A/N: Hey, guys. For those of you who are wondering why I've been putting off writing about Jon and had been writing about other characters, I'm just trying to set the stage. And it's difficult to keep track of them all at this point. I want to make it as canon as I could, with the characters and the time line, but it's kind of difficult and I hope you'll bear with me. You can always tell me ahead about your favorite characters of the characters you think I'll need for future references. Just in case I end up running into them. This chapter was a little difficult to write, too. As you can see, it started off shit. Not sure I redeemed it in the end but just let me know what you think. Hope you like what I did there. If you have any ideas, I welcome them. And if you see grammatical errors that are ridiculous, I place the blame to my broken laptop. Happy new year again.
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.
…
"Did you hear? The prince escaped the Red Keep. He's on his way to the North now!" A boy no older than ten and three excitedly told a gruff man downing his drink in one go.
"No, he didn't, you fuckin' idiot. He died! He was shot to the chest with a fucking arrow! No one can live through that." The man bellowed.
"You're both wrong, you fucking cunts. He eloped with the Imp!" Someone hollered from the back of the tavern. Boisterous laughter filled the tavern and drinks were toasted in jest to the pair.
"But he's a Targaryen, isn't he?" The boy whispered, wide-eyed. "He's a dragon!"
"Shut your fucking mouth, boy." The man hissed and the boy recoiled. "Those words will get you killed. There aren't any dragons left. They'd all been killed by the Stag."
"But this one survived." The boy whispered stubbornly.
The man glowered and for a moment the boy thought the man wouldn't give him an answer. He turned to leave but the man grabbed his arm, pulled him close and hissed, "Aye, this one did."
The boy grinned conspiringly and the man shoved him away, nearly sending him on the floor by the force of it. But the boy didn't mind. He'd gotten his answer.
"This one's a wolf, too." The man continued to hiss behind his drink. He snorted. "I pity your fucking prince."
Suddenly, a man burst into the tavern and shouted that the king's forces were moving up the road with the king himself! The boy could not contain his new excitement over meeting a king. He's never seen one before. He turned to his companion when the man merely continued drinking his pint.
"Didn't you hear? The king's passing through!"
The man turned to him, scared face shadowed and angry, he spat, "Fuck the king."
ROBERT
Robert Baratheon had ridden his horse hard before. He was a zealous boy and even more when he'd become a man. He'd fucked whores, swung his ax to crush skulls, and drunk wine until he couldn't remember fucking his treacherous, brother-fucking wife. But there was nothing that can compare to a hard, galloping ride on his horse. He'd ridden to battle with this exhilaration, fighting for the most honorable reasons as he'd been taught by a man named Arryn. Maybe it'd been a little bit about a man who wanted revenge against another who had dared to steal the woman he loved or maybe about the glory that came with winning that made him faster, stronger, more zealous, too, but no one really gave a puck about that. It wasn't like the fucking cunts weren't thinking the same. They rode the honorable reason same as Robert for a chance at war.
But he had good reason, honorable and noble reasons, then. But he hardly has any of it now.
He rides for Kings Landing, leaving the front line, for a riot subdued inside the Red Keep. A war for a fucking riot. His advisors had all begged him not to leave. The Lannisters were already gaining the upper hand in this war, he couldn't afford to abandon it now. Every battle counted, every support needed to be cemented. But he rode anyway, and rode hard, harder than he'd ever ridden before.
For Jon fucking Snow.
The boy was injured, the ravens brought. An arrow pierced him through the chest. He might not live through this wound, it said. It was too close to his heart. What remained of Lyanna, of Ned, might die, all because of a fucking arrow.
So, Robert rode hard for reasons he does not quite understand. The son of Lyanna, the boy may be, but the boy's father was―… it was Rhaegar fucking Targaryen.
Robert's fists clenched tighter around his reins, his face twisted into something more vicious and vengeful.
Robert no longer kills him in his dreams every night. Instead, he dreams of Lyanna weeping in a crypt with blue roses in her hair, waiting, watching. Her grey eyes, so full of life when she'd been alive, were grim and fearful. She quivers as if she's cold but Robert knew the real Lyanna never trembled from the cold. She was a true Northerner. She loved the cold. Robert knew she trembled because of fear. This dream is always the same every night. No matter how Robert screams and shouts, she never turns to him. She never hears him, never sees him. Only waiting, watching, a three-eyed raven perched on a statue beside her, omniscient and still.
No, Robert never dreamt of the Dragon Prince again. Even that title, as he'd come to discover, no longer belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen, either.
Somehow, the Seven Kingdoms have come to know Jon Snow as the Dragon Prince. He didn't know that something so ridiculous could be so painful to bear.
There was an old ache in his chest each moment he spent with Jon Snow, each look he took, each sound he made. He looked so much like Lyanna and acted so much like Ned that Robert often wanted to reach out across the morning meal and touch the boy to make sure he was real. But every move he made resulted in a wince or a flinch and Robert can find no one else to blame but himself. The direwolf's mount was taken down, it's head and pelt kept in a chest, waiting to be laid to rest. Each bruise and torn skin was tended and all bones broken were set and the finest of the Seven Kingdoms brought to the boy for his use but a horse to leave the Red Keep.
Every day that he'd been with the boy had been like having Ned again. Quiet and resolute with somber grey eyes that seemed knowing and hooded. Every day Robert wished the boy would say something other than a no, your grace or yes, your grace. But the boy never does, picking at his plate, counting the seconds until he could politely tell the king his excuse to leave with his tail between his legs. No, he can't fault the boy his fear, he can't resent the boy's anger and pain.
He can only resent himself.
So, he rode as fast he could, as far as he can push his horse, with his army behind him, racing to a dying boy he hated with every inch of his being for reasons he doesn't understand himself. Robert's reasons were far simpler back then.
…
Days later with barely any rest, Robert arrived in King's Landing, the moon and flashes of candle light the only thing illuminating his path to the citadel.
The last raven they have received from King's Landing had been about the growing unrest of the people. The shortage of food and the riots that nearly had the city tearing itself apart were all Tyrion Lannister could write in his ravens. But when Robert came closer to the Red Keep with his Kingsguard around him, what he saw was nothing short of extraordinary.
The people of King's Landing held a vigil.
The people held candles in their cupped hands, their faces solemn and melancholy. Each of their heads were raised to the towers as if they were waiting for a sign that would uplift them from the darkness. As Robert and his entourage passed, the people parted silently, letting him through without a word but their eyes were looking through him, through flesh and bones until it reaches a part of him he had tried so hard to bury under wine and whores. He goes through the gates and even the guardsmen were somber, their eyes downcast but resolute. Robert was not surprise to see only Varys, Tyrion, and the bandit Ser Bronn greeted him by the steps. They stepped forward as Robert swung himself down from his exhausted horse.
"Your Grace," Tyrion greeted. His weary face couldn't even muster a small smile for his king. The trio bowed in unison but Robert strode pass them without a word in return. They seemed to know better and followed quietly behind the stormy king.
"Where is he?" Robert all but bellowed, eyes beginning to resemble a hurricane. He didn't need to say his name.
"His chambers, Your Grace." Tyrion answered quietly beside him a step behind. "He suffered a wound close to his heart and his condition continues to dwindle. Maester Yayne had been staying with him through the days and nights but he is… not optimistic."
Robert stopped and looked down to his Hand. Tyrion's pained expression gave him all he needed to know. He all but ran to the boy's chambers and threw the doors wide open. The maester looked up in surprise but he was quick to give the king a bow and quiet greeting as was a squire that Robert had seen with Tyrion. But Robert paid them no mind. His eyes, his focus, were only of the boy lying in bed, breathing ragged breaths and a chest wrapped with gauze blotted with red. His ebony curls (like his mother's, a part of him whispers)were chopped away, leaving him with a cropped cut and a small fringe that stuck to his forehead slick with sweat. There were other little blisters on the boy's skin but nothing else as alarming as the hole in his chest.
"Your Grace," Another voice greeted him with a weary sigh but this one Robert didn't ignore. His fury ignited like wildfyre in his chest, burning and wild.
"YOU!" Robert spat and rounded on the Commander of the Kingsguard. He marched to the knight and wrapped his hands around Ser Barristan's throat. "YOU WERE SUPPOSE TO PROTECT HIM!"
Ser Barristan didn't resist but the panicked cries of Tyrion and the others fell on deaf ears as the king punched the old knight in the face and the knight, with his injured leg, tumbled to the ground with a bleeding lip.
"WHERE WERE YOU, YOU COWARD OLD CUNT? WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?" Robert raged down at the fallen man whose eyes were downcast with shame and failure.
"Your Grace, please," Tyrion begged, looking between the two warriors and then to his dying friend. "Jon needs to rest. He must rest so he may survive the night."
Robert was breathing heavily, fighting the urge to beat the old man bloody. But Robert knew deep down that Barristan would have done everything in his power to keep that boy safe. He knew―Robert knew why…
"Father," A weak voice whimpered. They all turned to the boy, turning restlessly in his sleep, brows furrowed with distraught. "Please, father…"
The maester quickly placated the boy, telling him he was safe in a soft murmur while inspecting his breathing, his wound, and his pulse. The others waited with baited breath until the boy quieted but his furrowed brows remained and Maester Yayne gave them a small nod in reassurance.
"Out." Robert hissed. "The maester stays but all of you, get the fuck out."
The squire reluctantly but quickly moved away, eyes lingering on the boy. Tyrion, Varys, and Bonn followed a moment later. The maester settled himself out of the king's path but not too far away, watching his charge with tired eyes. Robert came closer and sat down at the edge of the boy's bed, careful not to jostle him. The boy is still restless, he can see, trapped in the throes of a nightmare.
It was a few moments later when that same voice that enraged Robert spoke again, "He could have escaped."
"You're lucky I didn't fucking kill you." Robert answered in a hollow voice without looking away from the boy.
"Robert," Barristan nearly whispered, voice heavy with emotion. "He could have walked away. But he stayed. He stayed."
Robert closed his eyes. He can already hear Lyanna's sobs, see her weeping form. Never seeing him, never hearing him. He wants to scream until his voice fails him, until his throat burns sore.
"He chose to stay to save them." Barristan whispered to himself but Robert heard him. The old knight retreated and the maester was already drooping in his seat. Robert was alone with Lyanna's boy―with Ned's boy.
"Father…" The boy whimpered again, restless and aching.
Robert's trembling hand was reaching for the boy of its own volition, his thoughts, for once, silent. He took the boy's palm into his own, holding it like his father had once done a long, long time ago when he'd been afraid, before his parents met their fate against the waves and the rocks. Robert remembered what his father told him then…
"It's all right, Jon," Robert whispered gently, squeezing in reassurance. "You're safe. I'm here."