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Jon V
296 - AC
The frost clung stubbornly to Theon's fur cloak, silvering the edges like rime on an old blade. He stood beside Jon at the edge of the training yard, jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched in his cheek, muttering curses under his breath with each exhale. Every few moments he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, as if he might chew the humiliation out of his own mouth.
Jon hardly heard him.
His gaze was fixed on the yard ahead, where Robb faced Obara and Nymeria Sand beneath the pale northern sun. The air stung with cold; every breath burned like winter steel in the lungs. Snow flurries drifted lazily across the packed ground, overlaying the faint marks left from Theon and Tyene's duel.
Two spears cut through the air — swift, whistling, relentless.
Robb moved between them.
Jon's arms folded over his chest, and a quiet storm of memory churned in him. The grey woods. The unnatural fog sweeping around their ankles. The screams that seemed torn straight from nightmares. The shapes in the mist — swift, merciless, wrong. Robb stepping through smoke and blood like a spirit returned from the grave.
'This is nothing but a play,' Jon thought.
Obara circled fast, boots kicking up powder. She was harsh angles and brutal purpose, every strike meant to end the match. Nymeria, more graceful and precise, danced in a crescent around Robb, spear flicking forward like a serpent's tongue whenever he shifted weight.
"They are good," Jon heard Ser Rodrik murmur.
Robb blocked the first thrust easily, turning the spear away with the flat of his wooden blade. He parried Nymeria's next strike without even glancing, stepping just out of reach. He moved neither hurried nor hesitant — calm, calculating, his footing solid as stone.
He wasn't fighting to win.
He was watching.
Learning.
Holding back.
Jon knew the signs. The stillness inside the motion. The patience. Others might call it caution; Jon knew it for what it truly was — the quiet before something terrible and unstoppable.
The last time he had seen that look was when the trees screamed in the cold and Robb's eyes burned like night.
Obara lunged with a sharp cry, her spear streaking toward his ribs. Robb twisted aside, catching the haft with his free hand and redirecting it. Nymeria swept in for the opening — but Robb dipped under her arm, letting the spear skim harmlessly over his shoulder.
The yard watched in breathless silence.
Only Theon's growled curses filled the air.
"Come on, M'lord!" someone yelled.
"Show them how Northerners fight!" another boy shouted.
Robb ignored them all, blocking another strike, pushing Nymeria back a step, then two.
He wasn't attacking.
He was deciding.
And Jon saw the moment the choice settled.
A feint, subtle but deliberate, an opening offered like bait. He wouldn't have taken it but they didn't know Robb, like he did.
Nymeria took it, driving forward with confidence, spear tip angled for his chest.
Obara came in behind, aiming for his side.
Robb stepped back once.
Then, shockingly, threw his sword.
Gasps exploded across the yard, even Ser Rodrik's gruff voice cutting short in surprise.
The blade spun through the air, a flash of dull wood against snowlight. Obara jerked sideways to avoid it, losing half a heartbeat to surprise.
It was all Robb needed.
He pivoted sharply, heel planting, torso twisting, his leg sweeping upward like a striking wolf. The back of his boot connected with Nymeria's temple.
She dropped instantly, collapsing limply into the snow.
Obara roared, fury overtaking reason, and drove in full force, spear cracking against Robb's ribs with a brutal snap. Robb staggered but didn't fall. His hand clamped around the shaft, using the fury of her own strength, and threw her.
Her body flipped through the air, crashing down hard. Before she could recover, Robb locked his legs around her throat and pinned her arm so tightly she could barely draw breath.
"Yield," he commanded, not asked.
She struggled, teeth bared, desperate, pride burning. But the longer she fought, the tighter the hold became, until her fingers spasmed with pain.
"Yield!" she snarled hoarsely.
Robb released her instantly.
He rose to his feet, extending a hand. Obara stared, breath trembling, then smirked and clasped his wrist, pulling herself up.
"I believe now, Stark."
Robb gave only a respectful nod, then turned to where Nymeria lay unmoving. He knelt, slid an arm beneath her shoulders, and lifted her gently, careful as if carrying a small child rather than a warrior.
"Haden!" he called.
A tall Winter Son stepped forward, a hard man with a long scar across his jaw.
"M'lord?"
"She struck her head. Take her to Maester Luwin, make sure she wakes to friendly faces." Robb glanced meaningfully to Tyene, now standing silent beside the Princess. "If you would, my lady. She may want her sister nearby."
Tyene looked at him long, an expression soft and knowing, something Jon could not read, then dipped her head.
"Of course." She followed Haden without another word.
Silence thickened.
Princess Arianne stepped forward, chin raised slightly, eyes sharp.
"Why did you do it, Lord Stark?"
Robb blinked. "Princess?"
"You threw your only weapon," she said, voice steady as a blade. "It was reckless. Had Obara been faster by a heartbeat, you would be on the ground instead."
Robb smiled, that small, crooked half-smile Jon knew too well.
"But she wasn't," he said simply.
Arianne frowned. "You could have held position. You had already put Nymeria down."
"And then she would have pinned him from behind," Ser Rodrik cut in gruffly, arms crossed. "He made the right choice, reckless or not."
Robb shrugged lightly. "I saw the opening. I took it. And it played as I expected."
Arianne watched him, long, deep, quiet.
As if trying to see beneath his words.
As if trying to decide whether he was a fool or something else.
Then she stepped closer, leaning down, and placed a soft kiss against his jaw, just beside the corner of his mouth.
The yard froze.
Even the wind stopped.
"Thank you," she whispered. "You are… quite a noble fighter… Robb."
She stepped back, sudden warmth coloring her cheeks.
"Gods, the cold bites to the bone," she said lightly. "Lady Sansa, would you take me to the hall? I need something warm before I freeze solid."
Sansa blinked rapidly, face near crimson. "Y-Yes, Princess."
The two left quickly, the Arya slowly trailing behind with a smile so big and a snickering giggle that seemed to never end.
Only then did Robb's head turn, eyes wide, expression stunned as if he had been struck by lightning.
Jon's lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.
Robb blinked twice more, then looked at him helplessly.
Jon only chuckled under his breath and Robb Stark, who had felled men twice his age in blood and more, stood rooted like a boy struck dumb by the mere brush of a princess's lips.
—-----
Arianne I
The warmth of the chamber should have comforted her, yet she felt the cold clinging to her bones long after the courtyard had fallen behind her.
The girl of the North had led her here — the red-haired Lady Sansa, polite as a septa and twice as stiff — and left her with a curtsy, flustered cheeks, and a stammered promise to send some warm soup.
The door had barely clicked shut before Arianne let herself fall backward onto the fur-draped chair by the hearth.
The fire crackled. Snow tapped faint fingers against the window.
And still, the image of the Stark heir tossing away his sword, the movement of him pivoting in the snow, the flash of his eyes when she kissed him — it danced behind her eyes like firelight.
By the time Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene entered, stamping the snow from their boots, Arianne had her mask mostly back in place.
Mostly.
Tyene shut the door behind her with a soft smile. "Princess."
Arianne lifted her chin a touch. "You took long."
"Nymeria insisted on hearing everything the maester said twice," Tyene said sweetly.
Nymeria, whose nose was reddened and who was holding an ice-soaked cloth to the side of her head, glared. "I am beaten, not deaf."
Obara snorted as she threw herself into the wide fur-covered bench. "And I am bruised from shoulder to hip. If your Stark boy wished to impress us, he did so."
Arianne ignored the twist in her stomach at the words 'your Stark boy.'
She folded her hands in her lap, letting her voice fall into its natural, smooth cadence.
"Well? Speak your mind."
Tyene curled onto the hearthrug like a contented cat, her dark curls haloed by firelight. "He was very gentle with Nymeria. That is something."
Nymeria pressed the cloth harder, wincing. "That is not the thing worth noting, sister."
"Oh?" Tyene asked softly. "And what is?"
"That he fights like someone twice his age," Nymeria murmured. "But not with brute strength. With measure. Calm. He watched every step we took. He counted them even before we made them."
Obara scoffed. "Calm? He was holding back. Half the time I swear he was thinking of something else entirely."
"Maybe it was someone?" Tyene smirked as she suggested delicately.
Arianne felt her cheeks warm in spite of herself. "If that is meant to be a jest, I'll have you know—"
Obara cut her off. "No jest. You kissed him like you meant to lay claim."
"I kissed him because he surprised me," Arianne said sharply.
Obara raised one dark brow. "Surprised? Or interested?"
The words hung heavy.
Arianne inhaled slowly, letting the cold air steady her.
"He is heir to Winterfell," she said. "That alone warrants interest."
Nymeria tilted her head. "But not that kiss."
Arianne looked into the flames. They danced like Dornish silk caught in a desert wind. "He fights well. He sees quickly. That much I expected from what little Lord Manderly said."
"But…?" Tyene prompted gently.
Arianne hesitated. A strange, quiet thing twisted in her chest — not quite admiration, not quite curiosity, but something like the prickle she felt reading half a teasing book, one that suggested more than it revealed.
"But I did not expect…" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Ser Rodrik said he made a choice. Not by instinct. Not by wildness. By seeing the entire field. By seeing us."
Nymeria nodded slowly. "It is difficult to unsettle him."
Arianne let out a soft laugh. "I kissed him. That unsettled him."
Tyene giggled behind her hand. Obara smirked. Nymeria shook her head.
"You did that to test him," Obara said.
Arianne didn't deny it.
"And what did he do?" Nymeria asked, voice low with curiosity.
Arianne looked down at her hands. "He did not blush like a boy."
"No," Obara snorted. "He froze like a stag staring at a torch."
"Yes," Arianne murmured. "But not for shyness. Not quite."
Tyene tilted her head. "What then?"
Arianne sighed. "He is… thoughtful. Calculating. A wolf pup perhaps, but there is something of the grown wolf behind the eyes."
Obara grinned. "You like him."
Arianne shot her a withering look. "I do not like him."
"You kissed him."
"I kiss many things."
Tyene's laugh was soft and wicked.
Nymeria raised her cloth. "Princess, even you must admit — he is interesting."
Arianne didn't respond for a long moment.
Finally she stood and crossed to the window. Snow drifted past the panes, pale and quiet, so different from the blistering sun of Sunspear.
Out there somewhere, Robb Stark walked the yard with that steady, grounded purpose.
A Stark who leads. A Stark who watches. A Stark who sees too clearly for his years.
"Perhaps he is interesting," Arianne whispered at last.
Her face in the frosted keep looked nothing like a Princess of Dorne — too curious, too alert.
Behind her, Obara shifted. "The boy is skilled, but do not think he is the only one worth watching. The bastard fights well too. Quick on his feet."
Nymeria nodded. "And the Greyjoy — reckless but strong."
Tyene smiled dreamily. "He was very easy to trip."
Arianne chuckled despite herself.
But the laughter faded when Obara spoke again — more seriously this time.
"Be cautious, Princess. These Starks… they are not like us. They speak their thoughts. Everything is under snow and stone."
Arianne nodded. "I know."
"And do not forget why we came," Nymeria added quietly. "Your father did not send you here only to see wolves dance."
Arianne swallowed hard.
True enough but she did not listen to her father always and again.
She did not cross half the realm for a boy's yard
Her father had sent her north for something more—something yet unspoken, something Oberyn would soon uncover.
Still, when she thought of Robb turning his head when she kissed him, the faint surprise, the flicker of something earnest—
Arianne felt that rarest of sensations.
One she didn't understand yet.
She turned back to her cousins.
"We will watch them," she said softly. "All of them. The Heir most of all."
Tyene smiled like a cat.
Nymeria dipped her head in agreement.
Obara cracked her knuckles.
"Good," Obara said. "I want another bout with him when the bruise fades."
Arianne laughed — soft, warm, edged with something new.
"Perhaps next time," she said, "he will let you think you stand a chance."
Obara threw a glove at her.
The fire crackled. Snow whispered against the stone.
And Arianne Martell, Princess and daughter of the Spear, felt, for the first time since leaving Sunspear, a spark of heat that was not born of her homeland or hearth.
Not fear.
Not desire.
Curiosity.
—--
Eddard IV
The dawn broke cold as broken iron.
Winterfell's stones steamed faintly in the pale morning light, the heat from the hot springs rising in silver curls that twisted between the towers. He stood at the window of his solar, one hand resting on the frost-rimed sill, watching the breath of the castle rise like a living thing.
Days of southern guests had unsettled the old fortress in ways no storm could.
Servants hurried through corridors with trays of steaming broth. Stableboys mucked stalls twice over. Even the guards along the walls stood straighter when Dornish colors snapped in the wind.
Foreign blood had not passed through Winterfell's gates in such a number for a while.
Ned rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Dorne had sent a prince.
A prince — for a shipment of horses.
There was intent there. Purpose sharp enough to cut.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," Ned said.
Maester Luwin stepped in, bowing lightly. "My lord. Prince Oberyn awaits you in the small hall. He asked to speak privately."
Ned stilled.
He had expected this eventually.
"Very well," he murmured. "Send him in."
But Oberyn Martell did not enter. Instead Luwin added:
"He requests you meet him beneath the weirwood."
Ned blinked once. Strange.
Most southron lords found the heart tree unsettling — its carved face, the pale bark, the red leaves like dripping blood.
But it seems Prince Oberyn was no ordinary southerner.
Ned sighed quietly and reached for his cloak. "Very well."
He descended from the solar, boots echoing softly along the old stone. Servants bowed as he passed, eyes lowered.
The great yard was half-frozen, half-mud, and full of the sharp clang of early training and cheers, something that made him stop for a moment before he moved again.
The heart tree stood at the far end of the godswood, pale as bone, crimson leaves rustling in a wind that seemed to touch no other branches.
And beneath it waited The Red Viper.
He stood with a poise that did not belong in snow. Lean, sharp, wrapped in furs he clearly despised. His dark eyes flicked open when Ned approached, and for a moment the Dornishman looked like a serpent disturbed from sleep.
"Lord Stark," Oberyn said with a courteous bow that somehow still felt like a challenge.
"Prince." Ned inclined his head. "The godswood is colder this morning."
"I would take your word for it," Oberyn replied smoothly.
They regarded each other quietly.
Finally Oberyn spoke again, his voice edged in wry amusement.
"I must begin by thanking you, Lord Stark. Your letter was… unexpected."
Ned clasped his hands behind his back. "I understand, The North do not sends words lightly."
"No," Oberyn said. "Not lightly. Not often. In truth, when my brother sent word of your request, I thought it a jest."
His gaze flicked over the heart tree.
"Sand steeds for Winterfell," he mused. "An union between snow and sand."
Ned's jaw tightened a fraction. "Strong horses endure where others fail. The North can use them."
"I heard." Obreyn said lightly. "You send your son riding across the realm like an old knight errant, this Winter Sons speaks of initiative. And sharp steel."
Ned stiffened, faintly and a small smile broke. "I did not send him, he did it himself."
"Surely you jest." Obreyn looked amused. "A Boy that young, taking an immense duty upon himself?"
He sighed as he looked into the mist deep within the Godswood. "He did what he believed served the realm better."
A silence settled. Oberyn leaned his shoulder lightly against the heart tree, utterly unbothered by the cold that seeped from the bark.
"You know why I asked for this meeting," Oberyn said softly.
Ned's face remained unreadable. "You wish to know why Winterfell wants Dornish horses."
"Yes."
Ned met his gaze evenly. "I asked for steeds. Nothing more."
"Forgive me, Lord Stark," Oberyn said with a faint smile, "but I have known enough men to recognize when they say one thing and intend another."
Ned exhaled slowly, the cold turning it to mist
"It was not I who thought to ask for them."
Oberyn's brow lifted, curious.
"It was Robb," Ned said.
The prince leaned back slightly, expression shifting from curiosity to intrigue. "An unusual request for a boy of two-and-ten."
Ned cleared his throat, glancing toward the window. "He believes the North needs faster mounts in rough countryside. He thinks sand steeds might adapt well along the eastern coast, where snows are lighter and plains more open."
Oberyn tilted his head. "Does he intend to breed them? Train them? Use them in his… bandit hunts, I hear?"
Ned felt a flicker of discomfort.
Word traveled too quickly these days.
"He believes," Ned said carefully, "that the North must be more connected. Roads, trade, riders. That is where the steeds factor in."
"Is that truly all?" Oberyn asked, voice a silky thread.
Ned's jaw tightened. "He is a Stark. A boy learning to become a lord. He has thoughts, some bold. I allow those that do no harm."
Silence thickened between the two men for a breath.
At length, the Dornish prince spoke again, low and measured:
"Then, if you would not mind… I would like to speak to him."
Ned did not answer immediately.
He had expected the request. Feared it, even.
The South was a place of whispers, and Oberyn Martell, sharp of wit and quicker of suspicion, had not crossed half the realm merely to admire Northern snow.
The Prince had been sent north with purpose, and he was not naive enough to assume that purpose ended with the sand steeds.
Oberyn waited, patient as a coiled serpent, amusement flickering in his eyes like embers caught in wind.
Ned exhaled quietly and inclined his head.
"Very well."
"Fetch my son," Ned said, keeping his tone neutral. "Tell him I require him at once."
The guard bowed deeply and departed with brisk steps.
When Ned returned to his place, Oberyn was still watching him — but now with a glimmer of something keener. A quiet appraisal.
The prince smiled faintly.
"I have known many boys, Lord Stark," he said, his voice almost reflective. "Princes. Squires. Bastards. Sons of lords. Some blaze hot and die quickly. Others are dull as river mud."
Ned remained silent.
Oberyn's gaze narrowed with a sharper gleam.
"But a boy who gathers the sons of half the North about him? Who earns loyal whispers from Karhold to Bear Island? Who returns outlaws to the Stranger and earns praise from men twice his age… that is a boy worth meeting."
Ned's jaw tightened — pride and unease wrestling in equal measure.
Before he could respond, footsteps approached from the corridor — steady, unhurried, confident.
Robb walked to them.
He wore clean wool and dark grey cloak, hair still damp from the yard, cheeks flushed faintly from the cold. There was no swagger in his stride, no childish eagerness — only respect and a growing steadiness that made his heart ache and swell at once.
Robb bowed to his father, then to Oberyn.
"Father. Prince Martell. You sent for me."
Oberyn studied him with a gaze so piercing Ned nearly stepped between them.
The Dornishman circled him slowly — polite, predatory, curious.
"Your father tells me," Oberyn said, "that it was you, who has requested the steeds. What use does a Northern heir have for horses who faint in cold wind?"
Robb met the question without flinching.
"I believe they may adapt," he said. "And if they do not, winters will teach their foals. The North learns slowly… but the North learns well."
Oberyn's eyebrow arched and the prince stepped closer.
"And these steeds," Oberyn said smoothly, "Are they for the Winter Sons?"
The name curled off his tongue like he was tasting foreign wine.
Robb answered. "They are for the North."
Oberyn's head tilted. "The North?"
Robb nodded once.
"I intend to form a rank of men for The North."
"A rank?"
"Mounted archers."
That, at last, cracked Oberyn's composure.
The Dornish prince barked a short laugh — not mocking, but startled.
"Mounted archers?" Oberyn repeated. "You speak of Dothraki tricks."
Robb smiled faintly.
"The Dothraki had the thought, we have better men."
Oberyn glanced toward Ned incredulously — expecting him to dismiss it as childish fancy.
But Ned's expression remained carved from granite.
The prince's amusement faded. "Are you preparing for a war, boy?"
Robb's smile sharpened — not cruel, not arrogant, but unmistakably intentional.
"I am preparing for a realm that will change, my prince."
He stepped lightly toward the wood.
"The North is growing. Lumber, trade, coin and that growth may draw eyes. Not all friendly."
His voice lowered.
"I seek no war."
He turned back, calm as winter.
"But if war seeks me… I intend to be ready."
The woods fell silent.
Even the trees seemed to quiet itself, listening.
Ned watched Oberyn, and saw the moment the prince realized the truth:
This was not a boy chasing songs of glory.
This was a Stark learning what it meant to be heir and more.
Oberyn let out a breath — half a laugh, half something more thoughtful.
A ripple of surprise passed through his dark eyes.
"Here I stand," he murmured, "All the way from Sunspear… because of the idea of a northern child."
Robb offered a crooked, good-humored smile.
"I am grateful you came to hear it."
Oberyn studied him — deeply, intently — and the smile that spread across his face was slow, dangerous, and utterly intrigued.
"If nothing else," the Dornish prince said softly before leaving. "You are interesting."
Ned stood there with a cold face, he knew what the words meant, it was not simply the prince who took interest, it was Dorne.