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Jon Snow
Jon found himself cataloguing every shadow that fell across his family's faces. Each laugh from Arya felt precious as coin, each of Sansa's gentle smiles a treasure he might lose before the day ended. The Red Keep had a way of making everything feel temporary, as if the stones themselves whispered of how quickly fortunes could change.
"Again!" Arya demanded, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a sparrow ready to take flight. Sweat beaded her forehead despite the early hour, her practice sword held with the fierce determination that had always burned in her like wildfire. "Show me that move again, Jon. The one where you step sideways and then—"
"Patience, little sister." Jon adjusted her grip on the wooden blade, his fingers steady despite the restless energy that thrummed through his veins like a bowstring pulled taut. "Water dancing isn't about rushing. It's about flowing. Think of a stream finding its way around rocks."
"Streams are boring," Arya muttered, though she reset her stance as he'd taught her. "I want to be fast like lightning."
Jon's lips curved into a smile that felt both genuine and forced. His sister's spirit blazed brighter than any torch in King's Landing, and the thought of it being snuffed out made his chest tighten like a fist around his heart. "Speed without control is just flailing, Arya. Watch."
He moved through the form slowly, his body flowing from one position to the next. "See how I plant my feet? How my weight shifts? Speed comes from efficiency, not desperation."
"Quick as a snake."
"Exactly." Jon's voice carried warmth he didn't entirely feel. The memory of Cersei's threats hung over him like storm clouds threatening rain. "Now, if you want to be faster, you need to build the muscles that matter. Not just your arms and legs, but the small ones. The ones that keep you balanced."
Arya's grey eyes lit up with curiosity. "What do you mean?"
Jon glanced around their quarters, spotting a thick leather-bound tome Lord Stark had left on a side table. "Stand on one foot."
"That's easy." Arya lifted her left foot without hesitation.
"Now close your eyes and hold this book above your head."
Arya accepted the book, her expression skeptical. The moment she closed her eyes and raised the tome overhead, she began to wobble like a newborn colt on ice.
"Seven hells!" she gasped, her arms windmilling as she fought to maintain balance.
"Language," Sansa chided gently from her seat by the window, where she'd been working on her embroidery with the patience of a septa. Her copper hair caught the morning light like burnished metal, and Jon felt that familiar pang of protectiveness. Sansa seemed so fragile here, like a flower trying to bloom in soil poisoned with ambition and lies.
"Do this every morning," Jon told Arya, focusing back to her, steadying her with a light touch on her shoulder. "Start with counting to ten, then twenty, then more. It will train the small muscles in your feet and legs. When you move, you'll be steadier, and steadier means faster."
Arya opened her eyes, excitement dancing across her features. "Really? That will make me quicker?"
"Trust me. Practice this every day, and in a moon's turn, you'll see the difference."
"Will you teach me more moves when you win the tournament?" Arya's question hit him like a punch to the gut.
Jon's throat constricted. "We'll see what happens."
"You sound like you don't think you'll win." Sansa's voice carried a note of concern that made Jon look up sharply. Her blue eyes, so like their mother's, reminded him she was growing into a woman who saw more than she let on, a beautiful woman. "Are you worried about something?"
"Every fighter should be worried before a tournament," Jon said carefully, settling into the chair across from Sansa. Her embroidery depicted a winter rose, its petals rendered in delicate stitches that spoke of hours of patient work. "Overconfidence gets men killed."
"But you've beaten knights before," Arya protested, abandoning her balance exercise to flop down beside him. "You fought Ser Jaime to a draw!"
"Fighting one man is different from fighting many," Jon explained, though his thoughts kept drifting to golden hair and emerald eyes that promised retribution. "In a melee, anything can happen. Alliances form and break. Honor becomes secondary to survival."
Sansa's needle paused in its work. "You make it sound dangerous."
"It is dangerous." The words came out sharper than he intended, and Jon saw both sisters react to his tone. He forced his voice to soften. "But no more dangerous than life itself, sweet sister. And I'll be careful."
"You promise?"
"I promise." The lie sat bitter on his tongue. How could he promise anything in a place where queens made threats in shadowed corridors and kings cared more for wine than justice?
Later
The training yard stretched before Jon like a stage where knights performed their deadly ballet, and he found himself grateful for the familiar weight of steel in his hand. After the suffocating concern in his family's quarters, the promise of honest combat felt like diving into cool water on a sweltering day. Here, at least, threats came openly with the ring of metal on metal rather than whispered in shadowed corridors.
Ser Loras Tyrell moved through his stretches like a dancer preparing for a performance. The Knight of Flowers wore his beauty like armor, Jon had noticed, but there was real steel beneath the polish. The kind of steel Jon could respect.
"You look like a man preparing for his own funeral," Loras observed, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief as he selected a practice sword from the rack. "Surely the great Jon Snow hasn't developed second thoughts about tomorrow's festivities?"
Jon couldn't help but smile at the gentle mockery. Loras had a way of turning even barbed comments into something that felt like camaraderie rather than insult. "Just thinking about strategy. Unlike some knights I could mention, I can't rely on throwing flower petals to distract my opponents."
"Flower petals?" Loras gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest as if Jon had struck him. "My dear northern friend, you wound me! I'll have you know those rose petals are carefully selected for maximum aerodynamic efficiency."
"Aerodynamic efficiency," Jon repeated, testing his blade's balance with a few experimental swings. "Is that what they're calling it in the Reach these days?"
"Among other things." Loras's grin was pure mischief. "Though I suppose in the North, you're more accustomed to throwing snowballs at your enemies. Tell me, do you select those for maximum aerodynamic efficiency as well?"
"Only the finest snow, ser. We Northerners have standards."
"Standards," Loras mused, settling into his fighting stance. "How refreshingly civilized. Shall we see if your swordwork maintains those same lofty standards?"
Jon circled him slowly, noting how Loras held his blade with the casual expertise of someone who had never doubted his own skill. There was something almost feline about the way the Tyrell knight moved, all controlled power wrapped in silk and roses. "Careful what you wish for, Ser Loras. I'd hate to muss that perfectly arranged hair."
"This hair," Loras said with exaggerated dignity, "represents hours of careful cultivation. My squire would weep if anything happened to it."
Their first exchange was a testing of waters, blades meeting in a gentle clash that spoke more of courtesy than combat. Jon felt the strength in Loras's arm, the precision of his technique, and revised his assessment upward.
"Not bad," Loras commented as they reset, circling each other like wolves establishing dominance. "Though I detect a certain northern... directness... in your approach."
"We prefer to call it honesty," Jon replied, launching a series of quick attacks that Loras deflected with apparent ease. "Southern knights seem to prefer embellishment."
"Embellishment!" Loras laughed, his blade work becoming more aggressive as he warmed to the contest. "I notice you're considerably more charming than the stories suggest northern bastards ought to be."
"What stories?"
"Oh, the usual tales. Grim, brooding, prone to staring meaningfully into fires while contemplating the weight of existence." Loras's eyes danced with amusement as they paused their bout. "You know, proper bastard behavior. Very disappointing, really. Here I was expecting dramatic sighs and tortured glances, and instead I get wit and actual conversation."
"I save the tortured glances for special occasions," Jon replied dryly. "Wouldn't want to waste them on mere practice."
"Mere practice?" Loras placed a hand over his heart again. "You cut me deeply, Jon Snow. This is art we're creating here. Poetry in motion. Steel singing to steel in the ancient language of—"
"Now who's being dramatic?" Jon interrupted, grinning despite himself.
"Touché." Loras raised his sword in a mock salute. "Though I maintain that everything is improved by a proper sense of theater. Take tournaments, for instance. In Oldtown, they string lights between the towers so the whole harbor glows like a city made of stars."
"Sounds beautiful."
"It is." Loras said with fondness. "Though nothing compared to the tournaments at Highgarden. Rose gardens stretching to the horizon. Ladies shower the winners with petals that smell like summer itself."
"And the fighting?" Jon asked. "Is it as beautiful as the setting?"
"Better. Southern knights learn to fight like we learn to court. With style, with passion, and with the absolute certainty that we're performing for an audience that appreciates excellence." He gestured around the Red Keep's utilitarian training yard. "This place has all the romance of a butcher's block."
"It serves its purpose."
"Efficiently, I'm sure. But where's the inspiration? Where's the beauty that makes men want to be better than they are?" Loras shook his head sadly. "No wonder northern knights have such fearsome reputations. You're all so busy being practical that you forget fighting can be glorious."
"Glory doesn't stop steel from finding flesh," Jon pointed out.
"No, but it makes the steel sing sweeter songs when it does." Loras resumed his stance, this time with a more serious expression. "Tell me, Jon Snow, have you ever fought in a tournament where ladies threw flowers at your feet? Where minstrels composed verses about your victories before the blood had even dried on your blade?"
"Can't say that I have." Jon matched his stance, sensing that their conversation was shifting toward something more meaningful. "Sounds like it might be distracting."
"Oh, it is." Loras's blade work became more intricate as they resumed their bout. "But it's the kind of distraction that makes you want to be worthy of the attention. Makes you reach for perfection instead of mere competence."
Jon found himself adapting to Loras's moves, his own movements becoming faster. "And what happens when the flowers stop falling? When the songs end?"
"Then you find new audiences to inspire." Loras's reply came between lightning-fast exchanges that left both men breathing hard. "New reasons to excel. New friends who appreciate excellence for its own sake."
"Is that what this is?" Jon asked quietly. "Friendship?"
"I certainly hope so." Loras stepped back, lowering his sword. "Though I'll understand if you find the concept strange. I imagine bastards don't often receive offers of friendship from knights of great houses."
"Not often, no. Most highborn lords prefer to pretend bastards don't exist unless they need someone to blame for something."
"Their loss." Loras's voice carried such simple sincerity that it reminded him of Robb. "You fight like a man born to it, you think faster than most knights I know, and you're considerably better company than half the lordlings who've been fawning over me since I arrived. If they can't see past an accident of birth to recognize quality, then they're fools."
"Quality," Jon repeated.
"Quality," Loras confirmed firmly. "The kind that can't be bought or inherited or faked. The kind that shows in how a man holds his sword, how he treats those beneath his station, how he faces danger." His smile turned teasing again. "Plus, you're nearly as pretty as I am, which makes for pleasant conversation."
Jon nearly choked on his own surprise. "Pretty?"
"Oh yes. Those purple eyes alone could launch a dozen songs. Add in the mysterious brooding thing you do so well, and I'm surprised you don't have half the court's ladies following you around like lovesick puppies." Loras's grin was pure mischief. "Though I suppose being a bastard does complicate romantic entanglements."
"Somewhat," Jon managed, still reeling from the casual compliment.
"Their loss as well." Loras shrugged as if dismissing the entire noble class of King's Landing. "Beauty and skill are wasted on people who lack the wit to appreciate them."
Jaime Lannister
Jaime Lannister moved through the Red Keep's corridors like a golden predator despite the unwelcome company that trailed behind him. Ser Meryn Trant's presence clung to him like the stench of rotting fish, unavoidable and thoroughly unpleasant. The man's breathing alone was enough to set Jaime's teeth on edge, each wheeze and snort a reminder of why he despised being paired with the uglier and dishonorable members of the Kingsguard for routine duties.
"The bastard's been making quite the spectacle of himself," Meryn was saying, his voice carrying the particular brand of stupidity that Jaime had learned to tune out over the years. "Prancing about like he belongs among his betters. Someone ought to remind him of his place."
Jaime's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Meryn Trant possessed all the subtlety of a mace to the skull and twice the appeal. The man collected grievances like other men collected coins, hoarding each perceived slight until it festered into something toxic. "Your fascination with bastards is noted, Ser Meryn. Perhaps you should consider a career change. Dog trainer, perhaps?"
The insult sailed over Meryn's scarred head like an arrow over a mountain. "Just saying the boy needs to learn some humility. Bastards who forget themselves tend to cause problems."
The sound of steel on steel drifted from the training yard ahead, punctuated by laughter. Jaime knew the sound swords made when two competent fighters were fighting. His steps quickened slightly, drawn by the promise of watching competent swordwork instead of listening to Meryn's endless complaints.
They emerged into the yard to find Jon Snow and Ser Loras Tyrell engaged in what looked more like a dance than a fight.
Jaime felt his breath catch for reasons he couldn't quite name. Something about the way Snow held himself, the angle of his head as he pressed an attack, the unconscious elegance of his footwork. For a heartbeat that stretched like an eternity, Jaime saw silver hair instead of dark, violet eyes instead of purple, and the ghost of a prince who had been dead for fifteen years.
Impossible. It's just the light. Just my imagination playing tricks.
But the resemblance lingered like wine on the tongue, refusing to be dismissed. The way Snow moved, the natural authority in his bearing despite his bastard birth, the subtle arrogance that suggested he'd never truly doubted his own worth. Jaime had seen it all before, in tournament lists and practice yards, in a man who had been everything Jaime was supposed to be and more.
"Look at him," Meryn spat, oblivious to Jaime's internal turmoil. "Fighting like he thinks he's some great knight instead of Ned Stark's mistake. Someone ought to teach him proper respect."
The crude words shattered Jaime's momentary fugue like hammer blows against glass. Whatever resemblance he'd imagined, whatever tricks his mind was playing, Jon Snow was still just Ned Stark's bastard. Nothing more, nothing less. Certainly nothing that should concern him beyond idle curiosity.
"By all means," Jaime said dryly, settling against a stone pillar to watch the proceedings. "I'm sure your vast wisdom and legendary skill will prove illuminating."
Meryn's chest puffed with pride at what he clearly took as encouragement. The fool had always been immune to sarcasm, much like he was immune to competence. "Aye, someone needs to remind these young knights of proper order."
Jaime almost pitied him. Almost. Watching Meryn Trant attempt to humble Jon Snow would be like watching a particularly stupid mastiff challenge a direwolf. Entertaining, but only if you enjoyed watching predictable carnage.
The bout between Snow and Loras concluded with mutual expressions of respect, both young men breathing hard but grinning like boys who'd discovered a new game. Their easy camaraderie sparked something ugly in Jaime's chest, though he couldn't say whether it was envy or something more complex. When had he last shared such uncomplicated friendship with anyone?
"Well fought," Loras was saying, his voice carrying across the yard like music. "Though I still maintain you northern knights take yourselves far too seriously."
"Someone has to balance out southern frivolity," Snow replied, his tone light despite the sweat beading his brow. "Can't have the entire realm thinking war is just an excuse for a flower show."
Meryn chose that moment to stride forward like a conquering hero, his scarred face twisted into what he probably thought was an intimidating scowl. "Snow!"
The bastard turned, and Jaime saw the exact moment Jon's expression shifted from relaxed amusement to wary assessment. Those purple eyes, so unsettlingly familiar, catalogued Meryn's approach with the kind of cold intelligence that separated true warriors from mere soldiers.
"Ser Meryn," Jon acknowledged with a neutral voice. "Was there something you needed?"
"What I need," Meryn snarled, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet training yard, "is for bastard pretenders to remember their place. This yard is for knights, not for Stark's mistakes to play at being something they're not."
The insult hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Around the yard, other training sessions slowed and stopped as men turned to watch the confrontation. Jaime felt his lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile. Meryn had just made the kind of mistake that would provide entertainment for weeks.
Loras stepped forward, his pretty face hardening into something that reminded everyone watching that roses had thorns. "I beg your pardon, Ser Meryn, but I fail to see how Jon's presence here concerns you. Unless, of course, you're volunteering to test your steel against his?"
"Stay out of this, flower boy," Meryn snapped, his small eyes fixed on Jon like a man nursing an old grudge. "This is between me and the bastard who thinks he can strut around like he belongs among his betters."
Jon's expression remained perfectly calm, but Jaime caught the subtle shift in his stance, the way his hand moved fractionally closer to his sword. The bastard was preparing for violence with the unconscious ease of someone who'd learned to read danger in cradles and cribs.
"My apologies, Ser Meryn," Jon said, his voice carrying across the yard with deceptive mildness. "I wasn't aware there were specific requirements for using the training yard beyond the ability to hold a sword without cutting oneself. Perhaps you could enlighten me about these... standards?"
Jaime bit back a laugh. Meryn's face darkened with the kind of rage that came from being too stupid to recognize when he was being mocked.
"Standards?" Meryn's voice rose to a near-shout. "I'll show you standards, bastard. I'll show you what happens when gutter-born whelps forget their place."
"Will you?" Jon's eyebrows rose with polite interest. "And how exactly do you propose to do that? With a lecture on proper etiquette, or did you have something more... instructive in mind?"
Meryn's scarred face flushed purple with rage. "You think you're clever, don't you? Think because you got lucky against some hedge knights that you can mouth off to your betters? I'll teach you respect, bastard. Steel to steel, like men."
"Steel to steel," Jon agreed pleasantly. "I accept your challenge, Ser Meryn."
Jaime watched the exchange with a smile. Meryn had walked into this with all the grace of a drunk ox stumbling into a pit, and now he was committed to a course that would end with his humiliation. The beautiful irony of it was almost enough to make Jaime forget his earlier discomfort.
Almost.
Because watching Jon Snow prepare for combat, seeing the way he moved with that unconscious grace and quiet confidence, brought back the ghost that had haunted Jaime's thoughts since the bastard first arrived in King's Landing. The resemblance that shouldn't exist, couldn't exist, but refused to be dismissed.
"This should be entertaining," Loras murmured, settling beside Jaime. "Though I do feel slightly sorry for Ser Meryn. He has no idea what he's just volunteered for."
"None whatsoever," Jaime agreed, his voice carefully neutral despite the turmoil in his thoughts. "The bastard's better than he looks."
Better than he had any right to be, if Jaime was being honest. Jon Snow fought like a man born to it. Give him a few more years of seasoning, and he might become genuinely dangerous. Not that Jaime would ever admit such a thing aloud.
The two combatants faced each other in the center of the yard, the crowd of onlookers forming a rough circle around them. Meryn held his blade like a bludgeon, all brute force and no finesse. Jon's stance was fluid and balanced, ready to move in any direction at a moment's notice.
"Begin when ready," Loras called out, taking on the role of unofficial referee.
Meryn lunged forward with all the subtlety of a charging boar, his sword aimed at Jon's head in a blow that would have split him like kindling if it had connected. But Jon wasn't there anymore, having flowed aside like water around stone. His counter-attack came in the same motion, a precise thrust that stopped just short of Meryn's throat.
"First blood to Snow," Loras announced cheerfully. "Though I think Ser Meryn might want to reconsider his approach."
Meryn's face went from purple to scarlet. "Lucky," he snarled, resetting his stance with the graceless determination of a man too stupid to recognize when he was outclassed.
The second exchange lasted slightly longer, but only because Jon seemed to be playing with his opponent like a cat with a particularly slow mouse. He deflected Meryn's clumsy attacks with minimal effort, occasionally landing light touches that drew small cuts and increasingly wild curses.
By the third exchange, it was clear to everyone watching that this wasn't a contest so much as a public execution, but one where no one would lose their heads, only their dignity. Jon moved around Meryn like smoke, striking at will while avoiding every desperate counter-attack with almost contemptuous ease.
The end came suddenly and decisively. Meryn, driven to fury by his inability to land a single telling blow, threw himself forward in a wild charge that left him completely exposed. Jon sidestepped, caught Meryn's sword arm with his free hand, and drove his knee into the man's solar plexus with enough force to lift him off his feet.
Meryn collapsed like a punctured wineskin, gasping and retching while his sword clattered away across the stones. Jon stood over him, not even breathing hard, his blade pointed casually at Meryn's throat.
"Do you yield, Ser Meryn?" he asked with perfect courtesy. "Or would you like to continue this lesson in proper respect?"
Meryn wheezed and struggled to regain his breath. Finally, red-faced and thoroughly humiliated, he managed to gasp out the words that sealed his defeat.
"I yield."
The training yard erupted in cheers and laughter, the sound washing over the combatants like waves against a shore. Jon stepped back and offered his hand to help Meryn to his feet, a gesture of courtesy that somehow made the defeat even more complete.
"Well fought, Ser Meryn," he said with a smile that held no mockery. "Perhaps we could train together again sometime. I'm always eager to learn from more experienced knights."
The offer of future instruction, delivered with such sincere politeness, was possibly the cruelest cut of all. Meryn's face went through several shades of mortification before settling on a sickly green that suggested he might actually vomit from shame.
"Seven hells," Loras breathed beside Jaime. "They'll be singing songs about that for years. 'The Ballad of Meryn's Humiliation' has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Jaime found himself nodding despite his usual cynicism. The bastard had just delivered the kind of public beating that became legend, all while maintaining the perfect facade of knightly courtesy. It was masterfully done, a lesson in how to destroy a man's reputation while appearing to show him respect.
And watching it happen, seeing the easy confidence with which Jon had dominated a knight of the Kingsguard, brought back that troubling resemblance with renewed force. The way he held himself in victory, the quiet authority that made other men step aside without thinking, the unconscious arrogance that suggested he'd never truly doubted the outcome.
Just like him, Jaime thought, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. Gods preserve us all, he's just like Rhaegar. But why, thought?
Jon Snow
The crowd began to disperse like smoke in wind, knights and courtiers drifting back to their own concerns with the satisfied air of people who'd witnessed excellent entertainment. When a voice cut through the diminishing noise like a blade through silk.
"Seven hells, that was well done."
Jon turned slowly to find King Robert Baratheon approaching through the parting crowd.
His massive frame was draped in fine clothes. Two Kingsguard flanked him like golden shadows, their white cloaks pristine and their hands resting on sword hilts.
Jon dropped to one knee, his head bowed in the precise angle Lord Stark had drilled into all his children. "Your Grace."
"Up, up," Robert commanded with the casual authority of a man accustomed to instant obedience. "Can't have conversations with men kneeling in the dirt like penitents. Save that for the sept."
Jon rose, hyperaware of every eye in the yard fixed upon him like arrows nocked and drawn. Robert studied him, taking in every detail from Jon's purple eyes to his sweat-stained training clothes.
"You remind me of someone," Robert said finally, his voice carrying a note of puzzled recognition. "Can't quite place it, but there's something familiar about you, lad."
"I'm often told I favor my father, Your Grace."
"Aye, there's some of Ned in you, that's certain." Robert's grin was sudden and surprisingly warm. "The way you handled that fool Trant reminded me of your father in our younger days. Same quiet competence, same refusal to back down from pompous idiots who needed humbling."
The comparison sent warmth spreading through Jon's chest despite his nervousness. To be likened to Lord Stark by the king himself felt like receiving a benediction from the Seven themselves. "My father taught me that honor means standing for what's right, Your Grace. Even when it's difficult."
"Especially when it's difficult," Robert corrected with a bark of laughter. "Though I suspect you've got more fire in you than Ned ever did. That little display was as much art as warfare. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
"Winterfell's master-at-arms, Your Grace. Ser Rodrik Cassel. And watching my father and brothers train."
Robert nodded approvingly. "Good teachers, the lot of them. But natural talent can't be taught, and you've got that in spades. Tell me, lad, what do you make of tomorrow's festivities?"
"I think it will be an honor to compete, Your Grace. A chance to test myself against the finest knights in the realm."
"Test yourself," Robert mused, stroking his beard with one massive hand. "Interesting way to put it. Most young knights your age would be boasting about the victories they planned to win, the glory they'd claim." His blue eyes sharpened with interest. "Do you think someone like you should be entering such a contest?"
Someone like you. A bastard. A man without name or lands or legitimate claim to anything beyond what he could win with his own sword. The king wasn't just asking about tomorrow's melee; he was asking about Jon's place in the world itself.
"Your Grace," Jon began slowly. "I think anyone who enters such a contest should be prepared to face the consequences of their ambition. Whether they're bastard-born or kings, steel cuts all men the same."
Robert's eyebrows rose at the subtle boldness of the response. "And you're prepared for those consequences?"
"I believe preparation is an ongoing process, Your Grace." Jon allowed the ghost of a smile to touch his lips. "After all, a man can never get too much training, whether he's swinging a sword or learning to navigate the complexities of court life."
The wordplay earned him exactly what he'd hoped for. Robert's booming laughter echoed across the training yard like thunder rolling through mountain valleys, drawing startled looks from everyone within earshot. Jon felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease as other spectators began to smile along with their monarch.
"Training," Robert repeated between chuckles. "Aye, that's well said, lad. Very well said indeed." He clapped Jon on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a smaller man, the gesture carrying royal approval like a banner unfurled before an army. "I like you, Jon Snow. You've got wit to match that sword arm, and both are sharp enough to draw blood."
The king's public approval rippled through the watching crowd like stones thrown into still water. In the space of a few sentences, he'd gone from Ned Stark's bastard to someone worthy of royal notice.
"You'll do well tomorrow," Robert continued. "And Jon? Your father's a lucky man to have a son like you, bastard-born or not. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
With that pronouncement, the king turned and strode away, his Kingsguard falling into step behind him like perfectly trained hounds. The crowd parted before them, leaving Jon standing alone in the sudden quiet that followed royal departure.
Loras appeared at his elbow like a flower blooming in spring, his brown eyes bright with excitement. "Well," he said quietly, his voice pitched for Jon's ears alone. "That was either the best thing that could have happened to you, or the worst. Possibly both."
Jon watched the king's retreating figure disappear into the Red Keep's labyrinthine corridors.
"Definitely both," Jon murmured, understanding with crystal clarity that his life had just become infinitely more complicated. Royal attention was like wildfire: useful if you could control it, devastating if you couldn't.
And in King's Landing, Jon was beginning to suspect, very few people managed to control anything for long.
The Next Day - Jon Snow
The tournament pavilion buzzed with nervous energy like a hive disturbed by smoke, knights and their squires moving were preparing themselves, wearing their armor, making themselves look like men of steel than flesh. Jon worked methodically through the familiar dance of donning armor, each piece of steel settling into place. Around him, voices rose and fell in the peculiar mixture of boasting and prayer that preceded every melee, some men seeking courage in wine while others found it in silent contemplation.
"You look like a man preparing for his own execution rather than a tournament."
Jon turned to find himself face to face with Prince Oberyn Martell, and the sight hit him like a splash of ice water in a furnace. The Red Viper stood like a viper with legs.
Jon had heard stories of the infamous prince, tales that painted him as equal parts poet and killer.
"Prince Oberyn," Jon said carefully, offering a respectful nod while keeping his hands visible. "I wasn't aware you were competing today."
"Oh, I'm not here to swing swords at overenthusiastic boys," Oberyn replied with a smile that held more edges than a Damascus blade. "I prefer my violence more... intimate. More personal. But I find watching others prepare for battle almost as entertaining as participating myself."
The prince's gaze moved over Jon with the intensity of a jeweler examining a particularly interesting stone, lingering on details that most men would overlook. Those dark eyes seemed to catalog every feature, every expression, as if building some internal map that Jon couldn't begin to understand.
"I don't believe we've been properly introduced," Oberyn continued, though something in his tone suggested he knew exactly who Jon was. "Though I confess, I've heard tales of the northern bastard who gave the Kingslayer himself a proper fight. Such stories have a way of traveling, even to the deserts of Dorne."
"The stories have been... embellished, Prince Oberyn. My fight with Ser Jaime at Winterfell was more of a draw, and he was clearly holding back out of courtesy to our hosts."
"Courtesy," Oberyn repeated. "How very northern of you to assume restraint rather than recognize your own skill. And I hear you've faced him since then?"
"Once more, here in King's Landing. He defeated me decisively." Jon's jaw tightened at the memory of Jaime's sword guard opening the cut above his eyebrow. "Whatever stories you've heard about my prowess have been greatly exaggerated."
"Have they?" Oberyn's smile widened, revealing teeth white as bleached bone. "From what I observed yesterday in the training yard, your skill with both blade and words seems quite... adequate."
The casual mention of yesterday's confrontation with Ser Meryn made Jon's pulse quicken. He hadn't noticed Prince Oberyn among the spectators, but that meant nothing.
"You were watching?" Jon asked.
"I make it my business to observe interesting people," Oberyn replied with languid grace. "And you, Jon Snow, are becoming quite interesting indeed. A bastard who fights like he was born to it, speaks like he was educated in the finest courts, and carries himself with the quiet confidence of a man who has never truly doubted his own worth."
"I'm just a bastard from Winterfell, Prince Oberyn. Nothing more interesting than that."
"Just a bastard," Oberyn mused, his dark eyes never leaving Jon's face. "With purple eyes like amethysts and a face that could launch ships if it belonged to a woman. Tell me, do you know much about bloodlines, Jon Snow?"
"I know that bastards don't typically concern themselves with such matters, Your Grace."
"Don't they?" Oberyn's smile took on a predatory quality that made Jon's skin crawl. "How very... pragmatic of you. Though I've always found that blood has a way of revealing itself, regardless of circumstances. Breeding shows, as they say, in horses and hounds and men alike."
Jon felt like he was walking through a trap blindfolded, each step potentially his last. "Is there something specific you wanted to discuss, Prince Oberyn?"
"Nothing specific, no. I was simply curious about your plans for today's entertainment." Oberyn gestured vaguely toward the pavilion's entrance, where the sounds of gathering crowds could be heard growing louder. "Any particular opponents you're hoping to face?"
The change of subject felt like reprieve from drowning, and Jon grasped it gratefully. "I wouldn't mind another bout with Ser Loras, actually."
"Ah, the Knight of Flowers. Pretty as a maiden and deadly as a blade, that one. You could do worse for an opponent." Oberyn's expression grew more serious, though the smile never entirely left his lips. "Though I would suggest avoiding certain other competitors, if you're wise."
"Such as?"
"Oh, anyone with a tendency toward... excessive enthusiasm. Men who forget that tournaments are supposed to be sporting contests rather than opportunities for murder." Oberyn's voice carried a casual warning that made Jon's blood run cold. "Someone like Ser Gregor Clegane, for instance. The Mountain has a reputation for accidents that prove remarkably convenient for his employers."
"You think someone would try to arrange an accident?"
"I think," Oberyn said, "that young men with interesting bloodlines sometimes find themselves facing unexpected dangers in places where such things can be easily explained away. Tragic mishaps, you understand. The sort that leave grieving fathers and satisfied enemies."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I have a particular fondness for stories where the underdog survives to fight another day." Oberyn's smile was sharp as broken glass. "And because some secrets are worth protecting, even when their keepers don't fully understand what they're guarding."
Oberyn knew something, that much was clear, but what and how much remained mysteries wrapped in riddles.
"I should finish preparing," Jon said finally, unsure how else to respond to such oblique warnings.
"Indeed you should." Oberyn stepped back with fluid grace, though his dark eyes never left Jon's face. "Fight well today, Jon Snow. Fight carefully. And remember that sometimes the greatest victory is simply walking away from the field with all your limbs intact."
As Prince Oberyn walked away, Jon followed his fleeing figure, and he saw a girl there. She seemed older than him, and she was beautiful, so beautiful that Jon felt like he was looking at the most beautiful woman in the world, even prettier than the Queen.
This woman had purple eyes like his, even from a distance, he could tell, but hers were brighter, her long dark hair glittered like dark waves of an ocean during a night, and the way she was looking at him. Jon wondered who she was. Who was this beautiful woman?
Jon watched as she spoke to Prince Oberyn, and the two turned and walked away, leaving Jon full of questions just as the Announcer Announced that the Meele has Begun!
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