TSOTWR - Chapter X (Copy)

Chapter X

Jon

He took in his reflection in the looking glass as he finished tying his hair, releasing a deep breath. Somehow, it always seemed to be him who found himself in such situations.

Jon had wanted to come to the tournament to prevent certain events from coming to pass, and now, he found himself preparing to compete in a melee he had no desire to.

“Don’t forget your favour,” Lyanna teased, gesturing towards the strip of fabric Ashara had torn from her dress.

Ashara Dayne.

Jon could only shake his head.

Why was the woman so seemingly interested in him? Was it that to the rest of the kingdoms, he was something of a taboo, something the woman could sample when she knew she shouldn’t?

Could it be that Jon was her chosen source of amusement for the tourney?

He didn’t know, but he needed to put an end to the madness before it spiralled out of control.

Jon certainly did not want the reputation of a bastard who had overstepped his social boundaries.

“Here, let me help you,” Lyanna sighed as he continued to stare at the favour Ashara had asked him to wear. “Honestly, Jon, you make it seem as though it is a burden.”

“Isn’t it?”

Lyanna offered him a pointed look.

“She likes you. For reasons that only she can explain, she really likes you.”

Jon shook his head.

“I think she likes the idea of me,” he returned, eliciting a scowl from Lyanna.

“If you think that, you’re an idiot,” she chided. “No Lady, not even one from Dorne would play around with something like this. As liberal as they are compared to the other kingdoms, they tend to keep that within their own borders. There is still a level of decorum they must abide by, and Ashara knows that. She wouldn’t be making this kind of gesture for you if she wasn’t sincere.”

Jon frowned and sighed deeply.

With the melee to focus on, he did not wish to ponder the enigma that was Ashara Dayne.

“And what about you?” he asked with a smirk. “Are you giving your favour to Robert?”

Lyanna’s expression darkened.

“I’ve already given it to Ned,” she revealed. “Robert will have to find another. I’m sure there are dozens of other Ladies here who would happily oblige. They’re quick enough to open their legs for him.”

“He won’t like that,” Jon teased.

Lyanna huffed irritably.

“Robert is not interested in me anymore than he is any other girl he takes a fancy to. His problem is that he’s never been turned down before, and unfortunately for me, that just seems to make him more determined.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll cut his manhood off if he tries to come anywhere near me in that way. I keep my dagger close.”

Jon smiled fondly at the girl.

“Good,” he praised.

Lyanna nodded resolutely, and Jon had no doubt she would follow through with the threat, regardless of the repercussions.

“So, what do you think of the Lady Dayne?”

Jon’s nostrils flared.

“For someone who has no interest in the opposite sex, you seem to be keen to set me up with her,” he pointed out.

“Because she’s nice and doesn’t think any less of you for what you are,” Lyanna replied honestly. “If anything, she respects you more. She’s not interested in gold or your station, Jon, she’s interested in you.”

Jon said nothing as he eyed the favour tied around his wrist.

“Is it because of your wife? Do you think she’d want you to spend the rest of your life alone?”

Jon laughed heartily at the question.

“My wife would have wanted to kill any other woman who dared even look at me. She could be quite jealous.”

“But she’s not here, Jon,” Lyanna said sadly. “I just don’t want you to miss out on something that could be good because you’d feel guilty for something you have no reason to. You’re a believer of the gods, aren’t you?”

Jon frowned as he nodded.

“Then you must know that she is with them now and at peace. Do you really think she’s watching over you, wanting you to be alone for the rest of your life?”

Jon shook his head.

“Lya, as much as you want this to be one of those little books you read that you don’t want anyone to know about, this is real life. Lady Dayne is from Dorne, and I’m a Northerner. I have nothing to offer her, and I have no intention of leaving the North. She is a beautiful and intelligent woman, and when she realises it won’t work, she will forget all of this.”

“I don’t think she will, Jon,” Lyanna murmured. “And I don’t think you should either. If you want it badly enough, you can make anything work. You taught me that. Now, come on. You have a melee to win for the Lady who so generously gave you her favour.”

She left, and Jon followed, shaking his head.

He didn’t want to enter the melee, yet he’d been ordered to do so by the king, who was also his grandfather, though none was to discover that closely guarded secret.

It had been strange to interact with the man.

Jon had been told his entire life that Aerys was mad, and from what he’d seen of him thus far, that perception of him was certainly proving to be true.

What had become evident to him was that Rhaella could barely stand the presence of her husband, and he did not even want to think about the fact that she would soon fall pregnant with Daenerys.

He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat.

Even if he had any notion of pursuing her, he would be more than twenty years her senior. Not that he could, even if he wished.

Here, he was not the King in the North, nor the long-lost son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Here, he was what he’d grown up believing he was: just another bastard, a man born on the wrong side of the sheets.

Still, he was expected to rise up against the army of the dead that would inevitably come to lead the Seven Kingdoms against the Night King and his ever-expanding following.

How he was supposed to do that, Jon didn’t know, but for now, he had the melee to occupy his mind.

Perhaps something good would come of this, though he had his doubts.

The gods had a way of continuing to test him.

Was it so much to grant him just a shred of mercy?

Rhaella

“I don’t suppose I have missed anything important,” Rhaella sighed as she took a seat next to Rhaegar.

“No,” her son answered with a smile. “Whent has set up three areas. The preliminaries will consist of melees of twenty men facing off with one another. Those that win will move on to rounds of ten, and the winner of those will take part in the official melee,” he explained.

“So many have entered?”

“The purse is enough to convince most to partake. I can’t wait to see how he thins the numbers for the joust.”

Rhaella shook her head.

The events were entertaining enough but even the best of tourneys were mostly spent waiting around.

“You seem nervous, dear,” she commented with a knowing smile towards Ashara. “Is there a certain someone you are hoping will win by any chance?” she added teasingly.

“They’re going to target him, aren’t they?”

“Jon Snow?”

Ashara nodded.

“After his showing yesterday, it would be the intelligent thing to do, mind, there are many who lack such.”

“You’ve never been this nervous for me,” Arthur broke in with a frown.

The man was clad in his freshly polished armour of the Kingsguard, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“Maybe I’ve hoped someone would shrink that ego of yours,” Ashara returned with a grin, eliciting a bout of laughter from the others.

“I’m yet to meet the man that can,” Arthur said proudly.

Ashara rolled her eyes at him, craning her neck as the Northern retinue approached.

“How is this going to work?” Rhaella asked curiously. “Surely Whent isn’t going to just pick random competitors.”

“No, the names are going to be drawn,” Arthur informed her. “Every name of every competitor has been added to a hat. I expect he’ll ask you or Father to assist him.”

“Well, as you can see, your father is not here,” Rhaella sighed. “He’s having one of his mornings where he believes everyone is out to get him. I had the Maester give him something to keep him calm and subdued until he pulls himself together.”

“Probably wise,” Rhaegar agreed. “Oberyn, you didn’t say you were competing,” he added with a frown as the Prince of Dorne approached, donned in his leather armour, and carrying a spear.

“I had not intended to, but I changed my mind,” the man answered with an easy smile. “Maybe it will be fun.”

“There he is,” Ashara whispered, her concerned gaze fixed on the figure with the enormous white wolf next to him.

Jon Snow was a curious man: a bastard who had seemingly climbed the social ranks of the North, so much so that the Lords of the land saw him as an equal.

From what little Rhaella had seen of him, it wasn’t difficult to see why.

He was observant, tactful, and quietly confident. He carried himself with pride despite how most would look upon him, though he was indeed guarded.

Throughout the meal, Rhaella found herself rather intrigued by the man. She could not quite work out what it was about Jon Snow, but there was something eerily familiar about him.

It wasn’t so obvious for the most part, but in his mannerisms and the rare smiles he offered, he reminded her of someone, though she could simply not place who that was.

On the surface, he was very much a Northman, but not quite as Northern the more one listened to him speak, and even in his features.

“Is anyone aware of his parentage?” she asked with little more than what seemed to be a passing interest.

“Not for certain,” Oberyn answered. “The Northerners say he has the blood of the first men, just like the Starks. That is why he resembles them in some ways.”

“In some ways?” Rhaella pressed.

“I am convinced he has southern blood also, perhaps Dornish or even Valyrian, Your Grace.”

Rhaella leaned back in her chair thoughtfully.

If such was true, she could not fathom how Jon Snow came to be, not unless he unknowingly hailed from House Velaryon, or even Blackfyre.

That very thought alone was not one she wished to dwell on. Had any of the Blackfyres made it to the North?

It was not beyond the realm of possibility.

Some had fled to Essos, after all, she could not dismiss the notion entirely.

No, he couldn’t be a Blackfyre, could he?

There was her Uncle Aemon who resided at the wall, but she couldn’t imagine him breaking his vows. The only other possibility was Brynden Rivers, and Rhaella could not help but realise that the date of the man’s disappearance beyond the wall would roughly coincide with the birth of Jon Snow.

Had Brynden taken another lover after Sheira Seastar?

Perhaps Jon Snow was their son…

No, that did not make sense.

Both Brynden and Sheira were Valyrian in look. Any child they shared would be similar so.

She shook her head frustratedly.

Maybe she was pondering it too much.

There was no evidence that Jon Snow was anything more than a Northman, born on the wrong side of the sheets. Even if he did have a Southern mother or father, the odds of them being of Valyrian origin was all but impossible.

Still, she would write to Aemon.

Rhaella expected he would be rather taken aback and perhaps even offended at such an accusation, but it would eliminate the man from her line of enquiries.

“Oh, Whent is going to start,” Rhaegar declared, pulling her from her musings. “Here he comes.”

Rhaella feigned a polite smile as Lord Whent approached. She’d sooner do without the pomp and circumstance being thrust upon her, but as the queen of the people, she dipped her hand into the offered bowl and drew the first name.

Lyanna

Robert had not taken her rejection well when she’d explained she would not be giving him a favour. Why he would assume she would, she didn’t know, but the man was sulking with her and with Ned for accepting it.

For what was supposed to be a highly respected Lord of the Stormlands, he truly was acting like a spoiled child.

Lyanna couldn’t bring herself to care, and Robert seemed to see sense not to press the matter when Jon shot him a look of warning.

He’d stormed off, snatching a jug of wine from a nearby table on his way.

“They’re going to announce the first competitors,” Brandon pointed out nervously.

Most of the Northerners had opted to enter the melee in the hopes of securing a fortune for themselves. Jousting was not such a pastime above the neck, so few had opted for that.

There were archers amongst them and a few singers to boot, but the melee was the favoured event.

Lyanna shrugged at the others as the first names were read, none she was familiar with, though she paid attention when one she recognised was offered.

“LORD JON UMBER OF LAST HEARTH!”

The Greatjon beamed proudly as he stood, receiving words of encouragement from the other Northerners.

After the first round had been drawn, two others followed, and the bouts got underway.

“Who do you fancy in the second, Jon?” Brandon asked interestedly, assuming Jon would be backing the Greatjon.

“Beric Dondarrion will take it,” Jon said confidently. “Watch his stance and his movement. So long as they don’t gang up on him, he will win. He’s leagues above the others.”

His prediction proved to be correct, and the man sporting the cloak adorned with a purple lightning bolt on a black background emerged victorious.

“Seven Hells,” Brandon cursed. “Do you want to help me put some bets on?”

Jon quirked an eyebrow at Brandon.

“Your father will have your hide if you lose your gold.”

“With you picking them, I won’t lose. Come on, Jon, what about the third one. I’ll put five gold dragons on it.”

Jon shook his head amusedly.

“I would say Addam Marbrand,” he said confidently. “I saw him training and he has a few tricks up his sleeve.”

Brandon nodded and all but ran towards one of the men taking bets on the outcomes before the fight got underway.

“Do you think Marbrand will really win?” Lyanna asked.

“He will.”

Lyanna shook her head as the man did so and with ease before turning to Jon.

“What about your chances?”

He shrugged.

“Ser Arthur will be a challenge, and then there’s the other Kingsguard to consider. Anything can happen in a melee,” he pointed out. “It is one of those events where anyone can win.”

“Well, I’ll be putting my gold on you,” Brandon declared.

“Even if you make it into the final?”

“I’m not stupid,” Brandon snorted. “Only a fool would bet against you.”

“Only a fool would bet in the first place,” Jon returned.

“Aye, then call me a fool,” Brandon snorted. “Hold on, Whent’s going to announce the next lot.”

Whent cleared his throat loudly as the Queen handed him the first name.

“JAIME LANNISTER OF CASTERLY ROCK!”

The Westerland contingent cheered their approval.

“Smug cunt,” Brandon muttered, clapping the returning and victorious Greatjon on the shoulder as he passed.

“SER OSWALD WHENT OF THE KINGSGUARD!”

“Interesting,” Ned murmured. “I’ve always wanted to see a Kingsguard fight.”

“Try killing the King,” Brandon jibed. “You’ll see more than you hoped.”

Ned shook his head and the names continued to be announced, the next round of bouts beginning shortly after.

Lyanna was growing impatient from the nervousness she felt. Brandon and Ned would be competing soon, as would Jon.

She wasn’t truly worried for them, not Brandon at least. He’d been under Jon’s tutelage since he’d arrived, but Ned had been in the Vale and had missed out on much.

Nonetheless, she would be cheering for him still, even more so if he was pit against Robert Baratheon, or perhaps Jon would be.

The very thought brought a grin to her lips.

Ashara

She’d watched as Arthur had won his first preliminary round with ease and even as two of the Stark brothers had taken to the field, the eldest emerging victorious in his own efforts.

Oberyn too had qualified for the second round, but Jon Snow had yet to be selected.

With the day wearing on, Whent approached the Queen for what was expected to be the final time before night would be upon them, offering her the bag in which the names had been placed.

“JORAH MORMONT OF BEAR ISLAND!” Whent announced.

Drawing another name, Rhaella handed the slip of parchment to the host.

“LORD YOHN ROYCE OF RUNESTONE.”

“SER ARMORY LORCH OF HOUSE LORCH.”

“JON SNOW OF WINTERFELL!”

At his name being announced, there was a loud cheer from the Northerners and even from those not of the kingdom. Jon had indeed made an impression on many, though none more than Ashara, who watched as he approached the designated area.

“He’ll be fine,” Elia said comfortingly.

“It is the others you should worry for,” Oberyn quipped.

Ashara glared at him, turning sharply when the final name of the bout was announced.

“SER GEROLD HIGHTOWER OF THE KINGSGUARD!”

Ser Gerold was a celebrated warrior of note and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, with good reason. He was a fierce fighter and would not hold back in the pursuit of victory.

Ashara watched the man place his helm upon his head and draw his sword before he approached the others, most of whom were troubled by his inclusion.

Jon, however, seemed almost unmoved, almost anticipating testing himself against the man.

Ashara’s concern only increased, and she couldn’t decide whether she could watch what was coming unfold.

“Now we will see what he is made of,” Oberyn commented interestedly, leaning forward in his own chair. “I say fifty gold dragons that Gerold wins. Any takers?”

Silence met his offer, though only briefly.

“I’ll take your bet, Prince Oberyn,” Rhaegar declared. “Albeit for me to wager against one of my own men, but I say Jon Snow wins. Let’s make it interesting and say one hundred gold dragons.”

“Do you really think he will win?” Elia asked.

Rhaegar shrugged.

“If he does, It will shut your brother up,” he replied amusedly.

Ashara said nothing, choosing to watch as each man took their position on the field, her heart fluttering as the signal for them to begin was given.

Jon

The moment the bout began, Jon was set upon by a Frey man, who evidently was displeased by what had happened to one of his kin the previous day. He charged, unleashing a roar of fury as he swung his blade, only to miss as Jon stepped aside, felling the man with a blow from the pommel of his sword to the jaw.

Frey did not move, and Jon shifted his focus to a pair of men from the Crownlands he’d never heard of as they decided to work together against him.

Neither was untrained in their weapon of choice. One wielded a great sword and the other a cudgel adorned with spikes. Both proved, however, to be singled-minded, choosing to swing at him wildly with their weapons instead of formulating a strategy.

Ultimately, the man with the cudgel found one of his blows deflected, and the other with the sword was not quick enough to avoid having a spike impaled through his cheek.

Using the distraction to his advantage, Jon disarmed the cudgel-bearer by shouldering him to the ground.

Wisely, he yielded immediately, not wishing to suffer further injury; thus, Jon was granted a reprieve, albeit a brief one.

He caught sight of Jorah Mormont facing off with Ser Gerold whilst the other competitors were looking to eliminate one another, none seemingly keen to approach him, though that changed as the man in bronze armour dispatched of his foe and realised Jon was without competition.

Yohn Royce.

The man was a known warrior, popular and respected in the Vale, but a traditional swordsman to the very core. His form would be impeccable, but his strikes and defences predictable.

There was no individuality to the way Royce fought, but that did not mean it would be easy. He was adaptable, and his movement gave him an edge over most.

“Eddard has been singing your praises since he returned,” Royce called as he approached. “I would see if his song rings true, Jon Snow.”

Jon complied with a nod, raising his sword, and preparing himself to face off with Yohn Royce.

Eddard

“Well, Jon facing your mentor will be interesting,” Brandon commented.

Ned nodded, unable to take his eyes off the two men.

Much of his martial training had come courtesy of Lord Royce. Although he’d been fostered with Jon Arryn, the man was not much of a warrior in his advancing years.

Ned and Robert had spent moons at Runestone under the tutelage of Bronze Yohn, and he found himself torn on who he wished to emerge victorious.

On the one hand, he had a man he had come to respect greatly and had welcomed Ned into his home. On the other was Jon, who guarded Lyanna with his life and someone Ned had come to admire since he’d arrived in Winterfell.

In the short time he’d spent with Jon Snow, the man had taught him much, and if he were honest with himself, the better, stronger, and faster fighter.

Yohn would give no quarter, but Ned knew in his heart of hearts his efforts would be in vain.

Still, he looked on in a mixture of nervousness and eagerness as their blades met for the first time, and Lord Royce staggered backwards from the force, experiencing the strength Jon possessed.

Yohn nodded, and undeterred, he struck again.

Each of his blows were parried, even those he intended to set up another fell short as Jon danced out of range and began probing the Valeman’s defences.

At first, Yohn managed to fend him off, but as Jon’s offerings became faster and more varied, he struggled to keep up. In truth, Lord Royce was rather easily outclassed by Jon, much to the surprise of the crowd.

He’d showcased some of the skill he possessed the day before, but now, they were getting an insight into just how capable the Northern bastard was.

If Bronze Yohn Royce, a swordsman of repute couldn’t present much of a challenge, it spoke volumes of just how good Jon truly was.

Ned had known he was exceptional and had faced the man dozens of times in the training yard of Winterfell, but seeing him here facing a real test was something else entirely.

“I bet that hurt,” Lyanna murmured as Royce was sent skidding in the dirt once Jon had broken through his guard with a combination of strikes the man could not prevent.

Ned nodded as Jon helped the fallen Royce to his feet. They shook hands respectfully and the former turned his attention to the few remaining fighters whilst Royce left the field to a polite round of applause.

Despite his loss, he seemed to be in good spirits, enough to wave to the crowd, at least.

“I think I might double my bet on Jon,” Brandon snorted.

“I think I might join you,” Ned replied.

Ashara

“Now that was interesting,” Arthur declared thoughtfully.

Both Rhaegar and Oberyn nodded their agreement, but what they seemed to observe was lost on Ashara. She wouldn’t profess to be knowledgeable in the art of fighting beyond watching the melee at tourney past tourneys.

“How so?” Rhaella asked interestedly, her eyes remaining on the bout.

“Think of how the other Northerners have fought,” Arthur urged. “They attempt to simply overwhelm their opponents with that brutality they are known for. They do not lack finesse or ability, but their style is more suited to fighting as though they were in a battle. They will swing and move until they exhaust themselves, or they come against an opponent who is as bold as them. Both Starks did it in their fight, as did Umber. I can’t think of many that would be able to sustain a defence against him.”

“What did Jon do differently?” Ashara pressed.

“He fought smart,” Oberyn answered. “With Frey and the others, he knew what to expect, but with Royce, he took the time to read the man, to watch how he moves and he found a hole he could exploit. When he did, that was when he adopted that Northern brutality, but he did so in a controlled manner, as though he was a Southerner. It makes for an interesting style.”

“It does,” Arthur agreed. “He’s a natural fighter with good instincts to boot. He will be a problem with his speed and how strong he seems to be. Royce is considerably bigger than him and Snow overpowered him.”

“He is exceptional,” Rhaegar murmured. “How do you think you will fare against him, Arthur?”

“Let us see how he does against Gerold,” the man replied.

In the meantime, Jon had disposed of Armory Lorch, who had attempted to attack him from behind, and Jorah Mormont had been soundly beaten by Gerold, leaving only two competitors remaining.

The crowd fell silent as Jon and Gerold circled one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

It was the latter who lost his patience first and swung a fast combo to test Jon’s defences. Each strike was parried, and the Kingsguard found himself on the receiving end of a rebuttal, their swords singing as they crashed together time and again.

What became clear was that Jon was much faster, and Gerold found himself on the defensive, using his years of experience to deflect Jon’s blade, though it came at him only quicker each time he did.

Gerold, however, was not the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for nothing. Surging forward suddenly, he shouldered Jon backwards to create some space between them, and his own blade followed in a cleaving motion.

Instead of attempting to block it, Jon stepped out of the path of the sword and swung his own, catching the White Bull on the thigh with an audible thud.

Gerold staggered but managed to find his footing, though he was favouring the leg that had been struck. He acknowledged it with a nod before the two continued.

“I think Jon has him where he wants him,” Rhaegar observed. “He’s moving to make Gerold put weight on that leg.”

Arthur hummed as he leaned forward.

“His footwork is brilliant.”

He winced as Jon surged forward this time having parried a laboured swing from Gerold. The Kingsguard had not been prepared for it, and as their blades locked together, he was thrown backwards.

Jon’s sword was pointed at his neck, and the hand clutching his sword pressed into the dirt by Jon’s boot.

“I yield,” Gerold declared disappointedly, though he accepted the hand Jon offered and allowed himself to be helped to his feet.

Whatever words the two men exchanged would remain unheard as the crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers.

Ashara breathed a sigh of relief as Gerold hobbled back towards them, assisted by Jon, who was carrying the man’s sword.

“Well fought, Gerold,” Rhaegar praised, clapping him smartly on the shoulder. “And you too, Jon.”

He offered Rhaegar a respectful bow.

“I think maybe the favour I’m wearing brought me some luck,” he replied with a smile, his gaze flitting towards Ashara.

With another bow towards Rhaella and Elia, he was gone, and Ashara watched his retreating form.

“Either you’re getting too old, or Snow is good,” Arthur teased Gerold.

“He’s good,” Gerold sighed tiredly. “I don’t think I’ve fought a man with such strength. I felt both feet leave the floor as he threw me to the ground. Watch him, Arthur. I expect he will give even you a tough fight.”

Arthur merely nodded in response, seemingly anticipating the challenge.

“My Queen, you have my apologies for interrupting you.”

Lord Whent had arrived during the interim, his expression rather troubled.

“Are we not done for the day, my lord?” Rhaella asked him.

“We are,” Whent assured her, “but some rather unpleasant news has been brought to my attention. Only a few miles away from me, a group of men seem to have been attacked and killed by bandits. Petr Baelish, the Lord of the Fingers, was amongst them.”

“The Fingers is a minor house in the Vale,” Rhaegar explained. “Why would he set up camp such a short distance away from here?”

“I am unsure, your grace, but I have my very best men looking into the matter.”

“For what good it will do,” Oberyn snorted. “If it were bandits that killed him, they wouldn’t have stayed to be arrested. They’ll be long gone.”

Rhaegar released a deep sigh.

“Regardless, I am doubling the guard until further notice. Ser Gerold, when you have rested, join Barristan and watch over my father. Mother, you are welcome to stay with us. Arthur will remain at his post, and I will send for Lewyn and Oswald.”

“I will go at once, your grace,” Gerold replied, hobbling slightly on his injured leg.

Rhaegar nodded gratefully.

“My father needs to decide who he wishes to fill the seventh place on the Kingsguard,” Rhaegar grumbled. “Where is Rhaenys?”

“With the nurse,” Elia answered. “Jonothor is with her.”

“Have her brought to us, Arthur,” Rhaegar instructed. “Ash, I think it is best if you stay too.”

Ashara nodded, though she was still watching the retreating form of Jon Snow.

Howland

The white wolf bleeding in the snow, whimpering until it transformed into a white dragon with mismatched eyes of grey and purple…

The figure somehow made of both ice and fire fighting a never-ending swarm of shadowy figures until they coalesced as one, and the two continued a perpetual duel…

Howland had not been able to make sense of the dreams that had been plaguing him of late. They taunted him so, and the gravelly whispers on the wind that followed brought him no clarity.

‘He is the song of ice and fire… the light in the darkest night… the eye of the blind… the sword and shield of men…’

He had ventured so far south to be closer to the gods he held so dear to his heart, to seek answers to the questions he needed answering.

The gods, however, remained stubbornly silent.

Howland had intended to return to Greywater Watch to see what the dreams could mean, and then he had met Jon Snow.

The man had come to his aide when he’d needed him. Jon Snow travelled with the very same wolf he’d seen mortally wounded.

Jon Snow.

Howland had watched him closely, had seen how he inspired the men around him despite being baseborn and of no station. They flocked to him, respected him, and Howland wondered if this was the man those ominous voices spoke of.

Jon Snow was a warrior, of that he was in no doubt, but was he truly the sword and shield of men?

What did such a statement even mean?

Howland did not know, but he could not deny there was something rather spectacular about Jon, something almost otherworldly, which made little sense to the Crannogman.

He looked on as the Northerners heaped their praise on Jon, and how he accepted it so humbly.

A warrior to the very core, but was there truly more to the man?

Jon

He woke with a start, his breathing shallow, and he swallowed deeply at the dream he’d had. He’d been dancing with Daenerys in the quarters they'd shared at Winterfell.

There was no music, yet Jon spun her, nonetheless. She’d laughed joyfully, the sound of it all the music he’d needed.

And then it was cold.

He’d grown used to being warm again, and even the coldest days in the North could not compare to the moons he’d endured as he’d wandered across much of the Seven Kingdoms in the wake of the fall of man.

It was back, and Daenerys’s eyes faded from the hue of purple to the icy blue of the dead as he held her in his arms.

“It’s so cold,” she shivered.

“It is,” Jon agreed sadly. “It’s been cold for too long in here,” he added, gesturing around himself.

Daenerys nodded.

He didn’t need to explain the undercurrent of the words he spoke. She’d always known what he meant, even when he didn’t always say it so well.

His thoughts and dreams had been cold and lonely without her, even if the days somehow became easier.

“Only you can change it, Jon.”

“How?”

She smiled at him brightly.

“Sometimes it’s just as simple as lighting a fire.”

“And when it’s not?”

“You have to move. You taught me that,” she said warmly.

“Move?”

“I think you know what I mean.”

Her eyes changed back to the purple that had become so familiar to him in their most intimate moments, and she walkedtowards the fireplace, offering him a teary smile before she stepped into it.

Daenerys was engulfed in flames, and then, she was gone.

“Are you okay?”

It was Lyanna’s voice that pulled him from his thoughts.

Jon nodded.

“I am,” he assured her, and he meant it.

Whatever the dream had been, albeit bittersweet, had left him with a semblance of the warmth he’d once enjoyed, and though he was loath to let go of it, Jon knew in his heart that it was no longer real.

It was a mere facsimile of a life he no longer lived, of a world that was not his.

Where he’d come from, only the dead roamed the lands, but here, he was amongst the living, and Jon Snow was not dead yet, even if it often felt so.

“Well, they’re now going to announce the next rounds,” Lyanna informed.

“Seven Hells,” Jon cursed as he shot out of bed. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I have Ghost with me,” Lyanna pointed out, “and I thought you could use the rest. Come on.”

He hurriedly dressed, not bothering to tie his hair, and followed her to where the rest of the Northerners were waiting by the three areas set aside for the preliminary rounds of the melee.

“Have a good night, Jon?” the Greatjon asked with a grin.

Jon ignored him, his gaze drifting towards Lord Whent who was offering the sack of names he carried to the King, who was in attendance today.

“OUR FIRST COMPETITOR OF THE SECOND ROUND IS SER BRYNDEN TULLY!” Whent announced.

Jon clapped politely for the Blackfish.

Despite his misgivings towards the rest of the family, he liked the man well enough.

“OUR SECOND COMPETITOR IS SER ADDAM MARBRAND OF THE WESTERLANDS.”

Several other names that Jon did not recognise were called, but each man had won their first rounds, so there were no slouches with their blades.

“OUR EIGHTH COMPETITOR IS JON SNOW OF WINTERFELL!”

He’d hoped to compete later in the day having been one of the last on the field the evening before. Still, with a nod towards the crowd that were cheering for him, he took his place on the field.

“OUR NINTH COMPETITOR IS PRINCE OBERYN MARTELL OF DORNE.”

Once more, crowd cheered for the spear-wielding Oberyn, and the man offered Jon a hungry grin as he approached.

“I have been looking forward to testing my spear against you. Jon Snow.”

“I think you’ll find, Prince Oberyn, that it isn’t something to look forward to,” Jon replied with a grin.

Oberyn laughed as he nodded and stood boldly next to him.

“Do not worry, I expect will be the last two standing. We will have our fight.”

“Not first?”

“Why risk anyone intervening?” Oberyn asked. “I’m just enjoying seeing Ashara squirm and glare at me.”

The woman was indeed glaring at the man and Jon chuckled.

“You’ll be in trouble.”

“I will be,” Oberyn agreed, “but it is nothing new to me. I have been in trouble with Lady Dayne from the very first day we met. I was eight, and she was six and did not appreciate being chased with a snake I found in the Watergardens.”

Jon snorted amusedly.

“She is quite smitten with you, Jon Snow. I have never seen her so with anyone.”

Jon merely nodded as he looked towards the woman once more.

She was concerned, but her expression shifted to one of outright worry when the name of the final competitor was announced.

“SER GREGOR CLEGANE OF CLEGANE’S KEEP!”

Jon’s expression darkened.

He’d not forgotten what the man was capable of, what had been done to his siblings when the Lannister army had sacked King’s Landing.

Lorch had left the field the previous day with a broken hand, at the very least. The Mountain would be fortunate to leave with his life if Jon had anything to do with it.