I am so sorry about the delay in posting. I am incredibly busy much of the time, and the ffn system of uploading/posting chapters bugs me to no end. But hey, it's Christmas now, so I should be able to get something out ;P Thank you so much for your patience, and for the favourites, follow and especially for the comments. They make my day each and every time, and I read each one carefully. In the middle of all that being busy, having those to read is a real treat.


297 AC

Lord Jon Stark

Jon was not sure who placed the babe in his arms. He honestly did not care. His whole attention, his whole being, was focused on tiny little boy he held. The babe was beautiful, almost unnaturally so. Jon thought he might have been more frightened, had he not been face to face with his own apparent aunt just moments ago. It still felt foreign, frighteningly so, but Jon could not possibly love this babe less for the tuft of silver hair on his small head or the black-purple eyes blinking up at him. Damson, he thought, but he had never really paid that much attention when Maester Cressen went into colour studies.

The babe in his arms stretched on a long deep yawn, and all Jon's thoughts seemed to just vanish into thin air. He could not stop looking at the tiny little human being in his arms. He truly did not think he could ever love anyone more, that it was even possible to do so. His throat tightened and his chest felt so heavy he was surprised each and every one of his breaths did not come out a sob. The slight, warm weight in his arms grounded him in a way nothing ever had. He could not look away. Did not think he would have been able to, had the whole world threatened to fall down around his shoulders.

For one brief moment, Jon was painfully aware of his own age. He was four-and-ten namedays old, as much a boy as a man grown, still two years away from his majority. And he was so utterly inadequate, so unqualified to give this son of his what he needed. But his son was here, warm and real in his arms, and come what may, Jon would just have to be grown enough to take care of him, to shield him and be the father he would need. He wondered if Eddard Stark and Arthur Dayne, his own fathers in all but blood, had felt this way when he had been a babe himself. Tiny, incredibly strong fingers closed around his thumb, and Jon swallowed down a sudden stab of emotion. He leaned down, pressed his lips against his son's forehead. Never had he, nor would he, love another person more deeply.

The babe was the one, in the end, to pull Jon out of his trancelike state. He was screaming by then, tiny body wriggling, and nothing Jon did seemed to make any difference when it came to calming him down. "The babe needs his mother," Lady Olenna told him. "He is hungry, I believe."

Jon nodded, and let himself be led into the birthing chamber. All the fears he had been doing his best to push away were there, suddenly, pulling and pushing at him, repelling and drawing at him. Margaery was strong. She believed in herself, in her future, in a way Jon's mother had not. She had a trained, experienced maester to help her. Jon had to believe that would be enough. He was not an idiot. He knew well enough that a younger mother was that much more likely to be lost to childbirth, and his own dead Lady Mother had been more than a year Margaery's senior. Ever since Uncle Arthur had told him the truth of his origins, that part of it had played itself out over and over again in his mind until it had driven him close to mad. If Loras had not taken him out into the yard, if his aunt had not showed up... Jon did not know how he would have made it through Margaery's labour with his sanity intact. "Of course," he said, and let Lady Olenna guide him into the birthing room.

Someone must have changed the sheets. They looked pristine, white as fresh fallen snow. Margaery was paler than Jon had ever seen her, her cheeks milky and her eyes unbearably tired. But there was life in her yet. That lopsided smile of hers played on her lips regardless of her exhaustion, and there was still a glimmer in her eyes that made Jon wish he had the courage to step close enough to kiss her. Margaery stretched out her arms, seeming somehow unbearably weak and incredibly strong all at once. "Give him here," she ordered, and Jon could no more have denied her than he could have stopped winter from coming. As gently as he knew how, trained by near a handful of younger siblings, he deposited the babe back into its mother's arms and watched as she pushed her shift aside and allowed the babe to suckle at her own breast. For long moments, all she did was stare at the babe, seemingly as captivated as he was, and Jon was truthfully so captivated he did not think it was within him to ever look away. He could not help the audible sigh at relief when she accepted this babe that did not look like either one of them, looked like something out of a song or a fantasy instead, a babe that had the potential to put them in as much danger as his own dragons would when they grew. "By the Seven, Jon," Margaery breathed. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the tiny form in her arms. "He is perfect."

Jon, for all that the babe looked so utterly foreign to anything he had ever known, could not help but agree. "He is," he managed, voice cracking midway through even that simple sentence. With some effort, he wrenched his gaze away from his newborn son and looked upon his wife instead. He took in her pallor, the exhausted cast of her face, and threw off his fear. Regardless of the example his own mother had set, Margaery would not end here. They had Maester Cressen, who would give his own life for hers. And Margaery was so strong, had so much to live for, and no guilt to live with. Jon still did not know how to deal with his Lady Mother's death or the guilt that predicated it. He only knew that he would never allow his own wife to feel the way Lyanna Stark must have at the end of things. And thank the Gods, he seemed to have succeeded in at least that much. Margaery would survive. Jon had to believe that, or he did not know how he would find a way to put himself back together yet again. Right now, putting himself back together seemed the one thing he had done all his life, and he was so tired, so sick of it. His babe would know peace, one way or another. He swore it, by the Old Gods and the New. "He is," Jon said yet again, unable to grasp hold of other words, breath near painful where it caught in his throat. "As is his Lady Mother."

Without warning, Margaery reached up with her free hand, caught his jaw and held him tight, held their eyes together long enough for Jon to use her surety to steel himself. Gods, how could any one person possibly be this strong? How could he have even thought to live this long without her? "What do you want to call him?" she asked. "Do not tell me Eddard," she added, before he had the chance to speak. "I know what you owe him. I know how you love him. But this is not the future Warden of the North. Our bannermen might accept a Stark name for a girl child. Not for the heir."

Jon swallowed down a lump so hard the sound of it might very well have made its way to the other side of the castle. "Aemon," he said at long last. "I know no king has ever carried that name," he added quickly. "But all men who have have been honourable. When I was growing up, all I wanted was to be the Dragonknight. Those are the values I would instill within our boy." He sucked in a deep breath, straightened his own shoulders. "And the king would not have our heads for it like he would if we named him for my brother."

"Aemon," she repeated, speaking the name slowly as though she were tasting the syllables one by one. At long last she nodded, looking down at the babe with such tenderness in her eyes Jon could have wept to look upon her. "My little Dragonknight," she whispered, pressing her lips down onto the top of his downy silvery-blond head of wispy hair. The babe fussed within her arms for a moment before settling down contentedly, suckling happily at his mother's breast. A moment later, Jon grew all too aware of his own weariness. When Margaery held out her free arm, inviting him into the bed with them, Jon could not have denied her if he had wanted to. With something close to a gasp of desperation, he collapsed down onto her featherbed and let her draw him close and card her fingers through her hair. And when he watched, from barely a foot away, how his son fed at her teat, he knew he had a family, in a way he had never even dared imagine before.


"You cannot possibly mean to call him that," Uncle Benjen said, sitting down with his own ironically named son, Torrhen, on his lap. Torrhen was Northern through and through for all that he had been born on Dragonstone, all black hair and grey eyes and pale skin, small but strong for his nearly two name days.

Jon shifted Aemon in his arms, could not help but smile when his son let out a soft gurgle. The babe shifted, as though to mold himself even more closely to the shape of Jon's chest, and Jon could not help but melt at the feel of it. He knew that the smallfolk were talking, that people were speaking of how absolutely scandalous it was that the babe was hardly ever in the nursery. If Aemon was not with Margaery, he was with Jon, and when even that was not possible, he was with Lady Olenna or even Daenerys, who, for all her small size and wide eyes, looked fierce as a dragon when the little one was entrusted to her. "Why?" Jon asked. He knew, logically, that Aemon's name could still be changed. It would be another moon or so before they feasted the bannermen and officially presented the babe. Jon, however, did not want to.

"It is dangerous, first of all," Uncle Benjen told him. "Your boy already has his looks against him-"

"He looks like the Daynes of old," Jon snapped. "Blood of the First Men, for all that their looks are different. And that is what you will tell anyone who tries to question it." He had considered dying the babe's hair to make that story more believable. While both pale hair and violet eyes were common enough in the Daynes, it was rare for both traits to show up all at once, but it was still feasible enough that they did not have to seriously consider putting herbs in their babe's hair. He had to be grateful to his Lord Fa- To Uncle Ned and Uncle Arthur for creating a ruse that would cover him so well.

Uncle Benjen nodded. "Ser Arthur has invited his nephew here to be his new squire," he said. "He is very pale of hair, I hear. Even though his eyes are blue, his presence next to Ser Arthur should help keep the boy safe. But a Targaryen name, Jon?"

Jon swallowed. When he had first named his son, even with Margaery's instructions strong in his ear, he had not realised it would be so big a thing. Naming a babe should be something private and intimate, something that mattered only to the immediate family. Margaery and Lady Olenna had been the ones to remind him, even before the birth, that it was a political move as well, that whatever he named his son might signify his allegiances and sway whole kingdoms to or from his cause, if his cause ever became a thing to pursue. "No Targaryen King ever bore the name," he said. "The most notable man of that name was Aemon the Dragonknight, who was good and honourable and died for his king when it came down to it. The name signifies unrelenting loyalty. No one can question that."

"Your bannermen, doubtless, would like the name," Uncle Benjen said. "But for all the loyalty it exemplifies, Robert - or his Small Council, at least - will remember that the loyalty was to a Targaryen king. They will wonder why you did not give your son a Northern name. As will the Lords of the North."

Jon swallowed, looked down at his son for long moments. Perhaps Uncle Benjen did have a point. Aemon's appearance already lent itself to their Targaryen lineage. Adding the name on top of that might be overly risky. "And what name would that be, then?" he asked. "What name would make a solid compromise, Uncle? Even if I wanted him to go through the confusion of sharing a name with the cousin he will spend years growing up besides, no one outside the North has any respect for Torrhen Stark. Even many Northerners do not. They do not see his love for his people; only how he bent the knee without ever fighting for his rights. Cregan? They do not see the service he did as Hand of the King, or the honour with which he carried it out, only that he abandoned the office prematurely. Theon, for the Hungry Wolf? Aside from the fact that I loathe Theon Greyjoy, most people forget the fact that he was defending the North and only remember that he sailed to their beloved Andalos with the guts of his enemies on the prows of his ships and mounted their heads on our coasts. Harlon or Karlon? Both did the North a great favour, but all anyone would remember is how they killed off an entire cadet branch of their own House. Brandon? Brandon the Builder is renowned throughout the realm, but Brandon the Breaker allied with the Wildlings to slay the Night's Watch nearly to a man, including his own brother. And that's without even mentioning Brandon the Bad." Jon paused, swallowed. "I am proud of who I am, Uncle. I am proud to be a Stark. But the Seven Kingdoms at large do not understand the North, and if I were to give my son a Northern name to honour him, there would be a dozen lords calling us savages. They would remember the Rape of the Sisters, the countless wars the North fought amongst itself before the Winter Kings ruled all, the rituals of the followers of the Old Gods in the Age of Heroes, and the fact that we still worship Gods different from theirs. They would only remember how different from them we truly are. I am not doing us a favour by keeping to the Old Gods. I know that. But I do not know that I could give them up. I can give up giving my son a Stark name, if it means peace with the South."

"A Southern name, aye," Uncle Benjen agreed. "But a Targaryen name? Even your bannermen, even the ones who have guessed who you are, would understand that you are in no position to do so. You cannot go to King Robert and introduce yourself as Jaehaerys, even if you tack on Stark. You cannot name your son Aemon and hope to keep the peace, however much you admired the Dragonknight growing up. At least not your first son."

Jon drew in a sharp breath, let the words filter through his mind, through the rebelliousness that had been telling him, ever since he found out the truth, not to listen to anything any Stark had to say to him after all the lies he had been fed. He let the breath back out, calmer now. Calmer now, he let other options go through his head, apologising mentally to his son that he might have given him a name he could not safely keep. "Duncan," he said at last. He looked down at his infant son, trailed a careful finger through the platinum down on the top of his head. "Duncan Stark."

Benjen took long moments to think it over before giving a sharp nod. "It is a good compromise," he said. "It was a Westerosi name long before the Targaryens used it, and Duncan 'The Small' Targaryen was never crowned King, nor is he remembered as well as his namesake Ser Duncan the Tall, who even the King Robert still honours as the pinnacle of a Kingsguard. Those who must know remember Duncan Targaryen, the brave young warrior price who chose love. Those who must not, remember first the loyal, honourable knight who gave his life for his friend and king's line to continue. His allegiance might have been to a Targaryen king, but he was never a Targaryen himself. And his death saved Rhaella's life even as she birthed Rhaegar."

Jon nodded, took a moment to glance down at the babe in his arms. He was beginning to fuss, tiny fists slowly pulling free from the swaddling to swing through the air. Given Jon's own stature, this Duncan was unlikely to ever be Tall, but had Ser Duncan not embodied the same ideals Ser Aemon once did? Did he not have the same honour, the same code that Jon wanted to ingrain into his own son? Was he not, in some roundabout way, the reason either Jon or his son had ever even had a chance to exist? Mentally, he apologised to the babe for how confusing a name change must seem when he was so far from old enough to understand the reasoning. The babe let out a small, hungry wail, and Jon got to his feet, carefully cradling his son in his arms. "Come on, Dunc," he muttered. "Let us go see Mama, and explain to her why your name is Duncan now."

Behind him, Uncle Benjen actually laughed, even though it was tense and uncertain the way it had been ever since his suspicions about Jon had finally been confirmed. Jon knew his uncle still loved him. He just hoped Benjen's natural Northern wariness would not win out and leave Jon alone in the end.


Daenerys stared at him with those piercing lavender eyes that never failed to make Jon think of the birth father he had never known and all he had done, good and bad, and Jon could not help but cringe. "You would host a tourney?" she asked. "You, who do not even believe in tourneys, who would rather suffer bed lice than participate in one?"

Jon shrugged, and he did feel more than a little uncomfortable. He was grateful the women in his life were willing to stand up to him. Margaery's political understanding far exceeded his own, and Daenerys knew more about the Targaryens than Jon ever would. And Lady Olenna, well, she was Lady Olenna. Still, sometimes he had to cater to someone other than them. "I did not want to," he said. "But when the King offers to sponsor a small tourney for your son's first nameday, you do not turn him down."

"Besides," Margaery added, her hand resting on her still flat stomach, where Jon alone, aside from Maester Cressen, knew their second child grew. "It is as good an opportunity to assess our assets as any. Any lord out there who has an inkling about who Jon is and who wishes to support his claim will be here, and we will have a chance to meet with each of them personally."

Daenerys rolled her eyes. "You just want your brother to win the tilt and crown you the queen of love and beauty," she said.

Margaery smiled that crooked smile of hers that Jon would always claim was responsible for this second babe of theirs, conceived moons before Maester Cressen felt it was safe. Jon did feel guilty about that. Would have felt worse if Margaery had seemed to share even a bit of his apprehension. Then again, her mother had not died in childbirth, but had birthed four healthy babes and lived to see them to adulthood. Jon supposed he had no choice but to trust in those numbers. "That I do," Margaery confirmed. "My Lord Husband is never going to lift a lance outside of battle, and he would have favoured the melee even if he had appreciated tourneys. If I must count on my brother, I will." She flashed Jon a cheeky smile. "Of course, there is still the risk Loras crowns Jon ahead of me."

Jon rolled his eyes, but could not help the flush stealing over his face. As flattering as Loras' regard and loyalty was, they were also friends and goodbrothers. That was all that would be shared between them, and while Jon and Loras had worked that out between them years ago, Margaery still thought it entertaining enough to bring up repeatedly. Jon thought it cruel, but he did not point that out either, since he knew Margaery did truly love Loras more than life itself. She just had an odd way to go about it. "I would look ridiculous wearing a crown of roses," he said with a small huff.

Margaery grinned. "You would look a vision," she said. "Just as I am certain your Lady Mother did. However, I am not so sure the realm is ready for a shock like that again. So let us hope Loras keeps his senses."

Dany's disapproving frown cut through any levity Jon and Margaery had established between themselves throughout the course of the conversation. "It is dangerous," she said. "I can be hidden away with the dragonseed here," she continued. "Duncan cannot; it is his nameday, after all. And we have four dragons on the island. All of them larger than horses. Can we truly keep them out of sight for a full fortnight or more?"

Jon breathed in deep, suddenly quite a bit more anxious than he cared to be. "We must," he said. "And you have to do it. I cannot. People will be watching me at all times. No one knows you are here, Aunt, but the dragons listen to you. You must keep them confined to the catacombs, or take them even deeper than that, or it will all be over. We are not ready for war, especially if Robert Baratheon and all his loyalists decide to show up here all at once." He stopped, swallowed, and suddenly this tourney that was being pushed upon him seemed something far more than he could manage. "They heed my commands, if I think of them hard enough. All you have to do is reinforce them. Can you do that?"

Daenerys looked at him for several long moments. Then she inclined her head. "Even if I have to sit them down and attempt to explain to them in High Valyrian what will happen if we reveal ourselves, I will do it," she said. For all that her words painted a humorous picture, Jon knew to take her seriously, so he gave her a deep nod, gave her his trust. Then he took Margaery's elbow and led her out of the room.

"How are you?" he asked, forcing his own voice to remain steady, free of all the worries that gripped him whenever he was careless enough to allow them to get a hold.

"I am tired," she said. "My feet and breasts ache, and everything I try to eat makes me want to be sick. It is no worse than it was with Duncan, and I am nearly two name days older than I was when we made him. There is nothing to worry about."

Jon opened his mouth. Shut it again. He swallowed. Then he nodded. "If you are certain," he said.

She turned towards him suddenly, her hand coming up to cover his cheek. Her thumb stroked the underside of his jaw. "You worry too much," she breathed. "Did I not bear you a healthy son at an age when most women have yet to wed? Did I not escape birthing fevers and complications at four-and-ten? I am older than that now, Jon Stark. I am stronger. Do not dare doubt me now."

Jon swallowed, and nodded, and drew her to him. Absently, he noted that in the two and a half years they had been wed, he had grown taller. He would never be tall, be she only came up to his forehead now, and he was broader than he had been at the first, and she fit perfectly within his arms these days. No longer did she feel like she might overwhelm him if she would only try. No longer did she make him feel small and boyish. With her in his arms, like this, he felt a man, in a way even holding their son had not let him. "I do not doubt you," he muttered. "I doubt myself. I doubt what I would do if you do not survive this time. I doubt whether I would survive myself."

Her hand tightened on his face, and she pulled him down for a brief, hard kiss. After all, she knew better than to dismiss his fears out of hand; she knew where they came from. "You really think I would leave you and the babes alone when there is still so much out there for us to do?" she asked. She leaned in, pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Jon, you need to rid yourself of this ridiculous belief that you killed your mother. You did not. As a mother I can tell you that even if childbirth had been the sole thing to kill Lyanna Stark, she would never in a lifetime have blamed you. If it had come down to me or Duncan, I would have given my life for his each and every time. But even that was not what happened to Lyanna Stark." She paused for a moment, raising her other hand until her palms framed his face, held his forehead to hers. "She gave up. I am sorry, Jon, but that is what happened. Your mother gave up. I do not blame her. She did not know how to deal with losing her father, her brother, her husband and his whole family. She did not know how to handle the consequences of the choices she had made, how to handle the reality of King Robert's rule and what that would mean for her, let alone for you. She did not have the best care. And so she did not survive what another woman might have. The fact that you lived is a miracle in and of itself. You came weeks early, you were small and you were born with an unspoken kill order on your head. Yet you lived. Lyanna may not even have wanted that. It would have been the perfect tragic song to go with the death of her Silver Prince, would it not? Her death, along with the son she bore him, the final heir to the dynasty behind him? To a young girl who knows only songs..." She stopped, pressed her forehead against his so hard that for a moment it hurt. "I understand her, you know? But I could never be her. That is not me. So long as my children live, so long as you live, and my brothers. So long as the world still moves, I will not give up. That, I swear to you."

Despite himself, Jon smiled. He was not sure how she had deducted exactly what had been bothering him. He did not waste time being surprised. This was who she had been to him for almost as long as they had made this - oddly successful - attempt at an equal partnership. Margaery was still a mystery to Jon in so many ways, but he, it seemed, was an open book to her. "Thank you," he told her.

She flashed him a crooked grin, pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I was born a Tyrell," she said. "I will grow strong, even with your seed inside me." An impish grin tugged up her face, made Jon smile in response. "I will never stop growing strong, whatever my name. I promise."

Jon pressed his own kiss to her mouth. "I love you," he said, then. "You know that, do you not?"

Her grin only widened, growing all the more lopsided and imperfect, and all the more lovely for it. "Of course I do," she said. "You need not ride in a tourney to show your worth. I already know the warrior you will be. You need not worship the Seven; I can do that for the both of us. Just keep being a good liege and a good husband, and I will do my due." There was no question as to the level of suggestion in the wink she shot him them, and Jon laughed even as he felt certain parts of himself coming to attention. Well, at least he could not get her with child against Maester Cressen's recommendations this time.


A few notes this time, and answering some of the questions that have propped up
- Where is Shireen? In this world, she was never born.
- Is there going to be Jon/Dany or Jon/Dany/Marge? No. I don't write (at least in this story, and nor do I plan to in the future) polygamous/polyamorous relationships, regardless of who is a Targaryen, what their ancestors (and yes, even, theoretically, Jon's biological father) used to do, regardless of whether this iteration of Dany would be better suited for Jon than her canon self. The only way Jon would ever look at Dany as anything even approaching an option is if Margaery is dead (and even then, it would probably be for Duncan). And, look away if you don't want any spoilers, Margaery lives through the whole story. But hey, Dany could do with a positive brother figure, no? Also, I like teasing or easter egging or whatever about what-might-have-beens, like relationships that I don't plan to go through with, so that brief tease about Robb/Dany a while back really was only a tease. It is stated in the first chapter that Ned's bannermen would be less than happy about Robb wedding anyone not of First Man blood, and I am sticking with that.
What is the timeline? Now this one I can absolutely excuse, since I am going with show canon ages but without skipping the Jaehaerys II generation. That means everyone is born in the year they were in the books, Robert's Rebellion happens the year it did in the books. But finding the direwolves and, Jon Arryn dying and Robert heading North, that whole thing doesn't happen until approximately 300 AC.
- Where is Renly? Probably off grooming or shagging some other squire almost completely in his power. Yeah, I'll say this again, I do kinda somewhat like Renly's character, but not the part where he is at best an idiot who doesn't realise that maybe he should be conscious of his own position of power and not abuse it, or more sinisterly, someone who grooms kids for a later sexual relationship. Or, you know, at worst a child molester. Either way, Loras' book canon age makes the whole thing really fucking disturbing, especially because he was Renly's squire for probably years pre-canon. Anyway, yeah, Renly's probably off somewhere chasing another piece of pretty jailbait.
- Where is Brienne/Pod/Bronn/etc.? Most likely off somewhere doing their own thing. They aren't in the story. As much as I love all these characters, the story would be hideously long if I attempted to include them all. And 100k words is long enough, thanks very much ;P The exception to this is Gendry, who will show up at a later time.
- Young Griff? Not in the story. I'm wildly conflicted about him in the books and going back and forth between hope and scepticism about his identity, so I'm trying not to involve him in any story for right now at least.

As for this chapter... Er... baby time? Come on, we're dealing with a pair of hormonal teenagers in a world where the only two known forms of birth control are coitus interruptus (which, in modern times, has been thoroughly debunked) and moontea, neither of which is seen as a 'proper' thing to do (or even really an option) within wedlock.

Also, one final note: Even though we lack Jon's Wall perspective, there will be White Walkers in this story. At some point ;P

Up next: Ned is nervous. Robert hogs babies (well, baby singular) like nobody's business. Barristan is conflicted. Oberyn tells Obara what's what. Perhaps the writer will learn to leave shorter notes?

(So sorry about the length of those notes. I think I'm trying, and probably failing, to make up for not being able to answer comments. Hopefully you can forgive me. If not... well, reading through the notes or not is your own choice. Very well done to you if you've read through all the hundreds upon hundreds of words of notes in the story. Much appreciated.)