Chapter Text
"He breathed in again when he felt his last breath leave him. As he looked at Bowen, tears fell down his cheeks. They had done their duty; he had broken his vow after so many times. He had been tested first with his father, then with Robb, yet Arya, little Arya, was in the clutches of that monster who sat in his father's castle, the one he grew up in. That had finally broken what had held him back, and he had chosen to set aside his vow.
He wasn’t sure where he was; it was all still hazy. Yet it felt familiar, then a shape formed in front of him, and he saw the place that had haunted his dreams since he was little. The kings of Winter were telling him to go; he wasn’t welcome, yet now he felt like he was. It was different because he was dead, he just knew he was.
Then a voice from behind him spoke, “You aren’t wrong. You had to leave to find the truth of your heart, your purpose, and your duty that has been yours since you were born.” The voice was gruff; it sounded like his father but older. Then he felt an arm on his shoulder. “Well, you're right on that too. It’s good to finally meet my grandson.”
He looked back and saw an older version of his father. “Welcome, Jon. We have been waiting for you to return and take your place among the lords and kings of Winterfell.” “What, I can’t. I’m just a bastard, grandfather.” His grandfather just snorted. “Puff, that boy, the Tully pup out, was our blood, a strong and loyal fighter. Yet no Lord of Winterfell, even your father, was too soft after his squiring days in the Eyrie. High as honor, honor doesn’t keep us around for 8,000 years. Honor doesn’t protect the pack,” Rickard Stark growled. “Yet he did fight for his pack in that bloody rebellion. He sacrificed his honor in that war for his pack, so perhaps he didn’t forget everything,” he said, looking down at the floor. His father had dishonored himself by fathering him.
“Oh, not that. Never. You didn’t, I say you were to take your place among us. You, Jon, are the song of ice and fire, the first and only trueborn child of Eddard Stark in the eyes of the old gods. Why do you think your father never told you who your mother was? You are the true heir; you have always been, as has someone else, a cousin you have yet to meet.” He was a trueborn. “That can’t be. My father was married to Catelyn Stark,” Rickard smirked at him.
“Ah, son, go. You forgot to join us. Please relieve your son of his misery and tell him what you promised him,” Rickard said, and he turned and saw his father standing there with a sad smile. He ran then toward him and embraced him. “Hello, my boy, you have grown. I missed you; I’m proud of the man you have become,” his father said as he hugged him more tightly. “I wished I could have told you before, and I’m sorry, wrong for so long, and that I never had the courage to tell you the truth before you went North,” he heard his father choke up a little as he spoke.
“I missed you, father, but what does grandfather mean by I’m a trueborn son?” His father sighed and spoke the words that changed his life forever. “It’s because you are. I was married to your mother before the war. You look so much like her, and I can still see her face when I rode away from you, leaving her with you or me. I never wished for any of that to happen. Yet the war broke out, and all the plans I had were thrown out, and I had to forsake my own honor, yours, and your mother's.”
“Who was her father? Who was my mother, please tell,” he needed to know, that even if he was dead, he didn’t care. It was the one thing he always wanted, yet never got: the identity of his mother. “Ashara Dayne, and your full name is Jon Stark. My firstborn, and my true heir, and I betrayed you when I sent you North, even if I sent you to your uncles and your cousin,” uncles and cousins? Yet all his life he wasn’t a bastard; he was a trueborn and rightful heir to Winterfell.
“You lied to me all my life, and sent me to the Wall, to go to my uncle and cousin. Benjen was only there, and he disappeared in the beginning, leaving us all alone. Until I found my friends, I was still despised as a bastard, and later even more because you were announced a traitor,” he screamed, his breathing heavy. “So what, Arya, Sansa, Robb, Bran, and Rickon are all bastards now,” he sneered. “You, forsaken all of them when you married Catelyn. So what? I was sent to the North to swear away my claim. Damn, you're just as bad as Sam’s father; he at least was honest about his disdain for his son,” in his anger, he pushed his father in the face.
“He got the wolf’s blood, that one,” Rickard smirked. “No, you were always meant to go there, to find your cousin, and protect the world of men. Take up the mantle; you were born to hold it. I just never really thought of what it meant. I wish I could have told you before. Why do you think Benjen left to the Wall to protect your cousin and you when you arrived? Visenya, you have already met before, and she weeps now over your death. Your other uncle, you already met, and you sent him to protect and find Arya,” his father said pleadingly.
“What, my other uncle? But you mean Arthur Dayne is alive. Mance…” He just stared at him; it made all the more sense now. Why did he let him live? Mance had always suspected him of lying. So why did he let him live? It was the only explanation.
“Mance f*cking raider is Ser Arthur Dayne. Who is Visenya? You say she weeps for my death, but I never met her,” he growled.
“You have as well; they call her a princess already. Wake up, son, and be fire and ice. Ice from us and fire from a fallen star; your blood is the key, and soon you will hold the sword you were always meant to carry. I’m sorry I lied; know this, I have always loved you, and I’m proud of you. Speak to Howland, Jon Stark, the blood of winter, the song of Ice and Fire. Goodbye, my son,” his father said as they embraced; he felt the heaviness of his father disappear. “I love you too,” he murmured; then he was gone again. He had to say the words.
“Where is he? We just got back together,” he growled at his grandfather as his heart thumped in his chest. “He has left; he has done his part. Now I will do mine. Eight thousand years ago, we defended the world together; your ancestor, Arthos Dayne, the first Sword of the Morning,” Rickard paused and gave him a serious look.
“He was the cousin of Brandon the Builder and died in that war, his life given for the ones he loved. As he fought the Night King and sent him to the prison the Children of the Forest and Brandon built in the lands of Always Winter, his blood ignited his sword, that of ice and fire. With his last breath, he struck the Night King in his heart, breaking his essence from his body, infusing it into the prison, never destroyed, as it is the work of the Great Other, a duality of the blackness in the night. If the Great Other wins, Winter will truly come,” his grandfather's words cracked through the chamber.
“Be your house words; be guard against winter and bring the dawn,” his grandfather ends up and embraces him. “Be as your father said, and protect the world of men as we always have done. Goodbye, Jon Stark.” Everything went black, and there was a fire in his chest.
He felt the air fill his lungs, and not much later, his eyes were open. He looked around, and all around him were flames. Yet what snapped him truly out of it was the sword, the milky white greatsword that was inside his chest. Flames were all around it, and the flames burned brighter than anything else he had ever seen.
He grunted as he gripped the sword with his hands; the blade didn’t cut his hands, as he expected. He pulled it out, and he felt his heart beat again. Somehow, as he looked at where the sword had been, there was nothing. Only a scar, and he stood up from the pyre, the flames all around him, with a flaming sword he knew as Dawn in his hand. He heard the words of that witch once again, and he knew them to be true.
“Azor Ahai, bring us the dawn, protect us from the darkness.”
