( Daeron POV )
The men around him hassled out, while Rickon was slowly shown to Winterfell's dining hall. Jon would soon join him, after having concerted with a few of his lords on what to do now.
Clearly, it wouldn't be long till they would claim for him to step down, Winter be damned. He needed to call a council as soon as possible. If Rickon was alive and well, he was the rightful king, and Jon would only act as his regent.
...
Once this was resolved, he quickly paced to the dining hall.
He found Rickon there, on his lonesome, devouring a chicken. He could say that he never saw a boy of this age absolutely massacre a chicken like this.
Jon slowly moved towards his brother, watching him eat with a watchful eye. He was no longer king, but the boy in front of him was. He would not think for a moment to usurp Rickon's position. He couldn't give Lady Catelyn the satisfaction, nor could he spit on his own father's memory this way. And most of all…he couldn't do this to Robb.
No.
He would be Rickon's regent until Rickon came of age, which would still give him the control he needed to pull the North together in the face of the true enemy up north, which had gone quiet ever since the wildlings were brought south…safe for a few patrols encountering wights closer and closer to the Wall with each passing day.
"The chicken is yummy!" Rickon smiled brightly, his face covered in meat.
"Don't forget to clean your cheeks, your grace." He pointed to where there were spots.
Rickon only nodded before diving down to finish what was left of the meat around the animal's bones, slowly licking every single piece that was possible for him to eat.
"You can have another if you like, you know," Jon said simply.
"Nah." Rickon shook his head. "I think I'm fine. Maybe tonight."
"So…" Jon looked at him in the eyes. "What happened? When the Greyjoys came…and where is Bran?"
"The bad men came looking for us. We were hiding in the crypts, but they got closer and closer every day. It wasn't safe anymore, so we tried going North to find you." Rickon said simply, drinking a cup of water. "The bad men didn't find us. Bran went with the two other children towards the Wall, but we went towards where the Umbers live…La…La…"
"Last Hearth."
"Yes!" he cried out in joy. "Where the big men live. But we only made it to the big lake, you know…the one with the fishes?"
"I see the one."
"Well, we learned you were actually in Winterfell! So, we turned back. It was a long journey and my feet are tired…" he whined. "But you have a dragon! Dragons are awesome, can I pet it?"
"I don't think Winter is into petting…" Jon winced. "But you'll certainly see him and perhaps get a ride with him if you've been nice."
Rickon furiously nodded his head.
"Oh I will be the bestest boy in the North!" he swore. "Me and Shaggydog will not cause any trouble…uh…at least not much!"
"I'm glad to hear it, your grace." Jon chuckled. "But as you said, your feet are tired, perhaps you should rest first…"
"Uh uh…" Rickon nodded. "Jon?"
"Yes, brother?"
"Why are you calling me grace? My name is Rickon."
"That's because you are the king."
"King…" Rickon trailed slightly. "Oh, that's nice…is it better than lord?"
"Yes, it is." Jon gave him a sad smile before accompanying Rickon to his new rooms, which had been Robb's, as a matter of fact. He had guards posted along his rooms and gave his wildling woman, who had acted as his sworn shield, a room close by.
Jon could only sigh when another lord approached him. This time, it was Lord Karstark.
"What is it?" he asked, his tone calm when he actually wanted nothing more but to slam the door of his…well technically, Rickon's…solar on his face and be left in peace.
"Your…erm…" Lord Karstark fumbled.
"Lord Regent." Jon simply nodded.
"Lord Regent." Lord Karstark acquiesced. "Lord Reed has arrived, and he says that he needs to speak with you in private."
"Ah." Jon nodded. Howland Reed's presence had been expected at Winterfell, especially considering the wild rumours that had been circulating. "Let him into my solar."
Lord Karstark nodded and quickly left, leaving Jon to take a moment's respite and breathe in slowly.
After Winter had latched to Jon, rumours had been floating around, especially around Jon's mother.
Many thought that his father had sired him with a Valyrian whore from Lys or Tyrosh, while Daemon Sand instead brought up that many in Dorne thought him the bastard child of Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne, whose tragic tale is still told in Dorne by many.
He put forwards that House Dayne had legendary roots predating Nymeria's Conquest and the invasion of the Andals, and that such roots could have been Valyrian according to some. Would this Valyrian blood explain his parentage?
Only Howland Reed apparently knew since a raven came from Moat Cailin. It was him, asking to see Jon in person, as he had information about his birth mother. However, such information could not be carried by a raven.
Jon immediately accepted, and had a Tallhart whose name he forgot placed as commander of Moat Cailin whilst Reed was away.
The door creaked open, revealing a small man wearing a simple mail along with the coat of arms of House Reed.
"Your grace." He bent the knee.
"Lord Regent, now, Lord Reed." Jon beckoned him to rise and take a seat.
The Crannogman thanked him and sat opposite him, before sighing greatly.
"Did you know my mother?" Jon instinctively asked.
"I did." Lord Reed nodded with a sad smile. "She was an amazing woman. A true beauty, one that many men would have wished to marry, but fierce and with a will of iron."
"Who was she?" Jon asked. "How did you know who she was?"
"To understand the story, I am about to tell you, I need to tell you the story of the Rebellion. Are you familiar with it?"
"Of course." Jon nodded.
"Very well, so I do not need to remind you that Lord Stark, after his victory on the Trident and after relieving Storm's End, went to seek for his sister Lyanna?"
"Yes." Jon nodded back. "My father went to find her in the Red Mountains, but she was already dead."
"Your father, I, and five others came to a place called the Tower of Joy, guarded by three kingsguard." Reed recounted. "It was a hot, summer day, and neither side was ready to yield. There was a fight, and Lord Stark fought fiercely. In the end, it was he and I who lived, the rest of our companions and the kingsguard were all dead.
We raced up the Tower of Joy and found Lyanna Stark there. She was alive, but dying."
"She died of a fever." Jon nodded.
"Yes, all of that is true." Lord Reed nodded. "But there is more to it. While she indeed died that very day in the Tower of Joy, she didn't die before giving her brother a baby, wrapped in sheets, perfectly healthy. She begged Lord Stark to protect him, as her dying wish. That child is you…Daeron Targaryen."
"What?" Jon felt his world completely shatter around him. His fingers were completely shaking at the moment, and he felt his head burn up. Far away in the distance, he swore he could hear Winter's roar. "It…It can't be…"
Lord Reed stared silently at him.
"Why?" Jon asked. "Why? Why did my father not tell me anything?"
"Your uncle." Lord Reed corrected. "Your uncle feared dearly for your life. You see, he had seen what the Lannisters had done to Rhaenys and Aegon. He could not fathom what could happen to you.
The Targaryens had been overthrown and you were a threat to Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister alike. He took you as his bastard to protect you from any assassins Tywin would have sent. The lions' pockets run deep, and he could not afford to lose the last piece of Lyanna remaining…"
Jon could feel tears run down his cheeks. He didn't want this to be true. He was Ned Stark's son, not Lyanna Stark's.
But yet, Winter had landed on his shoulder. How else could this be explained but to have dragon's blood, if he was Rhaegar Targaryen's bastard?
"What…my father…" Jon struggled to even make full sentences.
"Your father, was Rhaegar Targaryen." Lord Reed nodded.
"But…he was…" Jon stammered.
"Married? Yes." Lord Reed sighed. "However, for whatever reason, he had decided to seduce your mother. Lady Lyanna, she was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and trust me…Robert wasn't entirely fit to be her husband. He certainly boasted of how good he would be to her…before drinking a whole barrel of ale and going to bed a whore.
Your mother, she was a wild thing. She wouldn't be tied down by a betrothal, and, for reasons I still ignore, she went with prince Rhaegar of her own volition."
"She wasn't taken by force?" Jon shuddered.
"She told us as much." Lord Reed let out a deep sigh. "But…she regretted it…wanted to go home. Prince Rhaegar had trapped her. She would be his hostage, and he had his way with her."
Jon sat there, dumbfounded.
"So…it seems that I am a Sand, then." He sighed. "A dragon's bastard sired of rape."
"It's more complicated." Lord Reed sighed. "It seems that your mother did tell us she was forced to marry him so as to give him his third head of the dragon. Their marriage was celebrated and a document was signed."
"What?" Jon didn't think his world could continue crumbling, and yet Lord Reed kept proving him wrong.
"We never found a trace of said document." Lord Reed sighed. "The proof of your legitimacy has likely been taken to wherever the High Septon at the time has kept it. Either in King's Landing or Oldtown, perhaps even both. In any case, the kingsguard probably took that secret to their grave.
But, in any case, you are still a Stark. Ned wasn't your father, but you are still a Stark. You are Lyanna's blood and I do think both your mother and uncle would have been proud of what you have achieved."
"Would my mother have forgiven my fath…my uncle to agree to me joining the Watch?" he sighed with bitterness.
"She could have understood the motivations. You would have been definitively safe…" Lord Reed sighed. "But I must admit Lyanna would also have wanted you in Winterfell or at the very least in the North. It's impossible to say, Daeron, we cannot change the past."
"My name is Jon!" Jon shook his head. "Not Daeron, Jon."
"It is the name your uncle gave you, that is true." Lord Reed said silently. "But your real name, the one your mother gave you…is Daeron."
Jon felt his head spin.
Daeron…Daeron…Daeron…he continued to remind himself. My name is Daeron, not Jon. My name is Daeron, my name is Daeron.
It all felt wrong.
He had dark hair and grey eyes, not silver hair and purple eyes. He wasn't a Targaryen, he just couldn't. It wasn't possible.
But Lord Reed was in front of him, stone-faced.
"Is there…any proof to this?" Jon gulped.
"Besides the massive dragon somehow bonded to you?" Lord Reed asked with a hint of a smile.
"Don't humor me, Reed, I am not in the mood." Jon clenched his fists.
"There isn't much but my word." Lord Reed sighed. "Your uncle is dead, and so are Rhaegar Targaryen, Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent, Arthur Dayne, Alyn Dayne, and Ashara Dayne. The marriage contract has been lost…only your dragon could prove who you are…isn't that enough?"
Jon took a few deep breaths, his palm on his rapidly burning forehead.
"Isn't there…more?"
"Perhaps." Lord Reed observed him. "You are prettier than the average Stark, and perhaps those who knew prince Rhaegar personally could discern some facial features such as your nose or head shape, but I am afraid I never had the displeasure of meeting him…"
Jon nodded simply. It is true that the northern lords and wildlings did agree on something, and that was that apparently, Jon was prettier than their daughters.
It couldn't be otherwise, then. He was the last dragon. He spent a year alongside his great-great-uncle and knew nothing of it. Did Maester Aemon know? He couldn't have…
He was the last dragon. Perhaps even the heir to the throne.
But right now, he needed to be a Stark. Now more than ever, it is the North that needed him the most.
"Will you…spread the word?" Jon finally asked Lord Reed.
"Not if you ask me to, Daeron."
Jon spun the words in his head. The rumours would continue spreading and spreading until someone was bound to find the truth. Many of his lords had fought in the rebellion and it would only be a matter of time till someone found out. Better now from Lord Reed's mouth than later.
"Tomorrow…" Jon trailed off. "I will summon a council of lords to act Rickon's coronation as King in the North, with me as his regent. I will wish to have you there, and you may speak of what you know, considering many lords seem to hold you in high esteem."
"I'd be glad to, your grace." Lord Reed nodded.
"Lord Regent." Jon sighed. "Holding his head with both his hands. It's Lord Regent, and you may leave, Lord Reed."
Lord Reed did exactly as told, leaving Jon alone.
Not Jon, he reminded himself. Daeron.
But Daeron Stark sounded off. Yet…if it was the name that his mother gave to him…wouldn't it be better to bear that one? However, Daeron was a Targaryen name. Would her mother not have wished him to bear a name that didn't remind her of the man that had defiled her?
Too many questions. No answers.
My name is Daeron Targaryen. My name is Daeron Targaryen. My name is Daeron Targaryen.
Slowly, he dragged himself to stand up.
To the North, he would be Jon Snow, or Jon Stark, whatever the name his uncle chose for him. To the South, he would be Daeron Targaryen, the forgotten dragon. This would be the end of the matter for him. It would require a few sleepless nights to think about what Lord Reed had revealed, but he was certain to pull through.
His fingers shaking, he decided to take a walk through the halls of Winterfell. There was nothing like a good walk to clear his mind off of things. As he listened to conversations between several castle men, many were already a great many talking about Rickon's return, and many others talking about tomorrow's council.
Jon ignored them, instead of walking aimlessly through the vast halls of the Stark seat.
It was there where he was intercepted by a wildling. Not any wildling, though.
"Well, King Crow, it seems that you were right, you kneelers do build wonderful things." Val came up to him with a smirk.
"I fear it is not wonderful as it once was. The Ironborn burned down much of it…"
"It's better than a tent made of animal fur." Val shrugged. "Good night to you, King Crow."
Jon nodded to her and made to continue along. It was then that he stopped in his tracks, pausing for an instant.
He looked back at Val's rooms. There were a fair few other wildlings around, including Mance and Dalla…however…his thoughts came back to the wildling girl. She was beautiful with her long, blonde braid thrown on her shoulder, her slender body, wide hips, and full bosom.
Jon shook his head. Val could also cut him down if he ever tried to steal into her bed. Yet why was he standing at her door? Shouldn't he keep walking?
The northern lords would never approve of marrying Val, but whoever talked about marriage? Every time Jon looked at her, he felt a burning desire burn up in his body. A desire to have her, even but for a night. And if anything, he thought that she returned this desire, else why did she constantly bring up that her bed was open to him if he dared to take her on?
This wasn't right, though. He could not do this, not when Ygritte's pain was so fresh, yet why did the desire to do things he would rather keep out of his mind to Val? Why did these thoughts emerge time and time again?
He was king, was he not? Didn't kings take what they want? And was he not a dragon, too? But he also was a Stark…and Starks had their honor. And he was a Stark, first and foremost.
He took a step back from her door. His desire kept slowly increasing with each step. He could already hear Val's laugh from here. A craven. Not a man, but a boy who was stolen by a girl.
Would his mother approve of this? Would his uncle? He knew the Targaryens would probably approve, but the dragons had fallen time and time again because of their desires. Hadn't one of his namesakes eventually died in Dorne because of his desire to conquer the last kingdom and paid for it with his life?
No, he thought. He could not. But then why was he still in front of that damn door!
What would the Northmen think of this? Some of them already call him half-wildling. Not to his face, Winter's mere existence striking fear into them, but behind his back.
He clenched his fists. Why couldn't he have what he wanted for once? He never had a father. He never had a mother. He never had real brothers and sisters. He never had Winterfell, and he never would have any of these things. His life was a lie. Why not take what he wanted, for once in his damned life!
He stood there for a few more moments, the words of Lord Reed echoing in his head.
My name is Jon Snow. My name is Daeron Targaryen.
Jon's eyes snapped back to the door and curved into a frown.
With a deep breath, he took a step forward and creaked the door open.
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