On the night of Jon's birth, a fierce storm blew in from the far north, but the thick, dark clouds continued to gather behind the snow-capped peaks of the Red Mountains. Outside the stone hut the night was gloomy, still and cool. The bright stars of Garth shone in the sky, and the full moon shone like a lantern over the realm of the Dornish people. All was silent in the candle-lit hut when Eddard, the gentle-looking Lord Stark, knelt beside his sister and took her hand. Lyanna, as her pain eased for a moment, smiled.
- 'You need not worry,' he whispered, 'Septa Mordane says the boy will be strong.
The blond-haired young man's gaze drifted to the far end of the narrow hut, where the nurse huddled by the iron brazier. She was sprinkling some stifling-smelling powder into a clay bowl. A chill ran down Eddard's spine.
- It was time to name the place," said the septa, without stopping what she was doing.
Eddard tensely released his sister's hand. He didn't trust the poison-mixing witch any more than he trusted anyone else. It was hard to trust someone who had no personal experience of either childbearing or childbirth, yet was so adept at midwifery. Mordane stood up and turned around, glaring at him with an ominous look.
- "The name!" she said in a measured tone. - Now go!
He took her hand again and raised it to his lips. Lyanna smiled, and then another twitch of pain crossed her face. Eddard backed away to the door.
- Everything will be all right, Mordane said.
Eddard wrapped his brown-and-black wolf fur around his iron shoulders and stepped out into the night. It was cold, the air crisp, yet for a moment cooler than in the hut, and a freshness flooded his lungs. The scent of mountain grass and trees was strong here, far from the cities, and mingled with the pleasant aroma of the sea. As he grew accustomed to the chill of the winter night, he took off his coat and put it on his horse, tied to the old oak tree. The septa said it was time to name the boy. In that moment, alone under the stars, Eddard felt like a grown man for the first time in twenty-nine years. He was looking for a name for his nephew. For his sister's son! Eddard's heart leapt at the thought. He followed a beaten path towards the wooded side of the Red Mountains, climbing higher and higher. As he passed high above the valley, a multitude of thoughts rushed through his mind. He thought of his own father, and wondered what he had been thinking of when he had climbed this hill twenty-nine years ago. He had died of wounds received in a battle against savages when Eddard was eleven. His mother crossed the Wall a year later. In Eddard's last memories, he saw a bone-thin woman with sunken eyes, coughing up blood. The orphaned Eddard Stark was raised by his hot-tempered grandfather, Edwyle Stark, who never remarried and hated the company of Lannisters. The grumpy old man tried hard to be a good father to his grandson, but with much wise advice, he only succeeded in passing on his abstinence from the South to his foster son. As a result, Eddard never courted in front of others, and he had many difficulties in developing an intimate relationship. He was not popular among the other Stark men, and his life was mostly quiet, except for two things: an alliance with Hoster Tully, Lord of the Roaring, and his marriage to the beautiful Catelyn. Eddard paused and looked down at the Star Valley far below him. The houses were darkened, for it was now midnight, and the Dornish were merchants who rose before dawn. Eddard, alone on the hillside, gripped the hilt of his father's iron sword. The leather sheathing and firm grip eased his fears and he sat down on a rock, praying to the God of the Weeks for a portent to name his nephew. The boy's northern name would be Jon Snow. Jon, son of Eddard. It will be the name he will honor among the Starks. Thunder came again from the north, and he saw the towering clouds obscuring the stars. Lightning zigzagged overhead, illuminating the mountain. A fierce gale of wind rushed down. Eddard stood up from the cliff to seek shelter. Afraid of being struck by lightning, Eddard drew his blade and threw it. The four-foot-long sword spun in the air, then plunged into the ground, where it came to a shuddering halt. At that moment, lightning again zigzagged across the sky, struck the sword and set it aflame. Then it started to rain. Eddard fell to the rock and stumbled over the burnt shards of blackened iron. Then he stood up and started down the long path back to the hut. As he drew nearer, he heard the loud, rasping cries of his newborn nephew, which echoed even over the stormy wind. The door of the hut opened and Mordane, the witch and midwife, stepped forward to greet him.
- "Did you get a name?" she asked.
The man nodded numbly.
- Say it out loud," she ordered.
- His name is Jon Snow.