A/N: Wow this chapter was a hard one to work out! Would love to hear your opinions on how I handled this... emotional chapter :)
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Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
The wind sang against Jon's scales as he soared above the North, the vessel containing the Tallharts and Cleftjaw suspended beneath him like a child's toy. His wings caught an updraft, and for a moment—just a moment—the pure joy of flight overwhelmed everything else. No responsibilities, no prophecies, no impossible choices. Just the endless sky and the power thrumming through his veins.
Then Winterfell rose from the horizon, and the weight crashed back down.
Even scarred by fire and blood, his childhood home stole his breath. The broken tower where Bran had fallen stood like a severed finger against the grey sky. Scorch marks from Theon's betrayal still blackened the walls. The Boltons had left their own wounds with bloodstains that no amount of scrubbing would remove.
Yet beneath it all, Winterfell endured. The heart tree still watched from the godswood. Steam still rose from the hot springs. The ancient stones remembered eight thousand years of Starks, and they would remember eight thousand more.
Home.
The word twisted in his chest like another blade to the heart. How many times had he dreamed of truly belonging here? Not as the bastard lurking in shadows, but as a true son of Winterfell. Now, with Robb's will, he could claim it all. He had the power to enforce it. One breath of fire and any opposition would scatter like leaves.
But at what cost?
His massive form cast a shadow over the towers as he circled lower. Below, people scattered from the courtyard—some in fear, others simply making room. They saw a dragon. A weapon. A monster from legend made flesh.
They didn't see Jon Snow anymore. But could he even stop what is about to be unleashed?
If the White Walkers have more ice dragons...
The memory of that creature at Hardhome bought back the terrifying cold. Larger than him, faster, born of winter itself. He'd barely survived one. If they had two, three, a dozen? His size, his strength, his fire, none of it would matter. The Wall would fall regardless.
A year now. Bran had said they had perhaps a little over a year before the ancient spells failed completely, now probably less. Less than a year to unite Seven Kingdoms that had been tearing each other apart for years. Less than a year to convince lords who'd never seen snow that ice demons were real. Less than a year to forge an army from the ashes of a dozen wars.
All roads lead south.
The realization settled over him like a shroud. To save the North, he'd have to leave it. To protect his family, he'd have to become something they might not recognize. To preserve his home, he'd have to abandon it.
His claws tightened on the vessel as Winterfell's walls passed beneath him. Every stone held a memory. The memory struck without warning—Robb's voice, bright with mischief, whispering through the years. "Just a bit of flour in Old Nan's wash bucket. She'll never know it was us."
Jon's throat constricted. He could still taste that summer afternoon, honeyed bread stolen from the kitchens melting on their tongues while they'd crouched behind the well, watching chaos unfold. The laundry maids' shrieks when white powder exploded across fresh linens. Robb's hand clamped over his mouth to muffle his laughter, tears streaming down both their faces as they'd sprinted for the godswood.
Gods, we were terrors. The corners of his mouth twitched despite everything. They'd hidden in the heart tree's roots for hours, pressed shoulder to shoulder, inventing increasingly elaborate lies for when they were inevitably caught. Robb had insisted they blame Theon. Jon had suggested the wind. In the end, Father had found them anyway, something about the flour handprints on Jon's jerkin giving them away.
The lecture had been worth it just to see Robb try to keep a straight face while covered head to toe in evidence. Even Father's mouth had twitched when Robb claimed they were "testing the castle's defenses against flour-based attacks."
"Someone has to think of these things," Robb had said with such conviction that Bran, barely walking then, had nodded solemnly from Father's arms.
Jon's chest ached with something sharper than dragon claws. Those boys were gone now—one murdered at his own wedding, the other transformed into something that would have sent them both screaming to their mother's skirts. Would you even recognize me now, brother? Would you run from what I've become, or would you find some way to make it another grand jest?
He could almost hear Robb's voice: "My little brother's a dragon now? Well, that's one way to finally get a seat at the high table."
The laugh that escaped him sounded wrong—too bitter, too hollow. Nothing like the helpless giggles they'd shared that day, young and foolish and certain they'd have a thousand more summers together.
Kill the boy.
Maester Aemon's words echoed in his mind, but they meant something different now. Not just killing Jon Snow the bastard, but killing Jon Snow entirely. Trading grey for black and red. Trading honor for necessity. Trading home for a throne he'd never wanted.
The irony was not lost to him. He'd refused Stannis's offer of Winterfell because of his vows. Now he'd broken those vows, taken Winterfell by force, and would have to give it up anyway. The gods had a cruel sense of humor.
His wings spread wide as he descended toward the main gate, catching the wind to slow his approach. The vessel touched down with surprising gentleness, he'd gotten better at this. Practice making perfect, even for monsters.
As his claws released the vessel, Jon closed his eyes and let the transformation begin. Bright violet fire erupted from within, consuming scale and wing and fang. The dragon collapsed inward, reshaping, reforming, until only the man remained.
Naked, scarred, reborn in flame for all to see.
Kill the boy, Aemon had said. And let the man be born.
He opened his eyes as footsteps pounded across the courtyard. Satin first, as always, already pulling a heavy cloak from his pack.
"Thanks you, Satin." Jon murmured to Satin, the words catching rough in his throat. A bitter smile tugged at his scarred lip. "If we survive the Long Night, you're definitely staying on as my steward."
Satin's brow furrowed, his dark eyes searching Jon's face. "I already am your steward, Lord Commander." The words came out careful, uncertain, as if testing whether Jon had lost his wits along with his humanity.
Jon's smile turned sadder still, the weight of what was coming pressing down on him.
The Free Folk hung back with Val among them, her spear planted in the ground, her eyes locked on his. She wanted to run to him—he could see it in the tension of her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on her weapon. But she held herself back, maintaining the distance… for now.
Melisandre stood apart, red robes billowing, that knowing smile playing at her lips. She'd seen this moment in her flames, no doubt but nothing he can worry about now.
Great-Uncle Aemon, Jon thought, remembering the old maester's gentle hands and wisdom. You served at the Wall your whole life. Gave up your crown, your name, your claim. You honored your vows until the end.
The cloak settled around his shoulders, Satin's fingers quick and efficient. Warmth, but not enough. Never enough anymore.
I'm about to dishonor everything you stood for. I'm about to take the crown you refused. I'm about to become the very thing you rejected.
Behind him, Sansa ran with Ghost at her heels, her face a mixture of relief and something else… fear? Awe? He couldn't tell anymore.
Jon's mouth curved into something between apology and mischief, the kind of expression that used to earn him cuffs from Robb during their sword lessons. "Forgive me, sister. I know I left you in quite the state."
"You should have warned me!" Sansa's voice cracked upward, that particular pitch she'd perfected at thirteen when Arya had hidden frogs in her bed. Her hands clenched at her sides, color flooding her pale cheeks. "By the gods, Jon, you could have said something before—before—"
"Before I turned into a creature from Old Nan's stories?" His smile didn't waver, though something darker flickered behind it. "Where's the fun in that?" Ghost pressed against Sansa's leg, a warm weight of reassurance, his red eyes fixed on Jon as if showing his disapproval.
He looked at his cousin—sister, his heart still insisted—and saw Winterfell in her eyes. Saw home. Saw everything he was about to lose.
"The Tallharts are free," he said, his voice rough from disuse. Human words felt strange after speaking as a dragon. "Torrhen's Square is ours again!"
The raw and primal roar erupted from a thousand throats at once hungry for blood. Steel rang against steel as men beat swords on shields, the metallic thunder drowning out individual voices until only the collective rage remained.
"Death to the squids!" someone bellowed, and the cry spread like wildfire through the ranks.
Behind them, guards helped the children from the vessel as little Beren Tallhart stared at Jon with wide eyes, caught between terror and wonder.
"My lord," Larence Snow approached with his cousins, bowing slightly. "My aunt and cousins need—"
"Food. Warmth. Safety." Jon nodded. "See to it."
Larence hesitated. "You saved them. They'll remember that."
They'll remember the dragon, Jon thought. Not the man.
"Take Cleftjaw to the cells," he commanded, watching as guards dragged the ironborn away. "Gently. He kept the children safe."
"Jon." Sansa's voice pulled him back. "We need to talk."
"Later." He couldn't face her questions now. Couldn't explain what he'd realized in the sky. "There is something I must do first."
He walked past them all—past Val's burning gaze, past Melisandre's knowing smile, past the lords and guards and all the weight of their expectations, as he walked into the keep.
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The entrance to the crypts loomed before him, dark and patient as always. He'd dreamed of this place so many times. Dreamed of secrets and revelations and terrible truths.
Now he would face them.
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the cold stone. Behind him, Winterfell bustled with life as orders were shouted, mothers shushing children crying, the clank of armor and weapons. The sounds of home.
Forgive me, Uncle Aemon. But winter is coming, and I can't honor the dead if I can't save the living.
Jon descended into darkness.
The crypts embraced him with familiar cold as his feet found each step by the memory of already walking this path in dreams. No torch, but he didn't need one. The flames danced at his fingertips when he willed them, casting writhing shadows on the walls.
He stopped first at the newest statue—or where it should have been.
The empty alcove mocked him. No stone for Robb. No marker for the Young Wolf who'd won every battle and lost the war. His brother's bones lay somewhere in the Riverlands, if they hadn't been thrown to the dogs. Another piece of home he couldn't recover.
"I'm sorry," Jon whispered to the emptiness. "You were the heir. The true son. This should have been yours."
Jon moved on to the first actual statue that had fresh winter roses laid out at the foot of Eddard's statue. Sansa's work, probably this morning. The stone face bore Ned's likeness well with his long face stern, and yet sad. Even in death, those stone eyes seemed to ask: What have you done, boy?
"Why?" Jon asked the statue. "Why couldn't you tell me? All those years, all those lies. Did you think I was too weak? Too young? Too much a bastard to handle the truth?"
The statue offered no answers. It never would.
"I would have understood." His voice cracked. "The war. Robert's rage. The danger. I would have understood the murmur. But you could have told me. When I was leaving for the Wall. When I was swearing my life away. You could have given me that much."
His fist clenched, fire flickering between his fingers. For a moment—just a moment—he wanted to burn it all. These crypts. These lies. These stone faces that judged him for sins that weren't his.
But no. Ned Stark had been his father in every way that mattered. The lie had been another sacrifice on the altar of duty. Jon understood that now. He'd made his own hard choices, told his own necessary lies.
"You protected me," he said softer. "Even if it meant dishonoring yourself. Even if it meant living with the shame. For her."
He turned to the last statue, the one that had haunted his dreams since childhood.
Lyanna Stark. His mother.
She was beautiful in stone as she must have been in life. Young—gods, so young. Barely older than Sansa was now. The sculptor had captured something wild in her face, something that wouldn't be tamed. Wolf blood, father had called it.
The blue roses in her hands caught the purple firelight. Such a small thing to start a war over. A crown of roses. A choice that killed thousands.
"Mother," he said, and the word felt foreign on his tongue. He'd never said it before. Not to anyone. "I'm here."
The statue wept or seemed to in the dancing shadows. Those stone eyes that had terrified him as a boy now just looked sad. Eternally young. Eternally grieving.
"So much death," he told her. "All because you loved someone you shouldn't have. Was it worth it? The war? The blood? The lies?"
He knew the answer. Love was never worth it, and always worth everything. He thought of Val, waiting above. Thought of the distance they maintained, the words they didn't say.
"I'm angry," he admitted. "At you. At him. At father. At everyone who knew and said nothing. But mostly I'm tired. Tired of being the consequence of other people's choices. Tired of paying for sins I didn't commit."
His hand touched the cold stone of her hands, trying to wonder how it would have felt to hold the real ones.
"But I understand too. You didn't choose the war. You just chose love. The world burned because others couldn't accept that choice."
A soft click echoed through the crypt.
Jon jerked back as a section of the statue's base swung open. A hidden compartment. His heart hammered as he knelt, reaching into the darkness.
His fingers found cloth first. Then parchment. Then something hard and small.
He pulled them out carefully, to find letters, dozens of them. The letters bore the seal with the three-headed dragon, broken open already.
The first letter he touched bore Rhaegar's seal. His… father's handwriting was elegant, flowing:
My lady, my wild wolf, how the days drag without your laughter...
Poetry. Love songs written in ink. Promises of spring that never came.
Jon read through them quickly, each one a window into a romance that had destroyed a kingdom. Rhaegar wrote of prophecies and destiny, of ice and fire joining, of the prince that was promised. But mostly he wrote of her. Her smile, her strength, her fierce spirit that matched his melancholy perfectly.
Fools, Jon thought, but gently. They'd been young and in love and stupid. The same as anyone else, except their stupidity had cost thousands of lives.
The last letter bore a different seal. A unbroken letter stamped by a direwolf.
Jon's hands trembled as he broke it open. His mother's handwriting was less elegant than Rhaegar's, but stronger somehow. More direct.
My Dearest Aemon,
If you are reading this, then I am gone and Ned has kept you safe. I pray you've lived the life I couldn't give you—safe, healthy, perhaps even happy. I pray you've known some of the joy I knew growing up at Winterfell, surrounded by family and laughter and love.
Tears blurred Jon's vision, but he kept reading.
I'm sorry. Gods, I'm so sorry for what you must have endured. If Robert learns the truth, your life is forfeit—I know this. I've begged Ned to hide you, to claim you as his own. It will shame him, but he'll do it. For me. For you. He's the best man I've ever known, save perhaps your father.
You probably hate us. Rhaegar and me. The foolish girl and the melancholy prince who burned the world for love. Sometimes I hate us too. But I couldn't help it, Aemon. When he sang, when he smiled that sad smile, when he spoke of dreams and destiny, I couldn't help but love him. And he loved me. Not as a prize or a conquest, but as myself. Lyanna. Just Lyanna.
We married, you should know that. In the old way, before a heart tree. The gods witnessed our vows, even if the world never will. You're no bastard, my son. You're a prince to the Iron Throne, though I pray you never need claim it. Thrones are cold things, and you deserve warmth.
Jon had to stop, his chest too tight to breathe. His mother's words reached across death itself, each one a dagger and a balm.
Your father wanted to name you Visenya if you were a girl, he was so certain! But I knew. A mother knows. You were always Aemon to me, named for the Dragonknight. Your father loved that, he was quite fond for all the Aemons. "A name for a hero," he said. I hope you can forgive us for the burden of it.
I wish I could have seen you grow. Your first steps. Your first words. Your first love. I wish I could have sung you the songs my mother sang to me. I wish I could have taught you to ride, you mother was was very good you know. Better than Brandon, though he'd never admit it.
But wishes are wind, and I know I am not long from the afterlife, and all I can leave you are these words and a few tokens. Your father's precious harp, he'd have want you to have it. The ring he made me from his armor's rubies. And our marriage cloak. It's not much of an inheritance, I know. Not compared to what you should have had.
Be safe, my son. Be happy if you can. Have children of your own someday—let them know the love I couldn't give you. And perhaps, if the gods are kind, you can forgive us. Your father and me. The fools who loved too much and too late.
May the old gods keep you safe my sweetling.
Your mother,
Lyanna Stark
The letter fell from Jon's nerveless fingers. He couldn't see through the tears, couldn't breathe through the grief. All those years wondering why. All those years imagining who she was, what she'd say if she could.
"I forgive you," he whispered to the stone face. "You fools. You beautiful, terrible fools. I forgive you."
He reached for the cloth-wrapped bundle with shaking hands. The fabric fell away to reveal a cloak—black silk emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon. A marriage cloak. Proof of union before the gods.
Beneath it lay a harp, silver and small, its strings somehow still holding strong after these years. Rhaegar's most prized possession, the one he'd played at Harrenhal when he won the tourney. When he crowned Lyanna with winter roses. When the world began to end.
And last, a ring. Ruby red, carved with three dragons, sized for a woman's finger but meant for him. His inheritance. His proof. His burden.
The ruby ring burned cold against his palm, and beneath his fingertips, the carved dragons seemed to writhe, their scales shifting in patterns that hurt to follow.
Come...
The whisper slithered up from the deepest shadows of the crypts, where even the torchlight feared to venture.
The blood remembers... the fire calls...deeper... where the builder sleeps...
"Jon?"
He spun, as if seeing a ghost. Sansa stood at the entrance to this section of the crypts, Ghost at her side. Her eyes were wide, taking in the scene of him holding a cloak starring into nothing, surrounded by letters and treasures, tears streaming down his face.
"I was looking for you," she said carefully. "To tell you that Lord Manderly is close. With Rickon. They'll be here tomorrow, and..." She trailed off, her gaze fixed on the marriage cloak in his hands. "Jon, what is that?"
He could lie. Make up some story. Protect her from this truth as Ned had protected him.
But he was no point now.
"Proof," he said, his voice hollow. "That our honorable father lied to everyone."
"Father never lied." Defensive, immediate. Sansa's faith in Eddard Stark ran deep.
Jon laughed, bitter and broken. "No? Then tell me, sweet sister, when did Eddard Stark break his vows? When did the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms father a bastard?"
She opened her mouth, closed it. The logic was inescapable. They'd all just accepted it, never questioned it. Ned had a bastard, end of story. But when? With whom? Why would he never speak of her?
"He didn't," Jon continued, standing slowly. The marriage cloak pooled in his hands like blood. "He never dishonored himself. Never broke his vows. He just claimed another man's son to protect him from Robert's wrath."
"No." But Sansa's denial was weak. She was too smart not to see it. "You're a Stark. You look just like Father—"
"I look like his sister, Lyanna." He gestured to the statue. "Like my mother."
The word lingered in the air between them. Mother. Not some tavern wench or camp follower. Not some woman Ned had dishonored and forgotten.
Lyanna Stark.
"Gods," Sansa breathed. She understood. Of course she did. "Rhaegar. Your father is—was—"
"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen." The name that will haunt him forever more. "And they were married. Here's the proof." He held up the cloak. "Wed before a heart tree. Legal. Binding. Making me—"
"The heir to the Iron Throne." Sansa's voice was faint. "Jon, you're... Robert would have killed you. As a babe. He'd have dashed your head against a wall like… "
"Like the Mountain and Lorch did to Rhaegar's other children." Jon's jaw clenched. "Yes. So Eddard Stark lied. Took the shame. Let everyone think he'd dishonored himself rather than let his nephew die."
Sansa moved closer, her hand reaching out tentatively. "Your name. Is it even Jon?"
"Aemon." The word felt strange, foreign. "She named me Aemon. For the Dragonknight."
"Aemon Targaryen." Sansa tested the name, then shook her head. "No. You're Jon. You'll always be Jon to me."
Something in his chest cracked at that. He'd expected fear, rejection, disgust. Not acceptance. Not this immediate, fierce loyalty.
"Jon." She took his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. "This changes nothing. You're still my brother. Still pack. Still a Stark."
"I'm a dragon." The truth of it burned.
"You're Jon," she repeated firmly. "The boy who I gave advice to so he could talk to Alys Karstark. Who always had a kind word when Mother was cruel. Who came back for us when you could have left all this chaos behind."
He pulled away, gathering the letters and treasures. "I have to leave."
"What?"
"The dead are coming. The Wall will fall within a year. Maybe sooner." He stood, the marriage cloak draped over his arm like a standard. "To fight them, we need the South. All of it. United."
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "You're going to claim the throne."
"I'm going to try." The words tasted like betrayal. "Not because I want it. Gods, I don't wish to leave the North. But because it's the only way. The lords won't listen to Jon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker. But they might kneel to Aemon Targaryen, a real dragon prince, heir of the Conqueror."
"Many will hate you." Her voice broke. "They will see your name before they you."
"It must be done." He touched her cheek gently. "To save everyone. What's one man's happiness against the fate of the realm?"
"It's not fair."
He laughed, hollow and tired. "When has anything ever been fair for us? Robb murdered at a wedding. Bran's lost beyond the Wall. Arya's fending for herself. Rickon's been hiding on Skagos. Your own fate at the hands of the Lannisters and Littlefinger. And I've been murdered by my own men. Fair doesn't enter into it."
"When?" she asked. "When will you leave?"
"After… I see Rickon." He looked at the statue of his mother one last time. "After I ensure the North is secure."
Sansa pulled him into a fierce embrace, and he let himself be held. Let himself be Jon Snow for a few moments more.
"I'll help you," Sansa said, her voice steady as the stone surrounding them. "Whatever you need, however you need it. You're not alone in this."
Jon's throat tightened. "You don't understand what you're offering. When I become—" He stopped, unable to voice the name that would erase everything he'd been. "The realm will see a Targaryen conqueror. They'll expect fire and blood."
"Then I'll remind them you're still a Stark." Her fingers found his in the darkness, squeezing tight.
Above them, Winterfell prepared for war. Lords and soldiers and Free Folk, all looking to him for answers, for leadership, for salvation.
Tomorrow he would give them what they needed. He would be the dragon, the prince, the weapon they required.
But tonight, in the darkness of the crypts, held by his sister-cousin-pack, he was just Jon. The boy who'd wanted nothing more than to be a Stark.
The boy who had to die so everyone else could live.
"I don't want the throne," he whispered into Sansa's shoulder. "I only ever wanted Winterfell."
"I know." She held him tighter. "That's why you have to take it. The ones who don't want power are the only ones who can be trusted with it."
"Besides," Sansa said, a ghost of her old smile touching her lips, "the seven kingdoms were conquered by dragons from across the sea. Now they'll be united by a home grown dragon, a true one."
The absurdity of it pulled a laugh from Jon's chest, raw and genuine, the first real sound of mirth since returning to Winterfell.
They stood there among the dead kings, the bastard who was a prince and the lady who'd lost everything, holding each other against the darkness.
Tomorrow would bring duty and destiny and dragon fire.
But tonight, they were just two lost children, finding comfort in the ruins of their home.