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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
Catelyn watched Winterfell's courtyard from the covered bridge connecting the Great Keep to the armory. Below, servants bustled about their duties, guards made their rounds, and life appeared ordinary—but something had shifted in her home, something almost imperceptible yet undeniable.
The bastard had been avoiding her gaze at meals. That alone wasn't unusual—Jon Snow had long learned to make himself scarce in her presence—but now Ned avoided her eyes as well, wearing the same troubled expression he'd worn after returning from the Rebellion with another woman's child. Her fingers tightened on the rough stone of the balustrade.
A door slammed below, drawing her attention. Jon Snow crossed the yard with his wolf at his heels, his dark curls whipping in the wind. He moved with newfound purpose, his shoulders set in a way that reminded her of—
Catelyn froze, her breath catching.
Not of Ned. Of Brandon.
The realization struck her like a physical blow. How had she never seen it before? The boy had always been called Stark in appearance, but there was something in his bearing now, something in the proud tilt of his chin that recalled the wild wolf who had once been promised to her.
"My lady?"
Maester Luwin appeared at her elbow, his chain clinking softly as he bowed.
"Is all well? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
"Perhaps I have," she murmured, watching the bastard disappear into the armory. "Tell me, Maester, have you noticed anything strange about my lord husband of late?"
The old man hesitated, his eyes darting to the yard below. "Lord Stark carries many burdens, my lady. The threat from beyond the Wall, the king's visit, the attempt on Lady Sansa..."
"That's not what I asked."
Luwin sighed, his voice dropping. "If you seek answers, my lady, I fear I have none to give. But..." He glanced around before continuing, "Talking to Lord Stark might clear any misunderstandings."
Something heavy settled in Catelyn's stomach. "Thank you, Maester. That will be all."
When she entered their bedchamber that night, Ned sat before the hearth, just staring at the roaring fire but his eyes are distant.
"Will you tell me what troubles you, or must I guess?" Catelyn closed the door firmly behind her.
Ned broke his intense stare. "Cat—"
"Don't." She crossed to the window, needing distance between them. "I've seen you brood before, Ned Stark. I've seen you carry the weight of the North, of war, of winter. But this..." She turned to face him. "This is different. This is a secret. And it involves the bastard."
His silence was confirmation enough.
"Yesterday, in the godswood, something happened. Luke ran as though the Others themselves were at his heels."
Ned set Ice aside and rose, looking older than his years. "Cat, please…"
"No more evasions." Her voice was steel. "Fifteen years we've been wed. Fifteen years I've been the Lady of Winterfell, borne your children, kept your castle. If there is something I should know, tell me now…is he Brandon's?"
Ned looked at her in surprise but didn't deny her claim as he crossed to the hearth, bracing one hand against the stone mantel. The flames cast his face in shadow, hiding his expression.
"No he's not Brandon's. But he's not mine either." The words fell like stones into still water. "He never was. Not in the way Robb and Sansa are."
Catelyn gripped the windowsill behind her, suddenly needing its support. "Whose, then?"
"I made a promise," he said finally. "On Lyanna's deathbed, covered in blood and roses. She made me swear."
A terrible suspicion dawned in Catelyn's mind. "Ned, you couldn't poss—"
"Lyanna's." He turned to face her, his grey eyes haunted. "And Rhaegar Targaryen's. Born Daemon Sand, though he didn't know that name. A royal bastard."
The world tilted beneath Catelyn's feet. A thousand moments rearranged themselves in her mind—every cold glance she'd given the boy, every slight, all came crashing down.
"Robert would have killed him," Ned continued, his voice hollow. "You know what happened to Rhaegar's other children. Wrapped in Lannister crimson, presented like trophies. I couldn't let that happen to Lya's boy. My blood. My family."
"So you claimed him as your bastard." The words left a bitter residue. "You let the world believe you'd dishonored me."
"I had no choice."
"You had every choice!" The coldness in her voice surprised even herself. "You could have told me. Your wife. The mother of your children."
"And risk—"
"Risk what? That I might betray you? That I couldn't be trusted with your precious Stark honor?" She reached for the nearest object, a silver hairbrush, and hurled it at the wall. It struck with a satisfying crash. "Fifteen years, Ned. Fifteen years I hated that boy for a sin that wasn't his or yours."
His silence inflamed her further. A water pitcher followed the brush, shattering on the stones.
"I gave you five children. I ran your household. I have loved you. And all the while, you let me believe me betrayed!" A wooden jewelry box struck the bedpost, splintering. "You let me believe you'd been with another woman. That you loved her enough to bring her son home but not enough to speak her name."
Ned stood motionless, accepting each missile without flinching.
"I wanted to tell you," he said quietly. "After Robb was born, after Sansa... but the more time passed, the harder it became. And Robert visited, and his spies were everywhere, and if anyone ever suspected…"
"So you let me hate an innocent child instead." A looking glass cracked against the wall. "You let me become the cruel stepmother from stories while you played the noble, forgiving lord."
Ned made no move to defend himself. "I deserve your anger."
"My anger?" Catelyn laughed, a brittle sound like breaking ice. "This is not anger, Ned. This is justice. This is fifteen years of lies coming due."
She sank onto the edge of their bed, suddenly exhausted. The fury that had sustained her moments before drained away, leaving only the cold clarity of betrayal.
"I will sleep elsewhere," she said, staring at the floor.
"…"
"I cannot look at you right now." Her voice was eerily calm. "I cannot share these chambers with you tonight. Perhaps not for many nights."
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, "I will leave" Ned said in hushed voice as he gathered Ice and moved toward the door.
"He leaves for Oldtown tomorrow," he said quietly. "With Master Luke."
Catelyn didn't answer.
"I am sorry, Cat. Truly."
The door closed softly behind him, leaving her alone with the wreckage of fifteen years of misplaced hatred and a marriage built on necessary lies. Outside, the wind howled through the battlements of Winterfell, carrying whispers of secrets long buried and truths now unearthed.
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Robb's walked to the eastern battlements as the cold had cleared his head after hours of lying sleepless, listening to the sounds of Winterfell settling into night. Something felt wrong throughout the castle, his father had barely spoken three words, and Jon... Jon had vanished entirely.
Grey Wind padded silently beside him, occasionally brushing against his leg. The direwolf's warmth was a comfort against the midnight chill. As they reached the around corner, Robb heard the rhythmic thud of wood striking wood, punctuated by labored breathing.
Jon stood with his back to Robb, shoulders hunched as he hammered a practice sword against a straw-filled training dummy. His strikes lacked the precision Master Luke had drilled into them—these were wild, savage blows fueled by something darker than the discipline of training. Ghost lay nearby, ruby eyes gleaming in the torchlight, watching his master with unblinking attention while Grey Wind trotted over, nudging the white direwolf with his muzzle. Ghost remained motionless, ears flattened against his head.
"The dummy's already dead," Robb called, his breath clouding before him. "You can stop torturing its corpse."
Jon froze mid-swing but didn't turn. The practice sword remained suspended in the air, trembling slightly.
"I was looking for you at supper," Robb continued, moving closer. "Arya said you promised to show her that disarming move before you leave."
The sword lowered slowly. "I wasn't hungry."
Robb leaned against the stone wall, studying his brother's profile. Jon's face was drawn tight, eyes shadowed. "And now you're beating wooden men at midnight. Did the dummy insult your honor?"
Jon's knuckles whitened around the sword hilt. "Leave it be, Robb."
"No." Robb straightened. "Father looks like he's seen a ghost, I've heard things breaking in their chambers, sense the distraught going through them and you're up here trying to murder practice equipment. Something's happened."
Jon struck the dummy again with sudden ferocity, the wood splintering at the impact.
"Lord Stark told me about my mother." The words came out sharp and brittle as ice.
Robb waited. The wind whistled between the crenellations, carrying the scent of pine from the wolfswood.
"And?" he prompted when Jon remained silent.
Jon turned to face him fully, his expression a battlefield of emotions. "She wasn't some tavern wench or servant girl he bedded during the rebellion."
Another long silence stretched between them. Below, in the darkened courtyard, a night watchman made his rounds, the torch in his hand a floating ember in the blackness.
"She was..." Jon swallowed hard. "Lyanna Stark. Your aunt."
Robb felt as though the stone beneath his feet had suddenly tilted. "What? Father did not bed his sister!"
"He didn't Robb. My father isn't…Lord Stark." Jon's voice cracked slightly. "It was Rhaegar Targaryen."
The practice sword clattered to the ground between them. Jon's shoulders slumped, as though speaking the words aloud had drained something vital from him.
Robb's mind raced, piecing together fragments of history he'd learned at Maester Luwin's knee. Rhaegar and Lyanna. The kidnapping that sparked Robert's Rebellion. The war that toppled a dynasty.
"All these years..." Jon continued, each word pulled from somewhere deep and painful. "Lord Stark let everyone believe I was his bastard. Let Lady Stark hate me. Let me hate myself for something that wasn't... that I never..."
He trailed off, turning back to face the night sky, his breath coming in white clouds that dissolved into the darkness.
Robb found his voice at last. "Does anyone else know?"
"Master Luke suspected, I think." Jon gave a hollow laugh.
"Is that why you're leaving tomorrow? Because of this?"
Jon shook his head. "The plan was already made. But now... perhaps it's better I go. I don't know who I am anymore, Robb. Everything I thought I knew about myself was a lie."
Robb considered his brother…his cousin standing there beneath the stars their ancestors had named. The same blood of the First Men flowed through their veins, whether Jon's father was Ned Stark or Rhaegar Targaryen.
Without hesitation, Robb crossed the space between them and pulled Jon into a fierce embrace. Jon stiffened at first, then gradually relaxed, his forehead dropping to Robb's shoulder.
"You're my brother," Robb whispered firmly. "You were my brother when we used to play pranks on Winterfell guards, you were my brother when we hid from Septa Mordane's lessons, you're my brother now that you're our cousin. Blood doesn't change what we are."
Jon's hands gripped the back of Robb's cloak. They stood like that for a long moment, the wind swirling around them, carrying memories of all the years they'd spent side by side—learning to ride, to fight, to become men under their father's watchful eye.
When they finally separated, something had eased in Jon's expression. They moved to sit on a stone bench built into the battlements, their direwolves settling at their feet. Ghost finally acknowledged Grey Wind with a gentle nudge of his snout.
"If Robert Baratheon knew..." Jon began.
"He'd want you dead," Robb finished bluntly. "The same as he wanted all Targaryens dead."
"I am still a bastard, even if I am a royal one now, so I have no true claim to that chair" Jon said, the words sounding strange in the cold northern air. "But I don't think King Robert will see it that way."
Robb frowned, considering the implications. "Do you want it? The throne?"
"What I wanted. What I dreamed of. I don't know" Jon's response was immediate. "All I ever wanted was to be a Stark. But that will never be. And I'm still Jon Snow. Though that's not true either. My mother named me…Daemon."
"Daemon?" The name bewildered. He studied Jon's face in the torchlight, searching for traces of this new identity beneath familiar features. "Aunt Lyanna had a sense of irony, naming you after the Rogue Prince and the Blackfyre."
Jon's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath wind-chapped skin. The leather of his gloves creaked as his fingers flexed against the stone bench.
"Or perhaps she knew you would bring new meaning to that name." Robb shifted, his cloak rustling against the battlements. A wry smile tugged at his mouth, though his eyes remained serious. "Should I start calling you Daemon now? Practice for when you claim your dragon?"
Jon's gaze dropped to where Ghost pressed against his legs, the direwolf looked up again, something not quite a smile had softened in his expression, but the ghost of one, hovering at the corners of his mouth.
"To you?" Jon's voice carried the rasp of held-back emotion. "To Father, to Arya and the rest? I'll always be Jon." His fingers found Ghost's fur, burying themselves in the thick white coat. "That other name... it belongs to someone I'll never be. Someone who was supposed to have silver hair and purple eyes."
Robb watched his brother—cousin, his mind corrected, though the word felt wrong, wrestle with truths that would reshape everything they'd known.
"But if people knew…"
"They won't," Jon said firmly. "Not from me. Father—Lord Stark—kept this secret for fifteen years to protect me. I won't throw that away."
Robb nodded slowly. "But if things changed, if someday you needed to throw you name around... I want you to know where I'd stand."
He turned to face Jon directly, the torchlight casting half his face in shadow. "The North would stand with you. I would stand with you. Always."
"You mean that." Jon's words came soft, wondering, as if testing their weight.
"Every word." Robb shifted on the cold stone, his knee brushing against Jon's. The contact was brief but grounding, an anchor between them. "The North remembers, Jon. And the North protects its own."
Jon's fingers stilled in Ghost's fur for a heartbeat before resuming their steady rhythm. A warmth bloomed in Robb's chest, spreading outward like sunlight breaking through winter clouds. The sensation caught him off guard—not his own emotion, but Jon's, flowing through the Force connection they'd been learning to navigate. Pure, uncomplicated joy radiated from his brother, so different from the guarded restraint Jon usually wrapped around himself like armor.
The feeling made Robb's breath catch. When was the last time he'd felt such unfiltered happiness from Jon? Not since they were children, before the weight of bastardy had settled fully on his brother's shoulders. This joy tasted clean and bright, like fresh snow, unmarred by the bitter undertones that usually colored Jon's emotions.
Grey Wind's tail began to wag, the direwolf sensing the shift in the emotional currents between them. Even Ghost seemed affected, his red eyes half-closing in contentment as he pressed closer to Jon's side.
The tension in Jon's shoulders eased. "Thank you."
They sat in companionable silence for a time, watching the stars wheel overhead. Finally, Jon spoke again.
"What about the others? Sansa, Arya, Bran... Rickon?"
Robb considered the question carefully. Arya would stand by Jon without question, but she was young and impulsive. Sansa was too enamored with songs and stories to keep such a dangerous secret. Bran and Rickon were simply too young.
"We should keep this between us for now," Robb decided. "Master Luke already knows, and Father, of course. And Mother..." He paused, suddenly understanding his mother's absence and his father's grim expression. "Mother knows now too, I think."
Jon nodded, his face solemn in the moonlight. "It's safer that way. For all of them."
"When you return from Oldtown, perhaps things will be clearer," Robb said. "The world may look different by then."
"The world already looks different," Jon replied quietly. "Everything does."
Grey Wind rose suddenly, ears pricked toward the courtyard below. A moment later, they heard the soft tread of boots on stone. Someone was coming.
"Master Luke," Jon murmured, recognizing the presence through the Force before the man appeared.
Robb felt it too—that distinctive calm certainty that radiated from their teacher. "We should go. You have an early start tomorrow."
Jon nodded, rising to his feet. Ghost stood as well, shaking himself before padding to Jon's side.
"Remember what I said," Robb told him, clasping his shoulder firmly. "Brother. Always."
Jon's smile was small but genuine. "Always."
As they stood to meet Master Luke, Robb felt a strange certainty settle in his chest. The world was changing around them—threats from beyond the Wall, secrets unraveling within their family, and powers awakening in their blood that hadn't been seen for generations. But some things remained constant, unbreakable.
Whatever name Jon carried, whatever blood flowed in his veins, they were wolves of the same pack. And the pack stays together.
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The torches in Winterfell's corridors burned low deep into the night. Luke moved silently through the stone hallways, his footsteps barely audible against the cold floor. The castle slept, but the Force hummed with unresolved tension—particularly from the lord's chambers, where Eddard Stark had sequestered himself since his revelation to Jon.
Luke paused before the hall. Two guards stood at attention, their eyes widening slightly at his approach.
"I need to speak with Lord Stark," Luke said quietly.
The guards exchanged glances. "Lord Stark has asked not to be disturbed."
"Tell him it concerns tomorrow's journey." Luke's voice carried a gentle suggestion through the Force. "He'll want to hear this."
The guard hesitated only briefly before one of them leaves to inform Lord Stark. After a muffled response from within, he opened the door just enough to relay Luke's request. A moment later, the guard nodded and stepped aside.
"Lord Stark will see you."
Luke entered the chamber to find Ned Stark standing by the hearth, still fully dressed despite the late hour. The fire had burned down to embers, casting his face in shadow. The room felt hollow, emptied—Lady Catelyn's absence a palpable void.
"Master Luke." Ned didn't turn from the fire. "You should be resting for your journey."
"As should you." Luke moved to stand beside him. "Though I sense rest eludes us both tonight. Though you calling me Master Luke feels strange as I am not a Jedi Master yet."
"My children call you Master Luke and calling you simply Luke feels…disrespectful." Ned's face showed the ravages of sleeplessness—skin drawn tight over sharp cheekbones, eyes sunken and rimmed with dark circles. The man had aged years in a single day.
"Though I am reluctant of taking that title yet from anyone but the children, I understand." Luke said. "So, Jon. What comes next?"
Ned's jaw tightened. "What comes next is you take him to Oldtown, far from Robert's spies, while I consider how to keep him safe."
"And then?" Luke pressed gently. "You can't keep him in Winterfell forever."
"I never planned to." Ned's voice hardened defensively.
"Then what was your plan for him?"
Silence filled the room, broken only by the occasional crack from the dying fire. Ned reached for a flagon of wine, pouring himself a cup with a slightly unsteady hand. He didn't offer one to Luke.
"Master of Arms to Winterfell," Ned finally said. "or a lord of a small keep."
Luke absorbed this. "But no solid plans."
"No, not yet." Ned drank deeply. "I only though to protect him but the truth is death for him."
"Perhaps once," Luke acknowledged. "But the boy is changing. They all are. The Force grows stronger in them daily."
Ned's eyes narrowed. "Your... Force... doesn't change the fact that he's Rhaegar Targaryen's son. Robert would kill him for that alone."
"Which is why we're going to Oldtown, not King's Landing." Luke moved to the window, gazing out at the moonlit courtyard below. "The Citadel may hold knowledge about the threat beyond the Wall, and about the abilities awakening in your family."
"About that," Ned set down his cup. "You should take a regular sword with you. That glowing blade of yours—it would cause far more problems than anything it could solve in the South."
Luke nodded. "I've already arranged for Mikken to provide me with a blade."
"Good." Ned paused. "Jory Cassel and two of my most trusted men will escort you to Deepwood Motte."
Luke turned, a mild objection forming on his lips. The look in Ned's eyes silenced him before he could speak. This wasn't negotiable.
"As you wish," Luke sighed. "Though I had hoped to travel more... discreetly."
"Three Stark men asking for passage on a ship is far less remarkable than two strangers with…unusual fighting skills." Ned's tone brooked no argument. "They'll see you safely aboard, then return."
Luke inclined his head in acceptance. "We'll avoid the major holds as you suggest. The less attention we draw, the better."
"The Citadel itself presents dangers." Ned crossed to his desk, unrolling a map of the South. "The maesters are politically connected to every great house. They gather knowledge and secrets."
"Not so different from the Jedi Archives, then." Luke smiled faintly. "I've navigated political waters before, Lord Stark."
"Not like these," Ned insisted. "The politics of the South are played with poison and knives in the dark."
Luke reached for the lightsaber at his belt, igniting it one final time in Ned's chambers. The green blade hummed to life, casting eerie shadows across the walls. "And I have faced threats you cannot imagine. This blade has defended against enemies who are much more terrifying than King Robert."
Ned's eyes reflected the green light as he studied the weapon. "I know I ask for restraint in using it but situations can change at a moments notice."
"Sometimes the most powerful weapon is restraint." Luke extinguished the blade. "I'll carry your Northern steel and draw no undue attention."
"And Jon?" Ned asked. "Can you promise the same of him? His temper has always run hot. Now he knows he carries dragon's blood."
"I'll protect him, Lord Stark." Luke's voice carried absolute certainty. "His heritage changes nothing in that regard."
"You misunderstand me." Ned's face was grim. "I don't doubt your ability to protect him from others. I've seen what you can do. But Jon's greatest enemy may not come from without."
Luke remembered the flash of fire from Jon's hands, the momentary yellow gleam in his eyes. "You're concerned about his control."
"I've watched him struggle with his identity his entire life." Ned's voice grew quiet. "Now everything he believed about himself has been proven false. The ground beneath him has shifted entirely." Ned's response was hollow. "Can you protect him from himself?"
The question hung in the air between them. Luke considered the man before him—honorable, troubled, carrying burdens few could understand. In many ways, Ned reminded him of Obi-Wan in his later years, haunted by past decisions and their consequences.
"The dark side calls to us all," Luke said softly. "I've faced it within myself. I've watched my father fall to it and rise again. If Jon starts down that path, I'll be there to guide him back."
"And if you cannot?"
Luke met Ned's gaze steadily. "It won't come to that. There is good in him, I can feel it."
Ned turned back to the dying embers. "Dawn comes early. You should prepare for your journey."
Luke recognized the dismissal but paused at the door. "Lord Stark. Whatever happens, Jon is still your son in every way that matters. Remember that."
Ned didn't turn, but his shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly. Luke slipped from the room, leaving the Lord of Winterfell alone with his thoughts and the weight of fifteen years of secrets.
In the corridor, Luke paused, extending his senses through the Force. Throughout the castle, he felt the sleeping presences of the Stark children—Robb's steady determination, Sansa's troubled dreams, Arya's restless energy, Bran's strange connection to something beyond, little Rickon's wild trashing. And Jon, awake and alert, his Force signature a complex tangle.
Tomorrow they would begin a journey that would change everything. Luke could feel it in the currents of the Force—destiny was in motion, and none of them would be the same when it was done.