Hi! This started as a random idea in my mind so I wanted to post it here. I'm unsure of what direction I'll take this, especially since I'm still trying to write my other fanfic, but I love the theory of Winterfell being a key structure to the prophecy of Azor Ahai. But, I hope you guys enjoy this. I haven't read the series yet so I don't know if this is even possible but hey. It's fiction of fiction. Please read and review :) I do not own Jon Snow or any other characters of Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As Jon walked through the grounds of the castle he thought of as home, he allowed his thoughts to overcome him.

Azor Ahai will be reborn amid smoke and salt

He will wake dragons out of stone

He headed to the crypts of the Starks, but hesitation creeped in slowly. He recalled the times when he and Robb would go down there to play tricks on the younger ones, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Sansa was always the first to run away crying, while Bran would hang onto Robb's leg. But Arya, even when she was young, she always saw through the tricks they pulled and never allowed fear to overcome her. The fond memory made his heart ache for those simple times.

He stepped into the crypts and heard only the echo of his footsteps and every intake of breath. He thought back to his recurring dreams of these very crypts. He could still hear the voices of all the dead former Kings of Winterfell telling him he doesn't belong here. A chill spread through his spine as he remembered the feeling of their stone cold eyes watching him. His heart pounded in his chest but he willed himself to keep going.

He didn't know for sure what compelled him to come here, torch in hand, pounding heart and all.

He had so many failed plans, the latest was his expedition beyond the Wall. Some of the best fighters he'd ever met, now gone. Just like his other friends before him. They haunted him every day and every night, he could still see their faces when their life had long since slipped away from them. He held onto their memories as a reminder.

He's never doubted himself more, but he had a feeling. An inkling or hope, call it what you may, he was no poet after all but his instinct told him to go here. Before his head could catch up with his feet there he is now in front of the crypts. Where the man he thought of as a father now laid at rest.

But not really my father, he thought. Bran and Sam had told him about his origins. The tiredness from the battle had dulled his sense of comprehension, and the image of the White Walkers were all too fresh in his mind. He stank of defeat when he walked through the gates of Winterfell, bloodied and broken, but still alive. It took him a few tries before he understood what he heard.

I'm not a bastard, I'm the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

All his life he had come to terms with being a bastard, only to know now that he wasn't.

They married in secret before they conceived you, Jon. You're a Targaryen, he could still hear Sam's voice telling him these words excitedly. He had a large smile on his face that time, excited to tell him he had a last name. His eyes were shining and expectant to see his joy as well. To be truthful, Sam looked more excited than he felt at that moment.

Suddenly, comprehension dawned on him now, piecing bits of information together.

Targaryen, the blood of a dragon.

This is why the dragon of Daenerys didn't attack him. This is why during the battle with wildlings on the wall, he wasn't burned by the fire he was threw over. I have the blood of a dragon inside me, he had thought. He looked up and realized his feet had brought him in front of the crypt of Lyanna Stark, his mother.

The blood of a dragon but the appearance of a Stark.

He should have known. He always heard Lord Stark, his Uncle, tell Arya how he saw bits of Lyanna inside her. She was the only one that he looked like. They were the only two with the Stark appearance, which only strengthened their bond further. He stared at the statue of his mother, and he finally saw the resemblance. When he saw Arya again, he could barely believe his eyes at the woman before him. Though her hair seemed to be cut uneven, she outgrew the awkward phase of her long face, and became even more beautiful than before. Though, it saddened him that the laugh he missed, he hadn't heard just yet pass her lips. She had changed, they all had. No matter how much she's been through, the fact that she's alive was all that mattered. When he glimpsed the skinny sword on her hilt, he smiled that she had held onto it after all this time.

Needle, she named it, or more like they both did.

All he's ever wanted was this place he grew up in. Winterfell.

The Iron Throne did not appeal to him. His home was here and it will always be here, that remained unchanged by the years. When they started calling him "King of the North", he didn't know that the title would be so heavy. But he accepted it, as Robb accepted it before him. He wondered if Robb would be glad or not if he saw him here in the place always meant to be his. He pushed the thought aside first as he drifted away from his mother's crypt, past his uncle's, and passed his cousins crypts one by one. It felt odd to him to see it but he proceeded on his way and went straight down the path.

He spotted the spiral staircase leading down into an abyss of darkness. The one torch he held in his hand felt inadequate in the face of this darkness. Fear overcame him. He had never gone to the deepest crypts before. Fear stopped him from moving forward until he heard a voice in his head say, "It's only in the face of fear that a man can be brave."

He stepped forward onto the first step, then down, down the spiral he went. He went to the deepest crypts, and only stopped when he reached the bottom. He reached the rubble and pushed the stones and wood aside. Time had faded the words, the names of the kings that layed there at rest. He passed each and every crypt slowly, until he found something that caught his eye.

A newer crypt, compared to the rest. As he neared it, he read.

"Aegon Targaryen. 283 AC - . Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, House Targaryen. Son of Lyanna Stark, House Stark."

A crypt for a Targaryen, for him, in a sacred place for House Stark. This is probably why they hated me in my dreams.

He had a place here. A Targaryen crypt in the midst of Starks.

He ventured deeper into the crypt that was made for him. He walked further in, and stopped at what he saw.

A dragon as white as Ghost. He remembered when he first heard Ghost when he was just a pup and knew he was meant to belong to him.

In this moment too, he knew this dragon is his.