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The morning mist clung to Winterfell's stones like a shroud, and Ned found himself thinking it was fitting weather for another goodbye. How many farewells can one man endure? He stood in the courtyard watching Benjen secure his travel pack to his horse's saddle. His brother wore simple brown leather and wool—the last time he'd dress as anything other than a man of the Night's Watch.
"You're certain about this?" Ned asked for what had to be the dozenth time in as many days. "Once you take the vows, Ben..."
"Once I take the vows, I'll finally have a purpose that doesn't involve listening to you fret like an old woman." Benjen's grin was forced, but it was there. "Besides, someone needs to make sure the Watch remembers what a proper Stark looks like. Can't have them thinking we're all as grim as you."
Grim. If only he knew how grim things truly were. "The Wall is no place for jests, brother."
"Then I'll have to teach them." Benjen moved toward where Catelyn stood holding Robb, and Wylla was holding Jon. She'd insisted on bringing Robb despite the early hour and cold air, and Ned then decided that Jon needed to be there as well.
"Lady Catelyn," Benjen said with an elaborate bow that made her lips twitch despite herself. "I trust you'll keep my brother from brooding himself to death while I'm gone?"
"I'll do my best, though I fear it may be beyond my capabilities," she replied. Still so formal, even after five months since he returned. The distance between his wife and his bastard son had only grown wider with time, a chasm Ned couldn't seem to bridge.
Benjen reached for Robb first, lifting the sturdy boy easily. At eight months, Robb was already showing signs of the Stark build—broad shoulders, strong limbs, a determined set to his jaw even in infancy. "Look at you, nephew. Going to be tall as a tree and twice as stubborn, I'd wager."
Robb gurgled happily, tiny fists grabbing at Benjen's beard.
"Careful there, little wolf. That took me months to grow properly." Benjen's voice was lighter than it had been in weeks, and for a moment he looked like the brother Ned remembered from before the war. "You take care of your father for me, you hear? Don't let him get too serious. Stark lords who forget how to smile turn into ice statues, and we've got enough of those in the crypts."
"Ben," Ned warned.
"What? It's good advice." Benjen handed Robb back to Catelyn and reached for Jon from Wylla. The bastard was smaller than his half-brother, more delicate in build, but those violet eyes tracked everything with an intensity that seemed impossible for such a young child.
"And you, little mystery," Benjen said softly, settling Jon against his shoulder. "You're going to be the interesting one, aren't you? Those eyes of yours are going to break hearts and start wars."
Gods, I hope not. Ned watched his brother cradle his son—both his sons, really, though only one would ever bear the name—and felt something twist in his chest.
"Promise me something, Jon Snow," Benjen murmured, voice too low for Catelyn to hear clearly. "Promise me you'll be good to your father. He's got more weight on his shoulders than any man should carry, but he loves you. Don't ever doubt that."
Jon's response was a soft coo and a tiny hand that somehow found its way to Benjen's nose, making the soon-to-be black brother laugh—the first genuine laughter Ned had heard from him since learning of Lyanna's death.
"I'll take that as a yes." Benjen kissed the top of Jon's dark head before handing him back to Wylla.
"When will you be back?" Ned asked, though they both knew the answer.
"Hard to say. The Watch doesn't exactly offer leave for family visits." Benjen's attempt at lightness fell flat. "But I'll find ways. Ravens, if nothing else. And when these two are old enough to hold swords, maybe I'll request permission to come south and teach them how real men fight."
"The Watch will keep you busy enough without worrying about sword lessons."
"The Watch will keep me from thinking too much about empty chairs at family dinners." The honesty in Benjen's voice cut deeper than any blade. "This is the right choice, Ned. For all of us."
Is it? Ned wanted to argue, to find some reason to keep his last brother home, but the words wouldn't come. Benjen had made his decision months ago, and nothing Ned said would change it.
"The boys will need their uncle," Ned said instead.
"They'll have their uncle. Just... at a distance." Benjen clasped Ned's shoulder, the gesture firm and final. "Take care of them, brother. All of them. Even the ones who don't make it easy."
His eyes flicked meaningfully toward Catelyn, who was studiously not listening to their conversation.
"I will."
"Good. And Ned? Try to smile once in a while. It won't kill you, I promise."
With that, Benjen swung up onto his horse. He looked down at them for a long moment—his brother, his sister-by-marriage, and the two babies who represented the future of House Stark in all its complicated glory.
"Until we meet again," he said simply.
"Until we meet again," Ned replied, the old family farewell tasting like ash in his mouth.
Benjen wheeled his horse toward the gate, and within moments he and three riders who would accompany him to the wall were through the portcullis and gone, leaving only hoofprints in the mud and the echo of departure in the morning air.
Ned stood watching the empty gateway long after the sound of hooves had faded, feeling the weight of solitude settle on his shoulders like a winter cloak. The last Stark in Winterfell. Father, Brandon, Lyanna, and now Benjen—all gone, all lost to duty or death or the weight of their own choices.
"My lord?" Catelyn's voice was gentle, understanding. "Perhaps we should go inside. Robb will catch cold."
"Yes," Ned said, turning away from the gate and the road that led north to the Wall. "Let's go inside."
As they walked back toward the keep, Jon's violet eyes caught the morning light, and for just a moment Ned could swear he saw Ashara looking back at him.
Catelyn Tully Stark - Six Months Later
The family solar was warm despite the autumn chill creeping through Winterfell's stones. Catelyn sat in her favorite chair with her embroidery, stealing glances at the two boys as they explored the room with the determined curiosity of fourteen-month-old explorers.
Robb had discovered the wooden blocks Maester Luwin had carved for him, stacking them with the single-minded focus that reminded Catelyn so much of Ned when he was working through a problem. His auburn hair caught the firelight, and she felt that familiar swell of maternal pride. My son. My beautiful, perfect son.
The boy, meanwhile, had found a loose thread on one of the wall tapestries and was attempting to unravel the entire thing with methodical persistence. His violet eyes—those unsettling, beautiful eyes that belonged on his mother's face, not in Winterfell—were bright with concentration as his small fingers worked at the fabric.
"Boy, no," Catelyn said automatically. "Go away from there."
The dark-haired boy looked up at her with those piercing eyes, tilted his head as if considering her request, then promptly returned to his task. Stubborn as his father, she thought, though she immediately regretted the comparison. The boy was a reminder, a living symbol of her husband's faithlessness.
Robb abandoned his blocks and toddled over to where Jon was working on the tapestry. For a moment, the two boys stood side by side, and the resemblance was striking despite their different coloring. They had the same determined set to their jaws, the same way of tilting their heads when focused on something important.
"Brother," Robb said clearly, his first word ringing out in the quiet solar like a bell.
Catelyn's embroidery fell from nerveless fingers. His first word. The moment she'd been waiting for, hoping for, dreaming about for months. And it wasn't "mama" or "mother" or even "father." It was the about the Ned's bastard.
Brother. Robb had called the boy brother, and the casual acceptance in that tiny voice was like a knife between her ribs. This was how it would always be—her son growing up thinking of the bastard as family, never understanding the distinction that should matter, the bloodlines that should define them.
Jon looked up at Robb with delight, clapping his small hands together. Then, as if the sound had unlocked something in him, he turned toward Catelyn with his arms outstretched and said, clear as crystal, "Mother!"
The world stopped.
Mother. The boy's first word, spoken to her, reaching for her with complete trust and innocent love. The word she'd dreamed of hearing from Robb's lips, the sweet acknowledgment of their bond, their connection. Instead, it came from the bastard boy, the child who had no right to call her by that name, who would never truly be hers no matter how many times he said it.
The cruelty of it was breathtaking. Her own son's first word was for another child, while that same child claimed her with a title that should have been reserved for Robb alone. How dare he? How dare this bastard take even this from me?
"Cat?" Ned's voice came from the doorway, warm with amusement. "Did I hear—"
"No." She almost shouted, and regretted it, a lady should never shout at their lord husband. Catelyn stood abruptly, her embroidery scattering to the floor, and scooped Robb into her arms. The boy protested the sudden movement, reaching back toward Jon with a confused whimper, but she held him tight.
"Catelyn, what's wrong?" Ned stepped into the room, his expression shifting from pleasure to concern as he took in her pale face and rigid posture.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't explain that her heart was breaking over something as simple as a child's first words. How could she tell him that hearing the boy call her "mother" felt like a violation, a claim being made that she wasn't prepared to accept? How could she admit that she was jealous of the easy affection between a bastard and her own son?
"Mother!" the boy called again, still reaching for her with those trusting violet eyes. He took a wobbling step forward, then another, his face scrunched with concentration and determination.
The sight of him—this innocent child who didn't understand why the woman he loved was suddenly cold and distant—only made it worse. He doesn't know, she realized with a mixture of guilt and resentment. He doesn't know I'm not really his mother.
"I need some air," Catelyn managed, clutching Robb closer. "I'm taking Robb to see Old Nan."
"But Catelyn—"
She was already moving toward the door, not trusting herself to stay another moment. Behind her, she could hear Jon's confused crying starting up, the sound of a child who didn't understand why his world had suddenly shifted. But she couldn't stop, couldn't turn back, couldn't pretend that everything was fine when her own son had just claimed the bastard as family while the bastard claimed her as his mother.
This is what I get, she thought bitterly as she hurried down the corridor. This is what I get for trying to be kind to him.
The sound of Jon's wails followed her down the hall, and she forced herself not to listen, not to care. Let Ned comfort his bastard. Let him explain why the world was cruel and unfair and full of disappointments. That wasn't her responsibility.
Ned Stark
Ned stood before the tall window in Maester Luwin's study, watching ravens come and go from the rookery above. Fourteen months. It had been fourteen months since he'd left Starfall, since he'd held Ashara in his arms and promised to keep their son safe. Since she'd whispered against his lips that she would visit as soon as possible, that she would be there for Jon even if she could never be Lady of Winterfell.
Where are you, Ashara? Why haven't you written?
"My lord?" Luwin's voice broke through his brooding. "You seem troubled. More so than usual, if I may say."
Troubled. That was one word for the gnawing worry that had taken up residence in his chest, growing stronger with each day that passed without word from Dorne. "Luwin, you receive ravens from all corners of the realm. Have you... have you heard any news from the southern houses lately? Any rumors or... happenings of note?"
The maester's quill paused over his parchment. "Southern houses, my lord? Is there something specific you're concerned about? Trade routes? Political alliances?"
Ashara. I'm concerned about Ashara. But he couldn't say that, couldn't reveal the depth of his interest without raising questions he wasn't prepared to answer. "General news. How the great houses are faring after the war. Dorne, particularly. They...suffered a lot from this bloody war."
"Ah, yes. Dorne." Luwin set down his quill and reached for a leather-bound ledger, flipping through pages of careful notes. "Prince Doran has been remarkably quiet since the war's end. No major announcements, no significant marriages or alliances. Though..."
"Though what?"
Luwin's expression grew troubled, his weathered fingers tracing a particular entry. "There was some sad news from House Dayne, actually. Several months ago. Perhaps eight or nine months past."
Ned's blood turned to ice. "What kind of news?"
"Lady Ashara Dayne. Arthur Dayne's sister." Luwin looked up from his ledger, his grey eyes full of sympathy. "She's dead, my lord. Threw herself from the highest tower of Starfall, according to the reports. Her body was never recovered—the river carried it away, they say."
The world tilted. Ned gripped the window ledge so hard his knuckles went white, fighting against the sudden vertigo that threatened to send him to his knees. Dead. Ashara is dead. The words repeated in his mind like a death knell, each repetition driving the reality deeper into his soul.
"When?" The word came out as barely a whisper.
"The reports were... vague on specifics. Sometime after the war ended, certainly. The maesters at Starfall weren't forthcoming with details, which isn't unusual in cases of..." Luwin paused delicately. "In cases where the circumstances are distressing to the family."
After the war ended. Which meant after he'd left Starfall. After he'd taken Jon away from her. Ned's mind raced, calculating dates, trying to understand. If the reports had reached Winterfell eight or nine months ago, and ravens took time to fly north...
"How long after the war?" he asked, though he dreaded the answer.
"Not long, I believe. Perhaps a few weeks? A month at most?" Luwin's voice was gentle, but each word hit Ned like a hammer to the chest. "My lord, are you quite well? You've gone rather pale."
A few weeks. Sweet gods, she'd done it within weeks of his departure. While Jon was still tiny, still needing his mother's milk, Ashara had climbed to the highest tower of her family's keep and...
"Why?" The question tore from his throat before he could stop it. "Why would she do such a thing?"
Luwin's expression grew even more sympathetic. "Grief, most likely. Losing her brother Arthur in the war was a terrible blow to House Dayne. Arthur was the Sword of the Morning, their greatest knight. And Lady Ashara was... well, she was quite young, from what I understand. Sometimes the burden of loss becomes too much to bear."
Arthur. Of course—Luwin didn't know the truth about what had happened at the Tower of Joy, didn't know that Ned had been forced to wound the greatest knight in Westeros to save Lyanna. Didn't know that when Ned had arrived at Starfall with Dawn and news of Arthur's death, he'd found Ashara already devastated by grief.
I should have stayed longer. I should have seen the signs, should have known she was breaking apart.
"I need to leave."
Ned left the study in a daze, his feet carrying him automatically toward the family quarters. He found Jon in the nursery with his wet nurse, playing with wooden toys while Robb napped in his crib nearby. Those violet eyes—Ashara's eyes—looked up at him with such trust and innocence that Ned felt his composure finally crack.
"Come here, son," he whispered, lifting Jon into his arms.
The boy settled against his shoulder. Ned carried him out of the keep, through the yard, and into the godswood where the old gods could witness his grief in silence.
Under the watchful eyes of the heart tree, Ned held his son and mourned the woman who had given him life. I'm sorry, Ashara. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you too.
Jon babbled happily, reaching up to touch his father's face with small, curious fingers, completely unaware that he had just become an orphan in truth. Unaware that the mother who had loved him enough to die for grief of losing him was gone forever, carried away by the river like so many Dornish dead.
I'll tell you about her, Ned promised silently. When you're old enough to understand, I'll tell you about your mother. About how beautiful she was, how much she loved you, how she would have moved mountains to keep you safe.
But for now, all he could do was hold his son close and let the ancient gods of the North comfort them both.
Three Years Later - Jon Snow (4)
Jon liked the way the morning sun made patterns on his bedroom floor, even though the light didn't stay as long as it did in Robb's room. He sat cross-legged in the small warm spot by his window, playing with his wooden horse while waiting for Robb to wake up.
"Jon!" Robb's voice came from down the hall. "Are you awake? Can we go find Sansa?"
Jon smiled and padded barefoot across the cold stone floor to Robb's room.
"Morning, Robb!" Jon said, because Robb was his favorite person in the whole world.
"Let's go see if Sansa's awake," Robb said, struggling with his boots. "I bet she wants to play with us."
Jon nodded, even though he wasn't sure. Sansa was little—only two—but she was fun to play with most of the time. She had the same red hair as Robb and the same bright smile, and she called both of them "brother" which always made Jon feel warm inside.
The boys got dressed and ran down to the great hall for breaking fast. Jon loved the great hall in the morning when the light made everything golden. He sat next to Robb at the big table, though his chair was a little smaller and positioned slightly back from the others.
"Good morning, boys," Father said, and his voice was warm like honey when he looked at them. Jon always felt better when Father was around because Father's eyes were kind and he never seemed to think anything was wrong with Jon.
"Morning, Father!" Robb said loudly. "Can we go to the training yard today? I want to see the swords!"
"Perhaps later," Father said, ruffling Robb's hair. Then he looked at Jon and smiled just the same way. "And how are you this morning, Jon?"
"Good, Father," Jon said, feeling happy that Father always included him.
Lady Catelyn came into the hall then, carrying baby Sansa. Sansa clapped her hands when she saw them and made happy baby noises.
"Brother! Brother!" Sansa said, reaching toward both boys with her little arms.
Jon giggled because Sansa was always so excited to see them. Lady Catelyn's face stayed polite and still when she looked at Father, but Jon noticed she didn't really look at him at all. It was like he wasn't quite there, which felt strange but not mean exactly.
"Good morning, my lord husband," Lady Catelyn said to Father. Then she looked at Robb and her whole face changed, becoming soft and bright. "Good morning, my darling boy."
"Morning, Mother! Look, Sansa remembers us!"
Lady Catelyn smiled at Robb and kissed the top of his head, but her eyes stayed carefully away from Jon. It wasn't angry, just... empty, like looking through him instead of at him.
"Brother Jon!" Sansa said happily, and Jon reached over to touch her tiny hand.
"Hi, Sansa," he said softly. He liked how she always seemed happy to see him.
After breakfast, when Father had gone to his solar for lord business, Lady Catelyn's voice changed.
"Boy," she said quietly, and something in her tone made his stomach feel funny. "You shouldn't sit so close to Sansa during meals. She might catch something."
Jon didn't understand what Sansa might catch from him, but he nodded anyway. "Yes, my lady."
"And keep your voice down in the halls. Some of us prefer quiet."
Jon nodded again, feeling confused. Robb was much louder than him, but Lady Catelyn never told Robb to be quiet. Maybe it was because Jon's voice sounded different somehow.
The boys went exploring after that. Winterfell was full of interesting places and people who usually smiled at them, though Jon noticed the smiles were sometimes different. When they met Ser Rodrik in the courtyard, the old knight bowed properly to Robb and said "Good morning, young lord," but to Jon he just nodded and said "Morning, lad."
"Can we see your sword, Ser Rodrik?" Robb asked.
"Perhaps when you're older, my lord," Ser Rodrik said kindly. When Jon asked the same question, Ser Rodrik patted his head and said, "We'll see, boy."
Jon didn't understand why the answers were different, but he was used to not understanding grown-up things.
In the kitchens, the cook gave Robb a honey cake and Jon a regular oat cake. In the stables, the grooms called Robb "young master" and Jon just "Jon." The differences were small, but Jon was starting to notice them like counting raindrops.
They found Sansa in the garden with her septa, learning to walk better. She toddle-ran toward them with her arms out.
"Brothers!" she said happily, hugging Jon's legs just like she hugged Robb's.
"Hi, little sister," Jon said, lifting her up carefully. She was getting heavier but she still fit perfectly in his arms.
"Jon horse," Sansa said, pointing at the wooden horse he'd brought. "Sansa horse too?"
"You can play with it," Jon offered, because sharing with Sansa always made her smile.
They played in the garden until Sansa got sleepy and the septa took her for her nap. Then Jon and Robb went looking for Father, but he was locked away in meetings again.
"Why is Father always busy?" Robb asked.
Jon shrugged. "Important lord things, I guess."
They sat outside Father's solar, waiting and listening to the deep voices inside talking about things like taxes and grain stores. Jon liked waiting for Father because when Father came out, his face always got happy to see them.
"Boys," Father said when the door finally opened, looking tired but pleased. "What are you doing out here?"
"Waiting for you," Robb said. "We wanted to show you our sums that Maester Luwin taught us."
Father smiled and picked up both boys, one on each arm even though they were getting big. "Show me everything," he said.
Jon felt warm and safe when Father held him. Father never treated him differently from Robb, never made him feel like something was wrong with him. When Father was around, Jon felt like he belonged completely.
"Father?" Jon asked after they'd shown off their counting. "Why do I look different from Robb and Sansa?"
Father was quiet for a moment, his face getting sad in a way that made Jon worry he'd asked something wrong.
"You have different coloring," Father said finally. "Your hair is dark and your eyes are purple. That comes from..." He paused. "That comes from your mother's family."
Jon wanted to ask more about his mother, but Father's voice had that careful sound that meant the conversation was finished. Jon didn't remember having a mother at all—it was just Father and Lady Catelyn and the other children. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to have a mother who looked like him, but mostly he tried not to think about it because it made his chest feel empty.
"I love you, Father," Jon said, because Father always seemed sad when they talked about Jon being different.
"I love you too, son," Father said, holding him tighter.
Jon believed him. Even if other people treated him strangely sometimes, even if people called him different names, Father loved him just the same as Robb.
And Robb and Sansa loved him too, which meant he had a family even if he didn't understand all the rules about how families worked.
That felt like enough, most of the time.
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