The Son of Star and Snow

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The snowflakes fell like ash from a burned-out sky, each one catching what little light remained of the dying day. Ned watched them settle on his gloved hands, on his horse's mane, on the frozen ground that stretched endlessly toward home. Home. The word felt foreign in his mind, like a language he'd once known but forgotten how to speak. How could Winterfell be home when everyone who'd made it so was gone?

He could still feel the weight of Lyanna's hand in his, still see the way her fingers had gone slack when the fever finally claimed her. The blood—there had been so much blood, soaking through the linens, staining his hands, marking him as surely as any scar. Her voice echoed in his memory, but he pushed it away, buried it deep where it couldn't claw at him. There was no point in dwelling on what was done. The dead stayed dead, no matter how much the living might wish otherwise.

Two years. That was all it had taken for House Stark to crumble. His father, burned alive in King's Landing while demanding justice. Brandon, strangled by his own desperate attempt to save him. His mother, taken by grief and sickness before winter's end. And Lyanna... sweet Lyanna, who'd started it all with her wild heart and willful ways. Now there were only two Starks left in all the world—himself and Benjen.

But perhaps not only two. Ned's gaze drifted to the carriage rolling behind him, where Wylla tended to the babe. Jon. His son. The thought of Catelyn waiting for him should have brought warmth, but instead it only deepened the cold knot of guilt in his chest. She deserved better than a husband who returned from war carrying another woman's child.

Another woman. Ashara's face came to him—those violet eyes that had haunted his dreams throughout the war, the way she'd looked at him that last morning at Starfall. Take care of our son, Ned. Her words had been soft, resigned, but there'd been steel beneath them too. I will visit as soon as possible. I know I can never be Lady of Winterfell, but I will be there for our son. The memory of her lips against his still burned, even now. He'd loved her—still loved her, if he was honest—but love was a luxury lords couldn't afford. Duty came first. It always came first.

The sound of cheering broke through his brooding. Wintertown spread before them, smallfolk lining the muddy streets despite the cold. They waved and called out welcomes, their faces bright with genuine joy at their lord's return. 

He didn't smile, didn't wave. His men rode in formation around him, as silent and grim as their lord. The carriage wheels squelched through the half-frozen mud, and somewhere behind him, Jon began to cry—a thin, reedy sound that cut through the winter air like a blade. Wylla's voice, soft and soothing, gradually calmed the babe, but Ned could feel the weight of curious eyes on the carriage. Let them wonder, he decided. They'll know soon enough.

The gates of Winterfell loomed ahead, iron and oak and stone that had stood for thousands of years. Home of his fathers, seat of winter kings, the place where he'd learned to swing a sword and rule justly and love unwisely. The portcullis rose with a grinding of chains and counterweights, and then they were through, hooves clattering on familiar cobblestones.

The entire household had gathered in the yard—servants and guards, stable boys and scullery maids, all of them lined up as if for inspection. At their head stood the people who mattered: Maester Luwin with his chain gleaming in the torchlight, Ser Rodrik Cassel with his white whiskers bristling, Old Nan leaning heavily on her walking stick, and—

Catelyn. She stood apart from the others, a bundle of furs and blankets cradled in her arms, her auburn hair catching the light like burnished copper. Her smile was radiant, transforming her face from merely pretty to beautiful. The joy in her blue eyes was so pure, so untainted by the darkness he carried, that Ned felt his guilt twist deeper. She'd been faithful while he'd been faithless. She'd given him a son while he brought home another woman's child.

His eyes swept the crowd, searching automatically for faces that would never be there. For a moment—just a moment—he expected to see his father's stern visage, his mother's gentle smile, hearing Brandon's laughter, Lyanna's wild grin. But there was only Benjen, standing slightly apart from the others, and even from this distance Ned could see how the months had aged him. His youngest brother had always been the quick-to-laugh one, the one who found joy in simple things. Now his face was carved from stone, his dark eyes hollow with loss.

Ned dismounted slowly, his legs stiff from days in the saddle. The yard fell silent except for the stamp of horses and the distant sound of Jon's crying from the carriage. Catelyn stepped forward, and he could see her fighting to contain her excitement, to maintain the dignity expected of a lady.

"My lord husband," she said, her voice warm despite the formal words. "Welcome home."

Home. There was that word again, but when she said it, it almost sounded possible. He moved toward her, noting how she'd grown more beautiful in his absence—motherhood had softened her edges without diminishing her strength. The bundle in her arms stirred, and he caught a glimpse of red hair, a tiny fist waving in the cold air.

"Catelyn," he said, and her name felt strange on his tongue after so long away. "Is this...?"

"Your son," she said, unable to keep the pride from her voice. "Born three moons after you left for war. I've named him Robb, after the king. I thought... I hoped you wouldn't mind the choice."

Robb. Named for Robert. It was a good name, a strong name. "It's perfect," Ned said, and meant it. He reached out to touch the babe's cheek, marveling at how soft the skin was, how perfectly formed the tiny features. His son. His heir. The future of House Stark.

He pulled Catelyn into his arms then, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, feeling her warmth against him. For a moment, he let himself pretend that this was enough—that he could be the husband she deserved, the lord Winterfell needed. But even as he held her, he was aware of the carriage behind him, of the secret that would poison whatever happiness they might have found.

"My lord," Maester Luwin approached with his usual measured step, chain clinking softly. "It's good to have you home. The realm has need of steady hands in these uncertain times."

Ned released Catelyn reluctantly, clasping the maester's offered hand. "Maester Luwin. I will want you in my solar soon, we need to talk."

"Of course, my lord."

Ned looked around, and found himself surrounded by well-wishers. Ser Rodrik pumped his hand with genuine warmth, Old Nan muttered something about wolves and winter, and a dozen others pressed forward with greetings and questions about the war. He answered as best he could, playing the part of the victorious lord returning home, but his attention kept drifting to Benjen.

His brother hung back from the crowd, dark eyes unreadable. When their gazes met across the yard, Benjen raised his chin slightly—not quite a greeting. Ned made his excuses to the others and moved toward him, dreading what he'd have to say.

"Brother," Benjen said when Ned reached him. "You look well. The war was kind to you."

Kind. That was one word for it. "Ben." He pulled his youngest brother into an embrace, feeling how thin he'd grown, how rigid his shoulders were. "I'm sorry I couldn't write more often. The fighting was—"

"I understand." Benjen stepped back, searching Ned's face with those sharp Stark eyes. "You've grown older, big brother. We all have." A pause, he seemed to struggle for a moment, before opening his mouth again. "Where's Lyanna?"

The words hit Ned like a punch. He'd prepared for this moment, practiced what he'd say, but faced with Benjen's hopeful expression, all his careful speeches crumbled. His face must have shown the truth, because Benjen's hope died like a snuffed candle.

"How?" The single word was barely a whisper.

"Fever," Ned managed. It wasn't entirely a lie. "At the end. She... she spoke of you. Said to tell you she was sorry for the way things ended between you."

Benjen's face crumpled for just an instant before he mastered himself. Without another word, he turned and walked away, shoulders shaking. Ned wanted to follow, to offer what comfort he could, but he knew his brother needed time to process the loss. They all did.

A new round of crying from the carriage reminded him of his other burden. Wylla appeared at his elbow as if summoned, Jon bundled in her arms. The wet nurse was a woman of middle years with kind eyes and work-worn hands, her Dornish heritage evident in her olive skin and dark hair.

"My lord," she said quietly, "the babe grows restless. Perhaps..."

Ned nodded, steeling himself for what came next. The yard had grown quiet again, all eyes turning toward the woman and child. He could feel Catelyn's confusion, could practically hear the questions forming in her mind.

"This is Jon," Ned announced, his voice carrying across the silent yard. "My son. He is my blood, and he will be raised here in Winterfell alongside my trueborn children."

The silence that followed was deafening. He could feel the shock rolling off Catelyn in waves, could see the servants exchanging glances, could hear the unspoken questions hanging in the cold air. Whose son? Where is his mother? How could Lord Stark...?

Catelyn's face had gone pale, her blue eyes wide with hurt and disbelief. For a moment, Ned thought she might say something—demand answers, voice her outrage. But she was too much a lady for that, too conscious of appearances and duty. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height and inclined her head stiffly.

"Of course, my lord," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "Winterfell welcomes all of Lord Stark's children."

All of them. The emphasis was subtle but unmistakable. This wouldn't be the end of it—they'd have words later, when they were alone. Hard words, necessary words, painful words. But for now, duty would carry them through.

"Come," Ned said, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all. "Let's go inside. It's been a long journey."

Later

Ned found Benjen exactly where he'd expected—sitting cross-legged before the heart tree, staring up at the carved face with its weeping red eyes. How many times had they sat here as boys, listening to Old Nan's stories about the old gods and the children of the forest? Now they were men grown, and the stories had turned to nightmares.

"The face looks sadder than I remember," Benjen said without turning around. His voice was hoarse, as if he'd been crying, though his cheeks were dry. "Or maybe that's just me."

Ned settled beside his brother on the cold ground, feeling the chill seep through his leather breeches. The godswood was quieter than the rest of Winterfell, insulated by thick trees and older magics. Here, at least, they could speak freely without servants' ears or curious eyes. Here, the old gods keep their secrets.

"You want to know how she died." It wasn't a question. Ned had seen the hunger in Benjen's eyes during the welcoming, the desperate need for answers that had been eating at him for months.

"I want to know everything." Benjen's hands were clenched in his lap, knuckles white with tension. "The letters stopped coming. Just silence, and rumors that grew worse with each telling. Tell me what happened to our sister, Ned. Tell me why she had to die."

Where to begin? The Tower of Joy rose in his memory like a fever dream—three white cloaks standing guard, their faces grim with duty and sorrow. Arthur Dayne with Dawn across his knees, Gerold Hightower tall and terrible in his age, Oswell Whent silent as death itself. And somewhere above, Lyanna's screams echoing through the stones.

"I found her in Dorne," Ned said carefully. "At a tower in the Red Mountains. She was... she was dying when I got there, Ben. The fever had taken hold, and there was nothing the septons could do. She kept calling for home, for Winterfell, for you." 

"The fever." Benjen's voice was flat, disbelieving. "That's what killed her? Not Rhaegar's madness, not the war, just... fever?"

"The fever was what killed her in the end," Ned said, which was true enough. He wouldn't speak of the blood, of the way she'd clutched his hand while life leaked out of her. "But she was weak, Ben. Whatever happened to her... it broke something inside. She was never strong again."

Benjen was quiet for a long moment, staring at the carved face with its endless tears. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I knew she loved him. Rhaegar. I saw the way she looked when his name was mentioned, the way she'd go quiet during the talk of Princess Elia Martell. I should have said something, should have warned Father, but I thought... I thought it was just a girl's fancy. She was always wild, always dreaming of something more than what we could give her."

"She spoke of you," Ned said instead. "Said to tell you she was sorry for the harsh words between you before she left. She loved you, Ben. Never doubt that."

"But not enough to stay." The bitterness in Benjen's voice cut deep. "Not enough to think of what her leaving would do to the rest of us."

They sat in silence as the last light faded from the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—one of the pack that still roamed the wolfswood, free in ways the Starks of Winterfell could never be. We are wolves, Ned thought, but we are caged wolves, bound by duty and honor and the weight of our name.

"I'm having statues made," Ned said finally. "For the crypts. Father, and Lyanna and Brandon. They deserve to be remembered."

Benjen's head snapped around, surprise replacing the grief in his dark eyes. "Statues? But only the Lords of Winterfell—"

"Brandon was the heir," Ned cut him off. "He would have ruled if things had been different. He deserves his place among our ancestors. And Lyanna..." How could he explain the guilt that ate at him, the sense that he'd failed her somehow? "She was a Stark. She died far from home, but she'll rest here, where she belongs."

Benjen nodded slowly, understanding flickering in his eyes. "You're thinking like a lord already, big brother. Father would be proud."

The words should have brought comfort, but instead they only reminded Ned of how unprepared he was for this burden. I was never meant to rule. That was supposed to be Brandon's fate, not mine.

There was a long moment of silence, the two kept looking at the snow covered ground until Benjen spoke again.

"And the boy?" Benjen's voice was careful, probing. "The one you brought back with you. Jon, was it?"

"What about him?"

"Come now, Ned. A bastard born during wartime is nothing unusual, but bringing him home to Winterfell? That's... different. Most lords would have left him with a wet nurse in some village, maybe sent coin for his upbringing and visited when they could. But you brought him here, to your home." Benjen's dark eyes were shrewd, searching. "Why?"

"There's something else," Ned said, the words heavy on his tongue. "About the boy. About Jon. I need you to swear to me, Ben. By the old gods and the new, by our father's memory and our mother's love. Swear you'll never repeat what I'm about to tell you."

For a moment, Benjen just stared at him. Then, unexpectedly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the first genuine expression of happiness Ned had seen from him all day. "I knew it," he said softly. "I bloody knew it. The way you looked at her during the tourney at Harrenhal, the way she looked at you... Brandon teased you about it for months afterward."

Brandon. The memory of his brother's laughter was like a knife twist. "It wasn't... it wasn't planned. I told her I would marry her, we would be together, we were careless, and then-"

"Don't." Benjen's voice was firm. "Don't diminish it. I saw the way you danced with her, the way you both forgot there was anyone else in the world. That wasn't just lust, Ned. That was something real."

Real. Yes, it had been real. Real enough to haunt him still, real enough to make him ache with wanting something he could never have. Real enough to break both their hearts.

"She can't be his mother publicly," Ned said. "You understand that, don't you? The politics, the complications... it's better for everyone if people think he's just another bastard."

"Better for everyone except the boy."

"He'll be raised as a Stark. He'll have every advantage I can give him. The name is just... it's just words, Ben."

Benjen was quiet for a long moment, considering. "Speaking of names, I've made a decision about mine. I'm going to take the black, Ned. I'm going to join the Night's Watch."

The words made Ned's heart freeze Not you too. Not the last of them. "Ben, no. You can't. The Watch—"

"The Watch needs good men. And I need... I need to be somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn't remind me of everyone we've lost."

"You can't just run away from grief. It follows you wherever you go."

"I'm not running away." Benjen's voice was determined. "I'm choosing a different path. The realm needs the Wall defended, and I need a purpose that doesn't involve lands and titles and marriage alliances. Let me serve something larger than myself."

"You're the last of the Stark line besides me," Ned said desperately. "If something happens to me—"

"Then you'd better not let anything happen to you. Besides, you have a son now. A trueborn son who'll carry on the name."

And another son who never will. The thought was bitter, but Ned pushed it aside. "This is about Lyanna, isn't it? About not being able to save her?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it's about knowing that I'm not meant for lordship any more than you thought you were. The difference is, you don't have a choice. I do."

They argued for nearly an hour, their voices rising and falling like the wind through the trees. Ned tried everything—duty, family, the need for Stark blood in the North—but Benjen's mind was made up. Stubborn as a mule, just like Lyanna. In the end, Ned could only accept what he couldn't change.

"If you're determined to do this," he said finally, "at least wait until spring. Give yourself time to be sure."

"I'm sure now. But I'll wait until you're settled, until you don't need me here anymore." Benjen stood, brushing dirt from his breeches. "One more thing, brother. That boy of yours—Jon. Are you ashamed of him?"

The question caught Ned off guard. "Ashamed? No. Never. He's my son, Ben. My blood. It doesn't matter what name he carries."

"Then make sure everyone else knows that. Make sure he knows that. A bastard's life is hard enough without thinking his father wishes he'd never been born."

Gods, is that what people think? That Jon is some shameful secret I'd rather forget? The thought was nauseating. "I'll make it clear. You're right—he deserves that much from me."

Benjen nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now come on, let's get back to the keep. It's cold enough to freeze a man's blood out here, and I suspect Lady Catelyn is waiting for some explanations of her own."

As they walked back through the darkening godswood, the old gods watched them go, their carved face weeping endless tears for all the sorrows of the world.

.

.

The Maester's study felt smaller than Ned remembered, the stone walls closing in around him like a trap. When had this room become so cramped? Scrolls and ledgers covered every available surface—the oak desk, the reading table, even the windowsill where a raven preened its black feathers. The chain around Luwin's neck caught the candlelight as he moved, each link representing years of study that Ned suddenly envied. At least someone in Winterfell knows what they're doing.

"My lord," Luwin said. "Perhaps we should begin with the harvest tallies? The granaries will need—"

"All of it," Ned interrupted, gesturing helplessly at the sea of parchment. "Show me all of it at once. I need to understand what I've inherited."

What Brandon should have inherited. The thought was a familiar ache, made worse by the way Luwin's eyes softened with something that might have been pity. The maester had taught both Stark boys, had prepared Brandon for lordship while Ned learned sword work and honor and other things.

Luwin spread out a massive ledger, its pages yellowed with age and use. "The northern lords' tax contributions for the past five years," he explained, running a gnarled finger down columns of numbers that might as well have been written in Valyrian. "As you can see, the mountain clans have been... inconsistent in their payments."

"Inconsistent." Ned stared at the entries, noting how some years showed nothing but blank spaces beside certain names. "You mean they haven't paid at all."

"The Wull and the Norrey have been more reliable than the Flint and the Liddle," Luwin said diplomatically. "Though I suspect that has more to do with the distance from Winterfell than any particular loyalty to the crown's tax collectors."

Tax collectors. Another thing Brandon would have handled with ease, probably with some clever scheme to make the clansmen think they were getting the better deal. Ned felt like a man trying to read by moonlight—everything was shadows and guesswork.

"The granaries?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Full, thanks to Lord Rickard's foresight. Though if this winter proves as long as the maesters predict..." Luwin trailed off meaningfully, shuffling through another stack of parchments. "The Citadel's calculations suggest we may see snows until the turn of the next decade."

Ten years of winter. Ned's stomach clenched. "Can we feed the North for ten years?"

"If we're careful. If we're lucky. If the mountain clans don't decide to raid the river lords instead of paying their taxes." Luwin said casually.

"Luwin, I have to ask you something, and I need you to be honest."

"Always, my lord."

"Am I going to destroy everything my father built?" The words came out smaller than he'd intended, like a child asking if monsters were real. "I was never meant for this. Brandon was the heir, the one who understood politics and trade agreements and how to make the lords do what needed doing. I can swing a sword and follow orders, but this..." He gestured at the ledgers. "This requires a different kind of man."

Luwin set down his quill and fixed Ned with those knowing grey eyes. "May I tell you something, my lord? Something Maester Walys once told me when I first arrived at Winterfell?"

Ned nodded.

"He said that lordship was like learning to forge steel. You can read every book in the Citadel about metallurgy and fire temperatures, you can watch a dozen smiths work their craft, but until you pick up the hammer yourself and feel the heat on your face, you'll never truly understand." The maester's smile was gentle, reassuring. "Walys served your father for twenty years, and he told me that even Lord Rickard—who was raised knowing he'd inherit—felt lost in those first months after your grandfather's death."

Father felt lost too? It was hard to imagine. Rickard Stark had always seemed so certain, so unshakeable in his convictions.

"The North has a way of teaching its lords what they need to know, my lord. Usually through necessity and the occasional disaster." Luwin chuckled softly. "I suspect you'll find yourself more capable than you think. After all, you've already survived a war. Managing grain stores and tax ledgers seems rather tame by comparison."

If only it were that simple. Wars had rules, at least—kill your enemies, protect your friends, follow your king or your lord. Lordship was all shadows and compromises, balancing one need against another until you couldn't tell right from wrong anymore. But there was something in the old man's voice that reassured Ned that everything would be alright.

"You'll help me? Guide me through the worst of it?"

"That's what I'm here for, my lord. To serve House Stark, in whatever capacity needed." Luwin's expression grew more serious. "Though I should warn you—your lady wife has already sent three requests for audience regarding household management. I suspect she has opinions about certain... recent additions to the family."

 "Send word that I'll meet with her after the evening meal. And Luwin?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Next time, start with the easy problems first. Work up to the impossible ones."

The maester's laugh followed him out of the study, a sound that reminded Ned why Winterfell had always felt like home, even when everything else was falling apart.

The Infirmary

The family infirmary was warmer than the rest of Winterfell, braziers burning bright in each corner to keep the chill from the stones. At least someone understands that babes need warmth more than coin. Two cribs sat side by side near the largest hearth, carved from good northern oak and lined with furs that had cost more than most smallfolk saw in a year. As it should be. They're Starks, both of them.

"My lord!" The wet nurse—a plump woman named Meredyth whose own babe had died in the birthing—practically bounced on her toes as Ned approached. "Oh, you should see how your boy eats! Like a little wolf already, never satisfied, always wanting more!"

Ned peered into the first crib where Robb lay sleeping, tiny fists curled against his chest. Even in sleep, the babe looked strong—solid shoulders, a determined set to his jaw that reminded Ned painfully of Brandon. My heir. The future of House Stark. The weight of it was staggering. This child would carry everything their father had built, everything Ned hoped to leave behind.

"He's grown since this morning," Ned observed, though he wasn't entirely sure that was possible. Time moved strangely around newborns—they seemed to change between one glance and the next.

"Aye, my lord, and loud too!" Meredyth laughed, her whole face lighting up. "When he wants his milk, the whole keep knows about it. Got a proper set of lungs on him, that one does. Just like his father, I'd wager."

I was never that demanding. The thought came automatically, though Ned suspected it wasn't true. Old Nan had stories about his own infancy that suggested otherwise—tales of a red-faced babe who screamed until he got his way. Perhaps some things run in the blood.

"And this one?" Ned moved to the second crib, where Wylla sat quietly beside Jon's sleeping form. The Dornish woman looked up at him with those dark, knowing eyes that had seen too much during the war.

"Quiet as snow falling, my lord," Wylla said softly. "Hardly cries at all, just watches everything with those big eyes of his. Sometimes I think he's listening to conversations he shouldn't understand yet."

Ned reached down to adjust the furs around Jon's small body, marveling again at how tiny he was, how fragile. My son. Mine, no matter what name he carries.

As if sensing his father's presence, Jon's eyelids fluttered open.

Ashara's eyes. The same deep violet shade that had haunted his dreams since Starfall, the same color as amethysts held up to candlelight. For a moment, he was back in Harrenhal, watching those eyes close, feeling her hands trace the scars on his chest while she whispered his name like a prayer.

"Striking color, isn't it, my lord?" Wylla said, but Ned caught the undertone of worry. She knows. Of course she knows—she was there.

"Yes," Ned managed. "Very striking."

The eyes tracked to his face strangely. What do you see, little one? Do you know who I am? Jon blinked slowly, solemnly, and Ned felt something twist in his chest—love and fear and a desperate protectiveness that surprised him with its strength.

"Has he been eating well?" Ned asked, forcing himself to focus on practical matters.

"Oh yes, my lord, though not with Lord Robb's enthusiasm," Meredyth interjected from across the room. "This one's more... thoughtful about it. Takes his time, like he's considering each drop."

Even feeding with dignity. There was something absurdly Stark-like about that, something that made Ned's mouth twitch despite his worries.

"He'll need a proper cradle song," Wylla said quietly. "All babes do. Something to help him sleep when the nights grow long."

"Sing him the same songs you'd sing to any Stark child," Ned said firmly. "He belongs here as much as Robb does."

The silence that followed was loaded with meaning. Meredyth's eyes darted between the two cribs, clearly trying to work out the implications of that statement. Let her wonder. Better they think Jon matters to me than assume he's just another bastard to be shuffled aside.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," Meredyth said hesitantly, "but will the boy be staying here? In the family quarters? Some of the other servants were wondering..."

Wondering if he's worthy of the honor, if Catelyn will allow it, if I really mean to treat a bastard like a trueborn son. "Jon will remain here," Ned said, letting steel creep into his voice. "Nothing regarding his care is to be changed without my direct order. Nothing. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord," both women chorused, though Meredyth looked slightly confused by the vehemence.

"Good." Ned took one last look at both boys—his heirs in different ways, his hopes for the future wrapped in swaddling clothes and innocence. Robb would carry the Stark name forward, but Jon... Jon carried something else. 

"Send word if either of them needs anything," he told the wet nurses as he turned to leave. "Day or night, I don't care. They're my sons, and they'll be treated as such."

Ned's Bedchamber - Night

The fire in their shared chambers had burned low. Ned sat heavily in the chair by the hearth, still wearing his travel clothes, unwilling to make himself comfortable when he knew what was coming. She's been waiting all day for this conversation. I can feel her anger like heat from a forge.

Catelyn stood by the window. She'd changed from her welcoming gown into a simple blue dress that made her auburn hair shine like copper in the firelight. Beautiful, he thought absently, and furious. Despite her being his wife, Catelyn felt like a stranger, he never had the time to know her, not like Brandon.

"Lord husband," she said without turning around.

"Catelyn." He said. "I know you have questions."

"Questions." She turned then, and he saw the hurt blazing in her blue eyes. "Yes, I suppose I do have questions. Starting with why you thought it appropriate to bring your bastard to live under the same roof as your trueborn children."

Straight to the heart of it, then. He'd known this moment would come, had dreaded it through every mile between King's Landing and Winterfell. "His name is Jon."

"I don't care what his name is." She almost shouted at him. "I care that he's here, in my home, being raised alongside my son as if—as if he has some right to be here."

Your home? The phrase hit him like a slap, and suddenly all his careful restraint cracked. "Your home?" Ned's voice went dangerously quiet. "This is Winterfell, Lady wife. The seat of House Stark for eight thousand years. My home. You are here because you are married to me, because you are my wife, but do not mistake that for ownership."

He saw her flinch at his tone, but the words kept coming, cold and precise as a blade. "Jon has every right to be here because I am Lord of Winterfell, and he is my son. My blood runs in his veins just as surely as it runs in Robb's."

"No one disputes that," Catelyn said, beginning to pace the length of the chamber. "But bastards are usually... managed differently. They are kept with their mother. That's how these things are done."

"I won't hide him away like some shameful secret."

"Shameful?" Catelyn's laugh was bitter. "My lord, half the great houses in Westeros have bastard children scattered across the realm. New King Robert has bastards from here to Oldtown, and no one thinks less of him for it. Men have needs, especially during wartime. I understand that."

"Then what's the problem?" he asked instead.

"The problem," Catelyn said, stopping her pacing to face him directly, "is that you brought him here. To Winterfell. To live with us, to be raised beside Robb as if they were equals. Do you have any idea what that suggests? What people will think?"

I know exactly what they'll think. That he cared more for his bastard than was proper, that Jon meant something beyond duty and responsibility. Which was true, though not for the reasons they'd assume. "I don't particularly care what people think."

"Well, I do." The words came out like a slap. "I have to live here, Lord husband. I have to maintain relationships with the other northern ladies. And now I have to do all of that while explaining why my husband's bastard sits at our table and sleeps in our family quarters."

"Jon will be treated with the respect due a son of Winterfell. That's not negotiable."

"A son of Winterfell," Catelyn repeated slowly, as if tasting the words. "How generous. And what of his mother? Will she be treated with similar respect when she comes calling? Because surely she will, eventually. They always do."

"That's not your concern."

"Isn't it? When my husband's mistress decides she wants to be closer to her son."

Mistress. The word felt wrong, reductive. What he'd shared with Ashara had been more than that, deeper than the casual arrangements most lords made. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? Let me guess. She told you she loved you, that she'd never ask for anything more than the chance to see her child occasionally." Catelyn's voice was acid-sharp with bitter experience. "They all tell the same story, my Lord Husband. They're all special, all different from the usual whores who—"

"Don't." The word came out like the crack of a whip, all his careful control finally snapping. Ned surged to his feet, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "Don't you ever speak of her that way again."

Catelyn stepped back, genuine shock replacing the anger in her eyes. She'd pushed too far, and they both knew it.

"You will not call her a whore," Ned continued, his voice deadly quiet. "You will not speak of her with disrespect. You will not speculate about her motives or her character. Is that understood?"

"I... I apologize," Catelyn said stiffly. "I spoke hastily."

"Yes, you did." He could see her struggling with the urge to ask more questions—who was she, what had she meant to him, why was he so protective of her memory? But some instinct for self-preservation kept her silent.

The silence stretched between them. We're strangers, Ned realized with a strange sort of clarity. Married by duty, bound by circumstance, but strangers all the same. She doesn't know me, and I don't know her.

"This discussion is over," he said finally. "Jon stays. He'll be raised as a Stark, treated with honor, and given every advantage I can provide. If you can't accept that, then we have nothing more to discuss."

Catelyn nodded once, sharply. "Very well, Lord husband. You've made your position clear." She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the latch. "I'll be sleeping in my own chambers tonight. I find I need some time to... adjust to these new arrangements."

Of course you will. The thought was weary rather than angry. "As you wish, Lady wife."

She left without another word, and Ned found himself alone with the dying fire and the weight of all his secrets. This is how it starts, he thought grimly. 

But Jon was worth it. Whatever the cost to his marriage, whatever strain it placed on his household, Jon was worth protecting. Even if it meant sleeping alone in a cold bed, haunted by violet eyes.

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