Notes: Written for day seven of the Jonerys Appreciation Week - Free Choice / Role Reversal / Favorite Moment. The last prompt will be included in the next chapter (and yes, this is getting a follow-up because I wanted to post it on the proper date (on AO3) without half-assing it and the other half is from Dany's POV). The literal role reversal is tricky to get right, especially given the circumstances under which it could have happened, but it's an AU, so I suppose frivolities are allowed.

Title inspired from PJ Harvey's The Last Living Rose.

More explanations/delving into characterisations to follow in the next chapter. Writing for this week has honestly been such a pleasure and also a wild ride, considering how many of the fics were done day-by-day. Hope you enjoy it and feedback is always welcome!

Jon had been struggling with yet another barrel of wine by the time Robb had thought to tell him what the occasion was.

"Father wants us to have a feast," he said as he helped push another one towards the hall. "Mother is coming back with the girls tomorrow."

Jon froze where he'd been standing. It had been two weeks. Two weeks in Winterfell and he had yet to meet any of the Stark sisters. This was the first hint he had ever received of it happening at all.

"The girls," he echoed faintly. "Even your other— your father's— the—"

"Dany?" Robb supplied, seemingly to put him out of his misery more than anything else. "Yes, even her. Mother didn't want to take her, but Arya wouldn't go without her and Aunt Lysa had already arranged for their visit." They worked in silence for a moment, then, "You can say bastard, you know." He was clearly amused that a supposed peasant would shy away from the word. "She's heard it a million times before; she doesn't care. You, however," Robb pointed an accusatory finger at him, "you care a whole lot." Even in the darkness of the corridor, Jon was sure his flushed face would give him away. Robb's smile turned teasing. "You ever seen her?"

"No!" He hadn't. He'd heard her name more and more often as he'd approached Winterfell, but not much else. Jon had a vague idea of what the rest of his – their – family looked like and if she was anything like Viserys, then she was bound to be beautiful.

It was sad to even think about, really. His only hope for safety and family, if he was lucky, was a person he had enough information about to fill a sentence. He knew a lot about the life she could have had (Daenerys, Viserys had always said, that's the name our mother gave her and she would have been a princess of the Seven Kingdoms) and the one she did have as Ned Stark's bastard, but she – not either of her families, not her brother, just her – was still shrouded in unanswered questions.

"You've heard of her, though," Robb pressed and this time, Jon couldn't deny it. "Don't worry, it doesn't bother me. She's Father's eldest daughter and she's beautiful. Pity she's a Snow or he would have found her some Lord to marry already."

Panic gripped at Jon's chest. He was so close. He hadn't come all this way just for this to happen now. "Lord Stark wants to find her a husband?"

"Not before Sansa." Robb had sobered up now that he'd been asked a question about something that he'd had lessons about. The Stark children had that ability, Jon had notice during his short stay at their home – they could be terribly serious and more light-hearted than the majority of the Northerners he'd met so far all at once. "It would be unheard of and Sansa is still too young. She doesn't think so, of course, she things she wants the prince, but that's—"

"Robb?"

Jon quickly returned to his task, not too eager to be caught lazing around, but it turned out to be just Theon. "Lord Stark wants a word."

"Right away." Robb patted him on the shoulder absent-mindedly as he went past him; a habit he seemed to have developed recently. Jon had never protested, even if he wasn't quite sure what had earned him that ease. "Hurry up, you; Father wants this done by noon tomorrow."

o.O.o

Lord Stark. He was the ruler of Winterfell and had a handful of other titles that Jon couldn't recall and, despite the frequent mentions of his orders, he seemed to be exceptionally busy. Jon had yet to catch anything more than a glimpse of him, but along with Daenerys, he was everything he could think about. He was his mother's brother and he had been the one to name him, too; he'd meant to take him away and up North where he could be safe, it appeared.

How he had ended up with a little girl instead – one that he had no relation to whatsoever, especially – was as much of a mystery to Jon as everything else surrounding his birth. Viserys had told him his version of the story three times over the years and it had been different each and every one of them. It was understandable; he had been nothing but a terrified child back then and Jon had never pressed because it had never mattered. Viserys had been cruel and foolish and he had still saved his life and raised him well enough for Jon to manage himself now that he was gone.

And Ned Stark... he had done more than that. Viserys had had the interest of saving his only living family that he knew of, preserving his brother's blood even if it was unclean. Ned Stark had taken a Targaryen into his home while his king had been trying to wipe them all off of the face of the world and he had kept her; had taken the shame that his story would bring. He had raised her as his own. If there was ever a safe place in Westeros for a Targaryen to be, this had to be it.

He would only have to make sure they both believed him. The thought was enough to rouse him from the almost-sleep he had fallen into and he got up from his bed to tiptoe to the fireplace and the bag that he kept right next to it.

The servants's rooms were small, barely enough for them to bring anything at all and while it made sense – servants didn't have much to begin with – it only made it all the more difficult to hide the only thing he would never want stolen.

He had been on his own for quite a while now and the eggs still made his heart twist with something between grief and gratitude. Viserys had been the one to get them – he was the one people had always believed about his heritage and back when Jon had still been a child, fate had finally been on their side for a little while. They'd met a family of Targaryen loyalists with enough money to offer them a shelter for almost a year while also giving them far too many gifts for them to be able to carry when they left. That hadn't included the dragon eggs, of course; they had both clung to them like an anchor in a thunderstorm.

One for each of us, Viserys had told him every time when they had spent one night too many with a roof over their heads in the woods of Westeros. Jon had listened and traced their stone-like scales; thought of how Viserys had already taken a liking to the green one. He himself would take the black, clearly – it only made sense – and Daenerys could have the white if they were to ever find her. Three dragons, three Targaryens. And once we get to my sister, we'll get back what belongs to us.

It was a powerful fantasy, Jon had found, to think about getting things back when you had nothing at all. It had been easier for him – he had never had anything – but Viserys had never been able to bear it too well. He had gambled with the only thing they could keep forever and he had lost.

It had made his death just a little easier to bear, in a way. Jon had despised him and loved him at the same time, but when he had tried to exchange their eggs for the sake of protection when they had come face to face with one of the hill tribes, it had been the biggest betrayal Jon had ever experienced. He hadn't been given long to process it – the tribe they'd found had thought Viserys to be either a madman or a liar and he had paid for it with his life just before they'd sent Jon on his way ('Don't be a fool like your brother, boy, and get out of here before someone else finds you and your rocks').

But Viserys hadn't been his brother, he'd barely even been his family, it seemed and in the end, Jon had accepted that he was alone. Nothing should have changed just because he had decided to keep travelling North, but it had and somehow, it felt like the stakes were much higher now that he'd arrived.

Three dragons, three Targaryens. But it didn't make sense, not anymore, and maybe it had been the wrong idea to begin with. He had never considered that Daenerys might be meant to have them all, but recently, it had been all Jon could think about. He would offer them once she got back, he had already decided. It would be worth it if it made her believe him and that way, she would perhaps let him have the black one all the same.

o.O.o

It wasn't quite the meeting that Jon had imagined, much to his misfortune. If anything, he had taken one look at Daenerys Targaryen's face – it was undoubtedly her, even with the thick furs she'd wrapped around herself just like her sisters and the hood carelessly thrown over her silver hair – and felt as if he had been brought back to his childhood in an instant.

She had her brother's wide, watery green eyes and the same pale, almost translucent skin; the same sharp features, somewhat softened on her smaller face. Unlike Viserys, who had always stood tall, she seemed far more inclined to keep her head down, only looking up for a quick smile in his general direction as he helped her down the steps of the carriage.

This was it. Everything he had hoped for, everything he had done had led up to this and, with a twinge of horror, Jon realised that he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

There was no need for introductions even if he had had the privilege of keeping a conversation. It was easy to guess who Lady Stark was and her two daughters fit Robb's descriptions of them quite well. They'd already scattered in several directions in the time he'd spent debating whether it would be wise to keep himself busy in the yard for just long enough to know whether he could intrude on the feast without being noticed. It would be his first chance to meet Lord Stark, and even if he couldn't have that, then just Daenerys would do. Bastards were easy to find during feasts, he'd noticed, and she'd be close enough for him to try and talk to her.

As it turned out, he didn't need to do anything of the sort. It wasn't long before they'd reunited with their family and had returned to what Jon presumed was what they usually did in their free time. This he knew well – he had seen highborn ladies before, mainly by sneaking into castles to spend the night in exchange for work like he had done with Winterfell. It only got him by surprise when the youngest one – Arya – took hold of one of the bows and took her place in front of one of the targets.

"You should try it," she was saying, closing one eye as if it would help her concentrate. Daenerys, who had rid herself of her cloak at some point, only offered a laugh in response from the fence she was sitting precariously on.

"How is this a skill we'd ever need?"

"And you speaking funny tongues is necessary, is it?" Arya fired back and motioned her over again. "It doesn't have to be the bow; I can show you."

"'Funny tongues'?" Daenerys didn't seem ready to let that go. "You're always present during my lessons."

"Doesn't make it useful." Arya sighed at the lack of response and pointed towards the practicing spear someone had left on the wall nearby. "Kostagon imon iā— egros?"

Jon, who had been trying to rearrange the rack of weapons for quite a while now, felt his grip on yet another sword falter. Valyrian. The words were faltering and unsure, but there was no mistaking it.

"Egrio," Daenerys corrected carefully. "Kostagon eman iā egrio."

It was fascinating, Jon thought, to hear a Northern accent on a Valyrian voice, stumbling over words that should have been hers by right. It brought another surge of the same old sadness that the thought of her seemed to wake even now that he had actually seen her. She was everything he had imagined and more and it was upsetting, in a way, to realise that he had never really known how he was going to proceed with this. This was what Viserys had always wanted, what he had promised him would fix everything: get to the Starks, find Daenerys, find enough allies to march on King's Landing. It had all been so simple back when Jon had first heard it and so much had changed since then that all he could do was sit and watch helplessly.

"It sounds the exact same way, Dany," Arya said, voice indignant enough to pull him out of his reverie and Jon stifled an amused snort as best as he could. Not well enough, apparently, as she called out after him a moment later. "You're new here, aren't you?"

"Yes, my lady." Jon turned around and found himself faced with Arya's grin and Daenerys's long-suffering and yet indulgent grimace.

"What's your name?"

"Jon, my lady."

"Well, help my sister pick a weapon, Jon. I'm going to go get us something to eat."

He could feel her approaching even without looking and sure enough, Daenerys was by his side a moment later, picking at the edge of one of the longswords experimentally with the tip of her finger. "I want something impressive," she said, hesitantly wrapping her hand around the handle to try and pick it up, "she needs some entertainment before the feast."

"This is as impressive as it gets." Jon's laugh sounded rather tortured even to his own ears. "Dany, is it?"

"That would be me." She sounded wary now, those pale eyes turning to him and narrowing slightly. You don't want to wake the dragon, do you? There wasn't the same cruelty to it, not even close, but it was still nearly enough to make him take a step back. The resemblance would take some getting used to – about as long as it would take him to get to know her, Jon supposed.

"There's a— a gift that someone gave me," Jon soldiered on. It was only half a lie and it was worth it for the way her expression lit up all of a sudden. "Something that I have to pass on to you."

"To me?" She was smiling now, more disbelief than hilarity, and Jon found himself responding.

"Is it truly so hard to believe?"

"That would depend on what the gift is, I expect." Daenerys finally pulled the sword free from its confines and headed back for the practice area. "Is it something you can bring to the feast tonight?"

"It requires a little more space than that." It would have been a fine enough opportunity for nearly anything but this. "And an explanation, I reckon."

"You're serious about this, then." She hadn't taken it to heart before, but she was considering it now; he could see the calculation in her eyes. "If this is a joke—"

"I swear it's not." Jon was painfully aware of how odd he sounded, but couldn't bring himself to give up now.

Another moment of contemplation. "Meet me here tonight once they bring out the dessert," she said at last, turning back to the entrance when she saw her sister approaching again. "Don't make me regret this."

It wasn't what he had imagined at all and for the first time for as long as Jon could remember, the thought filled him with hope.