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Rhae Sand
Dawn broke over the Dornish encampment in ribbons of gold and crimson—Lannister colors, Rhaenys thought bitterly. A poor omen for what she was about to do. She hadn't slept more than an hour, her mind churning with the impossible events of the previous night. The shadowcat's attack. The wounds. The steam. The healing.
Her palm now bore only three faint pink lines where deep gashes had been. She'd scrubbed away the dried blood and spent hours staring at her hand in the lamplight, wondering if she'd imagined it all. But the evidence was undeniable.
Someone needed to know. Someone she could trust absolutely.
Uncle Oberyn's pavilion stood apart from the others, its orange silk walls rippling in the morning breeze. The guards recognized her immediately, nodding their respect as she approached.
"Is my father awake?" she asked, the word 'father' still strange on her tongue even after all these years of the charade.
"Since before first light, my lady," replied the guard. "He asked not to be disturbed, but for you—"
"He'll make an exception," Rhaenys finished with a confident smile she didn't feel. "Thank you."
She pushed aside the tent flap and entered. The interior was dimly lit, scented with the peculiar mixture of spices and oils that always accompanied her uncle. Oberyn sat cross-legged on cushions, various small bottles arranged before him. He was carefully measuring drops of amber liquid into a vial, his concentration absolute.
"Brewing poisons before breakfast, Father?" Rhaenys asked, letting the tent flap close behind her.
Oberyn didn't look up, but a smile played at the corners of his mouth. "A gentle stimulant only, sweet niece. For energy and clarity of thought." He added a final drop, stoppered the vial, and shook it. "But I suspect you haven't come to discuss my morning concoctions."
He finally looked up, his dark eyes instantly assessing her troubled expression. "What's wrong?"
Rhaenys took a deep breath. "I need to show you something. Something... impossible."
That caught his attention. Oberyn set the vial aside and gestured to the cushions opposite him. "I've found that 'impossible' is often merely 'improbable' or 'unexplained.' Sit. Show me."
She sat, drawing her dagger from its sheath at her hip. Oberyn's eyes tracked the movement but he said nothing, simply watching as she placed her left palm upward.
"Last night, after the shadowcat," she began, "I discovered something. I need to know if you've ever seen its like before."
Before he could question her further, Rhaenys dragged the dagger's edge across her palm—not deeply, but enough to draw a clean line of blood.
"Seven hells, Rhae!" Oberyn lunged forward, grabbing her wrist. "Have you lost your—"
His words died as wisps of steam began to rise from the wound. Beneath their joined hands, Rhaenys could feel the familiar heat building, the strange tingling sensation as her flesh knit itself together.
Oberyn's grip slackened in shock. He pulled back slightly, eyes widening as he watched the cut seal itself before him, leaving only a faint pink line that was already fading.
For perhaps the first time in her life, Rhaenys saw her uncle truly speechless.
"It happened after the shadowcat clawed me," she explained into the silence. "I came back to my tent, and the wounds just... healed. With steam, like this."
Oberyn reached out slowly, running his fingertip along her now-unmarked palm. "By all the gods, old and new," he breathed. "What manner of magic is this?"
"I was hoping you might tell me," Rhaenys replied, withdrawing her hand. "You studied at the Citadel. You've traveled the world. Have you ever seen anything like this?"
Oberyn shook his head slowly, his expression transforming from shock to fascination. "Never. Not in all my travels, not in any tome or legend." He leaned forward. "Has this happened before? Any other injuries that healed unnaturally quickly?"
"No. Never." She frowned, thinking back. "There was a time last year when I fell from horseback and Arianne swore my arm was broken. By the time we reached a maester, it felt merely bruised. But nothing like... this."
"And you saw steam? Actual steam rising from your wounds?"
"Yes. And heat—intense heat where the injury was."
Oberyn steepled his fingers, his mind visibly racing through possibilities. "It could be your Targaryen blood. The blood of Old Valyria, of dragons."
"Do Targaryens heal with steam?" Rhaenys asked skeptically. "I've never heard such tales."
"No," Oberyn admitted. "They're resistant to heat and fire, but not... this." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Your mother was a Martell. Perhaps there's something in our bloodline, mixed with dragon blood..."
But he didn't sound convinced, and neither was Rhaenys. This felt older, stranger than either of their houses.
"I also had a vision," she admitted reluctantly. "Just a flash, but I saw a giant tree made of light. Branches reaching up like... like they were connecting to something beyond the sky."
Oberyn's expression grew more troubled. "A vision as well? This goes beyond blood magic." He rubbed his jaw. "The maesters would want to study you like a specimen. The septons would cry abomination." His hand moved to cover hers protectively. "We must keep this between us. Not even my daughters can know."
That surprised her. "Not even Nym? Or Tyene? They keep your secrets."
"This is different," Oberyn insisted. "This is not my secret to share—it's yours, and it could be dangerous. Especially here, so close to the Usurper's court."
Rhaenys nodded slowly. The thought of Robert Baratheon learning one of the Targaryens he'd failed to exterminate possessed unnatural healing abilities sent a chill down her spine.
"While we're in King's Landing," Oberyn continued, "I'll seek information. Discreetly. The royal library may contain ancient texts not found in the Citadel." His eyes gleamed with the thrill of a mystery. "There are always whispers of magic returning to the world, especially from the east. Perhaps this is part of something larger."
Rhaenys found that thought both comforting and terrifying. To not be alone in her strangeness, but to be part of some greater, unknown power...
"Come," Oberyn said, rising to his feet. "We should prepare to enter the city. Our grand Dornish entrance awaits." He extended a hand to help her up, a gesture he'd made a thousand times over the years.
But as their hands clasped, Rhaenys saw the new awareness in his eyes—wonder mixed with concern, curiosity shadowed by protective fear. For the first time since she was a child, Oberyn Martell looked at her as something he didn't fully understand.
And Rhaenys wasn't sure she understood herself anymore either.
Jon Snow
The clash of steel against steel rang across the training yard, a sound as familiar to Jon as his own heartbeat. He and Robb had found a perfect vantage point along the western wall, where stone steps offered an elevated view of the yard below. From here, they could see everything—and everyone—without immediately drawing attention to themselves.
"There he is," Robb nudged Jon's shoulder, pointing toward an older knight with snow-white hair who moved with the grace of a man half his age. "Ser Barristan the Bold."
Jon nodded, studying the legendary knight's footwork as he demonstrated a complex parry to a younger member of the Kingsguard. Even in practice, there was an effortless perfection to Selmy's movements that spoke of decades of discipline.
"I heard from servantsn that Ser Barristan almost never spars with the Kingslayer," Robb said, his eyes shifting to where Jaime Lannister stood on the opposite side of the yard, golden hair gleaming in the morning sun as he lazily twirled his practice sword.
"Pride, perhaps," Jon replied, watching Lannister with narrowed eyes. "Or principle."
Below them, several Gold Cloaks had begun their own training exercises, their movements sloppy compared to the Kingsguard. Jon found himself mentally correcting their stances, seeing openings that would get them killed in a real fight.
I could beat any of them, he thought, not with arrogance but with the calm certainty that had been growing in him these past months. Something had changed in him since White Harbor—since Wylla. His reflexes were faster, his strikes more powerful.
"You're doing it again," Robb's voice broke through his thoughts.
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you stare at someone like you're planning exactly where to stick your sword." Robb grinned. "It's unnerving."
Jon relaxed his expression. "Just watching their technique."
"Well, stop looking like you want to murder the entire City Watch. We're supposed to be making allies, not enemies." Robb's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Though I suppose you could always charm your way out of trouble. The serving girls at breakfast couldn't stop staring at your pretty face."
"Shut up," Jon replied without heat, shoving his brother lightly.
Robb laughed. "You should enter the tournament, you know. The melee, at least. Father's allowing me to compete."
Jon considered it. The thought was tempting—to test himself, to show what he could do. But the memory of his first transformation in White Harbor still haunted him. What if strong emotions triggered it again? What if he lost control in front of the entire court?
"Maybe," he said noncommittally. "What about you? Will you go down there and spar today?"
Robb grimaced. "And embarrass myself in front of the Kingsguard? I think not. I'd rather save my dignity for the tournament, where at least I might be matched with someone of similar skill."
Jon stood suddenly, decision made. "I'm going to try."
Robb's eyebrows shot up. "You're joking."
"I'm not." Jon felt a familiar restlessness in his limbs, an energy that needed release. "I've been cooped up for days. I need to swing a sword."
"Against the Gold Cloaks? Or were you planning to challenge Ser Barristan himself?" Robb's tone was incredulous, but there was a hint of admiration in it too.
Jon grinned, feeling strangely confident. "I'll start small."
"Your funeral," Robb shrugged, but his eyes showed support. "Though I'll enjoy watching you knock those pompous city watchmen down a peg."
As Jon turned to descend the steps, a group of young noble ladies passed by, their silken dresses rustling. Their chatter ceased abruptly as they noticed him, eyes widening at his appearance.
"Those eyes," one whispered, not quietly enough. "One purple, one green. How unusual."
"And that face," another added. "Is he one of the Northerners?"
Jon caught their gaze and nodded politely, lips quirking into a small smile. There was a time when such attention would have made him shrink into himself, painfully aware of his bastard status. Now, he merely accepted it as part of who he was. The girls blushed and hurried on, giggling behind their hands.
For a brief, sharp moment, Wylla's face flashed through his mind—her bold laugh. The memory brought an ache, but a duller one than before. She would want me to live, he thought. To fight. To be more than my grief.
"Remember," Robb called after him, "if Ser Jaime runs you through, I get your good boots."
Jon glanced back with a wolfish grin. "If you're so sure I'll lose, care to make a real wager?"
"Against the Kingslayer? I'm not a complete fool," Robb laughed. "But against those Gold Cloaks? Two silver stags says you send at least three of them to the dirt."
"Done," Jon replied, already descending the final steps to the yard, his hand reaching for the practice sword rack with a confidence that surprised even himself.
Jon stepped into the training yard, feeling the familiar weight of the practice sword in his hand. The weapon was light, the balance different from the one in Winterfell, but it would serve. Around him, the sounds of combat filled the air—the grunt of effort, the clash of steel, the scrape of boots on packed dirt. It was a language Jon understood better than most.
A group of Gold Cloaks had paused in their drills, eyeing the newcomer with the natural suspicion of men who protected their territory. Jon approached them directly, keeping his expression neutral but confident.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, gesturing toward their practice circle.
The largest of them, a broad-shouldered man with a beard streaked with gray, looked Jon up and down with open skepticism. "This isn't a place for boys to play at being warriors, pretty lad. Run back to your lord father."
Laughter rippled through the group. Jon didn't react to the taunt, instead allowing a small smile to touch his lips.
"I've had my share of play," he replied evenly. "I'm looking for practice."
"Oh, he's looking for practice!" mocked a younger watchman with a pockmarked face. "Did you hear that, Harren? The pretty boy wants practice!"
The bearded man—Harren—chuckled. "I suppose we could oblige. It's been a dull morning." He jutted his chin toward a lean officer standing nearby. "Rylen, why don't you show our Northern visitor what the City Watch can do?"
The man called Rylen stepped forward, swinging his practice sword in a casual figure-eight. He was taller than Jon, with the lean, wiry strength of a man who relied on speed rather than power. A lieutenant's insignia marked his cloak.
"Happy to," Rylen said, his King's Landing accent thick as honey. "Though I'd hate to send the pretty lord back to his Lord Father with bruises."
Jon took his position opposite Rylen, feeling a strange calm settle over him. Three months ago, the jibes might have angered him, might have made him fight hot and reckless. Now, they slid off him like rain.
"I'm not a Lord's trueborn son," Jon corrected quietly. "I'm Lord Stark's bastard. And I've had worse than bruises."
Something in his tone made Rylen's smirk falter briefly before he reassumed his cocky expression. "Well then, Snow, let's see what the North has taught you."
Jon didn't reply. He simply raised his sword and settled into his stance.
Rylen attacked first, as Jon had expected. A standard opening thrust followed by a horizontal slash—quick, competent, but utterly predictable. Jon parried both with minimal movement, feeling almost as if the world had slowed around him. He saw the brief flash of surprise in Rylen's eyes, the adjustment in his strategy as he launched into a more complex series of attacks.
Jon met each one, his responses efficient and precise. He wasn't showing off, wasn't using unnecessary flourishes. He simply...moved. And each movement was exactly what it needed to be, no more, no less.
When Jon finally counter-attacked, it happened so quickly that Rylen barely had time to register the shift. One moment he was pressing what he thought was an advantage; the next, his practice sword was flying from his hand, and the tip of Jon's weapon was hovering a hair's breadth from his throat.
Silence fell over the nearby Gold Cloaks.
Jon lowered his sword. "Good match," he said, offering Rylen a respectful nod.
Rylen stared at him, bewilderment clear on his face. "Seven hells," he muttered. "Where did you learn to move like that?"
Before Jon could answer, another watchman stepped forward, this one younger and more heavily muscled. "That was luck," he declared. "Try that against me, Snow."
Jon shrugged. "If you like."
This opponent lasted perhaps ten seconds longer than Rylen had. The third made it almost a full minute, his technique better but still no match for Jon's heightened reflexes. By the fourth challenger, Jon had begun to enjoy himself, testing the limits of this new speed and strength that had been growing in him since White Harbor.
It was strange—he wasn't even breathing hard. Every movement felt natural, instinctive, as if his body knew exactly what to do without his mind needing to direct it. It felt as if he had done those moves before. Jon parried a particularly vicious overhead strike from his fifth opponent, feeling the impact travel up his arm with barely a tremor.
I'm stronger than I should be, he thought. Faster too. How much longer can I hide it?
A small crowd had gathered now, including off-duty Gold Cloaks and a few squires, watching as Jon methodically dismantled each new challenger. Even Ser Barristan had paused in his demonstration to observe, his expression unreadable beneath his white beard.
"What's all this, then?" called a new voice, cutting through the excited murmurs of the spectators.
Jon turned to see Jaime Lannister approaching, resplendent in his white armor, golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, the man was handsome with a cocky grin. The Kingslayer moved with the lazy confidence of a man who had never doubted his own supremacy, a half-smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the scene.
"Just a friendly contest, Ser Jaime," answered Harren, suddenly deferential.
"So I see." Lannister's green eyes—so like one of Jon's own—swept over the collection of defeated watchmen before settling on Jon. "And who might you be, who handles my city's protectors so roughly?"
Jon met the Kingslayer's gaze directly. "Jon Snow of Winterfell."
"Ah," Jaime's smile widened a fraction. "Lord Stark's by-blow. I should have known from the long face." He cocked his head. "Though I don't recall Ned Stark having such...distinctive eyes."
Jon felt the familiar prickle of defensiveness rise, but pushed it down. "My eyes come from my mother, I'm told."
"Whoever she was, she at least gave you something useful. Stark men aren't known for their looks." Jaime gestured lazily toward the practice sword in Jon's hand. "I've found bastards often excel with swords. When the world gives you so little, I suppose you cling tightly to whatever talents you possess."
Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks, but not from embarrassment. It was a different kind of fire, a quiet confidence that hadn't been there before.
"And I've found," Jon replied coolly, "that those born with everything sometimes fail to appreciate the value of anything." He let his gaze flick meaningfully to the white cloak at Jaime's shoulders. "Even oaths."
A ripple of shocked murmurs ran through the watching Gold Cloaks. Jaime's eyes narrowed dangerously, though his smile never faltered.
"Bold words from a boy," the Kingslayer said softly. He held out his hand to a nearby squire, who promptly placed a practice sword in it. "I wonder if your sword is as quick as your tongue."
Jon should have been terrified. This was Jaime Lannister, perhaps the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, a man who had killed the Mad King and defied armies. But all Jon felt was a strange, calm focus descending over him.
"Only one way to find out," he replied, adjusting his grip on his sword.
Jaime's eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement or might have been threat. "Indeed, Snow. Only one way."
The training yard fell silent as Jon squared off against Jaime Lannister. Even the distant sounds of the Red Keep seemed to fade away, leaving nothing but the soft rustle of the Kingslayer's white cloak in the breeze and the subtle shifting of their boots on the packed earth.
Jon settled into a middle guard position, sword held at center height, point aimed at Jaime's face. The Winterfell stance—steady, economical, practical. Across from him, Lannister adopted a more flamboyant high guard, blade positioned above his right shoulder in a position that screamed of Casterly Rock's fencing traditions.
Show nothing, Jon told himself. Not everything. Not yet.
"Whenever you're ready, Lord Snow," Jaime drawled, the mockery in the false title evident.
Jon didn't rise to the bait. He simply nodded, maintaining his focus, waiting rather than attacking. Let the lion come to the wolf.
Jaime obliged with a lightning-fast thrust aimed at Jon's right shoulder—a testing strike, designed to gauge Jon's speed rather than score a hit. Jon parried it with a simple beat of his blade, deflecting rather than blocking, preserving his energy.
"Good," Jaime acknowledged with a small nod, before launching into a more complex attack—a feint to the left followed by a quick disengage and thrust to the right.
Jon read the movement a fraction of a second before it fully developed, his body responding with a speed that surprised even himself. His parry was perfect, his riposte immediate, forcing Jaime to step back to avoid the counterattack.
A murmur ran through the gathering crowd. Ser Jaime Lannister, forced to give ground to a northern bastard boy? Unheard of.
Jaime's eyes narrowed slightly, the casual amusement in them hardening into something more focused. "Interesting," he murmured, just loud enough for Jon to hear.
Their blades met again, and again, the tempo increasing with each exchange. Jon found himself falling into a rhythm, reading Jaime's movements with uncanny precision. The Kingslayer was brilliant—his technique flawless, his speed extraordinary—but Jon could see each attack forming, could feel the patterns of combat revealing themselves with a clarity he'd never experienced before.
Jaime transitioned seamlessly from a hanging guard to a thrust at Jon's midsection. Jon executed a perfect circular parry, deflecting the blade in a controlled spiral before launching his own attack—a cut at Jaime's left shoulder that required the knight to make a hurried defensive movement.
"By the Seven," someone whispered from the sidelines. "The boy's matching him!"
"Look at those eyes," came another voice. "Mismatched like the Stranger's own gaze."
Jon tuned out the commentary, focusing entirely on the dance of blades. Jaime had stopped playing now, his attacks coming with increased power and complexity. A diagonal slash transitioned into a backhanded cut aimed at Jon's sword arm, followed by a lightning-quick thrust at his throat. Jon caught the first on his blade, sidestepped the second, and deflected the third with a precision that belied his years.
I shouldn't be able to do this, a small part of Jon's mind whispered. The rest of him was too consumed with the fight to care.
Jaime drove him back with a series of strikes executed in perfect succession—each flowing into the next with no wasted movement, no telegraphing. It was like facing a golden storm, relentless and beautiful in its deadliness. Jon defended, giving ground tactically, conserving energy where he could but still feeling the strain building in his muscles.
Then came his opening. Jaime, perhaps growing frustrated with Jon's stubborn defense, overextended slightly on a lunge. Jon sidestepped and counter-attacked with a bind that momentarily trapped Jaime's blade before disengaging for a cut at the knight's side.
The blow connected—lightly, controlled, but unmistakably a hit. The crowd gasped.
For a heartbeat, genuine surprise flashed across Jaime's features before his usual mask of arrogant confidence returned. Something changed in his eyes then—a new respect, perhaps, or simply the full engagement of a predator who'd realized his prey had teeth.
"Well struck," Jaime acknowledged, his voice carrying a new edge. "Though I wonder where a boy from the North learned Braavosi footwork."
Jon hadn't even realized he'd been using it—the water dancer's sidestep had simply felt right in the moment. "I watch and I learn," he replied simply, resuming his guard position.
Jaime's next series of attacks came with renewed vigor and purpose, driving Jon backward with sheer speed and technical brilliance. The knight moved fast, his blade seemingly everywhere at once. High cut, low thrust, feint, disengage, cut—the combinations flowing together in dizzying patterns.
Jon felt sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to keep pace. His enhanced reflexes were the only thing keeping him in the fight now, his body responding to threats his mind barely had time to register. He caught a powerful downward strike on his blade, the impact jarring his arms to the shoulders.
He's stronger than he looks, Jon thought, feeling the tremor in his own muscles as he redirected Jaime's force rather than opposing it directly.
The crowd had grown, Jon realized dimly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see faces watching with open astonishment—Gold Cloaks, squires, even Ser Barristan himself, his aged features set in an expression of studious assessment.
Jaime shifted tactics, abandoning the flashier techniques for a more direct approach. His blade became a silver blur, attacking from all angles, finding the smallest openings in Jon's defense. A cut caught Jon's sleeve, another would have taken his ear if he hadn't jerked his head aside at the last moment.
Jon felt his arms growing heavy, his reactions slowing by crucial fractions. Still, he fought on, drawing on reserves of strength he hadn't known he possessed. When Jaime launched an overhead strike, Jon caught it in a perfect crossed-sword block, locking their blades together near the hilts.
For a moment, they stood face to face, mere inches apart, muscles straining as each sought to overpower the other.
"You fight like a man with demons at his back, Snow," Jaime said quietly, his voice tight with exertion.
"Perhaps I do," Jon replied, holding the knight's green gaze with his mismatched eyes.
The deadlock broke when Jaime suddenly disengaged and spun to the right, faster than should have been possible. Jon tried to track the movement, but his tired muscles betrayed him. His parry came a heartbeat too late, and Jaime's blade slipped past his guard.
Instead of the expected strike, however, Jon felt a sharp tap against his wrist, precisely targeted to the tendons controlling his grip. His fingers involuntarily loosened, and his practice sword clattered to the dirt.
Jon stood disarmed but unbowed, breathing hard, sweat plastering his dark curls to his forehead.
Jaime Lannister looked barely winded, though there was a new alertness in his stance, a brightness to his eyes that hadn't been there before. He lowered his blade and studied Jon with unabashed curiosity.
"Not bad," he said at last, his tone making the words both praise and dismissal. "For a bastard boy from the frozen North." A slight furrow appeared between Jaime's brows. "Though I could swear I've seen you before. Something in the way you move..."
Jon met the Kingslayer's assessing gaze steadily. "We've never met, Ser Jaime. I'd remember."
"Perhaps not," Jaime replied, still studying him. "But you remind me of someone. I just can't quite place—"
His words were cut off by a round of enthusiastic applause from beyond the circle of spectators. Jon turned to see a young man in expensive green and gold silks approaching, his brown curls framing a handsome face split by a dazzling smile.
"Magnificent!" the newcomer exclaimed. "Absolutely magnificent! I haven't seen Ser Jaime pressed so hard in years."
The young man who approached was perhaps two years Jon's senior, with an easy confidence that only the truly highborn possessed. His curly brown hair framed a face that seemed crafted for court life—handsome, with laughing eyes and a smile that likely had maidens throughout the Seven Kingdoms sighing. His green and gold doublet was finely tailored, the embroidered roses of House Tyrell adorning the sleeves.
Ser Loras Tyrell, Jon realized. The Knight of Flowers. Sansa had talked of little else for weeks after hearing the famed knight would be at the tournament. She'd be beside herself if she knew Jon was standing face to face with her romantic ideal.
"Ser Loras," Jaime acknowledged with a slightly stiff nod. "I wasn't aware House Tyrell had arrived."
"Just this morning," Loras replied brightly. "My father's still settling our household, but I simply couldn't miss a day of training." His gaze shifted to Jon. "Especially when such interesting matches are taking place."
Jon retrieved his fallen practice sword, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "Jon Snow of Winterfell," he introduced himself, seeing the question in Loras's eyes.
"Ah, from the North!" Loras exclaimed. "That explains the unorthodox style. I've rarely seen someone combine Westerosi power moves with such... nimbleness." His eyes twinkled with something that might have been mischief. "You nearly had our good Ser Jaime worried for a moment."
Jaime snorted. "Hardly worried, Tyrell. The boy has talent, I'll grant him that."
"High praise indeed from the mighty Kingslayer," Loras said. "Though I wonder if your assessment might have been different had the match continued another few minutes."
Jon caught the subtle jab—an implication that Jaime had ended the fight when he did to avoid potential embarrassment. The Kingslayer's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Perhaps you'd care to offer your own assessment," Jaime suggested coolly. "Since you seem so interested in the boy's capabilities."
Loras's smile widened. "I would be delighted." He turned to Jon. "What say you, Snow? Care to cross swords with the Knight of Flowers? I promise to be gentler than our good Ser Jaime."
Jon should have been exhausted after his match with the Kingslayer. The rational part of his mind told him to politely decline, to save his strength. But there was something in Loras's challenge that stirred his blood—not arrogance, but genuine interest, warrior to warrior.
"I accept," Jon heard himself saying. "Though I make no promises about gentleness."
A ripple of surprised murmurs ran through the crowd. First the Kingslayer, now the Knight of Flowers? Who was this northern bastard?
Loras beamed, handing his elaborately embroidered cloak to a nearby squire. "Excellent! Let me borrow a practice sword, and we'll see what the North is made of."
As Loras prepared, Jon took the opportunity to catch his breath, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. From the edge of the yard, he caught Robb's eye. His brother wore an expression of mingled disbelief and pride, shaking his head in what might have been exasperation or admiration.
Loras returned, practice sword in hand, wearing a padded jerkin over his fine clothes. "Shall we begin?" he asked, taking up position.
Jon nodded, resuming his middle guard stance. Unlike Jaime's arrogant assessment, Loras studied Jon with genuine interest, his own stance a textbook Reach variation—more flowing, less rigid than the Lannister style.
"It's rare to find someone near my own age with real skill," Loras commented. "Most of my sparring partners are either grizzled veterans or fumbling squires."
"Winterfell's master-at-arms doesn't believe in coddling," Jon replied. "Not even bastards."
"Fortunate for you," Loras said, beginning to circle slowly. "Though I suspect natural talent plays a greater role than any training."
They were still exchanging pleasantries when Loras attacked—a lightning-quick thrust that seemed to contradict his relaxed demeanor. Jon parried instinctively, the blades meeting with a sharp clack.
"Good reflexes," Loras noted with appreciation, already flowing into his next attack.
Where Jaime had been all technical perfection and controlled power, Loras fought with an almost artistic flair. His movements had a dancer's grace, each attack flowing seamlessly into the next like water. He was incredibly fast—perhaps even faster than Jaime—though without the same raw strength behind his blows.
Jon adapted quickly, finding a rhythm that matched the Tyrell knight's fluid style. He caught a horizontal cut on his blade, letting it slide down to the hilt before disengaging with a twist and launching his own attack.
"You favor your left side for defense," Jon observed as they exchanged a rapid series of blows.
Loras grinned, parrying Jon's thrust with a circular movement. "And you telegraph your high attacks with your shoulders." He demonstrated by easily blocking Jon's next overhead cut. "Though only slightly."
They continued like this, trading both blows and observations, each testing the other's technique, finding weaknesses, adapting. The clash of their practice swords created a staccato rhythm, punctuated by the scuff of boots and occasional appreciative murmurs from the growing audience.
"Where did you learn that sidestep?" Loras asked after Jon evaded a particularly deceptive attack. "That's no Northern technique."
"Observation," Jon replied, launching a counter that Loras barely blocked. "And instinct."
Five minutes into the match, neither had gained a clear advantage. Jon found himself enjoying the challenge immensely. Unlike with Jaime, where pride and status had charged each exchange, this felt like pure competition—warrior testing warrior.
"Your technique reminds me of Ser Arthur Dayne," Loras commented during a brief pause as they circled each other. "Have you read accounts of his fighting style?"
"The Sword of the Morning?" Jon felt a surge of pride at the comparison. "Every boy in the Seven Kingdoms dreams of fighting like Arthur Dayne."
"Some more successfully than others," Loras replied with a wink, before launching into a dazzling combination that nearly broke through Jon's guard.
The training yard had grown remarkably crowded. Jon glimpsed Ser Barristan watching with undisguised interest. Even Jaime Lannister had remained, his expression unreadable as he leaned against a nearby post.
As the match approached the ten-minute mark, Jon could feel the strain in his muscles, the burning in his lungs. Loras showed similar signs of fatigue, his attacks coming with slightly less speed, his parries a fraction less precise. Yet neither would yield, neither could gain the decisive advantage.
"You're full of surprises, Snow," Loras panted, deflecting a thrust aimed at his shoulder.
"As are you," Jon replied, sidestepping a counter-attack. "The songs don't exaggerate your skill."
Loras laughed breathlessly. "Songs exaggerate everything. Except, perhaps, your eyes. They really are remarkable." The compliment was delivered without pause in his attack, a high feint transitioning to a low thrust.
Jon parried and riposted, nearly catching Loras's sword arm, he doubted people sang songs for him. "If you're trying to distract me with flattery—"
"Is it working?" Loras grinned.
"Not in the slightest," Jon lied, suppressing a smile of his own.
They pressed on, the contest evolving from a simple sparring match into something more—a demonstration of skill that had the entire yard captivated. Ten minutes became fifteen, with both young men pushing beyond normal endurance.
The end came unexpectedly. Loras executed a brilliantly deceptive feint, drawing Jon's guard high before cutting low. Jon, reading the move at the last possible instant, twisted to avoid it while simultaneously targeting Loras's sword hand with a precise strike.
Their blades connected with Loras's sword at an awkward angle. The impact sent both practice weapons spinning from their hands, landing in the dirt several feet away.
A moment of silence fell over the yard, followed by an eruption of applause and cheers. Jon stood breathing heavily, sweat-soaked and exhausted, but filled with a sense of accomplishment that had nothing to do with winning or losing.
Across from him, Loras looked equally spent but wore a delighted grin. "Well fought, Jon Snow," he said, extending his hand. "I haven't enjoyed a match so thoroughly in years."
Jon clasped the offered hand firmly. "Nor have I. Your reputation is well-earned, Ser Loras."
"As is yours," Loras replied, "though I wasn't aware you had one before today." He glanced around at the enthusiastic crowd. "I suspect that's about to change."
Jon followed his gaze, only now fully registering how many people had witnessed their contest. Lords and ladies, knights and squires, servants and guards—all watching him, a bastard from the North, match the famed Knight of Flowers stroke for stroke.
"You have an unusual style," Loras continued thoughtfully. "Power like a Northman, but footwork that reminds me of the water dancers of Braavos, with flourishes I've only seen from Dornish spearmen. Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Jon shrugged, uncertain how to explain techniques he'd never consciously studied. "I watch. I adapt. I use what works."
"A practical approach," Loras nodded approvingly. "Most knights are too bound by tradition to truly innovate." He retrieved both fallen practice swords, handing Jon's back to him with a respectful nod. "We must do this again before the tournament. I'd like to see how you handle a real blade."
"I'd welcome the opportunity," Jon replied honestly, surprised at how easily he was conversing with one of the most famous knights in the realm. Three months ago, he'd have been tongue-tied and awkward. Now, he felt... worthy of the exchange.
"Loras!" called a musical feminine voice from beyond the circle of spectators. "So this is where you've disappeared to."
Jon turned toward the melodic voice, finding himself face to face with a young woman who could only be Loras Tyrell's sister. She moved with graceful confidence through the parting crowd, her green silk dress whispering against the ground. Jon was immediately struck by her beauty—not the cold, distant perfection of Queen Cersei, but something warmer, more inviting. Her brown hair fell in soft waves framing a heart-shaped face, but it was her eyes that captured Jon's attention—intelligent, observant, the same warm green as her brother's but with a keenness that suggested she missed nothing.
Jon looked away quickly, knowing that staring at a highborn lady wasn't appropriate for anyone, let alone a bastard.
"Margaery," Loras greeted her with obvious affection. "Come meet my new sparring partner. He's nearly separated my sword arm from my shoulder."
She approached with a smile that somehow managed to be both proper and mischievous. Her gaze fell on Jon, those observant eyes taking his measure. "I heard some servants talking about a new knight in the training yard. Though they failed to mention how handsome your new friend is, brother."
Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. He'd never learned how to respond to such direct compliments, especially from beautiful, highborn ladies.
"Jon Snow of Winterfell," Loras introduced him. "Son of Lord Eddard Stark. Jon, my sister, Lady Margaery of House Tyrell."
Jon bowed respectfully. "My lady."
"Those eyes," Margaery said, studying him with undisguised interest. "One purple, one green. I've never seen their like before."
The directness of her gaze made Jon simultaneously want to look away and stand taller. "You're too kind, my lady," he replied, finding his voice. "Though I'd say the same about your own."
The words slipped out before he could consider their propriety, and for a moment Jon froze, wondering if he'd overstepped. But Margaery's smile only widened, genuine pleasure lighting her features.
"Both gallant and skilled with a blade," she said approvingly. "The North has been hiding its treasures from us, it seems."
Jon was acutely aware of the eyes upon them—knights and lords watching a bastard converse with the daughter of one of the most powerful houses in Westeros. Despite his recent confidence in the training yard, familiar discomfort crept back. He didn't belong in this circle, among these people. A bastard's place was in the shadows, not the center of attention.
Something in his expression must have betrayed his thoughts, for Margaery's head tilted slightly, her eyes softening with understanding.
"Your swordsmanship is truly impressive, Jon Snow," she said. "The tournament will actually be entertaining this year with fighters like you participating." She offered a smile that made Jon feel a little warm in his cheeks. "I wish you a pleasant stay in the Red Keep. The capital can be quite overwhelming for those not accustomed to its... peculiarities."
Jon nodded, appreciating her polite acknowledgment while recognizing the careful distance she maintained. "Thank you, my lady. You're very kind."
She turned to her brother. "Loras, grandmother sent me to find you. She wishes to speak with you before we meet with the Queen."
Loras groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically. "The Queen of Thorns summons, and I must obey." He extended a hand to Jon. "Until next time, Snow. I'll look forward to our rematch."
As the Tyrell siblings departed, Jon saw Robb marching towards him with a bright smile. Jon knew father would not be happy about this; within the hour, everyone will be talking about this.
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