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Jon Snow
"Now," Ned Stark repeated. "Before the hour turns. Before the guard changes."
Jon forced himself upright, his vision swimming with a sickening mixture of grey spots and pain. His ribs felt like they were squeezing his chest, but the fear in his father's eyes was a more potent motivator than pain.
"Arya," Jon gasped, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "The chest."
Arya didn't argue. She scrambled to the corner, grabbing the wool-lined chest they had used to hide the egg. She brought it to the bed, her hands shaking.
RedHeart hissed as Jon reached for her. She was agitated, sensing the fear in the room. Her scales were hot, hotter than usual, the red veins across her body seemed redder somehow, and she her eyes were a darker shade of gold.
"Easy," Jon murmured, ignoring the way her heat seared his palms. "Easy, little one. We're going to a safe place."
He lifted her. She was heavier than she looked, despite her being only a little bigger than a fully grown cat, she weighed more than Ghost. She fought him for a moment, her wings flapping, claws scrabbling against his tunic, but then she settled, curling her tail around his wrist. Jon lowered her into the chest. She looked up at him, her golden eyes wide and accusing, before he lowered the lid.
"I'll carry it," Arya said, reaching for the handles.
"No," Jon said, gritting his teeth as he stood. The room tilted. He grabbed the bedpost—the one RedHeart hadn't destroyed—to steady himself. "She's heavy. And if she thrashes... you might drop her. I have to do it."
"Jon, you can barely stand," Ned said, moving to support him.
"I can do this," Jon snapped, pulling away from his father's touch. He needed the pain. The pain was focusing. "Just... make sure the way is clear."
Ned looked at him for a long second, his eyes looking like they were seeing someone else for a moment, then he nodded. He drew his sword, not Ice, but a plain steel longsword, and stepped into the corridor.
"Wait here," Ned whispered.
Jon leaned against the wall, the chest clutched to his chest. He could feel RedHeart shifting inside, her heat radiating through the wood and wool, warming his bruised ribs. Beside him, Arya was bouncing on the balls of her feet, a small, dark shadow of nervous energy. Ghost stood silent watch, his red eyes fixed on the door.
"Stay," Jon told the wolf. "Guard the room. If anyone comes... make noise."
Ghost dipped his head.
The door opened. Ned beckoned them forward, and standing beside him was Jory Cassel, his captain of the guard.
"Jory will accompany you," Ned said quietly. "He'll make sure no guards interfere with... whatever task needs completing."
Jory met Jon's eyes briefly, his gaze flicking to the chest in Jon's arms. If he was curious about what they were carrying through the Red Keep in the dead of night, he gave no sign. He simply nodded once.
"My lord," Jory said to Ned, then to Jon, "Ready when you are."
They moved into the hallway. The Red Keep was never truly silent; it breathed with the drafts of the sea, the distant echo of boots on tile. But tonight, it felt like the belly of a sleeping beast.
Arya took the lead. Jon followed, each step a negotiation with agony. He focused on the back of Arya's head, on the heat of the chest, blocking out the stabbing pain in his side. Jory walked several paces behind them.
They descended the winding stair of the Tower of the Hand. Down, past the solar, past the guard rooms. The guards guarding their tower were Northern, so they didn't care much what Jon and Arya were doing. They saw Jory was with them, so they remained there, doing their job.
They moved through the service corridors, the air growing cooler and damper as they went deeper into the castle's foundations. Behind them, Jon could hear Jory's careful footsteps, never questioning, never pressing.
"Here," Arya whispered, stopping before a heavy, iron-bound door. "The black tomcat showed me this way. It leads down to the third level."
She struggled with the heavy latch. Jon shifted the chest to one arm—agony flared in his shoulder—and helped her heave the door open.
Jory appeared beside them, lending his strength to the door. "I'll wait here," he said quietly. "Call if you need me."
Jon looked at the man's eyes. Whatever Jory thought they were doing, he trusted Lord Stark's judgment. "Thank you, Jory."
They slipped inside, leaving Jory standing guard at the entrance, far enough that he couldn't see into the depths of what lay beyond.
Darkness swallowed them whole. Jon blinked, uselessly. His eyes burned, violet depths searching for shapes that were not there. "I can't see."
"Wall," Arya murmured. "Keep your hand on it."
The stair was narrow, spiraling down and down, the stone worn smooth by a thousand forgotten feet. The air was dead here. Jon's lungs labored. Only the warmth of the chest kept him moving.
At last, the steps ended.
The space opened around them, vast and hollow, a darkness too large to grasp.
Arya knelt, struck flint to steel, and sparks leapt like frightened insects. She lit a waiting torch, left in its sconce as if someone, long ago, had known it would be needed again.
Fire blossomed.
Jon froze. His breath fled him.
The light crawled outward, and the darkness answered with shapes.
Skulls.
They loomed from the gloom in silent ranks. The nearest was larger than a wagon, its cavernous eye sockets yawning wide enough to swallow a man. Its teeth were long as swords.
"The dragons," Jon said aloud, his voice no more than breath.
Arya lifted the torch higher, her face pale in its glow. She pointed to the greatest skull of all, squatting at the center like a king upon a throne of shadows.
"Balerion," she said. "The Black Dread."
The fire cracked softly, and the dead watched them in silence.
Jon felt a shiver. He felt... watched. As if the empty sockets were turning to follow him.
The chest in his arms gave a violent lurch.
"Time to leave her out," Jon muttered to himself. Jon knelt, wincing, and set the chest on the floor. He unlatched the lid.
RedHeart exploded from the box.
She didn't run. She didn't hide. She scrambled out, her wings flared, and let out a piercing shriek that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
She looked at the skulls.
Jon watched, mesmerized. The small dragon trotted forward, her claws clicking on the stone floor. She approached the massive skull of Balerion. She was a speck of dust compared to the Black Dread, a flea before a mountain.
But she showed no fear.
She walked right up to the snout of the great beast, sniffed the black bone, and let out a low, crooning sound. She rubbed her cheek against the dead dragon's teeth.
"She likes them," Arya whispered, sounding disturbed. "It's like... a graveyard."
"No," Jon said, feeling the truth of it in his blood. "It's a home."
RedHeart began to climb. She scrambled up the side of Balerion's skull, using the ridges of bone as handholds. She climbed until she reached the massive eye socket, and then she crawled inside.
She curled up in the darkness of the Black Dread's eye, a spark of living fire in the skull of the dead past. She looked down at Jon, blinking her golden eyes.
"You have to stay here," Jon told her, his voice cracking. "RedHeart. You have to stay. It's safe here. No one comes here."
The dragon chirped. She seemed... settled. The heat of the cellar, the presence of the bone, something about it calmed her.
"I'll bring you food," Jon promised. "Every night. I swear it."
He felt a tearing in his chest that hurt worse than his broken ribs. Leaving her felt like leaving a piece of himself behind. Like cutting off a limb.
"Come on," Arya urged, tugging at his arm. "We have to go back. Before Father worries."
Jon looked at the glowing eye of the skull one last time. "Dohaerās, RedHeart. Lykirī."
He turned and limped back toward the stairs, the darkness swallowing the fire behind him.
The climb back up was torture.
Jon's strength was gone. He leaned heavily on Arya, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every step sent a jolt of pain through his body that made his vision white out.
Jory was waiting where they had left him. His eyes took in Jon's condition immediately, and he stepped forward without a word, taking Jon's weight on his shoulder.
"Easy now, lad," Jory murmured. "Lean on me."
They made their way back through the corridors, Jory bearing most of Jon's weight while Arya carried the empty chest. If Jory noticed it was lighter than before, or wondered what had become of its contents, he said nothing.
Ned was waiting at the base of the Tower of the Hand. He saw Jon's state and moved forward, relief and concern warring on his face.
"Is it done?" Ned asked quietly.
"Yes." That's all Jon said.
Ned nodded. "Let's get you to bed."
They moved quickly through the Tower of the Hand. The guards at the door—Hullen and another of Stark's men—opened it as they approached.
They deposited Jon onto his bed in his chamber. He collapsed, the mattress feeling like a cloud after the hard stone of the cellar.
"Arya, go to your room," Ned commanded.
Arya looked at Jon, then at her father. She hesitated, then ran to the bed and pressed a quick, fierce kiss to Jon's cheek. "I'll bring her breakfast tomorrow," she whispered.
Then she was gone.
Ned stood over Jon for a moment. He looked older than Jon had ever seen him.
"You did well," Ned said softly. "Rest now, Jon. We are safe for tonight."
He turned to Jory. "Thank you, Jory. Not a word of this."
"Never, my lord," Jory said. "I saw nothing but two children needing an escort."
Ned clasped Jory's shoulder briefly, then both men left, the door locking behind them.
Jon lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The room felt cold without the dragon. Empty.
He closed his eyes, drifting on a sea of pain and exhaustion.
The morning light crept through Jon's window like an unwelcome guest. He hadn't slept. How could he, when he could feel RedHeart's presence like a distant candle flame, surrounded by darkness?
The bond hadn't broken during the night. If anything, it had grown clearer. He could sense her emotions: confusion, grief, exhaustion. And loneliness.
Jon sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. His right palm still bore the faint scar from where he'd cut himself, a thin white line across the flesh. He'd barely thought about it at the time, just acted on instinct. Blood on stone. Fire and blood.
The door opened.
Ned Stark entered carrying a tray with bread, cheese, and watered wine. He set it on the table beside Jon's bed and took the chair, the same one Loras had occupied the day before.
"You should eat," Ned said.
Jon didn't move. "I'm not hungry."
"Jon—"
"She's frightened." Jon said, and Ghost let out a sound, approaching him, laying its head on his lap. "I can feel it. She doesn't understand why I left her in the dark with bones."
"Arya will visit her this morning. Bring food, check on her. And Ghost can with her. She won't be alone."
"She thinks I abandoned her."
"Then you'll have to prove to her that you didn't." Ned leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "When we leave King's Landing, when we're far from Robert and his hatred, you'll be reunited. Until then—"
"Until then, I lie in this bed and pretend everything is fine." Jon's laugh was bitter. "While my dragon...my dragon sits in a tomb wondering why her companion doesn't want her anymore."
Silence fell once again.
Finally, Ned spoke. "Where did the eggs come from?"
Jon blinked. "What?"
"The dragon eggs." Ned questioned. "You said she hatched. Dragons don't just appear from nothing. Where did you find the eggs?"
Jon hesitated, then decided there was no point in hiding it now. "The crypts. In Winterfell. Arya found them hidden behind Aunt Lyanna's tomb."
Ned went absolutely still. His face drained of color, and his knuckles turned white where they gripped his knees.
"Lyanna's tomb," Ned repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
"There were two eggs," Jon continued. "One black with red veins—that's RedHeart. The other was purple with silver. I brought them both with me when we came south. I never thought they would hatch, now...I don't know even why I brought them with me, but they...they felt... alive."
"Where is the second egg?"
"Still in my room. Hidden." Jon studied his father's reaction. "You didn't know they were there, did you?"
"No." Ned closed his eyes. "I didn't know."
"But you're not surprised."
Ned didn't answer.
Jon felt something cold growing in his chest, like winter snow. "The egg hatched after the melee. When I was lying here, broken and useless. I felt it calling to me. Felt it in my blood, Father. So I..." He held up his scarred palm. "I cut myself. Let my blood touch the stone. And she came forth."
"Fire and blood," Ned murmured.
"What?"
"Nothing." Ned said quickly. "What else happened? When the egg hatched?"
Jon thought about the mysterious woman with purple eyes who called him valonqar. Thought about her promises to tell him everything once he was safe. But something held him back from mentioning her.
"I sang to it," Jon said instead. "In High Valyrian. I don't know how I knew the words, but they came to me like breathing. And the egg cracked, and she was born."
"High Valyrian." Ned's voice was hollow.
"Yes." Jon pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain. "And before you say it was luck, or coincidence, or some accident—it wasn't. Dragons bond with dragonlords, Father. With Targaryens. Everyone knows that."
Ned stood slowly, looking down at him. "Jon—"
"I want the truth." Jon's voice rose. "Not tomorrow, not when we reach Winterfell, not someday when you finally decide I'm ready. Now. Who was my mother?"
"I can't—"
"You mean you won't!" Jon took a step forward, then another. "I hatched a dragon, Father. Me. A bastard from the North who supposedly has some tavern wench's blood in his veins. Does that sound likely to you?"
Ned looked uncertain. "The world is stranger than we know. There are things that—"
"Stop." Jon's hands curled into fists. "Stop lying to me. I've spent my entire life accepting your silence, believing you had good reasons for keeping my mother's name from me. But I can't accept it anymore. Not after this."
"Jon, please—"
"Was she Valyrian?" Jon demanded. "Is that it? Was my mother some woman with dragon blood who you met during the war?"
Ned said nothing.
"Or was she..." Jon's voice caught. He didn't want to say it, didn't want to acknowledge the terrible possibility that had been growing in his mind like a poisonous flower. But he forced the words out anyway. "Am I...am I even your...son?"
Ned's face had gone beyond pale—it was grey, like ash. His eyes held something that looked like grief and fear and a desperate, aching sadness.
"If she was," Jon said, his voice shaking now, "if Aunt Lyanna was my mother, then that means Rhaegar Targaryen was my father. It means I'm the product of the worst thing that ever happened to our family. It means I'm the son of the man who stole her, raped her, left her to die in a tower while the kingdom burned."
"Jon—"
"It means I'm the enemy's bastard, and you've been protecting me all these years not because you wanted to, but because you had to. This would explain why I'm someone's Valonqar. Because—"
"STOP!" Ned's shout echoed off the stone walls. He grabbed Jon by the shoulders, heedless of his injuries. "You listen to me, and you listen well. You are not the enemy. You have never been the enemy. You are my blood."
Jon stared at his father, chest heaving. "Then tell me. I deserve to know who I am, where I came from, why my eyes are this color and why I can sing in a language I've never been taught and why a dragon chose me!"
Ned's shoulders sagged. He looked older suddenly.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I...
Then came the knock at the door.
Jon and Ned both turned toward the sound.
"My lord?" One of the Stark guards—Jory's voice. "My lord, I apologize for the interruption, but there's a visitor. Says it's urgent."
Ned moved to the door and opened it. "Who?"
Jory stood in the corridor, his expression troubled. "The Kingslayer, my lord. Ser Jaime Lannister. He's at the entrance to the Tower, asking to speak with you. Says it can't wait."
Ned and Jon exchanged a glance.
"Tell him I'll be down shortly," Ned said.
"My lord, he specifically asked to come up. Said it concerns Lord Jon's safety."
Jon felt his blood run cold. Ned's expression hardened into something dangerous.
"Very well," Ned said. "Show him up. But you and two others stay in the corridor. If anything seems amiss—"
"Understood, my lord."
Jory disappeared. Ned closed the door and turned to Jon.
"Not a word about the dragon," Ned said in a low, urgent voice. "Not a word about what we just discussed. Whatever Jaime Lannister wants, we listen, we reveal nothing, and we get him out of here as quickly as possible. Understood?"
Jon nodded, his earlier anger buried beneath a new and more immediate concern.
What could the Kingslayer possibly want with them?
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