Chapter 2: Blood of My Blood
Dawn broke cold and grey over Winterfell, but the godswood seemed to glow with anticipation. Jon stood before the heart tree with Ned beside him, watching the household gather in the sacred space. His hands trembled—not from cold, but from the weight of what was about to happen.
In moments, I'll have a true name. A place. Everything I've ever wanted.
The red leaves overhead shimmered in the pale morning light, and for just a moment, the weeping face carved into the weirwood seemed to smile.
Catelyn arrived with the children, her face carefully composed but her eyes red-rimmed. She'd spoken with Jon after his meeting with Ned—a painful, halting conversation where she'd asked forgiveness for fourteen years of coldness. Jon had given it freely, as Ned knew he would.
Robb stood tall beside his mother, pride radiating from every line of his body. Sansa had chosen her finest dress for the occasion, while Arya fidgeted beside her, barely able to contain her excitement. Little Rickon held Bran's hand, the younger boy's face solemn with the importance of the moment.
Bran himself sat in the wheeled chair Mikken had crafted, wrapped in furs against the morning chill. The boy's fall weeks earlier had left him unable to walk, but his mind remained sharp. Lady lay beside his chair, the direwolf's golden eyes watching everything with unusual intensity.
Theon Greyjoy stood apart from the family group, his expression carefully neutral. Jon's eyes found him briefly, saw the white-knuckled grip on his kraken pendant, and felt a stab of sympathy. We've both lived as outsiders here. The difference is, today that changes for one of us.
Maester Luwin waited near the tree with parchment and quill, ready to record the momentous occasion. Ser Rodrik stood with the household guard, while Septa Mordane shepherded the serving girls into respectful silence.
"Are you ready?" Ned asked quietly.
Jon nodded, not trusting his voice.
Ned stepped forward, his weathered hand settling on Jon's shoulder. The touch was gentle but firm, a father's benediction.
"Before the Old Gods who see all," Ned's voice carried through the godswood with unexpected power, "I acknowledge this boy as my blood. No longer Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, but Jon Stark, trueborn son of House Stark, with all rights and privileges thereof."
The ancient words settled over the gathered witnesses like a blessing. Jon knelt in the snow, fourteen years of shame and uncertainty falling away like shed skin. When he rose, tears streaked his face freely.
Robb stepped forward immediately, clasping his brother's shoulder with fierce pride.
"You were always my brother. Now the world knows it."
The simple declaration broke the formal tension. Arya launched herself at Jon with a whoop of joy, wrapping her arms around his waist.
"I knew it! I always knew you belonged with us!"
Jon laughed, catching her up in a hug that lifted her feet off the ground. When he set her down, Sansa approached more cautiously. She offered a graceful curtsey, her smile perhaps a bit forced but genuine nonetheless.
"Congratulations... brother."
Little Rickon tugged at Jon's sleeve, looking up with wide eyes.
"Does this mean you can sit at the high table now? And sleep in the castle proper?"
"I suppose it does," Jon managed, his voice thick.
Bran spoke from his chair, his voice carrying an odd, distant quality it had gained since his fall.
"The wolf has found his pack," he said, seeming to look through rather than at Jon. "But the dragon's fire still burns within."
An uncomfortable silence followed the strange words. Bran blinked, seeming to return to himself, and smiled normally.
"Welcome home, brother."
The household began to disperse, excited conversations breaking out as the implications of what they'd witnessed sank in. But Catelyn remained, approaching Jon with hesitant steps.
"Jon," she began, then stopped, struggling with words. "I know my apology last night was poor recompense for years of coldness. But perhaps... perhaps we might start again? As family should?"
Jon's response was immediate. "I'd like that, my lady. Very much."
"Catelyn," she corrected gently. "Or... if you'd prefer... you might call me as the others do."
Jon's eyes widened with understanding and gratitude. "Thank you, mother."
The word hung between them, precious and fragile. Then Catelyn surprised everyone—including herself—by embracing him briefly.
"You're a good man, Jon Stark. Your mother would be proud."
As the family headed back toward the castle, Jon noticed Theon lingering by the tree. The older boy's face was a mask of careful indifference, but Jon had grown up reading the subtle signs of Theon's moods.
"Theon."
"My lord." The title carried just a hint of irony. "Congratulations on your elevation."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this about status. We're still the same people we were yesterday."
Theon's laugh held no humor. "Are we? Yesterday you were the bastard I competed with in the training yard. Today you're a trueborn Stark with claim to ancient bloodlines and northern honors. Tell me how that's the same."
Jon felt the first real shadow fall across his joy. "I never asked for this."
"Neither did I. But here we are." Theon's hand dropped from his pendant. "Enjoy your new family, Jon Stark. Some of us don't have that luxury."
He walked away before Jon could respond, leaving his words hanging in the cold air like accusations.
The great hall buzzed with activity as the news spread. Jon found himself the center of attention in a way that made his skin crawl. Servants who'd ignored him yesterday now bowed respectfully. Guards who'd once treated him as an equal suddenly called him "my lord" and stepped aside when he passed.
This is what I wanted, he reminded himself. To belong. To matter.
So why did it feel so wrong?
He escaped to the armory, hoping for familiar normalcy, but found even there that things had changed. Ser Rodrik was drilling the yard guards, and when he spotted Jon, he gestured him over.
"My lord," the master-at-arms said formally. "Perhaps you'd care to demonstrate the sword work we've been practicing?"
My lord. From the man who'd taught him to hold a blade, who'd cuffed him for poor form, who'd praised his improvements with gruff affection. The distance in those two words hurt more than Theon's bitter jokes.
"Ser Rodrik, you don't need to—"
"Begging your pardon, my lord, but I do. You're Lord Stark's son now. Legitimized, acknowledged, with a place at court. The men need to see you as you are, not as you were."
Jon wanted to argue, to insist that his new status changed nothing between them. But he could see it in every face around him—the subtle shift in how they looked at him, the new careful distance in their manner.
Be careful what you wish for.
He spent an hour drilling with men who now treated him as their better rather than their peer. Every "yes, my lord" and "well struck, my lord" drove home the same point: legitimization had given him a name and place, but it had also built walls where none existed before.
When he finally left the yard, Ghost padding silently at his side, Jon felt more isolated than he had as a bastard.
The afternoon brought its own challenges. Maester Luwin summoned him to discuss the formal notifications that would be sent to the Citadel and major houses.
"Your legitimization must be properly recorded," Luwin explained, quill poised over parchment. "The Citadel will want documentation. As will Houses that might question the succession implications."
"What implications?"
"As Lord Stark's eldest acknowledged son, you technically have claim before Lord Robb. Your lord father has clarified that Robb remains heir, but the legalities are... complex."
Jon sank into a chair, suddenly understanding another dimension of what Ned had set in motion.
"Could this cause problems?"
"Potentially. Though I suspect Lord Stark has considered that." Luwin's weathered face showed concern. "There's also the matter of marriage contracts. Your new status makes you a valuable political asset."
Political asset. The phrase made Jon's stomach turn.
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Your lord father has, I'm certain. But Jon—may I speak freely?"
"Of course."
"You've gone from having no value in the marriage market to being one of the more eligible young men in the North. That will bring attention you may not welcome."
Jon nodded grimly. Another price of legitimization he hadn't anticipated.
Evening found him on the battlements, staring out at the darkening Wolfswood. Ghost lay beside him, the direwolf's warmth a comfort against the growing chill. Below in the yard, he could hear the sounds of normal castle life—guards changing shifts, servants clearing the day's work, children playing despite the growing cold.
"You look like a man with weighty thoughts."
Jon turned to find Robb approaching, carrying two cups of ale and wearing a smile that seemed forced.
"Just trying to understand what's changed."
"Everything." Robb handed him a cup. "And nothing."
They drank in silence for a moment, watching stars appear in the clear northern sky.
"Do you resent it?" Jon asked finally. "Having your bastard brother suddenly become... this?"
Robb was quiet for so long Jon began to worry he'd given offense. Then his brother—his legitimized brother—sighed deeply.
"I won't lie. There's a part of me that wondered... when father announced your legitimization, there was a moment where I thought about succession, about inheritance, about whether this changed my position."
Jon's heart sank.
"But then I remembered something," Robb continued. "Do you know what?"
"What?"
"Every time I've been in trouble, you've been there. Every time I've needed advice, you've given it freely. Every time I've made a mistake, you've helped fix it without asking for anything in return." Robb met his eyes. "You've been my brother in every way that mattered long before today. This just makes it official."
Relief flooded through Jon. "You're certain?"
"I'm certain that together, we're stronger than either of us alone. I'm certain that I'd rather have you beside me than behind me or against me. And I'm certain that whoever our enemies turn out to be, they'll regret facing two Stark brothers united."
They clasped hands then, not as lord and bastard or even as newly legitimized siblings, but as partners. As equals.
"I'll be your strategy," Jon offered, echoing words from that morning that felt like weeks ago.
"And I'll be your courage," Robb replied. "Always."
Below in the yard, Ghost and Greywind emerged from wherever they'd been hunting, circling each other in a playful dance that mirrored their masters' renewed bond. The sight drew smiles from both young men.
A raven's cry cut through the night air, harsh and urgent. Both brothers looked up to see a large black bird winging toward the rookery, its flight path suggesting great haste.
"Late for a message," Robb observed.
Minutes later, a page arrived running, his face pale in the torchlight.
"My lords! Lord Stark requests your immediate presence in his solar. A raven has come from the Eyrie."
Jon and Robb exchanged glances, their moment of peace shattered. They followed the page through corridors suddenly feeling cold despite the torches lining them.
Ned stood behind his desk when they entered, a letter in his hands and his face grave as winter stone. The parchment bore the blue wax seal of House Arryn.
"What news, father?" Robb asked.
Ned looked up at them—both his sons now, legitimized and heir standing side by side.
"Lysa Arryn writes that her husband was murdered. Poisoned by the Lannisters, she claims. She's sealed the Eyrie and will accept no visitors."
The silence that followed was heavy with implication.
"Does she offer proof?" Jon asked quietly.
"None beyond her word. But..." Ned set the letter down carefully. "Jon Arryn was investigating Cersei's children when he died. If he discovered what I suspect he discovered, then Lysa may be right about the murder."
"What does this mean for us?" Robb's voice was steady, but Jon could hear the tension beneath.
"It means the game has already begun," Ned replied. "And our choice to stay in the North rather than become involved may have just become... complicated."
Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon—political, military, personal. The North would not be able to remain isolated much longer.
But for tonight, Jon stood in his father's solar not as a bastard watching from the shadows, but as a legitimized son helping to plan their family's survival. Whatever came next, he would face it with his true name and the strength of his pack around him.
The long game of thrones was beginning, and House Stark would play it as wolves—together.
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