Jon stared out the window, looking out into Winterfell's courtyard. The battle damage from the Night King's attack was being repaired, and the various buildings bustled with life. Overhead, the sky had begun to clear – the first rays of a long-forgotten sun began to beat down.
Yet no matter how he wished to, he could not think of such things. Not of the North, or of family. Not even of the wounds on his shoulder and chest – the Night King's blade caused his wounds, closed and stitched as they were, to hiss in pain even still.
His whole life had been a lie.
The news was clearly spreading through the castle; soon, his parentage would become known throughout the North and South alike. Some servant had to have heard the conversation between him and Bran – that much he knew.
Aegon Targaryen. That is your true name.
Brans' words echoed in his mind. Scowling darkly, Jon slammed his hand down into one of the wooden tables flanking the window. Pain shot through his arm but he did not care, the anger within was too much for him to contain.
My name is Jon Snow, he told himself. It was almost as though he were begging his heart to accept it.
You're the heir to the Iron Throne! Sam's excited words replaced Bran's within his mind.
A prospect that filled him with nothing but dread. The Iron Throne? A wretched chair that has caused more death and suffering to those who claimed mastery of it then anyone before or since. How many had sat upon its blades and wreaked havoc over the world?
Those like his grandfather, The Mad King.
"I don't want it! I don't want any of it!" he howled, grabbing for the nearest object around him – in this case, one of the torches on the wall – and throwing it to the ground, stomping wildly upon it as the flame beat on his boot.
As the fire burnt itself out, he sunk to the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees. Jon stared off towards the hearth; he thought of how many times he'd been around it, playing with one of his siblings -
Cousins.
No! Jon hung his head, the rage building once more. Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Rickon. They were his brothers and sisters, truly! He had grown up with them – Robb most of all; they were brothers through and through; bastardy be damned -
You are not a bastard – you never were. You are the true born son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.
Just like that. No thought, no comfort. Just...outright explaining away his whole life. His whole identity. Jon loved his father. With all of his heart and soul – every day, he missed him just as he did Robb and Rickon – and Bran was now telling him that the man he had aspired to be; from the moment he left for the Wall was his uncle?
Rhaegar Targaryen. Jon scowled. An imbecilic moron who started a war out of infatuation. Who brought down House Targaryen as a result of his stupidity.
This was his father? This was the legacy he had to call his?
He sat there for what felt like hours. The more he stared into the hearth, the more the flames seemed to dance. It was as though they were enticing him; embrace your heritage, they whispered lustily. Fire and blood. Fire and blood.
Winter is Coming, Jon whispered to himself. The words of House Stark. His words.
Fire and Blood. The words of House Targaryen.
He had known pain. He had known fear. Agony, loss. Jon was no summer child.
But for the first time in his life, he felt something that he did not know how to combat. And this brought terror into his mind.
Jon despaired.
