As a note, I am using the TV show timeline between the Defiance of Duskendale and the birth of Dany which is 5 years as opposed to the books which is 6 years. The show timeline is a bit fuzzy and makes no sense. There is no possible way the Tourney of Harrenhal can take place 2 years after the end of the Defiance of Duskendale in 278AC, but Aegon is born in 281AC. Therefore I have taken some liberties with dates so that they make sense.
276AC The Red Keep, Kings Landing
"Wake up, Jon. Are you alright?" The voice cut through Jon's consciousness, foreign and unfamiliar.
"He's taking the piss," remarked another voice, its clipped tone devoid of hostility.
Opening his eyes, Jon found himself met by the gaze of a man unknown to him. Dark hair, violet eyes, and a square jaw—features that spoke of nobility and an air of authority. The sun hung brightly in the sky, its warmth casting a comforting embrace.
"Where am I?" Jon's voice emerged as a faint whisper.
"Oh, come on, Jon. No need to play the wounded soldier," the second voice chimed in.
The man extended his hand, and Jon, uncertain, took it. As the man helped him up, a sudden pain gripped Jon's head, and dizziness clouded his senses.
"I think I hit my head," Jon confessed to the two strangers, his vision swimming. "Where am I?"
"Fuck me, Arthur. How hard did you hit him?" the second voice exclaimed.
"I wasn't aiming for the head; the idiot ducked," retorted the man called Arthur.
"Threaten him with Pycelle. If he's still feeling dizzy, you know it's genuine," suggested the other voice.
Struggling to focus, Jon attempted to identify the silver-haired man who spoke. His blurred vision denied him a clear view, but the unmistakable realization dawned on Jon—he was in the company of a Targaryen, a scion of the dragon-blooded lineage.
"Who's Pycelle?" Jon inquired, grappling with the disjointed fragments of his surroundings.
"Seven hells. He knows nothing. Let's get him to the infirmary," the silver-haired man laughed, a melody of amusement in his voice.
Approaching Jon, the man reached for his arm, unceremoniously pulling it from the shoulders of the one with silver hair. Arthur, as he was called, mirrored the gesture, taking hold of Jon's other arm.
"You think you can walk?" Arthur inquired, a hint of concern in his voice.
"I don't know," Jon replied, his own words sounding strange to his ears. There was an unfamiliar lilt, a softening of the rough edges. "Where am I?" he asked, attempting to move forward with the aid of the two men.
"You're at the Red Keep," the silver-haired man stated. "You ever heard of it?"
Jon nodded. "I thought Drogon destroyed it."
"Who the fuck is Drogon?" Arthur demanded.
"A dragon," Jon clarified.
"He's going to be out of it for a while," Arthur laughed. "Might even miss your nineteenth name-day, Rhaegar."
"Seven hells, Bran, what did that paste do to me?" Jon wondered aloud. "I'm hallucinating my sire."
"I know I look like our father, but I'm not. I'm your half-brother, Arthur. Do you know who you are?" Arthur asked, his voice holding a mixture of patience and concern.
"I was born Jon, Jon Snow."
"Erm, no. You were born Jon Sand; you were born in Dorne," Arthur corrected gently.
"I know that. My mother died in childbirth. But my parents were married," Jon insisted, the fog in his mind beginning to lift. Rhaegar's features became clearer, the contours of his face sparking a distant recognition.
"No, they weren't. Molly was father's Mistress," Arthur revealed, his tone shifting to a shared acknowledgment of Jon's apparent confusion. "Gods, he's lost it," he muttered, addressing Rhaegar with a shake of his head.
A shadow fell over them, and the ground hardened, the tiles or marble beneath Jon's unsteady steps providing a cold contrast to the softness of the snow he had grown accustomed to. Moments later, they found themselves inside what Jon assumed must be the Red Keep.
"Where's Pycelle?" Rhaegar inquired.
"In his solar," someone replied. "Seven hells, what's up with Jon? He's gonna have a black eye, by the looks of it."
"Training. I went to hit his shoulder, stupid idiot ducked, I caught him on the head. Went down like a sack of grain. Think he's got a concussion. He knows nothing," Arthur explained, his voice carrying the blend of frustration and amusement.
"I'll go warn Pycelle," the voice said, and Jon heard footsteps disappearing into the distance, leaving him in the echoing silence of the unfamiliar surroundings.
By the time Jon staggered into the solar of Maester Pycelle, his vision and coordination had improved, but the disorientation lingered like a stubborn shadow. He craved a moment alone, a respite to unravel the mystery of his inexplicable journey. He had surmised that he had been thrust back in time to an era when Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne graced the realm. To his astonishment, he discovered himself to be Ser Arthur's bastard half-brother. The notion of a Targaryen acknowledging a bastard seemed improbable, yet the bond with Arthur might explain it.
In the office, an old man adorned in light brown robes, his chain of a Maester tinkling softly, scrutinized Jon.
"Ah, yes, let's see, what do we have here?" Maester Pycelle inquired.
"He doesn't know anything," Arthur interjected.
"He never did," Rhaegar chuckled. "Arthur hit him on the head with a sparring sword."
"Oh dear," Pycelle shook his head. "Never mind. Let me have a look at you."
Jon settled into the chair, submitting himself to Maester Pycelle's scrutiny. The old man's probing fingers felt as delicate as spider silk on Jon's forehead.
"What year is it?" Pycelle inquired.
"Sometime before 283 AC," Jon replied.
"Do you know your name?"
"Jon Sand."
"Do you know your father's name?"
Glancing at Rhaegar, Jon hesitated. Revealing his true name would be a folly, and lacking knowledge of Ser Arthur's father, he opted for a name that would raise no eyebrows. "Ned."
"Jon said some rather strange things when he came round. He talked about the Red Keep being burned down by a dragon called Drogon," Rhaegar interjected.
"Strange, very, very strange, indeed," Maester Pycelle mumbled, his brow creasing in thought.
"Dragon dreams?" Rhaegar inquired.
"He's never had them before," Arthur chimed in. "His mother was a bastard descendant of Aegon the Fourth. It's not out of the question he could have the dreams."
"And who is the King?" Pycelle directed the question to Jon.
"The ma..." Jon realised it wouldn't be a wise idea to refer to the Mad King as such. "King Aerys."
"Oh well, that is good. At least he knows something," Pycelle nodded. "I suspect he's got concussion, short-term amnesia."
"Is there anything that can be done?" Arthur asked.
"Time would be the greatest healer," Pycelle mumbled, his gaze lingering on Jon. "We could try blood-letting."
"No!" Jon objected. "I'm sure everything will come back to me. If not, I'm in good hands."
Pycelle glanced at Rhaegar and Arthur, both offering confirming nods. "Ah, yes, well. I ought to give you a poultice for that eye of yours. You might not be able to see properly for a few days. I suggest you stay out of the training yard. Maybe get some rest for the rest of today. In fact, I think that would be the most appropriate course of action. Rest will do wonders."
"Alright," Jon nodded. He turned towards Rhaegar and Arthur. "Where is my room?" he asked.
Rhaegar had to leave, but Arthur led Jon to his chambers. "What year is it?" Jon asked.
"277 AC," Arthur replied.
"Just after the Defiance of Duskendale?"
"His grace was rescued a sennight ago," Arthur nodded. "I'm sure he'll be fine."
Jon said nothing as they reached a room in the Maegor's Holdfast. Arthur opened the door, and to Jon's surprise, he found himself in the same room he'd stayed in the night before he left King's Landing to go north. The decoration was different. Tapestries with dragons adorned the walls. The paintwork was cream instead of green. The same terracotta tiles adorned the floor, with cream rugs on top.
The air in the royal wing carried a different atmosphere, a regal ambiance that felt foreign to Jon. He surveyed the room, recognizing the familiar structure of the space that once served as a temporary refuge. However, the stark alterations in decor highlighted the passage of time since his departure.
Tapestries depicting majestic dragons, their scales shimmering in vibrant hues, adorned the walls. The creatures seemed to dance across the fabric, frozen in time, telling tales of a Targaryen legacy that transcended generations. The cream-coloured paint on the walls replaced the previous shades of green, creating an ambiance that spoke of royalty and power.
The terracotta tiles beneath his feet echoed with each step, their familiar touch grounding Jon in the present, even as the cream rugs added a touch of luxury. He couldn't shake the surreal feeling of standing in a room that mirrored his past but belonged to a different era.
"Why am I in the royal wing?" Jon asked, his voice a murmur, carrying the weight of confusion.
"Because you are my brother, and the Kingsguard need to be close to the King and his family. Well Rhaegar insists I stay here, the rest of the Kingsguard are in the White Tower. Also, you have Targaryen blood, even if it is watered down. It is Rhaegar's excuse to house you here. You are his distant cousin and his best friend," Arthur explained, his gaze a mirror reflecting both understanding and sorrow.
Jon's mind, clouded by the lingering effects of a possible concussion, struggled to piece together the puzzle of his identity. He shook his head, a futile attempt to dispel the fog that shrouded his memories. "I can't remember much. Just major events."
"That will do for now," Arthur conceded, his expression softening with empathy. A subtle exchange of glances followed, silent communication that transcended the spoken words. The gravity of the situation loomed over them like a storm waiting to unleash its fury.
Arthur, ever vigilant, checked the surroundings before imparting a cautionary note. "Be careful who you speak to and what you say. His grace is not... well."
"He's mad," Jon blurted out, unfiltered by the social niceties of courtly conversation. The revelation widened Arthur's eyes, a shared understanding of the perilous ground they tread upon.
"You can't say things like that. If anyone should hear you—"
"I know. I'll be burned alive." Jon interrupted with a grim nod, the bitter taste of truth lingering on his tongue. "I might have a concussion, but I'm not stupid."
Acknowledging Jon's pragmatism with a solemn nod, Arthur concluded, "You get some rest. I'll have some food sent up for you. Hopefully, you should feel better on the morrow."
As Arthur departed, leaving Jon alone in the chamber that straddled the precipice of past and present, Jon couldn't shake the unease that settled in his chest. The weight of secrets, the unpredictability of a king on the edge, and the elusive nature of his own memories converged in a disconcerting symphony. With a heavy sigh, Jon sank into the intricacies of the bed, grappling with the enigma of his existence in the heart of the Red Keep.
Once Arthur's departing footsteps faded into the distant echoes of the Red Keep, Jon found himself ensnared in the confines of his own thoughts. Restless as a caged direwolf, he paced the room, the terracotta tiles beneath his feet a testament to the stark reality that seemed to elude him.
The notion of being Ser Arthur Dayne's bastard brother remained elusive, a puzzle piece missing from the tapestry of his understanding. Bastards, shrouded in the shadows of legitimacy, often found their tales erased from the annals of history. If indeed he was Ser Arthur's kin, a secret Targaryen descendant, the cloak of anonymity draped over him would be a logical consequence.
Bran's cryptic words echoed in Jon's mind, a riddle wrapped in the enigma of time. The urgency to decipher their meaning tugged at him, akin to unravelling a scroll of ancient parchment with no clear beginning or end. Whatever destiny awaited him in the past, Bran seemed to imply that patience was both the key and the lock.
The North, a cauldron of mysteries and stirring terrors, held the threads of Jon's purpose. He needed to bide his time, assimilate into the currents of the past, and await the arrival of the person who held the answers to the enigmatic call from beyond the Wall. Bran's request, woven with ambiguity, hinted at a prolonged stay in the timeline of history.
The weight of this realization pressed upon Jon like the heavy cloak of the Night's Watch, a burden he couldn't shed. To observe, to become a silent witness to the ebb and flow of events, required a patience he had seldom exercised. Yet, the urgency to comprehend Bran's vision tempered the impetuousness that often defined Jon's actions.
As Jon contemplated the intricacies of his role in this temporal dance, he couldn't shake the feeling of being a puppet, strings pulled by forces far beyond his ken. The past beckoned, a realm where his every step carried the weight of unseen consequences. A silent oath echoed in the chambers of his mind – to live, learn, and, if need be, sacrifice in the name of a destiny yet untold.
Jon's fingertips grazed his unfamiliar face, the coarse texture of a beard conspicuously absent. A rush of realisation surged through him like a gusty wind, prompting a hasty approach to the mirror, an unwitting witness to the changes wrought upon him. The reflection that stared back was a younger rendition of Jon Snow, unburdened by the mantle of a beard that had once framed his countenance.
Despite the telltale signs of a black eye marring his features, there lingered an undeniable youthfulness that escaped definition. The absence of facial hair, a hallmark of Jon's usual appearance, unravelled layers of maturity, revealing a countenance that mirrored the age of Rhaegar—a parallel existence tethered to the passage of eighteen name days.
A gaze met by unexpected violet eyes, an inheritance from Ser Arthur Dayne's lineage, invited contemplation. The once-familiar dark grey orbs had metamorphosed into hues borrowed from the legendary knight. Yet, within this kaleidoscope of change, subtle resemblances echoed between Jon and Rhaegar—a shared lineage etched in the contours of lips and nose.
A clandestine smile played on Jon's lips, a bemusement tinged with the awareness that, in this altered guise, he stood a good three inches taller. A twist of fate that invoked a silent jest, knowing Robb would have harboured a pang of envy had he been privy to this newfound stature.
Adapting to the Dornish persona thrust upon him, Jon acknowledged the need to shed his northern identity. The longing for a beard remained, a silent protest against the constraints of southern fashion. Yet, he recognized the necessity of playing the part, the role of a Dornishman still unknown to him. In the labyrinth of unfamiliar customs and expectations, the only compass Jon possessed was the authenticity of being himself—an enigma in the realm of contradictions.
Jon settled onto the bed, a temporary refuge from the mysteries woven into his existence. Fingers moved with practiced ease, peeling away garments that draped him in an unaccustomed allure—garments donned in the southron fashion but still tethered to the familiar hue of black, albeit punctuated by lilac accents. A subtle reminder of a life that danced on the periphery of opulence, where even simplicity held the sheen of extravagance. The material clung to him with a lavish touch, whispering tales of affluence that only fuelled Jon's curiosity about the station he occupied in this enigmatic existence.
Stripped of the cloak of unfamiliar finery, Jon pondered the nature of his role in this tapestry of Dornish life. Kingsguard was a dismissible possibility, as was the exalted status of a lord. A nagging remnant of his past, the moniker 'Sand,' clung to him like a shadow, yet here in Dorne, the stigma that accompanied a bastard, melted into the warmth of acceptance. Bastards thrived in the sun-soaked realm, an unspoken truth woven into the fabric of Dornish tolerance.
A yawn, an involuntary surrender to the weariness that clung to him like a relentless phantom, revealed the cost of his mysterious journey. The weirwood paste, a catalyst for transcendence, now emerged as a potential architect of fatigue. Jon's mind flirted with the notion but found itself ensnared in the tendrils of sleep before unravelling the mysteries that lurked within.
His form cradled by the sheets, Jon succumbed to the embrace of slumber, a realm where dreams and revelations danced on the precipice of the unknown, awaiting the awakening that promised both clarity and deeper enigmas.