"Know that and know this: the way home is North. To us, to me, to Rickon, to Sansa and to Arya. We all live, and we all need you. So go North, Jon. Rhaenys Targaryen was right. You have to go North, and soon. Find the cave in the hillside. That's the way home."

Jon knelt before the Heart Tree, and before the Old Gods.

Or so he hoped. He did not know if their domain extended so far south as this, in front of a tree with no face.

His life had taken a strange turn. He had woken up after death. He had spoken to dead men. He had spent his days dreaming, waiting to die again, chasing ghosts and lies. None of it was true, none of it could be, and he had lived his days in a haze, waiting to wake up at the Wall. He had lived with his eyes closed, ever since the knives in the dark.

Except the gods were cruel, and life was crueller, because he had not died, and the dead were alive, and this world was real. It was all real, from the ghosts to the lies. His brother who was not his brother had told him so, in a dream.

Jon Snow's eyes were open now.

The honourable Eddard Stark had lied to him.

His entire life, Eddard Stark had lied to him. Jon Snow was not who he thought he was, had never been, and would never be again. All his life, for all his sins, for all his bastardy, for all that Jon Snow lacked a mother, or a name, or an inheritance, there had been one thing that the gods could not take from him. They could not take his father, or the pride he felt at being Eddard Stark's son, for Eddard Stark had raised his bastard son among his true born children, and there was pride in that. They could not take his siblings, or the joy he knew, to be brother to Robb, and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon all.

A bastard he might have been, but he had been Ned Stark's son, and Arya Stark's brother, and that had been enough.

Except it had all been lies, all of it, and the Gods had taken even that from him. He was not Ned Stark's son, he was not Arya Stark's brother, and the truth of it broke his heart. He was not one of them. Not truly.

What was he instead?

Targaryen.

Just the word threatened to bring up bile in his throat. What was he, but a Targaryen bastard? What was he, but almost a Blackfyre? The worst type of bastard. All his life he had heard of the Blackfyres, the bastards who had sought to steal the right of their true born brothers. Such was the taint of bastardy in Westeros, even in the North. The Lady Catelyn had feared him a Blackfyre in waiting, poised to steal Robb's rights.

And now, here he was, a Targaryen bastard. Not even the bastard son of a traitor, but the bastard son of tyrants.

It would never not be mad. Rhaegar Targaryen had sired him, and that meant the Mad King was his grandfather. Jon's grandfather by blood had burned his other grandfather, killed his uncle, killed countless others. The idea had already made him retch once.

And how ironic it was, to have spent his entire life obsessing over the mystery of his mother, only to have known her all his life. How many times had he seen Lyanna Stark's statue in the crypts, ran past it chase Robb, or put blue roses in her palm whenever his father bid his children to pay their respects? He did not what to think of Lyanna Stark at all.

Father? Or Uncle?

His mind was a maelstrom. Had his Uncle Benjen known? Had they both lied to him? Had Katelyn Tully known? Had Robb, as heir to Winterfell? Had Lewin or Old Nan? Had they all lied?

Jon didn't know. There was a lot he didn't know, wouldn't know, because Ned Stark had never told him.

In his mind, Ygritte laughed. You know nothing, Jon Snow.

Stop it, he thought. Stop it, Snow. Stop it. None of this truly matters. The dead march, and here you chase after ghosts.

Bran's vision haunted him too. His delight at his family's survival warred with his horror at the sight of the white walker and its icy blue eyes. The Others were real, and they were coming. With every passing day, they came nearer. He felt like a green boy, crying for his own sorrows when death and destruction loomed ever closer.

And yet, the thought of it did not stir him. What did it matter, for what did Jon have to fight for? He was a bastard, alone in the world.

Go North. Bran, Rickon, Sansa, Arya. Winter is coming, and the dead with it. Go North and go home.

But why, another voice whispered. You can't save them. You tried, and you failed, and you died.

They were in danger. They were all in danger. The Black Brothers, and the Free Folk, and his family, scattered though they were.

And you died failing to save any of them. Jon had played the game to keep them all alive and lost. He could not save his Black Brothers, and the free folk, and his sister all. He could not be so many different men, fighting for different goals. He was torn between vows and honour, torn between the Wall and Winterfell, torn between worlds. He always had been.

Why bother at all? Why care? The Black Brothers, who killed him, for he broke his vows. The Free Folk, who could not be saved from themselves because they would not accept the laws of men. His brothers and your sisters, who were never truly his to have. Would they love him, he feared, when they found out what he really was?

His mind was a battleground. He flexed his fingers. Above him, the half-moon was high in the sky, and the stars shone like tiny campfires, each burning across a black field. Somewhere, under that moon, there had to be a white wolf with red eyes. If there was another Jon in this world, there was another Ghost. Jon felt alone without him, his soul divided in two. How could he know who he was when half of him was missing?

So, Jon Snow knelt before the Heart Tree, and the Old Gods, and asked for guidance, eyes unseeing day by day as the sky above turned from bright blue to purple hues to the darkest black.

None came.

Behind him, Ser Arthur Dayne was standing vigil, white cloak billowing in the night's wind. Ser Arys Oakheart had been Jon's sworn protector in this world, but as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur was increasingly by Jon's side instead. The man seemed to think them close. That led to other, worrying thoughts.

If I am here, where is this world's Aemon Targaryen? Is he at the Wall, in the world where Robert won?

He did not know if he had stolen another man's body, taken a dead man's limbs, or if the Gods had saw fit to swap them. The idea of Aemon at the Wall, amidst Giants and wildlings and murderous Black Brothers, with the Boltons threatening war, with Arya in danger…he would surely die, just as Jon nearly had.

He knelt before the Heart Tree, and he looked for guidance. All he had was his dream of Bran. What had Bran said? Go North. The answers were North. Bran had seemed sure Jon could return to them.

But how could Bran know? He's a boy.

Jon had seen a man though, had he not? For a second, Jon had seen an older Bran, the image of Robb, and a crow with three eyes. How could Bran know these things? What magic was at work? How could Jon's brother – cousin - how could Bran know the works of the Gods? How could Bran have answers to questions Jon did not know he had? How could Bran know Jon was in a different world?

How could it be possible at all, to be in a different world?

None of this matters, Snow. You are Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

Former Lord Commander, in a world that wasn't. And his men had killed him.

None of this matters. The Boltons have Arya.

He unclenched his hand and knelt further, until his head touched the grassy ground. He was lost in his head, and he did not know how to find his way. His mind had never been clearer, or as full of doubt. Arya's laugh echoed in his ears, and her smile was all he could see.

That night, the halls of the Red Keep were blessedly deserted. The Princess Rhaenys had warned him against wandering the halls, but Ser Arthur was following him, and Jon felt safe enough on the way back from the Godswood. Death held no fear for him, lost as he was in his own mind, and he trusted the walking legend beside him. He was lost chasing ghosts despite himself, his footsteps echoing around the empty halls. Eddard and Richard and Brandon, Aerys and Rhaegar and Lyanna. For all that he tried to escape the thought of them, the more he could not help but think on them.

They turned a corner, their path a route to Maegor's Holdfast, when Jon froze.

"Ah, Princess," greeted Ser Arthur. "It warms my heart to see you."

He saw Ser Alliser first. The knight was everything Jon remembered – slim, and sharp, compact and sinewy, black onyx eyes like flint, black hair like coal. The same as Jon had last seen him, except he was not in black but brilliant, blinding white. He was Kingsguard, and when he found Jon staring, he frowned uncomfortably.

Ser Allister Thorne, Knight of the Kingsguard. Of all the sights.

"Aemon!"

The girl by Thorne's side moved suddenly, and in a moment, he found himself embroiled in her embrace. He stiffened.

The girl was a Targaryen. She was young, of an age with Jon, with the classic look of Old Valyria; purple eyes, pale skin, and long, flowing silver-blond hair. Her beauty was ethereal, and Jon could not look away. When she let him go, he saw her smile was radiant, and a distant part of him suddenly knew why there were legends of the Queen of Meereen, even without her dragons.

She wore a purple gown that matched her eyes, styled with dancing white dragons embroidered throughout its length, and Jon looked away when he found his eyes following the tracks of her curves. He knew who this was. This was Daenerys Targaryen.

"Aemon?" Her smile faced, and she reached out with one hand to touch his cheek. Her small palms were surprisingly cool.

"Princess Daenerys," he said. The Dragon Queen. The Last Targaryen. And your Aunt, by blood.

He grabbed her hand quickly and patted it. "Forgive me. I was elsewhere."

"Clearly," She replied with a shake of her head. "I am most glad to see you well. I am just returning from dinner with the King. He said you have acted differently since the attack. I was worried, I have been worried. Ever since I heard."

"I grow stronger every day." In body if not in spirit, he thought.

"I am glad to hear it," She said. There was a strange tension. Jon watched as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear; the Princess was nervous. An awkward silence broke out between them.

"I… I wanted to come straight to the capital, but my Lord husband…well, he did not think it wise. I am sorry Aemon."

Jon was missing something. "There is no need to say sorry, Princess."

"No," She shook her head. "There is. And I wished to see you as soon as I arrived, but Rhaenys said you were like to want your own company, and Aegon said you were keeping to your rooms…"

"Princess- "

"You are wroth with me." She said then, eyebrows rising. "I understood when you did not respond to my letters, but Aemon - "

"Why would I be wroth with you?"

"You keep calling me Princess." Her voice turned sharper. "I cannot recall you ever calling me Princess."

He found himself frustrated. He was in a mummer's farce, playing a role of a man he had never met, navigating relationships he had never known. "What would you have me call you?"

She frowned, and then turned to her Kingsguard. "Let us leave, Ser Alliser," Daenerys Targaryen said archly. "The Prince is clearly in need of his bed. Or worse."

The Kingsguard's mouth became a hard line, and he led the Princess Daenerys away. Jon found himself torn between confusion and odd nostalgia for the Wall. He turned to the protector beside him, who looked as befuddled as Jon felt.

"Perhaps you should apologise," The legendary Kingsguard suggested.

"For what?" Jon asked.

Ser Arthur Dayne gave a graceful shrug. "For not knowing why you should, for one."

"But why should I?"

"How am I to know?" The Sword of the Morning responded, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed, although there was a slight smile forming on his face. "I have never been able to truly understand them."

"Women?"

"No. Targaryens."

Jon laughed, and then cocked his head as he remembered. Rhaegar and Lyanna. The unease returned. "What of me?"

"Well, the gods know you were sired by one." Ser Arthur frowned at him then. "But sometimes I wonder."

Though his days were no longer a delusion, Jon found himself without purpose all the same.

Targaryens, Starks, Snows. Dragons, Wolves, Bastards. Dead things, with blue eyes. They all haunted him. Each pulled him in every direction. And all the while, he lived a mummer's farce, pretending to be another.

In swordplay, none of it mattered. The next morning, he danced to the steel song in the training yard, shifting this way and then that, moving away from each slashing blade. His own was the extension of his arm. His mind was cleared of all but battle. He was not Ser Arthur Dayne, or even Mance Rayder, but Jon was quick, and clever, and strong, and he know when to spot the tricks of his foes. The Kingsguard feinted, and Jon held back, the Kingsguard went left, and Jon guarded his right, the Kingsguard pushed forward, and Jon held on.

Beat them fast or wear them slow. Jon had learned under enough master swordsmen to hold his own against most men. But Barristan the Bold was not most men.

"Well done, Prince Aemon." He held out his hand. Jon, on the ground and smarting, took it with a wince. "You did well. You lasted longer than most would, and you grow more deadly with each day."

Not long enough to beat an old man, but this was no ordinary old man. "Mayhaps one day I'll scratch you." He took a forlorn look at his blade. He missed Longclaw. A swordsman should be as good as his sword, but Jon had gotten too used to Valyrian Steel.

"Mayhaps, my Prince," Ser Barristan allowed with a smile. "When I am blind."

"And deaf," Jon said dryly. "I would have a chance, then."

He should have been at the Wall, or marching to Winterfell, or dead, but here he was, dancing with ghosts to the tune of steel, battling legends of the blade. In the back of his mind, he wondered what Robb would say. He flexed the fingers of his sword hand.

He could see it. He could always see it, the sight of them both, whenever he closed his eyes. Snow and Stark, and spinning and slashing, shoutingand laughing, running and screaming and crying and fighting. Robb was grinning at him, Tully blue eyes alight. "I'm the Young Dragon!" He shouted.

Young Wolf like Young Dragon: dead too soon.

Ser Arthur clapped him on the back, and went to speak, only to see something beyond them. "By the seven, Aegon Targaryen, in the yard. You join us today my Prince?"

The Crown Prince walked out the shadows and Jon eyed him warily. He had not given much thought to Aegon Targaryen. He was tall, and slender like Jon, and when he came closer Jon saw he looked like a younger, slightly darker Rhaegar, with the same silver hair and same purple eyes. Yet Jon saw his own nose reflected in Aegon's face. The way he stood, the way he held himself, the way he looked around the training yard, taking it all in, seeing all, the look in his eyes, the look on his face, like the look Jon saw reflected in the mirror…

Jon grit his teeth. He shared similarities with Robb, too. But not as many.

"Not today, Ser Arthur," said Aegon. "I come in search of my Royal Father."

"My Prince, I am afraid –"

"Oh, worry not, Ser Barristan. If the King is not here, I trust you will tell His Grace that my Uncle Doran wishes for an audience, as soon as he would give it." The Prince looked askew at Jon, and then glanced up at the alcoves above. Jon's eyes followed. "We must speak, the three of us, about my castle, and who squats there."

For a moment, there was a flash of silver hair above them.

In the next, Rhaegar had disappeared, and Aegon was looking at Jon, his face unreadable.

He awoke, that night, to bright purple eyes looming over him.

"Argh!"

Jon stumbled out his bed, panic flaring, heart racing. Pink Letters. Daggers in the Dark. For the Watch. He reached for Longclaw, but it was not by his bed. Satin had not placed it where he should. He scowled, and –

"Aemon!" His attacker's voice was soft, and worried. "Aemon, it is only me."

Daenerys Targaryen was by his bed. She was in a heavy cloak, brown and shapeless, far unlike the dress Jon had seen her wear when they had last met, days ago. He found himself speechless and awkward. A woman in his room, before his bed; it was not a situation he was familiar with.

Your Aunt in your room.

They stared at one another. One moment. Two. And then –

And then, Daenerys Targaryen launched herself at him. He staggered back as her hands grasped his cheeks, as her weight became his, as her chest collided with his own. It was only his own good instincts that kept them both upright, as he clutched her and fought to keep his balance, his legs wobbling. Her scent invaded his nose, and her silver-blond hair brushed against his cheeks, and suddenly all he could see was her own eyes, and the warmth within them.

For a moment, he was reminded of Arya, hugging him when he gave her Needle. There were times when he wanted to think of her, but this was not one of them.

The Princess kissed him. Her lips melded into his own. She tasted sweet. By instinct, his hands settled by her side, and her cloak parted to reveal her bedclothes, and he could feel the curve of her hips, and her breasts against his chest, and the swell of her pert arse, and he felt his own manhood stiffen and – this was Rhaegar Targaryen's sister. That makes her your Aunt, Snow, you perverted bastard.

He broke apart, gasping. She stared at him, hair tussled, lips apart. His breeches were uncomfortably tight. Robb laughed in his head.

Was this a dream?

"Princess-"

"Call me Dany," She said, voice pleading. She came closer, and he retreated further. There was hurt in her violet eyes. "Please, Aemon. Please. I want things to be right between us."

What was right? "Dany." He clenched his fists to kill the memory of his fingers on her hips. Rhaegar's sister; his aunt. Family. Were they family? They were related, by blood. It felt wrong, it all felt wrong. Wrong world, mad world. Guilt settled in his stomach. He was not who she thought he was. "I…"

"I know." She reached out for his hand. "I know it is dangerous. I know I said… I never should have. I wish… I wish we ran. We should never have left that tower."

We should have never left that cave. Jon winced.

"We should have run," Dany whispered. "Ran, and never looked back. Now I am lost."

He stared at her, speechless.

"Come on." She suddenly dropped on her knees before him, and Jon felt his own cheeks redden.

"Prin-Dany, what are you-"

"Here." She reached under the bed and threw a cloak at him. It was like the one she wore. Jon had no idea it was there. Her eyes sparkled, amused. "Come with me."

The cloak was rough to the skin. She grabbed his hand and dragged him across the room, reaching for a door inbuilt into the wall. Jon had no idea it was there, and it unnerved him.

They went through and before him there was a corridor, dark and musty, with cobwebs on the walls and dust on every surface. Forgotten tapestries lay discarded, and wooden tables were upended every few yards. She nimbly navigated it all and turned back to grin at him, arms stretched wide.

"I missed this." She laughed, not caring who heard. "The Vale is beautiful, and it is empty. A Dragon is not meant for mountains alone." She laughed again. "Come on Jon Snow. Chase me."

His blood chilled. "What did you call me?" She skidded off, and he ran after her, and her cackles echoed across the corridor. His heart racing, he sprinted, one hand to his nose to block off the dust disrupted by their presence. He turned one corner, and then two, following the racing footsteps ahead, past more forgotten tapestries, forgotten weapons, lost clothes, and the corpses of long-dead rats. At the end, he found her, leaning against the wall, one hand on her hip.

"Why did you call me that?" He demanded.

"Why did you call me Princess?" queried Danerys in return. Her long silver hair settled on her shoulders. "Two can play at that game, Prince Aemon." She came closer and Jon's discomfort grew.

"What is wrong with you? You act like a maid." Her hand ran down his face, and her voice grew husky. "Did you not miss me?"

Could you miss a woman you never met? Jon grasped for an answer. "Does your husband not miss you?"

She withdrew her hand. His cheek protested. "Only when he wishes to wet his cock. Or show off his beautiful lady wife to other men." She pushed through a hanging tapestry, barely noticing the parting dust settling on her shoulders. "He grasps. He is a brute. I hate him. And I hate Rhaegar for forcing me to wed him."

She shook her head, as if dismissing a bad memory, and reached back to grab his hand again. "Come, you know where we are to go."

Jon did not know, but he took her hand, and found out soon enough. He followed her through more passageways, and hallways, sneaking past what few servants worked in the night, until a door found them in the Great Hall, with the Iron Throne to their left. His mind felt like the sleet on top of the Wall, but Aemon Targaryen was becoming clearer to him with every moment.

Jon's eyes went upwards to the rafters, as they always had since he found himself in this world that should not be. Dany looked up too. A silence broke out and echoed, and Jon felt his ghosts rise in his mind's eye. Up there, Richard had burned, and over there, Brandon had died, and on that throne, the man who sired the man who sired him sat, cackling. His grandfather, his uncle, and two hundred more men beside them, all dead where they now stood.

"I do not blame you for not exchanging my letters," She broke the silence with a whisper. "If it were you wed, I perhaps would have done likewise. But you must believe me. I did not want it any more than you."

Jon said nothing. His eyes were still on the rafters. She took it for anger and sighed.

"I begged him, you know?" Her voice turned bitter. "I begged him to change his mind. He always said he would listen to me, and so I begged. And he did not listen, at the only time I needed him to."

Dany turned toward the throne. Her eyes burned. "What am I, but a spare Princess? And you, a spare Son. What did any of it matter? I told him Dorne would understand, and if they did not, why care? We are the blood of Old Valyria; we are of the Dragon. I told him as he always told me, as Viserys did. He has forgotten. We rule them, not them us."

His Lord Father had always told him the blood of the First Men ran through his veins. He flexed the fingers of his sword hand.

"I even told him we could run." Danerys Targaryen closed her eyes, pained, and then turned again, walking towards the dragon skulls on the walls. Jon watched as she inspected them all, until she settled before the largest, at the far end. "Essos. We could have run there, to the Free Cities. Targaryens have done so before, and I have always dreamed of Essos."

In one world, she dreamed of Essos. In another, Jon thought, Daenerys Targaryen may have dreamed of nothing but Westeros.

"Or even North." She reached out to Jon. "To Winterfell. I would have done that, for you. We could have given him his peace, a new pact of Ice and Fire, to pay for my father's sins. And still he denied me. He refused to listen."

He followed her path until she was before him. The Black Dread's skull dwarfed Dany. From where Jon stood, it appeared to him as if her form was swallowed whole by the great sockets where the dragon's eyes once were. Even the remains of Balerion were massive. The skull teeth were as long as swords, enough to skewer men a thousand times over, and its jaw was large enough to swallow Giants.

They stayed there, staring at what came before.

"I still dream of them." She whispered.

"Of what?"

"Of them." Her hand reached out to stroke the skull's side. "In my dreams I see them, soaring in the sky. And sometimes, I fly them, and I am free. Do you still dream?"

Jon considered his answer. "Not of dragons."

"Of the white wolf?" She asked, and Jon felt his blood run cold. Ghost. "It was never a bad thing. The gods provide a sign. Perhaps it is your mother's gods, reminding you who you are." Dany closed her eyes, and suddenly Jon saw old scars reflected in her eyes. "We are as much our mothers as our fathers."

He could see her statue in the crypts, the granite etched into Arya's face aged. How often had Jon wondered about his mother? How little had he thought about Lyanna Stark, and how her life ended? She had been nothing but a sad tale before, nothing but the discomfort he felt at seeing his father's grief. Yet now?

"I'm sorry for calling you Jon Snow." Dany titled her head to better look at him. Her eyes were like violet amethysts shining through silver hair. "I know you dislike it. I am sorry."

He could have laughed at that. "Perhaps that is who I am, truly," said Jon.

"You were never a bastard. Your father took your mother to wed."

Jon swore to take no wife, and Rhaegar thought he could have two. "He already had a wife."

She scoffed, as if this were an old argument. "We are dragons. We do what we like."

"Am I a dragon?" Jon had only ever wanted the sigil of a direwolf.

"Yes." Dany rose at that, frowning. "How could you say such a thing?"

She took his hand and caressed it. He found himself strangely mesmerized at the sight. "You are as much a Stark as you are a Targaryen. And you have their blood. But you also have ours."

He followed Dany to the Black Dread, and she placed his palm to where she had felt before. It was warmer than it should be, for a dead thing's skull.

"You are the blood of Old Valyria, too." She whispered. "We are the blood of Old Valyria, you and me. Of Daenys and the Conqueror, Jaehaerys and the Rogue Prince, Baelor and Daeron, Bloodraven and Aemon the Dragonknight. That is yours as well as mine, as well as Aegon's, as well as Rhae's and Rhaegar's. Sometimes I fear you forget."

Jon felt himself tracing the steps of another man, of another him.

"The blood of the Mad King, too," He said. She ripped his hand from him. Jon could not escape the ghosts in the hall.

Dany held herself and glanced from the dragons to the rafters. "Is that why you struggle? Is that why you did not fight for me? Is that what I am to you?"

Well done, Snow. "Pr-Dany-"

A sneer came and went on her face. "The Mad King's daughter. Is that who I am?"

Jon knew the tales from Essos. The crucifixion of the slavers, the burning of ships, the breaking of chains. And yet Jon wept no tears for the plight of slavers. He studied the woman before him. "Am I the Mad King's grandson?"

She stared at him, and he at her, and then the Princess sighed, the fires of her anger extinguished. "House Targaryen is not him. Three centuries of rule, and far more history beyond. We were Dragonlords. Why must we be defined by one evil man? Why must I?"

Two hundred ghosts in the hall, a man burning from the rafters, a man choking, reaching for his father. A young girl kidnapped.

"There has been more than one more evil man in the history of House Targaryen," He said.

"And more than one good man too. And women," She replied. "For every…for every Aerys, there was a Jaehaerys, and an Alysanne. For every Daemon and every Aemond, an Aemon, or two."

The Kings of Winter were rarely good men either. Cold, and cruel men, like the lands they ruled.

But Eddard Stark had been a man of the upmost honour. All had known it.

And he lied to you, for all his honour. He was not your Lord Father at all.

Could a man lie and keep his honour? Jon had not thought so. The lies he cast as Lord Commander had not felt honourable. Yet a babe lived because of your lies. If there is no honour in that, what use is honour?

Could there be honour, in a lie?

He dropped to his knees and knelt next to her, and they sat together, in silence, staring at the dragon's skulls.

Dany reached out again for his hand, eyes lost in thought. "Perhaps it does not matter." She cocked her head at him and considered him.

"No?"

"We were born Targaryens, but when we die, at the end, you will be Aemon, and I will be Dany, and perhaps that is enough."

She stroked the back of his hand, eyes still locked on Balerion's skull. "You are different. Rhaegar said you were, and I can see it. I am not surprised. You nearly died." Her voice broke, just a little. "And when I heard, I knew my own life would have ended with you. I cannot bear this life. I am no good lady wife. I was not meant to raise a household and do nothing but provide heirs. And I was never meant to do it all without you."

"I am different," muttered Jon. "More different than you know." Guilt squirmed at the role he played. He was suddenly tired of living this lie. He was not Aemon Targaryen.

"But I still see you." She shook her head. "The Aemon I love is still there, in your eyes." She grabbed his chin and held his face still, her eyes staring deep into his, violet into dark grey. "Will you run away with me, when the time comes? We can run, and never look back."

Jon had died at the Wall, and now, a beautiful girl was asking him to run away. What a strange life you lead, Snow.

For just a moment, he considered it. For just a moment, he imagined. She was related to him by blood, but a Stark had married a niece before. She was beautiful, and interesting, and seemingly kind, and Jon could grow to love her, as he had grown to love Ygritte. Jon could live the lie and play at the mummer's farce, and they could live until they were old, in the Free Cities. He could lend his sword or learn a trade. They could roam as they saw fit. They could have children. He could see it, a silver-haired boy called Robb. A dark-haired girl who looked like Arya, and they would name her…

His mind stalled. What was the name of Dany's mother? She was Jon's own grandmother, in blood, yet he did not know her name.

Shame filled him. He was not Aemon Targaryen. He was not the man this girl loved. This new world - this lie he lived - was suddenly unbearable, and a stain on his honour, and suddenly he wanted nothing to do with it. He rose.

"Aemon?" Dany looked up. She suddenly looked very young.

"I am sorry." He did not wish to be cruel, but this was not his life to live. He flexed his fingers. "I cannot."

He turned, not daring to look back.

Go North. Stay South. Live. Die. Stark, Targaryen, Snow. Dead things with blue eyes.

One morning, when he tired of the stares of servants and the whispers of strangers in the halls, he snuck through the passageway Dany had shown him, and from then on, he spent his next days wandering through the Keep. Once Jon began to look, there were secret doors everywhere, and he wandered everywhere, through the inner bailey, past the training yard and the stables, bypassing the serpentine steps, to the kitchens, and the barracks, through more buildings Jon had never seen, until he found himself blessedly, wonderfully, lost.

When he was lost, he did not have to think on anything but finding his way back again. He did not have to pretend to be a different man or see the shadows of people he had known or would have known. When he was lost, he did not have to look for the shadow of the King, or the cold gaze of the Crown Prince, or the frowning eyes of the Princesses, whether Rhaenys or Daenarys. When he was lost, he did not have to find himself.

One passageway kept going, down and down and down, into the depths and the darkness, until Jon could no longer see his hands in front of him. He walked on, using the damp stones of the nearest wall, hearing nothing but the steady rhythm of his own breaths. He did not know where he was, nor did he care.

Almost three centuries ago, men had carved out these secret roads from stone, working day and night to a tyrant's demands. Maegor Targaryen had demanded a network of tunnels and secret passageways, spy holes and rooms, and then killed every worker who created them for their silence. Jon followed their footsteps now, his fingers brushing against the stone. He followed the wall blindly, the jagged edges of the rock clipping his fingers.

After some time, the wall ended, and frigid air greeted him, and so did sudden sounds from below. He sneaked closer, taking care to still his breathing and slow his steps to silence the clap of his boots on the stone floor. It was lighter here, and there were suddenly voices coming from below. He frowned.

Voices, and the scrape of other boots. He neared closer, and balanced near the end of a precipice, unseen from above or behind. Below there were men, meeting in the darkness, with a single flame to light the way between them. Jon could see naught but the giant shadows they cast on the wall.

He calmed his nerves and knelt, to hear. What men would meet here?

Men who plot and wield daggers in the dark.

"…the same. The Fat Man errs. He will not act. He counts his coin instead. Better to live off a plan well drafted than to see it through and risk it fails."

Jon did not recognise the accent, but it did not sound Westerosi.

"We get this far because of him," said the other voice. It was low, and gruff. "Do not let your patience wither on the vine now. His fear is rational, you know why he errs. None have more invested than he. We have waited years. We can wait some more."

"I tire of waiting." They were walking, their steps echoing. Jon stayed still; his head turned sideways to better hear. The words, whispered though they were, still echoed through the cavernous underground. "And so do those who have waited far longer than I. They want what was promised to them, my friend."

"And they will get it. I assure you, they will get it, and more. Three hundred years cannot be wound back in a moment." The Targaryens, Jon thought. These men sought to play the game of thrones.

"Three? More like One. This is the last chance. If we fail here –"

"We will not fail."

"We have failed already. The Prince-"

He froze.

"A minor setback. Unexpected, yes, but the plan goes on. And in any case, we may find that petty thorn plucked without blood on us. Trust me, old friend, to do what I do. Do I not do it well?"

Did they speak of Aemon Targaryen?

"Others seek to-"

"Yes, I suspect so. In truth, he has lived too long. It serves many interests to see him off the board now."

Jon calmed himself. It was nothing he did not know; the Princess Rhaenys had warned him. He had merely ignored it, until now – but if they spoke of Aemon, then Jon would need to act, one way or another.

"Hmm. A helpful development. Yet I still fret. We need more."

"Half is not bad."

"Half is not enough!" The first voice rose, and the tones of his frustration echoed through the cellar.

"Quiet your voice. Half gives us more than enough. Gold and men."

"If we have more than enough, why not strike? Why wait longer?"

"You know why. Striking is not enough. They must be put down forever."

They walked into Jon's sight. He recognised neither man. The one with the foreign accent had the accent of Essos but the look of a Westerosi. The other, bearing the torch, was no slim warrior; he was stout, an unimpressive man with a round bearded face. Yet he dressed in a leather half cape, mail over boiled leather, and Jon saw the outline of a shortsword at his belt.

"If they were not put down before, why would they now?"

"We put our faith in the wrong man before."

Silence followed. Jon thought they were gone, and then -

"If we have even half. Any are like to turn cloak in a moment."

"Only a fool would trust any of them. But I trust their hatred, and their greed."

"Hmm. If you say so. But we cannot wait much longe-"

Their footsteps grew ever more distant, and so did their sounds. Jon watched as they left.

Rhaenys had been right. The South was not safe, and this mummer's farce was soon to end. It had to.

He lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. By instinct, he ran his hands over the healing scars on his chest and belly.

This world was dangerous. King's Landing was dangerous, and Jon was in a world where he knew nothing, surviving by chance while people around him were engaged in a deadly game of crevasse, eyeing pieces on a board and moving them as they wished, pursuing goals Jon did not understand. He could not play in this mummer's farce forever. He was living a half-life, as if he were a wight raised by the white walkers, going through each day mindlessly, without purpose, without end.

For a man who had been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, engaged each day in the politics of the Wall, dealing with Kings and warriors and wayward men, it left him restless. And yet, Jon did not know where to turn, or to whom. He was without allies as much as knowledge, without options as much as goals. He did not know what he should want, or why.

The Long Night. The Free Folk. The Night's Watch. Jon had thought of little else for years.

And yet, for all those years, his heart had dreamed of a grey direwolf racing across a field of white, and the walls of Winterfell.

The Boltons had Arya. Jon flexed his fingers.

It all came back to sisters. Why else had Ned Stark taken in a motherless bastard?

Stop it Snow, he chastised himself.

Why else had Jon broken his vows, and gotten himself killed, and found himself in this strange new world in the first place? Now Jon found himself in a world where the sister he died for knew him as a stranger, as the cousin he had always secretly been. The thought hurt him like a dagger in the dark.

You do have a sister here though. The voice was Ser Alliser's, with his black cloak bleached white. It seemed all men sought to provide advice in his mind. Stupid bastard boy. You were not the only child sired by Rhaegar Targaryen, were you? He had a daughter, who lives here. And she offered you help.

It was as good a plan as any. With sudden found purpose, he rose and dressed quickly, donning a doublet, breeches, and a cloak; all in the colors of House Targaryen. He had gotten used to them. What was a little added red to the black Jon had worn for years?

"My Prince? Aemon?" Ser Arthur reached out to him when he stepped out his chambers. "What is it?"

"Where is the Princess Rhaenys?" demanded Jon.

The Lord Commander frowned. "In her rooms, I should imagine. It is late my Prince. You can speak to her come morning."

"I must see her now. Can you take me to her?"

Ser Arthur's violet eyes had narrowed. "For what reason?"

"I need to-"

He froze and felt his cheeks redden as he considered the elder man's face. For all the Gods…Targaryens. Had…had Aemon Targaryen been the type to fuck his sister as well as his Aunt? Gods. What fresh hell had he found himself in? To be a Targaryen.

Somewhere, Robb was watching him and pissing his breeches.

"Not for that, Ser Arthur. I just wish to talk to her. At once."

"Aemon, I am Kingsguard, and I will do as you bid, but she is a woman wed-"

"Ser Arthur." He ground out. He felt like Stannis Baratheon. "I assure you, I need only to talk to her."

"If it is that pressing, perhaps I should also fetch the King…"

"No! The Princess Rhaenys. I must speak with her. Please, Ser Arthur."

Jon was not ready to speak to Rhaegar Targaryen. Perhaps he never would be.

Ser Arthur gave him a long look, then sighed, and led him through the hallways. They walked across a courtyard and to their left, where a Dornish knight in white was leaning against a door that was intricately carved with sunbursts, spears, and dancing dragons. The knight himself was an elder man, with dark hair and dark eyes, but despite his age he still seemed tall, and strong.

As they approached, he stood straight, and greeted them. His eyes washed over Jon, but his gaze was neither fond nor cool. "Lord Commander," He greeted. "Prince Aemon. To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"I must speak to the Princess," said Jon. "At once, Ser."

The Dornish kingsguard frowned, and looked beyond Jon to Ser Arthur, before sighing. "At this time?"

"As your Prince bids, Ser Lewyn."

"The Princess will not best pleased, but if needs must…" Ser Lewyn turned and slammed his hand against the door twice. "My Princess! Your brother wishes to see you!"

There were sudden cries from within, and with a smash, they all heard things fall, and people shriek, and the sound of someone falling off the bed. The three men exchanged looks, and suddenly, all were ignoring the clear and obvious truth: there were more than one person in the room. The Dornish knight coughed, hiding his mirth.

Jon counted at least three different people in the room beyond, and all women from their sounds. Jon could not help himself, and he turned to the Lord Commander beside him.

"She is a woman wed," He noted. The tips of Ser Arthur's ears had turned crimson.

The Princess burst open the door soon after, face scowling. She had thrown a shawl haphazardly over her body. It still revealed too much. "AEGON, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR WITS-"

She froze at the sight of Jon, and then shot an accusing glare at her Kingsguard, whose dark eyes glinted with amusement.

"Sorry, niece. The prince insisted."

The Princess closed her eyes for patience, one hand clutching the shawl. Jon studiously observed the door. He had never looked so closely at one before. It was the product of great workmanship, and he wondered why his own door had no dire wolves.

"Well, you best come in," The Princess said shortly. "Ignore the mess, little brother."

The Princess's chambers were larger than his, and far more beautifully decorated besides. There were fine tapestries on the walls, showcasing all manner of scenes, from hunting to the Conqueror's landing to Nymeria sailing across the seas. There were curtains the exact shade of the red in the Martell sigil, and instruments and fine jewelry wherever Jon looked, on top of spindly tables and desks. At the far side facing him, there were wide open doors, through which almost the entirety of the Blackwater Bay shone, its backdrop illuminated by the moon's light on its still waters. Scattered across the greeting room, Jon also spotted at least three large mahogany desks, on which there were a mess of papers, scrolls and books, and a map of Westeros covered in pins and pieces. As his eyes roamed, a bushy black cat trotted up at him, as if he were Prince and Jon the beast, and brushed past his leg.

There were also small clothes scattered across the room, and dresses, and other garments too. Through the open doors to his right, Jon could see a huge bed, and the half-hidden forms of at least two women, their curves illuminated in the moonlight. They shrieked at the sight of him and retreated away from his vision.

Jon felt nothing but relief. Take sister-fucker off the list.

The Princess left and came back, shutting the doors behind her. Much to his relief, she was now dressed, resplendent in a golden dress. In a swift movement, the black cat leapt into her arms, and she began stroking it absentmindedly.

"What is it?" She demanded curtly. "When I told you not to wander the halls at night, I did not mean you should bother me. Though do not think I have not noticed that you ignore my words. Have you forgotten how to sleep?"

"Princess," He started. She frowned at him. "I… you said you could help me go North. You offered your help. I have need of it." His eyes wandered to the map of Westeros, and to the direwolf that sat proudly where Winterfell was. "I have nowhere else to turn."

Her frown deepened. "Yes. You need to go North. I am working to that end. But why are you here, now? Has something happened?"

Jon considered his words carefully. It would not do to appear any madder than they might already think him. He was very aware of how different he must seem.

"I am not sure if I should say. Would you believe me, if I told you I had a dream?"

She stared at him, black eyes scrutinizing. "A dream?" She repeated. "You wake me up for a dream? Are you still five?"

"Mayhaps not." Jon moved towards her. He put on his Lord's face. Kill the boy. "Can I trust you, Princess?" Jon was alone in the world, but he need not be. Lord Snow had made himself alone at the Wall, and what good had it done him? It had earned him nothing but his death.

For a moment he feared she had forgotten how to speak. "You still do not remember me."

"I remember much, but not you." There it was again – a look of sadness on the Princess's face, if only for a moment. Jon thought of Arya, and Sansa, and his heart hurt anew. "But if you are my sister, then I can trust you."

"I am your sister," She said. "But that may mean nothing. No-one can trust anyone in King's Landing."

A horrible thought. No wonder Lord Stark had met his end down here. It was a nest of vipers, each slithering in the shadows. "Not even family?"

"Especially family." A shadow fell over her face. "You would know that if you were still yourself. The King does not know you have forgotten…details?"

Jon had no idea either way. Rhaegar had barely looked at him since Jon's first memory in this strange new world. "I have barely spoken to him."

"Truly?" She came closer. She kept her face well-controlled, but Jon could see the way her fingers flexed, and how the line of her mouth had hardened. She had been surprised. Or upset. How interesting. "Keep it that way," She continued. "The little he knows, the better."

Jon frowned at that. Who was Rhaegar Targaryen, truly? "Is he dangerous?"

"What King isn't?" She came to the desk and looked over the same map. One graceful finger reached out to King's Landing and drew a line across and up the Narrow Sea to White Harbour, before she frowned. Her hand hovered, then moved down and back up through the Riverlands to the Neck. "But I am your sister, and I will help you. I will always help you. What do you wish to tell me?"

He considered her. At first glance, she looked little like him. She was beautiful, and slender, and graceful. She had the look of Dorne, while Jon was of the North. Yet they shared dark hair, and dark eyes, and mayhaps, Jon thought, a similar mind. There was something familiar about Rhaenys Targaryen, something similar, something that reminded Jon of Arya. It was something in her eyes, something in the way she looked at Jon.

On a whim, he decided to trust her. He flexed the fingers of his sword hand. He was lost in a tempest, with nothing but Bran's words to guide him.

I must go North.

"You may wish to send your…ladies away. And fetch a glass of wine, or three. All I ask is that you listen."

"Fuck."

He had told her everything, speaking for what felt like hours, and Rhaenys Targaryen had listened. Let it not be a mistake, he thought. I have already made too many. She turned, grabbed the big burly black cat by her side and walked swiftly to the nearest chair.

And now she was staring at him as if she had never seen him before. Which, Jon supposed, she had not. Not truly. They each analysed the other, and the silence grew between them, until Rhaenys stood again and fetched another glass of wine.

"You believe me?" asked Jon.

"I have half a mind to send for a maester," She said. Her dark eyes, eyes so brown they looked black, looking through and beyond him. The Princess drank deeply from her cup while juggling the protesting black beast with her other hand. It snarled and she shushed it. "Though I have not yet decided whether it should be for you or for me. Do you know how you mad you sound?"

"Very, I imagine," said Jon wryly.

"Either you have gone madder than Aerion Brightflame, or there is magic at work. And he only thought he was a dragon in a man's body."

Jon sometimes wondered if he were a wolf in a man. He was certainly sometimes a man in a wolf.

The Princess lowered her head and pressed her face into the cat's fur. It protested with a shrill meow, but then, after a moment, it turned to lap at her face, its tongue softly brushing against her small nose. Rhaenys gave a week laugh, and then looked back up. A thousand feelings were playing out on her face. "This is madness so beyond that I struggle not to believe you."

Jon blinked. "That makes a certain sense."

"I wish you were mad. But the truth can be madder than the stories." She sighed and placed the black cat on the ground with a fond pat. It ran through the open doors and out of sight. "I find the simplest answer is often the best. You are from another world."

"You know things you should not, things I know Aemon did not know and could not know." Rhaenys started. She began to pace, running her hands through her long dark hair. Her pace was quick and her voice even swifter. "You act differently. You talk differently, though few know you enough or care enough to notice. But I do. You walk differently. You can fight far better than you could before. Madness runs in our blood, but this is beyond that. Either you have inherited our grandsire's madness, or the world has changed. And you do not seem so mad as that."

Her pacing stopped. "Though I fear for what this means. Does this mean my brother is dead? Aemon? My Aemon?" Her voice quivered, just slightly.

"I do not know." He said softly. "I am sorry."

She reached again for her cup, drank until the wine was gone, and then slammed it on the table. "Dead or might as well be. If you are here…"

Jon stood and moved to the open doors. In the distance, he could see spears of rock rise from the floor of the bay, piercing the surface of the water. The currents were stronger there. Behind him, he heard a sob, then two, then three, then no more but ragged breathing.

"He used to come to me, when he had nightmares." Rhaenys whispered behind him. Her voice was raspy. "Sometimes he went to my mother, and sometimes to me. I never told anyone. I pretended I hated him. He still came, and I would hug him until he slept. He lost his first tooth in this room. When he was older, and in his cups, and scared of our father's judgment, he came here. He stood where you are, right now, only moons ago."

Jon said nothing, but the picture of Aemon Targaryen became clearer.

Rhaenys laughed bitterly. "There were times when I cursed his existence and wished him dead. I never meant it. And now the Gods grant my wish, or near enough. The Gods are cunts."

"Yes," he replied. "They can be."

"I promised I would keep him safe." Her voice was low, but Jon heard it loudly.

He said nothing. More silence followed. Jon closed his eyes. What words could he give? He knew better than most how sharp the pain was, and how it hurt, to learn that a sibling was dead, to know that life from today and forever more would be less than it was before. It was only when they died, Jon thought dully, that you realised that a person was a part of you, with a slice of your soul, and that when they die, they take a part of you with it. There was a part of Jon that Robb had, and with him gone now it had been taken too, and it would never be back.

But Robb was never your brother, in truth.

And yet, Jon still felt his loss as if he were.

The silence lasted minutes, and Jon allowed her every second for her grief. She would need far more, with time.

"In your world…gods, what madness is that…in your world, you were raised as Eddard Stark's son."

"Yes."

"As a Stark?

"As Jon Snow."

She laughed again. It sounded hollow. "The God are cruel. I called Aemon that, in my worse moments, did you know? And the Targaryens are gone? All of us?"

"All except Maester Aemon, at the Wall," said Jon. "A good man. And the Dragon Queen. They say she is in Meereen."

Her lips on his, her breasts pushing into his chest, her silver hair falling over her face. A different woman in a different world.

"You did not recognise me. So, I am dead too, in this world?"

Jon only knew what he had been told as a boy. "Tywin Lannister sacked the city, for Robert's claim. They said his knights scaled the walls, killed the Queen and her two children, and presented them to King Robert."

"I see. They could allow no rival claims." The Princess Rhaenys Targaryen took a deep breath. Here, she was alive, and before him, the sister Jon never knew he had. "So, who is this Dragon Queen?"

"Daenerys Targaryen. In Essos, they say she hatched three dragons." Maester Aemon had left the Wall to find her. In the end, even he had chosen family.

Rhaenys stood, stared at him, and then went for more wine. "Three dragons. Of course. And you did not even see fit to mention it in your tale. Why not? Dragons come again. Dany and her three dragons, you raised with the Starks, and made a man of the Night's Watch, and the rest of us gone. And the Baratheons on the Iron Throne."

"Robert's son, the boy Tommen, though many suspect he is the bastard product of incest, and Cersei's son by Ser Jaime Lannister."

Her eyes widened, and then a cackle burst from her mouth. It was hysterical, and Jon took a step back. He wondered if he should had spoken too plainly. "Princess?"

"Of all the things to stay the same," She shook her head. "Cersei fucking Lannister. Mayhaps the rumours are true, and she and her brother are my Grandsire's gets. Gods." She took another deep swig of wine, sighed deeply, and then looked again at Jon. Her eyes were suddenly appraising.

"Some would say you were a fool to tell me all this." Rhaenys said. "Many men would not have risked it. I would have surely helped you regardless, believing you to be Aemon. Now you tell me you are not. I might have thought you witless. Now instead I know you are not truly my brother, and I am not your sister. Why would I help you? Why tell me at all?"

"Because I need your help," Jon said simply. "And I have your brother's face."

And you remind me of my sisters.

Her eyes roamed over him, as if there were a great mystery whose answer was found in his face. "And I am the ghost of the sister you never knew."

"Lord Stark never told me. I never knew, until I woke up in this world."

Her mouth opened and closed at that. "You never knew?"

"I never knew," He confirmed. I wish I never did.

"Fuck." The woman who might have been his sister shook his head. "So, you woke up-?"

"To discover I was not who I thought."

"An experience, I am sure," muttered Rhaenys. "Madness. Your life is madness. And your talk of wights, and white walkers…" Rhaenys's eyes were elsewhere. "Madness."

"I have seen them in dreams." Jon knew how that sounded, but it was the truth. "I have seen the free folk flee from them. A hundred thousand and more, racing south for survival. I helped some pass through the Wall. And I know a man of the Night's Watch who has seen one, and killed one. He would not lie."

Her eyes followed the cat, who sauntered back into the room, jumped on a table, and sniffed the left-over bread left there. "Balerion! Down." In his own mind, Jon saw Ghost, tail stiff and high in the air, nosing scraps and eating silently.

"I cannot think of white walkers," said Rhaenys after moments. "Your tale is enough as it is. But if…if your…if this Brandon Stark of your world says you must go North, then that is convenient, because the South is not safe for you, as I said before. Men seek to kill you. Or him. My brother Aemon."

"Who seeks to kill me?" Aemon Targaryen had suffered the same injuries as Jon Snow. Someone had clearly already tried to end his life. Jon thought of the strange voices in the dark cellar. Plotters everywhere. Daggers in the dark.

"I can't tell you." The Princess turned then, avoiding his gaze. "It does not matter who. Someone already tried to kill Aemon once. They may have even succeeded. Now new parties wish to finish the task. The death of Aemon Targaryen serves many interests. I...I thought having Ser Arthur watch you would give me time, but I will need to make haste with my plans."

"How soon?"

"As soon as we can," Rhaenys said grimly. "I will get you North. You have my word."

"Thank you." Jon reached out to grab her hand, then thought better of it. Her expression had grown pained at the sight of him.

"You are welcome," She whispered. The Princess turned towards her bedroom; he knew when it was time to leave. There were times when grief was best unseen and unshared.

"I bid you goodnight… Jon Snow."

As he left, Jon ignored the last, final sob of a sister who had failed to save her brother.

He was dreaming of Winterfell.

The castle was empty, though there were signs of life wherever he looked. He was wandering the empty keep, shouting out for his Lord Father.

"Come on Jon!"

Suddenly he was running across snowy ground, his four paws pounding, fear flooding his veins. The men folk were scared, and so was he –

The scene changed. Ahead, a skinny girl with brown hair was running just out of sight, her hair wild and messy, her clothes torn and scraped all over. She called out to him, and his sister's laugh echoed through the halls, but when he ran after her, she disappeared, and so did her sound.

He was running, and the cold followed on the hunt. The wolf was not predator but prey. Death was stalking, but the wolf would not be caught. Not today.

He was man again. He found his feet taking him to the crypts, and he walked in the darkness, past the row of stone kings on their thrones. Each sat with swords across their knees and dire wolves at their feet, and he could feel each staring at him as they passed, their eyes all-seeing, their stare unwelcoming and unnerving. He felt a stranger.

The wolf was scared stiff, staring at the slaughter.

The man walked on. In the distance, a terrible voice echoed. It was his own, reading aloud.

I want my bride back… I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

Ice was tumbling, and men were crying, and inhuman, otherworldly screeches were echoing.

His mind was split in two. He was here, and then he was there.

The crypts loomed before him, and he walked deeper into the darkness. "Father?" he called. "Arya? Robb? Bran?"

There was no answer but the chill that caressed his cheeks and made him shudder. "Uncle Benjen?"

In the distance, the wolf retreated further into the shadows. In the light there was nothing but death and despair.

The man heard no response, and the row of statues continued, until he found himself before his grandfather's tomb. Even in the darkness, he saw clearly. Richard Stark sat proudly, bearing the long face that Jon shared. He was flanked by his dead children. "Grandfather?"

There was no answer, and Jon's eyes wandered to his Uncle Brandon, who they said in life had looked like his brother, but more handsome and taller and broader in the shoulder. Brandon looked at Jon, but he gave no answers either.

Next to him, Lyanna Stark stood quietly. She wore a garland of pale blue roses. Her statue was weeping blood. They always said she looked like Arya.

Jon stared, and Lyanna stared back.

"She was more beautiful, in life. And far less like to stand so still."

Jon did not turn. He did not need to. He would remember that voice for as long as he would live.

"I would not know."

"She would have loved you."

Lord Eddard Stark grabbed his shoulder, and Jon closed his eyes.

"You lied to me."

"Yes," Lord Stark said. He had never been one to avoid a harsh truth. "I did."

"Why did you never tell me?"

"I told myself I would, when you were older. You were never ready."

"Would you have ever told me?"

"I was never ready." Eddard Stark's voice turned soft. "I took you and raised you as my own. You were never mine to claim, but I claimed you still. It is not easy to give up a son. It is harder still for a man to face his demons."

Jon might never know about sons, but demons he knew too well. "Is that why you let me join the Watch?"

"You think me brave, but I was afraid." Ned Stark stared upon the statue of Lyanna, just as Jon did. "What did it matter, who sired you? I raised you. You were my son. My children loved you as a brother. What did it matter, so long as you were safe, and living? No man could touch you so long as you wore the Black, and my secret would be taken to the grave."

"You were afraid?"

"I was afraid since I took you as a babe."

"There is no shame in fear," Jon remembered. "What matters is how we face it. You told me those words. You never faced your fear."

"I did not," The man who raised him agreed. "Some fears are harder to face."

"But you risked treason," Jon continued. "If King Robert had known, you would have…you committed treason against your King, against your foster brother. You risked your family, you risked Winterfell, you risked the North, and everything you fought for in the Rebellion, and for what? Why?"

"I loved my sister." The Lord Stark said simply. "I lied to my King as I lied to you. As I lied to my wife, as I lied to my children, because I loved my sister. And because I loved you, because my children loved you. Why did you betray your vows to the Night's Watch?

Because I loved my sister.

The thought of Arya brought back the panic he had felt, and the purpose that had inflamed him, and the pink letter that had brought his end.

I want my bride back… I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

Sisters. It all came back to sisters.

Jon clenched his fists, and closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. Love was the death of duty.

In the distance, there was another screech, and the sound of tumbling ice, and men crying. The terror chilled his bones.

"Ignore it," The dead Lord of Winterfell commanded. "There is nothing you can do."

"What is it?" Something was looming ever closer in the dark.

"Winter." Lord Stark's face turned to ice.

The cacophony stopped, and suddenly there was silence.

"What do you want, Jon?"

A good question. What did he want? The answer was treason to his soul.

"All I ever wanted was to be a Stark." He whispered.

"I know," The Lord of the North replied softly.

"But it was enough to be your bastard. Now I have not even that. What am I now?"

"You are the man I raised." He tightened the grip on Jon's shoulder. "You might not have my name, but you have my blood. The blood of the First Men runs through your veins, as it ran through mine, as it ran through Lyanna's, as it ran through Brandon's, and my Father's, and his Father's. A name does not make a man, Jon. You are a Stark, in all the ways that matter, and you are Jon, the boy I raised."

He flexed his fingers. "What of Aemon Targaryen?"

"You can be him too." Lord Stark reached behind Lyanna's statue, and suddenly in his arms there was a dusty, faded flag, bearing the mark of the crimson three-headed dragon. He nodded down, and suddenly, there was a silver harp by Lyanna's feet.

"You are both," He said. "And none of it matters."

Jon knelt and ran his fingers across the harp. A soulful melody echoed through the crypts. He knew to whom it belonged. "Only a man who has always known who he was could say such a thing."

"Only a man who has lost everything he loved could say such a thing," Lord Eddard corrected. "Names, lands, titles, they are but words in the wind, at the end. You know this, deep down, Jon. If you did not, I would not be saying so. And if you have remembered your lessons, and what I always sought to teach you and your brother both, you know you can control only what you can, and can only do what you must. Winter is coming. Tell me, Jon, what must you do?"

Bran's words echoed. "Go North."

A wolf howled in the distance. It was familiar and unknown, welcoming and terrifying, all at once. It unnerved Jon, and he did not know why. The wolf only wanted its pack.

"Why must you go North?" asked Ned Stark.

The sight of the Other scarred his eyelids. "Winter is coming, and the white walkers with it."

"But why does that matter?" They remained in the crypts, but it suddenly felt as if Jon were in his Lord Father's solar at Winterfell, sitting before his desk. He half-expected Robb to be beside him, all red-brown curls and easy smiles.

His mind was in the crypts, and in the solar, and at the Wall. He was staring at death, and running away from it, and greeting it, all at once.

"I don't understand."

"Why should you care? Why go North?" Ned questioned.

Jon considered the words. "Because they must be fought."

"But why you?"

"Because all must fight them."

"But for what reasons? Why do you fight?"

Jon thought of the wildlings, running from the cold. For a moment, Ygritte was before him. Her round face was stretched into a smile, and Jon could remember her crooked white teeth, and the way her eyes glinted, and how she smelled. Ygritte was dead. She had died in Jon's arms, just as Lyanna had died in Ned Stark's arms. They should never have left that cave.

He thought of his Black Brothers, and Sam Tarly's fat, friendly face. He would die for Sam. He was stupid to send him away. Sam may have seen the danger and the daggers before Jon had. And yet…and yet, it was good Sam had not been there, for Bowen Marsh and his allies may have killed him too. Sam would have followed him. He would have disagreed with Jon, pleaded with Jon, but he would have followed Jon, to war and to Winterfell, and even to the Stranger's blade, even to Bowen's dagger. For the Watch.

He thought of Robb, who had died when Jon was not with him. He thought of Sansa and Bran and Rickon, all lost, scattered around the realm. He thought of Arya, held captive by the Boltons. "You needed me, and I was at the Wall."

"Honour kept you there."

Not my honour. "Robb needed me, and I was beyond the Wall."

"Had you been with him, you would have surely died as well."

"I wish I did."

"Do you think Bran wishes for that? Do you think I would? Or Arya?"

I want my bride back. "The Boltons have Arya."

"She needs you. They all do. They need their brother, Jon."

"Am I their brother?"

"Are you?

Playing at swords with Robb. Laughing, as Bran shot arrows. Watching Rickon take his first steps. Seeing Sansa sing. Laughing with Arya. Running through the crypts. Playing at ghosts. Playing at heroes. Playing, and laughing, and shouting, and fighting, and singing, and dancing, and feeling alone, feeling apart, feeling like a bastard, feeling like a brother. Arya, laughing, Needle in her hands, eyes alight, beaming.

"What use am I, to them? I tried. I tried to save Arya. I broke my vows to do it. And I died."

The man beside him turned. Jon stood then, and turned too, finally, to look fully upon the face of his father. Eddard Stark was everything Jon remembered. His long face, his brown hair, his beard, his dark grey eyes, his smell, the scar on his nose, the way he stood, the softness in his eyes, the tone of his voice…For a wondrous moment, it was if Jon were but a boy, and this were an ordinary morning, on an ordinary day, back when his Lord Father still lived, and the world was safe.

"I failed to save my sister." His father's eyes bore old scars. "As you failed to save yours. I failed to save my children. All men fail."

"I keep failing." How many times had Jon failed his vows? How many times had he done nothing while his family died or suffered?

"So fail again." Ned Stark stared at him. Jon could feel the stares of his grandfather, and his uncle, and Lyanna, all burning into his back. For a moment, he felt as if they were all there with him. He looked down at his palm, and suddenly it held a pale blue winter rose. He watched as it grew out of a clink of ice the size of his palm. "All men fail until they don't."

He felt small. "What if I cannot fail?"

"Then make sure you don't." His father faded, then, and his face changed, and the Lord of Winterfell stood before him once more. "I will ask you again. What must you do?"

Go North. The words changed when they left his lips, however.

Ned Stark had failed to tell Jon, but he had not failed to keep his promise. He had not failed to keep Jon safe.

Secrets kept for a sister's memory. Treason born from the memory of a sister's smile.

He flexed his fingers.

"Save Arya. I need to save Arya."

It all came back to sisters.

The Boltons had Arya. It did not matter if she were his sister or his cousin by blood. It would not matter to Arya. She was Arya, and he was Jon Snow. He mussed her hair and called her "little sister", and they were two strangers united in a family.

"Save Sansa." She was lost, but Jon could find her. She called him half-brother, but it did not matter. What did it matter now? He would give anything to even be her half-brother in truth. "Save Bran, and Rickon." They were lost too, but they were alive; Bran had said so. He had held them as babes. He wanted to see them men grown.

His father's tone was patient. "Why do you fight?"

The old Maester Aemon Targaryen had passed his three tests, Jon Snow had not. He was not Aemon Targaryen…but even Aemon had left the Wall, in the end, to search for his family.

Nor was he the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. His Black Brothers had seen to that with their blades. But there was one thing he had been from his earliest days, before he took the black, before he had been Lord Commander. There was one thing he had always been.

He had always been a brother. The Gods could not take that from him. He would not allow it. He would fight for it, and fight for them. He had failed before, but not again.

Robb, Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon. Sam, Grenn, Pyp. He had never stopped being a brother.

Even in this world, there was Rhaenys Targaryen, helping him, because she saw in him a shadow of her own brother.

The Boltons have Arya.

He looked down and flexed the fingers of his sword hand. Robb, with snowflakes in his hair. Bran, climbing up a tower wall. Rickon running around the courtyard. Sansa, singing sweetly in her room. Arya, laughing by his side, her knees bumping into his.

He had died for Arya. He would gladly die again for her. Bran had said she was alive. All hope was not lost, if Arya could yet be saved.

Sam, with snowflakes in his hair. Pyp and Grenn and Halder and Toader, all laughing as they ate. The brothers who would have stayed with him forever, had he not sent them away.

"For them." He stared at Lyanna's face. "When winter comes, we must all come together. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

His father's smile was proud. Jon could not remember that proud smile ever being directed at him. "I dream you. You are dead. You are not here."

"Aye, you are dreaming," His father said softly. "But I am here. I have always been here."

"How?"

"Those we lose are never really gone, Jon." His father tightened his grip on Jon's shoulder. His grey eyes were as soft as fog. "They stay with us always. I remain with you. So does Robb. For as long as you remember us, and carry us with you, we are with you. We were with you at the Wall. We are with you now. We will be with you for what is to come."

The screams began anew. They both turned and frowned at once, and Jon saw his own face reflected in his father's. He wanted no time with ghosts, but he could not help the words that came from him. In the distance, the skinny girl was there, running, a needle in her hands.

Winter was coming.

"Do you promise?"

He hated how childish he sounded, but his father's smile was proud, and Jon could not look away.

"I promise."

The screams grew louder. Ice shattered and splintered. The stench of death suddenly filled his nostrils. The wolf howled again, a terrible whine that stilled his heart. Winter was coming. Winter was here.

Jon flexed his fingers. Stark, Targaryen, Snow. What were names, when winter was coming for them all? What were names, when it was those he loved that mattered?

The horns blasted, and Jon awoke, gasping.

"Ghost!"