Jon I
298 AC
The wet, warm tongue dragged across his face, leaving a trail of fishy breath and slobber in its wake.
He woke with a groan, pushing himself upright on the narrow cot.
"Ghost," he muttered, voice thick with sleep. "You've saved me from the dream… now stay away."
The white direwolf pup resisted with playful stubbornness, chewing happily at the wooden leg of the bed with his growing milk teeth.
Ghost had grown astonishingly fast, already standing just below Jon's knee. Luwin had been right: direwolves matured far quicker than common wolves or hounds.
In another year or two, Jon suspected he could saddle the beast and ride him like a palfrey.
He wiped the slobber from his face with the back of his hand and let out a long, tired sigh.
Sleep had not come easily these past nights.
The dreams had returned after months of blessed silence.
He had foolishly begun to believe he had outrun them, that whatever strange power had awakened in him had finally settled.
Apparently not.
He needed to speak with Robb.
His brother was the only one who truly understood, the only one who shared these burdens or perhaps it was the other way around, he sometimes wondered if he was the one carrying Robb's secrets more than his own.
He dressed quickly in the dim light of his chamber, pulling on breeches, a wool tunic, and a heavy cloak.
Ghost trotted after him as he slipped out into the cold corridors of Winterfell.
The castle was still quiet, the hour before dawn when even the most dedicated servants had not yet begun their work.
His feet carried him instinctively toward the crypts.
It was strange, he thought, how his father found comfort in the godswood among the old gods and the rustling leaves and Robb, however, had begun to seek solace deeper underground, among the dead, the stone kings, and the shadows.
Jon wondered if that was the price of the power his brother now wielded.
The descent into the crypts was familiar now.
Torches flickered weakly along the walls, casting long, dancing shadows across the solemn faces of his ancestors.
He walked deeper past the statues of ancient Lords of Winterfell, until he reached the hidden chamber near the hot springs.
The air here was warmer, thick with steam and the faint metallic scent of blood and magic.
The torches had burned down to blackened stubs.
In the center of the room stood the altar he had helped shift here months ago.
A heavy block of black and grey stone topped with an ancient skull, a single candle burned atop it, its flame shifting unnaturally between red and violet.
Robb hovered several inches above the ground, legs crossed, eyes closed.
Dark words poured from his lips, a low, chittering resonance that sounded like a thousand insects crawling inside his skull.
The sound made his skin crawl.
Robb's eyes snapped open.
They were pitch black, bottomless voids that swallowed all light, then they rolled back, revealing pure white sclera for a heartbeat before returning to their normal grey.
The candle flame stabilized back to ordinary red.
He had seen this before and yet It still filled him with deep unease every single time.
"It gives me great discomfort every time I see that," Jon said quietly, stepping further into the chamber.
His eyes flicked over the altar and the dark ichor slowly seeped from the skull into the hot spring below.
His half brother lowered himself gently to the ground, a tired smirk crossing his face.
"And why do you think I do it so much?" He dusted off his cloak as he stood.
Grey Wind lay comfortably in a patch of warm mud nearby, gnawing contentedly on a large bone.
The direwolf's tail thumped lazily when he noticed Jon.
"He seems comfortable," Jon noted.
"It's this place," Robb replied, gesturing around the chamber. "He takes after me, after all."
Jon couldn't help but shake his head with a small smirk.
"Why have you come seeking me out this early?" Robb asked, walking toward him.
"The nightmares have returned," Jon said simply.
Robb's steps faltered. His shoulders slumped slightly, as if a great weight had suddenly settled on them. The playful mask slipped away, revealing the exhaustion underneath.
"What did you see this time?" Robb asked, voice already heavy with fatigue.
Jon closed his eyes for a moment, trying to piece together the fragments that still clung to his mind like dew on cobblestone.
"I saw a vast field of white grass, stretching endlessly under a bright moon with a golden glint," he began. "Then came a wolf, its mane born from the night itself, coat dark as a raven, eyes blood-red. It swallowed the moon whole. Its black fur began to glow bright white as its body cracked open, revealing shards of ice. More and more ice until the wolf became winter itself."
Jon paused, the dream still vivid and wrong in his mind.
"Then came another wolf, glowing bright red, with no eyes, only two burning balls of fire where its gaze should have been. Each step left sizzling prints on the ground. The two wolves fought, tearing into each other, shedding blood until it drowned everything. Until it drowned me."
Robb stayed silent for a long moment after he finished speaking, his gaze distant as he stared into the flickering candlelight atop the altar.
Greywind padded over quietly and rubbed his head against Jon's leg, seeking comfort or perhaps offering it.
He reached down and scratched behind the direwolf's ears, the thick fur warm and familiar beneath his fingers.
"What do you think it means?" He asked softly.
Robb's eyes flicked toward him briefly before drifting back into thought.
A few heartbeats passed, then he simply shrugged, the motion tired.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'm not a witch, Jon. I can't read the deeper meaning behind your dreams any better than you can."
Jon raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a slight, skeptical smile. "Are you not one, though?"
Robb let out a short, dry laugh. "I'm not."
He whistled softly for Greywind, who gave Jon one last affectionate nudge before trotting after his master as they began walking out of the crypts.
"But fairly… what do you think they mean?"
He pressed on as they ascended the worn stone steps.
"They feel… important, like warnings or memories that aren't mine, the black wolf swallowing the moon and the red one burning everything… it didn't feel like a normal dream. It felt like something I should understand."
Robb shrugged again, the gesture casual but carrying the weight of someone who had grown far too accustomed to carrying heavy truths.
"They're dreams, Jon, they don't mean much unless you're Daenys the Dreamer come again." He glanced sideways at Jon's chest with mock seriousness and shook his head. "And I'm pretty sure you've got no teats, so that's not possible."
Jon huffed a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. "That's not possible because I'm no Targaryen."
"Right," Robb nodded, a faint line playing on his lips. "Stop thinking about the dreams too often, drown yourself in Lady Frost or Lady Ros if you must, but we have much to do, the royal retinue has already made its way to Moat Cailin."
It was Jon, who shrugged this time, following his brother up into the pale morning light filtering down from above.
"What does that have to do with me? I'm a bastard. What place do I have in the court of nobles?"
His half brother stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to face him fully. His expression was firm, almost brotherly stern.
"You are a bastard of Eddard Stark. That means something. Now get the lads to the yard before noon. I don't want the Winter Sons visiting the whorehouses and haggling with innkeepers while the royal company is about to make an appearance."
Jon nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "As you command, my lord."
Ghost came bounding up from the direction of the castle as they emerged, tail wagging wildly.
Robb headed toward the Great Hall where their lady mother was already overseeing arrangements for the royal visit, while Jon turned toward the training yard with Ghost trotting happily at his heels.
As he walked, Jon couldn't quite shake the lingering images from his dream, the sea of blood that had drowned him but for now, he pushed them aside.
There were duties to attend to.