X.

The guards let Rhaegar through, which he took as a good sign. There might be a Blackfyre usurper on the throne, but people were still in awe of him and knew who the true king was!

Arthur, Oswell, and Jonothor all stood behind him, their white cloaks snapping with the sharp moves they made, their armour gleaming and polished. They were a sight to be seen, for sure, and if Jon's intel was correct, the Blackfyre usurper was going to be in the middle of petitions, in the throne room. Rhaegar would have an audience when he finally revealed the impostor for who and what he was – he was going to take back his rightful place as king, take back Lyanna, explain it all to Elia, and free her, his children, and his mother from the Blackfyre's treachery.

One of the guards at the throne room doors goggled at the group as they approached, blinking, and nudging at his fellow guard with his elbow.

"What?" the other guard moaned, turning away from where he was peeking at the latest petition inside through a crack in the door. His fellow guard was still staring, and the man turned, only to squawk in surprise. "Prince Rhaegar?"

Rhaegar nodded, regally. "Please, open the doors. I am ready."

The two guards shared a look before the first shrugged. "Alright..."

They each pulled a door open and Rhaegar strode through with his kingsguard at his back, and almost missed the second guard muttering, "It's your funeral..."

What did he mean? thought Rhaegar with a mental frown. He immediately shook it off. No matter. I am here, I am ready –

"MY LORDS, MY LADIES, I HAVE RETURNED!" announced Rhaegar, his voicing pitching and echoing nicely in the cavernous chamber.

Everyone in the throne room turned to look at Rhaegar as he walked in, and he basked in the glow of their eyes. Lords, ladies, knights, smallfolk, and servants all stood ranged around the throne room, some in chairs and others standing near the edges. A herald stood closer to Rhaegar and the doors, to announce any petitioners and to keep the line, blinking in shock as Rhaegar chose to announce himself instead. He normally didn't do flash – preferring his undercover persona and subtle whispers, but this time, even wanted everyone to see him, their prince, return triumphant.

At the other end of the entrance, the Blackfyre sat on a chair that was not the iron throne – in fact, that throne sat unoccupied to the side, completely dusty and unused – sitting upright and solemn- faced as he nodded along to the group of men standing in front of him. The petitioners all turned to face Rhaegar as well, scowls on their faces.

Ah-ha! The usurper is not handling petitions well. I have come at the right time, thought Rhaegar as a pleased shiver went through him. He strode forward, his steps echoing as he continued, loudly, "I HAVE COME HERE TO SEEK JUSTICE AS THE WRONGED PARTY, EAGER TO RETURN TO MY PROPER POSITION AS THE RULING TARGARYEN—"

"Yes, yes, alright, take your place at the end of the line, Lord Rhaegar," interrupted the Blackfyre with an absent wave of his hand, completely dismissing Rhaegar. "But there's a proper order to this, so you'll need to go last."

He then turned back to the men in front of him, one who nodded and began speaking again.

"—FOR I HAVE BEEN – burdened... with... glorious purpose..." Rhaegar trailed off. He looked around the throne room in confusion, but the court had mostly turned back to watch the other men and the usurper; the ones who still had their eyes on him were whispering behind their hands or fans, and some even smirked outright.

"I – what?" Rhaegar stopped striding forward and turned to look at Arthur. "Did that just–? What happened?"

Oswell was staring at the usurper; Jonothor was glaring, and Arthur was just as confused. "I am... not sure, my Prince."

"My Prince!"

Rhaegar turned, nearly gasping in relief as Jon Connington broke from the edges of the crowd, hurrying toward them and wringing his freckled hands. There was practically an aura of nervous energy around Connington when he approached. On his heels was Ser Myles Mooton, Rhaegar's squire, a gangly teenager of eight-and-ten, and still pimply. His eyes were wide as he took in the sight of his prince and kingsguard.

"Jon," greeted Rhaegar, "What's going on?"

"It's the king – uh, usurper," the man hastily corrected, seeing Rhaegar's heavy frown. "He's hosting his petitions."

"Yes, I can see that," dripped dryly from Rhaegar's mouth. "But why am I being forced to wait?"

Connington twitched. "It's his policy, my Prince. He hears petitions every fortnight from midday to evening bell, on the seventh day of the week. He has rules about who can petition when, and uh – well, the small folk were here before you."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed. "I see. Well. I cannot fault the usurper for that, I suppose. Very well, I shall wait."

"But, my Prince, there's something you should know–"

Rhaegar ignored Jon's sputtering, eyes intently focused on the Blackfyre and the petitioners at the front of the room. He didn't have to wait long, as the group of men finished their petition and the king made his judgement, something they all ended up agreeing with, with much handshaking and bowing to the king as they backed away and left with a scribe to write down their information. Then, it was just the two men – one light-haired and the other dark – as they stared at each other from opposite ends of the throne room. The man stood from his chair and walked down the dais, stopping a few meters from him when Lewyn and Barristan made cautionary noises.

"I honestly didn't think I'd ever meet you," the Blackfyre said, sounding amused. Affronted, Rhaegar frowned. "Did you think I would not come and fight for my birthright?"

"We've never met properly, have we?" the man continued with a strange smile on his face. He extended his arm, hand out. "I'm Jon."

Rhaegar blinked. Was he—? Is he—? Introducing himself to me?

When the silence stretched on, Jon let his arm fall, and the strange smile on his face turned a bit

bitter. "To the point, then, my Lord? What is your petition?"

Finding his feet, Rhaegar nodded. "Yes! My petition." He scowled. "I am the rightful heir to the throne—"

"Your father gave it up when he accepted the deal given," replied Jon, bored. "And I won against his champion. Three times. Three."

Wrong-footed, Rhaegar paused. He opened his mouth, "You are not a Targaryen—"

"My father was, and my parents were married, therefore I am," answered Jon, sounding even more bored now. "I just don't proclaim it to all and sundry."

A flush began to creep up Rhaegar's neck. "You are holding my family hostage! I want them to go free!"

"I'm sorry, what?" Jon stared at Rhaegar.

"My mother, the Queen! And my wife, and children," clarified Rhaegar, not like people didn't know who he was talking about. "They go free."

Jon turned to look at someone near him – a redhead who was staring just as perplexed at Rhaegar as the King had been, and a dark-haired, scowling woman.

Rhaegar's heart leapt. Lyanna!

But then he realized that the fierce-looking Stark was not Rickard's daughter, but someone who looked eerily like her; Lyanna was actually a few paces behind the redhead and lookalike,

bookended by her two older brothers with her father standing behind her. She was staring at him, with wide, hopeful eyes and her mouth open in shock and awe. There were stars in her eyes and Rhaegar puffed his chest a bit.

The redhead shrugged. "I'm just as lost as you are."

Jon turned back to Rhaegar. "My apologies, but I am awfully confused. Why do you think I'm holding your family hostage?"

"...because you are?" the answer came out more of a question than a firm statement, and Rhaegar winced. Behind him, Jon Connington emitted a low-pitched whine.

Jon frowned, turning again toward the redhead. She stepped out of the way, dragging the Lyanna lookalike with her, revealing the Starks and standing beside them, his mother with Viserys next to her, and Elia, Rhaenys, and Oberyn scowling at him at his sister's elbow.

"Mother?" Rhaegar held out a hand toward her. Rhaella raised a single, thin eyebrow in response.

"Rhaella?" asked Jon, drawing her attention. "Perhaps you could clarify for your son. Are you my hostage?"

Rhaella kept her eyes on Rhaegar even as she answered. "No, Your Grace. Neither Viserys nor I are hostages. In fact, we have plans to retire to Dragonstone with our retainers in a few moon's turn."

Rhaegar swallowed thickly, eyes turning to Elia. "Ellie, it's fine, it's safe, we can go—"

His wife scowled something fierce and crossed her arms. "Go? Go where? I'm returning to Dorne, myself, Rhaegar."

"With – with—" his eyes dropped to Rhaenys, who stared up at her father and then stepped back to hide behind Elia's skirt. His heart felt like it was being squeezed, beating furiously in his chest as it tried to compensate.

"Yes," snapped Elia waspishly. "With my children. Mine. For they are certainly not yours after you abandoned us to chase after that—"

Jon cleared his throat, quickly cutting Elia off although she descended into Rhoynish mutters that he was sure was not complimentary toward Lyanna. "I'm afraid your information was wrong, Rhaegar. As you heard, I don't have anyone here as a hostage."

Rhaegar swung his gaze toward Jon Connington, who paled so much his freckles stood out in sharp relief on his cheeks. "My Prince, I tried to – that is, I wanted to—"

"But..." Rhaegar trailed off, something small in his voice as Connington's eyes dropped to the floor. Around him, lords and ladies and knights and retainers watched eagerly. Once, these were his subjects, some even his friends. But now they refused to meet his eyes or shifted awkwardly in place as the silence drew out uncomfortably long.

Behind Jon, a few paces away, Lewyn and Barristan stood with their hands loose but resting on the hilts of their swords. Jaime Lannister stood further apart, closer to his father – Gods, Tywin is here, look at that arrogant smirk! – and to his sister and dwarf brother, but still dressed in the white cloak Arthur had given him when he was named to the kingsguard not even yet two years' past.

"But – Ser Lewyn? Ser Barristan? How could you...?" Rhaegar trailed off, hurt. Neither replied, but Lewyn's eyes skittered toward his niece, and Rhaegar knew he had lost the man the second he crowned Lyanna at Harrenhal. Jaime – well, he was young, and a Lannister. And the Blackfyre, Jon, was charming. But... Barristan? A man who stood for honour and duty?

But is not their duty to the king? he wondered, only to wince when another thought slid to the forefront and insidiously hissed in his ear: Did you not already break the kingsguard and shift their loyalty and force them to choose between you and your father?

"Listen, I can see this is upsetting you," began Jon, carefully, hands out in a placating gesture. "Why don't we take this to a receiving room, and you can speak with your mother about this—"

Something in the Blackfyre's voice – the projected calm, the need to patronize – galled at Rhaegar and he threw his shoulders back, along with an arm as he gestured between himself, Elia, his mother and Viserys, hoping to reach them. One last appeal.

"Gods, Ellie – please – don't you see!? Mother?!" pleaded Rhaegar. "We are Targaryens! We are the prophecy come again!" he paused, then added, "Erm... not how I thought... I mean, there were supposed to be two sisters and one brother, but—"

"What." There was no question in Jon's blank, hard stare. At his side, the redhead and Lyanna lookalike both presented him with matching scowls.

"The prophecy?" Rhaegar repeated, eyes wide and heart racing. Words spewed from him, quicker and quicker as he tried to get everyone to just understand, to just realize why this was important – why he was important –

"The dragons must have three heads; that's why our sigil is what it is – the three-headed dragon, and the prophecy needs three, like Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys... Elia, she, that is, she couldn't... there wouldn't be another child, not safely, and I needed another. Another woman. For my Visenya—for the prophec—"

"That was why you ran off?" gasped Elia, reeling back in shock and hurt.

"I was a fucking broodmare?!" screeched Lyanna at the same time, her eager anticipation and awe

of Rhaegar bleeding quickly away at the revelation.

Startled, Rhaegar turned to both women, who stood near one another. Desperation began to bleed into his voice. "Ellie! Lyanna, my sweet winter rose, it was meant to be! Surely you understand! Three heads! The dragon must have three heads!"

Elia's face twisted into something unfamiliar, and Oberyn drew her to his side, murmuring against her temple, glaring hotly at him all the while. With a gasp and shudder, Elia begged, "I can't – I can't be here—take me to my rooms, 'Ryn, please."

Elia turned her back on Rhaegar, Rhaenys clutching at her hand as they turned to leave; Oberyn had only paused long enough to glance at Jon, who, with concern on his face, nodded back.

"Elia! Ellie, wait!"

Distraught, Rhaegar turned to Lyanna, but there was nothing kind in the young girl's face as she snorted at him, tossing her head and her long, thick hair back over her shoulder in a deliberate flounce. Brandon and Ned, her protectors on either side, were both looking darkly at him with their chins dipped low and their eyes hooded. For once, Rhaegar could see how so many in the south considered the northerners savages with the wild looks on the Stark boys' faces.

"Lya—" but she too turned from him; not leaving or presenting her back, but moving her eyes to avoid his and staring at the floor.

Rhaegar cast his gaze around the room, searching for anyone, someone. Mace Tyrell and his mother, the Queen of Thorns, were both staring at him, unabashed, although with various degrees of deviousness in their eyes, perhaps matched only by Mace's two teenaged sons; the Hightowers turned from him; Jon Arryn's face was cut from granite and disappointment; his cousin Robert looked gleeful and other familiar faces turned from his.

"Please," whispered Rhaegar, his voice carrying in the silent throne room. When no one spoke up, he tried a different direction.

"There are three of us now," he continued, finally looking at Jon, who met his eyes with pity. "Please. Me; you, Jon; and Viserys... we could be Aegon the Conqueror come again and save the realm, it's coming, the darkness—"

Something flickered on Jon's face, a frown pulling at his mouth.

Nearby, Rhaella muttered, "Rhaegar, stop speaking you foolish boy, that's enough."

"I –" Rhaegar's nose tickled, and his eyes burned and gods he was four-and-twenty, not some green boy, he wasn't going to cry, he wasn't— blinking furiously, Rhaegar inhaled sharply. His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest, and something churned, heavy, and sharp, in his stomach. But each look, smirk, whisper, cut through the room like a hot, sharp knife. Each cut whittled away at him, and something broke, shattered into a thousand shards of glittering shrapnel, each piece falling and making him bleed a little bit more until nothing was left. His hands were numb, and there was a bit of darkness stretching across his vision when Rhaegar drew himself up, his face hardening. "I demand trial by combat!"

Jon groaned. "Gods, not again..."

Glaring and through gritted teeth, Rhaegar spat, "Trial. By. Combat!" "Really?" sighed Jon. He stared hard at Rhaegar and then said, "No." Rhaegar sputtered. "What?"

The people in the throne room collectively inhaled.

"No, I won't fight you," repeated Jon, his voice hard. "I have won this throne thrice over. I have demonstrated that I cannot be burnt by fire. I am more Targaryen than you, and I never even wanted to own the Targaryen name. No. There will be no fight, Rhaegar. It's over. It's done. Go to Dragonstone, live your life – a new one."

Jon turned, presenting his back to the once-prince, and began walking away, back to the seat he was using for petitions. He passed between Lewyn and Barristan, and the two made to follow him back to the dais.

"What – how – how dare you," sputtered Rhaegar, his voice rising shrilly. "I am the promised prince! I am to bring peace back to Westeros; I am to bring the light in the darkness! If the three- headed dragon cannot be found here, then I will make it so!"

With that spat out to the throne room, Rhaegar withdrew his sword from its sheath and pointed it at Jon's back. "Fight me, Blackfyre! Fight me, godsdamnit!"

Jon paused, turning his head enough to hear Rhaegar speak but not to glance over his shoulder. Lewyn and Barristan both drew their own swords, a physical shield between Jon and Rhaegar.

"My Prince, don't do this," Arthur cautioned lowly, while Oswell muttered to Rhaegar, "This is folly and in the throne room of the Red Keep! My Prince, please!"

But Rhaegar didn't hear a word they said, staring hatefully at Jon's back.

Lewyn and Barristan were speaking to the Blackfyre – to Jon – as well, their voices so low that Rhaegar could not hear. But the rigid form of Jon's back told him that he disliked the words, so it was no surprise that the usurper whirled around, grey eyes flinty, and announced, "I will fight you."

At last! thought Rhaegar, biting back the smile on his face. He withdrew his sword. Jon looked around with a furrow on his brows. "Here? Now?"

Rhaegar raised his pale eyebrows. "Scared, Your Grace?"

"Very well," sighed Jon instead. There were some more mutters between him, Barristan, and Lewyn, and finally, Jaime Lannister strode forward and offered the king his sword. The dark- haired man nodded in thanks and turned to face Rhaegar, thoughtfully hefting the weight of the sword from hand to hand as he took the measure of the younger man's blade.

He stood side faced, sword tip pointed down, staring at Rhaegar. "When you're ready, Rhaegar."

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, desperately pulling up all of Arthur's instructions, of Barristan's and Gerold's words of encouragement. He was always more of a lover than a fighter though – probably what got him into this mess, to begin with, he painfully admitted to himself as an aside – and for all he knew, Jon Blackfyre was a skilled warrior if he was able to kill Gerold Hightower.

I must be decisive. I must make the first move if I want this, thought Rhaegar, and with a cry, threw himself forward, his sword swinging parallel to the floor and toward Jon's chest.

Jon took a step to the side and brought his own sword up, ably deflecting the steel. The two swords made a terribly loud clanging noise that echoed through the throne room, and people gasped.

Rhaegar frowned and rotated his wrists, bringing the sword down low and then up – Jon blocked it again, stepping back and to the side. There was a look on Jon's face as he fought Rhaegar: solemn, still, with his eyes fixated on the prince. Panting, Rhaegar let out a cry and then swung his sword again: parry, riposte, parry, strike, counter – the swords rang as they hit, moving faster and faster and glinting off the afternoon light that streamed into the room and off the many candelabras at the edges of the crowds.

Each move Rhaegar made was perfect – he had the best instructors, of course – but several minutes in and he was panting, sweating heavily, and glaring at Jon, who looked unruffled and clean, still evenly watching him.

The two broke and Rhaegar gasped, "Why aren't you fighting me?!"

Jon snorted. "I'm letting you do all the work, here." He eyed Rhaegar, pityingly. "Aren't you getting tired, Rhaegar?"

Enraged, Rhaegar let out a roar – a dragon's roar – and launched forward, swinging his blade without care, or thought, back and forth, up and under. In any direction he could as he chased Jon

across the space made in the middle of the throne room. Each strike, each hit vibrated his arms with the ferocity of his blows, and yet Jon would only let him chase the usurper around the room. Whenever they were too close to the crowd, Jon would engage, briefly shoving Rhaegar back or turning on his heel so that they were facing a new direction, but he rarely made any moves against him, remaining on the defence.

"Fight me!" panted Rhaegar, his blade hanging low and he, partially hunched. "Fight me, damn it!"

Something in Jon shifted, and Rhaegar blinked as the man barely changed his posture but everything about him suddenly screamed predator. Then, Jon attacked.

The first blow came from above and Rhaegar barely had time to block the downward strike; his arms ached, and the force of the hit made Rhaegar trip backward, blinking in shock.

The second attack came from the side, Jon alternating from the right and left, forcing Rhaegar to block, stumble backward or away, or if he were lucky, parry the attack. But his arms were hurting now, wrists tired from his tight grip on the hilt.

The worst part was that Jon's expression never changed. His eyes remained the colour of Valyrian steel, dark and foreboding, unerringly focused on Rhaegar's face. With each attack Rhaegar scrambled to avoid, the more unnerved he felt. He tried to get his bearing back, back into form like Arthur and Gerold taught him, but was so off-centre that the latest hit he took had him bend his knees, one touching the stone floor as he used his upper body weight to push back against the downward strike Jon made. But then Jon swung up from his hip, his sword slicing past Rhaegar's tired defence, and the tip of his borrowed blade caught his face.

Searing pain, bright and hot, stretched from his cheek to his forehead and Rhaegar cried out as his vision went red with blood and dark as he shut his eye, his body trying to protect him.

Jon could have pressed the attack – he was well within his right – but he lowered his sword and stepped back and then Arthur was there, hands at his shoulders and pulling him back; Jonothor was trying to pull Rhaegar's hand from his eye to assess the damage.

Blearily, through his good eye, Rhaegar watched Arthur spin toward the new king and begin to raise his sword – but Jon shook his head, eyes darting toward Rhaegar. In pain, and ashamed, Rhaegar lowered his gaze. Between his harsh pants and the blood pounding in his head, the throne room was silent; he was able to hear Jon's voice as clearly as if he were speaking directly into his ears.

"You had the opportunity to live your life – to become something else – and you threw it away," said Jon, his voice low and carefully modulated to hide any emotion. Rhaegar kept his head down, so he would not have to meet Jon's icy stare. "I will not kill you, for your mother and brother's sake. For your children's. You are not the promised prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. You are not Azor Ahai—"

He snapped his head up at the familiar title, mouth dropping open as he stared at Jon, who had pressed his lips tightly together.

"And you never will be," the new king spat, turning his back, and walking away from him, from Arthur and Jonothor, from the fight he won – again. A fourth time. What songs would they sing of Good King Jon now? wondered Rhaegar.

"Come, my Prince," murmured Arthur, slinging one around his back, helping him stand. "We must

leave."

Jonothor was glaring at anyone and everything, his hand tight on his hilt as he took the lead, moving back to where Oswell stood nearer to the doors. As they drew even, Arthur nodded at Whent and said, "Protect our backs."

"I –" Oswell's mouth worked, and he finally croaked, "I... I cannot go... not like – not after..." Arthur stared at Oswell, something hard settling on his face. Rhaegar, still in pain, grit his teeth

and spat, "traitor."

Oswell reeled back, hanging his head, but remained unmoving. He stood with his hands hanging by his side. Jon Connington's eyes darted between Rhaegar and the usur—the king, wringing his own hands but he stepped forward and made to do what Whent would not: guard Rhaegar's back. Myles made to step forward, but Rhaegar shook his head. Someone had to stay behind and pass them information, and Myles, although a man grown, was young. He should stay.

"Come," muttered Jonothor, glaring around the room. "It's not safe here."

Where will it be safe, now? thought Rhaegar. There was nowhere, nothing left for him. How would the three-headed dragon, Azor Ahai, save Westeros now?

Later that evening, Arya and Sansa found Jon on a flat battlement, overlooking King's Landing, and peering out toward the sea and the harbour far below them. There were only a few ships docked, as most had taken the tide out when they could and set off on their shipping lanes to the north, the south, the west coast, and the Free Cities.

One of those ships held Rhaegar, who smuggled abroad one captained by a loyal retainer. Varys was already utilizing his little birds to figure out who the captain was – and whether he was attached to an ennobled house or not. Jon would then have to decide how to handle the situation and the man's loyalty.

Behind him, Jon could hear Sansa step forward, although he knew Arya was with her – her steps were just silent.

"Was that wise, letting them go?" asked Arya, and Jon's lips twitched into a tiny smile, however brief it was.

"Where else was he going to get support?" asked Jon in response, turning partially to see his siblings. "The only place he would be able to go was the Free Cities. He wasn't going to retreat to Dragonstone to lick his wounds."

"Are you not worried about another beggar king?" asked Sansa, something trembling in her voice. Jon scoffed. "He's no Viserys."

Sansa scowled. "He can be just as dangerous."

"He's alone."

"He has two kingsguard with him," retorted Sansa, but her voice was quiet. "Jon. Don't be stupid. You have support here, yes, and Rhaella has backed you along with most of the Lord Paramounts, but your reign is so new that it's still unstable. You can't let Rhaegar go. He's a future liability."

"He thinks he's Azor Ahai," countered Jon quietly. "He's not – but he'll have a part to play in the war to come."

Arya let out an angry hiss between her teeth. "You're willing to let him live because of that? He wasn't needed in the other past—"

"We don't know that Arya!" Jon whirled to stare at his siblings. "We lost, remember? What if he is needed? What if Arthur Dayne and Jonothor Darry are needed, too?"

"Are we basing the future and the Long Night on 'what ifs' now, Jon?" asked Sansa quietly. "What else do we have but 'what ifs', San?" murmured Jon.

The three fell silent.

"He's still dangerous on his own," muttered Arya, crossing her arms.

Jon stifled a laugh. "Well, it's a good thing I've got two intelligent ladies at my side; one who plays the game better than anyone else and another who has a wonderful spy network."

"Flatterer," muttered Arya, but there were two spots of high colour on her cheeks and Sansa merely preened.

Jon turned away from his sisters and looked back at the sea, now a churning dark black. There were hints and teases of pale green foam, and there was a rippled reflection of the moon on the Blackwater Bay. Jon's hands gripped the edge of the stone of the battlement tightly, the knuckles turning white. For all that he spoke about, 'what ifs' and the wars to come – the Long Night, especially – Rhaegar was dangerous on his own. But, not necessarily for the reasons Sansa and Arya held about the man. Just how had he learned about Azor Ahai? What prophecy did he refer to when the dragon had three heads? Was it the same in their previous life? Where did he learn this? Jon needed to know – because to him, it felt like... not like destiny, but rather... contrived. The same what that Bran and the Three-Eyed Raven felt: created, for a specific purpose that someone set Rhaegar on to complete.

It made Jon uneasy.

He swallowed thickly, and with a strangled voice, he said: "Besides, Rhaegar knew about the

prophecy. He knows about the Long Night. I must know what he knows."

His grey eyes tripped over to Arya, mostly hidden in the dark, but he caught the familiar eyes with his meaningful look. She gave him a slow nod of acknowledgement, and Jon knew his message was received, even as Sansa looked between the two in concern.

He had to know what Rhaegar knew. Because if he did, then maybe – just maybe – he would know what was needed to win this time around, too.

TBC...