??? I
283 – AC
The Redstones rise vast and solemn against the dying light, their weathered faces bathed in dusky hues of banners. Moss clings to the cracks like old blood turned green, and the river beyond the walls murmurs low, as if afraid to disturb what sleeps within.
This feigned Realm bares steel against blood, fangs against rule and faces a rebellion born out of love.
And here, within the keep of Riverrun, beneath the weeping stones and flickering torches, lies a king unmade.
A king yet to be.
A king, though no crown will touch his brow for many years.
His blood carries the weight of the First Men, deep and unmoving as the roots of the weirwoods, yet his skin bears the fair hue of the Tullys.
The crib holds him by dark lumber well made.
Beside him, the mother sleeps uneasy. The toils of birth cling to her like ghosts; her breath catches between worlds.
The approach was made carefully, for even my being could wake the child.
The babe's dream stirs, faint ripples upon the surface of a deep lake but he does not wake.
He is attuned already, though he knows it not.
None see me. None ever do.
Only the child might, in time. But that time is not yet.
'Oh how beautiful he is, Vadul,'
My thoughts echo through the walls of memory, not stone. I think of another child, my first, taken in the War of Reasons.
A son lost to folly and fate, while I stood powerless. Such was my curse of the one who sees too much and acts too late.
She too is bound to the same cruel wheel and mayhaps changing that is the only fairness to this poor deal.
I raise my hand over the boy.
The air trembles.
The unseen tethers that bind this realm tighten and hum, red and blue, until they fray and wither, undone by the weight of my will.
This is but a final cry made loud, measly done.
She moans softly in her sleep, her body remembering pain that has already passed.
The babe shivers, and I draw him close. He is so small, and yet… the realm itself leans toward him, expectant.
The moment passes. Silence falls heavy once more.
A golden thread glimmers faintly above his brow. I touch it, gently, reverently. It thrums like a heartbeat. The soul of destiny is faint, but true.
The Child goes back to his crib, not yet. His flesh would crumble beneath the burden of what is coming.
He is not strong enough.
The shadows gather and pull me within.
Mercy has no place in this world and it is not mine to give, it is never for those who serve as I do.
My vows are my chains, forged across worlds unseen, and I am their willing captive.
I have masters, and they have spoken.
He is not strong enough. But he will be.
And when the hour comes, when blood and winter meet, I shall return for the Vessel, as promised.
Rest until, Robb of House Stark.
—----
Jon Snow I
293 – AC
The yard smelled of iron, sweat, and cold earth. The kind of cold that bit through leather and skin alike, sharp and honest, the way the North itself was. Frost rimed the edges of the training dummies, turning straw into brittle silver beneath the pale winter sun.
Jon's breath came out in thin, white ribbons as he swung his wooden sword again, his arm aching but steady.
The crack of wood on wood rang out through the courtyard as Robb's laughter followed close behind it.
They were near enough in age, though Robb always seemed to stand just a little taller, his grin always a touch wider, his confidence never in doubt.
Jon moved with quiet precision, every swing measured, his father's lessons echoing in his head: Swift, not wild; calm, not cruel.
Robb lunged, his blow glancing off Jon's shoulder. Jon twisted, pivoted, and drove his practice sword into Robb's chest with a solid thud.
Robb stumbled back, breathless, laughing still. "Seven hells, Jon, you'll have me bruised from neck to navel before supper!"
Jon grinned despite himself, the rare kind of grin that came unbidden. "You left yourself open again."
"So Ser Rodrik tells me every morning," Robb replied, tossing his sword aside. "Come on, there'll be bread and honey left if we're quick."
Jon hesitated, wiping frost from his sleeve. He wanted to follow, wanted to sit beside Robb at the long table and laugh at Theon's boasting and Arya's scowls. But he already knew how it would go, the glance from Lady Stark, cool as ice, reminding him without a word that he was not one of them.
So he only said, "Go ahead. I'll come soon."
Inside, Winterfell breathed around him, its stones old and knowing, the air thick with the smell of smoke, wet wool, and baking bread.
The fires burned low in their pits, but even the flames seemed subdued here, as if wary of the cold pressing in from every crack and seam.
Jon knew these halls better than any man alive, or so he fancied. He had walked them in silence often enough to learn how they whispered.
The castle was home, but not his. It welcomed him with one hand and pushed him away with the other.
He heard Robb's laughter echo from the great hall, mingled with Theon's sharp, mocking tone.
Jon could almost picture it, Theon with his smug grin, Robb rolling his eyes, Bran leaning close to listen, Arya kicking Theon under the table when she thought no one was looking.
It made him smile. It made him ache.
When he finally stepped into the Hall, Theon Greyjoy was waiting.
"Snow," he called, his voice too casual to be kind. "You've near mastered the art of beating boys, perhaps one day you'll best a true man."
Jon met his gaze evenly. "Perhaps when I find one, I'll try."
Robb chuckled but Theon's smirk faltered, only for a heartbeat.
"Careful, bastard," Theon said, his grin curving cruel again. "Mock me now while you can, The Drowned God remembers."
Jon's jaw tightened. "Then pray he teaches you how to fight."
"Enough," Robb broke in, still grinning but with a hint of warning. "You'll both answer to Father if you come to blows again."
Theon stalked away toward the yard, muttering something about wolf pups and bastards.
Robb clapped Jon on the shoulder. "You shouldn't let him get to you."
Jon shrugged. "I don't."
But the words felt hollow.
He spent the supper in the warmth of the kitchens instead, where the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and baked bread. The cooks and maids jested loudly as they worked, their laughter echoing off the stone walls, rough and kind in equal measure. They spoke of small things, burnt crusts, lazy scullions, the way Old Nan snored when she dozed by the hearth, and though none of it was meant for him, Jon listened all the same.
It was easier, here among the clatter of pots and the hum of simple talk, than sitting in the Great Hall beneath Lady Stark's gaze. Here, no one cared whose son he was. For a short while, he could almost feel at home.
Later, he climbed the battlements where the air was sharp and thin. Below him, Winterfell sprawled wide and quiet, her walls dusted with snow, her towers dark against a paling sky. Smoke rose from the chimneys, black and straight, a sign of still winds and deep cold.
He looked north. The land stretched endlessly, gray and white and unknowable. The Wolfswood seemed to breathe in the distance, ancient and patient.
Jon loved it best here, where no one could look at him, where the silence did not judge.
He thought of Lady Stark's eyes, the way they slid past him like water over stone. She never said a cruel word, but silence could wound sharper than a sword.
Yet Robb… Robb never treated him as less. In his smile, in his easy affection, Jon could almost believe they shared the same blood.
Almost.
A raven croaked from a tower nearby, its feathers shivering in the wind. The sound startled him, and he watched it until it vanished into the gray.
"You and I both," he murmured, "neither of us quite belong."
Far below, Arya was chasing Bran through the snow, her hair wild, her laughter wild too. Bran was quick, but Arya was quicker. Old Nan followed with little Rickon bundled in her arms, scolding the girl and laughing all the same.
It was a sight that warmed him and chilled him in the same breath.
He wanted to call out, to join them, but the words stayed trapped behind his teeth. Some part of him already knew the truth: that no matter how hard he tried, there would always be a wall between them, invisible but solid as the Wall itself.
The snow began to fall, soft and soundless. Jon tilted his head back, letting it gather in his dark hair, melt against his cheeks.
He wondered if his mother had ever seen snow. He wondered if she ever thought of him.
The thought lingered, half-formed and painful. He pushed it away, as he always did.
For all his ten years, Jon Snow already knew what it meant to stand in shadow. And though he could not name the reason, he felt, deep down, that the shadow would follow him always.
"Snow!" Theon's shout cut through the cold air, rough and impatient. His voice carried from the yard below, where the snow lay deep enough to swallow a man's boots.
Jon leaned over the edge of the rampart, his breath misting before him. Theon stood there, arms crossed, face half-buried in a wolfskin cloak.
"What is it?" Jon called back, already knowing he would regret asking.
"Robb's gone off into the Wolfswood again!" Theon shouted, scowling up at him. "Lady Stark's fit to tear the hall apart. She wants us to bring him back before nightfall."
Jon didn't answer. He only sighed, the kind of sigh that came from knowing something too well. It wasn't the first time. And he doubted it would be the last.
He climbed down swiftly, boots striking stone, then snow. By the time his feet touched the ground, Theon was already turning toward the stables, muttering about fools and frozen toes.
Jon fetched his cloak from its peg, the heavy fur still cold from the last ride.
"You know where he's gone," he said quietly as he followed.
"Aye," Theon grunted. "That cursed cave again."
It had been months ago when they first stumbled upon it—three boys chasing the echo of their own courage deeper into the Wolfswood than they should have.
Robb had found the entrance, half-hidden behind a fall of moss and stone. Inside, the air had smelled of earth and age.
The walls were carved with strange shapes—wolves, men, and things between. Faded paint clung to the stone, red and black and brown, though none of them could say how old it was.
Theon had laughed, called it wildling nonsense, and tossed a stone that clattered off the far wall. But Jon had felt something then—something cold and old, humming just beneath the skin. Robb had felt it too; Jon had seen it in his eyes.
Since then, Robb would return to that place whenever he could, slipping away into the trees as if the woods themselves were calling him home.
Jon drew his cloak tighter and followed Theon out into the snow. The sky was already dimming, the sun a pale ghost behind the clouds.
He said nothing, but in his heart, he knew—they would find Robb in the cave again.
And though he could not say why, part of him dreaded what might be waiting for them this time.
The hooves struck the snow with a slow, steady rhythm, muffled but sure. The woods closed in around them, tall and black, the air thick with the scent of pine and frost. The path wound narrow between the trees, where the light broke through only in pale shards that danced across the snow.
Theon rode ahead at first, but soon fell beside Jon. Neither spoke for a time. The only sound was the soft crunch of hooves and the distant creak of branches bowing beneath their own weight.
The day was dimming already. The pale sun hung low, weak as a dying candle. Jon watched it through the tangle of bare limbs and thought, By the time we ride back, there'll be no light left at all.
"Have you ever seen a woman's teats, Snow?" Theon's voice broke the quiet like a stone through still water. He wore that same fool's smirk that never seemed to leave his face.
Jon exhaled through his nose, slow.
"Only once," he said dryly. "Old Nan was feeding Bran when I was six. Nearly put me off supper for a week."
Theon let out a bark of laughter.
"Gods, Snow, you're hopeless." He puffed his chest out as if he were twice his size. "I saw beauty unmatched in all the North, down in the brothel at Wintertown. Hair like midnight, eyes like summer wine and teats bigger than your bloody head."
Jon's mouth twitched into a smirk he didn't mean to show.
"Aye," he said, his voice flat as snow. "And I suppose she swore you were the best man she ever had."
"She did," Theon said proudly, missing the mockery. "Said I was born to please."
Jon turned his eyes back to the woods. "Then I pity her."
Theon only laughed, his breath steaming.
The trees grew thicker the deeper they rode, the air colder. The woods here were old, older than any of them could name. The silence pressed heavy, save for the horses and the whisper of wind through the branches. Jon's unease grew with every step.
It wasn't far now. He could feel it in his bones—the cave lay close.
They reached a small clearing just as the last light began to fade. A few crows croaked in the distance, dark shapes against the snow.
Jon's gaze caught on something near the edge of the trees—tracks in the frost, fresh and deep. Then a shape.
A horse. Robb's horse.
The beast stood alone, reins trailing, its breath rising in thin plumes. There was a dark patch across its flank—mud, or something worse.
"The gods take him," Theon muttered. "What's he playing at now?"
Jon was already dismounting. The forest felt too still, too quiet.
"He's close," he said. His voice sounded small, even to himself.
They moved through the trees, boots crunching softly. The hollow mouth of the cave yawned before them, black as the grave. Snow drifted from the ledge above, falling like ash.
Then Theon stopped short. "Jon…"
Robb lay a few paces ahead, half-buried in snow. His body twitched faintly, hands clawing weakly at the ground. His eyes rolled back white, his breath shallow. Blood leaked from his nose, dark and slow, staining the snow beneath his cheek.
Jon dropped to his knees beside him. "Robb!"
There was no answer.
He turned his brother's face toward him, shaking him by the shoulders. "Robb! Seven hells, Robb, wake up!"
His voice cracked. Theon said something—Jon didn't hear it.
The world had gone silent again, except for the rasp of Robb's breath and Jon's own heartbeat hammering in his ears.
Jon pressed his hand against Robb's chest, feeling the weak flutter beneath. He held him close, his voice breaking.
"Don't you dare," he whispered, "don't you bloody dare leave me."
The snow kept falling.
The forest said nothing.
And far beyond the trees, the last of the light died.