authorsnote: first new story of 2023 and I am so so so excited about it!

this is jon snow, house targaryen, drama, 80% books, 20% show, newish elements for me and lots I love to employ

I am so hype for this, and I hope you are too.

I will say no more ... except I hope you enjoy and do please review!

songrecs: The Heirs of the Dragon - HOD Season 1

'What is this brief mortal life, if not in pursuit of legacy?'

- Corlys Velaryon, The Sea Snake

-x-

Dying for the second time, was needless to say strange, and yet exactly the same all at once.

Darkness, darkness that was all he knew.

Like looking into a never-ending void, like a constant well of black. No light, no up, no down, not a flicker of anything on the horizon or near-space.

He couldn't feel his wounds, new now, couldn't feel anything. There was no pain, no pleasure, no agony of the knives driving into his sides like the first time, or a sword through his heart like the second, no dizzy feeling of the embrace of death, no blood welling at his mouth, no death.

There was simply nothing at all.

Nothing but the void, and as he looked, he felt nothing but the void looking back.

The void and void alone.

And then something, something small … the flash of a wing, an eye, blue like a sapphire, and a ring of fire, dazzling into the void, near breaking his vision, a flash across his eyeline.

Fire, and the blue of the eye.

Ice.

And then he woke.

He woke with a gasp, somewhere new, woke with a gasp as he had before, returned again.

Returned from death the second time.

When he woke, he did so with a gasp, as though someone has infused life back into his lungs, as though someone had restarted his heart with a bolt of lightning, as though he'd been thrown to the edge of the abyss and then suddenly pulled back before it could take him.

Or before those eyes could look directly into his, or before the ring of fire could engulf him completely. Pulled away, from the void, from the eyes, from the fire…

Pulled back to wherever he was now.

His eyes adjusted to the light pouring through the window, adjusted poorly, squinting he raised a hand to block it, but he knew immediately he wasn't at the Wall anymore, nor up North, nowhere he had ever been (and he'd never stepped foot below the Neck) was this bright.

This bright, and this warm.

He resisted the urge to immediately swivel his gaze around and instead took stock of his body, his wounds, glancing down at his chest, preparing for the worst; once before he'd survived four knife wounds, but this time it had been a sword, broad and made of ice, through the heart.

And yet, there was nothing, no splintering of his chest, was he lucid? He looked down at himself, felt with his hands.

No, he knew something was different, he felt no pain, and as he glanced down his chest was bare, but clear, no scars. None, no, wait – he could see the scar he'd got from a stray sword during the Battle for the Wall, this was still his body, but his life-threatening wound was gone.

Not healed, not stitched up and kept closed, just gone.

And then, he shifted slightly and realised, not only was something different but he had to be somewhere different. It was too warm, and he was in a bed, not lying in the snow at Castle Black as he had been the first time, nor in his bed at Winterfell at the Lords Chambers, nor in the snow of the Godswood, this was different and there was a fragrance of flowers to the air, and it was still too damn bright.

He allowed his gaze to move, and were he a less hardy man, more prone to shock and worry, he'd have screamed.

Had he died for truth this time? Was this some fever dream as death took him? And yet he remembered then, the words coming to him like a bolt to the chest, as he'd woken, as darkness had given way to lightness, as he'd felt the life come back to him, he remembered whispered words in his ear, as though spoken with a caress.

With those blue eyes not quite meeting his, the flash of the wing, the fire, and then the words…

'Go back and make things right my Prince'

He did not scream as he sat up quickly in this bed, even as his glance swivelled around the room, a room he'd never seen before, a room he had never stepped foot in, nor anything like it before. This was no place someone like he frequented.

If he didn't know any better, he'd swear he was in the South.

Only the knock on the door stopped him from perhaps keeling over in faint or making a run for the open balcony in need of fresh air, or perhaps to jump from it, convinced this was all a dream.

'Make things right, son of the Gods'

'Make things right, son of the Dragon'

The words again, caressing, they were coming back to him, so was the darkness, the blackness he'd gazed into, coming back, and reminding him of what he'd faced, only slashed by a ring of fire, illuminating the void.

He was not there anymore, on the brink of death, on the brink of facing whatever nothingness existed after, call it divine intervention by the Gods, or the meddling of them, but that wasn't his concern for now.

The how's and the whys could be examined later, for now he just needed to know the where…

Where was he?

Another knock at the door, a little more insistent this time; why didn't they just come in?, and he cleared his throat; at least his voice sounded the same as he spoke, "Come in"

In came a person he did not recognise, but he knew they weren't a Northerner, dressed in servant clothes, his eyebrows raised as the woman curtsied and then kept her gaze on the floor as she spoke, "My Prince, the King asked me to remind you the Small Council meeting will take place within the hour"

"Aye" He said, stumbling through the conversation, still a little caught up in the shock of coming back to life a second time, "The King requested me?"

"Yes, my Prince" The servant said with a nod, she didn't seem scared of him, just deferential, "As a member of the Small Council he asks you attend"

"Of course," He said, going along with it, better he not let on he had no idea what she was talking about.

"May I take my leave, my Prince" She asked then, and he nodded, completely caught up in what she'd said, and everything around him, and everything not around him.

A thousand thoughts swirling around his head.

He waited a moment or two to ensure she was gone before he stood up and began to pace, taking in the room as he did so. Pacing wasn't necessarily useful, but it was helpful in that moment.

What in the Gods name was going on?

What was happening?!

Where was here?

That he could try and find out.

His pacing had purpose then as he looked around the room, taking everything in.

It was a large room, lavishly decorated in the colours of red and black, he had a large wardrobe which when he yanked open was full of clothes, all red and black in colour, though there were pure black than red, there were also several sets of armour and fine boots.

He noted a sword propped next to the bed, but he ignored that for a moment.

Instead, he turned back and took in the room, attached to it was a small half armoury, half study, weapons lined one wall, and a desk with books lined the other. A large washroom, outhouse with a large tub sat in the middle, potions and lotions lining the side.

Back into the main room, the bed was large, fine, no wonder it had felt different. There was a balcony looking out into wherever he was, and with a sigh he knew he had to look out, look out and figure out where he had come.

Figure out where, then he could contemplate the whys.

And so he stepped forward, into the light.

And he knew, he knew where he was, the very second he stepped out into the fresh breeze, the sun heavy in the sky, beating down on the City below. This godforsaken City he had hoped to avoid in his lifetime.

Knew, though he'd never been here before, he knew where he was, knew the where not the why.

He was in Kings Landing.

Though he'd never bene to the City himself, and was thankful for such, he knew as soon as he looked over it, that he couldn't be anywhere else. His Father … or Uncle he supposed now (it was still hard, months on to get that straight in his head), had insisted he sit in on Robb's lessons, even as Lady Stark had protested, Lord Stark had stuck firm, and so Jon had received a Lords education.

And had learned all about Kings Landing, about the red topped roofs, about the sprawling City, and though it looked smaller than he imagined, he could see the Dragon Pit on the horizon, and knew he must be stood in the Red Keep.

And yet … something was different.

Even though he'd never been to the Capitol before he could sense it was different, sense something was wrong. Where was the Great Sept? He and Robb had sneered at the monument to the Seven, always believing in the Old Gods, but where was it? He noted the shanty houses of Flea Bottom and yet Maester Luwin had described it as large, here it was dwarfed by finer buildings.

He looked over at the Dragon Pit again, why did it look intact? Why wasn't it crumbled after its ruin? He had seen sketches of the before and after and had almost been sad at such a great structure being ruined.

This was Kings Landing, but not the one he'd learned about, not the one of his time.

At least now he knew the where, it wasn't the why he asked … but what?

What was going on?

He wasn't surprised to wake from dying, having done so before, clearly some force was at play, whether it be the Red God, the Old Gods or something else altogether, but he didn't understand why he was in Kings Landing, and why it didn't match the pictures and sketches he and Robb had studied.

And thinking deeper, what had the servant called him? My Prince?

Jon knew now of course that he was a Prince, that he had never been a bastard, but Heir to the Iron Throne.

Bran had revealed as much.

Having somehow made it back through the Wall to tell the tale, he had done so, months after Jon had taken back Winterfell, a Sansa fleeing Littlefinger and the danger of marriage to the Boltons by his side. Bran had made it back to them, Arya too, different as she was, and the four wolves, the pack had embraced.

And then Bran had demanded an audience with 'The King in the North', and Jon had found out he was no wolf at all.

Jon had been crowned that, 'King in the North', when he'd taken back Winterfell with an army of Wildlings, some Northern families and little else. Odds stacked against them, and somehow, they had been victorious. They had crowned him King with a grinning Sansa by his side.

Bran had crowned him with something else.

Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, married months before his birth, outside the Gods Eye, wed and bedded, after all Aegon the Conqueror had, had two wives; why couldn't Rhaegar? And Jon had been the product, never Jon Snow, but as his Mother had named him; Jaehaerys Targaryen.

And was that who he was here? Prince Jon, or Jaehaerys? He wrinkled his nose in distaste at that, the thought of it.

Even as King he'd never worn a crown, never demanded to be called 'Your Grace' had long remained a man of the people, never straying. Even when he'd found out the truth, that he was no bastard at all, Targaryen not Stark, he'd never embraced his true heritage.

'You're a Stark to us' Sansa had said, and he had clung to that, clung to being accepted by the North, by the true Starks, had clung to it, to Ghost the symbol of House Stark, and rejected House Targaryen, the house he'd never known.

But here, here the servant had said 'Prince'. And what else had the servant said? 'The King asked me to remind you…'

If he was a Prince, then was the King his Father?

And then she'd said he was a member of the Small Council, under the King…

Where was he? It was Kings Landing yes, but it couldn't be the Kings Landing he'd left behind, dying in the snow, the South had been one big infight between the Dragon Queen and the Lannister Queen, evidently this wasn't that time.

He gasped then, it all dawning on him, what had the voice whispered? A caress against his ear as the circle of fire had surrounded him.

'Go Back…'

Had he gone back in time?

It was insane to think, crazy even, surely people who thought this ended in a locked cell in the Citadel, thought to be addled of mind. And yet was it any less likely than rising from the dead … twice?

Perhaps that was why Jon wasn't on the floor hyperventilating, perhaps that was why his wits remained, he had experienced much insanity, ice spiders and giants, talk of krakens in the bay near Bear Island, men carrying flaming swords, he had seen so much, dead men rising, and rising again. Was it such a surprise to time travel?

It explained why Kings Landing looked different to the none he'd studied, why he was a Prince here with a King, not caught between two Queens fighting. Why it all seemed a little off.

And yet, it didn't explain why his heritage was known here, who he was here, or what his place was.

For that, he ventured he'd need to find out himself.

He was hesitant to, stood in the middle of this room, his room, he realised as he took another look around. The clothes in the draw and wardrobe were folded and hung the way he did so. His sword was propped against the bedside cabinet the way he always did so, and he knew, as he delved a hand under his pillow he'd find a dagger there, which he did, he always slept with a dagger under his pillow, even when he'd returned to Winterfell.

He glanced at the cloak, tossed over the back of a chair, so black it was near darker than a crows. Even after he'd left the Watch, having done so upon his first death he'd always worn a black cloak, as though to honour his old life as a crow.

Was this his room?

Why he did he have a room in Kings Landing?

Why was he a member of the Small Council?

Question after question came, and questions seemed to breed more questions. He knew he had no choice; he couldn't cower in here, he would get no answers here. He'd need to draw upon his bravery and figure this out for himself.

No, he needed to go outside, into the Red Keep, explore and find out where and when he was, and why.

Though he gathered the latter might be a bit more tricky.

Sometimes he hated the Gods, despite what they'd done for him (though the good and bad were surely at odds, and had the Gods ever really intervened), why couldn't they ever speak fucking plainly?

'Go back and make things right my Prince'

'Make things right, son of the Gods'

'Make things right, son of the Dragon'

Hardly plain, leaving him with only more questions.

But what other choice did he have? Hide in here until someone fetched him? No, he needed to figure out what was going on, he needed answers.

And so, he stood, and reached for his cloak, securing it on his shoulders, and then his weapons belt, which held a dagger, but his sword was propped by the bed, and so he picked it up.

Picked it up and came to a complete stop.

He knew this sword.

Would know it anywhere.

Hadn't he and Robb talked about Valyrian steel none stop? Even though Ice would one day be inherited by Robb (or should have been), they had still fantasised about the others, about one day finding Dark Sister or Brightroar, to wield the legendary blades like Orphan-Make or Truth.

Or Blackfyre.

And that was what he held in his hands.

As a child he had been drawn to Blackfyre more than any other, perhaps it was his Targaryen blood, perhaps it was his ancestral house blade calling to him. Either way he had spent hours looking at the blade, studying every picture, every sketch, and when he and Robb had pretended to wield against one another, Robb had yelled.

"With Ice!"

And Jon had yelled.

"With Blackfyre"

Lord Stark had always looked worried when Jon had yelled that, now he of course knew why.

Knew of the secret his Uncle had kept for so long, but was known here apparently. At least, that was what he assumed. He smiled at that, to not be known as a bastard wherever he was now would be nice, though he thought he'd long knocked that chip off his shoulder, it was still a stain he'd rather not wear.

Jon ran his hand over the blade, the steel was the sharpest he'd seen, even more so than Longclaw. It was a bastard-sword just like his former blade, which suited him perfectly. It had black across the hilt, formed into scales, with dragon heads at either end, and a ruby the size of a small egg at the centre of the hilt.

It was the legendary blade of Aegon the Conqueror, and it was in his hands.

Blackfyre.

He knew then who he was here, who they thought he was.

Jon … Jaehaerys Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

'Go Back…'

Now he just had to figure out when he was, and all of the rest, and that started with sheathing his sword, strapping it to his weapons belt, adjusting his cloak over the black tunic and breeches he wore, pulling on his dark boots, and then making his way into the corridor.

He almost looked like a crow again, there was no red here, the second colour of House Targaryen, just black, only the ruby glowing on Blackfyre stood out that way. He liked it that way.

Liked it as he made his way outside, to immediately meet a guard dressed in Targaryen armour nodded his head, "My Prince"

Yes, he was in the Red Keep, a member of the royal family, and he walked quickly through the corridors, his feet somehow knowing where to go. Moved quickly, everything coming together the more he saw, the more he understood.

There was much to learn.

Jon was just thankful he had always been a good student.

And yet, as his feet found the stairs to the Small Council chamber (he tried to focus and not question why he knew his way around a place he'd never been before), he paused.

Jon had no idea what was going on, his mind lost on what could have happened to him.

All he remembered from before…

Winterfell had been under siege.

The Dead had come.

They hadn't had enough men, not nearly enough, but it had been their duty to try and defend the Northern stronghold, to stop the army of the Others from killing them all.

In the end they had failed.

One by one, his friends and then he had fallen.

Arya, finally returned home, gutted by an Other right in the courtyard she had ran around as a child. Sansa, hiding in the crypt, only for the dead to rise beneath the boards, he had found her half crawling out of the Starks resting place, throat slit, he had only hoped she had done it herself to spare dying at the hands of them.

Bran had fallen in the Godswood, unable to use the power he had gained to save them all. Ghost had died trying to protect him.

Jon had taken down four of them before a fifth had shoved a sword through his back, right through his heart.

He had fallen in an arc, his black cloak fanning in the air, blood following it, Longclaw slipping from his hand.

Then darkness.

Then this.

What was this?

Some was coming together, people and places, and himself, but it was like there were huge gaps in what he knew, gaps he needed to fill and soon. He wouldn't do well wandering around clueless for long.

"My Prince" Another guard in Targaryen armour bowed his head to him as he opened the doors to the Small Council chamber, the full small council chamber, Jon jolted out of his thoughts. How had he ended up here? This was hardly easy exploring, and yet he stepped inside, he was expected after all.

And what better way to get answers?

Jon's eyes scanned the room as he stepped inside, scanned, and found figures of histories past, wearing sigils of houses he'd known, some long gone, others he didn't recognise. Some figures he knew, from reading the histories, both as a boy, and again when trying to understand how they could overcome the War for the Dawn, and again when he knew his heritage, reading his families history.

His ancestor's history.

Ancestors he was now meeting in the flesh.

"Brother" He turned his head then, to the person at the Head of the table who called him brother, watched him place a marble sphere into a hole in the table, before indicating to his right-hand side, for him to take it he realised.

The man at the Head of the table wore the crown he knew to be Viserys Targaryens, and had the hair to match him, Targaryen white hair, purple eyes, Targaryen.

So did the man sat on his left, and Jon knew him as he looked at him, looked at the sword at his hip and the smirk on his face, and then his words too, "Brother" With a nod of his head, purple eyes looking into his grey.

And then, it all came together, as a sing song teasing voice spoke as he stepped further inside.

"You're late Uncle"

Turned his head, and found a girl a head shorter than him, with the Targaryen white hair, purple eyes, and a cheeky smile, a valyrian steel necklace at her throat. Knew her too from the sketches, that he realised had been scarily accurate.

"Rhaenyra" He said with a nod, her name on his tongue as he recognised her, as he made his way to his seat. His mind racing, his hands near shaking, only stilled by screwing them into fists and calling upon all of his composure.

"Go back…"

He had gone back, gone back in time somehow, that was as clear as the morning sun coming in through the window.

And he knew where he was, knew he had been hurtled back into his ancestor's time, and only managed to take the own marble sphere in his pocket (he near laughed then, how had it gotten there? How had any of this happened?!) and place it down by calling upon every ounce of composure he owned.

Knew he was no longer in his own time, but some 170 years in the past.

When the House of the Dragon ruled the Seven Kings, the House he was apart of, always had been, just hadn't known it.

'Make things right, son of the Dragon'

He had been pulled back in time to a vital point he realised, as chatter began around him, as Rhaenyra Targaryen offered him a little grin and poured him some wine, as Viserys Targaryen, the King presided, as Daemon Targaryen, sat opposite him, Dark Sister at his hip as Blackfyre was at Jons, had been pulled back to perhaps a pivotal time, for so much that would come.

Right before the Dance of Dragons.

here we gooooo

ahhh, I hope you enjoyed, I hope you are hype and do review to let me know if you are!

ofc as soon as I saw HOD Season 1 I knew I had to write it, and I knew I had to get my bby boi Jon there somewhow! so here we go...

updates will be hopefully no less than monthly (and hopefully more!) and will explore our new favourite point of asoiaf history

do enjoy, do review, fav/follow

speak soon ...