277AC Red Keep, Kings Landing
The lattice of his windows painted patterns of sunlight across his chamber, the warmth caressed Jon's face, coaxing him from the cocoon of sleep. Reluctant to sever the embrace of illicit dreams, he lingered in the comfort of his bed, the sunlight a gentle herald of the waking world. Yet, a numbness in his arm, reminding him of shared slumber, nudged at the edges of his consciousness.
His eye cracked opened to witness a cascade of fiery red hair spilled across his body. Unperturbed by the unusual circumstances, Jon emitted a low hum, a melodic attempt to cling to the remnants of sleep.
The bed yielded to a subtle dip as his companion beside him stirred. Tiny kisses, peppered his abdomen, then the red hair vanished beneath the cotton sheets.
Morning greeted Jon with a familiar companion—morning wood, an involuntary response of the male form to the whims of nocturnal fantasies. The ghostly remnants of the recent erotic dreams lingered. Yet, today, his morning wood carried a realism that transcended the boundary between the dream realm and the real world.
A warm mouth enveloped Jon's aroused member in a sensuous dance. Wet and irresistibly pleasurable. Jon, caught in the throes of an unexpected blow-job. He reluctantly opened his eyes and lifted the sheet. The cascade of red hair spilled across his abdomen like a river of flames. The owner was the source of the tantalizing sensations. His heart, an eager accomplice, quickened its pace at the unfolding scene, a rhythm that mirrored the escalating desire that coursed through his veins and the throbbing of his stones.
With each tantalizing suck and lick, the sensitivity heightened, sensations coaxed Jon to the precipice of no return. The tingling current, traced a path along his spine, signalling the imminent arrival at the point of surrender. A delicious tightening sensation, like the gradual pull of unseen threads, unfurled from his stones, winding its way through and into his cock.
Jon, lost in desire, harboured a yearning to halt this intoxicating journey, to regain control over the runaway sensations that held him captive. Yet, the tendrils of passion and vulnerability bound him in a spell, leaving him bereft of the willpower to resist. Instead, he moaned loudly, while his hand, wove through the cascade of red hair.
The woman cradled Jon's balls in her hands. A sensation, deep and all-encompassing, enveloped him as she simultaneously took him down, deep into the abyss of her throat. It was a sensory overload, a whirlwind that rendered Jon's entire being temporarily numb, a paradoxical state where he felt both strangely helpless and in absolute control.
Amidst the crescendo, a name, that echoed in the back of Jon's consciousness. "Sansa." Jon cried, a poignant release, coincided with the bucking of hips and the rush of seed, a culmination of desire swallowed by the stranger who was kissed by fire.
The aftermath of his climax left Jon sprawled beneath the sheets, his body adorned with a glistening sheen of sweat.
"Who the fuck is Sansa? I told you, my name's Helyn." The woman asserted.
Jon, his brow furrowed in a post-ecstasy daze, regarded the woman before him. Slim and adorned with long red hair that cascaded like a waterfall of embers, she bore a semblance to the woman whose name had slipped from his lips.
The illusion crumbled upon closer inspection. Her skin, pale and marked by freckles, spoke of a different story. A crooked nose and misaligned teeth painted a portrait starkly distinct from the soft features of Sansa. The lips that had moments ago pleasured him, were now revealed as thin and chapped, the only beauty Helyn could claim, were the strands of her fiery mane.
Fortuitously for Helyn, Jon Snow, the rational echo of Jon Blackstar, had awakened from the haze that had clouded his judgment. As he sat up, shock etched across his face like a revelation unfurling.
"You remember little about last night." She asked.
Jon closed his eyes, attempting to dam the flood of guilty memories that surged forth. Why had he fancied this as an encounter with Sansa? After all, she was raised as his sister. Wanting her lips around his cock was wrong.
"Not much. I was well into my cups." He replied. "Sorry."
Helyn pierced the air with her retort. "Don't worry. I enjoyed it. Whoever this Sansa is, she will be a lucky lady if you plan on wedding her. The things you can do with your tongue..." Her words trailed into a demonstration, as her tongue emerged, a serpent of temptation, wiggling in provocative motions.
A knock at the door bought Jon some time. "Are you awake, Lord Blackstar?" Arthur called out.
"I am." Jon said.
"Would Helyn like to be escorted through the ladies' exit?" Arthur asked.
Jon turned his gaze to Helyn, who puffed up in self-importance, an air of defiance painted across her features. "I believe she would." Jon replied. "She won't be long." Jon directed his next words to Helyn. "We should dress."
Once dressed, Jon and Helyn parted ways as Arthur ushered Helyn out of Jon's room and through hidden passages in the keep.
Dressed in a shroud of self-revulsion and guilt, Jon grappled with the dissonance between his innate nature and the unbridled inclinations of Lord Blackstar. Random liaisons and fleeting encounters with faceless women were at odds with the Jon Snow moulded by the icy winds of the North.
Yet, a deeper unease nestled in the recesses of Jon's conscience—the unsettling images of a red-haired woman morphing into the visage of Sansa. Lord Blackstar's desires seemed to gravitate toward women kissed by fire. But why was Jon having erotic fantasies about Sansa? The mere notion should repulse him.
The throbbing echoes within his skull were like the distant growls of a brooding direwolf, a reminder of the excesses of ale that had fuelled the night's escapades. Jon's hand reached for a decanter of lemon water to quell the tempest within his head.
On the table was a simple yet comforting feast. The savoury allure of bacon mingled with the hearty embrace of freshly baked bread. Jon bit into the crispy bacon, the saltiness burst on his palate, food soaking up the alcohol he had consumed the night before.
Armed with sustenance, Jon retreated to the dimly lit sanctum of his solar. Jon sat behind the large oak desk and opened the drawer where he found the agreements and contracts he had put there the day before, ready for the perusal of Symond Staunton.
Symond Staunton was awaiting Jon's presence to examine the contracts with a fine-toothed comb. The Master of Laws, a man whose loyalties hung in the balance like a sword over a precipice, would be forced into reluctant collaboration. Jon had a list of houses he was to visit, but Lord Staunton had to approve the contracts before Jon could embark on his trip.
Jon needed to be careful. He could not change the historical facts, he was a mere observer of history. However, the list had been of little surprise to him. Twelve names in all. Among them, eight would bend the knee to King Robert. Of those who didn't, were Tarly, Martell, Dayne, and Thorne, stalwart in their loyalty to the Targaryen banner, defied the gravitational pull of Robert's reign. With papers in hand, Jon left the commanding embrace of his solar.
The Chambers of the Master of Laws, where Lord Staunton awaited him, lay near the barracks of the Goldcloaks, a constant reminder of the city's watchful eyes and shifting loyalties. Through the courtyard he tread, the cobblestones beneath his boots. Up the steps, until he reached the door marked by the name Lord Symond Staunton.
Jon's knock was met with the beckoning call of "Come in."
The door swung open, revealing a room adorned in the tapestry of Staunton's identity. The décor mirrored Jon's own solar, but here the dominant hues were black and white. Unmistakably, the sigil of Rooks Rest.
Symond Staunton housed a figure whose appearance was more a reflection of pragmatic power than regal refinement. Portly and middle-aged, Staunton's eyes bore a beady scrutiny, while his balding head competing against the meandering wisps of grey that clung to the sides of his ears, defiantly reaching out beyond the confines of convention. It was a face marked by the wear of bureaucratic battles.
In Jon's hand was the leather-bound package containing the strategic alliances and contractual entanglements. The ink on Tywin's recent endorsement still fresh, and the previous signature of Lord Darklyn were also present.
Approaching the desk, Jon presented the package. "Lord Staunton. Good to see you once more."
The formalities extended to a handshake. "Please sit." Staunton said. Jon took the offered seat, while Symond pointed to the documents.
Jon, ever vigilant, observed the subtle cues that betrayed Symond Staunton's unease. The sheen of sweat on Staunton's brow didn't escape Jon's notice. A cautionary glance fell upon the water placed on the table – a potential pitfall in the game of political manoeuvring, where even seemingly innocuous objects carried latent dangers. Poison or nervousness, most likely the latter.
Seated in his chair, Jon unfastened the black leather case secured with a silver clasp. The contracts emerged from their enclosure. Among them, the revised pact with Lord Tywin held prominence, a document reshaped by the artistry of careful revision.
Jon extended the pages of parchment to Symond. "Water, Lord Blackstar?" Symond proffered the refreshment, his hand reaching for the parchment in Jon's grasp.
Jon shook his head. "I have no thirst, Lord Staunton."
"I hear you had an interesting evening last night. Another punch up over a woman?"
"I reckon the night had its share of excitement." Jon remarked.
"Mayhap you should take a wife." Symond said.
"I will, that is, of course, that is, if I meet the right woman." Jon lied.
Symond's voice, a steady undercurrent to the unfolding negotiations, interjected with a suggestion that rippled through the air like a subtle current. "Mayhap you should consider a Tully." he proposed.
"The last thing I want is a Tully." Jon said, the distaste in his voice. Lady Catelyn had treated him abysmally in his previous life. Lysa Tully carried the weight of instability, her madness echoing the haunting spectre of Aerys Targaryen.
"And why not?" Lord Staunton asked.
"I hear the eldest already betrothed. And the youngest is a little too young for my tastes." Jon said.
"The eldest, Lady Sansa, is already wed, although I believe her elderly husband is sick. That is, if you are prepared to take one already soiled. I hear she is a beauty." Symond suggested.
Jon's brow furrowed in confusion. "The eldest? I thought that was Lady Catelyn." He had never heard mention of an elder sister bearing the name Sansa.
"Sansa is married to some man from the Riverlands. Some Blackwood or Frey. But he is old, and she is his fourth wife. I dare say he won't be of this earth for many moons longer." Symond said.
"Why suggest a Tully?" Jon asked.
The sly smirk on Lord Staunton's face, hung in the air like the scent of deceit. "You do like your redheads." he said. "Everyone in the Red Keep knows that. And you'll be going to Riverrun. It could be an opportunity. If Lady Sansa is a widow by then, she may do well at court. Although there aren't many who would marry her. It seems Lord Tully has a problem with wayward daughters. Although I'm sure she would suffice for you. It would please the King to have a Tully in his grasp. If she is not to your taste, then he will find another way to bring her to court."
Jon's frown deepened. "What do you mean?" Jon's inquiry was a blade cutting through the veiled allusions, demanding clarity in the face of shadows.
"Well, she was no maid when she wed her husband. Not that she cared. Probably more to your... taste." Symond's words, laden with a sickly tone.
"I doubt Lord Tully would be amenable to this match. After all..."
"You are a bastard." Lord Staunton interjected. "However, you are one of the richest men in all of Westeros. And despite your bastard status, you are one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms. You have the ear of the crown prince. Any father would wish to wed one of their younger daughters to you. This way you would get the eldest."
"Can we keep my bedroom activities and marriage prospects out of this conversation?" he asked.
Lord Staunton leaned back, a smirk playing upon his lips like a mischievous sprite. "Ah, but your marital prospects concern his grace. You are like a son to him. Lady Sansa is said to be the greatest beauty in all of Westeros. Even more beautiful than Cersei Lannister. However, I think you know that. After all, isn't that the name of the woman you cried out this morning? And most of last night, or so I hear." Jon raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Forget it for now. Once her husband is dead, Lady Sansa will come to court, whether as your wife, or in another guise."
"She was one of your spies." Jon's heart sank like a stone in the cold waters of the Blackwater Rush, ignoring the part regarding Sansa being forced to court.
Lord Staunton shook his head in denial. "Not one of my little birds. There is a new spider weaving his web on behalf of the King, wishing to receive his favour. I'm sure this snippet of information would please him somewhat."
"Why did Lord Tywin not mention any of this?" he asked.
"His grace is becoming selective of the conversations regarding the heart and marriage bed. He wishes not to discuss such matters with Lord Tywin."
Jon's suspicions, like wolves prowling in the dark recesses of his mind. "What do I get out of all of this?" Jon asked.
"Other than the lips of the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros sucking your cock every morning. I will overlook any wording of interest which could implicate yourself and Prince Rhaegar over the recent treason against the King."
Blackmail, a dagger concealed in a velvet glove, and Jon recognized the blade's cold edge. Lady Sansa, a pawn in the cruel game of thrones, her elderly husband marked for a rendezvous with the Reaper at the King's command.
"Can I at least meet her first before I decide?" Jon asked.
"I'm afraid you will need to wait until you visit Riverrun." Lord Staunton sighed. "We cannot wait that long."
A question, a thorn pricking Jon's mind. "And what of Lord Tully? Will he be aware of our agreement?" Symond shook his head. "Woo her. Bed her if you must. We need Lord Tully tied to the King. Even if Rhaegar was not behind the plot, someone was."
"I thought you didn't trust me." Jon said. "Why offer this union?"
"Trust is earned, Lord Blackstar." Lord Staunton replied. "I also know there is one thing you desire above everything else. A true name. An old House name and castle of your own." The tantalizing promise hung in the air, like a forbidden fruit dangled before Jon. "Whichever Lord she is married to, and trust me, I forget all of those Lords in the Riverlands. You will receive his title, lands, and will be legitimised as Jon Dayne, or Tully, whichever pleases you. No longer a bastard. It is everything you've ever wanted."
"Ah, you mean trust is bought, Lord Staunton." Jon remarked.
Staunton, indifferent to the nuances of honour, merely shrugged. "Earned, bought. Much the same in my book."
"I presume this is a verbal contract."
Staunton's smile widened, reaching his eyes like a sly fox satisfied with a successful hunt. He nodded, accepting Jon's hand and sealing the pact. "I take it we have a deal."
"I suppose so," Jon muttered. Not that it mattered, in all likelihood, he would never wed the girl. Jon would surely be back in his own time by then. Jon rose from his seat. "I believe this discussion is at its end, Lord Staunton. How long before the contracts are drawn up?"
"A sennight at the most. It will give yourself and the Prince time to prepare for the trip. You will also attend the King's welcome home feast." he reminded him.
"I cannot wait," Jon said through gritted teeth. "Now if you would excuse me, Lord Staunton, I have other pressing matters to attend to," Jon bowed his head.
"Lord Blackstar," Staunton replied with a sly smile, as Jon turned on his heel and left the solar.
As Jon strode through the corridors, his heart raced with conflicting emotions. Anger, like wildfire, threatened to consume him. What in the hells had he just agreed to? The path ahead seemed shrouded in uncertainty. Jon sought refuge in the solace of his solar, the pounding in his head matching the relentless beat of drums heralding an impending war. Ale, the usual companion, would not suffice this time; he needed a drink with the strength to drown the whispers of doubt that now echoed in the recesses of his mind.
Within the towering walls of the Red Keep, the anticipation of impending feast stirred the air like a subtle breeze. As the former bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow, harboured a profound disdain for such opulent gatherings. Each revelry resurrected memories of his youth, a time when he, relegated to the obscure corners of Winterfell's Great Hall, sat isolated from the warmth of his family. Banished by Lady Stark to the recesses of nothingness.
As an adult, Jon's aversion to feasts deepened. No longer mere celebrations of mirth and indulgence. Nor did they represent abandonment and solitude, instead they had transformed into arenas where the sycophancy of lords towards monarchs tainted the very air. He was an expert in this arena. After all, he had been a king himself, even if it was for a little time.
Politics were a venomous serpent, which coiled around the heart of courtly affairs. As king in the north, they 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 as well as the desire for wealth, ran as deep as the ancient roots of the heart trees. Favours, like insidious currency, exchanged hands in the dim-lit corners of every hall and corridor, every lord vying for influence and personal gain, often 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. 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 was not Sansa, but Jon Blackstar.
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, surrendered to the realm of dreams where the boundaries between Jon Snow and Jon Blackstar blurred.
Jon's consciousness slipped into a realm where reality twisted like the tendrils of a weirwood tree. Across from him sat Jon Blackstar, a mirror image that bore the weight of distinct differences.
"Took you long enough." Lord Blackstar drawled. "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.
"I suppose it is best we get to know one another." Jon ventured. "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-grey eyes. "I can't say I was too pleased to wake up with a woman's mouth around my cock."
"Get used to it. I like redheads sucking my cock." Lord Blackstar retorted.
"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.
"Well, there is one." Lord Blackstar admitted.
"Go on." Jon urged, unsure if he truly desired the revelation hidden behind the sly grin.
"You have taken over my body, soon you will take over what is left of me. We have less than a year to share this body and mind. When you go on this trip, let me enjoy Dorne. Give me back my body for one night to allow me the freedom to fuck as many women as I can. I will even let you sleep through it. You don't have to know anything about what happens."
A solitary eyebrow raised in Jon's inquisitive gaze, uncertainty etched in the lines of his furrowed brow. "Will I witness your memories?" he asked.
Lord Blackstar, the maestro of this peculiar arrangement, responded with a smile and a nod. "I'm afraid there is little I can do about that. But in return, I can help you. You need my political skills and ability to sweet-talk anyone into a trade deal."
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."
"How do you know we will merge in a year?" Jon asked.
"I had a visit from the Three-Eyed Raven." Lord Blackstar disclosed. "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, although I will merely be an observer. Which, according to the Three-Eyed Raven, will be something 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."
"What are you getting out of this? It doesn't seem like much." Jon asked.
"The Three-Eyed Raven told me everything I would get out of this arrangement. He told me of my future if I did not agree. I couldn't say no." Lord Blackstar confessed, a smile playing upon his lips.
"Alright, I'll do it." Jon said. "So, are you going to help me with the feast?"
Lord Blackstar responded with a knowing smile. "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.