Author's Note

I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire.

His Uncle Benjen does not return from ranging.

His father has been declared a traitor and taken prisoner.

And Bran is still dead.

Rickon is but a babe.

Lady Catelyn had feared Jon. That was why she'd sent him away to the end of the world.

But Bran is still dead, and Sansa is prisoner with their father in the south, and Jon is a Snow, not a Stark–

But he knows where the pack calls home.

And so he packs, while Ghost waits at the edge of the courtyard, a spectre of white.

Maester Aemon Targaryen gives him advice. Does not tell him what he should or should not do, only reminds him of his duty. He will be a deserter. His father will behead him when he returns home. His father had always taught him to do his duty.

Jon doesn't know what to do, so instead he takes Ghost north of the Wall to the weirwood trees where he took his vows. "I don't know what to do."

Ghost only flicks his ears.

Father might yet come home. But if he doesn't, then Rickon is Lord of Winterfell and Sansa is a prisoner and Bran is still dead–

If he died and lived his Second Life the way Bran had, he wouldn't break his vows. But the men of the North would never follow him. Not as a monstrosity.

Jon doesn't know what to do.

But he did swear his oaths.

He travels far north of the Wall with the Lord Commander on a ranging expedition, and it isn't until the third week when they run into any Wildlings. He kills one, but the other is a woman, little older than him, and he falters for just long enough for her to sink a dagger into his neck.

His blood is red. Frozen on his fingers. Droplets splash to the white snow at his feet.

Except something is wrong.

There is fire under his skin.

Jon screams. A blade of ice thrusts from his hand and pierces the girl, front to back, then bursts into flame. And now everything is burning as he explodes in and out of himself, struggling to keep form. His Night's Watch brothers are screaming around him.

"Jon?" asks Bran.

"Jon!" shouts Uncle Benjen.

"What's happening to him?" asks Sansa.

"Something's going wrong," says a boy he doesn't know.

"What do you mean something's going wrong?" snaps his father.

Jon screams again and arches his back. Blue flame pours from his hands. "What's wrong with me?"

The Lord Commander is shouting everyone back, including the Wildlings, as the flames spread, undeterred by the snow.

"He's fighting the Turn," says the boy.

"Can he do that?" asks another unfamiliar voice, this one a girl.

"Apparently yes," replies Uncle Benjen.

"Make it stop!" Jon roars. He can't bear this, he doesn't care if he dies, but he can't bear the ice and the flames.

"His father was a Targaryen!" shouts his father, and Jon doesn't understand the words he's saying. "Would that make the difference?"

"Targaryens have dragons' blood," says the boy.

"Help me!" Jon cries again.

"I don't know how!" Sansa screams.

Jon howls and screams against the icy wasteland, and he just needs this to be over–

"Jon! You need to stabilise one way or the other!" Bran shouts.

"I don't know what that means!"

"The living or the dead; pick one and fight for it!"

Jon picks the living and holds onto it with both hands even as the ground turns to ash beneath him. The fire burns away the chill, and the snow melts around him.

But when he opens his eyes again, his skin is only charred, not the pale silver of the dead that Bran had been.

"Bran?" he whispers.

Bran says nothing.

The Night's Watch men refuse to let him come close, and Jon doesn't blame them. The Lord Commander throws him a cloak.

"You died, Snow," is all he says.

His watch is over

Jon returns to the Wall alone. If Wildlings come close, they must have heard the story, because none attack.

The men at the Wall let him through. They don't know the story, but Jon packs what little he owns in silence.

"My oaths were for life," he tells Maester Aemon. "But I gave my life."

He wishes father had told him more about his family. Maester Aemon must be a relative, but Jon realises now that he doesn't know who either of his parents are.

His life has been a lie.

He rides back to Winterfell atop Ghost's back. The castle is a ruin, shredded by the Ironborn, but Jon finds none within its walls. Nor does he find life. He finds Lady Catelyn in her chambers still, fearful and skittish. Jon expects her to be angered. She only looks at him, and there is relief on her face as she recognises him. "You're deserting."

"I died," he says, and she touches his cheek.

"But you're so warm!"

He has been hot, these past weeks. Mayhaps the fire gave him a fever.

"Something went wrong," Jon says. And then, "Where's Rickon?"

Rickon is silver-skinned and blue-eyed, the way Bran had been. He lays curled up on Father's great chair, surrounded by the direwolves of the family that is now gone. Shaggydog growls when Jon approaches, and Rickon shows bloody teeth.

Ghost lays down to sleep with his littermates.

The lords of the North are wary of gathering behind Jon, but he is still his father's son, bastard or not. He is Ned Stark's last living heir.

They ride south of the Neck and meet with the forces of the Riverlands. Edmure Tully advises them to hold the Neck and stay their defences, for his daughter is a monster of the Old Gods and she has broken free of her chains.

The Northmen laugh at his words, but no one is laughing when they wake to a foot of snow.

And soon enough they are hearing word of the magic that happened in King's Landing, how Sansa had called the storm and their father rose from the dead.

The men of the North return home to bolster their own defences.

One night, after he has passed the Neck, Jon awakes to find his father sat beside him. His skin has turned silver, his hair and beard white, his eyes a bright, glowing blue. He looks ethereal, like a god walking the lands.

"Father," Jon whispers. Ghost is growling, his lips curled, but he stays at Jon's side.

"Jon." He moves as though to take Jon's hand. Stops. There is pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You lied to me."

Jon has thought about this too much, and knows what must have been.

"I was protecting you!"

Jon understands, he really does. It doesn't make him feel better.

"Was she… like you? My mother?"

"She was. She Turned giving birth to you."

"What happens now?"

"The greatest war is coming." Father lays his hand atop the blankets covering Jon's chest. "Now you do your duty and protect your people."

He looks terrifying, but Jon has never feared his father. He will never hurt him. He does fear Sansa, who dances like a little broken marionette and slips through the entrance of his tent. He does fear the girl with her, who prowls on hand and feet and bears fangs when Jon tries to look at her. He does fear Bran, who brings a terrible cold and a fierce wind, even inside the tent. He does fear Rickon, who should have been in Winterfell, but prowls the tent with his siblings regardless.

They look curious, but they are inhuman and horrifying, and hurt his eyes to look at. Jon wonders how easy it would have been for him to join them.

Father bids them to leave and tells him to calm and sleep. He will protect him from the monsters of the world.

Jon does not fear his father.

When he wakes, he is alone, and Ice is laid at his side, his hand over the pommel.

Author's Note

Jon: *is the bastard*

Also Jon: *literally left out of family godhood groupchat.*

For anyone wondering, I was actually going to have Jon complete the Turn and Rickon be the survivor. Then I got halfway through this chapter and was like, no, I like this better.