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It isn't that Jon doesn't have questions. He has a lot of them, and when an offer is posed to him in such a way, he can't help but circle back to questions that plagued him during his childhood about his origins. Who was his mother? Did she know he was alive? Was she still alive? Ned Stark had promised to answer those questions in due time, but Ned Stark was gone. To his knowledge, he was the only one who knew the truth about his origins, the only one who could answer all those unanswerable questions.

But those questions are selfish ones, answers that would do little to benefit the North as a whole. He's a king now, and he needs to think like one. Needs to be a better monarch than the inbred Lannister bastard sitting on the Iron Throne. (Jon, don't throw those stones.)

"What use would landlocked Northerners have for a boat?" A laugh, because he appreciates the veer towards humor.

River can feel the curiosity, the want to know, spike off of him like lightning aimed straight at the heart of the matter. There is so much he should know about himself. It's unaccountably tempting to blurt it out, let that unspoken crackle have an answer...

But.

Something else rises to the surface instead, and River just cants her head to the side and says, "You'll have boats," in a tone of sure knowing. She can almost feel them bobbing on the water, a gentle sensation of rocking calm before battle. She looks down at her hands, his over hers, and tugs gently to get them back so she can flex her fingers against each other again and worry away some of that lightning of his.

He swears he can feel it, that prick of magic in the back of his mind, lighting up some untouched part of himself and making his skin tingle as she draws away. Magic was a key element of life back in Old Valyria and his ancestors coated themselves in powerful magics in order to forge the lasting bonds between their people and the dragons they rode. The magic may have been lost to the times, but what it did to the Valyrians still existed in the Targaryens that were descended from them. It's what allowed Daenerys to bond with her children, what helped bring Jon back from the brink of death.

All things he doesn't know, and yet he knows that there's something there. Something he doesn't know about. Something inside him that's hiding, something he's not sure he should let out.

He flexes his own fingers, wringing out his hands as if they were wet and needed to be dried. "Of course," he says with a sudden awkwardness. "A whole fleet."

She watches his hands, feels the crackle shift into some other tension turned inward. It's difficult for her to parse what of it is real and what is interpretation, a vision filtered through her own perception to help her understand. Old Valyria means little to her, and the mere thought of dragons would feel silly if not for everything else about her current predicament. There's connection there, though, between lightning and history. It's just out of reach of her own comprehension, so she lets it go. When it's time, maybe when he knows, it will come back clear and unmuddied by noise of the hall and the soft murmur of other things seen.

In her lap, River focuses the nervous reverb of that crackle still inside her head into picking a little at one of her cuticles before she stops herself, Simon's voice in the back of her mind warning about infection and the probability of losing a finger to it in these primitive conditions.

"Don't worry," she tells him as she stills her hands flat against the slightly scratchy fabric of her outer dress covering her knees, attempting to steer them back to wherever they were a moment ago. "I'll only ask for a small one--"

At which point she yawns, big and ungraceful, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as the whole rest of her face scrunches up above it.

"We don't do anything small in the North," he says.

It's a statement that could very well be read as innuendo if not for the innocent, yet serious way in which Jon says it. He's oblivious to the potential double meaning there, having not reflected upon his words upon needing to say something in the wake of that odd tingling sensation that was steadily leaving his form. It warmed him, in an odd sort of way, shaking the cold from his bones in a way the fires burning bright in the hearth behind them failed to do.

Strange.

At her yawn, he says quickly, "Forgive me. You have had quite the journey. I'll have the maids set up a room for you."

He turns to Davos, whispering in the Onion Knight's ear. The older man rises unhappily from his seat and trudges off to deliver the king's orders.

Any potential innuendo flies above River's head as whatever magic existed in the moment recedes and ebbs back into whatever secret part of Jon's blood it lives in. She gives a small smile, thankful and apologetic, to Davos' retreating back once the remainder of the yawn subsides.

"Thank you," she says, though she doesn't move yet.

It's suddenly very hard to get up, to walk to some foreign room and exist, alone. The hall is crowded, the knowing sense exhausting in some way as much as walking here had been, but it's a distraction from every other homesick thought waiting in the corners.

"Tomorrow... Tomorrow we can figure out what I can do to be of service to the King." River can guess as to a few options, other than telling him his siblings will return. Maybe reviewing battle plans, maybe standing ominously in the background of meetings with other Northern leaders to keep them honest. Maybe both and more. Jon can ponder it.

With a tight smile in his direction, she stands, finally, and turns to follow where Davos had headed.

Weeks pass that soon turn into months, River becoming something of a permanent fixture at Winterfell. The lords have grown accustomed to her presence and no longer question when she sits with the king and his sister, though the Hand still eyes her with a suspicion he can't quite shake. A suspicion borne of too much time spent in the company of Melisandre. A suspicion he may likely never fully get over, but at this point, he's stopped questioning the king's judgement and settled for keeping a silent watch over the budding connection between the mysterious knower of things and the King in the North.

It's on a particularly bright and still morning that the raven arrives with summons from Dragonstone. Queen Daenerys Targaryen wishes to speak with him — in person. No envoy, no response raven, but to travel to her keep in person to hold formal audience with her. Kingship is still something Jon is settling into and he doesn't feel entirely comfortable playing this part of the role attached to the title he now holds.

A title a bastard like him was never meant to hold.

"What do you think I should do?" He asks River, passing her the sliver of parchment. "Should I go? Send Davos in my place? Feign having the Raven lost to the winter winds?"

He isn't a bastard, and River has skirted around telling him for far too long.

They've glanced toward it before, idle comments and pointed reassurances of his standing that never cross the line into revelation. The words sat heavy in her gut during every meeting she sat in on, every time she whispered to him about a man who wants to slip away from the guard in the night before he has the chance to do it; they grow heavy when Davos turns his suspicion in her direction when she makes a comment on something unsaid.

Now, with a raven and a summons, the words feel more like they'll choke her before the day is through. The hand holding the parchment trembles slightly as she looks down and sees --

Fire. Mistakes. Family. Blood.

"You'll go," she says, tone as far away from an order as it can be. A statement of fact, of her knowing, that Jon has probably grown accustomed to. "But you need to know before. I couldn't--" and the paper in her hand is shaking more than she would like to admit to, so she sets it down and stands, moves to pace as if she can outrun eventuality, or maybe just her own dread.

So she paces, wrings her hands together, as she lets truth settle down in the room until she stills and looks at him not as a friend or a protector, but as a King.

That passes, too, and her eyes are on his face when she speaks to him, hushed and so very sorry, praying to whatever cruel gods this world has that he believes her.

"You aren't Ned Stark's son." A pause, brief, letting this truth settle on him, too, and her hands are twisting against themselves again. "You're Lyanna's."

Edited 2019-03-12 02:46 (UTC)

Jon chokes on his wine. He sputters, coughing and staining the white fur rug at his feet with the dark red liquid — red on the white snows of the north, like a secret Targaryen prince in Winterfell crowned King in the North.

"What did you say?"

Her eyes are on the stain, like some Rorschach ink revealing what she already knows. Steadily, River lets herself lose focus, blurs out the immediacy and closeness of Jon's shock to go back into what she already knew, to find the words that want to choke her and put them in the right order.

"Lyanna had you in the tower. There was--" Blood. Death. Roses. Fear and begging. River closes her eyes to it, stills her hands, feels for whatever is left of Ned's secrets that his worry and love carved into the walls of Winterfell around them. "She called you Aegon, but he made you a son. They would've put a newborn's blood on their blades if they'd known you had fire in you..."

They'd put Jon's blood on their blades now, too, and she looks up at him with a start as the obviousness of it sinks into her gut.

"I won't tell anyone else."

Jon goes pale, the realization that he may not be Ned Stark's son drowned out by a different horrifying prospect.

"Are you implying that I am the product of—"

Everyone knows what happened to Lyanna Stark. She was kidnapped, raped, and killed. If he was born in the tower in which she died, that would make him the result of a terrible act. It's a wonder Ned Stark could even stand to look at him.

He feels sick and angry all at once, and he wants nothing more than for this truth she's trying to feed him to be nothing more than a well fabricated lie. Part of some game she's been playing with him from the start. Perhaps Davos was right about her after all.

Edited 2019-03-24 01:27 (UTC)

She feels the suspicion immediately, and it hurts more than she thought it might. More than the constant stream of it from Davos, even Sansa. But even louder now than Ned's truths are Lyanna's, written in every remaining cell of her body and echoing out of her statue's eyes.

River's eyes go unfocused again, looking at Jon but not seeing anything, overwhelmed as if speaking even as much as she has out loud has opened a floodgate that won't be quiet until she speaks all of it no matter what Jon may have done to her after.

"I am his and he is mine," said soft, and she can't parse it at first. She knows the stories, had assumed them true, but now realization creeps in and plants it's roots. "The stories were wrong. She ran to him, took his hand..."

"Impossible."

Jon knew his histories. He was educated alongside his siblings, making the transition from lordless bastard to reigning king far smoother than it otherwise would have been had he had no formal upbringing at all. Most in his situation weren't as lucky, but Jon could name all the members of the great houses several generations back, could put dates to events, could tell you the battle tactics that were used during the Battle of the Trident.

A battle where his supposed father fell to Robert Baratheon's hammer.

(A hammer that would have been brought down upon his infant head had King Robert known that the baby Ned came away from Dorne with had been a Targaryen princeling, a living heir to the throne he had seized.)

"He was married to Elia Martell. If the Dragon Prince is my father as you so claim, then I am still a bastard. A bastard who was shown a great kindness by a man who did not father me by allowing me to believe I was conceived during far more honorable circumstances instead of those that helped to spark a war."

"Annulment," she says, clipped and defensive.

It's disconcerting, speaking to him like that, feeling the need to, and the tone in the room isn't one she finds any comfort in. There's the sensation of snow melting underfoot with no solid ground beneath it, of an edge unseen but barreling closer every time she opens her mouth.

River, at the moment, would prefer to run. Take her leave and hide in her room and await some inevitable disaster. The possibilities for which, those that are too many and her imagination too prone to bias the dire end of sad fairytales, would haunt her until she's-- cast out. Thrown in the dungeon. Called a witch and tied to a stake.

She forces herself to stay, to look at his face and do her best to speak past the tremor in her voice to tell him, "It's the truth. I've only ever told you the truth. You don't have to do anything about it, and I swear I won't say a word of it outside this room, but... Before you go to meet her, you need to know."

The sharpness of that word, that lone word, grazes against his skin like the cold steel of the knives his former brothers in the Night's Watch had driven through his chest. It pierces his heart with whispers of possibility instead of the promise of death; he's completely taken aback by it.

Could it be possible? Could Prince Rhaegar have annulled his marriage to the Dornish Princess and married his ill-fated aunt — mother? — instead? But then... If they were wed, the ill-fated part of her story takes on new meaning. It changes the entire premise of Robert's Rebellion entirely.

He doesn't know what to do with the prospect of this new narrative, nevermind the very real possibility that he's a Targaryen.

"Say I believe you. What do you possibly expect me to do with this knowledge, stroll into Dragonstone and announce to my dear aunt that he beloved nephew has come to ask her to fight alongside the North against the Night King and his army of the dead?"

"Maybe?"

She doesn't like not having an answer. Not when it should be simple. Not when she was so sure he had to know, and now isn't sure of how to advise him at all. There's the hint of a direction from the people that brought her to his gates, but...

River holds her arms to herself, hands on elbows, head down. Her hair isn't braided today and hangs now in front of her face. A shield, kind of. A way to hide her own unsureness.

"There would have been blood, if you didn't know. Mistakes. It felt like fire and shame, and I don't know what you do with it now." She hugs herself tighter, eyes closed and white knuckled squeezing against the sensation that all she's made up of is wisps of smoke and if she compresses it tight enough she'll see where to turn. Where to turn him.

Carefully, slowly, she lifts her head back up and opens her eyes. There's still hair in her face, and she must look mad when she finally looks at Jon and sees.

"There's going to be more fighting. Living and dead, and... I can't make the choices for you. I can only you where they are."

He has questions and she doesn't have any answers. Who does he even ask about any of this — Davos? The sister that is actually his cousin? What would they say if they knew he wasn't Ned Stark's son? All these Northern lords chose him to be their leader because he was the last living son of the great Eddard Stark. And now he's nothing more than his sister's orphaned boy, a spark amidst a war fought in the wake of two people who loved one another saying fuck all to duty and honor and running away together in the hopes of being happy.

His parents' quest for happiness started a war. By the Seven...

Jon rubs his hands over his face, peering at her over the tops of his fingers. That crazed look on her face, the way she stares at him so intensely— She's never lied to him. He knows this. Somehow, he knows. Perhaps what they say about the Valyrians and the magic their blood is rooted in is true. Perhaps he got some of that from Prince Rhaegar.

Quietly, he stalks past her and out the door. Should she go looking for him, she'll find him in the crypts beneath Winterfell, staring up at the great stone statue carved in Lyanna Stark's likeness.

Edited 2019-03-31 17:34 (UTC)

Jon swoops out of the room and the air seems to leave with him, oxygen chasing after him to feed the new flame.

She doesn't follow immediately. At first she sits, curled up in a chair, knees to her chest and her face in her hands as she breathes (the air isn't gone, it's just a metaphor, it's just a sensation and not a fact) through the confusion of the moment. Truth is overwhelming, and it carries her away even when none of it is hers.

Outside in the hallways Davos is upset. Wonders where his King has gone, what was said to him, and River collects herself enough to brush her hair back into something less mad, grab the letter, and go to where Jon is.

It's quiet, in the tombs. She knows it wouldn't be if Jon didn't know already. That bones would be screaming out to her with truth and pain. But now, it's quiet.

When she approaches she does so just loud enough not to surprise him. So he knows she's there before she says, soft, and maybe it's to him and to the statue he's facing, "I'm sorry."

PICK YOUR POISON
PIC PROMPTS / TFLN / RANDOM SCENARIO
HAN SOLO velocities	BETTY MCRAE bombsheller	RIVER TAM subsulcus	RIVER TAM (AU) comprehender
SIMON TAM vest	BRIA THAREN exulted	NADINE CROSS bridaled	GU JUN-PYO toddler
available on special request: veronica sawyer, benjamin linus, imani, maria deluca, mushu, poseidon, niccolò machiavelli, malik al-sayf, chloe

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comes back to this months later

hells yes

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