he found Jon as a baby. But he didn’t, he took Jon to his castle and raised him next to his true born children.
However, his family were Starks. Jon was a Snow. He was a bastard who had never known his mother. Lord Eddard had never spoken of her. Jon would ask from time to time when he had Lord Eddard alone, but his father would just smile sadly and tell Jon he’d talk about his mother when Jon was older. Instead, Jon dreamt of her. She was high born and beautiful. With kind eyes. It was nice to dream like that, better than the nightmares, at least.
There were times he was very jealous of his brothers and sisters. Robb and Sansa and Arya and even baby Bran all had the love of their mother, Lady Stark. When they were scared or sick or hurt she would hug them and kiss them and comfort them. There was no one to do that for Jon. His nights were cold and lonely.
It was Maester Luwin who found him under the table. The old man held his hand out to help Jon to his feet.
“There you are, Jon. Your father is looking for you. The King and Queen are close by. Your father wants you on the welcoming line. The maids are in your room ready to dress you. Go on lad.”
The Maester pushed him gently out of the anteroom and down the hall, towards the family rooms. Jon glumly walked out of the Great Hall, into a courtyard, dodging harried servants rushing to finish some last minute detail. He slowly made his way to the Great Keep, where the family’s rooms were. Usually he would swing wide outside the Great Hall, this courtyard was where his Lord Father built his Lady Wife a small Sept where she could honor her gods. The last thing Jon wanted was to run into her.
Instead he walked under a covered path that separated the first courtyard from the main courtyard. This was where Jon and Robb were learning the sword from Ser Rodrik, where the smithy, stables, library, kitchen and Bell Tower all stood. He was running now, past the Guest House, where the maids had spent weeks preparing the royal household. Finally, Jon made his way to the Great Keep, it’s doors open wide as a pair of guards exited, carrying giant wooden table on their shoulders.
He took the back stairs, until he got to the floor with the family bedrooms on them. Jon’s room was only a few doors away from the back staircase, the ones the servants used. It was a few more doors before Jon’s siblings rooms came. Theirs were larger and with more trappings, but Jon really didn’t mind. His Lord Father’s suite was at the far end of the hall, his Lady wife’s was right next to it, standing guard.
When he was a much smaller boy, Jon would often fear going to his Lord Father’s room in the night, as afraid of going past Lady Stark’s room as he would be facing an actual dragon. Most times his feet would take him in sight of her door, only to run back down the long hall to his own room, like a frightened babe. Worse than the nights, though, were the mornings. He’d walk past and hear his siblings laughing in their mother’s or father’s bedroom. Robb had once told him they jumped on their beds and had tickle fights. Jon never got those things.
His door was open as he approached it. To his surprise, there wasn’t a maid waiting for him. Old Nan’s voice came through loud and clear, despite her age, as he walked into the room, “Jon Snow, would that I were younger I’d belt you for this.” She was sitting in the small chair by his desk, walking stick in hand, a scowl on her face. He ignored her and stripped to his small clothes. “But I am old and my strikes would land as hard as a fly’s.” She offered him a small smile and he sighed in relief, dressing himself in the fancy clothes she had laid out for him.
“Your Lord Father wants you on the receiving line. He said your Aunt and Uncle are excited to meet you and by the Old Gods and the new, you will meet them looking presentable and not like…”
“Arya?” Jon cut in as he started to button his doublet. Old Nan chuckled and smiled brightly, showing how few teeth she still had in her mouth. “Aye. That girl would only look like a lady if we tied her to this chair. Not unlike the Queen, that one.”
Jon tried to fix his wild hair with his hands. “Queen Lyanna?” Old Nan sighed and waved Jon towards her. “Is there another? Queen Lyanna was wild and willful as a child, same as your sister,” she said, with some sadness. Old Nan gave him a strange look as she licked her palm and ran it through his hair. Jon groaned at her ministrations and leaned away from her touch. She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Well, that will have to do. Out with you before you miss it and the Queen is belting me.”
She rose and followed Jon out the door, giving him a soft whack on his backside with her stick as she passed him in the hall, causing him to chuckle and run off.
—————
The King and Queen entered Winterfell, their banners flying high under a bright morning sky and a warm sun. Jon stood towards the end of a long receiving line, his true born siblings at the other end next to their parents. Jon was past the household staff, two dozen people between him and his family. It was where he was told to stand.
Trumpets blared the arrival of the Royal Family. The entire courtyard knelt. The King rode in on a black steed, dressed resplendently in black and gold silk clothes, wearing a gold crown of horns. He was heavier than Jon had imagined and wore a trimmed black beard. This was not the Robert Baratheon of his father’s stories, the demon of the Trident, who slew Rhaegar Targaryen in single combat to avenge his Lady Lyanna. He seemed old and tired as he breathed into his hands for warmth. He pulled Lord Eddard to his feet and hugged him fiercely.
Behind him came a wheelhouse, also covered in black and gold, the crowned stag banner flapping above the grey direwolf. A Kingsguard in gold plate armor who had the Stark look, his Uncle Benjen presumably, opened the wagon’s door. A woman stepped out first, also carrying the Stark look. She was beautiful to look at as she glanced around the courtyard, smiling deeply. Her grey eyes seemed to rest on Jon for just a second before looking away, quickly. The Queen was wearing a fur lined dress of white and grey, a leaping grey direwolf sewn on her back.
Unlike the King, she wore no crown.
She reached into the wagon and pulled out a young girl, no older than three who looked just like the Queen. The Princess Lyarra was also wearing a fur lined dress, but hers was black and gold and she clung to her mother tightly.
Finally came a small boy, the Crown Prince Orys from the look of it, who bore a resemblance to his father, the King. He stretched his back and legs as he stepped onto the courtyard, casting his wide eyes around the courtyard. A smile formed on his face when he saw Robb.
“Rise, damn you,” the King yelled to the crowd as they all followed his command. His Lord Father knelt to the Queen as she approached him, Lyarra in one arm, grabbed her free hand and kissed it. The Queen rolled her eyes and snorted loudly. Lord Eddard smiled brightly as he rose and engulfed his sister and the Princess in her arms in a giant hug. He pulled back, kissing them both. Lady Stark curtseyed to the King who greeted her with a “Cat!” before kissing her on the cheek. Robb extended his hand to Prince Orys who took it hesitantly before being pulled into a hug of his own.
Jon observed it all from the end of the line, past the minor lords that made up the household, but before the servants, waiting patiently. The wool from his doublet was making his neck itchy and he scratched at it, idly. As the courtyard filled with more people it grew hotter and hotter, adding to the uncomfortable feeling growing in Jon. He shifted from foot to foot as Old Nan approached the family to bring a blanket for Lady Stark, who wrapped it around baby Bran. The Queen grew teary eyed and hugged the old lady fiercely, glancing over at Jon as she whispered something in her ear.
He watched as they all mingled together; hugging, kissing, laughing, smiling. The King patted his father on his back, smiling widely at something Ser Benjen had said. Prince Orys and Robb were chatting excitedly with each other as Arya listened and chirped in occasionally, making the boys chuckle. Lady Stark had bent down to kiss Princess Lyarra and was tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear. The Queen was on her knees fussing over Bran, Sansa flitting between them. They looked like a family.
Jon thought of his unknown mother as he watched them and a great sadness filled him. He had never felt less a part of the family as he had at this moment, as they carried on happily without him. Shame built inside him at the thought that was working its way to the surface, dark and deep and usually unthinkable; that he really wasn’t a part of this family, no matter how much they claimed he was or made him feel like one. All of them true born, untainted and with a place in the world. Then there was Jon, oft ignored and pushed to the side. The shame of a noble family. The bastard.
He had never felt more alone in his life.
The courtyard was beginning to disperse as members of the royal court met the Stark’s court. Vayon Poole was talking with a well dressed man wearing a mockingbird pin who was staring longingly in the direction of the Queen. Two members of the Kingsguard, one with blond hair and the other with grey, their gold armor shining brightly in the sun, were taking with Ser Rodrik and Jory Cassel.
Jon kicked a pebble at his foot, lightly, keeping his head down, trying his best to keep the tears he felt coming at bay. Nan had told him that his Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Benjen wanted to see him? They didn’t seem to care that he was there, waiting for them. He sighed sadly and kicked another pebble.
He took a step back and then another. No one seemed to be paying him any mind as they moved around him, which wasn’t that unusual. Unnoticed, he turned and walked out of the courtyard, towards the Great Hall and his room.
Some part of him, a part he felt more childish than the rest, had hoped that as he retreated, one of his family members would catch him and stop him before he was gone. They’d hug him and bring him into their circle, their pack. But no one did. Instead he found his feet taking him into the hall and then up the stairs.
In an instant he had found himself in his room again. Jon shut the door and plopped on his bed, burying his face in his pillow as the tears came, hard and fast. Sobbing breaths muffled by his down pillow engulfed his body. They slowly stopped and he felt his eyes heavy as he drifted off.
The sudden knock on his door caused Jon to lift his head up, groggily. It was pounding and his mouth dry as he looked around his room to get his bearings. Before he could even answer, Robb walked into the room and a man in golden armor, who could only be his Uncle Benjen, followed him.
“There you are, Jon!” Robb said excitedly. “We were looking for you, Uncle Benjen was excited to meet you. Where did you go?”
Jon stuttered as he searched his brain for a retort to his brother’s question but his sleep addled brain came up with nothing. Just when he was about to admit the truth, that he ran away crying like a baby, his uncle stepped in, looking at Jon with a sad smile.
“Ah, he was probably dead tired from all the excitement, weren’t you, lad?” Jon couldn’t look his uncle in the eye and just nodded softly, grateful for the lie. He spared a glance at Robb, seeing a frown on his face. Before his brother could speak, Benjen spoke again. “Say, Robb, let me speak to your brother here and then I’ll drag him down for the feast.”
Robb glared at Benjen for a moment before slowly nodding and walking towards the door. “See you at the feast, Jon,” he said as he left.
Benjen walked into the room and knelt next to his bed. He paused a moment before pulling Jon into a tight hug. They both stayed in the embrace for a few breaths, Jon pressed against his Uncle’s chest. “I’m your Uncle Benjen,” he said finally, releasing Jon. He grasped Jon’s face with both of his hands, looking him over.
“Jon Snow.” The words came from his mouth as if the very utterance of them disgusted him. Jon’s heart crumbled as he broke his uncle’s gaze and stared down at his hands. He was surprised when the man pulled him into another hug. “No, lad. Don’t pull away. I didn’t mean it like that.” Jon felt his uncle kiss the top of his head.
He was still pressed against his uncle when the man spoke again, “Did you think we forgot about ya?” Jon pulled back suddenly, his uncle looking at him with the same sad smile. Benjen laughed, picked Jon up off the bed and carried him towards the door, tickling him as they walked. He couldn’t help the laughter that spilled from him as uncle mercilessly used one hand to tickle his belly as he held him solid in his other.
“Ya did! Silly lad, we could never forget ya! Seven hells the Queen herself sent me to get ya. It’s time for a feast.” The tickling stopped and Jon stopped laughing to catch his breath, but the smile stayed on his face. “You look hungry lad. Well, if you’re good I might give you some of my wine. Of course I also promised your cousin and brother so it ain’t gonna be much. But promise me, boy you won’t tell your...aunt. Your aunt. She’d have me beaten silly if she knew.”
Benjen had a serious look on his face but it was undermined by the twinkle in his eyes. “Promise me,” his uncle said as he started his tickling assault anew. Between his laughs and gasps for air Jon yelled out, “I promise!”
Jon Snow was carried to the welcoming feast on the arms of a Knight of the Kingsguard, his gold plate armor shining, the pair of them laughing loudly as the entered the hall.
—————
“Wine!” the King bellowed as he slammed his goblet down on the table he was sitting at. The whole hall, hundreds of people, musicians playing instruments stopped what they were doing while a young squire filled his goblet. The Queen wasn’t looking at the King, instead she was looking down at the table of squires that Jon was sitting at, her gaze stuck on him. His Lord Father leaned over and whispered something in her ear but her stoic mask didn’t flinch. Jon felt mesmerized as he stared back at her.
The Lady Stark was a very pretty woman. But there was something about the Queen that made Catelyn Stark pale in comparison. Maybe it was the way she had laughed at Princess Lyarra and Arya’s antics next to her, the way the smile covered her whole face and make her eyes sparkle. While Jon had seen her smile a lot since her arrival, he also noticed a sadness about her. It made Jon want to hug her. His father hadn’t spoken about Lady Lyanna’s abduction by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Eddard had stamped out any talk of the matter, but the servants still whispered about it and Jon was grateful to the King for freeing his Aunt from a monster’s grasp.
“Oi, I’m talking to you, boy,” a voice said, breaking his reverie. Jon turned to see a pug faced squire, whose name he never got, looking at him with agitation. “Where’d you get that tart?” he asked, his eyes filled with envy. He was wearing a threadbare doublet that had two towers connected by a bridge. The barest hint of fuzz graced his ugly face. Jon looked from his beady eyes to the object of their desire. The tart was covered in peaches and syrup and topped with powdered sugar. It looked delicious and Jon had yet to dig into it.
Robb had come over with the tart and Prince Orys some time before when the table was emptier. The Prince had seemed reluctant, but he shook Jon’s hand nonetheless. Orys took the tart from Robb’s hands and placed it on the table. “This is from my mother. She wanted to make sure you got this. She said she knew you liked peaches.” When he looked towards the dais, the Queen had a smile on her face and waved towards him. He felt a flush rise in his cheeks at it and gave a shy wave back.
Jon couldn’t quite say why he hadn’t eaten the tart yet, in the minutes since his brother and cousin left to go back to their seats. He had spent a lot of time staring at it, wondering the reason the Queen sent it to him, had sent her son to him. This was all so confusing to Jon, who felt the truth was like puff of smoke he was trying to hug.
The tart was just a delicious looking piece of pastry, but it felt like more. It felt, to Jon, important. So he wanted to keep it as long as he could. Still, the ugly squire reached for it and grabbed his plate. He was bigger and more powerful than Jon and wrenched the plate away.
“You haven’t eaten it yet, boy, so fuck off, it’s mine.” A greedy look crossed his pig face as he stuck his fork in the tart and shoved an obscene amount of it in his gaping maw. Anger built in Jon at seeing this greedy boy defile a gift that was his. It was coursing through Jon like a raging river, watching the squire’s face smile at the pleasure the tart was giving him, watching flecks of the pastry fly off his lips to the table below. The tart itself, once so beautiful and pure, was a ruined mess. That set Jon’s blood positively thrumming with anger. Something so pure and sweet and simple defiled by such an ugly thing.
He was so enraptured by the desert, he almost missed that the squire was now looking at him when he said with his mouth full, “whatcu lookin’ at ya bastard?”
It was the last word that turned Jon’s world red. With a roar, he lunged at the thief, knocking him off the bench onto the stone floor. His head was thrumming as he punched the ugly squire in his ugly face. Spittle and pastry and a chunk of the peach came flying from his pig mouth as Jon’s fist connected with it. All the squire could do was try to cover his head with his arms and hands, but even then it wasn't enough. Jon was on top of him flailing away, mercilessly, and he was helplessly prone on his back. Both boys were screaming and Jon couldn’t make out what either of them were saying through the haze and fog of his anger.
Jon was on top of him for what seemed like a few seconds, or a few minutes, perhaps. Time faded along with everything else until there was just his anger and his fists and his breathing. A pair of hands grabbed at his shoulders and lifted him up, easily it seemed, and off and away from the bleeding squire. Jon kicked and screamed as he did until he heard a voice in his ear say with authority, “Enough, Jon.”
It was Lord Eddard Stark’s voice that snapped Jon back to reality. He felt the anger and rage leave him as quickly as it came and regret and shame filled the void they left. His father placed him back on the stone ground, up against the wall. He grabbed Jon’s face with both of his big, calloused hands and gave Jon a once over. Then he turned towards the squire, who was being helped to his feet and was bleeding from his nose and mouth.
Before he could make out what his Lord Father was saying, the Queen stepped into his view, her face a mask as she repeated her brother’s action and took his face in her hands. He felt trapped and flinched as she grabbed him. Her face fell for a flash before snapping back into the mask she’d worn for the night.
“Did he hurt you, Jon?” He couldn’t meet her steel grey eyes with his, so he looked at his boots. “No, your grace,” he offered lamely.
She crooked a finger and gently lifted Jon’s chin so that her gaze met his again. “Then why did you attack him, sweetling?” There was no anger in her eyes that Jon could detect. Her eyes were wide with worry. He felt a need to tell her the truth, no matter how childish it seemed. “Because he stole the tart you sent to me and called me a...a bastard.”
The Queen’s face hardened at that as she glanced towards the squire, but before she could say anything, the King came stomping over with a goblet in his hands and cheeks aflame. “What in the seven hells is going on, here?” he asked as he looked between the Queen and Lord Eddard.
The squire pushed his way towards the King, a cloth pressed against his face. “That bastard jumped me and started pummelling me for no reason,” he said, the cloth muffling the volume of his voice. Jon felt the entire room shrinking around him. He noticed a look of panic that crossed his father’s face as he looked towards his sister, who grew very pale and refused to meet her brother’s gaze as her breathing became erratic.
That made Jon even more nervous. He took a deep breath. If he was going to be punished, so be it. But he wasn’t going to cower like a scared child, even though he was truly frightened. His Lord Father once said the only time a man can be brave was when he was truly scared. He summoned all his courage and looked the King in his eyes.
“Your grace, he stole and ate a treat that the Queen sent to me. He also called me a bastard.” Jon tried to speak loudly and clearly, but the hitch in his voice was evident to all. The fear was increasing in him with every breath, Robert Baratheon was a fierce King and would be well within his rights to punish a baseborn child like Jon. The King stared back at him with a mask on his face and Jon was certain his punishment would be severe.
Instead the King laughed, loudly. “There’s some wolf blood in you, boy. Just like your Aunt, you are. Good for you.” He felt the King’s giant hand slapping his back, hard. Jon heard the squire give a yell of disgust. “Don’t like my decision, Frey boy?” King Robert bellowed at the squire, who wilted, instantly at the King’s fury. “I should have you whipped, stealing a child’s desert. Some man you are. Leave my sight.” The Frey boy scurried away into the crowd. “Wine! Music!” King Robert said and the feast picked back up, everyone dispersing.
Jon was aware of people closing in around him. Robb and Arya and even Prince Orys were all talking at the same time around him. Lady Stark was glaring harshly at him from some distance. The Queen and Lord Eddard shared a look of relief, which made Jon grateful.
The room felt stuffy and hot, his breathing was becoming short and harsh. He felt a sudden need to escape this hall. With some assurances given to his siblings that he was okay, Jon left through a side door and stepped into the night.
The cool air enveloped him in its grasp, calming him with each step he took deeper into it. He found himself sitting down on a set of stairs, hands in his face, the emotions of the scene he caused catching up to him. The sound of his deep breaths masked the sound of approaching footsteps and Jon was surprised to see the Queen standing in front of him, a smile on her face and a peach in her hand.
“How are you?” She asked as she sat next to him and handed him the peach. Shrugging, he took a big bite out of it as the juices ran down his chin. A tender hand reached out and wiped his chin clean. They sat there on the steps for a while and stared at the stars. “Sorry about your tart,” the Queen said, softly. “Me too, your Grace,” he whispered.
“Better eat the whole peach this time,” she said with a slight mirth in her voice. She smiled softly at him, looked to the sky and his eyes followed. The pair of them sat in silence, watching the stars as Jon ate the peach. As much as he tried to relax, though, he couldn’t. He felt ill at ease around the Queen, as if his very existence offended her.
“I’m going to go to sleep, your Grace,” he said quietly, “thank you for the peach.” As he stood he felt her hand grab his arm, her thumb rubbing his forearm lightly. “Pleasant dreams,” she said softly. Jon walked into the night.
Just before he left the courtyard, Jon turned and stared at her, bathed in the moonlight, sobbing softly into her hands.
—————————-
The Prince and Robb were talking excitedly, running slightly ahead of him. He picked up some occasional talk of “dreams where I’m a raven and flying” or “pack of wolves in the Wolfswood” and “cousin Joffrey is mean.” Some distance behind him, the Queen and Princess were walking and talking with Lady Stark and Sansa. His Uncle, Ser Benjen was carrying little Bran next to them, in his Kingsguard armor, with little Arya walking besides him, peppering the knight with questions.
As he ambled down the dirt path, Jon sensed that he was being closely watched, not unusual having lived with Lady Stark and her cold gaze. But this felt different, somehow warmer.
“Be careful, Prince Orys. You, too, Robb!” Lady Catelyn yelled lightly. Jon wasn’t surprised that she didn’t mention him, she had never even said his name, not once. He was either “You” or “Boy”. She knew everyone’s name in the castle and said them all. From the stable boy to the maids, each got called by their name. But not Jon. It made him sad, sometimes.
“You as well, Jon!” came the call from the unmistakable voice of the Queen. He froze in fear and shot straight up at hearing his name come from the Queen’s mouth. A panic gripped him as he heard their party come closer to him. Turning towards them, he saw not the mask of anger on her face that was so familiar to him, but a warm and open smile.
“C’mon, Jon,” Robb said while pulling his arm away from them, “Orys says Ser Barristan taught him a move!”
Robb pulled him down the path a ways to where the Crown Prince was waiting, stick in hand. He was a small boy of six, a long face, with bright blue eyes and hair as black as the night sky, which fell around his ears. A shy smile crept across his face as Jon approached. Jon felt Robb push him closer to Orys.
“This is my brother, Jon, but you’ve met him already, Orys. He wants to see the move Ser Barristan taught you, too!” Orys smiled at him before taking a moment to calm himself.
The boy twirled his stick in a simple counter-riposte. It was a move Jon and Robb learned when they were around the Prince’s age. Jon smiled at Orys, who looked at he and Robb with a hopeful gaze. Robb scoffed, rather rudely, and the Prince’s face fell a bit.
“Uncle Benjen said it was a simple move, but Ser Barristan himself taught it to me!” he said, looking down at the ground, kicking a rock softly.
Jon thought that was a very good point. “I think he's right, Robb. We only learn from Ser Rodrik, not Barristan the Bold.” Orys smiled brightly at that and nodded his head in approval.
“Yeah but he taught us more than that, Jon! I’m gonna go find a stick and teach you a move we learned just a sennight ago.”
With that, Robb was off, running into the godswood looking for a stick. Jon was alone with Orys, the Crown Prince of Westeros. He didn’t know what to say to the boy.
“He will be back soon, your Grace,” Jon offered.
“My name’s Orys. Mother says you’re our family, too and that if I don’t treat you as such, she will paint my backside as red as the walls in the Red Keep.”
The Queen had mentioned him? Jon found that idea strange and absurd. Why did the Queen of Westeros care about her brother’s bastard boy?
“She seems like a good mother, Queen Lyanna,” Jon said, trying to say something to the Prince.
“She’s the best, I think. She seems sad a lot and fights with father, but I think that’s because they don’t like their crowns. Sometimes she gets cross with me, but that’s okay because I get to have fun, too. One time she started a food fight with me and Uncle Benjen. Lord Arryn was angry at it, but when my father walked in, he just laughed and ate some pie off of mother’s face.”
Jon laughed at that last part. So did Orys. The Prince started skipping down the path, towards where Robb had taken off. “It must be nice to have a brother like Robb to play and fight with, right? I wish I had a brother sometimes. I try with my cousin, Joffrey, but he’s...strange.” With that, Orys got a sad look on his face.
It was something that Jon hadn’t given much thought. Robb was a part of his life, he always had been. There was never a day in which Jon didn’t see him. “It is. Although it’s not so nice when he eats the last sweet roll at dinner,” Jon said, trying to cheer up Orys. It seemed to have worked because the young boy started giggling. “Besides, you’re our cousin so that’s almost like brothers, right? I’m sure Robb would agree.”
Suddenly, the boy had rushed Jon and hugged him. Patting the Prince on the back awkwardly, Jon watched as he released and looked up and him, shyly. They were interrupted when Robb came back, stick in hand.
“What were you talking about?” Robb asked, looking at Orys with a skeptical look. Jon spoke for them, “Prince...Orys was saying how he’d like to have a brother like I have you and I said he could be our brother.”
Robb sighed happily, then looked between them like they were fools and said, as if it were obvious, “Of course he can be our brother, he’s a wolf too, like all of us.” At that Orys let out a happy squeal and cheer. He and Robb ran back towards where their mothers were slowly walking up the path, howling like wolves and playfully striking each other’s sticks.
Jon’s attention, however, was drawn to a tree a few feet ahead. On its branch was a raven, squawking loudly. It was a strange sound, almost like the bird were trying to speak. He took a few steps towards the pine tree, tall and thick, before he could make out what the bird was squawking. “King! King!”
The word was as clear as day to Jon, who was so distracted by the bird that he missed his brother’s yell and was caught off guard when someone hit his back, sending him sprawling towards the godswood floor. There was no time for Jon to put his hands out so his jaw slammed into the hard, dirt packed path, causing the bottom row of his teeth to drive into his top lip. Blood and pain surged in his mouth, his eyes filled with a blinding light and then tears.
Through the haze he heard Orys’ sobbing and even a couple of sniffles from Robb. Crawling forward a bit, he pushed himself off his stomach and onto his back, sitting up. The Queen and Lady Stark came rushing to the scene, the latter towards Robb, who had fallen at Jon’s feet and the former towards Orys, who was further away. He put his hand towards his mouth and it came away covered in blood.
A wave of pain and fear and shame shot through him. The true born boys got their noble mothers rushing to them. Unshed tears began building in his eyes as he looked up. He wasn't going to cry because no one was coming to help him. He wouldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to let the tears flow.
Lady Catelyn was looking at him with absolute scorn as she encircled Robb in her arms. It shook him like it always did. “What have you done, boy!” It wasn’t a question, it was just hissed at him in anger. “Jon!” he heard someone shout and he turned his head. The Queen was moving towards him, practically dragging a still crying Orys, her eyes wide.
At seeing her face, Jon began sobbing, giving into the fear and pain he had been trying to resist. They were going to blame him, even though it wasn’t his fault. He closed his eyes, hugged himself and wished he were elsewhere. His sobs grew louder as he shut himself away from all that was around him, uncaring as to what happened next.
“Not my fault,” he said through the blood and tears, to no one in particular.
“I’ve got you, lad,” Benjen’s voice said in his ear. A strong pair of hands picked him up, bringing him to his chest. His uncle’s armor was cool on his skin as his sobs slowed. Jon felt a cloth on his lips, but still kept his eyes closed. Instead he tried to burrow his head deeper into his uncle’s chest as shame built in him. He wasn’t a baby, he was halfway to his eighth year, yet here he was, crying in the arms of a Kingsguard.
“Are you okay?” a soft voice asked in his other ear as a hand soothed softly on his back. He opened his eyes and saw the Queen looking at him with concern. It was a look that Lady Stark had never shown him. Jon had expected the Queen to be as angry as the Lady, but she didn’t show it. Instead her hand moved in slow circles along his back. He felt calmer and nodded softly, his Uncle’s cloak moving, still placed between his lips. Orys cried softly for his mother, but she looked only at Jon.
“I’ll take him to the Maester.” Benjen said to the Queen. She nodded and removed her hand from Jon’s back, moving it to his face as she ran her thumb under his eyes, drying his tears. The fear and pain Jon felt only a moment ago had faded slowly until it was all but gone, like sand through a hand.
“Is the Prince okay?” Lady Stark’s voice cut through, like a bucket of cold water. Jon heard the young boy sniffle some as the Queen turned from Jon and picked Orys up. “You’re okay, right sweetling?” the Queen asked Orys, looking at him like she did Jon just before. The boy nodded, giving a teary, tremulous smile and Benjen reached over to muss his head. The Queen looked over at her brother seriously. “Ben, the maester.” His uncle nodded and carried Jon away, out of the godswood.
As they exited, Jon heard the raven squawking. “King!” it said before flying away. Benjen stopped and looked for the bird but it was gone. He looked strangely at Jon before shaking his head and entering the castle.
Maester Luwin had sat him down on his table, blotting his lip and looking at it through his looking glass. He had declared that Jon wouldn’t need stitches and applied a gross smelling balm to the lips, pressing a clean cloth to them, handing a small tub to his uncle and telling them that Jon needed to apply it a few times a day before ushering them out of the Maester’s Turret.
He trudged along, his Uncle next to him. Ser Benjen Stark was all but a stranger to him, all he knew of him was from the stories his father had told him and his siblings. Tales told around the tables, benches, chairs and beds of Winterfell. In them Ser Benjen the Brave and Queen Lyanna the Fair had taken on a mythic quality.
His uncle broke the awkward silence as they walked past the kitchens. “That brought back memories for me, Jon.” He looked at his uncle in confusion, using his fat lip as a weak excuse to avoid speaking. “Kids getting hurt playing in the godswood, crying, running to their mothers, this happened all the time. In fact once I was playing with sticks with Lya, like you and your cousin and young brother and she knocked me into one of the pools.”
Jon couldn’t help but laugh. His uncle led him over to a stone bench in the courtyard, nestled under an old pine tree and sat down next to him. He regarded him with a sly look, “But I know this isn’t the first time you’ve been hurt playing with your siblings.”
That confused Jon. He lowered the cloth Maester Luwin had given him from his lips. “You’ve heard stories of me, Ser Benjen?” The swollen lips caused Jon’s voice to sound strange, but his uncle seemed to understand him well enough.
“First off, Jon, I’m your Uncle Benjen. None of this ‘Ser’ stuff. But your….father. Lord Eddard. He sends letters to the capitol about you and your siblings all the time. He mentions you in every one, lad.”
“Really?” Jon asked, a sense of excitement spreading through him.
“Did you not think he’d mention you? You are our family.”
Jon didn’t think that his father would mention him at all. But it felt rude to tell his Uncle Benjen that. So he shrugged instead. At that, the knight put an arm around Jon and hugged him close.
“Your..cousin, Orys. He holds you and Robb in high esteem. You might even say you’re his heroes.”
The Crown Prince considered him a hero? He was certain his uncle was fooling him. But Jon couldn’t see any lie on his uncle’s face, which was open and warm. He couldn’t, however, dismiss the little voice in the back of his mind, always on guard for being hurt. The voice that suggested Benjen would get Jon’s hopes up, only to rip them away in the end. Jon did his best to dismiss it, Benjen was a Stark. And they were always good to Jon, Snow or not.
“Me? But I’m just a motherless bastard boy,” he muttered, thoroughly confused.
Uncle Benjen only chuckled, shaking his head. “That stunt that you and Robb pulled in the crypts last year? When you pretended to be a ghost covered in flour? I’ve never seen Orys laugh so hard. Lyanna had tears in her eyes from laughing. Even the King was roaring with laughter. Orys was searching the Red Keep looking for someone to pull that with.”
The memory of that day brought a smile on Jon’s face.
“Old Nan was so angry,” he said, the laughter creeping into his voice, “she threatened to pour water over me and bake me as bread in the ovens.”
His uncle was truly laughing now. Jon could see tears blooming in his uncle’s steel grey eyes. “She once threatened to leave me outside for a giant Ice Spider to eat,” his uncle said between gasps, “I ran to my mother scared and instead of yelling at Nan, she yelled at me for angering the old bat!”
Jon smiled brightly. “Old bat? I’m not sure she would like hearing that, Uncle.” Benjen shot him a glare. “You wouldn’t dare!” When Jon held his gaze he muttered, “I’m a bloody member of the Kingsguard, I’m not afraid of an old lady.”
“I’m gonna be sure and tell her that,” Jon said as he jumped up and ran from his uncle, towards the Great Hall, the Kingsguard armor clanking as the Knight gave chase.
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