Chapter Text
The moment he fell asleep, he would often hear the ringing. The ringing from the Battle at the Stoney Sept and it's accursed bells. The ringing of the bells grew louder every second, echoing in the walls of the city till it became unbearable for him. He could cover his ears, close his eyes, and pray for the noise to stop but it didn't. The ringing of the bells would often became louder, so much that it felt heavy; as if it aimed to crush him. He closed his eyes harder and gritted his teeth, waiting and praying for it to stop; and soon enough, the sounds had stopped.
Jon Connington opened his eyes; he was on one of the Golden Company's ships. Yes, I came to find a good squire for Aegon. He set the nightmare aside quickly; it was a recurring dream which he had learned to ignore with the passing years.
He had overseen many of the knights under the command of Harry Strickland. He still couldn't believe that that man had come to lead the Golden Company after Blackheart. He's certainly more suited to be a paymaster rather than a leader of men. Coward.
There were certainly many able men that were able to train with Aegon. Rolly had been sent to them little over a year ago and had recently been knighted. Although, he should have chosen a more appropriate name then Ser Rolly Duckfield. Aegon would need a Kingsguard. There are surely some worthy enough and eager young men to want to be a Kingsguard to a great king. A great king is what Aegon will surely become.
Once he had gotten up to the forecastle, he had gotten to see a handful of men forming a crowd. A fight. Surely, it would be interesting. It was then he saw one of the ghosts of his past; Ned Stark. The boy was a near copy to the man who had eagerly followed Robert Baratheon. Young, lean, a face that gave nothing away. The way he fought against the man he was facing was a clear indicator of his talent. He was quick and light on his feet yet carried a great deal of power in each swing. And each swing deadly and precise.
Ned Stark's bastard. He certainly has a great deal of potential. He could certainly be a part of his future Kingsguard. Right now, he could be useful. Should the time come, he could be used to cement the loyalty of the North and rule it for Aegon. But will he betray us when the time comes? As long as he could make him loyal to Aegon, that was a question for later instead of now.
It is then he calls for Strickland and personally has the Bastard of Winterfell as a squire. As he gets close, he sees just how much of a Stark he looks like. So much like Ned Stark with the exception of the loose curls in his hair. Polite and well-mannered.
At least, the bastard turned out to be useful. If he was honest, Jon Snow was less of a bother than he had imagined and helped diligently with the work he had been given. If he had not been the son of Eddard Stark, Jon Connington might have been able to get along with him. He took any small opportunity to observe him quietly, trying to visualize Eddard Stark, as if looking for a pretext to hate the bastard; unable to stop the hate of the man who had helped end the reign of the Targaryens.
He looked very much of what he knew and remembered of Ned Stark and his elder brother from the tourneys he had partook in the South. Stark features, certainly, he concluded after careful consideration. What else was I expecting? Connington observed him a bit longer and stilled; he had detected an expression he had seen only one time before as he longingly stared out from the forecastle of the ship.
" Your father’s lands are beautiful."
Jon Snow stared at the Narrow Sea, the way Rhaegar had stared at the landscape from Griffin's Roost, the same mixture of awe and melancholy overflowing his eyes. Grey almost black eyes were remarkably similar to almost dark indigo eyes under the scarce light of the moon; right then, the bastard’s eyes could have easily passed as Rhaegar's. What am I doing? Jon Connington breathed deeply and shook his head, convinced that what he had seen was an effect of the nightmares that had plagued him. He looked at the bastard one last time, whatever it had been, had disappeared, no, it had never been there.
He then found out more about the boy from Homeless Harry. He was certainly no ordinary bastard. With the way Ned Stark had raised him alongside his own small pack of wolves, it was almost as if Ned Stark had learned something from the Dornish. No bastard was raised the way he was. And with no knowledge as to who his mother was. Mayhaps he is Ashara's child; the one she never seems to talk about. Whenever he brought up the subject with her, the normally happy disguised Septa turned sad and stern, and at one point struck him hard enough that his cheek was red for a moon.
When he had awoke, he had thought that Jon Snow would show his face, almost like an expectant pup. But he hadn't. He then got out and was instead greeted by Tristan Rivers. He had reported to him that his Stark squire had taken to fight Bloodbeard, a sellsword that they were planning to put on trial for trying to rob the Golden Company. The man was a well-known for his savage tactics and command, and had openly challenged the boy to prove his salt. What on Earth was the boy doing accepting that challenge? Some sellswords could have honour, but not him. Bloodbeard hungers only for blood, glory and gold.
Once he came to see the fight, he had been taken by surprise. Ned Stark's bastard was outsmarting the ruthless whoreson. The boy still needed training, but what Connington was witnessing was ridiculous. He should have gone up to scold him or leave, but something prompted him to stay and watch. The way he parried and evaded Bloodbeard's savage strikes was almost like staring at Rhaegar. Graceful and quick, he contemplated almost horrified. The gods might be making fun of him. He repeated the ritual he used to perform after his nightmares, trying to calm down. Nothing to do about it, he gave up. Not that it mattered either; Jon Snow could win that fight and slay him but he would remain a bastard.
Bloodbeard suddenly swung his massive greatsword as hard as he could in a horizontal manner, hoping to spill Jon Snow's guts out. Snow managed to quickly dodge it and then vertically sliced at the man's savage face; blood spewing out from his fleshy nose and now split lips. Quickly, he had swung his sword so hard and fast that he broke his sword as it cut through Bloodbeard's massively thick neck; severing his head from his body. Bloody is as bloody does.
Everyone gathered around him and proudly cheered him on. Shouting "SNOW! SNOW! SNOW!" But he did not look proud. Instead, he almost looked ashamed and scared. It's the first time he had killed a man. When he made his way to his squire, he had wanted to scold him for getting into the fight in the first place. But he did not look like he needed a scolding at the time.
"Are you alright, lad?"
"I-I-I-I'm fine. Truly. It was glorio - "
"You did well against that madman. But don't go looking for fights, or you'll end up in an early grave. Understand that, Snow?"
"I ... I understand, Ser."
He did well against him. Very well. A deadly yet graceful beast with a blade in hand. With more training, he could be as great as Arthur Dayne or even the accursed Kingslayer. Disgraceful as he is, he couldn't deny that the Kingslayer was a danger with a blade. In due time, he could have a knighthood. He quickly took it upon himself to truly train him. Snow is undoubtedly a quick learner and armed to the bone with natural skill. It was almost like a dance to him, the way he moved.
Whenever he had fallen down, he had half-expected him to simply scowl like his infamous father. Instead, he wouldn't say or do anything other than get back up and keep fighting. He can certainly respect that level of tenacity. He could certainly give Aegon a hard time. Each time he had faced him, he could tell that there was a wisdom that his eyes bore; an inquisitiveness.
His thoughts then drifted to the boy. His grey almost-black eyes. The very shape of them almost reminded them of Rhaegar. There was something about the boy that reminded him of his Silver Prince. Other than his often sullen broodiness which reminded him of Rhaegar's own broodiness and melancholy. He then found himself thinking of the Starks. What he knew and remembered of them back at Harrenhal.
Brandon Stark, who was quite a tourney champion from the few times he ventured South. Everything about the man was large from his body to his constantly bright smile, except for his "proper sword" from what he overheard from a couple of whores at the time. Ned Stark, the sullen almost stony-faced wolf who Ashara occasionally spoke of with fondness. Little Benjen Stark, who followed his siblings like a lost pup and stared wistfully at Oswell Whent's niece Alys. And then Lyanna Stark. With how skinny she was, he had almost thought that she was a boy. From what he remembered of her, she was as temperamental as her oafish elder brother. But there was a certain loveliness to her with her pale skin and grey eyes.
When Rhaegar had gave her the laurel of winter roses and named her Queen of Love and Beauty, he had thought that he was japing. But he had never known Rhaegar to easily or cruelly jape of such things. She had to have used some sort of magic to have enticed Rhaegar. He had never spoken of Elia with such fondness and liveliness. His thoughts then drifted back to Jon Snow.
It could not have been possible. Could it? The boy is certainly muscular enough if lean. He surely did not inherit his uncle Brandon's broad frame and stupidity. He was certainly serious as Eddard Stark. There was a certain amiability to him that seemed reminiscent to what little he knew of his uncle Benjen. But that fierceness and precision in battle ... That wasn't Brandon. He had seen the infamous Wild Wolf fight in the melee where he infamously lost. His swings big, quick and almost wild. A certain level of grace to each swing.
Once he decided to properly knight him, he held a small but grateful smile. Twas almost like his Silver Prince had come back to him. Had he though? Ned Stark had claimed the boy as his bastard. Ashara never confirmed nor denied that she had a son by her "precious" Ned. Even in the Narrow Sea, he had heard word of it, and had wanted to laugh himself silly. But mayhaps, he should have laughed himself silly in the first place. Eddard Stark's gods were honour and duty like his foster father Jon Arryn.
If his suspicions were correct, then that would mean more than a simple lie. A simple lie to King Robert's beloved reign. Rhaegar did not commit simple folly. A successor to Aegon's reign. The bas- the boy seems to be a good lad. Sober and dutiful. Some of the other sellswords seem quite fond of him. He was certainly everything and more anyone could ask of a prince. He could act as Aegon's Hand once his own time was gone. Or Lord Commander of his Kingsguard. ... If it is true. ... Mayhaps it is ...