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Chapter Text

283 AC

Dorne, Tower of Joy

Lyanna Stark

Even as she lay on the bed, screaming in pain while her stomach was cut open to bring their child into the world, all Lyanna could think of was Rhaegar, his silver-gold hair, his dark lilac eyes, and how he should be here to see their son born. She thought she had died as she closed her eyes, but then she was awoken by the sweetest, most calming sound she had ever heard.

Wylla, her wetnurse, brought the babe to her, and as Lyanna looked at him, all her pain seemed to vanish. The boy had dark brown hair and dark grey eyes. At first, she thought he resembled her brothers more than Rhaegar, but as she gazed longer, a flicker of violet appeared in his eyes under the fading light of the setting sun, only to vanish as quickly as it had appeared.

Then the pain returned, sharp and relentless. She screamed. “Please… bring Ser Arthur!” Wylla dashed from the room, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Lyanna felt the weight of life slipping from her and knew she would soon be joining her love.

Arthur entered the room and froze at the sight of the blood-soaked sheets, fearing the worst until he saw Lyanna holding the baby in her arms. She looked at him, summoned all her strength, and called him forward. He knelt beside her.

“Arthur… I don’t have long left. I need you to listen to me,” she said, her voice trembling but urgent.

“I’m listening, Princess,” he replied solemnly.

She coughed sharply before continuing. “Take him… take him to my brother, Ned. Only he can protect him from Robert. Rhaegar left him things… for when he grows.” She pointed weakly to a chest in the corner. Arthur dragged it closer and opened it. Inside, two birthing announcements lay atop the other treasures, one for a boy named Aemon Targaryen and another for a girl named Visenya. Lyanna’s hand trembled as she instructed, “Dispose of the girl’s announcement. Only Aemon must be known to the world.”

Arthur looked further, taking in the Valyrian steel dagger whose hilt bore inscriptions, the sealed letter from Rhaegar with the dragon sigil pressed into the wax, the small dragon egg, the books of Targaryen and Valyrian lore, the crown and ring of Aegon the Conqueror, the ancestral sword Dark Sister, and two maps: one of Westeros and one of the wider world, folded carefully among these items were documents sealed and signed with meticulous care letters detailing the annulment of Rhaegar and Elia Martell’s marriage, confirming that the line of inheritance would remain unaffected, and the marriage documents of Lyanna and Rhaegar, binding them in secret. Each item carried the weight of history and the promise of a legacy, meant to guide the boy when the time came.

Lyanna’s eyes softened on her son. “Arthur… guard him. Guide him. Keep him safe. And write… letters. One for Ned… tell him the truth when he is ready. And one for him… for Aemon. Explain his blood, his name, and his destiny… but only when the time is right. Let him choose who he will be.”

Arthur bent, quill in hand, and she guided his fingers. “Do this for me… make them mine. Keep them hidden until the boy can understand.”

She pressed the baby closer to her chest. “He is Aemon. Only Aemon. No one else. And you… swear to guard him… no matter the cost.”

Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent knelt solemnly. “We swear it. By our honour, by the Seven, and by your memory, Princess… he will live. He will be safe.”

Lyanna felt the warmth of the desert sun across the stone walls, the whisper of the wind from the sands outside, and for the last time, she saw her son, her hope, her legacy, her child of ice and fire… her prince that was promised before she drew her final breath with a tear dropping from one eye but a smile on her lips.

Arthur Dayne

Weeks had passed since leaving the Tower of Joy. The desert sun had long since slipped behind the dunes, but the weight of the child and the chest made sleep impossible. Arthur rode ahead, baby Aemon swaddled carefully in his arms, while Wylla held the boy’s blanket close, moving with the same quiet reverence as the Sword of the Morning. Behind them, Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower flanked the small party, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.

Every mile north was measured in vigilance and unspoken dread. The boy’s life rested entirely in their hands, and the memory of Lyanna’s pale face haunted Arthur at every turn. He could still hear her wheezing voice, guiding his hand over the quill to write her letters, instructing the chest’s guardianship. The responsibility pressed down heavier than any sword ever could.

Wylla murmured softly to the infant, and though the words were unintelligible, the calm in her tone seemed to soothe both child and knights. Arthur’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, then shifted back to the horizon. Each step of the horses was a promise. Aemon would live, no matter the cost.

The chest rode securely before Gerold, strapped tightly to his saddle. Within it lay the treasures of kings: the Valyrian steel dagger, the dragon egg, the books of Targaryen and Valyrian lore, Dark Sister, the crown and ring of Aegon the Conqueror, and the maps of Westeros and the wider world. Every object was a symbol of a legacy the boy did not yet understand, and a burden that could one day weigh heavily upon him.

Nights were the most perilous. Cold winds cut through the northern hills, and every distant sound, a wolf’s howl, the creak of a ridge, the whisper of the trees, drew sharpened attention. Yet the boy slept through it all, oblivious to the danger, leaving the guardians tense and alert. Hands rested on hilts, eyes never straying far, hearts heavy with the knowledge that any misstep could end everything.

Wylla’s voice broke the silence once more, quiet and trembling. “Do you think he will know?”

Arthur’s eyes remained fixed on the path ahead, but in his chest stirred a weight heavier than any armor. He thought that he would not know until the time was right. Understanding alone, however, would not be enough. The blood of dragons in the boy’s veins was a truth that carried danger and responsibility in equal measure.

The journey passed in a blur of desert, hills, forests, and rivers, each landscape shifting beneath the rhythm of travel. Patrols, spies, and wandering outlaws were constant threats. Vigilance never waned. The weeks turned into a month, and the month into two, yet Riverrun remained far, its rivers and forests only slowly emerging through the morning mist.

The gates of Riverrun loomed ahead, and relief tugged at even the most disciplined. Arthur dismounted first, cradling the boy, chest strapped across the saddle, every motion deliberate. The small group approached under watchful eyes, hearts still tense, knowing that though this leg of the journey had ended, the dangers of the world beyond had only begun.

The boy was safe for now. And as long as Arthur Dayne drew breath, he would remain so.

Chapter Text

283 AC

Riverrun

Eddard Stark

The chamber was quiet but for the soft crackle of the fire and the gentle breaths of the infant in Catelyn’s arms. Robb’s tiny hand clutched at her sleeve as though the world might slip away if he let go. Ned sat beside them, weary from the long months of war, his thoughts circling endlessly between duty and the heavy toll it demanded. He should have been relieved Robert sat the Iron Throne, the rebellion was won but peace felt as distant as summer snow.

A knock came at the door. Ned rose, careful not to wake the babe, and opened it. One of Hoster Tully’s men stood there, bowing quickly before speaking in a low, measured tone.

“My lord Stark, there are visitors who request to see you at once. They wait in Lord Hoster’s solar.”

Ned frowned. “Visitors? At this hour?”

The man hesitated, as if uncertain how much to reveal. “Ser knights, my lord. They bear the look of the south… and they have a woman with them. And a babe.”

Ned felt his stomach knot, though he did not yet know why. He glanced back at Catelyn, who looked up from Robb with questioning eyes. “Go,” she urged softly. “See what this is about. I will stay with our son.”

He nodded, pressing a brief kiss to her brow before following the man down the torchlit corridors of Riverrun. His boots echoed against stone, his heart heavy with unease. Knights, a woman, and a child. He thought of Robert’s wrath, of Rhaegar slain on the Trident, of Lyanna’s voice the last time he had seen her. A storm of memories churned in his chest.

When the solar doors opened, the sight that met him was not one he had prepared for. Three men stood waiting, knights, cloaked in plain garb yet carrying themselves with unmistakable pride. Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser Gerold Hightower. Ser Oswell Whent. Ned knew their faces, had seen them before, and every instinct screamed danger.

Yet it was not their presence alone that stole his breath. In Arthur’s arms was a swaddled infant, quiet and small, while beside him stood Wylla, a woman of Dorne, her eyes downcast but protective.

Ned froze in the doorway. A thousand questions rose to his lips, yet none found voice.

Arthur Dayne took a single step forward and inclined his head, solemn as ever. “Lord Stark,” he said, his voice steady but weighted. “We bring you your sister’s last request.”

Ser Arthur Dayne

The infant in Arthur’s arms stirred, a faint whimper muffled by the swaddling. He adjusted his hold carefully, as though the boy were as fragile as glass. Across the chamber, Lord Eddard Stark stood rigid, his face pale but unreadable. Beside him, Lady Catelyn clutched her own son close, her gaze sharp with suspicion, even fear.

Arthur drew in a slow breath. This was the moment Lyanna had entrusted to him, the moment he had dreaded since the Tower of Joy fell silent.

“Lord Stark,” Arthur began, his voice carrying the weight of solemn duty, “your sister’s last breath was not of sorrow, but of command. She placed into my hands her child, your nephew, and bade me see him safe. His name, given by his mother, is Aemon of House Targaryen. Yet for his safety, he must bear another name until the world is ready for the truth.”

Ned’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak. Only his eyes, grey and storm-laden, betrayed the turmoil within.

Arthur continued, each word measured. “The chest we bring holds proof of what I speak. Within are documents bearing the seals of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia of Dorne, affirming their annulment by the High Septon. There too is the marriage contract between your sister Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar, making their union lawful in the eyes of gods and men.”

He glanced to Wylla, who stepped forward with a small iron-bound chest. She lowered it onto Hoster Tully’s table with reverence, as though it were an altar.

Arthur’s gaze did not waver from Ned. “Inside also lies a crown and a ring, once worn by Aegon the Conqueror. A dragon’s egg, rare and priceless. Tomes in High Valyrian, and maps of Westeros and the known world. A dagger of Valyrian steel, upon whose blade strange words are etched and letters from your sister, written in her own hand. One for you, and one for the boy when he is grown.”

The room was silent save for the faint crackling of the fire. Catelyn shifted uncomfortably, her hold on Robb tightening as though to shield him.

Arthur finally lowered his eyes to the child in his arms. “Lyanna named him Aemon after Rhaegar's uncle, yet another name may serve him better in the North. He is both Stark and Targaryen, blood of ice and fire. Whatever name he bears, his destiny will not be small.”

He stepped forward, cradling the boy as if presenting him to the gods themselves. “I swore to your sister, my lord, that I would place him in your care. Now I ask you: will you honor her last wish?”

Ned did not answer at once. His face was a mask of grief and iron, but Arthur could see the tremor in his hands as he reached for the child.

Lord Eddard Stark

Ned Stark stood frozen as the weight of Arthur Dayne’s words sank into him. Aegon Targaryen. His sister’s child. Rhaegar’s son. Trueborn, if the documents within that chest were indeed as Arthur claimed. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne, swaddled and sleeping in the knight’s arms.

His throat tightened. Lyanna’s face came to him unbidden, pale and fevered as he had last seen her, whispering his name with her final strength. Promise me, Ned. He had not understood then, but now, as Ser Arthur’s voice faded, the meaning struck him like a hammer blow. This was her final wish. This was the promise.

Robert.

The name alone was enough to flood him with dread. Robert Baratheon, his oldest friend, soon to be crowned king. Robert, who had loved Lyanna beyond reason, and whose fury still burned hot at the mere mention of Rhaegar’s name. If he learned of this child, no proof of marriage or annulment would stay his wrath. No crown, no dragon’s egg, no ancient sword would shield the boy from Robert’s vengeance. He would see only the blood of his enemy and call for it to be spilled.

Ned’s eyes flicked to Catelyn. She held Robb tightly, her gaze wary, unsettled, as though this child Arthur bore were a sword dangling above their heads. She would not easily accept him, Ned knew. Nor would the realm.

A slow, heavy resolve settled over him. The boy could not be known as Aegon. He could not be known as a Targaryen at all. If Robert suspected, if any of his bannermen whispered of dragon blood in the North, doom would follow.

The plan formed as though Lyanna herself had planted it in his mind. The boy would be raised as his son, yet not his true son. A bastard of Winterfell. A child conceived in dishonor, not in secret marriage. The world would despise him, not fear him. That was the safer path.

Jon. The name came suddenly, unbidden. Jon Arryn, the man who had fostered him, who had raised him and Robert both as sons, who had taught him honor and duty. If this boy must bear a false name, let it at least honor a man of truth.

Ned looked back to Arthur. The Sword of the Morning was still watching him, calm but expectant. He thought of the weight of what lay in the chest, the proof of his sister’s honor, and his friend’s certain rage should those papers ever be revealed. Ned’s hand clenched into a fist. Those truths must remain hidden, buried deeper than Winterfell’s crypts. For now, for always.

He stepped forward, his voice quiet but firm. “The boy will come with me. But no one beyond these walls must ever know who he truly is. To the realm, he will be my bastard, Jon Snow. It is the only way he will live.”

Arthur’s eyes hardened, but he bowed his head in reluctant assent. Wylla’s lips pressed together as though to protest, but she said nothing.

Catelyn’s silence was heavy, colder than stone. Ned dared not meet her gaze. He knew already what this decision would cost her—and him. But the promise mattered more. Lyanna’s son would live.

No matter the lie.

Lady Catelyn Stark

Catelyn Tully sat stiffly, her son nestled against her breast, as her husband’s words hung heavy in the air. A bastard. He would call this boy—his sister’s boy—a bastard. Her lips pressed tight, though she did not speak at once. She could see the strain etched across Ned’s face, the same quiet, grim resolve she had come to know in their short marriage. His choice had not been made lightly, but it was no less bitter for that.

Her gaze shifted to the sleeping babe in Ser Arthur’s arms. Dark hair, pale skin, those Stark-grey eyes. He looked more a wolf than a dragon. Yet still, he was Rhaegar’s son, and Robert would never forgive it.

She thought of her father, bedridden in this very castle. Of the maesters who would send word of Robb’s birth across the Riverlands and to the Vale, to the Stormlands, to King’s Landing. That word had not yet gone out. She had been weak from the birth, and Hoster had said there was no need to hurry. Robb was here, he was safe, and the realm would know soon enough.

But if they delayed a little longer…

Catelyn’s fingers brushed over Robb’s downy hair as she weighed the thought, and then, before she could stop herself, she spoke.

“The announcements have not yet been sent,” she said softly, almost to herself at first. Ned turned to her, startled. Ser Arthur’s dark eyes narrowed, watchful. Still, she pressed on. “The realm does not yet know that I have given you a single son. If we were to… alter the truth, then the world need never see this child as a bastard. He could be Robb’s twin, born of my body as much as his mother's. Both heirs of Winterfell. Both legitimate.”

Silence followed, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and Robb’s small sighs as he dreamed.

Catelyn straightened her back, feeling the weight of every eye upon her. “It would be cleaner. Safer. If you name him your bastard, tongues will wag, Ned. Questions will rise, even in the North. My father, my brother, your bannermen—they will whisper. But if he is mine, if he is Robb’s twin… no one will doubt it. And Robert Baratheon will never think to look for dragon’s blood in the cradle of two Stark sons.”

Her voice faltered then, softer, almost breaking. “I do not love the thought of raising another woman’s son as mine, but if it must be done… let it be done properly. Not with lies upon lies, but with a truth the realm cannot dispute.”

Ned’s face was unreadable, torn between shock and something deeper. Arthur Dayne’s jaw tightened, as though restraining words he longed to speak.

Catelyn lowered her eyes to the boys—her Robb, and the other. If this was the cost of peace, of safety, of protecting her household from Robert’s wrath, then she would pay it. The North needed strength, not scandal.

And so she spoke again, firm this time. “Announce them as twins, Ned. Let the world believe they both came from me. It is the only way the boy survives—and the only way your sister’s wish can be honored without tearing us all apart.”

Chapter Text

283 AC

Riverrun

Lord Eddard Stark

Eddard Stark had faced battlefields, seen friends fall beside him, and carried the heavy silence of command—but never had he felt the burden of choice press upon him so keenly as now. His wife’s words lingered in the air, sharp and clear. Twins. Two sons born of her womb, heirs of Winterfell. A lie so simple, so perfect, that even Robert’s rage could not pierce it.

Ned looked at her, truly looked, and saw the steel beneath Catelyn’s soft Riverlands grace. She did not flinch under his gaze, though her arms tightened around Robb as though to shield him from what must be decided. He loved her in that moment, even as his heart ached with the knowledge of what he asked of her: to claim another woman’s son as her own. To live a lie until her last breath.

His eyes fell upon the child in Ser Arthur’s arms. The boy slept still, his face peaceful, unaware of the war already raging around him. Lyanna’s son. Rhaegar’s heir. The blood of ice and fire bound in one small body.

Promise me, Ned.

He drew a long breath. “So be it,” he said at last, his voice low but steady. “The boy will not be my bastard. He will be yours, Catelyn. Yours and mine both, twin to Robb, born beneath the same roof in Riverrun. The maester shall send out the announcements together. None beyond this room need ever know the truth.”

Catelyn inclined her head, relief mingled with unease in her eyes. Arthur Dayne, however, did not look relieved. His jaw was taut, his knuckles white upon the pommel of his sword. “And what of his name? What of the truth of his birthright?”

Ned regarded him carefully. “The truth must wait. If the realm learns of it now, the boy will not live to see another day. But he will not be forgotten. When he reaches his fifteenth nameday, he will hear the truth from my own lips. He and Robb both. They will be men grown by then, ready to carry such a burden.”

Arthur’s face darkened. “fifteen years? You would have him live a lie for fifteen years?”

“I would have him live,” Ned answered simply. “That is all that matters.” He let his gaze rest on both babes, Robb in Catelyn’s arms and the other swaddled against Arthur’s chest. “Robb is my firstborn. He shall be heir to Winterfell, as is his right. But this boy, too, will have his place. He will be second in line, behind his brother. He shall want for nothing, and no man will call him less than a Stark.”

The boy stirred faintly at that, as though hearing him. Ned stepped closer, his voice softening. “You will need a name, little one, a name the realm will know you by. Not Aemon. Not Targaryen. That truth must sleep until the time is right.” He thought of Jon Arryn, the man who had raised him, who had sheltered him and Robert both, who had shown him honor and patience when the world was cruel. “You shall be Jon,” Ned said at last, the name falling with quiet finality. “Jon Stark of Winterfell, son of Eddard and Catelyn, twin to Robb. A wolf among wolves.”

The words settled heavily in the chamber. It was a compromise of honor and necessity, a shield of lies to guard the truth. Catelyn lowered her eyes, her jaw tight, but she gave no protest. Ser Arthur’s stare was a blade in the dark, but even he could find no crack in Ned’s reasoning.

Ned turned to the knights. “You cannot remain here. If Robert or any loyal to him learns that three of the Kingsguard live, and live in service to Rhaegar’s son, the boy’s safety is undone. You must vanish. Exile yourselves beyond Westeros if you must. But live. Live until the day he comes of age. When the time comes, I will send for you, and you may stand by his side as you once stood by his father’s.”

Arthur bristled, but there was no denying the truth of it. At last, with the slowness of a man sheathing his pride along with his sword, he inclined his head. “Very well. For Lyanna’s sake. For Rhaegar’s. And for his.” His eyes lingered on the sleeping boy.

Ned exhaled, a long breath that seemed to carry years with it. The decision was made. The lie had been forged. His sister’s son would live as a wolf, not a dragon. And on his fifteenth nameday, he would learn the truth of who he was—the truth that might yet tear the realm apart.

For now, though, Eddard Stark would do what he had always done. He would bear the weight in silence.

Ser Arthur Dayne

The Sword of the Morning had stood in many halls, before lords and kings, but never had he felt the weight of his vows so sharply as in Lord Hoster’s solar that night. The boy—Jon, he was to be called now—slept quietly in swaddling cloth, his tiny chest rising and falling as if the fate of kingdoms were not bound to his breath.

Arthur’s hand rested upon the pommel of Dawn. He had been ready to give his life for Rhaegar’s son, yet here was Eddard Stark, calm and resolute, weaving a web of lies that would protect the boy far better than any sword. It galled him, yet it was also truth. A child could not wear a crown; a child could only die beneath its weight.

“We are agreed, then,” Stark said, his voice carrying the finality of iron. “The boy will live as my son. His name is Jon Stark, twin to Robb. On his sixteenth nameday, he will hear the truth. Until then, no word of his birth must pass your lips.”

Arthur looked to his sworn brothers. Ser Oswell Whent’s face was solemn, his dark eyes unreadable. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, stood like a carved statue, his jaw hard with the bitterness of defeat. And yet, in all their silence, Arthur saw the same grim acceptance he felt in himself. They were knights of the Kingsguard, but their king was dead, his children slain, save for this boy. Their vows to House Targaryen had not ended.

“Then let it be sworn,” Arthur said, his voice breaking the silence. He drew Dawn, the pale blade shimmering faintly in the torchlight, and lowered it before him. “By this sword, by the honor of House Dayne, and by the vows I swore to protect the blood of the dragon, I pledge secrecy. I will speak no word of the prince’s birth until the day he comes of age and the truth is his to bear.”

Oswell stepped forward next, unsheathing his own blade. “Before the gods, old and new, I swear the same. No man shall hear this truth from my tongue until the appointed time.”

Gerold Hightower was the last. He did not draw steel, but instead placed a weathered hand upon the boy’s swaddled form, his stern face softening for a heartbeat. “The Kingsguard serves the blood of the king,” he said. “And so I swear, in the name of every vow I have ever taken, that this truth will remain buried until the day comes it must rise.”

The chamber was silent. The torches flickered, and outside, the quiet night of Riverrun stretched on, indifferent to the oaths spoken within. Ned Stark inclined his head in grave approval, his hand resting gently upon his wife’s shoulder as she cradled Robb.

Arthur sheathed Dawn with a slow, deliberate motion. The blade slid home with a whisper of steel, sealing the oath. His heart was heavy, but resolute. They would go into exile, nameless, stripped of banners and command. Yet their purpose remained. They were not relics of a dead king. They were guardians of a future yet to come.

Arthur glanced once more at the child. Jon Stark, the world would call him. But Arthur Dayne would never forget the truth. He was more than a wolf. He was the dragon reborn.

Lady Catelyn Stark

Catelyn watched the knights move toward the door, their armor catching the torchlight, silent shadows of oaths and duty. Each step they took was a promise to vanish, to protect the boy they bore in their hearts yet could never claim. Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, Ser Gerold—all of them—had sworn secrecy, and now they would leave the Riverlands forever, guardians of a truth no one else could know.

Her hand rested on Robb, still wrapped in swaddling cloth, his small face serene. She turned then to the other, the boy they would call Jon Stark. He slept beside his supposed twin, their breaths rising and falling in quiet harmony, two sons of Winterfell bound by blood, or so the world would believe.

Wylla stayed close, kneeling beside the cradle of Jon, her eyes glimmering with quiet devotion. She had been with the boy from the moment he drew his first breath. She had seen Lyanna’s final wishes, carried out the mother’s love in whispered promises. And now, she would remain in Winterfell, sworn to care for both children, to protect them as fiercely as any knight in shining armor.

Catelyn’s chest tightened as she looked from one sleeping boy to the other. She had not birthed Jon, yet she would love him. She had not lain in labor for him, yet she would defend him with the same fire she had for Robb. She traced a finger over the soft down of his hair and whispered, almost to herself, “I will love you as my own. Both of you. No matter what the world thinks, no matter what it demands, you are my sons.”

The knights’ footsteps faded from the corridor, echoes swallowed by the stone walls. Only the crackle of the hearth and the quiet breathing of two boys remained. Catelyn straightened, bracing herself for the long years ahead. She would raise Robb as the heir of Winterfell, yes—but Jon too, hidden in plain sight, shielded from the eyes of kings and men alike.

Her vow settled like iron in her heart. No one would harm them. No one would take them. And she would love them both as fiercely as a mother’s heart could bear.

The night stretched on, quiet and solemn, as she remained by their side, a guardian of both her sons, bound by oath and blood.

Beyond the Wall 

Bloodraven

The wind tore across the frozen expanse, carrying nothing but ice and shadow. Brynden Rivers, the last true Bloodraven, perched in the skeletal remains of an ancient watchtower, his single eye reflecting the pale light of the moon. The Wall stretched below him, a barrier against death and chaos, yet it could not shield him from the currents of fate that ran like fire through the world.

He had felt it first before he even saw it: a spark in the east, faint but insistent, a life born beneath distant stars that tugged at the threads of power in ways even he, Master of Whisperers and weaver of magics, could not fully fathom. He had watched as the currents shifted, pulling him toward Riverrun, toward the North, toward a child born of ice and fire.

The boy had been taken in by the wolves. Robb’s twin, the one hidden in plain sight, cloaked in lies and the false comfort of a noble mother’s arms. Jon Stark. The boy’s name, spoken in secrecy, was a shield and a cage all at once. And yet, even behind that lie, Brynden could feel it: the power that poured from the child, wild and raw, sharper than any sword, brighter than any fire, and older than the oldest tree in the Godswood.

The crows whispered of him, the winds carried his fate, and Brynden Rivers, bound to the Wall by flesh and magic, felt the first tremor of jealousy stir in his chest. How dare this child, who had barely opened his eyes to the world, hold a power that even he had spent decades mastering? How dare the old gods—and all gods, it seemed—favor him so? The knowledge gnawed at Brynden, bitter as frostbite. He had served kings and kings had fallen. He had guided, shaped, watched. And still, the boy’s spark outshone his own.

He felt the threads of destiny winding around the infant, subtle but unmistakable, and his mind raced through possibilities, strategies, protections. The boy would grow. He would face fire and ice alike, storms and men, and yet… he would survive. He had to. Brynden Rivers, master of secrets and shadow, understood this. The child would either be the Prince That Was Promised or be destroyed before the weight of his own blood could bend to him.

A sneer of envy curled at Brynden’s lips. How easy it would be to let the boy stumble, to let the world test him. But no. That was not the way. Not for this one. Not for the child who had drawn the attention of the old gods even as a newborn. He would help. He would shape. He would interfere in ways subtle and invisible, guiding without revealing, protecting without touching, as he had always done for kings and pawns alike.

And yet… a shadow of loathing clung to him, tight and unyielding. For every thread he touched, every chance he took to secure the boy’s path, Brynden Rivers felt the sting of inadequacy. This boy—this Stark of Winterfell, this hidden Targaryen prince—was destined for greatness, a power beyond his own grasp. Even he, Bloodraven, could not rival it. How bitter, how hateful, to know that the world had chosen a champion whose shadow would eventually swallow him.

The wind shrieked through the crumbling towers, carrying the faint scent of pine and snow, and Brynden’s eye narrowed. He did not move closer. He did not touch. The Wall itself was a prison, a sentinel, and he a sentinel within it. And yet, his thoughts reached outward, stretching across miles, reaching toward the infant cradled in Riverrun, toward the wolves, toward Catelyn’s vigilance, toward the silent promise of the Kingsguard in exile.

He would watch. He would guide. He would protect—if subtly, if quietly, if invisibly. But he would never forgive the gods for bestowing upon this boy a destiny so vast that even he, Bloodraven, could only hope to glimpse its edges. And perhaps—just perhaps—he would find ways to temper it, to test it, to ensure that the boy’s fire did not consume more than it should.

The crows circled overhead, black shadows against the pale moon. Brynden Rivers’ breath came in shallow bursts, mingling with the frost, his mind already tracing the paths this boy would walk, the forces he would face, and the secrets he would need to survive.

Jon Stark. The wolf and the dragon, the hidden heir. The Prince That Was Promised. Brynden felt the pull, the envy, and the grudging respect that no man could name. He would serve this child as he had served kings. He would shape the boy’s path. And all the while, he would burn with the knowledge that the boy’s power would always, inevitably, outshine his own.

The wind howled, and the Wall creaked under its own frozen weight, but Brynden Rivers remained unmoving. Watching. Waiting. Scheming. For the boy’s journey had only just begun.

Chapter Text

289 AC- End of Greyjoy Rebellion

Pyke

Ned Stark

The sea still clung to him. Not the pleasant salt of White Harbor or the distant whiff of the Shivering Sea on Winterfell’s winds, but the brine and rot of Pyke. The Iron Islands reeked of smoke and treachery, their rebellion drowned with their drowned god.

Balon Greyjoy had bent the knee, but Ned Stark knew well enough that knees bent out of necessity, not loyalty. Pride still smoldered in the kraken lord’s eyes as his last living sons were brought before him. Rodrik and Maron had fallen to dragon’s fire and steel; only Theon remained.

The boy stood at Ned’s side now, his steps half a stride behind, as though chained to him by unseen links. He was ten, perhaps, or near enough. Too young to understand the depth of his father’s folly, too old to hide his defiance. Every time the boy’s jaw clenched, Ned saw the face of another hostage, another boy taken to secure peace, another innocent tangled in the failures of men. He thought of Rickard Karstark’s boys, sent south to King’s Landing, never to return. He thought of Elia Martell’s children, slain though their hostageship should have saved them.

But most of all, he thought of Jon.

Jon was no hostage. Jon was family, though none but Catelyn, Wylla, and himself knew the truth of it. A nephew disguised as a bastard, a prince hidden as a wolf. That boy carried a weight Theon Greyjoy could never fathom, yet he bore it without complaint, without question.

Duty. Honor. Sacrifice. Ned whispered the words in his mind as he walked the familiar corridors of Winterfell. The war was won, but war was never truly over. Peace was an illusion, kept by promises and children torn from their fathers’ hearths. Theon would live here, among the Starks. He would laugh and learn with Robb and Jon. He would call Winterfell home, though he would never belong.

And one day, if Balon Greyjoy forgot the price of rebellion, Ned Stark would have to look at this boy—this boy who had no say in his father’s folly—and remember what he had sworn to do.

He prayed the gods would not demand it.

Winterfell

Jon Stark

The yard smelled of dust and sweat, the air crisp with morning frost. Jon adjusted the wooden tourney sword in his hand, feeling its balance, testing its weight. It was too light, too short, but it would do.

Robb charged him with the reckless fire he always carried into a match, eyes alight, cheeks flushed. Jon parried the first blow with ease, twisting his wrist, letting the force slide past him like water rushing off stone. He stepped aside, calm, measured, already reading the next strike before Robb even shifted his stance.

Steel rang in Jon’s mind, though only wood clattered in the yard. He moved as if born to it, every feint precise, every counter sharp. Years of training under Ser Rodrik, hours upon hours of quiet practice when others slept—Jon absorbed it all and bent it to his will.

Robb was strong, fearless, quick to laugh when he stumbled, quick to fight harder when pressed. But Jon… Jon was something else entirely.

A prodigy.

He flowed around Robb’s strikes, each step calculated, every motion efficient. Where Robb swung with his whole heart, Jon used only what he needed, saving his strength, waiting for the moment. When Robb’s guard dipped for half a breath, Jon slipped inside it, tapping him cleanly on the chest with the flat of his sword.

“That’s one,” Jon said softly.

Robb growled and came again, harder this time. Jon let him. He let his brother think he had him cornered, let him drive him back with wild strength and flashing eyes—until, at the last moment, Jon spun, light on his feet, and tapped him again across the shoulder.

“That’s two.”

Frustration colored Robb’s face, but Jon only smiled faintly, lowering his guard just enough to invite another charge. And when Robb obliged, Jon knocked the sword from his hands in three clean movements. The wooden blade clattered to the dirt.

“Yield?” Jon asked, almost teasing.

Robb’s chest heaved. His eyes burned with the stubborn pride of a trueborn heir. “Never.”

Jon only raised his blade again, waiting. Calm. Patient. Already seeing the outcome before the fight resumed.

Robb Stark

His chest burned, his arms ached, and still Jon stood before him, calm as the godswood pond.

Robb hated it. Not Jon—never Jon—but the way he fought. The way he knew. Every strike Robb made was turned aside, every opening he thought he saw was a trap. Jon was quicker, sharper, always one step ahead.

And yet, Robb could not stop. He lunged again, pride pushing him past pain. He was Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell. He could not yield, not even to his brother. Especially not to his brother.

But the truth gnawed at him even as he swung: Jon was better. Always better.

When Jon’s wooden blade struck his chest again, clean and precise, Robb’s breath hitched. It wasn’t luck. It never was. Jon saw everything—the way Robb’s shoulders shifted before a strike, the way his feet set too wide, the way his weight leaned too far forward. Jon fought like a man grown, not a boy of six.

Frustration roared in his veins, but beneath it, there was something else. Admiration. Fierce, unshakable admiration. For Jon’s calm, for his brilliance, for the way he carried himself as if he already bore the weight of a sword meant for kings.

When Ser Rodrik finally called an end, Robb dropped his sword, panting, sweat dripping into his eyes. Jon looked hardly winded. Robb scowled, but when Jon reached out a hand, he took it. They grinned at each other, bruised and breathless, brothers bound tighter by every clash of wood and will.

Catelyn Stark

From her balcony, she watched the yard below, shawl drawn tight against the morning chill. Her sons. Two boys, blades in hand, striking with a ferocity that made them seem older than their years.

Robb, all fire and pride, every blow an echo of his father’s strength. Jon, all calm and precision, every movement measured, every strike deliberate. The contrast was stark, yet together they were whole. Wolves of Winterfell, each making the other stronger.

Six years had passed since that night in Riverrun. Six years since Ser Arthur Dayne placed the infant in Ned’s arms and vanished into exile. Six years since she swore to love the boy as her own.

And she had. Gods help her, she had.

There were whispers sometimes, small looks in the hall when Jon’s eyes seemed too old, when his words carried a weight no child’s should. Some nights she wondered herself—what fate did he carry, what shadow lingered over his birth? But in the mornings, when he laughed with Robb, when he helped Bran toddle across the yard, when he sat with her in the solar and asked questions no six-year-old should ask… he was hers. As much as Robb, as much as any child of Winterfell.

Her eyes flicked to Theon Greyjoy, standing stiff at the edge of the yard. He was a wolf among strangers, though no wolf truly. He watched Robb with something between envy and longing, his fists clenched as though he, too, wished to take up a sword. Catelyn’s lips pressed thin. She would never love him as she loved her own, but she would not let him be cast aside either.

Her gaze returned to the boys, to Jon and Robb, standing shoulder to shoulder now, smiling through sweat and bruises. She let herself breathe, let herself smile.

For all the secrets buried beneath Winterfell’s stones, for all the shadows that still lingered on their family, this—this moment—was joy. And joy, she knew, was rare enough in the world to be cherished fiercely.

Wylla

From the shadow of the covered walkway, Wylla watched them.

Two boys, sweat-soaked and smiling, their wooden swords clattering to the dirt as they laughed. Jon’s dark hair plastered to his brow, Robb’s auburn locks gleaming in the pale sunlight. They were as close as twins could ever be, bound by more than blood, bound by the lies that had shaped their birth.

Wylla’s hands tightened around the folds of her apron. She remembered another young girl’s laughter, another time. Lyanna Stark had been fire and storm, a wildflower in the stone garden of Winterfell. She had sworn that her son would not be alone, that he would grow with love and with family. And so he had.

Yet every time Wylla looked at Jon, she saw more than just Lyanna’s promise fulfilled. She saw the tilt of his chin, the unyielding calm in his grey eyes so like his father’s. Rhaegar’s shadow lived in him, though the world believed otherwise. One day, when the truth was told, that shadow would stretch long and terrible.

But not today. Today, he was only a boy of six, sparring with his brother, his laughter bright as any child’s.

Wylla pressed a hand to her breast, whispering words too soft for any ear but her own. “I’ll keep you safe, little prince. You and your brother both.”

She glanced to where Catelyn Stark stood, her face softened in rare ease. The lady of Winterfell had done as she swore she had loved Jon as her own. That love would shield him as much as any sword.

And Wylla, sworn keeper of secrets, would keep her vow as well. To Lyanna. To Ned. To the boy who carried ice and fire in his veins.

Above the yard, a raven croaked from the rookery tower, its call harsh against the morning sky. Wylla shivered, though the sun still shone. She told herself it was nothing, only a bird.

But deep in her heart, she felt the weight of prophecy stir, like a storm gathering far beyond the Wall.

Chapter Text

289 AC,

Winterfell

Ned Stark

The gates of Winterfell opened under the weight of returning riders. Snow crunched sharply beneath their hooves, banners snapping in the wind. Ned dismounted slowly, stiff from the long ride south and back. Behind him walked Theon Greyjoy, his young ward and hostage, small for his age but sharp-eyed and restless, radiating the arrogance of someone used to command.

Ned kept his hand lightly on the hilt of Ice. The boy was not an enemy yet, only a child shaped by privilege and pride, but sharp enough to be dangerous if not guided carefully.

His thoughts flicked to Jon and Robb, waiting somewhere in the yard. His sons—or in Jon’s case, his secret charge—were so different. Robb, fiery and proud, would meet Theon head-on, trusting strength and instinct. Jon, quiet and measured, would watch, anticipate, and act with a precision born from years of careful discipline.

The North demanded vigilance, and he would mold these boys to meet its exacting standards. Theon’s presence complicated the balance, yet it offered opportunity. If the boy could be guided, controlled, he could serve as a lesson in loyalty, a reminder that the North would not bend to arrogance or entitlement.

Jon Stark

Jon stood a short distance from Robb, wooden sword in hand, posture relaxed but alert. Theon Greyjoy stepped into the yard with confidence, shoulders squared, chest forward, eyes sharp and calculating. Jon observed carefully, noting the way the boy balanced his weight, the subtle shifts of his gaze, the grip on his blade. Theon thought himself in control already, assuming size and reach would carry him. Jon allowed the assumption to remain unchallenged. Observation came first.

The first spar began immediately. Robb lunged with fire and courage, aiming to prove himself. Theon moved with grace, his strikes precise, each one calculated to exploit Robb’s eagerness and inexperience. Robb stumbled, parried, swung again, but Theon’s speed and accuracy were undeniable. Within moments, Robb’s blade was knocked aside, his stance broken, and he fell to the snow, frustrated and surprised. Theon smirked, triumphant.

Jon watched quietly, noting every detail: the overextension of Theon’s left arm, the faint hesitation in his grip, the way his eyes shifted during each attack. Jon let the first lesson unfold, absorbing everything. Robb would learn from this, and Jon would ensure that Theon’s overconfidence became his own undoing.

Jon Stark 

Jon stepped forward into the snow, eyes calm, mind alert. Theon’s arrogance had not diminished, but Jon could read him now, every motion, every weight shift, every attempt at feint and distraction. He did not rush. He did not lunge. He allowed Theon to commit to the first strike.

The clash of wood against wood rang sharply in the courtyard. Jon redirected momentum, anticipating every overextension, guiding the boy into missteps without a word, without pride. Within moments, Theon’s sword clattered to the snow. His chest heaved, eyes wide with disbelief. Jon had not gloated. He had not smiled. He had simply demonstrated what mastery looked like, quiet and precise, unyielding in control.

Robb watched, awe and admiration mingling with frustration. Jon had dismantled Theon’s confidence without raising his voice. It was more than victory. It was a lesson, silent and undeniable.

Robb Stark

Robb dropped his sword, shoulders trembling. Frustration mingled with awe. Jon had not only defeated Theon, he had done so without arrogance, without words, without any hint of cruelty. The boy’s movements were precise, his mind always ahead. Robb understood, in a way that he could not yet articulate, that Jon’s mastery was not only physical but mental.

The bond of brotherhood tightened. Jon’s skill did not diminish him; it guided him. He had watched, he had learned, and the lesson was clear: there was more to strength than fire and courage. Timing, observation, and control mattered just as much.

Theon Greyjoy

The snow beneath Theon’s boots crunched with a bitter rhythm as he recovered his wooden sword. His chest heaved, cheeks flushed with both effort and irritation. How had that boy done that? The smaller, quieter boy who had stood off to the side had moved with calm precision, dismantling every advantage Theon had assumed was his.

Arrogance had carried him this far in his life. Admirers and fear had paved the path for his confidence. And yet, in the snow of Winterfell, that same confidence had been met with quiet, controlled mastery. His mind raced, frustrated and unsettled. He would not allow this to stand. This boy, Jon, had bested him without pride, without flourish, without a word of challenge, and that stung worse than any blow to the body.

He flexed his fingers, readying himself for the next spar, and schemed already. The lesson Jon had imparted without speaking would not remain a mystery for long. Theon would observe, plan, and wait. Patience was a weapon in itself, and he had learned to wield it from the seas. Jon might have bested him today, but Theon’s pride and cunning were growing, and he would find the moment to prove himself.

Catelyn Stark

From the balcony, she watched the three boys. Jon, calm and precise, carried a weight no child should. Robb, fiery and eager, learned without needing lessons spelled out. Theon, clever and sharp, had been humbled, but she saw the spark of cunning that would drive him forward.

Six years had passed, six years of secrecy, of love, of careful shaping. She had nurtured him, guided him, and now she could see the fruits of her labor. Jon’s mastery and discipline were extraordinary, yet restrained. He did not humiliate Theon; he demonstrated authority without cruelty. Catelyn allowed herself a breath, a fleeting smile, and promised to continue guiding and protecting both boys.

Bloodraven

Far beyond the Wall, the twisted trees bent beneath snow-laden winds. Bloodraven’s pale eye pierced the frozen expanse, reaching southward to Winterfell. He felt the pulse of energy from the boys, faint yet undeniable. Robb, fiery and proud. Jon, hidden prince, radiating power that even Bloodraven’s long mastery had rarely seen.

Jealousy and fascination coiled together. Jon carried the favor of gods old and new. Discipline of the North, a mind of sharp observation, a will that did not bend. Even at this young age, the boy moved with authority that dwarfed Bloodraven’s own.

The Others stirred beyond the Wall, their shadow stretching ever closer. Jon’s path would not be easy, yet he already commanded attention without understanding why. Bloodraven plotted, calculating interventions, ways to guide or protect, while always keeping distance, watching the threads of fate.

There was awe in his gaze, yes, but also envy and a hint of bitterness. The boy would rise, and the world would shift around him. Bloodraven’s concern was both practical and personal. The prince hidden among wolves carried more power than any man, and Bloodraven would need to decide how much guidance, how much influence, and how much control was necessary for the boy to survive the storms ahead.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

295 AC

Winterfell

Ned Stark

The hall was quiet, empty except for the weight of the decision that pressed upon him. Winterfell had always been a fortress of certainty, of clear lines and known duties, yet this offer from Highgarden left it strange and uncertain. Jon Stark but not true he was Aemon Targaryen, First of His Name, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm , yet a boy of unmatched skill and intelligence, would leave the North for the Reach. The Tyrells offered nothing small. Their halls promised learning, opportunity, and connection to the greatest lords of the South, yet the thought of sending his blood so far, to lands rife with politics and intrigue, struck Ned with a gravity he had not anticipated.

Every corner of Winterfell carried memory. The courtyard where Jon had sparred with Robb and Theon, where Arya chased after him, and Bran had stumbled trying to follow, seemed to echo with his absence even before he left. The godswood, with its white and red leaves, whispered in the wind, old and silent, yet the Stark of Winterfell could feel the pull of fate pressing him to make a decision, to guide the boy along a path that was both safety and exposure.

Ned weighed the boy’s abilities. His mind was as sharp as his blade. His instincts were almost preternatural. And yet, he was still a child. Winterfell could shelter him, train him, allow him to grow, but it could not give him the world. The Reach could, and in doing so, could bind loyalty, friendship, and influence. But trust in the Reach was a different matter. The Tyrells were clever, ambitious, and patient. Their offer would shape the boy into something more than the North could afford him to be.

Catelyn’s voice echoed in memory, measured and cautious, considering possibilities Ned had not imagined. She had foreseen the benefits of alliances, of fostering bonds beyond the North, even if the cost to the family was intangible. Ned knew she was right in ways that cut deeper than the pride of a lord or the affection of a father. Jon would gain experience, knowledge, and perspective beyond the reach of Winterfell, while Robb would remain heir and protector of the North. Perhaps that was the balance they required.

The weight of responsibility bore down heavily. The boy would carry not only his own skill and blood but also the hopes of Winterfell and the Stark name. He would learn lessons no father could provide fully, and the cost of mistakes would be magnified in lands far away. Yet Ned could see the merit of the plan. Jon would be safer in certain respects, safer from petty jealousies of lords, safer from the scheming of men who would see his potential as a threat. Highgarden’s halls were vast, their knowledge deep, their influence formidable. Perhaps this was what Jon needed to grow fully into what he could become.

Ned considered the boy himself. Quiet, calm, perceptive beyond his years, yet still a child. Every question, every observation, every smile had been shaped by Winterfell and its people. Jon had grown in the shadow of Robb, learning lessons in patience, humility, and loyalty. He had learned to measure arrogance and to temper pride. He had walked through snow and ice, trained in sword and strategy, and mastered both with care. He had observed, calculated, and understood far more than Ned had imagined possible for one so young.

There was a gnawing unease. Trusting others with Jon’s upbringing felt like laying a delicate blade in foreign hands, hands that might sharpen it, might break it. Yet the alternative, keeping him within Winterfell, risked stagnation, exposure to limited perspective, and the subtle danger of complacency. Ned could see that Jon needed growth, experience, challenge, and perspective. The Reach could provide that. The boy’s intellect and skill demanded it, even if a father’s heart quailed at the thought of distance.

Finally, Ned realized that this was the proper choice. The boy would leave, but not without guidance, not without protection, and not without the care of Winterfell’s values embedded in him. He would carry honor, loyalty, and the strength of the North into foreign lands. And when he returned, stronger, wiser, and more capable, he would be a force not only for Winterfell but for the realm at large. The weight of the decision still pressed heavily, yet clarity shone through: Jon’s path required this step.

Catelyn Stark

Catelyn watched Ned as he wrestled with the weight of the Tyrell offer, knowing the decision was difficult. To the North, alliances were often forged in blood, yet the Reach operated with subtler threads. She had seen the wisdom in fostering children among powerful houses, where influence, education, and experience could be gained in ways Winterfell could not provide. Her mind traced possibilities, advantages, and the unseen benefits that Ned could not yet fully perceive.

Jon had grown in strength and intellect beyond what most expected. She had watched him spar, observed his study, and seen the quiet authority he carried, not demanded but innate. Highgarden could enhance these gifts, introduce him to courts, politics, and strategy, and prepare him for a life that might exceed even the North’s imagination. The boy had potential that needed cultivation, and she understood that cultivation could only come from exposure.

She considered the bonds Jon would form. The Tyrells were clever, attentive, and patient. They would guide, influence, and challenge him. Relationships forged there would ripple across the kingdom, binding loyalty to Winterfell, enhancing the Stark position, and creating connections that might otherwise remain unattainable. The boy’s future needed more than swords and loyalty; it needed alliances, understanding, and insight.

The thought of sending him south tugged at her heart. She would miss him, watch him leave, and feel the cold absence of his presence. Yet she knew that absence carried opportunity. Jon would return not only with skill in combat but with wisdom and knowledge beyond the walls of Winterfell. He would learn the languages of men, the subtle arts of diplomacy, and the strategies of lords and ladies who played the intricate games of the realm.

Catelyn imagined the boy walking through Highgarden’s halls, meeting lords and ladies, observing ceremonies, learning the lessons of court. She imagined him navigating subtleties, observing weaknesses, learning not only how to fight but how to influence. These lessons could not be taught fully in the North; the Reach offered refinement and perspective that Winterfell could not match.

She turned her thoughts to Robb, to Arya, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon. Each child would feel the absence differently. Robb would miss his brother, his companion in practice and adventure, yet gain clarity in his role as heir. Arya would learn independence, Sansa would understand responsibility, and Bran and Rickon would feel the stability Jon’s presence had provided, now tempered by absence. Each child would grow in ways both difficult and necessary.

Catelyn weighed the politics. The Tyrells were not naive. They sought influence, power, and strategic advantage. Yet fostering Jon, the boy of Winterfell and of dragonblood, would bind them to the North, create loyalty, and expand their reach. Winterfell would gain the benefits indirectly. Jon would return stronger, more capable, and more connected to the realms beyond. It was not only good for him; it was prudent for the family, for the house, and for the future.

Finally, Catelyn felt resolve. The boy would leave, but not without the love, guidance, and blessings of Winterfell. He would carry her values, her teachings, and the bond of family into the wider world. The absence would be difficult, yet it was necessary. For Jon, for Robb, for the children, and for Winterfell, this was the path that needed to be taken.

Robb Sark

Robb Stark sat in the training yard, the wind cutting across his cheeks, a wooden sword heavy in his hand. Jon had been sharpening, practicing, learning, and now, the news of fostering had arrived. The thought of his brother leaving stirred a mixture of pride and fear within him. Pride, for the boy who had grown so quickly in skill and intellect, so measured in thought and action. Fear, for the absence, for the emptiness it would leave in Winterfell, in their games, and in his daily life.

He remembered the sparrings, the duels in snow and sun, and the quiet guidance Jon offered to Arya, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon. Jon’s presence had been a stabilizing force, a companion and a rival in equal measure. Losing that presence felt like losing a part of himself, yet Robb knew that the boy’s potential demanded wider horizons.

Robb thought of the ways Jon had challenged him, tested him, surpassed him. There had never been arrogance, never boastfulness, yet the quiet mastery left a mark, a reminder that the wolf-child was exceptional. Now that exception would be stretched, tested in the courts and halls of Highgarden. Would Jon find friendship there, guidance, and challenge? Or would he encounter obstacles beyond what Winterfell could prepare him for?

The boy’s absence would shape Robb too. As heir, he would shoulder more responsibility, more leadership, more expectation. The absence of Jon’s skill, intellect, and quiet wisdom would be felt in every decision, every practice, every interaction. Yet he understood that this was necessary. Jon would grow stronger, wiser, and more capable, and that strength would reflect on Winterfell when he returned.

Robb thought also of Theon, of Arya and Sansa, Bran and Rickon. Each would be shaped by Jon’s absence, learning to stand more independently, to act with the caution and confidence Jon’s presence had instilled. The boy’s leaving would ripple through the household, creating new dynamics, challenges, and lessons. Robb knew he had to accept it, to support it, even as his heart ached.

Finally, Robb resolved to honor his brother’s growth by embracing the change. He would remain the heir, the protector, the Stark who led in Jon’s absence. Yet he would not forget, would not neglect, and would carry the memory of shared lessons, laughter, and sparring into every decision.

Theon Greyjoy

Theon’s chest tightened with a mixture of relief and restraint. Jon Stark, the boy who had embarrassed him in the sparring yard more times than he cared to admit, would leave Winterfell. The kraken’s pride was wounded often, humiliated quietly beneath the Northman’s calm authority, and now there was a reprieve. Yet he could not let it show. Every expression, every word, every gesture had to mask the triumph bubbling inside.

He forced a smile as he watched Jon pack his few belongings. Jon’s calm composure only sharpened Theon’s desire to appear unbothered. A small part of him—the part that still remembered his Northern upbringing, still admired honor and loyalty—felt pangs of guilt. He had grown to respect the boy, even if begrudgingly. Jon’s leaving was a relief for his pride but a loss in companionship he would not yet admit.

Theon imagined the journey south, the distant Reach, the halls of Highgarden. A place full of politicking, courtly games, and intrigue. He could almost see Jon walking with the Tyrells, learning diplomacy, and perhaps forming alliances that would further elevate his skills. The thought made Theon’s stomach twist. He wanted to be there, to prove he could match Jon in wit and skill, yet that was impossible. Instead, he would sit behind walls, training, scheming, and waiting for the day paths might cross again.

He glanced at Robb, who stood stoic, yet a flicker of worry betrayed him. Theon hid his relief behind a mask of loyalty. Winterfell would remain, the North would remain, yet the boy whose skill had overshadowed him would leave. And in the quiet corners of his mind, Theon promised to himself that he would find a way to surpass the wolf-child one day, even if that day was far in the future.

Sansa Stark

Sansa folded her hands, her eyes on Jon as he prepared to depart. Her heart fluttered nervously, a strange mix of admiration and fear. She had watched him teach, guide, and challenge everyone in Winterfell, and now the emptiness his absence would leave tugged at her chest.

The North would lose more than a boy traveling south; they would lose the presence of a calm authority, a force that had balanced the household in quiet ways she was only beginning to understand. She tried to steady herself, recalling the lessons Jon had unwittingly taught her about patience and grace.

Arya Stark

Arya’s fingers itched for a sword, but she had learned already that some battles could not be fought with steel. Jon’s leaving meant losing a sparring partner, a teacher, and most importantly her big brother. She hid her disappointment behind a mischievous grin, imagining herself sneaking into Highgarden to surprise him.

She remembered his patience, his sharp eye, his readiness to let her match his moves despite her size. His absence would leave the yard quieter, the lessons harder, yet she would remember every move, every strike, every laugh, and carry it with her as she practiced.

Bran Stark

Bran toddled after Jon, catching at his cloak. His small hands could barely grasp the fabric, yet he sensed the quiet strength that Jon carried. He wanted to follow, to understand, to be near, yet the world was larger than his reach.

Even at his young age, he understood change. The absence of Jon would create space, a silence in the halls he had grown accustomed to. He felt the pull of the boy’s presence, a warmth and safety that now seemed distant, yet he trusted the North, trusted his family, and understood, in ways too complex for his age, that departures were not always loss.

Jon Stark

Jon paused in the hall, the weight of Winterfell pressing down on him. The stone walls, the banners, the distant echoes of laughter, shouting, and running children—all were familiar, comforting, and terrifying in their permanence. The thought of leaving the North stirred a storm in his chest. He had lived his life here, trained in its snow, walked its halls, and sparred in its courtyards. Every lesson, every friend, every sibling had shaped him into who he was.

Robb, his elder by birth but never by skill, stood quietly nearby. The heir, steadfast and strong, would remain in Winterfell, carrying responsibility Jon knew he would never fully bear. Jon felt pride for his brother, admiration for the weight Robb carried, and a pang of sorrow knowing their daily companionship, their sparring sessions, would be interrupted.

Arya bounced nearby, impatient to practice with him, while Sansa observed with careful calculation, her eyes reflecting the lessons Jon had unwittingly imparted. Bran toddled behind, Rickon cooing in Wylla’s arms. Jon’s mind cataloged every movement, every smile, every expression—familiar shapes he would carry with him like talismans into an uncertain future.

The journey south to Highgarden was exciting. He imagined the Tyrells’ halls, the challenges he would face, the lessons in diplomacy, strategy, and leadership awaiting him. He imagined sparring with new swordsmen, observing knights and lords, and learning to navigate the subtle currents of politics in ways Winterfell could not provide. Opportunity, knowledge, and experience awaited him, yet the cost was clear. He would leave family, home, and the land that had shaped him.

He thought of Theon. The kraken’s rivalry had tested him, sharpened him, and forced him to see the limits of patience and skill. Theon’s pride and arrogance had been lessons as much as any sword master’s guidance. And now Theon would face a quieter hall, a subtle void where Jon had been, a boy whose presence had tempered ego and sharpened ambition.

Jon reflected on his siblings. Robb, heir and leader, would grow stronger in responsibility. Arya would continue to hone her boldness and curiosity. Sansa would expand her cunning and perception. Bran and Rickon, though small, would carry the lessons of discipline and observation Jon had silently instilled. He felt the pull of connection, of loyalty, of love woven through each child, each family member, and he carried their presence with him as a weight and a guide.

He thought of the North. Winterfell had given him snow, stone, and quiet wisdom. It had given him sparring partners, teachers, friends, and family. The godswood, the weirwoods, and the long shadows of the North had shaped him in ways even he could not yet name. Every step he had taken, every strike with blade or word, had been preparation.

Yet the Reach called with opportunity. Lessons in diplomacy, alliances, and influence awaited. The Tyrells would sharpen not just his skill but his mind, expanding his understanding of the kingdoms, politics, and power. Jon understood that to be prepared for what lay ahead, he must leave the comfort and safety of Winterfell.

He imagined the challenges: navigating a new court, facing lords and ladies of influence, and maintaining his honor and integrity amid subtle manipulations. He would need caution, patience, and strategy, yet he felt ready. The lessons of Winterfell, the guidance of his parents, and the quiet wisdom of Wylla had shaped him to meet these challenges.

And still, he paused, his eyes on the godswood, the courtyard, and the faces of those he loved. Leaving was necessary, but departure carried weight. Every memory, every lesson, every bond would be a tether, a guide, a reminder of where he came from and why he must carry the lessons forward.

He took a deep breath, the scent of snow, stone, and hearthfire filling him, and stepped toward the future. Highgarden awaited, a place of lessons, challenge, and opportunity. The North would remain, the bonds of family would endure, and the boy who was more than a Stark or a Targaryen would take the first steps toward a future larger than he had yet imagined.

Every eye that watched him, from siblings to mentors to distant shadows beyond the Wall, carried expectation, envy, and hope. Jon Stark, the wolf-dragon of Winterfell, turned toward the horizon, ready to meet the unknown with the skill, mind, and heart Winterfell had nurtured in him.

Chapter Text

295 AC

Highgarden

Olenna Tyrell

Highgarden was never so lovely as when viewed from its tallest balconies, sunlight scattering across the rolling green fields of the Reach, the Mander gleaming like liquid silver, and the endless roses in bloom climbing the castle walls. Yet Olenna Tyrell had no eyes for flowers that morning. She sat like a hawk in her cushioned chair, cane by her side, waiting for the guest who would soon cross through the castle gates.

“Prodigy, they say,” she muttered under her breath, her thin lips curling. “The North grows children faster than they grow turnips, apparently.”

Her servants did not respond — they knew better than to chatter when their lady was sharpening her tongue. Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, was not one for patience, but she was a woman for plotting.

The stories had reached her ears from Winterfell, carried south by traders, wandering knights, and even the odd hedge bard: tales of the second son of Eddard Stark. A boy who could wield a blade with skill beyond his years. A boy whose mind was sharper than most grown men’s. A boy who was not heir, but something stranger — shadow and steel both.

And now, that boy was hers to foster.

Not for love of the Starks, no. Olenna had little affection for northerners who howled at the moon and prayed to trees. But she had foresight enough to know that Robert Baratheon’s court was as fickle as the wind, and the Tyrells — powerful though they were in their gardens and fields — remained ever second to the old houses of the realm. They had not fought in Robert’s rebellion, choosing instead to close their gates and wait. That choice had spared them blood, but cost them favor.

Now came opportunity, gift-wrapped in wolf’s hide.

A boy to tie them to the North. A boy to show the King that the Tyrells were loyal after all. And, perhaps, if the boy grew into the man that whispers promised… a boy who might one day wear a crown.

Olenna had not yet seen him, but she already planned the routes like a gardener planning trellises for her roses. If the Stark boy proved as clever as the tales claimed, perhaps he might serve as a useful pawn. If he was handsome, perhaps he might be something more. Her granddaughter was nearly of an age with him — Margaery, with her doe’s eyes and blooming beauty. A boy like Jon Stark might be the sort a girl could catch without realizing she was caught.

Olenna smiled thinly. The best traps were the ones that smelled of honey.

She tapped her cane against the floor and waved for her steward. “Tell me,” she said. “Has the Stark boy arrived yet?”

“Not yet, my lady,” the steward said with a bow. “But the horns on the walls have sounded. His party has been sighted upon the road.”

“Good,” Olenna said, settling back into her chair. “Then let us prepare the feast. Nothing too grand — I do not want the wolf pup thinking us desperate. Simple elegance, as if it were any other day.”

She paused, her sharp eyes narrowing. “And for the love of all the gods, keep Loras from strutting about like a peacock. He’ll want to test swords with the boy before he’s even had bread in his belly.”

The steward dipped his head and departed. Olenna sat alone again, watching the light creep across the chamber. She was old, yes, but her mind was still keen as steel. And as she waited, she turned over the angles in her head like a master player setting pieces on a cyvasse board.

If the boy was arrogant, she would prick his pride until it bled. If he was humble, she would test how deep that humility ran. If he was truly as gifted as they said, she would measure whether he knew how to use his gifts, or whether he was just another sword-swinging fool like Robert Baratheon.

She had little patience for fools.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, breaking her thoughts. Her granddaughter entered — Margaery, young and fresh-faced, dressed in pale green silk that made her look like a blossom plucked from Highgarden’s own vines. She carried herself gracefully, though Olenna could already see the faint curiosity glinting in her eyes.

“Is he here, Grandmother?” Margaery asked.

“Soon,” Olenna said. “You are not to stare like a simpleton when he arrives, child. Men already think women soft-headed. Do not prove them right.”

Margaery’s lips twitched, though whether it was a smile or a bite held back, Olenna could not tell. “I only wondered what he will be like. They say he is… gifted.”

“They say a great many things,” Olenna snapped. “Half of them lies, the other half nonsense. Do not be taken in by tales.”

“But if the tales are true?” Margaery asked softly.

Olenna studied her granddaughter for a long moment. There was steel in the girl, hidden beneath the softness. That was good. Margaery would need steel in the years to come.

“If the tales are true,” Olenna said at last, “then we shall see whether the boy is a sword to be wielded, or a sword that cuts the hand that holds it.”

The horns sounded again, louder this time, and the bustle of servants in the halls grew frantic. Olenna leaned back, cane resting against her knees, and let out a slow breath. The game was about to begin.

The doors opened, and into the chamber walked Eddard Stark’s son.

Olenna’s first thought was how little he looked like the tales. No giant of a boy, no golden-haired hero out of songs. He was dark-haired, grey-eyed, his face solemn in a way most children’s were not. There was Stark in him, yes, the long face and quiet strength, but there was something else as well. A sharpness. A presence that filled the room even as he said nothing.

He bowed, polite but not servile, and when he lifted his gaze to her, Olenna felt as though the boy were measuring her just as keenly as she measured him.

Bold pup, she thought. Or clever. Or both.

“Lady Olenna,” he said, his voice steady despite his youth. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home.”

Olenna gave him a thin smile. “We shall see if you are worth welcoming, Lord Stark.”

His lips twitched, but he did not answer. That, at least, showed restraint.

As servants bustled to prepare the feast and her family gathered to greet him, Olenna Tyrell sat back in her chair and let her sharp eyes linger on the boy. She saw how Loras straightened when their gazes met, eager to test him. She saw how Willas studied him with quiet curiosity. She saw how Margaery’s eyes lingered a heartbeat too long before she looked away.

Yes, Olenna thought. This boy will do.

Whether as pawn or partner, sword or suitor, time would tell. But one thing was certain: Jon Stark was no ordinary ward. He was a piece on the board worth playing for.

And Olenna Tyrell had never been one to waste a good piece.

Loras Tyrell

The practice yard of Highgarden was Loras’s court, his tourney field, his throne. Here, the dust and clang of steel crowned him in ways no laurels yet could. Boys his age feared to face him, knights-in-training grudgingly admitted his promise, and the household whispered that young Ser Loras Tyrell was destined for greatness. Even his grandmother, sharp-tongued as she was, had said once that the gods had planted roses in his path.

Loras believed it. Every time his sword struck true, every time his lance shattered against a quintain, every time he unhorsed a boy older and larger than himself, the world confirmed it. He was the Knight of Flowers before the name was his, and he intended to make it so.

So when word came that a northern boy was to be fostered at Highgarden, Loras thought little of it. Wolves did not bloom in rose gardens. The North was cold and barren, full of men who swung heavy axes and stumbled about in furs.

But the whispers had grown stranger as the days passed. This Jon Stark was said to wield a blade like a man twice his age. Stableboys swore he moved like water. Guards muttered that the boy’s eyes were unsettling, too knowing for one so young. Some even whispered that he fought as though he had been born to the blade.

Loras had laughed at such things. No boy bested him in the yard.

But when Jon Stark finally stepped through the gates, escorted into the practice yard, Loras felt the first flicker of doubt.

The boy was his own age, perhaps a little taller, his frame lean but hard in the way of boys who had trained since childhood. He moved with a stillness that reminded Loras more of old knights than squires. No swagger. No gawking awe at the splendor of Highgarden. His grey eyes swept over the yard, calm and measuring, as though it were already familiar.

“Lord Jon Stark,” the master-at-arms announced.

Jon inclined his head. “It is an honor to be welcomed here.”

The words were polite, but the voice steady, grounded. Loras had expected a hint of stiffness, or a boyish stammer. Instead, there was control.

He found himself stepping forward, handing his blunted lance to a page. “You ride?”

Jon gave the barest of nods. “Since I could sit a saddle.”

“As do I,” Loras replied, smiling faintly.

Jon regarded him evenly. “Then we will ride together.”

The stillness of his gaze unsettled Loras, and yet the itch was there — the itch to test himself, to prove once more that the Rose of Highgarden would not be overshadowed. He gestured to the racks of blunted swords. “Perhaps, first, we might try our hands with steel. A friendly match.”

Jon’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles. “If you wish.”

The yard filled quickly. Squires gathered, knights leaned on the rails, even kitchen lads crept out to watch. A northern wolf against the pride of Highgarden — how could the tale not spread?

Above, in the shade of a carved balcony, Loras glimpsed his grandmother’s sharp eyes watching, her face unreadable. Of course she would be here. She missed nothing.

Loras took his place in the circle, practice sword in hand. He felt the fire in his blood, the thrill of the challenge.

Jon stepped forward, his own blade held low, not in show but in readiness. His expression was calm, unreadable.

The master-at-arms barked the word, and Loras moved first. He always moved first.

He darted in, quick as a striking serpent, blade flashing for Jon’s shoulder. Steel met steel, and the shock ran up his arm — Jon had turned it aside with almost no effort.

Loras pressed on, feinting low, then high, spinning with all the grace drilled into him since childhood. Each blow should have forced an opening, each strike should have driven his foe back. But Jon was already there, blade waiting, movements small and precise. He did not waste strength. He did not lunge. He simply flowed, answering every strike with the surety of a man who had seen it all before.

The crowd murmured as Loras redoubled his efforts, sweat beading at his brow. He was fast, faster than any boy in the Reach. Yet Jon’s blade found him at every turn, his guard unbroken.

And then, with a motion so swift Loras barely saw it, Jon stepped inside his guard, twisted his wrist, and sent the blunted sword spinning from his hand.

The blade clattered to the dust. Loras stumbled, breath heaving. Jon stood before him, sword lowered, grey eyes steady. He had not even broken a sweat.

The yard erupted — gasps, laughter, whispers darting like birds.

For a heartbeat, pride clawed at Loras’s chest. To be beaten, and so thoroughly, before so many eyes. He could already hear the whispers that would spread through the castle.

But Jon did not gloat. He did not smirk or strut. He simply inclined his head, his voice calm.

“You are quick,” Jon said. “Few could have stood as long.”

The words were not empty courtesy. Jon meant them.

Something inside Loras shifted. The sting of humiliation dulled, replaced by a flicker of respect. Then a smile tugged at his lips. He laughed, breathless.

“Well,” he said, stooping to reclaim his sword, “I had wondered if the tales were true. Now I see they did not tell enough.”

Jon inclined his head again. “There will be another time.”

“There will,” Loras promised, his grin sharp with determination. “And I will not fall so easily then.”

Jon’s lips curved, almost imperceptibly. “Then I must sharpen myself as well.”

Later, beneath the boughs of a tree overlooking the tilt yard, Loras sat with the practice sword across his knees. He had never been humbled so. Not by boys, not by men. And yet there was no bitterness in him.

Jon Stark had not flaunted his skill. He had simply shown it. Quietly, efficiently, as though it were a fact of nature.

Loras could not hate that.

Instead, he felt a fire light in him — not anger, but resolve. For years he had been unmatched. Now he had found someone worth chasing. Someone who made him want to sharpen every edge, harden every skill, hone every gift until he could stand as equal.

Above, from her balcony, his grandmother still watched, her sharp eyes glinting like a blade in the sun. No doubt she was already plotting, already weaving Jon Stark into her endless designs. Loras would leave that to her.

As for him, he had made his vow. He would rise. He would train harder, fight sharper, ride faster. And when next he stood across from Jon Stark, he would not be undone so easily.

Friend, rival, brother-in-arms — whatever Jon Stark would become, Loras Tyrell knew one truth in his heart.

He had finally found someone who made him want to be more.

Willas Tyrell

The sun was warm upon the stone balcony overlooking the training yard, but Willas felt the familiar ache in his leg all the same. Some pains never dulled, not even with the Reach’s gentle weather, not even with maesters’ salves. He shifted on his carved chair, cane resting beside him, and let his gaze drift downward to the ring of dust where boys became men.

Loras’s laughter had filled that yard since he was small enough to wobble beneath a wooden sword. Willas had watched him grow into his skill, fast and sharp as a thorn. There was pride in that, of course. Loras bore the Tyrell name into every match, every contest, and he had never once faltered. Pride, yes — but also a quiet fear. Loras was untested beyond these walls. He believed himself invincible, and that belief could be as dangerous as any blade.

That was why Willas had come to watch this match. That, and because his grandmother had told him, in her way, that he ought not miss it. “The wolf comes south,” she had said, sharp eyes glittering, “and wolves do not come so far unless there is something to be gained. Watch closely, Willas. Learn.”

And so he had.

The boy had arrived that morning, lean and pale from the North, his grey eyes older than his years. Willas had expected shyness, or awkward stiffness, but there was none. Jon Stark carried himself not as a child sent from his father’s house, but as though he belonged wherever he stood. That alone had set him apart.

Now, in the yard below, Willas had seen what words could not convey.

It had been quick — far too quick. Loras had pressed as he always did, blades flashing, steps quick as lightning. Against any other boy, he would have overwhelmed, dazzled, forced his way through sheer speed and ferocity. But Jon Stark had not given ground. He had moved with stillness, with precision, as if each strike had been known before it was made. He wasted nothing, let Loras spend himself in flashes of brilliance, and then, with one turn of the wrist, one sudden step — the bout was done.

Loras’s sword lay in the dust, and Jon Stark had not even breathed hard.

The crowd erupted in gasps and laughter, the boys clamoring with awe, the men murmuring among themselves. Loras’s pride had stung, Willas could see it in his brother’s face, but he had laughed, and in that laughter was promise. He would not sulk. He would strive. In this, perhaps, Jon Stark had given him a gift that no Tyrell could.

Willas let out a slow breath and folded his hands upon his cane. He studied the northern boy as he stood, calm amid the noise, his expression unreadable. There was no arrogance in him. No boast, no smirk. Only that same steady gaze, as though he had expected the outcome all along.

Dangerous, Willas thought. Dangerous, because such boys drew others to them. Dangerous, because skill without vanity was rare, and it bred loyalty of the deepest kind.

“Sharp, isn’t he?” came a voice at his side. His grandmother. Olenna had settled herself beside him, her keen eyes on the yard. She did not wait for his answer. “Too sharp for comfort. Northerners are meant to be rough, dull things, all fur and frost. Not this one.”

Willas inclined his head. “He has been well-trained.”

“Trained, yes,” Olenna replied, “but training is not enough. There’s a mind behind that blade, you can see it in the way he watches. He knows when not to move. That is rarer than speed, rarer than strength.”

Her voice was low, thoughtful. Willas had grown up listening to her dissections of men and women alike, the way she carved into their souls with words. When she took such a tone, it meant she was already thinking five moves ahead, and Jon Stark had just been placed on her board.

“You are wary,” Willas said softly.

“I am never wary, dear boy,” she sniffed, “I am prepared.”

Willas looked back to the yard, to where Jon was speaking quietly with Loras, offering courtesy instead of condescension. Loras’s shoulders had loosened, his grin returned. Already, Jon had turned defeat into something else — a bond, a challenge, a reason for his rival to sharpen himself further.

The beginnings of friendship, perhaps. Or something deeper.

He thought of the North, of Winterfell, of the cold lands so far from Highgarden’s warmth. Starks were not often seen in the Reach. That one of them should now walk these halls — that was no accident. His father had agreed to it, yes, but his grandmother had no doubt nudged and needled until the arrangement was made. She would not let a wolf into their garden without reason.

Willas felt a heaviness settle in his chest. He loved his family, truly, but he knew well enough that all of them, himself included, were pieces in a game. Loras with his lance, Margaery with her smile, himself with his books and quills. And now Jon Stark had been brought into the game as well.

He wondered if the boy knew. He wondered if, behind those grey eyes, Jon Stark already saw the strings being pulled.

The crowd began to disperse, squires chattering, men shaking their heads, the story already growing larger in the telling. Willas knew it would not stay within these walls. Before long, the tale of how a northern wolf had bested the Knight of Flowers-to-be would be on every tongue in the Reach, perhaps beyond.

He tapped his cane lightly against the floor, frowning. Stories had power, and this one would cling to Jon Stark like ivy to stone. His grandmother would see to it that the story grew in the right directions.

And yet, as he watched the boy stand steady, courteous, already making allies in the yard, Willas felt something stir in himself that was not calculation, nor suspicion, nor dread.

It was hope.

Hope that perhaps Loras would learn humility. Hope that Margaery would be tested by more than simpering lordlings. Hope that their house, caught so often in the web of others’ power, might yet find strength in an unexpected ally.

“Watch him closely,” Olenna murmured beside him. “He will matter.”

Willas nodded, his eyes fixed on the boy with the wolf’s blood and the calm of a man grown.

“Yes,” he said softly. “He already does.”

Margaery Tyrell

The gardens of Highgarden were alive with spring, roses climbing trellises, jasmine scenting the air, sunlight painting the stone in golds and soft shadows. Margaery walked through them, skirts brushing the dew-specked paths, her mind half on the blooms and half on the visitors who had arrived that day. The Northerner. The boy from Winterfell. Jon Stark, as he was called.

She had heard tales already. Her grandmother, with her sharp tongue and sharper eyes, had briefed the family before the boy’s arrival, whispering hints in corridors, murmuring cautions over breakfast. He was skilled. He was clever. He was… unsettling in ways that made one’s pulse skip.

Margaery could not help but smile. Boys often came and went through Highgarden, sons of lords and knights, young princes sent to the Reach for alliances or safety. They were loud, brash, sometimes clever, sometimes merely spoiled. But this one, the whispers said, was different. The thought intrigued her.

She paused at the edge of the fountain, watching the practice yard below. Loras was already there, grinning with anticipation, as if the spar were merely a game. Willas watched with quiet calculation, cane leaning against his chair, eyes tracing every movement. And above them all, as always, Olenna Tyrell observed with her hawk-like gaze.

Then Jon Stark appeared. He did not rush. He did not make a grand entrance. He stepped into the yard as though he belonged, shoulders squared, grey eyes calm, observing, assessing.

Margaery felt her breath catch. He was handsome. Not in a crude or boastful way, but in the way that made one pause and take note: strong jaw, high cheekbones, dark hair falling just so. And those eyes — grey, yes, but shifting, thoughtful, as if he could see too much, understand too much.

She told herself to be cautious. Boys were impulsive. Boys were reckless. And she had already learned that Northern boys could be proud, stubborn, and entirely incapable of subtlety.

But still, there was an undeniable pull, a curiosity, a fascination she could not entirely suppress.

Jon’s gaze swept the yard and settled briefly on her, though she knew it was a glance of acknowledgment rather than attention. Yet the awareness that he noticed her — that he saw her — sent an unexpected warmth through her chest.

The spar began. Loras moved first, fast and confident. Jon Stark met him with calm precision, parrying, observing, letting Loras exhaust himself before his hand and foot ever faltered. In minutes, Jon had bested Loras with a grace and control that made the other boy’s face flush with amazement rather than anger.

Margaery clutched the railing, captivated. The crowd murmured, squires whispered. Even Loras, usually brimming with arrogance, was stunned into awe. And yet Jon’s expression remained unreadable, composed, calm.

She felt an odd mixture of admiration and amusement. So many boys sought attention through noise and bluster. Jon sought it through quiet command of skill and intelligence. That quiet strength, she thought, could be dangerous in its own way.

But her mind, always alert to opportunity, also began to work. Jon Stark was no mere boy. He had been fostered here at Highgarden. He had skill, intelligence, and an aura that drew others to him. He could be leveraged — alliances forged, influence gained. The Reach had been overlooked for years, and here was a boy whose presence could shift the balance.

And yet… there was another consideration. Her heart, stubborn and foolish, stirred at the sight of him. She found herself watching him closely, studying the lines of his face, the way his eyes assessed every movement, the small twitch of his fingers as he replaced his sword in the dust. He was beautiful, undeniably so, and there was a confidence in him that was not arrogance but certainty.

Margaery had seen many boys in her time, but few had struck her this way. She had learned to be careful, to temper admiration with calculation. She could not afford to be swept away by looks alone; the boy was clever, and clever boys often saw too far too fast.

Still, she could not deny the fascination that bloomed inside her. There was a spark, small but persistent, that made her pulse quicken even as her mind ticked over the implications. Jon Stark would require guidance, yes, but perhaps he could also be guided to serve the greater good of her family.

She walked closer to the edge of the yard, trying to mask the quickening of her pulse. The boy was handsome, clever, and dangerous — a combination that made one’s mind whirl with possibilities. Could he be persuaded? Could he be molded? Could he be… an ally?

The spar ended, and Jon’s calm acknowledgement of Loras’s respect did not go unnoticed. He did not flaunt his superiority. He did not mock. He simply existed, unshaken, competent, and confident in a way that few had ever seen.

Margaery smiled faintly, an expression that suggested both approval and calculation. The boy was not just a challenge; he was an opportunity. And she had learned long ago that opportunities, like roses, needed careful tending.

She watched as Jon gathered himself, his eyes briefly sweeping the yard, and then she saw the small, almost imperceptible glance in her direction. It was not a look of desire, not yet, but there was recognition. Awareness.

That alone was enough to make her pulse skip.

Margaery straightened, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and made her decision. She would watch. She would learn. And she would ensure that whatever Jon Stark became, he would never be beyond her influence.

The boy was clever, yes, but she was cleverer. And in the games of Highgarden, the Reach, and the wider world, cleverness was the weapon that mattered most.

For the first time in her young life, she felt both caution and exhilaration in equal measure. Jon Stark was no mere boy, and she would not treat him as such. He had come into Highgarden, into her world, and already, she knew, he had begun to change it.

Jon Stark

The gates of Highgarden rose like carved stone giants, banners of green and gold fluttering in the mild spring wind. Jon Stark felt the familiar weight of travel on his shoulders, the chill of anticipation along his spine. Winterfell had been home, unyielding and protective, a fortress in both stone and memory. But the Reach… the Reach was a place of roses and sunlight, of cultivated paths and towers that gleamed in gold and marble. It was alien, yet alive with possibility.

As the carriage rattled over cobblestones toward the inner courtyard, Jon’s grey eyes swept over the sprawling castle, noting the careful order of the gardens, the training yards below, the servants moving with quiet efficiency. Everything spoke of cultivation, of planning, of patience. He understood that at a glance; it reminded him sharply of what Winterfell lacked in elegance but had in resilience.

Stepping down, he felt the air differently here. Lighter. Warmer. But the warmth carried with it a subtle weight — not of cold snow or northern frost, but of expectation, of scrutiny, of strategy. The Reach thrived on alliances and appearances, and he would need to navigate both if he were to survive, if he were to learn.

Olenna Tyrell met him first. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding as a hawk’s, measured him from head to toe. There was no welcoming smile, no indulgent greeting — only calculation. Jon did not flinch; he had learned to meet scrutiny with stillness. He inclined his head, a nod of respect that was neither obsequious nor stiff. Olenna’s gaze lingered, and he noted how her mind worked as she processed him, cataloged him, assessed the threat and the utility in equal measure.

“Lord Stark,” she said, voice precise. “I have heard much, though I do not yet know the half of it. You will find Highgarden a different place from the North.”

“I hope to learn much,” Jon replied evenly. “And to serve as best I can.” His tone carried neither boast nor apology, only truth.

She inclined her head ever so slightly, approving the acknowledgment, then withdrew into the shadows of the balcony. Already, Jon understood. This woman was not merely a grandmother; she was a strategist, a force. The Reach would be navigated carefully.

Loras Tyrell appeared next, quick and brimming with energy. Jon could sense the pride and confidence radiating off him, the legacy of a Tyrell son trained for excellence, for recognition. Loras extended his hand, and Jon shook it, noting the strength and precision of the grip. He registered the smile, the anticipation, the subtle challenge in the boy’s movements. Loras was not hostile — not yet — but clearly ready to assert his dominance in every possible way.

“Welcome to Highgarden,” Loras said, eyes glinting with a mixture of excitement and calculation. “I have been told of your skill. We shall see if the tales are true.”

Jon inclined his head, expression calm. “Then we shall see indeed.”

Willas Tyrell observed from a chair, cane resting lightly at his side. Jon noted the way the older boy measured him, not with pride or expectation, but with patience and thoughtfulness. The scars of a wound, the weight of observation, the quiet intelligence in his gaze — it spoke of a mind trained to analyze, to predict, to see consequences before they arrived. Jon made a mental note to watch Willas closely; he would be useful, an ally if properly approached, or a thorn if underestimated.

And then there was Margaery. Her eyes, bright and calculating, met his without hesitation. Not younger, not inexperienced — she was his peer in age, and yet carried the same sharp awareness that he had learned to trust in himself. There was intelligence in her presence, a subtle command that did not require words. She was neither naive nor starstruck, only observant, evaluating him as he evaluated her.

Jon greeted her with the same measured respect he offered the others, nodding slightly. “Lady Margaery. It is an honor to meet you.”

Her smile was subtle, enigmatic. “And you, Lord Stark, are far from the North.” Her eyes sparkled briefly, sharp and knowing, and Jon felt the faint stir of something unfamiliar. Awareness, not attraction, at first — she was striking, poised, commanding in a quiet way that made one note her presence immediately.

He walked through the gardens with the Tyrells, observing everything. The roses and trellises were beautiful, yet functional — every path designed for ease of movement, for viewing, for control. Olenna’s planning, Loras’s energy, Willas’s patience, Margaery’s subtle awareness — all of them pieces in a larger game he had just entered.

At the training yard, Jon observed the boys practicing. Loras’s skill was evident, raw and explosive, yet he carried himself with youthful certainty, untested beyond the castle walls. Willas had not risen to fight; he observed, noting the tactics, measuring their abilities. Margaery watched quietly, head slightly tilted, eyes bright, noticing every movement, every falter, but without the deference of a younger child.

Jon’s mind wandered briefly to Winterfell, to the training yard there, to Robb, to the snow-swept walls and the biting air. He felt the pull of home, of family, of the bond forged in cold stone and firelight. And yet he also felt the stir of opportunity — the Reach offered lessons, experience, and the chance to grow beyond what the North alone could teach.

He recognized immediately that fostering here would not be simple. The Tyrells were shrewd, and each family member a puzzle piece with hidden intent. Navigating them required subtlety, observation, and patience — qualities Jon had long been training to perfect.

Margaery approached, closer now, hands folded, posture perfect. “You have the look of someone accustomed to command,” she said lightly, voice pleasant yet measured. “It suits you well.”

Jon inclined his head. “Command is learned. One may observe much in silence.” He let his gaze sweep over her, noting her poise, her intelligence, the way she carried herself like a queen even in casual conversation. “And one may be tested more than once, if fortunate.”

Her smile deepened, faint amusement at his reply evident. “Fortunate, you say? We shall see.”

Jon noted the subtlety in her tone, the undercurrent of challenge beneath politeness. She was clever, quick to read character, aware of her surroundings, yet she wielded charm as effortlessly as some wielded swords. She could be a dangerous ally, or a cautious friend.

He looked around again at the household: Loras’s pride, Willas’s calculation, Olenna’s sharpness, Margaery’s charm. Each a study, each a test, each an opportunity. He would learn them in time, but first, he must survive the initial scrutiny, prove his worth, and establish his place.

Jon took a slow breath, letting the warmth of the Reach settle over him. The castle, the family, the training yards and gardens — all were pieces of a puzzle, a new arena where strength, wit, and patience would be tested. And Jon Stark intended to excel, as he had always done, quietly, efficiently, without unnecessary display, without arrogance, without error.

And as he glanced once more at Margaery, the recognition stirred again. Awareness, respect, subtle fascination. She would matter in ways beyond mere companionship. She would shape this chapter of his life, whether he liked it or not.

And he would learn from her, as he would from all.

Kings Landing

Varys

The streets of King’s Landing thrummed with life, but to Varys they were little more than a stage, full of actors unaware of the plays being written in quiet corners. Every whisper of rumor, every shadowed step, could be leveraged, turned, or crushed. Today, however, the city’s bustle was irrelevant. The matter at hand lay across the Narrow Sea, hidden in Essos, in the hands of a boy the world believed dead.

Illyrio Mopatis awaited in a chamber secluded from prying eyes. His figure, as imposing as it was calm, exuded authority. Every gesture seemed deliberate, each breath measured. Varys entered, noting the subtle luxuries and the careful concealment of secrets. Illyrio gestured toward a chair.

“You honor me with your visit,” Illyrio said smoothly, voice low and confident. “And I trust the city obeys your vigilance?”

“As well as it must,” Varys replied. “But chaos lurks everywhere. That is why we meet here.”

Illyrio inclined his head. “Then we are agreed. Young Griff grows as instructed. Patience is the sharpest sword we wield.”

Varys considered the boy in Essos, the one known to all as Aegon Targaryen, supposedly the son of Elia and Rhaegar. Jon Connington tended him carefully, and the boy believed his lineage without question. No one in Westeros suspected, nor would they, until the moment of introduction.

“Has he been taught the story of his line?” Varys asked. “He must understand his claim, his destiny, and the necessity of caution. Even a single slip, a word of pride, could unravel everything.”

Illyrio’s eyes gleamed. “He knows what he must, and no more. Connington guides him in all lessons of honor, strategy, and strength. Every moment, every instruction, is calculated. He grows capable, disciplined, and confident, but never reckless.”

Varys leaned forward, voice measured. “The realm believes him dead. That must remain the truth, even as he is trained for a destiny they think impossible. Any rumor, any careless act, and the plan collapses. Even whispers could reach ears we cannot predict.”

Illyrio smiled faintly. “Exactly. Secrecy is survival. The boy is a seed planted in shadow, to grow unseen until the hour comes. When Westeros is ready, he will step forward, commanding loyalty and power alike.”

Varys’s gaze drifted to the window. The Red Keep rose beyond, a symbol of power and danger alike. Robert Baratheon rules, oblivious to the existence of the boy who could challenge him. Timing is everything. Preparation is everything.

“Connington must remain loyal, utterly loyal,” Varys said. “He is the only one who can shepherd the boy safely. The lessons must shape him into a ruler, confident yet disciplined, ambitious yet prudent. One error could jeopardize everything.”

Illyrio’s hand rested lightly on the map of Westeros, tracing the lords, the coasts, the kingdoms. “Connington understands. And Griff… Griff will be ready. When the time comes, all doubts, all suspicions, will vanish. The realm will see a king prepared, rightful in name, unwavering in presence.”

Varys tapped lightly against the table, considering the delicate lattice of power across Westeros. A boy, far from the kingdom, believed to be one thing, trained to embody another, all while hidden. Every report, every messenger, every whisper must be carefully monitored, because one mistake could undo years of plotting.

“Then we are agreed,” Varys said. “Secrecy, preparation, and patience. Every moment until the hour comes must be deliberate. Every story, every claim controlled. Only when the time is right can he emerge, unchallenged, unquestioned.”

Illyrio inclined his head. “And when the time comes, the world will see what must be seen. Griff will claim the stage, and Westeros will bow to a boy who was hidden until he was ready. And then…” His gaze lingered, almost imperceptibly, “everything will change.”

Varys nodded, stepping back into the alleys of King’s Landing, invisible, weaving his threads of intelligence, manipulation, and secrecy. The boy grew strong, guided and protected, and the world remained blind. Until the moment arrived, nothing could be risked, and no one could know.

Chapter Text

295 AC

Highgarden

Maester Lomys

The sun streamed through the windows, casting golden stripes across the polished table where Maester Lomys had arranged ink, parchment, and maps. The children of Highgarden gathered as usual, but Lomys’s attention was divided. One boy, tall and silent, drew his gaze far more than any other. Jon Stark, known here formally as Lord Stark of Winterfell, already demonstrated a keen eye that made even the seasoned maester pause.

“Now, Lord Stark,” Lomys began, spreading a map of Westeros across the table, “consider the strategic implications of the northern passes. Suppose a lord from the Vale wishes to raise forces through the Wolfswood into the Neck. How might the North respond?”

Jon’s dark eyes scanned the map with calm precision. “The Neck’s marshes and the castle at Moat Cailin would make a direct advance difficult,” he said, tracing a finger along the riverlands. “Any army would need to split into smaller contingents, and the defenders could harry supply lines. Timing is crucial—if the attackers move too slowly, the Northern levies could reinforce quickly. A defensive stance with prepared ambushes at choke points would be most effective.”

The other children exchanged looks. Willas furrowed his brow, muttering under his breath as he tried to follow Jon’s reasoning. Loras rolled his eyes slightly, already imagining the thrill of charging into battle rather than studying maps.

Maester Lomys leaned back in his chair, quill held loosely between his fingers. He had taught the Tyrell heirs many lessons, but the boy from the North approached each problem not with rote memorization, but with clarity, foresight, and a natural intuition for cause and effect. He did not simply recall the battles of old—he anticipated their outcomes as if he had been there himself.

Olenna Tyrell watched from the corner, her hands folded, lips pressed into a thin line. She had orchestrated Jon’s placement among her grandchildren for more than simple convenience. Her intent had always been to test, to observe, to measure. And now, Lomys realized, the matriarch’s motives were being fulfilled by the boy’s unassuming brilliance.

Later, when the lesson turned to language, Jon absorbed the introductory phrases of High Valyrian with ease, repeating each word with perfect pronunciation and a quick grasp of syntax. He asked questions that reflected not just curiosity, but insight—how idioms evolved, how meanings shifted in history, and how language could be used to persuade, deceive, or command. Lomys could only nod, making careful notes, knowing that every lesson Jon learned now would be compounded by his own natural aptitude.

As the morning waned, Lomys had the children attempt an exercise in governance: allocating resources across the Reach to prevent famine, maintain loyalty among bannermen, and sustain trade. Jon’s solution was elegant, efficient, and humane. The Tyrell children presented plans that were competent but conventional; Jon’s approach integrated both logistics and psychology, predicting the reactions of various houses and proposing solutions to satisfy multiple interests simultaneously.

Olenna’s thin smile was subtle but unmistakable. The boy had passed her invisible test. Lomys, however, was left in awe. Rarely in his career had he encountered a child who seemed not just bright, but precociously capable of leadership, strategy, and diplomacy.

Olenna Tyrell

The afternoon sunlight slanted across the chamber, brushing the walls with gold and green. Olenna Tyrell settled into her chair, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. Across from her, Maester Lomys arranged the reports from the day’s lessons, his face betraying the faint awe that Olenna had long expected.

“Speak freely, Maester,” she said, voice smooth yet commanding. “I am not interested in pleasantries or formalities. Tell me exactly what transpired in the classroom today.”

Lomys inclined his head, careful to remain respectful yet candid. “The children performed as expected, Lady Olenna, though one boy—Lord Stark—demonstrated a level of comprehension and foresight that surpassed even my highest expectations. In the exercises on strategy and governance, he anticipated the reactions of multiple hypothetical bannermen, allocating resources with both prudence and foresight.”

Olenna’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. She had anticipated Jon’s brilliance, but hearing it recounted so plainly was satisfying. “And my grandchildren?” she prompted, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Loras shows remarkable skill in martial exercises and a sharp instinct for combat, but he struggles when asked to consider political consequences or long-term outcomes. Willas is methodical, precise, and careful, yet his thought processes lack the immediacy and intuition Lord Stark displays. Margaery,” Lomys paused briefly, “is perceptive socially. She understands the dynamics of conversation, though she still requires guidance in matters of strategy.”

Olenna tapped her fingers together. “Good. Precisely what I expected. And Lord Stark?”

“He remains calm under observation, Lady Olenna. He asks questions, always probing further than the surface answers, demonstrating a comprehension of cause and effect beyond his years. Moreover, he is unpretentious in his mastery. He does not flaunt knowledge, yet when required, he reveals it in a manner both clear and decisive. In short, he is a natural thinker.”

Olenna leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing as she considered the implications. The boy from the North, though young, was capable of understanding not only the mechanics of governance and warfare but also the subtle currents of human behavior. He was a rare combination: intellect tempered with discipline and empathy, and above all, the capacity to command attention without demanding it.

“You observed him assisting Loras and Willas?” she asked.

“Yes, Lady Olenna. Quietly. Without condescension. He allowed them to struggle with the problems before offering clarifying insights. Even in that, there is a strategic mind at work. He knows when to act, and when to let others act first.”

Olenna’s smile widened imperceptibly. The boy could be taught, guided, and even influenced—yet he was already formidable on his own. There would be no need to coddle him; only to ensure that he understood the subtle arts of politics and the necessity of alliances.

“And the language exercises?” she continued, curiosity sharpening.

“High Valyrian, Lady Olenna. He grasps syntax and idiom with remarkable speed, and he demonstrates an ability to form analogies between historical usage and present application. He asked questions about how language could be wielded to persuade or command, to conceal or reveal intent. Such reasoning is rarely found in a child of twelve.”

Olenna’s gaze drifted toward the window, watching the swaying of the garden’s roses. The boy would not merely survive here; he would excel. He would observe, learn, and adapt. And in doing so, he could become an instrument of influence, not just for himself, but potentially for those wise enough to guide him.

She leaned forward slightly. “And the children’s response to him?”

“Loras initially struggled with his pride, though he quickly adapted. Willas is reflective, still learning patience. Margaery observed quietly, absorbing the social implications, as she always does. The dynamic is healthy; Lord Stark elevates the discussion without dominating it.”

Olenna’s lips pressed together thoughtfully. The boy was already shaping those around him, not through force, but through intellect. That was precisely the mark of a true leader—one who could inspire, intimidate, or guide without ever needing to raise a hand.

“And his temperament?” she asked softly, almost to herself.

“Even-tempered, Lady Olenna. Empathetic. He recognizes the limits of others’ knowledge and skill, yet he does not exploit them cruelly. His judgments are measured, and he responds to challenge with reason rather than emotion.”

A quiet satisfaction settled over Olenna. Here was a boy who could be molded, influenced, and observed, yet one whose innate ability demanded respect. She would test him, yes—but not in obvious ways. Lessons in patience, discretion, and subtlety would come through social observation and carefully arranged encounters. The boy must learn the intricacies of politics while never realizing he was being guided.

“Very well,” she said finally. “Continue your reports, Maester Lomys, but take note. He is exceptional, but he must understand the necessity of alliances, the subtlety of influence, and the weight of observation. We will not simply instruct him in theory; we will immerse him in practice. And watch closely how he reacts to my grandchildren, for their development is equally important.”

Lomys inclined his head. “As you wish, Lady Olenna. Lord Stark will not be found lacking, and the children will learn much from his presence.”

Olenna allowed herself a rare smile, one that did not reach her eyes but spoke of satisfaction nonetheless. The boy from the North would be an asset, not only for his abilities but for what he could teach those around him. She had long known that intellect like his, when guided and observed carefully, could shape the fate of a house—and perhaps, in time, influence all of Westeros.

Olenna’s eyes remained on the maester as she considered the children, their potential, and the unfolding lessons of the day. After a long pause, she leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but sharp. “Maester Lomys, when your duties here conclude, see my son, Lord Mace. Tell him that I wish to speak with him privately.”

The maester inclined his head, careful not to let his surprise show. “Of course, Lady Olenna. Shall I request him immediately?”

“Yes,” she said. Her mind was already turning, plotting the next steps for her family. “Tell him that I intend to organize a grand tourney for Margaery’s twelfth nameday. I expect it to be an event remembered across the Reach and beyond. Invite lords and ladies from every corner, include loyal bannermen and those whose favor we seek. Extend the invitation to the royal family as well; the young queen must be celebrated, and her worth publicly acknowledged.”

Lomys paused, hesitating for just a moment as if to register the scope of the task. “It will require considerable preparation,” he noted.

“Of course,” Olenna said smoothly, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Highgarden has the wealth and the capacity for such an event. Let the carpenters, the armories, the kitchens, and the heralds know immediately. We shall host a spectacle worthy of the Tyrell name and worthy of my granddaughter. Margaery will be queen one day, and she must learn to command admiration as she commands respect.”

Maester Lomys bowed, his mind already racing through the letters he would write, the messengers he would send, and the schedules he would have to arrange. “I will deliver your message, Lady Olenna,” he said, careful not to let the weight of her intention overwhelm his calm demeanor.

Olenna allowed herself the barest hint of a satisfied smile. She returned her attention to the children, though her thoughts were already moving ahead. Jon Stark, Loras, Willas, Margaery—all pieces in a game she had been orchestrating for years. The boy from the North would learn more than books and swords in the Reach; he would learn politics, observation, and the subtle currents that guided the choices of men and women in power.

“And Maester,” she added, almost casually as Lomys moved to leave, “keep a careful watch on Lord Stark. He is… remarkable, but even remarkable minds must be guided. Observe how he interacts, how he measures the others, and report to me. We will need to know exactly how he learns, how he adapts, and how he handles challenges before the tourney.”

Lomys inclined his head once more, his expression betraying the faintest trace of awe. “It shall be done, Lady Olenna.”

As the maester left, Olenna allowed herself a small sigh, more contemplative than relieved. She turned her gaze to the children still in the courtyard below, imagining how each would fare under her careful tutelage. Jon Stark, she mused, had the strength, intelligence, and composure to surpass almost any boy she had seen in years. He would be taught, tested, and observed in all ways—especially in ways the Tyrells might find useful in the years to come.

And Margaery, her jewel, would shine at the tourney. Lords and ladies, knights and squires, even the royal family itself, would see her grace, her intelligence, and her charm. It was not merely a celebration; it was a statement, one Olenna intended to make echo through the Reach and far beyond. The boy from the North would witness it, and perhaps, just perhaps, learn the subtleties of power without ever realizing he was being schooled in them.

Highgarden would soon be alive with banners, trumpets, and the hum of preparation. Olenna’s plans were already in motion, and she would see them unfold with the precision she demanded. Every observation, every lesson, every interaction—all part of shaping the future, ensuring that Margaery’s path to the throne would be unquestioned and that Jon Stark, the boy from Winterfell, would understand his place in the world she was quietly arranging around him.

Mace Tyrell

Mace Tyrell entered the solar with an eager stride, the polished floors echoing beneath his boots. The faint scent of ink and roses filled the room, as familiar as it was imposing. Olenna Tyrell sat behind her desk, her posture exacting, her eyes sharp and assessing. She gestured for him to sit, her thin lips pressing together in that way that always suggested both approval and warning.

“Mace,” she said, her voice deliberate, “you are aware that Margaery’s twelfth nameday approaches.”

“Yes, mother,” he said, bowing slightly, anticipation thrumming through him. “I had thought a small gathering might suffice—friends, bannermen, perhaps a few knights for exhibition.”

Olenna’s sharp smile betrayed both amusement and exasperation. “Small? My dear son, we shall not settle for small. I intend to host a tourney the likes of which the Reach has not seen in decades. Lords and ladies from every corner, bannermen loyal to the crown, and yes, we shall extend an invitation to the royal family themselves.”

Mace’s eyes widened. “A tourney? Across the Reach? And the royal family will attend? Mother, that is… extraordinary!”

“Indeed,” she said, her tone precise. “But this is not mere spectacle. Margaery must be seen, her worth acknowledged, and the Tyrell name must shine. You will ensure that preparations are flawless, that our house is presented with the dignity and grandeur it deserves.”

Mace nodded eagerly. He pictured the banners, the lists for jousting, knights charging down the field with lances aimed true. Pride swelled within him as he imagined his daughter, graceful and intelligent, celebrated at the center of it all.

Olenna leaned forward slightly. “There will also be a portion for squires and young lords, aged eleven to fifteen. Duels, Mace, not merely pageantry. The winner will receive five hundred gold dragons and a horse of exceptional breeding, bred by Willas himself. This will draw attention not only from the Reach but from across the kingdoms. We will watch them closely, for young men like this will grow into the lords and commanders who will shape the future.”

Mace’s heart raced. The idea of young knights and squires competing, of seeing his daughter admired among so many noble families, thrilled him. “Five hundred dragons! And a horse from Willas! It will be talked about for years!”

“Yes,” Olenna said softly, but her eyes were sharp, calculating. “It is not merely for entertainment, Mace. Observe the young lords carefully. Their courage, skill, and temperament will reveal much. This is an opportunity to make allies and to identify talent. We shall ensure that our house is positioned to gain the most advantage from the occasion.”

Mace’s excitement mingled with a flicker of nervousness. Olenna always had a larger purpose, a hidden strategy behind every grand announcement. He could feel the weight of responsibility pressing upon him, yet he could not help but imagine the spectacle: trumpets, banners, knights clashing in the lists, and the young Margaery at the center, celebrated by all.

“Prepare accordingly, Mace,” Olenna said, her voice gentle but unyielding. “Highgarden must shine. Margaery must be celebrated as she deserves. And you, my son, must see that the event proceeds without flaw. Every knight, steward, and herald must understand the gravity of their roles. And pay particular attention to the young lords and squires—they will be tested in ways that reveal their true character.”

“Yes, mother,” Mace said again, excitement and pride flooding him. He imagined the lists, the young competitors, the glittering prize, and the admiration Margaery would receive. Highgarden would not merely host a tourney—it would host history.

As he left the solar, Mace’s mind raced with the possibilities: the banners fluttering, the trumpets sounding, the nobles watching and whispering, and his daughter at the center of it all. Olenna’s plan was ambitious, but he could see how her vision would elevate Margaery, and perhaps the Tyrell name, into lasting prominence. The squires and young lords’ duels would ensure that the Reach’s future generation witnessed and remembered this event.

Mace knew one thing for certain: there would be no shortage of excitement, and no shortage of opportunity, for those clever enough to seize it.

Kings Landing

Jon Arryn

The raven arrived at dawn, talons scratching against the letter it carried, and Jon Arryn took it in his hands with quiet attention. The seal was unmistakable: the rose of Highgarden pressed in wax, perfectly formed. He broke it carefully, reading the elegant script within. A tourney was to be held for Margaery Tyrell’s twelfth nameday. Lords and ladies from across the Reach would attend. Invitations were extended even to the crown, and Jon Arryn, as Hand of the King, knew it fell to him to deliver the news.

He had expected the invitation to be ornate, but the implications pressed heavily upon him. The Reach was a powerful house, their wealth vast, and Olenna Tyrell’s intelligence and cunning were widely known. Every detail of this tourney—the duels for young lords and squires, the lavish prizes, and the opportunity for political display—was designed to strengthen Tyrell influence, and perhaps even to test the crown.

Robert Baratheon would not see it that way. Jon knew the king would balk, dismiss the invitation, or focus only on the pleasures the Reach promised—wine, women, sport. Yet it was Jon Arryn’s task to guide him, to present the opportunity in a way that appealed to Robert’s indulgent nature without entirely losing the political advantage.

He found Robert in the solar, reclining in his chair with a half-empty flagon of Arbor gold. The king’s hair was tousled, his cheeks flushed from drink, his eyes scanning Jon with that familiar mixture of suspicion and amusement.

“Jon,” Robert greeted, voice lazy, “you bring news, or are you here to scold me for last night’s feast?”

“Your Grace,” Jon said evenly, keeping his tone calm and measured, “a message has arrived from Highgarden.” He held out the invitation.

Robert’s eyes narrowed, curious despite himself. “Highgarden? A nameday? A tourney, I assume? I hope they are not demanding gold or men. My coffers and armies are better spent elsewhere.”

Jon Arryn shook his head. “Not gold, Your Grace, not armies. They invite you, as king, to witness a gathering of the Reach’s young lords and ladies. A tourney for Margaery Tyrell’s twelfth nameday. The houses of the Reach will be represented, and the crown’s presence is requested.”

Robert’s brow furrowed, his mind already drifting toward complaints. “And why should I leave my city, my wine, my pleasures for a day in some hot Reach castle? I like my stone cold and my wine colder. The Reach is far and humid, and their banners and pomp do not interest me.”

Jon’s voice remained calm, precise. “Your Grace, the tourney is more than display. Attendance will demonstrate the crown’s favor, strengthen the loyalty of a powerful house, and offer the chance to observe young knights who may prove valuable in years to come. It is a rare opportunity to see the Reach united under your presence.”

Robert scoffed, laughing at the idea. “Useful? Children in armor, jousting? Do you think the crown needs lessons from squires and boys with wooden swords? My lord Hand, I grow tired of councils and counsel that speak in riddles.”

“Perhaps it is not the council that will persuade,” Jon said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “but the pleasures your Grace values. Duels will be held for squires and young lords aged eleven to fifteen, with prizes of five hundred gold dragons and fine horses bred by Willas Tyrell himself. There will be feasts, tournaments, and celebrations designed to honor both the young and those who preside over them. Your Grace need only attend to enjoy the spectacle and the company of the Reach’s finest.”

Robert’s eyes sparkled at the mention of gold and horses. He leaned forward in his chair. “Gold and horses, you say? Well, that is more promising. And the women?”

Jon suppressed a sigh, knowing Robert’s attention would always turn to pleasure first. “Numerous noble ladies will attend, Your Grace. The tourney promises entertainment, social opportunity, and indulgence for all who participate. Your presence alone will ensure that Highgarden sees the crown in a favorable light, while you enjoy the company and diversions provided.”

Robert chuckled, draining the last of his flagon. “Safe, enjoyable, and gold? Jon, I had thought the Reach might bore me to death, but it seems they know the art of persuasion better than any maester I have known. Fine, Hand, I will attend. If the wine is sweet, the women fair, and the horses swift, the tourney shall please me enough to justify leaving my comforts behind.”

Jon Arryn inclined his head, satisfaction masked behind a measured expression. The king would attend, drawn by his pleasures, and yet unwittingly acting in a larger political framework. Alliances would be reinforced. The Tyrells would be observed, their intentions measured, and the crown’s influence in the Reach asserted.

As Robert left to make preparations, Jon remained in the solar, considering the strands of influence now set into motion. The invitation was not merely a social formality; it was a pivot around which politics, observation, and opportunity would turn. Attendance would give the crown insight into the Reach, Margaery’s rising influence, and the network of young lords who might one day wield power across Westeros.

His thoughts turned northward, toward Winterfell and the boy growing under Ned Stark’s care. Jon Stark’s intelligence and skill would be the topic of conversation even in the Reach, and Jon Arryn’s mind already considered how this tourney might position alliances in the years to come. The North and the Reach, two powerful regions, could be subtly aligned through observation and connection, long before any bond was spoken aloud.

Jon Arryn allowed himself a quiet moment of reflection. The king’s indulgence could be turned into strategy. The Reach’s ambitions could be guided without the lords themselves realizing it. And in the coming days, as preparations unfolded, the tourney would serve as both display and instruction, an opportunity for the young, the ambitious, and the observant to make themselves known.

Highgarden awaited, and with it, the convergence of noble houses, ambitions, and opportunity. Jon Arryn understood that every action, every conversation, and every decision at the tourney could shift the balance of influence in the Seven Kingdoms. And for now, with Robert persuaded by gold, women, and spectacle, the Hand’s careful guidance would steer events to ensure that all moved as intended.

Winterfell

Ned Stark

The air was sharper here, heavy with smoke from chimneys and the tang of the Blackwater below. The streets bustled with merchants, soldiers, and courtiers, each moving to the rhythm of a city that never truly slept. In the quiet of his solar at the Red Keep, Ned Stark sat at the edge of a wooden chair, the morning light barely piercing the high windows. A raven tapped against the sill, talons rapping sharply against the stone.

He reached for it, noting the careful seal pressed into the wax: the rose of House Tyrell. Breaking it carefully, he unfurled the parchment and scanned the elegant handwriting. A tourney was to be held at Highgarden for Margaery Tyrell’s twelfth nameday. Lords and ladies from across the Reach would attend. Even the crown was invited.

Ned’s first thought was displeasure. A tourney, pomp, and pageantry—events that celebrated wealth, vanity, and spectacle—were the very things he found most distasteful about life south of the Neck. He had lived in Winterfell too long to take such gatherings seriously. The idea of spending days watching knights tilt and banners wave filled him with a low, reluctant dread. Yet his gaze lingered on the name written at the bottom: Jon Stark.

That was when Catelyn entered the room, her skirts brushing the floor quietly, and her eyes fell immediately upon the letter in his hand. “You’ve read it,” she said, tone curious but calm.

“I have,” Ned replied. “A tourney. The Tyrells display their wealth, their skill, and their ambition, and they expect the crown to witness it.”

Catelyn’s gaze softened, but her voice carried quiet insistence. “And yet… you see the opportunity it presents. Jon. This is our chance to see him, to watch him grow, to see how The Reach has influenced him.”

Ned frowned, mind turning over her words. A tourney, yes, but for the boy? Jon had been raised under careful eyes, protected and instructed in the arts of sword and mind. It had been months since Ned last saw him, the boy having grown prodigious under Winterfell’s tutelage. The Tyrells’ event might offer the only chance to see him for months, perhaps even a year.

“I do not trust the court,” Ned admitted, voice low, though Catelyn’s gaze held him in check. “I do not trust the distractions, the intrigues, the… frivolities that will consume these halls. I fear for what it may do to Robert’s attention, and for the influence these Tyrells may attempt to assert.”

Catelyn laid a hand lightly on his arm. “And yet, the boy is growing, Ned. Jon is more than capable now, more than ready to be seen by those beyond our walls. This is not about the Tyrells or their power—it is about him. About seeing him thrive, and ensuring he is properly observed, guided, and protected while we still can.”

Ned’s mind went to Jon, thinking of his upbringing, his secret, and the careful secrecy surrounding his identity. The boy was remarkable—far beyond his years in intelligence, skill, and insight. He would need guidance, allies, and opportunities. Perhaps, in the Reach, under the watch of the Tyrells, there would be challenges worthy of him.

“And Jon,” Catelyn continued softly, “you have the wisdom to watch over him without allowing yourself to be swept into the intrigues of the court. This is the rare occasion where duty and family converge. Do not squander it.”

Ned exhaled slowly. The thought of leaving the North, leaving Winterfell’s walls and quiet winters, filled him with unease. Yet the reasoning was undeniable. Jon’s future, his safety, his exposure to other houses—all weighed more heavily than Ned’s discomfort. The boy deserved the chance to show his skill, to grow beyond the North, and to navigate the wider realm under careful observation.

Finally, he nodded, folding the invitation carefully. “We will attend,” he said, voice resolute. “Not for the Tyrells, nor for Robert, but for Jon. We will see him, and ensure he is measured against the world beyond Winterfell’s walls.”

Catelyn smiled, a rare, genuine warmth touching her features. “Then we prepare, and we leave soon. Jon will not wait forever, and neither will the opportunities that lie ahead.”

Ned paced the room, running his hands over the heavy wooden chair as he considered the journey south. The North was in his blood, and he felt the familiar tug of its winds, the distant quiet of Winterfell’s snow-covered courtyards. To leave the North for the wealth and scheming of the Reach felt unnatural, even distasteful, yet necessity required it. The boy had grown into a prodigy, and the tourney offered a chance to see him excel in ways letters and reports could never convey.

He thought of Robb, now nearly twelve, energetic and earnest, and Jon, two months younger yet equally capable, though tempered with wisdom far beyond his years. How would Robb handle being overshadowed by Jon, even in friendly competition? How would the others—the younger children—fare in the bustle of southern courts, the heat of the Reach, and the distraction of so many nobles?

Ned knew the answer: caution, vigilance, and preparation. He would ensure the Stark children were protected, observed, and guided, while allowing them the chance to experience what Westeros could offer. He reminded himself that Winterfell had raised Jon in secrecy and care, and now the wider realm would provide new lessons, tests, and opportunities.

Several days later, Ned called the children to the solar. Theon was present as a hostage, though the boy carried himself with forced decorum, masking his delight at the news. Robb bounded forward, eager and unaware of the full weight of the announcement. Sansa, Arya, and Bran lingered behind, shy but curious, while infant Rickon slept quietly in his cradle.

Ned addressed them, his voice even and calm. “There is news from the Reach. House Tyrell sends word that Margaery Tyrell will celebrate her twelfth nameday with a tourney. Lords and ladies from across the Reach will attend. They extend an invitation to the crown and the North. Four moons from now, we will travel to Highgarden.”

Robb’s eyes widened. “A tourney? Will there be knights? Will there be jousts? Will there be banners flying?”

Ned allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile. “Yes, Robb. There will be tilts, tests of skill, and displays of valor." “Robb, you will represent your house and family with honor, and your conduct will reflect not only your skill but your judgment. This journey is as much a test of character as of ability.”

Sansa and Arya exchanged curious glances. Sansa’s mind wandered to dresses, dances, and politeness, while Arya imagined swords and lessons from Jon. Bran, quieter and reflective, seemed more interested in the idea of traveling south and seeing a world beyond Winterfell’s walls.

Theon’s smile was carefully hidden, though a spark of glee shone in his eyes. “And I shall see my friends from the North as well,” he murmured, hiding his excitement beneath his usual arrogance.

Ned continued, “You will all be expected to conduct yourselves with dignity and decorum. Jon and Robb will be observed closely, as they are the sons of House Stark and must reflect its honor. Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, you will learn, observe, and grow. This is an opportunity for all of you, not only to witness the Reach but to understand the responsibilities of nobility and the subtle workings of the realm.”

Catelyn stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Ned’s arm. “And remember, Ned, this is a chance to see Jon. Do not underestimate the importance of that. Four moons from now, he will show all that we have worked to teach him, and we will witness the fruits of our care. That alone makes this journey worthwhile.”

Ned nodded, internalizing her words. The journey south would not be for the pleasures of the Tyrells, nor for the indulgences of the court. It would be for the boy they had nurtured, the boy who carried the weight of House Stark and the potential of his secret heritage.

In the weeks that followed, Ned made careful preparations. Maps were studied, routes marked, and Winterfell’s contingents readied. He considered the lessons Jon had learned: swordplay, strategy, diplomacy, and prudence. At Highgarden, these skills would be tested and observed. He allowed himself a rare thought of hope that Jon’s potential would shine, not only for the boy’s sake but for the future of the North and the realm.

Four moons from the day the invitation arrived, Ned, Catelyn, Robb, Theon, and the younger Stark children would ride south. Their journey would be long and taxing, but the purpose was clear: to witness Jon’s growth, to safeguard him, and to understand the delicate balance of power, family, and opportunity that the Reach represented.

And so Ned Stark, ever cautious, ever deliberate, prepared to leave the North behind, if only for a brief time, to ensure that Jon’s talents and future would be observed, nurtured, and guided in a world that would soon demand more from him than any boy had yet faced.

Jon Stark

Jon stepped lightly into the solar, his cloak brushing the polished floor. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, illuminating tapestries depicting great battles of the Reach, knights in shining armor, and roses in full bloom. The scent of jasmine and candle wax mingled with the crisp spring air drifting from the gardens below. Jon’s eyes swept the room with deliberate care. Every detail mattered: the tapestries, the furniture, the subtle posture of those gathered. Olenna Tyrell sat poised in a high-backed chair, her sharp eyes studying him with an intensity he had not encountered before.

“Welcome, Lord Stark,” Olenna said, her voice smooth yet edged with authority. Jon inclined his head respectfully, noting the precision of her speech and the subtle curve of her lips, which hinted at amusement. Beside her, Loras Tyrell stood tall, his hair gleaming in the light. There was a mixture of eagerness and apprehension in the boy’s stance, a reaction Jon cataloged immediately.

Olenna gestured to a set of chairs. “Sit, both of you. We have much to discuss.” Her eyes met Jon’s, assessing, measuring. “Margaery’s twelfth nameday approaches. As is our custom, we shall host a tourney. Knights, squires, and young lords from across the Reach—and from the North, if they so desire—will attend. Your skill, Lord Stark, has reached my ears even here, and I am eager to see it firsthand. You and Ser Loras shall have opportunities to display both strength and strategy.”

Jon’s mind flickered with immediate analysis. The Tyrells were testing him, of course. Not merely his martial skill, but his capacity for observation, his ability to respond with tact, and his understanding of the political currents underlying the Reach’s displays of power. He noted Loras’ subtle frown, quickly masked with a courteous smile, and filed it away.

Olenna continued, “There will be tournaments for squires and young lords, ages eleven to fifteen, with rewards for the victor. Five hundred gold dragons and a horse bred by Willas himself. The display is meant to teach skill, honor, and prudence, and to prepare the next generation of leaders for the realities they shall face.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if to ensure Jon understood the layers beneath the announcement.

Jon absorbed every word. His mind raced through scenarios: the skill of the competitors, the strategic value of alliances formed or strengthened through a tourney, the social lessons to be learned from observation of noble conduct. Olenna was testing him. She wanted to see how he would calculate advantage without appearing greedy, how he would gauge character, and how he might navigate subtle intrigue.

Loras spoke then, voice steady but tinged with curiosity. “The tales of your skill are… not exagarated, Lord Stark.”

Jon’s gaze met Loras’ squarely. “I have trained as I was taught, Ser Loras. You will see more soon enough.” There was no arrogance in his tone, only measured confidence. He understood immediately that Loras would not resent him, despite the inevitability that Jon’s prowess might surpass his own. Loras’ upbringing and sense of honor meant he would meet defeat with determination, not envy. Jon filed that away as a strategic consideration.

Olenna smiled faintly, as if reading Jon’s thoughts. “Your caution is wise. There are lessons here beyond the tilt and the lists. The Reach is a land of opportunity as well as danger, and those who cannot see both are ill-prepared for what comes.”

Jon nodded silently, noting the balance between her warning and encouragement. He cataloged her every word, every gesture, understanding that observation was as much a part of the test as swordplay.

Chapter Text

295 AC

Highgarden

Loras Tyrell

Two moons. That was all it had been, yet to Loras Tyrell it felt as though Jon Stark had been at Highgarden his whole life. Time moved differently with him there—sharper, brighter, more demanding. The days since his arrival were measured not by feasts or hunts, but by the clashing of tourney blades, the press of shields, the burning ache of muscles after hours in the yard.

Loras could still see their first meeting with startling clarity. The quiet way Jon carried himself, the solemnity of his gaze as though he bore the weight of Winterfell in his heart, though he was but a boy of twelve. And then their first spar, steel ringing in the bright Reach sun. Loras had expected to win—he was the Knight of Flowers in the making, already the pride of his father, already called the best of his age. Yet Jon had humbled him with frightening ease, his blade moving like water, smooth and sure. Loras’ sword had been flicked aside as if he were a squire fresh to arms, and before he could recover, Jon’s blunted edge had rested at his throat.

The sting of it lingered. But so too did the strange exhilaration. It was not humiliation Jon had given him, but challenge. Here was someone worth striving against.

In the weeks that followed, Loras pushed himself harder than ever before. He rose before dawn, sparred until his arms trembled, demanded extra drills from the knights who trained him. And Jon did the same, though without the flare of pride Loras often felt in victory. Jon fought as though it were necessity, as though each swing of the sword was a prayer to the gods. There was no arrogance in him. Even when he won—and he almost always won—his face remained calm, unreadable, his tone even.

What surprised Loras most was how quickly the knights of the Reach took notice.

Ser Guyard Morrigen, lean and deadly, had offered Jon instruction one afternoon. What was meant to be a brief lesson turned into a contest that drew half of Highgarden to the yard. The clash had lasted near twenty exchanges, the boy from the North driving the seasoned knight back again and again, his feet steady, his blade sure. Sweat poured down Jon’s face, but his eyes never faltered. When Ser Guyard at last landed a strike that sent Jon sprawling, he had looked down at him with something like disbelief—and respect.

“Another year,” Guyard had said, panting, “and I might not hold you off so easily.”

Loras remembered the hush that fell on the yard after those words. It was not often a knight of Ser Guyard’s stature admitted such a thing. It burned in Loras’ mind still, stoking both admiration and envy.

But the envy never turned to hate. How could it? Jon was not a braggart. He never lorded his skill over others. If anything, he seemed burdened by it, as though it were a gift he had not asked for. And perhaps that was why Loras felt no bitterness. Jon’s victories were not meant to belittle him. They were reminders that greatness was possible, that he too could reach higher if only he worked harder.

Their friendship deepened swiftly. They ate together most days, sparred side by side, rode the fields on long afternoons when the sun dipped golden over the Mander. Jon spoke little of Winterfell, but when he did, it was with a quiet reverence. He talked of the cold winds, of direwolves howling in the night, of the crypts beneath the earth where the Kings of Winter slept. It was a world so far from the gardens and golden fields of the Reach that Loras could scarce imagine it, yet he listened with rapt attention.

In return, Loras told him of Highgarden, of the pageantry of the Reach, of the beauty of its tournaments and feasts. He spoke of songs and knights, of their victories in Robert’s Rebellion, though Jon never seemed as enraptured by glory as most boys their age. Jon asked questions instead—about the supply of grain from the Mander, about the oaths of bannermen, about how House Tyrell balanced loyalty to the crown with loyalty to their people. It startled Loras, sometimes, how he thought more like a lord grown than a boy.

And always, there was Margaery.

Loras had noticed it early, the way her gaze lingered on Jon when she thought herself unseen. His sister was cleverer than most men twice her age, shrewd in ways even their father did not realize. She had long since learned how to wield her beauty as deftly as a blade, but with Jon, it seemed different. Her looks were not practiced nor coy, but curious, thoughtful. As though she were trying to unravel him, to see what lay beneath his Northern reserve.

Jon, for his part, was never improper. He addressed her as Lady Margaery, bowed when required, spoke to her with a respect that bordered on reverence. Yet Loras had seen him glance at her once or twice, swiftly turning away as though ashamed of it. That had unsettled him, at first. She was his sister, and Jon his closest friend. But the unease soon passed. Jon Stark was not like the preening squires who tried to woo her with half-formed verses. He was steadier, older somehow in his soul.

And perhaps, Loras thought, she saw that too.

Still, the thought of what lay ahead consumed him most: the tourney. Lady Olenna had spoken of it only days past. A grand spectacle for Margaery’s twelfth nameday, with knights and lords from every corner of the realm. And more than that—a melee for squires and young lords, those aged eleven to fifteen, with a prize of five hundred gold dragons and one of Willas’ finest horses.

The moment she spoke it, Loras felt his blood quicken. Here was his chance. To prove himself before all of Westeros, to show that he was not merely the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, but a knight to rival any other.

Yet in the quiet of night, as he lay awake, he thought of Jon.

If Jon could nearly best Ser Guyard, what chance did the rest of the realm’s boys have? The heirs of the Reach, the scions of the West, even the brash sons of the storm lords—they would all fall before him. Loras knew it. He had seen him fight, seen him think three steps ahead even in the midst of battle.

And strangely, the thought did not wound him.

It thrilled him.

Because if Jon won, if the lords of Westeros went home speaking not of Loras Tyrell but of Jon Stark, then it would only push him further. Their fates, he felt, were becoming twined. If Jon rose, then so too must he. And one day, when songs were sung of their names, they would not say “Jon Stark was greatest.” They would say “Jon Stark and Loras Tyrell, brothers in arms, unmatched in their time.”

That morning, as the sun rose over Highgarden, Loras fastened his practice sword to his belt. His arms still ached from yesterday’s drills, but he relished the burn. Jon would be waiting in the yard, calm and ready as ever. And Loras would face him, again and again, until the day came when he did not fall.

Until the day came when he could stand at his side not only as friend, but as equal.

Margaery Tyrell

The roses were in bloom again, their perfume drifting through the gardens of Highgarden, sweet and heady in the late morning sun. Margaery Tyrell sat among them, her embroidery frame set across her lap, though her needle had been still for some time. Her eyes strayed often from the silken thread to the practice yard below, where the clash of steel rang sharp and steady.

It had become her habit, these last moons, to sit here while the boys trained. She told herself it was convenience—the best light for her needlework, the softest breeze in the keep—but she knew better. She was here because Jon Stark was here.

He moved like no other boy she had ever seen. His strokes were clean, precise, without wasted effort. He did not whirl or shout as the Reach boys often did, did not boast of his victories or stamp his feet when he lost. He simply fought, each bout as serious as though the fate of kingdoms rested upon it. And when it was over, he bowed, calm as still water.

It unsettled her at first, this Northern solemnity. She had expected Winterfell’s son to be dour, perhaps slow, more wolf than man. Instead, she found him quick of thought, sharp-eyed, his words carefully chosen. He did not chatter like other boys, but when he spoke, people listened—her brothers, the knights, even Grandmother Olenna.

Especially Grandmother Olenna.

Margaery had watched the Queen of Thorns test him, time and again, with sly questions and impossible puzzles. Where Willas might ponder, where Loras might bristle, Jon would simply tilt his head, consider, and answer as though the path had been plain all along. His solutions were not always clever in the manner of riddles, but they were true, and practical, and that was what Grandmother valued most.

He was dangerous, Margaery realized. Not because of his sword, though that was danger enough, but because of his mind. A boy like that could grow into a man whom kings feared.

And she could not help but think, as she watched him disarm Loras for the third time that morning, that such a man would make a fine king.

“Your stitching suffers, little rose,” came a voice sharp as thorns. Olenna sat across from her, a hawk-eyed specter among the flowers. “You’ve pricked the cloth six times in the same place. Are you sewing, or are you stabbing it?”

Margaery flushed and lowered her gaze to the frame. “Forgive me, Grandmother. I was distracted.”

“Mm. Distracted by Northern steel, no doubt.” Olenna’s eyes followed the clamor below. Jon and Loras circled one another again, sweat glistening on their brows. “Our wolf pup fights like he means to eat the garden whole. Best hope your brother learns to bite as sharply.”

Margaery dared a small smile. “Loras is improving. He says Jon forces him to be better.”

“He’d best. A boy grows lazy if all he does is win. Losing stiffens the spine—if he takes the lesson.” Olenna’s gaze flicked back to Margaery, sharp and knowing. “And what of you? Do you take your lessons?”

Margaery folded her hands primly over her lap, though her heart beat quicker. She knew what her grandmother meant, though the question was never asked outright.

She had been groomed for this path all her life: to smile where men frowned, to soothe where they raged, to charm where they doubted. Beauty was her gift, but wit was her weapon. Grandmother reminded her often enough—what good was a pretty flower, if it had no thorns?

And so Margaery had watched Jon Stark. Closely. She listened to how he spoke to servants, to knights, to her father. She marked the weight of his silences, the care he took with each answer. He was not swayed by flattery, nor did he boast of his deeds. But he noticed things. Little things. When Willas’ pain flared on a rainy morning, Jon offered his arm without being asked. When Loras boasted too loudly, Jon let him have his pride, but pressed him harder in the yard. When she spoke of the Reach’s splendor, he asked not of its beauty but of its harvests, its bannermen, its wealth.

He was only twelve, yet he spoke as if he already wore a lord’s mantle.

And that, Margaery thought, was what made him so compelling.

Olenna reached over and tapped her knee. “Do not let your eyes wander too openly, child. Men notice such things. Even boys. Especially boys.”

Margaery inclined her head, though a faint heat rose in her cheeks. “Yes, Grandmother.”

“Good. We’ll have use of him, no doubt, if he proves half the man he promises. But patience, Margaery. Queens are not made in gardens.” Olenna’s tone softened, though her gaze did not. “Your time will come.”

Queens. The word lingered, as it always did.

Margaery had long known her place. Willas would inherit Highgarden. Loras would win glory on the lists. But she—she was meant for crowns. Her grandmother had said so often enough. And if fate was kind, one day she would sit beside a king, her roses entwined with iron thrones.

She looked again to the yard, where Jon’s sword swept in a glittering arc, knocking Loras’ blade from his hand. Her brother stumbled, breathless, yet laughed even as he yielded. Jon offered him a hand up, steady and sure.

A king, Margaery thought. He moves like one already.

The thought thrilled her, though she hid it well. For now, she was only a girl with her needlework, a rose among roses, her gaze demurely cast downward. But her mind was busy, weaving threads of a future as intricate as any tapestry.

The tourney would come in four moons’ time. Lords and knights from across the realm would descend upon Highgarden, songs and banners and splendor enough to dazzle even the crown. And in their midst would be Jon Stark, solemn and unyielding, a wolf among roses.

Margaery wondered who would notice him first.

And she wondered, too, if he had already begun to notice her.

Olenna Tyrell

The old woman sat in her solar, a silver tray of figs and cheese before her, though she ate little. From her chair by the window, she could see part of the training yard below. The wolf pup was at it again, beating Loras as if the boy were some hedge knight’s green squire.

Olenna pursed her lips. Strength, precision, restraint — he had all three, and at an age where most boys had only bluster. Jon Stark was dangerous. Not in the way Robert Baratheon had been, all brute strength and charm, nor like Tywin Lannister, with his coffers and his cruelty. No, this wolf was dangerous because he was steady. He saw further than his years, judged quickly, and struck true.

And Margaery had noticed.

Olenna’s eyes had been sharp in the garden earlier, sharper than her granddaughter perhaps realized. She had seen the way the girl’s gaze strayed toward the yard, the slight quickening of her breath, the smile that touched her lips when the wolf disarmed her brother. A girl’s first fancies, harmless enough in themselves — but Olenna Tyrell did not raise children to be ruled by fancies.

The roses of Highgarden were beautiful, yes, but they had thorns.

When the clamor in the yard subsided, Olenna called for Margaery. The girl came soon enough, cheeks flushed, her embroidery frame set aside. She was growing fast, already poised, already practiced in the soft arts of grace and charm. But Olenna knew well enough what lay beneath the smiles. A girl of eleven, with a heart too easily swayed.

“Sit,” Olenna said, patting the chair opposite her. “And pour the tea, if you please. My hands are too stiff for the pot.”

Margaery obeyed, her movements smooth, careful. She poured, she served, she folded her hands.

“You were watching the yard again,” Olenna said flatly.

A hint of color touched her granddaughter’s cheeks. “I was at my needlework, Grandmother.”

“And your stitches wandered like a drunken knight. Do not play coy with me, girl. You were watching the Stark boy.”

Margaery hesitated, then lowered her gaze. “He is very skilled, Grandmother.”

“Skilled.” Olenna’s voice was dry as old parchment. “That he is. More skilled than your brothers, more skilled than half the grown knights I’ve seen. And clever, too. Clever enough that even I must take care.”

She leaned forward, fixing the girl with her hawk’s gaze. “Do you know what that makes him?”

Margaery shook her head, though her eyes flicked up, cautious.

“Dangerous,” Olenna said. “A boy with a sword and a sharp mind is a boy to be wary of. Useful, yes — as an ally, perhaps even as a friend. But not as a husband.”

The girl flinched, only slightly, but Olenna saw it. Saw the little spark of longing, of girlish fancy. She sighed. “Oh, do not pout at me. You are young yet. You think the world is full of gallant boys who might sweep you off to some fairytale. But you are not meant for fairy tales, child. You are meant for crowns.”

Margaery’s lips parted. “Crowns?”

“Yes, crowns. Iron crowns, golden crowns, crowns that bind kingdoms together.” Olenna’s voice sharpened. “The Stark boy may be skilled, but what does he bring us? Snow and wolves and cold nights. He is second son of a northern lord, and no matter how fine his sword, he has no crown to place upon your head. That, my sweet, is what matters.”

Margaery’s gaze fell to her lap. “And who does, Grandmother?”

Olenna gave a thin smile. “The crown prince of the realm. Joffrey Baratheon. Golden-haired, lion-blooded, heir to the Iron Throne. He is the path you must walk. Not wolves, not winter, but lions and crowns.”

The girl’s brow furrowed faintly, just for a heartbeat, before she smoothed her face into calm. Olenna caught it all the same. “Do not wrinkle your nose. I know the boy’s reputation is yet unwritten, and Robert’s brats may be brats indeed. But listen well: it does not matter what kind of man he is. What matters is the throne beneath him. Thrones do not care for kindness or cruelty. Thrones care for blood, and power, and who sits upon them.”

Margaery’s fingers twisted in her skirts. “But—”

“No buts,” Olenna snapped. “Do you think I waste my time weaving castles in the clouds? I have lived long enough to see too many girls waste their beauty and their youth chasing after love. Love is for singers. Marriage is for kingdoms.”

Silence hung between them for a moment. At last, Margaery whispered, “So what would you have me do?”

Olenna leaned back, her eyes narrowing. “I would have you watch. Listen. Smile. Be pleasant to the wolf, yes — a friend is useful, and allies are not to be scorned. But remember where your eyes must turn. Toward the crown. Toward Joffrey. In time, he must see you as the rose you are, soft and lovely, thorns well-hidden. And when he does, you will be ready.”

The girl swallowed, nodded. “Yes, Grandmother.”

“Good.” Olenna’s voice softened, though the steel beneath it never wavered. “You are clever, child. Cleverer than most. Do not let fancies of dark-haired boys distract you from your purpose. A wolf may be fierce, but a wolf does not wear crowns.”

She reached across the table and patted her granddaughter’s hand. “Your future lies in silk and gold, not fur and snow. Remember that.”

And in her heart, Olenna Tyrell thought: better for Margaery to learn the lesson now, before fancies hardened into something more dangerous. Jon Stark was a wolf to be watched, perhaps even to be used, but he would never be allowed to steal her rose from the path to a throne.

Jon Stark

The morning air of Highgarden was heavy with the perfume of flowers. Jon had not yet grown used to it, no matter how many dawns he woke to find the southern sun spilling over gardens that seemed endless. Winterfell’s scents had been of pine and smoke, damp earth, and snow when it came. Highgarden carried sweetness at every turn, roses and lilies, jasmine and lavender, herbs planted as carefully as the banners that fluttered from its towers.

He stood before Margaery’s chambers, pausing a moment. Servants moved past with baskets of fruit and bolts of linen, each glancing curiously at him. They knew who he was. Lord Stark, second son of the Warden of the North. A wolf among roses, they whispered sometimes, though never within reach of Olenna Tyrell’s ears. Jon had learned to ignore the whispers.

The carved oak doors bore the Tyrell rose, gilded in gold. Jon rapped his knuckles lightly against it. A moment passed before it swung inward, and Margaery stood framed in the light.

She wore a gown of pale green, loose enough to walk freely, and her hair was braided with tiny white flowers. She smiled as though she had been waiting, as though she always knew he would come.

“Are you ready for our walk?” Jon asked, keeping his voice even.

“I was ready before you thought to ask, Lord Stark,” she teased, though her tone was light as summer wind. “I should have gone alone, and left you to your books and blades.”

“I would have found you,” Jon said simply, and her smile deepened, though she quickly turned away to gather a cloak from her maid.

They set off together, guards trailing at a respectful distance. The halls of Highgarden were alive with color, every wall draped in woven flowers or painted with vines that seemed almost to grow from the stones themselves. Jon’s boots echoed against polished marble, and he thought of Winterfell’s rough-hewn floors, the shadows that lingered in its corridors.

“You look as though you miss the grey walls already,” Margaery said softly.

“Perhaps,” Jon admitted. “But the walls of Winterfell never pretended to be anything other than stone. Here, everything pretends to be blooming.”

“Highgarden does not pretend,” she replied with a touch of pride. “It flourishes. Even in winter, our gardens yield fruit. Your North cannot say the same.”

Jon inclined his head. “No. But the North endures. That is its strength.”

She studied him a moment, as though weighing his words, then led him out into the sunlit gardens.

The gardens were a kingdom unto themselves. Fountains spilled into pools where swans glided, orchards bent beneath ripe fruit, and arbors heavy with roses lined the paths. Children of lesser retainers played in shaded corners, their laughter mingling with the hum of bees.

“This way,” Margaery said, drawing him down a narrower path lined with climbing roses. “Few come here. My grandmother says it is a place for thought, not for idle chatter.”

“Then perhaps I do not belong,” Jon said dryly.

“You belong more than most.”

Jon looked at her sidelong, but she was already moving ahead, her skirts brushing against blossoms that leaned toward her as though seeking her favor. He followed, and for a time they walked in silence, save for the soft rustle of leaves.

“Do you ever miss it?” Margaery asked suddenly.

“Miss what?”

“The North. Your family. The air that does not smell of roses.”

Jon breathed deep, catching the sweetness that clung even here. “Every day. But I would not dishonor your house by wishing myself elsewhere while under its roof.”

“You speak like a man twice your years,” she said, amusement flickering across her face. “Most boys would only ask how soon they might leave their lessons to join the tilts or chase pretty girls through the gardens.”

“And what do the girls do?” Jon asked.

“They learn to smile sweetly, to listen as though every word is wisdom, and to hold secrets better than any maester’s raven.”

Jon chuckled softly, but there was weight in her tone, as if she spoke from more than jest.

They turned a corner and came to a wide expanse where the Mander could be glimpsed beyond the walls, broad and glittering in the sunlight. The river’s song carried faintly, promising coolness and freedom.

Margaery sat upon a stone bench carved with vines, patting the space beside her. “Sit, Lord Stark. It is not a sparring yard, but even you must rest.”

Jon obeyed, though his back remained straight, his eyes scanning the gardens as though some hidden danger might emerge. Old habits, forged in Winterfell’s harsher lessons, did not leave him easily.

“Tell me,” Margaery said after a time, “do you ever tire of blades? Must every thought be sharpened like steel?”

Jon considered. “A sword is honest. It does not flatter or deceive. It does only what its wielder commands.”

“Then perhaps you should learn to master words as you do steel,” she countered. “They cut deeper, and leave wounds unseen.”

Jon looked at her, and for the first time he saw not a girl only a few moons younger than himself, but a woman in the making, sharp as the thorns that guarded her house’s rose.

“You may be right,” he said softly.

They rose again, walking toward the outer edge of the gardens where a smaller gate opened onto a path descending to the riverbank. Guards followed, though at a distance. The air grew cooler, scented now with water reeds and damp earth rather than roses.

Jon bent to skim a stone across the river’s surface, watching it skip thrice before sinking. “In the North, rivers are fewer, and often frozen. We race across them on skates when the ice is thick enough.”

“Here, we sail boats and swim when the sun grows too hot,” Margaery said. “Would you dare?”

Jon smiled faintly. “I would dare.”

“Then perhaps, when the day is warmer, we shall see if a wolf can swim as well as he runs.”

They lingered by the water, their words growing slower, less guarded. Margaery spoke of her brothers—Willas’s wisdom, Loras’s pride—and Jon spoke of Robb, of Sansa and Arya, of Bran learning to climb walls too high for sense. He did not speak of Theon save in passing, and she did not press him.

At one point, the wind caught Margaery’s hair, sending strands across her face. Jon reached instinctively, brushing them aside, his fingers grazing her cheek. She stilled, her eyes meeting his, and for a heartbeat the world held no sound but the rush of the river.

Then she laughed lightly, stepping back. “Careful, Lord Stark. You may find roses have thorns after all.”

Jon withdrew his hand, inclining his head. “I have been cut before.”

As the sun dipped lower, they returned toward the keep. The path back wound through trellised arches where vines climbed high, their blossoms spilling in cascades of color. Margaery walked close, her sleeve brushing his.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “we shall go another way. Highgarden has paths enough for a thousand walks.”

“And if we walked them all?” Jon asked.

“Then you would still be a wolf among roses, and I would still be Margaery Tyrell. Nothing would change.”

Jon said nothing, but in his heart he wondered if she was wrong.

When they reached the steps of the keep, she turned to him. “Thank you for today. For listening. For speaking.”

Jon bowed his head. “Thank you for walking with me.”

She smiled once more, then vanished into the halls, leaving Jon alone beneath the fading sun. He lingered, watching the last light gild the towers of Highgarden, and thought of Winterfell’s grey stones. Two worlds, bound together by chance. And he, caught between them, wondered where his road would truly lead.

Margaery Tyrell

The morning had broken warm and clear, as it so often did in the Reach, sunlight spilling like golden wine across the gardens. Margaery Tyrell sat before her looking glass while her maid wove tiny white blossoms into her braid. She studied her reflection with practiced detachment. The flowers were pretty, yes, but pretty was not enough. A rose must always be more than its petals.

Her grandmother’s voice echoed in memory: Men see only what we allow them to see, child. Your smile is your armor, your silence your blade. Learn when to wield each.

She smiled faintly at the memory, then dismissed the maid with a wave. The hour had come. He would knock soon—he always did, punctual as a bell.

And so he did. Three light raps upon the carved oak doors, nothing more, nothing less. Not demanding, not hesitant. Certain.

Margaery rose swiftly, drawing her green gown close, and opened the door herself. There stood Jon Stark, second son of Winterfell, dark-haired and solemn-eyed, as though every step he took carried the weight of some unspoken vow. He was handsome—more than handsome, if she were honest—but handsomeness alone was no prize. She had seen handsome boys before. They swaggered, they boasted, they postured. Jon Stark did none of these things.

And that, perhaps, was what unsettled her most.

“Are you ready for our walk?” he asked, his voice low and steady, neither urgent nor pleading.

“I was ready before you thought to ask, Lord Stark,” she answered lightly, allowing a teasing note into her tone. He must never think her too eager.

When he replied, “I would have found you,” she felt a flutter she did not allow to show on her face.

They walked together through the halls of Highgarden, guards trailing at a distance. Margaery held her head high, aware of the glances from passing servants. Let them whisper. It was no small thing to see the wolf lord walking daily beside her, the rose of Highgarden and the Stark of Winterfell bound in such easy company. It lent her a kind of power, one her grandmother would surely approve of, though she herself was still uncertain how best to wield it.

Jon spoke little as they walked. Silence clung to him like a cloak. Yet his silences were not empty; they were full of thought, full of watchfulness. Margaery had grown up among chatter—Loras’s boasting, Willas’s calm instructions, her cousins’ endless gossip. Jon’s stillness was strange, but compelling.

“You look as though you miss the grey walls already,” she said when his gaze lingered on the stone.

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But the walls of Winterfell never pretended to be anything other than stone. Here, everything pretends to be blooming.”

Margaery almost laughed. Pretends? Highgarden did not pretend. It thrived. Yet she heard no malice in his tone, only the blunt honesty of a boy raised in harsher lands. It stung nonetheless.

“Highgarden does not pretend,” she said, a hint of pride sharpening her words. “It flourishes. Even in winter, our gardens yield fruit.”

“The North endures,” he answered simply.

She studied him in that moment, realizing that he spoke not as a boast, but as truth. His words carried weight. It unsettled her more than arrogance ever could.

They came at last into the secluded garden, the place her grandmother called a refuge for thought. She led him there deliberately, curious whether he would fill the silence or endure it.

When she asked if he missed the North, he admitted it without hesitation. Every day.

Every day.

Something in her tightened. She had expected defiance, or a boy’s eagerness to be free of his father’s halls. Instead, he confessed his longing so plainly it made her heart ache.

“You speak like a man twice your years,” she murmured, meaning it. He was her age, a boy still in name, yet his words carried the gravity of someone older, harder.

“And what do the girls do?” he asked in return.

“They learn to smile sweetly, to listen as though every word is wisdom, and to hold secrets better than any maester’s raven.”

The words slipped out before she thought better of them. But Jon did not laugh. He only studied her, as though he saw more than he should.

She moved quickly on, leading him toward the river where the air was cooler. She spoke of boats, of swimming, and he replied without hesitation, “I would dare.”

A shiver ran through her, though the air was warm.

They lingered by the water. She spoke of her brothers. He spoke of his. The way his voice softened when he mentioned Arya caught her notice. He did not speak of Sansa in the same way. And Theon—always “Theon,” never “my brother.” There was a story there, one she would pry free when the time was right.

At one point, the wind tossed her hair across her face, and Jon reached to brush it aside. His fingers were rough, calloused, yet his touch was gentle. Too gentle. For one heartbeat she forgot Olenna’s voice, forgot everything but the weight of his gaze.

Then she laughed and stepped back, the sound a shield. Careful, Lord Stark. You may find roses have thorns after all.

He inclined his head, retreating, but not abashed. “I have been cut before.”

The words lodged deep within her.

On the way back, she walked closer than she meant to, their sleeves brushing. It was dangerous, this ease, this growing closeness. Her grandmother’s warning returned with renewed clarity: You are meant for a crown, child, not for a wolf cub from the snow.

Tomorrow, she told him, they would take another path. Highgarden had enough for a thousand walks.

And what had he asked? And if we walked them all?

Her answer had been careful, measured: nothing would change. Yet even as she spoke, some treacherous part of her wondered if it were true.

When they reached the steps of the keep, she thanked him. For listening. For speaking.

He bowed his head, thanking her in turn. No boy had ever thanked her for something so simple as walking.

As she turned into the halls, she felt his gaze linger. It should not have pleased her as it did.

That night, long after the lamps were doused, Margaery lay awake in her bed, the faint scent of roses drifting through the open window. She thought of the crown her grandmother spoke of, the one meant for her brow. Joffrey Baratheon, golden-haired and cruel-eyed, was a prize worth winning, her future and her family’s.

And yet her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a boy with solemn grey eyes who had brushed the hair from her cheek beside the river.

A wolf among roses.

She closed her eyes, and wondered if roses could ever tame a wolf.

Winterfell

Ned Stark

The man had died quickly. Ned Stark had seen to that. One clean stroke, the greatsword Ice singing through the cold morning air before it bit deep into the deserter’s neck. The sound was always the same—steel through flesh, the brief silence that followed, then the dull thud of the body crumpling into the snow.

Ned wiped the blade clean with a cloth as he always did, his breath visible in the sharp chill. The northern wind tugged at his cloak, carrying with it the scent of pine and frost. The men of Winterfell stood silent behind him, grim but steady. Beside them, mounted on their own smaller horses, were Robb and Bran. Theon Greyjoy was there too, sitting his horse with all the arrogance of youth, though Ned caught the flicker in his eyes when the deserter’s head had rolled.

Bran had looked away, pale, lips pressed tight. Robb had not. The boy had watched, jaw clenched, as though willing himself to stand as firm as his father. Ned felt pride and sorrow in equal measure. His sons must learn, but gods, he would have spared them this lesson if he could.

A boy must see such things, he reminded himself. If they are to understand the weight of justice, they must know what it means.

He turned his horse toward home.

“Father,” Bran said at last, his voice small. “He looked… afraid.”

“They all do,” Ned replied. His tone was not unkind. “A man who breaks his vows knows what awaits him. Remember that, Bran. The Night’s Watch is not a place for games or glory. It is a burden, and a bond. A deserter is a man who would let all the realm burn for the sake of his own skin. He chose his fate.”

Bran nodded, though his small hands twisted on his reins.

The ride home was quiet, only the crunch of hooves in snow and the distant cry of crows. The silence suited Ned. He had no fondness for chatter on such days. Theon, of course, was less disciplined.

“You ask me, the man was a fool,” the Greyjoy boy said after a time. “Running from his vows, and for what? To freeze in the woods like a rabbit?”

Ned gave him a hard look, and Theon shifted in his saddle. The boy smirked to cover it, but his hands tightened on his reins. Theon Greyjoy had the makings of a fine ward, but he was still ironborn, still quick with his tongue where silence would serve better.

The road bent through the trees, frost-laden branches forming a canopy overhead. It was Robb who first reined in sharply, raising a hand.

“Father,” he said. “There. By the stream.”

Ned followed his son’s gaze. At first he saw only the snow and dark water, but then he spied the shape—massive, grey, still as stone. A wolf. No, more than that.

He dismounted, his boots crunching on the frozen ground as he strode forward. The creature lay half-buried in snow, its head resting on the bank. Its fur was streaked with blood. When he came close enough to see the length of it, his breath caught.

A direwolf.

Ned had not seen one in years, not since he himself had been a boy. They were meant to be gone from the world, vanished south of the Wall save for whispered tales among the Wildlings. Yet here one lay, larger than any hound, her flanks still.

The others joined him, circling at a cautious distance. Bran’s eyes were wide as saucers, while Robb’s mouth hung open. Even Theon looked unsettled.

“She’s dead,” Ned said, crouching beside the beast. He touched the flank—cold. Rigor had not yet set in, but death had claimed her.

“What could kill a direwolf?” Robb asked, awe mixing with disbelief.

Ned followed the line of her body. Her side was pierced deep by an antler, broken off and lodged between her ribs.

“A stag,” Ned murmured. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Bran had gone to his knees, small hands hovering near the beast’s muzzle. “Father,” he said. “Do you hear it?”

Ned frowned, listening. Then he heard it too. A faint whimper.

Robb moved first, tugging at the brush near the she-wolf’s belly. Then he froze, eyes widening.

“Father,” Robb breathed. “There are pups.”

Ned joined him. Nestled against their mother’s body were small shapes, barely old enough to crawl. Tiny, but unmistakable. Five of them, blind still, their fur thick already for their size. They whined softly, rooting against the cold body for milk that would never come.

Bran reached out, his face lighting with wonder. “Direwolves,” he whispered.

Ned’s heart clenched. They would not last long. Without their dam, they would starve. Or be taken by foxes, hawks, worse.

“They will not survive,” Ned said quietly. “Better a swift death now than slow and cruel later.” He reached for his knife.

“No!” Bran’s cry was sharp and desperate. “Father, please!”

Robb stepped forward, boldness in his voice. “There are six,” he said quickly. “Six pups. One for each of us.”

Ned blinked at him.

“Us?”

“The children,” Robb pressed. “Bran, Arya, Sansa,, myself… and Jon, Rickon is still too young to have one. Five Stark children, five direwolves. The gods sent them, Father. They must have.”

Bran nodded furiously, his eyes shining. “Please, Father. I’ll take care of mine myself. I’ll feed him, train him. Please.”

Ned looked from Robb to Bran, then back to the pups. A part of him wanted to say no, to end this before hope set its claws in. Yet something held his hand. Six pups. One for each child. Coincidence, perhaps, but in the North coincidences often hid the will of the gods.

The direwolf was the sigil of House Stark. To find them here, now…

“They will not be easy to raise,” Ned said at last. His voice was stern, though softer than before. “They are not dogs. They will not sit and beg. They will grow large, fierce, and wild. If you are to keep them, you must train them. Feed them. See to them yourselves. The kennelmaster will have no part in it. If they die, they die. That will be on your heads.”

“Yes, Father,” Robb said swiftly, relief flooding his face.

“Thank you, Father,” Bran whispered, stroking the tiny creature nearest to him.

Theon snorted. “Five wild wolves in Winterfell. Just what the castle needs.”

Ned ignored him. His gaze had fallen to a small shape half-hidden near the roots of a tree. He stepped closer, parting the snow. Another pup.

This one was different. Its fur was white as snow, and when it opened its eyes, they glowed red as blood.

An albino.

Ned lifted it carefully. It squirmed in his grasp, small but strong, its whine sharp. It seemed apart from the rest, set aside.

“There are six,” Robb said in surprise.

“Yes,” Ned corrected. “But, This one is not for Winterfell.”

Bran looked up at him, puzzled. “Then who—?”

Ned met his son’s gaze steadily. “For Jon. When next we go south to Highgarden, this pup will go with us. Your brother will have need of it.”

Robb and Bran exchanged glances but did not question him further. They knew Jon’s absence weighed heavy, even if they did not understand the full truth of it.

Ned looked down at the white pup, its red eyes staring back at him unblinking. A chill ran down his spine. There was something fated in this. Something he could not yet name.

“Six pups for six children,” Ned said firmly, his voice carrying over the men who watched. “So the gods have willed it. See that you remember this day.”

Beyond The Wall

Bloodraven

The cold is endless, but through the snows and shadows, movement can still be felt. Eyes unseen by men, yet seeing all, tracking the currents of life that shift like ice on a frozen lake. Six shapes stir, huddled together where the North presses in on all sides, their small cries carried by wind and snow.

The first five are claimed quickly. Gray and mottled, already showing the promise of fierceness and loyalty. Each child of Winterfell will have one, a companion, a shadow of themselves, tethered to the Old Gods’ power. Robb, Bran, Arya, Sansa, Rickon—they will know their wolves intimately, the bond forming from this moment onward.

And the sixth—white as the snows that stretch to the horizon, eyes a red fire in the pale fur. It waits, apart, unclaimed by hands that do not yet know its purpose. The boy destined to receive it is far to the south, in lands green and warm, unaware of the gift that waits for him. The pup will remain here for now, watched carefully, nurtured, its strength growing in preparation.

Bloodraven notes the tension in the air, the small movements of the children as they take ownership of the first five pups. Their laughter rises, bright and fleeting, a sound that carries far in the cold air. Yet the white one stirs less, its gaze fixed beyond the forests, toward a place it has never been and will not see for moons yet to come. It is patient, fierce, and aware, even in its infancy.

The Old Gods whisper through the trees and the frost, threading meaning into every twitch of ear, every small shift of paw. The gifts are not merely for play or companionship—they are bonds, symbols of destiny and protection. Five for the children who remain here, one for the boy who will leave, whose path is already entwined with fate far greater than the North alone.

Bloodraven watches as the wolves are taken toward Winterfell. The sixth pup is left for now, its presence a quiet pulse of potential, a shadow of the future to come. In four moons, when the boy arrives in the Reach, the pup will be given to him, a companion that carries the essence of the North into lands of sun and green. Until then, it will wait.

The wind shifts. Snow swirls around the trunks of the weirwoods and the broken limbs of ancient oaks. Bloodraven’s gaze stretches beyond Winterfell, reaching across rivers, mountains, and plains to where the boy sleeps, studies, trains. The boy’s path is long, full of intrigue and peril, yet the wolf is a tether, a reminder of the home he will one day return to, a fragment of the North that cannot be taken from him.

There is jealousy in the quiet. A power in the boy that rivals even Bloodraven’s own, yet tempered with the favor of the Old Gods and the living gods alike. Patience is required. Observing, waiting. Preparing. The North has made its gift. The boy will make his own. And the wolf will be there when the time comes.

Bloodraven lingers, silent, watching as the children and their wolves disappear into Winterfell, the white pup alone but not lonely, its red eyes reflecting the pale winter sun. The world shifts, threads of fate weaving and unraveling, and he sees, in all of it, the pattern that will shape the years to come. The wolf waits, and so does he.

Chapter Text

295 AC

Essos

Daenerys Targaryen

The streets of Pentos never slept. Even when the sun was high and harsh on the rooftops, the merchants called, the carts clattered, and the scent of salt, spices, and smoke clung to the city like a stubborn veil. From the balcony of Illyrio Mopatis’ estate, Daenerys could see it all—men haggling over bolts of cloth, sailors arguing over coin, children darting through narrow alleys with the reckless abandon of youth. She could hear the cries and shouts and the low, constant hum of the harbor, and yet, amidst it all, there was the steady pulse of danger and opportunity. A city alive, demanding attention, teaching lessons in observation that no classroom could offer.

Inside the cool shadowed halls of the estate, the air carried a different tension. Viserys’ voice cut through it, sharp and unrelenting, echoing in the polished corridors. Daenerys moved quietly, bare feet muffled on the stone, watching as her brother paced and gestured, his temper flaring with each syllable. Illyrio had told them he must leave the city for a month, business of importance, and Viserys had erupted in indignation.

“Business?” he spat, as though the word itself was an insult. “Business does not take precedence over the crown! Over us! Over the Iron Throne that is rightfully ours!” His hands clenched and unclenched, his eyes bright with fury, veins visible at the temples. Daenerys remained at the far edge of the solar, her hands folded, heart quickening yet steady. She did not fear him. She knew him too well to fear, though she recognized the danger in his anger, and she had learned to listen not only to his words but to the meaning behind them.

Viserys was cruel at times, yes. His temper could lash out like fire across the smallest mistake or perceived slight, and he rarely hesitated to strike with words sharper than any blade. Yet there were moments when his anger faltered, when the mask of arrogance dropped just enough to reveal vulnerability. He was, in her eyes, still her brother. Despite his faults, despite the cruelty that sometimes stung and sometimes frightened, her loyalty remained unbroken. She overlooked the harshness because she knew the boy he had once been, before the exile and the loss of the throne had hardened him.

She remembered Westeros in flashes, though only from stories and dreams. The halls of the Red Keep, the snow that fell softly on Winterfell, the smell of pine and hearth fires. Memories of her mother, her father, and the tales of her ancestors filled the quiet moments, coloring her understanding of the world they had lost. There was a part of her that still longed for home, for the lands where her blood ruled, yet she also knew the dangers of longing too openly. Essos was her present, Pentos her reality, and survival required patience and careful thought.

Illyrio’s absence weighed upon her more than she would ever admit aloud. The man was enigmatic, thoughtful, and sometimes baffling, yet there was a constancy in his presence that had become a comfort. He had taken them in, provided for them, and guided them through the subtleties of Pentoshi society, a delicate dance of appearances, favors, and whispered intentions. He had never lied outright, but truths were often half-spoken, layered, and left for the listener to decipher. Daenerys had learned this skill quickly, perhaps faster than her brother, and she watched, learned, and adapted.

Viserys’ anger continued to roll through the solar, a storm contained by the walls but felt in every corner of the estate. “A month!” he roared. “How can he leave for a month? Do you not see, sister? The Iron Throne is ours, and it waits for no man who shirks responsibility!” His voice broke at the edges, revealing a desperation that she alone seemed to notice. His arrogance, his cruelty, and his brilliance were bound together in a dangerous coil. He demanded control, yet he often lacked the patience to wield it wisely.

Daenerys watched, quietly, as the shadows shifted across the polished floor. She had grown used to this rhythm—the anger, the sudden bursts of fire, the moments of rare calm when he seemed almost human. She understood the necessity of patience. Survival in Pentos demanded that one move carefully, observe more than act, and understand that appearances were as vital as truth. Her loyalty to her brother gave her the strength to remain calm, to remain steadfast even when her heart thudded with anxiety.

She moved to the window and let the sunlight warm her face, the golden glow a stark contrast to the tension within the walls. From this height, the city spread endlessly, a maze of rooftops and spires, the harbor glinting where the sea met stone. She thought of Westeros and the throne that had been taken from them, of the years lost, of the family scattered or gone. She thought of the boy she had never met who now ruled there, the men who claimed the crown, and the lies that had shaped history. And still, she did not plot. Not yet. Not for herself. Her thoughts remained on loyalty, survival, and understanding the currents around her, those she could see and those she could only guess.

Viserys’ pacing slowed, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. There was always a pattern to him: the fire would flare, then the silence would descend, leaving him exhausted and quieter than before. Daenerys could anticipate this rhythm, had come to rely on it as a guide for her own movements. When his voice finally fell into mutters, she felt a brief relief. Not because she did not fear him, but because in these quiet moments, she could think, reflect, and prepare.

She remembered her earliest lessons in Essos—lessons not in swordplay or history, but in observation and patience. Illyrio had guided her with gentle correction, showing her that survival required a mind attentive to details, a heart steady amidst storms, and a loyalty carefully applied. These lessons were her armor, invisible yet formidable. Each day in Pentos strengthened her understanding, taught her the subtle art of navigating a world that would kill the unprepared without hesitation.

The estate was quiet now, broken only by the soft clatter of dishes and the low murmur of distant streets. Daenerys walked slowly to her chambers, each step measured, each breath careful. She thought of her brother, of the lessons of survival he had inadvertently taught her through anger and impatience, of the world they had lost, and the world that awaited them beyond Pentos’ walls.

She wondered about the future, the throne, and the family that had been taken from her. Yet she also understood that for now, loyalty was paramount. Viserys was her brother, the only family she had left who bore the blood and name of their house. She would follow, support, and endure, learning what she could, observing what she must, and waiting for the day when survival alone would no longer be enough.

Even as the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the rooftops with gold and shadow, Daenerys’ gaze remained fixed outward, on the bustling city, the lives of its inhabitants, and the invisible threads of power and influence that wound through it all. She was patient, loyal, and watchful. She was a Targaryen, and survival was merely the first step.

The wind shifted through the open windows, carrying the scent of the sea, and with it, a reminder that the world beyond Pentos waited, full of danger and possibility. She would remain, loyal and vigilant, for a month, for a year, for as long as it took. And when the time came, she would be ready to move.

For now, there was only observation, only loyalty, only quiet preparation. The world was vast, and she was small, yet her mind was clear, her heart steady, and her determination unwavering. She would endure. She would survive. She would wait.

Jon Connington

The sun hung low over the city, painting the marble and stone in gold and crimson, and Jon Connington walked the corridors of the keep with measured steps. Every corner, every archway, every torch reminded him that he was far from Westeros, far from the Red Keep he had once called home. Here, in this foreign city by the river, he had a task heavier than any battlefield he had ever faced: shaping a boy into the man who could one day claim the throne.

Young Griff awaited him in the inner chambers, pacing lightly, eyes scanning the maps laid across the table. He had grown taller, straighter, more assured in the past months. There was a spark of arrogance in the way he carried himself, the tilt of his chin, the flicker of amusement when Connington questioned him. A boy raised to believe he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms could not help but believe in his own brilliance, but Jon knew that such arrogance had to be tempered, guided, shaped into strategy rather than pride.

“Your formations,” Jon said, voice low but firm, “have improved. But strategy is more than moving men across a board. It is understanding the mind of your opponent, predicting the chain of decisions before they are made, and knowing when to strike and when to wait.”

Griff leaned on the table, eyes scanning the cities, rivers, and mountain passes with unnerving precision. “I understand, Ser. The obvious move is rarely the correct one. If an enemy approaches the estuary, I would anticipate their assumptions, exploit them, and shape the battlefield to my advantage.”

Jon studied him carefully. The boy was clever, cunning even, but he still lacked patience. “Cunning alone will not suffice. You must see beyond even the second layer. Three moves ahead, always. You cannot afford to assume your enemy will err, only prepare for every possibility.”

Griff’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Then I will make them err, Ser. But yes, I understand your meaning.” The arrogance in his voice was subtle, but Jon noticed. It could serve him, or it could undo him. He would have to watch carefully.

The lesson moved to the courtyard. Jon observed Griff spar with the men under his tutelage. Each swing of his sword was deliberate, precise, yet it was clear that while his technique was solid, it was not exceptional. The boy relied on calculation and anticipation more than raw skill. Jon had long ago realized that Griff’s strength lay not in the sword, but in his mind. He watched as Griff parried a blow, sidestepped another, then delivered a controlled strike that unbalanced his opponent. The boy’s posture never faltered; his mind was always three steps ahead.

Jon approached the boy quietly, placing a hand on the hilt of his own sword. “Do you see the difference between knowing the technique and understanding the outcome? A sword in a skilled hand is only useful if the wielder thinks faster than the opponent.”

Griff nodded, eyes bright. “I see. It is not only the strike, but the thought behind it.”

“Exactly,” Jon said. “Every victory, every maneuver, must have purpose. And every decision must account for consequences unseen.”

Later, when the courtyard was empty, Jon and Griff returned to the map chamber. The boy traced rivers and passes, considered castle positions, and suggested contingencies for every possible scenario. Jon allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The boy was far beyond most of his age, but that brilliance needed tempering. If Griff were to face real men, real lords, real armies, his arrogance could be his undoing.

“You will need more than skill and strategy,” Jon said, leaning over the table, “you will need diplomacy. Allies, favors, promises, loyalty. A king cannot conquer alone. Even the greatest armies bow to the influence of a well-placed word or a timely gesture.”

Griff’s smirk returned. “I understand, Ser. But I imagine a king’s words are only as strong as his armies and his mind combined.”

Jon allowed the faintest nod. “True. But never underestimate the subtle power of perception, of influence, of knowing when to bend and when to stand firm.”

Hours passed in discussion of politics, history, and war. Griff asked questions, some naive, some pointed, all revealing a mind quick to learn and confident in its conclusions. Jon reminded himself to allow room for mistakes; the boy needed to feel the weight of consequence, not just the satisfaction of correct answers.

As dusk fell, Jon walked with Griff to the balcony overlooking the city. The river shimmered under the setting sun. Jon could see the pride in the boy, the certainty in his stance, and the flicker of arrogance that would both serve him and challenge him. Griff spoke of Westeros, of battles won and lost, of lords and alliances, his tone a mixture of confidence and impatience. Jon listened, weighing each word, considering how much of it was truth and how much the youthful certainty of a boy raised on stories of kings and conquest.

“You carry yourself well, Griff,” Jon said quietly. “But remember, a crown is heavy. And even the most brilliant mind must learn patience.”

The boy inclined his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if measuring the truth in Jon’s words. “I will bear it, Ser. And I will prove worthy of it.”

Jon allowed a long moment of silence. He knew the boy believed it, and that was enough for now. Training would continue, lessons would continue, and Griff would grow sharper, more cunning, more aware. But always, Jon would watch, a sentinel guarding not only the boy’s path but the fragile line between confidence and arrogance, between preparation and hubris.

Night fell, and the candles flickered, casting long shadows across maps and walls. Jon walked the corridors once more, reflecting on the months of instruction and the progress the boy had made. Griff was smart, ambitious, capable—and dangerously self-assured. But if properly guided, if tempered and corrected, the boy could become everything Westeros had lost: a ruler not only of armies, but of minds and hearts.

And Jon Connington would ensure that every lesson, every misstep, every spark of brilliance and arrogance alike, shaped the boy into the man he needed to be: a king.

Aegon Targaryen

The city beyond the river sprawled endlessly, towers and spires catching the sunlight as though daring anyone to question their grandeur. Young Griff walked the balcony of the keep with his back straight, chin lifted, and eyes scanning the streets below with a measure of quiet satisfaction. He had been told all his life that he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell’s child, the heir that should have been. Most boys might have faltered under the weight of such claims, but Griff carried it with a confidence born of certainty—and a subtle arrogance that sometimes made even Jon Connington pause.

Today, as he passed the inner courtyard, he noticed the trainees practicing sword drills. Griff’s own swordsmanship was above average, certainly better than most boys his age, but he knew it lacked the raw brilliance of a natural fighter. That did not bother him. Strength of mind, cunning, and strategy mattered far more. A king could always employ swordsmen; a king with foresight could shape entire wars with nothing but a plan and a well-placed army.

Inside, Jon Connington awaited, scrolls and maps spread out across a large table. Griff leaned casually against the edge, casting a critical eye over the arrangements.

“Today we discuss tactics,” Connington said, voice steady, “and the logic behind war. Your drills are improving, but a man who cannot think beyond the swing of his sword is no better than a child with a stick.”

Griff smirked slightly. “I’ve noticed most children with sticks tend to get themselves killed,” he said smoothly, eyes glinting. “I imagine the same principle applies to armies.”

Connington raised an eyebrow, not displeased, but thoughtful. Griff continued, tracing the rivers and mountain passes with a finger. “If an enemy lands here,” he said, pointing to the estuary, “they will assume they can take the port and march inland unopposed. But a smart commander will consider that the defenders might anticipate such a move. If I were defending, I would leave a token force at the river, hidden reserves at the crossing, and create the illusion of weakness.”

Connington leaned back, hands folded behind his head. “And if your enemy anticipates your anticipation?”

Griff smiled faintly, a spark of arrogance flickering across his expression. “Then I would have expected them to do exactly that. That is why a good plan always has layers, traps within traps. A single misstep could turn a battle, and I would ensure I am always two steps ahead.”

The tutor’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. Connington knew the boy’s confidence bordered on cockiness, but the reasoning, the clarity of thought, the tactical awareness—these were rare. Griff’s arrogance, if unchecked, could make him dangerous, but paired with intellect, it made him formidable.

Later, the training yard called. Wooden dummies and a few novice fighters awaited. Griff lifted his practice sword with a flourish, adjusting the grip with care. His swings were precise, his footwork measured, but the other trainees quickly discovered that while he was skilled, he was not untouchable. A few strikes found their mark, and Griff felt the sting of a lesson in humility. Yet, his mind raced ahead, anticipating counterattacks, repositioning, calculating outcomes. The physical spar was only a part of the lesson; the mental game was everything.

A young trainee lunged at him, sword extended. Griff sidestepped easily, blocking the blow with a light parry, and countered with a measured strike that grazed the boy’s shoulder. He stepped back, offering the smallest of bows, letting his smirk betray a hint of teasing. “Not bad,” he said lightly, “but think two moves ahead next time.” The boy’s face flushed with frustration and awe. Griff reveled slightly in it—not cruelly, but with the self-assuredness of someone who knew he was meant for more than these minor skirmishes.

By afternoon, Griff retired to the map room once more, thinking through scenarios that might unfold if he were to return to Westeros. He imagined alliances, betrayals, and the exact timing required to turn the tide of war. Even a slightly inexperienced army could be outmaneuvered with sufficient cunning, and Griff found satisfaction in these mental exercises. Every calculation, every predicted move, reinforced the confidence that had been instilled in him: he was not just a boy, he was the rightful heir.

As dusk approached, Connington entered silently. “You have grown clever, Griff,” he said. “But remember: arrogance without caution is a knife pointing at your own throat. Do not allow confidence to blind you.”

Griff inclined his head slightly, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “I know the danger, Ser. But there is no harm in enjoying the view from the top before you climb, is there?”

Connington said nothing, only regarded him with the quiet patience of a man who had seen countless heirs rise and fall. He had already noted Griff’s intelligence, but also his natural tendency to presume superiority. It could serve him well or doom him; time would reveal which.

That evening, Griff practiced alone. His sword danced through the air, precise yet not breathtakingly skilled. The difference now lay in the mind behind the blade. He imagined battles, political intrigue, the weight of a crown, and the countless decisions a king would have to make. He had been raised to think beyond strength, to see multiple moves ahead, to anticipate and manipulate outcomes. And though his body was still learning the rhythm of true combat, his mind was sharp, calculating, and unrelenting.

Connington watched from the shadowed balcony, a silent sentinel. He knew the boy’s arrogance might cause trouble one day, but he also knew that such confidence, paired with intellect, could produce a ruler unlike any Westeros had seen in generations. Griff believed himself ready, though the road was long and dangerous, filled with enemies unseen and traps unknown. And yet, even in that uncertainty, he felt no fear—only the certainty that he was destined to claim what had been promised.

Night fell, and Griff retired to his quarters, mind still turning over strategy, diplomacy, and the vast web of alliances he would someday command. He slept lightly, dreams filled with battles, councils, and the relentless calculation of every man and woman who might oppose him. Even in slumber, he was alert, ever plotting, ever learning, ever preparing to prove that the boy who was the Targaryen heir could outthink, outmaneuver, and outlast them all.

Beyond The Wall

Bloodraven

Far beyond the Wall, in the cold and shadowed forest where the snow never ceased and the wind carried whispers of ancient power, Bloodraven watched. The world stretched before him in threads, in currents of time and possibility, the flow of lives intersecting in ways few could see or understand. Across the sea, across lands foreign to most men, threads of ambition, of danger, of hope, wove themselves into the tapestry he observed.

Jon Stark’s thread burned brighter than most. Even from this distance, even through the twisting patterns of fate, the boy’s mind and body radiated potential, a combination of intellect, skill, and the subtle favor of forces older than crowns or kingdoms. Yet, even as he watched the boy’s growth, the play of shadows in the east drew his attention elsewhere. A thread, carefully hidden but pulsing with ambition, caught his gaze.

Young Griff. The boy who believed himself heir, who carried the name of Targaryen blood, whose upbringing in Essos had been meticulous, disciplined, carefully directed. Bloodraven observed the pride in his posture, the spark of arrogance in his eyes, the ease with which he parsed strategy and politics alike. A mind trained, a mind sharp, a mind willing to bend others to its will. It was not Jon’s thread that filled him with concern—Jon’s path was already illuminated with promise—but this other, this hidden claimant, could alter the balance in ways unforeseen.

The boy moved among his mentors, among Jon Connington and Illyrio Mopatis, absorbing their lessons with rapid precision. Bloodraven’s sight allowed him to perceive the subtle calculations, the planning behind every gesture. The boy was clever, certainly. He understood warfare and politics, strategy and manipulation. Yet there was a arrogance beneath it, the kind that could blind a man when the tides of reality shifted. He would not falter, Bloodraven thought, but he might misjudge. Misjudgment was dangerous when one aimed for crowns that were not truly one’s own.

The threads of Essos intertwined with the threads of Westeros, and Bloodraven traced them with care. The boy’s rise, guided carefully by Jon Connington and Illyrio, could bring chaos if it collided with Jon Stark’s path. The boy would learn, but would he temper his ambition with caution? Would he recognize the subtle currents of loyalty, of strategy, of alliances that could crush him if ignored? Bloodraven did not know. All he knew was the potential for catastrophe, the possibility that this Blackfyre claimant could one day oppose the boy who would wield the favor of the Old Gods, the boy who would become a Stark and a king in his own right.

Even as he pondered, he glimpsed the lessons being taught, the maneuvers across tables, maps, and practice yards. The boy’s intelligence was undeniable, but Bloodraven noted the gaps, the impulses, the overconfidence that could lead to errors. A true king understood more than tactics; a true king understood the hearts of men, the weight of history, the subtle art of timing. Would this boy, trained in secrecy and nurtured with ambition, understand those things in time? Or would his brilliance become his undoing, a sword turned inward, a danger to those he believed allies?

Bloodraven’s vision drifted back to Jon Stark, to the Reach, to Highgarden, to the boy who  grew under Catelyn and Ned Stark's watchful care, under the tutelage of loyal men, shaped by necessity and survival. That boy, unlike the other, was tempered by hardship, by responsibility, by reality itself. The contrast was stark, and Bloodraven’s lips twitched in what might have been a shadow of a smile—or a frown. The threads were tangled now, two potential kings moving toward destinies that could collide. One was certain, one was carefully coached, one was aware of his limitations, and one might be blind to them entirely.

And yet, even as he considered the danger, even as he recognized the potential for a clash, Bloodraven felt the thrill of watchfulness. The game was unfolding, centuries of power, prophecy, and blood converging in threads so delicate they could snap with a single misstep. He observed alliances forming, lessons taught, plans laid, and he measured the boy’s mind against the boy in Winterfell. One was growing in strength, in skill, in wisdom beyond his years; the other was being molded, disciplined, taught to believe, taught to claim.

It would take time. It would take patience. And when the moment came, when these threads crossed in ways no man yet imagined, the outcome could change the face of Westeros forever. Bloodraven did not fear for himself. His concern was different. His envy, if such it could be called, was tempered by understanding, by foresight. Yet, he acknowledged the truth: Young Griff was dangerous, not merely to those who opposed him, but to the boy who would one day carry the weight of ice and fire.

The wind whispered through the forest, carrying the scent of pine, snow, and the unseen power of the land. Bloodraven’s one good eye shifted to the north, to the shadows beyond the Wall, to the threads he had been watching for decades. And then he looked east, to Essos, to the boy who would someday sit in a throne he did not yet hold. There was potential there, brilliance, ambition, and a hint of recklessness. The kind of recklessness that could either destroy or create empires.

And so he watched. He waited. He considered how to protect Jon Stark from the unseen threats weaving their way through the world, and how to use the subtle threads of fate to guide the boy toward his destiny. Griff would rise, that much was certain. And when that day came, when ambition met destiny, Bloodraven would be ready.

But he would not be pleased to see the boy wield the kind of power that might rival his own.

Chapter Text

295 AC

Highgarden

Jon Snow

The dream came upon him without warning, sudden as a storm breaking across a still sea. One moment Jon lay beneath the soft canopy of his bed in Highgarden, the faint perfume of roses drifting through the open window, the chirp of night insects humming in the dark. The next, he was no longer himself.

He was running.

Not on two legs, but four.

The world stretched before him in wild clarity. The ground thudded beneath his paws with each stride, a rhythm of strength and speed unlike anything his waking body had ever known. The scents struck him first: moss slick with dew, pine needles sharp as knives, the faint coppery tang of a rabbit hiding in its burrow, the clean bite of cold water rushing over stones. Every smell was distinct, layered atop one another in a symphony of life, and Jon could separate them without thought.

The night air rushed through thick white fur—his fur. He did not wear it like a cloak. It was him. His muscles coiled and released with power, carrying him swift and sure through the familiar woods. For it was Winterfell around him, not Highgarden. The old godswood rose up in its solemn hush, the black pool glimmering at its heart, the ancient weirwood looming with its face of blood-red leaves and solemn eyes.

And he was not alone.

Five shadows ran with him. Five direwolves, still pups, their eyes catching the moonlight. He knew them, though he had never seen them before. Their shapes burned in his chest with recognition he could not explain. One, grey and swift, darted ahead with effortless grace. Another, darker and fiercer, snapped at its heels with the reckless play of sibling rivalry. A leaner wolf slunk low, its cunning watchful even as it loped beside him. A smaller one bounded with boundless energy, every stride a tumble of joy. And the last of them biggest moved with slow, commanding weight, its presence felt more than seen.

They were bound together. He did not know how, only that it was true. Blood tied them. Blood, and something older.

The pack turned toward the heart tree. Jon followed, his paws whispering across the frozen earth. He came to the pool, its surface still as glass. Drawn by an instinct beyond thought, he lowered his head and peered into the water.

The reflection should have been his own dark hair, his grey Stark eyes.

Instead, crimson eyes glared back at him.

The reflection was a direwolf—white as fresh-fallen snow, its eyes burning red like coals in the dark.

It moved as he moved, mirrored perfectly, and in that moment Jon knew, with terrible certainty, that this was no other. It was him.

A growl rumbled in his throat. His teeth bared without thought, lips curling back to reveal fangs. The sound startled him—it was his voice, and yet not.

The red eyes in the water seemed to flare brighter, as if some unseen fire smoldered within them. The pool rippled, distorting the reflection, turning it into something monstrous, something watching.

Then, with a shudder, Jon awoke.

His breath came hard and ragged, sweat cooling on his skin despite the warm Reach night. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the furious hammer of his heart. The dream clung to him, sharper than any he had ever known. Dreams usually faded into mist by morning, but this one remained whole, carved into his memory with cruel precision. He could still smell the damp moss. He could still feel the earth beneath his paws. He could still see those red eyes staring back at him.

Jon sat upright in the dim chamber, staring at nothing. He thought of telling someone—Loras, perhaps, or even Maester Lomys. But the words stuck in his throat. Some instinct whispered that this was not for others. This was his and his alone, a secret that speaking aloud would somehow cheapen, lessen, or worse—invite something he was not ready to face.

So he swallowed it down, as he did with so many things.

By dawn, he was dressed for training.

The yard of Highgarden was alive as ever with the clang of steel and the shouts of squires. The sun poured down golden on the rose banners that fluttered from the battlements. Jon strode into the practice ground with his wooden sword in hand, his movements quiet, deliberate. He felt different this morning—lighter, sharper, as if the dream had awoken something in him.

Loras Tyrell waited across from him, already flushed with eagerness. He was a year older than Jon, his dark curls damp with sweat, his smile bright with boyish pride.

“You will not best me this time, Jon,” Loras said, twirling his sword in one hand. His words carried both challenge and warmth.

Jon inclined his head. He gave no boast, no retort.

The bout began.

Loras came fast, as he always did, yet now his strikes had become quicker, more accurate and showy, the product of long drills and restless energy. Jon parried cleanly, each movement efficient, economical, as though he wasted nothing—not breath, not strength, not thought. Their blades cracked together, the sound echoing across the yard. Loras pressed forward, attacking in a flurry. Jon yielded ground, step by step, his guard unbroken, eyes calm.

And then, just as suddenly, Jon struck back.

A flick of the wrist turned one of Loras’s swings aside. In that heartbeat of imbalance, Jon’s blade snapped forward—one strike to the ribs, another to the leg, quick and sure. Loras stumbled, off balance, and Jon’s sword was at his throat before he could recover.

The yard erupted with cheers and laughter. Some of the knights chuckled among themselves, impressed despite their pride.

Loras dropped his sword with a groan, but his grin returned almost instantly. “Seven hells, Jon. Do you ever tire of making me look a fool?”

Jon lowered his blade, offering him a hand up. “You’re improving. That one lasted longer.”

It was true. Loras had grown quicker, sharper, more cunning. But where Loras fought with fire, Jon fought with ice—cold, steady, unyielding.

Their friendship had only grown deeper for it. Jon respected Loras’s spirit, and Loras, though often bruised in pride, respected Jon’s quiet mastery.

But the yard was not done with him yet.

“Lord Stark!”

The voice carried across the training ground. A knight, older than most, with hair streaked with grey, stepped forward with a wooden sword in hand. “If you’ve still strength left, face me.”

Jon turned, nodding. His muscles still hummed from the first match, but his heart quickened at the challenge. This was no boy. This was a man who had seen real battle.

They squared off, the crowd quieting in anticipation.

The knight came cautiously at first, his strikes probing, testing. Jon matched him, every block measured, every step calculated. He waited, studied, let the rhythm reveal itself.

Then the knight pressed harder. His blows came heavier now, faster, each one carrying the weight of years. Jon’s arms shook with the strain, his guard barely holding. He yielded ground, sweat stinging his eyes. Still he endured, his mind working furiously, searching for a pattern, an opening.

For a time, he nearly had it. He saw the man’s shoulders shift before the strike, the way his balance shifted just so. He began to anticipate, to counter. His sword flicked out, striking close, so close.

But the knight was no boy. A feint drew Jon’s guard wide, and the man’s sword came down from the other side with sudden, brutal force. The blow knocked Jon sprawling into the dirt, his blade flying from his grasp.

The yard roared its approval.

Jon lay on the ground, chest heaving, frustration burning in him like a brand.

The knight offered a hand, hauling him up. “Well-fought, my lord. You’ve the makings of the greatetst swordsmen. With time.”

Jon nodded silently. He hated losing. Yet even in his bitterness, he was already replaying every moment, every error. He would learn. He always learned.

Loras clapped him on the shoulder, grinning despite his own defeat. “By the Mother, Jon, I thought you had him. You’ll get him next time.”

Jon managed a faint smile. But in his heart, he thought not of the knight, nor of defeat.

He thought of the dream.

Of red eyes staring out of the water, unblinking.

The training yard slowly emptied, the clamor of wooden swords giving way to the softer hum of servants carrying buckets of water and armfuls of practice gear back to their places. Sweat soaked Jon’s tunic, dirt clung to his hands and knees, and his shoulder throbbed from the final blow that had sent him sprawling.

But his mind was sharper than ever.

Every mistake replayed itself with merciless clarity: the half-step too slow, the guard held too high, the way he allowed himself to be baited into a feint. He had almost had the knight—almost. The thought festered like an itch he could not scratch.

Jon collected his discarded sword, brushing dirt from its edge. As he rose, he caught sight of them.

The Tyrells.

Lady Olenna sat beneath the shade of a trellised arbor at the edge of the yard, her chair cushioned, her cane resting against one knee. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, had not left the practice once. To her right stood Margaery, her posture graceful, hands folded before her skirts, though Jon noted how her gaze lingered longer than propriety demanded. She did not watch as an idle girl watching play. She studied.

Willas had joined them as well, seated near his grandmother, his twisted leg propped comfortably, his face attentive. Loras, flushed from his own exertions, had darted to their side the moment his bout ended, gesturing animatedly as he recounted the fight, no doubt painting himself in as favorable a light as possible.

Jon caught only snippets as he passed the benches to fetch water.

“…quicker now than last month, did you see?” Loras insisted.
“Quicker, aye,” Willas said, his tone gentler, “but still reckless.”
And Olenna, her words carrying clearly across the yard: “Reckless is better than timid. Jon was not timid. He watches. He learns.”

Jon’s chest tightened, though whether in pride or unease he could not say. Lady Olenna Tyrell did not waste words lightly. Praise from her lips was no small coin.

Yet praise brought no comfort. Not when defeat still burned so bitterly.

Later, as the sun dipped low, Jon walked alone through the shaded paths of Highgarden. The roses glowed crimson and gold in the fading light, their scent cloying and sweet. He found solace in the quiet, though the yard still replayed itself behind his eyes.

The dream haunted him as well, slipping back into thought when he least expected it. He remembered the feeling of the earth beneath paws, the scent of cold air, the five wolves running at his side. He remembered the reflection—the white fur, the eyes red as blood.

What did it mean?

Jon could not say. But he knew, deep in his marrow, that it was no ordinary dream. The North clung to him still, even here in the heart of the Reach. Winterfell’s godswood had called to him across leagues, across waking and sleeping.

He stopped before a fountain, the water spilling clear and silver over carved stone. For a moment, he almost bent to peer into it, to see what face might look back. He clenched his jaw and turned away.

Best not.

Later that day, Loras found him on his way to the Godswood, still buzzing from the day’s bouts.

“You nearly had him,” Loras said, dropping onto the bench beside Jon. His voice brimmed with an eagerness that was almost childlike, though he was but a year older. “I swear it, you had him. Another few weeks, another few turns with the knights, and you’ll have every man in this castle at your feet.”

Jon shook his head. “I lost.”

“You learn more from losing,” Loras countered with conviction, repeating some knight’s wisdom he had no doubt heard in training. “Besides, did you not see the look on Ser Robar’s face when you forced him back? He was sweating. Truly sweating. No squire has ever made him sweat before.”

Jon allowed himself the faintest smile. “Perhaps.”

“Not perhaps. Certainly.” Loras grinned, leaning back. “And one day we’ll ride in tourneys together, the both of us. We’ll unseat half the realm between us. Imagine it, Stark and Tyrell, side by side.”

Jon said nothing to that. His thoughts lingered on Olenna’s eyes in the yard, watching, weighing. He thought of Margaery’s gaze as well—bright, unreadable, like sunlight playing on water. The Reach was a place of plots and games, of words layered with meaning. Jon was no fool. Every step he took was being measured.

He must prove himself not only with a sword, but with his mind.

The dream whispered again at the edges of his thoughts, the red eyes burning. Jon clenched his fists, resolve hardening in him.

He would grow stronger. He would sharpen his skill until no knight could best him, until no courtier could outwit him. Whether dream or omen, he would be ready.

Always ready.

That night, he wrote to Robb. He had not sent a letter in weeks, though he knew he should. Quill scratching across parchment, Jon told his brother of his training, of the Reach’s beauty, of the roses and the endless feasts. But he wrote nothing of the dream, nothing of the red-eyed wolf. Some things words could not hold.

When the letter was sealed, he stared long at the candle flame beside him. The pack of wolves ran again in his mind’s eye, silent and swift. He felt them, as real as the weight of the sword at his side.

One day, perhaps, he would understand.

But for now, he kept it close, like a hidden blade as he arrived in the Godswood.

Margaery Tyrell

The corridors of Highgarden hummed with their usual afternoon rhythm: servants hurrying with trays of fruit and wine, maids carrying baskets of linens, the faint clatter of hooves from the stables beyond the walls. But Margaery Tyrell barely noticed any of it. Her mind was fixed on one thing—or rather, one boy.

Jon Stark had not come.

For nearly a month now, he had never once missed their walks through the gardens. They had made it their custom, almost without speaking of it. After training with Loras and the knights, after lessons with Maester Lomys, he would appear outside her chambers at dusk, a slight smile tugging at his lips, and ask if she were ready. Together they would wander beneath the roses and across the lawns until the sky burned orange and violet with sunset.

But tonight, the hour had passed, and Jon had not come.

Margaery told herself she was not worried. Not truly. But there was an unfamiliar hollow in her chest, an ache she did not wish to name. He would not forget—Jon Stark was not careless. Then where?

At last, she gathered her skirts and set out to find him. She checked the training yard first, though she half-knew he would not be there; no clang of swords rang out, no grunts of sparring knights. She peeked into the stables next, wondering if perhaps he had gone to see the horses, but the grooms shook their heads.

A strange thought came then, unbidden. Could he be in the godswood?

The idea startled her. The little grove Highgarden kept was nothing like the great weirwoods of the North she had heard of—only a small cluster of ancient oaks and elms gathered in a quiet corner of the castle, where soil had been carted from older groves to coax the trees into growth. And at its heart, the pale trunk of a heart tree, its carved face faded by centuries but still faintly visible.

The Tyrells rarely visited. Few in the Reach prayed to the Old Gods. Yet something pulled her feet there now.

The air grew cooler as she slipped beneath the trees, the noise of Highgarden fading behind her. Leaves whispered overhead, and the scent of moss and earth was stronger here, untamed by the perfumes of roses and lilies.

And there he was.

Jon Stark knelt before the heart tree, his dark head bowed, his hands resting on his thighs. The pale bark gleamed behind him, its ancient red eyes watching as if with quiet judgment. For a moment, Margaery did not move. The sight was… unsettling, yet beautiful.

He looked as though he belonged here, more than he belonged in the marble halls and flowered courtyards of Highgarden. The stillness of the grove seemed to wrap around him, and the boy she had sparred with in wit, the boy who outclassed her brother in the yard, seemed suddenly older, stranger.

Her slipper caught a twig, and it snapped. Jon’s head lifted. His grey eyes met hers.

“Lady Margaery,” he said softly.

She stepped closer, trying not to show her unease. “You forgot our walk.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I am sorry. The gods… called to me.”

“The gods?”

He gestured toward the heart tree. “The Old Gods. I come here when I need silence.”

Margaery hesitated, then sat beside him on the grass, smoothing her gown as she did. The ground was cool, damp with the day’s shade.

“You pray to trees?” she asked, half teasing, half curious.

Jon did not bristle. Instead, he looked at the face carved into the heart tree. “Not to trees. Through them. The Old Gods are in the roots and the rivers, in the wind and stone. The weirwoods are their eyes. When a Northerner prays, he speaks beneath those eyes, and the gods hear.”

“And they answer?”

“Not in words.” He shook his head. “But you feel them. Sometimes like a weight on your chest, other times like a whisper in the leaves. They watch. They judge.”

Margaery studied the red eyes in the pale bark. To her, they seemed eerie, almost grotesque. And yet, sitting beside Jon, she felt… something. Not fear, not exactly. But a sense of being seen.

“Here in the Reach,” she said, “we have the Seven. Each god with their face—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior. They are meant to guide us. But they are far away. You light a candle, you say a prayer, and then… nothing. Only silence.”

Jon’s gaze was steady. “And you wish for more?”

The question caught her off guard. She looked away quickly, though her voice came softer than she intended. “Perhaps. The Old Gods sound… closer. Less lofty, less distant.”

“They are,” Jon said simply. “When I prayed in Winterfell’s godswood, I felt them all around me. As if the trees themselves remembered everything, every word spoken beneath them. Here, it is fainter. But still there.”

Margaery glanced at him then, at the quiet certainty in his tone. There was no arrogance, no need to convince. He believed, utterly.

“I think I would like that,” she admitted, her fingers curling in the grass. “To know the gods watched me, not from some heaven above, but here, now. To feel it.”

Jon’s mouth curved into the smallest of smiles. “Perhaps they watch you even now.”

The words sent a shiver down her spine.

They sat together for a long time, the silence between them companionable. Margaery found herself stealing glances at Jon—the slope of his shoulders, the way the wind teased his dark hair, the calm that radiated from him even in stillness.

How strange, she thought. In all the tales sung of lords and knights, the gods were always distant, tools to bless or curse. Yet with Jon, the divine felt immediate, tangible. He made her long for something she had never thought to want: a faith that truly answered.

And beneath that longing, something else stirred. A warmth, a pull, every time his grey eyes met hers. Margaery was not foolish; she knew her grandmother’s ambitions, knew her own place as a pawn in The Game of Thrones. Yet here, in the shade of the godswood, she found herself wishing—just for a moment—that she could choose for herself.

At last, Jon rose, brushing soil from his knees. “Shall we walk now? I owe you that much.”

Margaery smiled, rising with him. “Yes. Let us.”

They left the godswood side by side, the sound of leaves fading behind them, replaced by the soft trickle of fountains and the distant laughter of courtiers. But the air seemed different now, heavier with meaning.

As they strolled along the garden paths, their hands brushed once, then again. Neither spoke of it. But Margaery felt her heart quicken.

The Old Gods might not speak in words. Yet she thought, perhaps, they had spoken to her tonight.

Jon Stark

The godswood’s hush clung to Jon as he walked with Margaery out into the gardens. It was as though he carried a piece of the silence with him, a calmness in his chest, though the world beyond had returned to its usual splendor. Highgarden in the evening was a place of endless scents and colors—roses spilling down trellises, vines coiling up pale stone walls, the air sweet with honeysuckle and mint. Lanterns glowed golden along the paths, lit early to chase away the deepening dusk.

Margaery walked at his side, her gown brushing the gravel, her hair catching what remained of the sun. She smiled often, though it was not the practiced smile she wore before the lords and ladies of the Reach. This one was softer, almost secret.

Jon found himself glancing at her more than he wished to admit. Each time, she seemed to be looking at him already.

“You were very quiet in the godswood,” she said at last. “Even when you prayed.”

“It is how one prays to the Old Gods,” Jon answered. “You kneel, and you remember. Words are not always needed.”

“And yet you looked as though you were listening, not speaking.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “Perhaps I was.”

They turned down a path lined with white roses. Their fragrance was so thick Jon thought he could almost taste it. The Reach was too warm, too alive, and yet… he found he did not hate it. Not tonight.

“Tell me a story,” Margaery said suddenly, halting by a marble bench. “Of the North. Not battles or kings. Something older.”

Jon hesitated. “Older?”

“Yes,” she urged. “Something your people tell by firelight. A tale of when the North was young.”

He thought for a moment. His mind drifted to Maester Luwin’s voice, to Old Nan’s endless tales whispered in Winterfell’s kitchens. “Very well,” he said, settling onto the bench. She sat beside him, her skirts brushing his knee.

“There was a time,” Jon began, “when the First Men crossed into Westeros. They came from the east, across a land bridge now long drowned. They brought bronze and fire and axes. The children of the forest lived here then. Small, quick, with eyes like golden cats. They knew the trees, the rivers, the caves. And when the First Men came, they fought. For hundreds of years, they fought.”

Margaery tilted her head, listening intently. Jon found her gaze almost as heavy as the weirwood’s had been.

“The First Men cut down the weirwoods, burned them, built their halls where groves had stood. The children used their magics—called storms, broke stone, made the earth itself rise. But still the First Men spread. Until, at last, both peoples grew weary. Too much blood, too much grief. And so, they came together beneath a great weirwood, at a place called the Isle of Faces. There, the First Men swore an oath before the Old Gods. They would cut no more heart trees. They would live in peace. That oath bound them, and the children carved faces into more weirwoods, so the gods could see.”

He glanced at her. She had gone still, her lips parted just slightly. “And did the peace last?”

“For a time,” Jon admitted. “Long enough for the North to grow strong, long enough for the Old Gods to be worshipped by men as well as children. Some say the pact still holds, even now.”

“And do you believe it?” she asked softly.

Jon thought of the dreams that came to him unbidden, of red eyes watching through snow, of voices that felt older than stone. “Yes,” he said simply.

The air between them shifted then, quieter, heavier. Margaery’s hands rested in her lap, but he could see the faint tremor in her fingers. He wondered what she thought of it all—of the North, of him. To her, the Old Gods must seem alien, frightening even. And yet she had listened without laughter, without dismissal.

That touched him more than he could say.

“You sound as though you lived it,” she murmured. “As though you carry it with you.”

“In the North,” Jon said, “you cannot help but carry it. Every heart tree has watched a thousand years. Every stone has felt blood. The past clings to you. And the Old Gods…” He paused, searching for words. “They do not let you forget.”

Margaery’s eyes searched his. “I think I envy that. Our Seven are… clean, simple. But sometimes I wish for something older. Something rooted.”

Jon swallowed. He did not know how to answer that. Yet he found himself wanting to reach for her hand, to show her that weight, that closeness. He did not. His fingers curled tight against his knee instead.

They walked on. The path curved toward the southern walls, where ivy crept along towers and fountains sang in quiet pools. Margaery laughed once, lightly, when a frog leapt across their path, startling Jon enough to draw a curse. The sound of her laughter lingered in his chest.

As the lanterns grew brighter and the night deepened, Jon became aware of how near she stayed to him. Their arms brushed more than once. Each time, heat spread through him, though he tried to hide it.

“You tell your story well,” she said. “Better than most singers. Perhaps you should tell me another, next time.”

Jon smiled faintly. “If you wish it.”

“I do.”

And there, in her voice, was something he could not name. Not command, not request—something gentler, more dangerous.

At last, the gardens gave way to marble steps leading toward the family’s wing of Highgarden. The night air was cooler here, touched with sea-breeze from the west. Servants passed them with bows and curtsies, but Margaery seemed not to notice. Her eyes remained on Jon, steady, thoughtful.

When they reached her chambers, she paused before the carved oak doors. The torchlight painted her hair with fire.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Jon inclined his head. “It was only a walk.”

“No.” Her voice was firmer now. “It was more.”

Before he could ask what she meant, she stepped closer. So close he could see the faint freckles across her nose, the quick rise and fall of her breath.

Then her lips brushed his.

It was not long, not deep—just the lightest touch, softer than a rose petal. Yet Jon’s heart hammered as though he had faced a charge of cavalry. He froze, breath caught, every thought scattered like leaves in wind.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, though her smile was steady. “Goodnight, Jon Stark.”

And before he could gather himself to speak, the doors closed gently between them.

Jon stood there a long while, staring at the carved oak. His lips still tingled.

The Old Gods had been silent in the godswood. But now, he thought, perhaps they had spoken after all.

Winterfell

Ned Stark

The candle burned low, dripping wax onto the oaken table. Lord Eddard Stark bent over the parchment, quill in hand, the black ink glistening wetly as the words took shape. Outside, the wind pressed against the stones of Winterfell, whispering through the cracks like an old voice full of secrets. The hall was quiet, too quiet for a man who bore so many decisions upon his shoulders.

Ned’s hand lingered over the letter, the words already written not enough to carry what weighed on his heart. He dipped the quill again, watching the ink gather, then set it to parchment once more.

To Benjen Stark, my brother, First Ranger of the Night’s Watch,

I hope this raven finds you hale, though the winds beyond the Wall are crueler than those we suffer here. I write not only as Lord of Winterfell, but as your brother who misses you dearly. Much has changed since you last stood in these halls. Robb grows taller by the day, Bran climbs higher than I would like, Sansa hums southern songs, Arya cannot keep still for a heartbeat, and Rickon clutches his mother’s skirts and thinks himself the lord of the hall. Jon… Jon has grown into himself more each moon. I wish you could see them all, though I know your vows hold you fast at the Wall.

Yet I must ask you to bend those vows for a time, if you can. A raven has come from Highgarden with word of a great tourney, and my family is expected there. They wish to see Jon most of all, for he fosters with the Tyrells now. Catelyn insists we must go, and perhaps she is right. But my heart is troubled, for I cannot take the whole of House Stark from Winterfell and leave our seat bare. Father always said, and I believe it still, that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. That truth is older than kings, older than keeps, older than the stones themselves.

So I ask you, Benjen, not as lord to brother, but as brother to brother: come home for a time. Sit Winterfell’s halls. Walk Father’s godswood. Remind the people that their lord’s blood yet rules these walls. The Watch has your service for life, and I do not ask you to forsake it, only to lend Winterfell the strength of your name while we are gone. The North must see a Stark’s face, else I fear the heart of this place will grow too quiet.

If you cannot, I will not think less of you. The Watch has its need. But if you can, know that I will count it as a gift beyond measure. Write swiftly. Give my regards to the men you trust, and keep your sword sharp against the darkness.

Your brother always,

Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.

Ned sat back when the words were done, reading them again in the dim light. They were plain words, Stark words, yet sincere in a way he had not allowed himself in too long. He thought of Benjen as a boy, the youngest of them, chasing after Brandon with a wooden sword while Ned tried to keep up. He remembered Benjen’s laughter, quick and sharp, and how he had wept when their sister Lyanna was laid in the crypts.

The years and the Wall had carved distance between them, but blood was blood, and the Starks had little enough of it left. Ned sanded the letter carefully, then folded it and pressed the direwolf seal deep into the wax.

When Maester Luwin came at his summons, Ned handed the letter over. “This must go tonight, with the swiftest raven we have. Straight to Castle Black.”

The maester inclined his head, slipping the letter into his sleeve. “At once, my lord.”

When the door closed and he was alone again, Ned rose and walked the length of the hall, his boots sounding against the stone. His father’s chair loomed at the end, the carved direwolves seeming to snarl in the flickering light. He paused there, laying a hand upon the cold wood, and whispered the words again to himself.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

Sleep would not come, so Ned went to the godswood. The air there was colder, sharper, as if the trees themselves held winter in their branches. The weirwood stood waiting, red leaves whispering overhead, its face carved long ago by hands now dust. The eyes of the heart tree watched him with their strange red gaze, and Ned knelt upon the damp earth.

“Forgive me,” he said softly. “Forgive me if I leave these walls bare. Forgive me if I take the children south where they do not belong. I will bring them home again, I swear it.”

The gods did not answer, save with the rustle of leaves. Yet the sound steadied him, as it always had. He thought of Jon at Highgarden, far from the North and its ways, walking among roses and sunlit courtyards. Did the boy still remember the feel of snow underfoot? Did he still hear the whisper of the old gods in his dreams? Ned could only hope.

When he rose, the night seemed quieter, as if the trees had taken his words and held them safe.

That night, when the raven was loosed into the dark sky, Ned stood upon the battlements and watched it vanish into the night. His heart was heavy, but steadier for the choice he had made. Benjen would come, he told himself again. He must.

For Winterfell was not merely stone and earth. It was memory, blood, and duty. And duty demanded that a Stark remain, even if the rest must ride far from home.

Two Months Later

Robb Stark

Sleep had come hard the night before. Robb had lain awake, staring at the rafters above his bed, listening to the wolves howling beyond the walls. Ghost was not there, not yet, but Grey Wind lay curled at the foot of his bed, restless and sharp-eyed. The direwolf seemed to sense his master’s unease.

“What will it be like, Grey Wind?” Robb had whispered. “The Reach, Highgarden, the tourney? Will I make Father proud? Will I stand beside Jon, or behind him?”

The wolf had given no answer, only shifted closer, his head resting across Robb’s legs. Yet even in silence, the beast gave comfort.

When at last sleep came, it had been full of dreams—dreams of tilting lances and a crowd roaring his name, dreams of banners in green and gold, dreams of Jon standing tall with a crown of light about his head. Robb had woken with sweat on his brow and the taste of copper in his mouth.

Now, standing in the courtyard, Robb tried to push away the weight of those dreams. His sisters were chattering nearby—Sansa smoothing Arya’s hair only for Arya to swat her hands away, Rickon clinging to Catelyn’s skirts as though the boy feared to be left behind.

Father’s voice cut through the din. Calm, steady, a voice that carried the North itself. “Mount up. We ride within the hour.”

Robb swung into his saddle, Grey Wind padding close beside. He felt taller there, straighter, though inside he was still that boy lying awake with doubts. He stole a glance at Jon’s empty place among them, wondering how it would feel when they stood side by side again. Would Jon seem more grown than he remembered? Stronger? Wiser?

The thought stirred something like pride, and something like fear.

Uncle Benjen stepped forward then, clasping Father’s arm. “Winterfell will be as it always was, Ned. Go and return in your own time.”

Father’s expression softened, the rare warmth of a man who carried too much. “Thank you, Ben.”

Robb looked away, for the moment felt private, and he did not wish to intrude. Yet part of him yearned to cling to Winterfell, to shout that he would stay too, that the South could keep its tournaments and singers. But he did not. He was Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell. He would ride where his father led.

The gates yawned open, and the procession began to move. The hooves of the horses rang upon the stones, the banners lifted high, and Winterfell’s people stood watching. Robb felt their eyes upon him, felt the weight of being seen as his father’s son, as the boy who would be lord one day. He straightened in his saddle, set his jaw, and let the wind catch his cloak.

The road stretched southward, endless and unknown. Bran whooped as his pony kicked up dirt. Arya tried to race ahead until Mother’s sharp voice called her back. Sansa kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, dreamy-eyed already for songs and splendor. Rickon whimpered, soothed only by Catelyn’s hand.

Robb looked back once. Just once. Winterfell’s grey walls loomed behind him, the towers sharp against the morning sky, the smoke of its hearths rising straight into the air. Uncle Benjen stood atop the gatehouse, a dark figure against the stone, one hand lifted in farewell.

Robb’s throat tightened.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” he murmured under his breath. And then he faced forward, toward the road, toward Jon, toward the Reach.

As they rode, Robb’s thoughts circled back again and again to his brother. Jon was not here, but in every step of the horse, every sound of the hooves, Robb felt him near. They had shared everything since birth—the yard, the practice swords, the cold nights when they whispered of what they would be when they grew tall.

Jon had always been quicker, sharper, more precise with a blade. Robb knew it, even admired it. But admiration was a bitter draught when it left one in the shadows.

Yet shadows did not last forever. Perhaps in Highgarden, with the whole of the realm watching, he would stand tall as well. Perhaps he would prove himself beside Jon, not behind.

Grey Wind loped closer, brushing his flank against the horse. Robb reached down, fingers tangling in the direwolf’s thick fur, and felt strength steady in him.

Highgarden

Olenna Tyrell

Highgarden’s gardens shimmered in the early morning sun, a cascade of roses painting the walls in vibrant reds and golds. Olenna Tyrell sat in her solar, draped in the dark green and gold of her house, her sharp eyes fixed on the door. Her son, Mace, lumbered in, already puffed with anticipation, the pride of the Tyrell name swelling in his chest as if he were born for grandeur.

“You sent for me, Mother?” he asked, settling himself in the chair across from her, which creaked beneath his weight.

“Yes,” Olenna said, voice smooth but commanding. “Sit, and listen carefully. You already know of the tourney, the duels for the squires and young lords, and the feasts and displays that shall make the Reach shine. You know of the Queen of Love and Beauty, the main spectacle for the knights, and of the duels for the boys of the realm. All of this is old news to you.”

Mace nodded, smiling eagerly, though his eyes betrayed that he had forgotten half of it already.

“Good,” she continued. “Now we add something new. An event to complement what you already know—the squires’ joust. Not the duels, not the knightly displays. A joust proper, with lances and skill, for those same youths. Their tilting will not be mere practice—it shall be a contest worthy of attention, and at its conclusion, the victor shall crown the Princess of Love and Beauty.”

Mace blinked, clearly puzzled. “A… princess?”

“Yes,” Olenna said, leaning forward, eyes narrowing with calculated intent. “The Queen of Love and Beauty is for the knights, their lances and banners, the grown lords and ladies who seek prestige and influence. But these children—the sons and daughters of great houses, the heirs of lords yet to come—deserve their own stage. They shall be seen, their talents admired, their courage lauded. A princess shall be crowned because she is of the proper age, not a full woman yet. Symbolic, not dangerous.”

Mace’s lips parted as he considered this. “And the rewards?” he asked. “The victors?”

Olenna allowed a small smile. “Same as the squires duels, five hundred gold dragons for the young lord who wins, and a horse bred by Willas. A gift of note, memorable and precious. And more than gold or steel, this shall give us influence over their families. Think on it, Mace. Families grateful for attention, for honor, for a crown that suits the years of their child. They will remember the Tyrells. They will whisper of our generosity and foresight.”

He nodded slowly, though Olenna knew full well he was trying to keep pace with her mind, which moved far faster than his.

“Every lord and lady in the Reach, every steward and knight, every squire with dreams of glory shall speak of this event,” she continued. “The dual nature of the competitions is key. Do not misunderstand me, Mace. We are not replacing tradition. The knights’ tournament remains, as it should. A queen will still be crowned, and the old lords will have their pomp and pride. What we are doing is supplementing the tradition, not overturning it.”

Mace’s chest puffed with pride. “I see. The children will have their own crown, the Princess of Love and Beauty, while the adults have the Queen. Everyone is happy.”

Olenna gave a short laugh, dry and sharp. “Everyone? Perhaps. Those who matter will be. We shall charm the young heirs and their families, and ensure our own Margaery is in a position to be noticed, yet safely distant from any real danger. She will not be a prize in a joust, though she may be the princess crowned. She will shine without risk, and the stories of her grace and composure will spread. By the time she is ready for the queenly crown, the realm will already know her name.”

“And what of the boys?” Mace asked, eager to understand some part of the plan. “Will they fight fairly?”

Olenna’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “Fairness is a relative term, Mace. Some will fight bravely, others clumsily, but all will remember the Reach as the place where their youth was celebrated. The boy who triumphs will gain gold, horse, and renown. His sister, if crowned, will have stories sung of her beauty and composure. The victories are gifts. And the losses? Even those will speak well of Highgarden, for they will know they stood where the Tyrells watch and care.”

Mace scratched his head, trying to imagine the spectacle, as he always did. “And this will not confuse the realm? Two crowns for one day?”

Olenna tapped her cane on the floor. “Do you think them fools, Mace? The knights shall have their queen, the young lords and squires their princess. Different stages, different expectations. Both will be remembered. Both will serve our purpose. The Reach will be praised for wisdom and foresight, for generosity and spectacle, for honoring youth and tradition alike. Those who fail to grasp the subtlety will speak only of the pomp, which suits us perfectly.”

She leaned back, letting her gaze drift to the distant gardens, where Margaery practiced walking with quiet dignity, the young lord Stark—Jon—by her side, and Loras nearby, sword in hand. The boy from the North had arrived a few moons ago and has already shown his ability, and Margaery, keen and clever, was responding in ways that pleased Olenna.

“Observe, Mace,” she said softly, “how those two interact. It is not merely companionship, but observation and learning. She is cautious, wise beyond her years. And Jon—Lord Stark—has charm, intelligence, and poise that would shame many an older lord. He shall serve as a companion for our granddaughter, a witness to her brilliance, and a model of honor and skill that will make her shine even more brightly.”

Mace shuffled uncomfortably. “And you are certain this is wise, Mother?”

Olenna smiled thinly, a predator among roses. “Mace, the only question is whether you can follow instructions without floundering. This joust is not for you to preside over. It is for the youth, and the Reach. Remember your role: provide gold, supply banners, and look important while I orchestrate the subtleties.”

He nodded vigorously, eager to please. “Yes, Mother. I understand.”

“And when this tourney is over,” she said, leaning forward, eyes flashing, “the realm will speak of Highgarden as the heart of the Reach, the place where young lords and ladies are made, where glory is measured fairly, and where the Tyrells show wisdom unmatched by any other house. A queen will be crowned, a princess will be crowned, and all will remember the hands that guided them.”

Mace’s grin was broad, naive but genuine. “It will be magnificent.”

“Yes,” Olenna whispered, almost to herself, “magnificent. And everyone shall believe it was their idea all along.”

She tapped her cane once more, satisfied. The pieces were moving into place. Knights, lords, squires, princesses, and queens. Gold and horses, laughter and applause, whispered legends that would reach the corners of the realm. And at the center of it all, her granddaughter, her carefully nurtured jewel, standing tall among the swirling currents of politics and power.

Olenna allowed herself a small, private smile. Let them speak of queens and princesses. The Tyrells would weave both crowns into a single tapestry of influence and control. And one day, the Reach would remember that the Queen of Thorns had seen it all coming.

Chapter Text

295 AC

Highgarden

Jon Stark

The night in Highgarden was still, the gardens outside quiet under the pale moonlight. Jon lay on the bed, muscles tired from the sparring of the day, but his mind refused rest. When sleep came, it brought with it a presence that clawed at his consciousness, a dream both terrifying and mesmerizing.

He found himself standing on a jagged cliff of black stone, a cold wind tearing at him as if trying to throw him off the edge. Below, the ground seemed to shift like molten shadow, and from the darkness rose a dragon, scales like black obsidian, eyes burning a fierce, crimson red. The polar opposite of the calm white of the direwolf he had glimpsed in another dream all the connection felt strangely similar, this creature radiated menace and raw power. It circled him slowly, wings beating the air in a rhythm that made the very stones hum.

Jon felt no fear. The dragon’s gaze seemed to pierce into him, probing, testing, assessing. He tried to move, to step closer, and the cliff responded as if alive, rising beneath him, carrying him toward the dragon without effort. The beast lowered its massive head, smoke curling from its nostrils, and in that moment, Jon felt a strange kinship, an unspoken link between them. There was understanding in those crimson eyes, a knowledge of power, of destiny, of forces that reached far beyond the small world he inhabited.

He looked down at his own hands and saw blackened shadows creeping along his arms, as if the fire of the dragon had touched him. Shapes moved in the molten darkness below—a wolf, white as snow, red-eyed and silent. Jon’s heart stirred with recognition. There was some balance in the vision, a shadow to the light, a counter to something he had felt before but did not yet understand.

The dream shifted abruptly. He soared on wings not his own, the black dragon carrying him over seas of fire and stone. From below rose the shapes of men and women, figures moving with urgency and purpose, yet somehow blind to what approached from above. Jon did not know what the figures represented, only that they were part of a larger pattern, one he would need to navigate when he awoke.

Then the dragon was gone. He fell through darkness, the wind tearing at him until he landed, breathless, on the cold stones of his chamber. Moonlight spilled across the floorboards, ordinary and calm. The echo of the dragon remained, a pulse in his chest, an itch of awareness that something beyond him was awakening.

Jon rose, barefoot, and moved to the small basin in the corner. Leaning over the water, he stared at his reflection. The dark hair, the sharp eyes, the Stark features—all of him familiar, all of him real. And yet, he could not shake the echo of the black dragon, the red eyes burning behind his eyelids, the knowledge that he had glimpsed something immense, something dangerous.

He clenched his fists, feeling the residue of power thrumming beneath his skin, and tried to push it away, but it lingered. He did not speak of it. Not to Loras, not to Margaery, not even to Olenna. Dreams, he decided, were dangerous things, capable of coloring thought and judgment. This one, however, had left him sharper, more aware, and strangely restless.

Tomorrow, his family would arrive from Winterfell. Robb, Bran, Sansa, Rickon, and his parents along with Theon Greyjoy would come to Highgarden, carrying with them the life and love of the North. And yet, the dream lingered, a whisper of shadow and fire that pressed at the edges of his consciousness. It was a warning, a promise, or perhaps both.

Jon dressed quietly, choosing simple garb, and moved to the window. The moonlight glinted off the fountains below, illuminating the roses and paths of Highgarden. The world was calm, orderly, predictable. The dragon was not.

He allowed himself one last glance at the water, imagining a white wolf among the shadows, a twin of darkness and light, and felt a flicker of understanding, fleeting but persistent. There were forces at work in the world that he could not yet see, threads of destiny that pulled him toward paths unknown.

For now, he would prepare for the day. The weight of family, the demands of the Tyrells, and the coming tourney would occupy his thoughts. But the dragon remained, a shadow at the edge of his mind, a reminder that fire and shadow were never far from the boy who was a Stark, who would carry both the weight of his house and the stirrings of something far larger than any one castle, any one kingdom, any one dream.

The morning light spilled across the gardens of Highgarden, illuminating the perfectly trimmed hedges, winding paths, and fountains that sparkled in the sun. Jon Stark adjusted his cloak and drew in a deep breath, savoring the scent of roses mingling with warm stone. This was his home now, for the time being, yet each day reminded him that he had left Winterfell behind. The thought of his family’s arrival stirred a mixture of anticipation and a quiet tug at his chest.

Margaery appeared at the doorway, radiant as ever, her pale green dress catching the sunlight. She smiled, the kind of smile that spoke of shared secrets and long conversations, and held out her hand. "Are you ready for our walk, Lord Stark?"

Jon took her hand, letting their fingers brush. "Always." Their footsteps carried them along the familiar paths, past fountains, flowerbeds, and small bridges. It had been weeks since they had first met, months of walks, conversations, and shared laughter. Each day brought them closer, not in the haste of young romance, but in the quiet intimacy of trust and understanding.

"Have you ever thought about what you want to do," Margaery asked, eyes on the stream that trickled beneath an arched stone bridge, "beyond all this… the lessons, the tourneys, the politics?"

Jon considered her question, looking down at the flowers as if they might hold the answer. "I have," he said slowly. "I want to do what is right. For Winterfell, for my family, for… for the people who will need me. I don’t just want to grow strong with a sword. I want to understand the world well enough to protect it, to lead wisely when the time comes."

Margaery tilted her head, intrigued. "And what does that mean for the boy who fights with knights twice his age?"

He smiled faintly, recalling the sparring matches, the lessons in strategy, the endless training. "It means that strength alone is not enough. You need wisdom. Judgment. The ability to see not just the blade in front of you, but the consequences that follow. That is what I am trying to learn."

She walked beside him, her voice soft, curious. "And what do you dream of, when the world isn’t telling you what you should be? When the swords and lessons are behind you?"

Jon’s gaze fell to the ground for a moment, then he met her eyes. "I dream of peace. Not for myself, but for the North, and for everyone I care about. I dream of seeing Winterfell safe, seeing my family strong, seeing children grow up without fear. I want a world where choices aren’t always a matter of survival."

Margaery’s hand brushed against his as they walked, the contact brief but meaningful. "That is a lot for one boy to dream of."

"Perhaps," Jon said, "but I have always been told that a man’s life is not for himself alone. And even if it is a lot, it is worth dreaming."

They strolled past a rose garden where the petals glimmered in the sun, and Jon found himself reflecting on her. She was clever, perceptive, and unafraid to speak her mind. He had grown to trust her judgment, to enjoy her company, and to value the way she challenged him, not with words of confrontation, but with insight that made him think.

"And you?" he asked finally. "What do you dream of, Margaery Tyrell? What do you want, beyond the lessons and the expectations of your house?"

She smiled, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. "I dream of freedom," she admitted, "in my own way. Not reckless freedom, but the kind where I can choose my path. Where I can use what I have—my mind, my position, my family—to make a difference. I want to be remembered for more than just my beauty or my title."

Jon nodded, impressed by her clarity. "I think you will," he said earnestly. "I think you are already remembered, even by me, for what you are, not just what you appear to be."

Margaery’s eyes softened, and she laughed lightly. "And yet here we are, walking in the gardens, plotting no coups, no schemes, just two children talking about dreams."

Jon smiled, the weight of the world momentarily lifting. "Maybe dreams are more important than schemes," he said quietly. "Because if we know what we hope for, then we have a compass. A reason to fight, to plan, to endure."

They reached a small fountain, water shimmering in the morning sun. Jon knelt and traced a finger through the water, watching the ripples distort the reflection of the sky. "I see things differently now," he said. "I see that the North has taught me endurance, the Reach has taught me patience. And you… you make me see possibility."

Margaery watched him, a faint smile on her lips. "Possibility can be dangerous," she said, "but I suppose with the right person beside you, it can also be freeing."

Jon looked at her, the corners of his mouth tugging into a small smile. "You make it freeing."

They continued their walk, speaking of small ambitions, the people they admired, the lessons they wanted to carry forward. Jon described the knights of the Reach, the lessons Olenna Tyrell had taught them in strategy, and the challenges he had embraced to test his limits. Margaery spoke of her hopes for her family, of the kind of queen she wanted to be one day—not in a distant future, but as a guiding principle even now.

"Do you think the world will let us follow our dreams?" she asked softly.

Jon glanced at her. "Perhaps not all of them. But knowing what we hope for… that is the first step. And we must be ready for when opportunity arises."

She laughed lightly, the sound mingling with the trickle of the fountain. "You sound like a man older than your years, Lord Stark."

"Perhaps," he said, "but a man must grow older before his years come naturally. And sometimes, the world makes it necessary."

As the sun climbed higher, they circled back toward the estate. Jon’s thoughts turned to the upcoming reunion, to the laughter and mischief of Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa, and the presence of Benjen at Winterfell. He felt anticipation, a steady pull of home, but also the weight of responsibility, knowing that these dreams he spoke of were not mere fantasies—they were the seeds of a life he would shape carefully.

Before parting at the gates, Jon spoke gently. "Our walks… these conversations… they matter. More than you may realize."

Margaery’s eyes glimmered, and she offered a small bow of her head. "They do. And I look forward to many more, Lord Stark."

Jon nodded, watching her walk toward the estate, the morning light dancing around her. He lingered, thinking of her smile, of the aspirations they had shared, of the trust forming between them, and of the life that awaited—full of lessons, choices, and the quiet, unspoken bonds that grew stronger with each step through the gardens.

The arrival of his family would change the day, shift the attention, and remind him of duty and legacy. But for this brief time, walking with Margaery, speaking of dreams and futures, Jon allowed himself to hope—not just for victory or honor, but for understanding, connection, and the possibility of shaping a world that matched the ambitions he carried quietly in his heart.

Jon stood at the edge of the high terrace, overlooking the courtyard of Highgarden. From this vantage point, he could see the main gates, where banners flapped in the breeze, and servants moved in quiet anticipation. Today was the day his family from Winterfell arrived: Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Ned, Catelyn, and, unexpectedly, Theon Greyjoy.

He adjusted the clasp on his cloak, feeling the weight of courtesy, protocol, and expectation pressing down on him. This was no ordinary day in the Reach, no leisurely stroll or sparring match. Today, he was both host and observer, Stark and Tyrell ally, the son who had grown up in the North yet learned the subtleties of southern courts.

Beside him, Margaery walked gracefully, her gown brushing the stone beneath her feet. She gave him a small, encouraging smile, and Jon nodded subtly in return. She had been at his side through much of his adjustment to the Reach, offering insight into her family’s ways, into the intricacies of etiquette, and, more importantly, into the art of reading people.

“Jon!,” Loras called from behind, standing with polished armor reflecting the morning sun. “Everything is ready. The gates have been opened for them.”

Jon’s hand flexed at his side, though his composure remained outwardly calm. “Good. Let us observe, and remember who we are.”

The gates of Highgarden opened with a clatter of wood and the creak of iron, revealing a procession winding toward the courtyard. First came the banners of House Stark, carefully prepared by Jon’s own orders, a nod to his family without undermining the Tyrells’ hospitality. Jon could see Ned at the forefront, tall and imposing even without his armor, his cloak shifting in the wind. Catelyn followed, her red hair glinting like fire. Behind them, Robb moved with the ease of a young lord accustomed to command, eyes scanning the Reachmen with a mixture of curiosity and pride.

Jon’s chest tightened at the sight of them. Months had passed since he had left Winterfell, and the separation had been both necessary and painful. Yet seeing them now, strong and alive, reminded him of why patience and strategy were essential. He had learned to navigate southern politics, to understand the subtleties of power, and to gain the trust of the Tyrells. Today would be a delicate balance: greeting his family without undermining the careful diplomacy that had been set in motion.

Arya, small and quick, was the first to notice him. Her eyes widened with recognition, and she broke into a run. Jon stepped forward slightly, but Margaery’s hand on his arm restrained him. Let them approach first. Let the formalities of greeting play out.

Sansa’s gaze lingered on him as well, a mixture of surprise and relief. Bran and Rickon followed, cautious, their young faces pale but curious. And Theon Greyjoy—Jon’s thoughts flicked to him—stood a little apart, arrogance and calculation in his posture, a wolf among sheep in the Reach.

Jon straightened his shoulders, moving forward with the Tyrells. Olenna Tyrell, seated near the terrace steps with Mace by her side, rose slightly, a sharp glint in her eyes. Jon felt the weight of her scrutiny immediately. The matriarch of Highgarden was clever, perceptive, and unyielding. Every gesture, every expression, every word would be evaluated. Jon had learned early that the subtleties of observation were as deadly as any sword.

“Lord Stark,” Olenna said, her voice both welcoming and measured. “It is an honor to finally meet the Lord of Winterfell.”

Ned inclined his head, the formal courtesy drilled into him in his early lessons at Highgarden. “The honor is mine, Lady Olenna. Highgarden is as beautiful as tales claim.”

Her sharp gaze lingered on him, then she smiled faintly, satisfied. “We have kept these gardens well, as any true home should be kept.”

Margaery stepped beside Jon, her fingers brushing his lightly. He felt the grounding presence she offered. Together, they observed his family as they dismounted from their horses, Ned leading the way with measured grace. Catelyn’s eyes sought Jon immediately, scanning him from head to toe, silently questioning, silently approving.

Robb came forward, giving a courteous nod to Olenna, Mace, Alerie then Loras, then Margaery and finally Jon. The two boys had trained together at Winterfell, and Jon felt a flicker of pride at how Robb had grown—tall, confident, strong—but he kept his own emotions restrained. Leadership required clarity, and emotions were weapons that needed careful handling.

Jon’s gaze swept over his siblings. Sansa, ever poised even in moments of surprise, gave a small, polite curtsy. Arya, impatient and fearless, nearly ran to him again but was gently redirected by Catelyn. Bran, cautious, looked on with wide eyes, observing every detail, while Rickon, barely old enough to walk steadily, clung to Catelyn’s skirts.

Jon noted the posture of Theon Greyjoy. Arrogant, calculating, yet masking a nervous anticipation beneath the bravado. He made a mental note to keep a careful eye on him; the boy had skill and ambition, but Jon’s time in Winterfell had honed a sense for potential threats, allies, and those who might sway others for their own ends.

Olenna approached him again, her fingers lightly tapping a cane, eyes gleaming. “And you, young Lord Stark, have adapted well to our lands. I trust your family will find comfort here.”

Jon inclined his head, speaking with a calm certainty. “They will, Lady Olenna. You have made them feel welcome before a word has even been exchanged.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “That is what a good host does. And a good host observes. You have learned well.”

Jon allowed himself the briefest of glances at Margaery, who offered a subtle nod. Her eyes were bright with unspoken understanding; this was not a social call, this was a delicate orchestration of alliances, perceptions, and intentions. He would navigate it with care.

Ned Stark approached Jon, his presence commanding yet warm. “Jon,” he said simply, voice carrying both pride and caution, “Highgarden suits you. And you’ve learned much in your time here, I see.”

Jon inclined his head, meeting his father’s gaze. “I have, Father. And I hope to continue learning, so that I may serve House Stark with honor and wisdom.”

Ned’s eyes softened, but his mind, Jon knew, was already calculating. Observation, assessment, potential outcomes—his father never stopped. Jon mirrored the same habit, noting how his family’s expressions shifted as they observed the Tyrells, how each nod or smile carried weight.

Robb stepped closer, placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You’ve grown, brother. Not just in skill, but… in presence. The Tyrells respect you already.”

Jon allowed a faint smile, though his mind was already considering logistics—accommodations, routines, meals, training, tours, and formalities. Leadership required foresight, and he had learned to think several moves ahead, like a chess master with pieces scattered across multiple boards.

The family was guided toward the main hall for refreshments, servants bustling to offer drinks and food, while Jon lingered slightly, eyes sweeping over the courtyard. Margaery’s hand found his again, her touch grounding him. She leaned slightly closer. “They are here,” she whispered, “and all is as it should be.”

Jon nodded silently, feeling the mixture of pride, anticipation, and cautious calculation. These months in the Reach had shaped him, taught him patience, strategy, and observation, and now, with his family present, he would test his lessons. Every smile, every word, every gesture mattered. Every glance carried meaning.

He observed Theon, still standing apart, and allowed himself a small, private thought: the boy’s arrogance would either be tempered here or exposed. Jon’s time at Winterfell had honed more than his skill with the sword; it had sharpened his sense of people, of intentions, and of subtle power.

As Ned and Catelyn entered the hall, the children trailing behind, Jon felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The reunion was more than a gathering; it was a testament to planning, growth, and careful navigation of both family and politics. Today was the first test of his abilities beyond the Reach, beyond sparring and lessons, in a world that demanded presence, strategy, and restraint.

He took a breath, feeling the sun warm his shoulders, and allowed himself a brief glance at Margaery. Together, they would face the day, navigating the currents of House Tyrell, the expectations of House Stark, and the inevitable scrutiny that would follow. And Jon Stark, heir to Winterfell in the North, raised in the Reach, already a prodigy beyond his years, was ready.

Ned Stark

The day was warm, sunlight spilling over the walls of Highgarden in a golden haze, but Ned Stark’s mind was far from the roses and fountains of the Reach. He had spent the journey from Winterfell pondering the delicate task ahead: bringing Jon to meet the rest of the family in a way that balanced duty, trust, and the boy’s upbringing. A Stark always observed first and spoke second, and today required both patience and careful attention.

Jon was not just a ward; he was a Stark in his own right, a boy raised far from home under the watchful eyes of the Tyrells, yet still carrying the legacy of Winterfell, of the North, and of his family. Ned felt a pang of pride and concern as he considered how the boy had grown, how many moons had passed since he had first left the North, and how strange it must have been to adapt to southern ways.

As they approached the guest quarters, Ned called for a steward, a young man with a quick step and a respectful bow. “Bring Jon Stark to the guest chambers at once,” he commanded. The boy had grown used to deference, but Ned wanted to ensure that even in the Reach, the weight of his identity was respected.

Within minutes, Jon appeared, flanked by a servant bearing the Tyrell household emblem, his expression a mixture of caution, curiosity, and the innate confidence Ned had recognized even in infancy. The boy’s posture was straight, shoulders squared, eyes keenly assessing the courtyard and the figures moving through it. He had learned much here, but the North lingered in the set of his jaw, in the way his gaze sought the horizon.

Ned stepped forward, keeping his voice calm and measured. “Jon, how are you son? We have traveled far to see you.”

Jon inclined his head slightly, a polite but relaxed gesture that reflected his upbringing under the Tyrells’ careful guidance. Yet, despite the formality, there was warmth in his stance, a quiet eagerness to meet those he had known only through letters, stories, and memories carried from the North.

Robb was the first to react, a wide grin spreading across his face as he stepped forward. “Jon! You’ve grown even more than I imagined,” he exclaimed, embracing his brother with a brotherly force that was more protective than rough.

Jon returned the hug without hesitation, allowing himself the rare comfort of familiarity. “Robb. You look taller than the last letter suggested,” he replied lightly, the hint of Northern humor coloring his tone. Ned watched carefully, noting the ease with which Jon navigated the interaction, the subtle grace that indicated both intelligence and respect.

Sansa followed, eyes bright, a small smile forming as she approached. “Jon, it’s so good to finally see you again,” she said, her voice gentle yet composed. Jon bent slightly, meeting her gaze without ceremony, and offered a nod of acknowledgment.

Arya, ever bold and unrestrained, barreled forward next. Jon laughed quietly, stepping aside to let her hug him, noting her fearless curiosity and fire. Bran and Rickon followed, observing from a cautious distance, their young faces full of wonder and slight apprehension at the grandeur of the Reach compared to the stark walls of Winterfell.

Ned observed all this with a careful eye, his heart swelling as he took in the family he had worked so hard to preserve. Catelyn followed close behind, her sharp eyes scanning Jon with the keen assessment of a mother, seeing the boy as both her husband’s and Lyanna’s blood, yet molded by foreign lands and foreign teachings.

When the initial greetings had settled, Ned reached for the small crate he had brought, tucked safely under his arm. “There is someone here for you,” he said, lifting the lid carefully. Inside, the white fur of the direwolf gleamed, the red eyes shimmering like molten fire even in the soft daylight. The creature padded forward, sniffing the air and letting out a soft whine as Jon knelt to meet it.

Jon’s eyes widened as he studied the animal, fingers brushing over the pure fur. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, voice hushed in awe. “I thought… I never imagined—” He paused, eyes reflecting both wonder and reverence. “You are from the old gods, aren’t you? The North… you are a gift of the North.”

Ned watched his son,interact with the wolf. Jon’s connection to the creature was instinctive, profound, and entirely natural. The boy had a quiet strength, a patience, and a comprehension that belied his years. Ned felt the familiar Northern pride mixed with the concern that always came when one entrusted a Stark to the wider world.

The children gathered, curiosity piqued, as Jon gently held the wolf’s muzzle. Robb leaned forward, fascinated. “We each have our own back at Winterfell, this one is yours, what will you name him?”

Jon watched as the direwolf walked without making a sound. “Ghost.” His voice was calm, commanding, yet filled with the quiet warmth of someone who already bore responsibility.

Sansa knelt beside him, brushing a finger across the wolf’s fur. “He’s amazing. He’s… like he knows you already.”

Jon’s eyes softened, and he looked at each of his siblings in turn. “The North gives gifts to those who are loyal to the old ways. They will all watch over us, and guide us, and remind us of what we are. What we must never forget.”

Ned remained silent, standing a little apart and watching the boy assert his presence, his identity, and his natural authority without the need for grand gestures or words of command. The Tyrell upbringing had tempered his demeanor with poise and knowledge, but the Stark blood—resilient, rooted in the North, and guided by the old gods—shone clearly through every movement.

Jon lowered himself to sit beside the wolf, letting it curl around him. He spoke to the creature in a quiet, melodic tone, the words meaningless to others but filled with trust, curiosity, and an understanding of the bond they were forming. The red eyes blinked slowly, matching Jon’s calm gaze, and Ned felt a rare stirring of awe.

He approached Jon, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “You have done well, Jon. You have learned much, but remember—this is only the beginning. The Reach is full of wonders and lessons. Treat every person, every creature, every moment with respect, and you will do well.”

Jon looked up, eyes bright. “I will, Father. And I will tell them stories, the old ones, of the North. About the wolves, about the lands, and about who we are.”

Ned nodded, a deep sense of pride mingling with the familiar weight of worry that always accompanied fatherhood. He observed Jon again, calm and poised, yet alive with that restless energy that had marked him since birth. A Stark through and through, shaped by both the North and the South, ready to meet the challenges of family, loyalty, and destiny.

The children moved closer, circling Jon and the wolf, questions spilling over in excited tones. Arya asked if he could teach her to train with the creature, Bran wondered if the wolf could guide him in the dreams he sometimes had, and Rickon simply reached out to stroke the fur, giggling in delight.

Ned took a step back, letting the family bond unfold, letting Jon teach, lead, and guide in his own quiet way. This was the Stark way—strength tempered by honor, knowledge tempered by restraint, and loyalty tempered by love.

As the afternoon sun climbed higher, Jon remained with the wolf, the family watching, learning, and quietly marveling at the boy who carried the North in his heart yet stood with the grace and poise of the South. Ned’s heart was full, and for the first time in many moons, he allowed himself to relax, knowing that Jon Stark, his ward, his nephew, and his blood, would navigate both worlds with the intelligence, skill, and honor of a true Stark.

Beyond The Wall

Bloodraven

The wind howled over the hills of the Reach, carrying with it scents that spoke of roses, earth, and distant seas, though none of it touched him. He watched from far beyond the walls, eyes unblinking, senses stretched across leagues, the currents of magic and life whispering into his mind. The boy of the North was here, far from the frostbitten lands where his blood had first stirred under the old gods, yet even here, the air seemed to bend toward him, carrying faint echoes of Winterfell’s weirwoods and the silent snow.

The white shape emerged from the crate, silent and deliberate, fur catching the sun in a glint of silver-white, red eyes like molten iron. The boy knelt, calm, patient, and reverent as he extended his hand. The wolf stepped forward with measured grace, sniffing, circling, and finally settling near the boy’s side. The connection was immediate, undeniable.

Bloodraven felt the pull, a subtle resonance of power that was neither fully animal nor fully human, but something older, something ancient. The boy’s blood and the wolf’s essence intertwined in ways few could perceive, and yet he sensed it all. He watched Jon’s expression, the awe tempered with patience, the quiet acceptance of a responsibility not yet fully understood.

He could feel the subtle currents in the boy’s mind—curiosity, intelligence, restraint. He noted how Jon did not command the creature, did not flaunt his dominance, but instead offered respect, attention, and care. This was not the Northern boy who had once been shielded in Winterfell alone; this was a Stark grown in a foreign land, tempered by experience, yet still drawn inexorably to the primal, the untamed, the sacred.

He watched as Jon whispered softly, hands moving over the fur, fingers brushing the sharp angles of muscle and bone beneath. The wolf responded with a gentle nudge, eyes locking with the boy’s. Bloodraven felt the thread, faint but unbroken, linking boy and beast, a tether of fate that could not yet be severed. He could see glimpses of the boy’s mind—a swirl of thoughts and questions, plans and dreams, everything yet unshaped—but the wolf anchored him, pulling him into rhythms older than kingdoms, older than crowns.

And still, there was the shadow of doubt that crawled under his skin. What dangers could this boy bring, carrying the favor of the old gods, the gods of men, and the weight of his own lineage? Could he be protected? Could he be guided without being consumed by the currents that flowed through him? Bloodraven had long felt the burden of watching, of manipulating, of shaping events from the shadows. He understood the dangers of ambition, of power untested, of gifts unearned.

Yet here he was, witness to a moment that could shape everything. The wolf, the boy, the reverence of the gesture—it was all a testament to the intricate weave of fate, to the threads of prophecy and legacy that stretched across lands and generations. And in the quiet, with the wind stirring the leaves in the Tyrell gardens far below, he saw not just a boy receiving a gift, but a world beginning to pivot around him.

The old gods had chosen. The boy had accepted. And Bloodraven, with all his knowledge and all his foresight, could only watch, calculating, pondering, fearing, and, in some buried part of himself, marveling at the promise and peril that had just arrived in the Reach.

A Stark in the South. A wolf. A future unspoken.

He did not intervene. He did not breathe a word. He watched, and in the watching, he felt the threads begin to pull taut, the story moving inexorably forward, and he understood that the boy’s journey was only beginning, and that even his own hands might not be enough to steer what was coming.

The white fur gleamed in the sunlight, the red eyes fixed on the boy, and Bloodraven felt a chill he could not name. The old gods had moved, and in their movement, the world had shifted.

Chapter Text

295 AC

Highgarden

Jon Stark

The horns sounded first, deep and rolling across the golden fields of the Reach. From the battlements of Highgarden, banners unfurled to meet them — golden roses on green, streaming in the wind, answering the call of stag and lion, falcon and crown.

Jon stood in the courtyard beside the Tyrells, the sun pressing warm against his shoulders. His hand rested at his belt though no sword hung there today, only the leather of his tunic, stiff from the heat. Around him the bustle of retainers, servants, and knights quickened, voices sharp with urgency. Mace Tyrell boomed orders as if the King himself would measure him by the volume of his welcome. Lady Alerie moved more quietly, guiding her daughters with a steady grace, while Loras adjusted his cloak of green and gold, every inch the knight sung of in ballads.

Jon said little. He watched.

Beyond the open gates, the thunder of hooves grew louder, a rhythm that carried weight enough to make the stone beneath his feet hum. Dust rose in the distance like a storm, and then he saw them: the crowned stag of Baratheon, black on gold, streaming above the largest host he had ever laid eyes upon. Knights rode in gleaming plate, helms catching sunlight. Men-at-arms bore spears that bristled like a forest. And at their head — a man as large as any legend, his laughter loud even above the horns.

Robert Baratheon.

Jon had heard his uncle speak of him often. A warrior of the Trident, a brother once dear as blood. Seeing him now, there was no mistaking it. The King was immense, his beard thick, his frame like a tower. Yet the weight of wine and years clung to him too — still fierce, still powerful, but softened by indulgence. He bellowed as if the world itself were his to command.

Beside him rode a woman so fair she seemed carved of sunlit marble. Cersei Lannister’s hair shone like spun gold, her green eyes cool, her back straight with the pride of lions. Children followed close — Joffrey, already smirking as though all before him existed for his amusement; Myrcella, her smile softer, curious; Tommen, round-faced, struggling with his pony yet determined to keep pace.

And behind them, more solemn than all, came Jon Arryn. The Hand of the King. Age had stooped his shoulders, silvered his hair, but his eyes were clear as still water. They swept the courtyard, measured, calm, weighing every face and every stone.

“Remember your courtesies,” Margaery whispered at Jon’s side. Her gown was the green of leaves after rain, her smile poised, her eyes bright. She looked every inch the rose of Highgarden, but when her gaze brushed his, it lingered.

Jon inclined his head, though his stomach twisted. He had seen hosts before — the banners of the Riverlands when Riverrun stirred, the northern lords riding through Winterfell’s gates — but this was something else. This was the crown itself descending upon them.

The gates boomed wide. Trumpets flared. Highgarden opened its heart.

Robert swung from his horse with surprising ease for so large a man, tossing the reins aside as if such tasks were beneath him. “Ned!” he roared.

And there was his father. Lord Eddard Stark stepped forward from where the Starks waited near the Tyrells. His grey eyes lifted, his mouth set in that familiar grim line. Yet when Robert bore down on him, arms wide, the mask cracked.

“My king,” Ned began, dropping to one knee, but Robert hauled him up before the words were finished, crushing him in an embrace that seemed more like a battle than a greeting.

“Seven hells, Stark, none of that,” Robert bellowed. “Not you. Gods, but it has been too long!”

Ned’s voice was quieter, but steady. “It has, Your Grace.”

Jon felt his throat tighten. To see his father again — to see the lines in his face, the steadiness of his gaze — was a comfort deeper than words. He wanted to step forward, to close the distance, but he held his place. A son of Winterfell must know patience.

Cersei’s voice sliced through the warmth like frost. “Your Grace, should we stand roasting in the yard while Lord Tyrell gapes?”

Robert laughed, clapping Ned’s shoulder so hard Jon half-expected him to stagger. “Aye, aye, we’ll have drink soon enough.” He turned, eyes sweeping the gathered lords until they landed on Jon. “And who is this?”

Jon straightened, heart hammering.

Ned’s eyes flicked to him, steady, unreadable. “This is my son. Jon.”

The King strode forward, great hand falling heavy upon Jon’s shoulder. “Stark blood, clear as day!” he barked. “Gods be good, Ned, he looks half your image and half your sister.”

Jon bowed his head. “Your Grace.”

Robert guffawed. “Polite, too! Best cure him of that, Stark, else the vipers at court will eat him whole.”

Behind the King, Prince Joffrey snorted. “He doesn’t look like much. A spare wolf pup.”

Cersei’s smile was sharp as glass, though she laid a hand upon her son’s arm. “Manners, Joffrey. We are guests.”

Jon felt the sting but gave no answer. He kept his face still, as he had been taught. Words are like arrows — once loosed, they cannot be taken back.

Jon Arryn’s gaze found him then. Cool, steady, weighing. The boy inclined his head, and Jon returned it with quiet respect.

“Come!” Robert boomed, throwing his arm around Ned once more. “We’ll drink until we’re blind, and let others talk us to death with courtesies.”

The royal party began to move inward, gold and crimson flooding Highgarden’s halls, the thunder of their arrival echoing off stone. Jon fell in with the Tyrells, Margaery just at his shoulder.

“You bore the King’s gaze well,” she said softly, eyes ahead. “Most boys would have stammered.”

“I am no boy,” Jon answered, though his voice was quieter than he intended.

Her lips curved faintly. “No. You are not.”

The feast had begun in full measure. Highgarden’s great hall bloomed with color and sound — music from hidden galleries, the murmur of courtiers, the clash of goblets. Platters of roasted fowl and venison gleamed with honeyed glaze, loaves of bread steamed, and fruits from the Mander’s orchards spilled in bright heaps across the tables.

Jon sat near his brothers and sisters, opposite Robb, with Arya perched restlessly at his side. The air around them was easier than he had feared. Whatever weight lingered on his father’s shoulders, whatever steel hid behind his mother's courtesy, the children made the hall feel warmer. They pressed him with questions as though moons had not passed since last they’d shared a fire.

“Tell us true,” Arya demanded, leaning close. “Are the Tyrell knights half as pretty as the singers say, or do they just polish their armor until you go blind?”

Jon smiled faintly. “They are skilled. Loras especially. He moves quick as a cat, and fights with more grace than most men I’ve seen.”

Arya’s eyes lit. “I know you could you beat him”

“Yes,” Jon admitted. “But he pushes me to be better.”

“Spoken like a true squire,” Robb teased, though there was pride in his voice.

It was then Loras himself turned, having caught their words. His green and gold cloak shimmered in the firelight, his smile quick. “I should hope I do, else my efforts are wasted.” His gaze met Jon’s. “Jon is the best I have ever seen. Even if he will not say it.”

Robb leaned forward, grin widening. “Then perhaps when the feast is done, you and I might cross swords as well, Lord Loras.”

Loras inclined his head. “Gladly, though I warn you, I do not go easy.”

Robb’s laugh was bright. “Nor do Starks.”

The younger ones pressed in. Bran wanted to know what the gardens smelled like at night, Rickon insisted he would climb the vines that scaled the towers if given the chance. Even Sansa asked softly of Highgarden’s court, her eyes alight with curiosity.

Margaery, seated just beyond Loras, listened with quiet poise. When she spoke, her voice was warm, carrying enough to draw even the King’s wandering ear. “Your brother has done well in Highgarden,” she said, addressing the Stark children but letting her gaze rest on Jon. “He trains with the best of our knights, and carries himself with honor.”

Robb nodded at once. “I never doubted it.” His grin found Jon again. “You’ve grown, brother.”

Arya jabbed Jon’s arm. “But does he still sulk?”

Jon gave her a sidelong look, but could not keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. “Less than before. Perhaps.”

The table chuckled, though Cersei’s smile remained thin as a knife. Her eyes flicked between Margaery and Jon, sharp and measuring.

“Strong words for a boy yet to be tested,” Joffrey said suddenly, voice loud enough to cut the moment. He leaned back, smirk curling. “The Reach is soft. A wolf raised among roses will forget his teeth.”

Silence lingered a heartbeat before Jon answered, his voice calm. “Wolves remember, Your Grace. No matter where they walk.”

Robert roared with laughter, slapping the table. “That’s the spirit! Gods, Ned, your boys all have iron in them.”

Olenna cackled from her place, cutting across the noise. “Better iron than gold, in my experience. Gold bends far too easily.”

The hall laughed, though not Cersei, whose gaze grew colder still.

Jon felt the weight of it all — his siblings’ eager questions, Margaery’s quiet watchfulness, Loras’s half-challenging smile, Joffrey’s spite, Robert’s booming approval, Cersei’s disdain. The hall spun with voices, but beneath it he heard his father’s silence, steady as the godswood, and Jon Arryn’s gaze, calm and unblinking.

He drank from his cup. The warmth of family was here, the weight of politics too, twined like rose and thorn.

Margaery Tyrell

The moon had risen high over Highgarden, spilling silver light across the gardens in gentle waves. The fountains glimmered like scattered jewels, their waters catching the stars’ reflection in fractured shards of light. The carefully sculpted hedges and topiaries cast long, curling shadows across the gravel paths, giving the grounds a sense of depth that seemed almost alive. Even the orange trees, heavy with fruit, appeared luminous in the soft glow, their branches swaying gently in the warm night air.

Margaery slowed her pace, savoring it, letting her gaze wander over the gardens. She felt as though the world had paused for a moment, leaving her to appreciate the beauty that often went unnoticed during the chaos of court life. She turned her head slightly to glance at Jon walking beside her. His presence was steady, reassuring, and even in the moonlight, he moved with the quiet confidence of a man entirely in command of himself.

“It is remarkable tonight,” she said softly, letting her words float in the calm night air. “I have seen Highgarden many times during the day, in the brilliance of the sun, but the gardens at night… they are something else entirely. The fountains, the flowers, the way the shadows shift—it is as if the whole place has been waiting for this moment.”

Jon’s gaze lifted to follow hers, scanning the hedges and the distant trellises, his expression calm, measured. “It is a rare quiet,” he said evenly, “and one can notice things that daylight often hides.”

Margaery smiled gently at him. There was a quiet strength in his composure, a restraint that reminded her of how capable he could be without drawing attention. She let herself linger on that thought for a moment, enjoying the rare intimacy of simply walking together, observing the night.

They turned a corner, passing under a wisteria archway, the petals brushing lightly against Margaery’s gown. A soft breeze carried the scent of jasmine and roses, mingling with the faint sweetness of the ripening oranges. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day lift, replaced by the serenity of the gardens at night.

And then the voice came, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

“Ah,” it said, with that sharp, unmistakable tone that tried to command attention with all the arrogance it mustered. “What do we have here?”

Margaery froze, though she did not show it, and Jon’s posture stiffened slightly, though he made no other movement. The prince stepped into view from beneath a trellis of pale wisteria, a golden goblet in one hand, his other hand gesturing with the arrogance only he could carry. Even in the dim light, his presence seemed to fill the space around him.

“Your Grace,” Margaery said immediately, inclining her head in a careful bow, her voice soft, smooth, respectful. “It is a most beautiful night. The gardens… they seem transformed by the moonlight. One cannot help but admire them.”

Joffrey’s eyes flicked to Jon, lingering for a moment with the curiosity of someone trying to measure another’s worth, and then returned to Margaery with a thin, knowing smile. “And your companion,” he said, voice edged with amusement, “I have heard the tales of the great Jon Stark, easily defeating boys his age without effort, and dueling against grown knights, I could easily give you a lesson in how great with a sword I am, easily better than the idiots in the North and here in the Reach”

Jon’s expression remained calm, his hands at his sides, his posture steady. “Your Grace,” he said, measured and even, “the night is quiet enough. Some lessons are better left for another place.” His tone was calm, restrained, yet carried a quiet authority that made Joffrey pause, if only for a moment.

Margaery noted the subtle tension beneath his composed exterior and felt a gentle warmth rise in her chest. She lightly pressed her hand against his arm, a discreet reminder that she was beside him, aware, supportive. She chose her words with care, keeping her voice soft but deliberate, acknowledging Joffrey’s presence without giving him an opening to mock or belittle.

“Your Grace,” she said, her tone polite, deferential, “Highgarden is a place of subtle beauty. One finds it best admired quietly, without distraction. The fountains, the hedges, the trellises… they speak for themselves under the moonlight.”

Joffrey pressed his lips together, and for a brief moment, the arrogance in his expression wavered. He was clearly testing them, searching for some weakness, but Jon’s calm, measured presence—and Margaery’s gentle, careful diplomacy—left him uncertain.

“Perhaps,” Joffrey said finally, taking a small step forward, “the night is indeed better for observation than for… lessons. But tell me, Lord Jon,” he added, emphasizing on the Lord part, “do you find such quiet easy to appreciate, or does it require some training of the mind to avoid the distractions of… importance?”

Jon’s lips pressed together in a faint line, though the calm never left his eyes. “Your Grace, I am capable of appreciating the quiet,” he said softly, measured, careful not to give offense. “There is value in restraint, as in attention. The gardens themselves teach that better than any other lessons.”

Margaery’s chest tightened with admiration. He was composed, precise, restrained, yet never arrogant. The contrast between his quiet command and Joffrey’s insistent bluster made the prince’s impatience almost tangible. She gave Jon’s arm a small, almost imperceptible squeeze, a private gesture of acknowledgment and solidarity.

Joffrey’s lips thinned. “Very well,” he said at last, though his voice still carried the faint edge of challenge. “Perhaps there is some sense in your restraint after all. But do not think that lessons do not follow us, even in quiet places.”

Margaery inclined her head slightly, still polite, still deferential. “Your Grace, we are most grateful for your counsel, but tonight the gardens themselves are our teachers. One cannot help but learn from them quietly, if one is willing to listen.”

The prince’s eyes flicked between them, lingering on Jon with that thinly measured curiosity, before settling finally on Margaery. For a heartbeat, the arrogance in his gaze softened, replaced by the faintest trace of acknowledgment. Perhaps he recognized restraint and composure for what it was, or perhaps he simply realized that neither of them would rise to his provocation tonight.

Satisfied, or at least distracted, he tilted his head slightly. “Then I shall leave you to your… study,” he said, a small, brittle laugh escaping him. “Enjoy the night, then. Perhaps there is something to be learned here after all.”

Margaery allowed herself a quiet, private smile. She gave Jon’s hand a gentle squeeze, and he responded with the smallest tightening of his fingers, a subtle acknowledgment that spoke volumes. Without another word, they turned and began walking down the winding garden paths, leaving the prince behind under the trellis.

The night air was cooler here, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers and the faint sweetness of ripening oranges. The soft rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of fountains filled the space, a quiet counterpoint to the tension they had just left behind. Jon’s hand remained lightly on hers, steady, warm, grounding, and she let herself savor the sensation.

“The gardens…” she said softly, her eyes sweeping over the fountains and shadows, “they are unlike anything I have seen before. The way the moonlight glints on the water… the way the shadows curl around the hedges… it is as though the world itself pauses for a moment.”

Jon’s gaze followed hers, calm and measured, his voice low and even. “They are indeed remarkable. One notices many things in the quiet that daylight hides.”

Margaery’s smile deepened. She allowed herself a small, private thought: that these quiet moments were rare, and that walking here with him felt as though the world had shifted, leaving the chaos of court and duty far behind. She tilted her head slightly, letting her fingers tighten subtly around his, a small, tender acknowledgment of the trust and comfort she found in his presence.

They passed under another trellis, the petals brushing softly against their shoulders. The moonlight danced on the gravel path, making the stones glint like scattered silver. The air was warm, yet cool enough to make the night feel alive, carrying the sounds of leaves rustling, fountains murmuring, and the distant echo of servants finishing their work in the gardens.

Margaery glanced at Jon again. His expression remained composed, neutral, but she sensed the subtle weight of awareness in his posture, the quiet vigilance that never left him even in moments of calm. It was comforting, in its own way, to know that beneath his restraint lay a quiet strength that required no display, no flourish, yet was impossible to ignore.

“Do you often find such nights here?” she asked softly, almost to herself, almost to him. “Moments like this, when the world feels so… serene?”

Jon’s eyes scanned the path ahead, then lingered on hers for the briefest instant. “They are rare,” he said quietly. “But they are worth savoring when they come.”

Margaery let a soft laugh escape, low and musical, letting herself enjoy the intimacy of the moment. “And worth seeking, I think,” she said. “Even if the world demands so much attention at other times.”

They walked a little slower, tracing the winding paths that led past fountains and flowerbeds, past shadows cast long and pale by the moonlight. Jon’s grip on her hand remained steady, gentle, reassuring. She leaned slightly closer, letting herself be guided, letting herself feel the warmth of his presence and the calm certainty he radiated.

The night seemed endless, stretching outward with quiet permission, forgiving and gentle. Margaery let herself breathe fully, unburdened by the expectations of her grandmother, the whispers of court, the incessant watchfulness of lords and ladies. Here, there was only the gardens, the moonlight, and the quiet companionship of Jon at her side.

Finally, they reached a terrace overlooking the outer gardens. The lanterns along the paths flickered low, casting soft, dancing shadows across the stone. From here, the castle behind them felt distant, the echo of Joffrey’s voice fading into the night. Margaery tilted her head toward Jon, feeling a quiet, private gratitude.

“Moments such as these,” she said softly, “are precious.”

Jon’s fingers tightened subtly around hers in answer. “They are,” he said. “And worth remembering.”

They lingered at the edge of the terrace, hand in hand, neither speaking further. The night was theirs, calm and endless, and the weight of court, of arrogance, of expectations, had been left far behind. The gardens seemed to embrace them, the fountains whispering, the petals brushing softly in the breeze.

And in that serene, silver-lit moment, Margaery allowed herself to believe, if only for a little while, that the world could be as beautiful and calm as this night, so long as Jon walked beside her.

The two of them began to walk slowly back toward the inner gardens, hand in hand, leaving the shadows of the trellis—and Joffrey’s sharp arrogance—behind. Each step felt deliberate, steady, unhurried, a quiet victory in its own way. Highgarden at night, with its moonlight, fountains, and quiet beauty, had become a sanctuary, a place where restraint, composure, and quiet companionship reigned, and Margaery savored it in full.

The night stretched ahead, endless and forgiving, carrying them forward with the soft rustle of leaves, the faint fragrance of flowers, and the steady warmth of their hands intertwined. And in that silence, Margaery felt a quiet certainty: that with Jon by her side, even the world’s harshest lights could be softened, even the sharpest arrogance could be left behind.

Jon’s gaze lingered on her as they walked down a quiet corridor, away from the distant echoes of the feast. The soft shuffle of their footsteps against the stone floor seemed amplified in the hush of the night. He tilted his head toward her, a faint, almost mischievous smile on his lips.

“Margaery,” he said softly, so only she could hear, “there’s something I want to show you. Will you come with me?”

Curiosity sparked, and she smiled, brushing her fingers lightly against his. “Of course,” she replied, letting her voice match the intimacy of the moment.

He led her down a narrower hall, past closed doors and flickering wall sconces, to a simple wooden door tucked into a corner. Jon pushed it open, and the gentle glow of candlelight spilled into the corridor, the flicker warming the stone around them.

Inside, the room was modest, cozy, and quiet. In the corner, atop a cushion, a small snow-white shape shifted. Margaery’s eyes widened in delight. A tiny wolf pup raised its head, red eyes bright with curiosity, letting out a soft whine.

“This is Ghost,” Jon said quietly, kneeling to stroke the pup’s soft fur. Ghost’s small head nuzzled his hand, then tilted toward Margaery, curious but cautious.

Margaery looked on in wonder "Boy or Girl?" she asked, "Boy" Jon eagerly answered

“He’s… beautiful,” Margaery breathed, kneeling beside him. She extended her hand, and the tiny wolf stepped forward, sniffing it before curling slightly into her lap. She laughed softly, delighting in his soft warmth. “He’s clever, isn’t he?”

Jon’s lips curved faintly, watching her with quiet amusement. “Clever and cautious,” he said softly. “He chooses carefully who he trusts.”

Margaery tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Then I suppose I must have passed the test.”

“He seems fond of you,” Jon replied, voice low, calm, and steady. There was a warmth beneath his words that made her chest tighten, a quiet reassurance she hadn’t expected.

Ghost wriggled in her lap, small paws kneading her gown. Margaery laughed again, leaning closer to watch him clumsily paw at the cushion. Jon reached over to adjust the cushion slightly, and their hands brushed. A faint warmth spread through her at the contact, subtle but electric.

“You know,” she said softly, “he has quite the spirit for such a tiny creature.”

Jon nodded, kneeling beside her. “He learns fast,” he said, “and he’s loyal.” His eyes met hers for a fleeting moment, steady and quiet. There was no pressure, only calm, and Margaery felt herself relax into the subtle gravity of his presence.

She leaned closer to Ghost, brushing her fingers gently over his soft fur. The pup yipped softly and nuzzled her hand, then tumbled onto his back with a tiny flop, exposing his belly. Margaery giggled, reaching out to scratch lightly between his shoulders. “You are spoiled already,” she whispered, and the little wolf’s ears twitched in response, almost as if in agreement.

Jon chuckled softly, a rare sound that made her heart lift. “He’s affectionate,” he said quietly, “but he has his limits. And he always knows who deserves his trust.”

Margaery tilted her head and glanced at him. “Then I am honored,” she said, teasing lightly, though her smile was soft and genuine.

Ghost gave a tiny whine and scrambled to climb further into her lap, resting his small head against her chest. Margaery stroked his fur gently, feeling the soft pulse of life beneath her fingers. “He is so small… and yet he feels strong,” she murmured. “Already full of energy and spirit.”

“My father says he will grow very fast,” Jon said quietly. “And he will grow protective of those he loves.” His eyes lingered on hers for a moment, steady and warm, and Margaery felt a small flutter in her chest.

For a long moment, the three of them sat together in the candlelit room. The distant echoes of the feast faded entirely, leaving only the quiet intimacy of Jon’s presence, the warmth of the pup, and the soft flicker of light reflecting in Ghost’s fur.

Finally, Jon rose smoothly, offering Margaery his hand. “Come,” he said softly, “I should see you safely back to your chambers.”

She took his hand, feeling the warmth of his fingers entwined with hers. Ghost padded a few steps behind them before curling back onto his cushion, content to watch the two of them leave.

As they reached her chambers, Jon paused, turning to her. The moonlight streamed through the window, highlighting the dark sweep of his hair and the faint curve of his jaw. He leaned in, his gaze steady, and brushed his lips lightly against hers.

Margaery’s breath caught in surprise, the softness of the kiss and the gentle intention behind it making her pulse race. It was tentative, quiet, and deliberate—a small, intimate gesture that spoke volumes without needing words.

When he pulled back slightly, their foreheads rested against one another. His hands remained lightly holding hers, grounding her. “Goodnight,” he murmured, calm and low, the warmth in his voice lingering.

“Goodnight,” she whispered back, savoring the sensation, the quiet intimacy, and the lingering warmth of his presence.

Jon gave a faint nod, stepping back with measured respect, and began walking down the corridor. Ghost padded alongside him silently for a few steps before curling back on his cushion, letting the quiet of the room reclaim its gentle peace.

Margaery entered her chambers, closing the door softly behind her. She sank onto the edge of her bed, letting the memory of Ghost’s tiny warmth and Jon’s gentle kiss wash over her. The candlelight flickered in the quiet room, shadows stretching across the floor, and she let herself simply exist in the lingering calm.

For the first time that night, Margaery allowed herself to breathe fully, to savor the rare intimacy of the moment, the playful innocence of Ghost, and the soft, steadfast presence of Jon. The gardens, the corridors, the castle—they all faded away. There was only this: the quiet connection, the shared warmth, and the promise of more moments like this yet to come.

Jon Stark

The morning sun shone brightly over Highgarden, glinting off the polished stone of the training yard. Dew still clung to the grass along the edges, giving the air a crisp freshness. Jon adjusted his grip on his practice sword, feeling the familiar weight settle comfortably in his hand. Across from him, Loras Tyrell readied himself, every muscle coiled, every movement precise.

Jon noted immediately that the fight would not be easy. Loras had grown sharper, quicker, more attuned to Jon’s style. The ease of his first days in the Reach had vanished. Now every movement demanded attention, every strike required careful calculation.

Loras lunged first, a blur of steel aimed at Jon’s torso. Jon pivoted on the balls of his feet, letting the blade glance harmlessly off his parry. Loras followed immediately with a quick feint to the left, testing Jon’s reflexes, then snapped his blade back toward Jon’s right side. Jon blocked, heart steady, noting the faint hesitation in the Tyrell’s shoulders—the slightest opening he could exploit.

Steel rang sharply as Jon countered, thrusting toward Loras’ midsection. The younger knight shifted just in time, narrowly avoiding contact, but Jon pressed, feinting a strike to the left, then delivering a quick tap to his opponent’s ribs. Loras staggered back, briefly winded, before regaining his stance.

“Faster than before,” Jon said quietly, though the words were for himself more than anyone else.

Loras smirked, shaking off the impact. “I’ve had time to train,” he said, his voice steady, though his chest rose and fell from exertion.

Jon studied him, noting the subtle shift in the Tyrell’s stance. Loras’ eyes flicked toward Jon’s blade, then to his shoulders, reading, predicting, testing. Jon adjusted accordingly, letting his calm guide him more than instinct alone. He knew he couldn’t rely solely on past victories—he had to anticipate, adapt, stay a step ahead.

Another thrust, faster this time, and Jon barely managed a parry, feeling the vibration travel up his arms. He pivoted, sidestepped, and feinted toward Loras’ left, then drove a controlled blow toward the Tyrell’s side. Loras tried to counter, but the timing was just slightly off. The young knight stumbled, chest heaving, a faint exclamation escaping him before he caught himself.

Jon lowered his sword but remained alert, watching carefully as Loras reset. “You’ve become smarter,” Jon said quietly. “You watch, you wait, you test. It’s no longer enough to just attack.”

Loras nodded, breathing hard but still composed. “You’ve grown too,” he admitted. “You anticipate better than before, although it was great as it was before.”

Jon smirked faintly, letting a moment pass as they circled each other, eyes locked, reading the smallest movements. Each strike, each block, each sidestep was a conversation—a test of skill, patience, and judgment. Loras’ attacks were faster now, feints more intricate, and Jon felt the challenge in every motion. Yet he stayed composed, calm, controlled, letting the rhythm guide him.

A quick series of strikes—Loras’ sword darting toward Jon’s shoulder, then down to his midsection—forced Jon to pivot sharply, roll his wrist, and counter with a precise blow that sent the younger knight stumbling back again. Jon didn’t press; he gave space, letting Loras regain his footing, letting the fight breathe.

The morning sun warmed his back, but Jon barely noticed. His focus was absolute, every movement deliberate, every response measured. Loras was no longer the easy opponent he had once been, but Jon felt a quiet satisfaction. The challenge pushed him, reminded him of the discipline and calm required in battle, of the sharpness necessary to succeed.

Finally, Jon feinted left, then drove a controlled strike to Loras’ side. The young lord's balance faltered, and he stumbled, falling back onto the grass. Jon immediately lowered his blade, chest steady, hand still gripping the hilt, ready for any counter.

Loras looked up at him, chest heaving, a mixture of admiration and frustration in his gaze. “You’re… still better,” he admitted, smiling despite himself. 

Jon nodded, allowing himself a small, quiet smile.“You’ve grown. So have I. Every fight should be harder than the last.”

The yard was quiet now except for their breathing and the distant rustle of leaves in the morning breeze. Jon felt a subtle satisfaction settle over him—he had adapted, improved, and maintained control without arrogance. The sparring had become harder, yes, but the challenge only sharpened him, reminding him that growth required focus, patience, and measured strength.

As Loras straightened, brushing grass from his tunic, Jon sheathed his practice sword. The morning was still young, the sun high and bright over Highgarden, and Jon felt ready—ready for the day, ready for the next challenge, and aware that every sparring session was not just practice, but preparation for what lay ahead.

Robb Stark

The morning sun glinted off the stone training yard, spreading warmth across the dew-specked grass. Jon stood to the side lightly sweating from the bout he just had with Loras, sword sheathed for the moment, watching with quiet interest. Loras Tyrell was already in position sweating profusely, adjusting the strap of his practice sword, and the yard seemed alive with anticipation.

Robb Stark approached, broad-shouldered and steady, a confident tilt to his head as he took in the scene. Jon’s gaze flicked between the two, noting the sharp focus in both their stances.

“Try not to embarrass yourself too badly,” Jon said lightly, a teasing lilt in his voice as he addressed his brother.

Robb glanced at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I wont.” he said softly.

Jon let a faint smile cross his face. “I’ll take careful notes,” he replied, letting the edge of humor linger in his tone. “Mostly for the record. That way we can tell later who made the better moves.”

Robb chuckled, then turned his attention to Loras. “Ready?” he asked, voice low, measured.

Loras inclined his head, settling into a balanced stance. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. His eyes were sharp, calm, and assessing.

The first clash of steel rang through the yard, bright and crisp in the morning air. Robb struck with power, his movements fluid and deliberate, while Loras shifted, parried, and countered with the experience of someone who had grown up in the land of knights. Jon watched the duel, noting every subtle feint, every shift in balance.

Robb’s attacks were strong, precise, and forceful. Loras, older and seasoned, moved with economy and strategy, using his experience to predict and exploit even the smallest openings. The air vibrated with the clang of steel. Robb was good, as good as most he'd fought in The Reach but Loras had spent the last 5 months training with Jon and Jon was the best hed seen ever so he had in turn gotten better as well.

A flurry of strikes passed between them—Robb driving forward with long, powerful thrusts, Loras deflecting and riposting with sharp, measured movements. The younger Tyrell tested every angle, probing for weakness, while Loras countered with patience and precision.

Loras’ lips curved faintly as he recognized the subtle patterns in Robb’s attacks. Years of training in the Reach had taught him timing, patience, and anticipation, and now every lesson was being applied. With a deft sidestep and a controlled thrust, Loras found a small opening in Robb’s guard, tapping him lightly on the side and forcing a stagger.

Robb blinked, regaining his footing, chest rising and falling from exertion. A grin appeared on his face. “Close,” he admitted, his voice steady, carrying both frustration and respect. “You’re quicker than I expected.”

Jon let out a quiet whistle from the side. “He’s not kidding,” Jon said softly. “Loras has grown into every inch of his skill. This isn’t going to be easy for anyone.”

Loras pressed forward with another rapid combination, testing Robb’s defenses, pushing him to react with agility and calculation. Robb countered, parrying and striking in rapid succession, forcing Loras to adjust, to anticipate, to remain alert. Every strike was a conversation, every dodge a challenge, and Jon watched every move with rapt attention.

Finally, a brief lapse—a fraction of a heartbeat—gave Loras the edge. He sidestepped and delivered a precise, controlled tap that unbalanced Robb. The younger man stumbled but recovered quickly, nodding with a mixture of admiration and frustration.

“You’re… stronger than I thought,” Robb said, wiping sweat from his brow, voice low but respectful. “I underestimated your timing.”

“And you fought well,” Loras replied evenly, breathing lightly. “Besides Jon who quite frankly has no competition, very few push me as you have. It’s an honor to spar with someone like you.”

Jon stepped forward slightly, letting his eyes travel between them. “I’ll admit,” he said with a wry smile, “that was impressive. Both of you. But the Reach really shows its lessons in him, doesn’t it?”

Robb straightened, catching his breath, still flushed from the spar. “Experience counts,” he said quietly, nodding toward Loras. “I’ve strength, yes—but he’s refined. Every movement counts, every step, every feint. That’s why the knights here are dangerous.”

Loras allowed himself a faint, satisfied smile. “And worthy opponents make every spar more meaningful,” he said. “You’ve proven yourself today, Robb Stark. That matters more than a simple victory.”

Jon watched them both lower their swords, the morning sunlight reflecting off steel and armor, the quiet satisfaction of a fight well-fought lingering in the air. Loras’ victory had been earned through skill, patience, and the lessons of a lifetime in the land of knights, yet the respect between the three men was palpable.

The sparring yard, quiet now except for the sound of their steady breathing and the soft rustle of leaves in the morning breeze, seemed to hold its breath. Jon felt the subtle satisfaction of witnessing two worthy opponents push each other to their limits—and he knew the challenges would only grow from here.

King Robert Baratheon

The clang of steel echoed across the Highgarden training yard, the morning sun catching on the stone and glinting off steel. King Robert leaned on the railing, tankard forgotten at his side, eyes fixed on Jon Stark as he moved with calm precision against one of the king’s knights.

Jon’s movements were fluid and controlled, every strike deliberate, every parry measured. The knight, though skilled, was struggling to land a solid blow. Jon didn’t rush; he read, anticipated, and exploited every opening with quiet ease.

“By the gods,” Robert muttered under his breath, grinning, “that boy… reminds me of Arthur Dayne. Smooth, precise, calm under pressure… every step, every strike.”

Robb stood to the side, arms crossed, watching his brother spar, while Loras Tyrell’s eyes flicked back and forth between Jon and the knight, analyzing the flow of the duel. Jon had grown even since his first days in Highgarden, stronger, sharper, more deliberate.

The knight lunged again, blade flashing, but Jon sidestepped, parried, and tapped him lightly on the side, sending the man stumbling back. The movement was effortless, confident—Jon’s skill apparent in every motion.

From nearby, a high-pitched, overconfident voice rang out. “Ha! That’s nothing. I could do better than him any day!”

Robert’s grin faltered for a second as he looked toward the source. There, standing a few feet away, was Joffrey—barely more than a boy, three or four years younger than Jon, with a golden tunic far too clean for combat. The arrogance on his face was infuriatingly out of proportion to the skill he possessed.

Robert’s jaw tightened. “Boy, don’t you dare,” he barked. “You think you’re better than him? You can barely hold a sword properly, and you’re about to step into a yard full of real fighters?”

Cersei’s lips pressed tight as her son opened his mouth to protest, but Robert ignored her. “Go on, then,” he said loudly, grabbing Joffrey’s shoulder. “Step up! You want to prove yourself? Step in and spar Jon Stark yourself. Let’s see what you’ve got!”

Joffrey’s face turned crimson, a mix of fury and humiliation flashing across it. “Father—” he stammered, hands trembling on the practice sword Robert thrust toward him.

“No excuses! Step up or eat dirt for your arrogance!” Robert barked. “Jon’s ready for you. You think you’re better? Then show me, boy!”

Cersei’s hand shot up, voice sharp and furious. “Robert! You can’t—he’s barely more than a child! You’ll humiliate him!”

Robert ignored her entirely, eyes still on Jon, who had just disarmed the knight with a smooth, precise movement, forcing him to retreat with a huff. Jon’s stance remained calm, composed, every muscle ready, yet relaxed. Robert grinned, shaking his head.

“Look at him,” Robert muttered, gesturing toward Jon with his tankard. “Steady, strong, confident… a real fighter. And that little brat over there? He’s got the mouth of a king, but the skill of a page.”

Robb’s arms remained crossed, focused, while Loras tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Even from the side, it was obvious Jon’s skill far surpassed anything Joffrey could hope to muster.

Robert let out a booming laugh, clapping his hands together. “By the Seven! That boy's got the heart, the skill, and the brains of a true knight. And Joffrey…” he shook his head, looking down at the younger boy, “well, he’s about to find out just how dangerous it is to talk big and swing small.”

Cersei’s glare deepened, her lips pressing tight as she watched Robert nudge her son forward. But Robert was already grinning, eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Step up, boy. Let’s see if all that talk of being the best holds any weight.”

The yard was tense, the morning sun reflecting off steel and armor, but Jon Stark remained calm, his eyes fixed on Joffrey. The boy trembled slightly, sword gripped awkwardly, his stance far from balanced. Jon could already read the arrogance in his posture—the overconfidence, the false pride—and it only sharpened his focus.

Robert’s grin widened. “Step lively, boy! Let’s see what you’ve got!” he bellowed, voice booming.

Joffrey lunged, sword swinging in a wild, jerky motion. Jon easily sidestepped, noting the complete lack of control in the strike. The motion was unrefined, clumsy, and the swing telegraphed every intent. He blocked the next attack with a simple parry, forcing the boy to overextend and stumble slightly.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. This isn’t going to be a contest, he thought, calmly assessing the boy’s technique. Joffrey had none and weakly held the sword in his hand, he was reckless in his control, predictable and rigid. A smile tugged at the corner of Jon’s lips.

In a smooth motion that made the gathered crowd gasp, Jon shifted his sword to his left hand—his weaker hand, the one he had rarely relied upon. A hush fell over the onlookers; even Robb and Loras blinked in surprise.

Robert’s jaw dropped, tankard nearly slipping from his hand. “Ha! By the Seven… he’s going to do it left-handed? That boy really is something else!”

Joffrey’s eyes widened in shock. For the first time, he faltered, his arrogance betrayed by the sudden shift. His grip tightened on his sword, but panic flashed across his face.

Jon advanced with calm precision, using the weaker hand effortlessly, every strike controlled, every parry flawless. Joffrey’s swings grew more erratic, more desperate, as Jon deftly sidestepped, blocked, and countered with smooth, decisive motions. The match was over before it had truly begun.

A final, controlled strike sent Joffrey staggering back, almost tumbling to the ground, his sword slipping from his trembling hands. Jon’s blade remained steady, pointed at the boy’s chest.

The yard was silent for a heartbeat, then Robert bellowed, laughter shaking the stones beneath him. “Ha! Did you see that? Did you see him? Left-handed and flawless! That’s skill, boy! Real skill!”

Robb’s mouth was slightly open in admiration, and Loras let out a low whistle. “He didn’t even break a sweat,” Loras murmured, eyes still tracking Jon’s calm movements.

Joffrey’s face turned crimson, veins standing out on his temples, and his fists clenched at his sides. His lips trembled as he sputtered, “I—I can’t believe… I should—”

Robert waved a hand dismissively, grinning like a man who had just watched a masterwork. “You should’ve trained more, boy! You should’ve known better than to think a Stark can’t cut circles around a golden boy. Step aside before you hurt yourself trying to prove what you clearly can’t.”

Cersei’s lips pressed tight, her hands trembling with fury. “Robert! You can’t humiliate him like this!”

Robert ignored her entirely, eyes still on Jon, who lowered his sword and gave a faint nod of acknowledgment to the king. “He’s steady, he’s precise, and he’s got the heart of a knight,” Robert said with admiration. “I’d take him into any battle over a boy who flails around pretending to know what he’s doing.”

Joffrey’s face was red with anger and shame, his pride shattered, fists still clenched, teeth gritted. He had never felt so humiliated, and he knew it—everyone in the yard could see it. Robert’s laughter echoed off the stone, and Jon stood calm, controlled, the master of the fight and utterly unshaken by the boy’s arrogance.

Robert’s grin was wide and proud. “Mark my words, Cersei. Ned's boy… he’s the real deal. Joffrey’s arrogance means nothing here.”

Cersei’s glare could have burned steel, but Robert didn’t care. Jon had proven himself utterly, effortlessly, and the contrast between him and the whining little prince could not have been more stark.

Jon Stark

Jon lowered his sword slowly, keeping his stance relaxed but alert. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the yard on him, but he forced himself to breathe evenly. He didn’t want this to be about showing off. Not really.

“Your grace,” Jon said quietly, stepping forward just enough to close the distance, his tone calm and even. “It’s just a sparring match. You don’t have to—”

Joffrey’s eyes blazed, red rims flaring with fury. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!” he snapped, voice shaking, high-pitched with indignation. “I could beat you if I wanted to! You… you cheated! That wasn’t fair!”

Jon’s jaw tightened just slightly, but he kept his voice steady, careful not to escalate. “I didn’t cheat,” he said softly. “I just… adjusted to the way you fight. You telegraph your strikes too much. You’re strong, but you’re predictable.”

The boy’s face twisted with anger, and he jabbed his sword at Jon’s midsection, wild and uncontrolled. Jon sidestepped smoothly, letting the tip pass harmlessly by, and shook his head. “You’re swinging too hard, Joffrey. You need control. Strength alone won’t win a fight.”

“I don’t need control! I’m the prince! I’m better than you!” Joffrey shouted, his voice cracking as he waved the sword erratically. He took another reckless swing, this time catching nothing but air, nearly losing his balance.

Jon sighed quietly, lowering his own sword slightly in an attempt at patience. He didn’t want to humiliate the boy further, though it was tempting. “It’s not about being better than me,” he said, keeping his tone calm. “It’s about learning. You’re angry because you lost, yes—but there’s nothing wrong with that. Losing is how you get better.”

Joffrey’s cheeks were flushed red, and his hands trembled as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “I—I don’t lose! I can’t lose! You’re just… just lucky!”

Jon shook his head, a faint, almost sympathetic frown crossing his features. “Luck doesn’t help when you make the same mistake over and over. You’re strong—but strength without discipline won’t help you in a fight. That’s all I’m trying to show you.”

The prince’s lips trembled, fury and humiliation warping his expression. He barely listened, raising his sword again, swinging violently in an uncontrolled arc. Jon stepped aside easily, his movements calm, measured, and entirely effortless.

He knew he could end it in a single strike, yet he didn’t. He wanted Joffrey to feel some lesson in control, some sense of how skill mattered more than pride. But the boy was beyond listening, beyond reasoning, lost in a storm of embarrassment and rage.

Jon’s eyes flicked briefly to Robert, who was laughing and cheering from the railing above, and then to Cersei, whose glare could have cut stone. He focused back on Joffrey. “If you want to spar, do it properly,” Jon said, voice low, even. “Or… step back, and I’ll show you some technique instead.”

Joffrey’s hands shook violently as he raised the sword again, but his confidence was gone, replaced by pure, hot anger. “I… I’ll show you! I’ll—”

Jon sighed softly, stepping aside again. He could feel the heat radiating from the boy’s fury, smell the sharp tang of humiliation, and it was… almost pitiful. He hated to see someone so young consumed by pride, so incapable of seeing that losing was not the end of the world.

The yard was silent except for the faint scrape of Joffrey’s boots on stone as he spun, lunged, and faltered once more. Jon remained calm, humble, and steady, letting the boy exhaust himself, trying to teach without cruelly humiliating him further.

He’ll learn… eventually, Jon thought, though he wasn’t sure the boy had the patience for it. For now, he would remain firm, controlled, and above all, humble—because showing skill wasn’t about pride. It was about being ready for what truly mattered, and Joffrey… wasn’t ready at all.

Joffrey lunged again, wild and reckless, his golden sword flailing like a twig in Jon’s steady grasp. Jon’s eyes narrowed just slightly, noting the boy’s lack of control, the raw frustration that made every strike predictable. This wasn’t a duel. It was a tantrum with a sword.

Jon stepped aside, pivoted, and in one smooth motion disarmed the prince, sending the practice sword clattering across the yard. The move was clean, controlled, and effortless, leaving Joffrey blinking, stunned. Jon lowered his own blade, calm, measured, his breathing steady.

The yard went silent for a heartbeat, then erupted with whispers and stifled laughter. Robb’s eyes were wide with admiration, and Loras shook his head in disbelief, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Jon glanced at them briefly but didn’t let the satisfaction show too clearly. He didn’t need to gloat; the match had spoken for itself.

Joffrey’s face flushed crimson, veins standing out along his temples. His hands clenched into fists, teeth bared, and a strangled, furious shout escaped him. “I—I can’t believe it! This isn’t fair! I’m the prince! I should—”

Robert’s laughter shook the railing, booming across the yard. “Ha! By the Seven! That’s exactly what I’m talking about! That boy didn’t need to cheat or yell—he just handled you like a proper fighter! Step aside, boy, before you hurt yourself trying to prove what you clearly cannot!”

Cersei’s face twisted with fury, hand flying up in protest. “Robert! You—this is outrageous! You humiliated him in front of everyone! You can’t just—”

Robert waved her off with a grunt, shaking his head. “Outrageous? Ha! He humiliated himself, Cersei. That’s the difference. Jon didn’t swing wildly, didn’t yell, didn’t make a fool of himself. You should be teaching that boy humility, not coddling his pride.”

Joffrey’s lower lip trembled, fury and humiliation warring across his pale face. He stomped his foot, glaring daggers at Jon, voice shaking. “I’ll… I’ll get him next time! I’ll show him! He won’t—he can’t—”

Jon stayed calm, letting the boy vent, keeping his own expression neutral. He didn’t need to respond with words. The outcome of the spar had already spoken louder than anything he could say.

Robert clapped his hands together, grinning like a man who had just watched a masterwork. “By the gods, Ned's boy… he’s got the heart, the skill, and the brains of a knight, Gods I wish he was my son. And that little brat? Well…” He gestured at Joffrey, chuckling. “…he’s got a long way to go before he’s even halfway ready to hold a blade properly.”

Robb’s mouth twisted into a small grin, and Loras shook his head with quiet amusement. Jon glanced at them both briefly, then lowered his eyes, trying to keep his humility intact despite the satisfaction rising in his chest.

Joffrey’s fists were still clenched, his face red with fury, and his pride utterly shattered. Cersei’s glare was sharp enough to pierce stone, but Robert ignored her completely, eyes twinkling with delight at Jon’s calm skill and the prince’s complete inability to back up his arrogance.

Jon exhaled softly, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. This is what it’s like to face arrogance without skill, he thought, to be patient when someone refuses to learn. And for the first time that morning, he allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile—not out of pride, but for the clarity of seeing exactly what discipline, control, and calm could accomplish.

Catelyn Stark

The castle corridors were quiet, the sounds of Highgarden settling into the heat of the midday sun filtering through the open windows. Catelyn Stark walked briskly, her skirts swishing lightly over the polished stone floors, and when she found Jon leaning against a pillar in a shaded hallway, she stopped abruptly. The young man was wiping his brow, still catching his breath from the sparring yard, though he looked as calm and composed as ever.

“Jon,” she said sharply, her voice carrying a mother’s authority, the note that had always made him pause. She stepped closer, her eyes scanning him, taking in the sweat on his brow, the faint glint of sun on his hair, and, most importantly, the calm in his posture that was at odds with the storm she felt rising in her chest. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Jon looked up, his gray eyes meeting hers evenly. “I… I suppose you mean the sparring with Joffrey?” he asked quietly, his voice steady, measured. “I only did what I thought necessary.”

Catelyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Necessary?” she repeated, her voice sharper. “Jon, you humiliated a prince. A boy with barely any skill and barely more years than you. Do you understand what that could mean?”

Jon shook his head slightly, though not in disrespect. “I do,” he said softly. “But it was not meant to humiliate him, Mother. I tried to keep it… controlled. I never intended for him to feel degraded—only to learn that swinging wildly and relying on arrogance won’t carry a fight.”

Catelyn folded her arms, frustration and worry twisting inside her chest. She took a small step closer, lowering her voice, though the sharp edge remained. “Jon, you have to understand—this isn’t just a sparring match in a yard. Joffrey is the king’s son. The prince. You’ve angered him, and his mother—your queen—will not take this lightly. Do you know what angering her looks like?”

Jon swallowed, his jaw tightening fractionally. “I know, Mother. I understand the position he holds, but I also understand the danger of allowing arrogance to go unchecked. I did not act out of pride, nor malice. I—”

Catelyn interrupted, her tone softening slightly, though the concern never left her voice. “Jon, listen to me. You have skill, yes, but skill does not excuse indiscretion. You could have spoken to him, guided him, taught him… but to humiliate him so publicly, no matter how much he deserved it, will not be forgotten. Men like Joffrey, boys like him—they hold grudges, and worse—they often listen only to the loudest voices in the room. I fear what this will stir.”

Jon’s hands flexed slightly at his sides, his posture shifting. “Mother, I meant no disrespect to the crown. I tried to teach, not insult. I kept my distance, I stayed calm, I allowed him to exhaust himself. I never struck to harm, nor to degrade. I only used what was necessary to defend myself and demonstrate control.”

Catelyn’s eyes softened, though worry remained, threading through her gaze like iron through cloth. She lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair back from Jon’s face. “I know that, Jon. I know your intentions were pure. But intention does not always dictate consequence. You may see control and precision, but others… others see arrogance, or worse, defiance. Joffrey will not see your skill as admirable. He will see it as an affront, a challenge.”

Jon nodded slowly, his voice even, patient. “I understand, Mother. I do not dispute what you say. But I cannot compromise my honor or my skill simply to appease someone who does not yet understand the value of control.”

Catelyn drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly, as if she could calm the storm inside herself by sheer will. “Jon… you do not yet realize how dangerous it is to offend the king or his son. You have skill and calm, yes, but those are not shields against politics, nor against pride and fury. Joffrey is not just a boy with a sword. He is a boy with a crown, with the ear of men, and the indulgence of his father. One misstep, one slight, and…” Her voice trailed, the threat unspoken but clear.

Jon stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice in turn, his calm demeanor firm but gentle. “I know what you fear, Mother. I know that Joffrey’s temper is dangerous, that his pride is unchecked. I know he may hold this against me. But I do not act recklessly. Every strike, every motion, every action in that yard was deliberate. I sought to teach a lesson, not to anger a prince. And I can handle the consequences. I will act with care, with caution, with respect—but I will not compromise my skill to shield his pride.”

Catelyn’s hands clenched slightly at her sides, her heart caught between pride and fear. She had raised her children to be honorable, to fight with integrity, and to act with conscience. Jon, even in his youth, embodied those values—but they were the very values that could make him vulnerable in a court full of vanity and cunning.

“Jon,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, though no less intense, “I do not doubt your ability to act with skill. But you cannot always rely on others to understand honor as you do. You may win every spar, every duel, but the battle beyond the yard—the one of words, of temper, of pride—may not bend so easily to your sword. You must tread carefully. You must be aware not just of skill, but of perception, of influence, of the consequences of a boy’s anger and a queen’s wrath.”

Jon’s gaze softened, and he took her hands lightly in his own, a gesture of connection he rarely allowed in public. “I hear you, Mother. I will be careful. I will not act with malice, nor with arrogance, and I will temper my skill with caution. But I cannot, will not, turn away from what is right in a fight—or from what I must show to those who would challenge me. I promise you… I will walk the line, even if it is narrow and dangerous.”

Catelyn’s eyes shimmered with a mixture of worry and pride. She wanted to scold him further, to press on the dangers of Joffrey’s temper and Cersei’s wrath, but she could see the truth in Jon’s calm conviction. He was steadfast, as steady as the northern rivers in spring thaw, unshaken by words or bluster.

“You are… steadfast, Jon,” she admitted finally, her voice softening, almost a whisper. “And I am proud of you. But I fear for the consequences of this morning. You cannot imagine what Joffrey—or his mother—will do with anger and pride unchecked.”

Jon gave a faint nod. “I do not underestimate him, Mother. I know his temper. I know his cunning. And I know the queen’s influence. But I have no desire to humiliate him unnecessarily. I only seek to act with honor and precision, as you have taught me. That is all I can do.”

Catelyn pressed a hand to his shoulder, her eyes locked on his. “Just… remember, Jon. Strength and skill are not always enough. There are other battles—ones that cannot be won with a blade. Be cautious, be aware, and for the love of the gods, do not give him reason to hate you further. You may not be able to parry words and anger as easily as you do a sword.”

Jon’s lips curved faintly, a ghost of a smile. “I will be careful, Mother. I promise. But I will not compromise who I am, nor what I must do.”

Catelyn sighed, a mixture of relief and lingering fear settling in her chest. She could see the truth in his words, and yet the thought of the consequences gnawed at her. “Very well,” she said finally, voice soft but firm. “Just… be aware, Jon. Your skill may win the spar, but the world is full of Joffreys who cannot endure defeat. Tread carefully.”

Jon nodded once, simply, the weight of her concern settled in his mind but not pressing on his confidence. “I will,” he said quietly, and with that, the tension between them eased, though the shadow of what might come lingered in the hall like the fading echo of steel on stone.

Catelyn lingered a moment longer, studying her son. She could see his resolve, the calm in his eyes, the strength of his heart. And though fear tugged at her chest, she allowed herself a small measure of pride. He was her son. He was Stark. And for all the danger in the world, he would face it as he always had—steady, controlled, and unyielding.

Olenna Tyrell

The afternoon sun slanted through the latticed windows of Highgarden’s solar, painting the floor in geometric patterns of light and shadow. Olenna Tyrell sat in her high-backed chair, fingers steepled, eyes sharp as she observed her granddaughter Margaery as the young girl fussed with the folds of her gown. The warmth of the room did little to soothe the tension in Olenna’s chest—Highgarden had been lively enough in the morning, but now came the delicate, quiet work of maneuvering hearts and crowns.

“Margaery,” Olenna began, her voice calm but carrying the authority of years and cunning, “you are too hesitant. You’ve spent too long admiring, too long wishing, too long thinking about what is proper. Now is the time to act.”

Margaery flinched slightly, though her lips curved in a practiced, polite smile. “Grandmother,” she said softly, “I… I do not see what there is to act upon. Prince Joffrey… he is… difficult.”

Olenna’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward slightly, the sunlight catching the glint of her sharp gaze. “Difficult?” she echoed, arching a brow. “He is three things, my dear: a prince, the king’s son, and soon—if we play our cards correctly—your husband. That is not ‘difficult,’ Margaery. That is opportunity.”

Margaery hesitated, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “I understand, Grandmother, but…” Her voice trailed, hesitant, almost faltering. Olenna noticed it instantly, the subtle flicker in her granddaughter’s eyes betraying a different concern than the one she spoke aloud.

“But what?” Olenna prompted, her tone mild yet precise, like a scalpel poised to cut through pretense.

Margaery lowered her gaze, twisting the edge of her sleeve nervously. “I… I am not sure I can… I am not… fond of him.”

Olenna’s lips twitched at the corner, almost imperceptibly. She leaned back in her chair, letting a moment pass, letting Margaery fidget and twist in discomfort before she spoke again. “Ah. So the complaint is not that he is ‘difficult,’ but that your heart finds no joy in him.”

Margaery’s eyes lifted then, meeting Olenna’s with a flicker of honesty she could not conceal. “I… I cannot help it, Grandmother. There is…" she stops before she can finish her sentence.

Olenna’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in calculation. Olenna’s lips curved into a gentle smile, one that carried both warmth and steel. “Ah. Jon Stark,” she said softly. “The wolf from the North."

Margaery’s brow furrowed slightly, the truth of her feelings pressing against her carefully cultivated composure. “He is… difficult to resist,” she admitted softly.

Olenna leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her sharp gaze settling fully on her granddaughter. “Yes, my dear. He is handsome, noble, brave as well as very intelligent, I have no doubt he would make you happy—but what does he bring? Wolves, cold, and a keep in the North. A noble name, yes, but no crown. He does not sit on the Iron Throne. He does not command armies. He does not have lords and ladies bending the knee to him. You must remember that.”

Margaery hesitated, her voice barely audible. “I… would not mind that.”

Olenna’s sharp eyes lifted, and she let out a low laugh, both amused and warning. “Would not mind?” she echoed. “Child, this is not a game. The world does not bend for love. Love is a luxury, a folly, a distraction. In this world, it rarely prevails, and when it does, it does so at the cost of much pain.”

Margaery’s hands twisted the folds of her gown, her soft voice almost a whisper. “I wish he were a prince.”

Olenna leaned back, letting a moment pass, letting the quiet gravity of her words hang in the room like the still warmth of the sun on the stone floor. Then she said, plainly and without a trace of softness: “Ah, my dear… that would make things easier. If Jon Stark were a prince, all of this—” she gestured subtly to the idea of a marriage with Joffrey, the political maneuvering, the careful navigation of influence and court—“would be easier, simpler, and less dangerous. But he is not. And so, you must be clever, you must be patient, and you must remember that crowns outweigh hearts in this game we play.”

Margaery looked down, her lips pressing together. “I understand,” she murmured, though her eyes betrayed the longing she tried to hide.

Olenna’s voice softened slightly, but the steel behind it remained. “Understanding is not enough, my dear. You must act. You must draw close to Joffrey. Charm him. Guide him. Influence him. Make him see you as someone he cannot bear to be without—not because you love him, but because you know that love is rarely the currency that buys power. Crown, title, influence… those are what matter. That is what secures your future, our family’s future, and the Tyrell legacy.”

Margaery lifted her eyes, her voice hesitating, a quiet rebellion threading through the soft timbre. “I… I cannot help but think of Jon. He is… he is brave, and kind, and steady. It would be easier if… if he were…” She trailed off, the words unspoken but weighted.

Olenna’s gaze softened, though the sharp glint of pragmatism remained. “I understand completely,” she said quietly. “Yes, Jon is worthy of admiration, even affection. But the world is not kind to wishful hearts. You cannot afford to wait for him to become what he is not. You must take what is offered—crown in hand, not wolves at your feet—and make the most of it. That is the way of power, the way of survival.”

Margaery’s hands clenched briefly at her sides, the internal conflict evident. She had been raised in Highgarden to see the value of strategy, diplomacy, and influence—but she had also been raised with warmth, love, and the lessons of loyalty and honor. Jon represented all that was steady, honorable, and true—but in a marriage for power, those were luxuries she could not indulge.

Olenna leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, sharp enough to pierce the quiet. “Do you think I do not know what you feel, child? I know that your heart pulls you north, toward the wolf and the snow. But the Iron Throne does not bend for wolves, and the realm will not remember those who died for love. They remember crowns, titles, and the men and women who wield them well.”

Margaery’s hands smoothed over her skirts, the tension in her shoulders easing only slightly. “I… I suppose you are right, Grandmother.”

Olenna leaned back in her chair, letting a long, measured breath out. “I am never wrong about such matters. You will charm him, draw him close, and guide him. You will learn to navigate the court with all the subtlety and grace of a Tyrell—and when the time comes, the crown will sit comfortably on your head, and Joffrey will bend to your influence without even realizing it. That is power, Margaery. That is what the world respects.”

Margaery lowered her gaze, her voice quiet, almost reflective. “I… I will try.”

Olenna’s sharp eyes softened, only slightly, the steel behind them never fading. “Try, yes. But know this: trying is not enough. You must act with precision, with intent, and with the understanding that love is rarely the victor. Hearts are fragile. Crowns are heavy. Remember that, and you will do well.”

Margaery nodded slowly, the weight of her grandmother’s words settling in her chest. She thought of Jon Stark, of wolves and snow, of honor and steadiness—and then she thought of crowns, of power, and of the impossible road she must now walk.

Olenna rose, her presence commanding, and placed a hand on Margaery’s shoulder, firm but guiding. “You are Tyrell. You are clever, patient, and adaptable. You will charm Joffrey, and you will learn the art of bending hearts without breaking your own. But always remember: the world does not care for love. It cares for power. And we, my dear, must learn to wield both.”

Margaery swallowed, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. “I understand, Grandmother. I… I will do as you say.”

Olenna’s smile was faint but approving, the glint of strategy ever present in her eyes. “Good. Now go, child. Prepare yourself. Your dance with a prince begins, and it is one that will require every ounce of your wit, charm, and patience. Let no heart—yours or his—cloud your judgment. Remember the crown first, always.”

Margaery straightened, her spine stiffening with renewed purpose, though the ache of longing still lingered in her chest. She gave a small nod, bowing her head slightly, and left the solar with measured, elegant steps, the lessons of her grandmother echoing in her mind like the tolling of a bell—reminders that power, not love, was the currency of survival in the world she was born to navigate.

Olenna watched her granddaughter depart, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Yes, she reflected, Jon Stark was a fine young man, and no doubt Margaery’s heart would always pull northward. But crowns—crowns, she reminded herself—outweighed wolves, snow, and even love. And the girl would learn that, or she would learn the hard way.

The sun shifted, casting new shadows across the floor, and Olenna settled back into her chair, steepling her fingers once more, already calculating the next steps in the long, intricate game of crowns, hearts, and Highgarden’s future.

Chapter Text

295 AC

Highgarden

Jon Stark

Chapter Text

295 AC

Highgarden

Ser Jaime Lannister

The tourney field at Highgarden lay bathed in the golden glow of a late afternoon sun, its emerald expanse scarred from the morning’s melee, now framed by stands teeming with lords, ladies, and smallfolk, their voices a restless hum.

Jaime Lannister stood at the edge of the royal dais, golden armor gleaming, white cloak stirring in the warm Reach breeze. Beside him, King Robert Baratheon sprawled in a high-backed chair, tankard sloshing with wine, his laughter rolling like thunder across the crowd.

The king’s beard, flecked with crumbs, framed a grin that spoke of battles long past, his eyes alight with the thrill of steel. “Look at this lot, Kingslayer!” Robert’s voice boomed, gesturing at the twenty squires below, their blunted tourney blades catching the light like scattered stars. “Green boys, barely old enough to hold a sword, thinking they’re knights already. Ha! Let’s see if they can swing without falling on their arses.” A smirk curled Jaime’s lips, his gaze sweeping the field.

The survivors of the melee stood ready: Loras Tyrell, all fluid grace and quiet arrogance; Robb Stark, broad-shouldered and eager; Theon Greyjoy, smirking as if victory were his birthright; and Brienne of Tarth, towering like a siege tower, her plain helm hiding a fierce gaze. Yet one figure drew the eye above all—Jon Stark, standing calm and unassuming, dark hair, grey eyes steady as northern stone.

At twelve, the boy carried himself with a weight that belied his years, a quiet authority that stirred memories of older, greater swordsmen. What he had seen yesterday—Jon’s tally of over twenty-five eliminations in the melee, his left-handed dismantling of Prince Joffrey the day before, leaving the prince red-faced and Cersei seething.

Jaime’s twin had not spoken to him since, her fury a blade sharper than any steel, but the boy’s skill lingered in his mind. At twelve, Jaime had been a whirlwind of bravado, all flash and fire, swinging a sword with more pride than precision. Jon, though, moved with a stillness that recalled another—Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, whose blade danced like moonlight on water.

“Your grace,” Jaime said, voice low, leaning closer to keep the words from the crowd, “Watch Lord Stark’s boy ,Jon. He’s not like the others.” Robert snorted, wine splashing as he raised his tankard. “Ned’s lad? Tell me of somebody I don’t know, we all saw him yesterday. The boy’s got guts. But one-on-one’s different. Let’s see if he’s got the steel for it.” The herald’s trumpet pierced the air, sharp and commanding, silencing the crowd.

The duels began, the first pair stepping into the chalked circle: Jon Stark against a wiry Vale squire, a falcon-lord’s son, fourteen and full of swagger, his blade held high as if one swing would end the matter. Jon entered the circle, stance relaxed, tourney blade resting lightly in hand, no flourish or posturing, only a readiness that prickled the skin.

The Vale boy charged, blade arcing in a predictable overhead strike, a move born of arrogance. Jon sidestepped, smooth as a shadow, letting the steel whistle past, then snapped his blade up in a single, precise motion. The flat cracked against the squire’s wrist, sending his weapon spinning into the grass. Jon’s blade hovered at the boy’s throat, steady as stone.“Yield,” Jon said, voice soft but unyielding.

The Vale squire gaped, then sank to his knees, muttering surrender. The crowd roared, a wave of cheers crashing over the stands. Robert slammed his tankard down, wine sloshing onto the dais. “Gods be good! Not a wasted move! Boy’s got ice in his blood!” Jaime nodded, eyes fixed on Jon as he stepped back, offering a hand to the defeated squire. “At his age, I was all fury, no finesse,” Jaime murmured, almost to himself. “He’s… sharper. Cleaner.”

Robert laughed, clapping Jaime’s shoulder, the force rattling his armor. “Cleaner than you, Kingslayer? That’s no high bar. You were a strutting peacock at twelve, swinging like you wanted to impress the gods themselves.” A chuckle escaped Jaime, but his thoughts drifted. He’d sparred with Arthur Dayne at fifteen, the Sword of the Morning’s movements a poetry of steel, each strike a verse, each parry a stanza.

Jon’s precision, though, was something else—not just grace, but instinct, honed to a lethal edge. The boy fought as if he saw the future in his opponent’s eyes. Could he surpass even Arthur at that age? The thought lingered, heavy as a blade. The duels pressed on, each pair a clash of youth and ambition.

Loras Tyrell danced through his match, his blade a silver arc, disarming a Dornish squire with a flourish that drew sighs from the ladies. Robb Stark barreled through a Reach knight’s son, his strength overwhelming a shaky defense, the boy’s shield cracking under a heavy blow. Theon Greyjoy won by guile, feinting left and tripping his opponent into the dirt, a smirk flashing as the crowd jeered.

But Jon’s duels were a spectacle apart, each a lesson in mastery, no two fights the same. The second opponent was a stocky Florent squire, broad as a barn, wielding a two-handed blade with enough force to splinter wood. He roared as he charged, aiming to crush Jon with sheer power.

Jon didn’t meet the assault head-on. He flowed around it, feet light on the grass, blade darting like a serpent’s tongue. A quick parry deflected the Florent’s swing, sending him stumbling forward, off-balance. Jon spun, his sword flashing in a low arc, catching the squire’s knee. The boy buckled, and Jon’s blade tapped his shoulder, ending the match before the crowd could blink.“Yield,” Jon said, calm as a winter pond.

Robert leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Seven hells! He’s making it look like child’s play! That Florent’s twice his size, and he swatted him like a gnat!”Jaime crossed his arms, his smirk fading into something closer to reverence. “He reads them before they move,” he said. “Every step, every swing—he’s already countered it in his mind. I’d have charged in at twelve, all bravado, and gotten flattened. He’s… surgical.”

Robert’s grin widened, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “Ned’s done something right with that one. Makes me proud to call him my friend’s son.”The third duel brought a Tarly squire, lanky and quick, his blade flashing in rapid thrusts, hoping to overwhelm Jon with speed. The crowd buzzed, Jon’s name a chant on their lips. Jon stood like a wall, his blade meeting each strike with a soft clink, redirecting the force with minimal effort.

Then, in a move so fluid it seemed choreographed, he stepped inside the boy’s guard, twisted his wrist, and sent the Tarly’s sword spiraling into the air. The crowd roared as Jon’s blade rested lightly against the boy’s chest.“Yield.” Robert was on his feet, wine forgotten, his bellow shaking the dais. Jamie’s gaze locked on Jon as he stepped back, face betraying no pride, only focus. Jamie was only this good at 15 but Jon, his blade a song of steel, efficiency was something more—grounded, deliberate, as if he knew the outcome before the first blow.

Jaime’s chest tightened with a memory: Arthur’s calm voice, guiding him through a spar, urging precision over passion. Jon fought like he’d heard that voice too. “Robert,” Jaime said, voice low, leaning closer, “he’s infinitely better than I was at twelve. Far better. And… I think he might even outshine Arthur Dayne at that age.” Robert’s laughter died, his eyes widening as he turned, searching Jaime’s face for mockery. “Arthur Dayne? The Sword of the Morning? That’s a bold claim, Kingslayer.”

Jaime held his gaze, voice steady. “I sparred with Arthur when I was young. He was flawless, like a dance made steel. But Jon… he’s not just graceful. He’s calculating, precise, and he fights like he knows the end before it begins. Arthur was a legend, but this boy might be a myth.”

Robert stared, then turned back to the field, his expression shifting from amusement to awe. “Ned’s son,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Gods, Ned, what have you forged?” By the time the field narrowed to the final two, the crowd’s chants of “Stark! Stark!” echoed off Highgarden’s walls, a rhythmic tide of adoration. The herald’s voice rang out, clear and final: Jon Stark versus Brienne of Tarth. Jaime straightened, pulse quickening.

Brienne loomed like a giant, a foot taller than Jon, her shoulders broad as a blacksmith’s, her arms corded with muscle. Her plain helm hid her face, but her blue eyes burned with fierce determination, her tourney blade gripped like a warhammer. The crowd hushed, sensing the mismatch—Jon, lean and boyish, against this towering figure who seemed capable of crushing him with a single blow.Robert leaned forward, tankard forgotten. “This’ll test him,” he said, voice low. “That Tarth girl’s a bloody ox.

Let’s see if Ned’s boy can handle her.”Jaime’s eyes narrowed, fixed on the chalked circle. Brienne stepped forward, stance solid, blade raised like a battering ram. Jon faced her, calm as a frozen lake, sword held low, grey eyes scanning her with that unnerving focus. The trumpet sounded, and the duel began.Brienne moved first, a mountain in motion, her blade swinging in a high arc aimed to smash Jon into the earth.

The crowd gasped as the steel descended, a crushing force that seemed unstoppable. Jon didn’t flinch. He stepped left, light as a leaf, letting the blade carve the air beside him. Brienne pressed forward, relentless, her next swing a horizontal slash meant to sweep Jon off his feet. He ducked, the blade whistling over his head, and for a moment, it seemed her raw power might overwhelm him.

 The crowd held its breath, the stands silent as Brienne’s third strike came down, a vertical blow that could have split a log. Fifteen seconds had passed, and Brienne’s onslaught was a storm of steel, each swing shaking the ground. Jon remained untouched, his movements a dance of evasion, each step precise, each dodge calculated.

Then, as Brienne raised her blade for another crushing blow, Jon moved. He darted forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat, his blade flashing upward in a tight arc. The flat struck Brienne’s wrist, a sharp crack echoing across the field.

Her grip faltered, her sword dipping, and Jon was already moving, spinning to her left, where her size slowed her turn. His blade snapped out, tapping her knee, forcing her to stumble. The crowd gasped, then roared as Jon pressed his advantage, his sword a blur of controlled strikes—once to her elbow, once to her shoulder, each blow precise, targeting joints to sap her strength.

Brienne growled, swinging her blade in a desperate arc, but Jon was inside her guard now, too close for her long arms to wield effectively. He pivoted, his sword flashing in a final, elegant motion, striking the hilt of her blade. It flew from her hands, clattering to the grass, and Jon’s sword rested lightly against her chest, steady as stone. “Yield,” Jon said, voice calm, barely winded.

Brienne froze, her chest heaving, blue eyes wide with shock beneath her helm. The crowd was silent for a heartbeat, then erupted, cheers shaking the stands. Less than two minutes had passed, and the giantess of Tarth knelt, muttering her surrender. Robert leapt to his feet, his bellow drowning the crowd. “Gods be damned! Did you see that? She’s twice his size, and he took her apart like she was a bloody novice! Ned’s boy is a bloody wonder!”

Jaime exhaled, his heart pounding, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “He let her tire herself out,” he said, voice low with admiration. “Fifteen seconds of dodging, then he struck where she was weakest. I couldn’t have done that at twelve. Not against her. And Arthur… even he might have struggled against such odds at that age.”

Robert turned, his grin fierce and proud. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You think Ned’s boy could outshine the Sword of the Morning?” Jaime nodded, eyes still on Jon as he stepped back, offering Brienne a hand. She took it, her massive frame rising with a grudging nod of respect. “Arthur was a legend,” Jaime said, “but Jon fights with a mind that sees everything—every weakness, every mistake. He’s not just skilled. He’s a force. I’d wager he’ll surpass us all one day.”

Robert clapped Jaime’s shoulder again, his laughter rich with pride. “Ned’s son,” he said, shaking his head. “A wolf with steel in his heart. Gods, I wish he were mine! Ned’s raised a bloody hero, Kingslayer. A hero for the ages.” Jaime watched Jon walk from the circle, the crowd’s cheers a thunderous tide, his grey eyes calm, his face free of arrogance.

The boy sheathed his blade, nodding to Robb and Loras, who rushed to clap his shoulders. Jaime’s thoughts drifted to Arthur Dayne, to the quiet nobility of the man who’d shaped him, and to Rhaegar Targaryen, whose grace had once lit the realm. Jon Stark carried echoes of both, yet he was something new, something greater.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field, and Jaime’s smile faded into resolve. This boy, this wolf of Winterfell, had made Jaime Lannister, for the first time in years, felt the stir of something like awe.

Jon Stark

The dawn broke over Highgarden, its light painting the tourney field in hues of gold and green, the grass glistening with dew under a sky as clear as a northern lake. The stands swelled with lords, ladies, and smallfolk, their banners snapping in the warm Reach breeze, their voices a rising tide of anticipation.

Jon stood beside the stables, his armor—boiled leather reinforced with northern steel—gleaming dully, his breath even despite the weight of countless eyes. At twelve, he felt their scrutiny not as a burden but as a forge, tempering the discipline his father had instilled since he first gripped a sword.

The young lords and squires’ jousting lists stretched before him, lances stacked like spears of sunlight, destriers snorting and stamping in their stalls. Jon adjusted his shield, its grey direwolf stark against a white field, he still hadn’t had the chance to create one that had Ghost and let his gaze drift to the royal dais. There, among silks and jewels, she sat, her dark eyes bright, her smile a quiet flame.

The favor she had bestowed after his victory in yesterday’s duels—a ribbon of green silk, embroidered with a golden rose—rested beneath his armor, pressed against his heart. She had approached him as the cheers faded, her fingers deft as she tied the ribbon to his arm, her voice soft yet bold: “For luck, Jon.”

 He had nodded, tongue heavy, and now the ribbon felt like a pulse, a reminder of something beyond steel and glory. The herald’s trumpet rang out, sharp and commanding, signalling the first tilt. Jon mounted Winter, his black and white destrier which he got for his victory in the duels, whose steady gait calmed the fire in his blood. The crowd’s murmurs grew to chants—Stark! Stark!—their fervour echoing his triumph over Brienne of Tarth, felled in under two minutes.

Jousting, though, was no duel. It demanded balance, precision, and a harmony with the horse that Father had ensured he mastered. Yet Loras, loomed in his mind—a rider born to the saddle, his skill was unmatched.

Jon pushed the thought aside, focusing on the lists, the lance, the moment. The first opponent was a Baratheon squire from Storm’s End, Steffon, a bullish youth of fifteen, his shoulders broad, his lance gripped with a force that spoke of arrogance.

Jon lowered his visor, the world narrowing to the lists, and spurred Winter forward. Hooves thundered, the gelding’s strength a steady rhythm beneath him. Steffon’s lance wavered, too high, and Jon angled his own, aiming for the center of the boy’s breastplate. The impact cracked like thunder, wood splintering as Jon’s lance struck true, sending Steffon reeling.

The Baratheon’s lance grazed Jon’s shield, a weak blow, and Jon held his seat, steady as stone. Steffon toppled, crashing into the dirt, and the crowd roared. Jon reined Winter in, lifting his visor to meet Steffon’s stunned gaze. “Well done,” he said, voice calm, offering a nod. The boy grunted, accepting aid, and Jon rode back, the ribbon’s weight a quiet presence, Margaery’s words echoing: For luck.

The second tilt brought a Redwyne squire, lean and quick, his chestnut mare dancing with nervous energy. The boy’s lance was steady, but his eyes betrayed doubt, flickering like a candle in wind. Jon felt Winter’s muscles tense, eager, and as the trumpet sounded, he leaned forward, lance leveled.

The Redwyne aimed for Jon’s helm, a bold strike, but Jon tilted his shield, deflecting the blow upward, and drove his lance into the boy’s shoulder. Wood shattered, and the squire rocked back. In the second pass, Jon struck again, unhorsing him with a thud that stirred the crowd to cheers. Jon patted Winter’s neck.

The third opponent was a Fossoway, a green-apple knight’s son, older, his lance steady, his horse disciplined. The boy’s strategy was endurance, aiming to wear Jon down with controlled strikes. Jon sensed it, recalling his father’s lessons on patience.

In the first pass, he let the Fossoway’s lance graze his shield, testing its force. In the second, Jon angled his lance to catch the boy’s shoulder, splintering the wood. The third pass ended it—Jon’s lance struck the Fossoway’s chest, sending him sprawling.

The stands erupted, and Jon nodded to the fallen squire, his breath steady. The fourth tilt pitted him against a Hightower squire, tall, his lance long as a spear, his destrier bred for speed. The boy charged recklessly, aiming low to unseat Jon early.

Jon countered with precision, tilting his shield to deflect, his lance striking the Hightower’s arm, forcing him to drop his weapon. The second pass was swift—Jon’s lance found the boy’s chest, unhorsing him with a crash. The crowd’s chants grew louder, and Jon felt the ribbon’s weight, wondering what luck meant in a world of steel and secrets, Margaery’s gaze lingering in his mind.

The fifth opponent was Theon, his kraken shield gleaming, his smirk sharp as a blade. Theon’s grey stallion pranced, mirroring its rider’s cockiness. Jon knew Theon’s tricks—taunts to unsettle, feints to deceive. As the trumpet sounded, Theon shouted something mocking, but Jon’s focus was iron, his eyes on the lists.

The first pass saw Theon aim for Jon’s helm, a flashy strike. Jon tilted his head, letting the lance skim past, and struck Theon’s shield, cracking it. The second pass ended it—Jon’s lance hit Theon’s shoulder, twisting him from the saddle. Theon landed cursing, and Jon reined Winter in, nodding. “Good tilt,” he said, though Theon’s scowl answered. The crowd roared.

The herald’s voice rang out: “Jon Stark versus Loras Tyrell, The Wolf of Winterfell against the Flower of Highgarden.” The stands exploded, banners waving, the air thick with anticipation. Loras rode into the lists on a white mare, her mane braided with roses, his armor a mirror of polished steel.

Even at thirteen Loras on a horse, with a lance in hand was grace incarnate, his lance steady, his seat flawless. Jon knew Loras’s skill surpassed his own in the saddle, his reputation built on countless tilts. Yet fear found no purchase in Jon’s heart, only the calm that came before battle, the world narrowing to the lists, the lance, the horse. As Jon rode to his end of the lists, his eyes found Margaery on the dais, her green gown catching the light, her gaze fixed on him.

The ribbon burned against his chest, her words a quiet echo. He wondered if she watched Loras, her brother, with the same intensity, or if her favor meant something more. The thought sharpened his resolve, not for glory but for the weight of her belief, a spark he couldn’t name. The trumpet sounded, and the lists roared to life. Winter surged, hooves pounding, Jon’s lance leveled with precision.

Loras charged, his mare a white blur, his lance steady as a star. The first pass was a clash of equals—Jon’s lance struck Loras’s shield, splintering, while Loras’s grazed Jon’s shoulder, the impact jarring but not unseating. The crowd gasped, then cheered, the stands a riot of sound. Jon accepted a new lance, his breath steady, noting Loras’s mare, her fluid gait, the subtle tilt of Loras’s shoulder signaling his intent.

The second pass was faster, Loras aiming for Jon’s chest. Jon deflected with his shield, his lance catching Loras’s arm, wood cracking. Neither fell, the horses thundering past. Jon felt Winter’s strength, responding to his knees, and his mind sharpened, seeing Loras’s rhythm—the way his mare favored her left, the slight lean in his posture. Her favor pressed against his heart, Margaery’s smile a distant light. The third pass tested them both.

Loras aimed low, seeking to unhorse Jon with a strike to the hip. Jon saw it, tilting his shield to deflect, his lance striking Loras’s shoulder, splintering. The crowd roared, but Loras held his seat, his mare steady. The fourth pass was fiercer—Loras’s lance grazed Jon’s helm, a ringing blow, but Jon’s struck Loras’s chest, nearly unhorsing him.

The stands were a storm of cheers, and Jon’s pulse quickened, the ribbon a steady pulse, Margaery’s eyes fixed on him. The fifth pass was the end. Loras charged, his lance low, aiming for Jon’s hip again, his mare at full gallop. Jon leaned forward, guiding Winter right, letting Loras’s lance skim his shield’s edge.

 In the same motion, Jon drove his lance into Loras’s chest, the coronal striking dead-center with a force that echoed like a bell. Loras rocked back, his mare rearing, and he fell, his armor clanging as he hit the grass.

The crowd erupted, a thunderous tide of Stark! Stark! Jon reined Winter in, lifting his visor, his grey eyes meeting Loras’s. “Well fought,” he said, voice steady. Loras rose, brushing dirt from his armor, his smile tight but genuine. “You’re a terror, my friend,” he said, offering a nod. “The lists are yours.”

The herald declared Jon champion, and the crowd’s cheers shook the stands. Jon dismounted, his heart pounding, and approached the dais, a squire handing him the victor’s crown—a circlet of woven roses, gold and red. His eyes found Margaery, her hands clasped, her smile radiant. The ribbon seemed to burn, her words now a melody.

 He stepped forward, the crowd hushing, and raised the crown. “Lady Margaery Tyrell,” Jon said, voice clear, carrying across the silent stands. “I name you Princess of Love and Beauty.” He placed the crown on her head, her dark hair framing the roses, her eyes meeting his with a warmth that stole his breath.

The crowd roared, a wave of sound, but Jon saw only her, the ribbon a silent vow against his heart. She inclined her head, her smile soft, and whispered, “Thank you, my Lord.” Robb rushed to him as he stepped back, clapping his shoulder. “You unhorsed Loras!” he said, grin wide. “And crowned Margaery! Gods, Jon, you’re a legend!” Jon smiled, small but true, patting Winter’s flank.

 “It’s the horse,” he said, the ribbon was luck, yes, but also a question, one tied to Margaery’s eyes, to a future he couldn’t yet see. As the sun dipped, casting long shadows, Jon stood tall and something borderline stupid came to his mind.

Ser Barristan Selmy

The sun hung high over Highgarden, its golden light bathing the tourney field in a glow that turned the grass to molten emerald. The stands brimmed with lords, ladies, and smallfolk, their banners fluttering like a thousand wings in the warm Reach breeze, their voices a restless tide. Ser Barristan Selmy stood at the edge of the royal dais, his white cloak stirring faintly, his weathered hands clasped behind his back.

Even at the ripe age of sixty, his eyes remained sharp, honed by decades of service, and his heart still quickened at the clash of steel. Beside him, King Robert Baratheon slouched in his chair, tankard in hand, his laughter booming over the crowd’s murmurs, while Queen Cersei’s gaze cut like a blade, her displeasure from yesterday’s squire jousts still simmering, she had been angry that Jon had crowned Margaery Tyrell Princess of Love and Beauty over Princess Myrcella. The knights’ melee was the day’s spectacle, a brutal dance of steel where only the strongest endured.

Barristan’s gaze swept the field, noting the competitors, their armours gleaming, their ambitions sharper than their blades. Yet one figure caught his eye—a short knight, helm obscuring his face, standing near the edge of the melee circle.

The knight’s armour was plain, northern-forged, lacking the ostentation of southern lords, yet his stance was unmistakable, balanced, calm, a coiled spring ready to strike. The herald’s horn sounded, and the melee erupted, a storm of steel and shouts.

Barristan watched the short knight, his movements fluid, precise, each step a mirror of the squire duels the day before. Jon Stark, Ned Stark’s boy, had carved through opponents with a grace that recalled Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and yesterday’s jousts had only deepened Barristan’s awe.

The boy’s left-handed defeat of Prince Joffrey, his dismantling of Brienne of Tarth, his unhorsing of Loras Tyrell—each had been a masterclass. Now, this knight moved with the same economy, the same lethal focus, parrying a Stormland knight’s wild swing with a flick of his blade, then striking the man’s helm with a controlled blow that sent him sprawling. Barristan’s eyes narrowed, a suspicion forming.

“No,” he murmured, too soft for Robert to hear. “It cannot be.” The boy was twelve, not yet knighted. To enter this melee was, reckless. Yet the knight’s movements—sidestepping a Vale knight’s thrust, disarming him with a twist of the wrist—were Jon’s, unmistakable as a signature.

Barristan’s heart quickened, memories stirring, Arthur Dayne at a tourney, his blade a song of steel; Rhaegar Targaryen, graceful and resolute, fighting with a poet’s precision. This boy carried their echoes, though he bore the Stark name. The melee thinned, knights falling like leaves in a storm.

Jon danced through the fray, his sword a silver blur, eliminating a Tully knight with a flourish. Thoros of Myr was wild, his flaming sword carving paths of fear, its light casting eerie shadows. But the short knight held Barristan’s gaze, moving through the chaos like a shadow, untouched.

A Dornish knight charged, his greatsword raised, but the short knight sidestepped, striking the man’s knee, then his shoulder, sending him to the ground with a clatter. A Westerman tried guile, feinting low, but the knight parried, his blade snapping up to tap the man’s helm, ending the fight.

Each move was deliberate, no motion wasted, a mirror of Jon Stark’s duels. “He’s one of ours?” Robert bellowed, wine sloshing as he gestured at the field. “That short one, fights like a bloody demon!” Barristan’s lips pressed thin, his suspicion hardening to certainty. “Perhaps, Your Grace,” he said, voice measured, eyes never leaving the knight.

The boy had entered in secret, likely with Ned Stark’s reluctant blessing, or none at all. The risk was immense, he could get badly hurt, but the boy’s skill was undeniable, a beacon in the chaos. The field narrowed to ten, then five, then three. Sandor Clegane fell to Thoros, the flaming sword forcing even the Hound to yield after a heated clash.

The short knight remained, now facing a towering Stormlander, his axe swinging like a pendulum. The knight ducked, the axe whistling overhead, and struck the Stormlander’s wrist, then his helm, felling him with two precise blows.

The crowd roared, sensing a champion, and Barristan’s chest tightened, pride warring with concern. Jon Stark, a boy of twelve, stood among knights, unafraid. The final two remained the short knight versus Thoros. The stands erupted, banners waving, the air thick with anticipation.

 Thoros strode into the circle, his longsword wreathed in flames that crackled in the sunlight. The short knight faced him, helm still hiding his face, blade held low, stance calm as a frozen lake. Barristan leaned forward, hands gripping the dais railing, his breath shallow.

Thoros was no mere knight, his skill, honed in Essos and tempered by faith, made him a formidable foe. Jon, if it was Jon, faced a trial unlike any squire’s duel. The horn sounded, and the fight began. Thoros moved first, his flaming sword a blazing arc, aimed to overwhelm with speed and spectacle.

The short knight sidestepped, the flames hissing past, and countered with a low strike to Thoros’s leg, forcing the priest to pivot. The crowd gasped, then cheered, the stands a riot of sound. Thoros grinned, undaunted, and swung again, the fire casting shadows that danced across the knight’s armour.

The knight parried, blade meeting flame with a clang, sparks flying like stars. Each strike was a test, Thoros’s power against the knight’s precision, fire against ice. Barristan’s eyes widened, recognizing Jon’s style—the same fluid footwork, the same calculated parries that had felled Brienne. Thoros pressed forward, his sword a whirlwind of flame, each swing faster, fiercer.

The knight retreated, dodging a high strike, then darted inside Thoros’s guard, striking his shoulder. The priest roared, swinging low, and the knight leaped back, barely avoiding the flames.

The crowd was on its feet, their chants a thunderous pulse, and Barristan’s heart pounded, memories flooding, Arthur sparring Gerold Hightower, their blades a song; Rhaegar sparring in the Red Keep with Jaime, his grace a quiet storm. Jon fought like them both, yet wholly himself. The fight stretched, a clash for the ages.

Thoros’s flames lit the field, his strength unyielding, but the knight matched him, strike for strike. A high blow from Thoros met the knight’s blade, the impact ringing like a bell. The knight countered, his sword snapping toward Thoros’s chest, only for the priest to parry, flames licking the air.

Then, in a blinding moment, Thoros swung his flaming sword in a diagonal arc, catching the knight’s helm. The metal rang, and the helm flew, tumbling into the floor, revealing his face dark hair damp with sweat, grey eyes fierce, unyielding. The crowd gasped, then roared, the revelation igniting the stands.

“Stark! Stark!” they chanted, and Barristan’s breath caught. Jon, twelve and unknighted, stood exposed, his youth a stark contrast to the warrior within. Cersei’s hiss was audible from the dais, Robert’s laughter a booming counterpoint. “Ned’s boy!” the king bellowed. “Gods, he’s got stones!” Jon didn’t falter.

His blade met Thoros’s again, sparks flying as steel clashed with fire. He ducked a flaming strike, spinning to Thoros’s left, striking the priest’s arm. Thoros grunted, his grin fierce, and countered with a low sweep, forcing Jon to leap back.

The boy’s movements were a dance, each step precise, each strike deliberate, but Thoros’s experience was a tide, relentless. In a final, desperate exchange, Thoros feinted high, then struck low, his flaming sword grazing Jon’s leg, unbalancing him.

Jon’s blade flashed, nearly catching Thoros’s chest, but the priest’s final swing struck Jon’s sword arm, forcing him to drop his blade. “Yield,” Thoros said, voice rough, his flaming sword lowered.

Jon stood, chest heaving, grey eyes locked on Thoros. “I yield,” he said, voice steady despite defeat. The crowd roared, their cheers a tidal wave, and Thoros offered a nod, his grin one of respect. Barristan moved before he could think, descending the dais steps, his white cloak trailing.

The field was chaos, knights and squires converging, but Barristan’s eyes were on Jon, kneeling to retrieve his sword, his face calm despite the loss. The boy had fought like a legend, his skill a beacon that stirred Barristan’s heart. He reached Jon as the crowd’s cheers faded, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Lord Jon,” Barristan said, voice carrying, firm yet warm. “You fought with honor and skill beyond your years. You have no cause for shame.” Jon looked up, grey eyes meeting Barristan’s, a flicker of surprise in their depths.

“Thank you, Ser Barristan,” he said, voice soft but clear. “I only sought to test myself.” Barristan’s chest tightened, the crowd watched, hushed, as Barristan drew his sword, its steel gleaming in the sunlight. “Kneel,” Barristan said. Jon’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, dropping to one knee, head bowed. Barristan raised his sword, the weight of the moment settling over the field. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave,” he began, voice ringing.

“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the weak. Arise, Ser Jon Stark, knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and The Sword of the North.” He tapped the sword on Jon’s shoulders, first one, then the other. The crowd erupted, their cheers shaking the earth, chants of “Sword of the North!” echoing off Highgarden’s walls.

Jon rose, his face a mask of humility, but his eyes burned with a fire Barristan knew well—the fire of a true knight. Robert’s laughter boomed from the dais. “A knight at twelve! Gods, Barristan, you’ve made a bloody legend!” Cersei’s silence was a blade, but Barristan ignored it, his gaze on Jon. “You fought a battle for the ages,” he said, voice low, for Jon alone. “Thoros won, but you shone brighter.

The realm will speak of this day.” Jon nodded, a small smile touching his lips. “I am honored, Ser Barristan. I will strive to be worthy.” Barristan clapped the boy’s shoulder. Jon Stark, The Sword of the North.

 As the crowd’s cheers washed over them, Barristan knew this was only the beginning, a spark that would one day blaze across Westeros.

Jon Stark

The sun dipped low over Highgarden, its fading light casting long shadows across the tourney field, where the echoes of the knights’ melee still lingered. The grass lay trampled, scarred by steel and hooves, yet the air thrummed with the crowd’s fervor, their chants of “Sword of the North” a tide that had not yet receded.

Jon Stark stood near the edge of the field, his plain northern armour dented from Thoros of Myr’s flaming sword, his newly knighted shoulders bearing the weight of a title he had not sought. At twelve, he felt the world shift beneath him, Ser Barristan Selmy’s words “Arise, Ser Jon Stark, the Sword of the North” ringing in his ears like a bell.

The ribbon beneath his armour, pressed against his chest, its green silk and golden rose a quiet anchor. Her words, had carried him through the jousts, through the melee, even as Thoros’ flames had done him.

Now, as the crowd dispersed and knights retreated to their tents, Jon stood with Robb and Loras Tyrell, their voices bright with pride, their faces alight in the twilight. Robb clapped Jon’s shoulder, his grin wide as the Winterfell gates. “A knight at twelve, Jon! Gods, I’ve never heard of such a thing! The Bold himself, knighting you before the whole bloody tourney I’m certain mother and father are prouder than a wolf with a fresh kill!” Jon managed a small smile, his grey eyes steady despite the heat in his cheeks.

“I only fought as we were taught,” he said, voice soft but clear. “With honor, nothing more.”Loras  laughed, his eyes sparkling with a mix of admiration and rivalry. “Nothing more, he says! Jon, you faced Thoros of Myr and his bloody flaming sword, and you nearly had him! I’ve seen knights twice your age falter against less. The Sword of the North, Ser Barristan chose well.”

Jon shifted, the weight of the title settling deeper, like a cloak too heavy for his frame. “I yielded to Thoros,” he said, recalling the final clash—the priest’s fiery blade grazing his leg, the sting of defeat sharp but fleeting. “He won fairly.” Robb snorted, his auburn hair damp with sweat from his own bouts. “Fairly, aye, but you made him sweat for it! The crowd was chanting your name, not his. You’re twelve, Jon, and you fought like a man grown.

The entire North will tell tales of this for ages!” Loras leaned closer, his voice dropping, conspiratorial. “You moved like a shadow out there, Jon. I saw you in the melee, dodging that Ironborn’s axe, disarming the Vale knight like he was a squire. Even when Thoros knocked your helm off, you didn’t flinch. I’d have been proud to lose to you, if it came to that.” Jon’s smile grew, though his heart remained guarded, trained by Father’s lessons to shun pride.

“You could have unhorsed me in the jousts, Loras,” he said, deflecting. “Your mare’s too swift, your lance too steady.” Loras grinned, brushing a lock of dark hair from his eyes. “Maybe, but I’d wager you’d give me a run for it. You’re a terror, Jon, and the realm knows it now.” Robb laughed, nudging Jon.

“Ser Jon! Gods, it sounds strange, doesn’t it? I bet you Arya is  demanding a sword and a knighthood of her own!” The jest drew a chuckle from Jon, the image of his fierce little sister wielding a blade bright in his mind. Yet beneath his ease he feared what his father and mother would say to him, they would be proud but they would scold him, even with that in the back of his mind he always thought of her.

He had crowned her Princess of Love and Beauty after the jousts, her smile a warmth he couldn’t shake, her eyes a question he hadn’t answered. The memory steadied him, grounding the whirlwind of the day. The crowd’s noise shifted, a ripple of murmurs drawing Jon’s gaze. Margaery approached, her green gown flowing like a river, her dark hair crowned with the roses he had placed there.

Her smile was bright, practiced, the perfect lady of Highgarden, but her eyes held a storm, a flicker of anger that Jon recognized, though it was veiled to others. She moved with purpose, her steps light but unyielding, and the air seemed to tighten around her.

“Ser Jon,” she said, voice sweet yet sharp, “a word, if you please?” Loras raised an eyebrow, his grin teasing. “Careful, Jon. My sister’s got that look—like she’s about to outwit us all.” Robb laughed, bowing to her. “Go easy on him, Lady Margaery. He’s the Sword of the North now, but he’s still mortal.”

Margaery’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes flicked to Robb, a silent command. “I only wish to congratulate our new knight,” she said, her tone honeyed. “In private, if you don’t mind.” Robb clapped Jon’s shoulder again. “We’ll be at the feast, raising a cup to your name.” Loras nodded, his grin lingering as he followed Robb toward the tents, leaving Jon alone with Margaery.

The crowd’s noise faded, the field emptying, and Jon felt the ribbon’s weight, its silk a quiet burn against his skin. Margaery’s gaze held his, her smile fading, the storm in her eyes breaking free. “Walk with me,” she said, turning toward a quieter corner of the field, where the stands gave way to rose hedges and the evening’s first stars. Jon followed, his boots soft on the grass, his heart quickening.

Her anger was a blade, sheathed but sharp, and he braced for its edge. They stopped near a stone bench, the hedges shielding them from prying eyes. Margaery turned, her hands clasped, her posture rigid despite the grace of her gown. “Jon Stark,” she said, voice low, each word precise, “do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Jon met her gaze, grey eyes steady, though his stomach tightened.

“I fought in the melee,” he said, voice calm. “I tested myself, as a knight must.” Her eyes flashed, her composure cracking. “Tested yourself as a knight? You’re twelve, Jon! You should be a  squire, not a knight—until today, at least. You entered the knights’ melee, against men like Thoros, with his flaming sword, and Stormlanders with axes that could cleave you in two! You could have been maimed, or worse!”

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he held her gaze, seeing the fear beneath her anger, the way her hands trembled slightly. “I trained for this,” he said.

“My father taught me to face any foe, to be ready for any fight. I wore a helm to hide my name, to avoid shame if I fell. I knew the risks.” “Risks?” Margaery’s voice rose, though she kept it low, mindful of the distant crowd. “You faced men twice your size, with years of battle behind them! Thoros nearly burned you with that wretched sword! When your helm came off, I—” She stopped, her breath catching, her eyes bright with something deeper than anger. “I thought you’d be struck down, Jon.

I thought I’d see you broken on that field.” Jon’s chest tightened, the ribbon a sudden weight, her words cutting deeper than Thoros’ blade. He saw her fear now, raw and unmasked, and it stirred something in him—a warmth he didn’t understand, a need to ease her pain. “I wasn’t broken,” he said softly.

“I fought, and I stood until the end. Thoros won, but I learned. I’m stronger for it.”Margaery stepped closer, her eyes searching his, her voice a fierce whisper. “Stronger? Jon, you’re the Sword of the North now, knighted by Barristan Selmy himself. You’ve made yourself a legend, but at what cost? If you’d been hurt, if you’d—” She faltered, her hands clenching, and Jon saw the truth in her eyes: she cared, not as a lady of Highgarden, but as Margaery, the girl who had tied a ribbon to his arm, the girl who had taken his heart for herself. He looked at her, at the softness of her eyes, at the curve of her lips and closed the small space between them. His face found hers, steady and sure, and he kissed her.

Her breath caught, a light giggle coming from her and she pressed closer, her lips warm and yielding against his, the scent of roses filling his senses and for a moment, he thought he felt her smile into the kiss. This was not their first kiss but it was the best one they’d shared but deep down Jon knew this would not last long because while he came from a great house, he was the second son, Margaery deserved the world but he couldn’t even give her Winterfell.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Jon said, his voice gentle, the words heavy with sincerity. “I didn’t fight for glory, or to defy the rules. I fought to know my measure, to prove I could stand with men like Thoros. I didn’t mean to cause you worry.” Margaery’s eyes softened, though the storm lingered.

“You’re impossible,” she said, a small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “You risk your life, fight like a warrior from the songs, and then apologize like a northern lordling. Do you know what your victory means, Jon? The realm will watch you now—kings, queens, schemers like my grandmother. You’ve painted a target on your back.” Jon nodded, the weight of her words settling alongside his new title.

His father had warned him of such things, though never in detail, his silences heavy with secrets. The ribbon pressed against his heart, a reminder of her favor, her crown of roses, her belief in him. “I’ll bear it,” he said.

“I’ve trained to face what comes, Margaery. I won’t falter.” She studied him, her smile growing, though her eyes remained sharp. “You’d better not, Ser Jon. I gave you my favor for luck, not for you to throw yourself into danger like a fool. Promise me you’ll think before you act next time.” Jon’s lips curved, a rare warmth in his chest.

“I promise,” he said, his hand brushing the spot where the ribbon lay hidden. “For your luck, I’ll be wiser.” Margaery’s laugh was soft, a melody in the twilight. “Good. Now, let’s go to the feast. Robb and Loras will be insufferable if you keep them waiting. And Jon—” She paused, her eyes locking with his, a spark of something unspoken passing between them.

“You were magnificent out there. Even if I’m furious with you.” Jon bowed, his heart lighter despite the weight of her words. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, and they turned toward the great hall, the ribbon a quiet pulse, her warning a fire in his blood.

He was Ser Jon Stark, the Sword of the North, but beneath it all, he wished he was more. As he walked, the crowd’s cheers echoed in his ears, Robb’s laughter and Loras’s praise waiting ahead, but Margaery’s voice lingered, her fear and faith intertwined, a challenge to carry into the night.

Margaery Tyrell

The great hall of Highgarden glowed under the light of a thousand candles, their flames dancing in chandeliers of gold and crystal, casting patterns across the stone walls adorned with tapestries of roses and vines.

The air thrummed with music—lutes and harps weaving a melody as rich as the feast itself, tables laden with roasted boar, honeyed fruits, and flagons of Arbor gold. Lords and ladies filled the hall, their silks and velvets a riot of color, their laughter mingling with the clink of goblets. Margaery entered on Loras’s arm, her green gown shimmering like a summer glade, the crown of roses Jon had placed upon her head after the jousts a delicate weight.

Her smile was practiced, the perfect mask of Highgarden’s rose, but beneath it, her heart churned with a storm of emotions—pride, fear, and a spark she dared not name. Beside her walked he, the Sword of the North, his plain northern tunic a stark contrast to the southern finery, his dark hair still damp from the day’s battles.

He carried himself with a quiet dignity that belied his youth, his grey eyes steady, though she caught the flicker of unease beneath them. Robb Stark flanked him, auburn hair catching the candlelight, his grin broad and unguarded, while Loras, exuded a charm that drew every eye. Margaery’s gaze lingered on Jon, the memory of their earlier confrontation sharp—her anger at his reckless entry into the knights’ melee, his calm apology, the kiss they had shared by the rose hedges, warm and fleeting, a moment that still burned in her chest.

The green silk ribbon she had given him, embroidered with a golden rose, was hidden now, but she wondered if he still wore it, a secret talisman of her luck. The hall’s noise shifted as they entered, heads turning, whispers rippling like wind through wheat. “The Sword of the North,” they murmured, the title Ser Barristan Selmy had bestowed echoing through the crowd.

Jon’s fight against Thoros of Myr—his helm torn off, his blade clashing with fire in a duel for the ages—had set tongues wagging. Margaery’s heart tightened, recalling the moment his face was revealed, the fear that had gripped her as Thoros’ flaming sword swung too close. She had scolded him, her words sharp with worry, but his sincerity had softened her, his promise to be wiser a vow she held close.

A herald approached, his voice cutting through the din. “Ser Jon Stark, the king requests your presence at his table.” Jon’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking his calm. Margaery watched as he glanced at Robb, who clapped his shoulder with a laugh. “Go on, Jon! The king himself wants you—don’t keep His Grace waiting!” Loras grinned, nudging Jon. “You’re the talk of the realm now, Sword of the North. Best get used to royal summons.” Jon nodded, his expression steadying, though Margaery caught the tension in his jaw.

“I’ll join you soon,” he said, voice soft, then turned toward the Stark table, where his family sat. Margaery followed his gaze, her eyes settling on Catelyn Stark, whose auburn hair framed a face as stern as winter stone. Catelyn’s eyes, blue and sharp, fixed on Jon, and Margaery saw the same storm she had felt earlier—anger, fear, the fierce love of a mother who had nearly lost her son to his own daring.

Jon approached the table, his steps measured, and bent to greet his family. Eddard Stark’s face was a mask of pride and restraint, his nod slow, his grey eyes heavy with unspoken words. Catelyn rose, her hands clasped tightly, and though her voice was low, Margaery caught the edge in it, a mirror of her own scolding. “Jon,” Catelyn said, her tone sharp but trembling, “you risked too much today. You could have been really.” Jon bowed his head, his voice soft. “I’m sorry, Mother. I fought to prove myself, not to cause you pain.”

Catelyn’s lips pressed thin, her hand reaching to touch his cheek, a gesture both tender and fierce. “You may be a knight now, Ser Jon, but you’re still my son. Swear you’ll not be so reckless again.” Jon nodded, his grey eyes earnest.

“I swear, Mother.” He turned to his siblings—Sansa, wide-eyed with awe; Arya, grinning as if she’d fought beside him; Bran and Rickon, too young to grasp the weight of his deeds. Their chatter rose, a warmth that softened Catelyn’s gaze, though the anger lingered, a shadow Margaery understood too well.

Jon straightened, his duty calling, and made his way to the high table, where King Robert Baratheon sat, his massive frame dwarfing the chair, his tankard raised in a boisterous toast. Margaery watched, her heart a tangle of pride and unease, as Jon took the seat beside the king, his posture humble yet resolute.

Robert’s voice boomed, audible even over the hall’s din. “Ser Jon?, the Sword of the bloody North! Sit, lad, and tell me how you faced that fire-wielding priest and nearly won!” Jon’s response was soft, measured, his words lost to the crowd but met with Robert’s roaring laughter.

Margaery’s eyes lingered on him, the boy who had crowned her Princess of Love and Beauty, the boy who had stolen her heart forever whose kiss had stirred something dangerous in her heart. She tore her gaze away, joining Loras and Willas at the Tyrell table, where her grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, sat like a queen of thorns, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

Olenna’s lips curved, her voice a dry whisper as Margaery settled beside her. “Well, my dear, your northern knight has made quite the spectacle. Entering the melee, hiding behind a helm like some mystery knight from a song. Foolish boy, but bold. The realm won’t forget him now.” Margaery’s smile was polite, though her heart raced. “He fought bravely, Grandmother. Ser Barristan knighted him for it.”

Olenna snorted, her fan snapping open. “Brave, yes, but reckless as a summer storm. He could have been hurt by that Stormlander’s axe or burned by Thoros’ wretched flames. And for what? Glory? A boy like that, with skill to shame knights twice his age, should know better than to paint a target on his back. The court’s eyes are on him now—Robert’s, Cersei’s, mine were always on him. He’s no mere wolf pup anymore.”

Margaery’s fingers tightened around her goblet, her thoughts drifting to Jon’s calm grey eyes, his apology by the rose hedges. “He fought to test himself,” she said, voice low. “He’s not like Joffrey, chasing praise. He’s… honorable.”

Olenna’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. “Honorable, is he? And that kiss you shared, was that honorable too? Don’t think I didn’t hear of it, girl. You gave him your favor, crowned him your champion, and now you’re blushing like a maid in a song. Be careful, Margaery. Jon Stark may be a knight, but remember what I told you he is not a prince, it would make things much easier if he were. Your heart is a tool, not a toy.”

Margaery’s cheeks warmed, but she held her grandmother’s gaze, her voice steady. “I know my duty, Grandmother. I gave him my favor for luck, nothing more. He earned the crown he gave me.” Olenna’s laugh was a dry rustle. “Luck, indeed. That boy’s luck is a blade, sharp and dangerous. You’d do well to remember that power draws enemies as surely as it draws allies. Keep your wits, girl, or that northern wolf will drag you into his snowstorm.”

Margaery nodded, her smile unwavering, though Olenna’s words cut deep. She glanced at the high table, where Jon sat beside Robert, the king’s hand clapping his shoulder, his laughter echoing. Jon’s face remained calm, his responses brief, his humility a shield against the king’s boisterous praise.

She saw the boy who had faced Thoros’ flames, who had stood unyielding when his helm was struck off, who had kissed her with a gentleness that belied his strength. Her heart stirred and she thought of how her life would be if Jon was a prince, a dangerous warmth, but she pushed it down, her grandmother’s warning a cold weight. The feast unfolded, minstrels playing, servants weaving through the crowd with trays of spiced wine and sugared figs.

Loras and Willas bantered across the table, their laughter bright, but Margaery’s thoughts were on Jon, on the ribbon he might still wear, on the storm she had seen in his mother’s eyes. She understood that anger now, the fear of losing someone to their own courage. Jon had risked everything in the melee, not for glory but for something deeper, a need to prove himself worthy. She admired it, even as it frightened her.

The music shifted, a slower tune signaling the first dance. Margaery’s gaze drifted to the high table, where Jon rose, his northern tunic stark against the southern splendor. He moved with purpose, his grey eyes scanning the hall, and her breath caught as they settled on her. He approached, his steps steady, the weight of his new title a quiet aura around him.

The crowd parted, whispers following, and Margaery felt her heart quicken, her grandmother’s words fading against the memory of his kiss. He stopped before her, his expression calm but warm, a question in his eyes. “My lady,” he said, voice soft yet clear, carrying over the hall’s murmur.

Jon Stark

The great hall of Highgarden shimmered under the glow of crystal chandeliers, candlelight weaving patterns across tapestries of roses and vines, the air alive with the strains of lutes and harps. The feast pulsed with laughter, the clink of goblets, and the rustle of silks, lords and ladies swirling in a sea of color.

Jon Stark stood before Margaery Tyrell, his northern tunic plain against the southern splendor, his heart quickening as her dark eyes met his, bright with a warmth that stirred the memory of their kiss by the rose hedges. The green silk ribbon, embroidered with a golden rose, pressed against his chest beneath his tunic, her favor a quiet pulse that had carried him through jousts, melees, and the weight of his new title: Ser Jon Stark, the Sword of the North.

“My lady,” Jon said, voice soft but clear, offering his hand, “would you honor me with a dance?” Margaery’s smile curved, a melody in itself, though her eyes held a spark of the storm from their earlier words—her anger at his reckless entry into the knights’ melee, her fear when Thoros’ flaming sword had nearly struck him down.

“I would, Ser Jon,” she said, her tone light but laced with meaning, “though I trust you’ll not risk your life on the dance floor.” The jest drew a small smile from Jon, and he led her to the center of the hall, where couples moved in time to a slow, lilting tune. Her hand was warm in his, her green gown flowing like a river as they joined the dance, their steps falling into the rhythm of the music. The crowd’s murmurs faded, the world narrowing to the brush of her fingers, the scent of roses in her hair, the memory of her voice by the hedges: You could have been maimed, or worse.

Her fear had cut deeper than Thoros’ blade, yet her faith, her crown of roses had steadied him. As they turned, her eyes locked with his, and Jon felt the ribbon’s weight, a vow he had made to be wiser, for her. “You dance as well as you fight,” Margaery said, her voice teasing, though her gaze held a question.

“Did they teach you this in Winterfell, or is it another of your hidden talents?” Jon’s lips twitched, his grey eyes steady. “Father insisted we learn more than swords. Mother taught us the steps, though Robb’s better at it. I’m just trying not to tread on your feet, my lady, but yes this is one of my hidden talents” Her laugh was soft, a sound that warmed his chest.

“You’re doing admirably, Jon. But I meant what I said earlier—you’ve made yourself a legend, and legends draw eyes. Be careful, or you’ll find more than Thoros’s flames to face.” Jon nodded, the weight of her warning settling alongside his title.

The hall spun around them, but her words echoed their earlier confrontation, her fear for him a mirror of Mother’s anger at the Stark table. He had seen it in Catelyn’s eyes, the same storm Margaery had shown, a mother’s love laced with fury at his recklessness. “I promised you I’d think before acting,” he said, voice low, sincere. “I’ll keep that vow, Margaery. For you.”

Her smile softened, her hand tightening briefly in his. “Good. My favor wasn’t given lightly, Jon. Nor was the crown you placed on me.” Her eyes flickered to the roses in her hair, a reminder of his choice to name her Princess of Love and Beauty. The kiss they had shared, warm and fleeting, lingered in his mind, a spark he couldn’t name.

As the music swelled, their steps grew bolder, a seamless dance that felt like an extension of their earlier moment by the hedges, her faith in him a light in the storm of his new fame. The song ended, and Jon bowed, his heart lighter despite the weight of her words. Margaery curtsied, her smile a promise, and as they parted, Jon’s gaze drifted across the hall.

Lady Olenna sat at the Tyrell table, her sharp eyes watching like a hawk’s, her fan snapping shut as if to punctuate her thoughts. Jon felt a spark of mischief, a northern defiance against the weight of the day. He approached, his steps steady, and bowed before her, the crowd’s murmurs a distant hum. “Lady Olenna,” Jon said, voice clear, a hint of a smile playing at his lips,

“would you honor a new knight with a dance?” Olenna’s eyes widened, a rare crack in her thorny composure, then narrowed, her lips curling into a dry chuckle. “Cheeky lad,” she said, her voice sharp but amused, like a blade wrapped in silk. “You think to charm me with a dance? I’m old enough to be your grandmother, and thrice as cunning. But I’ll give you this—you’ve got nerve, Sword of the North.”

The hall rippled with laughter, heads turning, and Jon’s smile grew, unfeigned. “I’d wager you dance as sharply as you speak, my lady,” he said, extending his hand. “One turn, for luck.” Olenna’s chuckle deepened, a sound like rustling leaves. “Luck, is it? You’ve had enough of that, boy, surviving Thoros’s flames. Go dance with someone who won’t outwit you mid-step.” She waved him off, her fan snapping open, but her eyes gleamed with approval, a rare gift from the Queen of Thorns.

Jon bowed again, his heart light, and turned away, the crowd’s laughter a warm echo. His gaze found the Stark table, where his family sat, their faces a tapestry of pride and tension. Mother’s eyes, blue and fierce, still held the storm he had seen earlier, her anger at his melee stunt a mirror of Margaery’s.

His father’s gaze was steady, proud but heavy with unspoken secrets, while Sansa and Arya watched with contrasting expressions—Sansa’s torn between joy and relief, Arya’s alight with mischief. Jon approached, his heart swelling at the sight of them, the ribbon a quiet pulse against his chest.

He offered his hand to his mother first, knowing her anger needed soothing. “Mother,” he said, voice soft, “may I have this dance?” Catelyn’s lips pressed thin, her eyes searching his, the storm softening but not gone. “You’ve given me more grey hairs today, Jon,” she said, her voice low, trembling with love and reproach. “But you’re a knight now, and I’ll not refuse you.”

She took his hand, her grip firm, and they moved to the dance floor, the music a gentle waltz that matched her grace. As they danced, Jon felt her tension, her fingers tight in his. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said, echoing his earlier words to Margaery. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I fought to prove myself.” Catelyn’s eyes softened, though her voice remained sharp. “You’re worthy, Jon, but you’re also reckless. That melee could have had you badly hurt. Promise me you’ll think of your family before you risk yourself again.”

Jon nodded, his grey eyes earnest. “I promised Margaery, and I promise you, Mother. I’ll be wiser.” Catelyn’s grip eased, her smile small but true. They turned in silence, her love a steady anchor, and Jon felt the weight of his title lighten, if only for a moment.

The song ended, and Jon bowed, Catelyn’s hand lingering on his. “You’re my son, Ser Jon,” she whispered, “and I’m proud, even if you terrify me.” Jon smiled, his heart full, and turned to his sisters. Sansa stood waiting, her auburn hair gleaming, her blue eyes a mix of joy and reluctant anger. “Sansa,” Jon said, offering his hand, “will you dance with your brother, the knight?” Her smile was bright, but her eyes held a shadow, the same storm he’d seen in Catelyn and Margaery.

 “You’re a hero now, Jon,” she said, taking his hand, her voice sweet but edged. “Everyone’s talking about the Sword of the North. But you scared us, sneaking into that melee like some mystery knight.” They moved into the dance, Sansa’s steps graceful, trained by septa to match southern ladies. Jon kept his pace steady, his voice gentle.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Sansa. I wore a helm to avoid shame if I lost. I needed to know my measure.” Sansa’s lips pursed, her eyes flashing. “Your measure nearly got you burned! Arya thought it was thrilling, but I was terrified, Jon. You’re my brother, not some knight from a song.” Her voice softened, her smile returning.

“But you were magnificent, and I’m proud, even if I’m cross with you.” Jon chuckled, spinning her gently. “I’ll take your pride, Sansa, and I’ll try not to scare you again.” Her laughter was a bell, her anger melting into joy, and they danced until the song faded, her hand warm in his, her happiness a light that eased his heart.

Arya was next, bounding forward before Jon could ask, her grin wild, her dress already rumpled. “My turn!” she declared, seizing his hand. “You fought Thoros, Jon! With his flaming sword! I want to learn that!” Jon laughed, leading her into a lively reel, her steps more eager than polished. “You’d wield a sword better than half the knights here, Arya,” he said, dodging her enthusiastic spins. “But no flaming swords, not yet.”

Arya’s eyes gleamed, undaunted. “You’re the Sword of the North! I’m telling everyone my brother’s a legend! Were you scared when your helm came off?” Jon’s smile softened, the memory of Thoros’s flames sharp. “A little,” he admitted. “But I thought of you, and Sansa, and Mother, and—” He paused, the ribbon stirring, Margaery’s face flashing in his mind. “I kept fighting.”

Arya beamed, her laughter infectious, and they danced until the music quickened, her energy a spark that lit the hall. As the song ended, Jon bowed, ruffling her hair, her grin a mirror of his own.

The ribbon pressed against his chest, Margaery’s favor a quiet vow. The hall spun with light and laughter, but Jon felt the weight of eyes—Robert’s pride, Cersei’s wrath, Olenna’s cunning, Mother’s love, Sansa’s joy, Arya’s fire. He was Ser Jon Stark, the Sword of the North, but beneath it all, a boy.