IX.

The letter Willas sent to his grandfather in Oldtown certainly got them in the door, but the

Maesters were not interested in letting Bran – or Jon, or Mathias Fossoway – loose in their cramped rooms, amongst their precious scrolls and tomes.

The interconnecting buildings by stone bridges and arches were a maze for the uninitiated – or for those who hadn't already attempted to navigate Braavos' canal paths – and they were cautioned to not go anywhere without a Maester as a guide. Which meant they spent four days at an inn in Oldtown proper, Jon lost in his brooding thoughts about what Bran had meant about finding exactly what was needed.

Mathias, however, was welcomed warmly as an acolyte when he indicated his interest in joining

the Citadel. He was able to begin studying almost immediately as Lord Fossoway's son (the hefty "donation" Fossoway had given his son as well help, thought Jon into his ale), and whatever conversation happened between Fossoway and his son before they left for Oldtown must have stuck with the youngest Fossoway boy, as the thirteen-year-old may have been interested in studying at the Citadel to become a Maester, but he had loyalty to his father's request and was sharing information about the Citadel with Bran and Jon whenever he could.

It was a kind thought, but an unnecessary one, given Bran's powers, realized Jon one evening, when Bran's eyes rolled back in his head and went white, as he sent his mind careening through time and space for whatever information he was searching.

Jon sat on the edge of the bed in the room at the inn, remaining aware of Bran's still form but also passing the time by bringing out a knife and inspecting the edges for knicks. He had gone through three knives when Bran's eyes fluttered and the colour returned, the white bleeding back until his eyes were natural and dark.

"Found what you were looking for then?" Jon asked with a glance at him.

"Sam found it previously," said Bran. "High Septon Maynard's personal journals. That's where we begin."

"Well," began Jon sardonically, "We'll need to get inside the library, first." Bran rolled his eyes. "What do you think Mathias is for?"

Jon shifted uneasily on the bed. "Must we use him...?"

"He knows his duty," said Bran cryptically, turning away from Jon, indicating that the conversation was done. Jon pursed his lips in response, tucking his annoyance at Bran's high- handedness away; it wasn't the time to confront him with the unsavoury parts of his new personality.

Mathias was eager to help the following day, growing confident in his role as an acolyte at the Citadel and snuck them in through a side servants' entrance. Bran's wheelchair made things a bit cumbersome, but with his eyes rolled back – something that spooked Mathias the first time he had seen it – they were able to use Bran's greensight to remain out of sight from the Maesters and others until they arrived at the massive library.

"Eighth row," murmured Bran, eyes fluttering as he dipped in and out of his sight in a way that Jon had never seen. He stared. Just how powerful was Bran? Was it still Bran, or Bloodraven? "Fifth shelf on the right, third from the bottom. Maynard's journals."

"Which one? There's fourteen," muttered back Mathias in a partial crouch, glancing through the thick tomes and gold letters on the outside.

Bran paused for a moment, then whispered, "Eleventh."

Mathias quickly plucked it and passed it to Bran, who hid it under the sleeves and folds of his tunic and blanket, hiding the book effectively. Matthias shuffled the remaining books and scrolls to fill up the gap, so it wasn't as obvious a book was missing and then turned to help them leave the library.

"Will you be back?" he asked quietly, turning down an empty corridor.

"Tomorrow," replied Jon when Bran didn't speak up. "Once we know what the next move is,

Mathias, thank you."

Mathias' Adam's apple bobbed, and he gave a very deferential bob of his head that Jon didn't quite like. Jon eyed him suspiciously, but Mathias' gaze skipped away and off to the side, making Jon's stomach clench uncomfortably and drop.

Then it was back to the Inn – Bran doing Bran, and Jon leafing through the pages, almost half- heartedly, until he spotted Lyanna in cramped, spidery writing. He inhaled sharply, sitting up from his lounge on the bed, and pressed his nose close to the paper to read.

There were two entries, near each other but separated by a few months – although apparently nothing much happened in High Septon Maynard's life worth documenting, so they were lines right after one another.

On this date, -- of --, 281AC, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, has formally annulled his marriage with Elia of House Martell, formerly Princess of Dragonstone, Princess of Dorne; on grounds of inability to produce any further heirs. As so witnessed and signed by Maynard, High Septon of King's Landing, and ---

And then: As witnessed by Septon ---, and sent for record-keeping to Maynard, High Septon of King's Landing, Rhaegar of House Targaryen married Lyanna of House Stark on – of ---, 281AC at the Isle of Faces.

Underneath was information about where Maynard had slipped in the official wedding certificate at the Citadel with a trusted acolyte – beyond his personal journals, there was official proof of his parent's wedding. Jon blinked and leaned back in surprise, unsure how to take the information he found. It was one thing to see that they were married – another that Rhaegar had annulled his marriage to Elia – was it all connected to Melissandre's stupid prophecies? About Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised?

Jon's mouth flattened in a hard line. He would find no information about Azor Ahai in Westeros... and Robb did want to go to Volantis... perhaps a stop in Asshai could be put forth? Volantis or Myr or even Pentos would surely have libraries of some kind? Or a place for archives?

"Bran," muttered Jon, looking over to the other bed, where Bran was lying down, hands resting gently over his stomach. When he didn't reply, Jon tried, louder: "Bran."

Bran grunted. His voice was thick with sleep when he said, "What?"

"I know where we can find my parent's marriage certificate."

Bran leaned up on his elbows, blinking away sleep. His hair was a mess, and it was one of the few times that Jon felt he was truly himself. "Where?"

"Here, but in a different archive."

"Mathias can get it then."

Jon frowned. "He could read it and know – can we trust him—"

"You've trusted his father with the truth," said Bran, lying back down but throwing an arm over his eyes. "You'll have to start trusting people at some point."

Trust, ha! Jon turned away from Bran, fingers caressing the still-open book lying on his bed. Trust did not get Jon very far in life: he trusted his brothers at the Watch, and they killed him. He wanted

Sansa to trust him, so many times, but she did always find a way to undermine him by bringing the Vale soldiers (although that was a good thing, he just wished he had known), or telling Tyrion the truth about his parentage, which nearly caused Daenerys to erupt on him. Trust wasn't something Jon had a good relationship with.

But it was exhausting going through life without trusting anyone. And he could admit it: there were times he looked at his brothers and sisters with a second glance, doubting them as much as he loved them.

Well, he thought with a small huff of laughter as he settled on his bed, I suppose that is something I'll have to work on in this second chance. Trusting other people and hoping for the best.

Initially, Jon wasn't sure they would find the Tower of Joy. In the few infamous retellings that would be spoken about in quick whispers around Winterfell, the rumours were that Ned Stark and Howland Reed had torn down the Tower with their bare hands in anger and despair before they returned North.

In Jon's mind, that meant that the Tower was just that – a single, jutting architectural remnant from an old fortress or palace from a time before recording, during the Age of Heroes perhaps, or even a place for the Children of the Forest back when they roamed all of Westeros freely. As such, finding a singular tower, in a large, dense desert with only the knowledge of it being in the Prince's Pass, could potentially mean weeks or even moons of searching.

"It's near the base of the Red Mountains," explained Bran with an air of exasperation. "I've told you this, Jon. On the western side of the range, about a hard day's ride south of Vulture's Roost through a mountain pass."

"You can't possibly be sure of that," protested Jon, even as they followed Bran's instructions and rode their horses south. At Jon's side, Robb kept his mouth shut; for all he failed to understand Bran's greenseer abilities, he had seen much in the months they had returned and knew better than to argue.

After finding his parent's marriage certificate, Jon and Bran pilfered High Septon Maynard's personal journal as further proof, said their goodbyes to Mathias (who would remain as an acolyte), and made their way to Horn Hill as a stop and meeting place for the rest of their siblings; it would also be where Fossoway's additional guards would leave them to rejoin their Lord, who remained at Highgarden. Jon and Bran had only been there three days before Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Rickon had arrived – which was good, as Jon was having trouble not intervening in his friends' childhood difficulties whenever he saw Randyll Tarly berating Samwell.

They left quickly afterward and spent a long, roundabout journey from Horn Hill, skirting north and then northeast around the Red Mountains' western caps and toward the Dornish marshes before turning south through the deep gulley and valley that was the Prince's Pass. They bypassed Nightsong, hoping instead to manage on their rations until they reached the Vulture's Roost (as they had a thing for staying in ruins) before searching out the Tower.

"I can be sure of that since I've been there before," retorted Bran with an eye roll. They were just over a moon's turn into their journey since leaving Horn Hill, and if one believed Bran, nearly where they needed to be.

"Have you ever thought," began Sansa tartly at Jon, her red hair completely hidden by the silk scarf she had wrapped around her head for protection, "That the reason you are fighting Bran so hard on this topic is because you don't want to see the Tower?"

"I want to see it!" protested Jon, even as Arya snorted from behind him on her horse. "I do! I just..." he slumped. "It was one thing saying I wished to see Summerhall and then we... well, we experienced that, didn't we? I don't exactly want to experience those last moments and my mother's death at the Tower."

"You won't," assured Bran. "I can't return to a time that I've already been to, and I saw father's fight with the Kingsguard and your birth. So, you can't visit that time, either."

All sense of fight seeped out of Jon at that. "Oh."

"Yes," echoed Bran flatly, exasperation leaking into his voice. "Oh."

The Red Mountains of Dorne were not all desert; in fact, the deep, jagged valleys and gullies that formed passes on either side of the Prince's Pass were cool respites for the scorching days, offering pockets of oasis springs or thick, canopied forests of hardy trees. It was only when they ventured out of those pockets, zigzagging their way along the base of the eastern mountain range, did they spot the famous red sand.

The reddish desert spread wide across the Pass, in gentle rolling dunes and speckled with clay- coloured rocks and fissures that jutted from the dunes in the same way that those who experienced the true North would say glaciers jutted up from the snowy expanse of Beyond the Wall. Still, cacti and tiny bushes with pink flowers dotted the landscape, breaking the monotony of the journey until, one late afternoon just as the sun was beginning to set behind the western range of the Red Mountains, casting long shadows, the Tower of Joy appeared.

"It's not a single tower," said Rickon stupidly, staring at the enormous, ruined fortress that sat at the top of a pile of sharp, red rocks. There was a gentle slope winding around the base of the rocks, leading to a single entry point, which they began to follow.

The fortress itself was of the same colour of the rocks, a rusty red, merging into the rockface itself and giving the impression that the Tower of Joy one day just erupted from the rock fully formed, with tiny slits for windows overlooking a near-perfect 360-degree view of the surrounding grounds. There were thick walls encasing the fortress, although parts appeared crumbled, creating a deep V in the fortified walls.

As they rode closer, growing silent, Jon tilted his head back, taking in the square guard towers at the corners of the fortress. There were curved archways that mimicked windows, providing a large space to look out from and most likely provided light for an enclosed walkway.

But it was the tall, round tower that was the focal point of the Tower of Joy, and most likely why it was named as such: located not centrally to the fortress, but close to the front entry, the tower rose and loomed over the other square towers by several stories and remained mostly intact, the same reddish colour as everything else. There were clear lines that noted the floors, running parallel to the ground and forming rings; additionally, there were no windows until the topmost floor, following that arched pattern elsewhere in the fort, except on a smaller scale.

Their horses slowed as they approached the entry, until Robb said, quietly, "Oh."

Jon tore his eyes from the walls, looking toward his brother and then at what caught his gaze. The others drew their horses back to stop, and they fell silent, eyes downward at the row of long, but narrow, rock mounds just off the entrance. There were no grave markers, but it was clear they had found the hastily made graves that their father and Howland had made for their fallen Northmen.

"There's three more over here," said Arya quietly, jutting her chin opposite of the five mounds. Jon

glanced over and saw that one of the three rocks had a strangely shaped helm at the head, with what appeared to be batwings emerging from either side.

"Father's men and the kingsguard," mused aloud Sansa. There was something sad in her voice. "How far from home they are."

Robb dismounted first, helping Sansa absently while Arya and Rickon dismounted easily; Jon took his time, sliding from his horse before helping Bran, although he seemed more focused on surveying the land around them, dark eyes lingering on a small rise nearby.

They all seemed slow, hesitant in unpacking their gear. Robb abandoned his set chores first, moving to the five graves and then kneeling before them, head bowed. He was then joined by Arya and Rickon, all offering their own thoughts and prayers to men from the North.

Jon's head swivelled between the five graves being attended by his siblings to the three left alone and found his feet taking him before the men who pledged to his father before their king.

What kind of men were they? he wondered. They all knew the stories of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning; about his prowess and skill with the sword, his honour; but what did they know of Oswell Whent? Or Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander himself? What made those men pledge to Rhaegar over Aerys, that they would willingly remove themselves from the battles Rhaegar was about to face, without his most loyal men at his side? Jon was sure that had they not been at the Tower of Joy, but at Rhaegar's side on the Trident, it would've been Robert Baratheon who died that day, instead.

What would it have been like, growing up with those famous men guarding not just Rhaegar, but one day, Jon himself? He had never had a kingsguard, even when he had been King in the North – Tormund was the closest he had to someone who guarded his back during battles. After the betrayal of his men when he was Lord Commander of the Watch, Jon knew he had trouble trusting others to guard him. How would it feel to have the security of those men at his back? Supporting him?

He then grimaced; they were men and fallible, capable of betraying those they were sworn to if they had a good enough reason. Jaime Lannister had demonstrated that, and regardless of the Kingsguard existing to protect the king, there had been a clear split in the seven men in who they showed their allegiance, with many of them following Rhaegar instead. Perhaps only Darry and Barristan had been truly loyal to Aerys – Martell was only going through the motions with his niece and grandniece and grandnephew hostages in King's Landing just as Jaime Lannister had been for Tywin's good behaviour; Hightower, Whent, and Dayne had been with Rhaegar.

It doesn't matter now, a voice piped up in Jon's mind, and he gave a shuddering breath. They're all dead anyway.

Dead, and forgotten.

Jon turned his back on the graves to return to the others, who had spread out, Arya starting a fire as night quickly fell. Soon, they were settled in a semicircle around the pit, their backs to the fortress foundation and wall behind them, looking out toward the Pass. They were steps away from the graves, and Jon felt his eyes constantly drawn to the kingsguard.

Robb caught the path of his gaze and leaned forward with a frown of concern. "What are you thinking, Snow?"

"Nothing," he immediately replied.

"Horse shit," said Arya, just as quickly from his side. She poked him with a bony finger, and it hurt. "I know that face."

Affronted, Jon asked, "What face?"

"That one," replied Arya, her bony finger reaching up and poking him on his forehead. "Ow, Arya!"

"What? You're making your broody face," she explained. "Heavy frown, thick eyebrows—"

"The pout," whispered Robb gleefully. "I remember that time when Theon and I—" his face shuttered as he realized what he was about to say, and he quickly cut himself off, swallowing thickly and looking away from the fire.

Sansa, shivering a bit as the air cooled quickly in the desert, spoke up next. "What is bothering you, Jon?"

"Nothing, truly—"

"You're still a piss-poor liar, Jon," snorted Arya. "Try again."

He sighed, gustily. "Truly, it's nothing important. I just..." he trailed off. "I don't know. I suppose... I was just thinking about... well, them. The kingsguard. About what made them follow Rhaegar here. About why they fought with father – why they didn't just... stop and think—"

"It was war, Jon," said Bran quietly from his spot next to Sansa and Robb. "They did talk, you know – and maybe, I reckon, there was a moment when the swords could have been put away. But they were too unsure about father and his loyalties and their final orders from Rhaegar to do anything else when the time came."

Tentatively, Rickon asked with a wary glance at Jon, "What did they speak of?"

"You mentioned some phrases before, to father," added Sansa, almost gingerly, but also curious about what Bran saw that day.

Bran frowned and closed his eyes, thinking back to when he would stand on his own two legs, Bloodraven next to him. The heat from the Dornish sun, the quiet across the desert plains, the clink of armour all came back to him.

"I looked for you on the Trident, father said," murmured Bran, eyes still closed. "We weren't there. Your friend the usurper would lie beneath the ground if we had been, they said."

Robb snorted. "A bit rich of them calling Robert Baratheon a usurper given what Aerys' ancestor Aegon did to Westeros when he arrived to conquer it."

"Shhh," admonished Arya, eyes bright as she leaned closer to Bran, fixated on his words.

"Father said that both Aerys and Rhaegar were dead, and then he questioned why the kingsguard weren't there to protect either of them," continued Bran, eyes opening with a tiny frown on his face. "He kept... waiting. Hesitating. He didn't want to fight them."

"They were some of the best swords in Westeros," offered Jon slowly.

"Father was a Northman, we fight all our enemies regardless of if we will win or not," retorted Rickon, crossing his arms and leaning back against his saddlebag, stretching out. He wasn't as

interested in the conversation, now. He was also starting to bulk up, his body changing from weedy to filling out and taking up more space - and he was the one who was eating most of the rations, much to Sansa's displeasure and careful portioning.

"He just wanted Aunt Lyanna," said Bran quietly. "He asked about her. It was Ser Arthur who tipped things when they didn't answer him. Dayne said... he said," Bran's frown deepened. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come."

"They were never going to tell father where Aunt Lyanna was," sighed Sansa, looking down. "They were too devoted to Rhaegar's memory." Her lips twisted bitterly. "I know the devotion that those kinds of men have."

Jon shot her a worried look, knowing she was thinking of her own time with Joffrey's kingsguard. How different would his life have been if there was just one of them who thought beyond their duty, beyond their orders? If there had been a Sandor Clegane on Rhaegar's kingsguard who finally said, "fuck the king"? Would things have been better? Or worse?

"Stop it," chastised Robb, catching Jon's attention and making him jerk his head up from where he was staring into the fire. Robb was staring at Jon, a hard look on his face. "Stop it. You're overthinking it. What if this? What if that?"

"What do you know what I'm thinking?" asked Jon, a bit sharp at having been caught out.

Robb scoffed. "Do you think I didn't do the same when I was named King in the North? I constantly questioned everything I did – every action, every decision I made. Oh, never aloud for my men to hear me, but every night, every quiet moment I had. I thought 'what if' – and you know what it did?"

"No. What?" asked Jon.

Robb's response was wry. "Nothing. It changed nothing except stopping me from eating and sleeping properly. My fear began to rule me until uncle – that is, the Blackfish – took me aside and sorted me out." His blue eyes bore into Jon. "So, this is me, sorting you out, brother. It's in the past. It can't be changed. We can only go forward."

Jon let out a gusty breath. "Aye, you're right." He paused. "Only..." "Only?" echoed Sansa.

"I know so little of my parents – mostly what others have said," admitted Jon. "Summerhall helped, I think, speaking to Duncan and Aegon, but..."

"They weren't Rhaegar or Lyanna," sighed Sansa, eyes shining wetly with understanding. "Oh, Jon..."

"I can show you," offered Bran quietly, "Take you back – not to that night, I can't – but here. Maybe you can see them together, see if they were truly in love or if it were just lust."

Jon certainly didn't want to see his parents doing that – and the thought must have been on his face because Arya and Rickon began laughing when Bran cried, "No, no, Jon, Gods, I'm not going to show that!"

It broke the tension in the group, sending Sansa and Robb off laughing as well, and Jon felt the warm rush of heat flood his cheeks and he took the good-natured ribbing that came with his ill- placed thoughts. He grumbled as their laughs died down, Arya wiping tears from her cheeks.

"I just meant a random day." Bran shook his head and then shot him a mischievous grin, something so alien on his face that Jon stared. "And should your parents be doing that, then perhaps you could watch the kingsguard and get to know them."

"Do you think they'd see Jon? Like the Dayne and Fossoway did?" asked Robb curiously.

Bran's grin slipped into a pensive look. "I... well, Ser Arthur was a Dayne, so perhaps? But Whent and Hightower were not the blood of the First Men. Nor was Rhaegar."

"It's a risk," offered Arya. She turned to glance at Jon and then Bran. "Could I come? Not to meet your parents, but to watch the kingsguard? Sansa and Robb went with you to Summerhall and it's not fair that I missed out—"

Jon laughed. "Aye, fine."

Rickon perked up, sitting upright. "Me too?" Bran groaned. "Fine. Can we do this now?"

There was a scramble as Arya and Rickon move from their places by the fire to squish in the tight space between Bran and then Robb and Sansa on either side of him, forcing Robb to cry out about Arya's sharp elbows and Sansa to say something snarky about Rickon's body odor – but they then settled and Jon was last, awkwardly hovering behind Bran.

"Ready?" asked Bran, uselessly, because the second they all touched Bran's skin, the world was spinning like it had with Summerhall and there was a sense of vertigo, and then the cool evening air was gone, replaced with the blistering hot midday sun.

Arya blinked, holding a hand up to shield her eyes. She whistled, tilting her head back to look up at the Tower. "It's the same."

"Ugh," groaned Rickon, bent in half at the waist. "Is that how it feels? Gods, I think I'm going to be sick."

"You get used to it," replied Jon absently, running a hand over his pulled-back hair. His dark eyes traversed up the path, through the entryway and what waited beyond. "Shall we?"

The four of them, Bran trailing behind, climbed the stairs and entered the Tower of Joy, passing through the thick, cool walls of the fortified wall and instantly were soothed by the temperature change. They entered a narrow, rectangular courtyard, made of stone with tiny sunken beds of foliage, giving life and colour to the dusty red walls. Brightly coloured tiles lined the border of the sunken beds, all different designs and patterns, and were repeated against one of the courtyard walls where a tiny basin caught water trickling out of a spout above it. A line with bedsheets and a green dress fluttered above then, hanging from one end of the courtyard to the other, between a window against a tall inner wall and an enclosed balcony opposite, a flight of stairs running parallel to the balcony to the second floor.

"Which way?" asked Arya, keeping hushed in awe and respect.

Bran nodded to a passthrough under the balcony, arched in the same design as all the other windows. There was a faint sound of ringing swords and cries. "I believe the kingsguard is sparring through there."

Rickon and Arya shared an eager look and took off; Arya kept to the walls, using her training to move silently while Rickon practically leapt from shadowy recess to recess, moving quickly with a

powerful stride as they passed under the balcony. "Are you remaining here?" asked Jon, turning to Bran.

Bran nodded, looking around. There was a bench before one of the sunken garden beds. "It's... relaxing here. Quiet. I'll wait."

"Are you sure?"

Bran nodded again, moving toward the bench, and sitting down in a sunspot, closing his eyes, and tilting his head back as he enjoyed the warmth. Jon hesitated, watching Bran carefully for any odd moments, but then walked away.

First, he edged through the passthrough but remained in its shadows, peering out at the larger courtyard. Rickon and Arya were slightly crouched behind two separate support columns (there must have been another balcony overlooking that yard, thought Jon), but neither had heard his feet skittering stones and kicking up dust as he approached. Instead, their focus was on the three men, swords held aloft, as they moved through a series of forms.

Jon's eyes were drawn from one to the next slowly: first, it was a larger man with a shock of greying hair, sweat-slicked. He wore full kingsguard armour and was the one watching the forms of the second man, calling out different numbers and sets. His commanding nature and bark identified him as Gerold Hightower.

The second man, the one he was instructing, wore the helm that was on the grave outside the Tower, the bats' helm. Oswell Whent was sweating profusely, wearing less armour than Hightower but every so often he'd stop and use the edge of his white cloak to mop the sweat from his reddish face, one that matched his reddish hair.

The last man, younger than the other two, was left alone, off to the side as he moved through his forms with a fluidity and ease that indicated he had slipped into a meditative state. His eyes were closed against his tanned face, his black hair messy with the tiniest curls to the ends. His arm muscles rippled as his sword swung quickly through the air, making a whistling noise.

Arthur Dayne spun on his heel, in a slight crouch, and split the air with Dawn fully extended toward his left with his right arm out to balance it; Jon felt his eyebrows rise. He hadn't known that Arthur fought with a dominant left hand, like Arya.

He watched for a few moments longer as Arthur's hands gripped his hilt and he moved to brace the sword upright, fighting an invisible enemy, or just losing himself in the smooth motions familiar to him. Quietly, Jon turned on his heel and slipped back down the passthrough to the original courtyard and then, after a quick glance at Bran who hadn't moved, he climbed the stairs.

The Tower of Joy was enormous, with long, covered balconies that overlooked gardens and yards, some filled with greenery and others nothing more than dusty bowls of neglect. There were dark, wooden doors with latticed patterns and black iron handles recessed into the reddish walls, but most rooms were locked or empty when Jon poked his head in. Eventually, after having turned down another flight of stairs and across a lattice-covered path that created patterned shadows on the tiled floor, Jon heard a feminine laugh and paused.

When the peel of laughter rang out a second time, from the end of the path he was on, he hurried toward it and stepped into one of the few green gardens: tall trees, dripping with leaves, shaded the narrow space. There were terracotta pots filled with short, thin shrubs and others with larger trees with wide leaves leaving a sweet smell in the air, one that reminded Jon of Sansa's namedays—

Oh, he thought, stepping off from the beige tiles of the latticed path to a bright green, white, and yellow diamond-shaped design that led straight and toward the raised pedestal fountain. Lemon trees.

A thin girl with thick hair piled in a messy bun, her back to Jon, was leaning over the pedestal fountain, bare feet poking out from underneath her gauzy skirt. She stood in a sunken star-shaped pool, with the pedestal fountain in the middle of it, cooling her feet in the overflowing water.

The girl laughed again, and Jon saw water in the fountain splash – a bird was bathing itself in front of her, ducking under in the water and rising quickly up and fluffing itself as it beat its wings. Water sprinkled and hit the girl in her face, making her laugh some more. Mid-laugh, she turned partially, giving Jon an unobstructed view of her profile: a long, pale face with a sloped nose and wide mouth.

His breath hitched. Lyanna. Mother.

He must have moved, made a noise, because the girl stilled, straightening her back and turning to

look around the courtyard, eyes wary. "Ser Arthur? Ser Oswell?"

When no one answered her, she turned further, gripping the edge of the fountain until she was facing Jon, the fountain between them and her dress hanging loose. She narrowed her brown eyes at him.

"Who are you?" she asked, voice tart. Jon swallowed and stepped further into the yard, into a beam of sunlight and then he stopped, letting her gaze at him. Her eyes narrowed further, taking in his heavier leathers, his pulled-back black hair, lingering on his sword. "You're from the North."

"Aye," replied Jon thickly, feeling as though his tongue was thrice its normal size. It made his voice husky. "I am."

"Did my brother send you?" demanded Lyanna, not moving from the fountain.

"In a manner of speaking," answered Jon slowly. Ned Stark had suggested Jon visit these old haunts if he could.

"What does that mean?" she spat, hand flexing on the tiled edge of the fountain. She slowly stepped around it, revealing her large, pregnant belly.

Jon inhaled, sharply, as his eyes dropped to it.

Lyanna's hands came to rest protectively on the swell, a glare on her face even as she took a defensive step back. "I won't go back—"

"I'm not here to take you back," said Jon quietly, making no move to step forward or crowd her. Lyanna frowned. "Then why are you here?"

"I suppose," said Jon thickly, "I just wanted to speak to you."

She stared at him, and Jon took the time to savour her: her face, so similar to Arya's but altogether different and unique; the tall, strong quality of her frame and stance, the hint freckles on her face from the Dornish sun.

Desperately, as Jon already knew what Aegon and Duncan looked like, he went searching in her features for hints that he saw in the mirror and found them in the shape of her full mouth, the

texture of her thick hair. He may have been raised at Eddard Stark's son, but he was his mother's through and through, her Northern complexion and colouring the one he inherited over his father's Targaryen looks.

"Step closer, Ser," she demanded, but her voice was cautious and hesitant.

"I'm not a Ser," replied Jon, taking a step forward.

"My Lord," she offered next.

Jon shook his head; another step was taken forward. "Not a Lord, neither."

"Not a Ser, nor a Lord," she mused aloud, eyes sharp as she watched him. "You don't seem like a sellsword. Are you?"

"No," he answered readily, a step forward. He was within an arm's length of the fountain, now. "A tradesman off the path?" she queried, her voice taking a teasing lilt as she smiled.

"I have no wares to sell you," replied Jon, his own mouth turning upward exactly as hers did.

"No sellsword or tradesman and yet you are as Northern as the cold wind blows." Lyanna's eyes crinkled as she stepped away from the fountain and tilted her head back to look at him. She wasn't nearly as short as Arya, who barely topped Jon's shoulder, but she wasn't as tall as Sansa, either. "What say you?"

Jon's tongue came out to wet his lips nervously. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf—"

"Dies, but the pack survives," breathed Lyanna, eyes wide. Her eyes darted all over Jon's face, from his hair to the scar that bisected his left eye, the other just over is right eyebrow; to his trimmed beard and mustache – her eyes catalogued his dark eyes and their shape, his full, downturned mouth.

He swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing.

She raised a shaking hand and let her fingertips graze the rough skin just above his beard, skimming up his cheek. Lightning seemed to shoot from where she touched and Jon gave a full- body shudder, his eyes falling closed without thought.

Her hand pressed harder against his chin and Jon brought his hand up to press it tight against him, memorizing the feel of his mother's touch.

"My son," whispered Lyanna, and Jon's eyes opened to look at her. She was staring up at him in wonder, mouth parted. Her other hand cradled her pregnant belly. The awe in her face quickly shifted to amusement. "And Rhaegar thought you would be a girl."

Jon gave a startled, wet laugh. "Mother."

"Oh," breathed Lyanna, reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck to draw him down into a hug. And it was so strange, for Jon, to academically realize he was twenty-four and hugging his mother who was barely sixteen, a tiny slip of a girl who sent the entire continent into war.

But it was his mother, and as Jon hugged back to him tightly, burying his face in the crook of her neck with his eyes squeezed shut tightly, he realized that if dying twice meant this could happen,

he would do it again, and again, and however other many times needed if he could steal a second longer with the mother he never knew.

TBC...