
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13109895.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&
      Related_Fandoms, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Arianne_Martell_OR_Jon_Snow/Margaery_Tyrell, Cersei_Lannister/
      Jaime_Lannister, Robb_Stark/Jeyne_Westerling, Daario_Naharis/Daenerys
      Targaryen, Arianne_Martell/Jon_Snow, Jon_Snow/Margaery_Tyrell
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Robb_Stark, Arya_Stark, Catelyn_Tully_Stark, Jaime_Lannister,
      Cersei_Lannister, Joffrey_Baratheon, Stannis_Baratheon, Renly_Baratheon,
      Margaery_Tyrell, Sansa_Stark, Tywin_Lannister, Tyrion_Lannister, Arianne
      Martell, Oberyn_Martell, Ghost, Aegon_VI_Targaryen, Jon_Snow_|_Aegon
      Targaryen, Maester_Aemon, Brynden_Tully, Edmure_Tully, Sandor_Clegane,
      Bronn_(ASoIaF)
  Additional Tags:
      AU, Jon_Snow_is_a_Targaryen, R_plus_L_equals_J, Explicit_Sexual_Content,
      Period-Typical_Underage, Period-Typical_Sexism, Incest, Young_Griff_is_a
      Blackfyre, Jon_doesn't_take_the_Black
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-23 Updated: 2018-01-06 Chapters: 2/? Words: 8209
****** The Dragon from the Wall ******
by Aerion_Veryzes
Summary
     Jon never swears his vows as Ghost discovers the corpses of the
     Rangers before he can say the words. Upon learning of Ned's arrest
     Jon decides to return home to Winterfell to help Robb, yet
     complications ensue before this happens.
Notes
     *Sigh* I guess the whole christmas spirit has me eager to write, so
     here we go.
***** Chapter 1 *****
DISCLAIMER:_I_do_not_own_Game_of_thrones_or_A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire._I've
borrowed_a_lot_of_dialogue_and_such_from_the_books,_in_this_chapter,_but_I'm
too_lazy_to_point_it_all_out.
 
Chapter_1.
 
Jon:
 
The sun was sinking below the trees when they reached their destination, a
small clearing in the deep of the wood where nine weirwoods grew in a rough
circle. Jon drew in a breath, and he saw Sam staring. Even in the Wolfswood,
you never found more than two or three of the white trees growing together; a
grove of nine was unheard of. The forest floor was carpeted with fallen leaves,
bloodred on top, black rot beneath. The wide smooth trunks were bone pale, and
nine faces stared inward. The dried sap that crusted in the eyes was red and
hard as ruby. Bowen Marsh commanded them to leave their horses outside the
circle. “This is a sacred place, we will not defile it.”
When they entered the grove, Samwell Tarly turned slowly looking at each face
in turn. No two were quite alike. “They’re watching us,” he whispered. “The old
gods.”
 
“Yes.” Jon knelt, and Sam knelt beside him.
 
And then, just as they were to speak the words, Ghost was back, stalking softly
between two weirwoods. White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like
the trees…
The wolf had something in his jaws. Something black. “What’s he got there?”
asked Bowen Marsh, frowning.
 
“To me, Ghost.” Jon commanded. “Bring it here.” The direwolf trotted to him.
Jon heard Sam's sharp intake of breath.
 
“Gods be good,” Dywen muttered. “That’s a hand.”
 
“Back to the Wall,” Bowen Marsh barked, “Swiftly.”
 
None of them spoke a word as they made the return journey back to the Wall, Jon
himself found himself remembering his uncle Benjen’s words when they last spoke
in Winterfell, how he might not be so eager to swear his life to the wall if he
knew what it meant, and now as they trotted back to Castle Black he realized he
was shivering. ‘I almost swore my oath,’ he realized. He had been so certain
that it was what he wanted, even if Lord Commander Mormont, Maester Aemon or
Uncle Benjen had all cautioned him, questioned him, not directly perhaps, but
the questions had been there.
 
And then, Ghost took off into the darkening evening towards another copse of
trees. “Ghost,” Jon yelled, before setting after the white wolf in a gallop.
 
“Snow,” Bowen Marsh voice chased him. “Get back here boy.”
 
‘Not a boy,’ Jon thought angrily. He was near five and ten and bastard born
beside. A man grown by near all accounts, and bastards grew quicker, that was
common wisdom in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. His garron stomped
nervously when he put it to a halt beside Ghost, there was something here
beside Ghost that unnerved the horse, and in the dark gloom of evening Jon too
felt the hair at the back of his neck tingle.
 
Moments later he was joined by his fellow recruits, and Bowen Marsh and Jaremy
Rykker, all of them staring down at the two dead bodies resting in the snow.
Ser Jaremy dismounted and walked over cautiously to check the bodies.
 
“Othor,” announced Ser Jaremy Rykker, “beyond a doubt. And this one was Jafer
Flowers.” He turned the corpse over with his foot, and the dead white face
stared up at the overcast sky with blue, blue eyes. “They were Ben Stark’s men,
both of them.”
 
‘My uncle’s men,’ Jon thought numbly. He remembered how he’d pleaded to ride
with them. ‘Gods, I was such a green boy. If he had taken me, it might be me
lying here…
 
Jafer’s right wrist ended in the ruin of torn flesh and splintered bone left by
Ghost’s jaws. His right hand was resting in Bowen’s saddlebag. His left hand,
still at the end of his arm, was as black as his cloak.
 
“Right,” Ser Jaremy broke them out of their reverie, or perhaps they were all
unsettled at the sight of the bodies, surrounded as they were by the twisted
trees that seemed as monsters in the darkness. “Let’s get them back to Castle
Black.”
 
Fortunately it took but mere moments to throw the dead brothers over the horses
and tie them to the saddles and resume their ride back to Castle Black. Jon
spared a look back towards the now distant grove of Weirwoods. ‘I’ll be back
tomorrow,’ he thought. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be a black brother in truth.’
 
Lord Commander Mormont was waiting for them when they arrived in the courtyard.
“Gods have mercy,” he muttered as he laid eyes on the two dead men that were
dumped on the ground. “Where did you find them?”
 
“Less than a mile from the Wall My Lord,” Ser Jaremy answered the Old Bear.
“They’re two of Ben Stark’s men.”
 
“Ser Jaremy,” the Old Bear asked gruffly, “Ben Stark had six men with him when
he rode from the Wall. Where are the others?”
 
“Would that I knew My Lord,” Ser Jaremy replied.
 
Mormont grunted, displeased with the answer. “Very well, tell me how they died
at least.”
 
Squatting beside the dead man he had named Jafer Flowers, Ser Jaremy grasped
his head by the scalp. The hair came out between his fingers, brittle as straw.
The knight cursed and shoved at the face with the heel of his hand. A great
gash in the side of the corpse’s neck opened like a mouth, crusted with dried
blood. Only a few ropes of pale tendon still attached the head to the neck.
“This was done with an axe.”
 
“Aye,” muttered Dywen, the old forester. “Be like the axe that Othor carried,
m’lord.”
 
Jon could feel his breakfast churning in his belly, but he pressed his lips
together and made himself look at the second body. Othor had been a big ugly
man, and he made a big ugly corpse. No axe was in evidence. Jon remembered
Othor; he had been the one bellowing the bawdy song as the rangers rode out.
His singing days were done. His flesh was blanched white as milk, everywhere
but his hands. His hands were black like Jafer’s. Blossoms of hard cracked
blood decorated the mortal wounds that covered him like a rash, breast and
groin and throat. Yet his eyes were still open. They stared up at the sky, blue
as sapphires.
 
Ser Jaremy stood. “The wildlings have axes too.”
 
Mormont rounded on him. “So you believe this is Mance Rayder’s work? This close
to the Wall?”
 
“Who else, my lord?”
Jon could have told him. He knew, they all knew, yet no man of them would say
the words. ’The Others are only a story, a tale to make children shiver. If
they ever lived at all, they are gone eight thousand years.’ Even the thought
made him feel foolish; he was a man grown now, a black brother of the Night’s
Watch, not the boy who’d once sat at Old Nan'sfeet with Bran and Robb and Arya.
 
Yet Lord Commander Mormont gave a snort. “If Ben Starkhad come under wildling
attack a half day’s ride from Castle Black, he would have returned for more
men, chased the killers through all seven hells and brought me back their
heads.”
 
“Unless he was slain as well,” Ser Jaremy insisted.
 
The words hurt, even now. It had been so long, it seemed folly to cling to the
hope that Uncle Benjen was still alive, but Jon was nothing if not stubborn.
 
“It has been close on half a year since Benjen left us, my lord,” Ser Jaremy
went on. “The forest is vast. The wildlings might have fallen on him anywhere.
I’d wager these two were the last survivors of his party, on their way back to
us…but the enemy caught them before they could reach the safety of the Wall.
The corpses are still fresh, these men cannot have been dead more than a day…”
 
“No,” Sam squeaked.
 
Jon was startled. Sam’s nervous, high-pitched voice was the last he would have
expected to hear. The fat boy was frightened of the officers, and Ser Jaremy
was not known for his patience.
 
“I did not ask for your views, boy,” Rykker said coldly.
 
“Let him speak, ser,” Jon blurted.
 
Mormont’s eyes flicked from Sam to Jon and back again. “If the lad has
something to say, I’ll hear him out. Come closer, boy. We can’t see you behind
those horses.”
 
“My Lord, the blood… look at it, you can see where Ghost, that is Jon’s
direwolf tore off the hand and yet there is no blood,” Sam shuddered. “My
father, that is Lord Randyll, he – he often made me watch as he dressed animals
after...” Sam closed his eyes in another shudder. “A fresh kill will always
have the blood flowing, ‘tis only later that it starts clotting like a…a jelly,
thick and…and…” He looked as though he was going to be sick. “This man…look at
the wrist, it’s all…crusty…dry…like…”
 
Jon could see what he meant. The torn veins were like worms in the dead man’s
pale flesh, his blood like flakes of black dust, yet Rykker was unconvinced.
 
“If he’d been dead for more than a day he’d already smell ripe now,” he said
while making a show of sniffing at the corpse.
 
“Aye it be true,” Dywen muttered. “There be no corpse stink of this one
m’lord.”
 
The Old Bear studied the corpses closer. “There’s something amiss here,” he
grumbled suspiciously. “I may be old, but not so old that I cannot recall that
Othor never had blue eyes.”
 
“Burn them,” someone whispered harshly, one of the rangers, though Jon could
not name him by the voice alone.
 
“Aye,” more brothers started to chime in. “Burn them now and be done with it.”
 
“Nay,” Mormont barked. “I’ll not see them burned until Maester Aemon can
examine them,” he waved over a few of the larger stewards. “Bring them inside
for now.” The Old Bear gave Sam a rare smile and a pat on the back. “You may be
a craven boy, but you’re not stupid,” and then he turned to Jon and his face
visibly darkened. “Snow, you’re coming with me, there’s news from the south.”
 
Jon followed Mormont into his chambers, all while trying to push away the
unease he felt, the look on the Old Bear’s face made it plain and true that the
news were not of the good kind. “Pour me a horn of ale Snow, and one for
yourself,” Mormont said as he sat down into his chair tiredly, his hand resting
atop a letter on the table.
 
“For myself, My Lord?” Jon asked while swallowing nervously, ‘this is not
good.’
 
Mormont raised his gaze from the letter in his hand to stare at Jon, there was
pity in those old eyes, he could feel it. “You heard me,” he said gruffly.
 
Jon poured the two horns slowly, he was stalling he knew, but sooner than he
wished they were full and he took a seat apprehensively and handed over one of
the horns to the Old Bear.
 
“Drink!” Mormont commanded. Not until Jon had emptied his horn of ale did
Mormont speak again. “The King is dead,” Mormont said bluntly, “and your father
has been arrested for treason.”
 
The struck Jon like a dagger, and he was vaguely aware of his chair flying away
from him as well as the empty horn. “Never” Jon hissed. “My father would never
do something dishonourable, certainly not treason.” ‘But he sired a bastard did
he not,’ a smug voice in his head chided him, ‘that was hardly honourable now
was it?’ the voice continued to press him. It was true, Ned Stark had sullied
his honour by lying with another woman that was not his Lady Wife, Jon would
know, ‘I’ve been paying the price for that act all my life,’ he thought surly.
 
“My – my sisters,” Jon pleaded.
 
Mormont shook his head sadly. “No word of them lad,” he placed a placating arm
on Jon’s shoulder. “You should not worry Lad,” he reassured him. “They are far
too valuable to be harmed.”
 
“Worry?” Jon gaped. “My father is under arrest for treason and you tell me to
not worry?”
 
Jon gasped as his head was whipped to the side, his cheek smarting fiercely
from where Mormont had backhanded him. “Take care of your tone Snow,” he warned
Jon. “You’ve yet to take your vows since the discovery of the bodies cut it
short...” Mormont studied him or rather his face. “Tomorrow you’ll take your
horse and ride south to Winterfell.”
 
“What?” Jon tried to rebut, but words failed him.
 
“I’ve seen that look in a Stark’s eyes before lad,” the Old Bear said grimly.
“Last time I saw that look, Eddard Stark rode south, and along with Jon Arryn,
Robert Baratheon and Hoster Tully he broke the Targaryens.”
 
Jon let out a breath he’d been unaware he was holding. Mormont wasn’t banishing
him so much as he was advising Jon to go south, to help Robb get their father
and sisters back. “Someday I’ll return,” Jon said stubbornly. “I’ll become a
brother in the Watch yet My Lord, you just wait and see.”
 
Mormont smiled sadly at him. “No you won’t lad… now, off with you, find your
bed,” Mormont paused and if Jon wasn’t mistaken he was trying to strangle a
smile. “And do us all a favour and avoid Thorne until you leave tomorrow.”
 
Jon did not remember standing or leaving the solar. The next he knew, he was
descending the tower steps, thinking, ‘this is my father, my sisters, how can
it be none of my concern?’
 
Outside, one of the guards looked at him and said, “Be strong, boy. The gods
are cruel.”
 
‘They know,’ Jon realized. “My father is no traitor,” he said hoarsely. Even
the words stuck in his throat, as if to choke him. The wind was rising, and it
seemed colder in the yard than it had when he’d gone in. Spirit summer was
drawing to an end.
 
The rest of the evening passed as if in a dream. Jon could not have said where
he walked, what he did, who he spoke with. Ghost was with him, he knew that
much. The silent presence of the direwolf gave him comfort. ‘The girls do not
even have that much, he thought. 'Their wolves might have kept them safe, but
Lady is dead and Nymeria’s lost, they’re all alone.’He was adamant that he
would not sleep this night, but before he knew it he awoke to the sound of
Ghost scrabbling at the door, his candle had long since gone out.
 
“Ghost, what is it?” he asked as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The wolf
turned to him and bared his teeth and Jon felt ice creep up his back, ‘what
would make him react like this?’ he wondered as he stood up. A sense of urgency
filled him and as he opened the door and ran after Ghost who shot out into the
corridor as if the Others themselves were nipping at his heels.
 
Mere moments after entering the corridor he stopped. One of the brothers lay
crumpled on the floor, his head twisted around, looking up at him even though
the body lay on it’s stomach. ‘No, it can’t be,’ Jon told himself. ‘This is the
Lord Commander’s tower.’ And then he heard the scarping of a boot on the
floorboards. The sound came from above, from the chambers of the Lord Commander
himself and Jon raced up the stairs while Ghost took off in the opposite
direction.
 
The door to the Old Bear’s solar was wide open and Jon swiftly ran into the
solar, cursing himself for forgetting to bring a sword with him. The room was
gloomy the only source of light was a lantern hanging beside the door that led
into the Old Bear’s bedchamber, said door was also open, and he could hear the
sounds of movement from within. He looked around swiftly for anything that
could be used as a weapon, yet all he found was an iron candlestick, but it was
better than nothing, so he took it in his right hand, his knuckles were almost
white so hard did he grip it. With his left he took the dying oil lamp, pausing
only briefly to fill it with more oil and then he stepped into the Old Bear’s
bedchamber.
 
At first he thought he must have been imagining things, the only thing he could
see was the Old Bear who was snoring softly in his bed, and then he saw it,
creeping along the wall towards the sleeping Lord Commander was a figure clad
all in black, hooded and cloaked, hands outstretched towards his sleeping
victim. “MY LORD!” Jon shouted as he lunged towards the figure and bashed it as
hard as he could on the head, hard enough that he could feel the skull crack
and give way to the blunt piece of iron in his hand, and yet, to his horror,
the unknown assailant did not crumple to the floor, instead he turned around
and Jon screamed.
 
Beneath the hood a pair of icy blue eyes shone in a face he knew. It was Othor
pale and undeniably dead, and yet there he...it? Stood. The face was twisted in
anger and Othor lunged towards him. Jon dodged his grasping hands and stepped
to the side and raised the candlestick and smashed it once more into Othor’s
face, one, two, three times did he smash Othor’s face with his makeshift
weapon, teeth and dusty blood flew in all directions. One of the blue eyes
burst and dead skin sloughed off with each hit and yet the revenant that had
once been a ranger continued to try to get at him, and then the Old Bear’s
dagger impaled Othor right where the heart was, and to their astonishment, and
fear, Othor just shrugged it off.
 
Othor lashed out with a heavy strike of his fist that sent the Old Bear flying
towards the doorway with a loud grunt. A second swing took Jon between the ribs
and he felt all the air leave his lungs, and he was dimly aware of loosing the
grip he had, both on the candlestick and the lantern. A mere moment before his
lamp and weapon hit the floor he felt the world start to go black after Othor
hit him in the temple with his fist, the last thing he saw was the world come
awash in fire as the lamp shattered on the floor, sending flames roaring into
the air.
===============================================================================
 
The_Old_Bear:
 
Jeor Mormont wiped some soot from his face. They’d been up since early morning
trying to clear away the rubble left from the Lord Commander’s tower. The tower
had been consumed in the blaze and Jeor had barely escaped with his life, young
snow was not so fortunate. He only hoped that the last blow of Othor had killed
him, better that than burn alive like his grandfather. They had little hope of
finding anything remaining of the lad, but Longclaw would still be in the
charred ruin, and if any bones had survived the blaze he could at least send
those back to Winterfell, and then a shout broke through the silence. “By the
Mother’s saggy tits,” Pypar, one of the new recruits shouted. “My Lord, come
here, quick.”
 
Jeor moved up the pile of rubble to where Pypar stood, only to let out a slew
of curses that would have had him thrown across his mother’s knees were she
still alive. “That’s impossible,” he gasped as he looked down. There, in a
small nook of divinely placed rubble perhaps was a small pocket of space that
had avoided the crush of the tower collapsing, and impossibly, looking as if he
was sleeping was someone who could only be Jon Snow.
 
The boy was covered in soot from head to toe, naked as the day he had been
born, and not a strand of hair anywhere, but most impossibly was the small
winged creature curled protectively atop the lad. Deep red scales with a
patterning of gold here and there. Wings, teeth, horns and spines of the
darkest black. Jeor felt faint all of a sudden, it wouldn’t take a mastermind
to add Jon Snow not burning from fire, a dragon resting protectively on him,
and knowledge of Rhaegar Targaryen running off with Lyanna Stark to divine the
truth, though it was fortunate that most of the people at Castle Black
currently were either old Targaryen loyalists, or northerners.
 
“Don’t just stand there you daft boys of summer,” he yelled at the small
gathering of people who were all staring at the sight of Snow and the newborn
dragon. “Get him out of there and up to Maester Aemon.”
 
AN:_Aight,_this_idea_has_been_churning_in_me_mind_for_less_than_a_day_and_was
actually_even_more_fun_to_write_than_I_thought_it_would_be._A_kudos_to_anyone
who_can_tell_me_which_egg_hatched,_and_why_it_was_even_there. 
Until_next_time_I_wish_you_all_a_merry_christmas.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Thanks to KadenIV who helped me out a bit with this chapter. You rock
     man,
                                        
                                        
                          The_Lord’s_Chosen_Champion

When news had reached him of the Lannister bastards that Cersei had been
masquerading as his brother’s children he felt something unfamiliar. Something
Stannis had not felt since before Mace Tyrell had laid siege to Storm’s End.
Stannis felt anger. Even for all that he and Robert struggled with one another,
even for all the slights and arguments, Stannis was wroth, and on his brother’s
behalf. He’d always seen Cersei’s children as more Lannister than Baratheon –
even when he thought they were Roberts – they all lacked anything remotely
comparable to Baratheon traits and it irked Stannis then, and enraged him now.
He looked up from the letter sealed with the Stark direwolf and scowled at
Maester Cressen, his blue eyes hard.
“Bring me ink and paper.” He told the older man, his teeth clenching as he held
in the strange anger he held. “Summon Ser Davos, my wife and the lady,
Melisandre. Ravens will fly tonight.”
“At once my lord,” the grey robed maester said before scurrying away like a
rodent to do as he was bid.
That had been near a sennight ago and Stannis was sat in the Chamber of the
Painted Table hearing the lords that he had called to bend the knee, argue. He
looked to Monford Velaryon, the lord of Driftmark. They had been having this
same conversation since Celtigar and Sunglass had arrived a day past.
“The people won’t take kindly to her, Your Grace. Especially not the Faith. The
Crown is meant to be an extension of the Faith. No Septon will care for this
Red witch. And with all due respect, they’ll not care for you either if you
continue to embrace her and that Red god she drones on about.” The middle-aged
lord said as he crossed his arms over the sea green doublet he wore.
“Aye and not to mention the tales we’ve heard of those red priests putting
women and children to the flame in the, ‘honourable glory’ of their lord. No
one will stand behind a man who burns children.” Lord Ardrian Celtigar spoke
from where he sat. The Red Crab of Crackclaw Point had grown old, but not
frail, his hair an off-white colour as his lips set in a scowl.
Stannis was about to respond when a serving boy walked into the room and bowed
nervously. His hair a shaggy blonde and brown, eyes a tinged sea blue.
“Pardon, m’lords and yer Grace but the Red Woman says she’s prepared something
for ye’s down at the beach and asked me to bring yous down to ‘er.” His voice
was shaky and unsure but Stannis remembered a time when that small boy was him,
afraid to enter his father’s solar when there were guesting lords staying. He
looked to each of the lords before him and stood.
“I think it best we see what the good lady has in store for us. We’ll reconvene
on the morrow.” The Stormlander said as he turned from them all and walked to
stand before the young page. “Lead the way lad.”
The boy looked up at him in slight shock as the other lords began to join
Stannis. He made to turn around but stopped himself when he remembered his
mother’s warning to always bow before kings and lords, and queens and ladies.
He bowed stiffly again, “I will, yer Grace.” He said before turning around and
walking back through the halls of Dragonstone, the Rightful King of the Seven
Kingdoms and his leal lords in tow.
When they reached the sands of Dragonstone’s beach, Stannis could already see
the fires, the sky above was bright and red as seven objects were aflame, being
consumed by red fire.
“What in the Hells..” Monford was the first to speak when they were close
enough to see what was going on. Hundreds of men, if not over a thousand
depending on how many of the men his lords had brought with them to Dragonstone
had joined, were there watching this. Some with heads bowed in reverence, but
most with sheer shock and disgust on their faces.
“She’s burning the images of the Seven,” one of the men that the lords had
brought with them told the group as the stood, staring in shock at the wooden
statues that were carved into the likeness of Westeros’ seven godhead.
Stannis was shocked, to say the least. He knew Melisandre was against the
Seven, but he never thought she would go so far as to torch them. He was no
pious and holy septon, but he knew the importance of appearances. The lords may
not take kindly to a king that worships a foreign god, but they would not go to
far against him. A king that burned their gods and proclaimed them false
however, was a different thing entirely. He was about to speak, to demand what
was the meaning of this when the Red woman began her sermon.
“Lord of Light,” She spoke loudly and clearly, her voice carrying even without
raising it. “Come to us in our darkness, we offer you these false gods. These
images carved wrongly by mortal hands. Take them and free us from this
wickedness we would encase ourselves in. Cast your light on us and illuminate
our way and our lives. For the night is dark and full of terrors.”
“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” some ten men that had since
converted to the Red Faith echoed as she turned away from the burning idols to
look at them all. Her copper eyes and red hair, bright and alive as though they
themselves were forged from the fires.
“When the long Summer fades and Winter comes, darkness will fall heavy on the
world,” she looked at the men as she walked before them, Stannis was watching
her, his eyes weighing her, he knew where this was going. She had broached the
subject with him many times to Davos’ dismay.
“In the ancient books it is written that a warrior will draw a burning sword
from the fire, and that sword would be Lightbringer,” she was waking closer to
Stannis with every word, and he could hear the men behind him and around him
whispering and shuffling in the sand.
“Stannis Baratheon, the Lord’s chosen, warrior of light. Go forth and claim
your sword, for you are the Saviour of Man, the Warrior of the Dawn. You are
the rightful King, the Prince that was promised.”
 Stannis looked at her a moment, searching her eyes, deciding whether to play
along or have her put in irons. He was the second son. And with all of Robert’s
‘children’ bastards born of incest, he was the heir. The King. He made to step
forward, to go and take the sword that was planted in the flames, when he felt
a strong hand hold his shoulder.
Stannis turned, intent on haranguing the man who had dared to lay a hand on
him, “You treacherous cur,” he snarled. The man who had laid a hand on his
shoulder was none other than Monford Velaryon, who held a misericorde in his
hand, a misericorde that was pressed against his heart, any move from Stannis
and it would pierce him, mail and heart and leave him bleeding out on the
beach.
“What do you think you are doi-!” the Lady Melisandre’s screams were cut short
at the sound of half a dozen crossbows firing.
“Did you really think that the Lords of the Narrow Sea would forget who truly
has the right to rule these lands Baratheon?” Lord Velaryon asked him. “Have a
look, My Lord,” And Stannis did. One after another, the men at arms his
treacherous Lords had brought with them unfurled banners, black ones, with a
three headed dragon. Others still tore of Baratheon surcoats to reveal
Targaryen ones beneath. He could see several leal men, officers even of the
local garrison join them in subduing the few Florent and Baratheon men at arms
who had joined him over the years.
“What is the meaning of this?” His wife Selyse’s uncle Ser Axell Florent
protested while several of Lord Monford’s men pushed him to his knees, only
when a blade was laid on his neck did he cease his struggling.
“My Lords,” Lord Monford stepped away from Stannis after a few of his men
siezed Stannis and clapped his arms in chains behind his back. “I have here a
letter from Aemon Targaryen, the maester at Castle Black,” he held the letter
into the air. “It says here, that Rhaegar had one last son,” Monford held up a
hand to still the shouts or whispers, while Stannis tried to snort at the
ludicrous notion. “A son by Lyanna Stark, raised in secret as Eddard Stark’s
bastard son.”
Had his arms been free, Stannis would have slapped himself. Why on earth had no
one ever mentioned that theory before. And he knew why just moments afterwards.
Eddard Stark’s word was so trusted, his honour so unquestioned, that if Eddard
Stark told the world that he had a bastard, then none would even think on how
convenient it was that he travelled to Dorne with six men to find his sister,
guarded by three of the blasted Kingsguard and then returned with one man, a
babe, and a sister who had died of a ‘fever’. He cursed himself, and Eddard
Stark. Had Robert known then the boy would’ve been murdered the moment Stark
set foot in King’s Landing on his way home, yet Eddard Stark had outwitted them
all it seemed.
“The boy is a bastard,” one man shouted.
“Yeah, Rhaegar was already married ‘e was.”
Monford let a victorious smile flit across his face. “A bastard is he?” he
asked rhetorically. “Then why was the Lord Commander and the other two still
loyal Kingsguard with him in Dorne rather than with Viserys?” Monford
questioned. "twould not be the first time a Targaryen took a second wife."
It was after this revelation that Stannis felt the world go black as someone
bashed him over the head with the pommel of a sword.
===============================================================================
 
                                     Jon:
It was with a panicked gasp of air that Jon woke up, his eyes flew open and he
tried to jump out of the bed only for a strong arm to push him back onto the
mattress. “Easy lad, easy, your head took a nasty hit.”
Jon closed his eyes again as he tried to beat back the nausea, his head was
throbbing, and then he remembered, the fire. “I should be dead,” he whispered
as he opened his eyes again, and instantly knew he must be dreaming. Seated
beside his bed was none other that Ser Alliser Thorne, but he couldn’t be.
Under no circumstances could Jon think of any reason for why Ser Alliser would
look upon him with respect, and concern even, nor would Ser Alliser ever speak
a word to Jon without mentioning the word ‘bastard’.
“I’ll find maester Aemon, you just rest,” and then Ser Alliser stalked out of
the room, which was when Jon received his second shock. Ghost pouncing on him
was expected, and he weakly managed to push the ever growing direwolf off of
him, getting away relatively well and dry with only a few wet licks across his
face. No the shock came in the form of a red dragon, a dragon letting out a
joyous warbling sound from atop a dresser. Said dragon leapt off and glided
through the air on unsteady wings and landed on top of Jon’s chest, causing him
to let out a pained gasp as the breath was driven out of his lungs.
Amazingly he felt no fear as he gazed into the golden eyes of the mythical
creature, rather there was a sense of belonging, and he almost felt as if he
could feel a fire start to burn within his chest. A sense of vertigo came over
him, and for a brief moment he almost thought that he was the dragon, it
happened so swiftly, but was certain that for that brief moment he had seen
himself lying in bed from the dragon’s own eyes, cheek yellow from a large
fading bruise, and bald as an egg. ‘Skinchanger,’ he thought with a shudder. It
wasn’t the first time after all, had he not done the same when he found Ghost?
Perhaps there was more to Old Nan’s tales after all.
“Amazing isn’t it?” Jon snapped his eyes away from the dog sized creature,
almost of a size with Ghost already and laid eyes on Maester Aemon who looked
younger than Jon had ever seen him. Oh he was still old, his eyes were milky
white and his skin covered with liver-spots, but there was a … vitality to him,
a joy that had previously not been there.
“I never thought I’d see a dragon,” Jon admitted.
“And I never will,” Maester Aemon said sadly, “But at least it permitted me to
touch it, though I sense its loyalty is to you rather than myself.”
“Me...” Jon breathed, “But why? How?”
“Twas you who hatched it lad,” Aemon explained as he took a seat near Jon’s bed
and absently ran a wrinkled hand up the dragon’s spine, causing it to warble
happily.
“No,” Jon shook his head. “I – I didn’t do anything, I shouldn’t even be al –
alive.”
A look of sadness crossed the old Maester’s face. “You mean...” he looked even
sadder if that was possible. “Then it falls to me to tell you the truth, or
what little truth I know at least,” and so he did.
Jon was numb, he listened to one point after another. Rhaegar’s obsession with
a prophecy about a ‘Prince that was Promised,’ letters exchanged with Aemon,
detailing about how mayhap Rhaegar’s son Aegon, Jon’s brother apparently might
be the Prince, about how Rhaegar had despaired, wanting to get assistance to
dethrone his mad and tormented father before he went too far, how he had fallen
in love with a northern she-wolf. One of Rhaegar’s last letters to Aemon had
been about how he had finally admitted to Elia the truth, about how he was in
love with Lyanna, of how he might finally gain the power he needed to dethrone
his father and bring back prosperity to the Kingdom. Elia had wished him good
fortune, and told him to be careful.
Jon knew the rest. Someone had told his uncle Brandon that his aunt, had been
raped and kidnapped, and rather than gain the powerful alliance he had hoped
for, Rhaegar had inadvertently started the most destructive war Westeros had
seen since the Dance of Dragons.
“No,” Jon denied for what must have been the hundredth time, “Eddard Stark is
my father.”
“So how do you explain the dragon on your chest lad?” Aemon shot back, though
not unkindly. “How did you survive the pyre that reduced even steel swords to
molten slag?”
“I DON’T KNOW,” Jon wept, the last time he had felt so angry, so sad, had been
the first time he had called Lady Stark ‘mother’. She had slapped him then and
called him a motherless bastard, and to never again presume to call her mother.
He had wept since too, most of the time due to Lady Stark, but never again had
he felt such pain, such longing for a woman to call mother, and ever since, his
biggest comfort was the sure knowledge that Eddard Stark at least was his
father. But no matter how much he tried to cling on to that knowledge, he knew
it was futile, too much made sense, things he had never noticed before came to
the fore of his mind.
Like how in all of his five and ten years of life, Eddard Stark had never
actually called Jon his son, it was always ‘You have my blood,’ and then there
was the matter of his mother. For what reason would Eddard Stark, the Warden of
the North himself keep Jon’s mother a secret? Many things had been said about
Lord Stark, but cruel was never among them, so there must be a good reason for
it, such as Jon being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, why else would he wait
until Jon had taken the Black? Out of reach of King’s and Queens, and incapable
of pressing a claim the would bring about a new war, and forcing the Honourable
Ned Stark to choose between his blood and his friend.
Jon wanted to be furious, it wouldn’t be hard he knew, cold and aloof as he
seemed, Jon had a dragon’s temper as Robb had once said in jest, ‘closer to the
truth than we ever thought,’ Jon remarked to himself. But in the end he
couldn’t stay angry, he knew that his uncle, the man who by all respects was
his father, had done what he thought was best, and spared the Realm of further
war.
“Do you...” Jon swallowed angrily, hating how his voice trembled. “DO you know
how I hatched the dragon? How I survived the blaze?”
“Mayhap the heat of the blaze or the longevity of it, or perhaps a combination
of the two is the reason why the egg hatched,” Aemon mused, “As for how you
survived, there have been instances in our family where some of us have been
immune to fire, such as was the case of your lookalike.”
Jon frowned, he had always been told that he looked like a Stark, more so than
any of Eddard Stark’s other children, with the exception of Arya. “Your
brother?” Jon questioned, “Aegon the Fifth?” Aemon had mentioned his brother
turned King fondly several times the last few hours, and King Aegon was Jon’s
great-great-grandfather.
Aemon laughed. “No lad,” he said after he regained control over his voice. “I
spoke of my elder brother Aerion. You might be a bit longer in the face, but
not much, the rest of you though,” Aemon sounded oddly conflicted, “the rest of
you is like my elder brother come again, including the face, if only Aerion had
your character as well, a lot could have been different.”
“Wait a moment,” Jon remarked suspiciously. “Did Aerion not perish after
drinking wildfire?”
“Ae he did,” Aemon acknowledged. “Yet wildfire is inherently magical, a mix of
science and dark magic. On more than one occasion I saw my brother bathe in
boiling water or walk through raging bonfires with naught a blister, far less a
burn on his flesh, but wildfire, as he discovered to his horror is something
else entirely.”
“So what now?” Jon asked. “What do I do?”
Aemon ‘hmmed’ thoughtfully for a moment, before sighing. “There is only one
choice for you lad, and you know it just as well as I do.”
“War,” Jon whispered fearfully, his hands were shaking even, he realized,
“can’t I, can’t I just stay here? I wouldn’t be the first Targaryen,” he said
with what he hoped was an optimistic tone.
“I’m afraid not,” Aemon said, still sounding mournful. “Take another look at
your dragon, how big is it?”
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Jon admitted. “Near the size of Ghost
already.”
“Indeed,” Aemon said. “Dragons are creatures of magic, the exude magic, but
also consume it. It has been here for little more than a fortnight and already
it is near three of not four times as large as any other dragon of our House
ever was at the same age, can you surmise why?”
“The Wall,” Jon said after a moment of thought, it was a foregone conclusion
after all.
“Aye the Wall,” Aemon agreed. “Barely a fortnight and the dragon is already
affecting it. The Wall is weeping far more than normal, pieces have broken off,
and for those of us who have been here long enough there is a slight, but still
noticeable increase in temperature,” Aemon sighed. “The Wall is built with
magic, magic of ice and winter, while dragons are fire made flesh, they are
anathema to one another.”
“So as long as I stay here with the dragon I am slowly but surely destroying
the Wall?” Jon asked aghast.
“No lad,” Aemon laughed. “It would take decades, if not centuries before the
dragon could affect the Wall to the point where it would threaten collapse, but
more than just the Lord Commander and myself would take notice before long, and
that is something we do not want.”
Jon nodded thoughtfully. “The Lord Commander did tell me to get back to
Winterfell, no doubt he knew that I would want to join Robb on the march south
to free my – my uncle.”
“Perhaps,” Aemon admitted. “Though I must admit, and I do hope you’ll forgive
me, I took the liberty to send out a few ravens explaining the situation.”
“Ravens?” Jon questioned. “To whom?”
“My mother was a Dayne did you know that?” Aemon asked instead of answering,
“And my grandmother was a Martell, and the Lords of the Narrow Sea has ever
been faithful to our family, and we share enough blood with the Velaryons that
even if we haven’t actually had a union between Velaryon and Targaryen since
the end of the Dance we are still family.”
Jon winced. He knew perfectly well what had happened to Aegon and Rhaenys, his
elder siblings, and their mother Elia, and he doubted that Dorne would welcome
him with open arms, and the Lords of the Narrow Sea? In the very heart of the
Crownlands, a place that was almost as harsh on bastards as the Reach and
Westerlands.
“You are no bastard lad, you know this,” Aemon countered when Jon voiced his
objections, “Would the Kingsguard be there if you were?”
“But Elia?”
“It would not be the first time a Targaryen took a second bride while his first
one still lived,” Aemon chastised him, “A fact which I’ve no doubts you know of
already, so the precedent is there.”
“And so I just introduce myself to the Dornish or the Narrow Sea Lords as Jon
Targaryen?” he snorted with disbelief, “That is going to go over well.”
Aemon chuckled knowingly. “While I doubt you will ever cast the name ‘Jon’
aside, at least not for yourself, the fact remains that your mother and Rhaegar
no doubt had another name in mind for you, ‘twould be Visenya were you born a
girl this I know, but he never mentioned a boy’s name in our letters, so that
would be up to you.”
“Me” Jon asked. “But why?”
“You know well as I do that if you are to stand any chance you need a name that
whatever loyalists remain can gather around, Call yourself Jon in private if
you must, but I will tell you what I told my brother when he ascended to the
throne, Kill the boy and let the man be born, it takes an Aegon, not an Egg to
rule.” Aemon smiled at him. “Egg was a grown man, with children of his own when
he took the throne, and in many ways was even more of a boy than you are now,
no doubt a product of yours bastard upbringing, but you are still not ready,
cast aside the bastard, nephew, and become the King you were meant to be.”
“Daeron,” Jon admitted at last. Of all the Kings and heroes he and Robb had
pretended to be in their childhood games, Daeron the Young Dragon had by far
been Jon’s favourite. The man who conquered Dorne at four and ten, he was the
sort of man Jon had always wanted to be, to emulate, and unlike Daeron, Jon had
an actual dragon, not just himself.
“A good name,” Aemon admitted after a moment’s thought.
One question still burned in Jon’s mind though. “Where did the egg come from?”
Aemon grinned slightly. “Twas the famous Butterwell egg,” he admitted. “My
great uncle Brynden brought it with him to the Wall I’m sure of it. He never
did tell anyone what he did with it, not even the King, but considering how the
colouring has been described I think there is little doubt that the dragon
hatched from the Butterwell egg.” Aemon gave the dragon another loving scratch,
this time underneath the chin, and Jon failed to hold back a twitch of
amusement as the dragon visibly shivered and then collapsed in a manner eerilie
similar to Ghost whenever someone found the right spot to scratch. “Now, you
still need a few more days of rest, which will give us the time for me to try
and teach you all you need to know about our family, but until then, I do have
something for you.”
Aemon fiddled with the lock of a chest at the foot of Jon’s bed and after a few
moments the old lock ‘clicked’ open and the old, and apparently rarely used
chest croaked rustily as Aemon opened it for what must have been the first time
in decades most likely. “You’re a few inches taller than Brynden was, but I
think this might fit you none the less,” he explained as he started to lift out
pieces of armour.
The plates were covered in a thick layer of dust, but even so, Jon could still
make out the black and red colouring that had been mixed into the metal. “It’s
the armour he wore when he was hand of the King,” he explained before Jon could
comment on how elaborate it was. The armour was certainly elaborate,
overlapping plates, sharp edges, accented with red or gold, both a shirt and
trousers with scales and chain fastened to it to provide additional protection,
and lastly a closed helm with red dragon wings and a long red and white tassel
that ended half a foot below the neck. All in all the armour had no doubt cost
a King’s ransom, or at the very least caused any but the richest of Lords to
raise their eyes at the cost.
“And lastly, there’s this,” in his hand he held a slender blade housed within a
black scabbard with gold meeting the cross guard which had a ruby set on either
side. The gold of the waving horizontal guard, shaped like flames, seemed to
leak into the black hilt, which had gilded lines through it leading to the
golden fire shaped pommel. “Dark Sister,” Aemon said as Jon drew the blade from
the scabbard, the blade itself dark red, like blood, with smoky ripples running
along its length. “Ever had she had a thirst for blood, and I think now is the
time for her to taste it once more.”
“I...” Jon was speechless, just once had he actually held Valyrian steel in his
hands, but Ice belonged to Robb, as much his birthright as Winterfell, but
where Ice was a symbolic weapon, a tool for execution, Dark Sister was a tool
of war, and had been used for such by some of the greatest warriors in
Westeros’ history, and now it was his. “I hope I’m worthy of her,” he
whispered.
“You will be lad, you will be.”
AN:_As_you_can_see,_Jon_has_picked_a_'regnal'_name_for_himself,_in_the_form_of
Daeron_Targaryen,_but_don't_worry,_he'll_still_think_of_himself_as_Jon.
 
 Oh, and unless a miracle happens it seems as this will be Jon/Arianne (which
is my 2nd fav pairing) though I will admit to considering having Jon make an
alliance/marry a female Blackfyre, which will essentially be fAegon's elder
sister. What you guys think of that? Jon/Ari or Jon/FemBlackfyre?

Read and review please.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
