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Published:
2018-05-25
Completed:
2018-05-30
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5/5
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Winter Proposals

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Summary:

Commission work. My most sincerest thanks and appreciation to InkFire_Scribe for working with me on this work.

Chapter 1: Revelation

Chapter Text

Snow is not silent. As it falls, it whispers and hisses secrets that very few care to listen to. Even fewer can understand them. Ice sparkled in the sunset, winter's glaze giving the sheen of diamond to dark grey stone. Though it seemed like lifetimes had passed since last he'd stood in this courtyard, looking up at these windows, nothing had changed. When he sighed, his breath clouded the air like the fire of a dragon, ruffling the fur around his throat and chin. It had been a long time, and he was the one that had changed. But inward change didn't alter the world around him. Pulling his cloak a little tighter about his shoulders, Jon Snow stepped across the shoveled, packed snow toward the tall double doors that stood open for him. He had wanted to enter alone for many reasons, not the least of which was 'time to think.'

"My Lord," murmured the servant at the door, bowing deeply to him as he crossed the threshold into the warmth of the entry hall. The obeisance still made him uncomfortable, but he said nothing of it. Shrugging out of his cloak, he passed the heavy outer garment to the servant, taking note that the man had the thin, sallow look of one who has suffered illness recently. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that life had not been kind to any in Westeros since even before his own birth. But then, what would the birth of a bastard change, save for the honor of his mother? The doors swung shut with a soft, muffled boom and Jon watched the servant shuffle to one side to hang his cloak reverently.

"Jon." The sound of his name startled him from his contemplation of the fortunes of Winterfell, and he turned. At first, he didn't recognize the strange, pale boy. He was clad in furs, his face deeply bruised on one side. But features leapt out at him as he looked. The shape of his cheekbones. The color of his eyes. The length of his neck. The way his hands folded in his lap.

"Bran?" He was much changed from the curious, cheerful boy he'd once known, and Jon wondered if he weren't fated to lose everyone he'd ever cared about, through death, curse, or simply the changes wrought by many years' parting - who did he have left from his old life? And even if he could go back, would he? Gods, but his thoughts were morbid these days.

"There are things you should know before you join the rest of your party." Bran's voice was curiously flat, his eyes were bright with the sort of eagerness that came of knowing something that would surprise everyone. "You should know before they learn it, and they'll know it soon enough."

"What should I know?" The man wanted, more than anything, for things to be done. The Night King was gone, his army scattered and destroyed, Cersei in hiding. He should have had time to rest, to enjoy and explore the new possibilities with Dany. She was an intriguing woman, and whether or not she took her place on the Iron Throne, he thought she was a woman worth following.

"You're destined for the Iron Throne, Jon." Bran's voice was both soft and even, and Jon felt himself go still. There was ice in his veins at the thought. Setting himself up as a rival to Daenerys had never been his plan, and now it seemed like he would be forced into yet another war. Forced by who? And for what reason? Fate had warped and stunted his life until he had no control over it, and this final revelation lit a fire in his belly. Fury welled up in him and the man turned to face his brother. Had Bran stood on his own two feet and carried a sword, Jon felt in that moment that he might have drawn on him.

"No. The Iron Throne belongs to House Targaryen, and Queen Daenerys is the last of that line. I've pledged myself to her and I'll not be made a traitor. I won't do it. Not for you, not for fate, not for me." The idea of starting another civil war sickened him. A spasm of pain lanced through his right hand, and he realized he was gripping his sword hilt so hard the muscles in his palm were cramping. Slowly, he forced himself to release the weapon, flexing his fingers. "I can't do it, Bran. And I don't want to."

"Not the last." Bran hadn't reacted, either to Jon's anger or to the imminent threat of the sword at his hip. He gazed calmly up into his brother's face. Some of Jon's confusion must have shown in his expression, for the boy smiled faintly. "She's not the last Targaryen."

Silence fell, filling the space between them like snow, soft and cold. A shiver ran through Jon's body in spite of the warmth of the room, and he glanced swiftly about. They were alone. No one would hear him.

"What do you mean?" His voice was a whisper. The presentiment of looming change robbed his words of strength.

"Your mother, Lyanna Stark, gave you as a baby to my father. She made him swear to keep you safe." Bran paused, and for a moment, his bright eyes flicked away, as though he were having second thoughts about how much to share. The internal debate was a brief one, however, and he continued with only a faint sigh. "She told him your true name before she died, and I heard it." Bran's eyes lifted again, meeting his brother's reluctant gaze. Jon wished violently for Bran to be silent, inexplicably repelled by the iminent revelation of his parentage. Being a bastard had been so much a part of who he was for so long, he didn't know who he would be without it.

"She said 'His name is Aegon Targaryen. If they find out, they'll kill him.' I just thought that was something you should know." The casual tone behind his words belied their weight. Jon took a step back, his mind reeling. This couldn't be true. And if it was... if it was? What then?

At the other end of the hall, a door opened. Light and noise flooded the empty entryway, and Bran turned to look over his shoulder. He spoke to someone, but Jon couldn't hear the words. Everything was drowned out by the pounding rush of blood in his ears.

Aegon Targaryen.

Someone touched his arm, and Jon twitched, coming back to the present with a jolt. Bran was at his side, and there was a smile on his face that brought back memories of the little boy he'd left behind so long ago. The cold emptiness of his expression was softened by that smile, and Jon remembered to breathe.

"It doesn't change anything, Jon. You've made yourself who you are. Just remember that, when the rest of them expect you to change." Then the boy was gone, being pushed away toward the bright doorway and the laughing, chattering clatter of the banquet hall.