Eddard Stark (292 A.C. Third Moon)
Winterfell - Eddard's Solar's
It had been a hard moon since his eyes had been opened. Catelyn had been cold, yet she had not acted out against Jon. Jon, however, had changed, he had risen from the sullen boy he once was, becoming more open and far smarter than Ned had ever thought. Guilt gnawed at him as he reflected on it. He had failed his nephew, his sister, and his son. Even if he had not sired the boy, Jon was his blood, his son in all but name.
A knock on the door broke him from his thoughts. He sighed.
"Enter."
Jory stepped inside.
"What is it, Jory?" Ned asked.
"My lord, Lord Howland Reed has just arrived and seeks an audience with you," Jory replied.
The name stole the breath from Ned's chest. Howland, what was he doing in Winterfell? He had not left the Neck since Robert's Rebellion.
"Are you sure?"
"He said he was Lord Reed, my lord. He has five companions with him," Jory confirmed.
Ned nodded slowly. "Thank you. Send him to my solar, and have the rest of his party fed and offered drink. Also, inform my wife to prepare rooms for them."
When Jory left, Ned sat back, frowning.
Why is Howland here? he wondered. Was it because of Jon? Did word reach him of what happened? Or… is he here to tell Jon the truth about his mother?
Howland had sworn never to speak of it, not until Jon was six-and-ten. So why come now? Why without warning, even if sending word from Greywater Watch was difficult?
Before he could ponder further, another knock came. Jory entered again, this time leading Howland Reed inside.
"Lord Stark," Howland greeted him stiffly.
"Lord Reed, welcome to Winterfell. Did the raven you sent not arrive?" Ned asked.
"I did not send one, Lord Stark. I did not wish you to be prepared," Howland replied, his tone curt as he took a seat opposite Ned's desk.
"Why? And stop calling me Lord Stark in private," Ned said, sighing as he sat down.
"I felt it appropriate, considering the circumstances that brought me here," Howland replied evenly.
"What circumstances?" Ned asked, pouring two cups of Winterfell mead.
"The treatment of your nephew," Howland said, his voice sharp as ice, his stare colder still.
"So you know, then," Ned murmured, leaning back in his chair.
"I do," Howland said, his tone rising. "How could you let it happen, Ned Stark? You promised to protect him."
"I thought I had. But I was blind. I didn't see what was happening, and Jon feared to speak of it. He told me on his tenth nameday what Catelyn had done. She was confronted, and things have changed since. I even invited Maege Mormont to serve as a temporary governess for my daughters until I find a permanent one."
Howland's expression softened only slightly. "That may be so, but it does not excuse what has passed. I have come to take your ward with me, to teach him and raise him without the stain of bastardy hanging over his head."
"What? No," Ned said sharply. "You can't take him, he's the last piece of my sister I have left."
"Then you should have treated that piece better," Howland snapped. "From what I've heard, you mean to make him Lord of Moat Cailin. That may serve as some small compensation for what he's lost, siblings, a father, his own inheritance."
"If I had fought for Jon, there would have been another war," Ned replied, his voice weary.
Howland scoffed. "No, you simply didn't want to choose between your friend and your nephew. You fought another war for Robert already."
Silence hung heavy between them. Then Howland spoke again. "I tell you this plainly, Ned. I shall take the boy with me, or I shall tell him who he truly is. My seat lies closer to his future one. It will allow him to gain the trust of the men of the Neck, and if need be, he could travel easily to the castle to oversee its reconstruction. A lord needs to show his face in his lordship."
Ned's heart pounded in his chest. He closed his eyes for a long moment before answering.
"Very well," he said quietly. "I understand your reasoning… though I do not like being coerced into this."
He turned toward the door.
"Jory!" he called.
Jory stepped inside. "Yes, my lord?"
"Send for Jon. I have news to tell him."
Aenar Targaryen (292 A.C. Third Moon)
Aenar's Chambers – The night before Lord Reed's arrival
Aenar stood beside Bloodraven, watching the battle that had defined House Targaryen for generations, the Battle of the Redgrass Field. A battle where the great names of history had taken center stage.
He watched as the armies of the red and black dragon clashed, the two vanguards crashing against one another. Daemon Blackfyre himself led the Black vanguard, cutting through the lines with his sons, Aegon and Aemon, at his side. Lords fell before his blade, among them the Lord of the Vale, and many others besides. The center of the Targaryen host was held by Prince Maekar of Summerhall, grim and steadfast.
"Look toward the ridge," Bloodraven said quietly.
Aenar followed his gaze, and saw them: the Raven's Teeth, Bloodraven's famed company of archers.
"You and your famous archers," Aenar murmured, eyes narrowing.
Then his gaze shifted to the duel between Ser Gwayne Corbray and King Daemon. The King, wounded yet unyielding, won the duel, wounding and blinding Ser Gwayne. Instead of pressing his advantage, Daemon sent the wounded knight back through his lines to be tended by a maester.
Then came the rain of white weirwood arrows.
The Raven's Teeth had begun their deadly work. Daemon was the first to fall, his body pierced by seven arrows. His eldest son took up Blackfyre, crying vengeance, but he too fell beneath the storm of shafts. Aemon Blackfyre tried to retreat with the sword, but he and his men were cut down as well. The killing of Daemon and his sons was ruthless, perhaps even dishonorable, but it had it pushed the battle in the favor of the Crown.
"Did you shoot them yourself?" Aenar asked.
"I aimed for them," Bloodraven replied. "Whether my arrows struck true, I cannot say. The singers claim I slew all three. Perhaps I did. It matters little now. Their deaths broke their army, and the field was ours, if not for my half-brother Aegor."
Aenar turned back to the field as the rebel lines faltered. The Targaryen banners advanced, pushing through the Blackfyre center. Then, in the midst of the chaos, a man with a yellow shield and a red, winged horse breathing fire took up Blackfyre. Aegor rallied the Blackfyre host, and with disorganized host of the Crown they regaining the momentum of the battle. Bloodraven descended from the ridge to meet his brother in single combat.
"Your famous duel," Aenar said, glancing toward Bloodraven. His eyes lingered on the scar where Aegor's blade had torn his face and eye.
"Famous, yes," Bloodraven said, "but it halted the Blackfyre advance." He pointed to a rising cloud of dust on the horizon, Aenar saw the a host of riders bearing the banners of Prince Baelor Breakspear, Dorne and the Stormlands "They struck the rebels' flank, and the Blackfyre host broke. Yet Aegor escaped, not before taking my right, I struck him as well with dark sister, but the cure wounded, took Daemon's third son." Added.
"We won that day," Bloodraven continued, "but with my brother still alive, the Blackfyres would never stop. The battle was a victory, but not a triumph. Every Blackfyre rebellion that followed began with that failure."
"Why show me this?" Aenar asked quietly.
"Why do you think?" Bloodraven's single red eye fixed on him.
"To know the cost of battle?" Aenar ventured.
"Almost," Bloodraven replied. "But not quite. Think deeper."
Aenar frowned, considering. What made this battle different from the Trident, where his father had died? Then it came to him. "Winning the battle is more important than how you win it. If you lose, you die, or fall at your enemy's mercy."
"True," Bloodraven said. "I acted dishonorably when I ordered the volley that slew Daemon and his sons. After he had taking care of Ser Gywane, but it won the battle. Had I hesitated, the Blackfyres might have pressed their advantage. Daemon could have struck at Maekar himself, breaking our center before Baelor's host arrived. Victory often demands sacrifice, of honor, of mercy, even of part of one's heart."
He turned back to Aenar. "There's one more lesson you must take from this battle, and it's the reason why your brother and sister are dead."
Aenar's eyes widened, fury rising. "What does this battle have to do with that?"
"As I said," Bloodraven replied coldly, "we let Aegor and Daemon's sons escape and live. Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe. The Blackfyres rose four more times because of it."
Aenar gritted his teeth. "Killing women and children is not the same as dishonorbly slaying men in battle. That is murder, in battle one knows, it can end. What happened to my brother, sister and their mother was barbaric, murder."
"That maybe," Bloodraven said. "But tell me? What happened to the men who killed your siblings? Nothing. Robert laughed, calling them dragonspawn. The realm followed his lead. Save for your uncle and Dorne, few spoke against it. History, justice, what is right and wrong, these are written by the victors. If the Blackfyres had won, I would have been called kinslayer, kingslayer, and excuted as traitor. Daeron's line would have been branded bastards, as the Blackfyres claimed."
Aenar exhaled slowly. "When the time comes, I'll bring them to justice, Tywin, Gregor, and Lorch."
"You might," Bloodraven said. "But remember this lesson well: you only die once. Better to win dishonorably than to die with honor."
The vision dissolved into darkness. Aenar woke in his bed, sunlight streaming through the window.
That morning he felt melancholic. As he ate, his mind wandered to Bloodraven's words. He thought of his siblings' deaths and the realm's indifference. Was this truly the way of the world? That victory shaped truth, that survival made righteousness? Aegon the Conqueror had won his wars and become king, and partly shaped Westoros as it is today.
During the day's sparring lessons, he tried to apply the lesson. When sparring with Theon, he knew he could win by skill alone, but instead, he tried something new. He feinted with his sword, then smashed his shield into the Ironborn's face. Theon cried out as his nose cracked.
He fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding face. "You broke my nose, bastard!"
Aenar didn't stop. He struck Theon's hand with his blade's flat.
"Fuck off!" Theon cried.
"Yield," Aenar said coldly.
Through gritted teeth, Theon yielded.
Ser Rodrik Cassel strode over. "Greyjoy, go see Maester Luwin," he ordered. Theon left, glaring with hatred.
Rodrik turned to Aenar. "Snow, that was unsavory. He was already down, and the shield bash was a brawler's trick."
"In battle, the victor decides what happens. The defeated are at the enemy's mercy," Aenar replied, echoing Bloodraven's words.
"This isn't battle," Rodrik said sternly. "This is training for it."
Aenar frowned. "What's the point of training if the rules change in battle? If I die, I'll never have another chance to learn."
Rodrik sighed. "True, but sparring isn't only about winning. It's about building trust with your brothers-in-arms. To learn how they fight, to know they'll stand beside you. Now Theon will only feel anger toward you."
Aenar lowered his gaze. Ser Rodirick had a point, the shieldwall was only as strong it's weakest link. "I see. I'll apologize to him at midday."
At that moment, Jory entered. "Jon, you're requested in Lord Stark's solar."
"I'll be there shortly."
He hung his sword and shield in the armory just as Robb walked up. "Rodrik was right—it was a tricky move, but it worked. Brutal, but effective."
"I know," Aenar said quietly. "In battle, I must win, no matter what. But in sparring, perhaps I went too far. I'll apologize to Theon later." He clasped Robb's shoulder, then turned toward the door. "Now, I must see Father."
He arrived quickly. Outside the room waited Jory and Will. When they saw him, Jory opened the door.
Inside sat his father-uncle, together with a man in a green cloak and a coat of green and brown, wearing breeches with a black lizard-lion sigil upon his chest. When Aenar entered, both men rose to their feet.
"Jon, welcome. This is Lord Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch."
"Lord Reed, welcome to Winterfell. It's an honor to meet you," Aenar replied with a polite smile. This was the man who had stood beside his father-uncle at the Tower of Joy, the man who knew the truth of his birth, the truth of his mother.
"The honor is mine, Jon," Lord Reed said, stepping forward and offering his hand. Aenar took it gladly, meeting the older man's gaze. There was warmth in Howland's eyes, and a small, knowing smile formed on his lips.
"Please, Jon, take a seat."
Aenar sat beside Lord Reed, his curiosity growing.
"As you know," father-uncle began, "I've sent a letter south, requesting that you be legitimized and named Lord of Moat Cailin."
Aenar nodded, glancing at his father-uncle to continue.
Father-uncle continued, his tone careful, almost hesitant. "Lord Reed has offered to foster you at Greywater Watch, to take you as his ward. His seat lies close to Moat Cailin. The men of the Neck are your kin in the defense of the North. Together, Greywater and Moat guard the realm's narrowest pass."
Aenar felt his pulse quicken. The offer should have been an honor, but his stomach twisted. He looked up at Ned, searching his face for meaning. "You want me gone," he said quietly. "Is that why he's here? Did Lady Catelyn finally convince you to send me away?"
His father-uncle's eyes widened in surprise, and pain crossed his features. "No," he said quickly. "No, Jon. That's not it."
He stood, resting his hands on the desk, his voice low and earnest. "Howland is one of my oldest friend. I would not entrust you to anyone else. This is not exile, it's opportunity. At Greywater Watch, you'll be free to learn what it means to lead. You won't have to live beneath the shadow of bastardy. Here, everything you do is measured against Robb, whether you wish it or not. It's not fair to you, or to him. But with Lord Reed, you'll have the chance to find yourself. To learn what it means to rule men and earn their trust."
He paused, his grey eyes softening. "If you do not wish to go, I won't force you."
Relief washed through Aenar atleast there was that. Yet there was something that his father-uncle wasn't telling him.
Then he turned to Lord Reed. "Why would you want to take me as your ward? We've never met before."
Lord Reed leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Because I knew your mother," he said simply. "She was dear to me, brave, clever, and full of fire. I swore an oath to protect you, as I did to your father."
Aenar's breath caught. His heart thudded against his ribs. "Then… you know who she was," he said quietly, his gaze shifting toward Ned. "Just like my father does. But he will not tell me."
Father-uncle closed his eyes. The faint crackle of the fire filled the silence.
"That I do," Lord Reed said at last, "but like him, I cannot tell you yet. One day, you will know the truth. But not before the time is right."
Aenar clenched his fists. The same words again, the same promise without an answer. One day. When you're older. When the time is right. He had heard them all before. And yet, looking at Howland, he sensed sincerity. This was a man who had kept his mother's secret for ten long years, even against the King he sworn a oath too. Putting his family in danger like his father-uncle had done.
He exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders. "To be honest," he said at last, "I didn't expect any of this. Not the lordship. Not this offer. I always thought my life would lead elsewhere, maybe across the Narrow Sea as a sellsword, or north to the Wall to join my uncle Benjen."
He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "But if this is what you offer, I would be honored to come with you, Lord Reed, to see Greywater Watch, and learn. I want to understand the people and the land I may one day protect."
Lord Reed's eyes warmed. "Very good, Jon. I shall stay here a week before returning to the Neck. Use that time to pack your things and say your goodbyes, to your siblings, your kin, and your friends."
Aenar nodded. "I will. And thank you, Lord Reed. I know few lords would take a bastard as their ward, even one who might soon be legitimized."
Lord Reed chuckled softly, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Call me Howland. And you'll be more than a bastard before long, I'm sure of it. In the North, a man's worth is measured not by his name, but by his deeds. We follow the old ways."
He glanced then at Ned, and though his tone was kind, his look carried the faint edge of reproach—an unspoken reminder of the promise that bound them both.
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