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Seeds of the Northern Kingdom	By : Sigil_of_House_Throckmorton Category: A through F > A Song of Ice and Fire Views: 99161 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: The setting and characters of the series A Song of Ice and Fire belong to George R. R. Martin. I make no profit from this work, and will remove it should I be contacted by GRRM or any of his legal representatives.

Chapter List
- 1-Val
- 2-Alys
- 3-Lyanna
- 4-Meera
- 5-Wynafryd
- 6-Wylla
- 7-Sansa
- 8-Arya
- 9-Epilogue: Daenerys
- 10-Omake: Dany
- 7
- 8
- 9
She is near. He can smell her intoxicating scent somewhere close, just outside the stones of man den. It is irresistible, wild and savage.

He bares his fangs at the men guarding the exit. They know him, and they know his other self, so they let him through. They think he is going out to hunt, and he is, in a way.

His prey will be much more dangerous than deer though, or even an elk. And it will be that much more satisfying when he succeeds…

Jon shook his head, an inadvertent motion from the effort of kicking Ghost out of it. Something had him restless, and the wolf dreams were becoming intrusive thoughts rather than the passive extensions of himself that they had always been in the past. He was used to Ghost only reaching out to him in dire situations, usually manifesting itself as some vague sense of foreboding, but never this uncontrollable warging. He had no time for it now. The answer to a bothersome mystery was finally to be revealed, and it required his full attention.

The door slammed shut. Jon slid the ironwood bar through the iron fastenings on the door and opposite wall. Satisfied in their security, he turned around and motioned for Pyp and Grenn to follow him to the far corner of his new solar in the First Keep. Grenn laid the mysterious parcel on the table.

“This was all that was there, Jon,” he whispered, obeying Jon’s instruction to stay quiet. “Nothin’ else, least that we could find.”

Winterfell was in good condition upon his arrival, Sam and Val having managed to run the household efficiently in his absence. Sansa was the delight of the castle, having teary reunions with Hallis Mollen and Tom Too, the only members of the staff surviving from her when she last called Winterfell home. She crooned over the pregnancy-swollen bellies of Val and Alys Thenn, but ran afoul of his wife when she invited her to spend an afternoon sewing. All had been splendid until this afternoon, when outriders announced the approach of two men and a mule from the north. Jon had Edd clear his schedule for the afternoon to deal with whatever it was that Meera had him retrieve.

The bundle in question, no more than an arm’s length, was wrapped black homespun cloth wrapped in black leather and secured by black belts and fastenings. One end was slightly wider than the other. It weighed less than one would expect for its bulk. Perhaps it contains a valuable scroll?

“Will you show us what’s in it?” Pyp asked, having to force his head between Jon and Grenn’s shoulders to see the package in the corner. “We had it at the bottom of our mule pack on the way back, so we didn’t get to look at it … much,” the man admitted.

“I suppose you two should be rewarded somehow,” Jon replied. He gave them a conspiratorial grin. “Of course, if you divulge the contents of … whatever this is, to absolutely anyone, I will have to take your heads.”

“Not unless I take them first,” Grenn retorted.

Jon and Pyp both stared at him, but after he did not react for a few moments, they nodded to each other in the mutual understanding that these things just happened and it would be no use attempting to correct him. As strong as a bull and twice as smart, that one.

Jon released the clasps of the belts first before unraveling the leather and cloth casing. Inside Jon found a hard leather sheath, black with red filigree. Ripping the rest of the material away, all three of the men were stunned to silence.

The ornate sheath was old, but well cared for. The quality of the longsword was immediately apparent once the hilt was in view, even before Jon exposed the blade to confirm his suspicions.

His hand wrapped around the alternating red and black stained leather grip of the blade, comfortably fitting between the scaled-wing motif of the crossguard and the red enameled dragon head decorating the pommel. The blade itself shimmered with thousands of midnight ripples, more than Longclaw or even Ice, despite being half the size of the latter.

A gift from a relative. Was it Maester Aemon who hid this for so long? Regardless, Meera was correct in saying that this is dangerous.

“Why do you get all the fancy swords?” Pyp whined.

“Silence, friend,” Jon warned, not daring to speak above a murmur. “Do either of you recognize this blade?”

The pair of crofter’s sons shook their heads.

Jon considered not telling them of its significance – it would have been the safer option. However, these men were his friends and had already journeyed across the North and back. They deserved to know exactly what their errand had brought into Winterfell.

“This is the blade wielded by Visenya Targaryen during the Conquest. The sword wielded by Prince Daemon Targaryen as he flew on Caraxes and dueled Aemon the Kinslayer above the God’s Eye. The weapon of Aemon the Dragonknight himself, and the weapon of Lord Bloodraven throughout the Blackfyre Rebellions,” Jon told them. He had trouble remembering the names of all the Targaryen kings and details about who married whom, but great deeds, duels, dragons, and swords always captured his full attention as a boy.

“This is the Valyrian steel longsword of generations of Targaryen loyalists – this is Dark Sister,” he finished, unable to control the awe in his own voice.

Pyp resembled a rodent at night with his eyes as wide as his ears. Grenn was clearly impressed, but the effect was tempered with his question, “Dark Sister? It’s a woman’s sword?” Pyp gave him a clout on the ear, causing Grenn to retaliate with a punch in the shoulder. Jon separated them before they broke his newly made furniture.

“Stop this,” he said in his king’s voice, so that they knew he was serious. “Remember, this cannot be told to anyone under any circumstances. No one will know what we have. Am I clear?”

“Of course, Jon,” Grenn said, all levity gone despite his grip around Pyp’s collar.

Jon dismissed them as he contemplated his situation. There was no way he could wear or use the sword in any way. It was instantly recognizable to anyone with a highborn education, and even the smallfolk would question what he was doing with a dragon-hilted blade. Even more importantly, he was now completely used to fighting with a bastard sword. Retraining his reflexes to a longsword’s length would take moons in the practice yard, and he would have to use Dark Sister itself to get the weight right. Longclaw would likely be the weapon he wielded until the day he died.

Although, it rightfully belongs to the Mormonts, and it would be selfish of me to keep two Valyrian steel blades for myself.

The thought of giving up his gift from Lord Commander Mormont all those years ago brought a sweet pang to Jon’s chest. The Old Bear was the first man other than his family to believe in his abilities, to trust him. Jon did all he could to honor the man’s memories. In return for saving his life, Jeor Mormont’s sword saved the world.

It was then that Jon knew where Dark Sister had to go.

Jon rewrapped the weapon and tied it across his back beneath a heavy cloak. He slipped out of his new chambers, instructing the guards posted there not to follow him. The halls of the First Keep had none of the scorch marks that marred the rest of the castle, and the freshly hewn and mortared stone was still rough from lack of use. Jon exited into the smaller courtyard adjacent to the north wall and crossed it. Going this way, most servants and observers would think him going to the godswood, especially at this time of day. Jon followed this path until he was in the shadow of a wall, where he ducked into the door that led down into the crypts.

Closing the door behind him, Jon removed a flint from his pocket and struck it against a knife to light the torch on the wall. As he began his descent, he had to refrain from unsheathing Longclaw from his hip. The urge was strong.

Hundreds of steps down, he came to a dead end. A new door had been installed preventing anyone from descending further. Branches from the weirwood in Winterfell’s godswood had conveniently given way under heavy winter snows not long after the Battle of the Crypts was done. Jon had them carved into this gate and installed them personally. Following Val’s advice, he had smeared his own blood across the entire surface of the far side and allowed her to cover it in runes of the First Men. After seeing what Howland and Melisandre were forced to do below, Jon had no more misapprehensions about the power of magic or the old ways, not after what he had seen. The blood red eyes of the face, which Sam had urged him to carve into it when he arrived just as the spring melts began, bored into his mind, feeling familiar and terrifying all at once.

Instead of passing through the white and red gate and breaking the seal, Jon went through the simple wooden door on his right.

He entered the portion of the crypts he was most familiar with, the parts he would visit as a child. Walking past the stone statues of kings and later lords, Jon inspected each of them to insure that the iron swords across their laps were whole and sharp, without a speck of rust.

At the end of the path, the sculptures become more familiar. Rickard Stark, flanked by his two children, was passed over. Jon could not help but continue just a little further in to look at his family.

Eddard Stark sat somber upon his carved throne, the effigy doing a poor job of capturing the kindness that would often linger in his sad eyes. The greatsword across his lap was no Ice, but it was of the kind that his uncle would have preferred.

Robb Stark was at the very end of the row, technically the newest tomb despite being built at the same time as Eddard’s. Recovering Robb’s bones from the dungeons of the Twins had been particularly traumatic for Jon—they had thrown the body in a wine cellar wrapped in rags and allowed it to rot. Discovering Grey Wind’s head on top of Robb’s neck made him vomit. The skull was never found, but the direwolf’s bones were reassembled and interred underneath the great statue of the beast that sat loyally at Robb’s side. Robb’s own longsword from his campaign lay across his lap, but the thing that differentiated this statue from the others near it was the crown carved into the stone atop his head.

What mess have I made of your legacy, Stark? I’ve retaken our home and won back your crown, but I was never raised to rule. You lost your life for your honor, while mine was left somewhere beyond the Wall with Ygritte.

Jon felt a rolling tide of shame and guilt wash over him. Robb had taken responsibility for the indiscretions of his marriage, and had been willing to play pauper at Lord Walder’s feet if it meant winning back the respect of his kingdom. Jon had fucked a wildling girl despite his vows, and more often felt pleasure than guilt in the act.

He thought that his marriage to Val would change things, would allow him to behave honorably, but as his wife relaxed the boundaries of their marriage bed he had become less honest with her in kind. He had rationalized lying with Wylla as a kindness to a love-sick girl, but Sansa he had seduced and fucked out of pure desire. Robb would have beaten the shit out of him, had he been alive to hear of it. Val likely still would if she ever found out; she was supposed to be able to hear all of his liaisons, or at least know about them, per their agreement.

“I will make things right, brother. I promise,” he said to the stone façade.

“How in the Seven Hells was it you of all people to end up in a situation like this, Snow?” would have been Robb’s response, he was sure.

After paying respects to the father and brother of his heart, Jon turned back to the only female statue in the chambers. Only Northern kings and later lords were entombed here, making Lyanna Stark an anomaly. Although, she was for however short a time the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, if Meera’s story is to be believed. Never crowned, but wed to a king and mother to a prince.

Unlike the others effigies, Lyanna sat with her hands crossed over her heart instead of braced against her throne. Jon pulled the parcel from his back and once again unbound Dark Sister from its fabric coffin. Depositing the sheath atop the vault itself, Jon took the blade in his hand and laid it across her knees. She wielded a small sword better than Benjen, and unseated knights in a tourney. Surely she would wish to defend the realm as much as any man down here.

Jon was not worried about Dark Sister being found. He had forbidden all servants, guards, and castle staff from entering the crypts without his express permission, on penalty of death. He personally supervised all workers that had come down to install the new mausoleums, and looked after the swords himself. Those baring the Stark blood and name could visit without consequence, meaning that Sansa or even Val, a Stark by marriage and carrying his blood with their child, would not harm the blood wards of the First Men by their mere presence as others would.

The face he had so often written off as a bygone aunt, long with high cheek bones, stared sightlessly into the abyss.

“The man who raised me never told me about you, but he did keep his promise,” Jon told her. “Your friend the crannogman never told me either, but his daughter did.”

Lyanna Stark made no response.

“I wish I could have known you, mother. But I know that you loved me, enough to have your brother risk everything for me to have a family and a home,” he said.

“Are you not Jon Stark, the legitimized son of Eddard Stark?” asked a voice from the void.

Jon froze.

There were no sounds in the crypts other than the sibilations of his own breath and the crackle of the burning pitch in his hand.

“Who goes there?” Jon asked the darkness around him, making every effort to stay calm. “These halls are sacred to the Starks – whoever you are, you are not welcome here.”

“Any Stark is welcome in the crypts of their ancestors,” the voice chastened. “But I again ask you, are you not the son of Eddard Stark?”

Jon hesitated. “Why does that matter?”

From behind Robb’s statue, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a beautiful woman, dressed in a blue maiden’s gown, with dark curly hair very much like his own and a long face framing grey eyes. Jon sucked in a breath as his mother’s statue made flesh approached him.

“A man named Jon Stark, the last son of Eddard Stark, is to be given the gift,” the figure replied. “And yet here you stand, claiming that you were raised by your uncle at the behest of Lyanna Stark, your true mother. The gift must not be given inappropriately, but no others will be able to verify your claim. So I must ask you, what is your true name?”

The gift? A man? She speaks as though she were using bastard Valyrian, despite speaking the common tongue with a Northern accent.

“I am called Jon Stark, this is true,” Jon said, thinking furiously as the back of his mind screamed danger at him, although he did not understand why. “But I was previously Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell.”

“This one knows that Jon Stark was previously Jon Snow. This one knew Jon Snow, but cannot give him the gift,” the enigmatic woman explained. “Jon Stark, however, is a man that this one does not know, and if that is your true name, this one must give you the gift all the same.”

The gift the gift the gift the gift—

“What is your name?” Jon challenged, terrified that he might know the answer.

“I am no one.”

A Faceless Man. But not a very good one, Jon realized. Faceless Men were no one, with no past or history. Their disguises were always perfect, so the legends said, because they could imitate any other person by taking their face as their own. They were also deadly because they gave no warning of any kind to their victims, as the Sorrowful Men would. This assassin is searching for a loophole. She does not truly want to kill me. And she knew Jon Snow.

The young woman before him still hesitated, as though expecting him to deny his crown and his existence, to divulge the secret that could rip the realm asunder.

“And if I am Jon Snow?” he asked her, hopefully.

“The world knows that Jon Snow has become Jon Stark. I cannot give the gift to Jon Snow, but another man will,” she replied.

“What if I am neither Jon Snow nor Jon Stark? What if I have another name, known only to a few, but truer than the others?” he suggested, hiding his desperation.

“Then a man must give his true name,” said the spectral maiden without hesitation.

“If the realm hears it, my family will surely die,” he pleaded.

“This one will not tell any what a man’s name is, only that he is not Jon Stark nor Jon Snow,” she delineated.

Jon took a breath to settle his composure, before stating, “I am Jon Targaryen, the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

The king looked around, remembering something he heard Maester Luwin tell him long ago. “I have a gift for you, so that you remember my name. A gift only Jon Targaryen could give,” he said, hoping the old Maester’s stories were true.

The Valyrian steel sword was removed from Lyanna Stark’s lap and sheathed into its scabbard. Jon offered it hilt first to Lyanna’s phantom. She stared at it, grey eyes widening even in the dim torchlight as she saw and understood what it was. Her face fell, as if in disappointment, but she took the sword nonetheless.

“Dark Sister,” they said together.

“This … this one knows you now, Jon Targaryen. The gift was not for you, and now this one can never give you that gift,” she said with relief palpable in her voice but a tear running down her face.

“That is good, I thi—are you … sad?” he asked, confused by her sulking.

“I – this one will give you another gift, instead,” she said as she launched herself at him. Jon held up his hands, intent on defending himself from the would-be assassin, but she slipped through his fingers like a gust of wind….

She collided with him, her hands gripping his chest to pull his mouth down to hers. The maiden’s tongue invaded his mouth, claiming every crevice of the orifice.

Jon thought to resist, but something about the kiss felt so very right. She tasted of brazed venison and joy and home. Despite his urge to flee and leave this dangerous person behind, his body refused to move away from her. He wanted to run, to scream, to refuse her advances in accordance with the promise he swore before Robb’s grave not minutes before.

But that was not what he did. Jon’s blood boiled with lust, more concentrated than he had ever felt before, and it demanded action. Despite the danger and the disgust he knew he would feel for himself later, he obeyed. He circled the mystical woman’s thin waist in his large hands and corralled her against the wall, surrounded by his body on three sides.

He could finally see her, gold eyes and grey coat unchanged since that last time all those years ago. They crash against each other, but he is far from the outcast she remembers. All four limbs pin the she-wolf beneath him. She struggles, but there is little fight in it. Their reunion will be violent, and likely bloody. He bites into her scruff to pin her neck, holding her in place.

Jon snarled as he ejected the lupine presence from his mind once again. If anything, it only worked up the waif even more.

She responded with a breathy moan and bit down on his lip, hard, before shoving her tongue even further into him. Blood soaked his mouth, tasting coppery and warm. He tore away her dress and bodice before grabbing her firm, palm-sized teats in his hands and bringing her pebbled nipples into his mouth. They were small and pink, and incredibly sensitive if her response is in any way believable. The way she gripped his arse and pulled his hardness against her was certainly convincing.

He wraps his forepaws around her body, rubbing his aching cock against her. She howls in response while spreading her legs in the dirt, making room for him. Her hackles are raised in agitation and arousal and fear, but the heat of her cunt pulses against him, and he cannot stand it for a moment longer.

Ignoring the distractions at the edge of his perception as best he could, Jon rucked up what remained of her skirts. She hurriedly undid the laces of his breeches in response. His cock throbbed in her nimble hands as she smeared the liquid already leaking from the tip around its head, rolling back the foreskin in the process. She wore no smallclothes, and was soaked with arousal when he prodded at her opening with his tip.

He thrust into her, his longer legs providing plenty of power as he buried himself inside her wet heat.

The waif snarled and savaged his lip once again. In the flickering light of the torch, which had been dropped into the dirt some time ago in his haste to take her, Jon saw maiden’s blood glisten around his cock. He made to say something, but she refused to relent control of his mouth, and when he tried to pull away she ensnared his hips by wrapping her legs around him, high on his waist. As her supple and incredibly smooth thighs squeezed around him, Jon lost any remorse he might have had. He moved his hands away from her chest to snatch her arse out of the air, each formed cheek filling up a splayed hand, and slammed her again back into the wall, this time for support as much as to keep her bound to him.

Her burning cunt squeezed hard around him, and he lost control of his hips as he thrust away into her.

The pale maiden began to moan and growl in his arms. With each thrust, her nails dug deeper into his back, so much so that Jon felt pain erupt even through his doublet. Her body was small and tight, but her hips felt like heaven in his hands as her muscular stomach contracted with her cries of pleasure and her cunt clenched around his cock, as hard as the Valyrian steel he had given her. Her body rolled his foreskin back and forth over his sensitive cockhead with every push inside of her. Every pass felt like a lightning bolt of bliss shooting up his cock and making a home amongst his guts. On instinct, he pulled her arse cheeks apart, allowing his bollocks to slap against her exposed arsehole as he fucked her into the mausoleum wall.

When he pressed a finger against the rosebud there, she yelped. Jon felt a beast roar within his chest, commanding him to claim every part of this strange and perfect girl as his forever. He took his hand back and pressed the middle finger into her mouth, never letting up on the pounding her gave her petite cunt. She swirled her tongue around it obediently, though she was in no manner submissive. Once she had it nice and wet with her own spit, he brought it back to her ass and pressed it as hard as he could into the pucker between her small round buttocks.

“Jon!” she screamed, her first word since attacking him like a feral beast. She sounded desperate for release, and he could feel his body responding to her need.

He pulled her slightly higher on his hips, now bouncing her arse against his angled thighs while his slick finger worried eagerly at the inside wall opposite his cock. Her entire pelvis contracted around him, so hard he thought his finger might snap, and his cock could take no more.

She howls and keens underneath him, making their mating all the more enjoyable. He bucks his hips a few more times before he spills himself inside her, a lifetime’s worth of semen pouring into the first bitch he has ever taken.

Ghost’s satisfaction paled in comparison to his own. There was a searing pain coursing through the underside of his shaft as his orgasm continued, as though his body knew that this would never happen again, that this would be his only time with this mysterious and dangerous woman, and that it would make up for it by emptying his testicles completely. It was terrifying, though whether that was due to the ache in his balls or the thought of being without her he could not say.

The woman shook around him as their combined fluids dripped on the dank floor of the crypts. Jon rubbed the top of her head to comfort her through it, more than strong enough to hold her up with only one arm. He wanted to stay inside of her forever, to spill inside of her over and over again, but he could not fathom why this desire existed.

“Stay here,” he found himself pleading. “Make this your home—surely they will never hear of it in Braavos. Faceless Men must go missing all the time.”

The spectral beauty laughed at him. “You know nothing, Jon Targaryen,” she said as she pushed him away and smoothed her ruined skirts down to cover her legs.

A chill swept down his spine, and made to reply but was interrupted by a call echoing down from the entrance of the catacombs.

“King Jon! Your Grace, come quickly!” shouted the boyish voice of Dryn Giantsbane, now cracking with puberty.

Jon turned around and shouted a reply in acknowledgement, assuring him that he would be up with all haste. He reversed again, only to find the cryptic woman gone.

The torch still sparked, albeit pitifully, on the dirt floor of the Stark tomb at the bottom of Winterfell. There was no sign the stranger’s presence at all, save for shreds of her dress and a mixture of their blood and semen in the dirt. Dark Sister was nowhere to be found.

Jon took his time to check behind each statue and mausoleum on his way out, but no investigation showed any further signs of the woman that resembled his lady mother, but had been sent to kill him.

After dawdling longer than would likely be expected, Jon made his way out of the crypt. Dryn was waiting for him, anxiety pouring out of him as he fidgeted by the entrance.

“There you are, Your Grace! Hurry, the queen is in labor!” he shouted as he ran off. Jon followed after him, running as fast as he was able.

I promised to be there for her when this started, and instead I was fucking an assassin. A darker part of Jon suppressed the thought that it was the most satisfying thing he had ever done. In his not unexpected guilt, he resolved that, now that Val’s pregnancy was coming to an abrupt end, he would never fuck any woman other than her, no matter her goading.

Jon burst into his wife’s new chambers in the First Keep, expansive but simple, to find her lying calmly in bed and reading while Maester Sam and Gilly and countless maids bustled about the room like crazed hens, flustered in their attempts to get everything prepared.

Val raised an elegant honey-blonde eyebrow at his disheveled state. “What brings my husband to my rooms in such a sorry state?”

Despite the chaos of her surroundings, Val was tranquil.

“I heard that you were in labor,” Jon said, deflating under her scrutiny.

“Yes, I am, but it is also my first child and my water broke only moments ago. It will likely be tomorrow before we welcome our child into the world. The contractions are still quite far apart, so I am not yet that uncomfortable,” she admonished. Jon sorely wished Maester Luwin had given him better instruction on these things, and wanted to hit himself for not asking Sam for tutoring on the subject when her pregnancy first began. Dryn would need lessons too—he clearly had no idea of the appropriate level of urgency.

“But I am here to comfort you nonetheless, as I promised I would be,” Jon said.

“That you are,” Val said with a small smile mostly around her eyes, the kind that only he would notice out of the whole room. “Now come sit with me. Men of the Free Folk stay with their women during childbirth, and must do whatever she says.”

Jon laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, only to be called an ignorant kneeler as he wrapped his arms around his beautiful wife. Despite her brave front, Jon could feel her quivering in his arms and realized that she was terrified.

‘Dalla made it all seem so easy, and she still died in the birthing bed.’

After they had eaten bread and broth and venison hot from the kitchens for their supper, Jon sat behind Val with his arms protectively around her shoulders as she leaned back into him. He could feel himself nod off, but did not fight it, knowing that Val would be a while yet and that he would need his rest for later.

He luxuriates in the cool night air of the woods around him. It is more comfortable than the warm lands on the other side of the swamps. He hopes the wild sister thinks so too. She lies beside him still, dark golden eyes peering into his own. He sees a flash of recognition there, and knows that his other self can see the reflection of his sister in there too.

The urge comes over him, and so he gets behind the wild sister and mounts her again, forcing his cock inside of her burning body. She no longer fights him, officially accepting him as her mate. They will bring strong pups into the world, and he hopes she will stay with him in the man den to raise them. She kills men rather than dining with them, and she never stays in one place for long, but he knows that she could be happy here too. They could make a new pack, together.

He spends himself inside of her and lies down beside her once again. They lick each other’s faces before resting until he can take her once more.

Jon woke up and whispered, “Little sister,” before he could stop himself. That was what Ghost had been showing him all along.

“What was that, Jon?” Val asked from her resting place on his belly, clearly exhausted.

He did not respond.

Much later, during the hour of the wolf, after her pains became more severe and more frequent and she had squeezed his hand so tight he thought he might never use a sword again, she delivered their son, healthy and squalling. Sam made a comment about there being less blood than expected, and let Val know how lucky she was that there were no tears from the birth.

Jon and Val could not hear him, enraptured as they were at the bundled form of their son held against her body, already rooting around Val’s chest searching for her nipple. His hair was dark and curly, just like Jon’s. As he suckled at her teat, he opened his eyes for the first time. They were grey, as they both expected, but with flecks like Val’s. If Val noticed that the flecks were more lilac than blue, she did not point it out.

“What is the prince’s name, Your Graces?” asked one of the maids, a new girl from the winter town.

“He does not have one,” Val replied, looking utterly content as she fed their son. Jon felt himself falling in love all over again, only now with two people instead of one. “It is bad luck to name a child before his second year.”

Much later, while Val slept and a wet nurse looked after his son, he left the keep. He found their kennelmaster and ordered a new addition installed, ‘large enough for a wolf the size of a horse expecting a litter of pups.’ The poor man looked terrified of what such a request might mean, but knew better than to object.

Inevitably, however, Jon was drawn back to the crypts. His thoughts raced as he made the descent. And there, lying across Lyanna Stark’s lap, was a thin sword of the type that a bravo might use, bearing Mikken’s mark at the hilt.

Needle. “Arya,” he said in the dark, to no one.
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Seeds of the Northern Kingdom