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━━ . ⋆ ★˙ ° /
JON SNOW thought everything would change, but it did not. The world was still the same. The eastern sky was rose and gold as the sun had broken through the clouds the usual way. The courtyard rang to the song of swords and the frosty morning air still felt good on his face.
But this time, when Catelyn Stark looked at him with those deep blue eyes and hard cold mouth when he bested Robb at swords, which always seemed to say the same thing, Who are you? This is not your place. Why are you here?; Jon felt nothing.
Your mother loved you, Jon, Eddard Stark had said. His father until then, but now, his uncle. I do not know why she did it, but I do know she loved you with all her heart. And I swore to her I would protect you. And I did what I can to do that. Remember, son, always, you are and will always be my blood.
While every time he passed the stone kings on their thrones in the crypts of Winterfell, Jon would always feel their grey granite eyes following his every move as their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps, telling him to leave; You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter. There is no place for you here. Go away.
But these days, when he spent his time before the statue of his mother, Lyanna Stark, he could hear nothing; nothing but think why she did it, what made them both do it, why — all that bloodshed just so he could be born. He thought of the half-siblings that were brutally murdered, about the princess of Dorne who paid the price for throes of her husband's madness, about the mad king, a grandfather who murdered his other grandfather.
A Prophecy, Leyla had said. All because his father, the Silver Prince, was obsessed with chasing a prophecy, with finding fire and ice. Perhaps he loved her; perhaps he confused lust with love or convinced both her and himself that he was in love with her. Whatever it was, it happened, he could hear Leyla's words ringing in his ears, And it is not your fault. A child is never meant to share the blame of their parents, Jon.
But why is it every time he thought about it, he felt angry with himself, and a new surge of guilt builds in the pits of his stomach?
***
Jon Snow had been very young, too young to understand what it meant to be a bastard. There had been times where he used to dream that one day Winterfell might be his. Well, until Robb had told him otherwise. The memory of that day was still bitter in his mind. They were spinning and slashing about the wards of Winterfell, shouting and laughing like they do every day.
They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. "I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, "Well, I'm Florian the Fool." Or Robb would say, "I'm the Young Dragon," and Jon would reply, "I'm Ser Ryam Redwyne."
