overreached, and fell

this is an rp blog for jon connington in blood & glory.

[j-conningtons]

in a mess of fading lines [rhaegar & jon, flashback march 1991]

[dragonsheir]

Jon is persistent. Sidekick — as if friendship alone isn’t enough; as if he has yet to prove himself somehow much more worthy. Braver. Rhaegar shakes his head and tries to laugh it off. 

"Not my sidekick, Jon," he says gently with a faint smile. “But you are eighteen. What I’m doing… I’m protecting you. You’re like a younger brother to me. You and Arthur; even…" Even Jaime Lannister?  He frowns then, and hesitates. Rhaegar shrugs and mutters, “I guess, even Jaime." Discouraging a publicly broadcasted debate had been out of his own good intention. And it’s not fair that Jon should carry whatever price (death threats, humiliation) came with supporting the Targaryens. 

Rhaegar loosens his tie and unbuttons the cufflinks of his shirt. “I can be pompous," he grins, rolling up his sleeves. On the other hand, he’s not quite sure if he can shout, or yell.  “They’re going to ask you about Tory policies; why it’s better than Labour." He pauses and looks at Jon sidelong. “Why my father should win. You think you can handle that?"

[j-conningtons]

Jon bristles at the reminder of his age.  Why did being eighteen mean the he was less than; why did it reduce what he felt, and how strongly he felt it?  Being eighteen doesn't mean he can't fight.  He has more nervous energy than all three of his friends put together, but because he's the baby of the group they never see him as an advantage.

"I'm not your little brother," he says, cocking an eyebrow.  "I'm your friend."  And you don't even look twice at your real little brother, he almost snaps, but bites his tongue.  He's getting angry; he'd expected resistance to his idea, but he hadn't expected it to be so patronizing.  Does he really have to convince Rhaegar that he's an adult?

His eyes dip to the exposed hollow of Rhaegar's throat when he loosens his tie, and then quickly dart to the countertop.  Don't finish that thought, he scolds himself, but images dart behind his eyes anyway.  He hopes he's not blushing.  "Yes.  Of course I can-- Yeah, of course I can handle that," Jon says impatiently.  "You don't think I've been with you long enough to defend myself?  Half my family-- all of my family at home, they're always berating me..."

Those men?  Those are the men you're following?  Giving money to?  His father never listened to Jon's aunts; talking to him about things he didn't want to hear was just throwing words into a bottomless hole.  Instead they turned on Jon, interrogated him, guilted him.  I know, he wanted to shout every time.  I know what they are but you don't understand, he's different...

"Sorry."  Jon clears his throat.  "Just-- go on, like you're him.  Press me."

[j-conningtons]

that bridge is on fire [arthur & jon, sept 15]

[arthur-daynes-blog]

" A thing," He bit his tongue before he could make a teenage quip and continued, " Well that’s good. I’ll be in a twist if you threatened to shoot her, but I don’t see why it is better for her to know that we’re watching her. Won’t that drive her to make her moves more secretly?" He leaned further into his elbows and the counter, " I’ll keep an eye on her, if that will make you feel better, but only if you promise me that you won’t do anything stupid until i get proof that she’s doing.. a thing," The corner of his mouth pulled upward and he let out a soft snort, " Yeah, and i’ll be responsible for not shielding the other two dozen people that are as, or more important people in the room- important in the state’s terms anyway," He paused, " They only see what we didn’t do- Our mistakes, our what ifs- rarely do they actually give credit for what we did do, especially if they’re small compared to what wasn’t done. One important man against a hundred unimportant people," He shrugged, " There’s never going to be a day where i please everyone," " Hey, now that i know you’re here," He smiled at him, " I’ll make sure to get you out with Rhae before i save anyone else. I can get a scolding later  but that will never make me regret saving both of you," " Mm…" He hummed, " Not quite. The man loved his family, had like, five kids," He swallowed, " Still- Best not go into that guy’s story too much. We’re here to talk about you, and Cersei and Rhae," He laughed softly, " Yes, Jon. Llamas are much more important than Cersei Lannister," Arthur shrugged, " At least, for tonight," He didn’t want Jon to worry any more than he did. He knew what Cersei and her family could be capable of- was capable of. " Hey, don’t drink so much. Don’t want you puking it out here," He rubbed his friend’s back, " C’mon, lets go outside,"

[j-conningtons]

"I'm not--" he starts to protest, but the pat to his back makes blots sway and swim in front of his eyes, and Jon blinks hard to try to steady himself.  Maybe he has had too much.  Always a lightweight, he can hear the ghosts of three different voices laugh in his head.

"Yeah, okay," Jon agrees weakly, and staggers off his barstool.  The floor moves beneath his feet gently, like the rock of a boat on the sea, and Jon lets out a quiet laugh.  He hadn't felt this drunk when he'd been sitting down.  His stomach is like the sea, he thinks blearily.  No, like a bowl of water.  At rest it's still, but pick it up and it starts sloshing everywhere...  "No, llamas aren't--  Art, you're not taking me serious.  Seriously," he corrects with a wince.  "I know I'm... I'm a little drunk, but I know what I'm talking about, okay?  She's--..."

She's going to hurt him.  Jon has never been fierce for himself, but in defense of his friends his blood rises; every punch he's ever thrown has been for someone else.  The danger that the Lannisters pose can't be settled with a fistfight or a shouting match, and that frightens him.  They're bigger than he knows how to handle.  Rich, powerful, towering.  He remembers Cersei's breath on his neck and shudders.

Outside the night air is warm, but less stuffy than inside the Water Gardens, and Jon slips out of Arthur's helpful hold to slouch against the wall with a grimace.  "Sorry," he mutters.  "I know... probably not best way to come back, yeah?"  He pushes his hands through his shaggy hair, grabbing fistfuls before he lets them drop.  "Haven't been this drunk... in a while.  But what you said, about pleasing everyone?  Those hundred other people... they are unimportant.  Save Rhae."

I love him, he wants to gibber, and that's when he knows he's drunk.  He only ever gets these urges when he's wasted, and he rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes to try to sober himself up.  It hurts, but he supposes that's helpful.  Sobriety through discomfort.  "You've... how've you been?" he forces himself to say instead.  Redirect of emotion.  "I-  I missed you, Art... missed all of us."

[j-conningtons]

every tongue that gets bit always has another word to say [jon & jaime, flashback jan 1991]

He's eighteen today, but he still feels like a child.  Older on the outside, while the little kid hiding inside tries to convince everyone that he's big, he's grown-up; that he's impressive.  The pub they've taken him to is one of the few Tory places left, still requiring security but a lighter detail than anything they'd find outside Whitehall.  Loud, for all of that.  Jon's three - four? - shots in and his head is spinning, and Arthur's already slapped him on the back and teased him for going red.  Eighteen, he thinks.  An adult.  An adult.

There's girls here too, which make the night less than perfect.  Rhaegar and Arthur both keep watching them, making little remarks that he knows are meant to nudge Jon towards them, and he's chatted with one or two to keep up a front.  The shots had helped.  He's so loose-lipped and hazy he's sure they can't tell he's not interested.  He's smiling too much.  Laughing too easily.

Jaime is on duty outside.  Jon thinks that's not fair; he ought to relieve him, or someone ought to, because it's much too cold outside and it can't be very interesting standing sentry at a doorway, anyway.  "Gonna," he starts to Rhaegar, then blinks fast and laughs, "Uh, grab a... a smoke.  Right back."  He has to flatten himself to get between two clusters of girls, some of whom turn and smile at him, and Jon smiles at the ground instead and makes his way to the door.

Smoking is new.  He'd thought it was a disgusting habit until he saw Rhaegar handle them, small in his large hands; saw Rhaegar tuck them between his full lips and suck.  Jon flushes thinking about it.  After that he'd bought his own pack, and tried not to notice the way Arthur and Jaime tried not to laugh the first time he'd started coughing.  He's still bad at it.  He drops his first cigarette on the way out the door and nearly walks into Jaime trying to pull out another.

"H-hey," he says, laughing in embarrassment, and lights up.  His throat is sore already, and the pull of smoke into his lungs makes it itch.  Jon's eyes water but he doesn't let himself cough.  "Boring out here, isn't it?  Said they should let you come inside, but Aerys..."  Jaime is probably happier out here, he realizes distantly.  Less noise... fewer girls.  Jaime doesn't show much interest in girls either.  Jon frowns.  Through the haze of alcohol, a question is forming, trailing behind it possibility.

"Guess it's better out here.  Cooler.  Fewer... girls," Jon rasps, looking straight ahead and trying desperately not to cough.

[j-conningtons]

in a mess of fading lines [rhaegar & jon, flashback march 1991]

[dragonsheir]

Rhaegar knows he’s being too cynical, too pessimistic in the outcome of the debate. But he can’t help it — can’t help ignore the possibility that Jon will fail, will eventually come under scrutiny of the press and the public and the much more practiced members of Parliament if he does, will be the ruin of his reputation (and he’ll drag the Tories with him). The public remembers mistakes more than they do of glories, of success and if this whole thing takes a turn for the worst, the people will never let his friend forget it. 

Is he supposed to feel flattered (relieved?) by the idea that this was all for him? He doesn’t. It unsettles him. Because the idea of risking so much would fall on him. When Aerys finds out about this, he’d be more ruthless and much louder with his opinions. He’ll point the finger at him and call his friend a fucking, arrogant fool for even trying.He looks at Jon, at Jon’s hand touching his wrist — a gesture that was meant to reassure him somehow, but fails. 

"You do enough for me," Rhaegar says, putting both hands inside his pocket. He kept his lighter inside, itches now for a smoke. He’d quit that a long time ago but the itch is still there. Elia is never vocal about it but he’s sure she isn’t exactly fond of his habits. There were health risks, and he can’t help but wonder how his own wife was struggling with her own heart when he takes his own lungs for granted. “You’re my friend — not my bodyguard, not my colleague." 

He pauses and reconsiders, reassess. Jon is willing enough to do something so reckless for him, he’s all but willing to discourage his friend all together. Rhaegar takes a deep breath before continuing, “Which is exactly why I’m going to help you prepare." Logic tells him that Jon is hopeless in this debate, and the winner has already been drawn before even it happened. And yet, he relies now on whatever odds is on their favour and manages a small smile. 

[j-conningtons]

Rhaegar gently withdraws his arm, and Jon is left touching the cold countertop.  It's these little, indifferent gestures that twist the knife hardest; he knows his friend doesn't mean anything by them, has no idea what they might mean to Jon, but his chest twinges every time Rhaegar pulls away, looks away, doesn't notice.  Jon knows he's not being fair; he also resents that it's not fair to him, either.

"Not your colleague?" he says, mouth quirking to one side.  "What am I?  Your sidekick?  I don't want to be your sidekick, Rhae.  I'd rather be your bodyguard!  Or your colleague.  I can be all that, and your friend too... I want to be those things because I am your friend."  And when you love someone, you want to protect them.  It's a joke that he can't.  What does Rhaegar really see him as?

Dismissive.  He knows I care but not how much.  He doesn't trust people enough to trust they love him.  "Help me prepare?"  Jon rounds the counter again, trying to put distance between himself and his insecurities, and between himself and Rhaegar.  He takes a long swig from his beer to drown out thoughts of both.  "Alright then.  So, how good are you at playing pompous?  You will have to shout.  A lot."

[myrcella-lnnstr]

at war with walls and mazes, torn up and tearing inside.

|| a jon connington/arthur dayne/rhaegar targaryen mix for blood and glory rp || 

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[j-conningtons]

that bridge is on fire [arthur & jon, sept 15]

[arthur-daynes-blog]

" Just relax, Jon," He sighed, half amused. Then, he folded his arms over the counter, leaning slightly over it and turning his head to Jon, " You know there was this.. one guy i worked with in Five. Now, he was nearing fifty then, and he had a bald head- well, not bald, as in his hair fell out, but bald as in he shaved it to a point that hair doesn’t even bother growing anymore. One day, he came in with picture frames, his family and such, and for whatever reason, he brought in a picture of him and his two brothers as kids. I caught a glimpse of it and i noticed that he didn’t look any different than he did now, because as kids, he and his brother’s all kept their hair short or shaved," He grinned, " I told him that, and he said that it was the trick. That while some people worry about lost hair, he goes about saying, i barely had any to begin with," " Anyway, just take a breath and let it go," He clapped his friend on the back, " There are more important things to worry about in the world than hair and Cersei Lannister- Like the declining quality of healthcare for llamas," He lets Jon take his glass away and smiled faintly in thanks, " Really?" He opened his mouth to tease him, but closed it again, deciding its best not to tease and challenge Jon to prove him wrong, " I’m proud of you and your progress then, brother. And yeah, maybe one day, when i’m not baby sitting, we should go to a pub. The three of us- See if i can still drink the two of you under the table," He added a smirk to that. " Well, i’m supposed to be watching everyone equally," He shrugged, " I try to, but i can’t help looking out for my friend s a little more that others. Priorities eh? I also get a little more worked up when i know my friends are around," He made a face, frowning slightly, " I’ve been called out for playing favorites actually. Emotionally compromised it’s called," He waved a hand dismissively and turned around to check the ball room again before looking back to Jon. " You do know i can just call for a day’s leave like any one else. That’s a little better, than calling in sick because of chicken pox. They will actually check and i’ll be screwed," He nodded, " Yeah. Now a little more, i suppose. Since he’s running back into the storm," He let out a breath, " I have been keeping tabs on him the past- what? Twenty years? Him and the kids. Just to make sure that they’re okay, and no one’s out for their blood or anything," " Threatened her?" His brows came low over his eyes and he studied Jon’s face, " Threatened her with what?" He didn’t want to have Jon get on the Lannister’s bad side. No one should fall there, least of all someone like Jon. He had no family to back him up, nothing to fall back on, except his friends. Still- that wasn’t much against the lions. " What makes you say that?" Cersei isn’t the most pleasant woman to be with, Arthur understood, and she was more sly than people take her to be. Perhaps her sleeping with Rhaegar was something- But so far… there was no evidence of anything foul. His face relaxed, " I get that you want what’s best for Rhae, so do i. Still, going around threatening a Lannister isn’t going to help,"

[j-conningtons]

Frustrated, Jon shakes his head.  "She has to-- She has to know we're watching.  It's the only way to keep him safe, Art.  She... why would she help him?  It's... it's suspicious.  She wants... a thing, Arthur..."  His arguments keep slipping through his fingers, blurred and too hard to grasp with the alcohol buzzing in his veins.  How can he make Arthur understand?  He knows his friend's good faith is in his nature, but it ought not to extend to Cersei Lannister.

"I didn't threaten her with... you know, violence, I just... Us.  I threatened her with us.  That we'd be there... that we'd protect him.  She didn't like that.  She's hiding something!  Wants something."  Jon rubs his palms over his face to try to steady himself, but even drunk he knows it's a lost cause.  His head won't stop swimming.  His distress keeps slipping into distraction; he can't hold onto his fear long enough to make Arthur see it.

Another drink might help.  Jon taps at the counter weakly, then sighs.  "Emotionally compromised.  Yeah.  I know that one."  Since '88, he almost says, but has restraint enough to keep it back.  "They want you to be robots.  But if there was trouble in the room... I'm glad you'd shield Rhae first."  He raises his glass in a new salute when the bartender passes it to him, and takes a long drink before he coughs weakly and sets it back down.  Here he is, drinking at a charity gala, while Cersei Lannister smirks from the crowd and Arthur-- what?  Pities him?  He's too wasted to tell the difference between exasperated and amused.  Maybe Arthur is both.

Jon wishes he were younger.  It'd been more acceptable, then, for him to go to Arthur and beg for advice.  Now he's a man - he should know what to do for himself, but he still doesn't, never has.  He may already be drunk and defeated, but he can't bring himself to gulp out help me to his friend.  Instead he looks down at his drink and smiles sadly.  "Smart guy.  Nothing to lose, yeah?"  I wish I had that.  Maybe I'd be braver.

He stares a moment longer, then looks up with a wrinkled frown.  "Healthcare for... for llamas?"

[j-conningtons]

in a mess of fading lines [rhaegar & jon, flashback march 1991]

[dragonsheir]

Jon’s too blinded to realize that this idea is much less brilliant than what he makes it out to be. The press? The whole party? The attention?  Rhaegar’s known Jon for too long and far too well to know that this isn’t about running after personal glory. It must be something else —

"My father?" he asks suddenly. He frowns. Had challenging Baratheon been all for him? 

Aerys Targaryen was losing everything even as he tried all he could to hold on to whatever was left. Soon, Rhaegar knows his father will lose Downing Street to Jon Arryn and the rest of the Labour Party and there was nothing he could do about it. However severely he opposes to his father’s decisions, he fights still because he’s obliged to, because he’s not exactly in any position to make whatever change he thinks is right. Arrogant, he been what Aerys called him when he even tried to suggest it. But Jon —  

"Defending my father is not your job." It’s a lost cause, he thinks; but he’s too polite to say anything out loud.  "Don’t take this wrong way," he continues. “And it’s not that I don’t think you can’t do it,  it’s just — too risky. You can’t go up against Robert Baratheon. Have you even thought about why Baratheon would be so quick to agree to this?" 

It concerns him even more that Robert Baratheon had been quick to accept the challenge. An hour later? No doubt Baratheon would only see this as a joke. He must have laughed in his office the moment he heard an eighteen year old who barely has any experience boldly challenge him for a debate. If and when Jon fails, Rhaegar’s much more concerned about his friend than the already ruined reputation of the party.

(And if and when Jon succeeds, what then?)

He thinks about turning away now. Cancel the whole thing. There’s still two weeks left and no venue picked out. The pressed unaware of this ludicrous idea. But he knows that Labour will use this against them. Back out in a debate? Pathetic. Cowardly. 

It’s too late.

"You should have told me before you did anything," he mutters.  "Does Arthur know?"

[j-conningtons]

Jon's smile fades.  He shouldn't have corrected himself; should've let it stand for what it was.  This is for you.  Not your father, not the party.  I hate the party, Jon almost says, but he lowers his eyes to the countertop instead and takes another swig.  He still hasn't managed to swallow his naeusea at defending a party that hates him, and would hate him openly if it weren't for his money.

It doesn't matter.  He's always been a good liar.  For Rhaegar, he'll lie through his teeth about his beliefs.  He'll lie about everything - and he does, daily.  "No," he says quietly.  "Arthur doesn't know.  I didn't want him telling you before I had it all... set up."  Privately, he knows he didn't tell Arthur because he knew the frown his friend would give, the advice he'd hear.  He's sick of being told to be cautious.  He's always cautious.  They have no idea how guarded he is every second, every day. 

"If I'd told you," Jon mutters, "you'd have told me not to.  I'm tired of not doing anything for you.  For you, not your father.  I mean it-- it benefits him, of course, the party, but... you think I'm doing this for Aerys?  Rhae, the first time I came to Dragonstone he asked if I was the new gardener."  Jon rounds the counter, trying to make Rhaegar look at him, to stop frowning, wrinkling up his face with concern and doubt.  He hates that his friend doubts him.  "I can do this.  Baratheon was so quick to agree because--  Rhae, you've met him.  The man is an egomaniac.  Of course he'd agree in a second, he's certain he'll win.  He won't.  And that'll make it all the better, yeah?  The underdog beating the stag," he jokes, a crooked half-smile tugging up his lips.

Would Rhaegar have been more accepting if it'd been Arthur's proposal, or Jaime's?  Jaime knew shit about politics, but he had a sharp tongue and a sharper wit, and even if he couldn't debate Baratheon about policy he'd still leave him fuming and red-faced behind his podium.  Arthur - Arthur was less likely to win in a debate, but Rhaegar put more trust in him than in Jon.  Tentatively, Jon reaches over the counter to touch his fingertips, lightly, to Rhaegar's wrist.  "Don't worry.  I've got this, okay?"

[j-conningtons]

that bridge is on fire [arthur & jon, sept 15]

[arthur-daynes-blog]

Cersei Lannister. He raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what Jon had anything to do with the daughter of Tywin Lannister. Then, he remembered hearing about it on the telly, as it waffled on in his living room as he cooked. Apparently Rhaegar had gotten back together with Cersei. ‘Gotten back together’ being the more polite phrase for sleeping with each other. Had Jon approached her because of that? Jon had always been concerned for Rhae, watching out for him when Arthur could not himself.

" You’re so drunk, Jon," He grinned slightly and shook his head, " Just ignore her. She just wants to ruin people. Don’t let her ruin you," He seated himself beside his old friend, leaning against the bar as he watched Jon slur, stumble and trip over his words and thoughts. This reminded him of when they first took Jon on his first drink. The poor boy could not hold his drink, and it seemed that it had not changed even after fifteen years.

" Ah," He nodded, frowning " I remember now. I had to leave early though, work called. Sorry about that, again," He glanced to his side, watching the crowd around them. The soft chatter in his ear reminded him that he was not in university, that he was not here as a guest, meeting up with old friends. He had a duty here. It may be unnecessary, and he may regret not talking with Jon a little bit more actively but that was later- and it was better to regret that then let an assassination like Doran Martell’s to happen again.

" Yeah, but- Its not about someone noticing its-" He eyed the vodka shot infront of him then back at his friend, " Fine, just one," One wouldn’t hurt his abilities, and it will certainly help make the gala seem a little more enjoyable. So, he finished his glass of champagne, set it aside for the shot and drank it in a single gulp, wincing as the fire burned through his throat and made its way through his throat to settle warmly in his chest and stomach.

" Mmh..?" He frowned at Jon’s head, " Grey..? Jon, you’ve had your first grey hair when you were in university remember? Of course there’s grey there, you’re what? 39? That’s normal. Hey, soon enough i’ll be as white haired as Barristan Selmy. Don’t listen to her. Worrying about these sort of things will only make it worse, believe me,"

[j-conningtons]

"Worse?" Jon laughs.  "I stress about getting grey hairs, so I get more grey hairs...  Life is very cruel, sometimes."  It wouldn't be so bad, he thinks, if he wore aging well like Arthur and Rhaegar do.  On Arthur, his greying hair seems like a military decoration all its own; hard-earned, respectable.  Rhaegar's hair is so pale it's hard to tell what color it is, but the strands of silver that catch the light make him more alluring rather than less.  In Jon's dark, shaggy hair, the pale streaks make him feel like a dog whose coat is starting to fade and fall out; a signal that he's passing usefulness.

He smiles at the empty glass in Arthur's hand, and takes it from him before prying eyes can notice and scold.  "I'm not that drunk.  I'm better at it now.  Thirty-nine years, like you said...  A lot of practice, with the three of you.  Ah--two," he corrects, wincing.  Maybe Arthur is right, and he's drunker than he feels.  Sober, he'd have never made the mistake of including Jaime.

Jon rubs his thumb against his hairline, frowning out at the crowd.  He can't find Rhaegar.  "You're here watching him?  Or the rest of us?"  Jon glances up, at Arthur in his smart suit and straight bearing.  His smile softens, and Jon slouches back against the bar.  "You should hang around us a different night, and not for security.  We miss you."  We, not I, because that sounds too intimate.  Jon is careful to avoid anything that might be mistaken for affection.  "And no leaving early again, either.  Tell them you are... sick, chicken pox or something.  Something contagious.  We should be... we should both be... be near Rhaegar more."

Maybe if we'd been closer,  Cersei would never have managed to slither in.  Disquieted, Jon frowns down into his glass before he continues, uncertainly, "I threatened her.  Cersei.  She's... she's up to something, Arthur.  With Rhae.  I don't--  I don't trust her."

Alone, there was little he could do.  With Arthur - MI5 Arthur, war hero Arthur, Dayne son Arthur - they could form a better defense.  One man was an annoyance to Cersei, but two could be an actual hindrance.

[j-conningtons]

in a mess of fading lines [rhaegar & jon, flashback march 1991]

[dragonsheir]

He’s glad to be away from Downing Street — from his father’s growing paranoia as he paces carefully inside The Study as though the very ground he stands on will crumble and he’ll fall with it. Ungrateful. They’ll aim a bullet right between my eyes, he’d mutter under his breath, looking out the window. They think they know. My England. Mine. I made us. And Aerys would turn to him, only to tell him to ‘fuck off’ after. And Rhaegar was ever so willing.

But he doesn’t tell Jon any of that. (As he does with Arthur; and even very little with Elia nowadays) Whatever burden he feels, he leaves it behind the black door; so, he leans against the edge of the counter, a bottle of beer in one hand, watching amusedly as Jon talks until — Until he hears debate, followed by Baratheon and what worries him the most is the smile Jon wears with too much pride.

What do you think?

Silence. 

He swallows, forcing the drink down his throat and flinches from the bitter, malty flavour palliating his mouth. “A debate?" he asks slowly, and managing a small half smile not as an encouragement, but not exactly a discouragement either. It’s mostly wary, and partially bemused. It’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, but how does he tell that to Jon without sounding so … cynical? 

Eighteen years old, he thinks as he sets the bottle down on top of the counter. Too young. Too risky. Jon’s inexperience is one of the many things he’s worried about and another was the Tories decline in popularity. Robert Baratheon had never occurred to him to anymore intelligent and competent than a gorilla, but Jon Arryn stands behind and calls him the champion of the Labour Party.

"Honestly," he starts, carefully. “I think… I think it’s a bold move, Jon. Brave. But -" He bites his lip and shakes his head. “I don’t know if it’s exactly very well thought out." And most brave things never usually are. “A bit reckless, don’t you think?"

[j-conningtons]

Bold.  Brave.  The volume of those two words drowns out any caution in the suggestion of reckless.  Adventurers are reckless.  Heroes are reckless.  That Rhaegar would be so impressed with his plan that he'd name Jon - Jon, who is usually in the shadow, the sidekick - as bold, brave, and reckless makes his smile grow to a grin.

"You think so?  Yeah, maybe.  It'll get them talking.  The press, the... the whole party.  They'll pay attention, yeah?"  He takes a swig of his beer and leans his elbows onto the countertop, eyes bright.  Rhaegar looks surprised.  Impressed, Jon hopes.  Taking on a fight is something more Arthur's style, or even Jaime's - even if Jaime's interest is always in his own glory, rather than Rhaegar's.

He hopes Aerys will be impressed too.  The elder Targaryen has always cast a suspicious eye on Jon, but Jon in turn is polite and obedient and keeps his father's money flowing into Tory pockets.  Aerys has allowed him to remain around for that reason - but after the debate, Jon hopes he'll welcome him for him.  An adopted son.  A second heir.

"But," Jon continues, waving one hand, "it is thought out.  It's done.  I called Arryn's rep, he got back to me an hour later, said Baratheon will do it.  Two weeks from now.  They've got to get it set up with the press, pick a venue...  But it's done, Rhaegar."  He swipes his tongue against the corner of his mouth and lifts his eyebrows.  Will Arthur and Jaime be just as shocked and impressed when he tells them?  Excitement tingles in Jon's fingertips.

"You don't have to worry," he says, taking in every shift in Rhaegar's expression, "there's no one that can defend you like I can."  His smile holds, then falters.  "Your-  your father, I mean.  Defend your father."

[j-conningtons]

in a mess of fading lines [rhaegar & jon, flashback march 1991]

He'd come up with it one night, late awake, watching the television.  Two men at podiums.  The crowd roared for one, and the camera lingered on his smile before panning to his opponent, whose crumpled stare showed total defeat.  The idea had crept up on Jon slowly.   Wouldn't it be nice, it'd started, to have all that cheering be for you?

Then had come the additions.  The camera - in Jon's mind - cutting to Rhaegar Targaryen, grinning hard and clapping for his friend's victory.  Aerys' nod of gruff approval.  His own father staring, surprised.

A daydream, Jon had thought, until he'd realized it didn't need to be.  Tension was rising between Jon Arryn and Aerys; both sides fought to keep the youth vote, though he knew it was Arryn's party that held it.  What could be better, Jon had thought, then the image of a young man arguing passionately for the Conservative Party?  Jon Arryn would never debate him, but his protege, Robert Baratheon, would.

He'd made all the calls before he invited Rhaegar over.  He'd wanted everything in place, so his friend would marvel at his preparation, his dedication.  For once, Jon feels brave.

"I have something to tell you," he says, pulling two beers from the fridge.  He cracks them both open and pushes one across the counter towards his friend.  It no longer flusters Jon to look Rhaegar in the face, like it had when they'd first met.  Handsome, with piercing eyes, Jon imagined looking at Rhaegar directly was something like adjusting to looking out at a bright summer day.  It hurt at first - but eventually, his eyes got used to it.

"A plan," he continues.  "So I'm not just..."  Jon gestures vaguely.  "Puttering around the campaign office.  I know the money is useful, but I thought..." 

He has Rhaegar's attention.  Jon fights to swallow a grin.  "A debate.  Me against Baratheon.  Yeah?"  He smiles now, proud.  "What do you think?"

[j-conningtons]

but there she was behind the door [jon connington & cersei, sept 15th]

[cersei-lnnstr]

Cersei chuckles, a heartfelt sound that can barely be heard over the soft music. The song is coming to an end, and so is their dance; she notices a few of the men who’d surrounded Rhaegar make their way to the buffet. Only a few remain, persistent, unrelenting. That’s her cue, she thinks, to catch him before anyone else has a chance to. The party is slowly reaching its close, and Cersei needs to be absolutely sure Rhaegar will be at her side, safely tucked away, as far away from poisonous tongues as possible. The most poisonous of them all being the one snarling in her face.

The man makes it sound like a mafia, a conglomerate of people ready to jump if their champion is hurt: sworn shields, sworn swords on the prowl waiting for the right signal to leap and wound. In Jon’s mind it must sound noble, valiant, but to Cersei there’s something else hidden behind the rug. She wonders, really, if Jon and the other croonies merely realized that power might shift if Cersei has her way. They are intimidated. They want it for themselves.

She won’t back off that easily.

Inching closer, she rests her chin against his shoulder, swaying silently for a while. Jon’s words are sharp, but messy, chaotic, a butchered attempt at a warning. If he means to scare her, he fails miserably, and that only results in her amusement at the thought that someone like him could ever think of having any chance against a Lannister, this particular Lannister most of all.

“Rhaegar and I are roughly on the same side, Jon. One might say he’s safe enough," she whispers in his ear. “Of course the same can’t be said for everyone in this room." She pulls back, with the widest smile, as if she just told him the trick to cure cancer. "I said I’m a woman," now Cersei’s smile falters for the fraction of a second, only to tug at her lips once more, bigger. "I never said I’m not dangerous."

[j-conningtons]

He stiffens when she leans her chin against his shoulder.  It's an intimate gesture, but not meant kindly.  Jon swallows hard.  He wants to leave, wants to run more than anything, not because of Cersei's words but because of Cersei's proximity.  It feels like a threat, like a snake wrapping its coils around him before they squeeze and choke and kill.

Does Rhaegar think of it that way?  He can't.  Not if he goes to her willingly.  The thought that Rhaegar might see them this close to one another and feel jealousy is both alarming and absurd; Jon looks around nervously and holds himself together until Cersei's head lifts, and she hisses in his ear.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise in a shiver, and Jon stares at her as she pulls away and smiles, bright and toothy.  "Are you threatening me?" he blurts, before he realizes it's a stupid question.  He's staring when the music comes to a close, and the dancers around them start to slip back into the crowd.  Lost, Jon simply stands there.

Say something.  Don't just gape.  Wipe the smile off her face, say something.

"You think I'm an idiot," he manages finally, his voice forced and gruff, "but you don't know what you're dealing with either!  We're watching.  Don't fuck it up."  Jon's jaw flexes uneasily.  "And don't touch me again."

[j-conningtons]

that bridge is on fire [arthur & jon, sept 15]

[arthur-daynes-blog]

The gala, so far anyway, was going well. Nice music, nice food ( which he refrained from indulging on ) and pleasant civilized company. But that was what Sansa Stark’s birthday gala looked like until shots were fired and two men were killed, both target and assassin. There was something off about that though, something that didn’t sit well with him. The kid who killed Doran Martell was just a waiter. No criminal record, no sign or indicator that he was a killer, but someone at Thames House argued that it was how all killers look like before they killed, and he had been too tired to argue. There was a light muttering over the coms, easily ignored over the light music as he stepped through the crowd watching for any sign of danger, but after a while, his eyes grew weary and he slowly paced around the main ball room. Once, he dared himself to glance at the watch at his wrist and winced. Still a few hours left until he will be allowed to leave. He was not supposed to be here, team of MI5 agents to guard a gala? A year ago, that will seem too much- over doing it. But after all that has happened, it only seemed appropriate and necessary, even more so when there were so many men and women from the the richest most powerful families in Britain. Of course, there were a few who looked at him, recognized him and gave him a nod and a smile, sometimes they had even tried to wave him over for a chat, but he only tilted his head politely and moved on. He picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and continued to wander the crowd. He spots someone from his team and meets his eyes, as simple acknowledgment before turning to a man, someone who’s last name sounded familiar. Probably one of his father’s old friends, from the way he spoke about seeing him when he was five years old (God, he didn’t dare to count how many years it had been since he was five). He was introduced to his wife, who he smiled faintly at before telling both of them that he had to work and could not talk to them- A convenient truth and excuse, he did not feel like reminiscing about what his father did or did not do. There was plenty time for that on the 25th of December of every year. He found himself stepping to the door, unsure what for. Maybe he should stand guard, while he was here. Maybe he’ll step out for some air or maybe a quick smoke, someone around here has got to have a cig they could spare. But just as he reached the top of the steps, he heard his name over the muttering crowd. He turned his head, searching for the source- It sounded familiar- And immediately found it. A smile grew across his face despite himself, and he made his way back down the steps and to the bar, " Jon," He said, grinning, patting his shoulder, " How have you been? I haven’t seen you since- When did i last see you?" He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively, leaning against the counter, reminding himself that he still needed to work. Then, he took a moment to study his old friend, from the top of his head to his feet, " You look terrible, what happened?"

[j-conningtons]

His smile falters, wavering around his crooked tooth, and Jon takes a breath before he laughs.  "Cersei Lannister happened to me.  She is... a harpy, a real harpy, you know?"  He can feel his words sloshing out of his mouth, loose and playful, and he's certain Arthur will know he's drunk.  Jon clears his throat.

"You last--... months?  No.  Maybe a... a year?  When we went to that oyster bar.  Rhaegar spat his out.  You remember?"  Jon's smile resumes, and he salutes Arthur with his cup again before he takes a long drink.  "Have something with me," he says after he's swallowed.  "They'll let you have just one, yeah?  A vodka," he tells the bartender, tapping the counter.  His head is swimming.  Being drunk feels to Jon like being on a boat; he'd once made the unfortunate decision to get drunk on a boat, and he's never been able to look at one without feeling ill since.

He twists in his seat, examining his friend over the rim of his glass.  Same Arthur.  Older, his skin thinner and the bones beneath it sharper.  Still broad, sturdy.  Greying hair, but his eyes are as bright and gentle as always.  It'd always surprised Jon that a man with eyes that kind could join the military.

The bartender sets down his drink and Jon holds it out to Arthur with a crooked smile.  "Take it fast.  No one will notice.  They're too busy with themselves."  A pause.  "Do I really look terrible?  Here, right here," Jon says, leaning forward and pointing to his temple, "is there grey?  Cersei said..."

[j-conningtons]

myrcella-lnnstr replied to your post: that bridge is on fire [arthur & jon, sept 15]

…….. jon.

don't u even

[j-conningtons]

that bridge is on fire [arthur & jon, sept 15]

Cersei left a sour taste in his mouth, one he couldn't wash away with the shot he demanded from the bartender, or the second, silently asked for with a nudge to his glass.  He's getting drunk.  He knows it - knows it's not good - but with the muddling dissatisfaction Jon always feels when he's under the influence, he can't bring himself to care.  He's not a rowdy drunk, and knows he'll spend the rest of the night sullen at the bar instead of making trouble.

I should've said something else.  He reconstructs his conversation with Cersei into an alternate version, one where he didn't wince at her touch and lower his eyes in nervous defeat.  In his head, Jon is much more like Arthur - unflinching, stern, every inch the army man and not at all the mess of a person Jon knows himself to be.  He repels all of Cersei's jabs and make his own, which leave her crippled and shocked.  The more he drinks, the grander his victory.  After the second shot even the crowd around the dance floor is aghast at Jon Connington's brilliant, devastating comebacks.  He smiles to himself, and looks back out at the crowd.

His eyes slip from face to recognizable face, stutter on a few that make him squint and page through his memory.  He should say hello to most of them, but he knows he's in no state to do that now.  He'll lie, if they ask later - say he just got in from Mexico and spent the night in a state of jetlagged exhaustion.  Jon's sure he looks the part.  He remembers Cersei's fingers brushing his hairline - is he really going that grey?

The bartender makes to refill his drink and Jon shakes his head.  "Water," he mumbles.  Two floating ice cubs clink together in the glass when the bartender slides it back, and Jon sips the water gratefully.  Just a bit of water, then maybe another shot... His eyes catch on a familiar figure near the door, and Jon coughs when he nearly inhales his water instead and raises his glass.

"Arthur!"  He's sure his friend has seen him.  The idiot, yelling from the bar.  Jon's too drunk to feel ashamed.  "Come on, come here," he calls, beckoning Arthur with one hand and smiling sloppily.

[j-conningtons]

but there she was behind the door [jon connington & cersei, sept 15th]

[cersei-lnnstr]

The way Jon talks, he makes it sound so much more complicated than it really is; and if he thinks he has a chance, all the better for her. As long as he lulls himself into a sense of false security and power he won’t be trouble, not for her. She can give him that, an illusion of superiority that will soothe his nerves, help him sleep at night. Let him think friendship unfailing; Cersei knows better than that, how friendship is not a warranty.

“Tuck it in, Jon, this is not a contest over who’s got it bigger,” she argues, grabbing both hands and placing them over her waist again. They’ve been standing in the middle of the dancefloor for too long, and a few heads have turned more than once, noticing the exchange. She puts hers on his shoulders again and schools her features once again, smiling politely.

“I don’t really care to control Rhaegar,” she explains, resuming the dance, although Jon is a piece of wood on his feet. He wants to go, bolt, run as far as he can, back under Rhaegar’s skirts. “I am not here to advice him, not anymore,” she continues, shaking her head. “What happens now is between Rhaegar and my father. I am just a woman after all,” she pauses, and her lips part, showing her teeth.

It’s not the truth, but with any luck Jon Connington won’t know that. Whereas he mentioned Rhaegar asking for advice on Cersei, he doesn’t seem prone to any information on the deal, and all that happens behind the scenes. Honestly, Cersei can hardly see Rhaegar and Tywin sitting down in the same room, not after the big reveal. And so it falls on her to be the link between the two sides, the only subtle connection that can keep the two opposing forces from going against each other and in the same direction instead.

“If I am still here, it’s because he wants me here.” She halts and tilts her head to the side. “Why would he have asked me here? Did he tell you we’re staying, after the gala? At the Water Gardens? Sleeping here?” The words roll off her tongue, and she is careful to put emphasis on every syllable. “You know him better than me, surely. But he also knows himself well enough, apparently.”

[j-conningtons]

Jon swallows.  Does she know?  Is that why she takes every opportunity to remind him that she and Rhaegar are intimate, or is it simply that she's trying to display the power she has over him?  Other men have fallen prey to her in the same way, he's sure.  Seduced, entrapped.  Fed upon.  That's what she's bragging about - nothing else.  She can't have read him so quickly, so well.

"He did," Jon lies.  "Friends share their plans."  He almost hopes Rhaegar can hear him.  Friends share their plans, friends follow their other friends' advice.  His palms are loose on her waist, barely touching, and he can't hold her eyes for long.  Outmatched.  He should've known better.  He's not a match for anyone.

"Don't--  Don't try that only a woman bullshit," he mutters, eyes glancing sidelong at the crowd.  "That might work on men like Robert Baratheon, but not me.  You think we could have this conversation, and you would tell me you're not dangerous, and I'd believe you?  Don't be stupid, Cersei."

He should leave.  He follows her leading steps and all of his body feels light in the knowledge that with just a thought he could drop his hands and walk away, but he can't afford to.  Rhaegar's safety is on the line.  He's failed at intimidation - now he has to negotiate.  "You can try to control him, and we'll stop you.  That's all I want you to know."

[j-conningtons]

but there she was behind the door [jon connington & cersei, sept 15th]

[cersei-lnnstr]

Cersei inhales and exhales deeply, closing her eyes and throwing her head back in exaustion. When will it stop being a constant fight, always a battle for dominance? Even victories have started to lose their sweetness, veiled as they are with strenuous defense. “I have no interest in hurting him,” she says, looking up at the tall cailing. I need him more than he needs me, although he doesn’t know it. “And I am not asking you to be a part of anything. There is no scheme to be a part of. All I am asking of you is to shut the fuck up and stop undermining me, when all I am doing is for him, to hand him what he wants.”

Rhaegar doesn’t want Downing Street. Rhaegar wants to please Aerys, give his father what he asks of him, prove he is a Targaryen despite his differences from the rest of his family. To show the world the Targaryen blood is not rotten to the core, not in everyone — with people like Aerys and Viserys proving otherwise, Cersei knows it’s likely to be and endless struggle.

“He knows this perfectly,” she continues, bitter and reproachful. “Do you think he hasn’t asked me each and everyone of these questions long before you came along?” Who does Jon Connington think he is, offering terms? He is not in any position to dictate anything. He is a notorious stranger, someone who happens to be tagging along on a ride that is not his own. She makes a mental note to push him as far away as possible as soon as Rhaegar is elected. Give him a job, give him an assignment of sorts that will take him overseas. As far away from her as possible, and from Rhaegar.

“And the fine print is for me and Rhaegar to decide on,” she adds, conscious of her own methods, self confident. She feels judged, but she also knows she holds the knife by the handle, and it’s the blade Jon should be afraid of. “If he wants to have fun along the way, I’d say that’s his call. Certainly not yours, don’t you think?” Jon is protective, fiercely so. Too protective. Cersei eyes him, and she smirks. “A man needs that. And that particular man needs it more than you think.” She glances at Rhaegar, still entertaining people not but a few feet away from them.

Jon is uncomfortable, it’s plain and obvious, and whether it’s because she’s talking about his best friend’s cock or because she’s standing there and smiling casually as she does, she has no idea. It amuses her, and she fight back the urge to laugh in his face.

“It was time to pick a side, Jon,” she admitted at last. “My family is known for picking the right one and making winners of them.”

[j-conningtons]

He follows her glance this time.  Rhaegar isn't far from where they're dancing, if it can still be called that; he's ringed by men in suits nodding and smiling at everything he says, and Jon knows from years of familiarity that the quirk of Rhaegar's mouth and the quick blinks he takes means that he's irritated, and bored.  Jon feels sorry for him.  He should leave Cersei and rescue his friend, say something official about an urgent call he needs to take outside, and then Rhaegar will sigh once they're out in the night air and light a cigarette and thank Jon for getting him out of that.

Instead Jon swallows and looks back to Cersei, expression going hard again.  He can't let her see how revolting he finds the idea that this woman could - would - offer his friend comfort that he can't.  If it was a nice girl, he could stomach it.  He's realistic.  He knows what loneliness feels like, and doesn't want Rhaegar to suffer from it anymore than he already does.  But what kind of comfort could this woman really give?

"The Targaryens have been winners long before the Lannisters learned to change sides," Jon says quietly.  "And you've already made a big mistake, Cersei.  You think you can control him.  You're wrong.  He has something you don't have - friends, friends he listens to.  If he was yours, why would he ask for my advice?  The fine print isn't just for you and him to decide on.  It's for me, and Arthur too, and even Aerys.  You're entering into a group deal.  If you want to help him, you're going to have to do it our way."

It sounds nice, more intimidating than he feels.  Perhaps Cersei will sense that.  He's never been the strong arm of their group; it was Arthur who demanded respect, Rhaegar who drew attention.  Jon had always been to one side, sometimes barely noticed.  Still, he hopes she understands that there's one thing he's not bluffing about: he will dog her every step when it comes to his friend, and will never not be watching with suspicion.

"I know what he needs," he mutters, holding her stare this time,  "because I know him better than you do.  Don't patronize me."

[j-conningtons]

but there she was behind the door [jon connington & cersei, sept 15th]

[cersei-lnnstr]

Suddenly extremely aware of the people dancing around them, Cersei grabs the lapel of his jacket none too gently, but as subtle as she can in order to avoid attention. “Lower your fucking voice,” she hisses in his face. There’s a hint of triumph, a flash of it, in his eyes, and she lets go of him, and they’re no longer dancing as much as they are walking on the spoy, both unaware of the music, but thoroughly engrossed in each other’s presence, and Rhaegar’s shadow casting them both in darkness.

“I don’t know what you think I am doing, and what my brother thinks doesn’t matter,” and her voice is calm again when she speaks. “I have no interest whatsoever in Downing Street, nor do I care what Aerys, or a couple of teens think of me. Least of all, what you think of me.” She is sharp, precise, like a swordsman. “We see each other. And we talk. And yes, at times we fuck,” she adds with a small grin. “But what matters is that I can help him win the elections, and he knows that.”

She remembers the conversation with Rhaegar, the one behind closed doors in St. James Square, how hard she’d worked to keep him from running away, out of her grasp, out of her influence. If Jon Connington thinks he can waltz in and mess up her plans, he’d better think again.

“What Rhaegar needs is political influence, something his father can no longer provide for him. My father can. My father can bring the whole Tory party to heel, to stand behind Rhaegar as a whole, strong and united again, not as the fragmented joke it is now.” As she speaks, she thinks of Oberyn Martell and Arianne, and every other damned Martell who will listen in on this conversation come the morrow. Let them. She’s only speaking the truth, after all. The Martells are rich, and they could buy Rhaegar an empire, but only Tywin Lannister could buy him an army.

“Do you want him to win?”

[j-conningtons]

Jon breathes in deep through his nose, trying to keep his composure.  At times we fuck cuts him, the smile she flashes with it moreso.  Why would Rhaegar want this woman?  She's beautiful, but he imagines it would be like fucking a woodchipper.  She's all teeth, all claws.  A lion.

"Yes," he says slowly, jaw working around the admission.  "I do.  But I want him to win safely.  You're not safe.  Your father, especially not safe!"  He's hissing, and he glances around before he draws another deep breath and smooths his voice into a low mutter.  "If you want my cooperation in any of this, you have to--"

God, ten minutes ago I thought I'd be watching her flee, terrified.  Now I'm surrendering already...  Shame and self-disgust burns in his stomach, but she's right - he knows she's right.  Tywin Lannister still has power; Aerys only believes he does.  Rhaegar's father has haunted Dragonstone's halls too long, talked himself into too many grand lies.  He may still have influence in some circles, but it's fast fading.  New money, strong money - all of that favors Tywin.  Jon wets his lips and looks down.  "You have to promise not to hurt him.  You want a business partner, fine.  But he had better know all the fine print."

No, he thinks.  Tell her no.  She can't have him.  But his resolve is fading in the face of Cersei's grip on his suit, the flash of her teeth.  He feels cornered, and outmatched.  He'd hoped appealing to her about her brother would work.  He'd hoped he'd be immovable, sharp-tongued, triumphant.  Instead he feels like a child, outwitted by a stranger.

"If you have no interest in Downing, Cersei" Jon grits out, eyes still on the floor, "Why do you want to help him?"