Winterfell, First Moon, 297 AC
The morning light filtered through the windows of Winterfell's Great Keep, casting long shadows across the solar where Catelyn Stark sat with her needlework. Her fingers moved with practiced ease through the embroidery, though her mind wandered to thoughts that had little to do with thread and needle. Nearly fourteen years had passed since she had first come to Winterfell as a bride, stepping into a castle still warm with memories of the woman who had come before her. Fifteen years of northern cold, of duty, of building a life in this ancient fortress of grey stone and dark secrets.
She had grown to love this place, though it had taken time. The godswood with its bone-white weirwood still unnerved her with its watching face, so different from the sept she had known at Riverrun. But the castle itself, with its covered bridges and courtyards, its hot springs that kept the walls warm even in the depths of winter—it had become home. More than that, it had become hers, as much as it could belong to any lady who had married into House Stark.
Her needlework depicted a leaping trout, the sigil of her father's house. She worked on it when the homesickness grew too strong, when she missed her father and her brother Edmure, when she longed for the flowing waters of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. But those moments came less frequently now. Winterfell had given her a family, a purpose, a place in the world.
Ned had given her that. Her lord husband, Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North—a good man, an honorable man, though one who kept his thoughts close and his secrets closer. She had learned to read his silences, to understand the set of his jaw, the way his grey eyes would go distant when he thought of things he would not speak. He was a devoted father to their children, stern but loving, and that was what mattered most.
Their children. The thought brought warmth to her chest even as her needle paused in its work. Robb, her firstborn, nearly fourteen now and growing more into his father's image with each passing day. He had Ned's sense of honor, his gravity, though he had inherited her coloring—the auburn hair and blue eyes of House Tully. He would be Lord of Winterfell one day, and she had no doubt he would rule well.
Then came Sansa, her beautiful girl of ten namedays, so like Catelyn herself at that age. Sansa dreamed of knights and songs, of courtly love and southern graces. She had taken to her lessons with enthusiasm, learning to be the perfect lady, and Catelyn's heart swelled with pride at what her daughter was becoming.
Arya, eight years old and wild as a winter storm. That one worried her. Arya had no interest in needlework or courtesy, preferring to run through the castle with her direwolf, to watch the guards at their practice. She looked like Ned, with the long face and grey eyes of House Stark, and she had inherited his stubbornness as well.
Bran, six, sweet and adventurous, always climbing where he ought not to climb. He had a good heart and quick mind, that one. He loved the old stories Old Nan would tell, tales of the Age of Heroes and the Long Night.
And little Rickon, only two, still a babe in many ways. He clung to her skirts and laughed at everything, innocent and joyful.
Five children. Five blessings the gods had granted her.
But there was a shadow over her happiness, a darkness that had lived at Winterfell for as long as she had. Jon Snow. Her husband's bastard. The living proof of Ned's betrayal, the one stain on his honor that she could neither forgive nor forget.
Catelyn's hands tightened on her needlework, the thread pulling taut. She had tried, in the beginning, to be charitable. She had reminded herself that the boy was innocent of the circumstances of his birth, that he bore no blame for his father's sin. But seeing him every day, watching him grow alongside her own children, bearing the Stark look more strongly than even Robb—it was a constant wound that would not heal.
And Ned would not send him away. He refused to discuss it, refused to even name the mother. The bastard stayed at Winterfell, raised alongside her trueborn children, given every comfort and advantage. It was an insult, a humiliation she was forced to swallow daily.
For thirteen years, Jon Snow had been a sullen, brooding presence in her home. He avoided her—wisely—and she avoided him. He spent his time with Robb and Theon Greyjoy, Ned's ward, practicing at arms and getting into the mischief that boys were wont to do. He was quiet, watchful, and she had thought she understood him well enough. The bitter bastard who knew his place but resented it nonetheless.
But this past year, everything had changed.
It had started gradually, so subtly that at first she had not noticed. Jon began to distance himself from Robb and Theon, spending less time in their company. He no longer joined them for their adventures or their talks late into the night. Instead, he devoted himself to solitary pursuits—training in the yard at odd hours, spending long stretches in the library, keeping his own counsel.
The sullen brooding that had characterized him seemed to fall away, replaced by something else. Something harder. He moved through Winterfell like a ghost, there but not there, present but separate. He no longer seemed to seek approval or acceptance from anyone. It was as if he had built walls around himself thicker than those of Winterfell itself.
His skill at arms had improved dramatically. Catelyn had heard the talk from the guards, the whispers among the servants. Jon Snow had always been competent with a blade, but now he was exceptional. She had watched from a window one afternoon as he faced Robb in the practice yard, and she had seen her son—her firstborn, trained by Ser Rodrik Cassel himself—utterly outmatched. Jon moved with a speed and precision that seemed impossible for a boy of fourteen, his sword a blur as he disarmed Robb in moments.
Theon Greyjoy had fared no better. None of the guards could stand against him for long.
Then came the day that had shaken even Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms who had trained knights and warriors for decades. Catelyn had not witnessed it herself, but the whole castle had heard about it within hours. Jon had faced Ser Rodrik in the yard, and the knight had found himself disarmed and on his back in the dirt while Jon stood over him with a wooden sword at his throat.
"Perhaps you should train properly, Ser," Jon had said, his voice cold and mocking.
The disrespect had been shocking. Ser Rodrik was a knight, a man of honor and experience, and Jon was just a bastard boy. But he had spoken as if he were the master and Ser Rodrik the student. And the worst part was that no one could deny the truth of it—Jon had beaten him soundly.
Catelyn had expected Ned to discipline the boy for his insolence, but her husband had merely looked troubled and said nothing. Jon faced no consequences for his behavior.
She found herself frightened of him now, though she hated to admit it even to herself. There was something in his eyes when she glimpsed him, something cold and knowing that had not been there before. He looked at the world as if he saw through it, as if he knew secrets no boy of fourteen should know.
And then, three days ago, something even more unsettling had occurred.
Jon Snow had sought her out.
The boy who had avoided her for his entire life, who would leave a room when she entered it, who had never spoken more than necessary words to her—he had sent word secretly that he wished to speak with her. Privately. In the godswood.
The message had been courteous but firm: Lady Stark, I would speak with you on a matter concerning your family. Meet me in the godswood at sunset if you choose. The choice is yours alone.
Catelyn had been so shocked, her mind reeling. What could Jon Snow possibly have to say to her? What matter concerning her family would he dare involve himself in? Her first instinct had been to refuse, to ignore the presumptuous request entirely.
But curiosity gnawed at her. And something else—a cold finger of dread that traced down her spine. Jon had changed so much this past year. What if he truly did have something important to tell her? What if it concerned the children?
She had spent two days wrestling with the decision, her thoughts in turmoil. She prayed in her sept for guidance, but the Mother and the Father seemed to offer no answers. Finally, this morning, she had made her choice.
She would go.
Now, as the sun dipped toward the western horizon, Catelyn made her way through Winterfell toward the godswood. She wore a heavy cloak against the spring chill, though the weather was warmer than it had been in months. The First Moon brought the promise of spring, even here in the North where winter lingered longest.
She passed through the Hunter's Gate and into the godswood, that ancient forest that grew at the heart of Winterfell. The trees here were old beyond reckoning, sentinel and oak and ironwood, their branches thick with new leaves. Moss covered the ground, soft beneath her feet, and she could hear the burble of the stream that fed the hot pools.
At the center of the godswood stood the heart tree, the ancient weirwood with its bone-white bark and blood-red leaves. The face carved into its trunk seemed to watch her approach, its eyes like pools of dried blood, its mouth set in a silent scream. Catelyn had never grown comfortable with that face, with the old gods that Ned worshipped. She kept to the Seven, as she had been taught, and left the heart tree to those of northern blood.
Jon Snow stood before the weirwood, his back to her, his hand resting on the white bark.
Catelyn stopped several paces away, her breath catching in her throat. She had not seen him up close in months, and the change was startling. The boy had grown like a sprout this past year, shooting up until he stood nearly six feet tall. His body had filled out with lean, hard muscle, visible even beneath his leather and wool. His shoulders were broad, his stance that of a warrior at ease.
But it was when he turned to face her that she felt true shock.
Jon Snow's face had lost all traces of childhood softness. His features were sharp and clean, undeniably Stark in their cast—the long face, the grey eyes, the dark hair that fell to his shoulders. But there was something else there too, something that had nothing to do with Ned or any Stark she had ever known. An unearthly beauty, almost inhuman in its perfection, as if the gods had decided to craft a face to rival any in the realm.
And his eyes. Those grey eyes regarded her with an intelligence and weariness that seemed far too old for fifteen years.
"Lady Stark," he said, and his voice was smooth and sardonic, laced with mockery. "How kind of you to accept my invitation. I was not certain you would."
Catelyn drew herself up, refusing to be intimidated by this baseborn boy no matter how much he had changed. "You asked me here, Jon Snow," she said coldly. "State your business. I have no desire to spend more time in your company than necessary."
A smile ghosted across his lips, there and gone in an instant. "As direct as ever, my lady. Very well. I shall be equally direct." He took a step toward her, and she forced herself not to retreat. "I know that you hate me. You have always hated me, from the moment you first laid eyes on me. You see me as a stain on your husband's honor, an insult to your marriage, a threat to your children's inheritance."
"I did not come here to discuss your feelings," Catelyn said sharply.
"No, you came here because I mentioned your family." Jon clasped his hands behind his back, his posture relaxed but his eyes intense. "And that is precisely what I wish to discuss. You see, Lady Stark, I know something you do not. I know what is coming. I know the dangers that threaten your family, the tragedies that will befall House Stark if events continue on their current course."
Catelyn felt anger kindle in her chest. "What game is this? Do you mean to threaten—"
"I threaten nothing," Jon interrupted, his voice sharp. "I offer you a choice, the same choice I offered in my message. Listen or do not listen. Believe or do not believe. But know that I speak the truth when I say I can see what is to come."
"You expect me to believe you can tell the future?" Catelyn laughed, but it sounded hollow even to her own ears. "What are you, some hedge witch? A greenseer?"
"Call it what you will." Jon's gaze did not waver. "I know things, Lady Stark. Things I should not know. Things that no one has told me. Shall I prove it to you?"
Before she could respond, he began to speak.
"You were betrothed to Brandon Stark first, before your lord husband. You loved him, or thought you did. He was wild and bold, everything young girls dream of. But he rode to King's Landing to demand justice for Lyanna Stark's supposed abduction, and King Aerys burned him alive with wildfire while his father, Lord Rickard, strangled himself trying to save his son."
Catelyn felt the blood drain from her face. "Those are not secrets. Many know—"
"You prayed to the Mother for forgiveness that night, and many nights after," Jon went on. "When I was ill during my childhood, You made a bargain with the gods—you promised that if I lived, you would love all your children equally, even the one you had hated. But when I woke, you found you could not keep that promise. The hatred ran too deep."
"Stop," Catelyn whispered. Her vision was blurring with tears. "Stop this."
"I mean you no cruelty," Jon said. "I tell you these things only to prove that I speak truth. I know what has happened, and I know what will happen. Your family faces danger, Lady Stark. Terrible danger. And I can help you prevent it—but only if you help me in return."
Catelyn wiped at her eyes, struggling to compose herself. "What is it you want?"
"I want to leave Winterfell," Jon said simply. "I have wanted it for months now. I do not belong here, and I have no wish to stay. But Lord Stark will not permit it. He thinks I am too young, that I am running from something. He will not give me leave to go."
"So you want me to convince him?" Catelyn shook her head. "Why should I? Let you stay and suffer here as I have suffered your presence."
Jon's expression hardened. "Because if I stay, I cannot help you. And your family will fall to ruin. But if I go—if I leave in the right way—I can set events in motion that will save them."
"What do you mean, the right way?"
"I need to leave in such a manner that it appears I have developed an enmity with House Stark," Jon explained. "I must seem to have quarreled with Lord Stark, to have run away in anger or disgrace. It must look as though I have turned my back on Winterfell entirely."
Catelyn stared at him. "You want me to help you stage some kind of false falling-out with your father? To what end?"
"That is my concern," Jon said. "All you need to know is this: I have a plan. With your help, I can make it appear that I have broken with the Starks and fled Winterfell. Once that is done, once I am gone and it is too late to call me back, I will tell you what I know of your family's future. I will give you the knowledge you need to protect them."
"Tell me now," Catelyn demanded. "If you truly care about my family, tell me now and I will help you leave."
Jon shook his head. "No, my lady. I am many things, but I am not a fool. If I tell you first, you have no reason to help me. You might even work to keep me here, thinking that my knowledge is needed at Winterfell. I must have your word that you will aid me, and then—only then—will I reveal what I know."
"You ask me to trust you." Catelyn's voice was bitter. "You, whom I have hated for fourteen years. You, who have just torn open my private thoughts and thrown them in my face."
"I ask you to trust that I want what you want," Jon corrected. "I want your family to be safe. I want to leave Winterfell. Our interests align, Lady Stark. That is all the trust required."
Catelyn closed her eyes, her thoughts in chaos. Every instinct screamed at her not to trust this boy, not to involve herself in whatever scheme he was concocting. But he had known things—impossible things. Secret things that no one should know.
What if he truly could see the future? What if her children were in danger?
Could she afford not to listen?
"What would you have me do?" she asked finally, opening her eyes.
Jon smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Nothing too onerous, I assure you. I will create an incident—a public quarrel with Lord Stark. All you need do is support my departure before. Tell your husband that I am a bad influence, that I am becoming dangerous, that it is better I leave and make your husband meet me asking about it. He respects your counsel, my lady. He will listen to you."
"And if I do this, you will tell me what threatens my family?"
"Upon my word," Jon said. "Once I am safely away from Winterfell, I will send you a letter detailing everything I know. You will have time to act, to prepare, to protect those you love."
Catelyn studied his face, searching for any sign of deception. But his grey eyes were steady, unflinching. And she thought of her children—of Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and little Rickon. Of Ned, her honorable husband who kept too many secrets.
If there was even a chance that Jon spoke the truth, could she ignore it?
"Very well," she said at last, the words heavy on her tongue. "I will help you. But know this, Jon Snow—if this is some trick, if you are lying to me, I will see you hunted down and brought back to Winterfell in chains. I swear it by the old gods and the new."
"No trick, my lady," Jon said quietly. "I swear it as well. By the old gods and the new, I will tell you what you need to know."
They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the rustle of leaves and the whisper of water over stone. The face carved into the heart tree seemed to watch them both, judging, weighing, knowing.
"Is there anything else?" she asked.
"Only this." Jon's expression softened slightly, and for just a moment, he looked almost human. Almost like the troubled boy she had glimpsed over the years. "I know you have suffered my presence, Lady Stark. I know the pain my existence has caused you. For what it is worth, I am sorry for that. Not for being born—I did not choose that. But for the hurt you have endured. You deserved better."
"Do not presume to know what I deserve," she said, her voice rough.
"As you say, my lady." Jon inclined his head in a gesture that might have been respect or mockery or both. "I will send word when the time comes. Until then, speak of this to no one."
"I am not fool enough to discuss our arrangement," Catelyn said sharply.
"Then we understand each other." Jon stepped back, toward the edge of the godswood. "Thank you for coming, Lady Stark. You have made a wise choice."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows beneath the trees. Catelyn watched him go, her heart pounding, her mind awhirl with questions and fears and doubts.
What had she just agreed to? What had she set in motion?
She stood alone before the heart tree, the carved face weeping its bloody sap, and prayed to her Seven that she had not made a terrible mistake. She prayed for her children, for her family, for guidance in the dark times that Jon Snow said were coming.