Oooookay, so I'm reaaaally sorry about the huge delay for this chapter, but in return, I present the longest chapter of this fic (at the moment, anyway). I know I said Theon was going to be next, but the fact is, I just couldn't do it. Part of the reason this took so long to come out is that I wasted a week trying (and failing) to make the Theon chapter work. The simple fact is that I couldn't. I had the ideas and the plot planned out, I knew what I wanted to happen, I just couldn't get into Theon's head. I couldn't write from his POV, probably because I dislike him so much, especially compared to Jon and Dany and the others. Don't worry though, his story will be told eventually, just not in the way I originally intended. But anyway, after I decided Theon just wasn't going to work, it was midterm season and I got swamped with schoolwork. I finally got this cranked out, though, and hopefully it won't be as long before I get the next one done. Sorry again, and if you guys are sticking with this story than you're amazing.

Also, if you understand the Ornn reference, then you're a nerd like me :p

Credit once again goes to my beta, kuhtuh21, and her limitless patience with me this past month lol

JON IV

Leaving Daenerys to speak with Sam alone, Jon and Arya began the walk from his chambers out to the castle forge. As they went, Arya broached the companionable silence.

"I can see why you like her," she said casually, though Jon could tell it was feigned; there was much more meaning behind her attitude than she wanted to reveal. "Fierce, smart, beautiful… and, of course, completely stubborn and headstrong, just like yourself."

Without looking at her, he cocked an eyebrow in mild amusement and didn't answer.

"She asked me to show her how to use a sword, you know."

Jon turned his head sharply. "I did not know."

She eyed him curiously. "You sound upset," she noted.

"Should I not be? She has her dragons; I would rather she not involve herself so closely in the battle that she would need to use a sword."

"I'm sure she would rather that happen as well. But the dragons aren't invincible, Jon. You know that as well as anyone. What happens if, gods forbid, they're taken down? What if she finds herself on the ground, surrounded by enemies? Would you rather she be unarmed and helpless, or armed with a sword and the skill to use it?"

Jon's heart climbed into his throat. Arya spoke truly; he didn't want to see Daenerys on land during the battle, but if the worst came to pass and she ended up there anyway, it would be prudent that she be capable of defending herself.

"Fine," he conceded, carefully stepping down a set of snow-slicked steps. He sighed. "It's not as if I'm foolish enough to believe I could stop her from learning, anyway."

Arya grinned wryly. "Stubborn and headstrong, remember?" Jon rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched as well. Arya's voice softened as she continued. "I understand your hesitancy; I know you just want to try to shield her, though from what I'm not exactly sure. But you can't protect everyone forever, Jon. And I may not know her very well, but I can tell already that she wouldn't want you to try to shelter her like that."

Once again, Jon had to admit that she was right. He had already had to accept the drastic change in the sister beside him, the sister who was rumored to be just as skilled with a blade as him. He was worried what kind of effect learning to fight might have on Daenerys, and he wanted to protect her from it.

The more he thought about it, the more foolish he realized it was. It wasn't as if she hadn't ever killed a man before.

Ordering a man's death or scouring him with dragonfire on the battlefield is not the same as wielding the blade with your own hand, a voice inside him whispered. He pointedly ignored it.

He sighed again. "I know," he admitted. "That doesn't make it any easier."

Arya's face softened, and she bumped his shoulder affectionately. "It's not as if I'm going to hurt her. I'll be the best instructor you've ever seen."

He smiled at her. "I'm sure you will. But gods help you if she suspects you're going easy on her. I doubt even I'd be able to save you from her wrath."

Arya laughed in response.

After a few more minutes traversed in silence, the two of them finally reached the castle's forge. However, when they arrived, they found but one lone smith with a small fire burning, hammering on a bent strip of metal.

The man looked up as they approached, his eyes widening comically when he realized their identities. He bowed respectfully. "Your Grace, my Lady," he said, voice carrying a hint of awe.

Jon frowned. "Good man, where are the rest of the smiths? I was made to understand that a large force of metalworkers had been assembled to meet the demand of the dragonglass weapons we have commissioned."

"They have, Your Grace," the man confirmed. "And due to the space constraints of this forge, the stocky man with blue eyes and black hair – Gendry, I think he said his name was – set up a large pavilion outside the castle walls to house a larger forge."

Jon nodded in understanding. "I see. Thank you for your assistance…?" He trailed off, prompting the man for his name.

The man bowed again. "Ornn, if it please Your Grace."

"Thank you, Ornn. I am grateful for your information. If you should require any more materials for your work, you need only ask."

He and Arya departed the nearly empty forge and made their way across the courtyard to the front gate. The snow came halfway up their shins, slowing their steps and permeating a chill through their leathers.

Miraculously, it hadn't snowed in several days, but winter was heavy in the air around them. Jon knew it would only be a matter of time before the snows came again. He worried that when the next storm came, it would last long enough to consume the North.

It didn't take them long to locate the forge pavilion Gendry had apparently set up: the thick column of smoke rising into the air was a telltale giveaway.

As they got closer, Jon realized that the hastily-constructed stone building was much larger than it had originally appeared. It was a square several dozen yards in length, the walls only a foot taller than the height of a man. Chimneys to funnel the smoke rose from the walls every few feet, extending above the level of the ceiling. There was no door; instead, one side of the forge was entirely open to the elements.

Considering the amount of time they'd had to build it, Jon thought it was a rather impressive structure.

Men swarmed around the forge like insects. There were dozens of them, mostly Northmen, lugging around huge armfuls of dragonglass or helping with the actual forging of the weapons. Jon cast his eyes around the chaos, searching for Gendry.

Arya tapped him on the shoulder and directed his gaze towards the back of the forge. Gendry was bent over an anvil, hammer in hand, carefully striking a piece of dragonglass with the kind of care born from countless hours of experience.

"Gendry," Arya tried to call above the myriad of voices, but the black-haired man didn't seem to hear them. She rolled her eyes and stalked forward, Jon following behind, his eyebrows raised in slight amusement at his sister's frustration.

Gendry didn't even raise his eyes from his work until Arya punched him lightly on the shoulder. He jumped, more startled than hurt, and then realized who had come to see him.

"Your Grace," he acknowledged, surprised. "Arya."

"Hello, Gendry," she said.

"Jon, please, Gendry," said Jon. "I know you have some kind of… shared history with my sister, and although I admit I don't know much of the exact nature of your relationship, I can see that you care for each other on some level. You don't need to call me 'Your Grace.'"

Gendry blinked, then nodded hesitatingly. "Very well… Jon."

Arya appeared uneasy after Jon's words, as if she didn't know the "exact nature" of their relationship either. Jon could seem some kind affection between them, but it was certainly muddled. He thought it would probably be best to let them work that out on their own.

Deciding not to waste any more time, he asked Gendry, "What progress have you been able to make concerning the dragonglass weapons?"

The young smith scratched his scruffy beard. "Well, it's a strange material, not like anything I've ever worked with. But we've come up with a process that seems to be doing well so far. We've already made a few thousand assorted swords or daggers and such."

Jon considered for a moment. "We're going to need spears and short swords as well, for the Unsullied. And Dothraki… arakhs, I think they're called."

Gendry frowned. "What's an arakh?"

"It's a sort of curved sword or scimitar; the Dothraki prefer them because they're very effective on horseback. I can have Ser Jorah find one that you can use as a model to craft more."

"Aye, alright. Is there anything else?"

Arya, who had been silent up to now, spoke up at that moment. "That's perfectly fine for most of the soldiers, but what about those of us with weapons that we've grown… ahh, attached to?" As she finished, she tapped Needle's hilt affectionately, and Jon couldn't keep the small smile from his face at the memory of the day he'd given her the blade. "From what I understand, regular steel can't harm the dead."

Gendry frowned again. He couldn't seem to come up with any ideas.

"Would it be possible to melt down the dragonglass to a level that would allow it to be mixed with regular steel?" Jon suggested.

"Hmm…" Gendry mused. "Possibly. But there's a big difference between heating the dragonglass to make it malleable enough to form into weapons and melting it down entirely. I'm not sure any of our forges can produce that kind of heat."

A sudden thought occurred to Jon, and he smiled slowly. "I might be able to help with that. I'll be back shortly; in the meantime, find a steel sword and melt it down in preparation."

Gendry nodded, and Arya asked, "Where are you going?"

"You'll see." As Jon walked out of the forge, he muttered to himself, "I suppose it's a good thing the forge was moved outside."

It was indeed fortunate, especially given the makeshift forge's location on the edge of the camp rather than the center. It would make things far easier, given what he had in mind.

Still extremely new to the idea of a bond with a dragon, Jon tried to focus on… whatever it was he'd felt when he first rode Rhaegal. He tentatively reached out to the dragon, trying to give him the impression that Jon needed his help.

Within a few minutes, he heard the beat of giant wings reverberate through the air. The dark shape of Rhaegal materialized in the center of the thick grey clouds, before he dove down towards the camp. His green-and-bronze scales were coated in a thin layer of moisture, and as he flew, the rush of air dislodged the water from his body, showering the ground below him. The falling particles of liquid shimmered in the fading evening light reflected in his scales.

The sight took Jon's breath away.

Rhaegal landed a few yards away from him. Jon approached him, and the dragon lowered his head level with Jon's. "Hello, my friend," he said softly, laying a hand on his snout. Rhaegal hummed. "I need your help with something."

With the dragon now at his side, Jon returned to the forge. Gendry and Arya, who were engaged in heated conversation, broke off and looked at him in astonishment. "You said you didn't think any forge could produce the heat you need to fully melt down the dragonglass," Jon explained, a bit of a self-satisfied half-smile inching his lips upward. "I think a dragon should be suitable."

Gendry swallowed. "I… I would imagine so, Your Grace," he said, his nervousness making him revert to the use of Jon's title.

Once Jon was able to allay the man's trepidation, Gendry carefully balanced a plate of dragonglass on top of a stone container. He set it down in front of Rhaegal, then hurriedly skirted away from the menacing dragon.

At Jon's calm, soothing entreaty, Rhaegal opened his maw and breathed a controlled jet of fire steadily onto the obsidian. They watched as it slowly began to turn into a liquid form, slopping down into the stone basin. When it was done, Rhaegal closed his mouth and snorted in satisfaction.

Jon and Arya quickly moved forward with Gendry and helped him lift the stone container, carrying it back into the center of the forge. As Jon had instructed, Gendry had already prepared a vat of molten steel for them to mix with the newly-melted dragonglass.

They set the basin down on the ground and strode over to the stone table in which Gendry had carved a mold in the shape of a long, straight bar. He poured a small amount of liquid steel into the mold, then added some of the molten dragonglass.

As he worked, Gendry explained the process he was going to use to craft the first test sword. "Most swords are only forged from one material," he told them. "All you have to do is essentially just reshape a pre-crafted bar of the desired metal… and after, it must be hardened and tempered, of course. A sword made from two separate metals is more rare, and more difficult. It adds another step."

Finished pouring the two liquids into the mold, he grabbed a stone rod and began to slowly stir the mixture, careful to keep it from overflowing the long, skinny groove. "Before you can shape the blade, you need it to be in the standard bar shape. You have to fully melt down both metals, blend them together as well as you can, then allow the mixture to cool slowly, so it will be soft. Once that's done, you can start the process where you would with any normal steel sword."

Jon watched the smith's eyes light up as he talked about his craft, and he could tell that Gendry knew what he was doing. He was extremely grateful to Davos that he had found the man and recruited him.

After Gendry had slowly mixed the molten metals for several minutes, he frowned. "That's odd…" he said.

"What?" asked Arya. "What is it?"

"Well, back in King's Landing, I used to be apprenticed to a smith named Tobho Mott. He was one of the only people left in the world who knew how to rework Valyrian steel. We didn't get many customers who had any for him to work with, but there were a few times when some rich folks came in and I helped him reforge trinkets of Valyrian steel into small knives or even pieces of cutlery." He gestured towards the stone mold in front of him. "When we'd melt down the Valyrian steel, this is almost exactly what it would look like."

Jon froze. The implications of those words... was it possible? Surely they couldn't have stumbled upon one of the greatest lost secrets of their millennium… by accident?

The significance of Gendry's statement wasn't lost on Arya either. "Are you telling me…" She swallowed. "Do you mean to say that we've just discovered the formula for Valyrian steel?"

"I can't say for certain until I start actually working on the blade, shaping and tempering and the like. But that could very well be the case."

Jon sucked in a breath. The ability to manufacture Valyrian steel… that could truthfully be the most important discovery of their generation.

"If it's just a combination of dragonglass and regular steel, how has no one else discovered this before?" Arya wondered.

"Dragonglass is rare," Jon said. "And it was only ever thought to be decorative. No one had any reason to need it for a weapon; it was simply used for jewelry and such. Besides, if the only thing hot enough to melt it down is dragonfire… then even if someone knew the required combination, it wouldn't have been possible to craft it once the dragons had died out. Or, of course, it could be that what we have here isn't even Valyrian steel, that it's missing some vital component."

"I'll keep experimenting with it," Gendry promised.

"Do that, and keep me updated," Jon ordered Gendry. "If that truly is Valyrian steel, I need to know, so we can start making as much of it as is humanly possible."

Gendry nodded. "I will. Do you still want us to work on dragonglass weapons?"

Jon hesitated. "For now, yes. But as soon as you figure out about the Valyrian steel, focus all of your efforts into creating more of that." With that, he turned and exited the forge.

Briefly, he noticed Arya wasn't following. He looked back, and she was standing in the same spot as she'd been. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

She shrugged. "It's been years since I've seen Gendry," she said. "I'm going to stay for a bit and catch up with him while he works."

Jon looked at her carefully, knowing there was something more than what she wanted to tell him. But he let it go, nodding and departing the forge.

When he was back within the walls of Winterfell, Jon was struck with a bout of weariness. All of the revelations and stresses of the recent days came crashing back down onto his shoulders, and he nearly staggered under the weight of it all.

Suddenly desperate for some peace, he allowed his legs to lead him in a familiar direction. He grabbed a torch from the wall and descended the stone steps. The frigid darkness of the crypts washed over him, held slightly at bay by the small flame he carried.

When Jon was young, he would find unusual comfort in journeying down to the crypts, especially when he was feeling particularly alienated by Lady Catelyn or others due to his (presumed) bastard status. Down in the bowels of the castle, the presence of Starks long dead would reassure him.

You are one of us, they seemed to whisper. You are truly a Stark by blood.

Yet he now knew the truth: it was not his father that his Stark blood came from, as he had believed for so much of his life. Still, there were some things even blood could not change. Jon may not have been of Ned's seed, but he was the only father Jon had ever known, and would ever know.

He thought it was rather fitting, as he stopped in front of the most recent carving, standing in the very spot he'd stood before he'd left for Dragonstone. Silently, he observed the statue that was supposed to resemble Ned Stark's countenance.

In truth, it looked nothing like him. Jon traced the line of his jaw and the heavy set of his brow, trying to overlay his own mental image of the man onto the lifeless stone. It pained and saddened him to realize that even his own memory of Lord Stark's appearance was not as clear as it once was.

Why didn't you tell me, Father? he implored the statue in his mind. I know you wanted to protect me, but didn't I deserve to know before we parted? Were you afraid of how I would react? Were you still afraid King Robert would find out?

He placed his head in his hands and groaned. He had so many questions for the man who had raised him as his own son, and none of them would ever be answered.

Sighing, he stood once more, walking slowly to the next statue he needed to see. It was a bitter sort of irony, he thought, that all these years, the truth had been right in front of him, hiding in plain sight.

As he stood in front of the statue of his mother, Lyanna Stark, a deep, soul-wrenching melancholy threatened to overtake him. She was nothing more than a girl who wanted to be free to make her own future, who had become smitten with the Dragon Prince, and he with her. If Bran was right, then their love was pure, but how many hundreds of thousands had died for it?

It was a grim tale, and Jon was reluctant to delve too deep into it. He was afraid if he did, he would find parallels to his own life, something that would reignite guilt over his relationship with Daenerys.

I will not let history repeat itself, he vowed. What good is the past if we don't learn from it? Rhaegar and Lyanna allowed their love to blind them, and it tore the country apart. But Daenerys and I… our love will strengthen us, and reunify the country behind us.

It sounded much like wishful thinking, but he was determined to see it become truth.

He studied Lyanna's face, trying to sort out the roiling emotions within him. He could hardly blame her for her actions, especially considering the situation he himself was in. It took him a moment to realize the majority of what he felt towards her was longing.

He longed to know the woman he'd heard tales of since he was a child. He longed to know the warmth of a loving mother's embrace. He wished that everything was different, and that they could have been together as a mother and son should be.

But even as that thought flitted through him, he dismissed it. If things had happened differently, he may never have met Daenerys. He may never have seen the threat beyond the Wall, and the White Walkers could have been assaulting a country that was entirely unaware of the danger.

He recalled a snippet of a conversation he had once overheard between Varys and Lord Tyrion in which Tyrion referenced a quote from someone known as Kinvara. He'd said, "We can't forget the words of the wonderfully cryptic Kinvara: 'Everyone is what they are and where they are for a reason,' after all."

He considered that statement. It was a freeing philosophy, to be sure, if he allowed himself to believe it. But did it apply to the dead as well? Could so many deaths, especially in his family, have simply been fated or destined to happen?

Jon sighed. He didn't have time to become wrapped up with internal debates such as these. Not with the threat of the Night King looming so real and close above them.

For the first time, he noticed that there was something on the ground in front of his mother's statue that he'd failed to see in the dark. He frowned and lowered his torch to illuminate the object.

It was a bouquet of flowers, five blue winter roses tied neatly together.

He bent down and gently picked them up, cradling them in his hand. A lone tear slowly rolled its way down his cheek.

"I thought I might find you down here." A soft voice echoed through the crypts, one that Jon recognized but would never have expected to hear down in the crypts.

Howland Reed stepped out of the gloom to stand beside him. The man was small, shorter even than Jon, but well-built and strong. His hair had greyed with age, with only a few small flecks of tan remaining to show its original color. His brown eyes were warm and soft, the eyes of a kind, but brave and confident man.

"Lord Reed," Jon greeted. He tried to keep his voice from sounding terse, but he was in even less of a mood for conversation than usual.

"Howland, please," the crannogman replied. His eyes drifted down to the roses still clutched in Jon's hands. "You found my gift for your mother, I see."

"You left these? For my…" His voice hardened slightly. "My aunt, you mean." He still wanted to keep his identity a secret, even from a man who had been one of Ned Stark's closest and most loyal friends.

Howland smiled sadly. "I do not," he said. "Bran told me you had learned the truth, have you not?"

Jon stared at him. "I have. But how do you…?" He trailed off as he recalled the last time he'd heard the story of his father's journey to Dorne. "You were there," he realized. "You were with my father at the Tower of Joy."

Howland nodded. "I was. We found Lyanna there, lying on a bed in a pool of her own blood, a tiny infant bundled in her arms. She told us the truth; that she loved Rhaegar – he hadn't raped her – and the child was his son, you. She made Ned promise to watch over you. We had heard what happened to Rhaegar's other children, and we suspected the same fate awaited you if Robert were to ever learn of your existence. I don't think I need to tell you the solution he devised to avoid that outcome."

"No, you don't." Jon sighed. "I wish he had told me."

"The truth, now: would it have made a difference? Do you think you would have been able to understand your father's actions as clearly then as you do now? Or do you think, as young and ignorant of the world as you were, the knowledge would have destroyed you?"

It was difficult to accept Howland's words, but Jon knew he was right. As badly as he wanted to know the truth all those years ago, he hadn't been ready to face it. Ned had recognized that, and chosen not to tell him yet, not knowing it would be his last opportunity to do so.

"It doesn't matter now," said Jon. "If there's one thing I've learned in the past two days, it's that there's no point in dwelling on the what-ifs and could-have-beens of the past."

Howland nodded in agreement, and for a few minutes, the two men simply stood in solemn silence. Then Jon asked suddenly, "You knew her, did you not? Could you… could you tell me about her?"

Looking up at Lyanna's blank stone face, Howland smiled wistfully. "She was lovely," he said. His voice was far away, engrossed in his memories. "In a true Northern way. She was beautiful but fierce, wild and untamed, the most free spirit I ever knew. People say that your sister Arya has Lyanna's looks; in truth, she is so like your mother I almost thought her Lyanna born again." He tore his eyes from the statue and looked at Jon. "Tell me, Jon, do you know the story of the Tourney at Harrenhal?"

"I know what everyone knows: that Rhaegar won the joust, and crowned Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty instead of his wife, Elia Martell."

Howland nodded. "And so began the events that led to Robert's Rebellion. But do you know why Rhaegar did such a drastic thing?"

Jon shook his head. "He thought her more beautiful than his wife?"

"I'm afraid it was far more complicated than that. In essence, I suppose it all really started with me."

"With you?" Jon questioned in surprise.

"Oh yes. You see, I had just reached manhood, and was attending the Tourney as the future Lord of Greywater Watch. Even back then, I was small for my age, and three squires thought it amusing to set themselves upon me, beating me with their fists and kicking me. Your mother heard the commotion and came to investigate. When she saw what was going on, she picked up a blunted tourney sword and fought off my attackers."

"She knew how to use a sword?"

"And more besides. Did you think I was exaggerating about her similarities with your sister? That included her disdain for typical 'ladylike' pursuits and her interest in fighting instead." He chuckled softly. "After Lyanna defended me, she took me to the Stark tent and introduced me to your uncles, Brandon, Ned, and Benjen. She treated my wounds and encouraged me to enter the tourney joust to defend my honor and exact vengeance on the squires who had assaulted me." He shook his head ruefully. "I wanted to, of course, but I was afraid that I would fail and bring shame unto myself and my house."

"The next day, we learned the knights whose squires had attacked me had all qualified for the joust – a knight of House Blount, one of House Frey, and one of House Haigh. The day after that, we heard of the appearance of a new knight, with mismatched pieces of armor and the design of a laughing weirwood tree painted on his shield. No one knew who he was or where he'd come from, but he quickly became known as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. When the tourney started, he bested each of the offending knights, unseating them with surprising ease, and won their horses and their armor. When the knights petitioned to barter them back, the Knight of the Laughing Tree declared that he would return their possessions if they disciplined their squires and taught them honor. The knights weren't popular, and the crowd cheered at their humiliation."

"But, of course, not everyone was happy about it. As I'm sure you've heard, King Aerys was present at the tourney, and he became convinced that this new knight was a threat to his reign. It was preposterous, of course, but even then – before he'd begun burning people alive – the madness was beginning to show itself. He planned to have the knight unmasked on the next day of the tourney. Only, when morn came and the tourney recommenced, the Knight of the Laughing Tree was nowhere to be found. In Aerys' mind, this was proof that the knight was conspiring against him, so he sent out men to search for the knight and imprison him. Among the men he sent was his eldest son, Prince Rhaegar."

"This is where the tale ends for most people. Aerys' men were unsuccessful in locating the knight, and the tourney resumed, with Rhaegar declared the victor and shocking the crowd by crowning Lyanna as the Queen of Love and Beauty."

"You said, 'for most people,'" Jon remarked. "Which means, I presume, that you have more to tell."

Howland inclined his head. "Indeed. On her deathbed, Lyanna told Ned and I the truth of what had happened; for it was she, of course, who had taken the guise of the Knight of the Laughing Tree to punish those knights and their squires on my behalf. She said that Rhaegar had found her as she was discarding her armor, and that the Prince had not condemned her for her actions – as many would have – but had instead been curious as to why a highborn lady would enter a jousting tourney in disguise."

"She told him the reason why she'd done it, to defend the honor of someone who couldn't do it himself. They struck up a conversation, and apparently became enamored with each other. So Rhaegar lied to his father, and pretended that he had been unable to apprehend the knight. And when he won the tourney, he placed the crown of winter roses in Lyanna's lap."

Howland sighed. "Of course, everyone knows what happened after. Rhaegar's actions, though he meant well, were rash and ill-considered, and it led to a bloody war that resulted in the death of his entire family, save his sister and the son he never met. It's hard to forgive him for that." The crannogman eyed Jon meaningfully. "Though perhaps someone in a similar situation might be more understanding, hmm?"

"Is that supposed to be a warning?" asked Jon. "Are you going to voice your displeasure about my choices like everyone else?"

He'd tried to contain the bitterness in his voice, but Howland must have perceived it anyway. He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I owe your mother a great debt, Jon, for what she did for me. I loved her like a sister, and I wish I could have saved her. I couldn't help her when she needed me most. But her son needs me now, and I can help you." He gave Jon a sad but comforting smile, and for just a moment, he was reminded of the broody but warm seriousness of Ned Stark. "How could I ever fault you for finding love, especially in dire times such as these? I do not fault Lyanna nor Rhaegar for their love, only for the actions they chose to take because of it. So I will tell you this, Jon: always be mindful of the consequences of your choices. You are a King, now, like it or not, and the choices you make affect the lives of everyone under your rule. The Queen understands this too, I'm sure, and I think that together, the two of you will make excellent rulers. I only want you to be careful, and to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past."

Jon nodded. "I have pondered much the same thoughts recently," he admitted. "I worry that Daenerys is a distraction, something I can't afford right now. But then I remember the strength her presence grants me, the determination to return to her that might see me through a battle. And I ask myself, how can this love possibly be a bad thing? How it can be wrong when it makes me feel so right, so complete?"

Howland nodded. "That is something you must reconcile on your own. But I want you to know, Jon, that I am here if you require counsel, or anything else. Whatever it is you need, House Reed will provide. I know you still consider Ned Stark to be your real father. He was one of my closest friends, a man worthy of loyalty… as are you. You have my loyalty and that of my house for as long as it exists." He curled his hand into a fist and placed it over his heart, then bowed.

Extremely humbled, Jon found himself lost for words. After a struggle, he was eventually able to choke out, "Thank you, Lord Howland, for your immeasurable kindness. I am incredibly grateful for your pledge, and to know that House Reed stands behind me."

"It is the least I can do, in return for all that your family has done for me," Howland assured him.

That night, Jon couldn't sleep.

He laid on his back on the plush bed, warm furs draped over him with Daenerys' head resting on his chest, and stared up at the stone ceiling. He listened to the fire crackling in the hearth and tried, once again, to reconcile his wayward thoughts.

It seemed like every time he had begun to accept some shocking revelation, the world just couldn't resist throwing another one straight into his path. This time, it was Dany's extraordinary news that she was pregnant.

He was going to be a father.

It was almost too much to take in. But as surprising as it was for him – joyfully so, of course – he knew it was nothing compared to Dany. Until then, she had believed she was barren, and that she would never again be able to bear a child. To discover that she was wrong, or that her barrenness had in some way been reversed… he could only imagine what that must feel like.

She stirred against him, and he gazed down at her admiringly. In sleep, free of the stresses and trials of life, her face softened, increasing her beauty and reminding him how young she really was. They had both been through so much, it was easy to forget that fact sometimes.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and focus blearily on his face. He smiled tenderly, the smile he reserved only for her, and stroked a hand through her silver hair.

"Why can't you sleep?" she asked softly.

"Part of me thinks that if I close my eyes, I'll wake up and discover this was all a dream," he whispered. "As backward as that sounds."

She burrowed further into his side. "I know," she said. "Are you afraid?"

"Terrified."

"Me too." She shivered. "What if the witch's curse is not truly broken, and our child is stillborn?"

He kissed the top of her head, breathing in her scent. "I do not think that will happen."

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't. But together, you and I created life where you thought it impossible. I don't think that would have happened only for the child to be stillborn."

She closed her eyes. "How is it you always know what to say to me?"

He chuckled quietly, but didn't respond.

After a moment, he said, "We should… we should call a small council meeting tomorrow."

"To discuss the wedding?"

He hesitated. "Yes. But also… I think they have a right to know the truth about my parents. They should know who their King truly is."

"I thought you wanted to keep it a secret?"

"And I still do, at least from the Northern lords. I'm already asking a lot of them; if they were to learn the truth of my birth, that might be the final straw. But I trust our advisors not to reveal it. I think they should know."

Dany was quiet for a while, so long that Jon wondered if she'd fallen back asleep. But then she said, "Alright. I'll send for them tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Dany."

I can't remember if the Knight of the Laughing Tree has ever been officially confirmed to be Lyanna, but I know it's a popular theory, and one that I would like to believe is true, so for this I made it true. I also couldn't remember the exact story of the Harrenhal tourney, so what you see in this chapter is what I could remember of it, filling in with my own touches what I couldn't.

Next up: probably Tyrion