Chapter Text
The last thing Jon felt was the cold.
Darkness engulfed him. And he no longer felt the pain of a dozed knives piercing his flesh. There was nothing. Nothing, but everything. He felt that he was flowing – flowing in what? He didn’t know. He felt that he was on a raft, spinning in a whirlpool. Circling closer, closer to the center.
And then he felt his eyes open. Colours. So many colours – a thousand different shades and hues blinding his eyes. He tried to hear, but it was so difficult. He heard noises around him but could not make out any language. He tried, putting all his effort into making out a single word. He needed information – he needed to know. Where was he? Who was he?
“Jon,” he managed to hear a woman’s voice say. It was delicate and unbelievably soft. As if a gentle breeze might annihilate her. “His name is Jon...”
Jon! That was his name – he remembered now. He was a brother of the Night’s Watch – no, not just that. He was Lord Commander Jon Snow... But where were his black brothers? Where were they now? Where was the Wall? Nothing made sense. He strained to hear more.
“Promise me... Promise me...” Her delicate voice said. He could make out her face now; it was a woman’s.
At once it became clear to Jon that he was no longer at the Wall. He remembered now – his fellow brothers had killed him. He had failed. He had failed to prepare the North for the coming night - the Night that will end all nights to come. He barely had any time before his sworn brothers betrayed him... And now, this moment must be part of one long death dream; his life flashing before his eyes before he finally fades into his final sleep, and it all starts with this one face. This one woman. Was this his mother? He could see her eyes.
Kind, Jon thought. Kind eyes. I was right... I always knew her eyes were kind.
“Look at him, brother...” She was smiling ecstatically through the tears that streamed down her face. “...How wonderful,” she said, “how beautiful...” The tenderness in her smile was still growing. “Promise me...” He heard her say. “Oh, promise me...”
She’s dying, Jon realized. Instinctually, he wanted to shout for help, but all that came out was a gurgle and a childish cry. Whose voice was this?
Before he could see more, a great exhaustion suddenly washed over him. The brief crack of light which he had glimpsed between the two eternities of darkness he found himself falling in between. But now, he viewed this new abyss with far more calm than the one which he had just awoken from.
A sister dead. A house dishonoured.
Jonnel Stark had been drinking last night. The stresses of governance weighed heavy on him these days, just as it did every day. He was left to himself to deal with the trials of the past year. His elder sisters had been married off years ago. Brandon was being fostered with House Karstark. Barth was off in Essos, doing who knows what. Edric was sent to deal with some dispute amongst the Mountain Clans; he wouldn’t understand anyway – Lyanna was never as close with him as she was with Jonnel. And Rickon...
Where the hell was Rickon? While his father wasted away on his death bed and his younger brother ruled Winterfell by his own? No – Rickon preferred the company of his Targaryen princeling rather than his own blood family. Where was he when the cousin of that same Targaryen prince raped his sister? Did he know that he was partially to blame – for allowing that animal into the halls of their home? Her rapist? Her murderer?
A sister dead. A house dishonoured.
A daughter of House Stark, raped in her own home. A daughter of House Stark – dead; killed by the product of her rape. Jonnel's father – The Old Wolf, the Lord of Winterfell - on his deathbed, soon to follow his daughter. How many more tragedies could House Stark possibly bear?
A sister dead. A house dishonoured.
Sleeplessness wore heavily on Jonnel these nights. Every night. He could not stop hearing poor Lyanna’s screams in his ears. When he closed his eyes, he could only see her pale face, tears streaking down her eyes, life leaving her body as the strain of her birth tore it apart.
A sister dead. A house dishonoured.
His figure skulked through the halls of Winterfell, empty of servants and guardsmen. It was the hour of the nightingale. In a few hours it would be dawn. Another night where rest has escaped him. How many more will he have to bear? Many more. Infinitely more. He can never rest while his sister’s rapist – her killer – still breathes.
A sister dead. A house dishonoured.
Rape. That fucking rapist. Aegon Targaryen. Aegon the Rapist. If only Jonnel could get his hands on that bastard...
A sister dead. A house dishonoured.
He approached the doors to the chambers where the baby’s cradle laid. The boy who killed Lyanna.
Oh, Lyanna. Poor, sweet Lyanna. He remembered her laugh, her smile. He remembered chasing her through these same halls as they both laughed and laughed. He remembered packing snow in the palms of his hands until they were hard and dense, and he remembered her rage and cries when they hit their mark. He remembered her cries...
A sister dead. A house dishonoured.
The doors creaked as Jonnel pushed them open.
Rape. The rapist, Aegon Targaryen. A child of rape. The rapist’s baby. Raped her. He raped her. Rape-child. Rape.
The blade of his knife hissed as he unsheathed it from its leather. There was a creak with each step he took, his weight straining the wooden floor. He was looking over the boy, now. He saw him, tufts of silver already growing out of his round head. He even looked like that rapist.
The squeak of the door woke Jon from his slumber. He had begun to deduce what was truly happening, and the peculiarity of his situation had begun to settle on his mind. He was born anew. This life he had now was no longer the one which he once knew.
As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he saw the man looming over him, his body casting a threatening shadow over Jon. An acute stress surged through Jon’s mind.
By the Gods. Jon had never seen someone so angry. He had never seen so much wrath on one man’s face. Look at him. Look at his eyes. There’s something in them. He looks insane. He looks like he's going to -
The knife gave a loud thump as it fell on the ground. His hands were shaking as Jonnel lifted them to his face. He felt the bitter tears streaming down his cheeks. They tasted salty on his lips.
He had to remove his palms from his face as he nearly collapsed on the cradle before him. He looked again at the child laying before him. He felt the boy’s gaze piercing through to his soul.
Grey eyes, Jonnel thought. Those are Lyanna’s eyes. He looks like her.
He choked, a cry escaping his throat. His shoulders quaked as his arms reached out to lift the boy. To lift Jon – he remembered what Lyanna named him; she told him he was named after him.
Jon felt heavy in his arms. He would grow up to be a strong man, Jonnel knew, as he pulled him into his chest. He held the boy, his weight shifting from one foot to the other as he rhythmically rocked his body. The serenity of his movements seemed incongruent with the string of cries and weeps leaving his lips. Dignity urged him to pull himself together, to cease this farce – but the cries came all the same.
Soon, the man’s cries were joined by the smallish cries of the boy. They cried together, their voices harmonizing into one common mourning.
Jonnel missed his sister. He missed Lyanna.