Chapter Text
Jon Snow was barely 3 years old when he understood that he was different from his siblings.
“Don’t you dare call me that, I’m not your mother, bastard! You have no mother!" Lady Catelyn Stark screamed at the boy, who was clutching his red cheek. He tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back tears. He didn’t know what hurt more, the slap, or the words.
He had only imitated Robb, called for “mommy” to pick him up, he just wanted a hug and kisses. He was old enough to know the Lady didn’t like him much, but he hadn’t understood why. He had no mother, it seemed, no one to pick him up when he cried, or to tuck him in at night.
“Take that, evil villain! I’m Ser Duncan the Tall!" Robb exclaimed, thrusting his stick towards Jon, in the leaf covered ground of the Goodswood. The boys were five years old, already trying to imitate the adults in everything they could.
“And I’m The Dragonknight! Ha!" Job swung his stick back.
“Then I’m The Sword of the Morning!”
“And I’m Lord of Winterfell!”
Robb abruptly stopped the game.
“No you’re not. You can’t be Lord of Winterfell." He scowled.
“Huh? Why not?" Jon asked, brows furrowed and stick lowered to the ground.
“’Cause you’re a bastard. I will be Lord of Winterfell. Mother said so." Robb affirmed, as if it was obvious.
Jon stood there for a few seconds before dropping his stick and running away, tears brimming in his eyes.
It didn’t take much for Jon Snow to understand he was different from the rest. Lady Catelyn was the first to make it clear to him that he was not her son, that he was a bastard, unwanted. Her children followed. And from that point on, Jon knew there was something about him, something wrong, something inherently broken that set him apart from the rest, that couldn’t be fixed.
“Father… Can I speak with you?" Jon timidly asked, face peeking out from behind the door. It was the day after Robb’s 8th nameday. The previous night had been full of joy and love as the family crowded around Robb and gave him gifts. Except for Jon, who had to watch from afar for most of it, seated with the servants.
“Of course son, come here.”
Jon climbed into a seat at the Lord’s desk.
“What’s the matter, son?" Ned asked with a smile.
“Father… Do I have a mother?" He asked, not daring to raise his head.
“Oh Jon." Ned answered after a few seconds. "Of course you have a mother, my son.”
“But… Then where is she? Robb and the rest have Lady Catelyn, but I… " Jon sniffed. "Does she not like me?”
“Son, you know I can’t tell you about your mother. Maybe when you’re older. But don’t doubt for a minute that you’re loved. You’re my blood, son, and I love you. And I know you meant the same to your mother. You’re loved, Jon.”
Ned walked around the desk and hugged the crying child to his chest.
Once they were old enough, he joined his brother Robb in his studies, learning from Maester Luwin about language, geography, history, and everything else a Lord was supposed to know. Soon enough he realized that most of these things made no sense to him. He didn’t have a Lord’s sensibilities, their worries and wants. He was a bastard, he would never inherit, he would never hold a Lordship or govern a keep. And so he started to look at things differently.
“Maester Lewin" He asked.
“Yes, Jon?" The maester inquired. Jon was very quiet, so he tried to answer as best he could the few questions the boy asked.
“Why do knights fight? Last time you spoke of that King of Storms that declared war because of a bard. Why would you risk your life because someone couldn’t handle a jape?”
“Well, Jon, you see, Knights are sworn to uphold their Lord’s honor and to follow them into battle, and these Lords in turn are sworn to their King. So regardless of the reason, they’re duty bound to follow when asked. Besides, glorious battle is the place where a Knight makes a name for themselves, often being gifted with lands or titles. It is also the best place for a squire to be recognized and raised to knighthood.”
“I don’t understand, Maester. You said that they can sometimes spend years away from home, fighting battles in which they might die. Why would anyone swear that oath? Don’t they want to be at peace with their families?”
“Well, swearing yourself to your Lord is one of the most honourable things a man can do. You uphold your honor and loyalty to your Lord, and in return, the Lord shares with you his victories and glory. Everyone gets something from it.”
“I… still don’t understand, Maester.”
“That’s ok, Jon, that’s why we’re here.”
But Jon couldn’t stop thinking about it. From the time he was little and he heard the stories for the first time, he had wanted to be a renowned knight, fighting for honor and glory. The lessons, however, told a different story. Lords and Kings fought over the smallest things, and huge battles followed. In these battles the knights on their service found the opportunity to gain honor and renown, to die a great death. But all Jon saw was that they died. They died young, in a war they had nothing to do with, far from their home and families. And that was the knights. Reading the casualty tallies of the battles, thousands and thousands of smallfolk would have died the same way, without their names ever being remembered. He had noticed in his studies people tended to overlook the smallfolk, even his father did, even if he was always courteous with the servants. But he, as a bastard, felt more like one of them than one of the nobility, and couldn’t help but think war was awful.
He knocked on the door.
“May I come in?”
There was no response, but Jon knew Arya well enough to know that if she didn’t want something she’d be vocal about it. He entered the room and sat on the bed. Arya laid on the bed, her back to Jon. He knew she was trying to conceal her tears, he could see the stains on the pillow, but he would not mention it.
“Was it Sansa again?" He asked, patiently.
After a while, she responded.
“No. It was her friend Jeyne." She sniffed. "She called me horseface.”
“And what else? I know you don’t really care what Jeyne thinks of you.”
“She… She was talking with Sansa. I was above them, in the wall, chasing a squirrel, and I heard them as they passed by. She said… She said that I was more of an animal than a lady, that I would never find a husband.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be a lady, or get married.”
“I don’t! It’s stupid! But then Sansa… Sansa said she agreed. That the only thing I’m good at is making things worse, that…" She curled up into the pillow. “She said that she wished Jeyne was her sister instead.”
John sighed, Arya liked to act like she didn’t care, but she was actually quite sensitive.
“I know she doesn’t like me. And I don’t want to be more lady-like for her to like me. But it still hurts. Am I really so bad?" She cried
Jon hugged her against his chest
“You know she loves you in her own way, you’re just very different.”
“I know. She loves me. Same way Mother loves me. But they don’t like me for me, just because I’m family. If we weren’t family they would hate me." Arya bawled against Jon’s shirt.
“Come one, little sister, you know that’s not true, they like you. What’s not to like?" He tried.
Arya sobered up and looked up at her brother from behind her tears.
“We’re a lot alike, you and me. Everyone says so, especially my father. " Jon nodded. "And how do Mother and Sansa treat you? That would be me if I had a different mother." She whispered.
Jon didn’t know how to answer. He just hugged her harder and let her cry.
“Come in." Lady Stark called from inside her rooms.
Jon entered and closed the door behind him.
“Lady Stark." He nodded.
“Bastard, how dare you enter my rooms? What do you want?!" She sneered
“My Lady, please, I have need to speak with you. It’s about Arya." He tried, keeping his posture non-threatening and his eyes to the ground.
“What have you done to my daughter, bastard?!" She started.
“Nothing, my Lady! It’s just… She was crying the other night, and after I asked, she confessed… that she thinks you and Sansa do not love her.”
“How dare you! How dare you imply I do not love my child!”
“I know you do, Lady Stark!" Jon replied, incensed. "But Arya doesn’t believe so. She thinks you love her only because she’s your daughter, but that you do not like her for who she is. Same with Sansa. She’s quite convinced of it.”
“And who has put these ideas in her head, then?" Catelyn accused him.
“Not me, my Lady. I know what it’s like to grow up without a mother’s love. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all Arya." He answered, incensed, looking into her eyes for the first time since he entered the room. "If you love her, you have to show her, or else she’ll keep believing the opposite.”
“Get out." Catelyn seethed. "How dare you come tell me how to raise my children?! What would you ever know of family, you motherless bastard?! Get out, right now!"
Jon inhaled deeply, nodding and leaving the room, before he said something he would regret.
“Jon, what did you say to Catelyn? She was incredibly offended." Ned asked him the next day in the hallway, he had seldom seen his father this angry.
“Father I -”
“No son. You know better than to provoke her, and now you’re telling her how to raise her children? What’s gotten into you son?”
“But Father I was merely trying to-”
“No buts, son. There’s no excuse for that kind of behaviour." He sighed "This is even worse than last year’s debacle, what am I gonna do with you Jon?”
Last year, Arya had come crying to her father, asking if she was a bastard. It took a long time for Ned to reassure her that no, just because she looked like Jon instead of the rest of her siblings, and that Sansa disliked her like she did him, that didn’t make her a bastard. It was a miracle he had managed to keep his wife from hearing of it. She would have immediately blamed Jon, and he shuddered to think what she would have done to the poor boy.
“You will apologize to Lady Catelyn before the end of the day. I didn’t raise you to act this way. Am I understood?”
He could see that there was nothing he could say to sway his father. The word of a bastard was worth nothing.
“Understood, Lord Stark." He resigned himself.
“Come on Snow, what are you waiting for? An invitation?" Robb teased.
“Don’t bother, Robb, you know he’s craven" Theon sneered.
Jon scowled, but didn’t give in. Robb tired of waiting and attacked, giving Jon the advantage. He patiently parried his attacks, keeping his feet moving towards his objective. Then, there it was, a misstep from Robb. He slightly overextended on a lunge due to the uneven terrain. Jon took the opportunity and counterattacked hard, keeping him out of balance until he was able to disarm him.
“Well done, Snow. A bit too clinical though, you’re lacking spirit." Said Ser Rodrick, the master at arms.
“Clinical? More like boring." Robb grouched half-heartedly as he was helped up by his half-brother.
“I’m sorry if I don’t enjoy hacking at things." Jon grumbled.
“Yeah, we all know you don’t know what to do with your sword." Theon snickered.
“That’s enough Theon." Robb scolded the older boy, whose sexual innuendos always made Jon visibly uncomfortable. He had tried to break both boys of their attitudes to no avail.
Jon went to dry off his sweat reflecting on the match. He always had mixed feelings about sparring. He loved swordfighting itself, the technique, the beauty of the movements, the patience of waiting for the right opening. But he hated the violence of it, the fury, the will to harm, the impact of a sword on his shield that would make his arms tremble. And that seemed to be what the rest enjoyed, just smashing each other with slabs of iron. It seemed every bruise was a trophy. Nevermind that this was all just practice for killing people, the mere thought of which made him queasy. Theon liked to call him craven for it, and deep down he agreed. Everyone seemed so eager to go to war, but he dreaded it.
Shaking his head, he looked up and was surprised with the sight of a bucket moving slightly above the parapet.
“Come on out, Arya, I can see you." He sighed.
“Crap! How do you always find me?" She said, coming out from behind the parapet where she had no doubt been spying on the sparring. She was wearing a bucket as if it was a helm.
“You’re not that stealthy, sister." He smiled.
Arya pouted, but quickly came down to help him with his sword and padding.
“I saw you in the courtyard! You were all quiet, waiting, and then, BAM, you struck out and took Robb!" She recounted excitedly, trying to weave around the sword with both arms.
“Shouldn’t you be at your classes?" He asked.
“But it’s embroidering! That’s so boring!" She lamented. "I’d rather hit things with a sword.”
“Sewing is not that bad. I find it calming. " He said. He had definitely practiced by fixing up his clothes, as Lady Catelyn would not spare the servants. "And don’t call it hitting things with a sword. There’s much more to it, hitting things is what brutes do.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. And I have no idea how you could enjoy sewing, it’s so girly!" She pouted.
“I’m sure girly things aren’t so bad. At least it’s not so violent." He countered.
“Girly things suck. I hate them, I’d much rather do boy things. You guys get all the fun." Arya grumbled.
“Well, I didn’t make up the rules. Sorry sister. Tell you what, tomorrow I’ll teach you a couple of moves at the Godswood, ok?”
Her face lit up at the thought of sword lessons.
“Yes! Thank you thank you thank you!" She said, hugging him.
“Jon! We’re going to Wintertown, are you coming?" Robb asked him. He didn’t have to inquire as to what exactly was in Wintertown. The boys were 13 now, and developing an interest in women. It didn’t help that Theon Greyjoy, a self-proclaimed “ladies man”, was stuck to Robb like dung to a shoe’s sole.
“No. You know I don’t like brothels, Robb." He answered, exasperated.
“Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t know what to do with your manhood. The whores would charge you triple." Greyjoy laughed.
“Come on, Theon, don’t pressure him. You know he’s scared of women." Robb snickered.
“Well, I’m sure if one tries to rob him of his purity, he can always show that brooding face of his, it can make children cry." He laughed.
“Yes, I think I’ll stay here brooding. After all, I’m not the one so repulsive that I need to throw coin for someone to show an interest." Jon responded, annoyed at the teasing.
“Come on boys, that’s en-”
“Well, I for one look forward to tonight. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and find your mother in the brothel." Jon froze, and Robb paled. "I’ll be sure to put a child in her belly, give her a son she wouldn’t be ashamed to keep.”
Something snapped inside Jon. Before he realized he was straddling Theon, raining blow after blow in his face. He barely registered Robb trying to take him off the bleeding boy, but he couldn’t stop hitting and hitting. After a while, stronger hands managed to throw him off Theon, and he could see through the bloodlust.
“Stop, you’re killing him!”
The older boy was wheezing in the dirt, face a bloody mess, and missing several teeth. Jon could only look at his bloodied fists, not believing what he had just done.
Jon arrived at his chamber with a smile on his face. Yesterday was his 14th nameday, and his father had given him a few coins for the occasion. He had been saving up for months, and it was not easy. Unlike his siblings, he didn’t receive an allowance, and he wouldn’t ask his father for money. He made some gold working odd jobs around the village from time to time, but he was usually too busy. After he had beaten Theon nearly to death, the maester and the master at arms had decreed he had too much pent-up energy, and so they had put him in training with the soldiers. He had become quite good with a sword, but he barely had time and energy for anything else.
Nevertheless, he had been saving up, and he thought he finally had enough. Nearly a year ago, he had met a girl, Jane, the daughter of a barmaid, while working a shift at a tavern in Wintertown. She had been funny, kind, and pretty, and Jon had quickly become enamoured. A visit turned to two, then to three, and soon he was missing her company as soon as they parted. The day they first kissed was the happiest of his short life. He knew then he was in love, and for the first time in his life, he was glad he was a bastard.
He didn’t have a duty to marry some noble girl to secure an alliance. As a bastard, his marriage was worthless at best, an insult at worst. And so he was free to marry a peasant if he so wanted. He could marry for love. And so he had been saving up for months to buy a present for Jane with which to ask her for her hand. A ring, maybe, or perhaps a pendant. Nothing too ornate, she wasn’t vain and was more of a kind girl. And nothing too valuable, or there was a risk of thieves attacking her. A trip to the jeweler later, and he had a pendant with a simple design coated in silver. Simple, but elegant.
He made his way towards the tavern next, wishing to ask for Jane’s mother’s blessing before asking her. The owner told him she was in the backroom, and he made his way there, but he stopped before the door. He could hear cries from inside, and he could recognize the voices. They were Jane and her mother.
“Stop your tears child, you know it must be done.”
“But mother I don’t want to. There has to be another way." She pleaded.
“Yes, of course there is another way. You can just live your life like the rest of us do. Living day by day, worrying if tomorrow you will starve, die of sickness, or be raped and killed in some stupid war! The boy is your best chance at life, Jane, gods be damned, he lives in a castle! Everyone would kill for a lordling to show interest in them.”
“I know mother but it just… I’m scared. I’ll have to lay with him. And give him children. I already feel disgusted when we kiss, I don’t want to lay with someone I don’t love just for money! I want to marry someone for love!" She cried.
“Oh you fool, marry for love? You think I married for love? I didn’t love your father. He certainly didn’t love me either. But he put bread on the table, and I gave him a child, so it worked. We made it work. And even if he was a piece of shit, his death was still a blow. Those were difficult years. So no, child, you do not marry for love. Fools marry for love, and then die young. A marriage is a business. You get food and safety, and he gets to think you love him. And be glad that this boy is damned kind. Most of them would have raped you and gone on their way. The boy loves you, and will treat you better than most would. Hell he might even marry you instead of keeping you as his mistress. So next time he comes, you show him that you love him. If he wants a kiss, you kiss him. If he wants to fuck you, you spread your legs. You understand, child?”
“Yes, mother. I understand." She said, sniffling.
Jon didn’t know what to do. He was frozen in place, in front of the door. He couldn’t breathe. He could hear them coming out so he ran away. Before he left, though, he turned back for a moment, approaching the owner.
“Would you mind giving this to Jane next time you see her?" He asked, giving him the wrapped pendant, and a silver stag as a tip.
“Of course, m’lord." The owner said, accepting the package.
Jon then ran out of the village on foot making his way towards the castle, not stopping until his breath gave out. And only then letting the tears free.
Jon was wide awake, looking to the wooden veins of the rafters over his bed, when the door opened, a small face peeking through the gap.
Arya didn’t waste any time asking for permission, she just climbed into his bed and hugged him tightly.
“You can’t keep coming into my bed Arya, you’re getting older, it’s not proper.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not." He sighed.
“That’s stupid.”
“I know.”
They laid in silence for a while.
“You’re sad.”
“I am?”
“You’re always sad. But you’ve been sadder lately. I don’t like it." She mumbled against his chest.
“I suppose I am sad. It’s ok to be sad once in a while, little wolf." He kissed her head.
“You shouldn’t be sad, ever. You’re my brother. I love you.”
Jon hugged her tighter against his chest. She loved him. Well, she was the only one. And that was just because she was as lonely as him. Sooner or later she’d find her place in life, and she wouldn’t need him anymore. She’d realize he was worthless and disgusting, just a bastard, and would discard him. Jon supposed that was fine. It would hurt, but fine. At least he’d enjoy her love while he had it.
“Why are you sad, really?" Arya asked in a low voice. He had thought she was asleep already.
“I liked a girl. But she didn’t like me back.”
“That’s stupid. She’s stupid. What’s not to like? Who is she? I'll put manure in her boots." She grumbled.
“It’s not her fault, little wolf. We don’t choose who we love, or who we don’t. It just happens.”
He couldn’t fault Jane. Of course she didn’t love him. He wasn’t worthy of love, love was for good people, for people who were wanted . He was just a bastard, no love on the cards for him. His mother hadn’t wanted him, and his father only took him out of a misguided sense of duty. Lady Stark made her dislike very clear, and his siblings were just friendly, as they would be to anyone, hardly familial love. Just little Arya, brash and wild Arya, cared for him. And that too would fade away in time.
So no, he couldn’t fault Jane. If anything, it was his fault, for daring to think he could be loved like that in the first place. What was there to love? He certainly wasn’t handsome, his wide jaw and deep brow, his wide shoulders and bulging muscles, and to top it all he was starting to grow a patchy beard, and even more hair in worse places. He hated how… beastly, how much like a bear he looked, and yet Robb and Theon mocked him for being “too pretty, like a maid”. He certainly wasn’t talented either. He had no special skills, he couldn’t play any music and his singing was atrocious, he was barely decent with sums and letters... His only real skill was with the sword. His only talent was at something whose only use was to bring pain and death.
He didn’t fit either. He didn’t enjoy swordfighting like Robb and Theon did. He didn’t like to read stories of chivalry like Sansa, or wished to be a warrior like Arya and Bran. He didn’t really have any activity to share with his siblings. They were just… different. He felt like a jagged piece that didn’t quite click with the rest. Arya didn’t understand why he abhorred combat, Bran why he didn’t wish to be a knight. Sansa… the less said about her, the better. And Robb and Theon mocked him constantly for his refusal to visit the brothel.
He wasn’t even sure he liked girls the way he was supposed to. Yes, he found them attractive, but unlike Theon - or even Robb, at times - he didn’t enjoy undressing them with his eyes. It seemed… violent, intrusive, ugly. He could tell his attraction wasn’t wanted, and it made him feel dirty, like a raper. He had been invited by his brother to the brothel plenty of times, and he had considered it once, to try and get over this strange sensation, but the mere thought of sex, of being naked and joining with another just made him feel nauseous. Not only the fact that he was taking advantage of someone who didn’t have anything and was forced to sell her body, but the mere act, even with a willing woman, terrified him. The thought of being completely naked, vulnerable, offering all of himself to someone who would certainly judge him for it… It paralyzed him with fear.
With Jane, though, it had been different. What they had - what he thought they had - hadn’t been born of lust. He had merely enjoyed her presence, spending time with her, like one would with a dear friend. Over time, that feeling had taken on a different shape, of wanting to be close to her, to hold her and be held by her, to breathe the same air, lie on the same bed. Still far from lust, just a sense of… wanting to belong somewhere, to someone. To see and be seen. Accepted for every part of him he disliked, not despite them.
And yet, it was not to be. While he had approached the relationship with this… innocence, for lack of a better term, Jane had not seen it that way. She had seen regular male lust, a desire to possess, to consume, to devour. Maybe that was all it could be, with him. Maybe that was all a woman could feel towards a man, and love was just learning to live with it. In any case, Jon wanted no part of it. There were a lot of things wrong with him, but he could at least try and not make anyone else miserable. He didn’t know how the rest did it. Did Robb and Theon think of it this way? Did they just not care, or did they not realize? Was this what his sisters had in their future? Not for Arya, he prayed. She would sooner break than bend to such a fate.
His mind back on his sister, he turned his gaze to realize she had fallen asleep some time ago. Shaking his head of such thoughts, he decided to sleep too. There was no point in wondering about things that couldn’t be changed.