Chapter XVIII: The Blood of the Dragon

They had welcomed Bran with smiles and hugs and tears. The boy had grown, as was obvious when Jon looked at him, but not only in height. He looked wiser, as if he knew a thousand things they all had no idea about.

They sat together on the floor, gathered near the fireplace, like they all used to when they were children. Robb was not there, and neither was Rickon. Still, everyone was happy, or at least they looked like it.

Arya closed the door behind her, entering with a smile on her lips that hadn't left since she'd seen Bran. Jon watched as she shed her cloak, rubbing her hands together and crouching near the fire.

"Unfortunately for Sansa, Meera didn't want to wear the dresses she gave her," she said, amusement in her voice. "So I had to give her some of my clothes."

Sansa sighed in defeat.

"Meera never wore dresses. She likes to be able to fight when needed," Bran told them.

"I'm glad she was with you," Arya said. She took Bran's hand, but inched closer to Jon while sitting.

"Summer was with me too," Bran said. "And Hodor. They died."

"Who killed them?" Sansa asked. Jon remembered the half-wit. And the wolf: part of Ghost's pack.

"Wights," Bran said, making Jon snap his eyes towards him in shock. He went on, "They found the cave we were in, and there were so many of them. They killed Summer and then Hodor. The children tried, but they died too. Their numbers were greater than I'd imagined."

"Children?" Arya asked, looking at Bran, and then at Jon.

"The Children of the Forest," Bran explained.

"Like in the stories of Old Nan," Sansa mused.

Bran nodded.

"Yes and no. They were the ones who created the Night's King, to keep the Andals away. But they turned, and now even the Children are gone, and the Night's King's army grows. Everyday."

"If they are dead," Arya said. "How could we kill them? How do you kill someone that's already dead?"

Jon tried to ignore the word we.

"Fire," Bran said.

"And Valyrian steel," Jon finished. "They were at Hardhome. He brought the Wildlings back to life in front of my own eyes. It was magic of the worst kind."

"That is why we need the Queen's dragons," Bran said. "With the dragons, we have a chance."

"She will have to help us. She cannot rule a land inhabited by corpses," Sansa said, with a frown.

"She will," Bran said, with too much confidence. "She has someone of her blood here. She will help."

"Of her blood?" Arya asked, intrigued. "All Targaryens are dead."

"Not all," Bran replied, shaking his head. His voice was calm, and he was looking straight at Jon. Something told him he wouldn't like what was coming.

"The three-eyed raven showed me a vision. Of when Father fought with King Robert. He killed Arthur Dayne, while he was guarding a tower. Our aunt Lyanna was in the tower, covered with blood, dying."

Jon had heard bits of the story, but not all. Everyone was silent, concentrating on Bran's words.

"And there was a child in her arms. And Father promised to take care of him, to look after him. And love him. The child was Lyanna's." He looked at Jon again. "And Rhaegar Targaryen's. Father brought him here to Winterfell, and told everyone the child was his own, because if the King had known, he would've killed him. He grew up as a bastard, when he should've lived as a Prince."

Jon felt his heart beat wildly. It couldn't be. He was Ned Stark's son. He was their half-brother. Lady Catelyn hated him because of it. He wasn't Lyanna's, he was some woman's who Ned Stark had loved and bedded outside his marriage. He was a bastard.

"I am your family," he said.

"Yes," Bran agreed. "Our cousin."

"I do not believe you," he heard Arya say.

"I wouldn't lie about this, sister. You know it. You can write to Meera's father, Lord Howland Reed, if you want. He knew this. Only he and Father, and no one else. And now us."

Arya clutched at Jon's arm.

"Rhaegar raped her," Sansa said.

Jon felt bile rise to his throat.

"No," Bran said. "He loved her. And she loved him. It was wrong of them, and unfair, but they did. Their love was the reason for the deaths of countless people, their own families. But in the end, he died for her, and took her with him. It was never rape. It was only love, and nothing else."

Jon felt his head spinning, and all he wanted to do was scream and cry. He rose up from the floor. Arya's hand was clutching at him still, but he gently took it off him.

"Jon."

She sounded just as confused as he was. But in the moment, he couldn't bear to look at anyone. Arya called his name again, but he ignored her voice and walked out of the warmth of the room.

His world had turned upside down. And he had no idea what to do about it.

It was very late, he knew that, and it was highly improper for a man to visit a woman's chambers at the hour, but he didn't find it in himself to care. He had spent hours alone, thinking and searching for an answer to all of it, but he hadn't found one. In the end, he understood that he couldn't do it alone, and that he needed someone.

And who would ever understand him more than Arya did?

He knocked on her door softly enough, still a doubt floating in his mind about whether he should do this. But Arya didn't give him much time to think over it, and opened the door at the second knock, surprised and yet looking relieved to see him. She didn't look like she was sleeping, but she had furs wrapped around herself, from her neck down to her legs and touching the floor. She clutched the ends together with one hand over her chest. And smiled.

"Can I come in?" He asked. The question was stupid. She'd never say no.

Arya nodded, and opened the door for him to enter, then closed it behind him, locking it without making a sound. Jon looked around, and there was a candle near her bed, the flame dancing and flickering. She had definitely been awake. As much as he knew her, she was never one to sleep with a candle still burning.

"You weren't sleeping?" He asked, ghosting his fingers over the flame. Targaryens could withstand fire, he had heard.

"No, I couldn't," she replied.

Jon felt his fingers start to pain so he pulled them away.

"Why?" He asked, looking at her as she sat on the bed.

"Just... Dreams."

"Nightmares?"

"No, just dreams," she said, shrugging. She pulled him by the hand to sit near her. "Are you alright?"

"I do not know." He sighed, and looked at their fingers locked together. They had always been each other's favourites, much to everyone's surprise. "He lied to me about everything I am. When I think about my childhood now, about Robb and Winterfell and you and everyone, it all feels like a cruel jape."

"Don't say that," she told him, softly. She interlocked their fingers together tighter. "This doesn't change anything. Expect that- that you didn't deserve my mother's wrath and cruelty, or the way some people treated you."

Jon saw her smile disappear at that, and felt guilty that he made her sad as well, when it was only his burden to bear.

"The Queen is my aunt," he said aloud, for the first time.

How would Daenerys take this news?

"She is," Arya agreed, biting her lip, and he could tell she was thinking about something. Something she didn't like. He tried but he couldn't make out what.

"What do you think will happen when this truth comes out?" He asked.

"I don't know. Neither do I care. As long as you won't change."

She meant it as a question, and that hurt him.

"Do you think I will?" He placed his hand on her neck, her hair falling over his knuckles, and Arya shook her head. She let her furs drop from around her, and reached out to touch his face. Jon closed his eyes.

"My heart says you won't," she whispered.

"Your heart speaks true," he said, smiling, opening his eyes to find that she was smiling too. "And you are here to smack sense into me if I do anything wrong, aren't you?"

She rolled her eyes, and they both laughed. This was what she did to him: make him happy when he thought he couldn't be. Arya inched closer to him and dropped her head on his shoulder, looking up at him with eyes that shone like fire.

"Aren't you cold, you little thing?" He asked her, and she nudged him briefly.

"I'm not little," she said defensively. He wanted to say that she was, but he knew it wasn't really true.

"I should probably go. You must be sleepy," he said.

"No," she said instantly. "Don't go. I don't want to go to sleep. Not yet."

Jon looked down at her face, and put his palm over her cheek.

"What are these dreams?" He asked her, genuinely worried; curious about what kept her up at night and took away her peace.

He felt Arya fidget once, and then move herself deeper into his embrace.

"Wolf dreams," she said.

"I thought you liked seeing through Nymeria," he asked, puzzled.

"It's different these days," she said, but didn't elaborate her words. Jon himself hadn't had a wolf dream for almost a week, and wondered if he should have, if only to know what bothered Arya. He found it strange that those dreams kept her awake, when even he, who didn't appreciate this gift, was able to have a sound sleep after being inside Ghost during the night.

"Jon?"

He turned to her.

"There are only a few hours till the morn," she said, voice hesitant and small. "Will you stay with me? You don't have to, but I would just like if-" she stopped herself.

"I don't think that would be proper, little sister," he said as an answer, feeling uneasy. He had slept beside her many nights as a child, but they were older now, and he shouldn't have really minded but he did.

"Of course," she said, pulling herself away from him quickly. "I was just being stupid. You should go. I think I want to sleep now, and it's late too. Goodnight, Jon."

Her words were so abrupt, almost as if she was telling him to get out of there. He could do nothing but nod and say a small goodnight and leave. He saw her blowing out the candle before closing the door, and he felt like the most useless person in Westeros.

She couldn't sleep, and she needed him to stay so that he could help keep the dreams away, but he was thinking of bloody propriety. Of course, she would push him away. Arya, of all people, hated when words like that came between them.

He almost turned around again, and went back to her. Only the thought of her not wanting him guided his steps ahead, towards his own room. And when he entered it, his mind was filled with Bran's words again. He had managed to forget them for a while, he realized.

He should've stayed with her.