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Summary: What Jon experiences in the aftermath of his assassination.
Notes: Idk this just happened lol
XxXxX
Jon wakes.
He can still feel the daggers in his flesh, parting the delicate tissue, glancing off the bone, but when he looks down the wounds are empty. There, but bloodless.
A noise to the side, he jerks his gaze towards it. For a moment he meets red, red, and thinks Ghost? but it is not Ghost, it is a man.
He looks familiar, looks familiar because Jon knows who he is by sight but also because parts of him look like Jon.
There's Blackwood blood in the Stark line but there shouldn't be enough and there's little or no Stark in him which means Jon looks like--looks like--
His thoughts are full of things that are his and aren't, of possibilities, and missed chances, and pain.
"Uncle?" he gasps, the word true as he says it because this is Aegon's son, Daeron's brother, Maekar's uncle and Jon is--Jon is--
"Nephew," Brynden Rivers breathes in return, because he knows, as any greenseer knows anything, and then he's reaching towards Jon and holding him, supporting him, anchoring him.
This is the Lord Commander's room, Jon's room (Jon is dead, has died, he is not of the NIght's Watch, he is free and it is too late for father--uncle--and too late for Robb but he can save Arya, he can save someone) and Bloodraven's room.
He reaches out with his arms, and his mind, and his soul and he clutches at Brynden but feels something more beyond him. The Children, the weirwoods, the deep dark cold white space and bright blue that shares his pain, his horror, his knowledge he was murdered.
"Don't," Brynden commands--begs--knowing it's already too late.
Somewhere deep in the heart of white winter winds is the knowledge the promised prince will be killed before--before destiny, before his proper end.
But why is he here?
For Brynden, he thinks, for the Last Greenseer, to make it all real and necessary.
They were both sacrifices.
There is no pain but there is only pain. He feels like he's burning up, the heat unbearable.
"Not yet, not yet," he tries to get across, only half aware of what he's saying, through a deluge of knowledge he cannot hold onto, "Bran, Bran needs--"
Brynden clutches onto him, holding him close, comforting him and he wonders if Rhaegar's hold would feel the same, if his arms would feel the same, but he died before Jon was even born, his arms only bone and ash. "I know, I'll know," he's assured, pale lips twisted in shared horror.
The past is written, but that doesn't mean this too was not written. The Wall is magic formed solid and they are pieces of it, given to it with their vows and the votes, with every drop of blood dripping onto its surface and Jon has given all of his.
"Uncle," he tries again, realizing with a new ache that he'd had another uncle at the Wall who he had never gotten to name such, who was dead and gone now. "You don't--"
But he can't finish, can't remember what he was saying as the world goes black around the edges. Black and red (and white and blue, such bright blue, burning into him, into his soul, commanding him to survive).
He wakes and the world is on fire, he's the only thing not burning. Clothes he wore, the hair on his head and arms, and everywhere, nothing but ash, but his flesh is clear and healthy.
His wounds are closed as though caterized, but still deep and horrible and fatal.
Wood collapses under him, weakened by the fire, and he gasps as he falls to the ground. It's hard and warm, but beyond it is damp, and beyond that is cold, and he crawls towards the cold, needing the cold.
Needing to reach out and see the blue that calls to him still, that begs for him to still exist because he's needed, necessary, promised.
There are screams as he stumbles to his feet, searching against the afterimages of Brynden and fire, landing on those he knows, those he trusts.
"Jon?" he hears, that name that is not his name, that another uncle, a dead uncle, gave to him.
A shield to guard him.
Then other arms wrap around him, as they never have, and he leans desperately into the touch, thinking of Bryden in the far North, tangled in roots, and seeping through Bran's thoughts and Bran's destiny.
Jon had not wished to be here. Even now, walking towards the stage that had been set just for this occasion, thousands bowing as he made his way to what felt like his doom, he still imagined jumping onto Viserion and flying away, back North to Winterfell's warm grasp.
There was no real choice to be had, however.
The war for the succession had finally ended, not with Aegon or Daenerys on the throne, but with both of them dead, and Jon forced to step in as once his ancestor Cregan had.
Except there was no boy king to place on the throne, the only stability to be had was Jon himself.
King Aemon I Targaryen, history would undoubtedly call him, as much as that made his skin crawl and his stomach squirm.
The High Septon, or whatever passed for one after the destruction of the Starry Sept and the Sept of Baelor and everyone in them, awaited him and he reluctantly knelt before him for his blessings.
For days he'd reviewed what he would need to do and say, both with this ceremony and the wedding that soon awaited him.
Sacrificing himself for peace was not an issue, but he'd much rather it was to a final death instead of this slow destruction of all he had been and would ever be.
They said Daenerys had killed Aegon in a grand battle above the city, that he and Rhaegal had fallen and created some of the great destruction in their death throes.
They said she had assembled the remaining lords and ladies in the Keep, hostages kept under constant guard, even those from neutral houses. When she announced her plans, she listened to no protests, uncaring how it looked when the Mad King's daughter with her kinslaying Lannister Hand had announced she would execute the Dowager Queen Arianne and punish Dorne for having chosen Aegon over her.
His Aunt Daenerys died in the throne room, just as both his grandfathers and his Uncle Brandon had, alongside Tyrion, both stabbed half a hundred times as Rhaenys had been before them (as he had nearly been.)
Though the Dornish were still unpopular in the rest of the realm, King Aegon and Queen Arianne had not been. And the Dornish had installed themselves into much of the Red Keep, enough to work out the planned assassination.
Even now, on a stage with only an old man and his own guards, Jon was tense and ready for an attack. He knew what it was like, to die from knives in the back, and did not wish to feel that again.
When the crown--a Crown of Winter, his last attempt to cleave his Stark heritage to him even now--settled on his head, the weight on his shoulders only seemed to increase. Westeros, and so much of Essos, would now rely on him. To rebuild, to renew.
Cos your other fic got me intrigued maybe something Jon/Daemon Blackfyre?
Ides of March Themed Fills
"There, in there," the voice echoed in his head and Aemon did as instructed, ducking into the storeroom he wouldn't have even noticed on his own.
Moments later, the clank of armored figures running by sounded. They did not stop to check--they didn't notice the concealed door, either.
He leaned back against the wall, allowing himself time to catch his breath and access the situation.
Something had gone horribly wrong. This was a holy day of Old Valyria, a day for various rituals long forgotten, and his father the king had decided to practice one anew. Whether he through his own mistake or the power of Westerosi magic had interfered, Aemon didn't know.
What had been meant to simply to wipe clean their past, to purge the taint of the last king's rule, had instead pulled their ancestors to them.
The strongest willed of them could reach forth through the veil, yes, but only those with unfinished business had done so.
Unfinished business in House Targaryen was rarely a good thing.
The others had no natural defenses: Aemon was the only warg among them, the only one who could shield his mind from the power-given spirits.
That didn't mean he was alone, of course. As grandfather, and Maegor, and Aegon II stole the bodies and memories of his family, he found Daemon Blackfyre still at the edges of his mind, not making attempts to take him over.
He was as horrified as Aemon was. Daemon had started a war, a series of rebellions that caused untold suffering, but he had believed his cause righteous and when he'd been alive, so had many of the realm. He wouldn't have been a bad King, if he'd been sooner or later he might have even been the accepted, seen-rightful one.
At no point did he want suffering and destruction for their own sake.
Or, Aemon hoped the was true, because he had no one else to trust. Servants and highborn thought there had been an attempted coup, assumed that House Targaryen was pulling itself apart naturally, and he did not know who may be loyal to which supposed side or where they thought Aemon fell.
"To the North," he whispered in his mind, feeling Daemon's trepidation.
"To Dragonstone, this was Valyrian magic," he countered.
Aemon shook his head, already collecting himself to make another go for an escape route few bothered using and fewer still would be able to--past the kennels, where anyone else running by would set the dogs into a frenzy of noise.
He started moving, stretching out his senses. "Bloodraven is in the North."
Daemon's shock was amusing enough to lift Aemon's spirits, momentarily. And then he consented, clearly aware the his brother knew more about magic than most others they could find.
They were stuck together, perhaps forever, perhaps simply until the spell was finished. And they were both reasonable enough to know that meant they had to work together.
The fate of House Targaryen, the realm itself, rested on them.
For Ides of March, if it inspires you: Aegon VI/fAegon / Jon Snow
Ides of March themed fills
What were the limits of kinslaying? What criteria did one need to match, to fall into such a loathsome category?
Did they have to do the act itself? Did they have to order it with their own words, their own gold?
Aegor insisted that the fate King Rhaegar worked towards was his own work, that Jon and Aegon could not be held responsible, not even by the gods.
Jon thought that the gods of the South were far more exacting than that.
Having picked a specific sort of fight with their father at dinner the night before, Aegon (and by extension, Jon) had been forbidden from attending court today. Growing ever more paranoid, as his father had before him, Rhaegar worried at the influence that Aegon might exercise, the love of the people he could gain.
Jon was an afterthought to him, the unwanted boy who killed his Stark broodmare. He did not notice what influence Jon had gained, as he was put to the more "demeaning" work for royals, as he had far more interaction with the lesser lords and common people.
Nor had he realized, yet, that the Lysene mercenary that Jon had used as a guard, as the Kingsguard were hardly spared for bastards, shared so many of their family features. And had a past with the Golden Company.
And a fervent desire to kill a Targaryen, even if he didn't have the chance to topple the regime and sit upon the throne himself.
Jon and Aegor had been Aegon's interimidaries, determining who to trust with the plot, placing Gold Cloaks loyal to Jon as security today. Weapons were not normally allowed at court, certainly not now, and yet weapons there would be. Knives and daggers hidden on the person of nearly everyone there.
Ser Jaime and Ser Llewyn would allow their attention to wander, would not stop the blows that would rain down on Rhaegar.
None would need to know they had faltered on purpose, who could have ever predicted such a vicious act, and who should they have struck out against first when it was the entirety of the court?
Everything should be in place. Every detail gone over and over again as the three huddled together in Aegon's huge bed at night, whispering words that even the Spider's little birds wouldn't be able to catch.
But Jon might never be able to relax, even if the plot was successful, even if Aegon ruled, always waiting for divine punishment to fall upon them.
Send me a character or a ship and I'll use some part of the Ides of March theme as inspiration.
(If you have any major squicks or triggers that could come up, please let me know)
You can find fandoms and ships I write for here.
There's some fandoms/ships I like a lot, but haven't written for, that you can find buried in my bookmarks here.
I'm mostly writing ASOIAF (etc) right now, but may dust off some older fandoms if I get a good idea!
Disclaimer: A request is not a guarantee of a fill. Only requests that follow the above guidelines will be considered. All fics will be posted here on tumblr (as a reply to the ask) and to my AO3 and possibly ffnet accounts. Fics may be used as part of a longer works at a later date.
After everything is won (and lost), Jon Snow has more
regrets than joys.
But he has always been the plaything of more powerful
forces and that has not changed.
Given the chance to save the world in a different way by
the least trustworthy of sources, he's thrown back to one
of the most tumultuous time periods in history with just
enough advantages to change everything,
for better or worse.
A Time Travel ASOIAF/HOTD/F&B Insert AU
Ships: Cannibal & Jon, Laenor & Jon, Jon & House Targaryen, Jon & House Royce, Aegon II/Jon, Background/Minor ships, More TBA
Warnings: Canonical Character Deaths, Canon-Typical Bigotry, Canon-Typical Incest, Daemon Targaryen Bashing, Original Characters
AO3 Link
Is it so far from madness to wisdom? Chapter Links:
Notes: Reminder that this is very much show Daemon in this fic. And this fic is very clearly not for Daemon apologists lol
"Common"
-Valyrian-
*Old Tongue*
XxXxX
The playdate the next day was fine.
It was fine.
Yes, his sister gave the worst introduction she could have by referring to Maegon as âyour fatherâs sonâ first and his little nieces treated Maegon like an intimidating stranger they didnât necessarily want to get to know, but the twins were babes, there was time to introduce them to Maegon in better ways. And Laenor thought he and his sons did a good enough job of bridging the gaps.
Or, at least, filling the awkward silences.
Heâd been so focused on knowing Maegon wouldnât want to be near Daemon that he hadnât considered what he must think of Laena and her daughters with Daemon. Seeing Daemon in a happy marriage and hearing about how he clearly doted on these children must be beyond painful.
âAre you going to go riding with Maegon?â Jace asked during one of the lulls where Laenor was desperately thinking of a new safe topic.
Maegon tensed as Laena tilted her head, surprised at the question. âOh! Thatâs right, you ride the Cannibal, donât you?â By the time she looked at Maegon, he looked far more relaxed and had the composed expression back on his face that Laenor had begun to hate.
No child should need to be so careful.
âYes, and you ride Vhagar. If we could keep them both calm, it could be quite the race.â
Laenaâs grin could have lit up the whole room under different circumstances, but were answered by less cheerful smiles by everyone else old enough to see Maegonâs discomfort. He was beginning to get annoyed that despite how clever his sister could often be, there were huge holes in her perception when it came to anything Daemon-related.
âWhen are you going riding next? Iâll join you!â
Between one moment and the next, Laenor could see Maegon resigning himself to something he didnât want to do. Which broke Laenorâs heart, because he remembered once talking to Maegon about flying against Laena and how excited heâd been at the prospect.
He brought his hand up to play with one of the bronze beads he wore, running his finger over the rune carved into it. A wish for happiness, Maegon had said, all of the runes on the beads were for such things: there were multiple for protection, including at sea, wealth, a long life, and more. Heâd taken the time to memorize them off of the notes that Maegon had included in their box, touched at the random, thoughtful gift.
One day, he wanted his sister to have at least this much of a relationship with Maegon, even if he might never see her as his mother.
âI know weâd all love to see that, and the girls as well,â he motioned to them, glad they were too young to understand what was going on in their family. âWe could go now, Iâll watch the others while you two fly.â
Daemon was busy, it was why Laena was here without him, and he could see Maegon perking up a little more with the promise he wouldnât be putting on some spectacle for his father.
They broke apart for the two to get their riding leathers on, Maegon meeting up with them on the way to the stables with Prince Aemond in tow. From Maegonâs stories, Aemondâs favorite subject was dragons, and Jacaerys all but hung off of his uncle as they spoke about what information they knew on both dragons and the other large dragons their family had.
***
Jon felt strangely empty as he prepared to ride with (against?) Laena. It was not a very good position to be in when he had to open up his bond with the Cannibal, he realized, because his dragon was more than happy to fill in all that space.
As he climbed up and settled into his saddle, Jon's thoughts were ones of carnage, of wondering what Vhagar might taste like, if her meat would be tough between the Cannibal's teeth, if her heart would still be tender.
They were in the air before he managed to wrestle control back over himself, thankful that he'd gone first and Laena hadn't gotten any hint at what might be going through him.
Though, for all he knew, Vhagar was fantasizing about killing the Cannibal and it was spilling over into her. He had eaten some of her eggs, even some of her young, over the decades. Dragons might not be pack animals, but they were prideful and possessive.
Once they were at a decent height, Laena looked over at him and gave a hand signal he'd learned from Laenor (and that the siblings had learned from Rhaenys) and Jon returned it. They both counted down from fourteen to themselves, as was tradition, and then they were set loose.
They'd decided on the course on their way out, with the others offering their opinions, and had adjusted it to make sure their audience would be able to see them at various points, instead of just at the beginning and end.
In the sky, it was easier to forget the stress he felt on the ground. Even the Cannibal was feeling happy at being able to truly push himself, as he couldn't against Seasmoke and Sunfyre. Smaller dragons might be faster over short distances, but sheer wingspan made up for slowness when the racing went for any real length of time.
Vhagar and the Cannibal were close enough in size that they were competitive, and while Vhagar had grown complacent as a domesticated dragon, the Cannibal was full of a constant need to be better, to be powerful.
They were neck and neck coming in towards the endpoint, the dragons roaring into the wind, Laena shouting with pleasure. Jon was pressed close to the Cannibal's back, eyes closed as he relied on the Cannibal's own senses to guide them. They could take sharper turns, greater risks, than most riders when he allowed them to be so close and he felt a surge of triumph as they banked hard--only the chains on him and his tight grip on the saddle keeping him on the dragon's backâand swooped to a landing at their end point, ahead of Vhagar and Laena.
Aemond and Jacaerys were cheering for him as he took a few moments to recover, extricating himself from the Cannibal's thoughts (ignoring how bereft they both felt after he'd done so, just as the Cannibal did). Laena and he dismounted around the same time, looking at each other across the expanse they'd carefully left between their dragons.
"That was something else," Laenor stated once they were closer, with smiles for all.
He managed to smile back.
***
Jon made a show of avoiding Daemon when he could. He did want to avoid him, of course, but in letting others know he was doing so, he gained more ground with the majority of the court who disliked or outright hated Daemon.
Daemon Targaryen was both the nightmare lurking under their beds and the enemy at the gates to Alicent and her children, he knew, and it had never surprised any of them how wary he was of his own father. And they did not even know half of what heâd done in that other history Jon had been born into, what he could do.
Their fear of Daemon also meant he was also not generally welcome near the Queen and his cousins, so Jon finding his way to their sides even more often than not seemed to have an ulterior motive they could comprehend.
No one suspected that, in truth, he wished to connect with them all in the hopes of influencing the future.
It had been easy to fall in with Aegon, who was less than a year younger than him. Helaena, as a girl, and Aemond, as a younger boy, had been less aligned with his perceived interests, though heâd always gone out of his way to be kind to them. Now, though, if Aegon was busy and Jon found an excuse to spend time with one of the others, no one thought it suspicious.
He understood that Rhaenyra was not much of an older sister to them, and he understood why that was (for as politically unsound a decision as it may be), but finding himself in a position of being more or less the big brother to the group was odd.
The dynamic they all had was so completely different than the Starks that he couldnât even compare them. There was no exchanging Aegon for Robb or Helaena for Sansa or Arya in his mind. And while there were many times Aemond reminded him of Bran, he was already becoming a surlier sort, for all he was doted on by his mother much the same.
Maegon had been doted on by his mother, too. While the memories still felt secondhand, Jon had them, cleaved them close to his heart. And perhaps it was the added stories of his mother, or his personality, or his studiousness, that softened Alicent and the Greens towards him, but he never dared ask.
He was old enough to be expected to understand what the political situations were, but was not expected to grasp the subtlety of them, yet.
If anything, though, he thought some of the Greens were pleased with his presence because it went against Daemonâs desires. Cole seemed to enjoy training him alongside the other boys, praising his talents and skills (which, Jon knew, were well above his age level, and could never be attributed to his absent fatherâs training), but especially when Daemon was within hearing.
But the confrontation Jon expected that to createâbetween Cole and Daemon, perhaps leading to Coleâs early death and one loose end that Jon did not need to worry about (he knew he should not judge any of them for what they would one day do, in what felt like desperate times, but he could not help it, still)--did not come.
Instead, Daemon cornered Jon within his own rooms.
In another world, Maegon might have lived within Daemonâs household in the Keep, but as he was more likely to be in residence without Daemon than nought, he had his own. Viserys all but treated him as though he was somehow both his nephew and completely unconnected to his maligned brother, as did most of the court, and Jon encouraged that behavior.
Daemon, though, did not need to get past servants and guards who despised him when heâd spent so much time in the Red Keep and knew the passageways. He appeared in Jonâs bedroom as though he belonged there, instead of having skulked in while no one was around (he imagined him hiding from the servants whenever they walked through and held back a laugh at the great Daemon Targaryen scurrying under the bed or into the wardrobe).
âFather,â was all he said as he continued deeper into his room, planning to exchange his court attire for riding leathers and have some time to himself.
His thoughts strayed to the knives hidden around his room, to the sword at his side, but he was not fool enough to threaten Daemon. At twelve, his body still had far to go. Or at least he hoped it did.
-Your sisters and I have barely had the chance to see you.-
Jon flinched, then scowled, knowing that Daemon had to be hoping for such a reaction. -Are you here to invite me to some sort of family activity?- He turned his back, despite how it made him feel too vulnerable.
A shadow fell over him and he forced down another flinch as Daemon began to assist him. It was not something that should have been unfamiliar from a father to a son, but it was foreign enough that Jon didnât even know how to react. He wasnât even sure if Daemon had changed his clothing at all when he was a babe.
-You will dine with us in the evenings from now on.- It was a command, not a request.
He closed his eyes. Jon had lived through this before, being a bystander in a room as his father showered the children of his wife with attention. This was a more bitter feeling than even that, because heâd known Ned would have given Jon just as much if he had been able to.
There were ways around this, Jon would only have to attend for a few days before he managed to get out of it. -Then I will dine with you.-
Daemon made a curious sound and Jon almost asked after it, before he felt a thumb tracing along a scar on his back before moving on to another. -Who did this to you?-
-No one was to blame, that was from a training accident.- It had bled enough the Maester at Runestone had sewn it shut and Jon had been forbidden from moving his arm much on that side for many boring weeks.
The displeased noise Daemon made almost had Jon laughing, it was too absurd. -With Cole?- There was a dangerous tone to his words, then, and for a moment Jon considered lying.
-Back home. Ser Cole is more careful with my cousins and I than that.- The Queen did not allow them live steel, yet, whereas the men-at-arms back at Runestone had been convinced by Jonâs dedication.
Daemonâs touch tensed again, but whether it was because Jon called Runestone his home, the mention of Cole, or the reference to Aegon and Aemond, he was unsure. -I will see to your training here.-
-You mean Ser Harwin or one of the other Gold Cloaks will.-
-I will.- Jon turned, frowning, trying to catch some truth in Daemonâs eyes. -I must make sure you will be worthy of Dark Sister.-
He rolled his eyes, pushing away and beginning to drag on his leathers. -Dark Sister will go to Luke or one of Rhaenyraâs other children, as it should. I do not need the Targaryen Valyrian steel when I have my own.-
-You know as well as I that my brotherâs family is more likely to tear each other apart than allow either side to gain the throne.-
Jon wondered if that was Daemonâs plan, now, to just wait and be the last one standing, but that seemed entirely unlike him. -Your wife would surely be unhappy at thoughts of usurping her nephews.-
There was an unsurprising scoff, though Daemon didnât bother elaborating. -I will support Rhaenyra as needed,- he stated, beginning to walk around Jonâs room with feigned interest, as if he hadnât surely inspected it long before then, -you will stay neutral.-
-Excuse me?-
Daemon was seemingly reading the titles of the books spread across his desk, replying as though distracted, but Jon was sure all of his attention was on him. -You have made nice enough with those Hightower spawn, when the inevitable war breaks out, you will stay neutral. You will keep yourself safe so that I have an heir when the dust settles.-
He had a dizzying feeling when he thought of the Dance, of how only Daemonâs children really survived and was shocked heâd speak such borderline treason to someone he barely knew. -So that you can use me for stability until you have a son you actually want?-
Now Daemon did look back at him, jerking as though the words were a surprise. -You are my first born, and a son, you would be my heir.-
-I am no pureblooded Valyrian, I was not raised by you. You were happy to murder my mother, despite the son she provided you.-
-You are my son, my son. It is my seed that made you, my blood in your veins. Your mother was no more than the egg you hatched from, one only has to look at you to know that.â
He knew that wasnât true, had been able to pick out some Royce features in Maegonâs, but he also knew from his years as Jon Snow that people looked at the coloring of a person before anything else. And that some people saw only what they wanted to see.
âMy mother raised me,â Jon began, first in Common, and then in the Old Tongue, which he knew Daemon had little knowledge of, *when you abandoned us to fight your useless war and rage against your brother for asking you to not be such a grasping fool. When you shamed us over and over with your actions, whenâ*
Daemon grabbed his chin, pushing it up and forcing his mouth shut. -And I regret that, out of all my many regrets that is my worst.- For a moment, Jon almost believed him. -Come travel Essos with your sisters, stepmother, and I, let us be the family we are meant to be.-
âI am a lord, I cannot take off across the Narrow Sea for gods know how long on your whims, Prince Daemon.â
-You have a regent, you will not rule in your own right for years.- Oh, and Jon could see the bitterness in him at that, and all the idle thoughts heâd had since then that he should have let Daemon have the role if only to keep him from Laena dissolved.
He tried to reply again in Common, but Daemon only forced his head back to an even more awkward angle, and he finally relented to using Valyrian once more. -I have responsibilities,- he forced out as Daemonâs hold relaxed, -flying between here and Runestone is one thing, flying between Runestone and Essos something altogether different.-
A short silence followed, Daemon studying his face, looking for what Jon didnât know. He finally moved his hand, cupping the back of Jonâs head, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his brow. The tenderness made Jonâs skin crawl.
-Spend time with your family before you make any decisions, my son. We have missed too much time already-
***
âWe missed you last night,â the Queen stated after the usual greetings were seen to.
Jon was surprised she bothered to mention it, he had thought she might even like having her meals free of him. Dinner the night before had been incredibly awkward, Jon seething at the very sight of Daemon, who pretended as though they were all some united group, Laena doing her best to fill in the awkwardness but having her hands full with the twins. Heâd resigned himself to more evenings like that, ordering a light meal to be prepared before the next one so he wouldnât be distracted by hunger from whatever games his father played.
âPrince Daemon made it clear he wished for me to dine with him and his family now, your grace.â
The muscles of her jaw twitched just enough to be discernible, the only sign that she must have been clenching her teeth, and her fingers twitched towards each other. âI would much prefer you spend that time with us.â
Her voice took on that imperious quality it did in court and he raised his eyebrows, relaxed his shoulders, and gave a quick bow. âAs my Queen commands.â
She answered his relieved smile with a knowing one of her own and the matter was done. Even as his father, Daemon could not counteract the Queenâs commands, the only one who could was Viserys, who was delighted Maegon and Aegon had grown so close.
âThank you, Aunt Alicent,â he said softly, unsure if he was overstepping.
The surprised pleasure he found in answer warmed him, knowing that, while he might still have to be her political opponent someday, perhaps he did find more family here than he expected.
Fic Summary: Jon has been back in time in the body of Joanna Stark for sixteen years when news from the South brings the knowledge that Joffrey Baratheon's soulmark matches his own.
It's exactly the sort of plot Bloodraven would hatch and Jon means to make the most of it.
Ship: Joffrey/Jon, future Aegon/Jon
AO3 Link | Tumblr Posts
XxXxX
Starks died in the South.
That fact echoed in Jon's mind as he watched his father struggling to be an effective Hand, watched Bran lose himself in the simple tasks of a page. Watched Sansa be taken in with pretty words and dresses.
He always wondered what would have happened if he'd gone South with them that first time. Sansa had needed to become something, someone, else, but Jon had always been something else.
What mattered now, he knew, was protecting them until he could send them North again. He did not think he could manage to get his father to go, perhaps not even after his marriage, but Bran would be easy enough to send away to White Harbor or the like and SansaâŠwell.
"She's too young for this place, father, perhaps not in body, but in mind," she insisted, not for the first time, pointing out another foolish thing Sansa had said at dinner that evening, about the honor of knights.
When Jon had asked after the honor of Ser Gregor Clegane, Sansa had not taken it well. Someday, she could be a real player of the game, but Jon would prefer that she never had to be.
"If she wishes to stay South, we could send her elsewhere," he concluded.
Ned looked skeptical. "Riverrun doesn't have the sort of court life she is so taken with and the stories I hear of your Aunt LysaâŠI'm not sure I'd send any of you there."
For a moment, Jon almost wished to be sent there. To solve the problem of Lysa as Baelish once had, but without him there to take control. Bronze Yohn could be regent and the Starks could rely on the Vale once more.
"To Highgarden, father. It will have knights and pretty dresses to keep Sansa happy, and an unmarried heir to explain it."
"Willas Tyrell is much older thanâ"
"Aunt Lysa married Jon Arryn, father, and you did not protest. An older man might not be ideal, but he is, by all accounts, clever and ready to be a Lord, so that Sansa will have more time to learn her duties if tragedy were to befall the current Lord too soon." He set a delicate hand on Ned's, looking at him with big, doleful eyes he knew must remind Ned of Lyanna, because he never seemed able to resist them. "It is the best match for her in all the Kingdoms, there is no rumor of a hidden, foul nature within him, and the trade that could result will see our people through a long winter."
They'd discussed that enough, Jon having set in motion the investigation of how long winters were after long summers, the whole of the North being warned in advance. If there was no war for the throne, he thought they would be fine with the trade they had now, but he didn't like relying on the best possible outcomes.
Nevermind that the Reach had the largest armies and how much they might need that, as well.
"I'll write to Highgarden," Ned finally allowed.
Jon did not let his triumph show. "Send a messenger, do not use ravens."
"Joâ"
"No, father, you know few are trustworthy in this place. We must conceal our movements until it is too late for someone to ruin them. Highgarden is too great a prize for anyone with an unpromised daughter. And there are those who would wish to prevent it simply in fear of the North's alliances. It is as though we are surrounded by Boltons who all hide under better facades."
He gave a put upon sigh, but agreed to the secrecy, and Jon left him to it.
***
As much as Jon did not want to bed Joffrey, he knew it was necessary for the marriage to happen before Robert's death. He'd distracted Ned as much as he could from what Jon Arryn had been investigating before Lysa killed him, but he did not think he could put it off forever, nor did he think that he could keep Cersei from acting for more than a few moons once she caught wind of it.
While the soulmark protected Jon in a way that a betrothal hadn't protected Sansa, it did not guarantee him any power. If things went to the hells in the South, he could be kept in waiting for years before a wedding and an official position.
He was older than Sansa, already flowered, and marked to Joffrey so neither had to wait on that. Robert's love for spending was convenient for encouraging a wedding ("Winter will come if we wait and then not nearly as many lords will make the trip," Jon had reasoned, adding in some hollow praises of the tourney that the heir's wedding could include).
Sansa had been helping him with his maiden cloak, but he put on the finishing touchesâa field of winter rose petals at the bottom. His crown, too, would have winter roses curled around a daintier replica of the crown of winter. He could not wear it, yet, but had plans to show it to Robert to sway his opinion if need be.
Reminders of Lyanna often did that, as disgusting as it made Jon feel.
He did not think his mother would begrudge him this, however. Perhaps if sheâd been allowed to live longer, she would have learned the art of manipulating Robert and the kingdom would be a much better place for it.
Manipulating Joffrey was proving more difficult, like walking through a field covered in wildfyre with a torch in hand. He was neither clever nor terribly learned, but he was stubborn at times, and so very cruel to others.
Jon had witnessed atrocities that Joffrey could only fantasize about, however, and could keep a placid face when he spoke of his various acts of depravity. But a man could own a free woman or he could own a knife(1), and Jon had finished his last life among the Free Folk.
And Joffrey so loved pointy objects.
âDo you truly just talk to each other before a tree?â he wrinkled his nose, looking at the great oak that was a mummerâs heart tree in the Red Keep.
âWhat did you expect?â
Joffrey gave him a feral grin. âA sacrifice! Painting each other with blood, maybe.â
âAh, a Valyrian wedding, then,â Jon joked, amused when Joffrey became intrigued at the ideaâfor someone who supposedly disliked the Targaryens as much as his father, he certainly loved fire and blood.
***
This was the first time Jon had ever been married under a tradition of the Seven Kingdoms, all of his marriages in the last life had been by the Free Folk tradition.
Like with all things related to the Seven, the ceremony was tedious and overlong, and Jon had to fight from rolling his eyes during the High Septonâs sermon. He kept his face blank, though, even as his father removed his maiden cloak and Joffrey replaced it with one a putrid mix of Baratheon and Lannister, for all he was sure the ladies would gossip about how beautiful it was later.
They rode through the people back to the Red Keep at Jonâs insistence, he ignoring Joffreyâs discomfort as he waved and smiled at the crowd. Even Queen Helaena had been loved when her husband was a cruel usurper, Jon could make sure Queen Joanna was the same(2). Perhaps he would not even have to reveal his bloodline, and his fatherâs deception, when Aegon came to shore, everyone believing the beloved Stark Queen was his best option.
At some point, Joffrey fell behind, and to Jonâs amusement he ended up riding nearly astride with Robert. Cersei was in a carriage, of course, and surely already drinking to soothe the stress of a gigantic feast at her husbandâs side, and the space was there.
Robert kept shooting glances at Jon, his eyes wide and wet. He was seeing Lyanna, confused by Jonâs coloring and pretending they must look identical. Perhaps he was pretending this was their wedding, after his triumph at the Trident and the fall of House Targaryen.
For his part, Jon wondered how easy it would be to warg briefly into Robertâs horse and make it throw him, if it would kill or simply injure him. He would like Cersei to die first, if he was going to be committing murders against his good-family, but he could fantasize still.
When they reached the keep, they separated so that Jon and Joffrey could change again, Jonâs wedding dress too precious for him to waste on a bedding (he had instead affixed multiple layers of smallclothes, uncaring at the roughness against his skin, to deter the groping hands of the lords). It was also the first chance Jon had to look around his new rooms, moved into the Holdfast from the Tower of the Hand, as now a member of the Kingâs own family.
Not enough time to look for secret passages, if there were any that Maegor had allowed for the room(3), but that would come later.
Meeting Joffrey in the hallway as an escort to the feast, he did spare a smile when one of the first things from Joffreyâs mouth was an actual apology. âI am sorry for leaving you so long beside my father, I know that is uncomfortable for you.â
Jon pursed his lips, taking Joffreyâs arm and debating whether Joffrey was more observant than he thought, if it was a feature of their marks, or if he simply believed it must be true because of a certain possessiveness.
âIt is no matter, my love, I am well used to men looking at me in such ways, but none would dare risk offending you by acting on it.â
Preening distracted Joffrey the rest of the way and Jon managed to engage in conversation with various nobles throughout the feast to keep from dwelling on what was coming.
The bedding procession was every bit as awful as heâd expected, though his layers held out and he was not completely nude when he arrived. Joffrey was not technically nude, either, though solely because his boots had proven too stubborn to remove.
Stripping the rest of the way, amused with the way Joffrey stared at his body, Jon laid back on the plush bed and tried to think of anything else but what they were doing.
It did not, at least, take long.
XxXxX
Notes:
(1) this is from a ASOS Ygritte quote, "A man can own a woman or a man can own a knife, but no man can own both. Every little girl learns that from her mother."
(2) Helaena Targaryen is one of those seemingly actually good and terribly tragic figures in GRRM's works, when she died the people of KL rioted.
(3) Maegor's Holdfast is not supposed to have the many secret passages of the rest of the Red Keep, supposedly there just being one secret exit. Jon, of course, doesn't trust that.
The King came and no one had to tell Jon twice to stay hidden. He looked more like Lyanna than even Arya did and was a woman grown, on top of that. While he didn't quite know if Robert would go as far as to try anything under his best friend's watch, he was too drunk too often for Jon to risk anything.
He instead spent more time with the younger children, Bran especially. The fall, he had decided as soon as he heard that Cersei and Jaime were still in the King's entourage, would not happen. His little brother would not become the Three Eyed Raven and would hopefully never realize his abilities to manipulate the minds of others.
Arya and Sansa were a bit put-out by Jon's time spent with Bran and Rickon, as they were old enough to be expected at many of the events held in the King's honor. He tried to make extra time for them when he could, thankful that his chores had been diminished despite the extra workload because some would take him too close to where the King might be.
"Father said the King wants me to marry Prince Joffrey," Sansa whined as they sat in a room watching Bran play, their fingers working through their embroidery with near automatic movements.
"Ew," Arya put in, from beside Jon, wrinkling her nose and looking for all the world like she'd just had manure shoved under it.
Jon nodded. "He seems...very arrogant." They all nodded, even Bran, who Jon hadn't thought would be paying attention. "And, well, you see the King and Queen--you deserve better than that, Sansa, you both do."
"We all do," she replied, giving Jon a pointed look. "We all deserve kind lords who will love us truly and treat us with respect."
It hurt his heart, to see how much improved Sansa was here already. Was there something Jon could have done in the past life to make his Sansa more like her? Had he just not tried hard enough to protect his little sister?
"Jo!" He blinked and turned his attention to Arya, who had apparently been trying to gain his attention.
"Sorry, sorry. What is it?"
She rolled her eyes, then pointed to his embroidery. Sansa was distracted talking to Jeyne and Bran wasn't looking, either, Jon noticed, and so when he looked down at what he'd been making he felt slightly less worried. But...still worried.
He'd meant to make a Ghost running through the Wolfswood. Instead he'd made a dragon flying over it.
Arya raised her eyebrows at him and he glanced at Sansa, then shook his head. She nodded and he knew she wouldn't press the subject, not until they had some actual time alone.
The men went on a hunt and returned, the only noticeable event being the mocking comments Robert gave about Joffrey. Jon could almost (almost) feel sorry for the boy, because while Robert wasn't his real father, he was the only one Joffrey knew of, and Jaime didn't seem any closer to the boy than any other.
Avoiding Robert meant avoiding Jaime, regretfully, and Tyrion, less regretfully. He'd always thought of Jaime as his enemy and Tyrion as his friend, but it had been Tyrion who helped convince him his sisters were under threat from Daenerys, who took in his mental turmoil and decided to abuse it. And then, when he had a chance to tell the truth, of how Jon had been nothing but a pawn to him and the Starks, he instead let Jon take the complete fall and ended up no worse off than he'd been before.
With Jaime...well, Jon could understand loving a monster. And if he'd had longer with Dany, if they'd been half as close as Jaime and Cersei for half as long, he thought he might have made the same awful decisions for her.
But neither of these men were those men, he reminded himself, just as he did with his siblings. They had not gone through most of the what had changed them at the end and Jon shouldn't judge them for it (he would not judge Daenerys, he knew, when they first met again, he would give her every chance he could and try to be better, try to be the support she needed).
When the King's party finally left, Ned Stark went with them as Hand, but he did not bring any of his children. There was no betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey, instead they spoke of Myrcella possibly marrying Robb when she was older, and that was that.
Jon hugged his sisters extra tight the night their father left. They just thought he was sad about that and didn't protest, holding him back just as tightly. It was the first time, for them, that their family would be separated for more than a few months. They were too young to remember the Greyjoy Rebellion, after all, and no one had been fostered out yet.
This time, he promised them silently, they would be safe in Winterfell when war broke out.
***
Daenerys missed her gowns the most--the sense of power she had when she forced men's eyes to turn to her, when they forgot what they were saying, doing, because of her beauty.
But there was something to be said for how easy it was to move in men's clothing. How no skirts got in her way as she mounted a horse or ran up a flight of stairs.
How there was no great lengths of excess fabric to be caught in the fire she stoked under the dragon eggs Illyrio had finally given her. She was fireproof in this body, though she didn't know if it was something of Daeron or if she'd brought that magic with her. Viserys and Jon had not been fireproof, though Jon had never embraced the dragon inside of him and Viserys had never been a true dragon.
There was something missing, she knew, a sacrifice necessary--life paying for life. She'd entertained the idea of sacrificing her brother, but she still held out hope of keeping him alive. He wasn't quite so bad in this life, not quite so mad--having a brother who grew up so fast must have given him more protection, as opposed to a little girl to drag around.
Still, he thought people wanted him to be King, to the point he couldn't even see that they were plotting against him under the same roof.
They had so much in common in all of the ways she didn't want to.
"Nothing, yet?"
She glanced up at Ser Jorah, shaking her head. "This isn't enough."
"The fire?"
With a smirk, she corrected, "The blood."
He frowned at that, eyes a little wide. "Lots of people have sacrificed lots of lives trying to hatch dragon eggs--Summerhall was--"
"They had no true dragons at Summerhall."(1) That shut him up, he'd seen Daenerys' immunity to fire firsthand. She'd shown all the people she wished to sway from her brother's (or the Usurper's) side. "I can feel the life in these eggs, waiting to come back."
"Have you asked Illyrio?"
"If I ask Illyrio for lives, he'll give me slaves the Pentoshi claim are free."
Jorah winced, the former slaver reminded of his dishonor, of the reason he'd fled Westeros. She wouldn't let him forget that, in this world, he had a penance to serve.
"And I don't think they'll be much help. I need...someone I have a connection to, somehow." She knew it was true as she was saying it, licking her lips and imagining who, other than her brother or Jon, she could possibly burn.
And then she realized there were many people, in fact, who could fit that description--they were just across the Narrow Sea. She needed a Baratheon, or a Lannister, or even a Tully or Stark. They wouldn't even have to be from the main branch, she thought, as long as she could imagine someone would miss them. She hated them and they had helped destroy her family. It would be enough.
She dismissed Jorah and headed to Illyrio. With his assistance, they might be able to lure someone to Pentos who would suit her needs.
XxXxX
Notes:
(1) I'm just bullshitting. Summerhall refers to the Tragedy thereof where Aegon the Unlikely, thinking he needed dragons in order to have the power to push through the social reforms he wanted (the nobility hated him because he tried to help the smallfolk) gathered almost all of his family to the family palace andâŠsomething happened and nearly everyone died. It was where Rhaegar was born, as Rhaella had been very pregnant but still forced to attend. Some people think they maybe meant to sacrifice a newborn Rhaegar for the dragons or something like that and that Ser Duncan prevented it. Some people believe the maesters purposefully caused the accident because their goal is to destroy magic. There's lots of theories.
Jon started out planning on leaving within a moon or two, until he realized just how hard that would be--a young woman wasn't a young man. No matter that Joanna had been training in swords and bows before he ever took her body and increased that training, she was still a woman and that's all anyone saw when they looked at Jon.
Instead, he decided to take every advantage he could from this new life while he came up with some alternative way to leave, to help in the fight against the Others. He spent as much time with his father (uncle) and siblings (cousins) as he could, delighting in having them all back with him and safe. This Bran would never betray him for power, this Sansa would never plot against him for a crown. At least, he would do everything in his power to make it so.
He passed more time in the crypts than he'd been able to in his previous life, leaving flowers for his mother and speaking with her in whispers. He'd had no time to adapt to being a Targaryen, had been left reeling from the truth and that had never once stopped. Even when he'd been largely left alone in the True North, Dany's blood on his hands had made it impossible to think of her. He was a kinslayer, but he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it. In this life he'd had time to come to terms with not being a Snow or Stark and was starting to appreciate that.
He'd spent half his childhood pretending to be Targaryens while at play and that wasn't any different for Joanna. She'd chosen Visenya and Rhaenys as often as she'd chosen Jonquil or Lady Jenny in the games she and her siblings played.
That was...still not something he was used to. His body was wrong, his voice was wrong, the way others treated him, even while he appreciated how much better much of it was, was wrong. Somedays he wanted to tear the dresses from his body and scream out that he was not a young woman, no matter what rested between his legs.
Yet he didn't, because that was not done. Maybe in some far-off lands in Essos. Maybe if he had found the courage to run away despite the increased dangers, to live life as a pirate or a sellsword by taking up a new identity...but even that, he knew, was unlikely. In the last world he'd been short for a man and in this one he was short for a woman; in the last world he'd been pretty for a man and in this one he was beautiful. Even in his masculine clothing, with his hair pulled back and cloth wrapped around his breasts to push them down, he still looked like a woman. He wondered if he would ever get to meet Brienne, to tell her how much he envied her body.
All he could do was act like a lady (a princess) and deal with the wrongness in private.
And there were other ways his mind and body being so at odds caused problems: Ghost was still born male, so that the direwolves did not seem to exactly match the Stark children. Jon was finding it was far easier as a girl to sway his father than it had been as a boy, it was how he'd even gotten to go to the execution, and so he had to rely on that to convince him the direwolves should be theirs. It was the difference, he thought, of looking like a Targaryen-influenced Ned and looking like a more refined Lyanna. His father couldn't bare to say no to the image of his dead sister.
And being Joanna might mean being blissfully without Lady Catelyn's outright hatred, as a girl would be no threat to her brothers' claims, but that didn't mean his interactions with others were much better. Theon no longer mocked and derided him, instead he flirted so heavily that it was improper. Jon had gotten used to relying on his body's instincts for avoiding the groping from visiting lords and their sons. And his moon's blood was...well, he didn't know why anyone thought women couldn't handle battle, after dealing with that.
Jon wasn't sure what else had changed, who else had changed, but he kept a careful ear out for gossip from the South. When news came that Jon Arryn had died, he felt panicked as he realized what was to come--he had so much to do. And he wasn't even sure if he'd accomplish anything at all.
He'd done his best to work with Sansa, glad she wasn't quite as flighty as she had originally been in their last life--this was not a girl who would fall for Joffrey's pretty looks. And he was probably the only one who could get Arya into dresses or paying attention at her lessons--they were true sisters, he'd whisper to her as they practiced swordplay, and they needed all the skills they could get. She would not be play fighting with the butcher's boy on the road to the Red Keep, she would, hopefully, not be attacked by a mad prince.
His nightmares of his last life increased, of what he'd imagined the Red Wedding looked like, or the tortures Sansa went through. But he also dreamt of better things, of the Wall and his friends there, of the Free Folk and Ygritte...of Daenerys, their soft bodies against each other's, her slender hands between his legs. He'd always wake up at that point, shuddering in a mix of revulsion and need, not daring to touch that part of himself he could barely stand to acknowledge.
***
Over the next few months, Daenerys did all she could to better herself and improve Daeron Targaryen's reputation across Essos...and, hopefully, back in Westeros. Her new body was talented with sword and spear and she had not lost the horsemanship she'd known in her past life. She had training in actual war, though she'd only taken part in combat from Drogon's back, and had listened intently to her commanders when they'd spoken of it, so her knowledge of such made life easier when plotting with the sellsword companies she could find.
She even found out why Illyrio was so interested in helping them, a fact she'd never had the chance to gain in a past life. His beloved second wife, the woman he still mourned years later, had been from a line of Targaryen bastards in Lys. Her mother had shared with her stories of her great-grandfather Maegor Targaryen, of his mad father Aerion and how close Maegor had come to kingship if only others could look past his father's reputation, and she'd dreamt of finding a way to meet her extended family, of being accepted among them.(1)
There were four Targaryens alive in the world right now, Daenerys realized, as she went into the meeting of loyalists after her talk with Illyrio. In her last life, it had been as many as there had been for as long as she could remember. She had died without any human children and Jon...she didn't think Jon would ever have any, after what happened. He had still been upset over causing Ygritte's death, actually being the one holding the weapon for Daenerys' would have surely broken him.
Her hand stroked down her flat, hard stomach for a moment as she realized that perhaps that's why she was brought back as she was--she doubted the same sacrifice would happen to hatch her dragons, as she couldn't become pregnant. That meant she could have children, children to carry on the family line. It was such a wonderful thought.
"Ser Jorah?"
She approached him separate from Viserys, always making sure to exist in contrast to her mad brother, as the better option for anyone wanting to restore their family's dynasty (or for those spies who may have loyalties she could sway). It had worked wonders so far, with many coming up to her in private to speak when they grew sick of dealing with her brother.
"Yes, your grace?"
How odd it was, to not have his attraction. She could have used it well in this lifetime to ensnare his loyalty earlier than she had before. Instead, she'd need other means of getting him in her camp, of maybe even feeding the Usurper false information about her.
"I was wondering if you could tell me more about the...Rebellion. I imagine you know more about the Northern involved, of what the Starks went through, than anyone else I've met."
He shifted, studying her, eyes flicking to Viserys as if wondering if she wanted the same lies that her brother did, before he came to the conclusion. "You know of...of you father, your grace?"
She grimaced. "I do. I know of the things he did, of why others would wish him gone."
That seemed to be enough to convince him and he wove the story as he knew it--of Lyanna Stark's "kidnapping," of Brandon Stark's foolish threats and Rickard Stark's attempt to save his heir, and of Eddard Stark's rise. He concluded, as any Northman surely would, that eventually Lord Stark had found his sister, only for her to die soon after, and he returned with her bones to Winterfell.
Daenerys had stayed mostly quiet during the speech, only asking a few questions when potentially still-living Targaryen loyalists had been mentioned, but now there was one question she needed an answer for.
"Is that all? He just...returned with his sister's bones, after everything?"
"Well, and his bastard, I suppose."
Daenerys gave a small frown, then made the leading statement, "The descriptions of him you and others have given me haven't made him seem the type of man to father a bastard."
"It surprised all of us, in truth. We'd never seen his eyes wander, he'd never been with a camp follower or a tavern wench, as far as any of us knew. But, the truth was in the babe--she was pure Stark."
She nodded in thought, dismissing him, and it was only after that she realized what Jorah had told her--"she." The baby Eddard Stark brought home was a girl. Jon in this world was a woman in perhaps the same way she was a man.
Excusing herself from the company she settled into her bedroom, alone, unsure of the feelings racing through her. Jon could still be hers, he would be no true threat to her throne. They surely must be meant to be together, if her change meant he, too, had changed. This time, he could be her Queen. She shivered, body heating up as she realized he could be the one to bare her children. Pureblood Targaryens, future dragonriders, come from the two of them.
Looking down at herself, her eyes widened. She could see the bulge in her trousers and realized exactly what it was she was feeling. With a breathless laugh, she touched herself, appreciating how easy it was to increase her own pleasure, now. Closing her eyes, she imagined a beautiful woman with Jon's hair and eyes, kneeling before her and declaring Daeron her king.
XxXxX
Notes:
(1) Aerion Brightflame is the notorious Targaryen who drank a cup of wildfire because he thought it would turn him into a dragon. His son, Maegor, was a child at the time and passed over for the kingship, never being mentioned again (in the histories we have so far) after that. Aerion was one of the brothers of Aegon the Unlikely who was ahead of him in the succession (and thus a brother to Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch, too). In the books, we know that Illyrio is plotting to put a character who claims to be Aegon VI Targaryen on the throne, but in the show this character doesn't exist and it leaves Illyrio's motivations very confusing. I just worked in one of the fan theories about the supposed Aegon VI for this.
Overall Content: Trans Jon Snow, Genderqueer Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Gender Dysphoria, Deadnaming, Misgendering, Abusive Relationship, Stark Bashing, Targaryen Restoration, Implied Suicide, Stereotypical Gendered Expectations, Canon-Typical Incest
Summary: Daenerys died with her love's lips against hers and his blade in her darkened heart. Jon died alone in the cold with his guilt. That is not their end.
They both wake up years earlier, in a world that is nearly the same...but with two differences that greatly affect them. Jon and Daenerys must navigate the future they know is coming from the bodies of Joanna Snow and Daeron Targaryen, with all that entails.
Ship: Daenerys/Jon, other background/past/minor ships
XxXxX
Winterfell | Pentos
Jon startled awake, hands gripping the blankets around him as he sat. He remembered death, cold and unforgiving, welcome by the second time it came to him. And yet...here he was. He did not feel dead--his breath shuddered through his chest, his heart beat pumped in his ears.
He glanced around, seeing a small, tidy room in what could only be Winterfell. His room, his old childhood room. The same and yet...different. There were tapestries and sundries he was unfamiliar with, not just because he hadn't seen them in years, but because he'd never seen them.
Standing, he wobbled for a moment, the balance of his body unexpected, and when he looked down he gasped. Small breasts appeared in his view and the body that went along with them was more slender and effeminate than he had ever seen.
There was a mirror of polished silver sitting on a table and he grabbed it, staring at himself in the early light of dawn--he had the same hair, though far longer, the same eyes, a long face and pale, pale skin, and yet...and yet he appeared to be a girl.
A girl, not even a full-grown woman.
He searched through his things, finding clothing for a girl, finer than the clothing he'd worn as a bastard boy was, though still nothing like what Sansa might have worn. There were tunics and trousers, as well, worn enough that he knew they'd been used. The sort of things Arya always tried to wear. Something told him she'd made them, this girl he now was.
Hesitating over the clothing, he finally decided on one of the plainer dresses with a huff. He'd come back from the dead (twice, now, if this could be called such), fought White Walkers, ridden dragons, he refused to be afraid of wearing girl's clothing.
His hands moved automatically once he started, falling into a pattern that seemed long-practiced of putting on all that he needed, even of braiding back his unruly curls. The less time he spent actively thinking of things, the more this girl's life seemed to come to him.
Joanna Snow, bastard daughter of Lord Eddard Stark (who still did not know of her mother, which to Jon meant she, too, must truly be the daughter of Lyanna and Rhaegar). She was close to her brother Robb, but closest to her sisters Sansa and Arya, though in different ways. She was the bridge between the two, the peacemaker, and it made Jon's heart ache to realize that in this world they were both better off, both happier, because he was a she.
Shaking himself off, he diligently started through the doors, ready to perform the chores Joanna had before breaking her fast. There was a lot he didn't know, yet, and playing along in this...whatever it was would be necessary until he knew how to escape.
***
Daenerys woke up with a gasp, hands flying to her heart. They felt wrong, as did her chest, and when she looked down...it was all wrong. Too flat, too broad, her hands far too large. Masculine.
She glanced around her, panic flaring before she could start to pull herself together.
The last thing she remembered was Jon kissing her...and stabbing her. The tears in his eyes, the fury in her mind.
She'd heard his story of coming back to life. It was nothing like this.
The room was different than her memories, but still recognizable--she was in Illyrio's manse. That meant...Viserys was down the hall. As soon as she thought it, she knew it to be true.
And once she started thinking through that, more came to her. She was still trying to work through the jumble of thoughts and memories as servants came into the room to prepare her for the day.
It was odd, having men helping her, but her body knew what to do. They bowed and were as respectful as expected, asking "Prince Daeron" if he required anymore from them before she waved them off and settled back into her own mind.
Somehow, she was alive. In the past. Though she was not fully herself. The youngest son of Aerys and Rhaella instead of their only daughter, the girl born too late.
Thinking of her family made her think of Jon again. He had looked miserable, she remembered. Hesitant. Had someone threatened him? Tyrion could have, perhaps, or one of the others who worked against her. Threatened the treacherous Starks that Jon had been so attached to.
She would need to find him earlier in this timeline. The Starks had already sunk their claws deep within him, but she could show him the truth of himself and teach him how to be a Targaryen instead.
As a man, as a prince, she would not be sold off to the Khal. She was trained as a warrior as Viserys never had been, had dabbled in becoming a sellsword once she was a little older and if she could escape his dreams of a throne. She would be no one's victim.
Now she knew that Viserys' fantasies were not so impossible. All she needed to do was find a way to bring the dragons back in this world and the chaos Westeros would fall into because of Cersei Lannister would pave the way to the throne.
The only thing she had to decide on was whether to allow Viserys to take it as her puppet or to get rid of him. He might cause more trouble than he was worth, but he was still her brother. And in this world Daenerys had grown fast enough, large enough, that Viserys hadn't dared touch her as he had in the other. She could be a little more forgiving.
After all, she'd have enough enemies when she abolished slavery among the Free Cities and wiped out the remaining Starks before they could move against her.
XxXxX
Notes:
So as a non-binary person genderswap fics both fascinate me and often feel super awkward. It's worse in stuff set in the modern day or cultures with some level of third gender, but it's awkward regardless, really, even as I like the exploration of how being a different gender might change a character.
I was thinking of time travel fix-it fics for Game of Thrones, though, and it made me wonder...what would have happened if Jon had been a woman and Dany a man? Dany would have been able to get away with a lot more and had much more support to begin with...but both of them would still have much different lives and still need to get to that point. So, I decided to do a time travel fix-it with a "genderswap" of their bodies/the versions of them they're replacing, but the minds of their previous life. The two of them will deal in different ways with this, their histories and culture playing a role in it.
It's Dark Daenerys as she's not far from the mindset she had at the end of the series, though dying (and waking up in a body with a penis) sort of shocked her into a calmer approach to it. It's mostly Game of Thrones canon, with just a little of the books throne in here and there.
Summary: Jon is back in King's Landing, earlier than he'd like, and dreading what is to come.
Content Warning: Implied Animal Death
XxXxX
Jon woke with silent, dying howls ringing in his mind and the stench of burning fur in his nose. He rolled from bed to the floor, gasping for breath, remembering again what it was like to fill days-empty lungs.
A guard checked in on him and he waved them off with a mumble about a nightmare. He had made comments over the last few years of his bond with the Cannibal unsettling his mind so as not to explain that he had a past full of grief and pain already.
When he glanced in the looking glass, he swore his eyes were red for a moment, but when he blinked they were the same purple as they had been since heâd come to this time. Ghost was long dead and Maegon had never known him.
He had suspected the day would be a terrible one just from the dream of his direwolfâs sacrifice, but a foreboding seemed to have settled over the Red Keep itself. Not long after the midday meal, the reason was given: the King announced that Daemon and his new family would be arriving within a few hours, presenting the twins to Viserys.
When Daemon had left Runestone, despite already having a trueborn son he had still married Laena Velaryon, fled to Essos, and now, both too near and too far away, Maegon had two little sisters. Jon had felt unconditional love for his siblings in the last life, even when they were his cousins, and a powerful yearning for his actual half-siblings, who he could never meet.
His feelings were more complicated for Baela and Rhaena.
âYou donât have to like them, you know,â Aegon advised. âJust because theyâre related to you, you donât have to like them.â
Jon couldnât help but laugh at the irony of Aegon lecturing him on being a sibling. âYouâre convinced Rhaenyra will kill you. These are babes, ones set to inherit nothing while I am a lord already.â
âYou always pretend as though logic rules you, cousin, but we both know that is untrue.â
He took a deep breath, then pushed away from Aegon and started towards his rooms. âI must change, if they will be here soon.â
Jon had still been wearing red that day, with black iron studs such as in his House crest, but he knew he would wear black when Daemon appearedâblack and bronze.
Following behind him, Aegon seemed not to understand, scowling at the black cloth, until Jon was finished pulling the outfit from his wardrobe and the bronze runes sewn throughout could be seen, and then he chuckled. âIf only weâd had more time, we could have started a trend for bronze jewelry around court.â
He snorted, imagining the look on Daemonâs face if he walked into a sea of bronze. âWe donât know how long theyâll be here, perhaps we do have time.â
Aegonâs eyes lit up at the promise of mischief and Jon knew heâd be using his dubious, pre-teen wiles on the girls in court who wished for the princeâs favor and the rest of the Greens would catch on to the scheme soon enough.
Rhaenyra would not go along with mocking Daemon, so Jon could not rely on her faction for help, nor would he ask her children for fear of them drawing Daemonâs ire.
The way it would look might be less than welcomed from the stance of a neutral lord, but he knew Rhaenyra was soft on him and he didnât think heâd lose her friendship over such petty pranks, at least not yet.
***
When Daemon arrived, Jon went out to greet him with the rest of the family. He looked happy, Jon noticed immediately, as did Laena, and he could not begrudge her that. Her eventual fate haunted him every time he thought of how his presence hadnât stopped the marriage. If there was a way to talk her out of more children he had not thought of it, and he was not the sort to poison a woman even if it was to save her.
Uncle Viserys was excited to see his nieces and seemed to have forgotten how angry he was about Daemonâs hasty marriage to Laena and disappearance into Essos. He greeted them with open arms and the smug smile Daemon sent Alicentâs way was enough to show that was exactly why he had waited to reappear.
He caught Jon looking at him and his face softened, perhaps, and he rudely bypassed greeting the Queen to come right up to him with open arms. When Jon did not move to hug him, he gave a chuckle, setting his hands on his shoulders.
âAlready at that age, I see. I suppose I should have expected it. Itâs good to see you, my son.â
âWelcome back, father,â he managed, voice just a little colder than he wanted it to be.
That Daemon thought he was going through a phase instead of upset that he had abandoned him so soon after Rheaâs death, after heâd acted like they should reconnect, was so typical of him that Jon almost raged over it. But he knew that would get him nowhere, would only diminish his reputation at court, and so he contained it until the King began leading everyone inside the keep.
âAt least theyâre only girls,â Aegon pointed out when they retreated, following behind the Queen with Helaena and Aemond at her sides. âThey canât inherit before you.â
âInherit what? Runestone would go to my motherâs nephew before it went to any of my fatherâs family.â That seemed to make Aegon pause, despite Jonâs earlier words to him, and he wondered how much the boy paid attention to anything that was said.
Alicent shot Jon a tense smile over her shoulder. âExactly right, Maegon. They have no claim over your inheritance, no claim over anything at all.â
How lucky she must think he was.
***
A few hours later, when he was just starting to unwind, Laenor came to visit and immediately pulled him into a tight hug. It had taken Jon some time to be used to friendly, casual touches like that again, after so long in the Watch and then the war, but by now he could relax into the hold without tensing.
He chuckled when he saw the runed bronze beads in Laenorâs hair, ones Jon had gotten him on a whim because of his fascination with Jonâs ceremonial armor.
âI couldnât help but notice your choice in outfits,â he explained, âand I thought Iâd do my part.â
âAegon wants to start a bronze trend.â
Laenor laughed. âIn that case, Daemon wonât be able to go anywhere soon without seeing bronze. Iâd work with Aegon, but I fear Alicent would think it was an evil plot of Rhaenyraâs!â
âConsidering how long it took her to warm up to me, you donât have a chance, cousin.â Jon was still smiling, despite the reminder of Alicentâs paranoia. âIf you could convince some of Rhaenyraâs faction that arenât soâŠfavorably towards Daemon to play along, you might yet win over Aegon.â
âIs there anyone in the Keep that does like Daemon?â Laenor playfully wondered, pulling away and walking over to Jonâs hastily rearranged wardrobe to paw through his next few days worth of clothing.
Jon huffed. âYour wife?â
That earned him a grimace. Their time at Runestone may have cooled Laenor to Daemon, but him marrying Laena and leaving Westeros had killed whatever love heâd had for his motherâs cousin. In the time since then, heâd shown support to Prince Maegon however he could, and heâd more or less taken over Jonâs studies in maths and trade while he was in Kingâs Landing, two subjects Jon had thought he was quite good at until faced with someone taught by Corlys Velaryon.
What he and Rhaenyra said behind closed doors, Jon could not know, but he thought this had to be a point of contention.
âCome by after your training tomorrow, Iâll have my sons and Laena is bringing the girls, no Daemon necessary.â
He knew he had to eventually have a real introduction to them, so even though he didnât want to, he meekly nodded, ignoring Laenorâs probing glance, and then changed the subject by asking him what he thought he should order from his tailor.
XxXxX
Notes:
For clarification: I'm going with the theory that Ghost dies on Jon's funeral pyre (after his first death) and that sacrifice helps bring him back. I imagine Jon would never really get over that.
More stuff about clothing because the color of clothing is such a big deal at court lol
Note: I'm planning on posting up the chapters of my chaptered fics (at least this series, Red Ruins, and Trinity) here on Tumblr and will be doing a single post for each collecting links to all of the chapters, so while right now they won't be in order, they'll be easier to navigate eventually. At that point I'll remove most of the navigation tags from individual chapters.
XxXxX
Jon usually stayed close to Daeron during the social events they hosted if only to keep abreast of his plots. This time, he stuck even closer still, the reminder of Daeronâs possessiveness echoing in his thoughts.
There were many handsy lords, and some ladies, among their supporters, and he didnât want to give Daeron an excuse to hurt someone. He had concluded moons before that he could never give the impression of straying and certainly not allow someone to lose their life, or worse, over being too familiar with him.
It was one of the reasons he made no efforts to add men to his retinue, despite sometimes wishing there were other ones with him. Daeron might still see women as a threat for Jon's affections, but they did not come along with the threat of line theft.
He did dance with Oberyn, at one point, and a few of the older Crownlands lords he knew Daeron wouldn't care about. But he skirted around the current guests of honor, representatives from the Reach who were pretending not to have their liege's permission to speak with Daeron.
The Tyrells were grasping for power, having supported Renly, who died quickly, more or less a laughingstock of the Kingdoms, and they were now shackled to King's Landing, first to the little monster that was King Joffrey and now to the too-young King Tommen.
"Perhaps Margaery for Robb, it would get her out of the way, bind her to someone loyal, and give the suggestion that a daughter of theirs would be more likely to be betrothed to your heir," he suggested, keeping his thoughts detached when thinking of the next generation.
Daeron tilted his head in acknowledgement, eyes drifting over the Hightowers and Tarlys, the Redwynes and Fossoways. âIt has merit, though we certainly wonât make any promises about our heirs. With luck, we will have a boy and a girl within a few years of each other and they can wed.â
If accepting being with his uncle was difficult, imagining his eventual children being together was worse.
Yet, he understood why it had to be that way: dragons made it so. Both to keep their blood as strong as it could be now that magic had returned and to keep it out of other Houses, so they did not have to worry about the power of a rival.
âWith luck,â he replied, not knowing what else to say, then stood again. âOne more round, I think, and then surely I can make my excuses and retire?â
The indulgent smile and the heated look that swept over him assured him of Daeronâs agreement before he even opened his mouth. âYes, bathe the stench of these others off of you when you return to your rooms. I will be there when I am able.â
Jon gave a polite acknowledgement before stepping away from the high table once more. He drew attention in this body as he rarely had in his old one, though he often wondered if he had been raised a prince, if that would have been different. Highborn women had to be more careful and discerning in their attentions and would not give much notice to a bastard.
Highborn men, however, allowed their gazes to fall anywhere they pleased, and they seemed to be very pleased to look at Jon. He was glad he had not been cursed with a large bust or behind, that there was less for them to view.
âMy queen.â The sudden voice jarred him out of his thoughts and he gave his attention to a new figure.
He wore an aquamarine seahouse on his coat and the silver detailing marked him as a bastard of House Velaryon. If Jon had not already had an inkling to his identity, the silver hair of a Valyrian would have given it away.
âAurane Waters,â he acknowledged, with a regal nod of his head he had seen Sansa give at times in their last life.
His smile was stunning and playful. âMight I have the next dance, your grace?â
Jon knew he should not grant him one, he was not the safe sort of partner that heâd been with so far, and was being far too bold for a bastard as Jon well knew, but it was difficult to find the words to dismiss him. There was want in his eyes, yes, but unlike with most of the other men, they did not stray from his face.
âI suppose I could grant you this one request, my lord.â
Aurane was graceful and as sure footed as a sailor surely had to be, and still his eyes did not wander. At least, Jon decided as they spoke of little and less of importance, they did not wander to his body. They did look over his face, tracing his brow and cheekbones, his lips and nose. As they passed under a shifting light from the candles in the chandeliers above, he seemed intent on Jonâs eyes.
There was no reason to look at his body with lust, Jon realized with some amusement, when he was looking for the Targaryen in Jon instead. The Velaryons might not have practiced incest in the way that his house had, they may not have bred into his own line since Queen Alyssa, but it should be no surprise they might be fixated on the blood of the dragon as heâd heard from Daenerys that parts of Essos were.
At one point, Jon risked glancing towards Daeron. He missed the next step, drawing Auraneâs attention. He followed Jonâs gaze and tensed under his hands.
âI have heard dragons are possessive creatures,â Aurane leaned in and teased, surely seeming too close to be appropriate from the angle Daeron watched them. âA shame.â
He bowed out of the dance after that, stalking through the room as though he was not running. Bold, perhaps brash, but not suicidal. It made Jon wonder what his true motivation for drawing Daeronâs ire might be.
XxXxX
Notes:
Aurane Waters is a side character in the books who is highly amusing to me. Cersei has a crush on him and he very clearly takes advantage of that...to get the bankrupt Iron Throne to fund extravagant new ships for the royal navy that he then steals lol (he may or may not be the new pirate king of the Stepstones). Originally she thinks he looks like Rhaegar (as they're both Valyrian featured), but then notices differences as she actually gets to know him. I imagine in a GOT world he'd resemble the Velaryons in HOTD.
The Velaryons married into House Targaryen two other times after Alyssa (wife of Aenys I, the eldest son of Aegon I): Laenor to Rhaenyra I and Daenaera to Aegon III. Rhaenyra's children with Laenor never lived to have children of their own and Aegon III's line isn't the future Targaryen line (if the Blackfyres had won, it would actually be both lines that sat the throne, because Daemon Blackfyre's mother was Princess Daena, eldest child of Aegon III, and his father was Aegon IV, eldest child of Viserys II). But for Jon (and Daenerys), Queen Alyssa is their closest Velaryon relative.
I was inspired to think of old fandom culture and it made me wonder...
Would anyone be interested in a sort of "director's commentary" of any of my fics? And if so, which one?
This would have me discussing my inspirations and ideas, maybe plans that never came to fruition, little details that hadn't been worth footnotes, etc.
Jon took little with him when he returned home, traveling with just a few saddle bags on the Cannibal. They did not go along the coast, despite it being the easiest and most direct route, and instead turned inward to observe the nearby kingdoms before cutting back towards the Vale.
He stopped first to pay his respect to Lady Jeyne Arryn, with gifts heâd brought from Kingâs Landing for her and Jessamyn. While her position was too precarious for her to be of much help and she wasnât about to fall out with House Targaryen, having the actual favor of oneâs liege could never hurt.
They insisted he stay a sennight, which he gladly did, and feasted him the night after his return when he was well-rested (and no longer covered in the stench of dragon). If he were only Maegon, he thought they could have a nice married life, Jeyne and he doing their duty, Jessamyn and Jeyne able to stay lovers, and perhaps him finding a âfavoriteâ among the lordlings or knights he were trustworthy enough for it, to avoid any possible bastards.
He took care never to let even a suggestion of a potential betrothal come up for very long. Guiltily, he gave the impression he was hoping for Helaena for a bride, hoping that no one present was the sort of gossip to people in Kingâs Landing about it.
It would be a good choice, he realized as he dwelt on that. In truth, he had hoped to perhaps use his newfound connections to Dorne to secure a marriage that would start to loosen the tensions between the Seven Kingdoms and their southernmost neighbor. He had not considered Helaena, but could not let the idea go after having it.
They would never be lovers he doubted she would ever want such a thing, and he did not think he would have any romantic interest in her as she was too different from anyone heâd been interested in during his last life. However, knowing that Alicent would never betroth her to Jace, it would remove her from the Greensâ cyvasse board. Aegon would surely have to marry a non-Valyrian for an alliance, perhaps even one of the Baratheon daughters, which would result in his children looking less Valyrian in coloring just as Rhaenyraâs heirs were.
He was steadily approaching his majority, therefore as awkward as thinking through such things made him feel (one of the few advantages to being a bastard in the last life was that a betrothal was likely to only come much later if at all), he knew he would have to add that to his planning.
Certainly he needed some ideas before Daemon tried to force a betrothal on him he definitely wouldnât want.
After saying his goodbyes to Jeyne and her court, Jon finally continued to Runestone. The Cannibal landed on the field for the dragons and only stayed long enough for Jon to retrieve his bags because he was bribed with a large sheep. After a mental nudge, he flew off to his den under the cliffs, leaving Jon to the human aspects of his home.
He took a moment to himself, first, breathing in the fresh air, staring up at the clear sky. For now he could relax as much as he ever could, safe from most of the machinations of the court for six whole moons.
***
When Laenor came to Runestone, he did not come alone. With him were his mother and father. Rhaenys flew beside him on Meleys while Corlys had left earlier by ship, but docked at the nearest port a few hours after the others had arrived.
House Royce was powerful and wealthy for the Vale (though few in Westeros were as wealthy as the Sea Snake at this point in history) and Jon did not mind hosting them for the moon they stayed. He feasted them on local delicacies and imports from Braavos and Lorath, the only ports in Essos that the Velaryons werenât better situated to trade with and that, from tales of Corlysâ adventures, Jon thought he might enjoy.
As a boy, Jon had dreamt of being Aemon the Dragonknight or Daeron the Young Dragon. As a man, heâd wished he could be Cregan Stark for more than simply his skill with a blade. Heâd come to see Corlys Velaryon, too, as a historical figure to respect.
Some Maesters would cast him as a villain, as greedy and grasping, but Jon thought that discounted his great deeds. And Princess Rhaenysâ very real claim to the throne.
If theyâd had a man truly like Corlys during the Long Night, Jon thought parts of it might have gone much better. Aurane Waters had been as close as theyâd come and his bastard status had always worked against him in Westeros, just as being Valyrian during Robertâs reign had, despite House Baratheonâs own bloodline.
But wonderings like that, he knew if he dwelt on it too long, would simply lead him into questioning whether a man like Corlys Velaryon could have existed in his time, and then a thousand other questions he could never know the answer to.
âIf you were older, I would accuse you of trying to seduce me,â Corlys joked during a private dinner when Jon had a hard liquor from north of the Wall (acquired through mostly legal means) brought out for him.
Laenor choked on his drink, his face aflame as he stared at his father incredulously, and Jon had to bite his lip to keep from saying the first, and second, thoughts that came to mind.
âOnce I am older,â he settled for, winking towards Rhaenys, âyouâll know Iâm seducing you.â
His fatherâs cousin laughed, hand settling on Corlysâ thigh. âMy husband is known for his adventurous spirit.â
âAnd has surely aged like the finest of wines. Laenor could only hope to be so handsome.â
Laenor covered his ears with his hands and ducked his face against the table. âIâm not listening to this-this blasphemy.â
âIâm afraid your parents know what coupling is, cousin, certainly better than a boy of two and ten.â Laenor may have whimpered then and Rhaenys and Corlys both were too amused to put a stop to the joking.
Their dinners were much different from the ones he had with the Targaryens in the Red Keep. Even when it was only Rhaenyra and her family and allies or Alicent and hers, there was always a tension there, a need for a certain type of decorum among the older members.
What he wouldnât give to have a maester dose Alicent with something for her nerves.
Rhaenys, Laenor, and he went flying often, and all four of them went out by ship a few times, Corlys seemingly entertained by teaching Jon terms and techniques he thought he should already know (trying to emphasize that his was not a seafaring House only led to Corlys listing off the Velaryons whose blood flowed in House Targaryen).
During their stay, the part of Jon that was little more than a boy kept making him wonder what it would be like if they were his parents or grandparents, made him wish Maegon had been older so he could have been the one to wed Laena.
The last week of their stay turned sour, as though Jonâs thoughts had brought it on, when news came that Daemon and his family were returning to Westeros so that his twin daughters could be presented to their families. The others were ecstatic and Jon could not resent them for that, doing his best to hide his mood as he saw them off to Driftmark for the year.
Another raven, on the tail of the first, was more direct: Daemon all-but ordering Jon to return to the Red Keep more than a moon early so he was there to meet them. Both their parents being dragonriders and perfectly capable of getting to Runestone in a short amount of time mattered not.
Summary: Jon's first stay at King's Landing continues.
All chapters on Tumblr
AO3 Link
XxXxX
Maegon had no reason to pay much mind to Ser Harwin, so Jon lacked any real details about the Strong heir to fall back on, beyond his looks and his closeness to Rhaenyra. When they finally metâboth attending dinner with the princess and her familyâhe did his best to seem open and welcoming.
If Harwin thought there was anything suspicious about that, he didnât show it (and Jon did not think he was a clever enough man to hide such suspicions), and instead greeted him with more respect than Jon had expected.
Until he remembered that the Gold Cloaks belonged to Daemon once, and many still did. And Harwin was one of them.
He couldnât help but feel that nagging suspicion that Daemon had somehow encouraged Rhaenyra and Harwin to be so obvious about their affair, but he wasnât sure if he was putting too much malice and forethought on Daemon. Yes, he could do horrible things, and he could <i>plan</i> horrible things (Jon was still unsure if he had murdered Rhea or not, though the parts of him that were Maegon were convinced he had), but setting up the chance to discredit Rhaenyraâs children from the start might be too much even for him.
Making sure his Gold Cloaks were deferential to his child seemed much more likely.
Aggravated that someone might be treating him well because of <i>Daemon</i>, Jon put more effort into knowing Ser Harwin, including asking him to spar when Jon was done with actual training for the day. It was always smart to practice against people with a variety of styles, especially as Ser Criston favored a weapon that Jon might be less likely to encounter.
Laenor was the only one he confided the truth of the matter in and he had more or less confirmed that Harwin and Rhaenyra were together. He had grimaced as he did so, a fleeting look of self-loathing that had Jon distracting him with talk of House Velyaronâs current trade interests, instead. History did not care about the day to day economics of the Kingdoms and even if there was a Maester somewhere who had tracked such information, Jon certainly hadnât bothered to study that before he came back.
But remembering their discussion, Laenor helped arrange more of what could be called âfamily mealsâ while Ser Harwin was nearby and Jon found himself becoming the excuse for his attendance as they tentatively discussed his research into runes and the magic of the First Men.
Jacaerys, still little more than a babe, seemed to enjoy the topic, and Jon ached to give him more of his heritage, though he knew that was too dangerous. He could know stories, myths and legends, but he could not risk worshiping the Old Gods or speaking the Old Tongue.Â
Instead, Jon pressed more Valyrian upon him, as he practiced with Rhaenyra and Leanor. He asked them more about their gods, about Valyrian culture, as he had with Daemon at Runestone, details that were not in the books he had access to and that Jon Snow had never had a chance to learn once he knew who his parents were.
âDaemon will be impressed with your passion,â Rhaenyra said during one of their sessions, sitting with Jacaerys on her lap as Jon held a drowsing Lucerys.Â
He had to look away to compose himself, caught in the sudden flush of emotion from the unexpected mention of Daemon.Â
***
The days at the Red Keep during his first half-a-year were full and, more oft than not, peaceful. Jon fell into a routine, as much as he allowed himself to do so after years of dodging assassins and traitors in his last lifetime, of classes with his cousins, training with as many weapons as he could, and social time with his relatives. And, of course, flying.
Dragonriding had never been a passtime in his last life, it had been a matter of survival, a battle-honed skill. Heâd enjoyed it more often than he liked to admit despite that, but it hadnât been for fun.
Now, as a Targaryen in a relatively peaceful time, Jon was faced with dragonriding for no reason other than to do it. The Cannibal seemed to enjoy these moments, as much as he might grumble at being a mount, when it was the two of them soaring high in the air, when even the large trading galleys looked like tiny miniatures in the Kingâs Valyria.Â
None of the others could keep up with him, there were very few dragons who could, but it was a nice distraction. He had even taken to bringing Aemond on a few rides, soothing Alicentâs worries as best he could with excessive amounts of chains on the both of them.
âIf the Cannibal is going to hurt someone, my Queen, it will be a victim he swoops upon, not those fastened to his back.â
âI donât think youâre making matters better,â Aegon had teased at his motherâs look, giving her a sharp smirk when she looked at him. âMaegon is the greatest rider of our generation already, he has more innate skill than any, and the Cannibal and he have a rapport to envy. Aemond will be fine, mother.â
When his assurances hadnât worked, Aegon had instead given Alicent distractions enough for Maegon and Aemond to escape to clearing that the Cannibal would meet them at.Â
Aemond, of course, adored flying, even as he clung to Maegon and almost shook at some of the spins and twists he showed.Â
âItâs easier when it is your own dragon,â he called over the wind, Aemond pressed so close he was sure heâd hear. âYou can trust in your own mount, at least not to injure you. The bond goes both ways, a hurt rider is a hurt dragon, at least in their souls.â
While he had less overall experience with dragons than Jon did, Aegon had confirmed it, and then Laenor, when Jon pressed him in front of Aemond. In fact, Laenor had taken to spending time with the younger members of his good-family as well, sharing Targaryen traditions and stories heâd heard from his mother.
Jon might have asked Rhaenyra to come along, but she had revealed just a month into Jonâs stay that she was already pregnant again, and he had not wished to bring her undo stress. Childbirth had never been easy for Targaryens, even if he knew it was not how Rhaenyra would die (or not how she <i>had</i> died and he hoped that this time she lived to an old age and died peacefully) and it often seemed like the meerest reminder of her brothersâ existence caused her undo stress.
When he finally returned to Runestone, he almost regretted having to leave. He invited all of his family to come visit if they desired at his leaving feast the King insisted on, but he knew that was unlikely. Alicent and Viserys would not fly and the royal couple could not go through othersâ lands without making dozens of stops. Rhaenyra would be giving birth soon and even once she recovered, she would have a newborn and two other young children to worry about.Â
Laenor was the only one he expected to visit, but he was also the one Jon would most want to see.
