Aenar Snow
"Who is Arya?"
The name fell between them like a blade. Aenar felt his breath catch, his body going utterly still while his mind raced like a frightened animal. The chamber suddenly seemed too small, the air too thick. How could his father know that name? A name from another life, another world, a sister who had never existed in this one?
"What did you say?" Aenar managed, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. He forced his expression to remain neutral, though his heart hammered against his ribs with such force he wondered if Daemon could hear it.
Daemon's violet eyes—the same eyes Aenar saw in his own reflection—narrowed slightly. He approached slowly.
"Arya," he repeated, watching Aenar's face. "I saw her in the flames when I visited Kinvara."
"The flames," Aenar echoed, buying himself time. "And what exactly did you see in these magical flames of hers?" He tried for dismissive, but the words came out tighter than intended.
Daemon circled to Aenar's left, his movement reminiscent of Caraxes before a strike. "A boy in the snow," he said quietly. "Holding a dying girl with dark hair. He called her 'Arya' as she bled out in his arms." His father paused, the silence stretching between them like a bowstring pulled taut. "The boy had your face, Aenar. Or rather, you had his."
The memory slammed into Aenar without warning—Arya's blood staining the snow crimson, her gray eyes (Stark eyes, like his had once been) growing dim as the life drained from her small frame. The howl that had torn from his throat, more wolf than man.
"It means nothing," Aenar said, turning toward the window to hide his face. Outside, King's Landing spread beneath them, for a moment, he could almost hear the bells, he had heard them so many times, bells rang for a life lost, for the princess, they rang that day, all day, all mourning a Princess whose eyes never opened, she never got to live to see the beauty of this world. "Fire visions are notorious for their... creative interpretations. Surely you know that."
"Do I?" Daemon's voice had softened. "What I know is that my son just collapsed at the mention of words that shouldn't mean anything to him. What I know is that he's been keeping secrets that eat at him like poison." A pause. "What I know is that there are moments when I look at you and see a stranger wearing my son's face."
Aenar's fingers tightened on the windowsill, the stone cool beneath his touch. For nearly two decades, he'd carried this burden alone—the memories of another life, another war, another family. He'd built walls around those memories, compartmentalized them, tried to be the son Daemon and Lyanna deserved. But the walls were crumbling now, cracks spreading like ice breaking over a frozen lake.
"You wouldn't understand," he said finally.
"Try me."
A bitter laugh escaped before Aenar could stop it. "You want me to explain something I barely understand myself? Something that sounds like madness even to my own ears?"
"I've seen enough madness to recognize the difference," Daemon replied, moving to stand beside him at the window. Below, torches illuminated the paths through the gardens, small flickers of light against the gathering darkness. "What I see in you isn't madness, Aenar. It's... division. As if you're fighting a war inside your own skin."
The accuracy of those words struck deep. Wasn't that exactly what he'd been doing since waking in this life with memories of another? Jon Snow and Aenar Targaryen, northern bastard and dragon prince, forced to coexist in one mind, one body.
Daemon's hand came to rest on Aenar's shoulder, the touch unexpectedly gentle for a man known as the Rogue Prince. "You can tell me everything," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I'm your father."
Am I truly your son? The question burned in Aenar's throat. In the life he remembered, his father had been Rhaegar Targaryen—a man he'd never known, dead before he drew his first breath. Ned Stark had been the father he'd known, the man who'd raised him on honor and duty and sacrifice.
And now Daemon, who had somehow become more of a father than either of his previous ones. Who had taught him to ride, to fight, to survive in a court of vipers. Who had defended him, supported him, loved him without condition for seventeen years.
The weight of it all threatened to crush him.
Daenerys's face appeared in his mind, her silver hair tangled and damp with sweat, her violet eyes wild with desperation as she clawed at his arms, demanding to know where their daughter was. He could still hear her scream when he'd told her the truth, the sound that lived in his memory, the sound of happiness dying.
Then Laenor, his body blistered and broken from Lykard Martell's wildfire trap, whispering his final words with charred lips: "F...Father... I—failed. I'm...sorry... I failed... again..."
His mother. Her face appeared next, beautiful and fierce and so like Arya it had hurt to look at her sometimes. She had died bringing his sister into the world, a girl who had lived barely long enough to be named. Another failure, another loved one he couldn't save.
"Aenar?" Daemon's voice pulled him back from the abyss of memory. His father's expression had softened, concern replacing the earlier suspicion.
"I need time," Aenar said finally, his voice rough with emotion he refused to show. "This isn't a conversation to have standing in a bedchamber with half the court waiting for us at tonight's feast."
Daemon's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. "When, then?"
"The Godswood," he decided. "Tonight, after the feast. I'll meet you there."
"The Godswood?" Daemon echoed, surprise evident in his tone. "Why there?"
A faint, sad smile touched Aenar's lips. "It seems appropriate."
"And what exactly will you tell me there, son?"
Aenar looked his father directly in the eyes, two sets of Targaryen violet meeting in silent challenge. "I'll tell you about the life and death of Jon Snow."
Confusion flickered across Daemon's face. "Jon Snow? Who is—"
"Tonight," Aenar cut him off. "After the feast. In the Godswood." He moved toward the door, needing to escape before his resolve crumbled entirely. "I should prepare. The king expects us to celebrate his son's birth, regardless of what else transpires between our houses."
Daemon didn't try to stop him, but his voice followed Aenar to the threshold. "Whatever burden you're carrying, Aenar... sharing it might lighten the weight."
Aenar paused, his hand on the door handle. "Or it might double it," he replied without turning around. "Some truths, once spoken, can never be taken back."
"Then why tell me at all?"
The question hung in the air, demanding an answer. Aenar wasn't sure he had. Why indeed? After all these years of silence, of careful compartmentalization, of living as Aenar. Why speak now?
Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps it was the knowledge that his father had glimpsed something of his true self through Kinvara's flames. Or perhaps it was simply time—time for the walls to come down, time to be honest with at least one person in this life.
"Because," Aenar said finally, "you deserve to know the truth about the son you've raised." He opened the door, pausing just long enough to add, "And I deserve to know if that truth changes anything between us."
Before Daemon could respond, Aenar stepped into the corridor, letting the heavy oak door swing shut behind him. The distant sounds of feast preparations drifted up from the lower levels of the Red Keep—servants calling to one another, musicians tuning their instruments, the clatter of plates and goblets being arranged.
Life continuing, oblivious to the fact that tonight, in Godswood, Aenar Targaryen would bring Jon Snow back from the dead.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to finally be known.
Jon Targaryen
The Great Hall of the Red Keep pulsed with light and noise, and Aenar felt his heart being hollow. A hundred torches blazed in their sconces. Servants weaved between tables like ants, bearing platters heaped with steaming meats and bowls of exotic fruits from the Summer Isles. Roasted venison dripping with honey and rosemary, lamprey pie, caramelized onions swimming in butter, and beneath it all, the metallic tang of wine spilled on stone.
In the North, feasts had been simpler affairs. Hearty stews, dark bread, strong ale. No peacocks with their feathers meticulously replaced after cooking, no dormice dipped in honey, no elaborate custards shaped like castles and stags. Jon Snow would have found this display wasteful. Aenar Targaryen was expected to find it normal.
"Your thoughts seem a thousand leagues away," Rhaenyra said beside him, her voice cutting through the din. She looked radiant tonight, her silver-gold hair arranged in an intricate style that mimicked dragon wings, her dress the deep crimson of House Targaryen. "Is the boar not to your liking?"
Aenar realized he'd been absently pushing meat around his plate for several minutes. He forced a smile, one he hoped looked genuine enough to fool the courtiers watching their table with hungry eyes. "The boar is excellent. My mind wanders, that's all."
"To Tyrosh?" she asked, reaching for her goblet. "Or to something closer at hand?"
They hadn't been alone since returning to King's Landing, circumstances and politics conspiring to keep them separated. Rhaenyra had questions—about the letter from Princess Aliandra, about his collapse during the council meeting, about their uncertain future. Questions he wasn't ready to answer.
"To matters that can wait until tomorrow," he replied, squeezing her hand briefly beneath the table. "Tonight is for celebration."
A bitter lie, but a necessary one. Across the hall, his father sat at the high table with King Viserys and Queen Alicent, his posture casual but his eyes occasionally finding Aenar's. Beyond him, the Velaryons occupied a place of honor, though Aenar noted that Corlys kept his damaged wife close, as if expecting her to need protection in this gilded cage of vipers.
Musicians struck up a lively tune, and couples began moving toward the center of the hall where space had been cleared for dancing. The first course had been cleared away, replaced by sweets and stronger wines. The real business of the evening was beginning—alliances formed through whispers, enemies identified by slight positioning of chairs, marriages contemplated over shared goblets.
"Dance with me," Rhaenyra said suddenly, rising from her seat.
Aenar stood, offering his arm. "As my princess commands."
The musicians shifted to a slower melody as they took their places. The dance was one they'd learned together as children, when Ser Harrold had insisted all royal children master courtly graces alongside swordplay. Five steps forward, quarter turn, bow and retreat. Their bodies remembered the patterns even as their minds wandered elsewhere.
"Father is watching us," Rhaenyra murmured during a turn that brought her close enough for private words. "He thinks he can undo years of affection with a royal decree."
Aenar's gaze flickered briefly to the high table, where King Viserys indeed watched them with a furrowed brow. Beside him, Queen Alicent leaned to whisper something in his ear, her eyes never leaving the dancing couple.
"Kings have been known to overestimate their power," Aenar replied as the dance separated them momentarily. When they rejoined, he added, "Though they seldom learn until too late."
The dance brought them together again, palm to palm, close enough that he could smell the lavender oil in her hair. The great hall faded away. There was only Rhaenyra, her violet eyes meeting his.
"Whatever happens," she whispered, "we face it together. As we always have."
The certainty in her voice made his chest ache. How simple her world still was—dragonriders against the world, their love a thing that could overcome any obstacle.
The dance ended with a final turn and bow, the crowd offering polite applause as the princess and prince separated. Before Aenar could escort Rhaenyra back to their table, Laena Velaryon appeared at his elbow, a vision in sea-green silk that complemented her golden-silver hair.
"I believe this next dance belongs to me," she said with a beautiful smile
"Of course, Lady Laena. My cousin is an excellent partner." Rhaenyra said with a smile as she released his arm.
As Rhaenyra glided away, Aenar took Laena's hand, noting the small silver direwolf pendant that hung at her throat—twin to the one he'd given Rhaenyra moons ago. Both gifts purchased from the old man.
This dance was faster, requiring greater concentration, yet Aenar found himself distracted by the familiar scent of salt and citrus that clung to Laena's skin—reminiscent of Driftmark and open water.
"My mother improves daily," Laena said as they circled each other, referring to Rhaenys's recovery from the battle at Tyrosh. "Though she grows restless without Meleys. A grounded dragonrider is a dangerous creature."
"As I well know," Aenar replied, thinking of his own impatience when separated from Cannibal for too long. "Give her my regards. I had hoped to visit her chambers, but—"
"But the king keeps you occupied with feasts and councils," Laena finished, her fingers tightening briefly around his. "We understand. Politics before pleasure—at least in daylight hours."
"Careful," Aenar warned as they came together again. "Certain words carry farther in this hall than you might expect."
Laena's smile was pure Velaryon confidence. "Let them hear. Let them whisper. When dragons soar, what do they care for the opinions of sheep?"
The dance separated them before he could respond, but her words lingered. It was the kind of thing Daenerys might have said, in that other life—the casual dismissal of those without dragon's blood. Once, as Jon Snow, such arrogance would have troubled him. Now, as Aenar, he found himself agreeing more often than not.
The music faded, and Aenar bowed deeply to Laena. As they parted, he caught sight of a figure in green approaching with purposeful steps, and his mood darkened instantly.
Queen Alicent had chosen her gown carefully—emerald silk that echoed her family's colors while still paying homage to her husband's house with subtle crimson embroidery along the sleeves. Her auburn hair was arranged in an elaborate southern style, emphasizing her youth and beauty while the rubies at her throat declared her status.
"Prince Aenar," she said, curtseying with practiced grace. "Might I trouble you for a dance? It seems only fitting that we should celebrate my son's birth together, as family."
Behind her, King Viserys watched with transparent hope, clearly having sent his wife to build bridges that politics had burned. Aenar considered refusing—he had that power, even if she was queen—but doing so would only create a scene that would echo through court gossip for days.
"Of course, Your Grace," he replied, offering his arm. "It would be my honor."
The musicians began a stately pavane, allowing for conversation between the measured steps and turns. While Laena and Rhaenyra were not bad dancers, it was clear to Aenar right away that Alicent was the better dancer.
"You dance beautifully, my prince," she said as they joined hands for the first circuit. "Though I confess, I feared you might refuse me."
"And miss this opportunity for pleasant conversation? I wouldn't dream of it," Aenar replied. "Your son's celebration is magnificent. The king must be very proud."
"He is," Alicent agreed, the first true smile of the night. "Though all children bring their parents both pride and concern, do they not? I imagine your own father has experienced his share of both."
"Indeed. Though I find most parents want the same thing for their children—safety, happiness, success. The means may differ, but the desires are the same." He paused as they turned, deliberately letting his gaze drift to where baby Aegon was being displayed to admiring courtiers in his nurse's arms. "Your son seems content. May he remain so."
"With the gods' blessing and proper guidance," Alicent agreed. The dance brought them apart, then together again. When they rejoined, her voice dropped lower, meant for his ears alone. "Though I wonder what guidance your bride would have offered him, had your uncle's original plans come to fruition."
He'd almost forgotten that he might have been the one standing beside Alicent at the high table, her husband instead of her... what? Rival? Enemy?
"I'm sure you would have been a diligent pupil," he replied smoothly. "Though perhaps not in the areas your father might have hoped."
Color touched Alicent's cheeks, but her composure never faltered. "You flatter me, Prince Aenar. I've always admired your... command of words. Almost as impressive as your command of dragonfire, though perhaps less devastating to innocent bystanders."
The reference to Tyrosh's civilian casualties was pointed. Aenar felt a flicker of the cold rage that had consumed him during that battle, but he pushed it down, maintaining his courtly mask.
"War makes victims of us all, Your Grace. Though some choose their battles more carefully than others." He glanced meaningfully toward King Viserys, then back to her. "I've always preferred direct confrontation to... subtler methods of advancement."
The dance required them to circle each other once more, and when they came together again, Alicent's smile had hardened. "How fortunate the realm is, to have such forthright princes. Though I've found that directness, like dragonfire, can sometimes consume more than intended."
"While subtlety, like poison, often goes undetected until it's too late," Aenar countered. The dance was nearing its end, courtiers already preparing to join the next round. "We all have our weapons of choice, Your Grace."
"Indeed we do," she agreed, her voice honey over steel. "I hope yours serves you well in the coming days. The path between Dragonstone and King's Landing grows ever more treacherous, I fear."
The threat was there, but Aenar knew how to make his own threats. Aenar bowed and straightened to find Alicent studying him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher.
"I thank you for the dance, Queen Alicent," he said, loud enough for nearby courtiers to hear. "May your son grow strong and wise, and may your nights be filled with the comfort only a loving husband can provide, when affairs of state permit, of course."
Alicent's smile remained fixed, but something cold flickered in her eyes. "Your concern for my domestic happiness is touching, Prince Aenar. I shall remember it when next I pray for your... continued good fortune."
They separated and walked away. Aenar watched her go, wondering idly if this was how it had begun in his previous life, these small exchanges of veiled hostility that would eventually explode into open warfare. Dragons and greens, history repeating itself in the most ironic way imaginable.
The feast continued around him, but Aenar found himself increasingly distant from it all. The laughter seemed hollow, the music discordant, the food flavorless. His thoughts kept returning to the Godswood, to the confession that waited there, to the father who would soon learn that his son was something other than what he'd believed for so many years.
Would Daemon reject him? Disbelieve him? Or worst of all, pity him? The uncertainty gnawed at him until a new thought emerged, tempting in its simplicity: he could simply not go.
Aenar Targsnow
He could avoid the Godswood entirely. Return to his chambers, claim illness in the morning, and let the moment pass. His secret had remained hidden for so many years—what difference would another day, another year, another lifetime make? The weight was familiar now; he could keep carrying it.
As the night wore on, Aenar made his excuses to Rhaenyra and Laena, claiming fatigue from the journey and the need for solitude before tomorrow's council meeting. Both women knew him well enough to sense the half-truth, but neither pressed him—another small mercy in a night that had offered few.
He slipped from the Great Hall as musicians struck up another lively tune, the sounds of revelry following him down the corridor like ghosts. But when he reached the junction where one path led to the Godswood and the other to his chambers, Aenar hesitated. The cold truth was that he wasn't ready. Not tonight. Perhaps not ever.
With a decisive turn, he chose the corridor leading to his chambers instead. He would send a message to his father—some excuse about council preparations, strategy discussions, anything that would postpone this ill-conceived confession. It was better this way. Safer.
The relief was immediate, washing through him like cold water. His shoulders relaxed, his breathing eased. He lengthened his stride, eager now to reach the solitude of his rooms, safer behind the walls.
"Running away, are we?"
The voice came from a shadowed alcove ahead, familiar in its gentle rasp. Aenar's hand instinctively moved toward the dagger at his hip before recognition set in. He peered into the darkness, making out the hunched silhouette of an elderly man, his face half-hidden by the hood of a simple brown cloak.
"Master Theron?" Aenar said, not bothering to hide his surprise. "What are you doing in the Red Keep?"
The old man stepped from the shadows, leaning on a gnarled walking stick that seemed as ancient as he was. His face remained largely concealed by his hood, but Aenar caught glimpses of a weathered smile beneath a beard white as Ghost's fur.
"These old bones still carry me where I wish to go, Prince Aenar," he replied. "Even to places where young princes flee from difficult conversations."
Aenar felt heat rising to his face. "I'm not fleeing. I'm... reconsidering the timing."
"Ah," the old man nodded, his eyes glinting beneath his hood. "And when would the timing be better? Tomorrow? Next moon? Perhaps after the next war?" He adjusted his grip on his walking stick. "Forgive an old man's impertinence, but I've found that good timing rarely arrives of its own accord."
Aenar's irritation flared. "With respect, Master Theron, you know nothing of my situation."
"True enough," the old man conceded easily. "Though I know something of carrying burdens too long." He tapped his stick against the stone floor. "Let me ask you something, young prince: have you ever watched a man try to ford a river while carrying a chest of gold?"
Aenar was not sure why he was still here, but he felt calm, so he said. "I can't say that I have."
"A merchant, convinced his wealth would be stolen if he let it out of his sight. The river wasn't particularly deep or swift, but the chest was heavy. He struggled with each step, the weight pulling him down, the current growing stronger around him." He paused, eyes glinting beneath his hood. "Can you guess what happened?"
"He drowned," Aenar replied flatly.
"Indeed. Halfway across, he lost his footing. The chest dragged him under." The old man's stick tapped against the stone floor, the sound echoing down the corridor. "The irony, of course, is that had he simply left the gold on the shore, he could have crossed safely. Or better yet, shared some with others who might have helped him carry it."
"Why are you telling me this?" Aenar asked, feeling his voice shake a little.
"The past is a weight we all carry, Prince Aenar. But some burdens grow heavier the longer we bear them alone." The old man gestured back down the corridor, toward the path Aenar had deliberately not taken. "Reminds me of that thief I once told you about, in White Harbor. Do you remember?"
Aenar nodded, recalling the tale. "The man who stole from you, whom you later claimed had received the gold and silver as a gift."
"Yes," the old man smiled beneath his beard. "My neighbors called me a fool. Why spare a thief who'd betrayed my trust? But sometimes, Prince Aenar, the act of unburdening oneself—of releasing what weighs us down, even when it seems valuable—creates something unexpected." He tapped his stick again. "That thief became the most loyal friend I ever had. Died protecting our village five years later."
"A touching story," Aenar said, "but forgiving a thief seems simpler than what I face tonight."
The old man regarded him silently for a moment. "Is it? Both require trust. Both require faith that what comes after will be worth what's lost in the telling." He shifted his weight, leaning more heavily on his staff. "My sons, grandsons, great-grandsons—all gone now. Taken by wars and battles and the simple cruelty of time. Each death was a secret I kept, a pain I nursed alone. Until one day, I realized the chest of gold was drowning me."
"What did you do?" Aenar asked.
"I spoke their names aloud. I told their stories to whoever would listen. I shared the weight." The old man's voice softened. "The pain didn't vanish, but it became bearable. Shareable. Sometimes the things we fear to speak aloud are precisely the things that need voice."
Aenar glanced back down the corridor he'd been following, toward the safety of his chambers. Then back the way he'd come, toward the Godswood where his father would be waiting.
"What if he doesn't understand?" Aenar asked quietly. "What if this truth changes everything?"
"It might," the old man acknowledged. "Truth has that power. But ask yourself this: has carrying this weight alone for seventeen years made it any lighter? Or has it merely become so familiar that you've forgotten what it would be like to set it down?"
"We are defined not by the weights we bear, Prince Aenar, but by how we choose to carry them," the old man continued. "And sometimes, setting them down doesn't mean abandoning them—merely allowing others to help shoulder their weight."
Aenar stood silently, weighing the old man's words against his fear. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions—one leading to continued solitude, the other to uncertainty.
"You should write to Winterfell," the old man added unexpectedly. "Cold winds are rising earlier than they should. I passed through White Harbor last moon, and strange tales were coming down from the mountains. Dreams troubling the children." He tapped his stick against the floor. "Your cousin with her dragon egg—suffers nightmares that wake the castle."
The mention of Sara Stark made Aenar frown. "How do you know about my cousin?"
The old man's shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. "An old man hears things in his travels. The North remembers, they say. Sometimes too much for comfort." He straightened slightly, looking more directly at Aenar from beneath his hood. "Whatever you decide tonight, remember this: few regret the truths they tell, but many regret the silences they maintain."
With those words, the old man turned and began walking slowly down the corridor. Aenar watched him go, the familiar sensation of off-balance wonder settling over him as it always did after their encounters.
He stood at the junction for several heartbeats longer, the path before him suddenly clear despite his lingering fears. With a deep breath, Aenar turned and retraced his steps, heading back toward the passage that would lead to the Godswood. The chest of gold had grown too heavy to carry alone any longer.
As he walked, he reached up to touch the silver direwolf pendant that hung beneath his tunic. A symbol of his dual heritage, of the North that had shaped Jon Snow and the Targaryen blood that had given Aenar life. Perhaps it was time both halves were acknowledged, not just by him, but by someone who mattered.
The past is a weight we all carry. But some burdens grow heavier the longer we bear them alone.
Soon enough, he would discover if sharing that burden would lighten it—or merely transfer its crushing weight to someone else's shoulders.
Jon Snow
The Godswood of the Red Keep was nothing like the one at Winterfell. Where the North's sacred grove had stood for thousands of years, wild and untamed, this southern version was like a garden.
Crickets fell silent as he passed, resuming their night songs after he moved on.
Daemon stood waiting beside the heart tree. His father's tall figure was unnaturally still, his back to Aenar, head tilted upward as if studying the stars visible through gaps in the leaves.
"I thought you might have changed your mind," Daemon said without turning.
"I almost did," Aenar admitted, stopping a few paces away. The confession came easier than expected.
Now Daemon turned, his face half in shadow, half illuminated by the dappled moonlight. "What made you come after all?"
"An old man," Aenar replied simply.
Daemon nodded, gesturing to the space beside him. Aenar moved forward, joining his father in contemplation of the ancient oak. For several moments, they stood in silence, listening to the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze.
"Your mother loved this place," Daemon said finally, his voice softer than Aenar had ever heard it. "Lyanna found the sept too confining, too filled with rules and expectations. Here, she said, she could breathe."
"It was here she told me she loved me," Daemon continued, reaching out to touch the oak's rough bark. "She insisted it be in front of the old gods, not the new. 'The old gods see the truth of the heart,' she said. 'They don't care about vows and ceremonies, only what lies beneath.'" A small, sad smile curved his lips. "Your mother understood truth better than anyone I've known."
"She deserved better," Aenar said quietly.
Daemon's head turned sharply. "Better than what?"
"Than dying in childbirth. Than losing her daughter on the same day." Aenar swallowed. "Than me."
His father's expression shifted from surprise to anger and concern. "Why would you say such a thing? Lyanna loved you more than life itself. She would have torn the world apart for you if needed."
"I know," Aenar said, and he did. In this life, Lyanna Stark had been everything a mother should be—fierce, protective, loving. The pain came from knowing that in another life, she had died before he could even know her. "That's what makes this so difficult."
"Makes what difficult?" Daemon moved closer, studying Aenar's face as if searching for clues. "What's this really about, son? Who is Jon Snow?"
The moment had arrived. Aenar felt his heart pounding against his ribs, his mouth suddenly dry as Dornish sand. The enormity of what he was about to confess seemed to press down on him from all sides. How did one explain reincarnation? How could he make his father understand that his son carried the memories of another life, another self?
"Father," he began, the word still strange on his tongue in this moment of truth.
.
.
.
"Jon Snow is my name. I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."