TSOTWR - Chapter XI (Copy)

Chapter XI

Oberyn

“They say he can crush a man’s skull with his bare hands,” Oberyn commented, his gaze shifting towards Jon Snow.

The man did not even flinch, his eyes flashing dangerously, following The Mountain as he stepped onto the field.

Oberyn nodded appreciatively.

Either Jon Snow was stupid for not fearing the behemoth, or he felt no reason to.

“Marbrand will stick with him,” Snow murmured. “They’re going to try to clear the field, and then I expect Marbrand will take a fast but honourable defeat.”

“I think you are right. Tywin Lannister will not want them to kill one another. Both are too valuable to him, but Clegane will not care. Marbrand knows this. He will take a respectable second.”

“That’s what I said.”

“But it sounds better in my voice.”

Snow smirked amusedly.

“So, which one do you want?”

“I see you are already eyeing Clegane like he pissed in your ale.”

“You want him to weaken me before I face you.”

“Perhaps that would be to my benefit, but no, I want you at your best, Jon Snow. If you believe you can handle The Mountain, who am I to deny you?”

“Could you?”

“My spear would give him a gentle kiss beneath his helm that he would not remember.”

“Aye, I don’t doubt that, but it will not taste my lips, Prince Oberyn.”

“I expect Lady Ashara would be most displeased,” Oberyn chuckled. “I can see why she likes you. That broody and smouldering look you have has turned many heads, especially hers. I would only ask that you be respectful of her. She is like a sister to me, and to us Dornish, family is everything.”

“Aye, as it is in the North,” Jon returned.

Oberyn nodded.

“I wish you luck, Jon Snow.”

“And to you, Prince Oberyn,” Jon replied as he drew his sword.

It truly was a magnificent blade, and Oberyn admired it until the signal to begin was given.

Foolishly, two of the other competitors charged towards Clegane, who felled them with a single blow.

Undeterred, Jon Snow began making his way towards The Mountain, and Oberyn could only shake his head.

Snow did not fear Clegane.

Not once during their talk had his gaze wandered, nor did his voice tremble. He remained as seemingly stoic as ever, and Oberyn was curious to see how he would choose to fight such a monster of a man.

Brandon

“Seven Hells, look at the size of that big fucker,” Brandon scoffed at the sight of Gregor Clegane. “He makes you look small, Jon.”

“Aye, he’s a big cunt,” the Greatjon agreed.

“He’s fast too,” Robert broke in, “and an animal. Rumour has it he killed his own parents and little sister. He has a brother, Sandor. He’s a fucking monster too. From what I heard, Gregor rammed his head into a lit fire. Half his face and head are burnt.”

“By the Gods,” Brandon muttered as he watched the melee begin, wincing as Clegane took down two men with ease, both remaining on the floor and unmoving.

“Are they dead?” Ned asked.

“Could be,” Brandon murmured.

“Snow is a mad cunt,” the Greatjon guffawed, pointing to the figure stalking towards Clegane. “GO ON, SNOW! SHOW THAT BIG FUCKER HOW WE DO IT IN THE NORTH!”

The rest of the Northern retinue cheered, and Brandon looked on in trepidation.

He did not doubt Jon’s ability, but how could anyone prepare for someone as big as Clegane?

Ashara

“Now, this will be interesting,” Arthur declared, his eyes alight in anticipation.

Ashara was not so keen on witnessing the fight she was about to see, nor was Elia, judging by her look of concern.

“He’s got a pair, I’ll give him that,” Rhaegar sighed. “Let’s see if it proves to be foolish.”

The King grinned almost maniacally, and Viserys wore a similar expression. The Queen, however, was pensive, her eyes lined with no small amount of concern.

The rumours about Gregor Clegane that had made their way around the Seven Kingdoms were not flattering, and more than one person had petitioned for Aerys to punish The Mountain.

He had paid them no heed, and this was why.

Both were cruel men, and one was going to provide entertainment for the other.

Ashara looked towards the Northerners as Jon Umber bellowed his support, followed by the rest.

Somehow, it brought Ashara a sense of reassurance that Jon would be okay, but as he drew ever closer towards Clegane, the difference in size could not be ignored.

“I don’t expect Oberyn discouraged him,” Arthur snorted.

“I expect not,” Gerold replied. “What say you, Barristan?”

“I only saw the man fight the weaker knights,” the Lord Commander returned, “but if he did indeed defeat you, Ser Gerold, I am watching him closely. How is your leg?”

“Fine,” Gerold grumbled, still favouring his injured limb.

“You think he would be a good candidate to join you?” Rhaegar questioned.

“Perhaps.”

Ashara felt her heart sink at the thought of Jon becoming a Kingsguard, and a part of her believed Barristan would do it out of spite because she’d rejected him.

Would he be so petty?

“I cannot see him breaking his vow to the Starks,” Arthur broke in. “He is a Northerner, and their word is their bond.”

“Do you believe he would deny the King if he were asked?” Barristan questioned.

Rhaegar shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

If Aerys were to offer Jon a position, and he refused, it would make for a very tense affair.

That would not be good for any involved.

The Northerners would not allow it if Jon refused, and that could provoke a rather volatile situation.

Still, what could be done?

Aerys would do as he wished, as he always had, and he would not care for the consequences.

For now, however, Jon had to survive the monumental task in front of him, and Ashara grimaced as the two blades met, the roar of Gregor Clegane echoing across the landscape of Harrenal.

Jon

His arm jarred as their blades met, the force from Clegane sending a shockwave to the very tips of his toes. Jon knew he would not overpower this man, and though he was undoubtedly faster, The Mountain’s speed belied his size.

No, physically, it would be foolish even to attempt to match him, but Jon believed he was the better swordsman by far and certainly more intelligent.

Stepping aside from a cleaving blow, he aimed his own, catching Clegane on the shoulder, though it barely dented the thick, heavy plate armour he wore.

Hacking through such dense metal would not be easy, so he quickly realised he would have to work to access the weaker areas of the joints. The hinges would give, but first, he knew he needed to slow the enormous man down.

With Clegane being more than two feet taller and at least double Jon’s width, getting on the inside would be difficult enough, and getting closer would also leave him vulnerable.

He did not doubt Oberyn’s assessment that The Mountain could indeed crush a man’s skull with his bare hands.

Still, Clegane swung with his oversized longsword with one hand and held onto the shield in the other.

If Jon wanted to seize an advantage, he would have to find one for himself, which meant doing something that Clegane would not expect.

Noticing the layer of the morning dew, he nodded to himself as he ducked beneath another swing from his foe and readied himself.

Taking a few steps backwards, he suddenly charged forward, sliding below Clegane’s next attack and raising his foot.

The man grunted in pain as Jon’s heel was buried into his unprotected groin, and roared in a mixture of agony and fury as the dagger was jammed between the steel plates at the back of his knee.

Jon rolled away, cursing as Clegane's own blade missed him by mere inches, eliciting a gasp from the crowd.

Nonetheless, the risk had been worth it as The Mountain hobbled towards him, intent on cutting Jon in two.

Now, it was a matter of time before he tired from the blood loss or even pass out.

Regardless, his leg would never be the same after such a wound and would leave him with a painful limp at the very least. The blood was already flowing freely, leaving atrial behind Clegane as he hobbled forward, his fury clouding his judgement.

He would be best to bow out to preserve the leg as best he could or wait for Jon to attack. Ploughing forward as he’d decided to do would only exacerbate the wound and play into Jon’s hands.

As such, his attempts to strike him down became laboured, his technique lacking, which allowed Jon to counter at every turn, and blow after blow littered The Mountain’s armour with dents.

Still, the man staggered forward until Jon unleashed a roar of his own, moving away from another wild as he clubbed Clegane on the back of the head, knocking him off balance and sending his helm tumbling.

The cheer of the crowd was lost in the below that followed from the fallen man when Jon stepped on the hilt of the blade still protruding from the back of his leg, bringing The Mountain to his knees.

Jaime

“Unbelievable,” Jaime whispered as he took in the scene before him.

He’d never seen Clegane bested by any. His father had not allowed him to test himself against the might of The Mountain, and it was not an issue that Jaime had pressed.

The man was infamous across the Seven Kingdoms for his brutality, even in the melees he was allowed to enter. With good reason, many Lords had banned him from competing in the various tourneys that were held every year.

“The bastard is going to kill him!” Cersei hissed as Snow lifted his sword to take Clegane’s head.

“No, he isn’t,” Kevan broke in, stepping forward as he waved a Lannister flag. “SER GREGOR WITHDRAWS!” he announced.

His words were met with boos of displeasure from the crowd, but it was necessary.

Tywin Lannister would be furious if Clegane were killed.

Jaime heard the sound of the crowd; however, his attention was solely on Jon Snow, who looked towards Kevan with utter disdain.

With a shake of his head, he kicked Ser Gregor in the back, sending the man sprawling before walking towards the only other competitor remaining in the melee.

Oberyn Martell had all but toyed with Addam Marbrand before knocking him unconscious with a blow from his spear.

Now, it was down to Martell and Snow, and Jaime was keen to see this bout unfold.

He looked on as Gregor refused to be helped off the field, going as far as to punch one of the men attempting to assist him.

He would be unapproachable for days, and Jaime would urge Jon Snow to sleep with one eye open. Gregor was not beyond throttling the man in his sleep, though maybe even the Mountain would not be foolish enough to try it with that wolf guarding Snow.

Ashara

Other than the King, who was scowling at Kevan Lannister for withdrawing Clegane, the group had been silenced by what they had witnessed, and Ashara allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief, though that was short-lived as she realised who remained on the field.

“He fought him perfectly,” Arthur commented. “Jon Snow simply outclassed Clegane.”

Rhaegar nodded, as did Ser Gerold.

“You would think him a seasoned warrior,” the latter murmured. “when I faced him, he never stopped analysing what I was doing, and you all saw what happened.”

“His form is flawless,” Barristan added, “and his speed is quite something.”

The Lord Commander was watching Jon very closely, and Ashara felt another wave of panic wash over her.

“But we will see how he fares against someone as crafty and skilled as Prince Oberyn,” Barristan added, leaning forward slightly as the two men began to circle one another.

They seemed to exchange a few words, and Oberyn brought his spear to bear, twirling in a display of showmanship, as was the Dornish way.

Would Jon know how to combat a Dornish spear?”

Ashara could not see how, but he seemed as relaxed as ever as he followed the Prince of her lands.

Jon

There was no denying that Oberyn had spent years perfecting his ability with a spear. As the man twirled and spun the blade in an intricate fashion, he was impressed with his skill.

The Dornish, he’d learned, had a flair for the theatrics, and Jon doubted that there was another in the Seven Kingdoms as proficient as the Prince of Dorne.

He nodded appreciatively as Oberyn posed for the crowd, eliciting a cheer of approval, though his thoughts briefly drifted to an evening he’d shared with Tyrion Lannister and Greyworm so many moons prior.

Flashback

“You are impressive with your spear, Greyworm,” Tyrion praised as Jon and the commander of the Unsullied had finished a particularly vicious spar. “I only wish you could have met Prince Oberyn. I expect you would have appreciated his skill more than any other.”

“Oberyn Martell?” Jon asked, taking a sip of water.

“I owe him my life,” Tyrion sighed. “If only he had not felt the need to secure a confession. I expect he would be sitting among us now. He defeated The Mountain and did so with ease.”

“Clegane?” Jon growled.

“Indeed,” Tyrion confirmed darkly. “The Mountain that rides, well, not anymore. He met his match in the form of the Red Viper.”

“Dornish do too much with spear,” Greyworm broke in. “It is all for show.”

“But it is effective,” Tyrion pointed out.

Greyworm nodded as he returned to the centre of the training yard and began twirling his spear, turning with it in a rather confusing display.

“Attacks stay the same, always,” Greyworm explained, demonstrating thrusts, and sweeping movements. “Dornish hide attacks, but they stay the same as this.”

He demonstrated the same attacks without the flourishing movements, and Jon quickly found the similarity. The attacks were indeed the same, just hidden until a movement was made so that the wielder was in the correct position to unleash it.

He’d studied the stances and attacks of spearmen throughout his life and training with Greyworm as diligently as he did, Jon had gained the experience of facing off with the very best of them.

End Flashback

He watched as Oberyn went through the motions of slowly closing the distance between them in order to strike, much like the moniker that had been bestowed upon him.

Inch by inch, he eased himself closer, disguising his intention through the martial dance. Had Jon not learned what he had from Greyworm, he knew it was likely he would have been caught out by the tactic, but as each blade of grass that separated them became fewer, he knew the blow would come.

It was as Oberyn widened his stance slightly that Jon moved, and though the very edge of Oberyn’s spear grazed his cheek from the sheer speed it came, he caught the middle of his shaft in his hand.

Without hesitation, he used the man’s own momentum against him, pulling him forward as he used his blade to break the spear in two.

Oberyn staggered and was caught by Jon, who hurled him over his shoulder.

The Prince of Dorne thudded to the ground with the wind knocked out of him, his expression one of shock as he found a heel pressed into his chest and the point of a sword between his eyes.

For a moment, he simply stared, catching his breath as he processed what had happened, and much to Jon’s surprise, he laughed as he held up two fingers.

“Today, I yield to you, Jon Snow,” he conceded. “Next time, it will not be so easy.”

Jon nodded as he returned his blade to its scabbard and offered the Prince a hand.

“You still got me,” he pointed out, feeling the blood running slowly down his cheek.

“It is just a scratch,” Oberyn returned. “It will heal much sooner than my pride.”

Jon chuckled, and Oberyn raised his hand, offering him a bow before he made his way towards the royal box, where he received a polite round of applause.

With the fight over, Jon returned to the Northerners to his own hail of cheering and was quickly set upon by one of the Maesters to tend to his cut.

“Any deeper, and it would have needed stitches,” the man explained. “Consider yourself fortunate.”

Without another word, he left, and Jon accepted a skin of water from Ned.

“You did it, you’re in the melee!” the man exclaimed.

“Aye, I should have just taken a dive,” Jon chuckled.

“Not with the amount of gold we’ve got on you,” Brandon snorted.

Jon could only shake his head.

He would sooner do without the competing, but he could not deny that he was enjoying himself, and garnering as much attention as he would leave him in good standing with the people who mattered.

At the forefront of his mind was the war that was coming, and even if it meant he had to make a spectacle of himself to gain the required support, he would do just that.

Ashara

She was rather in awe at what she had witnessed. Not only had Jon defeated Clegane, but he had also beaten Oberyn in a bout she would have expected to last several minutes, not mere seconds.

Oberyn did not seem to be disappointed as he returned to them, however. His smile did not waver as he picked up his cup of wine and took a sip before sitting down.

“He got you,” Rhaegar commented.

Oberyn nodded.

“He knew what was coming. Only a man who knew what to expect could have stopped it. He refused to fall into the trap of attacking me and caught me off guard. It will not happen again. What he did to Clegane was more impressive.”

“It was,” Rhaegar agreed. “I suppose you encouraged that?”

Oberyn shook his head.

“He wanted the fight,” he explained. “I would have only been too happy to face him, but Jon Snow wanted it more than me.”

“You won’t find many willing to cross blades with him,” Barristan broke in. “What he lacks in skill, Clegane more than makes up for it with his size and brutality.”

“And yet, he was defeated rather soundly by a man who would have removed his head had Kevan Lannister not intervened.”

“The world would be a better place without him,” Ser Gerold interjected. “Why you knighted him, I will never know,” he added to Rhaegar.”

“It was a request from the Hand of the King,” Rhaegar pointed out. “He and my father were close, and I saw no reason to deny Tywin.”

“Well, he may have the title, but the man is no knight,” Barristan declared.

Ashara nodded her agreement, relaxing now that Jon’s melee was over, for today at least.

“I have never felt strength like it,” Oberyn murmured. “He threw me to the ground as though I were a babe. Even Areo would struggle to do that to me.”

Areo Hotah dwarfed Oberyn by around half a foot, and he, in turn, was taller than Jon by a couple of inches.

“I felt his strength,” Ser Gerold murmured, “and saw it for myself when he faced the other knights. It was certainly notable and surprising.”

“He’s a dedicated warrior,” Rhaegar reminded them. “I expect he partakes in all aspects of martial training.”

Ashara had not experienced his strength, but she had felt his coiled muscles when she’d danced with him. He was sturdy, his arms barely flexing as he’d led her around the floor.

“Is that who we believe is going to win the melee?” Ser Gerold asked.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Arthur snorted.

“Well, that is a fight I look forward to seeing if the two of you meet on the field.”

Once more, Ashara felt her stomach sink.

Arthur did not wield a spear like Oberyn, and his reputation for being the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms was not for nothing. She had grown up watching how dedicated he was to his craft, and any fight between him and Jon would certainly be one that was spoken of for years to come.

Rhaella

She had applauded along with the others and listened to the various summaries of Jon Snow’s performance. Again, the young man had impressed by defeating Clegane and Oberyn Martell, both known for their prowess with their chosen weapons.

Still, Rhaella could not ignore the niggling feeling that there was something about the Northerner she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

It wasn’t just one thing about him that was so familiar.

His unguarded smile, the way he wielded his blade, and even his walk, all and so much more, were reminiscent of people she had crossed paths with throughout her life.

As a precaution, she had sent a raven to Maester Aemon, though she was certain of the reply she’d receive.

The man had taken a vow of chastity upon joining the Night’s Watch, and if there were any she’d ever met, Aemon would be the last to break his word.

Nonetheless, Rhaella needed to be certain, needed to read it in the man’s own words.

“Your Grace,” Lord Whent greeted her, pulling her from her musings. “My men have concluded their investigation into what happened to Lord Baelish.”

“And what did they find?” Rhaella asked curiously.

The others had fallen silent to hear what the host of the tourney had to say.

“There is nothing to suggest that it was anything more than a bandit attack, your grace,” Whent explained.

Rhaella nodded.

“Thank you, Lord Whent. You may proceed.”

He offered her a bow before approaching the king for her husband to draw the names of those to compete in the next bout, though Rhaella doubted it would hold as much excitement as the last.

Not for her, at least.

Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the intrusive thoughts that were plaguing her, and she was, if nothing else, a determined woman.

She would get to the bottom of what was so intriguing about Jon Snow. Even if she had to drag it out of the man herself.

Jon

With his wound cleaned, Jon made his excuses to simply go for a walk to clear his head, leaving Lyanna with Ghost. He’d heard tales of Harrenhal from when he was a boy, stories of the great tourney held by Lord Whent, but to live it was something else entirely.

Being in the North again without it having been run over by the dead had taken some getting used to, and in truth, he often felt he was experiencing a very lucid dream.

Putting faces to names he’d only heard mentioned below the Neck only made it all the stranger for him, and reacquainting with some he had met was rather overwhelming.

He needed a rare moment to himself to digest all he’d experienced since arriving, but it appeared that some people had other ideas.

His dagger was at the throat of the person who had pulled him behind a tent the moment he’d felt the delicate fingers wrap around his wrist, and he found himself meeting the green-eyed gaze of a woman he’d once come to despise.

“Lady Lannister,” he greeted Cersei, revelling in the knowledge that she would never be the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

He’d already decided he’d kill her before he allowed it to happen, but if she was to remain in the Westerlands and keep her unpleasantness there, that was fine by Jon.

Besides, the death of his only daughter would cause considerable uproar with Tywin, and the man had the means at his disposal to make life difficult for all.

“So, you know who I am.”

“Of course. Even in the North, your beauty is spoken of.”

He’d opted for flattery instead of attempting to intimidate someone who would not take kindly to such an approach. Cersei was as cunning and cruel as they came, and Jon would rather not spend his remaining time here needing to watch his step any more than necessary.

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

Despite Jon’s disgust of the woman he’d known, her beauty could not be denied when she wasn’t scowling, raving, or making threats.

“Now that I have seen you up close, I can see why you have attracted interest for yourself. You are rather comely for a bastard.”

If she expected the term to anger Jon, she was sorely mistaken, and she even pouted slightly when he didn’t rise to the bait.

“That means much coming from a lady such as yourself, but I am curious why it is you have sought me out.”

“What you did to Clegane, my father will be furious. He is not a forgiving man,” she whispered into his ear, her warm breath making Jon fight the urge to shudder.

“I did nothing more to Clegane than he would have done to me if the roles were reversed,” he pointed out politely. “Of course, if I have offended you, then you have my apology, my lady. Things can get heated in the moment, and it was not my intention to offend.”

Cersei nodded and offered him a smile.

“I will ensure my father knows that you offered a sincere apology, but it might not be enough,” she sighed. “But I am his daughter, and he will listen if I were to plead your case.”

“And why would you do that, my lady?”

Cersei hummed.

“I’m sure there is something you could do for me in return, Jon Snow,” she replied demurely. “I’m sure a man like you has many…skills other than with your sword.”

Jon snorted amusedly as Cersei smiled.

“Maybe I will seek you out, Jon Snow. When time permits, and there are fewer people around.”

With that, she stepped past him, and Jon swallowed deeply.

He hoped she wouldn’t, and Jon did not wish to consider the possibility that she would.

Shaking his head, he followed in her wake, lost in thought when he walked into something large and solid.

“That’s a fancy fucking sword you’ve got,” Sandor Clegane growled.

“It serves me well enough,” Jon replied.

The man grunted as he leaned forward, his burnt visage only an inch or so away from Jon’s.

“My brother’s head is mine to take. Don’t forget that, bastard.”

“It’s all yours,” Jon said with a shrug, “but I could’ve saved you the trouble. That’s a big head to take.”

“Not for my sword,” Sandor growled. “Now, get out of my way.”

He shoved his way past Jon, who had become rather familiar with how to irritate the man.

He’d seen Tormund do it enough times, the two having struck up the oddest friendship he’d ever seen.

“What, no offer of a drink?” he called.

“Fuck off!” Sandor barked simply, eliciting a smirk from Jon.

Some of the familiar things he came across were reminders of more pleasant memories for him, and Clegane’s brash attitude was one of them.

“You’re certainly making some enemies.”

“I suppose I have a way of doing that, Lady Dayne,” Jon sighed.

“How’s the wound?”

“Shallow,” Jon assured her.

“Even a shallow wound from Oberyn can be fatal,” she warned. “They do not call him the Red Viper for nothing.”

She took a moment to check the cut for herself before nodding.

“A dry bite, this time,” she declared.

“I expect there will be those that see it as a shame.”

“Not me,” Ashara replied. “I’m getting quite fond of having you around.”

Jon shook his head.

“I’m a Northman, Lady Dayne,” he reminded her. “When this tourney is over, I will be returning home. Us Northerners do not fare well so far south.”

“You seem to be doing well enough,” Ashara replied sadly, and Jon truly felt bad for her. “Ser Barristan seems to be considering offering you the Kingsguard position.”

The revelation was a surprise, and perhaps in another life when he was just a simple Northern bastard, he would have been honoured to accept it.

“I will refuse,” he sighed. “I have no desire to see the capital.”

“Never?”

“Never,” Jon confirmed. “I’ve seen enough of the sneaky politicking already, and I’ve been warned by more than one person about hurting you. If we continue this, you will get hurt.”

“What makes you so sure?” Ashara asked defiantly.

“Because we are two very different people from different lives,” Jon replied with a sad smile. “I live in the cold North, and I have nothing to offer anyone. You are a Lady of the South who has everything anyone could possibly ask for. This is no pity party, my lady, just the truth. I will return home, as will you, and the chances of us seeing one another again are next to impossible. Let us not be fools, Lady Dayne. Even you must see this can’t work.”

He removed the favour she’d given and placed it in her hand before closing it around the strip of fabric.

“I am grateful for your favour, and I do not return it with the intention of insulting you. I do it because it should be given to someone who can honour it the way you deserve.”

Releasing a deep breath, he turned to leave.

“What if I want to be a fool?” she asked.

Jon swallowed as he shook his head.

“I won’t pretend to know you well, my lady, but you are no fool. Pretending, even for a while, will change that.”

With that, he did leave, doing his utmost to ignore the guilt and sudden wave of sadness that washed over him.

It was better this way.

He had spoken only the truth, and as much as he felt terrible for doing so, Ashara Dayne knew it just as well as Jon.

Two people who were so different could not hope for anything more than what they would share here.

Lyanna

“Where have you been?” Lyanna asked as Jon arrived.

It was late in the afternoon, and he’d said he wouldn’t be long perusing the stalls.

“I just went to speak with the Gods,” Jon said apologetically. “To thank them for this,” he added, pointing to his cut.

The smile he offered her was strained, and Lyanna watched him for a moment as he removed his armour.

“It’s the start of the singing competition tonight,” she reminded him.

He grimaced and shook his head.

“I don’t feel like going,” he sighed. “Ghost will be with you.”

“Ghost needs to hunt,” Lyanna reminded him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jon denied. “I just miss the North.”

Lyanna didn’t believe him for a moment. Jon wasn’t the kind to open up, and she knew if she pushed him, his mood would only worsen.

“Please come with me, Jon,” she pleaded. “I need someone to keep Robert away from me.”

He made the mistake of meeting her gaze, and he laughed.

“Fine,” he relented, “but as soon as the singing is done, we are leaving.”

Lyanna nodded her agreement, hoping that the event would cheer him up.

Whatever was bothering Jon wasn’t simply because he missed home. He’d complained of that since they’d left the Neck, but he hadn’t been so maudlin as he was now.

Maybe she could get him to talk to her, or maybe even Lady Dayne.

They seemed to be getting on well enough, after all.

Elia

The rest of the preliminary rounds of the day had concluded, and there was still no sign of Ashara, who had said she’d only be absent briefly. She hadn’t returned, and Elia was concerned for the woman.

Knocking on the door to her room, she received no response, but as she pushed it open, she found Ashara sitting on the edge of her bed, looking down at a strip of fabric she held in her hand.

“Ash, are you okay?” Elia asked.

She nodded, releasing a deep breath, though it looked as though she’d been crying.

“What happened?”

Ashara shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she murmured sadly. “I thought that things were going well, and then he gave this back.”

“Jon?”

Ashara nodded, and Elia took a seat next to her friend.

“Did he say why?”

“Because we are two very different people who won’t ever see each other again.”

“I suppose he does have a point,” Elia sighed. “He will go back North, and you, wherever you feel like going. Can you honestly see it working out?”

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side, always, but speaking as your friend, maybe this is for the best. You’re hurt now, but imagine how much worse it would be if you both let this go on. He likes you; anyone can see that, but he isn’t going to change, and neither are you.”

Ashara nodded, though Elia could see the stubbornness of her friend would not let her be beaten or dissuaded, even if she was currently moping.

Ashara never gave up when she wanted something badly enough, but it was the first time Elia had seen her so taken by a man.

“It’s the singing contest tonight, are you coming?”

“So, I can watch your husband bring all the maidens to tears?” Ashara snorted.

“There is that, but I don’t think you sitting in your room feeling sorry for yourself is going to help.”

“Jon will be there.”

Elia nodded.

“Maybe you can use it as an opportunity to show him what he’s missing out on.”

Ashara shook her head.

“That would only make me look petty,” she replied. “This isn’t a game to me, and I don’t want him to think so either. I don’t know what it is, but I really like him.”

“Do you think maybe it’s because you think you can’t have him?”

“No,” Ashara answered firmly. “I’ve thought about that, and it isn’t it. It’s not just one thing, I suppose, it’s everything. He’s so gentle, but he has that fiery side to him, that passion for those things he cares about. It feels as though it’s Jon I’ve been holding back for. I know I’ve only known him a few days, and it probably sounds crazy, but it’s true.”

Elia offered her a sympathetic smile.

Ashara had all been standoffish with men who approached her.

She’d always been polite and courteous but had never shared more than a dance with a passing fancy.

In truth, Elia had thought that it would be the same with Jon Snow, but it seemed as though she’d been wrong.

This certainly wasn’t a normal infatuation for the woman, and though logistically, she knew it would never work, she had to support her friend.

If it all fell apart, she would be there to pick up the pieces, but it would be much worse for Ashara to be left questioning ‘what-if’ should she see sense and not pursue what she wanted any further.

Either way, Elia could not help but think her friend would get hurt, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to dash what little hope she had, even if what it was she wanted had such little chance of being.

“Well, then I suppose we should have you looking your best instead of red-eyed and miserable.”

Ashara snorted amusedly as she nodded.

“What dress?” she asked.

“The black one,” Elia answered immediately. “No one can resist you in the black one.”