Sometimes, you have to take a leap of faith. Eat something strange, make a new friend, or learn something new. Father would never let either of us go alone. Of course he wouldn't. He wouldn't even let us go together. What kind of father lets his two eight-year-old sons roam the country unprotected? But, when he leaves to fight against the Greyjoy Rebellion, he couldn't stop us. It's not like Catelyn was paying us any attention. Before Robb could raise the alarm, we were a long way south. We knew were we were headed.
By our estimate, it had taken us nearly a year to make our way to our destination, and our name-day had passed in near silence at we'd walked. And what we'd arrived at awakened something inside our souls. Awe, terrible, frightening awe, but also anticipation and a curious excitement. The pale, sandstone castle, framed against the red mountains of Dorne, sticking out, like a single cloud on a clear day. Abandoned, yet, still habitable. The Tower of Joy. The Targaryen replacement for their precious Summerhall. The castle in which our lady-aunt, Lyanna Stark, was held by the silver prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. Where Robert's Rebellion ended, not on the Trident, or in King's Landing, but here, in a small fight, between three Stark loyalists, and the last three members of Aery's kingsguard.
And yet, standing here, before the open gates, both of us are gripped – paralysed even – by uncertainty. We'd set out with the intent to learn who our mother was. It seemed here was where we'd find our answers. Father never spent long elsewhere. But, were we ready for this information. Is she alive? Is she dead? And now, as we stand before the answers we sought, we were unsure if we wanted them. Then, with purposeful deliberation, I step forward, moving through the gates, and towards those answers.
"We've come this far brother, I'm not stopping now," I say, almost too quietly for him to hear.
As we search the castle, room by room, we slowly become increasingly disturbed at the sheer volume of Stark apparel. This castle didn't look like a prison, rather, where someone of Stark blood willingly stayed. What was our Father keeping from the king? Even her bedchamber, it was styled in both. Greys, whites, blacks, and strangely, reds. Dragons and wolves, interwoven. Bloodstains on the bed, ornate dressed in the wardrobe, a beautiful sword of dark steel hanging on the wall. Wilted roses, screwed up pieces of parchment, and one letter, laid out flat on the desk.
"Alyx, this one's addressed to us," says Jon, worriedly.
"It can't be," I say, stepping over to the letter.
Alyx and Jon, my beautiful winter dragons, my children, my life. There are many things your mother and I wish to say right now, but should you ever read this, know that we loved you, and we hope, whoever raised you, loves you as much as we do now. We care not who came first, decide that together, for you are brothers, twins even, you should be equal in all things. Already, I can see that neither of you have my hair, but Alyx, you have my eyes, while Jon, you have your mothers. Many of the documents in this desk will show you as ours, trueborn children of house Targaryen and house Stark. You are children of two great and powerful houses. One that has existed longer then history records, and the other survived an event that wiped out a civilisation. You have the power to crush the world beneath your heel, destroy everyone who has ever slighted you, tear down creation just to see if you can, kill anything beautiful, take what you want and desecrate everything. But, my sons, my beautiful sons, your potential for good far outweighs your potential for evil. You have the power to uplift everyone to a brighter future, build friendships that will form the foundations for alliances that will last ages to come, create anything your heart's desire, spread all that is beautiful and live as you want. You and princes, in a dull world, even if I'm not there to see you do it, make it beautiful. My father left the world in a place less than it was, make it more than it was.
Crowned Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, and Lady Lyanna Stark
With a soft thud, I fall to my knees, letter still clasped in my hand. Tears, rage, confusion, they're all clouding my vision. Lyanna was never kidnapped! Why did Father, Eddard, uncle, whoever, claim us as bastards? Gods, why? Jon kneels down next to me.
"We're not leaving," he says, in a way I understand as both a suggestion and a statement. This should have been our home, and neither of us particularly wants to leave.