Chapter 6

The godswood was quiet, its stillness broken only by the rustling of leaves and the faint whisper of the wind. The old heart tree loomed over Eddard Stark, its face carved into the trunk staring down at him with its hollow, ageless eyes. The weight of his thoughts was suffocating, each one pressing down harder than the last. His mind, once clear and sure, was now clouded with doubt.

He thought of Robert Baratheon, his old friend and the king he had sworn loyalty to, a man who had once been a beacon of hope in a fractured world. But now, with every word Harry had spoken echoing in his ears, the cracks in Robert's image were undeniable. Robert was not the hero Ned had once believed him to be. He was a man whose desires, insecurities, and brutal nature had marred any hope of nobility. Ned's mind kept returning to that night—the night his friend had taken the throne, and the price that had been paid for it.

Ned clenched his fists, the ache in his heart matching the thrum of the blood that had been spilled. His thoughts turned to Jon Snow, the boy he had raised as his son. Jon, whose true parentage was hidden in the shadows, whose fate was entangled with the very power struggles that had torn the realm apart. It was Jon's birthright that gnawed at him the most. In his heart, Ned knew the truth—Jon was the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, a prince by blood, and yet, he had been kept in the dark for his entire life. The burden of that secret weighed heavier with each passing day.

How long can I keep this from him? Ned wondered. The very thought of it made his stomach twist.

Just as the heaviness of his contemplation seemed unbearable, a voice broke through the air.

"My lord," the guard called, bowing slightly. "Jon Snow and Lord Robb are on their way."

Ned nodded, his gaze briefly lifting to the high branches of the godswood, as though searching for some kind of answer from the old gods. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. There was no turning back. He had to face his sons and tell them the truth, no matter the consequences.

A few moments later, Jon Snow and Robb Stark appeared at the edge of the godswood, their faces a mixture of concern and curiosity. Robb, tall and strong like his father, walked ahead, his brow furrowed. Jon, with his dark, brooding gaze, followed closely behind, his steps cautious, as if he already sensed that something important was about to unfold.

Ned's heart tightened at the sight of Jon. The boy had always reminded him of Lyanna—strong-willed, independent, and quiet in a way that often made him seem like an outsider among the Stark children. But there was no denying the bond between them, a bond forged in the fire of loyalty and love. Jon had never known the truth of his blood, but Ned's conscience had never been able to fully forget the promise he had made to his sister on her deathbed.

"Father?" Robb's voice was gentle, but there was an edge of concern. He could feel the tension in the air, as if the very ground beneath them was shifting.

Ned's gaze lingered on his eldest son for a moment before he looked back at Jon. He saw the flicker of uncertainty in Jon's eyes, the way he held himself, as if bracing for something. The weight of what he was about to do settled heavily on Ned's chest.

"Thank you both for coming," Ned began, his voice steady but tinged with an unspoken sadness. "There is something I need to tell you, something that cannot wait any longer." He paused, his eyes flickering between the two boys, his sons—both so different, yet so alike in the ways that mattered most.

Jon stepped forward, his brow furrowing in quiet confusion. "What is it, Father? You seem... troubled."

Robb glanced between them, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sensed that this conversation was not going to be like any other. "Is something wrong?" he asked, his tone sharp with concern.

Ned swallowed hard, his throat dry as he gathered his thoughts. "This is not easy, but it is something you both have a right to know." He took a deep breath, looking down at the ground for a moment before his eyes met theirs again, this time filled with an unshakable resolve.

"Jon, Robb, there is a truth that I have kept hidden from you for far too long," Ned said, his voice low, but firm. "Jon, you are not just my son by the blood of my house. You are the son of my sister, Lyanna Stark, and Rhaegar Targaryen."

Jon's expression faltered for a moment, confusion and disbelief flashing across his face. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Robb, standing beside Jon, had frozen, his eyes wide as he tried to process what his father had just said. "You're saying Jon is a Targaryen?" Robb's voice was hoarse, his disbelief written all over his face.

Ned nodded grimly. "Yes. Jon is the son of Lyanna and Rhaegar. He is the true heir to the Iron Throne, not Robert Baratheon." His words hung in the air, their implications crashing down like a wave.

Jon's head was spinning. He shook it, as if trying to clear the fog of his thoughts. "But... but how? I grew up here... with you. I... I always thought... I thought you were my father. What does this mean?"

Ned stepped closer, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. The touch was heavy with years of unspoken love and regret. "I raised you as my own, Jon. You are my son in every way that matters. But I made a promise to your mother on her deathbed, to keep you safe. To keep you hidden. You are the last living Targaryen in Westeros, and the realm is not ready for that truth."

Jon's heart pounded in his chest, a storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. His world, his identity, had just been shattered in an instant. He could feel his mind reeling, trying to comprehend the enormity of it all.

Robb, standing slightly behind Jon, exhaled slowly, his face still etched with disbelief. "You've kept this from us, from Jon, all these years? For the sake of... what? Loyalty to Robert?"

Ned's eyes darkened, his face tightening with the weight of his decision. "Loyalty to the realm. To your mother's wishes. To Robert. But now... Now the truth must be known."

Jon's voice cracked slightly as he spoke. "Why didn't you tell me? Why not... why not let me decide my fate?" His words were raw, full of hurt and confusion.

"I kept you safe," Ned said quietly, his voice breaking just a little. "But I see now that I've kept you from your destiny. I am sorry, Jon."

The silence that followed was thick, each word lingering in the air like smoke from a long-buried fire. The godswood, once a place of peace, now seemed to hold a sense of foreboding.

Robb placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, his grip strong and steady. "We'll figure this out, Jon. Together. Whatever this means for the future, we'll face it as a family."

Jon nodded slowly, his gaze still distant, as if lost in the enormity of the truth.

Ned looked at his sons, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what was to come. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with dangers and choices that would tear the realm apart. But in that moment, he knew that telling the truth, no matter how painful, was the right thing to do.

"Whatever happens," Ned said quietly, "remember that you are both my sons. And nothing will change that."

The weight of the truth had been revealed, but the consequences of it were just beginning to unfold.

—

The clang of Jon Snow's sword against the wooden training dummy echoed across the training grounds, each strike a thunderous testament to his simmering fury. Sweat glistened on his brow, his breaths coming in sharp bursts, but his strikes were relentless, as if punishing the wooden figure could somehow silence the storm raging within him.

Robb Stark sat nearby on a rough-hewn log, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. His face bore an expression of quiet turmoil, his sharp blue eyes tracking every swing of Jon's blade. He hadn't spoken since their father's revelation, and the weight of it all sat heavily on his broad shoulders. The silence between the brothers was deafening, punctuated only by the sound of Jon's strikes.

When Harry approached, his footsteps crunching softly against the packed dirt, Jon froze mid-swing. His dark eyes snapped to Harry, blazing with anger and hurt. He turned to face him fully, his sword hanging limply at his side, but his body coiled like a predator ready to strike.

"Did you know?" Jon's voice cut through the air like steel, raw and trembling with emotion.

Harry stopped a few paces away, his hands at his sides, his expression calm yet tinged with regret. "I did," he admitted evenly. There was no point in lying. "But it wasn't my secret to tell."

Jon's grip on the hilt tightened, his knuckles white. "Not your secret to tell?" he repeated, his voice rising, bitter and incredulous. "It's my life, Harry. My parentage, my truth! And you—" His voice cracked. "You stood by and said nothing."

"I wanted to tell you," Harry said quietly, taking a step closer, his green eyes locked on Jon's. "But it wasn't my decision. Your father—Lord Stark—" He hesitated, correcting himself, "Your uncle made that choice. To protect you."

"Protect me?" Jon laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and sharp. "By letting me live as a bastard? By letting me believe I was less than nothing? That I didn't belong anywhere?"

Robb finally spoke, his voice steady but low. "That's not fair, Jon," he said, rising to his feet. His face was pale, his jaw clenched tightly. "You know why Father did it. He loved you. He—"

"Loved me?" Jon interrupted, rounding on Robb. "Did he love me when he let me sit in the shadows at every feast? Did he love me when Lady Stark looked at me like I was dirt beneath her feet? Or when every lord and servant whispered about the bastard of Winterfell?"

Robb's expression darkened, his voice hardening. "Don't you dare speak of Father like that. He did what he thought was right. He kept you alive, Jon. You think the Targaryens' enemies wouldn't have killed you if they'd known who you were?"

Jon opened his mouth to retort but stopped, the words caught in his throat. He turned away from them both, dragging a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. His shoulders were taut, trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

"Jon," Harry said softly, stepping forward. "It wasn't just about keeping you alive. It was about giving you a chance. A chance to grow up in a place where you were safe, where you could find your own path."

Jon spun around, his voice rising again. "Safe? You think I was safe here? Do you have any idea what it's like to be a bastard, Harry? To know you're less than your brothers and sisters? To see it in their eyes every day? Even in Lady Stark's?"

Harry's gaze didn't waver. "I know it wasn't easy. But you're not alone, Jon. You have Robb. You have me."

Robb stepped forward, his tone softer now, almost pleading. "Jon, you're my brother. You always have been, and you always will be. It doesn't matter what your name is, or who your parents were. You're still Jon to me."

Jon looked between them, his anger deflating slightly, though his face remained hard. "And what does that even mean now? Am I Jon Snow? Or am I… someone else?" His voice broke, and for a moment, he seemed impossibly young, his anger replaced by confusion and pain.

"You're both," Harry said firmly. "You're Jon Snow, the man you've always been. But you're also more than that. You're the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. You're a Stark, and you're a Targaryen. And that makes you stronger, not weaker."

Jon's breathing slowed, his grip on his sword slackening. He turned to Robb, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you really believe that?"

Robb nodded without hesitation, his blue eyes fierce. "You're my brother, Jon. That's all that matters. Blood or no blood, nothing changes that."

Jon's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dropping to the ground. He stood there for a long moment, silent, his shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath. Then, finally, he lifted his head, his expression weary but resolute.

"Alright," he said quietly. "Alright. I don't know what's coming, but… if you're both with me, then I'll face it."

Harry and Robb exchanged a glance, their determination mirrored in each other's eyes. "We're with you," Harry said firmly. "Always."

Robb clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "Always," he echoed.

Jon's gaze softened, the anger and betrayal in his eyes giving way to something else—reluctant trust, and the faintest flicker of hope. The three of them stood together in the fading light, bound by blood and a promise unspoken: that no matter what lay ahead, they would face it as brothers.

—

The silence of the training grounds was heavy, the air thick with unspoken tension. Jon Snow stood rigid, the remnants of his fury still simmering beneath the surface. Nearby, Robb Stark leaned against a post, his arms crossed and his lips pressed into a tight line, his blue eyes flickering with concern. The battered training dummy in front of Jon stood as a testament to his frustration, its splintered surface gouged with the evidence of repeated blows.

Harry broke the silence with a low chuckle, shaking his head as he stepped closer. The sound was unexpected, cutting through the grim atmosphere like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Both Jon and Robb turned to him, startled.

"What's so funny?" Jon asked, his voice sharp but lacking the earlier venom. His brow furrowed, though the faintest hint of curiosity softened his stormy expression.

Harry's grin was wide, playful, and just shy of mischievous. He gestured toward the training dummy, its splintered wood barely holding together. "I was just thinking," he said, his tone light and conversational, "that after all it's been through today, this poor sod deserves a name."

Robb blinked, clearly taken off guard. "A name?" he repeated, his voice filled with confusion. "You're naming the training dummy?"

"Why not?" Harry replied with a shrug, his grin widening. "It's seen more action than most of the knights at Winterfell. Seems only fair to give it a title befitting its valor."

Jon snorted despite himself, his lips twitching at the corners. "Alright then," he said, lowering his sword. "What do you propose we call it?"

Harry rubbed his chin theatrically, pretending to give the matter deep thought. "How about Ser Splinters?" he suggested, gesturing dramatically to the battered dummy. "The brave knight who bore the brunt of your fury and lived to stand another day."

Robb let out a surprised laugh, the tension in his posture easing as he straightened. "Ser Splinters," he echoed, nodding appreciatively. "Not bad. Though it might be more accurate to call it Ser Punching Bag."

"Oh, come now," Harry said with mock indignation. "A knight deserves a touch of dignity, even if he's made of wood. Besides, Ser Splinters has a nice ring to it."

Jon tilted his head, a reluctant smirk creeping onto his face. "Fine. Ser Splinters it is. But if we're naming him, I think we ought to knight him properly. What do you think, Robb?"

Robb grinned, stepping forward with exaggerated solemnity. "I agree. Every knight needs a good backstory, though. Perhaps he earned his title defending Winterfell from your wild temper."

Harry let out an exaggerated gasp of mock offense. "You wound me, Robb. I was going to suggest Ser Splinters earned his stripes protecting you from falling flat on your arse during training."

Jon chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned on his sword. "That's rich, coming from the same man who nearly knocked himself out trying to climb the training platform. Shall we call him Ser Tumbles instead, in your honor?"

Robb barked a laugh, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "Ser Tumbles has a nice ring to it. Though I'd argue Harry's antics deserve their own saga. How about Knight of the Knotted Rope? You remember the time he got tangled in the practice nets?"

Harry groaned, though his grin didn't falter. "You lot will never let me live that down, will you?"

"Not a chance," Robb replied, his grin as broad as ever. "It's one of the few joys we have in this frozen wasteland—mocking each other's misadventures."

Jon's laughter was quieter but no less genuine, the tension in his shoulders easing further. "I think we're onto something here," he said. "Perhaps we should name all the training dummies. Start a proper knightly order. The Order of Missteps."

Harry clapped his hands together, his grin positively wicked. "Brilliant! Ser Splinters, Ser Tumbles, and the Knight of the Knotted Rope. We could even compose ballads. 'The Tale of the Broken Sword and the Splintered Shield.'"

Robb rolled his eyes, though he couldn't suppress his laughter. "Let's save the ballads for when we've actually done something heroic. At this rate, our legacy will just be embarrassing stories and a pile of broken dummies."

Jon's smile lingered as he glanced between Harry and Robb, their laughter filling the chilly air. For a moment, the weight of his newfound parentage lifted, replaced by the warmth of their camaraderie. "You know," he said, his voice quieter now, "I needed this. More than I realized."

Harry's grin softened, and he clapped Jon on the shoulder. "That's what we're here for, Jon," he said warmly. "To remind you that no matter how heavy things get, you're not carrying it alone."

Robb stepped closer, his expression earnest now as he looked Jon in the eye. "You're our brother, Jon. No matter what. Whether you're a Snow, a Stark, or a bloody Targaryen, it doesn't change anything for us."

Jon's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping for a moment before he nodded. "Thank you," he murmured. "Both of you."

Harry's voice was firm as he said, "We're in this together, Jon. Whatever comes next, we face it side by side."

"Always," Robb echoed, his hand resting firmly on Jon's shoulder.

And for the first time that day, Jon allowed himself to believe it. As the three of them stood together, the battered training dummy behind them, their laughter still lingering in the cold air, the world seemed a little less daunting. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together—brothers in every way that mattered.

—

Robb stood with arms crossed, his signature half-smirk fading into something more serious as he studied Jon's expression. The younger Stark—well, Targaryen, though that word still tasted strange—looked like a man lost in a storm, his shoulders tight, jaw clenched, and eyes clouded with the weight of uncertainty.

"Jon," Robb began, his voice low but firm, "you've got that look again."

Jon glanced at him, eyebrows knitting together. "What look?"

"The one where you're brooding so hard the gods themselves might come down to ask if you're all right." Robb's smirk returned, but it was softer now, tinged with a brotherly concern that mirrored the light snow falling around them. "Seriously, you'll give Ser Splinters over there a run for his title if you keep at it."

Harry, leaning casually against a training dummy that had certainly seen better days, chuckled. "Ser Splinters might take offense to that, Robb. He's earned his place as the most abused knight in Winterfell."

Robb shot Harry a mock glare. "Don't encourage him. Next thing we know, Jon will be carving a sigil for the poor thing."

"Perhaps a broken shield with a splintered crown?" Harry suggested, his grin wide.

Jon's lips twitched upward, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through his stormy mood. "You two are relentless."

"And you're terrible at hiding when something's bothering you," Robb countered, stepping closer to his half-brother. His blue eyes searched Jon's face, the teasing tone giving way to genuine care. "Out with it, then. What's on your mind?"

Jon sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. "It's… everything. My name. My blood. The throne. Do you have any idea what it feels like to find out your entire life was a lie?"

Robb's face tightened, his hand dropping to his sword hilt in a gesture of frustration. "I know what it's like to have my life turned upside down. But you're still you, Jon. Name or no name, you're my brother."

Jon's gaze dropped to the ground. "But what if I'm meant for more than this?" His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "What if I'm supposed to take the throne? What if that's why I was born?"

Robb let out a sharp laugh, not unkind, but full of disbelief. "The throne? Have you met yourself? You'd be miserable after the first council meeting."

That earned him a chuckle from Harry, who added, "Not to mention, all those lords and ladies bowing and scraping? You'd last a week before you threw the Iron Throne into Blackwater Bay."

Jon shook his head, though his lips quirked upward in reluctant amusement. "You're both impossible."

"No," Robb said, clapping a hand on Jon's shoulder. "We're your brothers. And as your brothers, it's our job to remind you that the world's not as heavy as you think. You don't have to decide everything right now."

"But I do have to decide," Jon said, his voice growing firmer. "Winter is coming, Robb. And beyond the Wall, the dead are rising. If I don't take the throne, who will? Joffrey?" He paused, his expression hardening. "Or someone worse?"

Harry pushed off the training dummy and stepped forward, his tone shifting from playful to serious. "Jon, you're forgetting the most important part of all of this."

Jon frowned. "And what's that?"

"That you're not alone," Harry said simply. "You're not some lone wolf wandering the woods. You've got us. Whatever path you choose—be it the Wall, Winterfell, or the Iron Throne—we'll be there."

Robb nodded, his expression uncharacteristically somber. "Harry's right. You don't have to carry this on your own. And for what it's worth, I don't give a damn what your name is. You're my brother. That's all that matters."

The weight in Jon's chest eased slightly, the knot of tension loosening as he looked between the two of them. "I don't deserve you."

"Don't be so dramatic," Robb said, his smirk returning. "You're family. That's how it works. Besides, someone has to keep you from brooding yourself into an early grave."

Harry grinned, nudging Jon with his elbow. "And someone has to make sure you don't accidentally name your hypothetical future dragon something ridiculous, like 'Burny McFireface.'"

Jon let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head. "You're both insufferable."

"And you love us for it," Robb said with a wink.

—

As Robb's footsteps faded into the distance, leaving behind a quiet stillness that seemed to hang heavy in the air, Harry remained standing beside Jon. The cool winds of Winterfell whipped around them, but it didn't seem to touch Jon. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes distant, like he was bracing for something—maybe the storm of his own mind, maybe something far worse. Harry, always good at reading people, saw the struggle etched across his friend's face.

He let out a long breath, his gaze flicking to the rolling landscape, trying to collect his own thoughts before speaking. His mind churned, not unlike Jon's, remembering his own battles with identity—Harry knew too well the weight that could suffocate a person when faced with a past that was as confusing as it was shattering. In moments like these, Harry had learned that sometimes the words that needed to be said weren't always the comforting ones. Sometimes, it was the truth, raw and unfiltered, that cut through the fog.

Jon finally stirred, his posture slightly slumped, but still tense. He turned to face Harry, his eyes shadowed with uncertainty, like a man staring down a future he hadn't asked for.

"Robb seemed... pretty shaken back there," Harry began, his voice soft, but with an edge of curiosity. "How are you holding up?"

Jon's lips twisted in a wry half-smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "How do you think I'm holding up, Harry? I just found out I'm not even really a Stark." He paused, eyes flicking to the ground as if to gather himself. "I don't even know what to feel anymore. One moment, I'm Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. And now... now I'm supposed to be some Targaryen prince. A potential heir to the Iron Throne. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

Harry didn't flinch at Jon's words. He understood. He'd seen enough of his own world shatter to know exactly how Jon felt right now. The uncertainty, the identity crisis—it was a burden that threatened to unravel everything you thought you knew.

"I can't say I know exactly what you're feeling, Jon," Harry said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "But I do know what it's like to be caught between two worlds. I'm not talking about being half-blooded or being 'destined' for greatness or any of that crap. I'm talking about being so lost that it feels like the ground beneath you's caving in."

Jon snorted, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, well, you've got the whole 'destined for greatness' thing down. No one ever told me my blood would mean something other than being a bastard."

"Jon, your blood doesn't define you," Harry said, stepping closer, his eyes locking onto his friend's. "It's the choices you make that do. Whether you're a Stark, a Targaryen, or some mix of both doesn't change the fact that you've been a Stark in every sense of the word. You're family. You've always been family. So don't let anyone—least of all yourself—tell you otherwise."

Jon opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. The weight of Harry's sincerity settled over him like a thick blanket. He shook his head slowly, eyes staring off into the distance. "I just don't know what to do with any of this," he muttered. "What's the right choice? Stay here with Robb and you all, protect Winterfell, protect the people... or go after this throne that's not even mine by right?" His fists clenched, frustration evident in his voice. "What if I'm the one who ends up dragging all of you into something worse?"

Harry gave a short laugh, but it was a warm, familiar sound—one that Jon had come to rely on over the years. "You're worrying about the throne again," he said, shaking his head. "Jon Snow, you're not exactly cut out for that kind of life. Robb's right—you'd last two days before tossing your crown into a fire and telling everyone to stop bowing."

Jon's lips twitched upward, his expression softening for the first time. "Yeah, well, maybe I'd use it to roast marshmallows first."

Harry smirked, his blue eyes glinting mischievously. "You? You'd probably just end up lighting the whole thing on fire in a fit of rage. And then everyone would have to deal with your temper."

Jon let out a reluctant chuckle, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Harry could see the flicker of the old Jon Snow—the one who wasn't weighed down by too many thoughts, the one who could laugh despite everything. But the laughter faded quickly, and the shadows returned to Jon's eyes.

"I didn't ask for any of this," Jon said quietly, his voice almost a whisper, as if he was talking to himself more than to Harry. "The throne, the blood, the choices. I just... I just want to know who I am. I don't even know who I'm supposed to be anymore."

Harry's gaze softened, his voice quieter now, filled with the depth of empathy he felt for Jon. "Jon, you're still the same person you've always been. The blood might change things, but it doesn't change you—the heart, the soul. You're the same Stark that's fought by Robb's side, the same man who's looked after your brothers and sisters. The throne doesn't define you, Jon. You define you."

Jon met Harry's gaze then, and for the first time, Harry saw something other than confusion. There was a flicker of relief, a moment of clarity, as if Jon had heard something he needed to hear but hadn't known how to say.

"Would you want to speak to your parents?" Harry asked, his voice steady and sincere. "I know it's a lot to take in, but maybe getting some answers would give you the clarity you need. You don't have to do it alone. I'm here for you."

---

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