Chapter Text
Jon.
He loved her till the bitter end.
Robert’s rebellion was built upon a lie.
Sam’s words echoed in Jon’s ear long after his departure. His head buzzed with the revelation, and the world seemed to slide a little more out of focus with every breath Jon took. He was a summer child, born thousands of miles south of Winterfell in the dry mountains of Dorne. Rhaegar Targaryen was his real father, and the honorable man he had looked up to his whole life had lied to protect his identity.
Jon’s feet took him to the godswood. Snow crunched beneath his knees as he knelt. Growing up, he had often chanced upon Catelyn Stark seated alone and praying to the Seven. He wondered if she’d ever prayed for them to take him away, to remove the tarnished reminder of Ned’s false betrayal. Jon hoped fervently that in death she would somehow learn of the truth, but deep down, he knew there was nothing waiting for them on the other side.
A sudden gust of wind and descending darkness signaled the arrival of one of Dany’s dragons. Sansa had complained of their appetite for lamb earlier, but now standing face to face with the green and bronze one that had lifted him into the sky earlier that day, Jon was suddenly grateful that they did not outright crave the flesh of man.
Rhaegal’s breath washed over him in a hot gust, rattling the ice crystals hanging off the weirwood tree behind Jon. Drogon, the larger of the two, was nowhere in sight. Carefully, Jon got to his feet. He had removed his sword belt in order to pray, and it now lay several feet away in the snow, a useless piece of steel stuck in its sheath.
Besides, he thought as he moved closer to the beast, if Rhaegal wanted him dead, that one valyrian steel sword was not going to change anything.
The dragon made a curious cooing noise deep in its throat when Jon lifted his hand. He wondered if Rhaegal could smell the Targaryen blood in him, whether the dragon knew that he had been named after Jon’s father. His fingers touched the rough green scales on Rhaegal’s nose.
“Hello there,” Jon murmured, skating his hand over the dragon’s jaw.
“I don’t feel like a Targaryen,” He told the beast, “and yet you are already treating me like one.”
Rhaegal snorted, large amber eyes slitting shut as Jon dutifully continued to pet him. Jon was almost sure Rhaegal was rolling his eyes at him, but the amused indignation was mostly overshadowed by sheer awe of their close proximity.
“What would your mother say if she saw us like this?” He asked the dragon quietly. Rhaegal rumbled a nonsensical reply, the spiked ridges on his back rippling like blades of grass in the wind.
“I will have to tell her,” He said, more to himself than to the resting dragon, “Daenerys deserves to know.”
“Who deserves to know what, little crow?” A rough voice asked from behind.
Jon turned and found Tormund standing at the edge of the godswood, gaunt and covered in bruises, but still very much alive. Before Jon could answer, he was swept off his feet by the big wildling, the air crushed from his lung from Tormund’s rib-cracking hug. Rhaegal growled, bristling.
“Easy, boy,” Jon gasped into the thick fur around Tormund’s neck. He flapped a hand at the dragon who reluctantly settled back down. Tormund set him down with a low whistle, “so the rumors are true, Snow. You rode one of the winged beasts.”
“The others?” Jon asked.
“Edd, the one-eyed fanatic, and a handful of others at Castle Black managed to make it out alive,” Tormund said grimly, “we had to skirt around the army of the dead. The Umber boy is dead as well.”
Jon swallowed. “How long do we have?”
“Hours,” Tormund shrugged, “they will be here before dawn.”
He ended up telling Tormund first. Huddled in the watch tower and throat burning from the terrible ale the other man had snuck from the kitchens, Jon opened his mouth and said, “I’m not a true Northerner.”
There was a pause while Tormund gulped down more ale. He belched loudly and shuffled closer, “did the dragon drop you on your head earlier, Snow? What are you talking about?”
“My parents, they,” He struggled for a moment, not sure how to explain the concept to a wildling North of the Wall. “I was born in Dorne to a Targaryen father and Stark mother.”
“So?” Tormund grunted. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Dorne is…thousands of miles south, Tormund,” Jon sighed, “everything I ever knew was a lie.”
He yelped when Tormund suddenly reached over and slapped him hard on the back of the head. The wildling fisted the front of Jon’s cloak and pulled him close enough that Jon could smell the ale saturating Tormund’s breath with every hissed word.
“You are more North than anyone of those cock-sucking lords and ladies, crow. You fought alongside us against the dead. You died for us, and for that, you’ll always have a home beyond the Wall regardless of who sired you.”
Jon’s breath stilled in his lungs when Tormund pressed their foreheads together. He’d seen other wildlings embrace like this before, but it had always been between family members. Warmth bloomed from the contact. Jon swallowed, willing his heart to be still so he could hear Tormund’s whispered words.
“Jon,” The fire-kissed wildling said, “Not a Targaryen or Snow. Just Jon.”
Then, the forlorn wail of the signal horn tore through the still night and Tormund stepped back, his hair shining like Dothraki gold in the firelight. Rhaegal landed upon the terrace behind Jon, his bulk blocking out the moon overhead and cloaking them in shadow.
Tormund winked, “Don’t fall, pretty crow.”
“Don’t die, wildling,” Jon shot back.
In the end, Jon did not have to tell Daenerys.
He had run to defend his grounded queen alongside Jorah Mormont when the Night King’s new mount swooped out of the sky straight for Dany, blue fire blossoming from its gaping maw. Jon did not have time to think when he dove for her, shoving the young queen off the pile of bodies just as Viserion’s fire washed over him.
Jon braced for pain, but none came.
And when it was over, when Arya drove her valyrian steel dagger into the Night King’s chest and Viserion shattered into a millions pieces like the rest of the undead army, Jon turned to find Daenerys staring open-mouthed at him as the incinerated pieces of his armor fell from his body like blackened feathers.
“Only a true dragon can stand the flames,” She murmured, taking a cautious step toward him and narrowing her green eyes, “who are you really, Jon Snow?”
He found Tormund among the living hours later. By then, Jon’s skin had blistered and reddened so much that Sam had bandaged his entire torso and forearms after liberally applying a healing salve.
“Let me guess, she did not take it well,” Tormund asked after taking in his bandages. He was drinking alone out on the terrace and the cold night air felt good against Jon’s fire-cracked skin.
“The undead dragon did this to me,” Jon explained, liberating the flask from Tormund’s grip and swallowing down the liquid, Dornish wine this time. Sansa had taken out the good stuff in the post-battle celebration. He hissed at the twinge of discomfort at his throat, “Dany took it pretty well, all things considered.”
“Meaning?”
“She wants me to swear my silence. Bran and Sam as well. The only other witness was Jorah Mormont and he’s not going to say anything that would jeopardize her right to the crown,” He murmured, “She didn’t kill me outright, so I took that as a positive sign.”
“You really do know nothing, Jon Snow,” Tormund said, watching him. Jon huffed at the familiar words. “You’ll always be a threat to her. The man who is more entitled to the throne.”
He eyed the wildling, “I thought you knew nothing of the politics of Westeros.”
“That does not mean I do not see what is obvious, crow,” Tormund said grimly, “seeing too much good in people will get you killed.”
“I saw good in you too,” He pointed out, leaning into the redhead. He felt lightheaded, a little drunk and a little emboldened by their victory against the dead.
“Aye, and it got you killed, didn’t it? A knife through the heart,” Tormund pointed out. He did not smile when he put a warm palm to the back of Jon’s neck and said, “don’t go South with the dragon queen, little crow.”
“Where will I go then?” Jon breathed back, staring into Tormund’s sky-blue eyes. Footsteps put an end to their conversation before the wildling could answer, and they both turned to see the Lady of Winterfell walk out onto the terrace.
“Jon,” Sansa inclined her head in greeting, “a word if you please.”
His sister refused to bend the knee and Jon watched as Dany’s face filled with rage. Jorah and Davos hurriedly stepped in to smooth the tension when the young queen abruptly stood and stormed out of the room. Jon found her seething alone in one of the watch towers overlooking the gates of Winterfell.
“Have you come to reason with me on behalf of your sister?” She spat at him when Jon made his presence known.
“No,” He joined her and peered down at his childhood home. “Sansa is stubborn, your grace, and the North is loyal to the Starks.”
“If that is your attempt to make me feel better—”
“It is not, Dany,” He interrupted gently, “you are my queen, and as queen, you must make compromises in order to further your people’s interests. Sansa may not agree to bend the knee, but if you relinquish the North, I know I will be able to convince her to let them ride south with us.”
“And what of you?” Her eyes flashed challengingly.
Daenerys’ clear distrust stung, but Jon soldiered on, “I have no interest in the crown. I just want this damned war to be over, so I can go home.”
Dany frowned. “Back here to Winterfell?”
Down below in the courtyard, Bran appeared. He seemed flustered, both hands gripping the arms of his chair tight enough for Jon to spot the whites of his knuckles. Seconds later, he saw the source of Bran’s distress. The head of fiery red locks was a dead giveaway. Tormund gave the boy’s seat a hearty kick when one of its wheels lodged against stone and nearly upended the youngest Stark into the dirt. Brienne, who had been following close behind, shoved the bewildered wildling away and took over.
Jon laughed out loud at the look on Tormund’s face.
“No, farther north,” He said.
The Targaryen army rode south the next morning with what was left of the Northern banner men who were willing to follow Jon. Sansa nodded when their eyes met, her expression still cool and aloof. He didn’t blame her for despising him for what he had forced her to relinquish in return for the North’s autonomy. She came to a stop next to Sandor Clegane’s horse, and to Jon’s immense surprise, he dismounted at the sight of her.
“Little bird,” He began wearily, but she cut him off with an elegant hand.
Jon watched as his sister pulled out an ivory white handkerchief embroidered with their house sigil and gently took the Hound’s sword hand. Sansa wrapped the silken cloth around his wrist.
“Your lady bestows you a favor, Ser,” She said evenly, ignoring his quiet protests. “If you ever find yourself in need of a place to stay, Winterfell will always be open to you.” A rare smile, bright like a winter’s rose, crossed Sansa’s face, “we’ll have all the chicken and wine you’ll ever desire.”
“Careful there, lady wife,” Tyrion called out to them from his and Varys' carriage, “you might even tempt me to stay.”
“The more the merrier, lord husband,” Sansa responded with a devious smirk. Her fingers lingered in the Hound’s palm as she met his gaze, “Don’t lose, Sandor.”
Clegane nodded dumbly.
“You are sure about this?” Brienne asked as she walked the older Lannister brother over to where Tyrion was sprawled on his cushions like a fat cat in a sun beam. Varys pursed his lips disapprovingly at his splayed legs.
“In case Cercei does not surrender, I need to do it myself,” Jaime said, low enough that Jon almost did not hear him over the sounds of the Dothraki horses. Brienne’s jaw tightened. Jaime smiled crookedly at her, “where’s my lady’s favor, Brienne?”
“How about a black eye for good fortune, Ser Jaime?” She retorted cooly. They clasped arms in farewell. Jaime was still laughing when he mounted his steed. Brienne rolled her eyes and sent his horse into a trot with a hard smack to the rear.
“What does she see in him?” Tormund, who had silently snuck up on Jon, muttered sullenly in his ear. The wildling threw a thick around around his shoulder and sighed dejectedly as they watched the Kingslayer ride out of the gates of Winterfell.
“Someone that’s not you, I presume,” Jon said with a low laugh. Ghost nosed at his hand expectantly, so he reached out and scratched the direwolf fondly under the chin.
“I meant it the other night, little crow,” Tormund said, his body a comforting weight against Jon’s as they both watched Dany descent the stone steps like a goddess.
“I know,” He smiled and drew the redheaded man into a proper hug, “watch Ghost for me until I get back, will you?”
“Shall we ride, Jon Snow?” Daenerys called out to him, the challenge clear in her voice.
“Don’t fall,” Tormund reminded, squeezing the nape of his neck with a warm hand.
“I won’t,” Jon whispered back.
Jon could see the pointed tips of the Red Keep on dragonback by the time the message from Varys’ little bird reached them. Scorpions, hundreds of them, mounted on every ship and along the outer walls of King’s Landing. Euron Greyjoy, waiting to ambush them in the bay with the rest of his fleet.
“We mustn’t lose any more dragons, your grace,” The eunuch insisted when Dany told them of her plans to fly into the bay on her dragons. “Tyrion told me of the close encounter you had with one of those dreadful machines at Blackwater Rush.”
She gritted her teeth in irritation, “Then what use are my dragons if I cannot fly close enough to destroy their fleet with dragonfire?”
“The Night King,” Jon mused quietly, “he concealed Viserys in a blizzard.”
“We don’t exactly have the Night King’s powers, Jon Snow,” Tyrion said, exasperated. He was still frowning critically down at the crude maps they’d drawn in the disturbed dirt when Jon stood and walked over to where Drogon and Rhaegal were resting. The green dragon lifted his head and Daenerys and company all watched in silence as Jon leaned in and whispered a few words. He patted Rhaegal’s neck and stood back.
“What are you doing?” Dany asked when the dragon spread his wings and swooped down the side of the cliff. Seconds later, Rhaegal opened his mouth and let loose a thick pillar of flame into the cold ocean waves. The water hissed upon contact, boiling over as thick opaque steam began to rise.
“We don’t need the Night King’s powers to conceal the dragons, your grace,” Jon smiled, “the dragons will conceal themselves.”
“Rhaegal likes you,” Daenerys said the moment they were alone on the cliffside. Her expression was impassive, but her voice carried a hint of accusation, “nephew.”
And there it was, the dreaded word. Jon said nothing.
“We are the last of the Targaryen line,” Dany murmured, “it seems such a waste for you to take the black again.”
“You could always try for an heir once the kingdom is secured,” Jon pointed out, “as for me, I would gladly trade my life for peace.”
“Good,” Daenerys smiled sharply and gestured for Drogon to lower his wing, “I would hate for your sons and daughters to suffer my fate.”
He mulled over the curious words as he mounted Rhaegal’s back, and it was only when Daenerys and Drogon burst from the heat fog that had settled over Euron’s fleet that Jon realized what she had really meant — that if he ever sired any children, she would hunt them to the ends of the world.