The First Stumble
Steffon III:
The dreams had returned viciously, the words of the Northerners triggering memories he had feared to see, memories he could never recall seeing.
It was war; everything he knew would lead to war, every action Steffon had taken to possibly limit it all. There was something greater coming, sending his magic humming in anticipation the likes of which he had not felt in years.
He was in a clearing, once more wearing the face of Harry Potter as ghosts danced in front of him. A raspy voice whispered in a trance, “…the one with the power to vanquish…” before they disappeared in wisps of smoke.
He was pulled suddenly into another clearing, a grove of weirwood trees in front as a flock of ravens fluttered past. There remained a single raven, perched atop the largest weirwood.
Strangely, Steffon saw that it had three eyes, all focused intently on his face before it cawed, “North. North. North.”
Steffon jerked as he arrived in the midst of a blizzard, his vision obscured in a hail of white before he saw the glint of movement. The snow cleared, and arrayed before Steffon was an army of undead soldiers.
He blinked, before suddenly he found himself watching as a roaring inferno ripped through the ranks of the undead, a great storm of ice and snow rising in an attempt to smother it.
There was a man dressed in black, a cowl covering his face as he charged at a creature of ice. The creature pushed forth, his spear suddenly embedded deep in the man.
Blue flashed in his vision, and Steffon flinched at the sight of his father’s stormy eyes clouded in anger before they shifted, a malevolent glint in eyes as cold as ice.
Always, he woke at the sight of those eyes. That first night, Steffon had lashed out with his magic, terror propelling him to defend against an unseen foe as the candles had burst into flame, the corner of the tapestry on the wall nearly catching on fire.
Twice he had dreamt of those monsters – of the army of the dead he had fervently prayed was a part of his imagination – before following a sudden urge to make his way out of his stifling room.
Ser Arys had been stationed outside his door, the knight jerking in surprise as Steffon hurried to the courtyard. He let his feet carry him across the courtyard, tracing a path aimlessly before he found himself stood at the entrance to the godswood. Ser Arys was staring in outright bewilderment, the man concerned over the state of Steffon as he ordered, “Keep watch, Ser. I wish to be undisturbed.”
Not waiting for an answer, Steffon walked deeper into the godswood, his magic pulling him to the great weirwood with it’s drooping face. As he watched, sap spilt forward, the face wrought with what looked like tears.
There was power here, an ancient thing rooted deep in the land. Steff had felt traces of it in Storm’s End; something familiar and old calling to him, but all he saw now was the peace of the godswood.
It was something he had missed. He had not known peace since that night at Casterly Rock; every action had been governed by the fear of his father should he ever discover the truth, and Steffon despaired at the thought of facing another unknown threat to the North. My family or my people, he thought. Duty to kin or kingdom; whichever I choose the outcome shall be war.
“You’ve met the raven,” a voice broke the stillness.
Steffon reeled in surprise, his words failing him as he stared at the younger boy.
He was pale – nearly translucent – with red-brown hair and had deep circles beneath his eyes. If Steffon’s eyes shone as if they were fresh cut jewels, this boy had eyes that were the opposite; a green so deep it was like looking into an unending pool.
“What?” Steffon croaked, throat dry as he stared warily at the boy who made his way closer.
He stopped before the weirwood, his eyes absently staring at the carved face before he spoke. “I dreamed of you. When I was a child the raven came to me, and he showed me a boy with green eyes and the mark of death.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Steffon watched as the boy turned to him with a solemn gaze.
“I've not met any ravens,” Steffon told him.
“Three-eyes he has, and he comes when you dream,” the boy said, and at the knowing look in his eyes Steffon felt tendrils of dread take root.
“I do—”
“North,” he said, eyes pinning Steffon. “You must go further north.”
Anger filled him and Steffon snapped “I cannot prance around the kingdoms on the words of a dream.”
Once, he had done so in another life and it had cost him. Steffon had far more to lose in this lifetime.
“You must,” the boy insisted, stepping closer even as Steffon reached for the dagger he kept with him. He was not much of a threat to him physically, small and slight as he was, but Steffon had experienced strange things in the North that left him wary.
“And why must I do such a thing?” Steffon growled lowly, eyes hard as he stared down at this impertinent child.
“You’ve forced them south,” the boy said. “You know it, I can tell. You felt the change, heard Benjen Stark’s words. A fortnight,” he emphasized. “All it took was your coming to push them south.”
Steffon stilled in horror at those words, mouth moving but not a sound leaving him. He had noticed the words, had ignored them as mere coincidence. Steffon stepping foot in the North had nothing to do with these Wildlings moving south – with them being pushed south.
“That has nothing to do with me!” Steffon hissed, grabbing the boy by the collar of his tunic. His dagger pressed against the boy’s ribs, but he did not tremble in fear.
“It does,” the boy continued, uncaring of the apparent danger he was in. “There is something coming that you cannot afford to ignore.”
“Aye, dragons and cutthroats and a damned kingdom to hold together,” Steffon spat. “Don’t tell me I should ignore my duties on the whims of a seer.” He shoved the younger boy away from him, seething at the audacity.
“Death is what awaits you in the South,” the boy stated bluntly, green eyes piercing Steffon’s with the gaze of an old wise man. “Death and ruin to your House, Prince Steffon.”
Steffon flinched minutely, the memories of the glass candle returning to him. “You would rather I face more death in the North,” he sneered.
“Choose wisely, Your Grace,” the boy stated solemnly.
“Death and more death,” Steffon replied sardonically. “Or would it be undeath? Whatever it is, the choice is no true one at all.”
He turned to the weirwood, the desolate face staring glumly at him. Even here, the whispers of the forest were eerily quiet, as if they too were awaiting Steffon’s decision.
“Will I die in the South?” Steffon asked the boy. He was some sort of seer – had to be with his assured utterances – and Steffon was more than leery of relying on the words of seers, even if the greenseers of old supposedly had better understanding of their gifts than those he had known.
“Most likely,” the boy whispered reluctantly.
“And should I go north of the Wall?”
He was quiet for some time, only the sound of their breaths disturbing the still air. “I cannot see,” he finally admitted.
A dark smile touched Steffon’s lips as he turned from the weirwood, green eyes locked onto the darker ones of the younger boy.
“I do not fear death,” Steffon told him, recalling the moment he had once greeted it. They were old friends, he and death, and Steffon had no intention of meeting it so soon.
“Then I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Prince Steffon,” the boy whispered, a pale look on his face.
He had managed to wait a day more before the urge to clobber his father nearly overcame him.
The Northerners had remained silent; eyes grim and assessing as they watched their king go about his life as if there were not a threat to their very lives gathering north of the Wall, pushing for a hunt as if he were living in the Vale once more.
Thankfully, there had not been a whore in the king’s chambers when Steffon had barged in, but the man was stirring from a drunken sleep.
“Curse you, boy. What do you want at this ungodly hour?” the king groaned, his furs tangled about his legs.
Steffon rolled his eyes as the king rolled in his bed, his stomach hanging from beneath his undershirt as he stumbled out of his bed. Walking to the small table placed near the hearth, Steffon poured a cup of water for his father, handing it to the king when he came closer. Robert pulled a face of disgust, drowning the cup before reaching for ale.
Steffon reached out quickly, hand grabbing his father’s wrist.
Robert stilled in surprise, stormy eyes locked onto his own as he muttered lowly, “You had better have good reason for this.”
“We must speak, Father, and I would have you pay close attention to what I say,” Steffon responded just as lowly, eyes flashing darkly.
Arriving at the North had changed something in him, had awakened the latent magic he had for years felt as if were just out of reach. The comet had been the final gasp, the breaking of chains that held his magic at bay, and Steffon felt the thrum of his magic every moment, felt it rear forth when he woke in a panic from the nightmares. Twice, Ser Arys had nearly broken his door down at the sound of clatters coming from Steffon’s chambers when he inevitably found himself responding in anger to the persistent calls to go north.
At the king’s nod, Steffon threw himself into a chair, eyes staring unseeing at the flames. In his head, he could imagine reaching out to grab hold of the fire, whether with his hand or magic, and Steffon forced the thought away.
“You look like shit,” the king said, his chair creaking as he took a seat.
“Lord Stark cannot come south to be your Hand,” Steffon stated, lifting his gaze to meet his fathers. Predictably, Robert Baratheon’s blue eyes flashed with anger at his son’s audacity. Steffon had pushed many ideas forth, but never had he gainsaid his father’s decisions.
“The North can be overrun at any moment Father,” Steffon pressed, leaning forward in his chair.
“There’s a giant wall between those bloody Wildlings and them,” Robert scoffed. “It can keep for years more.”
“And the ones who have made it past?” Steffon demanded.
“Small ridings,” Robert retorted, “if that, considering it was likely groups of them.”
“How long until they find a way past the Wall? The Night’s Watch is not infallible Your Grace,” Steffon countered.
“Bah! They aren’t, you’re damn right about that much. A hundred thousand Wildlings,” Robert scoffed, hand reaching for more water. “No man would be able to gather that many, and those cucks up there must have lost their wits to the cold to think it possible.”
“The Night’s Watch are the only ones who truly know exactly how large a threat the North faces,” Steffon said. “I’d rather Benjen Stark’s overestimation than the consideration the South gives to those beyond the Wall.”
“Ned will be coming south, and my word on that is final,” his father warned.
Closing his eyes in frustration, Steffon could feel the itch to release his rage. Ours Is The Fury, and since his powers had returned to him Steff had fought viciously with himself to keep it in check.
“You condemn your friend’s family and people to death so you can relive your glory days,” Steffon said calmly.
He was pushing his father too far, but Robert was stuck in the past and unable to see beyond the need to have his immediate needs gratified.
“Watch your tone, boy,” Father warned lowly, and Steffon could feel the last bits of restraint straining to break.
“There are thousands of Wildlings marching on the Wall and you wish to go off gallivanting with the Warden of the North,” Steffon snapped. Dimly, he was aware of the flames growing slightly, but he was too far-gone to do anything about it.
“All the Stark bannermen are present to see you demand him south. If he should go then the man might very well condemn his family to losing their position if not their bloody lives.”
At that moment, a sharp knock of the door followed by Ser Boros sticking his head in heralded the arrival of Ned Stark to the king’s chambers.
The man looked as grim faced as ever, though he hesitated at seeing Steffon in the room.
“Your Grace, Prince Steffon,” he acknowledged. “I can return at a more appropriate time.”
“No need Lord Stark,” Steffon said coolly, gaze focused on his father. “The King and I were in need of your opinion on certain matters.”
Father was scowling, but Steffon was beyond caring. He had dark circles under his eyes, his sleep disturbed by nightmares not of his making and his days spent trying to discover more of this unknown threat. Eight thousand years had passed since the Others had been destroyed, and Steff raged at the thought of his being a tool for the fates.
“Your bannermen,” Robert said as Lord Stark took his seat.
Lord Stark’s face remained a grim mask as he replied, “They are understandably concerned, Your Grace.”
Pursing his lips, Steffon watched his father’s face twitch slightly.
“The Wildlings?”
“Not just that,” Ned admitted, glancing hesitantly at Steffon. “My son Robb is but six and ten, and leaving the North in his hands at a time like this is…”
“Lord Stark,” Steffon cut in quietly, waiting until grey eyes focused on his. “What would the reaction of your lords be were you to come south?”
A grimace was his only reply, and before Steffon could add any more he saw his father’s face harden in stubbornness.
“Insubordination against their liege is an affront that will be treated as treason,” the king said.
“Internal matters of a kingdom are oft left to the ruling lords, Robert,” Lord Stark reminded his friend, but Steffon knew it would be a futile argument. Robert Baratheon had little joy in his life – as much as that thought rankled at times – and his father yearned for a past that he associated with better days. He would not allow his friend to escape his promise.
“You swore to do your duty to your king,” Father replied gruffly, a dark look in his eyes.
“And I have a duty to my people as well,” Ned Stark retorted. “After all they have done for my House, I cannot leave them to this, Your Grace. What kind of Warden would I be if I left them to face this threat without me?”
One like to face rebellion, Steffon thought grimly. Not even Father had been free of that, he knew. Lord Paramount and unwilling to do his duty, Steffon had been surprised more houses had not refused to follow their liege to battle during the Rebellion.
“Seven take you Ned,” Robert grumbled. “If you refuse the position I’ll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister.”
Steff’s eyes widened in surprise, and then horror at seeing the seriousness in his father’s gaze.
Ned Stark looked aghast, and Steffon saw him hesitantly glance at him before saying, “Lannister is a sworn Kingsguard.”
And also fucking your wife, Steffon thought sardonically. Seven hells, but the king was trying to kill himself much quicker than the alcohol would.
“Give him an army,” Steffon blurted.
Twin gazes of surprise landed on him, though Steffon saw a hint of unease in Lord Stark’s eyes.
“Not Uncle Jaime,” he clarified. “If you will not allow Lord Stark to resign his post, give him an army to take to the Wall.”
To his bewilderment, his father began to chuckle at his words. “An army? How in the seven hells am I to do that?”
“You are the king,” Steffon stated dryly. “And certainly not the first to do so.” At his father’s blank look, Steffon once more cursed Jon Arryn for the utterly abysmal education he had allowed a future Lord Paramount get by with.
“Your own grandfather took command of the King’s armies during the War of the Ninepenny Kings,” he told his father, ignoring the flash of distaste in Robert’s eyes. “Aenys Targaryen did not fight his wars on his own, and Baelor Breakspear led his father’s armies during the Blackfyre Rebellions.
‘Those were considered threats to the entirety of the kingdoms,” Father rebutted, and Steffon resisted the urge to knock his head against the wall.
“If the North is overrun with Wildlings then it becomes a problem for the kingdoms,” Lord Stark countered, grey eyes hard as he stared at his foster brother. “A hundred thousand is not something the North alone can handle.”
Were it appropriate, Steffon would have cheered at the man’s conviction. His father despised conflict that could not be handled with his warhammer – was averse to it when those closest to him were involved – and he would not remain stubborn in the face of their joint efforts. Surely not, Steff thought.
“What would you have me do?”
Before Lord Stark could say anything, Steffon cut in, “Write a royal order, declaring an emergency at the Wall. Have each of the lords send some of their forces.”
“And cause widespread uproar,” Father said, “they’ll kill me in my sleep.”
“I cannot take all of my bannermen to the Wall,” Lord Stark told him. “I will not leave the North vulnerable, nor can I ask men to fight and leave them unable to collect the harvests.”
“And I cannot leave the kingdoms vulnerable should those damned dragons come calling,” Father snapped.
“I am not requesting all of the kingdoms armies come north, Your Grace, but a token force will be necessary,” Lord Stark responded. Steffon watched the man shift forward, his eyes cool and serious as he stared at the king. “Robert, should the North be overrun with Wildlings you will have to send an army here. You lessen the risks by providing support for the wall.”
“Seven hells, Ned,” Father grumbled, shifting his gaze to Steff. “I suppose you agree with him.”
“If you wish to avoid potential rebellion then yes, Father. I do,” Steffon said, ignoring Lord Stark’s sour look at the possibility.
“The Northerners would not rebel,” Stark protested. “Winter is coming, and we have no time for petty squabbles.”
Not now, perhaps. But the North Remembers, Steffon thought. For Robert they might still their hand out of respect for their liege, but his sons were not the same.
“Very well,” the king grunted. “Draw up whatever papers you need and I’ll sign them. Your daughters are coming south as well.”
“They will, as will my son Brandon,” Lord Stark agreed.
“Wants to be a knight does he,” Father stated. “We can find him someone to squire for.”
“He can squire for me,” Steffon stated. “I’ve not taken on a squire, my lord, but it is perhaps expected that I choose soon. Your son can serve as my squire, and none would deny that as the son of a Great House Brandon is unsuitable, nor would he be as the brother of my betrothed.”
“There, that solves that,” Father agreed. “Now get me a bloody drink and we can celebrate furthering our ties.”
“Lord Stark,” Steffon greeted as the door to the solar opened. They had agreed to meet after he spoke with those lords whose lands lay furthest north, and Steffon had brought Tyrion with him. Joff had remained behind with the other boys, and in a moment of spite had requested Uncle Jaime guard him when he was not with the king.
“Prince Steffon, Lord Tyrion,” the man replied. He had to give him credit; Eddard Stark had shown only minimal displeasure when around Tyrion, better able to hide his distaste for Lannisters than when he was near Ser Jaime.
The solar was a relatively large room, practically Spartan in decoration. His father’s solar had shown signs of being lived in – despite how infrequently the king performed his duties – with trinkets on his desk and rich tapestries. Lord Stark had kept his rooms simples, bar the tapestries depicting ancient Kings of Winter, but his desk was overly large and able to accommodate several people.
On one side stood the maester of the castle, Luwin, the old man draped in a thick woollen cloak with the chains of his office.
“Your Grace, my lord. Please, be seated.”
Steffon took his seat, noting with only slight surprise that Lord Stark’s heir would partake in their talks. Perhaps he wishes to prepare him, Steff decided.
“I have spoken to both Lords Karstark and Umber,” Ned Stark began. “Their lands are in the most danger from Wildling raids, and each lord cannot afford to send more than a token force to the Wall in the event that others make it past.”
“How well provisioned are they?” Steffon asked.
“The Northerners prepare for the harvest every year, my prince,” Maester Luwin added. “With the long summer, we are anticipating a particularly hard winter.”
“The North typically does not use the food collected for the harvest,” Lord Stark continued. “If we are to feed an army at the Wall we need find another source of food.”
The Reach, Steffon thought, but that avenue had been closed to them. The king could order them to supply the Wall but it would come at a price.
“A treaty will have to be arranged for the Reach to provide food to the North,” Uncle Tyrion said. “An arrangement between the Crown, most like, so that they do not charge you a fortune in transportation.”
The Starks shared a look before Robb Stark said, “There is another option.”
Lord Stark was frowning in displeasure – or at least, Steffon assumed he was for his face remained grim but for the slight downturn of his lips – and Steff leaned back in anticipation. “Another option?”
“The lands north of Last Hearth,” Robb continued, determinedly ignoring his father’s look. “The lands of The Gift were granted to the Wall, but with the raids there have been no smallfolk to till it, nor has it been of much use with a severely undermanned Night’s Watch.”
“You want King Robert to return those lands to the North,” Uncle Tyrion guessed, staring at Robb Stark shrewdly.
“They cannot be returned to House Stark,” the maester cut in. “Only with the agreement of the Watch.”
“Would Lord Commander Mormont agree?” Steffon asked curiously. “What sort of land are we considering?”
“Brandon’s Gift has been with the Wall for thousands of years. But the lands surrounding Queenscrown are workable and can yield enough to feed the Watch,” Ned Stark admitted.
“That is out of the Crown’s jurisdiction, Lord Stark as I’m sure you are aware,” Uncle Tyrion added. “Perhaps some sort of middle ground.”
There was a slight twitch to Robb Stark’s jaw – a point of contention between father and son – and Steffon filed the thought away for later consideration.
“A middle ground?” Lord Stark asked suspiciously.
“Maester Luwin, how many men man the Watch?” Steff asked.
“Less than a thousand, spread between three castles,” he replied.
More grim tidings, Steffon thought sourly.
“The Night’s Watch is not likely to give up those lands,” Uncle Tyrion pointed out. “Not unless there is some benefit to them.”
“They have Brandon’s Gift,” Robb Stark replied.
“Aye, but the New Gift is the better prospect and most like to have better lands,” Steffon stated.
“They will need people to work the lands,” Maester Luwin conceded. “More than the smallfolk at Mole’s Town.”
“How many smallfolk are the Umbers willing to provide?” Tyrion questioned.
“Enough, but they will expect a share of it,” came the reply.
“Send for farmers from across the North, my lord. That way no one bannerman can claim favouritism in the Gift. We will have to send ravens to Castle Black, but the promise of extra provisions at no cost to the Wall should sway the Lord Commander.”
“No cost but for the loss of his lands,” Lord Stark pointed out.
“Not a loss,” Steff rebutted. “A mere exchange. Better that the land is used to feed the brothers than to leave it unattended for the lack of men.”
“I imagine Lord Commander Mormont would be grateful to not have to feed those additional mouths you will be bringing north,” Uncle Tyrion quipped.
Ned Stark merely nodded his agreement as his maester drafted a note to Castle Black.
“I will, of course, be heading north to the Wall alongside your brother,” Uncle Tyrion added.
“What business do you have at the Wall?”
“The business of interest. I merely wanted to see one of the wonders of the known world,” Tyrion answered.
“In addition,” Steffon added, “my uncle will be taking note of any extra concerns the Watch would like to bring before the King.”
“The Watch usually sends a man to do so,” Lord Stark told him.
“I’m sure they do, but we will need someone who has worked with the council to provide their own observations,” Steffon countered. “I imagine you wish to do the same with your son, Jon?”
Lord Stark’s eyes tightened slightly at the mention of his bastard, and Steffon made note to mention it to Joff. He had not believed his brother when he stated his worry over Jon Snow being sent to the Wall as a punishment. The older boy was a Northerner; doubtless he saw some honour in taking a position with the Watch. But Joffrey had persisted, and any doubts Steffon had over his brother’s friendship clouding his judgment were falling in the face of Lord Stark’s obvious reaction.
“What of him?” he asked, sending a sharp look at his son. Robb Stark’s eyes flashed in anger, though he admirably kept his mouth shut.
“I assume that is why he is being sent north. With your brother being First Ranger you would need someone else to report back to Winterfell. Father sees the necessity and has agreed,” Steffon answered.
“The King has agreed to send Jon as a representative to the Watch?” Lord Stark asked sceptically.
Not yet, though he will when it is offered, Steffon thought, smiling slightly at the Northerners.
Unsurprisingly, Robb Stark seemed slightly relieved at those words. Steffon couldn’t imagine his brother being sent to the Wall while he lived the life of a royal prince. Nor will that day ever come, he promised.
“He has,” Uncle Tyrion nodded, and Steffon was thankful the man was so quick to catch on.
“A good position, however young Jon wished to take the Black,” Maester Luwin told them.
“Perhaps it can wait,” Robb added. “At least until we are more aware of the situation.”
“Indeed. Once you arrive with your army, Lord Stark, there will be no need for your son to not take his vows,” Uncle Tyrion continued.
They were silent for several moments, Lord Stark sitting grimly as he thought on their words. Finally, he nodded his agreement, and Steffon internally cheered in relief even as they began to hammer out the agreements.
Eddard Stark would come south and take on the position of Hand. Steffon hoped to send him back within six moons with a small army at his back, long enough for the others to have discovered enough about the Wildling threat.
And enough time for me to discover the rat in King’s Landing, he thought darkly.
Joffrey was waiting in his rooms when he returned, and Steffon locked the door before taking a seat at his desk.
“So?” Joff asked almost anxiously.
“He’ll go to the Wall as his brother’s man,” Steffon told him.
“And take the black,” Joff answered flatly.
“Not for some time,” Steff said wearily. The North had brought more than enough problems to mind, and the mystery of Jon Snow was something he did not want on his plate. “He’ll wait until his father returns.”
Steffon watched as Joffrey paced his room, boots leaving slight stains on the ash near the hearth.
“He goes south and sends his son to the Wall, the son he has not been most pleased with for the duration of our trip. Does that not strike you as odd?”
“Perhaps you are reading too much into it,” Steffon offered.
“He told me,” Joff glared. “His father has made his opinion on our friendship known.”
“His wife does not like Jon,” Steff pointed out. “She can’t be too happy seeing her husband’s natural son befriending a prince. I told you not to be too obvious.”
“That’s not it,” Joffrey scoffed. “Though the woman shares mother’s disdain for bastard’s.”
“Enough Joff,” Steffon said sharply. “You’ve made your thoughts known.”
“I don’t like it Steff,” Joff told him.
“Nor do I, but that is unfortunately his lot in life,” Steffon replied softly. Seeing Joffrey open his mouth to argue he added, “I’ve done what I can to keep Jon Snow from taking the black, brother. The rest lies with him. He will not come south with us.”
“Nor is Lord Stark like to allow it,” Joffrey muttered.
“We leave in three days,” Steffon reminded him. “Do stop wallowing in anger and enjoy what time we have left here.”
“Very well,” he replied stiffly before leaving his rooms.
Steffon sighed, fingers rubbing at his temples. Just once, he thought, I would like to remove the burden of responsibility.
Jon I:
They were all to depart at the same time.
The King and his family taking Jon’s father, brother and sisters with them to King’s Landing as he made the trek north to the Wall. Not as a sworn brother though – not yet.
Jon had been as confused as the others when his father had refused to allow him to take the black.
“Not yet,” Father had told him. “I am to go south for some moons, until I can gather enough men to man the Wall. Robb will need someone to help him. Someone who can easily travel between Castle Black and Winterfell, who can act as his voice should the need arise.”
When Jon had protested, Father had placed two scrolls in his hands. All breath had left him at the sight of the seal, the crowned stag visible in the black wax.
“Father,” he whispered in confusion. He could not have; Lady Stark was like to have made her opinions known should his lord father have done what he thought. Yet a part of Jon hoped the scroll held notice of his name. No longer a Snow, but a Stark in truth.
“It is signed by both King Robert and Prince Steffon,” his father had said. “Castle Black has received their own copy, but this is to be carried by you.”
His words snuffed the tiniest bit of hope that remained in Jon. “A royal decree, ensuring Castle Black knows you come in good faith as an observer for the Stark in Winterfell with the King’s leave. The second allows our smallfolk to till the lands of the Gift, the bulk going to the Wall to feed the coming army while the rest are prepared for the harvest.”
“Of course, Lord Stark,” he had responded. There was naught else to say; Father would go south to bring an army to the Wall, and Jon would take the black upon his return, when he was no longer needed to play at being a Stark.
He had known bits of that from Robb; the other Northerners had been unhappy at having to kowtow to two green boys, no matter that his brother was of an age to rule in his own stead should the worst happen, but Father had placated them with promises of more men and an opportunity to use The Gift.
Roughly, he tugged on the bridle, his horse whinnying in dissatisfaction. Running a hand through his mane, Jon heard the crunch of footsteps coming closer.
“Any more and your horse might kick you,” Joff’s voice called.
Turning, Jon was greeted with the sight of the golden prince leaning against the stable door, Ghost stood next to him as Joffrey absentmindedly scratched behind his ears.
“You should have come south,” Joff told him, and Jon nearly smiled at the familiar argument.
“I am but a bastard, Your Grace,” he told him.
“Stop that,” Joff scowled, stepping closer. “Your name might be Snow, but you are worth more than many of the cravens in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Yet still a bastard,” Jon said, a serious look in his grey eyes.
It was odd; he was going to miss the younger boy. Jon had been prepared to dislike the princes – had expected they would glower at any they considered beneath them – but Joffrey and Steffon had proven him wrong.
Neither the Queen nor Lady Stark were happy with the odd friendship that had begun in the sparring yard, but Jon could accept that he was glad Joffrey Baratheon was so stubborn.
“I don’t care about that,” Joffrey said softly, a dark look in his eye.
“The world does,” Jon reminded him. “All they will see is a bastard close to the crown and remember the Blackfyres.”
They had tainted his life, those sons of kings who had grasped too far. In the darkest corner of his mind, Jon yearned for Winterfell, wanted the easy acceptance and pride his brother took for granted. Then he would remember the only way he could ever gain his Father’s lands, and shame would fill him at the thought.
I am the greedy bastard you thought me, Lady Stark, Jon thought darkly.
“Don’t take the black,” Joff said suddenly, and Jon withheld his sigh of resignation.
“Your Gra—”
“Swear it, Jon,” Joff said, green eyes hard with determination. “Don’t throw your life away amongst those thieves and rapers.”
“My uncle is a brother of the Night’s Watch,” Jon said pointedly.
He turned to his horse, setting the bridle firmly and checking his shoes as Joffrey pouted in the corner.
He was a bastard, the Bastard of Winterfell to the rest of the world, and Joff a prince, second in line to the Iron Throne. As impossible as their short friendship had been, Jon knew the younger boy was naïve to the realities of his birth. Being a prince had blinded him to the truth of the world, believing that his actions would determine how others thought of him.
“I cannot change your mind,” Joffrey finally said.
“No,” Jon replied, stepping away to grab the reigns of his horse. He tugged lightly, leading him out of the stables to the rest of their party.
“I could order them to refuse you,” Joff said lightly.
“But you would not,” Jon retorted, knowing his words to be truth. The Prince was not one to lord his birth over others. Jon had watched him wake early to train in the sparring grounds with his brother, had traded blows with the younger boy countless mornings during the royal visit, and not once had he heard him demand certain things as was his due.
They were closer to red courser Prince Joffrey rode, Prince Steffon turning away from his palfrey when he saw them coming.
“I expect ravens,” Joff practically demanded.
“To keep us apprised of the situation, of course,” Prince Steffon said lightly, a small smirk on his face as he stood next to his brother.
They were as different as two brothers could be – as different as he and Robb were but that they shared the same eyes – bright and steely with the barest hint of something else.
“Farewell, Jon Snow,” Prince Steffon said, a hand outstretched for Jon to clasp. “I wish you well in your endeavours.”
“I thank you, Prince Steffon,” Jon replied, watching green eyes flick over Jon’s shoulder.
Prince Steffon shared a glance with his brother before he turned to face the person stood behind Jon.
“Lord Robb,” he heard him call, stepping away from them. “Is your mother near? I wish to say my farewells.”
Jon watched Steffon lead Robb closer to the other Starks, the prince exchanging words with Lady Stark. Turning back to Joffrey, Jon watched as the prince simply stared at him, some emotion flashing too quickly in his eyes for him to identify.
“Take care Jon,” Joffrey finally said, holding his hand out as his brother had done. They were odd people these two princes, but Jon knew the realm could do no better than them.
“Aye, you as well Joff,” he murmured in response. “I wish you good fortune.”
“You might need it more than I, facing these Wildlings,” Joffrey smirked. “I suppose it’s a good thing you have Ghost with you.”
Jon watched as the wolf butted his head into the prince’s chest, Joff crouching down to pet him even as his Kingsguard hovered nervously.
"Should you ever change your mind," Joffrey said quietly, eyes focused on Ghost. "The King would welcome you."
You would, but the Southroners think even less of those like me.
“Jon,” Robb called, and Jon whistled lowly for Ghost to follow as he stepped away, only a nod to Joff letting him know he understood.
He and Robb met in a tangle of arms, slapping his brother on the back as he felt him do the same. They had spent all their years together, the two boys practically twins but that they were born to different stations in life. Jon was glad he would be able to see Robb before committing to the Watch.
“Take care Snow,” Robb said.
“And you, Stark.”
Arya came barrelling forward, the little girl throwing her arms around Jon once more. He had said his farewells in her room, the two closer than the others and despondent at their separation, but this once he held his little sister closer, uncaring of the stares they were bound to get.
“I don’t want you to go,” Arya said with a slight pout.
“You are going to King’s Landing,” he told her, lightly mussing her hair. “And Father has tasked me with aiding Castle Black.”
“Will I see you again?” she asked.
“We might end up at the same castle if the gods will it,” he replied, thinking of Joff’s offer. “Don’t forget to practice.”
“Stick ‘em with the pointy end, I remember.”
Smiling once more, Jon pulled her in for another hug as he murmured, “I’ll miss you.”
“Me too,” she replied, her voice muffled and tinged with sadness.
He let her go, watching as she went to speak to her mother. Jon ignored Lady Stark’s cold glare as Bran came running, a light laugh escaping him at the sight of the excited boy.
“I’ll miss you Jon,” Bran said, flinging his arms round his middle.
“And I you, brother. I’m sure Prince Steffon will be glad to have you for a squire,” Jon told him. The younger Stark had been beaming with joy at the thought of squiring for the prince, knowing it meant he would be trained by members of the Kingsguard as well as Prince Joffrey.
“I’ll come visit the Wall as soon as I’m knighted,” Bran said, and Jon exchanged a quick grin with him as they made their way to the horses.
“Aye, they’ll write songs about you,” Jon told him.
“Or perhaps you, fighting Wildlings at the Wall, like Willem and Artos Stark,” Bran said excitedly. “Or even Bran the Breaker!”
There are no tales of bastards, Jon thought, none to talk of honour and valour, merely their treachery.
“Aye, mayhaps,” he instead replied.
Shouts rang out across the courtyard, the king making his way to his horse as everyone began to mount up. Jon shared one last hug with Robb.
“Send a raven when you reach Castle Black,” Robb said, blue eyes boring into his.
“Aye, I will. Farewell brother,” Jon said, pulling himself up on his horse.
He would be travelling with Uncle Benjen and Lord Tyrion to the Wall, some Karstark and Umber men joining them. The other lords would be preparing, setting men to keep their castles running as they set to make the journey north once Jon had sent word.
Calls rang out once more, as Jon watched his father mount his horse. The princes fell into place, Steffon’s dark hair surrounded by the gold of his brothers as they rode out of the courtyard.
They were riding to the Kingsroad, the parties splitting off as Jon and his group headed further north.
At the crossroads, for a split moment, he had wanted to ride after his father.
He would see him again in a few moons turn, he knew. Lord Stark had promised to head north, and he did not think Prince Steffon a liar or doubt his intention to send aid. The prince had already proven an altogether different sort of ruler than his father.
No, Jon thought. This might not be the last chance.
Doubtless Lord Stark would find a way to deflect, as he had for years. He only wished for a name; to know who she was, if she were alive and did she love him. But Jon Snow was the motherless bastard of Eddard Stark, and until he had taken his vows he would remain that.
When I take the black, he promised. I’ll not join the Watch without knowing my mother’s name.
Turning, Jon caught Joffrey’s eye, the prince raising a hand in farewell. He responded in kind, waiting a moment before he joined the rest of his party.
“I must say young Snow, you certainly have my nephew’s favour,” Lord Tyrion quipped.
“I’m sure that is an overestimate, my lord,” Jon answered stiffly.
“Not at all,” Lord Tyrion replied. “I’ve known Joffrey since he was a child. Very rarely has the boy taken so quickly to any other than his siblings.”
Nor have I, Jon thought. Perhaps that is something we share.
“Do you expect to be long at the Wall?” Jon asked, turning his horse to ride next to Lord Tyrion.
“A moon, perhaps more,” he said. “I think I shall find myself longing for the warmth of King’s Landing soon enough.”
Lord Tyrion gave him a small smirk, nudging his horse to catch up with another of the black brothers. Turning one last time, Jon saw the column of riders from the king’s party moving further south, unable to see his family beyond the banners.
I will see them again, a son and brother they could be proud to call their own, he thought, turning away to ride beneath the Karstark and Umber banners.