276AC Maegors Holdfast, Red Keep, Kings Landing
Within the towering walls of the Red Keep, whispers of an impending feast stirred the air like a subtle breeze. Jon Snow, harboured a profound disdain for such opulent gatherings. Each revelry resurrected the spectre of his youth, a time when he, relegated to the obscure corners of Winterfell's Great Hall, sat isolated from the warmth of familial bonds. As adulthood unfurled its intricate tapestry, Jon's aversion to feasts deepened. No longer mere celebrations of mirth and indulgence, they had transformed into arenas where the sycophancy of lords towards monarchs tainted the very air.
Politics, that venomous serpent coiled around the heart of courtly affairs, clung to Jon like the northern chill he knew so well. Rooted in the cold stones of Winterfell, his loathing for the subtle dances of power and wealth ran as deep as the ancient roots of the heart trees. Favours, like insidious currency, exchanged hands in the dim-lit corners of the hall, weaving a tapestry of influence often spun at the expense of the smallfolk. A bitter truth that resonated with Jon's northern sensibilities.
Yet, in the dual identity he bore, Jon Blackstar emerged. A man moulded by the intricate machinations of the royal court. Amidst the polished intrigue of the courtly ballet, Lord Blackstar had gleaned the rules of the great game. Here, power, coin, and influence held sway, and Jon, an unwitting player, had become attuned to the cadence of this perilous dance.
Despite his fervent disdain for the political labyrinth, Jon acknowledged the necessity of navigating its treacherous twists. A silent yearning for the guidance of a strategic mind lingered in the recesses of his thoughts. If only someone with the sagacity of Sansa were present, her political acumen could illuminate the murky path. However, the reality dictated that the one who could guide Jon through this intricate dance was not Sansa the politician, but Jon Blackstar, the shrewd arms dealer, best friend of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
The eve before the grand feast cast a muted glow upon the Red Keep, and it was in this solitude that Jon sought the counsel of his other self. Three glasses of Dornish Red, a liquid cloak to veil his thoughts, and Jon succumbed to the embrace of sleep. His wearied body, a vessel for the burdens of leadership, found solace upon the bed, surrendering to the realm of dreams where the boundaries between Jon Snow and Jon Blackstar blurred. A junction where the strategist within could impart the wisdom required to navigate the treacherous currents of courtly intrigue.
In the hushed corridors of slumber, Jon's consciousness slipped into a realm where reality twisted like the tendrils of a weirwood tree. A chair cradled him before a roaring fireplace, the flickering flames casting shadows reminiscent of long-forgotten secrets. He was garbed in the familiar trappings of his Northern attire, a stark contrast to the luxurious fabrics that adorned courtly lords.
Across from him sat Jon Blackstar, a mirror image that bore the weight of distinct differences. The air hung heavy with the resonance of their duality. Where Jon Snow exuded military rigour, a disciplined embodiment of the Night's Watch, Jon Blackstar reclined with an air of casual indifference. A goblet, brimming with the crimson hue of Dornish Red, rested in his grasp. Symbolic of a man unburdened by the formality that shackled Jon Snow.
"Took you long enough." Lord Blackstar drawled, his voice a low timbre that resonated in the chamber of Jon's dreams. He looked upon his mirrored counterpart with an arch of his brow, a motion that spoke of years of divergent experiences. "I didn't think you'd ever bother to get to know me." he added, the wine in his goblet swirling in a lazy dance.
The juxtaposition was palpable. Jon Snow, the stoic commander, faced a version of himself that navigated the intricacies of the realm with a fluidity born of the shadows.
"I suppose it is best we get to know one another." Jon ventured, a wary acknowledgment of the peculiar communion taking place within the recesses of his mind. "I've got to live in your body. I need to know and understand your life."
A sly grin curled upon Lord Blackstar's lips, a manifestation of the rogue spirit that animated this shadowed reflection. "I like to fuck, drink, and fight. In that order. You're a boring twat who likes none of those. Although I'll grant you, it appears you are a better fighter than me. Definitely a better swordsman."
Jon's gaze tightened, an unspoken challenge in the depths of his Stark-gray eyes. "I can't say I was too pleased to wake up with a woman's mouth around my cock." he sneered, a visceral distaste lingering in the cadence of his voice.
"Get used to it. I like redheads sucking my cock." Lord Blackstar retorted, his words a brazen declaration that echoed through the imagined chamber.
"Is there anything I can offer to stop you from fucking every redhead in sight?" Jon posed the question, a negotiation in the moonlit space where the firelight flickered.
In the landscape of his dreams, Jon Blackstar's countenance shifted from a fleeting frown to a mischievous smile. A dance of expressions that hinted at the depths of his persona. Jon Snow, the unwilling host to this nocturnal symphony, regarded him warily, uncertain of the intentions veiled behind that intriguing visage.
"Well, there is one." Lord Blackstar admitted, his words carrying the weight of secrets yet unveiled. Jon leaned forward, his curiosity tinged with a hint of trepidation.
"Go on." Jon urged, unsure if he truly desired the revelation hidden behind the sly grin.
"Just a wank in the morning, nothing more, nothing less." Lord Blackstar confessed, the casualness of his admission belying the complexity of their shared predicament. "I'll do the imagination, you do the wanking." His grin widened, a rogue's challenge thrown into the delicate dance between the two halves of a fractured whole.
A solitary eyebrow raised in Jon's inquisitive gaze, uncertainty etched in the lines of his furrowed brow. "Will I witness your... imaginings?" he asked, his voice a blend of curiosity and a subtle wariness that mirrored the apprehension of a man navigating uncharted terrain.
Lord Blackstar, the maestro of this peculiar arrangement, responded with a smile and a nod. "The most beautiful woman ever. I'll just imagine she's sucking my cock." he said, the audacity of his declaration hanging in the air like a lingering melody. Jon, tethered to this surreal exchange, grappled with the implications of this shared intimacy.
"You do that in the morning, I will keep silent, until you need my help." Lord Blackstar proposed, an unspoken pact forged in the crucible of their intertwined destinies. "It won't be forever. We have one year, then we will merge. You will never hear my voice again, but you will inherit some of my traits, albeit on whatever you want to inherit. I suspect it will be my political skills and ability to sweet-talk anyone into a trade deal." He said, the weight of an impending convergence casting shadows over the dreamscape.
In the shadowed realm of dreams, Jon, tethered to this paradoxical communion with Lord Blackstar, nodded in reluctant acceptance. "That sounds like a fair trade. Who is the pretty girl? Where did you meet her?" His words carried a blend of curiosity and a subtle unease, a testament to the delicate balance of shared existence.
"In your head. You know her, not me." Lord Blackstar replied, a sly smile playing on his lips. Jon's brow furrowed in contemplation, trying to discern the identity of this enigmatic woman dwelling in the recesses of his own mind.
"Ygritte?" Jon ventured, his voice laced with a note of uncertainty. Lord Blackstar, however, shook his head in negation.
"No, the other redhead." The revelation struck Jon like a sudden gust of icy wind, and horror painted his features.
"My sister, Sansa?"
Lord Blackstar, seemingly unfazed by the shock radiating from Jon, simply nodded. "Oh, come on, she's not your sister. She's certainly not mine." His cavalier attitude clashed with Jon's deeply ingrained sense of familial loyalty, and a knot of discomfort tightened in the pit of Jon's stomach.
"This might not work. My body won't react to those sorts of... thoughts." Jon confessed, a wave of nausea threatening to engulf him. The surreal nature of their exchange, entangled with the complexities of desire and identity, left Jon grappling with the unsettling reality unfolding within his own mind. Especially after what had occurred with Helyn. To make matters worse, Jon knew Lord Blackstar knew.
"You know, I have more control over this body than you, Jon." Lord Blackstar asserted, an unexpected revelation that added another layer of discord to their peculiar pact. He continued, dismissing Jon's qualms with a surprising nonchalance, "I've been quite generous in allowing you to use it so far. If I wanted to wank to an image of your sister sucking my cock, you can't really stop me. I'm just being polite."
Jon recoiled, torn between the visceral discomfort of their shared intimacy and the unyielding grip of his own principles. Desperation etched his expression as he sought refuge in a different query, trying to redirect the conversation away from the unsettling discussion about Sansa.
"How do you know we will merge in a year?" he inquired, grasping for a thread of understanding in the labyrinthine web of their shared fate.
"I had a visit from the Three-Eyed Raven." Lord Blackstar disclosed, his voice carrying the gravity of unseen forces. "He told me you would inhabit my body. My spirit would guide you for a year, and then we would merge. I would get to follow you through your journey for the rest of your life. Which, according to the Three-Eyed Raven, will be one I will enjoy. I just need to teach you how to navigate through the initial stages of being me while keeping your... honour and integrity." Gritted teeth accompanied Lord Blackstar's attempt to articulate a concept that seemed alien to his essence.
Jon, grappling with the implications of this cosmic arrangement, felt a tide of conflicting emotions surge within him. Disgust rippled through his core at the prospect of the peculiar arrangement laid before him.
The idea of compromising his principles for the sake of the enigmatic Lord Blackstar's desires gnawed at the very fabric of his being. Yet, intertwined with this repulsion was a flicker of resignation. An acknowledgment that Sansa, the very embodiment of his Northern honour, would forever remain beyond his reach.
As the internal tumult waged within him, Jon's thoughts flirted with the idea that, in the grand tapestry of fate, perhaps this bizarre agreement could be a thread woven with more intricate complexities than met the eye. The deal, draped in the shroud of Lord Blackstar's teachings, seemed too alluring, the barter seemingly imbalanced.
"What are you getting out of this? It doesn't seem like much." Jon queried, the scepticism apparent in his tone, a Northern chill echoing through the words.
"The Three-Eyed Raven told me everything I would get out of this arrangement. I couldn't say no." Lord Blackstar confessed, a smile playing upon his lips as if privy to secrets hidden in the cryptic language of dreams. The echoes of the Three-Eyed Raven's proclamation lingered, an unseen architect weaving the strands of fate into an intricate tapestry.
"Of course, I never mentioned wanking to the image of his sister, although I suspect he had an idea, considering he knows my preferences." Lord Blackstar continued with a cavalier nonchalance that hung in the air like the scent of winter's impending frost. Jon, despite his stoic demeanour, sighed. A mixture of resignation and a gnawing discomfort at the turn the conversation had taken.
"Alright, I'll do it." Jon said, his voice an indistinct murmur that echoed through the chamber of their shared consciousness. The weight of compromise settled upon him like a cloak, each step forward a dance with shadows cast by the peculiar arrangement he found himself entangled in.
"So, are you going to help me with the feast?" Jon inquired, a pragmatic acceptance colouring his words. Lord Blackstar responded with a knowing smile, a puppeteer prepared to guide Jon through the delicate intricacies of courtly affairs.
"Let me take over, then watch and learn. I'll let you take over occasionally, to see if you can do it yourself. Pretend it is like using a new weapon." Lord Blackstar proposed, the analogy framing their shared venture within the realm of familiar battles. Jon, ever the warrior, nodded. A tacit acknowledgment of the necessity to wield this newfound weapon of political intrigue.
The feast, an impending battleground, awaited, and Jon, both reluctant pupil and unwitting participant, prepared to navigate the dance with Lord Blackstar's guidance, a shadowed maestro orchestrating the steps.
In the chamber of reflection, Jon, now under the subtle guidance of Lord Blackstar, found himself transformed. The transition from the sombre attire that had long draped him to a more vibrant ensemble became an unexpected metamorphosis. Instead of the customary plain garments, Lord Blackstar chose a cloak of opulence. An ebony silk coat adorned with threads of lilac and silver, weaving intricate patterns like the tendrils of an elusive vine. The lilac silk shirt and black velvet breeches completed the ensemble, wrapping Jon in a tapestry of colours that spoke of a different station.
As he stood before the looking glass, the stark realization of his altered appearance pierced through Jon's stoic facade. His long hair, usually a cascade of Northern winds, was partially tamed, revealing the pronounced widows peak and the violet eyes that mirrored the evening sky. The reflection seemed to mock him. An image of princely refinement, a stark departure from the humble guise he had always worn.
"I dress like the bastard, and you the prince." Jon Snow muttered to the mirrored apparition, a whisper to his own reflection. The irony hung in the air, a bitter taste of a role thrust upon him. He could almost sense Lord Blackstar's unseen eye-roll, a silent acknowledgment of the reluctant puppetry.
"Don't forget, I'm in charge." Lord Blackstar's voice echoed in Jon's mind, a reminder that the puppet strings were not his to control.
As Jon Snow settled into the chair, relinquishing the reins to the subtly named Jon Sand, the dichotomy within him became palpable. The lilac and silver threads now intertwined with his identity felt like chains, binding him to a role he never sought. The dance of identities unfolded, and Jon, caught in the ebb and flow of his own transformation, braced himself for the theatrics of courtly life. A reluctant prince in a cloak of silk and secrets.
In the grandeur of the Great Hall within the Red Keep, preparations were underway for a feast ostensibly in honour of Prince Rhaegar's forthcoming royal progress alongside Jon. Yet, beneath the veneer of celebration, a clandestine choreography unfolded, guided by the subtle machinations of Jon and his alter ego, Lord Blackstar. Their objective: to ensure the lords swore fealty to the crown, and for Jon to insert disclaimers into the weapons contracts that bound him to the noble houses.
The Iron Throne, a monstrous testament to centuries of power struggles, loomed over the proceedings. Forged, as the tales claimed, from the thousand swords surrendered to Aegon the Conqueror, the throne bore the weight of Westerosi history. However, time had stolen its former glory, swords plucked away like petals from a wilting rose, rendering the once majestic throne a diminished relic.
As Jon navigated the expanse of the Great Hall, Targaryen banners unfurled like fiery dragons, their sigils a vivid reminder of a bygone era. The skulls of dragons, long extinguished, adorned the walls, silent sentinels of time. The air in the hall carried echoes of ancient conquests and whispered tales of fiery creatures that once soared the skies.
Tables, arranged in meticulous rows, sprawled across the hall—a setting fit for a hundred and fifty guests, deemed a modest gathering within the Red Keep's opulent standards. The ambiance resonated with the clinking of goblets and the murmur of hushed conversations, the very air pregnant with the weight of courtly intrigue. Jon, attuned to the nuances of power play, moved through the room with a borrowed grace, his senses honed by years of navigating the complexities of Westerosi politics.
Amidst the tapestry of banners and the spectral gaze of dragon skulls, Jon, an unwitting puppeteer in this intricate dance, observed the lords and ladies taking their seats. The feast, a symphony of flavours and perfumes, unfolded like a play—each dish and each word a move in the larger game of thrones.
In this labyrinth of allegiances, Jon Blackstar's political acumen became his guiding compass, steering him through the currents of courtly life. As he mingled amidst the opulence, the Iron Throne casting its long shadow, Jon's every step echoed the unspoken truth—the feast was not merely a celebration, but a strategic gambit in the chessboard of Westerosi power.
