When the dragon had borne Dany away from him—again, he thought—Jon prayed the old gods would keep her safe. She'd held up well at the mention of Viserion, but that meant nothing. He knew she'd have shattered if she'd been alone, if it had been only them in the courtyard, and not hundreds of their people. And her eyes… they'd seemed to steal his soul with the depth of their pain when she realized she must leave. There were other options, but she'd been correct; Drogon was the fastest way to bring word to the army, and no one could ride him but her. He'd known better than to argue; he'd denied her once by saying kings needed no permission, he could not deny her this duty she wanted—no, needed—to take. He did not blame Jorah or Tyrion for trying. He'd have held her back if he knew she would let him.

He had to drag his gaze away from the clouds to turn to his family, with the unlikely addition of Sam. "This is not how I imagined us reuniting," he said to them when he'd met their stares. Arya's gray eyes were locked on his own. "Little sister."

"Big brother," she said, and then he pulled her into his arms again and kissed the top of her head fiercely, glad that she was real, substantial, and not going anywhere again. Sansa watched on, flanked by both Sandor and Lady Brienne, her eyes nervous, her mouth trying not to twitch into a smile at such a time.

"I need to talk to you," his little brother—his only brother—said, his voice ghostly and bone-chilling. It forced Jon to let Arya go, to turn to survey his brother or the shell of him, at least.

"Perhaps not just now, Bran," Sam Tarly said over him. "Now is not the time."

"We'll talk," Jon promised the boy. "Sam, how did you come to be here? What happened at Old Town?"

"A story for later, I think."

"Gilly and baby Sam?"

"Both well, and here, in the kitchens."

"Good. I have things I need to tell you," Jon said, thinking of Dickon and his father.

"Later. Stories can wait," Sam said again, a soft smile on his full face. Jon had missed him, wished he could reach out and feel that he was real as well. After losing so many and so much, he took nothing for granted anymore. And he'd lost more without even knowing. Had Tormund survived? Lord Beric? And Edd? Did Edd even know the Wall had fallen?

"You're right. Sansa…"

"Jon," she said simply, and he hugged her as he had Arya, kissed her forehead. Arya seemed to appraise the gesture with a soldier's keen eye.

"I want to hear what's happened," he said to her, "since I gave you that sword."

"You will. I want to know when you two started getting along."

"You're one to talk," Sansa said, sharing a smile with Arya that left Jon stunned momentarily.

"We definitely need to talk," he said, "but now…"

Now, they had to create a plan to turn back the army of dead men coming for them, for Bran, if he spoke the truth. Jon dismissed most of the onlookers and led the way to the Great Hall, with Tyrion and the rest of Dany's retinue falling into step behind. Jon tried to shake the fear that clutched his heart for her, but he'd always known there was no changing her mind, only helping her to see all of her options. She needed to reassure herself that her men were well.

They passed hundreds of refugees, and in one of the courtyards, a troupe of children learning to spar. That it had come to that… Jon couldn't dwell on it, though most of them looked younger than Rickon had been.

"So does the queen often risk herself like that?" Sansa asked on his arm.

"When it's necessary," Jon said with a bit of pride, despite the ache in his chest. Dany did as he would do, were he in possession of a dragon. He could not deny it. "She saved us beyond the Wall, which I'm sure you've heard from Sandor and Gendry, and has ridden Drogon into battle at least once."

"She was advised against the second," Tyrion said dryly from Sansa's other side.

"My lord husband," Sansa said in response, not unkindly, but rather with a hint of amusement that shook Jon for another moment. "I'm glad they did not take your head for Joffrey's death."

"Lady wife. They tried," the dwarf said.

"You'll be happy to know at least one of the people who used you as a scapegoat has met his end."

"Who?" Jon asked, unaware of this development.

"Lord Baelish," Arya said. "He did not die well." Jon would have shuddered, but the look in Arya's eyes prevented it. She had no shame, only pride, and he knew that had he been given proof, he'd have gutted the weasel. He let it pass and knew it would be one of the stories they told in front of the fire that night, hopefully when Dany was once again at his side, and he could introduce her to his siblings properly. Or at least his sisters.

"Two," Jaime Lannister supplied from behind his brother, his stride in step with Lady Brienne's. When Jon glanced back, the once-golden man looked at his feet. "Lady Olenna had a part in that scheme."

Jon watched Tyrion's jaw tighten, but the imp said nothing until they entered the Great Hall in a clamor of voices.

It took time to convince Tyrion that Bran spoke the truth. Jon had believed Sam and Sansa, but had his quiet doubts, until hearing his brother spout private moments between people who ought to have been alone was enough to convince all and sent the Spider into pale, quiet contemplation. It took hours more to plan, strategize, organize. They created schedules of hunting parties, found men who could help construct temporary housing for the smallfolk who sought shelter, found carpenters and builders for war machines, argued over whether the smallfolk would stay. It took Jon shouting for quiet in the last argument to get the men and women to listen.

"We will struggle to feed and house so many people, it is true. If we could send them somewhere safe, we would, but nowhere is safe. If we send them where they are unprotected, they may become the target of attack. It is an army of dead men. Every battle, every undefended person feeds their ranks. They stay, they contribute to the cause, and when spring comes, there will be people yet to plow the fields, to raise livestock. They stay."

It was nearing sunset when Jon found himself blessedly alone in his father's old chambers—his own while he was Lord. He'd thrown the shutters wide to let in a breeze, or so he'd tell anyone who asked. He truly wanted to have his eyes on the sky, watching for Dany's return. He found his eyes raking the clouds every few moments, rather than focusing on the notes he needed to send to Wyman Manderly and the other Lords who remained in their own holdfasts. He'd finished the one meant for Edd, at least. He didn't need to mince words with Edd.

Edd, We've had word that Eastwatch fell to the Others. Is it confirmed? How many lost? Are you safe? Thank you for my brother's return. Jon

The words stared back at him from the scroll, taunted him with the unknowns. Was Edd even alive? He had to push the thought away. Edd would answer him, he had to. To clear his head, Jon stood and walked to the windows facing south again, leaned against the sill and took slow breaths of the frozen air, searching for two swooping dots on the horizon, where already the sky was turning a golden yellow. He sunk into the peace of the moment, forgot everything but that color, burning the clouds. The shadows at the tops were the same darkened lilac as Dany's eyes when she was in a temper, and he smiled to think that she was riding those clouds, her silver hair blending with the sky as Drogon flew. He did not think he would sit the back of a dragon well, though he'd try it if she asked. The power, the heat that had laid beneath Drogon's skin had given him a shiver of pleasure, but the beast was massive and deadly. Dany had mentioned that Jaime Lannister had tried to ride them both down with a lance; Jon envied the man's courage, but not his idiocy, nor his family.

A knock at the door tore him back to the sharp reality, to the ache in his chest. He turned, one hand ready to draw Longclaw. "Enter." He relaxed—with effort—when Sam opened the heavy door, a hesitant, nervous smile on his face, and Bran on the landing behind him. "Sam, come in," Jon said, trying not to feel stiff with Bran's presence.

"It's good to see you, Jon," he friend said as he rolled Bran's chair close to the fire.

"And you," Jon said, moving forward to put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "How did you come to be here? The Citadel—"

"The Citadel is full of fools," Sam said in a show of force Jon couldn't remember him possessing. "Old men determined to ignore the truth in front of their eyes for the books beneath their noses."

"Says the man who could lose himself in any book," Jon said, smiling at Sam's vehemence.

"Yes, well, I can do both. I trust my eyes, the words of my friends, and the lines written by dead men. I trust myself, Gilly, and you. Besides, we have no time for books now. When the Walkers are gone, we can find answers."

"You surprise me, Sam," Jon said, slowly.

"You wait," Sam said, grim. "Not much will surprise you, soon."

"What do you mean?" Jon sat next to his brother at the hearth and tried not to shudder when he realized he could only see the whites in Bran's eyes.

"Eddard never told you about your mother?"

"You know he did not." We'll talk about your mother. He heard the words, the last words his father had ever said to him. "He meant to visit me at Castle Black, but..."

"But," Sam agreed, his mouth an anxious pout.

"What is it, Sam?" Jon had a feeling, and a spark of hope lodged in his throat. "Have you—" He had to swallow, hard, to get the words out. "Have you found her? My mother?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

The spark grew into an ember, burning within him. "Who is she?"

"Was," Bran's deathly soft voice said, cutting across Jon's heart.

"She's dead?" Jon asked, knowing it had been too much to wish for, too much joy for him to possess. At Sam's nod, Jon tore his gaze from his friend's pity and stared into the flames. "Who was she?"

"Ly—"

"Bran, that's perhaps not the best way to tell him," Sam said quickly, cutting off the words. Jon wanted to be angry with his friend for denying him the knowledge but couldn't find the will. He'd never expected to know her name, never expected to meet her, but having glimpsed the chance at both, and being allowed only one, all in only a few moments, left him feeling numb.

"What is the best way, Sam?"

"Jon, I—" Sam cut himself off when he met Jon's eyes. "Eddard made your mother a promise. Bran saw them, in one of his visions."

Jon glanced at Bran briefly, then back to Sam. "What was the promise?"

"'If Robert finds out, he'll kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him. Promise me, Ned. Promise me.'"

Jon froze, staring at Bran, who in turn stared into the flames. When his brother his eyes round to meet Jon's, Jon had to force himself not to move away. It was not Bran behind that face, Jon was sure of it. "Robert? Baratheon?"

"Yes," Sam confirmed, "we believe so."

"Why would he want to kill me? The man had more bastards than anyone, surely he wouldn't care..." Jon trailed off at the look in Sam's eyes. "Who was she, Sam? Who was my mother?"

"Your mother was not why Robert would have killed you, Jon." Sam sighed, scrubbed at his beard. "Robert hated your father."

"No. No, they were best friends; he named him his Hand—"

"No," Bran said. "He killed your father."

Jon had to clench his jaw. "Father died on the steps of the Sept of Baelor."

"Yes, Eddard did, Jon. I'm trying to handle this delicately—"

"Well, don't. Tell me plainly, Sam, and tell me now. Who was my mother?" Jon was fighting the cold anger around his heart, and in an attempt to relieve some, stood to pace back to his desk—his father's desk, Eddard's desk. When Sam's silence had extended too long, he whirled. "Who was my mother, Bran?"

"Lyanna Stark."

"Aunt Lyanna? No—"

"Yes," Sam said. "But before you jump to an incorrect conclusion, as you already have... Eddard was not your father. He only claimed to be in order to protect you, to fulfill your mother's wishes. To fulfill his promise."

Jon reeled. "No. No, I'm... I'm Eddard Starks's son. His bastard son."

"You're not. Bran saw your parents in a vision—"

"And we can believe him?" Jon accused.

"We can, Jon, and you know he's already proven so."

"So I'm Lyanna's bastard then," he spat. "She never married; she was Robert's betrothed when Rhaegar—" The world seemed to spin, just for a moment, and then Jon felt it stop. Just stop. "Rhaegar?"

"Yes, but—"

"Lyanna was raped, Sam. Kidnapped and raped. She had a child?"

"She had you, Jon, but—"

"Rhaegar. I'm..."

"Rhaegar's son, but—"

"I'm the product of rape, Sam. I'm still a bastard, just not the bastard I thought I was!"

"No," Bran said.

John didn't hear him, not right away. He was spiraling, his world shifting. Lyanna, who he'd always heard tell was beautiful and rash, like Arya. Arya—little sister—no, cousin. Rhaegar, the Prince of Dragonstone, who put down his harp to learn the sword, who stole a girl and destroyed a dynasty, who died with Robert's warhammer in his chest. Dany's brother. Oh, gods, Dany. A hole opened in the floor and his stomach dropped through it. "Rhaegar's bastard."

"No," Bran said again.

"What?" John spat, turning his rage and despair on the husk of his younger brother—cousin.

"She loved him, and he loved her."

"Let me explain, Jon, before anything else is said," Sam said quickly. "Rhaegar and Lyanna were in love. They eloped. Rhaegar didn't kidnap her; she went willingly. Septon Maynard married them—Gilly found it in a manuscript at Old Town. I think I brought it with me, I'm not sure. More than that, Bran saw them. They married beneath a weirwood. You're Rhaegar's trueborn son."

"No—"

"Yes," Sam said, forcefully but gentle. "But when Eddard found you, Rhaegar was dead. Robert had won. And your mother… she was dying. Something went wrong as she was giving birth to you. So, she made Eddard promise." Sam paused, and Jon felt empty, stripped, laid bare. "Robert would have killed you if he knew. Like he killed your father."

Like he had the Mountain kill Elia and the children. My siblings. Oh, gods, like Dany.

"Why?" he asked. He knew, but he needed someone to say it. "I was only a baby. What harm is a baby?"

"You are the heir to the Iron Throne," Bran said, staring into the hearth, his eyes white again. "She named you Aegon Targaryen."

"No," Jon managed, before the darkness within him began to eat away at the edges of his vision. "No. I'm just Jon. I'm…"

The last thing he heard was the sound of Ghost letting out a gut-wrenching howl as the world faded.

"Ghost."

Hi everyone, long time no see. I posted on my tumblr about why it was taking me so long to post (thirteenthsister), but wanted to give you guys an update here as well. I've been writing a ton, mostly this story, but when you're dealing with a cast of characters as large as GoT/ASoIaF, things get messy. I've been bulk writing then editing once I find where I'm going. A few more chapters are waiting in the wings, and I'll do my best to edit and post as soon as possible. Keep reviewing, I read every single one and appreciate the feedback. Be sure to tell me if you see any errors, and reach out to me on tumblr if you want to debate Sansa x Sandor, I'm always willing to argue my case.