They had been four, perhaps five the first time Robb asked Amma why he alone had to have orange hair when everyone else's hair was normal. Jon had listened in grisly shock as their mother explained that she had not carried either of them in her belly as she had Sansa and Arya. They were both the sons of other women, and those other women had died.

She had told Robb of a Lady Catelyn then, whose hair was bright and fiery like his. Their father had kept a miniature of the lady, and when she showed it to them Jon had seen that her eyes and colouring and freckles were just like Robb's.

"She was strong and beautiful and loved you most fiercely, Robb. If you want to know about her, you may ask your Uncle Brynden. Of those at Winterfell, he knew her best."

Yet when it came to the woman who had carried Jon, Amma only kissed his forehead and gave him a sad smile.

"Her name is not mine to tell, my darling. One day, your father will tell you all about her. Just know now that she loved you with all her heart."

Jon had not understood why 'one day' could not be that very day, so in the evening he had found his father in his solar and blurted out the question before he even closed the door. He could not quite remember the look on his father's face—only that Jon had suddenly known he had said something terribly wrong. Father had looked at him for a long time, Jon thinking he did not truly see him, and then had told him that they would speak of his birth mother when he was old enough. That had been the end of it.

Oh, he had wondered over the years. It burned, the curiosity, on the rare occasions the thought came to his mind, and more intensely as he had grown older. Yet Jon had never broached the subject with Father again. Over the years, he had come to the silent conclusion that his father was ashamed of lying with another woman when Robb's mother had been his wife. If that were the case, Jon did not know if he wished to hear his father speak of her.

Jon did not like to imagine who his birth mother had been. If he allowed himself to start imagining as he lay in the darkness at night, his mind was wont to fall into endless possibilities of faces and eyes, of different smiles and hands and voices, and all of it made his head and chest ache. So he did not play this pondering game and shut out the rumours as best as he could.

Yet in all his imaginings, not once, not once had he considered this…this…he did not even know what this was. He could not think straight. This could not be real. Jon had most certainly eaten some poisonous mushroom or caught an incurable disease and was in the throes of a delusional fever dream.

His body even burned as if he were fevered, and sweat broke out on his neck, prickling like shards of ice. For some moments the world before him rocked like a storm-tossed boat.

"Jon? Are you…you have not said a word."

"Father. I—I don't—I don't understand…"

No, if he speaks true, he is not your father. And when, Jon Snow, has Eddard Stark spoken anything but the truth?

But then…all his life…

"I don't understand," he murmured again, not really hearing his own voice.

"Don't you, Jon?"

"You are…You are telling me that I am not your bastard son?" he asked stupidly.

"Yes, Jon."

He shook his heavy head, but that only made the sickening spinning worse.

"Rhaegar Targaryen was my father…Lyanna Stark was my mother?… But…surely you would have told me. I don't understand."

"Don't you?" his father asked again, very quiet.

"You know of the things Tywin Lannister's men did to Rhaegar's other children. I just told you the story again myself. What do you think the king would have done to you if he'd known about you?"

Rhaegar's other children, Jon thought numbly. He had known what Armory Lorch and Gregor Clegane had done to those children. The old soldiers told stories of how they had laid them bloody and mutilated before King Robert. Every boy in the kingdom had heard of the trial between the gallant Ser Paten Dalt and the child-slaying disgrace of a knight that had been Armory Lorch. Every boy had boasted at least once that one day he would sail to Essos and be the one to find and slay The Mountain who Rides.

Jon knew those stories. Jon had not known they were his siblings that Lannister men slew.

Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. His siblings. No. No, this was wrong. This was a cruel and horrible mistake. His brothers were Robb and Arthur. His sisters were Sansa and Lia and Arya. His father was Ned Stark. Wasn't it?

Not my father.

"No. No!" He felt himself leap to his feet, his fists clenched, face suddenly burning. "Why—why are you lying to me? I am not…I am not the son of some Targaryen prince, I'm not, I'm not!"

This wasn't funny. Was he playing some joke on Jon? Who was this man before him, pretending to be Father, telling him these wild lies?

"You're lying! Tell me you're lying! Please!" And he did not know if he demanded or pleaded.

Father only looked up at him with indescribable sorrow in his eyes.

Not my father.

For a moment, he reached into this doublet and pulled out a small leather pouch, faded with age. Jon watched, half mesmerised, as he untied the string and emptied the contents onto his hand. A ring. A signet ring, gold inlaid with shiny black onyx.

He held it out to Jon, who, by reflex, extended a shaking hand.

The ring was bitterly cold and heavy, and Jon wanted to throw it out the narrow library window. Instead, he brought it to his face. Before him was the three-headed dragon he had seen in history books over the years, detailed gold on onyx, the two curling tails of the beast making little black circles that stared up at him in mocking accusation.

"It was Rhaegar's. Before that, it belonged to Aegon V Targaryen. Rhaegar gave it to Lyanna when he left her in that tower in Dorne. All these years I have kept it beneath her statue in the crypts. It would be wise if you returned it there, but Rhaegar left it for you. His son."

Rhaegar's son. Jon Snow the Targaryen bastard. The thought rolled ridiculously in his mind, and Jon would have laughed at it if he did not wish even more to scream.

Aegon V Targaryen. Some ancestor of his. Rhaegar Targaryen. His father.

Not my father.

Jon felt his brow twist painfully. He stared down at Lord Stark.

"You lied to me." Sudden anger licked at his throat. "My entire life! You lied!"

He seemed to flinch. Jon must have yelled again, he thought distantly, but he could barely hear his own words over the rushing blood in his ears.

"I could not risk anyone knowing."

Jon could not breathe. His throat had closed, and he did not know where he found the air to speak. And Amma? Had she known? Her name is not mine to tell, she had said. Of course she knew. She had lied too.

"I am…I am seventeen. I would have kept the secret. For years now, I could have, but…you kept lying! Why did you lie?"

How could he have lied for so long? To Jon himself? His father who was always honourable and right, lying all Jon's life.

Oh, he could hear his own voice now, and he hated that it sounded like a lost, petulant child.

"I am sorry, Jon," was all Lord Stark could say.

"Why now?" Jon choked out. The ring was wrong in his hand. He reached out to give it back, wanting to get rid of the sick feel of the metal on his palm, but it clattered to the stone floor. Lord Stark stared at it for a long moment before rising to pick it up. Jon did not move.

"I should have told you when you turned sixteen," he heard him say. "It was past time you knew."

Every word his father—not my damn father!—spoke gripped at his throat, strangling, and suddenly Jon could not bear the confines of these walls. Never had Winterfell felt so alien and cold—never had he felt as if he was not welcome in this place he called home—yet now the stones that had always been comforting made him ill. He needed to get out. Right now, he needed to leave, or he thought he might die.

"Jon."

His feet stumbled to a stop at the door and turned, his body acting of its own accord. Lord Stark stood, one hand half outstretched, the other chaining him to his chair.

"I—I know I have upset you deeply. But please—" For a moment he opened his mouth, but no words came. Finally, he continued.

"Be careful, Jon. We are still hosting the king."

Suddenly, Jon saw with clarity how weary his father looked. There was grey sprinkled in his hair now, and lines etched his face, tugging at his eyes and mouth. When had he aged so? It seemed like only yesterday that Jon had seen him tall and broad atop his horse, the warrior lord in all his strength.

Mutely, Jon nodded, the bones in his spine creaking as if stuck. He turned again, but then a horrifying thought occurred to him.

"Is my name even Jon?" he asked, his voice small. He could not even bear to face his father. "Did—did Lyanna—my mother…did she even…"

"She named you Aemon." Father's voice was low. "I gave you the name Jon."

Not my father. Not my name. Did he even know who he was?

A lie. A lie. All of it, a bloody lie. And so am I.

000

He had just stepped into the courtyard when crunching footsteps approached from behind and Robb emerged beside him. Jon's feet were suddenly nailed to the ground, his body rigid.

"There you are," said Robb, hand on his shoulder. "I've been looking for you. Where'd you disappear to?"

Jon found he couldn't look at his—look at Robb at all, and stared resolutely at his boots.

"I just…went to sit with Lia ," he lied, finding it easier than having to say the word 'father' aloud. Robb tensed and sucked in a sharp breath.

"Oh, no, what's happened?" he asked, voice tight, and Jon finally forced his eyes up at him to see him peering worriedly at Jon's face.

"What? Nothing's happened. There's been no change with Lia."

Robb frowned still but seemed to relax.

"Then why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, like…" He shrugged. "You sure nothing's bad's happened?"

Jon bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

"Nothing bad."

"Everything alright with you?"

No. No, no, no. Nothing would ever be fucking alright again.

"Aye."

They walked for a few moments in an awkward silence, his brother—not my brother—clearly sensing something was strange with him, but, being Robb, did not pry. Finally, he spoke, a forced brightness in his voice.

"Mikken came to find me. Says he'll need some specifications for the blade. I don't have the time with all the lordly business, but I told him I'd send you to the forge."

Their big undertaking. It had been at the forefront of Jon's and Robb's plans since it was announced the girls and Arthur would be heading to King's Landing, but Jon had forgotten about it completely this day. He tried to summon a smile, but his face was stiff. He only nodded.

"Theon is still 'refining' his design for the hilt, or so he says, but promises it'll be perfect for her hand. I have no idea how he'll get the measurements right without her knowing, but he seems confident enough. And Sam says he's decided on using the deer leather after all. Much more supple, so there's more give, which the blade will need."

Jon nodded again, barely hearing him. They had rounded through the courtyard now, and he could feel Robb frowning beside him.

"Where are you going, anyway?"

"The godswood."

"Why?"

"I…I need to, that's all."

A concerned pause.

"You sure everything is al—"

"Yes, damnit Robb, stop asking!"

Robb stumbled back like Jon had punched him, and at once Jon felt the pang of accidentally injuring his partner in a sparring match.

"Sorry," he heard himself mumble, but he found he simply could not raise his eyes again to face Robb. If he did, the words might fly out of his mouth, and if he told Robb the truth, all this terrible knowledge would well and truly be real. Robb would be Jon's brother no longer. If he told Robb the truth, he really would be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and all his own siblings would be dead.

"Sorry," he managed once more, and took off running towards the godswood, leaving Robb standing alone in the yard.

000

Jon stared at the bleeding eyes of the weirwood for what seemed an eternity. His insides were tossed upon a storm that would not die. He had always found peace here in this godswood, but it seemed this was not his godswood to find comfort in any longer.

Finally, he had looked away from the eyes dripping with red and sat upon the rock before it, staring off into nothing. It was still better to be here than anywhere else in the castle. Jon felt more alone than ever before, but he felt made for this loneliness.

He was not sure how long it was that he sat there upon the rock, Lord Stark's words running one after another in his mind, over and over, spinning and making him dizzy.

"Jon?"

He whipped his head around at his name. His mother—is she?—was standing some feet away, looking at him with her quiet concern.

"Am—"

The word had nearly tumbled out before Jon remembered himself and shut his mouth again. Could he still call her Amma if Ned Stark was not his father?

He saw her flinch. He looked away, immediately swallowed in shame.

"May I join you?"

He nodded, and heard the rustle of wool as she seated herself by him.

"Will you refuse to call me Amma now?" Her voice was low, but he heard the slight shake of it. Jon swallowed.

"It means 'mother' in the Rhoynish," he said.

"It does."

His jaw tightened.

"You are not my mother."

He heard her intake of breath, sharp and pained, and when he looked up she had turned the full force of her purple eyes on him, piercing like stone. His chest pulled with guilt.

"You've known all your life that I did not give birth to you. You still called me Amma."

"I..."

He could not form words. His head was like a ball of tangled yarn, and he did not know what he was feeling—only that it caught in his chest and throbbed like a festering wound.

She sighed and turned towards the black pool.

"Answer me true, Jon. Have you ever felt I loved you less because you are not of my blood?"

"No!" The word rose unbidden, forcing its way from his throat. If nothing else, he was sure of this.

"Then you must know that your—" she hesitated, her lips thinning, but she pressed on. "Your father loves you like he loves the children he sired, no less, no differently. Blood hardly matters, and besides, you are still of his blood."

Jon couldn't bear to hear that now. He felt the anger flare again, black and hot and ugly.

"He lied! All my life, he lied!" He snapped to face her. "You lied too! My entire life has been a lie!"

She did not shy away from his outburst, from the accusation bleeding from his words.

"I'm sorry we did," she said simply. "We should not have lied to you for so long. Our reasons are not excuses, but we had reasons nonetheless."

"Yes, to keep me safe, I know," Jon said bitterly. "But I could keep secrets at one and ten, and honourable Lord Stark still kept up his lie."

"Oh Jon, do you really think we believed you could not keep the secret? No, we did not tell you because we are selfish. You father could not bear you finding out. 'Not just yet,' he told me when I asked. He wanted just a few more years of the blissful ignorance."

He could not bear this thought either.

"He's not my father," Jon muttered, and something ugly twisted in his chest. He was not certain if it was guilt for voicing the words or grief for the truth of them.

"And you...you are my aunt," he said, voice low. "Lord Stark is my uncle, so you are my aunt."

Silence. Then he heard her trembling sigh, and the guilt dug further in his gut. He wondered if he had finally said too much—gone too far. She deserved none of this. All she had ever done was love him, and here he sat, telling her she meant nothing to him aside from being his father's wife. My uncle's wife.

For a hopeless moment, he thought she would surely leave, and he would truly be alone with the ugly truth of who he was.

Instead, after a moment Jon felt her arm wrap around his shoulder, drawing him into her. He could not resist. She was warm and wonderful, and when she spoke, there was a fierce edge to her voice that felt safe.

"I will always be your mother. Nothing else matters save that you are you, Jon. Do you understand? Nothing needs to change. Not…not if you don't want it to."

The relief was instant, almost blinding, like waves crashing into him, and Jon felt his eyes sting. It was the same, he determined. With his mother, anyway. She would always be the one he had run too when he'd won at sparring or found a particularly pretty rock in the river; the one who'd kissed his forehead when he skinned his knee and encouraged him until he finally managed to sail a boat upriver. Mutely, he nodded.

"I...I'm sorry. Amma, I'm sorry."

She shook her head.

"It hurts. I can only imagine. Don't apologise."

It was a long while before he spoke again.

"Did you always know?"

"Yes. I was with Lyanna for many months. I…I promised her I would see her through her pregnancy, but…" She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Some things man cannot control, as much as we try. I was there five months, but in the sennight I was called back to Starfall, her labour came early and she was gone in days."

Jon felt a shiver up his spine, and again the guilt came, heavy and damp. All this time he had not given Lyanna Stark a single thought. My father, my father Rhaegar he had recited like a curse in his head, but his mother…he finally knew her name, this woman he had wondered about over the years, and he had not had the mind to pay her any heed.

"What was she like?"

"A lot like your sisters, really," she said, and Jon felt himself wince, though he tried to hide it. They were no longer his sisters.

"She was wild and spirited and full of life. Beautiful, and a dreamer, and stubborn, so stubborn. They called her a centaur, for she seemed at one with her horse. Your father told you of what she did at the Tourney at Harrenhal, did he not? Can you imagine, a girl with no training, unseating knights twice her age? She was so proud of herself for that. And she was kind, with more honour than many men I have known. You know, she played the knight to restore justice for her father's bannerman? Her heart had enough room for the world, it seemed."

Jon listened intently as she spoke, and every word was like a gemstone that he carefully tucked away.

"When we were at the tower, she was…she was so happy to be a mother. She was young—younger than you are now—but she was always smiling when she spoke of her child."

He went cold.

And when she knew she was dying? What did she think of her child then, Jon wanted to ask. She was so happy to be a mother, but bringing him into the world had killed her.

"Did she truly love Rhaegar?" he said instead, voice very low. "Is what they tell us of history really false?"

"She did. As a girl, she loved him, and he loved her too. It was the love of stories and spring, of flowers and music and the carefree. It did not have the chance to grow into something solid and capable of withstanding storms and war, I think. She was so very young."

Jon's head swam, though through the grey-red haze he thought he could picture her, young and laughing, with eyes and hair just the colour of his. She was galloping over the dales around Winterfell, laughing the way Lia always did. He wanted to know her, he thought distantly, and to hear her voice, but with his very existence, he had deprived so many of her life.

"You can visit her in the crypts," he heard Amma say. "I think her statue is a true likeness. You might wish to leave flowers for her. She was most fond of flowers."

Jon felt himself nod, though it was with great effort, for he suddenly felt all his strength had drained from him like blood.

His mother stood then.

"Will you come back to the castle?"

"I think I should like to stay here a while longer." He did not know how he managed to get the words out. His tongue was numb and his mind was sluggish.

"Very well." She smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead, her fingers the only warmth around him.

"Come back when you are ready, Jon. I know it has been hard and unjust for you, but your father loves you, and so do I, and so do your siblings. Nothing need change."

Jon kept his eyes trained on the mossy ground, and after a moment, her footsteps started back to the castle. Once more, he was all alone with who he truly was and the things he had done.

Welcome to Jon's mind: Teenage angst x1000. This won't even be the end of it. If you think Jon's going to get over this identity crisis and guilt and lack of purpose anytime soon…idk man, you're going to be really disappointed in me.