276AC The Steel Dragon, Kings Landing
The dimly lit corner of the Steel Dragon Inn offered Jon and Rhaegar a refuge from prying eyes. Here, the ambient noise of the crowded establishment acted as a natural barrier, shielding their conversation from the curious ears of nearby patrons. Nestled in this enclave, they found a precarious balance — the tumultuous symphony of merriment serving as a shroud for their discourse.
The worn wooden table, marked with the scars of countless tankards and hasty meals, supported their drinks as they sat close, their shoulders almost brushing. The flickering candle on the table cast dancing shadows across the uneven surface, adding an air of secrecy to their hushed exchange. Jon, his furrowed brow reflecting both curiosity and caution, leaned slightly forward, his ale untouched, as if he needed the clarity of sobriety for the revelations that awaited.
The inn's patrons, lost in their own revelry, were blissfully unaware of the clandestine conversation transpiring in the secluded nook. The murmur of laughter, clinking tankards, and the occasional burst of a bawdy song created a buffer, ensuring Jon and Rhaegar's words remained their own.
In this enclave, their voices, though spoken in low tones, resonated with a weight that transcended the mere physical proximity. It was a haven of shared confidences, where the echoes of their words mingled with the ambient sounds, forming a tapestry of secrets woven into the fabric of the Steel Dragon Inn.
The gravity in Rhaegar's countenance pulled at Jon's attention, prompting him to lean back in his chair, a sense of anticipation settling like a winter frost. The Steel Dragon Inn's ambient clamour, a cacophony of laughter and merriment, seemed to recede, leaving behind a quiet stage for the impending revelation.
Jon's eyes, met Rhaegar's gaze, discerning a mixture of determination and concern within the prince's violet eyes. The air hung heavy with unspoken truths, and Jon, well-versed in navigating the intricacies of power and politics, braced himself for the weight of the impending discussion.
"What is it you really need to discuss?" Jon inquired, his voice a low rumble, a wolf's growl beneath the winter winds. His fingers traced absent circles on the table, a subconscious attempt to ground himself in the imminent exchange.
Rhaegar's response, delivered with a measured sip of ale, carried a hint of frustration masked by the prince's practiced composure. "Tywin wouldn't give me the list of houses to visit. He said you would know who would be the best choices." The words hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken implications. The taste of ale lingered on Rhaegar's lips, a bitter undertone mirroring the complexities of their political dance.
Jon's mind whirred, recalling the intricate web of alliances, grudges, and strategic considerations that defined the relationships between the noble houses of Westeros. He couldn't help but admire Tywin's shrewdness; withholding information became a weapon, a subtle display of power in a realm where knowledge was as formidable as any blade.
The transformation in Rhaegar struck Jon with a profound realization. What was once a carefree prince, who once danced through life's moments, now bore the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. The return of King Aerys, like an encroaching shadow, had cast aside the remnants of Rhaegar's easygoing demeanour Worry etched lines on his forehead, and an undercurrent of fear clung to him, leaving Jon with a sense of empathy for the burdened man before him.
In the quiet of the inn, surrounded by the ambient revelry, Jon glimpsed the vulnerability beneath the prince's facade. A pity for the desolation that had befallen Rhaegar welled within Jon. The ebb and flow of power and politics had reshaped the man, leaving behind a silhouette haunted by the spectre of an unpredictable king.
"The list I've compiled includes: Horn Hill, Starfall, Sunspear, Storm's End, Maidenpool, Gullstown, the Eyrie, White Harbor, Winterfell, the Twins, and Riverrun," Jon enumerated, the weight of each name echoing in the hushed space. He watched as Rhaegar absorbed the gravity of the chosen destinations.
Rhaegar nodded in silent acknowledgment, his gaze fixed on the roster of houses that would shape their journey across the expanse of Westeros. "A year of travelling together. The old man doesn't want that. He'll think we are plotting against him. He'll give us good reason to be separated before we even get to the North."
"We could start with the North," Jon suggested, his voice a steady current amidst Rhaegar's turbulent thoughts. The idea hung in the air, a possibility veiled in the crisp northern winds.
Rhaegar's sombre revelation hung in the air like a shadow, casting a pall over the otherwise lively atmosphere of the Steel Dragon Inn. The inn's patrons revelled in merriment, oblivious to the weighty conversation unfolding in the secluded corner.
"He knows I've been looking into the Pact of Ice and Fire and the renewal during the Dance. Lord Stark has a daughter. The old man wants to keep me as far away from her as possible," Rhaegar confessed, his voice a murmur laced with frustration and apprehension. The intricacies of dynastic alliances and the delicate dance of marriages unfolded before Jon's eyes.
The mention of a Stark daughter, entangled in the complex web of Westerosi politics, caught Jon off guard. This was uncharted territory, a narrative not written in the annals of history. "Is she betrothed?" Jon inquired, seeking clarity on the tangled threads of the North's political alliances.
Rhaegar's nod carried a weight of discontent. "The old man arranged it himself. Robert fucking Baratheon. I mean, the man is a thug and can barely keep his cock in his breeches. I wouldn't be surprised if he's got at least half a dozen bastards already, and he's only sixteen. The poor girl stands no chance."
"How old is the Stark girl?" Jon probed cautiously, mindful of the delicate nature of the subject. The unfolding drama of a Stark maiden already entwined with the ambitions of Rhaegar and the looming presence of the Long Night set the stage for a tale Jon had not anticipated so soon.
The revelation of Rhaegar's preordained path unravelled before Jon like a tapestry woven with threads of fate and legacy. In the dim-lit corner of the Steel Dragon Inn, the gravity of the conversation deepened, shadows dancing on the walls as Rhaegar spoke of destinies entwined.
"Ten," Rhaegar uttered, a solemn admission of a pact sealed before the babe's first cry. The Stark girl, Lyanna, was bound to Rhaegar's fate as surely as the North was to winter. The old man, King Aerys, orchestrating the intricate dance of alliances for the sake of the Targaryen legacy instead of some ancient prophecy.
"The old man arranged the match as soon as Viserys was born. He said a northern girl was of little use to our family," Rhaegar confessed, his gaze lowered to the ale, as if seeking answers in its amber depths. The weight of duty, lineage, and prophecy rested on his shoulders.
Jon's throat tightened as he swallowed the bitter taste of ale. Melisandre's words echoed in his mind, the title of the Prince that was Promised clinging to him like a haunting spectre. "How do you know for certain it is your son?" Jon questioned, his voice edged with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort.
"The dagger disappeared after the Dance. Prince Jacaerys re-negotiated a pact of ice and fire with Cregan Stark. Jacaerys died, and the dagger went missing. I discovered it after its disappearance. I should be the one to honour the pact of ice and fire. It means I am to wed Lyanna Stark," Rhaegar asserted, the weight of prophecy heavy in his words.
Jon's mind churned with the implications. He, Jon Snow, was the living embodiment of this pact. The union between Stark and Targaryen foretold in ancient agreements, the intricacies of which he had now become intimately entangled. The burden of prophecy, lineage, and the tangled web of history settled heavily on Jon's shoulders, a legacy he had not chosen but one he now bore.
In the muted glow of the Steel Dragon Inn, Jon's inquiry hung in the air like a winter mist, swirling around the implications of names, dreams, and the intricate dance of prophecy.
"How do you know your son should be called Aegon?" Jon asked, his mind grasping at the threads connecting him to the legacy of Targaryens past. The name Aegon bore the weight of history, echoing with the footsteps of conquerors and kings.
Rhaegar's response was steeped in the surreal tapestry of dreams. "It was in a dream," he confessed. "I was standing with a dark-haired woman. We were holding our son, Aegon. His was the song of ice and fire. I then played the tune upon my harp and crowned her with blue winter roses," Rhaegar narrated, the vivid imagery conjuring a scene from the ethereal realms of his subconscious.
Jon couldn't help but ponder the significance of this dream, the harmonious convergence of elements that marked his existence. "Has anyone else ever heard the song?" Jon probed further, seeking to unravel the layers of prophecy that bound them.
Rhaegar's head shook in negation. "If she knows not of the song, then I am mistaken. The song was given to me in a dream. A dream shared only by the woman who will bear the Prince that was Promised," Rhaegar concluded.
"Ray," Jon's words cut through the air like a blade, a sincere inquiry wrapped in the cloak of brotherhood, his voice carrying the weight of years of shared history and understanding. "How do you know any of this is real?"
Rhaegar, burdened by the prophecies that intertwined with his lineage, met Jon's gaze with a sombre intensity. "I know you have always been apprehensive of the prophecy. But the long night is coming, and the dead come with it. The Prince that was Promised is our saviour He will save us from the long night. He will unite realms, he will gather forces from places no one would expect. He will be the first King to do so," Rhaegar declared, his words echoing with the gravity of a destiny foretold. "Jon felt a shiver going down his spine, Rhaegar uttering the same words Jon declared when he was crowned King in the North."
As Jon mulled over the enormity of the task ahead, he poured himself another measure of ale, the liquid gold cascading into his tankard like a balm for the weary. "It is a lot to ask of one man," Jon remarked, his thoughts veering into the realms of responsibility and sacrifice. "I can't imagine the weight of responsibility of saving the world would make anyone particularly happy."
Rhaegar, a figure marked by both duty and melancholy, nodded in agreement. "He will grow to become a man of duty. More so than any man I know," he spoke, a tinge of sadness underlying his words, as if he could already sense the trials and tribulations awaiting the reluctant hero destined to bear the weight of the realm on his shoulders.
Jon shifted uncomfortably, the weight of Rhaegar's words settling like a heavy cloak upon his shoulders. "Have you seen him?" he asked, his voice a murmur laden with unspoken concern.
"Aegon has the dark hair of a Stark and carries a sword with a white wolf handle, adorned with red garnets for eyes. But other than that, I never see his face," Rhaegar replied, his gaze distant, as if peering into the depths of an elusive future. He turned to Jon, and their eyes met in a moment of shared gravity. "If it weren't for the prophecy, I wouldn't care to be King. But Aegon must sit upon the Iron Throne to gather these forces. How else could he do it? If he is to ascend the Iron Throne, then so must I, it cannot be Viserys."
"Mayhaps we should leave the prophecy talk for our journey." Jon redirected the conversation, a subtle manoeuvrer to navigate away from the abyss of foretold destinies. Rhaegar simply nodded, his face holding a sombre expression.
The prophecy, a looming spectre in their conversation, lingered like a shadow over Jon's thoughts. The notion of destiny and duty weighed heavily on him, and he sought refuge in the tangible, the practical. "So, we start at Horn Hill. I wanted to have a look at the Tower of Joy, to see what state it is in,"
Rhaegar nodded in agreement, acknowledging the practicality of Jon's suggestion. "An idea. It might come in useful," he concurred, the air heavy with unspoken undertones of history and secrets yet to be unveiled.
Rhaegar nodded in agreement, acknowledging the practicality of Jon's suggestion. "An idea. It might come in useful," he concurred, the air heavy with unspoken undertones of history and secrets yet to be unveiled.
"Why?" Jon's question lingered in the air, a palpable curiosity etched on his features.
"Should things go wrong, we need to have a place to escape to. Nobody knows about the Tower, apart from your family," Rhaegar explained, his words carrying a weight of foreboding.
"Should what go wrong?" Jon pressed further, seeking clarity in the veiled intentions.
"What I have planned for our tour," Rhaegar disclosed cryptically. "I must prevent Viserys ascending the throne. I fear he will become as mad as the old man."
"He is thirteen moons of age," Jon pointed out, a hint of scepticism colouring his tone. "How can you tell whether a one-year-old child will become mad?"
Rhaegar leaned back, a contemplative air about him. "I see him attempting to usurp the throne from across the narrow sea. Yet the only crown he will bear will be one of molten gold upon his head. He is no dragon." The words hung in the air, laden with a sense of destiny and inevitable conflict, leaving Jon with a disquieting sense of the storm gathering on the horizon.
Jon, finding himself more intrigued by Rhaegar's plans than the speculative futures swirling around him, noted the subtle descent of Rhaegar into the embrace of wine. The potent liquid had both unsealed his lips and cast a shadow of melancholy upon his demeanour.
"What are we to do on this tour?" Jon inquired, his curiosity cutting through the nebulous talk of destinies.
"We make it clear the houses should ensure the rightful ruler, of sound mind, should be the one to sit upon the Iron Throne. I will take my own clause with me. Of course, it will read as if it was written for father. I am having Symond draw it up," Rhaegar explained with a certain gravitas.
"Then all you have to do is prove your father to not be of sound mind," Jon observed, the simplicity of his words underscoring the complex web of political intrigue they were navigating. Rhaegar nodded, a shared understanding settling between them like a cloak of shadows.
Jon grew weary of the veiled whispers foretelling the fates of those around him. Instead, his mind hungered for clarity on the enigmatic plans woven in the tapestry of Rhaegar's intentions. The prince, well into the cups, had cast aside the shackles of restraint, revealing glimpses of a design both intricate and foreboding. Yet, the libations had also birthed a melancholy in Rhaegar's demeanour, a shadow lurking beneath the veneer of royal composure.
"What's this tour about, Rhaegar?" Jon inquired, his voice a blade cutting through the murmur of intrigue.
"We shall journey through the realms, Jon, spreading the gospel of a rightful ruler—of sound mind—occupying the coveted seat of the Iron Throne," Rhaegar intoned, his words carrying the weight of conviction. "I've commissioned Symond to craft a clause, cunningly mirroring the sentiments of my dear father. It shall be a proclamation veiled in the guise of filial loyalty."
A spark of curiosity ignited in Jon's violet eyes, mirroring the glint of Rhaegar's own, in the darkened inn. "So, your gambit is to expose your father's instability," he ventured, a wry smile playing on his lips. Rhaegar's nod acknowledged the astuteness of Jon's perception, a silent understanding passing between them like a secret whispered in the godswood.
"Can we trust these houses, Rhaegar?" Jon's gaze bore into the prince's, eyes reflecting the winters he'd weathered.
"Trust is a rare commodity, my friend," Rhaegar replied, a wistful shake of his silvered mane. "Tarly and Thorne, I doubt they'll bend the knee. Dorne harbours no warmth for my father, and Baratheon is but a summoned pawn, a flicker in Tywin's shadow." A conspiratorial finger pressed against Rhaegar's lips, a silent plea for secrecy. "Keep this hushed, Jon, as if sharing the whispers of the gods themselves."
Jon, keeper of secrets in the shadows, nodded in solemn agreement. "Your secret finds a haven in my silence."
"But let's not dismiss the houses that elude our sway," Rhaegar continued, the words weaving a tapestry of intrigue. "Their defiance, a cloak for our cause. A puppet show for the eyes of Westeros."
As they conversed, the room erupted in a tempest of voices, a cacophony that mirrored the storm within the kingdom. Jon's keen senses honed in on the disturbance, eyes narrowing as he turned to witness the source of the upheaval.
A fiery-haired tempest stormed through the common room, hurling curses like wildfire. "Get your fucking, filthy hands off of me, you bastard. What do you think I am? A fucking whore?"
The slap of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the hall, a discordant note in the symphony of courtly pretences. The North stirred within Jon, a wolf poised to protect its own. Rising from his seat, Jon's movements were swift, a shadow blending with the dance of chaos.
"Jon!" Rhaegar's grumble cut through the air, a warning lost to the winds. Yet, as the shadows lengthened and the intoxication of Jon Snow dulled, Jon Blackstar emerged, a sentinel of justice unfazed by the inebriated remnants of Snow's restraint.
Hood pushed back, the Northern wolf bared its fangs as Jon faced a middle-aged man, the stench of stale ale and sweat clinging to him like a ghost. A red handprint, a brutal signature, adorned the man's cheek.
"Did you not hear my lady the first time?" Jon's voice, a blend of Winterfell's stoicism and Lord Commander's command, echoed through the room, demanding attention. The redhead, caught in the tempest, watched as a saviour emerged from the storm.
"What's it to you, you little fucking poncy boy?" The man's retort, a venomous hiss, collided with the gathering storm.
Undeterred, Jon approached, a wolf stalking its prey with silent menace. His words, a whispered promise, reached the man's ear like the cold gusts of the Wall. "This is my establishment. If you don't leave, I will kill you."
The room held its breath, caught in the tension of a brewing storm. Jon's voice, a paradox of softness and threat, hung in the air like the sword of Damocles. In that moment, the dance of power shifted, and the Wolf of the North stood unyielding, a guardian in the night, protecting what was his in the merciless game of thrones.
The man's laughter, booming and disdainful, echoed through the room like the clanging of a false victory bell. "A runt like you is Lord fucking Blackstar?" His words, a venomous mix of mockery and disbelief, slithered through the air like serpents, entwining themselves in the shadows. Turning to his comrades, he spun a tale of legends and prowess, a narrative meant to undermine the legitimacy of the Blackstar name. His friends, like sycophantic courtiers, joined in the laughter, a chorus of derision that reverberated through the hall.
Amidst the cacophony, Jon's good eye, caught sight of Mavis, desperately waving to catch his attention. Unfortunately for the boastful man, he remained oblivious to her silent plea. The room, once filled with the hum of revelry, now stood frozen, witnesses to the unfolding drama between the lordly runt and the arrogant provocateur.
Jon, the embodiment of highborn, courtly arrogance, shifted his cloak aside, revealing the hilt of his ornate sword hanging at his hip. The sword, a silent witness to countless tales of battles fought and wars survived, gleamed in the dim light like a sliver of moonlight on the Wall.
"I will ask you all once more, leave," Jon's voice, soft, but firm and unyielding, cut through the lingering laughter like a blade through the morning mist. The room, a battleground of egos, held its breath, suspended between the impending clash of titans and the eerie stillness before a storm.
"Fuck off!" The man's retort, a vulgar anthem, reverberated through the room like a discordant drumbeat.
Jon, a mixture of a stoic northerner and an arrogant courtier, turned to the defiant redhead standing behind him. "A pity he didn't listen," he remarked, a moment of tenderness shared before Jon pivoted, a wolf readying for the hunt, his hand coiling into a fist.
The fist, a harbinger of retribution, found its target with precision, colliding with the man's nose like the strike of Longclaw in the heat of battle. A symphony of pain erupted as the man clutched his face, eyes wide with shock. He cupped his hand over his nose, where blood had already covered his fingers. "Bastard broke my nose," he whimpered, a lament in the song of conflict.
"If you didn't stink so foul, I'd call it an improvement," Jon retorted, a smirk playing on his lips. The insult, a blade wielded with Northern coldness, cut through the thick air of the inn.
Amidst the brewing chaos, two hooded figures materialised, envoys of the retribution promised by the lordly runt. Rhaegar, the prince in the shadows, stood behind Jon, a spectre of authority awaiting its moment to reveal itself. With a flourish, Rhaegar discarded his hood, unveiling the silver hair that marked him as royalty. The inn, a realm of commoners and secrets, hushed in awe at the unexpected presence of the crown prince, heads bowing like reeds in the wind.
The revelation unfolded as the hooded figures shed their disguises, unveiling faces that echoed through the annals of Westerosi history. Ser Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne emerged from the shadows, their identities carving through the inn like Valyrian steel through armour. Rhaegar, his command radiating authority, spoke to the defiant man with a voice that Jon had rarely heard—regal and unwavering, a stark departure from the prince's usual cadence. The man, caught in the grasp of surprise, stood frozen, his defiance withering in the face of royal decree.
"When your crown prince tells you to do something, I suggest you do it," Jon declared, his words carrying the weight of a winter storm. The man and his comrades, like defeated soldiers in the aftermath of battle, turned and departed, leaving the inn to reclaim its uneasy quiet.
With the threat extinguished, Jon turned his attention to the woman, a saviour in her own right. The glint in his eyes, a silent promise of shelter within the Red Keep's walls, met hers. "Would you like to see inside the Red Keep?" he asked, his voice a subtle melody beneath the echoes of confrontation.
Her response, a nod and a grateful declaration, "My hero," painted Jon's stoic features with a rare hint of warmth. The courtyard, once a battlefield of egos, now became a stage for a budding connection.
The clamour of the crowd, resurrected from the lull of conflict, surged like a tempest within the inn. A lone voice pierced the air, a plea for a melodic diversion. "Your grace, can we have a song?" The request, an offering to the whims of the night, hung in the air like a haunting melody.
Rhaegar, the puppet master orchestrating the scenes, exchanged a glance with Mavis, who nodded with the weight of unspoken agreements. In a swift ballet of movements, she glided to the bar, emerging with something in hand. The room, now transformed into a chorus of anticipation, echoed with the collective chant of "Song, song, song."
Jon, caught in the current of revelry, cast a bemused look at Rhaegar, who chuckled in response. "You go. Have fun. I predicted it," the prince declared, the laughter in his voice a rare echo of mirth.
Arthur, the silent guardian at Jon's side, slid into the conversation. "How much are we paying Trev this time? He's got a broken nose so you can have your bed warmed."
"Pay him double," Jon whispered to Arthur, a promise wrapped in the shadows of the night. Looping his arm through that of the fiery-haired companion, he guided her through the sea of voices, out of the inn's chaotic embrace.
As they ambled up the cobblestone street, the lonely sound of a harp could be heard in their wake.