Disclaimer: I do not own The Game of Thrones, or A Song of Ice and Fire
Lyanna + Rhaegar = Jon
That is widely accepted as the true origin of Jon Snow. Ergo, this little thing happened. Hope you don't hate me for the way I made Lyanna.
Oh, and review people, review!
Lyanna didn't see it.
The boy in her arms, the child she just gave birth to, wasn't anything special. Maybe she was being a bad mother, but she simply couldn't find it within herself to see the wonder of the baby's existence the way Rhaegar saw it.
The baby looked nothing like Rhaegar, but was a male copy of her. Pale skin, almost white with a greyish tint to it, and black hair she could already see would be messy and tangled, just like hers was. His eyes were blue for now, and she somehow knew they would be inherited from her as well, a grey so dark it was black. Small and wrinkled and fat, he felt like dead weight resting in her arms.
Rhaegar was away, fighting a battle somewhere, or maybe he was already dead, and she was here, dying from blood-loss and holding his bastard son. The Tower of Joy, hah!
Still, she owed it the boy to at least try to like him, so she focused her attention on his tiny newborn body. He had ten fingers and ten toes, thin little arms and a scrunched up face. His bloated stomach was surprisingly firm to the touch.
Nothing.
No love, no care, not even a passing fondness.
She didn't understand it. How could Rhaegar trace his fingers over her pregnant belly, write songs and order the servants to make baby clothes, when the only thing she could think of was how her pregnancy prevented her from riding? It wasn't fair, and she felt like a cold bitch for not loving her own child.
But she didn't need to love him to name him. What name would fit him? She didn't want one of those complicated Targaryen names, the kind that twists your tounge and brain. She may not love him, but he was a Stark, and Starks had always been simple and to the point. The child needed a name worthy of a Stark.
Lyanna could feel her hold on life slipping, but she couldn't die now. The boy needed a name.
''Jon.'' Came to her, and she repeated it again. ''Jon.''
Yes, that was a good name. Easy and unassuming, but strong enough to be heard. She would name him Jon.
And then, as her vision grew bleaker and fuzzier, her brother appeared. Ned, his serious face and dirty hair, standing over her. She didn't know if he was a dream or a nightmare, but she would make the best of the opportunity presented.
''Promise me, Ned.'' She said, begging him to keep quiet about what he saw, to take the child and raise him as a Stark, strong and wolf-blooded.
She only stayed awake long enough to see him nod his head, and then she let go.
And there was only darkness.