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Jon Snow - 294 AC
The great hall of Winterfell buzzed with the familiar sounds of evening meal as Jon took his customary seat at the high table, acutely aware of how the dynamics had shifted over the years like pieces on a cyvasse board. At eleven, he was tall enough now that his feet actually touched the floor, and sharp enough to notice things that would have escaped him just a few years ago.
"Jon!" Arya called out happily from her seat, immediately abandoning her attempt to cut her meat properly in favor of reaching across the table toward him. "Look what I caught today!"
She opened her small fist to reveal a rather bewildered-looking beetle, which promptly took the opportunity to escape and scurry across the white tablecloth. Sansa shrieked and jerked backward, nearly knocking over her water cup.
"Arya Stark!" Catelyn's voice carried that particular edge that meant someone was about to receive a lecture. "Ladies do not bring insects to the dinner table."
"It's just a beetle," Arya protested, watching with interest as it made its way toward the salt. "It's not hurting anyone."
"It's disgusting," Sansa said primly, smoothing her perfectly arranged skirts. At eight, she had mastered the art of looking perpetually disappointed in her family's lack of refinement. "Proper ladies don't touch bugs."
"Good thing I'm not a proper lady then," Arya shot back with a grin that was pure mischief.
Jon caught the beetle before it could disappear over the edge of the table, cupping it gently in his hands. "Here, little warrior," he murmured to Arya, "let me help your friend find a better adventure outside."
He stood and walked to one of the tall windows, releasing the beetle into the evening air. When he returned, he found Lady Catelyn watching him with irritation as if the idea to bring the beetle inside was his.
"How thoughtful," she said, her voice carrying just enough ice to freeze wine. "Though perhaps next time you might consider whether encouraging Lady Arya's... eccentricities... is wise."
"I hardly think showing kindness to small creatures counts as encouraging eccentricity, my lady," Jon replied smoothly, settling back into his seat. "Besides, some of history's greatest warriors started as curious children who refused to ignore the world around them."
Robb snorted, covering it by taking a long drink from his cup. Jon caught his eye and raised an eyebrow in an expression that clearly said 'what?', which only made Robb's shoulders shake more.
"More water, my lord?"
Jon looked up to find Jeyne Poole standing beside the table with a pitcher, her cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth of the kitchens. At twelve, Jeyne had grown into a pretty girl with soft dark hair and kind eyes, and Jon found himself noticing for the first time how gracefully she moved, how her smile seemed to light up her entire face when she was happy.
"Thank you," he said, offering her his most charming smile. "That's very kind of you, Jeyne."
She blushed prettily and nearly spilled the water, which somehow made her even more endearing. "It's nothing, my... Jon."
The way she said his name, soft and slightly breathless, made something flutter in Jon's chest that had nothing to do with dinner conversation or family politics. When had Jeyne Poole become so... noticeable?
"Careful there," Robb murmured as Jeyne moved away, his voice pitched low enough that only Jon could hear. "You're staring."
"I'm not staring," Jon protested quietly. "I'm being polite."
"Right. Polite. The same way a wolf is polite when it's staring at a lamp."
Before Jon could formulate a response that wouldn't incriminate him further, Arya had climbed down from her chair and was attempting to scale his legs like a tree.
"Jon, tell me a story about knights," she demanded, settling herself in his lap despite Catelyn's obvious disapproval. "The kind with dragons and magic swords."
As Jon launched into an improvised tale about a brave knight and her faithful beetle companion, he couldn't help but notice how Jeyne lingered nearby, pretending to arrange flowers while actually listening to his story with obvious delight.
Maybe growing up wasn't entirely about politics and family tensions after all.
One Month Later
The training yard rang with the clash of steel on steel as Jon moved through his forms, his practice sword singing through the morning air. At eleven, he had grown tall and lean, his violet eyes bright with concentration as he faced off against Theon Greyjoy in what had started as a simple sparring session and was rapidly becoming something more like a demonstration.
"Come on, squid," Jon called out with a charming grin "Surely the Iron Islands taught you something more creative than that overhead swing? I've seen it three times now."
Theon, now fifteen and considerably broader than Jon, responded with a flurry of attacks that would have overwhelmed most boys Jon's age. Unfortunately for him, Jon wasn't most boys. He flowed around Theon's blade like water around stone.
"You know," Jon said conversationally as he parried another strike, "for someone who claims his people are the finest warriors in Westeros, you fight like you learned from a book. A very boring book."
"Shut up and fight, bastard," Theon panted, already breathing harder than he should have been.
"I am fighting. That's the problem." Jon's blade flickered out in a complex pattern that ended with the point at Theon's throat. "Yield?"
Theon stepped back with obvious frustration, lowering his sword. "How do you do that? You're four years younger than me!"
"Natural talent," Jon replied with mock modesty, offering an elaborate bow to the small crowd that had gathered to watch. "Plus, I actually pay attention during lessons instead of staring at the serving girls."
"I do not stare at serving girls," Theon protested, then paused. "Well, not during sword practice."
"Just during meals, meetings, walks through the castle, trips to the godswood..." Robb listed helpfully from the edge of the yard.
"A man can appreciate beauty," Theon said defensively. "It's not a crime."
"It is when Ser Rodrik is trying to teach you the finer points of swordplay," Jon pointed out. "Speaking of which—Robb! Your turn. Let's see if you can manage better than our Iron Island friend here."
"Oh, I'll manage," Robb said confidently, stepping into the ring. "Unlike Theon, I actually know which end of the sword to hold."
"Fuck you both," Theon muttered, moving to join the spectators.
They came together in a familiar dance, and Jon had to admit that Robb had improved considerably. His brother fought with intelligence now rather than just enthusiasm, using his size and strength to good advantage. But intelligence could only compensate for so much when facing someone who seemed to see attacks before they were launched.
"You know what your problem is?" Jon said as he sidestepped a thrust that would have scored on anyone else. "You telegraph your intentions. Your left shoulder drops slightly before you commit to an attack."
"Helpful advice," Robb grunted, trying a different approach. "I'll be sure to remember that while you're defeating me."
"Always happy to educate my elders," Jon replied, then immediately proved his point by exploiting the exact tell he'd just described. His blade found its way past Robb's guard to tap him lightly on the ribs.
"Show off," Robb said with a grin, stepping back and raising his sword in salute. "Though I have to admit, that was rather impressive."
From the watching crowd came a soft sound of appreciation, and Jon looked up to see Lady Wylla Manderly, who had arrived with her father's delegation three days ago. The same age as him, she was strikingly pretty with green hair and intelligent blue eyes, and Jon found himself standing a little straighter under her admiring gaze.
"Quite the display, Jon Snow," she called out, her voice carrying just enough warmth to make Jon's pulse quicken. "I can see why your reputation has spread even to White Harbor."
Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks but managed what he hoped was a confident smile. "You're too kind, my lady. Though I hope my reputation is based on more than just sword work."
"Oh, it is," she replied, stepping closer. "They say you're as clever with words as you are with a blade. Among other things."
"Other things?" Jon asked, genuinely curious now.
"Oh yes," Lady Wylla said with a smile that made Jon's mouth go slightly dry. "They say you have the most unusual eyes in the North. I must admit, the stories didn't do them justice."
"Careful, Jon," Theon called out with obvious glee. "Much more charm and the lady might actually swoon. Then we'd have to catch her, and I'm still tired from losing from a child."
"I'm sure Lady Wylla is made of sterner stuff than that," Jon replied, keeping his eyes on her. "White Harbor produces hardy folk, I'm told."
"Indeed we do," she agreed. "Hardy enough to appreciate a good warrior when we see one. Tell me, do you dance as well as you fight?"
The question caught Jon off-guard. "I... that is, I've had lessons..."
"Excellent. Then perhaps you'll save me a dance at the feast tonight? I'd hate to visit Winterfell without experiencing all it has to offer."
"The fuck is happening right now?" Theon muttered to Robb. "Is she actually...?"
"Shut up," Robb hissed back, clearly enjoying Jon's discomfort.
"I'd be honored, my lady," Jon managed, finding his voice again. "Though I should warn you, my dancing may not be as impressive as my swordplay."
"I'll be the judge of that," Lady Wylla said with a wink that made Jon's heart skip. "Until tonight then, Jon Snow."
She glided away with several other young ladies, leaving Jon standing in the middle of the training yard feeling like he'd just fought ten men instead of two.
"Well," Theon said after a moment of silence. "That was fucking educational."
"Jon's got an admirer," Robb sing-songed, dodging the swing Jon aimed at him. "A pretty one too."
"She was just being polite," Jon protested, though even he didn't believe it.
"Polite?" Theon laughed. "She practically offered to have your babies right here in the yard."
"She did not—"
"Lads," Ser Rodrik interrupted, approaching with his usual gruff demeanor. "If you're quite finished gossiping like fishwives, perhaps we could return to training? Jon, that disarm you used on Theon—show me again, but slower."
Grateful for the distraction, Jon moved to demonstrate the technique. But he couldn't quite shake the memory of Lady Wylla's smile, or the way she'd said his name like it was something worth savoring.
A dance, he thought as he moved through the familiar motions. I agreed to dance with her. In public. What was I thinking?
"You're distracted," Ser Rodrik observed. "Mind on your movements, boy."
"Yes, Ser," Jon replied, forcing himself to focus.
But as he continued the lesson, he caught sight of his father watching from an upper window. Lord Stark's expression was unreadable, but Jon could guess what he was thinking. Bastards who drew too much attention—whether from mysterious abilities or pretty ladies—often found that attention came with a price.
Still, as Jon thought about tonight's feast and the promise of a dance with Lady Wylla, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.
Some risks were worth taking.
Jon Snow (12)
The autumn feast in Winterfell's great hall was in full swing when Jon first noticed that Lady Alys Karstark was staring at him. At eleven, the daughter of Karhold's Lord Rickard was a year younger than Jon but she was already showing signs of her beauty. Her long brown hair, and her dark grey eyes had been following his every movement since the evening began, making Jon feel distinctly uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
"She's been watching you for an hour," Robb murmured from beside him, barely containing his laughter. "I think she is in love with you dear brother."
Jon nearly choked on his wine. "Don't be ridiculous. She's just... curious about Winterfell. New place, new people."
"Right," Robb said with obvious disbelief. "That's why she keeps finding excuses to walk past our table. Pure curiosity."
As if summoned by their conversation, Lady Alys chose that moment to approach their end of the high table. She had woven small silver ribbons into her brown hair for the feast, and her dress was a deep green that made her grey eyes look almost silver. Jon found himself noticing these details with an attention that surprised him.
"Jon Snow," she said, offering a curtsy that was perfectly proper but somehow managed to seem playful at the same time. "I was wondering if you might settle a debate for me? My septa insists that bastards aren't taught to read properly, but I told her she was clearly wrong. You do read, don't you?"
The question was delivered with such innocent directness, but Jon caught the underlying challenge in her grey eyes. She wasn't just asking about his literacy; she was testing whether he'd rise to defend himself or shrink away from the implicit insult.
"I do read, my lady," Jon replied, his confidence returning as he recognized the game. "In fact, I've been told I read rather well for someone of my... circumstances. Perhaps your septa would benefit from expanding her own reading? I could recommend some excellent texts on the education of noble children, regardless of birth."
Alys's eyes sparkled with delight at his response. "How generous of you to offer educational assistance to my poor, ignorant septa. Though I suspect she might be too proud to accept wisdom from someone so young."
"Age and wisdom don't always correspond," Jon said, warming to the verbal sparring. "Some people learn quickly, while others seem determined to remain ignorant despite years of opportunity."
"How fascinating," Alys continued, stepping slightly closer. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to demonstrate this remarkable literacy? Perhaps you could read to me from one of those educational texts you mentioned? I find myself suddenly very interested in... learning."
The way she said 'learning' made it sound like the most fascinating subject in the known world. Jon found himself nodding before his brain caught up with his mouth.
"Of course, my lady. I'd be happy to... share my knowledge."
"Wonderful!" She beamed at him with such genuine delight that Jon felt something flutter in his chest. "I'll find you in the library after breakfast then. I'm very eager to see what you can teach me."
She glided away with obvious satisfaction, leaving Jon staring after her with what he was fairly certain was a stupid expression on his face.
"Share your knowledge?" Robb whispered, and this time he didn't bother hiding his amusement. "Really, Jon? That's the best you could do?"
"She was challenging me," Jon muttered, taking a rather large gulp of wine. "I had to respond appropriately."
"Oh, you responded appropriately all right. The question is whether you realized you were flirting."
Jon glanced around the hall and realized with growing mortification that their exchange hadn't gone unnoticed. Several of the other young ladies were whispering behind their hands, shooting glances in his direction. Even more disturbing, he could see Catelyn watching from across the table with an expression that suggested she'd swallowed something particularly unpleasant.
"I wasn't flirting," Jon said quietly. "We were having an intellectual discussion."
"Jon," Robb said patiently, "I've seen intellectual discussions. That wasn't an intellectual discussion. That was a very clever girl making it clear she finds you interesting, bastard or not."
The words hit Jon like a revelation. He'd always assumed that his birth would make him invisible to highborn girls, that they would see his surname and dismiss him entirely. The possibility that someone like Lady Alys might actually find him worth noticing was both thrilling and terrifying.
"What am I supposed to do about it?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"Well, you could start by not looking like you've been hit with a warhammer," Robb suggested. "And maybe remember that she's clearly as sharp as you are. Don't underestimate her just because she's pretty."
"I noticed she was clever," Jon protested.
"You noticed she smelled like winter roses," Robb corrected with a knowing grin. "I saw your face when she stepped closer."
"I did not—" Jon began, then stopped. He had noticed. When had he started noticing things like how girls smelled? "This is your fault somehow."
"My fault?" Robb laughed outright. "How is Lady Alys flirting with you my fault?"
"You're the heir. You're supposed to draw this kind of attention, not me."
"Ah, but I'm boring," Robb said cheerfully. "You're the mysterious bastard with the violet eyes and the supernatural sword skills. Face it, brother—you're interesting."
Jon was about to protest when he caught sight of Lady Alys laughing with her companions, her grey eyes bright with intelligence and mischief. She glanced over at him and offered a small, private smile that made Jon's heart skip in a way that had nothing to do with sword fighting or scholarly debate.
"Oh gods," Robb said with obvious delight. "You like her. You actually like her."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Jon replied, but even he could hear how unconvincing he sounded.
"This is going to be entertaining," Robb declared, settling back in his chair with the air of someone preparing to enjoy a particularly good show. "My brother, the great warrior and scholar, undone by a girl who's probably just as clever as he is."
Jon groaned and reached for his wine cup again. Apparently, some battles couldn't be won with sword or wit.
Some could only be survived with dignity intact.
Jon and Alys
Jon found himself lingering near the library entrance, ostensibly checking the security of the yard but actually watching for a flash of brown hair and grey eyes. He'd been awake since dawn, alternating between excitement and nervousness about his promised meeting with Lady Alys Karstark.
Stop being an idiot, he told himself, adjusting his sword belt for the third time. It's just a conversation about books. Nothing more.
When she finally appeared, walking with that particular grace that made Sansa's attempts at elegance look like a newborn foal's first steps, Jon felt his heart skip in that now-familiar way. She wore a deep blue dress that brought out the silver in her grey eyes, and her long brown hair was braided with small white ribbons that caught the morning light.
"Good morning, Jon Snow," she said with a smile that was equal parts innocent and mischievous. "I trust you slept well? You look rather... alert for someone who spent the evening drinking wine and making clever conversation."
"I slept perfectly, thank you, my lady," Jon replied, falling into step beside her as they approached the library. "Though I confess I spent some time thinking about our discussion of educational texts."
"How studious of you," Alys said with obvious amusement. "And did your midnight contemplations yield any particular insights?"
"Several, actually," Jon said, then paused as a sudden thought struck him. The library was fine, but it was also predictable. And Lady Alys Karstark, he was beginning to understand, was anything but predictable.
"Actually," he said, changing direction slightly, "I was wondering if you might prefer a different sort of education this morning. You mentioned being curious about Winterfell. Would you like me to show you the castle? The real Winterfell, not just the parts they show to visiting lords?"
Alys's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "You mean the secret places? The hidden passages and forgotten corners that every old castle must have?"
"Exactly those," Jon confirmed, pleased by her immediate understanding. "Though I should warn you, some of them require a certain... flexibility in one's definition of proper ladylike behavior."
"How scandalous," Alys said with a grin that suggested she found the prospect delightful rather than concerning. "Are you suggesting I might have to climb stairs without holding my skirts just so? My septa would faint."
"Your septa sounds like she faints rather easily," Jon observed. "Perhaps she needs more fresh air."
"Or perhaps she needs fewer shocking young bastards corrupting her innocent charges," Alys countered smoothly.
"Corrupting? My lady, I'm offended. I'm merely offering an educational tour."
"Of course you are. And I'm merely an innocent maiden with no interest in adventure whatsoever."
Their first stop was the broken tower, its entrance hidden behind a growth of ivy that most people never bothered to look past.
"No one comes here anymore," Jon explained as they slipped through the narrow opening. "They say it's haunted, but really it's just old and a bit unstable in places."
"Unstable?" Alys asked, but she was already following him inside. "How reassuring."
"Only the very top is truly dangerous," Jon assured her. "The lower levels are solid enough. Watch your step here - the third stair is loose."
They climbed in companionable silence for a moment before Alys spoke again. "You know all the broken stairs by heart?"
"I've been exploring these places since I was old enough to slip away," Jon admitted. "Well, not my septa. The septa. Lady Stark made it clear I wasn't to have the same tutors as her children."
He hadn't meant to say that last part.
"That must have been lonely," she said quietly, and Jon was grateful she didn't offer false sympathy or awkward platitudes.
"Sometimes," he agreed. "But it also meant I had more freedom to explore. To learn things that weren't in the approved curriculum."
They reached a landing where a window offered a spectacular view of the godswood. Alys moved to look out, and Jon found himself studying her look in the morning light.
"It's beautiful," she breathed. "You can see the whole heart tree from here."
"It's my favorite view in the castle," Jon admitted. "Well, one of them. Come on, I'll show you the best one."
The climb to the top of the First Keep required navigating a narrow spiral staircase that had seen better centuries. Jon offered his hand to help her over a broken step, trying not to notice how perfectly her fingers fit in his or how she didn't immediately pull away once the obstacle was passed.
"You're not even breathing hard," Alys observed as they neared the top. "All that sword practice must be good for something besides impressing visiting ladies."
"I don't practice to impress anyone," Jon said, then grinned. "The impressing is just a fortunate side effect."
"How modest," she laughed. "And here I thought bastards were supposed to be humble and self-effacing."
"You've been reading the wrong books about bastards," Jon informed her. "The interesting ones are anything but humble."
They emerged onto the battlements, and Alys's delighted gasp made the climb worth every step.
"Oh," she said softly, moving to the edge to look out over Winterfell and the lands beyond. "Oh, this is magnificent."
"The view from here," Jon said, joining her at the parapet, "shows you everything that makes Winterfell strong. See how the walls are positioned to funnel attackers into killing fields? And there, the way the godswood provides both spiritual comfort and strategic timber reserves?"
Alys turned to study him with those clever grey eyes. "You really love this place, don't you? Not just as a home, but as a... a living thing."
"It's in my blood," Jon said simply. "Bastard or not, I'm a Stark of Winterfell. This castle has stood for thousands of years. It's seen kings and heroes, monsters and miracles. Sometimes I think if you listen carefully enough, you can hear their stories in the stones."
"And what story will the stones tell about you, Jon Snow?" Alys asked softly.
Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks. "Probably about a boy who spent too much time climbing where he shouldn't and reading books he wasn't supposed to."
"I think they'll tell a better story than that," Alys said with quiet certainty. "I think they'll tell of a young man who refused to let circumstances define him. Who made his own path despite what the world expected."
"You barely know me," Jon pointed out, though her words made something warm bloom in his chest.
"I'm an excellent judge of character," Alys informed him. "It comes from having six brothers. You learn to spot the difference between bluster and real strength fairly quickly."
"Six brothers?" Jon asked, grateful for the change of subject. "Gods, and I thought dealing with Robb and Bran was challenging."
"Oh, they're not so bad," Alys said with a fond smile. "Except for Arthor. He once put a live fish in my bed because I beat him at cyvasse."
"What did you do?"
"Put two fish in his bed, naturally. And a frog in his boot for good measure."
Jon laughed, delighted by the image. "Remind me never to cross you, my lady."
"Oh, I think you're clever enough to stay on my good side," Alys said with a smile that made Jon's pulse quicken. "Speaking of which, where's our next stop on this educational tour?"
They spent the rest of the morning exploring hidden passages and forgotten chambers. Jon showed her the old armory where ancient weapons still hung on the walls, the secret route from the Great Keep to the Godswood that bypassed the main courtyard, and the dusty room full of old maps and architectural drawings that he'd discovered years ago.
"This is incredible," Alys said, carefully examining a detailed drawing of Winterfell's original construction. "You can see how they expanded over the centuries. Each generation adding their own touches."
"Like a tree growing new rings," Jon agreed. "My favorite is this one - see the proposed tower that was never built? They wanted to add a seventh tower, taller than all the others, but something stopped them."
"The White Walkers attacked, perhaps?" Alys suggested with a grin. "Or maybe they simply ran out of money. Grand ambitions often founder on practical shores."
"Spoken like someone who's actually studied history instead of just memorizing names and dates," Jon observed.
"My maester despairs of me," Alys confided. "I keep asking 'why' when I'm supposed to simply accept 'what.' Very unladylike, apparently."
"The best people usually are," Jon said without thinking, then felt his cheeks burn as he realized what he'd said.
But Alys just smiled, that warm, knowing smile that made Jon feel like he was standing too close to a fire. "Careful, Jon Snow. Keep saying things like that and I might start to think you actually like me."
"Would that be such a terrible thing?" Jon asked, finding courage from somewhere deep inside.
"Terrible?" Alys pretended to consider. "No. Inconvenient for your reputation as a serious and studious bastard? Most definitely."
"I think my reputation can survive," Jon said. "It's survived Theon's attempts at corruption, after all."
"Ah, but I'm far more dangerous than Theon Greyjoy," Alys warned with mock seriousness. "He merely wants to drag you to taverns and introduce you to inappropriate women. I might actually make you enjoy yourself."
"Gods forbid," Jon said dryly. "What would Lady Stark say?".
"Lady Stark strikes me as someone who would disapprove of joy on principle," she observed. "Best not to worry too much about her opinions."
As they finally made their way back toward the main keep, both slightly dusty from their adventures but glowing with the pleasure of good company, Alys turned to him with an expression that was both grateful and expectant.
"Thank you for the tour, Jon Snow. It was far more educational than any septa's lesson. Though I confess, I'm hoping you might continue my education tonight."
"Tonight?" Jon asked.
"The feast will have dancing," Alys said, her grey eyes sparkling with mischief. "And I find myself curious about whether your coordination with a sword translates to coordination on a dance floor. Care to satisfy a lady's curiosity?"
Jon felt that now-familiar flutter in his chest, but this time it was accompanied by a surge of confidence. "My lady, I would be honored to dance with you. In fact, I insist on claiming the first dance, if you'll have me."
"Insist?" Alys raised an eyebrow. "How commanding. I rather like this side of you, Jon Snow."
"I have many sides, my lady," Jon said, surprising himself with his boldness. "Most of them well-hidden from proper ladies and their fainting septas."
"How fortunate then," Alys replied with a smile that made Jon's knees feel distinctly unstable, "that I am neither proper nor prone to fainting. Until tonight then, Jon Snow. Try not to spend the entire day practicing your dance steps in secret."
"I would never," Jon protested.
"Liar," she said cheerfully. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
As she walked away, her laughter trailing behind her like music, Jon found himself grinning like a fool and not caring who might see it. Tonight couldn't come soon enough.
Jon was still thinking about Lady Alys's smile when he entered the solar to find Catelyn directing the servants in rearranging the evening's seating arrangements. The parchment spread before her showed the great hall's layout, with careful notations indicating where each guest would be placed according to their rank and importance.
"My lady," Jon said politely, though his good mood dimmed at the sight of her. He glanced at the seating chart with interest, then frowned. "I notice you've placed Lord Karstark quite far from the high table. Wouldn't it be more appropriate to seat him closer, given his house's long service to Winterfell?"
Catelyn's quill stopped moving across the parchment. She looked up at him with that familiar expression of cold assessment, as if measuring exactly how much of a nuisance he planned to be today.
"The seating arrangements have been carefully considered," she said coolly. "Lord Karstark's placement reflects his current standing and the needs of tonight's feast."
Jon frowned, studying the chart more carefully. Something about the arrangement bothered him - not just Karstark's placement, but a pattern he was beginning to recognize.
"But surely showing courtesy to our bannermen is more important than rigid protocol? Lord Karstark has been loyal to House Stark for generations. Placing him so far from Father seems almost..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "designed to send a message."
"Perhaps," Catelyn said, her voice growing colder with each word, "you might consider that there are aspects of household management that escape your understanding. Being able to swing a sword and charm visiting ladies doesn't qualify you to reorganize formal protocol."
The reference to Lady Alys hit its mark, and Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks. So she had noticed their morning together. Of course she had. Catelyn noticed everything that might complicate her perfectly ordered world.
"I wasn't trying to reorganize anything," Jon replied, working to keep his voice level. "I was simply observing that kindness might serve our house better than rigid adherence to rules. Especially when those rules seem designed more to exclude than to honor."
Catelyn stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone floor. "Exclude? How dare you suggest I would deliberately slight a guest in my own home?"
"Your home?" The words escaped before Jon could stop them, carrying years of frustration. "This is Winterfell, my lady. The seat of House Stark. Just because you married into the family doesn't give you the right to treat our bannermen like pieces on a game board, to be moved according to your whims."
The silence that followed was deafening. Catelyn's face went pale, then flushed with anger so intense that Jon almost stepped backward.
"How dare you," she whispered, her voice trembling with fury. "You forget yourself, bastard. You are here on sufferance - my sufferance. You exist in this house by my husband's grace and my tolerance alone."
"Your tolerance?" Jon laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. "When have you ever tolerated me, my lady? When have you done anything but wish me gone? Every feast, every gathering, every family moment - you look at me like I'm a stain on your perfect tapestry."
"You are a stain!" Catelyn burst out, her careful control finally shattering. "A living reminder of my husband's dishonor, paraded before me daily! And now you dare to question my authority? To lecture me about my duties to this house?"
Something cold and hard settled in Jon's chest. The boy who had once tried to make himself invisible, who had apologized for existing, was gone entirely.
"Being a bastard doesn't make me stupid," Jon said quietly, his violet eyes meeting hers without flinching. "And it doesn't make me blind. I see what you're doing with these arrangements. Pushing aside those you see as threats, elevating those who flatter you. Playing politics with our bannermen's loyalty."
"You know nothing of politics, boy," Catelyn spat. "Nothing of what it takes to run a great house."
"I know that respect is earned, not demanded," Jon shot back. "I know that the servants whisper about your 'southern ways' and how different things were under my father's mother. I know that you've spent years trying to make Winterfell into Riverrun instead of understanding what Winterfell actually is."
"Your father's mother is dead," Catelyn said icily. "As is the past. I am Lady of Winterfell now."
"Lady of Winterfell," Jon repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "Yet you understand nothing of the North. You see our customs as barbaric, our honor as stubbornness, our loyalty as something to be managed rather than treasured. You sit in that seat and think it makes you one of us, but you'll always be a southern lady playing at being a wolf."
"Better a southern lady than a bastard boy playing at being trueborn," Catelyn hissed. "At least I know my place."
"Your place?" Jon's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Your place is what my father gave you, nothing more. And perhaps it's time he knew exactly how his lady wife conducts herself in his absence. How she treats his bannermen. How she treats his blood."
"His blood?" Catelyn's voice rose to nearly a shriek. "You dare call yourself his blood? You're nothing but his shame! His mistake! A bastard who should have been left to die in whatever whorehouse spawned you!"
"What in seven hells is going on here?"
Both Jon and Catelyn turned to find Ned standing in the doorway, his grey eyes taking in the scene with growing alarm. His gaze moved from his wife's flushed face to Jon's rigid posture, and Jon could see him putting together the pieces of their confrontation.
"Your son," Catelyn said, her voice shaking with rage, "seems to think he has the right to question my household arrangements. He believes his bastard birth grants him authority over the Lady of Winterfell."
Ned's eyes shifted to Jon, and for a moment Jon thought he might back down, might apologize and retreat into the careful deference that had kept an uneasy peace for so many years. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and met his father's gaze directly.
"I suggested that courtesy to our bannermen might be more important than strict protocol," Jon said calmly. "Lady Stark disagreed. Rather forcefully."
"He called me a southern lady playing at being a wolf," Catelyn interjected. "He said I understand nothing of the North."
"Because you don't," Jon said before he could stop himself. "You've been here for years and you still treat it like a foreign land you've been exiled to."
"Jon," Ned said warningly.
"No, Father," Jon interrupted, surprising everyone including himself. "I've held my tongue for years. Watched her treat me like a disease to be endured. But when she starts playing games with our bannermen's honors, with the loyalty that holds the North together - that affects more than just me."
"Jon," Ned said again, his voice heavy with authority. "We will discuss this later. For now, go find your brother."
"But Father-"
"Jon." Lord Stark's tone brooked no argument, the voice of the Lord of Winterfell rather than the father. "We will talk later. Go."
Jon felt burning behind his eyes. He looked at his father, seeing the weariness there. Then he looked at Lady Catelyn, whose face was a mask of cold triumph.
She wins again, he thought bitterly. She always wins.
Without another word, Jon turned and strode from the room, his boots echoing on the stone floor. Behind him, he could hear Catelyn's voice, shrill with continued anger, and his father's deeper tones trying to calm her.
Daenerys Targaryen
The inn in Lys was little better than a hovel, its walls stained with salt and years of neglect, but it was all they could afford with their dwindling coins. Daenerys sat on the edge of the narrow bed, watching her brother pace the small chamber like a caged dragon. The floorboards creaked under his restless movement, and she could see the fever-bright intensity in his violet eyes that meant trouble was coming.
He's going to wake the dragon soon, Dany thought with familiar dread. When Viserys grew angry like this, his voice would rise and his hands would shake, and sometimes he would grab her arms hard enough to leave marks that she'd have to hide beneath long sleeves. She pulled her knees to her chest, making herself smaller, less noticeable.
"The magisters grow tired of us," Viserys said, his voice taking on that high, petulant quality that made Dany's stomach clench. "They speak of the Targaryen cause as if it were some mummer's farce, not the rightful restoration of the Iron Throne. That fat fool Tregar barely bothered to hide his laughter when I spoke of our return."
Dany said nothing. At twelve, she had learned that silence was often safer than speech when her brother was in one of his moods. She thought of Ser Willem Darry, who had cared for them until his death three years past. He had known how to calm Viserys, had known the right words to say to remind him of his dignity without wounding his pride. But Ser Willem was gone, buried in the rich soils of the last city they had been, and now there was only her.
"We are the blood of the dragon," Viserys continued, his pacing growing more agitated. "The last of Old Valyria, the rightful heirs to Westeros. And yet we beg for scraps like common beggars. Do you know what that merchant said to me today? Do you know what that lowborn filth dared to say?"
"No, brother," Dany whispered, knowing he expected an answer.
"He said the dragon kings were done. Said a new stag sits the throne and the realm has forgotten us." Viserys whirled to face her, and she could see spittle at the corner of his mouth. "Forgotten! As if three hundred years of Targaryen rule could be forgotten like a summer storm!"
Westeros. The word filled Dany's mind with half-remembered stories and fragments of Viserys's increasingly feverish tales. She had never seen this kingdom they were supposed to rule, had been born on Dragonstone as their mother died, fleeing in the night as a baby. All she knew came from her brother's memories of a seven-year-old boy: great castles made of stone, knights in shining armor, dragons that had once ruled the skies. Sometimes, in her most private thoughts, she wondered if it was all just another story, like the ones in the books Ser Willem had read to her.
"Perhaps," she ventured carefully, "we could find work here for a while? Save more coin before we approach the magisters again?"
Viserys's hand moved so fast she barely saw it, striking her across the face with enough force to knock her sideways on the bed. "Work? A dragon does not work! A dragon does not serve!" His face was purple with rage. "You would have us be common laborers? You would have the blood of Aegon the Conqueror wash dishes and mend sails?"
Dany touched her cheek, feeling the heat there. It would bruise, she knew. Another mark to hide, another reminder of her place. "I'm sorry, brother. I didn't mean-"
A soft knock at the door interrupted her apology. Viserys froze, his entire body going rigid with paranoia. His hand moved to the cheap sword at his hip - a replacement for the fine blade they'd been forced to sell months ago.
"Who comes?" he called out, trying to inject authority into his voice.
"A friend to House Targaryen, Your Grace," came the reply - a man's voice, deep and measured.
Viserys's eyes narrowed. They had no friends, not anymore. But the formal address, the use of his title... "Enter."
The man who stepped through the doorway was tall and lean, with dark hair that showed threads of silver at the temples. He moved with the controlled grace of a warrior. But it was his eyes that made Dany's breath catch - violet eyes, the color of amethysts, the same shade as her own and Viserys's.
He has dragon eyes, she thought with wonder that cut through her fear. But that's impossible. We're the last.
"Your Grace," the stranger said, offering a bow that held no mockery. "Princess Daenerys."
The formal address made Viserys straighten, his posture shifting from defensive wariness to regal hauteur in an instant. Dany felt a flutter of hope. When people called him "Your Grace" instead of "boy" or "beggar prince," Viserys was less likely to wake the dragon.
"You know us, ser," Viserys said, trying for imperious but achieving only suspicious. "Though I confess I do not recall making your acquaintance. State your business quickly - we have little time for games."
"We have never met properly, Your Grace, though I have watched from afar." The man's voice carried the faint accent of Dorne that Dany recognized from some of their previous protectors. "I come with an offer that may be of interest to the rightful heirs of House Targaryen."
Viserys's eyes narrowed further. They had heard such offers before - promises of aid that turned to dust or demands for things they could not give. Once, a magister had offered gold in exchange for Dany's maidenhead. Viserys had raged for days after, torn between need and the last shreds of family honor. In the end, he had refused.
"Speak plainly, ser. What is it you want? If you seek to buy the last daughter of Valyria, you waste your time. She is not for sale."
"I want nothing from you, Your Grace. Rather, I offer something to you." The stranger's gaze moved to Dany, and she saw something unexpected in those violet eyes - genuine kindness, perhaps even regret. "A home. Safety. Resources to pursue your rightful claim when the time is ripe. A place where the princess might grow to womanhood without fear or want."
A home. The word burned in Dany's chest like dragonfire. She and Viserys had been running for so long, moving from city to city, protector to protector, never staying anywhere long enough to feel safe. But one place had been safe for them. A place she had called home for a very long time. She remembered their house in Braavos with the red door and the lemon tree outside - the last place that had felt like home. They had spent seven years there under Ser Willem's protection, and she had been happy. But one night Viserys had shaken her awake, hissing that the Usurper's knives had found them, and they'd fled in darkness. She had cried and begged to return, but they never did.
"And what would you ask in return for such generosity?" Viserys demanded, though Dany could hear the desperate hunger beneath his suspicion. "Men do not offer charity to dragons without expecting payment."
"Loyalty, when the time comes. Patience, until that time arrives. And trust, which I know is precious coin among exiles."
"You speak fair words, ser, but I would know who makes such promises." Viserys stepped closer, and Dany saw his knuckles whiten on his sword hilt. "What is your name? What house do you serve?"
The man smiled then, a sad expression that made him look younger. He reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing a handsome face with sharp features and those impossible violet eyes.
"I am Arthur Dayne," he said simply. "Once called the Sword of the Morning. And I have come to serve you, and one day, bring you home where you belong."
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