Work Text:
The biting cold should have been the end of him, a bitter farewell to the life he had left behind at Castle Black, carrying his soul quietly into nothingness. Yet the gods, it seemed, were not finished tormenting Jon Snow. Instead of darkness, he awoke to the scent of milk and dying roses lingering somewhere in the room. The world felt far too large, far too overwhelming, while his own body had been reduced to something small and fragile, a helpless thing too weak even to support the weight of its own head.
Jon Snow was supposed to be dead, not reborn as an infant wrapped in silk.
In this life, he had hoped to be the trueborn son of Ned Stark and Catelyn Stark. He wanted to be looked upon with honor. Wanted to prove he could be every bit as good and sincere as his half-brother, Robb Stark.
The creak of an opening door shattered the silence, followed by the figure of a woman whose beauty resembled cracked marble. Her face was delicate, but her expression looked like a ruined painting. Hatred still burned beneath her tear-bright eyes, tangled together with a despair so suffocating the room itself seemed heavy with death.
The woman reached for the silk pillow beside the bed with trembling hands. She lifted it slowly, as though the soft thing were the Stranger himself, come to free her from this misery.
"So many lives were lost just so you could breathe," she whispered, her voice sounding like an open wound rubbed raw with salt. Tears slipped down her hollow cheeks as she stared at Jon. "It's not fair that you should breathe and feel the warmth of the sun while my Aegon and Rhaenys lie in the cold embrace of the Stranger."
A bitter anger crawled through Jon's tiny chest. If the world truly didn't want him, then why had he been forced to live again? Why was he always the unwanted stain in every life he touched? He had never asked to be born, not in his first life, and certainly not in this strange one. The fury swelled inside him until it burst from his throat as broken cries, ragged sobs that sounded like both a plea for death and a mourning for his own cursed existence. And somehow, that cry shattered the hatred on the woman's face.
She staggered back as though struck. The hand that had trembled with murderous intent suddenly weakened. The pillow slipped from her grasp and fell uselessly to the floor.
Then she broke.
A sob tore from her throat, sharp enough to split the silence in two. She gathered Jon into her arms with desperate, shaking hands, clutching him against her chest as though he were the last thing tethering her to the world.
"Forgive me... forgive me..." she whispered again and again, as though each word might somehow piece her ruined soul back together.
The woman sank onto the cold floor, still clutching him like he was the only thing keeping her alive amidst the storm. From beneath the suffocating weight of his own anger and bitterness, Jon could only see her face from below. Her swollen eyes stared blankly at the empty wall ahead, hollow and lifeless. There, amidst the scent of roses and the shadow of death, she looked less like a living woman and more like a corpse cursed to keep breathing.
***
His name was Jaehaerys Targaryen. The illegitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen. His stepmother was a Martell, a woman who had once tried to kill him after losing everything.
Elia Martell was kind to him, but Jon didn't trust her. Years of living as a bastard had taught him to remain wary at all times.
Bastards weren't made for happy endings.
***
By the age of one, Jon could already walk in clumsy little steps. He was determined to escape this place and go North, to his real family. To hell with everyone here.
***
At two years old, he met his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen. It felt strange knowing the young girl was his aunt rather than his cousin. She was sweet and endlessly talkative. Her brother, on the other hand, was a mad little prince who looked at Jon as though he were filth beneath his boots.
Jon was unimpressed. When Viserys pinched him, Jon retaliated by yanking his hair hard enough to make the prince howl. Viserys immediately ran crying to the king, outraged that a bastard had dared lay hands on a dragon prince.
Instead of receiving sympathy, Viserys was confined to his chambers for a week for speaking disgracefully to another prince.
Jon had smirked in satisfaction.
Unfortunately, victory came with consequences.
Now Daenerys refused to leave him alone.
Because after that, the girl followed him everywhere, insisting she needed someone to play with. He returned to his chambers in a constant state of outrage while the servants lowered their heads to hide their laughter at the sight of him being forced into little gowns for the princess's tea parties.
***
At three years old, Jon looked like a fat little pig.
What else was he supposed to call it when his body had begun resembling a lump of bread dough? He blamed Dany entirely. She kept dragging him into the kitchens to steal sweets, which inevitably ended with both of them being caught by the queen. They were punished together every single time, much to Jon's increasing fury.
***
His father was Ned Stark.
Always Ned Stark, never Rhaegar Targaryen.
He was the bastard of Winterfell, not a Targaryen prince.
He was the half-brother of Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Bran Stark, and Rickon Stark.
***
"Do you not think he looks rather fat?" the king remarked.
Jon Snow, whose hair was currently being tied up by Dany, pursed his lips in annoyance.
The queen calmly turned the page of the book she was reading.
"Aegon isn't fat, Rhaegar. He is a baby. Babies require food in order to grow."
Jon watched as the king awkwardly looked away.
"Oh, stop pouting like that! A duck will peck those lips someday," Dany chirped brightly.
Jon frowned.
The queen laughed.
"You look lovely. Just like a princess."
This time, it was the king who smiled faintly.
Gods, Jon hated Dany.
***
He was five when he attempted to flee to the North.
Jon Connington caught him almost immediately and dragged him back by the back of his collar.
"A bastard like you ought to know his place."
Aside from Viserys, Connington was the one person who openly despised him. At every opportunity, the man looked as though he wanted to devour Jon alive.
Jon desperately wanted to claw his ugly face apart.
***
"Where is Rhaegar? And why does this bastard have to dine with us?" Viserys Targaryen demanded, glaring at Jon with hatred and disgust.
The queen rebuked him immediately. "The king is occupied. And mind your manners. We are family. This is the last time I will hear you call him that, Viserys."
"Why do you keep defending him, Elia? He's nothing but a bastard! His blood is filthy! Tainted!"
Viserys stormed out of the dining hall in a fury.
The atmosphere at the table turned suffocating afterward. Dany looked miserable, her earlier cheerfulness completely gone.
"Let us eat in my chambers instead." The queen said brightly at last, her cheerful tone cutting through the tension. "This table feels far too large for only three people."
Dany immediately brightened and slipped her hand into the queen's.
Jon accepted the queen's outstretched hand in silence. The three of them walked toward her private chambers while Dany skipped happily ahead and four ladies-in-waiting followed behind them. Jon could feel their judgmental stares even without turning around to look.
***
He slipped out of his chambers late that night and struggled to climb the wall separating the castle from the city below. His short, chubby body made the effort far more difficult than he would have liked.
"Well now, do you require assistance?"
The warm, gentle voice pierced through the quiet. Jon turned awkwardly and found the queen watching him with barely concealed amusement. He immediately climbed back down and bowed stiffly.
"My apologies, Your Grace."
"There is no need to apologize," the queen replied, humming softly beneath her breath. "Would you care to walk with me?"
The invitation sparked no interest in Jon whatsoever. If anything, it felt more like a threat waiting to swallow him whole like wildfire reducing flesh to ash. But refusing a queen was hardly wise.
"... very well," he answered at last.
He would simply have to remain careful. This woman had once tried to kill him, after all.
The queen led him toward the godswood. The rest of the walk passed in silence. Neither of them seemed eager to speak. Even in his previous life, Jon had never been particularly talkative. He preferred to watch, to listen, to remain cautious.
"Do you like it here?" the queen finally asked, breaking the suffocating quiet.
"I do," Jon replied softly.
A faint smile crossed her lips. "I didn't realize your tastes leaned toward prisons."
Jon stiffened in embarrassment, caught in the lie so easily. Avoiding her gaze, he tried to stumble through an excuse.
"I meant—"
The queen waved a dismissive hand. "None of us truly like this place. There is no need to pretend."
"But you are a queen," Jon said carefully. "This is where you belong."
The queen fell silent.
She tilted her head upward, staring at the lone moonlight spilling across the dark sky. Jon had never been particularly skilled at reading expressions, but even he could tell she was grieving. He had heard the whispers amongst the kitchen servants often enough. Aegon Targaryen and Rhaenys Targaryen, the children who should have been his half-siblings had died horribly during the rebellion. The servants claimed the queen had never truly smiled afterward. That she wandered through the castle like a ghost haunting her own life.
"Is there somewhere you wish to visit?" she asked quietly.
Jon nodded without hesitation. "Winterfell. I want to see Winterfell, Your Grace."
I want to go home.
***
Jon spent a great deal of time with the king. Rhaegar Targaryen insisted it would strengthen the bond between father and son. Yet Jon felt no special attachment to the man. His thoughts always wandered North instead, to air that smelled of snow and pine, to the stiff yet comforting embrace of Ned Stark. His father was the man who had taught him honor beneath the Heart Tree, not the silver-haired king carrying the weight of a ruined kingdom upon his shoulders.
He was Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell.
Every time the king's long fingers settled upon his shoulder or his soft voice drifted through the room reading ancient texts aloud, Jon had to resist the urge to pull away.
He had heard the whispers creeping through the cold stone corridors of the castle. Rumors spreading like mold along the walls of the Red Keep. They said the king was trying to atone for his sins. They said every scrap of affection Rhaegar offered was meant for the ghosts of Aegon and Rhaenys, the children he had failed to save.
And so Jon came to a bitter conclusion.
Jaehaerys was nothing more than a replacement. A fragile pillar built to support a palace that had already collapsed. His presence here, the private lessons, the exhausting attempts at fatherhood, none of it existed because Rhaegar loved him.
He was merely the king's final chance to feel like less of a failure. Rhaegar wasn't trying to love his son.
He was trying to forgive himself through Jaehaerys.
***
At six years old, the king and Arthur Dayne personally began teaching him how to wield a sword. Jon hated admitting it, but Rhaegar and Arthur Dayne were among the finest swordsmen he had ever seen, though still nowhere near as good as his father, Ned Stark.
Jon had once been a young man skilled with a blade. Jaehaerys, however, was merely a little prince still learning how to hold one properly. He found it difficult to balance the line between who he had been and who he was now.
"Well done, my boy. You will become a great swordsman one day."
Jon said nothing.
***
At six and a half, he attended Viserys's betrothal feast to Wynafryd Manderly. The king had arranged the match quickly in order to strengthen alliances. Wynafryd would remain at the Keep until she came of age to marry Viserys. There had been other candidates once, Princess Arianne Martell among them. Rumor claimed their betrothal had been discussed for years, only for Arianne to suddenly be promised elsewhere instead. According to whispers drifting through court, Queen Elia had refused to let her niece marry another Targaryen
Throughout the feast, Viserys Targaryen looked utterly miserable, as though he were moments away from being sick. Beside him, Lady Wynafryd sat pale and stiff. Jon almost pitied her. Being tied to someone like Viserys was hardly a fortunate future. The girl looked on the verge of tears every time Viserys glanced at her.
Music filled the hall while noblemen laughed and danced beneath glittering chandeliers. Jon still was not accustomed to gatherings like these. Lady Stark had always forbidden him from appearing too openly before guests. Usually, he spent feasts hidden away in the kitchens with the servants, sitting quietly with his thoughts.
Things were different now.
Now he was a prince born from another woman's womb.
Sometimes he wondered what it must feel like to truly belong to a family. To be wanted. To know a mother's love. Jon had always believed his mother despised him so deeply she couldn't even bear to see him. Even in this life, no one ever spoke of who she was.
He swept his gaze across the crowded hall, ignoring the judgmental stares from the nobles surrounding him. He found himself hoping to see someone from the North among them all.
"What are you looking for, Jae?" Dany's voice broke through his thoughts.
Jon shook his head and looked back down at the untouched food before him.
Dany rested her chin in her hands. She looked adorable in a black gown embroidered with both Targaryen and Martell designs. Her silver-gold hair had been braided into a crown around her head. It was honestly difficult to believe a child this sweet had come from the same womb as Viserys. The gods had to be playing some elaborate joke.
"Even with so many noble houses absent, the hall still feels crowded," Dany remarked in amazement.
"Who didn't come?"
"Dorne and the North," Dany said.
Jon swallowed down his disappointment.
Gods, he missed his family.
Then Dany suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the dance floor.
"Come dance with me!" she laughed.
***
Being Jon Snow meant freedom. No one paid enough attention to watch where he went. Being Jaehaerys Targaryen was another matter entirely. The king had tightened the guard around him after Jon Connington reported his previous attempt to run away. Ever since then, Jon had run out of ways to trick the guards assigned to watch him and escape to the North. He lived like a prisoner. Every movement was observed. Every action reported back to the king.
Eventually, Jon slipped outside for fresh air. The feast hall had become unbearably loud and suffocating. He needed silence. The godswood felt like a small miracle amidst the chaos in his head.
Unfortunately, trouble found him there anyway.
The boys mocked him with insults he had heard all his life, bastard. Jon ignored them completely, treating them like dust beneath his notice. What he had not expected was for them to grow angry enough to start throwing punches.
Two held him down while the third struck him.
Jon fought back viciously.
Three against one. A brutal little battle broke out beneath the trees of the godswood. But Jon Snow had never lost easily. He had once been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He knew how to fight. Years of brawls and battlefields had taught his body things Jaehaerys's childish frame could not forget. His fists landed hard against jaws, stomachs, and noses with practiced precision.
By the end, Jon stood there breathing heavily while the three boys looked pathetic sprawled across the ground, whimpering and crying.
"You broke my wrist, you bastard!"
"I can break the other one too if you ask nicely," Jon replied flatly. "Do not ever stand in front of me again. Do you understand?" he asked softly.
The boys nodded frantically before scrambling away.
Jon glanced down at his bloodied knuckles. Perhaps he had hit them a little too hard. Remarkable how the kingsguards assigned to watch him had suddenly vanished, Jon thought bitterly. Or perhaps they had simply decided to let him get beaten to death.
"For a bastard, you fight rather well."
The unfamiliar voice pulled Jon's attention sideways. An older man with black hair and robes in shades of orange and yellow approached him with an amused grin. Jon immediately recognized the sun-and-spear sigil embroidered across his clothes.
"How old are you, bastard?"
"Six and a half."
"Not bad," the man mused. "Who taught you to fight like that?"
Jon hesitated. He looked away, carefully considering his answer.
"Ah. So Rhaegar, then?" the man sneered.
"No!" Jon answered far too quickly.
"Then who?"
"A great knight," Jon muttered under his breath.
The man grinned mockingly. "'A great knight' is it? Very well. I believe you."
"What are you doing out here?" Jon asked bluntly. "Shouldn't you be inside celebrating with all those two-faced nobles?"
The man laughed.
"For the same reason you are."
Jon frowned. "You're from Dorne?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you come?"
The man snorted. "So you truly are all muscle and no brains."
"Hey! I'm not stupid," Jon snapped. "I'm confused because Dany said Dorne weren't coming!"
The man shrugged carelessly. "I had no intention of coming either. But I needed to check on my sister."
Jon went still. As far as he knew, there was only one person from Dorne living in the castle.
"Queen Elia is your sister?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes," the man replied. "I am Oberyn Martell. And what is your name, bastard?"
Jon scowled.
"You already know my name."
Oberyn's grin turned sharper. "I merely wished to hear you say it."
"Jaehaerys."
The name tasted bitter on his tongue.
***
Breakfast that morning was painfully tense. Oberyn Martell sat with barely concealed fury written across his face, while the king looked pale and exhausted beside him. Across the table, the queen wore her usual mask of indifference so flawlessly.
Oberyn kept making pointed remarks clearly meant to provoke the king, yet Rhaegar remained silent through all of it, unmoving as stone.
***
People whispered that Oberyn stood one insult away from killing the king himself for everything he had done to the queen and her children. The only reason he had not acted was Elia.
Others claimed the queen was weak. Foolish. That she allowed her pride to be trampled beneath the king's feet without resistance.
***
The following day, Oberyn gifted Jon a spear bearing the sigil of the sun as a farewell present.
***
Jon returned to the sitting room to retrieve the spear he had forgotten after spending the afternoon drawing with Dany. The moment he pushed the door open, the sharp scent of lavender and citrus filled his nose.
Then he stopped.
The king was kneeling before the queen, his arms wrapped around her waist as though he feared she might vanish if he let go. Soft, broken sobs escaped him while the queen remained perfectly still, staring beyond the window toward the distant horizon.
"Forgive me."
The queen said nothing.
"Please... don't leave me."
Still, the queen remained silent.
Perhaps the stories were wrong. Perhaps the queen was neither weak nor foolish. Losing both her children had broken something inside her. Grief, humiliation, betrayal, and pain had fused together until all that remained was emptiness slowly devouring her from within.
Jon quietly stepped back.
The queen's revenge was not rage. But forcing the king to suffer beneath her silence.
And perhaps that was far crueler than resentment.
***
Viserys deliberately spilled hot soup over Jon's hand.
"Oops. My mistake."
Jon said nothing.
The following morning, Viserys woke the entire castle screaming after discovering his bed crawling with worms.
***
For the first time, Jon used the spear Oberyn had given him. The king patiently adjusted his grip and guided his aim toward a stag in the distance. When Jon finally struck true, Rhaegar looked genuinely proud and instructed him to retrieve the spear while Arthur Dayne followed behind.
Jon returned wearing a victorious grin.
But the king's smile faltered the instant he saw Jon's face. Shock flickered briefly across his features.
"Ly—" the king cut himself off abruptly and cleared his throat.
"Well done, my boy. Truly well done."
***
Jon fell ill soon after.
Fever burned through him while violent chills wracked his body. In his dreams, he saw Bran Stark falling from the tower. He heard his father promising to tell him the truth about his mother once he was old enough. Then all those familiar faces slowly faded away.
Jon screamed for them, but they only drifted farther and farther into the dark.
Somewhere beyond the edge of consciousness, he was certain he felt someone brushing trembling fingers against his cheek as though he were something fragile. He knew he was calling for someone, though he didn't know whose name he whispered. And he could have sworn he heard a voice answer him.
"It's all right. I'm here. You're safe now. Everything will be all right."
The touch was warm. Gentle.
Jon liked it.
Jon missed it.
Jon ached for it.
***
Jon woke to raised voices echoing through the room. Every inch of his body hurt, and he hated lying helplessly in bed while the world moved around him. He blinked against the light and listened quietly to the noise around him.
A fight.
A woman's voice rang sharp and hysterical while a man answered in strained desperation. Jon couldn't fully understand what they were fighting about, only that something raw and ugly was unraveling between them.
"You've hurt me over and over again. So what exactly is stopping you this time?"
"Elia, please—"
"You know what my greatest regret is, Rhaegar? Saying 'I do'. If I had married Baelor instead, I might be living in the Hightower now, happy with my children."
"Jaehaerys is not your son. He is not Aegon and Rhaenys."
"Leave. Please. I'm begging you."
"Elia, I love you."
Then came the sharp crack of a slap. Loud enough to split the silence in two.
"Keep your love. It destroyed me and my children."
Jon heard her shove the king toward the door before it slammed shut. A moment later, she collapsed onto the floor. Kneeling. Shoulders trembling violently.
Jon stared up at the ceiling in silence. Both the king and queen saw him as a replacement for the children they had lost.
Jon didn't mind.
After all, he wasn't the real Jaehaerys either. He wasn't attached to anyone here. He did not belong to these people. They were strangers. His family was in the North. Not here.
Right?
***
Jon followed Dany down the corridor as she dragged him by the wrist with all the excitement of a criminal planning a grand heist. Apparently, she had decided they desperately needed to steal snacks before dinner again. Jon truly hated how impossible it was to refuse her whenever she looked at him with those wide violet eyes and puffed cheeks.
They both peeked carefully from behind the stone wall, inspecting the kitchen like seasoned thieves.
The corridors they had passed through felt strangely bare. No tables. No flower arrangements. No statues tucked into corners. The stone halls stretched long and empty without warmth or decoration, and it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. In Winterfell, Lady Stark always filled the castle with paintings, flowers, woven tapestries, and little clay statues that softened the dreadful loneliness of harsh winters.
"There's nobody in the kitchen," Dany whispered suspiciously.
"Maybe they're resting," Jon muttered back.
"Or perhaps they're hiding."
The cheerful voice behind them nearly made both children jump out of their skin. Their smiles vanished instantly.
The queen stood behind them with one hand resting on her waist, smiling so sweetly her eyes had narrowed into crescents.
"Well, well," the queen mused softly. "Such clever children. Planning to steal lemon cakes again?"
"N-no!" Dany denied immediately.
"Oh?" The queen tilted her head with mock curiosity. "That's interesting. I also heard the lemon cakes in the sitting room mysteriously disappeared earlier today. I wonder who could have eaten them."
Dany smiled nervously. Crumbs still clung to her chubby cheeks.
"It wasn't us, Your Grace," Jon answered solemnly despite the streak of cream still smeared across the collar of his tunic.
The queen stared at both of them in silence for a moment. Then she pinched their cheeks.
Hard.
As punishment, both Jon and Dany were banned from eating sweets until the next morning.
***
His swordsmanship and combat skills continued improving rapidly or at least that was what the king and Ser Arthur Dayne insisted. Viserys looked increasingly irritated each time Jon effortlessly knocked the prince's sword from his hands during training.
"Your fighting skills are mediocre at best," Viserys sneered bitterly one afternoon, rubbing his wrist after losing yet again. "I've no idea why Rhaegar praises you so much. You're nothing more than a bastard trying to humiliate a dragon prince."
Jon calmly wiped sweat from his forehead before answering.
"You were humiliating yourself long before I beat you."
Viserys looked ready to explode.
***
He was nine years old when he saw Viserys yank Dany by the hair hard enough to make her cry out. When Viserys's betrothed tried to stop him, the prince shoved the poor girl violently onto the floor without hesitation. Jon reacted before thinking. He pulled Dany away and helped the trembling girl back to her feet.
The mad prince struck him across the jaw before spitting directly at him, rage twisting his face into something ugly and feverish.
"Stay out of this, bastard!" Viserys snarled. "You're so disgusting your whore mother would rather die than raise filthy trash like you! How dare you touch me?! I'll kill you!"
Jon didn't remember much after that. Everything happened too quickly. The only thing he clearly recalled was Dany screaming at him to stop.
***
Jon remained silent while the queen treated the bruises covering his face and body. The ointment stung against his split skin, but he did not react. He simply sat motionless at the edge of the bed with his head lowered, staring at his bruised knees as though they belonged to someone else.
But Viserys's words wouldn't stop echoing inside his head.
Jon had been insulted before. Beaten before. Looked down on all his life. He thought he was used to it. Strong enough to endure it. But somehow this felt different. Because for the first time, the insult had not only been directed at him. It had been directed toward a woman he had never even met.
His mother.
And the worst part was that Jon couldn't defend her. Because he didn't even know who she was. That hurt far more than every insult he had endured throughout his life.
"Was my mother a whore?"
His voice sounded quiet and raw, as though the words had been dragged painfully from his throat.
The queen fell silent.
That silence made Jon's chest tighten even more. A short, bitter laugh escaped him. It sounded exhausted. Hollow.
"Did she really choose death over seeing me?" he asked softly.
Jon swallowed hard, trying to force down the ache clawing at his throat. He hated this. Hated himself for sounding weak. "I'm not a bad child," he whispered, lowering his gaze again. His fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of his trousers until his knuckles turned white.
"I tried to be good. I listened to my father. I trained properly. I never asked for anything." His breathing grew uneven.
There was anger in his eyes now, but beneath it lay something infinitely more painful, the confusion of a child who had spent his entire life wondering why the world seemed determined to reject him. "So why does my mother hate me?" The question sounded unbearably small. Fragile enough that even Jon himself looked ashamed for asking it.
He clenched his jaw hard, trying desperately to hold back the tears burning behind his eyes. Men were not supposed to cry over things like this.
But all the pain he had buried for years suddenly felt too heavy to carry anymore. Anger. Shame. Loneliness. Confusion. Envy. They tangled together inside his chest until breathing itself hurt.
"Why was I born if nobody wanted me?" he whispered at last.
The queen softly called his name, but Jon cut her off immediately with a trembling voice.
"I never asked to be born."
When she reached for his hand, Jon shoved hers away on instinct.
"Even you and the king hate me," he rasped, staring at her accusingly. "You look at me like I murdered your children."
His brows drew together tightly. For a moment, he looked heartbreakingly young despite how hard he tried to appear strong.
"What did I do wrong?" he asked quietly, almost desperate now. "Why does everyone hate me so much?"
The queen looked at him with an expression that somehow hurt even worse. Guilt so deep it seemed to hollow her out from within. And strangely, that was exactly what finally made Jon want to cry.
"Your mother wasn't a whore," the queen said softly at last. "She was a strong woman."
This time, when she took his hand again, Jon did not pull away. Her fingers were warm. Painfully warm. Jon couldn't remember the last time someone had held his hand like this.
"Her name was Lyanna Stark. A woman who loved you until her very last breath."
"Lyanna... Stark?" he repeated weakly.
He knew that name. Everyone did. Her father's beloved younger sister who had died tragically young, the woman whose memory still placed grief into Ned Stark's eyes whenever she was mentioned. And suddenly something inside Jon collapsed. For the first time in his life, his mother was no longer some faceless shadow hidden in whispers and shame. She was real.
She had a name.
She was not a sin.
His chest tightened so painfully he could barely breathe. He didn't understand why tears suddenly slipped down his face.
Maybe relief. Maybe exhaustion after spending his entire life believing he had never been wanted. Or maybe because, after years of unanswered questions, someone had finally told him that his mother had loved him.
"You look so much like her," the queen whispered while gently wiping away the tears from his cheeks with trembling fingers.
"And I am sorry... for the way we treated you. For every cruel thing that hurt you."
Jon didn't answer.
For the first time in his life, he no longer felt like a mistake that should never have existed. When the queen slowly pulled him into her embrace, Jon finally stopped resisting. He shut his eyes tightly and, like a child who had spent far too long pretending to be strong, he quietly broke down against her shoulder.
***
Because of the fight, the king ultimately decided to send Viserys away to the Citadel. Strangely, the family of Viserys' fiancée offered no protest at all, as though they were relieved their daughter would no longer be tied to him.
The decision sent Viserys into a violent fury. According to him, the king was exiling him for crimes he did not commit. He was the victim while that bastard continued roaming freely through the castle.
None of Viserys's protests mattered.
The king remained firm. Rhaegar had noticed the signs of madness in his brother long ago, he had simply refused to accept them. Viserys could still change, Rhaegar once believed. He was not their father. But that fragile optimism slowly crumbled as the prince's instability grew worse with every passing year.
***
"What place do you wish to visit most?"
"Sunspear."
***
The king later received more reports regarding Viserys's increasingly violent behavior at the Citadel, and the news only seemed to add another weight onto his already burdened shoulders.
***
Jon sat beside her while she happily devoured lemon cakes. Out of boredom, he poked her puffed cheeks repeatedly while she chewed.
"Ow," Dany complained through a mouthful of cake before retaliating by yanking his hair hard enough to make him hiss.
"Ouch."
***
"Brother, I want to plant lemon trees in the gardens."
"Huh?"
"I think I'd rather become a lemon farmer instead."
"........"
For a full five seconds, the king simply stared at Dany as though questioning every decision that had led to this conversation.
Then Jon burst into laughter loud enough to echo across the room.
***
At nine years old, Jon began his first formal duels against the king. Rhaegar was an incredibly skilled swordsman. So was Jon.
Unfortunately, Jon's body was still growing, and every duel ended the same way. The king's longer reach and greater strength eventually overwhelmed him. Jon lost again. And again. And again.
The king chuckled softly before lifting Jon clean off the ground as though he weighed nothing at all. "You're becoming more skilled every day," the king praised warmly. "Very impressive."
Jon grumbled under his breath, clearly refusing to accept defeat with dignity.
"Good work," the king added before ruffling his hair.
Jon looked deeply offended by that somehow.
***
Then news arrived from Oldtown.
Prince Viserys was dead.
They said he had fallen from a horse while attempting to sneak out of the Citadel using a mount that didn't belong to him. His neck had broken instantly upon impact.
The king took the loss terribly. No matter how unstable Viserys had become, he had still been his younger brother. Dany, strangely enough, felt nothing at all.
Jon attempted to comfort her the only way he knew how. By arriving at her chambers carrying nearly the entire remaining supply of lemon cakes (stolen) from the kitchens.
***
Jon went to bed hungry one night purely out of stubbornness after refusing dinner. Naturally, this terrible decision came back to haunt him at midnight. His stomach growled viciously as he wandered through the silent castle corridors toward the kitchens in search of food. The halls were dim and empty beneath the moonlight pouring through narrow windows.
Then he spotted a woman walking slowly at the far end of the corridor.
"Your Grace?"
He frowned when the queen ignored him completely and continued forward with slow, distant steps. Jon was just about to ask why she was wandering the castle alone at this hour when another presence emerged quietly from the shadows behind her.
The king.
Rhaegar immediately shook his head toward Jon before raising a hand in silent warning for him not to speak.
Jon fell silent. The king simply continued following the queen from several steps behind.
What... exactly was happening?
***
The following night, Jon saw it again.
The queen wandered the corridors with hollow, unfocused eyes while the king followed carefully behind her in complete silence. Whenever she drifted too close to the stone walls, the king would gently guide her away before she could accidentally hurt herself against the rough surfaces.
Jon watched from a distance without speaking.
He did not know what was wrong with the queen. But instinctively, he knew it was something terrible.
***
People whispered that the queen had suffered from sleepwalking for years.
The maesters had never found a cure.
***
Sweat rolled slowly down Jon's temple before tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He wiped it away briefly with the back of his hand before tightening his grip around the wooden sword once more. His breathing had grown heavy after training since early morning, yet his eyes never left the man standing across from him.
At ten years old, Jon had already grown taller than most boys his age. His body had changed rapidly over the past year, lean muscle replacing childhood softness little by little.
The king stood several steps away with a practice sword resting loosely in his hand, appearing infuriatingly relaxed as always. The afternoon sunlight caught faintly against his silver hair whenever the wind shifted. Though no longer young, the king still carried himself with a quiet authority Jon struggled to explain.
Jon attacked first.
His blade shot toward the king's right shoulder, only for the king to knock it aside effortlessly as though Jon's strike was nothing more than childish play. The sharp crack of wood against wood echoed through the training yard.
Jon stepped back half a pace, jaw tightening stubbornly. He attacked again immediately.
This time he aimed low toward the king's left side with an intentionally sloppy opening. A trap. The king reacted exactly as Jon expected. In a split second, Jon twisted sharply before slamming the hilt of his wooden sword against the king's wrist hard enough to knock the weapon from his hand entirely.
The sword hit the grass. Jon grinned smugly.
The king glanced down at his fallen weapon before letting out a soft laugh. He didn't seem angry in the slightest. If anything, he looked proud.
"Well done."
Jon slowly lowered his sword before glancing toward the large tree resting at the edge of the yard.
The queen sat beneath it in a pale flowing gown that shifted softly beneath the morning breeze. Dany sat beside her, struggling miserably with embroidery she had apparently sewn incorrectly several times already. Every now and then, the queen would laugh quietly before undoing the tangled stitches herself with endless patience.
***
That night, Jon dreamed of home again.
***
"Could you tell us about Aegon and Rhaenys?"
One afternoon, Jon heard Dany ask the question while the three of them rested beneath the shade of a large tree. Warm wind drifted through the garden, carrying the scent of flowers and citrus while sunlight flickered softly between the leaves above them.
"Aegon…" the queen murmured, a faint smile touching her lips. "He was a sweet baby. Quiet, never fussy." Her gaze turned distant for a moment, as though she were looking somewhere far beyond the gardens. "And Rhaenys… she was a lovely child. Always running around with her cat. Did you know she used to pretend her cat was the black dragon Balerion? She adored that creature more than anything."
"Really?" Dany gasped dramatically, eyes sparkling with delight. "That's amazing! I wish I could've met them."
Jon found himself speaking before he could stop it. "How old were they?"
The queen tilted her head slightly as she thought. "Aegon would be around your age now. And Rhaenys…" Her smile softened. "Three years older than both of you."
Dany giggled brightly. "It would've been fun if they were still here. We could all play together. Aegon would be trapped with grumpy Jon, and Rhaenys could help me grow lemon trees."
Jon snorted under his breath and pinched Dany's chubby cheek, earning an offended squeal from the girl. It had become a habit of his over the years, teasing her whenever she grew too dramatic.
The queen laughed softly at the sight of them.
"What did they look like?" Jon asked quietly.
The queen's fingers moved gently through Dany's silver-gold hair before brushing lightly over Jon's dark curls as well. Her touch was careful.
"I don't know," she admitted softly. "I can't remember their faces anymore."
Dany's smile faded first. Jon looked away.
And after that day, he never brought up Aegon or Rhaenys again. Because he finally understood that those names were not simply memories to the queen. They were wounds. Old wounds that never truly healed, only buried beneath silence so deep it had started swallowing pieces of her whole.
***
A grand tournament was held to celebrate the birth of Lord Hayford's heir. The king requested that Jon and Dany attend and show the crown's support, accompanied by a dozen Kingsguard and several ladies-in-waiting. Jon accepted without protest. More than anything, this was an opportunity. If Northerners attended this time, perhaps he could finally hear news of home from someone who had actually seen it.
Before their departure, the queen gifted him a cloak embroidered with the image of a swallow across the chest.
"There. Much better," the queen murmured softly as she adjusted the collar. "You look handsome."
"Thank you."
The queen hummed lightly. "It was nothing."
Dany approached them moments later wearing a cloak of her own, also made by the queen. Unlike Jon's, hers carried three embroidered dragon heads stitched in different colors across the fabric. The queen immediately pulled Dany into an embrace and kissed her forehead in farewell. The two dissolved into soft giggles after exchanging some private joke Jon didn't understand.
Then the queen pulled him into a warm embrace before lightly poking his forehead with two fingers.
"Return in one piece," she said, half teasing.
The corner of Jon's mouth twitched as he fought back a laugh.
When the king stepped closer as though intending to touch the queen in farewell, she smoothly avoided him by lowering herself into a formal curtsy instead. Jon did not miss the brief look of disappointment that crossed the king's face.
"My prayers go with all of you," the queen said softly.
Dany and the king had already mounted their horses by then. Jon hesitated beside his own before suddenly turning back toward her.
"I... I'll return," he said, "And I'll bring you a gift. I promise."
***
The tournament lasted for seven consecutive days.
From morning until night, the castle grounds roared with cheers, clashing steel, galloping horses, and music played by traveling musicians from every corner of the realm. Noble houses arrived beneath fluttering banners and proud sigils shining beneath the summer sky. The great hall overflowed with expensive silks, drunken laughter, political whispers, and the heavy scent of wine strong enough to make Jon feel sick at times.
But on the third day, something finally caught his attention.
A pale pink banner bearing the flayed man waved among the crowds gathered from across Westeros.
Bolton.
Jon recognized it instantly.
For the first time in so long, he was looking at someone from the North. Someone from the same land as him.
From home.
Jon observed the Bolton party from afar for quite some time before finally forcing himself to approach. Truthfully, he had never been particularly close to House Bolton. Even back in Winterfell, their relationship had remained distant at best. Lord Bolton had always unsettled Jon with his cold eyes and soft-spoken voice that somehow sounded more threatening than shouting ever could.
But still. They were Northerners.
And lately, the ache of homesickness had grown too large to ignore.
The guards immediately bowed when Jon approached. Several nobles glanced toward him before whispering quietly among themselves. Jon ignored them as always and stopped before Lord Bolton, who had been conversing with a group of other lords.
"Lord Bolton," Jon greeted politely, keeping his voice as calm as possible while trying to sound like a proper prince.
The man studied him for several seconds longer than necessary.
"Prince Jaehaerys," he replied at last with a slight inclination of his head.
Jon began with harmless conversation first. He asked about their journey south, the weather in the North, the conditions around the Dreadfort. His tone remained composed, though in truth he was merely gathering the courage to ask what he truly wanted to know from the beginning.
Winterfell. His family.
And when the question finally escaped him, Jon tried desperately not to sound too hopeful.
"How is Lord Stark?"
Lord Bolton paused briefly before answering in his usual flat tone.
"Lord Stark is well."
Jon nodded slowly, trying to contain the immediate wave of relief flooding through his chest.
"And Lady Stark?" he asked more carefully this time.
"She is fine."
"And... their children?"
This time, Lord Bolton watched him more carefully. As though he noticed something Jon had failed to hide completely.
"All are doing well, Your Grace."
For a moment, Jon could not respond at all. Winterfell rose vividly inside his mind. Robb laughing loudly during sword practice. Bran climbing things he absolutely should not have climbed. Arya racing through the halls like a tiny storm. Rickon crying over something ridiculous while chasing after him. Even Sansa making sarcastic jokes after training. Even Lady Stark. Even her cold stares.
Still, Jon only gave a small nod while forcing himself to remain composed like a prince who should not grow emotional over news from the North.
"If I may ask... why did House Stark not attend the tournament?"
"They are managing the effects of a harsh winter, Your Grace," Lord Bolton answered. "Lord Stark chose to remain in the North until conditions improve."
Lord Bolton watched him carefully. But Jon was too busy trying to contain the overwhelming relief in his chest to care.
That night, after the celebrations ended and he returned to his chambers, Jon stood silently beside the window for a very long time while staring into the dark sky beyond the castle walls.
He would go home.
Sooner or later, he would return home.
***
Jon wasn't allowed to participate in the tourney itself, which he found deeply irritating. In the end, he dragged Dany along to wander around the castle grounds in an attempt to kill his boredom. The girl hid her face beneath a light veil so she would not attract too much attention. Not far from the outer courtyard, merchants crowded the streets with colorful stalls and loud voices, selling everything from pastries to silks and jewelry imported from distant cities.
Jon's attention immediately drifted toward a merchant selling delicate glass beads that shimmered beautifully beneath the afternoon sun. He reached into his pocket, only to realize he didn't possess a single gold coin.
Dany silently pressed one into his palm.
"Where did you get this?"
The girl merely smiled smugly.
Jon snorted but didn't return the coin. Instead, he used it to buy the beads that had caught his attention earlier, then casually tossed them into Dany's hands. The girl burst into loud delighted laughter almost immediately, clutching the beads to her chest like treasure.
***
On the fourth day, Jon immediately signed himself up for the royal hunt.
At the end of it, he managed to catch a rabbit alive.
Jon took absurdly good care of the rabbit afterward and made sure the creature was always properly fed.
***
On the seventh day, the royal procession finally returned King's Landing. The moment they approached the city gates, Jon was struck by the sharp stench lingering in the air. The gates slowly opened before the bells atop the towers rang three times.
Jon smiled instinctively at what he assumed was a grand welcome for their return before climbing down from his horse with the rabbit tucked carefully in his arms.
He hurried into the castle, ignoring Dany calling after him.
"Is the queen in her chambers?"
The servant didn't answer.
"Hey. Answer me."
The bells rang again.
"The queen is dead."
His smile vanished.
***
Jon could swear the queen had been perfectly fine before they left for Hayford Castle. She had smiled at him that very morning. She had even fixed the crooked collar of his cloak with her soft fingers while quietly scolding him for always dressing carelessly. She had looked somewhat pale these past few weeks, yes, but not like someone on the verge of death. There had been no warning. No final goodbye. No last words. Everything had happened far too quickly to make sense.
And now... Jon could only stand there silently as the queen's lifeless body was slowly placed inside a wooden coffin.
The cold evening wind swept through the castle courtyard, heavy with mourning.
Dorne had insisted on bringing their princess back to her homeland. Back to the place where she had been born. Back to the land where the sun always burned warm. And for the first time since Jon had known him, the king looked so utterly exhausted that he surrendered without resistance.
Rhaegar stood near the carriage with a face so pale he looked as though half his soul had been carved out of him. His silver hair had fallen into disarray beneath the wind, and his eyes looked hollow, as if he could no longer truly see what stood before him.
Beside Jon, Dany sobbed so hard her small body trembled violently. Tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks as though she physically couldn't accept that the woman who used to kiss her forehead before bed was now nothing more than a cold body inside a coffin.
Jon watched all of it without moving.
He felt... nothing.
It was strange. His mind was crowded with thoughts, yet his chest felt hollow. As though his feelings were slower than the truth itself.
The queen was dead.
The sentence sounded foreign inside his head.
Jon stared at the coffin for a very long time, trying to understand why everyone looked so destroyed by it.
Rhaegar looked like an empty shell.
Dany cried as though her entire world had collapsed.
Even the servants seemed genuinely heartbroken.
Meanwhile Jon... simply stood there in silence.
Because this should not hurt him this much, should it?
The queen wasn't his mother. Not his family. She was merely a stranger who had happened to treat him kindly.
That was all.
Jon swallowed quietly while continuing to stare at the coffin as it was carefully loaded into the carriage.
Elia wasn't his mother. She was no one to him. He had not even known her for that long.
And yet, the harder Jon repeated those words to himself, the tighter his chest began to ache.
The carriage slowly began to move across the stone road. Wooden wheels creaked softly against the ground while the royal guards opened the massive gates, allowing the escort to carry their queen home for the final time.
***
Jon avoided wearing the cloak embroidered with the swallow. He left it abandoned inside the wardrobe, gathering dust untouched.
***
Elia was not his.
The queen was a stranger.
***
Sweat dampened Jon's forehead. From sunrise until the sun nearly disappeared beyond the horizon, he had spent the entire day training with a sword. He needed something—anything—to keep himself occupied.
Without realizing it, his gaze drifted toward the empty place beneath the tree.
Jon slowly shook his head.
***
Jon kept telling himself over and over that everything was fine. That this would pass eventually.
Then why did his heart feel like it was being crushed inside his chest? Why did it hurt this much?
Jon lowered his head, gritting his teeth hard to stop the sound of his sobs from escaping while his fist struck against his own chest again and again, as though he could somehow beat the pain out of himself. He curled on the floor, clutching the swallow-embroidered cloak so tightly the fabric wrinkled inside his trembling hands.
Jon gasped for breath, each inhale catching painfully in his throat while his reddened eyes stared blankly at the cloak in his grasp. The swallow stitched into the fabric almost felt mocking, as though it was laughing at him for mourning something he had never truly possessed in the first place. It was unfair. Horribly unfair. How could someone who had only existed briefly in his life leave behind a hole this enormous inside his soul?
For the first time in his life, Jon had found the warmth of a mother's affection, something that had always felt more like a myth than reality. Someone who had looked at him not as a stain or a threat, but simply as a child deserving of love without conditions. The ache inside him only worsened because Jon realized too late just how much that warmth had meant to him before death ripped it away without mercy.
His sob finally broke free, rough and shattered, tearing through the silence of the night with all the devastation of a child finally understanding the cruel truth that he had lost the one place that had ever made him feel truly wanted.
***
The years without the queen were unbearably heavy. The king was utterly devastated, his health deteriorating drastically as time passed. History would later remember that period as The Mourning Years.
***
At the age of forty-four, exactly ten years after Queen Elia's death, King Rhaegar passed away from the illness that had plagued him for years.
***
Jon watched proudly as the crown was placed upon Dany's head. Together with the lords and people of the realm, he swore loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Long live the queen!"
***
"Come on, Jon! They're waiting."
Jon followed his cousin toward the training yard. There, he found Bran chasing Arya after she deliberately ruined his archery practice again. A small smile tugged at Jon's lips as he glanced toward Robb Stark standing beside his wife, the two of them looking painfully happy while holding their newborn child. Sansa smiled shyly beside her betrothed while Rickon was clearly in the middle of planning yet another disaster for the poor servants.
From the second floor balcony, Ned and Catelyn Stark watched all of them with quiet affection.
Warmth filled Jon's chest.
Home.
***
"I came home, Mother," Jon said softly to the stone statue before him.
His voice nearly disappeared beneath the cold wind drifting through the crypts of Winterfell. The underground chambers always felt damp and silent, filled with the scent of ancient stone and earth that never truly warmed. Jon stood motionless before Lyanna Stark's statue, his hands stiff at his sides.
"I used to imagine what you looked like when I was younger. I thought maybe your eyes were gentle. Or maybe you would've brushed my hair the way mothers are supposed to."
Jon stared at Lyanna's stone face for a very long time before smiling faintly.
"I wish I could've met you at least once," he whispered at last. "Not like this. Not as a statue. Not through stories from other people. Just... once."
For a long moment, he simply stared at the carved face without blinking, searching for something familiar within it. The shape of the eyes. The curve of the lips. Anything that might also exist within himself.
"Dany said I'm stubborn," he murmured softly. "She said it's because I'm Northern. Maybe I really am like you." The corner of his lips lifted slightly.
"There was someone who was very kind to me when I was far from home." His voice softened unconsciously. "She... reminded me that I wasn't a mistake. I regret not trying to know her better."
His throat tightened painfully.
"She lost her children. Her soul. She lost everything," Jon lowered his gaze, his fingers curling slightly against the cold stone. "She had every reason to hate me, and yet she still gave me everything."
His voice cracked quietly.
"Elia was a very great woman. And I loved her as though she belonged to me. As though she was my mother."