A Dance of Wolves and Lions

One

The wind rustled through the leaves of the Heart Tree, lifting them from their branches and carrying them along the Godswood. They danced in the breeze as they fell to the ground, weaving a carpet of red beneath the great weirwood. Among them sat a girl, perched on a stone, a sword laid across her lap as she brushed an oiled cloth down the length of the silver steel. Her eyes remained focused on her task. With each careful pass, the grime disappeared from the blade until the metal gleamed under the moonlight.

Alysanna enjoyed the quiet of the Godswood at that hour. She found peace there that eluded her elsewhere. Beneath the watchful red eyes of the Heart Tree, with only the whisper of leaves and the distant sounds of sleeping Winterfell, the burdens of the world seemed smaller.

She breathed out a soft sigh, and she set the cloth on the stone beside her. She held the sword up to the light, inspecting it for any imperfection she may have missed.  Finding none, she reached for the discarded scabbard at her feet and slid the steel home with a quiet hiss.

"You missed a spot."

Alysanna smiled softly and craned her neck to look behind her. Very few people could move through the Godswood without a sound; Jon Snow had always been one of them.

He was leaning against a tree, clad in his black leathers. His dark hair was tousled by sleep, and there was still a weariness about him that suggested he'd not long risen from bed.

"Have I?" she mused, returning her attention to the scabbard.

A low chuckle escaped Jon, and his boots crunched over the leaves as he approached her.

"I should be glad it was not my sword you're tending to."

Alysanna fastened the sword belt around her waist as Jon lowered himself onto the ground beside her. "Couldn't sleep?"

He shook his head and leaned back against the stone.

She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded slowly.  The answer did not surprise her. More often than not, when sleep eluded her, she would find Jon awake also. Whether pacing the battlements or seeking refuge in the Godswood, he seemed as restless as she was.

"Thinking again?"

Jon grunted and crumpled a leaf between his fingers. She reached out and ran a hand through his dark hair. He leaned into the touch without thinking, as familiar with the gesture as he was with her voice.

"About what?"

He shuffled slightly, resting his head in her lap so that he could look up at her. She traced her fingers along his scalp, while his dark eyes stared up at the canopy above them.

Silence stretched between them. She knew that look. Whenever Jon wore that distant expression, his thoughts rarely strayed far from Lady Catelyn. A sharp word at supper, a cold glance in the corridor, a reminder that Winterfell was not truly his. The slights weren't often spoken of, but Alysanna had long since learned to recognise the wounds they left behind.

Jon was her father's bastard. Her brother, in all ways that mattered, was not her mother's son. Mother had never been openly cruel, but neither had she ever allowed him to forget the distinction.

Her fingers had stilled briefly in his hair, and his eyes flicked to hers.

"Anna," he questioned.

"What did she say?"

Her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with quiet concern.

Jon grunted, "nothing."

"Jon," Alysanna warned.

He was always reluctant to speak ill of Lady Stark. She understood why. Whatever coldness Mother showed him, he still loved her children and honor would never allow him to sour the relationship between them. Sometimes she wished he cared a little less for honor and more for himself.

She tugged on a lock of his hair. "Tell me."

"She didn't say anything," he confessed. Alysanna recognised the hesitation in his voice, and she nudged him with her knee. He let out a long sigh, "It was the look she gave me after Rickon slipped in the mud yesterday in the training yard whilst Robb and I were sparring."

Alysanna raised an eyebrow.

"It was as though she blamed me for it."

"You let him fall?"

"He tripped over his own feet," Jon shrugged.

"And whose fault was that?"

Jon's eyes met hers, "If your mother had her way. Mine."

Her fingers continued to stroke through his hair, and the only sound to be heard was the rustling of the leaves.

"Mother gives everyone that look when Rickon falls," she offered.

Jon snorted, "Not that look."

She sighed softly. He was likely right.

Rickon fell all the time. He was only four, still finding his feet. Mother worried whenever one of her children was hurt, no matter how small the injury. Yet the look Jon spoke of was different. Alysanna had seen it over the years.

A coldness settled over Mother's features whenever her gaze lingered on Jon. Not hatred, perhaps, but something close enough that the distinction mattered little. He was a constant reminder of Father's betrayal, and no matter how many years passed, she had never truly forgiven his existence.

Alysanna had always found it unfair. Jon had not asked to be born. He had not lain with another woman, nor broken any vows. Whatever sins Father had committed belonged to Father, not the innocent child he had brought home. Yet it was Jon who carried the burden.

"I'm sorry, Jon," She whispered.

He said nothing, just grabbed her hand and squeezed it. He had never liked apologies for things out of her control. Just as he refused to speak ill of her mother, he refused to hold her children accountable for Mother's feelings. It was one of the things she admired most about him, even when he wished he would allow himself a little anger.

Jon possessed a kindness few people ever saw. He buried it beneath quiet words and guarded expressions, hiding it from all but those closest to him. Alyssanna had never struggled to find it.

She looked down at her brother, her remaining fingers tangled in his hair, his eyes closed as he rested against her leg. A small smile tugged at her lips.  Most people saw the bastard of Winterfell when they looked at him. She just saw her brother.