Edit: July 6th 2016: Hey everyone as you may have noticed you will have no doubt gotten an email saying I updated this story. Yes and No. I went back and rewrote some of the stuff for the first chapter and then accidentally removed the old unedited chapter one from the fic, thusly making chapters 2 and 3 now 1 and 2. Luckily I keep saving the files I upload to my fanfiction account otherwise I'd have lost chapter two.

Regardless, point is I fixed what needed fixing, or at the least what I was able to catch while writing at 1:30 in the morning; and re-uploaded everything so now it's all ready to go.

Also since work is starting to give me a few shorter shifts and the football team I help coach is ending its season in two weeks I can safely tell you that updates will be more frequent through August. And chapter 4 for this and Hunter of the Force are underway as are the other updates for most if not all of my stories.

If you so wish, ignore the bold text author note below and go straight to the story. I sincerely hope you like the few changes I made.

Hey everybody! I'm alive and kicking, and I just wanted to say- (Ducks as pitchforks and swords fly at my head.)

Jesus Christ people! Calm down! Now I know I was supposed to update my other story a loooooooong time ago but sadly, my laptop experienced an unfortunate accident and fanfiction for the life of me could not load on any web browser I tried. And in light of that I expanded my horizons and worked on a few stories I had on the back burner and that are currently being worked on, around twenty or so with a few chapters or alternate beginnings in each. My first story is still ongoing so be patient, and the next chapter is being underway as we speak. Half way done and in editing so hold on tight.

And this ladies and gents is but one of many. For I too have joined the Game of Thrones and Winter is Coming! Now be forewarned, most of my chapters early on are based on the information provided by friends and other fans alike. So please be patient with this one. As well, expect some OOCness for some characters, since I am working on reading book one and another series at the same time so some things about characters might come across differently than their canonical counterparts. As well this too has some elements from other franchises that belong to their respective owners and creators and are in no way, shape, or form owned by me. So lawyers... Screw off! I'm clean!

So without further ado, welcome friends, to the one place on earth where no one is safe. Welcome to the mind of George R. R. Martin...

And me!

Now... Who the hell threw my own freaking sword at my head?!

The morning dawned crisp and cold as the wind danced across the tundra's of Northern Westeros. The frost of winters come and gone having begun to settle upon the land as the heat of summer began to fade. Even upon the branches of the trees and lain atop the smooth face of the rocks it was there for all to see, as ice and snow began to overtake all that had grown during ten years free of the harsh cold of winter. For the long summer has at last finally begun to give way to the ever looming season most feared in the land. For as the famed words of House Stark proclaim, 'Winter is coming.' And as foretold millennia ago, it is a winter such as this that shall shroud the lands in The Long Night once again... It is a winter such as this that will decide the fate of the world.

Deep in the valleys of the North, a man cloaked in furs and armor of onyx black walked along the course grass and weathered rock; the light of the sun beginning to rise from beyond the horizon. His figure stood tall and proud amidst the open tundra of the North. The sole constant upon the land as he continued his trek through the mountains and sparse forests, which had begun early that very morning. His every step shrouded by shadow and trailed by the light of the rising sun. The figure's face save for his chin and his mouth was obscured by the shadow of a great hood, the weathered cloth dyed an abyssal black that flowed wildly in the harsh winds. The hood once proud and unblemished was now tattered and frayed, a small number of holes and nearly the entire hem having given way to age and general use. Yet the proud image of the great Direwolf, sewn into it with greatest care so long ago still remained... The stitch yet faded and worn from exposure to the elements of the world.

A flash of silver and white escaped the many folds of the traveler's cloak, as the hilt belonging to a great blade was bared to the world. The pommel of the blade was unique in its fashioning, formed from hardened ivory stone that was as hard as granite. For the piece had been meticulously carved and shaped with the greatest of care into the snarling, fanged grin of the famed direwolves beyond the Wall. The pommel then travelled down and lay atop the bottom portion of a black, leather-bound wooden grip that rose to the guard of the blade. The straight grip was sturdy and strong, the leather worn from years of battle and formed at a hand–and–a–half length.

Furs in a mixture of black and grey lined the interior of the man's cloak, idly flowing in the wind as steam arose from within the shadow of the hood with his every breath. The cloak was not fastened as one would expect for those travelling the North; for rather than being bundled like a swaddled babe the center was opened to expose the armor and clothes of the man underneath. Strong leather armor with its surface sleek and smooth to the eye was inlaid with smoke colored steel that flashed in the light of the morn. The armor was exposed from underneath the tattered garments as he walked, the winds whipping the man's garb about as he trekked ever onward. Patterns and intricate designs were cast upon the etched steel, with light grey fur peeking out from underneath the pauldron, boots, and the twin bracers fit snug to the man's forearms.

The great hood continued to sway and flap in the harsh winds, the howl of it akin to that of a vengeful beast as it passed through stone and tree. The man's hands and arms moved back and forth with every step as he continued on his way, the leather gloves that left his fingers bare from the second knuckle flashing as the steel plate on the back caught the errant ray of light. His leather-bound and armored boots, worn and well worked-in were coated in the thinnest layer of muck and grime that clung to his every step upon the dampened earth along his path. His hood flapped wildly as a great gust of wind erupted from behind him, the garments constant moving revealing a neatly trimmed beard of darkest black along the man's chin and mouth. The dark hair surrounded a grinning mouth and lightly chapped lips; the steam of his breath floating away on the breeze.

Course grass and frosted undergrowth crunched with every step as he walked, the worn and ancient paths and ever looming forest bringing him to the base of a large hill; that so great was its height that it allowed the young man to overlook the entirety of the valley from Winterfell to Riverrun. His grin widening to be more akin to that of a wolf's, the man sprinted upwards with the cloak trailing behind him like a great shadow given life; his feet thundering against the thawing earth with every step.

His armor and furs masked his presence in the shadow of the thickening trees, as the lush forest swallowed him into its depths with every step taken. The sheath of the large blade hung at his hip, now lay free from the inner shadows of his garb. The dark wood gleamed in the errant light that pierced the inky veil, the mouth of it partially wrapped with coloured leathers of grey and black.

Yet like the wind itself, the man moved akin to a being possessed as he pushed himself harder and harder. His arms rose just as steadily as when he began, pumping rhythmically as his legs followed suit as he sprinted ever onward at a wicked pace. Surefooted and swift, he leapt and bounded atop all in his path as he headed for the top, grinning wildly as his heart beat within his chest like a hammer upon an anvil. Trees and rocks were but new paths to explore and traverse in his eyes, something he had taken to heart from his mentor's many lessons years ago.

Confident and unyielding, not a sound could be heard as he dashed through the trees. All manner of beasts fled before him as he ran, wary as they relied upon instinct honed for thousands of years to recognize a true predator on the prowl. Soon however the young man's fun had to come to an end, as the trees began to thin and the light grew stronger until at last he was free from the dark. With a great leap he burst forth from the treeline, tucking into a roll and coming to rest at a crouch overlooking the plains and valleys of the noble Lord Stark's territory. Slowly, with the sure footed grace and confidence of a great warrior he rose to his feet, cloak billowing out behind him as he stared at the land he had grown up in. He stood in silence at the very edge of the bluff, as broken stone and dirt crumbled beneath his feet to fall to the earth a hundred feet below. The man's eyes, dark and strong flashed a steel grey as they focused solely upon the black castle in the distance with an eagle like intensity. The great monument and ancestral home to the House of Stark was only but a speck on the horizon, lain out atop the endless expanse of flat northern terrain. The man began to chuckle to himself, fingerless gloved hands resting on his hips as joy glowed brightly in the grey depths of his eyes. The image all the more striking as his tattered cloak flapped wildly behind him in a howl of freezing wind. Slowly crossing his arms, the leather and metal bound bracers flashed briefly in the sun and revealed the intricate patterning etched upon the black and grey colored steel.

As he laughed the movement of his shoulders and chest shifted the great hood, so tattered and frayed that it at last began to fall. Revealing to the world long, lightly curled locks of silken black tied into a small ponytail that came to rest just slightly between his shoulder blades. With a few errant bangs coming to rest over his grey eyes as his sharp features basked in the light of the sun once more. A narrow scar ran down the left side of his face, starting just slightly above the left brow and coming to rest slightly above the beard on the same cheek. So it was with a bright glint in his steel colored eyes that Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell laughed joyfully as he gazed upon his family home; the crooked grin he now sported stretching from ear to ear as he moved his hands to rest against his hips once more. His worn cloak continuing to fly and wrap around his shoulders as it always had during the five long years he had been away.

"After all these years... I'm finally home," he said aloud with a sense of awe barely hidden in his words. Jon's eyes shone bright and sharp as steel as he turned and began to make his way down the bluff as he tried to keep Winterfell within his line of sight. Excitement and a giddy sense of relief began to course through him at the prospect of seeing every one after all these years apart, his mind filled with the wonder of how they might have changed in his absence. Yet a peculiar sound reached his ears, like the endless trill of a thousand war drums in harmony that seemed to try beating against his skull. An odd sound if he had ever heard one this far to the North. Looking up to the once clear skies, Jon watched with thin lips as dark clouds the colour of pitch rolled forth like a great wave over the land. Even from where he stood the sharp crack of thunder and flash of lighting was all too easy to see and hear even at this distance.

Narrowing his eyes in annoyance, Jon stilled his mind as the harsh winds scattered the fallen leaves around him and set a small shiver down his back. Reaching around carefully, Jon pulled the hood up once more. Even now a small sense of relief flashed through his mind as his face was once more obscured in shadow. "Storm's coming," he muttered with annoyance clear in his tone as he increased his pace. Rolling his eyes, Jon's shoulders sagged in resignation as he climbed down. "Better get a move on then," he murmured lowly, voice shifting to cold and unflinching as he continued to speak. "Best to not get caught up in this before I reach Winterfell."

So on and on Jon descended to the valley below, every step measured and swift as lightning flashed and thunder roared across the land.

While far from our hero, deep within the sheltered walls of the castle upon the horizon, a sense of excitement permeated the air. The people were alert and focused; their motions driven with renewed vigor and a new-found sense of urgency as they moved about. For news had reached them that His Grace, the Lord Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and First of his Name has set out for Winterfell. They dashed through the streets in excited packs, looking to and fro in wonder as if a expecting the King to arrive any moment. Yet one man was noticeably absent from the walls of his Keep.

For deep in the forest surrounding the back of the great estate, shrouded by the shadows cast on all sides by the godswood of his ancestors, Lord Eddard "Ned" Stark sat in silence. His face was grim as stone and furrow browed, yet his eyes were sharp as they gazed into the smoke colored blade of his family's greatest treasure. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, his beard trimmed neat and shot with grey that was shadowed by the darkening skies as the storm broiled overhead. The light wrinkles and laugh lines upon his face were far more pronounced than they had been five years ago, yet the Quiet Wolf still retained a sense of power and strength despite these obvious signs of age. His furs and leathers kept him warm while his body remained unmindful, or perhaps better to say accustomed to the cold winds of his harsh homeland.

Yet even the steady rhythm of sweeping an oil soaked cloth against the flat of his great blade did little to sooth his troubled mind. His every thought driven to focus upon every detail found within the message he had received a week ago from the raven from King's Landing. This sole piece of parchment had proceeded to send his mind into a whirlwind of emotions, with thoughts and theories just as twisted as the last having begun to plague his every thought for the past few days. The raven had arrived late into the eve a few nights ago, telling him of the death of Jon Arryn. The man whom had raised him after his father and elder brother's grisly deaths at the hands of Aerys Targaryen. The man who had taught him to rule and whom he had grown to love as a father from the time he was but a small boy of eight. Not to mention, the message of Robert's unexpected, and in Ned's mind, frustrating visit.

His annoyance only continued to grow as he sat alone in the godswood, eyes hard and face slowly morphing into a snarl as he stared at the polished steel of his family's ancestral blade. Until at last his anger boiled over like a pot of grease atop a fire, his fury having peaked and raged like a colossal flame as his wrath was unleashed. The mixed stress of preparing for the arrival of Robert and the news of Jon Arryn's death had pushed him to the brink at last.

"Gods damn you to the Eternal Dark Robert!" Ned cried out in fury, raising his hand bearing the oil laden cloth and smashing it upon the flat and fuller of his ancient blade. The flat, dull ring of cloth and flesh against solid steel echoed around the great tree, Ned's breathing harsh and tense as he slumped back and held his head in his cloth free hand. Breathing deeply and in a soft rhythm so as to calm himself, Ned stared blankly at his reflection in the Valyrian steel great sword. Grey eyes as hard as granite yet as warm as a soft fire were now darkened to soulless black, empty and bleak as Ned tried to retake control of the beast within. The sharp angular jaw tensed and the muscles jumped beneath the skin, eyes narrowed in concentration as Ned felt the ice in his blood sooth the rage of the wolf famed in his family.

The news of Jon's death and Robert's impending visit had set Ned's nerves upon a knife's edge, coupled with the stress of preparing his people for the harsh winter to come and Ned had found himself pressed on all sides in recent hours. Yet that was not all that troubled him. For Ned had expected another letter, one he had awaited five years for. From the boy who had left in the darkness of night five years ago, to this day if Ned remembered correctly. "Bastard" he may have been... But Ned had loved that boy from the moment he set eyes on him so many years ago. Despite what had occurred as a result of what led to the boy's birth. Ned's mind and heart had then often warred with each other in the years following Jon's escape from Winterfell at the age of fourteen.

Ned sighed as he thought about what had happened between him and Jon those five years ago, which had turned on its head and led to the boy's departure. Where Jon had approached Ned late one night to speak privately in the Warden of the North's own chambers, and once alone Jon had asked that he be allowed to go out on his own. To travel far away from the North. Far from the protection of Winterfell's walls. Jon had never once asked anything of Ned before, not in all the years he had lived in the ancestral seat of House Stark. The action alone was enough to garner the Warden of the North's undivided attention on the matter.

Jon then went on to explain his desire to see the world and to discover his place in it. To travel the Seven Kingdoms and learn more about the land he called home and the people within it. For a few moments it had seemed like the boy's pleas and words had nearly broken through Ned's hard expression of doubt... But Ned had been firm in his own belief and just as adamant for Jon to remain in Winterfell. For reasons known only to himself and many who had died long before the boy was born. But things had taken a grief stricken turn when Jon had at last felt confident enough to ask about something that had essentially become taboo in Winterfell after he had arrive there as a babe nestled in Lord Stark's arms.

He asked about his mother.

Ned had been struck into tense silence by the demand, and regrettably let his anger and deep rooted fear get the better of him for but a few fleeting moments. Ned was harsh, that much he knew to be true after having so long to reflect on the encounter. Immediately denying the boy the knowledge he sought until Ned felt that he was ready to know. Yet in that moment Ned had forgotten that his son took after the line of the wolf far more than even some of Ned's other children. They had butted heads and bared their teeth like fangs, the two more alike savage wolves over a carcass; snarling and cursing the other for what seemed like hours into the night. On this night, Ned knew that this was where their relationship traversed ever closer to the breaking point, and had created a vast schism between them that Ned was desperate to close.

The first very real, and indeed very volatile argument in living memory between them... And Jon had left Ned's study far more bitter and angry than ever before. Yet that night, when Ned had sought out the boy to apologize and explain his reasoning once his head had cleared and the anger had faded away, Jon had seemingly vanished into the night. Ned had become panic stricken when he came across the empty bed and the fire place filled with nothing but ash and cinder. As for the first time since he had survived his duel beneath the Tower of Joy, Eddard Stark had felt utterly paralyzing fear.

The Warden of the North had planned on sending out the search parties immediately, mouth opened and ready to give the call for his men... Until the old warrior noted that the cloak he had gifted Jon not three days previously was gone. The space where it hung within the room now empty, save for a note written on finest parchment in Jon's familiar scrawl addressed solely to him lanced upon it. Ned remembered how he had reached out with trembling fingers to grasp the letter, his mouth dry as the Dornish sands as he gently pulled it from the tattered hook. Even then the words were swimming before his eyes as panic faded and calm focus took its place to put the troubled Lord's mind at ease.

He in fact still had the letter locked in his study, placed safely within the top drawer of his desk among many other personal affects resided there during Ned's time as Lord Stark. To act as a reminder that his son would indeed one day return to where he belonged. Safe and sound within the stone walls of their families ancestral keep and far from the prying eyes and ears of those in the South. Leaning back against the aged tree, with its smooth bark and wide trunk cool to the touch even through the leathers he wore slowly eased the Northern Lord into a lulled state of being, his anger gone only to be replaced by serenity and hope.

Ned's eyes began to droop as a feeling of peace and contentment settled in his stomach; the sound of wind and howling beasts having calmed his mind as his inner beast howled in content. The aged warrior slowly felt his eyes beginning to close, heavier and heavier as he felt his head fall back and lay against the smooth bark. Then in the fleetest of moments, the feeling of serenity and peace was shattered like so many panes of glass. As a drop of rain, brisk and cold splashed against Ned's nose, waking him instantly. Ned leapt forward, posture tense and crouched low as his hand clasped firmly around the hilt of his sword. Ned's eyes scanned the treeline, narrowed in concentration as his breath steadied and his mind entered a light haze. The crash of thunder and a single moment of piercing light was his only answer however, as Ned stood quickly; the dark grey leathers splashed with sparse drops of heavy rain. Without a single glance to the skies, Ned sheathed Ice, buckling the blade to his back and made for home, hopeful that Catelyn would have saved him some supper as he shook his head and cleared his thoughts.

His heavy boots sloshed through muck and grime, the grasses of the clearing already doused in rain while glistening in the fading light. Not a word escaped his lips as his shoulder length locks began to plaster to his head and neck, the light trickle of rain now a steady downpour as he sought the comfort of a warm dry bed and hot food.

While just outside the great wooden gates of his old home, Jon cursed darkly under his breath to all the gods he could name. From Braavos to Essos not a single deity was spared his frustration and wrath as he trekked forward, his cloak soaked through and other garments weighed down by the torrential rains. The slosh of mud and steady splash of his boots entering ankle-deep water was all he could hear, as the ice-cold rain chilled his bones and weighed him down. His teeth began to chatter, his furs all that protected the young man from certain demise in this gods damned cold. At the edges of his field of sight, the glow of a lantern breaks through the heavy blanket of rain, making hope rise in his chest.

"Thank the old gods for small mercies," he murmured in relief with a hopeful grin, drawing the cloak closer towards his torso to try and conserve what heat that remained. Rushing forth he shouted out towards the keep, hoping the noise would be able to reach the guards posted at the ramparts through the howl of the storm. Raising his hand high, Jon quickened his pace, the boots he wore now coated in grime that quickly vanished as it was washed away by the rain.

"Hold good sers!" Jon yelled, hand moved to cover his face from the deep spouts of water formed from the walls. "I beg of you to open the gates. To let a man weary of this forsaken weather a respite from her cruel mercies," he pleaded, watching as the guards lanterns moved in odd patterns, as the sound of voices both gruff and frustrated danced along the winds towards his ears. Jon stayed silent, watching intently as the guards voices lulled into harsh whispers and grunts. After a time, when Jon had begun to grow impatient a single guard glanced down, his face one of disbelief and frustration.

"What the bloody fuck are you doing outside in this weather you damned fool?!" the guard asked disbelievingly, utterly bewildered that a man would dare to be caught in a storm the likes of this. Particularly a man dressed from head to foot in black; his armor and weapons covered in naught but a ragged cloak with nary a horse in sight.

Jon's annoyance became almost palpable, his glare burning through the guard's skull with the intensity of a hot iron poker. The young man's hard grey eyes having darkened to a shade of purple-black for the barest of moments. He leaned back to yell at the guard in turn, his own voice dripping venom and frustration as the anger in his voice made his next words lash out with the sharpness of a whip.

"It wasn't my intention, nor want to be caught beyond the walls ya bloody fool! But I can tell you now I don't have time for such foolish questions if the harsh thunder o'er our heads isn't enough reason for you! Just open the gods damned gates already!" the Bastard of Winterfell yelled hoarsely, the flash of steel in the lantern light confirming Jon's suspicions that the guards had forsaken cloaks of their own. The guard who had spoken remained vehement however, desperate and curious to learn what possessed a man to stay in the fields at such an hour. Let alone that the dark clad stranger was clad in such strange garb that would normally mark one as being a Crow of the Night's Watch.

"Not until you answer my question ya damned fool!" the guard answered back, hand slowly inching to the sword at his waist. He gently knocked the arm of his partner, a young man who turned to look at him, the rain dripping like a sheet from his helm. "Inform Lord Stark of this matter," the elder man ordered. "I trust milord would like to know of the black cloaked stranger banging at our doors at this time of night."

The young man nodded eagerly as lifted his lantern on high and swiftly opened the door that led to the inner staircase built within the rampart, the cold stone steps which led to the courtyard shining from the rain that followed the man. The guard quickly dashed down the tower stair case to the roads, heading directly for the Keep as he tried to keep his feet about him. His armor began to gently ring with every step in the din of the empty streets, as the rain continued to fall and plaster upon its surface. The guard who remained atop the tower then glanced balefully down at the soaking man in black, eyes narrowed harshly as he began squinting through the rain and sleet.

Jon however, whilst unknowing of the messenger heading for the Keep, was neither impressed nor amused. His patience had been quite steadily been run thin as the cold clawed at his energy and his stomach growled, begging for a hot meal and a decent nights rest in a warm bed. And as his frustration grew Jon began to pace like a caged animal before the great wooden gates, a snarl near pursing his lips and a dark look in his eyes. Said eyes soon having riveted themselves upon where he knew the guard to be, like a predator stalking its prey. The twin orbs of storm grey alight in the dark with menacing fury. Growls escaped his throat and teared from his lips like those of a great beast as the rain continued to fall, Jon's time in the wilds beyond the Wall having allowed him the chance to temper his anger and instinct into a fine edged blade. Yet his patience, while considerably greater than it had been when he left long ago, was finally running out.

For Jon Snow was not one to enjoy being left to stand idle in the pouring rain, caked in the mud and grime from his journey. With his boots sinking inch by inch into the earth of Winterfell.

Freezing his goddamn arse off while starving and tired at Castle Black and beyond the Wall; that Jon could live with. It allowed him the chance to hone his instincts and skills in order to survive. But down here, soaking wet from head to toe and freezing his arse off while the guards asked him idiotic questions all night? Jon would sooner end up jumping into a frozen lake than have them waste his time.

His mind made up, Jon stopped his pacing entirely. His mouth set into a firm line with his hands at his hip, the left hand placed upon the pommel of the large blade hung at his side. Itching to rant and curse the guard from here to Sunspear, the only thing that stopped Jon from doing such was that the young man knew it would not help him here. More than likely, it would get him a one way ticket to the dankest cell in his father's dungeons. And after a few moments more, Jon's patience had finally run out. Shattering with the force of a hammer blow as his eyes narrowed.

He snarled angrily, his mouth similar to the raised hackles of their house sigil. "Oh I don't have fucking time for this," Jon whispered harshly, flinging his arms to his sides in frustration. Looking skyward once more, Jon's hood fell to rest at his neck, letting his black locks plaster upon his face and forehead. The guard however, was surprised and utterly perplexed to see someone akin to a younger version of Lord Stark drenched by the rain. The same sharp features and the neatly trimmed beard set about with hard darkened grey eyes and black as night hair unsettled the man slightly as a name came to mind, yet just as easily slipped from his grasp. The guard watched on, confused and unnerved as he waited for the messenger to return, whilst watching as the stranger took three quick strides back, the cloak billowing behind him from the force of the turn – about.

This confusion soon turned to horror as the aged guard watched in stunned silence as the cloaked man sprinted faster than any hound and leapt skyward. A solid impact met the older man's ears as the man watched the younger man ascend the stone walls of Winterfell with the practised ease of a man well versed in such a craft, and the grace of a wolf on the prowl. In a matter of moments, the stranger had scrambled up and over the stone ramparts, landing with the dull thud of leather boots upon wood and stone as his armor and weapons were suddenly illuminated in a flash of lightning. Turning in unison, the two men stared at on another. The guard's ice blue eyes were wide in fear now, gazing with dread into pools of hardened grey and purple-black.

The elderly guard stood in stunned silence, hand on the hilt of his blade as all his years of experience and his training had not prepared him for such an event. The cloaked man only smirked mischievously, flashing his teeth and the two sharpened canines on the upper row that sent a chill down the bannerman's spine. Jon let his smile slip away, mouth set into a tight line as his eyes darkened and lost all their warmth. He turned and ran without a second glance towards the opposite side of the ramparts, leaping off the sodden walkway and tucking into a roll as he landed hard on the roof of the barracks below that thankfully led to the inner courtyard before heading up the main road towards the inner keep. Jon used the momentum to keep going, knowing that as soon as the alarm sounded out every guard in Winterfell would be after his hide.

A wolfish grin spread across his lips, excitement drumming within his spirit like a battered drum. This was going to be fun.

Eddard Stark had been very near to retiring to bed for the night, his body weary from the stress and long events of the day as he sat in his chambers before the raging fire. The heat seeped into his limbs as his muscles relaxed and sleep seemed near. Even now the soft weight and presence of his wife sunk into the bed beckoned to him, and Ned was more than prepared to answer the call for the night. When out of nowhere, the sound of raised voices and clattering iron rang through the halls of the black keep. Ned shifted his gaze to his chamber doors in confusion as Catelyn rose to sit beside him with the covers brought to her chest, both unaware that the rest of their family had been woken up by the noise and were clamoring to reach him from their own rooms on the same floor of the keep.

That was quickly settled when Robb Stark, the Heir to Winterfell and the future Warden of the North arrived first with his younger siblings trailing behind him. Robb was also, to Ned's surprise, carrying little Rickon in his arms; the young lad's brows furrowed in confusion as the little boy laid his tired head atop his big brother's shoulder.

"Father," Robb said urgently, causing Ned to turn his head sharply to regard his eldest son. "What's going on?" the young man asked in confusion, a sentiment shared by the rest of the Stark children as they drew nearer to the two men, falling into place shoulder to shoulder behind their big brother. Sansa however seemed less than pleased to do so, frustrated at having her beauty sleep disturbed at such an ungodly hour.

Ned regarded each of his children coolly, eyes narrowed in thought as the sounds from earlier drew near.

"I don't know my son," he soon admitted with a soft sigh, moving to stand in front of his family whilst reaching for the sword lain atop the table a few feet away. "But I promise you, I will discover the source of this madness as soon as I can," he swore, satisfied at seeing the slight sag of relief in his children's frames.

Voices could now be heard beyond the great wooden doors that led to the Lord Stark's room, growing louder and louder as they bounced along the stone walls with a faint echo that was steadily amplified by the smooth stone of the ancient castle. Words, no longer the dark mumble of dampened wood reached the families keen and wary ears.

"You best have a bloody good reason for disturbing the Lord at such an hour!" one cried out in indignation, the voice raspy and scratched with a deep baritone. Ser Deran if Lord Stark remembered correctly, one of his finest from the Rebellion days. Another voice answered the first, the speaker no doubt closer to boyhood than his much older counterpart.

"If you would let me pass without having half the guards trailing our every step then perhaps I might be able to deliver the message to him with greater haste!" the speaker shot back, tone livid and sharp as Ser Deran seemed to mull over the speakers words.

"That's one of the new Keep soldiers, Bann Wilder." Sansa murmured into her brother Robb's ear; unaware that her father had caught the faint whispers escaping her lips. The name set Ned's face into a deep scowl. Bann was supposed to be manning the gates alongside Dregor until daybreak. For what purpose would the man desert his post to come here of all places?

Ned soon received his answer as the alarm sounded out with a furious zeal, the heavy bell echoing all through the castle walls as each person within froze in shock at the sound.

The doors burst open as Bann strode forth, armor dripping with rain and his boots coated in mud from his trip across the yards into the Keep. Bann was for a word, in many of the Northerners opinion, ordinary. Short cropped brown hair the texture of straw rested upon his lightly round head, his eyes a dull blue, coupled with features neither ugly nor outlandishly handsome. Pale skin free of scars and marks of age dominated his features, his chin smooth and free of any indications signalling the ascent to manhood. The boy upon seeing Ned and his family bowed deeply at the waist, as more guards entered behind him and stood at the ready beside the doors.

"My lord, forgive me for interrupting your evening; but Ser Dregor thought it best you learn of the man cloaked in black prowling at our gates," he said quickly, face flushed from lack of air and no doubt the fatigue acquired from running in the heavy chain armor all the way from the outer wall. Another man, much broader in frame and a head taller moved to the boy's right. His body covered from head to foot in plate armor, marked by battle and time which clanged upon the stone floor with each step. His helm covered his face as he bowed low and moved to stand beside the Warden of the North.

"Forgive me m'lord, but it seems that there is more to this than it seems," the armored man said, his voice now identifying him as Ser Deran. Deran soon relieved himself of the helm, looking towards the other guards while clasping the hilt of his blade. He swiftly moved aside to present the open hall for the Lord, his dark brown eyes searching as his greying hair fell to his neck in sweated clumps. "For as you can plainly hear how the bell now tolls. And I feel perhaps our cloaked man is behind it."

Ned said not a word, remaining silent as he shifted his gaze to the fire, his profile captured in the light and revealing not but shadows to those watching him.

Ser Deran shifted uneasily from foot to foot as more time passed and the bell continued to toll, gently placing the helm aside and peering at his Lord in confusion. He made to move forward when Ned's next words shattered the tense silence around them.

"Gather a group of your five best and meet in the main hall, I will be there shortly," Ned ordered stiffly, his voice and posture brokering no argument from his men. Ser Deran seemed torn, particularly under the Lady Catelyn's scrutiny, but knew it was a battle he could not win. Not with the Quiet Wolf.

Bowing his head, Deran saluted crisply; pressing a closed fist over his heart and swiftly left the room, the rest of the guards following after to take up positions outside in the hall. Ned wasted not a moment more, moving about and gathering his armor and sword, blatantly ignoring the thunderstruck looks of his wife and the worried gazes of his children. He quickly donned a light leather jerkin, knowing his experience and guard detail would provide better protection against a foolhardy assassin than any plate or mail.

Turning to his family, Ned strode forward and clasped Robb's shoulders, the younger man's eyes pleading to go with him. Ned leaned down to better look at his son eye-to-eye, gently laying a hand atop Rickon's head as the other squeezed Robb's shoulder.

"They are under you care until I return," Ned said lowly, unhindered by Robb's widened eyes and Rickon's glazed and tired stare. Ned then gently held Robb in place as he spoke to him. "Do you understand?" Ned asked quietly, his eyes calm and focused as stone grey bored unflinchingly into light ice-blue.

Robb stayed silent, being utterly thunderstruck until his shock was replaced by cold and unflinching resolve. He tilted his head back, confidently meeting his father's eyes and nodding slowly. "I promise no harm will come to them," the Young Wolf swore, voice steady and hard as Valyrian steel. The young man's honesty too layered atop the words like a gentle silk, setting the aged Lord at ease.

Ned smiled lightly as he patted Rickon's head and stepped back and headed for the doors. His parting words having carried throughout the room. "Be safe my son."

While in the castle bowels, Ser Deran and Bann Wilder made their way to the barracks, their feet falling in tandem as the torchlight guided them. Bann seemed uneasy to the aged knight's eyes, his hands fidgeting with the folds of his leather cloak that he had placed overtop the mail a few moments ago.

"You alright lad?" Deran asked gently laying a hand atop the younger man's shoulders so as not to startle him. Bann said not a word, until he stopped to slowly turn with a wicked smile gracing his lips. The sight alone having sent a feeling of dread down the aged knight's spine.

"Never better," Bann whispered breathily, until he drew a silver dagger and swiftly rammed it through the elder knight's eye socket. Rushing to clamp a hand over the dying knight's open mouth the two tumbled to the floor with a great bang. Deran's screams reached no friendly ear as the group of guards that had accompanied them watched in silence, cruel smirks dancing upon their own lips as the knight felt his life slipping away. Rolling in a mass of plate and leather, Bann struggled against the mighty Deran tirelessly, panting harshly as the dying warrior thrashed and tried desperately to kill the traitor in his last conscious thoughts. A few seconds more ended with Bann receiving a plate enclosed fist to the side of his head, as Ser Deran simply stopped cold; his gauntlet clad hands crashing against the stone floor. A rattling gurgle escaped his throat as his brown eyes dimmed, blood pooling around his head that only continued to grow.

Bann wilder only struggled for breath as he rose to his feet, wiping the blood stained dagger on the inside of Deran's cloak before sheathing it within his shirt. Gently wiping his hand across the side of his head, warm and slick blood stained his fingers a stark crimson. Snorting in disgust, Bann tore a section off Deran's cloak and cleaned himself of the blood, hoping the dark hair would mask the wound for now. Looking at the guards, he nodded as they made their way to the barracks, a single sentence escaping their lips in unison with utter devotion and glee.

"All Hail King Viserys!" they cried as they planned the next stage of their plan.

All of them unaware of the shadowed figure outside the little window, hood drawn up as he glared after the murderer. Jon clenched his teeth as his armored hands creaked from the force, utterly furious as he leapt up and followed from the roof of the hall the assassin's had run down.

"Like hell you'll get away from me you bastards!" Our young hero snarled, memories of practicing his sword work with Deran as a child and coming to the aged man for advice when Jon was trying to give his father his space as a child having flashed before his eyes. Worse still, Jon knew that name, and the danger his father was in because of it.

Jon stared ahead, the bracer on his arms growing heavy as his hands flexed, ready to unleash his justice upon the assassins. Shifting his gaze into the stormy skies, rain plastered Jon's face as his eyes narrowed in anger.

"Even in death," he muttered darkly, hands clenched and a growl escaping his throat. "You still plague my family like a shadow you heartless son of a bitch." He proclaimed morbidly, hoping he wasn't too late to end this plot before it took all he had left in the world.

Eddard Stark stood within the main entrance hall in silence, his leather jerkin hidden beneath a leather cloak, gazing out into the stormy night as he waited for Ser Deran and his men. The sound of clattering armored feet soon reached his ears as Ned turned to the side passageway, ease slipping into his mind as he waited for Deran to cross the threshold. However… It was not Deran who walked through the door. Rather it was young Bann Wilder, leading a group of eight men behind him. Each armed to the teeth in their armor and weapons. Their faces but blank masks of indifference as they looked upon the now weary Lord Stark. Ned felt the hairs on the back of his neck grow tall as he looked at the group, instincts flashing in warning as he slowly moved to place his back to the stone wall, firmly grasping the hilt of his sword.

"What is the meaning of this Wilder?" Ned demanded, eyes fixed on the young man who smiled wickedly at him. "Where is Ser Deran?!"

Bann only laughed, gently playing with a nine-inch dagger in his left hand that gleamed in the light of the fire. Walking around the room, Bann only smirked as the guards aimed their blades and pikes at the Lord of Winterfell, whose back was pressed against the wall.

"Ser Deran has been..." Bann paused as he gently moved the knife to move across his throat in a slashing motion, the glint of insanity alight in his blue eyes. "Disposed of m'lord. A shame really." Bann said a faux remorseful look overtaking the mask of the insane murderer. The twisted man fixed Ned with a pointed look as he moved to stand directly in front of his false Lord. "He had such potential as well, but alas," "Bann remarked with a shrug. "His loyalty was not to be so easily bought."

Ned felt cold fury surge within him, his calculative mindset shattered like splintered ice as his inner beast took hold. Hot rage and thirst for blood at the slaughter of one of his best and most trustworthy added only fuel to the mounting pyre as Ned drew his blade, the light of the fire glinting off the iron sword as if the blade gained its master's wicked urge. Brandishing it towards the assassins, Ned spoke coldly, his words sharp as ice and delivered with the cool confidence of an experienced warrior.

"I hope you picked a proper site for your grave traitor. For that is the only decent thing I promise to do once I leave your head from its shoulders and execute those who follow you," Ned swore, unafraid as he tossed the cloak aside and letting it fall to the floor behind him. The crack of thunder echoed through the great hall as lightning flashed, illuminating a figure standing tall behind the beautiful stained glass window above them that was unnoticed by the eight men below.

Bann regarded the older man with a grudging respect, motioning for the traitorous guards to close in and end the man's life. And as Ned readied for battle, the unthinkable occurred.

The stain glass window adorning the wall above Ned shattered; its colorful shards' raining down upon the assassins and stone floors. A lone figure sheathed in black fell from the stormy night, landing before the Lord with his hood drawn up and his body hidden by a heavy cloak.

The would be assassins stumbled back from the surprise appearance of this strange being, their weapons held defensively as they regarded this new quarry with suspicion and unease. Bann, ill prepared for the interference of such a being became outraged, the dagger held firmly in his hand as he cursed the newcomer to the pits of the nether world. Glaring at his cohorts, he yelled hoarsely, uncaring that they might be discovered.

"Don't stand there you simpletons!" he screamed, pointing a trembling hand at the Lord Stark and hooded man. "Kill them both!"

The guards only shrugged in response as two of their number charged forth, brandishing their swords wildly as they neared the hooded man.

The tall black cloaked man only lifted his head ever so slightly, a small smirk adorning his lips as he flexed his wrists. And from his actions, a telltale sound of steel sliding from a sheath echoed out as he darted forward and slammed his hands flat against his two aggressors throats. Their bodies locked in place, gurgles all that escaped them as blood bloomed from their necks. Slowly they collapsed to the floor and their weapons clashed with the sharp ring of steel on stone. Revealing to all twin, almost an inch and a quarter width blades a foot in length coming from the man's wrists. Coated from tip to the base in rivers of fresh, warm blood. Slowly lowering his arms, the figure huffed at the rest in disdain as he watched his opponents shuffle uncomfortably at the sight of what he had done as the twin blades retracted back into his bracers.

His cloak opened to reveal intricate leather armor of dark grey and black, lain with etchings of fine steel that gleamed from the fire. His gloved hands were held down and out to his sides, the cloak falling slowly to rest upon the floor to show a figure dressed for war as his armor glinted harshly in the light. Dark grey clothes of finest cotton rested underneath the armor, a bastard sword sheathed at his hip that swung free beside a strange dagger of purest black holstered near his ribs. A crossbow was slung at his lower back, with the tattered hood of his robes still able to hide his features from view. Anger swept through the attackers, each charging to slay the man who dared to defy them and to avenge their fellow conspirators.

The leader lunged with his pike, a smile wicked and fowl gracing his lips as cruel laughter exited his throat. Thinking that the stranger was doomed, ready to be run through by the weapon held in his hands. Instead, much to everyone's utter disbelief, the cloaked man merely twisted to the side at the last possible moment; bringing his left arm up, over, and down while simultaneously raising the right to shatter the wooden neck of the weapon. The sound of tempered iron hitting the stone next to his foot seemed to act as a signal for the man, who ducked down and grasped the shattered pike head. He lashed out to his left and threw it hard, watching with disinterest as it lanced through the air with the grace of an arrow... Directly into the open mouth of the nearest guard. The spray of blood as it exited the man's neck and severed his cerebral column staining the floors and tapestries of House Stark with steaming ruby. The man was dead before he hit the floor.

Capitalizing on the other men's shock and thunderstruck horror, the hooded warrior surged forth with renewed strength. Drawing his sword while he simultaneously released the small blade in his left bracer he raised his sword high and struck. Slicing the man still clutching the severed wooden pole of his pike from neck to hip in one clean swing. While his wrist blade severed the jugular of the man standing to his left, nearly decapitating him as he followed up with a swift elbow to the temple. Knocking the struggling and wheezing man to the floor with the force of a hammer as he gasped for breath. While his partner died in utter agony, desperately trying to keep his organs intact with his last moments as the wooden pole fell from his blood soaked fingers to clatter on the floor below. The rest of the traitors, now numbering three gazed at their attacker warily.

Ned Stark was utterly perplexed and shocked at the skill and efficiency behind the newcomer's attacks. Each of them designed to debilitate and capitalize on any openings the attacker may perceive in the aggressor's advance. Yet for all his awe and shocked stupor, Ned noticed that something was… Uncomfortably familiar about the man. A feeling that perplexed Ned to no end, for the only other to bring such a feeling to him had died long ago at the Trident. Bann, having it seemed soiled his breeches, cried out in horror at the beast which had quickly disposed of some of his best men in a matter of seconds.

"Who are you foul demon!" he cried out as the doors leading into the hall crashed open with a deafening bang. Turning in stunned silence, Bann was horrified at the sight that greeted him. The young Robb Stark, followed by his family having arrived with a regiment of guards, who had retrieved them after having discovered the cold corpse of Ser Deran only minutes earlier. Robb wasted no time and looked at the traitors that still remained, a sword in hand as he pointed it towards his targets.

"Seize them all and take them to the dungeons for questioning," he ordered without a shred of hesitation. His voice was frosty and like shards of grinding ice as he glared at Bann in utter loathing and bared his teeth in a wicked snarl. The guards wore masks of indifference at the sight of the traitors, yet their actions conveyed deep anger at the attempt against their Lord's life. They moved swiftly to comply, their weapons drawn… When the hooded man spoke, shocking everyone as he did. For it was a voice they all recognized, and thought never to hear from again.

Smirking, the strange man looked directly at Robb, dark grey eyes shrouded by black bangs meeting ice blue as Robb felt his heart stop for a single beat, and the very breath leave his lungs.

"While I appreciate the sentiment brother, I ask that you leave the traitors to me," the man said, slowly reaching up and lowering his hood. Revealing to all present a head of inky black curls of shoulder length, which were coupled with a neatly trimmed beard and a hard, unforgiving expression fixated solely upon the trembling Bann Wilder.

A cry rang out through the hall as the Stark children felt their eyes widen at the sight of their wayward brother. The brother who had vanished into the night five years ago and they dreaded to be dead and gone.

"Jon!" they cried out in surprise, the expressions they carried on their faces a mixture of shock and relief. Little Rickon, in all his excitement and full of joy coupled with the attention span of a little seven-year old tried to run to his big brother immediately; only to be stopped by Sansa in his tracks, as the young woman was overcome with shock at seeing her now rather dashing half-brother.

Jon felt the mask slip away to be replaced by a light smile as he regarded his siblings. However he knew that any questions and their reunions best wait until the real threat had been dealt with. So giving a nod of his head, Jon moved to place himself between the Stark family and the traitors, all while making sure that his enemies remained within his line of sight so as not to surprise him.

Ned only stood dumbfounded, collapsing against the stone wall as he slowly sank to his knees. Tears came to his eyes for the first time in nearly twenty years as he looked upon the boy who had fled Winterfell five years past. Yet Ned with a sense of sadness coupled with pride saw not the boy who had left so many years ago, bitter and angry at the world. No, Ned saw a man who looked fit for war... Ready to defend his family with all that he had.

"Jon," he whispered gently in relief and surprise.

Bann Wilder felt his eyes widen in terror, a message from Lord Viserys sent shortly before his demise thundering through his ears like a drum as he scampered backwards, falling to the floor as his boot slipped in the still warm blood of his companions. He clawed at the stone floor, desperately trying to put distance between himself and the black armored Jon Snow.

Bann scampered all the way to the fireplace, spinning sharply as he saw the man's cold eyes fixed solely upon him. Bann lifted his arm, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with blood as he pointed a trembling finger at Jon. Fear, so true and cold was clear in the man's eyes that it deeply unnerved those watching for reasons they could not begin to fathom. Yet as they followed the trembling man's gaze, each wondered as to why Wilder seemed to fear Jon so. They needn't wait long, for Bann at that moment uttered his very last words.

"It's you," the traitor cried, his eyes wide as a dinner plate and very near frothing at the mouth. "The Black Wolf, the man who slew His Grace Viserys Targaryen!" Bann accused Jon, unaware of the crowd's reaction to such news. "The most feared assassin in all the lands of Essos and Westeros!"

Jon merely said nothing as the remaining conspirators quickly surrendered, knowing that they stood no chance against the man standing before them. The spectators merely gaped or gasped as they gazed upon Jon. All that came to an end however as Jon slowly began to move forward, propping his sword upon his pauldron as the hidden blade gleamed with a menacing light from the blood stained floor and the flash of lightning outside the shattered window. Rain water pooled at the young warrior's feet, washing away the steaming blood from his fallen foes that clung to his boots.

The soft splash of boot into water echoed in the din of the hall as Jon neared his true target like a specter of Death. Bann only whimpered, praying to the gods for a swift death. Ever so slowly Jon spoke, his voice ringing loud and clear in the stunned silence of the hall.

"You claim he was a King?" Jon asked coldly, eyes hard as Northern rock as memories of his time across the Narrow Sea came to life before his eyes. Images of a beautiful woman, with silvery hair and bright amethyst eyes staring back at him with joy and love. Yet those memories were tarnished by what came next, of a man with the same gentle features snarling in disgust until he screamed out in fear, as molten gold that bubbled and roiled was poured upon his head.

Jon in his anger began to snarl, the sound so menacing that it caused many within the hall to step back in fear, save for his siblings and the Lord Stark. Jon glared with utter loathing at Bann, slowly lowering his smoke colored blade to rest against the stone floor and grind against its ancient and worn surface. Sparks flew as he drew near, the sound of steel upon stone shrieking through the crowded hall. Bann stayed as he was, terrified as his eyes danced from Jon's face to the wicked Valyrian blade at his side.

"What King beats an innocent girl and torments his own flesh and blood for years on end!? What King sells his own sister to be raped by a man old enough to be her father every night! What King sits and mocks the world around him when he himself is nothing but a coward and unworthy of the very air he breathes!" Jon demanded hotly, eyes wild and flashing to a stark and vivid violet in the firelight. "I can tell you even now I wished I had not ended his life so quickly, if only to prolong his suffering. Something he rightly deserved!" Jon snarled as Bann only whimpered in response. Leaning down, Jon grabbed the front of Bann's cloak and savagely hauled the sniveling coward to his feet, using one arm to suspend the little bastard afloat as Jon aimed his sword to rest tip first at Bann's jugular.

Shaking the terrified man and horrifying the gaping crowd, Jon lowered Bann to eye level and growled, eyes flashing to an iridescent ice blue as frost seemed to form where his hand held Bann aloft.

"Tell me one good reason," Jon ordered firmly, his voice lowering into a harsh, dark tone. "Why I shouldn't just run my blade straight out the back of your skull, right here and now?" His eyes narrowed as he tightened his grip, a small part of him reveling in the whimpers and blubbering slurs that choked out from Bann's throat.

Ned unsteadily rose to his feet, gazing at Jon warily as he moved across the rain-soaked floor to stand behind him. Reaching out, Ned placed his hand atop Jon's shoulder, feeling the boy tense under his touch for a split moment until he realized it was only Ned.

"Let him go Jon," Ned pleaded, either ignoring or not seeing the slowly melting ice on Bann's collar. "He speaks of nothing but a twisted delusion centered on a dethroned, ignorant child." Jon seemed to ignore him, so Ned rose to his full height and tightened his grip on Jon's shoulder, getting the young man to finally turn and look at him.

Ned stared into the harsh grey eyes, their light a burning pyre of defiance and retribution, and growled in response to the perceived challenge, the Alpha of the pack bringing one of the more rowdy whelps to heel. "Put. Him. Down. Jon."

Jon showed nothing upon his face as he held his lord father's gaze. To the spectators, Jon seemed ready to ignore the obvious command. When, to their relief the anger and wrath vanished like the frost upon the morning grass in the young man's eyes as he gave Ned a stiff, barely noticeable nod.

Sighing through clenched teeth, Jon released Bann who curled into a ball in utter terror as tears streamed down his face. Slowly Jon lowered the blade, the tip coming to rest against the stone floor as the armored man clasped it in both hands. Just as his father did when giving out the King's justice to those who broke the laws of the North and the Realms. Jon spoke then, his voice not the warrior seen but a few moments ago... But that of a man in desperate need of rest and closure.

Jon bowed his head, his words echoing around the hall as the storm came to an end, revealing the pure night sky from the shattered window in all its glory. "In the name of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Descendant of the First Men and as the son of the man you tried to kill, I hereby sentence you Bann Wilder... To death," he decreed, moving across the room to then kick a wooden bench across the floor with a great clatter, letting it fall with a great crash to rest level with Bann's chest posed by the fire.

Bann Wilder stayed silent as he slowly moved to his knees and lowered his head, accepting his fate. Closing his eyes as Jon moved to the left Bann offered no final words and no last thoughts, only waiting for the swing of the sword.

Jon never hesitated as he drew the sword on high in a clean arc… Before bringing it down in single cut as fire and blood shone upon its black blade. The only thing that remained in the hall that night... Was the sound of Bann Wilder's head hitting the stone floor with a great thud, as blood stained the floors from his limp body not a few feet away.

The next morning found many of the people of Winterfell wary as they travelled the muddy roads in great packs, news of the attempt on the Lord Stark's life and the return of his bastard son spreading like wildfire. The fairest of women, aged ten and seven and yet older still listened with great interest as the guards and maids regaled them with the story of how the bastard son had descended from the blackened and tumultuous skies like a vengeful shade, blades bared and ready to defend his father to his last breath. How he suffered not a wound and with the greatest of ease and grace slew those who sought to throw Winterfell into chaos in the name of the dead Beggar King.

Many had also heard from both their fathers and friends who worked within the keep of how the bastard had grown to look like a younger version of his father as well. Having become as handsome as the knights of old; or so some of the maids claimed.

Jon himself cared not for any of these ridiculous tales as he sat atop the thatched roof of Mikken's shop, gently laying a bag of gold dragons into his belt as the ring of the hammer upon the great anvil echoed beneath him. His hood had been drawn up and shielded his face from the biting wind, the finely sharpened dragonglass dagger he possessed being thrown from hand to hand in elegant arcs before him. The obsidian blade glinting in the morning sun as the young warrior gazed out among the crowds with a cold look in his eyes. A smirk suddenly found its way to his lips as he spoke up, seemingly to thin air.

"You have to be just a little quieter than that to sneak up on me little brother," he said pointedly, only to hear a groan of defeat and the shift of stone and shingle as his younger brother Bran moved to sit next to him. Bran sat heavily with a huff, wrapping his arms around bent knees as he fixed his gaze forward like his brother. Jon gave the boy a sidelong look and waited for Bran to speak, knowing that the younger boy would not seek him out this early without reason. However when none such reason came, Jon was content to sit in blessed silence until Bran felt ready to speak. If there was one thing Jon prided himself on, it was the patience he had achieved during his time travelling the lands. Which at its best he supposed, was second to none.

The two remained still in the peaceful silence, the sporadic flutter of Jon's furs and hood all that could be heard by the two as the sun continued to rise above them. After waiting a few minutes longer, Jon turned his head ever so slightly to look at Bran silently, as the younger boy continued to gaze out into empty skies. The pale-blue eyes of House Tully that all but one of the true born Stark children had inherited now narrowed and focused. Gently coughing to get his brother's attention, Jon nearly laughed aloud at seeing Bran sputter and flush with heat at being caught daydreaming so easily.

"Interesting thoughts to share with me Bran?" the older boy asked, the hood hiding his mirth filled eyes from view. Leaving naught but his smirking mouth free to the light of day and Bran's scrutiny.

Bran shook his head stiffly, the long locks of dark auburn flying in a brutal wind that swept the land in a single beat of the heart. "Father has requested we travel with him on an errand," the boy explained without giving Jon a single glance. "A man of the Watch was caught by the guards this morning." Bran said, unable to notice the ever so slight tensing of Jon's body at the words. "A deserter if what I learned from Robb and Theon Greyjoy is true," the boy explained with a shrug, the warm and thick furs hiding the gesture almost completely from Jon's keen eyes.

Jon however said nothing, as he stilled his body and mind while latching on to the brief flickers of surprise and shock that were quick to yield to his will. A feeling of unease settled in his gut as dark grey eyes gazed out towards the horizon, narrowed and sharp. But Jon stood nonetheless, sheathing the dragonglass without a second glance and striding to the edge of the roof with determined strides while his boots remained silent upon the shingle and stone.

Turning back to glance over his shoulder Jon gave Bran a brief smile before tilting his head towards the stables, a small yet cocky grin on his lips. "Best not to keep the Lord Stark waiting then," he said with a small chuckle. Jon then sprinted for the edge of the roof without a word. Bran watched horrified as his brother jumped, an eagle's cry shattering the silent din of Winterfell as Jon fell to the earth and landed in a bale of hay down below.

The group of men travelled on horseback but an hour to reach the ancient stone square from which their ancestors, the First Men had brought down the Northern King's justice to those deserving of it in front of their heart tree. A sacred place to the Stark family for centuries that Bran had not seen until this day, with the skies cloaked in grey and black clouds as harsh cold winds swept across the knotted hills and coarse grass. Summer was receding faster than ever, and soon enough the Words of House Stark would come to pass.

Bran remained blissfully ignorant of the significance pertaining to the clouds and the wind as he sat astride his faithful pony, a fitting beast for a boy of ten years. The young boy looking about in silent wonder and awe at the place as old as Westeros itself slowly came into view. Bran soon pulled the cloak and furs adorning his body tighter still as a harsh wind blew past, unbelieving of how his elder brother Jon could sit so still in nothing but his armor and cotton robes in peace. Jon in fact had his hood down and the black stallion he rode trotting along at a leisured pace, his face blank as Ned lead the party onward. Each man of the party, including Lord Eddard Stark seemed to feel the biting chill of the wind, but each were as surprised as Bran that Jon himself seemed unaffected. Theon Greyjoy, the ward of Lord Stark and heir to the seat on the Iron Islands was quick to notice this little fact as well, and the first to give word to each man's thoughts.

"By the gods and all below them Snow, how in the hells do you sit there as if we aren't close to a frozen grave?" the boy asked, his dark hair whipping about as they neared the heart tree. His normally cocky grin replaced by a look of frustration and unease as Theon closed the black and gold cloak adorned by his own family sigil closer to him. Jon only smirked as Theon did, his eyes betraying his mirth and joy at a jest no man but himself could hear and know.

Jon looked at Theon in mock pity, his words simple and swift. "I sit here Greyjoy, in such obvious ease since I have tasted colder winds and far harsher lands than this," Jon explained, catching the attention of the bannermen and even the almost undetectable tilt of Ned's head as he spoke. The banners of House Stark, a grey direwolf running across an ice-white field flowing above them. "Once you have tasted the lands beyond the Wall and stood atop its frozen walks, then my answers you will have Greyjoy."

Each man was silent after that, all perplexed and unsettled by the seemingly calm and unflinching countenance of the Bastard of Winterfell. Yet each also knew of the other name Jon had served under these last five years, and his feats across Westeros and beyond the Narrow Sea. The Black Wolf, a famed sellsword of no family or sigil. Known only to those not worthy of his expensive talents by his dragonglass dagger, twin wrist blades along with his armor of black and grey.

Made famous for the murder of Viserys Targaryen and all those loyal to the Mad King's son in their beds, leaving not but the children and the women alive. From that night on the Wolf had lived in infamy, having earned King Robert's respect for having slain the, "Gods forsaken and bastard of a Beggar King."

Not to say that Jon's actions in slaying the traitor under the service of the now dead Targaryen heir had not garnered much attention back home. The ease with which he had fought had made Robb privately thankful that he had not dueled Jon in years. Bran however was utterly enthralled at seeing the skill his brother possessed to possibly rival the knights of old. Yet both boys were unafraid, nor really bothered at having seen their brother kill. Robb had seen the justice of the King lain out before numerous times in his life, while Bran knew that his elder brothers were trained to fight, and if the situation called for it... Kill.

It was only a simple matter of remembering that it was Jon underneath the cold mask. Their brother, who would sooner take his own life then raise his blade against Winterfell and its people.

The party was however broken from their inner thoughts as they arrived at the sacred tree, the guardsmen attending to the deserter standing tall as their Lord rode towards them. Bran focused on the prisoner, unnerved as he saw the man hung from the wall by hand and foot. He looked old and thin to Bran's eyes, no taller than Robb if he had to guess.

Only Bran then noticed how Jon focused solely on the deserter, his eyes masked and blank as ice, sharp and flaring to a stormy grey. Bran slowly turned to see his father dismount, Robb moving to rest beside the younger Stark as Jon moved to Bran's left. Ned moved forward and motioned for the guards to bring forth the man cloaked in black. His furs were greasy and ragged with his ears and a finger having been lost to frostbite. His eyes were wild and unfocused, darting across all their faces until the light of sanity returned to him as he settled on Jon.

The man once cut free fell to his knees and pressed his head against the solid earth, his hands crossed and flat on the grass.

"Forgive me Lord Snow, for forsaking my duty to you and the Watch." The man said, unmindful as the rest of those gathered looked between the kneeling man and Jon Snow in bewilderment. Jon said nothing, his face blank and under what Bran then deemed as the face of the Black Wolf. The same as their father, whose face now was not of their loving father. But of the Warden of the North Eddard Stark; the Lord and Ruler of Winterfell. Eddard said nothing as well, only gesturing for the guards to lift the man and drag him to the tree. Raising his left hand, Theon strode forth revealing a simple cross shaped hilt, bound in fine leather and holding it fast for the Lord of Winterfell.

Bran gazed at the hilt of the sword in wonder, "Ice," it was called. The blade made of spell-forged Valyrian steel wielded only by the hand of the Lord Stark. In a great flourish, Ned unsheathed the blade, letting it fall to rest tip first into the ground. Its blade was the color of black-grey smoke, and as wide as a man's hand; its height greater than even Bran. Ned clasped his hands upon the pommel, resting his head on his intertwined hands, eyes closed as the deserter rested his head down and released a shaky breath.

Jon moved forward and leaned down to whisper in Bran's ear, a hand firm upon the boy's shoulders in a comforting gesture. "Hold the pony fast Bran," he said with his eyes focused on their father's back. "But do not look away. Father will know if you do."

Ned stepped forward then and said, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

He lifted the blade high and, in a single swing brought it down in a flash of steel as the deserter's head flew through the air to land on the hill. His still warm blood steaming in the cold winds as his head came to rest by Theon's horse. Theon dismounted with a sneer, walking forward with a cold laugh escaping his throat as he placed his boot atop the head and kicked it away.

"Ass," Jon muttered darkly as he glared at Theon's retreating back, leaning back as he gently squeezed Bran's shoulder. "You did well, Bran, far better than I or Robb did our first time seeing a man die," he admitted quietly as he moved the horse to follow their father, Robb not far behind. Bran moved to follow them and moved ahead of the party, his pony struggling to keep up with Robb's and Jon's larger and more powerful war horses. Robb stood tall in the saddle, broad and strong with the same fair-skin, auburn hair and blue eyes of the Tully family. While Jon could not be or look more different than his elder brother. He was lean of build with black hair and grey eyes that hardened to a soulless purple-black and with what Bran had seen last night, he was far more graceful and quick then Robb could ever be.

"The deserter died well," Robb said breaking the silence between the brothers. He looked at Jon, seeming to ignore Bran a little as the younger Stark looked at Jon as well. "He had bravery even to meet his end." Jon scoffed then, his hood now drawn up and shielding his face from view. Robb glanced at Jon, his brows furrowed in confusion as Bran too mirrored the Young Wolf's expression.

"It was not bravery dear brother, but fear that took his life," Jon said solemnly his hands gently flicking the reins as they trotted over the small bridge that ran across the river running through the valley. Suddenly Jon stopped. His hands at his sides and his head shifting from left to right. Robb cautiously moved closer, knowing that if something had garnered his brother's attention then perhaps it best be prepared for the worst.

"Jon?" the heir to the North asked lowly, gently moving his hand to rest on the iron sword at his hip. Bran moved closer as well, fear slowly creeping into the pit of his stomach as he quickly grabbed the hilt of a small dagger his father had gifted him with on his last name day.

Neither brother was suitably prepared for when Jon suddenly burst forth, his stallion launching forward and approaching a forest near the river. His black clothes vanishing into shadow as he entered the trees. Robb turned sharply towards Bran, his eyes alight in worry as he raced after his fool of his brother.

"Bran go and get father, I'm going after the bloody fool," he snarled, the horses echoing cry catching the attention of Eddard and the bannermen thirty yards away. Each seeing the lack of one Jon Snow and the fleeing back of their Lord's eldest son into the dark woods. Ned was the most affected, a feeling of dread filling his gut as he watched his son dart into the wood, old tales of his own childhood rearing their head of beasts and bears prowling the forests that grew to the size of a small cabin.

Ned snapped the reigns, his own horse, and a faithful grey mare from his campaign days rearing up and darting towards the still and silent Bran. The pounding of hooves on stone echoed in Ned's ears as fear settled in his heart. He would not lose Jon again, not after getting him back for less than a day. However it seemed all for naught, as Robb soon burst forth from the brush of the woods, his eyes alight not in fear or worry but excitement and joy.

This alone was enough to settle both Ned and Bran's worries as Ned soon slowed to a steady trot and stopped beside the young Bran. Father and son watching as Robb soon slowed to a stop before them, a grin stretched across his lips with joy alight in his blue eyes.

"Father Come quick, you have to see this!" Robb said breathlessly, his hair riffled and thrown back from riding through the wood at such speed. Bran and Ned only shared a glance before the Quiet Wolf led his two sons into the wood, a feeling of unease settling in his gut.

The three Starks soon moved through the green wood, steam rising off the hot springs within as Robb directed them down the path he had taken. And after a few minutes ride, the three came upon Jon standing next to a great beast, his hood down and hand on his hip as he glanced down at something beside the large grey furred shape. Ned brought his horse to a halt and slowly dismounted, hand on the hilt of Ice as he drew near, unbelieving of seeing the beast for what it was. And it stunned the man more than words could describe.

"Direwolf," Ned murmured, his hand slowly falling to rest at his side as he slowly leaned down to examine the dead beast in greater detail. A single broken piece of antler was lodged deep into the throat of the direwolf; blood dried and caked onto its fur surrounding the obvious means of demise. However, that was not what drew Ned's eyes. It was the five pups, each no bigger than a few month old pups from the castle. Each varying shades of grey and black, their eyes closed tight and huddled close together for warmth as they struggled to reach their mothers teats. The sound of branches and twigs snapping underfoot reached Ned's ears as his other two sons came to stand beside him, Bran having immediately reached out and plucked up one of the pups into his arms.

Bran stared at the pup in pure adoration and Ned knew that he had a dilemma on his hands. The issue became particularly clear to Ned when Robb too reached out and grabbed the largest of the litter, a dark grey one with a white underbelly and stared at it in wonder and tenderness he had rarely seen in his eldest son. The pups whimpered and yelped, tumbling over each other as they tried to get their mother's last ounces of milk in their hunger. Jon however to Ned's surprise said nothing, only leaning down to gently lift up another of the pups, this one a slinky grey; a bitch if Ned guessed right.

"They shouldn't be south of the Wall," Jon muttered, his brows scrunched together in confusion as he gently lay the pup to the ground. He glanced at his father and Ned shared the same unease he saw reflected in Jon's own grey eyes. This was an omen, but what it could mean either good or bad Ned did not know.

"They don't belong here," Ned said at last, standing tall and moving to take another of the pups. "Better a quick death," he said as he drew a dagger from his cloak.

Jon instead saw the look of fear upon Bran's face and knew he had to act quickly. A compulsion is the closest he could describe to what he said next, to do something good for his younger brother after missing so much over the years.

"Lord Stark." He called out loudly, stopping Ned short as the entire party turned to look at Jon. "There are five pups," the young man said lowly, casting his gaze over towards Robb and Bran for a moment before he looked his father in the eye. Ned saw not but solemn black in those piercing eyes. "You have five children, and the direwolf is the sigil of your house," Jon paused as he gently moved to stand next to Bran and gently laid a hand atop the boy's thin shoulders. "They were meant to have them."

Ned seemed conflicted as he spoke next, his question focused solely upon Jon. "And what of you Jon? Will you not take one of your own?"

Jon said nothing, his eyes only fading to a darker black ringed by amethyst as his voice became far more frigid and clipped. "I'm not a Stark."

Ned grimaced at that comment, his face however remained blank as he nodded stiffly before he turned and looked at Robb and Bran as he passed.

"You will train them yourselves, you will feed them yourselves," he paused and his tone took on a commanding timbre when he said, "And if they die… You will bury them yourselves." Ned clasped his cloak closed once more and strode to the horses, his back turned to his three sons as he sighed and swiftly mounted the grey mare. Bran and Robb both looked at their brother in awe, watching as Jon simply said nothing as he moved to gather up the pups. Robb quickly moved to help, silently laying claim to his own direwolf by taking the large grey one for himself. The largest of the pups was soon joined by two of his siblings, the three of them nestled carefully within Robb's cloak as they chirped and yelped for their mother.

Bran took one that was a mixture of grey and dark brown along with the last one which was flecked in grey and black. The three then moved to the horses to catch up with Ned and the party, when Jon suddenly stopped, a gentle rustle catching his ear as he turned to the left. The brush near the base of the tree having parted to show brightest white. Jon moved as if possessed, his gaze nearly blank as he gently knelt and grabbed the white colored wolf pup. The small beast had its eyes wide open, the entirety of iris and pupil a dark red and yet inherently wise as the two locked gazes. Blood red stared into darkest grey for a mere moment before Jon felt a small smile grace his lips as the pup gently licked his nose and wagged his tail.

"It seems," Jon mused to himself with a grin as the pup slowly pawed at his face gently. "That this one is mine," he said happily as he gently placed the little pup into the fabric of his cotton robes, the beasts little head poking out and gazing all around in an intelligent manner as Jon moved towards his large stallion. Jon then mounted his horse and rode like the wind, his black hood and clothes a speck upon the horizon all the way to Winterfell.

A few weeks after the parties return to Winterfell, final preparations were being put into place for King Robert's arrival; however all noticed the sudden, or in some cases gradual shift to a cheerful demeanor in the Stark children and even the Lord Stark himself. And many could take no fewer than two guesses as to why. Each of the children now being accompanied by a great direwolf, the loyal beasts proud and protective of their masters.

The Beta of the pack was Grey Wind; the strong and true beast of Lord Robb. Lady came next; the most demure and graceful of the wolves for the Lady Sansa, Nymeria; the fiery she-wolf and brawler of the litter for the Lady Arya, Lord Bran's still nameless yet truly and heart-wrenchingly loyal beast, and the young Lord Rickon's newest and indeed closest companion Shaggydog. But none were more noticeable than Jon Snow's white as fresh snow direwolf, which had grown like a foul weed to become larger than his litter mates in nary a few weeks. The quietest and most powerful by far of the lot, Ghost as he was named by Lord Stark's bastard was a great and powerful presence in Winterfell even on his own. The other wolves would circle around and at times seek out the larger wolf should something be troubling their individual wards. Ghost would utter not a sound, only turn his head and find his master no matter where Jon stood. The Alpha of the pack would then only watch as his master vanished into shadow, the individual wolves for the separate Stark children close behind.

But that was not all that brought a change. It was Jon himself that brought the greatest and indeed deeply welcomed change. Lord Stark was out of the Keep far more often than ever before and could often be found training with his sons, including Jon in the yard when he had the time. He smiled far more in the presence of his family and seemed relieved that his wayward bastard son had come back at long last.

Lords Robb, Bran and Rickon were nearly attached to Jon's hip or ear all hours of the day; Robb laughing and talking to his brother as if Jon had never left and often sparring with him. Yet to the people's immense surprise and Robb's own resignation, Jon proved to be a far greater swordsman than his older brother. Often it was Robb on the receiving end of their bouts, with Jon giving instruction as they sparred to correct any missteps made by the lordling as they sparred. Robb had been neither jealous nor angry, only determined to match his younger brother in skill, his brother's legacy and the legends of his feats acting as fuel to the fire.

Young Bran and Rickon were thankful for Jon's teachings and stories of his years outside the castle walls, with Bran learning more effective techniques in order to climb while Rickon became interested in learning how to track and hunt. The two from then on constantly badgered the young man on his adventures, comparing their brother to the knights of old. Jon would merely laugh and begin his tale, often having the young Rickon perched on his shoulders with Bran at his side.

Ladies Arya and Sansa were in the eyes of the people divided on the matter of their brother. Arya was always speaking to Jon and appeared quite happy at seeing someone of the family with the same North like features of their father that the two shared. The Lady Sansa however, while happy at having her brother home safe was torn on the matter. Her personality was close enough to the Lady Catelyn that she did in fact judge and believe Jon to be beneath her for being a bastard. Yet Jon did not seem bothered by this. He seemed to understand the situation placed upon the young girl's shoulders rather well, being the oldest daughter and the prodigy of the Lady Catelyn. Yet Jon talked to her whenever she approached him, treating Sansa with the proper respect that he reserved for the ladies he had met during his journey.

But even Sansa saw the utter loathing her mother possessed for her brother, the Lady Stark's animosity for the young man clear for all of Winterfell to see. She would not speak to the boy, either giving him cold glances and harsh words at every turn, but they seemed to flow off Jon's shoulders like water.

Yet today, a week before King Robert's arrival, things were about to take a turn that none dared to believe. Least of all the man at the very center of it.

Jon walked along the hallowed stone halls of Winterfell, Ghost trotting along at his hip as the young man's mind puzzled over his unexpected summons. He had been in the parlor, carving a wooden direwolf figurine for Sansa, colored the same shade of grey as his sister's direwolf and in deep thought as the carving knife he had borrowed from Mikken flowed across the wood. When he had been suddenly interrupted by Rickon bolting into the room, Shaggydog close behind as the young boy came to rest at Jon's side. The young boy was silent for a time, his breath coming in quick pants and face flushed from running through the halls.

Rickon had managed to gather enough breath to speak as he explained that their father had called for Jon's presence immediately, saying that none could get the Lord Stark to speak as to why he specified for Jon to see him. Jon had gone to his room, donning his signature black and grey leather armor and robes, the hood down for the moment as his black curls fell to partially shield his eyes from view. His weapons were hung at his hips, the hidden blades safely tucked under the leather bracers and grey fur lining. Once he arrived at his father's study, Jon raised a hand and wrapped gently upon the soft pine three times. Ghost made not a sound, only tilting his head at the door then at his master as Ned's voice echoed from within.

"Come in Jon," he said, Jon curious as to why the words seemed to be distant and if he were right… Sad. Gently pushing the door wide, Jon stepped inside, his eyes immediately darting around for any possible escape routes and entrances that he could use to his advantage. An old habit he had picked up chasing the Dothraki horde of Khal Drogo, and when he had finally met her face to face. Yet those were memories and deals made to worry about another time. Right now, he was more focused on his lord father standing by the fire, his cloak and furs gone to be replaced by fine leather as the ancestral sword of House Stark, "Ice," was sheathed and laid across a seemingly comfortable high-backed chair on Ned's right.

The two men said nothing, memories of the last time they both met in this very same room echoing within their minds. Ghost was still silent, only moving to rest by Ned's feet, laying his head over crossed paws as his blood-red eyes bored into the dancing flames of the slowly dying fire.

Jon having grown tired of the silence crossed his arms and moved to lean against his father's desk and asked, "You called for me father?" Jon's eyes bore into Ned's back and saw all. A great tension dominated his father's stance, Ned's shoulders tensed and drawn together with his breath forcibly steady, a technique Jon had seen his father use to calm himself while growing up.

Ned after a time slowly turned; his eyes filled with a silent grief and resignation. Emotions that deeply surprised Jon. For they were not things often expressed by the Warden of the North, if at all in any living thing's company. The two stared each other down, grey meeting grey as Ned sighed, setting his jaw and determination replacing the sad light in his eyes.

Ned motioned his head to the chair across from him by the fire, and Jon, getting the gesture moved silently to sit in the warm chair. The hard oak gleaming in the light reflected off of Jon's armor and weapons as it creaked beneath him. Ned then took his own seat, gently grasping Ice and laying it across his lap, the cross guard glowing from a fresh polish.

"Yes. I did Jon," Ned said, his tone solemn and soft, the gentle tone mixing with the odd crackle from the fire. Ned leaned back into the chair then, his face looking far more solemn and aged than Jon had ever seen. His father's once proudly trimmed black beard was now a mix of white and black, making Ned look far older than his forty years. His face as well was far more gaunt and long then the man who had helped led a Rebellion against the Targaryen Dynasty.

'Her family,' Jon thought morbidly to himself as the image of a beautiful woman with silver hair and bright amethyst eyes appeared before him. Jon was quickly able to break himself from those thoughts and refocused on his father, whose gaze was fixed to the blade at Jon's hip.

"Valyrian Steel," Ned said at last, his hand gently caressing the hilt of his own spell-forged blade. "Although... Not one I am familiar with, particularly that direwolf pommel," he said lowly with a pointed tilt of his head, a sly grin growing on Ned's face as Jon shrugged in response while stifling his own chuckle.

"I don't suppose you would, since it once belonged to the House Mormont before it came into my hands," Jon admitted laying a hand atop the snarling stone wolf head, his thumb tracing the garnet eyes that bled red light from the fires glow. Ned seemed surprised at the response, his eyes now piercing and sharp as he studied the blade.

"The famed Longclaw of Bear Island," he murmured before glancing at Jon. "How did it come to be in your possession?"

"Commander Mormont of the Watch gave it to me for saving his life during my training with Uncle Benjen up at the Wall," Jon explained, slowly drawing the smoke colored blade and letting it shine in the firelight. The keen edge gleaming as it seemed ready for blood. "It is my greatest possession, beside my master's old hidden blades and the cloak you gave me long ago," Jon said as he twirled the blade and gently returned it to its sheath, the keen sound of sharpened steel being drawn echoing around them. Ned said nothing as he continued to gently run his hand along Ice's hilt, the leather worn and strong despite all the Lord Stark's that had wielded it before Ned. It was here that Ned finally approached what he had dreaded telling Jon for so long.

"Jon," Ned said eyes reproachful and kind. "Do you remember the last time we spoke in this very room?" he asked, visibly satisfied at seeing the melancholy expression on Jon's face. For it was that argument five years ago that had made Jon leave the safety of Winterfell's walls and travel the world in search of glory and honor.

"Aye," Jon said firmly, his eyes cast to the fire as Ghost moved to rest his head atop Jon's knee. The young man began to run his hands through the thick and long coat on the great wolf, the white coat now a brilliant orange from the fire's glow. "I was being a right prat wasn't I?" Jon asked jokingly, a small smirk full of mirth lighting up his normally grim features.

Ned shook his head, guilt clear in his eyes as he leaned forward and stared Jon in the eyes. "You had every right to ask me that after so long... And in my haste to protect you my ignorance to your grief I nearly drove you away," the man said guiltily, eyes fading to a dull grey. Ned shook his head as he continued to speak. "Now I fear I may not get another chance to say what I must, lest it die with me." He said gravely, looking all the more akin to a weary and tired old man.

Ned however smoothed his features, eyes hard and determined as Jon felt an aura of strength surround his father. "You asked me, on that night five years ago who your mother is..." Here the Warden of the North paused, gathering his wit and courage to finally relinquish this last secret. Yet as he stared at the man before him, Ned knew that the time wasn't right. He did not know how he knew... He just simply did.

'He can't know... Not yet. I'm so sorry Jon.' Ned thought before he slowly took a steadying breath and regained his composure. Ned then licked his lips before he spoke. "Her name... Was Ashara Dayne." Ned paused here as the words next uttered caught in his throat, the crushing guilt and long since buried grief he had carried causing a single tear to break the cold as stone façade he wore. He closed his eyes and bowed his head in grief as the promise he made years ago echoed in his head.

'Please brother... Protect him... Promise me Ned!' Ned would not condemn Jon to a life shrouded in fear if he could help it.

"And she was the love of my life." Ned choked out, voice grief-stricken and awash with guilt unfathomable as he thought of the woman he had loved, haunted in his dreams by the knowledge that he had been forced to share his life with a woman he had never wanted for his bed... And not with the woman he had desired above all others.

Jon stayed silent as stone; his eyes just as dark and blank as volcanic rock as his bangs obscured his left eye from view. The voice of his late mentor echoed in his mind like a drum beat to the thrum of war.

'I realized long ago that it will take time, that the road ahead is long and shrouded in darkness. It is a road that will not always take me where I wish to go – and I doubt I will live to see it end. But I will travel down it nonetheless. A hard lesson and an even more difficult philosophy to fully understand, but it is crucial in what I am trying to teach you. For I see a great destiny before you Kahòntsi Yoweras, and it saddens me to know that I will not be there to see it to its end. All I can do is help to shape and guide you down the first few steps, until you must stand alone against the tides and shadows. But above all else understand this. Trust in yourself and you will never be defeated. Trust in those who care for you and you will never be alone. Fight for them and all who would seek to take shelter under your shadow, no matter the cost. For if you don't… No one else will.'

His mentor had taught Jon many things, both of the ways of the warrior and the brotherhood shared between those who had survived terrible tragedy together. And Jon would always be thankful for it, silently bowing his head and stilling his heart and mind as he let the dark emotions fade away. He sent a silent prayer to the old gods for his mentor's safety and wealth in the realm beyond, for it was truly deserved. And now that the demons had settled, Jon knew which question to ask, the one that had plagued him and tormented him the longest of them all.

"Did she love me?" Jon asked quietly, looking at his father's eyes. And Ned was struck dumb as his own grey eyes bored into a now haunting violet. The young man having let the mask he had worn so many times before chip but a fraction, revealing the desperate child buried beneath the ice and snow of the North and the trials Jon had faced over the years.

Ned seemed regretfully surprised at the question; grief and remorse clear in the elder man's eyes. "Of course she did!" Ned said vehemently, his expression now shifting into its own blank mask. "She loved you from the moment you opened your eyes and you took your first breath of life in the world." Ned then gave a deep sigh as he gently moved Ice to rest against the arm of his chair.

"And it is because you are ready to know the truth... That I am doing something I should have done long ago," Ned said rising to his full height and seeming to tower over Jon. Yet the pride he felt was soured by the taste of ash in his mouth at the last in a lifetime of lies he had told the young man.

Jon was slightly confused until he saw his father's hand gesture for Jon to rise. And as Jon rose, Ned reached back and in one swift motion and the clear ring of steel bared Ice to the world, its own sharp edge of smoky black glinting menacingly in the light.

"When you were born and I retrieved you for the ride to Winterfell, I asked only one thing of Robert before I returned here," Ned uttered barely above a whisper as Jon hung to every word. "That when the time was right... Like the ancient Northern Kings of old, I would possess the power and right to legitimize you, my son into our House as you rightly deserved." Ned said with pride clear in his eyes, the iris a now clear and strong stormy grey. Slowly and ever so carefully Ned raised Ice, hands clasped upon the pommel as he bowed his head slightly.

"In the name of the First Men, and the Old Gods of our ancestors, I Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, name you Jon Stark. A true blood son of the House of the Wolf and recognized of the House of the Stars," Ned intoned; his voice strong and commanding with pride shining bright in the old man's eyes as he raised Ice on high. Jon slowly fell to his knees, a sense of great joy burning bright in his chest. Ice once held aloft slowly dipped down to first rest against Jon's left shoulder, then carefully moved to his right.

Ned then reached deep within himself, calling upon the wolf in his blood as he invoked the powers thought lost to the family for millennia. Jon stared in awe as his father's eyes glowed a brilliant ice-blue as frost surrounded the two men, vanishing in an instant as Ned let the power die; the little ceremony complete. "Now... Arise Black Wolf of the North, to take your place in our family as a true Stark, and live on to add to the legacy of our ancestors."

Jon in a slight daze rose to his feet, steady and unshakable as he reached his full height. And it was with a slight jolt that he realised he was now almost eye-to-eye with his father. Pride and joy echoed in the young man's eyes as they lightened to a stormy grey, a soft grin on Jon's lips as Ghost rose to stand beside him. The large direwolf pup stood against his master's knees, the large beast now coming up to Jon's thigh as it gazed up almost knowingly at the elder Stark. Ned smiled gently as he moved Ice to rest against the floor and laid a hand on Jon's shoulders. Perhaps one truth would be able to lessen the blow when the lies were finally shattered.

"You may not have her name, but you have her blood," Ned said gently, eyes a soft shade of grey as he squeezed Jon's shoulder in pride. "She would be proud of you, just as I am of the man you have become Jon Stark. Never forget that." Ned told Jon, who only nodded as Ned then released Jon's shoulder and sheathed Ice, moving to rest in his chair. The light atmosphere however soon vanished once Ned took to his chair. Ned looked upon Jon now not as his father, but as the Lord of Winterfell. In turn Jon donned the mask of the Wolf, curious but restraining himself to let his Lord explain.

"My lord, does something trouble you?" he asked laying a hand atop Longclaw as he shifted his stance to one of attention; eyes forward and unwavering.

Ned sighed as his idle hands began to trace over the worn and weathered arm of his chair. "It astounds me how perceptive you have become Jon," he remarked casually eyes focused on a piece of parchment atop his desk. Lifting his hand Ned gestured for Jon to step forward, the piece of parchment in hand. "However I am also quite thankful for it in situations such as this. Take it," he said as he held the strange document aloft.

Hesitantly, Jon reached out and grasped the document, opening it with great care and began to read, his father's words drowned out as Jon read more and more lines. "I received that letter from Prince Doran Martell, the elder brother of Ashara's closest friend the late Princess Elia. It said that in light of recent events and movements in Essos, he has deigned miraculously to offer his daughter Arianne's hand in marriage to a member of House Stark, to strengthen ties between Dorne and the North."

Ned's eyes grew as sharp as fine etched steel, boring into Jon with an intensity not seen in the Quiet Wolf since the days of Robert's Rebellion; narrowing as Jon continued to read, visibly tensing as he read the last few lines of the letter...and the signatures underneath.

Ned continued as Jon slowly lowered the letter to hang from limp fingers. "Doran was able to discover the truth of your parentage through spies and guards that your mother used to ensure we were never disturbed, and in light of this Prince Martell asked for one Stark in particular and only one for his daughter… You."

Silence echoed between father and son as Jon glanced upon the stone beneath his boots, mind a whirl with excitement and an eagerness he last remembered beyond the Wall. Yet as he took control of his will once more, Jon lifted his head and met the eyes of his father, stormy grey pools now sharp and clear as Northern skies.

"What do you want me to do," Jon asked, his stance doing a complete shift, going from shocked to being composed in an instant as the Wolf took over. Ned was honest as he gave Jon his answer.

"This is too good an opportunity to pass up," here Ned paused as he tried to gauge Jon's reaction to the news, only to continue when he got nothing out of him. "You are the only viable option, being born of both the North and the Deep South your familial ties to both Dorne and to the Starks can assure no further hostility, particularly since you will become the consort of the ruler of Dorne once Doran passes on."

Ned sighed as he sat back rubbing a hand over his temple. "I know I am asking much of you my son, but I would rather send you to Dorne and be close to part of your family at the least then have you die alone or marry a woman here of the North who has dreams of seeking to usurp your brother Robb through you."

Ned sighed and waved his hand, wishing to be alone to deal with another sin to stain his soul. "I will announce your legitimization this evening, but be wary Jon," Ned warned. Eyes focused on the flames and the fine bottle of summerwine atop the mantle. "There are others both here and beyond our borders that will not take too kindly to me having claimed you fully into House Stark, or of the alliance between us and the Dornish. Particularly if the knowledge of you being the Black Wolf ever reaches some...unfriendly ears."

Jon scoffed then, eyes rolling in exasperation as he moved to the door, Ghost padding along silently behind him. Without looking over his shoulder once his hand grasped the handle Jon said, "They will soon learn that this Wolf is not without its claws or fangs father, just as you shouldn't," gently opening and closing the door behind him as Jon made his way back to finishing the project for Sansa, hoping to sort out his thoughts on what would change his own plans in a way he had never expected.

While in the study, Ned sat in silence only in the company of the crackling flames until he reached to the side and gently pulled a single piece of parchment, adorned with the sigils of House Dayne, Stark and Martell. Ned sighed heavily as he rose from his chair and grabbed a pen and an inkwell off the end table near his desk, signing the contract and sealing it with both the House Seal and that of the Ancient Kings of the North. Whistling sharply, a raven black as sin flew in from the solitary window and waited patiently for the letter. Deftly tying the letter to the beast's leg it took off in a flutter of silent wings, a black speck across the skies. Now, Ned could only hope that Catelyn would not hate him for what he had done. And that his dear sister Lyanna could forgive him for keeping the truth from her son just a little longer.

The next morning found the castle with a sense of urgency not seen since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Yet this mattered little for Ned Stark as he stood overlooking the training yard, watching on with pride as his son Bran held onto a fresh made yew bow to practice his archery. Jon stood silent over the boy's shoulder and occasionally whispered into the young lordling's ears. Ned watched as Bran tried time after time and noted that while slowly, his arrows were beginning to draw ever closer to the center of the target Jon had set up early that morning. However, Robb and Rickon's arrival accompanied by their wolves, caused Bran's last shot to veer far to the side and high. Skipping over the stone wall and vanishing into the trees. Robb laughed heartily as Rickon giggled at the look of dismay on Bran's face. Jon only chuckled a little before moving and kneeling to talk to Bran.

Whatever was said soon made Bran nod as he took aim and notched a fresh arrow. Ned could hear Jon giving him instruction even from the small balcony.

"Relax your bow arm, and don't think too much Bran. Let your instincts guide your shot," Jon toned, his voice solid and strong, much like how Jon Arryn had been for Ned and Robert as children, learning the arts of war and other things little lords needed to rule.

Bran seemed to take confidence from his brother's words, his jaw set firm and determined as he raised the bow far steadier then he had before. His arrow drew back with nary a sound, smooth and constant until in a flash, Bran let it fly. The arrow flew straight and true, burying up to the mid-shaft until it stuck fast in the target, only a foot off the center. Robb and Rickon ceased their laughing in an instant as Jon only clapped before moving to place a hand on Bran's shoulders.

"Well done brother, far better than when me and Robb started at your age," Jon said honestly, impressed and proud of his little brother. Bran seemed for all the world far more excited than he had ever been when practicing archery, knowing he had done better than even his elder brothers. However Jon's next words brought the ecstatic boy to heel. "Yet do not let one small success spell your victory," Jon said sagely, his words actually catching Robb and Rickon's ears as well. "You must strive to be better day after day, for one day you will meet a warrior better than you, and it could mean your doom. Never be content to be competent Bran, you've the talent and the time to be much more than that," Jon's eyes had glazed over then, the dark grey iris now a bleak black as Jon seemed lost in memories best not spoken of. Yet soon after his eyes regained their warmth and pride as Jon ruffled Bran's long locks and turned towards the keep, Ghost rising to follow his master. "Keep practicing Bran, you may make a marksman yet," Jon said aloud, his voice carrying over the courtyard.

Yet Jon decided to show Bran just what he meant. Quietly he drew out a sleek one handed crossbow, the weapon fashioned with a blackened steel Direwolf head, stylized to be sleek and the appearance of solid iron. Jon, in one smooth motion notched a single bolt, coated in iron and lifted his arm up and over his shoulder without even turning to face the target. His finger swiftly squeezed the trigger, the sharp twang of the crossbow echoing out as he fired without a single glance. And as the bolt flew true, it shattered Bran's arrow from feathering to tip and traveled beyond, embedding into the stone wall a solid two inches and a good three feet behind the target.

The courtyard stopped dead in utter silence at the spectacle they had just witnessed, Robb, Rickon, and Bran all gazing at the offending weapon in shock as Jon continued on his way; unaware that Sansa and Arya were watching from the upper rooms while working on their needlework with gaping expressions of their own. Ned only chuckled deep in his chest as he watched his sons sputter and gape like fish as they darted their head's between Jon's back and the crossbow bolt. Ned only could hope that the boy would be strong enough to face the trials ahead. But for some reason... Ned knew that while danger lurked at very corner, Jon would be just fine.

So... Read and review please! And any feedback is appreciated. And while it will take time, I have no intention of giving up my first story. And the new chapters gave me the perfect plot line for later on. Tartarus won't know what hit'em!

Goodbye for now.

CRASH!

What the hell! Sonovabitch I just paid for that! Demon fuck go to hell!