Chapter Text
The Veil of Death was cold—even from where Holly stood, several feet away. The entire room felt like standing inside a giant freezer, just without the ice clinging to every surface. She hadn’t gotten a proper look around the chamber the first and only other time she’d visited.
Back then, she’d only noticed its seemingly empty space, aside from the ominous-looking archway, of course.
Now, scorch marks dragged across the stone, and cracks spiderwebbed through the floor and walls, like something powerful had ricocheted around the chamber, tearing it apart. Great and small gouges marred the smooth stone where something—someone—had once fought or fled.
Only the archway and its tattered black veil remained untouched by past chaos.
The air smelled like nothing at all. Not even old brick, dust, or damp—none of the usual scents of underground places. It was as if the room rejected the very concept of scent.
Every movement echoed. Every whisper was a shout. Every step a stomp. The living could never go unnoticed in this place.
It was exactly as she remembered—or so she thought—until she stepped closer to the archway. The cloth of the veil looked different somehow. A shade or two darker than before.
She squinted and leaned in, nearly touching it with her nose. From this close, she felt a breeze drift from beyond the curtain—too cold to be natural, too gentle to be anything but a welcome home.
And then she saw it. Three little shapes, just barely visible: a triangle, a circle, and a straight line bisecting them both.
The mark of the Deathly Hallows.
A tad on the nose, but Holly understood the message: It is safe—for you.
She briefly wondered what the Unspeakables would make of the changed decor. And they would notice, eventually.
Smiling now, Holly stepped back from the veil. They had a plan. And now that she had proof of safety, they could follow through with it.
She hoped Harry would show up soon. The wait was killing her. For now, she’d summon the third member of their escape plan.
Holly wished they had more allies. She would’ve given nearly anything for Hedwig and Umbra to still be with them.
“Kreacher,” she called into the dark.
A soft pop echoed across the chamber, followed by a symphony of tiny echoes, and a weathered-looking house-elf appeared before her.
“Mistress calls?” Kreacher croaked, bowing low.
Their relationship was…odd. Kreacher was a house-elf once slated for execution for murdering his former master—a vile man who’d abused him for years. Holly may or may not have smuggled him out of the Ministry right under the executioner’s nose during a visit just before her fifth year at Hogwarts.
Those incompetent, corrupt idiots had tried to expel her and Harry for simply defending themselves from a bloody dementor, of all things!
Later, Kreacher had demanded to be bonded to their family, and she’d agreed immediately. She’d grown fond of the grumpy elf—probably because of their similarly traumatic pasts.
No one quite remembered how or why it had started, but house-elves couldn’t survive without being bonded to a witch or wizard. They lived longer—and grew stronger—when bonded to a bloodline instead of just a person.
Harry had come home to find her and Kreacher drinking butterbeer and bonding over “dealing” with their abusers.
Now Kreacher stood tall in his custom uniform, every crest of their houses—Peverell, Slytherin, Potter, Black—stitched onto his proper clothing. No more rags or filthy pillowcases.
Holly was Lady Peverell and Slytherin, as well as Heiress Potter and Black. Harry was the Lord of Houses Potter and Black, and Heir to the rest.
And then there was the whole “chosen by long-dead lines of Emrys and Le Fay” thing.
Unbelievably, those ancient magical bloodlines—long thought dormant—had chosen Holly and Harry as spiritual heirs. Holly, for Emrys. Harry, for Le Fay.
A true honor. One they tried to live up to every day.
Still… Would Merlin and Morgan be disappointed in them now? What would they think of them leaving this world behind? Would they call them cowards—or brave?
Would they understand that Holly and Harry had simply reached the end of their ropes? She could only hope they wouldn’t be disappointed.
Kreacher frowned when she didn’t speak right away. “Is it time, Mistress? Are we leaving now? Kreacher has checked masters’ and mistresses’ preparations many times. All is ready.”
Honestly, she wasn’t sure what she’d do without Kreacher or Harry. Probably die. Alone. Cold. Buried under a mountain of books, having never left the house.
“Yeah, it’s time. We’re just waiting on Harry,” she said. Then she remembered: Harry was the one carrying all their worldly possessions. “Do you have all our stuff?”
Kreacher nodded and snapped his fingers. A large, dark, polished cypress trunk dropped to the stone with a thud.
Magic was a wonderful thing. That single trunk held everything: their fortunes, their shrunken homes—their entire lives.
“Everything is here, Mistress. But Kreacher can be checking again if Mistress is being a worrywart,” he said, entirely deadpan and very put upon.
She may have gone a bit mental the closer their departure drew.
She’d stopped denying her anxiety ages ago. Kreacher would just list every occasion she’d fretted—by date. He’d even offered to start doing it alphabetically. Sassy little sod.
Harry was worse anyway.
“No, no, I know we’ve got everything,” she said. “Though I really hope we don’t end up on opposite sides of whatever world we’re going to. Death did say we’d be reborn…”
“Mistress and Master will be dirty—covered in blood and other nasty things from being born,” Kreacher grouched.
Holly snorted. “Chin up, Kreacher. You won’t have to go through the horror of being born again.”
He had been very firm on that. “Weak, small body? How could Kreacher look after Mistress and Master properly as an elfling?”
“Guess you’ll have to find us fast, then, and make sure we get a bath.”
Death had said Kreacher wouldn’t be reborn, but would have to find his own way to them in this new world. He hadn’t been pleased. He still glowered at Death about it.
“Mistress will bathe, or Kreacher will not be making treacle tarts.”
Holly gasped, clutching her chest. “What if there’s no soap in this world?”
Kreacher looked disgusted. “Kreacher will make soap.”
“What if there are no baths?”
“Mistress will bathe in a lake.”
“What if there’s no water?”
Kreacher glared.
Holly glared back.
He glared harder.
She stuck out her tongue.
“Mistress is trying to delay leaving,” he accused.
She winced. “Just a little bit…”
She wasn’t completely sure about all this. Did it make her a coward to leave? She’d fought, killed, died for this world. Wasn’t it wrong to abandon it?
What about the new mother Death had promised them? Was that a betrayal of Lily?
But Holly knew the real issue was her own damn self-worth. Damn the Dursleys. And double damn Dumbledore’s “greater good.”
“Mistress will be fine. Kreacher will be there,” he said. Aloof. Dismissive. But she knew he meant it.
“Kreacher will protect Mistress Holly.”
Her eyes stung. It was the first time he’d used her first name.
“Ooh, stop it, Kreacher. You’ll make me blush.”
Kreacher, not one for jokes, replied flatly, “Mistress could use more color in her face. And food in her belly.”
“What, are you trying to fatten me up?”
“Mistress is too skinny.”
“And you need to mind your own business.”
“Kreacher’s Mistress is Kreacher’s business.” They had this argument every other week.
“Are you two at it again?” Harry’s voice rang out.
Holly spun to face him, beaming. He looked good—tousled black hair, warm green eyes like their mum’s. She flung her arms around him.
“You been driving Kreacher up the wall again?” he asked, hugging her back.
“No,” she said innocently.
“Yes,” Kreacher muttered. Traitor.
Harry chuckled and stepped back. “Everything’s sorted. We can go.”
Dread twisted her gut. One-way trip. No take-backs. What if the next world was worse?
Harry took her hand and held out the other for Kreacher. “Together?”
She nodded. “Together.”
And they stepped through the Veil.
—Kreacher —Kreacher —Kreacher—Kreacher—Kreacher—Kreacher—Kreacher—
When Kreacher walked through the Veil of Death with his mistress and master, he knew they would be separated. Worse still, he knew they’d be reduced to small, helpless things.
He’d worried over it for days after Mistress Holly and Master Harry had first awoken from that strange dream—one where Death had offered them a fresh start.
Kreacher had been suspicious. Very suspicious. There were plenty of foul witches and wizards who would like nothing better than to trick or harm his mistress and master.
But Mistress Holly was clever. She had found a way for Kreacher to join her in the dream realm. The next time she and Master Harry spoke with Death, Kreacher had gone with them.
He interrogated the strange, shadowy being thoroughly—until he was satisfied.
Death had promised them so much. A new life. A second chance. A family. A childhood. A clean slate. Adventure. Magic. Safety. All the things they never had before, but always deserved.
Kreacher made sure it wasn’t a trick.
And now… here he was. In a new world.
The first thing Kreacher felt was the cold. Then the lack of oxygen.
His large, dark eyes opened wide in panic as he kicked his legs and flailed, swimming up, up, up—until he finally broke the surface of a pond.
He gasped in deep, choking lungfuls of air and looked around, dripping wet and half-drowned. The first thing he saw was a face—a red face—carved into the pale bark of a massive tree.
It had red leaves that danced in the wind, and eyes like blood.
The tree… felt old. Ancient. Alive, in a way no normal tree ever could be.
Kreacher took a hesitant step toward it, drawn to the presence—until he heard something. Splashing. Frantic. Behind him.
He turned, faster than he had moved in decades, and spotted two small figures struggling toward the surface of the water. A flailing Dobby and a gasping Winky were paddling like mad toward the edge of the pond.
He pointed a wet finger at them, his expression turning stormy. “What are Dobby and Winky doing here? You is supposed to be dead!”
They had died. He had seen their bodies. Dobby had been stabbed—still had the knife in his chest when they laid him in the Great Hall. Winky’s body had been… not whole.
“We was dead!” Dobby squeaked, bouncing on his toes once he was out of the water. “Then Death gave us a second chance!”
“It be true,” Winky said softly. “We was brought back. For Mistress and Master.”
Kreacher was quiet for a long moment, glaring at them. His mind ticked over the situation.
Master Harry could handle himself, but Mistress Holly… she got into trouble. Constantly. It would take all three of them to make sure she survived childhood.
“Alright,” he said at last. His tone was gruff and commanding, and both house-elves stood straighter. “We needs to find where we is. Then we finds where little Master and Mistress are being born. They will be small. Weak. Loud.”
Dobby and Winky both nodded solemnly.
“I is Head Elf,” Kreacher continued, “so what I says goes. Understand?”
They nodded again.
“Good. First, we finds people. Then, we listen for signs of magical pregnancies. Strange births. Magical storms. Unnatural weather. You is looking and listening for anything weird, understand?”
They both nodded a third time, ready to obey.
The three house-elves set off through the strange new world—each of them determined to find the children they would protect with their lives.
None of them noticed the two pairs of eyes watching them from the trees.
—Jon —Jon —Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—
Jon is in love.
A dangerous thing for a bastard in Westeros, but he could not deny it. He loved the lady he had been courting in secret for almost a year now. She was simply perfect in every way.
He loved her lovely golden blonde hair, smooth as silk and running all the way down to her waist. He loved her smile, radiant as the sun. He loved her eyes, glittering like grass covered in morning dew. He loved her laugh, that rang like soft, tinkling bells. And he loved her heart—brave and true, golden like her hair.
But she was more than just her beauty. She was kind, and she cared not that his last name was Snow. She was clever, well-read, and thoughtful. She kept a sharp sense of humor and never treated him as lesser, nor saw herself as superior compared to those around her.
She cared about people—the farmers, the smiths, the hunters and the healers. The trueborn and the bastards. She spoke to the smallfolk like they mattered to her and weren't just a means to an end. She was a real lady, not like those women who did nothing but wear pretty dresses and sing and sew.
It had all started when she ran away from her family—the Lannisters. More specifically, her father, Kevan Lannister. She said she couldn't stay a moment longer in such a toxic house. The scheming, the secrets, the plots—they never ended. She wanted no part in the desperate grabs at power, all in the name of the Iron Throne.
She had left the safety of Casterly Rock and traveled all the way to the North on her own, with nothing more than a horse, some supplies, and a hood to cover her distinctive hair from view.
She and Jon had met when a wild dog had spooked her horse and attacked her on the road. Jon had been out riding, trying to clear his head after an argument with Theon, and came to her rescue—killing the dog and escorting her to Wintertown.
That should have been the end of it, but Jon had felt it was his duty to check on her, make sure she was comfortable, and that her various scrapes and bruises were healing properly.
Things had escalated from there, progressing naturally as they spoke and got to know one another.
The truths about their identities brought them even closer.
The bastard son of the Warden of the North—tolerated but not welcome, blood but not family—and the runaway Lannister, who wanted better than lies and treachery.
It hadn’t taken long to fall in love. It was as easy and simple as breathing.
Before he had met Alis, he had planned to take the black—the only honorable thing a bastard of the North could do. Or so he had thought.
Alis had knocked that right out of his head. “The sins of the father are not the sins of the son,” she’d told him—and continued to say so whenever he began to doubt it was true.
And it is true. He did not ask to be born out of wedlock. He did not make his father betray his wedding vows.
Betrayal is not his sin to carry. Alis taught him that.
He was on his way to visit her right now, a bouquet of winter roses in one hand. Sadly, Ghost—his white-furred, red-eyed direwolf companion—couldn’t go with him into Wintertown. He was too recognizable.
Even if he weren’t so distinctive, he was still a giant wolf, so it was a moot point.
As he passed through the East Gate, Jon noticed that the air felt drier today—colder too. He had long since understood he was not a Stark, but their words held true enough: Winter was coming.
He hoped it would be a short one, for all their sakes.
Tugging up the hood of his cloak, Jon made his way into Wintertown proper. It was early morning, and men and women were starting to leave their homes and come into town to start their day, purchase food and supplies, open market stalls and shops.
A few children ran up and down the dirt roads, fighting with sticks, pretending to be soldiers.
He quickly found the Winter Rose—a high-end tavern that Alis had been working and sleeping at since she came to Winterfell all those moons ago—and strode through the door.
The tavern looked as it always had: a stone-walled and floored building with a wooden roof lined with clay. No windows—glass was expensive and only used by rich lords and ladies. At one end of the long room that made up the ground floor sat a bulky fireplace, a black cauldron bubbling over burning logs as a lady—likely one of the cooks—stirred it with a wooden ladle. Bench tables and stools lined the walls up until the two staircases on the opposing side. One set of wooden steps led to the floor above, and the other to the cellar. The door between them led to the kitchens, where all the meals were made.
“She’s cleaning upstairs,” Mertha, the tavern keeper, told him as she replaced old candles on the tables. She had never seen his face, but she remembered his build, his clothes, and always told him where Alis was when he came to visit.
She likely only put up with it because he usually had a drink there in the evenings. His coin was as good as anyone’s—bastard or not.
He gave her a nod in thanks and started up the stairs two at a time, each one creaking as he climbed. And there she was—sweeping the floors with a straw broom, wearing a thick woolen dress, grey cloak fluttering around her shoulders, leather gloves protecting her hands from the rough wood handle, and a long golden braid hanging behind her.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he greeted, strolling up to his love to give her a chaste kiss—in what was their regular way of saying hello, when there were no glaring eyes and disapproving old ladies muttering under their breath not-so-quietly.
“Good morning, Jon,” she welcomed him back warmly and returned the slight peck on the lips. “Are these for me?” she asked, gesturing at the flowers he still held—momentarily forgotten in the wake of her lips on his.
Jon handed her the bunch of flowers, teasing, “As if I’d spend an hour picking the perfect ones for anyone else.”
Likely he’d be running in the opposite direction if another woman made him feel the same way—to spare her the ‘shame’ of courting a bastard. His love had worked very hard to get it through his thick head that he was a good man, deserving of love and a family of his own.
She gave him an extra kiss for the flowers, then said, “I have something for you too. If you'll just wait here a moment.” Then she rushed off to her room, leaving him in the hallway for only a moment before returning with something wrapped in cloth.
“Here. It’s just something small, but I worry you don’t eat enough with all the training you do.” She thrust the cloth into his arms and he unwrapped it, revealing an oval-shaped pie, still warm from the oven. She must have gotten up early to make it.
Carefully wrapping it back up, Jon took a page from Alis’s book and gave her another kiss.
“Thank you, love. I appreciate it.”
He truly did. More than she could possibly know. Alis was the only person who worried about him, asked how his day was, and did all those little things to make sure he was okay.
The only other person who showed any interest in Jon was Maester Luwin, whom he had a lesson with soon, alongside Rob and Theon.
“Look, I’ve got lessons with the Maester this morning, so I can’t stay any longer, but later tonight—”
“I would love to spend this evening with you, Jon,” she interrupted him gently. “Just as I would love spending the rest of all my evenings with you.”
Jon was going to marry this woman. He swore it by the old gods—he would.
She kissed him again, then gave him a small shove in the direction of the stairs. “Now off with you. No need to keep the good Maester waiting. Besides, I like having a smart man.”
Gods, Jon is so in love.
—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—
During his sixty-eight winters, Maester Luwin has never before taught a lord or lady’s bastard child—until he came to Winterfell, many, many years ago.
He has studied many subjects and earned his share of links on his Maester's chain, bearing only Pale Steel, Pewter, Dragonglass, Brass, and Zinc as metals he did not pursue. All subjects he felt were not needed in order to perform his duties. Although he had briefly studied the Higher Mysteries and had been awarded one single Valyrian steel link.
However, his very first link had been one of black iron—the metal that proved his capabilities as a ravenmaster. He had believed in his youth that ravenry was the cornerstone of becoming a Maester, and so while all of his peers were rushing about reading books on more interesting or fantastical subjects, Luwin had built up his knowledge in what he saw as the right way. The way Maesters of old had done it: by understanding the essentials before the more complicated arts of the stars, warfare, or healing.
Alongside his black iron and Valyrian steel links, he wore multiple silver links from learning how to set and heal broken bones, disinfect wounds, sew up split flesh, and tend to fevers, infections, frostbite, and other various wounds and sicknesses. Maester Luwin also had his pale gold—more commonly known as sunshine silver—chain links for learning of pregnancy and childbirth. Maesters with pale gold links were often highly sought after by lords of noble houses to ensure their wives had healthier pregnancies and their heirs received better treatment as they grew.
Luwin had studied—and continued to study, as it changed—war and warcraft for his iron links, learning about sieges, battle strategies, and negotiations for gaining allies or brokering peace treaties. He had studied construction for his steel link, money and accounting for gold, as well as languages for two white gold chain links—though he was only fluent in Westerosi and Old Valyrian.
Lastly, he was learned in teaching, history, astronomy, and geography, for his red gold, copper, cupronickel, and bronze links, respectively.
Point is, Luwin has spent many a year acquiring knowledge and sharpening his mind like a sword with a whetstone—and still does not know why Lord Stark has kept Jon at Winterfell but has not legitimized him. He does not even speak of it as a possibility. Not even once.
Truthfully, the Maester suspected that it was Lord Stark’s lady wife, Catelyn, that stayed his hand. It was no secret that she had no love for Jon. Another thing he could not make sense of—how a woman, nay, how a mother, could treat a child with so much cruelty.
He understood—he even sympathized—why she did not love the boy. But to be so cold to a child?
He had overheard her late one night as he was retiring to his quarters after gathering some herbs for healing poultices. She had been praying in the shrine Lord Stark had built for her and her southern religion. The lady had been praying, asking her gods to take away the stain on her marriage. To kill her lord husband's bastard.
Maester Luwin was not in the habit of accusing people of being evil, nor of insulting ladies. Yet… yet he believed that only a black-hearted person could wish for the death of a child—a boy hardly a handful of winters old.
Luwin will admit he has treated the Lady of the House much more curtly since then, even as she sat at the poor boy’s bedside, regret in her eyes at the suffering she had caused an innocent child.
Maester Luwin had resented the fact that she could pray for death and pain, yet not stomach the consequences of her own actions. He has long since lost all respect he might have once had for Lady Stark.
Now, sitting before his three eldest students—Rob, Theon, and Jon—writing an essay on how they believe a castle and keep are maintained and run, including the surrounding lands and towns, Luwin couldn’t help but think how it was Jon who, out of all his past students—Stark children included—has shown the most potential in the scholarly arts.
Along with his clever mind, the boy was a fair hand with the sword, loyal to a fault, kind-hearted and brave. The boy could have such a full life, if only he weren’t being dragged into the mud with the title of ‘bastard.’
He could, of course, understand that in the line of succession, children born out of wedlock were less than ideal. However, the mindset that it was the child who was at fault never sat right with him. It was not the babe who held their mother or father at swordpoint to make them unfaithful or lustful. No child asks to be born as their parents’ shame.
No. Maester Luwin has always been of a mind that it is the parents who should bear the shame of their actions—not the children that result from them.
But it is not a fair world they live in, and even those such as the honorable Lord Stark sin. Even if, to the old Maester, the greater sin was turning a blind eye to Jon’s treatment.
Oh, he was allowed a seat at the table—just not with the Stark family. And he had his own bedchambers—only it was in the servants’ quarters and paled in comparison to his half-siblings'. Jon was permitted to learn with the lord’s heir and ward, but neither Lord nor Lady Stark cared for his education nor encouraged him to learn. In many ways, Jon could see—see, but never possess—the love and care his brothers and sisters received.
It was another kind of torture. Not the hot knives and whips the Boltons favored, but the slow decay of hope and innocence—of a child being denied love. Of a true place to call home.
Luwin’s heart ached for Jon, but there was precious little he could do for the boy besides offer more lessons and advice, or be an ear to listen to his woes, and offer companionship whilst he read books in the library.
He had tried, over the years, to be a sort of grandfatherly figure to Jon, but felt he had not done right by the boy—that he should have done more. Perhaps he could get Jon a present for his nine-and-tenth name day, a little keepsake to encourage him to further his education…
It would not make up for all his failings, nor for Jon’s mistreatment from the Starks, but an old man can hope it would at least bring some small joy to Jon’s far-too-sullen and serious face.
—Jon —Jon —Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—
During Maester Luwin’s talk about the maintenance of castles, keeps, and lands, he had also mentioned Jon’s father and his siblings from when they were children in Winterfell: Brandon, Benjen, and Lyanna Stark.
His uncle Benjen had joined the Night’s Watch, was alive and well as far as Jon knew—out in the Far North, fighting wildlings and losing fingers to frostbite. But his other uncle and aunt had been dead since before the end of Robert’s Rebellion. Brandon was strangled trying to save their father from the Mad King’s fire, and as for Lyanna… no one truly knew what had happened to her, only that the Targaryen prince, Rhaegar, had apparently kidnapped her.
Jon had never visited them in the crypts before, though perhaps he should. He did have time before spending the evening with Alis, as she wouldn't be finished with her hours at the tavern until later.
Decision made, Jon left the library tower, footsteps echoing behind him as he descended the stone steps. He then made his way across the courtyard, where he often trained with sword, bow, and other weaponry alongside his oldest half-brother Robb and the Greyjoy boy, Theon.
Jon did not like Theon. In fact, he very much despised the lecherous berk. He was rude, crude, and seemingly incapable of keeping his smug mouth shut. He idolized the Ironborn way of murder, thievery, and rape—often saying that he was the “heir of the Iron Islands” and that he would one day claim his place on the Salt Throne.
Personally, Jon thought he wouldn’t last a week on the islands. The savage inhabitants would tear him apart for his boots and fine clothes.
Overlooking the training yard, the hardly-used guest house stood like a judging master-at-arms—empty inside, with an impassive exterior. Jon walked past the armory soon after and through the large ironwood gate doors. Then he turned left as he reached the guards’ hall and then right, opening and closing behind him another set of large wooden doors, and finally reached his destination: the walled-in lichyard of Winterfell.
It was a grim sight, as it always was the few times Jon had visited it in the past. Fog curled on the ground in wisps like smoke from campfires. The air felt colder, sharper in a way that was not at all natural.
Jon truly believed the very earth here was changed from the exposure to the dead, and it only got worse the deeper you descended into the bowels of the crypt.
Steeling himself, Jon unlocked the Lichgate’s door and started his descent down the spiraling black stone stairs into the crypt below.
The chilly air became freezing, and the dark all-consuming the further Jon walked. Before finally stepping out into a cavernous room, Jon had lit his torch. Yet the light from the small fire did little to combat the darkness of the room—and even less for the cold.
He knew some passageways in the labyrinthine crypt had collapsed and hoped to avoid them on his way to see his deceased uncle and aunt. He knew they were buried beside their father, Rickard Stark, the previous Lord Stark before Jon’s father, Eddard. That would mean they were located in a more newly carved-out room—above the ancient kings, but below the lords’ tier.
He held the torch before him as he used the minimal light it gave off to navigate the narrow side passages and the vast rooms that watched him with the silent stone faces of his ancestors.
Men, women, and even some children’s small faces followed him as he journeyed onwards, before finally—at last—finding the tombs of Brandon and Lyanna Stark.
Jon went to his uncle’s statue first. Since he had perished first, it felt only right. His face was shaped much like his father’s: slightly long and very serious-looking, with a frown marring his otherwise handsome features. In his hands before him, he held a stone longsword that had carved wolves running along its length.
“Hello, Uncle Brandon,” Jon greeted solemnly with a respectful incline of his head. “I am your nephew, Jon. I haven’t visited you before, and I apologise for that, but I’ve come now to pay my respects.”
Stepping forward, Jon lit one of the candles by the feet of the statue of his uncle before retreating back to admire the simple gesture of his respect.
Then he moved over to greet Lyanna.
She must have been a lovely woman, if her stone likeness was anything to go by, Jon thought. His aunt had the classic longer face of the family—though she rather suited the feature. It made her look elegant and refined, like a kind-looking lady of great beauty.
She was slender and girlish, showing how young she must have been when she had died—only a handful of name days older than Jon is now. Contrasting with her youthful looks, her likeness held a stone sword much like her brother did, though it was decorated with winter roses rather than snarling wolves. A carving of a large direwolf also lay at her feet, a watchful guard of the fierce woman before him.
For some reason, Jon felt rather tongue-tied looking upon the face of Lyanna—as though introducing himself as he had done with his uncle would be somehow wrong.
So he did not speak as he lit a candle for her, only bowed his head and backed away from her visage. As he did so, the glint of the candlelight reflected on something hidden underneath a loose stone behind Lyanna's sarcophagus.
He should leave. Jon should just ignore the hidden thing and let it stay buried with the dead. But… but the same strange feeling that stopped him from speaking to his aunt also urged him to explore the secrets of the crypt further.
And so he did.
Placing the torch he had carried with him down on the stone floor, Jon used both his hands to pull aside the stone that was, badly, concealing the something that was buried inside the wall of the tomb.
The stone chunk was heavy, but Jon managed to pull it free and keep it in one piece as he lowered his entire body with it to the ground to stop it from breaking into hundreds of crumbling pieces.
Getting back up to his feet, Jon peered into the decent-sized hole in the wall to see what had been hidden there.
An ornately decorated chest lay snug between the stone, only just fitting. It was a handsome, dark-stained wood with what looked like real gold used as the metal parts, and all over its surface dragons and wolves were carved in painfully accurate detail.
It had no lock, and so Jon unlatched the clasps on either side and opened it with a gentle hand. Whatever was inside must be invaluable—precious beyond comprehension to be held in such a chest, and to have been hidden away like it had been.
Lying inside, on a blood-red pillow, the first thing that caught Jon’s eye was a large, white egg.
It was as pale as untouched snow—like bones stripped bare of flesh and muscle—or even resembling the wood of weirwood trees. Jon reached out to touch it with one hand. As his fingers glided across the egg, he couldn't help but compare it to the feel of ice—but strangely warm, and, of course, unmelting.
Wrenching his eyes away from the strange egg, Jon searched the rest of the chest’s contents, finding mostly parchments and scrolls, as well as a hefty sack of coins, a folded cloak, and two brooches: one bearing the symbol of House Stark, the head of a direwolf on a steel shield; the other… the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens.
With a twisting in his gut and trembling fingers, Jon set the pins aside and opened an official-looking parchment.
It was heavy, fine, and cream-coloured—in good condition despite whatever age it must be, and how cold the location in which it had been stored.
It read:
Let it be known throughout the Seven Kingdoms that Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, and Lady Lyanna of House Stark, daughter of Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, have entered into sacred union before the Seven on this day, the twenty-second day of the seventh moon in the Year 281 After Conquest.
The ceremony was performed in secret according to the rites of the Faith of the Seven, witnessed by chosen retainers and sworn to silence under royal decree.
Let this union be recorded in the annals of the realm, for though it was hidden from the eyes of kings and lords, it was made sacred and binding before gods and law.
Let it be known that another ceremony also took place before the heart trees of the North to cement the couple’s marriage in the eyes of the Old Gods as well as the Seven, in accordance with the beliefs of the bride.
At the bottom of the text, a small note was scrawled, declaring that, ‘This union is to remain unspoken until deemed safe by royal discretion, under pain of High Treason.’
Jon’s mind reeled at the information he had stumbled upon. Married in secret? In the eyes of the Old Gods and the Seven that are One? It didn’t sound like Lyanna was kidnapped at all—it sounded more like she had run away with a man she had loved.
Jon scrambled to read another scroll. This one was a little longer, more carefully worded, and spoke of a marriage annulment between Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell of Dorne, stating that the children from his previous marriage, Rhaenys and Aegon, were to remain in the same position of inheritance and in line to ascension of the throne.
The annulment was sanctioned only a sennight before the marriage between Lyanna and the prince. Two more statements were folded inside the annulment: one was a statement from Rhaegar himself that Lady Elia had known and blessed his union to Lyanna, that she and the prince had not loved one another as man and wife but did hold a deep respect and friendship for each other; the other was Elia’s confirmation of her blessings.
The war, Jon was now realizing, was a lie.
Robert’s Rebellion had started because of the series of events that led to Rickard and Brandon Stark marching to King’s Landing to demand their daughter and sister be returned to them. The Mad King had killed them—either from his madness, or because he knew his son was innocent of the kidnapping they were accusing him of, or a combination of both. Then the North marched behind Eddard Stark, along with Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon. The war began—and then ended in a massacre…
But if that was all a lie?
Why hadn’t Lyanna told someone? Why did they keep it a secret? People had died because of their scheming and running away. Why would they…?
And then Jon found them—the last three parchments that could hold some kind of answers to all of his questions.
The first was a Record of Live Birth and Lineage.
On the second day of the first moon in the Year 283 After the Conquest, a child was born in the Tower of Joy, nestled in the Red Mountains of Dorne.
He was named Aemon Arthur, of House Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, and Lady Lyanna Targaryen, previously of House Stark of Winterfell, his lawful wife.
His birth was attended and witnessed by Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower.
Lyanna had been pregnant—that at least cleared up why she might have kept away from sight, Jon thought. If the date was correct, then she would have become with child soon after the marriage, and by then the war would have started and she would have been in danger.
But why did Rhaegar not reach out to Lord Stark? Why did he and Lyanna not even send a raven to the king and Lyanna’s father of their marriage? Why all the secrecy?
Unless they feared for their lives for some reason. The king was dubbed mad for a reason, and Lyanna had been betrothed to Robert Baratheon as a part of Jon’s grandfather’s southern ambition.
Did they believe they would be killed for their love? That their son would be killed? What had happened to his cousin Aemon?
He reached for the next parchment. This one was a letter from Lyanna to… to her son.
Jon should not read this letter. He shouldn’t, but he felt like he must.
To my son Aemon,
I lie here in my birthing bed with you in the crook of my arms, knowing that I am not long for this world. The death of your father, the strain of birth, and the war have taken their toll on me, little love, and I will not be there for you as I wish I could be.
I know that the war will also be ending soon and have sent my guards away. I know that they would die in my defence. I know too that when my brother comes for me, he will be coming believing the lies about Rhaegar kidnapping me. They would fight, and I do not want this.
So it is you and I for now. We have food to last us a year, and I have books to read at my leisure. And I have you, my handsome little boy, my Aemon. You were named after your father’s great-uncle, a wise Maester who forsook his crown for the cold of the Wall to do what he believed was his duty. An honourable notion, though one I dearly hope you do not follow. I want a life for you, my son—a good life, not a loveless, hard existence in the cold.
I want you to make a promise to me, my son, to never exile yourself to that wretched place. I know it may be unfair of me to ask such a thing of you when I am not even there to speak with you, but it would do my heart good to know that my only child will not become a bitter, cold man like I have seen so many others become.
I have visited the Wall once in my girlhood, and there is hardly a single honourable man for every hundred that take the black. It is not the place for my boy.
With that out of the way, I hope you have noticed by now the dragon egg I have left you, white as the weirwood trees of the North and still alive, no matter how scholars will insist that the ages have turned them to stone. Take it, my son, take it and fly.
I do not know what the future has for you, what challenges you will face or where you will end up, but know that I love you. I have loved you when you were a small bump on my abdomen, and I loved you when you were born, bloody and screaming. I love you now—all dark tuft of hair and eyes so purple they look black, your little face scrunched up in sleep.
I love the man whom you become too, whoever he may be. I love the good heart and sharp mind I know you will have. I love you no matter if you take the throne or live as a farmhand, if you marry and have a brood of children or remain unattached for your life.
I love you, Aemon, my perfect son. Do not ever doubt that.
And when my time comes, I will face it with a smile knowing that I have brought a most precious gift into this world: you.
Your mother,
Lady Lyanna, Princess of the House Targaryen, Daughter of the House Stark, and Knight of the Laughing Weirwood.
Damn, the letter wasn’t even for him—and here he was crying like a child. Jon would give anything for a letter like this from his mother. Anything. But his lord father had not deigned to even tell Jon his mother’s name, and no doubt would keep any letter sent by her from him. Jon wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic. Whatever fault Lyanna had, whatever lies she told or mistakes she made, it was clear to see that she loved her child and would have been a wonderful mother if she had lived.
Jon forgave her. Whether or not forgiveness was his to give, he forgave Lyanna for her part in the war. How could he not, after reading that letter?
Jon had never before mourned his aunt, but after reading something so personal by her own hand, he did mourn now, and in a strange way missed her. Could you even miss someone you never knew or even met?
Putting the letter down with perhaps a few moments of silence in remembrance of a strong woman, Jon then read the last parchment.
Oddly, it was a letter from Lord Howland of House Reed… to Lord Eddard of House Stark.
Lord Stark,
I send this letter to you now to find out what your intentions are with the young heir. We were both there when Lady Lyanna begged you to keep him safe, to raise him with love and compassion so that he will become a good man. But I have heard the most disturbing rumours that I hope to dispel from my mind with your assurances.
Please, I am begging you, tell me that you did not take Lyanna’s son, Rhaegar's heir, and present him to the world as your bastard, Jon Snow—
Jon stopped reading, and the letter slipped through his fingers as his grip loosened.
Jon Snow, Lyanna’s son.
Lord Stark’s bastard, Prince Rhaegar's heir.
Was Jon? Could he be… is—Is Jon, Aemon? Aemon, of House Targaryen?
Does he have a name? A propper name?
He read the rest of the letter, read it again, then a third time just to be sure. Then, he took out all the parchments and laid them on the stone floor side by side and tried to piece together the truth.
It painted an ugly portrait.
One of deceit and treachery and maybe, possibly treason. But Jon couldn’t know whether or not these documents were legitimate. He couldn’t just accept them as truth with no other proof of… of his true parentage and identity, because he doesn’t think he can handle knowing he had been treated as less than dirt when he had never been a shame of his so-called family. That he had never been a bastard and that his father, who may not even be his father and instead his uncle, had lied to him, had branded him with the title of bastard and turned away when he was treated as such by his wife, ward, and eldest daughter.
And that blasted septa! Screeching at him whenever he was within her reach, preaching the value of children and how all are born innocent and good, then cursing him as evil in the next breath—and—
And he needed to stop, because getting angry doesn’t solve anything. Getting upset only made you a larger target for harsh treatment and harsher words.
Concentrating on his breathing, Jon started making plans. He would take the chest to Maester Luwin. The old man was always kind to him and would speak the truth Jon no longer believed Lord Stark was capable of.
His trust in the honourable Eddard had been broken today, and he’s not sure whether or not he should be sad about it, but right now all he felt was a growing sense of numb detachment and simmering anger that he had put a lid on—for now.
He stuffed all the parchments back into the chest, completely and very purposely avoiding the bone-white dragon egg, feeling a strange squirming in his stomach at the sight of Lyanna’s letter. It felt different now—now that it could have been written for him.
He shut the chest closed and, for good measure, took off his cloak and wrapped it around his precious cargo so that it could not be recognized before making his way back to the library to seek out the Maester.
On his way, Ghost had joined him, silent and watchful at his side. Jon was grateful for the juvenile direwolf—so painfully grateful for any kind of pleasant company.
He should not have been denied joy as a child. It was not right for him to have been treated differently to his sib—cousins? Were they his half-siblings or his cousins?
Did Jon dare to hope?
Stomping up the stairs of the Maester’s tower, Jon thought that maybe he might. Hope may be a fickle thing, but Jon was a tenacious bastard. Even if the bastard part may no longer be quite so literal.
Jon may not even be Jon.
He might be Aemon.
Finally, kicking the door closed behind him, Jon made it to the top of the tower where the good Maester was tending to his ravens. He set down the heavy wooden chest on the desk and started pacing in short, sharp steps around the small room as Maester Luwin finished feeding the flying pests. Ghost made himself at home on a tattered old blanket Luwin kept in the corner of the room, just for him, for when he and Jon visited.
“So,” the Maester started once he was finished with his task, “what has you back so soon, Jon?”
Jon didn’t stop pacing, didn’t answer right away either, but Maester Luwin was used to that. Jon sometimes needed to think or pace before answering difficult questions, and the Maester had never punished him for it. Unlike others…
“I found a chest,” he said after a few more moments of internal screaming, “rich-looking and clearly made by a fine craftsman. It has… documents inside… I… I need to know if they are legitimate.”
If they’re not, Jon didn’t think he would survive the disappointment.
But if they are, then he’s an orphan.
…And the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
Fuck.
He didn’t want to be a king. Jon just wanted to marry Alis and have a baby or two. Maybe run away and live somewhere warmer than the North.
Maester Luwin—Old Gods bless this wonderful man—didn’t even hesitate. He just unwrapped the cloak from the chest and opened it to read all the folded parchments by candlelight.
Jon stopped pacing now, watching as Luwin read and hummed thoughtfully every few moments, his worn face giving away little of his thoughts on the matter.
“They are legitimate,” he said finally, with the sureness and finality of a headsman’s axe.
Jon all but collapsed into the wooden chair at the Maester’s desk. The annulment, the marriage, the birth. It was all true.
“How do you know?” he asked, because he had to know—he had to be sure.
Maester Luwin didn’t chide him for his rudeness, for not trusting his judgment. The good Maester just explained his reasoning.
“The wax seals are correct, the documents are worded in the way all official documents are…” the Maester paused, thumbing through the parchments, “and I recognise the script from the birth, marriage, and annulment papers. Of course, Lady Lyanna’s as well. The annulment and marriage are both written by Maester Orley, and the certificate of birth was clearly written by Maester Redfort.”
Maester Luwin brought the parchments over to Jon, pointing at the signature at the bottom of one of them.
“Look there. Maester Redfort always signs his name off with a little fanciful flick at the end. This is no fake or forgery, Jon.”
Jon took the parchments, staring unseeing at the words he himself had read only a handful of minutes before rushing into the Maester’s tower.
That meant…
The letter from Lyanna to her son is a letter from his mother to him.
His mother loves him.
His mother died giving birth to him.
Jon had felt shameful of the circumstances of his birth before, but never had he felt such… defeat. And now all he had left of the woman who brought him into this world was one single letter and the cold stone face in the crypts.
Jon would never truly know his mother’s love, no matter how often she declared it in her letter. Jon would never feel her arms wrap around him in a hug, never hear her voice say the words he had always so desperately wanted to hear from a parent.
He killed his mother. And no matter what Lyanna wrote in her letter, he didn’t think he would ever be able to forgive himself for such a thing.
The world was blurry around the edges as he read the last words his mother wrote to him.
‘And when my time comes, I will face it with a smile knowing that I have brought a most precious gift into this world: you.’
Jon did not feel precious. Nor did he think himself a gift.
He did not realize that he had been crying until two wrinkled hands cupped his face and wiped away his tears. And when these same hands pulled him against a chest and held him as he sobbed, well… he simply did not have the strength to rip himself away from the comfort he was so rarely offered.
“It’s okay, Jon. You’re not alone.”
—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—
Alis had run from her old home nearly two years ago, leaving her family name behind on that wretched rock for good measure. She was a Lannister no longer and wanted nothing to do with their ilk. The journey to the North had been long and brutal, and she hadn’t been able to stay to the roads the whole way—too many robbers, too many worse things in the woods.
She’d made it, of course. And despite a few bumps along the way—especially near the end—she’d been exceptionally lucky. She had also met a rather handsome man, kind-hearted and brave: Jon Snow.
He had been a brooding, stubborn thing back then, all set on taking the black and parroting the vile nonsense people spewed about bastards and shame. She’d had to work hard to help Jon see himself in a kinder light. And more than a little cleverness on her part had been required to get him to start courting her properly.
It had all started with a request: she asked Jon to teach her how to fight.
It was partly an excuse to spend more time with the Northerner, yes—but she genuinely wanted to learn how to defend herself. If another wild dog or bandit dared attack her now, they’d be in for a nasty surprise.
Jon had been surprised at first but agreed easily enough once she pointed out how dangerous Westeros could be for those who couldn’t wield a blade. He taught her the sword primarily, though he was also a fair hand at archery and showed her the basics of handling a bow.
Alis was a quick study—natural with a sword—and she and Jon spent many evenings training in the Wolfswood, safe from the prying eyes of people who’d look down on her for doing something “unladylike.”
They bonded over the clashing of blunt steel and soon Jon was opening up to her about his doubts and struggles.
Alis still fondly remembered one sunset, sitting beside Jon with mugs of cheap ale, complaining about their families—about duty, shame, and the weight of legacy. They’d talked all night, laughed freely, and the next day they’d stumbled around hungover and half-blind, but it had been worth it. Jon had seemed lighter afterward. Happier.
That was a year ago.
Now, Alis had all the things she was never meant to have: freedom, happiness… and true love. If she’d stayed, she would’ve been forced to marry some old nobleman—some second or third son of a minor lord, all in the name of “strengthening” her family’s alliances.
Running away had been the best decision she’d ever made. And Jon… Jon was the best man she could’ve ever hoped to meet.
She thanked the gods, old and new, every day for bringing him into her life—and not just for saving it. Before Jon, Alis had only ever known a kind of love that came with conditions. She was only ever “loved” when she obeyed. When she stayed quiet. When she sat pretty beside more important men.
Jon’s love, by contrast, was like the sky—open, free, and always there. He loved her without question or hesitation, without needing her to earn it. He brought her flowers just to see her smile. He spent hours copying books from the library, word for word, so she’d have something to read. Although he was a man of few words, he always had something kind to say to her. He always had a smile waiting for her.
Which was why, when she saw him walking out from the treeline into the little clearing they’d claimed as their own in the Wolfswood—with a frown marring his face—she immediately knew something was wrong.
“Jon?” she called, concern creeping into her voice.
What was wrong? Was he hurt? What happened? Who did she have to stab? Alis is more then willing to kill for this man.
Jon, bless him, still gave her a smile—but it didn’t reach his eyes. And now that he was closer, she could see those eyes were slightly red.
He didn’t say a word. Just walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning—his face buried in her hair, hands trembling slightly at her waist.
She hugged him back, just as fiercely. One hand stroked through his hair, the other wrapped around his back and over his shoulder. Alis remembered a time, many moons ago, when Jon had quietly confessed how hard he’d tried to earn Lord and Lady Stark’s love as a child—how desperate he’d been for their approval, and how he’d ultimately received none.
She wondered now what could’ve cracked him open like this. But she didn’t press. Jon would tell her if she asked, but that wasn’t the kind of love he needed right now.
Plushing for immediate answers now would just make him close up even more.
So instead, she just held him. She played with his hair and started telling him about her day. She told him every boring, mundane detail—cleaning tables, serving drinks, mopping floors, washing dishes. She gave him a dramatic retelling of the drunk who mistook his wife for his wife’s brother, and how a mouse had made a town guard scream like a frightened child.
It worked. Slowly, Jon’s body relaxed. She felt his lips shift into a small smile against her hair. He even laughed, just a little—strained and rough, but real.
When she finally ran out of stories, Jon whispered what had shattered him:
“I found out who my mother was.”
He said it like it hurt—like each word scraped against his throat and left it a raw and bleeding mess.
Alis hummed softly and carded her fingers through his hair again. That explained the tear-stained cheeks.
“She’s dead. She died not long after giving birth and… she…”
More words spilled from Jon’s mouth, like he couldn’t have held them back even if he tried. Then they tapered off into silence, like he didn’t quite know how to say the rest of whatever terrible truth he’d stumbled across.
“Did she leave something for you?” Alis asked gently. How else could he have found out? Lord Stark had always been so adamantly against Jon learning the truth of his parentage.
Alis would always resent Eddard Stark for that. She’d carry that grudge to her grave— for denying Jon the truth and doing noting to stem the rumors of his mother being a whore.
“A letter,” Jon choked out, voice tight. “She said she loved me.”
And then it all came out. The entire sorry tale: how he’d gone to the crypts after his lesson with Maester Luwin, how he’d found a chest filled with treasures from his mother—letters… and lies.
Lord Stark was not Jon’s father. And Jon was no bastard. No Snow.
The lies the noble Eddard Stark keeps are so many Alis is surprised he doesn't choke on them. With how he has treated Jon all his life, she wishes he would.
“So…” she began carefully, once Jon had finished, “would you prefer I call you Aemon now?” A fair question, she thought. It was the name his mother had given him. Though, if she was being honest, it felt too soon. And sure enough, Jon confirmed her suspicion moments later.
“I’m not sure,” he muttered. “It’s who I am but it’s so…” He trailed off again, like the words got stuck somewhere between thought and throat.
“New?” she offered. “Different?”
“Personal. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.”
Like it’s a lie, he didn’t say. A pretty lie he wanted to believe—but one that would turn his world inside out.
Change, even for someone like Jon—who usually grits his teeth and takes it—could still be overwhelming.
“Take your time, love. You’ll figure it out,” she said. Little comfort now, maybe, but the truth all the same. The choice of what name to go by would always be his.
He nodded against her. She could feel the tension in him slowly settling, agreeing with the idea of thinking things through instead of rushing into anything.
They didn’t speak after that. Both lost in thought. Alis had a feeling she knew where his thoughts had gone—his fears, his questions. She was beginning to have some of her own.
Because now that she was thinking about the consequences…
Robert Baratheon.
The so-called King of the Seven Kingdoms, whose hatred for Targaryens was the stuff of legends. Men, women, even children—none were spared from his wrath. He had hunted them down to extinction. Burned their legacy to ash.
Never mind the fact that he himself had Targaryen blood through his grandmother. A kingslayer, a kinslayer, a usurper, a whoremonger, and a drunk.
Jon wasn’t safe. Not even in the North.
But there was a fix. A simple one.
Alis pulled away just enough to take his face between her hands. She looked him in the eyes—his real eyes. She had always thought them black, but now she could see them clearly. Not black at all. Deep, dark amethyst. The wolf’s blood ran strong in Jon, but there was no mistaking his Targaryen lineage now—not if you knew what to look for.
“Marry me, Jon,” she said, no fanfare needed. They’d never needed such things.
He blinked. “What?”
She kissed him softly, right on his open mouth. Alis had known, from the moment she met him the second time, that she would marry this man. That this sullen, brooding Northerner would be hers.
One day, she swore, she’d get him to stop acting so surprised when she loved him. One day, he’d take her affection as a given.
“I love you,” she said. “You’re miserable here. I’m miserable here. So marry me—and let’s run away to Essos.”
The kiss she got in return was possibly the best of her life.
—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—
Maester Luwin had always taken his duty seriously. He had always done his part—taught the curious, healed the wounded, advised his share of lords and ladies. Never before had he been so… torn.
After his earlier conversation with Jon—no, Aemon—he had taken to writing in a fresh, leather-bound journal, recording all the truths he now knew, and how he came to know them.
As he wrote, he wondered: To whom was his duty owed? His loyalty?
The right answer should have been to the Starks of Winterfell—to Lord Stark and his lady wife, to their trueborn children. But…
But if asked to choose, he would choose Jon. He would choose his honorary grandson—and his happiness.
It would make a traitor out of him. Possibly even a treasonous one in the eyes of the king. And yet… he could not bring himself to truly care.
It was a rather simple decision once he had come to that conclusion. And it led to an even simpler one.
If Luwin was going to commit treason, he may as well do it to the very best of his ability.
Now, all he had to do was convince a rather stubborn young man to flee to Essos… and find the only other Targaryens left in the world.
Perhaps, if the Starks were too short-sighted to see the gem that Jon was, the dragons would see him for what he truly is—family.