Jon Snow stormed out of Bran's quarters, ignoring the desperate pleas of Sam echoing through the doorway. His thunderous steps drowned out any noise that could have made it through the furious thoughts rattling his mind. After all, how was he supposed to react to being told his entire life has been a lie? The honorable Ned Stark had kept the truth from him all these years, letting Catelyn abuse him as a boy and leaving him to think he was nothing but a worthless bastard. But now, Gods be damned, not only was he a trueborn son, but a Targaryen. A Targaryen. To be fair, any animosity he may have had for the house of fire and blood disappeared the moment he admitted to himself his love for Daenerys. Gods. Did that mean she was now his aunt? Had he fucked his aunt?
All of these thoughts clouded Jon's mind as he made his out of the main castle and into the frozen courtyard. The icy air nipped at his already flushed cheeks as the light reflecting off the glacial landscape caused him to squint. Those he passed stared at him wide-eyed, the rage in him quite obvious. Jon rarely showed emotion, so when he did it often unsettled those unfamiliar with him. No one attempted to stop him as he passed through, the snow under his feet practically solidifying from the pressure he put in each step.
In what felt like no time at all, Jon found himself standing in front of the godswood. He must have blacked out from the rage and confusion, for he didn't remember exactly how he got here. His faith in the Old Gods had fallen after his return from death; he knew there was nothing waiting for him in the great beyond. So why was he here? Did some sort of infantile instinct bring him here for comfort? He often came here after the frequent beratements of Lady Stark, crying to the Gods to explain why he had been born a bastard. Though he had long forgiven her, he couldn't deny the damage he held. Why didn't Ned simply tell her his parentage? Catelyn could have kept the secret, and it could have spared them all the lifetime of misery from Ned's "infidelity." He supposed it was too late to consider such things. There was nothing the tree could do for him now, but standing in the place Ned often stood somehow gave him solace.
After his mind began to calm, a powerful rush of winter air swept through the trees and almost unlaced Jon's bun. His dark eyes rose to the sky, white and blinding, and he saw two shadows swirling around each other through the clouds. The faint cry of the dragons made its way to Jon's ears. He found it funny how their cries reminded him of the feral cats that scoured the courtyard for scraps, considering their obvious size difference. He watched the distant beasts and followed their silhouettes as they descended on the hills outside of the walls of Winterfell. A peaceful force urged Jon to follow them, and he made his way out of the Godswood.
Jon found them sitting together atop a small hill. He stopped at the base of the hillside and stood, admiring them. The larger one he recognized as Drogon, Daenerys' favorite, he assumed. Jon only ever saw her mount Drogon, and he recalled the ancient stories telling how each dragonrider only took to one dragon for life. The white background brought out the color in both of the beasts. Red undertones in Drogon's scales contoured his mammoth frame. The other had a brunswick green tone, freckled with what looked like a bronze hue. Although not as large as his brother, this dragon seemed sleeker and refined, almost as though he had more patience. Jon chuckled to himself as he realized just how much he was personalizing these beasts.
He stepped forward, and the sound of his boots crunching the ice garnered the attention of the dragons. Surprisingly, they did not growl. Jon continued to approach them, until he was near enough that they could had killed him if they chose. The depth of their eyes fascinated Jon, just as it did when he first met Drogon down at Dragonstone. Jon turned to meet the red eyes, only for them to turn away. Drogon made his way down the opposite side of the hill. For a moment, Jon felt offended by the rejection, until he noticed a pair of emerald eyes staring him down curiously. This dragon seemed intrigued by his presence, not having met Jon before. Jon struggled to remember the name of the beast.
"Hello," Jon sputtered nervously before stopping himself. What was he doing? Animals don't know the common tongue.
He took off his glove, immediately regretting it as soon as the frosty air touched his skin. Nevertheless, he carefully extended his hand to the dragon's snout and was surprised when the beast returned the invitation, nudging into Jon's palm. Despite the weather, the scales were warm. Daenerys had once said that the dragons were fire made flesh, and Jon was beginning to understand why. Suddenly, the name behind the green eyes came to him.
Rhaegal.
The moment between the two felt all the more intimate. No, this was not his father, yet there was something about bonding with a mythical creature said to share the Targaryen blood that made it seem like his father was there. A low grumble came from Rhaegal's long throat, like a greeting, and Jon felt tears well in his eyes. The hot breath from Rhaegal's nostrils hit Jon's face and quickly dried the skin, only a few degrees away from burning. Jon walked along the length of the beast, his hand still in contact with the scales, until he had reached the base of one of Rhaegal's large wings. As if they were in complete sync, Rhaegal lowered his shoulder blade to meet the snowy ground.
There was no hesitation as Jon boarded the creature's back. Copying the way the men had boarded Drogon beyond the wall, he climbed up Rhaegal's flank, almost losing his footing on the slick scales. He extended himself and gripped one of the horns that ran down Rhaegal's back and pulled himself up. Jon flung one leg so that he was straddling the spine where he then felt the muscles relax under his weight.
Jon felt like a boy again, learning how to ride a horse for the first time. Of course, this creature was much, much larger, and could also fly, so he was a little intimidated. That soon went away when Rhaegal twisted his neck to face his rider, as though he were checking on him. Rhaegal purred, the inflection making it sound like a question. Tyrion was right, these creatures were bloody smart. He wouldn't be surprised if there were a human soul trapped inside; he's seen crazier things.
"Um, right," Jon murmured, "I guess you're waiting on me then. What does your mother say? To make you fly?"
Rhaegal looked at Jon inquisitively.
"I really only know the word to make you spit fire, but I'm not exactly trying to do that," Jon joked.
A chatter left the beast. Did he just… laugh?
"Right, well then," Jon settled himself lower against Rhaegal's back, gripping onto the horns like reigns, "Let's get going."
Rhaegal turned his head forward and Jon felt the colossal shoulders alternately shift beneath him as the dragon began walking. The pace quickened as Rhaegal prepared for take-off, and Jon tightened his hold in panic. Was he really about to fly a dragon without any restraints? He'd ridden horses bareback before, but not thousands of feet in the bloody sky. Before he had the chance to scream for the beast to stop, he felt Rhaegal's back steepen as the dragon stood on his hind legs and pushed toward the sky with tremendous force. A simultaneously flap of the wings sent the pair flying.
As they stabilized to a constant height, gliding on the width of Rhaegal's vast wingspan, Jon struggled to open his eyes against the wind in his face. However, when he finally did, he saw the beauty of the North. Winterfell and its soaring towers, the miles on miles of snowy landscape. Despite the war, despite the white walkers, being on the back of his father's sigil muted all of the noise of the world. Jon smiled, then began laughing, and Rhaegal roared alongside him. He felt the deep vibrations of the noise rattle his legs.
In the distance, like a reply to the call, he heard a wolf howl. He knew he should be having a deeper existential crisis than this, but on the back of a dragon that just wasn't possible. He didn't want to think of his birth name, nor what it meant in terms of the iron throne. Yes, he was a Targaryen; Rhaegal proved that to be true. But he was also a Stark, something he had never admitted before. He didn't need to pick one or the other, for he knew in his heart that he was both.
As he rode, a ray of sun shone through a small gap in the winter clouds, and Jon felt peace.