Winterfell has always been cold, but never as cold as Lady Stark's eyes when they fall upon me. There is no open cruelty, no screaming, no striking, but her hatred is a quiet, creeping frost that seeps into every corner of my life. I see it in the way she tenses when I enter a room, the way she keeps Sansa and Arya close when I am near, as if I carry some sickness that might spread to them. It is in the way she speaks of duty, of loyalty, of family—words that are meant to cut me because they do not include me.
Father does not stop her. I know he cares for me in his own way, but his love is measured, careful. He has to be careful. It's for my own good, I tell myself, though the words taste like a lie. I am a bastard. I do not belong. And no matter how many times Robb calls me "brother," I know his mother will never let him mean it.
But I am good with a sword. Better than Robb, even. Ser Rodrik sees it, and I hear the quiet murmurs among the men. I fight with more patience, more precision. Robb is strong, but he fights like someone who has never had to scrape for anything. I have spent my life fighting for my place for some sort of recognition and a possible place within this family, and I think Catelyn Stark knows it. And that terrifies her.
One evening, after supper, I find myself alone in the armory, sharpening my blade. The whetstone scrapes against the steel in a steady rhythm, a sound I find oddly soothing. The room is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the torches mounted on the walls. My mind drifts as I work, thoughts swirling like snow in a storm.
The door creaks open, and I turn, expecting Robb or Theon, but it is Lady Stark. She stands in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, her face unreadable.
I stiffen. It's rare that we are alone. She always ensures there is a buffer between us, a safe distance where only her cold looks and biting words can reach me. Yet now, here she is, closing the door softly behind her.
"You shouldn't be here," she says, her voice cool.
I put the whetstone down but keep my hand on the sword. "I'm not doing anything wrong."
"You exist."
The words are as sharp as any blade. I feel them sink into me, deeper than I care to admit. I grip the hilt of my sword tightly, but I do not look away. She wants me to shrink, to cower, but I won't. Not anymore.
"You think I don't see how you look at him?" she continues, stepping further into the room. "How you measure yourself against him? You want his place. You want what belongs to my son."
"I don't," I say, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest. "I want to be his brother."
"You are not his brother," she snaps. "You are a reminder of your father's betrayal, a stain upon this house."
The accusation is not new, but it still burns. I want to tell her she is wrong, but I don't know that, do I?
Silence stretches between us. She waits for me to argue, to deny, but I can't. What would be the point? The truth is clearly already set in her mind.
Her eyes sweep over me, taking in the way I hold myself, the way I stand my ground. There is something else in her gaze now, something darker than hatred. Fear.
She is afraid of me. Not because I would ever harm Robb, but because I could overshadow him. She has seen it, the way the men talk when they think no one is listening. How I hold my sword steadier than her son, how I lead better when we play at war and the fact that other than arya I look more like farther than her other children.
I wonder if Father sees it too. If that is why he stays silent when she speaks to me this way. If he knows that a time will come when the men of the North might whisper my name louder than Robb's. If he knows that, his wife will do anything to ensure that never happens.
After a long moment, she turned and left, her skirts whispering against the stone floor. The door closes behind her with a finality that chills me.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and look down at my hands. They are trembling. Not with fear. With anger.
I grip the hilt of my sword, my knuckles turning white.
She will never see me as anything but a threat. And one day, I fear, she will make sure I am gone.
The next morning, I wake early. The sun barely peeks over the walls of Winterfell, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The cold is sharp, biting at my skin as I dress. I know what today will bring, more whispers, more sideways glances, more silence from my father when I need his voice the most.
Robb finds me near the training yard, fastening the straps on my gambeson. "Jon, about last night"
"Don't," I cut him off, my tone sharper than I intended. "It's done."
Robb's face falls slightly, but he nods. He wants to make things right; I can see it in his eyes, but some things can't be undone. I have spent my life trying to be part of this family, and all it takes is one reminder, one look from his mother, to tell me I never will be.
Theon joins us, grinning as he claps a hand on Robb's shoulder. "You ready to get your arse handed to you today?"
Robb smirks, shoving Theon off. "Not likely."
I roll my shoulders, gripping my practice sword. "We'll see."
As we take our places in the training yard, I catch sight of Lady Stark watching from the balcony. Her arms are folded, her expression unreadable. But I know what she's thinking. I know what she wants.
She wants me to lose.