A/N: I am so excited about this chapter! Technically, I wrote this entire thing before the previous chapter but I wanted to fill in some gaps before this. There's actually a lot more than Robb and Dany I need to revisit but I don't think I could wait anymore. I wanted to show you this monstrosity. And this chapter has been writing itself for years, I just managed to finally finish it. I really, REALLY love to explore Jon's side of this story. But there are other characters demanding attention. I will come back to Jon, though, as always. He's my favorite perspective. The rest of this is still waiting anyway, not quite complete. I'm still waiting for the rest of it to hit me like freight train. Like this one did. And PLEASE, for the love of all things ungodly and brutal, DO NOT ASK ME ABOUT SHIPS! I haven't decided yet! That's all. Thank you and I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think in the comments down below.

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones is not mine.

Summary: When Ned finally told Catelyn about Jon Snow's mother, he had not expected for things to turn out the way they did in the end. It was so unfortunate that Robert had been smarter than Ned ever thought he was. AU.

JON

So, Jon became more or less a prince.

He trailed the king like a squire; a step behind Robert's right and a step ahead of the Kingsguard flanking them, stride precise and back straight. He had the privilege of standing a few steps beneath the throne as the king heard petitions and granted audiences, the Hand of the King standing two steps higher than Jon. The king and the Hand were both firm but compromising, their words braided with a hint of threat hidden beneath flattery and formality. It was received with as much enthusiasm and ceremony in return with just the right amount of reverence to mask the duplicity within.

But as much as Jon paid attention to what was being said, it's what wasn't being said that mattered most. Jon had learned on the first few times he attended court that what were not said aloud were the loudest and most important matters of all. The courtiers took it in stride the first time Jon had entered their midst as if he'd always belonged among them, going as far as inclining their heads to him in greeting or a small smile blooming from power hungry lips. It goes to prove how vile the game was truly played, that the boy they condemned and condoned to be beaten and tortured was now welcomed amongst them like royalty. Jon wanted to tear them all apart, limb by limb. Great patience and Tyrion's raving lectures hammered in the back of his skull stayed his hand.

Jon was never encouraged to speak when they held court but Tyrion and the king would never fail to ask for his insights when they were alone in the king's solar. Or on the rare occasion he was invited to attend the Small Council meetings.

The remaining members of the Small Council, of course, welcomed him with open arms. Jon had first been wary of these men and speaking about his thoughts. He still slipped whenever he addressed the king (Father, Robert would chuckle as a reminder), and he was still learning how to play. But he had grasped it quickly, to his surprise. He had sat with these men and offered valuable contributions. Or at least, that's what they told him.

Jon wanted to roll his eyes. He knew what he said weren't new or stellar. But he smiled and gave a nod of appreciation. A compliment for a compliment. Jon had learned everything has to have an exchange.

He spoke when asked, and learned, learned, and learned.

.

.

.

Days passed since he had been told he'd be a prince.

The days started to blur together that Jon scarcely remembered a time when he wasn't attending a royal court or when he needed to be a certain way that others would approve of.

(But he did remember, and he'll never forget…)

He was thrust into every function, every conversation, and every damn tour he had to take around the rich district that had once barricaded their doors when the city tore itself apart. Jon practiced his smiles, his eloquence, and his stances in private with Ser Barristan and Tyrion, sometimes with the Lord of Whispers, but Varys was a man content to watch. Jon preferred him speaking, if he's in the room. Spiders often crawled into places they're unwanted, so, he took to asking questions.

Simple things. Mundane things.

Wait, Lady Mary is married to which Lord again? Lord Edwin is related to who?

Why is she called the Queen of Thorns? Why is he called the Hound? And the Mountain?

Which merchant should I greet first? Who shouldn't I offend?

What does this treaty have to do with the taxes of this trade? Could the city afford this?

How are we going to survive with our grain stores like this? How could we improve it?

Questions that had never occurred to Jon in all his life was suddenly the only thing he could think of. The operation of court politics suddenly his only interest. There was a deep longing to pick up a blade and fight, to feel his Valyrian steel in his hands, or to mount a horse and ride as hard and as fast as he could. But those were worthless here. Just like the wounds still lingering in his body, he needed to get better. He needed to learn, and learn well. There were masters constantly around him and he took every advantage he could.

.

.

.

He took all of his meals with Father now (he's learned to say it and not forget). They even have tea when their schedule allowed.

They talked about his lessons, his thoughts of the noblemen and women in court, his opinion on their grain stores and how he would handle the distribution of the ration. Or, as Father favored, stories from his childhood.

Who taught you to ride a horse? Who showed you how to use a blade?

What sort of trouble did you get into as a child with your cousins?

Who taught you to read and write? What is your favorite pie or drink or—

Jon noted that Father was insatiably curious about his life.

But they never spoke about Theon, Jon noticed. Or how Theon was dead. Or how Theon died. Or how Theon's home was destroyed—

.

.

.

More days have passed.

One afternoon when he was casually taking a stroll around the Red Keep, he wore a tunic that's refined and made of soft silk, his hair shorn so short his curls didn't reach his eyes anymore. His dark locks were styled artistically that it made his grey eyes pop. It seemed to have an effect on some of the noblemen and women when he looked at them. Just like then, when he noticed that he had been stopped by at least three young court ladies as he passed, asking one thing or another. They always stared at his hair, at his eyes, or at his lips while they spoke. There would be blushing or breathy words involved.

"Is this odd, Ser Barristan?" Jon asked nonchalantly when the knight chuckled under his breath after Jon had clumsily evaded whatever invitation the girl had pressed. Jon knew there was some code to what the girl was saying, but he had only stared at her blankly, smiled and said he'll think about her offer. "I didn't notice them being so polite or welcoming the last time I took one of these walks."

Jon has been practicing the tone of indifference yet menacing at the same time. He used it at court when he was at the end of his rope, succinct but polite. There were still those who like to dangle a conversation above his head like a knife and Jon wanted to put them all in their place. But he hasn't quite got it yet. Hackles still rose because Jon hadn't quite learned how not to bare his teeth. Not yet.

"I'm quite surprised it hasn't happened as often as I predicted, My Prince," Ser Barristan answered, walking behind Jon with more vigor than usual. "Usually there's more flinging of body parts in your general direction. It's too behaved to be considered seduction."

Jon stopped and turned to the aging knight. There was a slight panic in his eyes and his shoulders were tense. Jon had not prepared for that just yet. Although, it should've been obvious. Tyrion and Bronn aren't shy about sharing their sexual encounters. In fact, they still badgered Pod about his visit at the brothel.

A humorous grin was spreading like kindle on Barristan's face. "Or maybe they just know you won't react well to body parts being thrown at you."

Jon gritted his teeth. "When that happens, please keep a firm hold of your sword. I might accidently maim someone on purpose."

Barristan chuckled again, looking at the prince fondly. "And it would only be your right, My Prince."

Jon gave him that same look he had every time. The one where he realizes that My Prince sounds a little different from the other Your Grace or Your Highness in court. It sounded bolder and deeper, and carried more weight than all of the Red Keep combined. Barristan filed it away and Jon smoothed his expression.

He chose to glower at any approaching body for the rest of his walk. It was only his right, after all.

.

.

.

Jon tested the parameters of his duties on principle.

Father had given him responsibilities to see to everyday. Simple and important tasks for Father or the Hand that were designed to parade him through the whole of King's Landing like a dog.

Jon did his best to be seen and to be heard. He smiled and waved and accepted the slight touches. He laughed in a courtly manner and impressed who he needed to be impressed. He was reserved but casual, friendly and sly. Smart and ruthless. He had practiced this the most and it paid. Handsomely if he could say so himself.

He had even managed to convince Father and Tyrion to let him out of the Red Keep and walk the streets of King's Landing. He told Father that he wanted to see the city, even just a small part of it. As heir, he wanted to know his people. As a prince, he needed to hear their worries and appease them. Father had been proud of his insight, of course, but was hesitant. Jon had quietly nudged him further, and enlisted Tyrion to help him with a few words. Tyrion looked a bit cornered and, finally, resigned. He knew Jon was right. They warily agreed, knowing that it was something they could use in their favor.

(Varys and Barristan had given him a carefully blank stare. Jon knew they would've been smirking if he removed their masks.)

Of course, he was surrounded by armed guards and Barristan dogged every step, but the freedom was intoxicating. He did everything he could with that freedom. He gave food to the orphans, spoke with the people and asked about their grievances, and even went as far as playing with some of the common folks' children on the street, limited only by the wounds that were mending rapidly.

The people of King's Landing worshipped the ground he walked. They spread their arms wide as if to shower him with their love and laughed as carefree as the wind in his presence. Their favor was rejuvenating, even powerful. This is what it meant to have love and respect, and he treasured it. It was the first time Jon had seen Varys smile with all his teeth on display, as if Jon had personally existed to please him. Jon gritted his teeth, and Varys bowed slightly, chided.

It's not for you, Jon wanted to say. But Jon knew it didn't need to be said. He learned how to make his silences speak louder than his words.

There was a design to these schemes. Of course, there was.

Jon still needed to be crowned as the Crown Prince to hold his title.

Jon wanted to cement his position. Whatever he could take to arm him against the fragile uncertainty of being trapped with these indifferent monsters, he knew he would do. Jon knew, even with Tyrion's now summarized reports of the warfront (he no longer gave him details as before, and Jon resented it), that he became much more vulnerable and valuable to all parties. The North and their allies fight for his release, The Lannisters and theirs think he is a usurper of their royal seats, and Father has it in his best interest to hold onto Jon for a hundred different reasons.

(To be a prince was a despicable plan. A plan Jon had hated with every fiber of his being. He hated Father and Tyrion and Varys—but it made sense. He had no power, and here, with the place they offered him, he could take it. He could hold it. And he will have it.)

Tyrion had once told him to ensure that his coronation would be welcomed and unquestioned, not just by the people, but by all the nobility.

"Influence the court to see you for more than what you seem to be." Tyrion had said, a drink in his hand. He looked at Jon as if he was proud. "Cast an aggressively large shadow and they'll love you for it."

He held the love of the people with an iron fist. Now, he wanted to lead the nobility by the nose. But Jon wasn't sure how to do this. He was Northman. His face was Northman, his gate was Northman, his words were Northman.

Northmen aren't impressive to Southerners.

That was until Margaery Tyrell arrived.

.

.

.

Margaery Tyrell was a beauty unparalleled.

The only woman Jon has ever met to contest her in this area is Sansa. But where Sansa's red, soft curls and cold, sweet eyes were home to the North, Lady Margaery's brown, velvety tresses and hazel, sharp eyes were the visage of spring. She had Sansa's grace and impeccable manners. Her voice sounded like joy and honey, her smile kind and warm.

Jon distrusted her with every fiber of his being. He had, of course, immediately felt drawn to her.

Father had given him a look that made Jon's skin crawl but he settled for an abashed blush and a charming smile to return hers. When they met, it was before all of court, welcoming the young lady whose father had allied with the North. Everyone knew. Everyone pretended they didn't.

"My heir, Jon," Father introduced when their greetings were over. Margaery's eyes were calculating, cleverly disguised as shy and bashful. But Jon has learned how to spot these looks. He distinctly remembers Sansa's own genuinely bashful look, when she tried to make up for years of snubbing him. He knew what the real one looked like. Margaery's variation of it felt cheap.

Jon made sure to softly take her hand in his, and kissed it politely. He looked at her like the greenboy he was. He particularly felt vindicated when his real emotions were the appropriate response. It was the only time he didn't feel like he's wearing a mask. He looked at her expression. Margaery's smile turned slightly predatory.

Ah, there's the Queen of Thorn's favorite grandchild, Jon thought to himself, pleased.

"Welcome, Lady Tyrell," Jon spoke clearly. "I hope your journey wasn't too trying."

"Please, Your Highness," Margaery said, giggling. "Call me Margaery. Lady Tyrell is my mother, even my grandmother."

"Of course. Forgive me, Lady Margaery." Jon said, letting his hand fall back to his side.

Margaery demurely placed both of her hands on her front. "Thank you, Your Highness. And my journey has been very exciting. I have not had so many adventures. We were delayed so many times that I nearly spent a month on the road. But I am thankful that I arrived safely in King's Landing."

"Yes," Father interjected, watching them both like a hawk. He stood and the whole of court held a collective breath. "We are quite glad you made it here without trouble. I'm sure you are famished, Lady Margaery. I will have food prepared for you. Why don't you escort her, Jon? Then, meet me at the solar after you finished. This court is dismissed."

The lords and ladies bowed as the king passed, leaving Jon and Margaery on the dais. Ser Barristan, Jon's constant companion, waited for him. Tyrion gave him a look and a smile to Margaery before following the king, Bronn on his heels. Varys didn't glance but he knew he would know every detail by the end of the damn escort.

Jon extended his hand, an offer to the lady. Margaery gave him a slight bow and took his arm. Her skin was warm against his. It sent jolts up his spine.

They walked in silence for a little. Jon had taken the scenic route, the one through the gardens, a view of the ocean, to reach a terrace on the cliffside designed for the usage of the ladies in high court. Margaery was the highest of them so far, which made that terrace her very own territory.

As they passed the garden, Margaery stopped as they reached the rose bushes with most of the flowers in full bloom, arrayed in different colors. As the daughter of Highgarden's Lord Paramount, Margaery seems to be at home with them. Her flowing blue dress looked as soft as those blooms, her blush and lips as luscious. She plucked one of the biggest ones and returned to his side, taking his arm without a word.

She smelled the pink rose, it's odor so potent it reached him. This must be a new game. The one other ladies in court played with him, the one with codes he didn't recognized just yet. But he will. He'll make sure of it.

"It suits you," Jon offered.

"Thank you, Your Highness." Margaery said silkily. They have reached the terrace and Jon's escort has now ended.

Jon let her hand drop, smiling slightly. "I hope you are comfortable here, Lady Margaery. Please don't hesitate to let us know anything you need."

She smiled warmly. "You're not what I expected, Prince Jon." Margaery observed, her eyes softening. "I'm glad."

Jon tilted his head. "About what, my lady?"

She gave him a considering look, the wind softly blowing through her hair. She finally tiptoed to whisper in his ear. "That you're a player, too." She pulled back and Margaery grinned. She curtsied and entered her terrace.

Jon was walking back to head for the solar when Barristan asked, "So, what do you make of her, My Prince?"

Jon glanced at him and back where he came from, frowning curiously. "The Queen of Thorns has found a very capable protégé."

Ser Barristan grinned. "Well, they've never met anyone like you."

"I don't know what that means, Ser Barristan." Jon replied automatically, smiling politely. Feigning emotion behind that was a waste of time. He continued on and went to go meet Father.

Ser Barristan chuckled under his breath. He knew who Jon was and what he's becoming.

But Jon doesn't mind. He knew for sure he had already secured the old knight's loyalty.

The Commander of the Kingsguard was his.