authorsnotes: ohmygoodness! the response to the first chapter was aaamazing - thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this next one.

trust me, this is gunna be a dance fic, but with lots of twists and turns, i'm taking more from HOTD here because Fire and Blood Part 1 is limited storywise in what it can offer me, but the ASOIAF books will be used heavily for lore and for jons characterisation, he is no 'I dun want it here!'

do enjoy, enjoy a new character, and do review!

songrecs: Jon's Honor - GOT Season 1

'Never ask me about Jon. He is my blood and that is all you need to know'

- Eddard Stark to his wife, Catelyn Stark

-x-

As Jon exited the Small Council Chamber, hurried away before anyone could stop him to talk, and made an immediate bee-line for the stairs, and thus his chambers (and ignored the fact that once again he knew the way without thought), if you'd have asked him what had happened in the meeting, what had come up, or if he had contributed, he couldn't have told you a thing. Not one.

Perhaps in this instance, he did know nothing.

No, he knew plenty, and that was the problem.

His mind was like a hive of buzzing bees, questions bouncing around it, confusion, worry, fear, panic all clouding his thoughts, add in a healthy dose of shock, and as he made it back to his room, stumbling some of the way, brushing off a concern from his guard (who he realised was a member of the Kingsguard, fuck), and making for the balcony once he reached said room, door closed.

He gulped in breath after breath of air, thankful it was clear up here, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind, or help some.

It did … minimally.

Panic invaded his veins, what was he supposed to do?

More importantly; who was he? When was he?

He knew the answer, but it seemed impossible to believe.

Surely, this hadn't happened, surely this couldn't have happened, surely, he was not back in the time of a Dance of Dragons?

Just thinking it sounded ridiculous.

And yet, the evidence was there, the evidence was clear, and he was not one to stick his head in the sand and close his eyes to the truth, that was one sure way to end up dead.

Or had he already died?

Died and been reborn, yet again?

He had no answers, and could only try and calm his racing heart, take deep breaths into his body, hold them there and hope to stop himself collapsing in shock.

Jon considered himself hardy, he had experienced much that couldn't be explained throughout his life, had died, and come back already once, had seen dead men rise, swords made of ice shatter those made of steel, had seen every manner of mysticism and disbelief, and yet even this, being in a different place, a different time, had knocked him for six.

He hurried over to the basin of water in his room, because he supposed this was his room, here in Kings Landing, his home here; his head swirling he splashed his face with water, hoping the cold would shock him a little, bring him out of the trembling that had started, the rising feeling of panic in his chest.

Was he dead?

He had died twice; was it possible he hadn't woke? And this was all a fever dream? And yet, as soon as that thought came to him he knew it was wrong, he knew that couldn't be it, he remembered what it was like to be dead, he remembered the emptiness, the darkness, the endless void.

And those words again …

'Make things right'

No, this was real, and yet that didn't help to explain it.

Make things right? Was this an intervention by the Old Gods? Or perhaps another deity? Stepping in to correct things, to stop the Others. He knew after Winterfell had fallen the South had surely been next; was this a second chance for humanity?

And it lay with him.

He had always brooded, always felt a weight on his shoulders, first the weight of bastardry, and then as Lord Commander, King in the North, and now here, a Prince, a Targaryen Prince.

Though of course, he'd always been that, he just hadn't known it.

His mind had mulled over being sent back in time before and after the Small Council meeting, as he splashed more water on his face, and yet, now he wondered why this time? Why so far back? Why the Dance?

But that was an easy answer, he knew his history, knew why he'd been sent back to this time, and knew if he had, had to pick an important point in history to turn the tide against an enemy against the Others, it would be now.

For what fought ice?

Fire.

The dragons.

He remembered begging the Dragon Queen for aid, Daenerys Targaryen, her refusal unless he bent the knee, something he'd have never done, except for maybe to save his people, as Torrehn Stark had done to Aegon the Conqueror, but that hadn't been her only demand, it had been to first march South before she'd even consider coming North for 'fairytales' as she'd said in her letter, and that had been it.

The North had stood alone, and it had lost.

Not enough dragonglass, not enough Valyrian Steel, and then what they'd really needed, they'd reigned fire on the Wights and the Others, seen how effective it was in decimating the soldiers, they'd needed dragons.

And he knew then, as he wiped his face, he knew that was why he'd been sent back to this time, to the Dance.

As a boy he'd learned of the Targaryen history, Aegon the Conqeurors landing, and beyond, but only in minute detail, enough to give context. As a Northern boy he'd studied the Age of Heroes, Brandon the Builder, and the struggle of the North, the focus in Maester Luwins lessons had been on the Norths place in history, barely focusing on the Targaryens.

But, when he'd learned of his heritage, in any spare moment, exhausted in his chambers, half asleep at the dining table, sat with Sansa or Arya in the square overseeing things, he'd read the Targaryens histories, his ancestors' histories.

He remembered feeling sad about the dance, about all the dragons lost to the world, he'd never felt anything for them before, but with the truth of his blood, of his heritage, he'd felt a pang for them as he would all of the direwolves that had been slaughtered South of the Wall.

He'd never truly embraced his Targaryen heritage, hadn't had any time to, hadn't had any help to, but once Sansa had presented him with a cloak before the battle, with red and grey stitching at the neck, a nod to both sides of him, and he'd kissed her cheek, worn it with pride and smiled.

This was why he'd been sent back then, to stop the Dance, or at least alter it, so when the time came, whenever that may be, fire could be reigned on the Others.

That was his role now, and one he would need to embrace.

He lifted his gaze to the mirror as he wiped the water from his face, thinking on all of this, though it was all scattered from his mind, flying away like leaves in the wind, as he looked at his face, the face that looked much the same; Stark features, but (upon staring almost obsessively at drawings of his Mother and Father), his Fathers jaw, a Stark nose, his dark curly hair cropped to his chin, looked at his face.

At one difference.

In place of what had once been light grey Stark eyes, looking back at him, they were now purple, a brilliant purple.

Jon Snow.

Jon Targaryen.

Purple eyed.

A man could only take so many shocks in one day without feeling restless.

And so, he knew the second he looked at himself in the mirror, his own face normal in all ways but his eyes, he only lingered on his reflection for a minute, unchanged but for deep purple eyes in place of grey, before he knew he needed to leave this room, large as it was, it felt suffocating.

This was his reality now, he knew that, knew he needed to accept it, work through when exactly it was, what his role was here, Prince, member of the Small Council, brother to the King, everything to figure out, but for now? For now, he needed to be outside, needed some fresh air and something to distract him.

And so, he did just that, grabbing his cloak, pulling it on, then Blackfyre, his sword, a Targaryen legendary item now at his hip, before he hurried out into the corridor, hurried to the nearest door outside, determined to go for a long walk, or perhaps to hit something in the training yard, or even just to gulp in the fresh air of outside.

Intended to do all of that …

But first, almost walked smack bang into someone who squealed in shock.

He was thankful his reflexes were quick enough that he dodged out of the way, and quick as a flash reached out and steadied the individual's body, petite as it was, steadied this person … her, and stepped back.

A smell berries tinged the air, sugary and ripe, not false, but sweet.

"Apologies" He said gruffly, as he looked down at a woman, a girl more like, perhaps two of three years younger than him, red of hair, beautiful, dressed in light blue, Southern. "My Lady"

He was no Southern gentleman, but he knew he had to be careful, here he was a Southern Prince, a man of Kings Landing, of the Southern Targaryen bloodline, descendent of the Valyrians, not the First Men (though he needed to confirm that, purple eyed he was yes, but still black of hair, where had that come from?), and though his accent still sounded the same to him, he had to act like a Southerner.

He'd never be charming, couldn't learn that overnight, but he did nod his head to the girl, offered a strained smile, his best attempt.

"It is my apologies my Prince" The girl said quickly, eyes blinking rapidly, hands screwing into fists in front of her, something Sansa had done often when they'd been reunited; a nervous tick; he had to resist the urge to tug them apart as he often had for Sansa, finding her nails bloody, her smile sad as he pulled her into a hug and hoped to offer comfort.

Jon didn't know what him coming back meant, where Sansa, or Arya, or Bran were now, not even having been born yet, but he hoped wherever they were, those he'd loved, Sam, Grenn, Ed, Pyp, Robb, the man he'd believed to be his Father, Uncle Benjen, Ygritte, all of them, hoped they were at peace now.

"I was not taking notice of my surroundings" She said, babbling a touch, and Jon found it odd, realising she was nervous around him, perhaps not just because he hardly had any affable qualities, but also because of his status here. He wrinkled his nose at that; even as King he'd insisted his people treat him the same, had refused to wear a crown, stopped people bowing, so use to life as a bastard he would never be happy having people scraping before him, it was the same here. "My apologies"

"No need my Lady" Jon said with a dip of his head, "I was away with it all too" True, though he imagined his mind was a touch more chaotic than the Lady's in front of him, he imagined few people alive had such thoughts buzzing around their head as he did.

He was already getting a headache, Gods he needed that fresh air.

"I hope you are well my Prince" She said gently, and he managed a nod at her concern, she sounded sincere, it was kind, he could use some kindness, off kilter as he was.

"Please, Jon is fine" He said, and then immediately cursed himself, he would hardly be called Jon here would he? Foolish, truly his scrambled mind had laid waste to all of his usual defences, his brooding and reservedness that often helped him in uncertain situations.

In tactical situations he was usually on guard, holding everything back, as he had with the wildlings, perhaps time travel was like a long horse ride; bringing on a mighty headache playing at his mind, and stopping any kind of cautiousness through exhaustion.

Or perhaps he was still in shock; likely.

"Jon?" The girl asked, and then oddly she smiled, "I heard that was the nickname you were given up North when you fostered, Rhaenyra told me the Northerners found Jaeherys far too a mouthful" She was smiling then, and that brought out a smile in him, without even realising it. He noted then, whoever this girl was, her eyes were hazel, with flecks of green, and they held a depth to them that drew him in.

Perhaps he was too quick to judge her as a silly Southern girl, but then the Northerners prejudices ran deep, and for good reason.

"Well, I find it so to" He said, managing to recover, "My brothers call me Jon, as does my niece" So strange to say, but he knew he needed to get used to it, his family structure here, he jokingly thought he'd perhaps need to write it down, "Perhaps you can too"

His eyes widened as the girls' cheeks turned pink, and she grinned, nodding her head, who was this girl?

He'd soon find out.

"Then I will" She said with a little grin, and he managed one back.

"How are you my Lady?" He asked in return, for she'd asked him, and he wasn't completely rude, just terribly unpractised with women, there had been Ygritte, a pang still slashing across his heart whenever he thought of her, and then Val, who'd fallen far too soon, but no one else, every woman thrown at him as King he'd rebuffed, far too busy with a war to be interested in marrying or romance.

"Please, if I can call you Jon, you can certainly call me Alicent" The girl said, smiling, confident now, he liked that, but something else caught his attention more, he was thankful he managed to school his expression, his defences coming back in place now, he was in a strange place, a strange time, finding his feet, he couldn't be open here, probably ever.

This was Alicent Hightower.

The histories had never been kind to her, making her out to be a schemer, plotting not get her own sons on the Throne over Rhaenyra; the rightful claimant. And yet, the Northern histories had been kinder, spoken of the love the people had for her, her love for her children, how young she had been, how kind.

And here she was, just a girl, perhaps on her 16th nameday to his 18th, blushing and smiling, and innocent.

How many people could he save?

"Alicent it is" He said with a nod, and he knew he needed to get away, knew he had too much to process and his body and mind screamed for fresh air again, as pleasant as this conversation had been, to his surprise, his hatred for Southerners usually would have had him running sooner, but she was just a girl, Alicent Hightower but no scheming Queen yet, and even then perhaps she'd had her reasons.

"I am well thank you" She said, those green eyes finding his, now purple, "I'm meeting Rhaenyra for a walk, I like to stroll when its warm, near the sea"

"Good" Jon said, he was not wonderful at small talk, but made at least some of an effort, "I like to walk too, but the forest is better"

"That does sound lovely" Alicent said, far more adept at this than him, though again she seemed sincere, "I like the Kingswood, when we go for hunts, I find the walk there the nicest"

"Aye" He said, winced, he had to work on that, he sounded far too Northern for a Southern Prince; though hadn't Alicent said he'd fostered, perhaps that could explain it, or at least be the explanation the Gods had given him here; had they thought of everything? "I much prefer that myself" A lie, he'd never hunted in the Kingswood, but of course she didn't know that.

No one did.

And it all came rushing back, the reason he'd near bumped into Alicent in the first place, and he knew he needed to move on before he started shaking in the open, too much put on him all at once.

He needed to think, and so offered her a gentle bow, even though technically he didn't need to, he put no stock in status here, there was a Lady in front of him, he'd offer her respect.

"I must get to the training ground" He said, for he knew, exhausted as his mind was, craving sleep, craving the security of tired thought, he needed to tire his body too, needed to distract himself enough to not feel so confused, so tense. It had been a trick of his at the Wall, when making a hard decision, when annoyed at Ser Allister, when tired and frustrated and even scared, training had made it easier.

He hated warfare, killing, but the training behind it put his mind at ease. Perhaps that would help, or at least the air would.

"Oh of course" Alicent said, and he caught disappointment in her gaze, or perhaps he imagined it, he was hardly a conversationalist, "It was good to speak to you my … Jon"

"And you, Alicent" He said, for she'd given him permission, her cheeks tinged a darker pink, and Jon made for his leave, diving for the door and outside, moving quickly, dizzy feeling almost.

And when he was alone and out of sight, he grasped the wall overlooking the sea and gulped in the fresh air, taking it into his lungs as he had in his room, his head clearing, but not enough.

Hands going to his head, he took a moment, just a moment to breath, felt a pain in his chest, a phantom of the sword that had been thrust there, and thought of pink cheeks, purple eyes, and death coming from the Wall.

Too much, his head ached, his chest hurt, his hands tingled, but he breathed, and the smell of berries swirled in his head, and he felt calmer.

poor jon - bby boy has no clue what is happening and is having a lot thrown into the mix!

also fyi I love alicent, she had a hella rough time and made the best of what she had, don't expect bashing here

next chapter?: lets see rhaenyra, and some dragons

I hope you enjoyed, do review if you can!