Yo yo yo! Been wanting to write a GoT fic for a while and i've had a few ideas floating about but this is the first one thats translated to writing.

This is gonna be slight AU including some character changes mostly revolving around subtle appearance and age altrerations.

Pairings will exist but i won't reveal them till they come up. Won't be a harem nor will it be a 'find a gal at the start = instant and forever love' type ordeal. You can review what pairings you may want!

Anyway, enjoy :)

Dark lilac eyes opened and gazed upon a black sky. Snow fell lazily from above and the stench of death hung thick in the air. The baron, snowy landscape, once white and sacred was now stained red with blood.

His body felt weak and he staggered slightly to the side, using his sword to prop himself warily.

A figure emerged through the storm, one of ice. Its glacial blue eyes ever watching. He felt a chill take hold of him unlike any he'd ever felt before. It was colder, darker.

"Wake, sweet prince."

The figure was approaching him. Slowly with an unnatural grace did it weave through the corpses of his fallen brothers and sisters, their bodies freezing over at its mere proximity.

He steadied himself. Despite the aching body that called for him to close his eyes and embrace unconsciousness he could not. His battle was not over.

He took a hesitant half step forward, testing his strength. The figure was close now, and he could make it out clearly.

It truly was a being of ice, a personification of cold, an embodiment of death.

Fear crept through him but he quickly quelled it. Fear would do him no good now. There was no running, no hiding. He could not pray for he was unsure of the gods and he could not wish for a miracle because he believed none would come.

He was alone facing this being of ice and cold and death and he could not run nor hide.

"You are not alone, sweet prince."

The figure was now meters away and he felt the cold harsher than he could possible imagine. It ran through his veins, its icy grasp clenching his heart. His extremities felt numb and his body stiff.

He raised his sword into two hands and exhaled shakily, eyeing the being cautiously. It was armed with what looked like a long sword fashioned of ice. Its ethereal gleam matched that of its owner. The creature itself was clad in black ancient armour. A dark metal he could not quite place.

The figure's mouth moved and a harsh, unearthly voice fell into the wind that sounded to him like the shattering of ice over a winter lake.

He could not understand what it had intended to say but it did not matter. Words were useless at this point. He stared into the creature's eyes and for a moment saw a flicker of something that was not cold. Something that was almost mortal. However it vanished as quick as it came, and the creature continued forward, its great sword of ice poised and ready.

"Do not be scared, sweet prince."

There was that voice again, soft and caring. He almost laughed to himself. These were his last moments and he was going mad. Delusion elicited by the cold and fear.

The figure was almost upon him and he poised his sword to meet it. He was unsure whether he was ready to die. They say that before you leave this world, your life flashes before your eyes. One last glance at the life you had led. However he could not remember much. He could not picture the face of his father or his brothers and sisters. His friends who he had fought side-by-side with and the enemies he had slain. There was only the voice, the delicate whisper in his ear, and despite his believed delusion he sought after it, for without it he would be truly alone.

In the nothingness that seemed to stretch within him, the voice spoke again and for once he heard it true and with clarity.

"When the night is dark and the cold creeps at your window, remember who you are and fight that cold with fire and blood."

The message resonated within him and he felt a familiarity with the words he could not place. As if it was something he had grown up with. Suddenly the cold did not seem so grave and his body did not seem so weary.

The figure's sword of ice swung down upon him and he met it with his own and the world shook as the cold met fire and blood.

The Winterfell Godswood was a strange place. Old beyond comprehension, the place managed to combine a mystical, ethereal quality while being equally haunting. A gentle mist lingered despite the weather and seemed to lift off from the small pool of water that mirrored the aged weirwood trees. The snow white bark of the heart tree that that stood in the centre of the woods contrasted its blood red autumnal leaves. Winter was nearly here, after all, and the tree showed it.

"Get up, we need to go." Robb called out, his voice laced with exasperation.

Jon dragged his dark half-lidded lilac eyes from the leafs of the heart tree to his half-brother, "What's the rush?" He murmured hands still behind his head as he rested against the base of the tree.

"What's the rush?" Robb's exasperation was now blatant and his well-versed composure slipped somewhat, "The King will be here soon, and you are asking what the rush is?"

Jon merely raised an eyebrow. Inside however he was smirking. Jesting with Robb was one of his favourite pass times, and it was mostly one-way.

"Look, I won't ask again. Get up and dress yourself in something more presentable." The young wolf's composure returned and he had entered his 'Lord in training' mode. Jon knew the time more banter was over.

"Fine." He replied, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head with a brief yawn, "However there's no point in me dressing in my nicest garments, you know as well as I do that I'll just be shunted off into the fringes with the stable boys and squires." He paused as he rose unsteadily to his feet, stretching to his full height which was slightly taller than Robb.

"That doesn't matter." Robb interrupted with a certain finality that made the corner of Jon's lip twitch into what was reminiscent of a smile, "Now let's make haste, I dread to think what would happen if we are late to meet the King, and while you probably don't, you should." The boy quipped, with a mirthful glance in the bastard's direction.

Jon said nothing and the two brothers made their way back into the castle.

They passed through the servants' quarters and parted ways shortly after. Jon's own solar was located in one of the lower buildings, an old part of the keep that was in need of repairs but still functional. It was reserved for the likes of smiths, stable keepers and non-noble guests such as members of the Nights watch. Slightly above the servants, maids, and cooks but under the maesters and septas and the like. Right where a bastard belonged. Not that Jon was still sour on his position in the world. He'd long grown to accept it. Now four and ten, he allowed himself to enjoy the little benefits that accompanied his status, such as his freedom, for instance.

After dressing himself in his nicest clothing, , he made his way to the courtyard where already his family had begun to assemble.

His father, Ned Stark, stood still in the centre of the yard. His brow stern and his stare indifferent, hard but not quite cold, an image of the North. To his right stood Catalyn Stark, his Lady wife, with soft auburn brown hair, she stood with a pride that reflected her house words. Jon could not say he disliked the woman. She did not beat him, openly scorn him, nor did she ask anyone serving under the Starks to mistreat him and graciously allowed Jon to interact with her children, his half-siblings. She did however, openly avoid the boy and went about her daily routine as if he did not existence. Which Jon thought fair. After all, he was a threat, albeit not a large one, to her children's inheritance which was most likely the core of her well hidden dislike for him.

Next to Lady Catalyn, Robb stood as still and proud as his Lord father. The young wolf, they called him. The heir to Winterfell and the North. Once Jon envied Robb for his noble status however that was soon replaced by sympathy. The responsibilities the boy held were great and Jon was glad he did not bear them. Bran Stark stood next to his older brother; the seven year old was stood with all the pride and composure one of his age could muster. This however, paled next to baby Rickon. The four-year old stood uncertainly to the right of Bran. His thumb held to his mouth and his big, brown eyes constantly shifting between different people and objects in the courtyard.

Watching from the breeches, Jon watched as Sansa, the eldest Stark daughter, gracefully walked to her place on the left their father with Septa Mordane following shortly behind. With auburn hair true to any Tully, Sansa was definitely beautiful. Her pale skin constantly blushed at the slightest praise and she practiced etiquette of the North and South with a feverish passion. Septa Mordane stopped short of Sansa and turned sharply to look behind her.

"Arya Stark, I will not ask you again." She threatened in a hushed voice as beads of spittle escaped her thin lips.

The girl in question trudged forward from inside the castle to where the rest of her family were standing. It appeared as though despite the Septa Mordane's best efforts, she had been unable to force Arya wear a dress. Instead, she wore her finest breeches with an embroiled leather tunic. Her short brown hair while combed was still tussled and messy. If Jon had a favourite sibling, which he probably should not, it would be Arya. The girl was a Stark through and through and had what his father liked to call the 'wolfs blood'.

Sansa glanced at Arya out of the corner of her eye and nodded her head tightly as if to hurry the girl along. Her eyes then drifted up to Jon where they lingered for a fleeting moment before facing forwards once more.

Jon sighed inwardly and climbed down the stairs to the courtyard. He shared a nod with Maester Luwin and found his place next to the wall slightly behind the Stark family on the right.

In the distance, trumpets blared and the sound of hooves trampling through thin mud reached the awaiting party's ears.

The gates were already open and the first of the King's men rode through, dressed in fine armour polished to an extent where they could pass as looking glass. They carried banners bearing a crowned stag rampant on a field of gold, the sigil of house Baratheon. Shortly after, an elegant wheel house rolled into the keep. Lined with gold with great big wheels it was led by two impressive destriers which Jon thought unusual, since they were usually used for war or in some cases jousting. Knights in gold rode gallantly in front of the carriage.

The Kingsguard, Jon thought, was once a proud order, that now seemed somewhat tainted. It was mostly due to the man who rode with no helm. The golden locks that fell down either side of his face and the twinkling emerald eyes gave it all away. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. Jon was unsure of the circumstances as to why the man had murdered his King, whether it was a decision born out of genuine turmoil or simply disloyal greed. The Kingsgaurd however, were not only sworn to protect their King, but also their King's family, which included their future King. According to his father, Jaime Lannister had sat smug on the throne, his sword still stained with his King's blood, while the innocent queen, daughter and crown prince were brutally murdered by Gregor Clegane, the Lannister's pet monster. So while Jon did not necessarily hate the man, his presence made him feel unsettled, a feeling he quickly shook.

Behind the carriage rode men in armour of red, gold and black. These were definitely Lannister men. Displaying banners with a golden lion on a crimson field, Jon was curious as to why the King had allowed his Queen's house to be equally as represented as his own.

The wheel house came to halt and the King's men and guard dispersed throughout the courtyard finding their appropriate positions.

Suddenly, the door to the carriage swung open, slamming against the side of the cabin and a man climbed down, a very fat man.

Jon's brow furrowed slightly as he laid his eyes on Robert Baratheon for the first time. The man was tall as his father said but he did not look like the stories at all. His round belly sagged at his belt and his large misshapen beard covered most of his blotted red cheeks. If it weren't for the jewelled crown atop his head Jon would have a hard time believing that this man was in fact the King and not some overweight drunkard.

Behind the King came a women Jon could only assume was the Queen. Cersei Lannister, or Baratheon, should he say. Taking her twin brother's hand as she stepped down from the carriage, the Queen was indeed a sight to see. Like Jaime, golden locks cascaded down either side of her head with loose strands from each side braided and wrapped round to join at the back of her head, forming one long braid. Her eyes also shone like emeralds and she held a stiff gracefulness befitting of a Queen. However, her age was evident. Some crow's feet were beginning to show either side of her eyes and laugh lines looked about ready to take place also, not that she looked like she ever laughed.

Following the Queen, the crown prince stepped down, looking more a Lannister than Baratheon. His arrogant smirk instantly irked Jon. Next came the princess Marcella, a tame looking thing, and finally Tommen, a plump little boy who, like Marcella, looked the only normal members of the royal family.

Jon watched as his father stiffened somewhat as the King caught his eye and approached him. The Baratheon, stopped short of the warden of the North and gave him a succinct look up and down.

Ned bowed shortly before returning to his stiff, upright position, "Winterfell is yours, your grace."

"You've gotten fat." The king grunted and Jon found it hard not to laugh at his audacity. Ned was not fat, and the King was certainly not fit.

Lord Stark did not rise to the jibe and merely raised an eyebrow, an amused quirk to his lips.

"By the Gods Ned!" The king suddenly shouted, "You being sat up here in this damnable country has made you near thrice as cold as the weather itself!" He then wrapped the man up in a large bear hug, "Still, it is good to see you old friend! It will be nice to have some real company and not a bunch of snivelling tarts all looking to gain my favour!" he all but shouted, releasing the man from his hold.

Ned did not reply but nodded his head slowly, the quirk of his lips still displaying his amusement.

"And Lady Catalyn, it is a pleasure to meet you again." Robert declared and Lady Stark curtsied delicately.

"The pleasure is mine your grace."

"Now, who do we have here?" the man asked as he moved his eyes to the eldest of the Stark boys, "Ah this must be Robb! You'll be a fine warrior one day my boy, just like your namesake!" He exclaimed and Robb bowed diligently.

"I will try to meet your expectations, your grace." He replied with a slight grin.

Robert then took a step to the side and looked down at Bran, "And this fine young man, you must be Bran! I'm sure you'll make an excellent lord one day." He complemented, a hearty smile on his face.

"I'm going to be a knight!" Bran corrected after a short bow, "Like Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard."

The king laughed loudly and rustled the boys hair, "I'm sure you will my boy, I look forward to you guarding my back." With that he turned to the last of the Stark boys, "Ah, this must be Rickon. Still a little thing but I'm sure you'll grow strong."

Baby Rickon bowed clumsily and nodded his head, confirming the King's statement to be correct. He then casts a tentative look towards his Mother, as if asking whether he had done well. She smiled fondly in response.

"Now, that's have a look at your girls Ned!" The King proclaimed, as he strode towards the other side of the party, his fat belly wobbling slightly. He stopped in front of Sansa and smiled, "This must be Sansa! What a beauty you are. I'm sure you'll be granted the queen of Love and Beauty if you were to attend any of our Southron tourneys." He complimented, his grin never faltering.

Sansa blushed prettily and curtsied gracefully, "You are too kind, your grace." She replied, her words soft yet clear as though she had practiced them a thousand times.

Robert then averted his attention to the second Stark daughter and his smile faltered momentarily. Arya locked eyes with the King and did not break contact as the man took in her whole form.

"And you, you must be Arya." He started slowly, before he shook himself out of whatever state he was in and laughed, not quite as loud as before, "You definitely have the wolf blood in you!" He said and rustled her hair also.

Arya grimaced under the King's hand and curtsied boyishly after he had removed it, "Thanks, your grace."

Next, the rest of the royal party greeted the Starks. Ned took the Queens had and kissed it politely, declaring that Winterfell was also hers. Prince Joffery greeted each member politely enough however looked as though he was struggling to hide a smirk of contempt. He saved a particularly flashy grin for Sansa whose cheeks reddened in response. Marcella greeted each Stark shyly and blushed when she was introduced to Robb. Little Tommen did much the same except him and Rickon seemed to exchange curious childlike stares before grinning happily at one another.

Meanwhile, the King stood back and took in the rest of the castle goers. His cerulean eyes wandering the rookeys and terraces of the old keep. Jon watched disinterestedly and failed to notice as Roberts eyes landed on his own.

The big man paused momentarily and his eyes narrowed somewhat. Then, he began making his way towards Jon, and the boy couldn't help but feel like he had somehow made an error.

"Your Grace?" Ned offered, as he watched his King walk away from the greeting.

The King stopped a meter before Jon and sized him up. He was not as tall as the Baratheon however he was of the same height as his father, and would likely grow still.

"Ah, this is my other son." Ned informed, as he positioned himself slightly behind Robert, "His name is Jon."

"The bastard?" Robert continued.

"Yes." Lord Stark replied a slight waver in his voice as his eyes moved to Jon's almost apologetically.

"He has the North in him, this is certain." The King commented, his eyes still leaving the boy's who returned the kings stare. Robert then laughed boisterously, "Looks like he's got some balls too! Speak boy, what does a bastard like you wish from life?"

Jon was momentarily startled by the question for he had not been expecting the King to address him directly. His brow furrowed and his lips thinned in thought.

"I'm not sure, Your Grace" He began after a pause, his eyes quickly shifting to his father's before returning to Robert's, "Due to my… humble status, I lack the responsibilities of a noble. I do not wish for wealth or fame or power. A keep where I will wed and form a brood of Snows. I suppose my only wish is that I am able to live freely and without restraint." Jon's eyes gained conviction and the King seemed to swell slightly, "I am a Snow of the North, and I will always be a Snow of the North, that is fine, however this Snow does not wish to linger in the North, but instead fall on other lands, perhaps where Snow has never fallen before."

His father gained a look of guised pride and the King looked thoughtful for a moment. In a sudden movement, he reached forwards and wrapped his great meaty arm around the boy's head bringing him into a headlock, laughing mostly to himself, "You upstart!" He roared, "If I could switch places and travel the world with only my warhammer and a wineskin I'd hand you this crown in an instant!"

Jon struggled weakly however thought it best not to resist too much. Before long the King released him of his hold and stepped back, grinning still.

"You've got a good lad here Ned," Robert exclaimed clapping the Lord of Winterfell on his back, "Say, how are your boys with the sword?" He asked curiously.

"They are exceptional, your Grace." Ned relied, a small grin on his lips.

"Excellent! I shall look forward to seeing them spar with my Joff." He announced loudly before lowering his voice slightly, "Although the boy needs a good beating if you ask me." He added, prompting Jon to laugh despite his best efforts.

The prince however heard the jape and scowled, looking towards his mother who was also scowling fiercely.

"Robert, my love, I'd appreciate it if you did not mock our son," She then turned her gaze to Jon, her emerald eyes narrowed, "Especially in front of a lowly bastard."

"Bah be quiet woman," The King quipped dismissively, "Now Ned, take me to your crypts." He demanded, having seemingly forgotten the conversation just past.

"My love-" Cersai began however a sharp look from Robert cut her off.

"Ned." He said, his tone filled with the finality of a King.

The quiet wolf offered the queen an apologetic nod before leading the King into the crypts while Lady Stark went about accompanying the rest of the royal family, who slowly filtered into the warm of the castle.

"So, you plan to leave Winterfell?" Jon sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose within two fingers.

"I was always to leave." He rolled over onto his side and took in the pair of muddy brown eyes, "Ned Stark may be my father and Winterfell may have been my home but I have no future here, you know this."

Jeyne Pool frowned, her soft brow scrunched, "Surely you could speak to your Lord Father? Convince him to let you stay?"

A soft smile graced Jon's lips and he reached forwards and gently moved a strand of the girl's hair behind her ear, "My Lord Father has done enough for me. He has provided me with a lordly home, where some would cast me aside. He has thus far treated me as much a son as Robb or Bran or Rickon than any bastard could ask for. Even his relationship with Lady Catalyn has suffered due to my presence." He retracted his hand placed it under his head, "I do not wish to burden him anymore than I already have, or Lady Catalyn for that matter."

Jeyne contemplated his words, her mouth opening and closing slightly as if retracing what he had said, "You could stay in Winter town, or come to court with-" She began.

"Jeyne." Jon interrupted, his voice a mix between sympathy and exasperation, "I'm a bastard. I will never be accepted at court. I do not wish to live in dreary old Winter town for the rest of my years" He watched as the steward of Winterfell's expression fell in disappointment and he could not help but feel sorry for the girl. He was soon a man grown and soon to be men grown oft experience certain urges towards the opposite sex, as Maester Luwin had said once. Jeyne Pool on the other hand was a woman flowered who happened to be attracted to the young bastard. When Jon was younger, his position as a bastard haunted him. Everywhere he went, he'd be reminded that he was a bastard and because of that he could nothing with his life. He was a bitter child, and it took a while before he could admit that. Jeyne Pool, good friends of Sansa Stark was, or used to be a bitch for a blunt way of putting it. She never openly taunted Jon, however her attitude towards him seemed more of a noble woman looking down on a street urchin than a steward's daughter to a Lord's bastard.

When Jon ws two and ten however, he began to realise his life as a bastard gave him freedom. He began to embrace his name and the negatives and positives that came with. As a result, Jeyne's Pools subtle taunts grew ineffective, and Jon took the opportunity to taunt her back, which somehow led to her becoming infatuated with him.

"I understand," The girl said after a small pause as she pulled the cover over her breast, "will you think of me?" She then asked.

Would he think of her? Jon pondered the question for a moment. The girl was sweet, and he was fond of her, but he did not care for her as a lover would. Nonetheless, he was just a maid as she before they lay together, and that meant something to him. Once upon a time, the thought of laying with a girl before marriage was not one considered by Jon Snow. He hated his life as a bastard, and did not want to sire a child with the same fate. Now however, he did not mind it as much. He liked to think he'd adopted a 'Dornish' mentality on the matter: a bastard may be a bastard, but any bastard of his would be treated as a trueborn.

"Yes, I think I will." He concluded aloud eventually after shaking himself out of a mull, and the girl smiled sadly.

"That's good." She replied as she sunk into the old featherbed that occupied Jon's solar, "what will you do?" her gaze once again inquisitive, still that hint of sadness lingering in her brown orbs.

"I'm not sure." He sighed and stared blankly at the ceiling, his deep lilac eyes shimmering gently, "In the north, snow is everywhere, and bastard Snows are everywhere too," A sly grin tugged at his lips and he returned his gaze to Jeyne, "I suppose I intend to let this Northern Snow fall all over the world."

"That's big talk for a bastard." The girl quipped, smirking mirthfully.

"Yes well this bastard isn't just talk." Jon rolled over so that he was on top of Jeyne and stared down at her predatorily, "And I will show the west," He kissed her left collarbone slowly, "the east." He turned his attention to her right collarbone, nipping at her skin, "And the south…" He slurred, as he kissed his way down through the valley of Jeynes growing breasts, over her belly and to her flower, "Just what the Snows of the North are truly capable of."

Done! This is a prologue so the next chapters will (hopefully) be longer. Updates should come relatively quickly since i've finished uni and am currently trapped at home for three weeks.

Note: I think in canon, jon is slightly more Rhaegar than Lyanna (more reserved than outgoing), in this he's got a bit more lyanna in him, while still retaining that Targaryen twang.

Review, fav or follow if it pleases ya.

Thanks for readin!