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294 AC - Winterfell

The letters lay scattered across Ned's desk like accusations. Three ravens, three seals, and three lords demanding answers he did not have. He picked up the one from Lord Umber. Greatjon's handwriting was bold, nearly illegible, the words pressed deep into the parchment as though he had been trying to stab the page.

Lord Stark,

Word has reached Last Hearth that hundreds of thousands of wildlings, has passed through the Wall and taken residence near Queenscrown. My smallfolk are terrified. My lands are threatened. I was told your son gave these savages passage. I demand to know what madness has possessed you to allow this.

—Lord Umber

Ned sighed and set it down, picking up the second from Lord Karstark. Rickard was not as blunt as Greatjon but no less corncerned.

Lord Stark,

Reports from the Wall speak of wildlings flooding south. We have heard no word from you. Our coasts are already vulnerable from Ironborn and now this? My people are afraid of raids. What is being done?

—Lord Rickard Karstark

The last raven came from Bear Island and Lady Maege. Her letter was brief, almost terse.

Stark,

Wildlings south. Is this your doing?

—Maege Mormont

Ned rubbed his temples. He had been sitting here for hours, trying to compose a response, but what could he say? He did not know what had happened at the Wall. All he knew came from Benjen and he had reason to suspect his younger brother left out important details.

Brother,

I do not know what possessed your sons, but they have led an army of wildlings into your lands. Whatever plan you had for Jon, he has refused it.

—Benjen.

"Gods," Ned muttered, but then there was knock at the door. He looked up, a flicker of irritation across his face. He had no desire to hear more bad news. "Enter."

The door opened and Catelyn stepped inside. Ned opened his mouth to speak, to say he did not have the time, but the words died in his throat.

Her face was pale. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from weeping, yet there was something else beneath the grief. Her expression was a mask held together by sheer will but with every second it cracked and he did not know why.

"Cat," he said, rising from his chair. "Did something happen?"

She did not answer at first. She simply stood there, her hands clasped tightly before her, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

"They have returned," she said at last. Her voice was hoarse, scraped raw.

Ned frowned. "Who?"

"The boys." She swallowed hard. "Robb. Theon. And—" Her voice cracked. "And Jon."

Ned's heart seized. "They are safe? They are—"

"Safe?" Catelyn scoffed. It was a broken, hollow sound. "Yes. They are safe and the rumors are true. Robb let an army of wildlings through the Wall. He let savages into our lands. Our bannermen are furious. Our smallfolk are terrified. And you—" She stopped, her jaw trembling. "You lied to me."

Ned blinked. "Cat, I—"

"Why did you lie to me about Jon?"

The words hung in the air between them. Ned felt the temperature drop, felt the walls close in around him.

"Cat," he said carefully. "I told you who Jon's mother is."

"Will you stop?" Her voice rose, cracking with fury and grief. "I saw him Ned. I saw him. Anyone in the realm can see who that boy is, Ned. He has silver hair and a violet eye. He looks like—" She stopped, her breath catching. "How could you do this to our family? Do you now understand what this means?"

Ned reached for her. "Cat, please. Let me explain—"

"Explain?" She stepped back, out of his reach. "Did you not think your honor extended to me? To the children? I have been your faithful wife for all these years. I have borne your children. I have kept your secrets. I have only ever wanted our family to be safe." Her voice broke. "And you could not trust me with this?"

Ned's throat tightened. "It was not about trust."

"Then what was it about?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but the words would not come. How could he explain? How could he tell her that he had made a promise to his dying sister, a promise that had haunted him for all these years? How could he tell her that he had been protecting Jon—not from her, but from Robert? From the realm? From the truth itself? How could he tell his wife that?

Catelyn stared at him, her eyes searching his face. Whatever she saw there did not satisfy her.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't. I thought you loved me... I've only ever wished to serve you as a faithful wife."

And then she turned and fled.

Ned stood frozen in the silence of his solar. The letters still lay scattered across his desk. The fire still crackled in the hearth. But he did not see them. He saw only his wife's face, twisted with grief and betrayal. He heard only her words, echoing in his mind.

You lied to me.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He should have told her. Years ago, when Jon was still a babe in arms, he should have trusted her with the truth. But he had been afraid. Afraid of what she might do. Afraid of what she might say. Afraid of what she might reveal.

And now it was too late.

Ned walked to the window and stared out at the courtyard below. The snow was falling, soft and silent, covering the world in white. And in the distance, beyond the walls of Winterfell, he could see movement. A column of riders, black against the snow. His heart sank.

He turned from the window and walked toward the door. He did not know what he would find outside. He did not know what he would say. He only knew that he could not stay here, hiding in his solar, pretending that everything was fine.

The Lord of Winterfell stepped into the cold with the feeling that the world he knew was beginning to crumble.

The courtyard was busy. A column of riders was passing through the main gate with perhaps two dozen men, their horses stamping and snorting in the frigid air. Night's Watch black mixed with Stark grey. At their head rode Benjen, his face wind-burned and weary. Behind him came Robb. His oldest son sat tall in the saddle, his auburn hair blowing in the wind, his face pale but composed. Ned expected his boy to look guilty, ashamed, or frightened by the consequences of his actions.

But whatever since of fear had been swallowed down, replaced by pride. His boy was becoming a man and Ned's heart clenched.

He scanned the column for Jon, his eyes moving past Theon, who wore a smirk that Ned did not understand, past the guards and rangers, until he found the black mare at the rear of the party. And the rider atop it.

His hair—gods, his hair—was platinum white, almost silver, with only a few streaks of black remaining at the temples. It caught the pale winter light and seemed to glow. If Robert ever saw him now, the boy would be dead before sunset. The boy's eyes found Ned's across the courtyard. One grey. One violet. And on his hip, a sword. A blade of dark steel that seemed to drink the light around it.

Ned's breath caught in his throat.

The face he saw, was a face, he hadn't seen in decades. The last time was at Harrenhal when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen crowned his sister as the queen of love and beauty and when all smiles died. But the face that stared back at him now was a ghost. Younger, sharper, but unmistakable. The boy looked like Rhaegar with shorter hair.

And the Lord of Winterfell understood, in that moment, why his wife looked at him with such fury.

Ned did not remember moving, but suddenly he was in the courtyard, pushing through the crowd, his boots crunching against the frost-stiffened ground. His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking. Jon was dismounting when Ned reached him. The boy moved with a fluid grace that seemed almost unnatural, his cloak billowing around him as he landed. Theon was nearby, still wearing that smirk, clearly enjoying what was to come. Benjen swung down from his horse, his face grim. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ned was already moving past him.

Robb approached, his expression eager, hopeful. "Father—"

But Ned did not listen.

"What have you done?" The words came out as a snarl, harsher than he intended. Robb flinched, and Ned felt a flicker of guilt. But it was swallowed by the fear that had seized him.

Jon answered instead. His voice was calm, measured, as though he had been expecting this. "What was appropriate. Winter is coming, Lord Stark. The North needs men if it is to face the dead."

Ned turned on him. "That is not up to you."

"I am aware." Jon met his gaze without flinching. "That is why Robb made the decision. There was not enough time to send word to Winterfell. The Wildlings are loyal to him, and he is loyal to you, Lord Stark. He is your son."

The words were too reasonable, and Ned could feel the eyes of his household on him: guards, servants, and the few bannermen who had come to greet the returning party. He could hear the whispers spreading.

"This is treason," Ned said, his voice rising. "I am the Warden of the North. I have betrayed my vows to my bannermen and to the realm. I have a duty to protect my people."

"Yes, Lord Stark." Jon's voice was calm, almost gentle. "And you have done. You have provided the King and the Realm with a great service."

Ned opened his mouth to shout, but Benjen stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm.

"Brother." Benjen's voice was low, urgent. "Robb and Jon were able to set terms with the wildlings. They will take up home near Queenscrown and the Wall. They will provide men to the Night's Watch and fight for you when the time comes. All they asked was for land to settle and for them to be assimilated into northern culture."

Ned stared at him. "Really?"

"Yes, brother." Benjen's jaw tightened. "I do not agree with my nephews' methods, but they have done a great boon for the realm. The Wildlings are loyal to you."

Ned turned back to Jon. The boy was watching him with those mismatched eyes, calm and patient, as though he had all the time in the world. And then Ned saw the sword. It was unmistakably Valyrian. The dark metal seemed to drink the pale winter light, absorbing it into its depths. The hilt was simple, unadorned, but the blade itself pulsed with a faint warmth that Ned could feel from where he stood.

"Where did you get that sword?" he demanded.

Jon's hand drifted to the hilt. "I earned it. When I went beyond the Wall."

"Earned it?" Ned's voice cracked. "You are a boy of twelve. You have no right—"

"I have every right." For the first time, something flickered in Jon's eyes. "It is mine by blood."

"You will abandon that sword!"

The shout echoed across the courtyard. Guards shifted uneasily. Servants froze mid-stride. Even Theon's smirk faltered for just a moment.

Robb stepped forward. "Father. Jon was the one who led the wildlings. He is a hero. He has done the North—"

Ned grabbed Robb's arm. His grip was too tight—he knew it was too tight—but he could not stop himself. He could not think. The promise. He had to keep the promise.

"He is using you," Ned hissed. "Do you not see it? He is using your trust, your love, your—"

Robb cried out in pain and the sound cut through Ned like a blade. He looked down at his son's face and saw shock, hurt, confusion. He saw the boy he had raised, the heir to Winterfell, looking at him as though he did not recognize him.

Ned let go.

He stepped back, his hands raised, his heart pounding. He looked around the courtyard and saw the faces of his household. Disgust. Disbelief. Disappointment. Ser Rodrik's expression was thunderous. The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Even the stable boys had stopped their work to stare.

Benjen stepped forward, his face pale. "Ned. What is wrong with you?"

Ned opened his mouth to answer, but no words came.

Jon moved past him, kneeling beside Robb. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, murmuring something too low to hear. Robb nodded, his eyes still fixed on Ned and let Jon help him stand. Ned watched them and felt something inside him shatter.

"Jon," he said, his voice hoarse. "You will no longer have that sword. And Robb—" He swallowed hard. "You will no longer be near Jon."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Ser Rodrik's hand moved to his sword belt. Even the guards looked uneasy, but Jon did not react. Instead, he simply unbuckled the sword, dropping it at Ned's feet. The blade clattered against the frozen ground, and the sound was louder than any shout. Then he turned away.

"Maester Luwin," Ned called out, desperation creeping into his voice. "Take a look at Robb."

But Robb did not go to the maester. He stayed where he was, his hand on Jon's shoulder, his eyes still fixed on his father.

"No," Robb said. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "I am fine."

"Robb—"

"I said I am fine." Robb turned away. "Come, Jon."

And the two boys walked away together. Ned stared after them. The courtyard was silent now, the crowd parting to let the brothers pass. He could feel the weight of their judgment, their disappointment, their disgust. He turned to Benjen, hoping for something. Support, understanding, anything. But his younger brother looked at him with an unreadable expression and walked away to the stables.

Ned stood alone in the courtyard.

He looked up at the keep. In a window high above, a figure stood watching. Catelyn. She stared down at him for a long moment, her face pale and still. Then she turned and disappeared. The snow fell around him, soft and silent.

Ned looked down at the sword at his feet. Dark Sister. The blade of kings and heroes. He bent and picked it up, his hands trembling.

And then he heard it again.

Promise me, Ned.

His sister's voice, soft and fierce, echoing through the years.

Promise me.

Ned closed his eyes. "I promise," he whispered. But he no longer knew what he was promising. Or to whom.

294 AC - Winterfell Great Hall

The Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with torchlight and laughter.

Robb sat at the high table, a cup of wine untouched before him, his eyes moving across the crowd without seeing them. The feast was in his honor. His "great accomplishment," they called it. The heir to Winterfell, who had led the wildlings through the Wall and negotiated terms that would strengthen the North. Robb had heard the bards singing it. He had listened to the lords praising him. He had smiled and nodded and accepted their congratulations, even as something cold and bitter curled in his chest.

It was Jon, he wanted to shout. Jon was the one who did it. Jon led them. Jon killed their king. Jon brought them south. I just— He stopped himself.

It was all a load of rubbish.

Robb hadn't touched his platter. He looked to his seeing Sansa, Arya, and Bran next to him. His mother and father were sitting in the seats reserved for the rulers of Winterfell. He stared at his father. Lord Eddard Stark. Eddard the Just they would call him. There was nothing just about this.

His eyes fell to the sword at his hip.

Valyrian steel. Dark Sister. Ned had given it to him, pressing the blade into his hands with a grim expression.

"This belongs to a lord," his father had said.

But Robb had refused to accept it. The blade hung at his side now, but it felt wrong. It was not his sword. It was Jon's. He had been trying to find Jon for days. To give it back to him. But days had passed with no sight of him. Three days, or was it four? He had searched the keep, the yards, the godswood. He had asked servants, guards, and even Maester Luwin. No one had seen him.

And now, in this hall filled with laughter and music, Robb felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

"Robb?"

He turned to see Sansa looking at him. Her face flushed from the warmth of the hall, her blue eyes bright with concern. They shared the same soft thick auburn hair, making them look more like Tullys than Starks.

"What's wrong?" She asked. "You look—"

"It's nothing." The word came out sharper than he intended. He saw Sansa flinch, guilt prickling at him, but he could not stay here. Robb rose from his seat. "I'm fine Sansa. I just need air."

He walked away without looking back, not seeing Sansa's puzzled and hurt expression. He did not see his parents watching him from across the hall, their faces tight with unspoken tension. He did not see the lords and ladies who had come to celebrate him, their eyes following his retreat.

He did not care.

The night air was cold and sharp, cutting through the haze of wine and torch smoke that clung to him. Robb walked without direction, his boots crunching against the frost-stiffened ground. The sounds of the feast faded behind him, replaced by the howl of the wind and the creak of ancient stones.

He found himself in the training yard.

The practice dummies stood in silent rows, their straw-stuffed bodies ragged and worn. Robb grabbed a wooden sword from the rack—the same one he had used a hundred times, a thousand times—and began to swing.

Why? The question repeated with every strike, growing louder in his mind. Why did father do that? Why did he treat Jon like a stranger? Why did he grab me like I was a child? The dummy shuddered under his blow.

Jon is noble. Jon is honorable. Jon is—he struck again, harder this time—more of a Stark than I ever will be.

The practice sword slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground.

Robb stared at it for a long moment, his chest heaving, his breath misting in the cold air. And then his legs gave out. He sank to his knees, his head bowed, his hands pressed against the frozen earth. He did not want this. If this was what being a lord was, he did not want it. He did not want to be celebrated for a lie. He wanted his brother.

He wanted Jon.

The tears came before he could stop them. They were hot, freezing on his cheeks as soon as they fell. He tried to hold them back, tried to choke them down, but they would not stop.

"Wolves don't cry."

The voice came from behind him. It was slurred and mocking. Robb's head snapped up to see Theon Greyjoy standing at the edge of the yard, a wineskin in his hand, his lips curved in that familiar smirk.

"Look at you. Hero of the North."

"Shut up, Greyjoy," Robb said, his voice raw. He wiped the tears from his face, standing up to meet the heir to the Iron Islands.

Theon laughed. He took a long drink from the wineskin, then swayed closer, his boots unsteady on the frozen ground.

"Shut up?" Theon repeated. "That's no way to speak to a guest. Especially not after what you did today. Leading the wildlings. Finding the sword. Playing the hero." He laughed again. "Everyone's talking about it. The great Robb Stark. But we both know the truth, don't we?"

Robb's fists clenched. "I said shut up."

"It wasn't you." Theon took another step closer. "It was the bastard. Jon Snow. The boy who thinks he's better than everyone else." He spat. "He's nothing. He'll always be nothing. But at least, he's better than you." More chuckles came from the Greyjoy and Robb could feel the wall of stench coming from him.

He could tell Theon to bugger off but Robb was angry. "Don't," he warned. "Don't you say one more word."

"What's the problem with speaking the truth?" Theon's grin widened. "Maybe if Jon had been born with a cunt, I'd give him the time of day. The northern girls aren't much here, except for your sister—"

Robb felt his blood run cold, taking steps closer.

"—but Jon doesn't have a cunt," Theon continued, oblivious to his shift. "He's a bastard. He'll never be anything more than a bast—"

Robb's fist connected with Theon's jaw.

The Greyjoy staggered back, the wineskin flying from his hand. For a moment, he looked almost surprised. Then the surprise melted into fury. "You—"

Theon lunged.

Robb was fast, but Theon was bigger. He was older, stronger, and he had been drinking. The first blow caught Robb in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. The second caught him across the face, snapping his head to the side. He tasted blood. The Greyjoy laughed.

"Come on, Stark. Show me what you've got."

Robb swung wildly. His fist connected with Theon's chin, and for a brief moment, he felt a surge of hope. But then the older boy grabbed him, throwing him to the ground, and suddenly all the air was gone again. In a heartbeat, Theon was on top of him, raining blows down on his face and chest.

"After I'm done with you," he snarled, "I'm going to find that bastard brother of yours."

Something snapped inside Robb.

He surged upward, throwing Theon off balance, and tackled him to the ground. He was on top now, his fists pounding into Theon's face, his vision red with rage. "I won't let you," he screamed. "You're nothing but Ironborn scum!"

Theon kicked him off. Robb flew backward, his head slamming against the ground. Before he could recover, Theon was there, grabbing him by the hair, dragging him across the yard.

"Let's see how brave you are when you're drowning."

Robb's head was shoved into the water trough. The cold was immediate and absolute. It stabbed into his nose and mouth, his eyes, his lungs. He tried to scream, but there was only water. He tried to push back, but Theon was too strong.

"I wonder what my father will give me once I kill the heir to Winterfell," Theon said, his voice muffled and distant. 

The world was going dark. Robb's vision was fading at the edges, his limbs growing heavy. He felt himself slipping, felt the cold pulling him under.

And then he heard it.

Are you really going to die here?

It was Jon's voice in his head. Clear and calm and close.

You promised me. You said you would never leave my side.

Robb's eyes snapped open.

I promised.

His hand found something in the water—a stone, rough and jagged. He gripped it, feeling the sharp edges bite into his palm.

I will not break my vow.

He swung.

The stone connected with Theon's head. The Greyjoy screamed, his grip faltering, and Robb surged upward. He spun, swinging with all his strength, and his fist connected with Theon's jaw. The Greyjoy crumpled to the ground. Robb stood over him, breathing hard. Blood dripped from his nose, mixing with the water streaming down his face. His hands were shaking and vision swimming, but he was standing. He wiped his nose, crimson staining his gloves.

"If I ever see you near my family," he said, his voice hoarse and broken. "I will kill you."

Theon looked up at him, his face drained of color, the wine seemingly leaving his system. Then he scrambled to his feet and fled, disappearing into the darkness. Robb watched him go, letting his lungs take in air. His chest was screaming but his heart was cheering. But still, that hollowness stayed with him. There was no one to share the moment with.

But that's then he saw a flash of silver, just at the edge of his vision. Pale and faint, like moonlight on snow.

Robb's heart lurched. "Jon?"

The silver faded, melting into the shadows. But Robb was already moving, running toward it, his legs pumping, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Jon! Wait!"

He did not know where he was going. He only knew that he had to find his brother—had to see him, speak to him, make sure he was all right.

The silver flickered again, leading him toward the First Keep.

The Great Hall was too loud.

Sansa sat at the high table, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her smile fixed firmly in place. She had been trained to smile, trained to be gracious, trained to be the perfect lady. But tonight, the smile felt like a mask, ready to crack at any moment. Her eyes kept drifting to the empty seat beside her.

Robb's seat.

He had been gone for what felt like hours. The feast was supposed to be in his honor, and he had simply... vanished. Sansa did not understand it. Her brother had achieved something great—something worthy of the songs. He had led the wildlings through the Wall. He had brought a useful army to the North. He had found a Valyrian steel sword.

And yet he had looked so angry.

Sansa tried to focus on the conversation around her. It was not easy. Her parents were bickering again, not loudly or in a way that anyone else would notice. But Sansa could see the tension in her mother's jaw, the way she kept her voice low and cutting. She could see the way her father's hands tightened around his cup, the way he looked everywhere but at his wife.

This is not how the stories go, Sansa thought. In the stories, the lord and lady are always in love. They hold hands beneath the table and share secret smiles. They don't—. She stopped herself. It was not proper to think such things.

"Where is Robb?" Arya's voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and demanding. Sansa turned to see her sister scowling at the empty seat, her small hands planted on the table.

"He went outside," Sansa said carefully. "He needed air."

"He's been gone for ages." Arya's scowl deepened. "And I haven't seen Jon in days. Where is he? Why isn't he here?"

"Jon is not invited to feasts," Sansa said, the words coming out more sharply than she intended.

Arya glared at her. "Why not?"

"Because—" Sansa faltered. Because he was a bastard. Because he did not belong at the high table. Because her mother would not allow it. But she could not say any of that, not with the feast in full swing, not with so many people listening.

"Maybe he doesn't want to be here," Bran offered, his voice small and uncertain. "Maybe he's busy."

"Busy doing what?" Arya demanded. "He's not even in Winterfell. I asked Maester Luwin. He said Jon hasn't been seen for days."

Sansa frowned. She had not known that. She had not thought much of Jon at all, if she was being honest. He was her bastard half-brother—no, she didn't know anymore. There were rumors that boy was the bastard of a Targaryen, though no one said it aloud to avoid the wrath of her father. But the silver hair, the violet eye, the sword that had belonged to Targaryens.

The boy who died was becoming something more than the Bastard of Winterfell.

Sansa remembered her mother's words, spoken years ago. Jon looks more like a Stark than any of my trueborn children. It had been a bitter complaint, a wound that had never healed. But now Jon looked nothing like a Stark. She wondered if that was what her mother was so angry about.

"Sansa!" Arya's voice was sharp. "Are you even listening to me?"

Sansa blinked. "What?"

"I said, I want to find Robb." Arya's face was scrunched up with frustration. "I want to find him and Jon and—"

"You cannot just wander off," Sansa said, her voice firm. "You are a lady. Ladies do not—"

"I don't care what ladies do!"

"Arya." Sansa's patience was fraying. "If I find Robb, will that suffice?"

Arya's mouth opened, then closed. She looked at Sansa, her expression shifting from anger to something almost like innocent, childish hope.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Arya's shoulders relaxed, just slightly. She still looked annoyed, but she did not argue. Sansa rose from her seat. She smoothed her skirts, nodded politely to the lords and ladies nearby, and began to walk toward the door. Her parents were too busy bickering to notice her departure.

The cold hit her as soon as she stepped outside. Sansa shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She hated the cold. It seeped into her bones, made her nose run and her fingers numb. She dreamed of a place where the sun always shone, where the air was warm and sweet, where she could wear silks instead of wool.

She dreamed of a prince who would carry her away.

The thought made her smile, just for a moment. She imagined him now—tall and golden-haired, with kind eyes and a gentle smile. He would wrap her in his cloak and call her his lady. He would take her to a castle by the sea, where the sunsets were pink and orange and gold.

Not like here, she thought. Not like Winterfell.

She pushed the thought aside and began to walk. The courtyard was mostly empty, the guards and servants having retreated to the warmth of the keep. Sansa called out for Robb, her voice echoing against the ancient stones.

"Robb?" she called out, her voice echoing against the walls. "Robb, are you out here?"

No answer.

She continued to walk until she found a group of levies was huddled near the outer wall, their breath misting in the cold as they passed a skin of wine between them. They rose when they saw her, touching their foreheads in clumsy salutes.

"My lady," one of them said. "What are you doing out here? It's freezing."

"I am looking for my brother," Sansa said, keeping her voice steady. "Have you seen Robb?"

The levies exchanged glances. Then the same man spoke again.

"Aye, my lady. We saw the heir heading toward the crypts. Not long ago. Couldn't say why but he was in a rush."

Sansa felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. The crypts. Of all the places in Winterfell, she hated the crypts the most. They were dark and cold and filled with the bones of dead kings.

But she had promised Arya. And she would not break her word.

"Thank you," she said, and she began to walk.

Eventually, Sansa passed the animal pens on her way to the crypts. The pigs and sheep were quiet, huddled together for warmth. The horses stamped and snorted in their stalls. Sansa barely glanced at them until she heard a low groan. She stopped, turning toward the nearest animal pen, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. The hay was piled high, the shadows deep, but she could hear ragged and uneven breathing.

"Robb?" she called out, her voice trembling. "Is that you?"

The figure shifted. The torchlight caught his face, and Sansa saw that it was not her brother. It was Theon Greyjoy.

Sansa gasped, stepping back. Theon's face was a mask of blood. His nose was broken, his lips split, his eyes swollen nearly shut. He was slumped against the wooden fence of the pen, his breathing ragged and shallow.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Theon, what happened to you?"

Theon did not answer. Instead, he stared at her with those bloodshot eyes, his lips curling into something that was not quite a smile.

Sansa took another step back. "I should fetch Maester Luwin. I should—" She never finished the sentence.

Theon moved faster than she expected, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist. He pulled her into the animal pen, his other hand clamping over her mouth before she could scream. Sansa struggled. She kicked and clawed and tried to bite, but he was too strong. He pushed her down into the hay, his weight pinning her in place.

"Shut up," he snarled, his breath hot and sour against her ear. "Just shut up."

Sansa's mind went blank. Body unable to move. She could only feel the cold hay beneath her, the weight of Theon's body on top of her, the rough fabric of his clothes against her skin.

"Robb," Theon hissed. "Robb did this to me. Your precious brother. Your perfect, golden brother." He laughed, the sound broken and cruel. "He thinks he's so much better than me. They all do. The Starks. All of them. My family is a laughingstock... but not anymore."

Sansa tried to scream, but his hand was still over her mouth.

"The Starks and their bloody honor," Theon said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Well, you know what? Fuck your honor. I'll show your father what honor looks like to the Ironborn."

Sansa felt his hands on her. Felt his fingers fumbling with her dress. She squeezed her eyes shut, and she tried to dream. She tried to dream of a prince.

A prince, she told herself. A prince will come. He will be tall and golden-haired. He will sweep me off my feet and carry me to a castle by the sea. He will love me and protect me and never let anyone hurt me.

She could almost see him. Almost feel his arms around her, warm and safe.

A prince will come.

She clung to the thought. She clung to it as Theon's hands moved, as she felt cold air on her skin, as she felt the weight of him pressing down on her.

A prince will come. A prince will come. A prince—

The tears slipped from beneath her closed eyelids, trailing down her cheeks. But she kept her eyes shut. She kept dreaming.

A prince will come for me.

And one did.

294 AC - Winterfell Crypts

Robb continued to chase silver. His boots pounded against the frost-stiffened ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The silver flash had vanished into the darkness, but he knew where it was leading him.

The crypts.

He should have guessed.

He descended the ancient stairs, the torchlight flickering against the stone walls. The air grew colder as he went deeper, the musty scent of old stone and older bones filling his nostrils. He passed the tombs of old kings of winter, their stone effigies staring at him with blank, unseeing eyes. There was Torrhen Stark, the King who Knelt. Cregan Stark, Wolf of the North. Rickard Stark, his grandsire. The one who was consumed by the Mad King's wildfire.

And then he stopped.

He stood before the tomb of Lyanna Stark. The Winter Rose.

The statue was beautiful—a young woman with delicate features and a crown of winter roses carved into the stone. Robb had seen it a hundred times, but tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it felt like a warning.

"Aunt Lyanna," he said softly, his voice echoing in the silence. "I wish I could've met you." He did not know why he said it. He never felt the need to speak to a ghost. But the words came anyway, slipping out before he could stop them. "I wish I knew what to believe."

Robb shook his head and looked around. The crypts stretched on, deeper and darker, the torchlight growing dimmer with each step. Robb was about to turn back until a voice called out from the shadows.

"It's good to see you, brother."

Robb's heart lurched. He spun around, and there, standing in the flickering torchlight, was Jon.

The silver-white hair gleamed like moonlight against the darkness of the crypts, and his mismatched eyes shone with a warmth that Robb had not seen in days. Jon was smiling. A rare, genuine smile that made him look almost like the boy he used to be. Robb rushed forward, closing the distance between them, and threw his arms around Jon.

"Gods," Robb breathed, his voice cracking. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?"

Jon returned the embrace, his grip firm and steady. "Hiding," he said simply. "I needed time to think."

"Think?" Robb pulled back, studying his brother's face. "About what?"

Jon's smile faded. "About what comes next."

Robb opened his mouth to ask more, but then he remembered. The sword. He reached to his hip and unbuckled Dark Sister. The Valyrian steel gleamed in the torchlight, dark and ancient, pulsing with a faint warmth that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the metal. He bent the knee and extended the sword to his brother.

"This belongs to you," Robb said, holding the blade out to Jon. "It doesn't belong to me."

"What about Lord Stark," Jon asked.

"Take it." Robb pushed the hilt into Jon's hands. "I don't care what Father says. You earned it. You found it. It's yours."

For a long moment, Jon said nothing. He simply looked at the blade in his hands, his fingers brushing against the dark metal. Then he looked up at Robb, and there was something raw in his expression—gratitude, perhaps. Or confirmation.

"Thank you," Jon said quietly. He strapped the blade to his own hip, and it fit naturally.

Robb smiled. "I heard about the feast," Jon said, his voice quiet. "I'm guessing it's not going well since you came looking for me in the dead of night."

"It's all fake." The words came out bitter, sharp. "They keep calling me a hero. They are calling me the Young Wolf. I haven't done anything to deserve the title. I just—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I just stood there and watched."

"You made a decision, only a lord could. You trusted me when no one else would. That is more than enough cause for a celebration."

"I wish father would see that. You're the real hero, Jon."

Jon tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Of course I am. But every hero needs a squire."

Robb laughed despite himself. He reached out and punched Jon's shoulder—lightly, playfully, the way they used to do when they were children. "You bastard," he said, but there was no heat in it.

Jon's expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes. "Robb. I need to tell you this. The reason I have been hiding is because Lord Stark plans to send me away."

Robb blinked. "What?"

"He told me this morning. I am to leave tomorrow, when the Umber and Mormont hosts depart. He said it was for my own safety."

"Tomorrow?" Robb's voice rose. "He can't do that. You just returned. You—"

"He can," Jon said calmly. "He is the Lord of Winterfell. He has the authority."

"Where are you to go?"

"Hmm. I suppose Queenscrown. The Wildlings need supervision and I don't believe Lord Stark can handle it. He wants me to go to the Wall, but I will not."

Robb's hands clenched into fists. "The Wall? That isn't fair. You would be wasted out there. I thought father was supposed to be honorable."

"He is." Jon's voice was soft, almost sad. "But he is a slave to it. He'd rather sacrifice the honor of his family for peace. He has made a prison for himself, Robb. One that he cannot escape."

Robb stared at him. The calm certainty in his voice. The wisdom is held. It always felt like someone else. Someone ancient and sure and terrifying.

"Jon," Robb said, his voice barely a whisper. "I want you to know... despite what anyone says, you are my brother."

"Despite me looking like a Targaryen?"

Robb met his eyes. "I don't care. It doesn't matter. I would die for you." He watched as Jon's face turned to the statue of Lyanna Stark.

"There is something I need to tell you, Robb. Something I should have told you long ago."

"What is it?"

Jon opened his mouth, then paused. He seemed to be weighing something, measuring his words. Then he spoke. "I am not Lord Stark's son."

"What are you talking about? You've always been—"

"I know what the rumors say," Jon interrupted, his voice quiet. "People are whispering, Robb. You must have heard them."

Robb's jaw tightened. He had heard them. The servants, the guards, even some of the lords—they all spoke in hushed tones about the bastard with dragon's blood. About how he looked like a Targaryen. About how he could only be the son of—but Robb had refused to listen. He had refused to believe it.

"Rumors mean nothing," Robb said firmly. "You are my brother. That is all that matters."

"What if the rumors are true?"

Robb's throat tightened. "What are you saying?"

"What would you do?" Jon stepped closer. "If I am who they say am I, staying by me puts you in danger."

"Can't you listen, Snow? You already know my answer."

A low chuckle came out of Jon's mouth. "I suppose you're right. I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I don't know if I am trueborn or not. It doesn't matter. My mission stays the same."

Robb stared at him. "What are you going to do?"

"I have dreams of a terrible winter. I have dreams of the realm burning. I plan to save my family, the realm, and become king. I plan to create a true and lasting peace."

The words should have been treason. They should have been madness. But Robb knew they were far from it. "Then I'll help you," he said, his voice steady. "I trust you more than anyone. And I know what type of person you are. You'll be a great king despite everything, despite what anyone says."

"Thank you," Jon said softly. "But there is one more thing."

"What?"

"My true name." Jon's lips curved into a faint smile. "It's Aegon. Aegon of House Targaryen, Seventh of His Name."

"Aegon Targaryen," Robb said, testing the name out on his tongue. "I think I'll sick to Jon, but I don't plan on breaking my oaths. I'll never leave your side, brother. No matter what."

"I know."

"Come on," Robb put his arm around Jon's shoulder. "Let's get out of here. This place gives me the creeps."

"Speaking of creeps. What happened to your nose?"

Robb felt blood trickle down and he wiped it. "It's a long story."

They walked out of the crypts together, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stones, and for the first time this night, Robb did not feel alone. The night air hit them as they emerged, cold and sharp, carrying the distant sounds of the feast still raging in the Great Hall. They were walking toward the keep when they encountered Ser Rodrik Cassel and a pair of guards. The old knight raised an eyebrow at the sight of them together.

"Robb," Ser Rodrik said, his voice low. "I glad to see you look better. And Jon—" He paused, studying the boy's silver-white hair and the sword now at his hip. "I won't tell Lord Stark you were with your brother, but you two should not—" He stopped.

A sound had cut through the night. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Ser Rodrik's hand went to his sword. "What in the seven hells was that?"

"I'm not sure, Ser."

The knight moved forward and the group followed, heading toward the source of the noise. They rounded the corner of the keep, past the stables, past the kennels, and they saw the animal pen. Any feeling of joy Robb held in his heart was gone.

He felt his blood run cold as the wind followed through the castle.

294 AC - Winterfell Great Hall

The Great Hall was too loud for Lord Stark.

Ned sat at the high table, a cup of wine untouched before him, watching his bannermen celebrate. Greatjon Umber was arm wrestling with his son, the smaller Jon Umber, their faces red with effort and drink. Lady Maege Mormont watched with amusement, her arms crossed, a rare smile on her weathered face. Tonight was a night of peace.

But deep down, Eddard Stark felt nothing but guilt.

Tomorrow, when the Umber and Mormont hosts departed, Jon would leave with them. He would be gone, out of Winterfell, out of sight. Out of danger. And tomorrow would be the last day Robb trusted him. He couldn't bear to tell his son.

It is for the best, Ned told himself. His family will be safe. Jon will be safe. I would bear dishonor if it meant they would live.

But the words rang hollow in his mind.

He turned to his wife. Her face was stone cold. Ever since the boys return, she had looked at him as if he were a dead man. She had wanted to be with Rickon but he sent the babe to be with a wet nurse. It was better if his family were all here together. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. He had told himself that when he saw Robb leave during the feast. He had said it again when Sansa left. He was starting to think if he was the lone wolf.

I have failed them all.

A servant burst through the doors of the Great Hall, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The music faltered. The laughter died. Every head turned toward the man as he stumbled forward, his voice carrying across the sudden silence.

"Lord Stark! Lord Stark!"

Ned rose from his seat, his heart pounding. "What is it?"

"You are needed immediately." The servant's voice cracked. "A fight has broken out!"

"Between who?"

The servant gulped, his eyes wide with fear. "Ser Rodrik, some other men, and your—your sons. They are pummeling the Greyjoy boy."

Ned was already moving. He did not remember crossing the hall, did not remember pushing through the crowd, did not remember the cold air hitting his face as he burst through the doors. He only knew that he was running, his boots pounding against the frozen ground, his breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

Behind him, he heard the thundering footsteps of his bannermen. Greatjon Umber. Lady Mormont. Others. They followed without question, their hands moving to their swords.

The scene that greeted him was chaos.

Theon Greyjoy was on the ground, his face a mask of blood. One eye was gone—a hollow, weeping socket. His teeth were broken, his nose smashed, his lips split and bleeding. He was tied up, his hands bound behind his back, his body trembling with fear and pain. Robb was being held back by Ser Rodrik, the old knight's arms wrapped around his chest. Robb was screaming, his face contorted with rage, his gloves soaked in blood.

"I'll kill that bastard!" Robb screamed. "He hurt Sansa! Let me go! Let me go!"

And then Ned saw his daughter.

Sansa was curled in a ball on the frozen ground, her dress torn, her face streaked with tears. She was shaking, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes wide and empty. And standing over her, his cloak draped across her torn clothes, was Jon. Blood splattered across his cheek, his silver-white hair gleaming in the torchlight. He looked at Ned once—one brief glance—and then looked away.

"By the old gods." Greatjon Umber's voice was low, shocked. "What is going on here?"

Catelyn appeared from somewhere, pushing through the crowd. She saw her daughter and let out a sound—a raw, animal cry—and rushed to Sansa's side. She held her tightly.

"Who did this?" Catelyn demanded, her voice shaking. "Who did this to my daughter?"

Jon's voice was calm, steady. "He did."

Catelyn's face twisted and the host surrounding him echoed her rage. Greatjon's hand moved to his axe.

"I'll cut him down here and now!"

A shout from behind amplified the statement. Ned forced himself to look at Ser Rodrik.

"Ser Rodrik. What happened?"

"Lord Stark—"

But as Rodrik turned, his grip loosed and Robb broke free, pouncing on Theon, his fists raining down on the Greyjoy's face. Theon screamed, a high, wet sound, blood spraying across the frozen ground. He kicked across the shin, sending the Ironborn falling on his back.

Ned grabbed Robb, pulling him back. "Enough Robb! That's enough! What happened son?"

Robb struggled against him, his eyes wild. "He hurt Sansa! Father! He touched her! Why won't you believe what Jon said?"

Ser Rodrik stepped forward, his face grim. "My lord, we found the Greyjoy trying to violate your daughter."

Ned stared at him. "This cannot be."

"But it is," Jon's voice cut through the night. "The Ironborn are scum and deserve to be removed from the realm. He shall die and we shall send his head back to his father. Justice must be served."

Greatjon Umber shouted in agreement. Others joined him, their voices rising in a roar of anger and outrage. "Justice! Justice!"

Ned raised his hands, trying to calm them. "No. He will be sent to the Wall," he said. "And will take the black."

"Have you lost your mind?" Catelyn's voice was sharp, cutting through the noise. "He tried to violate Sansa. He tried to steal the maidenhood of your daughter!"

"Cat's right Ned. He tried to violate your daughter," Greatjon roared. "He'll die for that!"

Ned's hand moved to his sword. Of course he wanted to kill Theon. He would have cut him down himself if he was the one who saw it. But the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy. The wars that would follow. The bloodshed. The horror. He did not want to realm to suffer for his mistake.

"No," Ned said, the word tasting like ash. "He will take the black." He heard his banner shout in disapproval, but Ned raised his voice. "What happens when Balon Greyjoy hears the news? What happens when raids our coasts. War will come."

Robb stepped forward, his face still twisted with rage. "Who cares? We will fight them!"

Others agreed. Greatjon Umber shouted his approval. Lady Mormont nodded, her hand on her sword. Ned knelt down, placing a hand on Robb's shoulder.

"You are a boy. You know nothing about the truth of war. Tell me the truth, Robb." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Did Jon set this up?"

Robb's face twisted with disgust. "How dare you?"

More arguments erupted. Ned could hear them—his bannermen shouting for blood, his son shouting for justice, his wife weeping over their daughter. The noise was deafening, overwhelming. And then a thud cut through the crowd.

Ned turned.

He saw Theon Greyjoy's head was rolling across the ground, his eyes still open, still wide with terror. Jon stood above the body, Dark Sister raised high. The blade gleamed in the torchlight, blood dripping from its edge. Ned stared at the headless body. At the blood pooling on the frozen ground. At his nephew—his sister's son—standing over a boy he had raised.

"What have you done?"

Jon met his gaze. "I have delivered justice. Justice for House Stark and justice for the North." He lowered the blade, his mismatched eyes cold and unwavering. "If the Ironborn come, we shall slay them."

Silence met his declaration until—

"Justice!" Greatjon Umber bellowed. "Justice!"

"Justice!" Lady Mormont shouted.

"Justice! Justice! Justice!"

The roar built, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Ned looked around, his heart sinking. He saw his bannermen, their faces lit with fervor. He saw his wife, holding their daughter, looking at Jon with something he could not name. He saw Sansa, her eyes still empty, her gaze fixed on the man who had saved her. He saw Robb, standing beside Jon, his face a mask of pride. And he saw Jon looking around at the cheering crowd. The Lord of Winterfell whispered to himself; his voice lost in the roar.

"I failed you."

The moon hung high overhead, cold and silent. The crowd continued to cheer. And somewhere in the crowd, Aegon looked around at the faces of his new followers.

Soon.

Soon all of Westeros would follow him.