Chapter Text
6th Moon, Summer, 297 AC
Jon I
At times, dusk seemed to be a permanent state in the North. Red, orange, and brown leaves covered the many ironwood trees that covered vast swaths of land. The trees with dark brown or blackened trunks with blood-red grasses at their base stretched for leagues, and in the interim between woods, the land was snow-covered with red and orange long grasses where wild horses and deer would graze. It gave the North an eerie ambiance and fueled the rumors of savagery and mysticism that the South liked to spread about the land’s people. During those summer days when the days were long, a thick fog would settle on the land, but during the winter moons, the North would be bathed in nothing but moonlight. Very little of the sun was seen during winter.
This was the environment that Jon Stark was raised in. He was at sixteen name days, almost a man grown and just blooded. Both he and his cousin, Robb Stark, were making their way back to Winterfell in the low fall light; around them were soldiers from Houses Mormont, Umber, Karstark , and Stark. This procession was not for them, though; they had been treated as raw recruits and not afforded any of the comforts that the Lords received. Both marched in disciplined columns; this procession was a victory march to show the Northern smallfolk that they had defended their homes from the attempted pillage and rape of their western coast by the Iron Born.
Jon had distinguished himself during his first battle; he had formed a shield wall with some other raw recruits and stopped an Iron Born counterattack at the rear of the Stark/Mormont host. This narrow victory had given the Northern forces time to turn their attention west to finish the Iron Born threat before turning east and finishing off the rear action. While proud of his quick decision-making, Jon had been scolded by his foster father, Jeor Mormont, who in public praised Jon but in private raged at him for putting his life on the line. During this dressing down, Jeor, not for the first time, bear-hugged Jon. “I have lost one son... I cannot do so again…” he would whisper to Jon. For his part, Jon felt pride but also immense guilt. Not only for endangering himself, causing grief to his father in all but blood, but also for all those men that had lost their lives trusting his decision; many would not be coming back to their families. At this thought, Jon again lowered his head. There was a beast in his gut, one that raged at what he just experienced, and his cousin noticed.
“Jon… it was not your fault. Those men knew their duty." Robb stressed to him and handed Jon an ale horn.
Taking the cap off and taking a swig, Jon coughed once and let the warm liquid warm his body. “My decision; those lives are on me.”
“True, but that decision saved all of our asses from getting killed.” Robb took a swig from the horn and coughed a bit less, “Those men died. Yes. You will have to face their families as the one who gave the order. But those families will be taken care of.”
Jon snorted, and his black pupils narrowed at the thought of the death march he would have to perform. “Small comfort that is. They lose a father or brother, and I get to go on living in the castle.” Robb just shrugged, “It is the way of the world. At least in the North we honor our smallfolk.”
This was true as far as Jon knew. He could barely remember King's Landing; he was only five when he was taken North to live with his uncle. From what he remembered, the smallfolk in King's Landing were destitute, and conditions only seemed to get better as he traveled north. “True,” Jon sighed, “At least I’ll be able to get a decent night’s sleep before I start my march.” Robb lifted an eyebrow. “You will leave tomorrow?” Jon nodded, “I do not want to impose on Lord or Lady Stark..." “Jon, Father does not hate you...”
Jon looked forward; red irises’ gleamed in the low light. “No, but he resents my existence.”
Jon knew this to be true, and he had told Robb this before. While sneaking around Winterfell with his cousin, Jon had overheard Eddard Stark speaking to Benjen Stark, his uncle at the Wall.
“I do not hate the boy Ben,” Lord Stark had said, “but every time I look at him, all I see is Aerys Targaryen. I see the man who burned our father and brother. I see Rhaegar, who brought my friend low. And I see Lyanna, who chose to stay south, who chose to abandon her family.” Benjen had been drinking and, with an angry growl, said to his brother, “Lyanna did what she did to avoid being married to your ‘friend,’ the whoremonger.” He continued through the look of indignation on Lord Stark’s face, “Yes, Rhaegar was a prick for feeding on her insecurities, yes, Aerys deserved to die, and us to rebel. But why take it out on the boy? It is bad enough his own mother gave him up. She does not even send him a letter on his name day. Ned, I cannot be a father to him, and Old Gods know I want to. He is alone in this world. Do not hate him for being born; for any love you have for me, protect him. And if you cannot, then send him to a lord you trust that can be his father.” His uncles had tears in their eyes, Jon had observed. One was from desperation and the other from regret. The next moon, Jon had been sent to foster with the Mormont’s. Jeor Mormont had been about to take the black due to his son’s disgrace and eventual flight from the North when he received the raven from Winterfell. Reluctant to accept, Jon eventually wormed his way into the heart of the old bear. The rest was, as they say, history.
Shaking his head, Jon came back to the present, “It’s easier this way. And besides, I’ll be back in a few moons for Sansa’s name day.”
“You better,” Robb sighed in resignation, “Mother will be wroth with you. You know how free folk get.”
With a nod, both grew silent as the towers of Winterfell became visible through the fog, and before they knew it, both were in the courtyard of the first keep, greeting the Wardens family.
After the inspection and dismissal of the soldiers, Rob and Jon were rushed by the younger children of Eddard Stark. Arya and Bran were climbing all over their brother and cousin while Sansa stood to the side by her mother, a tall orange-haired woman with crystal blue eyes. Val was her name, a young-looking woman from the free folk, people who lived beyond the wall, who had traveled south of the wall and were willing to kneel for better lives. Val was in her early forties and still looked like she was only twenty-five.
Rob, Sansa, and Bran had inherited her coloring while Arya and Rickon had the Stark coloring.
Before the rebellion, Eddard Stark had taken Val, who was slightly older than him, and had immediately gotten her with child. Robb was the product of that union, and a rushed wedding had made sure he was a trueborn. The consequences of the union had been devastating for the rebellion as the Tully's decided to marry into the Targaryen loyalists, and Catelyn Tully had become Catelyn Hightower, securing the Riverlands for the loyalists. Eddard had made sure that Hoster Tully regretted that decision by burying Ice in Ser Brayden Tully.
“I am glad to see you two safe and well,” came the deep voice of Eddard Stark, dwarfing those voices of Jon’s cousins. Jon bowed his head, and Robb just scoffed. “Thank you, Lord Stark.” Eddard looked at Robb from head to toe and hugged him. Jon felt a pang in his chest but let it go before he was engulfed in a hug as well. His surprise must have shown because Eddard said, “I am happy you are well, nephew. Never doubt that.” With a nod, he bid both to the soldiers quarters to clean and make ready for the feast.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Still being pestered with questions by his younger cousins, Jon made his way with Robb to the public bathes and thanked the Old Gods for a moment of peace. He let the hot water, piped from the underground hot springs, wash over him and sighed in contentment. It surprised him that Lord Stark was thawing somewhat to him; never one to be cruel, Lord Stark had always been distant, but that hug and the reassurance—something was different. Getting out from under the moving water, Jon cleaned himself with the soap and dipped into the hot spring. That is when he heard a splash as Bran, Rickon, and Robb jumped in. The three giggling like mad men, Rickon swam to Jon and started asking him to teach him to fight like a bear. “He’s not a bear, Ric,” Bran had told his younger brother. “He’s a dragon!” Robb just laughed and lifted Bran into the air and threw him deeper into the spring. “ He’s neither. He’s a wolf. And we wolves stick together!” Bran had swum back and, like Rickon, had taken a seat next to his older brother.
Rickon looked at Jon and, with the inquisitive nature of any four-year-old, asked, “What about Aunt Lya? Is she a wolf?” Robb looked at Jon and waited for him to answer. When it came to Lyanna Targaryen, only Jon, Eddard, or Benjen had anything to say, “No, Rick… she’s a dragon. She gave up wolves a long time ago.” Rickon looked a bit sad but quickly bounced back as only children his age could do. Jon spent the rest of the evening thinking about his mother. He wondered if she ever missed him. He didn’t think so. He was the second son of Rhaegar Targaryen and the first child of Lyanna Stark. Out of the three children the pair had together, Jon was the oldest and most different. For one, he was black of hair and red of eyes. No one could tell the Southerners where the red came from, but the Northern lords believed he was blessed by the Old Gods. The other strangeness to him is that none of the newly born dragons accepted him. In fact, they were hostile and afraid of him. His siblings, being born with the Targaryen coloring, had already claimed dragons, while Jon, who had never met his younger brother or sister, could not go near the dragons.
Jon was also wrong. Jon was supposed to be Visenya. Rhaegar had caused a war to have his Visenya and never did. Lyanna, a young naïve girl in love, had spurned Jon because Rhaegar had. He had a distant memory of feeling motherly love from Lyanna but could not grasp that feeling now. The day he was sent off, Lyanna had not been there to see him leave, heartbroken, little Jon had silently cried for days before he was out of tears. He could never understand why or what he did, but Jon had stopped truly thinking about it as he got older. He buried the hurt deep inside and, like most things in his life, moved on.
These thoughts caused Jon’s quietness during the feast, and he noticed Val frowning at him. “Drink this and smile, nephew. My daughter is looking forward to a dance, and you will show her a good time. Am I clear?” Jon had to smile as he accepted the ale. Val was rough and straightforward, but she showed love to all her children and even to himself. He looked across the head table and saw Sansa swaying to the music and songs. “I understand, Aunt.” “Good.” With that, Jon drank the tankard, and swaying a bit from the lightheaded feeling that rushed through his body, he made his way to Sansa. “A dance cousin?” Sansa’s smile was brilliant as she took his hand, and both danced for what seemed like hours.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After the feast was called to an official end, but unofficially would continue for a few more hours, Jon escorted Sansa back to her room, all the while listening to her go on and on about the music and her upcoming name day celebration. Jon had listened and gave his thoughts when asked, but his mind had come back to his duties that were upcoming. He would have a death march tomorrow; he would be visiting the families of the men that died at his command to give his condolences and help be an outlet for their grief. It was a task assigned to anyone who would give a command on the battlefield if it led to deaths on their side.
Before he knew it, Jon found himself in his old room, and with exhaustion creeping in, he fell asleep on his old bed, praying that he would not dream that night. His prayers went unheard or ignored, as the faces of the dead judged him without mercy.