A/N: So, Season 8 Episode 5 happened. I can't say I'm surprised, it was always hinted throughout the entire show that Dany was going to lose her shit one day. We just didn't all expect it to be crammed in one episode. But still. I'll give it kudos if I could. Anyway, I'm back! There some part of me debating whether I should hold off posting this chapter because I'm not satisfied with it but there's nothing more I could do for it now. If you'll notice small corrections or changes in the future for this chapter, then that's me fixing whatever wrongness I see in the long-run.

Leave a comment 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.

JON

Jon opened his eyes slowly, giving himself the time to adjust to the pain that once again wracked his body with every breath he took. Whatever they've done to him now, it felt worse than all the other pain he's had, and he's had the worse of worse. He couldn't help but feel betrayed by his ow mind by dreaming the strange, desperate nightmare he dreamt. They took him out of the darkness, tended to his wounds, and broke fast with the king himself. What a stupid, hopeful dream it was. Jon hated himself for being desperate enough to dream it.

It wasn't until his eyes began to adjust themselves to the light that filtered through the windows that he realized where he was.

"How do you feel, Jon?" A deep baritone grumbled softly. Jon turned his head toward the voice.

Robert Baratheon looked at him with something almost akin to worry if not for the scowl on his brows. Jon gasped and immediately regretted it. Suddenly, he cried out in agony as his healing wound was jostled by his sudden breath. The king barked angrily for the maester, moving away from Jon, to his relief.

Suddenly, Pod and the maester's faces swam up above him, his pain-dazed state registering their almost frantic voices around him. There were hands shooting out to keep him still as he choked on each breath he took, his heart pounding in his chest. He coughed violently and each torturous heave made him feel like dying all over again.

"My lord, you must breathe slowly. You must try to calm yourself or risk hurting yourself further." Maester Yayne soothed and Jon did his best to gain control of himself, looking away from the king's glowering face.

"You're doing well, my lord." Pod supplied as Yayne moved from Jon's view. "Deep, slow breaths. In and out. You're all right."

"What happened?" The king demanded from the foot of Jon's bed. Jon closed his eyes, tuning out his voice.

"He was only startled, Your Grace. His sudden movement and breath caused his wounds to flare in pain." The maester answered in a placating tone. "It was expected. He hasn't been conscious like this in nearly a fortnight and more now. He must still be confused. We will ensure he rests to continue his healing."

"I see." Robert acquiesced brusquely. "Do you have anything to keep him calm? Something that could help him relax?"

"I do, Your Grace, but it is better that we leave him to heal in his own pace with as little concoctions as we could. He mustn't rely on them too heavily."

The king growled under his breath. Jon could feel his heart beating faster than before. He opened his eyes to look at Pod.

"Tyrion," Jon rasped, grasping for someone he could trust. "Where's Tyrion?"

Pod shifted awkwardly. "Lord Tyrion is currently attending other matters, my—"

"Never mind that, squire! Get the imp in here!" The king roared.

"Yes, Your Grace." Pod complied and hurriedly ran from the room to look for the wayward Hand.

The king suddenly appeared above Jon and his heart stuttered midbeat in fear. He closed his eyes again, praying he would lose consciousness in the next second before the king began beating him.

"Is there anything else you need, Jon?" the king asked almost gently.

Jon was nearly gasping for air. His entire body ached until he could no longer feel. He didn't understand what was happening. There were so many images running through his mind they blurred past and slipped away. Tyrion could help him, he knew. He could tell Jon what happened. Tyrion will know what to do.

The chamber doors banged wide open to reveal Pod escorting Tyrion, Varys, and Ser Barristan into the room. They all hurriedly rushed to Jon's bedside but Varys and Ser Barristan stayed a few feet away. Yayne made way for Tyrion as he approached.

"Jon, it's good to see you finally awake." Tyrion breathed out in relief.

"Tyrion," Jon rasped, tension easing somewhat from his body. "I don't—… what happened?"

"You were shot with an arrow, Jon, do you remember?" Tyrion asked.

"Yes, I—… where am I?" Jon croaked. "Everything was so fast, I—…"

"It's all right, Jon. It's done. You don't need to worry. You're safe now." Tyrion promised. The older man held Jon's hand in both of his smaller ones and Jon could feel the ache dull in the back of his mind. He felt so tired, exhaustion slowly overtaking him.

"I'm safe…?" Jon breathed, eyes dazedly shifting to the king. Robert shifted as if he meant to approach.

"Yes," Tyrion affirmed quickly, stealing Jon's attention away from Robert. "We made sure of it."

Jon nodded minutely, exhaling slowly. "I'll trust you, Tyrion."

"Rest now, Jon." Tyrion suggested. "We could talk about it later."

Jon smiled softly, his eyes closing. "Lecture me, you mean."

Tyrion chuckled. "You still have much to learn, my young friend."

"If you say so, Tyrion." Jon mumbled and drifted to sleep.

.

.

.

Slowly, Jon was regaining his strength. With Maester Yayne's herb-soaked bandages and the soft food the servants fed him, each time he woke were beginning to get longer and longer. Any sudden movement still caused him pain and his healing bones and torn flesh were still so tender that it made Jon constantly wonder how he had lived through his wounds. He registered each one of them. Each scrape and cracked rib to the sealed hole on his chest.

If not for the certain fact he was breathing and aching all over, Jon would be easily convinced he died and had been cursed to haunt the Red Keep for all eternity.

He had a constant flow of visitors apart from Maester Yayne. Varys' visits were short but well-meaning. He would ask Jon how he was and brought something useful or entertaining such as soft fruits and cheese or a long, thin device Jon could use to scratch itchy places that he can't reach. Pod would be there nearly always but as much as Jon found the younger boy relaxing and consider him a friend, Pod is a quiet person in nature. He liked to sit and listen like Jon so mostly they sat in companionable silence while Jon stared at empty space until he fell back to sleep and Pod polished whatever he needed to polish.

Jon noticed that whenever Tyrion could spare a moment in his day, sometimes with Bronn in tow. Tyrion would mostly sit by his bedside and read him letters while Bronn would give a hilarious, double-edged comment from the sidelines.

"I see that the Tyrells have sent their most heartfelt hope that you would survive, Jon." Tyrion would muse. "And they will also send you a marvelous fruit basket, I believe. Along with an equally marvelous messenger."

Bronn guffawed while he nibbled on the leftovers of whichever cheese Varys had brought him.

"What?" Jon was too confused to care he was slowly drifting off to sleep.

"Never you mind, Jon. Not yet anyway." Tyrion muttered.

Jon was rarely on his own when he woke and he never minded. It was better than waking up alone. The times he had woken without Pod or Tyrion or Varys or even Maester Yayne were inconvenient at most and lonely at best. Jon always felt unsafe when he was alone or when there was no one else but another scurrying servant to help him get to a chamber pot.

Being alone meant Jon was left to his thoughts with the ache of his entire body trying to put itself back together again. He was forced to relive memories of fire and blood, of dreams of a woman weeping beneath Winterfell, of nightmares of Winter itself, drowning helplessly in memories he wanted to forget. He kept thinking where his family was, why they haven't come yet, were they safe, was he going to see them again until he felt tears leaking from his eyes.

Alone and surrounded by strangers have become another nightmare for Jon.

But it wasn't as bad as waking with the king sitting beside him. Those were worse.

The king uncharacteristically didn't say much. Jon had never seen his so still and quiet. Twice Jon had roused to Robert Baratheon watching over him on the seat left by his bedside. The first time Robert visited, Jon thought he'd been dreaming until Robert wordlessly shifted to reach for the cup of water kept by Jon's side and gently tilted it to Jon's parched lips. Jon kept absolutely still, forcing himself to keep swallowing even if his mind screamed poison, he was being murdered in his bed—...

After that, they were locked in tense silence—with grey, purplish eyes against blue ones—until Jon succumbed to blissful oblivion. On the second time it happened, Jon pretended to fall asleep sooner than he actually needed to. He evened his breaths and forced his limbs to slack. Jon just wanted him to leave. He needed the man to leave.

Robert stayed for a few more seconds to whisper, "Sleep well, Jon," before gently padding out of Jon's chambers with instructions to the guards or servants in the hall to help Jon when he wakes again. Jon had felt exhaustion overtake him then, ignoring all the gnawing worry pulsing at the back of his head for now.

.

.

.

It was three days after he woke that Ser Barristan came into his chambers and stood rigidly by his bed, face unreadable. He had never visited before and Jon asked Maester Yayne to help him sit up before Yayne vacated the chambers. He forced himself to stay absolutely still, breathing as slowly as he could and waited for the old knight to speak.

"That was very foolish," Barristan said with a glint in his eye. Jon nodded, looking contrite. He knew exactly what Barristan meant.

"It wasn't one of my brightest moments." Jon confessed. He then looked up to meet Barristan in the eye. "I'm sorry for leaving you in that alcove, Ser Barristan. But Pod made sure you were safe."

"Under your orders, I heard."

Jon nodded. "I'm glad you're all right."

"I'm glad you're all right, too, Jon Snow."

"It's Jon. Just Jon."

"All right, Jon." Ser Barristan smiled warmly, almost fond. It made Jon fluster. He cleared his throat and pointed to the sword strapped to the old knight's hip.

"I see your sword made it back to you safe and sound."

Ser Barristan gripped his hilt and patted it fondly. "Yes, it did. You were quite skilled with it, too, if I recall."

Jon ducked his head at the praise. The battle with the people of King's Landing had also been his first battle. In his mind's eye, he didn't do enough for anyone, most especially for himself. He shook his head, turning back to the knight.

"Not good enough, it seems. I almost got myself killed," he admitted.

"That wasn't your fault, Jon."

Jon smiled humorlessly. "If you say so, Ser Barristan."

Barristan studied him for a moment. "If you truly feel that way then maybe you'll be interested to join me in the training yard when you're healed."

Jon gaped. "Thank you, Ser, but I don't think I could—"

"I'll speak to the king." Barristan assured. "You leave that to me. I'm sure I could persuade the king to have the hero of King's Landing train under his best knight."

Jon softly chuckled. He didn't hold much hope that the king would ever allow a captive to be trained in combat by one of the greatest warriors in the realm, no matter how benevolent or odd he may have been lately. He remembered the conditions of his limited freedom. Nothing would change just because Jon chose to protect the people. He was a hostage and it will stay that way until they killed him. But Jon didn't want to refute the elder knight, so, he nodded. "I would be honored to join you, Ser Barristan."

"I wouldn't take no for an answer in the first place." Barristan scoffed. He came forward and patted Jon's shoulder gently. It felt protective and safe. When it was gone, Jon felt cold. "Take this time to rest and heal. When you're out there with me in the yard, all bets are off."

Even after the knight had gone, Jon was still trying to crush the hope that he knew would never come true.

.

.

.

When Jon was recovered enough to spend more hours awake than asleep, Maester Yayne has dedicated every second of his time reading tome after tome of history to Jon. It was similar to how Maester Luwin had once sat him down as a child and forced him to learn the evolution and cause of warfare of the Seven Kingdoms, the noble houses of his father's domain, and the trade routes and treaties of the North across Westeros into Jon's head as if history, family names, and trade agreements will ever mean anything to a bastard.

He never saw the point of learning it then and he definitely didn't see the point of learning it now. But there was no courtyard or wooden swords to escape to this time and his choice in the matter fell on deaf ears as it always has.

Jon both dreaded and resented his time with Yayne, fearing another second spent in the maester's presence will threaten the thin thread that held his sanity intact. Confined to his bed as he was, it was the most nightmarish thing to look forward to as he healed.

He didn't know why the maester felt the need to improve his education. He's learned all he needed to learn years ago. Yet no matter how much he explained and expressed that there was no need to dedicate so much time on a bastard, the man wouldn't relent.

Yayne asked how well Jon wrote, how much he knew of geography and genealogy, how great his knowledge of the laws of man were and the religions that each noble house followed, how informed he was of the relations between minor and major houses all over the continent, who was pledged to whom, which were enemies with whom, and how fine his courtesies were.

Jon had been so irritated that he snapped at the maester that his courtesies were nothing short of fucking exemplary because he survived King's Landing without blatantly insulting and brutally murdering someone thus far. In Jon's opinion, that alone should have been highly commendable.

After that, Tyrion took Yayne's place in teaching him.

Tyrion's presence was much more tolerable than Yayne's, even if it was equally baffling. Jon is so used to Tyrion's lecturing voice and his constant need to learn from the elder man that it mattered little that the Hand had traded his political insight with a list of port trade treaties.

But Jon still didn't understand why they were doing this, aggravating him to the point of madness.

When Tyrion had droned on and on about the Dornish's defiance against the dragons, Jon asked, "Why are you doing this, Tyrion? I don't understand what's happening."

For something was happening, Jon was sure. He can feel it in his bones; like a shift in the air or a distant echo in a once silent hall. His role as a captive—what was once clear to Jon—now became more complicated than it's ever been.

Tyrion took his time closing the tome he had been reading from, feeling resigned. "One day, Jon—and one day soon—you will be told of these plans and designs we've decided for you without your consent. It will be cruel and terrible why we have to do this but you will understand. You're a clever lad. You've taken to politics like you were born for it."

Jon wants to scream that he still didn't understand and that it frightened him more than the Black Cells. He may understand the game but he will never condone it. He will never enjoy playing it. He will never covet the power that comes with it. It took Jon away from everything he ever cared about and it endangered everyone he loved. Jon wasn't built to withstand anything more than he's already been through. What more will they ask of him that they hadn't already taken?

"But most of all, you are a creature of duty. You are a Stark of Winterfell and it is said that Starks endure." Tyrion's eyes almost burned with the weight of what he's saying. "You won't like it. As a matter of fact, you will hate every moment of it. But know that there was no other way in our power we could've done it differently. You'll understand why."

Jon shook his head. There was something that was within their power that they could've done differently. "Robert should've let my mother go." Jon murmured. He sounded distant to his ears.

Tyrion scoffed lightly but his eyes remained just as ardent, nodding all the while. "Yes, Robert should've let your mother go."

Jon felt tears burn his eyes. He felt like he was falling, down back into that hole he'd dug inside his mind when he'd been imprisoned in the Black Cells. Rage burned within him and a thirst for vengeance that scared him parched him. But most of all, he was tired. Let them put him back in his dark cell, beat him, kill him, he didn't care. He'd take no more of this. He just wanted to go home.

When Tyrion met Jon's eyes, he must've seen the storm that swirled within him and the shorter man's eyes turned sharp enough to cut steel, empathy was replaced by determination. Jon almost expected the little lion to roar.

"Listen to me, Jon Snow. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor. That way, it can ever be used against you." Tyrion told him, placing a hand on Jon's wrist, pleading with him. His grip anchored Jon, tethering him back to some battle he never knew he waged within himself. "You don't have to choose between one or the other. You are a wolf and you are a dragon. It is time you reconcile them. We do what we must to survive. Remember this."

Tyrion was right. Of course, Tyrion was always right. Jon took a shaky breath and nodded, whispering brokenly, "We must survive."