The Prince and Princess that were Promised

by HisImperialDarkness

What would have happened if Robb Stark had survived The Red Wedding? What would have happened if Jon Snow had found out about his true parentage before he was killed by Alliser Thorne and his men in the mutiny at Castle Black? This is an AU for all of you fans of House Stark and House Targaryen. Winter is Coming with Fire and Blood!

4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Wolves of Winter

SAMWELL

Throwing the piece of parchment on the table in front of him, Eddison Tollett growled, "That's why he wanted to fight that Bolton fucker so bad."

Sam couldn't find sleep after the events of last night. He couldn't remember how long he had sat beside the dead body of his closest friend, but it was Ser Davos Seaworth who had given him a hand and pulled him up on his feet. Looking around, Sam had seen that Jarson and Edd were taking Lord Commander Jon Snow's body back to his quarters with the help of two other black brothers. Most of the mutineers -the men who had supported Alliser Thorne in attacking their Lord Commander- were being rounded up by Tormund and his wildlings to be put into the ice cells when Gilly had come to Sam, with Little Sam in her arms. While normally they were a sight that gave him immense joy, this time he felt nothing. His mind was still numb with the shock of what had just happened. He had not only lost his best friend, but the Watch had lost their leader. A man who was supposed to take them through the coming darkness. And because of the greed and arrogance of a few worthless men, he had been taken from them. It was all lost, Sam knew in that moment, as he held Little Sam in his arms, clutching him close. Looking into the innocent and oblivious eyes of that babe, Sam had felt so envious of him in that moment. For, the babe had no understanding of what was happening around him. He was saved from the burden each and every one of the men who had fought for Jon Snow carried as they watched their Lord Commander's lifeless form being moved away. As they had all watched, their eyes full of hopelessness and their hearts heavy with sorrow and pain, Sam saw it finally dawn on them all. The gravity of what a simple push of a knife entailed. But none felt that weight more than Sam.

And so, assuring his family with hollow words that everything was fine, Sam had escorted both Gilly and Little Sam back to his chambers. Later, he thanked Colrin, who had offered to stand guard and watch over them. Though the traitors had all been corralled away, Sam didn't like the notion of leaving the woman he loved with all his heart and her babe, unprotected. And Colrin was considerate enough to help. But Sam had suspected that the boy was quite shaken up due to the deaths of Tanner and the Lord Commander, two men who he looked up to the most. One was like a father to him, while the other was a hero. And he had lost them both within the space of a half hour. And so, Sam supposed he just needed to be away and alone from the chaos in the courtyard of Castle Black. He couldn't fault him for that.

The rest of the night had been spent with Edd and the other loyal brothers as they all set off to get Castle Black back in order. Many of the brothers were picking up the dead -traitors and loyalists alike- and taking the bodies outside the gates, where the wildlings were helping a few other black brothers in gathering wood to make pyres. Some other brothers were trying to clean the courtyard of all the blood and gore from the fight. The traditions of the Night's Watch dictated that a brother be given the proper funeral in the tradition of the House or faith he belonged to before joining the Watch. But in these mad times when monsters of ice from the stories of wet nurses were roaming the earth again, Edd and Sam thought it essential that all the dead be burnt. Though, they did have enough respect for their fallen brothers so as not to put their dead bodies alongside the mutineers' on the same pyre. The men who were loyal to Jon and died fighting for him were men of honor, and didn't deserve to be burnt alongside their traitorous brothers.

Sam felt hollow. He knew he should feel things like sorrow, grief, anger, and many others still. But as he climbed the steps to the Lord Commander's quarters, he felt nothing other than a sinking hopelessness. Jon Snow was his friend, his first friend at Castle Black. He was always there to defend him, and when the time came to return the favor, Sam had failed. Entering Jon's solar, Sam saw that his body had been placed on a table in the middle of the room, with Ser Davos Seaworth, Tormund, Edd and Jarson standing around it in a circle. Ghost was there, too, sitting quietly on the floor beside his master's body.

"Took one straight to the heart," Tormund was saying as Sam got close. The wildling was touching upon the wounds that Jon had taken -two arrow wounds on each shoulder blade and the two fatal blows from the knife on his chest, one of them right over his heart. "I'll have the men make a seperate pyre for him."

And with that, Tormund had left the room.

"Those fucking traitors!" Jarson had growled, slamming his foot in a chair behind him. "Jon Snow was a man of honor and duty. He tried to do what was best for the Watch, for all of us, and they fucking murdered him for it!"

"It was Thorne," Edd said in a quiet, solemn tone. "It was always Thorne. He had wanted Jon gone for a long time, and tonight he got the reason to kill him. And he didn't hesitate."

Sam had wanted to say something, but his mind took him somewhere else. Maester Aemon. After helping clean the courtyard for some time, Sam had gone to the old man's chambers. Telling him had been difficult. Sam could still remember how Aemon had let out a quiet sob of lament upon hearing of the Lord Commander's murder. He had asked Sam to leave him alone, and Sam had done so, albeit with a bit of hesitation. He hadn't wanted to leave the old man alone. But something told him that it was best to give the maester some privacy, and so he had left him alone in his chambers. But just as he had been closing the door, Sam had heard Aemon say, "Another one….Gods, will it ever stop….."

After leaving the Lord Commander's solar as Edd and Jarson began to clean his body, Sam had wandered through the courtyard, feeling like a wraith gliding over a cursed land where a grave sin had been committed. Around him, some of his black brothers were still at work, moving away the dead. As he got to the middle of the court, he stepped upon something. Looking down, Sam had found Longclaw, the sword of the Lord Commander. Picking the blade up, Sam had begun cleaning it just to drown out the thoughts that were racing through his mind. The blade in his hand had belonged to Jeor Mormont, Jon's predecessor. Jeor Mormont, who had been murdered in a mutiny. And now, his successor had suffered the same fate, as well. It seemed to Sam that the blade must be cursed. Whoever wielded it seemed to be bound to suffer the worst sorts of betrayal.

Unable to think of what to do, Sam had then climbed the winch elevator. As the elevator was taking him up the Wall, Sam's gaze had fallen upon the red blotch of blood and gore upon the blue and white of the huge icy structure, to the spot where the man that the giant had thrown had cracked his skull open. Feeling a sudden nausea take him, Sam bent over and hurled the contents of his roiling stomach over the floor of the elevator. Forced to sink down his knees, he hawked out a blob of saliva in disgust, before a wracking cough wrenched out of his throat. His nose was running, and before Sam could wipe it with his black cloak, a sob escaped his lips. And then another. And then it was as if he couldn't keep it in anymore, and he began crying like a little babe right there in the elevator as it reached the top of the Wall.

He didn't know how long he stayed there in the elevator, unmoving, and sobbing like a little girl. But when his mind found some semblance of reality again, he found that his tears had frozen over on his cheeks. Wiping his face clean with his cloak, Sam was about to step onto the Wall when the elevator suddenly began to descend. Quickly jumping back in with a yelp, Sam held the wooden bars of the winch elevator, breathing hard. As the wooden contraption took him down, his eyes shifted to his left and he saw the first light of the sun breaking over the horizon. When Sam got down, he found Edd standing near the lever that was used to operate the elevator.

"Come," he said to Sam as he jumped off the elevator.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, his voice breathy.

"To the Lord Commander's quarters," Edd answered quietly. "I may have found something."

Making their way to Jon Snow's chambers, Sam was led into his solar by Edd. Arriving at Jon's desk, Edd picked up a piece of parchment, reading over its contents, though Sam had a suspicion that he had read it quite recently.

---

Seeing the pink sigil of the flayed man filled Sam with dread at once. But the feeling didn't come close to what he began to feel as he read the letter. With each word, it was becoming clear to Sam why Jon had been acting so unlike himself, why he was making such drastic decisions without providing a good enough reason.

Sansa Stark has escaped…..that's why.

"That's why he wanted us to attack the Bolton fuckers," Edd said, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "That's why he was willing to go against all of the laws of the Watch."

"The Lady Sansa has escaped," Sam said, placing the letter back on the table, before his eyes found Edd's. "Where might she have gone?"

"I don't know and I don't care," Edd said.

"You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. It's because of her that we lost our friend."

"Sansa Stark wasn't responsible for what happened to Jon," Sam said. "It was Thorne. You said it yourself. It was always Thorne."

"Aye, but we can't-" Edd was cut off by the sound of a horn being blown, followed by a loud shout of "Open the gates!"

Looking at one another, Sam and Edd had identical expressions of apprehension. What is it now? Sam wondered as he followed Edd out of Jon's solar and into the courtyard of Castle Black, his heart beating hard in his chest. By the time they reached the courtyard, the gates had already swung open and Sam was greeted with the sight of six people on horseback passing beneath them. The man in the middle had a handsome, serious looking face beneath curls of deep red. He had a sword strapped to his saddle, and was clad in simple clothes beneath a leather armor. To his left, there was a comely young woman with flaming red hair and eyes of deep blue, eyes that were flickering every which way, taking in all that was around her. Behind her, was the biggest woman Sam had ever seen in his life. This one had eyes of blue as well, and short, unruly yellow hair. Judging by the plate armor of black she wore, and the sword she had on her waist, Sam had no doubt that this woman knew how to fight. Beside her was a man who looked more like a boy, with thin black hair, clad in plain leather armor of red. The remaining two of the group had their faces shrouded beneath a hood, and thus, Sam couldn't make out their faces. But one of them had a longbow fastened to his saddle, with a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back.

The man with red hair dismounted from his horse, and Edd approached him.

"Who are you?" Edd asked, his hand on the hilt of his sword, unsure whether this stranger was a friend or a foe.

"I wish to see the Lord Commander," the man answered in a calm, but firm and authoritative tone, his striking blue eyes looking around the yard, taking it all in, before landing on Edd.

"I asked you a question first," Edd said, drawing his sword halfway out of its sheath in a threatening manner. The dozen brothers standing in and around the courtyard looked on with wary faces, and so did the few wildlings that were present. "Who are you?"

The man looked at Edd now and regarded him with a calculating gaze, as if he was just now paying attention to him. The tension in the courtyard was palpitating, with neither Edd nor this stranger willing to back away or say another word. Until another one of the new arrivals dismounted from their horse and walked towards Edd. It was the young woman with hair like a fire and the same blue eyes as the man she was now standing beside.

"My name is Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, the late Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North," said the woman, and Sam's eyes widened in shock and surprise.

"And who are you?" Edd asked the man, who still refused to say a word. But thankfully, the woman who claimed to be Sansa Stark answered for him.

"This is my brother, Robb Stark, the rightful Lord of Winterfell," she said, and Sam's heart started to beat even faster. Robb Stark? He thought. Impossible. He is dead.

Edd seemed to have the same thoughts, as he said, "Robb Stark is dead."

"And yet I stand before you, in the flesh," the man who was introduced as Robb Stark answered.

Edd looked at the man, long and hard, seemingly trying to ascertain what to do. Could it be true? Sam wondered. Could this man really be Robb Stark? He certainly fits the description from the stories I've heard about Robb Stark from Jon. The red hair and blue eyes of House Tully, and a handsome face.

"How do I know that's true?" Edd asked, unwilling to believe the words of the two strangers.

But before the man could answer, a few yells and shouts came from the men closest to the gates. Craning his neck, Sam's heart was filled with dread at the sight of a large wolf, quietly bounding into the courtyard, coming to stand beside the man who called himself Robb Stark. Taking a few cautious steps back, Sam saw that it had fur the color of dark gray, and his eyes were yellow. Sam had been around Ghost enough to recognize that this was a direwolf. But this one was bigger than Ghost, almost the size of the horse that his master had ridden in on.

The beast saw Edd and his calm demeanor changed, replaced with a snarl. As the wolf bared its teeth, the supposed Robb Stark petted him on the head, saying, "Calm down, Grey Wind," and the beast quietened down. But it still had his terrifying yellow eyes fixed upon Edd, a low growl coming from between his teeth.

"You really are Robb Stark?" Sam asked the man, speaking for the first time. He kept an eye trained on the biggest wolf he had ever seen, careful not to get too close. Though, I doubt it would take him more than a few seconds to pounce on me, Sam thought, should he feel like I'm a threat to his master.

The man gave him a nod, saying, "I am."

"How is that possible?" Sam asked. "Forgive me, but the letter we received almost three years ago said that you were dead, killed at the Twins in a mutiny."

"That is what my enemies would like the realm to believe. They nearly managed to kill me, but I survived," the man answered, before asking, "And you might be?"

"Samwell Tarly," Sam answered.

"Tarly?" Robb Stark asked, his gaze narrowing at Sam. "You're Lord Randyll Tarly's son. Aren't you?"

"Yes, my Lord. I am….I mean, I was….the heir to Horn Hill."

"But now you're here, at the Wall, in the black cloak of the Night's Watch."

"I am a brother of the Night's Watch, it is true."

"In that case," said Robb Stark. "Would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find my brother, Jon Snow? He's the Lord Commander, is he not?"

Before Sam could answer, however, the great gray wolf suddenly gave out a whine, followed by a howl. Turning around, Sam's gaze went to the top of the stairs that led to the Lord Commander's quarters. There stood the big mass of white fur, with red eyes that looked right past Sam. Behind him was Ser Davos Seaworth, careful not to get too close to the wolf. As Ghost descended the steps, the large gray beast bounded ahead, shoving Sam aside with a growl. The two wolves came together, giving out whines and howls, as they rubbed their heads against each other, their tongues caressing the other in wet licks.

"Well, Ghost is here," Robb Stark said, a smile on his face and a tone of underlying excitement in his voice. "Jon must be close somewhere then. Where is he?"

Sam saw as Ghost walked towards him, before passing him right by and going straight to Robb Stark, who went down on his knees.

"Hello, boy," Robb Stark said, petting the wolf's head as the beast licked his face in return. "How are you?"

As Robb Stark stroked Ghost's fur, Sansa Stark knelt beside him and began petting Ghost, as well. Her face was more beautiful than what Jon had told him, and as she stroked the white fur of her bastard brother's wolf, the jubilation upon her face was radiant. If there had been any doubt in Sam's mind about the identity of these two new arrivals, it was swept away as he saw in astonishment the sight before his eyes. Ghost had always been friendly towards him, but he was still a direwolf still, fierce despite his usual quiet nature. And aside from Edd and Sam, and Grenn and Pyp before, no man would dare approach the wolf without risking his hand being bitten off. And yet, as Robb and Sansa Stark showered him with affection, he seemed to bask in it. These people really were Jon's brother and sister, Sam was now sure of it. And seeing them broke his heart. Not for himself, but for them. So close, he thought. But they're too late.

Ghost gave out a low whine, his red eyes filled with sadness. Sam understood why, though as he looked upon the faces of Jon's brother and sister, happy and excited to meet their half-brother, he hadn't the heart to tell them what had happened, what was waiting for them.

Getting up, Robb Stark once again looked at Sam, asking, "Where is Jon? Is he not here?"

Sam hesitated to answer. Looking at Edd, Sam sent out a quiet plea for help. Edd's usually hard expression seemed to be sad, as he was about to say something. But before he could get a word out, Robb Stark, who had been observing the courtyard closely, seemed to have spotted a few red spots of blood on the snow shoveled to the side, as well as a few remaining dead bodies of the traitors that had yet to be transferred to the pyre outside to be burnt. Suddenly, something seemed to change in Robb's expression, and he looked at Sam, his blue eyes turning as cold as the winds in the lands beyond the Wall.

"What happened here?" He asked Sam. "Where is my brother?"

Sam felt his ears getting hot and his hands getting clammy. He stammered as he tried to find words to form a coherent sentence, and failed. After all, how does one tell a man who had been presumed dead, to a woman who had escaped an evil man, and had traveled so long and far to see their brother -their only known living brother- that he was dead?

Thankfully, a voice came from behind Sam, saving him the trouble of breaking the news to the Starks. "There was a mutiny, my Lord," said Ser Davos Seaworth.

---

Samwell Tarly led the Stark siblings into the Lord Commander's quarters. Opening the door to the solar, he walked straight in crossing over to the table where Jon's lifeless form was placed. Turning around, he faced Robb and Sansa as they walked in.

Sam had told them the news of their brother's death on their way in, and while Robb Stark had maintained his composure, his sister wasn't so strong. She broke down, quiet sobs wracking her body as her only surviving brother had taken her into his arms. And now, as the two of them stepped into the room, Sam watched them closely, for he still couldn't bring himself to look down at his best friend's corpse.

Lord Stark walked in with a slow, unsure pace, while his sister came in holding his hand. Lady Sansa's comely face was pink due to the extreme cold, and her cheeks were painted with tears. But they were soon replaced by new, fresh ones, as she got closer to the still, lifeless body of her brother. Sam looked at Robb and saw that the man's jaw was set in a hard line, his hands pressed against his thighs and balled into fists, as his eyes turned glassy with tears that he would not let run free.

"Oh, Jon…." Sansa sobbed, her delicate fingers touching the wound over his heart. Her head hung over her neck and she began sobbing uncontrollably.

Robb Stark just stood there, unmoving, save for his hand which was stroking his sister's shoulder in an effort to comfort her. But it was to no avail. The Lady Sansa was inconsolable. Sam felt his own eyes getting wet, and he turned around to hide his face.

After some time, the Lady Sansa seemed to calm down, but not enough. She was still whimpering quietly, sitting in a chair in a corner of the room. Sam looked at Edd, standing by the door. He had a dour expression on his face. Robb Stark was still standing in the same spot he had been since he came into the Lord Commander's chambers. As Sam looked at him, he saw dried up streaks of tears on his reddened cheeks, but the man seemed to look solid as a rock.

"Who did this?" He asked, steel in his voice.

"It was Ser Alliser Thorne and his men, my Lord," Ser Davos said from where he stood by the door. Edd came to stand beside Robb, and Sam saw that he had the letter that Ramsay Bolton had sent to Jon. "He was the First Ranger of the Watch," he said to Robb. "The fucker never liked Jon, always hated him for being a son of Ned Stark."

"Why?" Robb asked. "What did my father ever do to him?"

"He was a Targaryen loyalist in the Rebellion," Sam said. "And hated the Starks for supporting King Robert."

"He was a bitter old cunt," Edd said, not caring that there was a lady of noble birth present in the room. "He liked to take his anger out on all the new recruits when he was the master-at-arms, but his most favorite was Jon."

"And that's why he killed him?" Lady Sansa spoke for the first time, anger in her voice. "For being a bastard son of Ned Stark?"

"He wasn't a bastard!" Robb said in a sharp tone.

"Of course," his sister stammered. "I-I only meant-"

"It doesn't matter now," Robb said quickly, before turning to look at Edd. "Why did this Alliser Thorne kill my brother?"

Sam and Edd recounted the whole story to Jon's brother, and when they were done, the Lady Sansa had tears anew in her eyes.

"He did it for me," she said between sobs, "He….he was trying to come to rescue me."

"It would seem so, my Lady," Sam said.

"He died because of me…."

"No, no, no," Robb was onto her in a flash, lifting her face up with his hands before wiping the tears off her cheeks. "Our brother did what I would've done in his place, what father taught us to do. Defend our family. And that's what Jon was trying to do. He was up here, at the Wall, forced to sit and watch as one by one, all his family perished. You were the only one of his family who still lived, that he knew of. And so, he did what any honorable man would do in his place. He tried to come to your aid, to save his sister from the monsters who'd betrayed his family."

"But-"

"It wasn't your fault, Sansa." Robb said in a firm tone.

"The Lord Robb is right, my Lady," said the frail voice of Maester Aemon. Turning around, Sam was shocked to find the maester of Castle Black sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room, blanketed in darkness. "Lord Commander Jon Snow was a man of honor. Only his love for his family could've compelled him to desert his post, or break all the laws of the Watch to march against a noble house of the North. It wasn't your fault. The decision was Jon Snow's alone."

"Maester?"

"Do not worry, Samwell," said Aemon. "I'm fine here."

"Who are you?" Robb Stark asked the maester.

"Help me up, will you, Sam?" Maester Aemon said, extending a hand, and Sam moved towards him without a word.

"Wait," Edd said, walking over. Shoving the letter on a table as he passed it by, Edd closed in and put his hands on an armrest of Aemon's chair. "Hold it from that side."

Understanding the task, Sam grabbed the other armrest and lifted the chair at the same time as Edd did. Together, the two of them brought Maester Aemon in the middle of the solar, right next to Jon's body.

"Lord Stark," Maester Aemon said, "Though I cannot see you, I can hear your voice, and it sounds very much like your father's."

"You knew my father?" Robb asked, surprised.

"Indeed, if only for a very brief spell of time." Aemon said. "But I admit my confusion to find you alive, my Lord. The last news we had of you said that you had died, murdered by your own men in a mutiny at the Twins."

"Yes," said Robb Stark, taking a deep, shaky breath, looking down upon the dead form of his brother once again, as he said, "It seems that the men with Stark blood are fated to suffer betrayal at the hands of their own men."

"Yes, it would seem that way," Maester Aemon said, though as Sam looked at him, the old man had a peculiar expression on his face as he gazed sightlessly at Robb Stark. "What they did to your father…..they took a good man, an honorable one."

"They did."

"Well, much as I would like to continue, let me introduce myself first. I am the Maester of Castle Black. But before taking the black, I was known to the realm as Aemon Targaryen, son of King Maekar Targaryen."

Robb Stark's eyes widened a bit in surprise at this new piece of information. "You're a Targaryen?"

"Aye," said the old maester. But what he said next, gave Sam the gooseflesh, as much as his statement confused him. "But I am not the only Targaryen in this room."

"What does that mean?" Lady Sansa asked.

"Indeed, I have the same question," Lord Robb said, looking at Maester Aemon with narrowed eyes. "What do you mean by that, maester?"

"I believe you know, my Lord, of what I speak."

Robb Stark stayed silent for the longest time, looking strangely at Maester Aemon, as if trying to weigh in on what he had said. He seemed conflicted. Sam and Edd stood there, looking at the old maester, before looking up at Lord Robb, before finally their eyes found each other's. Edd's grim expression was back on again, and as his eyes bore into Sam's, looking for answers, all Sam could do was shake his head. Because, he himself had not a clue as to the meaning behind Maester Aemon's words. Who was the other Targaryen in this room? He wondered. But then, just as soon as that question had entered his mind, the answer was rather obvious. No, he thought as his eyes, for the first time since last night, looked at his best friend's corpse. It can't be. Can it? Can it, really? But then again, who else between him, Edd, and the Stark siblings, might have Targaryen blood in them? It had to be him.

"Robb," Lady Sansa said. "What is he talking about? What do you know?"

Lord Robb, his eyes still fixed on Maester Aemon, sucked in a sharp breath.

"It is alright, my Lord," said Maester Aemon. "The men in this room can be trusted with the secret. Sam and Edd were the closest companions of Jon Snow. They're both honorable men. They'll carry that information to their grave."

Hearing Maester Aemon say that seemed to give Lord Robb some semblance of assurance. He slowly turned to look at his sister, his face softening a little, and his spirit seemed to dampen further, as he said, "Sansa…I have something to tell you….about Jon."

"About Jon? What about him?"

"He is not our brother," Robb Stark said, and the Lady Sansa's brows creased in a frown.

"What do you mean, he's not our brother?"

"Jon is not a bastard. He never was. And he wasn't our father's son, either."

"What do you mean?" Sansa said as she stood from the chair, her tone getting heavy with frustration. "Tell it to me in plain words, brother. I haven't the strength to solve riddles."

"Jon Snow was not the baseborn son of Lord Eddard Stark," Robb Stark said, closing his eyes as if he needed to gather his strength before continuing. "He was the trueborn son of our aunt, Lyanna Stark, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."

"And his name wasn't Jon Snow," added Maester Aemon. "It was Aemon Targaryen."

Sam was sure that his jaw was lying somewhere down on the wooden floor beneath his feet, and his eyes were wide in shock. "Jon is not….but that's not…..how…..what?"

Nodding, Robb looked at him, before looking down at his dead brother. "My father never sullied his honor by fathering a son with another woman. He was true to his marriage vows to my mother, always."

The Lady Sansa, who had stumbled a few steps back, had an expression of utter shock on her face as her eyes stared at nothing and everything at once. Her breathing had become ragged again, her chest rising and falling in quick succession. She seemed to be struggling to comprehend all that she had just heard. Her hands found the arms of the chair she had just vacated, and she dropped into it, leaning back before her eyes fixated on the floor.

Edd's face was expressionless, as if this new piece of information meant little to nothing to him. Just as well, thought Sam. He probably has other, more urgent matters on his mind, or mayhaps he's just too good at covering up his emotions. Edd was a man of the Night's Watch, through and through. A true soldier. He cared little and less about the happenings of the Seven Kingdoms. And it seemed that even the news of their dear friend being…Gods, he is the true heir to the Iron Throne, he thought. Or rather, he was. Fisting his hands by his side, Sam looked down at Jon.

"But then," He said, breathing hard. "But then it would mean that….that we just lost…."

"Aye," said Robb Stark. "We just lost our true king."

---

SANSA

One afternoon, when she was seven years of age, little Sansa and her brothers and sister had sat by on a Myrish carpet spread across the cold stone floor of her chambers. A chair by Sansa's bed was occupied by Old Nan, who was regaling them with the tales of the Others. Or, as they were also called, the White Walkers.

Hearing about the monsters of ice emerging from the cold, cold winds of the unknown lands beyond where the Wall stood now could be very terrifying for a girl of seven. And such was the case of little Sansa, too. She had never been so terrified in her entire life of seven whole years. But what was to come that same evening had been even more terrifying. Sansa, Robb, and Arya were all in the crypts of Winterfell, playing a game where Jon was supposed to find them all as they hid. It had been Robb who had come up with the brilliant notion of hiding in the place where all their ancestors were laid to rest. They had begun the game some time before the sun was about to set. Sansa had known they would get in trouble with their mother for playing so late, and for hiding beneath the crypts. But she followed Robb's lead because he was her older brother. But, as she waited with her brother and sister to be found by Jon, Sansa began to get scared. The crypts were dark and damp and cold. And they began to remind her of Old Nan's tale of the Others. And just then, Jon, in all his brilliance, had this wonderful idea of covering himself up in flour and coming running at them, shouting. He was pretending to be a White Walker. The flour on his body was supposed to make him look like a monster made of ice. It didn't. But what it did was make Sansa so afraid that she screamed her lungs out and then couldn't stop crying. She was crying so hard that she didn't even see Arya punching Jon in the face. She remembered Jon laughing along with Robb, even as she cried. But unlike Robb, Jon soon realized his mistake and came to embrace her, trying to calm her down. But as he came closer, Sansa was frightened even more and ran away from him. She kept running until she found her mother, to whom she told all that had happened. It was a big mistake, as that was the first time that Jon received a beating from Lady Catelyn. It was also the last time that Sansa's mother laid a hand on Jon, though, for after Lord Eddard Stark found out what his wife had done, he forbade her from ever touching his son again.

Sansa remembered being hurt more than being afraid that night. She was afraid as she found herself alone in her bedchambers, scared that an Other might be lurking in the dark corner beside the door. But she was also hurt, for the image of her brother Robb laughing at her instead of comforting his little sister kept coming back to her. And she began to cry. And that was when the door to her room creaked open and Sansa let out a cry of terror, burying herself under the covers. But it turned out to be only Jon. Quiet as the wolf on their father's banners, he slid beside her on the bed, and calmed her down.

"It is only me, Sansa," he said, as his fingers wiped her running nose before he came in close and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I came here to see you. I didn't mean to scare you so much when we were playing in the crypts. I didn't know that you would be so frightened, little sister. I only meant to have some fun."

"Y-you really s-scared me, Jon," she said, snuggling closer to him.

"I know," Jon said as he planted another kiss on her forehead. "And I'm so sorry for that."

After some time, when she had calmed down, Sansa asked her brother, "Jon?"

"Yes, Sansa?"

"Do you think they are real? The White Walkers?"

"I don't think so, little sister. Old Nan is very fond of telling stories. But they're just that: stories. They're meant to frighten little children. She told me and Robb the same story when we were your age. But later, when I asked Maester Luwin about it, he told me that the White Walkers had been gone for thousands of years. That is why our ancestor, Bran the Builder, put up the Wall. And that is why the First Men created the Night's Watch. To protect us from the monsters that lay beyond."

"But do you think they're real?"

"No, sweet sister," said Jon. "I don't believe they are. No one has seen a White Walker in thousands of years. Everyone believes they are gone."

"And what if they are not gone? What if they are just hiding somewhere and waiting to attack us some day? What if they come to Winterfell?"

"Then I'll be there," Jon said. "To protect you from those monsters."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Thank you, big brother," Sansa said, beaming. "I love you."

"I love you, too, little sister." Jon said, a faint smile on his face.

Then, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he pulled her closer to him, placing another kiss on her forehead. And then they fell asleep like that.

That was the time before Sansa learned the meaning of the word 'bastard,' before her mind was poisoned by Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn, who made it sound to her as if Jon was someone who was evil, someone who was born of a sin, someone who was an abomination in the eyes of the Seven. She was too young then to understand what that all really meant. All she knew was that she wanted to be a lady like her mother, and so she started acting like her. In doing that, Sansa didn't even realize how much she would hurt Jon in the years to come. But deep down, she did remember to have loved him just like that little Sansa of seven used to love him.

Now, staring into the abyss beyond the Wall that was now being swept with cold, white winds of the North, Sansa wiped off a tear from her cheek. The sun was nowhere to be seen over the midday sky that was clogged by a thick cover of clouds. As Jon's lifeless face came to her mind, replacing that of the little boy from her childhood, she let out a whimper. Her heart felt so heavy, her mind was hazy with all sorts of thoughts running riot in there, making it difficult for her to think clearly. All she could do was try and focus on what she saw before her eyes. As far as she could see, there were only trees, their tops covered in snow. The Haunted Forest, the men of the Night's Watch called it. And Sansa understood why. It was so dense that it gave her a chill just thinking about the things that lay in there. If she didn't know the things she had come to know in the past few hours, she'd have thought that the worst things that she could find in the vast forest were wildlings. But some of them were present at Castle Black, while most of them had settled in the lands some 50 leagues south of the Wall. The lands that were known as the Gift.

Robb and Sansa's party had seen many of the wildlings that now lived there, as they had ridden up the kingsroad that had taken them to Castle Black. Some of the wildlings had given them looks of curiosity and wariness, but most of them remained uninterested, something that Sansa had been thankful for, albeit also being confused. For she had always heard that wildlings hate the people south of the Wall. Perhaps, they don't hate us as much now that they've been allowed to come south, Sansa had thought, behind the protection of the Wall. Though, a few of them -leaders of some clans, as they'd introduced themselves- did come up to block their path. Robb and Lord Reed had talked with those chieftains, letting them know that they were friends of Lord Commander Snow, and were traveling to Castle Black to meet him. The wildlings were looking threatening, and Sansa remembered as Brienne had tightened her grip on her sword as she sat on her horse right next to Sansa's. Their small party of about a dozen and a half had been cut even short on their journey to Castle Black. As they had crossed the Last River, Robb had ordered Lord Reed to send four of his men to the Last Hearth, to inform the Smalljon that he was alive and well, and was on his way to Castle Black to meet his brother Jon Snow. Without those four men, there were only 14 of them left - Sansa, Robb, Brienne, Podrick, Lord Reed, and Dacey, along with eight crannogmen. Sansa wasn't sure if they could defend against thousands of wildlings. Not that she could fight, of course, but she would have gone down fighting in whatever way she could. I will never let a man abuse me again, she had thought, her jaw clenching as her mind brought the repugnant image of Ramsay in front of her eyes. I'd die before I let them take me.

But the moment the name Jon Snow had been uttered, the wildlings had changed their demeanor completely. Far from threatening them, now those wildling men and women made way for Sansa's party, allowing them to pass through. A few of them even offered to escort them to Castle Black, but Robb, ever suspicious of strangers -and rightfully so- had refused.

As the snow-covered tops of Castle Black's towers had come into view, Sansa had felt such excitement at the prospect of meeting Jon. It had been so long since she had last seen him. Six years, if she remembered correctly, and even before that, when they were children of summer living safe and happy behind the walls of Winterfell, she hadn't ever really talked to him in three long years. She hadn't even said a proper farewell to him as he had departed for the Wall. So, if she thought about it, it felt to her as if she hadn't seen her brother in nine years. A very, very long time. She cursed herself for that, as they neared the gates of Castle Black. Sansa had seen that the woods south of it were full of wildlings. Some of them were gathered in a group to the left of the road, as well. Neither Sansa nor any of her group seemed to pay them any mind, for they had just assumed that some of the wildlings might be living closer to Castle Black. The anticipation of meeting Jon was heavy on her mind, as she, Robb, Brienne, Podrick, Dacey, and Lord Reed had waited for the gates to open for them. The eight crannogmen under Lord Reed's command had remained back in Mole's Town, so that the Night's Watch wouldn't think of Sansa's group as a threat. However, as they were let inside Castle Black, Sansa wasn't ready for what was waiting for her there.

At the sound of snow crunching beneath someone's feet, Sansa turned her head to her right, only to find Robb approaching. Her brother, the only brother that remained to her now. He came to stand beside her, but said nothing. Instead, he looked down at the vast expense beyond the Wall. Sansa watched as his blue eyes took it all in, before he took a long and deep breath, and said, "It's funny. I always wanted to come here, see the Wall and what the lands beyond it look like from the top. And now that I am standing here, I feel nothing."

"It's because he's gone," Sansa said.

"Aye," Robb said, a great sadness in his tone. "He's gone."

"Will it ever stop?" She asked him, her eyes pooling with tears as her voice broke. "How many more of our family do we have left to lose? Will we…will we ever know the love of family? Will we ever know hope and a…..a sense of belonging again? Will the Gods ever stop giving us such pain? What have we done to deserve all this? What did our father ever do to anyone? What did our mother, our brothers and our sister do to deserve death? Why did the Gods take them while evil men and women like Ramsay and Cersei get to live?"

"I know not, Sansa," said her brother. "I know not. But I suppose the Gods are all just a bunch of selfish cunts who like the company of the good ones, and so they take them for themselves."

The girl that Sansa had been six years ago would have reprimanded her brother for cursing the gods in such a foul way. But now, she said nothing. Mayhaps because she herself wasn't so sure any longer that the Gods did exist. She was of the North, and followed the gods of her father. But she was also her mother's blood, and Lady Catelyn had made sure that her eldest daughter had been taught in the Faith of the Seven. She was confused as to which gods to follow when she was a child, and so, she had asked this question to her father when she was one and ten.

"You don't have to choose, sweet girl," Lord Eddard Stark had said. "You can follow both the Old Gods and the New."

And so, she had. In the morning, she visited the godswood, standing before the weirwood alongside her father and brothers and sister. While in the evening, she knelt before the statues of the Seven with them. But in the last six years, with all that had befallen her, her faith in both -the Gods of her mother's and those of her father's- had begun to slowly fade. And whatever was left had been squashed just an hour ago. It was Maester Aemon, alongside Ser Davos Seaworth -the man who identified himself as having been Hand of the King to Stannis Baratheon- who had summoned Sansa and her brother to their fallen brother's solar. There, the two had explained to them how there was still a chance that Jon could live. But when they told them that their brother could be brought back by Melisandre, Stannis' Red Woman, Robb had nearly lost it. He had declared the maester a madman, and had drawn his sword, ready to slay Davos Seaworth where he stood. To Robb, what those men were suggesting seemed like an insult to Jon's memory, and a sick joke on his and Sansa's pain and suffering at the loss of their brother. But it had been Sansa who had calmed Robb down.

"What harm could it do?" She had asked her brother. "Jon is already gone. If what these men are telling us can be done, if Jon could really be brought back, why should we not take the chance?"

"Jon is dead, Sansa," Robb had said through gritted teeth. "He's gone! And dead men cannot be brought back."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you had seen a wight," said the man they called Edd. "Believe me."

"He's right," Sansa had said. "If the White Walkers are walking the earth again, after thousands of years, who is to say that our brother cannot be brought back?"

It had taken her another hour to convince Robb to let the Red Woman perform the magic that could bring Jon back, but finally, he had agreed. And as Jon's brothers in black prepared his body for the ritual, Sansa stood there, making a silent wish to the Old Gods and the New, to let it work, to let the Red Woman be successful in her attempt at bringing her brother back. She had prayed -no, she had begged the Gods with everything she had to give her brother back to her. But it was all for nothing. For, in the end, it hadn't worked. The Gods had, once again, failed her. And so, with her brother Jon, the last remnants of her faith in all the gods had died, too.

"Is it really true?" She asked Robb now, as she looked at him. "What the Maester said about Jon?"

Sansa still found it hard to believe. Her father, the most honorable man in all of Westeros, had lied to everyone about his bastard son. She felt betrayed and heartbroken for her brother. All his life, Jon Snow had been raised as a bastard, the baseborn son of Lord Eddard Stark, the subject of the ire of his lady wife, Catelyn Stark. No, not Jon, she thought. His name is not Jon. It's Aemon Targaryen, if the Maester is to be believed.

"Aye, it is," Robb said, letting out a sigh.

"And you believe that old man?"

"I do. He seems like he knows what he is talking about. But even if you have doubts in the Maester, know that it wasn't him I learnt about our brother's truth from. It was Lord Reed."

"Lord Reed?" Sansa asked, her eyes flicking to Robb's in confusion. "How does he know?"

"He was there, with our father, when Jon was born at the Tower of Joy," Robb answered. "Our father had sworn him to secrecy. He'd kept Jon's secret for so many years, but now that father has died, Lord Reed decided to tell me."

"But can you trust him?" Sansa asked.

"What reason could he possibly have to lie about Jon's true parents? What could he hope to gain from it? What could the Maester?" Robb asked, looking at her. "And besides, father always told me that Howland Reed was the one man he could trust blindly. And I trust father's judgment."

"If his judgment was so good," she said without thinking, "he wouldn't have been stupid enough to get his head cut off."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back. And the look Robb gave her made her wish she could disappear into thin air.

"Our father was an honorable man," Robb said through gritted teeth. "Aye, he made mistakes. But he was ready to sully his honor and confess to being a traitor to the crown, just so that the Lannisters would spare yours and Arya's life. I won't have you besmirch his name and all that he stood for."

"I'm sorry, Robb," she said quickly. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes, you did," he said, his blue eyes were harsh as they looked at her. But then they softened, as he said, "But it's alright."

"It is?"

"Aye, it is. It is natural to be angry at someone you loved a lot. Especially when their actions left many consequences in their wake for you to pay," Robb said, before a strange expression came over his handsome face, his eyes casting down. "After the Lannisters imprisoned him and you, and I had to call the banners, I spent a lot of time berating him for the choices he had made and all the hurt and pain it was causing our family. But then, when I got the news of his execution, I was angry and hurt. Angry at the Lannisters, and hurt for having lost my father. It was then, when they crowned me king, that I understood what father must have gone through. For men in his position, there are no easy choices. And so, I understood, that he made the only choice that he saw would save yours and Arya's life, and those of our mother and mine, and Bran's and Rickon's. He was ready to let his honor go to the gutter, to be branded a traitor in front of the whole realm, just so that he could save his family."

"I was there when they took his head," Sansa said, and Robb's head whipped around, his eyes looking at her with such sorrow and pity that it irked her. So she turned away from him, and walked a few steps away.

"I'm so sorry, little sister," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry that you had to watch that."

"That was the beginning of the end," she said, trying very hard not to let her emotions overwhelm her again. "That was when our family was broken, and it kept getting ripped apart even further."

Jon was the latest victim of the curse that the Gods had seemed to put on their family. Though she knew that Bran and Rickon hadn't been killed at Winterfell by Theon, she also didn't know for sure that they were still alive. And Arya…..where had she gone? No one knew. "You and I are the last remaining Starks, for all we know."

Robb didn't say anything to that, and she didn't know what else to say. So they just stood there, in silence, for a long time. Looking down at the vastness of the Haunted Forest, a thought came to her mind.

"Do you think it's really true?" She asked her brother, keeping her eyes down on the snow-covered woods. "What they're saying about the White Walkers?"

Robb was silent for a few moments, prompting her to look at him. His eyes were set on the lands beyond the Wall, his hands were folded in front, and his expression was stone cold. "Aye, I believe them. I remember when father had executed that Night's Watch deserter just before Robert had arrived at Winterfell all those years ago. He had claimed to have seen the White Walkers. But no one had believed him, of course. Why would we when no one had seen a White Walker for centuries? But now that I've heard all the stories from the men of the Watch, and talked to some of the wildlings…..I believe them."

A cold gust of wind swept Sansa's hair to the side, and she pulled her hood over her head as a chill which had nothing to do with the cold rippled down her spine.

"And besides," Robb continued. "Jon wouldn't have let the wildlings south of the Wall if the White Walkers weren't real. Samwell Tarly and the Maester tell me that he brought the wildlings south to protect them from the White Walkers."

If Jon had believed in them, then Sansa had no difficulty in believing they were real, too. Her brother had been many things, but a liar he was not.

"So what are we going to do about this new problem?" She asked.

"Nothing," Robb answered. "Not yet, anyway. We must deal with the Boltons first and reunite the North. Without the support of all of the houses, we cannot hope to do much of anything against the Walkers. But we need to leave Castle Black as soon as possible."

"Why?"

"Well, you read the letter Jon had received from Ramsay Snow," Robb said, and just hearing her tormentor's name put a shiver of fear down her spine. "We cannot stay here. For all we know, that bastard could be on his way to Castle Black, with the Bolton army at his back. If he catches us here, it's all over."

"So where do we go from here?"

"The Last Hearth," Robb answered. "The Smalljon has taken control of his father's seat. We'll be safe there."

"Very well, then," Sansa said.

She wanted to ask about his strategy on how to retake Winterfell, when she saw a portly man coming towards them from behind Robb. Samwell Tarly. Sansa didn't know what to make of him when she'd seen him first. She couldn't understand what a man like him was doing at the Wall, and more importantly, how he -a southerner- had managed to survive for so long in these harsh conditions amidst rapers and thieves and all sorts of criminals that was the Night's Watch. But then Sam had explained to her how it was Jon who had taken it upon himself to protect him, and again, Sansa had gotten emotional at the mention of her brother's name. So she had excused herself to go and cry some more in the rooms she had been given by the Watch.

"My lord," Sam said, looking at Robb, before he looked at her and said, "My lady. I have a message for you."

"Lord Tarly," she said, trying to put on a smile on her face but failing miserably.

"It's just Sam, my Lady. I forsook my right to be called a lord when I took the vows of the Night's Watch."

"Very well, then," Robb said. "What message have you brought us, Sam?"

"It's from Maester Aemon," Sam said. "We're ready for…..for the funeral."

Steeling herself for what was to come, Sansa took a deep breath, before saying, "Alright then," she said, looking at Robb. "Let's get this over with."

---

She could not see his body. It was buried beneath a layer of small logs of wood and placed above several layers of the same. She was thankful for that. She wasn't sure she'd have been able to look at his handsome yet lifeless face once again.

Looking around her, she saw men of the Night's Watch in dozens, standing to one side of the pyre. On the other side, standing opposite from them, were the wildlings, in about the same numbers. Sansa stood with Robb nearest to the pyre, alongside Maester Aemon who sat in his chair to Sansa's right. Sam and Edd stood to the maester's right. Behind Sansa stood Brienne and Podrick, just as Lord Howland Reed and Lady Dacey Mormont stood behind Robb. Further behind them were Ser Davos Seaworth and the Red Woman, Melisandre. Grey Wind stood to Robb's left, while Ghost had come to stand next to Sansa, to her right. The direwolf was as quiet as his master had been when he was alive. But now, as the wolf's red eyes looked on to where Jon's body was placed on the pyre, the wolf let out a heart wrenching whine. It was the saddest sound Sansa had ever heard, and there was such pain and sorrow in it that it resonated in her own heart, making her eyes wet again. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she looked around to see it was Robb. He pulled her close and she lay her head on his shoulder, as their hands clasped together.

"We're ready, Maester Aemon," she heard Sam's voice from her right, and she closed her eyes as her grip around her brother's hand tightened.

"Very well, Sam," came the maester's frail voice. "But before the pyre is lit, do one thing for me."

"Of course, Maester," Sam said.

"Take this. Place it beside his body."

Curiosity got to her, and Sansa lifted her head from Robb's shoulder and turned around to look at what it was that the maester wanted to be placed beside her brother's body. It turned out to be one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. It was oval in shape, patterned with scales the color of pale blue, gleaming in the faint light breaking through the thick cover of clouds above. As she looked closely at the object in the old maester's withered hands, Sansa was confused.

"What is that, maester?" She asked.

"A dragon egg, my Lady," answered the old maester, and Sansa's eyes widened in shock and awe.

"Where did you get it?" Robb asked from her left. "And why are you placing it beside my brother?"

"He might have been raised as a bastard of House Stark, my Lord," said Maester Aemon, his voice low so that only those closest to him could hear him. "But Jon Snow was born a Targaryen. Aemon Targaryen was his name. This egg was a gift meant for him, from his father. Your father left it with me along with a few other things when he came to visit me here at Castle Black about ten years ago, things that Prince Rhaegar had left for his son. I have had this egg with me ever since. I was meant to give it to Jon Snow at such a time after he had learned the truth of who he really was. But now he's dead and I have no use for it. It might as well be put beside him, as he passes into the afterlife."

As Sansa looked at the dragon egg, she found that the color of its scales reminded her of the winter roses from the glass gardens of Winterfell. Looking at it more closely, she saw that some of the scales had flecks of gold on them. A thing of beauty, it was. Sansa watched as Samwell accepted it from Maester Aemon, then walked over to the pyre, and put it beside Jon's body. Sansa immediately averted her eyes.

"It shall be you, my Lord," came Samwell's voice, "to set Jon's pyre alight with fire. You're his brother."

Shaking his head, Robb said, "No. Jon was my brother, aye. But he became a brother of the Night's Watch the day he put on the cloak of black and swore his vows. You're his brother now, too, and the honor should be yours, Samwell."

"The young Lord is right, Samwell," said Maester Aemon.

"Very well," Sam said, as he took the torch and touched it to the pyre. The logs of wood caught fire quickly, and it shone so bright and hot that Sansa had to close her eyes, welcoming the warmth the flames brought her.

---

JON

Cold. Pain. Fear.

Those were the only three things he felt as his breath left him in the arms of his best friend, Sam. He tried to scream, he wanted to. The pain was too much, and the shock and anger was even greater. But he hadn't left in him the strength to even form simple words. And then it was over in the blink of an eye. Jon let out a wisp of air, before his eyes closed. He thought they would never open again. And yet they did.

How much time passed, he knew not. But when he woke again, he was no longer in the courtyard of Castle Black. The first thing he noticed was the sky. It wasn't clogged with dark clouds, but was clear as a bright summer day, filling Jon's heart with a rush of sudden elation. The sun was just rising over the horizon, and he closed his eyes, letting the crisp morning air wash over his face, breathing in a lungful. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt the touch of the sun on his skin, and all he wanted to do was to rest in its embrace. But the loud rustling of leaves caught his attention. Opening his eyes, he expected to see many trees. And trees he saw….just not as many as he had thought.

Instead, there were only five of them. Weirwoods, each and every one, facing away from him and standing in a half-circle, seeming to sprout from the snow-covered ground beneath their voluminous trunks. The one in the middle was the largest and the tallest, its pale roots disappearing into the snow, while its limbs stayed unmoving, the blood-red leaves dancing in the wind. As Jon began to walk towards the small grove, snow crunching beneath his feet, he looked around and noticed that there was nothing in sight for as far as his eyes could see. Nothing but flat lands covered in a coat of pure, white snow.

Where am I? He wondered, continuing to walk towards the grove. This had to be somewhere beyond the Wall, for nothing south of it could be covered in this much snow. Not yet. Winter is coming, yes, but it hasn't come yet. Not fully. But then what is this place? How did I come here? But even as those thoughts ran through his mind, a terrifying thought came to him. Am I dead? Is this where a man is taken after his soul has left his body?

Reaching the grove of weirwoods, Jon walked around the one in the middle, until he came to the front, and saw the face. Eyes, red as blood, looked at him, seeming as though they were glad to see him there. It reminded him of the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, and suddenly, Jon felt a longing to go there. To walk beneath the tall, gray walls of the castle that had been his home before he joined the Watch. You cannot go there, said a voice in his head. The Boltons have it now…..just as they have Sansa.

A great gust of wind blew past Jon, and the weirwood trees before him shed their dead leaves, which flew straight at him. Lifting his hand in front of his face to shield his eyes from the sudden assault, Jon saw that he was still wearing the same clothes he had been when his brothers of the Watch rose in mutiny. A black leather doublet padded with wool, above breeches and boots of the same color.

Thinking of his sister made him sad. She was the only one of his family that still lived, and in her hour of greatest need, he had failed her. He had failed to unite the Free Folk and the Night's Watch. He had failed to….

His ears suddenly picked up a sound close behind him. It was like something scraping against stone, and Jon turned around to find an egg before him, nestled safely in the feet-deep snow. It was no ordinary egg, though. No. Jon recognised this egg as the same one he had seen in Maester Aemon's chambers. The dragon egg, he thought, which was meant for me to have as a gift by my father. My real father.

As Jon looked closely, he saw the same scales of pale blue and flecks of gold, shimmering in the sun. And Jon felt something in there, something that was moving. There was a warmth emanating from it, he could feel it, and as he knelt, slowly putting out a hand to touch it, the egg began to shake, and a faint scratching sound came from within it. Startled, Jon took a step back. The egg began to shake and shiver, and the scratching had begun to grow loud and fierce.

"Whatever you are in there," Jon said to the egg. "I can see you want to get out quite desperately."

But as soon as those words had escaped his lips, Jon let out a short laugh. Did I just talk to a bloody egg? He thought to himself. I must be going mad.

"And you can help it," came a voice from behind him, from behind the weirwood in the middle.

Jumping in shock and apprehension, Jon took a few steps back, his hand instantly reaching for Longclaw at his waist. But all his fingers managed to grab was thin air. Letting out a grunt of frustration, he remembered that he had lost his sword while fighting the mutineers, and he cursed himself for it.

"Who goes there?" Jon said into the empty air, but received no answer.

He continued to walk backwards, keeping his eyes locked onto where the voice had come from behind the great weirwood.

"Running won't help," came the voice again, and this time, Jon felt a sudden lick of fear. If only I had Longclaw…..

"Do not be afraid," the voice said, and Jon could make out the deepness and frailty in the tone. It sounded like an old man's voice, Jon surmised.

"Who goes there?" He asked, his voice strong despite his fear. "Come forth and show yourself!"

But there was no answer this time. No voice came. His head was moving in every direction, his eyes flickering in agitation to find the source of the voice. But he saw no one. Until….

He came from behind the weirwood heart tree in the middle, an old man, and frail. He was clad in all black, just like Jon himself, his hands clasped in front of him. Walking slowly towards Jon, the man said, "I bear you no ill will, Aemon Targaryen."

His mind fogging with sudden confusion, Jon said, "Stop right there." How does he know my real name? He wondered.

As the man walked closer, Jon noticed that his skin was pale and withered. His hair was white over his balding head, and as the man walked even closer, Jon saw that he had a blotchy red mark that covered most of his face on the right, as well as his throat.

"Do not be afraid," the man said again, coming to stand a few feet from him.

"Who are you?" Jon asked, hating the underlying hint of fear he heard in his own voice.

"I am known as the Three-Eyed Raven," the old man said. "And I have been wanting to meet you for some time now, Aemon Targaryen."

"How do you know my real name?"

"I understand you must have a lot of questions," said the old man. "I'd like to answer those questions, but I'm afraid we don't have enough time for that."

"Where am I?" Jon asked. "Is this some sort of a dream? I remember….I remember what happened to me, they….they killed me. My own brothers, they murdered me."

"They did."

"So what is this, then? Am I dead? Is this where people come after they've died?"

"Yes, and no," the old man said. "You are dead, but this is not where dead people come. You are not completely there yet."

"What do you mean?"

"You died, Aemon. When your brothers in black plunged that knife into your heart, it stopped, yes. But your soul still lives on, even though it has left your body," said the old man.

"And my body?"

"It is about to be given to the flames," said the man who proclaimed to be the Three-Eyed Raven, whatever that meant. "But worry not. For, even as we speak, efforts are being made to bring you back to the land of the

living."

"Bring me back?" Jon asked. "Have you lost control of your senses, old man? A man cannot be brought back from the dead."

"Can he not?" the old man asked. "You have seen the army of the Night King, have you not?"

Jon nodded his head once. I could never forget that…..

"So you know and you understand the dangers, the evil, that stirs in the lands beyond the Wall. And, I think that a man who has seen things such as a wight, a man who has fought and killed a White Walker, shouldn't find it too difficult to believe that he can be brought back to life after having been killed."

Jon supposed that was true.

"How is that even possible?" Jon asked. "To bring a man back when his soul has left his body?"

"There are some with the gift to do that," answered the old man, but he said no more.

And so, Jon asked, "But why me? Why do I get to go back, when so many of my fallen brothers didn't? Lord Commander Jeor Mormont and Quorin Halfhand, men greater than me. Why do they not get to go back?"

"Because they have fulfilled the task they had been given upon the earth," said the old man. "You, on the other hand, have not."

"I have not?"

"No."

"Well, then, why was I killed? If what you say is to be believed, a man should not be killed until such a time that he has achieved what he was meant to achieve. So, if I was meant to perform some duty -which you say I haven't- then why did the gods let me die?"

"It is not the gods who choose our path for us. They present us with choices. Which path we choose is left to us. But then where that path will lead us, that is out of our hands."

"So you mean to say that I chose the wrong path?"

"In essence, yes. That is what I mean to say. Ser Alliser Thorne was not supposed to kill you, but you chose the path which led you to gather the Free Folk and have them work with your brothers of the Night's Watch. And that choice is what led you to your death."

"But then how is it that I am here?"

"Like I said before, efforts are being made to revive you."

"Who is making these efforts?"

"Melisandre, the Priestess from Asshai."

"The Red Woman?"

"Aye."

"On whose request?" Jon asked, confused. "Why is she trying to save my life? I owe her nothing."

Jon remembered the Red Woman rather well. He'd had to suffer her presence for the better part of a year, all because of Stannis Baratheon. Jon couldn't, and wouldn't, deny the fact that had it not been for Stannis, the Night's Watch would have been destroyed by Mance's army. And as grateful for the man's help as he was, Jon couldn't bring himself to like the woman Stannis seemed to keep as his closest advisor. It baffled Jon, why the man would listen to a woman who had no ties to the Seven Kingdoms, when he had scores of lords and knights to give him counsel. Furthermore, Jon had grown to like her even less when he had seen with his own eyes how she had felt nothing as she convinced Stannis to feed Mance to the flames. He had heard from some of Stannis' soldiers what she liked to do to people who refused to bend to the will of her lord. The Lord of Light. Especially to those with king's blood in them. And Jon shuddered to think what she would've done to Jon himself, had she known that he was a Targaryen. Stannis wouldn't have had any qualms in letting her have Jon. In fact, he would have commanded her to kill him, for he would have seen Jon as a threat to his claim to the Iron Throne, even though Jon had taken the vows of the Night's Watch.

"She is doing it because your uncle Aemon asked her to do it," the old man said. "Because he doesn't wish to see you die. And neither do your brother and sister."

"My brother and sister?"

"Robb and Sansa," the old man said, and Jon's breath caught in his throat. But soon as that, a wave of sudden anger washed over him, and he growled, "Now I know that you are lying. Robb is dead. How dare you use my

brother to trick me? How dare you insult his memory? What sort of demon are you?"

"He is not." The old man said, his expression as calm as ever, and it threw Jon off a bit.

"What?" he asked, his breathing shallow, as his heartbeat picked up.

"Robb Stark still lives," the old man answered. "He survived the mutiny at the Twins. But no one knows that he's alive, for he has been in hiding for the last three years."

"You're lying."

"I am not. Your brother….or should I say your cousin? Though, I suppose it matters not, at the moment. What matters is that Robb Stark is alive and well, and he is at Castle Black. He arrived just a few hours after you died. And with him is your sister, Sansa Stark."

"How is she there? Did Robb rescue her from the Boltons?"

"No. She escaped, and was on her way north to meet you and take refuge at Castle Black, when Robb Stark happened to cross paths with her. And so, together, they have come to the Wall, to meet you."

"Only to find me dead," Jon muttered, his eyes falling to the snow-laden ground beneath his feet.

Sansa was the only family he had left that he knew of. And he had tried to do what any good brother would for his sister. He had meant to rescue her from the Boltons. And he had failed. But now, if the old man was to be believed, Robb was alive, and was with their sister. Together, they had come to find Jon, only to learn that they were too late. Jon couldn't imagine how they must have felt. He remembered how he had felt when he had learnt of Robb's death. Is he feeling the same sense of sadness and hurt and loss as I did? And Sansa…..how must she feel? She had kept her distance from Jon during the last three years they had spent at Winterfell, before it all went to ruin. But even as she had tried to put on a facade of not caring for him, Jon had known it was only because of Lady Catelyn's influence on her. Deep down, he knew that his sister had loved him. But now, when she finds that I have died, would she feel the loss? Would she weep for him? And in that moment, he knew not whether to feel joy at finding that his brother was alive and well, and with their sister, to look after her and to protect her? Or should he feel sad for not getting the chance to see his brother and sister once again?

Shaking that feeling off, he decided to focus on what was in front of him.

"You say that the Red Woman is trying to bring me back?" Jon asked the old man.

"She is."

"But she follows the Lord of Light, and I am here before these weirwood trees."

"And?"

"And?" Jon asked, getting riled up now. "Mayhaps this is something you don't know. But the Red Woman is quite fond of burning symbols of other faiths. If she is bringing me back, she is doing so by praying to her god,

not the Old Gods."

"And who is to say those two are different?" The old man said, frustrating Jon. He asks a question for every one of mine.

"What d'you mean?"

Looking back at the grove of the weirwoods, the old man said, "People in this world believe in many different gods. The Northmen keep with the Old Gods, those south of the Neck worship the Seven. On the Iron Islands, they believe in the Drowned God. The Dothraki follow their Great Stallion. The Braavosi believe the Many-Faced God to be the only true face of all gods, while the Red Priests and Priestesses believe R'hllor to be the only one true god. But who is to say that all these gods are different, and not one and the same?"

Jon's head was buzzing with so many thoughts, it felt as though it might burst. He was sick of hearing about the Lord of Light or the Red God or however many names he had. He had heard of it enough from the Red Woman. So he decided to ignore what the old man had said, and ask a question that was bothering him the most.

"Why am I here?"

"You're here so that I might show you what needs to be done," answered the old man, "and guide you in the right direction, to do what you must."

"And what is it that I must do?" Jon asked. "And where am I? You say that I'm not dead, so what is this place?"

"It is somewhere between life and death." The old man said. "I brought you here so that we may talk."

"How is it that you hold such power? Are you some kind of a god?" Jon asked. He didn't know much about anything, that was for certain. You know nothing, Jon Snow, Ygritte had told him once. How true she had been. But Jon did know something. And what he knew was no man alive held the power to trap another's soul from passing on. So what was this, then? And who was this man?

"Neither I am a god, nor did I bring you here," said the man.

"If not you," Jon asked, "then who brought me here?"

"They did, of course," said the old man, waving a hand about, motioning to the five weirwoods.

"The Old Gods," Jon heard himself whisper, as his eyes looked upon the weeping face of each of those nine trees.

Nodding, the old man said, "Only the Gods hold the power to give life, just as they hold the power to give death. And just as like, they hold the power to halt a man from passing over to the afterlife."

"But why? Why me?"

"All shall be revealed soon enough," the old man said, before lifting his hand up in front of him. "But first, you need to take my hand."

Jon stood there, unsure of what to do.

"Take my hand, Aemon Targaryen. Let me show you what you were born to do."

"No," Jon said through gritted teeth. "I don't trust you."

"We do not have time for this," said the man who called himself the Three-Eyed Raven, and for the first time, his expression of calmness cracked. "Take my hand. Now."

"No," Jon said, taking a few steps back.

But then, a second voice came, this time from Jon's left. "Do as says, Jon."

Stopping in his tracks, Jon felt his heart skip a few beats. Unlike the previous one, he recognized this new voice. It had changed over the years, a heaviness having replaced its boyish innocence and levity. But Jon could recognize that voice anywhere. But no, he thought, how could it be him? He was dead. I know he was….that's what the letter had said. Theon Greyjoy, that fucking traitor, had murdered Bran and Rickon. But even as he asked himself that, the answer that came to his mind was horrifying and heartbreaking. I am dead, he thought, and if he's here, that means he's dead, too. And so, steeling himself again, he tried to calm his racing heart, and to breathe through all the emotions that clogged his throat, threatening to spill out.

"Bran?" He asked, looking to his left, and finding a lone figure of a boy on the verge of manhood. Jon was sure it was him, for there was no mistaking that face. The face that looked so much like Lady Catelyn's, and yet, as they looked back at him, those blue eyes of the Tullys held none of the hate that Jon had gotten used to seeing in his father's wife.

It was Bran, he knew it in his heart. His thick auburn hair was cut short, and he was clad in deep blue breeches and a leather doublet of the same color. As he saw Jon, Bran's lips curved at the corners, lighting his whole face up with a smile. "Is that you?"

"Aye, big brother," Bran said. "It is me."

And then, without wasting a moment, Jon took three long steps and closed the distance between them, enveloping his little brother in a tight embrace. Bran returned the hug with equal yearning, and Jon closed his eyes, breathing in relief and joy.

"Well, look at you. You've grown so much," Jon said as he broke the embrace and held his brother at an arm's length, looking him over. The boy was almost as tall as Jon. His boyish face from Jon's memory was beginning to harden around the edges, starting to morph into that of a man's. "But how is it that you're standing? Have your legs healed?"

And soon as he had said it, a terrible thought came to his mind, and he shoved Bran aside. He had put his faith in people that did not deserve it. He had poured so much trust in men that were turncloaks. Men without honor, all of them, he thought as the faces of Alliser Thorne, Othell Yarwyck, and Bowen Marsh flashed before his eyes.

So, turning to face the old man, Jon took a few steps back. "This is your sorcery, isn't it? Isn't it, old man? You knew I wouldn't believe you, so you brought this imposter to pose as my brother?!"

"No, Jon," Bran said, getting back on his feet. Walking towards Jon, he said in a weak, hurt voice, "I am no imposter. I am your little brother. Bran. I'm Brandon Stark."

"No!" Jon voice boomed over the air. "You stay back! You are not my brother! You are not Brandon Stark!"

"Jon," Bran said, sounding close to tears. "Jon, it's me. You have to believe me. I'm your own brother. Please, Jon-"

"No. This is a trick. You're not Bran. You're just some pretender," Jon said, before pointing an accusing finger at the old man, "conjured by this charlatan!"

"Jon, please….." Bran said, a tear sliding down his cheek. Jon's heart broke to see his brother's face morphed into sadness, but his belief remained strong as iron. This is not Bran, he thought. This cannot be Bran.

"I am no charlatan, Aemon Targaryen," said the old man, his expression remaining neutral, as if he had expected this to happen. "Nor am I a trickster, or a sorcerer. The boy you see before you is Brandon Stark, the second son of Eddard Stark."

Jon took a pause then. He still didn't believe a word that came out of that old man's mouth, and yet, as he looked at the face of the boy who claimed to be his brother, he saw only Bran. His cheeks gleamed with tears, and Jon couldn't help but feel guilty of being the cause of his hurt.

"Prove it," he said to the boy, his voice firm and accusing. "Tell me something that only the real Bran would know."

Sniffing, the boy wiped his tears. "What do you want to know? Ask me. I'll tell you."

Jon didn't have to think long. He remembered the crisp air on that summer morning, six years ago. He still remembered the face of the oathbreaker.

"Tell me the name of the Night's Watch deserter," he said. "Bran was there, six years ago, when Lord Stark executed a man for running away from his post at the Wall. It was the first beheading my brother had ever witnessed in his life. If you truly are Brandon Stark, then tell me the name of that man."

"Gared," said the boy claiming to be Bran. "It was Gared."

The cloak of distrust that had been wrapped over his head began to rip apart, for the answer was correct. Yet, Jon remained persistent. "What words did I speak to you when Lord Stark was about to behead Gared?"

Bran looked ready, as if he had sensed what Jon was going to ask next. And so he said, "'Don't look away, Bran. Father will know if you do.' That is what you said to me."

His shoulders sagging as he looked at the boy, a waterfall of guilt and regret washed over him and Jon hung his head in shame. "You're truly Bran?" he asked in a low tone.

"I am," came the answer.

Looking up, Jon found his brother's eyes, and found himself lost for words. So, instead, he walked up to him and took him in his arms once again. This time, he hugged him even tighter.

"I'm sorry, little brother," Jon said, his voice quivering slightly. "I had to be sure. All this feels so bloody unreal."

"I know, Jon," Bran said. "I know. And I understand."

Breaking the embrace, Jon looked him over again. "How did you survive? How is it that you're able to walk? They told me in a letter that you had lost use of them."

"It is different here. This is all in happening inside my head, in a vision," Bran said. "I am apart from my body, and thus, I can walk."

"A vision?"

"I have the greensight. Do you know what that means?"

"Aye," Jon said. "My time with the Free Folk has brought me much knowledge about things that we, south of the Wall, like to brush off as stories and rumours and lies. But what I don't understand is what you're doing here, with him?"

Bran seemed to have expected this question, and his eyes flickered to the old man for a moment before finding Jon again. "I'm supposed to be the next Three-Eyed Raven, and so, he's training me to take his place when he's gone."

"What exactly is this Three-Eyed Raven?"

"It is difficult to explain," Bran said, looking unsure of himself. "But in simple words, being the Three-Eyed Raven means that I can see everything, everywhere. Everything that has happened before, and everything that is happening in the world now, everywhere. I am a greenseer and a skinchanger."

Jon's eyes widened, as he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, "A warg…."

Bran nodded. "I discovered this ability right after I woke up from my sleep at Winterfell. You were gone, and so were most of the others of our family."

Jon didn't understand most of what his brother had just said. How can one see everything that has happened and is happening at the same time? He wondered. It sounded very unrealistic to him, and if it had been any other man claiming to possess such an ability, Jon would have thought him mad. But it was Bran, and Jon didn't think for a moment that his brother had been taken by madness. But then, one thing started to make sense to him, and he turned to the old man and said, "So, you're the Three-Eyed Raven."

The old man nodded, saying nothing.

"And you can….see everything. Just like my brother?"

"I am teaching him how to use his newfound abilities."

"And you can see in the past, as well?"

"I can."

"So, that is how you know my real name?"

"Indeed, Aemon Targaryen."

Cringing at those words, Jon tried to process it all.

"You have more questions," Bran stated, and when Jon's eyes found him, he was looking right at him, and something about his gaze made Jon feel uncomfortable. It was as if his little brother could see right into his soul. And Jon wasn't sure he liked that idea.

"I do," he said. "I want to know if you're truly alive, or are you dead like me? I mean, you're here. And the last I heard of you, they said that Theon Greyjoy had sacked Winterfell and put you and Rickon to the sword,"

Jon felt a sudden wave of anger as he thought about Lord Stark's ward. That traitor! he thought. If I ever get my hands on him again, I'll strangle him!

"He didn't," Bran said. And as Jon looked at Bran, he saw that his eyes held so much sadness in them.

"What?"

"Theon didn't get to me and Rickon. He couldn't. After he executed Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin secretly took Rickon and me to the crypts. He knew Theon might try to harm us, or worse, and so he hid us in the lower levels of Winterfell. I don't know how long we stayed there, but when we emerged, we found the castle in ruins. Maester Luwin had been gravely wounded as we found him dying in the godswood. He then showed us the secret passageway that led from the godswood and opened into the wolfswood. After that, we traveled north."

Bran stopped talking suddenly, and his hesitant expression told Jon that he was hiding something.

"What happened then?" Jon asked. "Where is Rickon?"

"He's safe," Bran answered. "He's with the Umbers now. They are keeping him safe and hidden."

"So he's alive?" Jon asked, hope shimmering through in his voice.

"Very much so," Bran answered with a sad smile.

"And you?" Jon asked. "Are you….are you…"

"I'm alive as well, Jon," Bran said. "My body is still broken, but I am alive."

"Well, that's good to hear," Jon said with a smile, cupping his brother's cheek with his palm affectionately.

Bran returned the smile, but there was something wrong about it. It felt hollow and distant. But Jon decided to let that go for the moment, as his brother said, "There is so much I want to tell you, Jon. But I'm afraid, now is not the time for all that. Now is the time for you to see some things."

"What things?" Jon asked.

"You'll see," Bran said, smiling wistfully. "But you will have to trust me. You do, don't you?"

"Aye. Of course, I do."

"Well, then," said Bran, before looking over at the old man. "Please do as Lord Brynden says."

Jon's eyes darted towards the old man, the name his brother had spoken whirling around in his head. Lord Brynden. Lord Brynden. That name awakened something in Jon's memory. I've heard that name before, he thought. I've heard it before….Lord Brynden….Or have I read it somewhere? Why does that name sound familiar? Why does it…. Jon looked up at the old man, whose face was as still as a stone. There were no emotions there. Where have I heard that name….where have I- But, of course! The red mark on his face!

"You're Brynden Rivers," Jon stated, looking at the old man, a surge of realization suddenly flooding his mind. "I remember reading about you when I was a child, and then I even heard Maester Aemon talk about you once. You are one of the Great Bastards of Aegon the Unworthy. They called you Lord Bloodraven."

"That is one of many names I had carried when I was young and quick," said the old man, his face was just as expressionless as it had been a few moments before. If being addressed as a bastard irked him, the man didn't let it show. "But the name that my mother gave me was Brynden."

"But, wait," said Jon. "If you're truly Brynden Rivers, then that means you're a Targaryen. Not in name, but you have Targaryen blood. And that would make you my…." Jon struggled to do the math in his head. "My great-great-great-great…..how many generations apart are we?"

"It doesn't matter," said Brynden. "The past remains the past. What matters is that you are my blood, the Blood of the Dragon. And it is my duty to guide you through the darkness that lies ahead of you."

"You mean the Long Night?"

"Yes."

"How is it that you're still alive?" Jon asked. "If I remember right, Maester Aemon once told me that he had last seen you in the year 252 AC. He told me that you went beyond the Wall on a ranging mission, and never returned. If you're still alive, then that would make you, what, a hundred and twenty years old?"

"One hundred and twenty-eight, in fact." Bran said from Jon's right.

"We do not have time for this," said the old man. "Come, Aemon. Take my hand."

"Where are we going?" Jon said, finally taking the proffered hand.

"On a little flight through the past," said Lord Brynden, clasping Jon's hand.

Then, Jon watched as the man's eyes rolled back into their sockets, going completely white. Jon knew what that was, he had seen it before during his time with the Free Folk. Lord Brynden is a warg, he discerned. But before Jon could say anything more, his feet left the snow-covered ground and he was taken aback by the sudden change in his surroundings.

Where there had been snow and open plains for as far and as wide as he could see, there was now nothing but darkness. He felt his feet land upon solid ground, and he looked around to find that he was inside a tunnel, flanked on both sides by protruding rocks that seemed like they might cave any moment. The place felt damp, and turning around, Jon saw that he wasn't alone. Lord Brynden was right there beside him, standing a few feet away. And behind him, Jon saw a small opening in the tunnel, bringing in a pale light.

"Where are we?" Jon asked. "Where have you brought me?"

"Somewhere I haven't been in a long, long time. Not as Brynden Rivers, at any rate," Brynden answered, his eyes darting towards the tunnel's opening. "Somewhere I used to play with my brothers and sisters when I was a child."

Jon had read the histories of House Targaryen, and he knew that the bastard children of Aegon IV had all lived in the Red Keep all their lives. "So, this is King's Landing, then?"

"The Red Keep, to be precise. And we're in its underbelly," said the old man, before he began to walk towards the end of the tunnel. "Come."

Jon had more questions, but he decided to follow the man. As he got closer to the end of the tunnel, he becamme aware of voices coming from beyond. Someone was talking. Walking ever closer, he quickly made out a man's voice.

"Balerion was the last creature to see Old Valyria. Its greatness and its flaws." The man was saying. "When you look at the dragons, what do you see?"

"What?" said a different voice. This one was softer, and younger. This one belonged to a girl, he realized. And sure enough, as he emerged from the tunnel and into a large, dimly lit chamber, he was proven right as he saw the sources of both the voices. One was a man about Jon's height, with long, silver hair, and a somewhat portly figure. The girl, whose back was to Jon, also had silver hair that fell to her waist. And both of them were clad in black clothes of rich material.

Brynden moved into the chamber, and Jon followed close behind. As he moved further into the room, he saw that the chamber was more like a cavern, damp and dark and stifling, with rocks emerging from some places in the walls. The air was stale, and Jon felt no warmth as he looked around. From the corner of his eye, he saw to his right a ray of light emerging from a small window overhead, momentarily blinding him as his eyes hadn't fully adjusted to the dim light yet. But as he moved away, and his vision became clear again, the thing that drew his attention the most was what the light was falling upon.

It was as large as a carriage, raised upon a dais, and illuminated by a pale, yellow and red glow coming from the many candles that had been lit below on the edge of the platform. Jon's heart was beating fast in his chest, for he knew what this was. From the time he had spent poring over books about the Targaryen histories as a child in Winterfell's library, Jon knew he was looking at a dragon's skull. But not just any dragon skull, no. This one was way too large and way too magnificent to belong to any other creature than the mount of Aegon the Conqueror. This was the skull of Balerion the Black Dread. Jon's eyes were as wide as two little orbs of the moon as he took in the sight before him, and tried to imagine how big the creature to which the skull belonged might have been when he was alive.

But his attention was drawn to the girl, who was standing before Balerion's skull, alongside the man, her father. The girl, Princess Rhaenyra, sounded a bit lost at the man's question. But then she seemed to gain her composure, and as she spoke, Jon felt an underlying sense of anger and hurt in her voice. "You haven't spoken a word to me since mother's funeral and now you send your Kingsguard down-"

"Answer me," the man said in a command, before adding in a softer voice, "It's important. What do you see?"

The girl seemed to ponder for a moment, and as she turned to glance at the monstrous skull of Balerion the Black Dread, the pale glow from the candles lit her face, and Jon saw that the girl was comely. Though, Jon surmised, she wasn't as beautiful as some of the women he had seen in his life. But he couldn't deny that she had an ethereal sort of beauty about her.

"I suppose, I see us," The girl said, her eyes glassy from emotion.

"Tell me," the man said, the tone of his voice belying his eagerness to hear the girl's opinion.

"Everyone says Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, but they say that because of our dragons," said the girl, before her eyes found the man's, as she continued, "Without them, we're just like everyone else."

The man seemed to have liked what the girl had said, as he nodded his head in fervor, before saying, "The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They're a power man should never have trifled with. One that brought Valyria its doom. If we don't mind our own histories, it will do the same to us. A Targaryen must understand this to be king….or queen."

"Who are these people?" Jon asked Brynden. "They have silver hair, and we're standing in the Red Keep, as you say, so I know they're Targaryens. But which ones exactly?"

"The man you see is Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name," the old man answered. "And the girl is his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra."

Jon's eyes widened as he took in all the information. Viserys I Targaryen, the fifth Targaryen king to sit the Iron Throne, after his grandsire, the Old King, Jaehaerys I. And his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, known as 'The Realm's Delight,' the one whose birthright was snatched by her younger half-brother, Aegon II.

As he looked on, Jon understood that he was witnessing the events that had happened nearly two centuries ago, and that these were his ancestors. His knowledge of House Targaryen's history told him that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon's real father, had been a descendent of Rhaenyra Targaryen. And as Jon looked upon the face of that young girl, he knew he shouldn't have been feeling the things he was feeling in that moment. But he did feel. His heart was racing as he sensed some sort of a strange connection to this girl, of whom he himself was a direct descendant.

"There's something else that I need to tell you," said King Viserys to his daughter, and Jon's attention was drawn to them.

"It might be difficult for you to understand, but you must hear it. Our histories, they tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone and saw a rich land ripe for capture. But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest. Just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men. 'Tis to begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant north," Viserys said, and Jon felt as though the walls were beginning to close in around him, and his hands began to get clammy with a sudden sweat. He took a few steps forward, to get closer to the pair of father and daughter. And he listened.

"Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds," the king continued. "And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living."

As soon as Viserys said those last words, Jon felt his heart skip a beat as a shiver ran all over his body, and his skin rose up in gooseflesh. Viserys's handsome face was suddenly gone from Jon's eyes, and in it's place were those eyes. Those cold, blue eyes of the Walker. The silence in his ears began to fade, and was replaced with the sounds of steel clashing on steel, of men and women letting out war cries and bloodcurdling screams of agony and terror, of children crying for their mother.

He remembered that day on the shores of the Shivering Sea in the little Free Folk settlement of Hardhome, like it had happened just hours ago. He remembered the feeling of utter hopelessness that had washed over him as the Walker had charged him, sword of ice in the air, ready to cut Jon to pieces. But most of all, what he remembered was the Night King's malicious, blue eyes looking straight into Jon's own, as he raised his hands and thousands of the dead Free Folk lying along the shore -men, women, and children alike- rose again. All of them with blue eyes, as bright as they were lifeless.

Jon looked to his right, his breathing shallow, and saw Lord Brynden already staring back at him. The expression that the old man wore in that moment told Jon what he wanted to know. This is the reason he's brought me here, he thought. To show me this.

"When this great winter comes, Rhaenyra," King Viserys continued and Jon was forced to focus, to listen. "All of Westeros must stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king or queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream 'The Song of Ice and Fire.'"

His breathing ragged, Jon seemed to stumble a few paces back, the true meaning of what he had just heard dawning on him. Aegon the Conqueror….he knew about it….he saw it in a dream…..

But then, Viserys spoke again, and Jon looked up again to see the King wrap his fingers around a dagger at his waist, as he looked up and said to his daughter, "This secret, it's been passed from king to heir since Aegon's time. Now you must promise to carry it and protect it. Promise me this, Rhaenyra. Promise me."

Jon couldn't listen to what the daughter and father said to each other after that, his mind was blaring with realization. They knew, he thought. All this time, they knew. All the Targaryens, since Aegon, knew. They knew what was coming. And yet they did nothing about it.

"What is it that you understood from what you just saw, Aemon?" Brynden asked.

"They knew," he whispered, his eyes focused on everything and nothing. "They all knew."

"Yes, they did. Aegon knew, which is why he united the Seven Kingdoms under his leadership. Jaehaerys I knew as well, which is why he made such great efforts throughout his long reign to keep the kingdoms united and strong. Some of his children might have failed him, but he made sure that the ones who mattered, knew about what it is to be a Targaryen monarch. Viserys I also knew, but he failed to keep his family from tearing apart the realm, and from killing all the dragons. Daeron I knew this secret as well, which is why he made such strenuous efforts to conquer Dorne. Many believed, and still believe, that the Young Dragon invaded Dorne in hopes of doing what the Conqueror could not. They were right in that, but he didn't do it for glory. He did it to bring the last remaining independent kingdom in Westeros under the rule of the Iron Throne, for he knew that only if the Seven Kingdoms stood together as one, can they hope to survive this great winter that the Conqueror saw in his dream."

"But it was all put to waste by Aerys II. Such great efforts of such great men, a work of centuries, and that madman threw it all down the gutter."

"He didn't know," said Brynden.

"What?"

"Your grandfather," said the old man, and Jon cringed. He hadn't thought about it, but now that he heard it from Brynden, Jon realized that he was a grandson of Aerys II, the man responsible for the death of his other grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, as well as his uncle, Brandon Stark. Jon thought about it, and decided that he couldn't bear the stain of being a grandson of such an evil man.

"Aerys, while he was a good man in his youth, he was also a proud one. And that pride slowly and steadily turned into madness over the years," Brynden said. "Not that it would've mattered had he known about the Conqueror's secret dream, for it was in his fate to become mad."

"But then, if Aerys didn't know about it, then that would mean that Prince Rhaegar, my father-" His tongue stopped running suddenly, as he realized that he had just called Rhaegar his father for the first time. It felt strange. Jon thought it would make him angry, but all it did was make him feel relieved. He supposed it was just in his mind all this time, that he refused to believe what was clear as day to him by now. I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.…

"No, Rhaegar didn't know about the dream, either," said Lord Brynden, and as Jon looked up, he saw the man had a faint smile on his face. "But that doesn't mean he was completely in the dark."

"What do you mean?"

"The Prince that was Promised," was all the old man said in a manner of answer.

Thinking about it, Jon knew he had heard those words before. But where…..but, of course!

"The prophecy that the Red Woman spoke of quite often," he said to Brynden.

Nodding, the old man said, "She believed that this prince that the prophecy speaks of is Stannis Baratheon."

"But Stannis is dead," Jon stated.

"Indeed, he is. What Melisandre believed was false. Stannis was not the Prince that was Promised. Although Stannis did have some Targaryen blood from his grandmother, and so he could very well have been the prince, as the prophecy also states that this prince will have Targaryen blood."

"What else does this prophecy tell us?"

"It speaks of man, a hero, who will deliver the world of men from a great darkness. Smoke and salt and a bleeding star are said to be his heralds. Your great-great-grandsire, Aegon V, believed in this prophecy, and so did his successor and second son, Jaehaerys II. Both made efforts to ensure that it would come to pass, but all that their efforts ensured was the downfall of House Targaryen. Your great-grandsire, Jaehaerys II, believed that this prince will be born from his line, and so he forced his two children, Aerys and Rhaella, to marry each other, despite neither of them wanting this match."

"And Prince Rhaegar?" Jon asked, making sure not to call him his father. "Did he believe in this prophecy?"

"Oh, yes. He did," said Lord Brynden. "In fact, your father believed in this prophecy so ardently that it can be said that he was obsessed with it. At first, he believed that he himself was this prince that was promised. But later, after he sired his first son and named him Aegon, Rhaegar started to believe that babe to be the prince. But Rhaegar understood what the Conqueror had known. The Seven Kingdoms must remain united behind House Targaryen, for he knew that something evil stirred within the bowels of the distant north."

"How did he know of this evil?" Jon asked. "The prophecy might have been passed down to him by his father or his mother, but he couldn't have known about the Conqueror's dream, could he?"

"He could have," said Brynden. "And he did. For, like Aegon, and Daenys before him, your father was a dreamer."

"A dreamer?"

"Dragon dreams, as they're called," Brynden said, "are prophetic visions that occur to those with Targaryen blood. Those who get such dreams are blessed with the ability to see glimpses of the future in them. Sometimes these dreams come true, sometimes they don't. Unfortunately for us, what Aegon the Conqueror saw in his dragon dream has come true."

"And you say my father had these dreams as well?"

"He did. He knew about the prophecy of the Prince, and he had this dream, similar to the one Aegon had, when he was a boy of three and ten. He had no way of knowing that his ancestor had experienced the same dream, so many years ago. But Rhaegar had seen it, too, just like the Conqueror had. And when his father descended into madness, your father understood that he needed to be overthrown. Aerys was driving the realm into ruin, and thus, Rhaegar planned to depose his father by meeting in secret with all the prominent lords of Westeros at the Tourney at Harrenhal, hoping to gain their support against Aerys. Because he understood that the realm had to be united if it was to face the coming winter. Of course, then he met your mother at the same tourney, and they fell in love. You know what happened after that."

"He forgot his duty," Jon whispered.

"Indeed, he did," said Brynden. "But if he hadn't, perhaps you wouldn't have been born at all, Aemon Targaryen."

That would have been better, Jon thought bitterly. For me, for Rhaegar, for Lyanna, and for Lord Rickard and my uncle Brandon. And it would have been better for all those countless men who died in the war that came because my father loved my mother. But Jon didn't say any of that to Brynden. He couldn't. He was afraid he might cry.

Instead, his eyes found the old man's, with anger surging in his chest.

"Why wasn't anything done to better protect the realm?" He asked Brynden, his teeth gritted and eyes narrowed in a glare. "If they all knew about the real dangers that lie beyond the Wall, why didn't they do anything about it?"

"This secret, the one that you just saw King Viserys telling to his daughter, was meant to be passed down through generations of House Targaryen. From king to his heir. But that chain of information was threatened when Rhaenyra's brother, Aegon II, stole her throne. He was not the heir his father had chosen, and thus, he knew not the secret that Rhaenyra knew. Thankfully, before her death, she had shared this secret with her last remaining son and heir, Aegon the Younger. And when he was crowned as Aegon III, he passed it down to his heir, Daeron I, who in turn passed it onto his brother, the one they call Baelor the Blessed. And so, the chain continued safely once again. Until my father took the throne. Aegon IV cared not for such 'trivial stuff,' as he liked to call it. Still, he did his duty in this. But even in that, as he lay dying, he spat on the memory of his namesake, our greatest ancestor," Brynden said, and Jon noticed anger in his voice. "He told this secret of Aegon's dream, not to his son and heir Daeron II, but to his eldest bastard son, my half-brother, Daemon Blackfyre. But unlike our father, Daemon understood the importance of what Aegon had foreseen in his dream, and that is why he rose in rebellion. Not because he wanted the Iron Throne, but rather because he felt that our brother, King Daeron II, was a weakling and would waste away the kingdoms licking the arses of the Dornish. And so he tried to take the throne, intent on strengthening the realm for the coming great winter. But his methods were treasonous. And, in the end, it all fell apart after his death."

"He never told it to his sons?" Jon asked, still trying to take it all in. He found himself wishing that Daemon had succeeded in taking his trueborn brother's throne, for that would have meant that there would have been no more Blackfyre rebellions, no more pointless wars that would end up making the kingdoms bleed for years to come. But soon as he thought that, Jon realized how different the history of the Seven Kingdoms would have been. House Targaryen would have ceased to exist long ago. But then again, what had that house brought to Westeros other than countless wars and cruelty on its subjects. True, that Jon himself wouldn't exist if that had been the reality of House Targaryen. But he cared not about himself. What he cared about, for some strange reason, was the history, and how it would have changed. And he didn't like that notion. So he supposed he would have to be glad that the Blackfyres were unable to rise to the Iron Throne. And besides, who was to tell what new calamities they might have brought upon Westeros as its new rulers.

"He did," said Brynden, and Jon's attention was brought back to him. As he said those words, Jon sensed the regret in his voice. "But I slew his eldest son and heir in the Battle of the Redgrass Field. And with that boy, the secret of Aegon's dream was lost as well."

"So," Jon asked. "What now?"

"Now, you must go back to the land of the living, and you must journey east and seek out your aunt."

"Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Yes. She has conquered the Slaver's Bay and currently resides in Meereen, ruling as its queen."

"She's half a world away."

"But she plans to return," said Brynden. "For her father's throne."

"She means to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, like Aegon did three hundred years ago. And with what army?"

"She has acquired an army of ten thousand Unsullied soldiers from Astapor, and commands a few sellsword companies as well. Not that she needs to depend upon armies of men."

"Her dragons," Jon said, and Brynden nodded.

"She has three of them, and they're not little anymore. The largest of them is big enough to take a rider now. Soon, she will have enough ships to carry all her people to Westeros."

Jon had heard about the dragons when he had returned to Castle Black, having just escaped Tormund and Ygritte and the rest of their group. The Wall is always the last to know, it was said. But when it came to matters that happened on the other side of the Narrow Sea, it took even longer for news to reach the Wall.

"And when such an eventuality comes to pass," Brynden continued, "and it will come. You must be there with your aunt, standing beside her, helping her, guiding her."

"Me?"

"Who else?"

"And why would I help her take the Iron Throne?" Jon asked, scoffing in disbelief. "She is a Targaryen."

"So are you," said Brynden.

"I'm not."

"No?"

"No."

"And why do you believe that?"

Jon had no answer to that. Because I don't feel like a Targaryen, he thought, but didn't bring it upon his lips.

"Then what are you?" Brynden asked, and Jon didn't like the tone of his voice.

"What do you mean?" he asked the old man through gritted teeth.

"You say you're not a Targaryen. Then what are you? Are you the Bastard of Winterfell? Or are you a man of the Night's Watch? Or the man who was about to break his vows by deserting his post and marching on

Winterfell?"

"I was not going to desert my post," Jon growled. "I only planned on marching south to find and protect my sister!"

"How do you know she needed saving? How do you know she was in Winterfell in the first place?"

"She was wed to Bolton's bastard, I had heard. And she had escaped from Winterfell, Ramsay's letter said so."

"But how do you know that was true?"

"Ramsay's letter-" Jon began but was cut off by Brynden.

"Could've been forged. It could've been a trap to lure you, Ned Stark's last remaining son, using Sansa Stark as bait. A girl who might or might not have been the one married to Ramsay Snow."

"What are you saying? That girl was Sansa, I know it."

"So you are willing to believe the word of a bastard, a bastard of the man that betrayed your brother Robb and took his home. And yet you are not willing to believe the word of your Maester Aemon, or that of Ned Stark, the

man who raised you. Aemon is an honorable man, a man true to his word, is he not?"

"Yes."

"And Ned Stark?"

"He was the most-"

"Honorable man you ever knew. I know. So, tell me now, why is it that you find it difficult to believe the word of two honest and dutiful men and accept that you're a Targaryen, but you are ready to believe the word of a

treacherous foe who rules from the seat of the castle that was your home?"

"You don't understand…."

"I understand this, Aemon Targaryen. The end might be uncertain, but the road ahead for you is clear. It's either death or life. You can either remain here and waste away for eternity, or you can go back and do what only you can do."

"And what is that?" Jon growled, going red in the face.

"Go to Meereen. Find Daenerys Targaryen. Convince her of the true dangers that lie beyond the Wall. Convince her of the Night King's existence, and then you can add her dragons to help the army of the living against the dead."

"I'm tired," Jon said, the air leaving him in a rush. "I'm tired of all the wars and the bloodshed. I just…I don't want to go back."

"That is a craven's answer," the old man said. "Are you a craven?"

And just like that, Jon blood began to boil. "How dare you?"

"Are you a craven?"

"No, I'm-"

"No," said Brynden, cutting him off. "You're not a craven. You're a Targaryen. You're the Blood of the Dragon. Just like Daenerys. And thus, only you can convince her to come to the aid of the realms of men in their hour of greatest need."

"How will I convince her?" Jon asked. "And why should I? What if she decides to have her dragons burn me alive as soon as I tell her who I am? After all, she's the daughter of the Mad King."

"And you're his grandson," said Brynden. "Are you a madman? No, you're not. And neither is she. Daenerys Targaryen is not cruel, nor does she possess an ounce of the madness that took her father. She is a proud woman, yes, but she's not unreasonable or vain. She understands what she needs to do. She's harsh in her punishment to those who betray her. But more than that, she is a woman who possesses wisdom, compassion, and a drive to help those who cannot help themselves."

Jon had heard of Daenerys Targaryen from Maester Aemon. Apparently, she had taken the slave cities of Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. Not for riches or wealth or to be queen of those cities, but to free the slaves. And that, Jon supposed, wasn't a sign of a madwoman. On the contrary, she sounds like a kind woman, he thought.

"You are her nephew, and she will welcome you with open arms. She wants to take her father's throne, aye, and she wants to bring all those who betrayed her House to justice. But above all, she longs for the love of family. She grew up knowing that she and her brother, Viserys, were the only two remaining Targaryens in this world. But when she learns that she has one more of her family left to her, she will welcome you. But you must meet her. You are key to uniting the realm. You are one of the last remaining scions of Aegon the Dragon. And it is your duty, as a Targaryen, to bring together all of the Seven Kingdoms. But more than that, it is your duty as a man of honor. And as a man with a singular gift of the ability to unite the North with the rest of Westeros, to bring Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons back to Westeros and to convince her to help defend the realm against the coming war. It is your duty, Aemon Targaryen, to lead the realms of men through this great darkness, and towards the Great Dawn."

"But how do I do that?" Jon asked. "I don't know what to do, where to begin."

"You can do the same that you have been doing so far, Aemon Targaryen," said the old man. "You are only the second man of the Night's Watch, after Mance Rayder, to make friends out of the Free Folk, and to earn their respect. You went to Hardhome to save the Free Folk that were about to be slaughtered by the Night King. You saved their lives. And then, like no other Lord Commander of the Night's Watch has ever done, you brought those Free Folk south of the Wall, to protect them from the real danger. You have a gift, Aemon, which allows you to unite people behind a common purpose. The Night's Watch and the Free Folk are a great example of that."

"But I wasn't able to unite the Free Folk and the Night's Watch. The men of the Night's Watch hate the Free Folk, and the feeling is equally returned, I can tell you that. I tried to get them to work together, for I knew that it was the only way we could survive against the coming storm. And what did I get for that? A knife in the heart."

"And so you're just going to give up, are you?"

Jon said nothing to that. He didn't know what to say.

"You need to return, Aemon. You need to return and put things right. You have taken the first step towards uniting the realms of men. Now, you have to continue. And for that, you need to go back to the land of the living. And you need to find your aunt, Daenerys Stormborn."

"And what is it that I'll say to her? Do you think she will believe me, a stranger, about the Night King and his army? No, she will cast me aside, dismiss me for being a madman. And that's assuming that she first believes that I am her nephew. Which will be difficult, considering that I don't look anything like a Targaryen. I have neither silver hair nor purple eyes."

"And? Do you believe you're the first Targaryen without silver hair and purple eyes?"

No, he thought. No, I'm not. There have been others before me. There was Prince Baelor the Breakspear, and his son, Valarr. There was Prince Daeron, the son of Maekar, and Maester Aemon's older brother. Then there was also Jon's own sister, Rhaenys. He had heard from Lord Stark that Prince Rhaegar's daughter had her mother's dark hair. And then there was the Bloodraven, the man standing in front of him, his blood-red eyes staring intently back at Jon.

Shaking his head, Jon began, "But even if I convince my aunt-"

"Are you going to stand here and keep coming up with new excuses," Brynden said, sounding a bit frustrated now, "to not do what you must, what you know you must, or are you going to prove that the faith the gods have shown in you will not go to waste?"

"But I never asked for any of this," Jon said, letting out a sigh of annoyance. "I don't want it! Any of it!"

"Then, what do you want, Aemon?" Brynden asked, calmly this time.

"I don't know," Jon muttered. "I just don't know."

"Well, I have done my duty here," said the Three-Eyed Raven. "I have shown you the path you must take. But you always have a choice. There is still time to choose whether you want to go back, to live, and help the living. Or do you want to let it all go to waste, to give up and die? Both doors are open for you, Aemon. But know this. Whatever you choose, you must live with the consequences."

But before Jon could say anything further, Brynden took his hand, his eyes rolling back in their sockets once more. Jon felt his feet leave the floor, and he closed his eyes tight.

When he opened them again, he was back at the grove of the five weirwoods again, facing the blood-red eyes of the heart tree in the middle. But Lord Brynden Rivers was nowhere in sight. As Jon turned around, the dragon egg was still there, still shaking and quivering. But now, as Jon looked at it, he found the oval-shaped stone was glowing, wisps of pale smoke coming out of its pale blue scales. When Jon closed in on it, he felt a wave of warmth emanating enfold him, and Jon realized that it was coming from the egg, which was now gleaming hot. The snow around it had melted, giving way to the brown mud beneath. Jon looked on, captivated.

But then, something seemed to shuffle behind him, and as he turned around, a gasp escaped his lips. For, standing there, in front of the great heart tree, was Lord Eddard Stark. His back was facing Jon, but he could never mistake that long, brown hair, and those broad shoulders, covered beneath that familiar wolf pelt.

What is he doing here? Is he still alive, like Bran? Jon thought, but it sounded absurd, even to him. Ned Stark was dead. And the Seven Kingdoms had begun to bleed when Joffrey had taken his head. He couldn't be alive. He just couldn't.

As Jon padded towards the man, he seemed to sense his present, and turned around. His deep gray eyes were soft as fog as they looked at Jon, a faint smile on his long face. Stopping in his tracks, Jon felt his ears getting hot, his heart beating so fast that it threatened to leap out of his chest. So many emotions were running riot through his mind in that moment, as he looked on at the man who was his father. And above all those emotions reigned one, glowing hot and stronger than every other. Anger. It was anger that cloaked Jon's mind, as he looked at the man who had lied to him all his life.

"It's peaceful, isn't it?"

"It is," Jon said, unable to keep his rage out of his voice. "Not as grand as the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, but, aye, it is peaceful here."

"Jon, I understand how you must feel-"

"You understand nothing!" Jon's voice boomed. "You betrayed me. You, who preached to me all my life about how honor is a man's greatest virtue, about how duty is his greatest calling. You, who made me live a lie all my life. Do you know what it's like, being a bastard? Do you know what it's like, being the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark? Of having to bear the hatred of his wife, who seems not to understand that I did not ask to be born? Of having to live under the burden of being the sole stain on the great and honorable Ned Stark's spotless white cloak of his precious honor? Of wanting to do nothing more than to please your father, and know that it will all be for nothing in the end, for you cannot escape the simple, hard truth, that you're a bastard? And even then, even after lying to me for so many years and keeping me in the dark, letting me live under the hateful eyes of your wife, you sent me to the Night's Watch. You knew what it was, a penal colony for the worst kinds of criminals from the Seven Kingdoms. And yet, you said nothing. Instead, you led me into believing the farce that it was some great order where men find honor. But it turned out to be an order full of men who have forsaken their honor. You could have given me a place in the Winterfell household guard, or have me serve one of your bannermen. You could have asked Robert to legitimize me, make me a Stark. But no, you did none of those things. So, no, Lord Stark, you do not understand. You do not understand how I feel. So spare me whatever songs you were about to sing to me about why you did it, and how hard it was for you, because I assure you. No matter how hard it was for you, it was way worse for me."

Jon was breathing hard, his eyes narrowed and his brows knitted together in a withering glare. But as he looked at the man who had raised him as his bastard son, Jon only saw the man he had grown up all his life calling 'Father.' He saw the same stern face, the same steely eyes that used to stare at him with such intensity that Jon used to be afraid they might see into his soul. He saw the same stature of honor and duty, daunting and imposing. The same image of the man he had known as his father, the one Jon had wanted so hard to please. But as he looked at the man who had taught him to be everything he was, Jon saw that his usual hard complexion had broken. The hard lines of his cheekbones were now glistening with tears. And just like that, all the air left Jon, and took with it all the anger in a whoosh of breath, a fog of guilt and regret taking its place.

Jon wanted to apologize to him, but his pride and arrogance made him turn his back on the man instead. It was unbearable, to stand so close to him, and so, Jon walked away from him, plopping his arse at the base of the weirwood to the far side, relieved that the man gave him no further arguments. Ned Stark just stood there for a few moments, looking at Jon, before taking a walk over the weirwood on the opposite side of the half-circle, and taking a place at its roots, mimicking Jon.

Closing his eyes, Jon let his mind run free. He was feeling too angry, and he wanted nothing more than to think about anything else other than Lord Eddard Stark. But even as he tried to think about something else, his mind took him back to the day that he had last spoken to the man. They were about to leave Winterfell, not knowing that it was the last time either of them was going to be seeing their home.

"It's great honor serving in the Night's Watch," Ned had said. "The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. And you are a Stark. You might not have my name, but you have my blood."

That hadn't been a lie, Jon realized now. True, he was not a Stark. He was a Targaryen. But he still had the blood of the Starks in him, as much as he had Targaryen blood. And even as these thoughts ran in his mind, it wasn't lost on him, the fact that he had just referred to himself as a Targaryen. But he swept that thought aside. Now was not the time to think about that.

As his eyes gazed upon the weirwood in the middle, he suddenly remembered the godswood of Winterfell, and how peaceful it always felt there. Ever since he was old enough to understand the reason behind Lady Catelyn's immense hatred for him, Jon would always find himself standing in front of the great heart tree. Looking in its eyes, he would always feel a sense of calmness settle over him. He would forget all about Lady Catelyn's biting words, the brazen loathing in her cold, blue eyes. He would pray to the Old Gods to let her accept him. He didn't ask them to make her love him. Even when he was little, he knew that it was possible for her to care for him. But he only wished she wouldn't hate him so much, that she would just…..just let him be. That wouldn't try to remind him that he didn't belong there, or that he was the result of a sin that her husband had committed. But the gods would never listen to him, and her unwavering loathing for him seemed to only grow as time passed. It made him feel so uneasy all the time. No matter what he did, he just couldn't seem to escape her hateful eyes. They served to make him feel like he didn't belong there, in Winterfell. Visiting the godswood became a way for him to escape from her daunting presence, which seemed to be ever present all over the castle, like a black shroud.

The crypt of Winterfell had been another such place where he could escape to when he wanted to get away from his father's wife. Like the godswood, the crypts were the one other place where Lady Catelyn never stepped foot. Or, at least, one that she avoided if she could. She was an ardent follower of the Seven, and didn't believe in the Old Gods of her husband's House. And the crypts…..well, as Jon once overheard her say to his father, "It gives me nightmares to be down in that place." Scoffing, Jon closed his eyes again and let his mind wander into the bowels of Winterfell. He imagined he himself walking through the great ironwood door and down the narrow and winding stone steps, before finally arriving into the dark and chilly caverns where the Starks buried their dead. He would often visit there, and sit beneath the pillars that flanked the large vault, gazing upon the many faces of the men who had been the Lords of Winterfell before Ned Stark. He remembered the statues of his grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, and those of his aunt and uncle, Lyanna and Brandon. She hadn't been the Lady of Winterfell, nor Brandon had been the Lord. But Lord Stark had still had their statues installed into the crypts as a way to honor his late brother and sister. He remembered Lyanna's statue, but he was very sure that was not how she looked when she was alive. If only he had known that he was looking upon his mother's grave, each time that he visited the crypts.

As Jon thought about the crypts of Winterfell, his mind took him to the deeper levels, to the one where the Kings of Winter of old were buried. For some reason, he thought of Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. He had been King of Winter during the arrival of the Andals. Jon remembered Lord Stark telling him about Theon Stark when he was little. At the time, as he had looked up his statue, Jon had misliked the old King of Winter immediately. But now, as he remembered the man they called the Hungry Wolf, the one who had defended the North against the invading andals, before crossing the Narrow Sea and setting some of their own settlements on fire, he found his actions to be justified. If anyone attacked your home, you would defend it, yes. But Jon also felt that one needed to send a message to them, and the severity of the message should be such that they won't dare turn their eyes on your home ever again.

As he again remembered the last words his father had spoken to him, Jon tried to imagine what he would have done if he had been in his place. He understood the love a man holds for his sister. He had two of them himself, and so he understood what Lord Stark meant, and why he did what he did. 'What would you have done, if you were in his place?' asked the voice in his head. 'If it had been Arya, or Sansa, asking you to make a promise to protect their child. What would you have done?' Jon didn't even have to think for a second on it. He already knew what he would have done. I would have done everything in my power to keep that child safe from all harm, even if it meant giving my own life.

And just as that, his gaze landed once again on Lord Stark. Only this time, Jon didn't feel as much anger towards him as he did before.

"Is this where you live now?" Jon asked him, biting his tongue soon as he'd said those words. The urge to call him 'Father' was too great. But Jon won't give him the satisfaction.

"Not necessarily," Ned answered. "I was brought here to meet you."

"By who?"

"By them, of course." Ned said, pointing to the weirwood trees.

The Old Gods, Jon realized.

"Answer me this," Jon said. "Would you have done anything differently?"

Ned's eyes looked up at him in confusion, so Jon clarified, "If there was a chance that Robert hadn't been so bloodthirsty to murder all the Targaryens, would that have changed the way you raised me?"

"Of course, it would have, Jon," Ned answered. "Giving you the name Snow has been one of my greatest regrets. You are a trueborn Targaryen, a boy who was born a king. And you deserved to sit on the throne of your forefathers. But Robert was out for blood of every last Targaryen, and nothing I could've said would have stopped him from murdering you, had he known that you're Rhaegar's son. I didn't want to give you the life of a bastard, Jon, but I had to. It was the only way. I could have given you my name, but I would have been risking someone's suspicion by doing that."

Jon understood that. No one would look twice upon a bastard, even if they're of a highborn lord. Granted, Jon had gotten more than a few looks from many throughout his life, but that was because they all had been curious to see the living and breathing proof of the honorable Lord Eddard Stark's shame. And if he had asked Robert to legitimize Jon, Ned Stark would be risking his secret getting out. It wasn't uncommon for the lords of Westeros to sire bastards. They had been doing that for centuries. But what was uncommon was for a lord to have his bastard son legitimize. Because in the eyes of the rest of the realm, that lord would be potentially putting his trueborn son and heir up for having his birthright stolen by his bastard brother. If Ned had made Jon a Stark, the people of Westeros might have wondered about what was so special about him. Of course, there would have been some lords, most of them from the North, who would've brushed it off as father's love for his son, but that was not the way the majority of the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms thought. Those southern highborns only thought of everything in terms of gain and loss.

"Robert wouldn't have suspected anything, I'm pretty sure," Ned continued. "But the others, mainly the Lannisters….you would have certainly caught Tywin Lannister's attention. And not to mention that of Robert's spymaster, Varys. The Spider has eyes in every corner of the realm, and if he, or Tywin, would have suspected something, they would have come after you like a dog chasing a bone. And they would've told Robert about you. I couldn't risk that. I couldn't put your life at risk like that. I had promised my sister that I'd always keep her son protected."

The Lannisters….the ones that murdered you, Jon thought. No doubt, Tywin would've done the same to Jon had he found out about his true parentage. Jon remembered the tales he had heard about Prince Rhaegar's children. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. 'Your brother and sister,' said the voice in his head. Tywin Lannister had them murdered, one a babe of a few months, and the other a girl of two. He would've had no qualms about murdering Jon.

"And that is why I sent you to the Night's Watch," Ned said. "That way, if Robert, or any other man, was to find out the truth, they couldn't have been able to touch you. Your vows of the ancient order would have protected you."

That was true enough, Jon thought. The power of the Iron Throne didn't extend to the Night's Watch. The order had its own administration, its own laws, free and independent of the Seven Kingdoms, despite being created to protect them.

"I hadn't thought of sending you to the Wall, you know. I was planning on having you become Winterfell's castellan when Robb took my place as the lord."

Jon's eyes darted to Lord Stark, gleaming with shock and hope. It shocked him, but also made him glad to know that the man hadn't completely forgotten about him. Jon had always been jealous of Robb, for being a trueborn son of Ned Stark, for being his heir. But to hear Ned admit that he had plans for Jon that didn't include taking vows of celibacy….that felt somewhat good.

"But my plans were hindered when Robert named me his Hand," Ned continued. "I knew then that I had no time to put my plans into action, and I couldn't leave you at Winterfell, at Cat's mercy. I couldn't very well take you with me to court, and I couldn't send you elsewhere. So when you came to me, asking for permission to join the Night's Watch, I thought it was a good idea. I knew what the Night's Watch was, what it had become, yes. But I let you take the vows because I thought they would protect you when I could not."

Jon had long ago come to accept his fate. He was a man of the Night's Watch, and he would hold no lands, take no wives, and father no children. He broke his vow of chastity when he laid with Ygritte, yes. But he didn't father any children with her, nor did he take her to wife. No. The Gods had put the good sense of making him realize that his honor and duty came before his love for Ygritte. He cursed himself for how he betrayed her, and he won't ever be able to forgive himself for that. But he had to make a choice. And he did. But as he remembered their faces, his brothers', as they shoved their knives in his heart, Jon found himself wishing that he had just remained with the Free Folk. He should have taken Ygritte to wife, and together, they could have run away. He suddenly longed to feel her touch on his lips. But he knew that would never happen. She was dead. Gone.

"And I'm glad," Ned said, breaking Jon's chain of thoughts and catching his eye. "Not for sending you to the Wall, of course. But I'm glad that you were there, to see with your own eyes the true dangers that lie beyond it. For, I cannot think of a better man to do what needs to be done. To lead the realm against the army of the dead."

"You know about the Night King?" Jon asked with a surprised and confused expression.

"Aye," Ned said with a grim expression. "I've seen it all. I just wish that the Gods had given me the good sense to believe that Night's Watch deserter when he told us about seeing White Walkers."

"Gared," Jon said, and Ned nodded.

"You didn't know. None of us did. He was talking nonsense, as far as we could tell. But if even you had believed him, what could you have done about it? None of the lords would have believed you. The northern lords might have. They've always been more susceptible to believe in such stuff. But the southerners….they would have all laughed at you. They would have branded you a madman."

"Aye, they would have," Ned agreed. "I might have been able to convince my bannermen that the threat is real. Not all of them might have believed me, of course. But some of them would have, and that would have been enough. Then there was Robert."

"You think he would've believed you?"

"He wouldn't have," Ned said. But then he said with an amused smile, "But he would've come with me to the Wall, and even beyond it, to see for himself. He was a man of action. When a thought came to his mind, he acted on it. And he loved adventure. So, yes. I believe he would have come north and allowed me to show him the threat was real. And then….and then he would've called all his knights and lords and bannermen. He would've…." Ned suddenly stopped, a far away look in his eyes. "Say what you might about Robert as a king, but he was a damn good warrior, and on the battlefield, no one could come close to touching him. His leadership instincts were unparalleled."

Jon didn't know what to think of that. The man he had seen at Winterfell was nothing like the warrior that Lord Stark made him out to be. No, the man that Jon saw was a shell of his own past self. And thus, Jon found it hard to believe that Robert would have been able to do much. But then again, he wouldn't have needed to. He was a king, and kings could always send other men to do his job for him.

"But it isn't too late, you know," Ned said, his eyes finding Jon's.

Jon knew what that look meant, what it was so clearly asking of him. But when he thought about it, Jon suddenly found himself feeling so tired. His shoulders dropped, and so did his head. Feeling the sun and the chill of the summer air on his face, every ounce of his being screamed for him to stay there. To let go. It felt like betraying all the people he cared about, he knew. Robb, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Sam, Maester Aemon, Edd. Even Tormund. He would be abandoning them all when they needed him the most. But he was just so tired. So, so tired. He didn't have it in him to go on. And yet, there was that one little light in the far corner of his mind that kept flickering like the flames of a fire. It kept filling him with warmth, igniting a new sort of vigor in him. 'They all depend upon you, Aemon Targaryen,' said the voice in his head. He didn't fail to notice how that voice had changed it's tone. Whereas before it sounded like Ned Stark's, now it had begun to sound even more familiar. It was his own voice that was calling out to him.

Shaking his head, he asked Lord Stark, "Do I need to go back? What do you believe?"

"I believe that the question you should ask yourself is this," Ned said. "Do you feel that your duty is done? Do you believe you have done everything you can to help the living prepare for the Long Night? Or do you believe that there's something more you can do?"

"I do not know. I….I don't….the men that I thought were my brothers, they murdered me. I knew what I was doing was right," he said to Lord Stark. "I did what I believed was the right thing to do. And I got murdered for it."

"You and I, both, lad," Ned said, his face morphed into sadness. "You and I both made the same mistakes. And yet, you have been granted another chance at correcting those mistakes."

"Would you have taken it, if such a chance had presented itself to you?"

"Would I have taken a second chance?" Ned asked. "Without blinking."

That made the choice for Jon. If his father would have taken the chance again, so would he. I need to make things right, he thought. I need to prepare them for what is coming for all of us. But still, a thought still lingered in the back of his mind.

"But if I died," he said to Lord Stark. "Then that must mean it was my time, that it was the will of the gods. Mustn't it?"

"Aye, that can be said."

"And if I defy their will by letting myself be raised from the dead, that will be wrong. It will be unnatural. Wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it will be unnatural. But that's what the Night King does, too, doesn't he? When he raises his victims from the dead and turns them into his wights. That is unnatural, as well."

Nodding, Jon said, "I suppose, yes."

"But he does more than that," Ned continued. "By raising the dead and turning them into mindless slave soldiers who feel no pain or fear, he also traps their souls within their lifeless body. It's a torture of the worst kind, Jon."

Yes, it is, Jon thought as his mind took him back again to the shores of Hardhome, and he saw countless pairs of striking, blue eyes. He had felt the void of life within those eyes, and now after what his uncle had just said, it made sense to Jon.

"That is the real danger," Ned said. "Think about it, lad. Think about what would happen to all those that we care about. Robb, Sansa, Bran, Rickon….and Arya."

At the mention of his sister's name, Jon's eyes perked up to find Ned's. "Arya?" he asked. "She is alive?"

"Aye, she is," Ned said, a faint smile on his face. "Though I know not where she is. But I can tell you she is alive."

Jon's heart soared with relief, sadness, and delight at the same time. His sister, his little Arya, the one he had believed to be dead, just like his brothers. She was alive, just like Robb, Bran, and Rickon. And Sansa. Jon's heart suddenly yearned to see them all, and he looked up at the man who had raised them all.

"So," Jon said, a final resolution dawning on him. "I must go back."

"I cannot tell you that, Jon," Ned said, that faint smile turning wistful. "I cannot make that choice for you. I can only tell you what I know. And what I know is that, without you, Robb will be lost. He will not have the support of the rest of Westeros when the time comes to face the dead. The North will refuse to bend the knee to the Iron Throne, no matter who sits upon it. There is too much blood between the Starks and the Lannisters now for them to just forget these last few years. And as for your aunt, Daenerys Targaryen….the northern lords hold just as much hatred for the Targaryens as they now do for the Lannisters. Even if she manages to retake her father's throne, the North will not bend to her will. And when the Night King attacks, it will be the first kingdom to bear the brunt of his army. You know what will happen then."

Jon knew exactly what would happen. "The North stands divided. The Boltons rule over Winterfell."

Nodding, Ned said, "And Robb can take our home back from them. The whole of North will join him once again when the lords learn that he's still alive. But even after the banner of House Stark flies over Winterfell again, it won't be enough. The North will be united once again, aye. But the northern armies are not prepared to face such an enemy. They have been at war for six years now, fighting a battle after another, in many ways. They don't have the numbers. They will all be slaughtered by the dead, your brothers and sisters among them."

Jon hung his head. The last words of his uncle was not an image he wanted to imagine. But there they were, all his brothers and sisters, standing before his eyes. Each apart from the others, their eyes burning a terrifying blue. Jon scrubbed the image from his mind, gritting his teeth. No, he promised himself. I won't let that happen.

"But you can stop that from happening," Ned said. "You are the only one who can convince Daenerys Targaryen of the existence of the Night King, and to pledge her armies and her dragons to fight against his army. Furthermore, you are the only one who can convince the lords of the North to bend the knee to House Targaryen."

"Me? Why would they do that for me?"

"You are the heir to the Iron Throne," Ned said. "The rightful heir. The lords of the North are proud, aye. But they're also loyal, and dutiful. They still remember the name of Lyanna Stark with love and affection, and those of Lord Rickard Stark and his son, Brandon Stark. You are Lyanna's son. You are a Targaryen, aye, but you also have the blood of the First Men in you. The blood of the Starks is there as much as the Blood of the Dragon. I can see that clear as day. And when the northern lords see a man on the Iron Throne with Stark blood in him, they will bend the knee. You are the key to reuniting the realm….Aemon."

Jon looked up at Ned when he called him by his real name. Surprised, he was. It felt strange, hearing the man address him as anything other than 'Jon,' or 'lad.' But it also felt good. Perhaps, because if he was called Aemon Targaryen, then Jon wouldn't have to bear the shame of being a bastard.

"Remember that before you make a choice."

Jon was at a loss for words. He understood what his uncle was saying, but still, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he had it in him anymore. He remembered how it all felt. He remembered how tiring it was, being Jon Snow. Everyone looked up to him, as if he was the answer to all their problems. And so, when they had named him Lord Commander, he had convinced himself that he could do it. He might be young, but he could do it. How wrong had he been. He did what he thought was right, for his brothers and for the Free Folk. And yet, they were his own brothers who tore his heart with the sharp and cold knife.

Looking up at Ned again, Jon was searching for what to say to the man. This

"But what about my vows to the Night's Watch?" Jon asked. "If I cross the Narrow Sea to find my aunt, I will be deserting my post."

"You won't be doing any such thing, my boy," Ned said. "Your vows only extended until the day you died, which you have. So now, as you return to the land of the mortal man, you will be free of those vows."

It gave him relief to hear that from a man who held oaths and promises in the highest regard. And in that moment, Jon felt his heart beat with the same love he had held for this man. This man, who had looked at this man who had protected him from a terrible fate all his life, who had sacrificed his honor when he had took Jon in as his bastard son, letting everyone know that Lord Eddard Stark had soiled his precious cloak of honor by fathering a son on a woman that was not his wife.

But before Jon could say anything, he heard a familiar sound from behind him. Turning around, he saw the dragon egg he had seen before. It was shaking and quivering, just like it had been, before the Three-Eyed Raven had whisked him away and taken him back in time. As Jon watched the egg, he heard the same scratching sounds from within it, as if something was trying desperately to get out. But now, there was something different about it. Jon suddenly heard a very different sound coming from within the egg. It was like a faint shrill.

"So the maester finally gave that to you," he heard Ned say.

Turning around, Jon saw that the man was looking at the egg with an expression of awe, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Aye, he did," Jon answered.

Just then, he heard a loud crack, like a stone that was shattering, and his gaze bolted down to the dragon egg. The shell was beginning to break as Jon watched, mesmerized.

"Gods…." Jon whispered, wanting to get away from the sight before him, yet he couldn't seem to move. A loud cry came from the burst gap, and the egg cracked even further. A heartbeat later, something shaped like a bat's wing smashed through, shattering the shell further.

"It seems you've made your choice," said Ned. And when Jon's eyes found his, the man smiled and said, "Aemon Targaryen."

Having said that, Ned began to walk backwards, keeping his eyes on Jon. "It seems our time together is at an end, lad."

"No, wait," Jon said. Behind him, he heard a loud screech. But his mind didn't pay it any mind. It was too taken with the idea of losing his father once again.

"I must go now," Ned said, and Jon felt his vision getting blurry, his eyes starting to dampen.

"No…." he felt the weakness in his own voice, and in his haste to catch his father, he slipped and fell.

"We will see each other again."

"No, but I don't want you to leave!" Jon cried, feeling once again like the boy of seven and ten who had just learnt about his father's murder. "Not again…."

"It is not me who's leaving, lad," Ned said. "It is you."

"Then don't let me go!"

"You've made your choice, Aemon. And I won't hold you back," Ned said with a sad smile. "But do not worry. We will see each other again."

"No….not again…..I cannot go through that again…father…..please….."

That seemed to stop Ned in his tracks. He looked around, and his eyes were shimmering with struggled to get up, his mind taking him back to all those years, when they had parted ways at the kingsroad, the day he had looked upon his father's face for the last time. And inside Jon began to break as he saw Ned leaving again.

"You have been so brave, my boy," Ned Stark said. "But you have a duty. So, go now. Be brave once again."

"But I don't want to leave you…." Jon sniffled.

"You won't be leaving me," Ned said. "For I am always there with you, every step of the way."

Jon let his tears fall freely now, his shoulders wracking with heaves. But Ned didn't stop. And so, seeing that struggle was useless, Jon gave up on his efforts. His heart accepted the hard truth. This will be the last he will see of the man he loved as a father. Looking upon the face of Ned Stark, Jon tried to memorize it.

"You promise?" He gasped, trying to breathe through the tears that just wouldn't stop. "That we'll meet again?"

"I give you my word," said Lord Eddard Stark in a tone of iron. "It is time now, Aemon."

"Time for what?"

"For you to wake up," he said and turned away. And he didn't look back again.

Jon felt his chest ache with a sense of emptiness and so much sorrow, as he watched the retreating form of Ned Stark. Then he stood back up on his feet, and wiped the wetness from his cheeks, steeling his heart. As he closed his eyes, a new sense of purpose set his soul alight with fire.

---

When Jon opened his eyes again, Ned Stark was gone, and so were the nine weirwood trees. The air was suddenly cold. Very, very cold. The snow was still there, all around him, but instead of the never-ending lands of white, there was a thick maze of trees a few yards behind him. It was dark, and Jon looked up to see the sky was beginning to come alive with the first light of the sun. He breathed in the air, and it smelled of smoke and burnt leather.

His gaze searched all around him, trying to get a sense of his bearings. A few yards to his left, a familiar sight caught his eye. The black, wooden walls of Castle Black. It was a short distance away, and through the darkness, he could make out the slim and crumbling form of the Lance, as well as the merlons on top of the King's Tower. Birds were singing all around him, and he craned his neck to see the Wall standing before him, tall and hulkling. Strong. This is no dream, he realized.

A sudden chill wormed its way through his ear and straight down his spine, and his flesh rose in tiny bumps all over his body. Shivering, he looked down to see that all his clothes had vanished, burnt to a crisp. His leather armor was sitting a few steps away to his right, blackened and blistered, wisps of smoke still rising from it. There was a black circle around him, and he was sitting on the ground that was covered in ash, laden with blackened logs and bits of dying embers. He was naked as his nameday, his skin covered in soot, legs folded beneath him. But even through the warmth the embers were giving out, Jon felt cold.

That very moment, he heard a hiss behind him, and sensed something move. Turning his head around slowly, the first thing he saw were the eyes of the dragon, shimmering like molten gold. They seemed to look at him with something akin to recognition, as the dragon's head remained still. Its scales were a vibrant blue, while the horns and wings were golden. Jon steadily got on his haunches and the dragon let out another hiss. Carefully, he extended a hand, and the dragon bent its head, breathing in his scent, before letting out a low trill. When it looked up at Jon, light smoke was rising from between its tiny teeth, and from its nostrils. As Jon opened his palm, the blue-and-gold beast leapt on it, and he noticed that its spinal plates were also golden. With a sudden flap of wings, the dragon crawled up his arm to rest upon his shoulder, its claws digging into Jon's flesh.

And as the woods came alive with screams and gasps of terror and shock and wonder, the dragon spread its wings, and let out a piercing screech. To Jon, it sounded like a song of glory and joy, of hope and new beginnings.

---

SAMWELL

The sun was beginning to break through the haze of clouds, when Sam was summoned by Maester Aemon.

He was lying in bed in his room, unable to find any sleep. Gilly had finally managed to get Little Sam to sleep after the babe had spent the better part of the night giving her grief, and Sam watched as the two of them were fast asleep beside him. Sam felt guilty about not having helped her get their son to sleep, but his mind was alight with worry. The contents of the letter the Bolton bastard had sent to Jon were running around his head. He could be on his way to attack Castle Black at this very moment, he thought. And with Jon gone, and almost two dozen of their brothers freezing in the ice cells, there was no hope for mounting any sort of defense. There was a chance that Tormund and his wildlings would help the Night's Watch, but that chance died when Jon had counted his last breath in Sam's arms. Now, he didn't know what they were going to do. Lord Stark and his sister were still with them, asleep in the quarters given to them in the King's Tower. The air at Castle Black was heavy with the stench of fear, and already, a few brothers had expressed their thoughts about how Sansa Stark's presence continued to put them in more danger from the Boltons. One of them had even gone as far as to suggest that the Watch should ask her and her brother to leave. But Sam had squashed that notion before it spread to the other brothers, and Edd had been there to support him. I wouldn't let them kick Jon's brother and sister out, he thought. And the fact of the matter was that it didn't matter if the Starks were no longer at Castle Black. The Boltons would storm its gates either way, for punishing the Watch for letting the wildlings south of the Wall.

There was a knock at the door, and Sam got up and walked towards it. It turned out to be Corlin, looking a bit lost.

"What is it, Colrin?" Sam asked the lad.

"Brother Sam," he said, his eyes bloodshot. "It's Maester Aemon. He has summoned you to his chambers."

At this hour?

"What happened?" asked Sam. "Is he not well?"

Shaking his head, the boy said, "No. I mean, he is well. At least, he looked well. But he wants to see you."

"Very well, then," Sam said, taking a glance at Gilly and Little Sam, who were still very much asleep. He quickly grabbed his cloak and put it around his shoulders.

"Let us see what the maester wants," Sam said as he closed the door behind him, and set off towards the maester's quarters, Colrin following close behind. Arriving at the door, Sam was about to knock, but then he instead looked at the boy who had come to stand next to him.

"You may go, Colrin," he said to the boy, who nodded and was about to leave, when Sam said to him, "And make sure you get some rest."

Watching the boy leave for a moment, Sam the turned around and tapped on the oaken frame of Maester Aemon's chambers. A heartbeat later, the maester's voice came from behind it. "Enter."

"You wanted to see me, Maester Aemon?" Sam asked, feeling the warmth from the fire the maester had going in the room. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, how I wish that were true, Samwell," said the maester as he sat in a chair, stooped over a table. His frail voice was laden with sorrow, and Sam took a seat on the chair beside him, saying, "I still can't believe that he's gone."

The maester didn't say anything to that, his milky eyes set on the roof above them. After a few moments, he let out a sigh. "But gone he is, Samwell. I had hoped against all hope that the Lady Melisandre could bring him back. But it was the hope of a lost, old man."

"He really was the son of Prince Rhaegar?" Sam asked, still finding it hard to believe that all this time, he had been friends with the true heir to the Iron Throne.

"He was," said the maester. "But he is gone now, and we must deal with the consequences."

"We need to decide what to do with the mutineers. We can't keep them imprisoned for long, the ice cells are needed to store food, lest it go bad."

"Yes. Their fate needs to be decided. But that is not ours to decide. It is the Lord Commander's duty."

"But the Lord Commander is dead."

"He is. And now we must choose a new one," said Maester Aemon. "A great darkness is upon us, Samwell, and the Watch has fallen apart. Jeor Mormont barely managed to hold it together, before they murdered him. Jon Snow was the leader we turned to, and he did what he thought was best for the Watch."

"And they murdered him for it," Sam said, unable to keep the bile out of his tone.

Nodding, Maester Aemon said, "And now we need a man who can take his place."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Choose two of the best riders from the men we have left," said the maester. "Send one of them west to the Shadow Tower, and the other east to the Eastwatch. A vote must be held for the election of the new Lord Commander. Ser Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke will want to put their names forward for the post."

Nodding, Sam got up from his chair. "It will be done, Maester Aemon." And then he took the old man's leave.

Emerging from his chambers, Sam looked around the courtyard of Castle Black. A fire was lit in a corner in front of the kennels, three of the brothers standing around it. It was quiet as a crypt, except for the howling wind. A few more brothers were standing in front of the stable around the dying embers of a fire. Hearing a low whine to his right, Sam was greeted with two red eyes staring up at him.

"Good morrow, Ghost," he said to the direwolf. In return, he got a few sloppy licks to his fingers. "Can't sleep, can you?"

Another whine escaped the white beast's maw, and Sam muttered, "You and I both, my friend."

Stepping into the courtyard, with Ghost padding along, quiet as usual, Sam walked up to the brothers that were standing in front of the stables. He found Jarson, along with two other men of the Watch: Gidden and Myke. Myke was from the Iron Islands, while Gidden was from King's Landing, if Sam remembered right. Jon had saved them both when they had been set upon by a group of Thenns during the Battle for the Wall, and ever since then, he had held their unwavering loyalty. Both of them had fought fiercely by Jon's side during the mutiny, and Gidden had even taken a nasty wound to his left arm.

"Brother Sam," Jarson said. "What brings you down here so early?"

"Maester Aemon needed my help, and so I got out of bed early," Sam said, before turning his eyes on Gidden. "Shouldn't you be in bed? Or has the wound healed already?"

"Not bloody likely," Gidden said in his hoarse voice, wincing a bit as he put a hand around his arm. "But I was going mad lying in that fucking bed, so I thought I'd take a walk around."

Nodding, Sam turned his attention back to Jarson. "You are the best rider we have left to us at Castle Black, Jarson, and that's why I have a job for you. It's from Maester Aemon."

"What does the maester want of me?"

"A new Lord Commander needs to be elected," Sam said, and saw as Jarson's face turned grim. "I know it is too soon. It hasn't even been a day since we said our farewells to Jon. But, the need of the Watch comes before our sorrow at losing him. And the Watch needs a new Lord Commander."

"What do you need me to do, Sam?" asked Jarson, standing tall with a determined face.

"I need you to take a horse and ride as fast as you can to the Shadow Tower. Inform Ser Denys Mallister of what has happened here, and tell him that he needs to be present at the vote."

"I will get going right away, then," Jarson said.

"Wait," Sam said. "I need one more man to send to the Eastwatch."

"Well, then, you'll want to send Barden," said Jarson. "He's the best at riding a horse after me."

"Barden, yes. Of course," Sam said. "Have you seen him?"

Smiling, Jarson said, "Oh, that sorry bastard drowned himself in ale last night. He's knocked out pretty hard. But not to worry. I'll go down there and get his arse on a horse bound for the Eastwatch in no time."

"You have my thanks, Brother Jarson," Sam said, and watched as the man walked away.

Having done what he had come to do, Sam walked about mindlessly for some time, before arriving at the gate. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to find Edd walking towards him.

"You're up early," he said, his face grim as usual.

Sam explained to him that Maester Aemon had summoned him, and that he had set Jarson and Barden to ride to the other two manned castles of the Watch. Ghost decided to lay on the ground between Sam and Edd, silent except for the low whines he gave, mourning his master.

"We need to clean up the ash and bones of the dead," Edd said. "And we need to shore up our defences for the Bolton attack."

Nodding his head, Sam was about to ask him what they were going to do about the wildlings, now that Jon was gone. Without him, the Watch had no other man who could even hope to have any sort of talks with Tormund and his people without it turning bloody. Moreover, Sam didn't even know what would happen to those wildlings. Jon was the only one protecting them south of the Wall. Now that he was no more, Sam wondered what the new Lord Commander would decide to do with the people that had been the Watch's sworn enemies for so many years.

But as Sam opened his mouth to speak to Edd, Ghost suddenly stood up, his ears perked up, and his eyes boring holes in the gate. "What is it, boy?" Sam asked. But the wolf seemed to not hear him, or if he did, he chose to ignore Sam. Instead, he darted towards the large wooden frame, scratching at it with his paws, howling and growling and whining.

"What's got in him?" Edd asked, apprehension lining his face.

"I don't know," Sam answered, his eyes on Ghost. "I think he wants to be let out."

"Mayhaps he's hungry," Edd said, dismissively. "Let him out so he can find himself something to hunt."

Sam was about to tell the brothers manning the gate to open it, when he heard Tormund's loud voice from beyond. "Open the gates, you crows! Open the fucking gates and see it for yourselves!"

"What does he want now?" asked Edd, his voice laced with frustration, before giving the order to open the gate.

As the two large frames groaned open, Ghost bolted like an arrow let loose, and Sam and Edd were met with the sight of Tormund's flaming hair and full beard, as the man almost ran up to them, breathing hard, his eyes wide. Fear gripped Sam's heart like a cold vice, assuming the worst. Have the bloody Boltons finally arrived? Are they attacking us?

"You need to come with me, crows," said the wildling raider as he came to halt a few paces from Sam. "Now!"

"What the hell is happening?" Edd asked, sounding alarmed.

"Jon Snow," said Tormund. "He's….he's back."

"What d'you mean he's back?"

"Come. See with your own fucking eyes, crow," Tormund said to Edd, before turning around and setting off back from whence he came.

Sam looked at Edd and saw his eyes narrowed in suspicion. But then he said, "Come on. Let's see what the fucking goatfuckers are going on about," and then he was off, tracing Tormund's steps in the snow. Sam stood there for a few moments, his heart beating fast as his mind was still stuck on Tormund's words, before he followed Edd out of the gates.

As Sam and Edd closed in to where they had placed Jon's pyre alight last evening, they saw dozens of wildling men and women gathered there, whispering among themselves, a din of low mutterings heavy in the air.

"Move aside, please," Sam said to a particularly large and savage-looking man clad in ringmail and wool, putting a hand to his shoulder. As soon as the man turned around and Sam saw his face, which had several scars, and an awful snarl, Sam shirked back. Seeing his dark, hateful eyes narrowed at him, Sam began to regret his decision to have touched the man. But beside him, Edd stood firm, an equally hateful expression on his face. The tension was palpable, and Sam found himself wishing he could dissolve into a puddle on the ground beneath his feet, before the man was suddenly shoved aside.

"Move aside, Thorold, you brute!" bellowed the voice of Tormund Giantsbane. "Let the crows through. They can't fly, you know."

Grateful for the red-haired wildling's timely intervention, Sam carefully moved, pushing his shoulder through the small mass of people, most of whom hated Sam and Edd and all their black brothers. When he finally came to the front, he breathed a sigh of relief. But just as quick, his face scrunched up as the stench of burnt leather ravaged his nostrils. Fanning the smoke and the air with his hand, Sam let out a cough, before his attention was caught by a gasp from his right.

Opening his eyes, Sam saw Edd, his eyes wide and mouth agape, chest rising and falling with heavy breath. As he followed his friend's line of sight, Sam nearly let out a yelp. There, sitting in the pile of ashes and burnt out logs, was Jon Snow, naked as the day he came into this world, and not a scratch on him. His friend looked exactly as Sam remembered him, exactly as he had been when Sam had set his body on the pyre. Two angry red gashes marred the left side of his chest, where Othell Yarwyck and Bowen Marsh had shoved their knives in his heart. But what caught Sam's eye was something he had thought he'd never see in his life. The dragon was perched on Jon's right shoulder, its brilliant blue scales shimmering like the sapphire waters on the shores of Tarth. Its head was moving left to right, and then back again, as its tiny golden eyes took in everything around it. They seemed to lock onto Sam, and the dragon let out a piercing screech, and it filled him with warmth and cold at the same time.

"By the Gods…." Edd whispered.

"It worked," Sam said, his voice breathy. "The bloody Red Woman's magic worked."

---

"Well, thanks for not holding off on burning my body," Jon said, as attempted to slide into a woolen tunic.

"We had to be quick about it, hadn't we?" Edd said from Sam's right. "Lest we risk your eyes turning blue."

Jon let out a soft laugh, and Sam and Edd joined him. They were in the Lord Commander's quarters, the three of them. Sam, with the help of Edd, had quickly brought their friend into his chambers, the shock of finding him alive and unharmed still weighing heavy on their minds. Sam had wanted to tell the few of their brothers that saw Jon being hurried away through the courtyard to keep their mouths shut, but had decided against it. It will have been of no use. The rest of the dwellers of Castle Black would find out soon enough. If they haven't already, he thought. Immediately upon closing the door to Jon's solar behind them, he had asked Sam to find something he could put the dragon in. Sam knew just the thing for it, and had run off to the rookery to find the rusty old cage that the Watch had used to lock prisoners in during the olden days. With the help of Jarson and Barden, he had managed to haul it to Jon's quarters. Thankfully, Jon had just ducked inside his bedchambers to find himself fresh clothes, and had also taken his dragon with him. And so, Jarson and Barden had found nothing of interest there, and were about to leave, when Sam had tasked them with rousing Lord Robb and Lady Sansa, and bringing them back to Jon's chambers.

Now, as he stood leaning against the table in Jon's solar, Sam said, "A normal wight is hard enough to kill," Sam added. "I can't imagine trying to kill one with your fighting skills."

"And just how many corpses of dead men do you have under your belt," Edd asked. "Sam the Slayer?"

"Not a single one," Sam said, before asking with pride, "But how many men can claim they've killed a White Walker? Can you?"

Edd opened his mouth with a retort, but Jon's voice cut him off. "That's enough," he growled, looking rather annoyed all of a sudden. "If I have to hear you two going at it like a couple of fishwives, I might as well fling myself back into a fire."

And just like that, the air in the room turned chilly again. Ghost was there, quiet as ever, having taken a spot in the far corner of the room, right next to where the dragon rested in the cage. The thing was too old and weak to keep a man locked inside without risking him breaking out of it, its iron bars rotting in rust in some places. But Sam supposed it would have to do for the little dragon for now. At least, until they could find a new accommodation for the beast. He watched the little beast, seeming rather curious than wary. The dragon seemed equally interested in the big ball of white fur, its head tilting from side to side, its golden eyes locked onto the blood-red of Ghost's.

Jon had managed to put on the tunic, but now as he raised his left arm to slide into the leather armor that Edd had brought for him, he winced. His right hand came up to land softly on his chest where the wounds were.

"Here," Sam said, walking up to his friend. "Let me help you with that."

He held the leather up for Jon as he slowly but steadily put his left hand through one sleeve, before doing the same with his other hand with the other sleeve.

"Thank you, Sam," Jon said in a raspy voice as he stroked a hand down the smooth leather over his chest, a faint smile on his face that seemed to not reach his dark eyes. They seem to hold so many emotions in that moment, but the most prominent one that Sam found was confusion.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked his friend, not sure how a man might feel after having just risen again from the dead.

Letting out a deep sigh, Jon turned towards the window to Sam's left, and as the bright white light coming through the open frame fell upon his face, Sam saw his eyes flickering with violet. It was only for a fleeting moment though, before Jon turned around and took a seat in the chair by his table, and his face was shrouded in dark, his eyes taking on their darker shade again. But Sam knew he had just seen some violet in his friend's eyes. Which was odd, considering Sam didn't remember Jon's eyes having any other color but the gray that was common with those of Stark blood. He wanted to ask him about it, but seeing his face, Sam changed his mind, choosing instead to let his friend speak.

Before Jon could say anything though, there was a knock at the door. Turning around, Sam saw Edd walk over and open it. Sam expected to see Robb and Sansa Stark there, but instead he was greeted with the weathered face of Ser Davos Seaworth. His eyes shone with disbelief as they found Jon. Entering the chambers, he gave way to another person close behind him. The Red Woman. Her usually disturbing eyes of red were now wide with shock and something else that Sam couldn't quite place.

"Lord Commander," said Ser Davos, slowly walking up to Jon. "What do you remember….from before?"

"I remember how they all turned on me," Jon said, fire in his tone. "Thorne, Othell Yarwyck, Marsh and all the rest of them. And I remember the knife they shoved in my heart."

"You were dead-" Ser Davos began, but was cut off when Melisandre pushed him aside to take a place at Jon's feet. Ser Davos looked at Melisandre with something almost akin to loathing, but seemed to decide on keeping his thoughts to himself. Instead, he told Jon, "The lady brought you back."

Looking up at Jon, eyes searching for something in his, Melisandre asked, "Afterwards, after they stabbed you. After you died….what did you see?"

Jon looked down at her, saying, "Nothing. There was nothing." But as he saw his friend's face when he said those words, Sam felt that he was holding something back.

He doesn't want to tell her, Sam realized. What did happen to you, Jon, when you were gone? Even Sam wanted to know that, but he knew now was not the time to pester Jon with questions.

But the Red Woman seemed not to understand that, as she asked, "Did you see the Lord? Was he there? Did you see him?" There was a deep sense of yearning in her voice as she asked that, as if she wanted Jon to tell her that he did, indeed, see her Lord. She looked at him as if she was begging for him to tell her that. But Jon said the same thing he'd said to her just now, "I just told you. There was nothing at all."

Melisandre seemed to realize he was hiding something from her. But thank the gods she wasn't able to bother him further, when there came another knock at the door.

Wanting to get away from the Red Woman, Sam quickly crossed the room and opened the door. This time, it was the comely face of Sansa Stark that he saw. Stepping aside, he let her in, and her brother, Robb, followed her close behind.

Closing the door, Sam turned around to see Jon standing beside his chair now, looking at his sister, standing a few feet away. Sansa Stark was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly, tears beginning to fall down her reddened cheeks. Robb Stark stood by the door, as still as a statue, his face hard like a stone. But his eyes, so alike his sister's, were getting glassy.

"Good morrow, Sansa," Jon said, a big smile on his face even as a single tear slid down his cheek. His eyes were shining with love and relief, sadness and regret and guilt, all at once, as they looked at his sister that he hadn't seen in the last six years. But something about the way he spoke to and looked at his sister made Sam think that Jon had been expecting to see Sansa here, which was odd. She only arrived here after he had died, so he couldn't have known that she was at Castle Black, Sam thought. But then why does he look like he knew he was going to meet her here? Sam had a lot of questions, but they will have to wait.

Sansa Stark just stood there for a moment, looking at her brother who's funeral she had attended just hours ago. And then, half a heartbeat later, she threw herself in her brother's welcoming arms. Sam's gaze dropped to his feet as his best friend embraced his sister, and his heart filled with joy and happiness for Jon. The lady was sobbing quietly as Jon's arms came up along her back, holding her tight. Watching them together made Sam think of his own sister. He hadn't seen Talla in six years, and though his family hadn't suffered like the Starks had, and Talla hadn't been in enemy hands but was rather safe inside the walls of Horn Hill, Sam still felt a yearning to see her again. Jon and Sansa held each other for a long moment, before Jon finally released her from his arms.

"Well," Jon said, his voice soaked in emotions, his cheeks glistening with tears. "You've grown even more beautiful than I remember."

"We were apart for so many years, Jon," said the lady, sniffling. "We all had to grow up rather quickly."

"Aye," answered Sam's best friend, as his smile dropped. There was a faraway look, as if the events of the last six years had just flashed in front of his eyes. "We had to grow up."

"You're not the same person anymore either," Sansa said. "Are you?"

"No. I don't think I am." Jon said in a soft voice.

"Your eyes have certainly changed in color," Sansa murmured, looking at her brother closely.

So, she has noticed it too, then? Sam thought. Good, that means I wasn't just seeing things.

Jon shifted from one leg to another in discomfort, clearing his throat. "Well," he said after a few moments, a faint smile budding onto his face. "My body was given to the fire, and I came back from the dead. So I suppose some changes were bound to happen. Though I would have rather the fire had also made me a few inches taller."

Sansa was quiet for a few moments, staring at her brother, before bursting out in laughter. As Sam watched Jon standing so close to his sister, he saw the tiny but clear difference between their heights. And he couldn't help but let out a soft laugh, and heard a snort from his right, where Robb Stark stood.

Edd came to stand beside Sam then, just when Robb moved along, passing Edd by to slowly walk to the middle of the room. "That's funny," he said, his voice flat, and Jon's eyes shifted to him. "The Jon I knew almost never used to smile. And here you are, telling jokes and laughing at your own expense. Are you sure you're the same brother that I saw before he left to take the black?"

Jon's face lost all its mirth, taking on its usual solemn edge as his eyes filled with sorrow.

"I thought you were dead," he said to his brother.

"I saw you lying dead," Robb said, before pointing to the long table beside him. "Right here."

The room was silent as a crypt, with Jon and Robb both looking at each other, quiet and unmoving. Sam suddenly felt very uncomfortable, feeling an itch on his temple as a drop of sweat trickled down from his hair. No one spoke, every pair of eyes in the room fixed on the two brothers, who seemed to be locked in some sort of a stalemate.

Finally, it was Jon who relented, breaking the silence.

"Alright, Stark," he said, looking at his brother. "You win."

Robb looked at Jon for just a moment longer before he broke into laughter, right at the same time as Jon cracked a real, genuine smile, as well. And the two brothers pulled each other in a manly hug, each patting the other on the back.

"Well," Jon said, breaking the hug, his eyes shifting between his siblings. "Here we are. Gods, how long has it been?"

"Six years," Robb said. "Six bloody and painful years."

He looked at Jon, and Jon stared back, as their eyes began to pool in tears. The next moment the two were holding each other tight in a loving and desperate hug. Losing hold of their emotions, they both had tears running down their cheeks now. Sansa stood beside them, her emotions running down her face anew, as she saw her two older brothers together once again. She took a step forward and wrapped her arms around them both.

Sam felt a warmth in his chest as he stood there, watching his best friend reunited with his family again, brushing away a stray tear from his cheek.