Chapter Text
They hid her from him until after he was elected the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch -- his own daughter.
Jon remembers seeing glimpses of the babe for months in the Wildling camps. They set up a small village of their own on the southern side of the Wall upon his approval after the horrors he witnessed at Hardhome. Whenever he passed through, he would see this little light of a girl trying to keep up with the older children’s games, bouncing at a crone’s hip or even with a spearwife. His eyes had always been drawn to her, sometimes even searching her out when she wasn’t in sight because there was something about her that just seemed so oddly familiar.
It all flashes through his mind as Tormund tells him. It is an accident, a slip of words in the aftershock of learning that the last of his people have made it beyond the Wall, but none of them are Tormund's daughter, who had joined the fight.
“My eldest one was there,” he says in a hollow voice, the empty despair in it too harsh of a contrast from the booming laughter and joy Jon has come to know. “At least your’s is safe beyond Castle Black.”
At first, Jon thinks his grief is making him talk nonsense. “What?” he asks, whipping his head around to where his friend sits slumped against the stone wall.
His stark blue eyes shows defeat, like he no longer has the will to care about keeping the secret -- or the will to care about anything at all, really. “She’s Ygritte’s,” he says. “Kissed by fire, the two of us… not so lucky, is it?”
“Tormund, what are you talking about?” Jon can hear his voice rising but all caution is long gone. Ygritte… Gods, how long has it been since he heard her name? He meets her in his dreams night and night again, different versions of her that are sometimes terrifying and morphed, and sometimes so fiery and real that his heart aches when he wakes.
“Your babe…” he says simply, yet it makes Jon’s pulse falter and quicken. “We knew the bloody crows’d hang ya for it, so we raised her with us in the camps. But you’re Lord Commander now, aren’t ya?”
In the numbing, disbelieving shock of it all, he has no reaction but to run. His eyes begin to sting with tears that leave hot trails on his chilled cheeks and his whole body shakes like a damned leaf in the wind. Though he doesn’t remember how he got there, he ends up spending the night far down the top of the Wall where none of his sworn brothers were, letting the revelation wash over him.
~
Early the next morning, Jon marches straight into the camps and finds the familiar-looking babe sleeping in a little cot in the tent where they house the children whose warrior parents aren’t there to care for them. Without being asked to, the women in the tent silently leave to let him meet his child. Even thinking the words, his child, feels bizarre.
As he gets closer, heart beating in his throat, and sees the steady nose bridge and smattering of freckles he knows from Ygritte, Jon Snow smiles for the first time in what feels like ages.
He waits until she wakes, not quite sure of her temperament.
Never having gotten close enough to see her eyes before, he is startled by how exact they are to his, and though her hair had always been covered by hats to protect from the cold, he discovers it to be identical to his own dark curls.
It is his biggest fear come true, he has brought another bastard named Snow into the world yet he can’t come to regret it, especially not when she smiles up at him like that.
He later learns that she is yet to be named. Apparently it is a common belief among the Free Folk that naming a child before their second name day brings bad luck, since so few infants live that long in the harsh conditions.
Her second name day is quickly approaching and so he decides on a name: Aryanna, for his beloved younger sister and his eternally loved aunt whom he never got to meet.
~
In a matter of days, he has fallen hopelessly in love with the child. Even though she is barely two years of age, he can already see that she has her mother’s stroppy, yet endearing, nature. He’s baffled by how quickly she warmed up to him, and by how much she talks at such a young age, though her vocabulary is limited.
Apparently, Aryanna was a very early talker with a snappy attitude and an lovable pull that had even the toughest of giants grow mushy. He didn’t blame them.
Her tantrums are rare, but only because if she wants something, she finds a way to get it. Jon sees this first hand when he sees her push a boy into the snow for taking her sparring stick.
He has to pull her aside and explain that, though the kid was wrong in doing so, she has to learn to share and ask nicely. She only huffs.
The first time Aryanna meets Ghost, she reacts exactly how he expected her too -- yelling nonsense, she runs right at him and grabs his face and screams “puppy!” while Jon looks on and laughs. Not once does he fear that Ghost may harm her. In fact, the wolf’s first reaction is to lick her cheek, to which she erupts into giggles.
In his visits to her, Jon tries to be as discreet as possible. If he had his will, he would house the child by his own Lord’s chambers, keep her safe and warm within the walls of Castle Black, bring her comfort when she wakes from a nightmare, listen to her when she babbles on about whatever children babble on about. Instead, he has to sneak into the tent with some excuse or other and leave hastily to attend to his duties.
Despite his efforts however, some of his brothers seem to sense there is something askew so they look on suspiciously when he enters the camps alone and returns later with a stupid smile he can't seem to hide well.
~
There are nights when all he can think of his how he is failing to meet her needs.
Jon doesn't want his daughter to grow up at the hands of women who pity a motherless child because he knows all too well how that feels. He wants her to know that she was loved by her mother, a strong woman with whom he was in love with despite their differences and the magnitude of them.
He fears she will become distant from him, perhaps even grow to blame him for what happened.
The fear of her not loving him back, however, is dispelled when every time he goes to greet her, Aryanna runs over as fast as her chubby little legs allow, and stretches out her arms to be picked up.
He spins her and ruffles her hair, a messy jumble of raven locks, as she laughs without a care in the world.
It doesn't even take her long to start calling him “Papa” after hearing other children do the same to their fathers, and it's quite possibly the best thing Jon has ever heard. He tried not to cry when she said it the first time, a sleepy mumble as she drifted off.
~
“Lord Commander… it's one of the wildlings you brought, says he knows your Uncle Benjen, says he's still alive,” was what Olly had said.
So it makes no sense to him now when he pushes through the circle of men and finds nothing but a plank of wood with something etched onto it.
It's too late when the word and what it means for him finally registers, because the first knife is already in his gut.
In truth, the physical pain is slight in comparison to the weight of the betrayal he feels.
The one that hurts most is Olly -- Olly who he found scared and alone, who admired him and followed him like a lost pup, but also Olly who let loose the arrow that buried itself into Ygritte’s heart… Gods, it hurt.
“For the watch.”
“For the watch.”
“For the watch.”
And on and on it went until Jon lay helpless in the courtyard, his blood seeping into the snow as he felt his body grow cold.
As his vision begins to blur and darken, he thinks of Aryanna and her laugh and the way she says “Papa” and her bouncy hair with snowflakes in it and prays to any gods that may still be listening that the coward men don't find her.
~
One moment everything is so impossibly void and the next… a flicker here, a fragment of sound there, a burst of sensation rippling across his body anew.
Jon bolts up, gasping, as his lungs burn and ache for air as if they’ve been painfully deprived for days -- and perhaps they have. He doesn’t know how long it has been since or what happened for him to end up on a stone slab without a stitch of clothing and -- why is it so cold?
It’s then that he sees the scars splayed over his chest, too fresh and too deep for him to be as alive as he is.
No, something is wrong, his mind manages through a jumble of chaos, terribly wrong.
There is someone at the door, he faintly registers -- Ser Davos -- but that does little to help him work through the tumult of fear and confusion and pain and shock and so much else.
He is all too aware of his heart, all of a sudden, beating against his aching chest like a trapped beast, and, in his disarray, he tries to stand up, though his muscles falter under his weight.
Davos prevents him from hitting the ground, instead wrapping a thin cloak over his shaking form.
Through the fog, Jon recognizes the Red Priestess as she steps closer and seems shocked when he recounts his last memories, the stabbing, Olly, the cold, the dark….
She is questioning him about what he saw, what it all means but his train of thought had led him to Aryanna and suddenly, just as he was beginning to calm somewhat, the fear surfaces again, bubbling in his stomach like acid, and he almost doesn’t want to know.
Still, he asks, voice all raspy and his throat hurting from disuse, “Aryanna… Aryanna is she…?”
Though the old knight has never met his daughter, he seems to understand after a moment of silence. “The child, she is alright. The bloody cowards, they fled when….”
He goes on speaking but Jon is no longer paying attention. She is alright. And for now, that is enough.
“I want to see her,” he finally croaks.
“I’m not sure that’s wise, they’ll know you broke your vows and--”
“I was just killed, Davos, I was stabbed by my own brothers ! I am no longer tied to any vows, I will see my daughter if I bloody well want to.” He knows the poor old man shouldn’t receive the brunt of his emerging temper but he is in no mood to put up with any of it, to hide this part of his life, this piece of his heart.
Without a word, Davos disappears, leaving Jon alone and shivering until Edd comes in, shocked as the other two were. He hastily snaps out of it and helps his former Lord Commander up to lead him to his chambers so he may fully dress and let the fire in the hearth return the warmth to his hands.
He notices Edd is doing all the duties a steward would usually do, starting a fire, bringing him food, pouring a tall mug of ale, and so he briefly wonders where his own steward is. Olly -- Gods, the boy is so young, likely around the same as Rickon would be now, but he knows it has to be done.
“For the watch.”
Thankfully, Jon’s thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door, which Edd answers. Ser Davos enters, the solemn mood he left with replaced by a gleeful smile as he holds Aryanna at his hip and her little fingers pulled at the whiskers of his mustache.
Edd, growing more confused by the moment, looks between Jon and the child. Jon can see the cogs turning in his head, comparing the hair and the eyes and the way her face lights up at the sight on him.
“Papa!” she squeals, wriggling in Davos’s arms and reaching out toward him.
When Jon smiles, the muscles in his face feel so stiff, they almost hurt. Still, he manages a chuckle and brings her to his chest, holding her tight because he would not have been able to live with himself if the lot that had stabbed him had found her; the sheer thought makes him shudder so he just holds her little body closer and presses a dozen kisses to the top of her head. The scars on his chest scream in pain but he cannot bring himself to care.
He can feel her tiny arms try to wrap around him as she says, “I missed you,” and he swears it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.
But before he can respond, she’s pushing away from him and replacing that wide grin with an angry frown.
“Oh, what now?”
“You didn’ come yesterday,” she says, in what he knows is her best attempt at a scolding manner.
When Davos clears his throat, Jon realizes he’d completely forgotten there were two others with him and Aryanna in the room.
With a nod, the old knight silent exits the room, signalling for Edd to follow, so father and daughter may speak alone.
“Why didn’ you?” she demands again.
In truth, Jon doesn’t know what to say. He would hate lying to her but he can’t just tell her the truth either. He settles on the most ambiguous answer he can come up with. “I’m sorry, love, I was… hurt.”
“Hurt?”
He nods.
“What happened?”
“I was just hurt, okay?”
“Why?”
“Aryanna….”
“Yes?”
She’s at the age where children as question about anything and everything. He remembers in well from Rickon, Bran, and, her namesake, Arya.
He sighs. “Well, I’m here now, alright? And I’m not going anywhere.”
She doesn’t relent, but he can see her glare softening slowly. “Can I make it better?”
“I’m afraid you can’t, love,” he says, brushing her hair back. It’s a good sign that she lets him, or she would have swatted his hand away. She truly is just as feisty as her mother had been.
As Jon continues to sift through her downy curls, she leans her head against his shoulders and wraps her arms around his neck again.
He can tell she is slowly dozing off when her hold on him begins to go slack and he can feel her breathing calm. So, he gets up and walks to the bed, bones still protesting, and gently lays her down and tucks her into the furs.
Jon lies down beside her, knowing what the dawn will bring, but for now he just focuses on the sound of the air entering and leaving her little lungs and recognizes that his are doing the same because he is alive.
~
It takes him aback how different Sansa looks. She's still the feminine beauty with polite manners he had known growing up, but the delicate softness of hers has been sharpened into jagged edges.
Now, as she sits across from him, sputtering and coughing from the strong ale he had warned her about, Jon knows that it's time for him to introduce her niece.
“Um… there is someone you should meet.”
Sansa raises her brows in question.
Instead of droning explanations, he simply tells her to wait a moment and crosses the hall to enter Sam’s old quarters, currently abandoned as he has gone to study at Oldtown.
There, Aryanna is sprawled on the floor in a mess of block toys Sam had managed to find in Mole’s Town for Gilly’s son. There are few children there but the brothel has enough bastards for the old woodworker to make toys from his scraps.
“C’mon, you,” he says, leaning down to muss up her hair before flattening it into something somewhat presentable for Sansa, who will most certainly judge him for his parenting. The Free women wear no gowns or dresses so her clothes are identical to those of any boy her age.
“Where?”
“You’re meeting Aunt Sansa.”
“Aunt?”
“My sister.”
She squeals in anticipation of meeting new people and toddles ahead, which he allows since they are just next door.
Ever since he was released from his vows, he has housed her in the castle, though she has made a habit of clinging to any of the Free Folk she recognizes and following them back to the camp to play with her friends there.
He pushes the door open slowly, feeling stupid for the nervous hesitation. Still, Aryanna bursts through without waiting for him.
Jon sees Sansa’s eyes widen immediately and hears a gasp as Aryanna comes closer to the bench at which she is seated.
“Jon,” she whispers.
“I’m Aryanna.” The loud and proud voice cuts through the tension and Jon fights a grin.
Her pronunciation is off, like any child’s, but Sansa seems to understand her name all the same because her eyes go to him and he thinks he sees her smile. Kneeling to lift her, Sansa pulls the child into her lap and says, “I’m your Aunt Sansa.”
There is a certain awe and wonder in her expression as she looks from his daughters hair and eyes and freckles and smile, and he knows all too well how that feels.
“Kissed by fire,” the small voice suddenly speaks up, causing Jon’s stomach to drop.
“What?” Sansa asks.
“Your hair. Papa said my mother’s was too.”
~
Jon isn’t in the mood for a child’s endless chatter when he returns to his private chambers from his extensive argument with Sansa.
She wants to lead a fight against the Boltons, slaughter the fickle lords who took their home, and take back Winterfell. He understands that his naive, fanciful little sister is not who she once was, but she still does not know the price victory comes with, if they are victorious after all.
Still, despite his exhaustion from fighting and leading and politicking, he finds it his duty to help her for what she said moments before he walked away.
“If we don’t take back the North, we’ll never be safe -- not me, not you, not Aryanna, and not Arya, Bran, or Rickon if they are even alive. I want you to help me but I’ll do it myself if I have to.”
Jon had known there was no way he could stay here long, after what happened, though his expectation had been to simply go south to somewhere quiet, get warm, live out his days in peace, and raise his daughter. It is too good to be possible in a world as torn as this, but any amount of tranquility would do him great good.
As he closes the door and shucks his cloak off, Aryanna continues her story, though he can only make out certain words here and there, like “Wun Wun,” and “bear,” and “turnip,” so he knows it’s nonsensical anyway.
“It’s late, go to sleep, now,” he says gruffly.
She was already dressed for bed, now in a little night gown as opposed to the baggy cotton clothes she used to sport. Sansa has begun to take up sewing again, her first project being clothes she deems fit for his daughter.
Aryanna begins mimicking him with an exaggerated, mocking voice but is immediately silenced with one look from him. He has to lift her up onto the bed, where she hastily slips under the furs.
She has been sleeping in his chambers a few nights not, because he cannot trust anyone, anymore, especially since the fact that she is his daughter is now blatantly clear.
As he climbs in afterward, he feels like an absolute asshole for taking his frustration out on her. He wants to apologize but she interrupts him.
“Papa’s sad.”
Time and time again, Jon is taken aback by how atune she is to his feelings at such a young age. “He is.”
“Why?” She doesn’t look at him as she asks it, instead she is turned away in her own little form of protest.
“We have to go south, Aryanna.”
“We are south.”
“Not really,” he laughs, reminded that she spends so much time with the Freefolk that she truly believes this to be as south as one can be.
“But Tormund said!”
“Well we’re going more south.”
“Why?”
He sighs. How can he even begin to explain that to a child? He doesn’t even know the rationality of it all himself. So, he starts at the very beginning, telling her about Winterfell, home , it’s hot springs, secret passageways, and people. He talks to her about his siblings, his father, even Lady Catelyn, briefly. He remembers the Wolf’s Wood and Wintertown, and reminisces on the adventures he and Robb used to have.
No doubt, she fell asleep a sentence or two in but he doesn’t mind.
~
Aryanna’s third name day is quickly approaching and Jon feels terrible for neglecting her so.
Truly, he doesn’t really have many options. As he, Sansa, and Davos tour the North to garner support and troops to aid in the fight against the Boltons, Jon has no choice but to ensure the old Wildling women with her care, and Tormund with her safety. These are not roads for children and it’s a toss up between whether they will be met with open arms, hostility, or worse as they go from keep to keep.
It is long before they return, though Aryanna doesn’t complain, which makes him sadder because it causes him to realize she is growing up too fast. Davos scoffs and laughs because she is three and he already feels this way.
Name day celebrations are not common among the Free Folk so she is positively surprised when her beloved Onion Knight brings her a whittled wolf and Aunt Sansa helps her into a brand new dress, a plain one she found at the tailors but hand-stitched intricate embroidery onto. Her father has no special presents but she is just as happy because he is finally there and so he gives her his undivided attention until, alas, the battle comes around.
For this, Jon is not willing to take any chances. He sends Aryanna and her caretakers, accompanied by a number of soldiers pledged to House Stark, down to Torrhen’s Square. He also has Ser Davos join them, though he protested little, knowing it is for the safety of the child. The Tallharts, a previously great house, are reduced to few surviving members after having to deal with the Lannisters and Boltons, but they managed to reclaim the castle and continue to pledge their loyalty to the Starks.
Aryanna, however, was the real issue. Jon has assumed she handled the last separation well, but apparently not because then she kicked and screamed and refused to leave his side, bawling until her poor voice grew hoarse.
Still, he did not relent. He would have her tucked away far from Ramsey Bolton’s crude grin if the battle ran its course and ended against his favor.
Hours before they are to meet the Bolton army on the field, Jon goes to Melisandre and begs her, on his knees with his hands clasped before him, to please bring him back if he is to fall in battle, for his child’s sake.
~
“King in the North,” a hundred voices say.
It echoes around the stone walls and makes the ground under his feet rumble.
“King in the North.”
The last time Jon was in the Great Hall with an audience of this number and nobility, he was stowed away in the back with the commoners and smallfolk. A bastard was not worthy to sit at the high table.
The irony is insurmountable.
As the camaraderie ends and hall slowly empties, leaving only him, Ser Davos, and Aryanna, seated beside Sansa.
She can barely see over the table but he refuses to hide her away like some stain to his honor. Besides, she has become increasingly clingy after her return, not wanting to be away from her beloved Papa for more than a few moments, despite not even speaking with him in the beginning.
Now, the eerie silence rings through the hall until she, in her little high-pitched voice, yells, “The King in the Norf!”
The three of them laugh and it feels so damn good . It's the first time Jon actually likes the title.
“It's ‘North ,’ silly.”
She's wearing in another dress, fashioned in the true Northern style. Even her hair, done by Sansa, looks how the girls used to fashion it when they were younger, two little braids on the top of her head with the rest flowing out in all of its curly wildness.
“King in the Norf,” she says again.
It's Davos, who chimes in this time. “Well, works for us, eh?”
He means to show her the joys of Winterfell, see her kid around like he and his siblings used to, but it feels like their ghosts still wander the halls.
~
Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, invites you to Dragonstone. My queen commands the combined forces of Dorne and the Reach, an Ironborn fleet, legions of Unsullied, a Dothraki horde and three dragons. The Seven Kingdoms will bleed as long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne. Join us. Together we can end her tyranny. I appeal to you, one bastard to another -- for all dwarves are bastards in their fathers’ eyes.
Tyrion Lannister Hand of the Queen
Jon reads is again, though he practically has it memorized by now.
The decision is made, however unpopular it is with Sansa and the lords of the North.
Still, no matter the great degree to which they dislike their king leaving for Dragonstone, he knows someone who will dislike it more.
The object of his concern runs into the room with a loud giggle, Ghost at her feet.
Gods, how will I tell her?
The last year of her life has been so chaotic -- hells, all of it has been -- far more than should be for someone so young and innocent. In between his being Lord Commander and King in the North, Jon’s daughter has suffered some of the consequences as well, barely getting to see her father most days as he's buried in work, and spending weeks away from him because of something she doesn't understand.
This, however, is more than the matter of a couple weeks.
He was reading the damned letter again to try to make sense of the ambiguity of the invite. What will he encounter when he reaches the shores of Dragonstone and steps before Daenerys Targaryen? Open conversation and a queen eager to form alliances or a tyrant who will burn him alive with the three bloody dragons she has she for his refusing to give up the North?
In the solar, there's an armchair situated by the hearth where Aryanna usually sits as he broods over maps and letters.
Today, he walks over to it first and signals for her to climb up. She sits sideways over his legs, her booted feet dangling off to the side of his thigh.
“There's something I have to tell you,” he says gently, wanting to make the blow as soft as possible.
She remains silent and looks to him with wide, curious eyes. He smooths down her hair, though it is somewhat pulled back with two strands from the front.
“I have to go away for a while, Aryanna.”
“Where are we going?”
“I have to go meet a Queen,” he says simply, emphasizing on the singular ‘I’.
“We’re meeting this Queen?” Her whole face perks up. She doesn't quite know how to read yet but Davos reads to get as often as he can, so she's completely enthralled with the stories of the Targaryen queens of old.
He sighs. “You can't come, Aryanna.”
“Yes I can.”
“No, you can't. It's too dangerous for you.”
“But I have to.”
“You don't, you'll be fine here with Aunt Sansa and Ghost and all your friends.” He tries to pick up an excitatory tone but it does little to shake the sadness from her eyes or stop the wobbling of her lower lip.
“Papa, I’ll be good! No fighting, I'll be nice and have good lady manners and--”
“Hey, shhh, no none of that,” he soothes, as fat tears have begun rolling down her cheeks.
“Don't go,” her helpless little voice says, interrupted by hitches in her breath from crying.
“I'm sorry, love.” He gently rubs a hand up and down her back to sooth her. She lays her head against his shoulder and wraps her arms against his neck to hold on tight.
“You're not.” This time, the pleading, begging tone is tinted with anger.
“I am, Aryanna. I wouldn't go if I didn't have to.”
“But why?”
“She has dragons.” And dragonglass, though he doesn't feel like explaining it to her.
“Dragons?”
“Yes, and we need them.”
“Why?”
“Because….” How does he explain that the stories she's heard of ice monsters have truth to them without frightening the poor girl?
She doesn't wait for an answer. “She really has dragons?”
He has to chuckle. “Yes, three of them we’re told.”
“Like Vinesya?” Her crying hasn't stopped but she is getting distracted, which he interprets as a good sign.
“Yes, like Visenya,” he corrects. “Who told you about her?”
“Maester Wolkan. Is he coming with us?”
Us. And it's back to square one. “You can't come, Aryanna. It's not safe.”
“You said you will always protect me.”
Gods, what have I gotten myself into?
Jon knows he can't lie to her and just leave in the night when she's asleep and has no idea. It took days for Aryanna to speak with him again for sending her off before the battle for Winterfell; she will never forgive him for disappearing for… who knows how long. Even at the tender age of three and a half, Aryanna can hold a mean grudge.
He also worries about her treatment while he is away. No one dares say anything to the King’s daughter while he is there, but what will she have to hear when he is hundreds of leagues away?
Of course, Sansa loves her to the ends of the world but he already hears whispers of “bastard” and “Wildling” from the prissy lords who believe everything calls for their commentary.
The Free Folk do not follow the traditional laws of marriage. A lover is a lover and child is a child so the concept of bastardry doesn't quite exist. Nevertheless, she is a bastard by all Westerosi standards as long as her name is Snow.
Still, Dragonstone is even less safe. Who is to say the Mad King’s daughter won't imprison them on sight? He finds that hard to believe, because he trusts Tyrion enough to know he would not support anyone so cruel, and, afterall, she does need allies.
“Please, Father.”
Father. Aryanna has never called him that before, it was always Papa, but oh, how it tugs at his heart.
It's a lost fight at this point.
“Alright.”
She picks her head off his shoulder and the streaks of drying tears on her reddened cheeks make all remaining resistance disappear.
“Truly?” she squeals, smiling so wide that all her baby teeth show.
“Yes,” he confirms with a slight smile of his own. Taking on a serious tone again, he adds, “but you have to listen to me, alright? Promise me no running off or fighting or breaking the rules.”
She nods furiously and promises before throwing her arms around him once again.
He hugs her back and kisses the top of her head.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”