Work Text:
He would never forget the hush that fell when those in the birthing chamber first caught sight of the babe.
All eyes slowly turned towards him.
The hidden dragon in their midst.
And, for the first time during the twenty-plus hours of gut-wrenching labour he wished that he had never come.
It was not traditional for the father to be present at such a moment but little about them was traditional and Sansa had insisted. Raised as siblings, they had unexpectedly given in to long-standing but unknown desires that had bubbled beneath. The Queen in the North and her consort, the pardoned Queenslayer. A match that few could have predicted before the great war but a match that had brought Jon more happiness than he had thought possible.
It was a surprise and a blessing that the northerners accepted their union as well as they did. But, he supposed, few had been fans of the slain Dragon Queen and he had always been viewed fondly as a true son of the North. His pardon, issued by the Queen two years after his exile, had been celebrated openly in Winterfell—as had the announcement that his wife was carrying their first child and heir.
It seemed, however, that the welcome and kinship he had always been offered in his adoptive home had now been placed in jeopardy. It was not the child’s fault, of course. But it seemed that the gods had chosen to give proof of the rumours which had long been whispered in these halls.
He was a healthy babe.
A boy, already lean and strong.
Jon was grateful for that and could already feel a swell of immeasurable love for his son.
But even before the birthing fluids had been washed away there was no doubt that the child had also been gifted with locks of silvery-blonde hair.
The same other-worldly tendrils he had not seen since Drogon had carried away his lifeless Queen.
The child was a Targaryen prince in all but name.
A dragon in a den of wolves.
Jon had never revealed the truth about his parentage to those in the court. He and Sansa had agreed that there was little point. He had no desire to usurp Bran on the throne of the six kingdoms and he would receive far more favour here if he presented himself as a Stark. Their union had required revealing some semblance of the truth and they had admitted that their familial bond was more distant than that of half-siblings. In public, he had gone from being Ned Stark’s bastard to being Benjen Stark’s bastard and many believed that the honourable Ned had stepped in so that his brother would not receive the ultimate sentence for breaking his vows to the Night’s Watch.
He wished that their fabrication had been true. Jon had admired his Uncle Benjen and had even followed him to the wall all those years ago. It was easy to think of him as a father. But no amount of wishing would change who he really was. Yes, he was half-Stark—a fact that he would always be grateful for— but his entire world had changed on the night that Sam had first muttered his true name.
Aegon Targaryen.
Sometimes, on sleepless nights, he could still feel himself fill with dread as the words echoed through his mind.
Sansa had always assured him that it meant nothing. He was not defined by his father’s family and there was no need for him to share their burdens. She knew just what to say to make everything better and a smile would always cross his lips as she pulled him close and whispered that he was her brave wolf.
And, indeed, the sight of his own reflection had always provided reassurance as well. The face that starred back seemed to be pure Stark—dark and grey-eyed, etched with the serious lines of a northern life. He had only ever seen pictures of his father. Of Rhaegar. But he struggled to see much of a resemblance. The cheekbones, perhaps. The angular nose. But it was faint and easy to brush away.
None would look upon Jon Snow and see a Targaryen.
But, clearly, the traits of the dragon had always been inside him.
Prowling beneath.
And now his son, though no fault of his own, would always have this to bear. It had only been a few short hours since this revelation but the guilt he felt was already threatening to crush him.
Most in Westeros had thought the family line extinct since the death of Queen Daenerys and most had been grateful for it. The once-mighty house had succumbed to madness and slaughter and they were better off free from such tyranny. Now-a-days, it was difficult to find those who looked upon the Targaryen’s with kindness, especially here in the north.
He had been happy to let his people believe that the tale had ended that day in the red keep.
But now the whispers had intensified and there was little he could do to quell them.
Some had always been skeptical of the story he and Sansa had woven. Benjen was too honourable, the elders had said. He would not have broken his vows. And the more adept of the courtiers had even questioned Lyanna’s fate at the hands of her Targaryen abductor. What had truly happened, they wondered quietly. And why had a humble bastard of the north come to play such a pivotal role in the last war?
As far as Jon knew, none had dared to speak directly of his lineage but there was little doubt that it was the topic of much hushed conversation today.
Little Robb, Prince of the North, looked nothing like his namesake. He did not have the traits of a Stark. He did not even possess his mother’s Tully features.
Silver hair and violet eyes.
There had only ever been one family known for these.
And since Sansa’s lineage was not shrouded in any mystery, there was only one logical explanation.
“Jon.”
The sound of his name whispered by his fatigued wife finally snapped him from his spiralling thoughts. It was dark now, the grey autumn day had long-ago faded into night.
He could feel the strain of exhaustion in his eyes, but Jon had been too troubled to even consider rest. No one had dared to openly express their surprise that afternoon and, after the initial shock of the babe’s appearance, their staff had silently gotten on with their tasks. The child had been swaddled, the room cleaned, and the Queen attended to. After such a long labour, it was no surprise that Sansa had drifted into a state of delirium and sleep soon after cradling the child in her arms.
If she had been struck by his appearance, her face had given no indication of this. In her eyes, Jon had seen nothing but love.
He had felt that love too. Of course he had. But his, unfortunately, had been coupled with worry.
He wondered how long it would be before her bliss was ruined by what lay ahead.
Picking up the candle he moved quickly to her bedside.
Robb was still swaddled beside her, surprisingly content for a child of only a few hours old.
His eyes were closed, but his silver hair seemed to glisten in the soft moonlight which filtered in through the castle window.
“Sansa, you should continue to rest. You did well today, my love.”
A soft smile crossed her face as Jon gently sat on the side of her bed, careful not to rock her or the babe. They were the most precious things in the world to him, and he could not stand the thought of causing either a moment of discomfort.
The Queen opened her blue eyes, the smile still playing on her lips. “I’m okay, Jon.” She assured him before slowly pushing herself back into a slightly more upright position. He could see a flash of pain as she did so and he wished that there was something he could do to take it away. He had caused this. All of this. And yet, he could do nothing now but watch.
There was a long stretch of silence as the new mother glanced down towards her sleeping child, her beautiful smile growing as she watched his take peaceful breaths. Jon watched her face with rapt attention, waiting for the worry to set in. And still, it did not seem to come.
Unable to hold back any longer, the man reached for his wife’s hand, grasping it firmly as he felt his own troubled thoughts begin to swell once more. She hid it well, perhaps, but he had no doubt that their new reality would soon set in.
“The people are talking.” He whispered, his voice laced with even more emotion than he had anticipated. For a man who had been thorough so much—so much loss and so much war—he often found himself at his most vulnerable during these quiet moments. With her.
This was the only time he ever let his stoic mask fall.
Sansa turned to him, perplexed.
“Robb. He…” Jon hesitated, wondering if he was drawing her attention to something she had not yet seen. But then, how could she not? The child glowed with the Valyrian magic of his ancestors.
“The people are already saying that he looks like a Targaryen.” Her smile did not fade but he could not help but continue, his guilt and worry rushing forth. “Sansa, I’m so sorry.” He continued, unable to ignore the prickling behind his eyes. He hated that he had put them in this predicament. Hated that he had brought his burden to the two people he loved most.
Perhaps he should have stayed north of the wall. Let his house die as it was supposed to, ridding the world of its worry once and for all.
“I was fooling myself to think that it didn’t matter, that there was no trace of the dragon in me. I am not a wolf, Sansa. I am my father’s son, and Robb is mine. All the world will know it now, and there will always be a price on his head.”
It was hard to think of the beautiful innocent child before him as being viewed as a threat, but Jon had been around long enough to know how such things worked. Bran was a wise and true ruler and would have no quarrel with the boy. But his supporters, who did not want to see history repeat itself, would not all be so serene. By the old laws, it was Jon who still had the strongest claim to the throne. And his eldest son was now next in line.
He dreaded the thought but, if his secret was revealed, it was possible that war would once again flare.
He had no interest in that. No interest in power or political maneuvering. All he had ever wanted was peace, and family. Everything he needed was in this small, northern room.
But still, Sansa—brave and beautiful Sansa—did not seem to balk.
“He is a Targaryen,” she noted, reaching down to brush a soft lock of his shimmering hair. “Handsome and strong like his father.” She paused. “But there is no need for us to say anything on this matter. The people can whisper if they like, it doesn’t matter to me. His name will be Robb Stark and he will one day be the King in the North, a true white wolf. Anyone who wishes to question that would be unwise.”
Despite the fatigue from her recent ordeal her voice was strong and firm, as it always was when she spoke like a Queen.
Jon had always admired her strength. Especially at times like these.
The babe let out a soft cry and he watched as Sansa gently picked him up and cradled him to her chest. Despite it all, it was a breathtaking sight—his wife and child, serene in the moonlight.
In that moment, nothing else seemed to matter.
“Come closer, my love,” Sansa whispered, gesturing towards the place where their son had been lying.
Never able to resist his Queen, Jon gently moved to her side, smiling as she nestled close, their child still in her arms. His eyes drifted down to his and he reached out to brush a finger against his supple cheek.
“Our little Robb.” He uttered, sparing a thought for the brave brother they had both loved and lost. It was bittersweet to say that name once more.
“Our little wolf.” Sansa whispered in reply.
Jon felt his stomach churn but he did his best to ignore the sensation. He wanted nothing more than to enjoy this simple moment, and to celebrate the life they had created together.
And yet, his mind refused to relent.
Our little dragon, a distant voice pressed in his mind.
The gods had decided to toss a coin…
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Epilogue: Twenty -Five Years Later
“Robb!” His voice was laced with urgency, but Jon could feel relief begin to wash over him as well.
He had been wandering the fields of Winterfell calling out for the young man for nearly an hour now—he had been happy to see the familiar figure standing atop a rolling hill but that did not change the events of the past several hours. Robb’s departure had been so fast that he had barely had time to process what was going on.
It had all started shortly after the midday meal. A raven had arrived and Sansa had quickly read the contents of the scroll it carried. Jon had been seated across the table but, after nearly thirty years of marriage, he could instantly tell from her face that something was amiss.
“Bran,” she had mouthed, her eyes already welling with tears.
And that had been enough for him to know.
The king—the boy he had grown up with and called brother—had passed suddenly in the night. It was a shock to all. He was relatively young, after all. Not far past his forty-fifth year. And yet somehow the man with the sight of all things past and present had been whisked away.
They had barely had time to discuss, however, before their eldest son abruptly rushed from the room. Jon had not followed him immediately but had decided to give him a short while before checking on him in his chambers.
Except, as it turned out, Robb had not gone to his chambers. In fact, none of the guards had seen him and Jon had quickly realized that the young man had probably used some of the secret tunnels to escape the castle walls.
All his children did that on occasion, and he was usually okay to turn a blind eye to such digressions. Royal life had its pressures and he of all people understood the need to get away.
But in the current situation he was more worried than usual. His oldest son could be impulsive at times (even more so in the last year) and it seemed that he was not taking the death of his uncle particularly well. That itself was a bit unexpected. Yes, the three Stark children of Winterfell had met their uncle several times—but Bran had never been warm or forthcoming. That was simply not in the raven’s nature. He would have expected Robb to care, but not to rush out of the castle with nary a word.
So Jon had searched.
Full of apprehension and worry.
He felt guilty for leaving Sansa, Cate and Rickon alone in this time of grief but he hoped that they could all regroup as soon as Robb was reigned in.
He needed to get to the bottom of this. It was time for his strange outbursts to stop.
This was not the first time he had acted unexpectedly rash.
“Robb, what are you doing all the way out here?”
His boy turned abruptly, white-blonde hair blowing in the summer wind. None had been surprised to see the heir of Winterfell grow into a strapping young man over the past several years. He was tall—taller than his father—and his rare features made for a strikingly handsome appearance. His hours of combat training had not done him any harm either and Jon was proud to say that Robb probably outstripped him in skill, even when he had been in his prime.
Now past his fiftieth year, Jon was willing to admit that his own youth was now behind him. He was still strong and could fight if (gods forbid) it ever came to it. But he was not the man he once was. He was not much for vanity but one unexpected change in recent years had been difficult for him to swallow. It had happened quickly—much more quickly than seemed natural—his once dark locks had gone from deep brown to an unexpectedly gleaming white.
It was, of course, simply part of the ageing process. And his wife had assured him that he was as handsome as ever in her eyes. But it wasn’t the reminder of his age and mortality that had disturbed him so greatly.
No. It had been the effect this change had on his overall appearance.
His locks lacked the slight blonde tinge of his oldest son but they now resembled each other even more than they had before. Jon could finally see it now.
He could see his unwanted ancestors starring back every time he looked in a mirror. Every feature that had once seemed so undeniably northern to him now appeared to emanate Targaryen grace and Jon realized he had only ever been fooling himself.
The last time Bran had seen him, nearly two years ago, the only word he had spoken had been “dragon.”
They had always kept his secret, but it seemed like more of a farce with each passing day.
“Father,” Robb addressed him, his violet eyes flashing with something that resembled determination.
Jon found himself struggling to find even a hint of grief.
“I wasn’t ready to tell you, but now…I do hope you’ll understand.”
“Understand what?” He asked, trying to comprehend why his son had been standing alone on this windy hill on a day like this. Why did he have the sudden urge to flee here?
Something golden glinted in the fading sunlight and Jon’s eyes darted towards Robb’s clasped hand. Wordlessly, he took a step forward, reaching out to see what the boy had grasped so tightly.
“Why did you come here Robb? What is going on?”
There was a brief pause.
“I’ve been coming here a lot, father,” the young man admitted, his free hand running through his long locks of shimmering hair.
They may have hidden the truth from their court, but their children knew. Robb had figured it out himself, piecing together the castle rumours and what he had read in the grand library.
Jon would never forget the day the boy, barely ten, had confronted him with a book about the royal families of Westeros. He’d found a page about Rhaegar Targaryen, beautifully illustrated with what Jon imaged to be a fairly accurate portrait.
“He was your father, wasn’t he? My grandfather.”
There was no way that Jon could deny it. His boy was the spitting image of the man he had never met.
Cate and Rickon were pure Stark in appearance, but it had seemed fitting to tell them too. He had thought that he instilled the importance of keeping this particular family secret, for all of their sakes.
That was, until now.
Silently, Jon reached forward and opened his son’s clasped hand. His heart instantly plummeted.
The glint of gold had come from an ornate badge he had never seen before, but one that had very clear origins.
The three-headed dragon.
The symbol of House Targaryen.
His house…their house.
“Why do you have this?” He demanded, more anger slipping forth than he had anticipated.
It cut him deeper than he could have known—and yet, it seemed foolish to feel such surprise. Even now, standing against the harsh northern landscape, there was no question that his beautiful boy was not mean for this place. Even with his dark northern firs around his shoulders he did not fit.
He was no wolf.
“Lord Tyrion gifted it to me.” Robb replied, grasping it firmly as he pulled away, defensive. “It was found in the vaults in Kings Landing and he believed I should have it,” the young man paused, his expression darkening “he said he knew you would reject it.”
Jon silently cursed the imp, even if his intentions had been to give a simple ancestral gift. Clearly, this had helped to put ideas into the boy’s head and Jon could not repress the feeling that something dark was looming. He did not like the tone of his son’s voice, nor the fierce determination in his violet eyes.
He had seen such determination before, and he had spent many long years trying to forget.
“Uncle Bran was a good king. A wise king.” Robb began again before taking another step back, further up the hill. “But he was never the true king.”
His eyes seemed to bore into him, revealing his true thoughts.
Jon took a short breath, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing.
Yes, Robb could be impulsive—but there had been nary a hint of this type of talk before. Granted, the succession was not an open topic of conversation in their household and Jon had always been quick to quell questions about his past. Perhaps the boy had been harbouring dangerous ideas for much longer than he would have guessed.
“Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name.”
It felt as if his breath had been snatched from him and he starred wordlessly at his son.
He hated that name. His name.
He had never dreamt that it would one day be uttered by his son.
“The last dragon has come to me, father. He has been visiting me in these fields for a long time now. You may not wish to accept it, but he knows who I am,” he paused. “Who we are. The time for pretending is over—we were not meant to waste away in these northern hills. I have always been a dragon, and so have you.”
“No, Robb, no.”
He stumbled, unable to do much more than utter those useless words.
In his heart, he knew that he had already lost.
“I will take back our kingdom, father. With fire and blood.”
The coin had landed…