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Ned Stark - Seven Months After Arya is Born
The sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones had never been so welcome. Ned dismounted slowly in Winterfell's familiar courtyard, his muscles protesting after months in the saddle and weeks aboard ships that had pitched and rolled like drunken sailors. Home. The word settled in his chest like a prayer answered, though the weight of what he'd brought back with him, both victory and burden, pressed heavy on his shoulders.
The Greyjoy Rebellion is over. Balon's sons are dead or exiled, and his remaining boy rides behind me as my ward. Ned glanced back at Theon Greyjoy, barely ten years old but already carrying himself with the cocky arrogance that seemed bred into Ironborn bones. The boy had said little during their journey north, but his golden-green eyes missed nothing, cataloguing every slight, every reminder that he was no longer a prince but a hostage dressed in finer clothes.
He's Robert's insurance policy. A leash to keep Balon in line. The arrangement left a bitter taste in Ned's mouth, using children as political pawns was distasteful, even when necessary. But the boy would be treated well at Winterfell, raised as a Stark ward rather than a prisoner. It was more than many defeated lords offered their enemies' sons.
The great doors of the keep opened, and Ned's heart lifted as his family poured into the courtyard. Gods, how they've grown. Eleven months felt like years when measured in children's lives. Robb had shot up like a weed, all arms and legs. Sansa remained beautiful as a summer day, though she hung back slightly, suddenly shy of the father she'd grown used to missing.
And Jon... Jon. Relief flooded through Ned as he saw his son standing healthy and whole beside his half-siblings. The letter from Maester Luwin about the pox had reached him weeks into the campaign, when it was too late to turn back but too fresh to forget. Every night since, Ned had wondered if he'd return to find a small grave in the godswood and another piece of his heart buried beneath Winterfell's stones.
But he's alive. He's well. Thank the gods, both old and new.
"Father!" Robb's voice cracked with excitement as he ran forward. Ned caught him in a fierce embrace, marveling at how solid his heir felt, how much stronger he'd grown in just a few months.
"Look at you," Ned murmured, holding Robb at arm's length. "You'll be taller than me before your fifteenth nameday if you keep growing like this."
"I've been practicing with Ser Rodrik every day," Robb said proudly. "And Jon's gotten really good at swords too. You should see him, Father, he's almost as good as me now!"
"Father," Sansa curtsied prettily, every inch the little lady despite her obvious excitement. "Welcome home. We missed you terribly."
"And I missed you, sweetling." Ned kissed the top of her auburn head, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. "You've grown so beautiful while I was away. Soon I'll have to beat the suitors away with a stick."
Sansa giggled at that, some of her shyness melting away. But it was Jon who drew Ned's attention next, standing quietly to one side, violet eyes bright with intelligence and something else, something new that hadn't been there before his illness.
He looks different. Older. The was subtle but unmistakable, as if the fever had burned away some essential childishness and left behind something sharper, more focused.
"Jon," Ned said softly, and saw the boy's face light up with pure joy.
"Father! You came back!" Jon flew into his arms with none of Robb's restraint, and Ned held him tight, feeling the thin frame that was stronger than it looked, the rapid heartbeat of a child who'd feared his father might not return.
I'm sorry I wasn't here when you were sick, Ned thought, guilt twisting in his chest. I'm sorry I keep leaving you when you need me most.
"I heard you were ill," Ned murmured into Jon's dark hair. "Maester Luwin's letter said... I was so worried, son."
"I got better," Jon said simply, pulling back to look at his father with those violet eyes. "I dreamed strange dreams, but I got better."
Strange dreams. Ned filed that away for later consideration.
"Lord Husband." Catelyn approached with careful grace, carrying a bundle that could only be his newest child. Her smile was warm but tired, and Ned saw the subtle signs of strain around her eyes, the weight of ruling Winterfell alone, of managing a household and three children and the crisis of Jon's illness.
"Lady wife," he said formally, then more softly, "Catelyn. You look well."
"Meet your daughter," she said, and Ned's breath caught as he looked down at the tiny face peering up at him with solemn grey eyes. Dark hair, fine as silk, and already that serious Stark expression that suggested she was taking careful measure of her father.
"Arya," Catelyn said softly. "Born seven months past, just after sunset. She's been waiting to meet you."
Arya. The name suited her, strong and clean and unpretentious. Ned reached out tentatively, and small fingers immediately wrapped around his own with surprising strength.
"Hello, little wolf," he whispered, and felt his heart expand to accommodate this new love. "I'm your father, and I'm never leaving you for so long again."
Another promise I may not be able to keep, the practical part of his mind whispered, but he pushed the thought aside. For now, this moment, his family was whole and safe and together.
A throat cleared behind him, and Ned remembered his other responsibility. "Children," he said, turning to include Theon in his gaze, "this is Theon Greyjoy. He'll be staying with us as my ward, and I expect you to treat him with the courtesy due a guest in our home."
Theon stepped forward with careful pride, his chin raised just slightly too high. "My lord," he said, his voice pitched to carry just the right note of respect without subservience.
He's proud. Good. Broken boys make poor men, and whatever else Theon Greyjoy becomes, he'll need his pride intact.
"Theon will be joining your lessons with Maester Luwin," Ned continued, watching his children's reactions. Robb looked curious and welcoming, Sansa merely polite, but Jon... Jon was studying Theon with those sharp violet eyes, as if cataloguing everything about the newcomer.
Of course Jon would be cautious. He knows what it's like to be the outsider, the one who doesn't quite belong.
"How old are you?" Robb asked right away.
"Ten," Theon replied, and Ned could hear the clear smugness in his voice.
"We're six," Robb said cheerfully. "But we're very mature for our age. Isn't that right, Jon?"
Jon nodded solemnly. "Very mature. We barely ever get in trouble anymore."
Barely ever. Ned bit back a smile at the careful qualification. "Well then, I'm sure you'll help Theon settle in. Maester Luwin can arrange for chambers near yours, and you three can play later."
After spending hours speaking with Maester Luwin, his wife, Vayoon Poole, Ser Rodrik Cassel, his nephew Jory Casse. Septon Chayle who maintains the castle's sept, and Septa Mordanewho tutors the Stark children. Ned found himself alone in his solar, but not for long.
The soldiers at the door told him that his son wanted to speak with him and Ned told them to open the door and Jon walked in, looking slightly nervous.
"You wanted to speak with me, Jon?" he said gently, watching as his son fidgeted in the chair across from his desk.
"Yes, Father." Jon's voice was steadier than his hands. "I wanted to ask... I need to know... who was my mother?"
And there it is. Ned felt his chest tighten with familiar pain. The question I've always known would come.
"You have your mother's eyes," Ned said carefully, the same answer he'd given before, hoping it might satisfy.
"But who was she?" Jon pressed, and there was something new in his voice, a determination that hadn't been there before his illness. "I want to know who she was, Father. Please."
Ashara. Her name whispered through his mind like a prayer and a lament. He could see her so clearly still, violet eyes bright with laughter, beautiful dark hair, lips soft against his in those stolen moments at Starfall. The way she'd looked at him when he'd told her he had to leave, the promise in her eyes that she'd find a way to visit, to be part of Jon's life.
All gone now. All lost. The pain was still sharp after all these years, the knowledge that he'd never hold her again, never hear her laugh, never see her eyes light up at the sight of her son.
"I will tell you," Ned said finally, his voice rough with old grief. "Someday, when you're older, I'll tell you everything you want to know about your mother."
Jon's face fell. "But Father—"
"Someday," Ned repeated firmly. "I promise you that."
Jon was quiet for a long moment, those violet eyes studying his father's face. Finally, he asked, "Was she... was she highborn or lowborn?"
The question surprised Ned with its directness. He's thinking about his place in the world already. Six years old and already wondering if his blood makes him worthy of respect.
"Highborn," Ned said without hesitation. "Your mother was a highborn lady, Jon. One of the most beautiful women in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Jon's face brightened at that, some essential worry easing from his expression. "Really?"
"Really." Ned leaned forward, needing his son to understand this if nothing else. "She was beautiful and kind and brave, and she would have loved you more than life itself."
"Do you think..." Jon's voice was very small now. "Do you think she would be proud of me? If she could see me now?"
Oh, my boy. Ned's throat closed with emotion. If only you knew how much she wanted you, how much she loved you even before you were born.
"Jon," he said, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest, "your mother would love you with everything she had. She would want you to grow up into a good man. Someone who reaches high and never lets anyone tell him that because of his name, he's lesser than anyone else."
Jon nodded solemnly, as if committing the words to memory. "Thank you, Father. For telling me about her."
"You're welcome, son," Ned said softly. "Now go get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll start your proper training. All of you boys together."
As Jon left the solar, Ned turned to stare out at the dawn sky, thinking of violet eyes and promises broken by death, of a son who would grow up never knowing how desperately his mother had wanted to watch him become the man Ned was determined to help him be.
Someday, he promised silently. Someday I'll find the words to tell you the truth without breaking both our hearts.
But not today. Today, it was enough that Jon was alive and healthy and home, asking the questions that proved he was growing into the thoughtful, determined young man his mother would have been so proud to call her son.
Jon Snow
Jon settled into his bed with the satisfied tiredness that came from a day well-spent. Father was home, baby Arya had grabbed his finger again at supper (which still made him feel warm and important), and Theon seemed like he might be interesting once he stopped trying so hard to look tough. He reminds me of a peacock, Jon thought drowsily. All pretty feathers and loud squawking.
Sleep came quickly, and with it, the familiar sensation of floating away from his own body.
When Jon opened his eyes, he was padding through sun-warmed corridors on four silent paws. The one-eyed vision no longer startled him, though he still didn't understand why the cat could only see from one side. Everything smelled different here, spicier and warmer than Winterfell, with undertones of orange blossoms and something that might have been cinnamon.
I'm Balerion again, he thought with the easy acceptance that dreams allowed. Time to find the girl.
He found her in the same garden courtyard, but this time she wasn't reading. Instead, she was sitting cross-legged on the ground, carefully arranging colored stones in patterns while she hummed a song Jon didn't recognize. She looked older than he remembered, maybe ten or eleven now, with long dark hair that caught the sunlight like polished metal.
"There you are, you sneaky cat," she said without looking up as Jon approached. "I was wondering when you'd come visit me again."
Jon-the-cat wound around her legs, purring loudly. This time, though, he found he could almost... almost make the cat do what he wanted it to do. Not perfectly, but better than before.
"You're acting strange today, Balerion," the girl observed, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "More like you're actually listening to me instead of just pretending."
I am listening, Jon wanted to tell her. I'm always listening.
The girl had purple eyes, just like his, and Jon wondered if that meant something important. In his real life, he'd never met anyone else with eyes like his own. Maybe this girl was special too.
"Do you want to see what I'm making?" she asked, gesturing to her stone pattern. "It's supposed to be a dragon, but I think it looks more like a very fat snake."
Jon examined her work with his one good eye. She was right - it did look more like a snake than a dragon. But he could see what she'd been trying to do, how the stones were meant to curve and flow like the pictures of dragons in Maester Luwin's books.
Without quite understanding how he did it, Jon managed to make Balerion's paw nudge one of the stones into a better position. Then another. The girl's eyes widened.
"Did you just... did you fix my dragon?" She stared at him with those familiar purple eyes. "How did you know where those stones should go?"
Jon purred louder, pleased with himself. Maybe if I keep helping, she'll figure out that I'm not just a regular cat.
"You're definitely acting weird today," the girl continued, but she sounded delighted rather than worried. "It's like you can understand everything I'm saying. Can you understand me, Balerion?"
Jon made the cat nod, which felt very strange but seemed to work.
The girl gasped. "You can! You really can understand me!" She leaned closer, studying his face intently. "Your eye looks different too. More... more like a person's eye than a cat's eye."
Because I am a person, Jon thought. At least, part of me is.
"This is amazing," the girl whispered. "Wait until I tell Uncle Oberyn about this. A cat who can understand people and fix stone dragons!" She paused, then grinned. "Though maybe I shouldn't tell him. Adults never believe the interesting things."
Jon agreed with that completely. Adults had a way of making exciting things boring by explaining them too much.
The girl spent the rest of the dream showing him around her garden, chattering about everything and nothing while Jon tried to help with her projects when he could. She was funny and smart and talked to him like he was a real person instead of just a pet. Jon liked her more each time he visited.
"I wish you could talk back to me," she said eventually, holding him in her lap while she watched clouds drift across the blue sky. "I get lonely sometimes. Papa's always busy with important things, and everyone else treats me like I'm made of glass."
I know what that feels like, Jon thought sympathetically. Being lonely even when you're surrounded by people.
"But you're different," the girl continued, stroking his black fur. "You make me feel less alone."
You make me feel less alone too, Jon wanted to tell her, but cat mouths weren't made for words. Instead, he purred and rubbed his head against her hand.
As the dream began to fade around the edges, Jon heard the girl call out, "Come back soon, Balerion! I'll have new stories to tell you!"
Jon woke in his own bed feeling more alert than he usually did after dreams. The details remained sharp and clear, not fuzzy like normal dream-memories. He could still smell the orange blossoms, could still feel the warmth of the southern sun on fur that wasn't quite his own.
That wasn't just a dream, he realized with growing certainty. That was real. I was really there, really with her.
The understanding should have frightened him, but instead it felt like discovering a wonderful secret. Somewhere far away, there was a girl with purple eyes who was his friend, even if she didn't know who he really was. A girl who made stone dragons and talked to cats and understood what it felt like to be lonely.
I'll go back, Jon promised himself as he settled deeper into his blankets. I'll visit her again soon.
After all, everyone needed a friend. Even if that friend lived in dreams and thought he was a one-eyed cat named Balerion.
Jon lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, Father's words echoing in his mind like a song he couldn't stop humming. Your mother would love you with everything she had. She would want you to grow up into a good man. Someone who reaches high and never lets anyone tell him that because of his name, he's lesser than anyone else.
She was highborn, Jon thought with a flutter of pride in his chest. The most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms. That meant something, didn't it? That meant he wasn't just some tavern wench's mistake that Father had to drag home out of duty.
She would want me to reach high. Jon rolled over and hugged his pillow, trying to imagine what his mother might have looked like. Beautiful, Father had said, with violet eyes like his. With dark hair, and maybe she would have been proud to see how good he was getting with swords and reading.
But I'm not really being good, am I? The uncomfortable thought wiggled into his mind like a splinter. I keep letting Robb win at swords because I don't want Lady Catelyn to get angry. I pretend to be worse than I am because it's easier.
That wasn't what a good man would do, was it? A good man wouldn't hide what he could do just to make other people comfortable. And if his mother really was highborn, if she really would have wanted him to be great, then maybe he was dishonoring her memory by being small and quiet and forgettable.
Tomorrow, Jon decided, sitting up in bed with sudden determination. Tomorrow when we practice with Ser Rodrik, I won't hold back anymore. I'll show everyone what I can really do.
The thought scared him a little. Lady Catelyn would definitely not like it if he was better than Robb at fighting. She might get that cold, angry look she got sometimes, the one that made Jon feel like he was shrinking into the floor. But Father had said his mother would want him to reach high, would want him never to let anyone make him feel lesser because of his name.
Snow isn't lesser than Stark, Jon told himself fiercely. Not if I don't let it be.
He thought about the purple-eyed girl from his dreams, how she talked to him like he was important even when she thought he was just a cat. Maybe that's what his real mother would have been like, someone who saw the best in him instead of looking for reasons to push him aside.
I'll be brave like she would want me to be, Jon promised the darkness. I'll be the best I can be, even if it makes people uncomfortable. Even if Lady Catelyn gets angry.
Because somewhere out there, his beautiful, highborn mother was watching over him, and Jon Snow was going to make her proud.
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