Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Thirty-Five: The Weight of Forgiveness

The godswood of Winterfell was alive with life. The laughter of children might have filled the courtyards of the castle, but here, it was the growls and playful yips of young direwolves that filled the air.

Jon stood near the heart tree, gripping the long haft of his new battle-axe. The black Valyrian steel blade gleamed under the dappled sunlight filtering through the ancient trees. He adjusted his stance, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hands, testing its balance.

A longsword had never truly suited him.

Oh, he could wield one well enough, but swords felt too light in his grip, like toys rather than weapons. He always had to hold back, restraining his strength so he wouldn't ruin the edge too quickly.

But this…

Jon exhaled slowly, looking down at the axe—the weapon he had taken from Euron Greyjoy's corpse, or as the Ironborn would say, the weapon he had paid the iron price for.

The battle-axe felt perfect. A two-handed weapon for most men, yet Jon wielded it easily in one. The weight was focused at the head, allowing him to swing it with force without needing to hold back.

It was a weapon made for destruction.

Jon turned his gaze toward a dead tree near the edge of the godswood, its bark stripped away from time and the elements.

A test, then.

He shifted his grip, exhaled, then swung.

The axe bit into the trunk with terrifying ease, slicing clean through as if the tree were made of parchment. The upper portion crashed to the ground with a dull thud, the split stump left behind smooth and sharp.

Jon pulled the axe free from the fallen trunk, shaking his head.

Valyrian steel.

No matter how much strength he put into his swings, the edge would never dull.

A small part of him relished it. This weapon was made for him. A sword was for knights. This was something primal. Something ancient.

He turned his head, wondering if the mother direwolf had been watching.

She yawned, stretched out her front legs, then went back to licking her fur.

Jon snorted.

He looked down at himself—his sweat-dampened shirt clinging to his body, the faint scent of still lingering from training.

His life had changed so much in so little time.

A bastard son with a Valyrian steel battle-axe. A suit of Valyrian steel armor resting in his chamber. A direwolf at his side. A dragon waiting for him in Skagos.

And a secret—one that could shake the Seven Kingdoms if ever revealed.

Jon Snow. Bastard of Winterfell.

Daeron Targaryen. Hidden heir to the Iron Throne.

It sounded like something from the Age of Heroes.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Jon turned, expecting Robb or Jory.

Instead, Lady Catelyn Stark stepped into the clearing.

Jon's grip on his axe tightened slightly.

Lady Stark did not seek him out. Not in Winterfell. Not in the Godswood. Their conversations had always been brief, stiff.

But now, here she was, moving toward him with careful steps, her face unreadable.

And yet…

Jon was not a child. He was not blind. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation. The guilt.

Greywind and Lady bounded up to her, sniffing at her hands before losing interest and returning to their play.

Jon remained silent, waiting.

This was difficult for her. He could see that.

Catelyn took a slow breath before speaking. "I came to thank you."

Jon blinked, caught off guard.

"For saving me," she continued, her voice quieter now. "For saving Sansa. And for saving Ned's life during the battle."

Jon said nothing.

There was weight in her words, an emotion he had never heard from her before.

Gratitude.

She meant it.

Catelyn's hands clenched at her sides. "I… I have not been kind to you," she admitted. Her voice wavered slightly. "I have been unfair."

Jon studied her.

He had never expected an apology from Lady Stark. Not once in his life.

But here she was, standing before him, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears.

Jon shook his head. "You don't need to thank me, Lady Stark. We are kin, no matter what happens. I would rather die than let anything happen to Robb's mother. To the mother of my brothers and sisters."

He had meant to comfort her.

But his words only seemed to make her guilt worse.

Her eyes filled with moisture, and she looked away, her breath unsteady.

"I should have seen it sooner," she whispered. "I should have…"

She trailed off, shaking her head.

Then, with a quiet voice, she said, "I am sorry, Jon."

Jon's chest tightened.

He wasn't sure what to say.

Catelyn straightened, composing herself. "From this day forward, I vow to see and respect you as a part of this family. As I should have done from the beginning."

Jon nodded slowly.

Catelyn turned to leave, pausing only once before stepping back toward the castle.

Jon watched her go.

He had never needed her acceptance.

Not as a boy.

Not as a man.

He had long since learned to live without it.

But as he stood there, axe in hand, the weight of her words settled over him like a cloak.

And he realized—there had always been something pressing against his shoulders, something he hadn't even noticed until now.

And now, at last, it was gone.

For the first time, Lady Stark saw him.

Not as a bastard.

But as Jon.