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Jon Snow
"Stay low, Robb!" Ser Rodrik's voice boomed across the courtyard.
Jon grinned as Robb's feet slipped beneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground. Robb scrambled to his feet, fury in his eyes, and swung his wooden sword with all his might. Jon effortlessly parried the blows, blocking each one with barely any effort. With a swift move, Jon drove Robb to the ground for the third time.
"Stay low!" Ser Rodrik repeated, his tone less urgent now.
Robb shot Jon a glare, then crouched low, using his smaller frame to his advantage, trying to barge into Jon with his shoulder. Jon's grin widened, his body a blur of quick, practiced movement. It was no secret to him that, with his height and agility, he now towered over Robb by a full two inches.
"Trust me, I'm trying!" Robb snapped, a mix of frustration and determination in his voice.
Jon sidestepped Robb's charge and, with a swift kick, sent him sprawling into the snow. Robb huffed indignantly, brushing the snow off his tunic.
"Stay low, please?" Ser Rodrik urged again, a touch of exasperation in his voice.
In the background, the onlookers—Starks and courtiers alike—watched in stunned silence. Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell, one of the most renowned fighters in the North, was being made a fool of by Jon Snow, the bastard. From the balcony, Ned Stark and his wife, Catelyn, observed the spar with quiet interest.
Arya's voice broke the silence. "Go, Jon! Beat him!" she cheered, her small fists pumping in the air.
Sansa immediately shot her a disapproving look, while Catelyn silenced her daughter with a sharp glance.
Jon flashed a quick grin at Robb. "Looks like you have more fans than I do, brother."
Robb slowly rose, his face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. "What did you expect?" he said, trying to regain his composure. "I'm the future Warden of the North, Jon."
"Being the future Warden doesn't protect you from me, Robb," Jon shot back with a teasing grin.
Robb raised his sword to face Jon again. "I'm not done yet," he muttered, determination now replacing his earlier frustration.
Jon remained calm, waiting for Robb's next move. As Robb rushed toward him, Jon met his charge, blocking his sword with ease. In one swift motion, Jon knocked Robb's wooden sword from his hand and placed his own sword at Robb's throat.
"Do you yield?" Jon asked, his voice firm.
Robb glared at the sword and sighed in defeat. "Aye, I yield."
Jon stepped back, allowing Robb to rise. The Stark lords and ladies clapped politely, though there was a distinct reluctance in their applause—there was little joy in seeing a bastard best their future lord.
Ser Rodrik approached Jon with a nod of approval. "Good footwork, Jon. Keep this up, and you'll find a spot on the Kingsguard waiting for you."
"Thank you, Ser," Jon replied, though the prospect of serving in King's Landing didn't appeal to him. After everything he'd learned about himself, he couldn't waste his skills in such a place.
As the crowd began to disperse, Jon and Robb walked over to return their swords. As Jon placed his weapon back on the rack, a blur of brown and red suddenly tackled him from behind. Arya, Rickon, and Bran swarmed him, each firing questions at him in a chaotic attempt to outdo one another.
Alys Karstark, who had been standing beside Robb, kissed him on the cheek and watched the scene unfold with a smile.
Jon raised a hand to quiet his cousins. "One at a time, please."
The three Starks paused, glancing at each other, unsure who would speak first. Bran, as always, broke the silence. "That was amazing, Jon!"
"Can you teach me?" Rickon asked, his eyes wide with admiration.
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Ser Rodrik is already teaching you, Rickon. You've got a master-at-arms waiting."
Rickon frowned, his small brow furrowing in concentration. "I don't think he's better than you, Jon," he said, looking up at him with earnest blue eyes. "You're the best."
Jon ruffled Rickon's hair, smiling warmly. "I know."
Arya crossed her arms, clearly not impressed. "Did the Golden Company teach you all that, Jon?" she asked eagerly, before immediately shutting her mouth at the dark look Jon shot her.
Jon stiffened. "It had a part in it," he muttered, his voice tight, the conversation quickly ending there.
The Starks had asked him persistently about the rumors surrounding him since his return, but Jon refused to share anything about his time away. It was better for everyone if they didn't know.
Suddenly, the three of them hugged him tightly. "We missed you, Jon," Arya said, her voice muffled against his tunic. "You should have never left."
Jon's heart melted at the sincerity in her voice. How could he have ever doubted that he belonged here? How could he not fight to protect them? Tears pricked at his eyes as he returned the embrace, holding his cousins fiercely. I'll always protect you.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jon caught a glimpse of Lady Stark on the balcony, her gaze cold and unreadable. His eyes flicked over to Ned, who gave him a warm smile. Jon's stomach twisted at the sight, but he quickly turned his gaze away, ignoring the ache in his chest.
He had been avoiding Ned for days now, and the older man didn't know why. Jon wanted him to wonder, wanted him to struggle with the question. But he wasn't ready to confront his uncle about the truth of his parentage. His blood boiled at the thought of how he had been taken from his family, yet he kept his calm. Cannibal would sense his rage if he didn't. The bond between them was strong, and if Jon didn't control himself, the dragon could easily lay waste to the entire North.
Taking a deep breath, Jon reached out with his mind, brushing against Cannibal's consciousness. The dragon was fine. Jon relaxed, cancelling the warging connection and focused on the present. Before he had returned to Winterfell, he had sent Cannibal away, trusting the beast to stay out of sight. He had given him orders to stay away if he came near Winterfell, and the dragon had complied—albeit with some annoyance.
"Jon!" Robb's voice broke through his thoughts.
Jon snapped back to reality, startled. His cousins laughed, and he shot them a slightly annoyed look. "What?"
"You were zoning out," Robb said, crossing his arms. "We've been calling your name for ages."
Jon rolled his eyes. "Then why did you yell in my ear?"
Robb grinned cheekily. "Because it worked."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to help you stop brooding," Robb teased.
Jon shot him a look of incredulity. "What did you say?"
"You brood, Jon," Robb replied, matter-of-factly.
A chorus of voices from the onlookers chimed in, agreeing. "Yeah, you do!" they all said.
Jon scowled, but his face softened as he caught Arya sneaking a sly smile. That little traitor.
Alys Karstark chuckled and playfully slapped Robb's arm. "Stop it, Robb. Leave him alone."
Robb, still grinning, rubbed his sore arm. "It's my duty to help my brooding brother."
"I don't brood!" Jon protested. "I think a lot, but I don't brood."
"Yes, you do, Jon!" came the reply, and Jon found himself chuckling in spite of himself.
The air was thick with dust as Jon moved through the crypts, the stone tombs of the Starks standing in solemn silence. His footsteps echoed in the heavy stillness, but he paid no mind, his destination clear. He walked past the statues without hesitation—these cold, lifeless representations were not his focus.
At last, he stopped before one of the statues, lifting the torch in his hand, careful not to let the flame brush too close to the delicate stone. The figure before him was a woman, her hands gently cradling a winter rose, frozen in a moment of grace.
But even as he gazed at her, Jon knew the statue didn't do justice to the woman it depicted. The stories told of her beauty—how it had been enough to sway King Rhaegar from his faithfulness to his queen. A beauty so profound it could change the course of history. The story was known, but Jon didn't need to hear it. He had learned the truth for himself, in the silence of his own heart.
This was his mother.
His fingers brushed against the stone, tracing the delicate curve of her cheek with reverence. The coldness of the rock beneath his touch did little to quell the ache in his chest. His voice cracked as he spoke, a whisper that seemed to fill the space around him with a strange, sorrowful resonance.
"Hello, Mother." His hands lingered on her stone face, as if trying to make some connection that was beyond him.
"I finally came home. And this time, I know what I really am." Jon's breath hitched as his gaze lingered on her face. "And I know who you really were—not as my aunt, but as my mother."
He let out a bitter laugh, though it was more out of sorrow than humor. "I should be glad that I finally know who birthed me, but... I just feel empty. For so long, I convinced myself that maybe you were out there, somewhere, that maybe you were still alive. But that hope... it vanished quickly."
Jon's hand fell to his side, his fingers curling into a fist. "But you're not alive. And as much as I wish you were, as much as I longed for you to be the one to raise me... life is not fair. Not to you, not to me."
His gaze softened as he picked up the winter rose from her hands, the petals now brittle and broken. "Are you proud of me, Mother? Of what I've done, of what I've become? I don't think you are. If you were here, I don't think I'd have the courage to leave Westeros... to do the things I've done." His voice trembled. "I wouldn't have the strength to make these choices."
Jon exhaled, steadying himself. "I don't know what to do anymore. I want to tell my father who I am... but then I want to protect what's left of your family. Uncle did something I never expected, and I paid the price for it. And I don't understand why he took me away from all of that."
Jon's laughter came again, softer this time, tinged with pain. "I'm an asshole. I shouldn't be bothering you with my troubles. I should just let you rest in peace."
He dropped the rose back into her hands, then cupped her cheek with both of his. For a long moment, Jon stayed there, his fingers tracing the cold stone with a gentleness that betrayed the fury in his heart.
"I came here to tell you one thing, Mother." His voice cracked on the final word. "I love you."
"Jon?"
Jon whirled around, panic rising in his chest, his heart pounding as he saw Ned standing a few feet away. His face was unreadable, his expression distant, but his presence was a silent admission. They stood there for a long moment, locked in a stare, each of them caught in the weight of unspoken words.
"Why?" Jon's voice was quiet, hoarse, knowing his uncle had heard everything. There was no use in pretending otherwise.
Ned met his gaze, the silence stretching between them. His eyes flickered, full of pain and regret. "How did you find out?"
Jon's glare was sharp, the pain and rage bubbling to the surface. "How do you think? A damn Greyjoy told me everything, while he took his sweet time torturing me."
"Balon tortured you?" Ned's voice rose in shock.
"No," Jon replied bitterly, "The other one. The one who got banished."
"Why did he—"
"It doesn't matter," Jon snapped, cutting him off. The Greyjoys were dead, and nothing they had done could bring back what was lost. He clenched his fists. "Why? Why, Lord Stark?" His voice rose again, louder this time, echoing off the cold stone of the crypts.
Ned was silent, as if trying to find the words.
"WHY?!" Jon shouted, his voice breaking the stillness like thunder. The statues of the past seemed to mourn with him, their stone faces grim in their eternal watch.
Through the bond, Cannibal roared in fury, the sound of the dragon's anger matching Jon's own. The sound reverberated in his chest, but Jon, for once, let it be. He waited for Ned to answer.
At last, Ned spoke, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I'm sorry, Jon."
Jon's fists clenched tighter, nails biting into his palms. "Everyone keeps saying they're sorry. It doesn't fix anything. I don't want apologies—I want answers."
Ned looked away, his face drawn and worn with years of regret. "Robert's Rebellion took everything from me—my father, my brother, my best friend. We lost, and in the end, I had no choice. I had to marry one of the Tully girls."
"Lady Stark," Jon said, the words bitter on his tongue.
Ned nodded, his face pained. "And I still lost almost everyone dear to me. I didn't want to lose you too."
Jon's hair fell over his face, but it didn't shield the fury in his eyes. "You think that was a good reason to take me from my father?" His voice was low, simmering with rage.
"Yes," Ned replied quietly, his voice filled with sorrow. "Nothing will ever justify it in your eyes. But I've never regretted it every day since. You are here, safe...My son."
Jon's hands trembled, the anger still bubbling under the surface. "Do you know what this means to me? I have a father who only knows me as a murderer. I have a family I'll never know because of you!" His voice cracked again. "But I can't change it. I can't fix it, because of you!"
"Jon..." Ned started, but Jon didn't want to hear it anymore.
"SHUT UP!" Jon's voice was a raw scream that rang out in the crypts. Tears burned at the back of his eyes, and he clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his skin. He felt like he might explode.
Ned fell silent, his face creased with regret. "Do you want to hit me?"
Jon didn't answer right away, but the rage was too much to contain. "Yes," he said, his voice low and cold.
Ned stepped forward, offering himself, but Jon didn't hesitate. He launched forward, his fist slamming into Ned's stomach, and the older man gasped in pain, but said nothing. Jon's blows kept coming, faster, harder, until he was lost in the fury, pounding away at the man who had betrayed him.
Eventually, Ned collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. Jon towered over him, his body trembling with fury. And yet, Ned said nothing, just looking up at him with care and sorrow.
"Do you want to keep hitting me?" Ned asked, his voice soft. "Hit me as much as you need to."
Jon stood there, his body rigid with emotion. He wanted to burn Ned alive, to take out every ounce of his pain. But something in Ned's words, the care in his voice, made Jon hesitate. He couldn't make sense of it.
What the hell is wrong with me? Jon thought, as his rage warred with his heart.
Instead of striking again, Jon turned on his heel, his frustration and anger mounting as he stormed to the wall next to Lyanna's statue. He didn't hold back this time. He punched the stone, hard, the pain in his knuckles nothing compared to the storm inside him. Blood welled up, but Jon didn't stop.
Ned, still on the ground, watched him with a mix of confusion and horror. He rushed forward, grabbing Jon's hand to stop him, but Jon growled, pushing him away. "Don't touch me," Jon snarled.
He left the crypts, the air still heavy with the weight of the words they hadn't said.
Robb
He and Theon walked through the cold, stone halls of Winterfell, with Greywind close at his side.
"Where's Jon?" Robb asked, glancing at Theon.
Theon didn't even spare him a look as he answered with a sneer. "Don't know. Don't care."
The venom in Theon's voice was impossible to ignore, and it stung Robb deeply. The tension between Theon and Jon had never been easy to bear. They were both his brothers, yet their relationship seemed to always be clouded by insults and resentment. Robb wished they could get along, that there could be some kind of peace between them. Jon had just returned, and Robb had hoped it would be a fresh start, but now he feared it might not last. Jon belonged at his side as a brother, and Robb wasn't about to let that go, not with everything they'd been through.
Theon wouldn't stay forever, Robb knew that. But he couldn't help but want to part ways with him—just as a brother would.
"Why don't you at least try being friendly with him?" Robb asked, his voice edged with frustration. "I'm tired of you two fighting all the time."
Theon's tone was bitter as he retorted, "Tell him that."
Robb came to a sudden stop, and Theon paused as well, turning to face him. "You've been the one starting most of these arguments, don't lie to me."
Theon's jaw tightened, and he scowled. "Don't you remember what he said at supper? Did I start that?"
Robb remembered all too well. His fingers clenched, and he nodded, his voice steady despite the tension. "Yes, but he broke your nose years ago, Theon. Let it go."
Theon snorted, bitterness dripping from his words. "The bastard sure didn't."
Robb's patience snapped, and he pointed an accusing finger at him. "Don't call him that."
Theon scoffed. "That's what he is."
"Is that why he broke your nose? Did you call him a bastard?" Robb demanded. "Jon doesn't start fights without a damn good reason."
Theon fell silent, his eyes flicking downward. Robb could feel the weight of the memory—the day they found Theon with a broken nose and a parchment lying on his chest, a message from Jon. Theon had told his father Jon had punched him after a simple question, but Robb knew the truth. His father had asked him to find Jon that day, and that was when they'd learned Jon had left.
Theon fumed and stormed away, but Robb stayed still, staring after him. Greywind whined softly beside him, and Robb sighed as he rubbed the direwolf's head. "Those two are impossible, aren't they?"
Greywind tilted his head and rolled his tongue in agreement, and Robb smiled despite himself.
With a deep breath, Robb continued on his way to the Godswood. As he entered the peaceful, snow-covered grove, he spotted a familiar figure perched alone on a tree branch, head bowed in quiet contemplation.
Jon.
Greywind bounded forward to greet Ghost, and Robb approached slowly, relief flooding his chest. He often feared Jon would leave again, and this time, for good. The tension between Jon and their father had been palpable for weeks, and Robb wanted it to end, for Jon's sake. They were brothers, even if things had been strained.
"I've been looking everywhere for you, broody," Robb teased lightly, his voice filled with warmth.
Jon didn't respond, his posture stiff, his gaze still lowered. Robb's smile faded when he saw the bloodied mess that was Jon's hands. His stomach dropped. "Shit! You need to see the maester!" Robb said, grabbing Jon's hands before Jon pulled them back.
"Brother, what happened?" Robb asked, kneeling in front of him, trying to peer through the curtain of Jon's hair.
Jon's voice was low, almost pleading. "Please… don't call me that."
Robb blinked in confusion. "What?"
Jon lifted his head then, his purple eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Brother," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Don't call me brother."
"Nonsense, what are you talking about?" Robb's voice rose in frustration. The two direwolves, sensing the tension, stopped playing and watched them cautiously. "You've been my brother since we were born. Did your time away change that?"
"Everything changed," Jon answered, his voice hollow.
"No, it hasn't!" Robb shot back, feeling a hot surge of anger. Jon's attitude was incomprehensible, and Robb was fed up with this strange distance between them. He wanted to punch him to knock some sense into him.
"Yes, it has!" Jon retorted, standing suddenly and looking Robb square in the eye. "You don't know who I am."
"I know exactly who you are!" Robb snapped back. "You're my broth—"
"No, I am not." Jon's voice was a harsh whisper as he sank back down, lowering his head again. "I'm a fucking Targaryen."
Robb froze. His blood ran cold. "What?"
Jon's words hit Robb like a blow to the chest. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. His mind scrambled to process what Jon had said. Targaryen? Robb had to have misheard him.
Jon's gaze lifted again, locking eyes with Robb, his expression grave. "You're my cousin, not my brother."
Robb took an instinctual step back, his world crumbling around him. His heart pounded in his ears as he stumbled over his own feet, almost falling to the ground. Ghost and Greywind remained still, as if waiting for an answer they wouldn't receive.
Jon was a Targaryen?
"…What?" Robb managed, his voice barely a whisper, his mind struggling to catch up.
Jon's face grew hard, his eyes full of a sadness that Robb had never seen before. "Lyanna Stark is my mother. My real father is Rhaegar Targaryen."
Robb's chest tightened painfully, and it felt as though a thousand needles were stabbing him. His mind spun, reeling in disbelief. Jon was never his brother, not in the way he thought.
"Cousin?" Robb whispered, his voice thick with shock.
Jon nodded once, solemnly. "Yes. I am your cousin."
For a long while, Robb didn't say anything. The truth was so much to bear. "How is this possible? The king never said he had a second son."
Jon's expression turned stony, and his voice grew quiet. "The king never knew about me. He still doesn't."
Robb's stomach twisted in agony as the realization hit him. His father had taken Jon away, hidden him from the world.
He looked down at Jon's bloodied hands. "Is that why your hands are like this? Did my father—"
Jon shook his head, a sad smile curling on his lips. "No, I already knew about my parentage before I came back. I spoke to him… about why he took me."
"Ah," Robb said softly, the weight of his words sinking in.
The silence between them stretched long and heavy. Robb didn't know what to say next. The world had changed in an instant.
"Are you going to tell the king?" Robb asked, his voice light but his stomach tight with dread. What his father had done to Jon was treason. It could mean death, for Jon, or for their father. He didn't want to see either of them lose their life.
Jon gave him a thin smile. "No, don't worry, Rob. This truth will stay between us, and Lord Stark. That's all."
A wave of love and adoration blossomed in Robb's chest. His family didn't deserve Jon. They were lucky, and Robb knew it. They didn't appreciate him the way they should.
Robb took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and wrapped Jon in a tight embrace. "I don't care if you're a Targaryen prince. To me, you'll always be Jon. My brother."
For a moment, Jon was still, but then he slowly returned the hug, his grip hesitant at first but then firm. The distance between them, built by years of misunderstanding, seemed to fade, if only for a moment.
Aegon
"Your grace," Varys said, his voice calm and measured. "Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh have all agreed to our terms. The war is finally over." A collective sigh of relief rippled through the room.
The small council was largely unchanged, with only one notable addition: Tyrion Lannister, now the new Master of Coin. By his father's design, Tyrion was an ideal choice—intelligent, capable, and, to the council's relief, free of any obvious loyalties to the traitor who had once held the post. Petyr Baelish's true colors had been revealed: he had been leaking information to the enemy, and when Varys disclosed this, it had cost Baelish his life. His treachery explained the royal fleet's failure to deliver a decisive blow, despite victories on the seas.
Rhaegar gave a subtle nod of approval. "Good," he said, his voice quiet but firm. As soon as the words left his mouth, he coughed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. It had been explained to Aegon and the others that this persistent cough had developed after his father's final duel with Robert Baratheon, where the usurper's war hammer had struck his chest with such force. It had been the last spiteful act of the dead king, one Rhaegar would carry with him forever.
Rhaegar let his gaze sweep over the council chamber, his violet eyes sharp, as if reading the very thoughts of those present. "We shouldn't be here," he said, his tone almost detached.
The room fell into uneasy silence. Every person gathered knew just how close they had come to losing everything. If the rider and his dragon hadn't intervened to save King's Landing, the balance of power in Westeros would be a very different—and far less favorable—situation.
Aegon shuddered at the thought of his family having failed to secure their place, had the city fallen.
"And this is my fault," Rhaegar continued, his voice devoid of emotion, his gaze distant. "I made a foolish mistake, acting out of impatience, and the city nearly burned because of it." His voice hardened as he spoke again, bitterness creeping into his words. "I've proven this twice now—once here, and once at Harrenhal."
Aegon shifted in his seat, his discomfort palpable. His father was unpredictable when it came to discussing the rebellion. Sometimes he would reflect on his failures with sorrow; other times, his anger would flare, as if the past were still a wound too raw to touch.
Rhaegar's next words were delivered slowly, with a hint of self-reproach. "Every man in this room knew my plan was flawed, yet you all followed it because I am the king."
He turned his gaze to Redwyne. "Except you, Ser. You were not afraid to speak the truth, even when you stood alone in your opposition. I apologize for dismissing your counsel."
Redwyne paused, his weathered face unreadable. A scar curled from his lips to his hairline, a remnant of the bloody battle at the Stepstones. He had survived, but the cost had marked him both physically and emotionally. After a long moment, he gave a curt nod. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Aegon could see the faintest glimmer of respect between the two men. Connington glared at him from across the room, but wisely chose not to speak.
Rhaegar inclined his head, acknowledging the moment. His eyes swept over the council once more, his voice now filled with quiet resolve. "From this day forward, I want every man in this room to feel free to speak against my ideas, to challenge me. I am not my father."
The council murmured their assent, and Rhaegar's gaze shifted to Aegon. "I know you think I am wise, son. But even wisdom doesn't shield one from mistakes. I want you to learn from mine, and when the time comes for you to take the throne, I hope you will be a better king, a better man than I ever was."
Aegon met his father's eyes with a firm nod. "I won't fail you, Father."
Rhaegar's expression softened, a rare, almost imperceptible smile flickering across his features. "I know you won't. And that's why, in a month's time, you will marry Margaery Tyrell."
Aegon felt a surge of anger rise in his chest, a searing heat that churned in his stomach. His inner dragon stirred restlessly, but despite the fire burning inside him, his lips curled into a smile. His father, ever the strategist, had used Aegon's own motivations to his advantage—delivering the news with such cool indifference, it was almost a game.
Whoever said his father lacked a sense of humor clearly hadn't been paying attention.