A/N: SURPRISE! I'm still alive. If you were wondering. I know a lot of you have been waiting for a long time for this update. I'm sorry it's late. And no, I didn't abandon this. I just had a lot going on. But anyway. I'm sort of forgot the direction of where this was going and I'm reviewing my notes diligently. Don't worry. I'll try my best to live up to the expectations.
(The pressure is on.)
Feel free to leave kudos and comments on this fic. The comments help a lot, I assure you.
I'd like to know what your opinions are about battle tactics. Leave a comment about that. I appreciate it. Until next time. :)
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.
DAENERYS
"THIEVES!" Viserys raged, throwing the decanter against the wall, fine Arbor Gold staining it red. "USERPERS! THAT'S MY THRONE! MINE!"
Daenerys watched her brother's burning wrath from where she hid behind a pillar, purple eyes wide in the darkness. News of another Targaryen has reached their foreign shores, one with more claim to the Iron Throne, and her brother threw a fit befitting his madness. Viserys cannot be consoled. The merchant had tried his best to reassure him to no avail. They have all decided to let him vent the anger and insanity out instead.
Heavy, pitiful sobs heaved from Viserys. "I should be the one sitting on the Iron Throne! Not that barbaric, usurping Stag! I'm the true Dragon Prince! I AM THE DRAGON!" He turned to Dany with a wild gleam in his eye that sent a shiver down her spine. "That's my birthright! Yours and mine, Dany! We were both born to rule! Not him! Not some ill-bred bastard. Just you wait, Dany, just you wait. They have woken the dragon! They will all burn!"
Somehow, Daenerys knew in the end, only her brother will burn. When he does, then she will truly know. He's no dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon.
She's heard that the only remaining son of her eldest brother had burned and rose from the flames. He is a true dragon and she will find her way to Jon Snow no matter what obstacle blocks her way. With Fire and Blood, she swears, as she walks away to leave Viserys to his mad ravings, she will have her true Dragon Prince.
VARYS
It was later that evening that Varys found his way to the prince's chamber.
After the king regaled them with his surprisingly sensible plan, Varys worked diligently to prepare for the announcement of Jon's ascension as prince. It was unprecedented and utter madness—nearly impossible—but Varys could work with this brand of insanity. He lives for it.
Their scheme will certainly aggravate the Lannisters and will stall the Starks from marching down south of the Neck. For a short period of time, a stalemate between the Starks and the crown will occur. Their shock will be useful for the war in the West. It will have to do to finish dealing with the lions and their den.
He opened the chamber doors quietly and the maester looked up as he entered in his soft slippers, hands hidden beneath his voluminous robes. The maester was alone with Jon Snow tonight, dragging the herb-soaked rag through the boy's upper body. The prince was thrashing and mumbling in his sleep as another nightmare enthralled him inside his own mind. Sweat beaded his forehead and his fists clenched the linen he laid on. He looked so fragile as the gaping hole on his chest refused to heal. It bled anew each day as if something ripped him open every night no matter how many paste, bandages, and herbs they provided him.
"He's not healing, Lord Varys." Maester Yayne fretted, almost as if he was begging for some divine providence he believes only the Spider can give. "He grows weaker each day. His previous injuries have barely healed and we must take into account of more injuries even before that. His body is simply not strong enough to withstand this. I fear for the worst."
Varys looked at the boy in sympathy and worry. In the short time Varys has known him, Jon had been through so much and yet rose farther—higher—than anyone he's ever known.
Varys used every resource in his employ to gather whatever information he could of the prince and what he's discovered did not disappoint. In fact, they have pleased him greatly.
He's heard the whispers of the replica of Eddard Stark. Honorable, sullen, brooding, handsome, just, and naïve. Jon Snow was a bastard who kept his head down, lurking the halls of Winterfell, desiring neither wealth nor title even if it was so easily within his reach. A boy who cared deeply about his family, who treated the smallfolk like equals, who rode a horse like he was born for it, and who wielded a sword like it was part of him. He was a warrior in his own right at such a young age. Knowing who sired and who raised the boy, Varys wasn't exactly surprised.
Varys would freely admit that when he first saw Jon Snow, he was skeptical of the boy's capabilities. True to the birds' whispers, he was sullen and brooding, striding through the Godswood of King's Landing as if the world weighed on his shoulders. But he saw intelligence and a cautious curiosity in those deep grey eyes. Varys had seen steel in Jon's spine when he'd spoken to him. He heard the deep timber of the prince's voice that one day, Varys knew, would have great lords admiring and following. And when he rose from the flames unburnt and so, so powerful, Varys knew that the people will worship this boy like a god.
Where else can he find someone as strong and gentle, a monarch who can intimidate the high lords and inspire the people, a ruler loved by millions, with a powerful army and the right family name as worthy as Jon Snow?
And so, the last Dragon Prince is not allowed to die tonight.
The gaping hole on Jon Snow's chest and other injuries mocked his ambitions. Curse Robert Baratheon for his vindictive rage and cruelty. There must be something Varys can do. Someone he can summon or speak with. Someone that can do something impossible…
Something magical, as loath as he was to admit.
"Fucking magic…" Varys groaned.
"My lord?" Yayne inquired. Varys turned to the man and regarded him with unfathomable eyes. The doors opened and Tyrion invited himself in, bemused by Varys's presence.
"Maester, would you give us a moment?" Varys commanded.
Yayne turned to Tyrion and then back to Varys and nodded, bowing slightly. "Of course, my lords. I will be right outside."
He shuffled pass Tyrion and with the final clinking of his chains, he was gone.
"What was that about? And what are you doing here? You never visit Jon this late." Tyrion mused.
Varys turned back to the prince. "Don't I? And how would you know?"
"Fair enough." Tyrion sighed. He walked to the other side of Jon's bed and stared.
"The maester told me he fears for the worst. Jon is not healing." Varys informed him.
"He's suffered more than any of us. Even men older and stronger than him would not have survived this long with this kind of wound. But here he still is, fighting." Tyrion insisted, grasping Jon's hand. "There is still hope."
"Yes, there is." Varys murmured. "But only if we do something."
Tyrion frowned. "What can we do that we haven't done already?"
Varys ignored him and the Master of Whispers' eyes glazed, as if recounting a memory. "Have I ever told you how I was cut?"
Tyrion grimaced. "Is now really the appropriate time to share this?"
"Pay attention, my lord." Varys chastised. Tyrion shot him a look of disbelief but relented, nodding for him to continue.
"As a boy, I traveled with a troupe of actors through the Free Cities. One day in Myr, a certain man made my master an offer too tempting to refuse." Varys began, eyes distant and intent on the candle beside Jon's bed. "I feared the man might use me as I heard some men used small boys. But what he wanted was far worse. He gave me a potion that made me powerless to move or speak yet did nothing to dull my senses. With a hooked blade, he sliced me root and stem chanting all the while. He burned my parts in the brazier. The flames turned blue and I heard a voice answer his call. I hated magic from then on."
Tyrion shivered as if a cold wind breezed past his skin. He checked and the windows were sealed shut. He turned back to Varys. The Master of Whispers had now given him his full attention.
"I still dream about that night." Varys continued. "Not of the sorcerer, not of his blade. I dream of the voice in the flames."
"A voice? In the flames?" Tyrion asked, eyes shifting to Jon. Varys approved of how quick he seemed to understand.
"He didn't burn in the flames when the cart exploded." Varys prodded him.
Tyrion shook his head. "That doesn't prove anything. It doesn't mean anything."
Varys gave him a small smile. "Maybe it does."
"What are you saying, Varys?" Tyrion demanded, tiring of this game.
Varys sighed unsteadily, questioning his own sanity. "I'm saying we have to do something magical to save him, I suppose."
Tyrion scoffed. "Magic?! Have you lost your brains as well as your bits?!"
"We have to try." Varys insisted. "For Jon."
"But this is insane!" Tyrion hissed.
"For Jon." Varys implored, willing Tyrion to try. The other man gaped in incredulity. Tyrion had never believed in anything other than his father's wealth. Gold was tangible. It could be counted and held and taken away. But faith and magic and dragons are all figments of a child's dream. They belong in a tale or book, not inside the bedchamber of a dying prince. Varys beseeched him with a look of desperation. Tyrion understood that feeling completely. They all wanted to save Jon. Yet they knew Jon will not survive another day if they do nothing.
Tyrion exhaled, relenting. "For Jon."
Varys sighed in relief. He needed Tyrion's support in the battles to come. If there was one person Varys would entrust with the Dragon Prince's life, it would be Tyrion Lannister.
"What did you have in mind?" Tyrion asked, letting go of Jon's hand and took a step back.
Varys eyed the candle on the bedside again. He took the candle in his hand and stared at the gaping hole of Jon's chest.
"Varys? Is that wise?" Tyrion warned, body coiling in tension.
"I guess we'll have to see." Varys whispered before lighting the prince's chest in flames.
Tyrion gasped, watching in horror as fire licked Jon's wound. Blood soaked cloth began to burn away as the flames hurriedly engulfed his entire chest. The wound bled anew but as the flames overwhelmed it, the flesh began to burn on the edges, searing slowly closed. Jon's face slowly relaxed as it did so, his crumpled expression breaking into a peaceful slumber. When the flames died away, the wound did not completely seal yet it no longer bled either. It looked to be healing.
Both Tyrion and Varys slowly approached. They both saw the healing wound and gave each other wide-eyed looks of pure incredulity.
"You've lost your mind." Tyrion murmured.
"I think I have, for a moment." Varys answered dully.
Tyrion broke into a wide grin. "Thank the gods you hated magic."