Chapter 4 — Blood and Stone
The morning felt colder than it should have been.
A brittle stillness clung to the stones of Winterfell, the kind that slipped into your bones before the sun rose. Outside my window, frost clung to the wooden rails, and breath fogged the air even was quiet.
But my mind wasn't.
I'd known this day was coming. I'd known it for ten years.
This is it. The thought came without emotion, smooth as polished steel.
The first real fracture. The day the wolf pup falls.
Bootsteps echoed in the courtyard below—pages and squires hurrying to saddle horses, tighten straps, oil leather. The royal party was preparing to hunt, and all of Winterfell bent to accommodate them. Robert Baratheon's laughter already boomed across the walls like thunder rolling in from the sea.
I sat by the small hearth, staring into dying embers. My hand clenched around the mug of small beer I hadn't touched. I could go. I should go. The king had invited me personally, in his thick-chested voice, slapping me on the back like I were already one of his own bastards. A Baratheon in all but name. The man was charismatic and had a way of dragging you in.
If I go, I miss the tower. If I miss the tower, Bran falls. If Bran falls… everything spirals.
Brans fall. Joffrey's assassination attempt. Catelyn arrests Tyrion. War comes to the Riverlands and then grows and grows.
The urge to accept was strong. A hunt with Robert Baratheon, a chance to speak, to gain ground. In another life I would have accepted.
Robb found me in the yard, arms crossed, hair still damp from the steamhouse. He looked flushed and excited, practically vibrating with purpose.
"You're not dressing?" he asked, one brow lifting. "They'll be leaving soon."
I shook my head. "I pulled something in my shoulder with the kingslayer" I said, rolling it slightly, wincing. "Could do more harm if I strain it."
Robb didn't buy it. He studied me too well now. "That didn't stop you when we sparred yesterday."
"Didn't have a royal audience watching," I muttered.
He laughed and clapped me on the arm. "Your loss. The king's drunk already. Might be the only time you outride him."
I forced a smile. "I'm needed here."
He gave me a long look, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. The king will ask after you." He doesn't believe me.
I nodded and watched him go, his cloak trailing behind like a banner. Behind him, Theon strutted through the gate like a rooster, bow already slung across his back. Jory Cassel followed, flanked by half a dozen Stark guards.
I waited until they disappeared into the forest, hooves crunching frost, hounds baying in the distance. The echoes faded. Winterfell sighed in their absence.
Stay in Winterfell. Stay near Bran. Be ready.
I took the long walk through the quiet halls to the tower. Maids passed me with linen and baskets, startled at seeing me. I nodded but said little, they just giggled and kept going whispering to each other. That is happening more and more lately. My boots barely made a sound.
The broken tower stairs loomed ahead.
My pulse quickened.
But no—not yet.
Arren intercepted me near the library stair, nearly colliding with me as he rounded the corner. He was, cheeks flushed from running.
"Lord Stark asked for you," he said, panting. "In the solar. Something about the Wall."
I stopped mid-step. The Wall? My heartbeat stuttered. I nodded once and turned toward the Great Keep, leaving the musty scent of old parchment and the comfort of dusty stone behind.
The corridors were quieter now, emptied by the preparations for the hunt. Only a few guards remained at their posts, their faces unreadable behind Northern steel. Ghost padded silently behind me, a white shadow in my wake. I paused at the solar's heavy wooden door, hand resting on the iron handle, and drew in a breath.
Then I stepped inside.
The solar was warm with firelight. Books lined the walls, old banners hung between high-arched windows, and the heavy scent of pine smoke clung to the air. Lord Stark sat behind his massive oaken desk, his brow furrowed as he leaned over a spread of maps and aged scrolls. The yellow light caught in the strands of grey at his temples. The sun outside cast pale streaks through the lattice windows, but Ned Stark was a silhouette of solemn resolve.
Maester Luwin stood to the side, murmuring something about logistics and available transport wagons. Lord Galbart Glover was beside him, arms crossed, the red hand of his house stark against his green doublet. They were in the middle of some quiet discussion, which trailed off as I entered.
Father looked up at once.
"Jon," he said, voice even, eyes unreadable. "Good timing."
I stepped forward. "Lord Stark, you asked for me?"
He gestured to the parchment in front of him. "I have decided to heed your word." His voice held no emotion—just the stark weight of duty. "I want you to draft a shipment of weapons and armor for the Night's Watch. Take from the stocks here in Winterfell. You'll coordinate with the steward to order replacements from the blackworks. They've improved in recent years."
I blinked. My mouth parted slightly. Had I misheard?
"You're—approving it?" I asked, the words faltering from my tongue.
He met my eyes without flinching. "I am."
I stepped closer, heart pounding. "But… I've brought this before. Over a year ago. More than once." I remembered the cold rejection, the patient nods, the polite disinterest. "You said the Watch had enough. That it wasn't our concern. Might I ask what has changed?"
Ned Stark didn't speak for a moment. He leaned back in his chair, fingertips steepled before him. His expression was that same stoic mask he wore at executions and in war councils, but his eyes were distant.
"You did," he said finally. "You kept asking. You didn't let it go."
He reached out and tapped a finger against the map. "And I have eyes, Jon. I read the reports Luwin shows me. I see the dwindling numbers, the aging men. I have talked to Benjen recently, he brought me letters from Lord commander Mormont, the watch is struggling. I should not have needed reminding."
Maester Luwin cleared his throat softly. "The smiths say the iron supply is strong this year. And the new apprentices are skilled—better than expected."
"I won't send them scraps," Father said. "I've authorized new chainmail, fresh greaves, and sharpened steel. Not rust. Not cracked leather."
Lord Glover nodded. "About bloody time. The Old Bear's been patient, but even Mormont's temper has limits."
I looked down at the scrolls. The shipment was no token gesture—there were real numbers: blades, armor, tools, even three reinforced wagons of dried rice. The supplies to repair Castle Black and its elevator. It was enough to last the Watch a year, maybe more. I recognized some of the phrasing from the letters I had drafted and abandoned, buried under my mattress.
"Thank you," I said finally, voice quiet. I swallowed, tried again. "I will start on in immediately"
My father's gaze held mine, calm and firm. "The Wall is a duty," he said. "We forget that at our peril. And duty, once ignored, tends to return in darker forms."
A silence fell, heavy and old.
In the flickering firelight, his words sounded like prophecy.
I bowed my head. My hands clenched slightly at my sides, then released.
"May I oversee the inventory myself?" I asked.
"You may," he replied.
"And I'll pen the reply to Lord Mormont."
"Good," he said simply. "Let the Old Bear know Winterfell remembers."
Something inside me cracked, quietly. I turned to go, pausing by the door.
"Father… good luck on the hunt… and be careful." Voice cracking slightly. Gods you are a man, speak like one!
"Thank you Jon." It was enough for now.
Not all fractures could be mended. But this one had been too delayed. It could be reforged, if not quite healed.
One fracture averted. Another waits above the tower.
The sun dipped behind the western wall of Winterfell, throwing long shadows across the yard. The light was soft and golden, the kind poets liked to write about—the kind that didn't belong to a day like this.
I stood in the archway near the base of the First Keep, back against the stone, pretending to watch the stablehands lead the last of the horses from the stables. Maybe I stand like this too much, aura farming has a limit. But my eyes tracked upward, past the eaves, to the ancient stones of the tower.
Any moment now.
The tower loomed above me, blackened by centuries of wind and smoke. It was quiet tonight, unusually so. The royal party was out hunting, and the court followed like hounds on a leash, leaving Winterfell hollow and half-empty. All the better.
My fingers twitched at my side.
This is it. This is where the fracture starts. This is where everything breaks.
I had replayed it a thousand times. Bran's hand on the stone. His small boots on the crumbling ledge. His eager, innocent smile as he clambered toward the voices he shouldn't have heard. And then—Jaime. Golden. Deadly. A blur of motion and a cold whisper: "The things I do for love."
And Bran fell.
Unless he didn't.
The air was still. From the far side of the yard, I saw movement—quick and nimble—making its way up the rough side of the tower. There he was. Bran. Eight years old, fearless, joy in his limbs as he climbed the stone like it was part of him.
I swallowed.
He was faster than I remembered.
Higher.
Damn it, Bran.
My boots crunched on the gravel as I stepped closer, keeping to the shadows. From above, I heard faint voices—laughter, breathless and close. A woman's murmur. A man's low reply. I could only catch the edges of the words, blurred by stone and wind.
They're in position.
My heart thudded. One wrong move and I spooked them. Too late, and Bran was a criple or worse, my intervention bringing a worse outcome.
I took another step forward and craned my head upward. "Bran!" I called, voice pitched low, like a warning between brothers. "Bran, come down!"
He hesitated.
A flicker of motion caught my eye near the top of the tower. A window. A shadow pulling back from it.
I raised my voice slightly, still keeping it light. "If your mother sees you up there, she'll tan your hide. You know how she gets when you climb near the roof!"
Bran paused, legs wrapped around a stone outcropping. He was maybe twenty feet from the window. Close—too close.
"Jon?" he called down, confused.
I stepped into the open, face tilted up to meet his. "Come down. Now. Please."
He hesitated. He always hesitated. He loved climbing. Loved the view. The wind. The rush.
But this time… this time he listened.
"Alright," Bran sighed, and began to descend, slower than he had climbed, sulking a little. "You sound like Septa Mordane."
I let out a long, silent breath. My knees went weak for a moment. I didn't move until his boots hit the grass.
He landed beside me with a soft grunt. "You never tell me to come down. You used to cheer me on."
"I'm older now," I said. "Wiser. Taller. More beautiful" I winked rapidly at him like a love struck Sansa.
He laughed a little. Then wrinkled his nose. "You're not wiser. If you were you wouldn't nag me like mother!"
I forced a smile and clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Well, maybe not. But trust me, today's not the day to break your neck."
Behind us, high above, a shadow moved near the tower window again. A face—pale, golden-haired, sharp-eyed—leaned out.
Jaime Lannister.
He saw me. And I saw him.
Our eyes locked.
I didn't flinch.
Jaime's expression didn't change, but his head tilted slightly, just so. Then he was gone, retreating into the shadows of the tower. Another shape—slighter, but moving with urgency—followed. Cersei, no doubt.
They hadn't expected witnesses. And now they had none.
I rested a hand on Bran's back and guided him away from the tower. "Come on," I said softly. "Let's go to the kitchen. I want some late night blackberry bread."
Bran groaned. "They always burn the bottom."
"That just makes it better!"
Later that night, I stood alone in the godswood, Ghost resting silently at my side. The weirwood's red eyes watched me, and the old leaves rustled in the wind. I said nothing to the tree. Not tonight.
Bran was safe. Whole. Sleeping in the bed he was meantto be broken in.
I sat on the cold stone bench and stared up at the moon. My breath misted in the air.
He's safe. He lives.
The words repeated in my head like a prayer.
But my mind refused peace.
I knew what had happened in that tower. Even without seeing it, I knew. The voices. The motion. The raw look in Jaime's eyes when he saw me. The way Cersei had fled like smoke vanishing into shadow. I didn't need to see them.
They were in the middle of it.
And I had interrupted.
My fists clenched slowly at my sides.
What if I'd had someone interrupt them? Someone that they couldt silence and had the weight to tell on them. What if someone else had come with me—Theon? Robb? What if Septa Mordane had passed near the tower? What if Catelyn, already wary, had looked up and seen more than she should?
I wondered, if it would have been better to do that but…
The entire kingdom could have come crashing down around us. Just like that.
If I tell…
My mind chased the branching futures, faster than thought. Robert Baratheon—already unstable, already drinking more than eating—would explode with fury. The woman he married, the children he believed to be his… all of it exposed as lies. His grief would be matched only by his rage.
He would not listen to counsel. He would not wait.
Cersei would die. Jaime would hang. The children—gods, the children—Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen…
They'd be bastards by law. Abominations by rumor. Targets by both.
Robert wouldn't let them live. He'd rage and roar and order their deaths in the name of justice. Ned would try to stop him. He might even defy him.
And if Ned stood in Robert's way, Robert might do something even worse.
And Tywin Lannister…
My stomach twisted.
Tywin wouldn't weep. Tywin would act. Quietly, brutally, with the cold logic of a lion who never forgives a wound. He would not mourn his daughter and son. He would avenge them. He would raise the West. He would march, with gold and steel and every bannerman he could buy or terrify into line.
King's Landing would bleed. Riverrun would fall before it even chose a side.
And the realm would shatter before even the red comet came blazing across the skies.
All for a truth I didn't need to tell.
Not yet.
Telling the truth doesn't always mean doing the right thing. Sometimes, the truth is a sword aimed at the world's throat.
Sometimes, silence is the only way to keep the peace breathing just one more day. And above that… I couldn't stand he thought of Myrcellas' head splattered with a Warhammer.
I looked down at Ghost, who lay curled beside the roots of the weirwood, his red eyes flickering with faint light. He didn't move, didn't blink. He just stared into the trees, still as snow.
I sank to one knee beside him and scratched behind his ear.
"No one dies today," I whispered. "Not Bran. Not Jaime. Not yet."
The words trembled in the air like frost.
I had bought time. Just time. That was all. No burning of the Riverlands would start in a moon.
But time is a dangerous thing to hold. With one choice, I had split the road. The future I remembered had fractured, jagged and bleeding. Every moment from now on would ripple outward, changing things I couldn't see, couldn't control. That's a scary though… I really need to clear my mind.
The stone steps into the crypts were cold beneath my feet. I moved without torch or lantern; I didn't need them. The light of dawn could be seen by the tunnel's entry, and I knew this part of the crypt like the palm of my hand.
I came here often, when the others slept. Ghost padded behind me like a pale shadow, silent save for the soft pat of his paws. The Stark kings loomed to either side, centuries of carved faces in solemn stone. Dust swirled in the air, disturbed by nothing but memory.
Most people came here to grieve.
I came here to think.
The smell of earth, stone, and time settled into my lungs. Familiar. Comforting, in its own way.
I passed the great lords—Rickard, Brandon, Cregan— the starks had like 5 names they keep reusing. and stopped before her. Lyanna. Her statue was younger than the others, though her face was carved with sorrow older than all of them. She knelt beneath her stone canopy, flowers long withered in the vase beside her.
I sat on the cold stone before her and rested my hands on my knees.
Ghost settled beside the statue, his head on his paws. The red of his eyes caught a glimmer of light from some crack in the ceiling. It made him look almost… haunted. The name Ghost really suits him, quiet, scary.
I looked up into her face.
"You didn't die crying, did you?"
I swallowed, jaw clenched.
"You died bleeding, giving birth. And no one remembered your son. They buried him in a lie, called him a Snow. Called him nothing."
I stared down at my hands. Pale, scarred, too young to hold this much weight.
"What would you think of me?" I whispered. "If you could see me now? I can barely remember you, the mind of a man in a baby's body too much for it."
A bastard, with a soul from another world. A ghost inhabiting your child's skin. Even if my last life felt so distant from me.
I rose and stepped closer, placing my palm on the cold stone of her tomb. "You were brave. Foolish, maybe. But you chose. Rhaegar… gods, I still don't know what to make of him. He started a war for a song, for a prophecy. He left his wife and children for a crown of thorns. Even then many still praise him."
And yet—
"Maybe you loved him. Maybe that's the truth. Maybe you were both wrong, and everyone paid for it."
The quiet between us stretched long. It was the silence of the dead, full of judgment and forgiveness alike. I just stood again and kept walking. Cregan, Brandon, oooh a Thorren! Those are rarer.
I walked for more than an hour thinking of everything and nothing, Ned had though Robb and me meditation when we were children, even if he didn't call it that. He stared at the weirwood for hours cleaning Ice, I just walked in the tombs of forgotten kings.
I sat again, leaning against a wooden panel near a tomb—newer than the stonework, maybe added after the crypt had flooded decades ago. I remembered when the rot had nearly taken part of the floor two levels down, the risk of collapse was too big. Maester Luwin had overseen repairs himself.
My shoulder pressed against the panel as I exhaled.
And something gave.
A click. Then a creak.
I froze.
Ghost stirred.
Slowly, I turned, and felt the panel shift slightly behind me. Cold air touched my skin. Air that hadn't moved in decades.
I rose again, heart thudding in my chest, and pulled at the edge. The wood splintered with a soft snap. Behind it lay stone—smooth, dark, and sealed. Not the rough, weathered masonry of the rest of the crypt. No, this had been placed with care. Almost reverence.
There was no inscription. No letters. No sigil.
Only silence, and stone, and something waiting behind it.
It took me the better part of an hour to work the stone loose.
I dared not use a hammer—it would echo too loudly—but a pry bar and my hands, aching and blistered by the end, were enough to crack the seal. A hiss of air escaped as dust curled around me.
Inside lay cloth, blackened and soft with rot. Velvet once, now eaten by age. Silver thread clung to its edges like cobwebs.
My fingers trembled as I peeled it back.
There, nestled within the shroud, was something that should not exist.
A dragon's egg.
White, veined with crimson. As smooth as marble but warm beneath my touch—living warmth, pulsing like a heartbeat. I stared at it, breath caught in my chest.
"This wasn't in the show," I said aloud, voice hoarse. "Not in the books either."
My eyes flicked to the statue. "Who are you?" It was very weathered, but it was lithe and… soft?
Ghost growled low behind me. Not a threat, not fear—unease. I felt it too, through the bond. Not just warmth now, but a scent, strange and ancient: fire, stone, and old blood.
"Did Rhaegar leave this here?" I murmured. "Did someone know I'd come back?"
No… This is the tomb of a woman…
I tried to read the inscription in the base, was that a W?
S…r…ow
Sara Snow! Jacaerys you little bastard!
I just couldn't stop laughing, a hundred and seventy years later I find the dragon egg Jacaerys Velaryon gifted his little Stark lover. Two bastards in love. And now another bastard profited from it.
Was this always here, hidden, waiting for no one?
The egg sat motionless, but something about it felt… expectant. As though it knew. It feels warm.
My mind reeled. If this had been here all along, buried beneath Winterfell, what else had been hidden by fate and fire and grief? Had I missed this in the books? What else had I missed in my memories?
I thought of Daenerys—her dragons, her fire. But this egg wasn't black and red and gold. This one was white, veined red like bleeding marble. Ice and fire. Like me.
A shiver worked its way down my spine.
Do I show it to Ned?
Do I demand the truth from him? If he saw it—if he touched it— could I use so he tells me what he's hidden all these years? Would he finally say my mother's name aloud?
Or do I keep it secret? It could be dangerous. More than dangerous. If someone learned I had this, even whispered it…
The egg was heavy in my hands. Ancient. Sacred.
Or a curse.
Could I even use it? Could I hatch it? I had no blood magic, no Targaryen rite, no red priest or dragonbinder. Just a name buried in lies. The egg felt warm but distant…
Maybe it wasn't meant for now. Maybe it was meant for the comet. I could try blood sacrifice but were would I hide a dragon? I couldn't sacrifice someone to fire without everyone thinking I was crazy either.
The memory stirred—red fire in the sky, the rise of dragons, the breaking of slavery. That hadn't happened yet. Not here. Maybe… maybe when it did, I would know what to do.
Carefully, I wrapped the egg in cloth again—fresh linen of my cloak this time—and crept back to my chambers. I lifted the mattress and tucked it deep beneath, cushioned in furs and wool. Ghost watched me the entire time, his red eyes alert and silent.
The servants know not to disrupt my room too much. There were papers everywhere and I have ripped into the last servant that touched my room.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at my hands. They didn't tremble anymore.
"Magic has a cost," I said quietly. "Dragons are fire made flesh."
I reached out and rested a hand against Ghost's fur. He was warm too. Solid. Grounding.
"I need to be sure I'm ready," I whispered. "Before I wake anything."