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Chapter Text

The wind off the bay carried the scent of pine and salt, mingling with the sharp bite of sawdust from the lumber yards below. Jon Snow stood on the unfinished battlements of his castle—his castle, though the thought still felt strange after all these moons—and watched his men work in the yards far below.
They moved with the practiced efficiency of soldiers who had known war, these five hundred who had followed him across the Narrow Sea. Former sellswords, most of them, who had bled beside him in the disputed lands between Myr and Lys, who had stood with him when the Dothraki came screaming out of the grass sea with their arakhs gleaming in the sun. They knew their trade as well as any men alive, and their trade now was not killing but building. Building something that would last longer than any of them.
The castle was far from finished. The outer curtain wall stood complete, gray stone quarried from the hills to the east, but the keep itself was still half-built. Wooden scaffolding clung to its sides like the ribs of some great beast, and the sound of hammers on stone echoed across the courtyard from dawn until dusk. His maester had suggested a name—Sea Dragon Hall, for the point of land that jutted into the bay—but Jon had not yet given his approval. Names had power, his father had taught him that, and Jon was not yet certain what he was building deserved a name that would echo through history.
Your father. The thought brought with it the familiar tightness in his chest, the old confusions that had never quite resolved themselves into anything approaching peace.
Eddard Stark had given him this land. Sea Dragon Point, a peninsula of pine forests and rocky hills that thrust out into the Sunset Sea, had been Stark land for centuries but never developed, never settled beyond a few fishing villages and logging camps. Remote, harsh, far from Winterfell—perfect for a bastard son who had returned from Essos with gold and men and a reputation that made the other Northern lords nervous.
Here, his father had said, standing in the great hall at Winterfell while the other lords watched with expressions ranging from approval to barely concealed distaste. Build something worthy of the name I gave you.
That had been 2 year ago. Jon had thrown himself into the work with the same single-minded determination that had made him a captain in the Second Sons by eighteen. He had used his gold to buy timber and stone, to hire craftsmen from White Harbor, to equip and train his growing force of men-at-arms. The twelve villages that had existed on Sea Dragon Point—rough places of fisherfolk and woodcutters—now prospered under his protection and paid taxes into his coffers. He had built a lumber trade with Braavos, sending ships loaded with timber from beyond the Wall, ancient wood that the Braavosi paid premium prices for. He had invested in three merchant ships and used them to establish trade routes along the narrow sea.
In 2 year, he had built more than many lords accomplished in a lifetime.
And still, it was not enough. It would never be enough, because he was still a bastard, still Snow instead of Stark, still the product of whatever sin his father had committed during Robert's Rebellion.
"My lord."
The voice behind him was familiar, roughened by years of shouting commands over the clash of steel and the screams of dying men. Jon did not turn immediately. He had learned in Essos that a commander should never appear startled, never show uncertainty, even with men he trusted.
"I have told you not to call me that, Torren."
"And I have told you that it is what you are now, whether you like it or not." Torren moved to stand beside him at the battlements, a grizzled man of forty winters with scars crossing his face like a map of old campaigns. He had been a Second Son before Jon, had taught him half of what he knew about leading men in battle. Now he served as Jon's captain, commanding the five hundred when Jon could not. "The men will not stop calling you lord, Jon. You are Lord of Sea Dragon Point, legitimized or not. You earned their loyalty with blood and gold, and they know the difference between a man who commands and a man who merely gives orders."
"I paid them," Jon said flatly. "That is all."
"You bled with them. That is more." Torren paused, then nodded toward the courtyard below where a black-winged raven had just landed in the maester's tower, its arrival marked by the fluttering of wings and the hurried steps of Maester Wendel emerging to retrieve whatever message it carried. "That will be the summons, I would wager. Your father's fourth letter about the Harrenhal tourney."
Jon's jaw tightened imperceptibly. He had been expecting this, dreading it with a dread that sat in his belly like old iron. His father had written three times already, each letter more insistent than the last. The first had been a request. The second, a suggestion made with more force. The third had been very nearly a command, though Eddard Stark was too honorable a man to command his bastard son in anything but name.
This fourth letter, Jon suspected, would not be a request at all.
"I do not belong at tourneys," Jon said quietly, his eyes on the distant line where the bay met the sky. Out there, beyond the horizon, lay Essos and the life he had built with his own two hands, without the weight of the Stark name or the stain of bastardy hanging over every accomplishment. Out there, he had been Captain Snow, and men had followed him because he won battles and kept them alive and paid them fairly. No one had cared who his mother was or whether his birth was lawful in the eyes of gods and men.
"You would win," Torren said simply.
"That is not the point."
"Then what is the point? You have made yourself into something up here, Jon. Built a trade empire, raised an army, carved out a holding that would make lesser lords weep with envy. Your ships sail to Braavos and Pentos. Your timber fetches prices in the Free Cities that men whisper about in every port from here to Qarth. You command more men than some bannermen of House Stark have in their entire domains. But still you hide up here, as if you fear what will happen if you show your face at court."
"I am not hiding."
"No? Then why do you hate the idea of going south so much? Afraid someone might actually acknowledge what you have accomplished? Afraid they might look at Ned Stark's bastard and see a man worth respecting?"
Jon's hands tightened on the cold stone of the battlements. His knuckles went white, but his face remained still, expressionless. He had learned to control his face in the fighting pits of Meereen, where showing fear or anger meant death. That control had served him well in Essos, and it served him still.
"I do not need acknowledgment," he said, his voice flat and cold. "I do not need their respect or their approval. I have done what I set out to do. That is enough."
"Is it?" Torren's voice was gentle now, the tone he had used when Jon was fifteen and had taken his first serious wound, a spear through the meat of his thigh that had nearly cost him his leg. "You left Winterfell at nine years old, Jon. You were a boy who cried himself to sleep at night because he missed his family and could not understand why his father's wife hated him so much. I know. I was on the same ship that carried you to Pentos, hired to keep watch over a lordling's bastard who looked like he might throw himself into the sea. You have never spoken of why you left, but I can guess. And I can guess too why you have spent eleven years building something to bring back home. You want to prove you were worth keeping. Worth acknowledging. Worth the Stark name, even if you can never truly claim it."
Jon said nothing. There was nothing to say that would not confirm what Torren had guessed, and Jon Snow had learned long ago that silence was often the best response to truths he did not want to face.
Below, in the courtyard, Maester Wendel emerged from his tower with a scroll in his gnarled hands. Even from this distance, Jon could see the wax seal—gray, with the direwolf of House Stark pressed into it.
"The maester comes," Torren observed. "Best get it over with."
Jon descended the narrow stone stairs that wound down from the battlements, his boots echoing on stone that still smelled new, still bore the marks of the masons' chisels. The great hall of his unfinished castle was a work in progress, open to the sky in places where the roof beams were still being set by carpenters who sang old songs as they worked. The walls were bare stone, lacking the tapestries and decorations that marked the halls of proper lords. Jon had no tapestries, no ancestral weapons mounted on walls, no history to display. He was building his history now, one stone at a time.
His bannermen—a dozen minor lords and village elders from the twelve settlements under his protection—had taken to calling this place Sea Dragon Hall, though Jon had never given his approval to the name. It was presumptuous, he thought, to name something before it was finished, before he knew whether what he was building would stand the test of time or crumble like so many other ambitious projects.
Maester Wendel waited by the cold hearth, a thin man of sixty winters with nervous hands that fluttered like birds when he was agitated. He had come from the Citadel six moons ago, assigned to Jon's growing holding whether Jon wanted him or not. The old man bowed low, lower than was strictly necessary for a maester greeting a bastard lord.
"My lord Snow, a raven from Winterfell. From Lord Stark himself."
Jon took the scroll, his fingers steady despite the unease that coiled in his gut like a snake. He broke his father's seal—his father's seal, and was not that a strange thing, that Eddard Stark still acknowledged him as son even after all these years—and unrolled the parchment.
The handwriting was his father's, neat and measured, the letters formed with the careful precision of a man who had been taught by a maester to write properly and had never lost the habit.
Jon,
This is the fourth time I have written. I will not write a fifth.
King Rhaegar Targaryen celebrates his son's marriage to Margaery Tyrell at Harrenhal in a fortnight's time. Every great house in the Seven Kingdoms will attend. Every lord of consequence will be there, and many who wish to be of consequence. The North must be represented in full, and that includes you. You are my son, bastard-born or not, and you have made a name that reflects on House Stark. Your absence would be noted and questioned, and there are those who would take your absence as a sign of disrespect to the crown, or worse, as evidence that the North harbors separatist sentiments.
I have arranged for you to ride with our party. We leave Winterfell in eight days. You will meet us on the road at the crossing of the White Knife, three days' ride from your holdfast. Bring an escort, but not an army. Fifty men, well-armed and well-disciplined, will suffice. This is a celebration, not a campaign.
I know you do not wish to attend. I know you have no love for the South or its games. But you are Lord of Sea Dragon Point now, and with that title comes duties beyond building and trading. You must be seen. You must take your place among the lords of the North, regardless of your birth. I have worked too hard to give you this opportunity to have you squander it out of stubbornness or old fears.
This is not a request, Jon. It is a command from your lord father. You will attend, or you will answer to me for your disobedience.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North
Jon read the letter twice, then a third time, his face expressionless. His father's words were measured, as always, but Jon could read between the lines. He had spent his childhood learning to interpret the subtle shifts in his father's tone, the careful words that said one thing on the surface and another beneath.
I am proud of what you have accomplished. I want you there, at my side, where you belong. Come home, Jon. Stop running.
"Bad news, my lord?" Maester Wendel asked nervously.
"I am going to a tourney," Jon said flatly, handing the letter back to the maester. "Send a raven to Winterfell. Tell Lord Stark I will meet him at the White Knife as commanded."
"Of course, my lord. And shall I prepare messages to the village elders? You will need supplies for the journey, provisions for fifty men—"
"Torren will handle it." Jon turned away, his mind already working through the logistics. Fifty men, his father had said. Fifty men would be enough to show he was a lord of consequence, but not so many as to appear threatening. A careful balance, as everything in the South seemed to be. "I want our best men, Torren. Veterans who know how to keep their mouths shut and their swords sheathed unless I give the order to draw. We are guests at a royal wedding, not raiders on a campaign."
"You expect trouble," Torren said. It was not a question.
Jon thought about the last time he had been in the South. He had been nine years old, small and afraid, with tears drying on his cheeks from saying goodbye to Robb and Arya and the little ones. Lady Catelyn Stark had watched him leave with eyes like chips of ice, her face hard and unforgiving. She had not said goodbye. She had not needed to. Her expression had said everything that needed saying: Good riddance. You are a stain on my husband's honor, and I am glad to see you gone.
Other nobles had whispered when they thought he could not hear. Ned Stark's bastard. Proof of his dishonor. The boy should have been sent to the Wall, not raised among trueborn children.
That had been eleven years ago. Now Jon was twenty, a head taller than his father, with muscle earned from years of sword work and battle. He commanded men who had followed him across the Narrow Sea. He had wealth that would make lesser lords envious and a reputation that stretched from Winterfell to Qarth. He had beaten Dothraki bloodriders in single combat, had led the Second Sons to victory against forces three times their number, had earned the respect of hard men who did not give respect lightly.
But he was still a bastard. That would never change. The lords and ladies of the South would still whisper. They would still look at him and see Ned Stark's shame, regardless of what he had accomplished.
"There is always trouble," Jon said quietly. "The South is nothing but trouble dressed in silk and wearing a smile. They will smile to my face and sharpen knives behind their backs. They will praise my accomplishments while reminding everyone that I am baseborn. They will ask about Essos and my travels, and beneath their questions will be the unspoken suggestion that I am no better than a sellsword, a man who fights for gold rather than honor."
"And are they wrong?" Torren asked bluntly. "You were a sellsword. We both were. There is no shame in it."
"There is no shame in it in Essos," Jon corrected. "In Westeros, it is different. Here, honor matters more than competence. Birth matters more than achievement. A man is judged by his name and his bloodline, not by what he has done with his own two hands. I could conquer half of Essos and return with a fleet of ships and an army at my back, and still the lords of Westeros would call me bastard and mean it as an insult."
"Then why do you care what they think?"
It was a fair question, and Jon did not have a good answer for it. Or rather, he had an answer, but it was not one he wished to examine too closely. The truth was that he did care, despite all his efforts not to. He cared because Eddard Stark was his father, and Jon wanted his father to be proud. He cared because Robb had been his brother, his best friend, and Jon wanted to be worthy of that friendship. He cared because some small, stupid part of him still remembered being nine years old and desperate to prove that he mattered, that his birth did not define his worth.
He cared because he was Ned Stark's son, even if he could never truly be Ned Stark's heir.
"Send word to the villages," Jon said, changing the subject. "I want fifty men ready to ride in three days. Full armor, weapons well-maintained, horses rested and well-fed. And send word to the shipyards as well. The new warship must be seaworthy by the time winter comes. I will not leave Sea Dragon Point defenseless while I waste time at a tourney."
"You think you will need a warship?" Torren's eyebrows rose. "Planning to sail somewhere, my lord?"
"Planning to be ready if I need to." Jon looked around the half-finished hall, at the exposed beams and bare stone walls, at the loyal men who had followed him from Essos and now worked to build something permanent. "I do not trust the South, Torren. I never have. King Rhaegar may have won his throne fairly, may have proven himself a better king than Robert Baratheon would have been, but he is still a Targaryen. Dragons are dangerous, even the ones who smile and speak of peace. I will go to Harrenhal because my father commands it, because I owe him that much and more. But I will not go unarmed, and I will not leave my holding vulnerable while I am away."
Torren studied him for a long moment, his scarred face thoughtful. Then he grinned, the expression transforming his harsh features into something almost warm. "Now that sounds like the captain I followed from Essos. The one who took an arrow to the shoulder and kept fighting, who held the line at the Bloody Gate when any other man would have retreated. I was beginning to worry that lordship had made you soft."
"I am not soft," Jon said flatly. "And I am not a fool. The last tourney at Harrenhal started a war that killed thousands and ended with Robert Baratheon dead in exile and the Targaryens returned to power. I will not assume that this tourney will be any different."
"Robert's Rebellion was eighteen years ago, Jon. Rhaegar has been king for nearly two decades now, and by all accounts, he is a good king. Fair, just, wise. The realm prospers. There is peace."
"For now." Jon turned away from the hall, heading toward the armory where his weapons were kept. His sword—castle-forged steel from White Harbor, not Valyrian steel but good enough for any fight he was likely to face—hung on the wall along with his mail and leather. "Peace is like summer, Torren. It never lasts as long as you think it will. And winter is always coming."
It was the Stark words, the phrase his father had taught him before he had even learned to write his name. Winter is Coming. A reminder that no matter how warm the day, no matter how bright the sun, the cold would return. Death would return. Hardship would return. A man who forgot that was a man who would not survive when the snows began to fall.
Jon had never forgotten. Not in Essos, where survival had meant being harder and faster and more ruthless than the men trying to kill him. Not here in the North, where he was building something that he hoped would last beyond his own life. Winter was always coming, and a wise man prepared for it.
Even if that meant attending a tourney he had no desire to attend, in a place where history said blood would eventually be spilled.
"Three days," Jon said to Torren. "We ride south in three days, and we meet my father at the White Knife. After that..."
After that, he would face the South again. Face the lords and ladies who would judge him for his birth rather than his deeds. Face the questions and the whispers and the careful insults disguised as compliments.
Face his family, including Lady Catelyn Stark, who had hated him from the moment she learned of his existence.
Jon had faced Dothraki screamers and survived. He had faced storms at sea and battles where the odds were ten to one against him.
Surely he could survive a tourney.
But as he looked out the window at the gray northern sky, Jon could not shake the feeling that this journey south would change everything. That he was riding toward something he could not predict or control, toward a future that would alter the careful life he had built.
Winter is coming, he thought, and for the first time in years, the words felt like a warning meant specifically for him.

Chapter Text

The crossing of the White Knife was a broad, shallow ford where the river split around a series of rocky islands before continuing its journey south to White Harbor and the sea. It was a natural meeting place, marked by an old inn called the Crossing and a small village that had grown up around it over the centuries. Fishermen worked the pools where the current slowed, and traders used the ford as a waystation on the journey between Winterfell and the coast.
Jon reached the crossing two hours before dawn on the appointed day, his fifty men trailing behind him in a column of twos. They rode in silence, these veterans of Essos wars, their discipline apparent in every movement. No songs, no jests, no complaints about the cold or the early hour. They simply rode, their armor covered by traveling cloaks to keep the metal from gleaming in the dark, their weapons peace-bonded but close at hand.
It was the kind of discipline that made other men nervous, Jon knew. Smallfolk looked at soldiers like these and saw danger, not protection. Lords looked at them and saw a private army, a force loyal to one man rather than to tradition or feudal obligation. Jon's men were not levies called up for a season and then sent home to their farms. They were professional soldiers, paid from his coffers, trained daily, equipped with the best weapons and armor his gold could buy.
They were, in short, exactly the kind of force that made the lords of Westeros uncomfortable.
Jon dismounted near the inn, a squat stone building with a slate roof and narrow windows that leaked light into the predawn darkness. Torren rode up beside him, his breath misting in the cold air.
"Your father is not yet here," Torren observed, stating the obvious as he often did when he was thinking through a problem.
"We are early," Jon replied. "Better to wait than to be waited for."
It was a lesson learned in Essos, where arriving late to a meeting could mean finding your allies dead and your enemies waiting. Jon preferred to scout his ground, to know the terrain before committing to a course of action. So he had ridden through the night to reach the crossing early, and now he would wait for his father in a place where he controlled the approach.
Not that he expected trouble from Eddard Stark. But old habits died hard, and the habits that had kept him alive in Essos were not easily discarded.
The innkeeper emerged as the sky began to lighten in the east, a stout woman of middle years who took one look at the armed men in her yard and hurried back inside to wake her husband. Within minutes, the inn was awake and preparing breakfast—oat porridge and bacon, fresh bread and ale, the kind of simple fare that soldiers appreciated after a cold ride.
Jon ate standing up, his back to the inn's wall, watching the northern road for signs of his father's party. His men formed a loose perimeter around the inn, not threatening but alert, their eyes scanning the road and the river crossings with the wariness of men who had learned that danger could come from anywhere.
The sun was still below the horizon when Jon spotted the first riders.
They came from the north, a large party moving at an easy pace, banners furled against the morning chill. Even at a distance, Jon could make out the direwolf of House Stark on the largest banner, gray on white, snapping in the wind. There were other banners too—the smaller standards of household knights and retainers, the personal sigils of lords who rode with Eddard Stark.
Jon's hand drifted to his sword hilt, then stopped. Old instincts again, the reflexive check that his weapon was ready to draw. He forced his hand away, made himself stand at ease, made himself look like a lord greeting his father rather than a sellsword preparing for potential combat.
The party approached the ford, and Jon could make out individual riders now. His father rode at the head of the column, mounted on a gray destrier that Jon did not recognize—one of the newer horses from the Winterfell stables, bred for stamina and temperament. Eddard Stark sat his saddle with the ease of a man who had spent his life on horseback, his face weathered by wind and sun, his dark hair showing more gray than Jon remembered from his childhood.
He has aged, Jon thought, and felt something twist in his chest at the realization. His father was not an old man by any measure, but he was no longer young either. The years showed in the lines around his eyes, the set of his shoulders, the way he moved with just a touch more care than Jon remembered.
Beside his father rode Robb, and Jon's breath caught despite himself.
His brother—half-brother, some voice whispered, but Jon pushed it away—had grown into a man. Robb was twenty-one now, one years older than Jon, and he looked every inch the heir to Winterfell. He wore fine riding leathers and a cloak of thick wool dyed in Stark colors. His auburn hair—Tully red, inherited from his mother—caught the early light, and his face bore the stamp of both Stark and Tully blood, a mingling that made him handsome in a way that Jon had never been.
Robb saw him and raised a hand in greeting, his face breaking into a smile that Jon remembered from childhood. That smile had not changed, at least. It was still open, genuine, unmarred by the calculations and careful masks that most nobles wore.
Behind Robb came Theon Greyjoy, the Ironborn ward who had been at Winterfell for as long as Jon could remember. Theon looked much the same—lean and dark, with the smirk of a man who found the world perpetually amusing. Then came Jory Cassel, captain of Lord Stark's guard, and a dozen household knights whose faces Jon half-remembered from his childhood.
And there, riding a white mare, sat Lady Catelyn Stark.
Jon's mother—no, not his mother, never his mother—sat straight-backed and proud, her auburn hair bound in a complex braid that must have taken her maid an hour to arrange. She wore traveling clothes of fine wool, dyed deep blue, with a silver clasp at her throat in the shape of a leaping trout. The Tully sigil, a reminder that she was not merely Eddard Stark's wife but the daughter of one of the great houses of the Riverlands.
Her face was composed, beautiful in a stern sort of way, and her eyes—blue as a winter sky—scanned Jon's men with open distrust before settling on Jon himself.
Those eyes held no warmth. They never had, not in any memory Jon possessed.
Jon straightened, forced his face to stillness, and waited as his father's party forded the river and approached the inn.
Eddard Stark dismounted with the ease of long practice and walked toward Jon. For a moment, they stood facing each other, father and bastard son, and Jon felt the weight of eleven years pressing down on them both. Eleven years since he had left Winterfell as a boy. two years since he had seen his father's face.
"Jon," his father said simply, and there was something in his voice—pride, perhaps, or relief, or both—that made Jon's throat tighten.
"Father," Jon replied, and then, because formality seemed required here, he dropped to one knee. "My lord."
"Stand up." His father's hand was on his shoulder, strong and warm even through Jon's cloak. "Stand up, Jon. You are a lord in your own right now. You kneel to no one but the king."
Jon rose, meeting his father's eyes. Gray eyes, the Stark eyes that Jon had inherited along with the long face and dark hair. Looking at his father was like looking into a mirror that showed the future, showed what Jon might become if he lived long enough.
"You have grown," his father said, and there was wonder in his voice. "When you left, you were small for your age. Now you are taller than me."
"Essos was a hard teacher," Jon said quietly. "Those who did not grow strong did not survive."
Something flickered in his father's eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. "I should not have let you go so young. I should have—"
"You did what you thought best," Jon interrupted, keeping his voice level, empty of accusation. He had made his peace with his father's choices, or told himself he had. "I survived. I became something. That is all that matters."
"Jon!" Robb's voice cut through the tension, and then his brother was there, pulling Jon into an embrace that was too tight and lasted too long. "Gods, Jon, look at you! You look like you could wrestle a bear!"
Jon allowed the embrace, even returned it awkwardly, unused to casual affection after so many years among men who showed their feelings with their fists or not at all. "You are looking well yourself, Robb. Lord of Winterfell suits you."
"Not yet," Robb said, stepping back but keeping his hands on Jon's shoulders as if afraid Jon might disappear if he let go. "Father is still very much the lord, thank the gods. I am just the heir who tries not to make too many mistakes while learning how to rule." His smile faded slightly, became something more serious. "We heard about what you have done at Sea Dragon Point. The trade routes, the ships, the men you command. Father speaks of little else when the subject of you comes up. He is proud, Jon, even if he does not always know how to say it."
"I did what needed to be done," Jon said, uncomfortable with the praise. "Nothing more."
"Nothing more?" Theon Greyjoy sauntered over, his smirk firmly in place. "You built an empire in 2 year, Snow. You command more men than some of the minor lords of the North, you trade with the Free Cities, and rumor says you fought the Dothraki and lived to tell about it. That is considerably more than 'nothing more.'"
Jon looked at Theon, at the Greyjoy kraken embroidered on his cloak, and felt the old wariness return. Theon had always been... difficult. Not cruel, precisely, but careless with his words, quick to mock, always trying to prove himself the equal of the trueborn Stark children. Jon had never quite trusted him, even as a child.
"Rumors exaggerate," Jon said flatly. "I did what my captains asked of me, and I was fortunate enough not to die in the process. That is the sum of my accomplishments in Essos."
"Still as modest as ever, I see," Theon said, but there was something calculating in his eyes, some assessment being made. "You should brag more, Snow. In the South, they respect a man who knows his own worth."
"In Essos, they kill men who brag," Jon replied. "I prefer to stay alive."
"Jon." His father's voice again, pulling his attention away from Theon. "You have met my children, but you have not yet greeted your sisters."
Jon's gaze shifted to the wagon that had pulled up near the inn, and his chest tightened once more. A wagon, because ladies of noble birth did not ride for days on horseback unless necessity demanded it. He could see faces peering out from beneath the canvas cover—younger faces, children who had been toddlers or not yet born when he left Winterfell.
Sansa emerged first, helped down by Jory Cassel with the care due a lord's daughter. She was thirteen now, Jon calculated, and she looked like a southern lady already. Her hair was the Tully red, brushed until it shone like copper, and she wore a dress of blue wool that matched her mother's. She was pretty in the way that young girls often were, all promise of the beauty she would become in a few more years.
She saw Jon and dipped into a curtsy that was textbook perfect, learned from her septa and practiced until it became second nature. "Lord Snow," she said politely, her voice carefully neutral. "It is good to see you again."
She did not remember him, Jon realized. Or if she did, the memories were vague, confused with stories told by others. To Sansa, he was not her bastard half-brother who had left when she was two years old. He was simply Lord Snow, the mysterious figure who had returned from Essos with gold and men and a reputation that made him dangerous and intriguing in equal measure.
"Lady Sansa," Jon replied, inclining his head. "You have grown into a lovely young woman. Your mother must be very proud."
Something flickered in Sansa's eyes—pleasure at the compliment, perhaps, or surprise that the bastard knew how to speak courteously. She murmured something polite and stepped aside to make room for the next child.
Arya came next, and she did not wait for help. She jumped from the wagon with the grace of a cat, landing lightly and immediately scanning Jon with eyes that were pure Stark—gray and sharp and missing nothing. She was ten now, and she looked nothing like Sansa. Where her sister was all feminine grace and careful beauty, Arya was a tangle of dark hair and sharp angles, dressed in riding clothes rather than a gown.
"You are Jon," she said bluntly, with none of Sansa's courtly manners. "Father talks about you. Says you are a great warrior."
Jon found himself almost smiling, a rare expression for him. This one, at least, was honest. No false courtesy, no careful masks. Just a child saying exactly what she thought.
"Your father is kind," Jon replied. "I am a competent swordsman. There is a difference."
"But you fought the Dothraki," Arya pressed, stepping closer with the fearlessness of childhood. "Is it true they can shoot arrows from horseback? That they cut off the heads of their enemies and wear them as trophies?"
"Arya!" Sansa's voice was scandalized. "That is not proper conversation!"
"I want to know," Arya said stubbornly, ignoring her sister. "Jon will tell me the truth, not the stupid songs the singers make up."
Jon glanced at his father, saw the mix of exasperation and amusement on Eddard Stark's face, and made his decision. If the girl wanted truth, he would give it to her.
"The Dothraki are the finest light cavalry in the known world," Jon said quietly, pitching his voice for Arya alone. "They can shoot from horseback while riding at full gallop, and they rarely miss. They do not take heads as trophies—that is a misconception. They cut the hair of defeated enemies and braid it into their own as a mark of victory. They are fearsome warriors, but they are also human. They bleed and die like any other men when you put steel in them."
"How many did you kill?" Arya asked, her eyes wide.
"Enough to survive," Jon replied. "That is all that mattered."
"Jon!" Another voice, high and excited, and then Bran was there, eleven years old and already showing promise of the height that ran in the Stark bloodline. He looked at Jon with something like hero worship, which made Jon deeply uncomfortable. "Did you really command five hundred men? Did you really build a castle? Can I see it someday?"
"Bran, that is enough," their father said gently. "Jon has only just arrived. Give him time to breathe before you pepper him with questions."
But Jon found he did not mind the questions from Bran and Arya, not the way he minded the careful courtesy from Sansa or the calculating looks from Theon. These children were genuine in their curiosity, unmarred by politics or careful social maneuvering.
"You may see Sea Dragon Point when you are older," Jon told Bran. "If your lord father permits it, and if you do not mind a holding that is still half-built and smells of sawdust and pine."
"I would like that," Bran said earnestly. "I would like that very much."
The last child—Rickon, who could barely be called more than a babe at four years old—peered at Jon from behind his mother's skirts with wide eyes, too young to understand who Jon was or why his presence seemed to cause such tension among the adults.
And speaking of tension...
Lady Catelyn Stark had dismounted and now stood near the wagon, watching the exchange with a face carved from ice. She had not greeted Jon. Had not acknowledged his presence beyond that initial scan of his men, that assessment that had found them wanting.
Jon met her eyes across the space between them and saw nothing but the old hatred, barely banked, waiting for an excuse to flare into open hostility.
She has not changed, Jon thought. She will never change.
He inclined his head to her, the bare minimum courtesy, and said nothing. There was nothing to say that had not been said eleven years ago in silence, when she had watched him leave Winterfell without a word of farewell.
"We should move on," Eddard Stark said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "We have a long road ahead of us, and I would reach the next wayfort before nightfall." He turned to Jon. "Will you ride with us?"
It was not truly a question, and they both knew it. But his father phrased it as a request anyway, giving Jon the illusion of choice.
"I will ride with you," Jon agreed. "My men can follow at their own pace. They do not need me to hold their hands."
His father nodded, something like relief crossing his face. "Good. I... I have missed our conversations, Jon. There is much I would discuss with you."
And much you would not, Jon thought but did not say. His father had always been a man of silences, of things left unsaid. Some questions Jon had learned not to ask. Questions about his mother, about the circumstances of his birth, about why Eddard Stark had brought a bastard home to Winterfell and raised him alongside his trueborn children despite his wife's fury.
The party reformed with practiced efficiency. Jon's men took up positions at the rear of the column, Torren organizing them with hand signals that required no spoken commands. The Stark household knights looked at them with a mix of respect and unease, recognizing professional soldiers when they saw them.
Jon found himself riding between his father and Robb as they forded the White Knife and turned south on the road that would eventually lead to the Kingsroad and, beyond that, to Harrenhal.
"Tell me about Sea Dragon Point," his father said as they rode. "Your letters have been sparse on details. You write like a maester making a report—all facts and figures, no context or color."
Jon shrugged. "There is little to tell beyond the facts. I built a castle. I organized the villages. I established trade routes. The holding prospers, the smallfolk are content, and my men are well-trained and loyal. What more context do you need?"
"He wants to know how you feel about it," Robb interjected from Jon's other side. "Father has this habit of asking about things when what he really wants to know is how you feel about those things. Drives me mad sometimes."
"I do not—" Eddard started, then stopped, something like a smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps Robb has the right of it. How do you feel about Sea Dragon Point, Jon? Are you content there? Or do you still long for Essos and the life you left behind?"
It was a more perceptive question than Jon had expected, and it cut closer to truths he did not examine often. Was he content? He had accomplished what he set out to accomplish. He had proven himself capable, had built something from nothing, had earned the respect of hard men and the grudging acknowledgment of the Northern lords.
But content? That was a different question entirely.
"I am... satisfied with what I have built," Jon said carefully, choosing his words with the precision he had learned in Essos, where the wrong word could start a fight or end an alliance. "Sea Dragon Point is mine in a way that Winterfell could never be. Every stone in those walls was placed because I commanded it. Every man in my service chose to follow me, not because of my name but because of my deeds. That means something."
"But?" his father prompted gently.
"But it is not Essos," Jon admitted. "In Essos, I was Captain Snow, and no one cared about my birth or my bloodline. They cared whether I could win battles and keep them alive and pay them fairly. Here, I am Lord Snow, and no matter what I accomplish, I will always be a bastard first and a lord second. That is... difficult to accept, some days."
His father was silent for a long moment, his face troubled. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with regret. "I failed you, Jon. I should have done more to protect you from Catelyn's anger. I should have found a way to acknowledge you without—" He stopped, seemed to wrestle with something, then continued. "There are things I cannot tell you. Things I swore to keep secret. But know that I have always been proud to call you my son, bastard or not."
"I know," Jon said, and found that he meant it. Whatever his father's secrets, whatever the circumstances of Jon's birth, Eddard Stark had never been cruel to him. Distant sometimes, burdened by honor and duty and a wife who could not forgive his supposed infidelity, but never cruel. "I know, Father. And I... I am grateful for the chance you gave me. For Sea Dragon Point. For acknowledging me when you could have simply let me fade into obscurity in Essos."
"You are my blood," his father said simply. "I would not forget you, no matter where you went or what name you claimed."
They rode in companionable silence for a time, the morning sun climbing higher, burning off the last of the mist that clung to the river valleys. Behind them, the column stretched out—household knights and men-at-arms, wagons carrying supplies and the noble ladies, Jon's own men bringing up the rear in their disciplined formation.
"So," Robb said eventually, his tone deliberately light, "are you prepared for Harrenhal? It is supposed to be the grandest tourney since... well, since the last tourney at Harrenhal, I suppose. Eighteen years ago."
"I remember the stories," Jon said dryly. "That tourney ended with a war and thousands dead. I am hoping this one goes more smoothly."
"It will," Robb assured him. "King Rhaegar is celebrating his son's marriage, not starting a rebellion. And besides, those were different times. The realm is at peace now."
"Peace is temporary," Jon said, unable to keep a note of cynicism from his voice. "It always is."
"Seven hells, Jon, you sound like you are expecting the whole kingdom to explode into violence the moment we arrive at Harrenhal." Robb shook his head, but he was grinning. "You have been a sellsword too long. Not everything is a potential battlefield."
"In my experience, everything is a potential battlefield," Jon replied. "It is simply a question of when the fighting starts, not if."
"Your experience is about to change, then," Robb said. "This is a tourney, not a war. There will be feasting and dancing, lords showing off for ladies, knights competing for glory and pretty ribbons. It is all very civilized and stupid, and you are going to hate every moment of it."
"I am looking forward to it already," Jon said flatly, and Robb burst out laughing.
His father smiled, the expression softening the hard lines of his face. "It will not be as bad as you fear, Jon. You are a lord now, and lords have certain... protections in society. No one will openly insult you, not without answering to me."
They will not need to be open about it, Jon thought but did not say. The nobility had made an art form of the subtle insult, the cutting remark disguised as courtesy, the compliment that was actually a reminder of inferiority. He had watched such games played in Essos, though the Free Cities were generally more direct in their contempt.
"I will endure," Jon said. "That is what I do."
"You could try to enjoy yourself," Robb suggested. "I know it is a foreign concept to you, but some people actually like tourneys. The competition, the spectacle, the chance to prove themselves against worthy opponents."
"I have proven myself enough," Jon said. "I do not need to do it again for the entertainment of nobles who have never bled for anything."
"Not even if someone challenges you?" Robb's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Rumor says Ser Arthur Dayne will be competing. The Sword of the Morning himself. And Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jaime Lannister... some of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms will be there. Would you not want to test yourself against them?"
Jon's hand tightened on his reins, the only outward sign of the tension that coiled in his gut at the mention of Arthur Dayne. His uncle. The man who had loved his mother and never spoken of her death.
"I have no interest in tourney games," Jon said coldly. "Men fighting for sport is not the same as men fighting for survival. I learned to fight in the latter context. The former holds no appeal."
"Even so," his father said quietly, "you may be called upon to compete. The king himself may request it, and refusing would be... difficult."
"Then I will compete if I must," Jon said. "But I will not enjoy it, and I will not pretend to. That is the best I can offer."
His father nodded, accepting this. He understood, Jon realized. Eddard Stark had never been one for the games of southern courts either. He did his duty, attended when required, but he was always happiest in the North, away from the politics and posturing.
They rode on through the morning and into the afternoon, making good time on roads that were dry and well-maintained this time of year. Jon found himself falling back into old rhythms, the easy camaraderie of men on a journey, though he remained alert, watchful, unable to fully relax even in the company of family.
Lady Catelyn rode near the wagon, as far from Jon as she could manage without being obvious about it. She spoke with Sansa, ignored Arya's attempts to ride alongside the men, and pretended Jon did not exist.
That was fine with Jon. He had learned long ago that some hatreds could not be reasoned with or overcome. Lady Catelyn would hate him until one of them was dead, and nothing he accomplished would ever change that. Better to accept it and move on than to waste energy trying to win the approval of someone who would never give it.
As the sun began to set, they reached a wayfort—one of the small keeps that dotted the roads of the North, maintained by the Starks to provide shelter for travelers. The garrison welcomed them with the efficiency of men who knew their lord by sight, and soon Jon found himself in a small but clean room, his gear piled in the corner, a basin of water provided for washing.
He stood at the window, looking out at the courtyard below where his men were setting up their camp with military precision, and tried not to think about what awaited him at Harrenhal.
A tourney. A celebration. A gathering of the realm's most powerful lords and ladies, all watching, judging, assessing.
And somewhere in that crowd would be the royal family. King Rhaegar, who had won the throne in battle. Prince Aegon, who would be marrying into the Tyrells. Princess Daenerys, the king's sister, whose beauty was supposedly legendary.
Jon had no interest in any of them. He would attend because his father commanded it, would be courteous because honor demanded it, and would leave as soon as possible because staying meant enduring the careful contempt of people who had never fought for anything in their lives.
Winter is coming, Jon thought, watching the sun set over the North. And I am riding south toward summer and games and politics I want no part of.
But he would go anyway, because he was Eddard Stark's son, and Starks did their duty even when that duty led them into places they did not wish to go.
Behind him, someone knocked on the door. Jon turned to find Robb standing in the doorway, two cups of wine in his hands.
"Thought you might want company," Robb said. "Or at least wine. The gods know we will need it before this journey is over."
Jon accepted the cup, and despite himself, he felt something in his chest loosen slightly. Whatever awaited him in the South, at least he would not face it entirely alone.
"To duty," Robb said, raising his cup.
"To duty," Jon echoed, and drank deep.
It tasted like ashes in his mouth, but then again, duty often did.

Chapter Text

Daenerys Targaryen stood on the balcony of her chambers in the Red Keep and watched the sun set over King's Landing, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold that reminded her of dragon fire. Below, the city sprawled out in all directions—a maze of streets and alleys, of great houses and hovels, of sept towers and markets, all pressed together within the ancient walls her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror had built three centuries ago.
It was beautiful, in its way. And she hated it.
"Your Grace." The voice belonged to Missandei, her handmaiden and closest confidant, one of the few people in the Red Keep Daenerys truly trusted. "You should come inside. The air grows cold, and you have nothing but that thin gown."
"I am a dragon," Daenerys said without turning, her voice carrying the imperious note that came so easily to her now, after eighteen years of being addressed as princess, as royal blood, as the sister of the king. "Dragons do not feel the cold."
"Dragons also do not catch chills and spend three days abed with fever," Missandei replied tartly, in the tone she only used when they were alone, when the masks could come off and they could speak as friends rather than princess and servant. "And your brother would have my head if I allowed you to fall ill before the journey to Harrenhal."
Daenerys turned from the balcony, a smile tugging at her lips despite her dark mood. Missandei stood in the doorway, small and lovely, her dark skin gleaming in the lamplight, her expression caught between exasperation and affection.
"My brother would never harm you," Daenerys said, moving back into her chambers and allowing Missandei to close the balcony doors. "Rhaegar is many things, but cruel is not one of them."
"No," Missandei agreed, moving to help Daenerys with her gown, unlacing the back with practiced efficiency. "He is kind and just and wise, everything a king should be. Which is why he will expect you to make an appropriate match at Harrenhal, and why you have been in such a foul mood for the past month."
Daenerys said nothing, because there was nothing to say that would not confirm what Missandei already knew. Her handmaiden understood her better than anyone, sometimes better than Daenerys understood herself.
The truth was that Daenerys was eighteen years old, the daughter of King Aerys the Mad and Queen Rhaella, sister to King Rhaegar and Prince Viserys, and she was still unmarried in a court where every other highborn girl her age had been betrothed since childhood.
It was not that Rhaegar had not tried. There had been offers—so many offers that Daenerys had lost count. Houses great and small had sent representatives to King's Landing, all seeking an alliance with the royal family through marriage to the king's unwed sister. Dornish princes and Reach lords, heirs to great houses and second sons looking to improve their station. Even a few offers from across the Narrow Sea, from magisters in the Free Cities and princes in distant Yi Ti.
Rhaegar had presented each offer to her with the same patient courtesy, explaining the political advantages, the alliances that could be forged, the benefits to the realm. And each time, after careful consideration, Daenerys had refused.
Not because the men were unsuitable, necessarily. Some had been handsome, others wealthy, a few even seemed genuinely kind in their letters and gifts. But none of them had wanted her. They wanted the princess, the alliance, the connection to the throne. They wanted the Targaryen name and the power that came with it.
None of them knew her. None of them cared to.
"I am not in a foul mood," Daenerys said, stepping out of her gown and allowing Missandei to help her into a simpler dress for the evening meal. "I am merely... contemplative."
"You are sulking," Missandei corrected gently, cinching the dress at Daenerys's waist. "You know what Harrenhal will bring. Every eligible lord in the Seven Kingdoms will be there, and all of them will see you and think 'There is my chance at a crown.' You will be the most sought-after prize at the tourney, and you hate being seen as a prize."
"I am not a prize to be won," Daenerys said sharply, and there it was—the anger that had been simmering beneath her skin for weeks, the frustrated fury of a woman who had been told all her life that she was precious, important, valuable, but never quite told that she mattered as anything more than a political tool.
Missandei's hands stilled on the dress fastenings. "I know," she said softly. "But they do not know, Your Grace. And they will not see you as anything other than what they wish to see."
Daenerys closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe slowly, to master the anger before it mastered her. She had learned control at her mother's knee, in the years before Rhaella had died of a winter fever when Daenerys was ten. A princess must be composed, her mother had taught her. She must be gracious and kind and never show weakness, for weakness invites attack.
But sometimes, Daenerys was tired of being composed. Sometimes she wanted to scream, to rage, to tell all the ambitious lords and simpering knights exactly what she thought of their offers and their carefully worded compliments and their assumption that she should be grateful for their attention.
Sometimes she wanted to be something other than Princess Daenerys Targaryen, third of her name, sister to the king, last unwed daughter of a royal house that had clawed its way back to power through blood and fire.
"I should go," Daenerys said, opening her eyes and straightening her shoulders. "Rhaegar will be expecting me at dinner, and I am late enough as it is."
"You are a princess," Missandei said, moving to adjust Daenerys's silver-gold hair, arranging it in a style that was both elegant and practical. "You cannot be late. Others are simply early."
Despite herself, Daenerys laughed. "Where did you learn that?"
"From you, Your Grace. You said it to Lord Tyrell's son when he complained about waiting for an audience last year."
Had she? Daenerys could not remember, but it sounded like something she would say. She had developed a reputation at court for being proud, even haughty—a reputation that alternately amused and frustrated her. She was not proud, not truly. She was simply tired of being diminished, of being treated as if her only value lay in her womb and her name.
But if pride was what they saw, then pride was what she would give them. Better to be thought arrogant than to be thought weak.
Missandei finished with her hair and stepped back, surveying her work with a critical eye. "You look beautiful, Your Grace. As always."
"I look like a princess," Daenerys corrected, studying her reflection in the polished silver mirror. The face that looked back at her was striking rather than merely pretty—high cheekbones and a strong jaw, eyes the color of amethysts, silver-gold hair that marked her as Valyrian, as dragon-blooded, as other. "There is a difference."
"Is there?" Missandei asked innocently.
"Yes," Daenerys said firmly. "One is what I am. The other is what I wish to be."
She left her chambers before Missandei could respond, sweeping into the corridor with the unconscious grace that came from a lifetime of being watched, judged, assessed. Two members of the Kingsguard fell into step behind her—Ser Barristan Selmy, old but still formidable, and Ser Jorah Mormont, the Northern lord who had fled across the Narrow Sea years ago and somehow ended up in her brother's service.
Neither spoke as they walked. They knew better than to interrupt her thoughts when she wore this expression, the one her ladies-in-waiting had learned to call her "dragon face"—beautiful and terrible and untouchable.
The royal dining chamber was in the heart of the Red Keep, a room that could seat fifty when the king desired a large gathering but felt intimate when the family dined alone. Tonight was one of the smaller dinners—just the immediate royal family and a few trusted counselors. Rhaegar preferred it this way, claimed that the formality of state dinners made honest conversation impossible.
Daenerys entered to find her brother already seated at the head of the table, his wife Elia beside him. Prince Aegon sat to his father's right, looking uncomfortable in his formal clothes, while Prince Viserys—Daenerys's younger brother—sprawled in his chair with the careless arrogance of a man who had never been denied anything.
"Sister," Rhaegar greeted her with a warm smile as she entered. "I was beginning to think you would miss dinner entirely."
"I was detained," Daenerys said smoothly, moving to take her customary seat across from Elia. "Correspondence from Braavos required my attention."
It was a lie, but a small one, and Rhaegar let it pass without comment. He knew she had been avoiding these dinners when she could, knew she was dreading Harrenhal and everything it represented. But he was too kind to press her about it in front of others.
Princess Elia smiled at her, a gentle expression that held genuine warmth. Of all the people in King's Landing, Elia Martell was perhaps the only one besides Missandei whom Daenerys considered a true friend. The Dornish princess had been kind to her from the beginning, had treated her as a sister rather than a rival, had shown her the difference between court politeness and genuine affection.
"How are you feeling?" Daenerys asked quietly as servants began bringing in the first course—a light soup flavored with lemons and herbs. "The journey to Harrenhal will be long and difficult. Are you certain you are well enough to travel?"
Elia's health had always been delicate, a consequence of the difficult births that had given Rhaegar his two children. The maesters had said another pregnancy would likely kill her, and so there would be no more children, no more heirs beyond Aegon and Rhaenys. It was a source of quiet sorrow in the family, though no one spoke of it openly.
"I am well enough," Elia assured her, though there were shadows under her eyes that suggested otherwise. "And I would not miss Aegon's wedding celebration for anything. Besides, Rhaegar has arranged for me to travel in a comfortable wheelhouse with every amenity. I shall be quite pampered."
"You should be pampered," Daenerys said firmly. "You are the queen."
"In name only," Elia said with a self-deprecating smile. "Your brother is the one who truly rules. I merely attend functions and try not to collapse in public."
"You do much more than that," Rhaegar interjected, his voice carrying the warmth he reserved for his family. "You are my conscience, Elia. You remind me to see the human cost of policy, to remember that every decision affects real people with real lives. I would be a poorer king without you."
Elia flushed slightly at the compliment, but Daenerys could see the pleasure in her eyes. For all the complications of their marriage—and there had been many in the early years, when Rhaegar had still been half in love with the memory of Lyanna Stark—they had found a way to care for each other, to build something real from a union that had been arranged for politics.
Perhaps that was the best one could hope for in a royal marriage. Affection, respect, partnership. Not love, necessarily, but something close enough to matter.
"And what of you, sister?" Viserys drawled from across the table, his violet eyes bright with mischief. "Are you prepared for Harrenhal? I hear half the lords of Westeros will be competing for your hand. You could make quite a game of it—string them all along, accept their gifts and compliments, then reject them one by one. It would be enormously entertaining."
"I am not in the habit of toying with people's affections," Daenerys said coldly. "Unlike some."
Viserys laughed, unbothered by the barb. He was twenty-one, handsome in the Targaryen way, and utterly lacking in anything resembling humility or restraint. He had been betrothed twice—once to a Tyrell daughter, then to a Martell niece—and both times the betrothals had been broken when his behavior proved too erratic, too volatile, for the families to tolerate.
Now he remained unwed, a source of frustration for Rhaegar, who saw his brother as a liability rather than an asset to the dynasty.
"You should toy with them," Viserys said, reaching for his wine cup. "They certainly intend to toy with you. Every offer that comes will be calculated, measured, designed to extract maximum advantage for minimum cost. You might as well have some fun with it."
"Viserys," Rhaegar's voice carried a note of warning. "That is enough."
"I am merely being honest," Viserys protested. "Dany knows how the game is played. She has refused enough offers to understand that marriage is politics, not romance. Why should she pretend otherwise?"
"Because there is a difference between acknowledging reality and reveling in cynicism," Rhaegar said quietly. "I had hoped you would learn that by now."
The tension at the table thickened, and Daenerys found herself intervening before the conversation could deteriorate further. "What news from the North?" she asked, directing the question to her brother. "I heard that Lord Stark will be attending Harrenhal. It will be the first time he has traveled this far south since the rebellion, will it not?"
Rhaegar's expression cleared slightly, grateful for the change of subject. "It will indeed. Eddard Stark has kept to Winterfell these past eighteen years, ruling the North with quiet competence and avoiding the southern courts entirely. I confess I am curious to see him again. He was... formidable during the war. A man of honor, even in defeat."
"Honor did not save him," Viserys muttered. "He backed the wrong side and lost everything."
"He backed his best friend," Elia said gently. "And he lost that friend, watched his rebellion fail, and had to bend the knee to the very dynasty he had fought against. That takes a different kind of courage than winning."
"He lost because Father was already dead and Rhaegar was the better man," Aegon spoke up for the first time, his young voice earnest. He was seventeen, on the cusp of manhood, and still idealistic enough to believe in simple truths. "Robert Baratheon would have been a terrible king. Father saved the realm by defeating him."
"Your father saved the realm by being willing to compromise," Rhaegar corrected gently. "By offering mercy to those who surrendered, by building alliances with former enemies, by proving that the Targaryen dynasty could be something other than fire and blood. Never forget that, Aegon. A king who rules only through fear will eventually be overthrown. A king who rules through justice and mercy can build something that lasts."
It was a lesson Daenerys had heard many times over the years, the core philosophy that had guided Rhaegar's reign. He had taken the throne in the midst of a civil war, with half the realm against him and the memory of his father's madness still fresh in everyone's minds. That he had managed to not only win but to build a lasting peace was a testament to his skill as a ruler.
But listening to him now, Daenerys felt the familiar frustration rising again. Rhaegar spoke of justice and mercy, of building lasting peace, but what of personal choice? What of individual freedom? What of allowing people to make their own decisions about their lives, rather than having every choice dictated by political necessity?
"And what of Lord Stark's bastard?" Daenerys asked, the question emerging before she could think better of it. "I heard he will be attending as well. Jon Snow, is that his name? The one who went to Essos and became a sellsword?"
Rhaegar's eyebrows rose slightly. "You are well-informed. Yes, Jon Snow will be attending with his father. It is... an interesting situation. By all accounts, he has made something of himself in the east. Built a holding at Sea Dragon Point, established trade routes with Braavos, commands a considerable force of men. Lord Stark speaks of him with pride, though carefully, given the complications of his birth."
"A bastard commanding an army," Viserys said with a sneer. "How very northern. Only Eddard Stark would be foolish enough to give a baseborn son that much power."
"Or wise enough," Elia countered softly. "From what I have heard, Jon Snow earned his position through merit, not birth. He fought in Essos, led men in battle, built a trade empire with his own hands. That is more than can be said for many trueborn lords who inherit everything and accomplish nothing."
"He is still a bastard," Viserys insisted. "He has no right to command, no right to hold lands or titles. He should have been sent to the Wall or given a ship to the Free Cities and told never to return. Instead, Stark treats him like a proper son and gives him power that will only cause trouble down the road."
"Enough," Rhaegar said, his voice carrying the weight of command now. "Jon Snow's status is not our concern, and speculating about Lord Stark's decisions serves no purpose. The man will attend Harrenhal as his father's representative, and he will be accorded the respect due to his position. That is all that matters."
But Daenerys found herself intrigued despite herself. A bastard who had left Westeros, made his fortune in Essos, and returned to claim a lordship through sheer force of will and competence. It was a story that felt almost like a legend, the kind of tale the singers would make songs about.
She wondered what kind of man he was. Ambitious, clearly. Probably arrogant, given what he had accomplished. Most sellswords were arrogant, in her experience—they had to be, to survive in a profession where hesitation meant death.
But there was something appealing about the idea of a man who had built his own legacy rather than inheriting one. Something refreshing about someone who had earned respect through deeds rather than birth.
Not that it mattered. Jon Snow was a bastard, and she was a princess. Their paths would likely never cross in any meaningful way, despite both being at Harrenhal.
The dinner continued with safer topics—preparations for the journey, arrangements for the tourney, speculation about who would compete and who would win. Aegon spoke excitedly about the possibility of entering the lists himself, though Rhaegar gently but firmly forbade it. "You are the crown prince," he said. "You do not need to prove yourself in a tourney. Your time will come soon enough."
Daenerys listened with half an ear, her mind wandering despite her best efforts to remain engaged. She thought about Harrenhal, about the tourney, about the endless parade of suitors who would attempt to win her favor.
She thought about freedom, about choice, about what it would be like to make decisions based on what she wanted rather than what was politically expedient.
And she thought, inexplicably, about a bastard from the North who had somehow managed to carve out his own destiny in a world that should have crushed him.
The dinner ended eventually, and Daenerys excused herself, claiming fatigue. Rhaegar caught her arm gently as she passed his chair.
"Dany," he said quietly, using the childhood name that only family employed. "I know you do not wish to go to Harrenhal. I know you dread what it represents. But I need you there. The realm needs to see the royal family united, strong, present. And... I need my sister beside me, reminding me why we do all this."
She looked at him, at the weariness in his eyes, the weight he carried on his shoulders every day. Rhaegar was a good king, perhaps even a great one. But the crown had cost him much—his youth, his dreams, his chance at the kind of simple happiness that ordinary people took for granted.
He had given everything for the realm. The least she could do was give him this.
"I will be there," she promised. "I will smile and be gracious and play my part. But after Harrenhal, after Aegon's wedding... I want your promise that I can choose for myself. That you will not force me into a marriage I do not desire, no matter how politically advantageous it might be."
Rhaegar hesitated, and she could see the conflict in his face—the king weighing political necessity against the brother who wanted his sister to be happy.
"I promise," he said finally. "After Harrenhal, the choice will be yours. I cannot promise there will not be pressure, or that the Small Council will not argue with me about it. But I will not force you. You have my word."
It was more than she had hoped for, and less than she wanted. But it was something, a small victory in a life that felt increasingly defined by others' expectations rather than her own desires.
"Thank you," she said, and meant it.
She left the dining chamber and returned to her rooms, where Missandei was waiting with hot tea and a sympathetic expression.
"How was dinner?" her handmaiden asked.
"Tolerable," Daenerys replied, accepting the tea gratefully. "Viserys was insufferable, Aegon was earnest, and Rhaegar was Rhaegar. All very predictable."
"And did the subject of Harrenhal come up?"
"When does it not?" Daenerys sipped her tea, letting the warmth spread through her. "I am to be on display, as expected. A prize for ambitious lords to compete for. I can hardly wait."
"Perhaps it will not be so bad," Missandei offered. "Perhaps you will meet someone who surprises you. Someone who sees you rather than the crown."
"Perhaps," Daenerys said, though she did not believe it. In her experience, people saw what they wanted to see, and what they wanted to see when they looked at her was power, prestige, a path to the throne.
No one ever saw just Daenerys.
She finished her tea and prepared for bed, letting Missandei help her out of her gown and into a simple sleeping shift. But even after she was abed, even after the candles were extinguished and the Red Keep settled into the quiet rhythms of night, sleep eluded her.
She lay in the darkness and thought about tourneys and politics and the endless game of thrones that everyone seemed to be playing.
And she thought, one more time, about a bastard from the North who had somehow managed to escape the game entirely, at least for a while.
What would that be like? she wondered. To be free of expectations, free of duty, free to make your own choices without the weight of a crown or a dynasty pressing down on you?
She did not have an answer. But as she finally drifted into sleep, she found herself hoping that Harrenhal would offer something beyond the tedium she expected.
Some surprise, some break in the endless monotony of courtly life.
Something, anything, to remind her that she was more than just a princess, more than just a prize to be won.
She was Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, daughter of dragons.
And dragons, she reminded herself as sleep finally claimed her, were not meant to be caged.
Even if the cage was made of gold and lined with silk.
Even if everyone told her she should be grateful for it.

Chapter Text

The gates of Harrenhal rose before them like the bones of some ancient giant, black and massive and terrible in their grandeur. Jon had seen the ruins from a distance as they approached—five towers reaching toward the sky like broken fingers, walls thick enough to hold a dozen men abreast, the whole of it built on a scale that seemed designed to dwarf humanity itself.
It was the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, built by Harren the Black three centuries ago, and it had brought nothing but death and ruin to everyone who had held it since. Harren and all his sons had burned when Aegon the Conqueror came with his dragons. House Strong had held it after, and they had died out in fire and blood during the Dance of the Dragons. House Lothston had held it next, and madness had claimed them. House Whent held it now, and they were weak, their line failing, their hold on the massive castle tenuous at best.
A cursed place, Jon thought as they rode through the gates into the outer yard. Nothing good has ever come from Harrenhal.
But the castle was also the only place in Westeros large enough to host what King Rhaegar had planned—a gathering of every great house, a tourney that would rival the legendary tournaments of old, a celebration that would demonstrate the strength and unity of the realm under Targaryen rule.
The outer yard was chaos. Pavilions and tents stretched as far as Jon could see, each flying the banners of different houses. He recognized most of them from his lessons as a child—the golden rose of Tyrell, the sun and spear of Martell, the lion of Lannister, the trout of Tully, the falcon of Arryn. And there, near the center of the camp, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, crimson on black, flying from poles taller than any others.
Servants and men-at-arms rushed about, setting up accommodations, unloading wagons, preparing for the thousands who would gather here over the next fortnight. Merchants had set up shop along the edges of the yard, selling everything from weapons and armor to fine silks and exotic spices from across the Narrow Sea. There was a festival atmosphere to the place, a sense of anticipation and excitement that Jon found deeply uncomfortable.
"Seven hells," Theon muttered from beside him. "Half the kingdom must be here already. This is going to be insufferable."
For once, Jon agreed with the Greyjoy. He could already feel the weight of eyes upon him, the curious stares of lords and ladies trying to place him, to understand who he was and why he commanded fifty disciplined men who looked more like sellswords than proper household guards.
"The Stark pavilion is near the western wall," Eddard said, drawing his horse alongside Jon's. "I sent word ahead to have accommodations prepared. You will have your own tent, Jon, suitable for your station. Your men can camp nearby."
"That is generous," Jon said carefully. He had expected to be housed with the other minor lords, perhaps even segregated from the main Stark contingent. That his father had arranged for him to be treated as part of the family delegation was... unexpected.
"You are my son," Eddard said simply, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did, at least in his mind. "You will be treated as such, regardless of your birth. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me."
Jon saw Lady Catelyn's back stiffen ahead of them, saw the rigid set of her shoulders, but she said nothing. She would not contradict her lord husband in public, no matter how much she might disagree with his decisions in private.
They made their way through the crowded yard, and Jon kept his expression neutral even as he cataloged everything around him. Old habits from Essos—always know your surroundings, always identify the threats, always have an escape route planned. The habits of a sellsword did not die easily, even when dressed in lordly clothes and attending a royal celebration.
The Stark pavilion was indeed impressive—a large white tent with the direwolf banner flying above it, surrounded by smaller tents for the household knights and servants. Someone had already set up Jon's tent near the edge of the compound, close enough to be part of the family delegation but far enough away to maintain a certain distance.
The bastard's place, Jon thought with dark amusement. Close enough to be claimed, far enough away not to cause offense.
He dismounted and handed his reins to one of his men—a lean, scarred veteran named Harwin who had been with him since his first days with the Second Sons. "Get the men settled," Jon said quietly. "Find good ground for the camp, somewhere defensible with clear sight lines. I do not care if it is comfortable. I care that it is secure."
"Expecting trouble, Captain?" Harwin asked, using the old title out of habit.
"Always," Jon replied. "We are surrounded by lords who smile while they sharpen knives, knights who fight for glory rather than survival, and enough political intrigue to make a Braavosi magister blush. Yes, I expect trouble. The only question is when it comes, not if."
Harwin grinned, the expression transforming his harsh features. "Good to know you have not gone soft with all this lordship business. I will see to the men."
Jon watched him go, then turned to find Robb approaching with that easy smile that had always come so naturally to him.
"Well," Robb said, looking around at the massive gathering. "We are here. Was the journey as terrible as you feared?"
"The journey was tolerable," Jon admitted. "This..." he gestured at the chaos around them, "...this is exactly as terrible as I feared."
Robb laughed. "Come on, it is not that bad. Look at it this way—you will have the chance to meet lords and ladies from every corner of the realm, to make alliances, to expand your trading network. This is an opportunity, Jon, not a punishment."
"It is an opportunity for people to stare at Ned Stark's bastard and wonder why he is here," Jon corrected. "I can already feel them watching, Robb. Trying to figure out if I am a threat or an embarrassment or just an amusing curiosity."
"Then let them watch," Robb said, his smile fading into something more serious. "Let them see what you have made of yourself. You command your own holding, you have built a trade empire, you have five hundred loyal men who would die for you. That is more than most trueborn lords can claim. Hold your head up and dare them to say anything about your birth."
It was well-meant advice, and Jon appreciated it. But Robb had never lived with the constant awareness that every accomplishment would be viewed through the lens of bastardy, that every success would be attributed to Eddard Stark's generosity rather than Jon's own efforts, that every failure would be proof that baseborn blood told in the end.
Still, there was no point in arguing about it. Robb meant well, even if he could not truly understand.
"I should see to my tent," Jon said. "Make sure everything is in order before the evening feast."
"There is a feast tonight?" Robb groaned. "Gods, how many feasts can one celebration require?"
"All of them, apparently," Jon said dryly. "Welcome to the South, where every meal is an excuse for politics and every conversation is a negotiation."
He left Robb and made his way to his tent, where he found that someone had already unpacked his belongings and laid out clothing appropriate for the evening's festivities. Jon looked at the fine doublet of gray wool with silver fastenings and felt his lip curl in distaste. He had never liked fine clothes, never felt comfortable in silk and velvet when leather and mail suited him better.
But this was not Essos, and he was not Captain Snow anymore. He was Lord Snow, bastard or not, and he would dress the part because his father expected it and because failing to do so would reflect poorly on House Stark.
He changed into the formal clothes, feeling constrained and foolish, then sat on the edge of his cot and tried to prepare himself mentally for the ordeal ahead. A feast meant hundreds of people, all watching, judging, assessing. It meant making conversation with strangers who would pretend to be friendly while calculating how to use him for their own advantage. It meant smiling when he wanted to scowl, being courteous when he wanted to walk away, playing the game when all he wanted was to be left alone.
"My lord?" A tentative voice at the tent entrance. Jon looked up to find a young squire, perhaps fourteen, wearing the colors of House Stark. "Lord Eddard requests your presence. The king's herald has arrived to formally welcome the Northern delegation."
Of course he had. Jon rose, checked that his appearance was acceptable—he had learned in Essos that looking the part was half of any negotiation—and followed the squire to the main pavilion.
His father stood outside with Robb, both dressed in formal attire, surrounded by their household knights. Lady Catelyn was there too, beautiful and cold in a gown of Tully blue, standing as far from where Jon would be expected to stand as she could manage without being obvious about it.
The herald was a tall man in Targaryen colors, his voice trained to carry across crowded halls and tournament grounds. He barely glanced at his scroll before speaking—he had clearly memorized the words, delivered them dozens of times already to other delegations.
"His Grace, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, welcomes Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, to Harrenhal. His Grace invites Lord Stark and his family to attend a feast this evening in the Great Hall, where he will formally receive the assembled lords of the realm."
"Please convey to His Grace that we are honored by his invitation and will attend," Eddard replied with careful formality.
The herald's eyes flicked to Jon, clearly noting his presence, the similarity to Eddard's features, the implications. But he was too well-trained to comment. He simply bowed and moved on to the next pavilion, where he would deliver the same invitation to the next great house.
"Well," Eddard said once the herald was out of earshot. "We have a few hours before the feast. I suggest we all rest and prepare. It will be a long evening."
"Father," Jon said quietly, catching Eddard's attention. "Must I attend? I am not family, not officially. My presence might cause... complications."
"You are family," Eddard said firmly. "And you will attend. You are Lord of Sea Dragon Point now, Jon. That title carries responsibilities, including representing your holding at formal occasions. Besides..." he paused, something like determination crossing his features, "...it is past time you stopped hiding in the shadows. You have accomplished much. Let the realm see it."
Jon wanted to argue, wanted to point out that being displayed like some curiosity would serve no purpose except to provide gossip for bored nobles. But his father's expression brooked no argument, and Jon had learned long ago that Eddard Stark was immovable once he had made a decision.
"As you command, my lord," Jon said, and retreated to his tent before anyone could see the frustration in his eyes.

The Great Hall of Harrenhal was as massive as everything else about the castle—large enough to hold a thousand people with room to spare, its ceiling lost in shadows high above, its walls bare stone that had been hung with banners and tapestries for the occasion. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, arranged to accommodate the various houses according to their rank and status. At the far end, on a raised dais, sat the high table where the royal family would dine.
Jon entered with his father and siblings, acutely aware of the eyes that followed them. The Starks were not the first to arrive—that honor had gone to the Tyrells, who were seated prominently as befitted the family that would soon be joined to the royal house through Prince Aegon's marriage. But they were far from the last, and their arrival caused the ripple of conversation that Jon had expected.
There is Eddard Stark. The man who bent the knee to Rhaegar after Robert's defeat. And that must be his heir, Robb. And the daughters—pretty girls, both of them. And that one, the dark one who looks so much like Lord Stark... that must be the bastard. The one who went to Essos and came back with an army. Jon Snow. I wonder what he is doing here? I wonder if he has ambitions? I wonder...
Jon kept his face still, his expression neutral, as they made their way to the table assigned to House Stark. It was well-placed—not at the high table, but close enough to demonstrate respect for the Warden of the North. Jon found himself seated between Robb and Theon, with his father on Robb's other side and Lady Catelyn safely at the far end of their party.
"Try to look like you are enjoying yourself," Theon murmured as they settled into their seats. "You look like you are about to face an executioner rather than attend a feast."
"There is a difference?" Jon asked dryly, and Theon snorted with laughter.
The hall continued to fill as other houses arrived. Jon recognized some of them from his studies as a child—Lord Tywin Lannister, golden-haired and cold-eyed, with his twin children Jaime and Cersei flanking him like beautiful, dangerous ornaments. Lord Mace Tyrell, plump and jovial, with his mother Olenna—the Queen of Thorns, they called her, and even across the hall Jon could see the sharp intelligence in her eyes. The Martells from Dorne, led by Prince Doran, with his brother Oberyn the Red Viper beside him, dark and dangerous and watching the room with the alertness of a predator.
And then, with a flourish of trumpets that made Jon want to roll his eyes at the theatricality of it all, the royal family entered.
King Rhaegar came first, and Jon had to admit the man looked every inch a king. Tall and slender, with the silver-gold hair and purple eyes of old Valyria, dressed in black and crimson with a crown of Valyrian steel upon his brow. He moved with quiet dignity, acknowledging the bows and curtsies of the assembled lords with gracious nods.
Beside him came Queen Elia, small and dark and lovely despite the illness that had marked her face with its touch. She leaned slightly on her husband's arm, and there was genuine care in the way Rhaegar adjusted his pace to match hers.
Behind them came Prince Aegon, young and handsome and trying very hard to look princely rather than nervous. His betrothed, Margaery Tyrell, walked beside him—a beautiful girl with clever eyes and a smile that was calculated to charm.
Prince Viserys came next, and Jon felt an instant dislike for the king's brother. There was something in the way he carried himself, some combination of arrogance and instability, that reminded Jon of men he had known in Essos—men who were dangerous not because they were strong but because they were unpredictable.
And then she entered, and Jon forgot about Viserys entirely.
Princess Daenerys Targaryen was not what Jon had expected. The songs called her beautiful, spoke of her silver-gold hair and purple eyes, her grace and dignity. And she was beautiful, in the way that a flame was beautiful—mesmerizing and dangerous and impossible to look away from.
But what caught Jon's attention was not her beauty. It was the expression on her face.
She looked... bored. No, not bored. Resigned. She wore a gown of deep crimson that must have cost more than Jon's entire wardrobe, her hair was arranged in an elaborate style that had probably taken hours, and she smiled and nodded at the assembled lords with practiced grace.
But her eyes were empty of genuine emotion. She was performing, playing a role, going through motions she had clearly gone through a thousand times before.
Jon recognized that expression because he had worn it himself countless times. It was the face of someone who was exactly where they were supposed to be, doing exactly what they were supposed to do, and hating every moment of it.
The royal family took their seats at the high table, and King Rhaegar rose to address the assembly. His voice was clear and carrying, trained for public speaking.
"My lords and ladies," he began, "I welcome you to Harrenhal, to this celebration of unity and peace. We gather here to witness the joining of House Targaryen and House Tyrell through the marriage of my son Aegon to Lady Margaery. But we gather also to celebrate the realm itself—eighteen years of peace since the end of Robert's Rebellion. Eighteen years in which we have rebuilt what was broken, healed what was wounded, and proven that the Seven Kingdoms can thrive under just rule."
It was a good speech, calculated to remind everyone of Rhaegar's accomplishments while also looking forward to the future. Jon listened with half an ear, more interested in observing the reactions of the assembled lords.
Most were attentive, respectful, nodding at the appropriate moments. But here and there, Jon caught glimpses of other expressions. Lord Tywin's face was unreadable, but there was something calculating in his eyes. The Red Viper smiled, but it was the smile of a man watching a performance he found amusing rather than compelling. And Lady Olenna Tyrell looked frankly skeptical, as if she had heard it all before and was not particularly impressed.
Jon's eyes drifted back to the high table, to Princess Daenerys. She was not watching her brother speak. She was scanning the hall, her gaze moving from table to table, and Jon realized she was doing the same thing he was—assessing, cataloging, looking for threats or opportunities or simply trying to find something interesting in the sea of noble faces.
Their eyes met across the hall, and for a moment, Jon felt as if he had been struck. She did not look away immediately, did not give him the dismissive glance he had expected. Instead, she studied him with open curiosity, her expression shifting from boredom to something approaching interest.
Then someone at her table said something to her, drawing her attention away, and the moment was broken.
Jon looked down at his plate, suddenly uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with the crowds or the politics or the weight of his father's expectations.
She is a princess, he reminded himself firmly. The king's sister. As far above you as the sun is above the earth. Whatever you think you saw in that moment, it means nothing.
But even as he thought it, even as he tried to focus on the meal being served and the conversations happening around him, Jon could not shake the feeling that something had shifted.
That he had been seen, truly seen, for the first time since entering this hall of masks and performances.
And Princess Daenerys Targaryen, for all her royal blood and courtly grace, had looked just as trapped as he felt.

The feast continued for hours. Courses came and went—roasted meats and fresh fish, fruits from the Reach and exotic dishes from Dorne, wines from every corner of the realm and even some from across the Narrow Sea. Musicians played, though their music was largely drowned out by the conversations of a thousand nobles all trying to be heard.
Jon ate mechanically, spoke when spoken to, and tried to ignore the constant awareness that he was being watched, discussed, evaluated. He could feel the whispers following him like a shadow.
That is Jon Snow. Eddard Stark's bastard. The one who went to Essos. I heard he fought the Dothraki. I heard he commands five hundred men. I heard he is wealthy as a magister. I heard he is dangerous. I heard...
"You should try to look less miserable," Robb said quietly. "People are starting to think you hate being here."
"I do hate being here," Jon replied.
"Yes, but you are not supposed to show it." Robb sighed. "Jon, I know this is not your preference. But you are here now, and you might as well make the best of it. Talk to people. Make connections. You have trade routes to expand, alliances to build. Use this opportunity."
"I did not come here to expand my trade routes," Jon said. "I came because Father commanded it."
"And now that you are here, you might as well—"
"Lord Snow."
The voice came from behind Jon, cultured and smooth. Jon turned to find a man of perhaps thirty standing there, dressed in the rich blues and silvers of House Arryn. He had the look of a Vale lord—fair-haired, handsome, with the kind of polish that came from a lifetime at court.
"I am Ser Harrold Hardyng," the man said with a bow that was just barely respectful enough to avoid being insulting. "Knight of the Vale. I wanted to introduce myself, as we have something in common."
Jon doubted that very much, but courtesy demanded a response. "Indeed? And what might that be, Ser Harrold?"
"We both know what it is to be... set apart by our birth." Harrold's smile did not reach his eyes. "I am a cousin to Lord Arryn, but with no inheritance, no real future beyond what I can carve out for myself. I understand your position, Lord Snow. The constant need to prove yourself, to demonstrate that you are worth acknowledging despite the circumstances of your birth."
It was clearly meant to be sympathetic, to establish some kind of common ground. But Jon heard the condescension beneath it, the assumption that they were the same, that a knight with no inheritance was somehow equivalent to a bastard.
"I am grateful for your understanding, Ser Harrold," Jon said flatly. "But I am not in need of sympathy. I have proven myself sufficiently for my own satisfaction. Whether others choose to acknowledge it is their concern, not mine."
Harrold's smile tightened slightly. "Of course. I meant no offense. I simply thought... well, there will be a tourney in a few days. Perhaps you will compete? It would be a chance to demonstrate your skills before the assembled lords. I am sure many are curious about the sellsword who returned from Essos with such impressive credentials."
"I do not compete in tourneys," Jon said. "I have no interest in performing for the entertainment of others."
"Ah." Harrold's expression turned calculating. "Of course. Tourneys are for knights, after all. And you are... well, you have a different background. Sellswords fight for survival, not honor. I understand the distinction."
Jon felt his jaw tighten, but before he could respond, a new voice cut through the tension.
"Ser Harrold." The voice was cold, commanding, and unmistakably highborn. "I believe you are blocking the way. Move aside."
Harrold turned, and his expression shifted immediately to one of surprise and deference. Jon followed his gaze and found himself looking at Princess Daenerys Targaryen.
Up close, she was even more striking than she had been from across the hall. Her eyes were the color of amethysts, her features delicate but strong, her bearing regal despite her youth. She wore her royalty like armor, every movement calculated, every expression controlled.
But Jon remembered that glimpse he had caught earlier—the boredom, the resignation. The mask was perfect, but he had seen what lay beneath it.
"Your Grace," Harrold said, bowing deeply. "I apologize. I did not realize—"
"Yes, well, now you do." She looked past him to Jon, and her expression was unreadable. "Lord Snow. I have been curious to meet you. My brother speaks highly of your accomplishments."
Jon rose and bowed, the formal courtesy his father had drilled into him as a child. "Your Grace honors me. Though I suspect your brother's praise is more generous than accurate."
"Is it?" Her head tilted slightly, studying him with open curiosity. "You built a holding from nothing, established trade routes with Braavos, and command five hundred loyal men. Those are facts, not praise. Unless you are claiming the reports of your accomplishments are exaggerated?"
"I am claiming that what I did was necessary, not exceptional," Jon replied. "Any competent man with sufficient resources could have done the same."
"Could they?" Something flickered in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or challenge. "In my experience, competence is considerably rarer than resources. But perhaps you are simply being modest."
"I am being honest, Your Grace. There is a difference."
The corner of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something close. "Yes, I suppose there is. Tell me, Lord Snow, do you find honesty is valued at courts? Or is it merely tolerated when it cannot be avoided?"
It was a dangerous question, loaded with implications. Jon could feel Robb tensing beside him, could sense his father's attention from further down the table. But something about the way she asked it—the genuine curiosity beneath the courtly manner—made him answer honestly.
"In my experience, Your Grace, courts value honesty about as much as they value humility or restraint. Which is to say, they value it in theory and despise it in practice."
This time she did smile, and it transformed her face from merely beautiful to something else entirely—genuine, warm, alive in a way the courtly mask was not.
"Then we are in agreement," she said. "How refreshing. Most people tell me what they think I wish to hear. You simply tell me what you think."
"I spent too many years in Essos learning that pretty lies get you killed," Jon said. "The habit of honesty is difficult to break."
"Is it a habit?" she asked. "Or a choice?"
Jon considered that. "Both, perhaps. A habit born of necessity that became a choice when I realized I preferred it to the alternative."
"Interesting." She studied him for a moment longer, her expression thoughtful. Then, without warning, she said, "I am told you fought the Dothraki. Is that true?"
"It is true, Your Grace. Though the songs probably exaggerate the details."
"The songs always do," she agreed. "But I am curious about the truth, not the songs. What are they like, the Dothraki? Are they truly as fearsome as the stories claim?"
Jon glanced at his father, who was watching the exchange with a mix of pride and concern. This was not a typical conversation between a princess and a bastard lord. It was too direct, too curious, lacking the careful distance that rank demanded.
But Princess Daenerys did not seem to care about typical, and Jon found himself answering her honestly.
"They are the finest light cavalry in the world," he said. "Fast, mobile, deadly with a bow from horseback. But they are also predictable in their tactics. They rely on mobility and harassment, on breaking enemy formations through repeated charges. If you can hold your line, if you can force them into close combat where their horses become a liability rather than an advantage, they can be beaten."
"You speak from experience."
"I speak from survival, Your Grace. There is a difference."
She smiled again, that genuine expression that made her seem younger, less weighed down by royalty. "You have a habit of making that distinction. Experience versus survival. Praise versus facts. Theory versus practice. Do you always see the world in such... clear terms?"
"I see the world as it is, Your Grace. Not as people wish it to be. That clarity has kept me alive when softer thinking would have gotten me killed."
"How very pragmatic," she said, and there was something in her tone—not criticism, exactly, but assessment. "And do you apply that same pragmatism to everything? Or are there things you believe in beyond mere survival?"
It was another dangerous question, but Jon answered it anyway. "I believe in competence. In honesty. In keeping your word and protecting those who depend on you. Beyond that..." he shrugged slightly, "...most of what people claim to believe in is performance. Honor, glory, noble purpose—they are words that sound impressive but rarely survive contact with reality."
"And yet you returned to Westeros," she pointed out. "To a place where those words you dismiss are supposedly valued above all else. Why, if you find them so meaningless?"
Jon met her eyes, those purple eyes that saw too much, and gave her the truth. "Because my father asked me to. Because I owe him a debt that can never be fully repaid. Because blood matters, even when everything else is performance."
For a long moment, she was silent, studying him with an intensity that made Jon uncomfortable. Then she said, quietly, "You are not what I expected, Lord Snow."
"Neither are you, Your Grace."
Her eyebrows rose. "Oh? And what did you expect?"
Jon knew he should deflect, should give some courtly non-answer that would maintain proper distance. But he had never been good at courtly manners, and he was tired of pretending.
"I expected someone who believed in their own importance," he said bluntly. "Someone who wore their royalty like a weapon and looked at lesser men as if we existed only to serve them. Instead, I see someone who is as tired of the performance as I am."
Her expression froze, and Jon realized he had gone too far. This was a princess of the realm, sister to the king, and he had just suggested she was dissatisfied with her position. It was presumptuous at best, potentially treasonous at worst.
But before he could apologize, before he could try to salvage the situation, she laughed.
It was not a courtly laugh, not the delicate amusement of a lady responding to a jest. It was genuine, surprised, almost delighted.
"You are either the most perceptive man I have met in years," she said, "or the most foolish. I have not decided which."
"Probably both, Your Grace," Jon admitted. "I have a habit of speaking before I think about the consequences."
"A dangerous habit."
"So I have been told."
She smiled again, but this time there was something calculating in it, some assessment being made. "Tell me, Lord Snow, will you compete in the tourney?"
"No, Your Grace. I have no interest in performing for crowds."
"Not even if challenged?"
Jon felt a prickle of warning, the same instinct that had kept him alive in Essos when situations were about to turn dangerous. "I do not respond to challenges designed to humiliate or entertain, Your Grace. I fight when necessary, not when convenient for others."
"How very principled," she said, and her tone made it impossible to tell if she was mocking or approving. "But what if I challenged you?"
The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications Jon did not fully understand. Around them, conversations had died down as other nobles noticed the princess speaking with Ned Stark's bastard. Jon could feel the weight of attention, the speculation, the judgment.
"Why would you do that, Your Grace?" Jon asked carefully.
"Because I am curious," she said simply. "Because the songs say you are a great warrior, but songs are always exaggerated. Because everyone here will compete—all the famous knights and legendary fighters—and I want to know if you are truly as skilled as they claim, or if it is all just reputation built on distant battles that no one here witnessed."
It was a challenge, clearly. But Jon could not tell if she was genuinely curious or if this was some kind of test, some political maneuver he did not understand.
"Your Grace," he said slowly, "I have no need to prove myself to anyone. I know my capabilities. Whether others believe in them is irrelevant to me."
"How convenient," she said, and now there was a definite edge to her voice. "To claim competence while refusing any opportunity to demonstrate it. One might almost think you are afraid."
Jon felt anger flare, hot and sharp. He recognized the tactic—it was the same one sellsword captains used to provoke opponents into rash action. Challenge their courage, question their competence, and most men would rise to the bait.
But Jon had learned long ago not to let anger control his decisions.
"Think what you like, Your Grace," he said coldly. "I do not perform for anyone's amusement, royal or otherwise. If that disappoints you, I apologize. But I will not compete in your tourney simply because you question my courage."
Her eyes flashed, and Jon realized he had genuinely offended her. But before either of them could say anything else, a new voice interrupted.
"Dany." It was Prince Viserys, appearing at his sister's shoulder with a cup of wine in hand and a smirk on his face. "You are neglecting the other guests. Surely Ned Stark's bastard can entertain himself without monopolizing your attention."
The casual cruelty of the words—Ned Stark's bastard—was clearly intentional. Jon felt his jaw tighten, but he kept his expression neutral.
Princess Daenerys's expression shifted, the warmth draining away, replaced by cool courtesy. "Of course, brother. I was merely welcoming Lord Snow to Harrenhal. It would be rude not to acknowledge all of our guests."
"How very gracious of you," Viserys said, his tone making it clear he found her graciousness amusing rather than admirable. "Come. Lord Tyrell wishes to introduce you to his nephew. Another suitor for your consideration."
Something flickered in her eyes—frustration, perhaps, or resignation. But she schooled her features and nodded.
"Lord Snow," she said, her voice formal now, distant. "It was... enlightening to speak with you. I hope you enjoy the remainder of the festivities."
She turned and walked away with her brother, and Jon watched her go, feeling oddly unsettled by the entire encounter.
"Well," Robb said quietly from beside him. "That was interesting."
"That was a disaster," Jon corrected. "I insulted a princess and refused a direct challenge. Father will be furious."
But when Jon looked at his father, Eddard's expression was not angry. It was thoughtful, concerned, perhaps, but not angry.
"What did she say to you?" his father asked quietly.
"She asked if I would compete in the tourney," Jon said. "I refused. She suggested I was afraid. I told her to think what she liked."
Robb winced. "Jon, you cannot speak to a princess like that."
"I spoke to her honestly," Jon replied. "She seemed to appreciate it until her brother arrived."
His father was silent for a moment, then said, "Princess Daenerys is not what you think, Jon. She is intelligent, perceptive, and far more politically aware than her age would suggest. If she challenged you, it was for a reason."
"What reason?"
"That," his father said slowly, "is what concerns me. But regardless of her reasons, you should be more careful. The princess is not someone to antagonize thoughtlessly."
Jon wanted to point out that he had not antagonized her thoughtlessly—he had simply refused to play whatever game she was playing. But his father was right. He
should have been more diplomatic, more careful with his words.
The problem was that Jon had never learned to be careful with his words when he believed he was in the right. It was a flaw he knew he possessed, one that had caused him trouble in Essos more than once. But knowing a flaw and correcting it were two different things.
"I will be more careful," Jon said finally, though he suspected it was a promise he would not keep.
The feast continued for another hour, but Jon found he had lost what little appetite he had possessed. His mind kept returning to the conversation with Princess Daenerys, replaying it, trying to understand what had just happened.
She had sought him out specifically. Had asked about his time in Essos, about the Dothraki, about his beliefs. Had seemed genuinely interested in his answers, had even laughed at his bluntness. And then she had challenged him, and when he refused, she had looked...
What? Disappointed? Angry? Offended?
Jon could not decide. Reading people had been part of his training as a sellsword—understanding what an opponent wanted, what they feared, what they would do in a given situation could mean the difference between victory and death. But Princess Daenerys Targaryen was unlike anyone he had dealt with before. She wore her masks too well, shifted between them too quickly for him to get a clear read.
She is a princess, Jon reminded himself again. Born and raised in a palace, trained from childhood in the games of court. You are out of your depth.
"I am going back to my tent," Jon said to Robb. "Tell Father I am not feeling well. It is not even a lie—this place makes me sick."
"Jon—" Robb started, but Jon was already rising, already moving toward the exit with the purposeful stride of a man who had made a decision and would not be deterred.
He made it halfway across the hall before a voice stopped him.
"Leaving so soon, Lord Snow?"
Jon turned to find Ser Arthur Dayne standing in his path. The Sword of the Morning looked much as Jon had imagined—tall and handsome, with the dark hair and purple eyes of Dornish nobility mixed with Dayne blood. He wore white armor enameled with falling stars, and the legendary sword Dawn hung at his hip, its pale blade said to be forged from the heart of a fallen star.
Jon's uncle. The man who had loved his mother. The man who had never once sought him out in all the years since Ashara Dayne's death.
"Ser Arthur," Jon said, his voice carefully neutral. "I was not aware you knew who I was."
"Everyone knows who you are, Jon Snow." Arthur's voice was warm, friendly even, which somehow made Jon more wary. "Ned Stark's bastard, the sellsword who made his fortune in Essos. The man who commands Sea Dragon Point and trades with Braavos. Your reputation precedes you."
"Reputations usually do," Jon replied. "They are also usually exaggerated."
Arthur smiled. "Your father used to say something similar. He never believed he was as honorable as people claimed. But the truth rarely matters as much as perception, does it?"
"In my experience, the truth is the only thing that matters. Perception just determines how long it takes for the truth to become apparent."
"Spoken like a man who has seen his share of battles." Arthur's eyes were studying him, assessing him in the way warriors assessed potential opponents. "I watched you earlier, when you spoke with the princess. You have good instincts. You remained calm when she challenged you, did not rise to the bait. That takes discipline."
"It takes experience with people who use challenges to manipulate," Jon corrected. "Sellsword captains in Essos use the same tactic. Question a man's courage, and most men will do something stupid to prove themselves. I learned early not to fall for it."
"And yet the princess seemed genuinely curious about you," Arthur observed. "That is... unusual. Princess Daenerys rarely shows interest in anyone at court. She has been presented with dozens of suitors over the years, and she has rejected them all. But she sought you out specifically tonight. Why do you think that is?"
Jon had no answer to that question, and he was not about to speculate with a man he barely knew, uncle or not.
"I could not say, Ser Arthur. Perhaps she was simply bored and I was a novelty. A bastard sellsword is probably more interesting than the usual courtiers she deals with."
"Perhaps," Arthur said, though his tone suggested he did not believe it. "Tell me, Jon, do you know why I approached you tonight?"
"To satisfy your curiosity about your sister's son?" Jon guessed. "To see what kind of man I have become? To determine if I am a threat or an embarrassment to House Dayne?"
Arthur's expression shifted, something like pain crossing his features. "I deserve that, I suppose. I should have sought you out years ago, should have... but I did not know how. Your mother's death..." He paused, took a breath. "Ashara loved you, Jon. In the short time she had with you, she loved you fiercely. Her last words were of you. She made me promise to watch over you, to ensure you were safe. And I failed that promise. I let Ned Stark take you north, and I never followed up, never checked to ensure you were well. By the time I thought to do so, you had already fled to Essos. I am sorry for that."
Jon felt something twist in his chest—anger and grief and a confused sort of longing for a mother he had never known. "She died because of me," he said flatly. "I killed her by being born. No amount of watching over me would change that."
"No," Arthur said firmly. "She died because childbed is dangerous and the maesters could not save her. You were a child, Jon. An innocent. She would never have blamed you, and neither do I."
"But her family does," Jon said. "House Dayne has never acknowledged me, never sent word or offered any kind of relationship. I have lived my entire life knowing my mother's family wants nothing to do with me."
Arthur's face showed genuine shock. "Is that what you think? Jon, House Dayne has followed your career with great interest. My father speaks of you with pride, boasts to anyone who will listen about his grandson's accomplishments in Essos. We have not reached out because we thought... we assumed you would hate us. Your mother died, and the Starks and Daynes were on opposite sides of the rebellion. We thought you would see us as enemies."
Jon stared at him, trying to process this information. His entire life, he had believed the Daynes hated him, blamed him for Ashara's death. And all this time, they had been proud of him?
"I..." Jon started, then stopped, not knowing what to say.
"I know this is a great deal to take in," Arthur said gently. "And I am not asking for anything from you, Jon. I simply wanted you to know that you have family in Dorne. Family that would welcome you, should you ever wish to visit. My father is old now, and he would dearly love to meet his grandson before he dies."
"I..." Jon tried again, his mind spinning. "I will think about it."
"That is all I ask." Arthur reached out as if to clasp Jon's shoulder, then stopped, respecting Jon's distance. "And Jon? If you do compete in the tourney—and I hope you do, because I would very much like to see what you have learned—know that I will be proud to face you. Win or lose, it would be an honor to cross blades with Ashara's son."
He bowed slightly and walked away, leaving Jon standing alone in the middle of the hall, feeling as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet.
Everything he had believed about his mother's family was wrong. They did not hate him. They had never hated him.
He had spent his entire life carrying that grief, that guilt, that certainty that he was responsible for his mother's death and that her family despised him for it.
And it had all been a misunderstanding.
Jon turned and left the hall, needing air, needing space to think. He made his way through the crowded courtyards, past pavilions where nobles were still celebrating, past campfires where knights and men-at-arms gathered, until he found himself near the godswood—a small, wild grove of trees that seemed out of place amid all the stone and banners.
He sat on a fallen log and stared up at the night sky, trying to make sense of everything that had happened this evening.
A princess had sought him out, challenged him, seemed interested in him for reasons he could not fathom.
His uncle had approached him with kindness and revelations that overturned a lifetime of assumptions.
And Jon felt more lost now than he had since arriving at Harrenhal.
"You look troubled."
Jon's hand went to his sword hilt instinctively before he recognized the voice. He turned to find Princess Daenerys standing at the edge of the clearing, alone except for a single handmaiden who stood a discreet distance away.
"Your Grace," Jon said, rising quickly and bowing. "I did not hear you approach."
"I am not surprised. You were deep in thought." She moved closer, and Jon noticed she had changed from her elaborate feast gown into something simpler, more practical for walking. "I owe you an apology, Lord Snow."
"You owe me nothing, Your Grace," Jon said, confused.
"I do," she insisted. "I challenged you earlier, questioned your courage, and I should not have. It was... unworthy of me. I was frustrated with the evening, with being on display for ambitious lords, and I took that frustration out on you. It was wrong."
Jon studied her in the moonlight, trying to understand this woman who seemed to shift between imperious princess and something far more human. "Why did you challenge me?" he asked bluntly. "What did you hope to accomplish?"
She was silent for a long moment, then said quietly, "Honestly? I do not know. You intrigued me. You spoke to me as if I were a person rather than a princess, and that is... rare. I wanted to see if you were real or if it was just another performance. So I challenged you, to see how you would react."
"And what did you learn?"
"That you are either the most genuine person I have met at court, or the most skilled actor. I am still not certain which." She smiled slightly. "But I suspect the former. No one who was performing would have been as blunt as you were."
"Bluntness is not always a virtue, Your Grace."
"No," she agreed. "But it is refreshing. Do you know how exhausting it is to spend every day surrounded by people who tell you what they think you want to hear? Who calculate every word, every gesture, every expression to maximize their advantage?"
"I have some idea," Jon said dryly. "Though I imagine it is worse for you than for me."
"Perhaps." She moved to sit on the log he had vacated, apparently unconcerned with propriety or the fact that they were alone in the godswood. Her handmaiden shifted nervously but did not approach. "Tell me, Lord Snow, do you believe in fate?"
It was an odd question, and Jon took a moment to consider his answer. "I believe in choices," he said finally. "We make decisions, and those decisions have consequences. Some people call that fate. I call it cause and effect."
"How very practical," she said, echoing her earlier comment. "But do you not ever wonder if some things are meant to be? If certain people are meant to meet, meant to affect each other's lives?"
"I think people meet and affect each other all the time," Jon said. "Whether it is 'meant to be' or simply coincidence is impossible to determine. Why do you ask, Your Grace?"
She looked up at the sky, at the stars scattered across the darkness. "Because I have spent my entire life following a path that was laid out for me before I was born. Princess. Dragon blood. Targaryen. Every choice made for me, every option considered in terms of political advantage rather than personal preference. And tonight, I met someone who seemed to have escaped that trap, who built his own path despite everything working against him. It made me wonder... what would it be like to choose for yourself? To be free of all the expectations and duties and requirements?"
Jon heard the longing in her voice, the frustration, and recognized it because he had felt the same thing countless times. "Being free has costs, Your Grace," he said quietly. "I chose to leave Westeros, to make my own way in Essos. And I succeeded, by most measures. But I also spent years fighting for survival, watching friends die, doing things I am not proud of because they were necessary. Freedom is not the same as happiness."
"But at least it is yours," she said. "You chose your path. You live with the consequences, but they are your consequences, not someone else's."
"And you think you have no choices?"
"I know I have no choices," she corrected. "My brother will find me a suitable match eventually. Someone politically advantageous, someone who brings strength to the dynasty. I will marry him, bear his children, and play my role for the rest of my life. That is what princesses do. That is what is expected."
"You could refuse," Jon pointed out.
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Could I? And what would happen then? Rhaegar would pressure me, the Small Council would pressure him, and eventually I would give in because refusing would damage the dynasty, would create political complications, would be selfish and irresponsible. No, Lord Snow. I could not refuse. Not without causing harm to people I care about."
Jon understood that reasoning. He had made similar calculations himself, had chosen duty over preference more times than he could count. "Then we are not so different, Your Grace," he said. "We both do what is required of us, regardless of what we might prefer."
"Perhaps," she said. "But you built something first. You created a life of your own before returning to duty. I have never had that chance."
They sat in silence for a moment, and Jon found himself wondering what he was doing here, alone in a godswood with a princess, having a conversation that felt far too intimate, too honest for people who had just met.
"Your Grace," he said carefully, "forgive me for asking, but why are you here? Why seek me out again after our... difficult exchange in the hall?"
She turned to look at him, and in the moonlight, her eyes seemed almost to glow. "Because you are real," she said simply. "Because everyone else at this cursed tourney is performing, playing games, calculating advantage. And you simply... are. You do not flatter or manipulate or pretend. You speak your mind, and damn the consequences. I find that... appealing."
"Appealing?" Jon repeated, uncertain how to respond to that.
"Interesting," she corrected quickly. "I meant interesting. You are interesting, Lord Snow. A puzzle I would like to understand better."
"I am not a puzzle, Your Grace. I am just a man trying to do his duty and survive the experience."
"Just a man," she echoed, and smiled. "Yes, I suppose you are. But in a place like this, surrounded by knights and lords and princes who see themselves as legends, 'just a man' is remarkably rare."
She rose then, smoothing her skirts, and Jon rose with her, still uncertain what this conversation meant or what she wanted from him.
"I should return," she said. "My absence will be noted soon, and I do not need more complications in my life. But Lord Snow... will you reconsider competing in the tourney? Not for me, not to prove anything to anyone else. But perhaps... for yourself? To test yourself against the best fighters in the realm, to see if your skills in Essos translate to the lists?"
It was the same challenge as before, but delivered differently. No questioning his courage, no implications of cowardice. Just a genuine suggestion that he might enjoy the competition.
"I will think about it," Jon said, which was more than he had been willing to concede earlier.
"That is all I ask." She studied him for a moment longer, then said quietly, "You were right, earlier. When you said I looked as tired of the performance as you feel. I did not think anyone could see that beneath the mask. But you did. Thank you for that honesty."
"It is the only kind I know how to give, Your Grace."
"Yes," she said, something like warmth in her voice. "I am beginning to understand that. Goodnight, Lord Snow. I suspect we will speak again."
She left then, her handmaiden following, and Jon was alone in the godswood once more.
He sat back down on the log and tried to make sense of what had just happened. A princess had apologized to him. Had sought him out specifically. Had spoken to him with an honesty and vulnerability that seemed completely at odds with her position.
And she had asked him to compete in the tourney.
Jon knew he should refuse. Competing would draw attention, would make him a spectacle, would expose him to exactly the kind of scrutiny he had been trying to avoid.
But there was something about the way she had asked, something genuine beneath the request, that made him reconsider.
Not for her. He barely knew her, and she was so far above his station that any interest was impossible, foolish to even contemplate.
But perhaps for himself. To test himself against Arthur Dayne, against the legendary knights of Westeros. To prove—if only to himself—that his skills were real, that his reputation was earned.
You are being foolish, he told himself. This is exactly the kind of vanity you have always despised in others.
But even as he thought it, Jon knew he was going to compete.
Not because a princess had asked him to. Not to prove anything to the lords and ladies who would be watching.
But because he had spent eleven years fighting in Essos, and some part of him—the part that had survived battles and bloodshed and impossible odds—wanted to know if he was good enough to beat the best.
Even if admitting that made him exactly the kind of man he had always claimed to despise.
Jon sat in the godswood for a long time, staring at the stars and wondering what he had gotten himself into.
And somewhere in the castle, he knew, Princess Daenerys Targaryen was probably wondering the same thing.

When Jon finally returned to his tent, he found Torren waiting for him with a concerned expression.
"The men are asking questions," Torren said without preamble. "They saw you speaking with the princess. Twice. They want to know if there is something they should be aware of, some political complication that might affect our position here."
"There is no complication," Jon said, though he was not entirely certain that was true. "The princess was curious about Essos. We spoke. That is all."
"That is not all," Torren said flatly. "I have been in enough courts to know when something significant happens, even if I do not understand what. You spoke with her, she left looking thoughtful, and then she came back and sought you out again. That is not normal behavior for a princess toward a bastard lord, no matter how accomplished."
"I am aware," Jon said tiredly. "But I do not know what it means any more than you do. She is... complicated. The whole situation is complicated."
"Will you compete in the tourney?"
The question was direct, and Jon appreciated it. Torren had always been good at cutting through confusion to the heart of the matter.
"Yes," Jon said, making the decision as he spoke the word. "I will compete. Not for any good reason, but because..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Because I need to know if I am as good as people say I am. Because I need to test myself against the best. Because a princess asked, and I found I could not refuse, even though I do not understand why she cares."
Torren studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Then we prepare. Tomorrow, you train. And when the tourney comes, you show them what a sellsword from Essos can do against their legendary knights."
"I may lose," Jon warned. "Arthur Dayne is called the Sword of the Morning for a reason. Jaime Lannister is said to be one of the finest swordsmen alive. I am good, but I may not be good enough."
"Then you lose honorably," Torren said with a shrug. "But I do not think you will lose, Captain. I have seen you fight. I know what you can do when you stop holding back. These tourney knights, they fight for glory and ribbons. You fight to win. That makes all the difference."
Jon hoped he was right.
But as he lay in his cot that night, staring at the canvas ceiling of his tent, Jon could not shake the feeling that he had just committed to something far more significant than a simple tourney competition.
He had caught the attention of a princess. Had spoken to her with an honesty that was probably unwise. Had agreed to compete in a tourney he had no interest in, for reasons he did not fully understand.
And he had the distinct feeling that his life was about to become far more complicated than he had ever intended.
Winter is coming, he thought one more time.
But for the moment, he was riding straight into summer, toward a destiny he had not chosen and could not predict.
And all because a princess with purple eyes had looked at him and seen something real beneath the bastard's mask.
Gods help them both.

Chapter Text

Daenerys could not sleep.
She lay in her bed in the chambers that had been prepared for the royal family—rooms in the Tower of Dread, one of Harrenhal's five massive towers, appointed with every luxury befitting a princess. Fine linens, thick carpets from Myr, tapestries depicting the glory of House Targaryen. Everything designed for comfort, for elegance, for reminding her of her station.
And yet she had never felt more trapped.
The conversation with Jon Snow kept replaying in her mind. Not the first exchange at the feast—that had been her fault, a test delivered poorly, a challenge born of frustration rather than genuine curiosity. No, it was the second conversation that haunted her, the one in the godswood where the masks had come off, where they had spoken to each other as people rather than princess and lord.
You looked as tired of the performance as I feel.
No one had ever said that to her before. No one had ever looked past the crown and the courtesy and seen the woman beneath who was suffocating under the weight of expectation.
And he had seen it immediately, with those gray Stark eyes that seemed to cut through pretense as easily as a blade through silk.
Daenerys rose from her bed, unable to bear lying still any longer. Missandei stirred in her cot near the door—her handmaiden insisted on sleeping close, claiming it was her duty to be available should the princess need anything—but Daenerys waved her back to sleep.
"I am just restless," Daenerys whispered. "Go back to sleep. I will pace for a bit and tire myself out."
Missandei looked skeptical but obeyed, though Daenerys suspected her friend was not truly asleep, merely giving her privacy.
Daenerys moved to the window and looked out over Harrenhal. Even at this late hour, the castle was not quiet. Campfires dotted the yards, and she could hear the distant sounds of revelry from some of the pavilions. Lords and knights celebrating, drinking, boasting about their prowess in the upcoming tourney.
She wondered which fire was Jon Snow's. Which tent housed the man who had somehow managed to unsettle her more in two conversations than all the suitors she had met over the years combined.
It was not attraction—or at least, she told herself it was not. Yes, he was handsome in a stark, northern way. Dark hair, gray eyes, the kind of face that was more interesting than conventionally beautiful. And yes, there was something compelling about the way he carried himself, the quiet confidence of a man who had nothing to prove and therefore did not bother proving anything.
But Daenerys had met handsome men before. The court was full of them, pretty lordlings with empty heads and ambitious fathers. Physical beauty had never been enough to hold her interest for more than a moment.
No, what drew her to Jon Snow was something else entirely. It was the honesty. The directness. The absolute refusal to play the games that everyone else at court engaged in as naturally as breathing.
He had spoken to her as if she were simply Daenerys, not Princess Daenerys, not the king's sister, not a potential alliance wrapped in silk and royal blood. Just... a person. A woman who might have thoughts and feelings and frustrations beyond what her station required.
And when she had revealed her own exhaustion with courtly performance, he had not tried to comfort her or tell her it was not so bad or suggest she should be grateful for her position. He had simply acknowledged it, accepted it, and shared his own experience with the same trap.
We both do what is required of us, regardless of what we might prefer.
It should not have mattered. One conversation with a bastard lord from the North should not have affected her so deeply. And yet here she was, unable to sleep, unable to stop thinking about gray eyes and blunt words and the first genuine connection she had felt with anyone outside her immediate family in years.
"Your Grace?"
Daenerys turned to find Missandei sitting up, watching her with concern. "You have been standing at that window for nearly an hour. What troubles you?"
Daenerys considered lying, considered retreating behind the masks she wore so well. But Missandei was her friend, perhaps the only true friend she had, and she was tired of pretending.
"I cannot stop thinking about him," she admitted quietly.
"Lord Snow."
"Yes."
Missandei rose and came to stand beside her, wrapping a shawl around Daenerys's shoulders against the night chill. "He is not what I expected," her handmaiden said carefully. "When you told me you planned to approach him, I thought he would be like the others. Ambitious, calculating, trying to use your interest for advancement. But he seemed... uncomfortable with your attention. As if he genuinely did not want to be noticed."
"He did not," Daenerys confirmed. "He came here because his father commanded it, and he wants nothing more than to return to his holding in the North and be left alone. He has no interest in court, in politics, in advancement. He just wants to build his castle and trade with Braavos and be forgotten."
"And you find that appealing."
"I find it refreshing," Daenerys corrected, though she suspected Missandei was closer to the truth than she wanted to admit. "Everyone else here wants something from me. An alliance, a marriage, access to the throne. Jon Snow wants nothing. He did not even want to speak with me. I practically forced the conversation on him."
"And yet he spoke with you anyway," Missandei observed. "Not out of courtesy—he could have given you the appropriate responses and extricated himself politely. Instead, he engaged with you. Argued with you. Told you things I suspect he rarely tells anyone. Why do you think that is?"
Daenerys had been asking herself the same question. "I do not know. Perhaps he is simply incapable of dissembling. Perhaps honesty is so ingrained in him that he cannot help but speak his mind, even to a princess who could have him punished for his bluntness."
"Or perhaps," Missandei said gently, "he saw in you what you saw in him. Someone who is tired of performing. Someone who wants genuine connection rather than political theater."
The thought made Daenerys's chest tight with an emotion she could not name. "It does not matter," she said, more sharply than she intended. "He is a bastard. I am a princess. There is no future in... whatever this is. I was curious about him, I spoke with him, and now I should move on and focus on more appropriate concerns."
"Should you?" Missandei asked. "Or are you telling yourself that because it is what you have been taught to believe? That your feelings do not matter, that duty is all, that personal happiness is secondary to political necessity?"
"It is the truth," Daenerys said firmly. "I am the king's sister. My marriage will be a political alliance, carefully calculated to strengthen the dynasty. I cannot afford to be distracted by... by a bastard lord who speaks his mind and makes me feel like a person rather than a prize."
The words came out harsher than she intended, and she saw Missandei flinch slightly. But her handmaiden pressed on with the determination that made her such a good friend.
"Your Grace, I have served you for five years now. I have watched you reject suitor after suitor, have seen you grow more unhappy with each passing season. You are eighteen years old, and you have spent your entire life being told what you should want, who you should be, what choices you should make. Is it so terrible to consider what you actually want for a change?"
"I want to be free," Daenerys said, the words escaping before she could stop them. "I want to make my own choices. I want to meet someone who sees me rather than my crown. I want..." She stopped, frustrated with herself, with the situation, with the whole impossible mess. "I want things I cannot have, Missandei. So there is no point in dwelling on them."
"Your brother promised you could choose for yourself," Missandei reminded her gently. "After Harrenhal, after Aegon's wedding, he said the decision would be yours."
"He said there would be no forced marriage," Daenerys corrected. "But there will still be pressure. The Small Council will still present suitable candidates. Rhaegar will still hope I make a politically advantageous choice. And I will still be trapped between duty and desire, between what I want and what is expected."
"Unless you find someone who is both," Missandei suggested. "Someone suitable who also makes you happy. Someone who could be both a political ally and a genuine partner."
"You mean Jon Snow."
"I mean perhaps you should not dismiss the possibility so quickly," Missandei said carefully. "He is baseborn, yes. But he is also Eddard Stark's acknowledged son, Lord of Sea Dragon Point, commander of his own forces, and wealthy in his own right. And Lord Stark clearly values him, brought him here as part of the family delegation. Those are not insignificant factors."
"He is still a bastard," Daenerys said, though her conviction was wavering. "The realm would never accept—"
"The realm accepted Rhaegar on the throne despite his father's madness," Missandei interrupted gently. "The realm accepted Aegon the Conqueror when he married both his sisters. The realm accepts what the king declares acceptable, Your Grace. If Rhaegar were to legitimize Jon Snow, if he were to present such a marriage as strengthening ties with the North..."
"You are suggesting I marry him," Daenerys said, somewhere between scandalized and fascinated by the idea. "We have spoken twice, Missandei. I do not even know him."
"I am suggesting you consider getting to know him," Missandei corrected. "Before you dismiss the possibility entirely. You said yourself that he is the first person in years who has made you feel seen, who has spoken to you honestly rather than telling you what he thinks you want to hear. Is that not worth exploring?"
Daenerys turned back to the window, her mind racing. The idea was absurd. Completely inappropriate. A princess did not pursue a bastard, no matter how accomplished he might be.
And yet...
What if Missandei was right? What if Jon Snow could be both suitable and genuine? What if she could have duty and desire, political necessity and personal happiness?
It was a dangerous thought. The kind of thought that led to rash decisions and broken hearts. The kind of thought that her mother would have warned her against, that Rhaegar would counsel her to dismiss.
But Daenerys was tired of being careful. Tired of dismissing her own wants in favor of what others expected. And if she was going to be trapped at Harrenhal for a fortnight anyway, why not spend that time learning whether Jon Snow was worth the risk?
"I asked him to compete in the tourney," Daenerys said quietly. "He refused at first, but I think... I think he might reconsider. If he does, I will be able to watch him fight. To see if the reputation is earned or exaggerated."
"And if it is earned?" Missandei asked.
"Then I will know he is everything he appears to be," Daenerys said. "Competent, honest, skilled. A man who has built something from nothing and wants nothing more than to be left alone to enjoy what he has earned."
"And if he is exaggerated?"
"Then I will know I was foolish to be interested, and I can move on to more appropriate prospects," Daenerys finished.
It was a reasonable plan. Logical, even. Watch him in the tourney, assess his skills, determine if he was worthy of further consideration.
The fact that she was already hoping he would prove himself worthy was something she chose not to examine too closely.
"You should sleep, Your Grace," Missandei said gently. "Tomorrow will be a long day, and you will need your strength if you plan to navigate whatever comes next."
Daenerys nodded and returned to her bed, but sleep was still elusive. Her mind kept circling back to gray eyes and honest words and the possibility—dangerous, inappropriate, but undeniably appealing—that she might have found someone who could see her as both princess and woman.
Someone who did not want to use her but might, eventually, want to know her.
It was too much to hope for. Daenerys knew that. Life rarely granted wishes, especially to those born to royalty.
But as she finally drifted into sleep, Daenerys allowed herself the luxury of hope anyway.
Perhaps this tourney would be different. Perhaps something unexpected would happen, something that would change everything.
Perhaps, for once, she would get to choose her own path.
Dragons are not meant to be caged, she reminded herself as sleep claimed her.
Even if the cage was made of duty and expectation and political necessity.
Even if breaking free meant scandal and complications and choices that would horrify the court.
She was Daenerys Stormborn, and it was time she started acting like it.

The next morning dawned clear and bright, the kind of perfect summer day that made even Harrenhal's oppressive walls seem less forbidding. Daenerys rose early, dressed with Missandei's help in a riding outfit of deep blue, and made her way to the training yards where many of the knights were already practicing for the tourney.
She told herself she was simply curious about the competitors, that watching them train was appropriate behavior for the princess who would be awarding prizes to the victors. She did not admit—even to herself—that she was looking for one man in particular.
The training yard was a wide space near the castle's outer walls, churned into mud by countless boots and hooves over the centuries. Quintains stood at one end for practicing lance work, and straw dummies studded with practice swords occupied the other end for swordplay. Knights and men-at-arms filled the space, some practicing in earnest, others simply showing off for the gathering crowds.
Daenerys found a position on a small rise that gave her a good view of the entire yard, Missandei beside her and two members of the Kingsguard—Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah—standing nearby in their white armor.
"Looking for anyone in particular, Your Grace?" Ser Barristan asked, his old eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Simply observing the competitors, Ser Barristan," Daenerys replied with all the dignity she could muster. "A princess should know who will be fighting in her brother's tourney."
"Of course, Your Grace," Barristan said, though his tone suggested he knew exactly who she was looking for.
Daenerys ignored him and scanned the yard. She recognized many of the fighters—Ser Jaime Lannister was impossible to miss, his golden hair gleaming in the sun as he practiced against three opponents simultaneously. Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, was showing off for a group of giggling ladies, his movements more dance than combat. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, was battering a practice dummy with enough force to make even seasoned warriors wince.
And there, at the far edge of the yard, almost hidden from the main crowd, was Jon Snow.
He was not showing off. He was not performing for anyone's benefit. He was simply... training. Moving through a series of exercises with his sword—drawing, cutting, defending, transitioning between stances with a fluid economy of motion that spoke of years of practice and real combat experience.
No wasted movement. No flourishes or unnecessary displays of skill. Just pure, efficient technique focused entirely on effectiveness rather than aesthetics.
Daenerys found herself moving closer before she realized what she was doing, drawn by the contrast between Jon's training and the peacocking of the other knights. Missandei followed without comment, and the Kingsguard fell into step behind them.
Jon's men—she recognized some of them from the feast, hard-looking veterans with the scars and bearing of professional soldiers—were training nearby, and they moved with the same efficiency as their commander. No songs, no jests, no wasted energy. They drilled with the intensity of men preparing for war rather than a tourney.
Jon finished his exercise and lowered his sword, his chest rising and falling with exertion, sweat dampening his hair. Then he noticed her standing there, watching him, and his expression shifted to something between resignation and wariness.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly. "I did not expect to see you in the training yards."
"I came to observe the competitors," Daenerys replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. Why did this man affect her so much? "You are training. Does that mean you have reconsidered competing?"
Jon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I have decided to compete, yes. Though I suspect I will regret the decision."
"Why?" Daenerys asked, genuinely curious. "Are you afraid you will lose?"
"No," Jon said bluntly. "I am afraid I will win, and then everyone will expect me to care about having won. Victory in a tourney means nothing to me, Your Grace. It is play-fighting for the entertainment of nobles. But my father wishes me to compete, and you... you asked me to reconsider. So I will compete, because apparently I am incapable of refusing requests from people I respect."
The last part was said with such dry frustration that Daenerys found herself smiling despite the impropriety of the situation. "You respect me?"
"Unfortunately," Jon said, and there was something almost like humor in his eyes. "It would be much easier if I did not. Then I could simply ignore you and go about my business. But no, you had to be perceptive and honest and make me see you as a person rather than a princess. Very inconsiderate of you, Your Grace."
Daenerys laughed before she could stop herself, drawing startled looks from the nearby knights. Princesses did not laugh like that—genuine, surprised, delighted laughter—in public. They gave delicate, controlled amusement appropriate to their station.
But Jon Snow had just accused her of being inconsiderate for being human, and it was perhaps the most ridiculous and wonderful thing anyone had ever said to her.
"I will try to be more considerate in the future," she said when she could speak again. "Perhaps I should revert to being imperious and demanding. Would that be easier for you?"
"Probably," Jon admitted. "But less interesting."
"Is that what I am to you? Interesting?"
Jon paused, clearly considering his answer with the care of a man navigating dangerous ground. "You are complicated, Your Grace. Which is another way of saying interesting, yes. Most people at court are simple to understand—they want power or prestige or advancement, and every action is calculated toward that end. You want... I am not entirely certain what you want. Which makes you unpredictable. And unpredictable people are always interesting."
"And dangerous," Daenerys added.
"That too," Jon agreed. "Though I suspect you are more dangerous to yourself than to others. You want freedom but feel trapped by duty. You want genuine connection but are surrounded by people performing roles. You are frustrated and bored and lonely, and you hide it behind courtesy and composure because that is what princesses are expected to do. But the mask slips sometimes, and when it does..." He stopped, shook his head. "I should not be saying any of this."
"No," Daenerys agreed, her heart beating faster. "You probably should not. But I am glad you did anyway. Because you are right. About all of it. And no one else has ever seen it clearly enough to put it into words."
They stood looking at each other for a moment, and Daenerys was acutely aware of the people watching them—her guards, Jon's men, the other knights in the yard who had paused their training to observe this unexpected exchange between a princess and a bastard.
She should walk away. Should maintain proper distance. Should not be having this conversation in public where it could fuel gossip and speculation.
But she did not want to walk away. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she was having a genuine conversation with someone who saw her, understood her, spoke to her without filters or performance.
"Your Grace," Ser Barristan's voice was gentle but firm. "Perhaps we should continue our observations from a more appropriate distance. The other competitors are expecting—"
"In a moment, Ser Barristan," Daenerys said, not taking her eyes off Jon. "Lord Snow, you have agreed to compete. Will you allow me to watch you train? I would like to see what a sellsword's technique looks like compared to the knights I am used to observing."
Jon's expression suggested he knew exactly what she was doing—finding an excuse to stay, to continue this connection that neither of them fully understood but both were reluctant to break.
"If you wish, Your Grace," he said finally. "Though I warn you, it will not be impressive. I do not perform. I simply practice the movements that have kept me alive."
"Show me," Daenerys said, and it came out more as a command than a request.
Jon studied her for another moment, then nodded and turned to one of his men. "Harwin, spar with me. First blood rules, and do not hold back."
The man named Harwin grinned, a fierce expression that transformed his scarred face. "When have I ever held back, Captain?"
They took positions opposite each other, and Daenerys found herself holding her breath as they began.
It was nothing like the practiced displays she had watched from the other knights. There was no ceremony, no calling out of moves, no pause for adjustment or correction. They simply... fought. Fast, brutal, efficient. Blade meeting blade with sharp cracks that echoed across the yard. Footwork that was more about positioning for advantage than looking graceful. Strikes that targeted genuinely vulnerable areas rather than scoring points.
Jon moved like water—fluid, adaptable, always in motion but never wasted. When Harwin pressed forward with an aggressive combination, Jon gave ground but only as much as necessary, then countered with a lightning-fast riposte that would have opened Harwin's throat if the blades had been sharp instead of practice weapons.
The fight lasted perhaps thirty seconds, and when it ended, Jon's blade was pressed against Harwin's neck while Harwin's sword was still recovering from a parry.
"First blood," Jon said, stepping back and lowering his weapon.
"Damn," Harwin said, but he was smiling. "You are getting faster, Captain. I could barely see that last combination."
"You telegraphed your fourth strike," Jon replied. "Brought your shoulder up half a second before committing. It gave me the opening I needed."
"I will work on that." Harwin bowed to Daenerys. "Your Grace, forgive the display. We fight hard, but we mean no disrespect."
"There is no disrespect in honest combat," Daenerys said, finding her voice. "That was... remarkable. I have never seen anything quite like it."
"That is because tourney fighting is different from real fighting," Jon explained, sheathing his practice sword. "In a tourney, you fight for points, for style, for the approval of judges and crowds. You have rules, conventions, time to recover between bouts. Real fighting is simpler and more complicated at the same time. The only rule is survive. The only style that matters is effective. And you do not get time to recover—you win quickly or you die slowly."
"And that is what you will bring to the tourney?" Daenerys asked.
"That is what I know how to do," Jon replied. "I cannot change my training to suit tournament conventions, Your Grace. I will fight the way I know how to fight. If the judges find it crude or ungraceful, that is their concern, not mine."
"I think," Daenerys said slowly, "that the judges will be too shocked to criticize. You fight like no knight I have ever seen."
"I am not a knight," Jon reminded her. "I am a sellsword with a lordship. There is a difference."
"Yes," Daenerys agreed. "I am beginning to understand that."
She knew she should leave now, should move on to observe the other competitors and maintain the fiction that she was here for general observation rather than specific interest. But she found herself reluctant to go, reluctant to end this interaction.
"Lord Snow," she said impulsively, "would you be willing to teach me?"
Jon's expression shifted to complete bewilderment. "Teach you what, Your Grace?"
"To fight. To defend myself." The idea was forming even as she spoke, reckless and inappropriate and perfect. "I have spent my entire life being protected by others, being told that ladies do not fight, that I should rely on guards and knights for my safety. But watching you just now... I want to know what it feels like. To move like that. To know I could protect myself if I needed to."
"Your Grace," Ser Barristan interjected, his voice concerned. "That is highly inappropriate. A princess does not—"
"A princess does what she chooses," Daenerys said firmly, turning to face her guard. "And I choose to learn how to defend myself. Is that not reasonable, Ser Barristan? Would you prefer I remain helpless if circumstances ever require me to protect myself?"
Barristan looked torn between duty and understanding. "Your Grace, I would protect you with my life. That is my oath."
"I know," Daenerys said more gently. "But humor me in this. What harm could come from a few lessons? Lord Snow is skilled, and I am merely curious. Surely there is no scandal in a princess learning basic self-defense from a capable instructor."
She turned back to Jon, who looked like he wanted to refuse, wanted to find some way to extricate himself from this impossible situation. But he was trapped by the same instinct that had led him to be honest with her in the first place—he could not bring himself to lie or refuse when she asked directly.
"Your Grace," he said carefully, "I am not a teacher. I learned to fight through necessity, not formal training. I would not know how to instruct someone with no experience."
"Then show me what you know," Daenerys pressed. "One lesson. If I am terrible at it or you find it too burdensome, we can stop and never speak of it again. But please... let me try."
Jon looked at her for a long moment, and Daenerys held her breath, suddenly aware that this was about far more than learning to fight. This was about continuing to see him, to have an excuse for interaction that could not be dismissed as mere curiosity. This was about claiming some small amount of choice in a life defined by others' expectations.
"One lesson," Jon finally agreed, and Daenerys's heart leaped. "Tomorrow morning, before the crowds gather. And only basic defense—how to escape a grip, how to protect yourself if someone attacks. Nothing more."
"Nothing more," Daenerys agreed, though she suspected they both knew this was the beginning of something neither of them fully understood.
She took her leave then, before Ser Barristan could object further, before Jon could change his mind, before the watching knights could spread too many rumors about the strange princess who wanted to learn fighting from a bastard sellsword.
But as she walked away, Daenerys could feel Jon's eyes on her back, could sense the same confusion and curiosity and impossible attraction that she felt.
This was dangerous. Inappropriate. Probably foolish.
And she was going to pursue it anyway, because for the first time in her life, she had found someone who made her want to take risks.
Someone who saw past the crown to the woman beneath.
Someone who might, just possibly, be worth fighting for.
Even if the whole realm would call her mad for it.
Dragons are not meant to be caged, she reminded herself again.
And this particular dragon was done being careful.

Chapter Text

Jon woke before dawn, as had been his habit since his first days with the Second Sons. In Essos, those who slept late often did not wake at all, and the habit had proven useful enough that he had never broken it, even when circumstances no longer required such vigilance.
He lay on his cot for a moment, staring at the canvas ceiling of his tent, and wondered what madness had possessed him to agree to Princess Daenerys's request.
Teach her to fight. As if such a thing were simple. As if the complications of a princess learning combat from a bastard lord were not immediately obvious to anyone with sense.
But he had agreed, because when she had asked—truly asked, with genuine curiosity rather than royal command—he had found himself unable to refuse. There was something in her eyes, some hunger for experiences beyond the gilded cage of royalty, that resonated with his own memories of wanting to prove himself, to be more than what his birth had dictated.
This is a mistake, Jon told himself as he rose and dressed in simple training clothes. Nothing good will come of this.
But he was going to do it anyway.
The training yards were empty when he arrived, the air still cool with night's lingering chill. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten, turning from black to deep blue to the pale gray that preceded sunrise. Jon had perhaps a quarter hour before other early risers would begin appearing, before the yards would fill with knights and men-at-arms preparing for the day's training.
He had just finished his morning stretches when he heard footsteps approaching—light steps, carefully placed, trying for silence but not quite achieving it. Jon turned to find Princess Daenerys emerging from the shadows, dressed in clothing far simpler than anything he had seen her wear before. Dark breeches and a loose tunic, her silver-gold hair bound in a practical braid rather than the elaborate styles she favored at court. She wore a hooded cloak against the morning chill, and for a moment, in the dim light, she looked like any other young woman rather than a princess of the realm.
She was not alone. Her handmaiden—Missandei, Jon remembered—followed a few steps behind, and two members of the Kingsguard brought up the rear. Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jorah Mormont, both looking deeply uncomfortable with this entire situation but bound by duty to accompany her.
"Your Grace," Jon said, bowing slightly. "You came."
"Did you think I would not?" she asked, and there was challenge in her voice, as if she expected him to have assumed she would change her mind.
"I hoped you would reconsider," Jon admitted. "This is not a good idea for many reasons, most of which I am certain you understand as well as I do."
"I understand perfectly," Daenerys replied, moving closer. "And I came anyway. Are you going to refuse me now, Lord Snow? After you gave your word?"
She had him there, and they both knew it. Jon did not break his word, not even when keeping it was inconvenient or potentially dangerous.
"I will teach you," Jon said, accepting the inevitable. "But we must be clear about the limitations, Your Grace. I am not trained in courtly swordplay or the kind of formal techniques that knights learn. I know how to fight to survive, how to kill efficiently, how to end a threat before it ends me. That is what I can teach you, if you truly wish to learn it."
"That is exactly what I wish to learn," Daenerys said firmly. "I do not need to know how to joust or duel honorably. I need to know how to protect myself if circumstances ever require it. Can you teach me that?"
Jon studied her for a long moment, taking in her determination, her stance—she stood like someone used to being in control, but there was an openness in her expression, a genuine desire to learn that went beyond mere curiosity.
"I can teach you the basics," Jon said finally. "But understand, Your Grace—real self-defense is not pretty. It is not elegant. It involves using every advantage you have, including ones that highborn ladies are taught to consider beneath them. It means fighting dirty when necessary, striking to hurt rather than to score points, and accepting that you will likely be injured in the process of defending yourself."
"I understand," Daenerys said, though Jon suspected she did not, not really. How could she? She had lived her entire life protected by walls and guards and the inviolability of royal blood. She had never felt the terror of facing someone who genuinely wanted to kill her, never experienced the desperate calculus of survival that came with real combat.
But she wanted to learn, and Jon had agreed to teach her. So he would do his best, even if he suspected this lesson would be more difficult for both of them than she anticipated.
"Very well," Jon said. "First lesson—awareness. Most people who are attacked never see it coming because they are not paying attention to their surroundings. You walked here from your chambers. Tell me what you noticed on the way."
Daenerys blinked, clearly not expecting this kind of question. "I... I noticed the path. The way to the training yards. My guards were with me, so I did not need to—"
"Wrong," Jon interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. "You relied on your guards to protect you, which means you noticed nothing. If someone wished to harm you, they would find a way to get past your guards first. What would you do then? Try again. What did you see on your way here?"
He watched her face shift from surprise to thought to something like frustration as she tried to remember details she had never paid attention to.
"There were... servants in the corridors," she said slowly. "Preparing for the day. A few guards at the entrances. The yards were empty when I arrived."
"Better," Jon acknowledged. "But not enough. How many servants? What were they doing? Could any of them have been threats disguised as staff? What about the guards—were they alert or drowsy? Were there shadowed alcoves where someone could hide? Corners that blocked sight lines? Escape routes if you needed to flee?"
Daenerys was staring at him now with something like wonder. "You notice all of that?"
"Every time I move through an unfamiliar space," Jon confirmed. "It is habit now, ingrained from years of not knowing if the next person I met would try to kill me. In Essos, paranoia keeps you alive. Here in Westeros, it is called excessive caution. But the principle remains—awareness is the first line of defense. You cannot protect yourself from a threat you do not see coming."
"Teach me," Daenerys said, and there was intensity in her voice now, genuine hunger. "Teach me how to see what you see."
Jon felt something shift in his chest—respect, perhaps, or recognition. She was not treating this as a game or a diversion. She genuinely wanted to learn, wanted to be capable rather than merely protected.
"Walk to the other side of the yard," Jon instructed. "Then walk back to me and tell me everything you notice. Pretend I am not here, that your guards are not here. Pretend you are alone and potentially in danger. What do you see?"
Daenerys nodded and moved away, her steps careful and deliberate now. Jon watched her scan the yard, saw her eyes moving from point to point, cataloging details she had probably walked past a thousand times without truly seeing.
When she returned, she spoke with more confidence. "There are three entrances to the training yard. Two are open archways with clear sight lines. The third has a turn that blocks vision—someone could hide there. The practice dummies provide cover if needed. The quintain could be used as an obstacle to slow pursuit. The walls are rough stone—difficult to climb but not impossible. There are weapons stored in the racks along the west wall. And..." she paused, something like satisfaction in her voice, "...there is a man watching us from the tower window. Third floor, eastern tower. He has been there since before I arrived."
Jon turned casually, as if stretching, and caught the flash of movement as someone withdrew from the window she had indicated. She was right—someone had been watching. He had noticed when he first arrived but had assumed it was simply a curious guard or servant. Now he was less certain.
"Very good, Your Grace," Jon said, genuine approval in his voice. "You learn quickly. What you just described is called tactical awareness—understanding your environment as a collection of advantages and disadvantages rather than simply scenery. It is the foundation of self-defense."
"What about the person watching us?" Daenerys asked. "Should we be concerned?"
"Possibly," Jon said. "But we cannot control what others do. We can only prepare for it. Which brings us to the second lesson—understanding your physical limitations and advantages."
He gestured for her to come closer, and when she did, he was acutely aware of the impropriety of what he was about to do. He was going to touch a princess, put his hands on her to demonstrate combat techniques. If anyone misinterpreted what they saw, if rumors spread about inappropriate contact...
But Daenerys was watching him with clear eyes, waiting, trusting him to teach her what she had asked to learn. And her guards, while uncomfortable, had not objected. So Jon pushed aside his concerns and focused on the lesson.
"You are small," Jon said bluntly. "Lighter than most men who might attack you, with less strength and reach. Those are disadvantages, but they can also be advantages if you know how to use them. You are faster, more agile, harder to grab if you stay in motion. The key is never letting a stronger opponent set the terms of engagement. Never stand and trade blows with someone who outweighs you. Never let them get a solid grip. Always stay mobile, strike vulnerable areas, and disengage before they can retaliate."
"Show me," Daenerys said.
Jon hesitated, then stepped forward and slowly reached for her arm, giving her time to see what he was doing. "If someone grabs you like this—one hand on your wrist—what do you do?"
"Pull away?" Daenerys guessed.
"That is what most people do, and it rarely works. Pulling against a stronger opponent's grip is fighting their strength with your weakness. Instead..." He adjusted his grip, pulling gently to demonstrate resistance. "...you rotate toward the thumb. The thumb is the weakest part of any grip. Rotate your wrist toward my thumb while stepping in rather than away. See?"
He guided her through the motion slowly, feeling her wrist turn, her body shift closer rather than pulling back. Her arm came free of his grip easily, and he saw understanding dawn in her eyes.
"Again," she demanded. "Faster this time."
They repeated the technique, gradually increasing speed, and Jon found himself impressed by how quickly she adapted. She had good instincts, good body control, and more importantly, she was not squeamish about the contact required for close combat training.
"Now what if someone grabs both wrists?" Daenerys asked.
Jon demonstrated, taking both her wrists in his hands, and immediately realized his mistake. They were standing very close now, closer than was appropriate for a lord and princess, even in the context of training. He could see the details of her face—the determined set of her jaw, the intensity in her purple eyes, the way her breathing had quickened slightly from the exertion.
She was beautiful. Jon had acknowledged that before, in an abstract way. But this close, with dawn light illuminating her features, with her complete focus on him, the awareness hit him like a physical blow.
Focus, Jon commanded himself. This is a lesson, nothing more.
"With both wrists held, you have fewer options," Jon said, keeping his voice level through pure force of will. "But you have one major advantage—your attacker's hands are occupied. That means your other weapons are free. In close quarters, the most effective strikes are with your head, knees, and feet. A headbutt to the nose or jaw, a knee to the groin or stomach, stomping on the instep—all of these can cause enough pain to make an attacker release their grip."
"Show me," Daenerys said, and Jon realized she was just as aware of their proximity as he was, just as affected by it.
This is dangerous, some part of his mind warned. This is how complications start.
But he had agreed to teach her, so he would teach her properly.
"I cannot demonstrate the strikes fully without actually hurting you," Jon said. "But I can show you the motion. When I hold your wrists like this, bring your knee up—not hard, just to show the trajectory. Aim for the center mass, where it would cause maximum damage."
Daenerys brought her knee up, and Jon felt it press gently against his abdomen, high enough that if she had put force behind it and aimed lower, it would have accomplished exactly what such a strike was meant to accomplish.
"Good," Jon said, stepping back and releasing her wrists, needing distance before his awareness of her became something more problematic. "That is the fundamental principle of self-defense when you are smaller than your opponent. Never fight their fight. Use mobility, use dirty tactics, strike vulnerable areas, and escape as soon as you create an opening. Combat is not about defeating your opponent. It is about surviving long enough to get away."
"What if I cannot get away?" Daenerys asked. "What if the situation requires me to actually fight?"
"Then you have already lost," Jon said bluntly. "You are not a trained warrior, Your Grace. A few lessons cannot change that. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you must actually fight rather than escape, your best option is to scream for help while staying mobile and using anything available as a weapon. Throw objects, overturn furniture, break things to create noise and confusion. The goal is never to win a fight. The goal is to survive long enough for help to arrive or for an escape route to present itself."
"You are not very optimistic about my chances," Daenerys observed, but there was no offense in her tone, only wry acceptance.
"I am realistic," Jon corrected. "I have been training since I was nine years old. I have fought in actual combat dozens of times. And even I would not want to face a skilled opponent in a fair fight if I could avoid it. Why would I pretend you could do better with only a few lessons?"
"Because most men would tell me whatever I wanted to hear rather than the truth," Daenerys said quietly. "They would flatter my abilities, assure me I was progressing wonderfully, make me feel capable even if I was not. But you simply tell me I am unprepared and probably would fail in a real fight. Why?"
Jon considered his answer carefully. "Because flattery does not keep you alive, Your Grace. False confidence is more dangerous than no confidence at all. If you believe you can defend yourself when you cannot, you will take risks you should not take, fail to call for help when you should, and potentially get yourself killed. I would rather hurt your feelings with honesty than watch you die because I told you comfortable lies."
Something shifted in her expression—warmth, respect, perhaps something more that Jon did not want to examine too closely.
"Thank you," she said simply. "For treating me as if my life matters more than my feelings."
"Your life does matter more than your feelings," Jon said. "That is true for everyone, but most people do not want to accept it. They want to be told they are capable, skilled, prepared. They want comfort more than competence. You asked me to teach you, so I will teach you honestly, even when that honesty is uncomfortable."
"I would not want it any other way," Daenerys said, and smiled. It was the genuine smile, the one that transformed her face from merely beautiful to something that made Jon's chest tight.
They trained for another half hour as the sun rose fully, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. Jon taught her basic defensive movements—how to break various grips, how to use her size as an advantage, where to strike to cause maximum pain. He taught her to be aware of her surroundings, to constantly assess escape routes, to think tactically even in situations that seemed safe.
And through it all, he was acutely aware of her—the way she moved, the way she listened with complete focus, the way she did not flinch from the physical contact required for proper demonstration. She was quick to learn, fearless in a way that was both admirable and slightly concerning, and more comfortable with violence than he had expected from someone raised in a palace.
By the time they finished, other people had begun arriving in the training yards—knights preparing for the day's practice, servants setting up equipment, curious onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of famous competitors. Jon noticed the stares, the whispers, the way people were clearly marking the fact that Princess Daenerys Targaryen had been alone with Jon Snow at dawn, engaged in some kind of physical training.
The rumors will start now, Jon thought with resignation. By noon, half the castle will have invented explanations for what they saw.
"We should stop," Jon said quietly. "You have learned the basics. Anything more would require sustained practice over weeks or moons, and that is not possible given the circumstances."
"Why not?" Daenerys asked. "We could continue the lessons. Tomorrow, or the next day—"
"No," Jon said, more firmly than he intended. "Your Grace, I agreed to one lesson to satisfy your curiosity. But continuing would be..." he searched for the right word, "...unwise. People are already watching, already speculating. Neither of us needs that kind of attention or the complications it would bring."
He saw hurt flash across her face before she schooled her expression to royal composure. "Of course. You are right, naturally. One lesson was what we agreed upon. Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Lord Snow."
The sudden return to formality stung more than Jon expected. A moment ago, they had been comfortable, natural with each other. Now she was a princess again, distant and controlled, and he was a bastard lord who had just rejected her implied request for continued association.
But it was the right decision. Jon knew that. Continued private meetings with the king's sister would invite speculation, gossip, potentially accusations of impropriety. He had a precarious enough position as Ned Stark's bastard. He did not need to add "man who dallies with princesses" to his list of complications.
Even if some part of him—the part that had enjoyed teaching her, had appreciated her quick mind and fearless approach, had felt something shift when she smiled at him—wanted to say yes anyway.
"Your Grace," Jon said, bowing properly. "The pleasure was mine. You have good instincts. I hope you never need to use what I have taught you."
"As do I," Daenerys replied. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she added, "Will you compete in the tourney, Lord Snow? Or have you changed your mind about that as well?"
There was challenge in the question, perhaps even hurt. As if his refusal of continued lessons was also a rejection of her, personally.
"I will compete," Jon said. "I gave my word, and I do not break my word. Not even when I suspect I will regret it."
"Good," Daenerys said, and some of the warmth returned to her voice. "Then I will watch you fight, Lord Snow. And perhaps, if you win, I will have the honor of awarding you a prize."
She left then, her handmaiden and guards falling into step around her, and Jon watched her go with a complicated mix of relief and regret.
He had done the right thing. The smart thing. The only sensible thing given their respective positions and the impossible gap between princess and bastard.
But as he stood in the training yard, watching her silver-gold braid disappear into the crowd, Jon could not shake the feeling that he had just made a mistake.
That he had let something slip through his fingers that he might never have the chance to grasp again.
"That was dangerous, Captain." Torren's voice came from behind him, and Jon turned to find his second-in-command watching him with knowing eyes. "Training a princess in combat. Being alone with her at dawn. Looking at her the way you were looking at her just now. All very dangerous."
"I am aware," Jon said flatly.
"Are you?" Torren stepped closer, his voice low enough that others could not overhear. "Because from where I stood, it looked like you were forgetting the distance between you. She is the king's sister, Jon. Royal blood. As far above you as the sun is above the earth. Whatever you think might be happening between you—"
"Nothing is happening between us," Jon interrupted. "She asked for a lesson. I gave her a lesson. That is all."
"If you believe that, you are lying to yourself," Torren said bluntly. "I saw how she looked at you. How you looked at her. That was not 'just a lesson,' my friend. That was the beginning of something complicated and probably disastrous for both of you."
"Then it is fortunate I ended it," Jon said. "I refused to continue the lessons. I maintained proper distance. I did exactly what you would have advised me to do."
"Yes," Torren agreed. "But you did not want to. That is what concerns me. Not what you did, but what you wanted to do. Be careful, Jon. Men have lost everything for less than a princess's smile. Do not be one of them."
Jon had no response to that, because Torren was right. He had wanted to continue the lessons, had wanted to spend more time with Daenerys, had felt something shift between them that went beyond simple attraction or curiosity.
And that wanting was dangerous. More dangerous than any battle he had fought in Essos, because at least in battle, the threats were obvious and the solutions clear.
This—whatever this was with Daenerys—had no clear solution. Only complications and impossible choices and the certainty that pursuing it would end badly for both of them.
So I will not pursue it, Jon told himself firmly. I will compete in the tourney because I gave my word. I will be courteous if we interact again. And then I will return to Sea Dragon Point and forget this ever happened.
It was a sensible plan. A smart plan. The only plan that made sense given the circumstances.
But as Jon returned to his tent to prepare for the day's training, he could not shake the memory of purple eyes watching him with interest, of a princess who moved like a dancer, of dawn light on silver-gold hair.
And he knew, with the certainty that came from years of reading battles and understanding when situations were about to spiral beyond control, that this was not over.
That whatever had begun between him and Daenerys Targaryen would not be so easily dismissed, no matter how sensible or necessary that dismissal might be.
Winter was coming, indeed.
But first, apparently, he would have to survive summer and all its dangerous, beautiful complications.
Gods help him

Chapter Text

The tourney grounds at Harrenhal were a spectacle unlike anything Jon had seen, even in his years traveling across Essos. Massive viewing stands had been erected along both sides of the lists, draped in the colors of every great house in Westeros. The highest stand, positioned at the center with the best view, was reserved for the royal family—all crimson and black, with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flying from poles taller than trees.
Jon stood near the competitors' staging area, watching the crowds pour in, and felt his stomach tighten with an unease that had nothing to do with the upcoming combat. He had fought in melees where the odds were ten to one against him, had faced Dothraki screamers with nothing but a sword and his wits, had led charges against fortified positions that should have been suicide.
But he had never fought in front of thousands of people who were there specifically to watch, to judge, to evaluate his every move for their entertainment.
This is madness, Jon thought, not for the first time since agreeing to compete. Complete madness.
"You are brooding again," Robb said, appearing at his side with two cups of wine. "Here. Drink this. It will not make you enjoy this any more, but at least you will be slightly drunk while hating every moment."
"I do not drink before fighting," Jon said automatically.
"It is not fighting, it is a tourney," Robb corrected. "Completely different. One is about survival, the other is about looking impressive while not actually dying. Try to remember the distinction."
"The distinction seems academic when someone is trying to unhorse you with a lance," Jon replied dryly.
"Fair point." Robb took a drink from both cups since Jon was refusing. "Father wanted me to check on you. Make sure you have not decided to flee back to Sea Dragon Point before the opening ceremonies."
"The thought crossed my mind," Jon admitted. "But I gave my word. So here I am, preparing to perform like a trained bear for the amusement of nobles who have never risked their lives for anything."
"Not all of them," Robb said, nodding toward the competitors around them. "Ser Arthur Dayne has fought in actual wars. Ser Barristan Selmy is a legend. Even Jaime Lannister, much as I dislike him, earned his reputation in real combat before he became a Kingsguard. You are not the only one here who has seen real battle."
"But I am the only bastard," Jon said quietly. "The only one who does not belong, no matter what I have accomplished. The others earned their places through birth and blood. I earned mine through... what? Killing people efficiently? Building a trade empire? None of it matters here. I am still Ned Stark's bastard, and everyone here knows it."
Robb was quiet for a moment, then said, "You know what I think? I think you are afraid."
Jon's head snapped around. "Afraid of what?"
"Of succeeding," Robb said calmly. "You have spent your entire life telling yourself that nothing you do will matter because you are a bastard. That no matter what you accomplish, you will always be dismissed, always be lesser. And now you are here, about to compete against the finest fighters in the realm, and there is a real chance you might actually win. That would force you to confront the possibility that maybe, just maybe, your birth does not define you as completely as you have always believed. And that terrifies you."
Jon wanted to argue, wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in his throat because Robb had hit closer to truth than was comfortable.
"Even if I win every bout," Jon said finally, "they will still call me bastard. They will still whisper about Ned Stark's dishonor. They will still see me as less than, regardless of my skills."
"Probably," Robb agreed. "But you will know the truth. And is that not enough? You have never cared what others thought before. Why start now?"
"Because I am surrounded by them," Jon said, gesturing at the growing crowds. "Because I cannot escape their judgment or their whispers or their constant assessment. In Essos, I could simply leave if I did not like how I was treated. Here, I am trapped by duty and family and my father's expectations. So yes, what they think matters, even though I wish it did not."
A trumpet sounded, clear and bright, signaling the beginning of the opening ceremonies. Jon felt his jaw tighten.
"That is your cue," Robb said. "Time to ride out and be introduced to all the people who are so eager to judge you. Try not to look like you would rather be facing a Dothraki horde. It gives the wrong impression."
"I would rather be facing a Dothraki horde," Jon muttered, but he moved toward where the competitors were assembling nonetheless.
The opening ceremonies were exactly as tedious as Jon had expected. Each competitor rode out to be announced by a herald, their names and accomplishments proclaimed to the assembled crowd. The great knights received cheers and applause—Ser Arthur Dayne drew roars of approval, Ser Barristan Selmy was greeted with respect bordering on reverence, and Jaime Lannister received a mix of adulation and whispers about his beauty rather than his skill.
Then it was Jon's turn.
"Lord Jon Snow," the herald proclaimed, his voice carrying across the grounds, "of House Stark, Lord of Sea Dragon Point, Captain of the Company of the Rose and veteran of the campaigns in Essos."
The response was... mixed. Some applause from the Northern sections where men loyal to House Stark had gathered. Curious murmurs from those who had heard of him but never seen him. And uncomfortable silence from others who clearly questioned why a bastard was being allowed to compete alongside trueborn knights.
Jon rode out on a gray destrier borrowed from his father's stables—he had not brought his own warhorse, had not expected to need one—and kept his face carefully blank. He wore simple armor, well-made but unadorned, with no crest or device to mark him as belonging to any house. His shield bore no sigil, just plain gray that matched his horse.
He looked, he knew, like exactly what he was—a sellsword in borrowed armor, trying to pass as something more.
As he took his position among the other competitors, Jon's eyes were drawn inevitably to the royal viewing stand. King Rhaegar sat at the center, regal and composed, with Queen Elia beside him looking fragile but smiling. Prince Aegon and his betrothed Margaery Tyrell sat to the king's right, both young and beautiful and clearly enjoying the spectacle.
And there, to the king's left, sat Princess Daenerys.
She wore a gown of deep purple that matched her eyes, her silver-gold hair elaborately arranged and woven with dark red roses. She looked every inch the princess—beautiful, untouchable, royal. Nothing like the woman who had stood in the training yard at dawn, dressed in practical clothes and learning how to break a grip.
Their eyes met across the distance, and something passed between them—acknowledgment, perhaps, or memory of the morning's lesson. Then she looked away, returning her attention to the ceremonies, and Jon forced himself to do the same.
She is a princess, he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time. Focus on the competition. Forget everything else.
King Rhaegar rose to address the assembly, and the crowd fell silent.
"Lords and ladies, knights and competitors," Rhaegar's voice carried across the grounds with the practiced ease of a king used to speaking to large gatherings. "We are gathered here to celebrate a joyous occasion—the marriage of my son Aegon to Lady Margaery Tyrell, joining two great houses in alliance and friendship. But we celebrate also the realm itself, eighteen years of peace built on the foundation of justice and mercy, of strength tempered by wisdom."
It was a good speech, carefully crafted to remind everyone of Rhaegar's accomplishments while also looking forward to the future. Jon listened with half an ear, more interested in observing the crowd's reactions.
Most were attentive, respectful. But here and there, Jon caught glimpses of other expressions. Lord Tywin Lannister looked calculating, as if measuring everything against some internal assessment of advantage. Several Northern lords looked uncomfortable, reminded perhaps of the rebellion they had lost and the king they now served out of necessity rather than love. And Prince Viserys looked bored, picking at his fingernails as his brother spoke.
"The tourney will proceed over the next three days," Rhaegar continued. "Today, we begin with the joust. Tomorrow, we will hold the melee. And on the final day, we will have individual combat challenges, where any knight may issue challenge to another. The champions of each event will be honored, and the overall victor will receive a purse of gold and the privilege of crowning the Queen of Love and Beauty."
The crowd cheered at that, and Jon felt his stomach sink. He had forgotten about that particular tradition—the victor crowning a lady of his choice as the tourney's queen. It was supposed to be an honor, a romantic gesture that the singers made songs about.
But Jon remembered the stories his father had told him, late at night when they were alone. How Rhaegar Targaryen had won a tourney at this very castle, had crowned Lyanna Stark as his Queen of Love and Beauty despite being married to Elia Martell. How that single gesture had set in motion events that led to war and death and the near-destruction of the Targaryen dynasty.
Rhaegar had won his throne despite that scandal, had proven himself through victory rather than losing everything as he might have. But the memory lingered, and Jon suspected he was not the only one thinking of it now.
If I win, Jon thought, who would I even crown?
The only women he knew well enough to honor were family—his sisters, his father's wife who hated him. Crowning any of them would be awkward at best, insulting at worst. Crowning a stranger would be meaningless. And crowning Daenerys...
Jon pushed that thought away before it could fully form. Madness lay in that direction.
The opening ceremonies concluded, and the competitors retired to prepare for the first event—the joust. Jon had never jousted before, not in any formal sense. Sellswords did not fight from horseback with lances. They fought on foot with whatever weapons were available, in whatever way would keep them alive.
But he knew the basics. Stay low in the saddle, keep your lance steady, aim for the center of your opponent's shield. Break your lance cleanly against their armor and hope they did not do the same to you. Simple enough in theory.
In practice, Jon suspected it would be significantly more difficult.
"Lord Snow." A voice behind him, cultured and smooth. Jon turned to find Ser Jaime Lannister approaching, resplendent in golden armor that caught the morning sun. The Kingslayer—though that was a title he had earned in the service of a different king, one he had betrayed. In this timeline where Rhaegar had won, Jaime had managed to transfer his loyalties smoothly enough to remain in the Kingsguard.
"Ser Jaime," Jon replied with careful neutrality.
"I wanted to wish you luck," Jaime said, his tone making it impossible to tell if he was sincere or mocking. "It is your first tourney, I understand? That must be... daunting. All these people watching, judging every move. Quite different from fighting where no one cares about style, only results."
"I prefer the latter," Jon said flatly. "But I am here, so I will compete."
"How very dutiful of you." Jaime's green eyes were assessing him, measuring him the way a swordsman measured an opponent. "Tell me, Lord Snow, is it true you fought the Dothraki? The songs claim you defeated three bloodriders in single combat."
"The songs exaggerate," Jon said. "I fought Dothraki, yes. I survived. That is all."
"Modest," Jaime observed. "Or honest. I cannot decide which. But I am curious—what was it like? Fighting them, I mean. They have quite a fearsome reputation."
Jon considered refusing to answer, but something in Jaime's question seemed genuinely curious rather than condescending. "They are fast," he said finally. "Mobile. Excellent with a bow from horseback. But they rely on intimidation and momentum. If you can hold your ground, force them into close combat where their horses become a liability, they can be beaten. They are not invincible. Just very, very good at what they do."
"And what are you good at, Lord Snow?"
"Surviving," Jon said simply. "I am good at surviving."
Jaime laughed, but it was not cruel. "Honest, then. I appreciate that. Most men here would have boasted about their prowess, their victories, their legendary skills. You simply state facts. It is... refreshing."
"I have no interest in impressing anyone, Ser Jaime. I am here because my father commanded it and because..." he hesitated, "...because I gave my word to someone that I would compete. That is all."
"Someone?" Jaime's eyebrows rose. "How intriguing. Would this someone be a lady? A highborn lady, perhaps? One with silver-gold hair and purple eyes?"
Jon's expression must have given something away because Jaime grinned. "Ah, I thought so. The whole castle is buzzing with gossip about the princess seeking out Ned Stark's bastard. Training with you at dawn, no less. Very scandalous. Very unlike our usually proper Princess Daenerys."
"It was one lesson," Jon said coldly. "Nothing more. People should mind their own affairs."
"But gossip is so much more entertaining than minding one's own affairs," Jaime replied cheerfully. "Besides, I cannot blame her for being curious. You are certainly more interesting than the usual courtiers. Though I feel obliged to warn you—pursuing a princess rarely ends well, regardless of how interested she might seem. Trust me on this. I have seen what happens when people reach above their station."
There was something in his tone—a warning, perhaps, or experience speaking. Jon studied the Kingslayer's face and saw genuine concern beneath the casual manner.
"I am not pursuing anyone," Jon said firmly. "The princess asked for a lesson. I gave her a lesson. There is nothing more to it than that."
"If you believe that, you are either naive or lying to yourself," Jaime said. "But that is your concern, not mine. Good luck in the joust, Lord Snow. Try not to embarrass yourself too badly. First tournaments are always difficult."
He walked away, leaving Jon standing alone with uncomfortable thoughts.
The whole castle is buzzing with gossip.
Of course they were. He should have expected that. A princess and a bastard, alone at dawn, engaged in some kind of physical training. Of course people would talk, would speculate, would invent explanations for what they had seen.
And now Jon would have to compete in the joust with those whispers following him, with people watching not just to see his skill but to assess whether he was worthy of whatever interest the princess had shown.
This is why I stayed away from court, Jon thought bitterly. This is why I hate these places. Everything is watched, judged, interpreted through the lens of politics and scandal.
But there was no escape now. He had committed to competing, and he would see it through.
Even if it meant giving the gossips more fuel for their fires.

The joust began with traditional matchups—lesser knights against each other, working toward the more famous competitors in later rounds. Jon drew a moderately challenging first opponent—a knight from the Reach named Ser Hobber Redwyne, young and eager but inexperienced in real combat.
Jon had never jousted in a formal tourney, but he had fought from horseback dozens of times in Essos. The principle was the same—stay balanced, keep your weapon steady, strike your target. The only difference was the lance instead of a sword, and the goal of unhorsing rather than killing.
He could manage that.
The herald announced their names, and Jon rode to his position at one end of the lists. Across the field, Ser Hobber took his position, his armor gleaming with the burgundy and blue of House Redwyne. The crowd was moderately interested—this was not a match anyone expected to be particularly exciting, just a preliminary bout to thin the field.
Jon lowered his visor, adjusted his grip on the lance, and waited for the signal.
The trumpet sounded.
Jon spurred his horse forward, the gray destrier responding with trained precision. The world narrowed to the approaching opponent, to the timing of his strike, to the need to stay balanced as the horse's hooves thundered against packed earth.
Ser Hobber's lance was coming toward him—Jon could see it, track its trajectory, calculate where it would strike. He adjusted his shield position, angling it to deflect rather than absorb the full impact.
The lances struck simultaneously. Jon felt the jar of impact through his arm, felt his lance splinter against Ser Hobber's shield. But his positioning was better, his balance more secure, and the force of his strike drove Hobber backward in his saddle.
The young knight went over his horse's rear, landing hard in the dirt.
The crowd cheered—moderate approval for a clean unhorsing, nothing excessive. Jon rode back to his position, returned the broken lance, and dismounted to await his next match.
"Not bad for your first joust," Robb said, appearing with water and a towel. "Though you could have made it look more impressive. You barely seemed to be trying."
"I was not trying to be impressive," Jon said, wiping sweat from his face. "I was trying to win without getting knocked off my horse. Mission accomplished."
"Well, it worked. Though Father looked like he was holding his breath the entire time. I think he forgets you know what you are doing."
Jon glanced toward the Stark section of the viewing stands and saw his father watching with an expression that was equal parts pride and concern. Lady Catelyn sat beside him, her face carefully neutral, betraying nothing of what she thought about her husband's bastard competing in a royal tourney.
And beyond them, in the royal stand, Princess Daenerys was watching as well. Jon could feel her eyes on him even at this distance, could sense her attention in a way that made his skin prickle with awareness.
Stop, he commanded himself. Focus on the competition. Nothing else matters.
He won his second match, then his third. None were particularly difficult—he was facing knights who had trained for tournaments but not for real combat, who fought with style rather than ruthless efficiency. Jon's technique was not pretty, but it was effective. He broke lances, unhorsed opponents, advanced through the bracket with methodical precision.
By the afternoon, he had reached the quarterfinals, and the crowd was beginning to pay attention. Ned Stark's bastard was winning, consistently and convincingly. The whispers grew louder, more speculative.
Is he really that good? Or is he just lucky? What will happen when he faces a real opponent?
Jon's next opponent answered that question. Ser Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold, one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. A man who had fought in actual wars, who had earned his reputation through decades of service and combat.
This, Jon knew, would be different.
They faced each other across the lists, and Jon could feel the crowd's anticipation. This was the match people had been waiting for—the legendary knight against the upstart bastard. This was where Jon would be tested, where he would prove himself or be revealed as merely competent rather than exceptional.
Jon lowered his visor and prepared himself.
The trumpet sounded.
They charged.
Ser Barristan's lance was perfect—steady, aimed precisely at the center of Jon's shield, delivered with decades of experience and skill. Jon felt the impact like a hammer blow, felt himself driven backward in the saddle, felt his balance shift dangerously.
But he had expected the power, had braced for it. And his own lance struck true, catching Barristan at an angle that turned the older knight's perfect aim into a glancing blow.
They passed, both still mounted.
The crowd roared.
They turned, took new lances, charged again.
This time Jon adjusted his approach, remembering lessons learned in Essos—that sometimes the best defense was not to meet force with force but to redirect it. He shifted his shield at the last moment, let Barristan's lance slide past rather than striking solidly, and drove his own weapon into the older knight's chest with all the force he could muster.
The lance shattered. Ser Barristan rocked backward but held his seat, his decades of experience keeping him mounted when a lesser knight would have fallen.
They passed again. Two broken lances each. One more pass would decide the bout.
Jon's arms were aching from the impacts, his shoulder protesting the repeated shocks. But he pushed the discomfort aside and focused. One more pass. One more chance to prove he belonged here.
The trumpet sounded a third time.
They charged.
Jon watched Barristan's approach, noted the slight adjustment in his seat, the way his lance dipped fractionally lower than the previous passes. The old knight was compensating for Jon's height, aiming for a more secure strike.
Which meant Jon needed to adjust higher.
At the last possible moment, Jon rose slightly in his stirrups, lifting his target area just enough that Barristan's lance struck the very edge of his shield instead of the center. The impact spun him, nearly unhorsed him, but Jon held on through pure strength and determination.
And his own lance, aimed high at Barristan's helm, struck perfectly.
The older knight went backward over his horse's rear, landing hard in the dirt.
The crowd exploded.
Jon barely heard it. He was too focused on staying mounted, on controlling his horse, on making sure he had not just killed one of the realm's most honored knights with a poorly aimed strike.
But Ser Barristan was rising, removing his helm, and he was smiling. The old knight walked to where Jon had dismounted, extended his hand, and clasped Jon's forearm with genuine respect.
"Well fought, Lord Snow," Barristan said, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "You have the makings of a true knight, bastard-born or not. It was an honor to face you."
"The honor was mine, Ser Barristan," Jon replied, because it was true. Whatever else this tournament might be, he had just faced a legend and won. That meant something, even if he wished it did not matter.
Barristan walked away, and Jon stood in the lists, acutely aware of the cheering crowd, the watching nobles, the weight of attention that felt like a physical pressure.
He had advanced to the semifinals. Tomorrow, he would face either Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Jaime Lannister, both of whom had won their own quarterfinal matches.
He was three victories away from winning the entire tourney.
And he had absolutely no idea what he would do if that happened.
One match at a time, Jon told himself. Survive tomorrow. Worry about the consequences later.
But as he left the lists and returned to the competitors' area, Jon caught one more glimpse of the royal viewing stand.
Princess Daenerys was on her feet, applauding, her face alight with genuine excitement and what looked like pride.
Their eyes met across the distance once more, and this time, she smiled.
Not the courtly smile she gave to everyone. The real smile, the genuine one, the one that made Jon's chest tight and his thoughts scatter.
And Jon knew, with absolute certainty, that he was in far more danger from that smile than from any lance or sword he might face in the tournament.
Gods help him indeed.

Chapter Text

The feast that evening was even more elaborate than the opening night celebration. King Rhaegar had spared no expense to honor the competitors who had advanced to the later rounds, and the Great Hall of Harrenhal was filled to capacity with nobles celebrating, gossiping, and placing increasingly large wagers on the next day's matches.
Jon tried to make himself inconspicuous, sitting with his father and siblings at the Stark table, eating mechanically and speaking only when directly addressed. But inconspicuous was impossible when half the hall seemed determined to discuss him, his victory over Ser Barristan, and what it might mean for the remainder of the tournament.
"I still cannot believe you unhorsed Barristan the Bold," Arya said for perhaps the tenth time, her eyes shining with undisguised admiration. "He is a legend! And you beat him!"
"I got lucky," Jon said, though he knew it was not entirely true. Luck had played a part, but so had skill and timing and years of experience reading opponents in combat. Still, admitting he had genuinely outfought one of the realm's finest knights felt like inviting the kind of attention he had spent his entire life avoiding.
"You were not lucky," Robb insisted. "I watched the whole thing. You adjusted your approach each pass, learned from what worked and what did not, and delivered a perfect strike on the final run. That was skill, Jon. Own it."
"Robb is correct," Eddard said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of paternal pride that made Jon's chest tight. "You fought with intelligence and discipline. Ser Barristan himself acknowledged your skill. There is no shame in accepting a compliment honestly given."
Jon wanted to argue, wanted to deflect the praise as he always did. But his father's expression stopped him—Ned Stark was looking at him with such clear pride, such genuine satisfaction, that contradicting him would feel like a rejection of that approval.
And Jon had spent too many years craving his father's acknowledgment to dismiss it now, even when it made him uncomfortable.
"Thank you, Father," Jon said simply.
The meal continued, courses coming and going with the excessive abundance that marked southern feasts. Jon was picking at some dish involving quail and mushrooms when he became aware of a shift in the hall's atmosphere—conversations dying down, people turning to look at something.
He followed their gazes and felt his stomach drop.
Princess Daenerys was making her way through the hall, moving between tables, stopping to speak with various competitors. She was congratulating them, Jon realized, honoring those who had fought well. It was appropriate behavior for a princess, gracious and proper.
But everyone in the hall knew where she was going. The path she was taking wound inexorably toward the Stark table, toward where Jon sat trying desperately to disappear into his chair.
Please pass by, Jon thought desperately. Please just offer a general greeting to the table and move on.
But the gods, it seemed, were not listening.
"Lord Stark," Daenerys said, stopping before their table and offering a slight curtsy to Eddard. "I wanted to congratulate your house on such an impressive showing today. Lord Robb's performance in the melee preliminaries was admirable, and Lord Snow's victories in the joust were... extraordinary."
There it was. She had acknowledged Robb first, which was proper—he was the heir, the trueborn son. But her emphasis on Jon's performance was unmistakable, and everyone near enough to hear had certainly noticed.
"Your Grace honors us," Eddard replied with careful courtesy. "We are grateful for your recognition."
"Lord Snow," Daenerys said, turning her full attention to Jon now, and he had no choice but to rise and bow. "Your victory over Ser Barristan was remarkable. I confess I underestimated your skill when we first spoke. You have proven yourself a formidable competitor."
"Your Grace is too kind," Jon said, keeping his voice level despite the weight of hundreds of eyes watching this exchange. "Ser Barristan is a legend. I was fortunate to face him when he was perhaps not at his absolute best."
"Modest as always," Daenerys said, and there was something in her tone—amusement, perhaps, or challenge. "But I wonder, Lord Snow, if your modesty is genuine or simply another form of armor. A way of deflecting attention and expectation."
The question was too perceptive, too pointed, and Jon felt the trap in it even as he struggled to formulate a response. If he denied her assessment, he would be lying. If he confirmed it, he would be admitting to a calculated dishonesty in his self-presentation.
"I am what I am, Your Grace," Jon said finally. "No more, no less. What others choose to see when they look at me is beyond my control."
"How very philosophical," she replied. "Tell me, Lord Snow, tomorrow you face either Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Jaime Lannister in the semifinals. Do you believe you can defeat them as you defeated Ser Barristan?"
"I believe I will do my best, Your Grace. Victory or defeat will depend on factors beyond my control—the quality of the horses, the condition of the field, which of us has the better day. I make no predictions."
"No predictions," she repeated. "And yet you must have some sense of your chances. You have fought beside sellswords, faced the Dothraki, survived battles that killed lesser men. Surely you can assess your own probability of victory?"
Jon studied her, trying to understand what she was doing. This was not idle conversation or simple congratulations. She was pushing him, testing him, trying to provoke some response that would reveal something she wanted to know.
But what?
"Your Grace," Jon said carefully, "in my experience, the moment a man becomes confident in his victory is the moment he is most vulnerable to defeat. I assess my opponents, I prepare as best I can, and I fight with everything I have. Beyond that, I leave the outcome to the gods and fate."
"The gods and fate," Daenerys said softly. "Yes, I suppose we are all subject to those, are we not? Even princesses and bastards, despite being on opposite ends of fortune's wheel."
The reference to his birth was so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it took Jon a moment to process what she had said. And when he did, he felt something between offense and respect—she had acknowledged the elephant in the room, the fundamental gap between them, without pretending it did not exist.
"Even princesses and bastards," Jon agreed. "Though I suspect the gods smile more favorably on one than the other."
"Do they?" Daenerys asked. "I wonder sometimes. You have freedom I will never possess, Lord Snow. You built your own life, made your own choices, earned your position through merit rather than accident of birth. In some ways, I envy that."
The admission was so unexpected, so honest, that Jon forgot for a moment they were in a public space with hundreds of people watching. "Your Grace, you are a princess. You have power, privilege, status that most people can only dream of. What could you possibly envy about my position?"
"The choosing," she said simply. "You chose to go to Essos. You chose to join the sellswords. You chose to return to Westeros and build something new. Every major decision in your life has been yours to make. I have never had that luxury. Every choice is made for me, or if I am given options, they are carefully curated to ensure I choose what is politically expedient. Tell me, Lord Snow, do you have any idea what it is like to be a prisoner of your own privilege?"
Jon did not know how to respond to that. He could hear the genuine frustration beneath her words, could see the flash of something raw and honest in her eyes. But they were in public, surrounded by nobles who were drinking in every word of this exchange, and anything he said would be repeated, analyzed, twisted into whatever narrative served the gossips best.
"Your Grace," Eddard interjected gently, "perhaps this conversation would be better suited to a more private setting? The hall is crowded, and—"
"Of course," Daenerys said, her mask sliding back into place with practiced ease. "Forgive me, Lord Stark. I did not mean to monopolize your son's time or create an uncomfortable situation. I merely wished to offer my congratulations on his performance. Lord Snow, I look forward to watching you compete tomorrow. May the gods grant you fortune."
She moved away then, continuing her circuit of the hall, and Jon slowly sat back down, acutely aware of the whispers that had erupted in her wake.
"What," Theon said from down the table, "in the name of all the gods was that?"
"Trouble," Eddard said quietly, his expression troubled. "That was trouble."
"She was just congratulating him," Robb said, though he did not sound convinced. "It is what she has been doing all evening with the other competitors."
"She did not speak to the other competitors the way she spoke to Jon," Eddard replied. "She challenged him. Pushed him. Engaged him in a conversation that revealed far too much about her own feelings regarding her position. That was not appropriate behavior for a princess, and everyone in this hall knows it."
"Perhaps she simply finds me interesting," Jon said, trying to downplay the situation even though he suspected his father was right. "An oddity. The bastard sellsword who somehow beat a legendary knight."
"If that was all it was, she would have made a polite comment and moved on," Eddard said. "What I just witnessed was a young woman trying very hard to connect with someone she has decided is worth knowing, despite all the complications such a connection would entail. And that, Jon, is dangerous for both of you."
"I did not encourage it," Jon protested. "I have been nothing but respectful and distant. I refused to continue the training sessions. I have done everything right."
"And yet she seeks you out anyway," Eddard said. "Which tells me that whatever is happening between you is not entirely one-sided. Be careful, Jon. The princess is not someone you can afford to entangle yourself with, no matter how intriguing she might be."
Jon wanted to deny it, wanted to insist that he felt nothing for Daenerys beyond polite respect. But the words would not come, because they would be lies, and Jon had never been good at lying to his father.
The truth was that he did find her intriguing. More than intriguing—fascinating in a way that was both appealing and terrifying. She was intelligent, perceptive, trapped in a gilded cage and longing for freedom. She was honest in a way that few courtiers ever were, willing to speak uncomfortable truths even when doing so created complications.
And she saw him—truly saw him, not as Ned Stark's bastard or the sellsword lord, but as a person with his own thoughts and struggles and complications.
No one else had ever done that. No one else had ever looked past the labels and seen the man beneath.
And that seeing was dangerous, because it made him want things he could not have, made him hope for possibilities that did not exist.
"I will be careful," Jon promised his father, though he was not certain he could keep that promise.
The feast continued for another hour, but Jon barely tasted his food, barely heard the conversations around him. His mind was replaying the exchange with Daenerys, analyzing every word, every expression, trying to understand what she wanted from him.
The choosing, she had said. She envied his ability to choose his own path.
But Jon's choices had led him here, to this impossible situation where a princess showed interest he could not return, where every interaction was watched and judged and interpreted through the lens of politics and scandal.
Some choices, it seemed, were just as much a trap as having no choices at all.

Jon returned to his tent well after midnight, exhausted and troubled. He dismissed the guards Torren had posted, wanting solitude, and was beginning to remove his formal clothes when he heard a soft voice outside.
"Lord Snow? May I enter?"
Jon froze. He knew that voice, would recognize it anywhere now.
Princess Daenerys.
This is madness, Jon thought. Complete madness. She cannot be here. If anyone sees her entering my tent at night...
But he could not simply refuse her entry, could not leave her standing outside where passing guards or servants might notice and spread even more damaging rumors than her presence in his tent would generate.
"Enter, Your Grace," Jon said, his voice tight with tension.
Daenerys slipped through the tent flap, her handmaiden Missandei following closely behind. Both wore dark cloaks with hoods drawn up, clearly attempting to conceal their identities. But there was no mistaking Daenerys's bearing, the way she moved, the silver-gold hair that escaped her hood.
"Your Grace," Jon said, "you should not be here. If anyone discovers—"
"No one will discover us," Daenerys interrupted. "Missandei ensured we were not followed, and my guards believe I am abed with a headache. We have perhaps an hour before my absence might be noted."
"An hour," Jon repeated incredulously. "Your Grace, do you understand what will happen if you are discovered in my tent? The scandal would be catastrophic. For both of us, but especially for you."
"I understand perfectly," Daenerys said, lowering her hood and meeting his eyes with that direct gaze he had come to recognize. "And I came anyway. Does that tell you nothing about how desperate I am to speak with you honestly, without the entire hall watching and judging every word?"
"It tells me you are reckless," Jon said bluntly. "And possibly mad. Your Grace, I am a bastard. You are a princess. There is no scenario where private, secret meetings between us end well."
"Perhaps not," Daenerys agreed. "But I am tired of only doing things that end well. I am tired of being careful and proper and making choices based on what is appropriate rather than what I want. So here I am, in your tent, risking scandal and ruin, because I need to speak with you without performance or masks or careful political calculation."
Jon looked at her—truly looked at her—and saw the desperation beneath the determination. She was not being reckless for the sake of rebellion. She was drowning in the expectations of her position and had reached out for something real, something genuine, even though she knew it was dangerous.
He understood that desperation. Had felt it himself in his darkest moments, when the weight of being Ned Stark's bastard had threatened to crush him.
"Your Grace," Jon said more gently, "what is it you want to talk about that could not wait until a more appropriate time?"
"You," Daenerys said simply. "I want to talk about you. About what I saw today when you fought Ser Barristan. About the way you move, the way you think, the way you refuse to play the games everyone else engages in so naturally. I want to understand you, Jon Snow, and I cannot do that in a crowded hall or a public training yard or through carefully scripted conversations while hundreds of people listen and speculate."
It was the first time she had used his name without his title, and the intimacy of it struck him like a physical blow.
"There is nothing to understand," Jon said, though his voice lacked conviction. "I am exactly what I appear to be. A bastard who went to Essos, learned to fight, and came back to build something of his own. There is no mystery, no hidden depth."
"You are lying," Daenerys said, stepping closer. "You lie to yourself, to others, perhaps even to me. You pretend you are simple, uncomplicated, just a man trying to survive. But I have watched you. I have listened to you. I have seen the way you analyze everything, the way you hold yourself apart, the way you refuse to let anyone truly know you. That is not simplicity. That is protection. Armor made of deflection and distance."
She was too perceptive, saw too much, understood things Jon had never articulated even to himself.
"Perhaps I have armor for good reason," Jon said. "Perhaps letting people truly know you is dangerous. Perhaps vulnerability is just another word for weakness."
"Or perhaps," Daenerys countered, "isolation is a different kind of weakness. Perhaps refusing connection means never allowing yourself to be more than what you have already become. Perhaps, Jon Snow, you are just as much a prisoner as I am—trapped not by duty but by fear of what might happen if you let your armor drop."
Jon felt something crack in his chest—some defense he had not known he was maintaining, some wall that Daenerys had just managed to breach with nothing but honest words and understanding eyes.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, and his voice was rougher than he intended. "What is it you expect me to say or do or be? I cannot change who I am. I cannot become someone worthy of your interest. I am a bastard, Your Grace. That is all I will ever be, regardless of what I accomplish or how many tournaments I win."
"I do not want you to change," Daenerys said, and now she was close enough that he could see the flecks of deeper purple in her eyes, could smell the faint scent of jasmine that clung to her hair. "I do not want you to become worthy of my interest—you already are. I want you to stop pretending you are less than you are. I want you to stop deflecting and dismissing and hiding behind modesty and distance. I want you to look at me and see not a princess but a woman. A woman who is fascinated by you, who cannot stop thinking about you, who came to your tent in the middle of the night because the alternative—staying away and being proper and pretending I do not feel this—was more unbearable than the risk."
Jon's breath caught. This was happening. Despite everything, despite all the reasons it should not, this was happening.
"Your Grace," he started, but she cut him off.
"Daenerys," she said. "When we are alone, when there is no one to hear or judge or gossip, I want you to call me Daenerys. Can you do that? Can you see past the crown and the title and the politics and simply see me?"
Jon looked at her—at Daenerys, not Princess Daenerys, not the king's sister, just the woman standing before him with hope and fear and desperate honesty in her eyes—and felt the last of his resistance crumble.
"I see you," he said quietly. "Gods help me, I see you. And I should not. I should look at you and see only a princess, someone impossibly above me, someone I have no right to even think of in any personal capacity. But I cannot. I look at you and I see someone who is trapped like I was trapped, someone who wants freedom to choose, someone who is tired of performance and pretense. I see someone who makes me want things I have no right to want."
"What things?" Daenerys whispered, and she was so close now that Jon could feel the warmth of her breath.
"This," Jon said, and before he could think better of it, before caution and good sense could reassert themselves, he closed the distance between them and kissed her.
For a heartbeat, Daenerys froze, startled. Then she was kissing him back, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders, her body pressing against his with an urgency that matched his own.
It was not gentle or courtly or anything like the proper kisses described in songs. It was desperate and honest and real—two people who had been denying themselves for days finally allowing themselves to acknowledge what had been building between them.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Jon saw his own shock and wonder reflected in Daenerys's eyes.
"Well," she said, her voice shaky, "that was... that was..."
"A mistake," Jon finished, though the words felt like lies even as he spoke them. "Your Grace—Daenerys—we cannot do this. You know we cannot. The complications, the scandal, the impossibility of it all..."
"I know," Daenerys said, but she had not stepped away, had not released her grip on his shoulders. "I know all of that. And I do not care. Or rather, I care, but not enough to walk away. Not when this—whatever this is between us—feels more real than anything else in my life."
"This cannot go anywhere," Jon said, trying one last time to be sensible, to protect them both from the inevitable consequences. "I am a bastard. You are a princess. There is no future where those two things are compatible."
"Perhaps not," Daenerys agreed. "But perhaps there is a present where they can exist together, even if only in stolen moments and secret meetings. Perhaps, Jon Snow, we can have this—just this, just now—even if we cannot have forever."
Jon knew he should refuse. Knew he should send her away, should maintain the distance that had already been breached beyond repair. Knew that continuing down this path would lead to heartbreak for both of them and scandal that could damage not just their reputations but their families' standing.
But when he looked at Daenerys—when he saw the hope and fear and desperate need for something genuine in her eyes—Jon found he could not be that strong.
"One hour," he said finally. "You said you have one hour before your absence would be noted. We have one hour to be... just ourselves. No titles, no politics, no consideration of futures that cannot exist. Just two people talking honestly. Can we have that, at least?"
"Yes," Daenerys said, and her smile was brilliant, transforming her face with such genuine joy that Jon felt his heart contract. "Yes, we can have that."
She settled onto the camp stool near his cot, and Jon sat across from her, close enough to touch but maintaining careful distance, and they talked.
They talked about Essos—the places Jon had seen, the battles he had fought, the strange customs and beautiful architecture of cities so different from Westeros. Daenerys listened with rapt attention, asking questions that showed genuine curiosity rather than polite interest.
They talked about her childhood—growing up in the shadow of her brother's throne, being raised as a valuable political piece rather than a person, the loneliness of being surrounded by people but never truly known by any of them.
They talked about duty and choice, about the weight of expectations and the desire for something more. About what it meant to be defined by circumstances of birth rather than actions taken.
And through it all, Jon found himself relaxing in a way he rarely did with anyone, letting his guard drop, allowing Daenerys to see past the armor of distance and deflection to the man beneath.
She was brilliant—that was what struck him most. Not just intelligent, which he had already known, but genuinely brilliant in the way she connected ideas, in the questions she asked, in her understanding of complex political and human dynamics. In another life, in another world where she had been allowed to pursue learning rather than confined to courtly duties, Jon suspected she would have been formidable in whatever field she chose.
"What will you do?" Daenerys asked as the hour drew toward its close. "Tomorrow, when you face Ser Arthur or Ser Jaime. What happens if you win?"
"I will probably lose," Jon said honestly. "Both of them are extraordinarily skilled. Ser Arthur carries Dawn and has more years of experience than I have been alive. Ser Jaime is called the best swordsman in the realm for good reason. I may have gotten fortunate with Ser Barristan, but fortune does not last forever."
"You did not get fortunate," Daenerys said firmly. "You fought with intelligence and skill and determination. You earned that victory. Do not diminish it."
"Perhaps," Jon allowed. "But even if I did, it does not change the reality of tomorrow's matches. I will do my best. I will fight as hard as I can. But I make no promises about the outcome."
"And if you do win?" Daenerys pressed. "If you defeat them both and advance to the finals? If you become the champion of the entire tourney?"
Jon was quiet for a moment, considering. "Then I suppose I will have to crown someone Queen of Love and Beauty. Which will be awkward, as I barely know any women here beyond my family, and crowning family would be strange, and crowning anyone else would feel false."
He did not say what they were both thinking—that crowning Daenerys would be impossible, scandalous, the kind of gesture that would set tongues wagging for years and create complications neither of them needed.
But Daenerys was looking at him with those purple eyes, and he saw the question in them, the hope that she was trying to suppress but could not quite hide.
She wants me to crown her, Jon realized. If I win, she wants me to make that gesture, regardless of the scandal it would cause.
It was madness. Complete madness. The kind of choice that would have consequences far beyond a simple tourney tradition.
But looking at Daenerys now, Jon found himself thinking that maybe madness was not always a bad thing.
Maybe sometimes, madness was just another word for courage.
"I should go," Daenerys said reluctantly as Missandei cleared her throat softly from where she had been waiting by the tent entrance. "I have been here too long already, and the risk grows with every moment."
"Yes," Jon agreed, though he did not want her to leave, did not want this stolen hour to end. "You should go."
Daenerys rose, and Jon rose with her. They stood facing each other, and the air between them felt charged with all the things they could not say, all the possibilities they could not acknowledge.
"Win tomorrow," Daenerys said softly. "Not for glory or pride or to prove anything to anyone else. But for yourself. Because you deserve to know you are the best, not just competent or adequate but truly extraordinary. Promise me you will try."
"I promise," Jon said, and realized he meant it.
Daenerys reached up and touched his face, just once, her fingers gentle against his cheek. Then she pulled her hood up, nodded to Missandei, and slipped out of his tent into the night.
Jon stood alone in the sudden silence and wondered what he had just done.
What they had both just done.
And what would happen when the dawn came and reality reasserted itself with all its complications and impossibilities.
But for now, for this one stolen hour, Jon allowed himself to feel something he had not felt in years—hope that maybe, just maybe, some choices were worth making even when they seemed impossible.
Even when the whole world said they were wrong.
Even when winter was coming and everything was about to get far more complicated than it already was.
Tomorrow, Jon thought. Tomorrow I fight. Tomorrow I prove myself one way or another.
And then... we will see what choices remain.
He did not let himself think beyond that.
He could not afford to.
Not when hope was such a dangerous thing, and Daenerys Targaryen was perhaps the most dangerous hope of all.

Chapter Text

Jon woke before dawn with a clarity of purpose he had not felt since his early days in Essos, when each morning brought the simple question of survival. Today there would be no philosophical complications, no worrying about propriety or politics or impossible princesses. Today there was only combat—pure, straightforward, honest.
He welcomed it.
His opponent in the semifinals had been determined late the previous evening: Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Ser Jaime had defeated his own opponent but withdrawn from the tournament citing an old injury aggravated during the match—though the knowing looks exchanged among the veterans suggested the Kingslayer simply had no desire to face his legendary colleague with Dawn in hand.
Which meant Jon would face his uncle. The man who had loved his mother. The man who carried a sword forged from a fallen star.
Good, Jon thought as he dressed in his armor with Torren's help. Better to face the best than to win through forfeit.
"You are unusually calm," Torren observed as he secured the straps on Jon's breastplate. "Most men facing Arthur Dayne would be terrified."
"Most men did not spend years fighting for survival in Essos," Jon replied. "Ser Arthur is skilled, perhaps the most skilled knight in Westeros. But he is still just a man. He bleeds like anyone else."
"Dawn is not just any sword."
"It is Valyrian steel," Jon said. "Or something close to it. Sharper and stronger than castle-forged weapons. That makes Arthur dangerous, but it does not make him invincible. Every advantage can be countered if you understand it properly."
Torren grinned, the expression fierce. "There is the captain I followed from Meereen. For a few days, I thought lordship had made you soft. Good to know the sellsword is still in there."
"The sellsword never left," Jon said. "I simply learned when to hide him behind courtesy. Today, courtesy would be a disadvantage. Today, I need to be what I was in Essos—a man who fights to win, not to perform."
"Ser Arthur will expect a tourney joust," Torren said thoughtfully. "Traditional passes, broken lances, all very proper and knightly. What will you give him instead?"
"Whatever works," Jon said simply. "If traditional passes serve me, I will use them. If I need to do something unexpected, I will do that instead. The goal is victory, not adherence to convention."
"The judges may not approve."
"The judges can approve or disapprove as they please," Jon replied, settling his sword at his hip even though it would not be used in the joust. The weight of it was comforting, a reminder of who he was beneath the borrowed armor and unfamiliar setting. "I am here to compete, not to win their favor."
They made their way to the lists as the sun climbed higher, burning off the morning mist. The viewing stands were already filling—word had spread that the bastard sellsword would face the legendary Sword of the Morning, and everyone wanted to witness what would surely be either an upset for the ages or a swift reminder of the gap between reputation and reality.
Jon scanned the royal stand and found Daenerys already seated, wearing a gown of deep crimson today, her hair woven with what looked like small white flowers. Their eyes met across the distance, and something passed between them—acknowledgment of what had happened the night before, perhaps, or simply shared understanding that today's outcome mattered more than either of them wanted to admit.
Then Arthur Dayne rode into view, and Jon's attention shifted entirely.
His uncle was a striking figure in his white armor adorned with falling stars, mounted on a black destrier that moved with the grace of a warhorse trained for years. But it was the sword at his side that drew every eye—Dawn, the legendary blade forged from the heart of a fallen star, its pale metal seeming to glow with its own light in the morning sun.
Arthur guided his horse to where Jon waited near the starting position. When he removed his helm, his expression was serious but not unfriendly.
"Jon," he said quietly, using his name rather than title. "I wanted to speak with you before the match. What I said the other night—about Ashara, about House Dayne—I meant it. Regardless of what happens today, you are family. That matters to me, even if it means nothing to you."
Jon studied the man before him—his mother's lover, the knight who had served the Targaryens with absolute loyalty, the warrior whose reputation was built on decades of victories. He saw genuine emotion in Arthur's eyes, honest regard that had nothing to do with politics or positioning.
"It means something," Jon said finally. "I do not know what yet, but it means something. Thank you for telling me."
Arthur nodded, clearly relieved. "When we face each other in the lists, I will not hold back. You deserve my best, not my mercy. But know that I will take no pleasure in defeating you, should that be the outcome."
"And if I defeat you?" Jon asked.
Arthur smiled, and it transformed his serious face into something warmer. "Then I will be the first to congratulate you, nephew. And I suspect Ashara would be very proud, wherever her spirit rests."
The words hit Jon harder than he expected, threatening the calm he had built. He pushed the emotion down, locked it away for later consideration. Today was about combat, not feelings.
"May the best man win," Jon said.
"May the best man win," Arthur echoed, and rode to his starting position.
The herald announced them both—"Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, wielder of Dawn and champion of countless tournaments, against Lord Jon Snow of Sea Dragon Point, victor over Ser Barristan Selmy and advancing from the eastern bracket"—and the crowd roared its approval.
Jon lowered his visor, adjusted his shield, and took his lance from the attendant. The weight was familiar now after days of practice and competition. He had learned the peculiarities of jousting, the timing and balance required, the way to read an opponent's approach.
But this was different. This was Arthur Dayne. This was a man who had been perfecting his craft since before Jon was born.
The trumpet sounded.
Jon spurred his horse forward, and the world narrowed to motion and calculation. Arthur's approach was textbook perfect—lance steady, posture balanced, every movement the product of decades of training. There were no openings, no telegraph of intent, nothing Jon could exploit.
So he did not try to exploit anything. He simply rode, aimed for center mass of Arthur's shield, and braced for impact.
The lances struck simultaneously, and Jon felt the jar run through his entire body. Arthur's strike was precise, powerful, delivered with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Jon's own lance shattered against Arthur's shield, but the older knight's lance shattered as well, both of them absorbing the impacts and maintaining their seats.
First pass—a draw.
They took fresh lances and charged again.
This time Jon watched Arthur's approach more carefully, noting the subtle shift of weight just before impact, the way the Sword of the Morning positioned his shield to maximize deflection while maintaining offensive threat. It was beautiful, in its way—the product of a lifetime devoted to mastery of a single art.
But Jon had not spent his years learning perfection. He had spent them learning adaptation.
On the second pass, Jon adjusted his aim at the last possible moment, targeting not the center of Arthur's shield but the upper edge, where the angle was less favorable for deflection. His lance struck and shattered, the force of it driving Arthur backward in his saddle.
But Arthur held his seat, his decades of experience keeping him mounted through sheer muscle memory and skill.
Second pass—advantage to Jon, but not decisive.
The third pass would determine the bout.
Jon's arms ached from the repeated impacts, his shoulder protesting the abuse. But pain was familiar, manageable. He had fought through worse in Essos, had kept moving when he should have collapsed from exhaustion or wounds. This was nothing compared to that.
As they prepared for the third pass, Jon made a decision. Traditional jousting had gotten him this far, but tradition would not defeat Arthur Dayne. He needed something unexpected, something that would use his advantages—speed, adaptability, willingness to break convention—against Arthur's mastery of conventional technique.
The trumpet sounded a third time.
Jon charged, but instead of maintaining the straight line of a traditional joust, he altered his angle slightly halfway through the approach. It was a risky maneuver, technically against the spirit of jousting if not the explicit rules, but it changed the geometry of the engagement in his favor.
Arthur adjusted—of course he adjusted, he was too skilled not to—but the adjustment took a fraction of a second, disrupted his perfect form just enough to create an opening.
Jon's lance struck Arthur's shield at an extreme angle, sliding past the edge and catching the Sword of the Morning in the shoulder. Not a clean hit, not the kind that would score maximum points in traditional judging, but effective—Arthur went backward, his own lance missing entirely as he fought to maintain balance.
And this time, decades of experience were not enough.
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, the greatest knight in Westeros, went over his horse's rear and landed hard in the dirt.
The crowd went silent for a heartbeat, stunned.
Then they erupted.
Jon barely heard them. He was too focused on Arthur, making sure his uncle was not seriously injured, that the unconventional strike had not caused lasting harm. But Arthur was rising, removing his helm, and to Jon's surprise, he was smiling.
"Clever," Arthur said as Jon dismounted and approached. "That angle change was not traditional jousting. It was combat thinking applied to a tournament setting. Well done, nephew."
"I apologize if the technique was inappropriate—" Jon started, but Arthur waved him off.
"Inappropriate? No. Unexpected? Yes. Effective? Absolutely." He clasped Jon's forearm with genuine respect. "You fought like a man who learned combat was about winning rather than performing. That is a compliment, Jon. I have faced dozens of opponents who were technically perfect and utterly predictable. You were neither. It was... refreshing. And humbling."
"You honor me, Ser Arthur."
"No," Arthur said quietly, his voice pitched for Jon's ears alone. "You honor Ashara's memory. She would have loved watching you fight. You have her stubbornness, her refusal to accept limitations others tried to impose. Never lose that, Jon. Never let them make you smaller than you are."
The words settled into Jon's chest, warm and painful and precious. He managed a nod, not trusting his voice.
Arthur stepped back and raised Jon's hand to the crowd, acknowledging the victor, and the roar intensified. Jon stood in the lists, acutely aware of thousands of eyes upon him, of the enormity of what he had just accomplished.
He had defeated Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning. The greatest knight in Westeros.
He was advancing to the finals.
Gods help me, Jon thought. What have I done?

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Jon was congratulated by what felt like every person at Harrenhal, each interaction blending into the next until he could barely remember who he had spoken with or what he had said. His father's pride was evident, Robb's excitement was infectious, even Lady Catelyn managed a stiff acknowledgment of his accomplishment.
But through it all, Jon was aware of Daenerys watching him from the royal stand, her expression impossible to read at that distance.
The finals would be held the following day—one final match to determine the tournament's champion. Jon's opponent would be Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, who had advanced through the western bracket with victories that were as much about showmanship as skill.
Jon should have been nervous about facing him. Should have been planning strategy, analyzing Loras's technique, preparing for the final bout.
Instead, he found himself thinking about what came after. About the tradition of crowning the Queen of Love and Beauty. About choices and consequences and impossible princesses with purple eyes.
He was still thinking about it as evening fell and he retired to his tent, grateful for solitude after a day of constant attention. Torren had posted guards, warned them to turn away all visitors except for family, and Jon had gratefully collapsed onto his cot.
He had perhaps an hour of peace before he heard a commotion outside—voices raised, his guards protesting, and then a familiar voice cutting through the noise with royal authority.
"I am the king's sister. You will let me pass, or you will explain to Ser Barristan why you prevented a princess from congratulating Lord Snow on his remarkable victory."
No, Jon thought desperately. Not again. Not here, not now, not when people are watching...
But even as the thought formed, Daenerys was pushing into his tent, Missandei following with an apologetic expression, and Jon's guards looking deeply uncomfortable about the situation but unable to refuse a direct command from royalty.
"Your Grace," Jon said, rising quickly and bowing. "This is... unexpected."
"Is it?" Daenerys asked, and there was challenge in her voice, in her eyes. "You defeated the Sword of the Morning, Jon Snow. You advanced to the finals of the most prestigious tournament in recent memory. Did you truly think I would not come to congratulate you?"
"I hoped you would not," Jon said honestly. "Your Grace, every time we meet, the gossip intensifies. People are already speculating about why you have shown such interest in a bastard sellsword. Another private meeting will only make things worse."
"Let them speculate," Daenerys said dismissively. "Let them gossip and whisper and invent whatever narratives they please. I came to speak with you because I wanted to speak with you, and I am tired of letting fear of scandal dictate my actions."
"Daenerys—" Jon started, then caught himself, glanced at Missandei standing near the entrance. The handmaiden's expression was carefully neutral, but Jon suspected she heard everything, understood far more than she let on.
"Missandei knows," Daenerys said, following his gaze. "She has known from the beginning. She will not speak of what she hears or sees here. You can trust her as I trust her."
Jon wanted to argue that trust was irrelevant, that the risk was too great regardless of who could be trusted. But Daenerys was already moving deeper into his tent, claiming the space with the unconscious authority of someone raised to believe the world would accommodate her presence.
"You were extraordinary today," she said, her voice softening. "I have watched tournaments before, watched skilled knights compete. But I have never seen anything like what you did against Ser Arthur. The way you adapted, the way you changed the geometry of the engagement—it was brilliant. Not just skilled, but intelligent. You fought with your mind as much as your body."
"I fought to win," Jon corrected. "That is all."
"That is not all," Daenerys insisted. "You fought with creativity and courage and refusal to be bound by convention. You faced one of the greatest knights in history and you defeated him not by matching his perfection but by doing something he did not expect. Do you have any idea how remarkable that is?"
"It was one victory," Jon said. "Tomorrow I face Ser Loras, and he is no less skilled than Ser Arthur. Younger, faster, more comfortable with tournament conventions. I may have reached the finals, but that does not mean I will win them."
"Stop," Daenerys said, her voice sharp. "Stop diminishing yourself. Stop pretending your accomplishments are nothing. You have earned the right to acknowledge your own skill, Jon Snow. Why will you not take it?"
"Because acknowledging it would mean accepting that I am good enough," Jon said, the words coming out harsher than he intended. "And if I am good enough—if I am truly as skilled as you claim—then I have no excuse for all the things I have not done, all the risks I have not taken, all the possibilities I have dismissed as impossible. It is easier to believe I am merely adequate, merely surviving through fortune and stubbornness. Believing I am actually extraordinary would require me to reconsider everything."
Daenerys was watching him with those penetrating eyes, seeing too much as always. "What possibilities have you dismissed as impossible?"
You, Jon thought but could not say. This. Us.
"Your Grace," he said instead, "why are you really here? Not to congratulate me, I think. You could have done that publicly, with proper witnesses and distance. You came here, privately, risking scandal. Why?"
Daenerys was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "Because tomorrow you will fight in the finals. And if you win—when you win—you will crown someone Queen of Love and Beauty. And I needed to know... I needed to ask..."
She trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the question.
But Jon understood what she was asking. What she wanted to know.
"If I win," Jon said carefully, "I will have to make a choice. Crown someone appropriate—a sister, perhaps, or some lady I barely know—and maintain proper distance and propriety. Or crown someone I should not crown, someone far above my station, someone whose crowning would cause scandal and speculation and complications for both of us."
"And which will you choose?" Daenerys asked.
Jon looked at her—really looked at her. Saw not the princess but the woman. Saw her hope and fear and desperate desire for him to choose her despite all the reasons he should not.
"I do not know," Jon admitted. "I should choose propriety. I should protect both of us from the consequences of a choice everyone would call madness. But looking at you now, I find I do not want to make the sensible choice. I want to make the honest choice. I want to crown the woman who has challenged me, who has seen me, who has made me want things I have spent my entire life telling myself were impossible."
"Then do it," Daenerys whispered. "When you win tomorrow—and you will win, Jon Snow, I believe that with absolute certainty—crown me. Let them gossip. Let them speculate. Let them be scandalized. We will deal with the consequences together."
"The consequences could be severe," Jon warned. "Your brother may object. The court will certainly object. There will be those who say I am reaching above my station, trying to use your interest for advancement—"
"I do not care," Daenerys interrupted fiercely. "I do not care what they say or think or believe. For once in my life, I want to be chosen. Not for political advantage, not for alliance, not because it is appropriate. I want to be chosen because someone looked at me and decided I was worth the risk. Can you do that, Jon? Can you choose me?"
Jon felt the weight of the question, the enormity of what she was asking. This was not just about a tournament tradition. This was about declaring publicly that something existed between them, something neither of them fully understood but both felt with undeniable certainty.
"If I crown you," Jon said slowly, "there is no going back. The moment I place those flowers on your head, everything changes. For both of us. You understand that?"
"I understand," Daenerys said. "And I am asking you to do it anyway."
Jon stood looking at her, at the princess who had somehow become the center of his world in a matter of days, and made his decision.
"Then I will crown you," he said. "When I win tomorrow—if I win tomorrow—I will crown you Queen of Love and Beauty. And damn the consequences."
The smile that broke across Daenerys's face was brilliant, transforming her entirely. She stepped forward and kissed him, fierce and quick and full of promise.
"Win tomorrow," she said when they broke apart. "Not for glory or honor or anything else. Win because I want to wear those flowers you give me and let the whole realm know that you chose me."
"I will do my best," Jon promised.
"Your best is extraordinary," Daenerys said. "I believe that even if you do not."
She left then, Missandei trailing behind, and Jon was alone once more with his thoughts and his choices and his certainty that tomorrow would change everything.
One more match, he told himself. One more victory. And then...
And then he would crown a princess and face whatever consequences came from that choice.
Winter was coming, indeed.
But first, Jon Snow would claim his victory and make his declaration and prove—if only to himself—that maybe, just maybe, bastards could reach for impossible things and not be destroyed in the attempt.
Maybe extraordinary was possible after all.
Even for someone born in shame and raised in shadow.
Even for a bastard who had dared to dream beyond his station.
Tomorrow, he would find out.

Chapter Text

The morning of the final dawned gray and threatening, clouds gathering in the east like an omen. Jon stood outside his tent watching the sky lighten and tried not to think about what the day would bring beyond the immediate challenge of defeating Ser Loras Tyrell.
One match at a time, he reminded himself. Win first. Deal with consequences after.
But his mind would not cooperate, kept circling back to Daenerys, to the promise he had made, to the choice he would have to make public before thousands of witnesses. The choice that would mark him as either brave or foolish, depending on who was doing the judging.
"You are thinking too much," Torren said, approaching with bread and cheese for breakfast. "I can see it in your face. Whatever is troubling you, put it aside. Today you need to be the sellsword captain, not the lord with complicated court entanglements."
"The complications are unavoidable," Jon said, accepting the food even though he had little appetite. "Today's outcome will affect more than just a tournament ranking."
"Then affect it after you win," Torren said bluntly. "Right now, Ser Loras Tyrell is your only concern. Everything else can wait."
Jon knew his friend was right, forced himself to focus on the immediate tactical problem. Ser Loras was younger than Arthur, faster, and more comfortable with tournament conventions. He had earned his reputation through consistent victories in competitions across Westeros, and while some dismissed him as more show than substance, Jon knew better than to underestimate an opponent based on appearance or reputation.
The Knight of Flowers was dangerous precisely because people expected him to be decorative rather than deadly.
"What do you know about his technique?" Jon asked.
"He favors speed over power," Torren replied, shifting into the analytical mode that had made him an effective second-in-command in Essos. "Quick strikes, multiple angles, trying to unbalance opponents before delivering the decisive blow. He is excellent at reading his opponent's timing and exploiting any hesitation or uncertainty."
"So patience is key," Jon mused. "Do not give him openings to exploit. Maintain defensive discipline. Force him to commit to power strikes rather than allowing him to control the pace with speed."
"Easier said than done," Torren warned. "He has been practicing tournament jousting his entire life. You have been doing it for less than a week. His technical perfection in this specific format gives him a significant advantage."
"Technical perfection can be a weakness," Jon countered. "It makes you predictable. If Loras is as technically perfect as everyone claims, then I know what he will do before he does it. That gives me the counter-advantage of adaptation."
Torren grinned. "There is the tactical mind I followed across Essos. Use it well today, Captain. You are three passes away from becoming tournament champion."
"Or three passes away from being unhorsed by a man who decorates his armor with flowers," Jon said dryly.
"Would not be the worst defeat," Torren said with a shrug. "At least the songs would be pretty."
Despite his nerves, Jon found himself almost smiling.

The tournament grounds were packed beyond capacity when Jon arrived. Every viewing stand was filled, with crowds standing three and four deep around the perimeter. This was the final bout, the culmination of days of competition, and everyone wanted to witness who would emerge as champion.
Jon made his way to the competitors' area and found Ser Loras already there, surrounded by a coterie of admirers—mostly young ladies but also several young lords, all praising his victories and expressing certainty he would triumph. The Knight of Flowers accepted their adulation with gracious smiles, looking every inch the perfect knight in armor decorated with golden roses, his horse caparisoned in matching green and gold.
He was beautiful, Jon had to admit. The kind of beautiful that made people want to watch him, to bask in his presence, to believe in the songs about chivalry and honor and noble knights.
Everything Jon was not.
"Lord Snow." Loras extracted himself from his admirers and approached, his smile friendly but his eyes assessing. "Congratulations on your victories thus far. You have proven yourself a formidable competitor."
"As have you, Ser Loras," Jon replied with careful courtesy. "Your reputation is well-earned."
"How diplomatic," Loras said, and there was something like amusement in his tone. "I was worried you might be as blunt as your reputation suggests. It is refreshing to find you capable of courtly manners when the situation calls for them."
Jon was not certain whether that was a compliment or a subtle insult, so he simply inclined his head and said nothing.
"Tell me," Loras continued, "who will you crown if you win today? That is the question on everyone's lips. The bastard who reached the finals—who could he possibly choose as his Queen of Love and Beauty? Some say you will crown one of your sisters, to honor House Stark. Others speculate you will make a political choice, crown some lady to curry favor with her house. But I wonder..."
He paused, his smile sharpening. "I wonder if perhaps your choice has already been made. If perhaps a certain princess with an unusual interest in bastard sellswords has already claimed that honor, should you be fortunate enough to grant it."
Jon's expression did not change, but inwardly he cursed. If Loras knew, or suspected, then others did as well. The gossip had spread further than he realized.
"Who I might crown is hardly your concern, Ser Loras," Jon said coldly. "Your concern should be the match we are about to fight."
"Oh, I am not concerned about that," Loras said with easy confidence. "I have been jousting since I could sit a horse. You are skilled, Lord Snow, I grant you that. Your victory over Ser Arthur was impressive. But tournament jousting is not the same as combat, and I fear your Essos experience has not prepared you for the specific demands of this format."
"Perhaps you are right," Jon allowed. "Or perhaps you are underestimating me because you see a bastard in borrowed armor rather than a man who has won his way to this final through legitimate skill. Either way, we will know the truth soon enough."
Loras's smile faded slightly. "Do not mistake courtesy for weakness, Lord Snow. I intend to win this tournament. And I intend to crown Margaery Tyrell as my queen, cementing the alliance between our houses and demonstrating the proper order of things. Your... aspirations, whatever they might be, will come to nothing."
So it was about Daenerys. About preventing the scandal of a bastard crowning a princess, about maintaining proper hierarchies and political arrangements.
Jon felt anger flare, hot and sharp, and had to force it down. Anger was a disadvantage in combat. Anger made you reckless, made you sloppy.
"May the best man win," Jon said flatly, turning away.
"Oh, he will," Loras replied. "I assure you of that."

The herald's announcement drew the crowd's full attention—"The final bout of the grand tournament! Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, three-time champion of the Highgarden tourney, against Lord Jon Snow of Sea Dragon Point, victor over Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne!"
The crowd roared its approval, the sound almost physical in its intensity. Jon mounted his gray destrier, settled his shield, and scanned the viewing stands until he found what he was looking for.
The royal stand. The crimson and black banners. And there, in a gown of palest blue today, her silver-gold hair woven with crystals that caught the light—Daenerys.
Their eyes met across the distance, and Jon saw in her face a mirror of his own determination. She believed he would win. Expected him to win. Wanted him to win so he could make the choice they had both agreed to.
Do not let her down, Jon told himself. Whatever else happens today, do not let her down.
He lowered his visor, took his lance, and moved to his starting position.
Loras was already in place, his posture perfect, his bearing confident. He looked like a painting of the ideal knight, the kind of figure that inspired songs and stories about chivalry and honor.
Jon looked like a sellsword in borrowed armor. Functional rather than beautiful. Practical rather than inspiring.
But he had learned long ago that beauty did not win battles. Skill did. Determination did. Willingness to do whatever was necessary for victory.
The trumpet sounded.
They charged.
Loras's approach was technically flawless—perfect balance, perfect positioning, lance aimed with textbook precision at the center of Jon's shield. It was beautiful to watch, the kind of display that would have drawn applause even without the competitive element.
But Jon was not watching for beauty. He was watching for patterns, for tells, for any indication of what Loras would do in the microsecond before impact.
And he saw it—the slight tensing of Loras's shoulder, the minute adjustment of angle that telegraphed his strike point.
Jon shifted his shield a fraction, deflecting rather than absorbing, and drove his own lance forward with all his strength.
The impact was tremendous. Both lances shattered, splinters flying, and Jon felt himself driven backward in his saddle. But he held his seat, his years of experience with horseback combat keeping him mounted through pure muscle memory.
Loras also held his seat, but barely. The Knight of Flowers had clearly expected an easier first pass, had not anticipated Jon's power or precision.
First pass—a draw, but psychological advantage to Jon.
They took fresh lances and charged again.
This time Loras adjusted his technique, going for speed over power, trying to strike before Jon could set his defense. It was a sound tactical decision, exploiting his natural advantage in quickness.
But Jon had fought faster opponents in Essos, had learned to read speed and counter it with timing rather than trying to match it.
He waited until the last possible moment, then shifted his lance angle sharply, catching Loras's shield at an oblique angle that redirected the force while allowing Jon's own strike to land more solidly.
Another massive impact. Another pair of shattered lances. Another pass where both riders maintained their seats, but where Jon's strike had been more effective.
Second pass—advantage to Jon.
The crowd was roaring now, sensing an upset, excited by the prospect of the bastard sellsword defeating yet another legendary knight.
One more pass. One more chance for either of them to claim victory.
Jon's arms were screaming in protest, his whole body aching from the repeated impacts. But he pushed the pain aside, focused entirely on the immediate challenge.
Loras looked frustrated now, his perfect composure cracking slightly. The Knight of Flowers was not used to being matched, let alone surpassed. His entire identity was built on being the best, the most skilled, the champion everyone expected to win.
And Jon was ruining that narrative with stubborn refusal to lose.
The third trumpet sounded.
They charged one final time.
Jon watched Loras's approach with the intensity of a man whose life depended on it. He saw the anger in the way Loras sat his saddle, the determination to end this with overwhelming force. The Knight of Flowers was abandoning his speed advantage, going for a power strike that would definitively prove his superiority.
Mistake, Jon thought. Playing to your opponent's strength is always a mistake.
At the last moment, Jon did something that was probably against tournament conventions, possibly against the explicit rules, but definitely effective—he rose slightly in his stirrups, lifting his shield high and his lance low, completely inverting the traditional defensive posture.
Loras's lance, aimed for where Jon's shield should have been, caught nothing but air. His eyes widened in surprise behind his visor as he realized what Jon had done.
Jon's lance, angled low and rising, caught Loras squarely in the chest. The force of the impact, combined with Loras's own momentum and the surprise of the unconventional strike, lifted the Knight of Flowers out of his saddle and sent him tumbling backward over his horse's rear.
He landed hard, his armor clanging against the packed earth.
The crowd went absolutely silent.
Then they exploded with noise that shook the very stands—cheering, shouting, disbelief and excitement mingling in equal measure.
Jon barely heard it. He was focused on Loras, making sure the young knight was not seriously injured, that his unconventional technique had not caused lasting harm.
But Loras was rising, removing his helm with movements that were stiff but functional. His face was flushed with anger and embarrassment, but he walked to where Jon had dismounted and extended his hand with visible effort.
"That was not a proper joust," Loras said, his voice tight. "That final pass—what you did was against the spirit of tournament convention."
"But not against the rules," Jon replied quietly. "I fought to win, Ser Loras. If you wanted me to lose gracefully while adhering to convention, you chose the wrong opponent."
Loras's jaw tightened, but he managed a stiff nod. "Congratulations, Lord Snow. You are the tournament champion. May you... enjoy your victory."
The words were bitter, graceless, nothing like the courteous acknowledgment Ser Arthur or Ser Barristan had given. But Jon supposed he could not blame the young knight for being angry. Loras had expected to win, had planned to crown his future sister-by-marriage and cement his family's position.
And Jon had ruined all of that with stubborn competence and willingness to break from tradition.
The herald was announcing something—proclaiming Jon the victor, calling for the crowning ceremony—but Jon barely processed the words. His mind was already moving forward to the next moment, the choice he would have to make public, the consequence he had agreed to face.
A servant approached carrying the crown of winter roses, delicate blue-white flowers woven into a circlet. The traditional crown for the Queen of Love and Beauty, granted by the tournament champion to the lady of his choice.
Jon took the crown, felt its weight in his hands, and looked up at the viewing stands.
At the royal stand where Daenerys sat watching him with barely concealed anticipation.
At his father's box where Ned Stark watched with an expression of dawning realization and concern.
At the hundreds, thousands of nobles and common folk waiting to see what the bastard would do, who he would choose, what statement he would make with this single symbolic gesture.
Jon knew what he should do. Crown Sansa, his half-sister, and make it a gesture of familial affection that would raise no eyebrows. Crown some other lady, someone politically neutral, and avoid complications entirely.
Play it safe. Be sensible. Protect himself and Daenerys from the scandal they both knew was coming.
But Jon Snow had spent his entire life being sensible, being cautious, protecting himself from hurt and rejection and the constant reminder that bastards did not reach for things above their station.
And he was done with that.
He was done being small.
Done being careful.
Done pretending he did not want things that terrified him.
Jon walked to where the horses were tethered, mounted his gray destrier, and rode toward the viewing stands. The crowd fell silent again, watching, waiting to see where he would go.
Jon rode past the Stark section, saw his father's warning expression, his sister Sansa's hopeful face.
Rode past the Tyrell section, where Margaery Tyrell watched with calculating eyes.
Rode past all the other noble houses until he reached the royal stand.
He dismounted, climbed the steps to where the royal family sat, and every eye in Harrenhal followed his progress.
King Rhaegar was watching him with an expression Jon could not read. Queen Elia looked intrigued. Prince Aegon seemed confused. Prince Viserys looked outraged, as if already offended by what Jon was about to do.
And Daenerys—Daenerys was looking at him with such hope, such desperate hope, that Jon felt his chest constrict.
He stopped before her, the crown of winter roses in his hands, and the world held its breath.
"Princess Daenerys Targaryen," Jon said, his voice carrying across the sudden silence, "you have honored me with your attention and your faith in my abilities. You have challenged me to be more than I believed I could be, to reach beyond what I thought was possible. It would be my great honor if you would accept this crown and the title of Queen of Love and Beauty, granted by one who has been granted far more than he deserved simply by knowing you."
The words were not courtly, not polished, not what a proper knight would say in a song. They were honest, raw, spoken from the heart rather than calculation.
Daenerys rose from her seat, her eyes bright with emotion that might have been tears or joy or both, and bowed her head to accept the crown.
Jon placed the circlet of winter roses on her silver-gold hair, his hands steady despite the enormity of what he was doing.
As he stepped back, the implications of his choice crashed over the assembly like a wave. A bastard had crowned a princess. Had declared publicly, before thousands of witnesses, that she was worthy of his honor, that he valued her above all other ladies present.
It echoed the last tournament at Harrenhal, when Rhaegar had crowned Lyanna Stark instead of his wife. That gesture had started a war.
This gesture... no one yet knew what this gesture would start.
The crowd's reaction was mixed—some cheered, caught up in the romantic gesture. Others whispered furiously, scandalized by the impropriety. Still others simply watched, waiting to see what would happen next.
But Jon was not watching the crowd. He was watching Daenerys, who was looking back at him with a smile that made everything—the scandal, the complications, the impossible nature of what had just begun—worth it.
"Thank you," she said softly, meant only for him despite the hundreds watching. "Thank you for choosing me."
"Thank you for being worth choosing," Jon replied.
And there, before the king and the assembled lords of Westeros, before his father and his family and everyone who had ever dismissed him as just a bastard, Jon Snow had made his declaration.
Had reached for something impossible.
Had proven—at least to himself—that maybe extraordinary was possible after all.
Even for a bastard born in shame and raised in shadow.
Even for a man who had spent his life being told he did not deserve to dream.
Winter was coming.
But first, Jon Snow had claimed his victory, made his choice, and set in motion events that would change everything.
For better or worse, the die was cast.
And as he descended from the royal stand, as the crowd's reaction shifted from shock to excitement to scandal, Jon found he had no regrets.
He had chosen honestly.
Had chosen bravely.
Had chosen Daenerys.
And whatever consequences came from that choice, they would face them together.
Just as she had asked.
Just as he had promised.
The game had changed.
And Jon Snow was done playing it safe.

Chapter Text

The feast that night should have been a celebration. King Rhaegar had spared no expense—the Great Hall blazed with a thousand candles, musicians played from the galleries, and course after course of elaborate dishes were paraded before the assembled nobility. Jon sat at the place of honor, as befitted the tournament champion, with a purse of gold at his elbow and congratulations ringing in his ears from every direction.
But the atmosphere was thick with tension that had nothing to do with celebration and everything to do with the choice he had made that afternoon.
Jon could feel the weight of judgment pressing down from every corner of the hall. Some nobles watched him with open hostility—he had broken protocol, had reached above his station, had committed a breach of propriety that would be discussed for years. Others watched with calculation, trying to determine what his crowning of Princess Daenerys meant for the political landscape, what alliances might shift, what opportunities might emerge.
And a few—very few—watched with something like approval or understanding.
His father was in the latter category, though Eddard's expression was more concerned than approving. Lady Catelyn sat rigid beside him, her face carved from ice, radiating disapproval so intense it was almost physical. Robb looked torn between pride in his brother's achievement and worry about the consequences. The younger children simply seemed confused by the adults' reactions.
But it was the royal table that drew most of Jon's attention, whether he wanted it to or not.
King Rhaegar sat at the center, his expression thoughtful, unreadable. He had not said a word to Jon since the crowning, had simply watched with those purple eyes that seemed to see far more than they revealed. Beside him, Queen Elia wore a small, knowing smile, as if she found the entire situation amusing rather than scandalous.
Prince Viserys looked furious, his face flushed with wine and anger. He kept shooting venomous glances at Jon, making no effort to hide his displeasure at a bastard daring to honor his sister so publicly.
And Daenerys—Daenerys wore the crown of winter roses in her silver-gold hair, and she was radiant. She had not stopped smiling since the ceremony, had not tried to hide her pleasure at Jon's choice. If anything, she seemed to be deliberately emphasizing her satisfaction, making it clear to everyone watching that she approved of what Jon had done, that she had wanted this, that whatever scandal resulted was worth it to her.
"You have created quite the situation," a voice said beside Jon, and he turned to find Tyrion Lannister settling into the adjacent seat with a cup of wine in each hand. The dwarf offered one cup to Jon with a sardonic smile. "Congratulations on your victory, Lord Snow. And on your remarkably bold choice of queen. I do not think Harrenhal has seen this much excitement since my father's last visit, and that ended with three dead horses and a minor diplomatic incident."
Jon accepted the wine warily. He had met Tyrion briefly during the tournament but had not spoken with him beyond basic courtesies. The dwarf had a reputation for cleverness and for saying uncomfortable truths that others preferred to ignore.
"Thank you, Lord Tyrion," Jon said carefully. "I simply honored the lady who most deserved honoring."
"Oh, do not give me that noble nonsense," Tyrion said cheerfully. "You crowned Princess Daenerys because you wanted to crown Princess Daenerys, propriety and consequences be damned. It was either the most romantic gesture I have witnessed in years or the most politically suicidal, depending on how the next few days unfold. Possibly both."
"You think it was a mistake," Jon said flatly.
"I think it was bold," Tyrion corrected. "Mistakes and bold gestures are not always the same thing, though they often look identical until time reveals which is which. Tell me, Lord Snow, did you plan this? Or did you act on impulse?"
Jon considered the question, decided honesty was the safest answer with someone as perceptive as Tyrion. "A bit of both. I knew I would crown her if I won. But I did not fully consider the implications until I was climbing those steps with the crown in my hands."
"And yet you did it anyway," Tyrion observed. "That takes either tremendous courage or tremendous stupidity. I am genuinely uncertain which. Though I confess I admire you for it, either way. Most men in your position would have chosen the safe option, crowned some innocuous lady, and avoided complications. You chose honesty instead. That is... refreshing. And dangerous."
"Why dangerous?" Jon asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"Because honesty at court is like blood in shark-infested waters," Tyrion said, taking a long drink of his wine. "It draws predators. You have just declared publicly that you value Princess Daenerys above all other ladies, that you are willing to risk scandal and social censure to honor her. That tells everyone watching several things—first, that you are attracted to the princess. Second, that she has shown enough interest in you to make your choice seem reciprocated rather than presumptuous. Third, that you are either unaware of proper protocol or simply do not care about it. And fourth, that you are potentially available to be used as a political tool by anyone clever enough to exploit your obvious attachment."
Jon felt cold settle in his stomach. "You think people will try to use this situation against me? Against her?"
"I think people are already trying," Tyrion said. "Look around this hall, Lord Snow. Really look. What do you see?"
Jon scanned the hall with the tactical awareness he had learned in Essos, looking past the surface celebration to the undercurrents beneath. And once he knew what to look for, the patterns became clear.
Lord Tywin Lannister was in deep conversation with several other lords, their expressions calculating. The Tyrells—Mace, Olenna, and Margaery—were clustered together, clearly strategizing about something. Various other factions were forming and reforming, alliances shifting in real-time as people adjusted to this new political reality.
"They are treating this like an opportunity," Jon said slowly.
"Of course they are," Tyrion confirmed. "You have just created an opening in the careful balance of court politics. Princess Daenerys was unmarried, sought after by dozens of suitors, a valuable piece in the game of thrones. You have now publicly declared your interest, and she has publicly accepted your honor. That changes calculations, creates possibilities, threatens existing plans. Some will try to use you to get closer to the princess. Others will try to destroy you to remove you as an obstacle to their own plans for her. Still others will simply try to exploit the situation for whatever advantage they can extract."
"I did not think—" Jon started.
"No, you did not," Tyrion interrupted, but not unkindly. "You acted from the heart rather than the head. That is admirable in its way, but it leaves you vulnerable. You are a skilled fighter, Lord Snow. You proved that in the tournament. But court intrigue is a different kind of combat, and I suspect you are considerably less prepared for it."
Jon wanted to deny it, but he could not. Tyrion was right—he knew how to fight with swords and lances, knew how to read tactical situations and plan military campaigns. But the subtle warfare of court politics, the careful maneuvering of alliances and reputation? That was foreign territory.
"What would you advise?" Jon asked.
Tyrion looked surprised by the direct question, then thoughtful. "You want my advice? Very well. First, expect the king to summon you for a private conversation. Rhaegar is many things, but careless is not one of them. He will want to understand your intentions regarding his sister before this situation escalates further. Be honest with him—he values honesty, and lies will only make things worse. Second, stay close to your father. Eddard Stark's reputation for honor will provide you some protection, and his political position as Warden of the North makes attacking you directly more complicated. Third, be prepared for various factions to approach you with offers—alliances, support, suggestions for how to 'properly' pursue Princess Daenerys. Listen to all of them, commit to none of them, and remember that everyone who offers help has their own agenda."
"You make it sound like I am in danger," Jon said.
"You are," Tyrion replied simply. "Not physical danger, necessarily, though Viserys looks like he would happily run you through if given the chance. But political danger? Social danger? The danger of being used and discarded by people more skilled at this game than you? Absolutely. You have made yourself important, Lord Snow. And important people at court are targets, whether they want to be or not."
"I just wanted to honor her," Jon said quietly. "I did not want all of this."
"Wanting and getting are often very different things," Tyrion said with something like sympathy. "But for what it is worth, I think you made the right choice. The romantic choice, certainly. Possibly the foolish choice. But the right one nonetheless. Princess Daenerys has spent her entire life surrounded by men who see her as a means to power. You see her as a person. That matters, even if it complicates everything."
Before Jon could respond, a servant approached and bowed. "Lord Snow, His Grace requests your presence in his private chambers. Immediately."
Jon's stomach dropped. Tyrion had predicted this, but Jon had not expected it to happen so quickly.
"There is your summons," Tyrion said, raising his cup in mock salute. "Good luck, Lord Snow. Try not to say anything that will get you executed or exiled. The realm has seen enough tragedy at Harrenhal already."

King Rhaegar's private chambers were in the Tower of Kingspyre, the tallest of Harrenhal's five towers. Jon climbed the stairs with mounting apprehension, acutely aware of the Kingsguard member—Ser Barristan Selmy—walking two paces behind him. Not threatening, but definitely present as a reminder of who held power in this situation.
The chambers themselves were appointed with careful taste—comfortable rather than ostentatious, functional rather than meant to intimidate. Rhaegar stood near the window overlooking the tournament grounds, still wearing his formal clothes from the feast but with his crown set aside on a nearby table.
He looked, Jon thought, like a man rather than a king. Tired. Thoughtful. Troubled.
"Lord Snow," Rhaegar said without turning from the window. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
Jon sat in the indicated chair, keeping his posture respectful but not servile. Whatever happened in this conversation, he would not grovel or apologize for honoring Daenerys. He had made his choice knowing it would have consequences. He would face those consequences with the same honesty that had led him to make the choice in the first place.
Rhaegar turned from the window and studied Jon with those penetrating purple eyes. "You have caused quite a stir, Lord Snow. The whole castle is buzzing with speculation about what your choice means, what your intentions are, whether you are remarkably brave or remarkably foolish."
"I suspect the truth is somewhere in between, Your Grace," Jon said.
"I suspect you are right." Rhaegar moved to sit in the chair opposite Jon, his posture relaxed but his gaze intent. "Tell me, Lord Snow, what are your intentions regarding my sister?"
It was a direct question that deserved a direct answer. Jon met the king's eyes and spoke honestly. "I do not know, Your Grace. I know I value her. I know she is extraordinary—intelligent, perceptive, trapped in circumstances she did not choose and handling them with grace despite her frustration. I know that when I am with her, I feel more myself than I have felt with anyone beyond my immediate family. But intentions? I am a bastard, Your Grace. I have no right to intentions regarding a princess, no matter what I might want."
"And yet you crowned her anyway," Rhaegar observed. "Publicly declared her worthy of your honor before thousands of witnesses. That suggests intentions, even if you have not consciously articulated them."
"It suggests I am honest about my feelings even when honesty is unwise," Jon corrected. "I crowned her because she deserved to be crowned, because she had asked me to, because pretending I felt nothing seemed like a worse betrayal than acknowledging the truth. But that does not mean I expect anything to come of it, Your Grace. I understand the realities of my position."
"Do you?" Rhaegar leaned forward slightly. "Tell me what you think those realities are, Lord Snow."
Jon took a breath, organized his thoughts. "I am baseborn. My blood is tainted by illegitimacy, regardless of my accomplishments or my father's acknowledgment. I am the son of Eddard Stark's supposed dishonor, a constant reminder of his one moral failing. I am Lord of a minor holding in the North, newly established, with no history and limited resources. I command troops, yes, and I have wealth from my time in Essos. But I am not a great lord. I am not even a legitimate lord in the eyes of many. I am tolerated because my father is powerful, but I am not valued for my own sake."
"Is that what you believe?" Rhaegar asked quietly.
"That is what I know," Jon said firmly. "I have spent my entire life being reminded of my status, Your Grace. Nothing I accomplish will ever fully erase the stain of bastardy. That is the reality of Westeros. Birth matters more than merit, blood matters more than achievement. And my blood is wrong."
Rhaegar was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he said, "What if I told you that your blood is not what you think it is?"
Jon felt his heart stutter. "Your Grace?"
"Your mother was Ashara Dayne," Rhaegar said carefully. "Ser Arthur's sister. That much is true. But your father..." He paused, seemed to wrestle with something. "Lord Snow, there are secrets that have been kept for nearly twenty years. Secrets that Eddard Stark swore to protect, secrets that I have honored because I understood why they needed to be kept. But perhaps... perhaps it is time for some truths to be acknowledged."
"What truths?" Jon asked, his voice hoarse.
"You asked about your mother's family, whether they hated you for her death," Rhaegar said. "Ser Arthur approached you about this, I believe. Told you that House Dayne has followed your career with pride. Did you ever wonder why? Why a great Dornish house would care about a Northern bastard, even one born to their daughter?"
"I assumed... guilt, perhaps," Jon said. "Or pity."
"Or family," Rhaegar said softly. "Lord Snow—Jon—I cannot tell you everything. That is your father's right, and he has reasons for keeping certain truths hidden that I must respect. But I can tell you this: you are not what you believe yourself to be. Your birth was not the simple dishonor it appears. There is more to your story, more to your bloodline, than the narrative of shame you have carried your entire life."
Jon felt the world tilt beneath him. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying that perhaps your blood is not as wrong as you believe," Rhaegar replied. "And that perhaps, if certain truths were revealed, your position regarding my sister would be... less impossible than it currently appears."
"You are talking in riddles, Your Grace," Jon said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "If you know something about my birth, about my parents, why not simply tell me? Why the cryptic suggestions and half-truths?"
"Because the full truth is not mine to tell," Rhaegar said, genuine regret in his voice. "It is a secret that has been kept for your protection, Jon. Your father believed—we all believed—that revealing it would put you in danger. Perhaps we were wrong. Perhaps the time has come for honesty. But that decision must be made by Eddard Stark, not by me."
"Then why bring it up at all?" Jon demanded. "Why hint at secrets if you will not reveal them?"
"Because you deserve to know that your situation is not as hopeless as you believe," Rhaegar said firmly. "Because I see in you the same thing my sister sees—honor, courage, genuine worth that has nothing to do with circumstances of birth. And because I will not stand in the way of Daenerys finding happiness, not when I understand better than most what it means to love someone you are told you cannot have."
The reference to Lyanna Stark hung unspoken between them—the woman Rhaegar had loved, had crowned at a tournament much like this one, whose disappearance had sparked a war that nearly destroyed everything.
"Your Grace," Jon said carefully, "are you saying you would support... something between myself and Princess Daenerys?"
"I am saying I would not oppose it," Rhaegar replied. "If certain conditions are met. If certain truths are revealed. If you prove yourself worthy not through combat—you have already done that—but through character and integrity and willingness to protect my sister's happiness above your own advancement."
"I would never use her for advancement," Jon said hotly.
"I know," Rhaegar said, and smiled. "That is one of the reasons I am having this conversation rather than simply forbidding you from any further contact with her. You genuinely care about Daenerys as a person, not as a princess or a political asset. That is rare at court. Precious, even. I would not destroy it without cause."
"But?" Jon prompted, hearing the qualification in Rhaegar's tone.
"But you must speak with your father," Rhaegar finished. "Soon. Tomorrow, if possible. Ask him about your mother. About your birth. About the secrets he has kept. And when you know the truth—the full truth—come back to me. We will discuss what might be possible between you and Daenerys. What I might be willing to support, despite the complications it would create."
Jon felt overwhelmed, his mind spinning with implications and questions. "What if my father refuses to tell me? What if the secrets remain secrets?"
"Then we will address that situation when it arises," Rhaegar said. "But I suspect your father knows the time has come for honesty. He saw what you did today, saw the choice you made. He knows what it means. And I believe he will tell you what you need to know, even if it frightens him to do so."
Rhaegar rose, and Jon rose with him, still reeling from everything the king had said and implied and carefully not said.
"One more thing, Lord Snow," Rhaegar said as Jon turned to leave. "My sister is precious to me. She is intelligent, strong-willed, and deserves happiness that has been denied her too long. If you pursue this—if you choose to act on what has begun between you—know that I will be watching. Not with hostility, but with care. If you hurt her, if you use her, if you prove unworthy of the trust she has placed in you... king or no king, brother's concern or royal authority, I will ensure you regret it. Am I clear?"
"Perfectly clear, Your Grace," Jon said. "And for what it is worth, I would expect nothing less. If I betray her trust, I will deserve whatever consequences come."
Rhaegar studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "I believe you mean that. Go, Jon Snow. Talk to your father. Learn the truths you need to learn. And then we will see what the future holds."
Jon bowed and left, his mind a chaos of questions and possibilities and fears. He descended the tower stairs in a daze, barely aware of his surroundings, trying to process everything Rhaegar had said.
Secrets about his birth. Truths that Eddard had kept hidden. Something about his blood that was not what it appeared.
What did it mean? What could it possibly mean?
Jon knew only one way to find out.
He needed to talk to his father.
Tonight.
Before courage failed him and uncertainty paralyzed him and all the careful walls Ned Stark had built around certain truths became impenetrable again.
Tonight, Jon would demand answers.
And tomorrow, perhaps, he would finally understand who and what he really was.
Whether that understanding would help or hurt his impossible situation with Daenerys remained to be seen.
But at least he would know the truth.
After twenty years of living with half-truths and comfortable lies, Jon Snow would finally know the truth about his birth.
And that truth, whatever it was, would change everything.

Chapter Text

Jon found his father alone in the Stark pavilion's private section, sitting before a low brazier with a cup of wine in his hand and an expression of such profound weariness that Jon almost turned back rather than disturb him.

But he could not. Not now. Not after what Rhaegar had said.

"Father," Jon said quietly from the entrance.

Eddard looked up, and something flickered in his gray eyes—resignation, perhaps, or recognition that this conversation had finally arrived after years of careful avoidance.
"Jon," he said. "I have been expecting you. Come, sit. We have much to discuss, and I fear the hour is late for conversations that should have happened long ago."
Jon entered and sat across from his father, noting the way Ned's hands tightened around his cup, the tension in his shoulders. His father was afraid—actually afraid—of what was about to be said.

That fear made Jon's own apprehension spike.

"The king spoke with you," Eddard said. It was not a question.
"He did," Jon confirmed. "He said... he implied... Father, he suggested that there are secrets about my birth. Secrets you have kept to protect me. Secrets that might change everything I believe about myself."

Eddard closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, they were filled with a pain so deep it made Jon's chest ache. "I swore an oath," his father said quietly. "Twenty years ago, I swore to keep a secret that would protect you from those who would harm you for circumstances beyond your control. I have honored that oath every day since, no matter the personal cost. No matter what it meant for my honor, my marriage, my relationship with you."

"What oath?" Jon asked, his voice rough. "What secret? Father, please—I need to know. King Rhaegar said my blood is not as wrong as I believe it to be. That there is more to my story than the narrative of shame I have carried. What did he mean?"
Eddard was quiet for a long moment, staring into the flames of the brazier as if searching for the right words in the dancing fire. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, heavy with the weight of years of silence.

"Your mother was Ashara Dayne," he said. "That much you know, that much I have never denied. She was beautiful, Jon. Beautiful and kind and brave in ways that had nothing to do with swords or battles. I met her at a tourney, much like this one, though it feels like a lifetime ago now. We spoke, we danced, and I... I fell in love with her. Completely, helplessly, in a way I did not think possible."

Jon had never heard his father speak this way—with such raw emotion, such unguarded honesty. He remained silent, afraid that any interruption would cause Ned to retreat back behind his carefully maintained walls.

"The rebellion was brewing," Eddard continued. "Everyone could feel it, the tension between the Targaryens and the great houses, the instability that would soon explode into open war. Ashara and I knew that our time together might be brief, that circumstances might tear us apart. So we made a choice. A choice that I have kept secret for twenty years because revealing it would have created complications neither of us could afford at the time."

"What choice?" Jon asked, his heart pounding.

Eddard met his eyes directly. "We were married, Jon. In the old way, before a heart tree, with only two witnesses—Howland Reed and a servant of Ashara's, both of whom swore to keep our secret. It was not a marriage recognized by the Faith, not acknowledged by the realm, not recorded in any official registry. But it was real. Before the old gods, in the sight of the weirwood, Ashara Dayne and Eddard Stark spoke vows and became husband and wife."

Jon felt the world tilt beneath him. "Married," he repeated, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "You were married to my mother."

"I was," Eddard confirmed. "For three days, we were husband and wife. Then the rebellion exploded in earnest, and I was called north to raise my banners for Robert. Ashara returned to Dorne. We had no time to make the marriage public, no time to arrange a proper ceremony that would satisfy the Faith and the realm. We planned to do so after the war, once the fighting was done and we could be together openly."

"But she died," Jon said quietly.

"She died," Eddard agreed, pain evident in every word. "She died bringing you into the world, Jon. And I... I faced an impossible choice. I could reveal the truth of our marriage, claim you as my legitimate son born of a lawful union. But doing so would have raised questions I could not afford to answer. Why had we married in secret? Why had I not acknowledged my wife publicly? Why had Ashara not come north to Winterfell instead of remaining in Dorne? The answers to those questions would have revealed strategic details about the rebellion, would have exposed friends who had helped us, would have created political complications that could have endangered you and others."

"So you let people believe I was your bastard," Jon said, understanding dawning with painful clarity. "You let them believe you had dishonored your marriage to Lady Catelyn, that my mother was some shameful secret. You destroyed your own reputation to protect... what? What were you protecting?"
"I was protecting you," Eddard said fiercely. "And I was protecting Ashara's memory. There were those in Dorne who blamed House Stark for her death—reasoned that if I had not involved her in my life, if we had not married, she would not have been carrying a child during such dangerous times. Revealing the marriage would have inflamed those tensions, would have made you a target for Dornish anger. And there were those in the North who would have questioned the legitimacy of a marriage performed in the old way without the Faith's blessing. Your status would have been... ambiguous. Legitimate in the eyes of some, bastard in the eyes of others. Forever disputed, forever questioned."

"So you chose to make it simple," Jon said, his voice flat. "Bastard. Clear. Unambiguous. I knew exactly what I was, even if that knowledge was built on a lie."

"It was not meant to hurt you," Eddard said desperately. "Jon, I thought I was protecting you. I thought that being known as Ned Stark's bastard, acknowledged and raised at Winterfell, would give you more security than being known as the disputed son of a secret marriage that many would refuse to recognize. I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Jon interrupted, anger flaring hot and sudden. "You let me spend twenty years believing I was a stain on your honor. Believing my birth was shameful, that my mother was some fleeting mistake you regretted. You let Lady Catelyn hate me for being proof of your infidelity. You let me hate myself for being a bastard when I was not—or might not be, depending on who is asked. Do you have any idea what that did to me? The shame I carried, the constant feeling that I needed to prove myself worthy of your name when it was my name by right?"
"I know," Eddard said, and there were tears in his eyes now, the stoic mask crumbling. "I know, and I am sorry. Every day I watched you struggle with that burden, every time Catelyn looked at you with hatred, every moment you questioned your worth—it tore at me, Jon. But I told myself I was protecting you. That the alternative would have been worse. That you were safer as an acknowledged bastard than as a son whose legitimacy was disputed. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I should have told you the truth years ago. But I swore an oath to protect you, and I kept that oath the only way I knew how."

Jon stood abruptly, unable to sit still any longer, pacing the confines of the tent like a caged animal. His mind was racing, trying to process everything, trying to understand what this meant.

"The king knows," Jon said suddenly, turning to face his father. "Rhaegar knows about the marriage."

"He does," Eddard confirmed. "I told him years ago, when I first brought you to Winterfell. I needed his approval to raise you under my name, needed assurance that revealing the truth later would not create problems for the realm. He agreed to keep the secret, understood why it needed to be kept. But he also told me that if the time ever came when revealing the truth would help rather than harm you, I should do so. I suspect he believes that time has come."

"Because of Daenerys," Jon said, understanding clicking into place. "Because I crowned her. Because there is something between us that could become significant. And a bastard cannot pursue a princess, but a son of ambiguous legitimacy—a man who might be considered trueborn by some—that changes the calculation."

"It does," Eddard agreed. "The marriage was real, Jon. Howland Reed can testify to it—he stood witness, and he is a lord of the realm whose word carries weight. The ceremony was performed in the old way, which the North recognizes as legitimate even if the South does not. In the eyes of the old gods, in the traditions of the First Men, you are my trueborn son. Legally, politically, that status is disputable. The Faith would likely refuse to recognize it. Many lords would question it. But it gives you something you did not have before—a claim to legitimacy that some would accept."

Jon sank back into his chair, overwhelmed. "Who else knows?"
"Howland Reed. Rhaegar. Ser Arthur Dayne suspected—Ashara wrote to him before she died, hinted at the truth without fully revealing it. That is why House Dayne has followed your career with such interest. They know, or suspect, that you are not merely their sister's bastard but her legitimate son by marriage. Beyond that... the secret has been kept. For your protection."

"And now?" Jon asked. "What happens now that I know?"
"That is your choice," Eddard said quietly. "I will not make this decision for you, Jon. You can keep the secret, continue to be known as my bastard, let the status quo stand. Or you can reveal the truth—at least to those who need to know. Rhaegar would support you. Howland Reed would testify. We could make a case for your legitimacy, at least in the North. It would not be universally accepted. You would spend your life defending your status, proving your right to be called Stark. But you would have that right. You would know the truth, and so would others."

Jon thought about it—really thought about it. About what it would mean to be Eddard Stark's trueborn son, at least by some measures. About how that would change his relationship with his siblings, with Lady Catelyn, with the world that had defined him by his bastardy.

About how it would change his situation with Daenerys.

A bastard and a princess—impossible.

But a man of disputed but defensible legitimacy and a princess? Still complicated, still difficult, but perhaps not entirely impossible.

"If I were to pursue something with Daenerys," Jon said slowly, "if I were to... try to make something real out of what has begun between us... would revealing the truth help or hurt that pursuit?"
"It would help," Eddard said without hesitation. "Rhaegar would find it much easier to support a match between his sister and a man who could claim trueborn status, even if that status is disputed, than a match with an acknowledged bastard. It would give you legitimacy in the eyes of those who matter. Not everyone would accept it, but enough would that it would make a difference."

"And what would it cost?" Jon asked. "You said there were reasons to keep the secret. Political complications. Dangers. What would revealing the truth now mean?"
"It would mean questions," Eddard said carefully. "Questions about why we married in secret, why we never revealed it, what we were hiding. I would have to explain that we feared for your safety, that we made choices in wartime that seemed right at the moment. Some would understand. Others would accuse me of dishonesty, of manipulating perceptions to serve my own ends. My reputation would suffer, though it has already suffered from the lie of your bastardy. Catelyn... Catelyn would be furious. She has lived with the belief that I dishonored our marriage, and learning that I was actually married to another woman first, that I kept that truth from her for twenty years... it will not be easy."

"None of this is easy," Jon said bitterly. "Twenty years of believing myself a bastard, twenty years of shame and self-doubt, and now I learn it was all based on a lie meant to protect me. How am I supposed to feel about that?"
"However you need to feel," Eddard said quietly. "Angry at me for keeping the secret. Grateful that I was trying to protect you. Confused about what it all means. All of those feelings are valid, Jon. You have earned the right to them."

Jon stood again, moved to the tent entrance and looked out at the night. Harrenhal loomed in the darkness, its broken towers reaching toward the stars like grasping fingers. This place had seen so much history, so many pivotal moments that changed the course of kingdoms.
And now it would witness another.

"I want to tell her," Jon said finally, not turning around. "Daenerys. I want to tell her the truth. Not announce it publicly, not yet. But I want her to know that I am not what everyone believes. That there is more to my story. That if we... if we choose to pursue this thing between us... there is a foundation on which to build. Not a perfect foundation, not unquestioned legitimacy. But something more than bastard and princess separated by an unbridgeable gap."

"Then tell her," Eddard said. "Rhaegar will support you in this, I believe. He wants his sister to be happy, and he has seen what most have not—that you value her as a person, not as a political asset. That is rare enough that he is willing to overlook complications of status."

Jon turned to face his father—and he was still his father, regardless of the technicalities of marriage law and legitimacy. The man who had raised him, taught him, loved him despite the cost to his own reputation.
"Thank you," Jon said quietly. "For protecting me. For sacrificing your honor to keep me safe. I am angry that you let me believe I was a bastard, that you allowed me to carry that shame. But I understand why you did it. And I am grateful, even if I wish it had been different."

Eddard stood and crossed to Jon, placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are my son, Jon. Marriage Proof or no, legitimate or bastard in the eyes of the law, you are my son. That has never changed. That will never change. Whatever you choose to do with this knowledge, wherever this path leads you, know that I am proud of you. Of the man you have become. Of the choices you have made."

"Even the reckless choice to crown a princess?" Jon asked with a hint of dark humor.

"Especially that choice," Eddard said, and he was almost smiling. "It takes courage to reach for something everyone says is impossible. To believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserve more than the world has told you to expect. Your mother had that courage. I see it in you now."

Jon nodded, not trusting his voice. There was too much emotion churning in his chest—anger and gratitude, confusion and clarity, fear and hope all tangled together.
He had come to this conversation believing himself a bastard.

He left it as something else—something undefined, ambiguous, complicated.

But also something more.

Not a bastard. Not entirely.

A son. Possibly legitimate. Defensibly trueborn.

A man who could, perhaps, reach for a princess and not be destroyed in the attempt.
It changed everything.

And tomorrow, Jon would begin to understand what that change meant.
But tonight, he simply stood with his father in the quiet darkness and tried to accept that the fundamental truth he had built his identity around for twenty years had been a carefully maintained lie.

A lie told out of love and fear and desperate desire to protect.
But still a lie.

And now Jon would have to learn who he was without that lie defining him.
Would have to become someone new.

Someone who could stand before a princess and say: I am not what you think. I am more. Perhaps not enough, not yet. But more than a bastard reaching beyond his station.
I am Jon Snow. Son of Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne. Married in the old way. Possibly legitimate. Certainly worthy.
And I choose you.

Tomorrow, he would tell Daenerys the truth.
And they would see what could be built on that foundation.
Together.

Chapter Text

Jon did not sleep that night. He lay on his cot staring at the canvas ceiling of his tent, his mind churning through everything his father had revealed. The marriage. The vows before a heart tree. The choice to let the world believe him a bastard rather than risk the complications of a disputed legitimacy.

But despite the enormity of what he had learned, Jon found himself pushing the revelation aside, storing it away for later consideration. His father had given him a truth that might change his status in some eyes, but Jon had no intention of proclaiming it publicly, of creating more complications in a situation already fraught with them.

He was still Jon Snow. Still the man who had fought his way through Essos and built something from nothing. The question of his birth—legitimate or bastard, recognized by the old gods or unrecognized by the Faith—felt almost irrelevant compared to the more immediate concern.

Daenerys.
What happened now, after the crowning, after the scandal, after he had publicly declared his regard for a princess before thousands of witnesses?
Jon rose before dawn, as was his habit, and dressed in simple clothes. The tournament was over. The formal celebrations would continue for another day or two as people prepared to depart Harrenhal, but Jon's part in the spectacle was finished. He could have stayed in his tent, avoided the awkward conversations and speculative looks that would follow him everywhere.

Instead, he found himself walking toward the godswood in the pre-dawn darkness, seeking the quiet and solitude of the old trees.
He should have known he would not be alone.

Daenerys sat on a fallen log near the heart tree—a different godswood than the one where they had first spoken privately, this one wilder, more ancient, the weirwood's face twisted in an expression that might have been sorrow or judgment. She wore a simple dress of pale gray, her hair unbound and falling in silver-gold waves down her back. The crown of winter roses sat beside her on the log, already beginning to wilt.

She looked up as Jon approached, and even in the dim light, he could see the uncertainty in her eyes.

"I hoped you would come," she said quietly. "I have been waiting for hours, but I did not know if you would want to see me after... after everything yesterday."

"After you accepted my crown?" Jon asked, moving to sit beside her, careful to maintain some distance. "After I created the biggest scandal Harrenhal has seen since Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark? Why would I not want to see you?"

"Because it might have been a gesture made in the moment," Daenerys said, her voice small in a way he had never heard it before. "Because you might have regretted it once you saw the reactions, once you understood the complications you created for both of us. Because men often make grand romantic gestures and then reconsider when faced with the consequences."

"I do not make gestures I do not mean," Jon said firmly. "I crowned you because I wanted to crown you. Because you deserved it. Because pretending I felt nothing seemed like a worse betrayal than acknowledging the truth. And I have no regrets about that choice, regardless of the complications."

Daenerys looked at him with those penetrating purple eyes, searching his face for any sign of deception. "You spoke with Rhaegar last night. What did he say?"
"He said he would not stand in our way," Jon replied carefully. "If certain conditions are met. If we prove ourselves worthy of each other and careful with the trust he places in us. He wants you to be happy, Daenerys. That matters more to him than propriety or political convenience."

"And you spoke with your father," Daenerys said. It was not a question. "I saw you enter his tent late last night, saw you emerge hours later looking like the world had shifted beneath you. What did he tell you?"

Jon hesitated, weighing how much to reveal. His father's secret—the marriage, the ceremony in the old way—was not something to be shared lightly. But Daenerys deserved honesty, deserved to understand that his status was more complicated than it appeared.

"He told me truths about my birth," Jon said slowly. "Truths that have been kept secret for twenty years to protect me. Truths that do not change who I am fundamentally, but that might change how some people view my status."

"What kind of truths?" Daenerys asked, leaning forward with clear interest.

"The kind that complicate the simple narrative of bastard and princess," Jon replied. "The kind that suggest my blood might not be as wrong as I have always believed. But also the kind that would create new problems if revealed publicly, new questions and complications that neither of us needs right now."

Daenerys studied him for a long moment. "You are not going to tell me, are you?"

"Not yet," Jon admitted. "Not because I do not trust you, but because the secret is not entirely mine to share. There are others involved, others who would be affected by its revelation. I need time to think about what it means, what I want to do with the knowledge. But I can tell you this—my father believes that the truth of my birth would make our situation less impossible. Not easy, not simple, but less impossible."

"Less impossible is a start," Daenerys said with a small smile. "I will not press you for details, Jon. You will tell me when you are ready, if you are ever ready. I trust you."
Those three words—I trust you—landed with unexpected weight. Trust from a princess, from a woman who had spent her life surrounded by people who wanted to use her, who saw her as a means to power rather than a person with her own thoughts and desires.

"I trust you too," Jon said quietly. "Which terrifies me, if I am being honest. I have spent my entire adult life not trusting anyone beyond a small circle of proven companions. But you... I find myself wanting to trust you, wanting to believe that what I see in you is real and not performance."

"It is real," Daenerys assured him. "When I am with you, I do not perform. I do not calculate or measure my words or consider how each statement will be interpreted. I simply... am. That is a gift you give me, Jon Snow. The freedom to be myself without judgment or expectation."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the pre-dawn quiet broken only by the rustle of leaves in the weirwood's branches and the distant sounds of the castle waking.
"What happens now?" Daenerys asked finally. "After Harrenhal. After everyone returns to their homes and the scandal fades from immediate memory. What becomes of us?"
It was the question Jon had been asking himself all night, and he still did not have a satisfactory answer.

"I return to Sea Dragon Point," Jon said slowly, working through it as he spoke. "I have responsibilities there—men who depend on me, projects that need completion, a holding that requires attention. I cannot abandon that, no matter what I might want personally."

"And I return to King's Landing," Daenerys said, her voice neutral but her disappointment evident. "Back to the Red Keep, back to being the princess everyone wants to use for their own advantage. Back to suitors and political maneuvering and careful conversations where every word is weighed for its strategic value."

"It does not have to be like that," Jon said. "Daenerys, I am not going to pretend this is simple or that I have all the answers. But I can tell you this—I do not walk away from things I value. I did not survive Essos by being cautious and careful. I survived by committing fully to what mattered and fighting for it with everything I had."

"Are you saying I matter?" Daenerys asked, and there was vulnerability in her voice that made Jon's chest tight.

"I am saying you matter more than is probably wise," Jon replied honestly. "I am saying that crowning you yesterday was not just a gesture or a moment of romantic foolishness. It was a declaration that I am willing to fight for this—whatever this is between us. That I am willing to face the complications and the scandal and the political maneuvering if it means having something real with you."

"Even though I am a princess and you are—" she started.

"What I am is complicated," Jon interrupted. "But regardless of titles or status or blood, I am a man who values you. Who sees you. Who wants to know you beyond the masks you wear for court. If that is enough to build on, then we build. If it is not, then at least we know we tried."

Daenerys was quiet for a moment, then she smiled—the genuine smile, the one that transformed her entire face. "You are either very brave or very foolish, Jon Snow."

"Probably both," Jon admitted. "But I am also honest. And honestly, I do not want to walk away from you. I do not want this to be just a tournament romance, a story people tell about the bastard who dared to crown a princess and then disappeared back to his northern holding. I want more than that. If you do."

"I do," Daenerys said without hesitation. "I want more. I want to know you beyond these few stolen conversations. I want to understand what made you the man you are. I want to see Sea Dragon Point, see what you are building there. I want... I want a future that involves you, even though I do not know what that future looks like yet."

"Then we find a way," Jon said firmly. "It will not be easy. There will be obstacles—your brother's court, the expectations on you, my own responsibilities in the North. But I have faced worse odds in Essos. I have built something from nothing before. I can do it again."

"We can do it again," Daenerys corrected. "This is not just your fight, Jon. This is ours. Together."

Together. The word resonated in a way Jon had not expected. He had spent so much of his life alone—emotionally if not physically alone—that the idea of truly sharing a burden with someone felt foreign and appealing in equal measure.

"Together," Jon agreed.

They sat in silence as the sky lightened, as the darkness gave way to the gray of early morning. Jon knew they should return to their respective accommodations before they were seen together again, before more gossip could spread. But he was reluctant to leave this moment, this quiet space where they were simply two people rather than princess and lord, where complications could be acknowledged but did not have to be immediately solved.

"I should go," Daenerys said finally, though she made no move to rise. "Missandei will be worrying, and if I am not back before the castle fully wakes, there will be questions I would rather not answer."

"Questions about where you spent the pre-dawn hours?" Jon asked.

"Questions about why I am smiling like this," Daenerys replied. "I do not smile often at court, Jon. Not really. People will notice. They will speculate. And speculation leads to complications."

"Let them speculate," Jon said, echoing her own words from days before. "Let them talk. We know the truth—that this is real, that we are choosing this despite the difficulties. That is all that matters."

"Spoken like a man who has never had to navigate court politics," Daenerys said, but there was warmth in her voice, not criticism. "But you are right. Let them talk. We will deal with the consequences as they come."

She stood, and Jon stood with her. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, and Jon felt the weight of possibility pressing down—all the futures that might unfold from this moment, all the choices that would need to be made.

Then Daenerys did something that surprised him. She reached up and touched his face, her fingers gentle against his cheek, her expression soft.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For choosing me. For seeing me. For being brave enough to reach for something everyone says is impossible."
"Thank you for being worth reaching for," Jon replied.

She smiled once more, then turned and walked away, Missandei materializing from the shadows to follow her mistress. Jon watched her go, watched the princess who had somehow become the center of his world in the span of a week disappear into the morning mist.

He should feel terrified. Should feel overwhelmed by the enormity of what he had committed to. Should be questioning every choice that had led him to this moment.
Instead, he felt something he had not felt in years—hope.

Real, genuine hope that maybe, just maybe, some impossible things could become possible if you wanted them badly enough and were willing to fight for them.
Jon returned to his tent to find Torren waiting with breakfast and a knowing expression.

"You look different," Torren observed. "Less brooding. Almost... content. Should I be concerned?"
"Probably," Jon admitted. "I have just committed to pursuing an impossible relationship with a princess, despite having no clear plan for how to make it work and every reason to believe it will end in disaster."

"So, a typical day for Jon Snow," Torren said with a grin. "You know, Captain, I followed you across Essos because you had a talent for achieving impossible things. If anyone can make this work, it is you."

"I am not doing it alone," Jon said. "That is the difference this time. Daenerys is not someone I need to protect or manage. She is a partner. Someone who fights alongside me rather than someone I fight for."

"Even better," Torren said. "So what is the plan? Besides returning to Sea Dragon Point and pretending the entire realm is not gossiping about you crowning a princess?"
"The plan is simple," Jon said. "We finish the celebrations here, we return north, and we build. We make Sea Dragon Point into something worthy. We establish our position, our reputation, our value. And when we have done that—when I can stand before King Rhaegar and demonstrate that I am more than just a bastard who got lucky in a tournament—then we revisit the question of what might be possible with Daenerys."

"And if the king says no?" Torren asked. "If he decides a bastard—or whatever you are now—is not suitable for his sister?"
"Then we deal with that when it happens," Jon said firmly. "But I do not think Rhaegar will refuse without cause. He understands what it means to love someone you are told you cannot have. He will give us a chance, at least. After that, it is up to us to prove we are worth the risk."

Torren studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You have changed, Captain. A week ago, you would have said pursuing a princess was madness and refused to consider it. Now you are planning strategies for making it work. What happened?"
"I met someone who made me want to try," Jon said simply. "Someone who saw past the bastard and the sellsword to the man beneath. That changes things. That makes risks worth taking."

"Then I hope it works out," Torren said sincerely. "You deserve happiness, Jon. After everything you have survived, everything you have built, you deserve someone who sees you for what you are rather than what you are not."

"We will see," Jon said. "For now, we have a feast to endure tonight, farewells to make tomorrow, and then a long ride back north. One day at a time, Torren. That is all we can manage."

"One day at a time," Torren agreed. "But Captain? If you need an army to storm King's Landing and rescue a princess from a tower, you know where to find me."

Despite everything, Jon found himself laughing. "I will keep that in mind. Though I suspect Daenerys would object to being rescued. She is quite capable of rescuing herself."
"Even better," Torren said. "A warrior princess for a sellsword lord. The singers will love it."

"The singers can write whatever they want," Jon said. "As long as the story ends well, I do not care what verses they invent along the way."

And with that, he prepared to face the final day of celebrations at Harrenhal, to make his farewells and begin the journey back to Sea Dragon Point.

But he did not face it alone anymore.

Somewhere in this castle, Daenerys was preparing for the same day, making her own plans, thinking about the same impossible future.

And that made all the difference.

Winter was still coming, as it always did.

But Jon Snow had found something worth fighting for when the cold arrived.

Someone worth fighting for.

And that, more than any tournament victory or secret about his birth, gave him reason to hope that maybe—just maybe—spring would come again.

Even for a bastard and a princess who dared to dream.

Chapter Text

The final feast at Harrenhal was a subdued affair compared to the previous nights' celebrations. Lords and ladies were already preparing for their journeys home, servants were packing wagons, and the great assembly that had gathered for Prince Aegon's wedding was beginning to fragment back into its constituent parts.

Jon attended because his absence would have been noted and remarked upon, but he kept to the edges of the hall, speaking only when spoken to, deflecting congratulations about his tournament victory with his usual self-deprecating responses. He was acutely aware of Daenerys at the high table, wearing a gown of deep purple that matched her eyes, the wilted crown of winter roses conspicuously absent from her hair.

Their eyes met occasionally across the distance, brief moments of connection that felt simultaneously intimate and frustratingly public. Each glance was observed, noted, added to the growing collection of gossip about the bastard and the princess.

Jon was beginning to understand why Daenerys found court life suffocating.

"Lord Snow." The voice belonged to Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, who had somehow appeared at his elbow without him noticing. The elderly woman regarded him with sharp eyes that missed nothing. "Walk with me. My bones ache from sitting, and I find I am curious about you."

It was phrased as a request, but Jon recognized a command when he heard one. He offered his arm, which Lady Olenna accepted with a grip stronger than her age would suggest, and they made their way out of the hall onto one of Harrenhal's many balconies overlooking the tournament grounds.

"You have caused quite a stir, young man," Olenna said without preamble. "Defeating some of the finest knights in the realm, crowning a princess, creating scandal that will be discussed for years. That takes either tremendous confidence or tremendous stupidity. I have not decided which."

"Most people seem uncertain which it is," Jon replied carefully. "I suspect the truth is somewhere in the middle."

"Diplomatic," Olenna observed. "That is unexpected. I was told you were blunt to the point of rudeness, that you had no skill with courtly manners or political niceties. Yet here you are, giving me careful non-answers that reveal nothing. Which Jon Snow am I speaking with—the sellsword or the lord?"
"Both, I suspect," Jon said. "I have never been good at separating the two."

Olenna laughed, a sharp sound like a bark. "Honest, at least. That is refreshing. Tell me, Lord Snow, what are your intentions regarding Princess Daenerys?"
Jon had been expecting this question—or some variation of it—from someone. He had not expected it to come from Lady Olenna, but perhaps he should have. The Queen of Thorns had a reputation for being direct and for involving herself in matters that interested her.

"My intentions are to know her better," Jon said carefully. "To see if what has begun between us can become something lasting. Beyond that, I make no promises or predictions."
"How very cautious," Olenna said. "But also how very inadequate. You crowned her before thousands of witnesses, Lord Snow. You cannot simply 'see where things go' after that. The entire realm is watching, speculating, placing wagers on what happens next. You have created expectations that must be managed, regardless of your personal intentions."

"I did not crown her to create expectations," Jon said, a hint of steel entering his voice. "I crowned her because she deserved it. Because pretending I felt nothing seemed dishonest. What the realm chooses to make of that gesture is beyond my control."

"Nothing is beyond control if you are willing to work for it," Olenna countered. "But that requires understanding the game being played. Tell me—do you understand what you have done? The political implications of your choice?"
"I have some idea," Jon said. "I have made myself relevant in a way I never wanted to be. I have drawn attention to myself and to Daenerys. I have created complications for her brother, who now must decide how to handle a bastard lord showing interest in his sister. I have given ammunition to our enemies and uncertainty to our potential allies. I understand all of that, Lady Olenna."

"And yet you did it anyway," she observed. "Why?"
"Because some things are worth the complications they create," Jon said simply.

Olenna studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she said, "My granddaughter Margaery was supposed to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. Ser Loras had every intention of honoring her, cementing the alliance between House Tyrell and the royal family through that gesture. You disrupted those plans quite thoroughly."
"I apologize if my victory created difficulties for House Tyrell," Jon said, though he did not sound particularly apologetic. "But I competed fairly, and I crowned honestly. If that interferes with your house's political calculations, I regret the inconvenience but not the choice."

"Do not apologize," Olenna said sharply. "It makes you sound weak. Own your choices, Lord Snow. You crowned the woman you wanted to crown. That shows character, if not political acumen. And as it happens, I am not displeased by the outcome."
Jon blinked in surprise. "You are not?"

"Margaery will marry Prince Aegon regardless of whether she was crowned at this tournament," Olenna said pragmatically. "The alliance is secure. But your crowning of Princess Daenerys has created an interesting new dynamic. It has made her less available as a political piece, at least temporarily. Other suitors will hesitate now, uncertain whether pursuing her would put them in conflict with a man who just defeated three legendary knights and has the apparent favor of the princess herself. That gives us time."
"Time for what?" Jon asked warily.

"Time to see how the situation develops," Olenna replied. "Time to determine whether you are a genuine prospect for the princess or merely a romantic diversion. Time to assess whether supporting a match between you would serve our interests or complicate them. You have potential, Lord Snow. Unusual potential for a bastard. But potential must be proven, not merely claimed."

"I have no interest in being assessed like livestock at market," Jon said coldly.

"Then you are in the wrong profession," Olenna said bluntly. "Every lord is assessed, evaluated, judged for their worth. You are no different, bastard-born or not. The question is not whether you will be judged—you will be, constantly and mercilessly. The question is whether you will rise to meet those judgments or retreat back to your northern holding and pretend the world beyond does not exist."

"I have never retreated from anything," Jon said.
"Good," Olenna said with satisfaction. "Then prove it. Build your holding into something impressive. Establish your reputation beyond tournament victories. Demonstrate that you are worthy of the interest Princess Daenerys has shown in you. Do that, and you may find House Tyrell more supportive than you expected. Fail, and we will support someone else for her hand. Politics is not personal, Lord Snow. It is practical."

"I understand," Jon said, though he was not certain he did. The games these people played, the constant calculations of advantage and alliance—it was exhausting just to observe, let alone participate in.

"I doubt you understand fully," Olenna said, reading his expression with disturbing accuracy. "But you will learn, or you will fail. Those are your options. Now, I have said what I came to say. Enjoy your victory, Lord Snow. You earned it fairly. But remember—winning a tournament is easy compared to winning the game that comes after."
She released his arm and walked away, leaving Jon alone on the balcony with uncomfortable thoughts.

Jon found his father in the Stark pavilion, overseeing the final packing in preparation for their departure the next morning. Eddard looked up as Jon entered, his expression cautious.
"How was the feast?" Ned asked.

"Tolerable," Jon replied. "Though I was cornered by Lady Olenna Tyrell, who took the opportunity to remind me that I am now a piece in political games I barely understand."
"The Queen of Thorns is perceptive and dangerous," Eddard said. "What did she want?"
"To assess whether I am worthy of continued interest in Princess Daenerys," Jon said. "To make clear that House Tyrell will be watching how I handle this situation and making decisions based on what serves their interests. To remind me that winning a tournament is the easy part."

"She is not wrong," Eddard said quietly. "Jon, I know you have feelings for the princess. I know you believe this is worth pursuing. But you must understand what you are walking into. Court politics, great house maneuvering, constant assessment of your worth and status—this is not Essos, where competence and gold could buy you respect. Here, blood and history matter. Your crowning of Daenerys has made you relevant in ways that will complicate everything."

"I know," Jon said. "Everyone keeps telling me how complicated I have made things. But Father, what was I supposed to do? Crown someone I barely know out of political calculation? Pretend I felt nothing for Daenerys when the whole castle could see otherwise? I made an honest choice. If that creates complications, so be it."

Eddard sighed. "You are like your mother in that way. Ashara never did anything by half-measures either. She loved completely or not at all, committed fully or not at all. It made her remarkable. It also made her vulnerable."

"I can handle vulnerability," Jon said. "I survived Essos by being honest about my capabilities and limitations. This is no different."

"This is very different," Eddard countered. "In Essos, the threats were direct. An enemy came at you with a sword, and you defended yourself or you died. Here, threats are subtle. A rumor here, a suggestion there, a carefully planted doubt that grows until it destroys you from within. You are not prepared for that kind of warfare, Jon."

"Then I will learn," Jon said stubbornly. "Father, I am not a child. I am twenty years old. I have led men in battle, built a holding from nothing, earned a reputation across two continents. I understand you are trying to protect me, but I do not need protection. I need support."

"You have my support," Eddard said firmly. "Always. But I also have my concerns, and I will voice them whether you want to hear them or not. This thing with Princess Daenerys—it could be wonderful. Or it could be disastrous. You need to be prepared for both possibilities."

"I am," Jon said. "I spoke with her this morning, Father. We both understand the complications. We both know this will not be easy. But we have decided it is worth trying anyway. That has to be enough."

Eddard studied his son for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well. If you are committed to this path, then we will support you. House Stark stands behind you, Jon. Whatever comes, you do not face it alone."

"Thank you," Jon said, genuinely grateful. "That matters more than you know."

"Just... be careful," Eddard said. "The game of thrones is dangerous, and you are now a player whether you want to be or not. Do not let honor blind you to threats. Do not assume everyone who offers friendship is sincere. And do not forget that the woman you are pursuing is the king's sister—that comes with protections, but also with scrutiny you cannot imagine."

"I will be careful," Jon promised, though he suspected his father's definition of careful and his own were very different things.

The next morning dawned cold and gray, appropriate weather for departures. The great assembly at Harrenhal was breaking apart, lords and ladies heading back to their respective domains, the tournament grounds already being dismantled by workers who would spend weeks restoring the castle to its usual half-ruined state.
Jon stood with his men, mounted and ready to ride, watching the organized chaos of departure. The Stark party would leave within the hour, heading north toward Winterfell and then splitting off so Jon could return to Sea Dragon Point.

He was watching the royal family's preparations—they would remain at Harrenhal for another few days before making the journey back to King's Landing—when Daenerys approached, Missandei a discreet distance behind her as always.

"Lord Snow," she said formally, for the benefit of anyone watching. "I wanted to bid you farewell and thank you again for the honor you bestowed upon me."
"The honor was mine, Your Grace," Jon replied with equal formality, playing the expected role.

But then Daenerys did something unexpected. She stepped closer, close enough that her next words could only be heard by Jon, and said quietly, "I will write to you. Letters sent through Missandei, not through official channels. I want to know how you are, what you are building, what you are thinking. Will you write back?"
"Yes," Jon said without hesitation. "I am not skilled with words on paper, but I will write. I promise."

"That is all I ask," Daenerys said. Then, even more quietly: "I meant what I said yesterday. I want more than a tournament romance. I want to build something real with you, Jon Snow. Whatever that takes, however long it takes, I am willing to try."

"As am I," Jon said, wishing desperately that they were not surrounded by hundreds of watching eyes, that he could say everything he was thinking without consideration of propriety or scandal.

Daenerys seemed to understand. She stepped back, returned to formal distance and formal tone. "Safe travels, Lord Snow. May the gods watch over you on your journey north."
"And may they protect you on your return to King's Landing, Your Grace," Jon replied.

She turned and walked away, and Jon watched her go with the now-familiar ache of wanting something he could not quite have, not yet, not completely.
"Well," Robb said, appearing at Jon's shoulder, "that was painfully proper and completely unconvincing. Everyone watching knows exactly how you both feel, regardless of the formal words."

"Let them know," Jon said. "We are past the point of pretending anyway."
"That we are," Robb agreed. "Are you really going to pursue this, Jon? A princess? The complications alone—"
"Are worth dealing with," Jon interrupted. "Robb, I know you are trying to look out for me. But I am doing this. I am going to return to Sea Dragon Point, I am going to build something impressive, and I am going to prove that I am worthy of her interest. That is my plan. You can support it or question it, but you cannot change my mind."
Robb was quiet for a moment, then grinned. "Good. I was hoping you would say that. It is about time you reached for something you wanted rather than something you thought you deserved. Just... do not get your heart broken, little brother. I would hate to have to challenge a princess to a duel for hurting you."

"I will keep that in mind," Jon said dryly.
The Stark party formed up, banners unfurled, and began the long ride north. Jon took one last look at Harrenhal—at the massive towers, at the tournament grounds where he had defeated legends, at the castle where everything had changed in the span of a week.

Then he turned his horse north and rode toward home, toward Sea Dragon Point, toward the life he would build into something worthy.

Behind him, Daenerys watched from a tower window until the Stark banners disappeared over the horizon.

Ahead of him, possibility stretched out like an unmapped territory, dangerous and promising in equal measure.

And Jon Snow, bastard and lord, sellsword and tournament champion, rode toward that unknown future with something he had not felt in years.
Hope.

Real, genuine, terrifying hope that maybe—just maybe—some impossible things could become possible.

If you wanted them badly enough.

If you were willing to fight for them.

If you chose honesty over safety and courage over caution.

Winter was coming.

But Jon Snow had found his reason to endure it.

And that made all the difference.

Chapter Text

Three moons had passed since Harrenhal.

Jon stood on the completed battlements of Sea Dragon Hall—the name had stuck despite his reluctance to make it official—and watched his men training in the yard below. The castle was nearly finished now, its gray stone walls rising solid and permanent from the rocky peninsula. The keep had been completed, the curtain walls reinforced, and the towers capped with slate roofs that gleamed dully in the autumn sun.

It was not the largest castle in the North. Not the most impressive or the most strategically important. But it was his, built with his gold and his planning and his determination to create something that would last.

And it was not enough.

Jon knew it in his bones. Sea Dragon Point was prosperous—the lumber trade with Braavos had expanded, three more merchant ships had been added to his small fleet, and the villages under his protection were thriving. His standing army had grown to nearly eight hundred men, all trained to the standards he had learned in Essos. By any objective measure, he had succeeded in building a significant holding.

But when he thought about standing before King Rhaegar and declaring himself worthy of interest in Princess Daenerys, it still felt inadequate.

"Brooding again," Torren observed, climbing the stairs to join him. "You have been doing that more often lately. The men are starting to worry that you have forgotten how to smile."
"I know how to smile," Jon said. "I simply have little cause to do so."

"You have every cause," Torren countered, gesturing at the castle around them. "Look at what we have built in three moons, Jon. This place was barely standing when we arrived. Now it is a proper castle with proper defenses and proper facilities. The trade routes are established. The villages are prosperous. Your reputation has spread—lords from across the North are taking notice of what you have accomplished. What more do you want?"

"More than this," Jon said quietly. "Enough to matter. Enough to be worthy."
"Worthy of what?" Torren asked, though his expression suggested he already knew the answer.

Jon did not respond. He did not need to. The letters from Daenerys arrived every fortnight, delivered by merchants traveling from King's Landing to Braavos and then north to White Harbor. They were carefully written, revealing nothing that would cause scandal if intercepted, but filled with details about her life, her thoughts, her frustrations with court.

Jon wrote back, his responses stilted and awkward because he had never been good with written words, but honest in a way he could not be with anyone else. He told her about the castle construction, about the challenges of managing his holding, about his men and his projects and his plans.

They were building something through those letters—a foundation of understanding and trust that went beyond the intensity of their week at Harrenhal. But letters were not enough. Jon wanted to see her, to speak with her without the constraint of written words, to know if what they had begun was real or just the memory of possibility.

"A raven came this morning," Torren said, pulling a scroll from his belt. "From Winterfell. Your father requests your presence for a gathering of the Northern lords. Apparently, there are matters to discuss that require the attendance of all significant houses."

Jon took the scroll and read it quickly. His father's handwriting was as neat and careful as always, but there was an urgency beneath the formal language. A gathering of Northern lords was not common—it suggested something significant was happening, something that required coordination among the various houses.

"When?" Jon asked.

"A fortnight from now," Torren replied. "Plenty of time to ride south and arrive with appropriate ceremony. Your father specifically mentions that you should bring an escort—fifty men, well-armed and well-presented. He wants the other lords to see what you have built here."

Jon considered that. Fifty men was a significant escort, enough to make a statement without appearing threatening. His father wanted him to demonstrate his strength, his capability, his right to be taken seriously among the Northern lords.

"Prepare the men," Jon said. "We leave in three days. That gives us time to ensure the holding is secure in our absence and to make appropriate preparations."

"About time we had some action," Torren said with satisfaction. "The men are getting restless with nothing but construction and training. A journey south will do them good."

After Torren left, Jon remained on the battlements, thinking about what the gathering might mean. His father did not call the Northern lords together without cause. Something was happening, something significant enough to require coordination and discussion.

And Jon suspected—though he had no proof—that it might have something to do with the situation he had created at Harrenhal.

The journey to Winterfell took six days, time enough for Jon to notice the changes in the North as autumn settled in fully. The leaves were turning gold and red, the air carried a sharper bite, and farmers were hurrying to bring in the last of their harvests before the first snows came.

Winter was indeed coming, as it always did. The question was whether this winter would be a mild one or the kind that lasted years and killed thousands.

They arrived at Winterfell in the late afternoon, and Jon felt the familiar mix of emotions that always came with seeing his childhood home. Pride at what House Stark had built over

centuries. Discomfort at memories of Lady Catelyn's hatred. Longing for simpler times when he had been just a boy rather than a lord with complications.
His father greeted them in the courtyard, and Jon noted immediately that Eddard looked tired, older than he had seemed at Harrenhal. The gathering of Northern lords had clearly been weighing on him.

"Jon," Eddard said, clasping his forearm in the Northern way. "Thank you for coming. We have much to discuss."

"Father," Jon replied. "What is this about? Your letter suggested urgency."

"It does not concern just the North," Eddard said quietly, glancing at the men who were dismounting and being shown to their quarters. "It concerns the realm. Come, the other lords
are already here. We meet in an hour in the Great Hall."

Jon had time only to wash the road dust from his face and change into more formal clothing before the meeting began. The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled with Northern lords—not all of them, but the most significant. Lord Manderly of White Harbor, Lord Glover of Deepwood Motte, Lord Cerwyn, Lord Hornwood, and several others. Even the mountain clans
had sent representatives.

And seated at the head table beside his father were two unexpected guests—Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch, and Ser Arthur Dayne.
Jon's heart stuttered at the sight of his uncle. Arthur had not mentioned coming north in his occasional letters, had given no indication he would be present at this gathering. His presence here, in Winterfell, suggested something significant.

The lords took their seats, and Eddard stood to address them. "Thank you all for coming on short notice. I know harvest time is difficult, and your presence is needed in your own holdings. But the matter we must discuss could not wait."

"Get on with it, Stark," Lord Manderly said, not unkindly. "What is so urgent that we abandon our fields and ride through autumn storms?"

Eddard glanced at Ser Arthur, who nodded slightly. Then he said, "It concerns my son Jon, and a situation that has developed following the tournament at Harrenhal."

Every eye in the hall turned to Jon, and he felt his stomach drop. This was about Daenerys. About the complications his crowning of her had created.

"We all know what happened at Harrenhal," Eddard continued. "Jon crowned Princess Daenerys Targaryen as Queen of Love and Beauty, creating... speculation about his intentions and hers. That speculation has reached King's Landing, and King Rhaegar has sent Ser Arthur to discuss the situation and its implications."

Ser Arthur stood, his white cloak marking him as Kingsguard even here in the North. "King Rhaegar has asked me to convey his regards to the North and to Lord Stark in particular. He also asked me to meet with Lord Jon Snow to discuss the matter of his interest in Princess Daenerys."

"What is there to discuss?" Lord Glover asked bluntly. "The boy crowned a princess. It was bold, foolish, or both. But what does it matter? She is in King's Landing, he is here. The matter resolved itself."

"Not quite," Arthur said. "Princess Daenerys has refused three formal offers of marriage in the past three moons. All three suitors were suitable—high lords with significant holdings and unblemished reputations. When asked why she refused them, she indicated that her affections were... already engaged elsewhere."

The hall erupted in murmurs. Jon felt heat rise in his face, uncertain whether it was embarrassment or something else.

"You are saying the princess wants to marry Jon?" Lord Manderly asked, surprise evident in his voice. "A bastard? Even one of Stark blood?"

"The princess has not proposed marriage," Arthur clarified. "But she has made clear that she will not accept any match that does not take into account her own preferences. And her
preference appears to be Lord Jon Snow, despite the obvious complications such a match would present."

"This is madness," another lord muttered. "A bastard cannot marry a princess, no matter how accomplished he might be."

"Jon is not merely a bastard," Eddard said, his voice carrying weight. "And this is where the matter becomes complicated. Lords, I have kept a secret for twenty years to protect my son. That secret is relevant now, and King Rhaegar believes it should be revealed, at least to those gathered here."

Jon felt all eyes turn to him again, felt the weight of judgment and curiosity pressing down.

"Jon's mother was Ashara Dayne," Eddard continued. "That much is known. What is not known—what I have kept secret—is that Ashara and I were married. In the old way, before a heart tree, with Howland Reed as witness."

The hall exploded with voices—shock, disbelief, questions shouted over each other. Lord Manderly's face showed frank astonishment. Lord Glover looked skeptical. Others simply stared.

"Married?" Lord Manderly said when the noise died down. "Lord Stark, if you were married, why claim Jon as your bastard? Why not proclaim him legitimate?"
"Because the marriage was not recognized by the Faith," Eddard explained. "It was performed in the old way, which the North honors but the South does not. Revealing it during the rebellion would have created complications we could not afford. And after the war, after Ashara's death... I chose to protect Jon by claiming him as my bastard rather than risk the questions and challenges that would come from proclaiming a disputed legitimacy."

"But the marriage was real," Howland Reed said, speaking for the first time. His quiet voice somehow carried through the hall. "I stood witness. I saw the vows exchanged before the heart tree. By the laws of the First Men, by the traditions of the old gods, Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne were wed. Their son Jon is legitimate, at least by Northern standards."

"The South will not care about Northern standards," Lord Glover pointed out. "The Faith will call him bastard regardless. What does this change?"
"It changes the calculation," Ser Arthur said. "King Rhaegar understands that Jon's status is... ambiguous. Not fully legitimate by the standards of the Seven Kingdoms, but not purely
bastard either. He is the son of two great houses, born of a marriage that some would recognize. That is more than most bastards can claim."

"And the king would accept such a man for his sister?" Lord Manderly asked skeptically.

"King Rhaegar is willing to consider it," Arthur replied carefully. "If Jon can demonstrate that he is worthy beyond questions of blood and legitimacy. If he can prove himself a lord of substance and capability. If he can show that he values Princess Daenerys as a person rather than as a means to power. Then, yes, the king would consider allowing a match between them."

The hall was quiet now, every lord considering the implications. Jon felt paralyzed, uncertain whether to speak or remain silent.
"And what does Jon say to all this?" Lord Manderly asked, looking directly at him. "Does he want to marry the princess? Or is this just the fancies of a young woman infatuated with a tournament champion?"

Jon stood slowly, aware that every eye was on him, that what he said next would matter enormously.

"I value Princess Daenerys," Jon said carefully. "I believe she is extraordinary—intelligent, strong, trapped in circumstances she did not choose. I want to know her better. To see if what began between us at Harrenhal can become something lasting. As for marriage..." He paused, searching for the right words. "I would be honored if it came to that. But I will not pursue her for status or power. If we are to have a future, it will be because we choose each other, not because it serves political interests."

"Pretty words," Lord Glover said. "But what does that mean in practice? You would court a princess? How?"

"By building something worthy," Jon said firmly. "By proving that I am more than a bastard—or whatever I am—who got lucky in a tournament. By demonstrating that I can lead, that I can manage a holding, that I can be trusted with responsibilities beyond commanding sellswords. That is what I have been doing at Sea Dragon Point, and that is what I will continue doing."

"And if the king decides you are not worthy?" another lord asked.

"Then I will accept his judgment," Jon said. "But I will not stop being who I am or building what I am building simply because a match with the princess proves impossible. I want Daenerys, yes. But I do not need her to have value or purpose."

Eddard looked at his son with something like pride, then addressed the assembly again. "The question before us is whether the North will support Jon in this endeavor. Will we stand behind him if he pursues Princess Daenerys? Will we vouch for his character and capability? Or will we distance ourselves to avoid complications with the crown?"

"The Starks have led the North for thousands of years," Lord Manderly said after a moment. "If Lord Eddard vouches for his son, that is enough for me. I will support the match if it comes to pass."

"As will House Reed," Howland said quietly. "Jon is legitimate in the eyes of the old gods. That matters."
One by one, the other lords gave their assent, some enthusiastic, others cautious, but all agreeing to support House Stark in this matter. Jon felt something loosen in his chest—the North, at least, would not oppose him.

"Then it is settled," Eddard said. "The North stands with Jon Snow. We will support his pursuit of Princess Daenerys, should both parties choose to continue it. Ser Arthur, please convey this message to King Rhaegar—the North vouches for Jon's character and capability. The rest is for him and the princess to determine."

Arthur inclined his head. "I will convey the message. But I have one more thing to share." He looked directly at Jon. "Princess Daenerys asked me to deliver a personal message. She said, and I quote: 'Tell Jon Snow that I am still waiting for him to prove he is extraordinary, and I am still wearing winter roses in my hair when I think no one is watching. Tell him that letters are not enough, and I want more.'"

The words hit Jon like a physical blow. She was still thinking of him. Still wanting him. Still waiting.

"When?" Jon asked hoarsely. "When can I see her?"

"That depends on you," Arthur replied. "King Rhaegar will send formal invitation to Sea Dragon Point when he believes the time is right. But I suspect it will be soon. He wants to see you again, to assess whether what he saw at Harrenhal was real or merely tournament euphoria. Prove yourself in the coming moons, and the invitation will come."

Jon nodded, unable to trust his voice.
The meeting continued for another hour, discussing practical matters—trade, security, preparations for winter—but Jon barely heard it. His mind was racing with implications and possibilities.

The North supported him. His status, while ambiguous, was more than simple bastardy. And Daenerys was waiting for him, wanting more than letters and memory.
It was not enough yet. But it was progress.

It was hope made tangible.

And Jon would not waste it.

That evening, after the formal gathering had ended, Jon found himself alone with Ser Arthur in one of Winterfell's private chambers. His uncle—he was growing comfortable with that term now—regarded him with serious eyes.

"Your father told you the truth, then," Arthur said. "About the marriage."

"He did," Jon confirmed. "After Harrenhal, after King Rhaegar suggested there were secrets. It... complicated things."

"But it did not change who you are," Arthur observed.

"No," Jon agreed. "I am still Jon Snow. Still the man who left for Essos at nine and came back at twenty. The circumstances of my birth are different than I believed, but I am not."

"That is wisdom," Arthur said approvingly. "Many men would have tried to use the revelation to claim more than they deserved, to demand recognition and status based on a technicality. You simply acknowledged it and moved on. That shows character."

"It shows pragmatism," Jon corrected. "Proclaiming myself legitimate would create more problems than it solves. Half the realm would reject the claim, the other half would question it, and I would spend my life defending a status that brings me nothing but complications. Better to be Jon Snow and let my actions define me."

"Spoken like your father," Arthur said. "Eddard has always understood that honor is more about deeds than titles. You have inherited that wisdom."
They were quiet for a moment, then Arthur said, "Daenerys asked me to tell you something else. Something not meant for the assembly."
Jon's attention sharpened. "What?"

"She said to tell you that she thinks about you constantly," Arthur said quietly. "That the letters help but are not enough. That she wants to see you, to speak with you without the weight of court watching every word. She asked me to tell you that if you can be patient a little longer, if you can continue building what you are building, she believes a way forward will present itself. She has not given up on you, Jon. She is fighting for this in her own way, within the constraints of her position."
Jon felt emotion tighten his throat. "How is she? Truly?"
"Frustrated," Arthur said honestly. "Pressured. Besieged by suitors and political maneuvering. But also determined. She has her brother's stubbornness when she decides something matters to her. And you matter to her, Jon. More than she probably should allow, given the complications. But she has made her choice, and Daenerys Targaryen does not change
her mind easily."

"Tell her..." Jon paused, trying to find words adequate to what he felt. "Tell her I am building something worthy. Tell her I think about her too. Tell her that when we meet again—and we will meet again—I will have something real to offer beyond tournament victories and honest words. Tell her I am not giving up either."

"I will tell her," Arthur promised. "And Jon? For what it is worth, I think you are good for her. She needs someone who sees past the princess to the woman beneath. Someone who wants her rather than what she represents. You are that person. Do not let the complications make you doubt it."
"I will try," Jon said.

After Arthur left, Jon stood alone in the chamber and looked out the window at Winterfell's godswood. Somewhere far to the south, Daenerys was looking at the same stars, thinking of him as he thought of her.

The distance between them was vast. The complications were enormous. The obstacles seemed insurmountable some days.

But they were both fighting for this in their own ways.

And that, Jon thought, had to be enough.

For now.

Until the day came when they could fight for it together.

Winter was coming.

But Jon Snow had found his reason to endure it.

And he would prove himself worthy of that reason, no matter how long it took or what it cost.

That was his promise to himself.

And to the princess who wore winter roses when she thought no one was watching.

Chapter Text

Winter arrived early that year, sweeping down from beyond the Wall with bitter winds and heavy snows that blanketed the North in white. Jon spent the darkest moons consolidating what he had built at Sea Dragon Point, ensuring his people had food and fuel enough to endure the cold, training his men in conditions that would have broken lesser soldiers.
The letters from Daenerys continued, arriving less frequently now due to the difficulty of winter travel, but each one was precious. She wrote of King's Landing, of court intrigue, of her growing frustration with suitors who saw her as a prize rather than a person. She wrote of missing the cold, of wanting to see snow fall, of wondering what the North was truly like beyond the tales and songs.
Jon wrote back about Sea Dragon Point, about the challenges of managing a holding in winter, about his men and their training. He did not write poetry or flowery declarations—he did not know how. But his letters were honest, detailed, filled with the kind of observations that revealed who he was more clearly than any romantic verse could.
And through those letters, they continued to know each other.
Spring came late, reluctant, but it came. The snows melted, the seas calmed, and trade routes reopened between the North and the rest of the realm. Jon's merchant ships, which had waited out the winter in White Harbor, returned to their routes. The lumber trade with Braavos resumed with vigor, and Jon's coffers—already substantial—grew heavier.
He was twenty-one now, a year older than when he had crowned Daenerys at Harrenhal. Sea Dragon Point had weathered its first full winter successfully, proving that what he had built was not just impressive in fair weather but solid enough to endure hardship.
It was a warm day in early spring when the raven arrived.
Jon was in the training yard, working through sword forms with Torren, when Maester Wendel came hurrying across the courtyard with unusual speed for a man of his years.
"My lord!" the maester called. "A raven from King's Landing. Bearing the king's personal seal."
Jon lowered his practice sword, wiped sweat from his face, and took the scroll. His hands were steady as he broke the wax seal—three-headed dragon in crimson—but his heart was pounding.
The script was formal, precise, written by a royal secretary rather than Rhaegar himself:
Jon Snow, Lord of Sea Dragon Point,
His Grace Rhaegar Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, extends his greetings and requests your presence at the Red Keep in King's Landing.
His Grace has observed your accomplishments over the past year with interest and wishes to discuss matters of mutual concern, including your holdings in the North and potential opportunities for further service to the realm.
You are invited to attend court at your earliest convenience, with an escort of no more than twenty men. Accommodations will be provided for you and your retinue for a stay of indefinite duration.
His Grace looks forward to your attendance.
By order of the King, Grand Maester Pycelle
Jon read it twice, then handed it to Torren without comment.
"Well," Torren said after reading. "This is it, then. The invitation you have been waiting for."
"Or a trap," Jon said, his Essos-trained paranoia immediately asserting itself. "An invitation to court with vague promises of discussion and indefinite duration. That could mean anything."
"It could mean the king wants to assess you properly before making any decisions about his sister," Torren countered. "It could mean he genuinely wants to discuss your holdings and potential service. Or yes, it could be a trap. Only one way to find out."
Jon looked at the letter again, trying to read between the formal language for any hint of true intent. The mention of "matters of mutual concern" was deliberately ambiguous. The reference to "opportunities for service" could mean anything from genuine offer to veiled threat.
But underneath all the diplomatic language, Jon heard one clear message: Come to King's Landing. Come see Daenerys. Come prove yourself worthy.
"Twenty men," Jon said. "That is too few if we are walking into danger, but more than enough if this is genuine. A calculated middle ground."
"So we go," Torren said. It was not a question.
"We go," Jon confirmed. "Choose our best men, the ones who can represent Sea Dragon Point with discipline and capability. We leave in three days."
"And if this is a trap?" Torren asked.
"Then we spring it and deal with the consequences," Jon said grimly. "But I do not think it is. King Rhaegar has had a year to observe me from afar. If he wanted me removed as a complication, there are easier ways than inviting me to court. This is a test, Torren. He wants to see if I am who I appeared to be at Harrenhal, or if that was performance and luck."
"Then we show him who you are," Torren said with satisfaction. "The man who built Sea Dragon Point from nothing. The man who survived Essos and came back stronger. The man who is worthy of a princess, whether she is his sister or not."
Jon nodded, but his mind was already racing ahead, planning the journey, considering what he would need to bring, thinking about what it would mean to see Daenerys again after more than a year apart.
Would she still feel the same? Would he? Or had the distance and time eroded what they had built through letters into something less substantial than memory?
Only one way to find out.

Jon spent the next two days preparing for the journey and ensuring Sea Dragon Point would function smoothly in his absence. He left clear instructions with the village elders, appointed Harwin to command the garrison in his stead, and made arrangements for the continued operation of his trade routes.
On the third day, he rode to Winterfell to inform his father of the summons.
Eddard received the news with a complex expression—pride and concern mingling in equal measure. "So it comes to this," Ned said. "A year of building and proving yourself, and now the king wants to see the results."
"Or he wants to assess whether I am a threat," Jon said. "Whether the affection between his sister and a Northern lord is something that can be managed or something that needs to be... discouraged."
"Rhaegar is not that kind of king," Eddard said firmly. "If he wanted to discourage you, he would have done so directly moons ago. This invitation is genuine, Jon. He wants to know you, to understand whether you are suitable for his sister. That is a very different thing from viewing you as a threat."
"Perhaps," Jon allowed. "But I will not walk into King's Landing unprepared. I know what court politics can do to those who are not careful."
"Then be careful," Eddard advised. "But also be yourself. The man who impressed the king at Harrenhal was honest, capable, and direct. If you try to become something else—a courtier, a politician—you will fail. Be Jon Snow. That is enough, or it is not. But do not pretend to be something you are not."
"Wise advice," Jon acknowledged. "I will try to follow it."
Eddard stood and moved to a cabinet, withdrawing a rolled parchment sealed with wax. "Take this with you. It is a letter I have written to King Rhaegar, vouching for your character and capability. I have also included testimony from several Northern lords who have observed your work at Sea Dragon Point. Use it if you need credibility, or keep it as reserve if circumstances require official backing."
Jon took the letter, touched by his father's thoroughness. "Thank you, Father. This means more than you know."
"You are my son," Eddard said simply. "Whatever complications exist regarding your birth, that has never changed. I want you to succeed in this, Jon. Not because it would be politically advantageous for House Stark—though it would—but because I want you to be happy. And I have read enough of your letters, seen enough of your face when you think no one is watching, to know that Daenerys makes you happy in a way nothing else has."
Jon felt his throat tighten with emotion he rarely allowed himself to show. "She does," he admitted quietly. "I do not fully understand why, and I certainly do not understand how this is supposed to work given all the complications. But she makes me want to be more than I thought I could be. That has to mean something."
"It means everything," Eddard said. "That is what love is, Jon—wanting to be better because someone sees the best in you and makes you believe it is real. Your mother made me feel that way. I hope Daenerys can give you the same gift."
They spoke for a while longer about practical matters—letters to be sent, trade agreements to maintain, the security of the North during Jon's absence. Then Jon took his leave, riding back to Sea Dragon Point with his father's blessing and a heart heavy with anticipation and dread in equal measure.

The journey south took nearly a month. They rode at a measured pace, Jon's twenty men presenting an image of disciplined capability without appearing threatening. They stopped at various towns and holdings along the Kingsroad, and Jon noted how people reacted to the sight of Sea Dragon Point's banners—curiosity mostly, some recognition of the tournament victor, but also respect for the orderly way his men conducted themselves.
As they traveled south, the landscape changed. The North's stark beauty gave way to the Riverlands' fertile plains, then to the Crownlands' rolling hills. The air grew warmer, the vegetation lusher, and Jon felt increasingly out of place in this southern world of mild weather and easy abundance.
His men felt it too. They grew quieter as they neared King's Landing, more watchful, hands never far from their weapons despite the peaceful surroundings. They were sellswords at heart, trained to see threats everywhere, and the capital of the Seven Kingdoms—with its million people and complex politics—was the ultimate threat environment.
They reached King's Landing on a warm afternoon in late spring. The city sprawled before them, massive and chaotic, smelling of salt and sewage and a million lives pressed too close together. Jon had seen cities in Essos that dwarfed King's Landing, but there was something uniquely intimidating about approaching the capital of Westeros, knowing that what happened here in the next days or weeks would determine his future.
The Red Keep loomed above the city on Aegon's High Hill, its red stone walls seeming to glow in the afternoon sun. Jon guided his horse through the crowded streets, his men forming a protective formation around him, until they reached the keep's gates.
They were expected. Guards wearing Targaryen colors checked their names against a list, then escorted them through the massive gates into the keep's outer courtyard.
"Lord Snow," a steward said, bowing respectfully. "Welcome to King's Landing. His Grace has been informed of your arrival and will receive you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, quarters have been prepared for you and your men in the guest wing. If you will follow me?"
Jon dismounted, handed his reins to one of his men, and followed the steward into the Red Keep proper. The corridors were wide and high-ceilinged, decorated with tapestries depicting Targaryen history and conquest. Servants moved with quiet efficiency, guards stood at regular intervals, and the whole place hummed with the controlled chaos of a functioning royal household.
Their quarters were generous—a suite of rooms for Jon, smaller but comfortable chambers for his men, all well-appointed and clearly meant to honor guests of significance rather than merely house them.
"His Grace requests that you dine with the royal family tonight," the steward said. "Informal dress, in the king's private dining chamber. A servant will come to escort you at the appropriate hour."
"I will be ready," Jon said, his heart rate accelerating at the thought. Dinner with the royal family meant seeing Daenerys again. Meant finally being in the same room after a year of letters and longing and uncertainty.
After the steward left, Torren entered Jon's chambers and surveyed them with a professional eye. "Comfortable enough. No obvious places for spies to hide, though I will check more thoroughly once you are at dinner. The fact that they housed us together rather than scattering your men throughout the keep is a good sign—it suggests trust rather than division tactics."
"Or they are confident enough in their security that they do not fear twenty Northern soldiers," Jon said dryly.
"Also possible," Torren admitted. "How are you feeling? Nervous? Excited? Ready to flee back to Sea Dragon Point?"
"All three," Jon said honestly. "I am about to see her again, Torren. After a year of letters. After all this time building and preparing and trying to become worthy. What if I am not? What if what we had at Harrenhal was just... moment and circumstance?"
"Then you will know," Torren said practically. "And you can move on with your life. But Jon? I do not think it was just moment and circumstance. I have watched you this past year, seen how you light up when her letters arrive, noticed how you carefully compose your responses even though you claim to hate writing. That is not circumstance. That is real."
Jon nodded, wanting to believe it but afraid to hope too much.
The afternoon passed slowly. Jon bathed, shaved, dressed in the finest clothes he had brought—dark gray wool and black leather, simple but well-made, the closest thing to formal wear he owned that did not feel like a costume. He checked his appearance in the mirror and saw a man who looked older than twenty-one, worn by responsibility and experience, but also more solid, more established than the uncertain young lord who had arrived at Harrenhal a year ago.
He had built something. Proven something. Survived winter and grown stronger.
It would have to be enough.
The knock on his door came precisely at the appointed hour. A servant—young, nervous, clearly aware he was escorting someone important—led Jon through a maze of corridors deeper into the Red Keep, away from the public areas and into what were clearly the royal family's private quarters.
They stopped before an ornate door guarded by two Kingsguard—Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jorah Mormont. Both men nodded to Jon with something like respect.
"Lord Snow," Barristan said. "His Grace is expecting you. Go right in."
Jon took a breath, steadied himself, and entered.
The dining chamber was smaller than he had expected, intimate rather than grand. A table was set for six—King Rhaegar at the head, Queen Elia to his right, Prince Aegon and Princess Margaery beyond them. And to the king's left...
Daenerys.
She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her silver-gold hair was arranged in an elegant but simple style, and she wore a gown of deep blue that made her purple eyes seem almost to glow. When she saw him enter, her face transformed—the careful courtly mask dropped away, replaced by genuine joy and relief and something deeper that made Jon's heart stutter.
"Lord Snow," King Rhaegar said, rising to greet him. "Welcome to King's Landing. Thank you for making the journey. Please, sit. We have much to discuss, but first, let us eat. Court business can wait until after we have enjoyed a meal as something approaching family rather than king and subject."
Jon bowed to the king, nodded respectfully to the others, and took his assigned seat—directly across from Daenerys, where they would be forced to look at each other throughout the meal.
Their eyes met, held, and in that moment, Jon knew.
A year apart had changed nothing.
What they had built at Harrenhal was still real.
And now, finally, they would have the chance to see if they could build something lasting from it.
The game was changing again.
But this time, Jon was ready.
This time, he would not just hope.
He would fight.
For her. For them. For the impossible future they both wanted.
Winter had passed.
And spring, it seemed, brought possibilities.

Chapter Text

Dinner was a study in contrasts—formal politeness on the surface, with undercurrents of genuine warmth and careful assessment beneath. Jon found himself navigating conversations that required a different kind of awareness than battlefield tactics, but his year of managing Sea Dragon Point had taught him patience if nothing else.

King Rhaegar was gracious, asking detailed questions about Jon's holdings, his trade routes, his management of the villages under his protection. The questions were probing but not hostile, the kind that revealed genuine interest rather than mere courtesy.

"The lumber trade with Braavos is impressive," Rhaegar observed. "Timber from beyond the Wall commands premium prices, but the logistics of harvesting and transporting it safely are considerable. How do you manage the wildling problem?"

"By not treating it as a problem," Jon replied. "I employ wildlings as woodcutters, pay them fairly, and provide them with winter supplies in exchange for their labor. They know the lands beyond the Wall better than any southerner ever could, and they are excellent at what they do when given reason to cooperate rather than raid."

Rhaegar's eyebrows rose slightly. "You trust wildlings?"

"I trust people who have proven themselves trustworthy," Jon corrected. "Wildling or not. Some of my best men in Essos were considered savages by Westerosi standards. I learned to judge people by their actions rather than their origins."

"A lesson more lords could stand to learn," Queen Elia said softly, her voice carrying warmth. She had been quiet for most of the meal, but when she spoke, people listened. "We spend so much time judging by blood and birth that we forget to assess actual character."

"My sister agrees," Daenerys said, speaking directly to Jon for the first time since he had arrived. Her voice was steady, but Jon could see the emotion in her eyes. "She believes character matters more than circumstance. I have come to share that view."

The statement was deliberate, pointed, meant for everyone at the table but directed at Jon. He met her gaze and allowed himself a small smile.

"Character is proven through action," Jon said. "Not claimed through words. I hope the past year has demonstrated mine adequately."

"It has demonstrated your capability as a lord," Rhaegar said. "Ser Arthur's reports have been thorough, and we have received verification from other sources—merchants who trade with you, lords who have observed your holdings, even some of your own men who have written to family in the south. By all accounts, Sea Dragon Point is well-managed, prosperous, and secure. You have built something substantial in a remarkably short time."

"I had good foundations," Jon said. "My father gave me land and opportunity. My men gave me loyalty and skill. I simply put the pieces together in a way that worked."

"Modest," Prince Aegon observed. He was young—eighteen now—but carried himself with more confidence than Jon had seen at Harrenhal. Marriage seemed to have steadied him.

"Everyone says you are too modest, Lord Snow. That you downplay your own accomplishments."

"I am realistic," Jon replied. "Modesty suggests false humility. I simply prefer to let my work speak for itself rather than talking about it."

"And yet your work speaks very loudly," Margaery Tyrell said with a calculated smile. She was as beautiful as rumor suggested, but Jon could see the intelligence beneath the
practiced charm. "You have become quite famous, Lord Snow. The bastard who became a lord, who defeated legendary knights, who built a thriving holding from nothing. People tell stories about you from Dorne to the Wall."

"People tell stories about many things," Jon said carefully. "Most of them are exaggerated."

"And some are not," Daenerys said, her eyes never leaving Jon's face. "Some stories are simply truth that people find difficult to believe because it challenges their assumptions about what is possible."

The tension at the table shifted, everyone aware that the conversation had moved from pleasantries to something more significant. Rhaegar watched the exchange between his sister and Jon with thoughtful eyes, assessing, measuring.

"Lord Snow," Rhaegar said, drawing Jon's attention back to him. "Let us speak plainly. You crowned my sister at Harrenhal. You have exchanged letters with her for the past year. The realm speculates about your intentions, about her feelings, about what might come of this... connection. I invited you here to assess whether that speculation has any foundation, or
if it is simply romantic fancy that will fade with time and distance."

Jon appreciated the directness. It was easier to respond to honest questions than to navigate diplomatic double-speak.

"Your Grace, I cannot speak to the realm's speculation," Jon said. "But I can speak to my own feelings. I value Princess Daenerys. I believe she is extraordinary—intelligent, strong, capable of far more than court allows her to demonstrate. I want to know her better, to see if what began at Harrenhal can become something lasting. Those are my intentions, plainly stated."

"And what of marriage?" Rhaegar asked bluntly. "Is that your ultimate goal?"

Jon hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Marriage would require your blessing, Your Grace. It would require acceptance from a realm that questions my status and legitimacy. It would require navigating complications that I am still learning to understand. I do not presume to claim marriage as a goal when so many obstacles stand between possibility and reality. But if those obstacles could be overcome, if I could prove myself worthy in your eyes and the princess chose me freely... then yes, marriage would be my hope."

"Hope is not a plan," Rhaegar observed.

"No," Jon agreed. "But it is a foundation. Plans can be built on hope if the foundation is strong enough."

Rhaegar was quiet for a moment, then looked at his sister. "Daenerys? What are your feelings on this matter?"

Daenerys straightened in her chair, and Jon saw steel in her spine, determination in the set of her jaw. "I want the chance to know Jon Snow properly, brother. Not through letters, not through stolen conversations at tournaments, but genuinely. I want time to determine if what I feel is real or simply attraction to someone who saw me as a person rather than a princess. And I want to make my own choice about my future, based on that knowledge rather than on what is politically convenient or socially appropriate."

"That is not an answer," Rhaegar said gently. "That is a request for time."

"Then that is what I am asking for," Daenerys said firmly. "Time. The opportunity to see if this is real. The freedom to choose, once I know."

Rhaegar looked between them, his expression unreadable. Then he said, "Very well. Lord Snow, you will remain in King's Landing as my guest for the next several months. You will attend court, you will participate in council meetings when invited, and you will demonstrate your capability in the political arena as you have in military and administrative matters. During that time, you will have the opportunity to spend time with my sister, properly chaperoned and within appropriate bounds, to determine whether this connection is genuine or merely infatuation."

Jon felt his heart accelerate. Months in King's Landing. Months with access to Daenerys. It was more than he had dared hope for.

"And at the end of that time?" Jon asked.

"At the end of that time, we will reassess," Rhaegar said. "If you have proven yourself capable of navigating court politics, if Daenerys still wishes to pursue this connection, if the complications seem manageable... then we will discuss what might be possible. But Lord Snow, understand this—I will not allow my sister to be hurt. If I determine at any point that you are using her for advancement, that you value her status more than her person, or that you are unsuitable for reasons of character rather than birth, this arrangement ends immediately. Am I clear?"

"Perfectly clear, Your Grace," Jon said. "And I would expect nothing less. If I prove unworthy, I should be sent away. That is only fair."

"Good," Rhaegar said, something like approval in his voice. "Then it is settled. You will be given quarters appropriate to your status, your men will be housed and cared for, and you will begin attending court functions tomorrow. My sister will show you how to navigate the Red Keep and introduce you to those you need to know. Use the time wisely, Lord Snow. Opportunities like this do not come often."

"I understand, Your Grace," Jon said. "Thank you for your trust and your willingness to allow this chance."

"Do not thank me yet," Rhaegar said with a slight smile. "Court politics may prove more challenging than anything you faced in Essos. You might come to regret this opportunity before it is through."

After dinner ended, Daenerys caught Jon's eye and made a subtle gesture toward the door. Jon understood—she wanted to speak with him privately, away from her family's watchful eyes.

They left the dining chamber separately, maintaining propriety, but Jon followed the direction she had indicated and found himself in a small garden courtyard, open to the stars, with a fountain burbling softly in the center.

Daenerys was waiting, Missandei standing a discreet distance away as chaperone. When she saw Jon, her careful composure cracked, and she moved toward him with undisguised relief.

"You came," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "I knew you would, but part of me was afraid. Afraid you would decide it was not worth the complications, that letters were enough,
that you would stay safely in the North rather than risk yourself here."

"I told you I would come when I could," Jon said, wanting desperately to touch her but maintaining proper distance with Missandei watching. "I keep my promises, Daenerys."

"I know," she said. "I know, but still I worried. A year is a long time, Jon. People change. Feelings change. What if what we had at Harrenhal was just... just a moment that could not survive time and distance?"

"Is that what you believe?" Jon asked, searching her face.

"No," Daenerys said immediately. "If anything, the past year made me more certain. Every letter you sent, every honest word about your life and your thoughts—it made me understand you better. Made me want to know you more. But Jon, I was terrified that I was the only one who felt that way. That you were just being polite, continuing to write because you had given your word, but secretly hoping I would lose interest and release you from the obligation."

"I do not do things out of obligation," Jon said firmly. "If I did not want to write, I would not have written. If I did not want to be here, I would have found a way to refuse your brother's invitation. I am here because I want to be here, Daenerys. Because a year apart did not diminish what I feel. If anything, it made it clearer."
"What do you feel?" she asked softly.

Jon struggled for words, wishing he were better at this kind of conversation. "I feel... incomplete when I am not near you. I feel like there is a part of me that only exists when you are present. I read your letters and I can hear your voice in the words, and it makes me want to be in the same room, having real conversations rather than written ones. I think about you constantly, Daenerys. More than is probably wise or healthy. You have become... essential. And that terrifies me, because I do not know how to protect myself if this does not work."

Daenerys's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I feel the same," she whispered. "Exactly the same. And I have been so afraid to admit it, because wanting someone this much gives them power to hurt you. But Jon, I do want you. I have wanted you since Harrenhal, and the wanting has not faded. It has only grown stronger."

They stood looking at each other, the distance between them feeling simultaneously vast and insignificant. Jon wanted to close that distance, to hold her, to prove through touch what words seemed inadequate to express.

But Missandei was watching, and they were in the Red Keep where anyone might see, and propriety demanded restraint even when every instinct screamed otherwise.

"Your brother is giving us time," Jon said. "Months to be near each other, to know each other properly. That is more than I expected. We should use it well."

"We will," Daenerys promised. "But Jon? I am not interested in a courtship where we maintain careful distance and speak only in formal settings with chaperones present. I want real conversations. Honest moments. Time where we can actually be ourselves rather than performing for observers."

"That will be difficult to arrange," Jon observed.

"Difficult, but not impossible," Daenerys said with a hint of mischief in her eyes. "I am a princess. I have some authority over my own schedule. And you are officially here as a guest learning about court politics. There are many places in the Red Keep where such education might take place. Private gardens. Quiet libraries. Secluded balconies. We simply need to be creative."

"And your brother's concern about propriety?" Jon asked.

"My brother wants me to be happy," Daenerys said. "He said as much before you arrived. As long as we do not create scandal, as long as there is always appropriate distance and chaperoning, he will allow us freedom to spend time together. Rhaegar understands that assessing someone requires actual interaction, not just observing them at formal dinners."
Jon felt something loosen in his chest—hope mixed with relief and anticipation. "Then we will use the time well," he said. "I want to know you, Daenerys. Not the princess version you show to court. The real you. The woman who writes honest letters and wears winter roses when she thinks no one is watching."

Daenerys smiled, that genuine smile that transformed her entire face. "I still have them, you know. The roses from Harrenhal. Dried and preserved. I keep them in my chambers where I can see them and remember that someone chose me for me, not for what I represent."

"I will always choose you for you," Jon said quietly. "That is the one thing I can promise without reservation."

"Then that is enough," Daenerys said. "For now, that is enough."

They stood in the garden for a while longer, talking about small things—her life at court, his journey south, the strangeness of being in King's Landing after so long. The conversation was comfortable, natural, as if the year apart had not interrupted the connection they had built at Harrenhal.

Eventually, propriety demanded they return to their respective quarters. But as Jon made his way back through the Red Keep's corridors, guided by a servant who knew the maze of passages, he felt something he had not allowed himself to feel in months.
Certainty.

This was real. What they had was genuine. The year apart had not diminished it—if anything, it had proven that their connection was strong enough to survive distance and time.
Now they would see if it could survive proximity and the harsh light of daily reality.

Jon found himself looking forward to that test.

Because for the first time since Harrenhal, he was not fighting alone.

Daenerys was here, fighting with him, wanting the same impossible future.

And together, they might just make it possible.

Jon returned to his quarters to find Torren waiting with a knowing expression.

"You look less terrified than when you left," Torren observed. "I assume dinner went well?"

"Better than expected," Jon admitted. "The king is giving us time. Months to determine if this is real. That is more than I hoped for."

"And the princess?" Torren asked.

"Still wants this," Jon said, unable to keep the smile off his face. "Still believes it is worth fighting for. That is all I needed to know."

"Then I suppose we are staying in King's Landing for the foreseeable future," Torren said. "Should be interesting. I have never been to court before. Always wondered what it was like to navigate politics instead of battlefields."

"I suspect it is more dangerous," Jon said. "At least in battle, you know who your enemies are."

"True enough," Torren agreed. "But Captain? You survived Essos by being smarter than your opponents and more willing to do what was necessary. Do the same here, and you will be fine."

Jon hoped he was right.

Because the real test was just beginning.

The tournament had been easy compared to what came next—proving himself worthy in the political arena, navigating court intrigue, demonstrating that he could be more than just
a capable fighter and administrator.

He had months to prove it.

Months to win not just Daenerys's heart—that, he suspected, he already had—but her brother's trust and the court's grudging acceptance.
It would not be easy.

But then, nothing worth having ever was.

And Daenerys Targaryen was worth everything.

Jon settled into his quarters, unpacked his few belongings, and prepared for whatever the next day would bring.
Winter had passed. Spring was here.

And Jon Snow was ready to prove that bastards could reach for impossible things and succeed.

One day at a time.

One test at a time.

Until the day came when impossible became simply... possible.

That was his goal.

And he would not fail.

Not when everything he wanted was finally within reach.

Not when Daenerys was waiting.

Not when the future they both dreamed of was just beginning to take shape.

The game had changed again.

But this time, Jon was playing to win.

And he would not stop until he did.

Chapter Text

Jon's education in court politics began the next morning.
A servant arrived at dawn with formal clothing—not overly elaborate, but finer than anything Jon owned, cut in a style that marked him as a guest of significance rather than a minor lord. The doublet was deep gray with subtle silver threading, paired with black breeches and boots of supple leather. When Jon looked at himself in the mirror, he barely recognized the sellsword captain who had left Essos two years ago.
"You look like a proper lord," Torren observed from the doorway. "Uncomfortable, but proper."
"I feel like I am wearing a costume," Jon muttered, adjusting the collar.
"You are," Torren said bluntly. "That is what court is—everyone wearing costumes and playing roles. The trick is remembering who you are underneath the performance."
The words stayed with Jon as he made his way to the throne room for the morning court session. Daenerys had sent word through Missandei that he should attend, that watching how court functioned would be essential to understanding the world he was trying to enter.
The throne room was massive, far larger than anything Jon had seen even in the Free Cities. The Iron Throne itself was an ugly thing—a twisted mass of swords melted together by dragonfire, designed to remind everyone that the Targaryens had conquered the Seven Kingdoms through fire and blood. King Rhaegar sat upon it with apparent ease, but Jon noticed how the man held himself carefully, avoiding the jagged edges that could cut the careless or complacent.
A throne that does not permit its occupant to be comfortable, Jon thought. A constant reminder that ruling requires vigilance.
The session began with petitions from various lords and merchants. Most were mundane—trade disputes, requests for royal intervention in local matters, appeals for justice in complicated situations. Rhaegar handled each with patience and wisdom, listening carefully before rendering judgments that seemed fair even when they pleased no one completely.
Jon watched from his position among the observing lords, trying to learn the unspoken rules. Who spoke directly to the king and who went through intermediaries. Which matters were handled quickly and which required lengthy deliberation. How Rhaegar balanced competing interests without appearing to favor any particular faction.
It was exhausting just to observe.
After two hours, the formal session ended, and the court adjourned. Jon found himself approached by various lords, all curious about the Northern bastard who had earned an invitation to stay at the Red Keep.
"Lord Snow," a man in rich velvets said, extending his hand. "Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor. I understand you have established quite the trade operation in the North. I would be interested in discussing potential partnerships—my wines for your timber, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," Jon said carefully. "Though I would need to review the terms and assess whether such a partnership serves my interests as well as yours."
"Of course, of course," Lord Redwyne said smoothly. "I would expect nothing less. A wise merchant considers all angles before committing."
Others followed—lords offering alliances, merchants seeking trade agreements, ambitious younger sons trying to assess whether proximity to the princess made Jon worth cultivating as an ally. Each conversation was a careful dance of offering and testing, probing for advantage while maintaining superficial courtesy.
Jon handled them with the wariness he had learned in Essos, committing to nothing, promising only to consider proposals, deflecting attempts to extract commitments. By the time he extricated himself an hour later, his head was pounding and his patience exhausted.
"You survived your first court session," Daenerys's voice came from behind him, and Jon turned to find her approaching with Missandei a respectful distance behind. She wore a gown of pale green that made her silver-gold hair seem almost to glow, and her smile was warm despite the formality of their surroundings.
"Barely," Jon admitted. "I have fought battles that were less exhausting than two hours of listening to lords argue about trading rights and boundary disputes."
"Court is battle," Daenerys said. "Just fought with different weapons. Come, walk with me. I want to show you the Red Keep properly, and you look like you could use fresh air."
They walked through corridors and courtyards, Daenerys pointing out various chambers and their purposes while Jon tried to memorize the byzantine layout. Everywhere they went, people watched—servants pausing in their tasks, lords finding excuses to pass by, guards pretending not to notice while clearly noting every detail.
"They are all assessing us," Daenerys said quietly as they climbed stairs toward one of the keep's many towers. "Trying to determine if you are a serious prospect or just a passing fancy. Calculating how they can use our connection to their advantage or working to prevent it if they see you as a threat to their own plans for me."
"How do you stand it?" Jon asked. "The constant scrutiny, the endless calculations, everyone treating every interaction as a transaction?"
"Practice," Daenerys said with a wry smile. "And by remembering that most of them do not matter. Their opinions, their schemes—they are just noise. What matters is what I want, what you want, and whether my brother supports us. Everything else is complication that can be managed."
They reached a tower balcony that overlooked Blackwater Bay, the sea stretching out blue and endless beneath the morning sun. Missandei positioned herself near the door, close enough to chaperone but far enough away to allow private conversation.
"I want to apologize," Daenerys said once they had relative privacy. "For not being clearer in my letters about what court would be like. I knew it would be difficult, but I did not want to frighten you away by describing how terrible the politics can be."
"You could not have frightened me away," Jon said. "But fair warning would have been appreciated. I thought I understood politics after managing Sea Dragon Point and dealing with Northern lords. This is... different."
"This is court," Daenerys said. "Everything is amplified, complicated, made more dangerous by proximity to power. Even the smallest gesture carries weight, every word is analyzed for hidden meaning, and genuine honesty is so rare that people do not know how to respond when they encounter it."
"Then I am in trouble," Jon said dryly. "Because I do not know how to be anything but honest."
"That is why I want you," Daenerys said, her voice soft but intense. "That honesty. That refusal to play games when straightforward truth would serve better. But Jon, you need to understand—that honesty will make you enemies. There are people at court whose entire position depends on deception and manipulation. They will see your directness as a threat."
"Let them," Jon said. "I did not come here to make friends. I came here for you. Everything else is just obstacle."
Daenerys looked at him with something like wonder. "Do you know how strange that sounds to someone raised at court? You have no interest in cultivating alliances or building influence or positioning yourself for advancement. You just want... me. As if I am enough by myself."
"You are enough," Jon said simply. "Everything else—the status, the connections, the political implications—those are complications we will have to manage. But they are not why I am here. I am here because you make me want to be here. That is all."
"That is everything," Daenerys whispered. She reached out as if to touch his hand, then stopped, remembered where they were, glanced back at Missandei. "I hate this. I hate that we cannot even touch without it becoming scandal. I hate that every moment together is watched and judged and analyzed."
"Then we find moments that are not watched," Jon said. "You said yesterday we could be creative. So let us be creative. There must be places in this keep where we can speak without an audience."
"There are," Daenerys confirmed, a spark of mischief entering her eyes. "But they require careful planning and perfect timing. Are you willing to take risks, Jon Snow?"
"I rode across an entire continent to be near you," Jon replied. "Yes, I am willing to take risks."

That evening, after another exhausting court dinner where Jon had been seated among lords who asked increasingly pointed questions about his intentions, Daenerys sent word through Missandei.
Midnight. The library on the third floor of Maegor's Holdfast. Tell no one.
Jon waited in his chambers until the keep settled into its nighttime rhythms, then slipped out quietly, leaving his men sleeping. The corridors were not empty—guards stood watch at regular intervals—but no one questioned a guest moving through the keep at night. Such things were common enough among restless nobles.
He found the library without much difficulty, a large chamber lined with books and scrolls, lit only by moonlight streaming through tall windows. Daenerys was already there, sitting on a window seat, wearing a simple dress and with her hair unbound.
She looked younger like this, less like a princess and more like the woman he remembered from their dawn conversations at Harrenhal.
"You came," she said unnecessarily.
"Of course I came," Jon replied, closing the door quietly behind him. "Though I hope you understand that if we are discovered, your brother will probably have me executed or at minimum exiled."
"We will not be discovered," Daenerys said with confidence. "This library is never used at night. The guards know I sometimes come here to read when I cannot sleep, so they will not think anything of my presence. And if anyone asks about you, you are simply a guest who got lost exploring the keep."
"A flimsy excuse," Jon observed, but he moved to join her at the window nonetheless.
"Perhaps," Daenerys admitted. "But I needed to see you without performance. Without Missandei watching or courtiers analyzing every word. Just... us. Is that foolish?"
"Probably," Jon said, settling beside her on the wide window seat. They were not touching, but the proximity was intoxicating after a day of carefully maintained distance. "But I wanted it too. Today was exhausting, Daenerys. All those lords circling, probing for weakness, trying to determine how to use me or dismiss me. Is it always like that?"
"Always," Daenerys confirmed. "Court is an endless game where everyone is trying to gain advantage while appearing not to try. You will adjust, or you will not. But Jon, I need you to know—if you decide this is too much, if court politics prove unbearable, I will understand. I do not want you to endure this out of obligation or stubbornness. I want you here because you choose to be here."
"I choose to be here," Jon said firmly. "It is difficult and exhausting and often infuriating, but I choose it. Because the alternative is returning north without you, and that is not acceptable."
"What if I could leave?" Daenerys asked suddenly. "What if I could come north with you, to Sea Dragon Point, away from all of this? Would you want that?"
Jon studied her face in the moonlight, trying to understand what she was truly asking. "Are you serious? Would your brother even allow that?"
"I do not know," Daenerys admitted. "But I think about it sometimes. What it would be like to live somewhere simple, without the constant weight of being a princess. To wake up and have my day be about real work rather than court rituals. To be with you without negotiating permission or maintaining proper distance." She paused. "But that is fantasy, is it not? I cannot simply abandon my family and responsibilities because I am tired of them."
"No," Jon agreed. "But Daenerys, even if you could, I am not certain you would be happy. You are brilliant—too brilliant to be content managing a northern holding and trading lumber. You would grow bored, frustrated, resentful that I had taken you away from everything you know."
"You do not think I could be happy at Sea Dragon Point?" she asked, and there was hurt in her voice.
"I think you could be happy anywhere if you chose it freely," Jon said carefully. "But choosing out of frustration with your current situation is different from choosing because it is genuinely what you want. If you came north with me tomorrow, you would be running away from something rather than running toward something. That is not a foundation for happiness."
Daenerys was quiet for a long moment. "You are probably right," she admitted. "But it is nice to imagine sometimes. A simpler life. Less complicated."
"Life is never less complicated," Jon said. "It is just complicated in different ways. At Sea Dragon Point, I deal with supply logistics and village disputes and the constant fear that I have not prepared adequately for winter. Here, you deal with court politics and suitors and the weight of royal expectation. Neither is simple. Neither is easy."
"But at least you built your complications yourself," Daenerys pointed out. "You chose to establish Sea Dragon Point, chose to take on those responsibilities. I was born into mine with no choice at all."
"That is true," Jon acknowledged. "But you have more power than you think, Daenerys. Your brother wants you to be happy. He is giving us time to see if this can work. That is a choice he is allowing you to make. That is agency, even if it is limited."
"Limited agency is just another name for a comfortable cage," Daenerys said, but there was no real heat in her voice, just tired acceptance.
They sat in silence for a while, watching moonlight play across the bay, listening to the distant sounds of the city beyond the keep's walls. Jon found himself acutely aware of Daenerys's proximity—the warmth of her beside him, the faint scent of jasmine in her hair, the way she held herself with unconscious grace even in this private moment.
"Tell me about Essos," Daenerys said eventually. "About the places you saw, the things you did. Your letters mentioned battles and trade, but never the details. I want to know what formed you, what made you who you are."
So Jon told her. He spoke of Pentos and its merchant princes, of Meereen and its fighting pits, of the Dothraki sea and the screamers who rode out of it. He told her about his first kill, about the first time he led men in battle, about the moments of terror and triumph that had defined his years in Essos.
He told her things he had never written in letters, never shared with anyone except Torren. About the fear that had driven him from Winterfell as a child, about the determination to prove himself that had pushed him through hardships that should have broken him, about the loneliness of command and the weight of responsibility for men who trusted you with their lives.
And Daenerys listened with complete focus, asking questions that showed she understood not just the facts but the emotions beneath them. She did not flinch from the violence, did not judge the choices he had made to survive. She simply listened and tried to understand.
When he finally fell silent, she said quietly, "You are nothing like the songs suggest. The singers make you sound like a hero from legend—noble and brave and always certain. But you are just a man who survived through determination and pragmatism and refusal to give up even when you probably should have."
"Is that disappointing?" Jon asked.
"No," Daenerys said, and her smile was warm. "It is perfect. I do not want a hero from songs. I want someone real. Someone who understands that life is complicated and difficult and rarely offers simple choices. Someone who does their best despite uncertainty and fear. That is what you are, Jon Snow. And that is what I want."
"Even if I am terrible at court politics and will probably embarrass you regularly with my directness?" Jon asked.
"Especially then," Daenerys said. "The court could use more directness. More honesty. More people who refuse to play games just because everyone else does."
They talked until the moon had traveled halfway across the sky, until Jon knew he needed to return to his quarters before someone noticed his absence. Standing to leave was one of the hardest things he had done, but they both knew the risk of being discovered grew with every moment.
"Thank you," Daenerys said as he prepared to go. "For this. For being willing to take the risk just to have an honest conversation."
"Thank you for making it worth the risk," Jon replied.
As he made his way back through the dark corridors of the Red Keep, Jon reflected on how strange his life had become. A year ago, he had been focused entirely on building Sea Dragon Point, on proving himself capable of managing a holding. Now he was sneaking through a royal castle at midnight, courting a princess, trying to navigate court politics that made Essos sellsword companies look straightforward by comparison.
It was madness.
But it was also exactly where he wanted to be.
Because for the first time since leaving Winterfell at nine years old, Jon Snow felt like he was building toward something that mattered beyond mere survival or obligation.
He was building toward a future. With Daenerys.
And that made all the complications, all the exhaustion, all the risk absolutely worth it.
One day at a time.
One midnight conversation at a time.
One small victory over distance and propriety at a time.
Until the day came when they did not have to sneak around, when their connection was recognized and accepted, when being together was simply... normal.
That day was still far off.
But Jon could see it now, shimmering on the horizon like a distant shore.
And he would row toward it with everything he had.
Because Daenerys Targaryen was worth the journey.
Worth all of it.
And he would not stop until he reached her fully, completely, without barriers or complications standing between them.
That was his promise to himself.
And Jon Snow always kept his promises.
Even the impossible ones.
Especially the impossible ones.

Chapter Text

The morning court session had been proceeding normally—petitions heard, disputes settled, the usual tedium of governance—when Lord Tywin Lannister requested permission to address the throne.
Jon, standing among the assembled lords, felt his instincts sharpen immediately. The Lord of Casterly Rock had been in King's Landing for three days now, and he had not sought audience until this moment. That suggested planning, calculation, a move prepared in advance.
"Your Grace," Tywin said, his voice carrying the absolute confidence of a man who had ruled the wealthiest region in Westeros for decades. "I come before you with a matter of great importance to the realm. A matter that touches upon both practical governance and the future of the royal house."
Rhaegar's expression remained neutral, but Jon saw the slight tension in the king's posture. "Speak, Lord Tywin."
"It is no secret that Princess Daenerys remains unwed," Tywin continued, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing trade rather than a person. "Many worthy houses have sought her hand, offering alliances that would strengthen the crown. Yet she has refused them all. While a princess has every right to be particular about her choice of husband, the realm's interests must also be considered."
Jon felt his jaw tighten. Where was this going?
"I have a grandson," Tywin said. "Joffrey Baratheon-Lannister, son of my daughter Cersei and the late Llyonel Lannister. The boy is sixteen, strong, handsome, and heir to Casterly Rock through his mother. A match between him and Princess Daenerys would unite two great houses and bring considerable resources to the crown."
"The crown does not lack resources, Lord Tywin," Rhaegar said carefully.
"Does it not?" Tywin's voice carried a hint of challenge now. "Your Grace, I speak plainly because the matter demands it. The crown's debts to the Iron Bank stand at six million gold dragons. This is not secret—the realm knows it, and more importantly, Braavos knows it. Such debt constrains your options, limits your ability to respond to crises, and gives foreign powers leverage over Westerosi affairs."
The throne room had gone silent. Every lord present was listening intently now.
"I propose the following," Tywin continued. "In exchange for Princess Daenerys's hand in marriage to my grandson, House Lannister will provide a bride price of one million gold dragons. Immediately. Additionally, we will forgive certain debts the crown owes to Lannister merchants and reduce interest rates on existing loans. The total value would effectively reduce the crown's burden by nearly two million dragons."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled lords. It was a staggering offer, the kind of practical solution that could not be dismissed out of hand simply because it came from ambition rather than altruism.
"A princess is not for sale, Lord Tywin," Rhaegar said, his voice carrying warning.
"Of course not, Your Grace," Tywin replied smoothly. "I speak not of purchase but of alliance. Every royal marriage in history has involved considerations of mutual benefit. I simply make those considerations explicit rather than pretending they do not exist. The princess's hand should go to the house that can best serve the realm's interests. Is that not wise governance?"
Jon saw the trap immediately. By framing it as duty to the realm rather than personal ambition, by speaking openly in the throne room where lords could witness the offer, Tywin had created a situation where refusing would make Rhaegar appear either foolish or selfish.
"The crown thanks House Lannister for its generous offer," Rhaegar said carefully. "But marriage of a royal princess requires careful consideration of many factors beyond immediate financial benefit. We will take your proposal under advisement."
"Of course, Your Grace," Tywin said, bowing. But there was satisfaction in his eyes. He had made his move publicly, established the stakes, forced the issue into the open.
As the court session ended and the lords began to disperse, Jon found himself surrounded by speculative glances and whispered conversations. Several lords approached him—some with sympathy, others with barely concealed satisfaction at seeing the Northern bastard outmaneuvered.
Jon ignored them all and made his way through the corridors until he found a quiet alcove where he could think. A million gold dragons. It was more money than most great lords would see in their entire lives. More than the entire annual revenue of the North.
And Tywin was right about one thing—the crown's debt to the Iron Bank was a real problem, one that limited Rhaegar's options in ways that gold from House Lannister could address.
"Jon." Daenerys's voice, tight with anger, came from behind him. She must have slipped away from her brother as soon as court ended. "Did you hear what that man said? Did you hear how he spoke of me like I was... was inventory to be moved from one ledger to another?"
"I heard," Jon said quietly.
"And?" Daenerys demanded. "What do you think? Do you think Rhaegar will accept? Do you think a million gold dragons makes me suddenly worth selling to the Lannisters?"
"Your brother will not sell you to anyone," Jon said firmly. "But Daenerys, Tywin Lannister just created a very real problem. He made his offer publicly, framed it as duty to the realm, put a specific price on what a suitable match for you should bring to the crown. Even if Rhaegar refuses him, every other potential suitor now knows the benchmark. They know what they need to match or exceed."
"So what?" Daenerys asked. "I do not care about bride prices or political alliances. I care about choosing for myself."
"I know," Jon said. "But the realm cares about those things. Your brother cares about them, even if he cares about your happiness more. And I..." He paused, trying to organize thoughts that had been crystallizing since Tywin had made his offer. "I need to match it."
Daenerys stared at him. "What?"
"If I am to have any hope of your brother accepting me as a worthy match, I need to demonstrate that I can provide what House Lannister offers," Jon explained. "Not because I am buying you—gods, Daenerys, you are not for sale—but because I need to remove financial objection as a barrier. I need to show that choosing me does not mean sacrificing the realm's interests."
"That is insane," Daenerys said flatly. "Jon, you are wealthy for a minor lord, but you do not have a million gold dragons lying about. No one does except perhaps the Lannisters and the Iron Bank itself."
"I know," Jon said. "But I need to find a way. Because if I do not, if I let Tywin's offer stand unchallenged, it creates a narrative that I am insufficient. That I am asking you to sacrifice practical considerations for romantic fancy. I will not let that narrative take hold."
"You are being ridiculous," Daenerys said, but there was uncertainty in her eyes now. "My brother will not judge you based on how much gold you can offer."
"Perhaps not," Jon allowed. "But he will judge based on whether I am willing to do what is necessary to remove obstacles. This is an obstacle, Daenerys. A large, golden, Lannister-shaped obstacle. And I will not let it stand in our way."

That evening, Jon requested private audience with King Rhaegar. The king received him in his solar, a comfortable room overlooking the bay, with maps and documents covering every available surface.
"Lord Snow," Rhaegar said. "I assume you wish to discuss Lord Tywin's offer."
"I do, Your Grace," Jon confirmed. "But first, I want to be clear about something. I am not here to bid against the Lannisters as if Princess Daenerys were livestock at auction. That is not what this is about."
"Then what is it about?" Rhaegar asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
"Removing objections," Jon said simply. "Your Grace, you have given Daenerys and me time to determine if our connection is real. That time has value, and I am grateful for it. But Tywin Lannister just created a practical objection that will shadow everything we do. Every conversation, every moment we spend together, there will be this unspoken question—is the Northern bastard worth a million gold dragons less to the realm than a Lannister match?"
"You think I would measure your worth against Tywin's gold?" Rhaegar asked.
"I think you would try not to," Jon replied honestly. "But the crown's debts are real. The realm's needs are real. And I do not want Daenerys to ever feel that choosing me meant sacrificing those needs. I do not want her to look back years from now and wonder if she made the wrong choice, if she could have helped her family more by accepting a Lannister alliance."
Rhaegar was quiet for a moment, studying Jon with those penetrating purple eyes. "What are you proposing?"
"Give me two months, Your Grace," Jon said. "Two months to arrange my affairs and demonstrate that I can match what House Lannister offers. If I cannot, then I will withdraw my suit and leave King's Landing. But if I can, then financial consideration is removed as an objection, and we can focus on whether I am suitable in other ways that actually matter."
"You do not have a million gold dragons," Rhaegar observed. "Your holdings are prosperous, but not that prosperous."
"I know, Your Grace," Jon said. "But I have resources you may not be aware of. Give me two months. That is all I ask."
Rhaegar considered this, then nodded slowly. "Very well. Two months. But Jon, understand—even if you match Tywin's offer, that does not guarantee my approval. There are other considerations beyond gold."
"I understand, Your Grace," Jon said. "And I would not want it any other way. If I am unsuitable for Daenerys, it should be because of who I am, not how much I can pay."

After the audience with Rhaegar ended, Jon returned to his quarters to find Daenerys waiting, Missandei standing watch at the door.
"You cannot be here," Jon said automatically, though his heart lifted at the sight of her.
"I do not care," Daenerys said. "Jon, what did you say to my brother? What are you planning?"
Jon sighed and gestured for her to sit. "I asked for two months to arrange affairs and match Tywin's offer."
"How?" Daenerys demanded. "Jon, be honest with me. Do you actually have access to that much gold, or are you planning something desperate like taking a loan from the Iron Bank and pledging everything you have built?"
At the mention of the Iron Bank, Jon felt something cold settle in his stomach. "It is more complicated than that."
"Then explain it to me," Daenerys said firmly. "No evasions. I need to know what you are risking."
Jon was quiet for a long moment, then said, "When I was in Essos, I was hired by the Second Sons to help defend a merchant city from a Dothraki khalasar. It should have been suicide—we were outnumbered five to one. But we won through strategy and terrain and luck. The khal was killed, his bloodriders fell, and his khalasar scattered. In the aftermath, there was... gold. A great deal of it. The khalasar's accumulated plunder from years of raiding. By sellsword tradition, the spoils went to those who survived the battle."
"How much gold?" Daenerys asked quietly.
"Four million gold dragons," Jon said. "Give or take."
The silence was absolute. Even Missandei, usually so composed, looked shocked.
"Four... million," Daenerys repeated slowly. "Jon, that is more than... the crown's entire debt is six million. Most great lords do not have that much in actual coin available."
"I know," Jon said. "Which is why I never touched it. Daenerys, I did not earn that gold. I just happened to be there when it needed to be distributed. It felt cursed—blood money from raiding and slaving and conquest. I took my share because refusing would have insulted the men who fought beside me, but I never spent it. I deposited it with the Iron Bank in Braavos and tried to forget it existed."
"Why?" Daenerys asked.
"Because I knew that much sudden wealth would destroy me," Jon said simply. "I was nineteen, barely more than a boy, and suddenly I had more gold than I could spend in ten lifetimes. If I had brought it back to Westeros, it would have made me a target. Lords would have tried to manipulate me, merchants would have tried to cheat me, and I would have had no idea how to manage it properly. So I left it with the Iron Bank, took only what I needed to establish Sea Dragon Point, and focused on building something real rather than just spending inherited wealth."
"But now you are going to use it," Daenerys said.
"Now I need to use it," Jon corrected. "To remove the one objection to our match that I can actually address. But Daenerys, there is a complication."
"What complication?"
Jon took a breath. "When I deposited the gold with the Iron Bank, I made an arrangement with one of their representatives. A man named Tycho Nestoris. He agreed to hold the gold safely, invest portions of it to generate returns, and keep its existence confidential. In exchange, I promised him a favor. No timeline, no specific request, just... a favor that he could call in at any time."
"What kind of favor?" Daenerys asked warily.
"He did not specify," Jon admitted. "That was part of the arrangement. He said the Iron Bank occasionally needs people with specific skills or access to specific places, and having someone who owed them a favor could be valuable. I agreed because I was young and foolish and did not think I would ever need to claim the gold anyway."
"So if you withdraw the gold now, you owe the Iron Bank a favor," Daenerys said slowly. "A favor with no defined limits or timeline. Jon, that is incredibly dangerous. They could ask you to do anything."
"I know," Jon said. "But it is worth it. You are worth it."
"No," Daenerys said fiercely. "I am not worth you binding yourself to unknown obligations to bankers who might demand gods-know-what in the future. Jon, you cannot do this."
"I already arranged it," Jon said quietly. "I sent a raven to Braavos yesterday, after court. Tycho Nestoris will transfer one million gold dragons to the crown's account within the month, credited as a bride price from me. The transaction is done. The favor is owed."
Daenerys stared at him, emotions warring across her face—anger and fear and something that might have been love all competing for dominance.
"You fool," she whispered. "You absolute fool. What if they ask you to do something terrible? What if they demand something that costs more than money?"
"Then I will deal with it," Jon said firmly. "Daenerys, I have faced worse dangers than Iron Bank obligations. I fought Dothraki screamers. I survived sellsword companies where treachery was common as breakfast. I built something from nothing in the North. I can handle whatever favor the Iron Bank eventually requests."
"You cannot know that," Daenerys said.
"No," Jon agreed. "But I know this—I would rather owe the Iron Bank a favor than lose you because I was too cautious or too careful with resources I never truly earned anyway. That gold has been sitting in Braavos for two years, doing nothing except gathering interest. Now it will do something useful. It will remove one more obstacle between us. That is worth the risk."
Daenerys stood abruptly, paced to the window, then back. "My brother will ask where the gold came from. The whole court will ask. You cannot just produce a million gold dragons without explanation."
"I will tell them the truth," Jon said. "That I earned it in Essos through combat, deposited it with the Iron Bank rather than spending it rashly, and am now using it for a purpose that matters. Some will question it. Some will claim it proves I am just a mercenary at heart. But the gold is real, Daenerys. That cannot be disputed."
"This changes everything," Daenerys said quietly. "When word spreads that you matched Tywin's offer—that you exceeded it, actually, since you have more in reserve—the court will have to take you seriously. You will not just be the Northern bastard who caught my eye. You will be a man of genuine substance."
"I was always a man of substance," Jon said. "The gold just makes it harder for people to ignore that fact."
Daenerys turned to look at him, her expression complex. "You terrify me sometimes, Jon Snow. Your willingness to risk everything on uncertain chances. Your absolute certainty that things will work out if you just push forward hard enough. What if you are wrong? What if this gamble costs you more than you can afford to lose?"
"Then I lose," Jon said simply. "But at least I tried. I would rather fail while fighting for something that matters than succeed at something that does not. And you matter, Daenerys. More than gold, more than safety, more than the comfortable life I could have lived if I had simply stayed at Sea Dragon Point and never come south."
She crossed the room and stood before him, close enough that he could see the tears gathering in her eyes. "I do not deserve this," she whispered. "I do not deserve someone who would risk so much."
"Yes, you do," Jon said firmly. "You deserve someone who sees your worth, who fights for you, who refuses to let obstacles stand in the way. That is not exceptional, Daenerys. That is the minimum you should expect from anyone who claims to care for you."
"Most men would not agree with that assessment," Daenerys said with a watery laugh.
"Most men are fools," Jon replied.
She laughed again, genuine this time, and wiped at her eyes. "What happens now?"
"Now we wait," Jon said. "The gold will arrive within the month. I will present it to your brother formally, with full accounting of its origins. Tywin Lannister's offer will be matched. And then we see what other objections people invent, because there will always be objections, Daenerys. There will always be those who think a bastard should not reach for a princess. But each obstacle we overcome makes the next one less insurmountable."
"And the favor you owe the Iron Bank?" Daenerys asked. "What happens when they call that in?"
"We deal with it together," Jon said. "Whatever they ask, whatever it costs, we face it together. That is what partnership means, Daenerys. Facing consequences together rather than leaving one person to bear them alone."
She nodded slowly, then did something that made Jon's heart stop—she stepped forward and embraced him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her head against his chest.
For a moment, Jon froze, acutely aware of Missandei watching, of the impropriety, of all the ways this could create scandal. Then he wrapped his arms around Daenerys and held her, feeling her warmth, her solidity, the reality of her presence in a way that letters could never convey.
"Thank you," she whispered against his chest. "For fighting for this. For me. For us."
"Always," Jon promised. "For however long it takes, whatever it costs. Always."
They held each other for a long moment, then Daenerys stepped back, composing herself, becoming the princess again rather than just the woman.
"I should go," she said. "Before someone notices my absence and starts rumors."
"Daenerys," Jon said as she moved toward the door. "The gold is real. The offer will be matched. But you should know—even if your brother accepts me, even if the court stops objecting, even if we overcome every obstacle—I am still going to be difficult to live with. I am still going to be blunt and stubborn and terrible at court politics. Are you certain this is what you want?"
"More certain every day," Daenerys said, and her smile was radiant. "I do not want someone easy to live with, Jon. I want someone real. And you are the most real person I have ever met."
Then she was gone, Missandei following, and Jon was alone with his thoughts and the enormity of what he had just committed to.
A million gold dragons to the crown. A favor owed to the Iron Bank with no defined limits.
It was reckless, possibly foolish, the kind of gamble that could destroy him if it went wrong.
But looking at the space where Daenerys had stood, remembering the feel of her in his arms, Jon found he had no regrets.
Some things were worth any price.
Some things were worth any risk.
And Daenerys Targaryen was worth everything.
Now he just had to hope the Iron Bank's favor would not cost more than he could pay.
But that was a problem for the future.
For now, he had removed one more obstacle.
Proven one more time that he was worthy.
Moved one step closer to the impossible future they both wanted.
And that, Jon thought, was enough.
For today, that was enough.
Tomorrow would bring its own challenges.
But tomorrow, he would face them with Daenerys beside him.
And that made all the difference.

Chapter Text

The news of Jon's matching offer spread through King's Landing like wildfire.
Within hours of Jon's formal presentation to King Rhaegar—witnessed by the Small Council and recorded by Grand Maester Pycelle—every lord in the city knew that the Northern bastard had produced a million gold dragons from seemingly nowhere. By evening, three different versions of how he had acquired the gold were circulating, each more outlandish than the last.
Jon endured it with the stoic patience he had learned in Essos, but it wore on him. Lords who had dismissed him days ago now sought his company. Merchants who had ignored his presence suddenly had proposals for partnerships. And through it all, Tywin Lannister watched with eyes that promised retribution for the audacity of a bastard matching the Lord of Casterly Rock.
The formal audience where Jon presented the gold to the crown was held three days after Tywin's original offer. The throne room was packed—every lord who could justify attendance had found reason to be present, eager to witness what would surely be one of the more memorable court sessions in recent years.
Jon stood before the Iron Throne in the clothing Daenerys had insisted he wear—fine Northern wool in gray and white, with a silver direwolf clasp at his shoulder. He looked, she had said, like a lord worth taking seriously. Jon just felt like he was wearing a costume.
"Lord Jon Snow," Rhaegar said formally, his voice carrying through the vast chamber. "You have requested audience to present an offer regarding the hand of my sister, Princess Daenerys Targaryen. The crown recognizes you."
Jon took a breath, steadied himself, and spoke clearly. "Your Grace, I come before you not to bid for Princess Daenerys as if she were property to be purchased, but to remove practical objections to a match between us. Lord Tywin Lannister offered one million gold dragons as a bride price. I hereby present the same sum to the crown, with full accounting of its origins and no conditions attached."
He gestured, and Tycho Nestoris—who had arrived from Braavos two days prior—stepped forward with a sealed letter bearing the Iron Bank's mark.
"This letter from the Iron Bank of Braavos," Tycho said in his precise, accented voice, "confirms the transfer of one million gold dragons from Lord Snow's account to the crown's account. The funds are available immediately and may be used as His Grace sees fit."
The throne room erupted in whispers. Rhaegar raised a hand for silence, then looked at Jon with an expression that was difficult to read. "Lord Snow, the crown thanks you for your... generous offer. But before this matter proceeds further, the question must be asked—where did a lord of a minor Northern holding acquire such wealth? There are few men in Westeros who possess a million gold dragons in liquid funds."
"I earned it in Essos, Your Grace," Jon said clearly. "Two years ago, I participated in the defense of a merchant city against a Dothraki khalasar. The battle was successful beyond expectations—the khal was slain, his bloodriders fell, and the khalasar scattered. By sellsword tradition, the spoils of victory were distributed among the survivors. My share amounted to approximately four million gold dragons."
The whispers became a roar. Four million. It was an almost incomprehensible sum.
"And you simply deposited this fortune with the Iron Bank and forgot about it?" Tywin Lannister's voice cut through the noise. He stepped forward, his expression skeptical. "Forgive me, Lord Snow, but that seems... implausible. Most young men coming into such wealth would spend it, invest it, use it to advance their position. Why would you leave it sitting idle in Braavos?"
"Because I was nineteen years old and wise enough to know I was not wise enough to manage that much wealth," Jon replied evenly. "The gold came from blood and conquest, Lord Tywin. Dothraki plunder represents years of raiding and slaving. It felt cursed. I took only what I needed to establish Sea Dragon Point and left the rest with the Iron Bank, where it could not corrupt me or make me a target for those who might kill me to claim it."
"A noble sentiment," Tywin said, his tone making it clear he found it anything but. "Or perhaps a convenient story for gold that was acquired through less savory means. Sellswords are not known for their scruples, after all. How do we know this gold was not stolen, extorted, or otherwise obtained through dishonorable means?"
Jon felt anger flare but kept his voice level. "You have my word, Lord Tywin. And you have the Iron Bank's verification of the gold's existence and legitimacy. If that is insufficient for you, I cannot help you. But I will not stand here and be accused of theft by a man whose house built its fortune on the backs of Casterly Rock's mines, worked by men who died in darkness so that Lannisters could wear gold."
The throne room went dead silent. No one spoke to Tywin Lannister that way. Ever.
Tywin's eyes went cold as winter ice. "You forget yourself, bastard."
"I forget nothing," Jon replied. "I know exactly who and what I am. The question is whether you can say the same, Lord Tywin. You offer gold to purchase a princess, dress it up in talk of duty and realm, but we both know what this really is. You want a Targaryen match to elevate your house, to place your blood on the path to the Iron Throne through Princess Daenerys's children. I offer gold too, but I offer it to remove objections, not to purchase a person. That is the difference between us."
"That is enough," Rhaegar said, his voice carrying command. "Lord Snow, your point is made. Lord Tywin, your objection is noted. But this is not a marketplace where we haggle over prices. This is my sister's future we discuss, and she is neither for sale nor subject to auction."
"Your Grace," Tywin said, recovering his composure with visible effort, "I merely sought to ensure the crown was not accepting gold of questionable provenance. If Lord Snow can prove his gold is legitimate, then of course his offer must be considered alongside all others."
"The gold is legitimate," Tycho Nestoris said quietly. "The Iron Bank does not traffic in stolen funds, Lord Tywin. We verified the source when Lord Snow made his original deposit. The gold came from the dispersal of a Dothraki khalasar's treasury after their defeat in battle. Such dispersals are common practice among sellsword companies and are considered legitimate spoils of war."
"Then I have no further objections," Tywin said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "The crown must do what is best for the realm. If Lord Snow's offer serves those interests better than House Lannister's, so be it."
He said it graciously, but Jon heard the promise beneath. Tywin Lannister did not forget slights, and Jon had just made a powerful enemy.
Rhaegar looked between them, then at the assembled lords. "The crown acknowledges Lord Snow's offer and thanks both him and House Lannister for their considerations. However, I remind all present that Princess Daenerys's hand is not determined solely by financial considerations. Character, compatibility, and my sister's own wishes will weigh heavily in any decision. This matter is not concluded simply because offers have been made."
He stood, signaling the session's end. "The crown will deliberate on these matters and make its decision in due course. Court is dismissed."

That evening, Jon found himself summoned to the Small Council chamber—a rare honor for someone not on the council itself. Rhaegar sat at the head of the table, with his closest advisors arrayed around him. Jon recognized them from his time at court: Lord Commander Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, Grand Maester Pycelle, Master of Coin Lord Paxter Redwyne, Master of Ships Lord Stannis Baratheon, and Master of Whisperers Varys, the eunuch whose webs extended throughout the realm.
"Lord Snow," Rhaegar said as Jon entered and bowed. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit. We have matters to discuss that require your particular knowledge."
Jon sat, wary. This was not about Daenerys—the formality and the presence of the full council suggested something else entirely.
"Three days ago," Rhaegar continued, "we received a raven from Dorne. Pirates have seized control of several islands in the Stepstones. They are attacking merchant ships, demanding tribute, and disrupting trade routes between Westeros and Essos. Normally, this would be a matter for the Master of Ships to address with naval forces."
"However," Lord Stannis said, his voice clipped and precise, "the leader of these pirates is no common raider. He is a Rhoynish noble—or claims to be—named Qos Qoherys. And he sent a message specifically mentioning you, Lord Snow."
Jon felt cold settle in his stomach. Qos. He had not heard that name in two years, had hoped never to hear it again.
"What did the message say?" Jon asked.
Varys pulled out a scroll and read in his high, affected voice: "Tell the Wolf of the Second Sons that old debts are remembered. Tell him that what was taken will be reclaimed, and blood will answer for blood. The Stepstones are just the beginning."
"You know this man," Rhaegar said. It was not a question.
"I do, Your Grace," Jon admitted. "Two years ago, the Second Sons were hired to protect a merchant convoy traveling from Volantis to Braavos. Qos Qoherys led a pirate fleet that attempted to take the ships. We defeated him, captured three of his vessels, and scattered his fleet. His brother was killed in the fighting—by my hand, though it was combat, not murder. Qos swore vengeance but fled before we could apprehend him. I thought he had accepted his defeat and moved on."
"Apparently not," Stannis said dryly. "And now he has taken the Stepstones, which puts him in position to strangle trade between Westeros and Essos. Every merchant ship traveling to King's Landing, Dorne, or the Reach must pass through those waters. He can demand tribute, seize cargoes, or simply sink vessels out of spite."
"You believe he is doing this because of me?" Jon asked. "That seems excessive. A personal vendetta does not explain the resources required to take the Stepstones or the boldness to challenge Westeros directly."
"No, it does not," Varys agreed, his voice soft. "Which is why my little birds have been investigating. And what they have discovered is... troubling. Lord Snow, Qos Qoherys does not have the resources or the men to take the Stepstones alone. Someone is supporting him. Someone with ships, soldiers, and gold enough to fund a significant military operation."
"Who?" Rhaegar asked.
Varys hesitated, an unusual display of uncertainty from the spider. "The whispers are unclear, Your Grace. But they point to someone who has reason to disrupt the realm's stability, who has resources despite being in exile, and who has connections to pirate elements that could be mobilized for the right price."
"Robert Baratheon," Jon said quietly, the pieces falling into place.
The room went silent.
"You think Robert is behind this?" Rhaegar asked carefully.
"It makes sense, Your Grace," Jon said, his mind racing through the tactical implications. "Robert fled after the rebellion failed, but he took ships and loyal men with him. Rumors say he established himself somewhere across the Narrow Sea, perhaps in the Stepstones themselves or in one of the Free Cities. If he has been rebuilding his strength, hiring mercenaries, gathering resources... attacking the Stepstones and using Qos as his proxy would be his first move against Westeros. Test the realm's response, disrupt trade, cause economic damage while remaining deniable."
"But why now?" Lord Redwyne asked. "Robert has been quiet for eighteen years. Why move now?"
"Because I gave him a reason," Jon said, sick understanding spreading through him. "Your Grace, when I fought the Dothraki, when I earned that fortune I just transferred to the crown... Robert likely heard about it. Four million gold dragons represents a threat to him—a Northern lord with resources to fund military operations, with connections to sellsword companies in Essos, with a reputation for competence. And now I am here, in King's Landing, courting a princess. If Robert wanted to destabilize the realm and create chaos, attacking me indirectly while disrupting trade would serve multiple purposes."
"You believe Robert is using Qos to strike at you," Rhaegar said.
"I believe Robert is using Qos to strike at the realm, and mentioning me is just psychological warfare," Jon corrected. "Qos has personal reasons to hate me. Robert has political reasons to weaken Westeros. Together, they make dangerous partners."
Stannis leaned forward. "If Robert is truly behind this, we face a significant problem. I can sail to the Stepstones with the royal fleet and crush Qos's forces, but if Robert has an army waiting to reinforce or attack our ships once they are committed, we could lose vessels we cannot afford to replace. We need intelligence before we act."
"I can provide intelligence," Jon said quietly. "Your Grace, I know Qos. I know how he thinks, how he fights, what motivates him. And I have contacts in Essos—sellsword companies who owe me favors, merchants who trade information for gold, even some Braavosi who would be happy to help if the Iron Bank requested it. Give me time to gather information, and I can tell you exactly what forces Qos has, whether Robert is truly behind him, and how to defeat them with minimum cost."
"How much time?" Rhaegar asked.
"A month," Jon said. "Perhaps two. The information network needs to be activated carefully, and responses will take time to return."
"We do not have two months," Stannis said flatly. "Every day Qos holds the Stepstones is a day merchants lose gold, ships risk seizure, and our trade suffers. We need to act now."
"We need to act intelligently," Jon countered. "Rushing into the Stepstones without knowing what we face is how fleets get destroyed and soldiers die for no gain. Patience now prevents disaster later."
The council argued for another hour, weighing options, assessing risks. Eventually, Rhaegar raised a hand for silence.
"Lord Snow," the king said, "you will have one month. One month to gather intelligence about Qos's forces and Robert's potential involvement. At the end of that month, we will reassess with whatever information you have provided. If it is sufficient to plan an effective operation, we proceed with your intelligence guiding our strategy. If not, Lord Stannis will sail with whatever information we have and hope for the best. Is that acceptable?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Jon said.
"Good. You are dismissed. But Lord Snow..." Rhaegar paused. "This matter takes precedence over all others. Including your suit for my sister's hand. Demonstrate your value to the realm by helping us resolve this crisis, and it will weigh heavily in your favor when final decisions are made."
Jon bowed and left, his mind already cataloging contacts, considering who to reach out to, planning how to gather the intelligence Rhaegar needed.
Behind him, he heard Varys say quietly, "The boy is clever, Your Grace. And if Robert truly is behind this, having someone who understands sellsword mentality could be invaluable."
"Or it could be coincidence," Stannis countered. "A Rhoynish pirate with a grudge choosing now to act."
"I do not believe in coincidence, Lord Stannis," Varys replied. "Not when timing is this convenient."
Jon did not believe in coincidence either.
Robert Baratheon was moving against the realm.
And somehow, Jon had become a piece in that game, whether he wanted to be or not.
But if Robert thought Jon Snow was an easy target, the fallen king was about to learn a hard lesson.
Jon had survived Essos by being smarter and more ruthless than those who hunted him.
He would survive this the same way.
And when he was done, Qos would regret ever speaking Jon's name.
Robert would regret giving Qos the resources to move.
And the Stepstones would learn what it meant to threaten the realm that Jon was trying to call home.
One month.
One month to prove his worth.
One month to demonstrate he was more than a wealthy bastard courting a princess.
One month to show King Rhaegar that Jon Snow was exactly what the realm needed.
A man who understood war.
A man who could win.
A man worthy of a princess and a place at the table where kingdoms were shaped.
The game had changed again.
But Jon was ready.
He had always been ready.