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Chapter Text

Chapter One: Markings

“Torrhen’s Square just sent a letter.” Catelyn said, causing Eddard to nearly jump out of his skin. 

His lady wife had not spoken to him in nearly a fortnight. Ever since the bastard she had so despised had gotten sick, and he found her praying over his bed. He could not in good conscience allow her to ask for Jon’s legitimization without telling her the full truth. No matter the consequences that would come down on his head, or his marriage.

She was not as angry as he thought she would be but… she did not take him lying to her very well. However, now that she did know she interacted with the boy much more. With his nephew almost dying, the perfect pretense for her change in demeanor towards him had presented itself.

“Oh?” He asked as he looked off the balcony at all of his children, even Sansa, watching the older three boys spar. Arya, Bran and even Sansa (who showed Jon much care during his recovery) started cheering on Jon as Robb and Theon teamed up on him as they realized they would not be able to match him one-on-one despite him recovering from illness. All the boys had their strengths. Robb could joust better than most men in Winterfell, and Theon was unmatched in the North when it came to archery. They just so happened to be currently participating in Jon’s strength.

“Lord Royce and his youngest son arrived last night, the one wishing to Join the Night’s Watch. Eddard… I think you should ask him to allow the boy…” She said, and Eddard whipped around to see his wife holding her hands up in a sign of peace.

“Don’t say it!”

“…to squire for him.” Catelyn finished

“What?” he hissed. That is not what he expected to hear but still, he would never allow Lyanna’s boy to go anywhere. He made that perfectly clear to her during their talk.

“Eddard, please! Please hear me out.” She said, and Eddard looked back down to the courtyard trying to not let his anger show visibly, either to Catelyn nor to disturb the children down in the courtyard. He took his wife’s house words to heart. Family, Duty, Honor. Family, Duty, Honor. Family, Duty, Honor . “Look at the boy. He is good… No, he is excellent . He needs somewhere to actually utilise his skills, it is much stranger -not to mention draws more attention- that you kept him here. 

You do not plan on putting him on the Throne, and while I do not know him very well personally, I do know he will not want to depend on Robb for the rest of his life. Where else is there for him to go? The Night’s Watch ?”

He knew that a fortnight ago she would have been overjoyed to have the boy join the Night’s Watch, something that Eddard probably would have accepted as well. But now… it was a glorified Penal Colony. Not a place for a child, not a place for his kin. There was no way that Lyanna would want that for a child of hers, no matter what happened between her and Rhaegar. “Eddard, if you want to protect him this makes sense. You have drawn more attention to him by bringing him into our home like this.”

Ned sighed, “I promised her…”

“You promised her that you would watch over him.” Catelyn said, rubbing his arm. “He is… welcome… in Winterfell, but what kind of life is this?”

“You are right.” Ned said. “The Watch is an honorable calling but he should experience life first. Benjen may break my jaw if I let him join the Watch.”

“He knows?” Catelyn asked, surprised

“Those two were closer than Arya and Jon. Lyanna told him about Rhaegar’s letters. His veiled threats…” said Ned, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “You are right. There have been plenty of bastards who have become knights in their own right.”

“I… must ask you not to ask Robert to give him your name.” She said, while most of her… antagonism towards the boy himself faded, this one fact is still true, even Ned knew this to be true. “You trust the boy. The children trust him as well. I am… trying, but if he has your name and decides to have children can we trust them? What about the mother he chooses to have them with? Can we trust her?”

“I understand. I- I would have never asked you for that.” Eddard answered honestly. She was correct and it would look too conspicuous to give him the Stark name while he still had numerous trueborn children, two sons especially. “Maybe a household knight in the future or maybe he will impress Robert and become a member of his Kingsguard. Although I have always wished for Moat Cailin to be rebuilt. Robert knows this.”

Granted, in their talks Eddard always had it as himself that was the one to take over it while Brandon took care of Winterfell.

“He can start a cadet house possibly?” Catelyn said, this way any children of his own would be given their own inheritance and they would not look towards her own grandchildren’s inheritance.

Eddard laughed, “Yes, maybe. How about the Redstark’s?”

Catelyn smiled at the fact he was laughing at his own joke. “You are not as funny as you think you are, husband of mine.” She chirped as the children started to realize they were there. “It does truly roll off the tongue though does it not?” she added, causing him to laugh again.

“I do not think our Bolton neighbours would appreciate that. Although, we will have to cross that bridge when we come to it.” He smiled and Catelyn sighed at how he actually looked his age when he was not so grim. Ever since he told her the full truth about the Tower of Joy it was as if a load came off his stoic husband’s shoulders. “However, My Lady, I am surprised. We can always give him a holdfast, and give Bran or Baby Rickon Moat Cailin?” He punctuated this by rubbing her belly.

“We cannot give Moat Cailin to Bran until Robb gets an heir, and I doubt that we will end up giving Baby Minisa such an important foothold in the North.” She replied cheekily. Eddard knew that she did not care whether the child was a girl or a boy. A few weeks ago she’d have wanted another son to give Eddard three trueborn sons, but now she did not care either way. Then as an ironic echo she added “As for what will do with their futures… We can cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“There is something else we should speak of, My Lady.” Ned said, his face darkening and Catelyn did not like the look of that. “I think once she turns eight, we should send Arya to foster with the Mormont’s.”

A terror seized her as Eddard saw blood drain from her face, but she calmed it down. Bear Island was known for its warrior women as well as, and due to, the Iron born attacks. He knew she must think him mad that he wanted to send Arya there. He often spoke highly of them, but the last contact from them was Ser Jorah fleeing in the night.

Eddard spoke, before she could voice her objections. “I know, she needs to learn how to be a lady. However, the Septa is not making any headway in teaching Arya her studies, purely depending on Sansa keeping her sister in check. That is only causing tension in their relationship that can be avoided. However, if anyone could get her to learn her ladylike curtsies it would be Maege Mormont.”

“I understand Ned, but still… It is so far!” Catelyn said. 

He knew she held nothing against the women of Bear Island despite how hard it was to imagine them as ladies sometimes. But that was nothing to the fact that her daughter was going to be so far away.

“The women of Bear Island are formidable, yes but they know their duties just as well as any southern lady. I would like to see someone imply otherwise. This is what she needs. I have seen what happens when the Wolf’s blood is repressed.” He looked at Jon, “It does not end well for anyone. Maybe this way we can all get what we want.”

~~~

Jon was curious. In all of his eleven years he had never been called to his father’s solar alone. Every other time he had Robb or his other siblings with him. Lord Stark always made sure to include him when he was giving leading lessons to Robb. They did not get those lessons from him directly regularly but when they did Jon went out of his way to treasure them.

Jon had a thought hit him. What if he called him here to speak about his mother? He had asked, every year near his name day, about her yet got nothing in response. He understood that his existence was a blight on his father’s honor, but he thought that he could at least get a little information on her. Did he not deserve that at the very least? 

Feeling energized at the thought that he might be receiving knowledge about his mother, Jon started to run up the steps that led to his father’s solar. The last fortnight or so, he had not the freedom to move about willingly and he could feel it. He expended what seemed to be all of his energy during his spar with Theon and Robb this morning, he barely won. Now he could not even make it up a set of stairs without hunching over onto his knees. Damn the pox!

“Jon?” A voice said, as arms grabbed his shoulders. Despite himself Jon could not help but to jump. “Are you alright?”

“Y- Yes, Lady Stark.” He said, eyes widening at the woman married to his father. Ever since he got sick she had been almost eerily nice to him. He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I- I am fine.”

“You need to be careful.” Catelyn admonished him. “The Maester said that it would take a few weeks to get your stamina back. After that showing this morning… You do not want to end back up in the medical wing so soon.”

Jon was not proud of it but he just stared at her in shock. He could not believe she was actually speaking to him directly. If he is not mistaken, he believes that this is the most she has ever said to him at once in his entire life. In the past he was never able to even look at her without her scaring him off. As he was wondering whether she was angry about him beating Robb she spoke.

“Let us go.” Catelyn sighed at his reaction while gathering up her skirts. “Your Lord Father is waiting for us.”

Jon’s heart sank. “Us,” she said. If she were to be in this meeting, there was only one reason behind it. He was being sent away. It was no secret that Lady Catelyn wanted him gone since she stepped foot in Winterfell. Jon, his siblings, even Jeyne Poole and Theon had all heard the arguments. Now that he had been sick and could have infected her other children she got all the evidence she needed for his father to send him away from his home. Maybe to one of his Bannermen or maybe he could finally join Uncle Benjen up at the wall…

“Jon?” His father’s voice interrupted his spiraling train of thoughts. “Jon, are you listening to me?”

“I- I am sorry father.” Jon said as he realized he must have let his mind wonder.

“Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone shall be here in a few days. If you would like, I will ask him if he would be willing to have you squire under him.” His father said, and he seemed so far and large while he was behind his desk. “He is an excellent fighter and a celebrated tourney knight but more importantly he is a good man. We have fought together in many a battle, I truly believe you can learn a lot from him.”

Jon felt a jolt of panic go through him. Sure, his father and Catelyn were offering to have him squired, but it was clear that it was a way to get rid of him. He knew that his father had stopped her attempts to get Jon sent away but he guessed that she had finally whittled him down.

“I… Uh…” Jon said, hesitating.

“Jon.” Catelyn said, grabbing Jon’s attention. It has been nearly eleven years and he thinks she has said his name more in the last seven nights than she did in the last decade. “I know… You are welcome here. You do not have to go if you do not want to. I swear it on the Old Gods and the New. 

However, it is what is best for you. You need to be thinking about your future. If you become a knight this allows you to set up that future independent of your family.”

“And he may always say no.” His father said, letting him know not to get his hopes up. “He may be a good friend, but he is under no obligation to accept. Although if he does say no and you still wish to squire there is no shortage of Knights I may and will ask for you.”

Jon looked down at his feet as he debated his options. He had heard of Bronze Yohn Royce and acting as a squire to him would be a boon. Everything his father said about him was well known and in addition he was one of the top commanders during Robert’s Rebellion. The only downside was that he spends much of his time split between King’s Landing and the Vale, so he would not be near his siblings often, nor his father. Even Lady Catelyn who seemed to be warming up to him. But she was right. He could not stay in Winterfell forever.

He could make a name for himself. A knight of well renown. He knew how good he was with a sword already and someone with Bronze Yohn’s skill could refine his own skills to the degree of Arthur Dayne or even Aemon the Dragonknight! Finally he repressed a sigh and asked, “…When does Lord Royce get here?”

Five Years Later

 “Mother, mother, mother!”

Catelyn looked up from the letter from the Grand Maester and the letter she just received from Jon Snow as Bran skipped into the room.

“Dear Seven!” Catelyn said, jumping up. “Bran what is that!”

“It’s a Direwolf! The symbol of our house!” Bran said excitedly. “We found six of them! Six! One for all of us! Four male pups and two female!”

“Six?” She said, incredulously. She knew that the Direwolf was the sigil of the house, but these things were ferocious beasts… or would be when they eventually grew up. They could hurt the children!

“But Mother guess what?” he said, tugging her arm, “Guess what, guess what, guess what?”

“What Bran?” She said, sighing as he led them to his siblings.

“Robb received a Soul-mark!” He said, grinning and a smile appeared on Catelyn’s face.

Soul-marks were extremely rare. She in all her life had only ever seen one and that was only after one of the partners had died and the mark had mostly faded away. But now her son had one? This was beyond a miracle.

“He did, did he?” She said, cocking an eyebrow. “Although I must admit I am upset. My own son! He did not even bother to tell me this?”

“He…” Bran said, as he realized he may have overstepped his bounds. “He’s giving the girls and Rickon their pups.”

“Did he know that you were going to tell me?” Catelyn said, already annoyed that they happened to find the pups the fortnight that Arya happened to be back in Winterfell with Maege. That one was the child she would need to watch out for when they got their wolf pup. Then again if the pup was on Bear Island it was one less she would have to deal with in Winterfell.

“No, mother…” Bran sighed dejectedly. Catelyn sighed as well.

“Very well. Bring me to them….”

As they neared the kitchen, Catelyn and Bran heard various cries of pain from her daughters and she started running. Both of her daughters were gripping their own wrists in pain, Arya her left and Sansa her right, and Rickon was forcing himself as far away from Robb as gold possible. Robb himself was holding the three pups, one in each hand and the other on his knee as he struggled to stay upright.

 “What happened?” Catelyn asked.

“As soon as they touched the pups, they felt pain! Nearly dropped the pups!” Robb explained, as he handed a pup to Catelyn. Her eyes narrowed as the one with golden eyes yawned and showed only pink gums. How did it hurt the girls?

“Like what you felt?” Bran asked, and Robb nodded and subconsciously looked at his wrist. Catelyn looked to see the marking of a weirwood tree with its leaves colored green on his wrist. She realized what must’ve happened and quickly turned to her girls.

“Girls your wrists!” She said, grabbing for them and there she saw that they too had Soul-marks. She also noticed out of her three eldest children Robb and Sansa both had theirs on their right wrist and Arya her left.

“Mother…” Sansa said, apprehensively. “Are these?”

“Soul-marks.” Catelyn said, nodding. Sansa looked ecstatic, while Arya frowned.

“I don’t wanna marry some stupid boy no matter what my wrist says!” She declared.

Sansa sighed, rolling her eyes. “You won’t have a choice! This is a message from the gods! They found the perfect boy for…”

“Hmmph!” Arya said, and right before they could start arguing Catelyn interrupted. The distance between them did not help the girls get along whatsoever as everyone else in the Household quickly came to learn.

“Girls!” Catelyn warned, as she looked to her eldest’s soulmark.

She had no idea what Robb’s could possibly be connected to. Robb’s weirwood leaf was obviously representing him but why green? While many houses of the North had green in their sigils that she could remember, the Weirwood did not narrow it down much. Getting a straight answer may take a while

“Rickon, sweetling…” She said looking at her terrified little boy as the black direwolf pup crawled on the floor in front of him. “Did you receive one as well?”

“No!” Rickon nearly shouted in panic.

“He didn’t touch the wolf.” Arya huffed, crossing her arms.

“What?”

“We all received our marks as soon as we touched the direwolves, mother.” Robb explained, and Rickon let out a terrified screech as the pup got closer to him.

Catelyn pulled her youngest little wolf into her lap. She whispered in her ear “Mama’s here Rickon. I need you to be brave, like your father.”

“B-But… It will hurt!”

“But you will have gained a new friend! Two new friends actually. Your wolf will like you if you pet him!”

Her little boy looked at her terrified as he finally held out a shaky hand. Catelyn murmured sweet assurances as the pup finally licked his palm. Rickon yelped and yanked his arm into his chest, before giggling and pulling the pup to him.

“Gentle! Rickon, gentle!” his older sibling sounded; horrified expressions upon their faces at his rough handling of the pup.

As her youngest cooed at the pup, Catelyn twisted his wrist out gently to look at the new mark. Oh! Well his match couldn’t be better! 

For the North may not even hint at it due to their respect for Ned, they were still wary of the fact that Ned had married a southron woman. They may not even be annoyed as of right now, but in another generation or two of it, they may not be as accepting. This Direwolf wrestling a bear may help smooth things.

Especially since both of her daughters would more than likely be marrying outside the North. In the most ironic fit of fate, Arya’s mark was the less headache inducing, simple one to figure out with it being a Golden-Yellow Direwolf. One of the Royal princes if she had to guess since considering the friendship between Ned and Robert and now Lyanna’s doppelganger would now be marrying his son seemed to fit.

No, it was Sansa’s mark that she was curious about. It barely looked like a Soul-mark! Just what seemed to be a group of dots that together looked like, unless Catelyn was mistaken, Winterfell itself. She so wanted her daughter to marry south and she knew that Sansa wanted that as well. She hoped that whatever this meant, she would get her wish, but considering the castle was in her soulmark that hope was not high. Catelyn knew Ned wanted to keep as many of his children close so he at least would be happy.

“I- I must go to speak to your father.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Golden Ghost

Eddard could not believe it had been so long since he had last seen his old friend. Not that he was exactly happy about the circumstances nor was he happy about the fact that he was three days ahead of schedule. Not even a quarter of Eddard’s own Bannermen had been able to arrive at Winterfell. Nonetheless, he was excited all the same. Not since the Greyjoy rebellion had he seen the man that he was closer to than either one of his own brothers and they would soon be brothers in more than just friendship!

Not only that, his son was returning! He had seen Jon exactly twice in the last five years since he had been gone, both times was when Lord Royce was supervising shipments going there from Gulltown for Lord Arryn and only for a few hours at a time. There was only so much he could get from letters.

Looking down the line he saw his two youngest children from the time before Jon left squirming and bouncing in order to see their brother. Had he been a younger man he might have joined them, but their mother lectured both of them to make sure that they did not do anything untoward once they saw their older brother and Eddard had to set an example. Robb and Sansa were looking for him as well but the benefit of age allowed them to do it in a much more subtle manner.

Eddard was not going to lie, he had been terrified of having his son in King’s Landing. There had been so many people who remembered Rhaegar, especially in the Targaryen’s old seat and the chance is that he could be recognized. That’s not even mentioning the fact he may have a Soul-mark. What would happen if he received one like the rest of Ned’s children? Marks show parts from both sides. What if his mark showed his Targaryen heritage?

Eddard was interrupted when he had to stop his eyes from practically bulging out of his head once he finally saw Robert. He was followed by three hundred bannermen, knights, sworn swords and freeriders, his flair for the dramatic and tendency to indulge his baser urges have not disappeared Eddard realized. Over their heads a dozen yellow Baratheon banners flew through the wind. He found himself recognizing many of the riders in Robert’s party. The Kingslayer was easily spotted by his golden hair, Sandor Clegane by his burnt face trailing a tall boy with pouty lips who could only be the crown prince, Robert’s oldest. While the short man behind them was no doubt the Imp of Casterly Rock, Tyrion Lannister.

But he did not recognize the huge man at the head of the column who was almost a stranger to Eddard until he jumped off the horse with a familiar roar and pulled him into a bone-crunching hug. Robert started laughing, and screamed, “You got fat.”

Eddard smiled and just glanced up and down his friend’s new girth and Robert roared in more laughter. “It’s good to see your frozen face again, Eddard! Have not changed a bit! Not one bit!” Robert said, before sweeping his wife in a softer hug, as he would a sister. “Cat!”

Eddard wishes he could say the same about the King. Seventeen years ago when they had fought for the throne, Robert had been clean-shaven, muscled, and six and a half feet tall, towering over other men. But now his wide girth is just as impressive as his height. Eddard has not seen Robert since Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion, when Eddard had taken the Greyjoy heir Theon as hostage and ward. Since that night Robert has gained at least eighty pounds.

“Look at your children!” Robert roared, walking down the line. “This must be my namesake?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Robb said, bowing as Robert made his way down the line granted pleasantries to the rest of his children.

While Eddard was glad to see his old friend, it was truly his son that he was looking for. Cersei Lannister looked down at him from her cart with her children, (whom Arya did not even bother to pretend to not glare at) but he still saw no sign of his own child. After his trueborn children have all been introduced, Robert turned to Eddard to ask him to take the King to the crypts. He wishes to pay his respects.

“We have been riding for days, My Love. Surely the dead can wait?” The queen said and Eddard tried not to grimace at the fact he was in agreement with Cersei Lannister for once.

Robert ignored his queen and stormed towards the crypts as Cersei went to sulk with the Kingslayer. While Eddard loves him for remembering her after all those years, he was more than a little annoyed at not being able to see Jon… his Jon. Eddard called for a lantern and walked down the narrow steps with this king he barely recognized. As they walk, Robert complained that he thought they would never reach Winterfell – that he keeps forgetting that the North is bigger than the other six kingdoms combined and yet he had not seen any people.

“Perhaps they were too shy to come out? After all, it is not often that they see kings in the North?” Eddard asked as Robert laughed at his Jape.

“Maybe you should come south, to taste the sweet fruits of Highgarden, and the towns! With flowers and markets, cheap summer wines and girls. Oh, Eddard the girls! The Girls ! Those women of the Reach lose all their modesty in the heat of the south, and they often swim naked in the river, even the Fat Flower’s only daughter! Or they wear these thin silk gowns that when they start sweating, they might as well be naked!”

Eddard rolled his eyes as they walked down the stairs and Eddard cannot help noticing how his vices have taken a toll on Robert. He was red-faced, weezing and out of breath by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, you are no fun!” Robert sighed, “A trait you almost passed on to your bastard! At least he knows when the opportunities to have fun are!”

Eddard’s eyebrows raised at Robert’s insinuation, but his old friend waved him off. “Oh, do not worry. He did not do anything untoward to any girls despite my influence. No bastard grandchildren on the way.”

Ned sighed in relief at Robert’s assessment. However, Robert had a… skewed sense of going too far. “How has Jon been doing?” He had not seen him in over a year and the reports he gets are far and few between. He would like a firsthand account, and there is no one Eddard would trust more to give him an honest report than Robert. This would give him a good indicator as to how Jon was growing.

“Oh, the boy is the next Duncan the Tall, Cregan Stark and Sword of the Morning mixed together. Good friends with the Tyrell boy, doesn’t stop him from beating the Fat Flower’s golden boy into the dirt.” Robert said, grinning as the only thing that got him excited to speak came up; fighting. “We had a tourney for my son last year, your boy took away the prize. Unbelievable Eddard.”

Eddard never approved of Tourneys. They make a game of war, but he could not help but smile the same way he did the first time he heard the story. “Yes, I heard we were all very proud.”

“And get this the boy rode against Ser Barristan, and the old man’s horse flipped a shoe and the boy won. He demanded a rematch, Eddard! A rematch after he himself won! If he ain’t you in miniature I don’t know nuthin’.” Robert said, slapping him on the back.

“And did Ser Barristan take him up on his offer.”

“Nah the old man said he won fair and square. I wanted to knight him then and there myself but I figured ol’ Bronze Yohn should get that honor. Don’tchu worry…” Eddard got worried as Robert started slurring his words. He hoped it was from excitement rather than other -more likely- option. His old friend never was the most controlled when it came to drink. “It took’em a good two weeks but he got ‘is Knighthood. Gods I love tourneys. You gotta come down and try one, Eddard. Maybe the apple doesn't fall far from the tree?” Robert asked, trying to get him to join a tourney has he had for the last quarter century. He finally grew solemn as they approached Lyanna’s grave.

Robert sobered up and knelt, bowing his head. After a silence, the king says, “She was more beautiful than the statue shows, you should have had the man beaten for this disrespect.” He stands up, and says in a voice hoarse with grief, “You should not have buried her in a place like this. She deserved to be buried under a fruit tree where the sun could shine on her all the time.”

“She is a Stark. Her place is here. I was there when she died.” Eddard says, after a pause to make sure his voice did not crack, which failed anyway he added. “This is what she wanted. I bring her flowers; when I can. She loved the blue roses.”

“I wish I could kill him for what he did to her.” Robert growled.

“You already have.” Ned said, grief coming into his own voice. “There are days that it is hard to forgive you for taking that from me. However, I am glad that if it was not me then it was you.”

“I kill him every night.” Robert admits almost regretfully. “In my dreams.”

“She wanted us to move on.” Eddard stresses, “She made me promise to…” Among other things. “Let us go, your wife will be waiting for you, Your Grace.”

“Do not remind me of that woman, it may make me wish to stay here longer.” Robert grumbled. “And do not call me Your Grace. Not after I came all this way to honor you!”

A pit dropped into Eddard’s stomach as he realized what he and Catelyn were afraid of was coming to pass. “These are dangerous times, and I need good men around me. Jon Arryn will not be easy to replace. He was Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, Hand of the King and, most importantly, the closest thing I had to a father.” Robert said, “I do not know a man more worthy to take his place than the man who is the closest thing I have to a brother!”

“You have two brothers.” Eddard reminded him only to be waved off.

“I want you by my side again like in the rebellion!” Robert exclaimed, completely ignoring what Ned said, “Down in King’s Landing, not up here where you are no use to anybody. Sitting on a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one, and I am bored of laws and money and listening to people’s complaints. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools, and it is driving me mad. Eddard Stark of Winterfell, I would name you Hand of the King.”

Eddard drops to one knee, not surprised by the offer. What other reason could there be for coming so far? The Hand of the King is the second-most powerful man in Westeros. Eddard is aware that Robert is offering him an enormous responsibility. It is the last thing in the world he wants. Not after lying to him for so many years.

“I am not worthy of the honor.” Ned said quickly.

“I am not trying to honor you. I am trying to get you to run my kingdom while I eat, drink and whore myself into an early grave!” Robert laughs, yanking Eddard to his feet. “The smallfolk have a saying, you know? That the King shits and the Hand wipes.”

“I have a feeling that I will be doing a lot of wiping.” Eddard deadpanned.

“Ha!” Robert threw his head back and laughed, “See this is why I need you down south! None of those poncy flatterers would dare make a joke at the king’s expense!”

“You can at least give me a smile!” Robert said, “I’m offering you quite the position! The least you can do is be bloody happy about it!”

“Maybe it is a Stark thing? Starks can only express such little happiness because of the cold? Freezes it up inside them.” Ned said, making the joke that Robert had been telling for years.

“How about this? I will reteach you how to have a sense of humor if you come south.” Robert said, grasping him at the shoulders. “We were meant to rule together. If she had lived, we would have been brothers in blood as much as friendship. It is not too late. If we are lucky we can join our houses like Lyanna and I were supposed to.”

“Yes we were very happy when we saw it.” Ned said, smiling.

“Saw it?” Robert said, confusedly squinting at his old friend. “Saw what?”

“My littlest she-wolf’s Soul-mark?” Ned said, raising an eyebrow in question. “She has a soul-mark that has a golden direwolf in it. Is it not your son?”

“DAMN! It’s not Joffrey nor Tommen! Must be a thrice damned Lannister! You literal son of a bitch! We were supposed to be family!” Robert yelled, Eddard glared at his friend for the joke about his mother that Eddard told 20 years ago. “What about the other girl? She can be queen?”

Eddard tenses as he realized what Robert is saying. Jon had sent many letters from the times that he spent at King’s Landing and talked much about Robert’s two younger children. However, he specifically left out any mention of the Crown Prince. The absence of comments said more than a book of poems. Jon was smart enough to not put anything negative about the boy in a letter and the fact that he did not find anything good to say about Joffrey was not good. Not at all. Best rip off the bandage quickly.

“She also has gained a Soul-mark. In fact, most of my children have.” Ned said, to Robert’s shock.

“All of them?” Robert said, in shock. Soul-marks were rare enough, but the fact that all of Eddard’s children got one was shocking.

“Except my Bastard and middle son.” Ned said.

“Damn Eddard, you really know how to drop news. The gods have been handing them out like sweets! I heard two of the Tyrells have just got one. The cripple and the Fat Flower’s daughter I was telling you about.” Robert said, laughing and slapping Eddard’s shoulder. At this revelation Ned quickly thought of Robb’s soul mark before Robert continued. “Here I thought that telling you that your bastard has taken a fancy to my Mya would be shocking.”

“Oh!” Ned said and he realized he never thought of Jon liking girls that way, any of his children really. Well except maybe Sansa but that was different, she liked the idea of chivalric knights not boys. “I guess he does have some of his uncle in him.”

“Oh yes.” Robert said, rolling his eyes. “If you think the boy who was so honorable, he would barely touch her waist while dancing was anything like Brandon, I do not want to know how naive you truly are... Although it has had the benefit of Mya being around the Red Keep more.”

“Cat and I were going to ask you to legitimize him.” Eddard admitted. “Have him start a cadet branch in Moat Cailin. Maybe the name Greenstark?”

“Take the house sigil of the laughing tree huh?” Robert chuckled, slapping his back and Eddard stilled.

“What?”

“Oh, come off it, Eddard.” Robert said, waving his hand dismissively. Before grinning wildly. “If there is one thing I know, it is fighting. You do not think I recognized her style? She was half a horse! I know it was her in that armor. Fell in love with her that day, I did. Only right that someone with Stark Blood takes up the sigil.”

Eddard’s eyebrows rose at the hidden depths of his oldest friend. He always thought Robert loved his sister until his own marriage and how much work he put into it before fell in love with Catelyn. He then realized that Robert loved the idea of what he thought Lyanna was. The beauty but not the iron underneath. This once again changed his entire perspective on Robert.

“Aye. She was the Knight of the Laughing Tree.” Ned said, looking down at the fact he has been caught in a lie almost two decades in the making. “It is probably what started his sick obsession with her in the first place. A Visenya to his Rhaenys…”

“Let us go, Your Grace. And thank you.” Eddard finally said, trying to distract from the somber mood.

“None of that horseshit!” Robert said, waving off the title. “We’re about to be family for real, in front of gods and men. Besides, it is the least I could do after your bastard saved her life.”

“After he did what ?”

~~~

Catelyn smiled, as she saw her brood barely holding themselves back as they waited for the king’s host to disperse. She had not seen either of her own siblings in years so she could understand the feel of the pull. Eventually the Bronze Ruins of House Royce’s Banners came into the courtyard. The big lord who acted as Jon Arryn’s second in command in many instances, nodded at Jon to allow him to join his siblings.

Vayon nodded at her as he and his crew started to get the Royal Family and the others set up in Winterfell, allowing her to watch her children’s reunion with the boy they were raised with. A few years ago she would have been furious to see the boy walk through these gates and now… well she honestly did not know what to feel about his arrival.

Before Jon could even reach the group, Arya finally stopped staring at the Royal princes, furious that her future soulmate would dare even be in her presence, and sprinted across the courtyard and jumped up into his arms. Jon “oomphed” as her youngest daughter wrapped her arms around her cousin’s neck. The boy took it in stride and picked her up, twirling her in two quick circles causing her to let out a peel of laughter as her legs swung loosely behind her. Catelyn was glad that the Mormont’s were able to stay so she could be here for this, even if it meant that she was more than likely to go even further than she already was.

“Jon!” Arya screeched into the boy’s ear. “You’re finally here!”

“Of course.” Jon said, rubbing the back of her head. “I heard you were coming, and you avoided me the last few times I was here! Could not let you keep doing that!”

“That is not true!” Arya said scandalized before realizing that Jon was jesting with her. She grumbled and punched his stomach doing more damage to her hand than Jon due to the chain mail he was wearing.

“Move Arya!” Sansa whined, nearly bouncing in anticipation. “You’re hogging him!”

Arya rolled her eyes, and Catelyn heard her littlest she-wolf murmur “Like you really care.”

“I cannot believe that you won a tourney, in King’s Landing too!” Bran piped. “I heard you went up against Ser Jaime Lannister in the finals! That you beat the Barristan the Bold?”

“It was really luck.” Jon said, humbly although years of mothering made sure that Catelyn did not miss the mischievous look in his eye when Bran mentioned Ser Barristan Selmy.

“A few merchants from White Harbor said you saved the King’s daughter?” Robb said, pulling his brother into his embrace.

“Mya saved herself mostly…” Jon said, scratching the back of his head. A dark look passed over his face as he thought of the Kettleblack brothers. It was obvious to everyone that they were hired by Cersei, but there was no way to prove it… yet. “Although I did… stop the man who was trying to hurt her.”

Catelyn smiled gratefully at him for the censoring of his words around the younger children.

“You saved the Princess!” Sansa squealed, hugging him. “Like a true knight! Oh, Jon, that's so romantic!” She cooed out all in one breath.

“Well Mya isn’t exactly…” Jon tried explaining, before being cut off by Robb.

“Speaking of romance…” He said, pulling up his sleeve and Jon’s eyes nearly bulged out of their skull.

“Wait, is that a…”

“Yep!” Arya piped, holding out her own wrist. “We all got one!”

“I didn’t” Bran grumbled at the same moment Jon’s jaw dropped as he saw Robb, Arya and Sansa all show their wrists. He narrowed his eyes at Arya’s before he was shaken from his thoughts as a little voice sounded, “Even me!”

“And who is this?” Jon asked in faux-confusion before crouching down in front of Rickon.

The baby of her children giggled, “Jon, it is Rickon!”

“What! No, you cannot be Rickon!” Jon said, a fake look of shock on his face. “Rickon is tiny! I can pick him up with one hand.”

“I grew!” He said, then with a mischievous smirk he added, “And I betchu can’t even lift me over your head anymore anyways !”

Jon rolled his eyes at Rickon’s obvious “trick” but nonetheless tossed the boy over his shoulder causing a squeal of laughter.

“Did you really scare a man to death?” Arya asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

Catelyn tilted her head as Jon’s face flashed between pride, then guilt before his eyes flickered to Catelyn for a fraction of a second. “That’s not… exactly what happened.”

“Jon…” Catelyn said, raising an eyebrow.

The boy… man Catelyn reminded herself. He was legally an adult and an anointed knight at that. The Knight sighed, “Well a certain Southron Lord was making rude and frankly untrue comments about a lady’s maidenhead.” He said, his face heating up and all his siblings (minus Sansa whose own face heated up) looked confused at his vagueness. It is not like they would or even could know these people so why was he being vague? “It was mostly Bronze Yohn doing the threatening on my behalf.”

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed at Jon’s skittishness. It obviously was not this Mya girl that he had been speaking of. He had no problem mentioning her before. It was strange that he was being skittish now despite the fact that no one here would likely know these people. Whatever it was, it would need to wait. She did not want these raunchy details around her younger children.

“I am sure it has been a long journey.” Catelyn said, gaining the attention of the children. “How about we help your brother get his things to his room

“I will do it!” Arya and Bran said at the same time. They both ran to Jon’s horse to help him with his bags.

“They are going to be bothering you about stories for your entire stay.” Sansa sighed, as Rickon squirmed to be let down before he skipped off to join his siblings. Robb and Jon tried not to roll their eyes at her obvious attempt at sounding older.

“Yes, I figured.” Jon said with a smile erupting on his face.

“And don’t say that as if you won’t be right next to them asking for those same stories.” Robb said, making Sansa’s face heat up again but she did not deny it.

“Stories which I will be happy to share.” Jon said, putting a hand on his embarrassed sister’s shoulder. “As will Lady Myranda!”

He was not going to complain about spending more time with any of his siblings. Especially if that meant keeping Sansa away from Joffrey. The boy was a monster but knew how to put on a deceptive face. He had no doubt his sister who loved stories and knights would quickly fall to his charms. Luckily Bronze Yohn spent enough time in the Red Keep that he did not disagree -especially after the “ mischief ” with the cat- and agreed to aid him in distracting her. He decided to bring Myranda with him and hopefully Sansa would be distracted by the older “ more sophisticated ” southron lady. 

The fact she now had a soulmate that was not Joffrey was just the icing on the cake of his plan. He unfortunately had no suspicions on who it was but Joffrey is too much of a braggart to have not made sure everyone in the King’s party knew that he had gained a mark. “Tell me though, does Bran still wish to be a Knight?”

Robb and Catelyn exchanged looks and Robb said, “You know he does. I am actually surprised he has not bothered you into allowing him to squire under you already. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Jon said, “During the Tourney I won…”

“I still cannot believe you won a tourney!” Sansa said, dreamily. Realizing what she had insinuated she continued “Not that... I just mean…”

Robb and Jon rolled their eyes as Sansa rambled. The two siblings did not have the warmest of relationships before he left, Catelyn supposed that she has some blame for that. She never encouraged a separation between them, nor would she have, but her daughter looked up to her. Seeing the distance between her mother and brother in no doubt inspired her behavior. Fortunately, the letters exchanged seemed to be bridging the gap, albeit a little bit slowly “It is fine, Sansa.”

“When you won, who did you crown as your Queen of Love and Beauty?” Sansa asked, practically jumping up and down.

“My, uh, friend Mya.” Jon said, trying to play it off but Sansa was like a bloodhound when it came to these things. Robb and Catelyn smiled as Jon realized he walked into a trap.

“The King’s daughter, Mya?” Sansa asked at a pitch that hurt Catelyn’s ears.

“The king’s bastard, Mya. Yes, honestly she is just a friend. She loves another.” Jon said, before turning to Robb and Catelyn avoiding the subject. Catelyn sighed as she saw the look on Jon’s face. Very similar to the one that Robb gave the time she caught him covering for Theon’s brothel runs. She had a feeling she knew why he was making this particular look. “When I beat Ser Barristan, I had a particular price for his armor and horse. He agreed to squire Bran if Father allows it.”

Catelyn’s body seized up. Bran? Her baby boy, going to squire? She could barely hold it together when Arya (and Rickon maybe be following her) left for Bear Island, and she was only a sennight away at most. But her Bran? Her baby was going all the way to King’s Landing?

“He said he would wait if you want him to be a little older, but Ser Barristan is getting up there in age. Bran is ten already, more than old enough to squire.” Jon said, shrugging. Then in a moment of what seemed like panic added, “Those were Ser Barristan’s words not mine!”

“Come on Jon!” Arya said, as she and Bran were both struggling to hold up his bag. “You have to tell us about being a Knight!”

“Whoa!” Jon said, jumping up. Shaggydog had come galloping and stumbling over on those oversized paws of his. Jon’s jaw dropped once again as Shaggydog tumbled through the mud colliding with Rickon making him just as muddy. 

He finally asked, “Is that a Direwolf ?”

“Ah yes. We found them in the woods. Their mother was dead, and they were going to die themselves, but we knew it was a bad idea to leave a pack of Direwolves out to die. They are the sigil of our house after all.” Robb said smiling as he added the last part to make sure Jon did not forget where he came from. It was well due as Robb said he channeled Jon to convince Eddard.

“They?” Jon questioned, causing Robb, Bran and Sansa to whistle (Arya had yet to be able too, much to her frustration). Numerous yips and barks came as the brood of Direwolves all came sprinting towards them. Numerous members of Lord Royce’s party jumped and backed up as all of them went to their respective masters and mistress’, including the white one that ended up on their doorstep a sennight after they brought them home. Jon let out a joyous laugh as the pup tried climbing up his leg.

“That one is yours, Snow.” Robb said, “For… well for obvious reasons.”

“Thanks, I could not tell.” Jon deadpanned, kneeling down to pet the eerily silent Direwolf.

Catelyn rolled her eyes as she saw all of her children, even Sansa, tense in giddy anticipation of Jon touching the wolf. She did not understand the joy her children got from seeing their other siblings embarrassed or hurt. She knew she was never this way with Lysa! Jon took off his glove to pet the pup and as soon as he did, he was lifted off his feet and went sprawling in the snow.

Numerous cries of “Jon!” Sounded out as the sibling ran to their brother who had gone stiff as a board. The boy looked as if he wanted to scream but his mouth was sealed shut. Catelyn’s eyes widened at his reaction. None of the other Stark children had nearly as extreme a reaction! A flash of gold passed through her vision as Jaime Lannister ran to the boy to look at him.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with him?” He asked no one in particular.

“H-He’s getting a Soul-mark!” Sansa finally replied and Jaime looked up at Sansa and gave a skeptical look before he ripped at the sleeve in Jon’s dominant hand and they let out yelps as they all saw glowing golden tendrils trace the boy’s veins. Finally, Snow let out a large gasp as the tendrils disappeared and he went limp in the snow and mud.

“Jon, are you OK?”

“What happened?”

“Are you alright?”

“We need to bring him to the Maester!”

“All of you enough!” Catelyn barked, “Sansa is correct! Robb, help your brother up and get him to Maester Luwin immediately!”

“Yes mother!” Robb said, throwing a barely conscious Jon’s arm over his shoulder as Children and Direwolf circled him like locusts, and the Kingslayer looked at the boy worriedly. But Catelyn wasn’t worried about that. She was more worried about the brand-new Direwolf soul-mark on the Boy’s wrist.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Midgrace Plant

Jon winced as his little brother brutally knocked the younger of the two princes into the dirt. Again. He sighed as Tommen was on his back and he was forced to roll to sit back up due to the copious amount of padding that Queen Cersei required him to wear; it made him look like a turtle. Bran raised his practice sword above his head and before Rodrik can say anything Jon shouts, “Bran enough!”

He could see that the Prince was about to cry, and Jon knelt by him while helping him up. “It’s OK, Your Grace. You did well.”

“No, I didn’t!” He said petulantly

“You did!” Jon insisted, looking up at his younger brother. Bran had been worrying since Jon returned to Winterfell. Being the only child of Ned Stark without a soul-mark evidently was a hard adjustment for his middle brother. He never would have thought Bran to be as violent as this. “Bran has been training for years. You only have for a few moons.”

The queen was so overprotective of her children that, despite his age, Tommen had practically never held a blade. Jon was forced to start teaching him in secret with the aid of Loras and eventually Ser Jaime. It was only King Robert catching them that made sure that Tommen was officially getting the training he needed and deserved as a prince of the crown. Not that Tommen wanted it, all the boy wanted was to be able to study and work with animals.

“Are you sure?” He whispered and Jon nodded, helping the boy up.

“I am!” Jon said, “I’m actually jealous of you. Here you are, getting better. They aren’t even letting me practice!”

Ever since his reaction to gaining the annoyingly (itchy) Soul-Mark, everyone has been very overbearing towards him. He was barely able to get himself into this training session as a spectator. It took him over ten minutes to persuade Ser Rodrik to even let him pick up a tourney sword. He was a gods’ damned anointed knight and they still treated him as a child. Well they did here at Winterfell anyway. Somehow down in King’s Landing he was able to get the King to value his opinion, well as much as he valued anyone else’s opinion.

“Prince Joffrey, Robb, why don’t you both go another round?” Rodrik asked.

“Gladly!” Robb said, grabbing his sword from Theon Greyjoy. He was still sweaty from his earlier bout but was eager to start another.

The older Prince scoffed, “This is a game for children, Rodrik.”

“ Ser Rodrik!” Tommen corrected, gaining a scowl from his brother at the same time Greyjoy said, “You are children.”

“As if it matters.” Joffrey said, rolling his eyes. “And while Robb may be a child, I am a prince of the blood! I’ve grown tired of these play swords.”

“What, are you scared?” Robb asked, laughing to Theon and Joffrey rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I am terrified!” He said sarcastically. “After all, you are so much older!”

Robb’s face reddened as a few of the Lannister men started laughing. Jon’s older brother started to say something, but Jon shot up from the ground and stood between his brother and the Prince.

“The Prince is right, Robb.” Jon said, a look of shock washing over his brother’s face. “You should not go up against our Prince. Prince Joffrey deserves someone who is closer to his calibre of skill to go up against him in the practice ring…”

Robb looked at Jon curious as a few of the Baratheon men looked giddy at what Jon was about to say but the Lannister men scowled and the Prince himself seemed none the wiser as he started grinning and nudging others. Jon winked at him before turning around.

“Does anyone know where Princess Myrcella is?” Jon asked, and keeping a straight face was the biggest challenge of his life.

The entire training ground erupted in laughter as Joffrey’s face darkened. “You’ll pay for that one bastard!”

Before anyone could stop him, the Prince swung his live steel at Jon. Jon shoved his brother out of the way as he ducked under the swing. “You aren’t going to fight back, Bastard? Where’s that oh so legendary skill with a blade now?”

Everyone started yelling and a voice broke through the rest. “What in the seven hells is going on here!”

Everyone froze as Jon’s father stormed over. “We were just sparring Lord Stark.” Tommen said, trying to not get his brother in trouble.

Jon’s father seemed to recognize the lie immediately but was unable to reprimand the crown prince. Instead he canceled the rest of the training session and everyone there started groaning and moaning at the Prince’s stupidity that got the fun canceled as they packed up. As this was happening Jon’s father turned to him and Robb “Jon, Robb I would like to see you in my solar as soon as you are cleaned up. You may go now.”

Both boys nodded and started getting ready immediately. “I wonder what father wants to speak about.” Jon asked, as they trudged up the stairs.

“Probably a conversation about that scraggly looking beard that he probably wants shaved off your face!” Robb joked and Jon rolled his eyes. It was not lost on Jon that Robb has not shaved since Jon’s return “Maybe he just wants to help us figure out these sou-”

“Jon!” Arya shouted, interrupting Robb as she skipped up to them.

Robb cocked an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be in a lesson with your Septa?”

“No…” She lied. Very poorly. “I was supposed to go train with Lady Maege!”

Jon cocked an eyebrow to match his brothers. “Really…”

“Well Septa Mordane is boring!” Arya said, at the combined force of both her brothers giving her a pointed look. “I am ditching to join up with Lady Maege! Lady Maege said because of this stupid itchy tattoo that is connected to some stupid boy that I might not be allowed back to Bear Island! I already had to spend my morning writing a letter to Lord Tywin about it!”

“It may not be a Lannister.” Jon reminded her. “Other houses have gold in their sigils.”

“Yeah, just look who you are speaking to. He would definitely know!” Robb said, gaining a look from his brother. 

Jon’s White Direwolf with a red eye soulmark, which looked like his new living Direwolf Ghost, was trimmed and outlined in gold. Jon thought he had been more subtle than he was in his research into the gold since he got it. He guessed not. 

“Not to mention that sigils are not the only thing that go into a Soulmark.” Jon reminded her. “You should not be skipping lessons with your Septa. You get so little time with your mother, there is no need to do so getting lectured.” 

“I just couldn’t deal with Sansa and Jeyne mooning over the Queen and the new Royce Lady anymore!”

“Myranda is good company!” Jon replied in defense of his friend. She always made sure to welcome him and Mya to events she was having despite their bastardry and she was much fun to be around. She’s also offered to relieve him of his “maidenhood” a few times.

 “I am sure!” Arya said, rolling her eyes at the same time Robb cocked an eyebrow saying, “Oh?”

Jon elbowed his brother in the ribs as Arya tossed her head back, “But she likes boring stuff like sewing scarves… On Bear Island we learn our stitches on people’s skin!”

Jon and Robb both recoiled before realizing that the girl meant medical stitches. “Oh, I do not envy you little sister.”

Arya looked at him quizzically. “Why? It is great!”

“Arya!” They saw Maege down in the courtyard from their post on the walkway, club hanging over her shoulder. “You better get your arse down here now if you want to train today little girl!”

“Coming, Lady Mormont!” Arya said, shooting off to her brother’s amusement. Both thought she was much too well behaved and obedient, much too different from the wild little sister they knew for their tastes. But they could not deny that the new subdued Arya suited her quite well.

“What was that jape about Princess Myrcella about?” Robb asked as soon as they were out of earshot of anyone else. It would not due to be talking of the Prince and Princess like this, especially Jon.

“Oh!” Jon had to stop himself from laughing. “Prince Joffrey was… well he has a history of unpleasantness directed towards his siblings.”

In other words, he was torturing them as much as he could get away with without his parents intervening, not that either of them ever would. Nothing the little monster could do would be bad enough in Cersei’s eyes to give him an actual reprimand and Robert never would have actually noticed.

“Finally, he went a little too far and Princess Myrcella was forced to take up a practice sword and beat him ‘till he nearly pissed himself. A natural talent with a sword she is.” And by “natural” he means that she asked Loras and Jon to sneak her out at night and teach her how to swing a sword to get him to stop. “No surprise seeing who her uncle is.”

“Seems about right.” Robb chuckled, pulling his tunic over his head. “The little shit can’t even hold up against his little sister!”

“Oh please!” Jon said, rolling his eyes. “Like you’d be able to stop Arya if she pulled a sword on you.”

Robb laughed, “She’s attacked me enough times that I’d believe it, brother!”

Three quarters of an hour later Jon and Robb were both in their father’s solar along with their Uncle Benjen, Maester Luwin and Robb’s mother. “Hello boys.” Ned said, turning to Jon with a radiant grin he said, “Jon!”

Ned drew his son into a great bear hug nearly lifting him off his feet causing him to groan. Between showing Robert to the crypts and helping manage Winterfell’s latest feast he had yet to speak to the boy. To really talk to him at any rate. Benjen gave him a look to let him know that he was still worried about him after the debacle from his arrival the previous afternoon.

“’ullo father…” Jon said, straining to speak as he was being squeezed.

 “Ned…” Lady Catelyn said, letting Jon know that there was something other than seeing each other again that the boys were there for, else she would’ve let the reunion go on as long as he wanted. “You do not want to break him.”

“Right…” Ned said sitting in his chair. “We have to speak to you both. Jon… Do you plan on going back to King’s Landing?”

“I do not know, father.” Jon said, honestly. “Lord Royce has offered me a position in his household in Runestone now that I am knighted but he said I should speak to you first.” Jon was freshly knighted, he was still unsure of what his future entailed, especially with this new mark. “Why do you ask?”

“King Robert has asked me to be his hand.” His father said and Jon stiffened. “You do not think it to be a good idea?”

“Not even a little bit.” Jon said, “I cannot think of another more unsuited for the task. Please do not take offense. That is a complement.”

When his father and Catelyn exchanged looks, Robb said, “But you are planning on accepting?”

“I already have.” Ned said, and Jon cringed. His father was too good of a man and would be eaten alive by those vipers.

“Why?” Jon asked, “No offense Father but you have not been to the capital in near a decade. You do not know anything that has happened recently. This is not a good idea…”

Jon trailed off as Catelyn, Maester Luwin and his father exchanged looks. “What I am about to tell you mustn’t leave this room.”

When both boys exchanged looks before nodding Catelyn began, “We have reason to believe that Jon Arryn's death was not due to natural causes as suggested, but instead due to him being poisoned.”

“We rec … we believe that it was the Lannister’s who murdered Jon Arryn.” Catelyn said, in one breath. Jon’s brows furrowed curiously.

“Jon?” His father asked at Jon’s strange look.

“It would not be outside the realm of possibilities…” Jon started, Maester Pycelle was so in love with Tywin Lannister it was a miracle that he did not get on his knees in front of the man whenever he visited the capital. He was the one to treat Lord Arryn, he actually sent Maester Coleman away when he looked after him, so it would not surprise Jon to hear that he did not help or in fact made whatever was done to him worse. “… but they were not in the capital when Jon Arryn died. They had been gone for almost a full week.”

“What?” Ned, Benjen and Catelyn all asked incredulously.

“Yes. Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime were bringing the king’s children to Casterly Rock to visit their grandfather… or at least they were attempting to.” Jon said, shrugging. “But since he seemingly died of natural causes I assume there is a poison that can replicate those affects and was slow acting? That does not need them to be around, especially since the man who treated him is firmly in the Lannister’s pocket.”

Ned sighed, “We will be leaving for the Capital within a fortnight.”

“We?” Robb asked, and Jon was curious too. The capital was dangerous at the best of times, and Father wanted to bring multiple family members?

“Myself, Sansa, Arya and Bran.” His father said, “Sansa will thrive at court, and enjoy herself as well. As well as a friendship between Bran and Prince Tommen may be needed due to the friction between you and Prince Joffrey. You will be Warden of the North one day, gods willing. It will not due for you and the future king to have such a volatile relationship. And Arya… Arya…”

“Oh, come off it, Ned.” Catelyn said, rolling her eyes fondly. “You missed her and want her close.”

“I will not feel ashamed to want my children close!” His father finally said indignantly. “Not to mention that it will likely be easier to find the mark’s other half’s from the capital.”

The protocol for Marks was straightforward but extremely outdated. Anyone who received a mark was to report to their liege lord and they would report to the lord paramount. But Aegon the Conqueror nor any of his descendants never implemented a reporting requirement for in-between kingdoms. Jon wondered how many people were never able to find their other half because of this.

“If you are bringing Bran to the capital…” Jon began, “It is past time for him to squire… I think I have a solution for that.”

“Oh?” His father asked, a glint of humor in his eyes. Catelyn probably already explained the situation.

“When I beat Ser Barristan, I was able to ransom for his armor and horse. He agreed to squire Bran if you allow it. Maybe it will assuage his anger for being the only one unmarked?” Jon said, and his father sighed. 

The easy-going boy had not been happy that he was the only sibling to not receive a Soul-Mark. He has become more disagreeable and prone to temper tantrums. This would be good for Jon’s brother. Ser Barristan did not take any disrespect from his squires.

“Have you told Bran about this yet?”

Jon snorted, “And leave him pestering me the entire time I was here? I am not a foolish father.” Everyone laughed as Jon sobered up he added, “In the capital we will need to be careful. One false move…”

“Is it truly that bad?” Robb asked, and Jon shook his head.

“It does not have to be.” Jon said, “But because of House Lannister it is. They are like a Midgrace plant.”

When the Starks in the room all gave him puzzled looks he mumbled under his breath, “I have been spending too much time with Loras.”

Maester Luwin then explained “Midgraces are a type of plant that latch onto another plant like a parasite. Slowly it grows to the point of destroying the host plant.”

“That is House Lannister to the King’s Landing Baratheon’s.” Jon said, “When I first arrived at King’s Landing the Lannister guards outnumbered the Baratheon ones 2-to-1. Now? It is nearly 3-to-1 and I guarantee that with House Stark joining up with King Robert, that number will increase. Exponentially.”

“And that is just the Lannister’s. Recently the Tyrells have been putting foot holds in the capital. They want a Tyrell queen.” Jon grimaced, “That’s not even getting into the fact that most of the official positions in the capital were bought.”

“What?” His father said, angrily. “Jon Arryn…”

“Did the best he could…” Jon said, the old man was like the Grandfather Jon never had. He tasked Lord Royce and by extension Jon on many an investigation to try to improve the realm if not King’s Landing. There was only so much he could do with the likes of Littlefinger, Varys, and Cersei trying to take control for themselves and Robert refused to lift a finger in aid.

“Jon, I want you with us in King’s Landing.” Ned raised an eyebrow at him as a question. Technically Jon was an adult and Ned could not order him around but his father needed him. There was no way that Jon could say no. Jon nodded and he continued

“It will be good to have you there. If only to keep an eye on your siblings. But I will need your help with the investigation. Robb, I need you to be the Lord of Winterfell while I am away. I need you to hold down the keep while I am away.” Ned said, looking at the boys.

“I will not let you down, father.” Robb said, at the same time that Jon said, “You can count on me father. Although I don’t think you can if you expect me to stop Arya and Sansa from fighting.”

Ned and Catelyn both laughed there was another knock on the door. “One moment!” Ned told them as he turned back to his family. “We must stick together in the coming months because...”

“Winter is coming.” The rest of the room finished.

There was another, more impatient knock and the room all looked as one of the most beautiful women Jon had ever seen walked into the room. A simple golden plait draped over her shoulder and her blue-grey eyes shined in suspicion, kept drifting over to Jon. Most notably she was dressed in all White and wore trousers of all things.

“May I help you?” His father asked, suspicion returned as a woman he did not recognize felt entitled to barge into his solar.

“I’m here to talk to the Warden of the North?” She said, at least that is what Jon suspected she said. Her accent was so thick that it made his father’s seem southern.

“I am the Warden of the North.” Eddard said, standing up. “What do you want?”

“I come here on behalf of the King Beyond the Wall.” She said, simply and Robb jumped up in shock. Benjen grabbed a dagger, knowing how dangerous wildlings are than anyone here.

“Mighty brave you are.” Benjen growled, “Where is Mance?”

“Left days ago.” The blonde replied and Jon’s father gave his little brother a look.

“Mance was always too big for his britches.” Benjen said, “he’d never send an intermediary. He probably came here himself.”

“And left.” The woman said, “Left me here to talk to your king.”

“He left you here? Mighty Brave himself.” Jon’s father murmured.

“Oh, I think he knew I’d be alright.” Val said, “Wouldn’t have left me here without any reassurance.”

“Oh?”

The woman in white rolled up her sleeve to show a white direwolf trimmed in gold. Jon’s eyes widened, and the girl gave half a smirk his way. “I’m Val.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Bonding on the King’s Road

One Moon Later

Arya doesn’t think that she’s ever had this much freedom in her life, ever! Even on Bear Island she had more restrictions. Riding on the roads, playing in the creek, sword fighting! There was nothing that she was barred from doing on the road down to the stupid capital, even if she were caught doing it. As much as the journey was great, she still did not know why they even needed to leave the north anyway… It was already too warm and they were only in the Riverlands. Probably because of this stupid boy who shares this itchy tattoo …

She did not understand why this even meant anything! So what! Arya had heard that plenty of people over in Essos had symbols on their skin as well. Why should this stupid mark affect her in any way? If this stupid boy though he could tell her what to he had another thing coming!

But the best part, the only part really, that made up for it? Jon came with them! He was gone for so long but now he was back! She made it no secret that Jon was her favorite sibling. They both had the Stark look and they were both the outsiders in the family. She wrote to him nearly once a week while he was gone, although it was somewhat difficult seeing how much he traveled, but despite distance they had a closeness that would never be replaced.

Also, he was not as annoying to be watched by as Septa Mordane was! The seven say this! The Seven says that ! You’ll never find a proper husband doing these things! Jon did not bug her over these stupid things. He commissioned Needle for her and even gave her and Mycah sparring advice. She loved it… even if he was splitting his time with Sansa.

Well he was not as boring to be watched by when he wasn’t asleep ! Honestly it was the middle of the day and Jon was lounged against a tree passed out! What was he doing at night that forced him to sleep during the day? He wasn’t doing that icky stuff that Theon usually does when he’s gone at night. She knows this because Lady Val slept in the tent with her. Val taking the fourth spot in their tent instead of Septa Mordane was another benefit to having Jon travel south. She wouldn’t keep Arya and the other girls up with the snoring and smell of wine.

Val… Val was alright, she guessed. She was definitely a northern woman. She was… what was it Jon called her now that he was spending too much time with Sansa’s melodramatic self? Lonely, Lovely and Lethal? Yes, Lady Val was definitely all three of those things. She did not take any insults lightly and when these southerners thought themselves clever to hide their insults behind sweet words, she was not one to let it slide. Falyse Stokeworth learned that the hard way. The old hag ran away crying like Arya did the first time that Jeyne called her “Horseface”. She never saw an old lady cry like that, and Arya couldn’t help but laugh. She did start it after all.

Not only that, she actually listened to Arya’s interests instead of rolling her eyes like Sansa. Sure, she did not want to join Arya in any of her exploits, but she still showed interest and asked questions. (Arya thinks she is pretty close to convincing her to try archery with her). She also could blend in with Sansa, Jeyne and the other stupid ladies with their stupid interests, even if like with Arya it was more indulging them than anything else. Arya’s father said he was just grateful since she seems to be the first person able to set a balance between her and Sansa, whatever that means.

Arya was drawn from her thoughts when Mycah quickly dropped his stick.

“What do you want?” Arya asked as the girl she was just thinking about walked up.

“I’m looking for your brother?” She asked, somewhat annoyed.

Arya could not believe how stupid her brother was being about all of this. He was not exactly… no, he was. Jon was avoiding his betrothed soulmate. What was wrong with him? Val was obviously starting to become hurt by his avoiding her, how did he not see? It’s not like she was one of those prissy southern girls.

She was extremely pretty! She was nice! Even if she did call him “ Snow ” it felt more like her joking with him instead of at his expense! Arya even has seen him smile when she called him that, something her normally brooding brother rarely does, especially when his bastardry is brought up. “ Ugh !” She thought to herself, “ I think I may have to slap some sense into my brother.”

“Oh,” Arya said, looking towards the tree Jon was lounging against as he “watched” her. “He’s over there.”

Val chuckled to herself as she saw Jon asleep and a somewhat evil smile spread over her face. “ Oh, good! Mischief! ” Arya thought to herself, “ I love mischief! ”

Val rooted around in her bag before finally pulling out an old, well loved water skin. “What do you think?”

Arya smiled, “He’ll never see it coming!” She smiled, skipping after Val as she walked over to her brother. He deserved this and Arya was eager to see the results. It was not like Jon himself was a stranger to pranks anyway! Maybe this’ll cheer him up anyway. He’s been such a grumpy guts since Lord Royce went back to Runestone yesterday.

Val held out three fingers, then two, then one and then flipped the wineskin over Jon’s head, emptying the entire thing over the sleeping knight. They waited a second and then another and saw no reaction from Jon. Arya started to get worried, remembering his reaction when he first got his soul-mark she knelt down beside him. “Come on, Jon.” Arya said, shaking him. “Wake. UP !”

Arya punctuated her final word by slapping him, and he let out a gasp of air as he opened his eyes. Arya’s own eyes widened as she saw that they were a milky white color for just half a second before changing back to their normal... purple? No, that was just a trick of the light. They were once again grey again, just like Arya’s own. Looking up she saw the look on Val’s face that let Arya know that she saw it too and Arya thought she might know more than she was letting on.

“Bran!” Jon said, in a panic, scrambling up. Before either girl could say anything, Jon took off back to camp.

“Snow!” Val growled before chasing after him.

“Gods, big kids are weird,” Arya said, to Mycah. She supposed that she should be more worried about Jon, but she thought Val could handle it. They might as well spend some time together. “Let’s get back to it!”

~~~

“Father, I know what I am saying sounds like total nonsense…” Snow said, as Stark and Val finished hearing his story in Stark’s tent.

“That you somehow know that your brother and my wife were attacked even though we are nearly a thousand leagues from Winterfell, yet you won’t explain to me how you know this?” Stark asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Snow opened his mouth and then hesitated. He looked embarrassed and looked down. He murmured something that neither Val nor Eddard could hear and the Warden of the North said as much. While keeping his eyes on the ground Snow finally said, “I saw it in a dream.”

A brief flash of panic went through Eddard’s eyes before he schooled his features. “Jon, I understand that you are worried about your brother, but it was just a dream.”

Val narrowed her eyes. She saw Lord Eddard’s reaction. He believed Jon, but why was he trying to convince him otherwise?

“I know it seems like it, but it was so real father!” Snow said, unwittingly sounding like a little boy. “I can still smell the blood; I can still see the Valyrian steel dagger the man used!”

“A catspaw using Valyrian steel?” Lord Eddard asked with a cocked eyebrow. “Now I know it was a dream. Go get some rest son, you obviously need it. Don’t think I have not noticed those bags under your eyes. How long has that been going on?”

“Aye father.” Snow said, dejectedly as he trudged out of the tent, not so subtly ignoring his father’s question.

Val saw a flash of relief come across Eddard’s face before she followed her soulmate to where he sat and leaned on a tree on the outskirts of the camp. She walked up to him slowly before lightly sitting down beside him, her back against the tree. The south was much hotter than Val could have imagined, so finding some shade was nice. 

She hadn’t known Snow very long, and he was making what little time they did have difficult, but she felt like she liked him. She knew he was no lackwit or mad man either.

“I believe you.” She said, and the southerner jumped in his spot.

“Lady Val!” He exclaimed, surprised by her presence. He looked around and saw no one else around and twisted up on his knees in front of her. He let his bottom fall back onto his ankles and said, “My apologies my lady. I did not hear you walk up.”

“Just call me Val, Snow. We’re going to be seeing each other naked soon enough, might as well use names instead of titles.” Val said nonchalantly with a roll of her eyes.

Val grinned at the heat that rose to his cheeks, the same that she could feel in her wrists. It was definitely worth seeing.

Snow spluttered but did not say anything of note, so Val did. “You really believe what you saw is real?”

“Absolutely.” He said, confidently. “The man tried to kill my brother, Lady Catelyn fought him off and finally Bran’s wolf killed the catspaw. Bran gained a soul-mark.”

“How did you see such things?” Val asked, and a moment of panic flash through Snow’s eyes. Just as she thought, he was hiding something. She held up her wrist. “Don’t bother hiding it, Snow. I can feel you hiding it.”

“I’m a skinchanger…” He whispered after he checked to see that no one was around him.

“Yeah, no shit.” Val said with a roll of the eye. “How do you know about the attack though?”

“That is how I know about the attack….” He sighed, as he ran a hand through his, admittedly soft looking and nice to play with, hair.

“Bullshit! No way you are connected this far away.” Val said, knowing plenty of Skinchangers. None could be this far away from the other. “To what? Your brother’s wolf.”

“Mine own.” He said but seemed a little skeptical that she believed him.

“Is he not here?” She asked, looking around. The Stark children never had their direwolves very far from themselves.

“At Winterfell.” He said, eyeing her strangely.

“Don’t you give me that look, Snow!” She snapped, not about to take one iota of shit from this southerner. “I’m not the one who has been avoiding you!”

“I suppose I deserved that.”

“Suppose?”

“Alright, alright, I deserved that.” He said, holding up his hands in surrender. Val willed herself not to blush at the curl of heat in her belly at the Knight’s half smirk. “I left him in Winterfell to watch over my Brother.”

“Are you sure you’re a Warg?” Val said, knowing the other part of that legend. “I’ve never seen another Skinchanger connected so far away. It could be green-dreaming?”

“You’ve seen other Skin changers?” Jon asked more than surprised.

“That’s what’s important?” Val asked apoplectically.

“No. I am certain” Snow said, shaking his head. He opened his mouth and then closed it a few times.

“Just say what you need to say!” She said, exasperatedly.

“Tis how I won my tourney.” Jon said, clearly ashamed of himself.

Val hesitated for a moment thinking about how Sansa explained how these “tourneys” worked before a realization hit. “You Skin-changed your horse?”

“Aye.” He said, “The control allowed me to take hits that normally would have knocked me for a loop. I beat Barristan the Bold, the Kingslayer and a Redwyne Knight.”

“Those are...” Val said, in slight confusion

“Famous and skilled knights of the Seven Kingdoms.” He then miserably added. “It was dishonorable.”

“How?” Val asked, she never understood these southern stories where the heroes with magic powers refused to use them in contests because they were dishonorable. “Did you seek out these abilities?”

“Noooo…” He said, dragging out the word.

“Then I don’t see how you cheated.” Val shrugged. “You used your natural talents. Would you say this Ser Barristan cheated because he fought with his own skill?”

“I guess I did not see it that way.” He said, giving a half smile that made the heat come back to her belly.

“Oh, good you finally stopped brooding!” She said, causing him to look at her weird. “I think I might be starting to like you Snow, but the brooding is a bit much don’t you think?”

Her Stark actually threw his head back in a laugh at her jape and Val noticed how different he looked when he was not perpetually frowning. He looked almost like a different man when she got close enough she was able to see that there were tiny specks of a lighter color in his eyes.

As he finished laughing, he looked at her again, and she made a decision. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed his shirt and dragged him to her to kiss him. He smelt like salt and tasted like lemons. A flood of heat flashed through her entire body as she let him fall back. A look on his face told her that he felt the same.

“What did you do that for?” He asked, a dopey grin appearing on his face

“Cause I wanted to…” She shrugged nonchalantly, “Because why not?”

Jon grinned at her again and before she knew it, they were damn near rolling around on the ground together. Snow, being the perfect southern gentleman he was, allowed her on top. Not that she waited for permission as she flipped him to the ground. Snow started kissing in on her neck and she felt herself go boneless once he hit a certain spot on her neck. Finally he stopped them, too soon for her liking, the only redeeming factor being that he seemed just as disappointed as she.

“I apologize, My Lady. It’s not right for me to dishonor you like this.” He said, and she rolled her eyes. Damn he was brooding again.

“Damn straight.” Val said, using this “dishonor” to her advantage. “You haven’t stolen me yet.”

She tried not to grin when his face colored. She had explained exactly what stealing entailed and what she expected of him. Snow hadn’t exactly taken it well.

“For the record My La…” He began but she let out a growl. “For the record Val, this is why I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Oh?”

“I knew that if you and I got this close to you… I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

“Oh?” She said,

“Oh yes and once I did have my hands on you I would…” Jon said, “Well…”

“Oh deary me!” Val said, in an exaggerated southern accent like the one Sansa used when speaking with the Lion-Queen. “And here I am, just a maid! Waiting to be plucked like the ripest apple!”

Snow sighed, “I get it…”

Feeding off his embarrassment since he couldn’t even say what he wanted out loud, Val continued, “Poor me! All I want are children yet it cannot come. My womb is about to dry up and here I am without a man to give it fruit…”

“I get it!” Snow started and everyone started screaming and running around. “What in the hell?”

They looked up to see everyone panicking. Jon stiffened, grabbed her and rolled them back around to behind the tree before separating. “You see that man near the queen? Stay away from him.” He said lowly into her ear, so close she could feel the rumbles from her chest. Oh gods, if everything he did made her feel like this how was she going to get anything done? She was not unfamiliar with a man’s touch but this was different. 

“Oh?” She asked a glint of mirth in her tone. “You telling me what to do Jon Snow?”

“Yes. Stay away from him.” Jon said, and all of her amusement evaporated.

“Now you listen here Jon Snow, we may be soulmates but that does not mean…”

“That man is the queen’s paid assassin and I killed his brother.” Jon interrupted her in a matter of fact tone. “I have no doubt he’d go after you to get revenge on me.”

 There was a pregnant pause before Val said, “I can handle myself.”

“I have no doubt…”

“I can handle myself.” Val insisted. Snow opened his mouth but was quickly distracted.

“Sansa?” Jon asked incredulously as Val looked up to see the girl kissed by fire stumble around the pavilion

“J- Joooooon!” She hiccupped as she threw her arms around her older brother’s neck.

“Are… Are you drunk?” Jon asked, in disbelief.

“You’ll never guess… You’ll never guess this… You’ll never guess what happened!” Sansa hiccuped, and Jon recoiled from her breath.

“ Yes, she’s definitely pissed. ” Val thought to herself before Sansa explained exactly what happened between Arya and the Crown prince. Val wasn’t the most intimately informed of the “Royal edicate” but she thought Sansa probably made the right decision getting drunk.

~~~

Micah ran as he saw the burnt knight chasing him. The man had no light behind his eyes and Micah knew he was going to die. He was feeling the lance swiping the back of his shirt seconds away from running him through; he said a prayer to the old gods wishing he never left his mother when the horse screamed in fear. Micah tumbled and fell into the dirt, seeing a Wolf standing strong in front of him, front low to the ground, hair sticking up all the way down its back.

The knight was thrown backwards and landed on the ground hard with a crack. He cursed up a storm as he lifted the lance he dropped and a voice behind Micah shouted. “That is enough Clegane.”

Micah turned to see Jon Snow walking forward, sword out and unhesitant to challenge the giant of a knight.

“You willing to die Snow?” Clegane growled, “For this piece of shit?”

“Knightly vows mean something, Clegane. Are you willing to die for Cersei? For Joffrey? Anyone with eyes can see the disdain you have for him.” Jon Snow said, tightening his grip on the blade.

“I ain’t a damned knight!” Clegane snarled before asking.“I won’t be dying though will I?” 

“I don’t know about that.” A female voice sounded, and before Clegane could react there was the point of a spear at his throat. “Drop it.”

Clegane dropped the lance that was millimeters from being driven through Micah’s back. “Sword too.” Jon Snow said, and Clegane took the sword and just as he was about to throw it away, he lunged at her causing her to dance out of the way and Jon Snow was there faster than Micah could imagine. 

Their swords clashed twice before Micah was no longer able to keep up with their blows. Eventually Direwolf bit down on the giant man’s calf and he fell to his knee. The Wildling in white slashed down, cutting the burnt half of the man’s face. Crying out in agony, Jon Snow kicked the man in his chest sending him sprawling.

“Walk. Away. Now.”

Clegane snarled incoherently but the woman it white pressed the point into his throat and blood started streaming down. “Now.” She said, and he hobbled off.

“Now… what are we going to do about you?” Jon Snow said, looking directly at Micah.

~~~

Myrcella could not believe how out of control this entire situation had become. Arya and her brother got into a spat and now she was being charged for treason! All because of her stupid, stupid brother! She did not know what exactly happened between the two of them, but she knew Joffrey was lying. 

“There was another witness, was there not?” Her mother asked once the two of them had finished their respective stories. Jon’s sister, not… the red headed one, jumped. “Lady Sansa?”

The girl paled as her father created a path through the people so that the girl could move forward. “Y-Yes, Your Grace?”

“You were there were you not?” Myrcella’s mother asked, the other girl nodded her head “Can you tell us what happened Little Dove?”

She opened her mouth and looked between Arya and Joffrey with a pained expression on her face. Myrcella took a breath. These were Jon’s siblings on trial right now. Jon was the one who acted like the older sibling that she and Tommen deserved. Jon was the one who made sure that Tommen was being trained, and her little brother has been begging their father to squire under him since. Jon was the one who made sure Myrcella could protect herself. Not Joffrey. From Joffrey. Jon was the brother she wanted, just like how Lord Eddard was the brother her father wanted. And that was not even getting into the other, very important, part of this equation. Finally, Myrcella made a decision.

“Joffrey is a liar!” Myrcella shouted, before anything could come out of the other girl’s mouth.

“What!” Robert demanded, he was already angry at Renly’s behavior and need to leave, someone saying this about his son so openly could put him over the edge. It should not surprise Myrcella that Robert didn’t even recognize his own daughter’s voice. “Who said that!”

“I did father!” Myrcella said, and Robert’s attention was directed at his only daughter.

“You insolent little worm!” Joffrey said, grabbing the hilt of his new sword, pretty much sinking his entire case judging by the gasps going around the makeshift court. Uncle Jaime, Ser Arys and the Stark Captain of guard all stepped in front of Cella willing to protect her from her utterly demented older brother.

“Myrcella!” The king boomed, “You were there?”

“No, father.”

“Then how the hell do you know Joffrey is lying!” He asked.

“Well besides the fact that his mouth is moving?” Myrcella asked, joking to calm her nerves like Jon was wont to do. There was a low murmur across the crowds people wanted to laugh but were too afraid to. She raised her wrist and pulled down her sleeve. “Lady Arya cannot lie. Not to me.”

Numerous people murmured and spoke to each other. Soulmates between the same sex were rare but not unheard of. Most were considered “ the best of friends ” like Rhaena Targaryen and Elissa Farman or Joffrey Lonmouth and Laenor Velaryon. Seeing her Uncle Renly and Loras interact she knew that it was just a load of Auroch dung.

Robert and Arya’s eyes widened significantly, only in not so similar ways. Her father looked as if his nameday had come early, her new soulmate looked as if she was being forced to eat Auroch dung. Finally her father turned to her older brother.

“F-Father…” Joffrey started, before Tommen continued for her.

“This is not the first time either, he went after Ser Jon with a sword in Winterfell.” Tommen said, and if Joffrey’s own behavior did not sink his story, this definitely did.

“Snow!” Robert said, looking for Jon. Jon was well known for his almost brutal honesty. It was part of the reason that Myrcella’s father respected his opinion so much.

“He’s out still looking for Arya.” Sansa said, still very pale.

Robert then started screaming at Joffrey about how he is supposed to be his heir and how he needs to trust him, something Joffrey is not currently demonstrating as Lord Eddard started directing people out.

“Oh, I was so worried!” The red head whispered to the Royce lady that spent time with Jon and her half-sister.

“Why?” She asked, and the Redhead dove into her arms. Both let out little yelps and recoiled.

Arya rushed over to her sister as Myranda tucked in on herself in pain. Everyone around looked in a mix of amazement and horror as the girl that Sansa touched had a soul-mark slowly fade onto her wrist.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Revelations 

 They had actually made it into the city before Jon could finally get a moment alone with his father. Everything after the trial had been so somber but busy and he had not been able to interact with his father since. He knew his father was avoiding him. Jon screwed up and he knew it.

“I am sorry father…”

“It’s not your fault, Jon. “ He said, having apparently anticipated this conversation.

“No, you asked me along so I could keep an eye on my sisters and instead I was…”

“Finally getting to know your soulmate instead of avoiding her?” He asked, a single eyebrow raised.

“Getting to know… Is that what we are calling it now?” Jory Cassel said, from his father’s other side. Jon actually thought it funny (only since it was coming from a man he’s known since before he could pick up a sword, not someone cracking jokes about his bastardry). However, the captain of his father’s guard grimaced at Eddard Stark’s glare and fell back allowing the two to have their conversation in peace.

Eddard turned back to Jon. “Sansa has come to me quite a few times about you and… Lady Val. Asking me to step in and such. She does not seem very happy with you. “

 Jon sighed; his sister was a romantic at heart. He imagines that how he and Val had interacted would be in sharp contrast to how the stories play out. His little lady sister had been upset with him even before the trial for how he was treating Val. She was not being subtle by telling the soul-mark versions of Florian and Jonquil or Serwyn and Daeryssa. That’s not even bringing up her still being pissed off about Lady.

“Yeah, yeah. She’s made her feelings on the matter very clear. “ Jon said, rolling his eyes. “And I told her Lady would return soon enough. “

“You probably picked the worst moment to get rid of her protector…” His father with a grimace, and Jon internally cringed.

He knew how Cersei worked and the second that Arya showed back up without Nymeria, Jon knew exactly what the miserable queen would do. Getting Lady run away after they dealt with Clegane was one of the only smart moves that Jon made that day. Lady hasn’t returned yet however Sansa might need her more than ever. It was something that he was still beating himself up over. He was smarter than that and his family might depend on him showing it.

Ever since Randa got her soul-mark right after Sansa touched her, everyone had gotten it into their heads that Sansa was “contagious” with Soul-marks. Despite the word contagious being tossed around people in the traveling train flocked to Sansa. His sister was never one who exactly shyed from attention yet the sudden influx was making her uncomfortable. Jon, Randa and Arya had been acting as semi guards for her, but his father was still thinking about assigning an actual guard or maybe even a sworn sword.

“Yes, it was unfortunate timing. “ Jon said, conceding the point “Luckily Val has been sticking to her side, she’s more ferocious than any guard that you could assign. “

“Ah, so a true Winter lady?” His father chuckled.

“Aye. “ Jon said, smiling as they rode through the gates of the Red Keep thinking about her spear work. “I’m just glad that Arya and Sansa get along with her so far. “

“And I am sure that Sansa is glad to be dealing with her instead of Lady Royce.” His father said, and Jon let out a chuckle. Myranda had been monopolizing both Sansa and Arya’s time trying to learn about their Uncle Edmure ever since that Bronze Fish had ended up on her wrist. The fact that they never met him in person did not seem to dissuade her interrogation. Jon liked Randa, and he knew Sansa did too, but Jon knew after so many years that his friend could occasionally be overwhelming. His father brought him back to the matter at hand. “I am surprised that she hasn’t been worse about finding her own Soulmate. “

“Well she is a lot more patient than people give her credit for. “ Jon said, defending his sister. Thinking of her reaction to the first time she met Littlefinger he smiled, “Much smarter too. “

His father cocked an eyebrow. It was no secret that Jon was not as close to Sansa as he was to his other siblings, so it seemed weird that he was defending her. “Speaking of sworn swords…”

Loras rode up to Jon and his father with a smile on his face. “Snow! It’s about damned tiiiiiii…. Good morning Lord Hand!” Loras quickly corrected when he realized the resemblance between Jon and his father. He must have put two and two together to realize who he was dealing with. No one would say he was the smartest of knights or Tyrells but he was by no means stupid.

“Good morning Ser Loras. “ Ned said, and Loras jumped as he realized that Eddard knew who he was. “My son has told me much about you. “

“Hopefully good things, My Lord.” Loras said, playing up his Knight of the Flowers persona, ignoring Jon’s ‘ They weren’t ’. “What was this about a sworn shield in regards to me?”

“My sister Sansa, some people have decided that personal space did not apply to her.” Jon started and Loras barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. No way he would be interested in being a protector to any swooning maidens. He was about to reject the offer before Jon continued. “Why don’t you meet her before you make your decision?”

Loras gave his friend a strange look before following Jon and Eddard to the girls. Septa Mordane gave them a look but Jon’s father jerked his head to let the bitter woman know to leave. She was not happy with Jon’s reappearance and influence on his sisters. She reluctantly went back to the train to collect her things.

“Loras, you already know Lady Myranda,“ Jon said, as Loras started kissing hands. “May I introduce you to my sister Arya… My Soulmate Val…”

“Soulmate!” Loras exclaimed. “You got one too?

“Yes Soulmate.” Jon said, surprised Loras heard about Arya and Myrcella  already “All my siblings did. “

“Soul-marks seem to be going around a lot these days…” Loras said, after his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. “Allyria Dayne just got one matching with my brother! Hell, even Margaery…”

“And finally my sister Sansa…” Jon said, confused at the pointed looks that Loras was giving him, “The one who needs a guard of your calibre. “

“I- I am sure my half-brother is just exaggerating. “ Sansa said, blushing pretty already besotted with the young knight.

Loras may not be the brightest knight Jon knows but he did know that he owed Jon. He cocked an eyebrow and Jon tilted his head and an agreement was made then and there. When Jon came to King’s Landing the first time, he and Loras hated each other. Jon hated Loras’ flamboyant and standoffish personality and Loras hated Jon’s sullenness and bastardry. It took many years and finally an alliance during a squire’s melee before any real friendship formed between them. Now it was one of the closest he had in King’s Landing other than Mya and Randa.

Loras smiled at his future good sister, “It would be an honor to be your sworn shield My Lady. At least until the tourney. I will need to practice. “

“Tourney?” Eddard asked and Grand Maester Pycelle walked up gaining dirty looks from both Jon and Loras. The man was little loved by practically anyone. Even less by Jon and Loras after Tyrion Lannister got his brother drunk and he started telling them a few stories. Jon still shutters thinking of the mangled knot of scars on Tyrion’s wrist.

“Ah! Yes! Good! You already know!” He tittered pretending to be feeble. “The small council is having a meeting; we would like you to join at your earliest convenience. “

“My earliest convenience would be tomorrow after my household is already settled in!” Eddard snapped, and Jon smiled. Maybe his father being hand would not be such a disaster after…

“Wait! Wait… I will be with you momentarily. “ His father sighed, crushing Jon’s hopes. “Vayon please make sure everyone gets set in quickly. Jon, please help your sisters and Lady Val get settled in.“

“Aye father. “ Jon said, frowning as his father walked away. He was getting a bad feeling in his gut. The kind that he got right before Osney Kettleblack attacked Mya. The one that had been happening more and more since he bonded with Ghost. His father was going to need his help if his family was to survive King’s Landing.

“Where is the illustrious ‘Lady Val’?” Loras said, and Jon rolled his eyes at the thought that anyone might think Loras was ”the dumb one” seeing how quick he must have picked up on who Val is just by a passing reference.

“I am no Lady and I can get myself settled in.“ Val said, hair plastered to her face. She was not used to this heat, and did not have any clothes to change into that were not meant for beyond the wall. She and Sansa were of similar heights but she absolutely refused one of his sister’s dresses that were actually meant for this weather. Despite her dishevelment she still looked quite the sight.

“Yeah, we can get ourselves settled in!” Val’s new shadow parroted. Arya was bound to love Val as she was her favorite sibling’s soulmate, but when she started regularly sparring with Val, she started worshiping the ground she walked on. Even Sansa got along with her well. Although Jon suspected that Arya might be following Val around for a different reason.

Something he was more than willing to call his little sister out on.

“Alright, but you must set up your things in the Tower of the Hand, not Princess Myrcella’s room. “

Arya indignantly squawked in betrayal and started punching his arm. Val smiled and Sansa actually laughed at her sister. If Jon thought the Red Head was angry at him for how he went about dealing with his soulmate, that had nothing on Arya avoiding the Princess. Loras gave a questioning look before seeing the flash of gold on Arya’s wrist.

“She and the Princess are soulmates?”

When Jon nodded, Loras -while able to school his features well enough- looked painfully jealous. Jon wondered if he wished that he and Renly would receive matching soulmarks so they did not need to be as discreet but it could not relieve Jon more that his friend was not permanently connected to the copper prince. Jon looked up to see Princess Myrcella looking over this way longingly, but Cersei merely swept her under her arm and pushed her along towards the castle.

“Yes. “

“Well, let’s see the marks then!” Loras said.

“You’re rather excited. “ Jon said, with a grin.

“Yes, because… well I think you and I might be brothers in more than bond soon enough. “ Loras whispered.

“What?”

“Shhh! You know that it is an ill omen to speculate on matches.“ Loras said, as Sansa presented her dainty wrist to him and Arya shot hers out like a punch.

“Lady Randa!” Sansa said, “Come show Ser Loras your soulmark!”

“Randa too?” Loras asked incredulously looking at the Bronze Fish.

“Yes. “ Sansa said, nervously. “I-”

“Lady Sansa gave me my soulmark. “ Randa said, gently touching Sansa’s upper arm.

“That’s why we need you to be her sworn sword.” Jon explained, hand at the small of Val’s back. He brought her closer to the group, quickly noticing her avoiding it. “People have gotten it in their head to harass and even touch her to gain their own marks. “

“I see your problem. “ Loras said, holding out his hand for Val to shake. “Lady Val, it is nice to meet you. Any… friend of Jon is a friend of mine. “

“I’m no lady. “ Val said with a roll of the eyes. “I am a woman of the freefolk not some willowy creature wh-”

Val was cut off as Loras yanked her arm closer to her face.

“Loras!” Jon snapped, but the southron knight ignored him and reached out to do the same to Jon. “Loras?”

His friend had turned positively green as he looked at their soulmarks. While not as refined as the rest of his family, Loras was no Auroch smashing through a glassmaker shop. This was massively out of character.

“This…” Loras said, trying to find his words. “This is the mark on my sister Margaery’s wrist as well.“

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Hand of the Hand

Six million dragons… Six. Million. Dragons! Eddard did not know how Robert let alone Jon Arryn could allow this to happen! Only Aegon the Unworthy had ever racked up even close to this much debt in the history of the entire Seven Kingdoms! How did he even spend that much? Coming down south has seemed to just be a string of bad or foolish decisions.

Now, speaking of foolish decisions, he was following Baelish to Catelyn. What in the seven hells was she doing in King’s Landing? Remembering Jon’s dream, he urged the pair to speed up. It was when they stopped in front of a brothel that something in Eddard snapped. He slams the small man back against a wall and takes out a dagger. He never liked this man, what with the insult he has done to his family, specifically his brother. He has to correct that mistake here and now but suddenly an urgent voice from behind him calls that Lord Baelish is telling the truth.

Eddard spun around, knife quick to the draw of blood, beading down the smaller man’s neck only to see Ser Rodrik Cassel running towards them waving frantically. Eddard was lost, since he thought Ser Rodrik to be in Winterfell, but it is he who finally convinces Eddard that Catelyn truly is inside. They walk into the brothel, no one paying them any mind, and enter a room. Catelyn cries out when she sees him and embraces him fiercely, kissing both cheeks and his mouth twice.

Eddard tries not to, but he retreats into himself when he hears the news. His son and wife were almost killed. Catelyn said the Maester could nearly see the bones in her hands! Why Bran? He was just a little boy! Catelyn was just a woman. Those damned Lannisters! Probably even the dwarf was untrustworthy? He at least seemed pleasant compared to Cersei and the Kingslayer. Had it not been for Jon and Bran’s wolves, his wife and son would likely be dead.

When she is finally done, Ned sits down, dazed, and thinks dully that the wolf had saved Bran’s life. He remembers Robb’s words:”Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. “ And he would have, and nearly did, killed Sansa’s. For what? He doesn’t know whether he is feeling guilt or fear. If the old gods had truly sent his children these wolves, he would have almost made a terrible mistake.

“We came to bring you the dagger my love. “ She whispered. “To find out whose it belongs to. A Valyrian steel dagger like that is rare. It…”

“Belongs to me. “ Littlefinger says and every Northern head snapped to him, “Or at least it did. I lost in a bet when your bastard unhorsed Jaime Lannister in Prince Joffrey’s nameday tourney. I lost the knife to the Imp. “

“Eddard…” Catelyn said, her eyes widening. He knew exactly what she was thinking. To accuse the Queen’s own brother would be a folly and would not be wise. Especially when Littlefinger points out that it was very easy for him to deny it; to claim it was stolen.

“Maybe we should leave you both alone to speak. “ Ser Rodrik said, and everyone except Eddard and Catelyn left the room.

“Your sister was right. “ Ned said, “The Lannisters must have…”

“Petyr is right, Eddard. “ Catelyn said, sadly. “We cannot accuse the queen’s own brother of this. Not without indisputable proof. “

Eddard opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. “What is wrong…” Catelyn asked him, leading him to the bed in the room.

“I should not have allowed Jon to come here…” Ned said, looking down to his feet. He was right to worry about him all these years. Lya’s voice rang in his ear more and more the farther south they got. He was half convinced that she’d rise from the grave and strangle him.

“Jon? What does he…”

“He saw the whole thing. In a dragon dream. “ Eddard explained in a hushed whisper and her eyes widened. It took her a moment before she spoke.

“Are you sure?”

“He explained to me in detail exactly what happened to you. “ Ned said, “A few weeks ago on the road. “

“Oh…” Catelyn said, before saying. “Good. “

“Good?” Eddard asked incredulously.

“Yes, good. “ She says firmly. “You need him here. If he can do that, then he can…”

“Warn me of any upcoming threats?” Eddard finished for her in realization.

“In a city like this…” Catelyn said, “If I am not here then I am glad that he is here at least. To watch your back. “

“I hate to use him like this. “ Eddard admitted. “He's my…”

“He’s a knight in your household. “ Catelyn reminded him. “He is an ally that has been in this shithole of a city longer than either of us…”

“My lady!” Ned said, in a fake scandalized tone. She had said much, much worse in their coupling sessions so he was not surprised. Finally Ned sighed into the crock of her neck. He wished to savor her scent while he still had the opportunity. “You- you’re right. “

“You need allies. “ Catelyn said, shivering at his breath going down her bodice. “Petyr has already agreed to help. That’s two now!”

“He still loves you. “ Eddard noted bitterly.

“He’s like a younger brother!” Catelyn reassured him. “Speaking of younger brothers. Robb found out who his mark is shared with and this is on top of Bran getting his very own soulmark. “

“Oh?” Eddard asked, eyes twinkling. If his son, the last of his children, received a soul-mark. There was someone out there for him. Someone who would not look down upon him for being a cripple. “Do we know…”

“It is a Direwolf that looks like it is made of stone. “ She said grinning and Eddard felt like a boy once again. He wondered who this could possibly be, but then stopped. It was not wise to speculate on who soulmates could be.

“And Robb?” Ned asked.

“Lady Wynafryd Manderly.. “ Catelyn said a strange lilt appeared in her voice when she continued, “Apparently she was afraid since she was her grandfather’s heir that she would have to step down for her marriage. “

“All our children will be happy. “ Ned said, cupping her face. “That is all I can ask for. I do not care who they are. We already know the majority of our children’s marks. “

“What?” Catelyn asked, and then Ned remembered. She was not in the loop.

“Rickon’s mark is shared with young Lyanna Mormont. Jon’s with Lady Val and Robb’s with Lady Wynafryd. “ Ned said, and Catelyn was waiting in anticipation. “We found out who the match to Arya is. It is Princess Myrcella. “

“Princess Myrcella?” Catelyn said, aghast.

“Yes. They will be great friends. Just like Robert and myself. “ Ned said, a bit of a crinkle around his eyes.

Catelyn gave him a subtly incredulous look. “Yes, great… friends. “

They both sat there for a few moments in almost awkward silence before his wife gave him a mischievous smile. “Although My Lord… It occurs to me that… I never gave you a proper good-bye. “

Eddard’s eyes narrowed before widening. “Here?”

“I am sure that there have been much worse things done on this bed, My Lord. “ She said, a cheeky smile upon her face. “Now, take off your trousers. I am not asking nicely. “

~~~

Eddard rubbed his hand down his face as he walked to his chambers. He had not had this long of a day since the rebellion. Even after he left Catelyn, it seemed as if there was not a single problem in King’s Landing that could be solved without him. He needed to put out at least thirteen fires between leaving Catelyn to go back north and him getting back to the Tower of the Hand.

It was bad enough that the majority of the positions in the city were sold out to Lannister toadies but they were all incompetent at their jobs as well.

 Now he was ready for sleep…

“Hello, Father. “ He heard walking into his room. He looked up to see a determined Jon sitting in front of a somewhat confused and sleepy Sansa on his bed as she played and braided his hair. Eddard smiled as he remembered Jon always allowing his little sisters to practice on his hair (gods help the boy once it was Arya’s turn to learn, Catelyn also provided her hair as a test dummy). Both seemed to be waiting in his office for a reason. He was surprised considering how angry Sansa was at Jon for the ‘disrespectful way he treated his soulmate’”Can we speak?”

Ned sighed, “And what do we need to speak about?” he asked, looking back and forth between his children.

“I do not know, father. “ Sansa said, looking as confused as Eddard felt.

“It’s about your Handship. “ Jon said, pulling out a tome from under Sansa’s chair. “I know you asked me down here for the investigation, but it is your handship that you need more help with. “

“I am sure that…” Eddard began not wanting to start up with politics again.

“Investigation?” Sansa asked but was promptly ignored.

“This is not the North, Father. “ Jon said, “And it is not the Eyrie. Things are done differently here. You and your wife asked me to help. So let me help. “

“Why am I here?” Sansa asked, in a small voice.

“Because you will be dealing with these southern courts eventually. “ Jon said, as a matter of factly. “And you are smart enough to do so effortlessly. At least when you aren’t playing the naïve maiden. “

“Jon!” Eddard snapped as Sansa’s cheeks colored but she did not dispute her brother’s words.

“What?” Jon said, nonchalantly. “She is smart, at least when she isn’t following the advice of the stupid septa. “

“Septa Mordane…” Sansa began indignantly to defend her teacher, but Jon waved her off.

“Is, and always has been, deliberately putting a wedge between you and Arya. “ Jon said, and Eddard frowned. Jon was so young when he left, had it been so obvious that even Jon took note from such a young age?”Nonetheless, whether you are deliberately pretending to be or not, I know you to be smart. You are the first person I know to not be fooled by Littlefinger’s false persona so quickly. “

Eddard was confused at that. False Persona? What did that mean? This was the man who would be helping Eddard investigate his own liege’s death. This place truly was a nest of vipers.

“Sansa?” He asked for clarification from his oldest daughter.

“His smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “ Sansa whispered sinisterly.

“That is not even getting into how quick she was to avoid Clegane. “ Jon said, “You should have seen what he was going to do to the butcher’s boy had I not stepped in. “

Ned’s eyes narrowed as he realized that Jon knew what happened to the boy despite the fact that he seemingly disappeared into thin air. “Where is he?”

“Lord Darry… He said he owed me a favor… well, owed you a favor. “ Jon said, somewhat confused. “He took care of Micah and made sure that he got back to Winterfell. “

“He said that?” Ned said, stressed. “He said that he owed me a favor. “

Ned tried to keep his composure but it was hard. Lord Darry was a fierce loyalist to the Dragons during the rebellion. It is possible that he may have recognized the valyrian in Jon. He only met Queen Rhaella twice, but his mannerisms are so similar to what he remembers of Jon’s grandmother…

“This does not matter. Let us get back to the matter at hand” Jon said, then more apprehensively he added, “That is, if you want my advice?”

Eddard tried not to laugh. Jon had been missing from his life for the majority of the last few years, but the boy was still looking for his approval. He gave a slight nod and Jon grinned pleased with himself. Eddard was then regretting his words as Jon lugged the tome up allowing Eddard to see the title. “The Hands of the Seven Kingdoms. “ By Maester Witwick.

“First things first, when is the next Small Cancel meeting?” Jon asked Eddard as they gathered around the table. Sansa trying to melt into the background did not go unnoticed by Jon and he pulled her closer. She flipped through a few pages in the tome but Ned could see her eyes scanning the page quickly enough to retain the information.

“The day after next. “ Ned answered not sure where this was going.

“Wait until 20 minutes before, and then cancel it. “ Jon said, almost off handedly.

“Jon!” He said, appalled at his son’s callousness. “The disrespect…”

“Is just being paid in return from them calling a small council meeting without you. “ Jon said, “Only you or the king should be calling small council meetings. “

 “The king was the one to call the small council meeting. “ Ned said.

 “Oh?” Jon said, cocking an eyebrow. “And did he tell you of this small council meeting?”

Ned cocked an eyebrow in return. Where was the reserved, almost shy, boy that grew up with him in Winterfell? Eddard could not say that he was regretting this change to his boy, but it was still jarring to see such a contrast. Now that he was able to open up freely, he reminded Eddard of Lyanna more than ever. That smirk was all her.

“It would not be wise to do such to the other members of the council. I am but a first among equals.“ Ned said, diplomatically. It was not wise to piss off men that Robert had already chosen himself.

“No you are not. “ Jon said, shaking his head. “Saying that the Hand is just another member of the Small Council is severely misunderstanding your new position. You are not one of the spokes on the wheel of the cart that is Westeros. You are the horse that pulls the cart. “

Jon’s face scrunched up at his analogy and Sansa giggled causing Eddard to roll his eyes. “What I mean to say is…”

“I understand, continue. “ Ned said, waving his son off.

“It is different from the North here. It is one big…” Jon looked embarrassed before covering Sansa’s ears and whispering. “…dick measuring contest. “

Eddard gave him a pointed look, especially when Sansa exasperatedly said, “I can still hear you!”

Jon rolled his eyes and continued, “Either way, you need to assert dominance among the Small Council. Rotten, the whole lot of them. “

“There’s no one on there that Father can trust?” Sansa asked, curiously. “These were the men picked by King Robert and Lord Jon. “

“Ser Barristan. “ Jon said, without hesitation. “Lord Stannis…”

“What about Lord Stannis?” Eddard asked curiously. To be honest he was already curious where Robert’s brother was, this made the mystery more intriguing.

“Right before Lord Arryn died, he and Stannis were both investigating something. What, I don’t know. But usually Lord Arryn used me and Lord Royce to help. “

“Lord Royce and me. “ Sansa corrected automatically. Jon pinched her side causing her to squeak and with a roll of his eyes continued.

“This time however they were very silent about it. “ Jon said, a pained look on his face. Eddard wondered how close his foster father and Jon had gotten over the years. Did Jon blame himself for the man’s death? ”Normally I would say to trust him, but something is going on with Lord Stannis. “

“I shall write to him in the morning. “ Ned said, adding to the list of things to do that he already had, and that had become far too long for his first day in this city.

“The first thing I would do is replace Janos Slynt. “ Jon said, venom in his eyes that Eddard had never seen before. “He… You need someone you can trust to be in charge of the city watch. “

“I cannot trust Slynt?” Eddard asked, wondering why he was still in the position if that were the case.

“Didn’t King Robert appoint him?” Sansa asked, confused. Eddard repressed a sigh; Jon was right, Sansa was smart, but terribly naïve. But then again it seemed that Ned has been when it came to Robert as well.

“King Robert doesn’t like conflict. “ Jon said, almost hissing. “Jon Arryn tried to have him removed but he stopped it. “

“If King Robert stopped it for Jon Arryn, you expect me to do it behind his back?” Ned said, surprised.

“You are the new hand. “ Jon said, pulling open the tome. He showed Ned three separate sections that showed that one of the very first things a Hand did was replace the Lord Commander of the City Watch. Another four that did so within their first week, including Cregan Stark. “He serves as Lord Commander at your discretion. Almost every Hand does it. You cannot nor can King Robert trust Janos Slynt. Lord Stannis had three witnesses willing and ready to testify against him. All of them ended up with slit throats. “

“What? Why isn’t he…”

“Better a thief we know than one we don't, the next man might be worse. “ Jon said, bitterly. “Like I said, King Robert doesn’t like conflict. Jon Arryn tried to get him removed as part of his trial on corruption, and King Robert did not want to deal with it.. “

“But if he just replaces him…” Sansa murmured but Ned could scarcely hear it.

“There is no way I can work with a man like that. “ Ned said, “I…”

“When you do let him know let him know in person and please let me know ahead of time. “ Jon said, cryptically. “I have a few recommendations for replacements. Ser Robar, Lord Royce’s second son, would be a good choice. Ser Balon Swann is probably one of your best options but I know for a fact that he is being looked at for a White Cloak, so I doubt he’d accept. Ser Bywater is respected in the city so his appointment will go over well. “

“I remember him well. “ Ned said, recalling the man from the Siege of Pyke. He narrowed his eyes in confusion and asked, “He lost a hand in that battle, did he not?”

“Aye, they call him Ironhand. “ Jon said, smiling. “And if none of those are to your liking you could always ask Ser Blackfish. “

“They do not have to be knights you know. “ Ned said, subtly teasing his newly knighted son.

“But why wouldn’t you choose one father?” Sansa said, almost swooning. “I mean they are knights!”

“Yes and it should be. Someone you can trust and more importantly, someone the smallfolk can respect.“ Jon said, writing something on a parchment. “The Small Council will also need to be completely revamped. “

“All of them?” Sansa asked, taking far more interest in the courtly politics than Eddard thought she would. “Would the hand even be allowed to do that? I thought there were some positions that were directly up to the King?”

“Well we cannot affect Lord Commander Selmy, not that we should. I will probably have to think of something for the Grand Maester. “ Jon said, almost getting lost in thought. Eddard then realized what he said, the Conclave picked Grand Maesters. How did Jon-”First member that will need to be replaced is the Master of Coin. Baelish… well…”

Thinking back to the meeting today Eddard was torn. Neither of the eldest children who came with him seemed to have much love for Catelyn’s old friend. But he was going to help them investigate who put the hit out on Bran. All things considered he did hear many good things about how he was at his job; something they’d need at six million in debt.

“Lord Baelish seems to be very competent at his job. “ Ned said, diplomatically.

“He is a schemer and yes man. “ Jon spat. “He’ll compliment you to your face while he is probably already planning to humiliate you behind your back. “

“Either way…”

Jon sighed, “I did not want… I am assuming that you heard about me ‘scaring a man to death’?”

Eddard had not heard this but could see where this was going. “Lord Baelish?”

“Aye. “ Jon said, and something seemed to dawn on Sansa’s face.

With a fierce blush she said, “Wait, I thought you said the person was telling lies about… about a lady’s maidenhead. “

“Two ladies’ maidenheads actually. “ Jon said, before giving a pointed look at Eddard. It took him a minute but eventually Eddard knew what he was insinuating.

“That little snake!” Eddard slammed his fist against the table hard enough that the book smacked shut, but he knew that it was not right to start this in front of his children so calmed himself.

“With the state of the kingdom lately I would recommend filling council spots in ways to bring in former enemies. We have yet to hear from Dorne since the rebellion and King Robert hasn’t been to the Reach since I was about two and ten. “ Jon said, scribbling something on his parchment. A pained look filled his face. “Putting a Martell or Tyrell on the council will hopefully heal the rift. “

“So Mace Tyrell for…” Eddard began, but Jon’s eyes widened, and a grim look appeared on his face.

“Mace Tyrell… His mother all but runs things in the Reach. “ Jon said, shaking his head. “I’d recommend Willas Tyrell. According to Loras he’s been running the finances of the Reach since he was Sansa’s age. “

Eddard’s eyes narrowed at the strange tone he used for the Tyrells but ignored it for later. He knew Jon had become close with Ser Loras. “And do you think they would accept?”

“Aye. “ Jon said, before looking to his feet. Eddard now knew something was up. Looking at his feet was a tell that Eddard had, and Lyanna. Both seemed to have passed them onto their children as Jon, Sansa, and Bran all did the same before they lied. “Willas is actually already on his way. For the Tourney… And if not Willas I’d recommend Tyrion Lannister. “

Remembering what Littlefinger told him, there was no way that Eddard was letting that man on a council with him… if Littlefinger was even telling the truth. “The Imp?” Eddard asked, and Jon nodded his head.

“He is probably one of the smartest men I know. “ Jon said, earnestly. “And his appointment would really piss off Tywin Lannister. “

Eddard sucked in a breath through his nose. He was not about to let his children see him act in such a childish and petty manner.

“Also I’d replace Renly Baratheon. He is terrible at his job and he’s a Lord Paramount, which he is also terrible at. He barely sees home and does not have an heir at that. “Jon said, talking about the youngest Baratheon the same way his mother once spoke about the eldest. “He needs to focus on how to run a kingdom. And he needs to settle down and find himself a wife. “

Eddard narrowed his eyes at his son's shit eating smirk he was trying to hide. He knew something that he was not letting on. Something about Renly getting a wife. Did he have a mistress? Knowing his brother it would not surprise Eddard to find out he had some pretty little thing stashed away on the side.

“Won’t King Robert be upset that his brother is being replaced?” Sansa said, “I thought you said he did not like conflict. Won’t that cause a lot of conflict? Unless…”

Jon smiled, “Unless…” He said, allowing her to piece it out on her own and Eddard knew she already knew the answer from her reaction earlier.

“Unless father just does it without telling King Robert first?” She asked and Jon nodded his head.

“That’s…” Eddard started before Jon cut him off.

“The job of the Hand. “ Jon said, “You need to assign people who will do the job right. It is the King’s job to placate until he tells you to do so. “

“And who would you have me fill in for the Master of Laws position?” Eddard asked.

“I do not know honestly. “ Jon said, “My first instinct would be Lord Royce, but he can sometimes be too unyielding… stubborn… when it comes to things like this. Honestly, had it been up to me I would have made you the Master of Laws, Lord Stannis the Hand, and Paxter Redwyne Master of Ships. “

Both Starks looked at Jon in awe. Eddard always knew that Jon would pick up on some of the so called ”Game of Thrones” during his time away but he had no idea quite how much he would. To be honest he did not think this sort of thing would even interest him. But his son proved him wrong showing how much he picked up on and how effortless he’s making it seem. He wondered if things had gone differently, maybe he would have made for a Good Hand to Aegon VI, the way Bloodraven was near the beginning.

Jon blushed as he saw his family members looking at him in awe. “But it’s not up to me. So I will figure out another choice. “

“Who else?” Sansa said, slightly bouncing in her seat the way Eddard has seen Arya do plenty of times. He hated court politics, so it was more than surprising that two of his children were getting into it.

“Lord Stannis I would still keep, if for no reason other than to not anger King Robert too much by replacing both of his brothers. Not that Lord Stannis does not more than deserve his spot.“ Jon assured. “I know he desires the Master of Law position, but it will not due. He is too unforgiving and too unwieldy. Keep him as Master of Ships. “

“That is Master of Coin, Ship and Law. “ Ned said, knowing that the Small Council is just the top of the Wall’s peak of what he needed to do during his time in King’s Landing.

“And Varys… I know you do not trust him nor do I.“ Jon said, clearly unhappy. “But there is no one truly able to match his level of skill as spymaster. I can look into it but we will need to be stuck with him for now. “

“So what else should we do?” Eddard asked, “Or is that it for tonight. “

“We can also…” Jon began before being interrupted.

“Jon?” Jory said, sticking his head in the door. “There’s a… Daella here for you?”

Jon went to the door and a strawberry blonde haired girl around Sansa’s age was there. They spoke for a moment and Jon sent her away.

“Who was that?” Sansa asked, and Jon sat back down, slipping a note into his pocket.

“I… Bought an estate in the city.“ Jon said, to Eddard and his sister’s surprise. “Daella has been running it for me while I was north. “

“You did?” They both said, surprised. Eddard was under the assumption that Jon would be staying with him in the Tower of the Hand. He was looking forward to having his son back under his roof again.

“Yes, although it is not ready yet so I was hoping it would be alright for me and Val and… for us to stay here for the moment being. “ Jon asked, sheepishly causing Ned to internally flinch. Every day he looks more like Lyanna… and unfortunately more like a Targaryen as well.

“Of course!” Eddard assured him. “You will always have a spot available in my household. “

“Now, where were we? Oh yes. We can always add more advisors to the Council than just the Master positions. “ Jon said, blushing at Eddard’s comment. “I’d recommend officially creating a Dornish Advisor position. The Dornish have not interacted with the rest of the Kingdom since the rebellion and after what happened to Princess Elia’s children. This would probably help heal the wounds. “

It was very strange to hear Jon talk about the Princess’ babes in such a… cyclical way. They were his siblings, not that Jon would have known it. Still it was… unsettling to Ned.

“Although if you do, be aware that whoever they send, it will probably either be a woman or a bastard. Or both. “Jon said. When both father and daughter gave him questioning looks, he said, “They don’t see anything wrong with women in positions of power or with bastardry, but they know any other kingdom would. They’re insulting us without insulting us, knowing that we cannot do anything about it. “

Eddard smiled. He would almost find that funny if he did not have to worry about Robert's reaction. A man grown and still sometimes acts like the boy that Eddard met at the Vale almost three decades ago.

“If you do not have a replacement for the Master of Laws, why do we not just put a Dornishman in that position?” Eddard asked, wondering why they were not doing this simple solution.

“Because…” Both Jon and Sansa started at the same time. Sansa blushed as Jon looked at her expectantly.

“The- The Martells are still angry about Princess Elia’s children. “ Sansa said, then almost as a question she added, “So if one were made Master of Laws, they could officially bring up the people who murdered them up on charges?”

“And it would probably be more insulting to them if they were made Master of Laws and King Robert started undermining any decisions that they made. “ Jon said, “That it was not a true position on the council but just an empty gesture to placate them. “

Eddard had to hand it to his son. Not only did he think of contingencies, he also seamlessly made it a teaching moment for Sansa. Maybe their time in King’s Landing would not go so poorly after all.

“I have nothing else to add. “ Jon said, “At least not for tonight. Father, if you want to write those offers out tonight? Sooner the better. I shall go talk to Loras about Willas?”

“Actually I need to speak to you. “ Ned said. Jon had been suspiciously strange about the Tyrells. This confirmed it for him. “Alone. “

“Of- of course, Father. “ Sansa curtseyed before leaving the room.

“Actually father, if we're to talk, can we do it while walking?” Jon asked, “We have been riding so much, I need to stretch my legs. “

“Sure. “ Ned said, as he stood up.

~~~ 

Arya smacked the pillow for a third time trying to get to sleep. Septa Mordane alerted her that they would be conducting lessons early and Arya was completely expected to attend. She has not been able to truly sleep for weeks with both Sansa and even Jeyne Poole commenting about the bags under her eyes. The worst part is that she truly believes that it was out of genuine concern!

All Arya knew is that she wanted out of this stupid city. It was hot, it was muggy, none of her friends were here and she was stuck here.

She jumped when her door slammed out. A smaller figure stood in the doorway, the torches behind them obscured any details outside their form, but Arya knew who they were all the same.

“You’ve been avoiding me. “ Princess Myrcella said, a pillow dragged behind her.

Arya grumbled. Fat Tom was the one on her corridor so he had to have let the golden girl get to her room. Traitor…

“As if your mother would let me get close. “ Arya grumbled. Not that Arya tried per say, but that does not change the fact that it was true.

“And you know this because you tried so hard?” Myrcella asked, rhetorically calling Arya right out on her deception

Arya scowled, “What do you want?”

“I can’t sleep. “ Myrcella said, trailing over to the bed. She tossed her pillow onto the bed next to where Arya lays her head. “And from what I hear, you can’t either. “

“Does your mother know you’re here?” Arya said, “How’d you even go so far without anyone else noticing?

“My brother takes up far too much of anyone’s attention. No one gives a shit about me or Tommen… ‘cept Jon.“ Myrcella rolled her eyes but was clearly trying not to giggle at the fact she actually cursed. Arya herself had to repress a smile. Both at the earnestness and the fact that it was very much like Jon. “Now, scoot over!”

“You aren’t the boss of me!” Arya said, and got a shove for her troubles.

“Of course I am!” Myrcella said, scooting under Arya’s covers. “I’m a princess!”

Arya rolled her eyes, just as they became heavy. Judging by the way Myrcella shook her head, the same sleepiness had just hit the other girl. “What’s… goin’ on…” Arya said, but couldn’t really keep her head up. Finally letting it drop on the princess’ shoulder.

“I think it’s our bon…” Myrcella said, before drifting off to sleep.

Arya was surprised just how much of a weight felt lifted off her shoulders since the two have come into contact. She did not have much time to philosophize before the blackness of sleep hit her too. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: Plots and Plans. Plans and Plots

Both of the Northerners were silent until they reached the courtyard after his father was briefed by Fat Tom about the Princess’ unscheduled visit. “Willas Tyrell?”

Jon shrugged, avoiding the question. “What did Lady Catelyn want?”

“What! How did you…? Were you following me?”

“Please father.” Jon said, not meeting his eye. “Robb and I could always tell the day after you and Lady Catelyn coupled. You let off this… aura.”

“…Really?” Eddard asked, barely recognizing the boy that he raised. He always knew Jon was observant, but this was too much.

“No. You smell like her perfume and your shirt is inside out.“ Jon deadpanned, causing Jory to cover a laugh with a cough. Eddard glared at both of them and Jon continued trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Br- Bran?”

“He is fine.“ Ned said, before quietly explaining what happened between Catelyn and the knife. Surprisingly, Jon did not bring up his dream. Right when Ned was about to bring it up Jon brought a finger to his lips. Eddard quickly diverted what he was about to say, “Bran got a soulmark. It is a stone direwolf. And Robb’s mark became clear as well. Lady Wynafryd Manderly. “

“Perfect.“ Jon said, happy for his brother. “Maybe you can invite Lord Wyman to be Master at Laws. “

“I cannot give him the Master of Laws position!” Ned said, as they continued walking. He could not give him nor the Blackfish positions of power within the city. There was no honor in nepotism. “It would not be right to give my son’s future good-father a position like that. “

“Why not? Isn’t it equally as bad to not give him a position he’d deserve because he’s your son’s future good-father? Is that not the same thing but in reverse?” Jon asked as they started up some stairs.

“That’s… true enough.“ Eddard admitted.

“It’s more expected that you do that.“ Jon admitted as they turned a corner.

“But back to the subject at hand, considering with what you told me I am guessing I can assume Littlefinger was lying about the owner of the dagger?”

“If Littlefinger’s lips are moving, aye. You can assume he is lying.“ Jon said, squinting as if trying to figure out where they were. “But on this? This? I can prove that he is lying. “

“Oh?” Ned said, as his son started to look around more and more.

“Gambling is highly regulated at tourneys.“ Jon said, for Eddard to indignantly respond, “It is?”

“Aye, for taxes.“ Jon said, his face relaxing. “You are only able to bet certain amounts in certain rounds. A Valyrian steel dagger? No way that goes in any round except the final round. “

“And that’s significant how?” Jory asked, and both he and Jon blanched as they had forgotten the captain of guards was even there. Eddard would have to bring him up to speed later.

“I went up against Jaime Lannister in the finals. No way in any of the seven hells would Tyrion Lannister ever bet against his brother. They’re closer than Arya and I.“ Jon said, certainly.

Eddard pinched his nose and sighed, ”That is not actual proof though, so we are no better than when we started.“ He said in annoyance. Eddard then realized he had no idea where they were.

“Jon, where are we?” Eddard asked, looking around to see if he recognized any familiar landmarks.

 “On our way to Loras.“ Jon said, cryptically.

“Would he still be here so late?” Eddard asked.

“Probably. “

“Why are you being strange about the Tyrells?” Ned asked, getting more and more suspicious.

“I do not know what you are talking about…” Jon started before,

BANG!

 Both Jory and Eddard were taken by surprise as Jon suddenly without warning kicked a random door in. What the hell was he thinking! Whose room was this and what did Eddard’s son want with them? There was a shout as Jon strutted into the room, confidence seeping off of him.

“Grand Maester!” Jon said in a fake sounding scandalized voice. “For shame! This must be against your vows, no?”

Eddard’s eyes widened as he saw Grand Maester Pycelle standing in his room nearly naked. Judging by the position he was in; the weakness and foolishness of the old man was just an act. Eddard doubted even Arya, athletic and spry as she was, could bend her body the way this Letcher did.

“M- M- M- My Lord?” Pycelle stammered, falling back into his act. The man who had been in King’s Landing since before Eddard was even born meaning that he was well versed in how to slime his way out of tricky situations. “I- I assure you this is not what is it looks like-”

“Dancy?” Jon said, cutting off the Maester looking directly at the naked whore with orange hair in the corner of the room. Despite the blonde girl using her hands to cover herself, the red head did not even bother. Eddard could not believe his son's restraint. He was still yet a boy and was looking directly at the pretty girls in the eye, only the eye.

“It’s exactly what it looks like Lord Hand.“ She said as she started putting her dress back on. “The Maester here actually paid a little extra so that he could put it in my ars-”

“Thank you, Dancy!” Jon said, quickly cutting her off, finally turning red with embarrassment. He tossed her a bag that sounded as if it were filled with gold pieces and the whores left the room, though not before the blonde gave his son a quick curtsey. Jon then turned to the Maester. “Tsk, tsk, Maester. Breaking your vows and then interfering with an investigation by the Hand of the King with lying?”

“Please, My Lord. If I may just explain…” the man said, but Eddard was more distracted by his son giving him looks over the feeble old man’s head.

“This is a very serious charge, Grand Maester.“ Ned said, turning to his son and Jory.

“What do you think, Ser Jon?”

“Well I happen to know that the Sunset Dancer is headed up to Eastwatch by the Sea tomorrow afternoon…” Jon said, and a look of growing horror hit the Scholar’s face. “The watch can always use more men. They probably are in need of a Maester…”

“No! Please!” He cried, falling to his knees and grabbing Eddard’s sleeve. “Please my Lord Hand!”

Eddard shoved him off in disgust and looked to Jory. “Jory, please escort the Maester to a cell. Jon please talk to the Captain of the Sunset Dancer in the Morning to let him know that they will have an extra passenger. “

The pathetic old man wailed some more as he was led away.

“What the hell was that!” Eddard snapped at his son once no one was in ear shot.

“I am sorry father…” Jon said, pensively. The look upon Jon’s face made some of the anger Eddard felt dissipate but not all of it. “I knew you’d never go along with this if I told you what was going to happen. Honestly, I am surprised you went along with it as much as you did…”

“Jon, what…”

“What I did was dishonorable, I know.” Jon said, starting to sit on the bed before realizing what had gone down there a few moments ago and thought better of it. “But this was for the best. Pycelle was not- is not a good man. If underhanded tactics get rid of him then so be it. There is no single person in the capital that is not better off for it. “

Was what his son was saying true? How had he become so ruthless? Were the decisions he made justified by the outcome?

“Do not forget, if Lord Arryn was murdered then he had a hand in it. If not the poisoning itself, he was the one who withheld medical care from him. He ordered Maester Coleman away.“ Jon said, and his face darkened. “Even if none of that were true, he is guilty of much darker crimes. It is just a good thing Daella was able to get me a note to deal with this so soon. “

Eddard put the pieces together in his head as he realized. “That girl, the one who you said runs your estate. She is actually a whore?”

“She does run my estate and she was a whore.“ Jon clarified. “She got pregnant and -it's not mine!- I felt bad for her so I hired her to my estate. “

“How do you know a whore in the first place?” Eddard asked, before he realized that he probably did not want to know the answer if Jon was anything like his uncle.

“Lord Royce did not like it, but Jon Arryn used me to speak to the smallfolk during some of his investigations.” Jon said, smiling at the memory of the older man. “They’d much rather speak to a bastard than some ‘uppity lordling’. Most of the whores know they can come to me if they are in trouble and I can count on them for favors.”

“Such as information?” Ned asked.

“Mostly, aye.“ Jon said, picking up a shift and folding it.

“Jon Arryn was always wise enough to see when someone could be utilized in ways that most would not have thought of.“ Ned said, smiling as well and tucking that nugget of information away for later. “You did truly buy an estate? How?”

“With the money from the tourney I won.“ Jon said, “It should be ready in a day or two. I shall like to show you and the girls once it is ready. “

“I would like that as well.“ Ned said, “Now let us leave this place. It reeks of sex. “

“I will find Loras first father. I want the offer for Master of Coin to be in any missive that he sends.“ Jon said, Ned cocked an eyebrow and Jon raised his hands in surrender but glanced at his shoes. “No more secret plans father. I swear. “

“Very well.“ Ned said, patting the boy on his shoulder. Ned knew that he was lying, but decided to trust him. He made note to get Robert to speed that legitimization decree up. “I shall see you in the morrow. You don’t want to keep that pretty soulmate of yours waiting. “

Jon rolled his eyes as yet another member of his family was lecturing him on how to conduct himself with his soulmate. He murmured something guiltily and Ned remembered that he still needed information from his son.

“Why are you acting so strangely about the Tyrells?” Ned said, and seeing that his son was going to attempt to dodge the answer again he said, “We are not leaving here until you tell me.“

“Margaery Tyrell…” Jon began, seemingly at a loss for words. “Margaery Tyrell is my soulmate. “

“I beg your pardon?” Ned said, “I must have misunderstood you. “

“I spoke to Loras earlier.“ Jon said, rubbing his arm. “She apparently has a soulmark that matches mine. “

“That is…” Ned said, falling back onto the bed. “I don’t…”

“He even talked about her gaining veins of gold the same way I did.“ Jon said. “Something no one but Lady Catelyn, the rest of us kids and Ser Jaime knew about. “

When Ned found out what happened, he ordered that no one was to talk about how Jon got his soulmark while Luwin did more research into the phenomenon.

“But Lady Val…”

“Is still my mate.“ Jon stressed. “I can feel it in my bones. “

Ned felt sick to his stomach. Over the years there had been rumors of this. Baela Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon, and Sara Snow had been rumored to be so. (A Snow and a Jacaerys!) Bloodraven and Bittersteel had been rumored to share half a soulmark with Shiera Seastar and that is where the acrimonious relationship came from. But no, the only confirmed triad of soulmarks was the Conquers: Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. Every trio had Valyrian blood. This was not good.

“… years ago when the royal progress traveled to Highgarden. We did not speak to each other much though.“ Jon said and Ned realized he had spaced out.

“What. “

“Lady Margaery. We met a few years ago but we did not speak to each other much. At all really” Jon said, and his face ignited in what seemed to be embarrassment. “She spent most of her time swimming with her ladies. “

Ned blushed thinking of Robert’s words in the crypts and shook his head. “And that is why you were so adamant about naming Willas Tyrell?”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “I asked Loras to make sure that Willas was coming to the Capital back in Winterfell. You need people you can trust and that can actually do their job. If you did not agree… well it is not as if he would not enjoy and be popular at Tourneys.”

“I will write Lord Ty…” Ned began but Jon grimaced. “What?”

“The Tyrells… They are very adamant about getting a grandson on the Throne. I do not believe that they would be very… receptive of their only daughter marrying a bastard.” Jon said, sheepishly.

“You seem to be close with Ser Loras…”

“Which would do nothing for Mace Tyrell’s lust for prestige.” Jon said, bitterly. “I… I will deal with the Tyrell’s.”

~~~

“You seem cold My Lord.” Allyria said, walking up from behind.

Willas was surprised that she was able to get so close but he really should not be. She was naturally quite quiet, and Willas had spaced out quite a bit.

“Ah, yes well…” Willas said, still not quite used to having a soulmate nor on how he was supposed to interact with her either. “Not quite used to being on the water.”

When the Purple rose with a broken steam appeared on Willas’ wrist. His mother and even his grandmother had been overjoyed for him. (His father had, of course, made it about himself)

“Your family is from the Harbor and Oldtown and you aren’t used to the water?” She asked, the humor more than clear in her tone. 

“Well when you put it like that…” Willas said, as his soulmate sighed sadly. “Is everything alright?”

“It is just…” Allyria began. “Everything has moved so quickly. I was betrothed to Beric and helping my father run Starfall before Edric could take his rightful place, now I am to be the Lady of Highgarden. And we’re going to the capital all of a sudden.”

Willas and Allyria were not actually planning on meeting and going to the capital together. Willas was going to pick up Oberyn from Sunspear and she happened to be there acting as a Lady-in-Waiting. With the Martells and the Daynes so close, they knew that Willas was going to be in Sunspear and it was not very hard to narrow down who the rose with the broken stem was.

“Do you not like the Capital?” Willas asked, as her grey eyes shone with odium.

“Not many in Dorne care for the Capital nowadays.” Allyria said, facing away and leaning on the railing away from him.Willas was just barely able to avoid grimacing at his faux pas. “My Princess and I have even less of a reason than most.”

“Yourself as well?” Willas asked.

“Now that the Starks are there? Yes.” Allyria said, and Willas hummed in agreement. He knew what happened between Ned Stark and Arthur and Ashara Dayne. He could not imagine that was not the beginning of a feud that would last generations. Just look at what happened between him and Oberyn when that was just an accident.

“We can avoid them.” Willas said, placing his left hand on top of her right and rubbed his thumb up and down the back of her hand.

“I doubt that it will be that easy. At least for any length of time.” Allyria said, seemingly accepting defeat.

“Then why do you make the journey?” Willas said, “Surely you could have just waited in Starfall?”

“Because Prince Oberyn told us that you would be picking him up.” Allyria said, “If you go, we should both go.”

“And Your Princess?”

“She has her reasons. It is not my place to question them.” Allyria said, as if reading from a script.

“But you do know them?”

“She has her secrets. It is not my place to share them.” Allyria said, although she did not hide her mirth so Willas knew she was teasing him.

“Allyria.” The woman in question said, and both of them turned around and saw her there. “I wish to get ready for sleep.”

She was very openly glaring at Willas the entire time she spoke. Not that he could blame her. His family hiding at Storm’s End the way they were could have changed the course of the war and her children may still be alive if that were the case.

“Of course, My Princess.” Allyria said, demurely as they both went to her cabin.

Willas made note to avoid her as much as they would be avoiding the Starks. While she may not look like him, Willas had no doubt that she was just as deadly as Oberyn if push came to shove.

~~~

Jon sighed as he trekked up the stairs to the Tower of the Hand. Why did this place have So. Many. Stairs?

His estate was actually in order tonight. He swung by the place accidentally waking baby Barra, invoking the wrath of Mhaegan, but it was intact and ready to be used probably as soon as tomorrow if he truly wanted. Next door was doing even better. His investment into Chataya's was making him a lot of money. More money than he anticipated to be honest. Maybe when the time came, he would be able to buy his own keep in the North for him and Val. Somewhere in the Gift perhaps?

But back to Chataya's; that pussball on legs Meryn Trant had been back. Whenever he shows up the whores all scramble and whoever is unfortunate enough to be the one forced to service him tends to not be able to walk for a few days, and that is if they are lucky. The white cloak has made them too afraid to stop him. Jon will need to make a plan to get rid of him as well. Pycelle is taken care of, Janos will be tomorrow, Loras confirmed that Willas was on his way already so Littlefinger will be gone soon enough not to mention Renly and his stupid plan to… with Lady Margaery no less!

“Hello Lover.“ A sultry voice sounded causing Jon’s head to snap up. Seeing her nowhere proved to be to his detriment as he was tackled from behind and the duo rolled across the floor. Finally his arms were pinned to his sides by Val’s legs, a dagger at his throat.

“Lad… Val!!” Jon said, finally getting a hold of himself.

“I’ve been waiting for you to long. I’ve decided to take things into my own hands... You reek of sex?” Val said, causing Jon’s eyes to widen, “Oh don’t give me that look Snow, I know what it smells like. “

“That’s not what… What can I help you with, My Lady?” Jon said, glad the light was dim in his room so that his soulmate could not see his blush.

“Well I was here to steal you.” Val said, letting go of his arms. “But it seems as if you…”

“My lady, I assure I did no such thing, I swear it on the old gods and the new. “ Jon said, leaning up onto his elbows.

“Really?” Val said, skeptically.

“I was checking on our estate. It is right next to a brothel and many of the girls come to me for help with things. “

“Our estate?” She asked, with a curious eyebrow not quite succeeding at keeping the smile on her face.

 “Aye, our estate.“ Jon said, placing a kiss on her lips.

“I heard you.” Val said, with a role of the eyes “I do not know what an estate is.”

“Oh…” Jon said, embarrassed when he remembered that Val more than likely did not have the same education as he. “It is a building that I own.”

There was an awkward pause for a moment before Val said, “I don’t care if you did you know.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lay with… who ever.” Val said, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Unless it is our soulmate. You do it with her and don’t tell me then you’ll fit in right well with those crows up north. You’ll be celibate… permanently.”

Jon chuckled, and softly pushed them back over to the bed. “The only one I wish to ‘lay with’ is you!”

“And our soulmate.” She corrected. “Though we do that together.”

“Are you sure?” Jon said, confused. “She is… well… a girl…”

“Really?” Val said in her mock scandalized voice that got better with every day she spent in the south. “I had no idea! I have met many ‘sisters’ that were actually men!” 

Jon rolled his eyes and he twisted her around, abruptly flopping her backwards onto the bed. He pulled her knees up closer to her chest and asked, “Tell me. Have you ever heard of the Lord’s Kiss?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: Mothers and Daughters; Fathers and Daughters

“KEEP YER SHIELD UP.” SNOW SAID TO A CHILD. “Or I’ll ring yer head like a bell.”

“Yes, father.” The child said, and Val jumped in surprise. Snow having children, when…

“He’s good with them isn’t he?” A voice said, with a small laugh from beside Val. She turned to see what at first she assumed to be Ser Loras, but she was wearing a dress, and had flowers woven into her hair. (Which, admittedly , was not too far outside the realm of possibilities for Loras.)

Judging by her looks Val could only assume that this was her. Margaery, her other soulmate.

If as on cue Val spoke, “Of course he is.” She said with a roll of the eyes. “Could you imagine anything different?”

Looking down from a balcony she saw two little figures by Jon. One was a little boy with a spear that looked exactly like Val did, at least when she was at that age. The other was a little girl with Margaery and Loras’ rosette hair with Snow’s grey eyes that carried a sword and shield, the child who Snow was originally speaking to. At least that is what Val assumed what they looked like. It seemed hard to see. Their faces and Margaery’s were like shimmering water.

“When is Mama coming back to train again?” The boy whined, leaning on his spear. “You’re no good with the spear, father!”

Val grinned as the child was, bluntly, telling the truth. Snow sighed. “It’s only a few more days, Loras. You know why she can’t.” Snow said, looking up at her and giving her a wink.

Val was confused for a second before looking down and seeing that she was very round with child. Val was taken aback, and Margaery leaned over to rub her belly. “Don’t worry it will only be a few days now.” Margaery said, and Val was surprised as she actually felt herself relax. “The man in the grey robes said by this time next week the babe should be out.”

“It is still not soon enough.” Val grumbled, and Margaery giggled.

“Alright.” Margaery said, leaning over the railing. “That is enough training for today. Lorie, Dalla, come get cleaned up and ready for lunch.”

“Coming mother!” Both shouted.

“Race you!” Loras said, sprinting for the stairs before the girl could process.

“No fair!” Dalla yelled but managed to blow past him on the stairs.

“Oy! You two are supposed to be putting away…” Snow started, before Margaery interrupted.

“Oh leave them be Jon!” Margaery shouted causing Snow to grumble but the smile on his face showed he held no malice.

She sat back down as the children arrived upstairs. Loras didn’t hesitate to plop himself in Margaery’s lap while Dalla, gingerly, sat herself in Val’s. She spoke, “Mama? Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.” Val replied, carding her fingers through the little girl’s hair the same way that Big Dalla used to do to Val.

“Why did you let us die?” She asked, eyes shining blue.

Val gasped and shot up from sleep. Or at least she tried to see that Snow’s arm was draped over her keeping her supine.

“Val?” Snow grumbled, arising with groggy eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I am fine.” She lied.

“I literally know that you are lying.” Snow said, swiping a thumb over the inside of her wrist. Val grumbled about it but did not say anything especially when Snow sat up and pulled her flush so that she could lay reclined on his chest. “Tell me what is wrong.”

“It was a simple nightmare, Snow.” Val said, rolling her eyes. “There is no need to dwell on it.”

“Do you wish to speak of something else?”

“ Yes.” Val said almost a little too quickly. She felt more vulnerable than usual so was more willing to answer, though she may regret it. “Anything.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“Snow…”

“I know nothing about any of them! ‘Cept Mance.” Snow argued.

Val looked at him and saw or felt nothing but genuine curiosity from him and eventually sighed.

“My… my mother’s name was Karsi.” Val finally said.

“Karsi?” Snow asked, curiosity flowing through the bond.

“Aye.” Val continued. “She was young when she was first stolen, but I do not know much about her childhood. The man who stole her died soon after Dalla was conceived.”

“Dalla is the sister who marr… who was stolen by Mance.” Snow asked in clarification.

Val smiled as he corrected the terms. He was learning. “Aye. According to my mother he got himself killed in some half-arsed attempt of attack on the wall. She and Dalla were mostly left alone… until my father stole her.”

“I have to admit that it is strange. When you told me about your stealing customs I only imagined that it was just the young maids getting stolen.” Jon said, his voice was tight with an emotion that she could not name but then he started rubbing his thumb up and down her ribs and she lost focus on it. “Not mothers with children of their own.

“Well there is a lot that you do not know!” Val snarled, but there was no bite in it. Nor any when Snow placed his lips against hers. “She was still young though… and beautiful... The brute that stole her was eventually chased off by Dalla and a friend of hers before they knew I was in her belly.”

“Truly?”

“Aye. Dalla was older than Sansa is now.” Val said, remembering hearing that he was disemboweled by a snow bear soon after. A sadistic smile came to her lips.

“Is she…” Snow asked as gently as he could.

“No. She passed. Not even a year before we met.” Val admitted. “He took me south to get me out of my head about it.”

“How did it happen?”

“She was weakened by greyscale.” Val said, fury upon her. She and Dalla never argued, but… they owed their mother. They owed her that mercy. To see her in pain day in and day out? Val tried not to cry in front of Snow but having to see her like that was horrifying. “But it was truly the cold that did her in.”

A pit settled into Val’s stomach at her half truth but she had a mission.

“Eight and Ten months.” Mance told her the night before she and Snow met. Truly met. “Give me eight and ten months to gather them. Then we will move on the wall. They won’t think that we will move on the north with you and the Warden of the North’s son together.”

Val felt the guilt eating at her for lying to Snow. But her people needed her. She could trust him with her life, but could she trust him with her people's lives?

“Tell me about Margaery.” Val said, trying to distract herself again.

“What?”

“Margaery. Our soulmate.” Val said, seeing as Snow tended to forget that they were both bonded to Lady Tyrell. “You’ve met her ‘aven’t you?”

“I don’t know much about her.” Snow said, before grinning with mirth. “Though she is the first girl I ever saw naked.”

“What?” Val yelped feeling mirth both originating from herself and bleeding into her from the soulmark.

“Yes. Her family was throwing a Tourney at her home and I visited.” Snow said, “Loras and I just became friends and wanted to introduce me to her. She was swimming in the moat with her cousins…”

“And?”

“Well, let’s just say that if we visit, what they swim in does not leave anything to the imagination when wet.” Snow said, smiling and Val smiled too. This was the most outwardly lecturous thing he has said or done.

“Well what are you waiting for?” Val said, wiggling so that they were side to side compared to back to front. “ Describe her to me.”

“Why Princess Val!” Snow said, with fake scandal. “That is vastly inappropriate!”

“Snow!”

“Not to mention there was nothing to see. She was twelve and Loras pushed me into a bush before I could see too much.” Snow finally said, and Val laughed.

“You’re an arsehole. You know that?”

“So I try.” Snow laughed. “In fact…” 

They were interrupted when Arya barged into their room. “Jooon! Father said… ew! Why are you both naked!”

“Arya!”

“That’s gross!” The girl who has had their soulmate sleep in her room for the last week said. Finally she stormed off without bothering to close the door.

“I am going to not hear the end of this from my father.” Snow grumbled.

“That is hilarious.” Val said.

“We are moving into the estate. Tonight.” Snow grumbled even more.

~~~

“Khaleesi?” Irri said, walking into her tent but not meeting her eye.

“Yes, Irri?” Her khaleesi said, barely looking up. 

She still has yet to acknowledge they now shared a bonding mark. It made Irri very sad.

“It… it is about our… bonding mark.” Irri said, demurely.

“Oh, my sweet Irri.” Her khaleesi said, walking over and cupping Irri’s cheek. “I have not been ignoring you.”

“You haven’t?”

“No.” Her khaleesi said, placing a kiss to her forehead. Irri could not help but feel that it was a little cute considering that Irri was half a head taller than her. “You are the most important part of my future plans.”

“I am?”

“You are!” Her khaleesi said, going to brush a lock of hair behind her ear but looked sad when there was nothing to brush. Irri loved Khaleesi's hair. While enough had grown back so that Irri could get it between her fingertips. “The Dragon has three heads. We are going back to Westeros, my family and legacy needs you.”

Irri nodded her head. She would do whatever she needed for her Khalessi!

~~~

Sansa woke up from a dream where she was Lady to the sound of arguing outside her room. While the dreams had come easier, they were still easily broken. Sansa could not fathom what could possibly be making so much noise this late. Her, very predictable in hindsight, answer could be found in the form of her sister bursting in with Jeyne and the Princess in tow.

Surprisingly it was the Princess Myrcella who pushed Jeyne forward. “Go on! Show her!”

Jeyne looked very uncomfortable before, slowly, pulling her sleeve up. Sansa’s jaw dropped at the Blue Kraken on her wrist.

“Myrcella found it!” Arya preened. 

Sansa found it quite hilarious how the girl who so vemimently did not want a soulmate was first, matched with someone who was just as vemimently against it and secondly the fact that she got on so well with her.

(Plus Arya was regularly mistaken for a boy so it was fitting that her soulmate was a girl!)

But despite that, Sansa could not help but feel jealous of the three in the room with her. She still had no idea who her soulmate was. Their father announced to them at dinner their first day that Robb had met his soulmate in the form of Wynafryd Manderly and she and Lyanna Mormont were both in Winterfell. Jon and Val were smitten with each other and Arya was adorable with Myrcella.

Meanwhile Sansa was alone. Now even her Jeyne was matched up, to someone they knew too!

“Of course she did! She certainly has enough expirence with hiding Soulmarks!” Jeyne snapped, before her cheeks colored in panic as she realized that she stepped out of line. She quickly went to her knees, “Please forgive me, Princess!”

“Well I can’t be mad. You certainly weren’t wrong!” Myrcella said, good naturedly causing Arya to giggle.

Arya. Giggling !

“Jeyne! Why didn’t you tell me!” Sansa asked, somewhat hurt that she would keep this from her.

“It’s… It’s Theon!” Jeyne replied in disgust.

“But you’ll be a Lady Paramount!” Sansa said, although regretted it. She knew that Jeyne was insecure about the fact that she was a steward’s daughter.

“I will be perfectly fine without him!” Jeyne said, storming off.

She wondered what Lord Vayon would think of this. Sansa sighed as she realized that she would have to be the one who has to tell her father about this… 

~~~

“Are you sure about this? Will it work?” Jon’s father asked, still very uncertain of this.

“Yes. Tomorrow.” Jon said, it has to be. “It is the last day that we can do so and have the replacements ready for the tourney.”

“I do not like it.” The Hand said.

“I understand, but…” Jon started before they all heard it.

Bum-Dum-Duh

Bum-Dum-Duh

Bum-Dum-Duh

Jon, his father and Val all exchanged looks before moving the table that was thumping. As soon as it was moved a trap door popped open.

“Ser Snow!” Marei exclaimed, when she saw him. “I’m glad you are here!”

“Marei? What are you doing here?” Jon asked, surprised to see this door.

“He’s back!”

Jon’s face darkened, “Bring me to him.”

Marei slid down the ladder followed by both Jon and Val. 

“What is this?” Jon asked, and they rushed down this spacious corridor.

“A former hand of the king had this made.” Marei grumbled. Judging by her tone, it was not hard to figure out which Hand she spoke of.

“Who are we after?” Val asked.

“ Ser Meryn Trant.” Jon said, venomously. It shamed him that he shared a title with this man. “He likes beating on little girls.”

Val clicked her tongue pulled out her handaxe and spun it in her hand a few times. They got to the Brothel quicker than Jon would have thought. He supposed it made sense since it was a straight shot from the tower of the hand to the building without having to deal with any twists or turns.

Jon pulled out his new dagger, White Fang. He was a better swordsman than knife fighter but her learned the hard way, fighting in an enclosed space with a sword was a bad idea.

Jon was just about to start talking strategy when Val just burst through the door… only to see Meryl Trant on his knees with his hand pinned to the table by a wicked looking dagger. He screamed as a couple beside him kissed as if nothing in the world mattered.

“Erm… Hello?” Jon said, sheepishly as the couple did not even bother looking up when Jon and Val burst in.

“Oh! Hello there!” The woman said, as if they were not blantently brandishing weapons at her. “You must be the owner.”

Jon blinked and exchanged looks with Val, who clearly thought the whole thing was hilarious.

“Erm… yes.” Jon said, resheathing White Fang. “I am Jon Snow. This is Princess Val of the Freefolk.”

Both eyes of the couple widened; more in amusement than anything.

“Princess huh?” The woman asked, while the man chuckled.

“What is a Stark bastard doing in a brothel?” The man asked.

“Ser Snow protects us!” Marei said in his defense. “He watches out for us.”

“How noble.” The woman said in a flirty manner, entering Val’s personal space.

“I’m sorry, you are?” Jon asked, having a sinking feeling her knew.

“Oberyn Martell.” He said, lounging on a bed. “I think that you are barking up the wrong tree, Mi Amor.”

Jon saw the woman still in Val’s space and for the first time since Jon knew her she looked uncomfortable.

“Prince Oberyn! I did not expect you so soon!” Jon said, glad that he caught the man first.

“Why wouldn’t we get here with due hast?” Prince Oberyn asked, “We are here for the tourney.” Jon relaxed, “And we were more than gracious for the invitation to a spot on the small council, though we did find it strange that the raven came from Winterfell rather than King’s Landing…” He finished in a leading tone.

“Relax, brother.” The woman who must be Ellaria Sand said with a chuckle. “Your secret is safe with us.”

Jon relaxed and Val was very amused at his fluster. It was at this moment that Trant whinged and she gave him a dirty look. “What did he do?”

“He wanted some woman named Mhaegan.” Oberyn said, “He was not exactly taking no for an answer.

“He…” Jon started, before he could continue, Val swung her axe into Trant’s throat. The man’s eyes widened before the light behind them faded and he slumped into the table.

“Val!” Jon snapped. No matter how terrible Trant was, he was still a member of the King’s personal guard. He could provide no end of headaches to House Stark.

“You said it yourself Ser.” Marei said, “He would probably get away with it, that is why you came personally.”

To give him a beating to scare him off , was left unsaid.

“It is a little different than an execution.” Jon said, furious. Especially since he felt no guilt from Val.

“But there was no execution.” Prince Oberyn said, jubilantly. “He was attacking a defenseless woman…”

“Girl really.” Ellaria corrected.

“He attacked a defenseless girl, we tried to step in and Princess Val was merely defending me.” Oberyn finished.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Jon said, begrudgingly. He may not like it. But he was in a corner. “My father is lucky too have you on his small council.

“Oh, it is not I who will be on the Small Council.” Oberyn said, with a grin like the viper of his namesake.

Just as Jon was about to ask about it another voice cut through the room.

“There you are!” A man with a cane exclaimed. “What is wrong with you?”

“With me?” Oberyn asked, “She must have known that…”

“Known? Yes.” A woman deadpanned, appearing from behind the man with a cane. “Prayed that you wouldn’t? Also yes.”

“We are going to get out of your hair.” Jon said, tugging Val’s wrist. “Thank you again. If there is anything we could do to repay you…”

“Maybe her? On the house?” Ellaria said, pulling Marei into her lap. “I am very partial towards blondes.” She added winking at Val.

“She is a person. None are ‘ on the house ’.” Jon snapped.

While a good portion of the reason Jon bought this place may have been for the money, the majority of the reasons was to protect them. Not to mention his mother…

“It is fine Ser Snow.” Marei said, with her ‘customer’ giggle as Ellaria loosed their gowns and both sets of breasts started to spill out. Jon could not help but feel amused at the idea of Oberyn Martell sleeping with Tywin Lannister’s daughter. “It is an honor to be with a prince and princess.”

Jon decided to not argue the secmantics as he left, but a hand with a vice like grip reached out and pulled Jon’s wrist to the man’s eye level.

Val was quick as a whip, bringing her handaxe to his throat. The woman in purple had her own dagger pressed into Val’s navel only a second behind.

“Drop it!” Both women snapped.

“It is alright Val.” Jon said, “The Tyrell boys just have a hard time keeping their hands to themselves.”

Val dropped her eagle headed dagger but continued to glare and at the same time Edric’s aunt did as well. 

“You… You’re a Stark?” Lady Dayne asked and Jon nodded. 

“Stark bastard.”

She exchanged looks, or at least attempted to, with a horrified Willas, who was still staring at Jon’s soulmark.

“I need to speak with him.” Lady Dayne said. “Please.”

“Of course.” Jon said, right away.

~~~

Eddard Stark looked at the returned Raven from House Umber. The fact that they responded so quickly… well Ned was not sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. Jon’s hunches have shown to be accurate, and so Ned trusted them.

Ned was shaken from his thoughts when there was a knock at his door. Before he could answer, the door opened. “His Grace, Prince Tommen of Houses L-Baratheon and Lannister.” Ser Greenfield announced.

The slip of the tongue of the Kingsguard knight did not go unnoticed by Ned. It spoke to their influence in the capital.

“Your Grace.” Eddard said, with a bow of the head. “How may I help you?”

“I wish to squire.” Tommen said, puffing out his head to project confidence.

“Oh, perhaps this is a decision for your father?”

“I did ask and he said ‘that’s what I have a bloody hand for!’” Tommen said, “and I think you are a better option anyway.”

“You wish to squire under me?” Ned asked, confused.

“Um… no…” Tommen said, awkwardly. “I was hoping that you could get…”

They were distracted by three quick rapped on the trap door that Jon and Val went through. Before he could stop them, Jon opened the door and Jon popped out along with Val and one other seemed to be coming up too. Jon quickly caught that Ned had company.

“Father I- Prince Tommen?”

“Jon!” Prince Tommen said, ecstatic to see him. It was quickly clear to Ned the reason for Tommen’s visit. “What is that? Is that a secret door? Where does it lead?”

“It is. It leads to… the street that my estate is on.” Jon said, scratching his head and it was at this moment that Ned realized that the two were covered in blood.

“Prince Tommen, may we discus this at a later moment?” Ned asked.

The Prince knew that something was going on but not what specifically was wrong.

“Of course, My Lord.” Tommen said, before leaving. Though they didn’t get out before getting a dirty look from Ser Greenfield for dismissing a Prince of the Blood.

“What the hell happened?” Ned said, as soon as he could make sure that the Prince was gone.

“Meryl Trant is dead.” Jon said, simply. “He attacked Prince Oberyn Martell and Val was forced to kill him… but if anyone asks it was me.”

“What?” Ned snapped. 

He caught the lie and he was somewhat impressed if he was not so angry. Jon put out the lie to rope him in, so that he would not think that there was anything more than what he was supposed to cover for.

“It’s…” Jon began before a not so polite cough came from behind him. “Oh father, this is Lady Allyria Dayne.”

When the wo- when the girl walked in Ned’s entire world spun. Flashbacks to Harrenhal and Starfall hit him as an almost exact replica of Ashara walked in. She was more girlish then she had ever seen her and her eyes were darker but otherwise it was as if she walked out of his memory.

“A- Ash…”

“Lady Allyria Dayne.” the girl repeated, frowning at her mistaken identity. “My betrothed sends his apologies for not being able to meet with you himself. Your… son recommended that he not follow us through the tunnel.”

“It is fine.” Ned said, finally finding his voice.

“May we speak, My Lord?” Lady Allyria asked before looking at Jon and adding “Alone?”

Ned gave Jon a look and Jon knew that he was accepting her request from the woman who might have been Ned’s good sister once. “Do you wish for a…”

“Willas trusts me.” Lady Allyria said, moving a few bracelets to show a that she had a soulmark of a purple rose with a broken stem. “And judging by your… reputation I doubt you have any ill intentions.”

Jon and Val left with a nod and Val patted Ghost on her way out but thankfully left without protest. Lady Allyria stared at him as they left.

“Is there… something that you wished to speak of My Lady?” Ned asked somewhat unnerved as she stared at him.

“My Prince…” Lady Allyria started, before cutting herself off. “I was recently told that you would probably be the best person to ask about Ashara.”

“Ashara?” Ned asked, before doing a little math in his head. She must have been to young for memories of her sister… or brother.

“Yes.” Allyria said, “My… Ashara was a subject that was not allowed to come up often in Starfall. You were betrothed to her were you not?”

“No.” Ned said, honestly. “We were in talks to it.”

“It didn’t go through?” She asked, a look of surprise.

“No. My father and your mother were in talks…” Ned said, causing the girl to squirm “But were unable to come to an agreement before…”

“Before you abandoned her for some fish cunny?” She asked, venom in her voice.

“Watch it!” Ned growled, furious though trying to temper it. She was not Littlefinger, and Ned should not be throwing her against a wall. Especially… “I cared for Ashara but Catelyn is my wife. I will forgive it this time for my care for your sister but I will not allow…”

“Mother.”

“I- what?” Ned said, the conversation catching up to him and his anger dispersed as if he was doused with Ice Water.

“Mother. Ashara was not my sister, she was my mother.” Allyria said, and Ned fell backwards into his chair. “Tell me, My Lord… are you my father?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: Loose Ends

The southern rain was soft and warm and Catelyn liked the feel of it on her face. It reminded her of her childhood, to long grey days at Riverrun. She remembered the woods, drooping branches heavy with moisture, and the sound of her brother’s laughter as he chased her through piles of damp leaves. 

In the north, the rain fell cold and hard, and sometimes at night it turned to ice if they were lucky... if not it would turn while one was still in its grasp. It sent grown men running for the nearest shelter lest it give them a chill.

“I am soaked,” Ser Rodrik whined. “Even my bones are wet. We need to stop. I will light a fire tonight, and we can rest.”

“There is an inn at the crossroads up ahead,” Catelyn told him. She had spent many nights there growing up, traveling with her father when he was on his lordly business. 

“An inn?” Ser Rodrik repeated cautiously. “If only … but we cannot take the risk.” He was cut off as they heard sounds up the road; travelers. “Riders,” he warned, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. 

As they followed the road they saw them; a column of armed men noisily fording a swollen stream. Catelyn gestured to Lord Rodrik so they could let them pass. The purple cloaks and the silver eagle of Seagard upon their chest let both of them know exactly who they were. “Mallisters,” Ser Rodrik whispered to her, as if she had not known the sigil of one of her own father’s bannermen. “My lady, best pull up your hood.”

Lord Jason Mallister himself rode with them, surrounded by his knights, his son Patrek by his side and their squires close behind. She remembered Patrek, for he was a good friend of Edmure’s, the two little boys would run around Riverrun as if the entire castle was a play room.

They were certainly riding for King’s Landing and “Ned’s” tourney. For the past week the kingsroad had been overcrowded with knights, freeriders, singers with their harps or flutes or drums, traders and whores, and all of them moving south in hopes of earning a pretty penny in her Ned’s name.

The last time she had seen him was at her wedding feast. In the years since his brown hair was salted with white now and his face chiseled gaunt. As the riders passed, Lord Jason nodded a curt greeting, but it was only a high lord’s courtesy to strangers chance met on the road. There was no recognition in those fierce eyes, and his son did not even waste a look at the woman who once changed his waddling clothes.

“He did not know you,” Ser Rodrik said surprised.

“He saw a pair of mud-spattered travelers by the side of the road, wet and tired.” Catelyn said, with a slight smile. “It would never occur to him to suspect that one of them was the daughter of his liege lord. I think this proves that we should be safe enough at the inn, Ser Rodrik.”

It was near dark when they reached it and Catelyn truly could not have been gladder. 

“Two rooms at the top of the stairs, that’s all there is,” Marsha Hiddle said, chewing on a sour leaf all the while. “They’re under the bell tower so don’t you worry. You don’t like it? Too bad. Can’t be helped. We’re full up so it’s them or you can take your chances on the road.”

Hours later when the supper bell rang, Catelyn had changed clothes to go down. She sat by the window, in a corner that no one would hopefully bother her. The common room was long and drafty, with a row of huge wooden kegs at one end and a fireplace at the other. A serving boy ran back and forth with skewers of meat while Masha drew beer from the kegs, chewing that damned sourleaf all the while.

The benches were crowded, townsfolk and farmers mingling freely with all manner of travelers. The crossroads made for odd companions; dyers with black and purple hands shared a bench with rivermen reeking of fish, an ironsmith thick with muscle squeezed in beside a wizened old septon, hard-bitten sellswords and soft plump merchants swapped news like boon companions.

The company included more swords than Catelyn would have liked. She was tired of this Cloak and Dagger. She wished to be north in Winterfell, where her sons and her duty were waiting for her. As soon as they were safely past the Neck, she could declare herself to one of Ned’s bannermen, and send riders racing ahead with orders to mount a watch on the kingsroad.

At the table next to theirs, a handsome youth was fingering a woodharp as he arrived at the empty table. “Seven blessings to you, good-folk,” he said as he sat, already reeking of Wine.

“And to you, singer,” Catelyn returned. 

The singer paused in his strumming to ask where they were going, and from where they had come from, and what news they had, never bothering to paused for an answer… or a breath.

 “We left King’s Landing a fortnight ago,” Catelyn replied, answering the safest of his questions.

“That’s where I’m headed,” the singer said. She smiled as she realized that he was more interested in telling his own story than in hearing theirs. Singers loved nothing half as much as the sound of their own voices. This one from the small amount of conversation she had had with him let her know that he was likely worse than most. “The Hand’s tourney means rich lords with fat purses. The last time I came away with more silver than I could carry … at least I would have, if I hadn’t lost it all betting on the thrice damned Kingslayer to win the day.”

“The gods frown on the gambler,” Ser Rodrik said sternly.   

“They frowned on me, for certain,” the singer said. “Your cruel gods and the bastard of Winterfell did me in.”

“No doubt that was a lesson for you,” Ser Rodrik said, but was visually holding in a smile at the reminder that a student of his defeated such a skilled opponent no matter how the Stark viewed tournaments.

“It was. This time my coin will champion the boy's lover, Ser Loras.” He laughed. Catelyn squirmed in her seat and Ser Rodrik tried to tug at whiskers that were not there, but before he could frame a rebuke for Jon’s honor the serving boy came scurrying up. Catelyn wondered… “Tell me you haven’t heard the rumors about them?” He asked when he saw their discomfort.

“I cannot say I have…”

“My name is Marillion,” the singer said, plucking a string on his woodharp. “Doubtless you’ve heard me play somewhere?”

His manner made Catelyn would have made her smile had he not just insulted… insulted her nephew. Few wandering singers ever ventured as far north as Winterfell, but she knew his kind from growing up in Riverrun. “I fear not,” she told him.

“That is your loss,” he said, taking a drink from his wine. “If you have the silver for a song, I’ll gladly show you my talents in action.”

“I might have a copper or two, but I’d sooner toss it down a well than pay for your howling,” Ser Rodrik groused.

His opinion of singers was well known; music was a lovely thing for girls, but he could not comprehend why any healthy boy would fill his hand with a harp when he might have had a sword. Which was ironic seeing as Beth was the best singer that Catelyn ever had the fortune of hearing.

“Your grandfather has a sour nature,” Marillion said to Catelyn. “I wished to sing in your honor. A song to your beauty. I was made to sing for kings and high lords, and to have a song in your honor from myself is no small token.”

“Oh, I can see that,” Catelyn said. “I’ve heard that Lord Tully is fond of music. No doubt you’ve been to Riverrun?”

“Aye! Probably a hundred times,” the singer lied. “They keep a chamber for me, and the young lord is like a brother.”

Catelyn smiled, wondering what Edmure would think of that. Another singer had once bedded a girl her brother fancied; he had hated the breed ever since.

As the singer listened to the sound of his own voice she looked to the crossroads from outside. If they turned west from here, it was a short ride to Riverrun. If Winterfell needed to brace for war, Riverrun was going to need to as well. Every major conflict in Westeros dragged the Riverlands into it.    

The eastern road was wild and dangerous. Above the Vale, the Eyrie stood high and impregnable, its towers reaching for the sky. Then men of the Vale had always been haughty and proud, she cannot imagine that Lysa had the easiest time acclimating to the kingdom.

She supposed that the Riverlanders and Vale would become much closer in the coming days when Edmure married Lady Royce. She was crude and vulgar and did not bother holding her tongue. She would be perfect for Edmure.

“And Winterfell?” she asked, interrupting his rambling. “Have you ever traveled north?”

“Why would I?” Marillion asked. “It’s all blizzards and bearskins up there, and the Starks know no music but the howling of wolves.” Distantly, she was aware of the door banging open at the far end of the room.

“Innkeep,” a servant’s voice called out behind her, “we have horses that want stabling, and my lord of Lannister requires a room and a hot bath.”

“Oh no.” Ser Rodrik said before Catelyn reached out to silence him.

Lady Heddle was bowing and smiling her hideous sour leaf stained smile. “I’m sorry, m’lord, truly, we’re full up, every room.”

There were Six of them, Catelyn saw. Led by an old man in the black of the Night’s Watch, Catelyn knew him as the traveling Crow that often visited Winterfell. Surprisingly enough Catelyn recognized “Crowsfood” Umber. A frequent visitor at Winterfell whenever his nephew visited. She always found him such a sad man. Next to him was the Greatjon’s youngest son, named after her Husband, Ned Umber. No “ Eddard ” or “ Edric ”, just Ned. 

Then behind them were two servants … and him, standing there small and bold as could be. “My men can sleep in your stable, and as for myself, well, I do not require a large room, as you can plainly see.” He flashed a mocking grin. “So long as the fire’s warm and the straw reasonably free of fleas, I am a happy man. Though I cannot speak for Lord Umber.”

Masha Heddle was terrified. The Lannister’s had a reputation for disproportionate retribution for even the smallest of slights. Jon’s story of Robert’s bastard twins was horrifying enough. “M’lord, there’s nothing, it’s the tourney, there’s no help for it, oh …”

Tyrion Lannister pulled a coin from his purse and flicked it up over his head, caught it, tossed it again. Even across the room, where Catelyn sat, the clinking of gold was unmistakable.

A freerider jumped to his feet. “You’re welcome to my room, m’lord.”

“Now there’s a clever man,” Lannister said as he sent the coin spinning across the room. The freerider snatched it from the air. “And a nimble one to boot.” The dwarf turned back to Masha Heddle. “You will be able to manage food, I trust?”

“Anything you like, m’lord, anything at all,” the innkeep promised, nodding. 

Lannister glanced at the nearest tables, and as did Crowfood. It did not take him long to notice the wife of his liege.  He was confused but quickly understood she didn’t wish to be seen. “My men will have whatever you’re serving these people. Double portions, we’ve had a long hard ride. I’ll take a roast fowl—chicken, duck, pigeon, it is no matter. And send up a flagon of your best wine. Yoren, will you sup with me?”

“Aye, m’lord, I will,” the black brother replied.

The dwarf had not so much as glanced toward the far end of the room, and Catelyn was thinking how grateful she was for the crowded benches between them when suddenly the idiot singer jumped to his feet.

 “My lord of Lannister!” he called out. “I would be pleased to entertain you while you eat. Let me sing to you about your father’s great victory at King’s Landing during the rebellion!”

“Nothing would be more likely to ruin my supper,” the dwarf said dryly. His mismatched eyes considered the singer briefly, started to move away … and found Catelyn. He looked at her for a moment, puzzled. She turned her face away, but too late. The dwarf was giving that cocky smile she first saw of his brother all those years ago in Riverrun when he came to court Lysa. “Lady Stark, what an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “I was sorry to miss you at Winterfell.”

Marillion gaped at her, confusion giving way to chagrin as Catelyn rose slowly to her feet. She heard Ser Rodrik curse. If only the man had lingered at the Wall, she thought, if only …

“Lady … Stark?” Masha Heddle said thickly.

“I was still Catelyn Tully the last time I bedded here,” she told the innkeep. She could hear the muttering, feel the eyes upon her. Catelyn glanced around the room, at the faces of the knights and sworn swords, and took a deep breath to slow the frantic beating of her heart. Did she dare take the risk? There was no time to think it through, only the moment and the sound of her own voice ringing in her ears. “You in the corner,” she said to an older man she had not noticed until now. “Is that the black bat of Harrenhal I see embroidered on your surcoat, ser?”

The man got to his feet. “It is, my lady.”

“And is Lady Whent a true and honest friend to my father, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun? To the memory of her own cousin, my mother Minisa?”

“She is,” the man replied stoutly. “Always and forever.”

The imp was blinking at them, blank-faced, confusion in his mismatched eyes.

“The red stallion was ever a welcome sight in Riverrun,” she said to the trio by the fire. “My father counts Jonos Bracken among his oldest and most loyal bannermen.”

The three men-at-arms exchanged uncertain looks. “Our lord is honored by his trust,” one of them said hesitantly confused as to where she was going with this.

“I envy your father all these fine friends,” Lannister quipped, “but I do not quite see the purpose of this, Lady Stark.”

She ignored him, turning to the large party in blue and grey. They were the heart of the matter; there were more than twenty of them. “I know your sigil as well: the twin towers of Frey. How is your liege lord, sers?”

Their captain rose. “Lord Walder is well, my lady. He plans to take a new wife on his ninetieth name day, and has asked your lord father to honor the wedding with his presence.”

“And Lord Umber. It is always a pleasure to have seen you and your family around my home in Winterfell.” 

“Tis an honor to be there.” Mors said, curious as to where this was going.

Tyrion Lannister suppressed a small chuckle. That was when Catelyn knew he was hers. “This man came into my home as a guest, and attempted to murder my son, a boy of seven,” she proclaimed to the room at large, pointing. Ser Rodrik moved to her side, his sword in hand. “In the name of King Robert and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to seize him and help me return him to Winterfell to await the king’s justice.”

She did not know what was more satisfying: the sound of a dozen swords drawn as one or the surprised look on Tyrion Lannister’s face.

~~~

“You wished to see me, M’Lord?” Ned looked up to see Janos Slynt, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Clearly annoyed with being summoned and then forced to wait.

“No one meets with Lord Stark with a weapon on his person.” Jory snapped.

“I am the Lord Commander…” Janos said, somewhat confused.

“I do not care.” Jory said, and one of the sleazy man’s lieutenants took the blade. 

“Have a seat, Lord Commander.” Ned said, gesturing to the seat across from his desk.

“I know what this is about M’Lord.” Janos said.

“You do?” Ned asked, curious as to what his explanation was.

“Oh yes. Janos Slynt knows which way the winds blow.” He said with a yellow grin. “You are replacing me as Lord Commander.”

“Why do you believe that?” 

“Most do.” Slynt said. “Most Hands that is… M’Lord.”

“Believe it or not, I make my appointments on merit.” Ned said, “I have not decided what I am going to do with you.”

Slynt grinned not exactly realizing what Ned’s words meant. “Please M’Lord. Anything you need just let me know.”

“Tell me about a Gold Cloak under your command named Dallen.”

The man’s face twitched for a fraction of a second. “I- I don’t understand M’Lord.” He said.

“It is a simple question.” Ned said, simply. “Veth. His name is in numerous notes from Lord Arryn. Why can I not find hide nor hair of him?”

“M’Lord Hand… I have numerous men under my command…” Janos said, “One watchman out of near 2,000 is…”

“Alright, we shall move on.” Ned said, sick of his excuses already. “There is another watchman here recommended by Lord Arryn for Promotion to Lord Commander. Though Lord Arryn’s notes mention that he lost track of him shortly before his fever took him.”

“Again M’Lord, I have numerous…”

“This one was one of your Lieutenants. Derrig? Surely that one would…”

“I know what this is!” Slynt said, shooting up causing his chair to shoot behind him. The man pointed in Ned’s face. “And I will tell you this! Janos Slynt will not go quietly! He has friends!”

“Friends such as Allen Deem? Slydar?” Ned said, starting to list the various members in Janos’ inner circle. The man’s face got paler and paler the more he listed. “Guther? Or maybe it is the man you pay who works in the Black Cells. Ilyvar?”

Slynt went positively green at Ned’s final words. “Worry not, Lord Commander. I shall have you in a cell guarded by mine own men.”

“That way,” Jon said, walking in just on time. Ned’s delay of meeting Slynt gave him more than enough time to complete his task. Something he clearly did seeing as he was covered in blood, something Slynt did not miss. “None of your associates might try to silence you before you can talk.”

“I have friends! Powerful friends!” Slynt said, a clear wobble in his voice. 

“None that would stick their neck out for you.” Ned said. 

“And none so powerful to overpower the Hand of the King.” Jon said, once again reminding Ned of the power of his position. “My Lord Hand, out of the thirteen, two surrendered peacefully and one was taken by force. Harwin should be taking care of gaoler Ilyvar as we speak.”

“Good.” Ned said, “Alyn, Jory will you both please take L- Slynt here to a cell.”

“I’ve done nothing! Nothing you can prove!”

“The testimony of seven individuals speaks otherwise.” Ned said. “Bribes and murders. You have dishonored your duty and the position of Lord Commander.”

“No! Janos Slynt will not go quiet…” Janos began, before Jon clubbed him in the back of his head, using the hilt of a wicked looking dagger that was as long as Ned’s arm below the elbow. The man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and Jory and Alan were barely able to catch the man before he hit the ground.

Ned held in a sigh as he walked out of his office. His men had already quickly and efficiently restrained the men who had come with Slynt. Varly had a deep gash on his face that wouldn’t stop bleeding but the others were fine. 

“Where are the rest?” Ned asked his son. 

Jon led him to a walkway that looked down on the courtyard. From his experience since he arrived, normally the courtyard would be full. Men at arms drilling and sparring, maids bringing out water or towels to flirt with the various sweaty men. 

Now everyone was hugging the walls. No maids were in or entered the courtyard, and the men looked on in shock. 

In the middle of the courtyard was a cart, full of bodies. None of them left any illusion that any of them were going to cause any problems anytime soon, or ever again. Ever from here Ned could see the majority of them covered in the brown rusty color of blood. 

Behind the cart were three men, all of them were tied to the back of the cart with the man in the middle also covered in blood. 

Surrounding the cart were Ser Loras and Val. Loras was as pretty as ever but Val, once again, was covered in another’s blood. It was starting to become a habit with Jon’s soulmate. A third person that Ned did not recognize leaned on the cart. She too had blood on her brown and orange leathers. 

“Who all partook?” Ned asked, curious. They seemed outnumbered almost three-to-one. 

“Myself and Loras as discussed.” Jon said, “And obviously Val wasn’t going to let me go alone.”

“Who is that?” Ned asked, referring to the Dornish girl. 

“Prince Oberyn’s daughter Obara.” Jon said. “He had no interest when I asked, but she agreed.”

“Just the four of you?” Ned asked, as he saw Ghost butt his head against Jon’s hand. 

“Well Ghost…” Jon laughed, petting the direwolf that was much more red than usual before starting to lead him down the stairs “… and Allyria.”

“What?” Ned said, following Jon’s eyeline to the girl who stood in front of Beric Dondarrian.

“L-Let me speak to the men who surrendered.” Ned said, being led to them as Jon rattled on about the battle that took place. “Listen here and listen now. You are all being given one chance. I am allowing you to join the watch. This will be your one and only chance to take it. There is honor serving in the Watch. Certainly more honor than the headsman block.”

The three men exchanged looks before furiously nodding. Jon behind him snickered and Ned sighed. “Take them to the Cell we have prepared. No one but Winterfell men guarding them.”

“Understood M’Lord.” Desmond said, gathering the ropes. 

Ned sighed as this was one less problem that he’d have to deal with. 

“I am going to bathe.” Jon said, and Val hummed. “Me too”

Ned sighed as the girl Obara said, “gross.”

As he watched Jon and his soulmate trail off, and his eyes naturally were drawn to his… to Allyria. 

She was whispering about something that he had no chance of hearing to Beric before she went to her tiptoes to kiss him upon his cheek. The man held his cheek where her lips met it before smiling sadly and walking away. 

Ned felt his leg carry him over towards her. “He seems like a good man.”

Allyria, who had seemed as relaxed as Jaime Lannister on the Iron Throne a moment earlier, had stiffened. “He is.” Allyria said, “I wouldn’t have regretted marrying him had I not gotten this mark.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Willas is a good man and Beric will have no problem finding himself a wife. Don’t be sorry… not for that anyway.” Allyria added passive-aggressively. 

While deserved, Ned stared at her. He had raised six children. Snide remarks were nothing new. 

“Are you finished or can we speak?” 

“Only if we can walk while we talk. I’ve been instructed to bring you to… Prince Doran’s representative once this was finished.” Allyria said, “And we are going to talk, correct?”

“Yes. I am aware that I probably did not handle our meeting… the best.” Ned said, gaining a snort from Allyria that had Ned flashing back to times with his mother. 

“So… are you…” Allyria said, practically vibrating. 

Ned hesitated. A small little lie would hurt no one. Ashara was gone for the better part of two decades. There’s no one to dispute it and it would make him feel better. But no, Ned Stark was beholden to his honor and to his promises. He had no choice. 

“I am not…” Ned finally said. “Sure.” 

Allyria’s head snapped toward him. “You can at least admit it. I look like you!”

“You look like a Stark. Arya looks like Lyanna. That doesn’t make her Lyanna’s.” Ned said keeping calm from the experience of dealing numerous teenagers. Clamping down the irony of his statement he continued. “Your moth- she… before Ashara and I were intimate she… indicated regret about time spent with my brother Brandon.”

“So…” Allyria said, vaguely green. “Despite that…”

“I cared about Ashara.” Ned said, “I’ll not call it love because it wasn’t and I won’t insult her memory by pretending it was. Had things not happened the way they did, marriage between us was still an option.”

“And…” Allyria began despite the fierce warrior Jon described earlier, she sounded very small. 

“Had I known about you, you’d have been raised in Winterfell.” Ned said, and Allyria visibly relaxed. 

“Ah! Lord Stark!” Prince Oberyn exclaimed, as the cat Arya referred to as ‘the black bastard ’. “I see that you brought our fledgling Sword of the Morning back to us.”

Ned had only met the youngest, well younger, prince of Dorne once back during the Tourney at Harrenhal. He had found the man too unserious. He… well Ned had the feeling that in another life he’d have gotten on well with Brandon. Though he realized that he hit a nerve when Allyria gave him a death glare that was 100% Ashara. 

“What?”

“Do not worry about it.” She whinged. 

“You did not tell… Lord Stark?” Oberyn asked, and Ned’s jaw clenched at the realization he knew. “Young Allyria here is going to be our next Sword of the Morning.”

“ You are?”

“Yes! Despite Farsestar’s immense skill he is not set out to be Sword of the Morning.” Oberyn said, completely ignoring Ned’s point. Between this, the veiled implication he knew and the fact that he didn’t ask any questions about his own daughter, Ned knew he was just out here to gain a rise out of him. “I would be careful around this one though, Allyria. Considering what happened to the last Sword of the Morning around him.”

Ned’s hands were nearly around Oberyn’s throat when a voice shouted from the rooms of the Dornish delegate. “Enough, Oberyn!”

At Ned’s puzzled expression Oberyn smiled again. “Lord Hand. I believe you’ve met my sister Elia.” He said, as the woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years. She looked much healthier and perfectly filled out her gaunt frame since the last time he had seen her. “She shall be the Small Council’s Dornish representative.”

~~~

Jon was on edge as he watched Desmond lead away the sorry excuses that were guardsmen. Not one of them deserved to be spared from the headsman block but Jon promised his father that he would do this the proper way.

That shitheel Carver actually tried to use his wife and children to shield himself from punishment. That alone made Jon wish to slit his throat. No, he knew that these men were secure. They weren’t going anywhere and they were a weight off his shoulders. 

What was sending him on edge was the fact that he couldn’t even look at Val. For ever since they finished battle, every time Jon looked at her he had to resist the urge to wrap her golden braid around his hand like a riding strap, bend her over and plow her until she screams herself hoarse. 

She gave him another side smirk at his squirming. Considering he had been in battles before and never felt this way, he could only assume these feelings were not coming from him.

“I shall go before you start acting like dogs in heat.” Obara Sand said, with a disgusted roll of the eye. The woman had joined them as ‘a warm up for the tourney ’ but as Val pointed out to Jon she wasn’t too interested until she found out about the whores. 

Loras, the traitor, barked out a laugh. “Ugh, because we’re just wolf animals trying not to rip each other's clothes off in…” Jon began but the feeling just got worse as he spoke. Something that Loras and Obara noticed. 

“C’mon, Snow!” Val said, grabbing his hand and dragging him away. 

“Have fun!” Loras singsonged. 

As Jon was led to their room by Val, they didn’t seem to stop running into interruptions. Various guardsmen or maids asking for his opinion, how he became his father’s hand in the eyes of the Red Keep he’d not know, before even his sister was cockblocking. 

“Jon! Val!” Sansa waved before hurrying over. “A moment of your time?”

“What Sansa!” Jon snapped, far harsher than he meant it. Sansa definitely recoiled at his tone. 

“I- just wanted to know if you knew where Father was?” Sansa said, timidly. 

“He went off with your sister. He’ll probably be gone for a while!” Val said, squeezing her thighs together. 

Sansa gave Val a disapproving look. Ever lady like, Sansa didn’t care for Val who made sure everyone knew her opinions and fought and wrestled with the boys (mostly Jon, but she actually did it with Edric Dayne as well scandalizing Sansa). It was subtle enough that even Val didn’t pick up on it. Jon only knew because he was on the other end of the disproving Tully look long enough. 

“No he isn’t. I just came from lunch, Arya is still at the table.” Sansa said, causing a panicked look from them both. Jon was regretting telling Val about what he… overheard through Ghost. “What?”

“ Nothing !” They both said far too fast. 

“What sister?” Sansa said, this time more forcefully. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: Every time I see your bubbly face,

I get the tingles in a silly place

“No! Wait!”

His hand tweaked one of her nipples whilst the other hand squeezed the other large breast. Her arse shook as he thrust into her roughly. Her skin was slick with sweat, just as he was.

“Please!” She groaned.

“What did you say?”

“I’m asking you to stop.” Myranda finally said, after catching her breath. 

Myranda had been at Riverrun for weeks now, though it took her new soulmate a little longer to get there. Everyone in Riverrun was overjoyed that the Tully heir finally had someone to make little lordlings with. Especially Hoster, specifically sighting that she came from a House of good breeding… if only he knew.

Edmure had been back for a week now, and they spent six of them hardly leaving his bed.

“What is wrong? Is everything alright?” He asked, placing a kiss on her lips.

“I am fine…” She admitted as he pulled out. “We have been going at it for quite a while now though. I am sore down there. I feel as if I have been riding a horse for weeks on end.”

“Well you’ve certainly driven your heels into my flanks enough!” He joked. 

She laughed and pushed him with a hand that he caught and twisted so that she’d be laying on his chest. The hands that contained the soulmarks had their fingers interlaced. Randa smiled at the mark.

What had once been a simple leaping Bronze Trout, had expanded to show the River that it lept from, each River of the Trident leading out in a different direction with the rushing Blue fork going up their palms and through the webbing that connected their second and third finger and met with the others behind their wrists. All of the fish’s scales now contained a ruin of the First Men that House Royce was famous for.

It was something that happened once they… completed their bond. Randa had not seen anything more beautiful in her entire life.

“Do you not wish to go to the tourney, My Lord?” She asked, looking up into his river blue eyes. 

She was told that his eyes were the same color as the rivers upon the Trident not that she would know considering that the storms had made them wild and unruly. 

“No. I am not prepared and have no desire to compete.” Edmure said, using a finger to circle a nipple. “And from what I hear, they just let anyone in these days.”

“Ser Jon is my friend.” Randa said simply knowing exactly what he meant. 

“Then be his friend elsewhere.” Edmure said, “his very existence is an insult to my sister. I’ll not ever allow him near me.”

“I was with him and your sister in Winterfell.” Randa defended, “she doted upon him the same as she did for any of her children.”

“Eddard Stark’s doing no doubt. He forced her to put up with the boy's presence, no doubt that he would deny her access to her own children if she did not play nice.” Edmure scoffed, pouring himself some wine. “He is not welcome in my presence nor in this castle.”

“As you say, Lord-Husb…” Randa began before cutting herself off.

“Did you know him long?” Edmure said, swirling the wine around the glass.

She had no doubt that he had heard the story of what happened to her and her first husband. She knew it was all the rage in the Vale and she still hears sniggers behind her back. It burned her, just a little bit. Deep down.

“Just that day. He did not even have the graciousness to finish inside of me and get me with child.” She said bitterly. Realizing what she had said “Forgive me I did not mean…”

It seemed to roll off Edmure’s back like water off of a duck however. “You could not have gotten with child even if he did.”

“Excuse me?” Myranda asked

“I had our Maester look into soulmarks.” Edmure said, “If you have a soulmark or are destined for a soulmark, you can only have one with your future mate.”

“That explains so much.” Randa said.

“Does it?”

“As if you were living the life of a Septon.” Myranda said, with a roll of the eyes. When she realized that he truly was not planning on saying something she said as sensually as she could, “Now come back to bed.”

Edmure had a vague look of panic upon him. “Are you sure? I thought you were sore down there?”

“I was. I am between my legs.” Randa said, “But there are other options. And I made sure that the servants sent up some olive oil with their last drop…”

Edmure looked confused for a moment, but once he realized what she meant he practically tackled her back to the bed.

 ~~~

Jon grabbed Val by her waist, causing her to uncharacteristically squeal, and bent her over the barn gate. He yanked down her trousers roughly, he loved how her tight arse jiggled as he did so. His eyes landed on the white lace that stood between her and him, trailing his hand down her crack he ripped off the garment in one motion bringing a moan from her lips.

"I actually liked those." she said through heavy breaths as he caressed between her legs, "Are you going to give it to me or what?"

What followed was fast and rough, Jon grabbed and pulled her hips back so hard he would surely leave marks, and she screamed in pleasure and he speared into her. He wrapped his hand in her braid, and slammed his hips into her so hard the gate was  He could feel his end coming as she could too through the feelings of the bond. He gripped her breast as he was so close…

“Jon?” A voice cried and Jon panicked.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Jon said, shooting away from Val as if he had been burned.

“Calm down, Snow.” Val said, rolling her eyes at the same time that Sansa again called for Jon.

“We cannot let her find us like this!” Jon said, tucking himself back into his pants. Sansa could not keep a secret to save her life. If she found them like that there was no doubt his father would find out within the day and string up the ungrateful bastard that corrupted his little girl by the balls.

“Please Snow.” Val said, tucking her breasts back into the shirt she wore. He was slightly regretting tearing the clothes considering how much he spent on them. “As if she is not going to be getting bent over her own gates when she meets her own soulmate.

Nothing could have gotten Jon to go soft faster than picturing his little sister in that position.

“Jon! Oh, there you are!” Sansa said, seeing them. Luckily the gate hid Val’s current pantless state. “Father! They are over here!”

Jon was internally panicking, but luckily even Val realized the situation and shimmied the trousers back up, though she did complain about the feeling of wearing them without small clothes.

“Hello!” Sansa said, walking up with their father. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I am going to be.” Jon admitted, stroking Hallier’s mane. 

“You’ll do fine.” His father assured him, placing his hand on Jon’s shoulder

“I will bring honor to House Stark.” Jon assured him solemnly. “Though I do need to get going.”

“Do you wish to ride with me?” Jon asked, reaching down once he got up to Hallier’s saddle. Val looked at him as if he had grown a third head.

“No, you go ahead. I have no desire to see you southerners hit each other with Sticks.” Val said, causing Sansa to gasp and his father to chuckle.

“But you have to come!” Sansa said, scandalized. “It is amazing! It is thrilling and…”

“Have you ever actually been to one?” Val asked and considering that he told her the answer to this he was a bit cross at her. Val had started sensing Sansa’s dislike and responded in turn. The difference was that Val was a woman grown and Sansa was half a child.

“N- No however…”

“How about you Sansa?” Jon asked, before they could actually start fighting.

“Me?”

“Yes you. People do it all the time.” Jon said, half a lie.

Men did do it all the time. It was much more common to do it with wives or betrotheds however, it was common enough to do it with sisters or daughters. Granted they were usually much closer to Rickon’s age than Sansa’s, but he did not mind.

“Go on, Sansa.” Their father encouraged her.

“Ar-re you sure?”

“Absolutely.” Jon said.

“You’re just doing this because Arya isn’t here.” Sansa said, petulant. She was not completely wrong,

“And if Arya was here she would not want to.” Jon said, and Val pushed her forward. “C’mon.” Jon said, not giving her much of a choice, he hoisted her up whether she wanted to or not.

Sansa squealed as Jon situated her in front of him, with her hanging on for dear life, and trotted onto the field. Once he was seen, the crowd erupted. Jon was very well liked amongst the smallfolk. While not as liked as the Knight of Flowers, who was loved by the smallfolk and nobility alike, Jon was more than adored by them. He was seen as their hero.

Sansa’s eyes widened at the cheering, having never seen such admiration. The Starks were almost deified in the north, but it was mostly reserved. This crowd was anything but. Cheering and yelling they were all excited to see Jon and Hallier ride out with Sansa. (At least Jon did not get small clothes thrown to him this time.)

Both Jon and Sansa crinkled their noses when they realized those from around the Narrow Sea were just a tad too enthusiastic when they saw Sansa riding in front of Jon.

The competition was no joke.

Oberyn Martell rode in on his wheat colored sand steed. His red and orange armor shone in the sun far more than Jon was used to.

Loras once again wore armor that was wrought with flower designs. He even had a cape made of flowers this time around. It must have cost him a pretty penny, it didn’t stop him from throwing roses into the crowd though.

Beric Dondarrian trotted out in fairly practical armor, flanked by his friend Thoros in his red robes. The man was a good jouster, though extremely unlucky at tourneys. Jon wondered where Edric was before remembering that Allyria is no longer Beric’s betrothed, so Edric was no longer Beric’s squire. Maybe Jon could find him a new knight?

The Clegane brothers both rode in the heaviest armor they could find. Unsurprisingly they were as far apart from each other as they could get. Jon could not see though that stupid mask the Lannister’s Hound was wearing but he knew that that man was staring at him. Jon once again wondered if it was worth it letting the man life.

The other sibling attack dogs of the Lannisters, the Kettleblack Brothers, also rode in. Unlike the Cleganes though, they were a united front in their red and black checkers. They too had a bone to pick with Jon. However, they could not vocally express it, seeing as their brother’s death was a result of an attempt of the king’s daughter’s life. They’d still be looking to get their pound of flesh.

The six members of the Kingsguard all rode out as a unit. It was quite strange to see it lopsided now. It had been a long time since the Kingsguard was not at full capacity. Jon once again felt guilty at Trant’s death. It was unnecessary. Though the feeling faded once Jaime gave him a wink.

Lord Royce and Robar both rode together, as common for a tight family unit such as the Royces. They gave Jon and Sansa a wave with was enthusiastically returned. Lord Royce, all of House Royce was good to Jon. It would be an honor to ride against either of them, would they be so lucky.

Renly Baratheon rode out in his green armor, golden Antlers shining in the sun. He was loved as judging by the cheering, if not as loved as Jon and Loras. He shot a glare across the courtyard at Jon. He thinks Renly blames Jon for his father demoting the waste of a man to Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks. It truly was not Jon or his idea.If it were up to Jon the prissy man would have been sent back to Storm’s End with his tail tucked between his legs.

Still it was annoying that Loras sided with Renly. The other man has not spoken to Jon since.

“Ah, there you are my squire!” Jon said, as Tommen beamed up at him.

“Oh!” Sansa said, jumping slightly in the saddle. It was not uncommon to have a prince, even a prince Tommen’s age, squire. It was uncommon to have a Prince, even a second son like Tommen, squire for what was essentially a household knight.

“May I help you down, My Lady.” Tommen asked, so prim and proper that Sansa could not help but giggle.

Jon, however, was not paying attention as the entire crowd was now glaring at him. Many were glaring right back. He was the reigning champion and had far more enemies than allies here. This was going to be an interesting tourney.

~~~

Margaery staggered the few steps to the bed, collapsed onto it, her hand slipping between her legs, finding that she was already slick. 

“Oh Gods,” she moaned in frustration. She couldn’t come, her fingers were too soft, she couldn’t get enough friction. 

“Margaery? Margie, are you in there?” 

Margaery’s eyes widened in panic at her mother’s voice.

“One moment please!” Margaery said, pulling her fingers out. She could not allow her mother to find her like this. Good girls did not do this . She quickly wiped her fingers on her petticoat. This was all her stupid soulmate’s fault. Him and his skanky blonde mistress’ fault. They did not even have the decency to finish for her!

“You should not be in here all by yourself.” Her mother said, walking in and opening curtains not realizing that Margaery wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

“I am fine, mother.” Margaery sighed, “ you only come in here when you want to tell me something that I don’t want to hear.”

Her mother grimaced, “In his new position of hand, Lord Stark has removed Lord Renly from his position of Master of Laws.” She said, rubbing Margaery’s shoulder. “He is no longer able to provide influence at Robert’s ear like we planned.”

“Oh.” Margaery said, plainly, trying to ignore the new ache in her shoulder. The Tourney must have started.

“Your father and grandmother have come up with a new course of action, not one they have deemed me worthy of knowing…” Her mother said, blithely. “At any rate, Renly and Loras have been instructed to return…”

“Or we can go to them?” Margaery said, quickly. “Go to King’s Landing and show the strength of House Tyrell to King Robert. That way, if a move has to be made then his most powerful ally will be front and center!” She was talking right out her ass but she could not stop herself. “If we hurry then we might be able to make it to the tourney before it finishes since just started.”

“Before it finishes? How did you know it star…” He mother asked, before her eyes flicked to Margaery’s wrist.

Margaery sighed as she realized that she was in for a lecture. If she could not enjoy this tourney, then she hoped that Jon would at least.

~~~

Allyria did not care that Willas’ leg did not work, not when his fingers were magic. She moaned into his mouth and his fingers worked her clit.

“Are you sure this is alright?” Willas, sweet sweet Willas asked once again worried about propriety and her reputation.

“Of courSE,” Allyria groaned as his finger swiped up her slit once again. “It’s not my fault that you Northerners are so stuffy.”

“”I’ll have you know…”

“Allyria?” A voice called her name, causing Allyria to furiously growl. “Allyyyyria!”

Allyria quickly hiked her smallclothes back up as Willas groaned disappointedly. “I know. I know.” Allyria said, kissing his lips as he pushed down her skirt. She was already seen as a bastard to the Lord Hand; she did not need Trollop added to the mix. “Over here, Sansa!”

“Oh! There you are!” Sansa said, in relief. “Everyone seems to be hiding away today!”

“I am sure…” Allyria grumbled.

“Lord Willas, as the New Master of Coin you have a spot in the main box with my father.” Sansa said.

Willas nodded, trying not to show annoyance with the girl. “Ah. Yes. Right.” He said, grabbing Allyria’s hand. “Let us…”

“Actually…” Sansa started, and Allyria smirked as she saw Sansa glance at her feet. “It is just the members of the small council and royal family that are permitted in the box.”

“Oh.” Willas said flatly.

“Do not worry, my lord.” Sansa said, linking her arm with Allyria. “She shall be in good hands!”

Allyria smirked as Sansa led them away. While she was annoyed that she did not get to finish, Sansa’s excitement was more than infectious.

“Only members of the Small Council, huh?” Allyria said, causing Sansa’s face to heat up. “You’re full of shit, aren’t you?”

“Hmmm.” Sansa hummed, smiling sheepishly. “How’d you know?”

“We have the same tell.” Allyria explained. “We look at our feet when we lie.”

“Bran, Jon and Father do the same.” Sansa said knowingly as they took their seats. “I am sorry. I should not have lied, it is just…”

“I get it.”Allyria said, interlocking their fingers. 

Allyria and Eddard’s relationship has been… improving. Slowly. It still needed work though. Sansa wanted to spend time with her and it would just bog down the entire expierence. Only Willas, Eddard, Sansa, Jon and his soulmate knew about the relationship. Allyria more than excited to get to know Jon and specifically Sansa. She always wanted a little sister and now Sansa would be her little sister two times over.

“OH! Jon is about to go!” Sansa said, pointing to their brother. She let out a little clap of excitement.

“Ser Jon Snow of Winterfell! Defending Champion!” The Herald announced. “Riding against Ser Hugh of the Vale!”

“Right Prat that one is…” The one who Sansa referred to as Jory said.

Jon took a lance from Prince Tommen, who for some reason was acting as his squire causing a splutter from the main box that sounded suspiciously like the Golden Cunt Queen. Ser Hugh took a lance from a man who was likely just a random Flee bottomed who the low born knight offered to pay. How he was going to pay the man, Allyria did not know. Hugh wore brand new armor, one that was glaring all the way back where they were seated. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons. Neither could have been cheap and he likely spent all of his money on it, hoping to win a reward from the competition.

“Your Grace?” The herald asked, and Robert seemed to actually be paying attention to this one. 

“Wha- Yes! Go!” Robert shouted.

Jon was down the track before Allyria could even think. Hugh was slower on the uptake and was going down the track not nearly as fast. It was unsurprising when Jon’s lance collided with Hugh and sent him flying off of his horse.

“Winner! Ser Jon of Winterfell!” The herald cried.

Allyria was shocked at just how many people were wildly cheering. She knew that Jon was popular, but she was still shocked at quite how many people cheered.

“You should see him when we walk the streets of King’s Landing.” Sansa said, with an affectionate roll of the eyes.

“No surprise there.” Obara whispered, leaning her head between Sansa and Allyria.

“Foregone conclusion really.” Sansa said, cheekily.

“Oh?” Obara said, as Val sat down next to her. Val and Obara got on very, surprisingly, well. Allyria loved Obara, but the woman was not easy to get along with. She was glad she was gaining a friend. “And what is this?”

Val, Sansa, Obara and Allyria all watched in shock as Jon strode up to Hugh. It was a familiar practice for Knights to ransom armor and horse, but that was usually something handled afterwards. It was quite shocking to see Jon retch the man upwards by his gorget. No one could hear what exactly it was that Jon was whisper-hissing to the man, but judging by the way he was pointing at Jory, it was clear this had nothing to do with the joust.

Jon dropped, practically threw, the man to the ground as he stormed off to where Prince Tommen was leading his horse away.

“Honestly Allyria, I am surprised to see you here.” Obara said, as they set up for the next match. “I figured that you would be more interested in the melee.”

“What is a Melee?” Val asked.

“It is a competition where instead of charging at each other on horses, the competitors are on their feet.” Sansa explained, the same way she would to a small child. “They fight with swords and shields…”

“Or spears!” Obara said, defensively.

“They fight with more personal weapons.” Sansa corrected. “You have to knock you opponent to the ground, or disarm them.”

“Hmmm…” Val said, interesting.

“You have no idea.” Allyria said, now excited to show Val exactly what she packed in her trunk.

Chapter Text

Catelyn gritted her teeth as she surveyed the carnage around her. The narrow mountain pass was choked with the dead and dying, bodies sprawled across the rocky path, their blood pooling into the terrain.

The air was thick with the stench of iron and sweat, the dying moans of men blending with the distant screeches of carrion birds already circling above.

And Tyrion Lannister was still alive.

Catelyn scowled, her hands clenched into tight fists around the thick wool of her cloak. She was not ungrateful for survival, hers or his. The gods knew that she had little interest in dying on some forsaken mountain road, surrounded by brigands and outlaws. But she could not bring herself to thank the Lannister who had fought beside her, whose quick thinking had very well saved her life.

Because that would mean admitting that he was not the monster she had convinced herself he was.

And that? She was not ready for.

“You look like you bit into something sour, my lady,” Tyrion said, his voice mild as he approached her, stepping around a groaning clansman missing half his face.

Catelyn shot him a glare but said nothing.

Tyrion lifted a bloodstained hand and pointed toward the remains of the ambush. “Tell me, do you always travel with Northmen prone to berserker rages? Or is that a privilege you extend only to your most honored captives?”

Catelyn’s jaw tightened.

They had all been taken by surprise. The Mountain Clans of the Vale had descended upon them without warning, their shrill battle cries echoing through the ravine as they rushed forward with crude weapons and wild fury.

The battle had been chaos.

It was not the first time Catelyn had seen battle firsthand, but never one so brutal. There was no strategy, no honor, only bloodshed and desperation.

And then Crowsfood had lost himself.

At first, she had thought he was merely fighting harder than the others, his sword cleaving through foes like a reaping scythe.

But then she had seen his face.

His eyes, once sharp with intelligence and wry amusement, had turned wild. His mouth had twisted into something inhuman, a blood-flecked snarl of pure madness. He had roared, charging into the fray without hesitation, swinging his massive greatsword with reckless abandon.

He had cut through the clansmen as if they were wheat, his strikes powerful and without mercy. When his sword got stuck in a man’s ribcage, he had simply grabbed the next enemy by the throat and crushed his windpipe with his bare hands.

Her knights had tried to call him back, but he had not heard them.

That… or he had not cared.

At one point, he had swung his blade so wildly that he had nearly beheaded Marq Piper, the young knight barely managing to duck in time.

After that, the smarter men had learned to stay out of his way. Even the clansmen had begun backing away, realizing that they had unleashed something beyond their reckoning. But Crowsfood had chased them down, his laughter ringing across the mountains, slaughtering them as they fled.

When the last of them had fallen, when the battle was won, he had stood there, panting, shaking, drenched in blood, his greatsword still clutched in his hands. It had taken two men and a flask of strongwine to bring him back to himself.

Now, he sat on a rock, sharpening his blade as if nothing had happened, his face still splattered with gore.

“He fights like a demon, I’ll give him that,” Tyrion mused, following her gaze. “Remind me never to play cards with him. I suspect he might take losing personally.”

Catelyn said nothing, her eyes scanning the battlefield for the wounded.

“We should move,” Ser Rodrik said, limping toward her, one arm cradling his ribs. “We’ve lost too much time already.”

“We should also count our blessings,” Tyrion added, dusting off his soiled tunic. “After all, we are still alive.”

Catelyn sighed, hating that he was right.

She turned toward their bedraggled party, watching as her men picked through the aftermath, some dragging the wounded, others dispatching those too far gone.

The aftermath of the ambush clung to them like a second skin, blood-soaked, heavy, unshakable. The dead had been left for the crows, the wounded carried or helped along, and the living marched on in grim silence. The only sounds were the drizzle of rain and the occasional pained groan from those who had barely survived the attack.

Catelyn walked beside Mors, watching him carefully.

Crowsfood had always been a brute of a man, but there had been something different in him today. A ferocity beyond even an Umber’s usual fury. The way he fought, wild, unrelenting, damn near unstoppable, it had shaken even his own men.

She had seen the way they looked at him after.

Even now, they kept their distance.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, she spoke. “You lost yourself back there.”

Mors snorted, his thick shoulders rising with the deep breath he took. “Aye.”

Catelyn frowned, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He had a cut along his temple, barely noticeable beneath the grime, but he made no move to tend it. His beard was matted with blood,  some of it his, most of it not.

They walked a few more steps before he exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Bad day for a fight.”

Catelyn waited.

She had not forgotten the date, not after years of hearing Ned’s stories of his father’s bannermen. Of the man beside her, and what he had lost.

Mors let out a bitter chuckle. “Would’ve been Si-Si’s name day.”

Catelyn stared ahead, her face carefully neutral. Still she said nothing. She had known that already, but hearing him say it, hearing how raw the words still were, even after all these years, settled like a stone in her gut.

Mors ran a blood-crusted hand through his hair, the streaks of gray barely visible through the mess. “Didn’t even realize what day it was ‘til we made camp last night. Thought maybe I’d just… get through it this time.” His mouth curled in a humorless smirk. “Guess not.”

Catelyn remembered the first time she had heard the name. The way Ned had spoken it, careful and measured, as if he knew it was a wound that had never healed.

“We all have days like that,” she said quietly.

Mors barked a laugh, rough and sharp. “Not like this.” He shook his head, shoulders sagging. “Wasn’t thinking. Just saw the bastards, and then…” He trailed off, exhaling again. “Didn’t even know I was swingin’ at our own for a bit.”

Catelyn resisted the urge to shiver. She had seen it herself. Some of the men had barely dodged in time. Others had learned to stay out of his way entirely. She could only imagine what would have happened if they hadn’t.

Mors clenched his jaw. “I’ll get us to the Eyrie. Don’t you worry about that.”

Catelyn nodded. “I don’t.”

Mors grunted. They walked on in silence, the rain washing away the worst of the blood, but neither of them feeling any cleaner.

~~~

The royal box was quieter than it should have been for a tourney of this scale. Normally, it would be filled with laughter, with Robert slapping backs and bellowing out boasts, with courtiers flattering the king and making wagers in whispered voices. Instead, there was a tension so thick Ned felt it the moment he stepped inside.

Elia Martell was sitting alone.

Not entirely alone, no, but she might as well have been. The space around her was left conspicuously empty, as though the entire court had decided that if they simply ignored her presence, she would disappear.

Robert was at the center of it all, his goblet in hand, but there was no mirth in him now. He looked almost… guilty. A rare thing for Robert Baratheon. Cersei, at his side, was as cold and composed as ever, her face set in a mask of disdain. Joffrey lounged beside her, sneering at something Myrcella said, while the girl herself leaned closer to Arya, whispering with a smile that made Arya flush red from ear to ear.

Renly was there too, though his usual easy charm was missing. He was leaning back, arms crossed, watching the field with a tight expression. He was supposed to be leaving for Storm’s End soon, actually taking up the duties of the lord he was meant to be, but the way he sat silent and stiff made it clear he wasn’t entirely pleased about it.

Willas Tyrell, seated not far from Renly, was more focused on the match than anything else. He wasn’t a man of war, not with that leg of his, but he watched with a keen eye, likely calculating every movement. He was Eddard’s maybe-son-in-law. Allyria seemed fond of him, at least, which was more than could be said for most arranged matches.

Then there was Ser Barristan.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had always been a man of honor, but even he wasn’t immune to the weight of the past. He kept darting glances at Elia when he thought no one would notice, guilt etched into every line of his face.

Ned wasn’t the only one who had failed her, it seemed.

The problem now was that there were no open seats…except for the one beside Elia.

He caught Cersei’s faint smirk as she noticed his predicament. No doubt she was waiting to see whether he would balk, whether he would pretend not to see and leave the Dornish princess to sit in isolation.

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

So, ignoring the murmurs that followed, he walked forward and took the seat beside Elia Martell. He exhaled slowly and focused on the field below.

The match was set.

Jon on one end, Jaime Lannister on the other. The two most controversial knights in the Seven Kingdoms, about to ride against each other.

The herald stepped forward.

“Ser Jon Snow of Winterfell, defending champion of the Hand’s Tourney!”

The crowd roared. Ned’s grip on his knees tightened as Jon guided Hallier forward, calm and steady despite the weight of all those eyes on him. Tommen, standing at his side as squire, handed him his lance with the kind of wide-eyed admiration that Cersei was surely fuming over.

What Ned wouldn’t have given to see her reaction to finding out  that particular turn of events.

The herald turned and spoke again.

“Ser Jaime Lannister, of the Kingsguard!”

More cheers as they faced each other, still as statues, waiting for the command.

Ned felt more than saw Elia turn her head slightly.

“He rides well,” she said, her voice quiet, carefully measured.

Ned didn’t have to ask who she meant.

“Aye.”

She hummed under her breath, but said nothing more.

The horn sounded and Jon spurred Hallier forward, lance steady and Jaime did the same.

Jaime turned his horse to face Jon across the tilt, his golden armor gleaming in the sunlight. His helm, shaped like a lion’s head, reflected the banners and the expectant faces of the crowd. Jon, by contrast, was a shadow of steel and northern leather, his black stallion shifting beneath him, eager for the charge.

The Kingslayer lifted his lance in a salute. Jon did the same, and as they trotted forward, they clapped shields together in acknowledgment.

A show of respect.

A rare thing in King’s Landing.

Ned watched as Jon leaned in slightly, murmuring something that made the Kingslayer audibly laugh, though whatever words were exchanged were lost beneath the noise of the crowd.

Finally they made their way back to their starting points. Both rode as if they were born in the saddle. Jousting was more about horsemanship than it was strength at arms, and this is what it would likely come down to. 

The horn blew.

Both knights spurred their horses, charging down the field in perfect symmetry.

The first run ended with both lances shattering, but neither knight unhorsed. The second was the same. The third saw Jaime clip Jon’s shield, but Hallier barely stumbled. The fourth run had Jon returning the favor, his lance grazing Jaime’s pauldron but failing to knock him off balance.

On the fifth, Arya nearly launched herself over the railing.

“FASTER, JON!” she bellowed, hands cupped around her mouth. “SMASH HIM OFF HIS HORSE!”

Elia winced as Arya’s voice rang directly in her ear. “Seven Hells, girl.”

Arya grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Oh, I know. Myrcella says I should practice being more ladylike. I think I have the opposite of that talent.”

“I was talking about the volume,” Elia replied dryly.

“Sorry! I just get really excited. My brother is too good at this, you wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m perfectly aware of the effects of jousting, thank you. My husband, if you recall, was rather good at it.”

The words were light, but the edge beneath them was sharp. The box was already uneasy with her presence…mentioning Rhaegar Targaryen did nothing to ease the tension.

Across the way, Renly was suddenly very invested in adjusting the sleeves of his green tunic. Willas, to his credit, remained stone-faced, though Ned noticed his fingers tapping idly against his knee, as if marking the rhythm of each hoofbeat below.

Robert was still avoiding looking at her entirely.

Ned exhaled through his nose, turning back to the match. By the eighth run, the tension had begun to build. On the ninth, the crowd gasped as Jon leaned into his charge, his lance slamming against Jaime’s side. Jaime held firm, gripping his reins tight as his horse let out a panicked whinny.

On the tenth, Jaime retaliated, striking Jon’s shield so hard that splinters flew. But Jon absorbed the force, Hallier barely slowing. They were in the endgame now. 

Eleventh.

Twelfth.

Thirteen.

The final charge.

Jaime’s lance dipped, seeking an opening, just as Jon angled his shield, catching the blow at the perfect angle. The lance slid off, useless, and in the same breath, Jon’s own lance struck true.

The Kingslayer was lifted from the saddle and a heartbeat later, he crashed to the ground.

The dust settled.

Silence.

Then the roar of the crowd.

“Princess Elia,” Arya gasped dramatically, clinging to the woman’s arm, “Elia, did you see that?”

Elia raised a single brow. “No, I had my eyes closed, dear. Do tell me what happened.”

Arya glared at her. “That was sarcasm!”

“My, how astute.”

Arya narrowed her eyes, suspicious, but was quickly distracted as Myrcella leaned in.

“That was magnificent,” the princess whispered. “Do you think he’ll win against Ser Loras?”

“If Gregor doesn’t crush Loras first,” Arya muttered.

Elia’s fingers tightened slightly on the railing at the mention.

She had been composed throughout the day. Collected. Detached, even. But now? Now there was something venomous in her eyes.

The Mountain rode onto the field like a shadow cast over the sun. His armor was thick, dark as iron, his warhorse matching his size in sheer mass. Opposite him, Loras was the picture of southern grace, his fine green cloak trailing behind him, the gold embroidery shimmering in the daylight.

Ned did not like the boy.

Not truly.

But he knew Jon did and additionally the boy’s brother would soon be family to him. He needed to get over it. 

Finally, horn blew and the charge began.

Gregor’s warhorse thundered forward, before it suddenly reared up, wild and uncontrollable. The massive destrier screamed, its movements erratic, and before Gregor could react, it threw him off balance and the Knight of Flowers knocked him from the saddle.

The crowd gasped.

“Oh, my,” Princess Elia said, voice almost sweet. “It seems the Mountain has a more difficult time when his opponent fights back.”

Ned glanced at her, but she was already looking away, watching as Gregor rose from the dirt. Clegane may have landed hard but he rose even harder.

The ground barely had time to settle beneath his weight before he was already surging forward, his voice a raw snarl as he turned on his squire.

“My sword.”

The boy, no more than twelve, froze, wide-eyed with terror, his hands fumbling at his belt.

“NOW!”

The squire practically threw the weapon at him, the steel ringing as Gregor caught it mid-air and without hesitation, he turned and swung.

The warhorse that had thrown him barely had time to react before the blade was upon it. The steel bit deep, severing through flesh and bone in one monstrous arc. The horse let out a high, unnatural scream, before crumpling, its head rolling free from its body. Blood poured onto the ground in thick waves, staining the dirt red.

The crowd recoiled.

A sharp, horrified cry pierced the air. “The horse! That poor horse!” Arya bemoaned as Princess Myrcella rubbed her back. 

Elia stiffened beside Ned, a flicker of something, something dark, passing over her face.

Gregor, however, was not done. His rage turned swiftly from the beast to the boy who had bested him. His massive shoulders rolled forward, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword as he pivoted, his gaze locking onto Loras Tyrell.

The Knight of Flowers barely had time to react as Gregor surged forward, covering the distance between them in only a few thunderous strides. Loras barely realized what was happening enough to raise his shield, before Gregor slammed into him, the force sending the much smaller knight flying off his horse. 

The rose-and-thorn shield splintered against the Mountain’s strength, cracking under the force of the impact. Loras gritted his teeth, bracing, but Gregor struck again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The Mountain loomed over him, his shadow stretching long over the dirt. Loras struggled, pushing up onto his elbows, but he had no time. No weapon in hand.

Gregor raised his sword for the final blow…

Steel clashed against steel.

The Mountain’s strike was intercepted mid-swing, his blade colliding hard with another sword that had not been there moments before.

Jon stood between them, his own blade catching Gregor’s with both hands, his body braced against the impact. Hallier had carried him onto the field in a single, galloping blur, and now the two swordsmen stood, locked in the first true contest of the melee.

Gregor snarled yet Jon did not flinch.

The Mountain shoved forward.

Jon twisted, breaking the lock, his boots sliding against the bloodstained dirt as he stepped back, blade still raised.

For the first time since this match began, the Mountain had an opponent who was not scared of him.

Gregor swung, wild and reckless, a man too used to fighting those who quailed at his strength.

Jon ducked.

The wind from the strike stirred his cloak as the sword whistled past his head.

Gregor turned to recover, but Jon was faster.

He lunged inside the Mountain’s reach, driving his knee into the giant’s gut. Gregor barely grunted, his sheer mass absorbing the blow, but Jon was already moving.

The Mountain was off-balance. He had overextended.

Jon kicked out, hard, aiming for the knee.

The joint buckled.

Gregor let out a furious roar as his leg collapsed beneath him, sending him half-falling. Before he could right himself, Jon seized his chance.

The Mountain had cast his helm away in frustration after his fall from the saddle. Now, that was his undoing. Jon grabbed him by the hair and drove his head into the wooden partition.

The heavy wood cracked and Gregor grunted in pain, dazed, before Jon’s fist crashed into his face.

Once.

Blood splattered against the partition.

Twice.

Gregor’s nose caved inward.

Three times.

The Mountain’s face was becoming a ruin of blood and torn flesh, but Jon did not stop.

Gregor’s body went limp by the fifth blow… yet Jon did not stop.

Ned rose to his feet.

“Jon! That’s enough!”

Jon did not stop.

Robert bellowed from his seat. “That’s enough, boy! You’ve won!”

Jon did not stop.

Arya was screaming, but he could not hear her.

Jon was lost.

Bloodlust clouded his vision, drowning him in the heat of battle. The boy who had always been steady, thoughtful, reluctant to fight when it was unnecessary, was gone. In his place was something raw and ancient.

A wolf who had tasted blood.

He was going to kill Gregor Clegane.

The first one to reach him was Val. She grabbed him by the arm, yanking backward with all her might. Jon barely staggered.

Then came Loras. The Knight of Flowers threw himself at Jon’s other side, locking both arms around his torso and hauling with all the strength he could muster.

Jon did not stop.

Blood was all he could see.

A third figure joined them. Allyria. Together, the three of them finally wrenched him away from Gregor’s broken body, throwing their weight against him to pin him back. Jon snarled, a sound too close to a wolf’s for Ned’s comfort, his chest heaving, his teeth bared, his arms still straining toward the Mountain.

Gregor collapsed into the dirty, but otherwise did not move.

The crowd was silent.

It took eight men to lift the fallen Clegane and carry his shattered body to the infirmary.

Jon was still panting. His eyes were wild, his fists still clenched, his breath ragged.

For a brief, terrible moment, Ned saw his father.

Not the man he had known, but the wolf.

The creature Rickard Stark had once been in battle. The Stark who had been called the Red Wolf because he did not stop until there was nothing left to fight.

Jon had not inherited Eddard Stark’s temperament. He had inherited the other side of their bloodline, and for the first time in his life, Ned feared what Jon might become.

The silence that had blanketed the crowd was shattered by the roar of cheers, led by none other than Arya.

Jon stood motionless, still breathing hard, his fists still clenched at his sides. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood, some Gregor’s, some his own.

Loras was on him in an instant.

He wrapped Jon in an embrace that was both desperate and grateful, his arms clutching him tightly. “You saved my life,” he said, his voice thick with something raw and shaken beneath his usual confidence.

Jon stiffened in surprise. He wasn’t much for embraces, not in this state, he huffed out a breath and patted Loras awkwardly on the back.

“It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Loras pulled back, still gripping Jon’s shoulders. “He would’ve cut me in half. You…you…” His voice cracked, his fingers tightening their grip as if to ground himself.

Jon smirked, just slightly. “Just ‘cause you’ve been acting like a codpiece, doesn’t mean I’d rather watch you die.”

A laugh bubbled out of Loras, half-hysterical, half-genuine.

Renly Baratheon, who had been watching the exchange from behind Loras, seemed oddly on edge. His eyes darted between them, his jaw tight, his fingers clenching the pommel of his sword.

Ned frowned slightly at the sight but pushed the thought aside.

Jon grimaced and lifted his right hand, pressing it against his chest . Ned’s sharp eyes immediately caught it. Not all of the blood on Jon’s hand belonged to Gregor Clegane. A sudden, sharp pang of concern shot through him.

“You’re hurt,” Val said, stepping forward, her voice exasperated.

Jon blinked, glancing down at his bloodied wrist as if he hadn’t even noticed until now. “Oh.” He flexed his fingers experimentally. “I think I tore something when I…” He stopped short, exhaling slowly, glancing toward Gregor’s unmoving body. “…When I lost my temper.”

Loras frowned. “Can you still joust?”

Jon rolled his shoulder, then winced. “I don’t think so.”

“Well It doesn’t matter.” Loras took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned toward the herald standing at the edge of the field. “I forfeit in favor of Ser Jon Snow of Winterfell.”

The crowd erupted.

Ned’s brows lifted slightly in surprise, but he was not displeased. Jon had already more than proved himself this day, first in skill, now in honor.

Jon himself looked startled. He turned to Loras. “You don’t have to do that…”

Loras smirked, but there was a genuine warmth behind his eyes. “Oh, shut up, Snow. You literally saved my life. A victory seems like a fair trade-off.”

Jon hesitated.

Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

Ned watched as Loras stepped back, and Renly, who had been watching the entire exchange with a carefully guarded expression, finally exhaled.

The cheers from the crowd grew louder, echoing through the air, as the herald announced Jon as the winner of the joust.

But even as the crowd celebrated, Ned’s gaze remained fixed on Jon’s wrist, and the blood that had not yet stopped dripping from it.

~~~

Jon flexed his fingers against the reins, rolling his aching wrist as Tommen steadied Hallier for him. The boy looked up, bright-eyed and eager, as if nothing had just happened. As if Jon’s hands weren’t still stained red with Gregor’s blood, as if the tension in the air wasn’t thick enough to choke on.

But the crowd was waiting for the final act of the day. The crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Tommen hurried over to the pedestal, carefully lifting the flower crown that had been set aside for the winner. It was a striking thing, not delicate or dainty. Bold. Commanding.

A mix of white winter roses and gold chrysanthemums, with black hellebore threaded between them like little shadows. The colors of House Stark and House Baratheon. The wolf and the stag.

Jon didn’t reach for it immediately. He took it in slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, his dark eyes flicked upward, scanning the stands as if searching for something.

Or someone.

Ned followed his gaze and immediately felt his stomach tighten.

Sansa’s seat was empty. The spot where she had been every match, every round, watching with wide-eyed admiration was currently vacant. So were Val’s and Allyria’s, though they were likely on their way back up to them after the excitement on the field. 

Ned’s grip on the wooden railing tightened.

Where in the seven hells could his daughter have gotten off too??

Jon’s frown deepened as the murmurs in the arena swelled, the restless shifting of bodies, the soft drumming of fingers against polished wood.

Then… Jon smirked.

It was small. Sharp. Knowing. Ned recognized that smile. That was Lyanna’s smile. 

… It usually preceded Ned receiving a headache. 

Slowly, he reached down, taking his lance from Tommen’s eager hands. Hooking the crown at the end of the lance with a flick of his wrist, he lifted it into the air.

Jon nudged Hallier forward, his movements controlled and deliberate as he rode past the noble stands where every hopeful lady waited with bated breath.

And then he turned toward the royal box.

Ned’s heart slowed.

Jon’s gaze locked onto his target.

The crowd silenced as in a single, fluid motion the crown dropped, landing in the lap of Princess Elia Martell.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen: Am I More Than You Bargained for Yet?

The desert night was cold but heavy, the chill coming in with each gust of wind. Irri lay on her side, awake though she kept her eyes closed. She could feel her Khalessi curled against her chest again, small arms locked around her waist, hair tangled beneath Irri’s chin. The weight of it was not unbearable, but the closeness left her stiff, her limbs awkward. She had grown used to discomfort in her life, yet this was different. It was not command chains or whip strokes. It was need and that was more unsettling than anything else.

The first time she did it had startled Irri. The second time had merely confused her. By the tenth, Irri no longer pretended surprise when the small body wound around her like some tiny octopus that refused to let go. Khalessi’s hair tickled her throat, her arms coiled about Irri’s waist, and bare feet tucked stubbornly against her shins.

Irri grumbled softly into the dark, though never loud enough for Khalessi to hear. It was awkward. Khalessi was so small, so slight, that every shift threatened to crush her or jostle her awake. And yet, she clung tighter with strength that her small frame should not possess whenever Irri tried to ease away.

Tonight was no different. She lay still, listening to the uneven breaths against her chest. Khalessi twitched sometimes in her sleep. Dreams, perhaps. Or memories. Irri knew better than to ask.

Her Khalessi shifted against her, sighing as though asleep. Then the voice came, “What is wrong?” She was still learning the Dothraki language so he tongue was sometimes heavy in her mouth, making her sound like a toddler at times. Irri was endeared by it, finding it adorable.

Irri had not spoken a word, but the mark thrummed faintly, betraying her. She hesitated, her first instinct to say nothing at all. But Khalessi’s hand rubbed lightly at her hip, waiting.

“I… it is nothi...”

“It is not nothing,” Khalessi said, lifting her head just enough to look at her. Her pale hair fell across Irri’s arm. “I can feel it.”

Irri bit her lip. Her chest tightened. “You are… very close to me each night. Always holding.” She swallowed and forced herself to continue. “It is sometimes… uncomfortable.”

Khalessi’s brows knit. “Uncomfortable how?”

Irri’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Because... Only you hold me. Perhaps… I could be the one to cuddle you, Khalessi?”

For a heartbeat a look of joy overpassed her Khalessi, until her face fell and there was silence. Khalessi blinked, then let out a sudden little huff, rolling away onto her side. “Fine then,” she muttered, her back turned, her voice muffled by the blanket.

Irri sat frozen, staring at her shoulders. Had she offended? Her own words circled in her head, searching for the misstep. She had thought it a small admission, almost timid, but her Khalessi had only grumbled and turned from her.

Irri reached out, then stopped, letting her hand fall back against the mat. She did not understand what had gone wrong.

Irri lay stiff on her mat, the silence between them as thick as the night air. She could still see the pale fall of hair just beyond her reach, the small rise and fall of her Khalessi’s back beneath the blanket. Her chest ached with unease. She had spoken too freely, and now her Khalessi was displeased.

“You say nothing?” The words came sharp, sudden, without her Khalessi turning. “You do not even try to explain?”

Irri sat up slightly, unsure if she should reach for her. “Khalessi, I did not mean...”

“You always call me that,” her Khalessi snapped, shifting to face her now, eyes bright in the low lantern light. “Always. As if I am something distant, too high above you to be touched.”

Irri swallowed hard. “It is your title.”

“I am more than that! I am more than that to you,” Khalessi pressed, her hands curling against the blanket. “And still you keep yourself small, still you hold back.”

The words stung because they were true, yet Irri lowered her gaze instead of answering. Her throat tightened.

“Say something,” Khalessi demanded, softer now but no less fierce. “Anything.”

Irri’s lips parted, then closed. It took all her strength to push the sound out. “I only thought… that it should be correct. That calling you… D–Daenerys… is for others. Not me.”

The moment her name left Irri’s mouth, her Khalessi surged forward. The force of her kiss was sudden, full of heat and something almost angry. Irri froze, eyes wide, until her body remembered what to do. She kissed back, her hands trembling as they lifted, one brushing against the silk of her Khalessi’s hair.

The taste of her lingered, insistent and demanding, and Irri felt her heart slam against her ribs. A shiver chased through her as she realized she liked it, far more than she ever dared admit. The tightness in her chest was no longer fear. It was something else entirely.

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦ 

Val was still wiping at the sleeve of her tunic as she rounded the corner of the wooden stands. The cloth was already stiff with drying blood and streaked darker where the splash had hit her face. She could smell it too, thick and coppery. Allyria wasn’t much better, a red line streaking across her cheek from when they pulled Jon back.

Neither of them had much interest in parading through the crowd in such a state, but their seats were up above, and Obara had waved them to hurry.

That was when they nearly collided with Sansa Stark. The girl was half-hidden in the shadows behind the stand wall and her eyes wide as if she had been caught sneaking away from her septa, which she didn’t even need when with Val or Allyria as per Eddard.

Val stopped. “Why are you skulking back here, Little Cardinal?”

Sansa’s eyes darted from Val’s tunic to Allyria’s face. She made a small sound of disgust. “Why are you covered in blood. Again.”

Val shrugged. “It is not mine.”

“That does not make it better.” Sansa’s nose wrinkled, but she quickly straightened her shoulders as though remembering she was meant to be dignified. “There is no time. I came to tell you, Jon is about to be given the crown. For the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“Already?” Allyria asked. 

“Yes.” Sansa nodded briskly. “It should go to you, Val. You are his soulmate. But you and my brother know nothing about how these things are meant to be done. If I am sitting in my seat when the moment comes, he will crown me instead of you. That would be a disaster.”

Val rolled her eyes. “Disaster, truly. He puts flowers on the wrong girl and the world ends.”

“She is being hyperbolic, but it is not just flowers.” Allyria’s tone was steady, though her hand twitched against the blood on her sleeve. “Think of Rhaegar at Harrenhal. He crowned our Aunt Lyanna. The realm still bleeds from it.”

Sansa’s chin lifted, the point made. She looked at Val again, as if daring her to take it seriously.

Val only sighed, brushing another fleck of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Fine. Then you had better hide a little longer, little cardinal. Let me look like a fool instead of you.”

Sansa’s lips pressed into a line, but she did not move even though Val can tell she took issue with the idea of the one accepting the crown looking like a fool. .

Allyria met Val’s gaze, her eyes sharp beneath the streak of blood on her cheek. She did not need to say anything more. Val understood well enough. This was not only about Jon and her. It was about what everyone else would see.

Val’s boots dragged in the dirt as she leaned against one of the posts holding the stands. Her braid was sticky with blood, her sleeve no better, and Sansa Stark stood there speaking of flowers as though they were crowns of iron.

“You make too much of this,” Val muttered, picking at a dried patch on her tunic. “If he gives it to you, what is the harm? The boy does not think on these things.”

“It is not about what he thinks,” Sansa said quickly. “It is about what everyone else thinks. They will all see it. They will talk about it.”

Val huffed. “They already talk. Every time I step into a hall, I hear it. Free folk this, wildling that. One more whisper does not matter.”

“It does.” Sansa’s voice trembled, though she tried to hold it steady. “It matters more than you realize.”

Allyria’s hand brushed Val’s arm, quieting her. “She is right. A gesture at a tourney can weigh as much as an oath. Rhaegar proved that.”

Val bit her tongue. She was tired, sticky with blood, and in no mood to argue about southern customs. If Jon wished to crown his little sister, let him. It would not change what they shared.

Then the noise shifted. The thunder of voices rolling over each other cut short all at once. The silence pressed hard, so suddenly Val felt her chest tighten.

The three of them looked at one another before hurrying back through the narrow path up to their seats. Obara had already leaned forward in her bench, eyes sharp as a hawk.

Val reached the railing just in time to see Jon ride past the noble stands. The crown of white roses and chrysanthemums dangled from the end of his lance. He did not slow until he reached the royal box.

The crown landed squarely in Princess Elia Martell’s lap.

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦ 

Elia Martell did not move at first. The flowers lay across her lap, white and gold and black against the dark purple silk of her skirts. For one foolish moment Cersei thought the Dornish woman might sit still, might keep her dignity, might at least make the gesture seem solemn.

Then Elia snorted.

It was sharp, unladylike, and entirely deliberate. A few heads turned. Then came the giggle, quick and bubbling, as though she could not quite keep it back. Another followed, and another, until her shoulders shook.

By the time she bent forward, clutching at her sides, Elia Martell was laughing like a madwoman, tears streaking her face, the flower crown sliding against her skirts. The sound carried across the box, across the stands, as though the Seven had chosen to mock Cersei personally.

Cersei’s nails dug into her palm until they left half-moon marks. She hated her. She had always hated her. From the moment Elia had stepped into Casterly Rock all those years ago, thin and pale and fifteen, giving sly looks at Jaime, wishing to take him away from her. 

She remembered watching her act from the shadows of the hall, an eight-year-old girl with ribbons in her hair, and knowing without words that the Dornish girl wanted to steal him.

The years had not dulled that loathing. If anything, they had sharpened it. And now here she sat, making a spectacle of herself, giggling like a tavern wench in front of who knows how many lords and ladies.

It was the crippled Tyrell boy who saved her, hobbling forward on his cane, his face set in polite apology as though it were his duty to make up for every wrong ever done. He bent slightly, whispered something into Elia’s ear, and she nodded, still shaking with laughter.

“Forgive her,” The boy said aloud, “The princess is overcome.”

Overcome. Cersei nearly spat. Overcome with what? Madness? Hysteria? Or the smug delight of knowing she had once again humiliated a room with nothing but her presence.

Willas guided her from the box, his arm firm at her elbow, while she continued to laugh, giggles breaking out fresh as they went. 

Cersei’s jaw tightened as she watched them go. Elia Martell, still laughing, tears streaming down her face, as if she had not already poisoned enough of Cersei’s life simply by existing.

The small council chamber felt wrong the moment Cersei stepped inside. Not in the air or the stone, but in the way the council table looked. Stripped bare.

Her eyes moved from chair to chair, cataloguing who was there and who was not.

Ned Stark sat at the head, grave as a tomb, as though the gods themselves had shaped him from dour stone. There were those who thought looked the part of a Hand, yet to Cersei’s eyes he was nothing more than a northern wolf in stolen clothing. He had no place here, and the way he ignored half the customs of the capital only proved it. 

Even the High Septon refused to attend the council while Stark presided, though Stark seemed blind to the insult. In truth the fat toad wanted to be begged to return, to have his vanity stroked by an invitation written in gold.

Next came the crippled Tyrell boy. The new Master of Coin. How quickly had that appointment been made, with hardly a whisper to her beforehand. He was quiet, cautious, all politeness and bowed head, but that did not fool her. A Tyrell had their hands on the realm’s purse strings now. The Reach would grow fat while her father’s gold was expected to feed them all.

Ser Barristan remained in his white cloak, silent sentinel against the wall. Old, weary, weighed down with ghosts. He had looked at Elia Martell far too often, as if guilt could wash the blood from his hands. 

Varys sat in his silks with his soft smile, folding and unfolding his hands like a spider twitching its legs. He watched every word, every pause, every glance. She despised him, yet he endured. Spies could not be killed when Robert relied on whispers more than steel.

And then there were the empty seats.

Renly’s was the most glaring. Where was her good brother? She had seen him at the tourney not long ago, preening as always, yet now his chair sat empty. Robert did not even seem to notice he was gone. 

The Grand Maester’s chair too. Pycelle had always been loyal, a simpering tongue on the council when she needed one, a voice that remembered who truly held power. Now he was nowhere to be found. Her stomach twisted with fury. Where was he? 

The Master of Ships, Stannis, well, his absence was expected. He had shut himself and unlike Renly, she knew why Stannis kept away. That knowledge worried her more than she was willing to admit.

She sat straighter, eyes sweeping the table again. Robert too blind to even see how barren it was becoming. He still thought himself a king surrounded by lords eager to serve. He did not see the cracks forming in the walls.

Cersei saw them. She always had.

Robert slammed his fist against the arm of the chair, shaking her out of her thoughts. 

“Tell me, boy,” Robert barked, “what in the seven hells was that stunt meant to be?”

Snow did not flinch. His dark eyes met the king’s without wavering. When he spoke, it was not in the meek tones that the bastard should have used, but snapping like the jaws of a wolf.

“I was merely righting a wrong, Your Grace. One left to fester for nearly two decades.”

Eddard Stark’s mouth pressed into a line so thin it might disappear altogether. Cersei almost expected him to leap across the chamber and strangle the boy before them all. 

Robert leaned back, eyes narrowing. “A wrong, you say? Careful with your tongue. The last man to harp on wrongs I did near me ended up bleeding on a battlefield.”

“‘Twas not your wrong I speak of, Your Grace. My uncle Brandon once had to sit on my Aunt Lyanna to stop her from doing exactly the same. She was trying to march across the field and give the crown to Princess Elia herself.”

All eyes snapped toward the king. For a heartbeat she thought he might roar again, but instead the fool laughed as if someone had just told him the world’s finest jest.

“Seven bloody hells, I can see it!” Robert wheezed between laughs. “Wolf girl storming across the lists, ready to plant flowers in Rhaegar woman’s lap. Gods, she would have done it too, the stubborn little lady. Likely would’ve challenged him herself if no one stopped her.”

“She probably would have won too!” Robert bellowed, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the goblets. “Knight of the Laughing Tree and all that. Seven hells, it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Selmy’s face went white as milk. Tyrell sat straighter, his eyes darting between Robert and Stark with uncharacteristic interest. Varys’ eyes glittered, hungry for every bit.

The uproar grew louder. Stark finally cut in, “Your Grace, enough…”

But the damage was done.

Cersei arched her brow “Truly, I do not see why this is such cause for gasping. Any annoying little girl can pick up a stick and play at swords. I used to take Jaime’s place in his lessons when we were children. It is hardly the mark of a legend.”

The silence that followed was heavy, weighted by every stare turning on her. She met them all, chin high, daring one of these lessers to tell her she was wrong.

Even Robert was looking at her.

There was something in his gaze she recognized at once, something she had seen more than once in the eyes of drunkards and would-be suitors, but never wanted from her husband. Lust. Crude and unashamed.

Cersei’s stomach turned. The oaf was picturing her as a girl with Jaime’s sword in hand… and he liked it.

Robert’s laughter finally guttered out, leaving only the sound of his heavy breathing. He drained what was left in his cup “This has gone far enough.” His gaze fixed on Stark. “Elia Martell cannot remain on the council.”

The words hung in the chamber, heavy as a funeral bell.

Stark’s jaw tightened. He did not speak at once, though Cersei saw the muscles twitching in his cheek. “She was chosen with your consent,” he said finally. His voice was even, but cold. “Doran Martell himself put her forward. If you dismiss her now, you risk undoing what peace you have with Dorne.”

Robert waved a hand as though brushing aside a gnat. “I agreed to a Dornish seat. But not her. I will not have Rhaegar’s widow sitting in council as though I should take her counsel like some whipped dog. It is an insult to me, to my crown, and to the men who bled for it.”

Ned exhaled slowly, the sound sharp as a knife through silence. “You speak of ghosts, Robert.”

“Enough.” Robert’s hand came down on the table again, less force this time but no less final. “The Dornish may have their seat. It will not be Elia. Find me another, Ned. Doran has sisters, cousins, some lesser cousin’s cousin’s cousin, I do not care. But she is done.”

The king leaned back in his chair, shoulders slumping. The matter was closed, at least in his mind.

Father and son both bristled, yet neither pushed further. The wolf lord and his bastard, Cersei thought, united in their brooding silence. They would grumble, yes. They might even curse Robert’s name in private. But in the end, they would obey. They always did.

In the pause Snow flexed his hand in reflex, grimacing as the movement pulled sharply at the torn muscle along his wrist from his foolish spat with Clegane. 

“You will not be fighting in the melee,” Stark said, his tone leaving little room for argument. His eyes were fixed on the swollen joint, the way Jon’s fingers curled stiffly rather than with ease.

Snow’s head snapped up. “What?”

“You heard me.” Ned’s gaze did not waver. “That wrist is half-useless.”

“Fine. Then it will even the playing field for the others.”

There was a snort from Robert but the Wolf Lord Continued. 

“That rage,” Stark cut in, his voice like cold iron, “is exactly why you will not fight. You nearly killed a man today because you could not stop yourself. And that was with both hands healthy.”

Snow’s mouth opened, then shut again. For once in his life, the bastard had no answer.

Stark leaned back, his face grim but steady. “I will send for a maester. The swelling must be seen to, or you will be crippled for longer than a fortnight.”

Across the table, Robert stirred from his brooding, “A maester, aye. And where in the seven bloody hells is Pycelle? I have not seen that sot in days.”

Stark and Snow exchanged a look, their grimaces identical.

“Ned… where the fuck is my council. Half the chairs are empty. You’re supposed to be running this dog and pony show.”

Ned kept his voice level. “Renly was demoted to command of the City Watch.”

“A king’s brother, the Lord commander of a City watch?” Cersei demanded.

“The Gold Cloaks have their name from when a King’s Brother was their commander.” Snow interjected. 

“Isn’t your Uncle Kevan the Commander of the Lannisport Red Cloaks?”

She glared at the Tyrell but Stark continued. 

“The Gold Cloaks have been in a poor state even worse after Slynt was sent to the Wall. Renly declined the post, which leaves us short not one man but two.”

“Why was Slynt… know what fuck it and fuck Janos Slynt.” Robert grunted stewing in his annoyance. “It’s not surprising. Renly never did care for real work.”

Snow leaned forward, his tone quieter but edged. “It is likely for the best. He should be at Storm’s End, looking for a wife, building heirs. His time is better spent there.”

Robert barked out a bitter laugh. “He will have a wife soon enough. The wedding to the fat flower’s daughter will have to be moved up.”

Snow’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the color draining slightly from his face. He said nothing further.

Robert’s eyes shifted. “And Pycelle? Where is that old fraud hiding?”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “Pycelle has been stripped of office. He was caught in with a whore and lied about it when questioned. A man sworn to chastity should have had more honor.”

Cersei stiffened. “How convenient,” she spat. “You never minded squirting your seed wherever you liked. Yet a man loyal to the crown strays once and you send him to the Wall.”

Her gaze cut sharply to Jon. His face paled further, but Ned stepped between them before a word could be said. “The Citadel has already sent word. A replacement is on the way. The matter is settled.”

Robert growled, “And Stannis? Where is my Lord of Ships?”

“I have sent two missives,” Ned answered. “No reply has come.”

“Then he does not want the chair,” Robert snapped. “And Littlefinger?”

“Littlefinger…” Ned said, the distaste clear even in his careful tone.

“Has been spreading rumors about Lady Stark.” Snow said, as if he actually cared about the woman who spurned him and sent him from his home. 

“This is a mess!” Robert shoved back in his chair. “A mess I expect to be cleaned up. I cannot rule without a council. Find me a Master of Laws. Find me a commander for the Gold Cloaks. If Stannis will not answer, give his slot to another.”

Tyrell spoke before anyone else. “My uncle, Paxter Redwyne, would serve ably. His ships are seasoned and he…”

“No,” Robert cut him off with a sharp wave.

Cersei allowed herself the faintest curl of a smile. At last, the oaf had said something sensible. There were Flowers spilling out of every crack in this city already

“Jason Mallister,” Robert declared. “He is here in the city and he can take the post now. If Stannis wants it, let him come claim it himself.”

Ned drew a steady breath. “I already have replacements on their way, Your Grace.”

Cersei leaned forward, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Oh, and where are these oh so qualified replacements? Do tell us, Lord Stark.”

“Jacelyn Bywater will be taking command of the City Watch until a permanent replacement is found,” Stark said firmly. “As for Master of Laws, Mors Umber has agreed to take the seat.”

Robert threw back his head and barked a laugh. “An Umber! That should be a bloody good time.”

Stark’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He recently sent word from Moat Cailin. He will take over the office once he arrives.”

“Cailin?” Robert scoffed. “That will take a bloody age to get here.”

“Be that as it may…” Ned began, but Robert cut across him with a growl.

“Snow! You’ll take it.”

Ned’s head snapped around. “Robert, he is just a boy…”

“Save it,” Robert snarled. “He is a knight. He’ll be lord of Moat Cailin soon enough. Don’t piss on my boots and tell me it’s raining.”

Jon blinked, taken aback. “I… What?”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. Of course. How did she not see it? It was not the Lord of Winterfell at all, but his bastard son pulling the strings. The wolf pup had been leading the father by the nose since they arrived, and none had noticed. None except Cersei. 

“You heard me,” Robert said, his voice sharp. “You can do the fucking job. If your father is so against it, Crowfood can take over once he gets here. Until then, I want a full council. That’s the fucking end of it.”

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦ 

Margaery slipped into her father’s solar, the voices inside carrying even before she pushed the heavy door open. The table was crowded with maps, scrolls, and goblets of half-drunk Arbor wine. Grandmother sat with her cane resting across her lap, sharp eyes following every word. Mother leaned close to Father, murmuring her counsel only for him to bluster over it a moment later. Garlan sat at the far end, arms folded but listening with care.

“My little rose,” Father said when he spotted her, his great bulk shifting in his chair as his face split into a broad grin. “Come to offer your wisdom? I knew it. The gods blessed me with three sons, but it is my daughter who shows the most Tyrell cunning. Speak, child, what do you need?”

Margaery smiled thinly. She knew her father well enough to recognize the pattern. He would praise her, beam at her presence, then promptly ignore anything she said in favor of his own bluster. But she would not let that stop her. “I am going to King’s Landing.”

That drew the air out of the room. Grandmother’s lips tightened, her hands tightening on her cane.

“You will not,” Mother said quickly. “It is too dangerous. The court is no place for you yet now that we’ve lost Renly.”

“Do not fool yourself, girl,” Grandmother cut in, her voice sharp. “You are thinking with your heart, not your head. Chasing after this soulmate of yours like a milkmaid chasing after a shepherd. There is politics to be played here, and if you think flitting about the Red Keep will serve our house, you are mistaken.”

Father nodded, pleased to have his mother’s support. “Your grandmother is right. You are too hasty. If we are to use you, it will be with care. A rose does not bloom in winter by charging headlong into the frost.”

“I am not asking,” Margaery said plainly.

Grandmother snorted. “You never do.”

Margaery drew a breath, steady, controlled. She knew what they thought, that she was some lovestruck girl desperate to run to her knight. They were wrong… well not entirely. But it was more than that, and she would show them.

Garlan finally spoke, his voice cutting through the rising argument. “You speak of using her as though she is a piece on the board.”

Father frowned. “Nonsense. She is a maiden still, what could she understand of…”

The room quieted as Margaery slowly lifted her hand into the light.

The wrist was swollen and bruised, an ugly mottling of purples and reds spreading up her forearm. Her knuckles were torn, raw, and her fingers bent at uneven angles. The hand trembled as she tried to close it into a fist, but she forced it anyway, the mangled shape stark in the candlelight.

Mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Father gaped, his bluster caught in his throat. Even Grandmother’s eyes flickered with something sharp and wary.

“He took the injury, and it came to me.” she said quietly. “ Only he is strong enough to bear it. I am not. What breaks him ruins me… I have need of him.”

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦ 

The feast sprawled across the gardens outside the Red Keep, the air warm with the scent of roasted boar, spiced wine, and honeyed cakes. Torches flared as dusk gave way to night, and Jon sat with a company that looked as though it had been gathered at random, though somehow it worked.

Allyria lounged at his left, dark hair loose for once, grey eyes sparkling. Obara sprawled opposite her, already halfway into her second flagon of wine. Beside Obara sat Sansa, cheeks flushed from the day’s excitement. Jeyne Poole whispered in her ear now and again, both girls stifling giggles when Septa Mordane gave them warning looks over her cup.

Further down the bench sat Willas, his cane propped against the table. He looked perfectly at ease, listening more than he spoke, though his gaze often flicked toward Allyria with a softness Jon was beginning to notice. Lucas leaned forward eagerly, while Samwell Tarly sweated under the heat of the torches, dabbing his brow every few minutes.

At the far end, Loras leaned back at ease, trading quiet words with Edric Storm, who seemed determined to prove he could drink as much as the older knight despite his wine being watered down. Tommen, seated between Jon and Willas, was practically glowing, delighted to be among them though it had likely been forgotten that he was supposed to be at the royal table.

Jon glanced at the empty place beside Allyria. “I thought Young Ned was meant to sit with us.”

Allyria’s smile was sly. “He chose to stay with Beric.”

Jon frowned, his brows drawing together. “With Beric?”

“It is fine,” she said lightly, sipping her wine. The twinkle in her eyes told him there was more to the story than she was willing to say.

Obara slammed her cup down hard enough to splash wine across the table. “Fine? It is laughable. He should be here with us, not clinging to Beric’s side like a pup.”

“Beric is honorable,” Allyria countered, her tone mild, though her smile remained edged glancing at Willas. “He is still his squire after all. He can be with worse company.”

Lucas grinned. “She means you, Obara.”

“Careful, boy,” Obara warned, wagging her finger at him. “You would not last a minute with me.” She said as if she hadn’t spent the night in his bed two nights ago.

Sansa gasped at the impropriety, but Jeyne covered her mouth with her hands to hide a laugh. Even Samwell chuckled nervously before catching himself under the Septa’s glare.

Loras rolled his eyes. “All of you sound like children bickering over sweetcakes. The real question is whether the melee will be worth watching tomorrow. Half the knights look ready to faint after today’s tilt.”

Jon shifted, his wrist still aching. “It will be worth it,” he said flatly, though he noticed Allyria watching him carefully from the corner of her eye.

“I hope Ser Jon smashes them all,” Tommen declared, earning another round of laughter.

Jon shook his head. “Your faith is misplaced, Your Grace.”

“Not misplaced at all,” Tommen insisted, sitting taller. “You are the best.”

That set Jeyne and Sansa giggling again, while Obara groaned and demanded another cup of wine. The talk turned light, each of them teasing or arguing in turn until the sound of raised voices drew Jon’s attention.

Across the feast, at the high table, Robert Baratheon was on his feet, his face flushed crimson with fury. Cersei stood opposite him, her golden hair gleaming in the torchlight, her mouth moving fast. Jon could not make out the words over the music and chatter, but there was no mistaking the venom in her eyes.

Jaime rose, trying to put a hand on Robert’s arm, but the king shoved him back with such force that Jaime stumbled and landed squarely on his arse. A hush spread across the nearest tables.

Jon grimaced, but he turned back to his own company. Whatever storm raged at the royal table, Arya would surely catch every word. She was practically draped over Myrcella by now, both girls leaning so close together that they might as well have been in the same seat.

Jon rubbed at his wrist. He would ask her later. Arya always had the details.

The clamor of voices refilled the garden until the sharp clang of a herald’s staff striking bell carried through the night.

“Silence for the Hand of the King.”

The crowd quieted and Jon’s father stepped onto a small stoop that placed him above the tables. 

“There will be changes to the melee tomorrow,” Ned announced, his voice steady, carrying clearly across the garden. “The blood that was spilled today has made plain that things must be done differently.”

A voice rose from the benches below. “It was your son who drew the blood!” The knight who shouted it leaned half drunk against his neighbor.

Ned’s eyes cut toward him, cold and sharp. “Watch yourself, ser. It was not my son who drew live steel out of spite for a loss. Remember that before you open your mouth again.”

A hush fell over that corner of the garden, and the knight dropped his gaze back into his cup.

Ned returned to the matter at hand. “The melee will no longer involve horses. It will be fought on foot. Competitors will be placed into companies of five-to-seven men. There will be two contests, one in the morning, the other after the noon meal. From each, the five companies who strike down the most opponents in each round will advance to the next day. From those, the strongest will face each other in the final contest. The prizes for first and second place will be shared among each placing company.”

Murmurs broke out at the tables. Some grumbled over the change, others leaned close to debate their chances. One knight shouted from the back, “It will not be worth watching if we are made to squabble like sellswords in the mud!”

Ned’s gaze turned toward him, unshaken. “The melee was never meant to be a pageant. It is meant to prepare men for war. Wars are not fought by single men on horses chasing glory, but by companies of soldiers fighting as one. If you want to prove your worth, you will do so as you would on a battlefield.”

The voices quieted again, though not all were pleased. Ned gave a single nod, stepped down from the stoop, and left the crowd to chew over his words as the musicians struck up a slower tune to fill the silence.

The feast carried on with music and chatter, though Jon’s table had gone strangely intent the moment the herald finished his announcement.

“Teams must be registered by the Hour of the Falcon tomorrow,” the man had said, and that was all it took. “No changes are allowed once they are registered.”

Jon straightened where he sat, his good hand still resting on the bandages wrapped around his wrist. “That’s three,” he said, looking between himself, Loras, and Lucas.

Val set her cup down with a clink. “That’s six,” she corrected, jabbing a finger toward herself, Obara Sand, and Allyria.

Tommen nearly knocked over his plate leaning forward. “Seven!” he said brightly.

Jon fixed him with a flat stare. “No.”

The boy’s grin melted into a pout. “But I could…”

“Don’t even try that,” Jon cut off his pout, shaking his head.

Tommen sagged in his seat, muttering, “Fine…”

Jon turned his gaze across the table. “Same goes for you, Edric.”

The Baratheon bastard threw up his hands. “Pshh. Figures.”

Loras leaned in then, his sharp eyes on Jon. “I don’t think you should do it either, Snow.”

Jon’s brows pulled together. “What? Why? Because of this?” He lifted his wrapped wrist and flexed the fingers as if to prove his point. “It will be fine by tomorrow.”

Loras shook his head. “No, it’s… Margaery.”

Jon froze, confusion clear in his frown. “What do you mean?”

Loras shifted uncomfortably, then blurted, “I did some research into soulma…”

Willas cleared his throat loudly. 

“Me and Willas did some research into…” Loras amended in a rush.

His older brother fixed him with a dry look. “Loras, you barely did enough to be considered after the ‘and,’ let alone at the lead of that sentence.”

Sansa chimed in with a prim nod. “It is not even proper grammar.”

Allyria rolled her eyes. “Hush, Little Cardinal.”

Loras straightened in his chair, determined to reclaim some ground. “Until your bond is sealed with Margaery…”

Tommen tilted his head. “I thought your soulmate was Princess Val.”

Silence crashed over the table. The boy blinked at the sudden change in the air.

Jon’s jaw went tight. Willas dropped his gaze to the table, but not before shooting his brother a look that promised words later. Jon and Willas both turned their stares on Loras, sharp enough to cut.

Loras shifted, clearly aware he had said more than he should have.

Jon exhaled slowly and leaned forward, his voice low. “No one speaks of this beyond this table. Do you all understand?”

Obara tilted her head but nodded first. Allyria followed, her expression unreadable, arms crossed, and even Lucas. Jeyne and Sansa exchanged worried looks before nodding as well. Sam cleared his throat and muttered agreement. Tommen opened his mouth as if to argue but shut it again under Jon’s hard stare. Edric slouched, muttering something inaudible, but he nodded too.

Septa Mordane, half slumped against her cup, had long since drifted into snores.

“Apparently Lady Margaery has the same Soulmark as Val and me.” Jon said, causing a chorus of gasps. 

Loras cleared his throat, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “The thing about soulmarks is… if one half… one part is injured, the other carries the wound.”

“But we know that isn’t true?” Val said, holding her arm up.

“It is only the case until the bond is completed. That means fully… sealed.” He did not spell it out, but the meaning was clear.

Jon’s jaw tightened. “So you are saying if I ride into the melee and break my wrist worse than it already is, Margaery will carry the same wound?”

Loras spread his hands. “That is what the research says. Until the bond is… her body mirrors yours.”

Willas shot his brother a sharp glance. “The research I found, you mean.”

Jon ignored that part. “And you only tell me this now? What if I suffered worse during the…”

Finally, Val’s palm smacked the table. “If this is true, then why are you so comfortable with Allyria going into the Melee?” 

The words hung in the air. Allyria froze, then slowly turned to look at Willas. The Tyrell lordling’s cheeks flushed, and he looked away. Allyria’s lips pressed tight, though a faint color touched her cheeks as well.

The realization settled across the table.

Jon huffed, rising from his seat. “Enough.” He turned to Tommen and Edric. “Go to the royal table. Ask for an escort to your chambers. Now.”

Tommen looked wounded. “But…”

“Now,” Jon repeated, his tone leaving no room for protest.

Edric scowled. “Figures.” He scraped back his chair but stood anyway.

The two boys sulked their way toward the royal table, Tommen dragging his feet and Edric glowering at the ground as pipes and drums struck up at the far end of the feast, the first notes rolling over the assembled tables like a tide. Laughter and chatter quieted as couples began rising, lords tugging wives to their feet, young men awkwardly offering hands to maidens.

Jon shifted in his seat, grateful for the distraction from the uneasy news. 

One by one, the eyes at the table began to turn to him. Allyria, Obara, Sansa, even Willas, though his expression was mercifully blank. Val raised a brow at him, as if daring him to catch on.

“What?” Jon asked, looking from face to face.

A soft clearing of the throat answered him. He turned.

Princess Elia stood just behind his chair, her flower crown settled crookedly on her dark hair. She looked tired, but her eyes were bright, almost mischievous.

“Tell me, Ser Jon,” she said, her voice carrying enough to hush those closest, “is it still tradition for the champion of the joust to dance with the one he crowns Queen of Love and Beauty? Forgive me, it has been some years since I last attended a tourney.”

Jon felt every gaze in reach settle back on him. He swallowed once and nodded. “It is, Princess.”

“And yet you sit,” Princess Elia said, tilting her head slightly. “Am I to take it that you mean to deny me my rightful dance?”

Jon cleared his throat. “I only thought you would not wish to dance with me.”

Her brows lifted. “And why is that?”

The pause stretched. Jon rubbed at the back of his neck, then lifted his bound wrist. “Because of my hand,” he said.

The lie came easily, though he knew more than a few at the table could see through it.

Princess Elia’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite disbelief. “Nonsense,” she replied smoothly. “You do not need your wrist to dance. And if anything, it makes me want to dance with you more.”

Jon opened his mouth, shut it, then stood as Elia extended her hand toward the bastard of Winterfell.

The musicians had shifted into a slower tune, the kind meant for couples to circle lazily in the torchlight. Jon placed his uninjured hand on Princess Elia’s waist and took her other hand carefully in his, trying not to think about the stares boring into his back.

“You are stiff as a board,” Princess Elia murmured, her smile teasing as she guided him into the rhythm. “Tell me, Ser Jon, do you always dance as if the Seven themselves are watching?”

Jon exhaled through his nose. “Not often.”

She tilted her head, her crown of flowers slipping slightly with the motion. “Then why crown me? You have a soulmate, do you not?”

He kept his eyes fixed over her shoulder, watching as his friends giggled, and Sansa swooned. “Because it was right. My Aunt Lyanna would have done the same, if she’d had the chance. I had no wish to see another tourney pass without it.”

For a long moment she studied him, the music swelling around them. Then she laughed quietly, not mocking but surprised. “So serious. Gods, if every knight in Westeros had that sense of honor, I daresay I might have married one instead of a dragon prince.”

Jon risked a glance at her then, unsure whether to smile.

Her gaze sharpened, though her tone stayed warm. “And now you are trying to find words for something unpleasant. Out with it before you choke on them.”

Jon cleared his throat. “The king has… made a decision. About your place on the council. I thought you should hear it from me.”

Princess Elia’s lips curved, wry and unsurprised. “Ah, so that is the stormcloud over your head. Do not fret, Stark pup. Appointing me was a mistake from the start. My dear brother thought it amusing to suggest, and I agreed because I enjoy upsetting the council.”

“You do not seem upset.”

“Should I?” she asked, twirling under his arm before settling back into the step with surprising grace. “My health is no secret. I tire easily, my lungs betray me when the air turns damp. Oberyn will take my place, as was always meant. He will delight in needling your father, and I will delight in resting my bones. Everyone wins.”

Jon blinked, caught between relief and the oddest urge to laugh at her bluntness. The princess only smiled, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Jon found himself guided by Elia’s hand more than he was leading. Her palm was small, her grip deceptively strong. For all his misgivings, he realized he had not danced since he was a boy trailing after Sansa and Arya at Winterfell’s feasts. Even last year, he was more preoccupied protecting Mya than to dance this dance. It felt strange now, to do so before a watching court. Stranger still that it was with the woman who wore his crown of flowers but was old enough to be his mother.

Princess Elia’s eyes gleamed with amusement as she leaned close enough for him to hear her above the noise. “My goodness, you brood worse than your father!”

Jon smiled despite himself. “So I am told, Your Grace,”

“Do you know why Dornishmen make such poor jousters?”

Jon frowned, as he saw her brother Joust. He only failed because of the sun coming from behind a cloud at the wrong moment. “No.”

“Because we prefer to keep our lances in bed.”

Jon nearly stumbled at the bowdy joke, but managed to hold his face. A short huff of laughter escaped him despite himself. “That is shameless.”

“True,” she agreed without remorse, lips curling. “But shamelessness is one of our better qualities.”

Jon shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth before he tamped it down.

“And do you know what we call a knight who never wins the melee?” she asked, her eyes glittering as if she were offering a secret.

“What?” he asked warily.

“A sore loser.”

Jon exhaled through his nose, unimpressed, and rolled his eyes.

It was a mistake.

Princess Elia went stiff in his arms, her laughter cut short as if he had struck her. The warmth drained from her face, leaving her expression carved and sharp.

Jon blinked, uneasy. “Princess, are you well?”

She did not answer. Instead, her gaze fixed on him with new intent, a weight that made his chest tighten. “Tell me of your mother.”

Jon’s jaw clenched in surprise. “What?”

“Your mother,” Elia repeated, her voice softer but no less pointed. “What was she like? Do you favor her? Her eyes, perhaps? Her temper?”

His stomach dropped. “I do not know.”

Her brows furrowed. “Surely Lord Stark has told you something.”

“I said I do not know.” His tone was clipped now, his throat dry.

“Nothing?” She searched his face as if the answer might be written there. “Not even her name?”

Jon’s shoulders stiffened. The words scraped at old wounds that never healed. All his life it had been the same question in different mouths. Whispers in Winterfell’s halls. Sneers in the training yard. 

Bastard. 

Snow. 

Where is your mother, Snow? 

Who was she? 

Who was she? 

Who was she? 

Edric had sworn it was not Ashara Dayne, and Allyria’s existence proved him to be telling the truth. To have Elia press now, here, before half the court’s eyes… it twisted in him like a blade.

His voice came out rougher than he intended. “Are you making sport of me?”

Her lips parted in surprise. “What?”

“My mother is not a jest for your amusement,” Jon said, every word iron. He forced his tone polite, for she was still a princess, but his blood was hot beneath his skin. “Forgive me, Princess. I can not dance further.”

He released her hand and stepped back with stiff formality, inclining his head just enough to keep the moment from open insult. Then he turned from the floor, his shoulders taut with the effort of not storming outright.

Every gaze seemed to follow him as he left, though he did not look back.

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦ 

Ned stood at the edge of the lists, watching the squires set out bundles of blunted weapons for the melee. The Hour of the Hawk, some called it. To Ned, it was too early for blood.

He spotted Jon across the yard, tightening the bindings around his wrist. His movements were sharp, deliberate, but Ned caught the flicker of pain when he flexed his fingers. He walked toward him, “Jon.”

The boy straightened, caught out like he had been doing something wrong. “Father.”

Ned nodded to the bound wrist. “Does it ache still?”

Jon hesitated, then gave a short shrug. “It will hold.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Jon’s jaw clenched. “It hurts. But I can fight.”

Ned sighed, looking at him the way he used to when Jon was small and stubborn. “You should not. The melee is dangerous even for men at their best. With that wrist, you will be slower. Weaker. You know this.”

Jon’s eyes flicked toward the grounds, where the lists stood waiting. His voice was low. “I will be fine.”

Ned’s mouth tightened. “This is no game. What happened yesterday was near enough to ruin. You lost yourself, Jon. I saw it. Every man in that yard saw it.”

Jon’s shoulders tensed, his hands curling into fists. He said nothing.

Ned pressed, his voice quiet but firm. “Tell me the truth. Has it happened before?”

Jon looked away, his eyes fixed on the dirt. The silence stretched, heavy between them, until finally he spoke. “Aye.”

Ned’s brow furrowed. “How many times?”

Jon exhaled, the sound sharp. “A handful.”

“Jon.”

His head snapped back, red eyes burning. “It is not always like yesterday. Sometimes it is just a moment. A heartbeat where I do not think, only strike. Then it passes. Yesterday…” He swallowed hard, lowering his gaze again. “Yesterday was worse. Much worse. But I have managed it before.”

“Managed,” Ned repeated, the word tasting bitter. “And what happens when you cannot? When that rage consumes you entirely?”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. His voice was softer now, almost ashamed. “I do not know. They come more often now. I feel them building faster, sharper. But I have never lost it so badly as I did with Clegane. Not even close.”

Ned studied him in silence, the boy who was not his by blood but his all the same. The boy who bore a wolf’s fury too close to the surface. He felt the old chill again, the shadow of his father in battle, but even his father could control it. This felt like something different.

Ned laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “That is why I ask you not to fight today. Not because of your wrist but because you have that temper unmastered.”

Jon’s throat worked, his eyes still fixed on the dirt. He did not answer.

The yard was quieter than the day before, only the occasional call of a squire or the clatter of steel breaking the stillness. Ned kept his hand on Jon’s shoulder, unwilling to let the silence stretch too far.

“I fear you may kill someone,” Ned said at last. His voice was low but steady. “The temper is dangerous enough, but the strength you showed against Gregor… that was no common fury. The man’s armor alone weighs more than you, and you yanked him around like a wolf who caught a rabbit in its mouth. If you lose yourself again, lad, it will not be so easy to drag you back.”

Jon’s mouth tightened, and for a long moment he looked as though he would argue. Instead, he let out a rough breath. “I was already uncertain about joining. There is something else. Something I should tell you.”

Ned arched a brow.

Jon flexed his injured wrist before lowering it. “The bond. With soulmates. If one is hurt, the other carries it too. Until the bond is… completed.” His eyes flicked away, almost embarrassed. “If I fight with this wrist, I risk passing the hurt onto Margaery. Willas and Loras told me last night. I cannot ask her to share that.”

Ned studied him. There was disappointment in his voice, but also a trace of relief.

“It seems the choice has been made for you.”

Jon gave a short, humorless laugh. “Aye. But it still stings. Without me, the others lose their ringer. They will fight well, but I was meant to be the weight on the scales.” He shook his head, his expression pinched. “Now they must fend without me.”

Ned opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of soft steps on stone pulled both their gazes.

Elia Martell approached with measured grace, her flower crown absent, though the faint red lines around her eyes betrayed the fit of laughter she had fallen into yesterday. She stopped before them, her expression polite but cool.

“Lord Stark,” she said. “Might I have a word?”

Jon stepped back instinctively, but her dark gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. Ned caught it and frowned.

“Alone,” Elia added, her tone firm.

Ned turned to Jon. “Go on, lad. See to Hallier.”

Jon looked between them, uncertain, but finally inclined his head and strode away toward the stables.

When the boy was gone, Elia folded her hands before her and stepped closer, lowering her voice until only Ned could hear.

“We need to speak of your son,” she said, each word deliberate. Her gaze bore into him, sharp as any blade. “And of why he looks so very much like Rhaella Targaryen.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen: My Best Friend Gave Me, the Best Advice

Ned arrived before anyone else, opening the windows to allow in whatever breeze the city provided. This was meant to be the first proper sitting of the new council after a week of letters, meetings in corridors, and short tempers. It already felt like a supper where the stewards forgot to bring the dishes to the table.

Barristan Selmy shifted his stance but did not speak, hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He had been early, as he always was, and had watched the servants fuss with ink and cloth without a single comment. 

Steps sounded in the outer passage, and Jon slipped in first, his hair still damp from the morning’s wash, his right wrist bound in fresh linen under a plain leather brace, quickly followed by his soulmate. He nodded to Ned, then to Barristan where the old knight waited along the wall.

“How does it feel,” Ned asked quietly, glancing at the wrist.

“It aches less,” Jon answered, which did not answer much at all. “I may have to leave early. It is a personal meeting. It touches neither Stark business nor the council.”

Ned frowned. Before he could ask anything, Jason Mallister filled the doorway in sea-blue wool, the eagle of Seagard bright at his shoulder. 

“My lord Hand,” Mallister said. “You have my thanks for the appointment. Though I am told the royal fleet enjoys poor anchors and even worse repairs.”

“We will make a list before we make any decisions,” Ned said. “Welcome, Lord Jason.”

Oberyn Martell arrived behind him, all red silk and an expression that made people forget what they meant to say. He was already speaking as he crossed the threshold, greeting Barristan as a comrade from an old field, telling Jason Mallister that Seagard’s wine was better than its fish, and pausing only when he reached Sansa at the rear of the chamber where a small writing desk had been set for her.

Sansa stood at once, as they had rehearsed, the little scribe’s knife and ink well set neatly aside. Oberyn took her hand and bent to kiss the knuckles with a light touch that could have passed for genuine courtesy in any hall from Sunspear to Last Hearth.

“Lady Sansa,” he said. “I should lament that the realm will lose a hundred hopeful poets when your soulmate hears of them. There would have been a line from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit if not for your unfortunate good fortune.”

Sansa’s cheeks colored, and she glanced at Ned, trying to resist a smile. Ned caught sight of Allyria near the back, shoulder to shoulder with Willas, shaping exaggerated kissy faces behind Oberyn’s head. The girl could not help herself. 

Sansa saw it, made the smallest face of her own in return, and steadied. Ned let out a long breath he had not noticed he was holding. It pleased him to see them easing into each other’s company, and he was glad his two daugh… he was glad the two were finding their way.

When Oberyn turned from Sansa to offer Ned a courteous inclination of the head, and a cold feeling radiating in his chest. His smile… What did Elia tell him? Ned denied it, but the woman was married to Rhaegar. She didn’t just believe his denials, and Ned’s threats did little to assuage her. 

“Now that we are in the godswood, where no one comes ever since Ashara left, so no one can overhear, will you finally…” Elia began, but was taken aback as he grabbed her bicep. 

“Now listen here.” Ned growled. “Your husband… what your husband was is not the fault of House Stark. He nearly destroyed my family.”

Elia looked unimpressed but Ned continued, “If you continue this line of false rumors, if you continue to put my son in danger from this ill-advised tongue flapping, I will end your life. Is that understood?”

Elia looked unbothered, “Crystal Clear, My Lord Hand.” She said with a wry smirk. 

Willas Tyrell made an entrance and more of a careful arrival as Oberyn sat. The cane tapped the stone with each step. He had a ledger tucked under one arm and a folded paper peeking out of the ledger’s spine. Allyria kept pace on his off side and did not fuss over him. That seemed to make his progress easier.

“Lord Stark,” Willas said, bowing his head. “If it pleases you, I have preliminary tallies from the granaries and a list of arrears from the last two years. Some of the figures contradict each other, which is appropriate given the state of the books.”

“We will discuss it in a moment,” Ned said. 

Jon had moved to the side table to give Sansa space to arrange her sheets. Val slipped in at his elbow with a look that warned off questions. She had on one of the southern gowns Sansa had bullied her into trying, the stitching plain and the belt a simple leather strip, and she had refused any jewelry. 

Jon murmured something that made her snort, and he shifted the chair for her with his left hand, which would have pleased Ned more if it did not remind him again of that cursed wrist.

Varys arrived without sound and made a slow circle of the table and ended with a graceful dip of the head to Ned.

“My lord Hand,” the spider said. “It is good to see the table fuller. I am at your service, and the city is at your ear.”

Ned had wanted his seat for Jon, and the thought returned like a hammer. Jon had argued plainly that he could not match Varys for reach beyond the city walls, not soon enough to help. He had also told Ned, with a straight face, that if he did move to the master of whispers position, then the Laws ought to be given to Jaime Lannister. 

Ned had nearly choked on his wine. There were some men he could stomach but that one would not enter his chamber while he breathed. 

Varys’s smile, which never reached his eyes, lingered as the eunuch took his place.

Sansa cleared her throat softly and lifted her pen to the first page. She had asked for this, and he had agreed. He would watch for tired hands and wavering lines, she was still a just girl after all. She gave him a little nod as if to say she was ready.

The last of the servants slipped out. A page returned with a tray of fruit water, mostly lemon courtesy of their Dornish guests, as well as a plate of apricots. 

Jon flexed his fingers once, winced, and stilled. He leaned in towards Ned“I will give what I have, then slip out,” he said under his breath. 

He cleared his throat. “Is everyone here?”

Oberyn Martell leaned back on his bench, the faintest curl at his mouth. “No, not everyone. I see no fat man in silks. ” His voice carried the tone of a man testing the room, half in jest but not without point.

Ned held his gaze. “The High Septon has not chosen to attend.”

There was a pregnant pause as Ned realized that Oberyn wasn’t talking about the High Septon.

“Not chosen to attend?” Oberyn repeated, as though he hadn’t heard or didn’t understand. “How curious. Do your gods allow such truancy?”

“He keeps away to make a point,” Ned said. “He would have me send gilded letters and a procession of flatterers to beg him back. I do not have the time or patience.”

Oberyn spread his hands as though it were all the same to him. “Then he will sit fat in his sept until his vanity is filled. Better men have withered waiting for less and more righteous.”

Ned set that aside. There were matters that could be pressed without chasing a Septon around the city. “Ser Jon, what of the Watch?”

Jon leaned forward slightly, putting too much pressure on his still bound wrist. “Ser Jacelyn Bywater has things in hand for now. The tourney grounds are nearly cleared of set up, and the wreckage carted away. He sent word that he has no wish to remain acting commander for long. He says he will serve if he must, but he would rather have the post given or taken. He does not want to linger as a man in limbo.”

Ned studied his son’s face. Jon was careful, but there was more held behind his words. He was letting the others speak first before he continued. That much was plain.

Varys shifted in his seat. “Ironhand has always been… direct. There is use in that, though it lacks poetry.”

Barristan gave the faintest hum, which for him was agreement enough.

Ned waited for the next voice to rise. The chamber was quiet save for the occasional scrape of Sansa’s quill. The council had gathered, but there was no rhythm to it yet, uncertain of how it was supposed to run.

He looked to Willas Tyrell; he had been patient long enough. The young man had a small pile of ledgers before him.

“The coin,” Ned prompted.

Willas lifted his head, his voice steady though weary. “The books are a snarl, my lord. Incoherent, inconsistent, half the tallies written twice, and half not written at all or incorrectly. There are debts owed to men who have been dead for ten years, and payments still being made to sellswords who never existed in the first place. I will need weeks, perhaps longer, to make sense of it.” He tapped one page with the end of his quill. “I have brought in a few men I know from the Reach. They can at least count past twenty without pulling their boots off, which is more than I can say for some of the clerks I have found here.”

A small ripple of amusement moved through the table, though it faded quickly. Ned inclined his head. “You have what you need?”

“I will need more scribes, but I will not waste coin until I know how much coin there is. Once I have the truth of it, I will bring it to you plainly.”

Ned nodded and turned to Jason Mallister. The eagle lord looked no less grim. His long fingers drummed once against the chart he had unrolled earlier.

“The fleet?” Ned asked.

Mallister’s voice carried the sound of a man used to the sea. “What fleet? The information I need is gone. Most of the records of shipwrights, stores, and harborage are missing. My suspicion is that Lord Stannis took them with him when he quit the city. He took most of the royal fleet as well. What we have left are a handful of cogs and skiffs, enough to ferry wine down the Blackwater, but not enough to defend a coastline.”

“Is there nothing left at all?” Ned pressed.

“Nothing worth the name,” Mallister answered. “The oars are rotten, the sails patched until they are more stitch than cloth. The captains who remain are half-beggars. If we had to sail tomorrow, we would be swept aside before we reached Driftmark. I will need time to build anew, and gold to pay for it, and men with salt in their blood to sail it.”

Willas gave the faintest nod, as if the two problems had already locked together in his mind: no ships without coin, no coin without weeks of labor. Ned could already feel the shape of that headache ahead.

He let his eyes drift to the far wall where Ser Barristan Selmy stood, white cloak hanging still, hands folded behind his back. The Lord Commander looked older than he when Ned first got to King’s Landing. 

“The Kingsguard?” Ned asked.

Barristan stepped forward a pace. “We are six, my lord. Ser Meryn Trant…” he looked at Val, “…fell, and his place remains open. The order is weakened, and the king is not blind to it. We must find a seventh.”

Ned inclined his head. “You have someone in mind.”

“I watched the lists,” Barristan admitted. “There were men of promise. Strong in their seats with steady hands. Not all of them are knights yet, but the order has raised squires before, if they showed enough steel in them.” He paused, no doubt thinking of his first tourney where he exchanged blows with Duncan the Tall, “The choice must be made with care. The white cloak is not a prize for a tournament. It is a life sworn.”

Ned thought of Jon, of the rage that had overtaken him against Clegane, and felt the weight of the words. He gave a short nod. “Bring me names. We will consider them together… and maybe with the king himself gods willing.”

The chamber went quiet again. It was a council, but only barely. Ned could feel the gaps between them like cracks in ice. The High Septon absent, the Master of Ships with no ships, the Master of Coin with nothing but chaos in his ledgers, and the Kingsguard short one sworn sword. It was all loose ends, but it was a beginning.

Ned folded his hands on the table. “Very well. You have given me what you can for now. Let us...”

Jon cleared his throat. “There is one matter I have been holding until now. It concerns the city, and it is not exactly small.”

Ned gestured for him to continue.

“When Janos Slynt was taken down, we believed we were cutting out a single rotten branch,” Jon said. “But the truth is uglier. The man had his hands in nearly every criminal element in the city. Not just bribes from the watch or coin from the brothels, but the whole of it. He was running organized crime himself, with his lieutenants carrying out his orders. He was ‘king of the gutters’.”

Jason Mallister let out a low sound of disgust. Willas Tyrell set down his quill, the ledgers before him forgotten for the moment. Barristan’s face remained carved from stone, though Ned thought he saw a flicker of distaste.

Jon went on. “It was bad enough we took him out of the picture, but with his lieutenants gone, there is no one to step in and keep it together. Now three gangs are clawing at each other to fill it. The Wyverns, the Rubies, and the Sharkteeth. They mostly kept their daggers sheathed during the tourney, when hundreds of lords and ladies were here, but in the week since there have been skirmishes, men left in alleys, and at least one building burned down. Eight bodies have been found so far. Bywater suspects more that we have not found.”

Ned leaned forward, his jaw tightening. “Tell us of them.”

“The Wyverns are the strongest,” Jon said. “They were already established far before most of us came to the city. Their leader claims to be one of Aerys’ bastards. No proof of it other than the Targaryen look, but the claim is enough to draw men. They whisper of dragons and vengeance, and half of Flea Bottom is caught up in the story.”

Barristan shifted slightly, his mouth a hard line clearly trying not to frown, but he said nothing.

Jon’s gaze moved to the next name. “The Rubies are not as large, but they have been growing fast. They work through the silk houses and the trades tied to them. Perfumes, powders, trinkets, anything that touches the brothels or the Street of Silk. They press the merchants for coin and those who resist end up with knives in their bellies. They are organized and hungry to prove themselves. If they keep rising, they may be as dangerous as the Wyverns.”

“Upstarts,” Oberyn barked a laugh, seemingly admirably. “The sort who will slit throats in the dark until they think themselves kings.”

“The Sharkteeth are smaller, but they are mostly restricted to the docks. They are Smugglers mostly, though they’ve been known to work as extra muscle. They move goods in and out of the city, taking their cut. Any man they leave dead, they smash his teeth so he can be known. They are not strong enough to rule the city, or at least they weren’t. Now that Slynt is gone, they’re gathering strength. If we don’t…” he looked to Willas, “… nip this in the bud they will have a chokehold on the ports, and that would bleed the crown badly”

The room was quiet for a beat, finally Willas Tyrell spoke, his tone calm but edged with calculation. “Protection rackets cut into trade first. And trade is where the crown’s coin is born. If the Rubies and Wyverns press merchants, the crown loses its share. If the Sharkteeth choke the docks, tariffs and fees vanish into their pockets. Taxes will fall, and the smallfolk will pay the cost in higher prices. The crown will feel it too.”

Val shifted in her place next to Allyria, arms crossed, her pale eyes sharp. “It sounds the same as when the King-Beyond-the-Wall died when I was small. Dalla and my mother told me of it. The Thenns, the Ice-River men, the Hornfoots… all fighting to be the strongest. The giants turning from men, the Cannibals preying on the weak.”

Allyria continued, “Without one hand at the reins, there will always be blood. Seen it in Dorne back before the conquest when Alleras Martell died and Alaric Dayne and Therese Blackmont had to console power for Princess Alyrianne to finally come of age.”

Surprisingly even Sansa contributed, “Didn’t something similar happen with House Stark? Duncan the Tall has to come?”

Ned studied her, then let his gaze sweep back across the table. “Three gangs where there was one. Skirmishes already, merchants pressed, the market unsettled. This will not mend itself.”

Jon inclined his head. “No. And every day we wait, the fighting worsens.”

The council sat heavy with silence after that. Ned felt the weight of the choice pressing harder until he finally asked the question pressing hardest.

“Why are we only learning of this now?” His eyes turned to Varys, steady as a drawn bowstring.

The eunuch folded his hands, his silk sleeves pooling like water. His smile was faint, placid. “Because, Lord Hand, this is not the sort of matter that requires my immediate attention. I serve the realm entire. I must keep eyes upon the stepstones, the Summer Isles, the Free Cities, the shifting allegiances that might topple kingdoms. A few squabbles in Flea Bottom are small potatoes beside such things.”

Ned’s jaw clenched. “Eight bodies left in alleys does not sound like mere potatoes to me.”

Varys gave a small incline of his head, unfazed. “I report what I must when it matters most.”

Before Ned could answer, the door to the council chamber swung wide.

Robert Baratheon filled the threshold, scowling, his cloak half thrown over one shoulder as if he had come straight from bed. His hair was damp with sweat and wine fumes rolled with him into the chamber.

“Gods be damned,” Robert muttered, his voice booming even in his irritation. “Why in all the seven hells are you lot skulking about in here at this hour? Jon Arryn had the sense to wait until the Hour of the Falcon at least. Nine bells, nine. Civilized men’s time. Not while I’ve still got last night’s drink rolling in me.”

Every man around the table rose as one. Chairs scraped, cloaks rustled. Even Oberyn Martell stood with mocking grace. Robert ignored them all, lumbering to the nearest seat and dropping into it with a grunt. Sansa’s nose crinkled as a waft of wine drifted towards her. 

Ned could read the signs well enough, he could since the were three and ten and four and ten. Robert was hungover and itching for a fight. Better to direct him toward something useful before his temper caused him to do something he’d regret.

“Your Grace,” Ned began, “we were just turning our attention to the matter of the City Watch. Ser Jacelyn Bywater has been acting commander since Janos Slynt was stripped of office. The watch requires…”

Robert cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Already settled. I promised it to Addam Marbrand. Cersei was shrieking in my ear about how a Lannister man should hold the post, so I agreed to shut her up. Besides, Tywin said he’d wipe fifty thousand dragons off the crown’s debt if I did. Call it good business.”

Willas Tyrell’s quill scratched quickly across parchment. Ned was once again reminded of the Midgrace plant. The Lannisters leach off Robert’s apathy to strengthen their hold on the capital. 

Jon, after exchanging a look with a Val and Allyria, spoke carefully. “What can we do for you this morning, Your Grace?”

Robert’s expression darkened, the drunken bluster morphing into raw fury. His hand slammed against the table, rattling goblets. “The whore is pregnant.”

The words hung heavy in the chamber. Even Oberyn let his lips twitch into something closer to curiosity than amusement.

Robert dragged a hand down his face. “As if I haven’t got enough harpies in my life already. Now this. Seven hells take me.”

“Your Grace,” Jon said, with a calm that looked studied rather than natural “Daella is being cared for. She does not want for anything. At present she runs my estate in the city.”

Robert’s scowl deepened. “Who in the seven hells is Daella?”

Jon scowled, and Ned could see him searching for words that would not offend with Sansa and Allyria listening in. His mouth pressed thin before he tried again. “Daella is the woman… you sired a child on. A whore, Your Grace. Lord Stannis and Lord Arryn went to see her when they learned of it. I offered to see her settled. She has a roof, coin, and work to keep her and the babe safe.”

Robert blinked, his expression shifting from anger to blank surprise. “Stannis and Jon went to a whorehouse?”

Ned felt his teeth grind. “They went to see the mother of your child, Robert. Not to rut.”

Robert gave a short bark of laughter, but there was no joy in it. He shook his head, muttering something too low to catch, then looked back at Jon. “And you thought to put her in charge of a house? Seven hells, boy, she is a whore.”

“She has managed well enough,” Jon replied, coolly. “She keeps honest accounts. It was that or cast her into the street, and I will not do that. Not when she carries your blood.”

The king dragged a hand across his jaw, sighing as if the weight of it bored him. “This is the first I hear of it. But that is not the whore I spoke of. I meant the little Targaryen girl. Word reached me this morning. She is with child by her horse lord husband.”

The chamber stilled. Ned felt the shift ripple through the men around the table, a quiet tightening of shoulders and faces as the weight of those words settled.

Robert’s voice was edged with fury. “So tell me, what will we do about that?”

Robert’s words were as heavy as a warhammer. Ned sat very still, though every instinct in him wanted to rise and shout down the madness before it took root. 

“She is just a girl, Robert.” Ned said at last, his voice steady though his chest was tight. “Barely older than my Sansa. Wed to a foreign brute in a land far from here. She is no threat to you, Your Grace.”

“She is Rhaegar’s sister,” Robert snapped back, veins at his temple bulging. “She carries the blood of the dragon. Now she carries his get as well. Do you not see it? That child in her belly could one day ride at the head of a khalasar ten thousand strong. Screaming savages on horses that live for blood. Do you want them sailing across the Narrow Sea?”

Jason Mallister cleared his throat, his broad shoulders shifting. “If I may, Your Grace. I have seen Dothraki ships… or rather, I have not. They have none. A horde without ships cannot cross an ocean.”

Robert grunted. “Then they will find ships. There are always men willing to sell their sails to dragons, be they half-drowned exiles or fat merchants.”

Oberyn Martell leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly though his eyes were sharp. “It interests me, this sudden concern for ships, when your own fleet is scattered to the winds with your Lord of Ships. Perhaps the girl’s babe will conquer the Narrow Sea before ever stepping on Westerosi soil.”

Ned caught the way Robert’s knuckles tightened on his cup. He moved quickly to cut across the barb. “She has done nothing, Robert. No crime, no threat raised, no army landed. To order her death now would be murder.”

Robert turned on him, his eyes blazing. “Murder? You call it murder? I call it war prevented. I call it keeping our children safe from fire and blood.” His hand slammed against the table, rattling the goblets. “I will not wait for that fate to befall mine.”

Barristan Selmy shifted uneasily in his white cloak. His voice was quiet but clear. “Your Grace, I swore my sword to House Targaryen once. I saw their cruelty, aye, but I also saw your mercy. Daenerys was a babe when she fled. She has never wronged you.”

Robert sneered. “You grow soft with age, Selmy. Would you have me wait until she crosses with a horde at her back? Then you will tell me it is too late.”

Willas Tyrell spoke in a measured tone. “Your Grace, if I may. The realm is strained already. The crown’s purse is… unsettled. To send gold across the sea, to bribe killers in far lands, will not come cheaply. Every coin spent on shadows is coin not spent on grain or garrisons. Protection rackets already nibble at the taxes meant for the crown. To bleed more for this…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It will be… taxing.”

Jon, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, “Your Grace, if you fear her, then watch her. Eyes are cheaper than knives. If she takes steps toward Westeros, then act. But striking down a girl in her bed? That is no victory. It is a stain.”

Robert’s chair scraped as he rose to his feet, red-faced and glowering at them all. “You speak of stains as if I do not already wear them. I have killed before and I will kill again if it keeps the realm safe. Enough talk. We will put it to a vote. Life or death. Speak your will.”

The chamber stiffened. Ned felt the eyes turn, the weight of it pressing down, and he knew the moment had come where words alone would not suffice. He looked at each of them in turn, daring one man to gainsay him.

Varys was the first to break the quiet. “If it is your will, Your Grace, the matter can be arranged with little difficulty. There are always blades for hire in the Free Cities, and coin can carry whispers far. A babe and her mother in some distant horse-lord’s court could be dealt with quietly. I have already considered how such an undertaking might be conducted. If you give the word, it will be done.” His eyes flicked toward Ned, as if measuring the reaction he would stir.

Ned’s jaw tightened. He kept his voice even, though the words came rough. “We are not butchers fearing shadows and children. This is dishonor, plain and simple. I will not be party to it.”

Robert’s laugh was harsh and without humor. “Aye, it is dishonorable. But so was standing against my liege lord when I raised my banners. So was driving my hammer through the chest of a prince with rubies on his armor. You think war is clean, Ned? You think victory comes to men with spotless hands?” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “This is necessary. Honor be damned.”

Jason Mallister shifted, his long fingers drumming lightly against the table before he stilled them. “If honor be damned, Your Grace, then what separates us from the brigands in the hills? The realm will not be strengthened by murdering a young girl in her bed. She has raised no sword against you, and until she does, she is not your enemy. My vote is to let her be.”

Barristan Selmy cleared his throat, his white cloak falling heavily about his shoulders. “I too say no, Your Grace. I swore my vows before gods and men, to protect the innocent, to shield the weak, to defend women and children. This course would see me break them all. Whatever else Daenerys Targaryen may be, she is still a girl. I cannot give consent to her death.”

Oberyn Martell’s lips curled in a faint smile, “No,” he said simply. No reasoning, no justification, just the single word. He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the tension across the table.

Willas Tyrell adjusted the papers in front of him, his gaze flicking down to the figures he had scratched there. “From the view of coin, Your Grace, there is no room for this.” His voice was measured, careful, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed discomfort. “The crown’s purse is already strained, the debts deepening. Hiring skilled assassins across the sea will drain more than we can afford, and the expense will bring little return. It is wasteful, and I cannot advise it.”

Jon’s eyes met Robert’s without wavering. “Your Grace, think on this. What if the attempt fails? What if the girl lives and knows it was us who sent the blade? Even if she dies, the Dothraki may still learn the truth and take revenge. They have no ships now, but men have found stranger ways to cross the sea when vengeance drives them. And if they do come, it will not be to conquer. It will be to rape, pillage, and burn. The rebellion did not truly become war until Aerys called for your head and my father’s. If you call for hers, you may find the same storm breaking over us. My vote is no.”

Robert’s face twisted as he looked about the table. His hand curled around the cup until his knuckles went white, and when he spoke again it was almost a growl. “Seven hells. Do I sit this throne, or do I not? Is this crown worth nothing if I must listen to prattling about honor and purses and risks every time I make a command?” He slammed the cup down, wine sloshing across the wood. “Gods curse you all. Can I never get what I want?”

Jon shifted in his chair, his eyes were dark, but his voice came steady. “You got what you wanted.”

The words cut through the silence like steel on stone.

Every head turned toward him. Even Varys, usually unreadable, blinked once in surprise.

Robert’s face reddening as if the wine had boiled in his blood. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

Jon did not flinch. He sat straighter, meeting the king’s glare. “You already got what you wanted, Your Grace.”

“Jon,” Ned said sharply, the warning clear in his tone. 

But Jon pressed on. “You could have ordered it earlier. Lord Varys told you of the girl’s condition this morning. You had no need to bring it here. You did not need to call a vote. If you truly wanted her gone, you would have sent the order and been done with it. Instead you brought it to the council. A council where her brother by law sits. A council with a knight who served her family longer than you have drawn breath.You and my father have already clashed over the killing of children. And you know I would not suffer the death of one. I think this is what you wanted, Your Grace. Not her death. Our refusal.”

Robert’s face burned crimson. He rose, hands clenched at his sides, his whole frame trembling with rage. For a heartbeat Ned feared he might strike the boy.

Instead Robert bellowed, his voice raw. “Fucking useless, the lot of you!”

He spun on his heel, the rush of his cloak knocking a goblet to the floor. The door slammed behind him with such force that the wood cracked down the middle, the sound echoing in the chamber long after he had gone.

Silence settled again, heavier than before.

“That will do for today,” he said, his voice even. Chairs scraped against stone as the councillors rose. Oberyn was the first to go, smiling thinly as if the chaos had been for his amusement alone. Varys glided out after him, his hands folded neatly, expression unreadable. Jason Mallister gave Ned a respectful nod and limped away. Willas leaned on his cane, murmured something to Allyria, and followed with her at his side. Even Ser Barristan left without a word, his white cloak trailing behind him.

Val lingered by the wall, arms folded. Sansa sat still at her corner gathering her notes and quills. Jon was the last to move, and he turned toward the door with an expression that was carefully blank.

“Jon,” Ned said, have waited until the others had fully left, until only Sansa and Val remained, before continuing.

Jon turned back, his jaw set. “Yes, Father.”

Ned stood slowly, joints stiff from the long sitting. “You cannot speak to the king in that manner again. You were bold enough for ten men today, and another lord would have had his head taken off for less.”

Jon’s mouth tightened, but he dipped his chin slightly. “I know. But it was the truth.”

“Truth spoken without care can wound as deeply as a lie,” Ned said, the proof standing right in front of him. His voice softened after a moment. “You must remember that.”

Jon inclined his head but did not argue. The stubbornness in his eyes told Ned he had not repented so easily.

Ned folded his hands behind his back. “Now, this Daella. Tell me what you know.”

Jon’s shoulders shifted uneasily. “Not much. Stannis and Lord Arryn went to see her when word reached them she was carrying Robert’s child. I was not included in their discussions after that. Only that they decided something had to be done, and I… volunteered.”

Ned’s brows furrowed. “Volunteered for what?”

“To keep her safe. To put her somewhere the queen’s temper could not reach her,” Jon said. His tone was steady, but there was a flicker of something heavier beneath it. “She runs my estate in the city now. That is all I know. Whatever else they sought, I was left out of it.”

Ned studied him carefully. “Are you sure they were truly investigating something? Not merely tending to Robert’s bastards as best they could?”

Jon’s lips curved in something bitter as he shook his head. “When it comes to Robert’s bastards, it is usually Varys who looks after them. He has always had an interest in keeping them quiet and well placed. This was different.”

Ned considered the weight of those words. If Jon Arryn and Stannis had moved themselves, and not left the matter to Varys, then perhaps it was more than just a king’s lapse of duty.

Jon shifted again, the bandage at his wrist catching the light. “If you wish, Father, I can summon Daella. Bring her here so you might speak with her yourself.”

Ned shook his head. “No. Not yet. Let her stay where she is. A girl heavy with a child so young does not need the Red Keep bearing down upon her. When the time is right, I will go to her.”

Ned  looked past his son to where Val leaned against the wall, her braid falling forward over her shoulder. Beyond her, Sansa still stood with her things in hand. Both watched silently, waiting for his word.

The door creaked open, and a boy’s head appeared in the gap. Tommen Baratheon, cheeks pink from the effort of running through the halls, looked inside with wide eyes.

“They are ready for you,” he said, directing the words at Jon.

Jon straightened from where he had been buckling his sword belt. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Tommen puffed up slightly at the title but quickly turned his gaze to Ned, uncertain if he had intruded.

Jon glanced back toward his father. “With your leave, I should go.”

Ned studied him.  Ned wanted to ask, wanted to know what business drew him away so soon after such a council, but he held the words. Jon had earned his privacy, at least for now.

He gave a short nod. “Go then. We will speak again later.”

Before he reached the, Sansa spoke. “May I come with you?” she asked quickly. Her voice was steady, but Ned caught the flicker of eagerness in her eyes, as though she already knew what waited beyond the chamber.

Jon hesitated only a moment. Tommen, always eager to be agreeable and make friends, chirped, “Of course, you can come.”

The boy’s face went red almost at once as he realized what he had said. His mouth opened as if to take it back, but the correction died when Jon laughed, low and genuine.

“It is quite all right,” Jon said, clapping Tommen lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “She may come.”

Sansa gathered her skirts and moved to follow, her expression a mix of pride and quiet satisfaction. Tommen beamed at her, clearly relieved that he had not caused offense, though his ears still glowed pink.

Ned watched them go, his mind already buzzing with questions and thinking of Jon Arryn and Stannis. What business could have driven them to act outside the king’s notice?

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦

Ned sat in his study, at it for hours, tracing names and half-remembered connections, and the words swam on the page. His mind had already wandered reading and rereading the same passage over and over without retaining the knowledge. He pressed the heel of his hand against his brow, forcing the ache from his temples.

A knock sounded at the door.

“My lord?” Jory’s voice came muffled through the oak.

“Enter,” Ned called, setting the quill aside.

“We just received word, Mors Umber’s ship has docked. Just now. I thought you’d want to know.”

Ned blinked, straightening in his chair. “So soon?”

“Aye,” Jory nodded. “The harbor master said they came in with the morning tide. The ship is being checked and taxed by the harbor master now.”

Ned closed the ledger before him, weighing his options. He had expected another day, perhaps two, before the man arrived. 

He pushed himself to his feet, gathering his cloak from the peg by the wall. “Then I will greet him myself. I will no allow one of my bannermen to be left to wander the streets unwelcomed.”

Jory’s mouth curved faintly. “No, my lord. He’d make himself noticed.”

Ned gave a short huff of agreement. “All the more reason. Send word to the guard at the gates. We will meet him there.”

Jory inclined his head and moved quickly to carry out the order. Ned lingered only a moment, casting one last glance at the closed ledger on his desk. Whatever questions it held would have to wait. He drew the cloak about his shoulders, fastened it at the throat, and stepped out into the hall. Mors Umber was in the city. At least that meant the council would soon be whole, for better or worse.

Ned descended the tower steps with his cloak drawn close, the morning already grown warmer than he would have liked. Jory waited at the bottom with five men in mail, all armed and alert. The hour was still early, not yet midday, and the streets of the Red Keep were quieter than they would be once the court was fully awake.

“Has word been sent ahead?” Ned asked.

“Aye, my lord,” Jory replied. “The harbor guard will be keeping an eye for him. Should not take long to find the ship.”

Ned gave a curt nod and led them out through the gates. The city was loud even at this hour, the clatter of carts and the shouts of fishmongers carrying from the lower streets. The stink of the docks reached them before they turned down toward the harbor. Salt, tar, and rot mixed in the air, strong enough to cling to the back of the throat.

As they walked, Ned’s thoughts turned back to the council chamber. Jon's intel still rang in his ears: three gangs tearing at each other since Slynt’s fall. The Wyverns, the Sharkteeth, the Rubies. Each scrabbling to claim the pieces of a broken order, and already the gutters had run red with it. Eight bodies, perhaps more.

It left him uneasy. King’s Landing had always been unruly, yet the wrong spark might see the whole city blaze. He thought of Bywater’s words, of his unease with the post of Lord Commander, and of the men he might trust to step in if need pressed. He knew one thing only for certain: Janos Slynt had been a rot at the heart of the city, and cutting him away had not healed it.

They passed a cluster of dockside children darting between barrels, their bare feet black with grime. One of them called something crude in their direction before scattering. Ned let it pass. He remembered Winterfell’s children running through the yards with sticks for swords, their laughter rising like crows. Here the children mocked instead of played. The city bred that in them.

The harbor stretched ahead, ships creaked at anchor, while men shouted over crates and barrels being loaded and unloaded along docks. In the wake of a gang war, the docks would be the first place blades were drawn. The Sharkteeth ran their smuggling through these waters, and with their rivals testing them, it would not surprise him to see trouble before long.

“Over there, my lord,” Jory said, pointing toward a ship flying tan unmarked banner. A gangplank had already been lowered, though no one had yet come down.

“Keep sharp,” Ned told the men.

They cut a line through the throng, and though smallfolk made way quickly, Ned could not shake the thought that the city’s underbelly was watching. The talk of gangs lingered in his mind. It felt as if every set of eyes along the wharf might belong to one of them.

Mors Umber was supposed to have arrived with a full escort, with the Greatjon’s youngest son to act as page for him. Instead, Ned saw only one hulking figure pacing the deck. He spotted Ned and leapt from the gangplank before it was even secured.

The moment his boots hit the dockhe was on Ned, closing the distance with startling speed for someone of his size. His hand clutched Ned’s doublet, dragging him close. His voice burst out, thick with the harsh burr of the North, the words tumbling together in a rush.

“Seven hells, Ned, ye’ve got tae listen...” His words tangled into a roar, so Ned only caught fragments, “Catelyn… Imp… the bloody Vale…” but the rest was lost in the jumble.

“Hold, Mors,” Ned said sharply. He could feel the tremor of pent-up panic beneath the skin. “Slow down. Speak plain.”

Mors growled, chest heaving, but after a long moment he forced the words out more carefully, though still thick with his northern brogue. “Yer wife’s taken Lannister. Snatched Tyrion bloody Lannister at the Crossroads Inn, bold as brass, with half the realm watching. She’s marchin’ him tae the Eyrie.”

The words sank like stones in Ned’s gut. “What?”

“Aye,” Mors spat, his face red with exertion. “Was traveling with him after he left the wall, we ran into her at the Inn of the Crossroads. She thought to take him to the Eyrie with her sister. Once the Blackfish sent an escort, I knew ye had tae get to ya quick. Took the first ship I could find, near damned wreck that it was, tae get here before the Lions heard.”

Ned’s mind reeled. Catelyn, bold and unbending, had struck like a wolf at the very heart of the Lannisters’ pride. Fury warred with panic in him. By gods, she had lit a fire in dry kindling. He thought of Robert’s temper and of the men in red who would soon hear of this insult.

“Does she think the Eyrie is far enough from Tywin’s wrath to shield her?” Ned muttered, half to himself.

Mors released his grip at last, dragging a hand through his filthy beard. “She thinks tae keep him safe till ye can make him answer. She thinks tae buy time. But every sellsword in the realm will be lookin’ tae earn a purse from Tywin’s hand now.”

Ned exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Rage burned in him, but so too did fear. Fear for Catelyn and for the war that might follow. He glanced around at the crowded docks. Too many ears, too many eyes. 

“We cannot talk here,” Ned said. His voice was low, cold as steel. “Come with me. We will go back to the Keep before the city swallows us whole.”

Mors grunted his agreement, still twitching with the need to pace, but he fell in beside Ned as Jory and the guards tightened their ring. Ned turned them back toward the Red Keep, each step heavy with the weight of what he had just heard.

“Went with him all the way south,” Mors said, rubbing at his beard. “Tyrion Lannister. Rode from the Wall, down through the Gift, past the Neck, right tae the Crossroads Inn. He gave me no trouble. Spoke fair, paid his due. I thought him no worse than any sly southron, until your lady stepped from the shadows with her father's bannermen behind her. Near half the gods-damned inn rose up at her call.”

Ned kept his gaze fixed ahead, the crowd parting before them. “He was at Winterfell when Bran fell. That much I knew.”

“Aye, but why him?” Mors’s eyes narrowed beneath his thick brows. “The ​ was certain enough tae seize him before all the realm. She thinks him guilty. On what proof?”

Ned’s jaw worked as he weighed his answer. He had not wanted to speak of it here, among the fishmongers and thieves, but the words pressed. “A blade. Valyrian steel with a dragonbone hilt, both black as night. The kind of weapon only a great house would waste on a hired killer.”

Mors let out a low growl. “And Catelyn thinks the Imp put it in that cutthroat’s hand.”

“She does,” Ned said. “We were told that it belonged to the Lannisters, that Tyrion was the most likely culprit, but it didn't belong to him, to any of them, we know that for a fact.”

Mors spat in the street. “Gods, Ned, this is folly. Tywin will not let it pass. The lions will not take the shaming of their kin with quiet tongues. Especially if they are innocent.”

Ned’s stomach tightened. He knew Mors spoke true. Already the council weighed like a millstone, already Robert’s temper threatened to crack, and now Catelyn had taken Tyrion hostage. Fury wrestled with dread inside him. 

Suddenly the crowd shifted strangely. Jory lifted a hand, and the men closed in tighter. Red cloth flickered ahead, then to the right, then behind. A near dozen men in Lannister livery pressed into the lane. Each carried crossbow or sword.

The press of smallfolk scattered at once, scurrying into alleys and doorways. The shouts of the market dulled to murmurs, then to silence.

Ned stopped where he was, his hand falling to the hilt of Ice’s smaller brother, Shiver, at his side. Jory drew steel with a rasp of metal, the other guards matching him in one smooth motion.

The Red Cloaks fanned into a half-circle, hemming them in. The captain at their head, a broad man with a trimmed beard, stepped forward. His face was hard, his voice formal, but there was no mistaking the threat in it.

“Lord Stark,” the man said. “You will come with us.”

Mors shifted beside Ned, a low sound rising from his throat, more growl than word. Ned’s hand tightened on his sword as Mors drew his axe. The street was no place for this. 

“In case you mistook it for courtesy,” the Kingslayer said, stepping through the Red Cloaks, “it was no request.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen: Take a look what you've done; 'Cause, now we got bad blood

Bran’s fingers dug into the stone as he pulled himself higher. The wall was slick with salt and mist, but his feet found the holds as if he had never fallen. Wind whipped his hair, and the sea roared below, white spray bursting against the cliffs. His heart beat faster. He was climbing again! 

Not bound to his pony by braces or carried in someone’s arms. His body was whole and strong.

He reached a ledge that jutted like a beast’s snout. The stone was dark and glassy, unlike anything at Winterfell. It felt older than Winterfell, older than the Wall, even older than Old Nan’s tales.

Bran climbed on, laughing as his legs carried him without issue. The black stone seemed alive beneath his hands, warm in some places, cold in others.

“Higher,” he told himself, his voice lost to the waves.

He edged past a gargoyle’s open jaws, almost certain its eyes followed him. Above, a balcony hid in shadow. He fixed on it and pushed upward, fingers burning, legs steady. At last he pulled himself over the railing. The sea stretched endless before him. He spread his arms wide, the wind tugging at his sleeves, and for the first time since his fall, Bran felt whole again.

A sharp voice cut through the roar of the sea.

“Get down from there!”

Bran startled and glanced down. A girl stood on the path below the wall, her skirts whipping about her ankles. She looked about his age, maybe a year older, with dark hair that the wind kept tossing across her face. She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted again.

“Do you want to break your neck? Climbing is dangerous!”

Bran laughed, his voice carried by the wind. “I am a good climber. You do not need to worry.”

The girl frowned up at him, her hands dropping to her hips. “Everyone thinks they are good until they fall. Then they are only broken.”

Bran shook his head, still smiling. He pulled himself onto a ledge just above her line of sight, the sea booming behind him. “Not me. I know what I am doing.”

“You are not invincible,” she called back, “Come down before you hurt yourself.”

Bran clung to the stone and looked down at her again. The he could see she meant it, every word. But the strength in his arms, the way his legs carried him up without falter, filled him with too much joy to let go.

“You will see,” Bran said, his voice carrying from the height. “I will not fall.”

The girl crossed her arms, scowling, but she stayed where she was, watching him climb.

Bran lingered on the ledge, the spray damp on his face, while the girl glared up at him. Her arms were still folded across her chest, and she looked as if she would stand there all day just to make sure he came down.

Finally her voice changed. Softer this time, though it still carried. “Please. Will you come down now?”

Bran blinked at her. No one ever asked him nicely like that. Mother always ordered, Robb always warned, and Old Nan always scolded. 

“All right,” he said.

His fingers and toes found their holds as easily as they ever had. The stones were wet, but he felt steady on them. He grinned at her. “See? Not a scratch.”

“You should not climb here. The sea makes the walls slick. A fall would carry you straight into the rocks.”

His smile faltered for a moment, then returned. “I have never seen a place like this before. Is it Dragonstone?”

She lifted her chin at that, pleased. “Of course. This is my home.” She smoothed her hair back from her face, though the wind pushed it forward again. “My father is the lord here, and one day I will be the lady. It will be mine.”

Bran’s mouth fell open just a little. “You will be the Lady of Dragonstone?”

“Yes.” She said trying to sound dignified but her tone’s giddiness betrayed her.

Bran looked back up at the towers of black stone rising above them, shaped like claws and wings. “That is amazing!”

The girl’s eyes brightened, and for the first time she smiled at him, small but true and sweet. 

Bran shifted from foot to foot, still grinning up at the towers. He thought maybe she was waiting for him to speak, and the excitement in his chest spilled out before he could stop it.

“I am Bran. Brandon Stark of Winterfell.”

The girl’s eyes widened. She took in a quick breath that sounded almost like a gasp. “You are Bran Stark?”

“Yes,” he said, puzzled by her surprise.

She stared at him a moment longer, then pulled at the cuff of her sleeve. The wind caught the fabric, but she tugged it higher until her pale forearm was bare. Etched there was a direwolf made of stone. 

Bran’s mouth fell open. His own hand rose without thought, going to the place on his arm where the same mark lay beneath his sleeve. He pushed the cloth back quickly and showed her. The Stone Direwolf stared out from his skin, a mirror to hers.

Shireen’s voice came low, but steady. “I am Shireen Baratheon. And it seems… we are matched.”

Bran could hardly keep the grin off his face. His arm still tingled where the direwolf mark lay, as if it had come alive the moment she showed him hers. He looked back up at the tower wall, and his legs twitched with the urge to climb.

“We should go higher,” he said, already reaching for the first hold.

Shireen blinked at him. “Higher? Bran, you only just came down.”

He laughed, setting his foot into a groove. “That was for you. Now it is for me. Come on.”

“You will get us both scolded,” she said, but she followed anyway.

Bran looked over his shoulder, auburn hair falling into his eyes. “Not if no one sees us!” He started upward, his fingers steady on the tower. “And if you have a direwolf too, you cannot be afraid of a little climbing.”

Shireen muttered something under her breath but lifted her skirts to find a foothold. She was slower and careful in a way he never was, but she followed.

Bran felt alive, every muscle pulling the way it used to before his fall. He glanced down once and called, “You are doing well. I thought you said climbing was dangerous.”

“It is,” she answered, her voice thin with effort. “I said so because it is true. But you were not going to listen anyway.”

Bran laughed again, then hauled himself to a ledge wide enough to crouch upon. When she joined him, cheeks flushed, he leaned back against the stone and looked down at the castle below. 

“Look at that,” Bran said, his chest swelling. “Dragonstone. I never thought I would stand here. Or climb here.”

Shireen followed his gaze, her face calmer now that she was still. “It is my home. I have never lived anywhere else.”

“Winterfell is big,” Bran told her, eager to share. “But not like this. All black stone, and the sea everywhere. It feels like a story.”

Shireen’s lips curved faintly. “To me it feels cold. And the sea is loud when the wind turns.” She hesitated, then added, “But I suppose it is a story, if you are looking at it for the first time.”

Bran looked at her, then back at the town, and thought he could see both at once, the strangeness and the sameness. 

Bran turned toward her, the words pushing at him until he could not keep them in. “I was hurt when you never reached out. The direwolf on your arm… it is the same as mine. It points to House Stark. To me. I thought you would write, or send someone, or something. But you never did.”

Shireen’s hands folded in her lap, the knuckles pale. She did not answer at once. “My father would not allow it,” she said softly. “He is jealous of your father. He says Lord Eddard already took one brother from him. Robert chose him for Hand and never looked back. He could not bear the thought of losing me as well. Not to… not to a Stark.”

Her voice caught a little on the last word. She looked away quickly, as though ashamed of saying it aloud.

Bran stared at her, his heart thudding. He had expected so many different things but this was not her fault at all. Relief washed through him, so strong it made him laugh under his breath.

Shireen blinked, confused. “Why are you smiling? I just told you my father would not let me see you.”

“I thought…” Bran stopped, his throat tight. He forced the words out anyway. “I thought you stayed away because of me. Because I fell. Because I cannot climb anymore.”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head at once. “No. I do not care about that.”

Bran looked at her, startled.

Shireen hesitated, then smoothed her hair back again. Her skin was pale, marred with patches that gleamed gray in the sunlight, rough and ridged like stone. She turned her face slightly so he could see it all.

“This is why I thought you would not want me,” she whispered. “Greyscale. The maesters say it will not spread, that I was lucky, but still… it frightens people. They look at me and they turn away, as if it might leap from my skin to theirs.”

Bran leaned closer, studying the patches without flinching. He reached out and touched the edge of one, feeling the change in the skin. It was cool and hard, but it was still her.

“I do not care either,” he said simply. “It is part of you. And I like you as you are.”

Shireen’s lips parted, as if she had no answer ready and she blinked hard, her eyes shining. For a moment neither of them spoke. They only sat together on the high tower of Dragonstone, watching the sun rise, each of them carrying scars the other did not mind.

Bran thought of Sansa. She would tell him not to hesitate, not to waste the moment. Sansa always believed in stories where knights and ladies showed how they felt. Bran’s stomach twisted nervously, but he leaned forward anyway and pressed his lips quickly to Shireen’s.

It was only a small kiss, barely more than a touch. Still, Shireen let out a startled squeal and pulled back, clutching her knees to her chest with both hands. Her eyes were wide, her face pink.

“You kissed me!” she blurted, as though she could not quite believe it.

Bran’s cheeks grew hot, but he managed a grin and a nod. “I did.”

For a moment she looked ready to scold him, her mouth half open. Then she bit down on her lip, trying and failing to hide the smile that spread across her face. She looked at him sideways, shy but pleased.

Bran smiled back, the nerves in his chest softening. “I will send a raven in the morning. Then you will know where to find me, no matter what your father says.”

Shireen’s eyes brightened at that, though she did not answer.

She gasped and her eyes flew open. The tower, the waves, and Bran were gone. She lay in her chamber in Dragonstone, her quilt bunched at her waist. Her heart beat fast, but not with fear. There was a warmth curling in her chest, steady and bright, flowing from the bond she carried. It was as if the mark on her arm glowed from the inside.

For the first time in many nights, she did not feel so alone.

♣ ♥ ♠ ♦

Jaime’s smile did not reach his eyes. Jory eased a step forward, and Ned felt Mors set himself at his shoulder with a sound that was almost a growl.

“You mean to take me in the street,” Ned said. “In the king’s city. With witnesses enough to fill a sept. Think on what you do.”

“I have,” Jaime answered. “You hold my brother’s fate. I will have him back.”

“The Hand is not a purse to be snatched,” Jory said. His sword angled a hair higher.

“Careful, Cassel,” Jaime murmured without looking at him. “My patience is thinner than it was yesterday.”

Ned kept his gaze on the Kingslayer. “If your quarrel is with me, you come to the Keep, ask for audience, and speak where the law sits. You do not bring your personal house soldiers into the fish market to cause blood shed.”

“The law,” Jaime said, and for a heartbeat there was something tired in the word. “Your lady seized Tyrion at an inn and raised Riverland men to do it. It’s said that she called on half the room by name and had them draw steel. Was that the law, Stark?”

Ned felt the sting of it, then set it aside. “Catelyn was acting on my orders as Hand of the King. Either way, this is folly. Fighting will get us nowhere and ou know it.”

Jaime’s hand rested on his hilt in a way that was almost absent. “I do not need a square fight. I need you.”

“You think to drag me through the mud and hold me for ransom,” Ned said. “For a son of Tywin Lannister that is a peasant’s game.”

“For a brother it is simple,” Jaime replied. “Brandon Stark rode to King’s Landing when he thought a sister stolen. He called for Rhaegar in Aerys’s yard and demanded satisfaction. That was not wise. You do not speak of him as a fool.”

Ned felt old anger rise but he kept his voice even. “Brandon went to his death because of that ride. He brought our father to the flame. The Mad King used his pride to burn our family. You hold the man you stabbed in the back as justification and justice?”

Mors shifted again and the red cloaks moved in answer, a rustle like dry grass. The crowd on the far side of the lane hung back, curious eyes peering over baskets and barrels. Ned saw the writing on the wall as clearly as a chalk line on a board. Jaime had numbers, but not enough to storm the Red Keep, but more than enough to handle Ned and his men. 

“You do this, and you make your house answer for it,” Ned said. “Your father can deny Catelyn before the court. He cannot deny you cutting down the king’s Hand in the street. This becomes a call of banners.”

Jaime’s look did not change. “You think I do not know my father. He will stomach this better than a son left to rot in an cell with no fair trial.”

“Tyrion is not rotting,” Ned said. “He is guarded and on his way to a hearing. I have sent a rider with my seal to the Vale already.”

“Your seal will not mend a broken neck if my brother trips on one of Arryn’s pretty bridges,” Jaime answered. He took two steps closer, easy as a man approaching a skittish horse. The red cloaks came with him, and Jory mirrored the move without needing a word. “I have heard enough promises for one reign.”

“Then hear sense,” Ned said. He could almost taste the salt off the harbor on his tongue, that and the iron of coming trouble. “If you draw here, you bring the Watch down on us all. You put me on my back or I put you on yours. Either end gives the realm a story that will result in war. The wiser course is this. You and I go to the Red Keep with a guard of both houses. We send at once to the Eyrie for terms. We settle it with the king, in daylight, with witnesses.”

“While your lady keeps marching him up goat paths,” Jaime said. His eyes flicked to Mors, as if weighing the Umber’s temper and counting the cost of lighting it. “No.”

“You would match Brandon’s rash ride and call it love,” Ned said. “You forget the gallows that came after.”

“I was there,” Jaime said, and for the first time there was heat in it. “I remember better than you think.”

They stood close enough now that Ned saw no wavering. The man had chosen his road.

Ned tried once more. “If you take me, Robert will not pardon it. Whatever you think of him, he will not have his Hand clapped in irons by Lannister men. You force his hand, mine and your father’s. There is still a path that keeps our swords sheathed. Take it.”

“You say a path. I say a delay. Every hour that passes is another hour my brother spends on the edge of a mountain. I will not sit a in a comfy chair and talk while he dangles over some Arryn cliff.” Jaime studied him a heartbeat longer, then shook his head. “I mean to leave here with you, Stark. I do not care whether it is on your feet or over a saddle.”

Mors took a half step that promised much. Ned lifted a hand and the Umber stopped, though not happily.

“Last chance,” Ned said. “Stand down. There is still a way to keep blood off the stones.”

“The stones are always hungry,” Jaime said. He looked past Ned to Jory. “Tell your men to lower their blades.”

Jory did not move. There was no speech left that would keep the peace. He set his feet, gave Jory the smallest nod he could, and lifted his voice so the line of red cloaks could hear him.

“Then we do what we must, and pray the realm does not burn for it.”

The first clang of steel split the morning air. Swords were already out, red cloaks pressing close, and the fishmongers and hawkers who had lingered scattered shrieking into the alleys.

A crossbow snapped from the rear rank of the Lannisters. Ned heard the sharp hiss before he saw Heward stagger back, eyes wide, a bolt jutting from his throat. He clawed at it, gurgling, then dropped to the stones. The red cloaks surged forward on the sound of his fall.

“Shields!” Jory barked, but they already on them.

Crowfood bellowed a sound that shook the dockside gulls from their posts. His axe came down on the first man to close, splitting half through helm and skull alike. Two more swarmed him, stabbing at his legs and shoulders, and he flung them off like children, swinging one by the collar straight into another. Both went sprawling, and he came on roaring, the axe sweeping arcs wide enough that no man dared take him head on alone.

Ned had no time to watch. A red cloak in front of him pressed in, his movements disciplined, his blade aimed high then low in testing feints. The man’s beard was black with silver streaks, his stance firm. Ned knew him from Cersei’s household.

“Tregar,” Ned said under his breath, steel ringing as he parried a hard cut toward his ribs.

The captain’s teeth bared in something close to a grin. “Stark.” His riposte came sharp, a thrust meant for the belly. Shiver deflected it to the ground, but the force ran up his arm.

Their men clashed around them. Jory had his sword out, locked already with the Kingslayer himself. The Kingslayer pressed fast and hard, his blade working like lightning . Jory’s face was tight with focus, his parries steady but barely keeping up. 

The red cloaks still had numbers, a wall of crimson pressing against grey and mail. Yet their own crossbows, now useless in the crush, hung limp at their sides. Ned saw one trying to crank his string, then giving up as Mors thundered past, hurling another man into a stack of barrels that burst into fish and brine.

Tregar pressed him hard, his blade nicking Ned’s sleeve, the weight of each slash heavy. He fought like a soldier who had drilled, precise and without flourish. Ned gave ground once, then steadied. Ned cursed himself again, it was Brandon who was the warrior, it was he who would be at home in the crush. 

Shiver hissed through the air as he turned a strike aside and caught the edge of Tregar’s trousers. The steel split leather and bit shallow into flesh. Tregar reeled back with a grunt, his hand flying to his leg as blood welled between his fingers.

Ned stepped forward, ready for the next stroke. The fight still raged on every side, the cries of wounded and the crash of steel echoing along the street. But Tregar was bleeding now, and that evened the field.

Ned’s sword arm ached, sweat stung his eyes, and still the press of red cloaks threatened to fold them under. His Grey Cloaks held their line, though the loss of Heward still weighed heavy, the boy’s blood still warm and soaking the cobblestone.

Ned caught sight of Jory through the melee. His captain moved with steady precision, his stance firm despite the fact that his foe was probably the best swordsman in Westeros. The Kingslayer fought as if born with a sword in his hand. The speed of it made most men falter, yet Jory did not. He met each strike stroke for stroke.

Yet he was not winning, Ned could see that clearly, but he was not breaking either. The Kingslayer’s lips curled into something almost like delight, a flash of teeth as he redoubled his efforts.

Ned’s breath caught as he glimpsed them locked blade to blade, hilt to hilt. Jory strained against the Kingslayer’s strength, then Jaime’s hand flicked to his belt. The Kingslayer’s dagger swung straight at Jory’s eye.

Ned’s mouth opened in warning, but another figure was already there.

Jon seemed to come out of nowhere as he seized Jaime’s wrist. The strength of it shocked the Kingslayer; he caught the Kingslayer mid-thrust, halting the dagger inches from Jory’s face. 

For a heartbeat Ned thought Jon meant to reason with him. He had seen them together before, trading quiet words at the edge of the training yard and his son had nothing but good things to say about Jaime. For a moment he thought Jon would try to remind Jaime of that friendship.

Instead Jon’s head snapped forward, smashing into Jaime’s nose with a sickening crack.

The Kingslayer reeled, stumbling back three steps, the dagger clattering to the ground as his and Jory’s swords unlocked. His hand flew to his face, blood streaming between his fingers. “That was a rotten trick, bastard.”

Jon’s expression expressed clear exasperation as he kicked the fallen dagger into the press of bodies, far from Jaime’s grasp. “That is enough, Ser Jaime.”

Val burst into the melee, wildling styled axes that Jon had commissioned from Tobho Mott at the ready, no doubt to get herself covered in blood… yet again. 

Three warriors followed behind her, each bearing shields painted with the sigil of the Laughing Tree. Their sudden arrival cut into the red cloaks like a hot knife through butter. Ned saw Mors Umber hesitate mid-swing, his face twisting in sudden shock at the sight of that old and secret emblem.

Then came the direwolf.

Ghost flowed into the fray, silent as ever. The sight alone broke the resolve of several red cloaks. They faltered, stepping back, unwilling to press against a beast out of legend.

Even Jaime froze a moment as his eyes fell on the direwolf’s crimson eyes. He looked back at Jon, chest heaving, and spat red into the dirt. “You are not the one giving orders here.”

Jon did not so much as blink. “Do not think this wrist is enough to stop me from knocking you out like a lullaby.”

Jaime’s attention had narrowed to Jon as the fighting had all but stopped. Blood still trickled from his nose where Jon’s head had broken it, and the Kingslayer wiped it away with the back of his hand, smiling in a way that did not reach his eyes.

“You want to know what this is?” Jaime said, circling a step as though the fight around them had become background noise. His sword hung loose in his hand, but there was tension in his shoulders. “Your lady mother… no, my mistake, your father’s wife… saw fit to seize my brother. Bold as you like. In front of half the realm. Dragged him off like a trussed boar. Did she think the lions would just watch from the den?”

His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but his stance betrayed the itch in him. He wanted Jon to rise, to step forward, to give him the excuse of blades crossed.

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he did not answer at once. Instead, he turned his head toward Ned, his eyes demanding an explanation.

Ned’s mouth was dry, but he forced the words out. “Catelyn acted on what she knew. She was still under the impression Tyrion had a hand in Bran’s fall and it was his knife the Catspaw carried. She had him taken to the Eyrie.”

At the name of Bran, Jon’s expression hardened. He turned back to Jaime, his voice clipped. “Someone tried to murder my brother.”

For the first time since the fighting began, Jaime faltered. He turned pale, though his grin did not wholly vanish. “The boy fell.” His tone carried a touch of defensiveness.

“No. After we left Winterfell. A catspaw crept into his chamber with a Valyrian steel dagger.”

Ned caught the brief flicker in Jaime’s eyes, something like recognition. The Kingslayer’s smile vanished and his voice lost its mocking tone. “With a dragon bone hilt.”

Jon gave a quizzical head tilt. “Aye. Littlefinger told Lady Catelyn he lost it in a wager to Tyrion during our Joust.”

“Tyrion never would have wagered against me. Never. Not even if he thought I was bound to lose. He loves me too much.” His voice was quieter now, but more dangerous for it.

Jon’s stare did not waver. “Aye. Littlefinger framed your brother for murder.”

The words hung between them. 

“Walk away Jaime.” Jon warned, “You owe me for Tysha.”

The Kingslayer visibly flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking…”

“I am not a fool and neither is Tyrion. The only reason he believed that crock of shit story is because you vouched for your father.” Jon said, “It wouldn’t be much of a push to get him to figure out the truth. I never said anything to protect you.”

Jaime looked both guilty and furious, yet he pulled his men back with a sharp gesture, his gold hair darkened with sweat and blood both. The red cloaks gathered, wary eyes flicking from Ghost to the men with the weirwood shields who had joined the fray. Jaime’s voice cut through the clamor like a drawn blade.

“You had better see that my brother comes to no harm, Stark,” he said, “If a hair falls from Tyrion’s head, I will see you pay for it in kind.”

He did not wait for an answer. He turned, his cloak swirling behind him, and the red cloaks followed, dragging their wounded with them. 

Jon was at Ned’s side in moments, his eyes searching his face. “Are you hurt?”

Ned shook his head. “No. I am well enough.”

Jory wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his glove, grim but standing. The other grey cloaks were gathering, checking wounds, counting heads. Heward lay still where he had fallen, the crossbow bolt buried deep in his throat, his eyes already glassy. 

A lad with one of the weirwood shields ran up to Wyll, who had grown pale but was still breathing. The boy dropped to his knees without hesitation, pressing cloth against the leg wound as if he had tended battlefields before.

Ned’s eyes narrowed as he took in the shield. White, painted with the image of a laughing tree. His voice was quiet, but there was steel in it. “Jon. Who are these men? And why do they carry that sigil?”

“They are mine. Men of my household.”

Ned’s brows drew together. “Your household?”

Jon nodded once. “King Robert told me to begin gathering men of my own. He said a lord without men is no lord at all. He said I would be getting Moat Cailin.”

That much Ned already knew. The plan had been Ned’s, to give Jon something of his own while keeping him close to the North. But the shields… those troubled him.

“The laughing tree,” Ned pressed. “Why that sigil?”

Jon’s gaze shifted, flicking toward Ghost before returning to his father. “The king had it made after I saved Mya Stone. He called it fitting, said the laughing tree had returned. At first I thought it a jest, but then when King Robert… let slip what he did after the joust...”

Ned felt an ache in his chest at memory. “And you chose to keep it?”

“It was a gift and I will not shame such a gift, especially from a king. If I must found a house, better it be tied to family than to nothing at all.”

Around them, the street was littered with the wounded and the dead. Jaime’s threat still echoed in Ned’s ears, but the laughing tree burned in his sight like a memory that refused to die.

Jory was steady on his feet, though bruised, and Wyll groaned softly as the boy with the weirwood shield tightened a bandage around his leg. 

Mors Umber stood apart from the others, his axe still resting against one shoulder, his chest heaving. He was staring, though not at the wounded or the retreating enemy. His eyes had fixed on Val. 

She stood slightly behind Jon in her plain training garb, Ghost prowling at her side. The look in his Mors’ eyes was something between disbelief and recognition, as though he had seen a ghost in the middle of King’s Landing. But Val gave no sign she noticed, merely scratching Ghost behind the ears to keep him calm, as the throng of people looked at the beast nervously. 

Jon stepped forward, wiping a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his still bound wrist, but his voice was steady when he spoke. “Father. You should know the men who fight under me now.”

He gestured first to the tall knight who stood with his helm under one arm. “This is Ser Keat of Sunflower Hall. He holds the Captain slot. We crossed blades in the crown prince’s tourney melee last year.”

Ser Keat bowed his head slightly. His mail was scuffed, but he carried himself with the discipline of a seasoned fighter. What struck Ned most was the weapon in his hand. Not a sword, but a spear of ash wood tipped with steel. It was unusual, a knight outside of the Neck or Dorne favoring a weapon the marsh folk loved best.

“You keep to the spear?” Ned asked.

Keat’s voice was calm, almost wry. He had clearly heard this line of questioning before. “It keeps a man alive longer than a sword does, if he knows the measure of it. My grandsire swore it saved him thrice in War of the Ninepenny Kings. I see no reason to trade it away.”

Jon pointed next to the boy crouched at Wyll’s side, his hands stained with blood but moving with practiced care. “That one is Aeden Graves. His father was a landed knight under House Hightower. Aeden went to the Citadel to forge his chain, but he was… asked to leave before he could finish. He carries his silver link still. He knows enough about wounds to keep men breathing.”

Aeden glanced up at Ned, cheeks flushed, but his hands never stilled on the bandage he was tying. “I learned more in the yards than the libraries, my lord. The Archmaesters said my hours were better spent elsewhere.”

Between the quickness of his fingers and the focus in his eyes, whatever his failings at the Citadel, the boy had no hesitation when it came to blood and bone.

“And the last?” Ned asked.

Jon’s gaze flicked to the lean figure leaning against the wall, arms folded. The man had not spoken once, his dark hair tied back, a thin scar running from his temple to his jaw. He had fought with a stiletto blade, like Needle.

“Corsair,” Jon said simply. 

Corsair tilted his head in acknowledgment but said nothing more. 

Ned let his gaze move over the three of them, then back to Jon. “You have chosen widely.” His voice dropped lower. “But they carry the laughing tree.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he stood firm. “They do. They swore to me, and I gave them my banner to follow. If I am to build a house, it will not be rootless.”

Ned’s response was cut off by an irate Val

“What do you want, One-Eye!”

Ned’s eyes snapped to Mors. The giant of a man still had not looked away from Val. Ned was startled by the edge in her tone. The insult should have drawn a snarl at the insolent girl, but the great bear of a man only blinked at her, his broad chest heaving as if she had struck him.

“You have been staring at me since I got here,” Val pressed, her azure eyes blazing. “I know you southerners are not used to fighting women, but I will not be looked at like some strange beast.”

Mors’s mouth opened, then shut again. Then, to Ned’s shock, the old warrior’s face crumpled. A ragged sound tore from his throat and before anyone could speak tears welled in his one good eye.

Ned’s breath caught. Mors Umber had fought like a storm, had lived through more winters than most men dared count. He was as hard and unyielding as the North itself. To see him undone, here in the filthy streets of King’s Landing, brought Ned up short.

Val faltered, her scowl slipping. She turned her head toward Jon, confusion plain on her face. “What is wrong with him?” she asked, somewhat guiltily.

Jon looked as bewildered as she did, but Mors found his voice before either of them could answer. He took a stumbling step forward, “Karsi?”