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The hills of the Westerlands roiled. One moment Jon felt as though he could see for leagues in any direction, only to then find himself surrounded every which way with cresting hills, waiting to be summited.

Cutting through the hills just south of Sarsfield was still the swifter path than the River Road. Jon doubted whoever held the Golden Tooth would fall for the same trick twice. No doubt, the goat's path they'd used to circumvent the keep would be closely guarded. A siege at the Golden Tooth or Sarsfield would take too much time. Not that the path they took allowed them to move quickly at all.

A cold wind greeted their host at the top of the next hill and it bled life into Jon's bones. That day, the sky was a blank blue canvas, free of any clouds, and the trees had begun to shift to the first colors of autumn. Ghost trotted along merrily at Jon's side, happy to be free of the confines of Casterly Rock.

At Jon's other side rode his squire Alyn, who huddled down into his cloak, less pleased with the cooler weather than the northerners in their host. He scowled at the wind that tugged at his cloak, and the chill in the air marred his usually pale face with blotches of red. Alyn rubbed his injured leg, and Jon grimaced.

"How's your leg?" Jon asked Alyn. The storming of the Rock had been Alyn's first battle not relegated towards the rear, and the boy had not emerged unscathed.

It wasn't a horrible wound. The arrow had just grazed his leg, but it'd been enough for the maester to call for the wound to be stitched closed. Alyn hadn't even told Jon he'd been wounded until later, after Alysanne stepped into the pyre.

"It's better," Alyn shrugged. He briefly glanced down at his leg. "The maester says I should be fine to train in a few days time."

"Good," Jon nodded. "You fought well." Not that Jon had expected otherwise.

Alyn showed promise with the sword, but Jon would not have faulted him for wavering. He was only a boy, after all, barely twelve-name-days. Even Jon had stumbled in his first battle not too long ago. No amount of practice in the training yard could prepare someone for the turmoil and tumult of battle. But Alyn is a brave lad.

After a mumbled thanks, Alyn fell silent for a moment. He chewed his lip and kept his eyes cast down to the reins in his hands. Finally, Alyn inhaled heavily. "Jon? I think it's my fault."

"What is? Your leg? Why would that be your fault?" Jon frowned and racked his brain.

Yes, perhaps Alyn should have paid more mind to the archers on the ramparts when they entered the courtyard, but Jon hadn't seen them either. With all the pandemonium in the yard, it would have been impossible to note every threat. And it was his first true battle. He would learn to notice those things in time. "It's more my fault than yours," Jon stated.

"No," Alyn said. He hesitated. "Ser Addam. I think what happened was my fault."

Jon jerked the reins of his horse to stop, and so did Alyn. The other riders veered around them, like flowing water around a stone.

"Why would that be your fault, Alyn?" Jon scrutinized him intently. He'd never seen his squire look so crestfallen. His chin dipped to his chest, and he resolutely avoided Jon's eyes. Instead, he toyed with the leather reins in his hands.

"I saw the weapon in his hand," Alyn confided. "After he surrendered, he didn't drop his weapon. I saw the ax in his hand, but I said nothing. I didn't stop him." Alyn shuffled his attention from the reins towards the front of the line where Alysanne rode, still shrouded in black. "And now the Queen grieves."

With a flick of his reins, Jon resumed their march forward. "That is not your fault, Alyn."

Alyn pressed his horse forward and caught up to him. He still did not appear as though he believed Jon. "But I might have stopped him, if I'd been faster."

"The man falsely surrendered. The blame lies with him, and him alone," Jon insisted. And me. If only he'd paid more mind. If he hadn't let his guard down, then he would've seen the man heave his ax back to strike him.

Why didn't I notice he had yet to relinquish his weapon? The ax should've been the first thing Jon demanded. But he'd turned his back to the man, and hadn't noticed him swing his ax back until Ser Addam shoved him out of the way.

Not a night had passed that Jon hadn't rehashed that moment. If only he hadn't turned, if he'd just watched that man for a moment longer, if only he'd regained his footing that much quicker. Ser Addam had pushed him out of the way, Jon had stumbled, and he'd regained his balance in time to see the glint of the blade as the ax whipped through the air. Jon would remember the sickening squelch as it'd sunk into Ser Addam's stomach for as long as he lived.

Everything that followed was a blur of white, fiery rage. Jon just barely recalled Ghost surging through the air to sink his teeth into the man's arm. He didn't remember deciding to cut the man's head clean off, and yet he had.

A part of Jon wished he'd spared the man, if purely to give Alysanne the satisfaction of seeing justice done for herself. It might have eased her grief. A part of Jon wished Ser Addam hadn't been paying any attention at all, for then his blood would not stain Jon's hands. Then, Alysanne's laugh might be more than a rare occurrence.

Even though he'd burned those clothes, scrubbed his armor until it shone new, Ser Addam's blood lingered.

No matter how hard Jon tried that night, he hadn't been able to staunch the flow of blood. Not even his cloak, which he'd torn from his shoulders in a panic, had been able to sop it all up. It'd been drenched by the time they arrived at the maesters' chambers.

"No, Alyn. That was not any fault of yours," Jon reiterated.

Alyn's frown did not lessen, but he nodded all the same. He peered back behind them, to where the dragons rode in cages, closely guarded by Jorelle Mormont and the Smalljon. "Can I ask you something else?"

"You can," Jon responded.

"I heard a rumor." Alyn observed him warily and spoke tentatively, as though scared of how Jon would react to his inquiry. "About you."

With a sinking heart, Jon asked, "What rumor?" Jon need not have asked. He knew precisely which rumor Alyn referred to. He'd heard it himself in passing, and Wylla had told Alysanne that it'd made its way down to the camp followers.

Alyn fretted with his reins once more. "I heard some of the River Lords talking. They said that they heard some of the dornishmen talking, and they said Ned Stark wasn't truly your father. And everyone always says only Targaryens claimed dragons, or that's what I heard, anyway." With a final nervous peek in his direction, Alyn asked, "Is it true? Are you a Targaryen?"

Jon looked around. Wylla, Jorelle, Arya, those who rode closest to them already knew the truth, or would soon enough anyway. "Aye, it's true," Jon sighed. Alyn gaped at him. "Ned Stark wasn't my father. Rhaegar Targaryen was."

"Rhaegar Targaryen?" Alyn exclaimed. Jon hushed him, though he supposed he'd be a fool to attempt to keep the truth to himself.

It was simply a matter of time before others in camp pieced together who his true parents were. Especially now that Aegon and the Dornish knew the truth. So many people knew, Jon wondered if he could truly consider it a secret any longer.

He had a dragon, and Jon hadn't exactly taken any measures to hide it. What would be the use? While the dragon was still so small, perhaps he could hide that he'd claimed it for his own. But once it grows larger? What will I do then?

There wasn't a soul in Westeros who didn't know the tale of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, or some variation of it at the very least. It wouldn't take a maester to puzzle together just how he'd been able to claim a dragon for his own.

"Aye. Lyanna Stark was my mother, and Rhaegar Targaryen, my father," Jon grumbled. "Who'd you think it'd be? There weren't many Targaryens left."

"I don't know!" Alyn flailed. "I half expected you to say it was all shit!"

"Well, it's not shit," Jon said. "I have the letter from my mother to prove it."

Alyn fell quiet while he contemplated exactly what Jon had told him. He looked around them and lowered his voice. "That means you could be King then."

I could be King. Alyn's words echoed, but Jon chased them away. The conclusion Alyn came to was precisely the reason Jon had no wish to call a meeting with the lords and confirm the rumors. They would want him to answer for certain whether he meant to press his claim.

Jon had no desire to take the throne for himself. Even if he did, what right did he have to claim it? Aegon was the elder, and trueborn besides. He'd much rather stay in the North, where he belonged. But if Aegon demands Robb to kneel? What then?

Would he be willing to push his claim, should Aegon refuse the North its independence? Alysanne had briefly presented the idea to him, and admittedly, Jon had not reacted well. But there's some reason to what she said. Would he be willing to leave his home if it meant freedom for the North? Freedom for Arya, Alysanne, Robb, and all the rest of his family?

Yes, Jon decided. He would do it if Robb asked it of him, if his duty to Robb required it of him. If the gods are with us, I won't have to.

"I'm still a bastard," Jon said. A bastard, but raised in Westeros. "Robb is the King in the North, and Aegon the South."

That was, if Robb and Aegon could arrive at an agreement. A weight settled deep in Jon's chest, but he tried not to dwell on it. There was no use worrying until they reached Riverrun. And even then, they'd have to wait until after Edmure's wedding.

Robb's uncle Edmure, after much contention, had finally agreed to wed one of Lord Walder's numerous daughters. Jon did not envy Edmure Tully much at all in that regard, even though Jon doubted he'd ever marry anyone as highborn as Edmure's future Frey bride. Who'd want to marry a bastard, even a legitimized one?

A call of Prince Jon from behind him, swathed in a Dornish lilt, snagged his attention. Jon swallowed a sigh. "Go on, Alyn. I'll tell you more later."

He'd show him more later, too. Jon had stopped hiding Dark Sister away, though he still hesitated to flaunt it or show it to anyone who hadn't already seen it. Alyn shared Jon's love for tales of legendary knights, and Blackfyre and Dark Sister featured in many.

His squire had been enamored enough with Blackfyre, and Jon was eager to let him try his hand with Dark Sister. He'd purposely waited until Alyn was healed enough to return to the training yard. It wouldn't do for him to re-injure himself in his eagerness.

Alyn kicked his horse onwards and caught up to where Arya rode. He fell into pace beside her, and Arya cast him a pleading glare over her shoulder. Jon stifled a laugh. Alyn, for all he was adept with his sword, was far from subtle. He followed Arya around camp or otherwise watched her with longing. A blind man could see that Alyn fancied Arya.

The sound of Arianne's horse neared. "Princess Arianne," Jon greeted. A short tug on the reins slowed his horse, and Jon waited patiently for Arianne to match his pace.

Ahead, towards the front of the host, rode Alysanne in her usual place. Jon wished he'd pressed harder to ride beside her, but she'd requested Harrion Karstark's company. A queer choice, if one were to ask Jon. Especially given as the man had questioned her at every chance. Jon doubted Harrion Karstark was better company than he was. Instead, Jon would have to contend with Dorne.

True to his word, Aegon had waited a few days to reveal the truth of Jon's parents to his advisors. And, as promised, he'd let Jon join him when he did so. Even being there, Jon was not entirely certain what the Dornish made of him.

Prince Oberyn watched him. He stared at Jon as they marched, and he watched Jon when he took to the training yard with Alyn. He did not wear disgust on his face, nor did he show hatred. There was nothing at all, and it put Jon on edge. At least Jon Connington was more transparent in his feelings towards Jon, and it wasn't anything he wasn't used to. Prickly lords and ladies had gawked at him his whole life, and Jon was well versed in staying out of their way.

But Arianne… if Jon was being truthful, Arianne treated him no differently, and Jon didn't quite know what to make of that. He'd thought she'd be of a similar mind to her cousins, who avoided him mostly.

Upon sighting Ghost, Arianne's horse snorted and tossed its head, but soon settled. Arianne cast a wary glance at Ghost before she said, "Tell me, Prince Jon, is it always so cold this far north?"

Arianne looked a sight, bundled up in her cloak. She'd forgone her usual gauzy silks for a thicker dress of wool and a heavy cloak lined with fur. Jon found no hint of the skin she usually bore, but she had retained her golden bracelets. The furs suit her.

"This is a mild chill, and this is not the North," Jon smiled. Arianne's nose scrunched, and she shot him a playful glare.

"Everything above Prince's Pass is the north," Arianne declared. A breeze tousled her dark curls and, with a huff, she tossed them out of her face. "Tell me of Winterfell, Jon. I fear this is the furthest north I've ever been."

"It's cold. Far colder than this by now, I imagine. Even in the summer, it snows," Jon said. A fond smile stretched across his face. "As children, we'd spend all day playing in the snow."

"I've never seen snow. Even in winter, Dorne does not freeze. Maester Caleotte said it almost never snows in Dorne. The last time Dorne saw true snow was before Aegon's Conquest." Arianne faced forward as she spoke, and Jon could not help but trace the profile of her face with his eyes. The slope of her nose, the gentle uptick of her full lips as she continued to impart all she knew about winters in Dorne. If Jon were a bolder man, he might have even reached over to brush the stray curl back behind her ear.

"I should like to visit what you consider the North, one day," Arianne said. Arianne faced Jon, and he hastily broke eye contact. She's not a fool. She knows you were staring like a lech.

"Aye," Jon cleared his throat. "I'm sure Robb would not mind were you to visit after the war."

Something sparked across her face at the mention of Robb. "Your cousin Robb. He's the one who legitimized you, yes?"

"He is." Jon observed her. He knew enough by now to know Arianne was not just making simple conversation by bringing up his legitimization. She had not done so when last Jon mentioned Robb in conversation to her, and certainly she knew it was Robb who legitimized him.

"He legitimized you as a Stark. You still call yourself Jon Stark, despite who your father is. I presume you mean to keep that name?" Or if I mean to take the name Targaryen, she means. Jon did not doubt Aegon's advisors had fears over what exactly his intentions were.

"I do," Jon said. Nothing more, nothing less. Jon saw other questions brewing. Questions of Rhaegar and Lyanna, questions of intentions that Jon did not feel inclined to untangle. So instead he said, "tell me of Dorne, of Sunspear. I've only gone as far south, as you have north."

Arianne regarded him sidelong, calculating whether to press forward with her questions. With a sniff, she raised her chin. "You snicker at me for thinking this mild chill to be cold, but you would not last a day in Dorne. The sands would swallow you whole."

"Would they?" Jon held her gaze, and she narrowed her eyes.

"They would. The sun never yields. It'd burn you to ash." Arianne appraised him, and a playful grin befell the hard set of her jaw. "Unless you took refuge in the Water Gardens with the rest of the children. Though you might have to lose more clothing than your northern sensibilities allow."

Jon sputtered, and Arianne giggled. Jon couldn't help but laugh along, not when the sound of her laugh buried him like the sands of Dorne.

For the rest of the march, Jon listened to Arianne tell him of her home. From Sunspear and the Sandship, with the Tower of the Sun and the Spear Tower, to the Shadow City just outside its walls with its narrow alleys and bazaars. She told him of the Greenblood, and the Planky Town, which sat at its mouth and floated. The Prince's Pass, the shores surrounding Sunspear and the Water Gardens, Jon did not think Arianne would ever find anyone she loved as much as Dorne.

The rest of the march at Arianne's side passed quicker than days passed, but soon enough, Alysanne was calling a halt to set up camp and the usual routine persisted.

The days tended to blur together. Day in and day out, there was a steady routine of pitching camp, only to tear it all down once morning came. In the time they'd spent at Casterly Rock, Jon had quite forgotten the monotony of it all.

He wasn't much aggrieved to leave Castelry Rock behind, though. Not a week after Jon sent the raven to Robb, his response came with instructions to return to Riverrun with all haste. As soon as Alysanne selected a lord to hold the Rock in Robb's name, they'd left with hostages in tow, leaving several hundred men to hold the Rock.

Lord Forrester was who Alysanne chose to remain behind to hold Casterly Rock, a decision which had caused some displeasure amongst the other lords. Gregor Forrester had been amongst Alysanne's most ardent supporters, and Jon failed to see who else she could have chosen. A wise choice. He had the military acumen to hold the Rock in the case Lord Tywin sought to reclaim it, he was not rash or vengeful, nor was he too important to leave behind.

Harrion Karstark reasoned the Rock should be his to hold considering the brother taken from him. Jon didn't think there was a single lord who didn't put his name forward; the Smalljon, the River Lords, Maege Mormont, even Prince Oberyn had voiced his desire to retain hold of Lord Tywin's home. There would have been discontent no matter whom she chose.

If she had chosen Lady Mormont, there would have been those who decried it for the fact she was a woman, nevermind that Maege Mormont had ruled her lands longer than some of the other lords. She might have been a sound choice, Jon thought, but they needed her to lead her men.

Ser Brynden might have been a wise choice. He'd put his name forward, and Jon struggled to think of a reason any of the other lords might have disagreed should Alysanne have chosen him. But Jon knew Alysanne passed him over, not because she did not trust him, but because she relied too heavily on his council to leave him behind. As does Robb.

Mayhap if the matter of Northern Independence had been settled, Alysanne would have given the command to Prince Oberyn. As it was, though, it was far too risky. What if Dorne withdraws their support, if Robb refuses to kneel? They'd find themselves at odds with Aegon, and Casterly Rock would fall into their hands.

Out of all of them, it was Edwyn Frey who put up the most fight, and Jon imagined he'd be forced to suffer complaints from the man again that night. No matter if there was a council meeting or not, Edwyn Frey would find either him or Alysanne to voice a complaint about something or other.

Even after Alysanne had made her final decision, Ser Edwyn had cornered her to further plead his case. "I'm owed this, after the fake siege you wasted my time with," he'd argued. Jon had been quick to remind him that the siege had hardly been a waste of time; it'd been a worthy diversion. Ser Edwyn hadn't wanted to hear it. He'd all but stormed out, after that, and had been acting the petulant child ever since. She might have given the honor to Ser Stevron had he lived. Jon didn't think Ser Edwyn was half the man his grandfather was, and he suspected Alysanne shared his sentiment.

Later that evening, after camp had been set up and dinner had been had, Jon spotted Edwyn Frey wandering through the thoroughfares of camp. Jon briskly rounded a corner and set off to find Alysanne before Lord Edwyn did. His dragon sat perched on his shoulder, Jon having freed him from the cage he traveled in. It wasn't right, Jon thought, to keep him locked away for the entire journey. Together they searched, Ghost an ever silent companion.

And find her, they did. Jon found her at the edge of camp, her neck craned towards the sky to watch her own dragon swoop through the air. From her vantage point, Jon could see the hills of Westerlands they'd traversed stretched before them. The sun set over the Westerlands, setting the world aglow.

Two guards stood a ways back, and as Jon passed, they nodded. It was odd, to see two guards whose names escaped Jon rather than Ser Addam. It was stranger still to see Alysanne standing alone, when Ser Addam surely would have been by her side, marveling at the sight of a dragon taking to the air once more.

His own dragon shot forth off his shoulder to join hers as he drew closer, alerting Alysanne to his presence. She spun and greeted him with a warm smile before watching the dragons swirl around each other once more. Jon came to stand beside Alysanne and Ghost, who had been trotting after him, sat silently beside him.

"They're amazing, aren't they?" Alysanne said. Their dragons tumbled through the air, nipping at one another in much the same way the direwolf pups had.

"They are," Jon replied. He watched his dragon dive towards the ground before careening upwards. Her red scales shone in the sunlight, and the silver scales that swathed her belly sparkled. The silver of her claws and crest glinted, and the webbing of her wings matched the blood red of her scales. Jon doubted he'd ever seen a creature so beautiful. "Have you thought of a name yet?"

Alysanne lifted her arm into the air, and her dragon came to settle. While Jon's dragon had scales of red and silver, Alysanne's was entirely a pearlescent white that shimmered with pale purples and blues. Its horns and crest were a vibrant amethyst, and the webbing of its wings a pale pink. "I have," Alysanne answered.

With a small smile, Alysanne stroked under her dragon's chin before it took off once more. The dragon swooped low overhead, and the wind from its wings blew Alysanne's hair back. She laughed, a brilliant, clear sound which almost startled Jon, so long had it been since he heard her laugh in such a way.

"Shaeleys. For my mother." Alysanne said. Briefly, she glanced over her shoulder. Jon watched helplessly as her face fell and she grew sullen once more. "Ser Addam said she'd be proud of me. I can only hope he's right."

Jon rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment before dropping it again. "A lovely name," he said. His dragon descended towards them and hovered over Ghost, just out of reach of the direwolf, who playfully nipped at the air.

His dragon dodged Alysanne's outreached hand and rejoined Shaeleys high above them. "What about you? Have you thought of a name?"

Ghost's name had come to Jon easier than the name of his dragon. Nevertheless, the answer had come to him one morning, several days after they set out on the march back to Riverrun.

He'd emerged from his tent to find a thin layer of frost decorating the grass, and it'd brought to mind memories of home. Home, and the frost that would spread over the godswood and encapsulate the leaves of the ancient weirwood. Red scales draped with silver. "Frostfyre," Jon answered.

"Frostfyre," Alysanne repeated. "Frostfyre and Shaeleys. They'll make quite the fearsome pair someday, don't you think?"

Before Jon could respond, a streak of gold flashed past them overhead and curved upwards into the air. It took Jon a moment to recognize it for Aegon's dragon. It was swifter than Frostfyre and Shaeleys, and seemed to think it great fun to nip at their tails and lead them on a chase.

"I appeared to have missed an invitation," Aegon called. Jon looked over his shoulder and grinned at his half-brother.

"Or perhaps you simply cannot take a hint," Jon teased. Aegon snickered and waved back his guards, who settled beside Alysanne's.

Aegon came to rest beside them and watched as the dragons soared above. Aegon's dragon swirled through the air, the gold of its scales shining like a beam of light. Jon did not think he would ever tire, or grow used to the sight of their dragons swirling about together.

The comment drew a bemused grin from Alysanne. "Our cousin is more than welcome, Jon," she said before greeting Aegon.

Our cousin. The thought of a family separate from the Starks was as foreign to Jon as the dragons that flew overhead. As a boy, he'd known that he had some other family, somewhere in Westeros. His nameless mother couldn't have materialized from nothing, after all.

He never imagined that the Starks were his mother's family, and that it was the family of his father which were foreign to him. Though, perhaps not so foreign. One might have had an easier time convincing Jon that the Other's walked again, than convincing him that Alysanne, of all people, was his blood rather than simply a beloved good-sister.

"We were discussing names," Alysanne told Aegon. "I've settled on Shaeleys, for my mother."

Aegon peered back toward the Dornish camp. "My Uncle Oberyn said my mother was fond of her. I am sorry I never had the chance to know her."

Alysanne's mouth pressed into a thin line, and Jon recognized the shadow of grief that threatened to envelop her. "What of yours?" Jon asked Aegon, if only to distract Alysanne.

After a sorrowful glimpse at Alysanne, Aegon answered. "His name is Vēzos. It means sun, in Valyrian." Fitting, Jon thought. The way the light reflected off the golden scales of Aegon's dragon was certainly reminiscent of the sun. And once his dragon was large? Jon imagined it would appear as though the sun itself had sprouted wings.

"Do you know much Valyrian?" Alysanne asked.

"I do," Aegon said with an air of pride. He went on to speak in Valyrian, a jumble of words that Jon had no hope of comprehending. At their puzzled faces, Aegon translated. "Valyrian is my mother tongue."

"I would like to learn it, I think," Alysanne said. Aegon's face lit up at Alysanne's interest in learning Valyrian, and he readily agreed. The thought of learning the language of his ancestors did interest Jon, and it would not be a bad thing to spend more time with his newfound brother.

"What of yours, Jon?" Aegon asked. Jon shared the name of his dragon, and Aegon smiled.

The three of them let a companionable silence settle over them for a few moments, before Aegon broke it. "While I enjoy your company, I confess that is not why I came. One of your ladies was looking for you, Alysanne. Jorelle, I think." Aegon furrowed his brow and frowned. "Or was it Wylla? The frightening one, with green hair."

Alysanne arched her brow. "The frightening one?"

"We've all heard the tongue lashings she gives to poor Harrion Karstark. Though he gives as good as he gets." Jon silently snickered at Aegon's words. True enough, Wylla and Harrion were far from friends. Though calling them tongue lashings was perhaps an overstatement. More oft than not, they bickered and exchanged barbs.

"What was it this morning?" Jon asked. "Was it the noise from his tent again?"

"I believe his horse kicked mud onto her skirts," Aegon mused.

"I wish they would not argue so," Alysanne said, struggling to quell an amused smile as she spoke. "Harrion has been perfectly respectful as of late. You'd think they'd avoid one another by now."

She sighed and called Shaeleys to her before saying her farewells and heading back towards the camp. Aegon and Jon watched their dragons chase one another before Aegon crouched down.

"Hello, Ghost," Aegon said. He let Ghost sniff his hand before scratching the top of his head. Ghost pressed his head into Aegon's hand, clearly enjoying all the attention he was receiving. He acts as though I neglect him. "Alysanne mentioned Robb's wolf. Do all of you Stark's have one?"

"We do." Jon reached down to scratch Ghost's head. He did not have to reach far. Sitting on his haunches, Ghost's head far surpassed his hip, and he was not even close to done growing. "Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa, and Arya, we found their mother gored by a stag in the wolfswood, not long before King Robert came to Winterfell."

With a last pat to Ghost's head, Aegon stood up. "Are they all so large?"

Jon's face split into a vicious grin. "Aye, and they'll grow larger still. You'll get to meet Robb's; Grey Wind. You heard the Lannister men. They say Robb turns into a wolf and feasts on human flesh. Mayhap that's how he'll greet you."

Aegon burst into laughter, and Jon struggled to contain his chuckle. There was a certain kind of relief that came with Aegon knowing the truth of his parentage. He no longer felt as though every conversation with his half-brother was built on a lie, and Jon found that without that secret hanging over their every encounter, he enjoyed his half-brother's company.

"Wouldn't that be a sight?" Aegon said. "Perhaps I'll turn into a dragon and greet him in a similar fashion." Jon snorted and held out his arm as Frostfyre came to land. He scampered up to his shoulder, and Vēzos remained in the air above. In a similar fashion to Ghost, Aegon held out a hand to brush along Frostfyre's head. "You say that each of you has your own. I've not seen Arya's."

Ghost bounded away, and Jon did not bother to call him back. He'll return when it pleases him. "There was some incident on their way to King's Landing, between the wolves and Joffrey. Her's was sent back to Winterfell, along with Bran's and Sansa's."

Neither Bran nor Arya had given Jon a straightforward answer on what precisely had happened without growing incensed. But Jon had gathered enough to know it involved a butcher's boy, and a show of twisted courtesy from Joffrey.

"I had hoped to request her company on tomorrow's march. Though I don't think Princess Arya is fond of me," Aegon said, with a wry smile.

"She's more fond of you than you think," Jon chuckled, "else she would have skewered you with her sword by now." She might be grateful for the invitation. Alyn had, not so subtly, inquired if they would join Arya on the morrow. Alyn would be disappointed, but he wouldn't chase after Arya if she were in Aegon's presence. His young squire still seemed unsure of Aegon.

And the dragons fascinated Arya. She'd welcome the chance to spend more time in their presence, and she'd always been curious about the lands across the Narrow Sea. Aegon could tell her plenty about Pentos and Essos as a whole. And it would be good, Jon decided, if his half-brother got on well with the rest of his family.

"I only really had Ashara and Jon growing up. There were never really any children of age with me, and even if there were, we never stayed in one place for long." There was a tinge of melancholy to Aegon's voice, and Jon felt sorrow bloom for his half-brother. He loathed to imagine a life without Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Alysanne. Even Theon.

"Tell me of the rest of your siblings. I should like to know who you grew up with." Aegon said. Having grown tired of standing, Jon sat on the ground. Aegon joined him, and together they watched their dragons dance in the fading light while Jon told Aegon of his siblings, who weren't really his siblings at all.

Jon spoke of Bran, and his love of climbing and the wild chases he would lead the household guard on across the roofs of Winterfell. Jon boasted of Bran's burgeoning skill with the sword, and his newly earned knighthood. And Rickon, who remained in Winterfell, alone. Half as wild as his direwolf, quick to laugh, and always desperate to take part in anything his older brothers did.

Jon even told Aegon of Theon, and his maddening ability to get under anyone's skin. They did not always get on, but Theon loved Robb like a brother, and he had not hesitated to go south for Sansa. Jon could love Theon for that alone. He made no mention to Aegon of Theon's journey south. Instead, Jon told Aegon of how he could have absconded in the night to return to the Iron Islands, but did no such thing.

When Jon got to Sansa, his blood pounded in his ears. Jon shared how Sansa and Alysanne were inseparable as girls, and that it was Sansa who taught him to always compliment a lady's name. Sweet and gentle Sansa. The two of them perhaps had little fondness for one another as children, but he loved her the same as he did Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Arya. She only wanted to be like her mother, as children are wont to do. Did Jon not once wish to be everything his father was? It'd be cruel to hold her to a child's folly.

"Sansa loved songs and stories more than anything as a girl. She used to make us place come-into-my-castle, or play at being Florian and Jonquil." Jon's faint smile died, and a heavy gloom took its place.

"Sansa is still in King's Landing, is she not?" Aegon asked, after Jon trailed off.

Frostfyre hissed, and Jon's vision clouded. "The Lannisters hold her there." They beat her, and humiliate her, but Jon could not say it, would not think about his sister at the mercy of the same madman who took their father's head. For Ned Stark was his father, in all the ways that mattered.

Aegon laid a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder. "They'll face justice, Jon. For what they've done to our family, and yours."

Frostfyre and Vēzos screeched overhead. Fire and blood, they sang.