Chapter Text
Jon woke in a cold sweat and blinked his eyes at the ceiling as he grew accustomed to the weak morning light filtering through the shutters, his hammering heart calming slowly. It happened again. The dreams had intruded on his sleep and disrupted his peace once more.
He could still feel the cold in his bones, the chill air on his face. You are no Stark, go away, echoed in his ears still. Go away, go away, go away.
Each time he dreamt of the crypts, it was the same. I know! I know, I know, I know, he wanted to yell every time the voices of the old Kings of Winter sounded in the dream. I know that I am not a Stark! I know that I do not belong! I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so, so sorry.
He had always hated the dream, the fear, and the feeling of the darkness pressing down on him, and trying to suffocate him, it brought. Over the years, he had come to hate the crypts, too.
When he had been a child, he had visited them often and had even played there with Robb, chasing after each other, sometimes playing pranks on their unsuspecting younger siblings. Now, after suffering through the years of torment, he could barely bring himself to enter them and never alone, always making sure a Stark accompanied him.
Jon had never thought of himself a craven. Never. And yet the crypts left him uneasy even outside the dreams. There was something there. Some fell secret, a hidden evil that sought to harm him. Be it for his bastardy, being a stain on Lord Stark’s honor, or for an unknown crime of his own, he knew not. He knew not, he cared not, he merely wished to never enter them as long as he lived.
The dream was driving him away from Winterfell, from his home, from his family, and he hated it for that too, but mostly he hated it for making him feel small and unwanted and utterly insignificant.
Every night, as he went to sleep, he hoped he would dream of something else. Anything else, truly, but even as he wished for it, he knew it would never be just anything.
For as long as he could remember, Jon only ever had two kinds of dreams, and he knew which he preferred by far.
The first he ever remembered dreaming the other dream was when he had been barely more than a babe, and it was closely tied to his first true memory.
They had roughhoused with Robb, and he had fallen, scraping his palms. Jon had burst into tears and seeing him crying so, so had Robb. Lady Stark had come upon them and rushed to take Robb into her arms, caressing his head and pressing kisses to it as she shushed him.
Jon, not quite aware of their differences yet, had extended his arms toward her for comfort, crying still and calling her mama. Lady Stark glared at him and turned sharply away, carrying Robb away too. Jon had cried all the harder for it and could not be consoled even when the nurse came back into the nursery and tried to console him, taking care of the scrapes.
The dream came to him that night after he had fallen asleep, sniffling quietly and praying for his mama to come.
He had dreamt of a warm place full of light, a soft hand caressing his hair and back and a sweet slightly raspy voice singing quietly, sometimes slipping into humming, or whispering into his ear warm words he did not understand.
When he had woken, his palms stung still, but he had been happy.
The dreams had continued and changed as he aged, but he had always remembered that first dream, the dream that he had once foolishly believed had been of his own mother.
As the years went by, hardly a night went by without one of the dreams, and he had been still a young boy when he had realized, to his great disappointment, that it could not be his mother that he dreamt of. It was some other boy’s mother, some other boy’s life he kept dreaming of.
Despite the painful knowledge, he had welcomed the dreams still, for in them, the world was full of light and laughter and adventure . The other boy had had a mother, a father, an elder brother and best of all, there were dragons . When the boy’s mother had died, Jon had grieved as if his own mother had done so as well, for in a way, she had been. Only her touch had ever soothed him as a mother’s would, only her voice had sung him sweet lullabies, only her lips had kissed away his hurts.
Laughter had gone out of the boy’s life with his mother’s death, and loneliness had crept in as his brother grew and abandoned him as well. Jon had felt that loneliness as a knife in his breast even as his own family had kept growing, and he had gained sisters and then more brothers.
When Jon had grown older, the dreams had changed and while he had still dreamt of the boy, suddenly the boy’s life seemed to pass by swiftly, and the boy had turned into a youth and by the time Jon had become a youth himself, the boy had become a man.
And it was not just any man the boy he had dreamt of as himself had turned into. No, it was the Rogue Prince Jon dreamt of, it was his mother Jon had grieved so. He had grieved a woman dead for well over a century as if she had been his own mother.
He had known. Jon had known that the name of the boy he had kept dreaming of had been Daemon , and he had known that he must have been a Targaryen, for there were dragons, but he had not understood it had been the Rogue Prince he had been dreaming as, not even as he was knighted and given Dark Sister. No, he had only understood that as he had overheard the name spoken derisively in the dream, and realization struck him with uncommon pain.
A bastard, Jon might be, but he had found surprising kinship with the prince. There was a thirst to prove themselves better than those around them believed them to be, and so while Jon had named himself Aemon the Dragonknight in his play fights with Robb when they had been boys, it had become Daemon the Rogue Prince he had become as the years pressed on.
They no longer played at swords, pretending to be knights of great renown, though. No, they trained in earnest now, and while Robb was the better lance, Jon was the better sword, and he worked hard at it. The Rogue Prince had been one of the greatest warriors in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, a man feared and respected and loved . A brother to a king, a husband to a queen, a father to two kings, and an ancestor to all Targaryens that came after. The man that had thrown himself into a fight he had known he had little chance of surviving and still brought an end to the Kinslayer and the largest of all living dragons at the time plaguing the smallfolk of the Riverlands.
Jon could not claim any such ambition, no. But he wanted to forge his own path, be the master of his own destiny, be a name recognized even centuries later, invoked by the smallfolk forevermore.
He had wished to remain in Winterfell with Robb forever, when he had been younger. It was his greatest desire still. But his dreams had shown him another path, had nurtured a different desire and a need to leave had grown in him, for only away could he outgrow his shadow, overcome the stain on the honor of Lord Stark that he was.
Only away could he become something more than just a bastard.
Jon knew that, and yet he loved his family and was leery of leaving them. Perhaps that was what the dreams of crypts meant to tell him. That he had overstayed his welcome, that it was time for him to go.
Something wet pressed against his face, and he abandoned his gloomy thoughts in favor of the pup of a direwolf he had found with his dead mother and livelier siblings.
It was not the time yet. It could not be the time yet. Jon was just shy of his fifteenth nameday, too young to strike out on his own, and Ghost was just a pup. He could not keep the direwolf behind, and he was too small to keep up.
So Jon abandoned thoughts of leaving and scratched his friend behind his ears, just as he liked it. As scratchy tongue lapped across his cheek and wet nose pressed into his own nose, he grinned and then grimaced, as scratchy tongue reached into his mouth as well. Not the kiss Jon would have wished for.
He removed the pup and moved to get up and get dressed for training with a sigh. For all that he wished to be a great warrior like the Rogue Prince, he had much and more training and years to go through before he had even a hope of that.
Some things, the dreams helped with, for some knowledge stayed with him even in the waking hours, but knowledge of swordfighting was not enough. Strength, speed, agility, all those needed to be trained up , and he was just a youth, unable to face grown men in a true fight. His height and therefore reach left much to be desired as well, as he was growing still. Jon hoped, at least. The Rogue Prince had been taller than he was as an adult, and he hoped for that height too, but Jon’s father was shorter than the prince, and he had no knowledge of his mother.
He left his room behind and headed to the training yard that was still mostly empty at the hour he began his training most days. Some days, the effort he had to put into his training was disheartening, but he knew, knew , that if he wished to be better than everyone else, to be exceptional, he had to train more than anyone else.
And Jon was determined. He would prove to them all that he was more than just a stain on his father’s honor. One day, he would even prove to Lady Stark that he was no threat to his siblings. She would see , he promised himself. She would see, and she would love him one day too.
Shame flooded his being at the very thought. There was ambition and then there were impossible dreams. He knew well enough which it was to wish for Lady Stark’s motherly love.
Jon put the thoughts out of his mind as he took up a tourney sword, closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself with deep breaths, and then started on the forms. He kept at it, even as the training yard came alive around him as the morning progressed and Ser Rodrik came to attend to the boys’ training.
The knight frowned deeply as he noted Robb’s absence and though Jon was wont to excuse him, he had no idea where his brother, usually so eager for their shared training, was or what kept him away, and so he kept his mouth shut and gaze pointed downward even as the tips of his ears reddened in the uncomfortable silence.
Robb, when he came at last, was bright-eyed and slightly breathless. “I beg your pardon, Ser Rodrik. Father kept me, and he bade me to send Jon to his solar straight away.”
Jon’s gaze snapped up from the ground with a frown. “Truly? Lord Stark sends for me?”
His brother nodded enthusiastically, his smile wide. “Yes. Yes, he calls for you and he calls for you now, so go.”
Jon looked to Ser Rodrik uncertainly, but the man merely raised a brow at him and inclined his head in the direction of the keep.
He shrugged, nodded to Ser Rodrik and put away the sword sedately, feigning nonchalance. Once out of their sight, he took off running. Robb had wanted him to hear whatever it was their father wished to speak to him about, and seemed quite convinced it was good. Jon needed to know whatever it was as soon as possible.
As the guards in front of the lord’s solar regarded him standing there huffing and puffing as he fought to regain his breath with amused smiles, he conceded rushing slightly less would not have harmed any.
When he found himself capable of speech, he addressed them levelly. “Lord Stark summoned me, I am told.”
The guard gave him a grin as he went to knock on the door and announce him. “And so he did.”
Jon hesitated before entering. He had not thought to wonder before, but what good thing could his father summon him for with such urgency? Was it a nameday present? The day was not too far off, so it could be that, but with the king’s upcoming visit looming large over all of their heads ever since it had been announced a week past, he rather doubted it.
“Lord Stark,” he greeted his father with a slight incline of his head, and was given a strained smile in return.
“Jon, come, sit. There was a raven from the king that concerns you.”
His father did not seem happy about it and come to think of it, no news from the king concerning Jon could be good .
“I do not understand. What could the king possibly want with me?” He frowned as he asked, but he rather suspected that he knew already. Jon was to be sent away so he would not be there when the king and his family came, so he would not be an embarrassment. He might get to travel though. Perhaps that was the reason Robb believed it good.
His father’s eyes were worried, and his long face slightly gray and suddenly very, very old as he folded his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “It seems that ill fortune follows the king as of late. After Jon died, that is Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, the king’s brother, Lord Stannis Baratheon, left the capital with his family for his seat at Dragonstone.”
Lord Stark paused and shook his head sadly, and Jon wondered what any of this had to do with him. His father let out a heavy sigh and continued. “There was a storm and the ship did not reach Dragonstone. There were no survivors.”
Jon stared at his father blankly, unimpressed. The king’s brother was dead, but he had not known him, had barely ever heard of him. The man meant nothing to him, plainly speaking.
“Stannis has no heir but his younger brother, who is the Lord of Storm’s End and cannot be Lord of Dragonstone as well.” He paused again and gave Jon a long look, seemingly waiting for something. Not finding it, he shook his head once more and pressed on. “The king named you the new Lord of Dragonstone.”
Breath died in Jon’s chest for a moment as he struggled to comprehend what his father had told him.
A bark of disbelieving laughter escaped him, and then he could no longer stop the onslaught, and he laughed and laughed. The king had wanted him to be the Lord of Dragonstone. Ha! As if Jon was going to fall for that!
His father was wearing his stern Lord’s face, so he fought to calm himself, but it was a futile fight. A somber bastard he might be, but some things were beyond even him.
“I must thank you, Lord Stark. I did not know I could laugh like this. However did Robb manage to put you up to this?” Jon’s esteem for his brother had risen considerably. He may have pulled japes on him before, but never had he achieved something like this.
Father closed his eyes as if in pain and rubbed at his face. “This is no jape, and Robb most certainly did not put me up to it. The news reached the king not far out of King’s Landing, and he thought of me… and you immediately, it would seem.”
Jon blinked at his father somewhat dumbly. “What would the king know of me? What would he care for me?”
Father looked so, so tired. “He knows that you are my son, not my heir, and old enough to be a lord in your own right, without a regent.”
Jon’s brows jumped up at that. “I am more than a year away from my majority still.”
Lips pressed tightly together in displeasure, Lord Stark explained. “That might be true, and Robert seems to realize that too, for the decree that names you as Jon Stark, the new Lord of Dragonstone also declares you of age.”
Jon jerked in his seat at the news, but his brows pulled together shortly thereafter, for while he knew one to be possible, the other he had not. He had never heard of such a thing as naming someone an adult, not in his waking life and not in his dreams, so he spoke carefully. “I was not aware such a thing could be done.”
“The king’s word is the law. And the king has spoken.”
Jon smoothed out his face and the ghostly words sounded in his head once more. You are no Stark. You do not belong here. But he was a Stark now. He was a Stark and he had to leave.
Lord Stark broke the silence once more, and Jon’s heart was pierced by pain at his words. “Considering the circumstances, it is my belief that it would be for the best if you were to depart soon. Best be already on Dragonstone when the king arrives to Winterfell. We would not wish him to think we do not appreciate his generosity.”
The dream had been right. He did not belong here, his father was ashamed of him, and wanted to hide Jon from the king’s sight. He was being sent out of Winterfell, and much, much sooner than he had expected. It took all his strength to maintain an illusion of composure.
His dream of becoming a Stark was coming true, and yet it would send him away from his home, from his family immediately after. What worth was that? He had not proven anything! Not to the king and most certainly not to Lady Stark.
Oh gods, Lady Stark… She had never cared for him, but now that he had been made a Stark and a lord…
All his life he had wanted to be a true Stark and now that he was…
He stared at his father numb with shock, a bitter taste of defeat in his mouth.
He was a Stark now, but he was still not good enough to stay. Not good enough to keep around.
Jon might be a lord now and declared an adult, but he wanted to weep like a babe.
He had been handed a famed keep, a lordship, a name. How childish of him to want to cry over it. How naive to have hoped for more.