Chapter 21: Towards North

Sam's POV

The humid air made beads of sweat trickle down my back as I glanced over to see young Sam engrossed in playing with some blocks on the floor. Gilly hummed to herself while neatly folding her clothes nearby.

Here I was, stuck reading a book that was nothing more than a Maester's journal detailing marriages and annulments during the Targaryen rule. As I leaned back in the chair, the words of Maester Aemon echoed in my mind.

"Jon has to be a Targaryen," Aemon had said. But who could his mother be? There was only one female Targaryen who could have been pregnant with Jon, and she had a girl, not a boy. Besides, he doesn't even look Targaryen. Yes, he has the alabaster skin, but even in the North, the sun rarely peeks through the snow and clouds.

He claimed his pale skin was due to lack of sun exposure, not Valyrian blood, and he was right. He lacked the purple or lilac eyes and silver locks. Nevertheless, he was undeniably handsome, almost regally so.

Every time I thought I had made progress in identifying Jon's mother, doubts crept in. Surely, he had to carry some fraction of dragon's blood, as Maester Aemon suggested. A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I returned to the dry words on the paper. Suddenly, my heart raced as I reread a particular line multiple times, each repetition causing my head to spin, and I wondered if I had misread it.

Confusion clouded my mind as my heart pounded wildly. Gilly, sensing my distress, joined me by the window and began to read aloud over my shoulder. Her words were jumbled at first, but she eventually pieced together the sentence.

"He issued an annulment to Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen and Elia Martell and later married him to Lyanna of House Stark in a secret ceremony in Dorne." Her words hung in the air, the gravity of what she had just read dawning on us.

My mind raced with doubt. Looking out the window, I saw the bustling cobblestone streets below, where oblivious masses moved about. None of them realized that beyond Old Town's walls, a war raged on, concealed by the Hightowers. I knew I couldn't stay here, not with this knowledge.

Even from this distance, past rolling hills and apple orchards, I could see the docks. The water glistened in the sunlight, and the ships in the harbor prepared for their journeys. At least one of them would be bound for White Harbor. From there, it would be a matter of acquiring horses and heading to Winterfell. But what could I tell Jon? I couldn't risk sending a raven with such sensitive information.

And there was the issue of public perception. The world believed that Rhaegar Targaryen had kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark. Would Jon be willing to believe the truth? It had been more than twenty-one years; he could have been a king by now, ruling justly, instead of being killed by his own men.

He may not have the typical Targaryen hair or eye color, but Maester Aemon once mentioned that Jon's singing voice reminded him of someone whose name began with an "R." Could he have meant Rhaegar? Rhaegar was known for his musical talents, and if Jon resembled him in that way, Aemon might have noticed. I had never seen Rhaegar, but Jon might have inherited his mother's coloring.

Panic gripped me. Jon needed to know the truth before someone else discovered it, before someone tried to harm him and his dragons. He was the only rightful heir to the throne and, unlike the Lannisters, he cared more for the people than for power. With three dragons, he could easily take King's Landing, but he chose to stay with the Night's Watch, fight the army of the dead, and even died to save others. He was fair, kind, and just, unlike the weak kings of the South.

Cersei was mad, Tywin was worse, Tommen and Myrcella were born of incest, and Joffrey was a cruel monster. In reality, there was only one man fit for the throne, the only one who could lead them through the long night and had the rightful claim.

I glanced over the paper one last time, my resolve firming. "Gilly, pack your things. We're heading back to the North."

Gilly's face lit up with relief. Being in Old Town, where it was always warm and sunny, was a far cry from what she knew.

Quickly, we gathered our belongings, and I stowed the Maester's records in a sack, feeling an urgent need to leave. With Little Sam and Gilly in tow, we rushed through the halls and out into the streets.

The sun beat down on us, our heavy cloaks a burden, but we knew the North would be colder, so we kept them on. "Sam, is that paper important?" Gilly's curiosity prompted me to look up, and her wide eyes mirrored her understanding of its significance.

"If I'm right, then this means Jon is the rightful heir to the throne," I replied, my voice low. She nodded solemnly, well aware of the magnitude of such a revelation. I clung tightly to the bag containing the records, my heart pounding as sweat dripped down my back.

I was so preoccupied that I didn't watch where I was going, and I collided with something cold and hard, like metal. I stumbled backward, struggling to regain my balance. Fortunately, I managed to stay on my feet, though my heart raced.

My mouth went dry, and my lips felt parched as I realized who stood before me – none other than the man who had slain Jon's grandfather, the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister. I was frozen, like a deer in the sights of a hunter.

"Sorry about that," I stammered, my voice polite, and I gestured to Gilly and Little Sam. Jaime seemed not to pay much attention to me, instead focusing on them as he moved aside to let us pass.

We hurried down the street, my heart still pounding. Gilly's soft voice interrupted my thoughts. "Did you know him?"

"He's the Kingslayer," I explained, keeping my voice low so as not to alarm her. "He killed the king, who could have been Jon's grandfather. But we must keep going; we have to get home and tell Jon what we've learned."

We rushed down the wooden steps, the scent of salt in the air, and the cacophony of screeching birds overhead vying for fish. I spotted an elderly man at least sixty years old, with cold brown eyes and thinning hair that fell into his face. A book with words and names lay before him – the ship's manifest.

"Sir, I'd like to book passage for three to White Harbor," I said to him. I made sure not to speak too loudly, as Jon had warned that news of his victory at the Battle of the Bastards was already reaching the South