Disclaimer: There was supposed to be a disclaimer right about here, yet it sadly went down during a storm in Shipbreaker Bay.

Black Dragon Ascendant.

The Spider:

It did not take Varys long to realize the truth. In fact he realized the truth the moment he first laid eyes on the babe that Lord Eddard Stark had brought with him as he stopped at King's Landing to give Robert Baratheon the news about the death of his 'beloved'. While Robert bawled over the coffin holding his 'beloveds' bones, while Tywin Lannister let out the tiniest triumphant smile and Jon Arryn held a comforting hand on Eddard Stark's shoulders, Varys watched and learned.

While some muttered the name 'Ashara Dayne,' Ser Barristan no doubt due to the brokenness of the voice, Eddard Stark stood silent and unmovable as a block of ice. If only his eyes and face could not lie as well as the northern Lord thought.

Varys could, and did spot the subtle signs. The mix of fury and revulsion whenever his cool grey eyes laid eyes on the babe that was sleeping in Howland Reed's arms told more than a thousand words ever could. Fury at Lyanna Stark for running away, revulsion for what her small rebellion had led to, something that, no matter how good a man Lord Stark was he would no doubt take out on his 'bastard'. He had already started by claiming the boy as his own bastard, far better, and more believable too had he proclaimed it his elder brother's instead.

Nor was he willing to indulge anyone as to who the mother was, any man with a small measure of wits should realize it almost instantly, and yet everyone seemed to make the wrong conclusion. They saw the silken black tresses and dark indigo eyes and instantly thought of Ashara Dayne, all of them seeming to forget that Ashara's eyes had been more lilac than indigo. Any man who knew his sums, which meant that three quarters of the Lords of the Realm had to be excluded should be able to add up simple numbers. Lyanna Stark disappeared a little over a year ago, and then Eddard Stark returns from Dorne, where he found Lyanna dead, guarded by three Kingsguard, and of course he returned with a bastard son as well, and yet he was the only one to see the truth. He almost tittered, but managed to hold his tongue.

Lord Stark's stay in the capital was short. Just short enough to witness the marriage of King Robert to Cersei Lannister. Up to that point Varys had still been uncertain whether he should tell the King about the boy or not. Yet less than a week of sharing space in the same city as Cersei Lannister, and also seeing just how much interest Robert had for the good of the Realm, or even the very basics of ruling had Varys come to his decision.

He would keep mum about the boy. Keep him safe, and under close watch, he did after all have little birds everywhere, even in the North, and it was a simple matter to acquire more birds. He had many plans, many ideas. His good friend Illyrio had his own schemes he knew, he himself had remained loyal to Illyrio for years after he left him behind to come into Aerys' service, and though Varys' loyalty now was to the Realm first, he never forgot his old friend in Pentos.

His main priority at the moment of course was to ensure that Rhaella and Viserys escaped Robert's 'justice', a task Stannis was already preparing for. He would do his best to ensure that Viserys remained a viable option for the future prosperity of the Realm, but he had his doubts. While not as familiar with the current Princ eof Dragonstone as he liked, he knew the boy was somewhat unstable, a result of his father taking a far too active hand in his rearing, far better to have another option, and 'Jon Snow' was that option. There was also the child of Illyrio across the sea, if the babe survived the birth of course, Varys had not spoken to Illyrio for near a year due to the rebellion and was unaware of whether Illyrio's wife had given birth to a healthy babe or not, or even the sex of the babe for that matter. At the very least a Blackfyre raised to be the best King possible was better than Robert whose sole ambition now seemed to drink or fuck himself to death, and if it was a boy with the right features it should even be possible to play him off as Prince Aegon, thereby securing the Martells.

Another month removed that option from the shelves at least. Illyrio had indeed been gifted with a babe, though his wife Serra died in the birthing bed. But the gender was wrong. Oh the girl had all the right features, a proper Valyrian beauty, but the lack of a cock swiftly removed the chance to play the pretender, so Varys now had to put even more of a focus on Jon Snow and Viserys.

He arranged for the escape of Viserys and his newborn sister Daenerys, just in the nick of time too. Rhaella had been so stubborn, and distrusting. Refusing to take his offer of sanctuary across the sea to the last, so it was truly fortunate, and unfortunate at the same time that she died on the birthing bed. It allowed Ser Willem Darry to spirit the two Targaryen children across the sea, but removed any chance of having Rhaella, a smart and kind woman put any influence on Viserys, so Varys removed them from the equation the moment the Queen died.

Oh sure he would protect the both of them. They both served as a viable distraction to Robert. And a symbol to the multitudes of nobles and commoners alike who kept up hope for a Targaryen restoration. So while he always kept an eye on the two Targaryens in Braavos he was spending most of his time unravelling as much as he could about Jon Snow.

He had searched high and low, in many cases even speaking with various parties in person. There were good news and bad. The boy was Rhaegar's, as if there ever was any doubt. But the legitimacy was another matter. Rhaegar had indeed attempted to make a deal with High Septon Maynard for an annulment but was rebuffed. Rhaegar already had two children by his lawful wife, and Elia's incapability to have more children was not a good enough reason to grant an annulment.

A shame really, as Varys birds were giving him regular reports on the young Targaryen bastard. The first of his new northern birds was a young woman who managed to endear herself to Jon's wetnurse. A second was a young kitchen maid, the third, which was Varys' crowning achievement was Septa Mordane herself. A strict and pious woman who swiftly agreed to keep Varys informed, in return for some generous donations to the Faith. All in the name of the Crown and High Septon himself who was concerned about a bastard so close in age to the trueborn heir of Winterfell, especially if the child was raised to believe in the 'heathen' and 'barbaric' ways of the northmen, or so she thought at any rate.

That Septa Mordane took this as a sign of divine intervention to take the young boy under her wing to keep him on the 'true' path Varys would never have guessed. The woman, so fond of speaking of her faith, and decrying the sinful nature of bastards was doing her best to treat the boy kindly and impress upon him the need to 'save his soul' by earning a Knighthood. Varys could have kissed the woman if ever he met her again.

The young child, treated with mistrust or outright scorn by so many, his stepmother included, latched onto the Septa with both arms, far easier than even his own 'father' who no doubt loved the child, but no one had ever accused Eddard Stark of being warm. And though his reports stated that Catelyn Tully wasn't at all inclined to change her attitude, the Lady of Winterfell did agree with her Septa's advice of doing their very best to turn Snow onto the path of Knighthood.

There was a brief scare when the boy was five. He came down heavily with a pox, and for near two weeks Varys fretted as he waited for news. Fortunately the boy endured the pox, though not without change. Where before the boy had been for the most part happy and vigorous, keeping the serfs at Winterfell on their toes alongside his trueborn cousin, the boy was far more reserved.

He suffered repeatedly from strange night terrors, mumbling in his sleep about wings and fire, and spoke sometimes of battles from long ago. Whether it was due to his now somewhat reserved nature or perhaps by an inborn caution the boy shared his dreams only with the Septa, who spoke often to him of how it may be a sign from the Warrior himself, that he would one day become a great Knight, mayhap even a general in the King's armies. For certain it must be so, the dreams of fire and dragons had to be a warning sign that the Targaryen's would return to fight for Westeros she told the boy, and the boy lapped it up.

Not even six years old was he before he implored his 'father' and Winterfell's Master of Arms, Ser Rodrick to train him in arms, and though reluctant to start his training so young, Lord Stark did acquiesce to Snow's pleads. Mayhap Lord Stark knew that the bastard would have a much tougher life than any of his trueborn children, and that Knighthood was his best chance, or mayhap the boy's enthralling indigo gaze swayed him.

Jon Snow was such a contradicting person, especially for one so young. Calm and quiet. Caring of his younger siblings. Devoted in his studies, eagerly learning his sums and letters from Maester Luwin, but reserved. Always so reserved. Rarely did the boy smile, Varys was told, and he often shunned the company of others, preferring the silence of the small Sept in Winterfell or seeking solitude in the broken tower with either a book or exercising his increasing skills with the harp.

But the thing that concerned Varys the most was the reports he got about Jon Snow in the training ring. That the boy had an aptitude for the sword was clear early on in his training, receiving praise more often than not from Ser Rodrick, but there were… incidents. Sometimes, most regularly after a particular bad night of dreams the boy turned into a monster when a sword was placed in his hand. Fighting with speed, strength and skill he should not possess, backed up by an almost primal fury, such that many men in Winterfell who had seen one of these incidents remarked that Snow fought like a cornered man fighting for his life.

Nor was Varys pleased at how the boy seemed to embrace the Seven. A little faith harmed no one it was true. But if Snow was to have any use it would require a warrior. An Aegon the Conqueror or Daeron the Young Dragon, not a Jaeherys the Conciliator or Baelor the Blessed, and it was not as if he could tell the Septa who was his best source of information to cease her efforts either. No, Varys decided to himself, the boy would have to be taken off her hands and given to someone more capable.

His education would be increased. He would learn languages, arts and music, history and strategy, and lastly, a far better fighter and instructor than Ser Rodrick would be found for the boy, and when the boy was nine the perfect opportunity arose. Balon Greyjoy rose in rebellion, creating a great deal of chaos and confusion as Ned Stark marched south with his hosts. Just who was in charge was amongst many somewhat in question. Was it Lady Stark who was with child once more in Winterfell? Or was it mayhap Lord Wyman Manderly was was charged with the defence of the North should any Ironborn think of making a few raids while the greater part of the North's strength was in the south.

Tho whom should a message be sent if something went amiss, and how should a message be sent in the first place? By speedy raven or by trusted courier. All of these were vital questions that could spell doom or success for Varys, for he knew that in this case he would have to take action in person. Fortunately Varys was a consummate mummer, good at both disguise and lie, and there was the fact that Septa Mordane had never once seen him in person, so that is why he dressed himself in a Septon's robes, false hair and beard and rode to Winterfell in the company of three 'acolytes' clad in roughspun brown wool.

Varys swallowed slightly as he passed through the massive gates of Winterfell. The grand castle, one of the oldest and strongest in the Realm possessed a wild but majestic beauty, and though not a military man, Varys could appreciate the strength it held at any rate. To try and take the castle in a storm would be difficult indeed, and costly in lives as well.

"Halt," a leather clad guard who looked more like a fat septon than a guard and wielding a spear stopped them from entering the castle proper. "State your business here in Winterfell."

Varys shifted slightly atop his palfrey, closing his fur cloak tighter around himself. "Septon Medger," he introduced himself while deepening his voice as best he could for a eunuch.

The guard frowned. "Don't get a lot'a them septons up 'ere, so best fook off."

His compatriot, a young stick thin reed of a boy, proudly displaying his first three chin hairs smacked his fatter compatriot at the back of the head. "You dun' speak to a 'oly man like tha' you fat fook," the young man widened his gaze in fear as he realized what he said. "Beggin' yer parden, we don' offen get 'oly men up 'dese parts, Only ol' Septa Mordane,"

After a moment of deciphering the rough accents Varys smiled, as much as his false beard would allow. "We are all the father's children son," he said as he patted his fat belly, though plump, Varys had added a fat pillow as well underneath his robe to sell the deception. "And we all falter. Now if one of you could lead me and my assistants to this Septa Mordane perhaps we can all put this brief moment of unpleasantness behind us yes?"

Varys almost sighed as the two began bowing and scraping… and almost proceeded to start a fistfight with each other, which was averted at the very last minute as the fatter one of them threatened to put his fist in the other's face as hard as he could. Across the yard and underneath an arch in one of the inner walls and they stood before the small sept that Lord Eddard bad raised for his wife, and as Varys suspected Jon Snow was there, entertaining a small gaggle of children, ranging from the very young still in swaddling clothes and their mothers or caretakers, to older rosy cheeked maidens who sighed wistfully with moist eyes as they listened longingly to the sweet tunes being strummed forth by dextrous fingers on Jon Snow's harp.

Varys almost felt as if someone had punched him in the chest as he first laid eyes on the boy he had last seen nine years past. The resemblance to his dead father was uncanny. A less learned man, would say how the boy was a Stark through and through, but never had a Stark had such deep indigo eyes, glistening like amethysts underneath a curtain of long raven tresses. The boy's hair may have the colour of his mother, but those fine tresses were as valyrian as they could get. The fine nose and arched brows were as similar as the dead boy's father that Varys wouldn't be surprised if someone said that the boy had cut them off to put them on his own face, and yet, no one questioned that the boy belonged to Eddard.

It was understandable he supposed. Even to the many who should have questioned it, Eddar Stark's honour was without question, sake for fathering his bastard. And those who mentioned the boy's fine features would invariably recall the breathtaking beauty of the boy's rumoured mother Ashara. And last, to admit, even if just to themselves that the boy was not Eddard Stark's son, would mean to admit to themselves that the whole war, all their dead friends had all been for a lie. When faced with such a choice, Varys understood perfectly why men would rather live in blissful ignorance of the truth, never questioning, and perfectly content that their cause had been just.

"A wonderful performance," Varys said joyously as he wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye the moment Jon sang the last words and strummed the last tunes of 'Jenny's Song'. "I heard rumours of your splendid talents with the harp young Master Snow when I visited White Harbour, but rumours it seem doesn't do you justice."

'There it is,' Varys thought as a dark shadow seemed to cross Snow's face to reveal the darkness that lurked beneath his surface. The boy for all the good qualities he had possessed a darker side. He despised himself, his faith and his stepmother. Despised his nature was a better choice of words. Being a bastard, even in such a tolerant place as Dorne was never easy, and worse still for a young lad who believed in the Seven, whose greatest wish was to become a Knight of renown, to know then that he was tainted by sin and lust could not be easy, and his stepmother's harsh glares and icy words did not make it easier on the boy.

"Thank you for your compliment," the boy said courteously even as his eyes seemed to simmer like angry flames.

'Good, you have some fire in you,' Varys thought. The boy would need it for the years to come.

"Praise should always be given to those deserving," Varys replied as he made a great show of sitting down on one of the benches.

"Who might you be?" Septa Mordane, for the old woman in a Septa's outfit could be no other asked him.

"Septon Medger dear sister," Varys answered with an ever so slight bow, hindered as he was by his bulky costume, 'how Illyrio does it I'll never know,' he thought to himself as he remembered the last time he had seen his old friend, whose corpulent form surpassed even the fake costume that Varys was currently wearing.

"A Septon, here?" Mordane remarked in wonder. "I was not aware that we would be receiving another Septon brother. Septon Chayle is young but more than up to the task."

Varys glanced at the young man Mordane pointed out and gave another respectful half bow. "Oh no," he tittered. "I was journeying from Braavos when we took in at White Harbour for fresh water, and when tales reached me of the young lad wishing to be a great Knight and his talents with the harp I just had to come see for myself." Varys paused as he withdrew a kerchief to swab away a few droplets of sweat from his brow, truly, the difference in heat inside the walls of the castle and outside was astounding, proof that Brandon Stark had been a man of vision when he built Winterfell atop its hot springs. "To tell you the truth I may yet stay for quite some time, I was on my way to Lannisport to serve in its Sept and then came this… this rebellion."

"A disgrace," Septon Chayle said sadly as he offered Varys a simple silver chalice with wine. "I hear that the Greyjoys ordered every sept on the isles torn down and their brothers and sisters drowned in the sea."

"Chayle," Mordane snapped. "Not in front of the children."

"Quite alright my dear, quite alright," Varys calmed the woman. "We all lose our wits sometimes."

"Indeed we do," she admitted, her mouth in a thin line. "It seems we are all a bit on edge these days."

"Worry not," Varys said softly. "Good King Robert will see the Ironborn brought back into the embrace of the Seven."

"My papa is fighting with the King," one of the girls admitted, "And my cousin too," she continued as her lip started to tremble.

"Ser Rodrick is a good Knight," Jon comforted the young girl, turning her face towards his own with a hand on the cheek. "And Jory is no slouch with a sword either, you'll see them again."

The girl gazed at Jon with wide hopeful eyes, "You think so?"

Jon let out a rare laugh. "I know so, after all, how else am I to become a Knight?" he questioned, while puffing out his chest, causing several of the girls around to giggle, while some of the older women shared amused and knowing glances, still, as soon as the girls had regained their cheer, the smile on Jon's face died as swift as a candle in the wind.

"You wish you could be there lad?" Varys asked slyly as he patted the boy on the back. "Earn yourself a Knighthood by slaying a few ironborn eh?"

"NO," he denied, yet Varys could see the rage lurking just beneath the surface. "Not like that..." the boy paused. "One day," he said softly, "I'll be a Knight, but I will earn my spurs, not gain them by blooding a few men barely better than pirates."

"Quite right," Mordane agreed. "Killing is a sin, the Seven decrees it so, even if it is sometimes necessary, it should never be done to earn a Knighthood," the woman huffed. "It's not right that young men are Knighted without sitting a vigil or being anointed by the seven oils," she grumbled.

"Quite so," Varys agreed, "And yet the Most Devout all agree that any Knight can make another so, and as the solemn protector of Realm and Faith the same power is bestowed upon the King."

Septon Chayle nodded. "You have the right of it," he agreed, then he turned his gaze upon the girls with a sly look on his face. "Now I might be wrong young ladies, but I believe you all have appointments with dear Septa Mordane here, as soon as Jon's song was finished I believe."

"Indeed they do," Mordane said with a rare smile as she gestured for the girls to follow. "We have needlework to perform."

Although most of the young girls expressed some reluctance, quite evident on their faces they knew enough by now to follow without complaint, with only the occasional disappointed sigh, along with a few sneaky glimpses back towards Jon who was still sitting with his harp in hand, back leant against the tree.

"I hope you would not mind assisting wherever possible during your stay brother?" Chayle asked Varys, "And you must introduce yourself to the Lady Stark at supper tonight."

"Of course, of course," Varys answered jovially. "But first, I have always had a fascination for fauna, could I, that is, would you mind awfully if young Snow here showed me around Winterfell and its surroundings for a few hours? I hear there are even winter roses growing freely in the wilds here."

Chayle bit his lip. Technically Jon was the responsibility of Lady Stark now that her husband was gone, although in reality it was more himself and Mordane who kept the lad busy these days, what with the boy being barred from attending Maester Luwin's lessons alongside his trueborn brother. "I suppose it would do no harm," Chayle reasoned. "As long as you don't wander away from sight of the Castle, would you like that Jon?"

Jon did actually look as if he minded that, but was obviously too polite to disagree, especially when both Chayle and Varys looked so hopeful. "I would be glad to," Jon agreed at last as he gingerly packed his harp into it's case and slung it across his back.

"The lad rarely leaves it," Chayle admitted when he saw Varys' questioning look. "Better not make a fuss about it."

Jon knew a lot about Winterfell. Perfectly reasonable as he had grown up there. Pointing out this and that as they walked through first the Castle, and then the Winter Town. While walking outside of the castle and town Jon pointed out this or that landmark, such as the Wolfswood to the west or how with but a few hours hard ride and they'd reach one of the headwaters of the White Knife. Perhaps an hour's walk away from Winterfell the came across five riders, clad in unassuming chain and leather, leading an additional four horses in a train behind them.

Varys smiled sadly at Jon who looked at him questioningly and gave a sharp nod. The nine year old boy surprised Varys. Whether he heard the swoosh of the club behind him, or deduced Varys' intentions he could not say, but the flash of frightening rage in the boys eyes surprised Varys. The smooth way he leant away from the oncoming swing and turned around to drive a dagger into his opponent's heart was remarkable. No boy of nine should be capable of such economy of movement. The boy moved as a man used to the struggle of war, not as a young lad still learning the ways of the sword. Before his assailant had even hit the ground, Snow had already turned and thrown his short dagger into the other man's eye with unerring accuracy.

And just as sudden, whatever it was that had gripped to boy fled, the soft melancholy crept back into the young lad's eyes, before his face suddenly twisted in horror and the boy fell to his knees and vomited on the ground. Giving the boy a last look of sympathy, Varys picked up the small wooden club his man had dropped and gave the boy a hard, precise whack to the back of the head, sending him into unconsciousness.

A few moments later the riders caught up with them. "Impressive," said their leader as he stared at the two dead men.

"Aye, Illyrio will be most pleased with this one," Varys agreed. "But we are short on time, leave two men to bury the bodies and then ride hard to catch up."

The leader of the sellswords Illyrio had sent to Varys nodded sharply and gestured for two of his men to get to it while another tied Jon's hands behind his back and then threw him over the saddle of one of the horses and secured him while Varys mounted another. "We've a hard ride before us if we wish to reach the river by nightfall."

"Then lets not waste any time," Varys said as he put his heels into his mount's flanks. He'd prefer to shed his disguise, the bulk of the costume was both hot and hindering, but the less clues left the better.

"And what if word has reached White Harbour by the time we arrive to take ship?"

"The boy has some rather distinctive features," Varys admitted. "Both eyes and hair, but if we shave his head chances are that we'll get through safely, especially if we keep the boy asleep."

"Hmm," the man said as he scratched his chin. "It just might work, I assume this is why we had sweetmilk with us?"

Varys nodded. "I deemed it necessary. At any rate we might have a few days before word reaches White Harbour, Lady Catelyn is almost famous for her scorn of the boy, with a bit of luck she might decide to wait for a few days before calling for a search, at any rate, I do not think anyone will be too alarmed unless they find our associates."

"Oh they'll find them," the man said with a gruff voice. "It's only a matter of time before the hounds sniff them down, but we won't make it easy for them."

It was well into the night when they finally came across the small boat that would take them down to the tributary of the White Knife and White Harbour where they would take ship, at least the two men who had been left behind to bury the two dead ones managed to catch up with them. The horses had been unsaddled and left to run free while the saddles themselves could be sold off in White Harbour.

"A lot of work for a young boy," one of the sellswords remarked as he brushed away the last few hairs from Jon Snow, having been the one to shave the boy of his long raven tresses.

"A young boy whom rests a great deal of responsibility and profit," Varys said sharply while staring at the sleeping boy. Without the hair to distract he looked even more like a Targaryen, and Varys was reminded of Aegon V who was often called 'Egg' in his youth. And having seen a portrait of the then young prince in the Red Keep Varys had to admit that 'blood will out', as the saying went. Jon Snow as he looked now could have been a twin to young Prince Aegon, at the very least there was no chance that Connington and Lonmouth would think him false when he presented the boy to them, nor did he think that Illyrio's daughter would be displeased in a few years when seeing her future husband.

Almost a full day later and Varys was proven right. Lady Stark had yet to send word of Jon Snow's disappearance, which also meant that Varys' two dead associates had yet to be found either, so it was no problem to find a ship heading for Pentos that very day, and with careful dosages they would be days past the bite and into the Narrow Sea proper…

Brynden:

Brynden bit back a groan of discomfort after he was ejected harshly yet again from his something great nephew's mind. He was old he knew, his body should have given in years ago, and yet, much like his nephew Aemon on the Wall he held on. He had watched in despair and rage as his House was brought to the brink of extinction. Not all was lost, there was Daenerys and Viserys across the sea, yet only one attempt at trying to guide Viserys was enough.

He had done the very best he could to aid, to guide Aerys, and all it resulted in was to break what little sanity Aerys had left, and Viserys was already too much like his father. Angry, fearful, and arrogant to a point, a lost cause that Brynden could not influence. Daenerys was a much better choice, but again, not ideal. The girl was too soft hearted, and fearful of her brother, unless he wanted to turn her mind into mush and take over fully there was little he could do for Daenerys.

All that was left for him was Rhaegar's by blow from his northern wolf maid, and Brynden was still unsure of how he felt about the boy. In some ways he saw himself in the boy, but even more he was reminded of his half brother Daemon. That was the big problem, he had during his life both loved and hated his elder half brother. Respected, admired and detested him. Daemon had been a good man once. Even after he was gifted Blackfyre or Daeron married his Dornish bride. Just why Daemon had even rebelled he doubted he would know until he finally met Daemon again in the great beyond.

Had it been Daemon's all consuming love for their sister Daenerys? Or perhaps the blade their whoring fuck of a father had gifted him with. Mayhap it were the numerous Lords, hungry to escape the yoke of their Paramounts whispering in his ear or the rumours of Daeron's own illegitimacy. Whatever the reason, it was that angry cunt Aegor that had proved the catalyst when he wed Daemon's daughter, and war eventually followed.

Brynden had done many things, both in Daemon's own rebellion, and in the following ones, many of which he regretted. Killing his own brother and his two eldest sons chief among them. The brutal trap he laid when he shed what little remained of his honour to kill Daemon's third son who came at his own invitation under a banner of peace was even worse, but his greatest crime, the crime that had stripped all honour of him although none knew it was the murder of his aunt Naerys and her unborn child. Just days before her death she had confessed to him the truth about her and Aemon, how she had sinned against her husband and the Seven, and only that confessing the truth would forgive her.

What prompted her to confess, and to Brynden of all people remained a mystery, mayhap it was because of the death of her beloved Aemon a year past, or that she was finally carrying Aegon's his own father's only trueborn child. Whatever her reasons he knew that were his aunt to permit the truth war would follow, and so, in an effort to spare the Realm of a devastating civil war he had poisoned his own aunt. She went into early labour and died, her and his unborn brother both. Dead at his hand to spare the Realm of a war that still happened.

And yet again he could see the possibility of the same happening all over again. Jon Snow was everything Daemon had been, all alike down to the last non existent freckle besides the hair of course. So conflicted as he was, he chose to see the best of Daemon in the boy, not the worst, never the worst, and he spent an inordinate amount of time trying to influence the boy, and now, nine years later he had to admit that he was more successful than he had hoped.

The boy was strong, immensely so. Not a greenseer, the talent lay in his blood, but he had the potential to become a strong warg if he was able to so thoroughly eject even him from his mind while drugged so easily. Truthfully Brynden was amazed. He had known that magic was present in any man or woman with the Blood of the Dragon, his own talents proved that, but to know how deep it all went was something else. The boy suffered horribly from a combination of Dragon Dreams that neither he nor Brynden could decipher, and then there were the flashes of memories not his own.

Could it be that there lay some memories of their ancestors in their blood? Brynden would scoff at the idea, but yet, had he himself not seen from inside Jon's mind during his sleep of how he/they were seated upon the back of Balerion as the great dragon turned Harrenhal into a flaming charnel house. He and Jon both could remember with perfect clarity how Rhaenyra was fed to her dragon, had felt her pain, rage and panic as if it was her own.

The last flight of Daemon the Rogue Prince in the Battle over the Gods Eye had been amazing, and terrifying, from every blast of flame, snap of jaws and raking of claws until the death defying plunge towards the calm lake and the impact so strong that it shattered every bone in his body. It was hard enough to Brynden to see these flashes of memories, small, scattered and in pieces, and violent, always violent, that the boy had not gone insane and killed himself, or everyone else in an effort to make it stop spoke volumes about his character. Gritting his teeth Brynden plunged in again, he could only interact with the boy when he was asleep or unconscious, and even then it was a chore, 'be strong lad,' he whispered, 'always remember your strength, be strong,' he repeated in a mantra, before painfully as before he was forced out again. It was all he could do these days, a few moments only, and then pushed out, which is why he simply urged the boy to remain strong, with so little time there was naught else he could do but pray…

AN:

Well as you can see, this turned out to be quite different than Dragon in Wolf's clothing. Which was the whole point. For one, Jon is a bastard here instead of the incredibly convenient secret annulment/marriage that we got treated to in the show. I've also as you can see brought in a female Blackfyre, and I'm certain you can all guess to who that is in the books.

Now, this fic is supposed to be the rewrite of Dragon in Wolf's clothing, and as such there will be some aspects that it has in common but you'll just have to wait and see.

As for Jon's dreams, I'd like to clarify for those who are unsure. Jon is not a reincarnation of anyone, the combination of the Stark blood (which may have the blood of the children of the forest for all we know), Dragon Blood (and all it entails like Dragon dreams) combined with Bloodraven rumbling about in his head when he was at his weakest during a pox that nearly killed him has messed Jon up. It has literally messed about, twisted and mutated his inborn gifts and turned them into something really traumatic. So instead of prophetic dreams, Jon dreams almost completely about moments of terrible strife for his ancestors (male and female) and only from those which he is actually descended. So while he doesn't dream of Rhaenys or Aegon getting murdered by Clegane and Lorch, he does for instance remember being raped by Aerys (from Rhaella's PoV) or the feel of Robert's warhammer caving in his chest, most of these dreams he keeps secret for a very good reason.

As for other news, I've recently written about 5k words on Bloody Wolf, though it's different pieces that are supposed to be 'here or there' in the next chapter so it isn't completed yet, but I'll try to work on it some more. Same for Dragon Queen, I am working on the next update, and I'm probably a good third or so into the chapter.

Until next time

Cheers

Daemon Belaerys.