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He was awoken when he fell from the hammock he called a bed in the hold of the ship he shared with Tyrek and Edric. The room was dark and he felt as though the world swayed beneath him. For an instant he was nine again and being thrown by red cloaks into a locked room. He felt the same sense of falling then and now—almost to the point where his groggy half-asleep mind for an instant feared that it had imagined all the years since as some dream he’d concocted in the seconds it had taken for him to be pushed to the ground. No, he couldn’t be in the Red Keep, no. He knew the wooden floor beneath him slanted with the waves, but he felt stone all the same, and he could see two red cloak men standing in the closed doorway telling him to keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him. Something banged elsewhere aboard ship and the door was shut and the figures retreating. No. He couldn’t be locked up again… not again… he’d spent nearly a year in that dark locked room, he wasn’t back there—not again.

Instinctively, Jon curled up, clutching his knees, shaking in his confusion as to where he was as the room with each moment seemed to switch between the cell and the cabin. He could hear footsteps coming, approaching nearer now. They were coming for him, he knew it. The kettle men were coming for him, and he was to die… like father had.

It wasn’t until Tyrek shook him out of it, that the disorientation seemed to pass and the cabin became the reality he acknowledged as the true one. That was the thing about Tyrek, he didn’t judge or try and laugh off the fears and confusions that came at such times. He got the same way in crowds—preferring to walk between Jon and Edric when they had to pass through one—even though he was the elder of them all at nine and ten namedays. Edric, at eight and ten, had laughed at both their fears—and yet he looked uncomfortably at fire and leaches. Once when he’d been sick at the Magister’s palace, and the healers had suggested a good leaching, he’d screamed and knocked the bowl out of the old man’s hands violently, shouting that he would not have those things near him. On the coldest of nights, Edric sat as far from the fire as he could, and avoided staring straight into it, as though some demon from the Seven Hells might appear to drag him into its hearth. Tyrek and Jon knew better than to say anything to Edric’s peculiarities afterwards, though that didn’t stop Edric from making light of theirs. Jon was the youngest of their trio of “hidden princes” as they’d come to call themselves—though they were hardly royal. The second son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn, he was only now in the 305th year after the Conquest a man grown. All his siblings had either died or disappeared in the seven years since his father’s death, leaving the claim of Winterfell to him. That’s why Varys had collected him… that’s why Varys had collected them all—like the spider he was named after—hoarding all his precious treasures in his web until it was time to enjoy them.

One thing that they had agreed upon, once returning to Westeros they’d kill Varys given the first chance they could. He’d stolen them at their weakest moments—Tyrek in the middle of a bloody smallfolk riot. Edric by pirates paid with the magister’s gold while on a ship en route to Lys, and Jon… immediately after the kettle men had tried to kill him in the cells he’d been locked in after Joffrey’s murder. He could remember their faces clearly, but not their names in the least—though he’d seen them about the court before for some reason or another.

“Go on, Stark,” urged Tyrek as they settled back in their hammocks.

“Go on about what?” asked Jon, though he knew the answer already.

“Tell me again what you want to do when you get back to Westeros,” urged Tyrek. It was an old game of theirs that they used to take their minds off whatever was troubling them.

“I want to see Riverrun and some of the places Robb fought in the Riverlands before I return North,” answered Jon. Truth be told he wanted to see where his mother, whom he had missed dearly after leaving Winterfell, had grown up, and see where Robb had spent his final days before being slain when the Bolton’s forces had turned on him in battle. He wanted to be where Robb had died and left to rot unceremoniously in an unmarked mass grave as he’d been told, with all the other Stark loyalists who had refused to bend the knee to Roose Bolton, with only a wooden sign declaring “here lies the wolves” above the earth. It would be one last way to try and say goodbye to his older brother, whom he’d tried to emulate in every conceivable way when he’d been nine namedays and foolish.

It was Tyrek’s turn to add something. This time it was something that Jon had never heard Tyrek mention before, “I have a wife back in Westeros. The Queen forced me to marry her. Told me that her lands would be the best chance at being a lord I’d ever have—a chance to spread Lannister influence into the Crownlands. The only catch was, I had to marry a suckling babe.”

Despite himself, Jon only managed to half suppress the snort that had come at that as he’d imagined the ceremony of the lanky boy that Jon remembered Tyrek being, standing next to a babe and having to kiss her to seal his marriage vows. All discomfort seemed to dissipate as he imagined the slobbery kiss.

Without Jon even looking at him, he knew Tyrek was smirking as he added, “Go ahead, laugh, but at least by now she ought to be off her wet nurse’s teat… if she lives.”

With those last words the laughter which had threatened to ease Jon’s spirits subsided as a silent gloom held the cabin.

Surprisingly Edric, who had stopped his light snoring without their noticing, chimed in groggily, “Still too young to bed, Lannister.”

And for a moment they all laughed as they swayed in their hammocks, with those ill thoughts of the dead dissipating for a moment.

The Lords of Winterfell, Storm’s End, and Casterly Rock they were—at least Varys said as much. They would appear before the Dragon Queen and be given these titles and bring peace to the unstable lands simply by virtue of their last names, without any consideration to the fact that a lot of people had died to make their claims the best ones. Wars had desolated each of their families, leaving only themselves as survivors of such a brutal war and disaster that had befallen Westeros for the last seven years. But now peace reigned in the afterglow of the defeat of the Others that had supposedly returned with their dreaded wights and ice spiders, as though they had stepped out of Old Nan’s tales. He hardly knew whether to believe them or not. Supposedly a few stragglers still roamed the North causing problems for his people. Jon half wished he’d see one before they were all returned to the legends he’d been weaned upon.

He fell asleep again, with his thoughts of wielding Ice against an Other so monstrously tall that Jon felt a dwarf in comparison. He wasn’t afraid as he swung Ice with both hands, cutting down the Other piece by piece. Fear was for the footsteps in the darkness—that was the time to be afraid.

A few hours later Jon was awoken again, this time by the urge and rough shaking of Edric, did Jon awake, and told to make ready for they were to arrive in King’s Lading before the day was out.

Jon with every year saw more of his father in the Myrish glass he looked in. Tyrek eerily reminded him of a less handsome Ser Jaime. Edric was of course the old King reborn in every feature—save for the large Florent ears which he tried to hide with his hair cut long and kept shaggy and disheveled. Edric of the three of them was the only one interested in growing a still somewhat sparse beard. Jon kept clean shaven in an attempt to avoid looking too much like father—seeing him stare back in a Myrish glass when Jon went to look was not what he wished—and Tyrek kept his hair short—unlike anything preferred by his long-haired cousins—and preferred mutton chops to any actual hair on his chin.

As he was tied into his trousers, he recalled the ferocity with which he’d been done so after months of seclusion.

He’d been escorted under heavy guard to a room where Sansa had been waiting for him. Upon seeing him she had uncharacteristically come over to him and thrown her arms about him. She had never done so at Winterfell. Truth be told Jon had thought less kindly of Sansa with the way she had treated Arya, their sister. She was just as much father’s daughter as Sansa—of age with Robb—but Sansa always turned her nose up at his favorite sister and her boyish ways. Jon hadn’t cared if Arya was boyish or not. She liked to ride and climb trees, and all the other important things he’d cared about at Winterfell. She even practiced swords with him with a stick in the godswood before he began lessons with Ser Rodrik. But Sansa had looked at Arya and echoed whatever sentiment that Mother held. He’d been too young to realize then that mother’s attitude had simply been adopted unquestioningly by Sansa, and too enamored of his mother to blame her for how Arya was treated, but now, years later he regretted how he’d let that poison the well with his sisters. No more had that been apparent than with how he’d received Sansa’s warm display of affection with confusion than eagerness. Sansa had been hurt by that—he’d seen it in her eyes as she’d pulled away, but she did her best to pretend otherwise in front of the guards who watched and listened.

“Gods, Jon, I’ve missed you so,” she had said as she pulled away from him. She stared at him for a moment oddly before wiping her eye and asking in a rather oddly happy voice, “The Queen tells me that you’ve been well taken care of… and that you can be Lord of Winterfell.”

Looking back he could see how his sister had been trying to do everything she could to ensure his survival.

“Is Robb dead?” asked the stupid boy he’d been.

“Our brother is a traitor to our… beloved King Joffrey. That makes you Lord Stark with father… dead,” she said rather affectedly.

He’d been too young to comprehend what she was trying to tell him and so had spat, “But Joffrey killed father!”

“Father was a traitor, but you’re not, Jon.”

He snapped, “Father wasn’t a traitor!”

“Yes he was. Father was a traitor who deserved to die, and we have traitor’s blood, but we are loyal, loyal to our beloved Prince Joffrey!” she insisted as she grabbed him and pulled him close to her. He squirmed and tried to get out of her grasp, but she held on tight and whispered in his ear, “You have to say it Jon. Say it or they’ll take your head too,” she’d whispered in his ear.

But Jon had been too angry with her to truly listen to what she was saying.

“Joffrey is a murderer! You’re a blood traitor for saying anything else! And one day I’m going to kill him like he killed father!” he had shouted petulantly.

The Hound, who along with a knight with a black kettle, had grabbed him by the arms then to take him from the room. In protest he’d kicked the Hound hard in the shin. The Kettle knight however had taken the advantage to knock the wind out of him with a well-placed punch to the gut.

“Stop! Please, he’s just a little boy! He doesn’t know what he’s saying!” pleaded Sansa, who had jumped up to try and reach for him, only to be held back by one of the handmaids.

With a grunt the Hound gave the kettle knight a shove and then pushed Jon towards the door. Jon gave no argument, at the time he’d wanted little to do with his sister, and the idea of returning to the room he’d called home was far more attractive than staying a moment longer with his blood traitor sister. “Time’s up, little bird. Come wolf pup, back to your cage before you actually bite someone.”

He was returned to the room but shortly thereafter the kettle knight returned with another kettle knight who then dragged him down to the first level of cells and threw him inside it.

“Jon, are you all right?” asked Tyrek, pulling him back from the memory. The older Lannister had always taken a brotherly interest in him, like Robb had. It had been hard to accept Tyrek’s interest until he’d realized just how much like Tommen Tyrek was like, and then Jon had hated himself for thinking ill of the older boy.

“Aye,” answered Jon with a nod.

“He was likely thinking of what that wench looks like without her clothes on!” snorted Edric

“I’m not you, Edric,” groaned Jon but with a slight grin.

“True, if I was thinking of a wench without her clothes on, I’d still be able to do half a dozen other things as well. Play Cyvasse—and win. Read a dry history on the Gschari Empire, or translate High Valyrian into Common and back again. Unlike you I can multitask,” teased Edric playfully as he bragged. Edric was one of those rare boys who was multitalented. Not just in physical training, but he was gifted with an intelligence that he often was too bored to employ, unless it was to show off.

“Only because you have lots of practice thinking about girls but not much more,” returned Jon with a roll of his eyes.

“Careful Stark, or you might just get your fine white doublet a little roughed up and dirty. Don’t want that for the Dragon Queen, now do we?” asked Edric with a playful shove.

“Dragon Queen this… Dragon Queen that. We’ve heard so much about this here Dragon Queen and yet that’s all we call her,” added Tyrek with that same kind of authority to his voice that Robb used to use when Jon and Bran used to start teasing or pushing each other for no good reason other than they were bored.

“She’s a Queen and she has dragons, what’s so hard to understand about that?” proffered Jon.

“She has a name, which we’ll get in trouble if we don’t use,” countered Tyrek.

“Truth be told, I’m not exactly looking forward to getting to know her grace, Danaerys Targaryen,” admitted Edric.

“I would think the reverse just as true, you being the bastard son of the Usurper,” answered Tyrek.

All good humor left Edric in that moment as a scowl stretched across his face.

“And what about you, the old squire to the Usurper?” lashed out Edric as he sat down with a huff.

“Well, that’s an improvement,” snorted Tyrek.

“What’s an improvement?” retorted Edric.

“I think he means that you didn’t throw a punch or shout,” guessed Jon, remembering how Edric used to react whenever someone reminded him he was a bastard son of the king. Tyrek nodded with a sigh.

Tyrek spoke plainly, “Think for a minute on something besides the girls you wish to fuck. You’re going to hear that and worse from the Queen’s own lips, Edric. You need to steel yourself to whatever she says and meet it with a smile, or gods help me, I’ll punch some sense into that head of yours myself.”

“I hear you,” grumbled Edric as he crossed his arms.

Tyrek insisted, “You hear me, but you’re not listening. I’m serious! I don’t want to have to see your head on a fucking pike just because you got pissy about what she called you. You’re the bastard son.”

“I’m not a complete bloody idiot, Tyrek!” protested Edric.

“I know that—but you have to admit that you don’t always act like it, and that’s all that’ll matter with the Queen.”

Edric huffed and leaned back in his chair.

Tyrek then turned to Jon and added, “You have to be careful too. I’m sure she’ll have choice words on what to say about your own father.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gotten used to hearing my father called a traitor to my face,” answered Jon bitterly.

“It’s the world we live in now, but it doesn’t have to always be that way,” said Tyrek with a sigh.

Jon answered sadly, “Your cousin told that to me, once.”

After Stannis had been beaten back into the burning Blackwater Bay, Jon had been fetched from his cell, dressed in proper attire befitting an heir to Winterfell, and undergone a thorough cleaning and scrubbing before finding himself presented before Lord Tywin Lannister. The bald old man had a stare which sent a chill down Jon’s spine, but he held his ground and met the man’s green-eyed stare with his own grey eyes. Truth be told, Lord Tywin’s eyes weren’t just green, they had little flecks of gold to them as well. Whether this upset Lord Tywin or not, his face showed no emotion. Instead he turned his attention back to the letter he had been in the middle of writing when Jon had been unceremoniously dropped in his lap by the guards.

Lord Tywin began by speaking as he wrote, saying, “Lord Jon, you are now my fosterling. My son’s inefficacy concerning your accommodations has been ignored long enough. With Lord Stannis fled, you are to resume your previous quarters under my personal protection and guard. Until you are of age, I will provide for your education and training. I will arrange a suitable betrothal befitting the Lord of Winterfell, and you will marry her before the year is out. If you refuse the King’s bountiful mercy, your sister can easily replace you, and you shall be returned to your cell to rot. Is all this understood?”

“My brother—” Jon began.

Lord Tywin wasted no time interrupting, “Is a traitor, as is your mother. They will be dealt with accordingly—and if you cooperate you might just receive their bones for burial afterwards. Since they are traitors however, you and your sister became wards of the crown upon the death of your father. I have relieved the crown of half its burden by taking you as my own ward. What is difficult to understand about all that?”

Sensing his intelligence was being called into question, Jon answered simply, “Nothing.”

“Good. An intelligent Stark, well there’s a first for everything,” answered Lord Tywin as he scribbled down a few words. Jon wanted to shout and kick or spit at Lord Tywin, but then he’d remembered the last time he had, he’d been locked down in those cells again, and he didn’t want to go back down there again. And besides… he could try and escape from his previous compartments much easier. All he had to do was wait for the right time. For a brief moment he thought of escaping with his sister—but then he remembered how she had betrayed them. And yet she was one of the pack still. Father had told him that the lone wolf would die alone… and even if she had betrayed them, she was his sister. He couldn’t just leave her.

“And what will become of Sansa?” asked Jon when the sound of scribbling had filled the silence between them for what felt like an eternity.

“Your sister’s betrothal to the King is at an end, and she will remain a ward to the crown to be married at… his grace’s discretion. If there is nothing else, a guard will see you to your lessons.”

And like that Jon was dismissed from the presence of his warder. To his surprise, he’d been delivered to lessons with Tommen, who was happy to see Jon. Tommen had taken to Jon and Bran rather easily at Winterfell, the three of them getting into a bit of mischief until Bran’s fall from the tower. On their journey south Tommen had tried to continue the relationship, but Jon had been so glum until news of Bran’s recovery had reached him, that he’d brushed Tommen off until reaching the capital. They had taken to sparring in the practice yard often as they’d had lessons together from the same sword master. Father seemed keen on his friendship with Tommen, as though it meant something important to him, and Jon, eager to please father, had been willing enough to befriend the younger Prince if it meant that he had less to deal with the elder. Tommen had even begun to lose some weight doing so, for having a sparring partner seemed to push him to be better and practice more. He was still thick about the gut, but much less so than he had been. Upon becoming Lord Tywin’s ward, Jon was expected to return to this friendship—only now for the benefit of Lord Tywin.

Tommen, was happy to see him and proudly proclaiming, “I’ve gotten better at the quintain since last you rode!”

He spoke to Jon as if little or no time had passed, as if Jon’s father were still Hand to the King, and Jon hadn’t been kept in the cells, and that had made Jon angry.

“Who cares about stupid quintains? That’s not like real jousting!”

“Why are you being mean?” questioned a confused Tommen.

“Oh go away!” barked Jon. He didn’t want to see Tommen or his stupid plump happy smile.

Tommen was close to tears when saying, “I… thought you were my friend. It doesn’t always have to be this way.”

For some reason, seeing the chubby blond boy begin to cry niggled at the back of his mind, but his anger still remained—though lessened—and he tried to justify it to both himself and Tommen by saying, “Do friends lock their friends away?” It sounded pathetic—even to his own ears, but most especially in hindsight. Tommen had cried then, and gone silent and sullen when prompted to practice again—this time with a vigor that Jon had not seen in him. Thinking back, Jon wondered if that had been the moment that sweet Tommen had died, and the “Little Lion” had been born—as he would be called. If so, Jon utterly regretted the affect his words had on the rest of the kingdom after Joffrey had died and Tommen ascended to the throne. Their friendship never recovered from that, and all future practices had featured Jon and Tommen fighting one another in silence and grunts.

In any case, Jon had not been surprised when he’d been returned to Lord Tywin after the first lesson had finished. Lord Tywin was still writing letters, an activity he always seemed to be doing, by Jon’s estimation.

After Jon had been made to sit there silently for what felt like an hour as dinner was brought to Lord Tywin, he finally spoke when the servants had finished their task and left the room, saying, “I am told you upset the Prince in the practice yard this afternoon.”

“Aye,” said Jon, as he felt denying it was a useless waste of time.

“And that you denied friendship.”

“Aye.” Jon had answered a bit more cautiously, unsure of what Lord Tywin wanted.

Lord Tywin however was brisk in his reply saying, “Good. Eat what you like, if you’re hungry.”

Jon, unsure if this was some sort of test, sat still.

The Old Lion scowled, “I said eat, boy. As my ward I expect you to maintain a healthy weight to give the Prince a suitable challenge in the yard and properly represent me and my care.”

Jon at that had hopped off the chair he’d been plopped in and scurried over to the table where the pies and roasted grouse had been laid out in preparation for Lord Tywin.

As Jon had reached out to fill his pewter plate with a small meat pie, Lord Tywin continued, “I do not need to remind you, boy, but as the son of a traitor it’s only right that you will not be friends with the Prince. He shouldn’t be seen to be too friendly with you, and neither you, he.”

Jon had dropped his empty plate in the middle of his reach at hearing that.

“Clumsy, are we?”

Jon rebounded, “My father wasn’t—”

Lord Tywin once again cut him off, “Was a traitor. I thought we’d been through this already with your brother and your mother? You’re the son of traitors, brother to traitors, you have traitor’s blood, and for the rest of your life you will be watched for any sign of its expression. And should it give even the slightest hint of manifestation, you will be executed. Never forget that.”

Tywin’s glare had been intense, the gold flecks melting into the green as he’d met Jon’s eyes. Jon, mesmerized for some unexplained reason, could only nod.

“Good. Now, while you might not be friendly with the Prince, you are to continue your lessons with him and show him all the due respect of his position that you formerly did not display. Go on, pick up your plate and eat, I can’t have you looking half starved for the wedding.”

“Wedding?” asked Jon.

“Yes. Your sister is to be married to my son Tyrion in a fortnight. After which he and a few loyal red cloaks shall retire to Winterfell to rule in your stead. You will look your best, and be there to give your sister away as the Lord of Winterfell should do.”

But Jon wasn’t to give Sansa away at all. When the time had come and he’d been forced to the task, King Joffrey had pushed him aside with a hand and insisted on doing the job himself, saying that it would be suitable for “a traitor’s son” to carry his sister’s train. Jon had wanted to do something then, punch, kick, scream, anything. But then he remembered the Kettle knights who had come to visit him each time after Lord Tywin had spoken with him, and punished him for disobeying him, and so Jon held his tongue. He would have his revenge one day, when he was old enough and strong enough to have it—he promised himself.

But his opportunity was taken from him. At Joffrey’s own wedding he’d choked to death and turned as purple as a plumb. At that moment Jon had been scooped up by the Kettle knights and dragged back to the dark dungeon. He heard nothing of what was going on outside of his cell for days. Water and food were not delivered to him, and he’d begun to feel pains in his stomach by the time he thought of eating his clothes. Surely his clothes might stop his stomach from grumbling, but by then he was too weak to even take a bite into his leather boots. It was so dark in the black cells he hardly knew if it was day or if he was dreaming. Time suddenly had no meaning, and Jon lost himself in its irrelevance. Mother, Father, and Robb all paraded before his eyes in the black cells, haunting him as he laid there, increasingly covered in his own mud and excrement. Light broke in his dark world suddenly and without warning when a fat man wearing a hood appeared in it and told him to come with him.

“Come on, the city awaits,” urged Edric, who was eager to leave the ship hold and be aboard dry land once again.

Coming to shore was a welcome experience, but Jon was not happy to have returned to King’s Landing—which seemed distorted and half melted in places. An unsullied guard escorted them through the tent city that clung to the walls of King’s Landing like cobwebs to a corner. They were given horses at the Mud Gate and rode the rest of the way through the horrid stench of the city and up Aegon’s Hill and into the Red Keep. From there they were told to dismount as they were greeted by Varys, who looked far thinner and jittery since Jon had last seen him. His robes were loose and too big for his frame, and at the hem seemed torn and worn thin to the point of fraying.

Varys gave a little laugh and then said, “There you are, my boys. Come, her grace is eager to meet you all.”

Despite his protestations, it appeared Varys did not know her grace that well, for when they arrived in the throne room, a small girl with dark skin and hair sat on a bench at the foot of the Iron Throne, while the Throne stood empty. The room looked far more distressed and bare than he had ever seen it.

“Missandei… where is her grace?” quivered Varys as he entered.

The small girl spoke up saying, “She has left the city to deal with matters in the North.”

Despite himself, Jon couldn’t help but ask, “What matters in the North?”

The girl, or was she just a small woman, responded, “Matters not of your concern.”

The three of them were shunted out of the room by the Unsullied and afforded a small room to share with one another as Varys stayed to plead with the child hand left behind. The beds were stuffed with straw and hard, but at this point none of the boys felt they had much reason to complain. And so Jon drifted off to sleep and dream. It was an old and familiar dream, one which he recognized as such while dreaming, but it was his only comforting dream he had so he did not care that it was a dream as he wanted it to never end.

He didn’t care that it was all a dream, at least it was Winterfell. Here he could fight and climb trees with Bran and not dwell on how his brother had fallen and become crippled and was later murdered. Here he could tail after Robb and Benfred Tallhart as they snuck out of Winterfell with Theon. Here he could ride with Arya, his older half-sister, as she galloped through the wolf’s wood as though she and the horse were one. Here he could surprise Rickon with his wolf, and get in snow fights with Sansa when she tried pretending she was too much a lady. Father was a silent but smiling presence always lingering in the background, a figure to look up to and follow and yet out of reach, and Mother was here, ready to calm him when he was frightened or hurt. Here was home, his pack.

“Keep your shield up, Bran!” barked Robb from across the courtyard where he and Benfred Tallhart were leaning against the outer fence of the practice yard, resting between fights.

Bran as he always had a bad habit of doing, swung his wooden sword with so much force he compensated by dropping his shield being held by his other arm. He had yet to learn to keep it up and in place, and this time Jon was going to let him know not to do that in a way that stuck. And so with a thwack Jon swung and clipped his little brother on his shoulder, causing Bran to drop his shield, and whimper in pain.

“Jon!” called mother from the bridge that crossed the courtyard between the maester’s tower and the Great Keep.

Without pausing to defend himself, Jon came over to Bran and asked if he was all right.

“It stung, but it’s going away,” assured Bran sullenly.

“Listen to Robb, and then I won’t be able to hit you there,” Jon added, and Bran rather seriously nodded his head and picked up his shield and readied his stance.

Jon won the next match as well, but Bran this time kept his shield up. When they were through fighting Robb and Benfred chased them to the edge of the yard where Mother stood waiting, her Tully blue eyes locked upon him and him alone, causing Jon to slow his pace as he approached.

“You’re improving Bran,” commented their mother as Bran reached her. She ruffled his hair and asked him if his shoulder still hurt to which Bran shook his head.

“Good,” said mother as Jon finally reached them and her eyes returned to Jon. She sighed and asked, “I understand why you hit him. But did it have to be so rough?”

Bran who was embarrassed, turned nearly as red as his hair and took a few steps to the side.

“Better he learns now with a bruise than gets worse later,” Jon pointed out practically.

“Aye,” mother conceded, before bending down to Jon’s eye level to say, “I’m not asking you not to help make Robb’s point for him, but you don’t have to hit your little brother so hard to do it, all right?”

Jon nodded, though he didn’t think he’d hit Bran that hard.

“Oh, don’t fret so, my little wolf pup,” clucked mother as she moved and took him in her grasp, kissed his head, and hugged him.

Elsewhere in the practice yard, Jon could hear someone sniggering. It was likely Robb and Benfred. They always liked to tease him about how he was “mother’s little pup” given how affectionate Mother was towards him. Sometimes as a boy Jon had wondered why Mother showered him with so much open affection—now he knew the answer when he looked in a Myrish glass. “Mother,” he whined as he half-heartedly attempted to pull out of her grasp, though he really wanted to continue to hold and be held. He’d cried for weeks when he’d heard she’d been killed—throat slit and tossed into a river they said. But here, now in his dream memories she was whole and happy again.

“Embarrassed to be held by your mother in public?” she sighed and let go, saying “Run along then.”

Jon didn’t really want to let go, but he always did in the dream to run after Bran as he ran into the godswood. Somehow, every time, Bran managed to disappear between the gate and the trees—climbing quickly up into the branches and disappearing from view, leaving Jon alone and suddenly cold in the godswood. He’d turn around and find the gate far from where he stood, and the darkness of the trees blocking out the sun, except in pockets. The wind grew ever stronger and more chill, the branches groaning as they swayed in the wind.

“Bran!” he’d call out, only for silence to respond.

And then within the dream came a memory.

“Get your hands off of me, Greyjoy!” yelled a voice.

Arya. He thought and he ran to where he’d heard her call. And like it had been the first time, Jon found himself hiding behind a tree as he saw Theon Greyjoy holding his older sister in his grasp, his hands wandering over her chest, as she fought to get out of it. On some level he knew Theon hadn’t been that horrible in life, but word of the squid having captured Winterfell and burned Bran and Rickon had colored him darker in his mind, and puberty had cast the squid’s actions in a far different light as far as Jon was concerned—and so the memory had shifted, no longer reflecting what had been, but what Jon thought to be true.

“You’d be lucky to have me, you know? Anywhere else, girls would beg to have a son of Balon Greyjoy half as interested in a Snow like you,” Theon spat.

Arya, like she had done in life had elbowed him in his gut and taken advantage of the shock to break away.

“Touch me again, and I’ll make you less of a man!” growled Arya as she pulled out the knife Jon had always wondered why she kept at her hip.

Theon backed away and sneered, “If you’re not so keen for attention, Snow, then why run around in breeches, shirt, and a jerkin? If you want to be left alone like a lady, then dress like one!”

Arya swiped at Theon, causing the young man to jump back, lose his balance, stumble and fall backwards. Doing so he hit his head on an exposed root.

“Ow!” cried Greyjoy in reaction before glaring at Arya and saying as he rubbed the side of his head, “That fucking hurt!”

Arya stood there, her knife out and a smirk on her face. Feeling compelled to do something Jon ran out from his hiding spot and place himself between Theon and Arya—surprising them both.

“Leave my sister alone!” he’d demanded, both in life and the dream.

Suddenly the confused glare dissipated from Greyjoy’s face as he broke into laughter. Jon had been confused then, but not now. He saw the Kraken laugh and suddenly in the trees hung Bran and Rickon… burning. The laughing turning almost maniacal then and all Jon could do was tackle Theon and begin to punch. This one to his jaw was for Rickon—that one to his nose for Bran… and the eyes the eyes were for Arya! This time he would make him pay! He would make him pay! Again and again until his eyes turned to jelly!

“Jon…” said Arya, a hand being placed on his shoulder, and Jon turned to see Arya standing there, her clothes turned into a white dress stained with blood. They no longer were in the godswood, but on the moor somewhere further North of Winterfell. Arya’s hair was no longer in the braid she usually kept it in, but now whipped around her in the strong winds. Jon looked down to find Theon gone, and him kneeling over nothing. This was something new… very new.

Arya spoke, but when she did it sounded with a thousand voices and one, “Let the past go. It is done and gone.”

“Arya?” He asked, confused at how she’d suddenly sounded so wise.

“Right here, little brother!” called Arya again, and Jon turned and saw her standing as she had a moment ago in breeches, boots, a shirt and a jerkin.

“That Winterfell won’t be there for you, she won’t be there—” said the Arya in the bloody dress, her voices rising in the urgency as though they crowded around him—pressing at all sides.

“Be quiet!” shouted Jon and suddenly he was home again, in Winterfell. But it was different. The snows had fallen, blanketing the entire castle unlike he had ever seen it with deep trenches wherever he walked. And he was alone—no matter who he called out to, he was alone. There were signs that people had been there just a moment ago—a fire that still roared in the rooms. A freshly lit candle placed down upon a table. A pipe still smoking from recent use. Jon didn’t like this dream—Winterfell was both cold and dark—but also burnt and decorated with only the suggestions of life. The First Keep was in ruins. The Maester’s tower empty, but the ink upon the scroll wasn’t yet dry. Everywhere it seemed as though ghosts lingered, just out of sight, and yet interacting all the same. And then he heard the gate to the godswood groan and rattle in the wind. Jon hurried to it to try and close it, there finding Arya again standing in her white dress—dagger in hand and her knife bloody. She seemed to be standing over someone, an old man by the looks of his white hair. She had laid the person out before the Weirwood tree, the blood from the body seeping down into the roots.

“How could you! They were my brothers… my brothers!” cried Arya, falling to her knees and crying. Jon wanted to run to Arya and hug and comfort her… but she dissipated into the air like a fog the moment he touched her. Confused and sad, Jon looked about to see if she might return, but she did not, and the pile of bodies at the roots of the weirwood were piled high. He saw father, mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, and Sansa. All dead by some means or other, and Jon there alone. Alone like in a dungeon... in his cell! And he was once again out of the godswood and back in the black cells, listening for footsteps and waiting for blows from kettle knights.

He awoke with a start, his furs upon the floor and Edric snoring from his corner of the room. Tyrek was sitting in his bed, awake, somehow unable to sleep. Things would be better when he was back in Winterfell. They had to be.

The next day they were summoned again to the Throne room, this time they would be meeting with the Dragon Queen they were told—this Jon found hard to believe since the day previously the Queen had been in the North, but then, he thought, mayhaps a flight on a dragon might shorten that trip for her. The three young men entered the throne Room with very little pomp. At this point, any undue dignity was stripped away from them, at least Jon thought that. The Queen herself was pale and silver-haired. The gigantic throne dwarfing her small size, and yet she sat atop the Iron Throne as though she had been born to perch from its seat. It was hard to read her face from where she sat upon high, but Jon imagined an eyebrow lifted as Varys prostrated himself at the foot of the Iron Throne while Tyrek, Edric and himself had simply bent the knee.

The Dragon Queen was the first to speak after Varys had laid prostrate upon the floor for what felt like several minutes. “You said you brought gifts for me, Varys? All I see are boys—these boys better not be more hidden nephews of mine—though I find it convenient that there’s at least one for each of my children this time.”

“N—no your grace. These boys are… well, these boys shall help you bring order and stability to the Seven Kingdoms. I have with me, Lord Stark, Lord Lannister, and should you choose to legitimize him, Lord Baratheon. All to do with as you choose, your grace,” said Varys without hardly standing up as he did so.

“And who’s to say that these boys truly are who you say they are?”

“The likenesses alone—”

“The face proves nothing. Why, a Targaryen may look as dark as a Stark, Martell, or Blackwood, given my family’s tree. All it proves is that you at least gathered a Storm, a Hill, and a Snow to parade before me, wasting my time while their Western, Stormlords and Wildlings plot. Do not waste my time, Varys, or else you will find yourself short a second head.”

Lord Varys clutched at his neck, his hands shaking and lip trembling until the moment that Edric spoke up.

“Oh give the Eunuch some peace, he brought you two trueborns at the very least.”

The Dragon Queen was silent for a moment before responding, “Well, one of the boys speaks. I’m glad, for a moment I almost thought he’d brought me some of his tongueless waifs all washed and dressed nicely for my inspection. Tell me, boy, what do you think I should do with a man whose support first went to a nephew of questionable origin before myself and my children?”

“I’d say he honored what he thought the proper succession. After all, women were considered the very last in Targaryen succession after the Dance of the Dragons.” Edric was knowledgeable when he chose to show it.

The Queen laughed then, but whether it was at Edric’s statement or not, Jon did not wish to guess.

She gathered control of her emotions rather expertly the next moment, and said, “Well, that is something I’m clearly going to have to address. And what would you say I do with him? Or mayhaps your companions may have some idea since you avoided answering my question? How would you three judge a situation such as this, as lords?”

Varys looked nervously at the three of them, and Edric met his gaze with a defiant look. Tyrek and Jon shared a brief look before grabbing Edric and discussing quietly among themselves.

“I like her, she’s leaving his fate up to us,” admitted Edric.

“It’s a test,” growled Tyrek.

Edric spat back, “Of course it’s a bloody test that was obvious with the last question, Ty.”

“What is the answer?” reminded Jon.

“Isn’t it obvious? Strip him of his wealth, his land, his family name, and any titles he may have and leave him only his life. That’s what the law would decree… hell, that’s what Stannis would’ve done,” said Edric.

Tyrek corrected, “Except Varys doesn’t have any wealth, land, family name, or titles. He was only ever called Lord as a honor to his position on the small council.”

“Then what do you suggest?” asked Edric.

Tyrek reminded Jon of his uncle as he uttered his response, “Banishment. It’s what the Targaryens of old did to the Blackfyre supporters.”

“Like that would work—he has more friends in Essos than he does in Westeros!” retorted Edric.

Both Edric and Tyrek were too busy arguing to think things through properly. This was a test of them, aye, but squabbling over the exact letter of the law Jon did not seem to be what was being tested. After all, what did it matter what Stannis or the Targaryens of old would have done? Did either sit the Iron Throne? No. That was the real test—how well did they know the Dragon Queen? She who had conquered Slaver’s Bay and brought an end to the Second Long Night. Jon looked up at the Dragon Queen who continued to sit perched upon the Iron Throne, and then back at Varys, who seemed to have finally given in to despondency. Or mayhaps he was wrong… it wasn’t how well they knew the Queen, but themselves.

Jon then approached the quivering mess that was Varys and said loud enough for the Queen to hear, “I was as good as marked for death until you took me from the Black Cells, Lord Varys. You spirited me from the city at great risk to yourself for reasons that I know were entirely in your gain, and yet you still saw I was safe, well-educated, and trained like any lordling might. I owe you my life and give you yours in exchange for it. I wish you well, whatever you make of your life from here.”

“T—thank you...”

There was nothing else to be said so Jon nodded his head to Varys who stood there shocked, but his lips curving into a small smile.

Jon then turned to the Iron Throne and walked to the foot of it and bent the knee.

He declared loudly, “Like my ancestor before me, I kneel to the Dragon, awaiting whatever fate you decide should befall me.”

“Jon!” called out a voice half broke with emotion that he hadn’t thought to hear again in this life.

Jon lifted his head and turned to see her standing there. His sister, Arya, having come out from behind a column it looked. She was dressed unlike Jon had ever seen her dress: in black breeches, with a red shirt underneath and a white jerkin, upon which the sigils of House Stark and House Targaryen were joined combatant. That was as good a look as any he could get of his sister as he stood and was nearly tackled by her embrace of him.

“Gods… when did you get so tall?” she asked, now the shorter one.

“You’re alive? You’re really alive…” he whispered, half stunned and half mesmerized.

“Niece, I believe you know Lord Stark, from your childhood together. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d care for an introduction,” called the Dragon Queen from atop the Iron Throne, now standing and beginning to descend the steps.

“Niece?” questioned Tyrek and Edric almost in unison. Jon himself had to admit he was somewhat confused by the declaration. Varys however, Jon couldn’t fail to notice was not surprised by this turn of events, though he had withdrawn a bit—most likely to slink back into the shadows.

The Dragon Queen continued as she came to the foot of the steps. “Visenya is my brother Rhaegar’s daughter by the Lady Lyanna, of whom I am told she bears a striking resemblance.”

Arya whispered in his ear then, “I don’t care who my parents were, you’ll always be my little brother.”

Arya then broke the hug and turned towards the descending Dragon Queen, “And for the last time, Aunt, my name is Arya!”

“We agreed that in King’s Landing and officially you’d be addressed as Visenya. What you call yourself outside of here is entirely your own business.”

Jon looked between the Dragon Queen and Arya and was surprised to see an easy level of familiarity between them. As Queen Daenerys at last came to the ground level, Jon was surprised by how short she was—and he was no giant himself compared to Edric. Daenerys regarded him with a slight smirk before turning her attention to the flabbergasted Tyrek and Edric. Upon her eyes falling on them Tyrek took to the knee, followed quickly thereafter by Edric.

“Lord Lannister, I believe you’ll find your wife is anxious to at last meet her husband. She awaits in that antechamber,” stated the Queen, to which Tyrek nodded his head, rose, and departed hesitantly in the direction that the Queen had directed him.

Queen Daenerys’ eyes locked on Edric firmly as she stated, “As for you, Edric Storm, I could solve the problem I’ve been having with rather unruly Stormlords who are too busy bickering and smashing each other’s heads in over who has the most right to sit in Storm’s End without legitimizing you… or I could declare you a trueborn son of Robert Baratheon and simply have you executed to prevent another challenge to my descendants. Which would you choose?”

“There’s another answer, your grace, though I’m not sure you’ll like it,” answered Edric.

With a smirk the Queen replied, “If it involves a Septon, I fear I must inform you that I’ve already been wed twice before.”

“So you have a little experience, never a bad thing for anyone to have—it might make the bedding better. But I will say, that if we married, it would forever solve that little problem… and then you can incorporate the Stormlands as part of the Crownlands like in the days of old when there was a Storm King.”

Daenerys frowned, “If you think I will make you King, you are rather sorely mistaken. No, I will wed you as you are, Edric Storm, but you shall be my consort and husband, not my lord and sovereign. Is that understood?”

With a smirk, Edric answered as he once again took to the knee, this time keeping his eyes locked on the Queen as he said, “Perfectly, your grace.”

The Queen then turned to an Unsullied and spoke in a guttural Ghiscari, and Edric was escorted from the room.

“Hopefully you’ll smell better when we next meet, Edric,” teased the Queen as he departed the throne room.

The Queen then turned to Varys and said flatly, “You may go, Varys. Where you go, I care not, but you may not stay here. For your leal service to my house, if not myself, I give you your life and wish you good fortune in your life to come.”

Varys nervously nodded, bowed low, kissed the hem of her dress, and departed profusely exclaiming his thanks.

The Queen nodded and then turned back to Jon and Arya, who had watched all silently.

“I am afraid you present something of a problem for me, Lord Stark, for you see, I have already given the paramountcy pro tempum of the Riverlands to Lord Olyvar Frey of the Twins who is raising your cousin, Lord Brynden for the position when he comes of age.”

“And what of Winterfell? Does it still stand?” asked Jon, looking as much to Arya as to Daenerys. Arya now looked elsewhere than at him.

“Visenya is Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and that is something I will not recind. She has earned the respect of the Wildlings and Northerners through the many battles we’ve fought against the North. Truth be told, I’d be worried that the Northerners and Wildlings might not try something stupid as declare another King in the North were Arya not alive.”

He said automatically, “Of course… Arya should have it.” Believing it as he said it.

“As I said, her not being Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North wasn’t up for discussion. But that leaves the problem you present still intact… or rather the problem of your descendants. The last thing the North or Westeros needs is another Stark declaring themselves King in the North again, and though it might not be your children or even your grandchildren, say your descendants should have a falling out and get the foggy notion that they are the rightful wolf to be alpha of the pack. It is a mess of inheritance laws and warfare I wish to avoid for Westeros… but there is another way to solve inheritance disputes.”

Jon’s eyes widened as his thoughts at long last caught up with the Dragon Queen.

“Come now, it isn’t like you’re actually wedding your sister,” retorted the Queen with a smirk that almost seemed cruel to Jon.