Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12097572.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Catelyn_Stark/Ned_Stark, Cersei_Lannister/Jaime_Lannister, Oberyn
      Martell/Ellaria_Sand, Lyanna_Stark/Rhaegar_Targaryen, Other_Relationship
      Tags_to_Be_Added
  Character:
      Jon_Snow_|_Aegon_Targaryen, Varys, Ned_Stark, Daenerys_Targaryen, Illyrio
      Mopatis, Robb_Stark, Bran_Stark, Arya_Stark, Brynden_"Bloodraven"_Rivers,
      Daenerya_Blackfyre, "Daemon_Blackfyre"
  Additional Tags:
      Canon_Typical_Violence, Incest_-deal_with_it, R_plus_L_equals_J, Explicit
      Sexual_Content, Anal_Sex_(probably), Oral_Sex_(definately), Sex, The
      usual_GoT/ASoIaF_warnings_obviously, Blood, Violence, Death_of
      Characters, Catelyn_Tully_dislike, Ruthless_Bloodraven
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-15 Updated: 2017-09-17 Chapters: 2/? Words: 14167
****** Black Dragon Ascendant. ******
by Daemon_Belaerys
Summary
     Varys adds two and two together when Ned returns to King's Landing
     after the Tower of Joy and immediately hatches plans.
Notes
     A re-write of my FFN fic 'Dragon in Wolf's Clothing' though only just
     in that I will be borrowing a few of the concepts in that story into
     this one.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Disclaimer:_There_was_supposed_to_be_a_disclaimer_right_about_here,_yet_it
sadly_went_down_during_a_storm_in_Shipbreaker_Bay.
 
 
Black_Dragon_Ascendant.
 
The Spider:
 
It did not take Varys long to realize the truth. In fact he realized the truth
the moment he first laid eyes on the babe that Lord Eddard Stark had brought
with him as he stopped at King’s Landing to give Robert Baratheon the news
about the death of his ‘beloved’. While Robert bawled over the coffin holding
his ‘beloveds’ bones, while Tywin Lannister let out the tiniest triumphant
smile and Jon Arryn held a comforting hand on Eddard Stark’s shoulders, Varys
watched and learned.
 
While some muttered the name ‘Ashara Dayne,’ Ser Barristan no doubt due to the
brokenness of the voice, Eddard Stark stood silent and unmovable as a block of
ice. If only his eyes and face could not lie as well as the northern Lord
thought.
 
Varys could, and did spot the subtle signs. The mix of fury and revulsion
whenever his cool grey eyes laid eyes on the babe that was sleeping in Howland
Reed’s arms told more than a thousand words ever could. Fury at Lyanna Stark
for running away, revulsion for what her small rebellion had led to, something
that, no matter how good a man Lord Stark was he would no doubt take out on his
‘bastard’. He had already started by claiming the boy as his own bastard, far
better, and more believable too had he proclaimed it his elder brother’s
instead.
 
Nor was he willing to indulge anyone as to who the mother was, any man with a
small measure of wits should realize it almost instantly, and yet everyone
seemed to make the wrong conclusion. They saw the silken black tresses and dark
indigo eyes and instantly thought of Ashara Dayne, all of them seeming to
forget that Ashara’s eyes had been more lilac than indigo.  Any man who knew
his sums, which meant that three quarters of the Lords of the Realm had to be
excluded should be able to add up simple numbers. Lyanna Stark disappeared a
little over a year ago, and then Eddard Stark returns from Dorne, where he
found Lyanna dead, guarded by three Kingsguard, and of course he returned with
a bastard son as well, and yet he was the only one to see the truth. He almost
tittered, but managed to hold his tongue.
 
Lord Stark’s stay in the capital was short. Just short enough to witness the
marriage of King Robert to Cersei Lannister. Up to that point Varys had still
been uncertain whether he should tell the King about the boy or not. Yet less
than a week of sharing space in the same  city   as Cersei Lannister, and also
seeing just how much interest Robert had for the good of the Realm, or even the
very basics of ruling had Varys come to his decision.
 
He would keep mum about the boy. Keep him safe, and under close watch, he did
after all have little birds everywhere, even in the North, and it was a simple
matter to acquire more birds. He had many plans, many ideas. His good friend
Illyrio had his own schemes he knew, he himself had remained loyal to Illyrio
for years after he left him behind to come into Aerys’ service, and though
Varys’ loyalty now was to the Realm first, he never forgot his old friend in
Pentos.
 
 His main priority at the moment of course was to ensure that Rhaella and
Viserys escaped Robert’s ‘justice’, a task Stannis was already preparing for.
He would do his best to ensure that Viserys remained a viable option for the
future prosperity of the Realm, but he had his doubts. While not as familiar
with the current Princ eof Dragonstone as he liked, he knew the boy was
somewhat unstable, a result of his father taking a far too active hand in his
rearing, far better to have another option, and ‘Jon Snow’ was that option.
There was also the child of Illyrio across the sea, if the babe survived the
birth of course, Varys had not spoken to Illyrio for near a year due to the
rebellion and was unaware of whether Illyrio’s wife had given birth to a
healthy babe or not, or even the sex of the babe for that matter. At the very
least a Blackfyre raised to be the best King possible was better than Robert
whose sole ambition now seemed to drink or fuck himself to death, and if it was
a boy with the right features it should even be possible to play him off as
Prince Aegon, thereby securing the Martells.
 
Another month removed that option from the shelves at least. Illyrio had indeed
been gifted with a babe, though his wife Serra died in the birthing bed. But
the gender was wrong. Oh the girl had all the right features, a proper Valyrian
beauty, but the lack of a cock swiftly removed the chance to play the
pretender, so Varys now had to put even more of a focus on Jon Snow and
Viserys.
 
 He arranged for the escape of Viserys and his newborn sister Daenerys, just in
the nick of time too. Rhaella had been so stubborn, and distrusting. Refusing
to take his offer of sanctuary across the sea to the last, so it was truly
fortunate, and unfortunate at the same time that she died on the birthing bed.
It allowed Ser Willem Darry to spirit the two Targaryen children across the
sea, but removed any chance of having Rhaella, a smart and kind woman put any
influence on Viserys,    so Varys removed them from the equation the moment the
Queen died.
 
Oh sure he would protect the both of them. They both served as a viable
distraction to Robert. And a symbol to the multitudes of nobles and commoners
alike who kept up hope for a Targaryen restoration. So while he always kept an
eye on the two Targaryens in Braavos he was spending most of his time
unravelling as much as he could about Jon Snow.
 
He had searched high and low, in many cases even speaking with various parties
in person. There were good news and bad. The boy was Rhaegar’s, as if there
ever was any doubt. But the legitimacy was another matter. Rhaegar had indeed
attempted to make a deal with High Septon Maynard for an annulment but was
rebuffed. Rhaegar already had two children by his lawful wife, and Elia’s
incapability to have more children was not a good enough reason to grant an
annulment.
 
 A shame really, as Varys birds were giving him regular reports on the young
Targaryen bastard. The first of his new northern birds was a young woman who
managed to endear herself to Jon’s wetnurse. A second was a young kitchen maid,
the third, which was Varys’ crowning achievement was Septa Mordane herself. A
strict and pious woman who swiftly agreed to keep Varys informed, in return for
some generous donations to the Faith. All in the name of the    C   rown and
High Septon himself who was concerned about a bastard so close in age to the
trueborn heir of Winterfell, especially if the child was raised to believe in
the ‘heathen’ and ‘barbaric’ ways of the northmen,    or so she thought at any
rate   .
 
That Septa Mordane took this as a sign of divine intervention to take the young
boy under her wing to keep him on the ‘true’ path Varys would never have
guessed. The woman, so fond of speaking of her faith, and decrying the sinful
nature of bastards was doing her best to treat the boy kindly and impress upon
him the need to ‘save his soul’ by earning a Knighthood. Varys could have
kissed the woman if ever he met her again.
 
The young child, treated with mistrust or outright scorn by so many, his
stepmother included, latched onto the Septa with both arms, far easier than
even his own ‘father’ who no doubt loved the child, but no one had ever accused
Eddard Stark of being warm. And though his reports stated that Catelyn Tully
wasn’t at all inclined to change her attitude, the Lady of Winterfell did agree
with her Septa’s advice of doing their very best to turn Snow onto the path of
Knighthood.
 
There was a brief scare when the boy was five. He came down heavily with a pox,
and for near two weeks Varys fretted as he waited for news. Fortunately the boy
endured the pox, though not without change. Where before the boy had been for
the most part happy and vigorous, keeping the serfs at Winterfell on their toes
alongside his trueborn cousin, the boy was far more reserved.
 
 He suffered repeatedly from strange night terrors, mumbling in his sleep about
wings and fire, and spoke sometimes of battles from long ago. Whether it was
due to his now somewhat reserved nature or perhaps by an inborn caution the boy
shared his dreams only with the Septa, who spoke often to him of how it may be
a sign from the Warrior himself, that he would one day become a great Knight,
mayhap even a general in the King’s armies. For certain it must be so, the
dreams of fire and dragons had to be a warning sign that the Targaryen’s would
return to fight for Westeros she told the boy,    and the boy lapped it up.
 
Not even six years old was he before he implored his ‘father’ and Winterfell’s
Master of Arms, Ser Rodrick to train him in arms, and though reluctant to start
his training so young, Lord Stark did acquiesce to Snow’s pleads. Mayhap Lord
Stark knew that the bastard would have a much tougher life than any of his
trueborn children, and that Knighthood was his best chance, or mayhap the boy’s
enthralling indigo gaze swayed him.
 
Jon Snow was such a contradicting person, especially for one so young. Calm and
quiet. Caring of his younger siblings. Devoted in his studies, eagerly learning
his sums and letters from Maester Luwin, but reserved. Always so reserved.
Rarely did the boy smile, Varys was told, and he often shunned the company of
others, preferring the silence of the small Sept in Winterfell or seeking
solitude in the broken tower with either a book or exercising his increasing
skills with the harp.
 
 But the thing that concerned Varys the most was the reports he got about Jon
Snow in the training ring. That the boy had an aptitude for the sword was clear
early on in his training, receiving praise more often than not from Ser
Rodrick, but there were…   incidents  . Sometimes, most regularly after a
particular bad night of dreams the boy turned into a monster when a sword was
placed in his hand. Fighting with speed, strength and skill he should not
possess, backed up by an almost primal fury, such that many men in Winterfell
who had seen one of these incidents remarked that Snow fought like a cornered
man fighting for his life.
 
Nor was Varys pleased at how the boy seemed to embrace the Seven. A little
faith harmed no one it was true. But if Snow was to have any use it would
require a warrior. An Aegon the Conqueror or Daeron the Young Dragon, not a
Jaeherys the Conciliator or Baelor the Blessed, and it was not as if he could
tell the Septa who was his best source of information to cease her efforts
either. No, Varys decided to himself, the boy would have to be taken off her
hands and given to someone more capable.
 
 His education would be increased. He would learn languages, arts and music,
history and strategy, and lastly, a far better fighter and instructor than Ser
Rodrick would be found for the boy, and when the boy was nine the perfect
opportunity arose.    Balon Greyjoy rose in rebellion, creating a great deal of
chaos and confusion as Ned Stark marched south with his hosts. Just who was in
charge was amongst many somewhat in question. Was it Lady Stark who was with
child once more in Winterfell? Or was it mayhap Lord Wyman Manderly was was
charged with the defence of the North should any Ironborn think of making a few
raids while the greater part of the North’s strength was in the south.
 
Tho whom should a message be sent if something went amiss, and how should a
message be sent in the first place? By speedy raven or by trusted courier. All
of these were vital questions that could spell doom or success for Varys, for
he knew that in this case he would have to take action in person. Fortunately
Varys was a consummate mummer, good at both disguise and lie, and there was the
fact that Septa Mordane had never once seen him in person, so that is why he
dressed himself in a Septon’s robes, false hair and beard and rode to
Winterfell in the company of three ‘acolytes’ clad in roughspun brown wool.
 
Varys swallowed slightly as he passed through the massive gates of Winterfell.
The grand castle, one of the oldest and strongest in the Realm possessed a wild
but majestic beauty, and though not a military man, Varys could appreciate the
strength it held at any rate. To try and take the castle in a storm would be
difficult indeed, and costly in lives as well.
 
“Halt,” a leather clad guard who looked more like a fat septon than a guard and
wielding a spear stopped them from entering the castle proper. “State your
business here in Winterfell.”
 
Varys shifted slightly atop his palfrey, closing his fur cloak tighter around
himself. “Septon Medger,” he introduced himself while deepening his voice as
best he could for a eunuch.
 
The guard frowned. “Don’t get a lot’a them septons up ‘ere, so best fook off.”
 
His compatriot, a young stick thin reed of a boy, proudly displaying his first
three chin hairs smacked his fatter compatriot at the back of the head. “You
dun’ speak to a ‘oly man like tha’ you fat fook,” the young man widened his
gaze in fear as he realized what he said. “Beggin’ yer parden, we don’ offen
get ‘oly men up ‘dese parts, Only ol’ Septa Mordane,”
 
After a moment of deciphering the rough accents Varys smiled, as much as his
false beard would allow. “We are all the father’s children son,” he said as he
patted his fat belly, though plump, Varys had added a fat pillow as well
underneath his robe to sell the deception. “And we all falter. Now if one of
you could lead me and my assistants to this Septa Mordane perhaps we can all
put this brief moment of unpleasantness behind us yes?”
 
 Varys almost sighed as the two began bowing and scraping… and almost proceeded
to start a fistfight with each other, which was averted at the very last minute
as the fatter one of them threatened to put his fist in the other’s face as
hard as he could.    Across the yard and underneath an arch in one of the inner
walls and they stood before the small sept that Lord Eddard bad raised for his
wife, and as Varys suspected Jon Snow was there, entertaining a small gaggle of
children, ranging from the very young still in swaddling clothes and their
mothers or caretakers, to older rosy cheeked maidens who sighed wistfully with
moist eyes as they listened longingly to the sweet tunes being strummed forth
by dextrous fingers on Jon Snow’s harp.
 
 Varys almost felt as if someone had punched him in the chest as he first laid
eyes on the boy he had last seen nine years past. The resemblance to his dead
father was   uncanny  . A less learned man, would say how the boy was a Stark
through and through, but never had a Stark had such deep indigo eyes,
glistening like amethysts underneath a curtain of long raven tresses. The boy’s
hair may have the colour of his mother, but those fine tresses were as valyrian
as they could get. The fine nose and arched brows were as similar as the dead
boy’s father that Varys wouldn’t be surprised if someone said that the boy had
cut them off to put them on his own face, and yet, no one questioned that the
boy belonged to Eddard.
 
It was understandable he supposed. Even to the many who should have questioned
it, Eddar Stark’s honour was without question, sake for fathering his bastard.
And those who mentioned the boy’s fine features would invariably recall the
breathtaking beauty of the boy’s rumoured mother Ashara. And last, to admit,
even if just to themselves that the boy was not Eddard Stark’s son, would mean
to admit to themselves that the whole war, all their dead friends had all been
for a lie. When faced with such a choice, Varys understood perfectly why men
would rather live in blissful ignorance of the truth, never questioning, and
perfectly content that their cause had been just.
 
“A wonderful performance,” Varys said joyously as he wiped a fake tear from the
corner of his eye the moment Jon sang the last words and strummed the last
tunes of ‘Jenny’s Song’. “I heard rumours of your splendid talents with the
harp young Master Snow when I visited White Harbour, but rumours it seem
doesn’t do you justice.”
 
‘There it is,’ Varys thought as a dark shadow seemed to cross Snow’s face to
reveal the darkness that lurked beneath his surface. The boy for all the good
qualities he had possessed a darker side. He despised himself, his faith and
his stepmother. Despised his nature was a better choice of words. Being a
bastard, even in such a tolerant place as Dorne was never easy, and worse still
for a young lad who believed in the Seven, whose greatest wish was to become a
Knight of renown, to know then that he was tainted by sin and lust could not be
easy, and his stepmother’s harsh glares and icy words did not make it easier on
the boy.
 
“Thank you for your compliment,” the boy said courteously even as his eyes
seemed to simmer like angry flames.
 
‘Good, you have some fire in you,’     Varys thought. The boy would need it for
the years to come.
 
“Praise should always be given to those deserving,” Varys replied as he made a
great show of sitting down on one of the benches.
 
“Who might you be?” Septa Mordane, for the old woman in a Septa’s outfit could
be no other asked him.
 
“    Septon Medger dear sister,” Varys answered with an ever so slight bow,
hindered as he was by his bulky costume, ‘      how Illyrio does it I’ll never
know,’       he thought to himself as he remembered the last time he had seen
his old friend, whose corpulent form surpassed even the fake costume that Varys
was currently wearing.
 
“A Septon, here?” Mordane remarked in wonder. “I was not aware     that we
would be receiving another Septon brother. Septon Chayle is young but more than
up to the task.”
 
Varys glanced at the young man Mordane pointed out and gave another respectful
half bow. “Oh no,” he tittered. “I was journeying from Braavos when we took in
at White Harbour for fresh water, and when tales reached me of the young lad
wishing to be a great Knight and his talents with the harp I just had to come
see for myself.” Varys paused as he withdrew a kerchief to swab away a few
droplets of sweat from his brow, truly, the difference in heat inside the walls
of the castle and outside was astounding, proof that Brandon Stark had been a
man of vision when he built Winterfell atop its hot springs. “To tell you the
truth I may yet stay for quite some time, I was on my way to Lannisport to
serve in its Sept and then came this… this rebellion.”
 
“A disgrace,” Septon Chayle said sadly as he offered Varys a simple silver
chalice with wine. “I hear that the Greyjoys ordered every sept on the isles
torn down and their brothers and sisters drowned in the sea.”
 
“    Chayle       ,” Mordane snapped. “Not in front of the children.”
 
“Quite alright my dear, quite alright,” Varys calmed the woman. “We all lose
our wits sometimes.”
 
“    Indeed we do,” she admitted, her mouth in a thin line. “It seems we are
all a bit on edge these days.”
 
“Worry not,” Varys said softly. “Good King Robert will see the Ironborn brought
back into the embrace of the Seven.”
 
“My papa is fighting with the King,” one of the girls admitted, “And my cousin
too,” she continued as her lip started to tremble.
 
“Ser Rodrick is a good Knight,” Jon comforted the young girl, turning her face
towards his own with a hand on the cheek. “And Jory is no slouch with a sword
either, you’ll see them again.”
 
The girl gazed at Jon with wide hopeful eyes, “You think so?”
 
Jon let out a rare laugh. “I know so, after all, how else am I to become a
Knight?” he questioned, while puffing out his chest, causing several of the
girls around to giggle, while some of the older women shared amused and knowing
glances, still, as soon as the girls had regained their cheer, the smile on
Jon’s face died as swift as a candle in the wind.
 
“You wish you could be there lad?” Varys asked slyly as he patted the boy on
the back. “Earn yourself a Knighthood by slaying a few ironborn eh?”
 
“NO,” he denied, yet Varys could see the rage lurking just beneath the surface.
“Not like that...” the boy paused. “One day,” he said softly, “I’ll be a
Knight, but I will earn my spurs, not gain them by blooding a few men barely
better than pirates.”
 
“Quite right,” Mordane agreed. “Killing is a sin, the Seven decrees it so, even
if it is sometimes necessary, it should never be done to earn a Knighthood,”
the woman huffed. “It’s not right that young men are Knighted without sitting a
vigil or being anointed by the seven oils,” she grumbled.
 
“Quite so,” Varys agreed, “And yet the Most Devout all agree that any Knight
can make another so, and as the solemn protector of Realm and Faith the same
power is bestowed upon the King.”
 
Septon Chayle nodded. “You have the right of it,” he agreed, then he turned his
gaze upon the girls with a sly look on his face. “Now I might be wrong young
ladies, but I believe you all have appointments with dear Septa Mordane here,
as soon as Jon’s song was finished I believe.”
 
“Indeed they do,” Mordane said with a rare smile as she gestured for the girls
to follow. “We have needlework to perform.”
 
Although most of the young girls expressed some reluctance, quite evident on
their faces they knew enough by now to follow without complaint, with only the
occasional disappointed sigh, along with a few sneaky glimpses back towards Jon
who was still sitting with his harp in hand, back leant against the tree.
 
“I hope you would not mind assisting wherever possible during your stay
brother?” Chayle asked Varys, “And you must introduce yourself to the Lady
Stark at supper tonight.”
 
“Of course, of course,” Varys answered jovially. “But first, I have always had
a fascination for fauna, could I, that is, would you mind awfully if young Snow
here showed me around Winterfell and its surroundings for a few hours? I hear
there are even winter roses growing freely in the wilds here.”
 
Chayle bit his lip. Technically Jon was the responsibility of Lady Stark now
that her husband was gone, although in reality it was more himself and Mordane
who kept the lad busy these days, what with the boy being barred from attending
Maester Luwin’s lessons alongside his trueborn brother. “I suppose it would do
no harm,” Chayle reasoned. “As long as you don’t wander away from sight of the
Castle, would you like that Jon?”
 
Jon did actually look as if he minded that, but was obviously too polite to
disagree, especially when both Chayle and Varys looked so hopeful. “I would be
glad to,” Jon agreed at last as he gingerly packed his harp into it’s case and
slung it across his back.
 
“The lad rarely leaves it,” Chayle admitted when he saw Varys’ questioning
look. “Better not make a fuss about it.”
 
Jon knew a lot about Winterfell. Perfectly reasonable as he had grown up there.
Pointing out this and that as they walked through first the Castle, and then
the Winter Town. While walking outside of the castle and town Jon pointed out
this or that landmark, such as the Wolfswood to the west or how with but a few
hours hard ride and they’d reach one of the headwaters of the White Knife.
Perhaps an hour’s walk away from Winterfell the came across five riders, clad
in unassuming chain and leather, leading an additional four horses in a train
behind them.
 
Varys smiled sadly at Jon who looked at him questioningly and gave a sharp nod.
The nine year old boy surprised Varys. Whether he heard the swoosh of the club
behind him, or deduced Varys’ intentions he could not say, but the flash of
frightening rage in the boys eyes surprised Varys. The smooth way he leant away
from the oncoming swing and turned around to drive a dagger into his opponent’s
heart was remarkable. No boy of nine should be capable of such economy of
movement. The boy moved as a man used to the struggle of war, not as a young
lad still learning the ways of the sword. Before his assailant had even hit the
ground, Snow had already turned and thrown his short dagger into the other
man’s eye with unerring accuracy.
 
And just as sudden, whatever it was that had gripped to boy fled, the soft
melancholy crept back into the young lad’s eyes, before his face suddenly
twisted in horror and the boy fell to his knees and vomited on the ground.
Giving the boy a last look of sympathy, Varys picked up the small wooden club
his man had dropped and gave the boy a hard, precise whack to the back of the
head, sending him into unconsciousness.
 
A few moments later the riders caught up with them. “Impressive,” said their
leader as he stared at the two dead men.
 
“Aye, Illyrio will be most pleased with this one,” Varys agreed. “But we are
short on time, leave two men to bury the bodies and then ride hard to catch
up.”
 
The leader of the sellswords Illyrio had sent to Varys nodded sharply and
gestured for two of his men to get to it while another tied Jon’s hands behind
his back and then threw him over the saddle of one of the horses and secured
him while Varys mounted another. “We’ve a hard ride before us if we wish to
reach the river by nightfall.”
 
“Then lets not waste any time,” Varys said as he put his heels into his mount’s
flanks. He’d prefer to shed his disguise, the bulk of the costume was both hot
and hindering, but the less clues left the better.
 
“And what if word has reached White Harbour by the time we arrive to take
ship?”
 
“The boy has some rather distinctive features,” Varys admitted. “Both eyes and
hair, but if we shave his head chances are that we’ll get through safely,
especially if we keep the boy asleep.”
 
“Hmm,” the man said as he scratched his chin. “It just might work, I assume
this is why we had sweetmilk with us?”
 
Varys nodded. “I deemed it necessary. At any rate we might have a few days
before word reaches White Harbour, Lady Catelyn is almost famous for her scorn
of the boy, with a bit of luck she might decide to wait for a few days before
calling for a search, at any rate, I do not think anyone will be too alarmed
unless they find our associates.”
 
“Oh they’ll find them,” the man said with a gruff voice. “It’s only a matter of
time before the hounds sniff them down, but we won’t make it easy for them.”
 
It was well into the night when they finally came across the small boat that
would take them down to the tributary of the White Knife and White Harbour
where they would take ship, at least the two men who had been left behind to
bury the two dead ones managed to catch up with them. The horses had been
unsaddled and left to run free while the saddles themselves could be sold off
in White Harbour.
 
“A lot of work for a young boy,” one of the sellswords remarked as he brushed
away the last few hairs from Jon Snow, having been the one to shave the boy of
his long raven tresses.
 
“A young boy whom rests a great deal of responsibility and profit,” Varys said
sharply while staring at the sleeping boy. Without the hair to distract he
looked even more like a Targaryen, and Varys was reminded of Aegon V who was
often called ‘Egg’ in his youth. And having seen a portrait of the then young
prince in the Red Keep Varys had to admit that ‘blood will out’, as the saying
went. Jon Snow as he looked now could have been a twin to young Prince Aegon,
at the very least there was no chance that Connington and Lonmouth would think
him false when he presented the boy to them, nor did he think that Illyrio’s
daughter would be displeased in a few years when seeing her future husband.
 
Almost a full day later and Varys was proven right. Lady Stark had yet to send
word of Jon Snow’s disappearance, which also meant that Varys’ two dead
associates had yet to be found either, so it was no problem to find a ship
heading for Pentos that very day, and with careful dosages they would be days
past the bite and into the Narrow Sea proper…
 
 
Brynden:
 
Brynden bit back a groan of discomfort after he was ejected harshly yet again
from his something great nephew’s mind. He was old he knew, his body should
have given in years ago, and yet, much like his nephew Aemon on the Wall he
held on. He had watched in despair and rage as his House was brought to the
brink of extinction. Not all was lost, there was Daenerys and Viserys across
the sea, yet only one attempt at trying to guide Viserys was enough.
 
He had done the very best he could to aid, to guide Aerys, and all it resulted
in was to break what little sanity Aerys had left, and Viserys was already too
much like his father. Angry, fearful, and arrogant to a point, a lost cause
that Brynden could not influence. Daenerys was a much better choice, but again,
not ideal. The girl was too soft hearted, and fearful of her brother, unless he
wanted to turn her mind into mush and take over fully there was little he could
do for Daenerys.
 
All that was left for him was Rhaegar’s by blow from his northern wolf maid,
and Brynden was still unsure of how he felt about the boy. In some ways he saw
himself in the boy, but even more he was reminded of his half brother Daemon.
That was the big problem, he had during his life both loved and hated his elder
half brother. Respected, admired and detested him. Daemon had been a good man
once. Even after he was gifted Blackfyre or Daeron married his Dornish bride.
Just why Daemon had even rebelled he doubted he would know until he finally met
Daemon again in the great beyond.
 
Had it been Daemon’s all consuming love for their sister Daenerys? Or perhaps
the blade their whoring fuck of a father had gifted him with. Mayhap it were
the numerous Lords, hungry to escape the yoke of their Paramounts whispering in
his ear or the rumours of Daeron’s own illegitimacy. Whatever the reason, it
was that angry cunt Aegor that had proved the catalyst when he wed Daemon’s
daughter, and war eventually followed.
 
Brynden had done many things, both in Daemon’s own rebellion, and in the
following ones, many of which he regretted. Killing his own brother and his two
eldest sons chief among them. The brutal trap he laid when he shed what little
remained of his honour to kill Daemon’s third son who came at his own
invitation under a banner of peace was even worse, but his greatest crime, the
crime that had stripped all honour of him although none knew it was the murder
of his aunt Naerys and her unborn child. Just days before her death she had
confessed to him the truth about her and Aemon, how she had sinned against her
husband and the Seven, and only that confessing the truth would forgive her.
 
What prompted her to confess, and to Brynden of all people remained a mystery,
mayhap it was because of the death of her beloved Aemon a year past, or that
she was finally carrying Aegon’s his own father’s only trueborn child. Whatever
her reasons he knew that were his aunt to permit the truth war would follow,
and so, in an effort to spare the Realm of a devastating civil war he had
poisoned his own aunt. She went into early labour and died, her and his unborn
brother both. Dead at his hand to spare the Realm of a war that still happened.
 
And yet again he could see the possibility of the same happening all over
again. Jon Snow was everything Daemon had been, all alike down to the last non
existent freckle besides the hair of course. So conflicted as he was, he chose
to see the best of Daemon in the boy, not the worst, never the worst, and he
spent an inordinate amount of time trying to influence the boy, and now, nine
years later he had to admit that he was more successful than he had hoped.
 
The boy was strong, immensely so. Not a greenseer, the talent lay in his blood,
but he had the potential to become a strong warg if he was able to so
thoroughly eject even him from his mind while drugged so easily. Truthfully
Brynden was amazed. He had known that magic was present in any man or woman
with the Blood of the Dragon, his own talents proved that, but to know how deep
it all went was something else. The boy suffered horribly from a combination of
Dragon Dreams that neither he nor Brynden could decipher, and then there were
the flashes of memories not his own.
 
Could it be that there lay some memories of their ancestors in their blood?
Brynden would scoff at the idea, but yet, had he himself not seen from inside
Jon’s mind during his sleep of how he/they were seated upon the back of
Balerion as the great dragon turned Harrenhal into a flaming charnel house. He
and Jon both could remember with perfect clarity how Rhaenyra was fed to her
dragon, had felt her pain, rage and panic as if it was her own.
 
The last flight of Daemon the Rogue Prince in the Battle over the Gods Eye had
been amazing, and terrifying, from every blast of flame, snap of jaws and
raking of claws until the death defying plunge towards the calm lake and the
impact so strong that it shattered every bone in his body. It was hard enough
to Brynden to see these flashes of memories, small, scattered and in pieces,
and violent, always violent, that the boy had not gone insane and killed
himself, or everyone else in an effort to make it stop spoke volumes about his
character. Gritting his teeth Brynden plunged in again, he could only interact
with the boy when he was asleep or unconscious, and even then it was a chore,
‘be strong lad,’he whispered, ‘always remember your strength, be strong,’ he
repeated in a mantra, before painfully as before he was forced out again. It
was all he could do these days, a few moments only, and then pushed out, which
is why he simply urged the boy to remain strong, with so little time there was
naught else he could do but pray…
 
 
AN:
 
Well as you can see, this turned out to be quite different than Dragon in
Wolf’s clothing. Which was the whole point. For one, Jon is a bastard here
instead of the incredibly convenient secret annulment/marriage that we got
treated to in the show. I’ve also as you can see brought in a female Blackfyre,
and I’m certain you can all guess to who that is in the books.
 
Now, this fic is supposed to be the rewrite of Dragon in Wolf’s clothing, and
as such there will be some aspects that it has in common but you’ll just have
to wait and see.
 
As for Jon’s dreams, I’d like to clarify for those who are unsure. Jon is not a
reincarnation of anyone, the combination of the Stark blood (which may have the
blood of the children of the forest for all we know), Dragon Blood (and all it
entails like Dragon dreams) combined with Bloodraven rumbling about in his head
when he was at his weakest during a pox that nearly killed him has messed Jon
up. It has literally messed about, twisted and mutated his inborn gifts and
turned them into something really traumatic. So instead of prophetic dreams,
Jon dreams almost completely about moments of terrible strife for his ancestors
(male and female) and only from those which he is actually descended. So while
he doesn’t dream of Rhaenys or Aegon getting murdered by Clegane and Lorch, he
does for instance remember being raped by Aerys (from Rhaella’s PoV) or the
feel of Robert’s warhammer caving in his chest, most of these dreams he keeps
secret for a very good reason.
 
As for other news, I’ve recently written about 5k words on Bloody Wolf, though
it’s different pieces that are supposed to be ‘here or there’ in the next
chapter so it isn’t completed yet, but I’ll try to work on it some more. Same
for Dragon Queen, I am working on the next update, and I’m probably a good
third or so into the chapter.
 
Until next time
 
Cheers
Daemon Belaerys.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Disclaimer:_I_had_a_disclaimer_this_time_I_promise._He_promised_me_that_he’d
show_up_right_after_he_was_finished_at_this_blasted_wedding_he_was_going_to_at
the_Twins..._I_still_haven’t_heard_why_he_is_delayed_though.
===============================================================================
 
 
Chapter_2.
 
Jon:
 
Jon opened his eyes with a gasp, he had been betrayed. A Septon, a-a holy man
had betrayed him. There he’d been, helpful and kind, willing, if somewhat
reluctantly to show him and his acolytes, Septons in training no doubt that
Winterfell and the North was far more than just an empty wasteland inhabited by
nothing but barbarians and he’d been clubbed over the head for it and taken to
the Seven knows where.
 
The moment he thought about it was the moment his eyes widened in shock,  where
was he? Gazing around he felt faint. There was  no  place like this in all the
world, he would have heard about it if it was. Wide streets of smooth black
polished stone. Everywhere he turned his eyes he could see tall open topped
towers with arched pavilion like roofs with gleaming golden spires. Every wall
and surface was as the street. Seamless polished stone in all the colours of
the rainbow while sphinxes gargoyles, dragons and all manner of creatures
decorated everything, in the form of statues, or part of the very wall, not
painted on top, but part of the stonework itself.
 
All of it was lit up in softly glowing red, yellow and orange hues from rivers
that were not, he noted, of water but of molten rock. The very night sky itself
was cast aglow by the slowly flowing rivers of lava and he could even, to his
marvel glimpse dragons in the sky. Beast the size of horses all the way up to
the size of castles glided majestically through the air, or rested atop the
multitude of towers. At first he thought he had stepped into one of his dreams…
one of his  nightmares  but this was nothing but wondrous, absent-mindedly he
wiped away the tears that had accumulated in his eyes.  This  was no nightmare,
no half remembered scene of pain, death and violence, or glimpse of burning
infernos and beating wings, this… was  paradise .
 
“Marvelous is it not?”
 
Jon spun around at the voice, the voice that was so familiar, often whispering
words to him when his dreams and nights were darkest. He was greeted to the
sight of a short thin man, hair and skin both pale as snow and with a single
world weary red eye. Clad all in black save for a white dragon upon his chest.
“Who-who are you?” Jon asked trembling, he was so confused.
 
The man gave a sad smile at Jon. “Brynden my brothers called me,” he said as he
laid a comforting arm around Jon’s shoulders and started to lead him slowly
through the marvelous streets. “Though most called me Bloodraven, friend and
foe alike.”
 
Jon gasped. “The Brynden Bloodraven? Hand of the King? The leader of the
Raven’s Teeth?”
 
“You’ve heard of me I see,” Brynden said with a small chuckle.
 
“Of course,” Jon said, excitement creeping into his voice for the first time.
“You slew Daemon Blackfyre and two of his sons on the Redgrass Field.”
 
“I did,” Brynden said sadly, regret marking his face as he did. “I slew my own
brother and two of my nephews, boys I once cherished, and the man who taught me
to wield a sword, I became a kinslayer that day boy.”
 
Jon swallowed. “Accursed is the kinslayer,” he whispered.
 
“I’d say that is superstition,” Brynden countered. “But I wonder if there may
not be some truth to it.”
 
“How are you here?” Jon asked suddenly, “And why? For that matter, where is
here?”
 
Brynden gave him a shrew glance. “The proper question might be why are  you
here. I am a greenseer, capable of casting my mind and soul adrift on the
eddies of time and space, you boy  are not capable of such?”
 
Jon gasped. “Th-there’s no such thing,” he denied. “The Seven Pointed Star-” he
denials were cut short as Bloodraven’s hand landed harshly on his cheek with a
smack.
 
“Speak not to me of the Seven Pointed Star boy” he said venomously. “If you
knew but a fraction of what I know of the Faith and what has been done in its
name you’d wish death upon all who preach it.”
 
Angered, and insulted Jon stopped and crossed his arms while glaring balefully
at Bloodraven.
 
“You wish the truth lad?” he asked, “Once you learn, it cannot be unlearned.”
 
Jon narrowed his eyes at the bait. “I do not believe you,” he said stubbornly.
 
Brynden threw back his head and  laughed . “And if I were to tell you that the
Faith is in large part responsible for the woes of the Realm? Maegor’s cruelty,
the death of dragons, the near extinction of two entire species as intelligent
if not more so than men? Or perhaps the utter corruption and constant struggles
amongst southerners… oh no boy, the coming of the Andals and the spread of
their religion has brought  nothing but pain to Westeros.”
 
Jon shook his head while trying to hold back his tears, each accusation
accompanied by a deluge of images that pounded at his mind like hammers. He saw
with his own eyes, heard with his own ears how the High Septon and his Most
Devout plotted to seat his own niece upon the Iron Throne by wedding her to
Maegor while at the same time use the Grand Maester, a most devout man to
poison Aenys.
 
He could feel his own mouth speak the words at a Grand Conclave containing the
Most Devout and the highest Lords of the Realm as they agreed to this or that
decree. With naught more than a few words, he spoke the very words and put them
to paper that made people like him,  bastards into creatures spawned of sin and
lust,  forever tainted through no fault of their own, and  he  put it onto law
as firm as Valyrian steel itself for naught more than three chests of gold and
a pair of pretty maidens for his bed.
 
With horror, he witnessed, helpless to act as his own hand accepted a torch
from a man clad in the links of the Citadel and lowered it to a small green
puddle in the dark of the night. The wildfire, for what else could it be?
Ignited and raced towards an opulent palace, seconds later a detonation of heat
and flame tore much of the Palace into rubble, while hungry flames started to
consume everything inside, just moment before he had been one of the seven
Septons inside, praying over seven dragon eggs while the Royal family was in
attendance, what was worse, he could feel the anger, the sheer  fury  and
disappointment that the highly pregnant Princess Rhaella and her husband Aerys
had not been in attendance when the fire broke out, having left for safety mere
moments before to deliver her babe.
 
On and on Bloodraven bombarded him, tearing away his walls, stripping him of
everything he had held dear and noble. “Please,” he begged as he rocked back
and forth on his knees, hands holding onto his head. “No more, no more I beg of
you.”
 
Blessedly the Bloodraven seemed to realize he had gone too far and stopped,
kneeling down he cradled Jon to him, and for all that Jon absolutely  hated
the man now, he latched onto him like a dying man, his form heaving as he
sobbed. “I am sorry child,” Brynden whispered, “But you needed to know, to
understand .”
 
“Why?” Jon whispered, his voice cracking with pain. “So you can survive, you
are perhaps the last hope of our House, the last hope to bring order to
Westeros, to prepare it all for what is coming.”
 
“What?” Jon asked, “I don’t understand.”
 
“The Long Night is coming,” Brynden said, pushing Jon away so that he could
look him in the eye. Jon had never seen such a serious look in his entire life.
“It may come today, or a year, ten years of mayhap a hundred from now,” Brynden
admitted. “But the Long Night is approaching, and it will be here soon, if not
in your lifetime then in your sons or grandsons.”
 
“But why me?”
 
Brynden gave a pained smile. “Because you are the best hope, of what is left of
our House.”
 
Jon whimpered, “So its t-true?” he asked, his eyes red and puffy. “I had hoped
you know, that it was just nightmares… but I saw her,” Jon hiccuped. “I saw m-
my own mother die,  I saw how my father… died too.” Jon’s eyes were glassy, his
mind a thousand leagues away. “When I close my eyes I can feel it,” he said as
his right hand drifted up to the centre of his chest. “Right here,” he tapped
his chest twice, “right here is where Robert’s hammer took my father’s life,
it’s over two years since I had the dream… vision, and I can still remember the
pain, the panic as his life ebbed away.”
 
“I know lad,” Brynden said as he softly stroked Jon’s hair. “And I’m sorry, so
sorry. If I could take it all back I would, but it is too late now,” he closed
his red eye and gave a long sigh, seemingly aging a hundred years before Jon’s
eyes. “Mine is the fault of why you see these things, when you lay dying from
the pox I tried to save you… to keep you strong, all I did it seems was to
unlatch your gifts.” Now it was Brynden whose gaze was far away. “Given time
you would have come into them on your own, you would have learnt to control
them, if they had ever awakened at all, and now, all thanks to me they are
running wild, and you are alone and helpless to control them.”
 
“I have help,” Jon admitted after a moment of thought. The admission had chased
away his despair, and once more he could feel his rage, like furious dragonfire
course through him, revitalizing him. “For all you’ve done… your words, I hear
them every night I dream, they keep me going be strong you tell me, remember
your strength… those words have kept my sanity.”
 
“No more Jon,” Bloodraven said. “You have such tremendous strength, only now,
as you lay in a cabin on some ship, almost comatose from sweetmilk am I able to
speak to you properly… face to face as it were. If you are to learn to control
this gift you must be stronger, you mustlearn control, I cannot aid you
forever, another is already in need of my protection, his talents greater than
mine ever were, and yet so unfocused due to his age, it is all I can to keep
his dreams safe, I cannot continue with both you and him.”
 
Jon searched Bloodraven’s face, he wanted to kill him, he truly did. But as
much as he disliked him, for all he had done to him, he saw the regret, the
desire to right the situation. “How?” Jon asked through gritted teeth. “How
will I do this?”
 
“It will be painful,” Bloodraven admitted as Jon gave a contemptuous snort. “In
order to truly learn control you must accept what you are, cast aside any
notions of faith helping you. The things you have seen, the gifts you know you
have, you cannot deny them any longer. They are part of you. All the pain and
death you’ve seen in your dreams, the hound whose mind you inhabited when it
killed a rabbit. It was you. You did those things.”
 
Jon shook his head. “I’m just a bastard,” Jon disagreed, “I   never   burned
people alive inside their castle.”
 
“Ah yes, Harrenhal,” Brynden said drily. “Did you not speak the words with your
own mouth as you unleashed Balerion’s fires on flesh and stone?”
 
“Well yes but,”
 
“No buts,” Brynden said. “You saw it with your own eyes, you were the one who
did it in the first place.” Brynden shook his head. “I’ve not seen the like
before, you are not a greenseer boy, you can not consciously skim through the
history of the world, nor do you have true dragon dreams, the measly flashes
you’ve seen are too vague for that… you are something else, and it is only by
embracing what you see, what you learn that you can master this gift.”
 
Brynden smiled sadly at Jon. “I know it is painful lad,” he said as he watched
despair battle with rage on Jon’s face. “ But the sooner you accept these
dreams and visions, the sooner you make them your own, the better. Every night
you dream, your mind strengthens, have the dreams and visions not become
clearer?” Jon nodded. “And do they not also occur much more rarely?” Again Jon
nodded.
 
“Then you are already progressing. But a year ago I could enter your mind and
search through your deepest and darkest of secrets, not I can barely whisper a
few words before you push me out.”
 
“Any other...advice?” Jon asked sarcastically, as if he wasn’t already trying
to constantly sort through what he saw, and forget it for that matter.
 
“Perhaps...” Brynden said slowly. “A technique used by the old Dragonlords
called the flame and void,” Brynden said. “Imagine a void and a single flame,
and feed it. All your thoughts and doubts, hopes and dreams, pain and joy, feed
it all to the flame.”
 
Jon raised an elegant eyebrow.
 
“Don’t look at me like that lad,” Brynden huffed, “If you require proof as to
its effectiveness, you need but take another look around to see what the flame
and void enabled the Dragonlords to do.”
 
Jon did so, it was still night, and they were still inside the large city. What
few inhabitants out at this time of night, all of them dressed in fine silks,
with purple eyes and long manes of gold or silver hair, and none of them saw
either Jon or Brynden, one even walked right through Jon as if he wasn’t even
there. “Is this truly Valyria?” Jon asked.
 
“Aye,” Brynden said. “I’ve visited this place more often than I can count, the
birthplace of our ancestors. We were the greatest civilization in the entire
history of the world once, and yet our greatness led to our ruin. We warred,
and eventually conquered the Ghizcari and when we did, we took their vile
practice of slavery with them… but even the Ghiscari I think would have been
horrified as to the depth of cruelty and depravity we forced our slaves to.”
 
“The Doom was our punishment lad, it almost broke us beyond repair, but it’s
not too late, Valyria can be reborn, or rather, Valyria as it should have been
can be forged into being. It will require pain, hard work and sacrifice, and
you are the best chance.”
 
Jon shook his head, “I’m still a bastard,” he protested. “A bastard with no
name, armies or dragons, and yet you want me to rebuild Valyria? A shattered
wasteland AND stop the Long Night while I am at it?”
 
Brynden let out a hollow laugh. “Your claim to the Iron Throne or even Valyria
is as strong as the claims of Daenerys or Viserys Targaryen across the sea.”
 
Jon blinked. “What?”
 
“Did you ever hear the tale of how Aemon the Dragonknight defended Queen
Naerys’ honour when she was confronted about her infidelity?” Jon nodded, of
course he’d heard the tale. There wasn’t a boy in the Seven Kingdoms who hadn’t
heard the tale, none who wanted to become a great Knight or warrior at any
rate. “And if I were to tell you that the charges were true?” Brynden said,
“she confessed it to me shortly before she died you know,” Brynden said
hollowly, “how Daeron and Daenerys were her children by Ser Aemon.”
 
Jon gaped, “But if that were true...”
 
“Then every Targaryen spawned from her line has no legal right to even call
themselves a Targaryen. I hid the truth, foolishly believing that a war could
be averted, and yet a few years later my brother Daemon, who was by all rights
the true heir to the Throne the moment our father legitimized him was pushed
into rebellion after all.”
 
“How can you be so sure?” Jon asked.
 
“History might not remember my brother fondly,” Brynden said. “But you must
remember, he was my brother, long before his rebellion, and as history is
written by the victor, seldom is the victor kind to his defeated foe when the
tales are written down.”
 
“But, to take the Iron Throne...” Jon paused, try as he might he could not help
himself a brief moment of indulgence as he pictured himself sitting on a giant
throne made of swords, for once it was him who gave the orders, who decided how
things should be.
 
“You can see it can’t you? Even here, right in front of me, after all you seen
and heard, you want it. And why shouldn’t you take it?” Brynden spoke harshly.
“Robert Baratheon took the Throne by climbing over the bodies of young
children, and he rewarded the man who ordered the deed by taking Tywin
Lannister’s daughter to wife. Across the sea Viserys begs, pleads and curses,
without talent, or the will to gain it through hard work to even attempt to
regain the Throne. Daenerys… a sweet girl with a good heart, yet she will
falter. Each and every time she must make the truly hard decisions she will
falter. You have as much right to the throne as any whoreson from Flea Bottom.”
 
“But why should I even attempt it then?” Jon countered angrily.
 
“Because there is one right that sits above all others,” Brynden shot back.
“The right of might.” Fire burned in Brynden’s sole eye. “Did our ancestor
Aegon take flight on his dragon’s to conquer Westeros because he had any right
to it? No. He did because he could, you can do the same. You can fight for the
Throne because it is your Gods given right to fight for anything you want in
life.”
 
“Perhaps you don’t want to, but at the same time you do. You can tell yourself
that Robert is a better King than Aerys, but at the same time, why should you
bend the knee to some King who spend his time doing naught else but fucking
boars and hunting whores, or however the saying goes.” Brynden grasped Jon’s
shoulder in a tight grip. “Put aside the bastard Jon Snow, and become the King
you have the potential to be, become the man, who, with the right partner can
change the very world we live in...”
 
Jon blinked at the sudden darkness, and the throbbing pain at the back of his
head. His body felt heavy and sluggish and it was an effort just to reach his
arm back to feel the hefty bump at the back of his head. Shaking his head to
try and get rid of the sudden haze he found himself in he felt his stomach
lurch and soon he was bent over and vomiting messily onto the floor.
 
“You are awake I see.”
 
That voice!  It was of course the voice of the Septon who had attacked him, for
that matter, he was on a ship, not in Valyria as it was during its golden age.
“  You  ” Jon snarled as intimidatingly his nine year old voice could manage,
which considering how sick he felt at the moment must not be intimidating at
all.
 
“I apologize for the manner in which I took you,” he said, his voice far more
effeminate than the voice Jon had heard in Winterfell, for that matter the man
himself was very much changed as well. While still plump, his previous size was
almost twice his current one, and the beard he had once sported was missing, as
was his hair if one were to go by hairless dome on his head, for that matter,
where was his own hair? Jon raked his hand over his head, and feeling nothing
but smooth skin he glared twice as harsh at the plump man.
 
“Ah yes,” he said as if he had just remembered that he or one of his men had
shaved Jon as bald as an eggshell. “your hair is quite distinctive, even if the
colour itself is not too rare in the North, it had to go I’m afraid.”
 
“It’s strange,” Jon grumbled. “Every time you open your mouth I’m more and more
tempted to look for a sword.”
 
“And a sword you’ll have one day my lad, but not today.” He studied Jon
closely, as if trying to decipher the glint in Jon’s eyes. Angry and stubborn
as he was, Jon knew that in his current situation it was far better to think
with a clear head and with some effort he reigned in his temper. The man was
pleased if anything else, if Jon interpreted the look on the man’s face.
 
“Who are you?” Jon asked.
 
“I’m Varys, the King’s spymaster.”
 
Jon felt sweat break out, and his body tensed, he was under no illusion about
what would happen to him if King Robert knew the truth, Robert’s hatred of
Targaryens was well known. “And why have you taken me? With force and deception
I might add.”
 
“To save your life,” Varys replied. “You’re in danger, grave danger,” Varys
leant back in the chair he was seated in. “I remember it as if it was only
yesterday that you was brought to King’s Landing, along with the body of Lyanna
Stark. I was the only one to see the truth then, but how much longer?”
 
“The truth that I am the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen I assume?”
 
Varys smiled and gave Jon an impressed nod. “How long have you known?” he asked
curiously.
 
Jon shrugged and decide to give a little information. “It seems as if I’ve
always known, how Lord Stark never called me his son, my talent with the harp.”
 
“Yes,” Varys agreed. “Just one of many things about you that makes people talk,
it’s not so bad now, but in a few years, the elder you get the more you are
liable to look like your sire I’m afraid, and while not many in the North would
remember or even know how Rhaegar looked when he was at your age,” Varys
shrugged helplessly, “Were you to come to court I’d give you ten minutes at
most before the King would have you before him with his hands around your neck,
twenty minutes perhaps, if the number of courtiers and petitioners was
especially numerous at the time.”
 
“And so you’ve decided to spare me out of the ‘goodness’ of your heart is that
correct?”
 
Varys tittered. “You’re smart boy, you tell me?”
 
Jon stared at the man, trying in vain to decipher anything about him but to no
avail. “No doubt you have something in mind for me.”
 
“I do,” Varys nodded. “I was the one who spirited Daenerys and Viserys away to
safety, just as I am the one who protect them even now.”
 
“To what end?” Jon asked, “Surely you cannot mean to put them back on the
Throne?”
 
“Oh?” Varys asked. “What makes you say that?”
 
“Because… you would already have done it, wouldn’t you?”
 
“Oh my lad,” Varys laughed. “I am afraid you overestimate my reach. I am no
more able to place Viserys on the Throne than I am to depose Robert, but by
keeping Viserys and Daenerys alive, the Realm has an alternative should
something happen.”
 
“I don’t believe you,” Jon said sharply, even if he knew that he should hold
his tongue. “If that was all you wouldn’t need me, I’m just a bastard…”
 
There was no mistaking it now, Varys  was  impressed. “You’re quite right Jon
Snow,” he admitted at last. “There is quite a bit more behind it all.”
 
“I’ll never return will I?” Jon asked sadly as he tried to keep his eyes dry,
even as much as he wanted to deny it he knew Varys was right. He was looking,
and acting far less like a Stark of the North every day, and it was only a
matter of time before someone figured out the truth.
 
“Who knows what will happen in the future Jon Snow,” Varys said. “But I will
say this, I will look after you. I have arranged for a good friend to take you
in, and good teachers for you, teachers who knew your father, and my friend has
quite the large home, and also has a daughter your age I believe, so you shan’t
lack for company either.”
 
“I-I thank you Lord Varys,” Jon said, his voice trembling. “But I am still a
hostage to you, you are taking me against my will, to a place where I’ll be
looked after by grown men, a large space to roam and men friendly to my father,
but still a gilded cage with jailors, and you won’t even tell my the real
reason why you want me.”
 
Varys patted Jon on his hand. “Give me… two years Jon,” Varys said at last. “Do
this for me, stay with my friend for the next two years, learn what you can,
and then… you and I shall talk once more, and if what I offer then is not to
your liking, I shall let you walk free that very day.”
 
Jon looked closely at Varys for any sign of deceit before finally taking his
outstretched hand for a good shake. “Two years Lord Varys, and then we’ll see.”
===============================================================================
 
 
Eddard:
 
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North stood in silence
before Lyanna’s statue in the crypts below Winterfell. His shoulders shook as
he contemplated the possible fate of Lyanna’s only son, the last piece of her
left in the world that he had sworn to protect even as she lay dying. Earlier
that very night he had burned Jon’s clothes that had been left behind, in lieu
of an actual body to burn. Robb and Sansa were heartbroken, while Arya and Bran
were still too young to understand why their father and older siblings were
crying, even Cat, who had quite understandably never cared for the boy was
broken up about it, and Ned knew that in some ways she blamed herself.
 
Not that he blamed her at all, nor Septa Mordane or Septon Chayle. How were
they to know that someone would come into Winterfell dressed as a Septon of all
things and abscond with a bastard boy? When Jon had not returned for supper Cat
had quite correctly assumed that the boy had chosen to either eat in the
kitchen or the solitude of his own rooms, it was only the next morning when
prompted by Septa Mordane that they realized that Jon had never made it back at
all.
 
Though he wished dearly that Jon had been found he had nothing but pride and
admiration for Cat’s handling of the situation. A dozen riders with hounds had
been sent out in all directions, and ravens sent to every keep in the North as
well as a few sent to the Riverlands, such as the twins or Riverrun, but to no
avail. After almost a day’s search the dagger Jon had been gifted with on his
seventh nameday had been found half trampled into the ground, thick with dried
blood, closer search of the area had discovered two cleverly hidden graves, the
turned soil hidden by rocks, the two men being the acolytes in training to the
false Septon according to Septon Chayle. If nothing else Ned was proud that Jon
had apparently managed to overcome two of his assailants, all the same, he’d
rather have Jon back with him than Gods know where.
 
In truth, and he was almost disgusted with himself, he hoped that Jon was dead,
the other alternatives were too horrible to imagine. Had he been taken and sold
into slavery? Or worse still, had someone discovered the true nature of his
parentage and intended to use him for their own devious means? He knew that
none loyal to Robert was behind Jon’s abduction, had it been Ned wouldn’t even
have received a raven, Robert himself would be marching on the North with every
man he could muster to to bring Ned to heel.  Instead Robert had sent him home
the moment word reached him in the south, while a shy week later Ned was given
custody of Theon Greyjoy who had been escorted north by Greatjon Umber after
Pyke fell and Balon bent the knee.
 
Ned had sent out whatever ravens he could, while and uncharacteristically
somber Robert had lived up to his promise and ordered every Raven in King’s
Landing, Casterly Rock and Highgarden sent out as well and offered a reward of
ten thousand Gold Dragons for whoever could find Jon alive or dead, but with
three weeks gone and not a word or letter asking for ransom or favours Ned had
declared the boy dead. Oh he hadn’t rescinded his own offer either, five
thousand Dragons to whomever could produce Jon, but he had given up hope.
Neither hide nor hair of Jon was found anywhere, and as much as Ned would like
to drop everything until Jon was found he was the Warden of the North, and four
other children as well to care for.
 
So a ceremony had been held in Jon’s honour, with a surprising turnout of
people coming to wish the young boy farewell and offer their sympathies. The
turnout from Winterfell and Wintertown weren’t unexpected. Despite his bastardy
Jon had been well liked, particularly among the young girls whom he often
charmed with his harp, but a fair few Lords had arrived as well, such as Wyman
Manderly, Medger Cerwyn, Galbart Glover, and lastly Rickard Karstark along with
his sons and daughter on account of the blood they shared, no matter how far
back. Ned had been grateful and honoured, even if it was a poor balm.
 
“I’m sorry Lya,” he whispered to Lya’s statue before turning his back on it. He
would commission a small statue of Jon and place it beside her, a poor
repayment for the vow he had failed to uphold, but Jon was a Stark, regardless
of who his father was and would have a place beside the woman who had loved him
since she first felt him quickening in her womb.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Daenyra Blackfyre:
 
Daenyra smiled triumphantly as she starred at the arrow she had placed neatly
in the centre of the target fifty paces away, seated not too far away under a
large pavilion was her father Illyrio who was clapping with his large hands.
“Bravo my dear,” he said as he rose from his chair with a groan, his corpulent
form being a chore as always. “I see the money I spent on your tutor has been
well spent.”
 
“Girl is gifted with bow,” her tutor said in broken common. Her tutor was a
large Dothraki, well over six feet tall, and had it not been for the leg he
lost he liked to boast that he would be a great Khal by now, sadly, he had lost
his right leg in some battle and fallen from his horse, the shame he said was
so great that he could never again show himself among his own kind and he’d
settled down in Pentos, earning his keep by teaching the children of rich
merchants how to fire a bow, and Daenyra was a diligent student.
 
“Blood will out,” ‘Nyra said with a grin. Her father may be fat as a horse, but
she had seen statues and portraits of him when he was in his youth, and he
would have put any Khal to shame with his body then, and his talent with a
blade had been so impressive that no less than three different First Swords of
Braavos owed their skill to his tutoring.
 
“Just so,” Illyrio said with a smile as he hefted a large pouch of gold and
turned it over to Jaggo, her Dothraki teacher. “I thank you horsemaster for
your time, gold as promised.”
 
The old former bloodrider gave a sharp grunt of thanks and limped away,
escorted by one of Illyrio’s serfs, the ‘clunk’ ‘clunk’ of his peg leg hitting
the paved path of the garden disappearing into the distance.
 
“You seem to have taken a liking to the bow my sweet,” Illyrio said while
smiling as wide as his jowls would allow.
 
‘Nyra beamed. “I like it very much father, it’s challenging, but well worth it
for the feeling of satisfaction of watching your hard work pay off when the
arrow strikes the centre.”
 
“Just so,” he agreed. “Why I remember when I was young, I participated in an
archery competition in Myr,” he stroked his oiled beard with one of his large
hands. “I acquitted myself well but the winners, now they were a sight to see.
A man who would one day become a Prince in the Summer Isles with his bow of
Goldenheart and two young Tigers wanting to see the world with their Dragonbone
bows. I never thought to see such a performance, and doubt I’ll ever see it’s
like again.”
 
‘Nyra almost started bouncing on her feet, knowing that her father was stalling
on purpose. “Well?” she asked impatiently, finally giving way for her
curiosity.
 
Illyrio laughed. “The last shot was on a target four hundred and sixty yards in
the distance, do you know what skill it takes to make such a shot?” he asked
‘Nyra who was gazing at him with wide eyes, the distance and difficulty of such
a shot completely unthinkable to her. “In the end it was the Summer Islander
who won, beating out one of the Tigers by three measly inches.”
 
“What about the last one?” ‘Nyra asked impatiently.
 
“Oh him,” Illyrio chuckled before his grin reduced slightly. “The man coughed
just as he released the arrow. If you’ve ever wondered at the strength of a
Dragonbone bow, know this. His arrow killed and armoured Knight almost five
hundred yards away, the arrow itself punching out of the backplate.”
 
‘Nyra gasped, “I want one,” she said immediately, the thought of owning such a
bow, why she’d probably be the first woman in history.
 
Illyrio chuckled. “You have years more of training before you are capable of
handling such a bow my dear, but if you are good and practice every day, I see
no reason why you should not have one some day, but however much you like the
bow, it will not go out over your other lessons, if you start to fall behind
I’ll have no choice but to forbid you.”
 
‘Nyra crossed her arms grumpily, always with the damn lessons. “What will I
study now father,” she asked, her tone the very image of courtesy, while her
posture was rather the opposite.
 
“We’ll be receiving a guest soon who is to stay here for the foreseeable
future. He’s quite the gifted harpist and singer, so it is my desire that
you’ll take up dancing as well as singing lessons beside.”
 
‘Nyra narrowed her eyes, she knew her father well enough to know when he was
scheming, and there was no doubt about it, he had some scheme in mind with this
new guest, but one thing stood out. “Dancing,” she spoke, aghast at the very
idea of suit a fruitless silly pursuit, give her a horse to race or a bow to
shoot and she was happy, but dancing and singing, why that was even worse than
learning history, languages or gods forbid sums.
 
Illyrio laughed at her disgust. “There may yet come a day daughter when you
thank me on your knees for having you learn to dance if what I hear of our
coming guest is even close to the truth.”
 
Oh great, her father was talking about  boys  again. Boys were silly, always
refusing her to join their games of knights, pirates or sellswords, except
sometime offer her the chance to play some simpering helpless maiden, well she
had sure showed them, on more than one occasion. “Boys are silly,” she said
grumpily.
 
“That they may be daughter,” Illyrio said with a chuckle, “But one day you will
have to wed for reasons you know quite well, and if my friend is right, then
young Jon is the best candidate you can hope for. Talent, intelligent and the
right blood if not name, all are things you will need in a husband to take back
what belongs to you by right.”
 
“But why?” she questioned. Now don’t get her wrong, ‘Nyra wasn’t averse to
becoming Queen of a great continent, but she failed to understand why her
father was so invested in making her one when he knew that it would take a war
to get her the throne she had a rightful claim on through her mother Serra, the
only child of Maelys Blackfyre.
 
“because I promised your mother,” Illyrio said, for once not smiling or jovial,
her father always got sad when her mother came up. “I promised your mother I
would see your birthright restored to you, even as she was dying her last
thoughts were of you, and what you deserved.”
 
‘Nyra threw her arms around her father, hugging him closely. She herself never
knew her mother who died birthing her, but knew that father had loved her,
truly loved her with all his heart, he had turned down the hand of several
women of importance in Pentos, not caring at all for the great insult he
offered their houses. “I love you papa,” she mumbled.
 
“I know my sweet,” he said as he returned her hug. “You remind me more of her
every day, like you she had no time for such ‘silly’ things such as dancing or
needlepoint.”
 
‘Nyra let out an involuntary giggle. The few people who had known her mother
often remarked the same when they saw her. She had her mother’s hair, long
shimmering curls of silver gold, finely sculpted features and light purple,
almost blue eyes, she was a testament to the fact that the Blood of Old Valyria
was still strong in the line of House Blackfyre, and if the many Valyrian
featured Lyseni she had seen were anything to go by, she herself was liable to
turn many a man or even women’s heads in the future, although considering her
father intended for her to wed she was unsure about how useful that would be,
shouldn’t her husband be the only one to share her bed at any rate?
 
‘Nyra, or Daenyra as father always insisted she call herself had known since
she was a girl of five that one day she would marry a Dragon Prince and become
the Queen of all Westeros. And while at the time it had seemed like just
another silly story or happy fantasy she had eventually been brought up
properly, learning her family history, being able to name every single one of
her aunts, uncles, cousins and so on and forth up to the founder of her House,
Daemon Blackfyre. She learnt of the Targaryens as well, and while she knew that
her mother had probably been resentful of the Targaryens her entire life, ‘Nyra
was less so. She had grown up here in Pentos in her father’s large manse, what
did she understand of the hardship of her mother or ancestors? And if marrying
a Targaryen Prince meant that she could become the Queen of Westeros and not
have to live in worry that a Targaryen would find and kill her she saw no
problem with it.
 
“Do I still have to take dancing lessons?” ‘Nyra asked, hopeful that her father
might change his mind.
 
“Yes daughter I’m afraid you must,” he told her sharply. Her father hated to
raise his voice at her, although it was happening more often than not nowadays,
her upcoming tenth nameday in a few moons being the only thing that was keeping
her relatively obedient and demure these days, she didn’t want to spend her
nameday locked in her room after all.
 
“When will this… Jon arrive then father?” she asked testily.
 
“If I’m not mistaken he shall be here in a few days at most.”
 
“Humph,” she snorted as she played with a lock of her that had escaped from one
of her braids. “Strange name for a Prince of Dragonblood,” she admitted, Jon
was just so…common.
 
“To tell the truth neither my friend nor I know his true name,” if his uncle
ever shared it with someone we haven’t been able to find out, and by all rights
he isn’t a Prince either by Westerosi standards, he is a bastard I believe.”
 
‘Nyra snorted, “As if that matters, my ancestor Daemon was a bastard too at
first wasn’t he?”
 
“That he was,” Illyrio said. “A foolish custom,” Illyrio admitted. “Our own
customs are much simpler I think, a man’s children by his official wife will
inherit, and that’s that.”
 
‘Nyra nodded. Essos was far more free and liberal… at least in some cases,
slavery, while prohibited on paper in Pentos was strictly illegal in Westeros,
any man engaging in such activities earning the death penalty without
questions, going so far that those caught red handed in slavery were not even
permitted a Trial of Combat, another strange Westerosi custom.
 
“When will my lessons start then father?” she asked grumpily, seeing that her
father was not going to budge.
 
“I have scheduled a rather skilled dancing tutor for you from tomorrow on, five
days a week until she is satisfied, but for now you may do as you wish, no more
lessons for today.”
 
S miling she gave her father one last hug before running off to pack away her
bow and training gear, pausing only briefly to order the servants to draw her a
bath in her rooms.
 
Two days later, just after her dancing lessons for the day were finished she
was brought into her father’s meeting room. Sitting by the large table was a
bald plump man that she had seen with her father on a few occasions and a boy
roughly her age with deep amethyst eyes and shoulder length silky black hair.
Man and boy both stood up and walked around the table to stop before her.
“Daenyra, meet my friend Varys and our young guest for the next years Jon
Snow,” her father said.
 
Varys bowed slightly, offering her a sweet smile, while Jon took her hand and
bowed to place a kiss in the back. “My Lady,” he said with a small smile that
didn’t quite reach his sad eyes. “Tis a pleasure to meet you,” and Daenyra gave
a smile before glaring at her father for the way he chuckled at her sudden
blush, it wasn’t her fault if her cheeks reddened a little, the boy was  quite
handsome, for a boy that was.
 
“The pleasure is mine My Lord,” she replied courteously while trying to ignore
her burning cheeks.
 
“Very good, very good,” her father said. “I have some business to discuss with
Varys, so why don’t you take Jon for a small trip hmm? Show him around and get
to know each other yes?”
 
‘Nyra glared at him, she wanted nothing more than to not be around Jon Snow at
the moment, at least not until she could get a hold on herself, but what father
wanted father usually got. “Of course father,” she said with a stiff smile and
a tone cold enough to wither plants, “I would love to.”
 
Spinning around she almost stomped towards the door, only stopping and turning
back to lookat Jon who was looking somewhat uncertain while Varys and her
father were doing their best to hide knowing grins that ‘Nyra  hated . “WELL!”
she barked at Jon who almost jumped, “Are you coming? My  Lord .”
 
With a quickly stammered ‘yes’ he followed her quickly, sadly just not quick
enough for ‘Nyra not to catch the murmured ‘Theirs will be an interesting
marriage I think,’ from Varys, and from her burning cheeks and the equally red
ears of Jon Snow she knew that he had heard it too. For one brief moment they
both looked into each other’s eyes, and she just  knew  that her own eyes were
mirroring the panic she could see in Jon’s own purple orbs. The sudden laughter
of her father broke them out of their reverie, and with red faces they both
turned away and walked away, Jon following her quick steps like an obedient
puppy, while she tried her best to contain her blush she couldn’t help but
think ‘ I’m going to murder father for making me go through with this,’
 
 
And_that’s_it_for_chapter_two._I_was_already_workin_on_it_when_I_posted_the
first_one._I’ll_be_gone_for_the_next_week_or_so,_so_my_writing_time_will_be
somewhat_lessened,_but_I’ll_try_to_work_more_on_Bloody_Wolf,_as_well_as_an
amusing_oneshot_in_a_somewhat_similar_vein_as_my_‘Bobby_B’_one,_this_one
dealing_with_some_of_the_things_I_disliked_about_the_show,_and_the_amount_of
bad_shit_that_could_have_occurred_as_a_result.
 
Read_and_review
 
PS:_If_someone_can_help_me_get_my_hands_on_a_few_disclaimers_I’d_love_to_have
them,_the_one_for_this_chapter_still_hasn’t_arrived_so_I’m_starting_to_worry.
 
Cheers
Daemon_Belaerys.
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