The morning light spills through the narrow slits of the chamber warming the cold stone floors of Red Keep. Jon wrestled with the last clasp of his tunic, the soft fabric pulling tight around his arms and belly. The body he'd woke into, this cumbersome too-soft of a body fought him in every small act. Sweat beaded his temple from this small effort, his breath heavy before he even reached for the bread laid out on the tray.
He had just lowered himself into the chair when the door opened without a knock. Kingsguard Ser Jaime Lannister entered, golden hair flowing to his neck, his white cloak trailing behind him in a streak of arrogance.
Jon blinked, irritated more by the intrusion than by the sight itself. Although now at thirteen, a past of him that had been man of introvert nature, bristled at the idea that a Kingsguard could enter a prince's chambers without bowing or so much as an announcement. Jaime's green eyes flicked across the room, settling on him with faint disdain.
"I'm sure you would remain alive for a couple of moons should you quit eating," Jaime says dryly, before adding, almost as an afterthought, "my prince."
Jon's face flushed crimson. He opened his mouth, but the sound that came out was not a retort, it was muffled distant laughter, echoing from the corridor outside. Aegon, of course.
Jon felt something cold twist in his chest. He swallowed the shame and said, in a voice low and calm, "Tell me, Ser Jaime…" He raised his gaze to meet the Kingslayer's. "How did it feel to kill Aerys?" Jaime stiffens and the laughter outside fell silent at that. The air grew heavy, sharp as a blade he had once drawn in the throne hall of the Red Keep.
Jon continued, words steady and deliberate, "I always wondered what it would feel like, to pierce your king's back, to feel his blood soaking your gloves. What were his last words again? Ah yes, 'Burn them, burn th—'"
He did not get to finish his sentence as the door bursts open, and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen sweeps in, followed closely by another white cloak, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He moved like lightning, stepping between Jaime and himself in a heartbeat. His violet eyes flashing with irritation. "It's time for your ship's departure, Prince Jon," Ser Arthur said curtly.
Jon glanced between them, Jaime frozen, pale under his golden hair. Rhaenys flushed with alarm and Arthur tense, as if ready to drag him out bodily should he oppose. He rose slowly, ignoring the untouched food on the tray, and made his way toward the door. But as he passed Jaime, something in him, some reckless shard of the man he once was, would not let this insult go so easily.
"Your nephew," Jon said quietly, his voice carrying across and outside the chamber, "he's much like you in every way. Making a sport of cruelty, thinking it makes him grander. Perhaps it's your family trait. Your father gloating the massacre of House Reyne, and your little brother killing his mother. Maybe it's in your blood."
He didn't wait for a reply. He walked out as Ser Arthur's jaw clenched and Rhaenys' eyes widened in disbelief.
The walk to the docks was long and quiet. Rhaenys came running from behind and started leading the way through the corridors of the Red Keep, her dark hair tied neatly and her steps quick. Jon followed a few paces behind, in the faint echo of armoured guards shadowing their movements. He didn't look back at the sound of laughter coming from behind. He already knew who was there, Aegon, likely grinning somewhere behind, whispering to the other dumb lordlings about how the "fat, failure twin" had finally been sent away.
Rhaenys, perhaps sensing his silence, speaks without turning. "You should not have spoken so to Ser Jaime," she starts, her tone clipped with disapproval.
Jon continued walking. "You should do just what you're told to do, Princess," he answers flatly. "And if I ever need lessons on manners, perhaps I'll ask Viserys and not a girl mere three years my senior."
Rhaenys stopped her shoulders stiffening with his words. The mention of Viserys name drew a flash of distaste across her face, but she said nothing more after that. They walked the rest of the way in silence.
The royal harbor was near deserted. Only the banners of House Targaryen stirred in the cold sea breeze of the morning, the three-headed dragons rippling red and black around the docks. He saw them all waiting there, Rhaegar in his somber robes, silver hair shining in the morning light, Elia Martell with her regal and unreadable face, Lyanna Stark, smiling and laughing at something Daenerys had said standing by her husband's side. Rhaella stood a few steps behind them, her face carved in like a statue. Jon Connington waited nearby, scroll in hand, the Hand's brooch glinting against his chest.
No crowd, no farewell. Just the royal family and a few lords, Tywin Lannister, his expression showing clear reluctance in wasting his time here, Prince Oberyn Martell, eyeing him as if a lamb to slaughter and a scattering of others whom he could not recognize in his memories. He walked toward the ship with steady steps, every gaze pressing down on him. The air smelled of salt and fish and just before he reached the gangplank, a voice called out. "Jon."
He turns as Rhaegar approaches, the scroll already unrolled in his hand.
"This is the royal decree naming you Lord of Skagos," the king said, his tone formal and distant as always. "You are free to choose your house name and banner, however it should not match any of those that now stand in Westeros."
Jon takes the parchment with his steady fingers. As he held it, he looked into his father's violet eyes, searching for something that the man felt for his son, regret, love, even shame but found only the calm detachment of a ruler.
"I hope you raise Skagos to stand proud among the realms," Rhaegar added softly.
Jon inclines his head. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, his voice quiet but cutting enough that he saw the flicker of discomfort in Elia's eyes, the faint downturn of Lyanna's mouth, even Viserys face of all things fading into something like pity.
He turns away before anyone could speak again and climbed the plank. The ship's timbers groaned as it pushed from the dock, sails already unfurling under the clear sky. Jon stood at the rail for a long moment, watching the city shrink behind him the towers, the red walls, the faint shimmer of dragon banners vanishing in the mist.
Then he turns toward the deck. The crew looked nothing like traders and weathered seafarers. Feeling eyes of everyone on him, he descended to his cabin, the floor creaking beneath his boots. The space smelled of wine and salt all across the narrow cabins. He soon entered his cabin and locked it with wooden latch and checked the crates stacked neatly inside, most held his clothing and fabrics but there was also a small chest of golden dragons, the so-called "gift" from the crown. His fortune, his ransom, and perhaps his only means of survival.
He sit on the bed, parchment in hand, reading the decree. "The prince who would be forgotten," he murmurs in blunt words, a bitter smile curving his lips understanding the nature of the decree. By evening, the sea turned grey and the waves turned bigger, though the ship continued to cut through the waves, carrying him north toward the exile or toward whatever fate the gods had chosen for him.