Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12860961.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage, Rape/
      Non-Con
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Margaery_Tyrell, Jon_Snow/Daenerys_Targaryen, Arianne_Martell/
      Aegon_VI_Targaryen, Myrcella_Baratheon/Aegon_VI_Targaryen, Aegon_VI
      Targaryen/Myrcella_Baratheon/Arianne_Martell, Catelyn_Stark/Ned_Stark,
      Cersei_Lannister/Jaime_Lannister, Robert_Baratheon/Cersei_Lannister,
      Lyanna_Stark/Rhaegar_Targaryen, Elia_Martell/Rhaegar_Targaryen
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Aegon_Targaryen, Ned_Stark, Daenerys_Targaryen, Margaery
      Tyrell, Oswell_Whent, Arya_Stark, Sansa_Stark, Joffrey_Baratheon, Robert
      Baratheon, "Bobby_B", Cersei_Lannister, Jaime_Lannister, Tyrion
      Lannister, Tywin_Lannister, Oberyn_Martell, Bran_Stark, Rickon_Stark,
      Robb_Stark, Loras_Tyrell, Stannis_Baratheon, Davos_Seaworth, Myrcella
      Baratheon, Ghost, Ashara_Dayne
  Additional Tags:
      Period-Typical_Underage, fAegon_is_a_Targ, Jon_Snow_is_a_Targ, R_plus_L
      equals_J_&_A, Ramsey's_father's_a_coont, Explixit_Acts_of_Sexual_Nature,
      Game_of_Thrones_people_will_die, Sibling_Incest, Incest, Smut, Sassy
      Oswell_is_Sassy
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-29 Updated: 2017-12-03 Chapters: 3/? Words: 11559
****** Blood of the Conqueror ******
by Daemon_Belaerys, KadenIV
Summary
     KadenIV and I had a small discussion about what if ToJ led to twins.
     Of course, being us, we fucked it up royally beyond proportions.
     OR, me and Kaden write a badass #TARGARYENRESTORATION fanfic with
     some hinted reincarnation sprinkled on top. Suck it bitches!
Notes
     This is a collaboration effort between Daemon_Belaerys and KadenIV,
     plan is for weekly updates.
***** Prologue *****
                        Bloodof_the_Conqueror:_Prologue
                                    Eddard
                                        
Ned Stark was drifting in that place between consciousness and sleep again. His
thoughts and considerations torturing his mind once more. The cold of his
chamber forced the furs to his chest as he tossed and turned, alone, in his
large feathered bed. He’d scorned Cat’s affections and her effort to warm the
coolness of his anger at her forcing him to push away the boy. He knew sooner
or later he would need to do something. Jon was getting less and less tolerable
of Ned’s lady wife and her ever present anger at him. He was openly cursing her
for the faith she held and the manner in which she raised her children. He
would constantly challenge her authority, refusing to acknowledge her presence
unless it was to rebuke or shame her. She’d barred him from attending morning
or evening meal in her presence, when Eddard had lifted this, the boy had shown
him why he was wrong to. So he had conceded and reinforced his wife.
When Cat had begged him to send Jon to the wall that first time, four moons
passed, he had blatantly refused and refrained from talking to her for near a
week, unless to greet or ask a necessary question. Yet as time went on and
tensions rose between them he was beginning to see little to no alternative. He
had once thought to send the lad to foster, maybe the GreatJon would have taken
him under wing and used all the anger that was boiling beneath the surface.
'The Wolf’s Blood,' he thought as he sighed and rolled from his left side to
his right. 'As strong in him as it was in Brandon or Lya at that age. Stronger
than my own.'It was only recently that he thought it best for both the boy and
his family. It was Luwin that had convinced him in the end, “Send him North, my
lord. Your own brother mans the wall, mayhaps young Snow can find honour and
respect doing something the Starks have done for generations.” Jon’s response
was less that compliant.
“You would discard me like some common servant that has outstayed his tenure,
Father?” He had exclaimed, his indigo eyes a storm of anger and hurt. “You
would house a Greyjoy over your own son. Over your own flesh?” It was then that
his expression hardened into a bitterness Ned had never seen. So full of
resentment and hate as realisation dawned on him. “This was her wasn’t it.” It
was a statement that had not asked for answer.
“No Jon, it’s not like that, lad. I would see you do good for the Realm. To do
as my brother did and join the watch. Cat had little to do with this.” He knew
when he said that that Jon didn’t believe him. He knew it didn’t ease the anger
that welled inside and begged for release. “It’s for the best,” he said as he
looked into the eyes of the boy. At four and ten he was bigger that any youth
had right to be at the age. He was of a height with Ned, and already a head
taller than Robb. He was as broad too, if still lacking the proper fill of a
man grown.
“Aye, Father. I’m sure it is,” His voice dripped with falsehood and anger as he
left Ned’s solar, almost slamming the door with his exit.
He could feel the sleep he’d been yearning for begin to grab his legs and pull
him into what he hoped was darkness. He sighed one last time as the furs of his
blanket rubbed against his bearded cheek and he let the peace wash over him
with a warm shiver. He hopped for dreamless sleep then, his night plagued with
apparitions of a past he’d wished forgot. Of wraiths and ghosts that looked
down upon him with disappointed scowls. ‘Arthur’, he thought as he finally
drifted to sleep. ‘Oswell, Gerold, Father, Brandon. Lya…’
He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in cloaks as white as the snow that
fell in the depth of winter, of a tower filled with sorrow and tears and a blue
rose in a bed stained red with blood. A dream in which old companions long gone
rode with him, as strong atop their shadowed horses as they did true coursers
in life. Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory’s father, faithful Theo Wull, Ethan Glover,
who had been his brother’s squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of voice and of
heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord Dustin atop his fiery steed. He’d
known their faces once, as well as he had Bran’s or Robb’s, but time wears away
the details as rain upon a stone. In this dream they were but ghouls of smoke
and shadow, their beasts wrought of mist and Dornish dust.
They were seven then, facing three. Three of the greatest swords the Realm had
seen in a generation if half the stories had been true. Their faces were clear
and chiselled as though he’d seen them just before he slept. They were clad in
their pristine armour, only barely stained by the red of the sand, the Red
Mountains behind them. Ser Arthur Dayne; Ashara’s brother he recalled as the
white knight stood, the hilt of the fabled Dawn showed over his right shoulder.
A sad smile across the Sword of the Morning’s face. Ser Oswell, the Black Bat,
sat on a large rock, his gold and white sword across his lap as the whetstone
drew over its blade. Nearest to Ned stood the White Bull, Ser Gerold, his face
hardened and scowling as he scanned the band of seven.
“I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to them, his sword hand flexing.
“We were not there,” Ser Gerold answered, his voice echoed through the sands.
“Woe to the Usurper if we had been,” chuckled Oswell darkly.
“When King’s Landing fell and Ser Jaime slew your Mad King with a golden sword,
I wondered where you were.” His voice grim and clear.
“Far away, Stark,” Ser Gerold replied again as he rolled his large shoulders,
“Or for as mad as Aerys was he would yet sit the Iron Throne and our false
brother would burn in the darkest of hells.”
“I came down on Storm’s End to lift the siege,” Ned told them as he looked at
each face. “and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all
their men bent the knee and pledged us fealty. I was certain you would be among
them.”
“Our knees are stiff and do not bend, for no matter how harsh the wind bellows,
the mountain does not bow.” Arthur stated flatly.
“Word reached us that Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen
and Prince Viserys. I thought you would have sailed with them.”
“Ser Willem is a good man, and true,” replied Ser Oswell with a shrug.
“But not of the Kingsguard,” The Lord Commander pointed out. “The Kingsguard do
not flee.”
“Then or now.” Said Ser Arthur, as he donned his white helm.
“We swore a vow,” Ser Gerold explained.
The shadows at Ned’s side moved with dark swords in hand. They were seven,
young and strong. Seven against three.
“And now it begins,” Ser Arthur said as he pulled Dawn from its scabbard down
his back and wrapped both arms around the hilt. Its blade alive and white, pale
as milkglass.
“No,” Ned replied as he sighed and pulled Ice from its own place along his
back. “Now it ends.” As they came together blades crashing and ringing with
each swing, Ned’s vision blurred and the world of the dream accelerated and
stopped as he stood in the opened door to the bed chamber in the top of the
tower. It was then that he saw her, the features of her own face slightly
blurred, but her storm grey eyes, though weak and tired, were still as clear as
the sun. In her arms she held two bundles and the blankets about her legs were
soaked through with blood, a weary smile upon her lips as she looked up at him,
then back at her arms.
“Your uncle’s here now little ones, he’ll take good care of you for me. He’ll
teach you of your father and show you right from wrong.” Ned was knelt by her
bedside now, he couldn’t hear what he was saying, or what she replied.
“This one is Raegon, named for his father, and Elia’s son.” She said handing
him a boy, his eyes a brilliant purple, and on his head a shock of dark
Northern hair. He felt a smile play against his lips as the boy reached up and
wrapped a small hand about around his finger. His sister grew paler as she gave
him the second boy. “Cregan,” She smiled fondly, “For the Northern Hand I would
have him be.”
The dream shifted yet again, and now he was surrounded by pale sandstone wall,
the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore in the distance.
“I’ll not let you take the King North, to raise as some by blow of a tavern
whore, Stark.” Oswell, who they first thought dead from the fight at the Tower,
said, his voice grim and threatening. The last of the Kingsguard was still
adamant in his duty to the crown. “I’ll not let you send away the Prince
either, you Northern mutt.”
The halls of Starfall were smoke and mist, but Oswell and Ashara were fixed and
solid in his mind. “You would let the Usurper wear a crown he has no right to?
You know, well as I he is no king. Just an angry boy swinging a hammer,
screaming for a toy his parents took from him.”
“It’s because of that exactly that I need you and Ashara to go East, Oswell. I
was in King’s Landing after the Sack. I was there in the Throne Room when Tywin
Lannister presented the mangled corpses of Elia and her children before Robert.
I saw the look of pure glee at the murder of children and women, on the face of
the man I would have named Good Brother.” Ned protested as passion filled him,
Oswell needed to understand.
“I’ll not have Lya’s sons face that. And if the only way to avoid it to raise
Raegon my son, and send Cregan with you both, then so be it.”
That was the last thing his mind bid him see, before he woke with a start. His
body warm and sweaty, sheets tangled loosely about his legs as his breath
caught in his throat. ‘Even now the past deprives me peace.’He thought before
looking one of the windows of his chamber and seeing the sky still dark and
black.
===============================================================================
 
                                      Jon
Jon stalked through the corridors of Winterfell, hoping his father have changed
his mind after the previous day’s argument. It was quite late by now, the feast
they had thrown in commemoration for King Robert's arrival had gone on for
three nights, the King's appetite for merrymaking seeming without end, and
little had been done during the days as most were still drunk and tired from
the night before, and even if Jon had spent quite a bit of time outside
demolishing one of the training dummies the first night, he had returned to the
feast quickly enough. Ignoring Lady Stark's latest insult to him in favour of
being there to drink and laugh merrily, inwardly crowing at how displeased she
was at his happiness.
Some might call it petty, but who as the petty one? The boy whose only crime
was to be born on the wrong side of the blanket? or the powerful Lady, wed into
a noble house who did her best to treat a motherless boy as nothing more a
living stain upon an old and noble name? Oh yes, regardless if Jon did as good
as he could to make life sour for Lady Stark it was her that was in the wrong.
All he did was be born.
So as the night had gone on and Jon had fallen deeper into his cups he had been
most surprised when Lady Stark herself had appeared and informed him that his
father wanted a word with him, the smug smile on her face that had replaced her
usually icy glare worrying him somewhat. Just as he was about to knock on the
door to his father's solar he stopped short however. Loud voices, angry and
belonging to his father and uncle Benjen could be heard from within.
"NO," the voice of his uncle Benjen roared. "He's four and ten, I'm not taking
him back with me to the Wall."
"I have no choice," was his father's cold reply. "I cannot take him with me
south, and you know well why I cannot."
"So let him stay in Winterfell," Benjen countered. "There's more than enough
here for Jon to have something to do."
"He cannot," father replied. "Cat won't allow it."
"So you expect me to let him throw away his life because your shrew of a wife
cannot stand the boy?" Benjen roared. "I'll not let Lya's boy bind himself to
the Wall for the rest of his life because your wife is a vicious cunt Ned,"
Benjen continued raging, while Jon's eyes widened, what did uncle Benjen mean
by Lya's boy?
"ENOUGH!" Jon almost jumped. Never had Jon heard his father scream like that
before. "Brother or no I'll not have you slander my wife in my own castle!"
Even through the door Jon could hear his uncle cough up a wad of phlegm and
spit it on the floor. "Lyanna's boy is more family than you're petty southern
wife will ever be," he said, his voice as chilly as winter itself. "I'll not
let him swear himself to the Black without knowing the truth."
"He cannot know the truth," father? countered. "It's too dangerous."
"You're not my Lord any longer, brother," Benjen said. "Either you'll tell him
or I will..." there was a moment of pause. "Where did this idea come from in
the first place I wonder?"
"Luwin and Cat mentioned that it might be best for Jon to take the Black,"
father said, and Jon almost growled. Of course it would be those two, thick as
thieves Lady Stark and Maester Luwin were, much like Jon and Arya in truth.
Uncle Benjen laughed. "And it did not strike you as suspicious?" he asked. "Out
off all the places Jon could go, either to foster, squire or just work even the
only option they came up with was the Wall, I wonder Ned, were you always this
blind to your wife's fears or did it take extensive practice."
A fist slammed down on a desk, "Enough!" came his father's voice, leaving
little room for guessing who it was that slammed the desk. "If you cannot
respect my wishes then you can leave for the Wall tonight."
"And what of Lya's wishes?" uncle Benjen asked with a trembling voice. "Did you
even once consider them before you broke all faith with her memory? or did you
give her false promises from the start?"
"And what should I have done?" father asked.
"Were you any sort of man brother you would have ridden straight for the Tyrell
army still marching home and gotten them to help you put our nephew on the
throne. Instead, like a coward you stood back and let the whore monger rule as
King, while sending one of Lya's sons across the sea, alone and without kin,
while taking the other to raise him here as your bastard without any right to
inheritance when he is the rightful King, and now you wish to take what little
he has left, and without telling him why even."
At this point Jon was seeing red. The conversation left little doubt as to whom
they were talking about – him –and the more he overheard the angrier he got.
The revelation that he apparently had a twin brother, and had been raised – and
treated as a bastard when he wasn't, was the last straw.
Jon slammed the door open, being greeted by two shocked faces, “what did you
hear?” his father - no, uncle, asked apprehensively.
Jon laughed, “How about all of it ‘father’,” he replied through gritted teeth.
Ned Stark collapsed into his chair, all the fight left him. “Close the door,”
he said hoarsely.
Jon – if that was even his name swiftly closed the door behind and swiftly
strode over to where his uncle – both of them most likely, were, with uncle
Benjen having a vindicated smile on his face, while Ned Stark looked older than
he had ever done before. “Speak,” Jon demanded, his fierce temper coming to the
fore.
“You’ve probably divined most of it by now,” Benjen remarked. “You’re Lyanna’s
son, by Rhaegar.”
“One of them?” Jon asked, remarking on the fact that they had mentioned another
brother.
“Your younger twin, Cregan,” Ned said.
“Ahh yes," he mocked, "why am I the only one you took in?” Jon demanded. “WHERE
IS MY BROTHER!”
“Peace Jon,” Ned tried to calm him. “Cregan was born with your mother’s eyes
and your father’s hair. I couldn’t very well bring me a child with Targaryen
hair could I?” Ned asked angrily.
“Which is why you should have taken the Throne while there were still armies in
a position to do so,” Benjen muttered bitterly.
Ned sighed, no doubt this was an argument the two men had had before. “I made
the choice I deemed to be right at the time.”
“And your wife?” Jon growled, “Was it right how she treated me? How you allowed
her to treat me.”
“No it was not,” Ned said. “Yet I could not tell her.”
“Might I ask why?” Jon asked.
“Cat’s never been the best at… keeping her opinions to herself. Had she said
something to the wrong person Robert would have had my head, along with yours
and all my children.”
Jon gaped. “And this is the man you call your King? Your friend?” he shook his
head incredulously. “Is Jon even my name?” he asked bitterly.
“No,” Ned admitted. “Your mother named you Raegon, after your father and
brother.”
Jon laughed, “So the Targaryen looking one of us is named after a northman,
while I whose looks are of the North has the valyrian name,” he continued
laughing at the absurdity of it all, not noticing Ned’s wince at Jon’s claim of
being of the North.
“So now you understand why you must take the Black?” Ned said. “Cat won’t
permit you to stay in Winterfell, and you’re not safe in the south.”
“I’d rather join the Golden Company than take take up with thieves and
rapists,” he spat harshly. ”It is not as if I would stay in this place any
longer. You let me shake the hand of the man who killed my father and endorsed
the murder of my siblings and let me live a life shame as your bastard. I’ll be
gone by the time the Royal party leaves,” he added, and then stormed out of the
room, he had a practice dummy to murder.
 
Author's_Note_Daemon:_So_yeah,_me_and_Kaden_just_get_more_plotbunnies_as_we_sit
around_on_discord._This_was_partially_born_out_of_a_discussion_between_the_two
of_us_and_our_friend_Avery_Fontaine,_partially_because_of_a_small_RP_we_are
running_together_with_Avery_and_ScholaroftheArchive,_and_lastly_our_own
overactive_imaginations._It's_our_hope_to_pump_out_a_chapter_a_week_or_so,
since_collaboration_work_with_voice_chat_usually_leads_to_productive_evenings.
So_peace_out_and_I_hope_you_all_like_it.
Cheers
Daemon_Belaerys.
 ___________________________________________
 Author's_Note_Kaden:_Pretty_much_what_happens_when_you're_awake_at_4am_and
talking_personal_theories._This_stems_from_a_favourite_of_mine,_fAegon_and_Jon
being_twins._In_book_canon_both_are_of_an_age_and_it's_clear_fAegon_can't_be
Aegon_Rhaegarson_because_of_this._Along_with_this_is_the_RP_we're_running_with
Ave_and_Scholar,_in_which_I_proposed_this_same_idea._As_Daemon_said,_we hope_to
get_out_a_chapter_every_week,_so_don't_get_your_fookin_arses_rammed_because_we
missed_a_few_days.
Gratitude,
Kaden_IV.  
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                                    Raegon
 
As he promised his ‘father’ Jo-Raegon was gone by the time the King left for
the south, though not in the way Ned Stark had hoped for. Raegon had spent his
remaining time in Winterfell as best he could. Gathering together what coin he
had, getting his hands on food that would last for a long time before going
bad. Hard bread, biscuits and cheeses mostly. Hardly a feast, but better than
starving.
He had arranged for Mikken to make a thin slender blade for Arya that she
called Needle. That last hug they shared was harder than he’d thought possible.
He hoped that he might run into her in King’s Landing, but he doubted it, as it
was he’d have to reach the capitol first anyhow, and not get caught while doing
so or his uncle might just send two of his guards to forcibly lead him back to
the North.
His uncle Benjen had chipped in with what little he could. Giving Jon a small
pouch of gold dragons, and also somehow convincing Lord Stark to part with the
letters and documents found with his mother in Dorne. Mostly it was simple
notes and a few more intimate letters between his mother and the late Prince,
‘Iwrite like my father,’ he thought when he first saw the flowing script of
Rhaegar Targaryen. The only real document of any particular importance, in that
it would see him without a head if ever it was discovered was the wedding
certificate between his father and mother. ‘Thank you, Uncle,’ he thought as he
rode out of the gates of Winterfell on a fine courser, a horse he had been in
charge of for near five years now, so he considered it to be his own horse,
even if it had never been explicitly stated.
He’d made camp almost a day’s ride from Winterfell and settled down to wait for
the Royal party to leave, easily snagging himself a pair of fine rabbits with
his bow to eat while he waited, Ghost eagerly trotting over to bring them back
after he brought them down. As he waited for the rabbit to cook over the small
fire he’d made for himself he absently ran a whetstone over the sword he
commissioned from Mikken, absently letting his thoughts wander free, going over
anything and everything. From how his twin brother must have lived, if he was
still alive even in Essos, to fond memories of his childhood, all the
shenanigans he Robb and Arya came up with, and how sooner or later they’d all
been frogmarched up to see Lady Stark. He growled angrily as he tough on his
uncle’s bitch of a wife. She had always despised him, and the older he got the
worse she became.
Two days after his departure the King finally left, the large Royal party
moving slowly south in a long trailing line, as if some big worm or snake,
slowly but surely slithering away. Packing up his small camp he turned his
horse towards the south as well and set out at a slow walk, keeping the King’s
retinue always in sight, near the dip of the horizon.
He’d allowed himself to trail behind the King’s caravan by near half a day,
making sure to keep the rear half in sight for as much as possible. He knew
Lord Stark would react to his choice of coming South poorly, but Raegon didn’t
care. ‘Raegon’He thought bitterly as he patted the thick neck of his dark
courser. The beast had begun to grow used to the ever lingering presence of
Ghost, not twenty paces from when Rae sat atop his horse.
‘All these years a bastard. A dark, and constant  stain on the honour of the
Honourable Lord Stark.’ He mused as he brought a hand to the collar of his
furred cloak, raising it slightly to protect his neck from the sudden cold
breeze that seemed to seep into him. He knew he shouldn’t have cut his hair
shorter on the sides and back, with the top only half an inch or so longer. Yet
some familiar feeling in his mind told him this way was better more practical
than a mop of woman’s hair on his head, at least he’d never have to hear Robb
and Theon’s by now overused joke about liking his hair better than any woman.
His mind wandered to Bran, the boy he’d still see as a brother even in light of
what Lord Stark had told him had passed. The young lad’s dark Tully red locks
reaching his chin and jaw, with his see blue eyes as clear as the pools in the
Godswood. ’ Bran,’ He thought solemnly, ‘ Wake up soon.’He coughed and shook
his head of darker thoughts before letting a sharp whistle calling Ghost to
him.
The direwolf was already the size of a large hunting dog if not a medium sized
wolf, his fur as white as the Summer snows Raegon had seen in his life in the
North. As Ghost ran silently to keep pace with the horse, Rae watched him from
the corner of his eye; the wolf’s tongue lolling in and out of his open maw as
his eyes as red as the sap that leaked from the trees of the Old Gods. With
three whistles, Ghost was gone again, dashing to the south-west, edging further
and further away from the King’s Road as Raegon pushed the black stallion into
a gallop.
“Ghost!” He called with a yell, three whistles were the call to trot and jog.
Much like the Stark children, Rae had trained his wolf well, almost as though
he understood him on a deeper more mentally attuned level. So it troubled
Raegon as he followed the direwolf through the gradually thickening trees that
began to surround him. As he saw Ghost stood still on the tree line, watching
something take place with silent, bloody eyes, Raegon rode forward and was
about to call for the wolf’s attention when he heard a cruel, childish laugh.
“Aren’t you going to pick up your sword? Or is it only little girls you fight?”
The cruel blonde boy asked, the sneer in his voice as clear as though Rae could
see it.
“I said pick up your sword, now.” He repeated the command clear in his voice as
the smaller, rounder lad quivered with the Princes blade pressed to his cheek.
“It’s only a stick m’lord, we was only playin’ pretend,” The fat boy stammered,
before letting out a sharp yelp. Raegon had dismounted by now, his hand in
Ghost’s fur as the wolf’s hackles raised and his lips curled back into a cruel
and silent snarl. ‘He’s drawn blood.’ Raegon thought, looking up. His eyes
finding Sansa and her fiery hair, and then Arya dressed in boy’s clothes.
“I am not a lord,” the blonde Prince retorted shrilly and high pitched as he
pulled back his small sword as though to strike the downed boy. “And youare not
a knight. You would do best to remember your place.” Before he could bring his
sword down, Arya was attacking him wildly with a stick, screaming and shouting
for Joffrey to leave the boy be. The smile on his face as he thought of Arya
Underfoot running through Winterfell’s yard covered in mud faded as he watched
the Prince turn on her, with sword in hand. Raegon was already sprinting
forward when the back of Joffrey’s hand sent Arya to the ground. Sansa was
screaming and pleading for the boy to stop, but her ‘Golden Prince,’ – as he
heard her call him during the King’s stay in Winterfell – ignored her.
“I’ll gut you, you little bitch!” He exclaimed as he pointed the blade at her.
Before he could do anything with the blade, Raegon was upon him. His riding
boot collided with the Prince’s sword hand, sending the blade crashing into the
stream that ran through the wooded area they were in.
“You dare?!” Wailed the Golden brat, his face red and puffy. “My father will
have you hanged!” He screamed before he went hurtling to the ground, his face
an image of shock. Raegon looked down at him, an expression of contempt clear
on his face.
“Your father will likely beat you worse than Arya did when he learns of how
appallingly you’ve acted,” Raegon snarled while laying a warning hand on the
hilt of his sword, sharp enough to shave a tick’s arse if he wanted.
“JON!” Arya screamed happily before throwing her arms around him, making him
let out a silent ‘oomph’ at the impact. “What are you doing here?” she asked
while Rae kept his eyes on the now sobbing Prince who was running away as fast
has his spindly legs would carry him, his long effeminate golden locks swaying
behind him as a curtain of molten gold.
“Keeping you out of trouble,” Rae said seriously before looking over at the
sniffling butcher’s boy. “You alright lad?” he asked.
“I-I think so m-m’lord,” he stuttered.
Rae gave the boy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Good lad,” he looked over to
Sansa who was still panicked and crying. “Sansa, come here, SANSA!” he had to
scream her name before she came over. “Listen,” he started. “The Prince is
going to run off and tell on us, so when we are asked tell the truth,” he
looked particularly hard at both Arya and Sansa. “Lying to the King is a grave
offense, so if he asks you must tell the truth, do you understand?”
Sullenly both of his ‘sisters’ nodded, as did the butcher’s boy. “Then let us
go, Arya you lead the way,” he told her, all four of them, as well as Ghost and
Nymeria walking through the woods towards the castle they were staying at, Rae
leading his horse by the reins. Almost as soon as they left the trees behind
them and they were set upon by Lannister guards.
“You are under arrest,” one of them pat, sword in hand and painted straight at
Rae.
“What’s going on ‘ere?” came another voice as three of the guards Lord Stark
had brought with him came over to see why swords were pointed at their Lord’s
‘son’ and daughters.
“You stay out of this,” one of the Lannister guards barked, while another
said,” They assaulted the Prince they did.”
“ENOUGH!” Rae barked before the argument could get out of hand. “I deny these
cruel allegations, and I have a right to face my accuser.”
The Lannister guards blanched, clearly none of them were eager to escort them
before the King. “He does have that right,” one of the Stark guards pointed out
while the Lannister men shuffled uncertainly.
“Fine,” one of them sighed, “But you’ll be leavin’ that sword of yours here.”
The castle of Darry was a good sized building, smaller than Winterfell, but
larger than small forts. It’s great feldspar-stone walls seemed freshly laid,
and Rae remembered all the suffering brought upon the castle. ‘Prince Aemond,
my ancestor had his dragon torch this place.’He recalled the event from a book
on the Dance of Dragons that he had read in Maester Luwin’s library back in
Winterfell. As he walked through the gates of the castle’s curtain walls and
into the courtyard he saw two men still atop their horses, by the stables. The
younger man had a beard and hair as dark and black as the King’s and he too was
tall and broad even if the features on his face were somewhat effeminate. The
other man was older, much older. His hair was as white as the cloak and armour
he wore. Even though he’d never seen the man, he’d heard enough stories and
ballads to know Ser Barristan, the Bold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
He must have stopped walking because one of the Lannister men behind him pushed
him forward.
“Keep walking bast’d, His Grace, the King waits.” Raegon looked back at the man
but said nothing, choosing not to worsen the situation. They made their way to
the great hall of Darry and had Rae stand before the King.
The King was just about to speak when Lord Stark finally came walking into the
great hall. “What is the meaning of this!” he asked sharply, causing the King
to glare sullenly at the floor, unwilling to meet his old foster brother’s
gaze.
“Your daughter and her friend attacked the Crown Prince with clubs before your
bastard arrived to lay his hands on him and draw steel, as well as threaten to
kill him,” the Queen raged.
“That’s a filthy lie,” Arya screamed, only Lord Stark’s timely intervention
kept Arya from leaping at the Queen.
“See?” the Queen crowed. “She’s as wild as that beast of hers.”
“ENOUGH!” the King shouted. “He says one thing,” he remarked, pointing at the
Prince who was still sniffling while trying to hide his still red cheek, “and
she says another, what am I to make of this?”
“There were two other witnesses Your Grace,” Raegon remarked. “Both myself and
the butcher’s boy, and lastly Sansa.”
“This is true,” King Robert said, motioning for Sansa to come forward. “Now
tell the truth, and know it is a great crime to lie to your King.”
Sansa was almost hyperventilating at this point her panicked face flitting
towards the King, Prince Joffrey, the Queen and lastly Lord Stark. “I-I don’t –
it happened so swiftly, I don’t remember,” she babbled.
“LIAR!” Arya screamed as she tried to jump Sansa, snatched back just in time by
Raegon,” LET ME GO!” Arya screamed, “SHE’S LYING!”
“ARYA! ” Lord Stark snapped loudly. “Apologize to your sister, NOW! ” he
ordered her. Arya stared mulishly back, her eyes shining with tears of rage,
but no matter how coldly her father looked at her she refused to comply. “Very
well,” Eddard said finally. “I’ll deal with you later,” he turned to Jory. “See
to it that my rebellious daughter is brought to bed after this, and make sure
she stays there.
“You then boy,” the King remarked to the butcher’s boy. “Will you tell the
truth of this?” And the boy did, explaining from the beginning about how Arya
and he had gone looking for Rhaegar’s rubies, later they had decided to
practice sword fighting with sticks. Upon accidentally hitting Arya the Prince
had arrived, cut Mycah and then attempted to strike Arya with his drawn sword.
Of course he hadn’t managed to land a hit because ‘Jon’ arrived just in time to
stop the Prince, kicking the sword out of his hand and then striking him.
“So you did strike him?” Queen Cersei asked furiously.
“Your stupid boy had a sword swinging towards my sister’s head,” Rae snapped
back in anger, only realizing what he had said after the words were already
spoken.
“I want his head,” the Queen said with a scowl.
“Cersei,” King Robert started.
“He is your son,” the Queen snapped. “Are you going to let a bastard from some
camp slut lay his hands on your son without paying for it?”
“Any man who lays hands on a Prince loses the hand,” Ser Barristan said sadly
while shooting Rae a pitying look.
“Yes,” both the Queen and the Prince both got looks of sadistic glee on their
faces. “Ser Meryn, bring me his hand,” the Queen said
“HALT!” King Robert roared. “I am the King here,” he snarled angrily at both
his wife, and the Kingsguard who had already started to descend against Rae
with his sword drawn.
“No need ‘Your Grace’,” Rae said angrily. “Your son attempts to murder my
sister, yet for defending her I must lose the hand I struck him with? I can see
that I’ll get no justice here so I’ll let your Gods weigh the truth of this in
their hands. Let Them decide my fate.” Rae grinned nastily at the Queen. “I
would demand trial by combat.”
Prince Joffrey’s face went chalk white, while King Robert had to pound his fist
angrily on the arm rests of his chair several times in order to regain order.
He looked to his foster brother with an apologetic grimace, “That is your
right,” Robert conceded. “Since my son is clearly barely more than a boy, much
less a man,” He sighed and turned to the first Kingsguard that met his gaze,
“Ser Preston, you’ll stand for the Prince,” Robert told the man.
“Thank you Your Grace,” Rae said. “I’ll just need my sword and shield,” he
looked pointedly at the guard who had confiscated his sword earlier.
“Jon,” Eddard said, “you don’t have to do this.”
“Oh I do… father,” Rae countered, “if I could borrow Ice it would be better
though, if not, my shield is on my horse outside.”
His uncle stared at him for a long time before nodding. “Bring my son’s sword
and shield in here,” he turned and looked at Lord Raymund whose castle they
were in. “Lord Darry, could my son avail upon you for some armour?”
If anything Darry didn’t look like he expected the question, and Rae remembered
that House Darry had fought for his father during the Rebellion, with Lord
Raymund losing three of his brothers and his father during a single day on the
trident, and then there was his uncle Willem who had died in Essos after
spiriting Viserys and Daenerys away from Dragonstone. “I’ll have it seen to at
once,” Lord Raymund finally said, to Raegon it looked as though he was deciding
that if he had to pick between who to ‘insult’ it would be better to
inconvenience the Lannister Queen rather than the Starks.
“Excellent,” Robert clapped his hands together. “Lord Darry, escort the lad to
find some armour and then bring him back here when he is ready, I’ll see this
matter finished tonight.
“Your Grace,” Lord Raymund acknowledged through a small well-hidden smile.
Doubtlessly the King assumed Lord Darry had intended to have someone escort
Rae, but now, he’d have to do it himself, the King obviously seeing through his
motives, and turning the tables on the prickly Lord. “If you’ll follow me,
young Snow,” Darry said calmly as he stalked out of the hall.
As Raegon walked through the feldspar stone halls of the castle with Lord
Raymund he felt slightly self-conscious. The middle-aged lord was a broad man,
as tall as Rae, but not as tall as the King nor his uncle Eddard, his eyes were
a hard oak brown, his hair and beard a rich auburn. From how his demeanour in
the presence of Robert, none would have thought that the Lord of Darry held any
animosity towards the Baratheon crown. But Rae had seen his eyes. Raegon saw
how Darry looked at the King, he could see the warm hate that seemed to pool in
his eyes, and he knew. If Darry could break the man’s neck and live, he would
in a heartbeat. Even with this, Raegon still felt that pang of self-conscious
insecurity when the lord would look at him.
‘You lost three brothers and a father, in my father’s war,’ Rae thought in
slight shame, as he thought fully about Robert’s Rebellion. ‘ A war over me and
my mother.’ The door to the Darry armoury was made of thick ashwood and as it
opened Raegon felt his eyes go wide. On the back wall, opposite the entrance
door hung the red dragon of his house, proud and clean on its field of black.
He looked to Lord Raymund, but he just ignored him and walked to a rack of dark
armour on the left wall. As he followed the man he couldn’t help the questions
that were lingering his mind. ‘ Even after what my family has brought his own,
he would honour them still?’ As Raegon looked at the rack of armour the lord
had told him that he could wear before giving him a curt nod and walking out of
the chamber. ‘ If you knew there was one more left, would you fight for them?
Or would you say your family has given more than enough to repay the debt it
owed to Maegor?’
The armour was a simple, dark grey plate. The mail shirt he wore hugged his
body some, but was still loose about the waist and arms. ‘I still have to grow,
I guess,’ he observed with a slight frown. The brestplate and pauldrons seemed
thick enough, but they were light on his shoulders and his chest. As he put the
visored helm under his arm, before he turned to the array of swords on in their
respective sheaths. He reached for a bastard sword, the hilt a dark leather
with a circular pommel. It looked sharp enough when he pulled it from the
scabbard and inspected the blade itself, it was the right weight if a little
light too, that test swings he gave made the air hum. As he walked back towards
the great hall of the castle, Raegon was deep in his own mind. As they reached
the door to the great hall of the the castle, Lord Darry gestured for a shield
from one of the men he had standing at attention before turning to Raegon
handed it to him. The doors to the hall began to open and Lord Raymund turned
to him a sly smile on his lips.
“Good luck, Your Grace," Darry whispered, Raegon’s jaw slacked and he turned to
the older man just as the King called out.
“Is the lad ready, Lord Darry? I assume he is.” Robert’s thick black beard and
hair had been trimmed and cut and he looked less a fat drunkard and more a fat
king.
“I am, Your Grace.” Rae answered as he took his eyes from the King, and to his
uncle and cousins. He walked towards them and hugged Lord stark.
“I’m not pleased with this, lad. I promised your mother I’d do all I can to
keep you safe.” Ned whispered into Raegon’s ear, before tightening the hug.
“Live.”
Rae only nodded his head against his uncle’s shoulder and pulled away. He
turned to Arya and used a gauntleted hand to ruffle her hair and gave her a
small smile. “I’ll be back in a moment, Sister.” She gave him a smile of her
own.
“Stick him with the pointy end, Jon.”
Raegon turned to the knight that would be Joffrey’s champion and frowned. He
donned his grey helm and waited for the King to give them the go.
“I would rather not have a boy killed in a hall, for a petty grievance,” he
turned and scowled at the Queen and her son, “Yet the lad is adamant in his
stance, I can see the honour his father possesses and raised him with, and for
that I laud him.” He took a deep breath and slammed a massive fist against
armrest of the Lord’s Chair. “Let it be known that Jon Snow, bastard of House
Stark, has come forth to stand accused of the crime of striking a son of a
Crown. He, as is his right as the son of a high born Lord, has called for a
Trial of combat, to be judged in the eyes of the gods.” He raised his right
hand and paused for a moment the dropped it. “Begin.”
Raegon looked to Ser Preston and raised his shield. “Come Ser Preston, it seems
one of us must die.”
“The only one who is dying today, Boy, is you.” The Kingsguard replied, pulling
his golden blade free.
Rae drew the bastard sword from his side and slowly started circling the
Kingsguard. Ser Preston’s golden armour almost seemed aflame in the flickering
torchlight. Copying Rae, Ser Preston was also circling slowly, neither of them
seemed eager to make the first move. The sword was light in his hand. Ser
Preston lunged suddenly, his sword unerringly going straight for the small gap
between Rae’ gorget and helmet.
Rae swung his shield into the path of the strike, diverting the sword away
before stubbing with hi own blade, aiming for the gap between Ser Preston’s
breastplate and pauldron, right for the unprotected armpit, but the cunning
Westerman had already back-stepped to avoid Rae’s retaliatory strike.
This time it was Rae to go on the offensive. Stepping forward he smashed Ser
Preston’s shield with his own, using his greater strength and stature to his
advantage. Ser Preston reeled and let out a grunt of pain as Rae’s sword
smashed into his helmet. A skilled warrior though, Ser Preston proved that he
had earned his spurs by instinctively parrying Rae’s next strike.
Ser Preston tried to disorient Rae by landing a strike to the helmet only for
Rae to successfully bring his own sword up to intercept. The blades clashed,
striking off sparks and left both men with locked swords, both trying to
overpower the other, until Rae suddenly let his sword drop and sidestepped.
Ser Preston was unprepared and stumbled forward only to let out an agonized
yell as Rae drove his blade directly into the knee join of Preston’s right
knee. Tumbling to the ground, Preston desperately tried to roll away only to
gasp as Rae slammed his boot onto his back, driving the Knight into the floor.
Raising the sword over his head and reversing his grip on it so that the sword
pointed down, he gave a smirk at the Queen that was hidden behind his visor,
Rae drove the sword down, right into Ser Preston’s neck. The Knight let out a
panicked gurgle and convulsed a few times as a pool of blood started to seep
around him before finally falling still.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Daemon: Here's the next chapter, me and Kaden already have the next
     one all plotted out. 'Hopefully' we'll have it up by Monday.
     Kaden: 'Twas fun to write and play around with dialogue. Comment and
     talk.
***** Chapter 3 *****
                                    Raegon
                                        
‘So much for the standard of the Kingsguard.’Raegon thought dryly as he pulled
his borrowed bastard sword from the fallen knight’s neck. ’Men like Ser Aemon,
Arthur and Ser Duncan must be rolling in their graves, to see what their White
Brotherhood has been reduced to. I knew it would be a gamble, but I never
thought he would go down that easily.’Rae had been hoping that the standard of
the Kingsguard had dropped some, since Oswell left with his brother and men
like Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold died. But he hadn’t expected it to be so easy
and so disappointing.
“Ha!” Robert bellowed from atop the Lord’s chair, as Raegon removed his helm,
the grin on the King’s face wide and boisterous. With a chuckle he looked to
his blonde wife, “There you have it, Lannister. Even your gods favour the lad.
Well fought lad. Been some time since I’ve seen a good bout.” The King said
with a handsome smile. Raegon had heard it said once that before he took the
Throne, Robert was the Warrior reborn, built like a maiden’s wet dream. When
Rae looked at the King as his stood from his seat, he could barely see it, but
he could see it. Even with fat on his cheeks and his drinker’s gut he could see
the glimpses of a strong jaw and a barrelled chest.
“Let it be heard that in the eyes of gods and men, that through his victory in
Trial by Combat the bastard, Jon Snow of the House Stark has been declared
innocent of the crime he is accused of. All charges and pursuit of punishment
are dropped by Royal decree.” Robert announced with an indifferent expression
and a shrug before he sat back into the high-backed chair. “Now, if someone
could get me a fucking drink, that’d be great. Ned, I would break words with
you in private.”
“I beg a moment with my son, Your Grace. It seems I must find sense in his
madness.” Rae felt an instinctual gulp, he knew a lecture would come. He looked
to the King, hoping what he needed to discuss would be urgent and could not
wait. But the King simply smiled at his closest friend and nodded.
“Aye take your time, Ned. Don’t be too hard on him.”
When Raegon and his uncle stood alone in the chamber’s Lord Darry had provided
for Ned, the Lord of Winterfell turned to his young, headstrong nephew.
“Close the door, Jon.” Eddard stated simply, Rae knew better that to argue and
say that was not his name. He had a terrible temper, yes, and he was too wilful
and set in his ways. But he could hear the tightness in his uncle’s voice and
chose to obey. Once he closed the door and turned back to face his uncle Ned
regarded him with Winter’s cold fury in his grey Stark eyes.
“Have you lost mind!?” He practically shouted at the lad. “What possessedyou to
seek a trial by combat? Myself and Robert could have sorted the situation
before you almost got yourself killed!”
“I’m completely sane, Uncle.” Raegon replied coldly, causing the anger in his
uncle’s eyes to falter, “You know well as I the Queen would settle for nothing
less than bloodshed. You saw how she looked at Arya and I. If not my hand I’m
sure she would have found another way to punish me. And for what? Striking an
insolent boy too spoiled and self-entitled to know not to lay hands on a girl.
He pointed a blade at her, Father.” Calling him father wasn’t intentional, and
realistically it was a complete slip of the tongue. But if Rae was honest with
himself it wasn’t a lie. Eddard Stark washis father. He was the man who had
raised him, and taught him. And even as angry as he was to have lived a lie his
whole life, Raegon wouldn’t change that fact. “Would you have rather I be a
Southron knight and stand dutifully while a cruel monarch assaults a girl half
his size? I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
“Aye, you’re right Jon, and I thank you for protecting your sister where I
couldn’t. But that still doesn’t excuse your coming South against my wishes.”
Ned’s eyes softened as they met Rae’s bright lilac, he stepped closer to his
nephew and put a hand on his shoulder. “You know it’s not safe for you here
lad. The south is a dangerous place, full of secrets and whispers. King’s
Landing alone is a snake pit, full of silver tongued lords and mummers playing
at friends.”
“Then why are you going?” Rae’s voice was full of scepticism as he raised a
dark eyebrow. “Why not tell the King that the South is no place for you? That
your father and brother’s deaths still linger and cause you pain the further
south of the Wolfswood you go?” He knew bringing up the deaths of his uncle and
grandfather was a cheap and low move, but he had to know.
Rae understood why he was going south, but his uncle had no lost heritage to
reclaim in the lands south of the neck. So far as Rae knew, Lord Stark was not
plagued by the same dreams of burning castles and septs atop a great black
dragon, or fighting against men of the Seven Pointed Star as he was.
“I know you don’t see the logic in what I’m saying and doing. But Robert is as
close to a brother to me as Brandon was, if not closer still. I’ve seen what
the South has turned him into, a drunk and broken man still hung up on the
death on a woman that never loved him. He’s let the Lannisters and the rest of
the Southerners make him grow weary of the life he lives. In truth I fear for
his life, he drinks more than he speaks.” Ned explained with a pained smile,
“This isn’t the Robert I grew up with, and if I let him die like this without
so much as trying to save him, I’ll not live with myself. So aye, I’m going
South to be his Hand, because without Jon Arryn there to look out for him,
he’ll drink himself into the grave. But just because Iam going South does not
mean you are. The south is no place for a Stark of Winterfell, Raegon.”
Whispered Ned quietly, and Rae felt emotion well in his chest and had to
resisted the urge to hug his surrogate father then.
“It’s a good thing I am not a Stark of Winterfell then, Father.” Rae replied
with a small, sad smile.
Ned shook his head with a dismayed smile of his own, “I promised your mother
I’d raise you well, as she would have had she lived. I fear sometimes I fall
short of what is expected of me, but I see so much of her in you, lad.” He
placed a firm hand on Raegon’s shoulder and squeezed it gently, “You will
always be a Stark, Rae. You may not have my name, but Stark blood runs in your
veins, you have lived your whole life in the North. You are ofthe North; you
are a Stark of Winterfell, as much as Robb or Bran or I. Never forget that, it
will keep you warm when Winter comes.” Ned patted his shoulder one last time
before opening the chamber doors and walking out, leaving Rae alone with his
thoughts.
 
                                    Eddard
                                        
Ned shook his head sadly as he walked to a Robert who was apparently deep in
his cups already. He had spent the last hour or so, first comforting Sansa,
trying to reassure her that she did nothing wrong, even if he was disappointed
that she had not supported her brother and sister by telling the truth. The law
was known well enough that Sansa knew the punishment for striking a Prince
unless extreme circumstances merited the action.
He had then had to talk to Arya. As expected Arya was livid, she and Sansa had
always clashed, as different as night and day, yet ironically they both
reminded him of Lyanna. Arya with her wildness, and Sansa who shared Lyanna’s
passions for flowers, tales and music. One could even say that Sansa was just
like Lyanna, falling for a handsome Prince to the point that all consequences
or actions never entered her mind. He hated seeing his daughters quarrel so,
and with some of the words Arya had spoken in private about Sansa he’d no
choice but to take her over his knee, the first time in near two years he’d
been forced to do so, and he gained no pleasure nor satisfaction from striking
his child, but she needed discipline.
Both he, and his brothers had felt the back of their Lord Father’s hand often
enough, while Lyanna was Lord Rickard’s little Princess. Mayhap if she had been
disciplined harsher as a child she would not have done what she did – But
Lyanna was dead and her bones were cold, only her sons and her memory lived on
now. Opening the door to the large set of rooms Robert was using Ned felt a
stab of sorrow run through him as he laid eyes on Robert. Robert may fool the
world with his boisterous nature, but he was as close as, if not closer than
any of Ned’s brothers, estranged though they may be after the aftermath of the
Sack of King’s Landing. Ned could still see that Robert was a broken man.
Behind every laugh, every grin there was a broken man who had given up on
everything, save for his wines and whores.
“NED!” Robert laughed, his voice already slurring at this point. “That bastard
of yours Ned,” Robert let out another few chuckles. “Reminds me of myself and
Brandon in our youths, Gods we were strong then.”
Ned let out a small chuckle. “The boy is much like Brandon,” he admitted.
“Fortunately for your Lady wife he doesn’t chase skirts like Brandon eh?”
Robert japed while giving Ned a punch to the shoulder.
“I thank the gods for that every day,” Ned muttered while rubbing his shoulder
– Robert still didn’t know his own strength. “I don’t think Winterfell would be
liveable if he chased young maidens like Brandon,” Ned admitted – Nor did Ned
relish the idea of half a dozen women appearing in Winterfell, each of them
with a purple eyed, silver haired babe in arms. That a child of Jon’s could be
born looking like his or her Targaryen grandfather was one of his worst
nightmares.
“A shame that he was born a bastard,” Robert chuckled. “Had he been trueborn he
probably would’ve made the eight with ease, still might with looks like his.”
Robert narrowed his eyes at Ned. “I never did notice when I saw him as a babe
but there is something… familiar about the lad.”
Ned could feel ice creep up his spine, did he know?
“Relax Ned,” Robert tried to calm him. “I know why you lied.”
Ned was shaking by now, “Robert.”
Robert laughed. “Couldn’t let Hoster know that Brandon had a bastard running
around eh?” he winked. “Could have caused problems, better pretend he’s yours.”
“He is mine,” Ned said stonily, only to duck as Robert spewed his wine in an
impressive fountain.
“For fuck’s sake Ned this is me,” he glared at Ned. “I know you well enough by
know that you’d sooner cut off your own cock than betray your marriage vows,”
he took another sip of wine. “Lie to the world to spare your brother’s
reputation and avoid problems with your goodfather, that’s definitely you
though.”
“I think I’ll take that drink now,” Ned said shakily as he reached for the
nearest jug of wine and raised the whole damn thing to his mouth to sip deeply.
‘Thank the Gods for that,’ he thought to himself, for the first time actually
grateful of Brandon’s temper and whoring ways.
 
                                    Raegon
                                        
Rae’s mind was still on the earlier conversation he had with his uncle, ‘You
are a Stark. Never forget that.’He let the smile on his face linger as he
walked through the halls of Darry Castle. He had returned the armour and sword
that had been given to him for use. And was currently in search of the castle's
kitchens to see if he could find a morsel to ease the hunger in his stomach
when he noticed a guardsman walking the same corridor.
“Pardon m’lord,” the guard clad in the livery of House Darry, a black ploughman
on brown called as he approached him. “M’lord Darry wishes to speak with you in
his private solar.”
Raegon felt sweat break out on his brow. When Darry had called him ‘Your Grace’
there had been no time to ponder, no time to worry, but now! ‘Might it be that
there are still those loyal to my father’s House?’Raegon thought. ‘My House?’
Considering himself as a Targaryen had been easier than he thought. He would
always cherish his Stark heritage but there was just something… missing,
something that just did not feel right. To this very day he still felt
uncomfortable – unwanted – in the Stark crypts. Feeling the stern eyes and
faces carved in stone looking down at him. ‘You’re not worthy, you don’t belong
here’ they’d whisper to him, and they were right. He was a dragon, had always
been, his black temper known throughout Winterfell and yes, the North even,
what with the smallfolk gossiping like fishwives.
The door closed behind him and he found himself alone with Lord Darry and a
pair of guards. Lord Raymund studied him closely, eyes taking in every aspect
of Raegon’s features. “I’m glad to see that I was not mistaken… Your Grace,”
Raymund said at last.
“How did you find out?” Rae asked, there was no point in playing ignorance
here. The smile on Darry’s face was too telling.
Lord Raymund stood up. “You look like him,” he said before drawing back a set
of curtains to reveal a painting, almost as big as Raegon himself, and Rae felt
as if he was staring at a mirror image. The man in the painting was older of
course, but their faces and their eyes were mostly the same, also, while the
style of hair might be similar, Rae as of yet did not have the beard, and his
hair was black rather than silver-gold.
“Who…?” Rae asked numbly, while studying the picture closer. The man in the
image was wearing a coat of black scales, metal gauntlets clasped an almost
black sword with a smooth round ruby set in the crossguard, a circlet of steel
and rubies crowned the man’s silver hair.
“Your forefather, Aegon The Dragon,” Lord Raymund added when Raegon first
frowned in confusion. “You are near the mirror image of your great ancestor,
still a bit of height yet to go, but you are already near as broad as Aegon
was.” Raymund snapped his fingers and one of the guards approached, Rae’s
saddlebags in his hands. “But still I might have taken it as coincidence were
it not for these,” he said calmly while removing one letter after another,
ending with the marriage proclamation between his parents.
“Curious relics for a bastard,” Raymund laughed. “But you are no bastard, Your
Grace. I felt as soon as I saw you, that there had to be dragonblood in you,
but it was when my man brought this to me that I knew for certain, and we are
fortunate he did, one of the Lannister soldiers was about to do it when my man
stopped him.”
Raegon let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you My Lord.”
Raymund sneered. “Anytime I can inconvenience a Lannister man is a good day I
think, I must commend Honourable Ned Stark, I never thought he had it in him.”
Raymund snapped his fingers again and one of the guards swiftly left, before
returning with a carafe of white wine and a plate of dried fruits. “I’m afraid
I cannot offer better at this very moment,” Darry apologized as Rae accepted
the seat that was offered to him.
“I thank you for your hospitality My Lord,” Raegon replied as he took a sip of
the wine, wincing at the unfamiliar taste.
“New to drinking I imagine,” Darry grinned slightly.
“Not as such,” Rae countered. “Though I’m more familiar with ale rather than
wine.”
“You’ll grow used to it,” Raymund admitted. “Might I… might I ask what you
intend to do?”
Raegon pondered if he should tell the truth or not. On one hand he did not know
the man, but then again. Darry could have revealed him to Robert. House Darry
owed everything to House Targaryen, and had given a lot in return, ‘three dead
sons and a Lord in the rebellion,’ he thought. If any House had proven its
loyalty it was Darry.
 “I intend to see penance paid for the Rebellion.” Rae stated simply before
taking another sip of the clear wine, it tasted as sweet as any Northern mead
as a smirk lifted the corners of his lips, “Starting with entering my uncle’s
tourney.”
Raymund raised an eyebrow.
“What better way to start than to have the Lannisters begin paying their debts
to me?”
Raymund laughed. “You might find it hard to enter, but I can help you there.”
on seeing Raegon’s look he elaborated. “The Usurper and his Lannister bitch has
a dislike for mystery knights for some reason, demanding lavish entry fees for
any mystery knights wishing to compete, were you to ride under Darry colours
however...”
“I would have a way in,” Rae finished. “A fine idea My Lord, a fine idea
indeed.”
“I think we’ll wait a few days before traveling to your city, in the meantime,
the hospitality of Darry is yours.”
 
                                    Cregan
                                        
“That fucking fool,”
“Harren, watch your language, please!”
Cregan smiled at the voices that echoed through the hold of the Shy Maiden, he
knew there was some form of news that Oswell had uncovered while their ship had
docked in Pentos to resupply and give them some respite from the constant
rocking and swaying that was becoming more and more irritating. As he made his
way to the room that served as the captain’s cabin, he found his mind
wandering, ‘I wonder if there’s any news of Raegon in the west.’He had grown up
raised with the notion of a brother that he had never met lived in the North of
Westeros with their uncle. A twin nonetheless. The thought still amazed Cregan;
that there was a part of him out there somewhere that he had never encountered
before.
“What’s happened?” He asked as he closed the door behind him, Harren, Ser
Rolly, Halfmaester Haldon and Lemore were seated around the large circular
table, “Is it Jon?” They’d all grown used to secret names and hushed tones in
the time they’d spent on the Shy Maiden.
“There are too many ears that belong to not so friendly people, lad.”Oswell had
explained to Cregan when he’d turned seven exactly who Cregan was, “Easier to
say my name is Harren than go around taking those ears, and the heads they’re
attached to, don’t you think?” He chuckled darkly as he mussed Cregan’s dyed
black hair. Cregan had hated the dye when he was first told it was necessary,
the putrid smell of it setting in his hair before the liquid itself could be
washed out. Even now it still bothered him, but he had grown used to it.
“No, no Cregan, it’s not Jon. It’s, -” Lemore started, her rich brown hair
hidden by the septa’s shawl she wore.
“It’s about Viserys, lad. The idiot’s as mad as his father was.” Harren
interrupted seething, his own hair a dyed black. Cregan looked at the two and
raised a greyish eyebrow before Haldon gave him a small apologetic smile.
“Viserys has married Daenerys to some Dothraki warlord in hopes of using the
Khal’s screamers to wage war on Westeros.” There was a quiet in the room as
Cregan’s brows furrowed in confusion. He remembered Harren and Lemore telling
him of his family, and what was left of them. Viserys had been his father’s
only brother, born some years before the Rebellion. Daenerys was his aunt, but
she was of an age with him and his brother, if not slightly younger, 'I wish I
could have met them,' he thought sadly.
“I knew we should have gotten our hands on them before we left Pentos for
Volantis a year past when we learned of them. Now that mad fool has pissed all
over us.” Harren said with a scowl and a shake of the head.
“Keep your voice down, Harren,” Lemore cautioned glaring at him through dark
purple eyes. “We went over this; the risk was too great. We couldn’t risk the
Prince being exposed, Ned would kill us.”
“Bugger that sour cunt, if Eddard Stark had his way the King and the Prince
would be raised on IB with those hairy bastards.”
Cregan frowned. He didn't know his uncle but surely he couldn't be that bad?
"Perhaps," he paused, "Perhaps something can be done when we've retaken
Westeros?" he asked. He knew that Oswell would have preferred that Daenerys be
wed to his brother, “Her name would add to your brother's legitimacy” he had
told him once.
Oswell stroked his beard. "Perhaps," he admitted. "I've kept some tabs on other
exiles who fled after the rebellion. The blasted spider helped with that."
Harren looked about as if to ensure they were alone, and old habit of his by
now. "Jon Connington has been made the new Captain-General of the Golden
Company."
"The Golden Company? Connington, what the fuck have you been drinking?" Lemore
asked incredulously.
"Language young lady," Oswell sniggered smugly. "The Golden Company for all
that they are sellswords are still mostly exiles or descendants of them, they
want to go home, and Connington may have despised the Stark chit, but we still
have two of Rhaegar's sons, and a usurper on the throne." All points of
argument Lemore appeared to have ready to fire seemed to evaporate as she
simply nodded in accent.
“I heard tell from a sellsail in the tavern I canvassed that they signed a
contract with Myr to fight on their behalf in a war in the Disputed Lands. Are
all agreed that this is the next path we take?” After seeing everyone’s nods of
assent, Harren stood.
“Good, I’ll go inform the captain that we have a heading.”
 
 
 
 
 
So_yeah,_you're_welcome.
Gratitude,
KadenIV
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Well_there's_the_next_one._We'll_try_to_have_some_Cregan_PoV's_at_least_every
other_chapter._Next_chapter_we_get_to_King's_Landing,_and_we_learn_some_more_of
Lemore's_past.
Cheers
Daemon_Belaerys
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their work!