Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What?” Arya asked.

She hated how her voice quivered as she spoke the one-worded question. She hated the way her palms felt slick with nervous sweat. She hated the way her eyes were burning as she fought not to look away. She hated the look Yoren was giving her right then. She hated that all she felt like once again was a stupid, scared little girl.

She was ‘Arry now—An orphan boy, and boys don’t cry. 

Except they did. She’s seen Hot Pie cry, once when she beat him up, and the other times in the dark of night when he thought no one could see. She saw Joffery cry too, and she watched Lommy pretend not to cry while the boat rocked in that sea storm just a few weeks ago. She bit down on her lip, it hurt with the way it was worried in her teeth.

“‘m sorry, lad. It’ll be. . .difficult to turn back now and head south.”

“Why south?” She felt like she was floating. The Castle’s in ruins, that’s what they said. Her home—in ruins. Burned down. Gone. Winterfell.

Your Father’s ward, he had said. Theon Greyjoy took the Castle.

“For your mother, and your brother. Last I heard the King in the North was in the Westerlands, and your mother in Riverrun.

“But, I can’t go.” It wasn’t a question. She knew it couldn’t be. She tried to think of her mother’s face. Her long auburn hair that was just like the rest of her siblings. How red had it been? How long? She thought of those blue eyes they all shared as well. Robb and her mother and Sansa were south.

“No, lad. You can’t go. We are going to keep marching towards Castle Black.”

Where Jon was. Where her Uncle Benjen was. That was fine. It would be fine.

She nodded. She could taste blood in her mouth; her lip was bleeding.

Yoren didn’t comment. He gave her shoulder a pat, his face the same as it was. No pity, no sadness, yet there was a subtle kindness in his eyes.

“Yoren—“ She called out before he could walk away, “What about—“ she licked her lips, dry and cracked as they were. What about her brothers? Bran and his broken legs, and little baby Rickon?

He read her face easily. She never had to ask.

“The boys are gone too.”

Gone .

She found out later that their heads had been cut off. Like their father’s had been. She hoped the blade that did it was sharp — Ice must have been. Would Theon have cared, turncloak as he was?

Theon. She remembered the older boy; the eldest of all of them. She saw a man with dancing eyes and black hair. A bow over his shoulder. Robb was always the closest to him, being so much older than the rest of them. Their father’s ward was almost a stranger, at least to her, despite that constant presence within their walls. Did Bran and Rickon see someone they trusted in their last moments? What flew through their minds as Theon brought them iron-rath? 

What were her father’s thoughts as Ilyn Payne took his head? Did he look to Sansa who had been closest to him on those steps?

She didn’t know if anything had been done to her father’s head after, but Bran and Rickon’s were dipped in tar and were then put up on Winterfell’s walls. Bran was always the happiest of them; she remembered how he’d smile at the most gruesome of Old Nan’s stories. He was sweet too. And baby Rickon was always running about on little legs; did so as soon as he started to walk. Babies were boring, usually, but Arya wasn’t sure what she wouldn’t give to run around the Godswood with him again.

They weren’t like anything now, she supposed. They were dead. She hopes that Robb will come North; she hopes he will kill Theon for the traitor he is, if he wasn’t dead already. Maybe he would have Grey Wind tear out his throat. The thought pleased Arya.

She wondered what happened to Bran and Rickon’s wolves. They weren’t dead. She couldn’t quite grasp how she knew, but she did. She remembered just fleetingly what Shaggydog looked like, black fur and intense green eyes that matched his wild personality. For a moment she even heard that sad song Bran’s would sing after he had his fall. 

She bit down on her lip, gazing at the distant visage of what must be Castle Black. She wondered how Jon would react to seeing her again. Would he muss up her hair and call her little sister like he always did? Would he even recognize her, with her hair shorn short as it was? With how dirty she was? Not that she was ever a perfect lady, not like Sansa, but Jon never cared. She hoped he wouldn’t now.

The horn sounded out like the bay of a hound; one long moan that made the hairs on the back of Arya’s neck stand straight. It sent a shiver down her already cold bones and her fingers held the reins of her garron all the tighter.

Soon.

She swallowed bile. She glanced backwards for just a moment at where Gendry rode on his gelding. Hot Pie was just behind him, riding right next to Lommy who sat atop a donkey.

She shifted her gaze back to Castle Black. If it could even be called a castle. It was nothing like Winterfell. Nothing like some fortress she imagined it’d be to serve the purpose its men did. No walls surrounded it, except the giant wall of ice behind it. It looked like just a bunch of houses and towers—like it could be a village, almost. It really didn’t look like a castle at all. She wondered if Jon’s thoughts were similar when he first arrived to the desolate, grim ‘castle.’  It mustn’t have dissuaded him.

Please, she thought silently, let him be here, and be fine. Let him and Uncle Benjen know her and have everything just be fine. Maybe they could even leave. They could all go to Robb and they could get Sansa from King’s Landing, and she could watch him take Theon’s head. Cersei, and Joffery too. Maybe she could even do it; wouldn’t that be a wonderful dream? She wasn’t sure who the prayer was for, but her father’s gods were strong up north, that’s what everyone said. They were as far north as they could get, so maybe just this once those old trees would actually hear her.

But being north hadn’t saved Bran or Rickon. It hadn’t saved Winterfell’s grounds and people from burning in this stupid stupid war. Maybe the heart tree burned too—Arya never saw it. She thought back to the times her father would sit with her below it, showing her his gods and his father’s before him. The old ones. The ones that didn’t save him either in the end.

Yoren dismounted from his horse, he was speaking to some man clad in blacker blacks than Yoren’s off-grey ones. They really did look like some odd big birds; the both of them like a flock of crows or ravens with how their cloaks looked near each other while they spoke.

“I can barely see the top.” Hot Pie muttered from the place behind her, “How do they get all the way up there?” He sounded half breathless.

Arya glanced up with him. He wasn’t wrong, she mused, you could barely see where the tip of it blended with the cloudy, overcast sky. It looked like stone. Seven-hundred feet, she recalled Old Nan saying once. Seven-hundred feet of ice, thick and imbedded with old magic to ward off the beings beyond the wall. Giants, ice-spiders, Others, if the tales were true. Put into being by Bran the Builder, she couldn’t recall just how many years ago. Bran would probably know. Old Nan definitely would. Her heart did a painful twist.

“The lift.” Gendry answered, a scoff merged with a tinge of amusement.

“There are stairs too.” She nodded, recalling what little details she knew, “These ones aren’t ice either, like the Nightfort. That’s one of the castles in the wall. There I’d bet the steps barely exist anymore. It’d be like climbing the wall with just your hands and feet. You’d probably slip and die bloody on the earth before ever making it up.”

Hot Pie paled and Gendry huffed a snort through his nose.

”No one’s said you had to climb ice stairs.” He laughed, and soon Lommy joined in. Arya couldn’t get herself to do anything more than smile.

Gendry’s brows furrowed. She blinked herself out of the stare. She wasn’t scared. She wouldn’t be. She turned back around without a word, towards the castle. Jon was here anyhow. She could protect herself—but Jon was here. Her Uncle Benjen too. They were both here. Was Jon a ranger like him? Her eyes darted back to the towers; to Castle Black. Did they get ravens even? She was sure they must. Did they hear about Bran and Rickon? Of Theon the turncloak?

It was sooner than later they were shuffled into the borders of the castle.

It was empty, she quickly realized. Desolate, cold, quiet, and empty. She counted only just eleven men posted up—one of who was the one Yoren spoke to. Marsh, she quickly found out was his name. She quickly gathered he was put in charge. She reckoned there couldn’t be more than a hundred men inhabiting the place. Maybe less. Probably less.

The notion caused the skin on her arms to turn into gooseflesh. The wind continued to claw at her eyes. Her heart felt swishy, like water being squeezed from a sack.

It wasn’t hard to slip away from everyone and find a black brother of the watch to interrogate. Mostly everyone fizzled into the dining hall for food. As much as Arya yearned to join, her stomach giving her a prolonged grumble, she forced her feet to continue on.

She found a man working away in the  smithy, with a big belly and a broad a flat nose. One arm too, to boot. He worked well with his stuff despite such. She’s never seen a smith missing a whole arm.

“Benjen Stark? I heard he was first ranger.” Arya asked after goading him into earlier light questions.

“Oh.” The man frowned, “He’s been missin’ ages.” He answered. When he opened his mouth Arya saw nothing but yellow and crooked teeth, quite a few missing. “Dead’s my bet. Right shame. He was a good man. Good Ranger.”

Dead. Missing. Her fingers pricked at the dead skin on her palms. The wind’s bite was cold, but she didn’t have anything to stuff ‘em into to shield from the wind.

“What about—“ Her tongue licked at her lips in slight hesitation, they were still ever-dry and cracked and bloody with all the biting she did. Would asking give herself up? If he was here she would find him soon. Logic didn’t win. “His nephew.” She said, playing off of the earlier query of Uncle Benjen. “Is he here?”

The man’s face wrinkled up like crumpled parchment, “Ah—The bastard?” He didn’t say it with malice on his tongue. Arya scrunched up her shoulders anyways.

“Jon Snow.” Arya clarified, her heart flaming with brief indignation for her brother’s sake, he wasn’t just a bastard. She gathered this man knew that, with the way he nodded to her correction, but she was still glad to defend him. “He should be here.”

“Yes. Jon.” He said it with an odd looking smile on his face, Arya wondered if he knew him well. “Well—he’s not. The Old Bear took two hundred north the wall. After all ‘em missin’ rangers.” The words were but a mutter of stanky breath.

“When will he be back?” Arya retorted, words as sharp as she could make them. At least he wasn’t missin’ or dead, or so she told herself. She imagined her tongue a whetstone in her mouth, whisking away any quiver that tried to emerge from her lips. The emotion took her sudden. She shifted on her feet. It hit her right then—She only had two brothers left. Robb, down south, and Jon who should be here. Only to be actually further North. Putting her right in the middle of them once again. Still alone.

The man gave her another glance. His big black cloak swished in the wind. He smelled sour. She understood the whisperings about the men of the Night’s Watch’s likeness to crows, but crows didn’t smell as bad this one man did; her nose was filled with smoke and sweat.

“Probably never.” He answered, a frown on his lips and a maybe even some sadness laced the words, “What’s it to you, little boy?

Arya’s fingers wound themselves into tight fists. She had half the urge to steal the glove right off his hand, as he did only have the one. She was quick, she could do it. She didn’t even know what much good one glove would do her. She held still.

“Nothin’.”

Slipping back with the others wasn’t hard. Some were still dining in the hall, but a quick look around was all it took to note both Gendry, Lommy and Hot Pie’s absence. Even so, it wasn’t long until she found the three of them held up in Hardin’s tower. The building was in a right mess of disrepair, but she figured it didn’t matter to anyone where people slept. She was just grateful to have a bloody roof over her head for the first time in ages.

“Ya think so?” Hot Pie was asking Gendry.

“Nah, but who knows? I don’t see you makin’ much a difference with that sword-hand of yours. They’d probably see that too.” Gendry returned. She knew her feet bore no sound as she walked, but all the same Gendry’s head swiveled as she entered.

He gave her a look and she hated him for it. Him and his looks. Him and his thoughts. He hasn’t told anyone who she was though.

“You may end up a steward or chef—but ima be a ranger.” Lommy told them all.

“Well, I mean, I could be one if I wanted.” Hot Pie backtracked.

Gendry scoffed, as he resumed whatever it was they were conversing about, though his eyes never left her,“You don’t want to. ‘Arry’s nothin’ but a stick and he beat you bloody. With a stick, at that. My bet’s a wildling babe’s more of a threat than you otta be beyond the wall.” He jested. Hot Pie gave him a glower.

“‘Arry’s used a sword more than me.” He muttered in his defense, eyes glancing to Arya’s own.

“Don’t worry Hot Pie, one look at you cowering on the ground even a wildlin’ babe would take mercy.” She comforted falsely, a smile somehow dancing its way to her lips.

Hot Pie scoffed at her tone and gave her a glower. Gendry barked a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Hot Pie stood up as Arya sat down on the floor near where Gendry was sat.

“Good luck fighting that babe.” Lommy told him.

“I’m finding a privy .” Hot Pie returned as he stalked away.

Lommy got up just after him, he looked to Gendry and Arya, “Ima go protect him from any babes in the dark, don’t worry.” He said.

“Oh, leave off him.” Arya couldn’t help but say, even if she played a role in starting that. Lommy smirked again and waved her off.

“Just joking is all—I needa shit too.” And then he was off after Hot Pie.

The smile faded from her face.

“You find what you needed?” Gendry asked, voice low. She thought for a moment of what he meant, not for long though. She knew. Though there was the question of her Uncle Benjen or Jon?

She shook her head. Her eyes not meeting his. Answer to both would no anyways. It was all so stupid. Unfair. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so tired, except for maybe one of those days spent in the streets of Kings Landing after the Lannisters murdered her father.

“Sorry, ‘Arry.” Gendry told her, a frown on his lips, reading her like filth .

“Me too.”

Sleep came quick, and her dreams were of wolves. 

Chapter Text

“Mad,” someone said, “she’s lost her wits,” and someone else said, “Make an end,” and a hand grabbed her scalp just as she’d done with Jingebell, and she thought, No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair. Then steel was at her throat, and its bite was red and cold.

—Catelyn, ASOS

“Well—several things, I suppose now. Several many, many things.” He murmured. She liked the feeling of those sword calloused hands running through the strands of her hair. She shivered, not really from the cold. They were in the chambers he had given her—the warmest in the Castle, he had explained.

“And what are these things, my lord?” Cat asked, spinning around.

Ned made a face at that. His lips pinched together, and his brows furrowed. Those Stark grey eyes saw all of her; she never felt she could hide any part of herself under such surveillance. She’s learned to read him now, though, and she knew what drew his ire right then; she remembered. She could see that smile of his then, long after their wedding and bedding, as she asked him, ‘ When will you be leaving, my lord? ’ Even if she knew the answer already. He had grimaced and told her it would just be Ned in their privacy before admitting it would be the next day hence when he would be leaving for his war.

And he was. Her Ned. Not just her lord. She abashed herself for slipping, but couldn’t help but continue all the same.

“Oh, did that bother you, my lord ? I hope my lord did take no offense.” She teased again. His face broke then; those dark brows un-furrowed and his lips un-pinched and turned to a smile. She felt his rough hand twirl further into the strands of her hair.

“My lady—My wife. My Cat.” He spoke in that deep, yet soft, Northern brogue , “Nothin’ you call me would bother me.”

She kissed him then; suddenly, daringly. She swallowed whatever convictions she held. She’s given him two children; a son and a daughter, and hopefully more to come.

“You never did answer my question, Ned.” She told him, lying back over his chest. She found her fingers tracing the various scars that littered his body. She wondered which were from his battles at war; which were from his boyhood. Would her little Robb grow up to be littered with scars?

No. She refused that idea; however naive and foolish it may be. There has been enough fighting for numerous lifetimes. She thought just briefly to the unstable shores of the Iron Islands, and the whispers and talks that have consumed much of her husband’s time. She held to him just a little tighter.

“I’m afraid that is an endless question, Cat.”

“Endless? How about just a start then.” She offered. Her cheeks felt warm with heat. Her body still covered with a sheen of sweat.

“Your hair.” He suddenly stated.

It almost took her off guard.

“My hair?” She asked. She wasn’t sure what she had expected.

“It’s the first thing I noted about you, when. . .after. . .”

After I was no longer Brandon’s , she was sure he meant to say. After she was then his. She kept her thoughts from wandering any further than that; away from the idea of another woman and a stormy-eyed little boy who wasn’t hers.

She kissed his chin, the stubble of his beard ever-rough against her lips.

“It’s almost the shade of a Weirwood’s leaves.” He continued. His voice rumbled in his throat, and so she kissed him there too. He chuckled, “I do love it. Feeling it. Running my fingers through it. ‘S soft.”

She’s noticed. She smiled, “I do appreciate you love my hair, Ned.” And she kissed him again, this time on his lips. She appreciated the feeling of his hands moving downwards. She was his.

“Y’know I almost had it cut.” She told him, “Several times now I think I’ve thought of it.”

“Really?” He asked.

She nodded, “Your son had quite the grip. I swear to the Seven I thought I would be bald by now. Sansa’s even worse.”

“Mayhaps we should have her trained in sword soon.” He murmured. Catelyn knew it was a jest—her darling girl was nigh on two years to her name. And she was such a sweet little thing. Both of her babes had her hair and eyes—Sansa looked more like her every day that passed. It made Catelyn’s heart pinch; in both good and bad ways. 

But even if it was meant a light jest, there was a sad look to his face; her Ned was always ever-somber. She wished she could look at his thoughts then. That she could shoo away the frown from his lips. She wished she could stomach the will to ask him.

What plagued his mind so deeply she could barely keep him from that brink for longer than a few minutes? His lost family of Brandon, Lyanna, and Rickard? Did he wonder after Robert?

Was it his bastard’s mother, wherever she may be? Whoever she may be?

She could ask. She should ask. And yet. . .

Ned’s hand reached to brush the fly-away hairs from her face. His hand lingered to cup her jaw, and he brought his forehead to hers.

Chapter Text

When Catelyn finally mustered the will to look at him, she took great comfort in the fact the babe was smaller than her own little boy.

Younger . That was. . .her husband’s bastard was younger than her own legitimate son. He must be. She had been told so by Ned, but seeing it for true gave her aching heart some comfort. He was truly conceived and born amidst the war. If the worst should come to pass, as it very likely could, this babe could never have more claim than Eddard Stark’s eldest boy.

And what about any sons she would give him in the years to come? Ned already—

The babe wriggled and his face scrunched up in displeasure as he grew ready to cry. Catelyn made to leave, to bring the boy’s wet nurse back into the room. After all, she saw the boy and that was the only thing she came here to do. . .

But he looked like Robb, right then. Maybe it was because they were both babes, but it was more than that. She knew it. Their brows would scrunch up in that same little way. The same way as Ned did when he grew frustrated.

Where was the bastard’s mother? She wondered that frequently. The moment she arrived at Winterfell and learned of the boy she had wondered. Catelyn was a woman grown, near her second decade of life, and she knew men. . .men were not always caring of whether or not a woman shared affections. It did not matter the rumors, tales, or the kind of man he himself claimed to be. They were men.

Had he. . .could he truly have. . .

She thought of the gentleness in which he had taken her that first night just after they wed. She thought of that look that he had in his eyes whilst he explained who the babe was that lived in Winterfell. The frown on his lips, and the stern, hard fixture of his eyes when he had also explained the babe would be staying and living in the castle.

Did he love her, his bastard’s mother? He must have. She hoped. . .what did she hope? Maybe the boy’s mother had loved Ned too, or maybe this woman was a whore. Did it matter in the end? Ned still brought the boy to Winterfell to be raised up with her own son, and any other children she may bear for him. 

And he even named him Jon. Or maybe even she had. The significance was not lost to Catelyn. Jon Arryn was so loved and respected by Ned. In the short while Catelyn has known her husband that fact was obvious. Catelyn named her own boy Robb for the love Ned had for the new King Robert in hopes he would. . .

Gods, for the Seven’s sake, the boy was named Jon. This bastard babe whom was not even a true son of his. Everyone would hear that and wonder just as she did, she was sure. Would his bastard grow up and take that with pride? Twist it and use it in some way to prove himself better than his true born siblings? 

They say bastards, being born from lust, could only grow to be immoral creatures. It was a saying she’s heard many times as she grew; from even her own father to her Septa. 

The bastard continued to wriggle in discontent. The room was quiet.

She thought of another quiet room—quiet save for the sound of her sister’s sobs whilst she bled into a bed, muttering over and over how she loved it, she loved him and their babe. Catelyn remembered how Lysa’s hand clutched desperately at her womb that was already empty.

‘It was love Cat, please, why didn’t he understand? I don’t care—it was love. I never wanted this, I don’t even need to marry—I don’t care. It was mine, it was my babe. Mine and Petyr’s. ’

Love. A bastard of love her sister’s babe would have been. Would her sister’s bastard have also been doomed to be immoral? Horrible?

The babe, this little babe named Jon, continued to writhe with that upset look on his face, yet he was quiet. He was such quiet little thing. It drove Catelyn half mad.  His arm was free of the swaddle he was in, and he reached out blindly with a little fat fist.

Winterfell was built on a bed of hot springs. The water flowed through the walls so that the stones did not chill. Even so, Catelyn could feel the creeping chill. Spring was nearly upon them, but the North did not often care for what the seasons dictated, she was told. Did he pick up the boy in the North? White harbor was one of the rumors. Or maybe this boy was from the South.

Where was his mother?

She reached down to fix the babe’s swaddle, ignoring how his small face relaxed at the touch. Her touch. When the task was done she left the room without looking back.

“My lord.” She greeted shortly. She did not look up from her stitching, but she had quickly learned the sound of her husband’s steps.

“You went to see Jon.” He stated in way of greeting.

Catelyn’s hands slowed, but she did not stop.

“I did.” He had not asked in a question. She still did not look up, keeping her eyes in focus on her work.

“Cat. . .” He began, and she heard him creep closer to then take a seat across from her.

She carefully set her work down on her lap. She looked up to see stormy grey eyes on a tired man. She watched him as he stared at her too; so she waited. She did not feel she had to explain herself. There wasn’t anything to explain.

Was he cold in that lonely room of his?  How often did Ned go to see him? Where was that little boy’s mother and why wasn’t she with him? Her thoughts betrayed her. She kept quiet.

“We haven’t really spoken of it.” He said instead.

“We haven’t.” She agreed, “Though, it seems most is already explained for itself.”

You wed me, you bed me, you went to your war and came back with your bastard boy, barely younger than the son you got on me .

How long had it taken for him to cave? Many men, and women, spoke of his honor, having been raised by the very house that preached the virtue, but Catelyn did wonder.

He grimaced. He ran a hand through his hair; he wore it down this night. It had grown long, she reckoned it hasn’t been cut since the start of the Rebellion.

“It. . .you are my lady wife. I did not wish. . .”

To be unfaithful? To get a child on the nameless woman? To have to bring him here?

Catelyn licked her lips, and her eyes glanced to the door. Just on the other side was the nursery Robb slept. And down the wing was her boy’s brother. Alone.

“Why. . .” She hesitated. She glanced to her husband’s face. She wanted to say a number of things: Why bring the babe here, of all places, for starters.

“Why not let the babe be with his mother? It isn’t right.” She said instead.

Ned’s face flickered; from that blank and tired look, to one that was guarded. Stern.

“That is my business.” He said, “He is my son. His place is here.”

Anger flushed her cheeks. His business.

“Our marriage is a new one, I understand that, my lord.” She spoke, and her hands itched to pick her stitching back up to tame herself, “But that. . .boy.” She reached to fiddle with the seven-pointed start that rested across her chest, “That babe has no business being away from his mother, your son or not. Tell me—“

Tell me you didn’t take advantage of some girl in such a way she would stand a moment being separated from her babe.

Tell me, even, that his mother . . .To all the Seven, Catelyn wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear—

“His mother is dead.”

Ned said it softly. Quietly. Catelyn froze, her fingers still woven around her star.

“I am the only blood he has left.” Ned continued. His eyes met hers then, “Our family, the one you and I create, will be his too.” He took a visible breath, his hand brushing over his stubble before he added an even quieter, “I hope.”

Her heart was pounding like violent drum.

His mother was dead. It made sense, Catelyn supposed.

She nodded shortly. He hoped for one thing. She hoped for. . .another. They lapsed into a silence.

The boy was sick.

It was a quiet, cool morning when she found out. She woke to find Ned gone from her chambers; it was the only the second night in which he came to share them again since she arrived at Winterfell. Their conversation was still. . .stilted. The pain of everything that transpired between them a thick barrier. A maid come to greet her in the morning had admitted what the worries were.

They say it is spotted fever; a mild disease for most. In the Riverlands - and most of the south, really - it was fairly common to get it as a child. Catelyn remembered being a girl of six years and having it with Lysa. Itchy, blotched, red spots appeared on the skin accompanied by a fever. Children were resilient things, and would get over the sickness within the week. Adults would sometimes succumb, only if the fever shot too high in that week, but they could recover in two. . .

But the boy was a babe. Not yet a child, but a babe. She reached for the seven-pointed star that rested around her neck. Her guts twisted. She rose to her feet, tossed a robe over her shoulders and made her way to Robb.

“How did he get it?” She asked later whilst she broke her fast with Ned.

He was back from talking with Maester Luwin about it. Catelyn thought of her own little Robb; whom was fine and healthy. She’s checked for herself an uncountable number of times now in just the few hours since she rose.

Ned ran a tired hand through his hair. He hasn’t touched his food.

“The Maester says it could have been anything. Says he could have picked it up while,” he hesitated a moment, his eyes glancing over her, “down South. Sometimes it takes weeks for symptoms to reveal themselves.”

“Is it not common in the North?” She asked, “Spotted fever?”

Ned grimaced before shaking his head, “Not this kind. . .in the North there is the Pox. . .smaller spots and it ails the lungs.”

“Have you never had it?” She asked. He must’ve. He’s been to visit the boy just this morning, she assumed. That was when others could become ailed—having contact with the wounds.

But Ned shook his head, his frown even deeper.

Catelyn’s eyes grew wide, “Ned—“

“I haven’t. . .been to see the boy. Maester Luwin and his wet nurse are the only ones who have been.”

A maester and a nurse were no substitute for family, she almost said. She remembered being cooped up with Lysa whilst they laid against their mother when they were sick. Sometimes Catelyn could still feel her fingers soothing her back—Sometimes even she could still hear that tune she would hum.

Except she did not want Ned there, so what would saying that do? Hurt him? The boy shouldn’t even be here. . .

Except his mother was dead. Where was he to go?

How many times have you wished him gone in the few short moons since you’ve arrived? How many times have you prayed for the boy to not exist just to put your own mind at ease?

Her fingertips burned from the force in which she held her star. She found she couldn’t bring herself to eat either; the guilt that lived in her stomach was enough.

“What does Maester Luwin say. . .about his recovery?” Catelyn asked quietly.

Ned remained silent a moment. His hands were folded in his lap, and his eyes fixed on the door. Catelyn wondered a moment if he even heard her.

“I. . .I promised her, he would be safe and already. . .” He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. Were the words even for Catelyn? He spoke of the boy’s mother, that much was obvious. Was he there when she died? Catelyn froze where she sat; her very lungs stilted in her chest.

And then Ned shook himself, his eyes flickering back to Catelyn, “The Maester says that if Jon makes it through these next few nights he will live.”

And how hard would those nights be? The unspoken part of his words haunted him, she was sure. They haunted her. 

Catelyn nodded. Ned took another look at his uneaten food before shaking his head and moving to stand.

Before he reached the door to leave Catelyn called his name.

“There are no Septs in Winterfell.” She continued as he stood near the door, solemn gaze upon her. Catelyn held to her necklace all the tighter, “I. . .I would wish for a place to pray, if it is no bother to my lord.”

She’d meant to ask for some time. It was not because of the boy. She missed that feeling of belonging, of having a space in which she could commune with her Gods. The Godswood was so. . .She did not wish for Ned to think it was. . .

His gaze flickered with—something.

And he nodded, and left. The kitchen servants filtered in then, cleaning up the food before Catelyn took her leave as well.

“Lady Stark.” Maester Luwin greeted with a forced smile upon his thin lips. He was outside the boy’s room now, washing his hands in a basin. He must have just emerged.

“He’s alone in there?” She asked.

The Maester frowned, “Mary had to step out to attend to herself.” He said.

Catelyn stood confused a moment before she understood. Mary was the boy’s wet nurse’s name. Why hadn’t she known that? It was a different one—that was why. What happened to his first one? The one named Wylla? She didn’t ask.

She understood the Maester’s answer to her inquiry was yes.

As if reading her thoughts he continued, “Not many in the North have contracted the fever in their youth. We wish to keep any possible spread as low as possible.”

“That is wise.” Catelyn acquitted. Even the Maester looked tired, “Have you attended to yourself, Maester Luwin?”

The man looked startled for a moment; she wondered if he dare lie to his Lord’s Lady.

“I can watch the boy whilst you do so.” She told him, her voice stern with little room for argument.

“My Lady Stark—“

“I’ve had the fever as a girl. It is no worry of yours.”

She’d need a change of clothes too, and a bath afterwards before she risked seeing her own son again. Was it worth it? The Maester hesitated before nodding. Catelyn silenced her own thoughts. 

His steps grew quiet before Catelyn actually mustered the will to enter the room.

When Catelyn had first visited the boy, she remembered thinking of how small he was. He was roughly half a year younger than Robb, she gathered. Less than really, perhaps only a few months. Babes grew quick though.

This babe looked. . .

It was a wrong and horrible thing for a babe to be pale and sickly like that; it wss as if his skin was paper marred with stains. 

‘His mother is dead.’

He had that uncomfortable, scrunched look on his face. So like Robb. He was not asleep, and he looked at Catelyn with watchful eyes. He did not cry. She wondered if he recognized her; remembered at all that brief meeting they had. He was a babe, of course he didn’t.

He probably thought the wet nurse his mother, and now the Maester his father; for all that went on in a babe’s mind.

Those arms did not reach up though. How often was the boy held? Had he learned raising his arms did not get him anything? Is that why he barely cried too? It was like the Maester didn’t—or else he would have to change clothes every moment he checked on him. Were his wet nurse’s arms the only ones he knew?

No, Ned must’ve held him plenty. Except he was always so busy in the day. . .

Not enough, may the Mother have mercy on her.  You did this , that voice cursed herself. She remembered her lessons with her Septa. . .

She put a hand over her mouth to cover her frown.

The babe wiggled. It looked like the Maester had put some salve on his wounds—the red blotches overtook much of the boy’s skin.

“Mother have mercy.” She spoke softly for the boy, her hand now away from her face and moving to fix the boy’s dressing. The words akin to a plea. She felt the boy’s cheek; it was red and warm. Too warm.

He could die. He very well might. She’s never seen with her own eyes a babe so sickly.

“I’m sorry.” She choked out. Her words were hardly audible and yet the guilt rotted away at her throat as it clawed up from her gut.

She kept her hand against the boy’s cheek. The skin was soft where there was no blotches. She felt his little hands grasp at her wrist. His grip was not a strong one.

She didn’t think through her next actions—if she did then she was sure she wouldn’t have done them.

The boy was light in her arms. He must be half the weight of her Robb. The sleeves of her dress were long so she could not feel the babe’s skin against her own. It was all for the better—that fact.

“I swear to the Mother,” she began her soft whispered prayer, “I swear it that if you survive I will. . .”

Will what? She wasn’t his mother. That woman was dead. This babe, should he grow, could turn into any type of person. She thought of the Blackfyres, and the horror of that fighting.

And she thought of what could have been Lysa’s babe.

This was Robb’s brother. The same blood that flowed in her own boy’s veins was shared in this one too.

And she wished him gone. Of all the things for the Seven to finally hear, that was what they chose.

The Stranger was a figure Catelyn was taught to fear; never has she prayed to him. The Father, Warrior, Maid, Crone, Smith and Mother frequented her prayers, but the Stranger was. . .

He took her mother. Whisked her away before her time. And now He has come for Robb’s brother.

The boy was padding at her chest from where he laid in her arms.

“I am not your mother,” she whispered to him, voice stern and yet her words held no malice as they might have, “I will not swear I ever could be. . .but I do not wish you gone—I won’t, for the blood you will share with mine own children. I do not wish it at all—the Seven hear that.”

Those grey eyes looked like they heard her, but they were not open long. She would have feared he succumbed right then of she could not already feel his hollow breaths.

Chapter Text

It felt like rough leather, textured and hard to the touch, her little boy’s precious skin. Daenerys thumbed the patch of it gently. She traced it up from the center of his small stomach where it was colored dark as pitch, to his heart where it morphed into an emerald green, and then to the high point of his cheek where it turned white as a light cloud that wasn’t yet sowed with rain. If she turned the babe over she would see the stunted wing-like limbs that sprouted from his back of the same shade of white.

Like her other three children, she mused. Her boy shared that with his brothers; a mark from the Maegi it may be, but Daenerys knew better. It was a mark of the dragon. He sucked in his first breath amidst those same flames, and just as the air was filled with the song of dragons for the first time in over a century, her son cried his first cries.

Her babe, her Rhaego, did not bristle at her touch. His face remained relaxed with sleep; pale brows furrowed in concentration. She wondered if he could feel it: the softness of her fingers through those rough patches that blotted his skin. She moved her hand upwards and ran her fingers through already thick strands of pale hair. Like hers, she thought with wonder. His eyes took on a similar shade to her own as well. She wondered how much of his father would echo through him as he aged. Viserion crowed from behind them, his tail swooping over close to Rhaego’s stretched out legs. The cream-colored dragon favored her son greatly. He was also the gentlest of her three.

“Look—he’s like you.” She pointed out to the hatchling, tracing her hand back down to Rhaego’s golden and white scales that shown stark against the darkly tanned human flesh of his skin. The dragon let out a sweet note at that, and Dany giggled. She could hear Drogon and Rhaegal fluttering in the back of the room; likely fighting in that way of theirs. She was not worried, not right this second, not for any of them.

He survived the Maegi’s magic that dulled his father, survived those flames just as she did, he survived the Red Waste, even with the little she could provide from her own body, and he will continue to survive from here on. They all would. She and her children. She would not have it any other way.

XxXx time skip xXxXX

Her sweet boy has started murmuring words and little phrases. His voice was soft, reminding her of a faint warm breeze bristling through the tall grasses of the Great Grass Sea.

Her hair whisked over her shoulders, just long enough now for her babe to be able to grasp it in his chubby fingers. She winced whilst he babbled happily at that. The boat, Balerion, rocked softly in the waves.

“Yours is just the same, sweetling.” She admonished softly, prying the strands from his strong grip, and pushing them back to his body. Her hand reached to tuck a silver strand behind his ear. She wished to smile for him, but she couldn’t quite get herself to do so. Her mind was plagued with her - their - path forward. She had no comet to guide her way now; only her mind. And fear was a terrible and permanent part of her now, even more than it had ever been before.

Arstan Whitebeard had laid out a good path—sail for Pentos. It seemed a safe one. She thought back to Illyrio Mopatis, the one who sent he and Strong Belwas to her, and his yellow hair and not-so-sincere smile. He had taken she and Viserys in. They were tended to there. He was the one to give her the stone eggs that became three of her children; she would not be where she was without him. That was a fact. She was. . .mayhaps it would be right to go back there. To have taken that offer put before her. Yet. . .it was not his kindness that sprung to the forefront of her mind. All she could remember was the anxiety. The fear. That sick feeling in her gut, and Viserys’s tight grip on her wrist that left bruising, his warm breath in her ear as he cursed her to a fate she never wanted. And he let it all happen.

What would become of her? Of her son? Her sweet little Rhaego; would he become just another pawn or chip, like she had been? What would they. . .think of him? Of his scales, and wings, and tail? What would they say? What would they do? They were the last dragons, she and her boy, and her hatchlings.

Rhaegar recognized that life dictated he was to be a warrior, so maybe she must realize she was to be a queen just the same. She’d have to fight. Fight hard.

The babe continued to babble, his hands reaching back out for her hair, so she leaned her head back from him, a sad smile on her lips. Staying in Qarth was no option - as Xaro Xhohan Daxos said - the Warlocks were gathering power every second she stayed there to come for her. Them. To kill her at worst, exile at best. She couldn’t have stalled, she did not have the time to. If she could not trust anyone, what was she to do?

Astapor . The thought came to her in the voice of Ser Jorah.

Go back with an army , she could practically hear him say once again. That made her heart twist; the ghost of his voice in her ear telling tales of Three Thousand Unsullied Warriors and of the three heads of the dragon. Why did he have to do that? Kiss her, like that. She never gave him permission to do such a thing. She was a queen. It was wrong, and yet he’s still one of the only people she could trust. But should she? Could she?

He knew better. He did. And he also knew enough to have had the right of it about Astapor—and having an army. The tale he told of the Three Thousand of Qohor was a good one. She couldn’t let herself become a pawn like that again. She couldn’t let her son be nothing more than some piece to men she barely knew.

So she should do the same to others? Take an army of men who had no choice but to pick up a spear at the age of what? Two?

Oh, she trusted Ser Jorah. Despite it all. . .she must, shouldn’t she? She told him she’d think on it, really consider it. A part of her already agreed. He’d know best of these matters. . .

Or she could disappear. She thought of the house with the red door, a long distant dream now. If that was all she’d ever have she knew she would not mind. That’s all she wanted really, more than she ever wanted anything.

And that was not possible for her; she had to fight for a place she and her son could call home. It was what destiny called from her. She and her boy were the last who held the blood of the dragon. She woke dragons from stone. It must mean something. She could sob at it all. She wanted to. Rhaego was watching her though.

A gentle knock interrupted her thoughts.

“Khalessi,” Irri called, and also in Dothraki she continued, “I can take the Khalakka —That Captain of Seas wishes to speak with you.”

Dany nodded. She sucked in a breath, pressed a quick kiss to her son’s forehead and left him with Irri.

Chapter Text

“So you know this for sure?”

”Well, no, maybe, I guess not really for sure—But I worked in my uncle’s garage for a little while—“ Theon started.

”Years ago, you mean. What were you? Eight?” Jon interjected.

”Six, actually—“

”And it’s your uncle Euron? How do you know he wasn’t putting fake shit in your head?” Robb added. Jon nodded. 

”What would he even gain from that?”

”I don’t know honestly, but I do know he’s a psychopath who started that insane cult that had ‘wizards’ eat each other alive because he starved them—“

”I hate the guy too but that doesn’t mean he is wrong about cars.”

”Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean he’s not notwrong either.”

”Literally do you have any other idea? Because I say we are lucky as shit to even be this close, and now you asshats want to argue with me about my crazy uncle?”

”It’s not a bad thing to question—“

“Fucking Christ—Can we just go?” Arya hollered from her spot in the front seat of the truck.

Theon clapped his hands, “Yes. If your asshole brothers don’t have any other wonderful advice, comments or questions—“

”No, fine.” Robb dismissed quickly. He stepped out of the doorway. Jon sighed before following. Theon moved to open the garage door

“Now remember, when you get in—“

“ I know how to pop a clutch! ” Arya cursed him, “Get on with it.”

“Right.” Robb muttered, just as Theon asked her, “How the fuck do you know that?”

Jon didn’t care to question it; she was friends with some guy who could weld and shit when she was still in the south. . .after Father died and Sansa. . .anyways—so it was likely she somehow learned there—or maybe she just knew because it was Arya and of course she just knew who to ‘pop a clutch’ as she said. He glanced to his right to where Robb now stood beside him. His hands were already flexed around the end of the truck. His face was covered in a thin film of dirt. He was just as ready as the rest of them to get out of here.

They’ve been, for lack of any better word, stuck in the West for months now. It seemed they traveled at a slow crawl despite the fact they barely lingered at any one place to get any sort of proper rest. Jon couldn’t even recall the last time he ate something that wasn’t still coated in frost.

But now: a truck. One that actually might work, as trepidatious as he was to think such a thought—or trust anything that had anything remotely to do with Theon’s uncle.

It brought them just a little bit closer to their next steps; that being the Vale and Sansa. Then Bran and Rickon—wherever they were. Fuck.

He gave Ghost a scratch to his head from where his snout met his face from his place within the bed of the vehicle. Nymeria was next to him, her amber eyes looking towards Arya. Grey Wind was sat on his haunches next to Robb. Theon took up a place just beside him.

“Ready?” He asked Robb. His brother ran a hand through his auburn hair. It stuck up oddly, rung with sweat. Jon wondered if it’d freeze that way once they returned to the harsh winds and frozen air. How he dreaded leaving.

He used to love the cold, once. When the family was together—When they had Winterfell.

“Waiting on you.” Robb retorted. His smile was a stiff thing, but Jon returned it nonetheless.

“Aye. Right, let’s go.”

The mall stood out to them like an untapped beacon of hope.

Not really, honestly, it just felt better to say. It was more like a building that wasn’t charred or obviously scoured out upon first glance. 

”I’ll check the cars for any gas.” Robb told them, “You three head in—and for the love of god just shout loud as you can if anything goes wrong. No heroics. I’ll venture in when I can.”

”Sure thing, Your Grace.” Arya told him with a flourished bow. 

”You sure we should split up?” Jon asked whilst he watched after Arya. He didn’t worry about her ability to handle herself, not after watching the kid take out an ungodly number of wights.

Robb sighed.

Robb was cautious, as a person. He wasn’t wrong to be—not after everything they’ve been through. Jon knew that if he didn’t think it was a horrible idea, then he wouldn’t have said it, but he still felt the need to ask.

Eventually his brother shook his head.

”Theon go with Arya and Nym.” He told his friend.

”Like she’ll let me shadow her—“

”Hurry up, she’s walking in.”

”Fuck you.” Theon said, but he diligently followed the instruction anyways. He was the one who didn’t have a wolf.

Arya flipped him off as Theon caught up with her. They both entered the mall.

Even if it didn’t look it, it was still like that the place had already been scavenged to the seven hells. It probably wouldn’t take long, or actually it might take longer to be sure they didn’t pass anything up.

Maybe foodcourts still had something—or fuck a pharmacy would be great. The air grew colder the longer he stood in place. The wind whipped against his face. He looked at the mall a moment longer—for what? Hells, he didn’t know.

”Why are you lingering?” Robb asked, siphon hose in hand. 

“I don’t know.” He admitted, “Bad feeling, I guess. You sure you’re fine? You don’t have to act like tough shit in front of me.”

”I got Grey Wind.”

Jon inclined his head, “Right.”

”Go on.” Robb urged, “I’ll venture in soon enough. You got Ghost.”

”I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. 

In that moment snow started falling—light little flakes, but their delicate nature was treaturous.

”Think a storm’s coming?”

”Hopefully we won’t be here long enough to find out. You know what it brings.” Robb told him.

Others and wights. Fuck—didn’t he know. As if emphasizing the point Grey Wind whined at Robb.

The snowflakes started to catch in Robb’s hair.

Jok waived him a final goodbye before he followed in Theon and Arya’s steps.

”Ghost, to me.”

He found Theon and Arya already looting the stores downstairs, so Jon elected to head up set of old escalators. It was Theon who pointed out they were low. . .on, well, everything. They needed to scour as much area as possible and, especially with the snow starting its descent outside, they shouldn’t, or rather couldn’t linger. So—Jon shoved down any and all other lingering reservations he started his ascent. Just get through it as quickly as possible.

He guessed it was about thirty minutes later that he heard the first wails.

Wights and worse. 

Jon moved to the window to see the mass of grey and white corpses over on the hill. His eyes glanced to the decrepit parking lot—and through the haze of wind and snow he managed to spot Robb’s auburn head make its way towards the mall.

He’d be fine. It was unlikely the wights knew they were here. The horde appearing wasn’t what surprised Jon; they moved like schools of fish, groups that were always large enough (sometimes tens, or hundreds, and even stretching into the thousands), and you could hear them coming miles off sometimes, whether that be their pained groans, wails, or shaking bones. The wolves had been restless before they entered. He remembered Grey Wind’s agitation.

Despite their numbers, the horde was not yet necessarily concerning either. They would just have to be careful with their departure, and his family was all in the mall. The wights would likely move right on by.

And even if they didn’t, they could wait them out. Wights—wights were fine. Mostly. Predictable, at the least.

“We should go find everyone.” Jon said aloud. 

He turned to—nothing. He started a moment. Ghost was no where to be seen, not for a moment.

“Ghost?”

No answer.

Jon quickly moved out of the old Marsh’s department he’d been in to see Ghost walking—no—prowling towards a store with a sign too destroyed for Jon to read the name of.

“Ghost, to me!” He whispered harshly. His breaths fogged up in front of his face. Upon stepping out of Marsh’s it was as though the air around him plummeted several degrees. 

Jon’s feet moved of their own accord—Ghost had skidded to a stop just before he rounded the corner into the store. His hair raised on his back, and he bared his fangs. Jon stopped with him.

He saw nothing, at first. The mall was dark—it had no power. This hall had no skylights or windows. He heard nothing, save for he and Ghost’s breaths.

Others were silent. Cold. Traveled smaller than wights. They only really appeared outside the bigger QZ’s - Quarantine Zones - as the bigger the group of people, the greater the chance of adding to their army, or at least Jon assumed.

It appeared like an ethereal vision of ice and cold. His breaths fogged up in front of his face; his muscles froze.

Ghost, his ever-silent wolf, growled at that moment.

This Other had long, white hair. Its skin was pale as ice. It watched Jon with unblinking eyes as it walked forward; its feet never made a sound either. It was graceful, and the sword it had glowed a faint blue.

Jon couldn’t even curse. Any words he might’ve said—any scream that might have escaped his throat—choked in his esophagus before taking to sound. The Other then jerked forward, lightening quick. Elegant. Jon sidestepped backwards, and he grabbed the scruff of Ghost’s fur and shoved the wolf back as hard as he could—he couldn’t lose him too.

His fingers fumbled over his revolver; somewhat because of the cold that numbed the joints, and somewhat due to the deep-seated fear that infected his insides whilst he looked into the Other’s milky face. He had to switch the bullet out for the Valyrian steel. They were rare, and wights died all the same to normal ones so it made sense to not keep it loaded with them, but now more than ever it felt like some horrible joke of an oversight.

The Other slashed just as he managed to load the dragon-steel. Ghost snapped forward just as Jon stepped back. He was only able to move away enough so that ice-blade didn’t go through his head; the cold slash connected with his brow. His head throbbed, but he managed to get off the shot.

He stumbled to the ground—his head aching with the cold. He hadn’t even realized he actually got the thing until the sound of a horrible screeching reached his ears, and he somehow managed to open his eyes to watch the Other dissolve and steam around the bullet—It got it in the heart. The flesh melted to reveal those milkglass bones, until they too melted into the steaming pile of Other.

Luck. Dumb luck. And yet it wasn’t really—gunshots were loud. He barely registered Ghost as his side, his wolf placing himself between him and the door to his left. Where did that lead, where was he?

The thing about wights was that they were hardly intelligent beings, not like the Others were. They reacted on basic instinct. They fed, for lack of any other descriptor at least, on warm flesh, they walked and ran for no other purpose than to just do so, they avoided the sun and fire—

And sound they were drawn to, like metal is to a magnet.

“Fuck.” He cursed. He could barely feel his limbs to drag himself back up. It didn’t matter though, he knew what he would see if he looked out that window in Marsh’s—the whole swarm probably storming towards the mall.

They were all sitting ducks, all because of him.

Just as he managed to haul his ass up he saw a bright flash come from Marsh’s a giant booming filled his ears. The ground rumbled, and he lost his balance. Before he could make any sort of sense of that, he heard a hammering on the lodged door—the same one Ghost had been weary of.

Blood flowed down from his brow and into his eye leaving his vision impaired. Robb, Theon, Arya—they couldn’t be far. They had to have heard the shot. Did he get them killed? Were there more Others lurking? Was that a fucking explosion?

He hardly had stood back up before the door lashed open and the wight barreled into him. Two, he noted belatedly. There were two, they must have been with the Other, and Ghost struggled with the one. His revolver was knocked from his hand by the other one, and it was a long wrestle that eventually ended with the both of them on the ground.

One second the hard, cold, stone ground was flush against his back, the wight’s arms flailing as dead fingernails dug into his face—

And the other: fire.

It burned his eyes, maybe even his face. His hand seared, quickly falling victim to the flames. The wight practically dissolved from atop his body.

The souring sound of fire cut out in a blink. Jon’s lungs heaved and gasped.

“Gods.” A voice said, “I tried to keep it up, but it was already on you—Gods. Shit. I’m sorry.”

Jon couldn’t bother to respond. He caught his breathing up, letting the floor soak up any heat and sweat. His hand didn’t even feel real. If he tried to move now, he thinks he’d just die. Right here, right now. Fuck.

His head swam; his mind a mess of swirls and colors and thoughts that came nowhere close to coherent. He vaguely noted the sounds of feet entering the area—Where was Robb? Ghost? Arya?—He vaguely noted the feeling of someone over top him, watching him. There were other voices—his siblings, surely—but they all merged together in a warped amalgamation of sound.

“Are you okay?” It was the voice from before. A woman. Flamethrower. Of course—right. She was the one that was right above him; not that he could see her though. He kept his eyes pinched shut, worried that if he opened them any light would cause his corneas to shot out. Even closed things were still bright. The wound by his eye throbbed.

“Hm.” He mumbled. He thinks he meant to say ‘sure.’ Was that the sound of his hand bubbling?

Nausea boiled his stomach. He could taste the bile in his throat.

“—What the fuck?” Robb’s voice filtered in. “How the fuck? Jesus Christ, Jon are you okay?”

“Hm.” He felt a hand, one small and warm flush against his forehead. He heard the slight jingle of bells. Was that fucking Heaven or some shit? Was he dying? He couldn’t be, right?

He barely registered what must be Ghost nosing his other hand.

“He feels warm, you should help me get him up. It looks like an Other’s spear cut him.”

“No fucking shit he feels warm you just roasted him, neverminding the Other. Theon—go find some fucking water for his hand.”

“Holy fuck it’s boiling.” Arya.

“No—You don’t put water straight on burns, that’ll only make it worse.” The hand left his forehead. “And I didn’t mean to hit him—You saw the wight at his face. Another second and this would be a wildly drastic conversion.”

“You haven’t even explained who you were yet? What’s your goal? Who are you? Why take out those wights back there?” Theon asked.

“I’m just someone trying to help—“

“That’s obviously working really fuckin’ well—“

“What does help with burns then? Because by all the gods I’m inclined to cut it the fuck off.” Jon cut in to the ramblings.

He pushed through the pain to open his eyes. The skin on his face felt stiff; he assumed some of his face had not remained unscathed, even if it wasn’t like to have suffered anything quite like the damage to his hand. From the fire at least. He didn’t want to know what the freezing cut looked like. Fuck he hoped he still had hair.

The first face he saw was Robb’s concerned one. From the quick glance Jon was able to give him it didn’t look like his brother suffered any mortal sort of wounds; he had some scratches, and—fuck did one bite him?—, but Grey Wind was with him. He was fine. He glanced down at Ghost next—his wolf laid next to him, a silent yet ever-comforting presence.

“Here.” A hand grasped itself to his shoulder and forced his body up the rest of the way.

The voice had belonged to a woman, that much he confirmed. She sported hair that dangled just above her shoulders, and the bells he heard must’ve been the ones that she wore woven into the silver strands. Her face—fuck, maybe he did somehow still ascend to heaven, even if the bells were very much not the sound of angels. They just belonged to one.

One that burned the absolute shit out of his hand and arm, and it felt like some of his face maybe. Right. He probably shouldn’t forget that.

The woman had grabbed a thin rag from her bag. She took his hand without any protest from him.

“I’m going to wrap it loose only until we get to somewhere where it can be properly cleaned. Don’t put pressure on it.” She told him. He could only nod—fuck he probably looked like an idiot.  He couldn’t think; it was like the skin on his hand had shrunk and tightened. He had to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying out as the woman wrapped his hand.

“We?” Theon asked, “Look, we appreciate whatever that firebomb thing was outside and all—

“Trap mines and molotovs.”

“Right. Well. Y’know—thanks—“

“Wait.” Robb interrupted. His voice went stiff, his face blank, “Wasn’t. . .”

He glanced to Jon. The woman finished her wrapping of his hand and stepped back.

“Casterly Rock. That militia group—fuck what were they called?—Fireflies? The city went to hell and—”

And it burned. They passed it a few months back to scavenge. They found nothing but cinders and burnt rock.

It once had a population of thousands; quickly dwindled in the years since the sun set for good. Everyone knew what it stood for though, especially to the Lannisters that still controlled most “quarantine-zones.”

Robb looked to the woman. The silent accusation hung in the air. By the look on her face—Well, she didn’t seem to deny it.

Of course. She was a crazed fanatical terrorist. With a flamethrower. And other means of arson apparently.

How many were with her? Jon glanced to Robb. Jon knew his brother and was sure the question was on the tip of his tongue as well.

“I’m not a Firefly. Not anymore—Not that it matters.” She said, calmly.

“Not that it matters? You were apart of them though? Those crazy fucking—“

“Yes. But, I’m not anymore. Look—I have an Uncle. He lives—We live—not too far out from here, that’s why I came here in the first place—just— I’m offering help, but I won’t force you to take it.”

“Good. We don’t want it.” Theon interjected, “We still have the truck.”

“Shut the fuck up Theon.” Jon told him, “You aren’t the one with a burnt to shit hand, and we don’t reallyhave a truck. It’s low on gas and loud as shit—we aren’t sneaking around a horde with it. We need to go. Now. Did you forget about Sansa? Because we can’t get her, or Bran and Rickon, if we all die miles and miles away from them.”

That seemed to dig enough by the look on his face.

“Did you literally just forget how you got ‘burnt to shit?’” He continued anyways, “Of course I didn’t forget about Sansa, but that fucking lunatic—“

“Alright.” Robb snapped. He looked to Jon, then to the woman, “Fine. Look—We do. Need help, I mean. But we can’t just—“

He ran a hand through his hair.

“We don’t even know you, and any other time we thought we could trust someone—it hasn’t exactly gone to fucking plan.”

“Daenerys.”

“What?”

”My name—It’s Daenerys, if that helps. I promise you I do not mean you or your family any harm. I want to help, you should just take it.”

Robb opened his mouth to say something more, but the words never took to sound as there was the great boom of an explosion somewhere not too far off.

They all could hear the stark raised wailing of wights; a pressing, horrible, daunting reminder.

“I left that at the north entrance. We should go.” Daenerys told them, “We just have to get to the roof.”

Robb helped hoist Jon to his feet. His mind only spun for a moment. There would be no more arguing, thatJon knew for sure.

In the end: they were all alive beings, and the wights were not.

“Lead the fucking way Dragon Queen.” Arya said.

And so she did.

The roof, as Daenerys mentioned, apparently was connected to the other decrepit buildings with loose, rotted-looking, board bridges that hardly looked stable enough to hold a child.

“It’s worse than Pyke.” Theon cursed with a shake of his head.

“They are stable. I know for certain they can hold seven people at a time. Adult people, before you worry.” Daenerys was already in the middle of one—flamethrower hooked over her shoulder and her hair blowing with the harsh winter winds. Jon could hear the bells tinkling. If one couldn’t see what she was standing on, they had no reason to think it wasn’t solid ground.

“And their wolves.” She added on. She was yelling now—she had reached the other side of the first one.

His stomach rolled. He could still hear the cries of the wights—the sounds only amplified now that they were out in the open. His face was cold and wet from the snow. His hand ached and throbbed. He took a harsh breath. At the least, he was sure they were wide enough for the wolves, even if the strange woman could hardly be trusted yet for her opinion on structurally questionable bridges to be believed.

Though she did save his life, if nothing else.

After burning the shit out of him in the process.

“Fuck it.” He muttered under his breath, “Ghost, to me.”

“Better than wights.” Arya agreed as she stepped sure-footed onto the bridge.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Harwin laughing and calling her little Arya Underfoot. Jon wondered if he was dead.

“Keep it moving.” Arya told him. He shook himself out of his thoughts.

“Right.”

The place Daenerys spoke of was high up in an old skyscraper of a building. Most of it was clearly built after the Long Night began, and the hallways and stretches were illuminated by fires and torches.

Naturally.

“Uncle Aemon!” She called out upon entry, “I brought people.”

Her Uncle was an old man—old old. He looked to be pushing a hundred years old with how he hobbled in to the area and sported milky white eyes.

“I’m a hundred and two and blind, but please do be kind and not scream at me—my hearing hasn’t gone yet.” He spoke in a soft, yet strong voice.

“What is it now dearest niece, four? And dogs. Oh, yes, wonderful.” 

What the fuck?

Daenerys caught his look. She bit her bottom lip to horribly hide an amused smile.

“Don’t let him fool you—he’s very perceptive.” She told Jon.

“Three dogs.” She then clarified to her uncle as she stepped towards him, “You’d love the sight of them—they are true wolves by the looks of them. Beautiful beasts with colorful eyes and shaggy fur.” She described for her uncle.

“Direwolves.” Robb clarified. He scanned the room—his blue eyes watchful. Wary, “Or at least they are descended from them.”

“Wondrous.” Aemon agreed, “Truly wondrous.”

He sat at the head of the table, and Daenerys moved to help settle him in.

“One of them was bit by a wight, and the wound needs flushed. Another was. . .cut by an Other’s spear and has a burn on his hand. I was hoping you could help them.”

Aemon’s smile waned.

“Troubling, but of course I will. Where had you gone?”

“Just the old mall.”

He hummed. He frowned. Daenerys looked guilty, but neither of them spoke any further on it.

“Do get my things, please. I’ll have a look.”

She squeezed her uncle’s shoulder and left to the room just to the left and connected to the main area. She was back out in less than a second.

The old man had sure hands whilst he flushed out Robb’s wound; it hardly took linger than ten minutes. Robb managed to a cool face throughout, but Jon would be a fool to not notice his pain—his tiredness. He took the last watch before the mall, and before the truck. When did he last sleep? Sleep well?

When had any of them?

Probably Winterfell.

“You have running water?” Arya asked, doubt flickering between the clear desperation. She was speaking to Daenerys—he hadn’t even noticed the two being amicable.

Fuck the things Jon would give for a shower.

Daenerys nodded.

“In the back. You’ll find the showers. There are hampers of clothes—you can take whatever fits.”

“Is this like common for you? You usually just pick up random strangers?” Robb asked. Aemon was done with his bandage, and his brother was quick to stand. Jon wanted to shove him back down into the chair, but his face and hand throbbed at the thought of doing anything more than moving at a snail’s pace.

Fuck the old man was probably going to undo the bandages when he turned his sights on him. Jon thinks he’d pass out. He grimaced in anticipation.

Daenerys shrugged, “We’re hardly strangers anymore. And besides, how can anyone hope to survive if they can trust no one? I’ve met some of the closest friends I’ve ever had by showing some kindness.”

“How is that delightful Missandei?” Aemon interjected, just as he waved for Jon to sit—or at least Jon assumed the wave was for him. Perceptive, Daenerys said.

The old man’s hands were like worn, soft leather, but that didn’t stop Jon’s grimace whilst he removed the bandages.

Daenerys gave him a pained look of sympathy. She opened her mouth to say something else, but she shook her head and turned her attention back to her uncle.

“Good.” She replied—she even smiled, “The shipment to Meereen should be back in three weeks time—her with it.”

“Good, good.” Aemon spoke. He gestured for Jon to raise his arm higher and he complied. He worked deftly, and surely despite his lack of eyesight.

“Shipment?” Robb asked, arms crossed. 

Daenerys nodded, “I have a cousin—distant. He knows a man with a working boat and a talent for smuggling. Essos is. . .it’s not any better, but some of the cities on the coast managed to remain a secure zone—and some have better access to food.”

”Like QZ’s?” Theon asked.

Daenerys frowned, “Almost. Not quite. Not better anyways.”

“What could be worse than Lannisters?” Theon joked.

”Many people, really.” She admitted. 

Jon let his head fall back. A silence lapsed between everyone.

“Fuck it.” Arya mumbled after a moment, “I think I’d risk anything to have a proper shower. I’d love to do this less rudely, but—“

She strode off with all the confidence Arya usually had towards the back rooms.

Another beat, and another hiss of pain as Aemon continued his diligent work on Jon’s hand, before Theon let out a sigh.

“You got beds?” He asked.

“Theon.” Robb muttered.

“What? It feels worth askin’ at this point?”

“Downstairs.” Daenerys confirmed, “If you find a place to sleep it’s yours.”

Theon nodded, “Then I’m taking a page from Arya’s sometimes crazy fuckin’ book—Fuck it.” He then gave Robb a look.

“You should too. You’ve been up the longest of us.”

Robb looked to Jon. Jon waved him off.

“I think even injured I can handle an old man.” He tried to joke. Aemon laughed, the raspy thing it was. Jon kinda liked him.

“I think we all know it isn’t him I’m worried about.” Robb admitted, but even his ever-serious brother finally cracked the semblance of a smile.

“You have my word I won’t try and save his life again then.” Daenerys snipped back.

Robb scoffed, but it wasn’t with any sort of bitterness. At least not much.

“Just shout.”

“Aye.” Jon said with a tight smile.

Daenerys hadn’t lingered long, she made a comment about how she had chores to wrap up, and things to do—which Jon didn’t doubt. 

“She did get you good, my niece.” Aemon then spoke.

”What?” Jon asked. He peeled his gaze away from the doorway and back to Aemon. 

The old man chuckled, “Your hand.”

“Oh, yeah—I mean yeah she did. Got the wight that was on me worse though.” He said. 

“And you were alone with the Other?” He asked.

Jon nodded, “Mostly. I had Ghost—my wolf with me though. I was just lucky really.”

”Aren’t we all?” Aemon asked. Jon winced as he finished with wrapping the burn—he had picked it raw; to get rid of any dead skin and debris which Jon knew, in theory, was necessary, but fuck did it suck.

“The wound on your head will be like to scar—there isn’t much to be done of that. However, I suspect your hand will recover well enough. I want you to be doing light stretches with it, like this.” The old man flexed his fingers and scrunched them up in a fist.

”I don’t think I’ll be able to do that anytime soon.” Jon chuckled. He’d probably pass out if he managed it.

“No, I don’t think you will either—but do try and work to that. You must keep the skin flexible.” He returned with a laugh of his own. 

The laugh quickly turned into a cough—a bad fit that made the fragile old man shake.

Jon rose, the action quick. He set a hand on the old man’s shoulder out of instinct. He felt at a loss, and that didn’t seem normal He wondered if he should go—to get Daenerys or something, but the old man was quick to wave him down.

It took another minute for them to stop.

“Should I get Daenerys?” 

He knew, after he asked, that he didn’t actually know where she was—he’d do his damnedest to find her though. It’d be his luck, having her fucking uncle die on him. 

The old man shook his head. Jon took one of the spare wrappings to hand to him. The old man finished his coughing into that.

He’d have to be blind to miss the way the stark, red blood stuck out against the white.

”Please. . .do relax. I do not wish to worry Dany more than she does already.” He wheezed. 

Jon nodded, albeit reluctantly.

”Alright.” He conceded. 

“You can go join your brothers—You will be fine, just avoid putting water on the burn of yours. I’ll be just fine to sit here until my niece gets back.”

Jon doubted that, but he didn’t feel fit to argue with a man in his own home. He could hear his father in his ear—it seemed like something he’d told him before. 

So—he nodded, bid his thanks, and went down to where he hoped Robb and Theon were.

The aforementioned ’downstairs’ happened to be a series of apartments—or at least that was as close to a descriptor that Jon could find. Theon had been in the hallways—about to come up to check on Jon actually. 

”Well, when she said that thing about an empty bed I didn’t really think to think that meant other people could be occupying them. It was just—surprising.” Theon remarked with a groan once he brought Jon back.

”It’s not really surprising you didn’t think to think.” Robb mumbled from his place on the bed, eyes closed.

From what he understood there were at least four other people in the series of building, probably more. The room they eventually found unoccupied was in a different complex; still connected to everything else. 

It was neat really, how long had this taken to out together? 

“Glad to see she didn’t scathe you again.” Theon pointed out.

Jon rolled his eyes, “I didn’t see you coming to my rescue.”

”I’d at least wouldn't have missed with my bow—“

”If we are being technical, then she didn’t actually miss—“

”You’re only saying this because you are so fucking smitten.” 

Jon felt his face get hot—which did not help his case in the slightest.

”Did you seriously just use the word smitten?”

”So you aren’t denying it? The crazy bitch who was once part of an insane group—“

“How are you this much of an ass? I’m genuinely wondering. You have an uncle that forced people to cannibalize each other, do you have room to talk?”

”I mean i’m not smitten with my fucking uncle so i’d argue it’s a little different.”

”You’re just bitter you haven’t had a woman like you since your mother.”

”So you think she likes you too? That’s a little presumptuous—“

“How’s your hand feeling?”

Arya was in the doorway. She startled the both of them. Her hair was wet from the shower and Jon found himself suddenly jealous. He didn’t feel like trying to and avoid getting his hand wet though. 

“Fine. You found us quick.”

”When the Dragon Queen mentioned showers it really was actually more like a communal bathroom. There were two women who came up as I was leaving—the one’s name was Irri—and she was talking about some new dolt who barged into her boyfriend’s room—“

”She never fucking mentioned there were other people living here.” Theon interrupted.

Arya rolled her eyes, “She brought a bunch of strangers to a crazy huge apartment complex—I feel like that should have been implied. Or at least expected. You never think shit through so I’m not surprised it didn’t occur to you.”

Theon went red—but he knew when to quit, sometimes at least. Mainly with Arya. No one liked arguing with her for too long, even if you ‘won’ it you’d probably wake up to a mattress stuffed with animal shit.

Jon thinks Robb fell asleep.

Arya took up a place on the floor beside Jon. She undid her pack from her shoulders and opened it for the both of them.

”I’m figuring with the snow and the mess at the mall that we’ll be here a few days.” She brought out the map of the West and Riverlands, “I think we should probably scout it in a day or so—just to be sure. We know Baelish is unlike to do anything to her. . .but we should still get moving as soon as we can.”

”Yeah.” He watched Arya pull back her hair and fix the map. Her dark circles were prominent under her wide-eyes. She was more like Robb than she would ever admit.

He thought about those last few days. Arya and Sansa never did get along the best, and Jon could assume things weren’t the best between them when the Long Night began. He only knew after they got separated—She, Sansa and their father had been south visiting his friend Robert and his son who Sansa had some crush on, and father took Arya back north before Sansa as Robert agreed to watch her because she wanted to go on some trip with Joffery before school started back up—and well, then the cold came in the middle of that summer break. They assumed she was dead too.

But she wasn’t. That’s what mattered. He just wished Arya didn’t carry all that guilt with her about it. They couldn’t change anything. He thought of Bran and Rickon again—they had been with Osha and Catelyn back home. Jon, Robb, and Theon at Pyke because Theon’s father died and Theon had to travel to sort out his will—

Whatever. The past was over.

“You should get some sleep, little sister.” He told her, softly, mussing her hair while he did so. It didn’t matter how old she got. “I’ll stay up and keep watch—don’t worry about that.” 

She glared—only for a second. But then she nodded.

”Fine.” She snipped. She didn’t close up the maps, but instead left them out laying right there as she laid down beside them still on the floor.

”Wake me up if you want to sleep.” Theon offered, but he didn’t argue with Jon about taking first watch. Jon didn’t think they needed to keep watch, but he knew Arya and Theon both couldn’t sleep unless someone did.

He didn’t end up waking Theon before he fell asleep. 

And nothing happened come morning.

Daenerys wasn’t so sure what to truly make of the Starks. Or so she assumed they all were: Starks, she means. The brash one, Theon, would call the other—Robb—a Stark every so often anyways, so she felt it was a safe enough assumption. Although that likely meant Theon wasn’t, maybe a good friend? More? It wasn’t her business. 

Even two days after they first arrived, they were an especially guarded people. She recalled how they would mutter to each other in their self-enclosed circle, usually over some map or another. They had enough of them to fill an entire table, and they have done just that on several occasions.

Her uncle liked them, if nothing else. He says he liked the sense of purpose it gave him for the time being, and Dany couldn’t help the guilty pain in her heart.

He should be on Dragonstone. She couldn’t even do that much. 

He would never blame her, not out loud anyways. She’s tried to work ways, but with the blocks in the Riverlands she’s felt pretty much stuck. She couldn’t drag her already ailing uncle even further across the country, even if it was to bring him to the place he should be. That they should be. 

It was hard enough to get him away from Essos, and to go by sea again would be no better. He came all that way for her, she reminded herself. The reason he left was because of her, and she couldn’t even get him back home.

She couldn’t even find him fucking meds—painkillers anything. The entire mall idea was worse than—it was just a bad, horrible botch of a job. She missed Missandei dearly, and Jhogo and Rakharo were no closer as they left just that morning to check in with the outposts to the south. Irri and Jhiqui went with them. The Fireflies were long dead, but she could still do what she could—they all could.

“Daenerys, darling, why are you fretting?”

She jerked. She hadn’t even noticed he’d awoken, as caught up in her own thoughts as she was. Viserion yawned from his perch on her uncle’s chest—the cat loved her uncle more than the others. Drogon and Rhaegal have made themselves sparse, but she hadn’t yet worried. She assumed as much would happen when she brought a bunch of new people back—with huge dogs at that.

“I’m not.” She dismissed, “How are you feeling? I brought breakfast.” 

She gestured to the tray of milk and oats at his side. Viserion stretched as he got up, and he left for the drawer of the dresser—his nest, as her uncle would call it.

”Fine, fine, though you know I hate when you lie to me.” He sat up, and shakily moved to grab the tray, but Dany knew just as he did he could not lift it. She didn’t miss his grimace of pain either.

”And I do not like when you lie to me either, uncle.” She admitted part of it, before she stood and placed a gentle kiss to his forehead. She helped him with his tray and sat on the other end of the bed.

”You know me well. Just my old joints though, nothing—“ He broke off in another coughing fit of his. She kept his breakfast tray steady. 

As he recovered she worried her brows.

”You’ll stay in bed today.” She told him, quickly grabbing a hanker-chief for him to use.

He took it and waved his hand. It took him several moments before he could speak.

”No, no, I have. . .I have to—“

”I’ll take care of your patients.” She assured him, even if she was not sure if she was the Starks’ biggest fan.

She’s spoken to Robb or Jon the most—usually about ways to the mall in order to recover their truck. She would still give it another day before they risk approaching the disaster closer—though they hadn’t need to be told that. They were familiar enough, even more than she was in some ways on the Others and their wights.

It was that Arya and Theon that she went to scout the area with just last night, and the horde still lingered then, so it was unlike to change soon. She itched to go back, to be truthful. She never did get to look through the pharmacy.

Anyways, their conversations weren’t more than that. 

Her uncle began to pick at his breakfast. There was no blood that time at least. She could head the howling of the morning winds rattle his window.

”You rest, I’ll be back for lunch.” She told him.

It was only after visiting her uncle for lunch—she had found him asleep though and hadn’t wanted to wake him so she would need to check in with him in the next hour anyways—and checking in with the radios for Jhogo and the others, that she approached Jon and Robb about their injuries.

It was Jon that noticed her first—he had spun towards the entrance before she could even announce herself. They were looking over a map of the Vale, from the little Daenerys could see.

The two men went quiet.

”I’m sorry,” Dany spoke first, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s fine.” Jon dismissed. 

”What did you need?” Asked Robb.

She paused a moment before continuing. They both looked tense.

”My uncle isn’t feeling well, and he asked me to fill in for him with your. . .” She waved to his injured hand.

She did feel bad, even if it had been necessary. She had found Arya, Theon, and Robb before Jon. Her trap mines only stopped so many, and they were still several seconds behind her from entering the room he was in. There was no much more she could do—save for maybe watching a wight tear apart his face.

Jon took a moment to understand, “Oh—right.” He grimaced in anticipation. He stood to follow her.

”I’ll be back.” He told Robb.

”I’ll be here.”

“So are you like a doctor too?”

She joined him at the table. She set down the other cup of tea in front of him.  He took it slowly—she assumed the burns were his dominant hand. Some of his actions seemed clumsy. 

”No. I was only fifteen when everything went to hell.” She teased.

”Right.” He smiled at himself, “Sorry.”

She shrugged, “You aren’t too far off though. My uncle’s taught me everything he could. He was a doctor—He worked in the military for a while.”

“Oh. . .that, uh, that explains a lot actually.” He admitted. 

“He retired long before the Long Night began. . .” She gestured for Jon to extend his hand for her. He complied. The worst part would be removing the old bandages.

“And well—He was meant to help people. He’s gotten enough practice since everything. . .y’know.” She didn’t talk about Essos. About Viserys. About everything her uncle’s really done—how he saved her. 

“Yeah.” Jon said. 

Changing the bandages went smoothly, as did cleaning the burnt tissue.

”I think you are going to be in the clear—You haven’t been hot or anything?” She asked. 

Jon startled, “What?”

Dany blinked, “Feverish?” 

“Oh—No. No, i’m fine.” He said quickly.

She smiled. She finished up the new wrapping on his hand, and yet he didn’t get up to move—He still had tea in his cup and so did she.

She heard the soft clicking of a dog’s feet on the floor. She turned her head to see that great white wolf of his.

It—he—walked up to Jon’s side. He gave the wolf an easy smile. She wondered how long he had him—how long they all had those wolves. How did they come across them? Domesticate them?

She didn’t even know their names—only that’s Arya’s was named Nym, as she overheard that.

“What is his name?” She asked. The white wolf sported red eyes that glowed like the warm embers of an old fire.

“Ghost.” He answered smoothly.

“It suits him.” She admitted. Such a large beast would be like to catch anyone’s attention, but she’s seen for herself his gracefulness; the way he could walk in silence and cloaked into the background. Like a ghost—Yes, it suited him just fine.

And his owner too. Jon watched with dark eyes, his face ever-solemn.

Her own gaze fixed down to his burned hand—now wrapped and fresh.

“How does that really feel?” She asked, words soft. He gave her a smile that looked like a grimace.

“Well—Fresh, thanks to you I guess. And your uncle’s advice helps.” He told her. He extended the hand and flexed it like Uncle Aemon showed him—his fingers were obviously extremely stiff still, and they hardly moved around the bandages.

“I’m sorry again. For that.”

He shrugged, “I mean you weren’t wrong. If the flames didn’t take the thing I’d probably have blue eyes by now too.”

“Maybe.” She acquitted, “But still. Let me give my apologies please.”

He watched her for a moment, and she watched him. How his brows rose at her, his nose scrunched —and she watched his mouth twitch into a smile.

“Okay.” He murmured, “I suppose you’re forgiven.”

“Suppose?” She teased, “Just a moment ago you dismissed me—and my apology—and now I get suppose?”

“Aye,” He laughed, “Well, my hand is pretty fucked. Maybe once we see how it heals I can be more sure than a suppose.”

She gave him a mock scoff. They lapsed into a silence.

“Why were you even in the mall?” He asked her.

Dany took a moment to answer that. She didn’t feel like lying.

“I was. . .looking for meds. Pain meds.” She admitted. She never even made it to the pharmacy to look.

“You?” He asked softly.

She shook her head, “My uncle. He’s—I’m sure you noticed his age. Getting old. . .hurts. More than you’d think.”

“I’m sorry.”

She gave him a sad smile.

“Well. . .I suppose you are forgiven.”

He returned the smile. She noted his tea was gone. It was a comfortable silence later when he did sigh.

”I should get back to Robb.” He admitted.

”Your maps?” She couldn’t help but ask.

He nodded, she was surprised he indulged her curiosity, “We have family out there still. We hadn’t known. . .well we know where our sister is now. That’s why we need the truck.”

”To get to the Vale?”

He nodded. She felt the absurd urge to trace his worried brows with her fingers, to relax his face. 

“The Riverlands are a disaster.” She told him, though she was sure he already knew.

”Yeah, but they—we—have an uncle in Riverrun. He knows people, and he has an entire set up over the rivers—he should be able to get us to The Bloody Gate. We hope.”

”I’ll hope for you then.” Daenerys told him, sincere. 

He watched her a moment, like he couldn’t quite tell if she was. 

“Thank you, Dany.” 

He went back down to Robb, and she went to check on her uncle. She thinks she’ll miss these Starks.

Dany, she noted belatedly, he called her Dany. Oddly enough, she found she hardly minded at all. 

Chapter Text

Her Sansa was born on a sunny day, a good omen, Catelyn decided, for her bright and wonderful girl.

The little thing was smaller than Robb at that age, and her Sansa also had no beginnings of hair sprouting from her scalp as he hadn’t. She wondered what color she would take to have. She found she couldn’t stop stroking the little girl’s face, tracing her perfect little, barely-there brows. They were light in color.

It’s been so long since Robb was so little, so Catelyn cherished the feeling down to the very marrow of her bones.

Winterfell’s warm stone walls surrounded her, but it was Ned’s arm that staved away the cold of the north.

Once, she had had been anxious about the thought of him being here. About. . .It was a silly thing; a feeling she hardly understood the root of. She delivered Robb by herself in the Castle she grew up in. It was just he and her for several, long moons.

And then it wasn’t. When she finally arrived to Winterfell to show Ned the boy she bore him, he already had his own babe living inside the walls. It wasn’t that Ned hadn’t been good to the both of them, the contrary really, but this was—different. It was different, not bad, just. . .

She felt Ned’s lips press to her temple. She leaned against him, her shoulders relaxing as Sansa shifted in her arms.

“Thank you.” She felt him whisper against her ear; the words hardly audible. His breaths were warm on her face. She can’t believe she ever used to feel cold here. It’s your home now, a voice reminded her, Your children are Starks, and so are you .

She shifted so that she could glance up at him—at his grey eyes that housed dilated pupils. At that soft smile that she felt was so rare on his normally ever-solemn face.

“For what?” She asked, the words just as quiet and just as soft. Sansa slept on.

He didn’t respond for some time. His hand reached to gently stroke little Sansa’s cheek.

“I haven’t the words, I’m afraid. Everything, I suppose—You. . .you are a remarkable woman, my wife.”

Remarkable. She twirled the word around her head a moment. This was her duty. The words of her house—Of her father’s house echoed in her bones. They would until she died, she thinks.

And yet that night. . .none of those nights in which she finally found it in her heart to forgive, or even forget, had duty at the forefront of her mind. She gave Ned a tired smile. In lieu of any platitude or response she kissed the underside of his jaw; it was the only place she could reach without disturbing the resting babe in her arms. He met her halfway, and for a moment she never felt so sweet.

“The boys wish to meet her.” He whispered against her lips.

Boys.

Robb and. . .Jon. Yes, Catelyn supposed they would. It was all they spoke about, as much as they could speak that is. They were young still. Robb was adamant he would have a little brother. The young boy would whisper whatever old tale Nan would tell him about knights and brothers and battles when given the chance. It was all he would babble on about, even if the young boy could hardly understand it all. He was hardly coherent either. 

She didn’t know what the other one thought. Jon was no stranger, that was true. She supposed he couldn’t ever be.

But that did not make him hers.

“Yes.” She murmured, “Just—“

She turned her head away from Ned. She looked at her little girl’s sleeping a face. Her second child, and his third.

The fact burned hard and scalding, as it always did.

“Just Robb.”

The words exited her mouth softly. Quietly. Just her first babe. Hers. She hated that she could feel how Ned tensed. Don’t be a fool , she wanted to say, don’t act like she was a silly woman for asking such a thing . It made sense for her to want a moment with just her family. Theirs. Their blood.

Ned nodded, eventually.

“Of course, love. Would you wish me to fetch him now?”

She nodded. He shifted out from behind her, left a lingering kiss on her cheek, and left to grab her son.

The room was quiet again. The bells that announced Sansa’s birth no longer tolled, and Catelyn was glad for it. The sound of her babe’s breathing was a sweeter music.

Sansa shifted, and she opened those precious eyes. Blue, such a vibrant blue they were. She knew all babes sported that light shade at their birth, but Catelyn knew, somehow, that they would stay that way. They were the same shade as Robb’s, as her own. Though, a part of her mourned she wouldn’t share it with Ned.

His baseborn had his eyes. 

“I’m not a hateful woman.” She whispered softly to her little girl, “I hope you will never know such pain, my love. I. . .”

She couldn’t finish her words. She thought of the feeling of a raspy babe’s breathing against her chest, and she waited for Ned to return with their son.

Robb entered the room with an excited gasp. Catelyn could tell he’s just been washed, it was like that he came in from the courtyard—he was such a restless little thing. His auburn locks fell over his eyes, and the young boy brushed them back with a clumsy swipe of hand. 

Ned fixed his hair for him, sharing a warm look with Cat.

“C’mere, lad.” Ned said as he lifted Robb up by his armpits and onto the bed with them. Robb’s eyes blew up as wide as the moon. Catelyn smiled and brought Sansa closer so that he could see. She used the arm that wasn’t supporting Sansa to bring her boy close.

“She’s small.” Robb mumbled, in his little toddler voice.

“Her name is Sansa.” Catelyn told him. Her boy mumbled it back at her, testing the name on his tongue.

His small hands reached out for his sister as if to grab her.

“Gentle now, son. She is small. It’s not like with your brother. You can’t be rough, she’s a little lady.” Ned told him sternly, holding the boys hands before he could pull at his sister like a toy.

At the mention of the other boy, Robb pulled away and began to glance around as if he was here.

“Why’s J’n not here?”

It was such a simple question. Of course her boy was too young to grasp the idea of it. He looked to his father expectantly, and Catelyn was glad for it. Her frown came naturally—inevitably.

“This is a moment for you to meet your sister.” Ned explained gently, a special emphasis on the you.

“Why?” He repeated.

Why ? Because he was not hers. Because the boy represents the only stain on Ned’s honor; as everyone has started to whisper. Because he represents Catelyn’s failure as a wife, some others would say as not even a year into her marriage and she couldn’t keep her husband in her bed, never-minding the war. Because if this boy continued to grow underneath Ned’s tutelage, looking more like him than her own true-born boy, what would stop him from perhaps taking what should be Robb’s given a chance? What of his grandchildren even—What of any Lord that would have issue with Robb and find Ned’s other son more appealing, never-minding his roots as a baseborn boy.

Why?

He only had three, near four, years on him, he couldn’t understand. Catelyn let the poison in her stomach simmer; did not let it bubble out her throat.

Ned wouldn’t answer Robb’s question. Catelyn thinks he ought to. Explain yourself to your son , that darker, poisoned voice whispered.

She didn’t want this moment ruined though. It was supposed to be happy. It was. He was just a boy.

They were both just little boys. He’d meet her eventually, another voice whispered. You promised . Her heart felt ill.

“You are right.” She found herself saying, “Maybe you ought to fetch him.”

Her words mustn’t have sounded as sad as she felt, as Robb’s face lit up at the task.

“Okay, Ma.” He said. He grabbed his father’s hand. Catelyn didn’t look to see what kind of look appeared on Ned’s face; she kept her gaze fixed on her sweet daughter.

And she waited again.

It was like he knew , Catelyn observed. She hasn’t really asked if Ned explained to him what he was. The boy’s never slipped in the scarce times she’s been around him; never thought of her as his mother even if she was his brother’s.

Robb was excitedly clambering onto the bed by the time Ned and Jon fully entered the room. She gave her own boy a smile, as he eventually heaved himself up and excitedly turned to his father and Jon.

“Look look —Ma said her name is Sans’. She’s our sister.” Robb rattled off.

“Sansa.” Catelyn corrected much more quietly, “Hush now, you do not want to wake her.”

“Why?” He asked, and his hands moved to prod his new sister—more gently this time though. It seemed he remembered his father’s instruction; the fast little learner that he was.

“She’ll cry.”

It was Jon that said that, in a small voice, but it wasn’t a hesitant one.

Ned hadn’t helped the boy onto the bed with Robb, but instead sat him on the nearby chair. Jon took his father’s instruction without complaint. She was grateful for that much.

“Jon is right.” Ned found his voice first. Jon’s face lit up at the praise. He leaned forward in his chair, practically straining to get a look at Catelyn’s babe.

He might fall, she might have fussed if she were his mother. She pinched her lips shut and listened to Robb who was babbling now about ladies and princesses and other sorts of stories.

Ned kept back, standing just next to Jon’s chair, but he had a fond smile on his face whilst he watched Robb with Sansa.

He would be called back to his duties soon, as befit the Lord of Winterfell. He should be next to her in the bed for as long as she could keep him there.

She turned her eyes back to Robb.

“Would you like to hold your sister?” She asked. Robb nodded, little eyes still blown wide.

Catelyn looked to Ned for help, and thankfully he noticed the plea. She slid an unfussy Sansa into his arms, which allowed her to bring her first babe into her lap. She pressed a kiss to the top of his red curls. He was practically buzzing with excitement, arms already out for his sister.

Ned hadn’t needed to tell him anything as he put Sansa in her brother’s awaiting arms—her boy was a quick learner. Catelyn kept him still, and helped him support the littler babe. She felt a smile find its way back to her lips.

“She’s heavy isn’t she?” Ned teased. Robb frowned.

“No.” He said shortly, and Catelyn laughed. She was the one holding most of the babe’s weight.

Robb frowned even further, and leaned his head back so quick it almost hit Cat in the face.

“Jon, see, c’mere.” He called out.

Catelyn’s heart dropped, her muscles tensed around Robb but he didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t understand, she repeated to herself.

She looked to Ned, not to the boy, knowing if she did. . .

Ned was frowning. Somehow she knew he wouldn’t say anything without her leave—not with this. That made it better.

That made it worse.

Despite her best efforts her gaze flickered to him, sitting on that little wooden chair. His face fixed in a slight frown.

He mirrored Ned in almost every way, it made it easier to separate him as just Ned’s bastard. . .but by the gods sometimes all she could see was her Robb echoing in that face.

“Yes.” She murmured softly, and she nodded—just a slight jerk of her head—in Ned’s direction, “Come, you can’t meet her from over there.”

Robb nodded whilst Catelyn averted her eyes. She couldn’t let the boys see them. See the doubt. See the. . .other things that rested beyond her eyes.

“She is small.” The boy mumbled—He wasn’t on the bed, thank the Gods for that would have been too much, but he was just beside it.

“It’ll be the responsibility of the both of you to help us watch out for her. Protect her, as her elder brothers. That’s what you are there for.” Ned was whispering, some sad look on his face.

Catelyn’s mind wandered to the Crypt. To a statue that just finished its construction and was like to have a bundle of winter roses at its feet.

Both the boys nodded—faces solemn like their father’s. She squeezed her boy a little tighter, and tried to leave the poison in her stomach, away from her face and words.

She hadn’t found out she was with child again until a moon’s turn after Ned left south to deal with the Greyjoy rebellion.

It discomforted her soul; the present now mirroring a time she liked not to dwell on too much anymore. A hateful, spiteful part of herself cursed Robert yet again for dragging away her husband. And an even uglier part wondered if Ned would bring another bastard babe to their home again.

You shan’t go there . It was unreasonable, yet not unthinkable.

“Hush now.” She murmured to a discontent Sansa in her arms, “How about a song?”

The darling girl had over a year to her name now, and every day she took more and more to Cat in looks. She yearned for—and dreaded—for the days in which her daughter was a woman grown. Old enough so that Catelyn could show her children the places in which she grew up; to share with them the feeling of a warm summer rain on the face, the sights of the Riverlands’ valleys and hills. She wondered if they would ever meet her father, Edmure, her Uncle or Lysa — though the latter two no longer resided in Riverrun.

Mayhaps she could even show Robb the very halls in which he was born in.

And all the same, Winterfell was her children’s home, not Riverrun. And what sort of circumstances would cause her children to go below the neck? Her daughter would be likely wedded off, if then. A rare sight for Catelyn to ever see again, and her son—Well, Ned only went beyond the Neck for war it seemed. She hoped better for her boy. All of them.

Sansa went quiet. She loved all sorts of tunes and music—even Catelyn’s out of tune humming was enough to satisfy her, thank the Mother.

She laid the girl on top of the furs. Her children often shared her bed—especially now with Ned gone. She was glad for it—that she had these babes that echoed little parts of him in his absence.

There was a knock on her door—a light one, a hesitant one.

Robb, likely. She smiled.

“Come, darling.” She called out tiredly.  This pregnancy has proved harder than her other two. With Robb at least she had the halls of her father’s house around her; maids and people she grew up with and knew well to attend to her. And with Sansa, Ned had been with her the entire time.

She was the Lady of Winterfell now; and as the Lady of the castle, she found herself always on her feet with some issue or another. She had two babes to look after on top of that. Sansa slept in her bed on top of all the blankets. It was like that Robb would find his way into the bed too, so Catelyn expected the door to burst open and her little boy to come running in.

Except it didn’t open, not right away.

“Lady Stark.” A small voice called out. The door only cracked open.

Catelyn almost startled.

Jon.

He didn’t enter the room. It gave Catelyn a moment to fix herself. She glanced to Sansa, but the little girl still slept soundly.

She walked to the door and opened it the entire way.

He was a skinny thing. With knobby elbows and knees - the sight of a quickly growing young boy. Robb was of a stalkier sort, but even so they shared that same look to their faces. . .

She leered over him, unsure what to make of this. The boy was independent, for the most part. Never needy in any sort of way. To come to her chambers in the cloak of night—when he knew Ned would not he here at that. . .was queer.

He shuffled on his feet.

“You aren’t my mother.”

Jon spoke the sentence so softly she hardly heard him. It wasn’t a question, Catelyn did not think, but still his words were laced with a child’s uncertainty.

“I am not.” She agreed, voice measured. Wherever could this be going?

Jon nodded. He worried his bottom lip in his teeth.

“I know I’m a bastard too.”

Catelyn could hear the bitterness in the words. It was odd, almost, to hear that from a child’s mouth. Children were quite partial to anger, their young little minds not yet mature enough to deal with emotions as a man would, but even so. . .

“I just didn’t know who to. . .Do you. . .” He mumbled something after that, too silent and jumbled for Catelyn to hear.

“Speak up, boy.” She told him, not unkindly, “You must enunciate your words when you speak.”

He glanced up from the floor reluctantly.

“Do you know where mine is?” He asked. He said the words in a quickened, jumbled mess.

Oh.

Catelyn froze. The boy’s eyes grew glossy with her silence, so Catelyn surged to speak.

“Did Ned. . .did your father not explain that to you?” She asked. She could scarcely believe that. After all, for as long as Cat could remember the boy’s known his place. Surely he must’ve.

Jon shook his head. He squeezed his little wrists in his hands, “He won’t—“

The boy shook his head again. Gods, he looked as if he was about to cry. Only five, her thoughts reminded her. She didn’t often pry into Ned’s relationship with the boy. It wasn’t her business, really. But now it was.

Oh, Ned. Why can you not just open yourself to me? She wondered and wondered and wondered.

And she stopped wondering. It did not matter right this second. She took a long breath.

“Come.” She said shortly, and led the boy to the cushioned bench at the side of the room.

“If Ned did not tell you, I am afraid it is because he did not want you to know.” She explained. She couldn’t overstep him, not when he wasn’t even here. She knew the boys knew what their father was, mostly. A Lord Paramount, just as much as he was their father.

The boy nodded. He rubbed at his little face with a rough fist. His touch left it blotchy. Red.

“I’m sorry, Lady Stark.” He mumbled. He sat there stiffly.

Catelyn didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know what to do with that.  If this were her boy, she’d kiss his cheeks, tuck him under her arms and hold him. But this was—not her boy. This was her husband’s shame.

She kept still.

“I just—They say she was a whore. That she never wanted me because. . .but I don’t know, though. Mothers love. . They should. . .you love your. . .I don’t know what to do, and Father wouldn’t. . .” He then mumbled with no conclusion. The words stumbled from his mouth without any grace. The boy twisted his hands around in his lap so sharply she thought he’d take his fingers off.

I am not the right person for this . This is Ned’s place. Why would the boy think to come to her? She had half the urge to shuffle him out her door and clamp his mouth shut with steel. What could she even say to that?

Lie. Tell him his mother was no one. Never let any doubt slip into his mind of that.

And yet. . .

“Your mother died.” She told him, words blunt yet not brash. Not laced with poison, and yet not soft. Not unkind, but not warm.

The boy didn’t move. He’d frozen like one of the statues that resided beneath Winterfell.

“Sometimes. . .I believe she died in your birth.” She was whispering now, “Or soon after. Ned told me once that he’d promised to keep you safe. Look after you, as you are. . .his. Other whispers and rumors do not concern you.”

She thought of the other rumors, only for a moment. Some told of a woman from White Harbor whose father was a sailor, some a random whore in the south, some murmured about the boy’s wetnurse, and some even of a woman, noble and true, with laughing purple eyes who threw herself from a tower.

She smothered them.

The boy nodded—his motion slow.

Catelyn pinched her lips together, and hesitantly—as if the boy’s skin might’ve ignited her—she pressed a hand to his shoulder.

“You should return to your room.” She told him.

He nodded. He rose quickly, his hand reaching to roughly brush away the last of his tears.

Before he exited through her door, he turned.

“Thank you, Lady Catelyn.”

It’s Lady Stark, she almost said. The way he said Catelyn felt too familiar. This was another woman’s son—he was kin to her only through the blood he shared with her children. It wasn’t his place to be so familiar.

Family, duty, honor. The words echoed like a drum. She thought of horrible possible futures — of her son’s rights, of her family’s place here.

She nodded in acknowledgment.

He left. She sat in the window the rest of the night—watching the waning, sad moon and waiting for nothing.

It was midday when a scout first saw the returning party, and just after that Catelyn laid eyes on her husband for the first time in close to a year. She grew and birthed an entire babe whilst he was away. It felt incredulous to think about, even if she’s done that very thing before.

She missed Ned dearly—more than she ever assumed she would. Except that wasn’t quite right. She and her husband’s marriage, while not her choice, grew into. . .something whole. And right. And by the seven had she missed him with everything her heart had.

Her heart ached at his absence. Had he longed for her, as she did him? The silly woman in her hoped so. The wife in her knew so.

Winterfell was busy—the courtyard of the main gate lit up with activity. Robb bounced on his heels, practically simmering in his shoes. Jon was much of the same, though he could hide it better.

Ned was one of the first to ride in, young Jory Cassel just next to him. Ned’s hair had grown long, much like it did after Robert’s Rebellion.

And Ned did, in fact, bring another child back to Winterfell.

She was told in a letter, a moon’s turn back now, about the boy—the hostage.  A Greyjoy. He only had ten years to his name, and he was the last surviving son of the rebel Lord Balon.

He rode in on his own horse just behind Jory Cassel. Theon Greyjoy sported wispy, long black hair and shifty eyes. Her gut unsettled. She thought just briefly of the young man’s mother. How horrible must that be? Several sons dead, and her last a hostage?

And then her eyes caught Ned’s. The smile that alit his face was all that she could hope for. He was off his horse seconds later.

He held her so tight it was a wonder she still had ribs afterward. She couldn’t imagine he was left any better. She wanted to threaten many things; for him to never leave her again, or for him to never put himself in danger like that. She wished for a silly moment he would never have to deal with any other Lords or Kings—or anyone, but that wouldn’t make him her Ned, she supposed. She did love the man that he was; his life, their life, included.

“I missed you much, My Lady.” He murmured into her hair. “My wife. My Cat.”

“And I you.” She returned with a kiss to his lips. He smelled of horse and sweat and leather. A still-healing scratch rested on his cheek. She grew anxious to look him over proper—anxious to show him little Arya. She left the babes in the castle with their nurses, and she found herself regretful of that. 

“Father!” Robb called out, just moments after. For all the excitement the boy clearly had, Catelyn was proud of how he remained somewhat subdued, walking up to him calmly.

A future lord, in true.

Ned held their boy close, a smile alighted his face. He murmured a number of words to him, ones Catelyn couldn’t pretend to hear. Robb asked after his wounds, and other questions only a curious boy so young could ask so quick. 

She found herself standing aside, content to watch her boys speak with each other. 

Jon stood near her. Silent. Watching, just as she was. He startled her, with that. Surprised he didn’t join his brother.

And yet she said nothing. She surged to her husband and son—there was much to do and the castle was busy. Ned said his greetings to his baseborn—notably more resigned than he had Robb. 

And things continued. They had their duties, after all. 

It was long into the night before he was free from his duties. He spent that night in her chambers, little Arya in his arms.

“She has dark hair.” He murmured. “It’s long too.” Catelyn nodded, a waned smile on her lips.

“She was born with a full head of it. Maester Luwin says she’s like to take the Stark looks entirely.”

Like your bastard boy, she almost said. But didn’t.

“She looks like Lyanna.” He whispered. There was a frown on his solemn face, and a sadness to his eyes. “When she was a babe. I remember. . .”

But he never finished the thought. He went quiet as he ran a gentle finger over their little Arya’s face.

It wasn’t often he brought up his family. Those wounds would be like to never close—never heal. Maybe it was seeing Robert again that did it; the man like brought up the thoughts of his sister. She was trothed to Robert for years, Catelyn knew. Not that the information was a secret.

When people think of Robert and his Rebellion, most thoughts probably drifted to the lost she-wolf of Winterfell. The Gods only knew how much that was amplified in Ned’s heart. Every so often she knew he’d visit the glass gardens to find a rose to leave at Lyanna’s statue.

Statue, even if only the old Kings of Winter and Winterfell’s lords were to have their likeness immortalized in stone in the cold crypts. Ned loved her so, that wasn’t to be doubted. 

“I suppose so.” She returned softly. It warmed her heart, she could give him that. Even if it was a ghostly memory of a sister long gone. 

“How was seeing Robert again?” She asked. She hoped to ease that sad frown from her husband’s face. She wanted to touch him, to trace his features with gentle fingers.

And it worked—he smiled. He kept his eyes fixed on their baby daughter while he nodded and spoke of everything he’s seen, and done. He told her how Robert was—well, Robert.

“And enough of him.” Ned whispered in her ear softly. His breath tingled.

Eventually the time came for Arya to return to her crib in the adjourning room.

“How were the boys?” Ned asked afterwards.

Catelyn sighed. Her fingers stilled from her tracing of Ned’s scars.

“Robb’s proved himself to be quite the little Lord in your absence.” She began with a waned sort of smile on her lips.

“Oh has he?”

She laughed at his amusement, “Maester Luwin says in just a few months he could be running the Castle by himself.”

Catelyn doubted that—He was just a boy, after all, but he was a smart one. She hoped it would be many, many years before her boy would be the true Lord of anything.

“I could hardly believe how tall he was.” Ned was saying, “And Sansa—Gods, she was so big. Where did all the years go, Cat?”

She couldn’t answer that, she hardly knew herself. She nodded in agreement.

Jon was taller even. He was a lanky boy; she hardly knew where he got that from. Starks had long faces, grey-eyes, yes, but the boy was gangly in ways she couldn’t imagine Ned ever was.

From his mother, more than like.

And just like that her smile waned. She remembered the whispered words of the boy; his desperate ask. He wondered the same things Catelyn did, to be true.

She knew Ned kept himself from asking about Jon for her sake, but she found she hardly cared. She felt spurred in the moment. There was like to be no better time to mention it—like to never be a good time at all.

“He asked after his mother.” Catelyn finally strangled out.

Ned stiffened. He hadn’t expected that. Gods, Catelyn hardly expected herself to say that. She leaned upwards from the bed, removing herself from his chest. She kept the furs up over herself; the room feeling evermore frigid as Ned’s eyes darkened.

He needed no clarification.

“And what did you say?”

This wasn’t her Ned speaking, Catelyn noted calmly. This was the Lord of Winterfell. Catelyn didn’t let it discourage her. This needed to be said, for her own sake even, if not the boy’s.

“Everything I know.” She admitted—bitterly albeit. He knew that wasn’t much, but at his look she explained further anyways.

“That she was dead. That he was born during the war to. . .”

To a woman you probably loved . She hadn’t said that to Jon though. The boy simply wanted to know if she was a whore, after all.

What if she was? Why didn’t you just say she was for both your sakes? Why not just let it rest?

Let her rest.

“To?” Ned pressed. Ned, not her Lord. She didn’t really recognize that face of his. Scared? Surely not.

“Oh, Ned. . .” She murmured, hardly able to keep the sadness at bay. She swallowed down her worries and nodded stiffly, “I did not say as much to him, but I know you loved her.”

It tore apart her heart—finally saying those cursed words aloud. The woman was dead, and Catelyn was here. The woman shouldn’t haunt her life like this. Shouldn’t torture her husband as she did.

How long had he even known the woman?

How long had he known you before he married you ?

His face went blank. Her heart hammered like a pounding drum. It was a harsh boom doom boom doom under her skin. Her head felt light.

“Why did he ask this?” Ned asked, “Why did you answer him?”

Catelyn should think it obvious.

“He said he asked you.” Catelyn admitted, “What was I to say?”

Nothing, her own voice answered. Ned’s face told her he was in agreement with that.

“He was told she was a whore.” Catelyn continued to the silence.

“By who?”

Catelyn shrugged. How was she to know that?

Who didn’t perpetuate the rumors at this point? She didn’t know who the woman was—No one did. That’s what gave them evermore life.

Him and his secrets. Him and his torments.

“There are. . .rumors, I suppose. From your guards. From the servants, the maids.” She admitted.

“Multiple rumors?”

Catelyn’s shoulders tensed. He was angry, she realized. Mayhap even annoyed; grieved. She didn’t know how to answer that.

A sailor’s daughter from White Harbor. The boy’s old wetnurse who disappeared so soon after arriving. A nameless whore.

Ashara Dayne.

She couldn’t choke the words out through her lips—Not immediately.

When she did speak of them Ned didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“He is my son,” He eventually muttered, voice cool, “and that is all that matters. This won’t be spoken of again—and I won’t have these rumors given any more life.” There was an edge to his words she’s never heard before. She thought of the Stark direwolf, and their ominous words.

Catelyn thought—knew—that was the only time in the years of marriage he’s come close to having scared her. It struck her she’s never even really felt a husband’s anger before, though many a woman speak of such.

She nodded.

And she thought back to his face and realized there was more to it than anger.

Guilt.

Much later she remembered his hushed words with more clarity. Rumors, he had called them. All of them. If they were all rumors then—by all the Gods—what was the truth?

The boy grew to mirror Ned in ways Catelyn could hardly believe some days.

Out of the four children, he and Arya were the only two to truly take the Stark looks in almost every way. Her other two favored her own coloring, from the red of her hair to the blue of her eyes. Though, Robb had Ned’s jaw if not the long, Stark face, and Sansa shared his nose and the shape of his eyes too.

Still, Jon and Arya were another thing altogether—already Arya reminded her more of her husband’s bastard son than her other two children. The little girl shifted in her arms, and small hands reached out to grasp at the balcony whilst she babbled nonsensically; mostly her brothers’ names. She was fascinated with them, as she was with most people, her extremely social little girl.

She wondered what someone would think, if they did not know their family. Would they be inclined to believe Jon Ned’s true-born by first glance? It discomforted her soul.

She adjusted Arya in her arms, and she moved so they were not so close to the edge of the balcony. They watched from above as Ser Rodrik corrected Jon’s form. As Robb smiled and waved his wooden sword at his side in jest. The boys loved the training yard. Robb and Jon met each other blow for blow—As much as their six year bodies could that is. She still thought them much too young to hold a sword, even one made of wood, but Ned insisted, and she supposed the world was a cruel one. In the end, she’d rather them trained sooner than later should the worst pass.

It was only just in recent memory that Ned left to deal with the Iron Islands.

Her gazed shifted to the elder boy waiting to the side. The Ward. Hostage. The nomenclature did not matter truly. Theon Greyjoy still made her uneasy. He was still the last living son of Balon Greyjoy, the once rebel lord. He left Pyke old enough to remember his father, and Catelyn feared what may happen trusting him so close to the boys, but Ned thought it prudent to acclimate the young man with his own sons.

Foolish. But, it was not really Catelyn’s word that mattered. She tensed as Robb excitedly waved the Greyjoy on. She could hear her excited little boy challenge the older one. She tensed further as Ser Rodrik waved the Greyjoy in.

She was so focused on Robb and Theon she hadn’t noticed Jon’s departure, and subsequent arrival until he spoke up just behind her.

“Lady Catelyn.” He greeted, with a nod of his head. He gave Arya a little wave; a smile taking up most of his face. The girl cheered in excitement.

“Jon.” Catelyn returned. She settled Arya to her hip, but it was no use; the girl quickly reached out for her half brother, and babbled in excitement whilst she did so. Catelyn could not refuse the stubborn little lady. No one could. Catelyn feared what they should do should she kept her steadfast streak.

‘Wolf blood,’ Ned told her once, ‘I’m sure you know how it lived within Brandon. . .as it lived in Lyanna too. I wouldn’t be surprised if it arose in one of ours.’

Neither of them said the unspoken—The untimely ages in which Ned’s wolf-blooded siblings died.

She let Jon collect his sister, as her eyes flickered back down to where the Greyjoy and Robb sparred. It was not a true spar—not a fair one either. Her son may have proven himself to be capable enough with his wooden sword but the Greyjoy had the great advantage of age and height and weight on him. 

Ser Rodrik knew that , she reminded herself. You are being a silly woman again . It’s been almost a year now, if he was to do something he’d have done it. Or would he have?

“Jon, what do you make of Theon Greyjoy?” She asked.

The boy was sat on the ground helping little Arya stay balanced. She was awfully invested in the clips of his  jerkin and muttered to herself happily, though they were no real words.

He met her eyes; a wary look flickered across his face. Like Ned’s. Her heart lurched. 

“Robb likes him.” He said after a moment. Arya still babbled on nonsensically, none of it words, so Catelyn had to strain to hear his words. “He thinks he’s funny, and interesting, I suppose.”

“Yes.” She agreed. She glanced back to where Robb ran around with the elder boy. Arrogant. Foolhardy. She heard the unspoken words loud enough, but even so, “I asked you, though.” She told him firmly.

“It’s not my place to speak on. . .”

A boy of high birth? Robb’s friend ? She could only guess what he might’ve said. She might think the same if she hadn’t wanted his truthful answer in the moment.

She let the words die on the boy’s tongue though. She hummed. 

Theon Greyjoy shared no blood to her Robb. A friendship was unlike to be the worst of things. He was just so. . .young still. So blind to the possibilities. 

Again, for what was assuredly not the last time, she wondered on the boys’ futures. She glanced at Jon. The boy loved her son, that she had no doubt of. 

No one could foretell what his children would be like, though. Nor his grandchildren, or their children. She picked at her nails a moment, but caught herself. She leaned down to pick up Arya - the girl was like to be hungry.

”You should rejoin Ser Rodrick.” She told him, not unkindly.

Jon didn’t frown. He nodded.

”Lady Catelyn.” He muttered for a goodbye. Catelyn nodded in acknowledgment and left with little Arya squirming in her arms.

The children all took their own moments to visit Bran for the first time once he was settled in his room after his fall. They came to him one at a time. First it had been Sansa, her blue eyes filled with tears that hadn’t ceased their flowing for the entire first visit. Then Robb, strong like his father, and stronger than her, who spoke in a soft voice of hopes, and just after him it was Arya who put on a brave face, but still had glazed eyes. Little Rickon came with Ned once, too young really to understand, and Catelyn had no words to make him understand.

It was Jon that came last of them, three days after the accident; a day after his siblings.

He entered with that white wolf of his, silent and watchful. Catelyn hadn’t the heart to send him away. Did she want to? Not truly.

The feeling did not arise from any kindness in her heart. In truth, she thought she had none. Her heart felt carved from stone; cold, still, and un-beating. How had her parents ever survived losing a child? Bran was not even gone, and yet—she couldn’t finish the thought.

She didn’t listen to what Jon said to him, but she noticed when a silence took over them. It stifled the air.

She watched as Jon took Bran’s other hand. Watched as reluctant tears sprung to his eyes. Watched as he murmured some sweet words or another to her little boy.

*“I wanted him to stay here with me,” She said softly, the words leaving her without her own leave. She kept her eyes fixed on Bran’s frail little body, but she could feel Ned’s base-born boy’s eyes on her form.

“I prayed for it, he was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered.”*

Like with you, when you were just a little sick babe , she almost said, I wanted you gone, and the Seven almost answered that one as well, in their own way. Those words died in her throat. How many children of hers will she condemn to some horrible fate because of her own selfish, broken heart?

He isn’t yours. Her thoughts caught the rogue mistake of her tormented mind, but for once she didn’t care. She remembered her words she spoke to him in the blanket of a quiet room. She remembered the feeling of weak little lungs heaving against her own chest.

*“It wasn’t your fault.”*

She glanced to the boy; nearly a man, now. Poison bubbled up from her stomach.

“I know that.” She rasped; the words slipped out like some horrible sickness.

She hated that the sweetest of her children was laid out sick and broken like he was. She hated that half of her family was leaving. She hated the way the vision of a direwolf dead with the antler of a stag in its neck plagued her thoughts. She hated the howling of those wretched wolves. She hated that she was the one to urge Ned to go. She hated that she was the one who then wished for Bran to stay. She hated it was all her fault; the damning prayers of a silly woman.

They both knew she was lying when she spoke and she hated that too.

“I’ll. . .” The boy didn’t finish the sentence. He frowned, whispered something to Bran before kissing him farewell.

He left briskly, his white wolf at his heels, and Catelyn sobbed over her poor, broken, little boy.

It was two weeks later that Ned came to say good bye.

The girls came first, separately, though Catelyn had not minded. She bade them farewell, not bothering to shield them from her tears. Ned followed shortly after.

He greeted her with a soft kiss; though he was like to not have enjoyed it. Even she could taste that the tears salted her skin, and the hair he loved so much tangled and knotted itself upon her scalp. He brushed the layaway strands from her face, and murmured about their journey—and other such details that Catelyn could not bring herself to care all that much for.

“Cat, my heart, I hate to leave like this.” He eventually spoke. She loved that solemn face—that lovely, caring face.

“You must.” Her words were a croak. Stay, she wanted to plead instead, please just stay. An impossible ask, and a great insult that would be. Her hand tightened around Bran’s own.

“I know.” He admitted, “Sansa is excited, at the least. Arya for different reasons.”

And he spoke on and on of the children; the things he would miss about them, his worries for the boys, his love of them.

And then he brought up Jon.

“Benjen mentioned he asked about the Night’s Watch. . .about the possibility of going—“

“No.” Catelyn stated, before she could hear whatever else Ned may have said to conclude the sentence, “No.”

“Already I am to lose you, along with our sweet girls, however necessary that may be. Bran—“

She could barely choke out the words. Bran loved to climb. Her sweetest little boy was more spider than he was boy—and he fell.

He. Fell.

She was not sure how much longer she could stare at his sweet, sleeping face without reaching up to rake her own eyes out with her nails; the pain of simply seeing him almost too much for her heart to bear, but if she did, then she knew the anguish at not being able to watch his chest rise and fall would prove itself a worse ail to her mind.

“Robb may need him, with you leaving.” She said finally. She needed the boys—all her boys here, so help the Gods. She couldn’t spit out those words. Rickon—Gods when had she last seen him?—would throw a fit she was certain, and Robb was just a boy himself still. Catelyn was too grieved to do much of anything, and the worst thing was she did not care.

Gods, Ned, our little boy . She swallowed down the cry that tried to fight its way out of her throat.

Ned gazed at her sadly. He nodded his head.

His hand clasped her own; the one that has not left Bran’s own hand since the moment he was put down in this bed—save for the moments in which Catelyn fed him his honeyed water or had no other choice. He gave her bony fingers a tight squeeze.

All her warmth was with him, she noted whilst she held to his hand. For a man of the North he was ever-warm. Hers. She felt nothing but ice from herself; her chest housed a cold, stone, grieved heart.

They shared no other words. Ned’s hand left hers. Left Bran’s.

He gave Bran a kiss on his pale face, before doing the same to her.

She watched them leave in the morn; from the window of Bran’s room. For a moment she was a little girl again, watching her father’s host leave out from Riverrun. How long would it be until she watched their return?

She was too tired for anymore tears.