[Look To The Stars] Chapter 15: The Burning Confession (Patreon)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM and George Lucas/Disney. I have no ownership.

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Year 298 AC/7 ABY

Winterfell, The North

Jon folded another tunic into his pack, the worn leather creaking beneath his fingers. Two days. In two days, he'd leave Winterfell for the first time in his life. The thought sent a strange thrill through him as part excitement, part terror, like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the wind tug at your cloak.

Ghost lifted his head from where he lay by the hearth, red eyes tracking toward the door moments before the knock came.

"Come," Jon called, already knowing who it would be. He could sense Robb's presence through the Force now, a warm steadiness that reminded him of summer afternoons in the godswood.

His brother—half-brother, that voice in his head corrected, the one that sounded too much like Lady Stark—entered and closed the door behind him. Robb's face held that particular expression he wore when wrestling with lordly matters, all furrowed brow and pressed lips.

"Packing already?" Robb moved to the window, gazing out at the yard where men still trained despite the late hour. "You've two days yet."

"Better to be ready." Jon rolled another shirt, trying to ignore how his hands wanted to shake. "Master Luke says the journey will take near a month, weather permitting."

"Master Luke." Robb turned from the window, and Jon caught the flicker of something…jealousy? Fear? "Are you happy to be leaving?" The question hung between them, deceptively simple on its surface.

Jon's fingers found a loose thread on the shirt he held, worrying at it. He knew what Robb was really asking, are you trying to run from us, from me? The weight of unspoken words pressed against his throat.

"It's not about being happy." The thread snapped between his fingers. "It's about serving House Stark the only way I can."

Robb's jaw tightened. "You don't have to prove anything. You'll always have a place here, you know that."

"Do I?" The words came out sharper than intended, edged with years of sideways glances and cleared throats. "What place is that, exactly? The bastard's table at feasts? The corner of the training yard where highborn guests won't have to see me?"

Ghost's ears flattened against his skull. The direwolf could sense the sudden tension crackling through the Force like frost spreading across glass.

Robb's face went still, a particular stillness that meant he'd stepped too close to an old wound. His fingers drummed once against his thigh before he caught himself, straightening from the bed.

"The servants are already whispering, you know." His voice carried forced lightness now, steering them away from dangerous grounds. "About what happeneds in the wolfswood. About that day near the farm…"

Jon's hands stilled on the pack. They'd been so careful, or so they'd thought. But when unexplainable things happen and your lords family become more secretive...

"What are they saying?"

"That we moved like water. That our swords found every gap in their guard as if the gods themselves guided our hands." Robb sat heavily on Jon's bed, making the ropes creak. "Hullen's son swears he saw you dodge an axe before the wildling even swung it."

Because I did. Jon had felt the killing intent through the Force, seen the ghost-image of where the blade would be.

"It's only a matter of time before the rest of the North knows," Robb continued. "Father can command silence all he likes, but servants talk. Traders talk. Soon enough, some maester will be writing to the Citadel about boys who fight like the warriors of old."

"The warriors of old didn't have the Force." Jon resumed his packing, needing something to do with his hands. "They didn't feel the world the way we do now. At least… I don't think they did."

"No, they had other things. Magic, some say. Dragons." Robb's voice dropped. "The things that wildling woman spoke of—the dead walking, the Others returning. Do you think it's real?"

Jon thought of Master Luke's certainty, of the darkness he sometimes felt pressing against the edges of his awareness when he meditated too deeply. "Father saw a wight at Castle Black. Saw it rise with blue eyes and try to kill Lord Commander Mormont."

"Gods." Robb scrubbed a hand through his auburn hair. "And we're supposed to fight that? With floating stones and feelings?"

"Then we'd better learn to kill the dead," Jon said, his mouth quirking into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Though I doubt Master Luke covered that in your Djem So training."

The words came out darker than he'd intended, gallows humor sharp enough to cut. It was the kind of jest that would have earned him one of Father's stern looks, but Robb only huffed a laugh that held no real mirth.

Jon moved to sit beside his brother. "Master Luke says the Force is just the beginning. That there are techniques, knowledge and weapons that can change any tide."

"Weapons like that green blade of his?"

"Perhaps. He hasn't said—"

The door burst open with such violence that both boys leaped to their feet, hands reaching for swords that weren't there. Jon was so engrossed in their conversation that he hadn't realize someone approached. Arya stood in the doorway, her thin face flushed with fury, grey eyes blazing like storm clouds.

"You're LEAVING?" She slammed the door behind her with enough force to rattle the weapons on Jon's wall. "You're leaving and you weren't even going to TELL me?"

Robb's lips twitched into a grin. "Well, I'll leave you to this." He slipped past their sister with the practiced ease of someone who'd weathered many of Arya's storms. "Good luck, brother."

Craven, Jon thought, watching Robb flee. But there was no real heat in it. He'd have done the same if their positions were reversed.

"Arya—"

"Don't!" She stalked into the room, and Jon noticed she wore breeches and a tunic instead of a dress, her hair wild from what looked like climbing. "I heard Robb talking to Theon. You're going south with Master Luke. To Oldtown."

"Father gave Master Luke his permission."

"To take YOU! Not me!" Her voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly she looked less like a wolf pup baring its teeth and more like what she was—a nine-year-old girl about to lose her favorite brother. "Why can't I come? I'm better at the Force than Sansa! I lifted three stones yesterday, THREE!"

Jon's heart clenched. He moved toward her, but she backed away, arms crossed tight over her chest.

"Arya, listen—"

"No! You listen!" Tears gathered in her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. "You said we'd always be together. You said I could be your sworn sword when I was older. You PROMISED!"

"I did." Jon kept his voice calm, drawing on the emotional control Master Luke had taught him. "And I meant it. But this isn't about what I want."

"Then what is it about?"

Jon sat on his bed, bringing himself closer to her height. "The Citadel doesn't allow women within its walls. Not to study, not even to visit the libraries. If Master Luke tried to bring you, they'd bar the gates."

"That's stupid!"

"Yes, it is." Jon allowed himself a small smile. "But it's also the truth. Even if I wanted to take you—and I do, little sister, more than you know—I couldn't."

Arya's lower lip trembled. "It's not fair."

"No. It's not." Jon opened his arms, and after a moment's hesitation, she crashed into him, burying her face against his chest. He held her tight, feeling her small frame shake with suppressed sobs.

"I hate being a girl sometimes," she mumbled against his tunic.

"I know." He stroked her tangled hair. "But you know what? I have something that might help."

She pulled back, wiping her nose on her sleeve in a way that would have made Septa Mordane faint. "What?"

Jon moved to his chest, lifting the lid to reveal what lay wrapped in oilcloth at the bottom. "I was going to give this to you before I left, but perhaps now is better."

He drew out the bundle, feeling the weight of it, the rightness. Mikken had looked at him strangely when he'd commissioned it, but the smith had done fine work. Jon unwrapped the cloth to reveal a blade unlike any in Winterfell's armory.

"A sword?" Arya's eyes went wide.

"Not just any sword." Jon held it out to her. "Feel the weight."

She took it reverently, her small hands wrapping around the leather-wrapped hilt. The blade was thin, perfectly balanced for someone of her size and build. Not a hacking weapon like the longswords most knights carried, but something elegant. Deadly.

"It's perfect," she breathed.

"It's called Needle."

"Needle?" She looked up at him, and he was glad to see wonder replacing tears.

"I know how much you hate your sewing lessons." He grinned. "So I thought you should have a different sort of needle. One that's actually useful."

She gave a practice thrust, and Jon was pleased to see she instinctively fell into the stance Master Luke had shown them. "Can you teach me? Before you go?"

"Tomorrow," he promised. "First lesson—stick them with the pointy end."

Arya laughed, the sound bright as silver bells. "I think I can remember that."

She hugged him again, Needle careful held away from them both. "I still wish I could come."

"I know. But Arya, while I'm gone, you need to keep practicing. The Force, your footwork, everything Master Luke taught us. Robb will help, but you're naturally better at… stealth. Better than any of us so you will have work on it yourself."

"Better than you?"

"Different than me." Jon touched her shoulder. "I think... I think we all have different gifts. Different ways the Force moves through us. Yours is speed, precision. Like Needle—small but perfectly placed."

She nodded solemnly, then her face split into a fierce grin. "When you come back, I'll be so good you won't be able to touch me."

"I don't doubt it."

She left clutching Needle to her chest like a precious treasure, and Jon returned to his packing with a lighter heart. He'd done one thing right, at least.

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The godswood was quiet save for the rustle of leaves and Rickon's delighted shrieks as he chased Shaggydog between the trees. Jon nodded to Desmond and Hal at the entrance, men who'd served House Stark since before Jon was born. They let him pass without question, though Jon caught the way Hal's eyes lingered on him.

The servants are already whispering.

He found Bran sitting cross-legged before the heart tree, eyes closed in meditation. Or trying to meditate with his face scrunched with concentration every time Rickon's laughter rang out. Summer lay beside him, the direwolf's golden eyes tracking his littermate's wild chase through the undergrowth.

"You're trying too hard," Jon said softly.

Bran's eyes snapped open. "Jon! I didn't hear you coming."

"That's because you were trying to force it. The Force isn't something you grab hold of it's something you…let flow through you." Jon settled beside his little brother. "Like water through your fingers. The harder you squeeze, the less you hold."

"Master Luke makes it look so easy."

"He's been doing it far longer than we have." Jon watched Rickon tumble into a pile of leaves, Shaggydog pouncing after him. Jon thought of Ghost, probably still lying by his hearth, content to wait. Their connection had been instant but quiet, like recognizing a part of himself he hadn't known was missing.

Bran's words tumbled out in a rush, his usual composure cracking. "I saw something last night. A dream, but... not a dream. There was this crow with three eyes, and it kept calling to me, telling me to fly north. I was in Summer's body, running through the snow, and the crow wouldn't stop talking—"

"Slow down." Jon put a hand on Bran's shoulder. The boy's skin felt clammy even through his tunic. "Start from the beginning."

"I was Summer." Bran's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Really was him, not just watching. I could smell everything—pine sap, old bones under the snow, something else that made my hackles rise. The crow kept circling overhead, cawing about chains and flying and how I needed to come north before it was too late."

"Then what happened?" Jon kept his voice steady, though a sense of unsettlement crawled up his spine. Master Luke had mentioned Force visions could take strange forms.

"The crow landed on a branch right in front of me, Summer, I mean. Its third eye opened and I saw... things. The Wall crumbling. Dragons wheeling through ash-dark skies. A figure in armor made of ice." Bran's hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. "It said I had to learn to fly or everyone would burn. But then—"

He stopped, color draining from his face.

"Then?"

"A dragon came out of nowhere. Massive, emerald green, with a few bronze scales and glowing orange eyes. It just... the crow didn't even have time to scream. One moment it was there, the next—" Bran made a sharp gesture with his hands. "Gone. Down the dragon's throat."

The godswood seemed to hold its breath. Even Shaggydog had stopped his prowling to stare at them with those unsettling green eyes.

"Did the dragon say anything?" Jon asked carefully.

"No. It just looked at me, at Summer, and I woke up." Bran searched Jon's face. "What does it mean? Master Luke says the Force doesn't lie, but this felt... wrong. Like two different futures fighting each other."

Jon's mind raced. Three-eyed crows, dragons, visions of the Wall falling. All of it sounded like one of Old Nan's stories, except Bran's terror was real enough to taste.

"Jon!" Rickon had noticed him, abandoning his game to race over. The youngest Stark crashed into Jon's legs, all wild hair and bright eyes. "Play with me!"

"Rickon, Jon's talking to me!" Bran started.

"It's alright." Jon scooped Rickon up, settling him on his lap. The boy was heavier than he remembered. Growing so fast. "Actually, I need to talk to both of you."

"Is it about Luke?" Rickon's voice went shrill. "He is nice!"

"Partly," Jon admitted. "But also, I'm going away for a while."

"No!" Rickon twisted in his arms, small face crumpling. "You can't go!"

"I'm coming back," Jon said firmly. "I swear it by the old gods and the new. Master Luke and I are just going to Oldtown to learn things. Important things that might help us fight…a coming threat."

"How long?" Bran asked.

"Two months, maybe three."

"That's forever!" Rickon wailed.

"It's not forever." Jon stood, lifting Rickon with him. The boy wrapped his arms around Jon's neck, holding tight. "And you know what? While I'm gone, you get to help Bran with his meditation. You're very good at being quiet when you want to be."

"I am?"

"Remember when you snuck those lemon cakes from the kitchen? Neither Gage nor Turnip heard you."

Rickon giggled despite himself. "Shaggy helped."

"Then Shaggy can help with meditation too." Jon spun in a circle, making Rickon shriek with laughter. "The Force likes wolves, I think."

He set Rickon down, ruffling his hair. The boy immediately ran back to Shaggydog, though he kept glancing back as if to make sure Jon hadn't vanished.

"You'll really come back?" Bran asked quietly.

"I will." Jon squeezed his shoulder. "And Bran? While I'm gone, you and Arya are the oldest ones training. Robb has his lordly duties, so it's your and Arya's responsibility to help Sansa. Guide her however you can."

Bran straightened, and for a moment Jon saw the man he might become. "I will."

The sound of footsteps made them all turn. Lord Stark emerged from between the trees, his face grave. Jon's stomach clenched. That was Father's cold lord's face, the one he wore for difficult duties.

"Bran, Rickon," Father said. "Your mother is looking for you. She has honey cakes in the kitchen."

"Cakes!" Rickon needed no further encouragement, racing off with Shaggydog at his heels.

Bran hesitated, looking between Jon and their father. Something passed over his face—understanding, perhaps, or worry.

"Go on," Father said gently. "Summer too."

Bran stood slowly, brushing dirt from his breeches. He gave Jon one last look before following Rickon's path. Summer padded after him, tail low.

Silence settled over the godswood. Jon could hear his heart beating, loud as a war drum. Father never sought him out alone unless...

"I've called a meeting of the northern lords," Father said finally. "They'll arrive within the moon's turn."

"About the threat beyond the Wall?"

"Aye." Father moved to the heart tree, placing a hand on the bone-white bark. "Though how I'll convince them without proof..."

"You saw the wight yourself."

"I did. But Greatjon was drunk, and the others..." Father shook his head. "They'll think it a tale. Or madness brought on by grief for Sansa's attack. The North remembers the Long Night, but as legend, not threat."

Jon wanted to offer comfort, but the words died in his throat. Father hadn't come here to discuss the lords.

"That's not why you're here," Jon said.

Father turned from the tree, and Jon saw something in his eyes he'd never seen before. Fear. Eddard Stark, who'd fought in two wars, who'd held the line at the Tower of Joy, who'd executed men without flinching—was afraid.

"No," Father said quietly. "It's not."

The silence stretched between them like a bowstring. Jon found himself holding his breath.

"It's about my mother."

Father flinched as if struck. "Yes."

All the questions Jon had swallowed over the years rose up at once, threatening to choke him. But he forced them down, waiting. If Father was finally ready to speak, Jon wouldn't ruin it with demands.

"I should have told you years ago," Father began. "But I... I made a promise. A sacred promise. And I've broken so many vows in my life, Jon. This one, I thought I could keep."

"Until now."

"Until now." Father's shoulders sagged. "Master Luke was right. You deserve the truth before you leave. In case..."

In case I don't see him again. The unspoken words hung between them.

Father gestured to a moss-covered stone. "Sit. This... this will not be easy. For either of us."

Jon sat, his mouth dry as old bones. Father remained standing, staring at the heart tree as if it might offer absolution.

"Sixteen years ago, I rode south with Robert to war. You know this."

Jon nodded.

"What you don't know is how that war ended. Not truly." Father's voice had gone distant, lost in memory. "Robert had won his throne, but my sister... Lyanna... she was still missing. Still in the hands of Rhaegar Targaryen."

The name sent a strange shiver through Jon. He'd heard it before, of course—the Dragon Prince who'd stolen Lyanna Stark and started a war. But hearing Father speak it now, here...

"I found her," Father continued. "At a place called the Tower of Joy, in the red mountains of Dorne. Three of the Kingsguard stood vigil there. The greatest knights of the realm, guarding... guarding..."

Father's voice broke. Jon had never heard such pain in it.

"She was dying when I reached her. Fever from childbed. Blood... so much blood." Father closed his eyes. "She grabbed my hand, made me swear. Made me promise."

The world seemed to tilt. Jon gripped the stone beneath him, feeling as if he might fall into the sky.

"My mother..." The words came out strangled. "My mother was Lyanna Stark?"

Father turned at last, and tears ran down his cheeks. Jon had never seen his father weep.

"Yes."

"And my father..."

"Rhaegar Targaryen."

The name took all the breath away from Jon. He stood abruptly, needing to move, needing to be anywhere but here. Targaryen. He was a Targaryen. The blood of dragons ran in his veins and not the blood of some common woman Father had bedded in the war.

"You lied." He felt the rage and anger bubbling up inside. "All these years, you lied."

"To protect you." Father stepped forward, but Jon backed away. "Robert would have killed you Jon. Smashed your head against a wall like he did Rhaegar's other children. You were an infant, innocent of any crime save your birth."

"So you made me a bastard instead." Anger rose in Jon like a tide, and with it came something else. A darkness that whispered of power, of vengeance, of taking what was denied. The Force around him trembled, leaves rustling without wind.

"I had to protect you!" Father's own anger flared. "I claimed you as my blood, raised you as my son—"

"As your BASTARD!" Jon roared. The word echoed through the godswood, sending birds fleeing from the trees. The leaves at Jon's feet blackened first, edges curling like dying moths. Then flame—actual flame—licked up from the frost-brittle grass, racing outward in a widening circle. The acrid stench of burning vegetation filled the godswood as orange tongues consumed everything within arm's reach of where Jon stood.

Father stumbled backward, the firelight carved deep shadows into his face, making him look ancient, haunted. A branch overhead caught fire with a sharp crack, raining embers between them.

"Jon!" Father's voice cracked like he was calling to a stranger.

The heat pressed against Jon's skin, but it didn't burn. It felt like coming home, like something sleeping in his blood had finally awakened. The Force sang with it, dark and sweet and terrible. Through the smoke, he saw his father's eyes—wide, white-rimmed with a fear Jon had never seen there before.

Not fear of the fire.

Fear of him.

"The truth would have seen you dead!"

"And the lie saw me die a thousand small deaths!" Jon's hands clenched into fists. He could feel the Force responding to his rage, begging to be used. It would be so easy to give in, to show Father what his lies had cost...

No. Master Luke's teachings rose through the anger. This is the dark side. This is the test.

Jon forced himself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Feel the anger, acknowledge it, but don't let it control. He was more than his rage.

"Would you have told me?" The question came out quiet, drained. "If Master Luke hadn't come, if the threat beyond the Wall hadn't appeared—would you have ever told me?"

Father's silence was answer enough.

Jon laughed, bitter as northern wind. "Of course not. Honorable Eddard Stark, keeping his word unto death. Even if it meant I lived my whole life believing a lie."

"Jon—"

"What else?" Jon cut him off. "If you're finally telling truth, tell it all."

Father aged ten years in that moment. "She... she spoke of you before the end. Said you had more of the dragon than the wolf in you, could see it in your eyes. Said the realm would need you one day. A prophecy the Prince believed in."

Each word was a knife between Jon's ribs. His mother had known him, had held him, but all this for a prophecy?

"She named you," Father continued. "Not Jon. That was... that was my choice. To hide you better."

"Wh—what did she call me?"

Father took a long breath. "Daemon. She named you Daemon, after Daemon Targaryen. She always thought he was misunderstood, that history had wronged him."

Daemon. The name rang through Jon like a bell. His true name, given by his mother as she lay dying. Daemon…

"Were they married?" The question mattered, though Jon couldn't say why. "My mother and... and Prince Rhaegar?"

"I don't know." Father spread his hands helplessly. "Lyanna said nothing of it, and the Kingsguard died before I could ask. There were no septons present, no witnesses save the dead."

"So I'm still a bastard." Jon—Daemon—laughed again. "Just a royal one now. How wonderful."

"You're my son," Father said fiercely. "Blood or no, you're my son. I raised you and I loved you, ever since I've lost my sister."

"..."

"You should tell the family."

Father went very still. "What?"

"Lady Stark. Robb. Maybe all of them." Jon turned toward the entrance. "They deserve the truth too. Especially Lady Stark—all these years hating me for a sin you never committed."

"Jon, wait—"

But Jon was already walking, needing distance between himself and the man he'd called father for sixteen years. The man who'd lied with every breath, every look, every moment of Jon's life.

"Jon!"

He stopped at the edge of the trees but didn't turn. "I need... I need time. To think. To understand what this means."

"We'll talk more before you leave—"

"Will we?" Jon did turn then, meeting those grey eyes—Stark eyes, not mine—one last time. "Or will you find new reasons for silence? New promises to keep?"

He left before Father could answer, moving through the godswoods like a ghost. The guards scattered from his path, and Jon realized the Force was rolling off him in waves, barely controlled.

Targaryen. The word echoed with each heartbeat. Fire and blood.

He'd was raised to believe he was a wolf, even if a bastard wolf. By a the cruel twists of fate, he was a dragon, and dragons were meant to burn.