297 AC

Lord Jon Stark

Jon could not look away. His mind refused to wrap around what he was seeing, refused to comprehend it. And yet those tiny, strange little things kept coming towards him. He felt no threat from them, he realised. He had no idea why he thought he would know even if they were threatening him. He had never looked upon anything like them before, had no scope for understanding them.

"Dragons," Loras breathed. His voice was so hoarse it was barely there, and the word ended on a strangled cough. His hands tightened around Jon's upper arms. But Jon, without even stopping to think, pulled himself free and stepped towards the little things, crouching down.

The biggest of them, a tiny black thing mottled with white, hopped onto the hand Jon had not even realised he was holding out, and suddenly Jon felt something alien wash over him. He would have called it tenderness, except he knew what it was like to hold his Lady Wife and feel their babe move beneath her skin. That was tenderness. This was something different. Fierce too, but different. Wilder, in a way. Instinctive, just as the tenderness was, but it reached... not deeper, exactly. It reached a different part of him, the same one that had first told him that Dragonstone was home, the same one that had called him down to the catacombs for years, the same one that had told him to spill his blood on the stones - eggs, they had been eggs - night after night. Possessive. These creatures belonged to him, were part of him, but he belonged to them as well. And, something else, something that roared and raged somewhere within him, something he had no words to describe.

He let the other three climb onto him, settle on his shoulders and forearm, and then he stood, with the first one still cradled in his hand. It nuzzled against him, like a pup or a kitten, wings spreading flat along his palm. Jon could barely bring himself to breathe, could not remember how, could not seem to remember anything other than the fire and the blood he had fed them for years.

Loras coughed again, and this time it sounded deep and truly painful. Jon pulled himself out of his stupor for long enough to take in the sight of his friend. Most of Loras' clothes had been singed off. He was pale beneath the soot, paler than Jon had ever seen him. Every breath he took sounded difficult, rattling through his chest and whistling on its way out. He had a hand on the wall, Jon realised, and even then, he was barely holding himself up. He coughed again, and a drop of blood dribbled out the corner of his mouth. Immediately, the actual rational part of Jon's brain kicked back in and he rushed back to Loras. The dragons, as though sensing his intent before he acted, migrated to parts of his body where they would not be in the way. Jon wrapped Loras' arm around his shoulder, let him lean against Jon's side as Jon set as quick a pace as he could. They had to get back to the surface, and it had to happen fast. Loras needed a maester, and quickly. Jon did not even want to know what he had been breathing down here - what Jon had been breathing as well, but it had never hurt him before and did not seem like it would this time either. Worry pounded through him, made his own chest feel tight. He pushed himself to set a harder pace.

Still, every step seemed to take half an eternity, and Loras only grew heavier against his side. At times, Jon was half carrying him, barely holding him up. For all that Jon had just come out of a bit of a growth spurt, Loras was still taller than him and definitely heavier, for all his slenderness. The way back to the surface had never seemed so long before, or so hard.

As soon as Jon felt the first hint of a breeze on their skin, sucked in fresh, clear air, he allowed for a break. He was not sure if Loras would even be able to catch his breath before the maester had worked his craft, but if Jon could just give him enough of a respite to regain his feet, to stop shaking, maybe things would be better. Loras looked ashen. He was still coughing and Jon felt a flash of guilt go through him. He was truly frightened all of a sudden. What if something was seriously wrong with him? What if Maester Cressen did not know how to help him? If Jon had not been such a child, to run off and sulk when he should have stayed and demanded answers - if he had controlled himself, Loras would not have felt the need to run after him, and he would not be looking as though he were on the Stranger's doorstep now.

One of the dragons, a milky white one with bits of purple running along its scales and bright purple eyes, made a sound, almost like a chirp, in his ear. Jon squeezed his eyes shut for long moments. His head reeled. He did not know what to do with this. He did not-

He needed to help Loras. He could worry on all the rest later. Gritting his teeth and ignoring his aching shoulder and back, he wrapped his arm around Loras once more and dragged him upwards and onwards. Without him even having to think on it, his feet found the passage that would lead him straight back to the Lord's chamber. He pushed through inside and deposited the dragons on his bed. He would deal with them later. "Stay," he said, and he was not sure why, but somehow he was almost certain they had heard him and meant to comply, at least for now.

Then he went for the door, dragged Loras through his solar and out into the hallway, kicking the door shut behind himself. The guard posted at his door startled and turned towards them, then seemed to take in the situation well enough to take Loras' free arm and help Jon in the direction of the maester's chambers.

Jon knocked loudly as soon as the door was within reach. He kept knocking, could not get enough of a hold of himself to be bothered with courtesies right now. His throat was tight. His free hand shook. As if some part of him was observing from outside his own body, he could see his own exhaustion, see how everything threatened to overwhelm him. It was difficult to get a proper breath.

Maester Cressen finally opened the door, and the irritation on his face was immediately replaced with worry as he took in the sight before him. "Come in, come in," he instructed, quickly waving them on through into the sick room. Jon and the guardsman deposited Loras on the bed, and suddenly it was all Jon could do to keep standing himself. He sank into the nearest chair. The room seemed to spin around him.

"Get my wife," he told the guardsman. "Please."

It was only when the guardsman left with a quick nod of his head that Jon realised he should have asked for Lady Olenna as well. She would want to be here too. And Loras would want her presence. But then maybe he had not called Margaery for Loras, not entirely.

Not at all.

"My Lord," the maester said when he had spent several moments examining Loras, who had apparently dropped into sleep. Or unconsciousness. Jon hoped it was only sleep. "Could you tell me what happened to Lord Loras?"

Jon took a deep breath, tried to get a hold of himself, tried to hold himself together. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could not help but wonder if Cressen had known. No, he could not have, not if Benjen had only just found out. It could not be only he who had not known. He swallowed. What if Loras had known? What if that was why he had followed him? He shook the thought away. As much as he preferred not to admit it, he knew well enough that Loras would follow him anywhere, for no other reason than that he thought Jon needed him. Did Margaery know? He swallowed again. This time it hurt. And what was it all anyway? What was there to know? He might have misheard, might have misunderstood.

There were dragons in his bedchamber. He did not think that was something he could possibly misunderstand.

"My Lord?" Maester Cressen pressed, inadvertently pulling Jon out from where his own mind had threatened to pull him under.

"We went down into the catacombs," Jon managed. His throat felt raw and painful, and he knew his voice was coming out hoarser than normal, with more of his brogue coming through than was usual. It was not with whatever ailed Loras, though. It was just... Gods, he was tired. He was so tired and something inside him ached like an open wound. "And below, to the lava tunnels. Into the Dragonmont itself, I think. Then Loras was coughing and he was not breathing right. It only got worse as we made our way back towards the surface. I had to drag him most of the way." He glanced at his goodbrother, at his ashen face and the burns on his arms and face. Jon was not even sure when or how he had been burnt. And Gods, if Jon had only thought faster, had only reacted when Loras first started coughing. Or turned around when he first realised Loras was following him, even though he could not breathe down there... He pushed the thoughts away. He had been stupid, yes, and careless, and a very poor friend, but there was nothing to do now except pray Loras would waken soon so he could apologise.

Maester Cressen looked back and forth between them, seeming more than a bit confused. "And you went as deep as he did?" he asked.

"Aye," Jon confirmed. Deeper, but there was no reason to say as much.

Maester Cressen gestured at the other bed in the room, looking Jon up and down for long moments, seeming to take in his mostly burnt off clothes and the soot on his skin. "Lie down, boy," he ordered even as he bustled towards the cabinet in the corner where Jon knew, from experience, that he kept his ointments and concoctions.

"I am fine," Jon said.

Maester Cressen huffed. "If you know what is good for you, you lie down on your own before your Lady Wife arrives and I ask her to make you," he said.

Jon winced, and lay down. It would be nice to get a bit of rest, even though he knew he was not sick. Besides, Margaery's unique mixture of sharp scolding and gentle concern was more effective than any orders anyone else had ever given him. He could admit that, would do it gladly. It was another one of those things she had not started doing before they grew closer, and as such it was dear to him, even if he disliked it while it happened.

Maester Cressen crossed back over the floor, tipped a vial of something or other down Loras' throat before getting to work spreading ointment over the wounds visible on his skin.

The door opened and Margaery walked inside, and as happy as Jon was to see her, part of him felt the apprehension too. He liked being fussed over, as much as he hated to admit it. Lady Catelyn had only bothered to the once. His Lord Father rarely had the time. Dacey was not much of the type to fuss over anyone, even her own babe, and Jon's uncles were more the types to clap his shoulder or give him a quick, tight hug when absolutely necessary, and then leave him to his own devices. It was not the fussing he was scared of. It was... He had dragged her brother into danger, thoughtlessly and carelessly. And if she thought Jon had been in danger too, he was looking at the tongue lashing of his life.

The fussing came first, and he let himself relax into it, let himself forget what would follow, and wallowed in her soft gasp and the way her small, strong hand carded through his hair. Another wave of exhaustion swept over him. As if from far away, he heard her talking to Cressen, who was still fast at work on Loras. He felt a wet cloth wipe away the soot on his face and chest. There was another gasp, and then Jon was fast asleep.


"…by and large unharmed," Maester Cressen was saying. "He has pulled a muscle in his shoulder, probably from dragging Lord Loras up from the lava tunnels, but he has none of the same symptoms that have Lord Loras out cold. Mostly, he seems to be suffering from shock."

Jon breathed in deep, slowly blinked his eyes open. His head pounded, and he was still so exhausted he just wanted to go back to sleep, which told him, along with the words, that he could not have been out for very long. He let out a groan, felt Margaery give his hand a tight squeeze. He managed to get his gaze to focus somewhat. Met her eyes, which somehow managed to call him an idiot much more loudly than she could have if she had shouted. There was gratitude there as well, though, which brought him some hope. "Loras?" he croaked.

She huffed, but seemed more amused than anything. "In most other circumstances I would have been deeply offended that mine is not the name you choose to call when you wake up," she said. Then relented with that crooked, lopsided smile of hers. "He will be fine, according to Maester Cressen. Thanks to you." It was only thanks to him that Loras had been in danger to begin with, but Jon did not have the energy to argue right now. And even if he had, the sight of her free hand caressing the slight swell of her belly would have silenced him, striking him with awe the same way it always did.

He attempted to pull himself into a sitting position, only to realise that the arm not held fast by Margaery's grip on his hand was caught up in a sling and twinged with every movement he made. He groaned, tried to move up without using his arms at all. Then he relented and slumped back into the pillows with a huff that made Margaery snort out a small laugh and smooth his hair out of his face.

Uncle Arthur was there the next moment, gently pulling him up and arranging the pillows behind him. The look he was giving him made Jon more than aware that he would be paying for his own idiocy in the training yard, and he was on the verge of relenting at the sight, like he had his whole life. Then the overheard conversation, the confusion and disbelief and anger, all the reasons why he had run in the first place, came back to him, bolstered him. Fury all but strangled him, made him grit his teeth and clench his fists. For half a moment, he wanted to attack Arthur bodily, scream and rage and punch and bite. But that was the wrong impulse, was not even what he was feeling, not really. What he wanted was not to punish. It was to get answers, get some kind of explanation that would make those words make sense, make the world make sense again. He glanced across the room at Maester Cressen. "Does Loras need you right this moment?" he asked.

"No, My Lord," Maester Cressen replied. Seeming to catch up on Jon's unspoken request, he gave a quick nod. "I will be back to check up on him within the hour," he said. Then he bowed and left the sick chamber.

Jon turned his attention back to Unc- or was he even that? To the man he had thought of as his uncle since he had been old enough to think anyone anything. "Why did Ser Oswell Whent decide to gift me with something as priceless as Blackfyre, Ser Arthur?" he asked.

Arthur looked at him for long moments, seeming to hesitate for a moment. His serious violet eyes appeared to stare into Jon's very soul in that way they had, like they had not done for years. Then he sighed, and went to the door. He opened it long enough to check the outside before shutting and bolting it and walking over to sit in the chair next to Margaery's. "Because it is the ancestral sword of House Targaryen and should always belong to the King of the Seven Kingdoms," he said. "Whatever Aegon the Unworthy did and caused, it is time that holds true again."

Jon swallowed, let his eyes drop shut for a long moment. Then he opened them once more and stared up at the man who had been the sole true constant in his life, often as much a father to Jon as the man he had called by that title. "Tell me?" he asked. "Please?"

Margaery's hand tightened on his, and Arthur glanced at her for a beat. Jon wanted to as well, but he did not want to look away from Arthur, did not want to give him a chance to back away. Nor was he going to let Arthur drive her from the room. She was his Lady Wife. She carried his babe. He trusted her. Whatever he knew, she could know too.

Arthur's eyes went back to Jon, and yet more time passed, but this time Jon thought it had the quality of a man having to gather a great many painful strands of thought. Jon could give him that much, at least. "I was about the same age you are now when I first met Prince Rhaegar," he said after a long while. His gaze seemed far away, as though he was looking at a picture Jon could not see. "It was some tourney or other, but we became fast friends. He was a strange young man, in some ways. He was thoughtful, yet rash, and prone to melancholy. He hated fighting, but rarely have I met a better swordsman or horseback rider. I admired him from the start. I like to think it was mutual. A few years later, I was named for the Kingsguard. Rhaegar became my dearest friend. My sister was brought on to serve Elia Martell after the Royal wedding, and those were some of the best years of my life."

He paused, frowned, and a sadness Jon had sometimes seen in Arthur became visible again, except this time it was open, not hidden or restrained, and seeing it made something inside Jon clench up in pain. "On the one hand, he had so much potential," Arthur said. "He was a truly good man, gentle and compassionate and wise beyond his years. I worshipped him. I think a lot of people, even those closest to him, did. But even if it hit him differently, I do not think the Targaryen madness passed him over entirely. His parents were brother and sister, and theirs before them. As Jaehaerys the Second liked to say, whenever a Targaryen is born, the Gods toss a coin, and it lands either on true greatness or madness. Rhaegar, I think, is the only one I have ever known of whose coin might have landed on the edge and stayed there. He had both."

Jon swallowed, and part of him wanted to object to this seemingly nonsensical story about some long-dead prince, wanted to ask why it even mattered. But some part of him knew, he supposed. After everything that had already been said, and with four dragons probably making a sooty mess of his bedchamber... He knew, whether he wanted to or not.

"Rhaegar loved stories. People liked to say he had read every book on Dragonstone before he reached the age of eight. It was only later that he decided to become a fighter, because of an old prophecy he had read. He believed he was the Prince that was Promised. The Prince would need to know how to fight, which is how he ended up deciding to be a fighter at all.

"He cared for Elia," Arthur continued. "He was kind to her. He was kind to most people he met. She loved him dearly. I do not think he ever loved her back. And when Aegon was born and the Maesters told him she could have no more children, I think that was the true end of it. Another one of his prophecies told him that the dragon must have three heads, you see, and by then he believed that not he, but his son, was the Prince that was Promised, and that he must have two partners for whatever lay ahead - King Aegon and his sister-wives reborn. But Elia could not give him his Visenya, no matter how badly they both wanted it.

"To this day, I am not sure if the Pact and Song of Ice and Fire is the reason he pursued Lyanna Stark, or if Lyanna simply caught his eye and his heart and inspired his obsession with it." Arthur paused for long moments, let out a sigh. "I do know that they met at the Tourney at Harrenhal when his father sent him in pursuit of a mystery knight known as the Knight of the Laughing Tree and he found Lyanna struggling to get off her dented chest plate. He covered for her and returned to King Aerys with only the shield in hand. After that, they would meet up in the Godswood in the evenings, and talk, and simply spend time together. A few days later, he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty. He doomed his House and the realm that should have been his, and if he realised that was what he was doing, he did not care. He was deeply in love with her by then, and she returned it just as fiercely.

"They exchanged letters for the better part of a year. It was during that year that Aegon was born and Rhaegar learnt that there would be no Visenya, at least not with Elia. His obsession with the prophecy grew, just as rapidly as his longing for Lyanna. In the end, he could not stand it, and she was heartbroken that her planned marriage to Robert Baratheon was nearing. They agreed to meet up in the Riverlands, en route to Brandon Stark's wedding to Catelyn Tully, and ran away together. Whatever you have heard, know this: there was never a kidnapping. There was never a rape. They left a note, though I cannot begin to explain how it was lost. They wed at the Isle of Faces, and ran to the Tower of Joy in Dorne, with not a care for the consequences their actions might cause. Lyanna, I can excuse for it. She was little more than a girl with her head full of songs of love and knights and princes, and a heart full of resentment for a man she had decided to hate because of the bastard he had sired."

Jon could not help but wince at that, reminded painfully of Lady Catelyn. For a moment, he could not help but be glad, whatever chaos had come to the realm, that Lyanna Stark had not wed Robert Baratheon. For all the he found the king to be more than a little embarrassing and foolish, he knew him to be a good man, and he knew he owed everything he had to King Robert. He would not have wished Catelyn Stark on any bastard, and it sounded like that meant not wishing Lyanna Stark on any of Robert's baseborn children either. Not that he thought Cersei Lannister could possibly be much of an improvement.

"Rhaegar, however," Arthur continued, eyes still faraway. If he had noticed Jon's wince, he did not acknowledge it. Margaery did, though, and gave his hand another squeeze, lifting it to her lips and pressing a brief, sweet kiss to his knuckles. "He was a man grown. He should have known better, but by then his mind was fevered with love for Lady Lyanna, and his obsession with prophecies, and he saw no more clearly than she did. We had been in the Tower for but two moons' turn when we learnt that Brandon and Rickard Stark had been killed by King Aerys in his mockery of a trial by combat. Lyanna... I think something within her broke at that news. She became quieter, more subdued. Her guilt weighed her down. I thought she would never stop crying, let alone smile again. Then she realised she was with child, and that became the thing that sustained her, through everything that happened after. She loved her babe dearly. She sang to him at night, although she had not the voice for it, and told him all the stories she knew, everything she wanted to be for him, everything she wanted him to be for her. Lyanna Stark became a woman grown in that Tower, a woman I came to admire and respect and mourn as a friend and not just my Princess."

"After the War was lost, she gave birth in that Tower on the same day her brother, Lord Eddard, finally came for her. My sworn brothers and I were under strict orders from Rhaegar to only let her brother through. No companions could be trusted. But they had been beset by remnants of the Dornish forces on the way there, and only Ned and Lord Howland Reed arrived out of the band that had set out, both bloodied and exhausted. I knew from Lyanna's stories that Howland Reed owed her his honour and possibly his life, and was no more likely than her own blood to betray her. I persuaded Gerold and Oswell that we need not fight, and Ned sat with his sister as she died. We had to pry her stiff hand out of his, hours later. He was still crying, clutching the babe to his chest. And what an irony it was, to find that the babe was not Visenya at all. Lyanna named him Jaehaerys, for the Conciliator. Less than two moons' turns after Prince Aegon died, his younger brother, Jaehaerys, Third of His Name, Lord Protector of the Realm, was born, the true king of the Seven Kingdoms from the moment he first drew breath." Arthur paused then, and looked at Jon with such intensity in his eyes that it was nearly staggering.

Jon's breath hitched and caught. His hand, he realised, was trembling in Margaery's. His whole body felt weak. He was no idiot. He knew who Arthur must be talking about. It still did not feel real, felt as foreign as though this all pertained to someone else, someone not him. And yet there were dragons in his bedchamber. Dragonstone had not hurt him, with fire or with fumes. He was... He stopped, swallowed. He was not Ned Stark's son. He was not Arthur Dayne's nephew. Robb and Arya and the others were not his siblings. His brother and sister were long gone, as were his parents. Uncle Benjen and Aunt Dacey remained to him. They must. Benjen, too, had only just learnt of this, had he not? And he was no less his uncle now, even if it was through Lyanna rather than Lord Eddard. And Margaery. Jon glanced up at her, took in the pallor in his cheeks, the way her mouth hung open, as though caught there. She had not known either. Jon did not know why that made him feel so relieved. It did, though. He did not know what he would have done had she known and not told him.

"Beyond everything else," Arthur said. "We needed to keep you safe. And at that time, with the loyalist forces scattered and broken, that meant keeping you secret. The five of us agreed that I would go with you and your uncle to Winterfell. He would claim you for his own, and I would claim you for my sister's. That way fewer people would question my presence. Gerold and Oswell had to leave. We could never have managed the ruse with three Kingsguard around you, and so they went to Essos, to raise an army for the day we would need it." A wry, sad smile stretched Arthur's face. "Ned and I rarely agreed on anything. He wanted to keep you secret your whole life. I always believed that keeping you secret, in the long run, would come with risks we could not foresee. You would be safer in a seat of power, where we could at least see the threats coming. Ned, for all that he resents the man, loves Robert like a brother, and would hesitate to rise against him. But he will if he has to, and some day he will, for your sake. That Throne does not belong to Robert Baratheon; it never did. It is yours, Your Grace. It has been since the moment of your birth."

Jon felt a sob try to tear free from his throat. He bit it back with some effort. 'Do not call me that,' he wanted to scream. He could not bear the sudden distance it put between them. It was bad enough that Arthur was not his uncle, that Ned was not his father, that everyone had lied to him, that he had lost them all halfway already. Did Arthur have to make it clear that he had lost them fully? "Is that why you left Dorne?" he managed. "Is that why you stayed all those years? Just because-"

"Because you are the rightful king?" Arthur said. He sighed, reached out a hand and stroked it through Jon's hair like he had when he was younger. "Yes." His voice was sad. "It is. But it is also because I loved your father like a brother and counted your mother among my dearest friends. That was why I came along. That was why I swore my sword to you on the day you were born. But Jon." He caught Jon's chin with his strong, calloused hand and pulled up his head until they were eye to eye. "I swear myself to you every single day, and it is no longer because of any of those things. It is because of you. Because you are all the things that were good about Rhaegar, but with none of his madness. Because you are all the things that were right about your forbearers, and none of the things that are wrong. It is because the realm needs you, and because I love you like mine own son." He was silent for a long moment, and his eyes told the tale of both his sadness, and of pride and love and all the things Jon had thought, for a moment, that he had stood to lose, if he had ever had them at all. "I am sorry I lied for so long," he said. "I can only say that for the longest while, it was necessary. Then it was habit. Then it was... waiting for the right moment." The apple of his throat bobbed on a swallow. "And perhaps I was afraid, to never hear you call me uncle again."

Despite himself, Jon felt a smile tug on his face. And for all that he was a man grown, was supposed to comport himself with dignity and pride, Jon let go of Margaery's hand, and when Arthur opened his arms, Jon all but fell into them. "Rhaegar was your brother in all but name, was he not?" Jon asked.

Arthur held him close, cradling him like he had when Jon was a little boy, hurt by the barbs the world liked to throw at him over and over again. "Yes," he confirmed.

"Then how are you not my uncle?" Jon asked.

Arthur chuckled against him, his chest vibrating against Jon's. "I suppose I cannot answer that," he said. He gave a small grin. "Besides," he added. "We are still kin. Or did your maester not teach you about Dyanna Dayne?"

Jon let out a breath he had not realised he was holding, and smiled against his uncle's shoulder. Some things had to change - were changing rapidly, as if he needed a reminder of those dragons in his chambers - but some did not. He had to believe that, if he were to keep hold of anything at all. He felt Margaery's hand settle on his back, rubbing in circles of warmth. That, too, helped him hold the pieces of himself together.

Jon was not sure how long he had sat like that, in the arms of the uncle he had chosen, regardless of the distance of their blood, with his wife's hand steady and reassuring on his back. Around him, his whole world must be realigning itself, but right then, Jon did not care to notice.

At long last, he pulled away, straightened up. He felt stronger than he had for hours. Probably longer. Later, he knew, he would ask Uncle Arthur to tell him everything he knew about Rhaegar and Lyanna, and he would drink in every word. But for right now, his head was already spinning. He was not sure there was anything else he could take in. And he had something to share as well. Slowly, he got to his feet, careful on the shoulder that he had forgotten, for a moment, was aching and jolted with pain with every movement he made. "I have something I need to show you," he said, glancing at the both of them. He was suddenly nervous. He was not at all done processing what Uncle Arthur had told him, let alone what had happened down in the Dragonmont. Had not at all begun to even consider what it might all mean, or what anyone might have to say about the hatchlings. Still, he could trust them. If there were two people in his life he could trust, it had to be these two.

Margaery reached out and gripped his free hand, lacing their fingers back together, as though she was unwilling to put any distance whatsoever between them right now. Jon was more grateful than he could say. From his other side, Uncle Arthur gave a sharp nod, though he looked nearly as shaken as Jon felt. Still, Jon steeled himself from it and led the way out of the sick chamber. The walk through the long, dark hallways seemed to take forever even as Jon half felt it went by in the blink of an eye.

His breath caught sharply in his throat as he let Uncle Arthur reach out and open the door ahead of them. Before Jon could follow, Margaery tugged on his hand, holding him back. He turned to face her more fully, and she reached up with the hand not already gripping his, cupped his cheek so gently it made his chest ache. "Are you well?" she asked softly.

Jon sucked in a deep breath, made himself nod. "Confused," he admitted. "Scared. But-" He squeezed his eyes shut, could not keep himself from asking. "Did you know?"

"No," she said, and her voice sounded firm now, for all its softness. She hesitated for a moment, stroking her thumb absently over the angle of his cheekbone. "I think Grandmother knew," she admitted then. "I knew there was something they were not telling us. But she would not tell me. She said it was something I needed to learn along with you."

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, he could not even be bothered that Lady Olenna had known. In the time he had known her, he had come to accept that she knew most everything worth knowing. He leaned in, pressed his forehead against hers. "It does not bother you?" he asked.

Her hand slid to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. "A year ago," she said. "I would have been overjoyed. I will not lie. My family has always wanted to be tied to the Targaryens. Now, though... It does not matter, on one level. It does not change who you are. It scares me, though. It puts you in so much danger, and I hate the thought of you being hurt."

Jon felt a shuddering breath leave his mouth as another smile tugged on his lips. A strange wave of tenderness went through him. "I love you, you know that?" he suddenly heard himself say. Immediately he felt heat rise to his face. He had never told her that before, was not sure he had ever even thought it before, but it felt right, all of a sudden, like a deep, essential truth of himself that had just waited to be discovered.

Tremulously, she returned his smile. "I love you too," she said, and Jon could not really help but lean in and press a kiss to her lips. It was meant to be quick and light, but Margaery's hand tightened on the back of his neck, her fingers digging in and her head tilting ever so slightly to the side to deepen the kiss. Jon breathed her in, could not help himself, could not help but breathe in her reassurance, her love. He still could not believe, whatever it was Uncle Arthur had just told him, that someone such as Margaery was his, wanted him, loved him.

Part of him would always, he knew, regardless of what names he was given, be the Sand of Winterfell.

Uncle Arthur's gasp made them both start and break apart. Jon kept hold of Margaery's hand, breathing hard, and pulled her inside only to find Uncle Arthur looking more wide-eyed than he had ever seen him, stunned and frightened and awed like a small child. "How?" he gasped.

Slowly, Jon let go of Margaery's hand and stepped forward, extending his hand and letting the black and white dragon climb into the palm of his hand. He could see the others in the fireplace, which they had apparently decided to make their home for now, but this one kept seeking him out, so it would be the one he introduced. "I found the eggs years ago," he said. "I did not know what they were. I had... dreams. They told me what to do. And a few hours ago, I went into the lava tunnels. I threw them in the Dragonmont. Loras followed me. That is how he got hurt. But these... they came out of the molten rock. I do not-" He stopped, took a deep breath. "I do not know what it means, but. They are here, and they are mine, and that is how it is."

Uncle Arthur swallowed noisily. Then he dropped to one knee and bent his head, and Jon wanted desperately to tell him to get back up, to stand tall. Something kept him silent. "Your Grace," Ser Arthur said. "It means that for all his follies, Rhaegar truly did do one thing right."

Margaery took a step closer, bending over his hand. The dragonling eyed her, and Jon thought he saw wariness in its red eyes. For long moments, they faced off. Then the hatchling seemed to relax, and Margaery reached out a careful finger to run over its scales. "He is beautiful," she breathed. She looked up at Jon, and he saw stark relief in her eyes. "This means you will be safe, Jon. And our babe too. Whatever happens, they will never let you come to harm."

Jon was not sure he shared in her belief entirely, but it felt right, standing here with her pressed against his side and the small dragon in his hand. It felt natural, in a way very few things ever had, aside from the training yard and the sword. And Blackfyre, which he had received just the previous day. And maybe that could comfort him as much as it did her. Not that there were no fights ahead - he did not believe that for one moment. But that, at the very least, things were right, for once in his life. A strange thought struck him then. "Blackfyre," he muttered, glancing at the hatchling, who seemed to actually preen at the word. "You like that, do you not?"

The hatchling coughed out a mouthful of black smoke in reply.


A/N: Hopefully no one is too bothered by how easily Jon forgave Arthur, but given the relationship they have had and the rather heartfelt reassurances, lingering resentment didn't really make too much sense, especially given the fact that in this AU, Arthur, more than really anyone else, has been the person to provide Jon with emotional stability and love (remember that he has not regularly seen Ned for four years, and even prior to that Arthur will always have had more time for him). Also, I can't help but feel like Arthur admitting to the exact same fear (that it would make them less family to each other) that Jon feels would go a long way towards mending bridges. Hopefully the reaction makes sense to you.

And for a couple of questions:
-Why is Arya not on Dragonstone if she was made heir? Ned didn't let Jon go to Dragonstone until he was ten, for all that the Lordship was already his. Arya is not the Lady. She is the (most likely quite temporary) heir, and only something like eight or nine years old. Ned was definitely bringing her back to Winterfell. Not to worry, though; she will definitely pop up several times more in the story, and will even have a couple of points of view.
-Where is Stannis? Stannis, in this AU, died in the Greyjoy Rebellion, which set much of the canon divergence off. This is hopefully pretty clear in the first chapter (and the summary), but I know all too well the feeling of forgetting details from earlier chapters of a WIP, so no sweat.

And thank you to those of you who assisted in answering each others questions. As always, conversation and discussion in the comments, whether over speculation or questions or anything else, are very much welcomed. I can't be as active there as I would like, but I do love seeing it, so if anyone is worrying about cluttering the comments or anything like that, please don't be.

Up next: There's a kidnapping, a knighting, and Oswell Whent can be a big meanie when he wants to.