PART IV: Checkmate

Dragonstone

300 AC

The salt sea breeze soon lifted the weight on Mormont's mind.

The moment he stepped outside the Stone Drum, the permanent spit of the black sea that encircled the island of Dragonstone had wafted its scent into his nostrils. Mormont could even taste the salt on his lips, which had been dry for the last nine days. The occupation of Aegon's forces outside the walls of King's Landing had only equipped him with a nervous, excited thrill to do battle, and he'd forgotten about the dry skin and blisters that now populated his lips.

He'd immediately gone past the blasted wall of monstrous crenellations again, making his way down the black stone tile path that led out to the eastern beachfront. Once he stepped out onto the open palm of white sand, he felt his anger flicker for only the briefest of moments.

Looking out at the sea was a sort of therapeutic notion. Something very similar to the overwhelming sensation of calm that he'd feel whenever he sat out on his balcony in Bear Keep. The same one where he'd sat on his father's lap many lifetimes ago as a boy and watched the snowfall while sipping hot chocolate.

Now that the battle was over, the war having been won, did Starag Mormont now finally recall the smaller details. His peace of mind being one of them. If an insignificant one.

Peace of mind, he had realized long ago, was for fools and cowards. It held no actual place in a man's mind. For a man never stopped fighting once in his life. There was always another battle, another enemy, another war.

For one to actually obtain peace, one had to give up everything that was important to him. There was always another attempt to take something from him. Always another man wishing to be in his place, and willing to do anything to be in his position.

Starag Mormont had discovered this at the early age of fourteen, when he himself realized that he wanted all of the treasures that Rickard Stark had, but that he himself could only dream of.

Oh, he had seen the looks of admiration on Lyarra Stark's face whenever she laid her soft gray eyes on her lord husband. It was similar to the looks that his own mother would give to his father. And now, years later, he'd quickly recognize it dawn across Rhaenys' features whenever he entered the same room as her.

Rickard Stark was a hero in his Lady Wife's eyes. He might as well have been her god.

That was the way to live with a woman. To have her worship your every movement, to have her watch in pacified awe as you committed a brazen act of heroism and bravery. Mormont knew well enough that his wife could never get enough of it.

Then there came the gold and surprisingly plentiful wealth of the Stark household. They had to have been the fourth richest house next to the Lannisters, Tyrells, and Hightowers. Yet none of that gold was flaunted about on tourneys, as Northern Lords often detested tourneys and extravagant events outside of feasts. Gold was often spent on the welfare of the northern people, and not much else.

After that, Stark had always maintained the respect of his people, of the men who followed him into battle. Men would die for Rickard Stark, even if he was a cold and severe man. His mere image was still inspiring to most.

Remembering the accursed and undeserved fate that Rickard Stark had received, Mormont drank in the shimmering white line in the distance. The endless horizon called out to him, promising adventure and experiences he wouldn't forget. Not even in death.

Should've gone to Yi Ti, he thought to himself. Or perhaps the Grey Wastes like Marwyn was mentioning. Damn Westeros and Essos.

Though he was certainly not ungrateful for everything that he had been given. He'd lived a good life, hadn't he? Full of adventure and fun and women and booze and gambling. Now he had a good woman who practically worshiped him, plenty of strong children, and a people who had bloomed and profited greatly from his rule. For all intents and purposes, he'd gotten extraordinarily lucky.

But that one little nugget of doubt had slipped into his mind then, just how long would his luck run?

All the names of the men he'd lived and fought with had floated by in his mind. Their faces came to him as well. Rickard, Brandon, his father, Arthur, Ned…

I'm the only one left, he thought coldly to himself. The last enemy that shall be destroyed.

But destroyed by who?

How would he, Mormont, die? Certainly not in his bed of old age. Something would get him. Something tough. Some monster from somewhere in some other part of this world perhaps. He refused to die in the arms of comfort, no matter how intoxicating it was. Didn't matter if it would break Rhaenys' heart. She would understand.

His son would carry on his legacy then. Duncan was shaping up to be a far superior version of himself. Mormont wouldn't have it any other way. Duncan would build their empire in the North, continue serving House Stark, and potentially eat up House Glover and their territory in his time.

The Old Gods had been good to him and his family. And now, Mormont realized, it was time for him to give back.

Despite acknowledging the ugly truth of his mortality, Starag Mormont found it within himself to smile out at the broad blue-white face of the sea in front of him. His time would come soon. And then, and only then, he'd be joining the other men he'd found and bled with. His true brothers-in-arms.

Too soon enough, the scent of mild brimstone had invaded his nostrils. Mormont's instincts lit on fire with the electric shock of danger. His primal senses had recalled the distant memory of the great winged beast covered in black scales as hard as steel far back in the pit of a volcano. Of the stench it carried with it, and of the deep rumbling drumming beat of its chest…

"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhh…" Came the dreadfully familiar drumming, the rolling of thunder that would emit from the lungs of a monster, a terror of all man that could breathe flame, the beast that had been ruled only by the Dragonlords of old…

Mormont forced himself to be ice-cold. Even if his primal senses had constantly reminded him of the fear he'd once felt in the pit of that blasted volcano, even if his heart began to beat furiously in anticipation of Dragonfire.

He turned his head ever so slightly to the right and saw it.

Further down the beach, perhaps over fifty feet away from him, lay a great, titanically monstrous creature with green and bronze-colored scales. Similar colors to Bronzie, but completely unlike her at the same time. Where Bronzie's scales were purely bronze, this dragon had only a partial flashing gleam of copper, with its fresh scales being of dull green, and its wings being a sharp leathery orange and yellow.

The dragon slept quietly, only briefly emitting the occasional snorting thrust of thunder into Mormont's eardrums. "Rrrrrrrrrgh!" And the more Mormont continued to scan it, the more he disassociated it from its distant cousin in Valyria. It was not nearly as large as that beast. This one was still quite young and fresh, and not old and strong with age.

Even better, he saw the angry red line in the shimmering green-gold scales. The ugly open wound that had since stopped festering, and had only just begun to heal.

This was Rhaegal, Mormont realized. The same dragon that Aegon had been riding. The one he'd taken down with the axe currently strapped to his back.

Mormont watched as the beast slowly, carefully flickered open its serpentine eyes. As if it had felt the dangerous stare of a predator, and had instinctually woken up to defend itself. More than fifty feet away, bronze slits had gleamed at him in reflection, and then had narrowed out of a strange sense of familiarity… and fear.

Mormont briefly looped through the dilemma in front of him. The primal fear that he felt emitting from the still-entwined dragon would normally be felt by any other human when dealing with supernatural beasts. He himself had once been subjected to the paralyzing fear that came with encountering a creature far outside one's boundaries. Yet, the dragon seemed to recognize him. If perhaps, by his scent. And from its highly developed senses, from the weapon that was dangling from Mormont's back.

Almost instinctively, Mormont felt the beast panic inwardly. And as if he were a Shadowcat hunting his prey, he could smell its alarmed and petrified stench, the sheer worry that its hunter had come to finish off what he had started only days ago.

It was irresistible to see a dragon squirm like a cowardly rabbit. Mormont turned and took a step toward the dragon.

In the same cycle of movement, Rhaegal had quickly jerked up onto talons and claws and stalked backward, snarling menacingly at Mormont as he made to take another step forward. The traditional defense of a cornered dog.

When Mormont took a second, larger step, he heard a thunk!

Carefully, he glanced up above him to the cliffs of white stone. Briefly, his eye almost passed over the similarly disposed of mass of glimmering white scales that blended in with the pale rock it adorned. But he saw it nonetheless. And he also recognized the primal anger within the second dragon's sharp molten gold eyes, and the glaring black sharp daggers for teeth. Then Mormont got a better look at the beast. Cream-colored scales, but golden spines, wings, and horns.

Were Mormont not about to draw his weapon, he would've felt a sense of majesty for these beasts. Dragons were beautiful creatures, even he, Mormont, couldn't deny that. They were as wondrous as they were capable of mindless mass destruction.

This had to have been the youngest, as it was slightly smaller than Rhaegal. Of course, neither of them was as large as Bronzie. They had not been raised in the old magics that the North was teeming with. As such, they did not intimidate him in the least. Not when his best memory of a dragon was of one much larger than the both of them.

The white dragon hanging on the cliffs had briefly glanced up and away from Mormont then. So too had Rhaegal. Something above them, up in the sky, had got their attention. Mormont felt compelled to follow their gazes and quickly found what they had seen.

A black-winged shape had taken flight above them all. It flew above the eastern border of the island, just over the black-blue sea. But it had soon curved towards the beach, descending down and down and down in Mormont's direction.

Mormont stood ready, yet the beast did not deliver the accompanying blast of dragonflame. Instead, the black dragon had dived sharply to the large patch of white sand behind him. He made no attempt to cover his only good eye as the dragon flapped its wings in order to slow its descent, creating the following bursts and gusts of sand-spitting wind.

BOOM! The dragon had landed on the beach as if it had been a thunderbolt up in the sky. Too late, had Mormont realized, that it had intended to block off his escape to the tiled steps back up to the Stone Drum.

The head of silver-platinum hair that flowed from the top of the black dragon had not escaped him. Daenerys Targaryen seemed intent on teaching him some kind of idiotic lesson as she couldn't actually have him killed. Mormont supposed it was some kind of womanly desire to get even with a man who had bested her in some way. A man who was not courting her, and who had no desire to court her in the first place. A man who would not bow to her beauty. A man who she viewed as beneath her.

Beautiful women couldn't tolerate such slights. At least not subtly. They weren't used to the rejection and inevitable failures that the world would send their way. They were used to living comfortably, and rightly so. Beauty had been coveted by man since the beginning of time. It was always such. A lord's daughter would always live better than a lord's son because there was no inherent responsibility thrust upon her. All she had to do was to marry into a good family and squeeze out a few pups. And that would be that.

Mormont kept his gaze steadily on the huge black dragon in front of him. It was easily the largest of the three. Likely the oldest. He expected as much. Snowfyre was the oldest of the two dragons he and Jon had brought back. As such, Snowfyre had gone off with Jon, while Bronzie had grown attached to Rhaenys, and to Mormont as a result.

The black dragon clambered its way toward him. Thump! Thump! Thump! THUMP! THUNK! And suddenly its long-barreled snout of black teeth as sharp as swords, and smoldering red eyes glared at him like pits of lava.

What was this supposed to be? Some sort of intimidation tactic? Mormont was having none of it. He'd already slain a dragon easily five times the size of the one standing before him. He simply crossed his arms and glared back at the beast, flexing his right fist every few seconds, and unconsciously igniting the glowing blue tattoos on his skin.

For what seemed like hours, the staring match between himself and the dragon persisted. Neither had blinked once. And neither had backed away. It was perhaps the strangest match-up between man and dragon to date.

When it became clear that Mormont would not back down, the black dragon sneered upwards, flashing his teeth once more, and his red eyes showing grudging respect. It was then that the black dragon slowly climbed backward on his legs, giving Mormont some breathing room.

"They're wonderful creatures, are they not?" Came the girl's stern and cold voice. Mormont was yet again not surprised. How old was she? Six-and-ten? Seven-and-ten? Probably a year younger than Jon. Yet she desired to be taken seriously, as the Lady Wife of a Lord Paramount would be in times like this. All because she had three rather dangerous weapons at her disposal.

"They are," He agreed evenly as he laid his eye on the approaching form of Daenerys Targaryen. If he voiced his thoughts, she might actually sic her dragons on him. "Though they aren't as big as I thought they would be."

His quip was not appreciated. Daenerys merely smiled coldly at him. "Perhaps I can give you a closer demonstration if you prefer."

"I've had enough of those, thank you." Said Mormont. "I'll pass."

A firm, but polite hand was required to navigate this situation. To be blunt or harsh on the girl would only entice her to have him burnt to a crisp.

"Pity," Said the girl. "You surprise me, Lord Mormont. After all your accomplishments, you seem to be lacking in bravery. You even had the audacity to come here after you injured one of my dragons. So why now refuse an offer so few would ever get the chance to take?"

"Audacity?" Mormont dodged the question smoothly. It was not noticed by the girl.

Daenerys all but snarled at him. "Yes, audacity. You wound one of my dragons and still walk this island, my family's ancestral home, as if you yourself own it. I wonder what sort of insanity compels you to do the things that you do. Surely you knew that coming here might just mean your death."

Of course, this might happen. Perhaps Daenerys had also lost her marbles along with Aegon. From what Jorah had told him of Viserys Targaryen, it didn't seem out of the realm of possibility. To have him killed here and now would certainly complicate the situation further, but it looked as if Daenerys Targaryen was considering it.

"Well…" Mormont calculated as many angles as he could. Escaping would be difficult, what with a dragon blocking his way. He'd have to go all out in order to survive. "I wasn't about to let Jon do all the work by himself. And you did ask that I come in your letter."

His mentioning of Jon had brought the girl back to the present. "Yes… I did. But I did not expect you to appear, Lord Mormont." She paused. "I do not like you. You come to my island, strut about like some sort of pompous King, and expect to leave alive?"

Mormont carefully narrowed his eye on the girl. "Before you have me burned alive, I believe I should tell you the full story of your dragon's near-execution."

The girl stared at him then. Those lovely violet eyes that any other man would simply fall in love with just by staring at them. The eyes of countless Kings and Queens in the last several hundred years. The same eyes as the Mad King, as Rhaegar Targaryen, as Jon. As Rhaenys. As his own bloody children.

There was something about them that twisted and turned underneath the pale light of the bleak sky. Perhaps it was something to do with this island, with the Dragonmont itself which ran deep underneath the crust of Dragonstone. Something that brought out more insight, perhaps some sort of ancestral wisdom. It was, on this strange, somewhat peaceful note, that Daenerys had given him one firm nod.

"As you know, Aegon had been riding Rhaegal that day," Mormont said. "Aegon descended upon the King's Gate, and he had your dragon burn over three hundred innocent men alive and completely compromise the safety of the city and the people who live within it."

A flash of pained guilt stained the girl's eyes. That was all he needed. "Jon left to see to the defense of the King's Gate while I…" He decided to leave out his… powers. "Went to a nearby watchtower which, luckily, had a ballista mounted on its peak."

"Just as I was loading it, I saw Aegon, still mounted atop your dragon, swoop down once more on the King's Gate. He was going to burn Jon, along with the rest of our men defending it. So, I did what I had to." He said. "I was lucky. Too lucky. What I did was not out of malice towards you or your… Rhaegal… but to get Aegon off the battlefield and to save Jon."

As he was recounting his story, he began to see the swirling mix of emotions play throughout her expression, and her eyes. Despite being a girl of six and ten, she was well-composed. Yet she was unable to hide the flashes of guilt, sorrow, shock, fear, anger, relief, and… realization.

The realization that she had been unfair towards him somehow. That she'd been unreasonably difficult over the whole matter and had unwittingly turned it into some kind of drama. Even if her pre-determined hatred of him had been borne out of motherly love for her dragons. Now, she seemed to get it, and quickly averted her gaze down to the white pearls of sand at her feet.

It had not been the first time Mormont had seen such a look. In such situations, he'd learned that it was best to reignite the conversation somehow. To argue with her and belittle her over her views of him would only earn him resentment. And to fight her head-on with pure logical reasoning would only make her feel stupid, and again, resentful of him.

No, what this girl needed was a way out. A way to save face. Nobody liked to admit that they had been wrong, not even Mormont himself. He was reminded of an old saying then, 'A man convinced against his will, is of the same opinion still' and it applied just as much to women.

So, he decided instead to give her that opportunity. "I realize it must have been difficult to see one of your children be wounded in such a way. And I don't imagine it was something you ever thought would happen. Must have come as quite the shock."

"Yes, it was." She nodded her head mildly as if contemplating a much deeper line of thought. "I was furious, you know." She added with a small reluctant smile. Mormont smiled back.

Daenerys continued. "It's… hard… to see them be afraid, to see them in pain knowing I can do nothing about it." She glanced back at the now half-snarling Rhaegal, who was still backing away from the whole exchange. "I've never seen any of them act so… fearful around any other creature, much less a single man. Before I would feel so safe around them, but now? Now I just don't know what to think."

"There are some things that can't be explained." Said Mormont, inwardly pleased with himself. The girl had saved face, and he wasn't about to be burnt to a crisp. "For instance, how a girl of four and ten had managed to hatch dragons from stone."

Her smile had become emboldened now. Genuine. "I don't entirely understand it myself. It's just something I felt compelled to do."

"Well, there you have it." Mormont spread his hands.

The momentary lapse of silence had given way to a sudden warmth between the two of them. Where there was once coldness and resentment, Mormont felt that the girl's dislike of him had begun to melt away.

He glanced over the girl's shoulder at the black dragon. That one had since given Mormont several looks that bordered on inspection. Yet as Daenerys seemed to warm up to Mormont, the black dragon had decided that his presence was not needed, and, like a seal, dove into the sea.

Rhaegal had since calmed down and had stopped snarling anomalistically at Mormont, though he was still backed up. The white dragon had since climbed atop of the cliffs above, and rested his head on the edge, peering down the exchange between Mormont and Daenerys with sharp narrow slits.

"What are their names?" Asked Mormont, nodding to where the black dragon had been, and to where the white one was now placed.

Daenerys' eyes lit up with uninhibited passion. "The one who just dove into the sea-he is Drogon. I named him after my husband. And the one up there is Viserion. After my brother, Viserys."

"And I suppose Rhaegal was named after Rhaegar?"

"Yes, actually." She said surprised. "Did… did you know him? My brother, I mean."

Mormont shook his head. "Not personally, no. But my best friend did." He paused. "I did meet Rhaegar once, though. At the tourney in Harrenhal. Pleasant chap. Made Lyanna cry with his singing and his harp."

Years from this moment, Mormont would often reflect that this was perhaps the point when he had won over Daenerys Targaryen. The clear knowledge he had of her immediate family-of whom she knew very little about, and had only heard vague stories of from her brother as well as his calm demeanor and willingness to allow her to save face had won out over her initial impassioned hatred of him.

As, after he'd finished telling one small excerpt from a memory long past, her face had lit up like the stars themselves.

"Who was your friend?" She asked eagerly.

"Arthur Dayne." Said Mormont. "We became friends just after the Rebellion. Had loads of good to say about your brother, though. And…" He decided to throw his prior caution to the wind. "My wife knew your brother quite well."

"Really? How?"

Mormont smiled, knowing that the girl's reaction would be one to remember. "He was her father. My wife is your niece, Rhaenys."

More emotions began to swim and churn in the girl's violet orbs. Passion, curiosity, shock. "But… but…" was all she could say.

"It's a… long story," Mormont said as he scratched his cheek.

Daenerys' violet eyes twinkled. She recovered her wits. "I don't have anything pressing to attend to, Lord-"

"Starag," He said, deciding to seize the opportunity in front of him. "You can call me Starag. And in that case, how about I share it with you over luncheon?"

In that one golden moment, the girl had looked up at him and had offered her hand to him. In the way that a lady would offer her hand to a knight so as to escort her to a feast. There was no hesitation in her eyes.

"I'd be glad to."

Jon Stark had come to a firm decision: Dragonstone was nothing compared to Winterfell.

When it came to the marvels of architecture, he knew that he was probably biased toward picking the creations of Brandon the Builder as opposed to the sorcerers who molded the Stone Drum out of… well… stone. But that didn't deter him in the least. Even as the blood of the Dragon flowed through his veins, he knew the obvious choice was the seat of House Stark.

After all, he'd grown up in Winterfell. He'd spent his days crossing blades and sticks with Robb, chasing Arya through stern gray stone corridors, and had all but known the depths of the crypts in Winterfell. Even he had to acknowledge that the ancestral home of House Stark held rather cherished childhood memories for him.

He understood why Rhaenys had always said she loved exploring the equally dull gray stone halls of the Stone Drum. She had grown up running along these halls being chased after Rhaegar Targaryen. She'd known what it was like to explore Aegon's Gardens while being pursued by her own mother. Jon didn't blame his half-sister for believing that Dragonstone was superior to Winterfell.

But that didn't mean that he had to agree with her.

Finding his way to Aegon's Chambers had been a relatively simple affair. It hadn't been difficult to navigate the stone halls, and the Unsullied were more or less under his command by proxy of his aunt.

And to make things better-he had his enemy right where he wanted him.

What a lark it had been in the end. His father and thousands more had died so a pretender might take the Iron Throne. All for one madman's delusions…

Delusions? Delusions of what? Grandiosity? Perhaps not. Aegon believed he was Aegon. The son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon. Had been told as much since he'd been in swaddling clothes. Had felt it in his very being-so much so that he'd do anything to see his beliefs right to the bitter end.

A part of Jon Stark wanted to tear this other man limb from limb with his own two hands. He'd wanted to do so only days prior when they first met outside the Dragon Gate.

Yet that was before the war and bloodshed. Before Jon had seen the hundreds of corpses being burnt or left out in the cold while men bled and screamed. While children cried for their fathers, and women wailed for their husbands. Now, the fiery tempestuousness of the Targaryens had since been cooled, tempered even, by the Stark blood that flowed through his veins.

His fury was all for naught, he realized, as the two guards had opened the twin doors, and he saw the Pretender's condition for himself.

The pretty face and stern jawline now had thick bandages coiled around them, most of the coverings were stained in blotchy reddish brown. Four jagged, imperfect gaps had been cut open where his mouth, nose, and eyes would be. There were piles of bloodied rags and linen sheets around him, and the pillows on the bed had been formed into a sort of makeshift chair. And he was covered and bound with large plain robes which stuck to his mangled body.

Even from the opposite side of the room, Jon could hear Aegon struggling to exhale. His breath seemed labored, tortured even, with the sound of his lungs rattling painfully with each passing second.

And, there even seemed to be the thick stench of rotting flesh.

Maester Cressen, an old man whom Jon had recognized from his first visit to Dragonstone, had risen from Aegon's side. He looked, somewhat thankfully, at Jon. "Lord Stark," He said as he approached. "You've come to take him back to King's Landing?"

"Only if he'll survive the journey." Said Jon. "But Lady Daenerys has informed me that he won't. And I assume you'll say the same."

"Just right," The old man nodded. "I've given him some nightshade to ease the pain, but enough to end his suffering. One might say that it is a miracle he survived the landing, but…" He paused, wiping away a cold sweat from his brow. "Any man in such a condition would simply wish to die."

Jon could only nod in agreement. "His injuries?"

Cressen glanced back at the wounded Pretender. "He cannot walk, as many of the bones in his legs have been shattered. The radius bone in his right arm could be fixed manually, but I fear that the shock of resetting it would kill him. Plenty of skin tears and scars all across his body, largely the torso and arms. Internal bleeding beneath the skin has led to bloat. Most of all, his lungs seemed to have been crushed. He can inhale just fine, but exhaling is difficult, and brings even greater pain."

Even Jon had to wince as he filed away the horrifying injuries to the depths of his mind. "I see," He said. "How long does he have?"

"I gave him enough for the next few minutes. I admit that I was hoping to ease his passing, though I've heard and seen plenty regarding his crimes."

"You were only doing your duty as a Maester," Jon smiled at the old man. "The Gods shall judge him in death. You've done your part. Now, leave me with him for a while, and I will call you back once he's passed."

The old Maester seemed relieved at the chance to get away from the dying bedridden man on the other side of the room. He simply bowed to Jon, "Of course, Lord Stark." He said and went out the doors behind him.

Jon, careful as always, checked the room's various nooks and crannies in advance, in the off chance that this was some kind of trick. Perhaps borne out of paranoia, or the level of professionalism instilled in him by Arthur and Starag, it didn't matter. Once he was satisfied that there were no hidden daggers in the dark, he laid his eyes upon the plain wooden stool once occupied by Cressen. He approached it and took his seat.

Aegon's labored breathing was even more palpable up close. From just a few feet away, Jon could hear the ringing of the mucus in the Pretender's lungs. The looping echo it gave off the walls of now decaying flesh. It was wheezing, and even… even nightmarish in a sense.

Jon Stark had been taken aback at that moment. This was the same man who had so eagerly claimed that he'd rape and murder his sisters. And now, Jon was feeling pity for this… Pretender?

Pity? Yes. And… perhaps even a bit of remorse.

It was clear that they were related. Aegon had Targaryen blood in his veins. He couldn't have claimed a dragon without it. And perhaps they might've not been brothers, but they might've been family in another life.

All of it made sense now. Varys had spilled everything earlier. Aegon wasn't really meant to be his own man. He was only supposed to be a figurehead for the Spider and his partner-this cheesemonger Mopatis. Their little plan to control a continent. And probably, though Jon half-suspected, but didn't quite have all the evidence to prove it, some sort of Blackfyre scheme to take over Westeros.

Without the two of them, Aegon might've been a force for good. He might've fought by Jon's side when the time came. Not for the Iron Throne, but against a much more powerful enemy than either one of them…

Not much point in thinking about it, Jon decided, averting his eyes briefly away from the horror that lay just a few feet away from him.

"You…" The breathing had somehow gotten even more labored in a matter of seconds. Jon looked up. The two glassy pale indigo eyes had flared at the sight of him, having recognized the man who put him there. "...You… Sssss… Sssstark." His words sounded like a knife being dragged against a spinning grindstone. "You… ruined… everything…"

Jon forced himself to be cold once more. The situation called for it. He'd love nothing more to remove this Pretender's head from his corpse. But he had respect for his Gods, and would not make himself a kinslayer.

He briefly verified the Pretender's injuries for himself and decided to remain the cool and detached sentinel. He said nothing as Aegon continued to hurl threats and insults at him.

"It'sssssss… not fair…." Aegon croaked. "I'm supposed to be the hero…"

And then the Pretender had stopped speaking for a while longer. Likely the nightshade beginning to set in and do its work on his mind. How long would it be now until Aegon passed on?

Jon Stark sat back, as stone cold as the statues in Winterfell's crypt, and only watched the lulling head of white bandages as it swayed back and forth for a few moments.

Then, it leered towards him only slightly.

"Do you even know… what it's like to pretend you're something you're not?" Aegon asked. "...To have to hide who you are? Just so you can sleep easy at night?"

And that was when Jon Stark's blood ran cold.

From his earliest years, even as the official second-born son to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, he knew that something just wasn't right with his world. That something was out of place. Or perhaps he was out of place. Whatever it was, the longer he kept living there, and the more he grew, the more he felt as if he were living a lie.

The feeling itself was almost always overshadowed by the people around him, of course. His family, his siblings, the guests they'd receive from other northern houses. Yet something felt off in Jon's bones. And it wasn't until he turned twelve that he really found out what the cause of it was.

His father, his biological father at the least, was not Eddard Stark, but Rhaegar Targaryen. He wasn't a full-blooded Stark. He wasn't a full-blooded anything. And if King Robert or any of the other Great Houses had found out, then he'd be dead.

Jon didn't really care if he alone was to be punished-yet he knew that his remaining family, and his home, would come into the crossfire. And it was because of them and their safety that he wanted to keep his heritage a secret.

Jon Stark knew perfectly well what Aegon had meant. And yet…

"No. I wouldn't." He said coldly to the dying man.

His answer had gotten a weak chuckle from the Pretender. "Hrmph!" There was a fresh spattering of blood on Aegon's mouth bandage. "Of course not."

The minutes continued to pass by. And with each second, Aegon's head had sunk lower and lower, eventually until his chin touched what remained of his collarbone. His chest had stopped moving up and down, his breathing ceased to rattle, and his pale indigo eyes had closed shut one last time.

Jon Stark stood up. Aegon was dead, and soon Cressen would verify his death. Letters would be sent out across Westeros. The Pretender had perished from his wounds. A Great Council would be called for. Jon would invariably be the one to host it, as he was acting Hand of the King.

He turned from the limp corpse on the bed and made for the twin doors to the Lord's Chambers. He stopped cold when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye and looked in its direction.

Blackfyre. The hand-and-a-half Valyrian Steel sword wielded by the Conqueror himself. It lay sheathed on one of the long waist-height cabinets along the left wall of the chamber.

Jon, perhaps out of some sort of compulsion or sense of duty, took it.

And then, and only then, he pushed open the twin doors of the chamber and left the way he came.