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Chapter Text

~(297 A.C)~

There were times Jon was glad to be in the Godswood.

The Godswood were older than Bran the Builder himself, with its weirwood heart etched red by the Children of the Forest in the time of both myth and legend in the Dawn Age.  The Kings of Winter constructed great walls around the old forest, burnt twice by the Boltons.  Walls were built again, and Kings became Great lords with arrival of dragons. Then so too did the dragons come and pass, and the heart of Winterfell remain.

I much prefer quiet places. Jon mused, as his wooden sword slashed through the silence of the woods. Whenever he and his siblings had come, the air carried a queer stillness. To some, the eerie quiet was too much. To Jon, the Godswood was apart of him just as the whole of Winterfell.

And certainly better than the wolfswood. The blunt end of the blade thrusted upwards.

His stark grey eyes cut towards the old grove. The trees are fine company. Bare Branches of ironwood trees, famed for their resilience in the open sea, swayed softly. Green leaves of the tall sentinel, where Bran was once found sleeping, directly flanked him. At the edge of his sight, Jon could see the pine’s foot in which Sansa tripped over and twisted her ankle. Hencewhen was the moment she swore off playing in the Godswoods. If he were to walk further, Jon would eventually see the wild brush which grew berries in the summer. Arya loves those.

Why would I have traded this for the company of Theon Grey and Benfred Talharrt. Jon’s grip tightened. Benfred was tall as he was a braggart. The fool would certainly spoil the hunt, scaring away all the game. He already had to stomach the Greyjoy, another ass would simply be too many.  Jon bristled as he thought Balon Greyjoy’s son. The youth laughed often, yet the humor never reached his flint black eyes.

He is just like me; he doesn’t belong here. Jon decided he hated Theon even more.

He found himself thinking of Robb, who smiled apologetically before he left with father’s routine.  Jon hated that small smile or the looks of pity his family gave him whenever his baseborn nature arose.

“I hate it.” Jon Snow swung his wood sword harder.

 I’m just as able as Robb. In sums, writing, histories, riding horses, and warcraft his brother and him were fierce rivals as they were brothers. Robb was better at battle tactics, histories, and a better lance. He was better at sums, writing, riding horses, and swordplay. They were equal whenever their lord father would ask about politics, with him favoring neither he or Robb.

Yet father did not take him beyond the walls of Winterfell, it was Robb who rode out. Be it  the Last Hearth, White Harbor, and Barrowtown. Jon knew why that was.

Robb was the heir to the north, and he was Jon Snow.

A boy who does not know who his mother is.

With a great cry, Jon Snow threw his sword and heard the sound of something breaking. He did not know if it was his sword or heart.

Making his way towards the foot of the heart tree, he collapsed against the white bark and bought his knees close. Robb has Lady Catelyn, and I only have wisps of shadows. Jon didn’t even know if his mother wanted him, much less even loved him. In his darkest moments, Jon wondered if his father wanted him around.

He does. Jon reasoned. Yet his treacherous mind whispered. Father is an honorable man. He keeps you around because you are his mistake. Lord Stark is duty bound to right his only wrong.

His hands wiped away at his stinging eyes.

Jon thought of the morning when the group departed. The group made up of His Lord Father, Robb, Theon as his father’s ward, Ser Helmann Talhart of Tohrenn’ square and his son Benfred and nephew Beren. Bran had elected to come along. Jon judged that right. Mayhaps soon he would see his father pass justice. The thought brought a slight smile to his face.  And of course, the ever-present Jory Cassell tailed his lord.

In the courtyard, Auburn red and blond hair had stood out. The Talharts were of a fair complexion, tall, and sand kissed hair. A willowy whisp of a child, Beren had accompanied Bran as they were of a similar age. Judging by his family, the young boy would grow large.

As for him, he was not in the courtyard. Jon was merely walking the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep by chance when all of Winterfell heard their departure. His dark eyes watched as the lords awaited for Hullen, master of horse, to finish saddling their mounts.

Out of the stables Hullen’s son Harwin strolled out with the reins of two horses in hand. Harwin was a stocky build, and was proud as the horses he tended to. Jon would normally see Harwin perfume himself before he left the stables. The old gods knew, a day of tending the stables was hard work and often left one drenched in their own sweat and smelling of horse. Robb and he learned that long ago, deciding to forego Maester Luwin’s lessions, and playing men-at-arms. Father punished them for three days tending to the horses as stablehands. Since then, they had been careful not to miss his lessons.

The perfumed stablehand first gave the reins to the Warden of the North Eddard Stark, then to Ser Helmann Talhart . His father listened as Ser Helman Talharrt spoke of the great horse herds who dwelt in the plains of the barrowlands. Harwin handed them both coursers, fine stallions coated black and a chestnut brown horse who his father preferred. More stablehands came out with more coursers, three to be precise.

Yet that would not explain, Hullen’s absence. In all of his life, Jon Snow had known Hullen to be the first to tend to his father. Then out at least, out walked a well-built man with grey hairs peppering in with brown. Unlike his son, Winterfell’s master of horse bore a beard, and came walking out two destriers.

Jon Snow heard boisterous laughing and instantly knew who would mount those horses. Theon and Benfred, Jon thought snidely. Destriers were powerful and resplendid horses, but their strengths laid in swift forward charges. Better suited in open plains, than the narrow and confining spaces of the wolfswood. Quick turns, which favored coursers, were necessary to ride well there. Any half decent northerner worth his salt would know. Then again, we are dealing with a beached squid and a lout. No doubt one of their pissing contests.  From his position, he could only shake his head in disapproval.

But the image seared itself into his mind. Eddard Stark with his sons, Ser Talhart and his kin. Even the bloody horseman, it was as if Hullen had peered into a silver-looking glass and reflected was his younger self, in the form of Harwin. Sons learning directly from his father.

Which brought him back to present.

With his brothers and father there, and Jon only here.

After he was just a…..

“Bastard.” Jon whispered to himself, with only his gods to hear. That was another reason why Jon enjoyed the Godswood.  At least, in this place I can reveal both my tears and fears.

And largest of all his fears, the one Jon would never dare air. 

If his father was ashamed of him. The honor which he had been renowed for, yet Jon’s existence a sole blemish of a great man. With rankled Jon the most was, they used it against his father. Perhaps it was easier, for a weaker man to say even the honorable Lord Stark erred. That chafed Jon the most.

I have so many dreams. He wanted a name. He wanted a castle covered in snow. He wanted a sword. He wanted for men look upon him and to be worthy of their respect. He wanted to be worthy of his father’s praise.  He wanted to know who his mother was.

I’ll never earn any of those. His eyes peered towards the sky, and his hand traced the white branches of the heart trees. Bare limbs gave rise to a great canopy of blood red leaves, but beyond those leaves laid in wait the open sky, Jon thought his dreams felt like that. Far off and distant like Ice Dragon.

But I feel tethered to the earth. Jon was filled with such longing. If only I could reach the skies themselves, then what would become of me?

Jon Snow closed his eyes, and returned his arm to his knee. “I’ll never know.” He sighed. I am so tired. Tired of being motherless and treated less than. Exhaustion cloaked him.

At least in my sleep, can I escape the life of being me. Then Jon retreated to the realm of slumber.

Only to feel cold. It struck Jon as passing queer. Today was neither particularly cold or warm. He decided it was the gloam of the Godswood then. I’ll shift my body, then. Or I could leave the forest. But Jon found himself unwilling to leave the grove, as Arya was still at her lessons and his brothers were hunting. Which would increase the chance he would see Lady Stark. Jon knew she was not fond of this place, preferring her sept, thus the longer they were out of sight the better.

His stomach turned then, as if ahorsed he had gone down a hill suddenly and the wind began to pick up in pitch.  From a gentle caress to a howling gale, akin to those in the summer snows. Unable to ignore the sensations any longer, he opened his eyes only to the earth rushing up to meet him.

Words formed and died in his mouth as he screamed in terror. Jon felt small. Smaller than any hate filled stare from Catelyn Stark ever made him felt.

It’s just a dream. Jon thought to himself, no different from his nightmares of the crypts.  It will end. From his point of view, the conical rooftops were quickly coming closer. Winterfell’s grey walls looked larger than ever.  He could see the shapes of ants, grow larger.

 Those are no ants. Jon realized, those are people.

His screams were drowned out by the wind, each moment his speed grew faster as vast cobbled pavement grew larger.

A voice called out to him. “Fly or die.”

“Father, I am so afraid.”  He yelled, but his voice only emerged in the form of bird chirps. But he did not hear his father’s voice.

Desperate, he flailed his arms out, fearful like the first time he had jumped off the drawbridge to swim in the moat.  Then just as quickly as he fell, the world paused. His eyes widen.

In one moment, the world changed from a blur into stark clarity. He was falling. Falling towards the ancient lichyard. Death awaits.  Jon could see the drum tower of the First Keep lined with stone gargoyles, stone eyes watching him descend.  He was approaching the ironwood entrance to crypts; old iron hinges screamed in his head.  That old familiar dream, of dead Stark kings. There is no place for you here. They said. Go away.  Only death awaited.

Then in a heartbeat, the world turned upside down and Jon rose through the sky.  One heart beat became two, two became three insofar as his arms moved. His world of grey changed, and it’s the place Jon Snow met a great expanse of blue, with the world waiting far beyond.

A gentle wind rustled his arms. Was it arms or was it wings. For once, Jon could not bring himself to care as he soared beyond the only home ever known.

Quickly he found himself above Winterfell, but it was not he knew.

 No. Not as any man ever knew it as. He was high. Higher than the granite walls. Beyond the drums towers and spirals of the ancient castle. Higher than the highest point of the broken tower, not step foot in since the days of Cregan Stark himself. He could see the movement of all the people below. It looked like the movement of ants, but years of walking those cobbled walkways Jon could see servant girls fetching pails of water, the men at arms drilling under the loud tutelage of Ser Rodrik Cassel. Further beyond, smoke of grey ash rose from the kitchen, and the Maester’s turret where his siblings and he were educated.

Dipping his form right, a stream of air rushed to his face. Compared to my fall earlier tis feels like a gentle caress. Making his way to the east gate, overlooking the two granite walls and the moat in between, Jon could see Wintertown. It’s muddy roads inhabited by carts pulled by mules carrying goods. He watched as the common folk made their way across rows of lined houses. Children running around in the squares, while being tended to by mothers.

Feeling the wind pick up, rather than fight it he moved with it. It just feels right, and the wind soon carried him. Jon Snow heard a noise and was startled. Before long, it became a full song. I am laughing. He thought stupidly. In the place the sound of human laughter, it was a song sung by birds.

What a fool. Jon chided himself, but it made him laugh even more. I am a fool and never felt more alive. Without a care in the world, Jon Snow forgot himself. Moving away from the domain of man, he moved closer to tall green grass in the sprawl of the world, moving closer as reeds danced and swayed. Rills and mounts intermittent the land. The map is not the land, Jon heard his father say. Solitary trees lined distant hills, with boulders jettisoning the surface. Green never looked so green. Grass shown in riches hues of jade and emerald.

Sharp movements caught his eye as a family of hares darted between bushes. Angling himself higher so he could be better observe and with a great push he rose higher once more. He could see the snaking road of the kingsroad, darting between hills and stretching far and long.

He observed for a good while, before circling himself and moved towards the fading sun.

He looked beyond towards the wolfswood, where a great sea of trees expanding far beyond his horizon. Had Jon not been well schooled, he would believe the forest would go on forever instead of ending at the Bay of seals.

It was simply breaktaking. Have I ever felt so free?  He spent the waning hours of day darting and moving in such ways which made his initial descend into his dreams pale in comparison. 

Before long, he moved against the waning sun, by then he had already crossed many leagues. But as all things, everything must come to an end, and he found himself making his way to the heart tree. He slowed his descent. He had practiced landing; the trick was catching an extending limb by his hind finger? Talon. Jon chided himself as he crossed canopies of crimson red. Outstretching his wings wide, drawing his form back like a taut bow, and he brought forward his legs and landed awkwardly.  Dusk had settled into the Godswood, but it was not as dark it usually seemed. The smell of sulfur laded the air.

He felt tired, with his wings feeling sore. He must rest, for tomorrow at first light he will take to the skies and soar once more. No,  he thought. I am a man, not a bird. The thought filled him with such regret. Bittersweet, but now I must wake up. He will wake up and return the life of Jon Snow, Eddard Stark’s bastard, unable to escape the nature of his birth.

I don’t want to. His own voice whispered. As a bird, you are free. You can rise high, higher than even the honor of the arryn’s. Matched only by the dragons of yore.

Madness, it was simply madness. He shook himself, feeling the feathers that felt so really flickered. All of it, the colors and sensation of the world which he had never experienced. It was only possible by the form of dreams. He was Jon Snow, and it was time to wake up.

“Jon.” A voice cried out. “Where are you?” Has Arya’s voice ever sounded so sweet.

“I’m here.” He tried calling, but once more it came out in the form of calls.

He tried again and only the singsong trill came out.

“There you are!” His little sister exclaimed, and the sound of leaves crunched along her footsteps. Her mangled brown hair, formed into a perfect nest.

No, He chided himself. A man, not a beast.

Before long, both he and Arya stopped. The Godswood was still, and at the foot of the heart tree there his body rested.

Truly was my hair always this long? Long dark brown hair cascaded past his shoulders, partially masking a long face. He have the Stark look, it had been said. It has always been a point of pride, because only a fool would deny Jon Snow carried Eddard Stark’s blood. Looking further along that, that sleeping face did not carry the burdens of being a bastard. He looked a boy of only five and ten. Like a lifeless doll at rest.

“Brother, I have been looking all over for you.” Arya voice cried indignant.

“Brother, are you feigning sleep? If you are, I’ll hit you!”  Despite himself, Jon could not help but grin. Only his little sister could quickly turn his mood.

“If you don’t wake up in three seconds, I’ll punch you!”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Jon Snow awoke to a world of pain.

“Ow.”  He exclaimed. why did you slap me?” The world seemed much darker than what it was and standing directly in front of him with hands resting at her hips were two angry grey eyes.

“Because you didn’t wake up and Theon said, it hurts men more being slapped in the face by a women than being punched.” His skin tinged against the coolness of the Godswood.

Hearing the Greyjoy’s name soured Jon. “Greyjoy says a lot of things. Most things he says best be ignored.” Rubbing his surely to be red cheek.

Arya looked sharply, before finding the leaves on the ground more interesting. She was a small thing, skinny and all bone. “I’m sorry,” She murmured. “I didn’t mean for it to hurt so much.”

He moved his arms out, and he felt queer seeing fingers in place feathers. He grabbed her small hand. “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine for drawing your ire, I have should have opened my eyes earlier once I heard you first call.” Jon smiled. That seemed to lift her spirits.

She bit her lip, then came for him. Showering his cheek with a flood of kisses. He could only laugh, before they both got up. He steadied himself on shaky feet. It was a feeling not too different from when Robb and he got too deep in their cups and tried to walk to their rooms. That time they escaped their father’s wroth.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. “Brother, I must tell you about what occurred today. I hoping to see you in at the feast but found no trace of you.”

Arya moved forward ahead, and Jon moved to follow and nearly tripped. I have forgotten to walk.  He thought mortified. I need help.

“Little sister.” He called. It was also strange to hear his voice, a not shrill cry. Arya turned back to him.

 “Walk with me,” He smiled. “I fear my legs have gone to sleep and don’t want to miss a single thing you say.”

Arya just smiled, and ran back towards him. Gleefully she grabbed his hand and began walking. Jon half-listened as his wisp of a sister begun to weave stories of who she had met, focusing on moving his legs normally.  As they were leaving the Godswood, Jon felt eyes on him. Turning his head, Jon Snow saw a bird staring at him, beady yellow eyes shining with recognition.

It knows me. Jon realized, feeling an unseen pull towards it.

“Jon?” Somebody asked.  Then without so much as a word, as sudden as the wind, the winged beast took off towards the orange skies.

He felt something run down the back of neck, place his hand felt something run down the nape of his neck. Pulling his hand forward, he felt his blood run cold.

Bright red coat his fingers, but it was not the thickness of blood. It is thicker, Jon Snow turned back and looked towards the heart of Winterfell, and he could only watch as the tree weeping streams of crimson tears.

He soared through the skies, feathers fluttering with the wind.

The day was overcast and grim with gray clouds lazily moving in. There are dark clouds, there too. 

A distance crack thundered in the distance; he looked towards the heavens. Not far off soon. Summer storms he knew, both shelter and rest would be need soon. Beyond him great herds of birds moved with wings aloft.

He should join them, and he would if naught for the deep stab of hunger he felt.

Eat. A voice told him. Not my voice. He reminded himself.

Eat. He had no hunger for crowfood, he had a taste of flesh.

A snake mayhaps? Eagle eyes darted between dancing brushes of wild grass. He saw a flash of white. Another powerful wingstroke later and he was on its tail.

The beast of prey had stopped.

Had he been noticed?

Extending his wings, the wind pulled his form back.

Careful now. A change in approach was needed. He began to circle, as that white blur began to dart between clusters of reeds.

Just a little further , he could see an open clearing further ahead.

Herd it there.  Judging the time right. Straight as an arrow.

Now. He felt himself fall. He was not frightened.

Not like he was in the beginning. Sharp talons extending with the promise of red flesh awaiting

“Jon Snow.”

He nearly fell from his chair with a fright.

Jon blinked. And blinked once more. He was longer in the open plains, that much was apt. The space came into focus as piles of books surrounded him. From the outer edges, he counted various shelves housing exotic wares. Charts of the celestial heaven themselves hung like tapestries, with various quills and papers filled the room.  The maester turret.

In the place of a white rabbit,  a small grey maester scowled. Jon remembered Luwin had been young once. With a larger sum of hair, albeit thinning even then and much larger. Memories of that man was gone, much like his hair, and he had surpassed the maester’s height, when he was merely one and ten.

Still much remained the same, that robe of grey wool and seemingly uncountable pockets from which the old man procured his various trinkets and that familiar links of gold and valyrian steel still shone brilliantly under the flickers of the candles. But not as rich in my dreams. Shades of silver and gold seemed duller in comparison in this body.

My body. Jon Snow had to remind himself, but it all felt so real. The hunt, the thrill, and the wind calling at his back.

A book thud against carved wood, grounding him.

“If you are so easily distracted, then perhaps I should tell my Lord you no longer carry any interest in learn the higher mysteries and ancient histories.” Jon could not lie, the thought had crossed his mind various times. Why should he carry on receiving his education, He would never be Lord of Winterfell. His fingers tightened. Nor would any great keep be awarded to his name. If anything, prizes such as Moat Cailin would be awarded to Bran and Rickon as they grew older. After the Greyjoy rebellion, the realm was finally at peace with no great war on its way.

No great honor could be won, and his prospects were little to any. Nothing could truly be gained to attending these lessons.

“No.” Jon mustered as evenly as he could. “I wish to further my education under your tutelage.”

And Jon Snow will continue do so out of spite. And what would I do anyway, spend my time at Smoking Log like Greyjoy.

The old man’s keen grey eyes stared at him. Before he gave a curt nod, “Very well, continuing on with the treatise drafted by maester Beldon regarding the histories of the Westerlands.”

By the time the maester had finished the sun had turned from breaking to directly overhead.

“Thus we conclude the primary account of Gerold Lannister and his reforms which made the Westerlands the wealthiest kingdom.” The wizen man entoned. “For our following lesson, we shall embark on the tales of his contemporary Ulster Peake and his uprising in 233 AC.” Jon stretched his limbs. Finally. He looked over to the side to see Robb writing intently with a quill in hand, his blue eyes shone with mirth.

“You are dismissed.”  He moved to get up.

“I must remark Master Robb, you were very astute today. Winterfell’s future is surely secured.” Jon Snow felt his face grow taut. “Jon you are able, but please endeavor to pay attention.”

Praise mayhaps? But Jon knew the truth. Luwin bore no true affection for him. Not like how Luwin carried for his trueborn siblings. Perhaps had Maester Luwin help deliver him into this world he would have cared more.

Little and less. Not that he truly cared to ask.

Grabbing his materials and putting them away, Jon quickly made his way out the stuffy turret.

He felt a grab on his shoulders, before he lurched backward.

“Why are you leaving so soon Snow?” Robb laughed good-naturally. “So eager to be bested at swords again, are you?”

He pushed back his grinning brother. “Unlikely, Stark. After all I was not the one sitting with his arse on the floor.”

“I would not fallen over had the training grounds been properly cleaned.” Robb huffed, “How was I supposed to know Wyl forgot to pick up his whetstone?”

“Perchance have you tried using your eyes?” By then, they made their way out of the turret and could hear the courtyard below being prepared with Ser Rodrik Cassel barking orders.

Jon Snow looked up to sky and was filled with a longing. If I could, I would take the sky once more. He hadn’t dreamed of taking flight since then that day of the hunt, but Jon would be remised to say he hadn’t thought about it much.

“There you go again.” Jon turned to look about his auburn-haired brother.

“What?” He asked puzzled.

“Looking off to the sky, Snow. I know you. Normally you are always searching for some unfound shadow. Always the first to see.” Robb placed his hand over Jon’s shoulder and his blue eyes narrowed intently. “Yet I have never known you to look up towards the skies. Tell me Jon, does something trouble you?”

What doesn’t trouble me. Jon knew he couldn’t tell his brother that. Should he tell his brother about his dream?

“I-.” Jon Snow began, before he thought better of it and pushed off Robb’s hand. “Am fine.”

Jon thought Robb looked unconvinced then. “Very well, whenever you are ready know that your elder brother.”

“Bugger off.” He laughed.

Arriving at the courtyard the boys saw the whiskered countenance of Rodrik Cassel. His obsidian black eyes glistened at their arrival. Jon glanced around and saw many men in the yard. This does not bode well. He hoped not. Normally, he and his brother moved their training to another smaller yard.

“Standing formation.” Ser Rodrik cried.

“Guess we will have to wait another day for that wage, Stark.” Jon Snow muttered.

“Damn.” Robb winced, “I’d had hope it would be a normal day.”

Many times over, the old warhorse bark orders. Handing out squadron punishments for a single person error, and as luck would have it they were alongside a fresh crop of recruits. The day quickly moved from overhead to overcast, by the end of the training he had found himself by the wash basin and dunked his face in. The water cleansed the sweat and grim from his face. Jon pulled his face out, and felt water trinkle down his face. He looked out towards the rest of the field, and saw many men resting on the floor. An inspired session, Jon decided. With the latter half bearing the inclusion of training armor. He had wonder what it was like, to participate in Robert Baratheon’s famous forced marches.

Miserable business. Before a flash of white entered his field of view.

“Would you like a towel mi‘lord.” A young servant girl asked. A brunette who had not served Winterfell for even a year.

“My thanks, my lady.” The servant gave a courtesy, before she made her way off to the other men, and did the same.

Until she approached Robb. “Towel my Lord?”

Mi’lord, and my lord. He had learnt that one quickly. Catelyn Stark’s influence, too cunning to openly reveal her displeasure of him.

Always this. There could not be a single interaction, where he would not be remind of own nature.

Jon found himself remembering a time when he had been merely a boy of only seven when a new servant named Rosyln began to work at Winterfell. She was lowborn, and truth be told he couldn’t even remember what the color of her eyes were. What he remembered the most was her kindness. For the duration of her stay, he had come to believe that she was his mother. Jon Snow had even asked her as such. “No my little lord.” The warmth in her laugh still warms him to this day. I am not your mother. But I can treat you like how I do my son.” Jon liked the sound of that.  However, the walls of Winterfell too thin, with many ears within reach.

 By the turn of weeks end, Rosyln was gone. He had asked the servants where she had gone, and they feigned ignorance. Until at last, Jon gained the confidence to ask Vayon Poole, steward of Winterfell. Perhaps Vayon doubted he would remember so he gave him the honest truth. “Lady Stark found her work wanting, thus we dismissed her.” But Jon Snow would always remember, and he knew from that moment on he must keep his confidence to himself.

He pulled off his sweat drenched tunic.

“Meet you at feast?” His brother called.

“I reek.”

“And I will reek of both sweat and smoked ducks.” Robb japed. Jon’s throat salivated those words. Smoked duck poured with honey, with a side of turnips soaked in butter, sweet biscuits. Such a feast would deserved a goblet of summerwine.  He felt a ghost of smile begin to form on his lips before his mood turned sour. Lady Catelyn was like to be there as well, and  she liked the way Gage filled the duck with stuffing.

“I best bathe instead.”  I’d rather enjoy my duck and summerwine in peace then feel Lady’s Stark begrudging every bite from my smoked duck. Such food is made to be enjoyed. Then he made his solitary way begun to make his way. At this point, the recruits were making their way to servant quarters while he made his way to the great keep. Walking underneath the shadow of library tower, he relished the sweet respite from the hot day.

Not as a good as a smoked duck, but enjoyable nonetheless.

Jon Snow stopped in his tracks, Bran also enjoyed smoke duck. Would there be enough duck to last. Gage is more like to make his pies than duck. If he were to make his way to his bedchambers on the private apartments of the Great Keep, fill his hot stone tub with water and wash well with soap then rushed down to the Great Hall would he make it in time? Filling the tub would take too long, much less draining the water. I would never make it. He could go to kitchens. Jon looked up to the sky. Nay, judging the time he would already be in the Great Hall. The head cook liked to receive praise, being present whenever his food was served. And father would be sure to reprehend me if I ask for the duck to be reserved.  Which leaves me no other option other than the hot pools in the Godswoods.

He turned to look towards the gates, no less than two hundred feet away.  The stone door entrance was not far from him. Yet the thought gave him pause.  He had not ventured alone to the Godswood since that day, the image of the hearts tree weeping haunted him.

Jon was not ruled by his fears. Was he?

“It was mere happenstance.” Jon Snow told himself, before he set off to the black pools. Crossing the boundaries into the ancient grove all the mutterings of the castle drowned away, leaving only the silence of his gods. He glanced towards the red face of the weirwood, and felt the hairs on his body raise. “I am not afraid.” Jon told himself as he made his way past the weeping tree. Preferring the three hot springs underneath the windows of the Guest house facing away from the white barks and its engraved faces.  Quickly disrobing his sweat drenched clothes, Jon plunged into the welcoming vapor of the hot spring.

He sighed content as his aching muscles melted away like ice into water. He was glad nobody else was here, several times his siblings and he spotted lovers making love in the Godswood before realizing they were not alone. That ass Theon said he had his firsts here. Jon felt his ears redden. It’s only the heat. He blamed.

Still he couldn’t help but wonder what it was like. Hold a girl’s hand. Was it as soft as they said it was. How about a girl’s lips? Jon shook his head. Both his delusions and trinkets of water ebbed away. If my own mother didn’t want me, then why would a girl ever want to be with me?  He brought his knees close together, hands lazily going up and over the water surface.  He would never know no other girl’s embrace aside from Arya’s. He supposed that was fine. But one day too some lordling would come and whisk her away. A voice whispered, then what? He would never hold another’s hands, and deeply staring into their eyes. Seeing his own stark grey eyes into their yellow reflection.

 This will be my lot until the last of my day. Jon Snow sighed.

Before his head shot up, yellow eyes. He seen those eyes before and in this very place. However on closer inspection, Jon came to see those eyes weren’t yellow, but the outer socket framing small beady brown eyes was color of mustard. It was a small bird, its wings the color of a pale-grey with the feather tips brown and black spot intermingled the birds and a yellow beak.

Jon stared dumbfounded. He wanted to deny it. Both the bird and the dream, yet he could not the unexplainable draw the winged creature. As if being called up. The bird came close before it scampered off ten paces, chirping angrily all the while. Jon tentatively outstretched his hands. It’s so small it can easily fit into the back of my hands. It was not a bird like those his father and Robb would take whenever they gone hawking. Jon couldn’t even tell what bird it was because he hated hawking.

A mad thought passed though him. Can I do it again?  He recalled he had been asleep, when he had switched bodies. I’ll just close my eyes and then I’ll.

He felt something push back, but he ignored it and open his eyes to see himself. My human form. Once more the rich color of the world open up. The air became scalding hot, without thinking he jumped back and with every single bounce the walls of the guest house grew larger before him. No longer feeling the heat, and blinking the steam out of his small beady eyes once more he. Jon, he reminded himself. It was frightening easy to forget who he was.

Jon looked upon his dreaming self, for it had to be a dream. Was it a fever dream? But it could not be so, Jon rarely if ever had gotten sick. His siblings had their bouts with illness, yet Jon Snow could not recall falling prey to illness, thus ruling out a fever.

A memory from the recesses of his mind, the people from the north had a word for it. Yet it was so desperately far away, it ate away at him. Like a stabbing hunger, the desire to feast on the worms which burrowed away-hunger.

Hunger, Jon Snow thought, I had wanted to eat duck. That’s why I am came here. Jon cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. He could ill afford to spent his time. Gazing upon his sleeping form, his head slumped back, with strands of brown hair matting his face.

Switching bodies, Jon merely closed his eyes and found himself in this body.  Then I’ll close my eyes and then.

He opened his eyes to find his human body still asleep.  I’ll try again. Jon Snow closed his small beady eyes and still saw the same dreaming figure.

Jon tried several more times with no avail.  Think. Think how did I return to myself? He had spent his dream flying over Winterfell, then Jon had come back to the Godswood. Then Arya.  His head bobbed up, yellow beak getting in the way of his view.

His little sister, bless her, had slapped him and Jon Snow had come to himself. Then perhaps he would need to hit his dreaming self in order to awake. With his mind made up, Jon made his way towards dreaming self, before he felt the owner of the body push back. His winged feathers singed at the hot spring’s heat.

What Jon Snow could only described as a battle of wills ensued, tugging back and forth until at last he won out as the bird relented as they stepping away further from the hot spring.

“Damned bird.” He cursed, but that only came out as a croak.

Jon tried again and again, but the damned bird would not get close the steaming pools of water. The bird would not give, stopping him from waking up.

He attempted many things such as dropping small thing such as strips of figs, little pebbles to no avail. His mark was off as the bird’s nature to avoid the steam of air, always halting the motion and the precision of his armament.

A mad thought seized him.  The blasted wretch always stops before, we approach the vents, but if I was already in motion then I should be able to wake myself.

Jon Snow took to the skies, pushing the muscles in his tiny frame to the fullest. In the skies, the waning sun coating all of his ancestral home in hues of orange and yellow. Then he stopped beating his wings, everything became still. In a single heartbeat, Jon Snow felt the earth call to him once more.

Then he began to fall. Jon passed the steam covered window panes of the Guest house, gaining speed as he crossed the red and green canopies of the Godswood, aiming himself for that mop of brown hair in a steaming pool of water.

The bird realizing its peril, pushed back but it was too late. His small body descending between the heavens and earth; and this time his aim was true.

Jon Snow awoke from his bird dream with his face hurting.  He looked down to see two hands and ten fingers. Not talons. Opening and closing his fingers to regain feeling.  Blinking his grey eyes, once more the world seemed darker than it had moments before. Looking down, Jon saw that stupid bird dazed on the rocky outcrop. Red filled his vision

“I ought to kill you.” Jon’s fingers stretched out like great talons and clasped the bird.  

Then his stomach felt a deep stab of hunger, distracting Jon Snow from his bloodlust.

“Best thank the gods, I have another bird in mind to eat.” Pointing one finger at the bird, Jon threatened “If you try this again, I swear to the old gods, I’ll drown you in this hot spring and making bird stew of your remains.” The bird for its part blinked rapidly as if in agreement.

He exhaled and relaxed his grip on the bird and set it aside. Feeling his stomach groan in protest, Jon Snow remembered his purpose and pulled himself out of the pool, quickly changed into his clothes. Nevermind the sweat. Running past the heart of Winterfell, he didn’t want to see if the heart tree was weeping but snuck a quick glance anyways. His heart fell content in seeing no red streams of sap. Pushing back the stone doors, he made his way through the courtyard. The sun dipped no less than 10 degrees than it had before.

He was late.  Jon cursed once more. Mayhaps if I am lucky, Bran is still with Old Nan. Picking up his pace, he saw several servants begin to speak with him before they stopped to make strange faces at him. His blood boiled. Confident now that your betters aren’t around to see.  He began to run faster, feeling his eyes welt up, though strangely enough his left eye started to pang. Must be the hunger. Pushing past open the oak and iron doors to Great hall, Jon was assaulted with the rich smell of spices and smoke. Various other servants sat on the lower benches, yet they made faces as they looked upon them. He brought himself not to care.

Looking forward up in the higher dais, Jon saw his lord father sitting, everlooking the part of the noble lord paramount of the north. He sat next to his auburn-haired wife, who busied babying little Rickon while talking to Sansa. His grey eyes peered down the table, seeing Robb laughing speaking with Theon. Further along was his little sister and her mangled hair. That brought a smile to Jon’s face, which quickly died when he saw Bran begin to sit down.

Making his way up the raised steps, he saw many of the plates had already been removed.  The cooked onion and the smell of fresh bread filled his nostrils, and Jon moved to sit next to Bran.

“Any duck left?” He asked as evenly as he could, feeling his fingers fraying as he surveyed the table. The turnips soaked in butter were gone, the biscuits as well. Of course, Gage’s pies would remain.  There were other dishes as well barley bread, salted cod, potted hare which did look appealing,  salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums. All fine foods to be sure, but he did not see his duck. Glancing over the plates of his family, his father, Robb, Sansa, Arya had finished. Little Rickon had his mother fussing over him, attempting to make him eat a stewed plum. I wish her good fortune, but he will not eat it. Rickon hated fruits. Then at last he looked over to Bran’s plate, to see the last remaining bits of the smoked duck on the platter.

“I told you to come earlier.” Robb called out. “If you had less than a moment delay mayhaps you would had your prize.” To his right, Jon saw Theon move to mark some snarky remark but thought better of it. If only he could, his hands would wring the life out of his neck. Bran’s deep blue eyes peers into his eyes, then he offered his plate.

“Want my duck Jon, I just finished plucking the remaining bones.” 

“No thank you, Bran.” It wouldn’t do me well to take the meal from my trueborn brothers. “I did much rather-“ Before Arya gasped. “Jon what happened to your face.”

“I don’t know your meaning, little sister. My face is still just as long as yours.” Jon tried to comfort his sister. Sansa and her friends were mocking her.

“Not that Jon, you have a mark around your face!” His little sister exclaimed. Feeling flustered as so many eyes were being drawn to him, “No, my face is the same as ever.” If he could, Jon Snow would have melted right then into the shadows never again to see the light of day.

“Jon, look at me.” His father called out.  He did so like any good son would.  Eddard Stark’s grey eyes looked at him with concern, and for her part Lady Catelyn kept her back towards him, pretending like he didn’t even exist.

“You have a black eye.” Eddard Stark said softly. “No, I don’t father.” Jon protested. Wordlessly, his father passed down his favored silver goblet. As it went down the table, he saw Robb’s blue eyes concerned, Theon’s laughing black eyes, to Arya’s wide-eyed visage, until at last it arrived into his hands. Raising the silver goblet he could see the master craftsmanship as a silver direwolf raised on the side of the cup. Reflected on that direwolf,  Jon Snow could see his stark reflection looking back.

 Brown hair, a long face, and grey eyes. A dark complexion.

 Darkest of all was a welt from his left eye.

“Oh.” Jon said dejectedly.

“It’s ok Jon,.” Bran said kindly “everyone is allowed to have bad days.”

Theon laughed and that only made the hurt worse.

Not only a bastard, but a fool as well.

Why?

He couldn’t understand. Father hates me. Jon wished to go into his room and never come out. Yet that would only subject him to more derision. He heard the men start call him by a new name, sleepy Jon Snow.  

They all hate me. Jon reflected as he wiped angrily at his eyes.

It had all begun with Arya.  He had been in the Library Tower, pretending to glossing over the histories of the stormlands when she had found him.

It was a large tome, and was said to be gifted by the King to his father. Judging by the crispness and stiffness of the pages, our King is not much a reader. Jon Snow noted.

Yet the pages were not as stiff as his bones. He stretched his limbs, wishing they were wings.

“Brother!” She had cried as she rounded the winding steps.

His own eyes, dark as hers, flickered towards her. “Shouldn’t you be practicing your needlework?”

Arya made wrinkled her nose. “No, Jeyne was feeling ill and need treatment.” Jon shot her an amused look. “And they sent you for?”

“Jeyne was nearly fell and her fever was rising, so I volunteered.”

“More like, you didn’t want to be there” Jon felt himself grin. He looked down at the glass jar in her hand, “Maester’s Luwin’s?”

She nodded. “A remedy, something to bring down the fever until he can tend to her later. Nevermind that! Jon when I passed the courtyard I heard them call you a strange name.”

Bastard or whoreson? “What did they say?” He felt his fist tighten.

“Sleepy Jon Snow!”

“Oh.” He felt the tension release. Certainly not what he expected.

“They say that you have been seen asleep more often, and I’m starting to believe its true.”

“I had poor sleep as of late.” He admitted.  A half truth. His dreams have been vivid.

.Jon Snow had also learned a great deal of things from those dreams. It wasn’t easy taming a creature, very much akin to breaking a horse. Creatures had different temperaments, some unruly and other docile which gave varying results. Failure more oft than naught.  Lastly, pain in either body would stir him back and he would wake up. Slipping back in forth proved to be challenging, but easier with more practice.

Alas he could only learn by practicing. Would one become better by either simply observing or by doing. For him, Jon Snow could not ask others if they dreamed of taking control of roaming beasts of heaven and earth.  He would only receive strange looks in turn. Which meant resting whenever possible.

“You want me to go with to Maester Luwin and ask for Milk of the poppy?” What a sweet child.

“I shall endeavor to speak with him on my own.” Jon lied, No doubt he would tell Lady Stark, and people will catch wind Lord Stark’s bastard is raving mad.  Although the maester did have the Valyrian Steel, which spoke of an understanding of magic.  Jon did not know if that meant an understanding of dreams.

But ultimately Luwin was Catelyn Stark’s creature, having come with her from the Riverlands to the North.  Jon would not share his confidence with such a person.

 She bit her lip. “Well don’t sleep too much, life is much better than dreams.”  And she turned to leave.

“Arya.” He called out. “Can I just ask for one thing?”  Her dark eyes glistened.

“Don’t….. tell….. Sansa!” They said together. Then just as swift as she came, Arya was gone.

Truly, is it? Jon thought to himself as he put away the tome. He felt like an old man. Was life better than dreams? Mayhaps, his sister spoke truth. As of late, he had been trying to capture that sensation of flight that he had been forgetting himself. His head had been so far flung in the clouds that he needed to connect with the earth.

A ride through the Wolfswood would be pleasant. Jon had become accustomed to seeing it from above that he could not remember the various pathways. But I have lessons afterwards. He became pensive. He had never missed any lesson before the time Robb and he played at-arms. But it had been so long ago. Surely it wouldn’t be a large deal to miss out one day was it?

Life is surely better than his dreams. It must be. He made up his mind and headed towards the stables, neither Hullen nor Harwin were there. Tending to the horses were young stablehands, racking hay.

He didn’t need their help, as he was well verse in preparing one’s mount. Gathering his equipment, Jon went to the pen of his favorite palfrey, a spotted mare named Snow.

“Hello girl.” He rubbed her ears affectionately, before Jon gave his second favorite girl in the world an apple. Tying her to a post, Jon found a brush and began to comb over her mane of brown and white. Jon Snow did so twice, and the mare murmured appreciatively. Checking her over for injury, he was satisfied to find none.

He always liked to begin with first the harness then the bridle. Once the harness was secured over the horse’s head, Jon unfastened the harness and adjusted for Snow’s comfort.

“Now comes the hard part.” He murmured himself. The mare didn’t like placing the bit into her mouth, she reacted by neighing and twisting her neck. “Easy now.” Placing a comforting hand, Jon felt her fear. She liked to bolt away, running across open plains. Trod over fresh grass and feel the dirt in between the groves of her hooves.

He removed his hand and the feeling was gone. Long faces looked back at each other. “Mayhaps I am not just sleepy Jon Snow, but Jon horseface as well.” He muttered to himself. Jon was then distracted by the sounds of the stables doors opening. He peered outside the pen and saw no one.

“Harwin?” He called. “Hullen?” Nobody responded. Waiting to hear a response, he heard nothing. The stablehands more likely then naught. Then he returned back to his horse. Placing a clean saddle mat then finished saddling the horse. Untying the knot and opening the pen gate, Jon Snow then mounted the mare.  Adjusting his stirrups to the way he preferred, he then set off. Just before exiting, Jon grabbed a spear tipped in iron. I did not have in mind a hunt for this journey, but it’s better to have something than nothing.

I could get lucky and find a fox. Rickon would like that. Then he set off.

As he crossed the courtyard, and turned towards the Hunter’s gate Jon heard a commotion from the Kennels. Murmurs echoed through the air, but he felt undaunted. Nothing short of his father himself would stop him from this endeavor.

Crossing the archway, Jon’s blood turned cold seeing what awaited him.

“I-” Jon Snow began, but his father called out. “Skipping your lessons?” Eddard Stark stood by the passage towards the Hunter’s gate. Flanked by Jory Cassel, Harwin, and other servants.  He was about to respond before he saw a strange look come over Lord Stark. I have never seen this look on father’s face.  His eyes were glazed over and distant, but he seemed angry.

“And a spear as well. So you wish to play at war!”

“Father I don’t understand.” Is what Jon wanted to say before he was frightened by his father’s lord face.

“Very well, then you shall play at war. Remove him from the horse.” Eddard Stark commanded with a wave of his hand, before he stormed off, not saving him another glance.

Harwin and Jory came forward, and the son of the horsemaster took the spear from his hands.

“I don’t understand.” He finally managed.

Jory lacked his usual smile. “Just do what your father says.”

Since that fateful day, his lord father tasked him with a multitude of tasks. Long gone were Robb and his morning spars, in its place at the waking hours of day Jon Snow was expected to first attend the morning drill with Father’s personal guard. Good men such as fleetfooted Jacks, burly Cayn, nimble Desmond, smiling Lew, dour Donnis under the command of Jory Cassel. All men who all served and earned distinction during the Greyjoy rebellion. Ser Rodrik once had told Robb and him that there is always someone quicker and strong, and he was the man you want to face in yard before you need to face his like upon a battle.

Jon thought he was a good sword. He dared thought he was talented, yet those morning round quickly proved he was too green. His mornings ended with him soundly beaten and bruised. Afterwards, he was permitted to break his fast then what followed after was further instruction under Ser Rodrik. Another session of training of standing in formal and battle formations, then left alone to clean all the dirty gear from his morning sessions. Once that was completed, Ser Rodrik would personally accompany him as he marched through the wolfswood or south of the white knife. His orders were plain, scout, identify, and construct defensive war encampments then make it back to winterfell just before the hours of dusk. Permitted to eat another meal, normally rationed, and last weening hours of day would be standing watch over the Winterfell’s ramps until the hour of the bat. Once he was relieved, then his day finished.

The routine would then continue onto the next day. The day which followed. Two days became three, three days became seven. Until at last two full moons had passed.

The blade of spade struck earth, and he pushed up using his entire body. “Push with your legs, my boy.” I’d like to for you to die in a ditch. Jon Snow wished to say, but it would only increase the number of potholes needed to be digged. Instead, he settled for a curt. “Aye.”   In the beginning, he was left dead on his feet but it didn’t stop his mouth. The addition fifty potholes left both his tongue and his shoulders slump under the weight of mail and boiled leather.

“The dreamer steeped in shit.” he heard Theon jape. Jon bit back his tongue, choosing to  unleashed his hate onto untrod dirt and he dug deeper. Dust flew into both his nose and mouth. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut. When Jon Snow had first begun digging his ditches, he had been rendered exhausted by the long march.  Digging left him gasping for air. My mudcakes. Jon recalled his meal of bread somewhat fondly. Tasted of earth and mineral, it was rather hard to chomp at the bits. Henceforth he learned to dig with his mouth shut, despite feeling like a dying mule at the best of times.

Preparing a field for defense encampment or even a battle, the land needed to be scoured. Taking advantage of the terrain, nearby a source of water as both resource and natural defense and ideally flat as possible. The sounds of water ran behind him, his grey eyes glanced behind longingly.

Once, when his father loved him, once he had told Robb and him the map is not the land. Jon Snow now knew that to be true. Not even a sennight, the ford crossing was further along the river yet the evening rains moved it. It had been a light drizzle, not even to leave mud in its wake.  Looking beyond his clearing, Jon saw the dark colored trees of ironwood.

 His spade stroke earth.  What  will I unearth? A dragon egg, Valyrian Steel, or the riches of the earth? Jon hefted up the soil up only to find more soil.

At last, Ser Walrus called. “Jon.” Dropping his spade without a seconds thought. Blinking out his thoughts, he turned to look at Ser Rodrik. From the top of his horse, Rodrik Cassel looked just discontent. Jon took solace at the sight. At least I’m not the only one whose miserable. “I haven’t said at ease, boy. You finished digging the latrines, but not the wedge around the camp.” Jon Snow cursed him with all his being.  “Since you have already decided you have finished earlier an additional task will bad accorded.

“Stakes, ser?” Jon liked making stakes, he could imagine hitting people instead. The wizen knight murmured to himself, stroking his long white whiskers. “Stakes, eh?” He glanced up towards the sky.

“Aye, you shall make your stakes.” Has more sweeter words ever been uttered? If Jon Snow could, he would have embraced the man right then.

“Then you shall redirect the river.” Jon’s joy fade into cinder. “Dam the stream?” Jon cried in disbelief. Ser Walrus looked at the sky, spat at the ground in distaste. “The day is yet young, I’m afraid. Yes plant the stakes, dig the wedge, and dam the gods be damned river to form a moat by way of the wedge. Whatever order you deem best, I care not. It must be done in four hours.”

“Ser. Such pace would require multiple men. As you can see plainly, I am only one.”

“Do not test my patience, Jon Snow.” The old man bit back.  “I have taught you only to bare steel when you intend to use it, save your minging tongue for simpering boys and blatherings maids. This work for real men. For your tongue, see the dam done in three. As for me, I will be foraging food for my horse.” Then off did Ser Rodrik head it off. Murmuring some curses no doubt.

As for Jon. Well, he needed to hit something. Preferably hard.

It had taking some thinking,but  he only just finished the task. Felling trees for his stakes was easy, he simply imagined it was Ser Rodrik, Jacks, Cayn , Desmond, Lew, Donnis and Jory on the other end of his long axe. On his final tree, Jon imagined it was his father. He drop his axe in shame.

Feeling too angry to carry a bladed arm, Jon dug the wedge around the makeshift camp, taking the later hour. Since the camp was chosen by the ford, the streams wasn’t terribly deep, standing at its deepest it reach his ankles. It was fortunate, he did not have to dig a new section for the river to go into, felling an ironwood tree on the other side of the crossing would created a barrier for the water flow against. However water was like to flow in one direction, so he prepared a long and narrow ditch to connect the redirected stream to his wedge.  Planting the stakes at an angle, and water flowed in his rising moat. All he could do was wait.

Washing his hands and face caked in grim in the flowing stream, he relished to cool against the flush of his face. Looking at the sun, to see it had moved only 40 degrees. With any luck, the stream will be redirected in the next twenty minutes and I will have met the time elapsed. Resting on the black ironwood. He breathed deeply, feeling his heart pounding inside his chest. I am too weary to stand, and I fear if I do I will end up like the broken tower.  So Jon just sat, watching muddy trails of tears move. He listened to the songs of birds. That was a good thing as well, if the forest is alive then it meant no large beast of prey lay lurking.  He had began to notice many things, on his marches.  The tongues of the birds, and their cadences each speaking fervish in their own way.  He alone was privy to the activities of the animals. A high singing pitch was a male bird’s desire to attract mates, a gentle hooing in far off rumbles of some distant shade meant the night brothers were awoken, or the scattering of the leaves meant the presences of a land dweller.

In the lawless realms of beast, everything has it’s place. From the maggots that dwelt beneath the muds, kings of the sky who soar beyond all others, to the squirrels who hunt for fallen acorns  and wolves who gather in numbers to feast. Living things writ large and small, can exist. Yet, in the realm of man a child is scorned for simply being born.

He felt that itch once more. He glanced below to flowing creek

He never asked for any of this. Jon knew not why he was in the woods digging trenches. He just wanted with to be his family.

The image came unbeholden. Of Arya and Sansa arguing, Bran and Rickon being doted on by their mother, and Robb seating next to Theon laughing while Eddard Stark overlooked his family. He stood at the foot of the dais. There is an empty chair there. He thought to himself. As he moved to step forward, all their faces turned into stone. His father’s face turned into ice, the same look he seen when he was on top of Snow. His mouth hard as granite, but eyes said it all. Go away, you don’t belong here.

The tears came unwanted.

He wish to dream once so he could leave this unfair world. To go to a word where he knew a hundred tongues, to escape a father who he did not seem to understand anymore.

To go to a place where he belongs.

Easy as changing a pair of boots, he closed his eyes and slipped away into the stream. He found himself ontop of a tree, but he took off into the skies heedless of the world beneath.

He should have known, only in his dreams could he find solace. Could he find the strength to preserve.

To be higher, higher than them all. He heard a faint whish behind.

They would never know this. They would never have this.

He alone was the closest to sun.  He was mighty and proud in his dream.  He heard the wind come closer.

Only the Ice Dragon, sword of the morning, and all of the constellations of night sky were of his like.

In the sky he was beholden from all. From the men’s laughs. His father’s shame, of his bastardy.

In a world where he bel-Daggers shear his sides. 

He screamed.  A great cry overpower him, and talons larger than his own found purchase in his flesh, and he fell from the stars.

Jon Snow awoke screaming.

He wanted to say something. Anything.  But no tongue, living nor dead, could express his anguish.

“Thank the Gods!” He heard a man cried. “I’d never thought you’d quit”

The castle was alone and empty. Looking beyond the inner wall, he saw the common folk moving like moths to a flame. Hearty laughter carried over the ramparts as the shadows of figures walked together. Jon Snow was filled such longing. It was his family’s companionship that he wanted.

When he had come to, Jon Snow found himself on the back of Ser Walrus’  horse. They crossed the upper bounds the White Knife. He stirred and felt his trousers damp. He could not help his shiver as gooseflesh raised on his arse.

“Finally gained your wits about you, boy?” Ser Rodrik said.

Jon was puzzled. “Gain my wits, Ser?” Rubbing his sides in an attempt to gain warmth.

The old knight half turned his wizen face, revealing his discerning eye. “Yes, your cries could be heard all the way to Moat Cailin. I thought to myself that at last your madness had passed, then I found you seated in the creak screaming like a baby torn from his mother’s teat.”

Stunned, Jon stood speechless. “Then by the Smith himself, I found the dam made. It matters little, however. This Mummer’s face  has gone on for too long.”

Despite himself, Jon felt the anger rise inside him. “Mummer’s farce, Ser?”

“You will have to ask your father.” Then the knight turned away, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

When they approached the Kingsroad, for his part Ser Walrus let him walk. Saving the little dignity he had left to muster. Sun began to set over the castle when they crossed the East Gate.  He was permitted a change in clothes and eat his meal then was expected to vigil over the castle. By then, the rage long faded leaving him only feeling drained.

Yet still, Jon Snow found himself overlooking his ancestral home. He looked towards the battlements, and between the crenels and merlons dew gathered. Under the light of day, it would melt away.

Soon, I too will like to melt away. Snows were a common sight , but not welcomed.

 Where did he belong. He had no seat of the table of his father, no place in the tombs of his ancestors.  Not even in his dreams he have a place.

 He was who he was. Was he not?

A son. A Snow, but never a stark.

A man? Yet he dreamed as a bird.

A beastling. Jon decided. Merely acting and thinking of deranged things.

He exhaled a breath, and felt it’s heat simmer away into the cold air. Well at least here I can return amongst the boundless clouds. A rueful smile twisted on his lips.  I suppose I could be like a cloud, moving wherever the winds take me. Would it if I could.

Gazing beyond into the darkness, Jon Snow was alone accompanied by the moon.

At this hour Winterfell was dark and lonely. But not darker than my dreams. At least there was off chance of greeting another sentry standing post.

From beneath him, Jon heard footsteps. Then came the fire.  Multiple torches . Standing straighter, he grasped firmly his spear. Not wishing to turn his back on this potential threat, Jon step backwards out of sight behind the carved stairway and lowered his spear. It was nigh impossible for anyone to take Winterfell unawares, but still it was better to appear alert.

“They said he was standing watch over this section, my Lord.” A voice Jon knew to be Jory Cassel.  He was here.  At long last, Lord Eddard Stark remembered his bastard.    

He rested his spear. “You called for me, my Lord?”  The fires remained in place, then out of the darkness emerged the warden of the North, tailed by Jory Cassel, Lew, and a young man.  Freshblood, by the looks of it. A recruit from his trainings with Ser Rodrik by the looks of it, the young man glanced at every shadow dancing from the firelit torch warily. Jon never cared to ask for his name.

Emerging at the top of the stairs, his father appeared dressed in a velvet blue doublet with silver buttons, fur-trimmed boots, dark woolen trousers, and the bear furs gifted to him by the GreatJon Umber.

Eddard Stark bearded countenance was foreboding. Jon knew this look. It meant his father was not looking forward to this conversation either.  ‘At least it makes the two of us.’  

  “Men, remain at ease.” Before his father’s sad eyes found his own. “Jon walk with me.” 

Jon fell into step, his father looked across the ramparts as he did. Unable to withstand the silence. Jon blurt out the question which burned at his mind.

“Father, what do you mean playing at war?” He spent two moons wondering about his father’s words meaning.

They walked for a minute in silence. Did I misspeak, should I ha-“Do you remember when I returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion.”

“Yes, my brother and I were small then.” Jon said carefully. He knew not where his father was heading.

 A fond smile crossed his father troubled face. “I can still recall, when I rode out from Hunter’s Gate at the head of the Northern Host, my boys were not even at the height of my knees.”

Despite himself, Jon Snow found his lower lip twitching upwards. “I remember you seemed like a giant. To match one of your strides, I needed to take three steps I took.”

Lord Eddard sighed. “When I had left Pyke, I had comeback so weary. I was tired of the constant travel, ordering camp to be built, organizing my men and supply lines, preparing and fearing the battles yet to come. When I had instructed for Ser Rodrik conduct field exercises for you to live a life of heroes for the stories? Tell me Jon, what was it you felt when you were digging holes, forced marching.” His father looked at him expectantly.

“I was exhausted.” “And?”

“…..I missed my family.” His father nodded in agreement, “Every night, I spent away on campaign my last hours of my day were always focused on my family. Of my two boys and what mischief they would cause in my absence. Of your little sister who clutched at the hems of her mother. And of my lady wife, who I left behind with my unborn child.”

“Arya.” His favorite little sister was born in the year of the Greyjoy Rebellion. “Every night, the guilt ate away at me for not being there. But it is what my duty demanded of me. When I had returned, crossed this very wall and stepped into the courtyard and saw my two boys, Sansa, my Lady wife with the newly born Arya did I feel at home.” 

A home it may be, but it’s not where I belong. Jon wanted to say but, he asked something instead. “But I don’t understand, I wasn’t playing at war.”

“Because some lesson can be learnt and others can be taught. I know you Jon, I know your hero has always been King Dareon. I seen you more times than naught when Robb and you played at swords, cry out I am the young dragon.” His father’s grey eyes regarded him carefully. “Every boy of the seven kingdoms once dreamed of it. But there is a difference between dreams and reality.”

Eddard Stark’s eyes pierced into his being. “Jon, your reality is that you have the blood of Starks coursing through your veins. As such you bear a stark’s duty.”

“And is this duty so unfair, that it takes away my dreams?”

“high and low, it makes no difference.  I too had dreams once, life was unfair Jon.”

“And is it so unfair that I am not aloud to dream.” Jon’s voice raised his voice at the first time. “Is it something so grave that I want to make something of myself, something more.  And I am supposed to just accept that? I look at my brothers and sisters. Robb is heir to the north. Bran and Rickon will inherit lordships. Sansa and Arya will become Lady of households, but me what do I have to look forward?

“Tell me, Lord Stark.” Jon’s voice rose. “Do you have any plans for me?” His father moved to speak, then said nothing.

Tears filled Jon’s eyes “Is life is so unfair that I am robbed of my own dreams. You said it yourself. A stark’s duty, but I am no a stark.”

“I am just Jon Snow.” His voice cracked as under the weight of his bastardy.

“You are my blood.” Eddard Stark spoke softly. “Nothing will ever overrule that.”

“But that’s what hurts the most.” Jon spoke in a low voice. “They use me against you.” At this, his father crossed the distance between them and Jon felt strong arms embrace him. He wepted silently, as his father remained firm and resolute like a King of Winter.

When Jon Snow finally stopped trembling, his father clasped him by the shoulders.

“Child, forgive me for I finally see.” Lord Eddard’s face softened. “I must have forgotten, but I was a young man too once. With hopes and fears like you.”  

“Truly?” His father nodded. “I was a second son. An spare to the heir, like Robert would say.” A smile crossed his face. “I knew naught what awaited me, moreso when your grandfather Rickard sent me to foster south in Eyrie.”

Dark eyes stared at each other. “Did you know, I was first stark child ever to be fostered south of the neck?” Jon shook his head. “In all of House Stark’s history, I have been the only one who bore the name Stark to live in the south for a period outside of war. So, I can understand your feelings of wanting to make something of yourself. To be worthy.”

His father let go of him and gazed towards the castle. “Yet none of was supposed to be mine. It was Brandon’s by right. Brandon had everything.” His voice became wistful. It is rare for father to speak of his siblings.

“And may the old gods forgive me, but I was angry at him.” Jon couldn’t believe those words. “Angry?” His father steadied himself by placing a hand on the wall.

“That he had everything yet chose to skirt his duties. Not unlike the lessons Robb and you have, so did I and Brandon. Instead, he preferred to ride out.” His father’s eyes were a storm. “Father would send me to fetch him, but Brandon didn’t care. He merely laughed, said he was preparing for war then he would ride off. I always called it playing at war.” The storm closed.

“And Brandon never lived to see a war.” The Warden of the North’s face became mournful. Jon could only hear the sounds of his beating heart and wind rustling their cloaks.

 “Yet the questions still lingers in my mind, what if my father forced my brother to attend his lessons. Would he still be alive today? Would he rule Winterfell as his right? Would he drink from the chalice that Artos the implacable drank from? Because it is was all his by right.”

Father turned to him, smiled a strange smile. It was a sad smile. “Whenever, I look at you Jon it’s akin to seeing myself as a boy in a silver-looking glass.  But as I am not Brandon, nor are you myself.” His father clasped both of his shoulders. For that I apologize. It was my mistake.”

“But is my birth a mistake?” Jon Snow asked softly

A cold fury took his father and his face became hard. “Tell Jon, where did you hear that.”

“People speak my Lord.” Jon said flatly.

“Never once again do I want such foulness coming from your mouth. Whenever we are speaking like this, from this day henceforth you shall never address me as Lord.”

Eddard’s long face remained hard, but lost the tension on his lower jaw. His voice became soft. “I am your father first, not your lord.”

“You are not a mistake, banish it forever from your mind. As for your dreams, you are young yet. Barely even a man.”

“I am a man grown.” Jon protested. His father laughed. “One day you may experience the burden of leadership, and that’s why I have prepared you. To be better than I was at your age. Because above all things, a stark of Winterfell must be ready.” 

“Because Winter is coming.” Jon said. His father nodded

“So you may keep your dreams Jon, but know you must prepare yourself for when a day of great trials come, and you must be ready to face the challenges laying in wait.”

“And I’m not?”

“Then you must do what you think best.” Even if it means there are no happy choices.” His father’s voice broke off.

Father and son embraced once more, and Jon Snow tearfully looked upon towards those starlit skies. They still seemed impossibly so far away. He dreamt high, wishing to escape his own nature, and he crashed down onto earth. He dug new roots and began to mend himself. So that one day he would regain the strength to fly once more.

How high will I reach next time?