Chapter 1: The Targaryen King

Jon II

Jon snapped awake and gasped in a breath that he never thought would expand in his chest again. He fiddled with the blanket on his bed and looked at where the Night King had torn a hole in his side to find it smooth and unblemished. He checked the rest of his torso and found the stab wounds he had collected from the traitors on the Wall had similarly vanished. He released a shuddering breath and glanced around in confusion. He remembered this room. He had vague memories of a place like this that seemed from a lifetime ago.

It was a lifetime ago .

He turned his head. The thought had come to his head like it had been whispered into his ear, but there was no one. He was all alone in the tiny space that had been his bedroom in Winterfell when he was the bastard of Lord Eddard Stark.

You are a bastard no longer.

Again, the thought seemed to come outside his head, but he didn't reflect on it. Memories scrawled across his mind like flipping the pages of a book. He was not the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, he was the last legitimate heir to Rhaegar Targaryen, born to Lyanna Stark, sister of the Warden of the North. His mind wrangled with the idea. How was that possible? How was any of that possible?

But Jaime and Tyrion Lannister had ended up being his staunchest supporters and though he had yet to meet either of them, he knew their faces. One already had a dusting of silver in his short hair and beard, lines drawn across his face, but before things went dire, there had always been a wicked light in his eyes and an arrogant smirk on his face. The other had dark blonde hair and a darker beard, barely coming up to his waist, but he always had a clever word on his lips. They had stayed with him, even when the worst had happened.

Tormund Giantsbane. The giant man with the tangled red hair and beard had died as bravely as any knight of the realm. He was always full of vigor and life and somehow had even become the heart of the army. He was the emotional weathervane. From the relative comfort of a small fire and a tent of his own-though his luxuries had been few and far between there at the end-Jon only needed to look at Tormund's face to see what ailed the rest of his men.

He glanced around again at his room. The last time he had been here, it was before any of the Starks had gone south to King's Landing. But when was it, really? He didn't see Ghost. He smiled for a moment at the thought that he might get Ghost back. The last time he'd seen Ghost had been about a year prior. They had been ambushed while marching south, and the direwolf had leapt between him and a White Walker, taking the spear meant for him. He had been allowed to do his wolf the solemn favor of burning his corpse so that it couldn't be reanimated.

Burning the dead had become the kindest action one could take on a body. Every single one of them had fervently hoped that if they died, they would be burned so as not to bring more devastation to their comrades. In the end, it truly hadn't mattered what part of the world they hailed from, as long as they were human and alive, they were considered with compassion.

He went to his window and opened it slightly to peer out. He could hear the soft chirping of crickets and he glanced up to see thousands of stars winking at him in the night sky. The soft breeze that rolled through the window might have had a slight chill to it for a southerner, but to him it was sweetly warm. He had glanced down at himself when he had initially awoken, but feeling the soft summer air on his skin made him realize he was shirtless. When was the last time he had felt warm enough to sleep shirtless? The only time he could think of was when he made love to Dany and they could only manage that because they were in a castle room with four solid walls and a roof overhead.

A wave of emotion he did not expect washed over him like the tide of the ocean and he quietly closed his window and returned to bed to weep into his pillow. His shoulders shook from years of contained guilt, despair, exhaustion, and a most palpable sense of relief. For so long, the cold and despair had been his constant companion, though he was forced to keep them at arm's length. Now that he was no longer the king, he allowed himself to crumble apart for this one moment and revel in his new life.

He was certain that this had been no dream. He had met real people that existed in this world, that he could hopefully meet again. He quietly whispered a prayer to the Old Gods, even as he was sobbing into his pillow, " Thank you, thank you for another opportunity to make this right. I know I do not deserve it, but I will do my best to not let you down."

He laid in bed for the rest of the night. His mind was racing too fast to return to sleep. Did the Gods send me back to correct the mistakes of the past? If they didn't, then why did they? Am I the only one who remembers the time before? He prayed once more that that wasn't the case. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to be completely comfortable in his skin if he knew there was no one else to remember. If that did happen, did he in fact live that life or was it all a dream?

No, it can't be. I may not remember every single detail, but I couldn't make up the part the Lannisters had to play. He couldn't think of a single family so singularly polarizing as they. Jaime Lannister himself had been a strange dichotomy of honorable, self-sacrificing knight and a selfish bastard who nearly let his sister run the realm into the ground. His twin, Cersei, had seemed Targaryen in her lust for power and madness, especially once she began to use wildfire as easily as using oil to pour down onto enemies.

He knew his Uncle Ned would think him crazy if he knew, but he looked forward to seeing the Lannister brothers again. It pained him to think that they probably wouldn't remember him. He remembered his first interactions with Jaime had been less than pleasant and distinctly recalled wanting to punch the blond prick in the face for his mocking. In truth though, hadn't Jaime been right? It's not like Jon knew it then, but as important as the fight north of the Wall was, languishing there while the War of the Five Kings raged had done the realm little good. He would not be heading to the Wall this time, not with the knowledge he had now. This time it may very well turn into another War of the Five Kings, but he would be one of the kings contesting.

Proving his heritage as the last true son of Rhaegar Targaryen might be quite the trick. It was only verified in the other timeline by Bran's abilities as the Three-Eyed Raven to see into the past. Jon knew that his former companions had seen the power of Bran at work and none had doubted him, but Bran didn't have that ability yet.

He sat bolt upright in bed again; Jaime was to push Bran from the broken tower. When he had learned of that crime in the other life, it was one of the rare times where he lost himself in his rage and he had sought out the smug asshole. Brienne had been the one to inadvertently mention the crime.

" What did you say?"

She was already so pale that her skin went far past it into gray. "Did… did the Lord Bran not tell you?" She seemed to purposely draw out her words.

" Tell me!"

" I overheard Lord Bran speaking to Jaime when he was recovering from his journey north. He absolved Jaime for pushing him out of the Broken Tower."

It was all Jon needed to hear. He stormed out of the tent. Brienne called out to him, "Wait, Your Grace!"

However, he stopped for no one and he saw nothing as he stormed through the camp looking for a telltale blonde head. He caught up with Jaime in mid-laugh to something Tyrion had said and like a tornado, he swept up to him and knocked him flat on his back.

" Wha -? Your Grace?" Jaime had said, clutching at his cheek in shock. To his credit, he looked more wary than afraid.

All sense of time and reason had abandoned Jon and he punched him again and then kicked him repeatedly in the stomach. He only got in a few hits before Podrick and Brienne had both grabbed his arms and pulled him away. "Your Grace, that is enough!"

" My king, what's going on? Why are you doing this to my brother?" Tyrion asked, leaning over Jaime who was slumped on the ground, barely conscious, but breathing.

" Your Grace, begging your pardon, but you pardoned him of all of his past crimes," Brienne said. It was one of the few times she was bold enough to use loopholes. She truly had loved Jaime to skirt the rules of knights in that way.

" I never pardoned him for this one."

" You said 'all.' Lord Brandon Stark forgave and forgot. You should too," Brienne had said in a low voice. She was trying not to make a bigger scene than he already had, but the damage had been done. King Aemon Targaryen had attacked, without cause, a man most of the world despised. No one seemed to trust Jaime again and a few months later, he was attacked and beaten until he could see sounds.*

I never should have attacked him like that, Jon thought. He blamed himself for the suffering that Jaime endured later. After being tended to, Jaime came to him and told him the full conversation between him and Bran. After cooling down, he had been tempted to beg the man for forgiveness, but Jaime had easily seen it in his eyes and said with a wave of his hand that, "there was nothing to forgive."

But I did him wrong, as did so many others. Regardless, this Jaime that was soon going to be making his way to Winterfell, was as reckless and thoughtless as a young boy going into his first battle. Somehow, in some way, he would need to prevent Bran from climbing that tower. But I also need to make sure he stays in the north. But how?

As Jon stumbled across more problems he needed to make right, that word kept constantly popping into his head: how? For all of his combat experience, he still knew very little of politics. Even when he was in the Night's Watch, refusing to play the politics had gotten him killed-no matter if it was the right thing to do or not-and he owed all of his successes there to Sam.

Jon's heart leapt in his chest. Sam didn't deserve to suffer on the Wall, stripped of his lands and titles because of his arrogant father. I can't reasonably expect to stop him from the Wall either. He already pledged to go there. At the very least, I can make the time easier for him. Maybe encourage him to study under Maester Aemon.

His heart lurched yet again. My last living relative-who isn't across the sea-is at Castle Black! My namesake. Oh, how he desperately wanted to see the old maester and share the news that his family wasn't quite dead yet. There was hope yet still. He made a mental note to see Maester Aemon before he passed on.

Through all of his fretting, he drifted off at one point, for a hard knock on the door jolted him awake once more.

"Brother, are you coming for breakfast? It's getting late," Robb shouted out to him.

"Y-yes, I'll be right there," Jon shouted back and kicked off his covers and started pulling on clothes. He marveled at how light the material of his shirts were compared to all the furs he'd had to pile on at the end. It had been some time since he'd only had to wear a woolen shirt. He searched for several minutes around his tiny room before remembering that he hadn't yet been granted the privilege of strapping a sword to his waist. It seemed insignificant, but the reassuring weight of Longclaw missing from his side made him feel like he was missing a limb and he found his hand frequently drifting over the area only to find nothing.

Robb had gone straight to breakfast without him, for which he was grateful because he was having difficulty controlling his emotions. Walking through Winterfell again was like walking through a dream. Even when they had built it back up in the other time, it had still been a shadow of its former glory and one need not look closely to see where new wood and stonework began and where it ended. His army had been forced to abandon it again and it likely fell into the same disrepair as the fort they stayed in on their last night alive.

And all around him he could see ghosts. So many ghosts. The help were rushing around doing laundry, taking care of the horses, stacking wood. He could see Hodor feeding the chickens. Jory Cassel was polishing swords. It was difficult to think that every single one of these people would die if he couldn't prevent his uncle from heading south to King's Landing.

When he walked into the hall and saw everyone sitting at the table, he very nearly burst into tears. Uncle Ned glanced up from the head of the table and smiled at him. Lady Stark gave him the cold shoulder and pretended he wasn't there. Sansa followed her lead by continuing to eat her meal like a lady. Arya and Bran both beamed at him with radiant smiles. Rickon shouted joyfully. Theon merely gave him a curt nod and said, "Snow."

"You alright, brother? You look a little pale," Robb said, but it was said with a smile.

"F-fine, fine. I didn't sleep too well, that's all," Jon said. All the grace from his years fighting seem to have deserted him and he fumbled for his seat next to Robb. Theon, Robb, and Bran all snickered at him as he banged his knee on the table trying to sit.

He glanced warily over at Theon. After the hell he put the Stark family through, Jon had never truly forgiven him. He had come back to the mainland with the Ironborn to fight the Long Night. He and his sister had ultimately failed, but they had at least fought. He decided that he would do his best to prevent Theon from being sent back to his father. He didn't know the full details of that part of the war or the reasoning for why Theon had done what he had, but he was determined not to give him another chance to repeat history.

"Now, you four have lessons this morning," Ned said, a finger pointing at each of the boys old enough to attend. "I better not hear from Maester Luwin that you failed to do your duty or I will have all of you mucking the horse stalls for a month. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Father," the sons intoned.

"Yes, Lord Stark," Theon mumbled and rolled his eyes.

Jon had faltered over the word "father." It had taken him months to address Lord Stark in his own head as uncle instead of father and now he had to go back to it again. But he perked up again at the thought of lessons. He'd often allowed Robb to talk him into ducking them, but knowing now that he was the king, he needed to have a better idea of how the realm worked.

Father's threat did the trick, because everyone showed up for lessons promptly after breakfast. Maester Luwin was pleased to have his pupils, though Bran and Theon looked less than attentive. However, Robb and Jon were both studious and took notes, asked questions, and listened raptly.

"What's gotten into you, Snow? Thought you didn't care about this shit. After all, what are you going to do with it?" Theon said as they made their way to the training yards to begin practicing.

"You never know when it might come in handy, Greyjoy. We have a long life ahead of us. Something's bound to crop up," Jon replied.

"Maybe for me, but the Long Night will come before you could ever be considered someone of status," Theon said with a guffaw.

Jon only gave him a strange look. Did Theon have memories from a past life? But if he did, wouldn't he be walking around Winterfell trembling in his boots, being under the nose of the family he betrayed and all the people here he murdered? He decided it was unlikely the Greyjoy knew anything of his real status and simply waved his words away. Theon always talked bigger than he walked.

Ser Rodrick Cassel was waiting for them all in the training grounds. "Well, what are you lads all waiting for? Grab a sword! No, Greyjoy, not the sharp steel," he said, glowering especially at Theon. "We have to make sure you don't stab yourself in the foot first."

"Ser Rodrick, we've been training for ten years. Don't you think it's about time?" Robb asked. In the south, they might have been married already and Jon agreed that six-and-ten was a little old too still be practicing with blunted tourney swords.

"You act like there's a war on the horizon. Even your lord father doesn't carry around his sword everywhere," Rodrick said, his expression unchanged.

Robb seemed to know when the argument was lost and he went through the wooden swords. After this long, they all had their favorites. Jon went through the swords with a bit more finesse. He now had enough experience with live steel to know what he was looking for and he was dismayed at how many of the wooden swords were not quite balanced the way he wanted until he made an uncomfortable realization and quietly berated himself.

He would no longer find himself with Longclaw ! He had to go back to the Wall and become the Old Bear's steward before he would get the Mormont's family sword, and he had no intention of sitting on the Wall for near ten years with the knowledge he had. He would have to do without the Valyrian steel. Grudgingly, he picked a heavier sword and stood in front of Ser Rodrick.

"Jon, Robb, in the circle. I want a nice clean battle."

Jon dropped into a stance and quietly studied Robb. He wanted to laugh at the serious expression on Robb's face. For all that they were so eager to bear live steel, Robb's feet were not quite where they needed to be and he was gripping the sword too tightly. They circled each other, until Robb grew impatient and lunged for him. Jon easily sidestepped and brought the wood down on his wrist.

"Ouch."

"Robb, you left yourself wide open there. Snow could've done much worse. Again. Relax your grip!"

His brother did a little better this time, but Jon merely marveled at the leaps and bounds he had made in swordfighting after he'd joined the Night's Watch and it hurt him to think Ser Alliser Thorne had any part of it. Their next round lasted several minutes where Robb tried to stay on the offensive, taking him quickly and viciously, but Jon foresaw every move he made and was instinctively in the right position to counter. Robb raised his sword up to bring it down and Jon immediately flashed to his last battle of the Night King. He brought his sword up to catch it, but then immediately lashed out with a kick straight into Robb's ribs.

"Oof, Jon," Robb cried out. "That was cheap."

"Maybe so, but anything goes in a battle," Rodrick snapped at Robb. "Be prepared for your opponents to cheat. Snow, you're showing much more promise than you did two days ago. What happened?"

Jon froze. His mind cast around for an explanation and he said, "I… I had a dream last night, Ser Rodrick. I fought the Night King."

Rodrick's eyebrows went up into his hair, Robb gaped at him, and Theon burst out into laughter. Robb seemed to get over his shock and buckled over with laughter as well.

"It's true. I had a dream I was fighting the Night King. I'm just… imitating the moves I used against him. He did that same maneuver against me, but… he stabbed me with a dagger in his free hand. That's when I woke up," he said.

"I never took much stock in dreams, but you have seemed to have learned from it, no matter how far fetched. I wouldn't be laughing, lads. Snow might very well show up both of you. He's sloppy now, but with a bit more training he could count himself among the best swordsmen in Westeros."

Jon tried to keep his emotions tamped down, but his heart soared at the compliment. He felt not unlike a clumsy puppy in his young and inexperienced body, but he could now count himself leagues ahead in skill over Robb. He would have to train hard if he wanted to be back where he was.

While Robb was still collecting himself, Jon noticed a movement and glanced over to see his uncle Ned and aunt Catelyn watching them. He had a ghost of a smile on his face and nodded in approval at him, but she stared at him coldly. How it must grate her that he might prove more able than her son.

Jon struggled to keep his face stoic, but privately he imagined with barely controlled glee the look on her face when she finds out he is the true king of the Seven Kingdoms.