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Chapter Twenty-Five: Eighteen Years Later

Rhaegar shivered as he pushed back the furs that had been covering him. His back ached in protest as he rolled off the hard bed he'd woken up in and he had to grab the wooden post to stop his knees from giving out. Once his balance was righted and his head stopped spinning, he stood trembling in the cold and tried to get his bearings. It was dark still, and the fire in the hearth had burned down to little more than glowing embers. Beyond the window, the pale moonlight showed him a heavy snowfall, silent and soft in what seemed the dead of night. Suddenly aware of another man sleeping deeply nearby, he pulled a fur cover from the bed and wrapped himself up in it.

He found his own clothes still heaped in the corner of the room, but they were caked with dried blood and dirt from the battle field. Wondering if the whole fight had been some vivid fever dream, he picked up his tunic and ran his hand over the dried black blood once more. He found it to be very real. There was no mistaking the wall, either. He could see it from the window, glinting silver in the moonlight. All seven hundred foot of it towered above the chamber he found himself in, bewilderment closing in as his wits returned to him.

Frowning out at the snowfalls, he recalled waking up in a fire. Twin columns of fire towering over him, so close he really should have been burned to a crisp within minutes of the kindling going up. Before that, he had been on the Trident. He thought he had delivered a mortal blow to Robert Baratheon, only to see the Stormlord rise again with his fist wrapped around the shaft of that deadly hammer. It played out in his mind again, a slow motion arc as the head of the hammer smashed into his chest, recalling again the sensation of being knocked into the middle of next week.

Did I hear the ribs break, or did I only feel it? The memory confused the sensation, but it still made his stomach turn.

Elia ... She was still in King's Landing, the last he knew. He asked the Red Woman and Jon Snow if they had heard anything about Elia and the children. In response, all he got was water laced with dreamwine, sending him into a deep, uncontrollable sleep from which he had only just awoken. Lyanna would be safe in Dorne, he knew. Robert would have little and less interest in storming a castle well beyond the red mountains. But Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys... Aerys could shift for himself.

To distract himself from his darkening thoughts, he found some chopped wood by the hearth and fed it to the dying fire. The coals collapsed in on themselves, sending a shower of sparks up the stone chimney, and causing the sleeper nearby to roll over and snort as he awoke. Rhaegar whipped around to where Jon Snow now sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Your Grace," he said in a voice thick with sleep. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"I didn't want to disturb you," he lied. In reality, he wanted just a moment alone to process what was happening and where he seemed to be. Not that it had achieved anything, but it was worth a try. "Jon, how did I get here? What's going on?"

Still fully dressed, the other man was able to get up and move to the fireside to warm his hands.

"How long was I unconscious for?" asked the Prince. "Long enough for you to bring me from the Riverlands to the Wall, it would seem. Is this the way of it, now? Robert's won his little war, so now my only hope is to take the black?" His mind was racing through the likeliest explanations. But it wasn't long before he lapsed into thinking aloud. "And what of my children? I think the Martells would take them in and protect them, no matter what. Robert wouldn't be able to reach them in Dorne. But none of this was mother's doing-"

"Your Grace!"

After Jon abruptly cut over him, Rhaegar trailed off into silence. Perched on the edge of the bed he'd not long woken up in, he looked up at the other man and tried to read his expression. Jon's face was turned toward the reviving flames, his fingers splayed out to catch the warmth in his hands. Meanwhile, his brow was knotted as he seemed to wrestle some difficult dilemma. The longer the silence went on, the more Rhaegar worried.

"I know how hard this is," Jon finally spoke. "It was hard for me, too. When I woke up in the Mountains of the Moon, I had no idea where I was. One minute I was here at Castle Black, a knife in my heart, then I was leagues away on a mountainside in a place I'd never been before in my life."

Rhaegar studied his profile intently as he spoke, trying to comprehend what he was saying. "Your knife wounds. You were stabbed here and just woke up in the Vale, just as I was-"

"Killed," Jon butted in again, turning from the fire to face him. "You and I were both killed. The Red Woman, Melisandre, brought us both back."

Stunned, Rhaegar was lost for words. "That was nice of her. But why the Mountains of the Moon for you and Castle Black for me?"

He knew full well that he ought to have been dead, but not that he actually was dead. Remembering the fires again, he recalled now the moment he woke up, when he felt the air being blown back into his lungs. It explained a few things, but the questions still buzzed in his head. An angry and confused swarm of questions. Only one shouted louder than the others.

"Where are my children? I have two and a third on the way. You know Lyanna's condition."

Jon flinched. Something Rhaegar took for a less than promising sign. Finally, he answered: "You need to let me explain."

"I'm all ears," Rhaegar retorted. Beneath the fur he was wrapped in, one hand found the patch of scarring on his chest, the remnants from the hammer blow that had killed him. It was a rough, twisting scar from his breast to his hip. It felt old.

"You knew I should have been dead," Jon continued. "You saw the knife wound right over my heart and you even told Lyanna about it. But instead of dying, I woke up close to the Eyrie, in the path of the Starks as they made their way to Harrenhal. Instead of dying, I was sent there to find her and you-"

"It would have been easier to ask Lord Commander Quorgyle for leave to come south and meet us," Rhaegar jested in vain. It was nervous talk which he regretted instantly. "Sorry, continue please."

Jon's expression softened. "I could have done that, had you not been dead for eighteen years. I woke up in the past and now, you have woken up in the future."

Rhaegar felt himself turning rigid as he ran that sentence through his head once more, then twice more. He tried to make sense of it, before deciding he hadn't heard Jon's words right.

"C-come again," he stammered.

Jon turned fully from the fire before repeating himself, word for word. Then, he added: "That's what I meant by being sent to find you. I had to find you and save you without changing history. The ink is dry, but I was able to just smudge it a little."

A number of reactions all came crashing in at once: anger, disbelief and confusion were prominent among them. But it all converged to form a numbness that spread from head to toe. In his shock, he had let the fur fall from his shoulders, only for Jon to reach over and fix it back in place again. Meanwhile, Rhaegar latched onto the first piece of information that made sense to him.

"So, this moment in time where I am sitting here and talking to you, is eighteen years after the Battle of the Trident?"

For what it was worth to him, Jon looked utterly befuddled too. "Yes. It's eighteen years later, your grace."

"No!" Rhaegar retorted. "No, it cannot be. It's impossible. I mean, how could you find yourself eighteen years in the past ..."

He wanted to go on, but the words wouldn't come. It was as if his mind had taken in so much, and had now spent its capacity. With too much on board already, what was there began to get all mixed up in his brain.

"Mayhaps Your Grace has been told enough for one day?" ventured Jon, cautiously.

Rhaegar did not answer. Instead, he got back to his feet and crossed the room to where the window looked out over the forecourt. Stopping at the mullion, he glared intently at the breaking dawn as if he might see the time and exact date noted somewhere, as proof to what Jon was telling him. But all he saw was snow, ice and men in black making their way down from nightwatch along the wall. They looked a bedraggled lot, with their shoulders hunched and heads bent against the skirling winds. Nowhere, however, could Rhaegar find proof of the date. This could be any dawn, anywhere.

"Your Grace," Jon's voice was soft, his hand gentle as it touched his shoulder. "Come and sit down."

Tentative now, Rhaegar turned from the window. "There's more, isn't there?"

Eighteen years worth of 'more', a voice in his head pointed out. A lump formed in his throat as he thought of Rhaenys, Aegon and the little infant he had not yet met. And may never meet, that same voice pointed out. Just a litle bean growing in Lyanna's belly, growing up without a father. They would all be adults now, with no living memory of him, their father. Unless...

"Where are my children?" he asked again, voice barely a whisper. A question asked so quietly because he found himself shit scared of the answer.

Jon swallowed, his eyes clouding as he briefly averted his gaze. Rhaegar realised, then, that the other man was afraid of telling him, or trying to find some way of couching the truth. In the end, he selected just one word.

"Dead."

Just one word that told so much more, snuffed out so much hope and ended even the vainest of hopes. Dead.

"How?"

"You don't need to know-"

"HOW?"

"Put to the sword by Gregor Clegane-"

"A Lannister man," Rhaegar cut in again. "I knighted him myself, I-"

Once again, his own anger and grief stole the words from him.

"...and Elia and Lyanna?" he asked, at length.

Jon hesitated again. "Lyanna died giving birth. But Gregor Clegane raped and murdered Elia after the Sack of King's Landing."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as his stomach roiled at what happened to Elia. Jon was still talking, imploring him to sit and rest, but he was no longer listening. The horror overwhelmed him and soon his empty stomach was heaving its bile over the wood paneled floor. There was a chamber pot beneath the bed but he didn't make it in time. While he heaved and retched again, Jon knelt beside him. The sickness abated before long, but he continued shaking violently, kneeling in the cold bile.

"I did this," he said as the awful truth dawned on him. "I did this, so the gods have hauled me back into this life as penance. I must live again while they are all dead. Is that the way of it, Jon Snow?"

Jon hesitated. "Lyanna's son lives-"

"Where?" he demanded, latching on to that one small ray of hope.

He heard Jon swallowing again, lapsing into that terrible silence that normally presaged something twice as terrible. Whatever it was, Rhaegar wished he would spit it out.

"After the war, Robert wanted all Targaryens dead," Jon finally explained. "But Lyanna's brother, Lord Eddard, found her at the Tower of Joy as she lay dying. The baby - a boy - was healthy, but she knew Robert would kill him. So she made Lord Stark promise to take him back to Winterfell and raise him as his own, never telling a soul the truth. Not even Lady Stark ever knew, less still the boy himself. He grew up thinking he was a bastard, gotten on some tavern whore during the war."

"He is a prince of the realm," Rhaegar insisted, vehemently. "Not some bastard-"

"He knows that now," Jon assured him, quickly. "But he believed Ned Stark was his father and Lyanna's name was simply never mentioned."

Rhaegar buried his face in his hands, stopping the tears that threatened to spill. He resolved himself to not weep, to show no self-pity for the chaos he had left behind. But he still shook and his breaths were still shallow and ragged as his heartbeat palpitated.

"Where is he now? I must find him," he said, eventually.

Jon's gaze dropped and Rhaegar realised, in that moment, the truth that had been staring him in the face since he woke up.

"Jon," he said, voice quavering. "Why were you, in particular, sent back to find me? Is it what I am thinking?"

Jon's gaze met his own. He was so much like Lyanna that it took his breath away. Even now, among all this pain, shame and guilt. When Jon spoke again, it sounded as if he too were finally becoming overwhelmed with it all.

"I didn't know," he said. "I had no idea until I went back and it all began making sense. I had to learn the truth and bring you back. I'd have brought every one of you back, if it was in my power. Lya, mine own mother who I ached to know every day of my life. You. The Princess, Elia. The brother and sister I never knew I had. If the power was mine, we would all be here and now, living and restored."

Rhaegar's breath hitched at the thought of it, a tear finally breaking through the barriers he put up. It was a beautiful picture. Oh, to have the power to step back in time and just rescue them all, bringing them forwards to a place of safety and refuge. All but Aerys, who he hoped was being hounded through all seven hells for all eternity.

"But why me?" he asked, looking to Jon. "To hell with me. I would die a hundred deaths if it meant my Rhaenys and my Aegon lived. You could have your brother and sister and be free of the parents who condemned you to live this life."

Jon looked saddened by his question. "But it's not that simple. You are the Prince that was Promised and the realm needs you now more than it ever did before. It's not one person, but three. The dragon has three heads."

None of that seemed to matter anymore. Not to Rhaegar. All his family were gone, save for a man grown who claimed to be his last living son. It had been his fixation with the prophecy that had, in part, led him to this moment, he knew. He could see that now as clear as day, despite his fondness for blaming Aerys for everything.

"There are two of us-"

"Three," Jon corrected. "Your sister, Daenerys Targaryen-"

"I don't have a-" Rhaegar cut himself off as he remembered his mother's pregnancy. His father had raped the baby into her shortly before they fled Dragonstone. "I do have a sister."

A smile pulled at the corner of Jon's mouth. "She grew up on the run in Essos. These days, they call her the mother of dragons."

Rhaegar frowned. "What?"

"She hatched three of them," Jon explained, further. "Three live dragons, but with no other Targaryens to ride them but us. Together, we are the heads of the dragon. You knew all along, although you could not identify us immediately."

"You brought a dragon egg to Winterfell," Rhaegar recalled.

Jon shrugged. "Three heads, and a spare." He paused before adding: "All of this, everything that's happening to you, is a lot to take in. Too much all at once. You need to rest, to clear your head and let it all sink in."

He was right. All Rhaegar knew for sure was that his emotions were fighting their own war, now. One minute anger, then guilt, then sorrow and shame. All of it. It left him drained and numb and he could no more form an opinion right now than fly without wings. His mouth tasted like something had died in it and his head was aching. The sun had barely risen, and already the day felt like it had gone on too long.

However, before Jon reached the door Rhaegar called him back. "You're my son."

Half-way out the door, letting in a cold, white wind, Jon looked back. "You're my real father, but you'll never be Eddard Stark."

"He was good to you?" asked Rhaegar.

"The best," answered Jon.

"Then that's all that matters," he said.

But it hurt. It hurt more than any hammer blow that the gods had brought him back with no family and a son who would never see him as a father. Rhaegar could almost hear their laughter.

Jon found Sansa in the common hall, breaking her fast on oatmeal and honey. Brienne of Tarth was beside her, a wall of shining steel with big blue eyes. Seemingly on guard duty already, she wasn't eating and stuck to staring at the wall. Not far away, Jon noted Tormund Giantsbane making eyes at the big woman. More than that, he was openly gaping at her and totally ignoring Ser Davos, who was attempting to make conversation. Lady Brienne had an admirer.

"Were you with the Prince?" asked Sansa, quietly.

Jon nodded. The conversation had left him drained.

"How is he?"

"As well as any man who's just found out almost all his family are dead," he replied, rather more brusquely than he intended. "Sorry, Sansa. I did not mean it like that."

Sansa coloured. "It was a stupid question."

She returned to her food while Jon fetched some for himself. They ate in silence, while Jon went through the conversation again. There was still so much left to tell the Prince, but too much at once and he feared he would be pushed over the edge. Just the fates of his children and the women he had loved was enough. There was still so much that even he didn't know.

"Sansa, did you ever find out more about Petyr Baelish's involvement in the first war?" he asked, glancing over the table at her.

She thought on it for a moment, watching the honey drip off the comb in her fingers. "Not since leaving Bran, and I know he's concentrating on the dragon. But I know how to use the trees now, so I can start again today, if you like?"

Jon nodded. "Please do. If he was involved, then I want solid answers to give to Rhaegar. He's already blaming himself, I think."

Sansa nodded her assent, then set her bowl aside to make room for Lady Melisandre. The Red Woman never ate. Not that Jon had ever noticed. But she joined them all the same and, soon after her, Ghost hopped up onto Jon's bench and curled up beside him. Still early days after his return, he still felt a rush of happiness whenver the direwolf was in his sight. He stopped eating to ruffle his fur and nuzzle the soft space between his glowing red eyes.

"Now that we're all back, but missing one head of the dragon," he declared, turning back to his companions. "We need to secure the North in preparation for the real war."

Sansa was toying with the honey again. Ladling it onto her wooden spoon, then letting it slowly drip back into her uneaten oatmeal. Only now, she was smiling faintly to herself.

"I propose we send ravens to each of the great houses who might still support us," he began, laying out his early plans. Focusing on something he was familiar with helped drive away the pain that morning's talk with Rhaegar had caused him. "I think Mormont, Umber, Manderly, Glover, Hornwood and Cerwyn would be worth a start. Maybe even Alys Karstark can forgive us for Robb beheading her lord. Perhaps if they know about the dragon it can help win them over-"

"No," Sansa cut in. "Sonar must be our secret. If anyone else finds out word would get back to Ramsay and he would send his men down there to kill him."

Jon shrugged. "But they'd never kill a dragon. If Ramsay sends his men down there he'd be doing our job for us."

"Enough men can kill a dragon, Jon Snow," Melisandre pointed out. "Sonar is not indestructible. Lady Sansa has the right of it."

Jon saw the sense in that. "Very well. But we still need Rhaegar to go down there and turn the dragon loose."

"Rhaegar won't find it in half a hundred years, Jon," Sansa pointed out. "He's deep below the crypts and Rhaegar's never even seen Winterfell before."

He suppressed a sigh. "Well, I can't do it. I need to lead the army on the field and, somehow, I don't think Ramsay Bolton is going to let me nip into the crypts awhile."

"Bran can skinchange," Sansa suggested.

Even that Jon was uneasy with. "Whenever Ghost is on the opposite side of the wall to me, I lose all connection with him. Bran is on the wrong side of the wall for our dragon. We can't take the risk so someone needs to get down there and free him."

No one volunteered immediately, but Jon could tell by the look on her face that Sansa was about it. She opened her mouth to reply, so he cut her off before she could so much as form the first word.

"No!" he said, brusquely. "No and no again. Father would come back and haunt me if I let anything happen to you."

"Jon, listen!" she snapped. "All I need do is slip through the gates and into the crypt. I know exactly where the dragon is and how to free him. The dragon knows me, he trusts me."

Jon could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "Ramsay will have you locked up the moment you set foot in there."

"Ramsay will be on the battle field," Sansa pointed out, hotly. "Let me do this Jon, I know I can."

Before Jon could reply, Melisandre broke in. "Ramsay Bolton will never recognise her."

She reached into one of her dagged sleeves, where she had kept the powder the night before, and withdrew a small ruby. Placing it on the trestle table where all could see it, Jon eyed it curiously. It was much like any other ruby, but not the one at her throat which seemed to glow and pulse in time to the beat of her heart. This was just a regular ruby.

"Is that Rhaegar's?" he asked, quietly.

Even Brienne of Tarth stopped staring straight ahead and turned to glance at the mystery gemstone.

"There is power in king's blood, Jon Snow," said Melisandre.

Rhaegar wore it at the Trident, and he'd certainly spilled his blood on those stones that day. But Jon was still perplexed. Still, he ventured a guess.

"She wears that and Ramsay will be so dazzled by the light he won't be able to see her face?"

To his surprise, Melisandre smiled. "Something like that."

Jon was mystified, but remained adamant. "I don't care what you tricks you and R'llhor have up those dagged sleeves of yours, my lady. No matter what, I will not allow Ramsay Bolton within a league of my sister ever again. Not for Winterfell, not for anything."

Having suddenly lost his appetite, he pushed back the bench he was sat on and strode out of the common hall. Ghost loped at his heels and he ignored Sansa's pleas for him to return. Sister. Cousin. Whatever she was to him now, she was all he had left in the world except a father who didn't know him and a brother on the wrong side of the wall.

From the common hall, he went straight to his chambers and fetched Longclaw from its hook on the wall. Now that he was back, it was time he got back into his training. More so, now he had a castle to take back. The sword was where he left it and he grabbed it without looking, marching straight back to the training yard with it in his hands, still sheathed.

"I was looking for that sword everywhere," Davos said, as he left the hall.

Jon had to laugh. "It was roughly eighteen years ago, with me."

The grizzled knight shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't think I'll ever get my head around all that business, my lord. You'd think I'd be used to all this mad stuff happening with Melisandre around, but she's never ceased to shock me."

"Shock you," Jon repeated. "I would imagine you're not a man who is easily shocked, ser."

Ser Davos laughed. "You'd be right about that." He paused, drawing his own sword. "I'm not as young as I was and I never was a great swordsman. Humour me and give us a round. I'm thinking I could use the practise."

Jon agreed readily. "All right, then. But consider yourself warned, old man."

Laughing, he reached for Longclaw's hilt and found it surprising hot to the touch. Curious, he glanced down at the scabard and saw that it was blackened and scorched. The wood was black at the edge, the leather almost melted into the grain. But when he drew the blade, it was as perfect as ever. It was hot, but not so hot that he couldn't touch it.

"What's the matter?" asked Ser Davos, when he tarried too long. "Lost heart already?"

Jon showed him the burned scabbard. "Strange. It must have been too close to the hearth fire."

Yes, he thought, that must be it.

Rhaegar had no notion of where he was going. He simply let his feet guide him through the tunnel beneath the wall and out the other end. Then he walked on, following the setting sun without seeing the burning golden horizon. He was dimly aware of the snow packing around his new boots and settling on the shoulders of his new black cloak. He dressed like a brother of the Night's Watch because they had far more boots, cloaks and clothes than they had men to fill them.

So, on he walked. He intended to only for so long as the wall was within his sight. Or the braziers that burned along the top, now that darkness had begun to settle. While he walked, he lost track of time and never had much sense of purpose even before he set out. It was the sight of the heart tree in the godswood that stopped him, though. If it had a pool, it was long frozen over and snowed on on top of that. But the leaves of the weirwood were ruby red heads, banging from the silver white branches.

In his mind's eye, he could see Lyanna sitting quietly beneath its boughs. Just as he had half a hundred times at Harrenhal. But Harrenhal was a southron tree, whereas the one before him now as of the North. He approached it cautiously, lowering himself against the trunk so that the carved face was next to his own. If he looked from the tail of his eye, he could just about get the wooden face in sight.

His own gods had been conspicious by their absence, since Robert won the war. Perhaps the Old Gods were listening? He remembered then, something Lyanna once told him: that the dead Northerners' souls go into the trees.

"Are you in there now, Lyanna? Can you hear me now?" he asked, turning so he was within kissing distance of the tree's face. "Can you see me now, mine own heart."

He searched the sap weeping eyes of the tree, his own eyes weeping regular tears that froze on his cheeks. But nothing changed. No glimmer of hope nore trace of recognition.

"What about you, Rhaenys?" he asked, his voice cracking as he remembered her again. He lowered his head, eyes closed. As he did so, a pair of guileless brown eyes met his own. He tried to look closer, but they faded away and only the red sapped eyes of the tree remained. Still, he reached out and pressed his hand softly to the face of the tree, as if she could feel him and continued: "Maybe you would not come to a place like this, but they say there's power in the trees. Maybe you can hear me, wherever you are. And your mother and brother, too."

"If not for the blood in your veins you would have been a woman grown now," he told her, but he suspected she alread knew. "Your brother a man, with princes of his own. Who is to say? I can't imagine you with children of your own. I can't imagine you as a wife, with your own household. Because I could never have imagined you gone from my life. But you are gone, and I know it was my fault."

He fell silent, leaning back on his heels as memories swept over him. Meanwhile, a soft breeze sighed through the branches of the tree, making the ruby red trees shiver beneath a silent snowfall. Rhaegar lifted his face, watching as the pure white flakes whispered through the space above him.

There were so many things his children could have been by now. Rhaenys, especially. Her path in life was not as set as Aegon's was. The possibilities had been endless. Rhaegar sniffed and composed himself.

"Elia..." he said her name, but little more felt needed. "You told me once you were in love with Baelor Hightower, that you were set on him. But then that fateful fart happened and you could no longer look at him without laughing. If it wasn't for that fart, you would be in Oldtown now. Happy and loved."

He didn't know whether to find that funny or tragic. Tragic, now that he knew Oberyn had died for her too. The Mountain had done for them all. All except Aerys, killed by his own kingsguard. Jaime Lannister. He would never have guessed and he wasn't about to condemn him for it.

"We did our duty, and we all died for it," he said, kneeling in the snow. "Now I'm here, with a man who says he's my son, but he calls another man father and I know I'll never have all of him. But I am his father, and I know he'll never have all of me because the most important part of me is still with you, Rhaenys, Aegon and Lyanna. No fire gods can bring that back to me."

The tree remained silent and impassive, and he realised the futility of what he was doing. Heaving a sigh, he sat back in the snow and shivered against the fresh falls blowing down around. He wanted to break down and scream for the pain gnawing at his soul now. But he could not. Not even here beyond the wall, where no one would ever know.

All the same, the tears came. Hot, but quickly freezing in the frigid air. He had a son. A son he never knew he had. But that flicker of life in Lyanna's belly was a man grown and a stranger to him. But then that stranger's hand landing gently on his shoulder, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"I saw you leave the tunnel," said Jon. "I couldn't let you wander off on your own. It's not safe out here."

The son scolded the father and Rhaegar almost laughed. He broke down, choking on his own tears and almost laughed at the same time.

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute. Quite a long chapter this time, so I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks again and see you next time!