Seven help him, but he had known from the start, from the first time he saw the boy. Something in the way he held himself, in the way he moved. He had pushed the knowledge away, called himself an old fool and worse. And made the boy's life hell. But he had known, and remembered the time before.

As time wore on, he only grew more certain, and more furious. He had loved the father, after all. Would have died for him. And then the mother, for that must be it, had plunged them all into war and chaos. For her, that slut, the realm had burned. And now, the boy was there, rubbing the loss and death in his face. And yet, for all that he had the colouring of the slut, he moved like the father. Seven help him, but he knew and resentment burned inside him.

The boy was too much like the father, for all that he looked like the wild, impetuous girl who must have birthed him; serious, melancholy, but with sudden smiles cutting through like a sun. Yes, he had known.

Then the boy proved to be like the mother after all, broke his oaths, and betrayed them. When the boy was forgiven, taken back, as if the treachery hadn't caused any harm at all, the fury grew. Just like mother, the one they claimed had been stolen, the one for whom the war had started, was now considered a victim. And the father, a villain.

So he killed the boy, in the name of honour, duty, but also for vengeance on the mother who had started it all, and stolen his honour. And he felt like a regicide, for, Seven help him, he had known from the start the boy was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, not Eddard Stark. And whatever else Alliser Thorne was, he had always been loyal to the Targaryen Prince, and the Targaryen Crown.

Then the boy came back, and he knew he would die. Die as a traitor, and, in a way, he was relieved. For the dragons were back, and the Others, and the realm would burn again.