Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/12617700. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of Violence Category: F/M, Multi Fandom: A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&_Related_Fandoms, A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George R._R._Martin Character: Jon_Snow, Ned_Stark, Lyanna_Stark, Robert_Baratheon, Rhaegar_Targaryen_ (mentioned), A_cacophony_of_original_characters Additional Tags: Incest, Accidental_Incest, Jon_Snow_is_a_Targaryen, Jon_Snow_knows nothing, Period-Typical_Sexism, Period_Typical_Attitudes, You_Have_Been Warned, Oedipal_Issues, Greek_Tragedies_and_other_classics Stats: Published: 2017-11-03 Completed: 2018-03-27 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 1814 ****** The Ironies of Love ****** by Tragically_Resolute Summary Jon Snow is the bastard of Winterfell, a blot on the honour of Eddard Stark, and unknowingly is the source of a secret which, if revealed, could threaten the very foundations of Westerosi society. Princess Cassanna Baratheon is the only daughter of a loveless marriage between stag and wolf, seeking to escape from the chains and boundaries placed on royalty, without knowing how. Queen Lyanna Stark is the shamed and sullied daughter of the North, trapped in a kind but unhappy marriage to King Robert Baratheon, who is famous for siring possibly hundreds of bastards across the realm, but unable to father a son on his wife. Lord Eddard Stark knows far too much for his own good, but the Quiet Wolf of the North did not earn his moniker by telling secrets to anyone. It only takes a meeting by chance at Winterfell before things spiral completely out of control. ***** Chapter 1 ***** PROLOGUE   Ned ignored the sounds of men dying around him as he climbed the stairs, slick with the blood of the fallen, up to the crumbling red tower amidst his sister’s screams. In one hand, he held his helm, while in the other, Dawn was grasped tightly, and he could hear the outraged cries of all the Swords of the Morning past for even daring to touch the ancestral blade of House Dayne. Ser Arthur’s eyes had represented their rage, and even in the final moments before they went cloudy, the violet orbs had taken the role of a tribunal, as they judged and sentenced him to burn in all seven hells. His sister’s screams came to a sudden stop, and panic immediately coursed through his veins. With one swift kick, he broke down the door that the Kingsguard had attempted to bar, and rushed into the room. Glancing at the terrified midwife before him, he then looked towards the bed in which his sister lay, surrounded by the winter roses she loved. Gods, Lyanna. She was barely six-and-ten, little more than a child, and yet Rhaegar had done this to her, while leaving his wife and children to be murdered by lions. Once, Ned recalled, he had been impressed by the deeds and tales of the Silver Prince of Targaryen, when he was still an impressionable child in the Vale. That respect had burned away with his father and brother, rotted to less than ash alongside the corpses of his loyal Northmen, and now sank even lower to previously unfathomable levels as he stared at the form of his sister laying near-lifeless before him. The shrill cry of a child bought his startled mind out of its previous musings. He turned to the midwife, and saw that in her hands, she carried a small bundle which contained the last of the dragons, a babe merely a few minutes born. Small bodies wrapped in Lannister crimson flashed before his eyes. He cannot ever know who he is. He turned to the midwife. “Pass me the boy.” She obliged with in a petrified manner. He held the child for several moments, staring into his face. He was clearly a Stark, which would only help him in this life. Yet Ned could see the trace of the dragonlords in his sharp nose and high cheekbones, even never having personally met Crown Prince Rhaegar, and he silently cursed the gods for the mockeries of fate. “Is that what I think it is?” Howland Reed’s soft but firm voice broke him out of his musings. He turned to face the short crannogman, and gave a slight nod. His marshy green eyes widened. “Gods save us all.” “She must never know.” Ned insisted, speaking to both his last surviving bannerman and the midwife behind him. “If she does, the realm will burn again.” Howland frowned “What will you do with the child?” Ned sighed. “I am no Lannister, but he cannot live as a Targaryen.” Howland paled and opened his mouth to speak, but Ned interrupted him. “I am not a kinslayer or kingslayer.” Ned assured. “From now on he is my bastard, Jon Snow, fathered at the beginning of the war.” Behind him, Lyanna began to stir. He quickly turned to Howland, handing him the prince who would live his life as a pauper. “Take him, quickly. None must ever know the truth.” Howland nodded. “None will ever,” he promised, quickly leaving the tower. “Ned?” a soft, pained voice spoke to him. Lyanna had never sounded so weak. He choked down his emotions and turned to her. “Lya... I’m here.” She smiled tiredly. “I’m glad you are.” She attempted to rise, but fell back, exhausted at the mere effort. “Ned,” she whispered, so full of hope and fear it hurt. “My… child?” He turned his back to her, to hide the tears that had formed. “I-I’m so sorry, Lyanna,” he said, and he truly meant it, even if he knew that the weirwoods would silently condemn him for the rest of the years he spent on this cursed world. “The child…” he gritted his teeth and swallowed his self- respect. “The child was stillborn.” A pained wail echoed throughout the red, barren wastelands which surrounded the tower. ***** I - JON ***** JON   The royal party was due at Winterfell in less than a week, and the fervor such a visit instilled in her inhabitants was unquestionably potent. With each passing hour, servants scrambled through the corridors laying out decorations and preparations befitting the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms entering their hall. Jon himself slunk into the shadows; a bastard like him had no place even amongst the serving girls who were only there to lay out the proper preparations required. “Sulking again, Snow?” The mocking tone of Theon Greyjoy broke him out of his musings. He turned around and saw his father’s ward and his brother walking towards him, clearly just having returned from a meeting with Lady Catelyn. “Gods, one would think Lord Stark fathered you on a statue from how still and solemn you look.”  “Ignore him,” Robb said, eyeing Greyjoy with a reproachful look. “How do you feel about the visit?” “It’s not my place to say.” Jon replied softly, earning himself a frown from Robb and a smug smirk from Theon.   * * *  Two days later, the royal party arrived in Winterfell amidst the light summer snows. First came the entourage of knights in Baratheon gold riding through the gates amidst the sounds of trumpets, quickly followed by riders plated in white steel atop snowy coursers. The Kingsguard, Jon thought with awe. Following them was a stocky man well past his prime who Jon quickly realised was the King, to his utter dismay. That is the Demon of the Trident? The man who slew Rhaegar Targaryen?The King let out a hearty chuckle when he saw Jon’s father. Following Robert Baratheon were two of the most beautiful women Jon had ever seen. The elder bore a striking resemblance to his sister Arya, while the younger had the long face of the Starks but the raven hair and stormy blue eyes of the Baratheons. Queen Lyanna and Princess Cassanna. They dismounted in the courtyard, and before anyone had time to react, the Queen threw herself towards his father, enveloping him in a hearty embrace. When poor Lord Stark was finally released, he found himself crushed again in the arms of Robert Baratheon. “By the gods, it’s been far too long,” the King chuckled.  “Twelve years, Your Grace.” The King frowned. “Where in the seven hells have you been?”   “Holding the North for you.” Unused to the bluntness directed towards a king, the entire courtyard paused with abated breath before both King Robert and his father broke into hearty laughs. The King composed himself and directed his attentions towards Lady Catelyn and Jon’s siblings. He cursed. “Gods, they’ve grown so fast.” “You must be Robb the Heir, named after me. You look to be a strong and fine lad, who will be a great Lord of Winterfell someday.” Robb beamed. To his right, Bran looked at the King expectantly. “Ah… Brandon?” his brother nodded. The King laughed, patting his head.  “Son, you look like you could be a great knight someday.” Chuckling at Bran’s awestruck expression, the King turned to his sisters. “Ah, the auburn one must be sweet Sansa, and the one that looks like my dear wife must be Arya. Your daughters are the most beautiful girls in the North, Ned.”  With that, he turned to face the Lord of Winterfell. “Now where’s the gods-damned feast?” * * * Jon was not welcomed at the table of the high lords, but when wine flowed freely where he was sitting, who was he to complain? To his left, common boys and serving girls giggled at the antics of the great lords of the South, while to his left seasoned men-at-arms guffawed as they jested with one another about battles long past. After one too many a cup, Jon walked himself out of the Great Hall light-headed and miserable. He stumbled across to the courtyard leading to the godswood. In his present drunken state, he dared not face the judging eyes of the weirwoods, so he sat himself on a mossy fir stump, wallowing in his feelings of inadequacy. A small voice in his head told him that he could not remain a blotch upon Lord Stark’s honour for forever, while another shouted it down. Fool boy. You were born a bastard and are like to remain one until your death. “Is this the way to the famed godswood?”  He turned around to come face to face with a hooded figure looming over him. He sprung to his feet and took a defensive stance instantly, a byproduct of years of training with Ser Rodrik. He reached for his dagger but found only air, cursing himself as he remembered he left it in the Great Hall. To his surprise, the figure let out a melodious half-suppressed laugh as the hood was lowered to reveal the amused face of Cassanna Baratheon, Princess of the Iron Throne. He suddenly felt more of a fool than ever as he lowered himself down to one knee. “My... my apologies, Your Grace.” “There is nothing to apologize for,” the Princess assured him. “I was the one sneaking around the castle like a thief in the night. It is I who should be asking for your forgiveness, Ser…?” Blood rushing to his face, Jon felt all the more mortified. “I’m no knight, Your Grace, just a lowly bastard.” The Princess frowned, and Jon internally chastised himself. “Bastards are not lowly – I have several siblings born out of the wedlock myself. They are just as worthy as me or any other lordling born to a lord’s true wife. Be that as it may, if it is not too crude for me to ask, who is your father? A Stark, I presume?” Jon nodded. “Lord Stark, Your Grace.” “So we are cousins,” the Princess mused aloud. Her eyes widened slightly and her lips curved upwards. “You must be Jon Snow, the only natural son of Lord Eddard.”  “I am, Your Grace.” Jon felt his face go still. The Princess immediately noticed. “I-I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you.” “No offense was taken, Your Grace. I am the sole cause of Lord Eddard’s shame, the only blot upon his unstainable honour.” An awkward silence followed, and Jon found himself internally kicking himself once more. The Princess broke it with an uncertain but mischievous grin. “Seeing as this is your castle, could you take me to the godswood? I have read much about it, and I wish to see it with my own eyes.” “It is not mycastle, Your Grace, but it would be an honour.” “Lead the way, fair cousin.”                         * * * Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!