Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

28th Day of the 5th Moon

Lord Beron Dustin

He stretched lazily and groaned. Most of his joints were still stiff, his body was heavy, and his head was pulsing.

The guest quarters in the Guest House weren't the most luxurious, but the feathered beds were good enough. No, the feeling of stiffness was from the feast.

Ah, that glorious feast, a perfect wedding if he had seen one! Ale had flowed like a river, and Beron feasted his eyes and hungry belly upon the generous courses.

At least he still remembered - Beron recalled many knights and Northmen passed out by the end. Peh, weak fools that could not even hold their ale!

The Lord of Barrowton was joyous; the North had finally received the honours and acknowledgement it deserved. After all, did they not bring the dragon low? Were they not the bulk of the swords who pushed the Stag King's claim to the Iron Throne? Were they not the ones who answered his war calls against the reaving squids?

Even though he wasn't lord during the Rebellion, Beron had known that the North did not lack unhappy lords for Rickard Stark's decision to look south for alliances. Still, it was not their place to voice their displeasure or try to dictate what their liege did with his children. But the unhappiness was there.

And now it had all paid out. All those Southron connections and fighting had finally borne a tangible result. Lord Eddard Stark had always been fair and honourable in his dealings, but Beron never took his liege as someone who would make such daring moves.

A royal marriage, reclaiming of the New Gift, and even the position of the Hand all at once!

Was that the crannoglord's influence? Since arriving, Beron had seen Howland Reed hover behind Eddard Stark like a small, deadly shadow. His friendship with the lord of Winterfell was well known.

Despite isolating themselves from affairs outside the Neck, the crannogmen were quite devious if provoked. Moat Cailin was only half the reason for breaking hundreds of Andal warlords and kings; the crannogmen and their cunning ways had been the other half. Howland Reed might look small and unassuming, but a Dustin knew never to underestimate a Reed. Even more so because of his lovely wife, Alyne Dustin, formerly Fenn, he was well aware of the dangers of the crannogmen.

Lord Beron Dustin did not receive anything from this arrangement, but the opportunity was there. Lands in the Gift were ripe for the taking. No, not for him, but for his brother Damon and his second son Artos. Besides, Lord Stark taking the position of Hand opened possibilities for the Northmen down in the court of King's Landing.

Though there was a tinge of disappointment in Beron, the proud, fierce warrior he had seen in the Greyjoy Rebellion was nowhere to be seen. The long summer had turned the Demon of the Trident into a fat man deep into his cups who openly disrespected his wife for all to see by groping the passing wenches.

It was not like that here. Despite the long summer, the snow kept coming every year. The vast harshness of the North culled the weak with surety, leaving only the strong behind. You could not grow soft here, as it would mean not only your death sooner rather than later but possibly that of your kin and vassals.

Was it any wonder that the Starks produced heroes in every generation? Benjen Stark had become one of the youngest First Rangers in history, and it was an earned title. The man screamed danger with every step despite his jolly gait. Lord Stark was a different kind of danger, reminding Beron of a calm winter day. Seemingly peaceful but harsh, and when provoked, it was like a relentless blizzard. The whole of Westeros had seen that when the Quiet Wolf was the fist that broke the arrogant House of the Dragon. And then, his sons were only greater. Beron had no doubt that the smallest of direwolves, Rickon, would grow formidable, just like his brothers, father, or uncle.

Robert Baratheon, however, was a different matter. It was not only a sorry sight but a warning of how the cosy South could make even the greatest of men go weak and soft. His heir was no different, gallant and courteous at first glance, but once you took a closer look, the boy was more wilful and cruel, hollow with no substance to back it up.

War was coming again; Beron could feel it in his bones. But Lord Stark was prepared; he had already foreseen trouble brewing on the horizon. He put little stock in the tales of grumpkins and snarks from Beyond the Wall, but the wildlings had to be stopped, and the Watch needed to be strengthened regardless.

With a sigh, he slowly got out of bed and gingerly donned a dark yellow silken doublet and a pair of leggings.

His brother and two sons were already awake in the next chamber.

"Damon, you look like an auroch ran you through," Beron shook his head at his brother's haggard demeanour.

"Aye, but I outdrank all the Southron prisshy knights," the words came out slurred as Damon leaned unsteadily on the wall.

The lord of Barrowton sighed in exasperation. Damon's amber eyes were bloodshot, and his usually well-groomed chestnut curls were an unkempt, tangled mess. That was beside the tunic, heavy with the sour stench of ale and wine. His brother was a great warrior, but his penchant for competing over the silliest things would someday be his undoing.

"And the servants had to carry you to our quarters, uncle," Beron's eldest, Roderick, pointed out with a twitching nose, making Artos snigger from the side.

"Damon, go take a bath and get a change of clothes," the Lord of Barrowton exhaled slowly to get his rising temper under control. Thankfully, his unruly brother never argued when he used his lordly voice and was quick to scramble out of the room, albeit swaying unsteadily like a ship amidst a storm.

Beron looked at his two sons, his pride and joy. Roderick was a burly boy, barely five and ten, dutiful and serious and everything a lord would want in an heir. He had inherited his mother's dark auburn hair, but he had his grey eyes. Artos was three years younger than his brother and always had an easy smile on his face, a dead giveaway for his penchant for mischief.

Thankfully, both had presented themselves adequately at the feast.

"Father, do you know why Lady Slate glared at me throughout the last day?" Roderick's face was baffled. "I don't remember offending her or any of the Slates."

"She was also glaring daggers at Lady Stark too, albeit far more subtly," Artos added thoughtfully.

"Barbrey Slate, second daughter of Lord Ryswell," Beron could only sigh. "Not the Lady Slate. She's the wife of Jared Slate, the brother of Lord Sigrin Slate. According to the tales, she was Brandon Stark's lover in her youth. Barbrey aspired to become the Lady of Winterfell, but Lord Rickard Stark had other ideas. When that didn't work out, she looked to the younger brother, Lord Eddard, but that match failed to go through, too. Then her father attempted to get her wed to Willem Dustin, but the Rebellion started before those plans could be finalised."

"And I'm guessing Lord Ryswell attempted to make her Lady of Barrowton once you took the seat anyway," Roderick hummed.

"Indeed, Rodrik Ryswell tried, but, well," he sighed, "even young, I knew not to welcome such a lustful and ambitious woman no matter how advantageous the marriage. A lady's maidenhead is a precious thing, and you can infer much about her character by its absence. Many lords refuse to wed a woman who is not chaste on their wedding bed. Besides, I knew your mother since we were young, and I always wanted to marry her, lordship or not. It did help that she was the eldest daughter of Lord Fenn, though."

"So, Barbrey Slate grew bitter over her unfulfilled ambitions?" Artos summarised with a chuckle.

"That she did," Beron scratched his beard. "And looking at you is a reminder of what she could have had. Greed is a treacherous thing like that, my sons. She grasped for more and more, and in the end, she is at the mercy of her good brother's hospitality with only two daughters to her name that will never be important."

"So, I shouldn't… have asked Lady Sansa for a dance?" Roderick shuffled uneasily.

Right, his heir had indeed asked Lord Stark's daughter for a dance during the feast. Beron furrowed his brows, trying to bring the details to mind; the last night had grown hazy towards the end.

"Don't think much into it - a dance is a dance and nothing more. A wedding feast is to celebrate; if you can forge genuine connections, it's good, but it is not necessary. Lady Sansa would have declined your offer if she did not want to dance with you."

"She did dance with most of the northern heirs," his younger son observed. "I heard some rumour that she was enamoured with the crown prince, but…"

"But she said she's not feeling too well and retired for the night when Joffrey Baratheon asked," Roderick finished for him. "She wanted to avoid him."

A knock on the door stilled their conversation.

"Milord, Lord Reed requests an audience," Doryn's voice sounded through the door.

"Let him in," Beron turned to his sons, "Go find your uncle and make sure he hasn't gotten lost or drowned in the springs."

Roderick and Artos quickly scurried into the hallway and, through the open door, entered the Lord of Greywater Watch.

"Lord Dustin," the crannoglord nodded politely.

"Lord Reed," he greeted politely. "Not that I dislike your presence here, but seeing you seek me out so early in the morning is surprising."

The crannogmen could never hold their ale too well, a fact that Beron was well aware of, yet the man before him had drunk a lot last night and was now standing before him, fresh like a spring flower.

"Well, I was unsure when you'd depart from Winterfell, so I had to make haste."

Beron rubbed his chin; whatever had brought the short lord here was urgent. He couldn't think of anything but-

"May I inquire what brings you here? Does Lord Stark require something of me?"

"No, Lord Stark is quite busy right now, preparing his household for his departure south," Reed's voice was deceptively soft. "But I'm afraid that his tenure as Hand will be fraught with many difficulties."

"Aye, King's Landing is a pit of vipers," Beron agreed quietly. "But there's not much I can do about that. I understand little of the Southron games they play down there."

"Indeed. But yesterday, I heard His Grace likes to host tourneys for the smallest occasion. While Lord Stark managed to dissuade him from hosting one in Winterfell, I have little doubt that he would find a reason to host one as soon as we return to King's Landing."

The Lord of Barrowton barely suppressed a groan and rubbed his brow; his head was still pulsing from yesterday.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"While Lord Stark's retinue in the South can only be so large, a tourney is a perfect reason for more Northmen to show up in the king's city without raising any suspicion," a cunning smile bloomed on Howland Reed's face. "And I heard the king is very generous with the victor's purse. The lowest reward His Grace has ever given out for first place in the lists is fifteen thousand golden dragons."

Suddenly, the fatigue and weariness were forgotten, and a savage smile found its way on his face.

***

1st Day of the 6th Moon

Robb Stark

A loud knock on the door awoke him. Robb shuffled drowsily but found himself tangled in limbs. By the gods, he felt tired and too warm.

With much effort, he cracked his eyes open, only to be greeted with a curtain of golden curls belonging to a peaceful, gorgeous face and the pleasant scent of jasmine.

His mind stilled for a few heartbeats, trying to remember what had happened. Then it all came to him in a rush; right, he was married, and now the king's daughter was his wife.

It felt surreal, as if he was stuck in some dream.

Again, the knock on the door drummed louder and more persistent.

"Lord Robb, your presence is requested in the solar," the voice was gruff, belonging to one of the guardsmen, whose name he was too sleepy to remember.

"Coming," the newlywed Stark groaned and gently tried to pry Myrcella's grip off his body without waking her.

As Robb hastily tied his boots, he felt an uneasy shuffle on the bed behind him.

"What's happening?" his wife's eyes were just as dazzling green despite being groggy.

She stretched elegantly, reminding him of a cat. Gods, she was beautiful, and he had to struggle to tear his gaze away from her graceful curves and soft skin peaking from underneath the covers.

"My Lord Father is summoning me."

She squinted her green eyes and pouted in displeasure, "Come back quick. The bed feels cold without you."

He nodded with a promise and quickly headed towards the lord's solar.

Gods, there was only darkness as he looked through the arrowslits at the alcoves; it was not even the crack of dawn outside…

Married life… treated Robb well. Things had been awkward at first, but he and Myrcella had managed to find their footing.

Behind the outwardly courteous veneer, the princess was a sweet, witty girl with a smile that could melt your heart. And now she was his wife. Truth be told, Robb was glad he had nearly a moon to get to know her. Even Greywind, who was initially suspicious, had grown close to Myrcella.

Yet, this new responsibility felt rather foreign and left him feeling uncertain. He didn't mind having a wife; no, it was amazing. It just made him feel lost.

The solar door was guarded by Walder and Jory, but they quickly let him through.

Inside, his father was sitting on his lord's chair, lost in thought, and Robb could swear there was a measure of uncharacteristic hesitance in his grey eyes.

Even the usually calm Winter was paddling around the room with unease.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything, Robb?" The edge of his father's lips quirked up, and the Stark heir froze for a heartbeat.

"Only my sleep, Father," he coughed out. "Isn't it a bit too early for a lesson?"

Even after the royal party had arrived, Robb's father had still found the time to give him some impromptu lessons at least thrice a week, if shorter than usual. However, that left him with a greater opportunity to court Myrcella, focus on his swordwork, and get to know his future bannermen and their heirs.

Although that meeting the night before the wedding had blindsided him, Robb hadn't had the chance to ask about details just yet.

"Not really, not a lesson, although it can be taken as such," Lord Stark grew grim, "Take a seat. We're waiting for one more."

His father's solemn face chased away the last vestiges of drowsiness, and Robb quickly sat on one of the tapered chairs before the desk.

"And who would that be?"

"Your mother," an uncertain sigh tore out of his father. "We barely had the chance to talk yesterday. How is married life treating you?"

"I did my duty," Robb exhaled, a breath he did not remember holding in. "Although I suppose it wasn't too hard when your bride is beautiful. I'm just feeling… unsure."

"And what bothers you so?" His father straightened up and leaned in closer, face heavy with concern.

He had to fight the grimace from appearing on his face but failed.

"That's the problem, I… don't know?"

"Try to put it into words, Robb."

"There's nothing in particular. It's just a feeling of unease, that uncertainty about me and the future, I think. What if I screw things up?"

"That's just nervousness," a small smile crept to his father's face. "It's fine to be nervous, and it shows that you care. Uncertainty about the future will always be there; none of us are… seers, after all. You have little to fear as long as you keep yourself prepared and walk forward with your eyes and ears open. I think I taught you well - think before you act, and your woes and problems will quickly dwindle. Wild impulsiveness has always been our House's flaw, but you have a level head on your shoulders."

The words were oddly reassuring; his father always somehow managed to cut to the crux of the issue with precision.

The door opened, and his mother, garbed in a plain blue gown, entered. She looked tired, although it was not surprising; not only were they up far too early, but his mother had been making most of the arrangements around the wedding and guests, on top of tutoring Arya in her dwindling free time. The last month had been incredibly intense and exhausting for all of the Starks, especially the Lady of Winterfell.

"Take a seat, Cat," his father's face grimaced again before he turned to the door and raised his tone. "Walder, Jory, guard the staircase for me."

His mother sat right next to Robb.

"Why the secrecy?" She asked, voice still drowsy, as two pairs of clinking footsteps slowly dulled in the distance.

With a signal from his father, Winter stopped wandering around the room and curled just at the door.

"Some secrets… are better left unsaid. But fate seems to have forced my hand. As you know, I depart today," his father started hesitantly, but it dwindled with each following word. He fished out a bronze key from somewhere, unlocked one of the drawers on the desk, and pulled out an ironwood box. Another smaller key and the box clicked open, revealing an ominous roll of parchment. "I admit I have not always been entirely forthright about certain things," the Lord of Winterfell took a slow, deep breath. "Here's what happened at the Tower of Joy-"

Robb's mind grew numb as his father wove a bitter story of the inglorious battle and everything that had led up to it. A heavy promise given to a dying sister, the life of a newborn weighed against the wrath of a king. Yet even that raised more questions than answers. Did Robb's aunt flee her betrothal with Robert Baratheon, or was she seduced? Or worse, had she just been taken away…? Eddard Stark had no answers to those questions either.

Sansa was also three and ten, the same age Lyanna had gone missing. And Robb could see his sister was still young and naive and dreamed of songs and knights and heroic princes. A sweet word here, a smile there…

Jon Snow, his half-brother… no, his bastard cousin?

Still, it was a surprising, tragic tale, but so many things now made sense.

His mother next to him, however, had gone as stiff as a stone.

"I see," Catelyn Stark's voice was like ice. "Why not confide in me before, my lord? I understand that at the start… we were strangers, but later?!"

"Family, Duty, Honour, those are your House words, are they not?" His father looked old and tired. "Regardless of anything, Jon Snow is not your kin, and you have shown that many a time. As much as you disliked the boy for my supposed infidelity and the distant threat that his presence brought, you would have hated him even more for the threat of his parentage. Why would I make you pick between risking Robert's terrible wroth upon House Stark and a single boy?"

"No," Catelyn Stark choked out. "I would have been kind to the boy. Why lie to me, Ned?!"

"I never lied," the Lord of Winterfell let out a bitter chuckle. "I never claimed Jon was my son; you all assumed so. Not only you but the rest of the kingdoms, too. True, it was easier to let you all make your own conclusions…"

That made both Robb and Catelyn pause. He tried to think of a time when Eddard Stark had called Jon his son, but… he couldn't remember. It has always been my blood or Jon.

"Besides, showing kindness to Jon?" His father shook his head, and his eyes grew harder. "He would be far bigger a threat to our children, even with his bastardy, if his parentage got out, but not out of any fault of his own. What about the suspicion of genuinely caring for your husband's bastard? Would you be willing to see the boy for the boy and not for Rhaegar and Lyanna's folly? After all, he was born of lust, sin, and weakness, a true bastard in every sense, conceived outside the marriage bed as your Faith preaches. No, I wanted to carry out that bitter secret to my grave. It was my burden to bear and mine alone."

Catelyn Stark recoiled from those words as if slapped. Robb felt as if he was dreaming, but no, he pinched his forearm, and the pain was there; it was all real…

"I…" his mother hiccuped. Her serious blue eyes shimmered with tears. "May I-I b-be e-excused?

"No," the steely rejection made her wince. "I'm not done yet."

Robb wanted to just disappear somewhere; watching his parents like this made his heart ache painfully.

Yet, Eddard Stark stood up from his chair suddenly, came over, sat next to his sobbing wife, pulled her into his lap and gently brushed her tears away. Catelyn Stark stiffened.

"Shhh, I do not blame you for any of this," his father sighed heavily as he gently rocked his mother into his embrace, making the tension bleed out of her. "I never did. Your position was no easier than my own."

"But, if you wanted to take the secret to your grave, why tell us… why now?" The words slipped out of Robb unbidden. "It's a terrible secret, but what does it even matter in the end?!"

"Well, the gods laugh at the plans of men. Things changed," Eddard Stark's weathered hands slowly unfurled the parchment roll from the ironwood box. The words looked familiar and were written in rusty red. Blood. "Read."

If the earlier tale had been harrowing, the letters inked with crimson chilled him to the very core. An even more horrid tale of war, death, and betrayal, old wives' tales coming back to life…

"Madness," Robb whispered. "This can't be true?!"

"Only two souls alive know of Jon's parentage," Ned rubbed his brow. "Howland Reed and I. The kingsguard had even slain the midwife that helped my sister give birth. And Howland Reed was sworn to silence and had never left the Neck until I called him a moon ago, and I never told Jon, no matter how hard he asked. Jon had no way of knowing, but he woke up from his ailment and knew. Not only that, but despite being bedridden for a fortnight, he effortlessly slipped away from Winterfell, armour, supplies, horse, and direwolf in tow with none the wiser."

"Wasn't that just his fevered rambling? About us dying…" Robb said, but the surety had left his voice now.

You died! You all died, and I was the last to perish!

That harrowing anguish in his hoarse voice, the empty, tired eyes of a man that had seen too much on the face of his sullen but young brother. Jon's skin had been so cold it burned to the touch, even through his clothes, when they found him beneath the heart tree. An ailment that had forced even Luwin to concede defeat and reluctantly admit it was arcane in nature.

"I b-believe him," Catelyn whispered, making Robb whip his head in surprise towards her. "The b-boy, J-J-Jon, I don't like him, b-but he never lies. You f-found him beneath the h-heart tree, no? Under the eyes of the Old Gods... this must be their doing. How can a green boy of six and ten slay such a b-bear alone?!"

"Indeed," his father agreed. "I cannot ignore this warning even if I wanted to. If there's even the slimmest chance it is true…"

"This has been the reason for all those endless hours of new, different lessons?" Robb grimaced. "All those moves you've made. You were preparing me to take over in case you die?!"

He had wondered why he needed to know everything about most of the important nobility in the Seven Kingdoms. Yes, the Great Houses and their heads, connections, and interests were important to know in such great detail, but now Robb knew the Boltons and the Freys were added into the mix along with many others. His father had been teaching him to be wary of all those who had a reason to turn their back on House Stark in a moment of weakness.

The endless hours of simulating battles over various terrains in unfavourable positions while handling the northern lords and the enemies also made sense…

"It never hurts to be prepared," Eddard Stark smiled sadly. "I should know, one day, I was a landless second son with no prospect, but the next day, I was the Lord of Winterfell, with a slain father and brother to avenge and a missing sister to find."

"But then, why wed me with Myrcella?" Cold numbness crept into Robb's veins as he remembered her warm alabaster skin and her soft golden curls. "Isn't she a… bastard?"

"So what if a daughter takes after her mother?! I wouldn't trust the word of Stannis Baratheon. The boy, no, Jon, has tried to tell his tale as objectively as possible," his mother's voice was rigid, even as she fiddled with the scroll after reading it. "Even he did not claim to know the exact details of what happened in the South and claims the Southerners and their games are not to be trusted. Convenient that Stannis spoke up about this supposed bastardry only after his royal brother had died, and he would be the next in line. If he was so righteous and loyal as he claims, why did he not go to the king with his findings? Why wait for his death? Why wait for my husband's death?!" Never had Robb seen such fury nor venom on his mother's face. "No, your father was right to wed you to Myrcella for the price given. Ah," she paused thoughtfully for a few heartbeats, "someone in court wants to set the Lannisters against the Starks."

Robb's gut twisted into a painful knot. No, no, no, he would not lose his father!

"Father, aren't you walking into a trap now?"

"No… he has to go, even if to pull in more aid into the Watch from the rest of the kingdoms and reform them," Catelyn's tone was bitter, unwilling. "Far easier to do as a Hand than a Lord of Winterfell…"

"Maybe I'm walking into a trap, but it's a risk I'm willing to take," Eddard Stark ran a hand through his hair. "We must all do our duty, and mine is to defend the North and my family. Besides, I'm going forward, prepared and with my eyes open."

"Please, Ned," his mother's voice cracked, and she latched onto her husband as a drowning woman to a straw. "I don't care about kings, crowns, and honours. Promise me that you'll come back to me. No matter what it takes. Promise me."

The Lord of Winterfell stilled for a second, and a dark shadow passed over his face as his jaw clenched.

He closed his eyes and wrapped his hands over Catelyn Stark, "I promise."

Robb awkwardly shuffled next to them; he was not used to such open shows of affection between his parents. Though, it wasn't exactly open, was it?

They were in the privacy of his father's solar.

"Ned," Catelyn shuffled uneasily. "What is… Jon Snow doing now? What purpose does his wandering serve?"

His father rubbed his brow tiredly.

"I don't know. I spent countless hours thinking about what Jon planned, but I can't think of anything other than that he did think of us all dead. Winterfell must be full of ghosts for him, people he thought were dead but are suddenly walking. But no, I spoke to Torren Liddle, and he said Jon was headed Beyond the Wall. But I just can't think of why…"

Robb again looked at the words inked in blood, and his mind whirled. While sullen, Jon was skilled in tactics and could be quite cunning. But that was as a child, not a seasoned veteran of many battles, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and King of the North.

If Robb was in his brother's boots, what would he do?

What could a lone man do in the Lands of Always Winter?

A single man who spent years struggling against the foe of legend on his lonesome, with a reluctant, shattered, dwindling ragtag force of black brothers, northmen, and wildings?

What-

Then, it all made sense, and a laugh couldn't help but escape from his lips. Gods, was Jon always so reckless?! His parents looked at him questioningly.

"I know what Jon wants to do," he shook his head. "He wants to use the wildlings to fight against the Others before they turn to wights - wield them as one would use a sword. He did spend some time amongst them, no? Even managed to make some cooperate and submit as Lord Commander."

His father looked even more tired than before.

"But… can he do it?" Catelyn shuffled uneasily. "How can he make the savages listen? They are unruly, lawless folk, even more so now that we've slain their king. How is he going to find obsidian in that frozen wasteland?"

That was the question, wasn't it?