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Jon found himself seated closer to the King's table than ever before not among the great lords, nor among the small council, but near enough to be addressed directly. Robert seemed to delight in it. The elevation of a northern bastard to Harrenhal had already unsettled half the court; keeping that same bastard within arm's reach of the throne unsettled the rest.
Jon did not object. He had no intention of letting the King out of his sight. In his last life, Robert Baratheon had died from a hunting accident, gored by a boar after drinking too much strongwine. His death had been the spark. After that came arrests, betrayals, war, and ruin. Lions against wolves. Brothers against brothers. The realm fractured while winter crept closer.
Jon remembered it all. He would not let it happen again.
Robert took to bringing Jon along on hunts. The king loved the hunt more than the court. Out in the kingswood, he shed the weight of crowns and politics, becoming instead the broad-shouldered warrior of his youth laughing loudly, cursing freely, drinking openly. The hunting parties were spectacles in themselves: banners snapping between trees, hounds baying, nobles riding in colorful clusters.
Scouts rode ahead at first light, seeking tracks, Huntsmen walked ahead to examine the trials and holding the dogs on leashes. When they found a promising trail, horns sounded sharp and eager and the hounds were unleashed.
The sound of hounds in full cry was a thing to remember.
Jon rode near the King whenever possible. It was here that the man died before and he was not going to let it happen again.
When not hunting, the King preferred the training yards. He would sit beneath a shaded canopy, goblet in hand, watching knights clash in friendly or not-so-friendly duels. The clang of steel rang through the courtyard while squires scrambled and wagers were exchanged.
Jon stood nearby, sometimes offering commentary when asked.
"You see that?" Robert would say, gesturing lazily. "He's favoring his left."
"He's overextending his shield arm," Jon might reply. "He'll tire first." More often than not, he was correct.
Robert enjoyed that. "You've got eyes like your father," he once said. "Stark eyes. See things before they happen."
Jon thought of how many times in his past life he had seen things too late. He watched the Kingsguard closely. Their discipline. Their loyalties. He studied which knights clustered around the Queen's allies and which lingered near the King's drinking companions or him. Every detail mattered.
In the evenings, Robert hosted feasts smaller than full court but larger than intimate dinners gatherings of favored lords, battle companions, loud men who reminisced about the rebellion. The King liked noise, liked laughter, liked stories told twice as grand as they had truly been.
Jon endured them with patience. He did not drink heavily. He did not boast. When Robert demanded a northern tale, Jon provided one lean, sharp, edged with dry humor. The room often laughed in surprise at the bastard's quiet wit. The King laughed loudest.
Gradually, Jon became a fixture. He rode beside Robert. He stood near him in court. He was present in private solar conversations where maps were unrolled and grievances aired.
Some courtiers began calling him "the King's Shadow." Jon did not mind. A shadow was exactly where he intended to remain.
All the while, Jon did not neglect Harrenhal.
Though Lady Shella Whent still ruled, age had thinned her household and reduced her influence. Ravens flew regularly between King's Landing and the Riverlands now, bearing letters sealed with the sigil of House Whent and Jon's own personal seal.
Lady Shella proved pragmatic. She wrote candidly about the castle's state, its massive walls cracked in places, its towers too large to heat efficiently, its lands underpopulated since past wars. She described the villages surrounding the Gods Eye, the fishermen who relied on stable taxation, the minor landed knights who needed reassurance that a Stark-blooded lord would not displace them unfairly.
Jon responded thoughtfully. He assured her he would honor existing oaths. He requested detailed inventories of grain stores, garrison numbers, and bridge conditions. He began sending coin south. He had access to Baelish contacts and made great use of them.
Besides the wealth stolen, Baelish knew plenty of people with the right skill sets and that he had the proper pressure points on them which Jon now had. So he had them now work on Harrenhal's restoration.
Harrenhal needed all the work it could get. It was a monstrous castle which had slowly fallen more and more decrepit over the years and centuries over since Harren the Black built it and it got burt by Aegon Targaryen.
He commissioned surveyors to assess structural repairs. He arranged for experienced builders. He quietly began assembling a household staff loyal to him personally; stewards, guards, scribes.
He heard that it was cursed. That its issues was more than neglect. But for now he would do what he could.
Back in King's Landing, proximity to the King altered Jon's political landscape. Some lords resented him openly now. A bastard raised above ancient houses. A young man whispering in the King's ear.
Jon handled it the same way he handled everything: by not reacting. He gave no one cause to accuse him of manipulation. He never contradicted the King publicly. When disputes arose, he deferred to proper channels.
Privately, he observed. He noticed who courted favor with Robert through flattery. Who sought to isolate him from Stark influence. Who watched Jon with calculation rather than irritation.
The Queen's gaze lingered on him often. Jon knew better than to underestimate that. He remained courteous. Distant.
Jon stuck close to the King and unexpectedly he did not know when the man started seeing him as a friend.
"Wine," he muttered. Jon poured, though he watered it more than usual.
Robert took a long swallow, then another. He did not immediately speak. That, more than anything, told Jon this was not the usual boasting mood. "Do you know why I hunt so much?" Robert asked suddenly.
Jon considered his answer. "You enjoy it, Your Grace."
Robert snorted. "I enjoy a great many things." He stared into the fire. "That's not the reason."
Silence stretched. Rain battered stone.
"She used to ride better than any of us," Robert said at last, voice lower than Jon had ever heard it. "Your aunt."
The name hung unspoken between them, but it did not need to be said. Lyanna Stark.
Jon felt his breath steady deliberately. "I've heard she rode like the wind," he said.
Robert barked a soft, humorless laugh. "Like the wind? She was the wind. Gods, she'd race us through the woods and laugh when we fell behind. Hair flying everywhere. Mud on her face. She never cared for dresses or courtly nonsense."
He drained his cup.
"I thought…" Robert stopped, jaw tightening. "I thought we'd be together for the rest of our lives."
Jon did not interrupt. Robert sank heavily into a carved chair, armor creaking faintly. The firelight carved shadows into his broad face, emphasizing the lines that had deepened over the years.
"They took her from me," he said. "That silver-haired prince. Took her and thought himself untouchable." His hand clenched around the goblet. "I smashed kingdoms for her. Broke armies. Killed him with my own hands."
His voice softened. "And it didn't matter." The words fell like stones.
Jon had heard versions of this before—boasts shouted at feasts, drunken declarations of vengeance but this was different. There was no audience to impress. No cheering veterans to echo his fury. Only regret.
"I see her sometimes," Robert went on. "In the woods. When the light hits just right. A shape between the trees. I know it's foolish." He huffed a bitter breath. "A king chasing ghosts."
Jon stepped closer to the fire, keeping his posture respectful. "You loved her," he said simply.
Robert's eyes flicked up, sharp for a moment, then softened. "Aye. I did." He stared at Jon more intently now. "You look like her." The words struck harder than any accusation.
Jon held his gaze steady. "I favor the Starks."
"It's more than that." Robert leaned forward slightly. "The eyes. The set of your jaw. When you frown, it's the same stubborn look she'd give me when I said something idiotic." A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Which was often."
Jon forced a measured breath. "My father says I resemble his side of the family."
"Yes you do." Robert nodded slowly. "You look like a little Ned and other times I don't know why… but I see that bastard." He shook his head "Ha, I'm getting too old and Fat," he laughed.
The fire cracked loudly and Jon said nothing wondering who he was talking about. Robert leaned back, suddenly looking older than his years. "Do you know what it is to lose something before you even had it?" he asked.
Jon thought of many things. Of promises broken before they formed. Of lives lived and lost. "Yes," he said quietly.
Robert studied him for a long moment. "You're too young to sound like that."
Jon coughed and covered his slip up with a lie, "The North is not gentle."
"No," Robert agreed. "It isn't."
He rose abruptly, pacing toward the window. Rain continued its relentless rhythm against the glass. "I thought winning would fix it. Thought sitting this damned throne would make it worth the blood." He glanced back over his shoulder. "It doesn't. It just replaces one kind of war with another."
Jon watched him carefully. This was the man beneath the armor and wine. The man who had once been fierce and hopeful and reckless with joy. "She would have hated this place," Robert muttered. "All the whispers. All the smiling knives."
"She would have adapted," Jon said. "The Starks endure.We always have"
Robert gave him a long look at that. "Aye," he said at last. "You do."
He returned to the fire and refilled his cup more moderately this time. "When I look at you, boy, I see what might have been." His tone was not accusatory merely tired. "A son raised with wolves instead of lions. Someone who doesn't flinch from the cold."
Jon inclined his head. "You have sons, Your Grace."
Robert's expression darkened briefly, but he waved the thought away. "Aye. I do."
The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile.
"You know why I keep you close?" Robert asked after a while.
Jon chose honesty within bounds. "You trust me."
Robert considered that. "Maybe I do." He set the goblet aside. "You don't fawn. You don't simper. You say what you think when I ask, and you don't scramble for more." He exhaled slowly.
"And when I look at you, I remember her as she was. Not the way the singers tell it. Not the weeping maiden in a tower. I remember a girl who'd throw a snowball at my head and dare me to chase her."
A faint smile ghosted across his face. "Gods, she would have liked you," Robert said.
Jon's throat tightened unexpectedly. "I would have liked to know her."
Robert studied him again, more gently now. "Aye," he murmured. "I think you would have."
The moment lingered before he clapped Jon on the shoulder hard, but not unkind. "You ride with me tomorrow. We'll take a smaller party. Fewer fools shouting in my ear."
"I would be honored," Jon bowed his head. He could only sigh as he watched the man's back. All this power and he never found any comfort.
Still he had the man's trust and would see to it that he kept his life.
-
The kingswood had never looked more beautiful.
Autumn lay heavy upon it, gold and crimson layered thick across the canopy. The air was cool, sharp enough to sting the lungs in the early hours before sunrise. Mist clung low between the trunks, silvering the undergrowth and softening the world into something deceptively gentle.
It was the kind of morning men remembered. It was the kind of morning kings died.
Jon rode near the front of the column, his horse stepping carefully over roots and damp earth. Banners snapped faintly in the chill breeze, the crowned stag foremost among them. Hounds strained at their leashes, restless and eager. Laughter drifted back from the King, already flushed from wine though the sun had barely risen above the treetops.
Jon's jaw tightened but he kept silent and rode along. So far he had been able to keep watch over the king for the whole year and would be able to do so for as long as it took. But Jon underestimated how many ways fate could twist.
Robert threw his head back and laughed at some jest from one of his companions. Lancel Lannister rode not far from him, pale and dutiful, carrying an extra skin of wine as befitted a squire attentive to his king's thirst.
Jon's eyes lingered there for a moment but turned back when the horns sounded.
Robert whooped with delight, digging heels into his horse's flanks. Jon kept pace as best he could, weaving between trunks, ducking low branches. Leaves tore free under pounding hooves.
They caught sight of it only briefly. Massive. Black-bristled. Tusks curved wickedly from a broad, mud-slick snout.
The boar barreled through the undergrowth with terrifying speed, scattering brush as if it were straw. The hounds closed in, snapping at its flanks. It wheeled suddenly, slashing with one tusk. A hound yelped and tumbled aside.
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Robert roared in exhilaration. "Forward!"
They gave chase deeper into denser forest, the ground growing uneven, treacherous. Branches clawed at cloaks. Riders shouted warnings to one another. The boar veered toward a rocky incline and slowed, cornered by terrain and hounds. The clearing that opened ahead was smaller than the rest. Hemmed in by thick brush. Limited space to maneuver.
Jon felt a spike of unease. This was wrong. He suddenly had a sense of unease.
Robert dismounted heavily, spear in hand, breath misting in the cool air. His face was flushed. His movements a touch less steady than they should have been.
Jon frowned. He had watched the King's drinking closely this morning. Or so he thought. Robert took a long swig from the skin Lancel hurried forward to provide. Too long. Wine dribbled down into his beard.
Jon's eyes snapped to Lancel. The young squire looked pale. Too pale. His hands trembled not from cold. Something cold and sharp slid into Jon's spine. "Your Grace," he began, stepping forward.
But Robert was already advancing, spear leveled, grin wild. The boar bellowed, a guttural, furious sound. It charged. Everything happened at once.
Hounds lunged. One was flung aside like a rag doll. Robert braced, spear driving forward with all the strength that had once felled princes. The point struck deep into the boar's shoulder.
But the King's footing slipped. Just slightly. Enough. The boar slammed into him with devastating force. Tusks ripped through leather and flesh. Robert's roar turned to something raw and terrible as he was thrown backward.
"Your Grace!" Jon shouted, lunging forward.
The clearing exploded into chaos. Knights rushed in. Steel flashed. The boar, maddened and bleeding, thrashed violently before finally collapsing under a flurry of blades. Too late.
Robert lay on the churned earth, armor torn, blood spreading dark and fast beneath him. Jon dropped to his knees. The wound was catastrophic. One tusk had driven deep into the King's abdomen, tearing upward. Blood soaked through cloth and pooled into the dirt.
"No," Jon breathed, hands pressing desperately against the wound as if pressure alone could force life back inside. "No, no—"
Robert's eyes fluttered open. For a moment they were clear. Then pain flooded them. "Got the bastard," he rasped, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. "Didn't I?"
Jon swallowed hard. "Yes, Your Grace."
Robert coughed, a wet, choking sound. Blood flecked his beard.
Jon's mind raced. Something was wrong beyond the wound. The King's skin was already turning ashen, his breath shallow and erratic in a way that spoke not only of blood loss but of something else. Poison.
His gaze shot to Lancel. The squire stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, horror etched across his face but beneath it, something else. Guilt. Fear of discovery.
Jon surged to his feet, crossing the distance in three strides. He seized Lancel by the collar and slammed him against a tree. "What did you give him?" Jon hissed.
"I—I only—" Lancel stammered, eyes wide. "The wine—he asked—"
"What did you put in it?"
"I didn't—" His voice cracked. "The Queen—she said—just strongwine—"
Jon's stomach dropped. He released Lancel with disgust. There was no time.
Knights were already lifting the King carefully, preparing to carry him back to the city. The hunt was over. The forest seemed to close in around them, no longer bright and golden but dark and suffocating.
Robert Baratheon did not make it back alive. He lingered through the ride, drifting in and out of consciousness. Once, he gripped Jon's forearm with surprising strength. "You've her eyes," he murmured faintly. Then his hand fell slack.
By the time the gates of King's Landing came into view, the King was gone. The city felt it immediately. Word spread faster than the riders themselves. By the time Robert's body was carried into the Red Keep, whispers had already reached the markets, the docks, the taverns. The King was dead.
And that was when things went from bad to even worse.
His lord father heard the news. Jon saw it in his father's face when he met them in the yard; filled with shock and grim comprehension. Something had already been set in motion before the hunt. Something dangerous.
They had not had time. So Jon asked, "What is going on?"
"The Queen's children are not Robert's," he said, voice low and iron-hard. "They are Jaime Lannister's."
Jon closed his eyes briefly. He had hoped that things might change but they were playing out exactly as they were in his last life only delayed by a year by the shocking development of Littlefinger's death and his grand theft of the crown.
But the King was dead. And without Robert's authority, truth became a weapon with no wielder. "I told her," Ned continued grimly. "Told her to flee before I informed the King. To take her children and go."
Jon stared at him. "Why?" he asked as he knew this was just the hight of foolishness. You did not reveal your hand to your enemies.
"Because they are children," Ned replied. "And because Robert would have had them killed."
Honor. Always honor. Jon felt a cold dread settle in his bones. "She will not flee," he said quietly.
Ned's silence was answer enough as he also knew that it was true.
The next days unraveled swiftly. Cersei Lannister moved with terrifying efficiency.
The Red Keep was filled with red cloaks to begin with Lannister guards that had come long ago with the Queen's retinue and slowly over the years expanded until they were basically everywhere in the Red Keep.
Worse, Gold cloaks of the City Watch shifted loyalties with unsettling ease. Janos Slynt, Commander of the Watch, was seen frequently entering the Queen's chambers. Jon knew promises were made, favors changed hands.
When the council assembled to discuss succession, Ned stepped forward with Robert's final will in hand naming him Protector of the Realm until Joffrey came of age.
Cersei tore the paper in half. "I will not have my son robbed," she said coldly.
Steel rang from scabbards. Chaos erupted in the throne room. Gold cloaks surged forward not to defend the Hand, but to seize him. Stark men drew blades, forming a desperate ring around their lord. Screams echoed against the stone.
Jon fought. He cut down one gold cloak, then another, driving toward his father but there were too many. Red cloaks poured in through side passages. The Kingsguard moved not to protect Ned, but to protect the Queen.
Janos Slynt himself pointed his sword at him. "Seize him!"
Ned was dragged down beneath sheer numbers. Bran, Sansa and Arya were seized amidst the confusion. Stark guards fell one by one. Soon Jon was also captured as the Queen's lover, her brother Jaime Lannister disarmed him.
The last one standing were their direwolves who were put down. Jon could only helpless watch as Ghost, Summer, Lady, and Nymeria were cut down after they had savaged many guards and knights.
He felt a piece of him break as Ghost let out a final whimper.