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Chapter Text

Year 283 after the Conquest of Aegon the Conqueror

Tower of Joy – Dorne's Sand Sea

"Lyanna." Ned Stark breathes, writhing through the cramped window and stumbling toward the bloodied bed where his sister lay, barely noticing as he leaves Dawn on a nearby table, the blood covering the blade gleaming in the sun. Ned falls to his knees on the ground next to Lyanna, his wings rustling and shivering before settling against his back. He takes Lyanna's weak hand and brings it to his lips, whispering against her cold skin. "Lyanna, sister. What happened to you?"

And Lyanna, growing weaker and weaker as the bloodstain on the sheet over her belly grows and with tears streaming down her feverish face, smiles at him.

"A miracle." She whispers, glancing briefly to her left, causing Ned to follow her gaze and widen his eyes at what he sees. "Please, Ned. I need you to protect him. From Robert. From Tywin Lannister. Please."

The midwife approaches and extends the baby wrapped in a silk towel to Ned, who carefully picks it up in his arms and brings it closer to Lyanna.

"He's got wings." Ned murmurs, gently shifting his grip on the baby so as not to risk accidentally injuring the delicate bones he can feel in the child's back. "Stark wings?"

Lyanna shakes her head, not taking her eyes off her son. "No. He has Targaryen wings. Like his father." She says, voice breaking, and Ned closes his eyes and prays to the Old Gods to give him strength and cunning, for he would need it in the times to come.

"What's his name, Lyanna?" Ned asks, brushing the cloth away from the baby's wrinkled face – from the rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, now that Rhaegar and baby Aegon are dead and Viserys is missing along with his sister in Essos.

"His name... It should be Aegon Targaryen." Lyanna says, sadly, but her eyes gleaming with resentment and cold fury. "But that's the name his father choose. The name I give him... The name I give him is Torrhen, of Houses Stark and Targaryen."

"The King Who Kneeled, so that his people and his kingdom would not be burned by the dragons." Ned says, gently stroking the baby's face with his fingertip. "And who will now rule over the Seven Kingdoms."

Lyanna nods, and her breathing stutters.

"Please, Ned. You need to keep him safe, away... Away from Robert. He will kill him." She is growing weaker and weaker, her voice nothing more than a desperate whisper. "Please, Ned. Please. Promise me. Promise me that you... That you're going to keep him safe. Promise me."

"Yes, Lyanna. I promise. I swear by the gods old and new." He says, his voice cracking as he notices Lyanna's paleness. Carefully, Ned holds Torrhen with one arm and takes his sister's hand, holding it firmly on the baby's chest, his breath on her fingers. Lyanna smiles at Ned, at Torrhen, and there is blood on her teeth. Her eyes are still, and her chest doesn't move. "Lyanna?"

She doesn't answer.

Ned gently puts Lyanna's hand back on the bed, and looks at his nephew in his arms. Torrhen's eyes are half-open, and Ned prays to the gods that the dull blue of his eyes won't turn purple.

"It's just me and you now, kid." He says, kissing the child's forehead and swallowing his tears, his raven wings wrapping around him and the baby in his arms, an ephemeral barrier between Ned, his nephew, and the world. "Just me and you."

Ned could only hope that this – he – would be enough.

Much to his relief, Ned's nephew is a quiet baby, if a little moody when he needs to be cleaned and changed or is hungry. Being the boy son of who he is, Ned expected the child to have more dragon in him, but it seemed that his wolf blood would be more apparent – in the slow months of travel back to the North, Torrhen's thinning hair thickened into a mess of dark curls, and his eyes were a dark shade of purple that Ned could have mistaken for black if he wasn't paying attention to that.

The only Targaryen thing the baby had besides his eyes were his wings.

They were delicate, fragile, snowflake-colored little things, translucent leathery skin stretched over bones so thin that sometimes Ned feared they would break at the slightest touch. 

Dragon wings.

Ned remembered Rhaegar's wings, the gleaming silver of his armored scales, the sharp thread of the claws of the thumbs of the knuckles that tore out one of Robert's eyes before he smashed the Prince's chest with his war hammer, mere moments after a well-aimed arrow knocked Rhaegar out of the sky.

Wings that Robert had displayed in the throne room of the Red Keep, hung from hooks and chains over the Iron Throne like a macabre hunting trophy.

Ned almost threw up when he first saw them, almost being able to see Torrhen's wings hanging next to his father's, the baby crushed on the floor of the Fortress as his brother was. And Ned would never forget the macabre satisfaction on Robert's face when Gregor Clegane threw the shattered bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon at Robert's feet.

Lyanna was right to say that Robert would kill Torrhen without hesitation, all those months ago.

That's why Ned must hide everything that could give away his nephew's true ancestry – from Lyanna and Rhaegar's marriage documents, to Rhaegar's will and the birth certificates of the legitimate child of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Targaryen of House Stark.

Ned was lucky that no one had filled in the blank for the child's name on the birth certificate, thus allowing him to register Torrhen with the name his mother chose for him before locking all the papers inside Lyanna's jewel chest, which he hid at the bottom of his own chest to seal inside his sister's tomb in the Crypts at Winterfell to – hopefully – never be found out.

Ned would also have to change Torrhen's name, and what option did he have but to hide him in plain sight as the bastard of the Warden of the North? The North had been loyal to the Starks since the Age of Heroes, when Bran the Builder erected the Wall and Winterfell after the Long Night, and none of them – not even the Boltons – had any lost love for the South after Aerys killed Ned's father and older brother, let alone now with Lyanna dead and the rumors of kidnapping and rape still circulating on black wings throughout Westeros and beyond. No Northerner would denounce Torrhen to the Crown, or the gods forbid, Tywin Lannister, but... Well.

Lady Stark and her entourage were Southerners. None of them followed the values of the North or worshipped the Old Gods or had any respect for the weirwoods. They didn't love their Rivers, and Ned knows in his heart that Catelyn Tully wouldn't love a Snow either.

It would be simple for Ned to make everyone believe that he had an affair with one of the dragonseed daughters in Dragonstone, or even that he ended up stumbling upon a descendant of Blackfyre in a brothel, and that the mother died in child birth, and that's why he took the resulting child due to his duty to them – this would at least explain why Torrhen didn't have the raven wings of House Stark, after all, everyone knew that dragonseeds and Blackfyre were of Targaryen blood, as well as preventing anyone from looking at Ned's nephew as a true Targaryen, as this particular lie would only make Torrhen's disguise stronger – as no one would bother to investigate the origin of a child born twice in bastardy.

But a Snow-Blackfyre couldn't be named with the traditional names of their Houses, and so Torrhen couldn't grow up with his real name being thrown around. For this reason, and as much as it hurts him, Ned will have to rename his nephew.

That's how Jon Snow comes into existence, and that's who he is for the next fifteen years – a Snow child whose mother may or may not be the fruit of dragon seeds, a Northern bastard who is also called Blackfyre by Lady Stark and her attendants behind Lord Stark's back because he was a shame to House Stark, a stain on his Lord Father honor and was born with the wrong set of wings.

That's all he has to know about himself for fifteen years or so, at least until the day a letter with King Robert Baratheon's personal seal arrives and Lord Stark summons Jon to his office.

Ned

Jon Arryn died. Sure, he was old when we were both green kids, and he's just gotten older over the years, but I thought he'd live forever, you know? The old man was tough as nails, and had a good head on his shoulders – that's why I named him my Hand, actually. But now he's gone, and I don't have a Hand anymore, and honestly? I don't trust anyone in this god-forsaken fortress for that, no matter what Cersei says about her father.

Tywin Lannister was the Hand of the Mad King, and look what an end Aerys took, didn't he? I don't doubt that the regicide would do the same to me if he had the chance, the bastard.

Anyway, back to the subject before I digress any further – I no longer have a Hand of the King to advise me. And I don't trust anyone in my cohort to be the new Hand. That's why I'm writing you this letter, Ned. Your King wants you, Eddard Stark, to be the new Hand of the King. I hope you'll accept it. I arranged a trip to the North to discuss this face to face, old friend. And when the messenger reaches Winterfell, the entourage will be arriving at Harrenhall.

See you soon, my brother.

Robert

Chapter Text

For reference:

Jon's wings:  

Example 01 

Example 02

Example 03 

Example 04

Ned's (and Arya's) Wings:

Exemple 01  

Exemple 02

Robb's (and Bran and Rickon's) Wings:

Exemple 01

Exemple 02

Exemple 03 

Example 04

Sometimes Ned thinks that if Catelyn had been just a little more open-minded, Robb and Torrhen would have grown close like twin brothers, like Brandon and Ned before he was sent to be raised by Jon Arryn at the Valley, or like Lyanna and Benjen – whose pain was so deep and the memories so painful that he would rather take the Black than remain in Winterfell without his sister.

The future Lord Paramount of the North and the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, brothers in everything except – in some ways – in blood.

If the gods had been kind and smiled on House Stark – and on Rhaegar Targaryen, and Ned only thinks so because of the letters exchanged between Rhaegar, Princess Elia Martell, and Lyanna that he found in his sister's things – this is what would have happened.

If the gods had been kind, Torrhen would have had a father, two mothers, and two siblings, and Ned would still have his own father and his three siblings, and maybe an extra brother in the Silver Prince himself.

But it wasn't to be, and now Ned looks at his son and his nephew playing under Old Nan's watchful eye and has to bite his tongue to keep from crying when Robb laughs and calls his cousin Jon.

"Like this!" Robb exclaims, spreading his still fluffy wings with his chick feathers, and flapping them as best he can given how small and weak they are. Ned still don't know if Robb's wings will be the raven Stark or the osprey Tully, not until he's ten or ten and two, which is when the chick feathers will have all been replaced with adult feathers and also when Robb will be strong enough to start learning to fly for real. "Just like this, Jon!"

That doesn't stop him from trying now, though, just as it doesn't stop him from trying to get Torrhen Jon to imitate him, completely ignoring in childish naivety that Jon's wings were different.

Ignoring that Jon's wings were not those of a bird.

In fact, for Robb, Jon's wings were the most fascinating thing in the world.

And how could they not be, with the opalescent white glow of the young, fragile scales in the spring sun? Any self-respecting Stark was fond of shiny things, raven-ish instincts compelling them to collect and guard the treasure in their nest. And to little Robb, who was barely big enough to venture outside the confines of the nursery, Jon was the greatest treasure of all, the brightest thing he ever had in his short life. He wasn't the dragon in Winterfell, but sometimes, the way Robb hoarded Jon to himself... well.

Ned had no problem with that, but Catelyn was another story altogether.

She hated Jon, hated the stain that he was on her reputation as a wife and Lady of Winterfell and Ned's as a man, husband, and his honor as Warden of the North. And more than that, she hated what she and every Southerner who came to the North with her from Riverrun thought Jon was – a Snow and a Blackfyre. A bastard twice, of both mother and father, and to top it all off, a bastard with dragon blood and wings.

Catelyn was absolutely certain that Jon would follow in the footsteps of Daemon Blackfyre and his descendants and try to usurp Robb's place as Heir to House Stark.

Of course, neither she nor her attendants dared to say it in front of him or anywhere he could hear, but the walls of Winterfell had ears, and those ears had mouths that answered directly to Ned and no one else.

Ned also knew that some Southern ladies would rather poison their husbands' bastards than tolerate the existence of the child in their homes. And Catelyn was still a stranger to him, even after nearly five years of marriage and two children – small, frail Sansa who had no place in her siblings' nursery simply because she was born without wings and because Catelyn wouldn't allow Jon near her, despite what Ned says about Southern prejudice having no place in the North –, so Ned still had no idea what she was capable of, what the limits of her tolerance were, what the scope of her hatred was.

So as he watches his bastard and his firstborn son flap their wings and bounce across the padded floor of the nursery trying to figure out how to fly, Ned silently promises himself that he will do anything and everything to keep Jon safe. Including sending his wife back to her Lord Father's house if necessary.

(In the end, it's not Catelyn who leaves.

The only thing that comforts Ned when Ice falls on his neck is that Torrhen, Viserys, and Daenerys at least know the truth. That the three of them are together somewhere in Essos, because the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.)

"Did you ask to see me, Lord Stark?" Jon asks, entering his father's office. On Jon's collarbones, his wing claws wiggle, sharp spikes clinking against the steel gorget protecting his neck. It's the only sign that he's nervous.

"Yes, Jon." Lord Stark answers, not looking at Jon, one of his hands resting on a dusty lady's chest on the Lord's ironwood desk. The sky outside must be very interesting, Jon thinks, sitting down in one of the narrow, low-backed chairs – he does, however, not relax his wings, keeping them glued to his back, as closed as possible. "I have something to tell you. It's about your mother."

Jon's brain freezes. He can't have heard it right.

"Pardon me, my Lord, but... Why?" Why now? Why not when I asked about her all those other times?

Lord Stark rubs his hand over his mouth before answering, his other hand still on the chest. "Because I got a letter from King Robert, Jon. He and the royal family are coming to Winterfell. And if he sees you..."

He'll kill you, Lord Stark doesn't say, but Jon hears it loud and clear.

It doesn't matter if Jon is a Snow. It doesn't matter if Jon is the bastard son of the King's best friend. What matters is that Jon is a Blackfyre. What matters is that Jon's mother, whoever she was, had Targaryen blood. Robert Baratheon will not see a ten-and-five-year-old green boy, but rather a threat to his reign, an enemy to kill and whose wings he will hang over the Iron Throne as hunting trophies along with those of Rhaegar Targaryen.

Jon's draconic wings never feel more like a death sentence than they do now.

"Then I'll go to the Wall." He says, staring at the fireplace across the office, preferring to watch the flames than look at his father. "If I go now, the King will never know I existed."

Lord Stark shakes his head. "No. I can't allow you to go to the Wall, Jon. Your mother..." He laughs, watery, and Jon stares at him wide-eyed. "She would come out of her tomb and kill me." He turns to Jon. "The motive for Robert's Rebellion was a lie. My sister... Gods, but she hated Robert, to the point of killing him at the first opportunity she had if she ended up marrying him as our father wanted. Even back then, he already had bastards and was known for his debauchery. But he was still Lord Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm's End... By all means, Robert was one of the most eligible bachelors of the time, along with Jaime Lannister and Oberyn Martell. And at the time of that damn tournament... He was already in love with Lyanna. Or at least he – we – thought he was, because he had a whole image of her in his mind that definitely didn't match with the real Lyanna."

"Why are you telling me this, father? You don't like to talk about Aunt Lyanna." Jon asks, confused. His claws scratch at the gorget as Jon's wings move, the scrape of the scales sounding like thunder in the silent room. "Nor about King Robert's Rebellion."

Ned sighs, his wings curling around his shoulders like a cloak. "It's painful to talk about it most days. The reason for the Rebellion... The way Lyanna died..." Lord Stark's dark feathers seem to wither with his sadness. "A lot of people wouldn't have died if I hadn't encouraged Roberts obsession for Lyanna, if I'd stopped Brandon and our father from going South, if I'd listened to Benjen when he tried to tell me about the message Lyanna sent him after she left with Rhaegar, if only the letter she sent when rumors of her kidnapping spread hadn't been misplaced. Your life, Jon, would have been very different."

Lord Stark then turns to him, looking Jon straight in the eye over the lady's chest. There are red rims in his eyes, and there is a sheen of moisture in his beard – and Jon has the sudden realization that Lord Stark has been crying.

"Do you know why there's an anonymous tomb next to Lyanna's?" He asks. Jon shakes his head, denying. "After the Battle of the Trident, Robert took off Rhaegar's wings and abandoned the body on the banks of the river. And after I learned the truth about him and Lyanna... I couldn't in good conscience leave him there alone, to rot. So I brought his bones here. And since then, Rhaegar Targaryen has been buried there. Next to his wife, in her ancestral home. The first non-Stark to be buried in the Crypts of the Winter Kings." He says, a tear running from the corner of his eye to his beard. "But before that... I had to find my sister. And I found her, in a keep in Dorne, the Tower of Joy, a detestably ironic name if you ask me. She was being guarded by three members of the Kingsguard, Sors Prince Lewyn Martell, Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne, which explained why they weren't in the Trident with Barristan Selmy and Gerald Hightower alongside Rhaegar, in Dragonstone with Willem Darry guarding Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys, or in King's Landing with Jaime Lannister, who was supposed to be protecting the Mad King, Princess Elia and her children."

Jon was silent – if King Robert knew that Rhaegar Targaryen was buried in Winterfell, next to Jon's aunt... Lord Stark would be beheaded for treason, best friend of the King or not, for the entire kingdom knew well Robert Baratheon's hatred towards the Silver Prince. He would not tolerate Rhaegar's final resting place being next to his Lady Lyanna and not on the muddy edge of the Trident, buried by time between the reeds and the grass. 

"We ended up killing the Kingsguard to get to Lyanna. None of us – Howland and me, that is, the only ones who survived – understood why they would die for her, Rhaegar's orders or not, but when I got to that room..." Lord Stark closes his eyes, sighing, mustering the strength to continue telling the story. "Old Nan always said that when a dragon is born, a red star crosses the sky. I flew to the window, and I had the blade of the Sword of the Morning in my hands, and Dawn was drenched in blood – a red star. Then, when I got to my sister's bedside, with Dawn still in hand, where she was dying of childbirth fever and a bleeding wound in the stomach, she introduced me to you, Jon, her newborn child with Rhaegar. A legitimate boy, all Stark except for the dragon wings and eye color he inherited from his father. A babe that the man I called my best friend and brother in all but blood would kill without hesitation. Lyanna made me promise to protect him before she dies, and so I protected him, the last and most precious gift my sister ever gave me. And for fifteen years, I protected and I loved like a son my nephew, the Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, hiding him in plain sight... As my bastard."

Jon... Jon doesn't know what to say. Rhaegar Targaryen buried in the Crypts was one thing, but this...

"Sounds absurd, doesn't it?" Lord Stark's laugh is hollow, weak, and deprecating. "But I swear by the Old and New Gods and by the roots of the Heart Tree, that everything I'm telling you is true, Jon. I have proof of that." He tilts his chin to the lady's chest on the table between them. There is a direwolf's head carved on the ironwood lid, and in its teeth it has a winter rose set in sapphire. "Marriage documents signed by Lyanna and Princess Elia Martell. Marriage documents signed by Rhaegar and Lyanna. Rhaegar's will, his last will in case something happened to him, Elia, and the children. Lyanna's personal diary. Letters exchanged between the three after Harrenhall. The announcement and birth certificate of Prince Torrhen of Houses Stark and Targaryen, and the declaration of legitimacy validated by the Citadel. It's all here, in this chest."

"...Why tell me now?" Jon asks, quietly. His voice is choked with tears. He doesn't even notice his wings opening behind him, the clawings folding inward as the fist-sized knots of bone and cartilage of his ulnal phalanges hits the floor with a thud, Jon cowering behind the protection of his young but tough scales. A defensive posture of a cornered dragon that hadn't been seen in almost two decades, and this makes Ned devastated – his chick no longer felt safe with him. "Why not tell Lady Stark?"

"Because her hatred is what protected you the most." Lord Stark replies, grimacing. Ned wants to hug Jon, take him under his wings like he did when his children were as small and fragile as hatchling robins – but he doesn't try because any sudden movement will send Jon flying from the office. Literally. "I'm not telling you to forgive her, or to absolve her of what she did to you, Jon. Your disguise as my bastard would only work if she didn't know the truth."

"And you didn't know if she was going to report me to the Crown or not." Jon says, hearing what his father – uncle? – wasn't saying. "She's not from the North."

Ned nods. "My marriage to her was not for love, nor was it something either of us wanted. She should have married your Uncle Brandon, but... Well, Aerys killed him along with our father. And the duty of the lordship of the North and Brandon's marriage fell to me." Lord Stark sighs tiredly and rubs a hand over his face. "Not a day goes by that I don't hate myself for not being able to take care of you like I should, for letting Catelyn take out all the hate and anger on you that she should have directed at me. Even if you were a bastard, that doesn't excuse her. You are a child. And the mistakes of the parents should not be paid for by the children."

But that also doesn't excuse the way she treated me all these years, Jon thinks, but he doesn't say that to his uncle – father? – because Lord Stark really was saddened and furious about this – and with Lady Stark. This matter is not something they would resolve at that time, and the wounds and rift between Jon and his uncle's wife were too deep for anything to be salvaged between the two.

Then Jon – Torrhen, his name is Torrhen, as in the King Who Kneeled to Save the North – asks the next big question: "Where do I go?"

Lord Stark looks like he might burst into tears, but he takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, controlling himself before responding, "To Pentos. I've kept an eye on your father's siblings, Viserys and Daenerys. They are living in the mansion of a Magister, Illyrio Mopatis. But you must not trust him, or any of his allies, Jon. Just at your uncle and aunt. If you can, get them out of there, and take them with you to Braavos. It is there that you will find the headquarters of the Rose Company. Although they haven't set foot in Westeros for almost three hundred years, they are still from the North, so they will accept the three of you as you three are Stark by blood and marriage. I'll give you a letter explaining everything. You must deliver it to the company leader, and show them your legitimation documents. They are our kin, and the Company of the Rose must be reminded that they are still our pack, even after all these years."

Wide-eyed, Jon Torrhen nods. Ned then pushes the lady's trunk to his nephew, who takes it with shaking hands.

"I sent a letter asking, and Lord Manderly replied that there will be a merchant ship in White Harbor sailing to Pentos in three days. The Maiden's Kiss." Ned says, opening one of the drawers in his desk and taking out a heavy bag of coins. He passes it to Torrhen, who accepts it. He attaches the bag to his belt, where his wings will hide it. "You must leave tomorrow before sunrise. There will be a gelding ready for you in the stables, along with supplies for the journey. Mikken is finishing a sword tonight, and it will be in the horse saddle. And Torrhen..." Ned stands up, wings rustling as he walks around the desk between him and his nephew in four long strides and pulls him into a hug, the chest almost falling to the floor if Torrhen didn't placed it under his arm. Ned envelops him with his wings, the soft black of the feathers looking like tar poured over snowy scales. "You don't have my name, but you have my blood. It doesn't matter if you decide to stay the rest of your life in Essos or if you decide to came back and fight for your crown. No matter what, I love you. From your first day, when you were placed in my arms, until my last day. And you must remember that, son. You are pack, family. Þegar snjór fellur og hvítir vindar blása...¹"

"...eini úlfurinn deyr en hópurinn lifir af.²" Torrhen responds, Old Tongue rolling like water from his mouth. "I love you, father, because that's what you are to me. I don't want a crown, but I'll come back one day. I promise you that."

Ned's smile is watery, and he presses a kiss to Torrhen's forehead. When did he get so tall?

"Use the rest of the day and night to say goodbye to your brothers and sisters." Ned says, separating from his nephew and taking Torrhen's face in his hands. "I don't know if we'll have time to talk again tomorrow before you leave, so here's my last bit of advice for you. First of all, don't forget that you are, first and foremost, a child of the North, the blood of the Winter Kings. A direwolf, a Stark. Be as tough as the ice of the Wall, as persistent as summer snow, and as resilient as weirwood trees. Keep this in mind, and you will overcome any challenge you face, no matter what it is. Second, you are also a dragon. You are fire made flesh, blood of Old Valyria. When you leave these walls, you can't hide it, you can't cover your wings of honey and feathers and pretend to be what you're not. Beneath the fur, you are a dragon, Torrhen. Be a dragon, and remember that your coin has fallen for greatness. And lastly. Don't look back, for if you dwell on dwelling on the past, you will lose yourself. I'm not telling you to forget everything you've been through, but rather that you learn from it and let go, always keeping in mind that you're not a lone wolf. Whenever you need us, we Stark will be right here. Do you understand?"

Torrhen sniffs and nods.

"Good." Ned then walks away from his nephew and returns to his table. He glances at the sun's height briefly, checking the time. "I think Rickon and Shaggy Dog are in the nursery. It's almost their nap time."

With a giggle, Torrhen nods and heads for the door. "Yes, I'll help Old Nan get them both to sleep." He puts his hand on the doorknob and stops. "...Goodbye, father."

"Goodbye, son." Ned responds, and Torrhen opens the door to the lord's manor and leaves, closing it behind him without making a sound or looking back.

Ned wipes his eyes, pours himself a mug of beer, and goes back to work. Winterfell and the North weren't going to govern themselves – and if he also ended up leaving some documents prepared for Robb to find in case something happened to him when he went South... Well, Ned was just being cautious.

Torrhen doesn't remember how he got to his bedroom. One minute he was saying goodbye to his father – because damn, if that wasn't what Eddard Stark was to him – and the next he was opening the door of the small room he had lived in since he was five years old. When he was small and his scales were as weak as the pages of the oldest books in Winterfell's library, his room seemed enormous, with a large bed and a fireplace that could swallow him whole. He didn't understand at the time why he had to leave Robb's shared nest in the nursery, only that he now had a new place to sleep and that he shouldn't share his sleep furs with Robb again. It hurt, at the time, even more so because Robb and the nursery were all he knew, at least until Sansa and then Arya and then Bran and then Rickon came. At this point, Torrhen was already used to sleeping alone, curled up in his wings as he struggled to stay warm, since Lady Stark made sure to give him the coldest room in the fortress.

He doesn't hate her, no matter how many reasons he has to. But he doesn't love her either, and never will.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Torrhen closes the door and quickly shoves his late mother's chest under the bed, against the headboard wall and out of sight of anyone who enters. Ghost – the size of an adult ram, larger than any of his littermates, to everyone's surprise – joins him, ducking under the bed to sniff the chest before sitting down at Torrhen's heel when his curiosity was satisfied.

"I'm not a Stark, Draugur³." Torrhen says, bending down next to his direwolf and stroking his head and neck. Ghost is warm and soft beneath his hands, and when Torrhen digs his fingers into the thick fur of the direwolf's collar, he can feel the beating of Ghost's heart – it's stable and strong, and that grounds him, calming him down when all he wants to do is scream in anger, curl up into a shaking ball of grief, and cry in sadness. "I mean, Father... Uncle was right when he said I don't have his name, but I'm his blood. I was never a bastard, a Snow. Hell, I'm not even a Blackfyre. I'm trueborn. A trueborn Targaryen. Can you believe it, Ghost? My name isn't even Jon. Aunt Lyanna... My mother called me Torrhen. Torrhen, as in the King Who Saved the North. My name... My name is Torrhen Targaryen and I am the rightful King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms."

Holy crap. He's the fucking King.

He's the fucking King. The fucking King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms. He's... He...

He can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

Choking and feeling as if there is a hand crushing his throat, Torrhen tries to get up, but falls to his knees on the ground when his limp legs do not support him. He coughs, trying to swallow a mouthful of air and coughing when it only makes him choke again. He feels his back wet and cold with sweat, the scales on his spine standing on end as his wings spasm and close around him, and the contrasting feeling of fever in his head makes him feel nauseous. His chest hurts, and he's shaking so hard that his teeth are chattering to the point that it's audible. And when he starts to see black dots before his eyes, Torrhen swears he's going to die.

That's when the massive form of softness and warmth that is Ghost forces his way between Torrhen's wings until he bumps into his chest, his icy snout poking Torrhen until he leans back and sits on his heels, which helps him breathe a little better, without choking or coughing, at least. He forces his heavy wings to get out of the way and puts his numb arms around his direwolf, sobbing as Ghost licks away his tears, rubbing the thick white fur between his fingers as he tries to mimic Ghost's panting pattern. That helps too, and soon Torrhen is a quivering, panting mess, his wings cocooning him and Ghost as he calms himself.

"Gods, that was horrible." He mumbles, sniffling. He doesn't stop petting Ghost, the repetitive action helping him focus instead of collapsing again. "Sorry, boy. I got your fur wet."

Ghost snorts and licks him again, eliciting a wet chuckle from Torrhen. "Heh... I love you too, boy. Yeah, you're the best, Ghost."

He unwraps both of his wings, supporting himself on his cot with one hand to pull himself to his feet. His knees are still a little weak, so Jon lets himself fall down onto the straw mattress – Ghost lays his large head in his lap, and Jon pets him mechanically, concentrating on breathing and in thinking without collapsing into a weeping mess.

So Torrhen made a list.

It is divided into topics – short term urgent, long term urgent and immediate urgent.

On the list of immediate urgency, he put getting out of Winterfell.

This, Torrhen knows, should be the easiest part of Lord Stark's escape plan, especially since Torrhen knows the fortress inside and out – he knows which passages he must go through to reach the courtyard where the sealed gelding will be waiting for him, he knows which path in the Godswood he must follow to reach the hunter's gate on the outer wall that leads to the Wolfwood and what buck trail will take him out of the trees nearby the outskirts of Wintertown.

The problem will not be to leave. The problem will be to get away fast enough that Robb won't follow him the second he realizes Jon's gone – for Torrhen knows his cousin as well as he knows Winterfell's floorplant, and so he knows Robb will never let him go willingly. Hopefully, he'll already be a full day away when Robb finally notices that Torrhen didn't show up for any of the meals or for their lessons the entire day.

Torrhen runs his tongue over his teeth, taking a little longer on the sharper ones, and decide to worry about it later. He needed to pack his bags and say goodbye to his cousins.

So, packing. And then, nursery to see baby Rickon. And then Bran, Arya, Sansa, and, after the last meal and closer to the time for him to go, Robb.

Mm. He should ask Robb for some wing grooming – Robb always seemed to know where his loose scales were just by looking, and besides, Torrhen missed spend time with his cousing outside of Maester Luwin's or Sor Roderick's classes – not that he blames Robb for it. He knows his cousin is increasingly busy learning to run Winterfell and the North, and therefore has less and less time for his bastard brother.

And besides, it would be nice to leave with one last good memory of Robb.

Sighing, Torrhen pets Ghost one last time, stands up and go start folding his clothes. The sooner he finishes this, the more time he will have to say goodbye.

Rickon's chick wings are tiny. Torrhen wished he could say this wasn't surprising, but that would be a lie – Lady Catelyn hated him coming near her babe as much as she hated Torrhen around her daughters, so the only times Torrhen had seen Rickon up close was when Lord Stark introduced him when he was born, at the great meals, and when Lord Stark presented his children with his direwolves.

Rickon was going to be three namedays.

“I saw the light fade from the sky; On the wind I heard a sigh; As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers; I will say this last goodbye...” Torrhen hums to his little brother, reaching out and letting Rickon sleepily grab his finger. Under the cradle where he was nestled, Ghost had Shaggydog napping against his side, the black puppy snoring lightly. “Night is now falling; So ends this day; The road is now calling; And I must away... Over hill and under tree; Through lands where never light has shone; By silver streams that run down to the sea... Under cloud, beneath the stars... Over snow one winter's morn... I turn at last to paths that lead home... And though where the road then takes me... I cannot tell... We came all this way... But now comes the day... To bid you farewell...”

“That’s quite a lullaby, kid.” Old Nan says, slowly entering the nursery. Her cane made muffled noises against the fur-padded stone floor. “A nice farewell too. Going somewhere?”

“Away from death, Old Nan.” Torrhen answers her, carefully extracting his hand from Rickon's iron grip. “King Robert has a notorious dislike of dragons, as you well know.”

The old woman scoffs, sitting down in the armchair near the crib with a grunt. “Despicable man. If there was one thing little Lyanna did right, it was running away from a marriage with him when she could.”

“What was she like?” Torrhen asks, curious since Lord Stark hadn't gone into much detail about his sister, running his fingers through Rickon's downy plumage.

“Ferocious. Wild. A she-wolf through and through. She would have ripped out Robert Baratheon's throat with her teeth the minute he had tried to drag her to his bed.” She says, proudly. “No man was a match for her. I don't know what she saw in the Silver Dragon, but he must have impressed her somehow, because Lyanna wouldn't let herself be taken without fight. And if he really had raped her like all these loose tongues say, he would not have survived to die on the Trident. The she-wolf would have killed him with her own hands.”

Old Nan then reaches out for one of Torrhen's wings, and he extends it until the old woman who single-handedly created generations of raven-winged Starks could touch the warm scales, but as cold in color as the snow outside. Her fingers are calloused and crooked with age, and she scrapes her nails at a spot on the flight membrane until a scale comes loose. It is a milky white oval that glows soft green and pale pink in the sunlight that came in through the window, and Old Nan hums victoriously as she tucks the scale into one of her pockets.

“I always keep something from the children I raise.” She confides in him, taking a half-done embroidery from another pocket. She smiles, a little toothless, and sticks the needle in the cloth. “Of course I would keep something that reminds me of you, Jon Snow, after all, you are one of my children. Now go, boy. You still have other goodbyes to say.”

“Goodbye then, Old Nan. I shall miss your meat pies.” Torrhen teases the little old lady, who laughs quietly so as not to wake the baby in the crib and shoos him away with a wave of her hand.

“Farewell, Jon Snow.” She says. “And don't forget that you will always have a home to return. You just have to remember that sometimes you can look back.”

Arya was clearly running away from her lessons with Septa Mordane, because Torrhen finds her perched on one of the hallway windows, clearly in the middle of trying to jump to her freedom and being prevented falling headfirst into the courtyard below by Nymeria's teeth on the hem of her tunic.

“You're going to get hurt if you do this and you know it.” He tells her, grabbing her by the collar and pulling her away from her precarious perch and back to the security of the interior of the castle. Ghost and Nymeria, at their feet, sniff each other in greetings before running off to cause chaos somewhere. “Seriously, Arya. You're still too young to jump from such a height.”

“But you and Robb and Theon can!” Torrhen's little sister complains, stomping her foot. “It’s not fair!”

“We can jump because we are older and because we know how not to land on our heads.” Torrhen explains patiently, ruffling Arya's hair, who grunts and tries to slap him. “Come with me to Mikken? There is something I want to ask him.”

Arya's feathers – a mixture of gray down and coal-black juvenile – shivers, leaving her looking a bit like a disheveled feather duster, and she looks at him with a mixture of curiosity and distrust. “You're not taking me back there, are you? It took me a lot of work to get away from that lecture, you know!”

“I'm not.” Torrhen swears, extending his pinky to her. “Pinky promise.”

Arya giggles, extends her much smaller little finger, and intertwines it with Torrhen's.

“Okay, but I want a piggyback ride!” She demands, and Torrhen laughs as he crouches down so Arya can perch in the space between his wings. Her feet slip a little on the scales, but soon Arya finds a good support by squeezing her knees in Torrhen's ribs, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding her own wrists to hold herself in place and not crush his throat. “Up!”

“Alright, alright! Hold on tight!” He laughs, climbing into the jump window he had just pulled Arya from. “Ready?”

“Yeah!”

Torrhen jumps from the third level of Winterfell's residential wing, count to three and open his wings with a leathery snap, flight membranes between the bony fingers catching the wind current and taking them to the inner courtyard of the fortress in a easy and smooth gliding flight. Arya screams and laughs the whole time in Torrhen's ear, and he flaps his wings and rises again, circling the courtyard before finally landing, the force of the air displacement caused by his wings when landing kicking up and throwing loose snow all over the place.

“Again! We have to do it again!” Arya exclaims, jumping off his back and bouncing in place. “Please, Jon!”

And at that moment, looking at Arya's joyful, blushing little face, at her smile missing a tooth in the front and eyes shining with excitement, Jon realizes how much he doesn't want to leave.

He doesn't want to leave and missing Rickon's first words, or Arya's first real flying lesson, or the day Bran finally hits the bullseye at the shooting range, or any other important milestone for his little siblings. I didn't want to miss Sansa's betrothing, or the day Robb finally stopped being just the Stark Heir and became Lord Stark.

He never wanted to leave, not even to the Wall.

But the thing is, Torrhen was as much a Stark as he was a Targaryen, and the pack was everything to him. And his pack now included his aunt and uncle from across the ocean, and they needed him there with them more than Arya and Bran and Sansa and Rickon and Robb needed him in Winterfell.

Jon looks at Arya, to the way the forge fire made her dark feathers shine like glass, and swears to himself that, someday, who knows how long from now, he will return. And when he returns...

It will be with dragons.