3. Addled Wits and Weary Minds

Ned Stark

After three gloomy days of grief and mourning, the news that Jon was waking was like a ray of sunlight tearing through the stormy sky. When he lost his father and brother, he had to deal with that loss alone, and even then, there was not much time for grief, as he had to fight for his life and his vengeance.

Now, there was no war to fight to distract him, and his family was far bigger. The last three days had been dark and gloomy, and everything felt… empty after Bran’s funeral. Catelyn was inconsolable; his wife blamed herself and spent almost all her time either in the Sept or the cold crypts in front of Bran’s tomb. Ned feared she might fall sick, especially since she scarcely touched any food unless he brought it himself.

Robb was angry, but spending some more time in the yard was never remiss. Rodrik had ensured that his heir was not mindlessly looking to swing his sword and still learned things in the process. The others were… sad, for lack of a better word.

As he entered the hallway, Ned saw his daughters restlessly waiting in front of Jon’s room, three direwolf pups spinning around their feet. The elder one was dressed in a graceful gown as usual, and the younger one was in breeches again, making him sigh.

“Did Jon really wake?” he asked directly as soon as he approached.

“Yes, father,” Sansa nodded shyly, looking rather skittish as if she wanted to run away.

He was surprised yet glad to see her in front of her ‘half-brother’s’ room. Catelyn had easily convinced her to stay away from Jon as soon as his balls dropped and his voice began to crack. His wife was simply set in her southron ways, and Ned didn’t interfere when Sansa slowly drifted away from her half-brother. Not that his boy would do anything; Jon had not given Ned any reason to have doubts either.

‘Tongues will wag, Ned! It can ruin her marriage prospects in the future!’

He shook his head, snorting inwardly, and focused on his girls again.

“And did he say anything? Like what happened at the Heart Tree?”

“Jon just silently… stared at the ceiling, father,” Arya pouted and ducked down to play with the direwolves, who were quickly on her like a heap of grey and white fur.

“Maester Luwin is with him now,” Sansa supplied helpfully as she tried to stand straight, but to Ned’s amusement, she kept fidgeting slightly, and her gaze wandered towards her sister and the pups.

Ned expectantly looked at Fat Tom, who lazily watched from next to the door with a smile.

“Lord Stark,” the guardsman quickly coughed. “The Maester said not to be disturbed until he finishes his examination.”

The Lord of Winterfell nodded and leaned on the warm granite wall, content to watch his daughters while waiting. Eventually, to Ned’s amusement, Sansa let go of her propriety, ducked, and scratched Jon’s direwolf behind the ears. The white pup melted in her arms, and Arya was busy playing with the other two. He did not remember any of the direwolf names since the last few days had been too much, but he was almost certain that the second grey direwolf was male and thus not Sansa’s; otherwise, his eldest daughter wouldn’t be playing with the white one. Which meant that it was… Bran’s. Ned banished a tinge of guilt for not remembering the direwolf; he had attempted to busy himself in the ceremonies and duties in his grief and worry. Thankfully, unlike him, his younger daughter had not forgotten about the pup.

For a moment, he imagined Arya as a woman grown, even wilder than she was right now, with two direwolves as large as horses trailing after her, causing all sorts of mischief. The thought made him wince.

“This one is Brandon’s, right?”

“Yes, father,” Arya’s shoulders sagged as she stood up. “I’ve been feeding the pup in his stead!”

“Does it have a name?” He gently asked.

“Bran never gave him one,” she explained mournfully.

Ned squatted down and gently picked up the unnamed grey furball, who squirmed to turn around and look at him with its yellow eyes. A wet tongue was already upon Eddard Stark’s face a heartbeat later, and a chuckle rang from the side.

“His name will be… Winter!” The Lord of Winterfell proclaimed, and he let go of the direwolf pup, who now decided to lie down on his right boot. “I’ll be taking care of him now.”

The idea came on a whim, but it felt just right now that it was voiced out loud.

“But father- “

“No buts, Arya. You already have a direwolf. It would not be fair to your siblings if you had two,” he attempted to placate.

Arya did not seem truly appeased by the looks of her mutinous face, so he strictly looked at her with his lordly gaze, and her protest died out before leaving her lips.

“Fine,” she eventually mumbled under his stern gaze.

Gods, what would he do with her when she grew up? She was wilder than both Brandon and Lyanna combined at only eleven. At least she seemed to get along with Sansa… for now. Ned had hoped that his youngest would begin to grow out of this rebellious phase, but alas.

A few minutes later, Sansa stood up, face filled with worry.

“I’m going back to my chambers,” she declared and all but rushed towards the stairway.

Arya grew bored soon after and left as well, with two tired pups in her arms.

“Tom, guard by the stairway for now,” Ned ordered the plump guardsman, who promptly moved away.

The Lord of Winterfell stood still, watching the little direwolf lazily snooze on his boot.

Time tickled by, and he grew worried as Luwin had not left the chambers yet. He trusted the old maester, and there was nothing he could do but stay and wait.

A pair of strong footsteps grabbed his attention, and he looked up to see Robb, dressed in a fine black doublet and cotton breeches, slowly walking this way.

“Arya told me Jon has awakened,” his eldest explained quietly as he curiously eyed the grey furball at Ned’s boot.

“Luwin is inside now, tending to him,” Ned provided with a sigh. “Why’s your hair wet?”

“Took a quick dip in the pools to cleanse the dirt and sweat from training,” Robb admitted with a sigh. “How do you deal with… all of this?”

“Grieving or waiting?”

His son tiredly ran a hand through his auburn hair and closed his eyes.

“Both?”

Ned hummed thoughtfully as the only audible sound in the hallway was Robb’s choppy breath.

“For waiting, you will have to learn patience one way or another,” he finally said with a soft chuckle. “Although you can always busy yourself with some work. Being a Lord is an endless string of duty and obligations, and you might as well deal with some sooner rather than later.”

“And how do you deal with the sorrow, father?”

“There’s no easy way to deal with it, son,” Ned provided with a forlorn sigh and placed a hand on Robb’s shoulder. “But you must not let it consume you. Death is just another part of life. Everyone dies sooner or later.”

“Bran was too young, it’s not fair-“

“The world isn’t fair, Robb!” Ned interrupted and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Acceptance… takes time. I know it hurts, but there’s nothing we can do but learn from our mistakes where we can and move forward. Take some time alone in the Godswood and grieve, but keep walking forward.”

At that moment, the door finally opened, and a tired Luwin walked out of the room.

“How’s Jon?” his son impatiently prodded.

“Well, he’s better than before, Lord Robb,” the maester said with a cough. “I couldn’t find anything wrong with him at all, and he’s in perfect health aside from the fever, which is finally beginning to break.”

“And did he truly wake?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the old man slowly confirmed. “He keeps alternating between falling asleep and waking up, but for some reason, he refused even to acknowledge my presence in the room, let alone speak with me. Mayhaps he would be amenable to speak with his father instead.”

“Go get some rest, Luwin,” Ned waved the maester away.

“His mind might be still addled by the fever,” Luwin warned as he trudged away.

The Lord of Winterfell entered the chamber with trepidation, followed by Robb.

The room was warm, or at least warmer than usual in the Great Keep, and the scent of herbs and poultices was still heavy in the air. It was rather plain, with a single bed, two chairs, a cloak hanger, and a trunk to the side. On the bed, Jon lay deathly still.

Ned sat on one of the chairs, and Robb joined him on the other.

Jon lay still, eyes looking at the ceiling. Ned would have thought him dead if not for the occasional blink or two and the fact that his eyes were chaotically darting around the room as if expecting an attack.

“Jon?” he gently urged. “Speak to me, son. Tell me what happened.”

Lyanna’s son sharply twisted his neck, and his grey eyes widened. A moment later, a raspy, tired laugh tore out of Jon’s lips. It was a jarring, harsh sound, and the Lord of Winterfell couldn’t help but see one not the innocent eyes of youth but the hardened gaze of a veteran. Jon’s eyes were weary and had hollowness to them as if they had seen too much blood spilt and lives taken, many by his own hand too. Like a veteran of many a battle, if not more. What if his son had gone mad, just like his sire and grandsire? Worry flooded Ned like a river, but it quickly abated, remembering Luwin’s warning.

“We were worried for you, Jon,” Robb added quietly.

Jon finally stopped with his raspy laugh, his face grew weary, and his eyes skittishly looked around the room, looking for an unseen enemy.

“I died,” he finally spoke with a low, hoarse voice.

“What do you mean you died?” Ned carefully inquired, trying to hide his unease.

“Finally got killed, sword in the belly at the weirwood,” his son coughed out.

“But you’re alive, brother,” Robb cried out. “There were no wounds on your body at all!”

“If I were alive, why would you be here?” Jon’s face twisted in a sad smile.

“We’re alive too, Jon,” Ned carefully reminded, wondering what all this was about. Has his son’s mind truly gone addled? He knew the Old Gods were harsh and cruel, like the Northern wilderness, but they were not ones to give poisoned gifts like this!

“But you’re not!” his son coughed out with such a conviction that Ned’s blood froze. “You died! You all died, and I was the last to perish!”

“What do you mean? We’re alive and standing right before you. You say we died, then how, Jon?” Robb asked, face now pale.

The boy’s eyes widened, and his wild eyes finally stopped wandering and looked straight at them with a scary intensity.

“Lord Stark got executed in King’s Landing by the King,” his son croaked out miserably. “Arya and Sansa died there too.”

Eddard Stark froze, and chills crawled up his spine. Did he get found out?!

“Why would Robert execute me, Jon?” The Lord of Winterfell finally found his voice. “And why would my daughters die there too?”

“The next one, not Robert. Don’t kno’ why, wasn’t there. Treason, they said. Neither Arya n’ Sansa survived either,” Jon kept recounting hoarsely, each word slurring more and more and becoming harsher and harsher. “Robb went south to avenge you n’ died at a wedding, with L’dy Stark, killed by Boltons n’ Freys. Bran n’ Rickon got killed by the Turncloak at Winterfell.”

“Turncloak?”

“Greyjoy.”

His son uttered the name with such venom that if words could kill, the Greyjoy in question would have been dead thrice over. And there was only one Greyjoy that could be turncloak in Winterfell…

“Bran’s already dead, Jon. Enough of this, you need some rest,” Ned decided, and he stood up, unwilling to listen to this tale any longer. Jon sagged on the bed, defeated, and closed his eyes. “Hopefully, some sleep will do your mind good. Call for me when you decide to tell me what happened at the weirwood.”

The Lord of Winterfell dragged his paling heir out of the room and slammed the door shut.

“My brother has gone mad,” Robb lamented, worry marring his face. “Theon would never betray us, and nobody would dare to break Guest Right at a wedding.”

“Luwin warned us his mind could be addled,” Ned sighed heavily. “There was some strange magick involved here, and he’s still feverish too. We can only hope Jon will return to normal with enough rest.”

Davos Seaworth, Dragonstone

All the guardsmen looked alert and armed to the teeth. They let Davos enter the keep easily enough, but Dale was stuck at the gates for now. Two men-at-arms led him towards Ser Lothor Hardy, Dragonstone’s master-at-arms. He all but rushed down the hallway, trying to follow their quick pace.

Soon, they were in front of a thick oaken door. He was ushered inside while a pair of guardsmen stood guard in the hallway.

The room was not too large, and a plain oaken table sat at the centre. Old Maester Cressen sat on a chair near the hearth, and Ser Hardy paced around the room.

“Ser Davos!” The Claw knight stopped in his stride and greeted him far more enthusiastically than before.

“What happened to the Sea Dragon Tower, is Lady Shireen fine?” He blurted out.

“Lady Shireen is fine,” Cressen supplied as he sighed. “But someone set the tower on fire.”

“Who?”

“We’re trying to find out,” the knight sighed from the side and scratched his auburn beard. “I’ve checked all the servants or guardsmen, and they know nothing and saw nothing. We only know Lord Stannis had little friends, we were hoping to tell us if he had any enemies.”

Davos couldn’t help but tense. Something was very wrong, the prince should have been here.

“What happened to Lord Stannis?”

The old man’s face twisted into a grimace, and he sighed.

“The Lord is heavily wounded, Ser Davos,” Cressen finally explained. “When the tower started to burn, he rushed inside the fire to save his daughter. Sadly, Lady Selyse perished in the flames.”

Neither of the men looked particularly saddened about the death of Stannis’ wife, and Davos couldn’t blame them. Selyse Florent was an unpleasant woman. Aside from her… plain looks, she was haughty and even sterner than her husband.

“Do you know who could have orchestrated such a travesty?” The master-at-arms prodded again.

“Stannis oft said the court was full of lickspittles that would smile in your face and stab you in the back. It could be anyone in King’s Landing,” the onion knight wearily provided. “His only friend there was Lord Arryn, and even then, it was more an alliance of convenience.”

“And Lord Arryn is dead now,” Ser Hardy murmured, and the room became deathly quiet.

“What happens now, will Stannis live?” Davos queried.

“The Lord’s condition is severe,” the Maester sighed and rubbed his wizened chin. “His burns are bad and might yet fester, his lungs inhaled too much smoke, and his fever is too strong. But he still fights.”

The onion knight let out a sigh of relief. Stannis was not one to give up, and as long as he lived, he’d not give up!

“We’ve locked down all ways out of the fortress,” the master-at-arms continued. “Nobody can come in or leave, lest they make an attempt on Stannis directly now. No word of the Lord’s condition will leave outside the walls without my permission. Whoever orchestrated this attack will not be able to attempt again!”

6th Day of the 3rd Moon, Winterfell

Jon Snow

Even in death, he did not get to rest. Did he not earn it?! Leading and fighting for years and years, not giving up no matter the odds! Every inch of his body was in pain, and visions of family, ice and death, and the old Winterfell continued playing out in his mind, whether he closed his eyes or not. Why did the gods have to torment him with visions of his father, brother, sisters, and even Ghost?! But wait, wasn’t Eddard Stark his uncle?

Or was he?

Things like that had long stopped mattering…

11th Day of the 3rd Moon

A cruel jape by the gods.

It took him some time to realise, but he was not dreaming and was not dead either. He was back at the beginning, with endless war and struggle on the dark horizon. But things were slightly different, Bran was already dead, everyone looked a tad older, and his hands did not seem to belong to a boy of four and ten.

“Your fever is fully gone,” Luwin carefully explained after placing an old, calloused hand on Jon’s brow. The maester then placed a finger on his wrist. “I think you’re fully healed now, Jon. A few more days of rest might do you good, though.”

Jon silently watched as the maester left his room.

He had so many things to say, so many things to explain, but he didn’t know where to begin. And worse, they all thought him mad and treated him as if he was fragile glass that would shatter into pieces at any moment. Only his uncle visited him once more, and Jon could see fear and wariness in his eyes. It hurt, it hurt so badly, just as much as the icy blade that twisted in his belly and took his life. He wanted to say a thousand things, yet his mouth remained shut.

Maybe, just maybe, he was really mad and had imagined everything from before.

Or worse, he was not mad, and soon, enemies would descend on House Stark like vultures from every direction, and death was stirring from the Lands of Always Winter once more for the first time in eight millennia.

Why him? Why always him!? What did he do to earn this punishment?!

Why couldn’t he just… stay dead after he got killed.

He was tired. So very tired, and all he wanted to do was rest.

Jon Snow wearily closed his eyes and dreamt of ice and death again.

14th Day of the 3rd Moon

He could feel wetness on his chin and wearily opened his eyes. White fur and red eyes greeted him, and a small chuckle involuntarily escaped his lips.

“Ghost! How did you get in here?”

The direwolf didn’t answer him, but suddenly Jon had a vague vision of stealthily sneaking in as the servant opened the door to bring food. Hells, was he seeing Ghost’s memory?

He could physically feel the worry in Ghost as he nudged him with his tiny snout. Jon stood up, gently picked up his companion, and scratched him behind the ears.

Maybe living was not so bad after all, especially since he had his trusty direwolf with him again!

But things were different once more. Looking at his red eyes, he could feel his connection with the direwolf far better than before. Instead of a faint sense of something he couldn’t even feel, it was there, in the back of his mind, glaring solid like a part of him. Even before, Ghost always obeyed his orders almost unconditionally before getting killed by the Red Witch.

He nudged at the connection, and the world shifted.

In front of him sat a young man with splattered hair, tired grey eyes, and a familiar long face. He was looking at himself. Jon quickly attempted to pull away –

-and he was looking at his direwolf again.

Gods, was he a skinchanger, just like Six-skins had told him? Jon could acutely feel Ghost’s presence in his mind, even without looking at him. He could also feel the direwolf’s mood and feelings, and sometimes even peak through his eyes!

He mentally nudged Ghost to get off his lap, and the direwolf pup jumped down on the floor, spun around and looked up at him, tail wagging fiercely. Well, scarcely a pup anymore, he was already nearly twice as big as he was a few days ago!

That settled it; for good or for bad, he was most certainly a skinchanger. It was so easy, and his connection with Ghost felt just right! It felt just as natural as… walking.

Was it the wierwood sap? Or maybe something else? He shook his head; he had no way of knowing.

Jon stood up, carefully walked to the shutter, and opened it, letting warm yet fresh air flow inside his small room. Or, well, at least it felt warm compared to the usual cold.

He carefully glanced at his limbs in wonder and waved his hand around. The numbness was gone. Ever since his first resurrection, his senses had sharpened, yet the world had become dim, and everything felt numb as if covered by a layer of cloth.

The only problem was that his body felt weak. Jon walked to his bed and attempted to lift it up. It was harder than expected, yet easier than it should have been. His monstrous strength and speed were not… gone, but it seemed his body could no longer keep up.

Jon looked at the table, where a platter with some ale and a generous serving of venison and cheese sat. He sat there and quickly began wolfing it down, slipping pieces of meat to Ghost, who hungrily devoured them.

He wondered what to do now. He could always return to his bed and sleep, pretending everything was not going to go to shit. But no, he had wasted more than enough time skulking for now. And now he felt restless, and as he ate more and more of the food, his body felt less and less stiff and weary, and soon it was brimming with power instead.

No, he was done moping! But what could he do?

He could go to his uncle and warn him of the coming threats.

Jon grimaced at the thought; he would probably be laughed at or considered mad. Seven bloody hells, they even considered him mad already for his feverish blubbering. Nobody would heed his warnings. Even if he was not mad, he had no proof for any of it. Jon was not privy to the Southron plots that killed his kin; things reached the Wall very slowly and with little detail.

For any of this, he would need more than his word, and he had only that. And, who would believe a no-name young bastard? The Night’s Watch was slow to believe him with ample proof even when he was their Lord Commander, tried and tested in battle. The North was even slower to believe him, even when the broken pieces of his uncle’s kingdom uneasily united behind the last one with Stark blood.

And the South? They never cared and kept squabbling for that shitty iron chair.

‘Why would you care about the North and House Stark?’ An insidious voice whispered in his head. ‘You’ve given more than enough, you owe them nothing! You could leave all of this mess behind and go to the warm and peaceful Summer Isles!’

Jon bristled and angrily banished the voice from his head. He was not going to leave his family to the vultures! But the voice was right. This was going to be one giant bloody mess, and there was not much he could do. With every moment he remained here, more and more free folk were slain, and more wights were raised by the Others beyond the Wall. The Night’s Watch would not move their sorry arses until it was too late, if at all, and the wildlings would not listen to reason before they were beaten bloody into submission first. The Northern Lords would baulk at accepting the savages from beyond the Wall that raided their lands for years. The Watch itself was filled with the scum of the Seven Kingdoms and was prone to insubordination and mutiny. There were honourable men that joined the ancient order out of duty, but they were few and between.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a peaceful way that this all could be resolved. But Jon didn’t know it. It would take one insult, one person with a fiery temper, for everything to devolve into a bloodbath again.

He was finally faced with an empty platter, yet his stomach still rumbled softly in hunger. He stood up and began pacing.

What could he do? Was there even anything he could do? The Southern kingdoms were one enormous mess that had pulled in House Stark like a treacherous bog. But he couldn’t just leave his uncle, brothers, and sisters to die!

What to do, what to do?

Things could scarcely be worse than the last time!

Staying here would accomplish nothing, and chaining himself to the Night’s Watch would do just as little. Going south would probably get him killed, as he did not know how their silly games were played. Could he find a way to warn his uncle of events he knew little about without sounding utterly mad? Hells, could he face his uncle and his family without breaking down and crying like a little babe?

He suddenly stilled in his step. A wild, wild idea began forming in his head. It would be incredibly hard and fraught with danger. But that was already the story of his life; mortal peril and bitter struggle were already commonplace for him.

It was incredibly bold, and mayhaps many would call it foolish. He would likely die long before he could succeed, but he would rather do something than stay here and wait for others to make the first move. A pity he could not be in two places at the same time.

A grim smile formed on Jon’s lips as a daring plan began to form in his mind.

16th Day of the 3rd Moon, Crownlands

Robert Baratheon

“This is too slow,” Robert grunted.

“We’re moving nearly thrice as fast as before, Your Grace,” Selmy provided unhelpfully.

And they just passed Brindlewood a few hours ago. Nearly twenty days now and scarcely half the way out of the Crownlands.

“And we’re still crawling like a fucking turtle! Wine!”

One of the blond shits handed him a wineskin, and he took a generous swig. Thirteen miles yesterday! At this pace, it would still take nearly half a year to get to Winterfell. He didn’t fancy spending so much time on the saddle, listening to the whinging of his harpy wife and looking at the blonde ponces every evening. A pity she did not give up and return to King’s Landing.

Fuck it, did he have to actually resort to this now? But the other option was equally unappealing. He fucking hated ships! This once, just this once, he’d do it.

But only once.

“We switch course to Maidenpool,” he declared after taking another generous gulp of wine.

“This might delay our journey by a moon, Your Grace,” the old knight cautioned.

“Nay, send a quick rider to King’s Landing to order the Lady Lyanna and a good escort to sail up the Bay of Crabs. We’ll visit that coward Mooton and his pool before sailing up to White Harbour,” Robert explained, not bothering to hide his distaste. He still remembered the sweet crunch as his hammer met the head of Rhaegar’s Mooton squire at the Stoney Sept. At least Myles Mooton was not a coward like his soft lordly brother.

A pity Cersei had not given up, and he had to endure her insufferable presence more oft without the wheelhouse. But the image of his wife puking her guts out on the sea made him smile.