A/N: I sincerely apologize for uploading this so late. I loved S7E4! I love everything that's happening in the show right now. But I'm not that much of a Dany/Jon shipper. I was more Jon/Sansa shipper but I can't complain. They give the writing justice is all I care about. Anyway, I've been so busy lately and I haven't had time to write this as much as I wanted to. I hope this is good enough for you guys! Tell me if I messed up something though. It's been so long I've honestly forgotten most of the stuff I've written already. But anyway, I hope you 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. AU.
TYRION
The return of the king brought some semblance of assurance to both peasants and nobles alike. His armies guarding the city and the food that came back with them alleviated the hungry and any protest from the people are put indefinitely on hold. The city was under their control once more but Tyrion knew this control is weak and fragile. They have not won the war nor the battle for King's Landing just yet. He still thinks they should've escaped and left this kingdom to cannibalize itself but there wasn't anything he can do about it now, not when Jon's health is still so… brittle.
So, he went about his day running the finer points of the kingdom, trying to keep everyone from tearing each other apart. Though Tyrion will admit that the difference he found between running the kingdom before the incident and running the kingdom after is nothing short of profound. With the king's presence in the Red Keep, the noblemen and women have resurfaced from their barricaded homes and began reopening their businesses, maintaining their reputation and currying favor. They publicly thanked, of course, the heroes of the battle against the angry mob. Tyrion has been showered with praise all week and he graciously accepted them, of course. He, too, had a reputation maintain.
With the noblemen's return, the markets once again came to life and order. Food was still scarce but Tyrion thought that the distribution was managed good enough (for now) and the patrols increased for those who thought to take advantage of this weakness. The people themselves became more… alive. Tyrion can't put it into words but since the incident, the people seems to be—dare he say it—unified.
They policed themselves, taking it upon themselves to root out the criminals among them, and throwing them directly at the foot of the city guard. It was peculiar to say the least to receive help or even a semblance of sanity from the people that had tried to kill them weeks ago. It was odd but nothing that Tyrion didn't welcome.
What was most surprising of all is that the king himself has taken an interest in ruling.
When Robert barged into the council room and sat on his seat, demanding reports that have absolutely nothing to do with the war efforts or whispers of their enemies, Tyrion thought he was dreaming or drunk. He was sure he came into the room sober but the sudden appearance of Robert seems to have confused him throughout the entire ordeal to the aggravation of all council members.
When they were finished, he immediately went straight to his chambers and poured himself a glass of wine.
"That bad, was it?" Bronn asked, picking his nails with a small dagger. Tyrion stared. "What?"
"I had just the most bizarre day, is all."
"Now, that sounds interesting." Bronn tossed the dagger on the table and gave his full yet lethargic attention to Tyrion.
"Something is changing but I cannot put my finger on it." Tyrion muttered after a gulp of wine.
Bronn frowned. "Like what?"
"I'll tell you when I've put my finger on it." Tyrion said and Bronn scoffed. "How does Jon fair?"
"The same as this morning, I wager. Pod's with him now, helping the Maester." Bronn said and then he added, "That lad wants to live."
"Yes," Tyrion murmured into his empty cup. "Northmen are hard to kill."
"Aye, they are. They were made for the winter." Bronn shot Tyrion a look. "Targayens can't fucking burn either."
Tyrion gave him a sharp look. "I told you not to bring that up."
Bronn rolled his eyes. "Just so you know, your fat thumb's sitting on it."
Tyrion looked offended at his thumb being called fat. "On what?"
"The change you're goin' about. It's him."
Tyrion sighed. "I don't want him to be. He's already been through too much for his young age."
"The gods don't give a fuck on who's young or old enough to be given the shit they don't deserve. You of all folks should know that."
Tyrion toasted to that with a refilled cup of wine. "To the future of Westeros."
"Ashes more like."
"You know how the saying goes," Tyrion chirped. "If the world didn't end in fire, it will end in ice."
"No one says that." Bronn told him sardonically.
"I did. Just now." He emptied his cup. "Let's go see Jon."
JON
Jon never realized how much snow can fall in the South. He stood by his chamber's window, watching winter slowly cover King's Landing, eerily calm and with a deafening silence. The snow fondly reminded Jon of Ghost's pelt, white and soft. He smiled, his hand reaching absentmindedly for the wolf that should've stood beside him only to catch nothing but air. He looked down and Ghost was gone. Jon was confused, an echo of an ache inside his chest resurfaced deep within him and he gripped his heart as if holding it could prevent the wave of grief that shot through him.
He doesn't understand. Ghost must only be playing in the snow.
But he's not. Because he's dead.
The pain intensified a hundredfold. He stumbled away from the window and ran out of the stifling chambers. He kept running and running, crashing against the wall as he did so. He was running from the pain, from King's Landing, from everything. His breath came in puffs of cold air, his chest constricting and burning like flames.
The fire licked his skin, and he was blistered but unburnt—
Jon yanked the door to freedom only to see nothing but the Iron Throne in the middle of the throne room. It was old and broken, the once proud seat now fell apart, snow and ice clinging to every inch of the whatever was left after the destruction. Jon had always loved the soft snows and the icicles clinging around Winterfell, making beautiful colors with the light. He loved the cold feeling along with the warmth of a good ale, a bright hearth, surrounded by his family. This was nothing like that. This cold prickled painfully on his skin, leaving it harsh and raw. He felt alone in the devastation all around him.
This was Winter.
"No," he whispered. He stumbled back, running once again, this time from the ruin Winter has done. The desolation Winter will do.
Something dark as night chased him as he ran. Wherever he went, it followed like a shadow. A shadow that will swallow him alive. He bolted past the dying smiles of the smallfolk of Wintertown, past the gates of Winterfell, below through the crypts of Stark kings, down to see a woman weeping by a statue with a raven perched on her grave only then did he stop. The shadow molded with the darkness clinging to the walls, slowly making its way to swallow him.
"We have to leave," he tried to tell her. He doesn't know her, has never seen her, but he knows she's important. She's someone he's loved all his life yet he can't even place her name. But he is certain he must protect her. Even it meant dying, he has to save her.
"I cannot." She whispered, voice hoarse from disused.
"They're coming for us! I must save you!" Jon frantically told her, seeing the shadows drawing closer.
She turned to him and the first thought that came to him is if Arya would look the same when she grew older. Her eyes, grey like a snow storm as his were, wrinkled as she smiled.
"Oh, my brave boy," she whispered and Jon almost cried as she tried to reach for him. "Ghosts do not need saving."
A light emitted from her. It was so bright, it blinded Jon. He shielded his eyes from the light and he let it bathe him in its glow. It was warm like a hearth fire. Somehow, he knew it he was home. A moment passed and, suddenly, there was a soft palm caressing his cheek. It was warm and familiar, almost like it's been there all his life yet this touch was never something he'd felt before. His eyes remained shut, savoring this moment.
"Jon," the hoarse voice whispered but it was gentler now.
"Who…" Jon began but the comfort overshadowed the need to finish what he wanted to say. He breathed a sigh of relief. For a first time in a very long time, he felt safe.
"It's going to be all right, Jon." The touch is fading from his cheek and Jon immediately feels cold.
"No, don't go." Jon begged, his voice weak, trying to hold on to the warmth. "Stay with me. Don't leave."
But the touch is gone and Jon can only weep. "Please, I don't want to be alone!"
"Jon," a new voice called. But it was a voice Jon feared. He recoiled from this voice and his touch. It weighed heavy on his shoulders, keeping him in place, keeping him imprisoned where he lay. He wanted to move, to run; to escape from the pain that's slowly catching up to him.
"NO!" He screamed.
He can feel more of them holding onto him and so many voices speaking to him at once but he couldn't understand a single thing. They forced something down his throat and Jon coughed violently, his chest tearing torturously. There were people calling his name. People he knew, people he couldn't trust. He tried to fight. He tried pushing at the weight holding him but they wouldn't relent. They were too strong. Jon wondered dazedly where Robb was, where his father was, why weren't they coming save him. Jon can feel himself fading, falling back into the darkness he just woke from.
"Jon, you're hurting yourself." Another voice said.
"Jon! I need you to calm yourself," one of the voices told him. "Can you do that?"
No, he couldn't. He won't give these people anything! "Help me! Father, help me." Father, come save me, he pleaded to a man he knew wasn't there, his voice coming out like gravel. He felt his strength leaving him and with every last bit he had, he opened his eyes.
He saw the face of King Robert Baratheon.
The king gently stroked his head and Jon felt his panic rise as his consciousness failed. He felt tears leak through his eyes and tried to turn away from the invasive touch.
"Father, please," Jon can do nothing but whisper. Father, where are you? Robb, brother, please…
"It's all right, Jon," the King said soothingly. "You're safe. I'll protect you."
Jon wanted to scream but he couldn't so he wept. He was alone.
When Jon succumbed to oblivion, the last thing he thought was that his family is never coming to save him.
TYRION
"Your Grace," Tyrion spoke after Jon fell back to sleep. It was soft but grave, making the king turn to consider the imp. Tyrion glanced ever so slightly to his left where Bronn stood moments before and was nowhere to be found. Tyrion suspected that the man went to make himself scarce, knowing that the wrath of the king will once again resurface as it has in all matters regarding Jon these days. Tyrion will make sure he knows just how grateful he was that Bronn left him to deal with it alone later.
"How goes the search for the bastards who did this," Robert snarled, still stroking Jon's hair away from the boy's face. The sight made Tyrion uneasy.
"It seems, amidst the chaos, no one saw a thing, Your Grace." Tyrion answered. The king rounded on him, looking far less composed.
"Interrogate every fucking peasant that was there," Robert commanded. "Hang them by their toes, chop off their heads, mount the heads on a spike, I don't fucking care! Do what needs doing until one of them speaks!"
If Tyrion didn't feel every ounce of self-preservation he had in his body rise to scream at him to flee, he might've congratulated himself in predicting that the king wouldn't last long reigning in his hurricane of a temper. Instead, he settled for placating the burly man with logic and wit as he always does. "With all due respect, Your Grace, but I do not think terrorizing the people as we already have will be in our favor when they're starving and have nothing to lose in dying."
'Then, what do you suggest?" The king hissed and Tyrion knew his next words will be critical to keeping his head on his shoulders. He took a deep breath.
"Whispers reached Varys that a jealous lioness decided that a war is not enough and opted to rid a stag of his prized wolf. The war, it seems, is not only fought with swords on the battlefield, Your Grace, but also with assassination attempts and traitors from my dear sister."
Robert's eyes dimmed murderously but a glance at his Hand told him that Tyrion had something else to say. "But you do not think it's her." He concluded.
Tyrion shot him a meaningful look. "Truthfully, Your Grace, this may be something Cersei would do but I do not think this was her doing. This is the work of something else entirely."
"Speak plainly, Imp." Robert snapped.
Tyrion sighed. "I'm saying there might be someone new playing the game."
Robert stepped away from Jon. Tyrion saw that the moment the king stepped away from the boy, Jon sagged in relief. Even in his sleep, Robert's presence plagued him. The king did not seem to notice. He ordered the maester to stay with Jon and motioned for Tyrion to follow him. He thundered his way to the Small Council's chambers, demanding to a Kingsguard to call for the Small Council at once and settled themselves in their respective seats. They waited in the chambers for the Councilmen to arrive.
"Do you really think someone else is at play?" The king asked.
Tyrion poured himself a cup of wine. "Someone else is always at play. It could be anyone."
"I want that boy protected." Robert growled. "Have Selmy and another Kingsguard watch over him day and night. We can't let anything like this happen again." The king paused. "I sent Ned and his family word of what happened to him. I'd imagine they want to see my head on a fucking spike far greater now than ever."
Tyrion almost spat his wine. "Your Grace, if I may say, that was very unwise."
"True, but they deserved to know." Robert rumbled. Tyrion couldn't help but be frustrated why now of all times did the man decide to be so fucking honorable. The North and half of Westeros will surely march for King's Landing now.
"We'll have to send word that Jon survived and on his way to recovery at once." Tyrion told him, already drafting the letter in his mind. How does one even ask Ned Stark to hold off killing them all after what happened?
"Recovery? You call that recovering? It's been nearly half a moon's turn since the incident and he still can't even wake long enough to piss and shit. The wound reopens every other day and the maester fears bleeding inside." The king's gaze turned inward, as if dark memories were dancing inside his mind. Then, he murmured, "It's like he's back in that damn cell all over again."
For the sake of Tyrion's sanity, he ignored that last bit. He focused on reassuring the man instead. "Jon will recover, Your Grace. I have no doubt of it. He's a survivor."
"Aye, he is. He's a Northerner."
Just then, the doors opened and the Small Council trickled in. Stannis as Master of Ships, Renly as Master of Law, Barristan Selmy as the Commander of the Kingsguard, Varys as the Master of Whispers, and Lomas Estermont as the Master of Coin all took their places, looking exhausted and uneasy. Along with the daily morning council meeting, they have been summoned more than half a dozen times in the last fortnight by the king discussing one thing after the other. They've poured all their work to rebuilding and revitalizing the Capitol itself and it took years off of their lives trying to salvage all they could in such a short amount of time. Tyrion can all sympathize with these men. After all, he labored with them day and night to ensure they lived to see another day with their heads attached to their necks. It may have been easier to wave through the usual muck of ruling whatever parts of the Seven Kingdoms still allied with them but it did not mean that it was easy nor was it comfortable.
"My lords," Tyrion greeted them. They nodded to him. "It is a pleasure to see you all."
The king didn't bother with pleasantries. He turned to give Varys an angry glare. "How goes the war?"
"Not well, Your Grace." Varys answered. "When you returned to the Red Keep with your army, it seems to have emboldened Tywin's forces to march further into the Crownlands through the borders of both the Riverlands and the Reach. The Tyrells and the Tullys have done nothing to stop them from marching."
"What of the alliances?"
"The Crownlands and the Stormlands are, of course, with the Crown." Varys told him unnecessarily, by the looks both Renly and Stannis shot the eunuch. "The Vale is in the brink of civil war. Dorne, the Riverlands, and the Reach will fight for the Starks. There are whispers of Tywin treating with Balon Greyjoy but if the Ironborn will fight with them, still remains to be seen. I have also heard whispers of the Tyrell girl being betrothed to a Northerner, though to whom the Queen of Thorns has deemed worthy of her precious granddaughter's hand, I am not sure."
"She's promised to Robb Stark?" Renly suggested helpfully.
Robert paused, mulling it over. "They promised her to Jon. That ambitious little wench had always wanted to be queen."
If Varys was surprised the king knew of the Tyrell girl's ambitions, he hid it well. Tyrion certainly did not try very hard to conceal his. The room settled in an uncomfortable silence then. It was never said aloud but it still unnerved them all that the king has begun to refer to Jon Snow as Jon rather than "the boy." It was something Tyrion still needed to come to terms with.
Renly decided to break it with the most unhelpful commentary, "We still have the greater numbers against the Lannisters, one to two."
Stannis snorted, looking at his little brother with bland scorn. "It was never a question of whether or not we can defeat Tywin." He turned his scorn to Robert. "Our real enemy lies in that frozen wasteland."
"When the Westerlands and the Stormlands have exhausted each other and the North wins this war with as little bloodshed as they possibly can, they will proclaim Jon king." Tyrion told them, adopting what Jon had once deemed his lecture voice. "To have another Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne is what they promised Dorne and the Reach. Along with Gregor Clegane's head and a Tyrell girl as queen. We were never going to win the war, only battles."
"Then we make these battles count." Robert announced. Tyrion raised both of his eyebrows at that as if silently asking—or daring, really—the king what insanity will he create next.
"What do you have in mind, Your Grace?" Lemos Estermont spoke for the first time.
Robert glanced at Barristan Selmy until the old knight turned to look him in the eye. Without looking away the king said, "We're going to make a prince out of Jon Snow."