overreached, and fell.

Jon Connington for Blood & Glory rp.

[conningjon-blog]

you know that we're doomed, my dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room | november 29, 1992 (rhaegar, jon)

[dragonsheir]

"Jon," Rhaegar began, voice wary and writ with trying. Did his friend think that this was forever? America is America; but the Targaryens belonged in England. Even Rhaegar, who in all of his quiet rebellion had tried to distance himself from his father’s shadow and name, knew that. "Thankfully, neither do I."

He could never understand why Jon would so willingly followed politics, and the Tories for that matter. While Rhaegar was bound by his duty as Targaryen and heir, Jon had been young and in his youth, he could have done whatever he wanted. Politics, in all its hostility and rancour, must not have been his first choice. Maybe it was just that — his youth — fraught with ideals, ambition, and loyalty. 

The latter, Rhaegar had grown to appreciate and depend on.

He took a deep breath, his hand buried inside his pocket fidgets with silver lighter cap. “It’s only for a few months. The doctor said Elia is too sick and unwell to travel so the baby will have to be born there. And then,” he paused, looking aimlessly around the room. I’ll take them home, he thought but uncertainty pulls him back. 

And then, what? “Back here.” Home. Wales. Summerhall, as far away as he could take his siblings and his children and wife from Dragonstone. Settle for a few years. He could return to politics, or he could take up a position in Oxford to teach. Without his father directing and forcing him into a narrowed path, he is left with uncertainty. 

He looked down at the small study desk, straightening the gold letter opener. “You could come with me,” he said. “You and Arthur. Us boys. Elia would be happy to see you.”

[conningjon-blog]

He nodded; Rhaegar would come back--but did Jon want him to? Yes. But he also wanted him to leave. Bloody hell. He shook his head. It would’ve alarmed him that he would be so torn with indecision if indecision hadn’t been his constant companion since the day he realized that perhaps all the love he had for his friend, for Rhaegar, had been something more than he could manage to name, much less acknowledge. Yet he lived with it--it, and the turmoil that rolled in his belly that he couldn’t shake off.

“Yes,” he agreed. When he lifted his head, the sting in his remained yet his cheeks were dry. If Rhaegar was strong, then who was he to be weak? Yes, leave. Yes, come back. “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he said, smiling slightly.

At the mention of Elia, his mood dipped. It didn’t even occur to him to be worried about her, and he felt all the worse for it. “That ought to be good for her,” he nodded, “would be a bit of a tangle at immigration when your baby comes back as an American citizen though, wouldn’t it?”

Then--go? With you? Drop everything and leave? He wanted to.

Yes, his mind said. His mind always said yes to Rheager, however much Jon knew that he really ought to exercise a little restraint. But Rhaegar had never led him astray before, so Jon never found a reason to.

But he was not a Targaryen, even though he was almost sure he was more Targaryen than Connington. He had a responsibility to his own father, and his own family--paltry excuses, he’d stopped caring about them for a long time now, even though he had yet to acknowledge that as well. (Jon had many things he kept in the fog of uncertainty, knowing that they existed yet kept in the state of muddled almost-truth.)

He was making excuses. To want a life with Rhaegar too much would be to fulfill it, with this opportunity, but doing so would be wrong. Rhaegar had his own family, his own problems, a child on the way and exile at his heels.

But that was yet another excuse. In truth, to want Rhaegar would be to want failure. Too much trust meant too many opportunities to disappoint, and Jon had failed Rhaegar’s family enough times to be bearable.

He swallowed. His voice was thick as he spoke, “I think I need to be here. I--I think my father needs me. But--” he turned hopeful, “--when he doesn’t need me anymore, I’ll follow you. If… I’ll still be welcome.”

[conningjon-blog]

you know that we're doomed, my dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room | november 29, 1992 (rhaegar, jon)

[dragonsheir]

"And hide away like Aerys?" he quirked his brow up, hand brushing against the spine of a book. Dropping his hand to the side, he buries it inside his pocket, standing now at the ball of his heel. The question hangs in the air between them and to himself, he thinks yes, even for a while, till the tremor subsides, and he could disappear without so much as causing a stir. That is the ideal.

"He thinks there are people still out there to get him…" He could be right, Rhaegar thought; but his father was unwell, and old age has seeped into his mind and his bones to twist his father’sthoughts to needless paranoia.

Rhaegar looks back up to the shelf, skimming from one title to the next. Collections, first editions, leather bound despite the thinning paper inside; old books so well-mainted they could very well pass for new. “No,” he finally replied. “I can’t, you know that.”

He thought of Elia again, of his two siblings exiled to America. He has a duty to them while his father could only care so much about them as spares to carry on whatever ruined legacy he has left lying about. “Viserys and —” he stopped, trying to recall the name of the small, pale quiet baby his mother bore earlier that year. “My sister are still in America. Elia too. She’s pregnant,” he said, like an afterthought.

He turned to look at Jon. Had he come to him looking for answers?

"And you?" he asked carefully, uncertain if he wanted to hear that his friend would be among the ones to abandon the Targaryens — him. He chuckled lightly at some attempt of lightness. "You should take a vacation, Jon. Certainly you, of all people, deserve it."

[conningjon-blog]

Yes, he wanted to say, hide away like your father. Damn your pride. It was a selfish thought. Rhaegar wasn’t his father, and if there was anything to be said of his friend it would be that he refused to be like his father. Any other time, Jon would have admired him for his integrity. Now, however, it frustrated him.

Hide, and live.

Jon frowned, troubled that Rhaegar would refuse reason for self-preservation, but before he could argue, Rhaegar had already mentioned America. America, he scoffed, what would a Targaryen do in America?  Pride, it turned out, ruled Jon as well, and he was reprimanded by his own hypocrisy.

“And you’re going to follow them,” he muttered, nodding to himself. Reasonable. Smart. Exactly what Jon had wanted him to do—odd, then, that he didn’t feel relieved. Rhaegar, with his family, in America, away from the politics, and the vindictive.

Away from him.

“Hmm?” he looked up at Rhaegar’s question. He shrugged in answer. “I’ll go home. Live there for the rest of my days,” he said, as though seeing his life written in Austen greenery and peace. “Take up farming, perhaps. Could use another skill.”

Underneath the half-hearted humor, dread gripped his heart. He’d left home with his head in his father’s dreams, and he stayed away living his own. Living this dream, one he thought would never end. Now that it had, he didn’t know if the way was shut behind him.

He ducked his head, as though the heaviness in his chest outweighed that of his mind. “You’ll have to come back for tea.” He chuckled, blinked, and his eyes stung wet. “I don’t trust American tea.”

[conningjon-blog]

[conningjon-blog]

you know that we're doomed, my dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room | november 29, 1992 (rhaegar, jon)

[dragonsheir]

There was a stillness in the library he has yet to indulge in.

Aerys had long exited Downing Street, cursing anyone and anything on his way along the way. He thinks the country ungrateful, twenty years in office — his father held on to the believe he had built England from the ground up. The country would not be as it were at the present moment, had it not been for him. That was partly true. Rhaegar stood, looking out from the window. He had seen London flooded and set a light; a city crumbling and eating itself from the inside out. In the final years of Aerys’ reign, London had been unforgiving, tumultuous, a giant that killed more than it bred.

Now, the giant slept and London was empty, quiet. The office had been emptied and for all of Aerys’ paranoia, had burned every single file and folder until it has been left to nothing but ash and soot. There was nothing left of them, no trace left of Targaryen in Downing Street; save for himself. He was the last one standing, and the moment he walks out of No. 10, the men trailing behind him would disappear too. 

He would never admit this to anyone, not even to Arthur, or Jon, but there’s a numbing relief in knowing that it was over. For now. 

Purchasing a plane ticket to America should be the first thing that came to mind, but it wasn’t. He has yet to contact Elia (and his daughter); uncertain still if they’ve heard of the news of his father’s resignation — but it has already been a day and he hasn’t even picked up the phone just yet. This should feel like freedom, but it doesn’t. Aerys’ resignation had exactly been what he wanted his father to do, but felt that he was in no position to advice him; had been in no position of power at all to convince him otherwise. 

What would become of him? The Targaryen heir of a would-be king with no kingdom of his own to inherit. 

He turned around when he heard the door creak. Jon stood at the threshold, the door left ajar as he walked in. “Going to miss this place,” he manages a smile, weighing down each word carefully; feeling the sting of the lie at the tip of his tongue. He regretted it the moment he said it out loud. 

Rhaegar looked up and wondered what Jon was doing. Looking for him — but for what reason? He’ll leave too, he thought. Just like all of them. He walked up towards the small side table by the red arm chair and picked up a half-read book before shelving it back.

[conningjon-blog]

Jon hung back at the doorway once he’d found Rhaegar. He didn’t want to trespass on Rhaegar’s privacy, yet he felt the similar thrum at the palm of his hands, the anticipation to move when his mind told him that he shouldn’t.

He smiled back, tight-lipped and humorless, at Rhaegar’s attempt at levity. One must always keep appearances, after all. A lifetime of polite society kept him at a distance.

“I don’t know,” he mustered a light shrug, “living in the most famous residence in the United Kingdom certainly had its perks. Cab will always know where to drop you off, for example.”

His smile fell as flat soon after. An awkward, tilted silence followed, and to make the barest move would tear it asunder. He breathed, caught the scent of Aerys’ old books--of Rhaegar’s old books--and dared to immerse himself in quiet familiarity. Of many years spent in this room, in this place, in the safety of knowing that to be within its walls was to be at his most impervious, and at his most vulnerable. No10 had a way of impressing that upon him. Immortality and weakness in bare moments of silence, however rarely they could be found in such a busy household.

Eventually, he stepped completely inside and closed the door behind him. Yet he kept back, leaning slightly on the doorjamb, his hands in his trouser pockets. He still had his car keys in one hand, jagged edges digging deep into his fingers.

“Are you going back to Dragonstone?”

[conningjon-blog]

you know that we're doomed, my dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room | november 29, 1992 (rhaegar, jon)

CNN: Aerys Targaryen resigns. BBC: Targaryen Exits No. 10. Reuters: Arryn-Baratheon ushers new era in Westminster. The day after the deluge, all premonition by the last three years’ worth of turmoil and civil unrest gave way to a startling fact, that Aerys Targaryen’s twenty years in office finally ended. Barely hours after the news erupted, many London rioters had already thrown down their makeshift weapons for beer bottles, and chaos turned to celebration. When Jon looked outside his car window that morning, driving to No10, a renewed breath sparked life into the streets. If he were anyone else, he would’ve celebrated with them.

Jon had never lacked for a thirst for comfort. He was still young; the years of self-indulgence were barely behind him. But for many of his generation, parties had always been laden with something akin to a crumbling mass barely held together by an over-luster of the illustrious. Theirs was a generation inebriated by the spirit of a desperation dampened by willful ignorance layered so thickly that Jon himself had been fooled into thinking it would never end--that he would never end.

In the fall-out came the witch-hunt, and all the allies of vanquished majesty brought down in tethers, humbled by Jon Arryn and his protege. Baratheon, Jon thought snidely, and couldn’t help the bitterness that tightened his fists on the wheel as he thought of the man. Robert Baratheon, Jon’s perceived heir when Rhaegar had been his father’s. Jon thought the Targaryens invincible--how could they not be, with their power and their roots holding fast and deep--yet this man, this boy, younger than Jon himself, managed to dismantle one of the most formidable politicians Britain had ever seen.

He was afraid; not for Aerys, Aerys had no love for Jon and Jon’s love for him started and ended with Rhaegar. He was afraid for his friend; he was afraid for himself. What would become of them now?

He pulled up to No10 with trepidation weighing down every step. Not for the first time he found himself confused, lost, and as he always did, went to Rhaegar for answers. He could do whatever Rhaegar told him to do, and if anything Rhaegar always knew where to plant his feet. He thought about Arthur--was Arthur as lost as he? But Arthur had the countenance that Jon did not. Whatever happened, Jon knew Arthur would keep his head above the water. Jon, on the other hand, never learned how to swim.

The inside of No10 didn’t fare better than the streets outside. The rioters were no longer angry--worse, they were victorious, and in victory was an assumed strength and invincibility that was dangerous in its arrogance. If they died now, at the hands of the bloodthirsty, Jon feared that it would be celebrated rather than condemned.

“Where’s Rhaegar?” he asked one of the security detail by the door. The bodyguard looked as clueless as he was, listless as if he were only counting down the minutes before he would never have anything to do with the Targaryens ever again.

They're not gone yet, Jon thought, gritting his teeth. He turned and left without waiting for an answer. Out of instinct, he headed for the library. It would be the least disturbed room in the midst of barely contained flight.

[guysgalore-blog]

Jamie Bamber