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Year 300 AC
The Dreadfort, The North
Jon stared at Howland Reed, the words echoing in his skull like the tolling of a bell. Rhaegar Targaryen. The name had haunted his father...No, it uncle now. Now that name shall haunt him for the rest of his life. His hands trembled against the rough stone of the bench, and he pressed them harder, seeking anchor in something solid, something real.
"You're lying." The words scraped raw from his throat. "I do not have patience for this sick jest."
"I watched your mother die, Jon." Howland's voice carried the weight of old grief. "Watched her bleed out on silken sheets while she made your... while she made Ned promise. I helped wrap you in her cloak before we rode to Kingslanding."
The dragon in Jon stirred hot and hungry like never before, not even when against an ice dragon. He could feel it pressing against his ribs, demanding release. "No. Lord Stark was my father. He raised me. He—"
"He lied to you."
The words were said but Jon couldn't hear anything. With the rage came a buzz. Jon surged to his feet, and the torches along the walls flared violet, their flames leaping high enough to lick the ceiling. "Don't you dare." His voice dropped to something inhuman, resonant with barely leashed fury. "Don't you dare speak of him that way."
Howland took an involuntary step back as Jon's eyes shifted, the grey bleeding to crimson, pupils elongating into vertical slits. The temperature in the hall spiked, sweat beading on the crannogman's brow, but he held his ground.
"The man who raised me," Jon snarled, advancing on Howland, "who I called father my entire life—you're telling me he looked me in the eye every day and lied?" The hearth fire roared, flames spilling onto the floor like liquid amethyst. "Ned Stark, who held honor above all else, who taught me that a man's word was his bond, that he made me a bastard for sport?"
"Not for sport." Howland's voice remained steady despite the fear Jon could smell rolling off him. "For love."
"Love?" Jon laughed, a harsh, broken sound. The stones beneath his feet cracked from the first step he took forward. "What love is there in letting a boy grow up believing he's unwanted? In letting him think his very existence shamed the only parent he knew?"
His fists clenched, and flames danced between his fingers. All those years of Lady Stark's cold silences, of being seated below the salt, of hearing whispers about Ned Stark's shame—all of it built on a lie. The dragon inside him roared for release, demanding he burn away this pain, this betrayal.
"Every feast," Jon's voice cracked, human emotion warring with draconic rage, "every time she looked at me with those eyes full of resentment. Every time I wondered which tavern wench or camp follower had caught Lord Stark's eye. Every night I lay awake wondering why my mother didn't even care enough to give me a name before she left me—"
"Your mother named you. She named you Aemon."
Jon froze.
"After Aemon the Dragonknight," Howland continued quietly. "She admired him above all the Targaryen kings and princes. She told me once that he was the only one who understood that love and duty could be one and the same."
The flames flickered, dimming.
"But Ned couldn't call you that. Couldn't risk it. Robert would have dashed your brains against a wall just as the Mountain and Amory Lorch did to your half-siblings." Howland's weathered face softened. "So he named you for Jon Arryn, the man who raised him. Gave you a name that would raise no questions when he returned from the south with his sister's body and a babe."
Jon's legs gave out. He collapsed into a chair, the fire in the torches returning to their natural orange glow. The stones beneath his feet cooled, though thin wisps of steam still rose from where he'd stood.
"He protected the son of the man he'd just fought a war against." The words came out hollow, exhausted. "Rhaegar... the man who supposedly raped his sister. But if what you say is true..."
"Ned knew the truth by the end. Lyanna told him, made him understand. And his honor, that honor you speak of, demanded he protect his sister's son. Even if it meant lying to his king. Even if it meant lying to his best friend. Even if it meant bearing the shame of fathering a bastard for the rest of his days."
Jon pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the world, trying to make sense of the shattered pieces of his identity. The man he'd idolized, whose approval he'd craved like a drowning man craves air—that man had looked him in the eye every day and lied. But the lie...
"He let his wife hate him for it." The words came out muffled against his hands. "Let the whole realm think him faithless. All to protect..."
"To protect you. Lyanna's son. The last piece of her in this world."
Jon's hands dropped to his lap. He stared at them—hands that could become claws, hands that belonged to the son of the Last Dragon. Not Ned Stark's bastard. Not Jon Snow. Something else entirely.
"I don't even know who I am anymore." The admission was the only truth he understood.
Howland rose from the bench, moving toward the door with careful steps. "You're the same man you were an hour ago. The same man who united wildlings and crows. The same man who now fights for the fate of the North. Blood doesn't change that."
"Doesn't it?" Jon looked up, and Howland saw the exhaustion written in every line of his face. "I'm not even a Snow. I'm... what? A Sand? A Blackfyre? Another pretender with dragon blood and delusions of grandeur?"
"That depends." Howland paused at the door. "I don't know if your parents wed. But knowing Rhaegar as I did, knowing how he spoke of prophecy and destiny... and knowing Targaryen custom..." He turned back, meeting Jon's haunted gaze. "Your mother didn't simply name you Aemon, she named you Aemon Targaryen."
The name sat strange on Jon's tongue, foreign as a mummer's costume. "Aemon Targaryen. Targaryen…" He laughed, short and bitter. "And what good does that do anyone? The dynasty is dead. The throne belongs to Robert's line now."
"Perhaps. But names have power, Jon. As do choices." Howland's hand rested on the door handle. "Your mother chose your name. Your uncle chose to protect you. Now you must choose what to do with the truth."
"Wait." Jon's voice stopped him. "If Ned... if my uncle wanted to protect me so badly, why tell me nothing? Why let me go to the Wall? Why let me throw my life away on vows that—" He stopped, understanding dawning. "He was going to tell me. After I'd taken the black. When I'd be beyond Robert's reach, sworn to hold no lands, father no children, pose no threat..."
"I believe so. But the gods had other plans." Howland's expression grew distant. "Or perhaps the gods always intended for you to be here, now. Your…outburst earlier has shown me why, your Valyrian blood is not the only magical blood running through your veins. Hmm…maybe that's why Jojen has taken upon himself to journey with your brother Brandon."
"Jojen?" The name caught in Jon's throat like a fishbone. "He went beyond the Wall? With Bran?"
Howland's weathered face creased with worry. "Aye. My children followed your brother north. He said it was his purpose, his duty." His fingers drummed against his thigh, a nervous habit Jon hadn't noticed before. "You've heard nothing of them?"
The memory of that crow's voice, of Bran's voice, echoed in his skull. "I... there was a crow. Beyond the wall." The words sounded like a madman's rambling, but Howland's eyes sharpened rather than dismissed. "It spoke with Bran's voice. Warned me of what's coming."
"A crow." Howland leaned forward, lamplight catching the silver threading through his dark hair. "Your brother lives then. And my children?"
"I don't know." Jon's hands clenched. "There wasn't time. He said the dead were coming, that I needed to—" He stopped, remembering the terror in that borrowed voice. "He was trying to help me understand, to warn me. There wasn't time for anything else."
Howland's shoulders sagged. The man who'd kept secrets for twenty years suddenly looked every one of them. "Meera is strong. Stronger than her brother in some ways. If anyone could protect them..."
"Bran can…see things." The confession spilled out before Jon could stop it. "Things no person is supposed to see or even comprehend."
"The old powers." Howland's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "The greenseers, the wargs, the children of the forest." He met Jon's gaze. "Magic is returning to the world."
"Your children," Jon said quietly. "When this is over, if the Wall holds and the dead are driven back, I'll find them. Bran too. I swear it by the old gods and the new."
"You have my gratitude no matter how futile that endeavor." Howland's voice dropped. "Your uncle kept more than just the secret of your birth. He kept all of Lyanna's belongings. Her letters, her personal effects. Sealed them in her tomb in Winterfell's crypts. Said they belonged to you, when you were ready."
Jon's head snapped up. "Letters?"
"I don't know what they contain. Ned never opened them. Said they were meant for her son's eyes alone." Howland opened the door, cold air rushing in from the corridor beyond. "Perhaps they hold answers. Perhaps they hold only more questions. But they're yours by right, when you choose to claim them."
The door closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving Jon alone with the crackling hearth and the weight of twenty years of lies. He stared into the flames with thoughts running in every direction.
I am not my father's son.
The thought should have destroyed him. Should have sent him raging into the night, dragon-formed and breathing fire at the heavens. Instead, he felt... empty. Hollowed out like a gourd, all the certainties of his life scooped away, leaving only the shell.
But in that emptiness, a small voice whispered—a voice that sounded like Ned Stark's, gruff and kind and true: You may not have my name, but you have my blood. The blood of the First Men. The blood of the Starks. You are my son in all the ways that matter.
Jon closed his eyes, and for the first time since learning the truth, he let himself grieve. Not for the lie, but for the man who'd carried it. For the father who'd loved him enough to stain his own honor. For the uncle who'd raised him as his own.
When he finally rose from the chair, the fire had burned low, and the first pale light of dawn crept through the high windows. He was still Jon Snow—the name felt more comfortable than Aemon Targaryen, more real than any princely title. But for how long? How long until the truth is revealed to the realm? He couldn't guess the future, but he knew one certainty know.
The crypts of Winterfell called to him, promising answers.
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Near Hornwood Forests, The North
Ramsay Bolton sat his destrier at the head of three thousand men, pink banners snapping in the cold wind. His pale eyes swept the tree line where scouts reported the enemy lurked with a pitiful force of perhaps four hundred, if the reports held true.
"They're fools to face us in open battle," Yellow Dick muttered, adjusting his grip on his axe. "Should've stayed behind their walls."
Ramsay's lips peeled back in what might have been a smile. "The She-Bear thinks herself clever, drawing us out here. As if trees and shadows could save her from Bolton steel." He turned to Damon Dance-for-Me. "When we break them, I want prisoners. Especially the Mormont bitch. Father will want to question her about the bastard's plans."
Father. Just the thought of him made Ramsay want to stab something. His lord father who'd called his victory over Stannis "half a victory," who'd dismissed the all his efforts under his bidding as nothing. Who'd grown cautious and old, content to wait while their enemies gathered strength.
A horn blast echoed through the trees and not the deep note of a war horn, but something higher, almost mocking. Ramsay's destrier danced sideways as shapes emerged from the mist. Not four hundred men, but barely two hundred, spread thin across the clearing. At their center rode Maege Mormont, her mail glinting dully, a morningstar resting across her saddle.
"My lord!" One of his outriders galloped back, face flushed. "There's more in the trees! Archers, hundreds of them!"
"Hundreds?" Ramsay's voice cracked like a whip. "You said four hundred total, you worthless—"
The air filled with death. Arrows fell like rain, finding gaps in mail, piercing horse flesh. Men screamed. Horses reared. Ramsay's mount took a shaft in the neck and went down hard, throwing him into the mud. He rolled aside as eight hundred pounds of dying horse thrashed where he'd fallen.
"Form up! Shields!" But his men were already scattering, discipline shattered by the unexpected assault. Through the chaos, he saw Galbart Glover emerge from the northern tree line with fresh troops—not the hundred they'd shown, but three times that number. They'd been played.
Ramsay grabbed a riderless horse, hauling himself into the saddle as Yellow Dick went down with three arrows sprouting from his back. The bastard's pink cloak made him a target—arrows whistled past his head as he spurred toward his reforming men.
"Charge the archers!" he screamed. "Break their line!"
But Maege Mormont was already moving, her mounted warriors sweeping in from the flank. Her morningstar took Damon's head clean off. The She-Bear's eyes found his across the battlefield, and she smiled—actually smiled—as she pointed her weapon at him.
"Bolton!" Her voice carried over the din. "Your father should've sent a man to do a man's work!"
Rage boiled in Ramsay's chest, but another flight of arrows forced him to raise his shield. When he looked again, Larence Snow's cavalry was crashing into his rear guard. The Hornwood bastard fought like a man possessed, his sword red to the hilt.
We outnumber them three to one. How is this happening?
But numbers meant nothing when your enemy chose the ground, when they turned the forest itself into a weapon. His men were dying by the dozen, picked off by arrows or cut down as they tried to form ranks. This wasn't a battle, it was a slaughter.
"My lord!" One of his captains rode up, an arrow jutting from his shoulder. "We need to retreat! They're cutting us to pieces!"
Ramsay wanted to flay the man for his cowardice, wanted to charge into the trees and hunt down every last archer. But Galbart Glover's infantry was advancing now, shields locked, spears bristling. If they reached his disorganized lines...
"Sound the retreat!" The words tasted like bile. "Fall back to Winterfell!"
The horn call went up as three short blasts that meant withdrawal. His men needed no encouragement, already streaming back the way they'd come. Ramsay spurred after them, arrows still falling around him, jeers and war cries following his flight.
They'd lost near eight hundred men in less than an hour. Eight hundred! To a force they'd outnumbered. As Winterfell's towers appeared through the trees, Ramsay's mind raced. Jon Snow had taken the Dreadfort. The northern lords were rising. And his father sat in his solar, planning and plotting while their enemies grew bold.
I warned him. I told him we should've hunted the bastard down the moment he fled the Wall. But no, Father knew better. Father always knows better.
Abel's words echoed in his memory: "Sometimes the old must make way for the young. Sometimes a son must take what's his by right."
As they clattered marched back to Winterfell, Ramsay made his decision. His lord father had grown too cautious, too slow. The North needed a Bolton who understood that mercy was weakness, that fear was strength.
It was time for a change of leadership.
Ramsay allowed himself a small smile. In day's time, he'd be Lord of Winterfell in truth. And then they'd see how brave the She-Bear and her allies were when he brought the full might of House Bolton against them when he has a Manderly granddaughter hostage.
The North will learn to fear the name Ramsay Bolton. Every last one of them.
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The stench of blood and shit still clung to Larence's nostrils as he wiped his blade clean on a dead Bolton man's cloak. His sword arm ached from the butcher's work, but satisfaction warmed his chest better than any mulled wine. Eight hundred Bolton dead for barely a dozen of theirs—a reckoning long overdue.
"Bastard fought well for a bastard," one of his men muttered, and Larence let it pass. He'd earned their respect with steel, not birthright.
The war council gathered in a hunter's lodge commandeered from some Bolton loyalist who'd fled at first sight of their banners. Maege Mormont dominated the low-ceilinged room like a bear in a chicken coop, her mail still spattered with Damon Dance-for-Me's blood. Her daughters Lyra and Jorelle flanked her, both built like their mother, all muscle and scowl.
"Coward ran with his tail tucked between his legs," Maege spat, accepting a horn of ale from Galbart Glover. "Should've seen his face when we sprung the trap. Like a dog that's been kicked."
"Aye," Galbart agreed, settling his bulk onto a bench that groaned under the weight of armor. "Though a rabid dog's most dangerous when cornered. He'll be back at Winterfell by now, crying to his lord father."
Larence found a spot near the fire, grateful for the warmth after hours in wet leather. The other commanders filtered in with northern lords and landed knights who'd answered the call when word spread of Jon Snow's march south. Men who remembered what Bolton cruelty looked like.
Galbart's weathered face turned toward him. "You did good work today, Larence. That charge on their flank—couldn't have timed it better if we'd rehearsed it."
"Thank you, my lord." Larence kept his voice level, though pride swelled in his chest. A Glover's praise meant something in the North. "My men knew what was at stake. Hornwood remembers."
"Aye, they remember." Galbart's expression darkened. "Lady Donella's fate won't be forgotten. Nor forgiven."
The room fell quiet at that. Every man there had lost someone to Bolton brutality. Larence thought of his own lord father, wherever his bastard blood had come from, and wondered if he'd approve of the path his natural son had taken.
Galbart cleared his throat, drawing attention back. "We've had ravens from the Dreadfort. Jon Snow took it yesterday with help from Lord Reed and Ser Davos. Minimal losses."
Excited murmurs rippled through the room. The Dreadfort, that cursed fortress that had squatted like a canker on the North for centuries, finally torn from Bolton hands.
"He's marching to Hornwood as we speak," Galbart continued. "We're to meet him there, combine our forces for the final push on Winterfell."
"About bloody time," Maege growled, though her fierce expression softened slightly. "My Alysane's with him. Haven't seen the girl in near a year."
"She's well mother," Lyra assured her mother. "Tough as old leather, that one. Probably gave those Bolton men a proper Bear Island welcome."
"With her morningstar, no doubt," Jorelle added with a grim smile.
Larence leaned forward, curiosity overcoming caution. "What's he like? Jon Snow?" The question drew looks, some curious, others calculating. "I've heard the stories, but..."
"Stories…" Galbart said slowly. "I knew his lord father, served beside him in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Ned Stark was the most honorable man I ever met, and from what I hear, his bastard's cut from the same cloth. Rose from nothing to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch before his seventeenth nameday."
"Aye, and now he's got an army at his back," Maege added. "Wildlings south of the wall! He will need to explain that one but, strangely, they seem to fight for him. He has Stannis's men, mountain clans. Even got that red witch following him about, though what use she is..." She shrugged massive shoulders.
Larence absorbed this, mind racing. Another bastard who'd risen high on merit alone. Who'd earned respect through deed rather than name. It gave him hope that perhaps the world was changing, that men might be judged by their actions rather than the circumstances of their birth.
"How long to Hornwood?" he asked.
"Day and a half, if we push hard," Galbart replied. "Sooner we meet up with Snow, sooner we can end this. The Boltons have held the North through fear too long."
"Fear and flaying," someone muttered from the back.
"Well, their fear's broken now," Maege declared, slamming her horn down hard enough to splash ale. "Let them cower behind Winterfell's walls. See how much good it does them when the North remembers."
"The North remembers," the room echoed, and Larence joined his voice to theirs.
As the council broke up to see to their men, Larence lingered by the fire. Soon he'd meet Jon Snow, this bastard who'd become a legend. Part of him wondered if Snow ever felt the weight of that word—bastard—the way he did. If he ever looked at trueborn sons and wondered why accident of birth mattered more than strength of arm or sharpness of mind.
But mostly, Larence felt anticipation. The Boltons had ruled through cruelty and terror. Now they'd learn what happened when the North united against them.
Hornwood remembers, he thought, checking his sword edge one more time. And soon, all the North will remember what justice looks like.