22 For the Watch

"I can definitely see the Stark in them," quipped Tyrion Lannister, watching Arya and Rhaegar playing happily in the corner of the solar. "You can easily tell the features of both families though."

'Not always,' thought Catelyn, picturing the twins' father. He was half Targaryen himself, but was pure Stark - such was what made Ned's story so believable, what made her anger at the young boy so easy. Stark blood, more accurately his mother's blood. Her gaze drifted to the children. They had taken to her almost from first sight, and they reminded her so much of her children that it was hard not to fall in love with them.

"What you did to Jon, no one can go back and change. If you do wish to repent, Lady Stark, you can start by giving our children the love that he deserved."

The dragon queen had been clear, and Catelyn was determined to atone.

"I've arranged for your son's transport to Qarth in a week's time, Lady Stark," Tyrion said. "I'm not sure why he's going, though. His explanation did not make sense."

Catelyn laughed. "Neither did I when he told me, though the Reeds managed to understand." The significant history between the Reeds and the Starks, not to mention how Meera Reed looked at Bran when no one noticed... she trusted them.

"He'll be well protected, I can assure you that." A detachment of Unsullied and auxiliaries packed a hell of a punch. A frown crossed Tyrion's face, remembering who the boy was. "Lady Stark… you have to know that I had nothing to do with what happened to him."

Placing her knitting down, Catelyn nodded. "Aye. I know that now. I doubt you knew about your brother and sister… in the tower." Both turned away, searching for something to change the subject. "I saw the Queen earlier. She looked quite happy."

Jorah leaned back, eyes meeting Catelyn's. "The Khaleesi has been walking on a cloud recently, deliriously happy." A wistful smile appeared on his face as he thought of it. Daenerys deserved such happiness at all occasions, but such happiness was a rare occurrence in her life. "It was all following her conversation with you, Lady Stark."

Eyes shifting back to the playing children, Catelyn was silent for a moment. "Oh? I am glad to hear that is the case." She knew exactly why, and to tell the truth she should have realized it was likely. Neither she nor Jon had grown up together as Jon and his 'siblings' had, and even if they had this scenario would have happened. The Targaryens were far different from the other noble houses when it came to incest - not that the constant cousin-betrothing noble houses were much different. Seeing the mixed Stark/Targaryen twins laughing and enjoying their innocence, it drove home that Daenerys was celebrating her extra, far deeper connection to Jon than had been true before. 'Preordained,' as Ned had told her.

"What did you tell her, if you don't mind me asking?" It had to do with the Stark bastard, her children's father. Jorah was sure of it. He knew Dany well - knew what made her tick.

"I would like to know this as well." Innately curious about his new Queen, Tyrion leaned forward.

Eyes flickering between the two, Catelyn knew that this - of all things - needed to be held close to the chest. "She wanted to know the truth about what had become of Jon Snow, understandable given her… their children. It freed her heart knowing that he was alive the last I heard." It was not her place to disclose Jon's true parentage - while the less that knew the better, given Robert's obsession could extend to Joffrey or Tywin, it was Her Grace's choice of whom to know.

By the look on the two men's faces, neither believed her.

Luckily, she was saved by two tiny Targaryens. "Grandmother, lunch!" Little Arya looked at her with a beaming, innocent smile despite her bold nature. She definitely took after her namesake.

Being reminded of her own darling yet frustrating Arya both warmed and pained Catelyn, but she wore an uncharacteristic softness nonetheless. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

"She's hiding something," Jorah concluded as soon as they were both alone.

Tyrion nodded. "Yes, most likely. We shall know the truth if the Queen sees fit, though." Inwardly, the dwarf was chuckling. 'The Dragon Queen and the bastard of Winterfell.' He remembered the brooding, sullen youth from the feast long ago. 'Wolf and Dragon… love is strange, sometimes.'

The first major blizzard of the year had just dissipated, an auspicious omen for the superstitious among the northerners. In more practical terms, it meant easier transport from the various castles and lordships across the realms - if by sea, river, or land, the lack of blistering winds allowed it to happen. Lord Ramsay Bolton sent the ravens out as soon as the air cleared, gathering the most powerful families north of the River Trident in the name of the Targaryen King… at least in theory.

At the head of the large map table, Viserys Targaryen stared at it in anger. "This is all the support we can marshal? You said you could rally all the northern lords!" he screamed at his hand.

Flashing his well worn mask at his King, Ramsay Bolton gestured to the map. "The Manderlys have been torpid ever since Lord Wyman lost his son at… it doesn't matter. The Glovers are busy trying to retake Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn, and the Curwins…" Ramsay thought for a moment. "Actually they have no excuse for not showing up, apparently."

"See that they are made an example of!" Viserys demanded. At long last he finally had a domain to rule - if not in name yet - and he wouldn't let disobedient lords or Usurper's dogs make him out to be a fool. His loyal Hand would see that his will was carried out.

Said 'loyal Hand' grinned. "It shall be done, your Grace. Even still, their forces were largely decimated in the War of the Four Kings. My armies and those of Lord Umber and Lord Karstark hold the best forces the North has to offer. The seven thousand total are augmented by the Frey armies."

Attention turned to Walder Frey's party, having journeyed from the Twins. "While I may have to keep several thousand remaining in the south to protect against incursions or uprisings, the combined armies of the Riverlands are a healthy nine thousand strong. This includes other loyal families." Old and sharp, he disguised his contempt for the 'King' as mere elderly cantankerousness. Had Ramsay not loved a challenge he'd have envied him.

"Very good. I trust we can assault the Lannister swine quite soon then."

The room was silent. "Your Grace," began Ramsay, "I have reason to believe that Robb Stark is alive."

"What?" Viserys took it more calmly than expected. "Well where is he?"

"North at Castle Black, a personal guest of Lord Commander Jon Snow."

For some reason the mention of the Stark Bastard set him off. "JON SNOW IS STILL ALIVE?! Kill him! I want him dead! I COMMAND IT!"

'Interesting.' Ramsay was curious as to the enraged reaction, but would investigate later. "I have conceived of a special plan to deal with the Stark's, your Grace, in case primary plans go awry. Rest assured, they will die."

"See to it, then." Without another word, Viserys stormed out of the hall.

As soon as the red/black cloaked wannabe King exited the map room, Smalljon Umber let out a snort. "And I thought your father was a cunt, Bolton." A greenish loogie spat from his mouth to where Viserys had sat. "Takes every bit of my willpower to not bash his teeth in."

The patented twisted grin of Ramsay's curved on his face. "As satisfying as that would be, Lord Umber, you mustn't." Hand to the King in all but name, he took in the dispositions on the ground. "Jon Snow, Robb Stark, and the Night's Watch will be dealt with soon, so aside from the wildling invaders in the north who are of no real threat, our forces are prepared to take the fight into the rest of Westeros."

"We are in no shape to fight the seasoned Lannister armies," countered Black Walder. "The rebellion by the Blackfish already threatens our hold on Riverrun." He swallowed, knowing that it was his task to keep the ancestral home of House Tully out of the hands of Catelyn Stark's uncle. "Lord Baelish could procure us the Knights of the Vale…"

"He can't be seen as consorting openly with Targaryens," countered Ramsay. "It would threaten his position at King Joffrey's side."

Ned Karstark joined the conversation, having been silent. "I know Lord Royce. He won't side with us unless ordered to."

"Then we're doomed to failure…"

"Shut up!" Ramsay was so close to losing his temper, but it retreated back into his grin - he'd expend his stress later, with Myranda and some unfortunate soul. 'Perhaps another time with Sansa, keep her broken.' The possibilities were endless, and he greatly enjoyed what he'd do when he finally had his hands on the Targaryen Dragon Queen. 'The strongest are the most fun to break,' as he always thought. "Joffrey, from what I know, is a fickle fool. Easily distracted." Ramsay looked over all the men. "He'll end up going on some goose chase for his special project. Once he's distracted, we will strike." A glass was raised. "To the… Targaryen dynasty."

No one doubted his lack of sincerity, though there was a wonder if their King would think the toast quite real. "To the Targaryen Dynasty!" they joined him in cheering.

In the high tower, a single candle flickered.

"In and out, the Lannister says." Steel swinging, the yellow-swaddled Dornish soldier - more reminiscent of an eastern sellsword than a Westerosi knight - groaned as Ser Bronn of the Blackwater's sword impacted with his gut. "It would be quick and clean, the Lannister said."

An arrow whizzed by Jamie's head, the aristocrat knight, removing a knife from his belt and chucking it into the heart of the unlucky archer. 'Should've fired from a distance.' His bad arm wrapped around a slight, dainty figure. Princess Myrcella Baratheon, sister to the King and officially Jamie's niece. "It wasn't my fault our cover was blown."

That honor belonged to Meryn Trant. Bronn and Jamie were just about to bluff their way past a guard checkpoint out of the inner palace, only for the hulking psychopath to embed his sword through the guard captain's midsection. "Thank you, cuntface," the hero of Blackwater Bay sneered. "Now all of fucking Sunspear is after us." He dodged another arrow, this one from afar.

The three of them managed to sneak into Sunspear quite easily, only an unfortunate experience with a patrol on the outskirts - Jamie managed to hold his own despite the missing hand, which was a boost to his confidence even if not even close to his past skill - marring the infiltration. Getting his daughter away from Prince Tristan's suites was child's play. Now though, Oberyn Martell was leading the entire Princely guard battalion after the trio… "Hold on, sweetling," remarked Jamie to his… daughter. "We're almost there."

"I'm scared, uncle. Couldn't I have stayed with my betrothed." The young girl was quite sheltered, for which Jamie thanked the gods.

"Not up to us, dearie," quipped Bronn, cutting down another Dornish guard. "Blame dear old mommy." Breaking down a door, the sound of crashing waves filled them with relief… only for it to sour immediately.

Standing right on the dock, drawing scared and nervous looks from the smallfolk rowers aboard the small boat, was Oberyn Martell - the famed Red Viper. Clutched in his hand was a golden royal spear, a scowl on his face. "Well, well. Jamie Lannister is in my grasp." He chuckled. "I would have much rather had your father, or Ser Gregor. But you'll do nicely."

"Get behind me," Jamie whispered harshly to Myrcella. The scared blonde nodded, face an ashen white. "Just let us go, Oberyn. We don't have any quarrel with you. We just want to get my niece back to the capitol where she belongs." He, Bronn, and Trant readied their swords, the former two wishing Oberyn would stand down while the latter looked eager to spill blood.

"She belongs with her intended, but that is of no concern to me." He shrugged out of his cloak, tunic trim to his athletic body. "Twenty years ago, your father had the Mountain rape my sister, and then kill her and her children. I feel that justice is overdue, and I will not let such a chance at justice slip my fingers." Leaping in the air, he spun sideways and lunged straight at Jamie...

The Prince of Dorne, despite being outnumbered three to one, fought like a man possessed. Fluid in his movements, a dancer matched with skilled brawlers, for every glancing wound received he inflicted four slicing assaults, sending Trant to the ground and Bronn into the water where he struggled to swim towards the reachable sides of the boat. Jamie, the main target of his rage, fought as well as he could with one good arm, but a feint to the left allowed the Red Viper to use his shaft to trip his legs. The Kingslayer collapsed onto the wood jetty, sword falling from his hand.

Spear twirling, Oberyn spat at Jamie's prone form - ignoring the cries from Myrcella. "Your father had my sister raped! And killed her children. I hope he remembers her name when I send him his son's head in a basket." He raised the spear, a grin of triumph on his lips.

In his smugness, he did not pay attention to Jamie's bad hand. Or it's gold prosthetic. Lashing out, the heavy metal slammed into Oberyn's foot. Pained screams joined with crunching bone as he fell to the ground. Behind him, Meryn Trant rose to his feet with sword in hand. Jamie's eyes blinked away the pain of his earlier wounds - only to widen in horror. "NOOOOO!"

Too late. With a snarl, Trant thrust the sword right into Oberyn's face. The handsome vesage that charmed many a woman out of her dress - and many a man out of his breeches - was no more, a mere gaping mass of bone, blood, and brains. Dead, a fate that Jamie would have killed to prevent.

As soon as their boat escaped the jetty, Jamie and Bronn both grabbed Trant and slammed him into the bottom of the boat. "What the fuck was that! What the fuck did you do?"

"The little bitch… in my… way," he wheezed through Bronn's hand around his throat.

"Do you just know what you've done, you sadistic halfwit. You didn't kill some smallfolk or a sword teacher from Essos. That was the fucking Prince Oberyn of Dorne!" Frantic punches did not dislodge Bronn's gras. "Your cunt brain will bring Dorne to war with us!"

The Kingslayer grasped his friend's shoulder. Much as he would like Bronn to squeeze the life out of Trant, he did not want the responsibility of explaining to Joffrey why one of his favorite guards was dead. "Leave him." Bronn complied, adding one last punch for good measure. Jamie slumped on one of the hard wooden planks that served as a seat. The exhaustion of a near constant thrill ride both from two days sneaking into the palace and a mad dash out of the palace before the sun could move a mere inch in the sky had finally crept up to him. Breathing deep, he heard the sound of soft sobs behind him.

"Uncle Jamie…" It was Myrcella, fear and trauma overwhelming her. Paternal instinct overcoming him, Jamie pulled her into his embrace. "Did I cause all this?"

Gently stroking her hair, Jamie let her shaking subside. "Not at all, sweetling. Not at all." She was innocent in this - perhaps one of the only few left in this world that could claim that title.

"Well, at least I got to sample the best pussy Dorne had to offer." Jamie scowled. Leave it to Bronn to ruin the moment.

On shore, Ellaria Sand - flanked by a troop of guards - came upon the still body. Screaming to the heavens, she fell to her knees and cradled her lover's corpse in her arms, the still pooling blood now soaking her gossamer silks ignored. In her mind, a desire for revenge developed, one that would tear Dorne apart and have effects far beyond the sandy soil of the southernmost realm in the Seven Kingdoms.

"Is that the last of em?" Looking to her left, Margaery watched as Jon and a very handsome-looking Robb walked toward her. Their attention was then directed back to the courtyard as some remaining stragglers and Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg stepped through the ice tunnel, a trio of adolescent mammoth in the center. A grunt from Mag the mighty alerted his comrade, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, outside the gate to Castle Black.

"If I understand the giant's language, and I certainly do not." Margaery smiled when Robb let out a soft chuckle. "Yes, all thirteen thousand have made it through the gates and safety.

Jon nodded. "Good." He looked towards the winchlift. "Ollie! Tell them to close the gate!" An eye glanced at the other side of the castle, where Thorne and his group clustered. "They don't look happy."

"Fuck em." Robb resisted the urge to spit in their direction. "We all saw the Army of the Dead. He didn't."

A shudder coursed through Margaery. "I still can't believe it." Olenna still didn't, but trusted her granddaughter not to be a fool. "But thanks to you, Jon, that monster was denied thirteen thousand fresh soldiers."

"I just wish I could have gotten out more…" A waddling form caught his attention. "Sam? Are Gilly and little Sam alright?"

The Tarly nobleman offered a small smile. "Oh yes. There was a tiny mishap with some of Thorne's boys, but Ghost helped in that." Ghost let out a happy bark, trotting over and licking Jon's hand. He was almost fully grown, and stood a high as a large goat.

"Good boy, protecting Sam and Gilly." The direwolf loved the praise, nuzzling Jon's side. He was glad at least one of his dear companions was doing well at the moment. Lethargic and in pain from his injury, Rhaegal was nestled in the Castle stores, sleeping most of the time. It was painful for Jon to watch. "So what is it?"

"Aemon wants to talk to you." Margaery then excused herself to speak with Ser Davos about the land for the wildlings, so Jon and Robb followed Sam.

Entering the Maester's quarters, Jon shucked out of his cloak in the toasty warmth and placed it on the hook next to the door. "How is Rhaegal?" Having tasked Aemon with the dragon's care, Jon was confident that the Targaryen would nurse him back to health - and quite a bit concerned at Rhaegal's condition. One could say the dragon had become sort of like a child to him. "Are his wounds healing?"

"Rest assured, Lord Commander," Aemon chuckled, finding Jon's father-like concern amusing. "Dragons are mighty beasts. He's taken a beating, but will heal as long as he has enough rest." The relieved look on Jon's face was worth it, the Lord Commander getting a slap on the back and a manly half-hug from his brother. A sigh left Aemon's lips, the maester resting his old bones in a chair. "Frankly, it wasn't because of Rhaegal that I requested this chat with you." Nodding, Jon waited for either to speak but no words came out. One could hear a feather drop in the maester's quarters.

Pursing his lips, it was Sam that broke the awkward silence. "Jon, Aemon and I know who your mother is."

Blinking, Jon thought he didn't hear Sam correctly. "What?" Surely he must have misheard…

"It is true," the Maester drolled.

"But how is this possible?" Robb was just as stunned. "Father told no one."

"Only that she was of the North." Not a day went by that Jon didn't silently beseech his father to have told him about her before he left for the south.

"That's just it, Jon." Sam's hands were sweaty, meaty fingers fumbling together from nerves. "Aemon knows who your mother and father are."

"My father is Eddard Stark." Jon was in disbelief that this was up for contention.

Closing his eyes, Aemon felt a wave of sadness cloak over him at what he needed to do. "When you arrived, Lord Commander, your uncle gave me a letter written by Ned Stark, along with certain documents that told the truth. Lord Eddard Stark was not your father

"How dare you say that about him!" Robb yelled. His mother and Sansa may have wanted it that way, but he, Arya, Bran, and Rickon loved Jon and knew he was their beloved brother. A hand went for a dagger clipped to his belt. "He is a Stark."

"Actually Robb… um… your last statement is true." Sam was stammering, praying to any god that was out there that Jon wouldn't be hurt too badly. "He is a Stark, but not one by name."

Placing a hand on Jon's shoulder, Aemon truly wished he could see his family's face. "Son, your mother is Lyanna of House Stark. Your father is Rhaegar of House Targaryen - heir to the throne and my great-great nephew."

It took a moment to register, time standing still and pure inertia carrying him forward - but then it hit. Harder than a punch to the gut. Harder than one of the Night King's ice spears. Jon felt his knees buckle, collapsing into the chair. It couldn't be true… it had to be a lie, but why would Aemon lie to him? Why would Sam lie to him. His mouth opened but all words died on his lips.

Next to him, the Young Wolf was ensnared in a half-ashen, half-enraged mood. "No! You lie!" Robb shook in fury, but also fear that it could be true… that Jon really wasn't his brother. That their father had built their entire lives and the entire course of the Kingdom on a lie. "Jon is my brother! He cannot be a Targaryen! It's impossible!"

'Is it?' Suddenly it made sense, all the mysteries explained. Jon, shaking, looked at his palms - scarred but unburnt. His inability to be burnt. Rhaegal - the deep connection he had with his dragon.

Daenerys, his magical connection with her. How they had fit together so perfectly… Jon knew it to be true. However far fetched it was, it had to be true.

He felt close to throwing up.

Robb was still arguing, fighting for Jon's past identity - but it was increasingly hopeless. Even he was realizing what had to be the truth. "I saw the documents Benjen Stark gave to Maester Aemon," Sam related. "I saw his unburnt hand long ago. We all saw him with Rhaegal. Jon is Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of the Crown Prince and Lyanna Stark. There was no kidnapping or rape, they were married. Jon is their trueborn son."

"Father could not have lied! He was too honorable for that!"

"Had the Baratheon spies learned of this…" Aemon stated, voice weary with fatigue and emotion. "Jon would have been killed with the same brutality as Rhaegar's other children." He stared at Robb, and then at Jon. "Your father, Ned Stark, took on this responsibility. He was more honorable than any reputation could have foretold."

"What honor? He fucking lied! Lied to mother, to me… to all of us!"

The pressure, the vice constricting his heart grew too much. Jon bolted out of his chair, hand over his chest. "I need to be alone." With that he stormed out of the room. Ghost whined at his pain, but the door slammed shut before the direwolf could follow.

"Jon!" cried Robb, heart clenching for his brother. He attempted to follow but was stopped by the gnarled fingers of Maester Aemon.

"Let him be, for now, Young Wolf. He needs to process this."

The former King in the North collapsed in his chair. "I still can't believe this." For his entire life, Jon had wanted to be like him, the trueborn son of Ned Stark - only now the dream was impossible.

Only to be replaced by a heritage far more illustrious. True King of the Seven Kingdoms. 'Oh father, why didn't you tell him?' No response was forthcoming.

Swinging the saddle atop the horse, Theon turned to look at his childhood companion. "Sansa… I cannot stay. I belong at home."

"Theon…" While the anger at him for his betrayal, for the Sack of Winterfell hadn't truly gone away, he had saved her. It was Theon that decieved Myranda. When she and Brienne had nearly been trapped by unsuspecting Bolton bannermen, Theon had distracted them and allowed her and Podrick to hit them from the flank. She owed him her life, and he was essentially family - the only family she had since leaving her mother and watching Littlefinger chuck her Aunt out the moon door. "I cannot thank you enough. Please stay safe." He offered her a weak smile, the first time he had since being taken prisoner.

Watching the fallen Greyjoy ride off, Sansa felt Brienne walk up next to her. "So if we ride for most of the day, we should be in White Harbor in two weeks. There, we can obtain a ship to Slaver's Bay quite easily with the coin you stole from Winterfell…"

"We can't go to White Harbor." Voice pallid and emotionless - the memories of Ramsay's pleasure still haunting her subconscious - Sansa turned to her… woman-at-arms. "There are only two choices for where to go, given the current feelings toward the Starks." The vast majority of the world either wanted them dead or feared their presence would lead to death. Ramsay hadn't said it outright, but the total lack of any familiar face aside from Theon hammered it home. "Anywhere populated in the North will kill us to curry favor with Ramsay and Viserys."

The lady knight narrowed her eyes, pondering the truth of Sansa's statements. "Which do you fear more?"

A valid question - one a bit complex. "Ramsay…" She shut her eyes, willing the pain to subside. "He is evil, but is smart. Viserys is an idiot but ill tempered and thuggish. If anyone was to do something brash and stupid, it is him. He's the more dangerous in the short term." It had been pure chaos since news had come that Dorne was mired in civil war - with the killing of Prince Oberyn by the Lannisters, his widow had launched a coup and killed the ruler. Now, she and her hardliners were battling the loyalists led by Prince Tristan, who were soon to be joined by the Lannister army marching down from the Reach. King's Landing distracted, Viserys had emerged and proclaimed himself King along with the North and Riverlands behind him. In all the hustle and bustle of preparing everything, they had escaped. The power-hungry Viserys wouldn't like any complications. Sansa remembered how he had beaten her for an off-hand comment, one Ramsay would have shrugged off - he was more brutal, but was discreet about it.

Brienne remembered the conversation that they had, between himself, Ramsay, and Lord Karstark. "He means to kill you as soon as he betrays the Lannisters and takes the throne. I overheard him, planning to take Viserys Targaryen's sister as his queen once the Mad Prince is on the Iron Throne."

'Daenerys Targaryen.' Jon's love. Sansa nodded, the creamy skin of her face blank in acceptance. "And he'll kill Viserys soon after, leaving him as King. Finding that royal fool was the best thing that could have happened to Ramsay. Made him a player for a much greater game." Heading to White Harbor - though offering the greatest safety if they escaped to Slaver's Bay and Jon's lover - was impossible. Ramsay would have soldiers everywhere. "The only other option is to the north."

"Castle Black?"

"Aye. To my brother."

My son,

If you are reading this then I am not on this earth anymore, and either Benjen or Aemon have told you the truth about your heritage. After all that happened on Essos, all that has happened and come to light about the seven kingdoms, I would have told you myself if I had the chance. I beg your forgiveness for this and letting you live in unhappiness and illegitimacy because of a lie, and know that I only had what was best for you in my heart.

Tears welling in his eyes, Jon quickly wiped them away to avoid staining the old parchment. Even long dead it seemed as if Eddard Stark were speaking to him through the words. 'Why, father… why didn't you tell me?' But could he still call Ned Stark his father? Wasn't he his uncle instead? Fresh tears formed and blurred his vision once more. He wished he wasn't weak, but on this he couldn't help the onslaught of emotion. It was worse than the army of the dead.

Blinking, he read on.

All that was said in the stories are lies. I am witness to the truth, and in this letter I put to rest the one lie that I have ever told you. Your mother, my sister, fell in love with your father. They married in secret, and you are their trueborn son Jaehaerys Targaryen and the true Targaryen heir. If it weren't for Robert and his failure to grasp that Lyanna truly despised him, the tragedy that followed wouldn't have occurred.

Jon, I wish you did not have to grow up as a bastard, but the stain on my honor and the pain you endured allowed you to live. Robert was determined to kill every last Targaryen. Your half-sister and brother were killed as mere children as a result, and Daenerys and her brother forced to live on the run in Essos. I hate that I did this to you, but you deserved life.

The great Eddard Stark, honorable even when cunning and deceit would have helped him, had one stain on his honor. Laying with a woman not his wife - fathering a bastard. He had endured all that shame to protect his sister? His nephew, holding the oath sworn before the old Gods and the new. Even in his moment of great pain, Jon couldn't feel anger at his… father.

He had sacrificed so much - all for Jon and his sister. The child that he loved as a father would and the sister that he loved as a caring brother would. Jon's mother. "Mother…" She had been at Winterfell this whole time.

"Dany…"

Your connection with Daenerys… it was preordained, Jon. Had Robert and Tywin Lannister died in their vile rebellion, you two would have been betrothed. She is as much a natural Queen as you are a natural King. I know that I taught you honor, and am proud that you were such an excellent student. But please, Jon, your mother told me on her deathbed that she fell in love with her dragon the moment she saw him - looking at you in Essos, I realized the same about you. You take after her as much as you take after me and Rhaegar. Do not throw away what you have with her. Join with her and your loving siblings to restore this land to honor. To fulfill the prophecy. This is your destiny and your happiness.

Know that I love you, son. I loved you from the moment I held you in my arms, and I know that your mother and father felt the same way.

No matter what, you will always be Jon, my son. But remember who you are, and who you were born to be.

And who you were born to be with.

Eddard Stark

Lord of Winterfell

Your Ever Loving Father.

Letter dropping from his hand, the sheer weight of what had been told to him hit Jon like a stampeding mammoth. All his life, he had wanted to be a Stark like his brothers and sisters… but to learn he was not even that…

'Not true. Half-Stark. Half-Targaryen.' A trueborn Targaryen. Heir to the Seven Kingdoms, a greater claim than the Mad Prince and Daenerys.

'Dany…' She wanted that crown, fought cities and forged kingdoms to obtain it, and yet it mattered not. He was in line to rule. He did not want it. "I Do Not Want This!" he screamed to no one. He didn't even want to be Lord Commander, only thrust in this position because no one cared about the threat of the dead. And his love for her, for his aunt. How could Jon ever feel the same way when it was his love for her and duty to keep his promise to her that drove him on?

And deep down, Jon had to come to terms with the fact that he viewed Daenerys no differently. Thinking about her, imagining her form nestled close to him heated his blood to intensity. She was his aunt, and yet he wanted her. 'Am I without honor?' he thought, or was Ned correct. Was his… father correct? "Mother," he urged, looking up at the rafters. He finally knew who she was, not a nameless, faceless image but a real person. "Please, I need someone. Anyone. What do I do?"

The door swinging open shocked Jon out of his contemplation. "Lord Commander." It was just Ollie, who paused for a moment at seeing his idol in such a disheveled state. "One of the wildlings, he says he knows your Uncle Benjen, that he's still alive."

Jon quickly shook away his sadness, bolting upright. "Benjen? Are you sure?" Someone who knew… someone who could give him real answers… about his mother.

"Said he was First Ranger." Ollie smiled, glad he could give the closest person he had to a father these days some good news. "This way. Hurry!"

Thorne was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. "I've interrogated him a bit. He says he saw Benjen about the time of the last full moon near the ruins of Craster's."

"He could be lying," Jon replied, hoping he wasn't. Of all the stories he heard about Lyanna Stark, he wanted to know about his mother from someone who knew her. 'My mother.' "Where is he?"

"Over there." Thorne pointed to past a milling crowd of men. Jon pushed through them, only to stop in his tracks.

A single burial cross, made of cheap wood, bathed in orange torchlight. One word was scrawled on it. 'Traitor.'

Realization washed over Jon. Mind sharp, it dawned on him exactly what was going on - the ruse, the bait, the betrayal. His command. His brothers, betraying him and the Watch. Turning, ready to fight if need be, the sneering face of First Builder Othell Yarwyck lunged at him before a searing pain engulfed his gut. First the wind knocked out of him, and then pain.

"For the Watch." Yarwyk withdrew the knife.

Looking over the others gathered around, mostly just milling there, only three others seemed to Jon to be participating. Ollie looked at it all in horror, Locke holding a knife to his throat. It was small comfort that his page hadn't betrayed him. Small, but still comfort.

Another blow hit him, this time the knife bringing immediate pain. "For the watch," hissed First Steward Bowen Marsh.

Throwing Ollie to the ground as if he meant nothing, the soulless face of Locke soon came to view. Jon resisted the urge to spit in the assassin's face. His knife sliced through Jon's lower abdomen. "For the Watch." Two others followed, mere footsoldiers but ones that were avid followers of Thorne. Their knives left Jon's abdomen a gutted mess, blood soaking his entire tunic. Weak, Jon fell to his knees. He wanted to let go, to give in to the sweet, painless bliss… 'You are a Stark. You are a… Targaryen.' A wolf did not give in.

A dragon did not give in.

And lastly came Thorne, a flat, satisfied look planted on his face. Triumph, but not arrogance. The satisfaction of a goal completed. Fighting the pain, not allowing a bit of anguish to cross his face, Jon averted his gaze to Ollie. The boy was terrified, tears falling down his cheeks at seeing the one he looked up to the most in life so close to death. "Ollie." Jon forced a smile, selfless to a fault. "It will be alright."

"Not for you." The last blow slammed into his heart. Thorne withdrew it, satisfied look still on his face. "For the Watch."

In the distance, a roar of pure anguish left Rhaegal, muted by his injuries and the thick stone of Castle Black's walls. Barely hearing it, Jon toppled into the snow. Blackness enveloping his vision, cold numbing the intense pain and wetness seeping into his clothes, Jon knew death was soon upon him. Willing every bit of mental strength, he pictured the radiant form of Dany.

His aunt.

His love.

And then nothing.

Erupting out of bed, Daenerys was drenched in sweat, breathing hard. Sleep had been uneventful, peaceful even - dreams of her love and of a happy future filling her subconscious mind with happiness and joy, emotions that were rare in her life and only came when he was there or when she dealt with the twins. Then suddenly… Pain. Terrible pain.

And then nothing. As if all meaning had been snuffed out, yanked out of her life.

Heart beating out of her chest, Dany stumbled out of bed. Her arms grabbed at anything to steady herself, sending goblets and candlesticks clattering to the floor. Tears streamed down her face. There was no knowledge of what had happened, only that something horrible had.

About Jon.

"My lady!" Missandei was at her side within moments, warned somehow of the problem by whom, Dany didn't know. Steadying her by the shoulders, the advisor searched the Queen for any physical injuries. "Are you hurt?"

"Something… happened." Her panicked breaths made it hard to speak. "My love… what…"

"You are correct." The flat, drone-like voice of Brandon Stark stated from his 'wheelchair,' a special Meereenese invention that had been a gift from Dany to her love's brother. "It is Jon. He has passed." Dany knew him to be correct. She just knew.

The anguished screech from the royal chambers echoed across the entire city.