Disclaimer: I don't have the privilege of owning Game of Thrones or A song of Ice and Fire, not yet anyway :/

I've had the idea for this story since watching season 6, but I've never gotten around to writing it; until now. It's pretty much just the sum of my efforts to procrastinate a creative piece I have due.

Blood of the Dragon

The dark, starless skies shadowed the clustered group of brothers. Jon's thoughts were frantic, flushed with the rush of excitement and hope stirred by Ollie's announcement. He pushed through the crowd, hardly noticing the grim faces he passed, eager to for whatever information on his lost uncle he could gather.

The murmur of the group hushed as he stepped forward. And from the moment he caught sight of the sign, sticking out of the ground the word 'TRAITOR' carved into it, Jon knew something was wrong. As he stopped a complete silence penetrated the air, one that had not been present only moments ago. Everything was still.

As he turned around the blade though his gut caught him off guard, but as it did everything fell into place, he was cornered. It was a trap, planned right down to the spot he would fall. Suddenly, there came the startling realisation that he would die here, in this cold, barren wasteland, murdered by men who hated him. The wound was deep, the blood that seeping out flowed freely, painfully.

"For the Watch." Alister spat spitefully.

He was stabbed again, and again. With every man, and every blade that pierced him, he felt another tear in his soul, until it was left so tattered it hung barley together. Men who he had shared ale with, men he had fought with, brothers he had trusted. He had understood that the didn't all love him, many of them didn't like his family or his firm decisions. There was undoubtedly discord amongst the Men of the Night's watch. But it was a deep discord, one that came from the resentment and hatred of authority many of the men fostered, and anger that had not started, nor would end with him.

The blood rushed from his head, making it hard to focus, his hands already felt numb. Jon fell to his knees, struggling to remain conscious and upright, but still, barely, alive.

It was then that Olly walked up to him. His young steward seemed fearful, his steps were small, and the blade between his fingers shook slightly. Jon noted the size of the blade, it was too big, too heavy for the boy, clearly given to him by a man to craven to use it himself. It was clear the boy was torn between two minds.

"Olly…" Jon's voice sounded foreign to this own ears, hoarse and ragged, every breath short and painful. He was drawing to his end, the wounds were undeniably fatal.

Olly's brown eyes remained fearful, as hi expression twisted into something between hatred and guilt. The boy seemed almost unsure of what he should do, and after a moment of tense silence, the lad, in a push of anger, a final betrayal, pushed the blade forward.

"For the Watch." Olly's voice quivered forcefully.

Jon stayed on his knees until the pain overwhelmed him, the stab wounds deep and numerous, the agony unbearable. He fell backwards painfully on the ice; above him, the cross of the 'TRAITOR' sign stared down mockingly. Beneath him the cold of the frozen snow slowly penetrated his furs, seeping what little warmth remained in his body.

Nobody lingered to help him, there were no cries to save him, the men who had been his brothers had already left. Distantly, he could hear the sound of their shuffling feet and low murmurs as they moved away. He could feel the puddle of blood around him spreading.

So this was how he would end, it seemed almost fitting. The wretched bastard, dying a wretched, traitor death. He could only imagine the irony Catelyn Stark would have found in it.

And then black.

Jon was surprised when he came to, there was a pleasant warmth on his face, and he relaxed for a moment, enjoying the rare opportunity of the sun and the comfort it brought. Even during his childhood in Winterfell, it was uncommon to find time the time to simply relax, there were always chores, lessons, or some other time wasting activity Lady Stark decided was appropriate for him. And even when there was nothing left to do, simply closing his eyes and relaxing out in the open left him too vulnerable to those around him.

Then the memories came back to him in an onslaught of horror.

He had known there were men of the Night's Watch that hated him, that there was dissatisfaction amongst the watch he commanded. In particular, he knew his decisions regarding the wildlings had provoked much anger, particularly in the more conservative watchmen. He had known, but it had never even crossed his mind that they would betray him, that they would kill him. And Olly, it hurt Jon to image how long the boy had been a part of this, planning to kill him, yet he had stood by willingly, lying to Jon's face. Of all the betrayals it was his that hit closest to home.

Jon noticed abruptly that there was a distinct absence of pain. Running his fingers along his torso, Jon was shocked to find there were no scars. The deep, horrible wounds he had accumulated over the years, and the more recent ones were all seemingly gone, it was impossible, the wounds were fatal, impossibly so. He had thought no Maester in Westeros skilled enough to entirely vanish wounds and restore the almost dead to life.

How long had it been? It felt like only a moment.

Opening his eyes, the brightness of the sun was harsh, something he had become unaccustomed to in the dark, gloomy north. Standing up Jon realised it was more than just the wounds that had been healed, his entire body felt renewed, possessing a youthful vigour he had not felt since before the wall.

Around him the scenery was strange, it was so green, the colours much brighter than he could ever remember in Winterfell or the surrounding lands. There was a distinct lack of features other than a scattering of common trees, it could be anywhere; anywhere except the north, it was too warm for there. The clothes he was wearing were different as well, were lighter than he had become used to, a simple top and a pair of breeches. Not dissimilar to what he had worn on the water days during the long summer of his childhood in Winterfell, he wondered where they had come from.

"Jon," The voice came from behind startling Jon, it was unfamiliar and contained a deep, smooth quality, Jon turned anyway.

Leaning against a tree a few metres away stood a man he had never seen before. His aristocratic features would have been described by most as beautiful, and the man's unusual colouring revealed foreign ancestry. Tall and lean, he had very fair skin and long silvery-gold hair. Jon would have estimated them around the same age, except for the man's eyes, they looked far older than Jon had expected, and held a pensive, sorrowful look. The colour too was unexpected, they were a strange shade of lilac, a purple reserved almost solely for those of Valyrian heritage; Targaryen eyes.

Suddenly Jon knew who stood before him.

"You're Rhaegar Targaryen." It wasn't a question, but it was treated like one all the same.

Rhaegar nodded slightly, "Yes, I am." he paused for a moment, studying Jon's face, "Come walk with me."

Jon eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded assent, following the man as he began down a dirt path that Jon had previously not noticed. "I don't understand why I'm here."

"You died Jon." Rhaegar stated.

For a moment Jon's entire world pivoted, he was dead. But of course he was dead, he had known there was no way he could survive the wounds. The idea that he was in the afterlife was strange, however. Jon followed the old gods, as his ancestors had before him, but he hadn't really believed that there was a god who cared enough about him to actually save him.

"The Night's Watch, they need me," Even after everything they had done to him, they had become his family, and he would be damned if his loyalty to them ended with his death

"They can manage without you, for the time being, I think," The man shared a soft secret smile with him. "And even then your vows break with your death, you're a free man Jon."

It was an angle that Jon hadn't really considered, the realisation that he was truly bound to no-one anymore, a liberating thought, even if he was dead. If only he was still alive, he would have finally been able to avenge his family, and protect what little of the Starks that remained; but that wasn't the way the world worked. "Why are you here? Where are we?"

"You look like your mother." Rhaegar's unexpected, softly spoken statement roused Jon from his thoughts. "You're loyal like her too, but quieter." Jon's questions were forgotten.

"No." Jon replied fiercely, "I look like my father, Ned Stark."

Rhaegar looked at him with an indeterminable expression and shook his head, "Ned Stark wasn't your father, he was your Uncle. Your mother was his sister, Lyanna Stark.

Jon's first though was that it was impossible, his father was Ned Stark, a man of honour and duty who had not once in Jon's memory lied. But the longer he thought about it the more possible it became, duty and honour, duty to his sister and honour if she, Lyanna, had made her brother swear to protect Jon. The two events, Lyanna's death and Jon's birth, had occurred simultaneously, and both were shrouded in secrecy, both occurring in the south. It was uncomfortable to realise that he had just learned more in a single sentence from a man he had never met before, than he had over years of interrogation of his father... no, not his father, Lord Stark. And then Jon realised what it would mean about his true father.

"You're my father, aren't you?" Rhaegar nodded, almost apologetically allowing Jon to continue, "That's why Ned Stark took me as his bastard, it was the only way he could save me, a Targaryen bastard, even if it meant dishonouring himself."

"My son," A pair of strong arms enveloped him, "I'm so sorry, truly I am." Jon hesitantly returned the embrace.

The father and son stood there, the moments passing seamlessly. A light breeze stirred up nearby leaves, and Jon pulled back, his voice cutting through the silence, "Why did you do it?"

Rhaegar moved gracefully, his expression thoughtful, a reflection of his melancholy nature, "It was a choice I made long ago, I thought I was doing the right thing," his stare was penetrating, "I was wrong."

"I see now that I was blind to what I had, but given the opportunity to go back-" he voice cut off as he looked down at Jon, "I wouldn't change a thing."

"You have grown into everything I could have dreamed for in a son and so much more. "

The path the pair had been on wound through the trees, leading them to a grassy, open meadow and a long, clear lake. Jon found himself drawn to the crystal clear waters, the place was beautiful, in an almost heavenly way he had never seen before.

"You have to go soon, there isn't much time left," Jon wanted to ask where he was going, why they were alone, but somehow he knew the answers would come soon enough, "Your mother sends her love, she's sorry she wasn't here to meet you."

"You are the blood of the dragon." His father turned to him, a soft smile gracing his lips. "Don't let them forget that."

Just as the winds pulled him away, Jon caught his reflection in the lake. And for the first time, he realised his eyes weren't just plain, stark grey he had always thought them to be, in amongst the grey shone the slightest hints of purple.

When Jon woke up everything was cold again. The world was dark, but even in the darkness, it was only now that Jon could finally see the way forward. His spirit felt different, unyielding but renewed, his body was etched with foreign and new scars, but he was glad for it, they were the reminder of what was behind him, and the motivation of what was to come.

They asked him what he remembered, and suddenly he wasn't sure.

"Nothing." But the world had never made more sense.

I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

You don't have to leave a review, but it would make me smile.

Have a wonderful day :)

~Dyenya