This is a sequel to my first story, "A Place of Greater Safety", but it's not necessary to read that to understand this as there is a bit of a recap included in the chapter. Anyway, in this, Jon joins Robb during the War of the Five Kings. I hope it's enjoyed.

Before the Dawn is still being updated, but it is on a month's hiatus just while I get over the block I seem to have developed with it. Apologies for the delay.

Full Fathom Five: Introduction.

"Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change;

Into something beautiful and strange…"

(Ariel's Song, "The Tempest" by William Shakespeare)

There was a time when Jon only ever came here in his dreams. Foreboding dreams, full of fear and an impenetrable darkness. It would always begin with him in the empty castle, searching for Lord Stark, or Robb, or even Arya and Sansa. The ravens were gone from the rookery; the stables were full of old bones, whether human or animal he could never quite tell. Silence met his every frantic cry as he called out their names time and again. Their names would freeze on his lips as he remembered the bones. As always, in strange dreams, he found himself pulled towards the crypts with a compulsion, impossible to resist. He could see only top few steps spiralling into the blackness of the tombs where the Winter Kings slept forever more. Stone direwolves rendered mid-snarl, bared their granite teeth as he passed them by fighting the urge to scream. He always awoke, heart palpitating and gasping for air, in the safety of his own bed.

But that animal fear had left him now. Knowing she was down there emboldened him to the point where he willingly made that journey into Winterfell's heart of darkness. Knowing she was there transformed the crypts from a place of the dead, to a place of what could have been. It wasn't especially pleasant, but it was special in a way he could not articulate. He came every few days, at least once a week, bringing her favourite flowers. Whether a posy of wildflowers from the woods, or a more exotic blossom from the glass gardens; Jon never came empty handed. This day, he came to a halt before her statue and held up his floral offering of a single blue winter rose. An early morning snow shower had turned its delicate petals silver at the edges: an effect he thought rather pretty.

"It's your favourite," he told her. Even after almost three years he still felt foolish talking to a stonework mother. Which was a pity, for there was much to tell her. "The King is here. King Robert. Uncle Eddard says he will probably want to come and see you, even though I know you won't want to see him. I wish I could stop it, but I can't."

The entire household was already lined up in the yard, waiting to greet the royal visitors. Jon himself was back to being the Bastard of Winterfell. He had no part to play in the ceremonies; his presence would scarcely be registered and therefore his absence hardly noticed. Only these days, it was less to appease Lady Stark and more to avoid prolonged attention of the King. A safety precaution against the dragon blood flowing in his veins. Down in the crypts, contrary to his childish dreams, he knew he could be safe from prying eyes.

Lyanna's hands were cupped around a candle that had long extinguished. Only a stub remained, with the blackened wick protruding from the molten pool. It was there that Jon lay the single rose, letting the bloom settle in her palms. Sometimes, when he was down there, a draught of air would sigh through the rib-vaulted ceiling or a chill would rise from the flagstones. In those moments, he was gripped by a childish need for it to be her. Whatever part of her still lingered on in this sacred space. But most of the time, he felt completely alone.

From inside his pocket, he withdrew an old locket. Black enamelled, with a three headed dragon studded into the front with rubies. Some were missing, where the death blow caught its previous owner, Rhaegar Targaryen. He nudged open the filigree clasp to reveal his mother's likeness on the left, his father's on the right. Still his father was partially obscured by a lock of dark hair curled beneath the fine glass front. It was all he had of them; a precious relic that he refused to be parted with even after his other father had pleaded with him to put it somewhere safe.

Before he could try and project the image in the locket on to the life-size statue in front of him, he heard the door to the crypt groaning on its hinges. A sudden shaft of light appeared at the top of the twisting stairs and distant voices sounded, carrying easily in the stillness. Suddenly alert, Jon thrust the locket back in his pocket and glared towards the source of the disturbance. One of the men speaking was his father, the other he didn't recognise. But an educated guess told him it was the King. His heart beat hammered as he swiftly darted out of the way, deeper into the shadows and beyond the reach of the guttering torches set along the wall.

"I didn't see your other son, Ned," said the second man. "The one I legitimised a while ago."

Jon's heart sank and his nerves prickled unpleasantly as he took refuge deeper into the vault.

"No," his father replied, setting a lantern on the ground. "It was thought best that he remain with the household staff. For Catelyn's sake, Your Grace. My insistence that he be legitimised despite her misgivings upset her greatly, as you can imagine. You'll see Jon at the feast tonight, I'm sure. Although, he has grown timid since that run in with Roose Bolton and Barbrey Dustin."

Never had he heard a lie trip of his father's tongue in such a way. He was being kept out of Robert's way in case the King recognised Lyanna in him. Lady Stark had been more than cordial towards him since the truth came out, even protective of him. But there was still a lingering strangeness about their new found relationship. A sense, present in them both, that there was something amiss in the world. Meanwhile, King Robert was still uncomfortably curious about the incident.

"That reminds me, Ned, I want a full report on what happened to Roose Bolton – may the Others take his flayed soul."

"Of course, Your Grace. A regrettable incident, indeed. More so because of the strange death of his heir, not long after," Lord Stark answered.

Jon came to rest in the shadows between two old Lords of Winterfell and settled himself between their sepulchres. If he looked between their stone legs he could see his father walking side by side with a great mountain of a man. He was as broad as he was tall, with a shaggy beard covering the lower part of his face. Small gimlet eyes glittered in the uneven light of the burning torches. King Robert looked nothing like he imagined him. Jon could see them clearly now that they drew to a halt beside Lyanna's tomb. There, his father held up the lantern he was carrying, making the shadows shift across the walls and Lyanna's statue face come alive with the light.

"She was so much more beautiful than that. Nor should Lyanna be down here in the cold and dark, Ned," the King sighed, wistfully. "She should be up there, in the open with the sun on her."

"She was of the North, Your Grace, this is where she belongs," Lord Stark replied. "The last thing she made me do was promise to bring her home and lay her down with our father and brother."

The large King's breath had been laboured, now Jon heard it hitch in his chest. When he spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous, full of suppressed rage. "After what Rhaegar Targaryen did to her … I kill that bastard every night in my dreams for what he did to the woman I love."

Jon's stomach clenched and he had to bite down on his own hand to stop himself doing something he would regret. But amidst his anger at the King's ignorance, he noted the man's use of present tense … the woman I love.

"It is done now, Robert," said Eddard, resorting to the other man's first name. Appealing to the friend, rather than the King. "Rhaegar is dead; let that be an end to it."

Both men were facing the tomb, so had their backs to Jon. They wouldn't see him unless they turned right around and had perfect night vision. But he still shied further back against the wall when they turned to face each other. Jon could now see them in profile, with the lantern light behind them.

"But it never ends," the King pointed out, sourly. Then he turned back to the statue of Lyanna. "Oh, looks like someone's already been down today."

Jon could see him prodding at the flower he left, bringing on another surge of hot anger. But his father was casual. "The children come down often to pay their respects," he pointed out. "As do I; I often bring her flowers. You know how fond she was of them."

"I do indeed, old friend," the King answered, touching the granite cheek of his former betrothed. "Let me tell you about Jon Arryn…"

Jon had hung on every word spoken about his mother. As unwelcome an intrusion as Robert's visit was, the King's sentiments left him once more proud of her memory. A bittersweet pride, but pride nonetheless. But the talk of Jon Arryn largely washed over him. He was an old man who died of old age. He wished they would hurry up so he could come out of his hiding place and return to his siblings. But his father and the King chatted about the old Hand of the King, and the Trident, and their time at the Erie. It would have been wonderful to hear this, if he hadn't been crouched behind a sepulchre and starving hungry.

Finally, it seemed as though the graveside chatter had reached its natural conclusion. The King drew himself to his full imposing height and looked Lord Stark in the eye.

"Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King."

Jon almost gasped; eyes as wide as saucers. Once more, he had to stifle himself by covering his mouth and nose with his hand. Forgetting his cold, discomfort and hunger, he know fixed on Lord Stark's reaction. Frustratingly, it was impossible to read.

"I am not worthy of the honour-"

"I'm not trying to honour you. I'm getting you to run my kingdom for me!" the King cut in. "Now, come south with me and I'll teach you not to be so fucking grim all the time. And bring those girls of yours."

"Your Grace?" Lord Stark looked quizzical.

The King's voice boomed through the vault. "My son; your daughter. We'll join our houses together. What do you say to that?"

Jon's mouth ran dry as he watched the scene play out in front of him. This King wasn't just riding roughshod into their lives, but tearing them all apart to boot. He willed his father to reject the King, to turn him down flat and their friendship be dammed. Surely the King could not make him go along with all this? But all Lord Stark seemed able to do was play for time and plead for a chance to discuss it all with Lady Stark. Nothing was confirmed, even by the time the two men left. But Jon could feel their lives being tossed up into the air all the same.

Despite his grim reputation, Lord Stark was quietly enjoying the festivities. The sweet summer wine took the edge off the shock of King Robert's proposals, the good food kept the late summer chills at bay and the sound of music filling his halls to the rafters lifted his spirits. He watched it all from the high table, with Queen Cersei at his right hand side and Robert at his left. Beside Robert, Catelyn was also in good spirits. The wine she drank brought a girlish flush to her face and her blue eyes shone in the smoky light. The sound of her chatter carried down the table as she made polite talk with the Queen.

Every five minutes, it seemed, Robert was up and about, flirting with the serving girls and making merry with a flow of constant wine. Ned watched him as he went: he may be almost twenty years older, but in so many other respects he had not aged a day. He was that same raffish gallant wooing and dancing with every piece of petticoat that crossed his path. Only the Queen seemed aloof from the fun. Her knuckles turned white where she was gripping the stem of her goblet; her smile fixed and stiff, her expression a polite blank. Then Sansa caught her eye.

"Come here, little dove," her voice trilled.

Ned regarded her closely, wondering whether she knew of the plan to marry Sansa to Prince Joffrey. He could only assume that she did, and was now weighing up the goods by the pound. There was almost a glimmer of hunger in her brilliant green eyes. Sansa, meanwhile, was still oblivious to the bargain being struck and she dipped a bashful curtsey.

"She is a great beauty, Lord Stark," she admired, pawing a delicate gold chain around her neck. "She will do exceptionally well at Court."

After a brief exchange, a wildly blushing Sansa returned to her seat in a twirl of her royally complimented self-made dress. But, after that, the Queen once more lapsed into her customary superior silence as her husband returned to the table bearing more wine and food.

"So Ned," he began, before pausing to sip at his wine. "Roose Bolton and Barbrey Dustin."

Ned also took a deep sip of his wine. The moment had come. Catelyn broke off the conversation she was having with a serving girl and drew her seat closer to Ned and the King. Although she betrayed no outward sign of interest, Cersei also leaned in that little bit closer to pick up the story.

"It was an odd story, Lord Stark," said the Queen. "It's hard to imagine what a Lord like Roose Bolton would possibly want with your bastard by-blow."

Before he could register the malignant undercurrent of the Queen's words, the King almost rounded on her: "Shut up, woman, and let the man talk."

That was nothing like the Robert he once knew.

"In actual fact, a lot of it was my own fault," said Catelyn, sparing Ned the difficult beginning. They made brief eye-contact, and he nodded for her to carry on. "It was something so silly, I forget now what caused it. Jon had an accident and I scolded him rather severely. Ned was away at the time, so Jon fled Winterfell to find him. I think he was afraid that I would have him thrashed for it – which I absolutely would not have done, incidentally. Because he hadn't yet left Winterfell without a guide, the boy became lost. He was found by Roose Bolton's bannermen."

Robert frowned. "How on earth did the boy get that far from home?"

"He didn't," Ned replied, taking up the story. "Lord Bolton's men were on my land. They took him for a Wildling and brought him back to the Dreadfort where Lord Bolton had already received a raven from Maester Luwin about Jon's disappearance. Roose knew him anyway, so he lodged the boy at the Dreadfort and sent word to us that he'd been found. However, Barbrey Dustin was there as well and she took it into her head to take him to Barrow Hall-"

"And the boy just went along with all this?" the Queen interjected, her golden brows knotted into a tight frown.

Catelyn regarded her for a moment, her expression equally dark. "Jon was a boy. Barely twelve name days on him. He was scared, confused and isolated."

Ned couldn't help but smile to hear his wife defending Jon. But it was something not lost on the Queen, either. "How heart-warming, Lady Stark, to hear you speak so. As I understand it, not so long before that you wanted to leave him out for the wolves to finish off."

Ned masked his anger behind a glacial expression of indifference, but Robert glowered mutinously at her. Cersei kept on smiling. Mercifully, when Robert spoke again, he steered the conversation back on topic.

"Was Dustin still blaming you for killing her husband, Ned?" he asked, guessing rightly. "It was a bad business, but while there was a chance that Lady Lyanna was alive in that place, you had to act. Many good men lost their lives that day, Ser Willem Dustin was one of them."

Arthur Dayne another. Robert was not wrong. Ned remembered it all; every acutely painful detail of a fight outside the Tower of Joy in Dorne. Barbrey had been making trouble for him from that day until her last. He took up the story again.

"My late brother, Brandon, really did have relations with her," he explained, phrasing it politely. "But she spun Jon some tale about how she gave birth to him after she and Brandon were secretly married. Then I stole him away after Brandon's death to usurp his inheritance and steal Winterfell from him."

Now even Cersei looked stunned; one slender brow raised so high it was almost touching her hairline. "She was going to use the boy to oust you and your heirs from Winterfell?"

"Precisely," answered Catelyn. "We mustered a host to take Jon back. Roose Bolton and Lady Dustin died in the fighting. Afterwards, we explained to Jon that his mother was only a tavern girl named Wylla, conceived while Ned was at war. Of course, I was furious before all this happened. But seeing an innocent child so vulnerable to the plotting and power games of people like the Dustins made me realise that he needed the protection of the truth and a true family name."

Ned held his breath while Robert and the Queen digested all they had heard, only exhaling again when both made it clear they were satisfied. Jon, mercifully, was dropped from the conversation as Ramsey Bolton took his place. Roose Bolton's illegitimate son who had been hastily legitimised following the abrupt and suspicious death of Domeric, the legitimate heir.

"That is something I cannot explain," said Ned, looking over at the King. "Last I heard, Domeric was a picture of health. Then he just dropped down dead during the journey north to claim his titles-"

"Arya!"

Sansa's shrill scream cut through their talk and over the still pounding music filling the hall. All four of them whipped round to where Sansa was on her feet, a spoonful of pudding dripping down the front of her handmade frock. Meanwhile, Arya looked on, grinning broadly and still clutching the guilty spoon.

"I think someone's had enough for one night," Ned whispered to Catelyn.

But Lady Stark had already caught Robb's eye, gesturing to him to deal with it. Ned watched as his eldest son hastily stifled his own laughter and picked Arya up under the arms, too her fevered protestations.

"Come on you," said Robb, calling over the music. "Time for bed!"

Crisis over, Jeyne Poole saw to Sansa and the adults all reclined in their seats again. But as Ned watched Robb and Arya making their less than dignified exit, he noticed Jon at the lower table. Briefly, they made eye contact, but the boy soon looked away again and stuck a knife into the heart of a full roast chicken. He drew a deep breath and sighed heavily.

"I think he's annoyed at being sat at the lower table," he said to Catelyn. But before he could explain further, Jon had got up and left as well.

"He'll come around," Catelyn replied, topping up their glasses with wine.

"He's at a difficult age," the Queen opined, graciously accepting a top-up from Lady Stark.

"Piss on that! A good kick up the arse should sort him out," Robert chipped in. "The Others take his damn age."

Ned laughed, thanking the King for his sage advice and pushing another bowl of comfits in his direction.

"Earlier, you were saying Roose Bolton's men were on your land, Lord Stark," said the Queen, returning to business. "I trust you have had no such problems with that creature we had to legitimise to take his place?"

"Ramsay?" asked Ned, rhetorically. "We've had no bother with him. Keeps himself to himself, from my experience."

Catelyn shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but kept what she clearly wanted to say to herself. From there, both Robert and Cersei seemed satisfied that the second most powerful seat in the North was settled. It left Robert free to get even more drunk and flirt with even more of Ned's serving girls.

Hours of being cramped inside the great hall of Winterfell had done little to improve Jon's mood. As soon as he made it outside, he breathed in a deep lungful of the clean night air and looked up at the clear night sky. Snowflakes drifted from the heavens; their soft frozen edges glinting in the light of the full moon. It wasn't yet winter, but the Stark words were proving their worth and it was definitely on its way. Despite the chill, he shrugged off his cloak and draped it over the low wall around Mikken's forge and picked up a sword. The steel was so cold it burned to the touch, but he ignored that and was about to direct it towards the quintaine.

"Jon."

He halted abruptly, mid-swing, at the sound of Robb's voice.

"You're not at the feast, brother?" he asked, turning slowly to face him and putting the sword down again.

Robb shook his head. "Arya was acting up, so I had to take her to her chambers. What's your excuse for not going back there?"

Jon watched him as he descended the few steps into the courtyard and met him half way. "Because I can't stand it," he answered, at length. "Anyway, I'm glad you're here. There's something we need to discuss."

He put an arm around Robb's shoulders and steered him across the grounds, well away from the Castle. Even out there, they could still hear the muffled music and the people inside talking and dancing the night away. But Jon's heart hadn't been in it; he hadn't been able to summon any enthusiasm for anything since overhearing the conversation that morning. He steered Robb directly towards the Godswood, safe from sneaking Lannisters and late night, drunken stragglers. Once there, sat by the placid spring, he explained to Robb all that he had overheard between the King and their father.

"He won't accept," said Robb, as soon as Jon fell silent. "He is a Stark of Winterfell and his place is here. He won't leave us."

More than anything, Jon wished for that to be true. "But the King sounded adamant, Robb. I don't think he's going to let father stay here. You're nearly of age now-"

"That's not the point," Robb interjected. "Father still won't leave us. Even if he wanted to, our mother wouldn't let him."

For a long moment, Jon let the silence hang while he gazed out over the pool. The moon's reflection rippled dazzlingly on its dark, impenetrable surface. A silver veneer beautifying its murky depths.

"But, what if he does go?" he murmured.

He didn't want to admit it, but the possibility of his father's departure worried him. It felt like a layer of safety being ripped away from him. It opened him up to a kind of vulnerability he did not want to consider.

"He won't!" Robb insisted. His stubbornness made Jon want to hit him. But, before his temper could rise, his brother continued. "But if he does, I will take over his duties. You will still be safe. We'll all be safe, so long as we look out for each other. So long as we stick together."

Jon tried to take heart from those sentiments. But there was something that still left him cold.

"Do you remember what your mother said about the direwolf we found dead, gored by a stag?" he said, darkly. "She said it was some sort of omen."

In the moonlight, he could see Robb openly rolling his eyes. "I didn't take you for the superstitious type, brother."

"I'm not!" Jon retorted. "But I don't like it, Robb. I don't like all this at all."

Robb raised a pained smile. "It'll be worse if Sansa marries that little prick of a Prince. Gods, she'll be unbearable if she's suddenly a real princess!"

"I'm not jesting, Robb," he chided.

"Nor am I!"

Jon sighed heavily, giving up trying to convince his brother and turning his attention to the front of the Godswood again. Drunken catcalls, wolf-whistles and laughter could be heard coming from the yard now. The first of the revellers to score and looking for a quiet place to lift some skirt. It was a sign they wouldn't be alone for long. Robb put a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention back again.

"Jon," he said, seriously. "You're worrying about things that haven't happened yet. You need to stop doing that."

Maybe he was right. Maybe he needed to let his nebulous anxieties go. But it was proving difficult with the ground beneath his feet seeming to shift and warp every ten minutes. If only time could stand still and give him a chance to catch it up, to figure it all out and get his head together! But no: time and circumstance continued its relentless onwards march; events leaving him in the dust.

"Oh, come on!" Robb chivvied him, when the silence grew dour. "Let's get the direwolves out; they've been cooped up too long."

He was being given no other choice but to brighten up. "Go on then," he agreed, however reluctantly. For now, all he could do was follow Robb and wait out the storm of the royal progress.

TBC

Thanks again for reading this introductory chapter, I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a moment to spare.