276AC The Great Hall, Red Keep, Kings Landing
Jon stood in the hallowed throne room of King's Landing, a space that echoed with centuries of history and the whispers of political machinations. The high ceilings stretched above him like the wings of dragons long gone, adorned with the intricate carvings of rulers who had come and gone. The Iron Throne, a looming monstrosity forged from a thousand surrendered swords, dominated the room with its jagged edges and a presence that demanded fealty.
The air hung heavy with a mixture of anticipation and tension, a stark contrast to the biting winds of the North that Jon was accustomed to. The polished marble floor reflected the flickering light of torches, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mimic the complex dance of power in the Seven Kingdoms.
The courtiers moved like pieces on a cyvasse board, each step laden with the weight of political ambitions and hidden agendas. Jon could almost taste the underlying currents of deceit and allegiance, flavours unfamiliar to a man raised in the stark simplicity of Winterfell. The scent of perfumes and the rustle of elaborate gowns filled the air, a stark contrast to the earthy aroma of pine and snow that defined the North.
Despite the grandeur of the setting, Jon couldn't shake the instinctual feeling of discomfort. His Northern sensibilities clashed with the opulence and cunning of the southern court.
The garments of the guests bore the sigils and colours of their respective houses, a visual symphony that painted a vivid portrait of the realm's diversity. The verdant and golden hues of House Tyrell, the sombre bronze and black of House Royce, the fiery orange and red of House Martell, the stark contrast of black and yellow belonging to House Baratheon, and the regal red and gold that adorned House Lannister.
Yet, Jon couldn't help but notice the glaring absence of Northern houses. The familiar blues and whites of House Stark were notably missing, a stark reminder of the geographical and political distance that separated the North from the heart of King's Landing. The Targaryens, ensconced in their southern affairs, seldom cast their gaze beyond the Neck.
The anticipation hung thick in the air as the esteemed guests awaited the grand entrance of the Targaryen royal family. Rhaegar's arrival was imminent, followed by Aerys and Rhaella. When they arrived, it was a meticulously orchestrated affair, ensuring that every noble was in attendance and seated before the royal procession made their grand entrance.
The focal point of the grand hall was the elevated dais, a platform reserved exclusively for the royal family. Despite Jon's proximity to them and his upbringing within their circles, the political nuances relegated him to a position of lesser influence. The top table, perched on the raised platform, accommodated only four individuals—the King and Queen, with princes Rhaegar and Viserys flanking them. It was the pinnacle of courtly hierarchy, an exclusive enclave reserved for the Targaryen bloodline.
Rhaegar occupied a seat beside Rhaella, embodying the grace and composure befitting his status as the crown prince. Meanwhile, young Viserys, the apple of Aerys' eye, was perched in a high chair, a testament to the King's fixation on his one-year-old son. The nursemaid stood dutifully by, ready to attend to the needs of the toddler, who showed more interest in exploration than the ceremonial proceedings.
Jon found himself seated among the small council, a position influenced by the directives of Tywin Lannister. The move was undoubtedly a calculated one, but Jon couldn't shake the feeling that Aerys intended to keep a watchful eye on him. Positioned beside him were Lucerys Velaryon and surprisingly, a young Lord Varys. Although not officially a small council member yet, Jon sensed Aerys contemplating such an appointment for the enigmatic eunuch.
While Jon harboured reservations about Varys, Jon Snow understood the machinations of the man better than Jon Blackstar or anyone else, for that matter. It was a rare advantage for Jon Snow, an edge that Jon Blackstar was prepared to enlist his help in navigating.
Jon Snow settled into his seat, surrendering control to Lord Blackstar, who deftly manipulated his body, mouth, and memories.
"Lord Varys, I presume." Jon flashed a sly grin.
"Lord Blackstar. It's good to meet you at last. I have heard so much about you."
"All terrible I hope." Jon smirked. "I would be so disappointed if anyone were to be too kind. Those sorts are liars of the most grievous kind, my lord."
"Oh, I'm no lord." Varys responded in his trademark coy style. "You, however, are viewed with much admiration, even if you don't hear it for yourself."
"Bollocks!" Jon chuckled. "Lords with daughters fear me, in case I deflower their precious blooms and create havoc for their chances of marriage." Jon leaned in, covering his mouth so nobody could overhear. "Not without good cause, may I add," he said in a hushed tone. "Enough about me; I want to know more about your... little birds. Have they flown the length and breadth of the realm, awaiting mine and Rhaegar's impending cock-ups while we travel the Seven Kingdoms? Well, my cock-ups, not Rhaegar's. He's a good boy. The problem you have, Lord Varys, is that I didn't become as wealthy or as powerful as I did by cocking up."
"Oh, I never thought you did." Varys voice was dripping with sweetness. "I would never underestimate a man of your capabilities." He said as they were distracted by the loud clapping, and the room fell silent.
King Aerys rose to his feet, allowing Jon a closer inspection. His untamed silver hair matched the wildness of his purple eyes. Jon couldn't help but notice the length of Aerys's fingernails, longer than the average man's, a testament to the king's aversion to being touched. Despite being back in Kings Landing for less than a moon's turn, the lack of grooming was already apparent.
"I've returned, ready to rule once more," Aerys declared, his voice hoarse and scratchy. "My gratitude to Ser Barristan for saving my life. Those responsible for my abduction will face justice." Aerys cast a glance toward Jon, who swallowed uncomfortably. "My son will embark on a royal progress around the kingdoms, securing fealty. His friend, the arms supplier, will accompany him. There can be no repetition of my abduction, and I won't allow my heir to be endangered." Aerys smiled down at the toddler beside him. "Ser Arthur Dayne will accompany my son, while Ser Barristan guards my darling Viserys."
Jon couldn't help but notice how Aerys referred to Rhaegar as his son, yet never as his heir. Was Aerys already mulling over shifting his favour from Prince Rhaegar to Prince Viserys? Jon doubted the realm would take kindly to such a change, but it was unlikely to happen. Despite the rumours circulating about Rhaegar's potential disinheritance and the uncertainties that clouded his legitimacy, Jon believed Aerys was merely using the threat to keep Rhaegar in check. It was a shame; had Rhaegar taken action sooner, perhaps the war could have been averted.
The feast unfolded with the serving of quail's eggs, the first of twenty planned courses, each a mere morsel before the next arrived. Jon noticed the king ate nothing, likely consumed by paranoia that someone might attempt to poison him. Jon couldn't help but wish that someone had the courage to carry out such a deed. Of course, this was not the place to voice such thoughts. However, being in proximity to Lord Varys presented Jon with a chance to manoeuvrer himself into the king's good graces, perhaps even improving the perception of Rhaegar along the way.
"Lord Varys," Jon said with a slight smile. "I reckon you and I are rowing the same boat. But to be sure, I'll put a question to you. If you give me an honest answer, I'll willingly lend you a hand, in a figurative sense, mind you." He settled back in his chair, extending his long legs in a more graceful and catlike manner than Jon Snow could ever manage.
Varys raised an invisible eyebrow. "Certainly, my lord. Although I fear I may not be of much use to you."
"If you speak the truth, we might find each other quite useful." Varys nodded, but Jon wasn't entirely convinced of his sincerity. "A man, clever in the game, once said, 'Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before.' Despite my disdain for the man, it's a politically astute philosophy. One I often contemplate. So, Lord Varys, where do your loyalties truly lie? Yourself, the king, or the realm?"
Varys furrowed his brow at the question. "Are the latter two not interchangeable?"
"Usually, backing the king is the same as backing the realm. Unless, of course, the king turned out to be bad news for the realm."
"That could be deemed treasonous," Varys replied, looking uneasy.
"It all hinges on my motives. If I ask to protect the king, it's a valid question. Similarly, if I were to act against the king, isn't it a wise question to pose?" Jon inquired.
Varys raised his chin with an air of moral authority. "I serve the realm."
Jon grinned. If Varys had lied, he would have claimed to serve the king. While Jon couldn't fully trust Varys, at least he seemed to be honest in this instance. "Good. Let's get that sorted. Now it's time for us to swap information. I've got a list of houses to visit. His grace wants them to sign the new contract, which is fair. But I'm drawing up a separate agreement, one that'll provide extra support for the crown and the realm. The additional terms can't look like they're coming from his grace; nobody would sign it. Honestly, I'm expecting trouble getting the houses to sign even as it is. So, I need a bit of help with persuasion. Something only you can assist with."
"Blackmail?" Varys grasped the concept.
Jon nodded. "I mean to bolster the Night's Watch ranks. I've also caught wind of dragonglass being handy for their cause."
"Why would they need more men and dragonglass?" Varys inquired.
"Let's just say, it's about securing a future for mankind." Jon smiled.
Varys rolled his eyes. "Did Prince Rhaegar put you up to this?"
Jon shook his head. "Dragonglass is affordable and makes fine arrowheads. I'm exploring its potential for other weapons. The plan is to outfit the Night's Watch with it first. Dragonstone has plenty of it. Winning the support of the North would be a significant achievement for his grace. They're always grumbling about wildling raids. Naturally, we wouldn't want the other houses thinking we're favouring the North too much."
Varys frowned. "Of course not. I just don't understand why you would be so interested in the Night's Watch."
Jon chose his words carefully. "The Watch is short-staffed. I need folks to put my weapons through their paces—using people who pose no threat to his grace. But it requires an investment. I'm willing to put some of my own coin into the dragonglass mining and testing, but as with any new metal, it can get pricey. I don't want to foot the entire bill. It's a business deal that benefits everyone." Jon picked up a goblet of Dornish red and downed it in one, a departure from Jon Snow's usual reserve.
"Why do you think the lords might balk at the price?" Varys inquired.
"I reckon sending a third son to the Watch might be seen as a costly affair," Jon shrugged.
"And what about those without a third son?" Varys pressed.
Jon smirked. "I'll figure something out."
"From me, you're asking for whispers, my lord. Granted, whispers are my trade. Weapons are yours. I'd find little use in your offerings," Varys sighed.
"Not all my dealings are in weaponry. I've got other ventures. Places to cast your web, where your little birds can soar. I might even hatch a few for you myself," Jon smirked. "I boost your trade, you boost mine. All for the good of the realm and his grace." Jon raised a second goblet of wine. Varys nodded, picked up his own, and clinked it against Jon's.
"We have an agreement," Varys said. "I'll send you the information tomorrow on your first houses."
The rest of the feast sailed smoothly. Jon Blackstar proved a natural at mingling. He could charm anyone. The women adored him; the men aspired to be him. Jon Snow found it an intriguing spectacle, but weariness had settled in. Eventually, Lord Blackstar yielded to Jon's desire to retire to his chambers. He bid his farewells and departed for the night.
Jon spent little time in his chambers before realizing why Lord Blackstar had agreed so readily to his desire to retire for the night. An experiment loomed—the one Jon had been dreading. Unwilling to play a part in this, he granted Jon Blackstar full control over his body and mind, though Jon despised the invasion of his sire's best friend's thoughts.
Lord Blackstar shed his clothes and sprawled on the bed. It being summer in King's Landing; it was too sweltering to wear anything to sleep in. Lord Blackstar shut his eyes and took himself in hand, a sensation Jon couldn't escape.
The image of Sansa in her northern attire, the one she wore when meeting Daenerys, flashed in his mind.
Jon's discomfort intensified as Lord Blackstar indulged in vivid fantasies. In his mind's eye, Lord Blackstar pictured himself assisting Sansa out of her dress, running hands along her porcelain skin. The imaginary Sansa turned to him, engaging in explicit acts. Jon observed the spectacle with a mix of desire and horror as Lord Blackstar envisioned her delving between auburn curls and within herself, all while Jon, stroking his own arousal, bore witness.
Despite the unsettling scenario, Jon found himself harder than he'd ever been. It was an overwhelmingly erotic sight, Sansa climbing onto the bed, skilfully taking him into her mouth, guiding him in and out like a seasoned courtesan. Throughout, her Tully blue eyes locked onto his. Jon felt his arousal building, the climax approaching. Lord Blackstar's hand moved faster, all the while Sansa's visage remained etched in his mind, her eyes a persistent gaze. As he was about to lose control, the image morphed into that of the woman Helyn. The woman who he'd woke to find with her mouth around his cock. Lord Blackstar had used the memory of her, and added imagined her to be Sansa instead.
As climax overtook him, Sansa's name escaped Jon's lips. A flood of emotions engulfed him—guilt, horror, pain, desire, but most prominently, love and emptiness. Jon missed Sansa more than he dared to acknowledge. Yet, weren't his feelings always that of a sibling? But she wasn't his sister; she was a striking woman and his cousin. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, Jon acknowledged he had always found her more attractive than a brother should find his sister.
"Typical fucking Targaryen," Jon heard Lord Blackstar utter in his head. "They all want to fuck their siblings."