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Chapter Text

Jaime Lannister never cared much for his children. That is not to say that he hated them, he simply did not find it in him to care much for their whims and desires, for their fancies or their games, their struggles of youth, or even their smiles and laughter.

Maybe he could find it in him to care if he were allowed to interact with them more than strictly necessary, but Cersei, his sweet sister, found it too risky. If he were to pay attention to them too often, tutor and care for them, show them any shred of attention that could be deemed in any way fatherly, and people might connect the dots. They might grow suspicious.

Never mind that it is very common for an uncle to take interest in his nephews and nieces, Jaime had many fond memories of uncle Gerion, and even uncle Kevan had demonstrated interest in his education in the past, but Cersei’s paranoia was not easily quelled.

Not to say that he terribly minded this situation he found himself in. There is no joy or excitement in fatherhood that he could not instead find in swordplay or in taking his sweet sister and ravishing her right under the fat king’s nose. Those were the moments in which he truly felt alive.

Last night was a particularly intense session of lovemaking, with Cersei’s anger at that oaf Robert’s neglect towards her sweet Joff translating into very passionate sex. He listened to her complaints dutifully as they fucked, but in the back of his mind he had thought it obvious that the king would not care much for Joffrey, coddled and spoiled as he was.

That his sweet sister insisted in covering her firstborn in Lannister livery did him no favors. King Robert was famously sick of their presence in court. And yet their influence would not be going away anytime soon.

Today Jaime’s duties as Kingsguard were mercifully free of standing guard for the fat king, at least not until after the sun sets. Instead he was assigned to protect the younger of the princelings, Seven help him.

Jaime made his way from the White Sword Tower to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal apartments, where he encountered young prince Tommen, breaking his fast in one of the private dining areas.

Ser Boros Blount stood to the side, looking upon the scene with a complete look of disinterest. Seeing Jaime, he acknowledged him with a nod and simple pleasantries before making his exit and leaving Jaime alone with the youngest prince.

It was usual for Cersei to break fast with her children, normally all together, but if not accompanied by their mother, Prince Tommen seemed to prefer keeping his distance from his eldest brother in favor of the company of cats. Jaime did not quite get the young prince’s fancy for the animals, but he did understand why he’d prefer them to Joffrey. Out of the royal family there seemed to only be two people that deemed Prince Joffrey worthy of their time, and one of them was the boy’s mother.

Prince Tommen seemed to be focusing his attention on a book as he munched away at a piece of bread, nary a care in the world. His focus was admirable, in way. Jaime never had much ease in reading his letters, they always seemed eager to scramble themselves or even try to fly off the page, so he rather not waste much time on them.

In a way Tommen reminded Jaime of Tyrion when he was younger, before his brother became jaded with the world. Bookish and shy, with a childlike wonder for beings that deeply fascinated him. He remembered how sad his brother had been when he discovered there were no longer any dragons in the world. At least the Red Keep wouldn’t run out of cats anytime soon.

Jaime approached the young prince and attempted to catch a glimpse at the title of the book. With not much to do while standing guard, it might help with his boredom to know what fascinated the prince.

Tommen seemed to register his approach and put the book down before Jaime could get a good look. He looked up at Jaime in silence for a brief moment before shooting him an unusually giddy smile.

“Good morning uncle Jaime!” Tommen giggled at him.

An unusual amount of excitement considering that ‘uncle Jaime’ doesn’t usually bring about any kind of fun or entertainment to his ‘nephew’. But then again, Tommen is a sweet child. He may as well have greeted Ser Boros Blount in this manner and nary one would bat an eye.

“Good morning, Prince Tommen. I see that you are breaking you fast by yourself. Did none of your siblings deem you worthy of gracing you with their presence?” Jaime asked, unable to resist the smirk that made it’s way to his face.

“Joff is with mother and Myrcella is with her ladies in waiting” Tommen answered with a pout making its way to his cheeks. “Meanwhile Jon is… somewhere! He never takes me when he’s out exploring the Red Keep.”

Jaime found himself laughing at the young prince’s childish complaint. Jon Baratheon seemed keen on uncovering many of the secrets Maegor the Cruel and his masons took to the grave, and yet he seemed much less keen in sharing those secrets with his siblings. Or anyone else, truly.

Jaime’s natural instinct is to doubt that the young Baratheon has uncovered any secrets at all, and yet… the boy sometimes seemed to disappear out of thin air only to reappear moments later at a random point in the keep with no witnesses in regards to how he got there.

The only place he seemed unable to pull this stunt was within Maegor’s Holdfast itself, which seemed to give credence to his claims. It was famously said that the cruel monarch wished for “no rats in his own walls”. Jaime remained skeptical, however. Boys his age liked to boast, the only thing that changed was what they boasted about.

“If it’s all the same to you, my prince, then I’ll be keeping you company for this meal.” And for most of the day, was left unsaid. If it was not for his Kingsguard duty, he would not be here at all.

“I hoped you’d say that” Tommen replied, sounding giddy yet again. Curious. Tommen then pats the seat at his side and beems him a smile. “Eat with me, uncle Jaime! I have something to show you as well,” his eyes trailing towards the book. The title still eluded Jaime, with the cover being face-down on the table.

As Kingsguard he was not supposed to sit with his charge, as that would require him to remove his sword from his belt and rest it against his chair. By no means that would make him disarmed, however it increased the time it would take to react to a threat.

Still, he was the best blade in the Seven Kingdoms, save mayhap for Barristan Selmy. There was no threat that could present itself in these circumstances that could best him solely on the account of an extra moment he’d take to unsheathe his blade.

A more dutiful Kingsguard would refuse, but none would accuse the one they call the Kingslayer of being enamored with duty. And so he decides to humor the young prince for the moment, removing his sword and scabbard from his belt and setting it against the table.

The chair is pulled and Jaime sits on it only to be surprised by the sound of flatulence echoing throughout the chamber.

Jaime could feel his face settle in a dumbfounded look as he turned his head towards Tommen, who was covering his face and giggling profusely.

And yet that was nothing when compared with the raucous laughter that echoed from beneath the dining table. Jaime huffed as he brusquely stood from the chair and looked down at the seat to see the animal bladder that had been waiting for him this entire time.

And when he lifted up the table cloth, there sat the culprit, bent at the stomach with tears in his eyes from laughing so loudly. He wiped at his eyes with nary a sign of remorse in those damned blue things. Jaime briefly considered dragging him from under there, but he started crawling towards Tommen and then brought himself to his feet before that course of action could be taken.

At three and ten his nephew was taller than most of his peers, and yet he was still obviously a child if his behavior is any indication. His hair was raven black and when he smiled, like he was currently doing at Jaime’s expense, you could see that his teeth bucked forward just enough to be noticeable. It made him look a child even more.

“You were right Jon! Uncle Jaime did not suspect a thing! You should have seen his face, it was amazing!” Tommen regaled with glee.

Jon in response gave his brother a pat on the head and messed up the thick golden locks. “Couldn’t have done it without you, little lion. The prank master couldn’t have asked for a better apprentice” he said with a ridiculous amount of pride for Jaime’s ears.

His hand twitched, instinctively seeking a blade that wasn’t there, but he did not let it show. Jaime Lannister was a not a man to suffer any humiliation lightly. Any he suffered from the king, he could not retaliate in the moment, but were instead paid for with interest every time he took the man’s wife to bed and fucked her vigorously.

If these were men of no import laughing at his face, Jaime would not find it hard to simply cut them down where they stood. And yet these men were instead children, not to mention princes. No such retaliation would be happening.

And truly, once Jaime regained control of his emotions, he had not suffered any true humiliation. The only witnesses to Prince Jon’s prank was himself and little Tommen. Jon Baratheon may be the most annoying little shit in King’s Landing, but Jaime had to admit the boy at least had some tact.

“Planetos to Uncle Jaime, are you with us good ser?” his nephew called to him with his irritating turn of phrase. It was not unusual for the boy to come up with sayings or try out new words and spread them around the Red Keep to see what sticks.

“Yes, Prince Jester, I am here. I’ve never left, as a matter of fact” Jaime said holding in the urge to roll his eyes.

Jon, however, did not hold back that same urge and not only rolled his eyes but also crossed his arms at being referred to by that moniker.

The only son of Cersei whom Jaime was certain was not his had earned himself a reputation at court for his mischief. His japes and jests and, even Jaime had to admit, his cunning had earned him the moniker of Jon the Clever, the same as Lann of Lannister. Yet this kind of behavior could not also go without its detractors, so he was also named Prince Jester by those who found him an annoyance.

Not a pretty name to be called, but nothing when compared to being named Kingslayer, so Jaime could not bring himself to care much and used it freely whenever his nephew acted in a bothersome manner.

“Don’t tell me you’re cross with me for this? Lighten up, uncle Jaime, no one else saw it happen! It’s all for good fun” Jon argued with a huff. “Could you really resent a face like this for tricking you?” he added, lightly pinching one of Tommen’s chubby cheeks for emphasis.

Tommen, for his credit, also made his best impression of an innocent kitten who could so no wrong.

Jaime did not care for this mummery, and yet he found himself acquiescing to the fact that he suffered no true indignity from this prank.

“You are lucky your mother is not here to hear about this. She would not approve of you teaching Tommen your bad habits”

“So you’re telling me you won’t snitch?” Jon’s eyes looked at him with hope.

Snitch. One of the words that the prince pulled out of thin air and started using. It means someone who is privy to information and shares it willingly to the people they’re supposed to keep it away from. This word found itself surprisingly popular in court. After all, King’s Landing is famously full of snitches.

“Who is to say? Give me too much trouble for the rest of the day and I just might” Jaime responded with a cocksure smile as he picked up his blade and strapped it back onto his belt.

In truth he did not care enough to tell Cersei, unless she brought it up first. He could not judge the brotherly urge to show off to your youngest sibling, he’s done plenty of that with Tyrion in their younger years. If he’d had the stature for it, Jaime would have eagerly taught him swordplay as well.

“We won’t give you any trouble, nuncle, I promise” Tommen replied quickly, before Jon could jape instead.

“Yes, yes, we promise… if we take to the training yard and you spar with me today” Jon was quick to add.

“I’m sorry Prince Jon, but I think you misunderstand my purpose. The Kingsguard are supposed to protect the king and his family, and not pound little princelings into the dirt” Jaime replied with a laugh.

Were it any other lordling, Jaime would be sure that his face would have become red in anger. Instead Jon responded by plastering a smug smile onto his face.

“Jeez, nuncle, those sure are a lot of different words for ‘I’m a craven who is afraid of losing to a boy of three and ten’” the boy said as he approached and nudged Jaime’s plate covered ribs. With each nudge there was a clang, which seems to satisfy his nephew.

It was hard to get a rise out of Jon without the boy simply responding in kind. He seemed under the impression that every insult Jaime would ever levy at him is in fact just playful banter. Jaime would call him a fool for this, and yet it was extremely convenient and effectively eliminated any wrinkles in their relationship.

Jaime wondered if Jon knew what he was doing.

“Stop using made up words, boy, it makes you seem daft” he replied. He had no idea where ‘jeez’ came from, but Jon Baratheon loved to put it at the start of his phrases.

“You’re avoiding my request, uncle Jaime. I know you dislike fighting against hammers, but I promise I won’t break your bones” he said with the facsimile of an innocent blink.

“Ha! The day you manage to break a single one of my bones is the day I’m too old and frail to even be able to lift a sword, you little shit” he laughs at the absurdity of that statement.

“So you don’t see yourself a great warrior in your old age like Ser Barristan? I’m learning a lot about you today, nuncle” the provocations continued.

“Fine! I’ll spar with you, but do not expect me to hold back after you’ve aggravated me so” Jaime relented just so that he could have some peace.

“I told you he wouldn’t hold out for too long” Jon said turning to Tommen. “You owe me a copper star”

“Jon! I didn’t make any bets with you, don’t lie” the youngest prince replied, scandalized. “I’m too young to have personal money besides” he continued with a pout.

Jon simply laughed and went to the door to call over some servants and ordered food for himself. Afterwards he sat at the table at his brother’s side. “I apologize, I simply could not resist the joke. Remember what the book says about committing to a bit” he said, turning over and tapping his finger on the book that Tommen had been reading earlier.

“You just came up with this bit! I haven’t seen you do fake bets not even once” Tommen replied with some heat, making Jon raise his hands in defeat and apologize, his smile never leaving his face.

With the book finally facing up and Jaime being in close enough proximity, he could finally discern what the frankly heavy-looking tome was called.

“Maester Sassacre’s Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery: Abridged?” He found himself having to read the title out loud due to it’s length. “Jon, where did you even find this… thing? And why are you making your brother read it as well?”

Jon seemed as if he was simply waiting for this question to be asked.

“Grand Maester Pycelle made the fatal mistake of mentioning this book’s existence that one time when I got sick because of those peanuts from the Summer Islands. I think he was trying to make me feel better, but once I got well again I begged him to send for a copy from the Citadel,” he explained. “I wanted the complete version, but he told me it was too big. I kept pestering him about it, so he relented and said that he could procure me one of the abridged copies.”

The dreaded peanut incident had almost cost a Summer Islander diplomat his head. Were it not for Jon Arryn pointing out that none of the others who partook on the delicacy had an adverse reaction, and the fortune of the prince recovering in full, Ser Ilyn would’ve stained his blade that week. Jaime had found the situation frankly comical, he’d never seen someone’s face swell in that manner before. Plus the boy survived, so there’d been no harm.

Still, it made sense for Pycelle to give in to the whims of any grandchild of Tywin Lannister, even the one who did not share the family resemblance.

While Jaime reminisced about the incident, Jon’s food had already been served and he seemed to focus on that in the moment. Him and Tommen continued to speak about something inconsequential or another.

The older of the two princes had received a lemon cake with his meal, and he wasted no time passing it on to Tommen. One could mistake it as a simple kindness, but in truth Jaime had noticed that Jon simply had a dislike for the pastry. It hadn’t always been that way, but over time it seemed like the boy had grown sick of cake.

It was not like him to pay attention to something this inconsequential, but unlike the rest of Cersei’s children, there was no paranoia related to Jaime’s proximity to him. That by itself would not be enough to make him care, but his nephew demanded his attention almost every time they were forced to spend time together, so Jaime found himself inadvertently paying attention.

“Look alive, nuncle!” Jaime was brought out of his thoughts by Jon knocking on his chestplate. “I’ve broken my fast, so let’s get going.”

“You wish to spar now?” Jaime balked at his enthusiasm.

“The more time we waste, the greater the chances a princely responsibility will find me, so better to get it out of the way before you are spared from this beating.” He says, flexing his arm muscles. Never mind that they were hidden by his doublet’s sleeves.

The doublet was styled in his House’s black and gold, but there was personal touch of blue on the sleeves, ending in a golden accent.

“Last one to the yard is stag dung!” The prince suddenly declared and started running out of the apartments.

“No fair, Jon!” Tommen replied, jumping out of the chair and running right after him.

Jaime was left behind. He had no wish to run after children, it was in all ways beneath him. But alas it was his duty as Kingsguard to keep them within sight or at least attempt to.

There truly was no one in the Red Keep who vexed him more than Jon Baratheon. He always found ways to force him to play along with his games. It annoyed him to no end, and yet he could not truly find it in him to resent that boy. Is it truly a crime for a child to wish to play with his uncle?

Still, he was not like his uncle Gerion. He could not put in that much effort. So this one time, he could settle for being stag dung instead.

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister was to be arriving soon for the tourney in honor of Prince Joffrey’s name day. Interestingly enough, despite being twins, his nephews Joffrey and Jon did not share a name day. He did not know the full details but the two most common rumors was that Jon was a heavier babe than Joffrey and thus took more time for the Grand Maester to safely deliver him with the help of the midwives, and so he was born and named a day later.

The second and more interesting rumor that had circulated was that the queen was too perplexed that her second son had looked so much like Robert and so little like her that she simply could not bring herself to name him. That would end up being Robert’s doing after returning from a hunt the following day.

Upon seeing the babe who looked so much like himself, he was compelled to name it. Prince Jon had been almost named Prince Eddard, but at that time the bonds between Robert and his best friend had been strained, so Jon was the most obvious answer.

The Lord Hand, Jon Arryn had been most pleased and honored, so much that he named his first and only son after Robert in return. An amusing exchange of namesakes between the two most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms.

Because of this curiosity, the joust, as the most prestigious of the games, was to be held entirely on the first day in honor of Joffrey. Then there would be a feast and on the second day a melee would be held in honor of Jon.

Renly wished to be able to bring his own household with him to King’s Landing, but poor Edric Storm was not welcome in the capital because of the queen. The boy had never met any of his siblings other than Jon, who had spent some years fostering at Storm’s End before being called back when Renly was offered the seat of Master of Laws in the Small Council.

None of the other royal children had fostered anywhere else, with Jon being the sole exception. The queen was overly attached to her brood, in Renly’s honest opinion, but Jon seemed to be the sole exception to that. It was a queer situation to behold, for the queen’s aloofness in a way allowed Jon some freedoms that Renly could tell caused Prince Joffrey some envy.

Renly used this to his advantage, making good use of those two and a half years he had fostering Jon to start grooming him to be the heir to Storm’s End. The fostering had been his idea after all, since despite being only one and twenty, Renly knew that he had no desire to marry and sire children.

Renly had become aware that he did not feel attracted to even the most beautiful ladies of the realm when he reached the age of six and ten and made his lord’s progress throughout his lands, getting to know his vassals, their expectations and their daughters.

He truly became aware that ladies were not for him when he visited the isle of Tarth and danced with the Maid of Tarth. Rumors had reached him that Brienne was the plainest, most mannish woman in all of the Stormlands. When Renly met her, he found her handsome instead. Her looks were rugged and decidedly unfeminine, and he found her sapphire blue eyes beautiful. She was muscular and even taller than he, basically everything that a beauty of Westeros isn't supposed to be.

The only woman to make an impression on him was handsome instead of pretty. That’s when he knew that marrying a woman was not for him.

And it was not like he preferred rugged handsome looks over a pretty face, far from it. Loras Tyrell was the most beautiful man he’d ever laid his eyes upon, his hair a mass of lazy brown curls and ringlets which tumble over his eyes, which were big, lively, and the color of liquid gold. That was the man he’d fallen in love with.

Loras had been offered to squire for him when Renly had returned from his progress, and initially he had found him nothing but a pretty younger boy. But as they trained together, spent time together, learned from each other, Renly couldn’t help but fall for his squire. The day Renly had knighted him was the first time they’ve ever made love and it was one of the most tender and romantic moments they had shared since.

Renly knew that they could never be united in marriage under the Seven, and probably not under any other god even if they tried, so instead he decided to resign himself to the life of an eternal bachelor and having Loras by his side as a household knight, maybe even his sworn shield. That way they’d be together forever.

So with marriage discarded as a possibility for him, for it would bring nothing but unhappiness to both himself and the poor girl he’d have to marry, his heir would end up being one of Robert’s sons. It couldn’t be Joffrey because he was set to inherit the Iron Throne, so Jon became his actual candidate for heir.

And despite not being able to bring his entire household, Loras was still with him in King’s Landing. As a matter of fact he intended to compete in the lists, in which Renly had complete confidence Loras would be able to win and thus make a name for himself. Fame and prestige was everything for a knight. What point is there in having skill if you are not known for it?

Renly was broken out of his thoughts by a knock at his door. He looked down at his papers, documents related to his office of Master of Laws. He cared little for them at the moment.

“Come in” he spoke loud enough to be heard.

One of the pages assigned to him at the Red Keep entered and bowed. “My lord, Ser Loras Tyrell requests your presence at the training yard. He says there’s something there you might wish to see.”

“Is that so?” Renly replied in thought. It was not unlike Loras to play coy, but the training yard? Not an invitation for pleasure then. His love probably wished to practice his skills on the eve of the tourney and mayhap make a show of it. “Very well then, I shall come to him.”

Renly put away the documents and let the page lead the way.

He found Loras not in the training grounds proper, but observing from above.

“Renly! How quick you were to respond to my summons,” Loras commented somewhat cheekily. He looked at him with those beautiful golden eyes of his and smirked, before nodding his head towards the grounds proper. “They’ve been at it for a while by now, your heir and the Kingslayer. Jon has lost every single bout, of course. But I think he’s tiring him out.”

Renly approached the parapet to observe the current bout.

Jon was clad in the sky-blue breastplate Renly had gotten him from Tobho Mott on his last name day. The rest of the armor pieces were simple steel, not tinted like the Qohori master smith’s work. He was too young, and could easily grow out of a complete set, so a breastplate that could easily be resized seemed the perfect gift.

His opponent was clad in the traditional white plate of the Kingsguard, but with his own golden Lannister lion flairs. The Kingslayer wielded his longsword with both hands, while Jon wielded a one-handed war hammer and a shield. The war hammer had a thrusting spike at its top, as well as another one opposite to it’s blunt head.

The two opponents circled each other, the Kingslayer’s armor looking pristine while dirt clung almost anywhere it could on Jon’s body.

“I tire of your games, boy. This will be our last bout of the day, so make it count” Ser Jaime taunted in between breaths, but there was no real sting to his words. Instead he sounded amused, yet tired.

“You give up too soon, uncle! I’ve got at least five other matches in me” Jon replied sounding much fresher than he looked.

“One more loss or five, it is all the same in the end for you” the Kingslayer replied before stopping for a moment. He took a single step forward.

And then he lunged.

Jon was on the back foot as soon as it started, with Jaime Lannister’s barrage of swings and stabs only barely being dodged or deflected on his shield. Not wanting the Kingslayer to dictate the pace of the fight, his nephew used his shield to push the Lannister knight away with surprising strength, following up with a, immediate side swing intent at crushing the Kingslayer’s shoulder.

What happened instead were sparks flying as the top spike glanced across the white armor of the Kingsguard as Jaime Lannister deftly dodged the swing. Undaunted by the miss, Jon brought his hammer back in a backhand strike attempting to hook the leg with his hammer.

The Kingslayer’s footwork proved too quick, and instead Jon found himself having to raise his shield hastily to protect himself from the counterattack.

“He’s gotten good, hasn’t he?” Loras commented as they watched, a smile dancing on his face.

“But not enough to overcome one of the best swords of the Seven Kingdoms. At least not yet.” Renly commented with a sigh. Jon’s insistence on sparring with his Lannister uncle for the past couple of moons had been the talk of the castle for a while.

Defeat after humiliating defeat had the boy looking weak in the eyes of some of the other martially inclined courtiers, who laughed at the prince’s insistence on taking on his infamous uncle again and again.

No matter that Jon Baratheon, competing against his peers, could breeze through a squire’s melee and win handily. But there were no such peers for him in the Red Keep, not like there was in Storm’s End, so he crossed blades with the Kingsguard instead.

“I wouldn’t have called you over if I had not different beliefs” Loras countered “He’s been chipping away at the Kingslayer all morning, and tiring him out. He might yet gain his first victory today”

“Isn’t this their last fight of the day? I cannot believe he’d pull through. Look at how defensive he’s forced to be” Renly pointed out.

And indeed the prince was yet again in the backfoot, dodging and deflecting, sometimes being forced to block and take the brunt of a blow on his arm.

“Do you wish to make a bet, my sweet?” Loras whispered, bringing his face closer.

Renly felt his heart beat faster but remained composed.

“Why do I have the impression that it is not coin that you desire?” Renly asked in return.

“You know me well” Loras chuckled in response. “If Jon makes the Kingslayer yield, you will have to find a way to gift me the Valyrian steel dagger that Littlefinger has been bragging about” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

Renly raises an eyebrow at such bold request. There was a tourney happening very soon, so it was a great opportunity to win things from Baelish. The Master of Coin was fond of making bets as much as Renly was fond of winning them.

“And if you lose this bet of ours?” Renly replied cockily.

“I’m sure you can come up with something on your own. You may request anything of me at any time… in any manner” Loras’ voice sounded almost sultry at that point, making Renly have to force down a sudden surge of desire.

“We have a deal” the Lord of Storm’s End thundered in excitement. In his mind he apologized to his nephew for wishing a crushing defeat upon him.

Despite the sensuality of the proposal, Renly acknowledged that Loras, as the favorite son of the Lord Paramount of the Reach, could make almost any request to his father at his behalf and have it be accepted.

Mayhaps he might still waste this request on something sexual, however. Renly was self aware about his flights of fancy.

Returning their attention back to the fight, Jon had just finished pushing the Kingslayer and backing away to bring some distance between them. A cloud moved in the sky and the sun shone on the yard, allowing Renly a better look at the Kingsguard’s armor. For the first time he saw some small dents and scrapes upon the white armor he had previously thought of as pristine.

Is that what Loras had meant when he said Jon had been chipping away at the Kingslayer all morning? The Lannister knight’s breathing was heavy from being on the offensive for most of the match, and while Jon’s shield arm seemed shaky, his breathing was steady.

And then, the prince charged.

The Kingslayer seemed ready to receive him, perhaps use the force of the charge against his opponent and trip him. Instead he was forced to deflect the prince’s shield from hitting him on the face, as Jon had managed to throw it with enough force to loosen the Lannister’s grip on his longsword.

Keeping with the momentum of his charge, the Prince tackled his Lannister uncle to the ground, making him lose his sword in the process.

On the ground it was a tangle of limbs, an ugly display for all onlookers. But it eventually ended with Prince Jon sitting on the Kingslayer’s chest and pointing the spike of his hammer to his uncle’s neck.

“Do you yield, uncle Jaime?” the boy asked in-between ragged breaths. Seems like he had mustered up all his remaining energy for that last resort gambit.

“You little trickster shit, that could have killed me!” the Kingslayer bemoaned from his position.

“Don’t be like that, nuncle, I simply trusted that your famed skill would protect you. Now! Do you yield?” the prince reiterated, now with a smile upon his face.

The Kingslayer could only slump his head backwards in defeat and mumble “Aye, I yield.”

Immediately after that, Jon let go of his hammer and rolled over, laying on the dirt just to the side of his Lannister uncle, laughing in celebration of his first hard-won victory against his opponent of choice from the past two moons.

Loras gave him a smug look, and Renly had a sudden realization.

“You gave him the idea”

“My Lord, you know I would never deploy such an unchivalrous tactic to achieve victory” Loras said to him with fake hurt in his voice.

“But it is not you who is using it, good Ser.” Renly replied with similar playfulness.

Loras smiled. “In truth I only suggested for him to try and surprise his opponent once he’s sufficiently worn down. He came up with that shield throw all by himself.”

Indeed, his nephew had picked a medium sized rounded shield with a handle instead of a strap. He had this move planned out from the start. It would likely not work again, at least not against the same opponent, but It eked out a victory in the end.

Now he had to figure a way to separate Littlefinger’s dagger from himself. Surely he could figure something out in the tourney.

Eventually Jon stood up and Loras cheered and applauded for the prince’s triumph, causing Jon to spot them and wave enthusiastically. He then turned to offer the Kingslayer a hand to stand up, but the knight instead waved it away and stood up on his own.

He did not, however, reject the shake of hands offered to him by the prince whose smile grew wider with this show of respect between fighters.

Afterwards Prince Jon made his way up the stairs to greet them.

“Uncle Renly, Ser Loras” he said with a nod of his head. “It gladdens me to see that you were both here to see my big win against uncle Jaime.”

“I am glad you took my advice to heart, my prince,” Loras said in reply, giving Jon a pat on the shoulder in praise “Though I have to admit I would not have gone for the shield throw in your place”

“In my place you would’ve been standing toe to toe with my uncle, Loras, so you wouldn’t have needed it” Jon replied, crossing his arms in bemusement.

“Now that is a bold claim” the Kingslayer’s voice came behind from Renly, and when he turned he was met with the cocky demeanor of Jaime Lannister. “You cannot truly believe your little friend can measure up to me. My prince.” Though those last words were addressed to Jon, the Kingslayer’s eyes lingered on Renly while mentioning the words ‘little friend’.

“You shall see the true measure of my valor on the lists tomorrow, Ser.” Loras replied with no small amount of venom, as he straightened his back and came face to face with the Kingslayer.

“Many upstarts have tried, Tyrell, but you’ll not find many who’ve succeeded in defeating me.” Jaime Lannister smugly replied.

“Like your nephew of three and ten just did?” it was Loras’ turn to sound smug, which immediately brought a frown to the Kingslayer’s face.

“Jeez, keep your cocks in your pants, you two. No need to measure them right here and now” Jon stepped in as interference. “Prove yourselves in the joust tomorrow, yeah? And if none of you win the lists then… well I don’t know, but it’d be pretty funny.” Jon finished with a chuckle.

Loras’ features softened and he gave the prince another pat on the shoulder. “We shall see the measure of our skills tomorrow then.”

The Kingslayer’s cockiness was back in full as he replied “That we shall.” He said his goodbye to the prince and gave Renly only a nod as and afterthought before leaving their presence.

“Prick.” Renly found himself saying under his breath. He turned back to his nephew before giving him a genuine smile. “Congratulations on your victory, Jon. Seems your hardheadedness finally paid off.”

“Hey, I was not being a hard head about it!” his nephew replied with a small amount of outrage. “I just thought training with uncle Jaime was fun, so I kept on doing it. Besides, who better to teach you then a renowned member of the Kingsguard?”

Infamous member of the Kingsguard, more like. But Renly could not deny the man’s skill.

“Was he truly teaching you all this time, or was he simply beating you around so that you’d eventually stop asking for his time?” Renly asked pointedly, crossing his arms.

“It might have started as the second option, but in honest I started to learn regardless. And when it came to that point, he could not help himself but give me advice” Jon said, seemingly very proud of himself.

They continued to make conversation as they made their way towards Maegor’s Holdfast so Jon could clean himself and change for his grandfather’s arrival.

A herald had spoken that Tywin Lannister’s party had been spotted approaching from the gold road. His men had started propping up their tents in the tourney grounds, while the old lion and his personal entourage entered the city through the Lion Gate.

Renly and Loras separated themselves from Jon at that point. They had no love for the Lannisters or their influence in this court, yet his heir was half Lannister so Renly found himself having to tolerate them more than he wished to.

With this thought, Renly felt himself sympathizing with Robert but also felt himself lucky. Lannister blood aside, he’d rather have Jon as an heir over Joffrey any gods damned day.

Chapter Text

Robert’s fondness for feasts and tourneys might lead the realm to bankruptcy, and yet he was king. Even as the king’s Hand there was nothing Jon Arryn could do about it. In truth he’s always tried to advise his king with wisdom, he kept the realm’s political situation stable, and he’d even brought in a new Master of Coin in Petyr Baelish, who masterfully managed the coffers. Yet Robert could not help himself but be a spendthrift, wanting to partake on the best things life could offer him without worrying about what he called ‘counting coppers’.

The Hand of the King knew that his foster son was attempting to fill a hole in his life that had been empty ever since the day dear Ned returned with Lyanna Stark’s bones instead of the girl alive. What was the crown for Robert if he could not share it with the woman he loved?

Jon knew that it was not truly love, but an infatuation that Robert had for the girl he’d scarcely met in person but a handful of times. Robert’s true desire was to truly unite his family with the Starks, to become Ned’s brother in truth by marriage to Ned’s sister. A dream that never came true followed by a marriage to a lioness he found unable to love and who then grew to resent him.

Tourneys and feasts mayhap were the only way Robert found to distract himself from the grim reality of his personal life. That and the drink.

But despite the lack of love between Robert and his wife, Jon Arryn could tell that the king still nurtured some degree of love for the children he had with her. He feared what kind of boy Prince Joffrey would have turned out as if it wasn’t for Young Jon growing up at the Crown Prince’s side.

There was an incident in the past, when both boys were five, Robert had pointed out to the boys that a cat was pregnant and would soon be having kittens. Latter in the same day the boys had a brawl in the kitchen. Joffrey was feeling impatient and wanted to see the kittens immediately, and his childish mind thought that it would accelerate the birth if he took a knife to the cat and removed the kittens himself.

The twins were very close at that age so he brought Young Jon along to see the kittens, but only told his younger brother the plan once the got to the kitchens and he grabbed the knife. Young Jon allegedly tried to explain that that would kill the pregnant cat, but Joffrey thought his younger brother foolish and went to do it anyway, causing Young Jon to slap the knife out of the Crown Prince’s hands and a brawl between the children to start.

The Kingsguard eventually stepped in and separated the boys before bringing them to their mother and father for chastisement. Once Robert had heard of Joffrey’s plan he slapped the boy in the face for his perceived cruelty, but that one action had made Young Jon fly into a rage.

The second prince pulled back his fist and punched Robert in the groin right in front of the queen and the Kingsguard, and then climbed atop Robert’s back and proceeded to pull at his hair and beard.

Robert was still strong then, so he had no problem in removing the attacking small child. He initially raged at his sons, but mid rant his anger was surpassed by amusement at Young Jon’s audacity for attacking not only his father but the king. One could see Robert start to suppress a smile as he chastised his sons for their behaviors. A younger Robert would’ve defended Ned just as fiercely.

Jon Arryn could not remember if the boys received further punishment, but that wasn’t important. What seemed important to the old Hand was that Prince Joffrey did not take this demonstration of loyalty from Young Jon for granted.

Jon Arryn could see that Joffrey nurtured some form of respect for his brother. Young Jon was one of the few who’s words Joffrey heeded. He could talk the Crown Prince out of making pig-headed or cruel decisions, acting as a sort of moral compass. It would sometimes lead to fights, like the incident with the cat, but brothers always fight even when they love each other.

They were not the closest siblings, but there was respect there, as well as care. Jon Arryn would sometimes worry about the future of the realm when Joffrey took the Iron Throne. The Crown Prince could be reckless, willful and ill-tempered. And yet Jon Arryn could see the boy appointing his brother to be Hand of the King, and if the gods were kind Joffrey would still heed his brother’s counsel when it truly mattered.

But that is for the future. Today the twin princes had a tourney in honor of their name days, one that has cost the crown a pretty penny. And yet the Hand of the King tried to not worry about that in the occasion, it was time to celebrate.

Tywin Lannister had arrived the previous day with a retinue from the Westerlands, and so did Late Walder Frey from the Riverlands. Despite the valley in importance between both men, both had notoriety attached to their names. Tywin for ending the war with the sack of King’s Landing, and Walder for avoiding it entirely by arriving late at the Battle of the Trident. It was Hoster Tully, his overlord, who named him Late Walder as consquence.

Jon was seated in the royal box alongside the king, while Tywin Lannister, as well as Renly and Stannis Baratheon, had their own grand box adjacent to and slightly lowered compared to the royal one. The other lords in attendance had similar but lesser accommodations, while the viewing stands that circled the arena of the joust were filled up by common folk, foreign merchants and whoever else wished to partake in the celebrations.

Jon’s wife, Lysa, was in attendance as well, holding their young son Robert, whom some called Sweetrobin. The boy was already eight name days old, and was not yet weaned of his mother’s milk. It pained Jon to see the boy so unhealthily attached to his mother, but Sweetrobin shaking sickness pained him much more. He wished that his son could live a more fulfilling life, that he could ride a horse or even play knights with his peers.

Jon Arryn has seen the good that fostering could cause to young lordlings, having fostered the current king and the current Lord of Winterfell in the past. It would wean the boy from his mother, mayhap teach him some independence. The boy’s sickness would still be a problem, but he would have to eventually start learning to live with it instead of being coddled.

Lord Stannis also had a daughter of similar age to Sweetrobin, who had also suffered of a great sickness in her youth and had gotten better. It would be auspicious to send him to Dragonstone. He had not yet told Lysa of his plans, in fear of what she might say or do, but Jon’s mind was set on this course of action. It would do their son the most good.

Jon’s attention was brought back to the tilts as a fanfare announced the start of the competition.

“Do you wish to make a bet, brother?” Prince Joffrey spoke from his seat at the front of the royal box. Both princes were seated at the front, side by side, as a placement of honor.

“On the first tilt or on the final result of the joust?” Young Jon Baratheon asked for clarification.

“On the final result, of course.” Joffrey responded with a scoff “It is beneath me to bet between a hedge knight and a Frey.”

The second prince laughed at his brother's comment, thankfully out of earshot of Walder Frey. “Do you have something against Ser Danwell Frey?”

“He is ugly, for one. Not to mention there are too many Frey knights in these lists from what I’ve seen” Prince Joffrey responded with what Jon Arryn could guess was a sneer. “Uncle Jaime will probably leave all of them in the dust. He is a Lannister after all.”

“Man… so you’re betting on uncle Jaime?” Young Jon said with a slight whine to his voice.

“Obviously. Look at all these pathetic knights, Jon. Do you think any of them could compare to the might of the Lion of Lannister?” Joffrey boasted with pride.

In truth this was the opinion of about half the people in court or more. Jon Arryn was not a betting man, but those who were had invested a good amount of coin on the Kingslayer’s victory.

“Ser Barristan the Bold could beat our uncle, if I’m being honest”

“That old man? I do not see why he’s still in the Kingsguard! Mayhap when he was younger and still deserving of the name the Bold, but he’s not even riding today, brother. Try again.” Jon Arryn could hear the smirk in the boy’s voice.

“Wait, what are the conditions of the bet? Let’s straighten that out.” Young Jon asked in an attempt to be cautious. The boy could be reckless at times, but when it came to his brother he knew to be careful.

“It is simple, really. We each shall receive separate name day presents as we usually do, but at we might desire something the other has, won’t we?” Prince Joffrey’s tone was casual, but Jon Arryn could tell that there was something deeper in that statement. Sentiments of envy from either brother? Mayhap both sides at once.

“So what, whoever wins gets to pick one of the other’s presents to keep as his own?” Young Jon asked in clarification, not picking up or refusing to acknowledge the accusation or admission of envy.

“A worthy wager, no? Or are you too craven to partake?” the older brother teased.

“Fine with me” Young Jon replied with a smile. “You picked the obvious choice, but I’ve got a champion of my own” he said looking in the direction of the box that contained the great lords of the realm.

The old Hand looked at the spot the young prince seemed to glance at, and it seemed he was looking at his uncle Renly who was in a conversation with Petyr Baelish.

“Oh gods damn it, he must have already gone down for preparations” Young Jon said in mild frustration. “Anyway, I pick Ser Loras Tyrell for champion of the joust.”

An interesting choice, but not surprising. Loras Tyrell had been Renly’s squire, and since Prince Jon had fostered at Storms End, it made sense for him to admire and have faith in the Knight of Flowers. He was yet unproven despite relative renown, so it was not a safe bet in Jon Arryn’s opinion.

Joffrey seemed of a similar opinion as he laughed at his brother’s choice. “You think that flowery pretty boy of a knight has a chance against our uncle? I doubt they’ll even face each other.”

“Don’t be a prick, Joff, he’s got some serious potential. I understand having pride in uncle Jaime, but you’ll eat your words. Be warned.” Young Jon got up with a huff, as some clapping and cheering sounded from their surroundings.

The hedge knight had managed to unhorse Ser Danwell Frey while they were not paying attention.

Jon Arryn saw his namesake go towards the other box to sit with Renly during the wait between tilts. Joffrey went to his mother. He heard the boy boast about the leg up he got on his younger brother by choosing the Kingslayer before Young Jon had the chance to.

“Very clever of you, my sweet. But be not too cruel when choosing which of his presents to take for your own. Your brother might be a bit foolish, but he’s never done you ill.” Queen Cersei both praised and warned her son.

“Worry not, mother, I will choose based on mine own desires rather than keeping Jon away from his. I am not without mercy” spoke the prince who was notoriously without mercy.

At this point the king inserted himself in the conversation. “So you put your faith in the Kingslayer to win the tilts? Bah, I think you are of the wrong mind, my son. What excitement there is if the favorite to win attains victory. Half our court is wagering in your uncle’s victory, so I shall do the opposite”

Jon Arryn saw the queen turn her nose at Robert’s dismissal of her brother’s skills, while Joffrey seemed surprised. “Father, if not uncle Jaime then who would win the lists?”

“Who did you say your brother has bet in favor?” The king asked of his son, who seemed hesitant to respond.

“The Knight of Flowers, Your Grace. Loras Tyrell” Jon Arryn intervened, sparing the boy from being asked again in much rougher tone.

“Renly’s old squire?” Robert asked before laughing out loud “Why the hells not. Jon, I want you to go to the bookkeeper and bet a thousand gold dragons in my name on Loras Tyrell’s victory.”

Both Prince Joffrey and the queen seemed astonished at the declaration. The queen then frowned and removed her emerald pendant and placing it on Jon Arryn’s hand.

“And I want you to wager this pendent in my name in favor of my brother’s victory” Queen Cersei declared haughtily, almost as a challenge to her husband.

King Robert for his credit seemed more amused then anything, while Prince Joffrey looked a mixture of annoyed and disappointed. Despite being his mother’s favorite, it was clear for all to see that the child hungered for his father’s approval.

Jon would have to talk to Robert about this. He knew that the king meant nothing by it, but favoring Young Jon in situations like this might cause quarrel between his sons in the future. Joffrey was his heir and thus should be groomed to rule and have the confidence of his father.

As Jon moved towards Littlefinger, who as Master of Coin would be acting as the bookkeeper for the high lords’ wagers, he caught wind of a last bit of conversation.

“I’ll be eagerly awaiting your coin, Lord Renly” Petyr Baelish declared with decided smugness as he stood up.

“And I will be eagerly awaiting your Valyrian Steel” the Lord of Storm’s End replied from his seat, completely unbothered.

Jon Arryn wondered what that was about as he followed Littlefinger to his place of seating.

“Lord Hand, to what I owe the pleasure?” the Master of Coin inquired.

“I require your services as bookkeeper in the name of the king and the queen separately” Jon replied with a sigh.

He extended the emerald pendant towards Petyr who grabbed it and began to appraise it.

“The queen wishes to bet this on Ser Jaime Lanniseter’s victory. While the king wishes to wager a thousand gold dragons on Ser Loras Tyrell” the Lord Hand calrified.

“Indeed? Seems like the king has the same mind as his brother. Though Lord Renly’s wager with me is more personal.”

“Both he and Prince Jon seem to put faith in the Knight of Flowers’ skill, it seems. Be careful not to lose something you might never get back, Lord Baelish” Jon Arryn warned, remembering Renly’s words about Valyrian Steel.

“Do not worry for me, Lord Hand, I am an extremely cautious man. I am fully aware of my chances and they are very very good.” Lord Baelish said with the smile of a man who thought himself incapable of losing.

Jon decided to let that topic rest and soon returned to the royal box to actually watch the joust, seated by his wife. Sweetrobin asked to retire for the day, saying he felt tired and would rather play with his toys.

It was a pretty standard affair, with some noteworthy moments. A mystery knight managed to unhorse Ser Perwin Frey on the third tilt, with one broken lance each. The mystery knight was then unhorsed by the Kingslayer in the next round, on the first tilt. With no opportunity for a grand reveal, the knight’s identity remained a mystery.

Ser Loras had also an exemplary showing against a Frey, breaking two spears against none and then finally unhorsing Ser Hosteen on their third tilt.

At one point after all Frey knights had been eliminated, Late Walder himself decided to approach the Lord Hand.

“Heh, seems like my sons are nothing but disappointments. Not only did one lose to a pretty flower, the rest also lost to knights of no renown.” The lord of the Twins commented as he took a seat by his side.

“They rode valiantly regardless” Jon Arryn commented neutrally. He did not with to talk to the unpleasant elderly lord, older than even Jon himself.

“Your words are polite, my lord, but they are nothing more than pleasantries. Most of my sons are disappointments, which is why I look to the next generation.”

“Speak plainly, my lord” the Hand of the King had little patience for this man’s games.

“Heh, plainly I shall speak, my Lord Hand. I am looking to foster two of my grandsons in court, you see. It would be good for them to mayhap learn from the Kingsguard so that they do not disappoint me so like their uncles” Lord Walder said with a wheezing laugh.

“It is a great boon that you ask of me, my lord. I am afraid I’d have to ask you something in exchange for this” Jon responded in the hopes of stopping the lord from pestering him further.

“Ah yes, of course. I would not ask this of you without offering something of equal value in return. Your boy, Robert, how old is he?”

“He is eight, my lord”

“That is a good age for fostering, would you not say so? He’d have many peers his own age at the Twins. A good environment for a growing boy” Lord Walder boasted.

Jon could see Lysa looking at the man with outrage at the suggestion, no doubt because the suggestion the her Sweetrobin be taken away from her is ridiculous to her, but also because Lord Walder’s relationship with House Tully was stained at best. Despite Lysa’s distance from her father Hoster, Jon did not think it made her like Lord Walder any better.

At that Jon Arryn found himself forced to show his hand to his wife. He could not rebuff Lord Walder’s proposal without a good reason, and a good reason he did have.

“I am sorry Lord Frey, but my son Robert has already been promised to foster at Dragonstone with Lord Stannis.”

It was as if his wife had waited for those words to leave his mouth and all the outrage she had expressed at Walder Frey was now directed at him. She stood up and stormed off before Jon could say anything else to her.

Late Walder Frey watched Lysa’s retreating form and released another of his wheezing laughs.

“Seems unwise to make decisions like this without first consulting your wife, my lord. Then again, I never cared for the opinion of any of mine, so mayhap we have this in common” the man said before shakily getting back to his feet. “I bid you a good day, my lord”

Jon Arryn could only sit with his thoughts at this point. What a disaster it was for Lord Frey to approach him about a topic that is so sensitive before he’d had the chance to tell Lysa of his plans. He’d have to approach her after the feast and attempt to control the situation.

His relationship with his wife has always been strained due to the difference in their age. Jon had been five and sixty while she’d been only seven and ten. And after her multiple miscarriages and stillbirths, he understood why she’d gotten attached so much to her only surviving son.

But Jon truly worried that she might be smothering the boy, this would be good for Robert’s well-being. He’d have to make her see that. Jon didn’t know if it was possible, but may the Mother and the Father Above help him, he’d have to try.

The final tilt of the day came about the time that the sun had started to set. It would be over before nightfall and then they’d make their way to the Red Keep and have the feast.

As fate would have it, it was Loras Tyrell who would be riding against the Kingslayer in the finals. Seems like the Baratheons did have a good eye for promising knights in the end.

Both riders positioned themselves at opposite sides of the tilt and then the signal was given.

Jaime Lannister rode hard, looking to overpower the smaller-framed knight with force, but Ser Loras positioned his lance slightly upwards, sliding up the chest plate and hitting Ser Jaime in the neck guard. The Kingslayer was violently bent backwards even as he remained ahorse. Jaime’s lance had simply hit Loras’ shield, causing the Flower Knight no distress. Both lances broke.

As each of the knights grabbed fresh lances and prepared themselves yet again. The Kingslayer positioned himself leaning forward this time, so that the trick would not work again.

And yet Loras rode briliantly, deflecting the Kingslayer lance in such a way that it did not break against his shield, while his own lance hit Jaime’s shield straight on, simply shattering as a result.

They rode twice more, with similar results, though Jaime’s lances had shattered as well. This left Loras leading with the advantage of a single lance.

The audience found itself silent. Silver and gold was on the line for many people, but the Knight of Flowers found popularity among the smallfolk. No matter the results there would be equal amounts of cheers and tears.

And then the signal was given, and the knights yet again met in the middle. Both torsos were sent backwards with immense amount of force, but only one managed to keep his grip on the horse as the other tumbled to the ground.

Pristine white armor was now dirtied and browned.

Loras Tyrell had won.

Chapter Text

A certain sense of calm had fallen upon the Red keep in the last fortnight or so. A castle of this size should not, by any means, feel so much emptier with only five of its regular inhabitants missing from its halls.

But then again, his sweet sister always knew how to fill up a room with her presence, so it stands to reason that the absence of her would feel just as impactful. And by the gods, what a wonderful feeling it is to be rid of her in the capital, no matter how brief of a respite it might be.

That is not to say that this feeling of joy extends to the absence of his niece and nephews, at least for the most part. He loved these children, much like his uncle Gerion loved him, but he could not deny that Joffrey shared in many of his mother’s cruelties towards him.

Tyrion could say with good conscience that he did not have a favorite nephew, but he certainly knew that there was a least favorite among them. Had he been invited to visit Casterly Rock with them, he’d find a reason to refuse. Jon, Myrcella and Tommen could not compensate for the combine hatred that Cersei and Joff could spew with father’s silent approval.

Hated for being a dwarf, nothing more, nothing less. Father could go on and on about how it was his slovenly behavior and his debauchery that brought shame to the Lannister name, but he knew that were he double the size these would be footnotes compared to what he could offer as heir.

Yet father refused to name him heir; the Imp of Casterly Rock was only good for managing the castle’s waste. No matter that Jaime signed his life away on an oath that should bind him for life, in Tywin Lannister’s mind there stood his heir, cloaked in white and forever out of grasp.

Tyrion would curse him for it were him a bitter man, but Jaime was the best brother a dwarf like him could’ve asked for. Much of his loyalty for the House of Lannister resided in his love for Jaime. And he was loyal, no matter how Cersei’s paranoid words spoke to the contrary. Even father seemed to accept that.

That got him thinking back to the feast after the joust, after the Knight of Flowers had managed to best Jaime in the most unexpected of upsets. Not being one to bet against family, Tyrion lost some dragons that day, while King Robert won himself an aptly named king’s ransom. Apparently the name day boys had a little wager going on that spilled over to their parents.

Cersei bet on Jaime and lost an emerald pendant, but it didn’t stay out of her property for long. She’s never been good at losing, so no surprise that she weaseled her way into having her jewelry returned somehow.

The boys who initiated the wager, however, seemed to have put their name day presents on the line, an idea that seemed to have come from Joffrey. The boy probably saw himself as clever having found a seemingly guaranteed way to get first pick out of any of his brother’s presents. Truly, who would have expected Jaime to win?

When the champion Loras Tyrell approached Jon during the feast to gift him a Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt, Tyrion could see the glint in Joffrey’s eyes. No doubt that present would’ve become his had he won.

But in terms of blades, the one that Joffrey had gotten as a present from his grandfather was much more beautiful despite not being Valyrian in make. Made of gleaming blue steel, castle-forged and double-edged, with a leather grip and a gold lion's-head pommel, it was a beautiful longsword. Joffrey named it Lion’s Tooth, and guarded it jealously.

Jon had simply chuckled in response.

“You know I’m not a sword guy, Joff, no need to get your smallclothes twisted. There’s lots of other presents for me to pick from.” He had said, giving his brother a friendly clap on the back.

Those words seemed to have put Joffrey at ease at the moment.

Jon for his part did end up choosing something of Joffrey’s for himself, though it was something quite simple. It was a brooch that featured both a stag and a lion facing each other, just like what Joffrey had chosen as his personal arms.

When asked about his choice, Jon simply stated “I think the brooch fits me just as well as it would fit Joff. Besides, carrying his personal arms on me means I’m honoring him, right? I feel like everyone wins.”

Despite liking the fact he wouldn’t lose his favorite gift, Tyrion had noticed at the time that the crown prince kept scowling whenever Jon wasn’t looking at him. Seems like the boy had resented what he perceived as his brother going easy on him. What a little fool.

Tyrion would never think he’d see the crown prince and heir to the throne feel inadequate at the side of his younger brother. It was not even similar to a situation like him a Jaime for comparison. Both Joff and Jon were tall for their age, with Joffrey having been the taller of the two up until they were two and ten. It’s only been a recent thing that Jon became the taller of the two and even so it wasn’t by much.

By any means they were both very handsome as well, so Joffrey could not complain he felt ugly compared to his brother. They were of very different kinds of comely, that was for certain. Tyrion could have mistaken Joffrey for a Jaime of the past, were they not so different in temperament, while Jon looked much more like his uncle Renly.

And of course, Renly was often said to be the spitting image of King Robert when he was young, so maybe Joffrey’s inadequacy was much like Tyrion’s own as it all always returns to the figure of the father.

Not to say that Tywin Lannister is anything comparable to Robert Baratheon in their styles of parenting, but Tyrion was not blind. Tyrion knows very well what parental bias looks like, and mayhaps, had Joffrey come out looking like his father and Jon like his mother, even if all else stayed the same, then he might truly feel confident as heir to the Iron Throne.

The gods were cruel sometimes, though Joffrey would get no sympathy from him. The golden prince was the furthest thing from a bastard, a cripple or a broken thing.

The following day the boy had sulked throughout the melee, even as Cersei and Jon both tried to lift his spirits, though only the other prince seemed oblivious to why Joff’s mood had a downturn at all. After all he’d picked out a gift Joffrey would not care much for, and he did not refuse to pick a gift, which would certainly wound his pride.

Poor fool hadn’t realized that his situation had no win condition, the pride had been wounded regardless because his brother was an envious and arbitrary little cunt.

Tyrion realized that he’d had a bitterness in him regarding the crown prince’s fetid attitude, In his eyes it was unjustifiable to have all he has and still have a sense of inadequacy. Of course Tyrion desired to be the things that Jaime was, he’s got nothing! As a matter of fact it would be more natural if Jon desired Joffrey’s position, but he’s been nothing but a good brother instead.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sounding of bells in the distance. What a queer thing to hear in the middle of a day where nothing is supposed to be happening.

The bells rang once, and then twice, with a third ringing echoing throughout the air.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven, and then silence.

Seven bells, each rung once. Tyrion was not a religious man by any means, but he knew for whom the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolls.

He feels a sense of dread as he makes his way from his living quarters towards Maegor’s Holdfast, but when he enters the throne room he does not find the Iron Throne empty.

It is rare to see King Robert look so serious as he took the seat, and the Hand’s chair at his side was conspicuously empty.

Both of the king’s brothers were present in the room, as well as most people in court who have heard the bells and what it entailed.

Seeing the king alive and well, and knowing that the rest of the royal family was in the Westerlands, the bells could only mean one thing.

“The Hand of the King and the man who raised me, Jon Arryn is dead.” The King’s voice boomed across the room, eliciting murmurs from all present.

“He perished this morning of a fever from an illness that ravished his body during the night in the most unexpected way.” You could hear the grief and lack of acceptance from the king’s voice. Lord Arryn had been old, yes, but no one had been aware of anything happening with his health that could lead to such a sudden departure.

One could suspect of foul play, but the timing was too random. There might be something larger at play here, but Tyrion could not fully grasp at it with only the information he knows.

“Who will be the next Hand of the King. I will not be saying anything on that matter for the moment. For now, I am making the announcement that me and my household will be making our way to the North. This death has reminded me that I’ve not seen an old friend in a long time.”

That sent even more murmurs throughout the crowd in the throne room, though that was nothing compared to the sound the people next to Lord Stannis might be hearing. Even from his position, Tyrion could see the man attempting to ground his teeth to dust while looking at his brother.

It might’ve not been part of the announcement, but it was clear for all to see what was going on with the matter of Handship. Despite serving Robert loyally and dutifully, Stannis seems to be looked over yet again.

In favor of Ned Stark.

Chapter Text

When the news first reached Casterly Rock, Cersei had initially been elated. With that old doddering fool Jon Arryn dead and burried, that meant that the position of Hand would finally be offered to someone actually worthy of the position. After all it had been by her father’s efforts that King’s Landing had been taken during the rebellion, and it was by Jaime’s hand that the repulsive Mad King had been slain, yet neither of them had been rewarded for their efforts as they should’ve been.

On the contrary, her beautiful Jaime had his reputation besmirched and father got reprimanded by the old fool and the savage Stark for the actions of his men during the sack. Could they not see that the baby Aegon was a threat and that the girl would’ve grown to be a dornish whore whose children would then threaten the claims of her own children?

It was brutal, but had to be done. For the good of her family.

But instead of the news of Jon Arryn’s death being followed by a summons to the capital so that her father or Jaime would be named Hand, the raven carried other words.

“You and your children are to meet with the rest of the royal entourage at Harrenhal. From there you are expected to be moving north, bound to Winterfell” father had told her dispassionately as they met in his solar.

“Robert couldn’t possibly be thinking of offering the position of Hand to a northern savage just like that” she had replied with the outrage of a lioness in her heart.

“The king does as he pleases. His irrational attachment to figures of his youth matters not.” Cersei could see that calculation in his gaze as he spoke, but she had felt compelled to reply.

“It should be you that should be Hand, not Stark! Have you forgotten how he presumed to judge you for what happened during the sack? What rights has a wolf to judge the actions of a lion?” she had said impassioned but received a dry stare in return.

“Ned Stark has not left the North ever since the war with the Iron Islands, and he hadn’t left the North at any point before that after the Rebellion was over. It is most likely that Stark will keep his isolationist nature and refuse the call. When that happens, then a Lannister will take their rightful place.”

“Only a fool would refuse the demands of a king.” Cersei had replied with an air of wisdom about her.

“And yet Robert holds affection for the Warden of the North. If there is one capable of denying the king then it is him. Robert might ask something else of him, for certain, but I do not doubt that the king will leave him be, without any punishment planned,” had come the words of her uncle Kevan, who stood at her father’s side like the useful lackey that he is.

“Yes, and then we’ll see how our king moves from that rejection. I doubt he’d give Stannis the honor, there’s no love in there, and Renly is young, unfocused and a fool. He’ll realize he needs someone that can run the kingdom for him, and when he does we’ll be ready.” Father had said with an air of finality.

There was also word in the letter that Robert was thinking of fostering Jon Arryn’s orphan at the Rock so he could learn a thing or two with her father instead of being raised by a witless cow like Lysa Arryn. But unfortunately for the boy, his father’s death was followed by Lysa’s quick departure from the capital with her entire household, without asking for leave from the king.

Cersei wondered if that stupid woman was afraid of anything now that she did not have the weight of her husband’s position on her side, but she could not bring herself to care.

After that meeting Cersei was left to organize her household and set out on wheelhouse with her children towards the ugly and enormous haunted castle that was Harrenhal to meet with the royal party and head towards the North.

Her children did not like that they had to leave the Rock earlier than planned.

Joffrey had been struck by how rich the castle was on the inside and how fortified it was on the outside, having been carved straight into the mountain. She was sure her eldest had wished to stay longer so to bask in the glory of House Lannister, as much as a true lion like him was entitled to. Cersei made sure her eldest was a Lannister in everything but in name, so it was to her pride and delight to see him enjoy their ancestral seat. To abandon such opulence and be bound to a road towards a frigid wasteland had gotten him into one of his moods.

Myrcella and Tommen were the sweeter kind of children so their pouts were from having to leave the company of their grandfather, granduncle and cousins. Tommen had basked in the attention of uncle Kevan’s sons, Martyn and Willem, who despite being around Joff’s age seemed to prefer her youngest. Tommen had been fascinated that Kevan’s sons were twins and came to the conclusion that it must be something common among those with Lannister blood.

Cersei had never thought about it, but even in the time of the Lannister Kings there were various among them who were twins. In the Dance of Dragons there were the twins Jason and Tyland Lannister. There’s Martyn and Willem nowadays, and of course she herself was a twin. And there’s also...

Myrcella unfortunately had no peers her own age in the Rock, so she was the one who least minded leaving. Sweet girl that she was, she spent her part of her time with her only girl cousin, Janei, who was still a toddler of sorts. Cersei could see the care with which her little lioness treated the child, and took it as meaning she’d be a good mother in the future. She’d find her daughter a better match then the one she got.

Eventually they met with the Royal party and crossed over the Riverlands over the course of a month. They had a terrible time after reaching the gods forsaken Neck, with her wheelhouse breaking or getting stuck multiple times in the swampy uneven terrain.

She had thought that a stink like the one of King’s Landing had no competition, but the Neck had been a worthy competitor in its unpleasantness. In terms of intensity it was not as bad, but the pervasiveness of it added to the frankly ugly ambiance and humid uncomfortable weather made it much worse of an experience than simply being in the capital.

The insects, the frogs, the stupidly-named lizard lions that shared almost nothing in common with the proud animal of her House except maybe their killer instinct. She could not imagine the kinds of backwards people that must inhabit these lands, and thankfully they never had to interact with any of these frog eaters before reaching the ruined fortress that they called Moat Cailin.

Stupidity definitely ran thickly in the North for the Starks to leave the gateway into their kingdom in such a sorry state for centuries. Even if she did not have a mind for warfare, any old fool could see that if war came to the North they’d be ill prepared.

Not that she would lament a weakness of a potential enemy. As a matter of fact she would have welcomed that this castle had never seen repairs if she were not forced to spend a night at the dreaded place. Most in the royal party were unsatisfied with their stay there, but there’s always the... odd outlier among them.

They had soon moved on from that place but soon there was something that surprised even her.

“Holy shit, is that snow?! I almost thought I’d never see it! How come it’s snowing, mom? Isn’t it still summer?” asked the only boy with black hair and blue eyes who was allowed to be in her vicinity.

Her son.

She had tried to keep him out of her mind, as a matter of fact sometimes she tried hard to pretend in her mind that he doesn’t even exist. The boy was a constant reminder that the promise she had made to herself that she’d never bear the children of the drunken oaf that called her by a different name in their wedding bed had not been fulfilled.

And how could she have known? Her habit of discretely drinking moon tea to flush out whatever seed that Robert would try to plant inside her had worked every other time, but when she’d been certain it was Jaime’s child she was bearing, thoughts of moon tea were the last thing on her mind.

She’d been the happiest she had ever been when Pycelle had declared that she was carrying twins. It stood to reason that her and Jaime, two halves of the same person, would also produce together children who were equal to them.

Except…

The rumors were right about one thing, Cersei had been too shocked to name her second child the day he was born. She has expected him to be exactly like Joffrey or mayhap a little girl like she’d been, so when the maester pulled out a strong little boy with Robert’s coloring, she did not know what to do, or what to say.

She was certain that Joffrey was Jaime’s, especially seeing him grow more similar to his true father every day, but she was also certain that somehow his twin was Robert’s child. He could only be Robert’s child.

She was not sure how it could happen, neither did she wish to research and learn of the possibilities. Maybe it was a curse put on her by that damned witch of the woods so that her pride would always be stained. She could scarcely recall the words of prophecy that were cited to her, but there was a part of it that jumped to the forefront of her mind the day her sons were born.

As she was about to leave her hut, Maggy the Frog cackled in a way that made her stay.

“Not in a rush to leave, girl? Good for there’s more to say.” the old hag had smiled crookedly at her. “From you, an interloper might arrive. A child born of you but without a golden crown to bear. Bearing a strange mind, the child will stop the tears from drowning you. Whatever else is not yet set in stone.”

Admitting the future is not set in stone is a useless way to end a prophecy, but when the so called interloper arrived accompanying her dear Joffrey, the words preceding that declaration jumped to her mind. Despite being the child she didn’t want, he’d be the one keeping her tears from drowning her. The true meaning of those words still elude her, but she took it to mean his existence would spare her some amount of grief in her future, so she decided she’d make an effort not to shun him.

She still regrets that her shock stopped her from naming him something like Tybolt, Tyland, Loren or even Tommen, which she ended up naming her youngest. She disliked the name Jon as it was a name of Robert’s particular fancy and the namesake of a too ambitious old fool who thankfully was now under the dirt.

Though at first she misliked the child for being Robert’s, the words of the prophecy aroused in her the good sense to give him grace. The fact that her son had indeed a strange mind when compared to his peers kept her on her toes in regards to how true the Frog’s words would end up being.

He was only two when he started coming up with words. He’d call her mama, mommy and then eventually settled on mom, which despite being unusual just seemed like a shortened version of the former. But then he decided that Robert was ‘dada’ which eventually became ‘dad’ and for some reason it stayed that way. Not even after grown he’d refer to Robert as father, Jon refused to call him anything other than dad.

He’d do it when speaking with others outside the family, those who would not understand him otherwise, but when speaking to her she was always ‘mom’ and Robert was always ‘dad’. She often wondered from where this had originated, but she had an idea how it kept happening.

The boy would often ask to go into town to see the mummer troupes perform, and the one time she deemed it worthy of her time to accompany him, she’d noticed that the more comedic of their farces introduced some words she’d never heard before. Which meant that the words Jon didn’t invent, he’d been learning from the lowborn which was beneath a Lannister.

But then again, Jon was not a Lannister, not like his siblings. So she did not care for how he spent his free time outside of lessons or the arms practice that was expected of him. It was not he who she’d been grooming to be king, and since Jon had more than once demonstrated he’d stay loyal to and protect his twin even from Robert, she found herself not worrying about the child’s pastimes.

And speaking of loyalty, perhaps that was the sole reason Cersei could not fully keep herself away from her unwanted son. She might not mind his absence, like when he was sent to foster with that prancing stag Renly, but she could not bring herself to hate him.

Because he loved her.

With every slightly bucktoothed smile he sent her way, unexpected hug or a kiss specked on the cheek of his mother. A present, a jape, or even a prank at her expense when they were in private, no matter how much she hated the latter. Those were all such shameless displays of love towards a mother who did not love him as much as his siblings that… it was hard not to grow at least a bit fond of her son.

And that love was also directed towards his siblings and his uncles, undeserving of it as the Imp was. Word from people of court was that despite his clearly Baratheon looks, Jon was like Lann the Clever born again. Cersei would not pay mind to those claims because they came from superficial information. Despite his trickster nature, Jon would never have the kind of guile needed to take the Rock from the Casterlys through that trickery.

Jon was honest, and wore his heart on his sleeve. Despite not ever needing to do it, she knew he could be easily manipulated by her if she had to do it. But the comparisons were fortuitous even if they were wrong, because this tie to the Lannister name kept Jon’s heart close to his mother’s House.

Now that she was being forced to think about him, she could tell that none of her other children had been as excited as Jon when visiting Casterly Rock. He delighted in exploring the ancestral seat of her House and was a much of a companion to Martyn and Willem as Tommen had been. With comparisons with Lann the Clever filling up his head, he’d grown determined in figuring out the method in which Lann had managed to find his way into the impregnable fortress. Jon had claimed he’d been close to the truth after exploring the lower levels of the castle, but with their sudden departure there was no way for him to prove if his silly expedition meant anything at all.

She’d never seen the boy sulk so much before when compared to when he first entered the wheelhouse to depart from the Westerlands. Then again, this was one of the times she had to pay attention to his mood because of close proximity. He might have had worse times when she was not paying attention.

Compared to then, her son was now all smiles, looking out the window in awe of the snow falling out of the sky. From the way he looked at it, it was almost as if Jon had been meeting a long lost friend instead of something he’d never seen before.

Snow in the summer. What a dreadful place.

“The further North you go, the less the seasons matter. Beyond the Wall, there are places where it’s basically always winter” Cersei parroted what she’d learned as a girl.

A flash of recognition went across his face and he whispered to himself “It’s like the North Pole”.

Those words meant nothing to her, but before she could question them, Jon turned to her “I’m going outside. I need to feel the snow on my skin” he declared before standing up from his seat.

“Surely you don’t mean that” Cersei replied with a laugh. “There’s nothing special about the snow, you’ll only feel cold and miserable after a while.”

“Mom, you don’t understand. I’m going outside even if it means I have to jump out of the moving wheelhouse” he said shooting her a mischievous and excited grin. “I’ve waited more than ten years to play in the snow, and I’m going for it”

Before she could say or do anything else, Jon threw open the carriage door and jumped out onto a patch of snow.

Cersei rushed to the door to see what had happened, only to see him getting up from where he had landed and running back towards the knights and the freeriders.

“Jon! Get back here! That’s no way a prince should behave” she found herself yelling as her son simply waved back at her cheekily and continued to keep away from the wheelhouse.

She was considering ordering for it to stop so that someone could go and chase after Jon, when Joffrey got up from his seat and closed the carriage door before sitting back down and facing her.

“Let him have his fun, mother. I can tell he’s starting to feel smothered and antsy from staying in the wheelhouse the entire trip” her son said with a small snort.

“That is no excuse for him to be reckless. If he was feeling so he should’ve asked to go out riding with his father instead of whatever this was” she replied hotly.

“And would you let him should he ask you? I have no memory of you ever letting me go riding any time we’re traveling” Joffrey asked with something she could not quite understand in his eyes.

“That is different. You’re the crown prince, so you need more than adequate protection if you are to go riding. Doing so while traveling the Kingsroad may endanger you. There are always bandits interested in Lannister gold, and you’d be worth the largest ransom of them all.” She explained.

“Then let me ride with uncle Jaime if that’s you worry! He’d be able to cut down any and all bandit who even breathes in my direction. Hells, isn’t that why we have The Hound? What good is a sworn shield who never wets his blade?” her son crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at her direction.

Cersei bit her lip. His point about The Hound aside, she misliked having Joffrey in close proximity to Jaime in case people started to notice too much family resmblance. Jon was the perfect shield for Joff’s repuation, having been born the same time as him, but there was always that inkling of doubt in her mind having them close together.

“Why are you even talking about riding with the rest of the men in the first place? Did you not say that the comforts of the wheelhouse suit you better than having your legs turned raw by a saddle?” Cersei replied, trying to turn the subject away from Jaime.

“I’m just saying, mother, that from simply observing how these kinds of conversations go, that Jon might have gathered that with you it is better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission when wishing to do something you might have something against” Joffrey spoke to her with something akin to… resentment?

How dare he take this tone you! Such ungratefulness when all that you’ve done was for his sake first and foremost?

Cersei took a moment to breathe as to not lash out at her firstborn. “If that’s how you feel, then go. Be like him. Jump out into the snow, dig into the mud, go ride until your thighs become raw and abandon all of the creature comforts you’ve gotten so used to. If that is your wish then you can open this door and jump right out after your brother, and I’ll only let you back in after nightfall” She says her words with no bite, but she can tell that they have reached Joffrey.

He responds with a long sullen silence before standing up and walking away towards the stairs. His footsteps are loud as he stomps his way towards the room in the wheelhouse he had claimed as his own, and he shuts the door just as loudly.

He’d be in a bad mood the entire day, but at least he understood. He and his brother were different and they valued different things. She could see that there was some desire in Joffrey to partake in Jon’s adventurous spirit, but even when she gives him the opportunity, he prefers the comforts and luxuries of a Lannister.

Robert thought that made him weak, but Cersei saw it as being smart. Why exert yourself, dirty yourself when you could lead men to do it for you without giving up your comfort? A King should not concern himself with dirty work, be it the kind of dirty work that Jon was fond of, or the kind The Hound would rather partake in.

With these thoughts in her mind, Cersei lazily observed from her window as the royal precision continued to make its way through the frozen wasteland of the North. How she dreaded having to step foot in The North knowing that her oaf of a husband humiliate her the same way he’d done in their bedding ceremony.

They were two living people who would rather have married ghosts from the past. But even so, her husband still had her at a disadvantage.

Her ghost became simple ashes spread throughout the Ruby Ford.

Robert’s ghost awaited for him in Winterfell.

Chapter Text

His father’s friendship with the king was a tale known from Dorne to The Wall, for what would have motivated Robert’s Rebellion if not the bond he had shared with the Quiet Wolf and the love he had felt for the aunt that Robb never got to know. He had to admit it was somewhat exciting to finally meet the man who was, in his father’s heart, as much as a brother to him as uncle Benjen. Even his mother, who had been close to a stranger to father a that point, thought it wise to name him Robb after the king, so clear was the love between the two Great Lords.

“Ned!” a hulking mass of a man, who had rode in at the head of the column, roared as he dismounted his warhorse. In an almost fluid movement after, the king was upon Robb’s father and embracing him in a bone-crushing hug. “Ah, how good it is to see that frozen face of yours”, he continued after a moment. “You haven’t changed at all.”

That statement probably does apply to the king himself, for Robb had expected to see a tall and fearsome warrior ride in through the gates of Winterfell, but instead he was greeted with… this. King Robert was certainly tall, that much remained true, but his girth could almost match it; the king’s voice rung jovially as he greeted Robb’s father, but Robb could see dark circles under the man’s eyes that betrayed a weariness one would not expect after hearing the tales of the Demon of the Trident. Does a crown weigh that much more than a warhammer?

"Your Grace, Winterfell is yours,” the words came from Robb’s father as ceremony would dictate, and at that point most of the riders had dismounted, and Robb could spot the golden Lannister hairs of who had to be the Kingslayer, as he could not think there would be another blond man that oozed arrogance wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard.

But there seemed to be another blond man who oozed arrogance, though he was thankfully not of the Kingsguard. On a better look, the man could be better described as a boy, just a particularly tall one, his face contorted into a sneer as he seemed to dislike what he saw as he took in the sight of Winterfell.

Robb could feel a small fire get lit in his belly with anger at the disdain this boy would show his ancestral home, but then, as if sensing Robb’s anger, a man as large as the king but not as fat, stepped between Robb and the blond boy. The man wore a fearsome looking helmet, shaped like the head of a hunting hound, and Robb could feel that his eyes were looking at him.

That is until another boy, the same height as the blond one but with wider shoulders and hair as black as a raven’s feathers, approached the duo with an easygoing smile and pointing excitedly in the direction of the Broken Tower, that loomed above all other things in Winterfell.

Both of the others looked in the direction he was pointing at, as the dark haired boy said more things that Robb could not hear from the distance, but at one point Robb say the boy’s hand snake up the distracted Hound’s back and place something there.

At one point the blond boy laughed in a way that reminded Robb a bit of Theon, but then waved off the dark haired one, who then moved away with his arms up in mock surrender. The Hound seemed none the wiser about what had happened to him.

It was then that the Queen walked through the gates with children as pretty and blonde as her, though closer in age with Arya or Bran. That meant that the boy with the Hound was her eldest and the Crown Prince, which was unfortunate if Robb’s first impression of the boy was any evidence.

Robb’s father knelt and kissed the Queen’s ring, and afterwards she called over the Crown Prince so that the royal children could be properly introduced. To Robb’s surpise, the boy with black hair was among the royal children called over.

“This here is Joffrey, my first born and heir, and this here is Jon, his twin” the King said, placing a hand on both the boy’s shoulders with gave an air of familiarity, like a man talking about his sons to a friend, instead of a king speaking of his issue to a vassal lord.

The two boys had almost nothing in common save for their similar height. Gold and black hair, green and blue eyes, angular and round faces, every single thing stood in contrast between these so-called twins. In fact, looking at the second prince standing so close to the King it became obvious that this was in fact his son, in the same way it was obvious that the Queen was Joffrey’s mother.

Robb was quite familiar with that contrast in coloring having himself, Sansa, Bran and little Rickon taking after mother and only his brother Jon and Arya taking after father. Seemed like King Robert was as equally outnumbered as Robb’s father, a thought that brought some amusement to Robb.

“Jon is also the heir to Storm’s End” Queen Cersei added, the smile on her face with a hint of something Robb couldn’t quite get.

King Robert looked sideways at the Queen as if questioning why she felt the need to mention that before continuing “That he is, at least until my brother Renly decides to marry and have a child of his own”

At that the two princes in front of Robb shared a look of amusement, though Joffrey’s face also showed a hint of mockery absent from Jon’s.

After that the rest of the royal children were introduced, with the Princess Myrcella giving the impression of a perfect little lady, much like Sansa, and Prince Tommen coming across as a meek child who did not strike much of an impression.

Robb’s father then started introducing all of the Stark children, starting with Robb himself, then going to Sansa, Arya, Bran, and finally Rickon who was in their mother’s arms. The two eldest princes greeted Robb with respect, though Prince Joffrey seemed to be doing it out of formality more than anything.

Prince Jon was jovial in greeting all of Robb’s younger siblings, treating them all with an air of friendliness that betrayed no second intentions, while Prince Joffrey focused his attention on Sansa much more than the others. He’d keep an eye on this one.

Introductions were going well and with no hiccups, that is until King Robert uttered the words:

“Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects."

The same happiness that shone in the eyes of Robb’s father was mirrored by the unhappiness present in Queen Cersei’s scowl. Robb could feel the mood become icy within the Queen’s party as his father called for a lantern to be brought.

The queen had attempted to protest that their party was tired and cold from the road, and that surely the dead could wait. The king sent her a look that could freeze blood, and then, without making another sound, the queen was taken by the arm by Ser Jaime and they walked away from the confrontation.

Robb realized then that his dead aunt Lyanna was a sore spot in the royal couple, a ghost that haunted their marriage and who the king showed much more favor towards. Robb could not ever imagine his father behaving in such a dismissive manner towards his wife. It was clear to see there was little love between the king and the queen.

He heard a heavy sigh from beside him that indicated that someone else disapproved of that display. It did not surprise him to see that it was Prince Jon.

The prince saw Robb turning to face him and shot him a sheepish smile.

“Well… that sure brought the mood down, yes? Sorry for that, Lord Robb, I’m certain they won’t do it again here in Winterfell… in public.” He had hesitated before adding that last part.

“Whatever do you mean, my prince?” Robb deflected, not wishing to comment on something as politically charged as conflict within the royal marriage. He had to be mindful of such things as his father’s heir. “Also please, call me Robb. No need to refer to me as lord when we are so close in age.”

“If that’s the case, you can call me as Jon in return. There’s not a lot of people my age around me in the capitol, so I appreciate the chance to be more casual,” the prince replied with approval.

“Ah, it might be a bit hard to simply call you Jon, my prince. I’ve got a brother with the same name, and he’s lived his entire life in this castle. If I refer to someone as simply Jon, people would think I am speaking about him.” Robb explained the best he could.

“You have a brother with the same name as me? That’s amazing! Where was he during the introductions? I don’t remember hearing the name ‘Jon Stark’ being said at any point.” Prince Jon said with what Robb could tell was genuine curiosity. It did not seem to cross his mind why one of the lord’s children would not be introduced to the royal family.

“Well, Jon is… he’s my half-brother.” He said, hoping that the prince would get his meaning. He got a head tilt in response, which made him sigh. “Jon is father’s natural born son. We do not share a mother despite being roughly the same age.” He explained.

“Oh, so he’s like my brother Edric, who’s back in Storm’s End. I’m pretty close to him, since we’ve lived in the same castle for pretty long while. I like him a lot, truth be told, even if my mom would prefer I didn’t,” the prince japed in a stage whisper as he spoke the last part. “Is it the same thing between you and your Jon?”

Robb felt relieved that the prince did not sneer at the concept of having a bastard brother. That he was close to one of his own was a pleasant surprise as well.

“You would be correct to assume that. Jon is one of my closest companions besides Theon Greyjoy, if truth be told. I love him the same as my trueborn siblings” even if his mother would rather he not.

“Love is a strong word, Robb, so I’m happy you can use it so easily to talk about your brother. I don’t think I could get Joff to confess that he loves me even if the crown was on the line” the prince japed yet again.

“Not the loving sort, your brother?” Robb asked, though it was easy to presume so by seeing how the crown prince behaved.

Prince Jon laughs. “He accuses our uncle Stannis of being an unfriendly, unapproachable man, but despite his outer layer of charm, he can be just as hard to deal with, if not worse.” he finishes with a shake of his head. “But he’s my brother and I love him as well as any of my other ones. They say twins share a special bond, and I don’t think that’s wrong.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how can twins looks so different from one another? Even the queen and Ser Jaime look very alike despite not being the same sex” Robb let himself air out this one bit of curiosity about them both.

“Oh I actually know the answer to this one.” He paused and seem to be thinking on how to best explain it “Normally twins that look the same are born out of one seed that split in half during their mother’s pregnancy and then continued to grow side by side. But a much more common way of it happening is that two seeds get planted in the mother’s womb at the same time, so they can end up looking as different as regular siblings would.”

“So someone like me and Arya could’ve been born at the same time looking like we both currently do?” Robb questioned.

“No, that’s just silly. Lady Arya would definitely look much older than she currently does.” Prince Jon said before bursting into laughter.

Though not a particularly funny joke, Robb found himself easily laughing at the Baratheon Prince’s side.

In a good mood, he even offered to show him the way to his rooms so that they may continue to talk about things before they would have to go and get ready for the feast.

Not a terrible start to royal visit, in Robb’s opinion.

Chapter Text

It is the first time in history that a king’s feast is happening in Winterfell and that king is not named Stark. A momentous occasion by any southron standard, and one of which no bard worth their salt would miss out on, for there were both songs to be played and songs to be written.

Abel was a very curious type of bard, one who was more interested in the details about the occasion more than the coin he stood to earn by his services. It was not every day a man like him could even catch a glimpse of the king of Westeros, much less get to learn about the man’s agenda.

“I hear that the king intends to betroth his eldest son to Lady Sansa”

“His Grace wants our lord to become Hand of the King, though I no not like that one bit. Bad things happen when a Stark of Winterfell goes south of the Neck.”

“Have you seen the Imp? How come a disgusting little creature gets to be dressed in gold and finery when full men like us have to toil for our fortune? The gods ain’t fair, that’s for truth.”

“Our lord and the king do not have much in common, but I do think it bears saying that it is a funny sort of thing that out of their trueborn children, only one for each bears their coloring.”

Abel kept his ear on the ground had heard things intriguing and insipid both. Being a man of charm but common looks, it was easy to have the servants, soldiers and other lowborn folk speak their mind to him without holding back their tongues.

From his own observations, the king’s traveling court had many more lions than crowned stags attached to it. And from the way this kind treated his wife, and was treated by her, Abel could see that was discord brewing between the lions and the stags.

Perhaps this is the bigger picture reason for why this visit to the North had been devised. The Stag King had found himself wanting for good loyal company in his castle, and who better to supply him with that than the Wolf he calls brother. It is very funny to Abel that the man called Robert Baratheon has two brothers by blood and none of them is his favorite.

Abel’s perceptive eyes scan throughout the smoke-filled Great Hall of Winterfell as he’s playing the lute. He is not the main singer for this feast, that honor reserved for a man at the high harp, but that was by design. Abel wanted to be present, but he did not want more eyes on him than necessary.

Counter-intuitive thinking were he the simple kind of bard, worried about fame above all else, but the kind of fame he was interested in was not one acquired by singing songs, but by having songs sung about you.

Abel payed close attention to the entrance to the Great Hall as the fanfare announced the entry of the noble lords and ladies present. He was interested in having the measure of these nobles, if only by observing them from the evening.

The first to enter was Lord Stark, accompanied by a beautiful blonde woman, the Queen. Lord Stark looked the picture of a proud and dignified northern lord, stern look on his face that probably hid either a wolf’s temper, but which at times softened at the sight of his children. The blonde woman, Cersei Lannister, was of singular beauty, which ironically reminded Abel of his own wife. The beauty and blonde hair was where the similarities ended, however, for where he’s always found warmth and joy in his wife’s smiles, the queen’s was as cold and stiff as the ice of the Frostfangs. She stared straight ahead as she moved, deigning not to even glance at her host’s face, uncomfortable even with the notion of being in his hall.

And then came in the so called King of Westeros with the Lady Stark on his arm. Robert Baratheon looked a man who could’ve once cut the figure of a mighty warrior, but who had lived in decadence long enough to lose all the privileges his massive build one day had given him. The most powerful man south of the Wall was a disappointing sight, even though Abel never expected much from southern stock. A fat man with the red face and steps of a habitual drunk… Abel himself would cut a better figure as a king than him.

Then came the children, which were not much of interest too him to say the truth, but he did pay enough attention to confirm that the rumor he had heard was true. All of Stark’s boys and his eldest girl had Lady Stark’s red hair and blue eyes, and the same could be said about the oldest and youngest Baratheon boys and their sister with the queen’s blonde hair and green eyes.

By chance, and most likely due to their birth order, the two children who had taken after their fathers entered the hall together. The black-haired prince seemed almost double the size of his Stark companion, the boy being tall for his age and the younger girl being on the shorter side as well. He strode in, smiling like a fool, showing off teeth that bucked somewhat but did not make the boy ugly and instead gave him an aura of being approachable.

Regardless of that, the Stark girl looked like she would rather be anywhere else but there. She seemed annoyed by the length of her dress and her face showed discomfort at the fanfare. Abel could relate to this dislike, the excesses of nobility comes across in bad taste when the land can be so barren. He’d rather ride or hunt than partake in fanciful feasts, though he’d be a fool not to appreciate the food regardless.

The two of them walking together brought to mind a third person to mind. Were he a southron knight, he’d call her his squire, but as he’s a bard she would then probably qualify as an apprentice. A pity that she could not join him inside Winterfell, but he knew her curious nature would get the best of her, and he would rather not have to get her out of problems.

After the children had all gone by, Abel payed attention to the much more interesting fellows that came right after. The couldn’t have looked more distinct in appearance, but somehow it was also very obvious that they were related. The one whom they called the Kingslayer was the twin brother to the queen and said to be a serious contender for the title of greatest blade of the Seven Kingdoms. He certainly looked the part, carrying himself with the confident stride of a seasoned warrior and a sharp smile, wearing crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. He looked much more the picture of a warrior king than the one he’s sworn to protect.

And then there was the Imp, waddling along half-hidden by his brother's side. Abel watched him with fascination, as a person like him is a rare sight in the North. He was a dwarf, half his brother's height, and struggled to keep pace on stunted legs. His head was too large for his body, with a brute's squashed-in face beneath a swollen shelf of brow. His hair was so blonde it was almost the color of snow, and his eyes mismatched, one green and the other one completely black. Were he born in the North during the winter to a family not his own, more likely than not he would’ve been abandoned to die. How fortunate he is, then, that that was not the case.

T he very last person of the procession to enter was the Stark that Abel had heard the most about in his years. Benjen Stark, the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch, and brother to Lord Stark was not impressive in stature, but he was rumored to be able to ride into a blizzard with as much ease as he walked into this great hall. Abel was fortunate to never have met the man in person before. He wondered if the true purpose of his presence here was to attempt to beg the crown for help with the threat posed by the so-called King Beyond the Wall to the Night’s Watch . It was truly a dark time for the crows.

With all the important nobles accounted for, the party was now ready to truly start and so Abel stopped focusing on the nobles and started to focus on playing his music and listening to the voices around him.

He confirmed the rumors that the king had attempted to persuade Lord Stark into being his Hand and to join their families by marrying the eldest prince to Stark’s eldest daughter. What surprised Abel was that Lord Stark seemed hesitant to say yes to the proposals, postponing his decision-making for following day. Considering this was the purpose of the King’s visit, Abel found it unlikely that he’d be leaving Winterfell without at least one ‘aye’ from his long-time friend.

Abel spotted a bit of commotion at the lower tables involving Benjen Stark and a boy who looked a lot like him running outside. The First Ranger seemed taken aback and then he just seemed sad. Abel spotted him then attempt to make conversation with his brother and then the king, but Baratheon did not look keen to hear about the woes of the Night’s Watch.

And then, when the music, drinking and merrymaking were at it’s peak, Abel used this opportunity to slip away from the Great Hall of Winterfell and to the outside. As a bard he wished to witness what could be an important piece of history so that it could be incorporated to a song in the future, but Abel was also interested in the songs of the past.

Finding his way to the crypts under Winterfell had not been hard since attention had been drawn to it earlier in the day with the king’s wishes to pay a visit. And it was also not hard to get to it undetected since the main attention of the guards was being pulled away in the opposite direction by the feast with all the important people. There was no one guarding the crypts and Abel could not resist the opportunity to conduct his search. If he was lucky, the Horn of Winter would be within his grasp by the end of the night.

It is mid afternoon on the following day when Abel finds himself at the edge of the Wolfswood in the agreed meeting place. He left Winterfell with the confirmation that Lord Stark would be serving as the king’s new Hand and that there was no plans to reinforce the Night’s Watch, both good news. Unfortunately the Horn of Winter had been nowhere to be found in Winterfell’s crypts, at least where he was able to reach, so the search would have to be resumed elsewhere.

The moment he put his hands to his mouth and started the perform the call, a figure surprised him from the tree closes to him by hanging upside-down from a branch.

“Hi Mance!” came the high pitched voice of the annoyingly adventurous young girl he had decided to take under his wing.

“Jayde, I’ve told you before. When south of the Wall you refer to me as Abel or you don’t refer to me at all”

“Don’t be such a grump, there’s literally no one else around but you, me and Bec. Ain’t that right, boy?” the girl said as she maneuvered herself to drop safely from the branch, her raven hairs whiping forward as she landed with a grunt.

From the bush, the whitest canine creature Mance had ever seen jumped out and barked in agreement with his master. Bec was the size of a wolf, but had the soft features of a dog. When his tongue lolled out, it had a green tint that he had never seen before in nature, and where his eyes would’ve been, there was nothing at all, not even sockets.

Jayde approached him with her bucktoothed smile and glinting green eyes with a hand holding onto Bec’s fur. “Besides, we won’t be here for much longer.”

And before Mance could say anything else, Jayde’s eyes turned white for a second, and in a bright flash of green, they were back at the base of the Wall by the abandoned castle of Long Barrow.

Before Mance could fully gather his bearings, he heard Jayde’s voice again.

“Hope you didn’t have too much fun during the feast, Mance, because you’ll still have to climb all of this on your own,” she said with a giggle.

Mance would normally not take such disrespect from an underling, but Jayde knew that anything coming from him would be meaningless bluster. With her blink-dog by her side, the young warg could not be punished or restrained by anyone, and few would even want to try.

“Hey… you know I’d take you with me if I could, right?” she asks, suddenly serious, his contemplative silence making her worried she might’ve upset him.

“Do not worry, pup, I know yours and Bec’s limitations. Pass through when you’re able, and I’ll meet you on the other side.” He said as he went to look for the place where he had stashed away his climbing equipment.

The Wall, they’ve come to find out, is not only a physical barrier but a magical one as well. Jayde and Bec are only able to cross it on their own, unable to take anyone with them and the process drains them as much as a long distance blink would. Normally Jayde can transport them a distance like she did only once per day, so a second one would not do well.

Climbing the Wall would also take the entire rest of the day, not to mention climbing down. He would have to spend the night in the abandoned battlements.

He looked at Jayde who was now eagerly setting up her own one person camp that had a suspicious double amount of provisions. She looked up at him with innocent eyes, changing her gaze from him to his lute and then back to him.

Mance sighed and then smiled. Looks like he’d have to climb the Wall on the morrow.

Chapter Text

Stitching is hard, and Septa Mordane is a terrible teacher.

She tells Arya that she has ‘the hands of a blacksmith’, but does nothing to teach her the right movements and techniques. Sansa’s hands are dainty, and her work is ‘as pretty as her’, but how can it not be when she gets all the attention and praise from the Septa?

Arya had never thought about how much her dislike for needlework came from her teacher, but during yesterday’s feast, a brief conversation with Prince Jon made her come to this realization.

“So, what do you like to do for fun?” he had asked her out of the blue while they were waiting to enter the Great Hall together for the feast.

She had looked up at the tall boy who smiled down at her. It was a goofy kind of smile that betrayed no malice, but she still looked at him with suspicion.

“Why do you care to know?” she had asked in return, squinting her eyes as if to search his face for a sign that he was about to make fun of her. It was hard to tell.

Prince Jon had shrugged in response. “We’re going to be stuck in the high table for a while, so I figured I’d try to make friends so I don’t get bored. And since we’re going in together, you’re a good place to start?” he finished, posing it as a question.

Arya hesitated to respond, but something about the prince’s attitude was disarming enough that she had found it in her enough motivation to be sincere.

“I like to explore the castle. Winterfell is both old and huge, so there’s always something new to find. I’m not like Bran, who just climbs everywhere, but I’ve got my own ways of getting around” she had said, feeling confident in her answer and ready to defend herself for not answering with something ‘womanly’.

“Duuuude, no way!” Prince Jon had answered, and before Arya could ask him what in the hells did that mean, he continued. “That’s also one of my favorite things to do back in the Red Keep. There are so many different secret passages in so many places that I’m pretty sure that I won’t have found them all even if I keep looking for the next five years or so.”

“Oh I know why it’s like that! Maegor the Cruel was mistrustful of his courtiers so he wanted to be able to spy on any of them in secret, so he had all these passages built and then killed all the builders responsible” Arya had replied excitedly.

Prince Jon had been impressed by her knowledge and even asked if she had a special interest in Targaryen history, but she instead just shrugged and said that anything’s more interesting than her sewing lessons.

“Is it really that bad? My own little sister always seems to have fun even when she had just started and was kind of terrible at it. She once even gave me an embroidered stag on my name day several years ago and I asked her ‘why does this dog have horns?’ Myrcella pouted for days” he had recalled with a laugh.

“How did she ever get better? Every time I make a mistake, Septa Mordane just scolds me on my needlework and says that my hands aren’t even fit for it. Not like Sansa’s” Arya had complained to the prince.

“Sounds to me like you just have a really bad teacher.”

Prince Jon had said in such a matter-of-fact way that Arya could only raise and eyebrow in askance, waiting for him to elaborate

“If she’s just saying that you’re terrible and that your sister is good, but she doesn’t even try to help you improve or have your sister help you either, then she’s just kind of being an ass. Like, does she ever point out what you’re doing right?” Prince Jon had asked her pointedly, and Arya truly could not recall a single time that happened.

Would she even enjoy the things she currently liked if she had Septa Mordane as an instructor? “Your legs are too short to properly ride a horse” master of horse Mordane would probably say. “Your sister rides much more gracefully than you, you should pay attention”

“Your arms are too skinny to pull a bow, much less hold a sword,” master-at-arms Mordane would complain. “You need a posture like your sister’s if you want to shoot an arrow straight.”

Arya came to a realization. She did not hate needlework as much as she thought she did.

She just hated Septa Mordane.

Arya did not have any special interest in Maester Luwin’s boring old lectures, but she could still remember her numbers and her histories, and that’s because at no moment during those lessons did the kindly old maester ever look down on her.

Needlework was probably not exciting either, but she would never know if she actually liked it as long as the unkindly Septa was the one in charge of teaching her.

Breaking out of her reverie, Arya looked down at her stitches. They were crooked again, but at least this time she felt some pride that she could at least make them somewhat look like a wolf something despite not really being taught how to.

Arya glanced furtively across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might have somehow read all of her previous thoughts, but the septa was paying her no attention today. She was sitting with the Princess Myrcella, all smiles and admiration. It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts, as she had said when the queen brought Myrcella to join them. Arya thought that Myrcella’s stitches looked a little crooked too, just how Prince Jon had mentioned, but you would never know it from the way Septa Mordane was cooing.

She studied her own work again, looking for some way to make it more presentable. But thinking about the septa’s insurmountable bias, Arya simply sighed and put down her needle and cast a glum look at her sister. Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik’s little girl, was sitting by her feet, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne Poole was leaning over to whisper something in her ear.

“What are you talking about?” Arya decided to ask, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Jeyne gave her a startled look, and then giggled while Sansa looked abashed and Beth blushed. No one answered her.

“Just tell me,” Arya pressed.

Jeyne glanced over to make certain that Septa Mordane was not listening. It seemed that Princess Myrcella was keeping her and the other ladies distracted.

Seeing the proverbial coast was clear, Sansa was the one who answered her.

“We were talking about the prince,” she said, her voice soft as a kiss.

“Jon or Joffrey?” Arya asked with a certainty that it was definitely not Prince Tommen that they were talking about. The youngest prince was a short and pudgy boy that would never have a girl her sister’s age swooning with his current looks.

The three other girls seemed somewhat surprised at her question. Beth Cassel blushed yet again.

“Prince Jon is quite handsome, isn’t he?” She asked her friends for approval.

“He really is” Jeyne was quick to agree. “He has a different kind of appeal than his brother, but he is quite easy on the eyes. I’m surprised you’re taking notice of that as well, Arya.”

Jeyne had addressed her by name instead of Horseface, so it seems that participating in girly topics gets her in a pleasant disposition.

Still, Arya made a face at the implication of that statement.

“Gross. I don’t fancy him, I just guessed one of you three might,” she said leaving no room for misunderstanding.

“You sat with him at the feast. Is he so unpleasant that you’d call the thought of fancying him ‘gross’?” Sansa asked with an uncharacteristically sisterly concern.

“Well, no…” she mumbled, “he’s a nice enough sort and we got along well. I just thought that maybe he caught your eye” she shrugged shyly.

“No, no. Remember who sat with her,” Beth said in reminder.

“Joffrey likes your sister,” Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. “He told her she was very beautiful.”

“He’s going to marry her,” little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. “Then Sansa will be

queen of all the realm.”

Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily, Arya thought with dull resentment. “Beth, you shouldn’t make up stories,” Sansa corrected the younger girl, gently stroking her hair to take the harshness out of her words. She looked at Arya. “What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He’s very gallant, don’t you think?”

“Compared to his brother, he looks like a girl,” Arya stated plainly.

Sansa looked mildly scandalized, buy Jayne Poole smiled toothily instead.

“So you admit you prefer Prince Jon’s more manly looks?” She said in a teasing tone that was unfamiliar with the one she normally used to mock her. Like she was establishing rapport instead.

Arya made a face yet again. “No! It’s just that it’s plain for all to see. He’s got long hair and his mother’s face. Even our brother Jon says he looks like a girl.”

Sansa sighed as she stitched, suddenly less scandalized than before. “Poor Jon,” she said. “He gets jealous because he’s a bastard.”

“He’s our brother,” Arya protested, much too loudly. Her voice cutting through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.

Oh gods, please no.

“What are you children talking about?” Septa Mordane’s eyes were now on them. She had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin lipless mouth made for frowning. And frowning she was.

“Our half brother” Sansa corrected Arya in a soft whisper before turning to the septa with a smile. Arya and I were remarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with us today,” she said.

Septa Mordane nodded. “Indeed. A great honor for us all.” Princess Myrcella smiled uncertainly at the compliment, perhaps noticing that it was a cover for something else.

“Arya, why aren’t you at work?” the septa asked. She rose to her feet, starched skirts rustling as she started across the room. “Let me see your stitches.”

Arya wanted to scream. It was just like Sansa to go and attract the septa’s attention, and it was just like the septa to immediately seize the opportunity to criticize her. “Here,” she said, surrendering up her work. The faster she complied the faster it would be over.

The septa examined the fabric and soon started tutting. “Arya, Arya, Arya,” she said. “This will not do. This will not do at all.”

“It’s a wolf. You can tell with your eyes that it’s a wolf,” for once in her life she decided she would try defending her own work.

“Is does not matter if I can see a wolf there or not, the stitches are all crooked and you need to focus if you wish to do better,” the septa berated as usual.

“If them being crooked is such a problem, why don’t you say that to the princess,” Arya mumbles to herself, just loud enough that Septa Mordane only catches the word princess.

“It is rude to mumble, Arya, speak clearly,” the Septa responds with irritation.

“I said that I would probably learn how to do it properly if you showed me the same grace you show the princess,” she hisses loud enough that everyone else in the room hears.

She can hear gasps from the ladies-in-waiting, and Princess Myrcella gives her an uncertain look at being used as a comparison. She had initially looked sorry for Arya being so publicly scrutinized, but now she seemed to lean towards respecting at the older girl for standing up for herself, even if she’s confused by how it came to this.

Equally, Sansa seemed unable to hide her surprise at her sister’s defiance. Not that she does not expect Arya to misbehave in needlework practice, but she’s never defended her own work or criticized the septa as a teacher to her face before. Jeyne didn’t even smirk at the situation like she normally would.

Still, tears stung at her eyes even as she held it in and kept her chin up to look at the septa.

“Arya! Do not disgrace yourself in front of the princess. You will not be coddled for not having the delicate hands for the craft, so don’t ask for special treatment,” the septa continued to admonish.

Arya knew she would not get through to Septa Mordane, so instead she pushed herself out of her chair and gave a quick curtsy towards the princess.

“By your leave, my lady.”

Myrcella blinked at her and looked to her ladies for guidance. But if she was uncertain, Septa Mordane was not. “Just where do you think you are doing, Arya?” the septa demanded.

Arya glared at her. “I have to go shoe a horse,” she said sweetly, taking a brief satisfaction in the shock on the septa’s face. Then before the princess said anything to give her leave, Arya whirled and made her exit, running down the steps as fast as her feet would take her.

Why did Septa Mordane have it out for her? Why did she have so much more patience with her sister and the princess? It wasn’t fair. It often felt like because Sansa had been born two years before her that there was nothing left when it was her time to be born. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry, knew how to dress well, played the high harp and the bells. It stung that the only talent that Arya could claim over her sister was that she was a much better rider. Arya was better at numbers and knowledge on how to run a household as well, but that was simply because Sansa’s head was constantly in the clouds during Maester Luwin’s lessons.

Arya hated to admit to herself that she cared about it, but Sansa was also beautiful in a way that Arya was simply not. Sansa had gotten their mother’s fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys, while Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. That’s the reason Jayne used to call her Horseface and neigh whenever she approached. It’s bewildering that taking part in their gossip was enough to keep Jeyne’s teasing at bay.

Arya found Nymeria waiting for her in the guardroom at the base of the stairs. The Direwolf pup was soon on her feet with a wagging tail and Arya smiled, her tears and worries vanishing in the midst of the pup’s love. Nymeria was inseparable from Arya ever since she’d been gifted the little wolf, sleeping in the same room and doing almost every waking moment together. Arya wished she was allowed to have Nymeria with her during her needlework lessons, but her mother forbade that. A shame, since the ever-growing wolf would probably give Septa Mordane pause from picking on Arya.

After untying her companion, Arya left the tower with Nymeria nipping at her heels, her beautiful yellow eyes gleaming like golden coins as she followed her master. Arya also gave herself credit over her sister for one more thing. Nymeria was a much better name than Lady.

Septa Mordane would certainly send word to Arya’s mother about her leaving her class with such drama, so it would be a bad idea to go to her room right now where It would be easy to find her. Instead, she was interested in what the boys might be doing in the practice yard. Prince Jon would be there, and mayhaps she would catch sight of Prince Joffrey eating dirt, by her brother’s work or his, it did not matter.

There was a window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep where you had a view of the whole yard. That was where they headed. “Come,” she whispered to Nymeria. She got up and ran, the wolf coming hard at her heels.

They arrived, flushed and breathless, to find her brother Jon seated on the sill, one leg drawn up languidly to his chin. He was absorbed in the action happening in the yard, so much so that he did no notice her approach until his own white direwolf moved up to meet them. Nymeria took a wary disposition at the white wolf’s approach, him already being bigger than her and all other litter-mates. But soon, Ghost her her some sniffs, carefully nipped at Nymeria’s ear and settled back down by Jon’s side.

That caught Jon’s attention, who then looked at her with curiosity. “Shouldn’t you be practicing your stitches, little sister?”

“It’s not like I’ll learn… Septa Modane doesn’t teach very well,” she says, making a face. “I want to watch the fights.”

“I do not know the woes of a bad teacher, but I can help you with your other problem,” he says with a smile. “Come up here.”

Arya climbed up on the window and sat beside him, to a chorus of thuds and grunts from the yard below.

To her disappointment, it was the younger boys drilling. Bran was so heavily padded he looked as though he had belted on a featherbed, and Prince Tommen, who was plump to begin with, seemed positively round. They were huffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of old Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms and Beth’s father, a great stout keg of a man with magnificent white cheek whiskers. There were about a dozen spectators watching, men and boys calling out encouragements to the two on the field, with Robb and Prince Jon competing on who can encourage their own brothers the loudest.

Arya spotted Theon Greyjoy among the people in the yard, standing right by Robb’s side with his black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House, giving the combatants a look of wry contempt which did not seem out of place on his face. Both Bran and the young prince were staggering, so it seemed like they had been at it for a while.

“A bit more exhausting than needlework, wouldn’t you say?” Jon observed.

“A whole more fun than needlework,” Arya said in return. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. Jon had always been the sibling she’d been the closest to, both being the only two to share their father’s features. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and it was Jon who had reassured her.

“Why aren’t you down there with the rest?” She asked her brother.

“It would be improper,” he gives her a half smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes. All of their bruises should come from trueborn swords.”

“Oh.” Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair.

She watched her little brother whack at Tommen who was doing a better than expected job at defending himself, with Prince Jon yelling out advice. “I could do just as good as Bran,” she mused out loud. “He’s only nine, while I’m one-and-ten.”

Jon have her a once-over and took her arm to feel her muscle. “You’re too skinny,” he smirked and then sighed and shook his head dramatically. “I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one.”

Arya snatched her arm back and gave him an indignant glare. In response, Jon messed up her hair again, the prick. After they settled down, their attention returned to the yard.

“You see Prince Joffrey?” Jon asked.

She hadn’t, not at first glance, but when she looked again she found him to the back, under the shade of the high stone wall, far away from his twin, who stood at the edge of the sparring circle. He was surrounded by men she did not recognize, young squires in the livery of Lannister and Baratheon, strangers all. There were a few older men among them; knights, she surmised, as well as a man taller than the rest with a face disfigured by burn marks.

“Do you see the arms on his surcoat?” he asked again, and so Arya payed attention to that detail.

An ornate shield had been embroidered on the prince’s padded surcoat. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister.

“The Lannisters are proud,” Jon observed. “You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honor to the king’s.”

“The woman is important too!” Arya protested. “Maybe he’s got a closer relationship with his mother. Prince Jon wears only his father’s colors as well as a touch of blue,” Arya pointed out, which caused Jon to shift his attention to the lad who was vigorously cheering for his younger brother.

Jon furrowed his brow. Prince Jon’s personal arms were the Baratheon crowned black stag on gold, quartered with a sky blue symbol that seemed to represent the wind on an ocean blue. Neither Jon nor Arya have seen the symbol before outside of the prince’s coat of arms.

“What a queer heraldry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before,” Jon commented.

“I asked Prince Jon about it, and he says it represents all the winds of the Stormlands, not just the violent ones. Something about it representing the strength a ruler needs, but also a gentleness of a breeze when necessary.” Arya explained. “At least that’s what he told me when we were talking during the feast, but he was talking fast so maybe he made it up on the spot.” She shrugs.

“Why would he do that?” Jon asks, amused.

“I don’t know, but my question caught him off-guard. Maybe he just likes the color blue and wanted an excuse to emblazon it. It does match his eyes,” she points out.

“I did not know you were one to take notice of people’s eyes, little sister,” Jon points out in a teasing tone that Arya does not understand the reason for.

“I do! I can probably tell you the eye color of everyone in the castle if need be,” she boasted defensively, though she did not know what exactly she was defensive about.

Jon raised his hands up in surrender.

There was a shout from the courtyard below. Prince Tommen was in the dust still in a defensive position, trying to get up and failing because of the weight of the padding. it made him look like a turtle trying to get off it’s own back. Bran was standing over him with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh.

Despite Prince Tommen’s willingness to continue, it was clear who the winner was, and soon Ser Rodrick called “Enough!” He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. “Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor.” He looked around. “Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you two go for a round?”

Robb, already sweaty from a previous bout, moved forward eagerly. “Gladly.” Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Rodrik’s summons. His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored.

“This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik.” Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter.

“You are children,” he said derisively.

“Robb may be a child,” Joffrey said. “I am a prince. And I do not think playing with swords is worth of my time.

“We aren’t playing, Joff, this is training” Robb says in a serious tone. “Are you afraid?”

Prince Joffrey looked at him. “Oh, terrified,” he said. “You’re so much older.” Some of the Lannister men laughed.

Jon looked down on the scene with a frown. “Joffrey is truly a little shit,” he told Arya.

Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. “What are you suggesting?” he asked the prince.

“Live steel.”

“Done,” Robb shot back. “You’ll be sorry!”

“Joff, are you fucking stupid?” Prince Jon said before Ser Rodrick could forbid or allow that. “You never practice with live steel, you could get seriously injured,” Prince Jon berated his twin in a way that makes him sound both genuinely concerned and also bewildered at his suggestion.

The Lannister men shut up at that while the Baratheon men tried hard to hide their amusement.

Joffrey, who had been acting very haughty and composed, was suddenly red and flustered. “Brother, you do not know what you’re saying. I am very capable of using live steel effectively.”

“Since when?” Prince Jon asked with what seemed like genuine confusion “I’ve never seen you with a true blade in your hands…” he pauses, a look of revelation coming to his face. “You’ve been practicing in secret with the Hound!” Prince Jon looked between his brother and the tall individual with the burn marks.

The man he called the Hound roared in laughter. “Your imagination is fertile, Jester Prince. Your mother would rather feed me to the pigs. My blade is to protect your brother and that’s it. I’m not training him.”

“And I don’t need any special training to defeat some... Starkling!” Joffrey blustered, getting support from his men while Robb and the Stark men in the yard fumed at the insult to his skills.

At that, Prince Jon smiled and shoved a tourney sword into Joffrey’s hands and patted him on the back. “That’s my brother! I knew you weren’t scared. Now go at him!” he said, Nudging Prince Joffrey to the sparring circle. “Don’t go easy on him, Robb, or you’ll probably regret it!” Prince Jon yelled out in playful banter.

Arya could not tell if Prince Jon had genuine belief in his brother’s skills or if he was setting Joffrey up to be taught a lesson, but she did not really care as long as she got to see Robb smacking Joffrey around.

Robb gave a satisfied grin to this outcome as he was handed a blunted blade of his own and moved into the circle. “I’m glad you could see reason, my prince.”

Prince Joffrey looked back at his brother who simply gave him an upwards thumb gesture in apparent encouragement. The blonde twin sighed and recomposed himself. “I guess I can show you how well a royal blade cuts, even when blunted,” he boasted as the two of them started circling each other.

The two attacked each other with ferocity you would see in a true duel instead of a spar. Joffrey’s previous provocations seemed to awaken the wolf in Arya’s brother, and Joffrey’s frustration in being put in this situation by his own twin bled through his motions, making the strikes powerful but more erratic.

“I’ll give the little shit credit, he’s meeting Robb strike for strike despite being less skilled,” Jon pointed out.

And it was true, Robb’s movements seemed much more fluid and well-practiced even to Arya’s eyes, while Joffrey’s offensive and defensive movements were more jerky and reflexive. The prince gave off an air of determination. He was determined to not be humiliated by the situation he was put in.

But Robb’s higher skill was also accompanied by better stamina, and soon Joffrey was finding himself unable to respond to Arya’s brother with his reflexive defense, having tired himself.

Robb whacked Joffrey in the wrist in a quick move after the prince had tried to pull off a harsh strike to end the fight, but he had overextended. Joffrey’s sword fell from his hand after this maneuver, and before he could duck to retrieve it, Robb’s sword was under his chin.

“Do you yield?” Arya’s brother asked with the seriousness of a lord.

Prince Joffrey only let out a growl of frustration in response, pushing away the blade from his neck and stalking away back to the Hound’s side.

“Whoa, you did really well, Joff! I’ve never seen you so determined to win before. Were you trying to impress me?” Prince Jon asked playfully, giving his brother a nudge as he passed by, but only got a grunt in response.

Joffrey walked past his brother, past the Hound and simply gestured for the man to follow. And then he stalked away from the training yard without saying any more words.

“What a sore loser,” Arya commented as the blonde prince left their sight.

“Indeed. He fought better than expected, even I’ll acknowledge it. But his pride made it a humiliating defeat to him.” Jon observed.

“Do you think he’s wroth with Prince Jon for pushing him into his fight?” Arya asked her brother.

“Hard to say. He seems the sort to hold a grudge, but then again he was the one pushing for live steel instead. Joff and Robb would’ve fought regardless from his point of view, unless…” Jon trails off and looks to Arya with a smirk.

Arya tilted her head, confused at what Jon was insinuating. But then it dawned on her. “Ser Roderick wouldn’t let them use it. If he knew that, then maybe he never planned on fighting at all?”

“You’ve got a keen mind, little sister. If not keen hands.” Jon complimented and teased her in equal measure.

Arya replied by sticking her tongue out. But then she thought better about the situation and had a question of her own. “How did Prince Joffrey figure that Ser Roderick would not allow real blades to be used?”

“I don’t think any master-of-arms would allow the heir to the North and the heir to the Iron Throne to swing real blades at each other without either of their fathers there to condone it. If anything bad were to happen, it would be Ser Roderick’s sole responsibility,” Jon points out.

“I wouldn’t want that hanging on me either.” Arya says in agreement.

With the crown prince having stalked off to only the gods know where, all the remaining men at the yard seemed at a loss on what to do. That is until Prince Jon stepped up to Robb and gave him a good-natured clap on the back.

“Good fight, Robb. I think you’re the first guy I’ve seen actually make Joffrey take a sparring session seriously,” he said.

“Surely you’re not telling me that with the implication that your brother is some sort of great warrior?” Robb shot back in-between breaths, visibly winded despite it all.

“Nah, I admit he’s just lazy. But you had him more focused and determined than ever, so you have my thanks.” Prince Jon replied with a smile.

“I think that’s all to your credit, my prince,” Theon chimed in with his ever-present smugness. “Your words and your actions put him in a situation where he couldn’t back down or laze about, otherwise he’d look the fool.”

“Really? I didn’t mean to have it come across like that. I was just being supportive,” Prince Jon’s words seemed genuine, but she could tell Theon didn’t buy it.

“Whatever the case may be, this was a better bout than I expected. But I do not know if I have another one in me without some rest.” Robb interjected.

“But I haven’t had a turn yet,” Prince Jon whined.

“You could cross swords with me, if you’re so eager to fight,” Theon proposed with a smirk.

“No offense, Theon, but you’re two-and-twenty. I rather fight someone closer to my age,” Prince Jon explained. With his height and build, he could definitely match the Greyjoy if he wanted to, considering his strength was in the bow and not the sword.

“At least you’re honest,” the man shrugged. “But look around, my prince. There is no one who matches that description.”

At that, Prince Jon’s expression turned pensive and he began to actually scan the area with his eyes. At one point he actually looked up at the bridge to the armory and they locked eyes for a moment. She ducked away from the window, not wanting to be discovered skipping her lessons.

“Shying away from the Prince, Arya?” Her brother asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Shut up, Jon! I don’t want to be discovered. I’m not supposed to be here, remember?”

She heard Prince Jon’s voice once again from where she hid. “Hey Robb, what about your brother?”

“Bran? He’s much too young to be a fair fight, Prince Jon.” He says with a slight chuckle.

“Not Bran, dummy.” He admonished, and Arya could tell he was probably rolling his eyes. “I meant your brother Jon. He’s watching us from that window over there.”

It was now Jon’s turn to freeze in surprise. She could see him slowly raise his hand to acknowledge being acknowledged.

“Prince Jon, you’re not suggesting that you want to cross swords with a bastard.” Theon said with a scoff.

Arya saw her brother Jon’s brow furrow at that comment.

“Why not? I trained with my brother Edric all the time back in Storm’s End. Plus, I heard from Robb he’s really good, so I want to test that myself.” Prince Jon replied with good nature, but Arya could sense an edge there.“Come down here, Jon! Let’s have a friendly spar,” Prince Jon shouted and this time it was obviously directed at their window.

Jon hesitated. “I’m not sure it would be proper, my prince.”

“Coward,” Arya teased with a whisper from where she hid, gaining an exasperated glare from Jon in return.

“Oh that’s bollocks. Come on! We even share a namesake, it’ll be a good chance to get to know each other,” Prince Jon said in an attempt to persuade her brother.

“Weren’t you bemoaning how you couldn’t be down there? Just go already,” Arya whispered.

Jon gave a slight nod, both to himself and to his sister, before speaking out again. “It would be an honor, my prince,” he said, careful to keep proper etiquette. “I’ll come down immediately.”

With that decided, Arya wished Jon good luck and promised to watch his bout.

“Don’t stick around too long. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You’ll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers.”

“Ugh, I hate needlework!” She complained. “But I’m not missing this. You better not lose”

Jon kept walking across the bridge towards the stairs and just waved her off with a smile.

But Arya could tell that her brother was nervous. He was probably self-conscious.

He probably thought that it was not every day that a bastard got to fight a prince.

Chapter Text

Theon ought to feel slighted for being passed over as a sparring partner over the bastard, but he could not find it in himself to care. These boys are but children, and he would not begrudge a child for wishing to be matched with a peer in age, even if a prince crossing swords with a bastard would be seen as scandalous to most people from the capital.

Then again, he did not care much for greenlander customs, even if he kept up appearances for Lord Stark. And it seemed like the second prince was not one to care much for whatever was seen as ‘proper’ either.

After a couple of moments, Jon Snow set foot upon the training yard, with his overgrown runt of a white wolf following his every step. The fact that the white pup he’d suggested be put out of its misery turned out to be the largest of the direwolves did not sit well with Theon. He was glad the animal would not remember his words and did not have the intelligence to seek revenge if it did. Even so, it belonged to the Bastard of Winterfell, so, regardless, the beast would never be friendly to him.

Him and the bastard had never gotten along, and most likely never would. Jon Snow was brooding, sullen, and boring; Theon had no idea what Robb perceived that would make spending time with the bastard enjoyable. Besides being brothers, that is, but even then, liking your brothers is entirely optional, if his memories of his early years in Pyke served him right. His uncles weren’t necessarily on good terms with each other either.

“I have come as you’ve asked, my prince,” Jon Snow bowed with his eyes drawn towards the ground, as if looking at Prince Jon would give him grounds for execution. Were it Prince Joffrey, it just might’ve.

“Don’t be so stiff, Jon Snow,” the younger prince approached the Bastard of Winterfell and offered a hand. Jon Snow looked bewildered for a brief moment, but quickly grasped the prince’s hand as to not disrespect the gesture.

“Apologies, my prince,” Jon Snow said, lifting his eyes to meet those of a boy who was taller than him, despite being younger. Theon hid a smirk of amusement.

Jon Baratheon did not hide his own amusement, though it was a lot more good-natured than Theon’s. He shook the bastard’s hand “Both Robb and Arya had only good things to say about you, so I wanted to meet you. This is as good a place as any, right?” He smiled and gestured to the training grounds.

Theon felt a smirk slip onto his face as Jon Snow hesitated to reply. “I think he’s afraid that you’ve called upon him to act as your training dummy, my prince,” he spoke candidly.

“What?!” Prince Jon turned to him in surprise, genuinely seeming like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. In response to his words, Jon Snow attempted to set Theon on fire with his eyes.

“Forgive him for his misconceptions, but it’s not every day that a prince finds in him the grace to extend an earnest invitation to cross blades with a mere bastard, even one of a Great House.” Theon explained reasonably, though not able to completely hide his contempt for the situation.

“Really? Like I said, I used to train a lot with my brother, Edric Storm, so I guess I’m just used to ‘extending that grace’, as you say. It’s no big deal,” Prince Jon said with a shrug.

Theon did not know exactly what a ‘big deal’ entailed, but he could deduce by the prince’s words that bastardy did not matter much to him at all.

“Jon and I also train together quite often in our daily lives here in Winterfell,” Robb chimed in. “He even wins our bouts, around half of the time,” he added with a grin.

This seems to lift the bastard’s spirits for a moment.

“I’ve won a little more than half of those bouts, Stark” he boasted.

“And yet I’ve won more than half our races on horseback, Snow.” Robb replied in equal tone.

This exchange seemed to settle the mood in the training grounds to something more amiable, which was fine with Theon.

“I’m not that great of a rider either, Jon Snow. But I have defeated my uncle Jaime before,” the prince boasted. “Once. After tiring him out, by losing the nine previous bouts,” he continued, downplaying his supposed achievement.

“Is it really an achievement to brag about if you tell it that way?” Theon questioned the boy’s words with a raised eyebrow. Jon Snow, however, sharpened his gaze as if trying to get the true measure of the prince, as if the boy hadn’t spelled it out for him.

“Ser Jaime is said to be the greatest swordsman in Westeros, besides Ser Barristan the Bold. Any sort victory against him is enough to be proud about,” Jon Snow replied in the prince’s stead.

Theon did not know the bastard to be a flatterer, but it seems like the opportunity to get into a prince’s good graces was tempting enough for Snow to not let it pass him by.

“You really know things, Jon Snow,” Prince Jon said in an appreciative tone. “What’s your usual weapon of choice?” He then asked.

“The hand-and-a-half sword, my prince,” Jon Snow replied.

“Get him one of those, and one for me as well,” Prince Jon said, turning to Ser Rodrick Cassel, who gave a bow and went about collecting the swords.

“I thought you favored the hammer, like your father,” Robb commented from the sidelines.

“I do, and believe me, it’s all I knew how to wield for a long time. But Ser Loras Tyrell was adamant that I should also be proficient with axes, swords, lances and morningstars. He was my teacher back when I lived in Storm’s End and he really really thought limiting myself to a single weapon was stupid,” Prince Jon sighed. “It dawned on me that there was no limit to the rules of strife, so I decided ‘why not’, and learned what I could from him.”

Theon did not quite understand the meaning of what the prince had meant by ‘rules of strife’, but he understood the wisdom of this Ser Loras’ lesson. Theon would always be a greater archer than anything else, but it did not mean he could refuse to learn how to fight with the sword. Perhaps he should acquaint himself better with the axe as well. If a greenlander prince says he’s proficient, then what kind of iron islander would he be if he did not wield it even better than him.

Eventually Ser Rodrick returned with the swords and handed one to each fighter.

“To not pick your favored weapon against mine. Seems like you’re underestimating me, my prince,” Snow said with some edge to his voice. He had more pride than suited him, and the prince had stumbled into wounding it.

“Hey, it’s not like that, Jon. It’s just that there’s not really a way to really ‘blunt’ a hammer when it’s already, well… blunt,” the prince explained. “And I really don’t want to hold back on my swings, so this way we can both go all out. If you still feel like I’ve slighted you, then feel free to beat me into the dirt about it,” he finished with a jest before settling himself into a fighting stance, holding the sword with both hands. His feet are apart, with the left one forward and the sword pointed downwards in front of him.

Not a very protective stance.

In response, Jon Snow placed himself in a two-handed stance as well, holding the sword close to his head pointed forward, his left foot in front and right as the back foot.

They both circled each other briefly, but soon enough the bastard initiated the fight with a lunge, but from the prince’s presumably lax stance his sword sprung up to parry the thrust to the side and then followed up with a strike to Snow’s wrist.

But Jon Snow managed to catch the strike on the crossguard and backed away while threatening the prince’s space with the tip of his blade as to stop a follow-up.

“Not a bad start, right?” The prince asks his opponent.

“Not at all, my prince. That stance of yours is misleading,” Jon Snow admits in reply.

“You’re either a fool to use it, or a fool to attack it,” Prince Jon explained the idea behind the style. “We find out the answer at the end of the clash.”

“I’m seldom a fool,” Jon Snow replied with a flare of his nostrils.

“That makes one of us,” the prince japed. He stepped forward, raising the blade in a one-handed thrust towards Snow’s neck allowing the hilt to slip up his grasp before grasping it at the pommel in an attempt to extend his range.

Jon Snow, caught off-guard by the extra range, found himself taking a step back before slapping the blade to the side with his own, causing the prince’s sword to jerk unsteadily to the side, leaving him completely open for a moment.

But Snow was on the back foot due to Prince Jon’s trick and thus was unable to capitalize on this opening, giving the prince enough time to readjust his guard.

“Nice reaction speed. I usually end fights with that when I use it for the first time with someone,” Prince Jon said with trickster’s grin.

And in a real duel, the first time is all you really need, Theon noted to himself. But then again, if you become known for that technique and your next opponent expects it, it could end terribly for you since it leaves you very exposed if you fail. And if your grip falters, you could end up disarmed.

And then dead.

“A clever trick, my prince, but do not think you can repeat it,” Jon Snow replied with his guard steady.

Snow feints a slash towards the prince’s temple, and when the prince raises his blade to parry, he lets go of his off-hand and thrusts downward at the prince’s chest, sliding his own blade across the other with his fingers facing the sky.

The crossguards almost clash as the prince counter-thrusts, and both Snow and the prince lean away from each other’s blade, moving in a circular motion.

Jon Snow soon tired of this game of avoidance between them and eventually stood his ground and applied force counter to the motion, readjusting his grip on his blade with both hands and pressing both blades together. Snow stepped closer and brute-forced the locked blades upwards so both swordsmen now held them above their heads.

He then kneed the prince in the gut.

To his credit, the prince seemed to expect this move and jumped back quickly enough for it to be a glancing blow, and so he did not lower his guard or get winded from it.

The move got Jon Snow to receive some jeers from the Lannister and Baratheon men still present for the bout, while the Stark men cheered.

“Thank you for not going for the groin attack, by the way. Now that would’ve left me reeling .”

“I would never dishonor the fight in such a way,” Jon Snow replied, some disbelief becoming evident in his voice.

“Fair point, but don’t hesitate to go for it in a real battle. A wildling wouldn’t think twice before doing it to you,” Prince Jon pointed out, as if he had any real battle experience to preach about.

“What does a southron prince know of wildlings?” Jon Snow asked quite rudely, his brows furrowed.

“I like to read a little in my spare time. And grandfather Jon used to say that they fight a lot like the mountain clans, and he had a lot of stories about those. Pretty nasty ones at that,” the prince answered, unbothered by the bastard’s rudeness. Grandfather Jon probably referred to the deceased Jon Arryn.

“I see,” Snow nodded in return, studying his opponent during this lull in combat.

Prince Jon stepped in with a diagonal upwards slash, and Snow met that strike with a parry and countered with a horizontal one of his own at the prince’s midsection, catching the cloth of his tabard.

However, that meant the prince had managed to dodge and position his blade for a powerful overhead strike that the bastard had to block instead of parry. They locked blades for a moment before pushing away, neither being able to press the advantage.

“Why did you speak of wildlings?” Jon Snow asked, still stuck in their previous exchange of words from what it sounded like.

“Oh, word around the castle is that you want to join the Night’s Watch. Not a place someone your age should join, but if that’s your plan you gotta know how to handle a wildling, right?”

“You speak as if you are sharing wisdom, but last I remember I am two years your senior, my prince,” Jon Snow replied, his mood darkening.

“Yeah, but that’s a permanent choice you’re making. You make those vows and you’re stuck there until you die. That’s a decision you should make when you’re… I don’t know, thirty?”

“Respectfully, I don’t think you’d understand what drives me to seek the black, my prince. There’s honor to be found in that station,” Snow replied tersely.

“I’m not doubting you, but really, you can afford to wait, can’t you? Jumping head first into stuff like this before actually living a little is kind of stupid,” the prince declared rather bluntly.

The bastard certainly did not appreciate the prince’s words, and, before Theon could blink, Jon Snow had set upon Prince Jon with renewed vigor, got at him with a flurry of strikes and thrusts, putting Jon Baratheon on the back foot, either blocking or dodging.

Theon could tell that the Bastard of Winterfell had become enraged by someone of the prince’s station looking down on his choices. Theon agreed with the prince, however. Choosing a life of celibacy in the company of low criminals before even having even the first taste of a warm cunt made Jon Snow shortsighted and an idiot.

“You know nothing of my life!” Jon Snow yelled as he locks blades with the prince and then elbowed him in the face after jerking their blades to the side.

Prince Jon made space between them, keeping his guard so that Snow would not approach, and then rubbed at his mouth with the back of his wrist where the bastard had struck him. He spat some blood mixed with saliva.

“Fuck you, man! I’m just trying to understand,” Prince Jon yelled out in indignation, some of the famous Baratheon fury showing its face.

The two of them clashed, and Theon felt a chill reach him as draft from the region started to roll into the training yard. It was not uncommon for this to happen, but something in his core told Theon to pay attention to the way the wind was whistling.

Every time the prince was on the offensive, the wind seemed to calm down, but whenever he was caught defending against Jon Snow’s onslaught, the wind would pick up more and more.

Whenever Theon could see the prince’s face, contorted in frustration, there was a shimmer in the blue of his eyes. Hard to notice, but Theon had the trained perception of an archer. The shimmer seemed to intensify with the wind, barely noticeable, but there was something primal in Theon, something that sounded like air bubbles coming to the surface, telling him to pay attention.

And then he saw it.

Jon Snow had the Baratheon prince struggling, forcing him back with powerful blow after powerful blow that the prince could only block but not parry or counter. And when the bastard was poised to disarm his opponent and end the fight, it happened.

Jon Snow was buffeted in the face with a gale that carried leaves and dust, temporarily blinding him and causing him to miss his mark and bring a hand to his face to rub at the irritants.

And that was the end of things, as Prince Jon pushed out a battle cry and kicked Jon Snow squarely in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and pushing him to the ground.

The prince held his blade to his downed opponent’s neck, and at that point Ser Roderick had called the match as both combatants caught their breaths.

They were words exchanged at that point, but Theon tuned them out as he looked around to see if anyone else had also noticed what he had seen.

Robb looked concerned, but Theon could tell it had nothing to do with the wind and more with how Jon Snow had exchanged words with the prince and then lost.

He looked at the other men, but they were either cheered, looked disappointed or exchanged coins between them. No one else was spooked or intrigued. They probably saw what happened as a stroke of luck for the prince.

But then again these were all greenlanders.

They had not learned about the archenemy of his people.

Theon studied the prince, who did not do much else at the moment except extend a hand to his opponent, which the bastard accepted after some hesitation.

He was just a boy, albeit a prince. It was ridiculous to think of him as anything but a boy, albeit a skilled fighter nonetheless. And even if he was somehow responsible for the winds, as ridiculous as that sounded, it was complete lunacy to associate him with a being that powerful.

But from the back of his mind, two words bubble forth, as if whispered to him from the greatest depths of the ocean.

Storm God.