9

Notes:

1) Sorry this took so long; the chapter ended up being meater than I thought.

2) So guys remember that eye infection? Well, not only is it NOT going away like I thought, it's actually getting worse! So that is fun.

3) I will be heading overseas for that wedding I mentioned in about 2 weeks. I'm going to try and get one more chapter out before I go but I can't promise anything. Obvious during the wedding I won't be able to do as much writing so things might be slow for a bit. I'll kept everyone up to date.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Timeline

283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO THE WONDERFUL JESS, YOU DREW AND SENT THE LOVELY SKETCHES THAT CAN BE FOUND AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE...ONCE I FIGURE OUT HOW TO DO THAT!

LOVE YOU, JESS!

Ned III

Ned was beginning to understand why men drank. The Warden of the North was a man of few indulgences; both his father and Jon Arryn had stressed the importance of personal restraint and self-control, so even when things when bad he rarely turned to the bottle for relief. Still, he was starting to see the temptation of such a thing; alcohol never judged, only provided some brief imitation of comfort.

'Comfort would be nice,' Ned thought glumly as he made his way towards the Godswood, snow crunching under his boots. 'As of now all I have is a wife who refuses to look at me, a beloved nephew who hates me, a castle full of gossiping servants, a blood son torn between two people he loves, and a long winter breathing down the back of my neck.'

Supper last night had been a painfully awkward affair, even before Robert's offer. Catelyn had wanted nothing to do with him and, at the time, he had wanted nothing to do with her either. The long-simmering anger that had finally boiled over in his solar yesterday was nothing but poison but -in the moment- releasing it felt like the purest ecstasy; finally, after so long, he was able to speak his mind about Catelyn's behavior and defend his son. Now though, he wished he could take it all back.

Something must have upset Cat, leaving her in such an unreasonable state; surely she couldn't have honestly meant what she said! It was Ned's fault, he should have been calmer with her and explained things better. Instead, he let his own anger get the best of him, raising his voice and even getting some measure of sick satisfaction at the woe on Cat's face when he tore her plans to shreds in front of her. It was wrong and now they could barely be in the same room together.

Their marriage needed to be fixed, preferably before Ned left for King's Landing; the idea of leaving his wife alone and angry for so long while he was in the South caused Ned agony. One of the best pieces of advice he had ever received was not to go to bed angry, something he already failed at; he refused to leave his home angry too.

A bird chirped overhead and Ned allowed himself to enjoy the momentary peace; it was a rare temperate day, the clouds had cleared to give the denizens of Winterfell a glimpse of the sun, which reflected off the layers of snow in a harsh glare. It was still bitterly cold, but at least it wasn't as dark or wet as the past months had been. The reemergence of sunlight also reinvigorated the inhabitants of the castle; everyone he passed wore chipper smiles and a relaxed posture. Ned wished he could share their enjoyment of the weather.

The walk along the familiar path over the snow, moss, and old, packed earth to the center of the Godswood soothed Ned; the ash, chestnut, hawthorn, ironwood, oaks, sentinel, and soldier pine trees formed a thick, dense canopy overhead, blocking out some of the rare sunshine. But Ned found comfort in the shadows, not fear; he knew these woods, knew each leaf and each twig snap and each animal call that echoed through the brush. This was his place.

This was also, apparently, someone else's place of comfort. As he entered the clearing that housed the weirwood tree, he noticed a dark-haired figured crouched by the icy black pool of water; one he knew all too well. He approached cautiously, keeping his steps as quietly as possible until he was close enough to reach out.

"Jon…"

His son when stiff under Ned's palm, near-black eyes flicking up to the Lord of Winterfell's face. For a moment it seemed like the boy was going to flee, but instead, Jon just tightened his jaw and gave a brief nod. Ned took this as an invitation to sit so he settled down next to Jon, wincing as his body protested the motion; gods, he was getting old.

"I'm not interrupting your prayers, am I?" Ned asked, a touch of nervousness in his voice as he adjusted his cloak so it would offer some padding against the cold, damp ground.

"No, I don't...pray much anymore. I found that it never leads anywhere; I don't know if the Old Gods exist, but I do know that I can't expect them to solve my problems. When I want results, I take matters into my own hands. But this has always been a good place to think."

The apparent nihilism that had grown in Jon's heart pained Ned; unlike his children with Cat who had been raised half in the Faith in the Seven and half in the religion of the Old Gods -Robb and Arya had mostly denounced their Mother's faith; something that hurt Catelyn but their agreement had always been that the children would be allowed to choose who they'd worship once they aged- Jon had always prayed to the Old Gods. Ned had personally overseen the boy's religious instruction, had taught him the rules and customs. When the other children were with Catelyn in the sept, Jon had been with Ned in front of the heart tree.

In the past, he savored those moments and now cherished those memories.

"I can leave if you'd like to pray in privacy," Jon offered, his eyes fixated on the dark pool before him.

"No, no. I just came here for some quiet; dear as Robert is to me and as much as I enjoy him being here, I need some time to myself."

Jon gave a brief chuckle, "The king does seem quite...attention hungry."

Usually, Ned would scold Jon for such a comment -true as it was- but seeing as he still had hopes of convincing his boy to stay at Westeros, he bit back a frown. "Robert's parents died in a horrifically tragic ship crash when he was a young man; it affected him greatly."

A brief shrug was Jon's response, "I can imagine. Don't suppose you have any idea why he's decided to fixate on me?"

"You're quite remarkable. I'd have been more surprised if Robert wasn't fascinated by you, he's a good judge of character."

That comment earned him a soft smile, which made Jon look so much like he did when the boy was young that it hurt Ned's heart. It also made him regret having to ask his next question.

"Are you going to accept the king's offer?"

Downcast eyes reflected in the water, "No...it's time for me to leave; I have much to do back in Skyrim. I'm just trying to figure out the most polite way to turn to decline the king."

Ned didn't release the breath he was holding in, but it was a close thing. There were few things in life he wanted less than for Jon to go to King's Landing; not as long as the image of three broken bodies -two of them gruesomely tiny- wrapped in bloodstained cloth and lying on the hard stone floor of the throne room haunted his dream. "He might be angry, but I can help you break it to him. He'll accept it easier coming from me; Robert's anger is like a summer thunderstorm; fast and furious but always quick enough to blow over."

Jon nodded and the pair sat in silence, listening to the wind and the birds around them. Eventually, Jon glanced up at the weirwood above them, "You know, when I first arrive in Skyrim I felt lost and alone. I picked up on the language quickly enough -it's quite similar to Common Tongue- but, as I said, Nords are an insular lot; it took me a while to prove myself to them, had to run a lot of errands. Time passed and they accepted me but for a while, I still felt isolated, so -in order to get some familiarity- I made myself a little heart tree; It's only about three feet tall and I carved it from an old chunk of wood then painted it. But it gave me comfort and even though I don't pray anymore, I still keep it in one of my houses."

The confession warmed Ned; Jon hadn't forsaken his roots after all. Maybe he could use that to convince him to stay, at least for a little while longer. Still, this was the happiest conversation he'd had with Jon since the boy arrived back at Winterfell and he didn't want it to end. "I know you mentioned owning several properties, how many houses do you have?"

"Nine. Five of them are in major cities, three of them in more rural areas, and one is on a nearby island; that one I was given as payment for services rendered. I also have a permanent room in one of the other cities. I also own six mines, three stores, a mill, and a few other various properties."

Ned let out a low, long whistle and a smile twitched back onto Jon's face. "I know, sometimes I'm not even sure how I did it. But I've come upon many down-on-their-luck folks during my travels, and my businesses give me a way to help them; few Nord's will accept outright charity but they will accept the opportunity to work for fair wages. The people of Skyrim have been good to me, much better than they needed to be -even in the beginning- so giving them a source of honest employment is the least I can do."

That was so much like Jon; the boy had always wanted to do the right thing, just like Lyanna. Ned took a chance and wrapped an arm around Jon's shoulders. "I am proud of you, son. Despite everything I've said, I'm proud of how much you've been able to accomplish."

His words were genuine and meant to comfort his boy, but instead had the opposite effect. Jon went stiff and pulled away from Ned, eyes dark and angry. He rolled to his feet, "No proud enough to respect my own choices obviously."

Ned stood and grabbed Jon's arm, pulling him in for a tight hug, "Jon...I want you to stay, I won't lie. When you left, it tore me apart. What I said in the crypts was wrong, I understand that now but I still need to ask at least once more; will you stay?"

Jon didn't answer immediately but Ned was content to hold him against his chest until the boy was ready to speak. Eventually, he did so, "I'll...consider it. If you tell me the truth about my birth."

The Lord of Winterfell went cold; Jon had asked about his mother at least a dozen times over the years, each time more desperately than the last, and each time Ned managed to avoid answering, usually by promising to tell the boy when he was older. Now though, if he had any hope of keeping his son, he needed to give some answer, any answer. "Your mother was Ashara Dayne; I loved her but the death of her brother broke her mind, she made me swear to care for you as she knew she would never be able to. I never told you before because-"

"Unbelievable! Even now you can't bring yourself to tell the truth!"

Jon shoved Ned away -the older man stumbling and barely avoiding falling into the frigid, dark pond. The Warden of the West looked as his boy -whose eyes were now burning with fury- in surprise, "W-what?"

"I know, Lord Stark!"

Ice flooded Ned's blood, 'No, he can't possibly…'

"I know that my mother isn't Ashara Dayne or some other woman and I know that you are not my father. I am the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, aren't I? Say it!  I want to hear you say it!"

Jon was like a storm, face flushed and hand wound into his own dark hair. Even so, Ned couldn't bring himself to do it, he just couldn't; this was a truth he hid for years, barely even allowing himself to acknowledge it. "How'd you-"

"I heard you! That night, after my nameday, I couldn't sleep so I was just wandering the halls when heard you talking to Uncle Benjen in one of the empty corridors; I heard what you said!"

Tears bloomed at the corners of Jon's eyes and Ned felt any resistance he still had erode away. He couldn't deny the truth any longer; the only thing he could do now comfort his son. "I'm so… sorry, Jon. I never meant to hurt you. You've got to understand, if the truth was ever revealed, it would have been disastrous for everyone. I don't care what happens to me but you and Cat and your siblings? I couldn't risk their lives. So I lied; I lied and let you be hurt be and I am so sorry. Every time I saw you cry and every time you asked about your mother, it broke my heart."

The hot rage in Jon's eyes was replaced by cold wrath, "It broke your heart? Well, I'm sorry, Lord Stark, that must have been awful for you!"

Ned didn't have anything to say to that, couldn't think of some way to defend himself. So he could only watch sadly as his nephew -the boy he raised as his own- stormed off into the woods. He turned to the heart tree, it's carved face weeping red sap as it stared down at him judgmentally. "I don't suppose you can give me any advice?"

"Liquor already, Ned? It's not even noon yet."

The mostly-empty bottle slipped from between Ned's fingers, falling to the stone floor and shattering into glittering fractals. "Howland!"

It had been long since he'd seen the Lord of Greywater Watch, too long, but the man hadn't changed all that much; he was older, of course, but still slim and slender with fantastic green eyes that even now seemed far too old for his face. On top of his head was a messy thicket of hair that more silver than brown and the man was wearing a simple dark green tunic with sturdy brown trousers and boots. When Ned pulled him into an embrace, he smelt earth and fog on the man's skin. "It's good to see you, Old Friend, but I'm afraid you've missed Robb's nameday feast. The king is still here though."

Howland returned the embrace before pulling back, kindness in his eyes but a somber look on his face. "I'm not here for any celebration, Ned. I had a dream."

"Why'd you bring this?"

"I thought it might be of use."

"I told you to destroy it."

The trunk sat in the center of his solar innocuously, like it couldn't destroy lives and leave Westeros in ruin. It was a simple thing; worn black canvas, tears and holes revealing the wood underneath, with a once red sigil of a three-headed dragon that was now smudged and the color of rust. Such a simple thing and yet it mocked Ned ruthlessly.

"It wasn't mine to destroy; it isn't yours either. It belongs to him; it's always belonged to him. We've just been its keeper, but now it's time for us to give it back."

"Jon knows, Howland; that's why he left. What good could the contents of this trunk possibly do for anyone?" Ned asked solemnly, brushing his thumb over the center dragon's head; the old paint rubbing off like colorful dust.

"Whatever pieces of history he may have found, he needs to know the whole story from the hands of those who wrote it. The boy will never see his parents' faces, never hear their voices, or feel their touch. But their words? Those he can read."

A hand, thin but callous and strong, squeezed Ned's shoulder. The Warden of the North sighed, "No matter the situation I just can't seem to make any right choices when it comes to Jon; I trust you on this, my friend, even though I hate to do it while Robert is under the same roof."

The hand squeezed again, "I know this is hard, but I'm glad you see that it is necessary. The truth is often painful, Ned. But like an infection needs to be cleaned out for a wound to heal, the truth must be known for lives to move forward."

There was a pause before Howland added, "Besides, I didn't exactly intend to give you a choice. I've already sent someone to get Jon and bring him here, I was going to tell him whether you wanted to or not."

"Howland!"

The Crannogman shrugged, "You're a stubborn man, Ned; it's a Stark trait, I assume. I knew if you wouldn't listen to reason than I'd have to put you on the spot. Now, I suggest you prepare yourself; this isn't going to be easy on anyone."

Jon IX

Thwam!

Jon slammed the door to his room behind him with such for it rattled in its frame; his body was boiling, he was nearly vibrating with bottled-up energy. He paced the length of the room like a caged animal; on one of his passes, his hip knocked into the dresser corner. Anger still clouding his mind, Jon violently kicked the bottom drawer once, twice, three times before the wood began to crack. A distress cry from little Phantasm -previously asleep on his pillow- brought him to his senses.

He sat back on the bed, folding in on himself with elbows on his knees and hand buried in his hair. He took a deep breath to try and calm his racing heart, closed his eyes, and remembered.

"He asked about his mother again, said her name was all he wanted for his nameday."

"Well, what did you say?"

"The same thing I always do, that I'd tell him when he was older."

Jon peered out from around corner, watching and listening to his father and uncle hushed conversation. He knew eavesdropping was rude and that he'd likely be punished if caught, but they were talking about him -talking about his mother- and Jon was sure he could stay hidden. He was crouched down in the dark halls of Winterfell with not even moonlight shining through the windows and the only source of light being the lantern Father carried; so long as he remained silent, there should be nothing that would give him away.

"He's four-and-ten now, you won't be able to say that much longer."

"Aye, but soon he'll be able to join the Night's Watch; after that, it will be safe to tell him the truth."

Uncle Benjen frowned, the flicking lantern cast dark shadows over his face, "I know we've talked Jon's future before, but I'm still not sure the Wall is the best place for him. He'd do well there, certainly, but he's too good, too soft-hearted for such a place. The Wall is far from a noble organization these days; it's full of robbers and killers and rappers who all decided a slow, cold death is somehow better than a quick one at the chopping block or the hangman's noose. The whole thing is just barely kept in line by the Old Bear and who knows how much longer he's going to last."

"I'm not saying it's a perfect plan but it is the safest; besides, at least he'll have family that he can rely on."

"If it's me you're referring to, my duties as ranger keep away for long stretches of time with no guarantee I'll ever return. I can't be there to protect him and, believe me, a boy like Jon will need protecting. But if you're referring to-"

"Don't! Speak his name in front of me, not in this household!" Father cut Uncle Benjen off sharply, a severe look on his face. "That man and his family have no place here in Winterfell and certainly not in Jon's life."

The atmosphere grew dark and tense; Jon watched both men tighten their bodies and set their jaws from his hiding place. Who was at the Wall that didn't belong in his life? Could his mother -could he- have a relative there? A grandfather or uncle? Maybe even an older half-brother? The idea was so exciting that Jon nearly let out a gasp, only just managing to smother it by biting down on his thumb.

"Of course, you get to decide that! Just like you get to decide Jon will know nothing about the truth of his birth until you deem him ready." There was a sharp sneer in Uncle Benjen's voice now; Jon shivered, he'd never hear his uncle sound so angry.

"Oh, don't start again! Every choice I've made has been to protect Jon, just like she wanted. If you'd had your way he'd be off living in Essos with the other two. He wouldn't even know Winterfell; at least this way he's grown up around his family."

Uncle Benjen let out a dark chuckle, "Aye, I'm sure Lyanna would be so grateful to know her son get to enjoy the loving warmth of your darling wife."

Lyanna? Why would his dead aunt care about- No. No, it couldn't be! There was no way he could be Aunt Lyanna's child. That would mean he wasn't his father's son and that was… that was all he knew. Jon bit down on his thumb harder.

"Don't you say a word about Cat. This isn't her fault; she can't help it," the Lord of Winterfell growled.

"No, you're right, it's your fault. I asked you -no, I begged you- to let me take Jon in. We could have gone anywhere; I'd have claimed him as my own and if we got far enough away, no one would have ever questioned it. He'd have been safe, he'd have been happy, and he'd have been with family. But no, you wouldn't hear of it." Uncle Benjen's tone was accusatory now and his eyes, they were just...cold.

"Lyanna wouldn't have wanted that."

"How would you know?" the ranger snarled. "You didn't know her; you or Brandon, not Father either! You don't know what she'd have wanted, not that any of you would have cared even if you did! I did know her though, and all I ever wanted was for her to be happy."

"Yes, you knew her so well that you not only let her run off, you actually helped her! And look where her grand expedition for happiness ended; with her dead alongside thousands of others. Father, Brandon, and Rhaegar, all dead because you helped her!"

The Warden of the North was spitting mad now but Jon couldn't hear anything else that was said. In fact, he couldn't hear anything; nothing but his own heart pounding in his ears.

Rhaegar. Rhaegar Targaryen was his father. Rhaegar Targaryen, the Targaryen Prince, who had supposedly kidnapped and raped his aunt. The married Targaryen Prince who, if he understood correctly, his mother ran off with consensually, -that, at least, was a small comfort; he may be a bastard, but at least he wasn't one born of rape- despite being betrothed to Robert Baratheon.

Something hot and salty burst over Jon's tongue. He pulled his hand back to realize he had bitten through the skin of his thumb; he hadn't even registered the pain. Blood ran down his wrist like teardrops and dripped to the floor. Jon balled his fist, pressing it into his chest and smearing red on the front of his nightshirt, and stood. In a daze, he silently padded back to his room. He collapsed on his bed; Ghost -only the size of a hound dog then- sensed his distress and join him on the mattress, licking his face as his eyes began to water.

It was funny how life works sometimes; if Jon had been able to sleep that night, he wouldn't have gone out walking the halls trying to clear his head. If he hadn't gone out walking than he would have never stumbled upon and overheard his Uncle Benjen and Lord Stark talking. If he hadn't overheard them talking than his life would have never been ripped apart. If his life had never been ripped apart than he would have never run away. If he never ran away then he would have never ended up in Skyrim and things would be very, very different.

When he woke up the next morning, Jon hoped -he prayed- that it had all been some sort of strange, terrible dream. But the swollen and painful bite on his thumb had proven otherwise. He spent the next few days in a haze of horror, fear, anger, regret, and agonizing sadness, pleading illness and poor sleep when asked why he was acting so strangely. Everything he knew was a lie and the man he loved and trusted above all others had been the one to feed that lie to him. Eventually, everything subsided except for the anger; anger he felt over the lies and the deceit. He knew now - even knew on some level back then- why Lord Stark lied, but that hadn't chased the anger away.

So it grew, like some sort of vengeful beast, not at all help by the fact he couldn't talk to anyone about what he discovered; he wasn't mindless, he knew that by hiding his identity Lord Stark was effectively committing treason. So he was alone with his anger and it brewed until it finally gave birth to a tremendously foolish idea- run away to Essos and find the last of his Targaryen family.

It was such a stupid idea, in hindsight. He had been a green boy with little experience with the world outside of Winterfell; he had a bit of coin saved up, about seventy silver stags, but no real plan on how to get to Essos beyond the basic idea of 'get to White Harbor and take a ship to Essos.' He barely gave any thought on what he'd do when he got to Essos -the closest he got was learning some basic Valyrian from books in the Winterfell library; he had a natural talent for languages, Maester Luwin always said- or how he was supposed to find his aunt and uncle, but at the time none of that mattered; his bitterness was all the encouragement he needed.

So he gathered his money, packed away his warmest clothes, stole a few books on Essos from the library, and said his goodbyes as nonchalantly as possible. He left a note; nothing to detailed, just a scrap of parchment with just six words on it, 'I'm sorry. I needed to go.' Then, on a morning that was fairly clear and everyone was busy, he took one rarely used horses from the stables and, the moment he had an opening, slipped away from all he ever knew with Ghost at his side.

The horse that Jon had taken was far from the most sprightly but they still managed to make good time, even taking the lesser traveled roads to avoid bandits and any men Lord Stark sent looking for him. He never came across anyone on the road though; possibly because the next day, a truly...unnatural storm blew over the land, coming out of nowhere. He was only just able to get the horse, Ghost, and himself to the relative safety of a small cave with the intention to wait out the freakish blizzard.

Those plans were shattered, however, when Ghost had run off into the snowstorm. Jon, of course, followed his beloved companion into the gale that quickly swallowed the pair up. He couldn't say how long he stumbled aimlessly through the whiteout -ice shards cutting to his face and freezing in his hair all the way- but he did know that when it finally cleared, he was in a completely unfamiliar land. Skyrim.

He wandered for about a mile, maybe hoping to find Ghost or maybe just hoping to find any signs of civilization. Unfortunately, the civilization he found was a squabble between Stormcloaks and Legion soldiers. Before he even realized what was happening, Jon was knocked unconscious, bound, and loaded up in a cart to Helgen. It didn't matter that he was only four-and-ten or that he wasn't a Stormcloak -something Ralof even attested to- or that he spoke another language or that his name wasn't on the list; the female captain ordered him to the chopping block, all the same, the bitch. But he was saved from execution by Alduin -something he would forever find hilariously ironic- and after escaping the burning town alongside Hadvar, the pair made their way to Riverwood; along the way, to Jon's enormous relief and delight, Ghost found them, saving the two young men from an ornery boar.

The rest, he supposed, was history.

The door creaked open and Jon, assuming Enzo had come to comfort him -the older man had the uncanny ability to tell when the young Dragonborn was upset- addressed him without looking, "Do you have your things packed? I want to leave here as soon as possible."

"Did my old furniture truly offend you so gravely, Nephew?"

Jon shot to his feet, a wide smile tugged on his face, "Uncle Benjen!"

His beloved uncle hadn't changed much from Jon's memories; a bit more gray in his hair, a few more wrinkles, a couple new scars, but beyond that? He was the same; the same features -sharper than the average Stark- with the same tired but kind blue eyes -not Tully blue, but a darker cobalt blue- and the same thin frame covered in black clothing. Unlike the eerie sameness of his childhood bedroom, Jon found the familiarity of his uncle's appearance immensely comforting. The man beamed at him, eyes full of warmth, and held his arms open for a hug.

Jon took a step forward, intending to step into the embrace when a traitorous thought slipped into his mind.

'He lied to you too. He doted on you most of all and still lied to you.'

The thought stung; he'd always took a quiet revelry in his uncle's unspoken favoritism for him. He was the one Uncle Benjen spend the most time with when he visited and he was the one who received small little gifts of arrowheads and carved bone trinkets. He didn't want the bond tainted so he shook that thought off and embraced his uncle, 'He wanted to tell me; he wanted to claim me as his own and take me to live in Essos. It's not his fault Lord Stark wouldn't let him.'

"Jon, it's so good to see you!"

"You too, Uncle! And in one piece, no less."

The older man grinned, "Aye, despite the gods' best efforts I remain whole."

The pair shared a brief chuckled before a shared awkwardness crept over them. Jon fought the urge to fidget or bite his thumb; his eyes flicked over to his assortment of chests, "Oh, I have something for you. I brought in on the off-chance we bumped into one another."

He rustled around the few remaining items in the chest, eventually pulling out a sheathed Nordic dagger. He passed it to his uncle, "Nothing too fancy but its light and won't dull easily, should do you some good out there."

Uncle Benjen pulled the dagger from its cover to admire the quicksilver and bronze blade with its Nordic design. "Good balance," he commented, attaching the sheath to his belt. His eyes met Jon's, "Do you hate me?"

Silence. Then Jon shook his head, "No, you didn't want to lie to me."

"I wanted to raise you; I wanted to take you far away from where anyone would hurt you. I was just a boy myself, really, but I was sure I could do it. Perhaps it was foolish, but it was what I wanted."

"Your brother didn't let you though."

The older man sighed but nodded, "I won't ask you not to be angry with him, Ned, nor will I expound any justifications to you. It is not my place and even if it was, I suspect you wouldn't want to hear them. However, I will ask that you listen to him speak at least one last time."

Silence, but Jon eventually acquiesce, "I owe him that much."

Uncle Benjen smiled, clasped Jon on the shoulder, and led him through the lesser traveled corridors to Lord Stark's solar. He knocked on the door and the pair was let in by a short, thin man with graying brown hair and brilliant moss green eyes. He brightened up when he saw the young Dragonborn and grasped Jon's hands in his own, "You've grown well."

Jon's brow furrowed, "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

The man smiled, "No, I suspect not; you were just a babe when you last saw me. I know you though, and I'm so happy to see you."

Realization dawned, "You're Howland Reed."

A nod and Lord Reed opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off by Lord Stark, "Howland, Benjen, could I have some time alone with Jon please?"

The two men glanced at each other, then at Lord Stark, and then back at each other before finally nodding and leaving the room. "C'mon Ben, I'm sure you're feeling peckish after such a long trip. I brought some delightful lizard-lion jerky up with me, can I tempt you?"

"Howland, you could feed me raw frog legs and it would still be better than what they feed us up at the wall."

Their voices fade behind the closed door, leaving Jon and Lord Stark alone in silence. The Warden of the North sat in his favorite armchair, eyes closed and head rested in his hand. On the floor before was an old trunk, one with a very familiar sigil. "Lock the door."

Jon did so silently, eyes still on the trunk.

"Sit. Please," the older man gestured to the chair across from him. Jon took it and waited, the atmosphere in the room suffocatingly heavy. Eventually, the man started, "You are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. You were born at a place called the Tower of Joy in Dorne; horribly ironic name if you ask me. Lyanna died due to complications during childbirth; when the time of your birth was nearing Ser Oswell Whent had traveled to Kingsgrave in order to secure a midwife but you were born sooner than expected and they only arrived after you were born. Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower were forced to help with the delivery themselves and, great warriors that they were, how to safely deliver a child was not among their skills. The midwife did what she could but it was too late; by the time I arrive and fought my way to her, she was already at death's door. Before she passed, though, she begged me to make her a promise -a promise to protect her son, the son she had with Rhaegar. Then the midwife passed you to me, wrapped in this…"

His uncle opened the trunk, pulled out a black and red cloth, and handed it over; Jon turned the cloth over in his hands, spreading it across his knees. It was a cloak. "This is a…"

"Marriage cloak? Aye. Rhaegar draped that over your mother's shoulder when he wed her in front of a heart tree."

The idea -the fact- that his parents were married sunk into Jon's bones slowly. He was a legitimate child, not a... "Rhaegar was already married."

His uncle nodded slowly, "The Targaryens, along with the other dragonlords of Valyria, practiced polygamy in addition to incest. When they came to rule Westeros, that custom was mostly given up; after Aegon I the only Targaryen king to take multiple wives was Maegor the Cruel. Do you know why this is?"

Jon tried to remember his lessons with Maester Luwin on the subject, "To appease the Faith?"

"Correct. While only a few Targaryen kings could be called deeply devout followers of the Seven, most knew the importance of keeping the Faith at least tentatively on their side -especially once they lost their dragons. So an unspoken agreement was reached; the Faith considered both incest and polygamy to be sins, but they'd tolerate the incest if the polygamy was stopped. However, the practice was never officially outlawed for Targaryens.

There would be some who'd call the marriage invalid because it was conducted in accordance with Northern tradition, but there signed statements from witnesses -Hightower, Whent, and Dayne- and Benjen is a living witness to the union."

"Uncle Benjen was there?"

"Aye, he was there. He helped arrange the ceremony and gave her away in the place of our father; he knew about it all."

This was just...so much information to process. But there was still more Jon needed to know, things he needed to be sure about. "So...Rhaegar didn't kidnap my mother, didn't rape her?"

"No. From what I know- well, what do you know of the Tourney of Harrenhal?"

Jon shrugged, "What everyone else does, I suppose; Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark his Queen of Love and Beauty instead of Princess Elia."

"That is...part of it, but only the last part. You have to understand, that tourney was a big deal; everyone who was anyone -or wanted to be someone- was there, including King Aerys and the royal family. Howland had also come but was accosted by three squires; he's not much of a warrior -he'll tell you that himself- and three were a bit much for him to handle. But Lyanna came to his rescue -she recognized who he was, a vassal of our father, but I'm sure she would have come to the aid of anyone- and, after running the boys off with a tourney sword, brought him to the Stark family tent where Brandon, Benjen, and I met him.

We insisted that Howland join us for the tourney and later he pointed out the three young men that attacked him. Benjen offered him the means to joust against the young men and regain his honor, but Howland declined; he was shy back then and was worried about making a fool of himself. So imagine our surprise when a mystery knight -small, clad in mismatched armor but with a booming voice- showed up, challenged, and then defeated the three knights whose squires who had attacked Howland. Once the three knights were defeated, mystery knight demanded that the knights teach their squires honor as the ransom for their horses and armor before disappearing into the woods.

King Aerys, the paranoid arse that he was, believed the mystery knight to be a foe bent on assassinating him and sent Prince Rhaegar off to find him. But the prince never did, returning with only the man's shield, emblazoned with a smiling weirwood. King Scab wasn't happy, but the tourney continued and Rhaegar went on to crown-"

"Lyanna!" Jon realized with a start. "Lyanna, my mother, she was the mystery knight."

The Lord of Winterfell smiled then; it was a soft, bittersweet smile of remembrance. "Aye. Brandon, Howland, and I didn't even realize she and Benjen had snuck away and when they returned the two of them refused to admit to anything. We knew though; jousting is mostly horsemanship and, even though she was just a young girl, Lyanna was an exceptional horsewoman -she could outride any of us, that's for sure. Oh, I wish you could have known her Jon; she was so much like Arya is now -like you too, in certain ways.

Anyhow, as it turns out Rhaegar did find the mystery knight and was apparently quite surprised to find a young lady under the helm. When he asked her what she was thinking, Lyanna -ever the brave one- looked him dead in the eye and explain herself, refusing to apologize or be shamed. But Rhaegar was deeply impressed, both by her skill and her integrity, and let her go; he knew she could never be honored for her deeds though, so instead he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty.

"So he didn't lust after her?"

"From their correspondence, I don't believe so; at least, not at that point."

"Correspondence?"

"Ah, yes. Well, it seems that the pair struck up a secret friendship over the next year. I have no clue how they kept it hidden, but they exchanged many letters and that friendship eventually developed into something more -a deep affection. This...changed things, especially when Lyanna's inevitable marriage to Robert drew closer; she didn't want to marry Robert, didn't think he'd be a good husband or would make her happy. Our Father told her that she must do her duty but, as I said, Lyanna was like Arya -not one to take things lying down.

She wrote to Rhaegar about her fears and together -along with the help of Benjen, who she was closest with, and Rhaegar's closest companions: Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent- a plan was hatched. Rhaegar and the knights would sneak up North, meeting up with Benjen and Lyanna, and he would marry Lyanna -making her his second wife. Then they would abscond to Dorne until things calmed down enough to be sorted out. Why Rhaegar thought things would work out so smoothly, I have no idea, but he did."

"Things didn't go smoothly though, did they? Uncle Brandon thought the prince had kidnapped his sister and went to King's Landing; that led to his and Grandfather's death and the start of Robert's Rebellion."

"Yes, but…" his uncle trailed off, eyes downcast.

"But what?"

The Lord of Winterfell sighed again, "Lyanna left behind a note, Jon. In it, she detailed everything; she made sure it was clear that she went with Rhaegar of her own free will. She also said that she didn't care if Father disowned her but that, no matter what happened, she wasn't going to marry Robert. Our Father burned the note though, made sure no one outside the family saw it. Why he did this, I can't say. Maybe it was out of anger and shame over having such openly defiant daughter? Maybe it was for her own protection? If she was a victim then there was still a chance of her making a respectable marriage. Maybe it was out of guilt? He knew Lyanna didn't want to marry Robert but hadn't cared. Perhaps he blamed himself for the whole thing? Whatever the reason, do you understand what the means, Jon?"

It took a moment. "That Brandon made false allegations against Rhaegar; he knew that the prince didn't kidnap her but still threatened him."

His uncle nodded slowly, "Brandon had the wolf blood, just like Lyanna. He didn't care what the note said, he wanted Lyanna back. He immediately road to King's Landing with Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce, Elbert Arryn, and Jeffory Mallister and...well, you know the rest of the story. War raged...people died, including Rhaegar, Princess Elia, and their children...and, near the end, Lady Ashara wrote to me in secret telling me where Lyanna was; she'd hope it would save lives, including that of her brother.

It was all for not, of course. I arrived at the tower with Lord Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, Ser Mark Ryswell, and Howland; Howland insisted on coming despite his lack of fighting prowess -he felt partially responsible, I believe. He went down first in the ensuing fight, badly injured, but it was a good thing he came because once my companions fell along with Whent and Hightower I was left to battle Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He would have killed me, I have no doubt; his skills vastly eclipsed my own. But before he could deal the killing blow, Howland stabbed a dagger through the back of his neck; he saved my life that day."

There it was then; Eddard Stark never defeated the Sword of the Morning, merely survived him. "Why did he never claim such a kill? Such a feat is surely song worthy."

Lord Stark shook his head, "You would think, but no. Ser Arthur was near as adored by the people as Rhaegar was, even more so within Dorne. No one had much love for the Crannogmen though, and if word got out that Howland killed Arthur in such a seemingly dishonorable way there'd be plenty who wouldn't have a second thought about killing a minor lord as retribution for the famed knight's death. But I was a high lord; I could...get away with it. I needed lie in order to protect my friend; after all, he agreed to protect my greatest secret."

He looked at Jon then, love and sadness swirling together in his gray eyes, "Lyanna was near death when I finally reached her. But she lived long enough to entrust you to me; the last remaining child of Rhaegar Targaryen, a small quiet babe by the name of Jaehaerys Targaryen. You."

Jaehaerys Targaryen. 'That's my name,' Jon thought. 'That's the name my mother gave me and yet…' "What happened next?"

"Nothing pleasant. Not much I'm particularly proud of," his uncle admitted. "We destroyed the tower, burying all the dead except for Lyanna in the rubble. I traveled to Starfall with you, Howland, and the midwife to return the sword, Dawn. Ashara saw you and understood; she cursed me for Arthur's death but let us leave unharmed, even giving us supplies and the use of a wet nurse named Wylla. Do you remember her? She cared for you until you were four.

Then we traveled north; we stopped by King's Landing in time to see the bodies of your… of Princess Elia and her children. I saw them and knew that I could never, ever breathe a word of your true parentage to anyone. When we reached the Neck, Howland and I separated; I took you and he took everything of importance that had been in the tower."

The Lord of Winterfell gestured to the trunk before him and continued, "Benjen knew the truth the moment he laid eyes on you; he begged to take you as his own, but I refused and instead...insisted he join the Night's Watch. It was foolish, the Stark line had been whittled down to near nothing and I all but forced one of the few carriers of the name into a life of celibacy. But, you see, I was angry. My older brother and father and sister and friends were dead. I had been made to marry with a woman I did not know and did not love. I was forced to shoulder the responsibility of being Lord of Winterfell, something I had never been prepared for, and I blamed Benjen. Lyanna was dead, I couldn't blame her, but Benjen -Benjen who helped Lyanna run away with Rhaegar- was alive and he wanted you, my most terrible responsibility and greatest gift. So I sent him away. Then I came to Winterfell and made you a bastard. I took a boy who could have -perhaps should have- been king and made him a bastard. I let you think you were less than you are and, in the process, hurt you so badly enough that you ran from me."

"If it's so dangerous for me to be here, then why do you keep asking me to stay?"

The Lord of Winterfell hung his head in shame, "Because I am a selfish, selfish man, Jon. I kept you close when I could have fostered you at White Harbor or Greywater Watch where you might have been happier. I told myself that I did it as part of the promise to Lyanna, but truthfully I just wanted to keep you close because… because you're the only thing I have left of her. I treated you like a thing -a living memento- instead of a little boy and I can never apologize enough for that."

It was surreal, finally hearing the truth of his life and finally having the lies put to an end. How strange it was, to get something you've always wanted only for it to feel nothing like you expected. "I… am grateful for everything you've done for Lord Stark. I understand it's been difficult for you all these years, being stuck between Lady Stark and I, and, believe me, I know what it's been like to have deadly secrets."

"That's not the point, Jon! You are -you were- a child, you shouldn't have had to be grateful for anything!" The Warden of the North sighed, rubbing his face.

Jon had always hoped the revelation of his parentage would be a joyous occasion but now his uncle just looked… worn. "I do love you, Lord Stark; you and Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon. I wouldn't trade the childhood I spent with you all for anything in the world, even if it wasn't always perfect."

Lord Stark perked up at his words, light filling his eyes once more, but before he could say anything more Jon cautiously added, "I'm not ready to call you Father again -at least, not in private- and I'm not sure I'll ever be ready; but, I'd like to call you Uncle, if that is alright?"

His uncle smiled softly and nodded, "Only when it is the two of us, but, yes, I'd like that very much." The man cleared his throat and sat up, gesturing to the trunk, "This, and its contents, are yours. I told Howland to burn them long ago but he obviously didn't listen; he always was smart like that. Everything I've told you and more can be backed up by documents in there; they're yours to do with as you please, though I must insistent that you don't go around showing anybody."

"Alright," Jon breathed; then, mostly to himself, he repeated, "Alright."

As promised, the trunk was full of documents: stacks of letters bound together in brown twine, tight rolls of paper tied with ribbon, a few books -diaries, if he had to guess- and what must be dozens of loose sheets of paper and parchment.

'It's going to take all day to sort through this mess,' Jon thought as uncorked a bottle of Black-Briar mead, taking a deep swig, and reaching for a random piece of paper. Uncle Ned had promised to give him all the time he needed; he was going to have a servant bring Jon his meals and ask the other Stark child to leave Jon be for the day. He turned the paper over in his hands,

Possible Baby Names

(Girls)

Visenya

Lyserra

Maiella

Jaehaera

(Boys)

Daeron

Benjen

Jaehaerys

Torrhen

Rhaegar is positive the babe will be a girl, a Visenya for Aegon and Rhaenys, but I'm not sure… Something tells me it's going to be a boy. If its a boy than I want to name his Jaehaerys. I've always liked 'J' names… It's a tried and tested name too! Jaehaerys I, everyone loved him, he was one of the best kings Westeros had ever known. Jaehaerys II… his rule wasn't long but it was successful enough. It's a good name, a good Targaryen name

'I wonder what life would have been like if I had been a girl?' Jon though ideally as he set the paper to the side. Phantasm let out a mew as she crawled on shaky legs into his lap, he scratched the kitten's behind the ear, and pulled another document from the trunk -one that turned out to be sheet music. 'Rhaegar was supposedly an accomplished musician, this must be his.'

He moved on to the letters then and, through sips of mead, read how through careful, secretive correspondence a mutual admiration grew into a strong friendship, which then grew into a gentle friendship and, eventually, love.

Hello Gar,

I went off trail on my ride again today; Father would lock me away in my chambers if he knew -he'd say it was too dangerous- but I know these lands, nothing could ever harm me. Besides, my rides are the only peace I get these days; all I ever hear is 'marriage' and 'duty' and 'expectations'... I don't want to marry R, but gods' forbid I say such a thing; N assures me their of strong character and that I'll grow to love them but I prefer running to the Wall. Maybe one of these days I'll simply not return from my ride and instead travel even further north…

Best Wishes,

Lyon

***

Dear Lyon,

I'm going to have to advise against running away to the Wall; while I'm sure you could do the order justice, I don't want you to become another musical tragedy. I understand the urge though; I've visited the Wall myself and it is magnificent -brutally cold and windy, of course, but magnificent.

I know you upset about R, is there nothing you can say to your father to convince him to change his mind? If not then, I swear, we'll figure something; I won't let you end up in the same situation as my mother. I'm going to get her out of that as soon as possible. Be safe.

With the Greatest Respects,

Gar

***

Gar,

I've talked to BJ about the plan and he is willing to help; he doesn't like the idea of me marrying R either. But I'm worried, I know you say your wife is okay with everything but I need proof. For as much as I despise the thought of wedding R, I don't want someone else to suffer for my happiness.

Yours Truly,

Lyon

***

The letters went on like that; sometimes only a brief paragraph or two and sometimes for pages. There was never anything overtly romantic and everything was written in using false names, presumably so nothing could be pinned on the pair if the letters were ever to be intercepted. Perhaps even more interesting, was the third set of handwriting that flitted across a scroll of fine, heavy parchment from which a golden armband fell when Jon picked it up.

The armband was gold -true gold, not gold plated iron- and shaped like a snake with small ruby eyes and a scale-like pattern; it was designed to wrap around the bicep -a woman's bicep, judging by the size- twice, mimicking the shape of a coiled serpent. Jon slipped it around his wrist and unrolled the scroll,

Dearest Lyanna,

First off, forgive me for using everyone's true names, but this needs to be written in a way that can hold up to scrutiny. Secondly. Rhaegar told me you were worried about me disapproving of this entire venture; so I wanted to assure you by my own hand that I not only approve, I was the one who pushed him to take action. I've read your letters, Sweetling, and I know your feelings on this Robert. I don't want you pushed into an unhappy marriage either. In Dorne, men who beat their wives rarely live to have long marriages; I know this isn't the case in the rest of Westeros.

But beyond that, I have other reasons; I will admit them to you now, I want a trust to develop between us. I am quite alone here in King's Landing; lions stalk and thorns grow and King Scab waits for the moment he can get rid of me. He fears Rhaegar now… he should. I know that you do not desire the power of the throne and having someone I can trust by my side will allow me to sleep easier tonight. Oh, I have guards and my uncle nearby, but there is something about having a trustworthy woman by your side that is very different.

The other reason is...I don't know how much longer I will live. I've never been the hardiest of women and childbirth has not improved my health. I cannot have any more children; I have given the crown a healthy prince so I cannot be tossed aside easily, but who will question a frail woman falling ill? Even if my death isn't helped along but some scheming party, you never know when a flu or slip on the stairs may get lucky and strike me down. When I die, I want Rhaegar to have someone trustworthy to support him; less Cersei Lannister attempts to sink her claws into him.

In all seriousness, I know you're scared, Lyanna. But don't worry, you'll be safe in Dorne; I've sent along some insurance to be sure of that. The armband, it is part of a set; when a Martell girl flowers, a set of matching armbands is crafted for her. I send this one to you as a sign of our upcoming sisterhood. If you ever need help while in Dorne, simply present the armband to any friend of House Martell -never show it to someone from House Yronwood, the bitter fucks- and they will help you. Don't you worry about how my brothers will react to all this, they both have tempers that run as hot as the Dornish sun but I've got them both wrapped around my little finger; I won't let them do anything foolish.

I hope my words pacify you, Lyanna. For we will be sisters soon and our children will one day not just rule the Seven Kingdoms but will guard against the evils that lurk in the shadows. They are destined for greatness you see, and our names will go down in history.

All my love,

Elia

Jon read the scroll over once, then twice more. The next thing he picked up was a small, blood-stained diary; most of the contents had been rendered unreadable due to blood stains but from what he could tell, it was a record of Lyanna's time in the Tower of Joy. He flipped to the last page, covered in a wild, messy scrawl with bloody fingerprints and ink splotched by teardrops.

IT'S ALL MY FAULT. THEY'RE ALL DEAD NOW AND IT'S MY FAULT. BRANDON, RHAEGAR, FATHER...THEY'RE ALL DEAD. IM SORRY, IM SO, SO SORRY. IM GOING TO DIE SOON TOO, MARLA AND ARTHUR SAY I'M GOING TO BE FINE BUT I KNOW THEY'RE JUST TRYING TO COMFORT ME.

MY SON. MY SON, NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS I NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT I ALWAYS WANTED YOU. ME AND ELIA AND RHAEGAR, WE ALL WANTED YOU. THIS ISN'T YOUR FAULT AND IM SORRY FOR WHATEVER YOUR LIFE BRING BUT I LOVE YOU.

I LOVE YOU, SON. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

Jon blinked away the tears forming in his eyes and opened another bottle of mead.

The Dragonborn bolted up in his bed, phantom screams echoing in his ears and the sensation of warm blood splattered across his face. A massive hand clamped over his mouth, smothering the scream that tried to escape his throat.

"Relax, you were having a nightmare."

Jon struggled against the hand before Enzo's soothing voice broke through the blood-curdling shrieks ringing in his ears. He met the giant Redguard's eyes and gave a slight nod but didn't move. Enzo scanned him carefully from where he was reclined on the foot of the bed, he let the paper he was reading fall his lap and moved his hand from Jon's mouth to his forehead; the dark-haired young man leaned into the touch, pressing himself into the man's warm callous hand.

"You feel warm, are you ill?"

"Too much mead; not enough food," Jon grumbled as he just began registering a pounding headache.

Enzo snorted but tossed him a healing potion and a water skin before turning his attention back to the back to his reading, "So the Lord of Winter finally told you?"

Jon gulped down the potion, washing the thin, sickly-sweet fluid down with water. "Aye. He didn't have much of a choice in the matter but, yes, he told me everything. It was...tiring but I feel better now that I know."

"The truth is often difficult," Enzo agreed with a nod. "But it is good that you know the full story now. I imagine all these papers were overwhelming to take in all at once; you should have asked me to help."

"It was something I needed to do alone," Jon insisted. Then he blinked, "Wait, how did you get in here? I put a locking ward on the door."

The Ebony Warrior quirked an eyebrow up at Jon, an amused smile creeping onto his face. "Right, foolish of me to ask," Jon snorted and flopped back on the bed. They were both quiet for a while, the only sound in the room being the shuffling of papers as Enzo looked through the trunk, before Jon spoke up again.

"Jaehaerys."

"Pardon?"

"Jaehaerys, that's my name; the name my mother gave me. Jaehaerys Targaryen."

"Ah, interesting. Is that who you feel like?"

It took Jon some time to answer, "No."

It was true; just like Jon may have been Jon Snow at one point in his life, Jaehaerys Targaryen was an identity best left in the past. He was Jon Whitewolf and that was enough for him. Still…

"Enzo?"

"Yes?"

Jon brushed his fingertips against his face, tracing where he had felt warm, fresh blood splash against his skin, "Would you mind terribly if we visited King's Landing?"

Next Chapter: Jon prepares to leave for King's Landing so he's going to have to say some goodbyes. 

Notes:

1) So about 90% of this chapter was headcannons and speculations. I think we can all agree that naming Jon 'Aegon' was really dumb, so I changed it here.

2) I also wanted to give Elia a more active roll; we know so little about her and I wanted her to be more than someone whose husband cheated on her and then gets brutally murdered. Now does this make this more tragic or less?

3) I'm considering getting a beta reader, what do you guys think?