Chapter Text
“Not bad Snow. Next time spread your feet further apart, so your stance is better.”
The Kingslayer’s drawl is infuriating, yet Jon obeys and fins that his stance is much better indeed. Jon would hate him if he wasn’t such a good teacher.
But no matter how good he gets he can never so much as touch Ser Jaime, who blocks his blows with almost lazy moves, his sword held nonchalantly, like Jon isn’t even worth the effort of holding his blade correctly and it infuriates him almost more than the whispers of ‘bastard’ that follow him wherever he goes.
It is a great honor, he knows this. He had been fully set on going to the Night’s Watch, on swearing to guard the Wall until the end of his days. Ser Jaime’s offer had come out of nowhere, and had left him both perplexed and proud. Proud that his skill was being recognized, proud that he was being chosen over some lord’s son who, doubtlessly, would give an arm and a leg to have one of his sons squire for the famed Lannister Lion.
His father is not too keen on the idea of his son squiring for a man without honor, but he knows all too well what an opportunity like this can do for a bastard boy like him who will have to make his own way into the world, so he does not stop him. Robb is more than jealous though. On their last night together, they’d huddled together in their childhood bed, whispering excitedly about the Kingslayer and how wonderful squiring for him would be.
Jon is technically to old to be a squire, but nobody comments on that, certainly not Lady Catelyn who is half ecstatic to see him leave, half offended that the honor of squiring for a knight of the Kingsguard wasn’t given to one of her sons.
“It should’ve been him.” She’d whispered hoarsely, looking at Bran’s still form. “He’s always wanted to squire for a knight of the Kingsguard, like Ser Barristan or Ser Jaime. It should’ve been him.”
He’d left after that, to say his goodbyes to Robb, who’d hugged him and made him promise to write often.
“You’re getting better.” Acknowledges Ser Jaime as he disarms Jon with a stealthy move.
“It doesn’t feel like it.” Jon bites out.
Ser Jaime laughs, clapping his hand on Jon’s shoulder.
“I suppose not.” He gestures for Jon to come sit with him. “So how are you liking King’s Landing?”
It smells like shit, Jon wants to say, but even he realizes that would be poor manners. He tries to find a better reply, but Ser Jaime seems to understand him anyway.
“It smells like shit. I know, I know. But it does have its charms.”
“I’ve yet to see them.”
Jaime grins mischievously.
“Perhaps you haven’t been looking properly.”
He gestures at a bunch of ladies who were hanging around the training yard, gossiping and giggling amongst each other.
“It seems like you have quite the admirers Snow.” He sounds bothered by it, though Jon can’t imagine why because he’s pretty sure that half of them are here for him anyway and not some bastard northerner.
“No I don’t.” He says instead, blushing.
“Funny. I just heard Lady Elaida mention how handsome she thought you were. Shall I go tell her that you’re a lost cause?”
Jon takes a drink of water from the water-skin, his blush spreading to the top of his ears.
“Is it that you don’t like women then? Because Lady Elaida would certainly be very disappointed to hear that.”
Jon choked and spluttered as Ser Jaime laughed and clapped him on the back.
“No need to act so shocked. Do you dour northmen not lay down with each other for warmth?”
“Of course not.” Jon replies feebly.
Jaime smirks, as though he knows some secret joke that Jon could never understand.
“I see. Too honorable are you?”
Jon doesn’t respond to that, instead taking another sip of water. Honor was something he never discussed with Ser Jaime, not anymore.
The silence between them sits heavy as they look at the master at arms roughly pick up a young boy by the back of his neck and throws him where his sword lay abandoned.
“You know you are getting better.” The Kingslayer says, not looking him in the face.
“I am?”
Jaime hums in approval. “A few more months like this and you’ll be ready to be knighted.”
“I don’t want to be a knight.”
The remark surprises Ser Jaime who looks at him pensively now, with more focus, and Jon’s body suddenly flushed under the attention.
“Don’t want to be a knight.” He repeats. “Because of your faith I presume.” When Jon nods, he goes on. “Tell me Snow, do the trees answer sometimes?”
Jon clenches his fists tightly before deliberately relaxing them.
“No more than the Seven or the Drowned God.”
“So no oaths of knighthood for you? You’re not planning on joining the Kingsguard?”
Jon shakes his head no.
“Good. Trust me, you don’t want to be the Queen’s brother and a Kingsguard.”
“Oh?”
He goes on. “You can’t be both. You can’t be part of the Kingsguard and the Queen’s brother because at some point, the King will do or say something terrible to your sister and you won’t be able to defend her and it’ll tear you apart on the inside.”
“Bran wanted to be a Kingsguard.” Jon admits, voice tight, “Before...before, he used to prattle on and on about how he’d go south and meet all of the Kingsguard and be even better than them. It...it was his dream.”
Tears sting his eyes as he thinks of Bran lying broken in his bed, small and defenseless, his legs shattered.
Suddenly, he feels Ser Jaime’s hand on his thigh.
“Jon... I’m sorry. About your brother. I’m sorry.” He says softly, some emotion shining in his eyes.
“Thanks.”
He takes his hand off, the spot he touched now oddly warm. He can still feel his hand there, its warmth, its weight. It was nice.
After a few awkward moments of silence, Ser Jaime claps his hands together once decisively before hopping to his feet and gesturing for Jon to join him. He throws the wooden sword at Jon and, before he has time to properly grab it, strikes him with his own. He tsks mockingly.
“Focus Snow.” He smirks, showing a set of astoundingly white teeth.
Fury courses through Jon as he raises his sword to strike a blow of his own.
“So,” he asks as he easily blocks Jon’s blow, “what are you planning to do Jon Snow. Since you don’t want to be a knight.”
Nobody had ever asked Jon that. He shrugs.
“I’ll probably go join the Night’s Watch.”
Ser Jaime’s face twists into surprise, his brows raised and his mouth slightly open. He blinks a couple of times, his eyelashes fluttering in surprise, as though what Jon was saying was absurd.
“The Night’s Watch? You think I’m training you so you can go freeze your balls off on the Wall? You’re far too talented for that.” He sounds offended on his behalf and Jon can’t remember the last time someone told him he was too good to join the Night’s Watch. People told him that he would waste his life, that the life of a black brother was too hard for him, but nobody ever told him that he deserved more.
He gets so distracted that he almost misses Ser Jaime’s next blow. He barely blocks it, before taking two steps back to regain his footing. Ser Jaime eyes him critically, his green eyes scrutinizing Jon’s figure, as though seeing him for the first time.
“It’s an honorable calling.” He says instead.
“Honorable? If you call hanging around murderers and rapists while ‘defending the realm’ from snarks and grumpkins then yes. I suppose the Night’s Watch is very honorable.”
The blows start raining on Jon, each quicker and stronger than the last. He barely manages to block them, but he does, something he couldn’t have said back at Winterfell.
“Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. My uncle Benjen...”
“No Starks have squire for oathbreaking Kingslayers and yet here we are. If you think I’m letting you squire for me so you go freeze your cock off in the North when you won’t even lay down with other men for warmth then you’re stupider than I thought.”
Jon’s face turns crimson which makes Jaime smirk.
“So why did you ask me to squire for you?” He asks finally, scowling.
Ser Jaime grabs his forearm and pulls him closer. They’re face to face now, so close that Jon can feel Ser Jaime’s hot breath on his mouth.
“Why haven’t you heard Snow,” he trailed his fingers across Jon’s lips, “I’ve never been good at denying myself pretty things.”