King landing 298
Robert Baratheon
King Robert Baratheon had lived a life of thunderous battles, endless flagons of wine, and more women than he could count. Now, as he lay dying from the goring wound of a damned boar, his thoughts turned to Lyanna Stark. Gods, how he had loved her—fiercely, foolishly. He missed her like a limb torn away. In his fevered haze, an image flickered: a boy, Ned's bastard, Jon Snow. But as Robert stared into the past, he saw more of Lyanna in the lad than ever before—the wolf's wild grace, hidden beneath that solemn Northern facade.
Wait a moment. Ned had returned from the Tower of Joy with Lyanna's body... and the boy. Rhaegar had taken her against her will, or so the songs said. But as Robert pieced it together, doubt gnawed at him like the boar's tusks. The boy had that same quiet intensity, that Targaryen poise, veiled in shadow. Dragonspawn, not wolf's get.
Then his mind shifted to his own "children." Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen—all golden-haired lions, not a trace of Baratheon black or the stormlord's rugged build. Their faces were pure Lannister, sharp and scheming. Damn it all. Cersei, that treacherous whore, had cuckolded him from the start. And now those bastards would claw for the Iron Throne.
Lost in these bitter revelations, Robert barely noticed the door creak open. His oldest friend, Eddard Stark, limped in on his injured leg, the Hand's chain clinking softly.
"Robert, you look like shit," Ned said with a grim attempt at humor, his Northern accent cutting through the stuffy air of the royal bedchamber.
"Could say the same about that leg of yours," Robert quipped back, his voice a ragged wheeze, though a ghost of his old bellow lingered.
Ned approached the bed, his gray eyes heavy with concern. Robert fixed him with a stare, the fury of the Demon of the Trident flickering one last time.
"Ned, be honest with me. My children aren't mine. They're bastards, aren't they?" Robert said tiredly, the words tasting like bile.
Ned nodded solemnly, taking a seat beside the bed. "Yes. I suspect that's why Jon Arryn died—he was digging into it before his end. The seed is strong, as they say.",
"Damn it, Ned. And your bastard... Jon. He's Lyanna's son, isn't he? A Targaryen bastard, am I right?" Robert pressed, his eyes sharpening despite the pain.
Ned hesitated, then sighed, the weight of years lifting slightly from his shoulders. "Yes, Robert. Jon is Lyanna's trueborn son. His real name is Aenar Targaryen. Rhaegar wed her in secret, before the old gods. I'm sorry—I couldn't tell you. I didn't want you to kill him in your rage."
Robert's face twisted in sorrow, the realization crashing over him like a wave in Shipbreaker Bay. Lyanna hand ad never and and truly wanted him; she'd chosen the dragon prince. The whole damned war—the Rebellion that had toppled the Mad King and seated Robert on the throne—had been built on a lie, on whispers of rape that masked a forbidden love. He let out a low, rumbling laugh that dissolved into a cough, blood flecking his lips.
"The gods have a cruel sense of humor, Ned. All this time, I thought I avenged her... but she loved him." He paused, gathering his failing strength. "Help me up. I need to make one last order for the realm. Maybe this can stop a bloody war from coming."
Ned rose, his own leg protesting, and gently helped Robert sit upright, propping him against the pillows. The king's massive frame, once a symbol of unyielding power, now trembled with effort. Robert gestured weakly to the table nearby, where quill, ink, and parchment waited—along with the royal seal.
"Fetch the maester, Ned. And Renly, if he's near. I need witnesses." As Ned called out to the guards outside, Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled in, his chain rattling like a beggar's cup, followed by Renly Baratheon, Robert's younger brother, whose face paled at the sight of the dying king.
Robert dipped the quill with a shaking hand, Ned steadying it. "I, Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby declare before the old gods and the new..."
He scrawled the words, his voice booming faintly as he dictated for Pycelle to transcribe cleanly. "My children by Cersei Lannister—Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen—are no true heirs of mine. They are bastards, born of incest and treachery between Cersei and her brother Jaime Lannister. The Iron Throne rejects them. Let it be known across the realm: they hold no claim."
A hush fell over the room. Renly's eyes widened in shock, but he said nothing. Pycelle's hands trembled as he noted the decree.
Robert continued, his breath labored. "In their stead, I name Aenar Targaryen—known as Jon Snow, son of my beloved Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen—as my rightful heir and successor. He carries the blood of dragons and wolves, untainted by Lannister poison. Ned, you'll see him to the throne. Swear it."
Ned knelt, his voice steady. "I swear it, Robert. On my honor as a Stark."
Robert pressed the royal seal into the wax, the stag imprint gleaming. "There. Let the ravens fly with this. And if the Lannisters move... crush them like I crushed Rhaegar on the Trident."
He slumped back, exhaustion claiming him. "Lyanna... Forgive me I'll see you soon." His eyes fluttered shut, the fury of the storm finally spent, leaving only echoes of what might have been—a realm remade, a bastard king rising from the ashes.
298 AC, Castle Black, The Wall
Jon Snow trudged through the biting cold of the courtyard, his black cloak whipping in the wind like a raven's wings. The Night's Watch was his life now—oaths sworn, brothers forged in the endless night. Ghost padded silently at his heels, the direwolf's red eyes scanning the shadows. A horn blast echoed from the gates, but it wasn't the wildlings this time. A rider from the south, bearing the royal stag banner, dismounted wearily and handed a sealed scroll to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont.
The Old Bear summoned Jon to his solar, the room warmed by a sputtering fire. Mormont's raven perched on his shoulder, croaking "Snow, Snow" as if it knew secrets. "A raven from King's Landing, lad. But this one's for you—sealed by the king himself." Mormont broke the wax and read aloud, his gravelly voice filling the chamber.
"I, Robert Baratheon... declare Aenar Targaryen, known as Jon Snow... my rightful heir... released from all oaths to the Night's Watch... son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark... trueborn... ascend the Iron Throne..."
Jon's world tilted. The words blurred into impossibility. Targaryen? Heir? His hands shook as he took the parchment, rereading it in disbelief. Robert— the man who'd hated Targaryens enough to smash their dynasty—naming him king? And Ned... his father... no, his uncle, if this was true. The lie of his bastardy shattered like ice under Longclaw's blade.
"Released from my vows?" Jon whispered, looking to Mormont. The Old Bear nodded grimly. "A king's word is law, even here. You're free, Jon. Or should I say, Your Grace?" The title hung heavy, mocking in the frozen air.
Jon stumbled out, the Wall looming like a judgment. He needed counsel, someone who understood bloodlines and dragons. Maester Aemon. The blind old man in the library, wise as the Citadel itself. Jon found him amid dusty tomes, the air thick with the scent of parchment and ink.
"Maester," Jon said, voic e cracking. "I... I need your wisdom. This letter from the king—it claims I'm Aenar Targaryen. Rhaegar's son. What does it mean? To be Targaryen?"
Aemon's milky eyes turned toward him, a faint smile creasing his ancient face. He reached out a frail hand, touching Jon's arm. "Ah, child. I wondered if this day would come. Sit. The blood of the dragon runs in you, as it does in me. I am Aemon Targaryen, brother to King Aegon the Unlikely, son of Maekar. I forsook the throne for the Wall, to serve without ambition."
Jon gasped. "You... you're a Targaryen? Why hide it?"
"To protect the realm from my claim. But you... you are the song of ice and fire, born of wolf and dragon. Being Targaryen means fire in your veins—passion, madness, greatness. Our house words: Fire and Blood. We tamed dragons, conquered kingdoms, but the coin flips: Aerys's cruelty or Daeron's justice. You must wield it wisely, nephew. The Iron Throne is a crown of swords; it cuts those who wear it. But with your Stark honor... perhaps you can forge something new."
Jon listened, rapt, as Aemon spoke of Valyria's doom, the Dance of Dragons, the Blackfyre rebellions. "Dreams of fire, boy. Do you dream of dragons?" Jon nodd,ed faintly, recalling visions of wings in the night. "Then embrace it. But remember: a king protects his people, or he is no king at all."
As dawn broke over the Wall, Jon— Aenar—mounted a horse, Ghost at his side. The realm awaited, fractured and bloody. He rode south, toward destiny.
Reactions Across the Realm
Word spread like wildfire through ravens and riders, Robert's dying decree igniting the Seven Kingdoms. The Lannisters howled treason from the Red Keep, Cersei shredding the parchment in fury while Jaime sharpened his sword. But the major lords' responses shaped the storm to come.
*POV Robb Stark, Winterfell:
The Young Wolf received the news in the godswood, Ned's letter clutched in his hand. "Jon... my brother... a Targaryen? King?" He paced before the heart tree, Theon Greyjoy smirking at his side. Robb's face hardened with resolve. "If Father's word is true, then Jon—Aenar—is the rightful heir. The North remembers Lyanna; we'll not bend to Lannister bastards." in He summoned his bannermen—Karstark, Umber, Bolton—declaring, " Summon the banners the North stands with him we shall escorts our king to his throne" Loyalty to kin burned bright as he smiled happily for his brother no longer a bastard.
* POV Stannis Baratheon, Dragonstone:*
The grinding of teeth ,echo,ed in the Painted Table chamber as Stannis read the decree, Melisandre's red gaze upon him. "Bastards on the throne? My brother's wits fled with his blood."
He crumpled the parchment, shadows dancing from the hearth. "I am the rightful heir—by blood, by law. This Targaryen whelp is a ghost from a dead war. Robert named him in delirium, swayed by Stark lies." Stannis dispatched ravens to his allies, declaring himself king.
"The Iron Throne is mine. I'll burn out the lions and this pretend dragon both." Yet doubt flickered; Robert's seal was true, and Stannis's sense of duty warred with ambition. The red woman whispered of flames and true kings, but Stannis brooded, the strait between justice and jealousy narrowing.
The realm teetered, alliances fracturing like the Trident's forks. Tywin Lannister mustered armies in the Westerlands, whispering of forgery. In the Eyrie, Lysa Arryn wailed madness, while Littlefinger schemed in shadows. The Tyrells in Highgarden weighed offers, and Dorne... ah, Dorne simmered with old grudges against Baratheons, perhaps seeing opportunity in a Targaryen return. War loomed, but in the North and beyond, whispers grew: "The dragon banner fly again"
Honestly just a idea I had I was bored if you want more than ask away.