Chapter 2: The Truth Bares Its Fangs
Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire and its adaptation, Game of Thrones.
Jon Snow's mouth went dry, staring at Lady Stark and her intense, unwavering blue eyes. He was grateful her gaze focused upon his father—upon his uncle, he had learned to his dread and horror—though the look of pain and betrayal was not something he ever thought might be directed toward Lord Stark. One of his earliest memories was the single time he had dared call Lady Stark 'Mother'. He had always noticed Robb calling her that, or something similar, and since he too was Lord Stark's son, he had assumed, wrongfully, that he was her son as well.
His left cheek burned, the pain forever implanted upon him.
Secretly, he was grateful for Lady Stark's interruption. He had been spun a yarn, of how Lyanna Stark had ridden the lists at the Tourney of Harrenhal, of how she had connected with Prince Rhaegar there and willingly went with him, how she married and bore him a son, and that he was that child. That he wasn't Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, but Daeron Targaryen, claimant to the Iron Throne.
I could be Daeron III, he thought, feeling like the bastard Lady Stark feared he might be. I've always idolized the Young Dragon. He was the first of that name, and the other Daeron was called the Good with reason. I could be like them, yet…
He allowed those thoughts to fall away as Lady Stark, with tears in her eyes and her face contorted, asked "How could you, Ned? How could you keep such an important secret from me? Did our marriage vows mean nothing to you? Was it because we wed in a sept and not before your precious heart tree you kept such a terrible secret from me?"
Jon watched the man he had always thought was his father. His face, always so stern and calm, struggled to settle upon a single emotion. Whatever had driven his father to confess the truth, for that was what it had to be, it could put a wedge between him and his lady wife, and perhaps create turmoil within the walls of Winterfell. He wanted nothing more than to suddenly wake up in his bed, having fallen asleep waiting for the hour of the wolf.
"I did not know you then, Cat. You were still a stranger to me, and the memory of Princess Elia and her children, of Aegon and Rhaenys, was still too fresh in my mind. By the time I warmed to you, the years had passed and what you thought of Jon had settled. It was safer for him if everyone remained ignorant."
"And now is different? You know what Robert will do if he finds out."
"Aye, I do. Better than you, Catelyn."
"Then why only tell the boy? Rhaegar's sins brought about the deaths of his wife and children. You should have told Robb and myself as well, so that we could know what threats House Stark shall face, should the truth come to light."
To Jon's surprise—he couldn't think of himself as Daeron, not truly and certainly not yet—Ned Stark's face reddened. It wasn't an embarrassed flush, yet it was something he had never seen upon his father's—nay, his uncle's face. That, frustratingly, was easier to believe. For a moment, he swore it was fury, wrath, and rage. Regardless, his voice was rough and ragged, saying, "He had the right to know first, Cat. If he wished to tell Robb, then I would have told you as well."
"What of Sansa and Arya?"
"They…" He paused, glancing at Jon as if he possessed an answer that escaped Lord Stark, before sighing. "They are young."
Lady Stark frowned before turning her gaze to Jon Snow. She scanned his face for several seconds before asking, "What happens when Robert arrives, Ned? He might be blind to the faint Valyrian feature's upon Jon Snow's face, but now that I know, I can see them. Faint, but present. He will bring many from his court, including those who remember the Targaryens and how they looked." She glanced at Jon once more. "He must leave Winterfell before Robert arrives."
"Jon…" Lord Stark closed his eyes and sighed. "You are right, my lady. Daeron must leave Winterfell, though he will not depart the North until we have decided how best to keep him safe. Few of my bannermen would turn down an offer to house and feast one of my blood, regardless of who's child he truly is."
"You have my blood." Those were words Jon had heard repeatedly growing up. He had thought little of it in the past. He was of Stark blood, evident just from glancing at his face. And yet deep down, he preferred hearing Lord Stark call him son. They had come rarely, at times when he needed a father's guidance.
Now they were bitter ashes in his mouth.
"When do I leave, my lord?" he asked, long before he could think through his words. He flinched at the pained look Lord Stark gave him, but it was nothing compared to the confusion of Lady Stark. Had she thought he would immediately accept was he was told, that he would transform into this Daeron Targaryen in a heartbeat?
Lord Stark's gaze wavered, staring at Jon. Those grey eyes, ones he had always told himself he saw in Robb's small, silvered mirror his entire life, did not meet his. They lingered upon his brow and his cheeks, unable to settle where they should.
"That is a conversation we will have later, Daeron. For now, return to your room and sleep. Tomorrow will not be a short day."
Jon nodded; surprised he hadn't flinched at being called Daeron. He stepped forward, past Lady Stark, and trekked out of the crypts in darkness. Behind him, he heard hurried, furious whispering. He paid it no heed, even as tears threatened to spill forth and stain his cheeks with long, red lines.
Lyanna wanted to watch Daeron go, yearned even more for him to return and tell her how he felt, but Catelyn stood in her way. Part of her wished Ned had never come to love his Tully wife, but as with many things promised to Brandon, they were better off as the Quiet Wolf's. Even she couldn't deny it, having witnessed their time together from beyond the grave. Never had she come into contact with others who were dead, only allowed to watch her blood through the eyes of the old gods, and wherever their blood was gathered closely enough.
Catelyn approached her and turned to stare up at the stone face of whom Lyanna had once been. "Why not wait until he was heading for the Wall, content to become a man of the Night's Watch? Did you need to tell him now?"
"I had not misspoken when I mentioned dreams… Nay, nightmares of my sister's death, of what she had begged of me, and what she might think seeing her son now that swayed my mind. It was terrible, fearing she would hate me from beyond the grave."
"But now? With Jon Arryn dead and Robert coming to Winterfell? You must know we are endangered because of your decision. Better you had kept your peace until after the King had depart—"
"And then any chance for Jo—for Daeron to make a life for himself away from the Night's Watch would've been closed to him," Lyanna said, grateful so much of Ned's life remained in his mind. It made pretending to be him while seeking to restore her son's birthright easier. "Perhaps it's wrong of me to act now, but the other option would be to send my sister's son to the Wall without telling him why he must serve the realm as a black brother. He would have gone, unaware he ever had a birthright"
"We will need to tell Robb," Catelyn said, finally turning to face him. "And I believe Sansa is old enough to know. Arya… She is close to Jon. Closer than I like, and she will learn the truth soon, regardless of who tells her." She came close, taking one of Lyanna's—Ned's—hands in hers. "I am grateful you wish to shield our girls, but they will be women soon. We cannot protect them forever."
Lyanna nodded, struggling for words. She had not been sure what to do about the girls when it came to the issue of Daeron and his future. If they were told the truth, brought into her future conspiracy to crown her son, they could help secure other kingdoms to fight for her son's birthright. Dorne and the Reach came to mind. They had fought for House Targaryen and suffered the consequences. It sickened the northern in her to consider Southron matches after dismissing them, but it could be necessary.
Best they make their own in the courts of the south than suffer a betrothal.
"We should retire to my solar, Cat." Lyanna nearly laughed at how Catelyn brightened at the familiar name. "Dawn will come soon, and there are still matters we must speak of."
Catelyn nodded, lost in her own thoughts. Lyanna feared Ned's wife wouldn't approve of "Eddard's" new desire to see his nephew crowned king. Perhaps in time she could be trusted with the truth of what became of her husband, but for now she would need to walk that narrow line between being her brother and ensuring her nephew claimed his birthright.
Cersei Lannister had spoken true, when confronted about the legitimacy of her children in that terrible future: When you play the game of thrones, you win, or you die.
Jon stared at the thin rafters crossing the ceiling of his small room. Despite the clear dismissal to climb into his bed and sleep, it evaded him as had answers about his mother in the past. He regretted that he had ever desired to know her name, for the truth was a wretched, terrible thing. Before today, he could imagine her being kind and gentle, a lady or a commoner, certainly beautiful and hopefully alive. He wouldn't even care if she had been a whore, as Theon liked to tease. All he had truly wanted, though, was to know she loved him.
Now he knew the terrible truth. His parents had destroyed the Seven Kingdoms to fulfill their deluded lusts—rape he had been raised thinking it had been, between Rhaegar and Lyanna—and he was the spawn of their arrogant foolishness. His mother had abandoned a sworn and promised betrothal to run away with a married man. He might be trueborn, but Jon Snow could never be Daeron Targaryen. Not the one the realm would expect. He was no Young Dragon, a great military leader, nor was he a Daeron the Good, wise and brilliant in all the ways of ruling possible. He was just Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. The best he had ever hoped for was to be Robb's master-at-arms, perhaps a lord of a minor keep of his own, and then in the past few years to be Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
He couldn't be king. Not with his upbringing.
The terrible revelation about his parents also meant that his siblings were different. He still shared a single parent with them, but it was no longer the ones he had within Winterfell's thick grey walls. Instead, they were Elia Martell's children. Rhaenys, stabbed a half hundred times. Aegon, his skull dashed against a wall. He felt sick, thinking of them. Eddard Stark had seen them, dead and wrapped in Lannister cloaks, presented like wedding gifts to King Robert.
Would he do the same to the Starks? Would it be Sansa or Arya, stabbed so many times? Would they have Rickon, barely five name days, crushed against a wall like little Aegon?
Their deaths flashed in his mind, each more gruesome than the last.
I can't be Daeron Targaryen, he thought, feeling half mad. If I think of myself that way, what will stop King Robert from killing us all? Would he forgive my fath—my uncle for lying to him? For keeping a child of Rhaegar Targaryen safe and alive?
Deep down, Jon knew the answer to those questions. He wished his mind would not consider what Robert Baratheon would do to the child of Lyanna Stark.
He sprung from his bed, dressed in a long, thin shirt. Warmth radiated from the castle walls, drawn up from the hot springs under Winterfell. Jon knew he needed to leave. There might be moons before the king would arrive, but he had to be long gone by then. His uncle might have talked about sending him to one of his bannermen, but that wasn't good enough.
Jon paused, wondering if he could do that. If he could run away from Winterfell and head north, to the Wall, before the ravens would reach Last Hearth and Karhold and the Dreadfort. Would there even be enough time to swear his oaths before banners of Stark and Lannister and Baratheon marched to bleed each other over an unwilling prince?
He sighed, tossing aside a leather jerkin he had picked up, and slumped back on to his bed. A hand ran through his dark curls, twirling some around his fingers. If his mind was troubled by anything else, he might have slipped out of his room and seek out Robb. His brother—cousin, he realized painfully—might be greener than grass, but he was the one who had been training since birth to be the next Lord Stark. He would know what to do, even if Robb proposed the mad idea of striking their banners and trying to seat him on the Iron Throne as Daeron III.
But what will Arya think? Jon wondered.
Their closeness was born from the truth only they possessed the Stark looks. His grey eyes might be dark, almost indigo in the right light, but he always told himself they were Stark grey. His hair was dark as well, though not the same brown as Arya and Lord Stark.
He tried to think about what she might say, but all he heard was her mockingly saying, "Don't be stupid, Jon! You're my brother, no matter what!"
A wet tongue suddenly licked his hands. Jon nearly drew away, though he looked up and found Ghost right there. The direwolf stared up with red eyes, the same red eyes he saw in the heart tree. More than ever, his direwolf looked just like the heart tree where his uncle had sworn to tell him the truth about his parents.
"What do I do, Ghost?" Jon murmured. He shifted forward, coming off his bed, and kneeled on the ground besides his direwolf. He sunk his hands into the white fur, white as death, and pressed his face against Ghost's snout. The direwolf gave him a lick up his face, starting near his chin, up a cheek, and stopping at his brow. It was rough yet soothing, a reminder that he wasn't alone. That he was more than some Targaryen offshoot, the child of tragedy and war.
Maybe one day he could be Daeron Targaryen, but for a day longer, he wished to only be Jon Snow.
Catelyn watched her husband with weary eyes as they settled in his solar. Dawn was still several hours away, though from how he slumped against his desk, elbows pressed against the wood and his hands running through his greyed brown hair, she feared he would sleep the night in that chair. Since the prior morning, there had been something troubling her about her husband. Perhaps the shocking revelations of this night was getting to her, but it almost felt as if someone else was pretending to be her husband, wearing his skin, speaking in his voice, and holding his memories.
Perhaps it is the fear, the terror of what Robert will do that has gotten to me, thought Catelyn, feeling as exhausted as her husband looked.
"What will we do about Jon?" she asked, longing to return to her suites, to the bed that had been oft neglected in favor of her husband's. "He must depart soon, but where shall you send him?"
Ned was quiet for some time, living up to his old nickname, before saying, "White Harbor. We can tell others he seeks to travel east and become a mercenary, since if I become Hand, he will no longer be welcome in Winterfell, and he no longer wishes to take the black."
Catelyn knew she couldn't argue the point. The expectation had been, the moment she heard the King was coming north, that Jon Snow would soon be off to the Wall. It turned out her expectations were being dashed, along with her assumptions about the bastard boy. Perhaps he had a stronger character than she had given him credit for, or he had somehow always known he was trueborn. Her septa growing up had always told her of how bastards conspired to steal their trueborn sibling's birthright. That fear, while tempered by the boy's love for Robb and Arya, had never fully faded or even gone away.
Now that she knew he was Daeron Targaryen, the fears she had for her family had taken on a new shape. One, she distinctly worried, was dependent upon what her husband was thinking and keeping close to his chest.
She considered something he had said earlier that day, when discussing the matter of their daughters and possible betrothals for them. "If the crown prince is not satisfactory for a future king, will you consider pressing Jon—Daeron's claim?"
Eddard turned away before whispering, "Once Robert is dead." He sighed, his gaze falling to the desk between them. "That does not mean nothing else can be done. I know I spoke of northern matches for our children, but there are other ways to garner support from the south."
"Fostering," Catelyn said flatly. She had begged Ned to relent on fosterings, even if it meant their children going to other castles, to places halfway across the continent. She may have pushed him hardest when it came to Jon Snow, but she had wanted similar for Robb and Sansa. To get it now furthered her fear something terrible had happened to her husband, or perhaps she never truly knew him as she thought.
"Aye."
"Have you thought of where? Which of our children you will send away?"
Ned flinched, oddly hurt, before saying, "The only kingdom where Arya could peacefully foster without being considered too wild would be Dorne, though I am hesitant to send her so far away from home. House Martell will not use Arya against us. The memory of Elia Martell is too strong for that."
Catelyn nodded, even as her gut tightened into a ball of doubt. More and more her younger daughter became wild. She knew Ned struggled to say no to Arya's less troublesome rebellions, but even he had put his foot down on learning how to wield a sword. Now it would be for naught. Even in Winterfell, stories of Oberyn Martell and his Sand Snakes were known. Warrior women, they were, and bastards as well.
"Only if you send Sansa to Highgarden," she demanded. "Few would blink an eye sending our children to grain producing realms, especially with a daughter of House Forrester, one of House Glover's vassals, already serving the Lady Margaery."
"Then I should write Lord Mace and Prince Doran," he said. Ned straightened and reached out for two slips of parchment, along with quill and ink. "I will let you know when I receive replies. Unless there's something else that we must speak of, you can go, Cat."
She rose to her feet, smoothing her dress's skirt. Catelyn knew she could have remained, to question her husband further about what may happen to their sons, should something become of him revealing Daeron's parentage, but she was tired and wanted some time to pray in her sept, to ask the Seven for aid and wisdom.
"As you say, my lord. I will see you on the morrow."
Dawn broke over Winterfell, and with it the servants within the castle walls buzzed to life. Lyanna woke to a cold bed, feeling more exhausted than she was the previous night. When she had returned to the lord's chamber and found it empty, she had been unsurprised. Yet now that she was waking with hazy memories of those days with Rhaegar before those terrible deaths and of Ned with Catelyn, she longed for someone—anyone—to share a bed with.
I've become soft, she thought. Oh, what would Elia and Rhaegar think, to see me missing a warm body so.
She had not known them as long as she wished, or as deeply as she desired. It had been Elia Martell's arms Lyanna had first stumbled into, seeking to apologize for her role in scorning the Dornish princess. The woman had taken it in stride, glowing and pregnant. Elia hid Lyanna from her brothers, and it wasn't until Rhaegar stumbled into her tent, eyes wide with fear and panic, that they learned the entire tourney camp was searching for her.
They had written each other in secret, for Rhaegar and Elia returned to Dragonstone following the tourney. It wasn't until after Aegon's birth that anything beyond friendship was offered. Lyanna had been afraid to accept until she had stumbled upon old records, written about a pact of ice and fire, of offerings and agreements made between Houses Stark and Targaryen to face down the same dark threat that Brandon the Builder had faced at the dawn of history. Blue eyes, black hands, pale and ethereal; the Others haunted her dreams until she agreed to be the Rhaenys to Elia's Visenya.
They spoke once of daughters bearing those names, the image of their mothers as Aegon took after his father.
Lyanna rose from the lord's bed, throwing aside the furs. She lumbered to the bureau, an old piece of furniture she suspected dated back to the last Kings of Winter, and pulled out appropriate dress. Several minutes later, she stepped out of the lord's chamber, dressed akin to the previous day. She made sure to put on one of the better surcoats. She had considered the matter after Catelyn left her that night and some of the children were ready to hear the truth. It was odd, thinking of them as children, when she had witnessed some of the trials they were destined to face in that other world.
Arya, sworn to death as a faceless one. A girl who ended many, starting with a stable boy during her flight from the Red Keep. How she had held onto her sense as Arya Stark spoke to a strength neither of her parents had truly recognized.
Sansa, awakened to the brutality of the game of thrones. Lyanna was almost grateful of how the girl was given a master class in how to play, though the price she paid for that education had been too high. It was one more price Littlefinger would pay for.
Robb, crowned the King in the North after defeating the Lannisters in the Whispering Woods and the Battle of the Camps. If only he could know the wretched fate at the end of his road and understand that winning battles was not all there was.
Lyanna would save them from their fates. They would not suffer the plots and plans of cruel, ambitious men like Tywin Lannister, Walder Frey, Petyr Baelish, or Roose Bolton. In this life, she prayed they would follow their cousin, the first of many sworn to banners, black with a red, three-headed dragon.
She headed for Catelyn's chambers first. A maid stood outside the door, and when Lyanna reached her, was told, "Apologies, m'lord, but m'lady wishes to sleep a while longer. She shall join you later, after she breaks her fast…separately."
Lyanna nodded, knowing no other route that would not expose who she truly was. "Wish Cat well and tell her we shall miss her this morning."
The maid curtseyed, head bent low enough he could see the crown of her head and the trail of brown, braided hair slithering down her neck.
A touch awkward, Lyanna departed and headed for the great hall. It was where Ned often broke his fast with his children, keeping the massive feasting hall aired out and used, even when none from the south or across the North were present to share it with them. She wondered why he had never found excuses to bring men and women from across the North to Winterfell, so that he could host them in this period of peace and quiet.
It was a shame she would soon shatter that peace like a glass goblet. This time, however, it would not be Ned Stark's head that sparked a war, but his pen. She would allow Stannis Baratheon declare Cersei's children bastards, and back only that of his claims to sow discord among the Stormlanders. She hoped to have Highgarden before Loras Tyrell could whisper that fateful poison into Renly's ears, and that Robert's foppish brother would recoil from seeking a crown once his greatest supporters were once more brought under the dragon's banner.
A few of the children were already in the great hall when Lyanna arrived. Sansa and Arya had taken up seats at each end; Robb sat between them to keep the peace. She strode across quietly, remembering those times when she had been one to be underfoot. It was a struggle not to smirk as she approached, unnoticed by her brother's children.
Her children, technically, now that she was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. They were hers, just as much as Daeron was Ned's.
"Good morning," she said once a few paces away from the table. All three flinched, nearly shooting up from their seats as they turned to face Lyanna.
"Father!" cried Sansa, rising to her feet to curtsey. The gesture made Lyanna feel ill, though she masked it with a pleasant smile. "A good morrow to you."
Robb nodded, his fork between his lips. He continued eating, at that age where he could barely keep up with his hunger.
"Aye, what Sansa said," added Arya around a mouthful of steaming potato. She swallowed before asking, "Where's Mother?"
"Your mother will break her fast when she wishes," Lyanna said. She took Ned's seat at the center of the table. "I am afraid she is not feeling her best, this early in the morning."
Alarmingly, Robb and Arya shared an excited look. Before either could speak, a pair of nurses arrived with Rickon and Bran in tow. The latter was nearly eight, gangly yet with enough strength to somehow scale every wall and tower in Winterfell.
Slinking behind them, as if trying to go unseen, was Theon Greyjoy. Lyanna promised herself he would never step on the Iron Islands. They would burn, as the Targaryen kings of old should have done, before she'd allow him back into the halls of Pyke.
Foresight, sometimes, could be a terrible, terrible thing.
Lyanna allowed them to settle in for the meal. Sansa and Robb had scooted their chairs close to each other and whispered, likely about their mother. She feared there would be a rumor spreading through the castle within the hour, and she had no time to manage the servants while planning how to explain the lies, which had protected their cousin's life. Arya was busy hissing back and forth with Bran, while Rickon appeared more interested in smearing his porridge all over his nurse than putting it in his mouth.
She sipped the watered ale in her goblet. Lyanna almost wished it was straight ale instead, for she could use some fortifying for telling Ned's children the truth about Daeron.
A door groaned open along the hall's side. Daeron slipped through, his dark curls disheveled and his face splotchy from exertion. Lyanna feared he had not slept overnight, instead battering the training dummies to try and clear his mind. She knew telling him the truth would be difficult, but she had thought he would be able to sleep well afterward.
She tried not to be troubled as the children reacted to his arrival. Sansa made clear her disgust, nose wrinkling as she muttered bitterly about her "half-brother". Lyanna bit down on the twist of anger in her gut as Robb said, "Should have told me you were training early, Snow. It will be nice, having to work for my victories."
"I've always gone easy on you, Stark," Daeron replied, smiling. He passed by Arya, messing her hair. Lyanna tried to feel nothing as Arya tried to appear displeased at the act of brotherly affection. "I hope you won't mind when I ring your bell."
Robb smiled. "I'd like to see you try."
"As if you're that good, bastard," sneered Theon Greyjoy. The glower he received from Daeron made Lyanna's heart warm, even as she wished to thrash the squiddie herself. Her mouth was quick to open, even as she struggled to hold back from sounding too much like herself.
"I see Jon knock you into the mud most days, though," chimed Bran as Daeron sat near him. The boy grinned at his cousin. "Could you help me with my sword training?"
"You should ask Robb first," Daeron said, stilling acting like Jon Snow. "But aye, I wouldn't mind."
They fell back to quiet chatter. Lyanna sat back once she finished, waiting for most of the children to finish up.
"Father," said Sansa, the first done breaking her fast. "I have been wishing to ask, but is it possible that Mother is pregnant again?"
Daeron choked loudly upon his food while the other children shouted and gasped. Bran looked fiercely excited, and Rickon nearly as much as he realized what Sansa met. Arya glanced at Lyanna—at Eddard Stark—with a mischievous look and she had to give her a stern look to prevent Arya Underfoot from slipping away from the table.
"I am afraid not," Lyanna said with a weak smile. "I have been blessed with six children. That is plenty for me."
Many disappointed looks filled the table, and a few looked mutinous enough to not finish their meals. She sighed and continued: "Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya. I want you to head to the godswood once you're finished. There is something we must speak about." She glanced at her son, at her Daeron, and added, "Perhaps after you bathe, Jon."
Robb and Arya giggled as Daeron flushed. He nodded, even as his dark eyes dimmed. He knew what she wished to speak of, and it appeared he was not happy about the matter.
Lyanna had to quell the ache in her heart. It had to be done. Catelyn had been right about telling their children, even if it had taken Lyanna some time to realize so. She would need to seek out Ned's wife and bring her along as well.
Jon made a point by waiting until Robb had swept Arya into the godswood before joining his family. He had bathed quickly, unable to help himself as his nerves ate away under the pressure of who he truly was. It would be six of them total. Rickon was with his nanny, while Bran was stuck in his lessons with Maester Luwin. He was grateful the younger two would not be present, for he couldn't imagine how the two of them could keep his secret.
I should think of myself as Daeron, he thought, already fearing what might be said. His uncle had yet to state one way or another, but Jon knew an admission of his heritage, of his potential claim, would bring House Stark into conflict with King Robert and his wife's family, House Lannister. They could very well be sitting upon the brink of war; a war worse than any seen since Daemon Blackfyre challenged the birth right of the second Daeron.
He made his way through the maze of ironwoods and oaks slowly, breathing in deeply with every step. There was a presence in the godswood that set him at ease, even now that he knew he was a Targaryen. He hoped his siblings—cousins, Jon knew he should call them—would take the revelation kindly. Sansa, he suspected, would either take it best or worst. Her love of song and her disdain for him as a bastard would certainly war in the face of the truth, and he no longer knew her well enough to know which would dominate her reaction.
Arya would be angry, and likely demand that she was still his sister. He smiled, thinking of her stubbornness, how she'd scoff at being called cousin, try and punch him, then demand something absurd like take her riding dragons. She, like him, had a Targaryen she idolized, though he doubted Lady Stark was aware of what Arya thought of Visenya Targaryen.
Robb, he hoped, would remain upon his feet. If his brother, his closest friend, and companion, bent the knee, then he might feel compelled to seek the Iron Throne. Jon knew the realm had suffered whenever one sought to usurp the crown. Rhaenyra and Aegon, with the Dance that destroyed House Targaryen's dragons. After them was the Blackfyres, who brought war to the Seven Kingdoms thrice within the span of a century. There was even Robert's Rebellion, waged over his lady mother who abandoned her betrothal to pursue a married man.
Could he truly ask those who bled for his mother to fight for him?
Yes, a traitorous voice whispered. You aren't a Blackfyre. You aren't Jon Snow. You're Daeron of House Targaryen, and the Iron Throne is your birthright.
He shook away those thoughts, grimacing over the fact they had dared to come to him. He had hoped his training would wash them away with sweat and strain, but instead they had rooted deep in his mind. It terrified him, and it was made worse by the sickly knowledge he might not have a choice over the matter.
There were five members of House Stark waiting beneath the boughs of the heart tree. Arya and Sansa stood near their mother, thankfully not bickering. Lady Stark stared at him with veiled fear, and Jon couldn't help how his heart clenched with that same fear. Perhaps in her he could find an ally, if only for the love they shared for her children.
Robb and Lord Stark were before the tree's face, ghastly and ghoulish now that Jon knew whom his parents were. The bloody eyes stared out, almost dismissive of him, a child of dragons. He nearly turned back, but his feet had separated from his mind and heart. They continued on, and soon enough he was before them.
Lord Stark spotted him first. It had been easier for Jon, in the wake of the revelation overnight, to let go of calling the man before him father. But now, as grey eyes similar to his turned to him with a mix of sorrow and relief, he wanted nothing more than to call him father one last time.
"Good," Lord Stark said. "We're all here."
"What did you wish to speak of Father?" asked Robb. Jon glanced between them, father, and son. Despite Robb possessing his mother's coloring, he looked similar to his father. Their nose, the shape of their mouths and eyes, even the long face and stocky frame; there was no doubt what their relation was.
Not like him. He might have the Stark coloring, but as Lady Stark had noted, the Valyrian features were there for all to spot.
"At the end of the Rebellion, after I lifted the siege of Storm's End, I traveled with six other northmen into the Red Mountains of Dorne," Lord Stark began. Jon tried not to frown. The story he had been told began years before at Harrenhal. "There we found three knights of the Kingsguard, defending a tower along the Prince's Pass."
"The Sword of the Morning," whispered Sansa, reverently.
"The Black Bat," Lady Stark added, bitter about the family relation.
"And the White Bull," Arya chipped in. "We've heard this story, Father. Why are you telling it again?"
"Because…" Lord Stark sighed, running a hand through his greying brown hair. "Because I did not tell the entire truth. In that tower, I did find my sister, your Aunt Lyanna. But she did not die of a mere fever. It was a fever from the birthing bed, one soaked in blood."
Jon watched those he thought to be his siblings stiffen. Sansa, surprisingly, glanced at him before asking, "Aunt Lyanna had a child? By Prince Rhaegar?"
"Aye," Lord Stark confirmed. "A son. One, I learned to my misery and regret, that was trueborn."
"We have a Targaryen cousin?" asked Arya, strained and confused. "What became of him?"
"I promised my sister I would protect her child, Daeron Targaryen. I did what I had to, the only thing I could think of to protect her innocent babe." Lord Stark swallowed thickly. "I stained my honor and claimed him as my bastard."
Their gazes turned to Jon, stricken with realization. "I took a prince of House Targaryen and told the realm he was a Snow, my natural son."
Heartbeats passed. A soft breeze blew through the heart tree, the branches and leafs rattling. He watched not Lord or Lady Stark, but Robb and Sansa and Arya. He watched them, praying he would have time more before he would need to be Daeron Targaryen.
TBC
