A/N: Sorry for the late update. I've been so busy and to be honest, this was a very hard chapter to write. And I'm also aware of the Ser Bronn of the Blackwater problem and I'll fix it as soon as I have the opportunity. I just never considered it beforehand and I can't think of Lannisters without Bronn somewhere in there so here it is. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this and let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: Game of Thrones is not mine.
Summary: When Ned finally told Catelyn about Jon Snow's mother, he had not expected for things to turn out the way they did in the end. It was so unfortunate that Robert had been smarter than Ned ever thought he was.
IX
The start of Jon's morning came with the sound of jiggling metal and a polite knock on the door.
He had been sitting in front of the large windows for hours, already dressed in fine silk clothes, watching the sun rising above King's Landing. He called the person behind the door to enter and Ser Barristan the Bold, Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped inside with his golden armor almost glistening from the morning sun.
"I've come to escort you to His Grace." Ser Barristan announced plainly and Jon nodded. He rose slowly with a slight wince and marched quietly to the king's preferred balcony where they broke their fast with Ser Barristan trailing just as silent.
When they arrived, Ser Barristan bowed and took his place by a pillar, facing away from them.
Jon bowed as well and recited his morning lines. "Good morning, Your Grace."
"Come eat, boy." Was the king's invitation. It varied each day but never has the king called him by name. Jon didn't mind. He didn't fancy hearing it from him anyway. He took his seat across the king and they descended into an awkward silence as they are wont to do. Jon ate his food slowly, almost eating nothing at all, while the king stuffed his face. When the king has devoured all of his bacon and drank himself half-way through a pitcher of wine, he spoke to Jon.
"Has the imp told you about your new privileges?" Robert demanded more than asked.
"Yes, Your Grace." Jon answered obediently as is expected of him.
Robert scowled at him and Jon stiffened at seeing it. "Do not test me, boy. One toe out of line and you'll be back where you started."
Jon nodded, unable to speak and lost all of his appetite. He stayed for a few more minutes, picking at his plate before he deemed it polite enough to excuse himself. The king gave one more distrustful glare before nodding his ascent.
When Jon left, Ser Barristan followed.
He stayed in his chambers, sitting in the same place as he had that morning, deep in thought. He had permission to leave his rooms. He had no interest in parading himself to the king's perfumed Southern court but he was also sick and tired of looking out his window, wondering and waiting for the day to end so another may begin. There was little to do in his rooms and his mind, if not his healing body, begged for something to distract him. Tyrion had given him scrolls and books about dragons and dragonlords and ice giants and Northern Kings and Jon sighed every time he saw it. He's read the books about the North twice and there was nothing in there that he didn't already know. But he never read the ones about dragons and dragonlords. He never opened them nor even touched them. He felt no kinship with the silver-haired, purple-eyed dragons.
I am ice and winter's child. There is no place for fire in my blood and there never will be, he thought bitterly, ferociously seething beneath his calm composure. The dragons were the reason he's where he was, after all. His curiosity had been burned and beaten away by Robert Baratheon's fists and his goons' sadistic amusement, replaced by resentment, apprehension and pain. He remembered how they spat the word dragonspawn in his bloodied face, the horrible stories of the Mad King's fetish for burning people alive, flesh and bone melting away, screams tearing the castle and kingdom apart. He'd been reminded over and over and over again of how his grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, was burned by his other grandfather while his Uncle Brandon was made to watch and choked himself as he was reaching for his father. The king himself would come to tell him about how his mother was raped by his fucking father and Jon had never felt more disgusted of the blood running in his veins and down his face than he was in those moments. All this torture was an atonement of his blood's sins, they told him. Every bone snapping, every skin tearing, and every bruise was a cleansing of the taint they left in this world.
Someone had to pay for their sins, they mocked him as he screamed. Someone had to burn as others had burned—
He took a sharp breath in and held it until the memories stopped spinning behind his closed eyes, only exhaling when he felt lightheaded from the lack of air and the spots dancing in his vision chased away the horrible memories.
His lunch came only minutes before noon carried by a serving girl in a wide tray who skittered fretfully away after he thanked her. He didn't let himself think too much about how frightened they were of him and instead, he gobbled everything down. He was always more famished in the afternoon considering he could barely keep the food in his stomach down when he ate with the king's presence. After he ate, Maester Yayne came to tend to him in the exact time he's always had.
"You are healing well, my lord." The maester told him, poking and prodding, changing bandages and applying ointments. "A few more weeks and you'll be as good as new."
He gave a nod of thanks and when the maester left, he got up to get dressed in the simpler clothes Lord Tyrion had given him. Another minute trapped in the silence and emptiness of his rooms would drive him insane by this point. The thought of laying his name in the long historical line of insane dragonspawns spurred him to action even faster. He carefully donned a grey tunic, brown breeches and a black leather doublet, the Northern colors, ignoring the burst of pain as he dressed and strode out the door.
He cleared his throat. "Ser Barristan?" He began and the knight looked at him with a wary curiosity. "Would you mind accompanying me around the Red Keep? I'm afraid I do not know my way around."
The knight took a moment to look at him and Jon forced himself to refrain from fidgeting. When Ser Barristan nodded and began to show him the way, for the first time in a long while, Jon felt a tinge of excitement at the prospect of exploring the castle.
They walked for an hour in a very slow pace around and about the Red Keep while Ser Barristan would point out the names of the towers and gardens they strolled. He even had a tale or two about them but Jon noticed how carefully he avoided telling Jon of the past monarchs who built and ruled before the stag took the crown.
The lords, ladies, servants, knights and squires who passed him by gawked and gossiped as they strolled. He tried to ignore them as much as he could even as they gave him a wide berth. He kept his face blank and only nodded at the right moments while Ser Barristan spoke, his head held high, his Stark eyes flashing like lightning for everyone to see.
I am of the North. I am a child of Winter, he thought fiercely even as every fiber of his being was frayed with a burning indignation that he had trouble quenching. I will not be intimidated by these Southerners.
When Jon finally had enough of bright colorful flowers and high imposing towers and the eyes that trailed him and the voices that drifted whispers of intrigue and disdain, he sought for anything remotely familiar about this snake pit.
"Ser Barristan," Jon suddenly spoke. They had been quietly admiring the garden with the old knight only a step behind him but he turned to Jon now with the same wary curiosity as he had before. "Can you take me to the Godswood?"
"Of course." Ser Barristan said, nodding. "It's this way."
They strolled through the Godswood silently. It had no weirwood tree with a face weeping red and was nowhere near as sacred as the one in Winterfell but if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough, he can almost feel the cold winds that blew winter closer every day and hear the soft crunch of snow and leaves beneath his boots. There would be a pond that was always warm with Northern Kings buried beneath the black surface and stones to kneel on and pray—
"Peaceful, is it not?" A sophisticated voice interrupted his musings.
Jon shot his eyes open, not realizing that he'd closed them. He saw a bald man with brown piercing eyes that made Jon uncomfortable. His robes were long and they covered his hands and his feet were clad in slippers so quiet Jon did not hear him drift closer.
"Ser Barristan." The stranger greeted, dipping his head a fraction.
The Commander of the Kingsguard nodded in return. "Lord Varys."
"May I have a word, Lord Snow?" Jon stiffened at what the Master of Whispers had called him.
Lord Snow, Jon thought with dark amusement. I'm not even a Snow anymore. Even that, they've taken from me.
But Jon nodded anyway. Tyrion had mentioned the Master of Whispers quite often, hinting of his little birds and his vast network of spies.
A spider spinning his web, Tyrion had mused one late evening, deep in his cups.
Jon had paid very close attention to whomever Tyrion's favor weighed, knowing well the little man's incredibly honed instincts for court and its intricate workings. Jon had once scoffed and felt disgusted at such a corrupt society. Winterfell and its sworn lords had none such perplexities. The Northerners were loyal to their own and knew that no amount of ambition and greed could ever compare to the harsh snow storms and the deadly chill winter brought. Theirs' was a pack made thousands of years ago and will hold long after Jon's bones were dust in the wind. These Southerners truly knew nothing but he kept his thoughts to himself and set himself to work.
He wasn't in the North. Far, far was he kept away from his home and he needed to survive this wretched place. Just long enough until winter came for him once and for all as Tyrion had never failed to hint at him. He wasn't entirely naïve at what the little man's true intentions in helping him but he knew that Tyrion's schemes, at least, were made for the goodness and the survival of the realm. Ever since Jon had realized that he's an unwilling pawn of a great game played by larger shadows and men, he'd never felt so vulnerable and frustrated. He needed to know better so he can survive better and so that he can keep his family safe for as long as it took.
The little he'd seen of how Tyrion played, he'll reluctantly admit that he was curious of the eunuch and his little birds.
Lord Varys motioned for him to walk by his side and Jon took a few tentative steps, glancing uncertainly to Ser Barristan behind him yet the Kingsguard did nothing to stop him. The old knight trailed with a discreet enough distance, respectful enough to allow them their conversation yet still within hearing range.
To deliver all that was said between them to the king, no doubt, Jon thought warily.
When he stepped closer to the Master of Whispers, Varys' perfume immediately curled Jon's insides, the fragrance so potent it enflamed his nostrils. The Spider seemed to notice his discomfort and only smiled sweetly apologetic. Instinctively, Jon distrusted the man.
"How are you today, my lord?" The eunuch inquired as they began to stroll.
"Well enough, Lord Varys." Jon answered stiffly. "And I am not a lord."
"So am I, my lord, and yet you call me 'lord' anyway."
"You are the Master of Whispers. You are part of the king's Small Council, therefore, you hold a considerable weight of power, enough so as to call you 'lord'." Jon shot back as politely as he could. The barbed reply only seemed to make the eunuch happy.
"I've once told our dear mutual friend, our Hand of the King, that power resides where men believe it resides. It's all a trick, a shadow casted on the wall. One must only be what men could truly believe in to have true power."
Jon frowned, tired and aching already. "I fail to see why you're telling me this, Lord Varys."
Varys chuckled. "Your Northern roots show immensely, my lord. I've always appreciated how refreshingly blunt and wholly honest wolves could be."
"Thank you." Jon murmured, surprised by the compliment. There was a loud crash behind them and they all turned to see a young serving girl chasing her young, loud charge through the trees, yelling for him to stop running.
"But then again," Varys whispered so low beside Jon that he could barely make it out. "Wolves are not the only beasts in the woods that bluntly show their sharp teeth. I can think of one that has wings."
Ice grew in Jon's chests at the words and Varys smiled as if nothing was amiss. He dipped his head and it lasted a fraction of a second too long for it to mean nothing.
"The time flies fast and now I must leave to tend to other matters." Varys cooed. Ser Barristan turned back to the Master of Whispers. "It was very nice meeting you, Lord Snow."
"And I you, Lord Varys," came the proper response that Jon didn't truly feel.
"Ser Barristan." Varys greeted in farewell and when the old knight nodded his silent reply, the Spider strode away without looking back.
Jon was about to move when he hears the Commander of the Kingsguard speak, "A word of advice, Jon Snow." Jon turned to Ser Barristan and saw the cautious look in that old, weathered face. "King's Landing has never been a good place for Northerners. You'd do well to keep your head down."
Jon swallowed thickly and nodded, the words ringing in his ears like a foreboding.