The Fat Man
Jon fell through the mirror as though there was nothing there at all and a hand was pulling him to the other side.
He landed, heavily, on Winterfell’s cold stone floor.
“Joni!” screamed a boy.
Something came crashing down beside his leg, and it took him too long to realize it was a great war hammer, the kind Father said King Robert used.
Jon looked up.
A great giant of a man stood over him, thick with fat, his dark hair and beard a tangled mess, his eyes wild with rage and confusion.
“Joni?” asked the boy.
Jon rolled away from the hammer and sprang to his feet. The boy was only a few steps from him, a short sword in hand. He looked a few years younger than Jon and was strangely pretty, with auburn hair and deep blue eyes. He bore a strong resemblance to Jon’s siblings.
Jon dashed towards him as the fat man began to move. “Go!”
He didn't know this boy, but that resemblance was painful. Where had he come from?
“But– Joni!”
“I'm Jon.”
They ran together, rushing down the hallway. Behind them, the fat man had started to follow, roaring for ‘Barristan’ and ‘Arys.’ Jon knew the names, but he couldn't think.
“Then where did Joni go?”
“Through the mirror!”
Joni had fallen through the mirror and Jon had fallen back.
“That's impossible!”
“You must have seen!”
The boy slowed as they reached the nursery.
Jon shook his head. “No.”
“It's protected–”
“It's a dead end.”
There was only one way in and out of the nursery. If they entered, even if they weren't found, they'd be trapped.
“Then where?”
“I don't know!”
There were a hundred places to hide in Winterfell, but Jon couldn't think of any of them under the threat of death.
Not the First Keep, nor the family quarters. Staff chambers could be for the best. And the staff might help hide them if they were loyal. Plenty were.
Or…
Where might people not look for the living?
“This way,” he said. They turned down one of the side passages that should bring them out to the walkway. They’d have to get from there to the crypts still, but it was still a plan. Something to aim for.
Shouting echoed through the halls. Not Northern accents; Southern men. Here in Winterfell.
Jon kept running.
He wanted to stand and fight, but he couldn't take an army as one boy. He could only run and survive.
They emerged onto the walkway. Down below, the courtyard was filled with men in blue and yellow. Baratheon colors. A man with a hammer.
“Where are we going?” whispered the boy.
“Crypts. What's your name?”
“Robert.”
Like the king. Like Robb. But not his Robb.
They kept running. Jon was tiring, already from training and now to this. Jon had been trained to run, but not this frantic attempt to save his own life. And this boy he'd met after falling through a mirror…
Into a Winterfell filled with Baratheon men.
“You're a Stark?” he said, more a statement than a question.
“Yes.”
“And Joni’s your… sister?”
“Yes. How do you know?”
“I fell through the mirror.”
Magic, just like Old Nan had once taught him about. It could be dangerous; it could all be a lie.
They reached the armory and Jon took a bastard sword, as well as a dagger, as they passed through. Ser Rodrik would be furious, but something told him Ser Rodrik would never find out.
They stopped in the armory doorway, looking into the secondary courtyard that they'd need to cross in order to reach the crypts. There were fewer Baratheon men here, but there were still a handful.
And of course there was the fat man, who Jon could still hear bellowing somewhere.
“I'll distract them,” he said. He was only the bastard; it was this boy, this strange Stark from whatever magical world he'd fallen into, that was more important. “You run to the crypts.”
The boy clasped his arm. “Good luck.”
Jon slipped out from the cover and hurried across the courtyard, trying to look as though he belonged. It didn't work, of course. He was wearing Stark colors among all the Baratheon.
“You boy!”
“Stop there!”
“Stay where you are!”
Jon ran, this time with a plan in mind. He darted through the entrance to the godswood and hurried into the trees. This was a Northern place, and his territory above the southerners. A sense of welcoming came to him. The gods would protect him.
The men followed, crunching through the trees and undergrowth. Jon kept moving, huddling behind the thick trunks of weirwood trees. Even still the men were coming too close to him, and he was running out of hiding places.
A scream.
Then a shouted order to return to the king in the courtyard.
Even as the men retreated from the godswood, Jon was unable to relax.
He must have huddled there for a lifetime before he could make himself move again. He hurried back through the trees and peered out through the passageway into the smaller courtyard beyond. It was empty bar a few guards.
Jon fixed his attention on the entrance to the crypts. One way in, one way out, but Father had said once that only a Stark could safely navigate the Stark crypts. There were no maps or plans, and multiple levels of twisting passageways. If he could get down there, he would be safely hidden until he needed water.
He held his breath until the guards were at the furthest point away from him, and then slipped out to tear four the crypt entrance. It was sheltered, but even under its stone shadow Jon felt unsafe. He struggled with the door, it had always been heavy, but at last managed to heave it open a crack large enough for him to slip through. He shoved it closed again and took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark before hurrying down the stone steps.
He needed to think. He needed to lay out what he knew. The Mirror had been glowing. A person, presumably Robert's sister Joni, had fallen through. This was Winterfell. Winterfell had been captured by the Baratheons, who were meant to be Father's greatest allies. Robert was a Stark, but had only looked around Sansa's age and wasn't one of Jon's siblings. Robert was most likely dead or captured.
Jon needed to go back through the mirror.
He descended as far as he could go, until he reached the collapse, and then looked around himself. He could hear noises down here. Probably the rats. Jon chose a passage at random and walked between the looming statues of the dead Kings. They watched him with their cold eyes.
“I'm sorry. I know I'm not a Stark,” he whispered.
Movement.
Something too big for a rat.
Jon drew the dagger from his side, searching through the darkness. Several times he caught sight a a giant statue in the gloom and his breath caught as he thought it might be a person until he realized what he was looking at.
He continued into the crypt, slow and steady. The Baratheon men wouldn’t have come down here so soon, would they? Surely not. It would serve no purpose. Perhaps others had had the same thought as Jon.
“Is someone there?” he asked.
Something flew from behind a statue, crashing into his side and taking him to the ground. They rolled across the stone, and thedagger clattered from his hand.
“Edwyle!” hissed a girl.
The boy was a bundle of anger, but thin as a stick and two thirds Jon’s size. Jon came out on top and pinned the boy to the floor.
“Joni?” whispered the boy. Jon could pick out few of his features in the dark, but he looked to have dark hair.
“No,” Jon whispered sadly, releasing his grip on the boy. “But she’s safe. She’s somewhere the Baratheons can’t touch her. She sent me to help. I’m Jon.”
“Why should we trust you?” demanded another voice, a girl, peeking from behind one of the stone kings.
“You don't have to.”
Jon wouldn't have trusted him either, if he were them.
“But I'm not with the Baratheons. I give you my word. I'm here to help.”
This wasn't his Winterfell, and this wasn't his family.
But he couldn't abandon them.