Winterfell, First Moon, 297 AC
Eddard Stark sat in his solar, the accounting books spread before him on the heavy oak desk, though his eyes saw nothing of the numbers and tallies inscribed there. The afternoon sun slanted through the narrow windows, casting bars of light across the stone floor, and somewhere in the distance he could hear the clash of steel on steel from the practice yard. The sounds of Winterfell at peace, at work, at the business of daily life.
But Ned's thoughts were far from peaceful.
His hand rested on the worn wood of the desk, fingers drumming an absent rhythm as his mind wandered back through the years. Back to a time when he had been young and the world had seemed simpler, though in truth it had been anything but.
He remembered the Vale. The Eyrie, that impossible castle perched high in the mountains, where he had been fostered alongside Robert Baratheon. Jon Arryn had raised them as sons, had taught them honor and duty and the ways of lordship. Those had been good years, despite being away from home. He had learned to fight, to rule, to be a man. And he had gained a brother in Robert—not by blood, but by bond, and that had seemed just as strong.
Then came the Tourney at Harrenhal.
Even now, sixteen years later, the memory was vivid. The great ruined castle on the shores of the God's Eye, filled with the flower of Westerosi chivalry. Knights and lords from every corner of the realm had gathered there, and it had seemed like something from a song. Brandon had been there, wild and fierce, and Lyanna—gods, Lyanna had been so alive, so full of fire and laughter.
He remembered the Knight of the Laughing Tree, that mystery knight who had defended Howland Reed. He remembered the jousting, the feasting, the sense that the whole world had gathered in one place. And he remembered Rhaegar Targaryen, the dragon prince with his silver hair and sad purple eyes, placing a crown of winter roses in Lyanna's lap and naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty instead of his own wife.
The beginning of the end, though none of them had known it then.
When word came that Rhaegar had taken Lyanna—kidnapped her, raped her, stolen her away to gods knew where—Brandon had ridden south in a fury. Ned's older brother, bold and reckless, had ridden straight to King's Landing and shouted for Rhaegar to come out and die. And Mad King Aerys, in his madness and cruelty, had called it treason.
Ned closed his eyes, but he could still see it in his mind's eye, told to him later by those who had witnessed it. His father and brother, summoned to answer for Brandon's crime. Lord Rickard Stark demanding trial by combat, and Aerys naming fire as his champion. They had suspended Rickard from the rafters in his own armor and lit a fire beneath him, roasting him alive while Brandon was placed in a Tyroshi strangling device with a sword just out of reach. The more Brandon struggled to reach the blade to save his father, the tighter the device pulled, until he strangled himself trying to rescue Lord Rickard.
Two Starks dead in one day. Father and brother both, murdered by a mad king's cruelty.
And Ned, fostered far away in the Vale, had suddenly found himself Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North at only nineteen years of age.
The rebellion had followed swiftly. Robert, whose betrothed Lyanna had been taken, had called his banners and risen against the Iron Throne. Jon Arryn had supported them, and the Vale and the North had gone to war together. Ned had fought alongside Robert through battle after battle, had wed Catelyn Tully to secure the Riverlands to their cause, had led men and watched them die for a war that had started because a prince had run off with his sister.
The Trident. He remembered the Trident, where Robert had met Rhaegar in single combat in the ruby ford. Robert had caved in the dragon prince's chest with his warhammer, and the rubies from Rhaegar's armor had scattered in the stream, giving the place its name. The Battle of the Trident had broken the Targaryen cause, and King's Landing had fallen soon after.
But Ned had found no joy in that victory. He had ridden through the gates of the Red Keep to find the throne room awash in blood. Aerys the Mad King lay dead before the Iron Throne, his throat cut by Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer who had forsaken his vows. And in the royal chambers, Ned had found the bodies of Princess Elia and her children—little Rhaenys and baby Aegon, murdered on Tywin Lannister's orders by Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch.
Children. They had killed children, and wrapped their bodies in Lannister cloaks as gifts for Robert.
Ned had quarreled with Robert over it, had been disgusted by his friend's willingness to overlook such butchery in the name of pragmatism. They had parted in anger, and Ned had ridden south with six companions, seeking the one thing that mattered more than crowns or thrones.
Lyanna.
The Tower of Joy rose in his memory, that lonely tower in the mountains of Dorne. Three of the Kingsguard had been there—Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning; Ser Oswell Whent; and the Lord Commander himself, Ser Gerold Hightower. The finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, standing guard over a tower while their king lay dead and their prince's children were murdered.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned had said.
"We were not there," Ser Gerold had replied.
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," Ser Oswell had said.
And Arthur Dayne, wielding Dawn, the blade forged from a fallen star: "And now it begins."
"No," Ned had said. "Now it ends."
The fight that followed had been the stuff of nightmares. Seven men had gone in. Only two had come out—Ned and Howland Reed. The Sword of the Morning had killed Ned's companions, would have killed Ned himself if Howland had not intervened. But in the end, the three Kingsguard lay dead, and Ned had climbed those tower stairs to find his sister.
Lyanna. His wild, willful sister, dying in a bed of blood, her life seeping away. She had made him promise—gods, that promise. "Promise me, Ned," she had whispered with her last breaths. "Promise me."
And he had promised. He had given his word, and he had kept it for fourteen years, no matter the cost. No matter what it had done to his honor, his marriage, his peace of mind. He had returned from the war with a bastard son, claiming the boy as his own, and he had never told anyone the truth. Not Cat, not Robert, not even Jon Arryn. The secret was his to keep, and he would take it to his grave.
Because Jon Snow was not his bastard.
Jon was Lyanna's son. Lyanna and Rhaegar's son. The last living child of the Dragon Prince, hidden in plain sight as a bastard of House Stark. If Robert ever learned the truth, if anyone learned it, the boy would die. Robert's hatred of the Targaryens ran too deep, his rage at Rhaegar's supposed crime too strong. He had endorsed the murder of Rhaegar's other children. He would not hesitate to kill another.
So Ned had claimed Jon as his own bastard, had brought him to Winterfell, had raised him alongside his trueborn children. He had endured Cat's cold fury, her hurt and betrayal, and he had never defended himself because he could not tell her the truth. The secret was too dangerous. Every time she looked at him with wounded eyes, every time she flinched away from Jon, Ned had borne it in silence.
It was the price of his promise. The price of keeping Lyanna's son alive.
And for thirteen years, it had seemed to work. Jon had grown up safe at Winterfell, sullen and brooding perhaps, but safe. Ned had watched him carefully, had seen him inherit Lyanna's wild spirit and her sense of justice, had seen Rhaegar's intelligence and melancholy in the boy's grey eyes. Jon was a blend of his parents, though he knew nothing of his true heritage. And Ned had planned to keep it that way, to eventually send the boy to the Wall where he would be safe, protected by his vows, beyond Robert's reach.
But then, a year ago, everything had changed.
Ned shifted in his chair, his jaw tightening as his thoughts turned to the present. To Jon as he was now, and the fear that had taken root in Ned's heart.
It had started subtly. Jon had begun to distance himself from Robb and Theon, spending more time alone. Ned had thought it was simply the boy maturing, growing more introspective as he approached manhood. But then the other changes had begun, and they had accelerated with terrifying speed.
Jon's skill at arms had always been respectable, but over the past year it had become extraordinary. Ned had watched from the gallery as Jon faced opponent after opponent in the practice yard—Robb, Theon, the castle guards, even seasoned men-at-arms—and defeated them all with ease. The boy moved like water, like wind, his sword an extension of his body. It was beautiful and deadly, and it should not have been possible for someone so young.
Then Jon had faced Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, a knight who had trained warriors for decades. And Jon had disarmed him in moments, had put him on his back in the dirt while the entire castle watched.
"Perhaps you should train properly, Ser," Jon had said, his voice dripping with mockery and disdain.
The disrespect had shocked everyone. Ser Rodrik was a good man, a loyal man, and he deserved better than to be humiliated by a bastard boy. Ned had meant to speak to Jon about it, to discipline him for his insolence. But something in Jon's eyes when Ned had approached him—something cold and knowing and utterly alien—had made the words die in his throat.
It was as if a stranger wore Jon's face.
The physical changes were equally disturbing. Jon had always looked like a Stark, more so than even Robb with his Tully coloring. But now, at fourteen, Jon's features had sharpened into something that transcended mere handsomeness. There was an otherworldly quality to his face, a beauty that seemed almost inhuman. And when Ned looked at him, he saw not just Lyanna but Rhaegar too—the same ethereal features, the same sad intensity.
If anyone from the south saw Jon now, if Robert saw him, the truth would be impossible to hide. The boy looked too much like his father, and his skill with a blade would only raise more questions. Targaryens had been known for their beauty and their prowess in battle. Jon was a living echo of his heritage, and that made him more dangerous to himself and to House Stark with each passing day.
But even more disturbing than Jon's physical transformation was the change in his demeanor. The sullen bastard who had kept his head down and his mouth shut had been replaced by someone who radiated quiet confidence and barely concealed contempt. Jon looked at the world as if he saw through it, as if he knew secrets that no one else could fathom. He spoke rarely, but when he did, his words were laced with sarcasm and mockery.
He seemed to have no fear, no respect for authority, no concern for consequences. It was as if the rules that governed other men simply did not apply to him.
And strangest of all, Jon had begun spending hours in the library, poring over books and histories. Maester Luwin had mentioned it to Ned, puzzled by the boy's sudden thirst for knowledge. Jon read everything—accounts of battles and wars, treatises on strategy and tactics, histories of the Seven Kingdoms and the lands beyond. He absorbed information like a sponge, and the maester said he asked questions that suggested a depth of understanding far beyond his years.
It was as if Jon had woken up one day with the mind of a much older, much more experienced man.
Ned had tried to talk to the boy, to understand what had changed, but Jon deflected every question with smooth evasions or sardonic wit. He was unfailingly polite to Ned—never openly disrespectful—but there was a distance between them now, a wall that had not existed before. And behind that wall, Ned could sense something vast and unknowable, something that frightened him more than he cared to admit.
He had begun to wonder if it was his Targaryen blood manifesting. The dragon kings had been known for their madness, after all. Perhaps Jon was descending into some form of instability, some inherited corruption of the mind. The thought terrified Ned. What if Jon became like Aerys? What if the madness took him?
And then Cat had come to him, three days ago, with her own concerns.
She had been pale and shaken, and at first she would not tell him what had troubled her. But finally, haltingly, she had spoken of Jon. She said the boy frightened her now, that there was something wrong with him, something dangerous. She said he was planning something, that she could see it in the way he moved through Winterfell, always watching, always calculating.
"He covets Robb's position," she had said, her voice trembling with fear and anger. "I know it, Ned. He wants Winterfell. He thinks he deserves it more than our son."
Ned had tried to reassure her, to tell her that Jon knew his place, that a bastard could never inherit while there were trueborn sons. But Cat had been insistent, almost frantic.
"Ask him," she had demanded. "Ask him directly what he wants. Ask him what his plans are for the future. You will see, Ned. You will see that I am right."
And yesterday, she had come to him again, and this time she had not been asking. She had been commanding.
"Speak to your bastard, my lord," she had said, her blue eyes blazing. "Today. Ask him what he wants. If you will not see the danger, at least do me the courtesy of confronting it."
So here he sat, waiting. He had sent Jory to fetch Jon to the solar. Cat was present as well, seated near the hearth, her hands folded in her lap, her face set in hard lines. She had insisted on being here for this conversation, and Ned had not had the heart to refuse her. She was his wife, and these were her fears. She deserved to hear Jon's answers, even if Ned suspected they would provide no comfort.
The door opened, and Jory Cassel stepped inside, his weathered face carefully neutral.
"Jon Snow, my lord," he announced.
"Send him in," Ned said, his voice heavier than he intended.
Jon entered the solar with the easy grace of a predator, his long dark hair falling past his shoulders, his grey eyes calm and assessing. He wore simple clothes—leather and wool, well-made but unadorned—and he moved with that uncanny fluidity that had become his hallmark. When his gaze swept the room, taking in Ned behind the desk and Cat by the fire, his expression gave nothing away.
But Ned saw his sister in that face. Saw Lyanna's wild beauty, her fierce spirit, reflected in the boy's sharp features. And he saw Rhaegar too—the dragon prince's otherworldly elegance, his melancholy intensity. Jon was both of them, and neither of them, and something else entirely.
If Robert saw him. If anyone who had known Rhaegar saw him...
Ned's throat tightened with fear.
"You sent for me, my lord," Jon said, his voice neutral, almost bored.
"I did." Ned gestured to a chair. "Sit, please."
Jon glanced at the chair, then back at Ned, and something flickered in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or disdain. But he moved to the chair and sat, his posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. He looked utterly at ease, as if this were a social call rather than a summons from his lord father.
Ned cleared his throat, suddenly uncertain how to begin. He had rehearsed this conversation in his mind a dozen times, but now that Jon sat before him, the words seemed inadequate.
"I wanted to speak with you about your days here at Winterfell," Ned said finally. "You have been... your behavior has been unusual of late."
"Unusual?" Jon's lips quirked in a smile that held no warmth. "In what way, my lord?"
"Your training, for one," Ned said. "You have made remarkable progress. Ser Rodrik tells me you have surpassed every fighter in the castle."
"Ser Rodrik is too kind," Jon said, but his tone suggested he thought the old knight was anything but. "I merely apply myself to the craft of swordplay. Is that not what you would wish of me?"
"Applying oneself does not usually result in humiliating one's master-at-arms," Cat interjected sharply from her place by the fire.
Jon turned his head to look at her, and Ned saw Cat stiffen under that grey-eyed stare.
"My apologies, Lady Stark," Jon said, and his voice was silk over steel. "I did not realize that defeating someone in a training match constituted humiliation. Perhaps I misunderstood the purpose of the practice yard."
"You mocked him," Cat said, her cheeks flushing. "You insulted him in front of the entire castle."
"I spoke the truth," Jon replied calmly. "If the truth is an insult, perhaps the problem lies not with the speaker but with the subject."
"Jon," Ned said sharply, and the boy's attention swiveled back to him. "That is enough. Ser Rodrik has served this house faithfully for decades. You will show him respect."
"As you command, my lord," Jon said, but there was no contrition in his voice. Only that same maddening calm, as if Ned's words were rain sliding off stone.
Ned drew a breath, forcing down his frustration. This was not going as he had planned.
"I wish to know your plans for the future," he said, trying a different approach. "You are fourteen now, nearly a man grown. It is time to think about your path in life."
"My path," Jon repeated slowly, and something gleamed in his eyes. "Yes, I have given that considerable thought, my lord."
"And what have you decided?"
For a long moment, Jon said nothing. He simply stared at Ned with those knowing grey eyes, and Ned felt a chill creep down his spine. Then Jon smiled, and it was a terrible smile, full of mockery and dark amusement.
"I want Winterfell," he said.
The words fell into the solar like stones into still water, and for several heartbeats, no one moved. Ned felt as though he had been struck in the chest. Surely he had misheard. Surely Jon had not just said—
"What did you say?" Ned asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I want Winterfell," Jon repeated, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. "I believe I should be Lord of Winterfell, not Robb. I believe I have earned that right."
Cat made a strangled sound from the hearth. Ned's hands gripped the edge of his desk hard enough to make his knuckles white.
"You cannot be serious," Ned said.
"I am entirely serious, my lord." Jon leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease. "You asked me what I want for my future. I am telling you. I want what should be mine."
"Should be yours?" Ned's voice rose despite himself. "You are a bastard, Jon. You have no claim to—"
"I am aware of my supposed bastardy," Jon interrupted smoothly. "But let us speak plainly, shall we? I am more fit to rule Winterfell than Robb could ever be. I am stronger, faster, more intelligent. I understand warfare, strategy, the games that lords must play. And I look like a Stark, more so than your trueborn son with his Tully red hair and his soft southern face."
"How dare you," Cat hissed, rising from her chair. "How dare you speak of Robb that way."
Jon's gaze shifted to her, and his smile widened. "Lady Stark. Forgive me. I meant no disrespect to your precious firstborn. But surely even you can see the truth. Robb is a boy playing at being a lord. He follows Theon Greyjoy like a hound follows its master, adopting the manners and attitudes of an ironborn raider rather than a northern lord. He has no vision, no ambition, no steel in his spine. He is a trout wearing a wolf's skin, and everyone knows it."
"You will not speak of my son that way!" Cat's voice shook with fury.
"I speak only the truth, my lady." Jon's tone was infuriatingly calm. "Robb is weak. He will make a weak lord. And you—" He turned back to Ned. "You are weak as well, my lord. You cling to your precious honor while the world moves around you. You make no alliances, pursue no advantage. You sit here in your frozen castle, content to let the South forget you exist. That is not leadership. That is abdication."
Ned felt something break inside him. Rage and fear and grief all mixed together, boiling up from the depths of his chest. This was not Jon. This could not be Jon. The boy he had raised, Lyanna's son, would never speak such words.
"You go too far," Ned said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Do I?" Jon stood, and suddenly he seemed taller, more imposing, as if the shadows in the room had gathered around him. "Or do I simply speak the truths you are too cowardly to face? You are weak, Eddard Stark. Your son is weak. Your wife is a southern woman who has poisoned your household with her hatred and her gods. And your daughters—one is a simpering maiden who dreams of songs, and the other is a wild thing who will never be what she should be because you lack the courage to properly guide her."
"Enough!" Ned roared, surging to his feet. The chair scraped back across the stone with a harsh sound. "I will not hear another word of this!"
"Will you not?" Jon's voice remained soft, almost gentle, and that made it worse somehow. "Will you send me away, my lord? Send me to the Wall where bastards belong? Is that your answer when confronted with uncomfortable truths?"
"Yes," Ned said, and the word came out harsh and final. "Yes, that is exactly what I will do. You will go to the Wall, Jon Snow. You will take the black and serve out your days with the Night's Watch. And you will go now—today—before you speak another word of this madness."
Jon tilted his head, regarding Ned with something that might have been pity.
"As you command, my lord," he said quietly. "I will leave within the hour."
"Jory!" Ned called, and the captain of his guard appeared in the doorway almost immediately. "Gather ten men. They are to escort Jon Snow to Castle Black immediately. He is to take vows with the Night's Watch."
"My lord?" Jory looked confused, his gaze darting between Ned and Jon.
"You heard me," Ned said harshly. "Now."
"Yes, my lord." Jory bowed and withdrew, and Ned could hear him calling orders in the corridor beyond.
on moved toward the door, but he paused at the threshold and looked back. His grey eyes—Lyanna's eyes, Ned thought with an ache in his chest—were unreadable.
"You will regret this, Lord Stark," Jon said softly. "Not today, perhaps not tomorrow. But you will regret it. And when the darkness comes, when your family stands on the edge of ruin, you will remember this moment and know that you sent away the one person who could have saved them."
Then he was gone, and Ned was left standing in his solar with Cat weeping by the hearth and the weight of what he had just done pressing down on him like a millstone.
He had broken his promise to Lyanna. He had sent her son away, cast him out in anger and fear. And Jon's final words echoed in his mind, ominous and terrible.
You will regret this.
Ned sank back into his chair, his hands trembling, and stared at the closed door.
Gods help him, he feared the boy was right.