Chapter Text
Jon Snow I: 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch
300 AC
The Wall: Home of the Night’s Watch
Jon was uneasy.
If Melisandre had spoken the truth, the Boltons had slaughtered the remaining forces of Stannis Baratheon, prospective and fallen King of the Seven Kingdoms, and that meant that the Night’s Watch would soon be involved in a fight between a rock and a hard place.
Treachery was coming at that from the South and Winter was coming for them from the North, and Jon didn’t know how they could survive either one of those threats, much less both at around the same time.
Recalling the dreadful experiences at Hardhome just days past, Jon unconsciously shuddered; he had known that there was a leader of the White Walkers from Old Nan’s tales from whence he was a boy, but just as he had never believed in the Long Night, he had never believed in their leader either.
He knew better now.
The Night King was real, and Jon had locked eyes with the cold, unfeeling gaze of Death that day, and he had been left off-balance by it ever since.
Even after managing to escape Hardhome with a few hundred Free-Folk compared to the thousands that had previously settled there, he had been presented with yet another challenge upon their arrival back to the Wall when the Gates were not being opened at his command.
It hadn’t lasted long, for Ser Alliser Thorne had decided to relay the commands mere moments later, but it had shown Jon that his command of the Night’s Watch wasn’t secure.
If they slaughtered Joer at Craster’s Keep, who knows what they would do to me if they had the chance.
Jon resisted the urge to sigh, even in the silence of the Lord Commander’s study.
He could trust no one. He had sent Sam down to the Citadel so that they could see if they had any knowledge of how to face the Others, and many of the friends he had made on his arrival had perished since then. Edd was a good man, but he was just one of the many that resided in the Night’s Watch.
He had the friendship of Tormund and the rest of the Free Folk, but if he had learned one thing, it was that friendships like these were very fickle. His father had once said that they found their true friends on the battlefield, and yet both he and his brother had been betrayed and slaughtered by their supposed allies, and who was he compared to them?
A bastard.
Truthfully, Jon had never outgrown that word, and he doubted he ever would.
His Lord Father had once promised him that they would speak about his mother the next time that they met, and Jon supposed that time would come too late to make a difference now.
His Lord Father was dead, and so Jon would never know the truth.
Jon was suddenly dragged out of his thoughts when the door to his solar suddenly banged upon to reveal the presence of his personal steward, Olly, “Lord Commander!” Jon raised his head off his hands to peer at the young boy. “it’s one of the wildlings you brought back. Says he knows your Uncle Benjen. Says he’s still alive.”
Jon stood automatically, his wooden chair squeaking as it was pushed backwards, “Are you sure he was talking about Benjen?”
Olly seemed to hesitate, “Said he was a First Ranger.”
Consumed by the thought that one of his family members may still be alive, Jon immediately began to move towards the door as Olly continued, “Said he knows where to find him.”
As the pair rushed down the stairs to the solar, Jon was presented with Ser Alliser waiting for him, “Man says he saw your uncle at Hardhome at the last full moon.”
Despite feeling the most optimistic he had been in moons, he still found it within himself to be suspicious, “Could be lying.”
“Could be.” Ser Alliser agreed. “There are ways to find out.”
“Where is he?”
“Over there.” Ser Allister nodded to a corner surrounded by a group of brothers, some holding torches, and if Jon had taken a moment to pause, he would have realized that each of these brothers were firmly entrenched in Ser Alliser’s camp.
He had no friends here.
Unfortunately, as Jon pushed his way through the brothers, trying to find the Free Folk that knew his uncle, he was about to discover that very fact, as he saw naught but a sign saying Traitor.
Mind sluggish, Jon slowly turned around to see Ser Alliser standing before him, but before he was able to say anything, Ser Alliser lunged forward, a dagger in hand that made a ‘squish’ as he burrowed its way inside Jon’s chest.
“For the Watch.” Ser Alliser Thorne said as he stared at him resolutely. A splatter of blood flew as Ser Alliser tore out his dagger roughly, leading to Bowen Marsh rushing up next, followed by Othell Yarwyck, and then, Jon lost track, but they all repeated the same phrase.
“For the Watch.”
“For the Watch.”
“For the Watch.”
“For the Watch."
After several brothers had stabbed him in the chest, Jon finally lost the battle to stay on his feet, air rapidly entering and exiting his body as he breathed heavily, still in a state of disbelief of being betrayed so brazenly.
The brothers parted once more, and Jon felt a slimmer of hope that somebody had arrived to help him, revealing Olly with a somber look on his face, and Jon instinctively knew that this betrayal had spread more deeply than he had previously thought.
As he looked at Olly in the eyes, his suspicions were confirmed. There wasn’t a single trace of confusion or fear on Olly’s face, only rage and bitterness.
“Olly…” He groaned, hoping that his steward would have a change of heart, but his words only seemed to help Olly steel himself as he lashed out, buried his own dagger in Jon’s chest, before ripping it out.
After a few moments, Olly breathed out, “For the Watch.”
His eyes beginning to darken, Jon half-heartedly registered the fact that his body began to tilt over and impact the floor, only dimly noticing his betrayers walking away, their self-proclaimed duty done, the vestiges of what remained of their honor besmirched.
As his body fell backwards, Jon looked to the sky, the brightness of the stars fading with every second. As his eyesight began to fade, Jon softly whispered a final word to himself, hoping that his companion would survive.
“Ghost.”
With a final breath, the short reign of the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch ended in the same way that his predecessor had met his fate: surrounded by those he had thought he could trust, only to be betrayed in the end.
It was true what they said.
The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies.
In another world, Jon’s corpse would be discovered by Ser Davos Seasworth, former Hand of the King Stannis Baratheon, who would proceed to lock him and the last people he could trust in a barricaded room. Ser Davos would plead with Stannis’s Red Priestess Melisandre to do something, and although it seemed like it wouldn’t work at first, Jon Snow would be reborn at the behest of the Red God, R’Hilor.
In this world, Jon Snow would charge south with his newfound sister Sansa Stark to take Winterfell back from the Boltons, and he would succeed at the cost of his youngest brother’s, Rickon Stark, life and become the King in the North. He would later travel to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys Targaryen, fall in love, and end the Long Night in a final battle at Winterfell where Arya Stark would land the final blow.
Jon Snow would think that for once in his life, he could be happy.
Then, everything changed.
His long since thought dead brother, Brandon Stark, would reveal through his abilities of the Three-Eyed Raven that Jon was actually the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, and his true name was Aegon Targaryen. His old friend, Samwell Tarly, would then present evidence he obtained form the Citadel that Rhaegar and Lyanna had married upon the Isle of Faces, and thus Jon was the true Heir to the Iron Throne.
He was the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Unable to reconcile with the fact that he was in love with his aunt, he would distance himself, although he would never stop being in love with Daenerys, even until the moment that he plunged the dagger into her chest, and ending the reign of the Targaryen’s, once and for all, in the same way that he would die at Castle Black: Betrayal.
What if, instead of the Red God, a different Pantheon would intervene at that moment?
What if Jon Snow wouldn’t be reborn at Castle Black?
What if Jon Snow was no longer a wolf, but now a dragon?
Unknown Time
Unknown Place
Although his life had been full of heartbreak and had eventually ended in betrayal, Jon Snow was finally content with himself.
He was free.
No longer would Jon have to man the Wall, for his vows had ended. Whatever came for the Wall next, whether they be Boltons or the Dead, they weren’t his problem.
No longer would Jon have to deal with the harsh and punishing environment of the North and Beyond the Wall, for he longer existed on the mortal plane.
No longer would he have to worry about Ser Alliser Thorne or Ser Janos Slynt, always trying to rout the Night’s Watch against him, for the former had succeeded in ending his life.
No longer would Jon have to despair thinking about his mother, hoping that his father would one day return to enlighten him about the truth, for it no longer mattered.
Jon Snow was free.
Or so he had thought.
Although time had seemingly become meaningless, he would one day notice that wherever he was, he still strangely had a body.
On the outskirts of his mind, he distantly registered this fact was country to his expectations of floating for the rest of eternity or burning in the deepest reaches of the Seven Hells as the Lady of Winterfell had always told him, but truthfully, it didn’t matter.
He was dead, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He could do nothing about his knees digging into his chest, for the space that he was in was so small that he couldn’t even stretch, a strange fleshy substance brushing his body when he tried, and frankly speaking, he really didn’t have the motivation to try to do more than the occasional kick, just to keep himself minimally aware of his surroundings.
Those kicks often resulted in his space being shaken from the outside, so it wasn’t often he dared to test his luck.
The few times he had tried was how he discovered that he wasn’t just floating in a confined space, but he was also around surrounded by this gooey liquid that prevented him from moving that often. He couldn’t see anything when he tried to open his eyes, but he wasn’t even sure if he had been able to open them at all.
Despite being confined to the small space he had found himself in, trapped in eternal darkness, with no chance of escape…
He was content.
That all changed too, as Jon realized that as an unknown amount of time passed on, either the space he was trapped in was constantly shrinking or he was constantly growing, and he had no reason to believe it was the latter, for he was well past his majority, not to mention the fact that he was dead, and thus incapable of growing.
Or so he had thought.
Although it had once been so soft that Jon could barely hear it, all he could hear recently was this strange beating sound, and although it was almost like a gentle lullaby at times, it was infrequently comparable to that of a war drum, and unluckily for him, this was one of those times when it was loud as the heavens crashing.
Had Jon not earned his rest? Or was this the fate of a bastard, to be forever tormented in the Seven Hells for all eternity?
He wasn’t free.
He was trapped.
And he couldn’t do a single thing about it.
For once, he was grateful when this changed, but he wasn’t grateful for long.
The liquid that had once fully surrounded him wasn’t as pressing as it used to be, and he also distantly felt this strange chasm beneath him, and for the rest time in what felt like years, he felt fear.
What was down there? What would happen to him if he was sucked in?
Would such a fate be worse than being trapped in wherever he was?
For all of the possibilities his mind provided him, he didn’t think so, and so when he felt his tugging sensation begin to lower him into the chasm, he had resisted the urge to resist.
Wherever he was going had to be better than spending the rest of time in whatever purgatory he was in.
Right?
Rhaenyra Targaryen I: Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms
Fourth Moon, 109 AC
The Red Keep, King’s Landing
Rhaenyra Targaryen didn’t want to die.
Especially not like this.
For the majority of time when she was an adolescent, she had forsworn the idea of ever giving birth to a child of her own, despite her mother having attempted to convince her otherwise.
If anybody else had ever wagered a guess as to why, most menfolk would likely believe that Rhaenyra was either in a childhood stage where such ideas were scary and would in time grow out of it, and some may have guessed that it was the dragon blood coursing through her veins, always seeking the next grand adventure to go on with her very own dragon.
The womenfolk knew better, particularly those that had an understanding of not only childbirth themselves, but also those that knew what her very own mother had gone through.
Although Rhaenyra hadn’t known the exact details when she was younger, she knew now that her mother had been wed to her father on her four-and-ten nameday, and her fate from that day was to spend every moment either readying herself to be pregnant, being pregnant, or recovering from the effects of pregnancy. Despite giving through nine different pregnancy cycles, three of which were disrupted, five of which resulted in either a stillbirth or lived less than a moon, and then one that lived: Rhaenyra herself.
Despite having been counseled otherwise, her father had been so obsessed with having an heir, especially after the Great Council of 101 AC when her great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I, had named him as his heir, as well as when he was named King of the Seven Kingdoms two years later, and her mother had been so desperate to fulfill that wish that she had given her life so that Viserys could finally have his male heir.
The Heir for a Day.
Although crudely put by her uncle, and not that she had forgiven him for those remarks, his statement was nonetheless accurate.
Despite her sacrifice, what did it get her mother?
Death in the childbed.
A stillborn heir.
Shame.
Sure, Rhaenyra’s father had burned his loving wife and heir for a day with dragonfire in accordance with Targaryen custom, but he had also promised to mourn his beloved just as much as Rhaenyra herself, and she knew that to be false, for if he was so torn up about her mother passing, how could he wed Alicent Hightower, her childhood best friend, just mere moons after her sacrifice?
Learning that piece of information, both the fact that her mother had spent almost every year after having flowered preparing to give birth and that her former best friend was wedding her father, had forever driven a wedge between her and her father, and yet he continued on as if everything was fine, particularly after his Hightower wench of a wife gave not only given him a male heir, Aegon, but also a daughter of her own, Helaena, just a mere moon ago.
Despite what her father may think otherwise, Rhaenyra had not forgotten.
She had not forgiven.
She very well could of, she could admit that to herself. If her father was so desperate for an heir, there were plenty of women from the other powerful houses of the realm that were unmarried and of flowering age.
He could have married into the Velaryon’s, as most of his council had recommended, in order to bring Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, and Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, back under the crown.
He could have married into the Baratheon’s once more, or the Tyrell’s or the Lannister’s.
By the Fourteen, he could have even married back into the Arryn’s.
Despite all of the options her father had, he had perhaps chosen the worst.
The seven-and-ten-year-old daughter of his faithful Hand of the King.
Alicent Hightower.
Rhaenyra’s friendship with Alicent had imploded the day she had learned of the news, and despite Alicent’s attempts, Rhaenyra had not once made a single step into repairing it, and she never would.
When Alicent had undergone her first birth with Aegon, Rhaenyra had prayed to the Fourteen Flames, to the Seven, and even the Old Gods that Alicent would be met with the same fate as her mother, and all those prayers had been in vain.
Alicent Hightower had survived the birthing bed, and she would give the King the male heir he had always dreamt of.
Rhaenyra couldn’t stand it.
She found herself forced into a marriage with Laenor Velaryon, and despite Laenor having an alternate view on his passions than most would expect out of a husband, they had reached an agreement.
Rhaenyra would be allowed her dalliances, as would Laenor be with his, and Laenor would claim any children of hers as his.
It had been a rather simple agreement, and yet it had so many consequences she had not anticipated.
Who could she rely on that would donate their sperm to birth her child and agree to always stand on the outside, never able to claim any child as his own?
Perhaps once Rhaenyra could have considered her once sworn shield, Ser Criston Cole, to do it, but truthfully, there was never any romantic attraction of any kind there, at least not from her side.
However, there had been one that Rhaenyra had thought of, and he had agreed, and nine months later, she had found herself in the birthing bed, praying that her fate would not be the same as her mothers, the same fate that she had wished Alicent to meet.
It was the pinnacle of irony, and it would be even more so if it occurred.
But it would not.
Rhaenyra wouldn’t allow it.
She would survive this, and so would her firstborn.
Despite all of the jabs Rhaenyra had experienced while the child was inside her womb, she couldn’t imagine a life without them, and yet they had even yet to be born.
Rhaenyra groaned, both at that fact and as yet another contraction rolled through her body. Her waters had broken sometime during the night, and yet while the sun was at its full height, her child had refused to leave her, and despite her love, she had long since grown tired of the birthing process.
Strangely, she groaned in surprise and pain as she felt a second contraction in as many minutes, and the Grandmaester confirmed her suspicions from beneath her as he proclaimed, “I can see the head of the babe, my Princess! Just a little few more pushes, and it will all be over!”
Rhaenyra gritted her teeth; she had made it this long, and the end was already in sight.
In just a few minutes, she would hold her firstborn, and that provided her all of the motivation she needed to press on during the last few moments of the birthing process. Feeling the weight of her child begin to exit her body, she let out a gasp as the Maester grasped onto her child, cut the cord connected to her child, clean her child of her bodily fluids, and swaddle them in a series of freshly cleaned towels.
As the contractions began to occur less frequently, Rhaenyra mustered the strength to look at the Maester as he kneeled beside her bed and said, “It’s a boy, my Princess, alive and well.”
Rhaenyra let out a sigh of relief as she outstretched her hands to hold her baby son, and Maester quickly obliging, allowing Rhaenyra the chance to hug him closely to her chest.
Ignoring the disdainful look of the Maester, no matter how much he tried to hide it, and the judgmental stares of her nursemaids, Rhaenyra guided her son to her breasts from whence he immediately began to suckle from.
The Maester tried to argue, “My Princess, it isn’t proper-”
Despite herself, Rhaenyra snorted, “I just gave birth to my firstborn, Grandmaester; save the proprietary for another time and place.”
He bowed his head in acquiescence, “As you wish, Princess Rhaenyra. Shall I collect the Royal Family?”
Rhaenyra hesitated for a moment, absently moving her son to the opposite side of her chest, before saying, “Just my husband and father for the moment; I am in no state to greet any of the others for the moment.”
With a small, amused, uptick of his eyebrows, the Grandmaester bowed his head once more before exiting her room, and Rhaenyra distantly heard the sound of voices coming from outside her room, although she was either too tired to hear, the voices were too soft, or both, but she was too focused on her son to care about much else.
Her son, from her first observation, had most of the primary Valyrian features, much to her silent relief; tufts of silver-gold hair, pale skin, and as her son opened his eyes, she saw the deepest shade of purple that it almost seemed black.
Her son took all after her, and Rhaenyra was grateful for it.
Distracted as she was by her son, she scarcely heard the door open once more, this time preceding the arrival of her husband, father, and Grandmaester once more.
Immediately rushing to her side, Laenor gently asked, “Are you well, Rhaenyra?”
Rhaenyra let out an unladylike snort, “I just gave birth to my firstborn, Laenor, the future of our families. Childbirth does extract quite the toll, I hope you’re aware.”
Laenor softly chuckled as he looked down upon her son, as Viserys eagerly gestured with his hands, “May I, daughter?”
Rhaenyra was about to acquiesce, but her previous thoughts regarding the fate of her mother had left a tinge of bitterness, and thus she said, “In a moment, father, I believe it is proper for the father to be second after the mother to hold their babe.”
With a startled look on his face, Laenor quickly cleared his face as he reached outwards to grasp onto their son, for that is who he would be; the descendant of Aemon and Baelon Targaryen, eldest surviving sons of Jaehaerys Targaryen, their claims merged once more to give fruit to the future Heir and King of the Seven Kingdoms.
With a smile on her face, Rhaenyra looked on as Laenor’s face softened. Although Laenor, given his proclivities, would never be the birth father of any child, he had told her that he was deeply fond of them, and it was a huge dismay to him that he would never be a true father.
Despite his words, Rhaenyra had hope that he would be a good father to her children, and she hadn’t been let down by him yet.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed her fathers hands twitching by his sides, and Rhaenyra thought that he had waited long enough, leaving her to say, “Laenor?”
“Yes, my love?” Laenor looked up after a few moments to see her hands gesturing at her father whose hands were still twitching, “Ah, of course, my king.”
Laenor lowly outstretched his hands over the bed to deposit their son in her father’s anticipatory hands, who, true to his nature, gently cradled him to his chest and prompting a final sigh of relief, “I’m so proud of you, Rhaenyra.” After a few moments of observing his grandson, he looked up, “And what shall be the name of my first grandson?”
Rhaenyra looked at Laenor for a moment, who silently mouthed ‘It’s your choice’, and Rhaenyra resisted the urge to sigh. They had talked about potential names for their firstborn before, and although Laenor had always had a few suggestions, he had never once believed that he should have the final say given all the effort Rhaenyra would put in carrying the child as well as birthing the child.
Nonetheless, his thoughts wouldn’t be discarded.
“His name shall be Jacaerys, Father. Jacaerys Velaryon, my firstborn and heir.”
