Chapter Text
Jon Snow
Jon woke to the sound of a raven outside. He wanted to close his eyes again; he would return to that dream...what was it about? Jon felt the details slipping from his fingers like water. He was sure there was a woman, she was walking up to him, telling him how much she missed him, she had long silver hair, but Jon could not remember her face, all he remembered was a shadow, and two stars staring deep into him through the shadow. Jon closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep and dream again. He always liked it when he was dreaming, in his dreams, he was never a Snow.
Then he remembered. The Manderlys.
He threw his furs aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His father had told them a week ago that Lord Wyman Manderly was riding from White Harbor with his household, and Winterfell would receive them with all the courtesy their loyalty had earned. Jon had spent that evening in the library, rereading the relevant passages from Maester Luwin's copy of The Houses of the North and Their Histories. House Manderly. Sworn to Stark for nearly a thousand years, yet still called newcomers by half the lords who bent the knee beside them. Southron blood in a northern court. Followers of the Seven in a land of the Old Gods.
I wonder if they get tired of it, Jon had thought then, tracing the Manderly merman sigil with his fingertip. Being somewhere for a thousand years and still being told you don't belong.
He'd closed the book after that.
Now, Jon crossed the chamber to the wooden trunk at the foot of his bed and knelt before it, lifting the lid; the hinges squealed like Sansa did whenever Arya ran up to her with muddy hands. Inside, folded beneath his everyday tunics and a pair of worn riding gloves, was the outfit his father had given him two days ago. Dark grey wool, finely woven, with snitches of silver threads, looking almost like the face of a Wolf.
"For the Manderly arrival," his father had said. "You'll wear this."
Which meant his father wanted him seen, and that was rare enough to matter.
Jon dressed with care. The tunic fit well across his shoulders, he'd grown again, Robb teased him about it constantly, saying Jon would outpace him by his next nameday, and the breeches were clean and dark. He fastened his belt, adjusted the collar, and caught his reflection in the basin water as he poured it from the ewer.
Purple eyes stared back at him. His hair was dark, almost black, the Stark look, except for the streaks. Two pale lines of silver that started at his left temple and wound back through the curls like veins of ore in dark stone. He'd tried cutting them once, at nine, sawing at them with a belt knife in the godswood. They grew back within the moon's turn. When asked by his father, Jon had said that he wanted to look like him.
Jon pushed the thought aside and scrubbed his face, his neck, behind his ears. He wet his hair and worked it into something presentable, the silver streaks catching the hearthlight as he combed his fingers through. Then he paused, lifted his arm, and sniffed.
Acceptable. He grimaced and crossed to the basin for a proper wash, stripping to the waist and scrubbing with the rough cloth and the cake of tallow soap that smelled faintly of lavender, a gift from Sansa, who gave them to everyone at the last harvest festival, even Jon, though she'd handed his over without quite looking at him.
He scrubbed until his skin reddened and the soap scent clung to him, then dried and dressed again. Better. He would not show up smelling like Arya after one of her infamous mud campaigns. Last week she'd come to supper with half the lichyard in her hair, and Septa Mordane had nearly fainted into her soup. Arya had grinned through the entire lecture, unrepentant, while Sansa sat ramrod-straight beside her and tried her best to act like Arya was a stranger that somehow had found her way into the Main Hall.
Jon smiled at the memory and pulled on his boots.
The Winterfell was awake when he was making his way through the corridors, servants, guards, and all the other who lived and worked in Winterfell. A girl hurrying past with an armful of fresh rushes, a steward barking at two boys hauling a cask of ale between them. When he passed the kitchen, a wall of aroma passed through him: fresh bread, roasted meat, fish from the White Harbor, other types of sea creatures, and he was sure he could smell cake.
Jon walked with his hands clasped behind his back, a habit he'd picked up from watching his father, though he'd never admit it. His mind drifted as his boots found the familiar path.
The Manderlys. What would they be like?
His father spoke of Lord Wyman with respect; the man was loyal, shrewd, and commanded the largest city in the North. Robb had told him that Lord Manderly had two granddaughters, Wylla and Wynafryd. From the histories, Jon knew the Manderlys kept the Faith of the Seven but observed northern customs when courtesy demanded it. They controlled the North's only true port. Their wealth was not Lannister wealth, but it was real, built on trade and shipping and the hard commerce of the eastern coast.
They're important, Jon told himself. And you're a bastard at your father's table, so stand straight, speak when spoken to, and don't embarrass him.
The thought curdled into something else before he could stop it.
His nameday. Tomorrow.
Of all the days the Manderlys could have chosen to ride north, they'd arrived the day before his nameday. Jon knew it was no one's fault. Lord Manderly didn't sit in his merman-carved chair in White Harbor plotting to overshadow a bastard boy's twelfth year. The timing was coincidence, nothing more.
But still.
It felt like he was swallowing something bitter and unpleasant.
His nameday was never celebrated the way Robb's was. No feast, no minstrel, no tourney of wooden swords in the yard with the household watching and cheering. When Robb turned twelve, Lady Stark had commissioned a new cloak lined with silver-grey fur, and the kitchens had produced a cake so large that even Theon had looked impressed, and Theon was impressed by nothing that didn't involve a bow or a girl. The hall had been hung with Stark banners, and Lord Stark had stood and toasted his firstborn son, his heir, and the room had erupted in cheers.
For Jon, namedays were quieter. His father would find him during the day, in the yard, or the library, or the godswood, and place a hand on his shoulder, and say something simple. "Eleven years, Jon." Or, "Another year stronger." Once, when Jon was eight, his father had given him a book, Songs of the North, old ballads transcribed by some long-dead maester, and Jon had carried it back to his chamber and read it cover to cover that same night, not because the songs were remarkable, but because his father had thought of him. Had chosen it. Had walked into the room carrying something meant only for Jon.
That was enough.
But this year, with the Manderlys filling the halls and Lady Stark presiding over logistics and his father consumed by the duties of a host, Jon was not certain even the quiet version would happen. Lord Stark might look at him across the yard and give him a nod, and that would be the sum of it.
You're asking for too much. You're a bastard. Be grateful for what you have.
He pushed through the doors of the Great Hall.
The morning bustle of House Stark at breakfast. Long tables arranged below the raised dais where Lord and Lady Stark sat. The hall smelled of porridge and bacon grease and the sharp bite of cold air gusting through the high windows. Banners hung from the rafters, the grey direwolf on white, stirring gently in the updraft from the hearth fires that flanked the hall's central aisle.
Jon found his siblings already seated. Arya was fussing, red-faced, squirming, pulling at the collar of a dress that looked freshly pressed and deeply unwelcome. Sansa sat beside her, eating like a lady. Baby Rickon was in his nurse's arms near the end of the table, gurgling at something invisible. Bran was eating porridge and he seemed in a hurry, like he wanted to eat his food and just go outside.
And there, near the middle of the long bench, sat Robb. Auburn-haired, easy-smiled, the very portrait of a young lord in the making. Beside him was Theon Greyjoy.
Theon was leaning in, his eyes were sparking in the way that meant he was either lying or boasting, which were, in Jon's experience, usually the same activity. His lean face was flushed with self-satisfaction, dark eyes glinting, one hand gesturing as he spoke.
Jon slid onto the bench across from Robb, reaching for the bread.
"What's he going on about?" Jon asked, tearing a piece and nodding toward Theon without looking at him.
Robb's blue eyes were bright. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Theon told me that he plans to seduce both of Lord Manderly's granddaughters. Both. Wylla and Wynafryd."
"Both," Theon confirmed, sitting back with his arms folded, chin tilted upward. "What's the point in half measures?"
Jon chewed his bread slowly, studying Theon the way one might study a dog that had just announced its intention to hunt a stag.
"You can't handle one," Jon said mildly.
Theon's grin sharpened. "And you'd know, Snow? When's the last time you spoke to a girl who wasn't your sister?"
"I'm just saying," Jon continued, "that ambition should be proportional to ability. You're planning a conquest, and you haven't managed a skirmish."
Robb snorted into his cup. Theon's face reddened, that particular shade of blotchy crimson that crept up from his neck whenever his pride took a wound.
"At least I know my way around a woman," Theon snapped, leaning forward. "You'd probably run screaming if either Wylla or Wynafryd so much as looked at you. I've seen you around girls, Snow. You turn into a bloody statue. Meanwhile, I—" He pressed a hand to his chest like he was about to announce that he was the ruler of the world. "—am a great talker. Women appreciate conversation. Wit. Charm."
"Mm," Jon said, swallowing the bread. "Were you told this before or after you paid?"
Then Robb exploded, a bark of laughter so sudden and loud that Sansa looked up from three seats down with a disapproving frown, and Arya stopped fighting her collar long enough to crane her neck and see what was funny.
Theon's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish out of water.
"That's... you don't—" He pointed a finger at Jon, then at Robb, who was now wheezing. "You're both insufferable."
Jon bit into his bread and said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
That's for the 'bastard' comment last week, Jon thought, chewing contentedly. And the one before that. And the one before that.
Robb was still laughing, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, when the doors at the far end of the hall opened. A soldier entered, one of the gate guards, still in his cloak, snowmelt darkening his shoulders. He walked directly to the raised dais.
He bent to Lord Stark's ear. Jon watched his father's face, the slight lift of his brows, the nod.
Lord Stark stood.
The hall quieted.
"House Manderly has been spotted approaching Wintertown," Lord Stark announced. His grey eyes swept the tables, his children, his household, his people. "We will receive them in the yard. I expect everyone dressed and assembled within the hour." His gaze found the steward near the kitchens. "Vayon. See that everything is prepared."
Vayon Poole nodded and moved immediately, already barking at his staff before he'd taken three steps.
The hall erupted into motion. Benches scraped back. Servants vanished. Lady Stark was already on her feet, one hand on Sansa's shoulder, speaking quickly and quietly, instructions, probably, about posture and curtseying and which smile to wear.
Robb stood, brushing crumbs from his tunic, his expression shifting from laughter to the careful composure of an heir. He caught Jon's eye and gave him a grin before turning to follow his mother.
Theon was already sauntering toward the doors, his dignity hastily reassembled, adjusting his collar like he was about to talk with the Queen herself.
Stand straight. Speak when spoken to.
Jon Snow stood, straightened his collar, and walked out to meet the Manderlys.
The household of Winterfell stood arranged in the courtyard like figures in a painting, Lord Stark at the centre, Lady Catelyn at his side, the children arrayed behind them in descending order of birth and importance. Jon stood at the back, behind Bran, where the line of Stark children ended and the grey stone of the courtyard began.
The wind had picked up since breakfast. Jon's new tunic was warm enough, but his ears burned. He tucked his hands behind his back and waited.
Sansa was leaning toward her mother, her auburn hair freshly braided, cheeks pink with excitement. "Mother," she said, she was trying to speak quietly, like a proper lady, but the excitement she must be feeling made it difficult for her, "do you think Wylla and Wynafryd have ever been south? Have they seen Highgarden?"
Lady Catelyn's gaze remained fixed on the gate. "You may ask them yourself, Sansa," she told her, before muttering quietly to look forward.
Arya, beside her, was fidgeting. She'd already tugged her collar loose twice since they'd assembled.
The sound came before the sight, hoofbeats on frozen ground, the creak of wheels, the jangle of tack and armour. Then the first riders appeared through the main gate.
Knights. A column of them, six abreast, cloaks of sea-green and silver snapping in the wind. Every man wore the merman of House Manderly on his surcoat, a proud sigil, the merman raising his trident from a blue-green sea.
Jon watched them and was impressed by the sight of their armor, their horses, their everything. Good horses. Good steel.
More riders followed. Household guards, squires, men-at-arms with spears resting against their shoulders. The courtyard filled with the sounds of arrival.
Then two riders came through the gate, and the column parted to let them pass.
They rode side by side on warhorses caparisoned in pale green and silver, the merman sigil stitched into the horse barding in thread that caught the light. The men themselves were armoured, not full plate, but riding steel, the kind a lord wore. One was broad-shouldered, thick through the chest and belly, with a heavy brown beard. The other was leaner, younger perhaps, with a round, open face and the beginnings of a belly that suggested he was following in his companion's footsteps.
Jon straightened. Lord Manderly, he thought. One of them must be. The elder, probably, the one with the heavier build and the bearing of command.
Behind them, two wheelhouses rolled through the gate. They were finely made, carved wood, iron-banded wheels, draped in fabric of pale green with the merman sigil embroidered on the door panels. The wheelhouses were large, pulled by matched pairs of grey coursers, and they moved slowly, not wanting any discomfort to come to anyone who was inside.
The two armoured riders dismounted. Squires appeared immediately, who took the reins and steadied the stirrups. The two men stood side by side, adjusting their cloaks, brushing road dust from their surcoats.
Jon waited for them to approach.
They didn't.
The two men remained where they stood, positioned like an honour guard flanking the path between the wheelhouses and Lord Stark. Jon frowned. If one of them was Lord Manderly, why would he—
"Those must be his sons," Robb murmured from ahead, his voice barely more than a breath. "Lord Wylis and Wendel."
If those are his sons, Jon thought, searching the courtyard, then where is—
The wheelhouse door opened.
A hand emerged first, thick-fingered, adorned with rings that winked gold and green. Then a leg, planted heavily on the wooden step that a servant had rushed to position. And then the man himself, and Jon's eyes widened before he could school his expression.
Lord Wyman Manderly was enormous.
Not tall, not particularly, at least, but wide, in every direction, with a vastness to his body that seemed almost architectural. He filled the wheelhouse doorway the way a boulder fills a riverbed. His doublet was pale green silk, straining across a belly that preceded him like the prow of a ship, and the merman of his house was embroidered across his chest in silver thread that must have required a full spool. His face was broad and florid, cheeks like risen dough, multiple chins cascading into a collar that had been cut generously and still looked tight. His eyes, though, looked like two grains of sand placed in a big face.
He descended the wheelhouse steps and a servant hovered at his elbow. He waved the man away.
Jon had expected what? A warrior, perhaps. A northern lord in the mould of the Greatjon or the Karstarks, broad-shouldered and hard-handed, the kind of man who looked like he'd been carved from the same stone as his keep. Lord Manderly looked like he'd been carved from butter.
He's the lord of the richest city in the North, Jon reminded himself. He commands the only fleet. He doesn't need to swing a sword; he has an entire harbour of men who swing them for him.
Still. The disconnect between expectation and reality was jarring, and Jon was not the only one who noticed.
"Seven hells," Theon muttered from somewhere behind Robb's shoulder, low enough that only the boys nearby could hear. "Someone's been eating well. Looks like a dressed pig on—"
Robb's elbow found Theon's ribs. Theon grunted and fell silent.
Lord Manderly crossed the courtyard with a gait that was surprisingly steady for a man of his size. His pale green cloak trailed behind him, the silver merman rippling as he moved.
He reached Lord Stark, and his face split into a wide grin. He seized Ned's hand in both of his enormous hands, and for a moment seemed like he wanted to hug Lord Stark.
"Ned! By the gods, it's been too long." Lord Manderly said with a light voice.
"Wyman." Lord Stark's tone was warmer than Jon usually heard it in formal settings. "The road treated you well, I hope."
"The road treated me adequately," Lord Manderly corrected with exaggerated displeasure. "Your northern roads are a punishment, Ned. I've rattled every bone in my body between here and the White Harbor. But I'm here, and I smell something roasting, and that's enough to forgive any number of ruts."
Lord Stark's mouth twitched.
Lord Manderly turned to Lady Catelyn. "Lady Stark. Winterfell grows more beautiful each time I visit. I suspect that has more to do with its lady than its stonework."
Catelyn inclined her head, a smile touching her lips. "You're too kind, my lord. We are honoured by your presence."
Then the children. Lord Manderly moved down the line. He clasped Robb's forearm and told him he had his father's look. He complimented Sansa's braid and received a curtsey so perfect. He told Arya she looked fierce, which made her grin wildly and Septa Mordane wince. He ruffled Bran's hair, saying he would make a good knight one day, which made Bran blush and Lord Stark clear his throat. There were no knights in the North.
Jon stood behind them. One step back. One step outside the line.
Lord Manderly's gaze swept past him.
Jon kept his face still.
Behind the lord, the wheelhouse doors had opened fully, and the women of House Manderly were descending into the courtyard. Jon watched as ladies, handmaidens, and attendants emerged in a rustle of silks and travelling cloaks.
Most were pretty. Some were beautiful. A tall woman with honey-brown hair and a wide, laughing mouth. A girl with freckles and clever eyes. Two older women were using crutches to walk. And others, young, well-dressed, their dresses seemed to glow under the sunlight. From their dresses alone, it was clear they were from Rich Houses.
Jon's gaze stopped at the one with long strange green hair, she was cute more than pretty, and her eyes were on his for a brief moment, and Jon for a moment wanted to smile, but her gaze swept past his: I wonder if I'll walk any of them tonight.
Lord Stark was speaking to Lord Manderly, gesturing toward the Great Keep. "Come inside, Wyman. Your rooms are prepared, and we've a meal waiting."
Lord Manderly clapped his hands together, rings glinting. "Music to my ears, Ned. Music to my very considerable ears."
The courtyard began to empty. The Manderlys moved toward the Keep, trailed by servants and guards. Jon watched them go.
That Evening
The Great Hall had been transformed.
Fresh rushes covered the floor, the air itself smelled different. The long tables had been draped in cloth, not the everyday linens, but the good ones, the ones Lady Catelyn kept in the cedar chests for occasions that demanded display. Candles burned in iron sconces along every wall, their flames doubled in the polished surfaces of silver platters and pewter goblets. The hearth fires at either end of the hall roared, filling the space with heat. Above it all, the Stark banners hung beside the merman of Manderly, grey and white flanking sea-green and silver.
Jon sat at the far end of the high table.
Not the middle, where his father presided. Not beside Robb. The far end, where the table curved toward the wall, where the candlelight thinned and the sound of the hall became a murmur rather than a roar. His seat was technically at the high table, his father always insisted on that much, but it was the high table the way the edge of a forest is still the forest. Technically true. Practically, something else.
He watched them enter.
Lord Stark came first, walking beside Lord Manderly. The two men were deep in conversation, Lord Manderly's hands moved as he spoke, broad gestures that matched his broad body, and Lord Stark listened. They made an unlikely pair, the lean, grey lord of Winterfell and the immense, silk-draped lord of White Harbor.
Behind them, Lady Catelyn walked with a woman Jon hadn't seen clearly in the courtyard. Now, in the warm light of the Great Hall, he could. She was tall, handsome rather than pretty, with long pale blonde hair that fell past her shoulders in waves the colour of winter wheat. Her gown was sea-green, and she moved with more grace than Lady Stark ever did. Lady Catelyn was speaking to her, and the blonde woman was listening with a smile that reached her eyes.
Wylis's wife, perhaps, Jon thought. Or Wendel's.
Then Robb. Jon's half-brother walked with his shoulders square and his chin level, every inch the young lord, and on his arm was a young woman with brown hair and a pleasant, open face. She was saying something that made Robb nod.
Wynafryd, Jon guessed. The elder granddaughter. She looked to be perhaps fourteen, pretty in a wholesome, approachable way, and she was walking with her head held high.
And then Bran, eight years old and earnest as a prayer, walking the girl Jon had noticed in the Courtyard, with one with green hair like grass. She was near Jon's age; he figured she must be his age, or thirteen, the oldest.
Wylla. The younger granddaughter. Green hair.
The procession moved to the high table. Chairs were pulled. Seats were taken. The hall filled with the sound of a feast beginning, the clatter of platters being set, the gurgle of wine being poured, the rising hum of a hundred conversations igniting at once.
Jon looked down at his plate.
He should have expected it. He had expected it.
There were enough Manderly ladies to go around. Enough arms to walk, enough courtesies to observe. But the arms that mattered, the ones that belonged to Stark children, the ones that carried the weight of honour and welcome, those were reserved for trueborn sons. Robb. Bran.
Jon Snow had not.
No one had asked. No one had even considered it, most likely. It wasn't cruelty. It was simply the way things were. Bastards did not walk noble ladies to their seats. Bastards sat at the far end and ate their meal and were grateful for the privilege of the high table at all.
Jon felt a rush of anger in his chest. For a moment, he just wanted to leave the main hall.
You're being childish.
He cut into the roasted capon on his plate.
You knew this would happen. You always know. And you sit here every time, surprised, as if this time might be different, and it never is, and it never will be, and you're a fool for wanting it.
The knife scraped against the plate. Jon set it down carefully, pressed his hand flat against the table for a moment, and breathed.
The anger receded.
Eat, he told himself. Drink. Go to your chamber. Tomorrow's your nameday, and no one's going to remember that either, so you might as well get some sleep.
He reached for his cup. The ale was good, at least, dark and malty, probably something special Lord Manderly had brought from White Harbor's breweries. Jon drank deeply and let the warmth spread through his chest, filling the space where the anger had been.
At the far end of the table, Robb was laughing at something Wynafryd said. Bran was showing Wylla something with his hands, a climbing route, probably. Lord Manderly's voice boomed over the hall, recounting some tale that had Ned shaking his head.
Jon watched it all from the edge, ate his meal in silence, and told himself it was enough.
Morning
The dummy's head was already loose by the time Jon realized how hard he'd been swinging.
He didn't care. He hit it again. The wooden sword cracked against the straw-packed torso, sending a shudder up his arms that he felt in his teeth. Again. The crossbar shook. Again. A seam split along the burlap sacking and dry straw spilled out like guts.
Jon's breath came in sharp, visible bursts. His shoulders ached. His palms were raw beneath his gloves, the leather worn thin in the spots where he gripped hardest. Sweat cooled on the back of his neck despite the cold.
He knew it was foolish. He knew what he looked like, a boy beating a straw man because he couldn't beat the thing that was actually hurting him. But knowing something was foolish and stopping were two different skills, and Jon had only ever mastered one of them.
Arya had remembered.
She'd come to his chamber before dawn, barefoot, nightgown wrinkled, hair a rat's nest. She'd knocked twice and then opened the door without waiting for an answer, because Arya had never understood the purpose of knocking beyond the noise itself. She'd stood in his doorway, grinning, and said, "Happy nameday, Jon," and then she'd hugged him so hard he'd felt his ribs creak, and then she'd run off to do whatever Arya did at that hour, which probably involved mud or climbing or terrorizing a cat.
That had been good. That had been enough to make him smile for the walk down to the Great Hall.
And then.
Robb had been at the long table, deep in conversation with Lady Wynafryd Manderly. Their heads were close, Robb talking with an easy smile, Wynafryd laughing at something, her hand resting near Robb's on the table. Jon had sat down across from them and waited. Robb had glanced up, said "Morning," and gone back to his conversation.
Morning.
Not happy nameday. Not even an apologetic look that said I'll find you later. Just morning. The same word he said every day, to everyone, including the kennel boy.
Jon had eaten his porridge in silence. Around him, the hall buzzed with Manderly chatter, Manderly laughter, Manderly everything. Lord Manderly's voice carried from the high table, telling some story about a kraken spotted off the coast of the Sisters. Lady Catelyn was speaking with the pale-haired woman again. Sansa was sitting near Wynafryd's handmaidens, asking about southern fashions.
No one looked at Jon. No one said his name.
He'd finished his food, left the hall, and come straight to the yard.
Thwack.
The dummy's head hung at an angle now, barely attached. Straw poked from every seam. Jon raised the wooden sword again —
"You'll break it."
Jon's arms stopped mid-swing. He turned.
Lord Stark stood at the edge of the training yard, wrapped in his grey cloak, hands clasped in front of him. His face was unreadable in the way that Jon had spent twelve years studying and still couldn't fully decipher. But there was something around his eyes, a softness...maybe.
Jon lowered the sword. He tried to rearrange his face into something that wasn't fury and failed completely. His chest was still heaving, his jaw tight, his knuckles white around the wooden grip.
"Father." The word came out rougher than he intended. He swallowed. "What can I do for you?"
It sounded stiff and formal and wrong, like something a steward would say, and Jon hated himself for it the moment it left his mouth. But the anger was still sitting in his throat, and if he opened his mouth any wider, something worse might come out.
Lord Stark looked at him for a long moment. Something moved across his face, quick, painful, gone. He stepped forward into the yard, his boots crunching on frozen dirt, and stopped an arm's length from Jon.
"Happy nameday, Jon."
Four words. Jon felt them land somewhere behind his ribs, in the space the anger had carved out. His grip on the sword loosened. His shoulders dropped.
"You remembered," Jon said. He hadn't meant to say it. It just fell out, quiet and honest and more vulnerable than he'd have liked.
"I always remember." His father's voice was steady. "I should have found you this morning. The Manderlys —" He stopped, and Jon saw his jaw tighten, the way it did when Lord Stark was disappointed in himself rather than anyone else. "That's not an excuse. I should have found you first."
Jon nodded. He didn't trust his voice for more than that.
"I haven't forgotten your gift," Lord Stark said. "You'll see it later today. I think you'll be pleased."
With that, Lord Stark hugged him, and Jon felt foolish; he could feel his eyes burn hot like fire, but he refused to act like a little boy. He was no longer that; he was a man now, and he needed to act like one. Lord Stark stepped away then.
Something warm spread through Jon's chest. He allowed himself a small nod, the corner of his mouth lifting. A gift. His father had thought about it. Had planned it. That meant something.
But the warmth didn't quite fill the other space, the one that had been hollow for as long as Jon could remember. The question that sat behind every nameday, every quiet shoulder-clasp, every almost-answer.
Jon looked at his father's face. Grey eyes, long and solemn, a face built for keeping things. Jon had searched that face a thousand times for some crack, some slip, some moment where the truth would show itself through the stone.
"Father." His voice was careful now, like stepping on ice he knew was thin. "Who was my mother?"
Lord Stark's expression changed, the softness disappeared, and Jon could almost hear the sound of a door being shut.
"Jon —"
"She had silver hair," Jon said, and he heard his own voice gaining an edge he couldn't pull back. "She must have. The streaks, they didn't come from you. And my eyes." He held his father's gaze, purple meeting grey. "Where do purple eyes come from, Father? Not from the North. Not from any Stark I've ever read about."
Lord Stark said nothing for a long moment. The wind moved through the yard, stirring straw from the broken dummy.
"When you're older, Jon."
The same words. The exact same words, delivered in the exact same tone, with the exact same look that was somehow both sorry and immovable. Jon had heard them at eight. At ten. At eleven. And now at twelve, and they sounded no different than they had the first time, except that Jon was old enough now to hear what lived underneath them: I will not tell you. Not today. Maybe not ever.
"How much older?" Jon asked, and he hated the rawness in his voice.
"Old enough." Lord Stark reached out and placed his hand on Jon's shoulder. "I know this isn't the answer you want. But it's the one I can give you."
Jon stood very still under his father's hand. He wanted to knock it away. He wanted to lean into it. He did neither.
Lord Stark held his gaze for a beat longer, and Jon thought he saw guilt, or grief, or some cousin of both, move through those grey eyes like a wolf in a dark forest. Then his father squeezed his shoulder once, let go, and turned.
Jon watched him walk across the yard. His father's cloak moved behind him, grey wool against grey stone, and then he was through the archway and gone.
The yard was quiet.
Jon stood alone with the broken dummy and the wooden sword in his hand and the same question he'd been asking for as long as he could remember, still unanswered, still sitting in his chest like something swallowed wrong.
He let out a sound and swung the sword with everything he had. The dummy exploded. The crossbar snapped. The head flew off and rolled across the frozen dirt, trailing straw. The post itself cracked and tilted sideways, held up by nothing.
Jon stood over the wreckage, breathing hard, and felt no better.
He dropped the broken sword and walked to the godswood.
The weirwood stood where it always stood, ancient and pale, its carved face weeping red sap that looked like blood in the thin morning light. Jon knelt on the cold ground before it, the way he'd knelt a hundred times before.
He closed his eyes.
Who was she? Who was my mother? Was she beautiful? Did she hold me, even once? Did she want to keep me? Did she have silver in her hair and purple in her eyes, and does she think about me the way I think about her — constantly, helplessly, without knowing her face?
The prayer came apart in fragments, less words than feeling, a boy kneeling in the dirt and wanting.
The wind died.
Jon felt it, the absence. The leaves went still. The air thickened, like the godswood was holding its breath.
And then, a voice:
"You shouldn't ask who your mother is, boy. You should ask who your father is."
Jon's eyes snapped open. He was on his feet, turning, searching the trees, the shadows between the trunks, the mossy stones. His hand went to his hip, pulling out his dagger.
"Who's there?"
His voice echoed off the canopy and came back to him unanswered. Nothing moved. No footsteps, no rustling, no breathing but his own. The godswood was empty.
Jon turned back to the weirwood. The carved face stared at him, that long, anguished mouth, those deep-cut eyes. Red sap wept down the pale bark in slow, thick lines. For one mad moment, Jon expected the mouth to open. Expected the carved lips to move, to shape words, to tell him everything his father wouldn't.
The mouth did not move. The eyes did not blink. There was only the tree, and the silence, and the wind returning slowly, rustling through the red leaves as if nothing had happened.
Jon stood there for a long time as if expecting to hear the voice again. Then he turned and walked out of the godswood, back through the cold corridors of Winterfell, past servants and guards and the distant sound of Lord Manderly's laughter echoing from somewhere deep inside the Keep.
You shouldn't ask who your mother is. You should ask who your father is.
The words played in his head, over and over, each repetition sharper than the last.
Who your father is.
Jon didn't understand. He knew who his father was. Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. The most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. His father.
Wasn't he?