"You are not Robb, no more than I am Robert." The harsh words had blown away whatever sympathy Jon might have had for Stannis.

"I loved my brother," he said. "And I mine. Yet they were what they were, and so are we."

(A Storm of Swords)

"You are not a bastard, Your Grace."

Stannis scoffed. "Should I congratulate you on your new position as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, or for your talent for stating the obvious, Lord Snow?"

The scornful look Stannis gave Jon could have intimidated even Ghost, but Jon knew he must not be intimidated. A Lord Commander must be bold enough to stand his ground. He pressed on, "When you offered to make me Lord of Winterfell –"

"When you threw my offer in my face, you mean?"

The memory still rankled, still gnawed at Stannis, though not as deeply as the memory of Cortnay Penrose throwing his glove in Stannis' face when Penrose refused to yield Storm's End. That one was an insult Stannis would be unlikely to forget.

"I could not forswear my vows, Your Grace," Jon replied. "Not when – "

"Not again, you mean? I seem to remember that you had no trouble breaking your vows on a previous occasion."

Stannis' talent, Jon thought, must be in lecturing people about what they really meant. Lady Lannister, you mean? had been Stannis' earlier rejoinder, when Jon pointed out that by right, Winterfell should belong to his sister Sansa.

Jon persisted, "Not when my brothers of the Night's Watch have decided to honor me with their faith and their trust, the faith and trust that I could lead them, that I could lead our brotherhood."

A nod was the only reply he received from Stannis, though Jon could not tell if the nod was meant to signify assent, or was merely a signal that he wanted Jon to continue.

"When you offered me Winterfell," Jon continued, "you said that I am not my brother Robb, no more than you are your brother Robert. But you are your father's trueborn son, Your Grace, not bastard-born like I am."

I am not explaining it right, Jon thought, dejectedly, as Stannis stared at him as if he was the strangest, most puzzling creature Stannis had ever come across.

What bastards yearn for and dream of, and then feel great shame and thunderous guilt for even daring to yearn for and dream of – surely you could not understand it, sire. You who were not born a bastard, who never had to feel that you do not belong, that the only home you have ever known is a place you do not have a right to be in. How could you possibly understand that? I am not my brother Robb, you said, no more than you are your brother Robert. But the equivalence you drew was a false one, Jon imagined saying all this, and more, to Stannis.

But before he could open his mouth, Stannis had spoken first, and his words revealed that he had grasped the fundamental point Jon was trying to make. "I am my father's trueborn son. That is true enough. And far be it for me to claim a superior understanding about what it means to be bastard-born. You would know better than I do. Be that as it may, I am a second son, and second sons have their own battles to fight, uphill climbs to make, and burdens to bear."

Burdens to bear … and shadows to escape, thought Jon, as he recalled hearing some of Stannis' own men talking about this great battle or that great feat Stannis' older brother Robert Baratheon had won and achieved in his time; battles and feats they seemed to doubt could be matched by Stannis. My brother could count on the love of his men to ensure their loyalty, Stannis himself had said to Jon, but I can only count on their fear.

Burdens to bear, and shadows he could never escape, even if he outlived Robert for a hundred years, because the dead cast the longest and deepest shadow of all, thought Stannis, as his own gaunt shadow loomed over the young Lord Commander.

The young Lord Commander who was not at all intimidated, who seemed intent on continuing the argument, despite Stannis' tone and countenance clearly signaling his reluctance and displeasure.

"My brother Bran is a second son," Jon said, "but I could not recall ever seeing him struggling with that burden you speak of."

Your brother Bran … was … a second son, you mean? corrected Stannis, silently this time. Was, as opposed to is. The past, as opposed to the present, as opposed to the continuingexistence of the dead. He remembered his own inadvertent slips of the tongue, after the death of his mother and father. It had been many years since he had made that same mistake. He waited, waited for Jon to notice the mistake himself, for he surely would, as Stannis himself always did. The realization, and the correction that followed, almost always felt like he was losing them all over again. There were times when he wished that he spoke a language that did not make a distinction between the past and the present.

It did not take Jon long to notice his mistake. "Was a second son, I should have said," he half-whispered, in a voice as bleak as endless winter.

Stannis left Jon to his thoughts and his memories, and they stood silently side-by-side, not looking at each other, gazing out to the great beyond.

Had Bran Stark lived long enough to be a man, perhaps he would have felt it too, the ever-present shadow of his older brother. Then again, Stannis had felt it even as a boy, even as a boy as young as four, riding his first pony, a feat his older brother had accomplished when hewas three. Was there ever a time when he did not feel the presence of that shadow, the footsteps that were always a few strides ahead, always a little out of reach, always eluding him? If there was such a time, he could not remember it.

Making a visible and determined effort to compose himself, Jon continued, "Perhaps it was different for Bran, because he was so much younger than Robb. If they had been closer in age, perhaps –"

Stannis turned to look at Jon. "Closer in age like you and Robb Stark, you mean?"

The insight was unwelcome to Jon. No! You do not understand. You could not! You – you –

Or perhaps, Jon reconsidered, Stannis understood all too well. "I wanted it," Jon blurted out. His face was flushed. He could not meet Stannis' gaze. "I wanted Winterfell. I wanted to be my father's heir, to be his trueborn son. When you offered it to me, I realized that I have alwayswanted it."

"And wanting it, you thought it wrong to accept it?"

"My vows … I could not –"

"We both know that was not the only reason you turned me down."

"Wanting it made me feel like a monster. Wanting it made me feel as if I was wishing my brothers and sisters harm, as if I had been praying for their deaths. I love them, all of them, not just Robb. How could I want it, if I love them? How could I hunger for it, thirst for it, yearn for it, if I truly love them?"

It is not about wanting, Stannis had always insisted, to himself most of all, to himself first of all. That was the creed he lived by, and believed in with all his heart. Wants do not enter into it, have never entered into it. I have a duty. Always he would invoke his duty; his duty to the realm, to his brother, to his daughter. But was this young man more than half his age more honest with himself, more ruthless and severe in examining his own motives than Stannis had ever been, than Stannis had been willing to do?

And what answer could he possibly give, to this distraught young man who was telling Stannis that he felt like a monster, for wanting?

"Wanting is not doing. You have done nothing to harm your brothers and sisters," said Stannis, finally, after a long silence. That was indisputable, in Jon's case. Though, in someone else's case –

I was asleep. My hands were clean. I was asleep. I was – I was –

"You are not a monster," Stannis added, insistently, vehemently, as Jon finally raised his head to meet Stannis' gaze. "Never forget that, Lord Snow."