Jon Snow/Aenar Targaryen (293 A.C. Second Moon)
Winterfell - Greathall
To say his life had been altered was an understatement. The Wall was supposed to be the greatest transformation of his days, but that was before he discovered he was the rightful heir after Rhaegar. It was written in the letters, and it was whispered by the voice.
As he ate from his plate, he noticed he had less food than before. He had bested Robb in a similar fashion in the past, but this time he had been certain of victory. Lady Stark would no doubt be furious, though it could hardly be worse than during the Greyjoy Rebellion, when she had sent him to bed without supper for a week after he beat Robb.
She was not only Lady Stark but also his aunt. He would never treat a child, nor anyone, as she had treated him, punished for another's success. He cared little for the looks she gave him. One day, she would know, and even then, she would likely scorn him for being the child of an unladylike lady and the grandchild of incest.
Robb's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Why didn't you do that earlier? I hope you weren't taking it easy on me," he asked earnestly.
Jon grumbled in response. "I did, but an explanation will have to wait," he said, turning back to his bowl of meat stew. He took a sip and tried not to spit it out, the salt biting his tongue. He had learned to endure it, and once he would have excused himself by saying he was not hungry. Not anymore. Now his plan was to let his uncle see what his wife did in the shadows.
He clanked at his father then. He took a deep breath and spoke. "Lord Stark, you remember that I told you earlier today that form time to me food tasted unusual, I was curious if it's just me or if it's something they put in my food."
The words drew every gaze to the table. His uncle gave him a knowing look, Lady Stark stared in shock, and the rest were bewildered.
He wondered how Lady Stark would wriggle from this snare. "Snow, do you truly think a lord would want to trade his food with you? The cooks prepare finer meals for a lord than for you," Lady Stark said with a scowl.
"Good, you say that, Lady Stark. Still, I would gladly offer my portion to anyone who wishes it. I am not hungry at the moment, as I'm patiently waiting for tonight. During my nameday meal." Jon replied, looking about the hall. Although he felt hungry, it was a good excuse.
"Jon, come, I will have your food," his uncle said. Though the man looked uneasy.
"But Ned, why would you want anything from Snow?" Lady Stark tried to object.
"Cat, if my son wishes to share his food because he is not hungry, and wishes to room for tonight, what harm is there? The same cooks prepared all the meals," Lord Stark countered, his tone sharp. His wife fell silent.
Jon rose and carried the bowl to the high table. "Here, Lord Stark. I hope you enjoy the food. It has been specially prepared for me," he said, glancing at Lady Stark with a spark of satisfaction.
"Thank you, Jon. Are you certain you want nothing for yourself?" his uncle asked.
"No, Lord Stark. If the food is prepared like this, I'd rather not eat. I find it unfair to be given something so… unique, only to eat it all alone." His words dripped with sarcasm, though he smiled at his uncle.
"As you wish. But remember, it is your nameday. After the meal, come with me to Mikken's forge. I have something for you." Lord Stark's smile was warm, and Jon nodded.
"Now, let us taste this food," his uncle said, glancing at him, and his uncle swallowed hard. Lady Stark looked worried, and Jon began to smile as he sat down. Lord Stark took a spoonful, but within moments spat it out.
"Husband, what is wrong?" Lady Stark asked in a tone of worry, but Ned's glare silenced her.
"Jon, tell me this hasn't been happening more often? That you have been served salted food," His voice was tight with pity and anger.
"No, not often," Jon answered, anger sharpening his words. "It happens when I do better or learn faster than your heir, or when she wishes to teach me a lesson. I had to learn to lie low, else I would be punished. This is one of them, another during the previous winter, I was also ordered to gather my firewood, as well as having to know how to repair my own clothes, and a few times she also hit me."
Robb rose from his seat with outrage, as did Arya, the tall girl, looking with anger at her mother. He rose from his seat. "How could you treat Jon like that?" Robb shouted at his mother.
Her gaze darted as if seeking an escape, then she turned on Robb in anger. "Children, sit down. It's my duty to teach the bastard to know his place. I only act as I must to protect my children from a bastard's greed. I know he wishes for Winterfell, all bastards desire what their trueborn siblings have."
Once, Jon might have shrunken away. No longer.
"What you said is false," Robb shouted. "Jon would never do that. When father spat out his food, you looked guilty. You've spiced his meals with salt so he'd eat less, or none at all. That's why he held back in our spars, he even goes easy on Theon sometimes, so you wouldn't punish him!"
Theon crumbled at that, but he, the Greyjoy, knew it was true. As Jon looked at him, he saw the conflict in his eyes. What he was thinking he did not know.
"I've done nothing unwarranted to that bastard! Husband, do you see? He's setting me against my family," she spat, lying to cover her mistake.
Jon met her gaze, unflinching. "Then why did you strike me for beating Robb when you cornered me on my way to my chambers? Why did you salt my food so much that it was inedible? Why did you do all those things? If I were you, I would blame Robb, for your actions are his mother's. You punish me for the sins of my father." He said as he looked toward his uncle, who became saddened at his words. "Or, why do you think I wished to give my meal away today of all days. I should have been getting the best meals, considering it is my nameday."
"Cat, tell me this isn't true. But I know it is, for I tasted it myself. If we are wrong, eat this bowl. All of it, before everyone," His uncle broke in then, looking from him to Catlenyn.
Her face hardened. "What? You can't order me to eat food made for a bastard. I am the Lady of Winterfell! I will not lower myself to such an insult."
The hall gasped. Even Theon fell silent.
"So, it is true?" Ned's voice was filled with horror. "Jon, what else has she done that I do not know of?"
"Why do you ask Snow? They are liars by nature!" Lady Stark snapped, glaring at Jon as though she could kill him with her eyes.
"I asked him, not you. Jon, speak the truth."
He looked around. Arya's face burned with anger, Robb's with disappointment, Sansa seemed uncertain, and Bran was only bewildered at the commotion.
"Well, father, not more than I already told, but," Jon began, his tone edged with bitterness, "Lady Stark often told me I was a treacherous bastard, a product of lust, greedy, born to take from my trueborn siblings, and she told my sisters as much. Arya never listened, and Robb always treated me as a brother, but Sansa…" He trailed off with regret.
Ned's face darkened. "Catelyn! What have you said to my son and daughters? Do you not see why bastards might rebel if treated so? Is this what the Faith teaches?!"
Jon continued. "Sometimes I dreamt of being Lord of Winterfell. Why wouldn't I? But I would never betray my family. Family, duty, honor, the Tully words. Yet I've kept them truer than the lady of that house."
He went on, voice steady. "When you left for the Greyjoy Rebellion, I was sent to bed without food for a week when I bested Robb, slapped in the halls, denied clothes and firewood, forced to knit, and given salted meals. I learned to excuse myself, to say I wasn't hungry. I studied alone in the First Keep. Ask the servants, Old Nan taught me to knit when she found me wanting. That is the truth."
"Lying bastard!" Catelyn spat.
His uncle's hand cracked across her cheek, the first time he had ever struck his wife. His voice was low and deadly. "Go to your chambers. Stay there until I say otherwise. Not another word."
Lady Stark fled, and the hall was silent.
"Sansa, Arya, your lessons with the septa will stop. What she is teaching you isn't good. You will be taught by a proper lady of the North in the future. As for the rest, no more Faith of the Seven will be introduced to my children. You can pray to them if you want. I won't deny you. But the Sept of Winterfell will be closed. You can visit the one in Wintertown," his father stated.
Arya was thrilled not to have to go to the septa anymore, and Sansa was confused but accepted her father's decision. "Jon, I'm so sorry I didn't see it before. If anything like this happens again, please talk to me and don't hide yourself anymore. It's only bad for Robb if he thinks he can win every fight. You two boys push each other and make each other better," His father asked them, and both he and Robb nodded in agreement.
"Let all the servants come here. I want to talk about this, to see who in this household is partly responsible for this horror that has occurred," his uncle ended with a deep sigh.
"Jon, I'm sorry for what happened, and I know you would never usurp me. Be who you are now and fight the best you can. I do love you brother, don't forget that." Robb said as he hugged him.
"As do I, and thank you, brother. I will," he said with a big smile. "Damn her, I can't believe she did that. I'm not even sure that woman is my mother," Arya shouted angrily, receiving looks from everyone.
"Arya, little sister, I don't care for Lady Stark, but she is still your mother. You don't have to forgive her. She is your mother, and you only have one," he said, trying to sound believable, but he believed his words. He would give much for a day with his mother. Perhaps he would forgive Lady Stark in the future, but he didn't want her or any of his cousins to lose their mother as he had done.
"Fine, but I will not forgive her," Arya said, staring angrily around the room. "That's all I asked. I don't even know my mother, so remember what you have," he said as he looked her in the eyes.
"Jon, I'm sorry. I only did what my mother asked, and I have missed you," the little eight-year-old Sansa said, looking very sorry.
"I understand, Sansa. I accept your apology," he said as he embraced her, and she sobbed. He kissed her on the crown of her head.
"Well, Jon, let's finish the meal and then join at the forge," his uncle said. "Of course, father. I'm curious about what you have planned," Jon replied.
Jon left the hall with his uncle after the meal, curiosity gnawing at him. Whatever his father had in store at Mikken's forge, he could not guess.
The heat of the smithy met them as they stepped inside, the air thick with the tang of smoke and steel. Lord Stark stood near the anvil, something long and wrapped in a plain cloth resting upon it.
"Jon, come here," his uncle beckoned. "I have something special to show you."
Jon approached, eyes darting over the tools and half-forged blades. His uncle lifted the cloth, and beneath it lay a sword, a bastard sword, with a pommel carved in the likeness of a laughing weirwood.
"This," His father said, his voice steady, "is a blade commissioned for you. Made of the finest northern steel, marked with the laughing weirwood. You are ten now, and like Robb, you deserve a blade. He was given a smaller version of a greatsword; one day, he would wield Ice. I thought this sword would fit you better."
Jon's eyes widened. The blade gleamed, well-balanced and finely made. His father's words, fit you better struck something deep. Blackfyre, too, was a bastard sword, and the pommel, did he know his mother had been the Knight of the Laughing Tree? He thought with a smile.
"Father, this is incredible," Jon breathed, awe and gratitude lacing his words. "I don't know what to say."
"You needn't say anything," Ned smiled. "I have always believed in you, Jon. I only want you to have the tools to succeed."
"Thank you, Father," Jon said, voice thick with determination. "I will wield it with the honor required."
His father's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "I do not doubt you. You have shown great promise already, and I know you will continue to make our family proud." He drew him into an embrace, and Jon clung to it.
Later, after another sparring session that left him exhausted yet freer than he had felt in years, Jon prepared himself for another task. His body was tired, but his mind was restless. The voice had told him to go to the godswood. Someone, or something, awaited him there.
He cleaned himself, donned fresh clothes, and made his way to the ancient grove. The godswood was quiet, hushed as if holding its breath. Along with the First Keep, it was the one place he felt truly safe, a place where he could think without fear.
Tonight, though, unease coiled in his belly.
"Come to the hearttree," the wind seemed to whisper.
Jon stiffened, eyes darting through the still air. No one stood there. He sighed and walked on until the great weirwood loomed before him, its pale bark red-stained with sap that looked too much like blood. The carved face seemed to watch him, patient and stern.
The hearttree had always given him peace, safety, a place to unburden himself without fear. Yet even now, he could not tell his uncle everything. Part of it was because the voice had told him not to speak of it yet. The other part was that he, deep down, nursed a quiet resentment. His uncle had raised him, yet had not told him who his mother was. That wound stung more than he liked to admit.
Still, he thought, Ned Stark was his father in all but name, no matter who had sired him. The truth of his blood could not change that. He sighed again, heavier this time, and waited beneath the gaze of the hearttree.
He sighed once more and placed his hand against the hearttree. A flash came, and soon he was somewhere he did not recognize. The landscape was covered in snow, and a vast hearttree, larger than the one at Winterfell, loomed above him.
"So there is the song of Ice and Fire. The son of a Stark and a Targaryen," a voice said. He looked up, and his jaw fell open. Atop one of the branches sat a great black raven, with three eyes.
"What are you, and where are we?" he asked.
"I am the Three-Eyed Raven. But before that, I was known as Brynden Rivers, or more commonly as Bloodraven. It is an honor to meet kin of mine once more, after all this time," the raven stated.
"But you're supposed to be dead. You went missing beyond the Wall, just as the sword Dark Sister did," he noted.
"Both are incorrect. I am alive, bound beneath this very hearttree, intertwined with its roots. I watch the world with my ravens, and through the eyes of the weirwoods. Even in the south, I can see through ancient stumps that remain. I even saw your birth. Yet until I spoke with another, I was not certain you were the one I had been searching for."
"You are the reason King Aerys first never sired a son, why Jaehaerys the Second wed Rhaella to Aerys, and part of the reason your father fell for your mother. Though that was mostly love and the need for a son. Still, you are the prince that was promised, the song of Ice and Fire, Aegon's song. Lost to time, lost in the Dance, but found again by me and Aerys. Even after your birth, I was not sure it was you. Another prospect was your aunt, whom I last saw in Braavos. She and her brother fled after their household stole their coin and holdings." The raven, apparently, Bloodraven explained.
"Hmm. The voice said something else, yet also more. It told me to come here, as you know. But why now? I have been here for ten years. Why not reach out before?" he asked.
"Because some things are fated to be. I could not guide you until I knew for certain you were the one. Now I know. I will guide you, if you wish. To power, to glory, and perhaps to the restoration of our house. Your house. Mine was a cadet branch, House Bloodraven, like the Blackfyres. Yet I stood with the true king, not Daemon," the raven explained.
"So young… will you let me guide you? Soon enough, I will begin to influence your father or rather, your uncle. With dreams. And soon, a ghost from his past will arrive to take you as a ward."
"To ward?" he asked in surprise. The thought of leaving Winterfell, the only home he had ever known, unsettled him. Yet then again, had the gods, or whatever it was, not awakened the truth in him, he would have ended up at the Night's Watch.
"Indeed. It will be an opportunity for you to learn, without the disguise of a bastard hanging over your head." The raven added.
"I know. Even if I did well here, it would always look strange. Yet in what way can you guide me?" he asked. He wanted guidance, needed it, and he couldn't trust his father with it.
"I, for example, can teach you to dream, as I do. Green dreams, perhaps. Or maybe you possess dragon dreams. Tell me, have you had vivid dreams, ones that felt real, that later revealed themselves as guides of a sort?"
"I have. The most recurring was a dream where I walked through the crypts of Winterfell, and the ancient Starks told me I did not belong. That I was not a Stark. Which proved true, as I am a Targaryen. The voice also said those dreams should cease now. But I have yet to sleep since then, so I cannot know." Jon replied, solemnly.
"Then it seems you have the dragon dreams. They are guides, and sometimes foretell the future. Yet they are vague, and like all magic, they are swords without hilts—dangerous to wield. To misread a dream is to invite ruin, whether your own or another's. My great-nephew Daeron drowned himself in drink because of them," the raven said.
"I understand. To walk that path unguarded could destroy me. What else can you teach me?" Jon asked.
"To see through the eyes of animals. You have the gift of the warg," the raven replied.
Jon's eyes lit up at that. "Like the stories Old Nan tells." The raven dipped its head in a slow nod.
"What if… what if I wanted to learn how to rule? To be a king, or a lord?" he asked, more tentatively.
"I can teach you much, and show you much. But remember this first lesson—true leadership is not a prize to be seized, it is a burden laid upon those who are called. And when that burden falls to you, know this: no matter what you do, some will call you hero, and others will name you villain. I have lived as both," the raven warned, its three black eyes fixed upon him. "So, shall I teach you?"
Jon paused in thought before answering. "Yes… let's begin. I have hungered for more since this morning, and with all that you know, I can think of no better place to start," he said firmly, drawing a steadying breath.
"Good. Then we begin. I will start training you, though not extensively yet. For now, your body lies slumped against the weirwood, your eyes rolled back and white. Not the most pleasant sight for another to stumble upon. So, for now, we will keep to short sessions. In the future, when it is safe, we will expand." The raven said happily.
"Be strong, my kin. And in time, perhaps the dragon may rise again. Also, while we are here, seek out what you desire, not only what the voice commands, or what others demand of you. I have my own desires for you, yes, but you must find your own. Without your own purpose, you will falter when the path grows dark." At that, the raven's voice faded.
Jon was pulled back into the godswood. He gasped and pressed his hand to his face as a sharp headache bloomed behind his eyes. He sank down at the foot of the hearttree, gazing at the setting sun, and wondered what the rest of the day would bring.
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