King of the Whytes

Summary; On his way back to the Wall, Jon is captured by the fearsome King of the Whytes. As the King scents his blood, the fingers about to rip out his throat pauses. Jon learns that being a Stark is far more than just a name. Being a Tygarian is far more than an affection for dragons.

Jon/King the Whytes dub/con Jon/(Robb?)

Prologue

Jon ran. He'd never ran like he ran now in his life. What a horrible week.

First he'd been captured by Wildlings. Once he'd been brought to the king north of the Wall, it had been quite a pleasant stay.

No one would say that the Starks were not of true northern blood. It turned out Ygritte was the kings daughter. While the King was sure to point out the Crows had nought to do in his lands to start with, he thanked him for sparing his only daughter. Women were rarely strong enough to survive birthing in the cold. If the mother died, the child died. Safe to say, the women, regardless if they were the daughter of kings or not, were precious.

He had been let go, and brought within sights of the Wall. Which had put him in this situation. He had no fire, so he could not fight. His sword, Longclaw was taken as bounty- The king had liked the poetry of it: A Stark with a sword with a wolf carving. How fitting.

His lungs were burning. His legs were aching and the Whytes weren't even running to keep up with him; they just, somehow, were right there.

"Ah-" he yelled as a freezing hand grabbed him by his neck and hoisted him in the air.

The fear he felt was indescribable. The man. The thing. He looked unlike any other Whyte. He has on a massive horse, larger than any Jon had ever seen. A massive, frozen, rotting horse. The man himself was bare chested, with blue ink markings on his skin. His hair was white and his eyes could easily have been melted silver. But all of this Jon barely noticed; all he could look at was the torn and frozen skin of the arm that was holding him in the air so effortlessly.

He kicked franticly, trying to drag some air into his burning lungs.

This was how it was going to end; at the hand of an ice man, north of the Wall, no more than three seasons old.

He could feel his heart-beat slowing in his chest, and his vision blurring around the edges.

When he came to, it was to the sight of a small ice cave. Of ice grave, it would seem. It was not very big.

He clenched his eys tightly shut and tried to will the cold away. He shifted and found that the heavy furs covering him were not his clothes, but freshly killed animals.

"I though..." a heavy rasping voice came from his side, "That you would sleep longer."

Suddennly Jon was wide awake. He spran up, only to be restrained by an arm impossibly strong, so white it was almost blue. Shaking, he dared to lift his eyes to the face of the ice man.

The man smiled, "Ah... a brave one. Tell me child, how long have I been trapped in this frozen hell?"

Jon didn't recognize his voice when it came out in a shaky stutter, "A- a thousand years..."

"Another thousand years... and the Stark still roam the North."

"I- I'm not a Stark," he corrected automatically, "I'm a bastard... of Lord Stark."

The silver eyes rested heavy on him, "Yet the blood runs true. The Dragon's blood. If a Stark was your sire, who was your bearer?"

"I, I don't know. My mother died when I was born." Jon couldn't believe he was still talking to this creature. He couldn't believe this creature had not yet killed him.

"I do not intend to kill you, child," the ice man released his heavy grip and moved away. His limbs seemed weary and he moved slowly. "Listen closely. I do not have much time."

Jon nodded numbly. What choice did he have? He was naked, north of the Wall. If he was not killed, he would surely die of the cold.

"I am Rowan Tygarion, the first of my name. I was the head of the House of Dragons fifteen hundred years ago. The hand that ruled the land. My brother wished the crown, and cursed me to this wasteland and built that wall, before I could pass on the Gift of the Dragon Lord to my heir. So I became this."

"This?"

"King of the Whytes, I have been called. The Dragon blood runs true in you, child, and I will pass my legacy, the Iron Throne, if it still exsists, to you-"

Coldness spread in his belly; would he become... that?

"- so that I can rest, and the dead of this land can rest."

"I... I'm sworn to the Night's Watch I can't, I ... I'll become like you?"

A terrifying grin spread on the degenerating face. "You wish to live beyond your mortal life in this wasteland?"

"N-no."

"Then I will give you this, your birthright. And I will die, my far too delayed death."

Jon was shaking too much to speak.

Jon scooted back a little as the King of the Whytes, the man who said he had dragon's blood, the man who said he was his ancestor, advanced upon him.

A icy and bony hand grabbed his hip so tightly it made him cry out in pain. Jon stared at the hand as it slowly flushed pink. As the hand turned pink, an unnatural heat spread in his body. Fire burned from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers.

Rowan threw away the dead animals on top of him and grabbed him with his other hand. Jon's breath hitched as the icy flech thouched his own feverish skin. Again, the hand flushed. Slowly, it grew up his arm; the skin darkened, and the ink became clearer.

His body trembled in pain. Or pleasure. He wasn't sure. It was so intense his nerves could not tell the difference. A part of him understood what was happening and fought with all his might, but his body would not obey.

The King of the Whytes laid between his thighs, his skin changing and the ice melting where they touched.

It was slow. Tortorously slow. Jon felt like he wasn't even in his body as his leg was lifted to lie around the waist of the otherworldly king.

His lips lips parted in a silent scream as he felt ice sliding into his body.

Then came the fire.

When Jon came to for the second time, it was to the feeling of being cocooned in warmth and strong arms wrapped around him. The body that was laying tightly against his back was naked. He could feel his spent manhood against the small of his back. His very sore back.

And the body was hot. Not just warm, but hot. Glancing down, he saw the arms wrapped around his waist was strong with golden skin streched over the wiry muscles.

He gasped quietly as the arms pulled him tighter to the broad chest. "Easy, child," he soft baritone mumbled.

The face that met him was so unlike what he had seen when he reached bliss that he could hardly believe it was the same creature. His hair was still white, but gold skin streched over strong and chiselled features.

He looked like a man. A lord. A King.

A kiss was dropped on his shoulder as he pulled away. "You need to dress," he said and handed him clothes. Jon could do nothing but stare at the manhood that had brought him to the point of shattering to a thousand pieces, and put him back together again. His eyes drifted lower; he frowned as he saw the King's feet slowly loosing their healthy colour.

Jon grabbed the clothes and pulled them on. They were not his own, but they fit like they had been made for him. "What happened to your markings?"

"They are your markings now," Rowan said. "Hurry, I am falling back into the ice."

Jon swung the cape over his shoulders. Rowan graspen the broach and fastened it for him.

His hands were turning blue. Gritting his jaw, the ancient king pulled the ring off his finger and slid it onto Jon's middle finger on his left hand and looked him deep in the eyes. "Repeat after me, child; By the blood that runs thought my veins, I promise myself to you, to cherish, to love and protect you. For our children and our heirs, I promise my love, loyalty and fire. For my Elder husband I promise my love, loyalty and fire as I one day will my Mate."

Jon repeated the words, feeling enchanted by Rowans silver eyes.

"Love, loyalty and fire," Rowan repeated.

"Love, loyalty and fire," Jon echoed, feeling the words warm his soul.

"And to out kingdom; You return with your shield, or on it."

"With your shield, or on it." Jon repeated.

Rowan nodded, satisfied. He leaned down a pressed a chaste kiss on Jon's lips. "Remember these words." The frost started spreading up his chest. "Your weapons," he said, his voice turning raspy again.

"The King north of the Wall has my sword..." Jon said. A feeling of dread spread in his gut as the once beautiful man froze before him. Only his chest as his face were still in their natural state.

"These are your weapons," he said and handed him a large bundle of leather. "Now listen," he ordered harshly. "Cut my head off, separarete my body by each limb and burn me."

"But the whytes -"

"Will not touch you. You will never be able to lay them to rest, for they were made by me, but you are their king now. If they don't recognise your blood, they'll recognise our matrimony. For you to acend your power, you must kill me. Once I am dead, you will know what to do."

Jon told himself that the tearing pain in his chest was unfounded. He unwound the leather and pulled out two short swords. They were sleek and elegant, unlike anything he'd ever seen. A bow with blades on the edges, daggers and a broadsword.

"Made from Dragon's bones, in dragon blood, in dragon fire." Rowan spoke and kneeled.

Jon tried to remind himself that this was the man who had woken the dead, who killed his comrades. But all he saw was the man who bore his body into adulthood.

He was scared, and confused, but one thing was clear in his mind; he might be a bastard, but he was a Stark, a Tygarion, if Rowan was right, and his blood ran as true as any true born heir.

"I will remember you," he said, his voice breaking.

"I will always be by your side," Rowan replied.

As the ice crept into his eyes, and consumed him once more, Jon let the swords fall, slicing neatly though the blue neck. The head rolled and the body fell to the ground.