Note: This is being reposted from AO3 from my account, Sanva. This will be VERY slow to repost and will be done in large sections (this part is 9 chapters from the AO3 version). I have 150k words of this already posted and more written so don't pester me to make huge changes to plot.

Jon = Jaehaerys in this fic

Aegon = Jon's half brother (Aegon VI Targaryen) OR Fake!Aegon, depending on the life mentioned.

Pairings: Don't ask who Jon will be paired with in the main time line. It annoys me. This won't be Jon/Dany or Jon/Arya.

However Jon may be paired with any number of people in the flashbacks.

This started out as a self prompt "Jon Snow: Live. Die. Repeat" that morphed into time travel fix it + wish fulfillment somehow.

I wrote this for fun and as an exercise to get myself to write. This has not been beta read or looked over by anyone but me. Please advise if I get any terminology incorrect.

There will be a mix of TV Show and book canon. There will be some "Fanon" elements here and there. Details vary life to life. Some characters will be a bit OOC or aged up slightly.

I apologize for any issues in formatting as I haven't used this site in forever until today in order to head of plagiarism as someone reposted my fic White Wolf, Red Fox here without permission.

"But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever."
Ser Alliser Thorne

"Jon!"

Hands tugged at him, lifting his head and shoulders from the biting cold of the sludge beneath him. The cold seeping through his veins, radiating from the throbbing pain in his chest, only increased.

"No. No. Don't—Jon." His name was bitten out in an almost sob, such deep emotion spurring him to force his eyes open.

After a moment, he could focus on the bright violet eyes of his brother. A strand of silver hair glittered in the dim light between them having fallen out of the cord Aegon used to keep it back when riding Viserion.

"Aeg—" Jon managed to cough out. The pain once biting was dulling to a dull ache.

"You promised to show me Winterfell, brother. We were supposed to go there together." Aegon's fingers clenched on his shoulders before he reached one hand down to grasp Jon's right hand.

It was a promise Jon loathed to break. He had so hoped to have a happy ending here, with as much family as he could find. Bran was at Winterfell at least. The Starks would live on through him and Meera, Jon was sure. Arya and Rickon still missing, but they had heard things and had ideas on where to look for them.

"Are—is—" Jon gasped a bit, struggling to focus as his vision was blurring gray at the edges.

Something wet fell against his cheek. "Yes, brother, Spring will come. You did it."

"We." Jon did his best to tighten his fingers against Aegon's.

"We," Aegon acknowledged. "All of us. Together."

There was a beat of silence between them and to Jon the sounds of battle around them, of Viserion's mournful hisses and cries in the distance, grew quieter. The pain was almost gone now.

"Ar—Ar— "

"I'll find her. Her and Rickon." Aegon's fingers clenched his tightly. "I promise."

The hazy image of his brother faded, disappearing into the black fog of death.

"Ghost."

Jon gasped deep, curling upward as a phantom memory of pain merged with dull ache of sudden hurt as something landed on his chest. He spluttered and gasped, eyes flying open as a familiar laugh reached his ears.

He clenched his hands on the shoulders of the small form on his chest, small fingers poked and prodded at his shoulders. Swallowing his first reactions—physical and vocal—Jon focused on the form hovering over him.

"Arya?"

"Come on! Get up!" She bounced backwards on the bed, pouting at him. "Nellwyn is having her pups!"

"Nellwyn?" Jon's eyebrows furrowed as he looked over to his brother. They were still in the room they'd shared near the nursery, before Lady Stark had forced them to move to more 'adult' rooms when Rickon neared his first name day.

"The direwolf Father brought back on the hunt last week," Robb raised an eyebrow as he pulled on his boots. "Arya's been trying to convince Father to name it that."

"It's having pups! We're going to have direwolves like the Starks of old!" She smiled at him brightly showing off several missing teeth. She'd lost one around her sixth name day or so, falling from a tree.

"That's just Old Nan's stories, Arya," Robb ruffled her hair as he came up behind her. Her braids had mostly come undone already.

She glared at him for a moment before shifting on her feet, heels bouncing impatiently. "Hurry up," she turned to Jon again, "or we'll miss the birth!"

"All right," Jon smiled at her as he moved to stand, pulling on a shirt that lay on the floor near his bed. If Robb was just going with the basics so would he. "All right. Did you wake up Sansa?"

Arya wrinkled her nose before grinning. "Not yet." The 'do I have to?' evident in her tone and expression.

He caught one of his boots, thrown to him by Robb, and shoved his foot inside. Jon already knew they had missed at least one of the births—he wouldn't be here otherwise.

"Go wake up Sansa, Arya," Robb said and she rolled her eyes before running from the room.

"I hope father does not try to lay the blame on us. I don't want to be held responsible for Arya being awake at this hour," Jon mumbled around a yawn as he followed his brother—cousin really, but to him Robb would always be his brother—to the door. The words slipped out before he could stop them. I don't want Lady Stark to blame me. In nearly every iteration she held the same view of him.

Robb glanced at him knowingly. "We won't get in trouble."

He sighed and following at Robb's heels as Sansa screeched at Arya down the hall.

Excitement bubbled within him as his mind crossed over to fully awake. He hadn't seen Ghost in nearly five moons and his companion's absence had been a physical ache within him. It always was when the wolf died before he did. It had only taken him five lives to realize that it didn't matter when his companion died, but he always arrived when Ghost was born.

Jon was right. Four pups were already born by the time they reached the kennel. It was shocking to see the size of the mother wolf, let alone see her alive and in relatively good shape. She had a healing injury to her shoulder that he assumed could be attributed to the boar Robb mentioned.

Lord Stark was there with her, kneeling in the straw near her head, one hand stroking gently in the rough fur behind her ears. They were greeted with a tired smile and a raised eyebrow.

Arya nearly ran into the stall, but Jon grabbed her arm and held her near the door, standing behind her as Robb slid past them. Sansa had grumbled the entire way but she had come along after forcing them to wait even longer, to Arya's annoyance, as she made herself 'presentable'.

"It's so messy!" Sansa squeaked next to him, shuffling her feet as she eyed the mess in the straw.

Their father laughed, looking impossibly young. Jon had to force his eyes away towards the small forms next to the large wolf. She was in the middle of birthing another, he could tell, four forms already mostly cleaned and laying near her chest, squirming and squeaking. The moment his eyes landed on Ghost's pale form the world shifted and clicked into place. He was smaller than the rest, nestled against the largest—a small form Jon was certain was Grey Wind.

"Aye, birthing is messy business no matter what creature is doing it."

"I never want to do it," Arya announced after a moment of silence, voice sure.

Jon couldn't help but grin slightly. Ironically in most of the lives he'd lived Arya had been the only Stark to have a child. It was quite true that she had never been happy about the process, though, cursing her paramour loudly and with vulgarity that shocked Jon no matter how much he'd seen the few times he'd been present when his nephews or nieces were born.

The mother wolf finished cleaning the fifth pup—Summer—Jon realized and gently maneuvered it next to the other four, nosing each gently. She paused over Ghost and Jon clenched is fists. Her eyes lifted and met his for a long moment and Jon's breath caught.

Lord Stark frowned and then smiled slightly as the mother wolf acknowledged the little, white as snow pup with a light nudge and gentle lick before checking on the others. A few minutes later the next, and last pup, was being forced into the world.

"Six pups," Robb said and grinned over at Jon after Shaggydog was born. Searching his new memories Jon realized Rickon had been born barely moons ago. "One for each of the Stark children."

Sansa made a soft noise, almost protesting, but was caught up in Lord Stark motioning her over to greet the pups, following Robb.

She was immediately drawn to Lady's small form, stroking a gentle finger over her small head. "Can we keep them Father?"

"You'll train them yourselves," he said after a moment fingers burrowed in the mother wolf's scruff. "Do not come here by yourselves until they are weaned and don't argue. This one is wild, no matter how tame she's been acting with me. I don't want to have to fight your mother over this."

"Even with the kennel door closed?" Sansa asked, she was staring at the wriggling pile of pups with a focus Jon didn't remember her having at this age.

Lord Stark paused for a moment before speaking. "If the door is shut and locked. You are to stay back from the gate if she comes near." As if to argue with his caution, the mother wolf nudged his empty hand with her nose, tongue coming out to kiss it gently. "Do you agree to these terms?"

"Yes!" They all agreed quickly, Arya's voice the loudest.

They had been bundled off to bed not long after their father accepted vows from each of them separately on the matter, each also having paced forward to gently touch one of the pups. Jon had been the last; Robb hovered at the door as he stepped forward at Lord Stark's urging.

The words came unbidden to Jon's lips. "I'm not a Stark."

"You have my blood," Lord Stark corrected him. "You may not have my name but you are a Stark." A gentle smile graced his lips as he nodded toward the pile of pups. "You've had your eye on one of these since you arrived. Come and greet him."

Jon tried not to lose his footing as he moved forward quickly, pausing just in front of the small pack eyes meeting the mother wolves, asking permission, before he knelt. Ghost was so small, smaller than Jon had ever seen him. When he touched the pale silky fur, it was still damp to the touch.

"Hello, Ghost," Jon murmured. Hello again, old friend, I've missed you.

Winterfell itself almost perfectly matched his memories, a picture of bustling activity and happiness. Jon's heart ached as he saw familiar face, faces long gone to him—dead dozens of times over—alive and well. One of the servant's daughters, a girl named Gwelda whose blood he could remember painting the snow at in front of the stables in more than one life, blushed prettily at his attention, causing him to glance away awkwardly.

It was early yet, the sun barely gracing the edges of the sky, painting a pretty picture of golds and blues with a bit of purple fading into gray in the west. Jon pulled his cloak close to himself, less to ward off the chill and more to feign bashfulness. He needed to gain control of his reactions, figure out what was the norm for twelve-year-old Jon Snow, but it was difficult as he couldn't remember the last time he'd been twelve; all his lives had started years past this point.

The Godswood was blessedly empty, silent but for the early morning birds twittering the news of dawn to their fellows. Dew glistened across the grass and a field mouse sped away from the water's edge as he neared the small pond. The Heart Tree was as majestic as every other time he saw it, drawing him in. He knelt before it, staring up at the crying face, taking in every detail; each groove, bump, and divot carving itself deep into Jon's soul as he faced it.

In some lives, especially at first, he had forsaken Gods—screamed and cursed every single one he knew of from the Old to the New, R'hllor, the Drowned God, every one he could name and those he could not. Then he spent lives devoting his time to each, begging to be set free of this curse.

Not once had his prayers been answered. Whichever God that had seen fit to curse him didn't want to set him free.

His last attempt at following a path of devotion, he'd attempted to follow what was Arya's usual path. Jon attempted to become no one only to fail as he had lived too many lives; his sense of identity was too ingrained to become no one.

Jon sighed, bowing his head and resting one hand on a pale root before closing his eyes. He prayed then, focusing his thoughts on the Old God's who he'd followed since that last failed attempt at begging a deity that wasn't his.

Every life he lived had been nearly identical in detail at the beginning until this one, at least for the most part. The only differences he'd ever truly detected stemmed from his birth father's bloodline. At first it was just Jon's eyes, drifting between grey, brown, and a grey-violet hazel from world to world—they were grey in this one—but then that was the most easily noticed detail for him. Perhaps there were other changes but they were more difficult to detect and didn't intersect with his usual paths often.

It wasn't just his eyes, sometimes his siblings lived. Every few lives Aegon could be found in Essos, preparing to mount an attack on Westeros, training to be a King. It wasn't always Aegon though, several times Jon had gone to meet his brother only to find a Blackfyre pretender propped up in his likeness.

He prayed that wouldn't happen in this life.

As for Rhaenys, Jon had only met her once but she'd lived during three of his lives; once with Aegon and twice in Sunspear. She had grown into a beautiful woman and although standoffish had accepted him, allowing him to be an uncle to her son and daughter. They had been the three heads of the dragon in that world—Daenerys had been killed by Warlock while negotiating for Unsullied.

Jon focused his thoughts again, praying for guidance and his family—prayed that Aegon would live at least and Daenerys would be safe until they met again. He prayed that Viserys would be kinder to her though he knew that was for naught. He prayed for the Starks, for Samwell, Ygritte and Tormund, for the Giants. Names upon names filtered through his mind, a long practiced rote for him, a list of friends and allies he cared for or needed.

At last he turned back to this life, praying for advice on how to handle his current situation. He'd never come back this far before. He was years younger than any other life and, for the first time, the mother wolf had lived longer than a few breaths.

She was living and seemingly bonded to Lord Stark.

This scenario was too different; everything about it caused his head and heart to ache. He couldn't trust in the knowledge of hundreds of lives here. Any move he made could change so much…was it a blessing? An opportunity to prevent more deaths? Or a curse to watch more die?

Was it one more cruel way to torment him, to cause him pain after a winning streak of a dozen or so lives in the fight for Dawn?

What could a twelve-year-old bastard do that an adult couldn't?

Caution was something Jon should have in spades by now, especially when stepping upon untried paths and meeting with people he'd only heard vague tails of. Assuming Viserys—his uncle—would be anything like the rest of the Targaryen's he'd met has been a horrible mistake. One that Jon certainly planned on never making again.

The man was a coward and mad, but smart. In a straight fight, he never could have beaten Jon. If Ghost hadn't gone hunting, Viserys would have died the second he pulled the dagger from his belt.

But here they were, Viserys leaning over him grinning wickedly, his silver hair gleaming in the dim firelight and his violet eyes filled with hate. Jon should have asked Daenerys more about her brother before ever attempting to intervene in their paths.

Viserys scowled at him, pressing the dagger flush against the thin skin above Jon's jugular. The drug Viserys had poisoned him with was roaring through his blood, keeping him in place as pain lanced through his nerves but his muscles were lax, any useful movement prevented.

"It's all your whore of a mother's fault," Viserys growled at him digging the dagger deep enough a few drops of blood spilled onto the edge of the blade.

Jon was so stupid, stupid and complacent, to allow things to get to this point. All he had wanted to do was to live a life with his other family. He'd crossed an ocean for this, spurning his Stark heritage outside of Ghost to see what good he might do at Daenerys' side. It had been so sweet to see her before she had been hardened into a Queen; into a conqueror.

"If it hadn't been for her—for you—I wouldn't be here surrounded by filthy barbarians waiting for them to take back my throne. I'd have a palace, armies, and people kneeling to me across the seven kingdoms."

No, Jon thought. No. Your father, your brother, or Aegon would have those. Not you. Never you.

"You're nothing more than a bastard trying to steal my throne," Viserys narrowed his eyes, "I don't care if you're my nephew. Traitor blood runs through your veins, bastard. I can't have you influencing my sister and stealing my birthright. Rhaegar would have understood."

The cold metal bit into his throat and Jon choked a bit as dampness spread across his skin and onto his chest. A moment later, as Jon's vision began to blur, a white blur leapt with a growl through the entry of the tent and slammed into the mad, beggar king.

Viserys screamed and as Jon's mind began to fade away he made a silent vow.

Jon would never allow Viserys to sit on the throne in any life he lived.

Jon had personally arranged Viserys' assassination in at least fifteen lives.

The first time it was done too early and Daenerys never hatched her dragons. He was careful not to let that happen again.

Trying to fit into a new world seamlessly was neigh impossible, no matter how much he tried Jon never could perfectly imitate a younger version of himself. Seven and ten, five and ten, his teenage years had always been difficult for him to transition to from an independent adult life. Two and ten was another challenge altogether. He had dropped into this body when it was amid changing from boy to man, early in the transition at that, bones growing and limbs gangly, voice squeaking oddly at times.

What might have bothered him the most, though, was just how short he was compared to Robb and Theon at this age. He knew that height was not something he would ever best anyone at, but by six and ten he had been only an inch or so shorter than his brother a fact that hadn't changed even after another growth spurt near the time he turned eight and ten. Robb had grown then as well.

"Ready to eat dirt, bastard?" Theon's shoulder bumped into his, the iron born grinning cockily at him. It wasn't exactly a nice grin, but then Theon had never been nice to Jon in any life.

Even when Jon's parentage was revealed early Theon's dislike for him just changed reasons. At least at this point it could be attributed to the boy grasping at someone that could be counted as 'below' him.

"Who's to say I shall be the one eating dirt?" Jon shot back, squaring his shoulders, fingers tightening around the pommel of his practice sword. He missed Longclaw and Dark Sister—Blackfyre even the few times he'd wielded it. It was Aegon's sword more oft than not when it crossed his path.

"I am!" Theon smiled as he fully turned to face him, spreading his arms wide. "I will make you eat it."

"Not today, Theon." Ser Rodrik settled a large hand on the young man's head, startling him. "I want you to work with Jory today. He's going to run you through the foot work you've been having difficulty with."

"Jon, you'll be sparing with Robb." He nodded towards Robb as the boy jogged up, slightly out of breath. His lessons with father must have run over. While Jon and even Theon and Bran, although far behind the older boys, shared most lessons with Robb, there were always a few times a week that Lord Stark spent solely with his heir. Jon knew that was something that would change as Bran grew older; the man had learned from the death of his father and siblings that the line of succession was not guaranteed.

Jon had joined in many times when he was younger until the disapproving words and gaze of Lady Stark and caused his lessons to dwindle. He had taken all his father's words to heart, inked them deep in his memory, using them in the lives where he'd been Lord Commander, King of the North, Robb's Hand, and a myriad of other positions. But he could never stop wondering how much better of a leader he could have been if he had attended all of Robb's lessons.

Jon groaned sometime later as he lost balance, slipping and falling onto the damp earth.

"You all right?" Robb asked him, extending an arm to him, a concerned frown twisting his freckled features. "You've spent more time in the mud than on your feet today."

Jon clasped his brother's arm and allowed himself to be pulled upright. His brother was only slightly exaggerating. Once upright he pressed a hand to his hip and winced, feeling the bruise growing there. "Growing pains s'all. My balance has been a bit off."

"Maybe you'll catch up with me yet," Robb japed, attempting to scruff his hand over Jon's head.

Jon ducked away, nearly slipping in the damp dirt, which wasn't helping him any either. He desperately needed to slip away and practice his swordsmanship soon and often. Muscle memory and the memory of muscle memory were warring in his body and mind.

He could hear Greyjoy laughing at him, he'd given the boy quite a bit of entertainment today and he didn't want to provide too many repeat experiences. While his ego may be near non-existent these days Jon also didn't want to allow the Ironborn to best him for long at swordplay.

"I hope so," Jon groused at the sore point. Even Sansa had been slightly taller than him as adults. At least Arya hadn't bested his height.

"I think that's enough for now, boys." Ser Rodrik took pity on Jon a while later after a dozen more falls. "Take some time later to practice your foot work, Jon, I know you're growing but you're sloppy today."

"Yes, Ser." Jon nodded and moved to put away his practice equipment.

"And get yourself to the Maester before going to the dining room. Have him check you for anything more serious than bruises and growing pains," the master-at-arms ordered him, "I don't want your father upset because you let an injury go untended."

Jon nodded, inwardly cursing his half-grown body. He ached all over, but contrary to what Ser Rodrik requested he would tend to himself as he did in most lives. There were some liberties he wasn't quite ready yet to allow others, even a Maester, take with him and being examined by Maester Luwin for injuries would encompass most of them.

Checking for watchful eyes, not wanting to get in a confrontation with the knight, Jon made his way to the kennels. He felt drawn there still by the strengthening bond to Ghost. He could feel the pup's contentment in the back of his mind helping to ease his own emotions.

Arya was leaning against the metal gate when he arrived, fingers clenched around bars as she stared at the mother direwolf and her pile of pups. She was keeping her promise at least as the door was locked and the wolves far from the door.

He stopped next to her, eyes finding Ghosts small form nestled between Shaggy and Summer.

"What do you think of Visenya?" Arya asked, looking up at him. "Or Rhaenys?"

Jon startled a little at the names but smiled. "Both are good, strong names." He raised an eyebrow, looking back at her. "But I'm not sure naming a wolf after a dragon would be appropriate."

Lips twisting in thought, she nodded. "Nymeria?"

"We're talking about your wolf and not the mother, right?"

"Mine," Arya scowled, "Father says he'll name the mother if she decides to stay."

"She's a wild animal," Jon said after a moment's consideration. "Not a pet to be kept. We're just helping her for now. She'll be healed soon."

"Do you think the pup's will leave with her?" Arya squeaked, horrified at the idea.

The mother direwolf lifted her large head from its pillow of straw causing a raucous of whines as her body shifted, dislodging some of the pups from their meals. Jon met her golden eyes.

"No," he stated firmly, "I think the pups will stay no matter her decision."

"I hope so." Arya's fingers tightened around the gating.

"Arya," Robb called out to her as he walked up a few minutes later, "Septa Mordane is looking for you."

"You didn't tell her where I am, did you?" she groaned, peaking down the kennel hall.

"I didn't know you were here until just now," Robb said stopping behind her to look over her head. "How are the pups?"

"Doing well from the looks of things," Jon replied mentally prodding Ghost who brushed against his mind, completely content with his current circumstance. The pup had latched back onto one of his mother's nipples and was feasting again.

"I wonder how long it will take for them to get as big as their mother?" Robb mused.

"Maester Luwin says it could take years," Arya was the one to answer, "but that no one knows for sure because no one has written much on them."

"Perhaps he'll be the one to do so, then." Robb glanced down at his sister and then frowned. "Arya, Mother is going to be upset with you if you don't at least put some effort into your studies with the Septa today."

"I went earlier!"

"I think he means for things like embroidery and the like," Jon tugged on a braid, "not just for history and writing." He leaned in close to whisper in her ear. "I won't be able to teach you how to wield a blade if your Lady Mother is cross with you over avoiding other lessons."

She gasped, drawing away from him, eyes wide. "Really?"

"Yes," Jon said, standing straight. At her doubting look he continued, "I promise."

"You swear?" she prodded again. "To the Old Gods?"

"And the New."

They laughed as she ran off, skidding through stray clumps of straw.

"You aren't going to drag me into those lessons, are you?" Robb asked leaning next to him, bumping their shoulders together.

"'Course I am," Jon grinned, dodging the punch his brother threw at him. "I have to have someone to lay the blame on if your Lady Stark gets mad at me," he said before running off, Robb on his heels.

"Grey Wind?" Jon asked, startled, drawing his horse up short and causing the column of riders behind him to pause—a tidal wave of movement halting behind him.

His brother's direwolf stood before them in the middle of the road, larger than his own and covered in muck and blood. Its eyes were unnaturally colored and staring straight at him. A pit grew in the bottom of his stomach.

Ghost glided forward to meet his brother, slow and calculated in his movement instead of the usual exuberant puppy behavior he'd exhibit when meeting after a prolonged absence.

Jon had been leading his army back south after routing the Ironborn from Moat Cailin and preventing them from making their way to Winterfell. He'd left a small garrison, and organized things to keep a repeat attempt from being successful as well.

The moment Grey Wind appeared though, Jon knew all his careful maneuvering in this life had failed. Something had gone wrong while he was parted from Robb and his brother was gone.

"Jon?" Dacey Mormont asked, pulling her horse up next to him.

"Scouts," he stated, "I want outriders checking for signs of armies. Tell them not to trust who they see," he paused before turning to meet her gaze, "especially Bolton's and Frey's."

In the end, it hadn't been either family that led the betrayal.

The Karstarks had taken affront to the death of their Lord and Robb's choice of paramour after he spurned Alys Karstark.

"Father?" Jon couldn't help shuffling his feet, barely preventing himself from staring at the toe of his boot while it scuffed across the dirt. Interrupting Lord Stark at prayer hadn't been his first choice, but after a fortnight of being thwarted at getting alone time with Lord Stark since making his choice on what path to take in this life he hadn't much of a choice. He wanted as much time to improve this world as he could get.

The path he'd chosen was one he'd only taken twice before, always with only a few moons until the royal party would arrive. This time he had, hopefully, years to travel it instead.

"May I speak with you privately?" Jon asked and after a short pause added, "Please?" He knew Lord Stark had been near done with his prayer, getting ready to end it and stand. The impatience of youth had prevented him from waiting that long though.

There was a pause, Lord Stark staying in his position for a minute longer before he stood and turned to face him.

"Of course, Jon." A smile graced his lips for a moment before morphing into concern. "Is something wrong?"

Jon glanced around, eyes checking their immediate vicinity, finding no one as he already knew he would. The route he'd taken through the Godswood had allowed him to check everywhere for prying ears before he approached Lord Stark.

"Yes. . . and no," he started, eyes moving up to meet the steel gray eyes of the man who had raised him. There was no easy way to do this. He'd run it through his head over and over and remembering what his previous attempts had taught him he decided that getting straight to the point would be the best route. "I—I woke up when Ghost, my direwolf, was born. I woke up and had memories I should not. Memories of lives lived, my lives but not. This life over and over again but with different choices made."

Lord Stark's brow furrowed as he spoke and he opened his mouth but Jon did not let him find his voice.

"I woke up in a new life following my last death in my previous life at the moment Ghost was born. I've lived dozens, hundreds of lives," Jon barreled on, lifting his chin up as he tried to ignore how his hands shook, clenching them into fists at his side, "I only have words available to me to attest to my claims. Knowledge is all the Gods send with me." He paused, taking a deep breath, gaze dropping to stare at Lord Stark's feet. "Memories and Ghost are all the comfort I'm allowed through this curse, Uncle."

There was a sharp intake of breath and his uncle shifted before him; a long silence stretched between them for minutes interrupted only by the occasional bird twittering and squirrel chattering in wood nearby.

It seemed as if an eternity passed before his uncle moved forward and a hand touched his chin, lifting it until he was forced to meet his gaze. Grey eyes searched his face as if trying to peer into his very soul.

Lord Stark's face was made of ice, emotions hidden behind the blankest of looks. Jon couldn't read him and he was glad of that. At the same time, he was also terrified.

"How do you know?" His uncle's voice was rough emotion that his face belied seeping through.

"Different ways," Jon answered honestly. It would do him no good to lie. "The first time I was told by Bran, who saw my birth in a vision. Lord Reed confirmed its truth for us. A few times I met my wet nurse, Wylla, as I traveled south for war or in attempts to find a better path. Most often Lord Reed spoke of it when we met." He swallowed thickly. "Five times I forced you to speak of it."

And each of those times he'd fled to Essos, using it as an excuse.

"Do not push me on this, Jon," Lord Starks voice was low, but heated as he clenched his hands in the reins of his horse.

"And if you die or I die before we meet again?" Jon glared, anger bursting inside him like wildfire and he doubted he'd be able to douse it.

"What happens will happen. Do not ask me again." The horse shifted to the side beneath Lord Stark, foot stamping the dirt road. "Now is not the time nor place."

"When will be?" Jon asked bitterly, knowing the answer. "Perhaps I should ride south instead of north, visit Dorne and find my answers there if you will not speak of it."

"No. If you do not join the Night's Watch that is your choice. But I forbid you from going south."

"You would forbid me from seeking out my mother's family?" Jon laughed humorlessly. "I cannot stay in Winterfell, I cannot go south, I cannot stay with my family here, but I'm not allowed to seek out any other family I may have."

Lord Stark's jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut.

"Should I drive a dagger through my heart now?" Jon continued voice harsh and filled with emotion long buried. "It seems I don't belong anywhere but with thieves, rapists, and murders in the eyes of you and Lady Stark. If not the Wall I may as well be dead, then. Perhaps it would be a kinder fate for a bastard like me."

"You have no family in the South, Jon." Lord Stark opened his eyes and sighed. "You would only find death there."

"Her name?" His uncle dropped his hand onto Jon's shoulder, gripping tightly.

"Lyanna Stark," Jon stated, voice a hushed whisper, "and my father the Dragon who stole her."

His uncle moved forward, settling his other hand on his shoulders as well, bracketing him as he looked down at him. Jon felt impossibly young in that moment, young and small.

"I should have been the one to tell you," his uncle squeezed his shoulders gently, his voice filled with emotion that broke the mask, "I am sorry that I wasn't."

Jon's jaw dropped for a second, eyes widening. "You—You believe me?"

Bringing a hand to Jon's face, his uncles touched his cheek lightly, once and then twice and then settled it on the side of his face and neck. "You have never been one to jape," he smiled sadly at Jon, "and this is not knowledge that many have. Only three people still living knew it before now. And none would tell."

He dropped his hand back to Jon's shoulder and sighed. "I cannot say if I believe the whole of what you speak, but I would hear more before I draw conclusions." His uncle glanced away, eyes drifting over the tree line. "But not here," he continued, "this is not a conversation that should be had where wind can carry whispers."

Jon nodded and dropped his gaze again, glancing off to the side. "Where then?"

"After dinner come to my solar. We'll speak then," he said, gathering himself and moving towards the path to the courtyard.

"Thank you, Uncle," Jon murmured, nodding his agreement to the timing.

"And Jon?"

Jon lifted his head and turned to face him.

"You've been my son since the moment I first held you. You won't ever stop being my son. Don't forget that."

Eyes widening, a smile curled its way onto his features, true happiness shining through his broken mask.

"Thank you . . . Father."

Ned nodded again, returning the affection with a tight smile, heartfelt but warring with the thoughts and confusion their conversation had wrought. He left the Godswood then to attend to the day's business.

Jon stayed for another hour, just standing in the clearing, feeling the light breeze as it brushed through his curls and across his face, listening to the noise of the leaves clashing with each other gently in a never-ending battle. He stood there until a servant came to fetch him for lessons with Maester Luwin.

Lady Catelyn stayed at dinner for mere moments that night before asking a servant to bring her meal upstairs. Rickon was fussing more than usual, an illness of some type causing him discomfort and making his cries shrill. Everyone was thankful for the silence when they left and dinner was a great deal quieter than normal.

His father was lost in thought, picking at his meal and staring into nothingness. Barely halfway through the food he'd set on his plate he stood and bid them good evening before reminding Jon to meet him in his solar once he had finished eating.

"What was that about?" Robb asked, elbowing Jon in the side after their father left.

Jon shrugged, spearing a chunk of potato. "I asked if we could speak privately earlier."

"About . . ."

"Private things."

"Jon." Robb scowled at him, narrowing his eyes. The look on his face plainly stating he would not be letting this go if he didn't get a satisfying answer.

"About the future," Jon sighed, "my future." He turned is focus back to his plate, trying to force himself to eat more. He couldn't feel the hunger he knew should be there, his nerves frayed.

"Is Father going to have you fostered?" Sansa asked, piping up from across the table. She glared at Theon as he leaned over both the table and Robb to grab a roll from a basket.

"No," Jon shook his head and then amended quickly, "not that I'm aware of. He hasn't said anything."

"You aren't still thinking about joining the Nights Watch, are you?" Robb asked softly, scowl still firmly in place.

"Good place for a bastard," Theon put in only to have his next words cut off when Robb turned to glare at him.

"Theon."

"What?" Theon shrugged. "He won't be able to stay here forever. Might be the best place for him."

"Of course he can stay here!" Arya protested only to be cut off by Robb.

"You'll always have a place at Winterfell, especially once I'm Lord, Jon."

Jon smiled at his brother. "I know. And no. I'm not considering joining the Watch anymore." He pushed his plate back and stood, the feet of his chair scraping against the stone floor. "At least not for a long while."

The stew he'd managed to eat was a cold lump in his stomach. Any appetite he had previously was gone now and he didn't want to be a part of this conversation anymore.

"I should go. Father is expecting me," Jon said softly and Robb nodded.

Theon was speaking again, something about a serving girl, and Sansa squeaked out a horrified reply but their words didn't register with him. Jon passed Arya and Bran on the way to the door and smiled at them, reaching out to ruffle Bran's hair gently.

The younger boy leaned back and smiled at him. "What are you going to name your wolf, Jon?" he asked before Jon moved off.

Jon paused, chewing on his lip, thinking of the pure white ball of fur squirming amongst his siblings.

"Ghost. His name is Ghost."

His father's solar door was shut when he reached it and Jon stopped to stare at it for several long moments. There was so many potential positive changes that could be made on this path, but equally so many possible mistakes that could lead to nothing left in the world but a frozen waste land.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and knocked.

A moment later the door opened and his father was ushering him inside. The room was warm, a fire crackled and popped a new log having recently been added to the flames. In front of the hearth two chairs sat, a small chest on the floor between them, positioned so the lid would open away from the fire and allow both people to see its contents easily.

Ned bid him to sit and took the opposite chair for himself.

Jon stared at the chest as he settled, brow furrowed. It was very simple, perhaps a single coat of stain on the wood, but a complicated locking mechanism to keep it shut. The lock was undone now, though, ready to allow the lid to be opened.

"You haven't seen this before."

Jon shook his head. "No, I haven't." He'd lived hundreds of lives; very few surprises still existed for him. Or so he had thought.

"Wylla, your wet nurse," Jon looked up to his father who was running a hand over the chest, "insisted that the contents of this were to go with us and be given to you when the time was right. Everything else at the tower we burned to keep the knowledge of what happened there secret. To keep you safe."

Jon stared at it, trying to slow the storm of thoughts incoherently warring in his mind. A warm hand settled onto his shoulder, causing him to lift his gaze up to meet his fathers.

After a moment Ned sat up straighter and drew his hand back. "Perhaps we should start with the words you promised?" he sighed and smiled sadly. "The chest will still be here after. I wish to hear about these lives you've lived."

"It's a long story," Jon warned, sitting back, "long and full of death, misery, and chaos. I've lived dozens, hundreds of lives until my last death in each. I have tried dozens of paths to completion, changing the details to try and get them right." He pursed his lips and paused. "Few happy endings exist." I've lost hope of finding one for myself.

"Perhaps a second pair of eyes could make a difference," Ned said voice low. "Sometimes others can see what we have missed."

"There are things, deaths, events, and knowledge I have that you will not like, but will be unable to unhear."

"I would hear as much as you can share. If only to ease your burden."

Jon eyed him for several minutes before nodding and turning his gaze to the flames dancing in the fire place. There were so many places he could start, but after a moment he settled on the beginning.

"Except for my first life, it always starts at Ghosts birth. Most often I'm around five and ten or six and ten. Sometimes older. During my first life, I was almost seven and ten. We always find the pups within a day or two and like every life until this one," he paused and turned back to his father, "the mother direwolf has always died."

"By a boar?"

"No," Jon answered, solemnly. The room seemed to chill. "By a stag."

The tale of his first life was the hardest to tell, as he would come to know over the next months. It was a trial for him to keep on track sometimes, some memories blurring together from other, similar lives causing him to have to back track a bit. Ned let him speak, trailing on and rambling all the details that he knew of his own part of the world and what happened to others—family, enemies, big events in the world. He spoke for hours, pausing to take a sip of water and at a particularly rough spot some spiced wine his father retrieved from his desk. They had needed it to get through the events of the red wedding as Jon knew them, among other things.

The mention of white walkers had led to the longest delay in the story as his father had stopped to confirm and then question him about every single detail he could remember of the Others once he spoke of the battle of Hardhome. He had to delve across dozens of lives for the information, even his last.

Jon was thankful then for the one life he had spent training to be a Maester—even though he had hated himself in the end. During that life, the North had been overrun by the time the rest of Westeros had come to realize the true threat, too caught up in fighting over a hunk of melted swords and the illusion of power, and he'd thrown himself from the highest spot he could find to end his life and start again.

It was one of the three times he'd committed suicide.

Pausing to take a sip of lukewarm water, tasting of herbs, Jon watched as his father ran a hand over his face as Jon reached the point of his first death where he'd been betrayed by his own brothers of the Nights Watch.

"And then I woke up, over a day later after the Red Priestess asked her God to bring me back."

Ned started then. "I thought when you died you awoke at the beginning?"

A sardonic grin wound itself across his face as he stared at the glass of water in his hands, trying to make out his own features in the dim light. "Only when the Gods allowed. Sometimes they deem my life not over yet and so I continue. I continue until a second death, a few times until a third or fourth if one of the priests got too close to me.

"How often did that happen?"

"A second death? A quarter of the time. I tried to avoid the Red God's followers as often as I could. It was hard to avoid them if I went to the Wall, sometimes in the Riverlands, and they are all over Essos."

Falling silent Ned took another gulp of wine and Jon took it as leave to continue. When he was done with his tale, about to speak of his next resurrection, a servant knocked on the door.

Jon fell silent as his father stood and answered. It was Lady Catelyn's handmaiden, inquiring as to where he was and how long he would be on her behalf. Listening with half an ear Jon let his attention turn back to the small chest between the chairs. Setting aside his glass he reached out and ran a hand over the smooth wood.

"We'll continue tomorrow, Jon." Ned startled him, standing behind his shoulder.

"Can I…" Jon's fingers pressed against the pale wood.

"You may," his father said and Jon blinked as a key, dangling on a chain, fell into his line of sight.

Looking over his shoulder, eyes wide, he stared at Ned who smiled sadly at him.

"This is yours, just like the contents. I trust I do not have to tell you not to remove the chest from this room quite yet, do I?"

"No," Jon shook his head. Sharing a room with his brother, surrounded by his other siblings and near the nursery didn't allow for much privacy. The door didn't even have a lock of any sort. Slowly, he took the chain and key, staring at it for a long moment.

A hand settled on his shoulder. "I'm going to arrange private rooms for you and Robb. Cat has been requesting it for some time now and as you two are growing quickly I believe now would be an opportune time."

Jon looked up as his fingers grasped the key tightly. There were many questions bubbling through his mind but was unable to settle on one. He didn't need to.

"You may look like just a boy, Jon, but that is not all that you are." Ned ruffled his hair gently before squeezing his shoulder again.

Perhaps his father had seen the war that was waging within Jon, between the boy of this life and the grown-men of his memories. This life was the hardest yet, perhaps it had something to do with how young his body was, but reconciling everything was more difficult.

Jon nodded once and dropped his gaze to the chest as he slipped the chain over his neck. He felt his father move to leave and frowned.

"Father?" he started. His father's steps stopped near the door.

"You should think about telling her," he said, leaning and slowly opening the lid of the chest. The hinges creaked with disuse. "She almost always dies still believing there was a woman out there that you loved enough to betray your honor and betray her. She dies believing you dishonored her in nearly every life."

He looked back over his shoulder, staring at his father's back. "Family. Duty. Honor," Jon continued. "You're her family and I'm yours."

"I have lied to her for twelve years," Ned's voice was barely a whisper.

"You cannot be forgiven without telling the truth."

"Lock the chest when you leave," Lord Stark said, emotion drained from his voice. "I'll show you how to unlock it fully tomorrow." His hand landed on the door knob.

"Where did you keep it?" Jon couldn't help but ask quickly. If he died before tomorrow, he would not do so without the answer. He couldn't bear not to find this chest again.

"In her crypt."

Jon let his eyes fall shut as Arya's arms wrapped around him and he hugged her back, tightly yet carefully. He was still healing from the wounds he'd received in the recent battle against the Karstarks. They'd won and Karhold was now under the North's control again—his control as King of the North—and Lady Alys Karstark now held power there rather than her cousins. On the road, back to Winterfell he hadn't expected to run into a small group of previously lost Northerners, including his little sister.

Some of the Lords—and Lady's—had been known to be alive, held captive in the south under the Frey's control. Other faces had been complete surprises.

Especially Lady Catelyn.

He could feel her cold eyes on him, unchanged or perhaps harsher than they had been in his youth. She knew he had been declared King, that much was clear in the few words that had been shared between the groups upon their initial meeting.

She also didn't like it.

In her eyes, he'd done what all Bastards are born wanting to do. He'd taken the birthright of his trueborn siblings and made it his.

The door shut with a sharp clack and Jon faced forward again, staring at a worn, rough brown cloth. His hand shook as he pulled it out of the chest, dropping it aside as it revealed the contents beneath it. Sliding off the chair his knees hit the floor and he pressed both hands against soft, embroidered black cloth. Carefully he pulled it out and after a minute of confusion he finally realized what it was.

A marriage cloak.

His vision blurred and he wiped at his eyes with his left forearm. Biting his cheek and staring at the stylized three headed dragon, beautifully intricate, he barely choked back a sob. Nearly every centimeter of the fabric was embroidered and while Jon couldn't claim to know much about fabric or womanly arts, he'd spent enough time with Sansa and Daenerys—among others—to know that the quality of this cloak was exquisite.

Fit for a princess.

"Next time I see you—you'll be all in black," Robb said, grinning.

"It was always my color." Jon responded, forcing a smile.

"Let me give you some advice bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."

This time he couldn't hold back the sob and then his eyes blurred and he couldn't contain the next either. He pulled the cloak fully out of the cloak and onto his knees, clenching his fingers deep into the fabric as tears filled his vision.

Had this always been the truth?

In every life?

Aegon had pondered on it a few times, most often when they were drunk. What if Rhaegar had taken Lyanna as a second wife as the Targaryen's of old had? But there had never been anyone alive that could confirm it. The Maester's in Oldtown had no record of it—or it had been destroyed—Howland Reed never knew, and Wylla had never spoken of it or had died before she could.

Sometime later he managed to gather control of himself, calming his sobs and the hiccups that had developed, fingers smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric. He folded the marriage cloak as well as he could and set it aside gently, on top of the brown fabric that had hidden it.

There were other items in the chest, clumped together, most wrapped in cloth, some thicker than others. There was a very thick bed of cloth at the very bottom. Close to him was a leather-bound sheath of papers which he set aside, not wanting to delve into that mystery quite yet. Letters would take hours to read and it was already very late. As he peaked beneath each cloth, eyeing various treasures, he dislodged a long item, rolled in cloth that had leaned against the longest side of the chest.

Unwrapping it his eyes widened. It was a dagger, beautiful in design—both the hilt and the sheath—silver and gold intertwined in embellishments sparkling with rubies and sapphires. The guard had been designed to mimic roses, winter roses and red roses intertwined, and the pommel was a red-eyed dragon with its back to a blue-eyed wolf.

Carefully unsheathing it, Jon couldn't help but smile at the beautiful shine of Valyrian steel. He ran his fingers over the cool metal, admiring the craftsmanship before sheathing it and placing it aside as well.

Eyes roving over the other items, something drew him to the center of the chest, the bundle of fabric that was well packed, all the other items carefully placed around it. Adjusting himself, he carefully used both hands to reveal what was hidden, pulling away layers of fabric.

His breath caught in his throat once he had and he swallowed thickly.

Gods.

Shaking, his fingers gently caressed the rough, textured surface and then curled around it, grasping firmly to remove it from its hiding place.

It was pale, silver-white with a blue sheen that sparkled from pale as a clear summer sky to dark as midnight in a few places. He couldn't take his eyes off it as something clicked within him, feeling right and whole.

Jon had always managed a connection with whichever dragon he rode in the lives he lived. Usually he sat astride Rhaegal, sometimes Viserion, but it had never been like his connection with Ghost. It always seemed like trying to ride an unbroken stallion who had grown up in a wild herd with no human contact at all. This feeling was deeper, like what he felt from Ghost when they were a long distance away.

He pulled the egg to himself, cradling it. If only he didn't have to return it to the chest for the time being. Jon knew it wasn't quite ready to hatch deep down, but he also knew it wouldn't be long.

Gods be good! How would he—they—hide a dragon?

It was only a few hours, maybe less, until sunrise when he managed to pry himself away from the treasure trove his parents had left him—and the dragon egg—and go to bed. He slept in the next morning, waking only after Robb returned from breakfast with a roll and a sausage wrapped in a cloth for him.

He thanked his brother, bleary eyed and wanting very little else but to just roll back over, pull his furs over his head, and go back to bed. His body also ached still from the training he'd been sneaking off for in the Godswood and the training he was getting knocked into him by Ser Rodrik.

Instead he dutifully sat up and ate as Robb watched him from his side of the room. When he was nearly done, a few bites of roll remaining and licking sausage grease from his fingers, Robb broke the silence.

"What did you and father speak of yesterday?" he asked getting up to search through the mess of items they shared. "You were gone most of the night. I tried to stay up and wait for you, but I fell asleep at some point."

"Sorry," Jon mumbled, remembering how he'd come in to find Robb sitting up in bed, back against the wall, sound asleep. His brother didn't seem to remember how he'd helped him find a more comfortable position before falling into his own bed.

"It had to be important," Robb said, tossing Jon a tunic as he finished off the roll.

Jon nodded, biting his lip as he stood and began to dress. "I—I don't know if I can speak of it, yet," he said, smiling tightly. He glanced up at Robb through his long curls, messy from sleep. "I want to tell you, but Father . . . I need to ask permission."

Frowning Robb stared at him for a moment before realization dawned and his jaw dropped a little. "Did he finally speak of your mother?"

Unable to contain it, Jon nodded his affirmation, a small grin lifting his lips.

Robb smiled back, full and bright. "He told you her name and everything?"

"Yes," Jon said and then paused, eyes dropping to stare at his tunic as he tied it. "He hasn't told anyone else, though. Not yet."

"Mother." Robb breathed after a momentary pause, his smile disappearing along with the excitement from his voice.

"I told him he should tell her," Jon said looking up at Robb. "I don't think it will be right for me to speak of it until he does."

They were silent for a while as Jon dressed, Robb poking at various items on his side of the room. As Jon pulled on his boots, he finally spoke again.

"Is there anything you can tell me?"

Jon looked up, eyes solemn as he took in his brother's nervous form. Robb had always tried to be supportive, to understand and be there for him, especially when they were children. He had been the one to comfort Jon when they learnt what 'bastard' meant. They'd been educated on the subject by Theon, of all people, but much of their life they had been inseparable—as close as twins.

"She's dead."

Robb was to him in seconds, arms wrapping around him and pulling him close. Jon's fingers clenched in the back of his brother's tunic and he gasped, eyes squeezing shut.

"I am sorry, Jon."

"He's my brother," Robb ground out, standing before his mother. They were in his tent, camped a short distance from Riverrun.

Lady Catelyn stood tall, expression tight and unwavering. "I have suffered his very existence for nearly nineteen years. I have allowed him to live in my home because it was his father's home. But he is not my son and I will not have him disgracing me in my childhood home."

"Jon never disgraced you, Mother," Robb responded, his voice taught with emotion, but he kept his volume low. "Father may have, but Jon has never done anything to dishonor our family. He has loved your children and protected us. He has saved my life multiple times on the battlefield."

"I will not change my mind." She turned sharply, moving to the front of the tent before pausing. "He can stay with the men or go to another camp. But he is not welcome inside Riverrun."

Jon's fingers clenched in Grey Wind's fur where he was sitting next to the wolf. His brother's wolf turned and bumped his head against his fingers, tongue brushing out to kiss his skin in an attempt at comfort. Ghost pressed tighter against his other side.

"She has no—" Robb hissed after she had gone, turning to face Jon.

"It's all right," Jon interrupted him, trying to smile. "I will be fine here or I can go help Lord—"

"I don't want you to go anywhere," Robb dropped beside him, hands clenched as he settled next to Grey Wind. "You're my brother—you belong at my side."

Jon had smiled and acquiesced to staying in the camp. He had never entered Riverrun in that life, had never managed to arrange for the truth to come out in a manner that others would believe so Lady Catelyn had never known that he was her nephew and not a stain on her husband's honor.

He and Robb had died together in that life, side by side, during the battle for Kings Landing. Perhaps it was wildfire that had killed him or just the crush of stone upon him. Jon would never know for sure.

He wasn't fireproof in every life, after all.

Dinner was, in general, a family affair—plus Theon—with the exception being feast days. Today was no exception, everyone including Rickon was present for the meal; the babe being passed between his mother, father, and elder siblings as they ate.

Jon, though a bastard in the eyes of the world, had always eaten with his family during the evenings except on the occasions his father was visiting his bannermen. When that happened, he had always attempted to eat in the kitchens or his rooms to avoid Lady Stark's gaze.

Halfway through dinner, after handing a squirming Rickon over to Sansa, Lady Stark easily garnered the attention of the room with just a few pointed words. Even the babe stared at her, blue eyes wide as he gummed a piece of carrot.

"It has been decided that at two and ten Robb and Jon are old enough to move out of the nursery rooms and into their own quarters."

"What?" Robb couldn't help but ask, voice cracking on the end of the word, only to snap his jaw shut as his mother turned her eyes to him.

She lifted one eyebrow at him and paused for a long moment before continuing. "You will both be moving into your own rooms," She turned her attention to Jon then. He had to fight the instinct to drop his eyes to his plate. "in the main section of the family wing. Robb of course will take residence in the traditional quarters of the heir. Jon—Jon will take the room across the hall from him." Jon's eyes widened and his chin dropped a little before he shut it. "I expect that you both will take care of your own quarters and not abuse the trust we are affording you."

Jon nodded, hands shaking in his lap a little. He glanced at his father and then back at Lady Stark as his brother spoke his appreciation. Jon turned the last few moments over, sorting through the words in his mind.

Had his father…

There was a moment of silence and Jon was jolted out of his thoughts by an elbow to his side.

"Th-Thank you, Lady Stark," Jon said, voice rough, meeting her eyes fully.

She smiled tightly at him and nodded, before reaching over to pick up her youngest son as he smashed the remains of half-boiled carrot into his sister's hair. The protesting squeals of both children interrupted the moment and prevented Sansa from dwelling on the fact that she didn't get to move out of the room she shared with Arya yet.

That night, Robb and him spent several long hours when they were supposed to be sleeping huddled together beneath the covers of Robb's bed talking. Robb spent much of the time babbling his excitement, but on occasion his nerves showed through. It was then that Jon would remind him that he'd be right across the hall and that they were still brothers and still best friends.

Even Jon was sad to see the change, he remembered the past twelve years of this life, but also the memories of years without Robb close at hand. He wasn't sure that he wanted to let go of this part of his life go.

He lay there for hours, unable to drift off to sleep, listening to Robb's gentle snores. His mind was still whirling with the thought that never before had he been given a room in the family wing—not the true family wing—with all the privileges and amenities thereof.

Lady Stark knew. She had to; it was the only reason Jon could discern that made sense.

She had smiled at him.

Often Jon found himself wishing his memories of Winterfell as a child from his first life were clearer for him, but time and hundreds of years living as an adult had worn them down to faint pictures and remembered events and feelings. This life was much clearer, memories of details and words that had been said to him readily available to him.

It made him sad on the occasion he stopped to ponder it. While he remembered growing up with his siblings here, he had lost much of his original siblings. Like in all lives, though, he tried to ignore the differentiation. This was his life, the people here were his family. Jon hated to think on how it would become easier as days, weeks, and months passed.

He tried not to dwell on such things anymore.

Now though, he wondered if there were any differences between his two childhoods that had led to the early birth of Ghost. If he knew, perhaps it would provide some insight on the events to come. For it was obvious to him now that this life was going to be far, far different from any he'd lived before.

Jon hoped and prayed that it would be every day.

Since revealing himself to his father, they'd met nearly every night, going over the events of life after life—death after death. Most often they spent the time in his father's solar, but occasionally went elsewhere.

Each life was difficult to speak of, in its own way, but there were a few Jon had skipped over, such as his second life. It wasn't an important one, he'd thought it all just a dream that first time. His death there had been a stupid one. Stupid, but oh so satisfying.

Jon stared at the boy in front of him in the training ring, smirking and belligerently insisting on the use of live steel to the dismay of most on lookers. He had known that his father's men had already sent for the Maester, believing that Jon would end up injured in order to avoid insulting the royal family.

He never should have responded to the Prince's taunts, but he couldn't help but dwell on the fact that the boy had ordered his father's death and tortured and belittled Sansa for years. His anger had gotten the better of him.

The Prince was a braggart and while trained, not very good with the sword. Jon let the boy believe he had the upper hand before taking the step he'd wanted to since the royal party arrived.

It was laughably easy to disarm the boy and shove his sword the royal bastard's neck.

It was the last thing he saw as the next moment a sword was shoved through his back by the Hound.

Jon couldn't help but hope they may be able to avoid the mad, incestuous bastard and the dark fate he'd helped to bring down on the Stark family.

It had been his father who had pointed out one crucial point during a late night spent with the direwolves.

"You mentioned before that in every life the wolf mother was killed by a Stag," Ned said, running fingers through the dark grey fur behind her ears. She leaned into the touch, eyes sliding half shut.

They were in the kennel, the fast-growing pups rough housing, napping, and nursing around them. The mother wolf was nearly healed now as well.

Jon nodded as he smiled down at the pups in front of him. Ghost and Lady were on the other end of a thick rag someone had procured for a toy, tugging away as he held it. "That's right. A few times she was still breathing, once you gave her mercy."

"Perhaps her life here is as much of an omen as her death was in those lives."

It was a beautiful thought and Jon smiled brighter at it. He wanted it to be true more than anything.

Sighing at the memory, Jon pressed the door to his new room open with his shoulder, and smiled at the sight of the space. He did feel a slight tinge of guilt, knowing that in most lives this had been Bran's room eventually. Crossing the room, he dumped his armful of clothes onto the bed. It wasn't the first, a few armfuls had already been placed away carefully. He was surprised at the amount of clothing he had, years into adulthood he could have counted his articles of clothing on two hands—not including his armor—more oft than not.

This room was twice as large as his usual, the fireplace off to the side so that it wasn't visible from the door, with the window overlooking the courtyard. The window was open, letting in light and a slight breeze which offset the warmth of the fire Jon had started earlier.

The furniture was likely the same as it had been before, except for his chest settled next to the bed. He couldn't help but grin at the site of all his belongings in this room. As a child, he'd had more than he thought. Still, it wasn't much, and his newest set of personal belongings were, for the most part, still hidden away behind a lock.

Displaying everything he had received from his birth parents wasn't an option, even within the family wing where only the most loyal servants were allowed—most of whom had sworn specific oaths to the godswood. Displaying a Targaryen marriage cloak, Rhaegar's harp, even the dagger would be too dangerous, especially with curious younger siblings at an age where secrets were hard to keep.

His clothes were quickly sorted into their places, and he grinned old memories of doing the same in other locations. The last time he had near this much clothing was when he met Daenerys in Meereen or the last time he was King in the North.

The last thought left him shuddering, that was a title he did not want to bear in this life.

Rocking back on his heals he breathed deep, the scent of the wood in the fireplace and the summer air filled him with comfort. Something stirred within him, deep, and his eyes flitted to the side, towards the chest his father had carried in for him earlier, smiling and ruffling Jon's hair at his embarrassment when he'd gone to his father for help. While not large, the chest was big enough to be unwieldly and heavy for his two and ten-year-old frame.

It was set next to the bed, close enough for Jon to reach out and touch when his head laid on his pillow if he lay close to the edge. He'd lain a small cloth over the top, bright blue and edged with embroidered detail. Jon had been surprised to find the cloth, a present that Sansa had gifted him a year or so after she first started practicing the art for his name day, not long before she learned what 'bastard' meant.

The stitches were careful, but messy depictions of various things in an early attempt to design scenery. Wolves dancing through a field of flowers. Kneeling next to the chest, Jon smiled as he ran a finger over one of the wolves. He could see small pinprick holes where stitches had been undone, corrected to form a more satisfactory version of the Stark house animal. Picking it up he set it upon his bed carefully, smiling as he did so.

He unwound the chain from around his neck that held the key. The key was only part of the lock, the chest itself held hidden mechanisms reminiscent of a puzzle box that reset when locked.

Once he paused and glanced over his shoulder, making sure the door was locked and barred. Seeing that it was Jon reached into the chest and moved the folded marriage cloak aside, adjusted the wrapping around the harp, and then carefully using both hands he pulled the dragon egg from its wrappings.

He shivered at the sensation of the warm, hard, scaled shell against his hand and then winced as he cut a finger on one particularly sharp detail. Standing Jon made his way to the fireplace, driven by the tugging in his mind and memories of how his Aunt birthed her dragons.

It had been a bit awkward, telling his father about the egg—convincing him that it wasn't a fossil or decorated stone but that a viable baby dragon was sleeping within the hard shell, nearly ready to awaken. Lord Stark had thought on it for several days before, just yesterday, telling Jon not to prevent the dragon's birth.

Jon had to grin at the memory his father solemnly advising him that: "A loyal dragon would be a boon when the long night came".

He'd promised in return, "They will be."

While Jon wasn't entirely sure what would be required or how long it would take, he had no doubt it would be nowhere near as much as what his Daenerys did to birth her dragons. She had used fire and blood, sacrificed lives to bring them to life, but she had hatched three dragons—only one of which truly bonded to her in the way he'd bonded to Ghost.

A theory had been developing in his mind recently, knowing that Rhaegar had to have given him the egg, presented it to his mother before he was even born. If he'd been gifted one than perhaps Aegon and Rhaenys had as well. If so than the dim bond Aegon and he had managed with the dragon's they'd paired with made more sense—it'd been warring with pre-existing bonds.

He smoothed a finger over a shiny white scale as he settled in front of the hearth. He gently set the egg down and then, being careful not to smear blood on his shirt, he rolled his sleeves up, eyes drifting up to the crackling fire.

Jon gently picked the egg back up and held it out into the flames before settling it into the middle, a spot he'd carefully designed to make a nest of fire for the egg. Flames licked at his fingers and arms in gentle, warm kisses. In this life, he was at least highly fire resistant. Drawing back he smiled and the wave of what he could only describe as contentment that swirled through him.

It was completely opposite of the giddy excitement that was coming from Ghost.

He blinked as a loud knock sounded at his door.

"Jon?" Arya asked, jiggling the knob.

"One minute," he called and glanced around as he carefully pulled his shirt sleeves down his arms. Crossing to the bed he quickly shut the chest and the moved back to unbar the door. As he walked, he stuck his cut finger into his mouth for a moment, luckily it had nearly finished bleeding.

"Jon!" Arya wined impatient, just before he reached it.

"Ayra," Jon mimicked her as he opened it and feigned hurt when she slapped his arm. He grinned at her, smile wide as she tried to look around him. He raised an eyebrow, "Arya?"

Her eyes shot back up to his and she blinked. "Oh!" She started, excitement filling her eyes. "Father says we can spend some time with the pups right now and soon they may be able to come in the castle with us! They are wee-weaning them!" She grabbed his hand and turned, tugging to lead him out of the room. "We only have until dinner!"

"Whoa!" Jon laughed, grabbing her shoulder with his other hand to stop her. "Give me a moment, please, Arya." He pulled away and headed back into his room.

Huffing out a sigh and crossing her arms, Arya watched as he locked the chest and placed the key around his neck again.

"What's that?"

"That," Jon said as he reached her, smiling, "is private."

"Robb doesn't have a chest that locks in his room," she frowns, glancing around him at it.

"Perhaps not yet," Jon chewed his lip, "but then his heirlooms are still father's for the most part."

Her eyes widened, "Your mother?"

He nodded watching as she bit her lip, curiosity bubbling up in her grey eyes. "I will show you," he said before she could drum up the courage to ask. "One day. But not yet," he paused watching her lips twist into a pout. "Promise me you won't try and open it or ask anyone else to."

The pout deepened and she wrinkled her nose.

"Promise me, please."

"Fine, I promise," she grumbled, crossing her arms.

"Do I have to drag you in front of the Heart Tree?"

"No!" Arya scowled up at him. "I said I promise!"

"All right, all right," Jon held up his hands. "Now, you said something about the pups?"

Her eyes lit up again and she grabbed his hand again, dragging him from the room. "Hurry! We only have a couple hours!"

Jon smiled as he let her pull him along, ignoring the frowns, looks, and exclamations of several servants and guards as they ran through the corridors.

Jon," Sansa murmured, coming to stand next to him.

The wind was blowing cold, the air chilled enough to freeze moisture on his beard. They were staring out across fields towards where the woods used to stand in the distance. Much of it had been cleared in the last year, felled to make room for the tent city, for buildings to be built, and for walls and a moat to be dug. Winterfell had turned into a refuge for the north as many of the holdings had. A place where civilians toiled to support the armies that worked to defend them and find the White Walkers amid the hordes of dead.

He turned his gaze to her, watching the green glow of the wildfire in the distance from the moats the alchemists manned dance shadows across her face.

She smiled at him softly, a small quirk of her lips as her shoulder brushed against his. "We received a letter from White Harbor."

"When am I expected?"

"They wish to leave in two day's time." Sansa frowned, eyes trailing over their people. "Is Rhaegal well enough?"

"Aye," Jon nodded, remembering how his dragon had been pierced in the side during the battle at Last Hearth a month previously. They'd saved the keep but half the civilians camped in the surroundings had perished when a wildfire moat had failed, dissipating without an alchemist tending it. "What supplies are they bringing?"

"Grain from the Reach." Sansa crossed her arms, shivering. "Soldiers from Essos and more from Dorne. Seeds rumored to grow well in colder climates and more glass."

"Do we have enough room?" Jon frowned, eyeing the area.

"We've cleared some more fields, using the limited daylight to dig out more trenches to the east."

"You've done well," Jon met her eyes. "Your father and mother would be proud."

"We've done well," she corrected him, lifting her chin. "You're the one fighting, I'm just—"

"Keeping the people fed and giving them hope. A true Queen."

"I wouldn't be anywhere without you, my King."

Ghost ran from where he'd been following at Jon's heels suddenly, speeding across the courtyard as fast as his small legs could take him. Looking up, he stared after the pup before following at a quick pace.

"Sit!" A squealed exclamation met his ears even before he located his companion. The direwolf pup promptly plopped his rear down at the command, tail swinging in the dirt, full attention on the surprised red head in front of him.

Sansa had an incredulous look on her face as she stared down at Ghost; Lady obediently sat at her heels, staring up at her as well. A second later a smile lit up her face and she knelt, tearing a piece of meat out of the cloth she held and then splitting it in two to share between the two pups. Ghost took it and stepped back a pace, chewing on the treat. Reaching out, Sansa ran a hand over his small head and scratched gently behind his ears.

Jon came to a stop a few feet behind Ghost, smiling a little at the scene afore him. Sansa wasn't quite as cold to him yet as she had gotten as she aged. She was still generally standoffish, following in her mother's footsteps and referred to him as 'half-brother' at best, but she wasn't yet at the age where the need to be a lady and only associate with those deemed appropriate for her status had become her obsession.

"Have you been training him, too?" Sansa looked up at him, blue eyes sparkling.

As soon as they'd been given leave to spend time with the direwolf pups away from their mother, Sansa had been working with little Lady to give her the best manners an animal could develop.

Jon hadn't needed to work with Ghost, they had a bond developed over many lives. He was more concerned over making sure the pup grew up hale and strong at his side.

"A little," he said unable to explain the truth, and knelt to greet Lady when she sidled up and placed a paw on his shin, begging for attention. They were bigger than normal puppies would be at this age and twice as rambunctious, even little Lady for all her charm and overall calm demeanor.

"You would think he would be scary," Sansa mused, giggling a little as Ghost tried to balance on his hind legs to kiss her nose only to fall backwards. "With his red eyes, I mean."

"He's just a pup," Jon ran a hand over Ghost's back as he returned to Jon, embarrassed, "like Lady."

Sansa nodded as she tore a piece of meat off and held it out to Jon to take and then tore off another piece. She managed to coax Ghost back over to her, smiling when he lathed her fingers with happy kisses after. Jon held the one in his hand out to Lady who took the treat happily.

"Does he have any trouble seeing?"

He shook his head. "Not that I can tell. Perhaps, but he gets by just fine so far."

"Good," she said and then looked up at Jon. "Arya says father spoke to you about—about your mother."

Glancing up at her, he paused at her curious expression trying to decide how to handle this. "He did."

"Mother doesn't seem to dislike you as much as before." Sansa bit her lip and dropped her gaze to Ghost again. "I think she is upset with father, though."

Reaching out, Jon tugged gently at Ghosts short tail. The pup whirled, yipping and darting over to Jon's lap, trying to catch his fingers as Lady jumped after her brother.

"I think they fought about it."

"Will you tell me?" Sansa asked quietly a few minutes later, picking blades of grass apart as the pups had started to roll around together, playing in the patch of grass between them.

"Yes," Jon decided then, "when I tell Arya."

She smiled at him, opening her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a commotion far across the courtyard. They turned to look, both frowning when they saw a good-sized group of riders enter the castle yard, mostly men but there were a few women as well. Jon recognized some of the house sigils on display, mostly small vassal houses and then he caught sight of Lord Manderly, much younger than he could remember seeing him before.

"I didn't know we were having visitors!" Sansa stood quickly and Jon followed suit. "Who do you think they are?" She asked him, brushing grass off her dress, an embarrassed blush rising high on her cheeks.

"Lord Manderly," Jon told her quietly, wondering if they should head over to the group. Ghost and Lady had paused their play and were staring across the yard as the men dismounted and unprepared stable boys and servants went to assist. "And some of his vassals it looks like."

"I wonder why they would come unannounced?"

A few minutes passed and their father and Lady Stark rushed to greet the visitors, speaking with them for a few minutes before the new arrivals were ushered into the keep, led by Lord Stark.

"I wonder why they are here." Sansa wrung her hands, brow furrowed.

"I don't know," Jon murmured glancing down at Ghost. He didn't know, but he could make some educated guesses.

Over the last few weeks, during his discussions with father, coastal defenses and trade had been much-discussed topics. While they hadn't dominated any discussions, they had been brought up nearly every night.

Lack of a strong Northern fleet had been one issue that plagued many of the lives he'd lived, allowing for issues with the Ironborn and often reliance on neighbors for assistance when the Long Night came. If Lord Stark was increasing the North's naval power, it could only be a good thing. Jon hoped it wouldn't cause issues with the South though.

"Lady Sansa!" The voice of Septa Mordane startled them both, and they turned. Sansa's expression morphed into horrified realization; she was late for her lessons. "Look at your dress!" The Septa tutted at her and then shot a glare at Jon. "This is highly unbecoming of a lady and not to mention the company you are—"

"Septa Mordane," Lady Stark's voice was cool as ice as she interrupted the elder woman. "I believe Sansa is late for her lessons, is she not?"

"Yes," the Septa straightened her back and nodded, "that is why—"

"Jon," Lady Stark turned to him, "would you take Lady along with Ghost to the kennel, please?"

He nodded, otherwise still. "Of course, Lady Stark."

"And when you are done find Robb and clean up. Lord Stark wishes for Robb and you to sit in on his meeting with the Lords in an hour."

"I will, my lady."

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow at the Septa who barely waited for Sansa to hand an unhappy Lady to Jon before hurrying her off. Once they had stepped away she glanced him over for a moment before turning herself and heading back to the keep.

Jon looked down at Lady and then to Ghost who stared back up at him with knowing red eyes.

Robb, as it turned out, had heard from some servant or another and was in the midst of scooting Grey Wind into the kennel with his mother and Nymeria—Summer and Rickon's unnamed pup, Shaggydog, must have been spending time in the nursery—when Jon arrived. The pups weren't exactly happy at being left behind, but upon seeing his siblings Grey Wind promptly tackled Ghost before licking Lady's nose.

"Both of us?" Robb asked surprised as they headed to clean up.

"That is what Lady Stark said," Jon acknowledged, the I don't question your mother clear in his tone and words. He glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye, trying to gage his reaction.

Robb grinned at him then. "I'm glad. I have been trying to convince father to let you rejoin my lessons for ages."

"You have?" Jon had never known.

"Of course!" Robb exclaimed, stopping him with a hand on his arm. "I told you before, many times, that when I am Lord of Winterfell I want you at my side to aid me, brother. That is," he smiled in thought, "if Father doesn't gift you a hold of your own one day."

"I doubt he would do that," Jon said, shaking his head.

"It's been done before; many families have come into existence as cadet branches from bastard lines," Robb pointed out. It was true, but Jon knew that had never been his father's plan for him; although with all the changes he was starting to wonder what new plans were arising.

And he wasn't a bastard, not truly.

Something must have shown on his face, Jon wasn't sure what or how exactly Robb interpreted it, but his brother caught him in a hug.

"Doesn't matter what others may say, you'll always be welcome here. You are family. My brother."

Jon pulled back, smiling a little which Robb returned with a bright smile of his own.

"We should hurry," he said then, nodding down the hall. "Your mother said for us to be there within an hour."

When they arrived at the room that had been setup for the meeting, a smaller dining room off the great hall, the table was covered in food for the midday meal and the lords and ladies—eight in total—were getting situated. Their father was standing near the head of the table, two unoccupied chairs to the right of him, speaking with Lord Manderly.

Robb and Jon paused a few feet into the room; Jon standing a step behind Robb at his shoulder. It only took a minute for Lord Manderly to notice them.

"Ah!" The Lord of White Harbor grinned widely. "You must be young Lord Robb!" he exclaimed.

Ned looked up, glancing over his shoulder towards them and smiled, before nodding at his bannerman. He motioned them forward, settling a hand on Robb's shoulder a moment later. "This is my eldest son, and heir, Robb." He paused and looked at Jon who stepped forward a moment later. "And my son Jon."

Lord Manderly's smile barely twitched as he looked between the two boys. "They've grown a lot since I last saw them. Just babes you were! You must be running your training master ragged to keep up with such strong boys as you."

"We try, my lord," Robb answered, glancing at his father after he spoke.

The other lords greeted them then, mostly focusing on Robb, which was understandable. Jon, as a bastard, was an unusual presence to be had and though allotted respect as Lord Stark's son was not his heir nor his trueborn son. Northerners were, in general, more lax in treatment of bastards in comparison to most places south of the neck, but that was not to say they were generally raised among the trueborn children such as Jon had been. Usually they were fostered out after a certain age.

It had upset Lady Stark when Ned had refused to even consider it. Even when Jon had asked at the age of eight if perhaps he could be fostered somewhere; his father had refused and told him never to ask again.

None of the lords said anything, even the one that Jon was sat beside did not let any discomfort he may have show.

As the meal got underway the discussion began and Jon found that his earlier assumptions had been, for the most part, accurate. His father started out the talk with asking each of the men, and women, in the room the status of their ships, business, and projected trade in the coming years—specifically requesting both the best case and worst case scenarios along with the middling. Lord Stark even brought Robb and Jon into the conversation a few times, requesting they recite numbers or details they had learned in their lessons.

It wasn't until near an hour into the discussion as the food on the table was near gone and bellies were full that things turned to negotiating possible increases in ship building, farming, trade, and several other subjects including increasing the number of men at arms and training more small folk to form militia should the need arise.

"My lord," one of the men put in after a while, "I'm not sure it would be feasible or necessary to increase the farmland or number of glass gardens on my land to quite that extent."

"You have fertile land that is currently unused, do you not?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye," he nodded, "but the amount of work put in would not justify the amount of trade the results would sow."

"Jon," Lord Stark started after a short pause, his stare having silenced the Lord. Jon looked up at his father. "When was the last winter to go on for more than ten years?"

"Over a thousand years ago, my lord," Jon answered without hesitation before pausing in thought and then reciting the years and exact length.

"How long was our last winter, Robb?"

Robb glanced at his father and answered just as promptly, providing the date of the beginning and end along with the length. "It was the shortest on record."

"Aye, for at least three thousand years it was." Ned nodded and turned his gaze back to the Lords. "This summer is, perhaps, past the halfway point, but as yet the end is not in sight. The last time there was such a short winter, followed by a summer this long it was followed by a winter that lasted a generation."

Jon shivered, he'd experienced that winter first hand. It had lasted near ten years in every life he'd lived. It had been horrible, even in the lives they'd had support from Essos and other lands. The easier winters were always those when the White Walkers had died quickly—Jon hadn't experienced many of those.

"You wish for us to plan for a twenty-year winter," Lord Manderly stated the thoughts of everyone in the room aloud, understanding written on his face.

"My maester confirmed the possibility of my theories after exchanging ravens with some colleagues at the Citadel," Ned confirmed, face solemn. "I would rather be wrong, but we cannot afford not to prepare if I am right."

"Excess stores can be traded or given away," one of the ladies said after a moment. "I would prefer not to have to watch people starve while knowing that it could have been prevented. I will prepare my land and people."

A chorus of agreement followed her statement, only a couple of the men looking uncomfortable with having to expend the resources requested. Negotiations had been made however, to help ease the burden, especially in regards to the increase in ships and men-at-arms.

Hours later, Lord Stark excused Robb, Jon, and the vassals, giving them leave to settle into their quarters until the feast that evening. Jon and Robb were the last to leave and as the door shut behind him, Jon couldn't help but hear Lord Manderly's grim, concerned voice ask his father a question.

"I understand the ships and farms, my lord, but the increase in men . . . what war do you see us fighting?"

Rivers were different than the sea, but no less beautiful. On a river, though, you could see land on both sides, gorgeous scenery and the occasional sight of people. He'd never been on a boat simply to enjoy the scenery before, it surprised Jon about how peaceful it made him.

"It will get old, eventually," his brother's voice promised as the blue haired, older boy sidled up next to him, "but it will always be lovely."

"I don't know about that," Jon turned to look at Aegon, taking in his profile and trying to find the features they shared. His half-brother had taken after their father far more than he had, though they both shared a similar build. Jon looked more Stark than anything, a fact that had kept him safe growing up.

Aegon shrugged. "I guess it may take a while," he paused and raised an eyebrow. "Found your sea-legs yet, brother?"

Wincing Jon felt his stomach turn a little. He'd been on a boat near half a year now between leaving Westeros and finding Aegon. "As much as Ghost has." The poor wolf was curled up nearby in a heap, ears flat. At least Ghost wasn't throwing up anymore. The open ocean and the river rapids were different enough that it had taken him more time to get used to them as well.

Aegon grinned wider, glancing at the wolf. "At least he can hold his dinner now."

Ghost's eyes slit open and he stared, red eyes glaring in their direction. He didn't move though, unwilling or too ill to get up.

"Aye," Jon said. "At least there's that." He turned back to watch the shoreline, hands gripping the rail, listening as the crew went about their business.

"I'm glad you found me," Aegon said softly, leaning next to him, bumping their shoulders together. "I know it may not have seemed that way, especially at first—"

"It's a hard story to believe," Jon said softly, eyes dropping to watch the waves shifting around the boat. The water was relatively clear and he could see a few large fish traveling near the ship.

"But not out of the realm of possibilities." Aegon settled his elbows on the railing and leaned over a bit to watch the waves as well. "They say Daenys the Dreamer saw the doom of Valyria, which led our family to move to Dragonstone and survive the fall. And she is not the only one," he paused, leaning his cheek on one arm to look over at Jon. "And then your Stark blood . . . the connection you have with Ghost."

Jon had used the warging ability to help convince them of his 'seer' abilities. The abilities he'd claimed had let him to his brother. It was always a risk, Jon Connington was always a wild card in how he would react to Jon and his claims. Thus far in this life the man while not fully trusting him he had accepted him into the crew without too much issue.

"I'm just glad you believed me," Jon replied honestly, glancing over at his brother. "I don't know where I would have gone . . . what I would have done if you hadn't."

"Would you have gone to our aunt and uncle?" Aegon asked.

Jon shook his head. "I don't think so. At least . . . I would have waited some time. Viserys—Viserys I believe would kill me . : . and you if he knew of us. He is—He is truly his father's son."

"And Daenerys?"

"Daenerys has the potential to be a true Queen," Jon said after a moment's thought. "A conqueror and a ruler loved by her people. But we should approach her carefully, I think. But I do believe she craves the love of family deep down." He paused for a moment before murmuring, "The dragon—"

Aegon smiled, straightening, and meeting Jon's eyes as he nodded. "The dragon must have three heads."

There was a feast at Winterfell generally every few moons, sometimes more often, ranging from small family and household gatherings to celebrate name days to larger feasts when hosting Lord Stark's bannermen. It didn't take Jon long to get ready, he'd already cleaned up earlier for meeting with Lord Manderly and his vassals, so he took the time to work on some of the lessons Maester Luwin had set for him, sitting in front of the fire in his room.

His mind wandered after a bit, not being able to focus on history he already knew and his gaze drifted to the flames dancing in the hearth. The dragon egg was still nestled securely between burning logs that Jon stoked multiple times a day with new logs, whenever the fire petered out. It surprised him, thusly, when not long before dinner a knock sounded from his door.

"Come in," Jon called, setting the pile of papers on the floor as he looked towards the door. He was expecting Robb or maybe Arya. He started, eyebrows raising, and stood. "Lady Stark." His fingers pulled at the edge of his tunic.

"Jon," she said, eyes taking in the details of his room before nodding satisfied at the state of it. "May I come in? I wish to speak with you for a few minutes."

"Of course." He nodded quickly, biting his lip.

She stepped in and closed the door behind before turning to face him fully. For a few long moments, she just watched him silently, looking him over, scrutinizing his face.

Finally, she spoke, "For twelve years I have hated you and what I believed you were representative of."

Jon's jaw clenched and his fingers twitched, wanting to follow suit but he forced them to remain open and relaxed.

"I now know that it was all based on a lie." She stepped closer to him and he dropped his gaze. "I wish I could be sorry for how I treated you, but I cannot be. I did not know the truth of things. Your . . . uncle kept it secret from us both." He heard her sigh, dress and feet shifting in the otherwise silent room. "So I cannot be sorry as I treated you how I would have treated any bastard child a husband of mine fathered."

He felt a finger on his chin pushing it up and lifted his gaze to meet Tully-blue eyes—eyes so like Robb and Sansa's. "If I had known though . . ." She sighed and dropped her hand. "A nephew or niece, trueborn or bastard is different. Things would have been different had I known, at least in private."

"I'm not a threat to Robb," Jon murmured, "I never was. It doesn't matter who my father is."

A sad smile quirked the edges of Lady Stark's lips, ever so slightly. "I know," she said. "I have known that from the moment you first crawled. You were motivated to do so to reach Robb, to comfort him." She looked away, out the open window. "I just couldn't . . . I cannot change the past, but I can change what will happen from here on." Her face tightened, emotion hiding behind a mask. "That being said, no matter what we would like there are some things that cannot be changed at this time."

"I understand," Jon said, smiling sadly. He did, behaviors couldn't change overnight even if they weren't ingrained. Questions would arise that would have to be explained away to the household, bannermen, to everyone. "It would be too dangerous for the family."

"For you," Lady Stark corrected, "most especially. But yes, for the whole of the family. Your uncle has sacrificed a lot to keep you safe. We will all continue to do so for as long as necessary."

"Thank you, Lady Stark," Jon paused for a moment before continuing, unable to hold in his curiosity. His father hadn't shared his plans with him regarding this. "How will the changes towards—towards me be explained?"

She looked away from him, expression tight and Jon thought he saw a flash of guilt. "Lord Stark and I will handle any questions as they arise. Do not worry yourself."

He nodded and watched as she turned to go.

"And Jon?" She called softly before opening the door. "While I hope you may one day be able to call me aunt—Lady Catelyn will be fine in private from now on."

"Uncle Jon!" A squeal of excitement and the pounding of feet brought a smile to his face as he turned from his horse, adjusting his grip on the reins as he did so.

"Uncle Jon!" Rhaego stared up at him, coming to a stop and holding a wooden practice sword in front of him. The boy was perhaps four years old, growing bigger and more active every day. He drove his mother crazy with all the energy he had.

Jon grinned at the boy. They were cousins in truth, but Daenerys has insisted on Rhaego calling Jon 'uncle' and Jon call her 'sister' when he must, stating it was entirely too awkward to have a nephew that was older than her by even a few months.

"I challenge you!" the little boy cried in Dothraki, the tongue of his father.

"Oh dear!" Jon said, holding his free hand up. "I don't suppose you have a weapon I could borrow, my dear nephew?"

The little boy's nose scrunched up. "You have a sword, Uncle Jon!"

"Aye," Jon nodded solemnly, "but my sword is no match for yours. It would hardly be a fair fight. You'd best me in an instant!"

The boy turned, eyeing his nanny who'd followed him over, trying to hide a grin and failing.

"Kirgi! We need another sword!"

That night, after most the feasting was over, when Lady Catelyn bid him and Robb they scooped up their younger siblings—Jon carrying a clinging, bleary eyed Arya on his back and Robb scooping up Bran before he could nod off into the remains of dinner and desert on his plate—and headed to bed, Sansa trailing a little put out behind them. She had begun dancing lessons and hoped to take part in celebrations tonight, but the visiting Lords and Ladies had not brought their children or families, traveling light to speak with other Houses. Lord Manderly had stopped at Winterfell on the way to meet with Houses on the western coast and take stock of the territory for Lord Stark.

Jon caught Robb in the corridor after handing his sister off to her nanny, snagging his elbow before his brother could open the door to his room.

Robb raised a sleepy eyebrow in question.

"I promised to tell you of my mother," Jon managed to get out after a moment, voice hushed and rough.

Surprise filtered across Robb's face. "Aye, you did."

"I would like to do so tonight."

"Let me get ready for bed," Robb said, glancing towards his door. "Once you are ready we can meet in my room."

Jon shook his head. "I have something to show you."

"All right," Robb nodded after a moment, "your room then."

Less than ten minutes later, Robb knocked on his door, opening it seconds later and slipping into the room. He was dressed for bed, feet bare.

"Bar the door, please," Jon called over his shoulder from where he sat on the floor near the hearth. He glanced over his shoulder, watching to confirm that his brother did so and then crossed the room to sit next to him, eyeing the small chest Jon had dragged over and unlocked earlier.

Jon waited for a moment before clearing his throat. "What I am about to speak of . . . you cannot tell a soul," he said quietly, imploring his brother with as much emotion as he could manage. "Not without permission. Only a handful of people know what I am about to tell you. It is a secret that could mean death should it reach the wrong ears."

Robb frowned, eyes trailing up from where he'd been watching Jon's fingers play across the wood nervously. "Your mother identity is secret truly that dangerous?"

"Yes," he nodded. "It is . . ." he wrinkled his nose, trying to come up with the words, "Treasonous." Jon leaned forward, meeting Robb's confused gaze. "I need you to promise, Robb," Jon continued. "I this comes to be known by the wrong person then at the very least mine and most certainly father's life will be forfeit."

"I would never do anything to hurt you, brother," Robb said, freckles standing out against pale skin in the firelight.

"Promise me, please," Jon grasped his forearm and Robb turned his arm to grasp Jon's in turn.

"I promise," Robb said finally, eyes flitting over Jon's features. "I will not speak of it with anyone that you or father have not given me leave to. I swear it on the Old Gods and the New."

Jon searched his face and nodded, smiled, and spoke his voice wavering. "I'm not your brother, not by birth."

"What?" Robb jerked back, surprise and confusion warring on his face.

Jon dropped his gaze, steeling himself, and curled fingers around the lid of the chest before slowly opening it.

"It's what father told me," he settled the lid and reached into the chest. "I'm not his son." Jon pulled aside the brown fabric to reveal the contents of the chest. "My mother was your Aunt Lyanna," his voice stumbled over the words as he continued, fingers trembling as he picked up the marriage cloak. He unfolded it to reveal the red dragon, stark against a field of black. "My fa—sire was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Jon stared at the cloak, fingers trailing over the tail of the dragon, giving Robb time to process everything. Robb, just like he, had grown up in the aftermath of the rebellion, listening to the stories told by the victors. The tales of mad Targaryens, a stolen and raped wolf maid, and history of a dynasty being slowly twisted. If the maester's hadn't such excellent records, the realm would have been believing that all Targaryen's from Aegon the Conqueror to Aegon VI, but a babe moons old, had been monsters.

"You—You're a Targaryen?" Robb asked, reaching out to tentatively touch the edge of the cloak. His eyebrows shot up and he stared at Jon. "You're the ri—"

"No." Jon shook his head. "By birth I would be Jon—Jaehaerys—Targaryen per the letters, anyway." He moved the edge of the cloak aside to snatch up the leather-bound papers and then looked to Robb, eyes imploring, "But please don't call me that. I'm Jon. To take the Targaryen name would be a death sentence. Maybe someday, but," he smiled sadly, "for now I'm a Snow."

"You may use the name Snow, but you're a Stark more than a Targaryen," Robb said after a moment taking the papers from Jon and setting them aside. "They married then?"

"On the Isle of Faces."

"What about Princess . . . oh," Robb paused. "The Targaryen's used to practice polygamy."

Jon nodded. "Apparently, it was also part of a larger plan to overthrow the Mad King that . . . fell apart on my—on Rhaegar." There was documentation of the marriage there along with other important documents, including information on the funds set aside with the Iron Bank as a bride price to the Stark's. That had surprised Jon when he found it and he was still trying to decide how to bring it to his father's attention.

"So," Robb said after a few minutes of silence where Jon had slowly uncovered other items from within the chest, "you're my cousin then."

"Yes." Jon bit his lip, glancing up at Robb from behind a tangle of dark curls.

Robb stared at him for a moment before moving, scooting close and grabbing him in a tight hug. Wrapping his arms around Jon's shoulders he spoke directly into his ear, "It doesn't matter who your father was or what name you choose to carry. You are my brother. Nothing will ever change that."

Jon buried his face in his brother's neck and grasped the back of Robb's thin night shirt tightly. Something uncurled within him and his eyes slammed shut around a flood of moisture, trying to keep it at bay, but he couldn't and he finally let go allowing the tears and pent up emotions to flow as he buried himself into his brother's arms.

Later, when tears had mostly dried and they'd spent some time marveling over the Valyrian dagger Rhaegar and gifted Lyanna, Jon bit his lip and glanced towards the fire before turning back to Robb, a little nervous but also excited.

"Do you want to see a dragon egg?" he asked and watched as the red head's eyes lit up and brows raised.

That night Jon fell asleep, his shoulder pressed against Robb's, listening to the light snores of his brother sleeping as he drifted. He dreamt of flying that night, showing Robb the landscape of the North from the back of a white dragon while in the distance other dragon's whirled and swooped across the rising sun.

The first night the direwolf pups were allowed to sleep within the castle was a quiet one. The weather was warm and Jon kept the window open so that the summer breeze could come in to offset the warmth from the glowing fire. He stoked it just after coming up with Ghost, playing a short game of fetch with a piece of kindling, smiling as Ghost retrieved it again and again until finally, worn out, the pup dropped into a pile of furs Jon had setup near the bed.

Jon found he couldn't sleep that night, not due to the warmth, but due to a maelstrom of thoughts curling through his mind. Nothing concrete, just fleeting snatches and tidbits making him restless without any sort of clear cause.

As he laid there, staring at the shadows cast on the wall by the flames flickering in the hearth, something stirred within him and instinctively he sat up, casting his gaze around the room. It took but a moment to focus in on the fire and the dragon egg within. The flames had died down during the past few hours, embers and small flickers shooting up on occasion for mere seconds before calming.

Blinking, he shoved the furs back from his feet and shuffled out of the bed his bare feet slapping lightly against the floor. As he grew closer the feeling intensified and he knelt in front of the hearth, staring into the at the egg.

He barely spared Ghost a glance as the usually silent direwolf whined behind him, paws padding closer until a cold nose brushed against his elbow. Jon reached back and ran a hand over his head, scratching behind his ears before leaning forward. He reached out, into the sputtering flames and gently picked up the dragon egg, holding it into the air, staring at it.

It was twitching, movement evident within the suddenly brittle shell. Before his eyes a tiny indent appeared, pressing outward, cracks spreading. The formerly bright sheen of the egg's blue on white iridescence seemed dull.

Settling back on his heels, kneeling, Jon settled the egg after a while into his lap. It had cooled enough that it didn't burn the cloth of the sleeping clothes he'd worn to bed. Carefully, he pulled a piece of shell away where the indent had peaked and smiled as it revealed a tiny nostril, shiny wet and white with dark accents. As he picked another piece away the little dragon bumped its muzzle against his finger and he shivered along with Ghost who was pressed against his side.

Ghost's presence increased, welcoming, as the dull feeling of another mind sharing their space roared to life. As Jon worked to help free the little creature from its shell, a feeling of completeness unfurled within him, happiness bubbling between the three of them.

Wiggling his entire little body with excitement, Ghost settled his head on the crook of Jon's elbow to watch moments before the little dragon found its strength and the egg shattered, falling in a rain of debris across Jon's lap and the floor as it pressed its limbs outwards.

Adjusting his grip, Jon carefully set it onto his lap, watching as it teetered and stumbled, his hands at the ready to steady the newborn if need be. Wings flapped and flopped against him, still slightly damp and it squawked, voice coming out in more of a hiss.

Smiling, Jon helped it right itself and balance on his knee.

It stared up at Jon, meeting his eyes with pale brown-red orbs that he knew would likely darken and change to the red-gold of its cousins. It leaned its neck up and squawked again, this time emitting a tiny sound, pale comparison to the roar Rhaegal called out in Jon's memories.

"Hello," Jon said and held his hand out, smile widening further as the little white and blue dragon bumped its head against his fingers. "Sorry it took so long to meet you." After a moment, he dropped his hand to his lap and picked at a piece of shell that was stuck to his pants, watching as the dragon tried to flare its wings out.

Ghost moved as he dropped his arm, taking the opportunity to greet his new companion, squirreling into Jon's lap, front paws pressed an inch from the dragon's claws. He pressed his muzzle against the dragons who pressed back for a few scant seconds before losing its balance.

Jon laughed as the dragon let out another noise and tumbled backwards, out of Jon's lap and onto the hearth behind it. He settled a hand onto Ghosts back, running fingers through the thick puppy fur as the pup clamored fully onto his lap to get a better look at the newborn.

Eyes crinkling Jon smiled, unable to smother the giggles tumbling out of him at the pairs antics.

For the first time in a long time, Jon felt truly at home.