AN: screwed up the formatting, hence the re-upload.

Chapter 3 – Watching, Waiting

6 months later…

Using magic was much, much harder than Jon had ever planned on it being.

He ducked underneath the swipe of a blade, sprinted forward, and barely brought up the hilt on his right to block a blow which sent him careening sideways and off-balance. The next blow from Ser Rodrik came over the top, at a slight diagonal forcing him to hold firmly in place, but thankfully giving him the momentum to grasp the footing firmly underneath his feet.

Rodrik grinned, his training sword held to the side and stuck to the ground in a show of careless nonchalance, backhand facing Jon to make it clear to all what he thought.

"Impressive, but you're staying far too much on the defensive. It doesn't matter how good your technique is if your opponent sets the initiative." He taunted.

Jon narrowed his eyes. I can only stay on the defensive as long as he remains out of my reach. He looked at the wooden sword held in Rodrik's hand and [grasped] the recent history, the timing of the slashes, and the beginnings of his attack patterns, feint placements…

70% frequency of cross or overhead cut from right-hand side. Stab utilized as a feint and only when arm is already partially extended. Horizontal slash frequency increases to 80% within 3.790 feet of torso…

He sent prana circulating to his legs and pushed, spraying mud and snow behind him in a brown shower. Sword held overhead, he relied on Rodrick's quick parry to halt his momentum, from which he dropped and moved his sword downwards and to the left in preparation to cleave across his opponent's chest.

Not fast enough. My arms can't take more reinforcement. He'd discovered that a few weeks prior with a broken arm, though luckily it had healed quickly. Old Man Luwin had given him queer looks afterwards though.

At this short of a range, Rodrik elected to slam his hilt towards Jon's head instead of trying to ineffectually slash downward. As the hilt came closer, Jon had a moment of inspiration.

Aligning both of his arms on the hilt, he flared his prana. [burst]. The blade accelerated, smashing upwards as fast as lightning, impossible for Rodrick to block.

Drawing upon his years of experience, the weapons master leaned backwards buying precious time to let his blade sleep across his arm, intending for the wood of his sword and metal of his armor to fully block the impact.

But it was not enough. Jon's blade was striking with great force. Far, far greater force than should have been possible for even a man grown, let alone a child of only six years. It was too much for Rodrick's lone arm to bear, and he knew that the blunt impact alone might be enough to severely injure him if he wasn't lucky.

The bastard of Winterfell lost his balance from the force of his swing—with the left foot spiraling in mid-air and his arms overextended skywards.

You must keep your shoulders centered against your opponent if you want power in your strikes, Shirou

Shirou- no, Jon, knew that he had lost the battle. Rodrik would now be able to block his blow, and there was nothing he could do to change the course of the battle. Unless I could change my direction in mid-air, I—he did not have time to complete those thoughts.

Rodrick parried to the side, stepped forward, and scythed his blade against Jon's hand, disarming him. Not wasting a moment, he immediately capitalized to finish the spar. Twisting his hips and whipping the blade with both hands, he smashed the flat against Jon's head, knocking him to the ground and finishing to the fight.

P***et*c a* alw***, **iya Sh*r**

Jon's head swirled with confusion not just from the last strike, but also with the pressure in his head that started when he [grasped] Rodrik's swords and fight patterns. Though better than few months ago, Shirou-no, my name is Jon's mind felt like it was pierced and run through by a mist of tiny knives, able to feel a vague remnant of something important but unable to see or understand the finer details in the distance.

Rodrik returned the sword hilt-first to Jon, waiting for him to recover enough to take it in hand again. His face, almost always set in a stern look of indifference, held an unusual air as his eyes focused on Jon, searching with intent for something Jon didn't know.

"Sword. Sword. Sword." One of the maesters' ravens crowed overhead. They always seemed to like Jon, occasionally following him and pestering him for sweetmeats or corn whenever he had some extra from the kitchens.

Rodrik tossed Jon's blade back to him, and motioned for Jon to come again.

Mother will not be pleased, thought Robb.

He was not yet of age to appreciate the distinctions between "trueborn" and "baseborn", but he could tell that whenever Jon did well in something, it fanned his Mother's ire like oil upon a fire. Though a fire would eventually burn out.

Even worse was when Jon did well in something that Robb did not excel in. So far with their lessons, it had not been an issue.

In matters of administration, sums, and business, both Jon & Robb had done well. When it came to diplomacy and etiquette however… Robb suppressed a laugh as he remembered the futile attempts to drill Jon in manners beyond the most basic.

When it came to weapons however, there was no competition. Robb was talented for his age. A natural with a horse, and as far as could be expected for a child, naturally skilled with a lance and sword. And he was no slouch with a bow.

Jon had no comparable talent with the horse or riding. He was fair at best.

But with a sword, Jon fought as well as any man full-grown, let alone an actual child of his age. And with a bow…Has anyone ever seen my younger brother miss, or is it just a rumor spread by wagging tongues?

Robb sighed, and hoped the Old Gods would give his mother something else to focus on. It was decidedly unpleasant whenever his mother grew angry over Jon.

"I want him gone, Ned!"

"Catelyn, please calm down— "

"I have been calm for over six years! I was calm despite your dishonoring of me and keeping your son close at-hand over the past six years despite the threat he is to your other children. I remained calm even when you set that he be educated above his station with the same tutors as Robb and Sansa!"

She took a pause to regain her breath at this point, striving to regain her lost composure. She folded her arms underneath her chest as she held her back straight and made a firm look with her Lord Husband.

"Husband, have you ever seriously given thought to how Jon threatens the position of your other children?"

Ned winced, a crack appearing in his normally unflappable visage.

Her blood is running hot. Catelyn must be truly wroth if that is how she addresses me-

"Catelyn, I cannot fault you for disliking Jon. But do you not think it somewhat outrageous the idea of him stealing the inheritance from his brothers and sisters? Jon is not that sort of boy, nor will he become that sort of man."

I cannot fault her for bearing no love for Jon, but she surely has enough reason to see the truth of this.

"And you still do not understand the actual problem Ned! It does not matter whether or not Jon himself would seek out the position. "

My husband must see clearly the consequences of his acts and permissions, a man's heart is not enough to stand against the world.

"When your Lords see Jon, today they see a bastard. They also see Ned Stark's son who was raised at Winterfell. They see Ned Stark's son who could beat grown men when he was a child! They see Ned Stark's son who if his brothers or sisters were to have an unfortunate accident, would be rightful Lord of the North."

She held up her hand in a gesture of pause to Ned and continued on, "I will not debate the character of your son with you. But neither you or I can see the future in ten, twenty, or thirty years. And in those years to come, will they still see Jon as a bastard? Or will they see him as another Stark, with a deserving claim on Winterfell proved by martial skill?"

"Neither you or I can see the future, my lord husband. Perhaps none of this will come to pass, but do you not remember your words which are now mine also? Winter is Coming. And when winter comes, will you have it prepared such that Jon becomes a focal point of discontent lords and vassals?"

"He is my blood!" yelled Ned, his composure breaking and flaring in a torrent of words. "I will not cast him out! I promised-" Promise me, Ned.

"Then ensure he is safe. Send him to stay with one of your trusted bannermen. Make sure he is safe and provided for. But do not raise him at Winterfell where all the Lords will grow to think of him as just another one of your sons! I have said my piece, now have a good night, Lord Stark."

Catelyn turned about-face, the frown of discontent marring her normally radiant features, and as he watched her fire-kissed hair swaying in time with her stride away, Ned found himself unable to say anything.

The Gods help me, but she has the right of it.

If Jon had merely been skilled or talented at such pursuits, Ned could have parried the thrust of Catelyn's arguments.

But Jon was not merely talented. He clearly had the ability to be the finest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms since Cregan Stark or Aemon the Dragonknight had walked the land. He had beaten full grown men-at-arms in spars frequently in the past month, and his skills only seemed to still be growing. And with a bow, Ned had never seen the like. Not once had Jon ever missed a target. So unnatural was Jon's skill that Ned suspected the greatest fault in his Archery skill was the lack of a bow that could match Jon's ability.

The Blackfyre Rebellions started because some of the Great Lords desired a Warrior Prince over a Scholar King. And though Catelyn did not say it, Ned knew that the strength of the Wolfsblood in Jon's visage worried her. Would the bannermen regard Robb as being too much a Southron in comparison to his baseborn brother?

Rodrik had told Ned at a recent dinner of his suspicion that Jon would be able to beat him in a fight by the time he passed his eighth name day at latest. Not even three winters seen, and he could beat one of the better warriors in Westeros.

With Cat gone, his thoughts turned to another, more worrying matter with Jon. He dared not every say anything to indicate his thoughts upon it, being far too dangerous for any to know.

My nephew has dragon dreams. Fire and Blood fill his mind where most children have simple night terrors. Worse, they have scarred his mind.

It had been all Ned could to avoid giving away any of his internal panic when he discovered the truth. Jon had told Ned of his dreams, where he'd walked through fire as thousands died around him. The blood of the Forty is said to have been able to dream of both the past and future. Is the fire the war perhaps? Or is it some great disaster still yet to come. Starks could certainly never be accused of dreaming so much about fire. The blame clearly lied with the now-dead dragons. All dead except for the last two children of the late Queen Rhaella.

Just as large of a problem though were how the dreams affected Jon's mind. Though Jon was polite and kind, he did not act as a normal child had. Ned had never seen Jon laugh or cry. He had broken his arm a few months earlier and only Rodrik Cassel's sharp eye had caught the injury.

Have I failed so badly to care for my nephew that he does not think anyone will care if he is injured or hurt? And without motherly affection of any sort, his only close confidante is Robb. No place for a child whose spirit must be healed.

Ned decided upon his course. Jon would have the best chance of growing happily if he sent him to one of his bannermen. He would ensure that Jon and Robb visited each other frequently, and that they would still be raised as brothers. But hopefully the space away from Catelyn would be good for Jon, as well as help secure the stability of the North in the long-term. The chance to make friends outside the shadow of his birth would also hopefully give the boy the chance to develop with happiness as a child should.

Howland would be willing to care for Lyanna's child. He has never forgotten the debt of Harrenhall. But would it be the best for Jon?

Howland's ways were of the North, but it was the marshes of the Neck, not Winter plains and mountains. Perhaps it was whimsical, but Ned dearly wished that Jon grow up the same way Lyanna and other Starks had.

I cannot place such a point of vulnerability with the Boltons. Manderly and Umber are also too prominent. And Manderly is of the Seven, a bastard being raised by them could be taken as an insult. They must be of unquestioned loyalty and trustworthiness, but not a point of concern for the balance amongst my bannermen.

The Dustins of Barrowtown, Tallharts of Torrhen's Square, and Glovers of Deepwood Motte made the most sense. Ned considered them against each other.

All were prosperous enough lords that Jon could be assured to lack for nothing in regards to upbringing and education. Not overly powerful and capable of altering the balance amongst the vassals of House Stark. And unlikely to be insulted by a request to foster a bastard.

Lady Dustin might yet resent him for the death of her husband, but she could be trusted for her loyalty to House Stark. And the Tallharts and Glovers were amongst the first and most loyal bannermen of House Stark for thousands of years.

He began writing. Promise me, Ned. Lyanna's voice, always at the back of his mind. His guilt made manifest for all his failures. I promise, dear sister. Ned would keep his vows, and this could only help.

One year later, the Greyjoy Rebellion began.