276AC The Red Keep, Kings Landing
The imminent return of the King spurred Jon into a deliberation over his wardrobe, a task that thrust him into the unfamiliar realm of courtly attire. He yearned for Sansa's seemingly trivial lessons, now regretting the times he had dismissed her explanations about the intricate meanings behind various garments. Jon's wardrobe, predominantly draped in the solemn hues of black, prompted introspection. Would his choice of sombre attire befit the occasion, or would it inadvertently project an image of excessive austerity?
In the dimly lit room, Jon contemplated his limited knowledge of materials, an expertise that barely transcended the rough-hewn comfort of furs and wool, the staples of the North. Yet, as his fingers grazed the fabrics before him, he discovered a revelation that belied his expectations. At eighteen namedays, he stood not just as a seasoned warrior but as a prosperous businessman, the whispers of his success woven into the luxurious textures beneath his touch.
The garments, a symphony of refined silks and velvets, spoke of wealth and status. Fine craftsmanship and meticulous attention to detail bespoke a man of means, one accustomed to the trappings of opulence. The stark contrast from the rugged attire of the Wall to this display of affluence left Jon momentarily awestruck.
As he sifted through the fabrics, an air of uncertainty lingered. The intricacies of courtly dress were an enigma to him, and his longing for Sansa's guidance intensified. Would he unwittingly appear as a penniless bastard in princely garments, or could he successfully navigate the sartorial intricacies of the court?
In this moment of introspection, Jon grappled with the tangible textures of silk and velvet, but also with the intangible complexities of social expectation. His attire, he realised, would be a silent proclamation of respect and deference, a testament to the evolving identity he was still striving to comprehend.
In the quietude of his chambers, Jon confronted a selection of garments laid out on the bed, a visual symphony of black and lilac silk. The jerkin, the breeches, and the shirt harmonised in their hues, a carefully chosen ensemble that spoke of refinement. His fingers grazed the smooth silk, a tactile exploration that seemed to traverse the boundaries of both elegance and his newfound affluence.
The practicalities of time pressed upon him, leaving no room for luxuries like a leisurely bath. Instead, Jon opted for a swift strip-wash, a hasty attempt to alleviate the traces of days spent inert in a fevered slumber. The scent of dried sweat clung to him, an olfactory reminder of the physical toll exacted by his convalescence.
As he navigated the intricacies of dressing, Jon grappled with his reflection in the mirror. The black eye he had received from his training accident with Arthur looked ugly and purple, a vivid testament to the force of the impact. It would take a week, at least, before the bruising would ease. The discoloured skin stood out starkly against Jon's features, a darkened badge of honour that he bore with a mixture of annoyance and resignation. Each time he caught a glimpse of his reflection, the swollen and battered eye would serve as a constant reminder of the unpredictable nature of swordplay.
His vision in that eye was slightly obscured, a persistent haze that distorted the world around him. Jon found himself compensating, tilting his head to get a clearer view, but the bruised eye resisted his attempts to focus. It reminded him of the time his eye had been injured by the eagle.
The rest of him was more akin to his usual appearance. His unruly cascade of curls framed his face, an aspect of himself he sought to corral. The search for a means to subdue his locks led him to a piece of leather salvaged from a jerkin. With a practiced deftness, he gathered his hair, securing it in a firm bun at the nape of his neck. In that moment, a transformation occurred, as if the act of tying back his hair signified a departure from the man who once served the Night's Watch.
His visage, albeit missing the familiar beard, bore an air of newfound composure. Jon observed himself with his one remaining critical eye, acknowledging the subtle metamorphosis that had transpired within the confines of his chambers. The lilac and black ensemble, coupled with the restrained hair, presented a reflection of Jon that straddled the realms of his past at the Wall and the ambiguous identity he now inhabited.
Satisfied with the regal attire adorning him, Jon left his chambers, the interplay of black and lilac a muted symphony of noble distinction. The silk jerkin clung to him, a second skin that whispered of opulence. Each intricately embroidered detail bore witness to the wealth enveloping him, a stark departure from the coarse fabrics of the Wall. The material felt alien, a luxurious caress, foreign to the frigid austerities he once knew.
As he ventured into the castle's corridors, his ears strained for the soothing strains of music, an anticipation for Rhaegar's practiced melodies. Yet, silence met his senses, the absence of melody leaving the air oddly hushed.
Turning a corner, he spotted a guard, resplendent in silver armour adorned with the three-headed dragon motif—an emblem of House Targaryen's dominion. Lacking the iconic white cloak, the guard stood distinct from the Kingsguard. The helm concealed the soldier's face, shrouding them in an air of mystery.
Approaching the sentinel, Jon decided to seek guidance. "I need your help," he said, his voice steady, a manifestation of the leadership and authority he had acquired in a distant life beyond the Wall.
The guard, a formidable figure in silver, turned to face Jon, the helm obscuring any discernible expression. The dragon motif glinted, an emblem of loyalty and allegiance. Jon's request hung in the air, a moment of uncertainty enveloping the encounter between the man of the Wall and the sentinel of the realm.
"Anything, Lord Blackstar," the soldier responded, his voice laced with deference and a palpable undercurrent of trepidation. Jon, accustomed to being the source of fear and respect, recognized the hesitancy in the soldier's demeanour In the Nights Watch, he had commanded respect as Lord Commander, and as the King in the North, he had wielded authority to instil fear. However, this display of nervousness was unfamiliar, a deviation from the usual reactions he elicited.
The name "Blackstar" hung in the air, an enigma in Jon's understanding of his identity. His recollection marked him as Jon Sand, yet the title "Lord Blackstar" now clung to him, an unanticipated designation in this unfamiliar time.
Unperturbed by the soldier's evident disquiet, Jon pressed forward, inquiring about the location of Prince Rhaegar's chambers. The soldier's eyes widened with a mix of reverence and anxiety, as if the mere mention of Rhaegar invoked a subtle tension in the air. Jon's journey into his own past was entangled in threads of mystery and ambiguity, leaving him to navigate the currents of a life that seemed both known and foreign.
The soldier's helm concealed any overt signs of puzzlement, rendering his expression an enigma. Yet, beneath the metallic facade, a subtle inclination suggested a momentary lapse in comprehension. Regardless, the soldier, caught between duty and the spectral aura of Jon's newfound title, offered a nod of affirmation. His silver-clad arm extended, pointing with the precision of a compass, guiding Jon towards his destination.
"At the end of the corridor, turn right, it is the first door," the soldier directed, his voice carrying the weight of awe and apprehension.
Jon, in turn, stood tall and nodded, a gesture reminiscent of military acknowledgment. "Thank you," he uttered, the words a measured acknowledgment of the soldier's assistance. With a brisk turn on his heel, Jon embarked on the path unveiled by the intimidated soldier. The corridors, adorned with regal tapestries and torches casting flickering shadows, seemed to shift around him, creating an ambiance that echoed with the reverberations of time itself. As he ventured deeper into the royal keep, Jon contemplated the peculiar moniker that clung to him, "Lord Blackstar," an epithet that seemed to unravel a tapestry of mystery, entwining itself with his very identity. The soldier's lingering trepidation and the cryptic corridors mirrored the complexities of Jon's own internal labyrinth as he navigated the twists and turns of his enigmatic past.
As Jon approached the terminus of the corridor, the stately door guarded by Arthur loomed large before him, a portal to the sanctum of royalty. The intricate carvings and heraldic motifs that adorned the door bespoke a history as rich as the blood that flowed within. The air, charged with a sense of anticipation, seemed to ripple with the echo of secrets long guarded.
Arthur, sentinel at the threshold, acknowledged Jon's presence with a nod, his eyes betraying a tacit understanding of the weighty matters at hand. Jon, however, harboured a pressing query, a persistent itch in the recesses of his consciousness that demanded satisfaction.
"I got some memories back, but I don't remember anything about Lord Blackstar. Or even my business," Jon admitted, his words a blend of uncertainty and yearning for elucidation.
Arthur, cognisant of the delicacy of their discourse, surveyed their surroundings with a cautious gaze, ensuring their words found no unwarranted audience. Leaning in, he spoke in hushed tones, the gravity of his revelation evident in the solemnity of his expression.
"Your mother was of Targaryen lineage, and she was very wealthy. You, her only child, inherited everything of hers. You invested a substantial amount of money in supplying arms for Lords, both here and in Essos. It paid off, you are the biggest arms dealer in Westeros, one of the richest men too," Arthur disclosed, the weight of Jon's legacy and the legacy he bore resting heavy in the air between them. The revelation unfolded like a tapestry of intrigue, weaving together the threads of Jon's identity, a man of noble lineage and a clandestine commerce that shaped the fate of realms. The door to Rhaegar's chambers stood as both a physical and metaphorical threshold, inviting Jon to confront the echoes of his own clandestine past.
"I only needed to look in my wardrobe to realise that," Jon said. "Do I have my own house and land?"
"You have been granted a small keep in Dorne. On the Princes Pass, you keep saying you are going to knock it down and build your own house. It's called the Tower of Joy," Arthur's voice was low.
Jon's tongue went dry; that was where he was born. Why was the weirwood paste twisting this cruel fate? He simply nodded, and Arthur knocked on the door.
"Come in," came Rhaegar's familiar voice from the other side of the door.
Jon walked inside the room. He was astounded by what he saw. He'd thought the rooms he'd occupied were fairly opulent, even if they hadn't been the first time he'd stayed there. However, they were pauper's apartments compared to Rhaegar's chambers.
So far, the opulence within the Red Keep felt foreign to Jon, a stark contrast to the practicality ingrained in him from his years at Winterfell. In the North, where the castle stood as a bastion against the harsh winters, luxury took a backseat to functionality. Jon's upbringing in the heart of Winterfell never exposed him to such extravagant displays of wealth, and the lavishness of the Red Keep seemed almost decadent.
As he walked through the opulent chambers, adorned with fine tapestries and gilded furniture, Jon couldn't shake the feeling of displacement. The surroundings spoke of a life he might have led if his parents had lived, a life of grandeur and indulgence. The realization struck him, a bittersweet revelation that hinted at the alternate destiny he could have embraced.
The walls were draped with rich tapestries depicting historical battles and Targaryen victories. The furniture was ornate and carved with intricate designs, and the air was fragrant with the scent of exotic perfumes.
Yet, despite the allure of the luxurious quarters, Jon found solace in the nostalgic simplicity of Winterfell. The drab walls and unassuming interiors of his childhood home held a warmth and familiarity that surpassed the grandiosity of the Red Keep. Winterfell, for all its lack of ostentation, resonated with the essence of family and love, values that the regal halls of the Red Keep seemed to lack.
Rhaegar Targaryen sat by a window, his harp resting beside him. His violet eyes met Jon's, and a faint smile played on his lips. Jon felt a mix of awe and discomfort, standing in the presence of a man he barely knew but was supposed to call a friend.
"Jon, my friend, sit," Rhaegar gestured to a cushioned chair. Jon obeyed, still taking in the lavish surroundings. The room spoke of a life Jon never knew—luxury, privilege, and a world entwined with the complexities of royalty.
Jon inclined his head in deference to Rhaegar's princely stature, a practiced gesture that spoke of both respect and acknowledgment. Seating himself as bid, he observed as Rhaegar casually set aside his harp, the mellifluous notes fading into the background. "Wine?" Rhaegar asked, holding up two golden goblets and an ornate glass and gold carafe of red wine.
The early hour dissuaded Jon from indulging in wine, the prospect of clear-headedness more appealing than the muddled conversations born from intoxication. A fleeting desire for a mug of weak ale lingered, a compromise between sobriety and indulgence. "Just woke up. Need a clear head for a few days," Jon explained, a pragmatic decision coloured by the recognition of the potential consequences of impaired judgment. The memory of his recent training mishap, vividly embodied in the ugly black eye, served as a stark reminder.
Rhaegar's laughter resonated, the mirth echoing within the chamber. The prince examined Jon's bruise, his assessment suggesting a lengthy healing process. "A good week or two," Rhaegar estimated, his gaze scrutinizing the injury's severity. "Can you see well?"
Jon, observing Rhaegar's contemplative pour of crimson wine into ornate golden goblets, couldn't help but feel a weariness settling over him. The room, draped in opulence, felt like a stage awaiting the return of a capricious lead actor—the "old man," as Rhaegar referred to him. The choice of goblets, symbols of royalty, echoed the intricacies of their looming encounter.
"I'm going to need this," Rhaegar declared with a sigh, a silent acknowledgement of the impending storm. The wine, like a comforting ally, offered solace and strength in the face of uncertainty. An empty goblet sat adjacent to Jon, a tacit invitation to partake in the ritual.
"The old man is coming back in a couple of hours. I hear he is madder than before," Rhaegar confessed, a shadow of perturbation clouding his features. Jon, well acquainted with the tumultuous nature of the "old man," felt a twinge of anticipation. The air hung heavy with the weight of impending confrontation, and Jon, though seasoned in facing challenges, couldn't shake the subtle unease.
"Are you certain?" Jon inquired, his words carrying a note of scepticism The unpredictability of Aerys, the Mad King, was a well-known refrain in their shared history. The mention of increased madness stirred memories of a troubled past and the looming spectre of a ruler unhinged.
Rhaegar's gaze met Jon's, the exchange pregnant with unspoken understanding. The wine, poured with measured intent, awaited its consumption—a prelude to the impending clash of wills and ideologies that awaited them when the "old man" returned.
Rhaegar chose to change the subject. Rhaegar's scrutinising gaze bore into Jon, a prince's discernment assessing the fragments of regained memory. The air in the lavishly adorned chamber held the weight of shared history, whispers of a bond forged in the crucible of childhood.
"How much of your memory have you gotten back?" Rhaegar's inquiry, delivered with an edge of urgency, hinted at the significance of Jon's recollections.
"Little bits," Jon confessed, his admission a testament to the elusiveness of the past. He tread the corridors of remembrance with cautious steps, retrieving fragments of a narrative veiled in the mists of time. The bond they shared, as friends since childhood, lay interwoven with the threads of a destiny neither could entirely fathom.
"I know we've been friends since we were children. You used to prefer books to swords," Jon shared, a fragment of insight into the Rhaegar he once knew. The memory painted a portrait of a prince whose interests diverged from the conventional pursuits of his.
Rhaegar's visage unfolded into a wide grin, and Jon couldn't help but scrutinise the shared features reflected in their eyes. The familial resemblance, ostensibly attributed to their distant cousinship, painted an intricate tapestry of connections. Yet, the knowledge of their blood ties carried a burden that Jon bore in the silent corridors of his thoughts.
A desire lingered within Jon, an impulse to reveal the truth that lay buried beneath layers of time. But the weight of consequences held him back; altering the course of history was a perilous undertaking, fraught with uncertainties that could unravel the very fabric of existence.
"Did you remember Alysane?" Rhaegar's inquiry sliced through the air, carrying with it the echoes of a name tethered to some corner of Jon's past.
"Who?" Jon's eyes widened, a storm of thoughts thundering through his mind. Alysane—an enigma wrapped in the cloak of forgotten memories. The mere mention of her name conjured the spectre of romantic entanglements, a prospect that seemed incongruous with the shadows of recent tragedies that haunted Jon's conscience.
His heart drummed a frantic rhythm, a staccato beat that mirrored the tumult within. The ghosts of the past, obscured by the haze of amnesia, now clamoured for recognition.
"You've only been fucking her for the last month. Oh well, she can't have been that memorable." Rhaegar's words cut through the air like a concealed blade, slicing through the fabric of Jon's consciousness. The revelation struck Jon with a blend of surprise and discomfort, like an unexpected gust of cold wind on a summer's day. The sly smile that adorned Rhaegar's face hinted at a knowledge both shared and concealed.
Jon, though no stranger to the intricacies of passion, felt a sense of disquiet. The woman, a faceless spectre in the corridors of his memory, bore the weight of an unintended consequence. Her existence raised questions about the Jon Snow, Sand, or Blackstar of this realm. What kind of man was he?
Rhaegar's words lingered in the air, an echo of an intimate revelation. Jon, the stoic Northman, felt a blend of discomfort and mild vexation, like a gnawing itch that refused to be ignored. The revelation of his recent trysts cast a shadow over the room, the weight of unfamiliar intimacies hanging in the air.
Rhaegar, with his knowing smile, seemed almost amused by Jon's visible unease. The prince's words about the fleeting nature of Jon's recent liaisons held a blunt honesty that resonated with a touch of Rhaegar's own pragmatic outlook on matters of the heart.
The mention of Arthur, acting as a herald of hearts' discord, added another layer to the tableau. Rhaegar, often associated with brooding and melancholy, now seemed the more light-hearted of the two. Jon's expression, a mix of distaste and unfamiliarity with the courtesies of such liaisons, earned him a raised eyebrow from Rhaegar.
"I'm supposed to be the dour one, not you," Rhaegar remarked, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. The irony of a prince, renowned for his introspection, chiding Jon for his lack of courtly demeanour did not escape the atmosphere of the room.
Jon, caught in the crossfire of revelations and insinuations, struggled to reconcile his unfamiliar role as the protagonist in a romantic drama. The Tower of Joy, now a realm of both personal and political intrigue, held secrets that unravelled with every passing moment. As the conversation continued, Jon wondered how many more veils would be lifted, exposing the intricate threads of a past he was only beginning to fathom.
Jon, wearied by the discussion of his supposed dalliances, sought refuge in a safer topic—the realm of music, where the strings of a harp held fewer complications than the entanglements of courtly intrigues. In an attempt to steer the conversation away from the shadows of lust and deception, Jon inquired with a measured curiosity, "What were you playing?"
Rhaegar, caught between the strings of his harp and the intricacies of his own designs, revealed his intent to compose for the king, referring to Aerys as the "old man." A casual shrug accompanied the admission, as if the prospect of soothing Aerys with music held both promise and futility.
"But it will only make him more suspicious of me," Rhaegar confessed, his tone revealing a weariness born of political intricacies. "I hear he thinks I set up the kidnapping. Aside from a bit of peace and quiet from his inane ramblings, what was there for me to gain?"
Jon, well-versed in the twisted machinations of courtly affairs, acknowledged the scepticism that veiled the truth. "He thinks you want the Iron Throne," Jon stated, a simple observation that cut through the layers of veiled intentions.
Jon, in a customary blend of bewilderment and frustration, found himself embroiled in the aftermath of political missteps. Rhaegar, his counterpart in this tangled dance of power, railed against the foolish notions of Denys Darklyn with a fervour only matched by the intensity of Jon's recent training sessions.
"Only the gods know where he got that stupid idea from. Denys Darklyn was a stupid fucking idiot. The smallfolk pay their taxes... well, most of them do. Did he really think Lord Tywin was going to grant him a charter like the one Dorne has if he stopped paying his taxes?" Rhaegar's disdain dripped from every word, a venomous critique of political naivety.
Jon, ever the pragmatist, interjected with a suggestion, a glimmer of reason in the sea of frustration. "Perhaps if Denys had offered something of value, Lord Tywin might have considered something."
Rhaegar's response was a withering stare, a silent declaration of the perceived absurdity in Jon's statement. "You really did hit your head hard," Rhaegar remarked, a touch of incredulity marking his tone.
Before the conversational quagmire could deepen further, a welcome interruption arrived in the form of a knock on the door. Arthur Dayne, the voice of reason and duty, announced the imminent arrival of Aerys's retinue. "Your father's retinue is approaching, my prince. You are expected in the courtyard in ten minutes. Lord Blackstar, you are to accompany Prince Rhaegar." Arthur's words, a summons to the unfolding drama beyond the chamber, underscored the gravity of the impending encounter with Aerys and his entourage. The political chessboard awaited their next moves, and Jon, reluctantly, prepared to play his part.