Jon I
Telling his family about the threat looming in the North felt like lifting a heavy burden from Jon's shoulders. For far too long, he had carried the weight of this knowledge alone, the fear and uncertainty gnawing at him like a relentless winter chill. He recalled the first time he had encountered a wight nearly six years ago. At that moment, he had been just a boy at the Wall, unprepared for the dark realities that lurked beyond it.
Back then, when the bodies of the dead men had come shambling back to life, Jon had thought they must not have been truly dead—perhaps merely unconscious or gravely ill. He imagined them overtaken by a parasite or some terrible disease, their souls trapped in an endless nightmare. But after he plunged his sword into that first wight, stabbing it over and over, he realised how wrong he was. It took fire to finally put the creature down, to banish it back into the grave from whence it had come.
That was the moment Jeor Mormont had entrusted him with Longclaw, a Valyrian steel sword that had been passed down through generations of the Mormont family. In that instant, Jon felt a deep sense of belonging, a connection to the Night's Watch that he had never fully grasped before. For three years, he had served as Mormont's squire, learning the ways of the Watch, the importance of loyalty, and the burden of duty. During that time, there had been no further whispers of men rising from the dead; the greatest threats they faced were the wildlings. Though they posed their own challenges, they were easy enough to contain, and the Watch had focused on maintaining the fragile peace along the Wall.
But as seasons turned and the chill of winter deepened, Jon began to notice a shift. Rangers started to go missing again—men who ventured North and never returned. The reports from the other members of the Watch grew increasingly troubling. It was then that Jeor had made the decision to lead an expedition North to discover what had happened to their fallen brothers.
As they journeyed further into the icy expanse, the familiar signs of wildling encampments became increasingly scarce. The forests, once teeming with life, felt unnaturally silent, devoid of movement or sound. It was eerie, and unease settled in the pit of Jon's stomach as they pressed on. When they eventually reached Craster's Keep, it stood as a lone bastion in the midst of the desolation—a place that had long been a source of discomfort and suspicion among the men of the Watch.
That was where Jon and Samwell Tarly had first encountered Gilly, a girl whose beauty was overshadowed by the profound sadness etched into her features. Sam, with his awkward charm and earnestness, had been immediately taken with her, though it was clear that Gilly was a soul weighed down by grief. Craster, with a callousness that made Jon's skin crawl, had revealed the tragedy that had befallen her—three sons lost in as many years. Each death had stripped away her spirit, leaving her a mere shadow of the girl she might once have been.
As they pressed on from Craster's Keep, Jon was drawn into the dangers that lay further North. He had joined forces with the infamous Qorin Halfhand, a seasoned ranger known for his hard-nosed tactics and deep understanding of the wildling way of life. It was during this time that Jon ventured deeper into the treacherous mountains, where the air was thin and the snow seemed to bury everything in an eternal silence.
It was there, amidst the howling winds and stark landscapes, that he met Ygritte. A wilding girl with fiery red hair and fierce spirit, she captivated him in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. Jon had fallen hard for her, her laughter echoing in his mind long after their encounters. But to win her trust, he had made choices that haunted him - he had killed Qorin Halfhand, a man he respected, to prove his loyalty to the wildlings. It was a brutal act of betrayal that forced him to turn his back on the Night's Watch, his brothers, and everything he had sworn to protect.
Ygritte had taken him to meet Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, and for the first time, Jon felt a sense of belonging among the wildlings. They had welcomed him, treated him as one of their own, and for a brief moment, Jon experienced a freedom he had never known. Yet, that freedom came at a price. As he learned more about their plans to attack the Wall, an inescapable conflict arose within him. He understood the danger they posed not just to the Night's Watch but to the North as a whole. He was torn between the life he had known and the love he had found, ultimately leading him to make the hardest decision of all: he left Ygritte and her people, returning to warn the Night's Watch of the impending threat.
They had attacked anyway, despite his desperate attempts to broker peace. Men from both sides—those who had come to trust him, wildling and crow alike—fell around him, and he was forced to watch, powerless, as they killed each other. The horror of it blurred before his eyes, and then she was there: Ygritte, bleeding in his arms. Her last breath had carried bitterness, her fierce gaze filled with hurt and hatred. Every day since, her memory haunted Jon, wrapping itself around him like a shadow he could neither shake nor forget.
In quiet moments, he relived the time they had shared, as if clutching fragments of a dream now forever lost. He remembered the warmth of her touch, how her laughter could thaw the frozen emptiness of the land beyond the Wall, how her fierce, unbreakable spirit had softened his own fears. With her, he had felt alive even in the bleakest places; her fire had become his sanctuary. But always, those memories carried a dark edge, tainted by the choices he had made and the lives they had destroyed.
Jon had fought his own brothers, seen Jeor Mormont cut down in front of him, and fought tooth and nail to win back the trust of the Night's Watch. That trust had come with a price—he had been named Lord Commander, a title that felt heavy on his shoulders. He had witnessed the true horror of the world at Hardhome, where the dead rose, unrelenting and merciless. The nightmares from that day never truly left him, a constant reminder that the battle for survival was far from over.
Now, he had made his way back to Winterfell for the first time in two years, Jon knew he was not the same boy who had left. He had been hardened by war, by loss, by the cold realities of the world beyond the Wall. But he had returned with a purpose. He was ready to fight again—this time, not just for the Night's Watch, but for the living.
The plan was in motion, though the path ahead felt as uncertain as ever. Tyrion would send a raven to Daenerys Targaryen, seeking her terms and laying the foundation for what could be a dangerous alliance. There was no telling what her demands might be, but Tyrion trusted that the Dragon Queen, as fierce as she was, could be reasoned with. Meanwhile, Jon would return to the Wall. The threat from beyond the Wall still loomed large, and every able-bodied man would be needed to defend against it.
Robb had pledged a thousand men from the North to support the Night's Watch. It was a gesture of brotherly loyalty, but Jon knew all too well that it wouldn't be enough. Not against the Night King, not against the army of the dead. Still, he would take what he could. It was a start, and perhaps, if they survived long enough, more would follow.
That evening, Jon had retreated to his old chambers in Winterfell, the familiar scent of wood and stone stirring a mix of memories. It felt strange to be back here, in the very room where he had once slept as a boy, full of dreams and uncertainties. So much had changed. He had changed. Now, his thoughts were consumed by duty and the war to come. Tomorrow, he would set out for the Wall once more, to stand where his brothers had stood, to defend the realm against an enemy few could even comprehend.
He sat by the small fire that flickered in the hearth, staring into the flames, his mind drifting to Ygritte, to the wildlings he had lost, to the faces of the men who had died under his command. The weight of leadership, of decisions made, pressed heavily on him. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find solace in the quiet, when a knock at the door broke through his thoughts.
His eyes snapped open, and for a brief moment, he hesitated. Few people would come to him at this hour. He rose from his seat, the floor creaking slightly beneath his feet as he made his way to the door. He opened it slowly, uncertain of who or what he might find on the other side.
"Jon," came the familiar voice, deep and steady, as the door creaked open wider. Ned Stark stood before him, the light from the hallway casting long shadows on his face. Jon blinked, momentarily taken aback. Though much had changed in the years since Jon had last seen his father, there was something timeless in the way Ned held himself—his quiet strength, the steadfastness in his gaze. Time had weathered him; his hair, once dark, was streaked with silver, and lines creased the corners of his eyes and mouth. Yet, despite all that had transpired, the soul that lived within Ned Stark was unchanged. He was still the same man who had raised Jon, who had taught him the values of honor and duty, the man Jon had always admired.
"Father," Jon said quietly, stepping back to allow him into the room. Ned stepped into the room with his usual calm, his eyes scanning the familiar surroundings as if seeing them for the first time in years. The old chamber, once again Jon's for the night, was just as Ned remembered it, a place that had once been Jon's refuge as a boy. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the stone walls, and the scent of burning wood filled the air, mingling with the cold of the Northern night.
Ned's face softened as he turned his gaze back to Jon, and for a moment, a flicker of something passed between them—understanding, maybe even affection. "It's good to see you," Ned said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of years. "It's been too long."
Jon nodded, feeling the truth of those words in his bones. Too long indeed. Too many battles, too much blood, and too many losses had passed since they had last stood together in Winterfell. There was an unspoken recognition between them, both changed by the events of the last few years. Jon was no longer the uncertain boy who had left Winterfell to join the Night's Watch.
"You've done well, Jon," Ned said after a moment, his voice low, but filled with pride. "The Wall...the men you've led...you've become the man I always knew you could be."
Jon looked away, the weight of those words heavy on his shoulders. He didn't feel like the man his father believed him to be. He carried too many ghosts—Ygritte, his brothers of the Night's Watch, the people he had failed. "I've made too many mistakes," Jon murmured, staring at the fire. "I'm not sure I've done anything right."
Ned shook his head slowly. "Mistakes are a part of life, Jon. No man lives without them. It's how we carry them that defines us."
The words hit Jon deeply, reminding him of the wisdom Ned had imparted during his youth, lessons about honour and integrity, even in the face of impossible choices. Ned Stark had lived his life by those values, even when it had cost him dearly.
Silence hung between them for a moment, the crackling of the fire filling the room. Jon finally looked up, meeting his father's eyes. "The war's coming. I don't know if we can win."
Ned's face remained calm, though there was a gravity in his expression. "The dead don't give us a choice, Jon. We must fight, whether we win or not."
Jon nodded. He had known that truth for a long time now, but hearing it from Ned made it feel more real, more urgent. They stood on the precipice of something much greater than themselves, and the fight ahead would determine the fate of everyone they loved.
"You're not alone in this," Ned said, stepping closer and resting a hand on Jon's shoulder. "You have your family. You have the North. And you have me."
"Thank you," Jon whispered, his voice barely audible.
Ned nodded once more, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Get some rest, Jon. Tomorrow's another day, and there's much to be done."
As Ned turned to leave, Jon noticed the briefest hesitation in his father's step. It was subtle—a slight pause, a shift in his stance—but Jon could tell something weighed on him. Ned had come with more than just words of comfort; there was something unspoken, a burden he had carried for years. Jon's gaze followed him closely, sensing the quiet turmoil beneath his father's calm exterior.
For a moment, it seemed as if Ned might leave without addressing it, but then, with a deep breath, he turned back, his expression unreadable but resolute. The firelight flickered across his weathered face, casting shadows in the lines etched by time and hardship.
"Actually..." Ned began, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant, "Will you walk with me?"
Jon blinked, caught off guard. His father wasn't one for spontaneous requests, not without a reason. There was something deeper here, something important. Jon nodded, rising from his seat without a word. He could see it in Ned's eyes—the weight of an old promise.
Ned stepped closer, the tension between them palpable, though not in a way that felt threatening. It was the weight of expectation, of secrets long buried. "There's something I promised to do a long time ago," Ned said, his tone solemn, almost regretful.
Jon's heart quickened. He had seen this side of his father only once before—the day they had said goodbye before Jon left for the Wall. It was the same restrained pain, the same burden that had never been spoken aloud. Jon had sensed it then 6 years ago, but now it felt even heavier, more pressing, as if years of silence were about to be broken.
Wordlessly, Jon grabbed his cloak from the chair and swung it over his shoulders, stepping into the corridor beside his father. They walked in silence through the winding halls of Winterfell, the familiar cold stone underfoot, torches flickering as they passed. The castle felt timeless, as though the very walls held memories older than any of them, and yet there was something new in the air tonight.
Ned led the way with a slow, purposeful stride, and Jon couldn't help but wonder where they were going. The night outside was frigid, the winds of winter sweeping across the castle grounds, but it wasn't the cold that made Jon uneasy. It was the sense that they were heading toward something momentous, something that had lingered in the shadows for far too long.
Finally, after what felt like an age, they descended into the crypts beneath Winterfell, the air growing colder with each step they took. The flickering torchlight cast long, eerie shadows on the stone walls, illuminating the ancient faces of the Stark statues that lined the passage. Each figure stood solemnly, sword in hand, guarding the tombs of long-dead kings and lords, their eyes hollow and watching, as if they knew the secrets the living carried.
Jon felt the weight of the place pressing down on him, the chill not just from the cold stone but from the history these crypts held—the history of his family. His footsteps echoed through the narrow corridor as they went deeper, the silence between him and Ned thick with unspoken words.
The crypts had always held a solemn place in Jon's heart—a sanctuary of shadows and stone, meant for the dead and those who mourned them. As a child, he had often wandered these narrow halls, tracing his fingers over the faces carved into the ancient statues, each one a Stark with a story woven into Winterfell's very foundations. He'd let his imagination fill in the lives behind those faces, creating tales of valour and sacrifice, silently wondering where he might fit into the tapestry of their legacy. Sometimes, Robb would join him, his laughter echoing through the cold, dim chambers. Robb—the true heir to Winterfell—would one day stand immortalised in these crypts, a lord whose legacy would be honoured and remembered.
Jon, meanwhile, would never have a place here. He was the bastard of Winterfell, an outsider even in his home, destined to fade from memory like a breath in winter air. The crypts reminded him of that unspoken truth. He felt he was merely passing through the stories of others, bound to be forgotten, his place within this family's history uncertain, as transient as the flicker of the torches that lined the stone walls.
Ned led the way, his torch lighting the faces of the stone kings and queens, the ancient lords of Winterfell, and Jon followed in silence, his mind reeling. At last, they reached the deepest part of the crypts, where the most recent members of House Stark lay in rest. The air was colder here, more still. Jon's eyes moved over the familiar tombs—Brandon Stark, Rickard Stark, the father and brother Ned had lost in Robert's Rebellion. And there, at the end, the newest addition to the crypt: Lyanna Stark.
Her tomb was simple, unadorned but for the Stark sigil and her name carved in the stone. The stone likeness of her face gazed out into the dark, her features delicate yet strong. Jon found himself frozen in place, his breath catching in his throat.
Ned came to a stop in front of her tomb and stood there in silence for a moment, his head bowed as if offering a prayer. Jon, uncertain of what to do or say, stepped closer, his heart pounding in his chest.
"She was the best of us," Ned murmured, his voice thick with years of unshed grief. "Out of the four of us—Brandon, me, Lyanna, and Benjen... and now, I'm the only one left."
Jon looked at his father, catching the flicker of pain that softened his stern features. The grief was there, raw as ever, despite all the years that had passed. Ned's shoulders, though still strong, seemed to bear the invisible weight of a lifetime of loss.
"I failed her, Jon," Ned continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Long before she died. We all did, in our own way, from the moment she was born. Lyanna was meant for something greater, something we never understood. We saw her as our fiery, impulsive sister, but she deserved more than us—and the world... the world failed her every day until it stole her away from us."
Jon felt a pang in his chest as he watched the sorrow wash over Ned's face. He rarely spoke of Lyanna, of the grief that lingered like a shadow in the corners of his soul. Yet tonight, here in the crypts beneath Winterfell, the walls Ned had built around that sorrow seemed to crumble.
"What happened... wasn't your fault," Jon said gently. It felt strange, trying to console his father, the man he had always seen as unwavering, as unbreakable.
Ned gave a sad smile, the kind that barely lifted his lips. "Sometimes I think of her, Jon, the way I remember her—wild and fierce, like she could run with wolves if she wanted to. She lived by her own rules. And when I think of what she might've had… a life of freedom, love… it's a bitter thing to accept."
They stood in silence for a moment, the quiet broken only by the crackle of the torchlight, shadows casting faint patterns along the stone walls.
Ned sighed deeply, the sound filled with the weight of years of unspoken truths. "Jon," he began, his voice low but steady. "I've carried something with me for most of your life, something I should have told you long ago."
Jon's stomach tightened, but he remained silent, letting his father speak.
"When you left for the Wall," Ned began, his voice tight with uncharacteristic vulnerability, "I told you that the next time we met, I'd tell you about your mother." His gaze faltered, a flicker of emotion breaking through the stoic mask he had always worn. "But the truth, Jon… it's not what you think."
Jon's heart thundered in his chest, his breath catching as the words sank in. The mystery of his mother had haunted him his entire life. He'd spent countless nights wondering, his mind crafting faces and voices for the woman who had been just a shadow, hidden away from him. Every time he'd dared to ask, Ned's answers had been evasive, leaving Jon more frustrated and questioning than before. But now, here they were, in the dim glow of the crypts, his father standing before him, finally willing to pull back the veil of secrecy. After everything—was he finally going to get an answer?
Ned's gaze dropped as he gathered his thoughts, and Jon could see a trace of the immense weight he'd been carrying for years. At last, Ned looked up, meeting Jon's eyes with a steady resolve. "She was your mother, Jon… Lyanna," he said, his voice a mixture of reverence and sorrow. "She loved fiercely, as only she could. And Rhaegar... he didn't take her. She went to him willingly. They loved each other and their love made you."
Jon staggered, his mind trying to reconcile the words with everything he'd ever been told, with the legends and whispers that painted Rhaegar as a dark prince and Lyanna as his captive. It felt impossible.
Ned took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Jon's. "I didn't know until after the war. After Rhaegar had already fallen. She was hidden in a small castle in Dorne called the Tower of Joy, a place so remote no one could find her." Ned's voice grew softer, laced with guilt. "A woman named Ashara Dayne told me where to look. I rode there as fast as I could, desperate to bring her back, to save her, but… by the time I reached her, it was too late. She was in labour, trying to bring you into the world."
Jon felt his throat tighten, the image of his mother—his true mother, Lyanna Stark—alone and suffering, surrounded by the emptiness of a foreign land, was too much to bear.
"She lost too much blood, Jon," Ned continued, his voice breaking, "and in the end, I couldn't save her. But before she slipped away, she gave me you. She made me promise, a promise I could never break."
Jon's fists clenched as the weight of Ned's words settled over him. He had lived his life thinking of himself as a Stark bastard, loved but distant from the honor of his name. Yet here he was, not just a Stark, but a son of Lyanna, of the Targaryen line.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Jon asked, voice shaking. The anger, confusion, and sorrow all flooded him at once. "Why keep this from me, let me live as a bastard, let me join the Night's Watch without even knowing?"
Ned swallowed hard, the weight of his words evident in his eyes. "If anyone had known the truth," he said, voice breaking slightly, "you would never have been safe. You would've been seen as a threat, hunted as the last of Rhaegar's line. And your mother… her last wish was that you would live, Jon. To protect you, I thought it best to let you grow without the chains of this secret, free of the burdens that would come with it."
He hesitated, gathering himself before continuing. "Your mother named you Jaehaerys, after one of the greatest kings House Targaryen has ever known." Then, gently, he placed a hand on Jon's shoulder—a father's hand, steady and warm, yet full of sorrow for the secret he'd kept. "But you're more than that. You're a Stark, in every way that matters. Blood doesn't change the man you've become, Jon. It doesn't change your loyalty, your honour. That is yours alone."
The torchlight flickered, casting their faces in long shadows across the stone walls, echoing with the weight of generations. Silence stretched between them as Jon tried to make sense of this new truth.
"But by blood," Ned added, breaking the quiet, his voice grave, "you are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
Jon felt as though the world shifted beneath him. The words hung in the air, so heavy he could barely breathe under their weight. Jaehaerys. He had always known he was different, an outsider even in his own family. But this? It was too much. He had spent his whole life believing he was a bastard. Now, in a moment, that identity had been torn away, replaced with something far more dangerous and far more foreign.
"Why are you telling me this now?" Jon asked, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.
Ned exhaled slowly, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword as if it were the only thing anchoring him. "Because the world is changing, Jon. We are about to declare for Daenerys Targaryen. We are about to support her claim to the Iron Throne. But..." He hesitated, as though weighing each word carefully. "We don't have to. If you want it, if you're willing, we could support you. You, Jaehaerys Targaryen."
Jon's heart skipped a beat. The name, so foreign to his ears, felt as though it belonged to someone else. He could almost see it, the life he could claim, the throne he could sit upon—the legacy of fire and blood that was his by birthright. He could see armies bending the knee, the great houses of Westeros swearing fealty to him, the rightful king.
But it wasn't him. It had never been him.
"No," Jon said quietly, shaking his head as the weight of his answer settled in his chest. "That's not who I am." His voice was firmer now, resolute. "I am a brother of the Night's Watch. I made an oath. I shall wear no crowns, hold no lands. I may have been born Jaehaerys"—he struggled with the name, the way it tasted foreign and bitter in his mouth—"but now I am Jon Snow. I will live and die at my post, protecting the realm from what's out there."
Ned studied him for a long moment, his face unreadable, but his eyes spoke volumes—pride, sorrow, and a father's endless love. "Jon, the world isn't as simple as vows anymore. You've seen it. You've seen the dead rise at Hardhome, you've felt the cold that's coming. You know what's beyond the Wall. Your place in this world is not so small. The time will come when you must make a choice—not as a brother of the Night's Watch, but as who you were born to be."
Jon's jaw clenched, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He had spent his whole life trying to make peace with who he was. A bastard. The boy who didn't belong. And now, just when he had found his purpose at the Wall, when he had earned the respect of his brothers, Ned was offering him a crown. But that wasn't what he wanted.
"Who I was born to be?" Jon's voice hardened. "I wasn't born to be king, I was born to be hidden. You hid me, my mother hid me. I've spent my whole life being something I'm not. I don't want to be Jaehaerys Targaryen. I don't care about the Iron Throne. Let Daenerys have it—let her be the queen she was born to be. I don't want it."
Ned's expression softened, and for the first time in a long while, Jon saw the man who had raised him, the man who had loved him like a son even when the world insisted he was something less. "I know, Jon," Ned said gently. "But the choice will come to you all the same, whether you seek it or not. The truth cannot be buried forever."
Jon turned away, his mind spinning. He thought of the Wall, the brothers he had sworn to protect. He thought of Ygritte, and the love he had lost in the wild, the promises he had made. He thought of the dead, and the war that was coming, a war far more important than crowns and thrones. That was where his duty lay. Not in the south, not in the halls of kings and queens, but in the cold north where the real battle awaited.
"I belong at the Wall," Jon said finally, his voice firm but tinged with sadness. "That's where I can do the most good. That's where I'm needed. I'm not a king," Jon said quietly. "And I never will be."
Ned nodded, understanding in his eyes. "I'll respect your choice, Jon. Whatever it may be. But know this—the blood of kings runs through your veins. And no matter what name you choose to go by, that will never change."
Jon looked once more at his father, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what could have been. "I'm Jon Snow," he said, more to himself than to Ned. "I'll always be Jon Snow."
And with that, the weight of his true name—Jaehaerys Targaryen—drifted into the cold air of the crypts, like a shadow of a life that was never meant to be.