JON X

The secret was a poison. For days after his discovery in the crypt, Jon walked the halls of Winterfell like a stranger, the truth a constant, burning fever in his mind. Every familiar sight was now tainted. 

He could not continue. The lie had become a physical weight, suffocating him, making every conversation a performance and every shared meal a betrayal. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. His training felt hollow, the System's notifications a distant, meaningless hum. He had to face his father—his uncle. This was not a choice or a plan. It was a necessity. The poison had to be lanced, or it would consume him whole.

He found him in the solar, the greatsword Ice resting on the table before him as he read a long scroll. The fire crackled in the hearth, but the room felt cold. Jon stood in the doorway, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, until Lord Stark looked up.

"Jon," he said, his voice weary. "What is it?"

Jon stepped into the room, closing the heavy oak door behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place seemed to seal them in, cutting them off from the rest of the world. He did not speak immediately, his gaze falling on the Valyrian steel of Ice, a sword meant for a king's justice.

"I have been studying, my lord," Jon began, his voice steady, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. "With Maester Luwin. History."

Eddard's grey eyes watched him, patient but wary. "The Maester tells me you have a gift for it."

"I learned many things," Jon continued, taking a step closer. "I learned about the end of the Rebellion. About your march south after the Trident." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "I learned the name of the tower you went to in Dorne. The one the histories are so vague about. The Tower of Joy."

He saw it then, a flicker in his uncle's eyes, a tightening of the jaw. It was the first crack in the stone wall. Jon activated The Sight. His uncle's aura was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions: a deep, paternal blue warred with flashes of sorrowful grey and a sharp, terrified red. [Intent: Grieving. Protective. Fearful.]

"It was a long time ago," Eddard said, his voice rough. "A place of sorrow."

"Sorrow, yes," Jon agreed, his voice hardening. "But why was it so important? Why were three of the Kingsguard there? Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, the Lord Commander himself. Their king was dead. Their prince was dead. The new king, Viserys, was on Dragonstone. Why were they there, guarding a lonely tower, if not to protect the last, most important piece of the Targaryen line?"

"Jon, this is not a matter for you—"

"Isn't it?" Jon interrupted, his voice rising. He could feel his control slipping, the years of quiet hurt and confusion boiling to the surface. "Isn't it a matter for me, when I was the secret they were guarding?"

He reached into his tunic and pulled out the small letter. He placed it on the desk between them, next to the greatsword. 

Eddard stared at the letter as if it were a poison, all the color draining from his face. "Where did you get that?" he whispered, his voice a choked rasp.

"From her tomb," Jon said, his own voice breaking. "From a hidden compartment. Along with this." He pulled out the folded Targaryen banner and his father's harp. He didn't show them to Eddard. He just held them. "She left them for her child. A child she loved. A child whose father was Prince Rhaegar."

He looked his uncle in the eye, the final, terrible question tearing from his throat. "Was it me? Am I his son?"

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. Eddard Stark seemed to shrink in his chair, the weight of fourteen years of lies finally crushing him. The Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, the man of iron, finally broke. A single tear traced a path down his weathered cheek.

"Yes," he said, the word a shattered whisper. "Your mother was my sister, Lyanna. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen." He looked at Jon, his eyes filled with a grief so profound it was like looking into an open grave. "Your name... the name she gave you... is Aemon Targaryen."

Aemon. The name echoed in the silent room, a name that felt both alien and intimately familiar. Jon felt a strange, dizzying sense of release, followed immediately by a fresh wave of sorrow. The truth was not a liberation; it was just a different kind of cage.

"So it's true," Jon breathed, sinking into the chair opposite his uncle. "All of it." He looked at the man who had been his father his entire life. "Why? Why the lie? Why let me live as a bastard, hated by your own wife?"

"To protect you!" Eddard's voice was suddenly fierce, his grief momentarily burned away by a protective fire. "Do you have any idea what Robert would have done if he knew? Do you remember the stories of Elia Martell's children? He called them 'dragonspawn' as their bodies lay wrapped in crimson cloaks. He was angry they hadn't killed Viserys as well. That is the man who sits on the Iron Throne. He is not the friend I grew up with; he is a king consumed by hatred. The truth of your name is not a crown, Jon. It is a death sentence."

"So what do we do?" Jon asked, his mind racing. "The truth is known now. I know it. You know it."

Eddard looked at him, his expression one of pure, heartbreaking agony. "No," he said softly. "The truth is not known. A boy knows it. And a man who will carry that secret to his grave. Nothing has changed."

"Nothing has changed?" Jon shot back, a surge of bitter anger rising in him. "Everything has changed! I am the son of the last dragon. The trueborn son, if this letter is to be believed. I am the heir to the Iron Throne!"

"You are a boy who will be hunted and killed if that truth ever leaves this room!" Eddard slammed his fist on the desk, the sound like the crack of ice. "I promised her. I promised my sister on her deathbed that I would protect you. I have lied to my wife, my king, and my own heart for fourteen years to keep that promise. I will not break it now by letting you march to your own grave."

"So what would you have me do?" Jon demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and betrayal. "Live out my life as a bastard, knowing what I am? Take the black and forget my own name? You would have me hide forever?"

"Yes!" Eddard said, his voice raw with desperation. "If it keeps you alive, yes! A thousand times, yes!" He stood, pacing the room like a caged wolf. He finally stopped and looked at Jon, his face a mask of sorrow. "I will not raise my banners for you, Jon. I will not plunge the North into a war that would see thousands dead and you hunted like an animal. I chose my side in that war. I chose Robert. I will not undo it."

The words hit Jon with the force of a physical blow. He saw the truth in his uncle's eyes. He thinks I want the throne, he realized. He thinks this is about a crown. But all Jon had ever wanted was a name that wasn't a curse, a place where he belonged. The desire to be respected, to be looked upon as more than a mistake, burned in him, a fire that had been stoked his entire life. But a king? He didn't know what he wanted. He only knew he couldn't stay.

"So that's it," Jon said, his voice flat, all the anger draining out of him, leaving a cold, empty void. "You choose him. You choose Robert."

"I choose peace," Eddard corrected, his voice breaking. "I choose my family. I choose you, and your life. I am giving you the only two choices that will keep you safe. You can stay here, as my son, Jon Snow, and this secret dies with us. Or you must leave Winterfell. But I will not help you claim a throne that will only get you killed."

Jon stood, his legs feeling unsteady. He looked at the man before him, the man he had loved and idolized his entire life. He saw the pain in his eyes, the genuine, desperate love. And he understood. He understood the impossible choice Eddard had made fourteen years ago, and the impossible choice he was making now. The resentment was still there, a bitter poison in his veins, but it was now tempered with a tragic, heartbreaking empathy. His uncle wasn't betraying him. He was trying to save him, in the only way he knew how.

"I see," Jon said, his voice barely a whisper. "I will not ask you to break your vows. To your king, or to my mother." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I will go to the Wall, as I said. I will see Uncle Benjen one last time. From there... I will go east. To Essos. And you will not look for me."

Eddard's face crumpled, the last of his lordly composure gone. "Jon..."

"It is the only way," Jon said, his voice firm now, a strange, cold calm settling over him. "I will not be the cause of another war. I will not be the reason this family is destroyed. I release you from your promise." He turned and walked to the door, his hand resting on the cold iron latch. He looked back at his uncle one last time. "You were always my father," he said. "Always."

He left the solar, closing the door on the sound of Eddard Stark finally breaking down into quiet, wracking sobs. He walked through the cold stone corridors of the only home he had ever known, but he was a stranger now. He was Aemon Targaryen, a prince with no kingdom, a dragon with no fire, a son with no father. And he knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and absolute, that he had to leave.