authorsnote: I really wanted to get this done and uploaded before christmas, it is 2am and I'm glad I did but gods I need sleep

do enjoy, this is an emotional chapter

songrecs: Whatever May Come - HOD Season 1

'Everyone wants something, Alayne. And when you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him'

- Petyr Baelish to his bastard daughter Alayne Stone.

-x-

The mood following the funeral come morning was unsurprisingly bleak.

Rhaenyra had been near tears all day, only managing to hold back Jon knew because she felt she had to. He'd stood strong next to her on the hill, wind whipping through their hair as both Aemma and Baelon burned, he'd placed a shoulder around her as the fire hit, and she'd wept, only for a moment, as smoke had curled around them, only for a second had she leaned in and allowed the comfort.

Jon wished he could offer her more, but he'd been a firm presence by her side, and had barely left it since, he hoped that was enough.

She had been brave when she'd spoken the words he shouldn't but did understand 'Dracarys', the funeral pyre had lit, and in the curls of smoke Rhaenyra had allowed herself to cry, and Jon had just about stopped himself from joining her.

He could barely look at Viserys. He hadn't told Rhaenyra how Aemma had been treated, didn't want to scar her with the memories that kept playing over and over again in his head.

'Jon, please!'

'Jon don't let them!'

'Jon no'

Over and over, she screamed in his head, reaching for him, terrified, hoping he would save her.

And he never did.

He never could. As the mourners departed, as Daemon spoke words, he again he knew he shouldn't understand, of supporting Viserys, of Rhaenyra needing to be there for him, Jon just barely tempered his tone.

"Ziry gaomas daor jorrāelagon naejot jikagon naejot zirȳla" He spoke quickly, but whereas the words "She does not need to go to him" Had been what he had intended to come out, he'd spoken in harsh, clipped High Valyrian.

The Gods were either helping him or mocking him it must be.

"She should" Daemon shot back, and he knew it was in High Valyrian too, and Jon understood every word. "He needs us, all of us"

"He'll have nothing from me" He said, and then he had to leave, striding away, his black cloak, the red Targaryen dragon at its back fluttering in the wind, he didn't want to lose his temper and so he moved away quickly.

The smoke of the burning pyre climbed high above him, but he did not cough nor flinch, his expression was bitter.

That was how he felt inside, bitter, as he walked down the hill on the side of Kings Landing. A cluster of dragons sat at the bottom of the hill, the Targaryens didn't walk or take a carriage, except for Viserys, they flew.

And Jon did, as it did feel as natural as walking to him, as he climbed atop Vermithor, "Sovegon" and sped back to Kings Landing, away from the smoke of death.

The dinner, a mourning one, following the funeral, was somehow worse than the funeral itself.

No one really spoke, there was a hushed grief over the court. Viserys sat at the head of the Table; barely picking at his food, the seat next to him was empty, Rhaenyra sat on his right, her head bowed, holding back tears.

Daemon sat one down from the empty seat and looked bored with the proceedings, he was the only one who didn't want to weep for the Queen. Jon wondered if he knew about the altered line of succession yet, he doubted it, for Daemon hadn't tried to thrust a sword through his neck.

Neither spoke to one another after their argument earlier, Jon didn't trust himself not to say of what had actually happened, of the words replaying over and over…

'Jon, don't let them!'

'Jon, please, help me!'

'Jon!'

It was a grim atmosphere overall. The court mourned their decreased Queen. The bards played songs of sorrow and the Queens beauty, Jon drank a gulp or three of Dornish red and held Rhaenyras hand under the table as she tried not to cry.

He hadn't known Aemma for long, hadn't known her very well at all, but what he had known had been good. She had been sweet, funny, clever and had deserved more than dying butchered in her birthing bed. She had deserved more than her choices being taken from her, than being gutted for a child she never should have been forced to try for. She had deserved so much more.

Aemma was also more than just herself, more than the Queen who'd been butchered but would only be sung about as a tragic passing. She was an innocent, she was the exact type of person Jon had vowed to protect, all those years ago and all those years in the future as he'd taken his vows beneath the Heart Tree. She was someone who should not have died, and Jon had failed her.

'You can't save everyone' Sam had said kindly to him once, and Jon knew the truth in that, but he also knew he could have saved Aemma, if he'd just fought harder, if he'd have gone for the guards throats, if he had come sooner…

'Jon, please!'

But he hadn't, and she was dead, dead, and gone. He hoped in whatever version of the afterlife would be kindest to her.

"Do you think she went peacefully?" Rhaenyra asked, tears were trickling down her cheeks now, she no longer tried to hide them, or perhaps she could not. Jon squeezed her hand again, "Do you think she fainted? Didn't know what was coming?"

Jon swallowed, took a second, and nodded, though he could not look at Rhaenyra, his niece who he already loved, he couldn't, "I do"

A tear of his own trickled down his cheek, and he reached for another cup of wine.

At night, he planned to be alone in his room, he'd bathed after beating several training dummies into stuffing, working off the wine, and needing to flee the mourners. He couldn't stand to listen to another song of Aemma, or to look at Viserys who seemed to be looking at nothing, he didn't want to see Daemon, looking almost smug.

Rhaenyra had left before him, hurrying from the room, Alicent offering him a small smile as she'd followed her friend. Jon had then allowed himself to go too, slipping out the side door before anyone could try to talk to him.

That was something he certainly did not like about coming here, the amount of people who wanted to curry favour with him. As a Targaryen Prince he was in high demand, which he tried to avoid, a well placed glare, and being absolutely clear that no, he would not speak to the King on some partitioners behalf, and further, punching one Lord who'd asked him to put in a good word with Rhaenyra had seen away with most of the Courtiers, but still he tried to keep a low profile.

Even as King in the North, Northerners were different, they didn't try to suck up to him or flatter him, they left him be when he needed to be, and he'd always appreciated that. Now, he hurried away from the dinner, and wanted to be alone.

So, he'd spent an hour in the training yard, beating his frustrations and sadness into a training dummy. He worked and worked, and slick with sweat and the alcohol worked out of him had returned here to his rooms, bathed, and then sat on his bed, the sadness desperately trying to invade his mind again.

He knew loss, he knew mourning, he remembered the pain of learning of his Father … Uncle in hindsight, death, Robbs, he remembered the fear Arya was with them. He remembered that pain, remembered mourning, crying alone in his room at night to the thought of them being gone.

But that had been abstract. Ygritte had been his truest pain, dying in his arms, the agony that had surely ripped his heart in two when she had left this world. He had openly wept then, over her body, never knowing his heart could hurt so much.

Aemma hadn't been as painful, not for who she was, but for the fact he had failed her, ripped into him like a sword all over again. He had failed her.

'Jon please…'

And he was sure those words, the memory of her reaching for him, the terror in her gaze, would never leave him, just as Ygrittes face, her eyes, her words, 'You know nothing Jon Snow' … had stayed with him until this day, had been the last thing he had thought of each time he'd died, and would likely stay with him forever.

A knock on the door was his distraction, and for a moment he hoped it was Rhaenyra, that they could sit together, and then hoped it wasn't, for how long could he lie to her about her Mothers demise? He hated doing so but knew that was a secret he'd have to take to his third grave; she could never know how Aemma had suffered.

If not, Rhaenyra he knew he'd turn Viserys or Daemon away, so who could it be?

As he stood, adjusting his tunic, and wrenched the door open his eyebrows flew up in surprise to see Alicent standing on the threshold, her gaze on her feet, her nails bloodied from picking them, and a large book in her hands.

"Alicent?" He asked, surprised she was coming to his rooms, and worried for a moment for she seemed so nervous.

He'd barely seen her all day, focused on being there for Rhaenyra. He knew she had liked the Queen but she hadn't mourned like family had. He had seen her stood by his Niece, offering comfort and has been thankful to her for that, he just wasn't sure why she was here now.

"My Prince" She stuttered, and Jon raised an eyebrow, hadn't they done away with that? It was like she was back to when they'd first interacted upon his return, formal, and nervous. What had happened? No, they weren't close, but friendly, he even remembered her cheeks going pink at his words, what had happened?

"Are you alright?" He asked, hurrying her inside, he knew there might be talk for her to be in his rooms so late at night if anyone saw them, but he imagined they'd be less likely to be seen alone this way, and so he quickly ushered her in and shut the door behind him.

The South was much more formal and scandalised than the North but he knew even in Winterfell eyebrows would be raised at him entertaining a pretty Lady in his rooms at night. He didn't want to give people any reason to talk.

Though, he hadn't even thought of sending her away.

"I'm fine" She stumbled, but at that he gave her a look. "I just wanted to see if you were fine" That seemed more sincere, but she continued to look at her feet.

And so, he acted on instinct, something that often-steered Jon well. He placed a thumb under her chin and tilted her gaze to his, to find tears and something worse, the look of fear in her gaze.

"What's wrong?" He asked more forcefully then, she didn't shake his thumb away, but she did bite down on her lip hard, and again on instinct, perhaps foolishly, he smoothed it away to her gasp, and at that he realised just what he was doing and dropped his hand and jumped back an inch.

But he did not let it go, perhaps he should have.

"Tell me" He said, more softly then, as Alicent trembled in front of him.

"I…I was wondering if you'd want me to sit with you, read to you" She mumbled, "I thought it might help"

He was puzzled by that, Alicent hadn't sought him out before, and surely if she wanted to comfort someone she should be with Rhaenyra? What had dragged her here?

He glanced at the book in her hands, and realised…

He remembered then, out of the blue, a passage from one of the many Targaryen history books he had read on nights he'd been unable to sleep, trying to understand his heritage, remembered the sections on the Dance of Dragons, something he'd read quickly due to his learning of it as a boy, but he did remember before that…

'Lady Alicent had a long connection to the Targaryen's, having read to the dying King Jaeherys on his deathbed to offer comfort, it is said she did the same for King Viserys, though that led to a different outcome'

'I will read to him, as I did when I was little' – Lady Alicent Hightower.

His blood went cold for a moment, he looked across at Alicent, was she manipulating him? And then he hated himself for that thought, as he realised, and he sighed, and stepped forward again, this time cupping Alicents cheek and raising her gaze to his, perhaps it was too affectionate, but she was shaking again, biting down on her lip.

"Did your Father send you?"

She flinched at that, and with a sad sigh, Jon knew he was right. She wasn't manipulating, as in a different time she hadn't manipulated Viserys, how could she? She was an innocent, just like Aemma had been, being pushed and pulled by her Father, all for his ambitions.

Gods, he hated Southerners.

Hated anyone grabbing at power, as if it were the most important thing. Though he realised with a frown, it could be useful and something he needed here, but then wasn't that the only real reason to strive for power? To do good? To help the innocent? Not for himself? His head ached to think of it, and Alicent remained stood in front of him, looking somehow more worried than before.

"Alicent" He dropped his hand, and resisted the urge to pull her into his arms, he remembered Sansa, back home, in the moments she'd fall into panic or into her fears, seeing phantoms of the abuse she'd suffered, he'd pull her close, hold her as she wept, sweep a kiss to her forehead in comfort, he couldn't do that here, with Rhaenyra yes, but Alicent was different.

Alicent had been sent here to compromise him, seduce him (though he didn't think her capable of that, shaking like a lamb), all on her Fathers orders.

"Sit" He said gently, moving her to sit in one of the chairs by his hearty fire. He rarely felt the cold or heat, but Alicent seemed more comfortable as the flames warmed her, he made them both a cup of wine, handing her, hers before sitting opposite, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward to speak to her.

"Tell me" He said, as gently as he could. Alicent did remind him of Sansa, not just her red hair, but her delicateness, as Sansa had been before she had returned to him, where the torture she'd endured had hardened her, that hadn't happened to Alicent yet, and he hoped he could play a part in preventing it.

This Alicent was kind, and sweet, and deserving much more than being manipulated. He remembered a world in which she'd been married off to Viserys, old enough to be her Father, he would not allow that to happen now, but he hadn't anticipated this … Otto sending her his way? What was he up to? Did he know about Jon being chosen as Heir? That had to be it.

"I can't" She said in a whisper and took a gulp of her wine before wrinkling her nose, he near laughed at that, it reminded him of Arya sneaking wine at a dinner one night, though Alicent wasn't his sister and he didn't see her like one. "He…" She paused, "No, I can't" She stood abruptly her eyes wide, "I should go"

"You don't need to" Jon said, and he stood but he didn't go to bar her way, he wouldn't trap her, "I don't blame you"

"You should" She said quickly, "I could have said no" She wouldn't acknowledge the truth but those words confirmed what he already knew.

"Could you?" He asked sadly, and at that she frowned, and looked closer to crying.

"I…" She stumbled, and then he remembered her youth as she began to babble, all of it nervously rushing out of her.

"I did want to check you were okay" She hurried out, clutching the book in her hands hard enough that her knuckles went white, "I did, because I care about you, as a friend, and wanted to make sure you were alright, as it wasn't fair what happened to the Queen, and I know you are sad about it" She barely paused to suck in a breath before she picked back up again, "But it isn't just that, my Father did ask me to come, and I hate it and feel horrible, because now my concern has become something ugly and untrue"

She paused then for a second, and Jon almost spoke before Alicent began again, she had clearly needed to get this out, and he would not stop her.

"But it isn't" She insisted, and he found himself nodding, "I did want to see if you were alright" She had said that several times but he didn't interrupt her, she seemed more confident now, tears drying, gaze insistent, "I don't want you to think I'm like that" She said, and nodded furiously, "I don't" She seemed to crumple then, "Please don't think I'm like that"

And at that he couldn't stop himself from pulling her into his arms, it was foolish, who knew if Otto had spies nearby? But he found two things as Alicent went willingly and clutched at him, her fingers digging into his tunic, holding on so tight as though desperate for him to never let go.

He found that his want to comfort her overrode his worry about doing so. Alicent was sweet, and beautiful, and kind, and the comfort he could freely give her he would, she needed it clearly as she sobbed and gripped him, and he cupped the back of her head and his other arm encircled her waist and kept her close.

And he found … if they were caught like this, far too intimate an embrace for any Southern Father of a Lady could accept, he wouldn't mind marrying her. Hadn't Aemma said he would need to? And though he didn't plan to, if Alicent were pushed on him as such, for her honour, he could never refuse her.

What he didn't find, or consider, was that Otto might have planned it that way all along.

thoughts?

next update will be new year, and will be political, we will have a small council meeting and what and who saw what? I'll leave it there...

have a very happy holidays!