Game of Thrones: Fanfic: Like father, like son

[m_findlow]

Title: Like father, like son
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters: Ned Stark, Jon Snow
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 903 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for m_findlow's prompt "Game of Thrones, Ned Stark, as true a father as a bastard could ever want" at fic_promptly
Summary: Ned treats all his children the same, and today is no exception.

Ned felt guilty. He always did, even though by rights he hadn't done anything wrong. He'd been a soldier, fought bravely, won his King his crown, been a loyal supporter and Warden of the North. Moreover, he'd been the best father he knew how to be to his six children. Five, he corrected himself, before changing his mind again. No, six was correct. True born or not, Jon was as much his as any child Catelyn had given him. Ned's only fault was in the lie that he held fast to. Jon was his bastard son. That was a fact as much as anyone knew. A Stark to be sure, just not his.

It was all for the best, Ned knew. Robert Baratheon had hated all the Targaryens with equal fervor. He'd have hated the young Rhaegar for stealing away Lyanna from him most of all, probably even more than the Mad King himself. Any son of theirs, half Stark or not, was still half Targaryen. Third in line to the old dynasty was still too close for comfort to be sure that Robert might not want to end the child's life before it had begun. Ned owed it to his sister to keep her son safe. She hadn't been kidnapped and she hadn't been raped. She'd loved that Targaryen boy for better or for worse, and their son was the product of what could have been a happy marriage had it not been for one mad Targaryen who threatened the fragile balance of the whole Seven Kingdoms.

It was easy to put down the difference in appearance to the bastard mother of whom Ned would never speak. When he looked at Jon though, all he saw was his mother's eyes, and his father's jaw. Be grateful he didn't inherit his father's eyes, Ned had thought countless times. Only one family in Westeros had violet eyes. At least he looked like a Northerner.

It didn't make Catelyn despise him any less. She wasn't his son and that was all that mattered. That Ned insisted on treating him just the same as the rest of their children was an insult of the highest order. Let them play together if they must, but she'd be damned if he would be schooled with them, taught to bear arms with them, and worst of all, to sit and eat with them. She held little enough regard for Theon, but at least he didn't shame her in the same way. He was another man's son, and their ward only. She suffered Jon only because she loved Ned, and because like the snows of the North, they refused to ever truly melt, holding steadfast and resolute. Ned could tell she had tried again and again to find love for the boy who wasn't hers, but something always stopped her. He wondered endlessly whether it would have made a difference to tell her the truth, knowing that she could keep their secret. Would she love him then, knowing Ned had never betrayed their own love? It was too late now to change things. Jon would be a grown man soon enough and have to find his own way in the world, knowing he could never inherit the castle he'd grown up in, but also never knowing his birthright was to a kingdom so much bigger than Winterfell.

Ned held the heavy sheath in his hands as he stepped out into the training yard. As expected, Jon was there, practicing. Always practicing, Ned thought. He wanted to be as good as Robb and Theon, and wouldn't stop until he was. It was that quiet patience that made Ned wonder if he'd inherited that from his adopted father. Lyanna had always been a little too proud, showing off her horse riding skills, making her younger brothers jealous. That wasn't Jon.

'Keep your weight further on that front foot,' Ned called out.

Jon turned at the voice, the tourney sword falling loose in his hand. 'I will, Father.'

'Good.' Ned pulled loose the strap on the sheath. 'This is for you. A Name Day gift.' Catelyn wouldn't allow them to openly celebrate it, but it felt wrong to discount it altogether. The sword was never going to be the finest Valyrian steel, but a sturdy, well-made sword, looked after properly, could serve just as well. 'You'll be needing a new sword after all the nicks you've put in the old one attacking those wooden jousters.'

Jon reverently drew the sword from its sheath, admiring the smith's craftsmanship. 'Thank you, Father. It's wonderful.'

'Don't tell your mother.' Ned still referred to her that way, even though he knew Jon would never call her anything other than Lady Stark. She'd never been any good at telling one sword from another. She'd find out soon enough though. If Robb and Theon didn't bring it up in conversation, no doubt Arya would. That daughter of his took far too much of an interest in swords and arrows, but she loved Jon to bits, and that in itself was worth putting up with.

Jon said nothing to the comment, simply sheathing the sword carefully, and clutching it tight.

Ned reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. 'Happy Name Day, son.' It was as close a declaration of love as he could verbalise, but it wasn't whether he said it or not. It only mattered that he showed it.