Chapter Text
Jon sits by the pool, his worn copy of The Name of the Wind propped open on his lap, despite the dying rays of the sun, despite the cold. He’d found it in his old room when he arrived three days ago. It’s been the only thing keeping him company.
The click of heels on the concrete behind him make him tense up, just before, “there you are. Come inside, the Starks are almost here.”
He closes the book and sets it on the lounge chair and stands, and asks, “why am I even here? I’m not the one getting engaged.”
Rhae is unamused, as usual. At least she’s equally unamused anytime Egg speaks, so at least it doesn’t feel targeted. “Because we are a united front,” she says automatically.
Jon does his best not to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t bother arguing as he follows his half-sister inside. Sometimes he’s in the mood to argue, even though it’s pointless. Sometimes it’s fun to get under his family’s skin. He’s just not in the mood tonight.
“You’re not even dressed,” Rhae groans. “Go put on your suit before dad sees you.”
Or worse, your mother, Jon thinks, heading to the stairs, then the hall in the east wing towards his old room, where he’s staying for the next two weeks.
Elia had been kind to him growing up, even though she had no reason to be. Jon had shown up at their door with all the anger of a teenage boy who just lost his mother, exposing a thirteen year old affair. Elia never seemed to blame Jon for that, though. He thinks maybe it’s because by then, by nearly twenty years into their marriage, she knew not to expect anything better from her husband.
It’s been over a decade since then, and one disappointed look from Elia still sends him scurrying to do what he’s told. And if there’s anything he knows about Elia, it’s that she would want him to get through this night without causing a scene. He’s always been so good at that, when he’s in the mood for a fight.
In his old room, still decorated like it was when he was a kid, he puts on the suit Rhaeger got for him. In the mirror, he watches himself button the cuffs, until a knock jerks him out of his thoughts.
“There you are,” Egg says, leaning in the doorway, looking dashing in his suit. That’s good, Jon thinks. He’s getting engaged today, after all.
“Here I am,” Jon says. “Are you excited?”
Egg just shrugs. “I think the only people who are ever excited for an arranged marriage are the ones arranging it.”
“Haven’t heard you argue against it,” Jon points out blandly, pushing his way past Egg, out into the hall.
“Why would I?” Egg laughs. “I always knew this would happen, at least it’s a good one.”
Jon nods. It’s not like they were ever close, but he knows who Sansa Stark is. Everyone at their prep school did. Good grades, lots of friends, pretty and popular. A good girl through and through, and not the fake kind, either. The naive kind. The kind who grew up sheltered from the real world and told that all her fairytale dreams would come true. The kind that probably had cartoon birds visit her and help her get dressed every morning. His memories of her are the generic memories that everyone in their school probably has of her.
All except that one day-
“I’m just surprised they agreed to it,” Jon says as he heads back down the east wing hall, Egg following.
“They don’t really have much of a choice after Bobby B turned out to be… well, you know.”
Jon’s mouth is a grim line as he walks ahead of his brother. They both know. It was big news when Robert Baratheon got arrested for embezzlement, and the outing of his drug addiction that nearly bankrupted Stark & Baratheon.
Jon doesn’t even have any real opinion about the Starks - he didn’t hate Robb Stark in school like he probably should have, considering the history between their families, but they also weren’t friends, either. But what he does have an opinion about is this tradition; wealthy families auctioning off their daughters to the highest bidder.
Not all of them do it anymore, though. Most wealthy kids end up dating each other, anyway, so it's not like the arranging is always necessary. He’d always heard good things about Ned Stark, and so Jon had been surprised to hear that he had agreed to the proposal. Selling off his daughter to save his failing business.
Jon pauses at the top of the stairs, leaning against the chrome-and-glass railing “That doesn’t bother you?” he asks. “That’s she’s being sold?”
“I know it’s archaic to you plebs,” Egg says, with that smirk he always has whenever he’s pointing out that Jon was born poor, “but this is the way of things here. You think you’d be used to it by now.” Then, with a roll of his eyes, he adds, “plus, from everything I hear, she’s, uh- dutiful. She’s probably happy to help out her family.”
“And what do you get out of it?” Jon asks. He’s suddenly in the mood to argue, it seems.
Egg shrugs again. “A hot wife? And if she’s still the same as she was in high school, a wife who will keep her mouth shut. What more could I ask for?”
It isn’t the first time Jon has pictured what it would be like to feel Egg’s nose break under his fist. It isn’t the first time he’s imagined throwing his half-brother over the railing.
But hurting Egg would only cause him more trouble than it would be worth, and so instead, he turns and heads down the stairs. Egg calls after him, but Jon doesn’t bother listening to what he says. He just has to get through this dinner, then the official announcement, then the celebration party. Then he can go home and hopefully not see any of them until the next big event that forces him back. Probably the wedding.
“There you are,” Rhaegar says with a frown when he and Egg join the family in the atrium.
“Yeah, so everyone keeps saying,” Jon mutters. Maybe if this house weren’t so big, people could find him easier.
“Stop with that scowling,” Rhaegar tuts. “We want to be welcoming.”
“Well, if we wanted the Starks to like us, Aerys probably shouldn’t have-”
“You are not to bring that up tonight,” Rhaegar says tightly. “That is in the past. We are here to unite our families.”
-shouldn’t have murdered two of them, he almost finishes. Just to start a fight.
But he doesn’t. It’s not worth it, he needs to remind himself of that. Elia doesn’t want him starting anything, and he just has to make it through the next two weeks so he can leave. If Ned Stark is willing to look past the murder of his father and brother, then who is Jon to bring it up?
“The Starks have just pulled up to the gate,” Connington announces, finger to his earpiece.
“‘Bout time,” Egg sighs, typing on his phone. Egg finishes up his message, then shoves his phone into his pocket and straightens the lapel of his suit.
Elia is the first to greet the Starks after the staff takes their coats. Rhaegar is next, stepping forward with a hand held out to Ned.
“She does look good,” Egg murmurs appreciatively, fixing the lapels of his suit again before following after his parents.
Jon hangs back with Rhae, waiting to be introduced. The Starks seem quiet, but their daughter smiles widely and doesn’t seem too horrified to be here. Maybe Egg is right, maybe she’s happy to help out her family. Maybe she sees Egg the way he sees her; a good name and a good pedigree. They’d look good together in photographs.
“This is my sister Rhaenys,” Egg introduces smoothly, leading Sansa over. “And my half-brother Jon.” Then, turning to look at Sansa, “he was actually in school with us.”
Her eyes slide to Jon. “I remember,” she says softly.
“I guess it’s probably hard to forget the week he came here,” Egg says, taking Sansa’s arm and leading her away, and Jon bites his tongue. Egg isn’t wrong, the sudden appearance of Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard had been gossip for Jon’s entire time at that school. He should have figured Egg would bring that up.
Dinner is just as awful as Jon expected. Lots of small talk and pleasantries and grunts from Ned Stark. It’s miserable, and Jon counts down the seconds until it’s over. When it finally is and the plates are all being cleared, Rhaegar says that he and Ned have much to discuss, and they leave for Rhaegar’s study.
It’s the first time all night that Sansa seems even remotely uncomfortable, her eyes following their fathers out of the room.
Jon has no intention of sticking around after that, so he mumbles his own excuse that he has to go to the bathroom. As he stands, Rhae tries to grab at his sleeve, a silent plea for him not to leave her here alone, because she knows he isn’t going to come back. He ignores it, though, because he does not want to be here, and she can leave if she wants. She’s an adult.
He makes for the back door, then out onto the deck of the pool, where he stops by the lounge chair and picks up his book. But the lounge chair is visible from inside if someone were to come looking for him, so he takes the book and skirts the pool and turns down the path to the gardens. There’s a bench just around the corner, hidden by a hedge, and he settles there.
Too late, he realizes that it’s too dark to read. He could take out his phone and use the flashlight, but instead he sets the book on the bench and stares out at the twinkling lights of the city. Here at the Targaryen estate, up in the hills, it feels so distant. A different world.
Jon doesn’t mind being in the city. He grew up there, and it’s why he got an apartment there once he turned eighteen. Something tightens in his stomach, and he leans his elbows on his knees and lets his head hang.
He might have grown up in the city, but his apartment now is nothing like the one he grew up in. Maybe that’s why he hates coming back here; it’s a reminder that he’s taken their money. A reminder that he’s a hypocrite.
How long he sits there, staring off at the lights of the city below, he doesn’t know, but he’s interrupted by movement in the corner of his eye, and he turns to see Sansa paused just at the corner of the hedge.
“Oh,” she says, glancing back at the house. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize- I… I was looking for…”
“The bathroom?” Jon deadpans. The attempted joke only seems to make her shrink back, and he sighs. “If you’re looking for a place to hide, this is a good one.”
“Why would I be looking to hide?” she asks, her voice so quiet it’s almost carried away by the wind that pulls strands of hair from her sleek updo.
He only shrugs. “Same reason I am?” Then he slides over on the bench to make room. An invitation.
After a moment, she takes it, settling onto the bench beside him. Her arms are bare in her dress, and he tries not to sigh as he shrugs out of his suit coat and offers it out to her. Another hesitation, but she takes it and settles it over her shoulders.
“Aegon had to take a work call and your- Elia was showing my mom something,” she says. “I figured I could also…”
“Get away for a minute?” Jon finishes, and she lowers her head and nods. “I assumed you were okay with all this.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she says, then grimaces. “I’m sorry-”
“No, you’re right,” he agrees. “I don’t know you.”
They sit in silence for a bit. She’s the first to break it. “You probably don’t remember,” she says, eyes focused on the city, “but back in high school, my dog got hit by a car-”
“I remember,” he cuts in gently.
Elia had been away visiting relatives when her beloved pomeranian had decided to try and eat the rug. Jon had taken it to the vet, and he’d been sitting in the waiting room when she had stumbled in, carrying a blanket-wrapped dog that was much too big for her, her hands and clothes stained with blood.
“Did I ever thank you for that?” she asks, whisper soft.
“No need,” Jon shrugs. After they’d rushed her dog back, she had seen him there, a familiar face from school, and she had rushed to his side and sobbed into his shoulder until her parents arrived. He never had the courage to ask her what happened with her dog, but she’d missed a few days of school after that, and he thinks it was probably the worst.
He looks at her now, with her perfect makeup and hair, and he can’t help but remember what she looked like with puffy red eyes and snot dripping from her nose.
“You know,” she laughs softly, a rueful smile on her lips, her eyes still focused on the city below. “When my dad first came to me about this engagement, there was a moment-” The smile falters, and she looks down at her hands.
“What?” Jon prompts when she doesn’t continue.
He watches her nod absently, but then she says, “when he came to me talking about a Targaryen engagement, there was a moment where I thought it might be you.”
Jon’s stomach clenches. Horror, maybe. Maybe something else.
“But that was stupid,” she laughs again.
Because Egg is the oldest. He’s trueborn. There’s no way Rhaegar would offer his secondborn bastard to the Starks, not when he’s trying to mend the rift between their families. The rift that his father caused because he was so paranoid by the end that he took out a hit on Rickard and Brandon, who ended up being completely innocent of all the things Aerys was convinced of. Nothing was ever proven, but everyone knows. The rumors persist.
“You don’t have to do this,” Jon says.
“Yeah,” she says, “I do. We’re almost completely broke. I don’t graduate until next year, and Arya still has to finish, and Bran’s about to start university and he’s going to need another surgery soon, and Rickon-” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I have to do this. The only thing we have left is our name, and our reputation.”
And Rhaegar wants that. The Targaryens are still considered new money. Marrying Elia had helped with that, and now Rhaegar wants to solidify themselves into society by marrying into one of the oldest and most well respected families. He can’t have the name from Robb, because Robb ran off and married some common girl, which had also been a slight scandal. If Rhaegar can’t have the name by marrying Robb to Rhae, he’ll take the next best thing, which is Sansa, with her perfect reputation and her perfect pedigree.
“He’ll never be faithful to you,” Jon blurts out, though he wishes he’d just kept his mouth shut. His protests aren’t going to change her situation; all he’s going to do is make her feel worse about it.
“I know,” she nods. “I remember what he was like.” Then, another one of those sad smiles, “maybe if I have a son on the first try, he’ll leave me alone after that. Otherwise I’ll have to get tested regularly, I guess. And hope he’s discreet.”
That turns Jon’s stomach, and his hands curl tight around the edge of the bench seat. He doesn’t know why he says what he says next.
“What if it was me?”
She looks at him sharply, brows drawn together, and he wishes he hadn’t spoken. “What?” she asks.
“I just meant,” he says, despite his brain screaming at him to shut up, “would… would your dad accept that? If it were me? If it’s what you wanted?”
She stares at him for long enough that he debates throwing himself off of this hill, though he doesn’t think it’s a steep enough slope and he’d probably survive. He’s just about to listen to his brain and say, ignore me, when she finally speaks.
“Why would you do that for me?” she breathes, eyes searching his face.
He shrugs uncomfortably, looking away from her and the way she keeps staring at him. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess… I mean, I’m going to have to do this some day, too.”
It’s a truth he hasn’t wanted to look at. His job, his apartment, his whole life is because of who he is and who his father is. Of course if Rhaegar decided to marry him off, he’d have to go along with it, or lose everything. It’s something he hasn’t wanted to acknowledge, because it makes him a hypocrite. It’s probably why he’s so angry about the whole thing to begin with.
“So why not?” he continues. “You’re… I mean, you’re beautiful. I know you like dogs. I know you’re smart. That’s not much, but it’s probably more than I’d know about whoever Rhaegar would pick for me. So if you wanted me, if your dad would be okay with it… We could just swap me out for Egg.”
“Wouldn’t… I mean, does Aegon not want to marry me? That wouldn’t strain your relationship?”
“What relationship?” Jon snorts. “We’re brothers in name only.”
She doesn’t seem too shocked by that. He wonders if she’s noticed that Egg takes any and every opportunity to point out how different Jon is. How he doesn’t belong. The only reason Egg would be angry about it is because he wouldn’t like the idea of losing something to Jon.
Her eyes are still searching his face, and he can see the desperation there. It isn’t about him - she doesn’t want him; what she wants is to not be married to Egg. Jon is the less abhorrent option.
“Do you think your father would agree?” she asks, eyes wide and painfully hopeful.
“Would yours?”
She nods. “If I asked him to, he would.”
“Good,” Jon nods back. “You talk to your father, and I’ll handle mine.”
He knows the exact argument he’ll make, too: the Starks are willing to take the spare, that leaves Egg free to hook a family with just as much money as the Targaryens. The Tyrells, maybe, they have a daughter Egg would also like the looks of.
Maybe this is a terrible idea, he thinks, as he tilts his face up to the star-filled sky. Maybe he’s just trapped himself in an awkward, loveless marriage. But when she takes his hand and squeezes, in that particular moment, he can’t quite bring himself to care.