Chapter Text
JON CONNINGTON
His hair was blue yet again. Roots of red hidden below what was supposedly the dark blue of his beloved, dead Tyroshi wife. The lie played on and on in his mind. Lord of Griffin’s Roost. The Hand of the King. Reduced to a beggaring exile, forced to dye his hair, living in hiding and in lies. Forced to wander about as if a lost sod, some poor wayfaring fool.
My sacrifice will not be for naught. For Aegon. For the debt I owe Rhaegar, he told himself.
Willas Tyrell and his betrothed were both already away, to meet some wealthy nobleman or magister of the sort. Jon might loathe it, but he found himself surprised that the two had not exploded in wildfire as their houses' shared history would suggest. The Red Viper himself was long gone, his lip latched onto a Norvoshi woman’s own the last Jon saw him, sickening him with the sight.
The younger Tyrell, meanwhile, opted to go with his squire. Randyll Tarly’s son. Earlier at the welcoming feast, he heard Ser Garlan and young Sam ask the hosting lady about libraries of Norvos and her own collection of books.
At last, he managed to catch Aegon alone.
"Aegon."
"Ser," answered the boy that used to run to his knees, nonchalant.
Jon sighed inside the half-helm that he wore. Aegon had been… different. Cold, he would even say. Of course, it was all the fault of the damned Red Viper. The accursed Dornishman had been feeding Aegon his lies, so it seemed. Or not so much lies as- No, I must not go down that path.
"You needn't call me that. We are alone,” he had said to the boy, trying to assure him.
"As a matter of fact, I need to go. Lord Willas is waiting for me. He has offered to provide me with a chance to further prepare myself as King.”
“Has he indeed?”
“Most assuredly. There is a lot more about ruling one’s lands and people than I could draw from books and tales alone. I would like to be actually worthy of my future title. To be the King who can listen to the counsel and grievances of his subject, adjudicate disputes between them, forge alliances and make peace."
They have turned you, he thought. And yet, he didn’t dare to voice it. So he smiled weakly, "You remind me of your father, you know? Always so dutiful."
"Quite the revelation. After all, you have always insisted that I am my father's son," was the boy’s curt answer. He then turned, and Jon was left standing in the empty hallway.
He looked at him. The boy. He wasn’t Rhaegar. His eyes were a shade lighter than Rhaegar’s. And in certain lights, they were dark blue instead of violet. His mother's legacy, Jon kept telling himself. And against the wasting sand of time, the golden-tinged memories of Rhaegar began to fade. And with each day passing, Jon felt them slipping away, further and further.
Meanwhile. Aegon remained here, close by his side. But Jon kept looking the other way. He had felt guilt over it. Seeing the father, not the boy himself. But now he saw Aegon, not Rhaegar. . Saw the boy that he raised. The boy that once climbed unto him in the dark of night, and whispered to him a question, “Why are you not my father?”
I am sorry, Aegon.
The cloak of orange that he wore fell to the floor as Jon unclasped it. Martell colors. They love him not, the Martells. The Red Viper - more so than the rest. Jon never did love Elia Martell, either. Gentle, sweet-hearted, fragile Elia of Dorne. She was never enough for him. She never was worthy. And what good did it do them in the end? For the Martells, for the Tagaryens. Childbirth scarred the woman. And Rhaegar was forced to look away, driven to the arms of the Northern harlot. Half a child. He knew not of what Rhaegar saw in the girl. Only that he spoke of a great destiny. Of ice and fire. And is that destiny still so great now, Rhaegar?
Yet Jon chose not to dwell on the matter any further, tired of the seemingly endless day he had endured. At least, inside the isolation of his chamber, he needed not be Griff, a sellsword with a dead wife. He needed not be nameless and so small. A clenched fist welcomed his thought. A sense of determination washed over him, side by side in harmony with desperation. It doesn't end yet. I have time. And only then can I face him. And Aegon will sit on the Iron Throne.
When Jon looked out from the window glass of his small comfort, he saw the black night of cloudless sky of Norvos. In their journey to the Free City, the Tyrells and Martells brought with themselves a rather sizable company, numbering nearly four hundred according to the count of Jon’s memory.
And we are a part of that, he thought with gritted teeth, which only increased when he remembered Aegon’s commoner garbs. The idea was proposed by none other than the Tyrell heir, endorsed and insisted upon by the Red Viper. According to the story the Reacher lord has forged for them, they were sellswords hired by Lord Willas Tyrell for additional protection after a bloody encounter with some brigands on their way from Pentos while Aegon served the Reacher as his cupbearer. It wasn’t unheard of for nobles to take common-born and smallfolk as their servants, after all.
Another deception. It would be suicide for Aegon to land on the soils of Westeros. Lord Willas had informed them of the inevitable scrutiny his house will fall under after the rumors of the Tyrell-Martell match. And so, to further give opportunities for the young Prince to know his family, maternal and soon-to-be - the Tyrells, he thought again with gritted teeth - the Prince would instead follow them to the Free Cities of Norvos and Qohor. But not Volantis, where Westerosi eyes are much more common compared to the former two.
He had to admit to himself, it was a good idea. Aegon had been smitten by his maternal family. He shone like a radiant child, basking eagerly in the tales indulged to him by the Red Viper. With his cousin, he was at first reluctant, but no longer. In mere days, he had changed… the boy. And when he saw him, he didn't see Young Griff, the orphan boy with a sellsword father. No, he saw Aegon, a Prince of House Targaryen. And of course, there was the fixation on the Tyrells. Parrying swords with Ser Garlan the Gallant and obsessing over the older brother- the heir, asking questions and such.
And so it was that a Tyrell shall be Queen, after long-denied the honor they deserved. He tried to pay the impending match less mind, but when he saw him - Aegon, he couldn't. Rhaegar's son. I must protect him. I will not have him a puppet. A pawn in the same cruel Game that swallowed his father whole. He swore himself to Rhaegar's grave already. He wouldn't let Aegon fall into the clutches of those who want him only for his throne, for but his blood.
He will be the King. Just and firm, strong and fair... Yet he is a child, only four-and-ten. Not a boy and yet not a man, but half of each. Two halves that Jon realized now he never knew, not truly. But Jon took the prize of consolation to himself, keeping it close. The prize of seeing those smiles, so bright and wide. They were so reminiscent in his mind. Is it desperation? Even too much at times. A smile I once thought I could never see again.
Jon fell into the bed, finding them a temptation too hard to resist. He closed his eyes and drifted off. Or so he attempted to.
To his agitation, Jon found not the time and chance to relieve himself. His neck snapped around as he turned his head, noticing the frantic sound of scuffing footsteps in front of his room. A knock came and Jon moved to stand. The door swung and out came, a slender boy- no- man, hand on a cane.
As he came to stop in front of Jon, the Tyrell had his eyes on level with Jon’s own. There was none but certainty in them. “My Lord Connington, I hope that I am not catching you in a bad time. If so, you must pardon me for the interruption.”
“Must I?” Jon asked, his tongue getting the better of him.
“Oh?” There was no slight in his voice, only interest. “Interesting. And yet Prince Oberyn kept telling me that you’re some bore of a dullard that wouldn’t understand a joke even if it danced naked in front of you. Well, he certainly didn't say so, I just made up the words. Again, I do apologize if this is too much of an intrusion.”
“Whether you do or do not, you already did or did not. Come,” he motioned for the Heir to Highgarden to sit on the chair next to his bed. "Forgive me, my lord," he excused himself, pouring the jug of wine that had been silently waiting upon the counter into a nearby glass. "I- would you care for one as well?"
“Oh no, I’m all set.”
“Your loss, then.”
“Well, if you live in the Reach as I do, the beating heart - no less, wines would rather bore you after a good few years, I’m afraid. But still, I do appreciate the offering.” How polite. Was this how the Tyrells grovel on their bent knees, scraping and bowing upon the Usurper?
Jon took a seat opposite of him. And so, he asked, straight to the chase. "What can I do for you, Lord Willas?"
“It’s not so much of what you can do for me, truth to be told. I do not come here asking for that kind of favor. But still, indulge me, if you would. Well, it hasn’t been remiss of me to notice your.. Disinclination for my family. My house. I understand, my lord, truly I do. And yet, I wouldn't wish for the strange air of malaise that hangs between us to dare disturb or worse, jeopardize the future of our alliance, my lord. For Prince Aegon's sake, if you will." As if you care for Aegon. You care for his name and blood only.
Nonetheless, Jon nodded. "Yes, you're right. I won't pretend to like you, Lord Willas. Nor do I like your father or your house. I shall not cast aspersions and illusions, or to play the mummer's troupe. But for His Grace's sake, I will tolerate you. And in time, mayhaps we shall be able to work together as great allies."
“Fabulous, then. You’re a nice breath of fresh air, you know, Lord Connington?” Jon made a move to speak, but the Tyrell gave him no chance, “Westerosi lords prefer to go a long… long way, and most end up in a rather merry dance between cat and mouse at the end of the day. But here, with such frankness - well, we are allies, still, not lovers in bed that pour their hearts out to each other - I realize there is indeed an art to the… frugal use of words.”
“Indeed. I have been in Aerys’ Court for too long to tire of such farce displays of decorum.” And yet you Tyrells love them so much, do you not?
“You must be very wise by now. But truly, I’m glad. It pains me, after all, should I fail to reach a level of… cordiality with that of the father of my future good-brother.”
Jon paused at the words, his shoulder tensioning. “Prince Rhaegar is dead, my lord.”
“Prince Rhaegar is dead. Indeed, quite the accurate observation, my lord. His sire is dead. But his father? He is sitting in front of me right now.”
“A folly of a thought. I am but His Grace’s caretaker, entrusted with the duty of sheltering him, raising him, and helping him. All of them, I do not for the promises of rewards, I do it for the debt I owe his father.”
“A noble cause. I understand that you were… close with Prince Rhaegar. Sadly, I never knew him myself. I was five when the Rebellion erupted. And so, I knew them only from the books. The stories and the whispers.”
“We were squires together. We grew up together. In King’s Landing. I was a… close companion to him. Aegon’s father.”
“Still, Lord Connington. It does not change the fact, the truth, and only the undeniable truth, that His Grace does see you as his father. I know that look. Longing, yearning for approval and guidance. His eyes are still very young, after all.”
“I fail to see how this is relevant in building some sort of cordiality between us, Lord Tyrell. In fact, I rather think that it is quite the opposite of it.”
“Pity. Now, there’s no need to be so… defensive, Lord Connington. I’m something of an expert in that area.”
“And which- what area is that?”
“A child’s thirst. Thirst for love. You didn’t grow up with brothers, sisters, or any sibling, did you, my lord?”
“I didn’t.”
“Every parent has one favorite, you know. And for my lordly father, it has always been my brother Loras. Leo Longthorn comes again, the finest jouster in all of Westeros. He knocked the Kingslayer into the dirt in a joust at the Capital. Bright, shiny, valiant Loras. Who they now call - the Knight of the Flowers.”
“And you are telling me this, why? So I can reprimand your lord father when we arrive in Westeros?” He wondered whether the Reacher was doing this on purpose, damning him with long words as Jon had told him of his distaste for it earlier.
“No,” denied the Tyrell with a soft laugh. “No, no. For that, I can do it myself. And I assure you, I need not any assistance... Well, I am no knight and I will never lead my house’s army from the utmost front of the war. I made my peace with that. My family has. Yet I do not forget the time when my father once considered elevating my brother Garlan as the Heir. For who would follow a cripple, you think?”
“My sympathy goes with you and my heart grieves for you. Is that what you want to hear, Lord Willas? I still do not see the need for such a grand telling.” The time began to weigh on Jon, weariness catching up to him. This can't end quick enough.
“Yes, yes. Poor me. I am merely sharing the burdens and grievances of a child. If ever comes the day, should you get married and have children - flesh and blood, heirs of your own, then perhaps this experience of mine will be worth something.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” He would’ve shouted the words once. The younger him certainly would. But Jon Connington didn’t spend his years in exile nursing up old wounds for none. His eyes narrowed at the words, but he kept his composure.
“Things that don’t need to be spoken loudly. Things we know very well already,” answered Willas Tyrell, unfazed. It began to irritate him, of how the Reacher would shrug off anything thrown into his way as if mere winds. “You may think me impudent, crude, or crass. But my advice, as an outsider, perhaps, and as someone who will be His Grace’s family in the future, is that you should set things out with him.”
Bold, this one. There was a time when he thought of the Tyrell to be an airheaded oaf, filled with grandiose and meek deference, as his father was known before him. But that time certainly wasn’t now. “And what is there to set out, as you put it in words?”
“Prince Aegon is a kind soul. With a heart of gold if I ever know one. I wouldn’t claim to know yours, my lord Connington, so I shall leave ‘what’ to between the two of you. But I must caution you to approach the situation with the utmost consideration. He is our future King. The burden will fall on him. Already so, if I must say. For better or worse, the crown will land on his head-”
“Or worse?” questioned Jon. His words were growled more than they were spoken. How dare he-
“Yes. For better or worse. I have seen the realm burn down, descending into chaos and madness under a King who fails to separate his personal indulgences from duty. Charming Prince Aerys, now remembered as the Mad King. Charismatic Robert Baratheon - beloved in his youth, now wasted away in whoring and drinking. And who would have ever thought of the noble Rhaegar Targaryen to steal a noblewoman? A great lord’s betrothed, too, at that.”
You are not worthy to speak of his name. “Slander and lies. The Usurper’s propaganda.” He might try to deny it, but there was always a part of him that cursed Rhaegar for his foul affair with the Stark girl. An affair I warned him against.
“Call it what you will. Lord Connington, I would hate it if the quarrel between us cast a looming shadow on the Prince. I would hate to see him torn between his uncles, his cousins, his good family, and that of the one person he seemingly treasures most. But I must confess that I tire of watching you watch the world in that rose-tinted glass of yours.”
“Rose-tinted,” he scoffed, anger rising rapidly. “You dare speak of that when you act all high and mighty as if you’re doing this for the oath of fealty your house owes Aegon? I know of the likes of you, Tyrell. I know of your kind. And I know what you seek.”
“You speak half a truth shrouded in anger. I find your lack of faith disturbing, my lord.” To his damnation, Willas Tyrell remained ever calm with his words.
“Half a truth? House Tyrell had the chance to win all the glory there was during the Rebellion. But your lord father was too much of a coward to seize the opportunity.” If Rhaegar had another-
“Glory? The same glory there is in occupying Stoney Sept? Parading hostages and offering pardons? And where did that glory bring you to, Lord Connington? A bitter exile. We made our mistakes and we repent for them. House Tyrell has pledged fealty to Prince Aegon, is that not enough? A Tyrell bride, Tyrell gold, Tyrell companies, our blood and ties - all for His Grace. Do they not suffice? For I think they do. And should.”
Jon let the insult pass away. “I was there, my lord. During the days of Aerys. Loyalists, they name themselves. Lickspittles, I name them."
“My house is risking our heads at this very moment. If King Robert catches even the barest hint of a whisper of the true nature behind our visit to Essos, heads will roll come the morning. And I will not even know about it. Because I am here, so far away, risking everything - that for three-hundred years, my house has built, for a King half a world away with a false name.”
“And what a grand sacrifice it is. A story for the bards and poets. A song that will last a thousand years, no?”
The Reacher ignored him. “If my prediction is correct, then by now Tywin Lannister should have made his move and tried to make more allies. Stark and Tully, most like. And if everything is going by smoothly, then my sister should well be in King’s Landing by now.”
“King’s Landing?” The city of my joy and doom.
“To beguile the Crown. Jon Arryn is a peace lover. But Robert’s wife is a Lannister. And Tywin Lannister has the Crown ringed in iron. My sister would stay there for a month, mayhaps two. There, the grasping Tyrells should seek favour for a Royal Match, only to return dejected as the King denies them so. So, I will have you reconsider some of your distasteful opinions of my house. This gamble will be paid in blood, my house’s blood. And we have never done so before. Not even when the dragons danced twice.”
“And how would you guarantee that such a Royal Match will never happen?” He asked, sharp and brisk, his mind going on the possibility of the Tyrells betraying them.
“Only a fool would think otherwise. King Robert was denied a Stark match once. He will not have it denied for him yet again. Even if it is for his son, this time.” There was something strange to the way the Tyrell said his words, but Jon didn’t ask.
I got my time coming to me. But it is not now. I have waited for so long, I can wait for more. “Very well, then. So be it. And may the oathbreaker be damned to the lowest pit of the Seven Hells, for always and for eternity."
“Yes, indeed. Accursed is the oathbreaker. But as a matter of fact, I do not come here merely to discuss my advice about His Grace, nor am I here to receive… questioning about my loyalty. The wars to come-”
Jon cut him. “One hundred thousand Tyrell swords and fifty thousand Dornish spears are pledged to His Grace’s cause, no?”
“Yes. Albeit I must express my caution for that… figure. But no, Lord Connington. I speak of elephants and exiles. I speak of the Golden Company, the one that is also promised to join His Grace’s cause.”
His thoughts went back to the days with Myles Toyne. Blackheart. And the shame of a farce that was its end. “Ten-thousand of the best fighting men in the continent. What of it?”
“The people of Westeros remember them. And they remember Bittersteel. Who he was, who his parents were, and who he fought for. I do not doubt that there will be lords who wish to deny our King, branding him a pretender, or worse - a Blackfyre.” And we will come to you a beggar. “How reliable are they? I know that they have never broken a contract before. But the Golden Company fighting for a dragon of red ?" And so House Tyrell will rise as the mighty savior. You think so, my lord Tyrell? You overplayed your hands and thought yourself twice too smart. I will not be deceived.
“My decision stands firm on the matter. Lord Varys and Magister Mopatis have worked blood and sweat in swaying the Golden Company to our cause. To break the contract will be an insult. One Myles Toyne will not take kindly. And we will drive them away into the open arms of the Lannisters, instead.”
“Myles Toyne is an old man. Do you think his successor will be half as competent? He groomed you to succeed him. But now? Who is left to continue his glory? Homeless Harry Strickland? And yes, I have done some preparations before our talk. You fear them, my lord. Varys and Illyrio. A gallant exile and story of redemption, cut short when a spider thrust you into a plot of ignoble end and drunken death. Do you think them friends, my lord?”
"I know better than you of what the Eunuch is capable of." And when we take the throne, I will not be forgotten. “I do not consider them friends. They are allies, for now. But I will see it to the justice and only justice when we take the throne.”
“What an interesting choice of words. It seems that we have found our common ground, Lord Connington. Good.”
Silence descended upon them. After a long last, the Reachman asked, “Do you ever think of the other?”
“The other?”
“The other Royal Children. Rhaella’s babes.” Jon Connington never tried to think of them. Not willingly, at least. But he saw it in his mind, two of them begging in the streets, forced to sell any prized possessions they might have salvaged in the past.
“They… they are doing their part for their King. Their... sacrifice will not be for naught. When Aegon takes the throne, they will be rewarded.” He cursed the falters in his voice, but there was none to do.
“Rewarded? Princess Daenerys is a girl, probably not yet flowered. Prince Viserys is half a man, and all his life he is mocked as the Beggar King. Spurned and jeered and insults follow them. Rhaegar’s siblings care not for reward, I am sure. They will care more for a roof over their heads”
It pained him to neglect them - Rhaegar’s siblings. Jon remembered Prince Viserys. Shy and withdrawn, lurking in the shadows. The words didn’t do him justice when they called him to have always been Aerys comes again. And Jon remembered Rhaella. Kind and regal, but deeply scarred, the one Rhaegar treasured the most, more so than his children. He thought of her laboring amidst storms, and as she died with her babe plucked away. He wondered whether her corpse had even cooled when the Usurper’s brother seized Dragonstone.
“And what do you want me to do, Lord Willas? Play the gallant hero and rescue them from the Usurper’s knives? I have no choice but to-” Varys and Illyrio have me. Me and Aegon. Our lives, both.
“I want you to remember. Very well, to our friendship, then? For His Grace the Prince Aegon. For the best of his interests and only his. And not others’,” said Willas Tyrell with an outstretched hand.
Connington took the offered hand, finding the gesture odd. When he made it to exit the room, Jon asked the last question, “Why?”
Willas Tyrell halted in his steps, turning his neck. “Why what?”
“Do you seek us out?” It had gnawed at him, the wondering. “Your house has never been a staunch friend for the Targaryens. Why now, of all the time? There’s no reason for it.”
“Reason? Well, my lord, if I were to look for reasons, I wouldn’t look for it among the Westerosi nobles, for first. But jest aside- why, you asked. All I did. All I do. I do it for the best of what will come to pass. The murderers of children in lion cloak do not deserve the Crown. And neither does the Stag who drowns himself in wines and whores. And what is left for the realm, then? Ashes. No, Westeros needs a strong grip. And the future I envision is where House Tyrell survives, where Prince Aegon sits on the Iron Throne. My sister by his side. And only then shall the garden bloom over Westeros. A new spring for a new dawn. A golden age of a new reign. Together.”
"You speak grand promises."
"That I do," was the Tyrell's simple answer. His fingertips remained perched on the closing door for a while before he turned, and said to Jon, "Speak with Prince Aegon. He has heard too much of the one half of the story. Oberyn loves you not. And his sire? The Martells love him not. He needs to hear the other half."
I ran away. Ghosts from my past. And now I’m paying the price.
"For what? Justification? Or for the sake of the truth alone?"
"Truth? There is always too much truth in the world. Truth ruins the fairytale. Truth ruins the song. In my experience, I have found that truth is not always the best to rely upon. Men believe what they want to believe. They will hear only what they want to hear."
"You dare suggest that I feed him lies? Careful now." Jon's hand was on the pommel of his sword. "You speak words of treason, Lord Willas. Where is that honor that is so cherished in the Reach?"
"There is an omitted truth and there is an outright lie. It’s a fine line to tread. And haven't you heard, Lord Connington? Cripples have no honor, they say." As I can see.
When the Tyrell left, Jon returned to sit on his bed. The vision of the blue-haired boy soon came to him. His ward and care. The King that he was raising for Rhaegar. Soon. My wait is not for long. I can put him on the throne that should’ve belonged to his father soon. The throne that should've been his prince's. And only then, I can rest.
But it was then that the bell toiled. Clang!
Strong and deep and powerful. Jon only half-remembered the names. Narrah? Nayel? Noom? He had thought it queer, to have bells govern the lives of the people. Telling them when to eat, to rest, or to work. Even in consummating… carnal desires, he had heard.
The bells of Norvos toiled and toiled, seemingly without end. Their toils, however, were not the toils of death and mourn. Their chimes were not of doom and war. But it took him to that fateful day all the same. When the bells of Stoney Sept toiled for a whole day.
Then it all came to him yet again. The terrors of his nightmare. He might have evaded them - being Griff and all that came with it. But here, alone and only him, he needed to be Jon Connington. An exiled Hand of the King. A lost and landless lord. And a failure, all things considered.
The bell toiled again, uncaring for his plights. And all Jon Connington could see was his axe upon Hoster Tully's leg. He chugged the nearby jug of wine, emptying the pitcher in short gulps, and yet finding the strong taste to no avail. If only that- no, it wouldn't do for him to drown himself in what could have been. He had enough of that. And Myles Toyne had once slapped him over the head, dousing him with the harsh truth of reality. I could've done more. But it matters not. What matters is that I can do more. Now and not before.
Stoney Sept was long behind. But still, the bells persisted. And Jon Connington cursed the Norvoshi in his mind. Them and their nameless gods. Denys Arryn’s blood came to his mind. The sight of the light leaving his eyes. Jon remembered that the melee didn’t stop around them. I killed him, and yet they didn’t break. No glory welcomed him in slaying the Arryn heir. There was no triumph in the day.
He searched for his personal flask, finding them amidst the ransacks of his little belongings. He drank, his tongue tasting the sweet relief of dreamwine, an old company of his restless nights. Haldon would berate me should he know, recalling the little dose he smuggled out of the halfmaester's cabin. Soon, Jon's back met with the softness of the pillow mattress. In his fatigue, the bells toiled for his lullaby. His eyelids closed, seemingly involuntarily. The sun outside the little window was nowhere to be seen. It was not yet late, but Jon drifted off all the same. The sound of the bell gradually went smaller, unheard at last. But what came with it didn’t leave so easily. The scaled walls of Stoney Sept returned to him. Northmen and direwolf banners. But Jon Connington went nonetheless. To a place, of which he didn't know and never would.
Wind-carved rocks, jagged spires, and growling sea welcomed him. Wind against his face. But he wasn't cold. Moist and damp, air trickling down with water. But he wasn't wet.
Jon knew the sight. He remembered them all too well. Upon the high battlements of Griffin's Roost. He remembered the door that led to the roof of the East Tower, the tallest in the Griffin's Roost. He remembered how it rose, daunting and reaching. The sky within its grasp. But not so quite held. As did I. And my star in the sky.
Jon felt wariness. Afraid to even step the littlest step. Afraid to glance even the littlest glance. For fear of all of it to snap away. The lingering seconds came ticking to him. But it wasn't ticking seconds that he heard. What he heard… he heard the bells instead. Clanking and ranging. Mighty and triumphant. The bells of the Stoney Sept. The bells of the town's watchtower. The beat of its rang timed with the parry of his axe. Chiming endlessly. Chiming the chimes of death. My death. My exile. My end.
He felt it all slipping from him, the time. Jon dared not to look. And then there was silver in the air. Flowing in the wind of the stormy waters of the Shipbreaker's Bay. A face he couldn't see. The most and the least that he wanted to see. To tell the truth, it was not Jon's first time to see him. Nay, the Silver Prince was a guest that frequented his dreams, plagued his nights, and haunted his mind. As it has always been, always will be. The stolen touches and the lingering glances. Jon was fourteen when it started.
And then he spoke. Rhaegar. The words that he had heard before. Years before. Words that sparked the fire inside him. Inside the boy that he once was.
"Your father’s lands are beautiful."
One day they will all be mine, he had said back then. Boys. Foolish, eager, clueless boy. Rhaegar wore the same clothes as he remembered them. A shirt of black and red, lined with golden laces. Jon, meanwhile, Jon stood in the livery of a sellsword. It wasn't Ser Jon Connington, the Heir to Griffin's Roost that stood there. It was Griff. Griff the Exile. And Griff the Lost.
"And one day it would've been yours. As well as that of the Arbor. All the way to the Wall. One day that never did come."
Rhaegar regarded him with questioning eyes. Madness. Half-mad, I have turned. "Hmm, is that so?"
Yes. Slain by the hands of your own cousin. "This is madness. I have turned mad. To conjure such cruel imaginations of my own. My destiny, is this? I shall not waste my time to frivolously indulge myself in falsehood."
"Most people never particularly like their destiny, you know." And by the Gods does the voice sound the same. It clawed at him, demonic hands. Anguish-bearing hands. From the deepest pit of the Seven Hells, they came for him, singing the song of lamenting torment. Damn this and damn all of them. I damn myself!
"You're just a memory," he said. Only the thing was, Jon didn't know who he said it to. To himself, mayhaps, desperately trying, seeking for conviction. "A long-gone memory," he added.
"My great-great-uncle once told me in his letter that no one is ever really gone. Nothing ever is. We are the sum of everything that came before us. And in ourselves, deep and inside, we carry a little of each of them."
My father and his father and his grandfather before him. And I am the sum of their disappointment. "You never told me that before." Has my mind deluded me so? Crafting words of wisdom and guidance by itself.
"You never did ask."
"If only it was so simple." If I had asked you what I wanted to ask of you…
"It does not have to be simple. It needs not. For it is the duty each of us must carry. One must shoulder the burdens they are born with."
"Born with? Seems so cruel."
Rhaegar's eyes averted themselves at his words. After a long last, Jon had grown to maturity, and the Silver Prince in front of him was but a boy. It seems so queer to think of this as if it is real.
"Life is cruel, isn't it? But it is also giving. Trials and joys. Plights and pleasures. Everything is balanced. As they should and only would. It is the eternal song of Ice and Fire. Biting cold and raging flame. Never to end, and never to stop. But their cycles are all the same."
The Ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen. Jon laughed at the absurdity of the thought. Perfect Rhaegar and his burdens of great destinies. Such clever, ingenious trick of the mind. I endured my tortures already. And now it renews.
"So all of it… is it for your glorious destiny? A great purpose of mankind? I tell you this, my Prince, it is not worth the struggles."
The wind came to a tumultuous stop. And Jon felt the shift in the air. "Mayhaps. But I do not fail in the end, do I?"
The hammer struck him deep inside. Jon fell to the stone below. On bended knees. "I-" he tried to speak but he found himself losing the words. "I… I failed you, my Prince."
And then the lip turned into a sneer. Curling, disparaging, and judging. And blood came trickling down the cheek of his silver prince. Blood dripped down his nose. "You did." And those words were the nails upon his coffin, hammered down by the Gods themselves. Blood dripped down his ears. "You failed me. My mother. My brother. My sister." Blood came, soaking his shirt, pooling in his chest. "You failed me. But you will not fail-"
"Your son." I failed the father, I will not fail the son. "I will die for him. I will. So long as I fulfill my promise to-" I will die for him. Like I would've you.
His Prince snapped away, withering in crumbling dust. Jon reached out, his fingertips outstretching his hand. But he didn't meet any. Only empty air. Only empty void. Nothingness as it was only supposed to be.
And where there was once a boy, red-haired, youthful and soft and passionate. Now was left a man, blue-haired, old and rough and devoid. When he woke up, he woke with tears staining his cheek, glistening and dripping down on his right. Jon brought a finger to his face, rubbing it over his shame. Over his hard, coarse, and callous skin.
And it was then that Jon Connington knew… he would not enjoy his time in Norvos.