The Bastard Sorcerer

Chapter 2: Jon Fucking Snow

"Has there been any change, Maester Luwin?" a heavily pregnant woman asked, her voice laced with worry as she glanced at the elderly man dressed in grey robes adorned with chains.

"I'm afraid not, my lady," Maester Luwin replied with sorrow. "Young Jon shows no sign of waking."

It had all begun shortly after Lord Stark called his banners to fight in the Ironborn Rebellion.

A pox epidemic swept through Wintertown and Winterfell, merciless in its spread.

The disease was lethal. Of all the victims, only one survived — Jon Snow, Lord Stark's natural-born son.

But survival came at a cost. The poor boy had fallen into a deep, unresponsive sleep — and it had been nearly a month. Despite Maester Luwin's best efforts, nothing had worked.

"Please... give me a moment alone, Maester," Lady Stark said softly.

The old maester gave a respectful nod, bowed, and quietly left the room.

Left alone, Lady Catelyn stared at the unconscious seven-year-old boy. His soft, steady breathing was the only sound in the chamber.

"At first..." she whispered, voice trembling, "I feared you would harm Robb... or one day usurp him. But now... now I see how blind I've been." Her lips curled into a bitter, regretful smile.

"Robb has been pestering every servant for news about you. He refuses to sleep, refuses his duties... until Maester Luwin assures him you're okay. Even Sansa follows his example."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

"Gods... I've been so blind. I let fear and anger twist my heart. I saw a motherless boy — one who only ever craved love — as a threat." Tears welled in her eyes, her voice cracking. "I don't know if you can hear me, Jon... but please, survive. For your father. For Robb. For Sansa. For... this little one." Her hand gently cradled her swollen belly. "He deserves to meet you..."

Leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss to Jon's forehead, lingering there for a moment before turning away. Her next destination: the Godswood.

But as she stepped into the corridor —

"Well, well... look what we have here," a slimy, lecherous voice sneered.

Catelyn spun around — her blood turned to ice. Six men in mismatched armor stood before her, weapons drawn. Each bore the symbol of the kraken.

Ironborn... but how?! Catelyn's mind raced, panic setting in.

"GUARDS!!" she screamed, desperation thick in her voice.

One of the raiders chuckled darkly. "Scream all you want, greenlander bitch. No one's coming." His wicked grin made her heart seize in terror.

She tried to run — but her swollen belly made that impossible. Her hands instinctively wrapped around her stomach, her terror no longer just for herself... but for her unborn child.

"Think I'll make ya my salt wife," the leader sneered, stepping forward. "But first... I'm gonna rip that brat right outta yer belly... and offer it to the Drowned God."

He pulled out a crude, bloodstained butcher knife, delighting in the horror on her face.

'Please... Gods, Old and New... save my child...' Catelyn prayed, trembling.

— Swoosh.

The Ironborn froze mid-step. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, with a dull thud, the leader collapsed — dead.