Capítulo 60: 12: Jon I
Jon felt like he'd been made a man before his time. He was still only five and ten. A boy turning into a man, no doubt. But he shouldn't have been as far along that journey as he was. Often, he longed for the simple days of two years ago. When life was tragic. But something that he was used to. When he didn't know…
As it was, he bore the weight of Westeros on his shoulders. He was born to be a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. He'd spent all his life as a bastard. In truth, he may just have preferred it that way. A future had been robbed from him. And he couldn't say that he missed what he'd never had.
Jaehaerys Targaryen. The name lingered strangely on his tongue. Even after a year, he didn't dare voice it aloud. It wasn't who he was. Not truly. He'd never gotten the chance to be that hidden Prince. Yet… his mother had loved his father — strange, secret love though it may have been — enough to give him the name of Princes and Kings of his line. Turning it away entirely wasn't right either.
At the same time… Jon Stark. All he'd ever wanted. A name and House he'd dreamed about since he knew the significance of his supposed bastard birth. He could claim that name in truth. Yet not in a way he'd ever expected. Granted to him by his mother, not his uncle — the only father he'd ever known. His 'half-siblings' were cousins, but he couldn't bring himself to see them as anything other than brothers and sisters. The Lady who once loathed him and everything he stood for was his aunt-by-marriage.
Yet another name, Jon Snow. A disgraceful name in theory but the only one that hung familiarly on his frame. Like an old, well-worn cloak. Nothing fancy. Nothing noble or regal. But something he'd broken in, something he'd made his own. Three names for a boy-turning-man, like the three heads of his birth father's House sigil. Only the lowest felt comfortable in Jon's mind, while he wished to claim his mother's, and dreaded his birth father's.
Knowledge weighed heavily upon his conscience. Was he to claim his birthright? Thrust the realm into a war of succession and restoration? For what? A throne he'd never seen and power he didn't want? On the other end, he would never dream of taking what was rightfully Robb's. But he wouldn't mind supporting his brother. Jon would be a loyal vassal. Another pillar for the Starks, if he was truly freed to take up the name.
As it was, that would likely never happen. Unless Jon was legitimized on his own merits. Even then, he would become a cadet branch. And his supposed bastardry would stain his descendants forevermore. The paths before him were fraught with complexity. How was he to choose when he only now knew who he was? Jon's truth was as much a curse as it was a boon and relief.
The reveal itself hadn't been easy either. Not for Jon, nor Lord Stark — who he still saw as his true father. Not for Lady Catelyn most of all. Jon remembered how Father had taken them both aside, Lady Catelyn still barely able to bear his presence at that point. Jon remembered his Father brought low by secrets, regrets, and memories, remembered how Father looked as if he wanted to do his whole life over again as he finally shared the tale of Jon's birth.
Lady Catelyn raged like a rushing river at first. Years and years of marriage to Lord Stark, and only now was he trusting her with a secret that could see their whole House burnt to ashes. They were supposed to love each other, to keep each other's counsel before all others. They built a family together, and all the while Lord Stark had hidden a true member among them.
Then came the shame. Jon would never forget the shame. How pain and regret tore at Lady Catelyn's visage. How anger melted away to horror as she realized all that she'd put him through. A not-so-small part of Jon felt vindicated. The rest of him felt strained and awkward.
He and Lady Catelyn were the opposite of 'close'. She was open about that much and even told him why. She shared her shameful hatred just as Lord Stark shared his shameful secret.
"I hated you, Jon. Not for who you were but for what you represented. I hated the stain you brought on my marriage. I hated the love I thought Ned held for your mother. I hated what you might do to Robb in the future. 'Better the betrayal come from a bastard than a brother', I thought. So deep was my hatred that I shoved it onto a child. You were a babe, Jon. Just a babe. How could a mother hate any babe? Worse still, I find now that you're a trueborn Prince…"
She shook her head then, guilt pooling in her eyes as deep as the Godswood's pond, "No, I could care less about your birth father. 'Worse still', you were Family. True Family that I shunned, neglected, and pushed away. 'Family, Duty, Honor'. It seems I have forgotten the first and most important of my House words. I would not ask that you forgive me. But I will put things as right as I can from here onward."
Jon himself understood Father's deception. He would have been put to death for his blood, for being a stain on the current king, no matter Father's friendship with him. And Father would have defended him, Jon knew, dooming House Stark and the North in the process. Jon also understood Lady Catelyn's bitter feelings for him. Laid so bare, there was no way he wouldn't. As much as he never wanted to be, he was a dagger in the heart of her marriage and reputation.
Of course, he could understand both of their actions and reasonings. That didn't mean he completely forgave them or even agreed with them. Father had faults. Chief among them was his idiotic insistence on keeping secrets from those closest to him. The secret showcased a damning lack of trust on his end. For Lady Catelyn, Jon still bore resentment. A lifetime of scorn and shunning in his own home would not disappear easily. Lady Catelyn wished to put things right, and Jon would let her. But she would have to work for it…
Yet no matter the truth and weight on his shoulders, Jon could never turn his back on his brothers and sisters. The Starks were his family, more so than any Targaryen could ever hope to claim. While he wouldn't turn them away if or when they came calling, he wouldn't turn his back on Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, or Rickon either. Never.
Watching them all in the yard only reaffirmed that resolve. Even Sansa and Rickon were there. Jon stood off to the side with the only man he would call Father. Seen from the outside, they would have been mistaken for parent and child for certain. It was in the expression, Jon knew.
Lord Stark wore his stoic mien, as icy as ever. Only those who truly knew him would know to look past the quiet strength to the warmth contained within. Jon took after him, his expression somber and serious. 'With a touch of brooding,' Robb said. Jon bore the jesting with pride.
Throughout the yard, House Stark interacted with new, important allies. The Hogwarts contingent was first among them. But the Tyrells were also surprisingly agreeable. Perhaps that was their shared connection to Hogwarts showing through. The Wizards seemed to have a way about them that brought unlikely allies together. A symptom of their magic and the philosophy Jon had identified in them. Truly, the Wizards and Witches of Hogwarts loved their magic. They didn't hoard it or its knowledge as the Citadel did. To Hogwarts, magic was a glorious thing, worthy of being shared and explored. With it, they blessed the world with wonder and enchantment.
Olenna Tyrell was the most recent victim of their awesome power. She sat in a chair in the yard, near Jon and Lord Stark. More of a throne, in truth. Lord Atlas had 'conjured' it from thin air. Something noble and regal made from nothing at all. It was a seat with more cushion than a bed, one that even reclined like one, leaning back without losing stability at Olenna's whim. A 'Lazy Boy', Lord Atlas called it. In its cushioned clutches, Lady Olenna would have been the envy of the Seven Kingdoms.
She joined them in watching the yard. Specifically, she watched her oldest grandchild as he sparred with Bran. Lord Willas bore a grand smile, only matched by Bran's. From Lady Olenna's words, he'd been crippled barely more than a week ago. Hogwarts Magic — the amazing, miraculous thing that it was — had healed him. That must have been how Hogwarts found itself in House Tyrell's favor, Jon reasoned to himself.
Again, Hogwarts didn't hesitate to share their magnificent magic. Oh, it benefited them, perhaps just as much as it benefited House Tyrell. But Jon could hardly fault them for that. They were sharing wonder with the world. Their influence even reached far beyond their walls, the castle's arrival seemingly bringing about a second Age of Heroes. Such a wondrous thing was impossible to hate. In Jon's opinion, at least.
Even after more than a year, Jon remembered the wonders of Castle Hogwarts as if he was there just last night. The moving staircases created a thrill of adventure with every journey through its halls. Twinkling lights and flames lit the castle's chambers and windows. The towers that stood on magic alone. The portraits and friendly phantoms, memories of the dead that lingered to advise the living. That blessed sky within the Great Hall. Jon imagined he would have spent many a night looking up at its majesty. Winterfell was home but Hogwarts was a magical marvel that Jon could barely describe.
Jon dreamed of a world where the same wonders were widespread. He might even live to see it in his lifetime. The world was changing. For the better, he couldn't help but hope. But he knew it could not all be so. For magic was returning. Both near and far, from Lady Olenna's reports. Already, chaos was emerging with it. Men would adapt. They would ever seek to better themselves and their station. Changing times were dangerous times. And for that, Jon was immensely glad Lady Catelyn was taking steps to ensure her children — his siblings — would thrive.
"Lord Eddard," Lady Olenna hummed, catching his attention.
"Yes, my Lady?" Ned replied.
"Your Bran. He seems to get along with my Willas quite well."
"Aye, my Lady. He is young still. He dreams of being a Knight. Faced with a young Lord from the heart of chivalry, I imagine he's feeling as if those dreams have never been closer."
Jon noted Father's words. Southern nobles thought the North was ignorant of the movements of politics. They were not. They simply preferred the straightforward approach. Father could still play the game though. As shown by his subtly pointed phrasing. Bran felt 'as if his dream was never closer'. Willas could make that dream a reality. Father knew it. As did Lady Olenna.
"I understand," Lady Olenna nodded from her luxurious 'conjured' seat. "Willas was much the same at one point in time. Before his injury. To see him returning to that nostalgic joy soothes my old sensibilities."
"We live on through our children. Their hopes and dreams are their own yet as parents, we do as much as we can to see them realized," Ned inclined his head slightly.
"When you have grandchildren, you will find that statement to be true twice over," Lady Olenna chuckled. "Willas will be happy now that he is able to return to martial pursuits."
"So I'd imagine."
"He will also have to learn much of it anew."
"Aye?"
"Yes, any squire he takes will find themselves with the unique experience of learning from and learning alongside their Knight."
"A stronger bond, there will never be."
From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Lady Olenna glance at his Father. She was impressed. It was in her eyes, alongside a subtle delight for 'the game'. She didn't expect to find a player in the Lord Paramount of the North. Now, she was rather pleased that she had.
"Would you see your boy Knighted, Lord Eddard?" Lady Olenna asked.
Ned nodded, "By your Willas, aye."
"Good."
That was all Lady Olenna said in reply, and with it, an agreement had seemingly been reached without an explicit word of it ever being stated. That, Jon realized, was why he had no desire for the throne of his supposed birthright. While he could understand the dance of words — 'the game' — it was not for him. Father played it well enough but he didn't relish it as Lady Olenna did. And this was merely a friendly exchange between two parties with the same goal. Farther south, the game would grow treacherous and Jon wished for none of it.
In the yard, ignorant of the agreement that had been reached, Lord Willas taught Bran to swing a sword. They did not drill Bran with a thousand of the same cuts. Instead, Willas led him in a 'spar' that was more of a game. It was the right approach for a boy like Bran. Bran wished to move and newly-healed, Willas was the same. So he'd taken up a wooden shield and given Bran a wooden sword. And Bran learned to swing a sword by doing.
"Come now!" Willas laughed aloud. "Can't your Sight show you a way around my guard?"
"That's-! Not how it works!" Bran panted from the exertion. "I see events that have-! Or might-! Happen! Not immediately! And not everything!"
Such was Bran's awakened magic. A Greenseer, like those from Old Nan's stories of the Starks of old. He remembered what the Weirwoods had seen and divined what they would see. It was as much a curse as it was a blessing from the Old Gods. Several times, he'd awoken screaming and wailing for events that would never come to pass. A bloody wedding with Robb and Lady Catelyn at its center. Stabbed Snow lying upon his namesake. Dragons…
Jon imagined that those terrors were pivotal in pushing Lady Catelyn to find them all magical teachers. Already, her decision was proving to be the right one. Lady Luna bore a similar gift. But where Bran was chosen by the Old Gods, Lady Luna was chosen by Magic itself — 'herself', according to her. She did not see the future or the past but instead, she saw what Magic wanted her to see.
"Time is all wibbly wobbly, timey wimey~!" Luna chimed from the sideline of Bran and Willas' match.
Both of them paused in sheer incomprehension, "It's what?"
"Fine, mundane metaphors then~…" Luna pouted. "Time is a tree. The base of its trunk is the present. The roots of the past feed into and support the present. And sometimes the trunk splits. Sometimes leaves fall. Sometimes branches die. But unless you're very specialized, it's hard to tell one part of the trunk base from another~! Much easier to look up and see all the many branches or look down and follow the roots~."
"Like the Weirwoods!" Bran excitedly exclaimed, comprehension blooming on his face.
"Not really at all. Physically, I suppose, 'cause they still look like trees. Not so much magically but if that's what helps you understand, sure," Luna shrugged.
Bran's face scrunched up in confusion and Willas asked, "'Look like'…?"
Luna perked up dramatically with an enthusiastic smile, "Oh, yay~! I get to tell you about the tree-coral-ghost-place gods~!"
Jon didn't envy Bran and Willas as Lady Luna began giving a very… unorthodox lesson on the Old Gods. The things she spoke of were fascinating. And somehow not completely heretical. A collection of significant places, guarded by the Weirwoods, and the spirits of ancestors long-passed that had settled in the roots. Truly, Hogwarts was a learned place to know such things. Lady Luna's lesson drew the attention of two others.
"Perhaps I shall not attempt to work my magic on the Weirwood trees…" Lady Margaery said with a slight sardonic smirk.
"Yeah, that's a good idea," Lord Atlas laughed. "Not in the least because it might be seen as disrespectful."
"What would happen if I did? Magically, I mean?" Margaery asked.
"I don't know," Atlas answered frankly. "That's the scary part. I wouldn't judge people for worshipping the Old Gods but in the end, they're something utterly inhuman. Perhaps even more so than the Drowned God of the Ironborn. Thankfully, they're also much more neutral than that monstrosity. Working your brand of magic on them might do nothing. Or it might elevate you to an Old God demigod. Or they might latch onto you and drain you dry as a unique source of power and nutrients."
Margaery paled at Atlas' warning, "Ah… I see. Yes, I think I will stick to plants that aren't so… powerful."
"Of course," Atlas grinned leadingly. "We'll never know without a bit of experimentation~. Care to volunteer, my Lady~?"
"I should volunteer you before myself, my Lord," Margaery sniffed imperiously without managing to seem overly haughty or arrogant.
"For the sake of knowledge?" Atlas' lips twitched. "I may not be as opposed as you'd think."
"Ah, but woe be that I'll have to forbid it, my Lord," Margaery tutted. "You shall not be joining with the Old Gods so soon. Not when you still have duties here to perform."
"Duties to you, perhaps~?" Atlas teased.
"Among others, yes," Margaery nodded matter-of-factly.
Atlas laughed again. Jon just about blushed for him. Southern Ladies truly were a different breed, he thought. He didn't know if he would be nearly as calm in the young Wizard Lord's position. Atlas was an experienced man. Absently, Jon wondered if he would ever be able to claim the same…
The other Stark children were similarly engaged. Only, instead of physical pursuits, theirs were magical. Well, Robb's was both, in truth. As Bran sparred with Willas, Robb sparred with Lord Cedric. Only, their spar truly was a spar. A part of Jon wished to join them. But this was Robb's time to show and prove his magic. Jon wouldn't ruin that for him.
Dulled steel met dulled steel. Clang after clang resounded through the yard. Lord Cedric was good, skilled enough with a surprising endurance to him. And he had a good few years on Robb. He was strong and quick, the muscles showing on his frame in a lean, stylish sort of way. Like a Knight from one of Sansa's stories over one from Bran's.
Cedric gave a feint right and darted in with his point to the other side. Robb didn't bite at all. A vicious combo carved away at Robb's defense. Just as the last strike would have gotten through, Robb dodged and spun Cedric's sword away as if he knew it was coming. Such a description could have been used for their entire match — for Robb's whole style. That was made even more clear as Cedric employed magic of his own, summoning a shield from the rack nearby to fly through the air at the back of Robb's head. Robb ducked without a single glance.
Casually catching the flying shield in a single hand and calling a halt to the spar, Cedric chuckled, "Oh yeah, that's wicked."
Robb frowned at the strange turn of phrase, "I don't think it's inherently evil…"
His confusion made Cedric chuckle even more, "Sorry, I mean it's amazing. For you and your allies, that is. It'd be 'wicked' for anyone facing off against you."
"Aye, it will be!" Robb grinned proudly. "I still don't understand it fully myself. But in a fight, I simply know what's coming next before it happens. And my vision sharpens. I smell more. I hear every little thing and can even tell them apart. It's as if I can actually feel my blood pumping in my veins!"
"Wolf senses," Cedric nodded. "And short-term precognition. Like Spidey-sense but… Wolfy-sense."
"'Spidey-sense'?" Robb's expression scrunched up curiously.
"It's from a Muggle comic-…" Cedric paused. "Uh, a story of a hero. He could predict what came next. Sort of a sense for danger, letting him dodge or see through his opponents. It's an amazing ability, for sure."
Jon agreed. Yet he felt it was the less impressive aspect of Robb's magic, in truth — for Robb's magic didn't just work in single combat. Since awakening his bloodline, Robb hadn't lost a game of Cyvasse. Nor any of the war game scenarios that Father and Maester Luwin put them through. He'd been blessed with an unnatural sense for the battlefield. A grasp on tactics and strategy that surpassed even Father's veteran experience. Jon imagined it would be even more apparent in an actual battle. Robb would be the greatest general of their generation. Jon knew it in his bones and he could hardly wait for Robb to prove it to the rest of Westeros.
Unfortunately, Robb didn't see the same thing Jon did just yet, "Yeah, it's very useful. Shame being 'good at Cyvasse' isn't of any help in a duel or spar…"
"You'll be thankful for that half of your magic if you ever go to war," Cedric reasoned sensibly.
"I suppose…" Robb hedged. "I still don't know where it comes from. The 'Wolfy-sense' makes a measure of sense. It's an expression of the Stark Wolfblood. But where does being very good at Cyvasse come from?"
"Your mother's side?" Cedric suggested. "Is there anything in her family's history that would push them to be competent and able when waging war or surviving strife?"
Realization dawned on Robb's face, "Of course! The Riverlands themselves! In Maester Luwin's lessons, they're always the setting for major battles and campaigns. They seem to know war more often than any other Kingdom."
"Ah," Cedric nodded sagely. "The Poland of Westeros."
"Uhm, maybe…?" Robb looked lost. "A Kingdom from your homelands?"
"Oh, yeah," Cedric chuckled. "They had a historically… troubled place in the world. Their lands were productive, populous, and positioned right in the middle of things more often than not. War was common for the Poles, both internally and externally. Yet through it all, they persisted into the present. No one could say the Poles lacked grit, culture, or strength of arms. And the Winged Hussars on a charge was a sight I would have paid to see."
"Are you particularly knowledgeable about the martial history of your homelands?" Robb asked, subtly vibrating with excitement.
"I get by, I guess," Cedric shrugged. "But for that, you'd really want to talk to Victor. He'd regale you with tales of European historical warfare for days on end."
"I'd like to meet him again!" Robb declared with a grin. "I imagine I would learn much from him!"
"You would. I'll see if I can arrange for him to come visit at some point," Cedric agreed. "He's not bad with a blade either. Better than me. He'll also likely have some better ideas for training up both aspects of your bloodline magic. But until then… come at me again!"
The two young men launched back into action, this time with Robb on the offensive. Cedric defended himself well. He took up the shield he'd caught. It and his blade interposed themselves between Robb and his body. When that failed, Cedric ducked and dodged out of the way. And when that failed — Robb anticipating key movements here and there — Cedric took the blows without flinching once.
Lady Catelyn watched them from the side with satisfaction on her face. Where once, Jon would have bristled at the sight, now he was merely indifferent. She'd never approved of his spars and training with Robb. And while that had changed, memories of her disapproval and disdain remained. Jon shook them off and bore the past with dignity, looking toward a fonder future.
Little Rickon was the only Stark child who wasn't receiving some form of magical guidance at the moment. At least, not directly. He was still too young. Able to walk and talk but never let out of Lady Catelyn or the nannies' supervision. He'd awakened his bloodline like the rest of them though. As demonstrated by the furry little gremlin child who was currently climbing all over Lady Catelyn.
She bore the 'indignity' without a word of complaint. Head held high, she looked very much like the trees Bran liked to climb. Or even the Heart Tree of the Godswood with her red hair reflecting its red leaves. She barely winced as Rickon stood himself on her shoulders.
"Mama! Mama, look! King, King!"
Head turned upward, Rickon let out a wolf's howl at the sky. He was covered in the fur of a wolf as well — dark, dark auburn from head to toe. Such was the awakened bloodline that made him a tiny terror. When he got excited, he looked half a wolf. A little wolf-pup with human features. He even grew a constantly wagging tuft of a tail from his backside.
"That you are, my littlest pup," Lady Catelyn nodded.
She didn't look up, knowing it would only destabilize her 'mounted' son. Somehow, even with a wolf-child standing atop her shoulders, Lady Catelyn was still the most noble woman Jon had ever seen. Beside her, Lady Daphne's lips twitched. The only expression that showed on her usually blank face.
"My condolences," Daphne deadpanned.
Catelyn dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment, "He is a difficult blessing but a blessing all the same."
"Still. You'd best start taming him now before he grows."
"While I resent your phrasing, I can understand your point."
"He needs an outlet."
"Elaborate. Please."
"Set him to a task that will take up all of his energy and focus. Perhaps something inherently destructive. And something inherently creative as well. Hide somewhere and let him hunt you down. Playfully, of course. Let him listen to his new instincts so that he'll learn that he doesn't have to."
"You seem quite knowledgeable and experienced with such things. Do you have a wolf-child of your own at Castle Hogwarts?" Catelyn asked, her lips twitching with slight humor.
"No, I don't need one," Daphne deadpanned. "My sister Astoria is worse."
In another corner of the yard, Arya found a kindred spirit in Lady Heather. Turning his focus to them, Jon was suddenly glad that Lady Catelyn's attention was on Rickon and Robb. She would not have enjoyed Lady Heather's antics with her youngest daughter. Even Jon was almost blushing, and he was the one who was usually encouraging Arya to rebel and explore her unladylike side.
"Knobhead."
"Knobhead!"
"Twat."
"Twat!"
"Bugger."
"Bugger!"
"Bloody bollocking blighter."
"Bloody bollocking blighter!"
"And best of all… Wanker."
"Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!"
While the exact words were unfamiliar to him, Jon knew curses when he heard them. And Heather was teaching them to young, impressionable Arya like Maester Luwin taught Jon and Robb the Houses of the North. It was a strange contrast. Heather was unusually cool-headed and collected, looking about as noble as Jon had ever seen her. Then, Arya was quite literally jumping up and down as she repeated the words Heather had to teach.
"Very good," Heather nodded sternly, visibly hiding a vixenish grin. "Now, as someone else."
Arya's brow furrowed in concentration. Jon almost laughed as her expression grew more and more constipated. Then, when she looked as if she would burst a vein, her bloodline magic came into play. Her whole form shifted.
As always, it was a special thing to watch Arya's magic at work. Rickon's change was a gradual thing, starting slow and ramping up with his excitement. Arya's shape-changing was almost instantaneous. And it didn't just transform her into a furry version of herself. She could take on different forms and faces, just as the Faceless Men of Bravos were rumored to do. And she wasn't even limited to the form of a man or woman.
When she first awakened, Arya transformed into a Direwolf in body but kept her mind. Like Atlas and Luna when Jon first met them. Jon had gone looking for her that morning and found a wolf in her bed. It'd been something of a shock. Arya didn't even realize anything was wrong until she stumbled onto four paws when trying to greet him.
Since then, Arya experimented with a plethora of animal and human forms. The Direwolf was an obvious favorite. It seemed to come instinctively. But Jon had seen her studying the horses in the stables for hours on end until eventually, she recreated that form for herself as well. For any form other than the wolf of her blood, that was how Arya's magic seemed to work. She had to know her target practically inside and out. As such, the only human forms she'd managed to take were within the family… with one notable exception.
"Buggering twat wanker!" 'Septa Mordane' exclaimed.
A humorous exhale escaped Jon's nose at that. Arya had never held any love for Winterfell's Septa. Jon didn't either. She always looked down on him with scathing contempt for his birth, even more so than Lady Catelyn used to. As if his very existence was a personal affront to her. Thankfully, after the Stark children began to awaken their bloodlines, she'd quickly fallen out of favor in Winterfell.
The 'good' Septa could not cope with the new changes in the world. She reacted viscerally, almost violently where Jon was concerned. But even with the trueborn Starks, she ranted and raved about damnation and the fury of the Seven. Where once, Septa Mordane held Lady Catelyn's ear, she quickly lost it when she turned hatred and prejudice onto the children.
Lady Catelyn would have none of it. And when Septa Mordane raised a hand at Jon, Lady Catelyn took action. Septa Mordane quickly found herself without a head. Jon would never forget the look on her face when Lady Catelyn ordered her death. The Septa had thought Jon to be a safe target for her hatred. Yet for the first time in his life, Lady Catelyn stood for Jon and brought down her fury on the 'ungrateful, loathsome BITCH who dared strike Family'. It was also the first and only time Jon had heard Lady Catelyn curse. The memory still warmed his heart slightly.
Heather broke her teaching demeanor to grin proudly, "That's it! I don't know who that is but I assume she wouldn't usually curse?"
'Septa Mordane' giggled, "No, never. Septa Mordane was a pain-… *ahem* a pain in the arse. She's dead now. The… twat?"
"Try 'bint'," Heather suggested.
"The bint tried to hit Jon and Mother lost all sense of mercy," Arya happily continued. "Good riddance. And it means no more bloody lessons on the Seven!"
"Now, you're feeling it!" Heather laughed.
Nearby but off to the side, Sansa confided in Lady Fleur and Lady Cho, "I liked Septa Mordane at one point… Unfortunately, this past year had her showing her true face."
"Yes, change will do that to people," Fleur nodded. "For the truly close-minded, there is nothing we can do for them."
"She was worse than 'close-minded'," Sansa glowered. "She was hateful. She tried to hit Jon!"
The very air around her crackled and popped with her anger. Jon could feel it from where he stood. Sansa's bloodline magic could be considered the most dramatic of the Stark children's. A sort of aura around her. Usually, it made her seem more regal. The aura of a young, beautiful, charismatic queen. But when her emotions ran high, it could become truly terrifying.
Jon found himself moved that she cared so much for him. In the past, they'd been distant. But with Lady Catelyn learning the truth and trying to make amends, Sansa was following her mother's lead and warming up to Jon as well. They'd grown blissfully closer over the last year. But there was still a certain distance between them. Not an unfriendly distance but one that made Jon see Sansa as less of a sister and more of an unclaimed maiden…
"And that's what sealed her fate for you~?" Cho smiled knowingly.
"O-Of course," Sansa stuttered slightly. "H-He's my beloved older brother."
"Half-brother~," Cho reminded in a sing-song voice. "And a very handsome half-brother at that. Why, he might even be prettier than Cedric! Not that I would ever say, of course. A girl has to have her biases."
Jon kept his gaze straight ahead, seeming to watch Robb and Cedric's renewed spar. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sansa shoot him a series of quick but lingering glances. He fought to keep a blush from his cheeks. To his shame, since she'd started to warm to him, Jon couldn't help but notice Sansa blooming into a truly beautiful young Lady.
"I-I suppose he is rather… fetching…" Sansa agreed, dropping her voice to a whisper. It wasn't enough to keep Jon from overhearing her still. "His eyes are always so intense, like lightning in storm clouds… And I envy his lashes at times… The features of a Stark made delicate are simply too unfair…"
"Yes, yes~!" Cho whisper-cheered to herself. "The forbidden fruit~! Imouto-crushu~! Bro-con, bro-con~!"
"I-I do not know what you are so excited for!" Sansa insisted. "There's nothing between us!"
"You will have to work on that, my student," Fleur declared imperiously. "Now, your aura. Rein it in. No, not with force. With subtlety. Coax it so. As you would roll your tongue, yes. A light touch — merely a thought of a thought — and let your aura do the rest."
Jon imagined Sansa was the political future of House Stark. She was the one most interested in the trappings of courtly life. And with her awakened magic, she would be a power in any court for certain. Even now, she was a sight to behold. Standing next to the unfathomably beautiful Lady Fleur, she somehow didn't lose out in Jon's eyes.
All around the yard, Jon's siblings were receiving guidance. He was the odd one out. But he'd done so on purpose. His bloodline magic was a bit too blunt and destructive to train casually. Still, at that moment, his magic called to him for some reason. Holding his hand out with a significant measure of effort and will, blue flames danced across his palm.
It was both his bloodlines showing true. The Targaryen fire as a base — though Jon and Father played it off as the 'fiery' aspect of Stark Wolfblood. More importantly than anything from his birth father, Jon loved the color of the flames he could call upon. The beautiful frost-blue of winter roses. The color of his mother. The color of his true home. And that…? That meant more to Jon than anything his birth father could ever have given him.
IIIII
A week into the Hogwarts-Tyrell stay at Winterfell, a hunt was called. Unfortunately, it was only for the menfolk. A fact that Arya protested fiercely. She always did. Thankfully, this time, she had Lady Heather and Lady Luna to keep her occupied. A fearsome combination. Jon certainly wouldn't envy Lady Catelyn while they were gone.
They set out at dawn, riding west into the Wolfswood. Father led the pack, with Robb and Jon taking up either side. Young Lords Atlas, Cedric, and Willas rode with them. Jon didn't know if he'd seen Willas so happy before. The Tyrell Heir was ecstatic to be hunting again, it seemed. Jory Cassel — captain of the Winterfell guardsmen — took up the rear with a token force of men. The Starks were utterly safe within their lands but it helped placate Lady Catelyn and Sansa's worries.
For a while, Jon rode in silence, simply listening in as the others conversed. Father and Willas spoke to each other about Bran's future squiring. That agreement had been reached rather quickly. Even Lady Catelyn couldn't say no to the hope and joy in Bran's eyes when the idea was broached.
Bran had always dreamed of being a Knight. But the thing that sealed the agreement was Atlas' assurance that Bran wouldn't be going alone to Highgarden. Hogwarts was sending a whole House to foster with the Tyrells. The Weasleys — who Jon had met and remembered as being rather… rambunctious. Good young Lords and a fiery young Lady, but Bran certainly wouldn't find himself bored around them. They'd continue Bran's magical training and keep an eye out for him in the South.
Jon also listened in on the discussion between Atlas and Cedric. They spoke of the near future for Hogwarts. It seemed that several of Hogwarts' young Lords and Ladies were looking to venture out into the world. For that, talks with various Houses across Westeros were being opened.
Jon didn't recognize or remember all the names that were mentioned from Hogwarts' side of things. He remembered Lord Victor. The stoic and capable young man looked to foster in the Vale. Robb suggested that Hogwarts contact House Royce for his arrangements. They were good allies with House Stark and the North in general. And they'd likely be much more accepting of magic than many within the faithful Kingdom.
Lord Draco — a young man of Atlas' own House Black — aimed for somewhere in the Westerlands. Atlas had laughed and said that Draco and his Lady Mother wouldn't settle for anything less than the Lannisters themselves. Father and Willas spoke up then, advising caution when dealing with the Lannisters, especially Lord Tywin. As was only sensible for the man who the 'Rains of Castamere' were penned about.
Atlas just smirked, "With Svetlana on his side?"
Cedric barked a laugh in turn, "Yeah, they'll manage. And Draco himself is no stranger to noble politics."
"Give it six months and they'll have more than earned Lord Lannister's respect," Atlas agreed. "Alone, I don't know if I'd bet on them. But together? They're more than competent. Svetlana pushes Draco to be better than he would be. And she would burn Casterly Rock for her Little Dragon."
"She really is good for him, isn't she?" Cedric smiled slightly.
"Narcissa certainly thinks so. I wouldn't be surprised if they were wed before they go anywhere."
"The Reach, the Vale, the Westerlands, the North, of course…" Willas mused. "Is Hogwarts trying to collect all Seven Kingdoms?"
"Merlin, no," Atlas scoffed good-naturedly.
"We couldn't pay one of ours to go to the Iron Islands," Cedric elaborated with amusement in his voice.
"Especially not with what we've found of that damned god of theirs…" Atlas' mood took a darker turn.
"What have you found?" Jon asked, quiet but well-spoken as he voiced words for the first time in the hunt.
"You're better off not knowing," Cedric shook his head.
"Hell, we're better off not knowing," Atlas agreed with a scowl.
"Only deranged madness, bloated death, and uncaring destruction lurk beneath the waves," Cedric warned ominously.
Jon felt the need to take the Wizards at their word. If they condemned the Drowned God, that was truly saying something. None but Hogwarts could claim such extensive magical knowledge in Westeros. Perhaps in the whole known world. Still, Jon shifted warily in his saddle at their description. He wasn't alone.
"… What of the Stormlands? Dorne? King's Landing? Even Essos perhaps?" Willas asked after a moment of awkward silence.
"I think Neville was looking to Essos," Cedric said. "But he hasn't decided anything yet so the Boltons are a good a spot as any in the meantime."
"Ernest Macmillan expressed an interest in the Stormlands. He'll likely take a few others with him. And Blaise, Lavender, Parvati, and Padma wish to visit Dorne," Atlas described.
Cedric shook his head slightly, chuckling, "The girls just want to go somewhere warm and free. I imagine even the Dornish will look twice when they break out the bikinis. And Blaise was rather taken by… the snakes, I believe."
"Snakes?" Robb asked.
"He wants to try his hand at Dornish politics," Atlas explained.
Willas paled slightly even as he chuckled, "Then I wish him luck. He'll need it. Perhaps I could put in a good word with the Martells? Prince Oberyn is a good friend of mine to this day. Healing me will go a long way toward endearing Hogwarts to him."
"I believe that would be appreciated," Cedric nodded.
"Hogwarts will be busy in the coming days," Jon mused, mostly to himself.
The idea was somewhat daunting to him. Most of the young Lords and Ladies mentioned weren't too much older than him. Yet they knew what they wanted to do. Perhaps not with their whole lives but at least the next few years. And Jon… Jon was still adrift. Even a year after Father's reveal, he was still unsure and undecided.
Perhaps in another world, the throne would have called to him. Or he might've set out to search for his Targaryen relatives if they still lived. Or if he didn't know the truth, he might've joined the Night's Watch and taken the Black. None of those paths appealed to him now.
The Iron Throne was a cursed pile of melted swords. It'd done neither side of his family any good in recent memory. While he still wished to see the Wall, Jon didn't wish to swear on oath to the Night's Watch. Furthermore, Father would likely forbid it, not wanting his sister's line to die out with Jon. The idea of finding his surviving family felt like a fool's errand. If they lived, they would be spread far and wide. And Jon didn't have the slightest clue of where to start his search.
Jon was still locked in his internal strife as the hunting party rode into a Weirwood grove. Answers and decisiveness were not coming easily. But the familiar smell of Weirwood sap and leaves instantly helped calm him. He looked up at the canopy overhead, red leaves mingling with the usual green.
As they rode deeper, the grove darkened. The leaves above only let through beams and rays of sunlight. As if a bright night had fallen in the middle of the day. No matter how dark it got, Jon never felt afraid. He could never feel afraid. Not in a Godswood, wild though this one may have been. He was a Stark. The Old Gods welcomed Starks, watching over them always.
Something in the wild Godswood drew Father forward. Jon knew because he could feel it too. Robb as well, his brow furrowed in curiosity. The call was silent at first. Then loud as a commotion resounded through the grove just out of view. As one, Father, Jon, and Robb spurred their steeds into a canter. The others followed.
In mere moments, they were upon a magnificent scene. A full-grown Direwolf faced off against a massive stag. Both beasts were seemingly oblivious to the presence of them and the men. The stag reared back on two legs, dwarfing even the Direwolf as it stood almost upright. The Direwolf snarled, bearing teeth the size of the flesh of Jon's palm.
"She's pregnant…" Jon realized as the stag prepared to charge.
Father had come to a similar conclusion about the Direwolf bitch. Her belly was rounded, just starting to show. It was a sign from the Old Gods. Jon knew it as readily as he breathed. A portent, its exact meaning to be digested later. Stag battling Direwolf…
Father wrenched Ice from its place strapped to his saddle, his face set grim and grave. Without a word and unheeding Jory's protests from behind, he charged at the stag. The stag charged the Direwolf at the same time. Valyrian steel flashed out in a sideways arc, sharper than any of their other arrows or spears. A bloody gash was carved along the stag's flank from sternum to hind as Father galloped past and began to circle around.
Still, the great antlered beast didn't fall. It bellowed in pain but charged on. Head lowered, Jon could practically see every pointed antler glinting in the low light. Then Atlas charged after Father. He wielded no weapon in his hands, only a stick. He didn't need one.
An arrow of light shot out at Atlas' command. The magic struck true, squarely in the center of the stag's charging head. It continued forward as if hitting nothing but air. A perfectly circular hole left nothing behind, not flesh, bone, or brain. The stag dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. It skidded in the dirt, coming to a stop with its antlers just in front of the Direwolf's still-snarling maw.
Bringing his horse back around, Father dismounted and strode toward the Direwolf. No hint of fear or caution showed on his face. He was drawn to the beast, the sigil of their House. Jon and Robb couldn't help but follow, feeling similar pulls to the beast — or more appropriately, the pups it carried… Nose twitching in the air as they approached, the Direwolf's snarl faded.
As if guided by something greater, Father extended his hand to the Direwolf. It sniffed once, then pressed its forehead into his palm. Holding himself there, Father beckoned Jon and Robb forward as well. As if guided by something greater, Jon and Robb put their hands on the honored beast's fur and looked it in the eyes. Jon couldn't speak for what Robb and Father experienced. But for Jon himself… he was suddenly somewhere else entirely.
Another place, another time. Jon felt himself detached as he took in the vision from the Old Gods. For it could be nothing else. It was as if he was watching the ground from the top of a tower, yet he was still looking through his own eyes. He trekked through a blizzard. Snow and ice ripped at his skin, even through his clothes and furs. In the blinding whiteness, glowing pale-blue eyes began to blink open.
One pair. Two. A dozen. Two-score. More and more glowing eyes blinked open in the blizzard. Jon couldn't see the beings they belonged to. Just the eyes, watching from afar. Hidden by eternal ice and snow. Their combined gaze felt cold. Indifferent. Inhuman.
A figure appeared in the blizzard. A silhouette, growing clearer and clearer with every step. The uncountable eyes began to dim — not warming but softening. Freshly fallen snow instead of solid ice. He felt individuals then, no longer many gazes frozen together with the weight of a glacier. One was happy. One twinkled like icy wind chimes. One felt familiar… familial…
The figure in the blizzard opened glowing blue eyes, just the same as the rest. Yet Jon could see the source of these eyes. The blizzard calmed as if he'd entered the eye of a storm. A woman stared back at Jon.
She was a haunting beauty with her glowing, icy eyes. Something unfamiliar. But not unfeeling. Nor unintelligent. Hair as white freshly driven snow swept back from her forehead like a mane around her face. Her skin was blue — the pale frost-blue of Winter Roses, Jon's mind insisted — and as unblemished as the finest porcelain. Her features were as if lovingly carved from ice — delicate, regal, and surprisingly human. A purple cloak covered her dainty frame and figure, with 'fluffed' ice at the collar instead of fur.
Jon couldn't stop himself from approaching her. Couldn't stop himself from standing over her. She barely came up to his shoulder but looked up to meet his gaze all the same. Undaunted, it felt as if she was gazing into Jon's soul and him into hers.
She spoke — her voice like singing ice on a frozen lake, "A Night's Queen… needs a Night's King…"
And Jon knew no more.
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