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feyhunter78 · 4 days

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Chapter Seven - Back in the Red Keep, you and Jon face a new set of challenges. Note: I think R + L = J is soooo boring and basic, so I'm throwing in a theory that's been floated around online for a hot minute

Ch 8

“He saved me cousin, he could have left me to be assaulted and killed by the crowd, could have escaped with his traitorous family members, but he stayed and saved me.” You add, lowering your eyes submissively, you hate this, hate playing this role, but you cannot lose Jon.

Joffrey looks at your aunt then grandsire who nods. “Very well, you may keep your dog, cousin.”

You curtsy, thanking Joffrey over and over again, spilling out platitudes that makes bile rise in your throat. Dog, he called Jon a dog, your Jon, your champion, your defender, the one who chased after you instead of his father and sister.

“But I want him kept on a leash, if I see him sniffing around, his head will substitute for his father’s on the spikes of the gate.” Joffrey warns, that cruel smile spreading across his face once more.

You nod and thank him again, before taking Jon by the wrist and dragging him out of the throne room.

Once you both are safely in your chambers, you collapse onto the rug near the fire, Ghost getting up and trotting over to Jon.

Jon buries his hand in Ghost’s fur, letting out a shaky breath.

“I am so very sorry, Jon.” You look up at him from your place by the fire, feeling completely in disarray.

“I am still alive.” He says, unable to look at you, the tension clear in every aspect of his very being.

He stands stiff, his chest rising and falling as he forces his breath in and out to calm himself, his eyes stay locked on Ghost, his head bowed, his inky curls falling forward shielding his face.

“But you are separated from your family, and you had to endure Joffrey speaking of you as a dog.” You say softly as you begin to remove the pins from your hair, letting it fall free.

Jon settles down beside you, holding his hand out for the pins. “I have endured much worse than being called a dog.”

You both sit in silence for a while as you undo your intricate hairstyle, the one your aunt favored, the one you thought would endear her to you. Jon takes each pin from you, setting them in a neat pile on the end table. This is routine, something you and Jon have done time and time again, and while it is calming, you know it is not normal. That sworn swords do not sit beside their charge and help them undo their hair, that they stand guard outside their door while the servants undo their charge’s hair.

But you had seen your Aunt Cersei and Uncle Robert do it once, when you were very young. And though he was not her sworn sword but her husband, as a child you found it hard to tell the difference, husbands were supposed to protect their wives, as sworn swords were it seemed so similar. It was a good day, they were getting along, and as he escorted her back to her chambers you spotted them.

Your aunt, heavily pregnant with Myrcella, pulling out the pins, your uncle taking them, helping her detangle the stubborn ones. He was smiling, and she was too, a small one, her expression soft and open, thanking him quietly when he gently ran his fingers through her hair. For a moment you believed the act they put on in public, for if this is how they acted in private, surely it was true? It was not until you were older that you realized you were wrong.

“Is what your father said true?” You ask Jon, detangling your hair with your fingers, careful not to pull too hard.

He sighs and leans forward stirring the fire with the iron poker, his armor now fully discarded and set aside against the far wall. “I believe it to be.”

“If Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are bastards, ones born of incest they will never be able to inherit Casterly Rock, and Uncle Jaime cannot because he is a Kingsguard, my grandsire would not be able to give it to my aunt since she is the one who had the bastard children, which means…”

“After the death of your father, you will be heir.” Jon says, completing your thought, speaking the words you dare not speak.

You lay down on the rug slowly, shocked. “I have never even dreamed such a thing.”

“Lady y/n Lannister, heir of Casterly Rock. A fitting title, you would do well as heir.”

You hum in response, staring up at the vaulted ceiling of your chambers. You can imagine it, you a golden heir, ruler of Casterly Rock, Jon by your side, perhaps a child or two with his curls and your eyes. He would do well there, shaping up the guards, playing with your children in the Hall of Heroes.

“Do you not wish to be heir?” Jon asks, leaning on one hand, his head tilting to the side, resting on his shoulder.

He looks tired, you are sure you do as well. “It is not that, I just…I am the daughter of a third child, a second son, a disfigured, scorned son. My mother was no one, the eighth daughter of the third brother of Lord Hawthorne, I could not even claim anything from her. It is my lot to marry some old man and bear his son, not rule Casterly Rock. I am not important in the grand scheme of things.”

Jon lies on his side facing you. “If the people of Westeros believe my father’s words, then soon the only trueborn Lannister will be you. That will make you very important in the grand scheme of things. ”

You shift to face him, running your fingers over the plush rug beneath you both. “I guess you are right.”

“And if they do not believe his words—Jon reaches out and his fingertips ghost the curve of your cheek—you are still important to me, I know it is not as grand, but it is true.”

You want to kiss him, you have never wanted to kiss anyone in your life as badly as you want to kiss Jon, but you will not. You will not put him in such an awkward position, and your father’s words ring in your head. Not a husband. A lover, or a guard, but never a husband.

Instead, you close your eyes and lean into his touch, featherlight as it is. “It is grand enough, my champion.”

Jon laughs softly, more an exhalation of air than a laugh, his breath stirring the hair around your face.

“You are important to me too, Ser Jon, I do not wish to lose you.” You admit, keeping your eyes closed, not wanting the moment to shatter. “I forbid you from fighting in any other tourneys.”

“Then how will I present my lady with her crown?” He jests, his hand settling on the side of your face, his thumb resting just below the corner of your lips. “Surely the one you have now will wither beyond repair soon enough.”

“I care more for your safety than a crown.” You say, finally opening your eyes and meeting his gaze.

His eyes are the color of a gathering storm, dark storm clouds rolling in, shot through with streaks of lightning, the air alive, the taste of rain. The depth of them going on for leagues and leagues until you feel you could be lost in them.

“I would give you the crown, the throne, if you asked it of me.” He breathes, his eyes searching yours, his spoken words of treason slipping from his lips so easily you cannot help but reach for him, anchoring your fingers in his tunic.

He is a man of eight and ten, you a woman of seven and ten, you are not ready to be queen, not yet, but his words, his words make you believe you are.

“That is treason you speak of.”

He gives you a wry smile. “Will you turn me in, My Lady?”

“Never, I trust no one else with my safety, I would die before you are taken from me.” You say, tightening your grip on his tunic, panic coursing through you at the very thought of Jon being taken from you, of being alone in Joffrey’s court, of being without Jon ever, in any place.

His smile fades, that solemn, serious look returning. You have spoken at length of Joffrey’s cruelty, of your fears if your father was ever not there to protect you, what vile men wished to take you for a bride, the things they have said to you. “I would never let that happen. Do you hear me, y/n? I will never let anyone separate us.”

You nod, warmth flooding your veins, washing away the fear at his words, at the sound of your name and your name alone coming from his lips. He says it so perfectly, wrapping each syllable in his rough Northern accent. It is unlike any pronunciation of your name you have ever heard, and you adore it.

You wish to ask him to stay, to share your bed, not in a carnal sense, but to sleep beside you, to ease your fears, but you know you cannot. You and Jon already act far more companionable than most sworn shields and their charges, and with Joffrey’s eye on him, it is too risky.

Your father calls you to his solar for evening meal, Jon your ever-present shadow is ordered to wait outside the door, and not to enter until he is called for, but he does not move until you give him a nod. Once the door is closed, and you take your seat, your father laughs. “You have him trained well.”

You bristle at his words but calm yourself, this is your father, he has been insulted all his life, he would not be so cruel, not to Jon. “He is my champion.”

“Yes, I am well aware, seems we picked well out of the Stark lot.” Your father says, beginning to cut into his food.

You do the same, waiting for a moment before you speak. “Do you know who set Lord Stark and Sansa free?”

“Stannis most likely, or Renly, either stand to gain from the North backing their claim, though Renly less so now. Though they did make my plan flow much smoother.”

You chew thoughtfully, then take a long drink from your wine. Of course, your father had been a part of the plan to free Lord Stark and Sansa, he was a good man at heart, and the death of Lord Stark would mean war. “And the rumors? Of my cousins’ parentage?”

Your father sets down his knife. “I have seen Robert’s bastards, and while it sickens me to think my siblings could be engaging in such…I do not think the rumors are false.”

“So, will we be named heir of The Rock? There is no one else, besides one of Grandsire’s brothers, but I doubt he would be willing to give them control.” You hope your father will tell you yes, yes, he has been named heir. Then you will take Jon and run, run all the way to Casterly Rock, and hide with him there until the realm has forgotten of your shared existences.

“I think it is more important to focus on the current heir problem, little lion.”

Your shoulders slump, but you nod. “Of course, Father.”

He sighs and reaches for your hand. “Y/N, my darling girl, I know your life has been upheaved ever since we left Winterfell, but I need you to trust me.”

“Trust you with what?” You ask, though of course it matters not the answer, he is your father he will always have your trust.

“Renly will fall, Stannis is declaring himself king, and the Tyrells will soon move to set one of their own beside Joffrey.” Your father explains, picking up serval cubes of cheese and setting them on the table strategically. “We shall send Myrcella to Dorne to shore up allies, and for her own safety, I would send you as well but—”

You cut him off, horrified. “I will not go to Dorne.”

“Yes, yes, I know, which is why I am not sending you along with her.”

“Thank you.”

“I have spoken with Lady Olenna Tyrell, terrifying women, intelligent beyond all others, if she were not so old I might suggest she take the throne herself. And we have come to an agreement that relies on many moving pieces, ones which I am delighted to say do not involve you and Jon until later plays.”

“Go on.” You are already making mental notes, attempting to see the connections before your father speaks them aloud.

“Joffrey should not be king, this is well known, and while I do adore Myrcella and Tommen, neither are fit to rule, they are sweet and innocent, too easily taken advantage of.”

“So, the Tyrells?”

Your father shakes his head, “not entirely. The Tyrells and the Starks.”

You digest the information, about to speak when your father continues, his voice lowered to a whisper. “I spoke with Ned Stark when I helped him and Sansa escape, he revealed something quite interesting to me about your dear champion.”

You lean forward, eyes darting towards the door.

“You know of the tale Rhaegar and Lyanna, the horrid tragic downfall of the Targaryens.”

“Yes, of course, all the realm does.” You say, trying to hurry him along, your curiosity growing with each moment.

“Jon Snow was born of a Stark, but not the one the realm believes he was born of.” There is a conspiratory smile on your father's face, as if he is not speaking madness.

“Are you—Lyanna, Jon is Lyanna’s son? He is a Targaryen?” Your own voice drops to a whisper, shock seizing your muscles, keeping you frozen to your chair.

“Gods no, though that would make our lives much easier.”

“Then what is he? Do not tell me he was born of incest.” You say, your hand going to the hollow of your throat, stomach churning at the very thought.

“He is a Dayne.” Your father says carefully, watching your reactions. “Son of the Sword of the Morning.”

“He is in line for the seat of Starfell? Rhaegar’s closet companion slept with the women he assisted him with kidnapping?”

Your father shrugs. “The ways of men are odd little lion, we cannot know how it all came about, only that the blood of Dorne runs in his veins.”

“But Arthur Dayne is dead, and Lyanna Stark is dead, there is no one who can prove this claim.”

Your father smirks. “Is he?”

You massage your temples. “Father, please do not drag me about, tell me the truth.”

“My apologies, allow me to elaborate. Lord Stark said he believes Dayne to be dead, but he did not deal the final blow himself, he and Lord Howland left with Jon before Dayne had taken his assumed final breath.”

“And unless you see the body cold before you, there is no assurance of death.” You say, remembering a pearl of wisdom your Uncle Robert had impressed upon you once.

Your father nods. “We must presume Dayne is dead unless proven false and act accordingly. A marriage must take place to secure a more profitable future.”

“You will not marry off Jon, he is mine.” You snap, pushing back from the table and standing, your face like stone.

“He is not yours; truly he belongs to House Dayne, his family.” He says, raising one eyebrow at you.

“No, he does not, they do not even know he lives.” You argue, clenching your fists, anger bubbling up inside you, a fire sparking, kindling, snapping to life.

“If you do not wish him to marry, we could send him home to Dorne with Myrcella.” Your father suggests.

The flames jump, climb, scale the walls of civility built within you and consume your rational mind. Your actions are no longer your own as you seize the nearest thing you can—an apple—and throw it at your father, who easily dodges it.

“Y/N, you are acting like a child, stop this at once, you cannot keep Jon from others forever.” He demands, his voice cold, colder than you have ever heard directed towards you.

It hurts, his words, the truth of them, the idea that someone else would take Jon from you, will warm his bed, bear his children, will get to love him as you long to. But you are a Lannister, you do not feel grief or sadness, you feel rage.

“He is my sworn sword, my champion, my Jon.” You grab another thing to throw, a plate, it crashes against the wall. “I will not let you or Lord Stark auction him off like a breeding stud.” Plates, fruits, silverware, even your napkin has been thrown in a fit of rage until you have nothing left to throw but the heavy chair you were sitting in. Which you do not have the strength to throw far enough, that it will make you feel better. “Jon swore his life to me, no one else, he is mine.”

Your father’s solar is a mess, and you are breathing hard, angry tears in your eyes as you stare down at him.

“He did, which is why we will not marry him off, we will marry off Robb.” Your father says, unfazed by your display of rage. “Ned Stark was declared regent, there was no mention of who should be heir, assumptions could be made.”

You slump into your chair, tears slipping from your eyes. You are not Joffrey, not a full-blooded Lannister, Hawthrone blood lessens the lion’s rage and allows you to cry. “Why did you not say that first? Why would you allow me to think—”

“I needed to be sure you wished to stay by him, and so did you. This will not be easy, little lion; many things may change once the truth is revealed. The Daynes may call for his return, or seek retribution for the deceit, if deceit was at play.”

You wipe under your eyes with your sleeve, the anger draining from you, leaving you hollow. “Why can I not simply flee to Casterly Rock and hide with Jon there?”

Your father walks over to you and embraces you tightly. “Because you deserve more, if Lady Tyrell is correct, you could control the Westerlands, you could marry a man you love, and the realm would have a good king through Robb.”

“But what if that does not work? Stannis has a daughter, does he not? Could we offer to betroth her and Tommen?” You ask, wracking your mind to try and recall the age and name of Stannis’ only child.

“If the Tyrell’s plan does not work then I will convince my family to extend the offer, then you and I will lock ourselves away in The Rock and let Cersei and Stannis eat each other alive.”

You laugh, the sound watery. “Or perhaps we shall run to Dorne and try to install Jon in the line of succession for Starfell.”

“That may prove more difficult, but it is always an option.” Your father laughs, the sound eases the remaining unrest in your heart.

You rest your chin atop his head. “Alright then, I will trust you. But who will tell Jon?”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo

#meg's writing #jon snow x you #jon snow x reader #jon snow x y/n #jon snow imagine #jon snow imagines #lannister!reader #AHHHHH THE PINING #THE LONGING

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