I recovered at a strangely fast pace so before the weekend ends I thought why not write another chapter? Hope you liked how I have written Walys' death.
Comments and reviews are always welcome.
283 AC - Winterfell
pov Eddard Stark
The solar was quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the soft rustling of snow against the windows. Catelyn Stark stood near the hearth, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. She had asked for this conversation after the evening meal, after the children had been put to bed. Now, Ned stood before her — tired, travel-worn, and more uncertain than he had ever been on a battlefield.
"You've had a loooot of time to prepare what you wanted to say, Ned," she said at last, her voice cool. "So tell me: who is the boy's mother?"
He met her gaze without flinching. "His mother was Lyanna."
Catelyn blinked. The words struck like a thrown stone.
"Your sister?" she asked. "But… oh by the seven... Rhaegar—"
"She loved him," Ned said. "They were wed in secret. She died giving birth to their son. His name is Jaehaerys… but we call him Jon."
Silence. Only the wind whispered against the shutters.
"You… lied to protect him."
"Yes."
"To protect them."
"Yes." He didn't try to deny it. "I swore to her, Catelyn. On her deathbed. Robert would have killed the boy. He still might."
Catelyn turned to him then, and though there was hurt in her eyes, there was also something else: understanding, painful and sharp.
"Why tell me now?" she asked.
"Because you deserved the truth. And because Elia Martell and Ashara both warned me — you would see Jon as a threat, a rival to your son. I had to hope that the truth would make it easier."
"I don't know if it does," she said honestly. "But I see now why you did it. And what it cost you."
She turned back to the fire, arms still crossed. "I will never be his mother."
"I wouldn't ask you to be and I think Elia might want to fill that role."
"I will not see him cast out. He is part of this house now, and I will not see Winterfell torn apart by secrets and spite."
Ned let out a long breath. Relief — not joy — filled him, cautious and sad.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me," she murmured. "Thank the gods the boy is still young, and too innocent to know how close he came to being truly motherless."
She walked past him toward the door, pausing only briefly.
"You should tell your brother. Benjen. He deserves to know."
"I will," Ned said. "In time."
"I can understand why you have brought him here and I can also understand why Ashara is here with your daughter but I want her gone from here, sooner than later okay?"
"Don't worry, I don't plan for Ashara to stay here more than a few months"
As the door closed behind her, Ned remained by the hearth, watching the flames flicker in silence.
He had kept his promise to Lyanna. The truth, at last, was no longer his burden alone. But the weight of it still pressed down like snow on a bent bough.
Now came the harder choice. Ashara could not stay — that much was clear. Winterfell would not bear her presence for long, not with Cat watching and whispering spreading. But how could he send Alysanne away from her mother?
She was his daughter, his blood… but a child needs her mother more than her father. And yet… part of him ached at the thought of parting from her so soon.
**Scene Break**
pov Torrhen Snow
The wind outside moaned low against the stones of Winterfell, a sound like a dying animal. In the shadows of the library solar, a fire sputtered in a narrow hearth. Torrhen sat in a high-backed chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. Lyarra sat across from him, her face half-cast in flickering orange light.
Just minutes ago, after first slapping him in the courtyard and then dragging him to her room, she had broken down in tears and it took him a while to console her and convince her that he really was okay again. She hadn't spoken for some time.
When she finally did, her voice was quiet. Cold.
"There is someone plotting our death" she said.
Torrhen didn't need to ask who.
"Walys."
Torrhen's jaw clenched. He had suspected. Lyarra confirmed.
"He's watched me too closely," she continued. "But only when he thinks no one is looking. I caught him again yesterday—after supper. His smile vanished the moment he thought I turned away. It wasn't just suspicion, Torrhen. It was hate."
Torrhen rose and crossed to the window. Below, snow drifted gently across the courtyard. "He suspects what we are," he said. "Or what we've become."
"And what happens when suspicion turns to action?" she asked. "We were left to die once already. You think he'd hesitate a second time?"
He didn't answer.
Lyarra stepped beside him. "We can't wait for him to make a move. If we're wrong, we'll answer to the gods for it. But if we're right…"
"…then we cannot risk it," Torrhen finished. "Maesters are supposed to be loyal to their houses. But Walys has no love for us. He never did. The only reason he kept us alive after we returned was fear."
"And fear fades," Lyarra whispered. "Or worse, it festers into resentment."
Torrhen looked down at his sister "We do this quietly. No mess, no fire, no talk. No one can ever know."
Lyarra nodded. "Tonight, when the keep sleeps."
"I'll do it," Torrhen said.
"No," she countered, calm but firm. "He won't expect me. He thinks I'm only a girl, and that will make him careless. Let me."
He studied her. The flickering fire caught the sharp edge of her jaw, the fierce defiance in her eyes. "Together then," he said. "If something goes wrong—"
"Then it won't," she said. "We've been dead before, brother. We won't let it happen again. Atleast not until we're grey and old and made sure we both have lived happy lifes."
A long silence passed between them as the wind howled again, low and mournful.
Torrhen finally spoke. "We'll go through the servants' passage. We'll make it look like he simply died in his sleep, Walys ain't the youngest anymore after all"
"No screams," she said.
"No second chances," he replied.
Then they parted without another word, both knowing what needed to be done. The fire in the hearth crackled and snapped behind them, but neither of them looked back.
**Scene Break**
In the end it was a simple affair, they entered the traitor's chambers at the hour of the owl but were surprised when the Maester was still awake writing a letter.
"Torrhen and Lyarra, what can I do for you?" he asked, standing up and holding a small stack of letters against his abdomen, clearly trying to make it look casual, suspicion evident in his eyes.
"Your time has come Maester, we cannot tolerate a spy in our family's ancestral castle anymore" he said coldly while swiftly walking towards the maester who's eyes widened at Torrhen's words.
Before the elderly man could scream for guards however Torrhen had already clamped his hand on the man's mouth and pushed him onto his bed. While Torrhen pinned Walys against the bed, Lyarra took the man's pillow and suffocated him with it. It didn't take long before the maester's useless struggles against his fate weakened before ceasing completely. The twins looked at eachother, made the maester presentable and exited the room.
Walys was eventually found in his bed and Old Nan was taken to the scene since few others had any kind of knowledge of healing. She declared that it was most likely he had died in his sleep and so the matter was done with the late maester being buried outside Winterfell near the Wolfswood. Torrhen and Lyarra smiled back gratefully at the elderly women when she grinned and winked at them.
Generel pov
A moon later a Maester called Luwin arrived at Winterfell who was a bit confused though grateful when the infamous bastards who lived received him with a lot more warmth than he would have expected.
As for why not someone more... resceptible to the citadel's ambitions had been sent? The wise archmaesters had achieved the goal of ending the dragons reign and the new king had betrothed the widow of the late silver prince to a bastard, her son was fated to join either the wall or their very own citadel (where they could get rid of him without significant problems) and the silver prince's brother was on Dragonstone and would soon be captured, what with one of their friends convincing Monford Velaryon to abandon the dragons.
The silver prince's daughter and mother were of little consequence and would slowly fade into obscureness. Yes the citadel's goals had finally been achieved and while the existence of two bastards who had returned from death was puzzling and normally needed to be ended, they were bastards in the end and would not do much of worth in their lifes.
**Scene Break**
Winterfell, 283 AC
pov Elia Martell
The snow never truly melted here, not even when the sky turned soft and blue and the air didn't bite quite so cruelly. It clung to the courtyards like a second skin, muffling footsteps and thoughts alike. From the window of her chamber, Elia watched Rhaenys laugh as she flung a snowball at Torrhen Snow who yelped dramatically and pretended to stumble. Her daughter's joy lit something warm in her chest, and something colder beside it.
Torrhen caught Rhaenys easily and lifted her high, spinning her once before setting her down and brushing the snow from her shoulders with careful hands. Her daughter looked at him with glowing admiration, and he smiled back with the quiet fondness of an older brother, not a betrothed to her mother.
Elia stepped back from the window, drawing her shawl tighter. She had grown used to the cold. Not fond of it, but familiar enough not to flinch at the chill anymore. Winterfell was not the prison she once feared it would be. It was quiet. Strong. And strangely kind. Though she knew it would take a lot of time for her to see it as a home.
Torrhen was kind too — too kind, sometimes. She had expected cold indifference, perhaps even disdain. But instead, he had been... gentle. Attentive in the ways that mattered. He made sure her rooms were warm, that Luwin knew what to look for when the boy's cough returned, and he had never once forced the idea of betrothal upon her. If anything, he avoided it — or treated it as something too awkward to speak of. He had also not once looked at her that let her know he desired her even though he (like his twin) were well into adolescence already.
And that made it worse.
He would be a good husband. But never mine. He is simply too young for me.
There would be no great love between them, and she was not foolish enough to expect one especially with that ten and four year age difference.
But there was something bittersweet in watching him play the role of doting unce to her daughter — the same girl who should someday call him "father." It didn't sit right. Rhaenys adored him already, clung to his side when he let her, laughed at all his stories. And he returned her affections freely. That made Elia ache.
I wish it had been someone else, she thought, not for the first time. Someone older. Someone who did not look at me like I was a sister. Someone who did not call me "lady" with such shy respectfulness, as if I were a storybook queen he'd dreamed about.
She sighed and crossed the room, stooping beside Aegon's cradle. The boy was asleep, but not peacefully. His face was pale and slick with sweat, his breath shallow and uneven. His body had always been frail — first in the Red Keep and now even in this hard stone keep where the very walls bled warmth into him. Still he sickened. Still he coughed. She had sat up with him through too many long nights, humming Dornish lullabies with cracked lips, hoping this fever would be the last.
"Too weak to rule," the servants would surely whisper if they dared. "A sickly child. Best set aside."
Not my son. Not Rhaegar's son.
Not the last dragon besides a boy of nine who was already showing signs of his father's madness.
Her hand trembled slightly as she adjusted his blanket, and she pulled away quickly.
She missed Ashara. Her friend had been sent to Wintertown for her safety — though no one had dared say from whom. She understood why, and yet... the empty chair at her side stung. Ned Stark and Benjen visited often, as did the Snow twins. They were warm enough with her, respectful even, but Ashara was the one who could speak to her plainly. Ashara would have known what to say about her doubts — about Torrhen, about the future. And her absence made Elia feel more alone than she had since King's Landing.
If only she could see her more often. If only things had turned out differently.
And now… now she had to think beyond her own griefs. Beyond her own comfort. Aegon needed more than warm blankets and careful hands. He needed a future.
Torrhen likes him, she thought. He calls him "little prince" when he thinks I'm not listening. Rhaenys dotes on her younger brother. Lyarra even read to him once when he cried. He has a place here — they've given him that. But it isn't enough.
The Starks were good people. Hard, cold at times, but good. And loyal — to a fault. Eddard was their cornerstone. He would never lift a sword in rebellion unless it was for family.
But Aegon is family, she told herself fiercely. He is his nephew's, his sister's son, brother, born to the same man. He is no usurper. He is what should have been.
If she could make Eddard believe that — if she could make the North believe that — then perhaps the dream wasn't dead. Perhaps her son could have what Rhaegar died trying to give him. Dorne would help her reclaim her son's throne she knew that, and the Reach would surely help them if they promised Aegon's hand to little Margaery while the Riverlands would also surely help her if the Starks supported her. But for how to make the Starks support her son's claim, she had no idea.
She knew that Lord Stark's orders were to send Aegon to the Citadel or the Wall once he became of age but she would never let that happen. The thought of seeing her son off to the place that surely had a part in the Targaryen's fall from grace filled her with panic, the Starks might aswell kill him themselves instead.
The wall, a place filled with murderers, rapists and other criminals was not much better though atleast her son's great great great uncle would be there to help him settle in. But no, there needed to be a better solution for her son's future even if she would never be able to place a crown on his head.
Elia sat down at her writing table, reaching for a piece of parchment. She needed to write to Ashara, needed to think out loud without speaking. But her thoughts lingered still on Winterfell — on the grey godswood, the rising towers, the silent snowfall — and on the boy who played brother to her children and held her future in his quiet, callused hands.
**Scene Break**
The snow fell in slow, lazy flakes, dusting the training yard like sifted flour. Torrhen leaned on the stone ledge of the battlements, watching a pair of guards spar halfheartedly below. He wasn't really paying attention.
Winterfell was too quiet these days. Or maybe he had just grown too used to the noise of uncertainty.
He was ten and three. Almost a man grown now, at least in name. Betrothed. Feared by some, whispered about by others. And yet despite it all, a creeping bitterness coiled in his gut.
Betrothed, he thought sourly, to a woman who might aswell be barren
Elia Martell was kind. Gracious. She smiled at him in that soft, sad way of hers, and never once had she spoken to him with anything but respect. But she was older — so much older — and worse, she could no longer bear children. Not after the difficult birth of sickly little Aegon.
Robert Baratheon had seen fit to grant him a princess as a wife, a wife who came with two Targaryen heirs and a legacy soaked in fire and blood. A poisoned gift, wrapped in silk.
He exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold.
Beside him, Lyarra's absence was a constant ache. She was down in the library, buried in old maps again, tracing the coastline east of Eastwatch with growing frustration. They both felt it now — the pull.
It had begun weeks ago. A strange hum beneath their skin. A whisper in the wind that seemed to tug at their bones, always eastward. Toward the Dreadfort or maybe even Skagos.
Toward something.
He shook his head and turned, descending the steps from the wallwalk. There was no point dwelling on it now. Not when there was still so much else to balance.
Benjen passed him in the corridor — stiff, silent, his face carefully schooled into neutrality. Torrhen allowed himself a smile. Another battle won.
Convincing their uncle not to take the black had been easier than expected. A few quiet words and the reveal that Jon was in reality the son of Lyanna and Rhaegar.
And to Benjen's credit, he'd stayed. Whether it was out of loyalty or fear, Torrhen didn't much care. What mattered was that they'd kept another Stark close. One who knew how to keep secrets.
They needed all the subtlety they could manage these days.
Especially with Lady Catelyn.
The new Lady Stark had surprised them all. She had arrived with her head high and her smile fixed, bearing the weight of her new station with practiced grace. But what had caught Torrhen's attention wasn't her bearing — it was her treatment of Jon.
She had been too kind.
Nothing overt. A gentle hand on his shoulder. A question at dinner about his studies. A soft reprimand when one of the maids referred to him as "the Snow boy" within earshot.
The servants had been puzzled. Torrhen had seen it in their eyes. They'd expected scorn, contempt — not maternal concern.
It wasn't long before he and Lyarra cornered Ned and his lady wife in the solar.
"You're making it worse," Lyarra had said, arms folded across her chest. "People notice when a highborn lady acts strange. Especially to a bastard."
"She's only being decent," Ned said, frowning.
"And that decency," Torrhen replied, "will get him killed if the wrong person starts asking questions. You named him your bastard son. You can't treat him like a prince and expect no one to notice."
Catelyn had gone pale. "So what do you suggest?"
"Be colder," Torrhen said. "Not cruel. Just... distant. A bit of frost keeps questions away."
It was a cruel thing to say. But necessary. For Jon's sake, and their own.
Now, as he stepped into the godswood and felt the snow settle on his shoulders, Torrhen rubbed at his chest. That same pull — deeper now — thrummed beneath his ribs. It wasn't pain. Not exactly. More like... longing.
Like something forgotten was calling them home.
He sank to one knee before the heart tree, watching the red sap bleed slowly from its carved eyes.
What are you trying to show me?
The Weirwood didn't answer. Of course it didn't. But the feeling lingered. Something east. Something old. Something waiting.
It was growing again. He could feel it. Lyarra felt it too — she'd confessed as much last night, her fingers trembling as she touched the map, as if the very parchment pulsed beneath her skin.
Soon, they'd have to follow it. They didn't have a choice.
Torrhen stood slowly. Snow clung to his cloak and hair. Somewhere deep in Winterfell, Elia would be tucking Aegon into bed. Rhaenys would be pestering the stableboy to let her feed the horses again. Benjen would be sullen and quiet, and Catelyn would coo over Robb.
Everything was holding together — barely.
But not for long.
The pull was growing stronger.
Something was waking in the east.
And this time, they wouldn't wait for it to come to them.
**Scene Break**