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Of all places, Jon did not expect to find so many long dead ghosts in Dorne.
Even against the whipping southerly wind of the Summer Sea, Dorne was a molten crucible of heat. It did not agree with Jon— that and the too sweet wine and strange heavy spice to every meal which left him red faced and damp all over.
By nightfall Jon had faded easily against the drunken party-goers in the small white stone hall to break free for the cooler air of the keep’s gardens.
The keep of the Water Gardens, which, as the name suggests, was surrounded by a thicket of floral shrubbery and elegant colourful plants, as well as several salt water fountains, baths and stony marble ponds overlooking the nearby cliffside beach.
Jon had found comfort in a small shallow fountain hidden in a clearing in the centre of the garden. It was made of fine white stone like much of the castle and in the centre of the water feature was an unassuming statue of a young naked boy spitting water from his mouth.
The real reason Jon liked the fountain, however, was its study thick rim, which left him enough room to sit comfortably against after he’d toed of his new leather sandals and rolled up fine silk trousers, his feet resting in the shallow saltwater.
Behind him, through the flickering light of stained-glass windows, the party went on and on. Clanging goblets and distant drunken laughter and old Rhoynar songs played on a familiar Lyre.
In front of him there was the hiss of wind and the roar of crashing waves against the cliffside. The low steady trickle of the water features, and the click and cries of insects in the shrubbery.
Jon removed the thin silver circlet from off his head and placed it delicately at his side on the fountain rim to smooth out sweat damp curls against his temple.
The crown was modest unimposing thing, with no heavy jewels or decorative ornamentation except for three small rubies along the hilt. It had been a gift only three moons back, and Jon had not quite accustomed himself to it.
It had been made specifically for him, as its predecessor had been shattered to a thousand Valyrian steel pieces beneath Robert Baratheon’s Warhammer.
He might not have the crown— its silver shrapnel hidden in a sandy blood-soaked riverbed— but he at had the title; the name.
In the hall behind him, the music picked up again, and a familiar voice joined the folly. Louder and prettier than any instrument with his lazy melodies that drew the distant party chatter to a sudden silent whisper. The song itself, some sort of southern tavern hymn meant be be sung by several out of rhythm, drunken soldiers sounded strange on Aegon’s pretty tongue, where he drew out each verse slower and slower with his parting of his lips.
Jon’s jaw clenched, and his firsts curled around the flat edge of the fountain.
The whore of Winterfell, Manfred Martell had said too loudly, and stinking of wine, in front of his king and prince.
It had been the first time anyone had ever addressed him as her son.
She’d died here, in this forsaken cauldron of a kingdom, surrounded by white sand dunes and a bleating sun.
And eight-teen years later her son would watch dumbfounded and silent on as some cousin of a lord called her a whore.
Aegon had turned his head and pretended not to hear.
Aegon who wore their father’s face, and sang with his voice— who’d married Daenerys and taken the title of king of himself. Aegon who was brave and kind and true, who had wrapped himself around Jon’s heart and allowed something strange and against nature to blossom between them. Aegon who’d turn the other cheek to Lyanna Stark being called a whore.
Finding out he was Rhaegar’s son had taken up too much space in his mind to fit just about anything else. Lyanna had simply been an explanation for his Stark colourings and nothing more.
Now, so far south, so far away from home, he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how she felt.
The Dornish culture was to opposite to all that off the North for him to fit in, like oil poured into a pitcher of water.
He’d been born in Dorne, this he’d always known, but it never quite bothered him before— that was until he felt the sticky isolating southern heat himself and imagined it again the skin of a pregnant Northern girl bleeding out alone in an empty tower.
She’d been just shy of six and ten— no older than Sansa was now.
The whore of Winterfell, He had said and no one had said a thing. That was all she was to them, a Northern whore who’d seduced prince Rhaegar into leaving his wife and two children and started a war a for it.
Why would anyone bother to defend The whore of Winterfell, who sent thousands of men to their death for some tempestuous wanton whim.
Perhaps Daenerys would, Jon thought, though she was strange and Eastern with her ideals— and miles away in Kings Landing anyway.
Once, when they’d first met, when he’d still been a Snow, and her the last Targaryen, she’d apologised for what her family had done to his. For Rickard and Brandon, and the Lady Lyanna. Perhaps that had all been formality, to resow bonds in Westeros— However there was little Daenerys did that wasn’t driven by compassion. Though, that was before Jon made a habit of warming her husband’s bed, not that she seemed to mind that either.
Aegon had heard, however. Aegon had heard and turned his cheek.
It was Aegon’s apathy that perhaps made it all real. Aegon was different to everyone for Jon. Aegon was an unnatural tangle of every form of love the Gods could make. His king, his companion, his lover, his fellow soldier, his brother— and another thousand other ways Jon had learnt to love Aegon as.
If the Gods made another way to love— Jon would find a way to love him as that too.
He was a little like Robb in a way. Kind and true and too trusting for his own good. He was brave too, in the same sort of older brotherly way had Robb had been. He’d test the path first, or shout the orders and take the lead even if Jon despised it. He’d tease and shove and quip in hushed whispers into Jon’s ear at dinners. He’d gloat a little after winning a spar— but only so Jon would come back harder— or race him on horseback all the way to Blackwater Harbour and beat him only half the time.
He was vainer then Robb had been, and meaner. And shaper too, a calculating poisonousness that reminded him of Val sometimes. Aegon had a fury to him, a fire that licked at the edges to his kingly facade. Jon found he loved that part of Aegon too. The fierceness, the hunger. The nails in skin and teeth against tongue. He supposed he’d always enjoyed it like that, since that first time with Ygritte. Though after, Aegon became lax and loose like melted cream, he’d like to wrap his arms around him and tie their legs together and press lazy kisses up and down his chest and neck as he whispered sickly sweet affections into Jon’s skin.
It was, among many things, an affront to the gods for too many reasons and if he thought about it too much it would made his head spin and his dinner could back up his throat.
He’d deny all sacred tenants of the old gods and the new, and find prayer in Aegon’s bed if he had too.
Aegon was too much to ever give up. And yet.
And yet Aegon had turned away and ignored Manfred Martell’s slight.
Jon’s hand curled around a loose stone at the edge of the fountain, and rolled it around in his fingers, before pulling back and throwing. The stone skipped alone the surface of the fountain before nocking against the other side of the edge and sinking to the shallow bottom.
He dropped his head with a loud sigh and let it fall into his palms.
He’d been a Targaryen for nearly a year, and a legitimised one for half that, and for about two moons he’d been the prince of Dragonstone— And yet, not once had he been Lyanna Stark’s son.
Ned Stark never spoke of her. And Jon had never been brave enough to ask.
He knew some things. She looked like Arya, that she was an excellent rider, that she was beautiful— and perhaps that was what got her killed in the end.
Not long after Howland Reed had told him the truth of his parentage, and all the little spies and snakes in Kings Landing went into an uproar to confirm or deny Jon’s claim. It had been Varys who’d brought forth a journal of an Old Valerian priest claiming to have witnesses and sanctioned the marriage of Lyanna and Rhaegar.
No one had ever been able to confirm the validity of the journal, and there had never been of any other claims of Old Valerian Priests near the Red Mountains at the time, and even some suggestions that Rhaegar would have already began his journey to the trident by then. Daenerys had waved its contents aside regardless as Rhaegar was married to Elia Martell under the Seven Gods, which did not allow polyamory.
Though, Jon remembered the the Old Valerian priests words in slivers of memory. “The young couple”, “embraced happily”, “The young maid round with child and glowing eagerness”.
Perhaps if she loved him, then it wouldn’t have been so bad. Until, he supposed, she received word that her father and brother had been killed trying to save her. Until, Rhaegar too was cut down. Until she was left to rot in the stinking heat of Dorne and give birth alone in a tower screaming out for help. Until she clasped a baby to her breast who’d never get to know her, and begged her brother to keep him safe because she was as good as dead.
Behind him came the sound of two sets of feet coming down the gravel path followed by the a repetitive thwacking sound as Ghost’s long bushy tail whacked excitedly against dirt floor from where he sat guarding the entrance to the clearing.
He swallowed hard, and soon, heard him enter the clearing with a too familiar joyful snort and the stink of Dornish wine in the air.
“I told you not to drink all that sweet mead,” Aegon said, coming closer toward him, until he was right behind him, his hands planted on either side of Jon’s shoulders, his lips chaste and dry against Jon’s temple. Jon still didn’t move, though Aegon was swaying slightly.
Suddenly Aegon’s head turned to call over his shoulder to his guard, “Fetch us a pitcher of water, will you, Ser Rolly?”
After a second he turned back “You will feel better tomorrow, My Prince,” Aegon whispered into his hair, followed by another chaste kiss to his hairline, though Jon could feel his chest shaking against his back in effort to suppress his laugher.
“And after all you talked about us Southerners holding our drink,” he said more to himself.
Carefully, Jon uncoiled his hands from his face and slowly sat up, shoving Aegon off him.
“I’m not drunk, I’m just tired,” He said still staring straight on at the fountain.
Aegon scoffed, “Sure,” he said, and Jon heard his footing stumble. He gave up the facade of looking away to twist his head around and watch as Aegon tripped and nearly toppled head first into the fountain. He righted himself just in time, and Jon turned back around but not before offering Aegon a displeased sneer at his stupidity.
His hair was a mess, half tied up and out of his face that was now tinged pink with from the wine. His collared shirt was half undone, and there was a rouge stain on his left cheek. He looked like a drunken fool.
“Go back to your party, Aegon.”
There was a pause and then, in that same too careful lovesick tone is said, “Are you alright, Jon?”
Jon grit his teeth and scowled some more at the fountain.
Again, Aegon had placed a large calloused hand on Jon’s shoulder. This time Jon swatted him away.
“Fuck off,” he hissed under his breath.
Stillness befell the garden. Aegon did not move, and Jon could just feel his eyes staring at him. It made his gut twist.
Then.
“The Whore of Winterfell,” Said Jon into the humid night air, slowly swivelling around to face Aegon.
Aegon’s stayed very still except for his brow, that softened just so as Jon met his gaze.
With a low sigh he said, “What would you have had me done, Jon?” He said it with that same overtired, browbeaten tone he takes during council meetings. “Had his head for daring to speak ill of my father’s mistress?”
He and Aegon had never spoken about Jon’s mother before. They rarely ever spoke about the rebellion at all. Except for once the evening before the the long night, when Aegon told him he still remembered the song his mother would sing him to sleep as a baby, and that he wasn’t so scared of dying because it meant he’d get to hear her sing it again.
That night Aegon had sung the song for him, and Jon had kissed him and told him that he wasn’t allowed to die because Jon was in love him.
Jon had never thought about what Aegon may have thought about Lyanna Stark. He knew he disliked the notion of her being married to his father, though Jon always thought that was because of how if affected Aegon’s own legitimacy, rather than more personal feeling on it all.
“Our father’s mistress?” Jon parroted darkly.
And Aegon let out another low tired sounding sigh, “Is that not what she was?”
“She was fifteen,” Jon snapped, standing now, water splashing against his legs in his hurry to move.
“And Rhaenys was four,” he said it coldly and finally, with a voice he rarely ever used.
“You say that as if that was somehow my mothers fault?”
The clean lines of Aegon’s pretty aristocratic face pinched into a scowl.
“I don’t blame her for it, but it doesn’t change the fact that if they hadn’t run off together, I would still have a mother and a sister. And the Martells are still angry and grieving. It’s complicated.”
Jon felt his blood run hot, and turned, dripping water along the fountain edge as he stepped over it to stand and face Aegon, taking long strides to meet him.
“Oh it’s complicated is it? Fuck off. You wear our father’s crest and his armour and sing with his harp. Everyone always says how like him you are. Where is that anger, Aegon? For what he did to my mother, to yours?”
“He was my father. Of course its hard but—“
“But it’s easier to blame my mother than blaming the man who left you when you where what? Two months old? Do you think he ever even bothered to hold you?”
“Of course it is!” Aegon snapped, with one hand grabbing him by the collar and forcing Jon’s head still, “All I ever hear is how good of a man he was, when I know what he did to my mother and how much I lost because of him. You think it doesn’t hurt that it’s his face I see when I look in the mirror? But he was still my father. And of course it is easier to imagine a world where they didn’t run away together, where there wasn’t a war. Where I didn’t loose everyone, where I kept my birthright and my family. With my mother and father and you and Rhaenys.”
“I wouldn’t in that world, Aegon,” Jon said bitterly.
“I know that,” He hissed letting go of Jon’s collar and turning away from him to face through the garden.
They delved back into silence for a moment with inly the sounds Aegon’s footsteps and the trickle of water from the fountains.
“I hate him sometimes, and then I hate myself for hating him,” Aegon said, softer than before, “I know whatever little say she had in their running away was slim at best, I just— She wasn’t anything to me… I can’t hate him, I am him, you know.”
Finally Jon stilled with a breath, thinking hard about those words. Of Aegon’s own marriage to Daenerys and all the promises there. And even though, Jon was almost certain that she knew about the two of them, the similarity was too striking to ignore.
“That’s not the same thing,” Jon said carefully.
Aegon shrugged, still pacing.
“Sometimes I think if I had to pick between giving you up or starting a war. I scare myself with my answer.”
Jon thought about it. Losing Aegon or another Rebellion. He wasn’t sure. He’d like to say the selfless thing. Give Aegon up. He think he probably could even do it.
“You wouldn’t,” Jon said.
Aegon shrugged again, “I’ve had a lifetime to think about this sort of stuff, Jon. You’ve had what, a year?”
Jon went to him, bare feet padding across the grass, and curled his hands around Aegon’s wrists.
“Gods, you hurt my head sometimes, Jon,” Said Aegon, swaying slightly.
“That would be the Dornish wine.”
Aegon levelled him a scow, which Jon met easily.
“I’m your king, you know. If you’re so intent on ruining my evening with you mindfuckery, at least have the good grace to address me with respect.”
“That would be the Dornish wine, your highness,” Corrected Jon with narrowed eyes.
Aegon had a look in his eye that was so furious Jon wouldn’t be surprised if he swung at him for that. Instead when he pulled his wrist free from Jon’s grip, it was only to cup his cheek with a calloused palm, his thumb circling over the smooth skin beneath Jon’s eye.
“We’ve never spoken about her before,” Aegon said after a slow breath, “I didn’t know it meant that much to you.”
“She was my mother,” Jon said stubbornly.
Aegon sighed, and gave a low accepting bow of his head.
“I know that. But—“ Aegon stared at him with those huge pale indigo eyes, “You had a family, Jon. Maybe not a mother, but siblings and a father, and a home.
“Can’t I grieve for both?” Jon asked, perhaps a little too sharply as Aegon closed his eyes and pursed his lips.
“I suppose,” he muttered back, sounding guilty.
Jon brought his hand up and tightened it around Aegon’s wrist again, the one that was still cupping the side of Jon’s cheek.
“Aegon,” Jon said in a soft voice, careful and calm into the night.
“I can’t hate him,” Aegon whispered, his eyes still closed, “I just— can’t.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
Aegon took a shaky breath but finally opened his eyes again.
“I’ve missed them everyday since I found out what happened to them. I can’t escape the thought of them that night. How my mother died thinking both her children were dead, how scared Rhaenys must have been, hiding beneath our father’s bed. My mother clinging to a child she thought was me and begging for our lives even in her final moments. I understand the Martell’s anger. I do. And I won’t come between it.”
Jon scoffed and tried to step away from Aegon, but Aegon was too quick, snatching his forearm and forcing him close until their noses were pressed together and Jon could feel Aegon’s breath fan against his face.
“The Lannisters are all dead. Tywin, Robert Baratheon, The Mountain, Amory Lorch. They died easy deaths compared to my sister and mother. I aught to have avenged them. Who else is left to blame with them gone?”
“And what revenge do I seek for my mother? Who should I blame? Will mudding your mother’s name with filth bring mine back? Does it bring back yours?”
Aegon lowered his gaze, and his grip on Jon faltered just so that if he wanted he could pull away and leave.
“Where is my grief, Aegon?” Jon said in a small broken voice, “Who can I throw blame? My own father? Or you, who wear his face and ignore all his faults?”
“I know what he did, Jon. Better than anyone.”
“She was fifteen,” Jon said, “Younger than Sansa. And all alone in this stinking hot strange land. And her dying wish was to keep me safe.”
Aegon’s hold turned soft and careful, his left hand slipping up to wrap around the small of Jon’s back and pull him in closer, rubbing circles up and down his spine.
“She has a tomb in Winterfell,” he continued, “I don’t think I’d ever spared a second to look at it twice. My fath— Ned Stark used to lay blue roses at her tomb.”
“I know,” Said Aegon softy, “I went to it when we visited Winterfell.”
Jon looked up, finally meeting Aegon’s gaze properly. That had been before everything. Before the long night, when he’d still been re-entering the world of the living and Dragons had yet to fly over Westeros.
Upon the clear question in Jon’s eyes, Aegon went on, guilty.
“I wanted to see if she was truely that beautiful, to justify what he did.”
“Was she?”
“She was a weathered stone carving,” Aegon stared carefully down at Jon, a smile creeping on his plush lips, “But I don’t need a statue to tell you she was beautiful if she resembles your likeness as much they say.”
With that he tucked a hair our of Jons face and hid it safely behind his ear and Jon offered him a strained tight lipped smile.
“I think she would have been proud of you,” Aegon tried.
“I don’t know anything about her. And nor do you. I don’t know what she would have been proud of. Though I doubt she’d be pleased with me wearing the crest of the man who raped and kidnapped her.”
Aegon did not flinch at that, though Jon didn’t miss the effort he made to keep still.
“Perhaps,” Aegon tried stiffly, “And yet I’m sure she would be anyway. You’re a good man, Jon. Brave and honourable and kind. Who wouldn’t want that for their son?”
Jon glowered and Aegon weathered it, with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Aegon said after a moment, “I should have said something. She was your mother.”
“I should have said something,” Jon corrected, and Aegon kissed him again. Slow and chaste like they were new young lovers hesitantly exploring each other for the first time. His lips were warm and soft, and each kiss tasted like Dornish wine and fresh fruit. He was so gentle with Jon, like he thought one wrong move would shatter him to pieces or spook him away. When he pulled away, his hands were still drawing circles into Jon’s back and shoulders and Jon felt his whole body shiver with his touch.
Aegon still had his nose nudging against Jon’s but he wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead out into the quiet gardens.
“Doran says my mother used to love it here. When she was small, her and her brother’s used to spend all their days here in the fountains until they stank of the saltwater and their hands had gone all pruned.” He said, “I’d like to think in another life, I’d have come here as a child. Spent my summers here with you and Rhaenys until salt and sand clung to our hair and you’d be bright red from the sun, and my mother would teaching us to swim in the pools down by the beach. Or perhaps as we grew we’d learn Dornish swordplay or sneak away into the brothels and taverns up near Sunspear, and I’d learn all the Rhoynish songs and you’d get in fights posh drunk lords. And maybe, when you were a little older, I’d have taken you to this clearing and this fountain, and I would kiss here for the first time as boys.”
Jon didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d been a bastard son before, and he knew Elia Martell’s distain wouldn’t have looked any different from Lady Catelyn.
“I’d have liked that,” Jon said, though he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the stinking Dornish heat, nor did he ask where Lyanna Stark lived in Aegon’s perfect Water Gardens fantasy.
Aegon smiled, and kissed his nose and Jon felt his face pink just so. He laughed at Jon’s attempt to swat him away, and silenced Jon’s objections with another kiss. A real one this time, the way Jon liked to kiss. Harsh and hungry until he was gasping for air into Aegon’s mouth.
It was Jon who broke this kiss, with just a breathless whisper, “Take me to the tower of Joy tomorrow? I want to see it.”
Aegon blinked, unsure still. And then carefully, he nodded, “Of course.”
“Thank you.” Jon said and kissed him again, pushing the raging thoughts out of his mind just for once— ignoring all the hurt pain that come with this new identity and letting Aegon’s kiss wash away the poison their father had left them with.
