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Chapter Text

                           Barristan

It was past four o'clock at the welcoming feast in honor of the king and his family's arrival at Winterfell.

Under the vaults of Winterfell's spacious hall, whose gray stone walls were hung with banners: the Stark direwolf stood next to the crowned stag of the Baratheons and the golden lion of the Lannisters. A haze drifted everywhere, the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread filled the air, and ale and wine flowed freely.

King Robert, already quite drunk, pulled a plump serving girl onto his lap, who giggled in return.

And Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Barristan Selmy, who was currently standing slightly behind the king, was glad to be wearing a helmet that hid his disapproving expression.

The same couldn't be said for Queen Cersei, whose green eyes betrayed clear contempt and disgust as she glanced at her husband. 

As for the rest of the royal family, the heir to the throne, Prince Joffrey, sat next to Lord Eddard Stark's eldest daughter, who was happily asking him questions.

He also saw Princess Mercella and Prince Tommen sitting and chatting with Brandon Stark.

Clearly discussing something among themselves.

Barristan grinned as he watched them.

Unlike Prince Joffrey, who, under his mother's influence, had grown up, to put it mildly, a rather spoiled and cruel child.

The princess and the youngest prince were growing up to be quite good and kind children.

And Barristan hoped it would remain so.

He glanced around the hall again, searching for any possible threat to the king, who had already reached under the maid's skirts, causing her to giggle even more.

It's good that no one noticed this, well, at least not yet. thought Barristan, trying not to pay attention to the behavior of his king.

He was a member of the Kingsguard, and his first duty was to protect the king, not to judge him.

While Robert Baratheon was a fine man and a remarkable warrior and commander, he was, to put it mildly, a lousy king.

During the last sixteen years of Robert's reign, the king attended only twenty small council meetings, perhaps even less.

The affairs of the kingdom were primarily handled by Jon Arryn, now deceased, so, strictly speaking,

The royal family had traveled all the way from King's Landing all the way here to Winterfell, in the heart of the north.

So that Robert Baratheon could personally offer the position of Hand to his longtime friend, Lord Eddard Stark.

Who had not yet made a decision on the matter, though if the Lord of Winterfell did accept the king's offer, Barristan could only wish him patience and good luck in the position.

 He'd need it...

Half an hour later, Ser Meryn Trant finally arrived to relieve him on guard duty, which Barristan was overjoyed about.

Bowing to the king, who was completely absorbed in his servant, he headed for the exit of the Great Hall.

Actually, he wasn't supposed to go North in the first place.

Originally, three Kingsguard were supposed to accompany the king and his family: Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Boros Blount, and the queen's twin, Ser Jaime Lannister.

But at the last moment, Robert refused to take Lannister with him, leaving him in the capital, citing, as he said...

 "I want to at least get some rest in the north, away from those damned blonds, especially since my wife and her dwarf brother will be there anyway!"

Stepping out of the great hall into the cool northern night air, Barristan noticed the queen's aforementioned younger brother standing and discussing something with a dark-haired youth.

"Ah, Ser Barristan," Tyrion greeted him when he noticed him.

"Lord Tyrion," he nodded back.

He glanced at the young man, frozen for a second in surprise; for a moment, the boy's features seemed very familiar.

Blinking, pushing these thoughts away, Barristan looked again at the boy before him,

Whose gray eyes stared wide at him.

"Ser Barristan Selmy?" the boy asked, his voice filled with awe.

He nodded his head in confirmation. "And who do I have the honor of speaking with?"

 "I... I..."

"That's Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard," Tyrion Lannister interrupted the young man.

This earned the young man a sullen look.

"Fine, I'll go warm up in the great hall, I don't want to freeze myself," Tyrion muttered, not noticing nothing, heading toward the great hall, leaving Barristan and the young man alone.

Barristan glanced again at the young man, who was rather thin but tall, with dark curly hair and steely eyes, the same as Lord Eddard's.

And at first glance, the boy did indeed look like a Stark, even more so than Lord Stark's legitimate children.

But the young man also had traits he simply couldn't and shouldn't have.

 And he saw it—those cheekbones, the shape of the nose, and the shape of the eyes—all unmistakably belonged to the dynasty to which Barristan had sworn allegiance and served for many years before Robert claimed the throne for himself.

"Sorry to disturb you," the young man muttered under his breath, bowing to him before turning away and striding off into the courtyard.

Barristan himself, still in shock, watched the young man go.

"It can't be, can it? It simply can't be," he muttered quietly.

"It simply can't be."

                                Eddard

Lord Eddard was alarmed as he sat in his solar, reading reports from Wyon and Leuven on how much the King and his family's visit had cost Winterfell.

He tried to get as much work done as possible while he was here, to make it a little easier for Robb to assume his role as Lord of Winterfell,

While Ned himself would be in the south as the new Hand of the King.

Who, apparently, didn't care about anything around him except wine and whores.

In fact, that was exactly what Robert had told him back in the crypts.

"I don't grant you mercy, Ned. I want you to rule in my place while wine and whores drive me to the grave!"

Ned put one of the reports aside and leaned back in his chair, thinking about what his friend had become in these sixteen years.

Instead of the muscular, dark-haired youth with blue eyes that sparkled with joy. He was a huge, fat, and clumsy boar.

To be honest, Ned seriously considered turning down the position offered to him and staying here in the north near his family.

But the news he received two weeks ago from Lysa Arryn, his wife's younger sister and Jon Arryn's widow, made him change his mind.

After all, what she reported was, to put it mildly, very alarming.

The message stated that House Lannister was involved in Jon Arryn's death and that King Robert was also threatened with the same fate.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his gloomy thoughts.

He ordered them in. And was surprised to find that it was none other than the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

"Ser Barristan," Ned said in surprise, honestly not expecting to see him.

 "Lord Hand," Selmy greeted him, bowing his head. "May I speak with you, if you permit?"

Ned nodded and motioned for him to sit in the seat opposite him.

"So, Ser Barristan, what did you wish to discuss with me?" he asked the knight.

"I would like to discuss your son's fate, if you permit, my lord," Bold said.

"Bran?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.

He genuinely expected the conversation to be about his middle son, who was supposed to accompany him and his daughters to King's Landing in a few days.

The knight merely shook his head.

"No, it's not about him, my lord," Barristan told him. "I wished to speak with you about your bastard son."

At the knight's words, Ned felt a lump form in his throat.

 No! No! No! It can't be! Did he really recognize the boy's features? A treacherous thought flashed through his mind.

But he tried his best not to show it, keeping his face as stony as a mask.

"You wish to speak of Jon?" Ned asked, finding his voice.

The knight nodded slightly.

"Yes, my lord, if you please, I have been observing the boy for some time, and I must tell you he is quite a skilled swordsman for his age. So, if you don't mind, I would offer him the chance to become my squire," Ser Barristan replied.

Chapter Text

                              Barristan

Barristan was absolutely certain that the young Jon Snow, whom everyone believed to be Lord Eddard Stark's bastard son, was not.

After that first meeting with the boy in the courtyard of Winterfell, Barristan began to study him closely.

Watching from afar, from the shadows, the longer he did so, the more he saw in the boy, in Jon, the ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen.

Barristan recalled the events of sixteen years earlier.

After the capital had fallen and Ned Stark had fled following a heated argument with Robert Baratheon over the Lannisters' punishment for their crimes against Princess Elia, the young Princess Rhaenys, and Prince Aegon (a point on which Barristan fully agreed), after the siege of Storm's End had been lifted, Ned Stark rode further south in search of his sister and found her dying of a fever. In the Tower of Joy, under the protection of his three brothers-in-arms: Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower, nicknamed the White Bull, Ser Oswell Whent, nicknamed the Bat, and Ser Arthur Dayne, better known as the Sword of the Morning.

According to Lord Stark, the guards refused to let him see his sister, leading to a fight in which all three Kingsguard and most of Stark's company perished. Afterward, Lord Stark found his sister dying of fever.

But at least that's the story

Barristan knew from Eddard's words when he returned to the capital with his sister's bones, and the infant he claimed was his bastard, fathered by an unnamed girl.

Barristan was greatly surprised then that Lord Stark, a noble youth at the time, had fathered a bastard.

 Just as it was a shame that his three white-cloaked brothers remained in Dorne, near Lady Lyanna, rather than journey to Dragonstone to swear fealty to Viziers Targaryen, the only male Targaryen.

But now, sixteen years later, when he saw the young man in the Winterfell courtyard, a boy with the Starks' eyes and hair, but with the features of Prince Rhaegar, the true chronology of events began to emerge in his mind.

The Kingsguard always protects its king first and foremost, and the three deceased knights were not the type to throw their oaths to the wind.

If Lord Eddard Stark's words were true, and he and his men had clashed with the Kingsguard to the death, then logically the Kingsguard were protecting their young king, the son of Crown Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna. 

After Lord Stark found his sister and her son, it was quite clear that Lord Eddard Stark might have claimed the boy as his own to protect him from the wrath of Robert and the Lannisters.

Well, at least that was the picture he had in mind.

Although, in truth, he wasn't yet certain, as Rhaegar already had a wife and two children.

But Barristan also knew that Rhaegar had admired the Stark girl and even crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty during the tourney at Harenhal.

The day all the smiles faded.

Could Rhaegar have taken Lady Lyanna as his wife? Perhaps as a second wife.

Barristan supposed that was entirely possible.

Princess Elia was a good woman, but there was no love between them, only duty.

He didn't know what to make of all this, didn't know what to do with his suspicions, and he had no one to discuss them with here. 

So, for now, all he could do was watch the young man from afar.

But when Barristan learned from the servants that Lord Stark's bastard son (Rhaegar's son) was planning to go to the Wall with his uncle and take the Blacks,

Barristan decided to act after all, how could he allow Rhaegar's last living child to live his entire life on the Wall?

So, he went to Lord Eddard in his solar and offered to take the young man as his squire.

And during his conversation with the new Hand, Barristan didn't miss the man's nervousness, more than usual, though he was clearly trying to remain impassive.

But Barristan clearly saw the man's nervousness,

The way his eye twitched, the way his lips pursed during their conversation.

And how Lord Stark reluctantly agreed to speak with Jon about Barristan's proposal.

 Well, now everything is in the hands of the young Targaryen, he thought to himself, heading towards his quarters.

                                John

When Jory Casel found him and told him his father wanted to see him immediately, Jon frowned, as his lord father almost never invited him to his solar.

But he thought about how this might be connected to his possible future joining the Night's Watch.

He pushed the gloomy thoughts aside.

And he headed for his lord father's solar.

When he reached the solar door, he immediately knocked and heard his father's muffled voice asking him to enter.

"Lord Stark," he greeted his father, bowing his head slightly.

To which Lord Stark simply waved his hand. "Jon, we agreed that you could call me father, at least when we were alone."

"Yes, Father," Jon replied with a warmer smile.

"Come here, sit," his father said, gesturing to the seat in front of him.

Which Jon did immediately. There was silence between them for a moment. Jon saw his father cast him strange glances, until he decided to speak.

"Jon, I called you on a matter that may be connected to your future," his father told him.

"Father, we've already discussed this. My future is on the wall. You gave me permission to go with Uncle Benjen to Castle Black."

His father raised his hand, urging him to stop. "Yes, Jon, we discussed this, and I did give you permission to go to the wall, and you are still free to do so if you choose to reject another offer."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "What offer?"

Lord Stark took a deep breath and spoke. "Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy came to me today with an offer to take you as his squires."

 Jon's eyes widened at these words and he looked at his father in surprise.

"What? Are you serious?" Jon asked Lord Stark.

Lord Stark only nodded. "He said he'd been watching you for a while and that you had great potential."

"Did he really say that?" he asked his father, his voice more agitated than he'd hoped.

"So it is, Jon," Lord Stark nodded. "So, as you know, King Robert and his family have been visiting Winterfall for a month now, and in two days they must return south. I will be going with them, as will Sansa, Arya, and Bran. But if you wish to accept Ser Barristan's offer, give me your answer now."

Lord Stark paused briefly before continuing.

"Or you could go to the wall."

"I agree!" said Jon. "I agree to accept Ser Barristan's proposal."

 For a moment, Jon saw a look of melancholy in his father's gray eyes, which quickly gave way to a normal expression.

"Good," Lord Stark sighed. "Then go tell your brothers and sisters you're coming south with us."

Jon rose from his seat and was already approaching the door when his father called out.

"Jon, wait."

He did so and looked at his father,

Who now had a stern expression on his face. "I want you to know, we're going south, straight into a snake pit. Remember that, and never forget."

Chapter Text

                                  Jon

It was early morning when Jon Snow awoke from his slumber in his small tent.

Ghost, his direwolf, still slept peacefully curled at his feet.

Jon's lips curled involuntarily at the sight.

Almost four moons had passed since they had found the direwolf pups.

And now his direwolf pup was the size of a medium-sized dog, and his younger sister Arya's she-wolf, Nymeria, was not far behind, as was his younger brother Bran's wolf, who still had no name, and the smallest of them all was his older sister's she-wolf, Lady.

Jon assumed that the other two direwolfs, Grey Wind and Shaggydog, who remained in Winterfell with their owners, must have looked roughly the same as their other siblings. 

Putting the thought of the wolves aside, Jon threw off the blanket and rose from the mattress that served as his bed on the march.

He quickly pulled on his clothes lighter than he had worn in the North and left his tent to begin a new day, leaving his wolf sleeping peacefully.

Six weeks had passed since he had left the walls of Winterfell as Ser Barristan's new squire.

And Jon still found it hard to believe.

After all, even in his wildest dreams, he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to take him as a squire.

Let alone such a renowned knight as Ser Barristan Selmy!

A living legend (even in the North), a knight renowned for his chivalry and swordsmanship.

 So when his lord father invited him to his solar and told him that Ser Barristan had offered him the position of squire,

Jon didn't hesitate to accept the offer and agreed almost immediately.

After all, the alternative was the Wall. Not that he'd refused to join the Night's Watch in the future.

But Jon understood that if he became Ser Barristan's squire, he would learn a lot from him, not to mention becoming a knight dedicated to Barristan Selmy himself!

But in truth, that's unlikely to happen anytime soon, he thought.

Throughout his journey from North to South, Jon spent his entire life performing his duties as a squire.

 He maintained the weapons and enamel armor of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan, and cared for his horse, among other duties, not that he particularly enjoyed them.

But he didn't complain much about it.

On the other hand, Ser Barristan's lessons in fencing and mastering combat skills and techniques, which he taught Jon while the old knight was free from his direct duties as a Kingsguard, were very educational.

 Although Jon began training with a sword at the age of nine, under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik Cassel, like Robb and Theon. Not to mention that he also trained in secret to master his skills.

And so Jon considered himself a fairly decent fighter, but after his first training sparring session with his mentor, he realized he was still far from perfect, to put it mildly.

Although Ser Barristan was never overly strict with him, quite the contrary.

He always smiled approvingly at him and gently, yet firmly, pointed out Jon's mistakes during training.

The only downside was that, due to his duties as a squire, he couldn't spend as much time with his family as he had originally hoped.

During his six weeks as a squire, Ser Barristan gave him one day off so Jon could spend some time with his family.

 Arya and Bran kept asking him animatedly about his duties and training with Ser Barristan.

And Sansa, well, Sansa, his sister, was as distant as ever, exchanging only a few words with him. And then she was the first to decline, citing Prince Joffrey's invitation to a walk.

Although it pained him that Sansa treated him this way, he didn't entirely blame her.

After all, no matter how coldly Sansa treated him, he still loved her.

But what truly worried Jon was his father.

More precisely, his behavior.

Eddard Stark, a stern and stoic man like the North itself, as Jon had known him all his life, was clearly wary, or even agitated.

And according to Arya, who also noticed,

Their father grew increasingly worried as they approached the capital.

 Although Jon wondered what was troubling his father, he decided not to interfere.

After all, his father had become Hand of the King, and now he had far more responsibilities than he had in the North. Jon understood this perfectly well. Whereas before, his father oversaw the affairs of one kingdom, now he oversaw seven.

                               Eddard

It took nearly two moons for the royal retinue to reach King's Landing from the walls of Winterfell.

And not least of all, the fault lay with the two-story cabin in which Queen Cersei and her youngest children traveled.

The damned thing was so huge and heavy that it broke its wheels almost daily.

But praise be to the New and Old Gods, he and his retinue of Northerners finally rode through the gates of the Red Keep.

Ned was overjoyed.

He dismounted from his brown gelding, feeling a plethora of emotions within himself:

Tired, irritated, exhausted, hungry, and afraid.

The latter was more likely due to the realization that Jon would be here in King's Landing.

And the realization that he had agreed to have the boy who was like a son to him in all but name.

 Being here, among these snakes who live at court, didn't improve the situation at all.

And not for the first time, he wondered Perhaps he should have kept quiet about Ser Barristan's offer to Jon; perhaps it would have been better if the boy had actually gone to the wall as he had originally intended?

He closed his eyes for a moment,

Dispelling these thoughts.

Firstly, he couldn't do such a thing, because his conscience and his honor wouldn't allow him to do such a thing to Jon.

But still, another part of him told him he would be much safer at the wall than here, among the Barathions and Lannisters.

Especially since Robert's rage against the Targaryens hadn't vanished.

 Oh no, Robert still sees them as a threat to his rule.

He told Ned back there in the North that he wouldn't rest until the last dragon died.

"For what that silver-haired bastard did to her, to my Lyanna, I want his line to die out!"

If God forbid Robert had learned the truth about Lyanna eloping with Rhaegar Targaryen, and that they had even managed to marry on the Isle of Faces in the light of the Old and New Gods, and that she had borne a son by the silver prince. Who was now squire to the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, then...

Ned's eyes widened, not wanting to know what would have happened then though deep down he knew perfectly well what would have happened.

"My Lord Hand." The man who had been the king's steward stepped forward. "Grand Maester Pycelle has called an urgent meeting of the Small Council and requires your immediate presence," the man told him urgently.

Ned barely suppressed a growl.

He'd just come from a journey, and all he wanted now was a warm bath, roast fowl, and a warm feather bed.

And not to play with snakes, especially since Robert was still outside the city walls.

So Ned calmly but firmly told the man that he couldn't attend the meeting for the time being.

When the royal steward received his reply and went to announce him as another member of the Small Council, Ned considered calling him back and telling him he'd changed his mind.

But he really wasn't in the mood for snake dancing.

Chapter Text

                                 Jon

Jon had been in the capital for almost three weeks, and the nausea he felt from the city's smell had already subsided.

The city truly stank, so much so that, to his surprise, he could smell the stench half a mile away, from the city walls.

Needless to say, as he walked with the king's retinue through the cobbled streets of Flea Bottom, he barely restrained himself from spitting his breakfast back out.

But when they finally reached the Red Keep, its silhouette towering over the entire city, standing on Aegon's Hill,

Then Jon was even more surprised by the contrast between the castle itself and the city.

The Red Keep was, without a doubt, the most luxurious place he had ever seen.

Even Winterfell, considered the heart of the North, was far less luxurious than the Red Keep.

 Jon honestly expected to be housed in White Sword Tower, like the other squires and Kingsguard.

But it turned out there were no available rooms in the Tower, so he was offered a room in the Tower of the Hand.

Which was currently occupied by his father and his Northern Retinue, consisting of over two hundred guardsmen of House Stark and two dozen servants from Winterfell whom his father had taken south with him.

And to be honest, Jon wasn't all that upset by the fact that he was living in the Tower of the Hand and not the White Sword.

After all, after he finished his duties, he could spend more time with Arya and Brann.

And of course, with Ghost, since direwolves were only allowed to roam freely in the Tower of the Hand.

Jon had even heard rumors that Queen Cersei insisted that such dangerous beasts as direwolves should be kept in enclosures, along with the dogs. 

But his father managed to convince King Robert not to do this, promising him something like the wolves would only be kept in the Tower of the Hand.

Jon still couldn't understand how his father and the king could be best friends.

His first disappointment in the king came the moment he rode through the gates of Winterfell.

Jon expected to see the man his lord father had described—a mighty and invincible warrior, the demon of the Trident.

But instead, he saw a portly king, so fat that Jon wondered how his black war gelding could support him.

But later, when he began serving as Ser Barristan's squire and thus began spending more time with the king,

Jon began to wonder even more how such different men as his father and Robert Baratheon had become such close friends.

While his father was a paragon of honor except for himself, of course, justice, and integrity,

King Robert Baratheon was a completely different man, immersed in drunkenness and debauchery, and completely uninterested in the affairs of his kingdom.

 Jon knew from his father and Ser Barristan that King Robert had never attended a single meeting of the Small Council.

Preferring to do so in his chambers, with the aforementioned debauchery with whores and drunkenness.

Jon firmly pushed those thoughts aside.

He's your king! And your lord father's best friend, and you have no right to judge him! he repeated to himself every time he dismissed thoughts of the king's obvious incompetence.

And the best place to dismiss any such thoughts was in the Red Keep's training yard.

Where he currently stood, along with dozens of other knights and their squires who had begun arriving from all over the kingdom for the tournament in honor of the so-called Tournament of the Hand.

Although his father had been the most opposed to it, sourly calling it the King's Tournament and a waste of money.

 But Jon himself couldn't deny the fact that he wanted to see this tournament, as it would be his first ever.

After all, such events weren't held in the north because there weren't as many knights north of the Neck as in other parts of the Realms.

His sisters and younger brother were equally excited about the upcoming tournament.

This was especially true of Bran, who was most looking forward to seeing it in person.

"If there are so many knights here from all over the kingdom, perhaps my father will assign me to one as a squire," Bran told them at breakfast today. This elicited a playful eye roll from Arya, which made Jon laugh.

 Another plus in his life was that here, far from Lady Catelyn, he was allowed to sit at the same table with his brother and sisters (much to the dismay of Septa Mordane).

Today, he had managed to spar with four men, all of them squires like himself: two from the Stormlands, one from the Riverlands, and one from the Reach, and to his great satisfaction, he had emerged victorious every time!

After the last sparring session, Jon sat down on a wooden bench, drenched in sweat, and took a sip of water.

And just then, a young man approached him, about his age or perhaps a little older.

"Pretty good for a Northerner," the youth said with a smug grin. "You're a Northerner, the bastard son of Ned Stark, aren't you?"

 Jon nodded and looked the boy over, head to toe.

Jon could confidently say that if Sansa were in his place right now, she would blush at the boy's beauty.

A handsome man, slender, with dark hair and brown eyes, dressed in a green silk tunic.

"Yes," Jon nodded. "And you?"

"Ser Loras Tyrell," the boy replied.

Jon's eyes widened slightly; he had heard stories at court about

Loras Tyrell, better known as the Knight of Flowers, knighted a couple of months ago by King Renly Baratheon's brother.

"I saw your sparring, and I must say... It was quite good," Loras said smugly. "Now I understand why Ser Barristan himself took you as a squire,"

Jon shrugged indifferently.

"Probably," Jon replied. "I suppose? Oh, that's northern modesty," Loras chuckled and paused. "Well, if you want, I wouldn't mind a sparring match."

"Well... come on, sir..." Jon said, rising from his seat.

"Just Loras," Loras grinned at him.

Chapter Text

                                  Eddard

"The Hand's tourney is the cause of all our troubles, my lord," complained Janos Slynt, commander of the city guard, to the royal council.

"A royal tourney," Ned corrected, irritated by Robert's stupidity, "and I assure you, the Hand has no use for it."

"Call it what you will, my lord," Slynt said, curling his lip. "But knights come from all over the kingdom, and for every knight there are two freeriders, three artisans, six men-at-arms, a dozen merchants, two dozen whores, and countless thieves! Half the city is feverish from the heat, and with all these guests... Last night we had a drowned man, a tavern brawl, three stabbings, a rape, two fires, countless robberies, and drunken horse racing down Sisters' Street." The previous night, a woman's severed head was discovered in the Rainbow Pool near the Great Sept. No one knows how it got there or where this unknown woman's body is...

"How horrifying," Varys cringed in his seat.

Robert's younger brother, Lord Renly Baratheon, was less sympathetic.

"If you cannot guard the king's peace, Janos, the city guard may have to do without your services."

At these words, the burly, burly Janos Slynt puffed up like an angry frog, his bald head turning red, his eyes boring into the king's brother.

"Even Aegon the Conqueror and his dragon couldn't keep the peace right now, Lord Renly. I need more men."

"How many?" Ned asked, leaning forward.

"As many as can be spared, Lord Hand," Janos replied. "I can't pinpoint a single one," Ned thought bitterly.

And once again he silently scolded Robert's insane idea about this damned tourney! Not only is the crown deeply in debt and can't afford it. But because of this action, the city has become more dangerous than it was before.

"The small council will discuss this problem immediately and will give you an answer soon," Ned said, waving his hand, dismissing Janos.

The commander of the city guard curled his lip, clearly displeased with his answer.

"I hope your answer is swift, my lord," Slynt replied sourly, bowing.

When the captain of the guard left, Ned turned to the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish.

"Lord Baelish, find me two thousand silver stags by this evening," he said.

"Why?" asked Littlefinger.

"Isn't it clear? To strengthen the city guard, Lord Baelish," Ned replied.

Two thousand silver stags, that should be enough for about two hundred trained warriors, a worthy reinforcement for the city guard.

"From what funds will I be required to provide you with these two thousand silver coins, my Lord Hand?" asked Littlefinger.

"You will find them. You found fifty thousand golden dragons for the champion's purse, and of course, I trust that you, my lord, will be able to find this sum to preserve the king's peace." Ned answered him and turned away from the master of the coin, signaling that the conversation on this matter was over.

 Ned wasn't exactly fond of Littlefinger, with his speeches and smirks, and his comments about his time at Riverrun with Catelyn.

"The sooner this folly ends, the better," Ned muttered, leaning back in his chair.

As if the expense and hassle weren't enough; they were all just trying to rub salt into Ned's wound by naming the tournament after him, as if he were the cause.

And Robert clearly thought he should feel flattered.

"When such events occur, the realm prospers," Grand Maester Pycelle said from his seat. "They give the great a chance to gain glory, and the lowly a chance to forget their troubles."

Unfortunately, Ned himself couldn't share the Grand Maester's opinion.

"Full bellies help the lowly forget their troubles more," he thought to himself. "And they fill many pockets with gold," Littlefinger added, sipping wine from his glass. "All the inns in the city are already full, the city's whores are straddling the streets and jingling at every step."

"I'm sure many will be even richer after this tourney," Ned said pointedly, looking at Littlefinger, who had a smirk on his face.

"What a pity my brother Stannis isn't among us," Renly said." Remember how he proposed banning brothels? The king asked him if we shouldn't also ban eating, defecating, and breathing. Frankly, I often wonder how Stannis managed to make his ugly daughter. He goes to his marriage bed like a warrior to battle, with grim determination in his eyes and a desire to do his duty."

A wave of laughter swept around the table, which neither Ned nor Ser Barristan joined in.

 "I'm also interested in your brother Stannis," Ned said, turning to Renly. "I'd like to know when he intends to end his visit to Dragonstone and take his place on our council?"

"Only when we've drowned all the whores at sea," Littlefinger quipped, eliciting even more laughter.

Ned resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"I'm serious!" Ned said in a loud, firm voice, which immediately silenced the laughter at the table. "I've been in King's Landing for almost a moon, as Hand, and in that time I've never seen the Master of Ships, though he's already been sent a raven."

"Is that so?" Ned looked at Pycelle.

Pycelle nodded in turn. "Yes, indeed, my Lord Hand. I personally sent him three birds, messages for him to come to the capital." But as you see...”

"I see," Ned interrupted. "Write him another message demanding he arrive in the capital for the tourney and bring three hundred men with him to bolster the ranks of the city guard," Ned said, rising. "That's all for today, my lords, until tomorrow morning!"

Before leaving the small council chamber, Ned glanced at Littlefinger once more.

"Two thousand silver stags by this evening, don't forget, Lord Baelish."

As Ned left the small council chamber and headed for the Tower of the Hand, his mind was racing the entire way.

Perhaps he'd been too harsh about his middle brother, Robert? But he really needed to talk to Stannis about the investigation Jon Arryn had conducted with him not long before his sudden death.

Besides, it was only half a day's sail from Dragonstone to the capital, so Stannis could have attended at least one Small Council meeting during that time.

As Ned approached the Tower of the Hand, his head throbbed with all these worries.

Harwin and five other guards stood guard at the door.

 When Ned was planning to head south, he initially planned to take only fifty of his men with him, but when he learned that Jon would also be in the capital, Ned decided to increase his guard to two hundred, although in truth, that didn't exactly make him feel safe in this place among the lions.

He nodded to his men, entered, and headed for his solar.

As he passed the dining hall, he noticed it was almost empty; several of his men were sitting at tables, chatting.

Then his gaze fell on two figures seated at a distant table.

One he recognized as Jon, and the other was undoubtedly the Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell.

His lips pursed.

Over the past few days, Jon had managed to become friendly with the Tyrell boy after their sparring session.

Much to Ned's disappointment.

He should have kept Jon out of the court's limelight.

 But so far, Ned isn't very good at it.

After all, the sparring match a few days ago in the Red Keep courtyard between Jon and Ser Loras demonstrated that Jon was as skilled with a sword as the Tyrell himself.

Which, in turn, attracted many eyes.

And what's worse, his son then decided to participate in the squires' hand-to-hand combat, which would be held at the tourney along with the other competitions.

Which would only draw further unwanted attention to Jon.

Jon was the first to look up and meet his gaze.

"Father," Jon said, rising from his seat.

"Lord Hand," said the Knight of Flowers, also rising from his seat.

Ned nodded to them both, approaching.

"Jon, the Small Council meeting is over, and Ser Barristan is probably looking for you." Ned said.

Jon nodded quickly,

He turned to Ser Loras, "I think we'll meet later."

Loras nodded, "I think so, and that will most likely happen tomorrow, in the training yard. I'll repay you for today's sparring tomorrow."

Jon nodded and grinned at him. "Well, we'll see," Jon said, and headed for the exit.

Ser Loras followed him, but Ned called him back.

"Ser Loras, if you don't mind, may I have a word with you?" Ned said to the young man.

Loras raised an eyebrow in surprise, but nodded in agreement and followed Ned to his solar.

Ned needed to learn more about the crown's debts to House Tyrell, preferably from multiple sources, not just Littlefinger. Perhaps Ser Loras might know something about it too.

 Ned was generally surprised by the fact that Robert decided to borrow from the roses, because, as Ned himself knew, his friend never forgave the Tyrells for their support of the Targaryens and the siege of Storm's End during the rebellion.

Chapter Text

                             Barristan

Ser Barristan had spent the last few hours sitting at a round, shield-shaped table in White Sword Tower.

He was deep in thought. He had been doing so quite often lately.

And this was mainly due to his ward.

Jon had indeed proven to be a very noble, honest, and loyal young man with a strong sense of duty and justice.

And it couldn't help but please Barristan that Prince Rhaegar's son had become such a man though Lord Stark's upbringing also played a large part in this.

Unfortunately for Jon, he never received a proper education, even as a lord of a common castle, let alone as a prince of House Targaryen.

And that was sad, to say the least.

Of course, Barristan understood well that educating a young man everyone considered a bastard as a prince or king would be strange and would raise many questions about it.

 So he understood why Lord Stark hadn't taken that step, although on the other hand, if Jon had been trained at least as a lord, it certainly wouldn't have hindered him in the future.

Even without proper training, leadership qualities were beginning to show in the boy. Which was very good.

Barristan still didn't understand Lord Stark's vision for his nephew's future.

It was clear to anyone that the Lord Hand loved his bastard nephew as much as his other children. Which was what baffled Barristan.

No, of course, he wasn't naive to expect Lord Stark to want to put Jon on the throne instead of Robert Barathion. King Robert and Lord Stark were truly good friends.

But why not offer Jon some run-down stronghold in the north? Of course, it was unworthy for a prince of such a great house. But still, better than serving hand in hand with murderers, thieves, and rapists, at the ends of the earth, for the rest of his life!

Or perhaps Lord Stark truly believed that this was the best option for his nephew to serve on the Wall.

Barristan remembered how, in Winterfell, he had come to Lord Stark's solar to talk about Jon, and what the Lord of Winterfell had said to him that day.

"Serving on the wall is an honor," Ned Stark said gravely. "The Starks have served on the wall since time immemorial, Ser Barristan, and that is why, if my son Jon does not change his mind about riding north with my brother, I will support him," Ned told Barristan.

Although Barristan guessed that the last phrase was spoken by Lord Stark more to convince himself than Barristan himself.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes.

The last thing I needed was to think about what was going on in Lord Stark's head. Barristan thought.

He was truly confused and unsure what to do next.

There in the north, after he recognized Rhaegar's features in Jony and put two and two together, he realized the boy's true origins.

But he was equally surprised and relieved that a piece of Rhaegar remained in this world.

Which quickly turned to even greater surprise when he learned the boy wanted to give his life to the Wall, and he resolved to prevent that under no circumstances.

Which he successfully accomplished, but unfortunately, Barristan didn't know what to do next.

A large part of his soul, of course, desired a representative of House Targaryen, Rhaegar's son, to sit on the Iron Throne.

 This desire was so strong that it even drowned out the quiet voice in his head that was telling him that this was a betrayal of the current King Robert!!!

But despite his desire, Barristan couldn't imagine how it could be done.

Even if Jon learned, or rather when he learned, of his origins, and if he decided to seize his ancestors' throne, he would need support.

And even if Ned Stark and the North sided with Jon, they would clearly be insufficient against the might of the Westerlands and the Stormlands.

After all, the old lion would hardly be pleased with the fact that a Targaryen would sit on the throne in his grandson's stead.

Even if Riverrun sided with Winterfell in support of Jon, even that might not be enough.

There was also the Vale of Arryn, ruled by the former Hand's widow, Lysa Arryn, and Catelyn Stark's younger sister.

Therefore, logically, the Eyrie could also side with Jon.

 Although it's unlikely Lady Lysa will rely on logic, Barristan thought to himself. He didn't know the woman very well. But what he did know about her spoke volumes.

Even more, it can't be ruled out that many of the Vale's lords might not be overly pleased that a Targaryen will lay claim to a throne that might belong to Robert's son...

Barristan sighed sadly, rose from his seat, and walked to the window, clasping his hands behind his back.

Also, one shouldn't forget the royalist houses of House Targaryen:

The Tyrells, Tarlys, Martells, and Velaryons all remained loyal to House Targaryen to the last.

Although House Martell could have been excluded from this list, for Dorne may have hated the Lannisters and Barathions for the murder of Princess Elia, Prince Aegon, and Princess Rhaenys.

But that doesn't mean they'll side with a young man who reminded them of Rhaegar's betrayal of Elia.

Therefore, at best, Dorne will remain neutral.

Then come the Tyrells.

Yes, they fought on the side of the dragons during the rebellion.

But "fought" is certainly a strong word. Mace Tyrell laid siege to Storm's End, whose garrison numbered less than half a thousand men, with all his might, and this continued until the end of the war.

 And Mace Tyrell immediately bent the knee without even fighting.

Yet the Tyrells remain among Jon's most important potential allies. Especially since Jon seems to have found common ground with the Knight of Flowers.

Both were skilled swordsmen, and to Barristan's great delight as a teacher, Jon was almost as good as the Knight of Flowers.

Although this friendship could hardly compare to that of Loras and Renly.

And then there are the Velaryons, who, by the way, are currently in the capital.

After all, although Stannis himself has not yet arrived in the capital much to Lord Stark's chagrin and disappointment, he has sent men to reinforce the city guard for the duration of the tourney, most of whom were Lord Manford Velaryon's men.

 The Tidemaster himself was also in the capital, though judging by the sullen look he cast at the members of the Small Council yesterday upon his arrival in the capital, it was clear that the Lord of Drifmark was not particularly eager to be in the capital, especially not to watch the action unfolding the Hand's Tourney.

Although Barristan didn't blame him entirely, as House Velaryon had lost almost everything after the war ended.

After all, Robert had never forgiven them for being the last to kneel before him...

The sound of a door opening brought Barristan out of his reverie.

Turning his head in that direction, he saw the very same youth who had been haunting him so much.

"Ser Barristan," Jon greeted him, bowing his head slightly.

"Jon," he said, smiling slightly at the youth.

 "It's almost noon, and you'll soon be called upon to guard His Grace," Jon began. "Your armor is ready in your chambers, my ser. If you'd like, I can help you don it."

Barristan nodded slightly and headed to his chambers with Jon.

"So, Jon, are you nervous about tomorrow?" Barristan asked referring to the start of the tourney and squire competition tomorrow.

As Barristan himself knew, the squire competition had been added at the last minute, at King Robert's whim. The winner of this event would receive a prize of ten thousand gold dragons, a rather handsome reward. Basically, as always at Robert's tourneys.

"Frankly, yes, my ser," Jon replied.

"Hm," Barristan chuckled. "Very well."

"Forgive me, my ser, but what's so good about that?" Jon asked.

 "The fact that you, despite your skill, still have common sense and are worried about losing," Barristan said casually.

"I apologize, my ser, once again, but you greatly overestimate my skill, especially considering the fact that tomorrow's competition will be for qualified squires who are at least fifteen years old."

Barristan chuckled to himself.

Even though Jon has been living at court for a moon, he remains as modest as the first night Barristan saw him.

"While modesty is a good thing, you are better than you think," he said simply.

"You are too kind to me, my ser," Jon replied, blushing slightly at the praise.

After they reached his chambers and Jon helped him into his armor and cloak, the young man bid him farewell until evening.

 But Barristan decided to give him three days off so the boy could prepare for tomorrow's tourney and spend even more time with his Stark family.

Meanwhile, Barristan himself would consider the best course of action.

Chapter Text

                               Bran

Bran Stark's breath was taken away!

The day he'd waited so long for had finally arrived.

The tourney in his father's name had begun. Although Lord Stark himself wasn't as impressed by the proceedings as all his children.

Hundreds of pavilions had been erected outside the city walls, and thousands of commoners were gathering to watch the tourney.

Bran's eyes widened at everything he saw around him: glittering breastplates bearing various heraldry, enormous horses adorned in gold and silver, the shouts of the crowd, various banners fluttering in the wind, and, of course, the knights themselves, clad in magnificent plate armor.

"It's even more beautiful here than in the songs," Bran heard Sansa whisper to Jeyne Poole as they found their assigned seats among the other highborn lords and ladies.

 And Bran had to admit, it was one of those rare moments when he agreed with his older sister.

Bran's blue eyes darted from side to side, scanning everything around him and whispering to Arya about this or that knight.

Before the horn sounded, the murmuring around them died down slightly, and all eyes were now fixed on the herald, clad in yellow and black robes with a crowned black stag on his chest.

"Noble Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms! Today we are gathered here for a tourney in honor of His Grace's new Hand, King Robert, Lord Eddard Stark!"

The crowd roared with cheers and applause.

The herald, in turn, continued: "And this action shall begin with a duel of squires in hand-to-hand combat!" With these words, they began to enter the lists.

The young men, clad in tourney armor, Bran counted about fifty of them, all holding blunt tourney blades, axes, morning stars, and shields emblazoned with the symbols of their houses.

Bran recognized some of the symbols: among the River Lords' symbols were Frey's Tower and the red meren on the yellow field of House Bracken. Of the Westerlands, Bran recognized only a golden lion on a scarlet field, undoubtedly belonging to Lancel Lannister, one of King Robert's two squires. Then he saw several symbols of the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and the Reach.

 Until, amidst the crowd, he finally spotted his older brother, Jon, clad in a brown brigandine, beneath which was chainmail and shoulder pads of dark gray metal, a matching helmet covering his face, and a black oval shield without any symbols completing his defense.

How I wish I could be there with Jon right now, taking part in this fight, he thought to himself.

"Lord Stark's bastard looks completely out of place among these noble young men," Septa Mordane snorted, sitting next to Sansa and Jeyne.

That earned her an angry glare from Arya, and a piercing one from Bran himself.

Yes, his mother may not have been Jon's mother, and he wasn't named Stark, but Bran still loved Jon as much as he loved Robb or Rickon, who remained in the North.

"And since when did you, Septa, begin to understand hand-to-hand combat? If I remember correctly, you yourself said that a lady shouldn't be interested in such things," Arya declared.

"That's not what Arya, Septa Mordane meant..." Sansa began, not taking her eyes off the lists.

"I know what she meant!" Arya barked.

"Stop this immediately, young lady. Such interaction is absolutely unacceptable!" the septa hissed, looking at Arya.

Bran suspected the argument between his sister and the septa might have escalated even further if not for the arrival of their Lord Father.

Who arrived just in time to witness the start of the melee.

Another blast of the horn sounded, signaling the start of the melee.

And the opponents charged, their tournament armor clanking, and soon the sound was joined by the clang of tournament blades, the cracking of wooden shields, and the cries of battle.

Bran watched from his perch as the melee escalated with relentless fury.

And the scent of dust and trampled grass began to fill the air.

His gaze was fixed on the chaos now unfolding in the lists below.

Bran watched as young men fell from the wounds they had received from the tournament blades, then screamed loudly in intense pain.

 Bran wrinkled his nose when Lancel decided to try his luck and swung his tourney blade at his brother.

But Jon quickly parried the blow with his own blade and smashed his shield into the young Lannister's head, knocking his helmet off as he fell unconscious to the ground.

At that moment, slightly higher up on the dais, he heard King Robert's loud laughter.

Bran, like Arya, watched his older brother, whose tourney blade moved with calculated precision, grace, and efficiency.

Bran knew his older brother was a formidable figure in the Winterfell training yard, second only to Robb. And as he later learned from Arya, Jon did this deliberately to avoid angering their mother.

Jon raised his shield, blocking a blow from an axe from a youth slightly larger than Jon himself, dressed in red and white robes. He carried no shield, but a white bull's skull was depicted on his breastplate.

Honestly, Bran didn't know this house.

Jon raised his shield again, blocking another blow.

Then he quickly lunged and delivered a sweeping, powerful blow to the legs, knocking the large youth down and bringing his blade to his throat.

Clearly demanding surrender, and after a few seconds, Jon seemed to have received it, just in time, as one of the Freys began approaching Jon from behind.

Jon's blade met the youth's blade, parrying it. After several such encounters, Jon dodged one of the blows to the side and disarmed the Frey squire with one swift attack.

 As the number of warriors in the arena dwindled, the battle intensified and became more brutal.

Of the fifty men who began the battle, less than a dozen remained.

Now their armor was covered in dust and dirt, and the symbols on their shields were chipped and cracked from the blows of blades.

                                   Jon

"Surrender," Jon commanded, breathing heavily, a boy slightly younger than himself, wearing the colors of House Thorne, a house of the Crownlands.

The boy stared at Jon for a few seconds through the visor of his helm before growling, "I surrender."

Jon nodded slightly and removed his sword from the boy's throat.

At that moment, Jon was surprised to notice that he was the only one standing on the tourney field.

Jon raised the visor of his helm.

At that moment, a herald in the colorful colors of the royal house ran up to him.

He took his right hand and raised it aloft.

"And the winner of this squires' duel is Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King," he announced loudly.

 The stands roared with applause, and for a moment his gaze darted to where his family sat. Arya and Bran were looking at him with joy and awe, and even Sansa's blue eyes warmed slightly as she clapped for him. Jon noticed a quiet pride mingled with something akin to worry on his father's face.

"And your lad, Ned, is a true fighter!" King Robert roared with laughter from his pallet, addressing his father, who sat a little lower on the dais.

For a moment, Jon's gaze met Ser Barristan's, who nodded slightly in approval.

Jon removed his helm and stepped forward, bowing to the king before leaving the lists and heading for his tent.

He felt completely exhausted, tired, and drenched in sweat after several hours of dueling.

Even though he had chosen armor much lighter than the others in the duel.

 Which turned out to be a good idea, because if he'd chosen plate armor, as he'd been repeatedly advised, he'd be less agile and less quick to wield his tournament blade and shield.

John knew his greatest advantage was agility and speed, and he didn't want to give them up by donning plate armor.

Although there was a risk that if he were struck in the chest by an axe or a morgenstein, as several of his opponents were wielding today, he'd have a hard time, to say the least.

But the risk paid off.

He felt truly tired and exhausted, But also proud that he'd emerged victorious from his first tournament bout.

Chapter Text

                           Eddard

"I attended his funeral myself," Ser Barristan Selmy said, looking at the young knight's body lying on the table. "He had no one here; they say only his mother remains in the Vale."

Ned looked at the young face and thought that the boy had probably died because of him.

The Lannister bannerman, Ser Gregor, had killed him before Ned could speak to the young knight.

Was that just a coincidence? Or was it? Ned wondered, realizing he might never know.

"Hugh served as Jon Arryn's squire for four years," said Selmy. "The king knighted him in Jon Arryn's memory before he rode north. He desperately sought the title, but alas, he was not ready for it."

 "None of us are ever ready," Ned said.

"To be knighted?"

"To die," Ned said, meeting Barristan's gaze.

He then headed for the tent exit. Before leaving, Ned glanced once more at the boy, slightly older than Robb and Jon.

When a mother asks how her son died, and is told he fought in a tourney in honor of the Hand of the King. A senseless death, Ned thought bitterly.

Ser Barristan followed him.

"Who pairs the duels?" he asked Barristan.

"All knights draw straws," the Lord Commander replied.

Aha, well, who holds the straws? Ned thought.

"Life is a strange thing, Lord Stark." Barristan exhaled, walking with him through the camp toward the royal pavilion.

"It seems like yesterday, you and I, fighting on opposite sides at the Trident."

"And I'm glad, ser, that we didn't meet in that battle, just as my wife wasn't," Ned said with a slight smile. "That she wasn't left a widow."

"Hm," Barristan chuckled. "Now I understand where my squire gets his modesty. But still, you saw him yesterday."

Yes, Jon had indeed shown his best in the restalage yesterday, which couldn't help but fill Ned with paternal pride for the boy.

But that pride was quickly replaced by extreme nervousness when, at the feast last night, Robert, who hadn't paid much attention to Jon before, intrigued by his victory, called him to his table.

 Though Ned seemed to be acting as usual, every time Robert turned to Jon to joke or say something, Ned felt his heart sink and his palms sweat.

After all, if Robert had recognized Rhaegar's features in Jon, then by this morning, his nephew's head would have been hanging on the Red Keep's peak, while Ned's was on the next...

"How is Jon doing?" Ned asked, pushing away his dark thoughts. "Are you pleased with my son as your squire?"

A warm smile appeared on the old knight's face.

"He has all the makings of a fine and noble knight."

"I'm glad to hear it as a father, sir," Ned replied with a slight smile. "And I'm glad it's you who are mentoring him. My father always said you were one of the finest knights in the kingdom, and he never made a mistake in warfare." "Your father truly was a good man," Barristan breathed. "The Mad King committed a crime when..."

"This young man Hugh," Ned interrupted Barristan, not wanting to hear about Aerys. "He was a squire a few months ago, so where did he get the money for such armor?"

"Perhaps Lord Arryn left him some money," Barristan shrugged.

Ned chuckled, considering the possibility.

Yes, indeed, Jon could theoretically have left the boy some coins, and that would have been perfectly logical but some part of him told him otherwise, and that it wasn't just someone pitting this young, inexperienced lad against the ferocious, mad dog of Tywin Lannister.

"They say the king intends to take part in the tourney. Well, more precisely, in the general melee." Ser Barristan spoke, passing Ser Meryn's shield, which bore a deep scratch from Ser Loras's spear that had thrown the knight from his saddle.

"What?" Ned snapped and stopped in his tracks, thinking he'd misheard, when he realized he hadn't.

"That won't happen!" he said and resumed his pace.

"Hmm, King Robert always does what he wants," Barristan chuckled.

"I've already noticed that," Ned thought bitterly.

"If Robert had done what he wanted, he'd still be fighting at the Trident," Ned replied grimly, quickening his pace.

If Robert had indeed decided to participate in the tourneys, then Ned could have talked to him and talked him out of this foolish idea.

The king's pavilion was the largest in the camp, a structure of golden silk.

Ned noticed a warhammer standing near the entrance, next to a colossal shield adorned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

(So it's true after all, then) Ned thought and nodded to Ser Arys, who stood guard at the entrance to the royal tent.

"The carapace is too small for you, Your Grace," said a boy about the same age as his Sansa, with drooping golden locks, almost through tears.

"Seventh hell!" Robert cursed. "You're even as stupid as your cousin!"

Robert's blue eyes met his.

"Look at this oaf, Ned." The king glanced at the boy.

"He can't even dress a man in his own armor, and he calls himself a squire."

One glance at the king was enough for Ned to understand the cause of all the complications.

"It's not the boy's fault," he told the king. "You've simply gotten too fat."

"Grew too fat?" Robert muttered darkly. "Me? Is that how you speak to a king?"

There was a moment of silence in the pavilion before Robert's laughter broke it.

The young squire smiled nervously when the king turned to him.

"You heard the Hand's words. The King is too fat for his armor. I need armor stretchers immediately. Quickly! What are you waiting for?"

The boy hurried out of the tent and flew past Ned like an arrow.

 "Armor stretcher?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.

Robert burst into laughter and picked up his goblet from the table. "It won't get to him anytime soon."

"And we really need to come up with something like that," said Ned, keeping his arms crossed over his chest.

"Fine, fine, you'll see me in the lists today, I can still hold my hammer," said the king, taking a sip from his goblet.

"Robert..." Ned breathed. "You have no place on the battlefield. Let the young ones do that."

"And why not? Because I'm the king, and I don't care! I want to fight and draw blood."

"And who will fight back?" Ned asked, already knowing the answer.

"The one who can be the last..." said Robert.

"It will be you," Ned interrupted, his voice firm.

"There's no one in the Seven Kingdoms who can strike you." Although Ned himself was no longer so sure of his words.

First, a letter from Lysa Arryn arrived in Winterfell implicating the Lannisters in Jon's death.

Then, when Ned arrived in the capital, he learned that shortly before his death, his adoptive father had been investigating something with Stannis Baratheon, who had left the capital immediately after Jon's death and never returned, and apparently had no plans to do so anytime soon.

And Ser Hugh, a boy who had served Jon and might have known at least some details about his late master's investigation, was killed in the lists by the Mountain almost immediately after he sent Jory to him.

"So you're saying these cowards will simply hand me victory?" Robert frowned.

 "Yes."

The king shook his head and poured another glass from the flagon, handing it to Ned.

"Drink."

"I don't want it," Ned tried to protest.

"Drink, your king commands," Robert said, his voice brooking no argument.

Ned took the glass from Robert's hand and took a sip of the black ale, which was so strong it stung his eyes.

Robert sat down on the chair.

"Gods, I've grown too fat for my armor. How could I have fallen into such disgrace?" the king said with a hint of sadness in his voice.

Ned looked sadly at Robert, unsure of what to say.

"Your squire is a Lannister?" Ned asked him casually.

"Aye." Robert muttered, "Tyrek Lannister is one of the two squires my wife forced upon me. There's also his cousin, Lapsel or Lancel, something like that, but thankfully your son freed me of him yesterday, for about a week." Robert chuckled.

Ned remembered the boy with blond hair and armor emblazoned with the Lannister lion, whose helmet Jon had knocked off his head with his shield yesterday.

"They're swineherds in silk, not squires, and both of them! I wouldn't have hired them if it weren't for Cersei nagging me."

"And Jon Arryn forced her upon me," Robert said grimly.

"After all, he told me years ago that Cersei Lannister would be a good match for you, from a rich and powerful family." Robert shook his head.

 "If Ned, your sister, were a real bastard, I would never have married that golden-haired demon in a skirt."

It's unlikely you, Robert, would have married Lyanna, even if she were alive. Ned thought to himself, looking at the king he remembered from when he was still a carefree youth in the Vale.

"And he has her eyes," Robert said.

Ned paused, not understanding. "Who?"

Robert's blue eyes darted to him.

"Jon, your bastard, has the exact same eyes as Lyanna."

At Robert's words, Ned felt his blood run cold and his heart begin to pound so hard it threatened to burst from his chest.

"Jon is my son. He may be a Snow in name, but he's a Stark in every other way, and the same wolf blood flows through his veins as Lyanna." Ned shrugged, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible.

"Oh, yes!" Robert chuckled. "I saw him yesterday at the restale, so yes, I must say, he's got plenty of wolf blood! You know, Ned, I wish my Joffrey was like your son. All he does is run under his bitch of a mother's skirt."

There was genuine pain in Robert's voice.

Ned let out a quiet sigh of relief that Robert didn't seem to suspect anything.

"Prince Joffrey is just a boy," Ned replied awkwardly.

"Come on, Ned," the King sighed and shook his head. "Your sons have been training with swords since they were nine, as befits young men of their status." And my heir just holds the sword as a decoration... By the gods, I'm almost certain your youngest son, Bran, who only recently picked up a training sword, would disarm him with ease."

"Okay, enough already." Robert sighed heavily and rose from his seat. "Let's go watch the tourney. At least I'll smell someone else's blood if I can't participate properly."

Robert headed for the tent exit.

"Robert," Ned called out, glancing at his friend's huge, exposed belly.

Robert, in turn, burst into furious laughter.

"A fine example for his subjects, isn't it? Bow to your king, you bastards!" Robert said, laughing.

After breakfast with Robert, Ned accompanied the king to the battlefield.

Ned was glad that common sense had prevailed over Robert and the king had abandoned his foolish plan to participate in the tourney.

He glanced at the royal box where Robert sat, holding a horn of wine. To her husband's left sat Cersei, with her elaborate hairdo, and next to her sat Crown Prince Joffrey. On the other side of the king sat Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella.

Three Kingsguard stood guard over the royal family: Ser Barristan, Ser Mandon, and Ser Arys.

He pushed his way to where his family sat. Sansa, Arya, Bran, and even Jon were all sitting and watching the restale where the final bout of the jousting tournament was about to take place.

Ned sat between Arya and Jon as the trumpets blared, announcing the next pair of knights.

 "Knight of Flowers," Sansa breathed, looking toward the approaching youth.

The young knight's silver armor was polished to a mirror shine, embellished with grapevines and tiny blue forget-me-nots made of sapphires. A heavy cloak draped over his shoulders, woven from the same forget-me-nots, completed his look.

Boasting and nothing more... Ned thought to himself as a Tyrell knight rode up to their stand and handed his eldest daughter a red rose.

The gesture made Sansa's face turn almost the same shade as the rose itself, and a shy smile played across her face.

"Thank you, Ser Loras," she muttered.

The young knight nodded at her with a smile, though Ned didn't miss the boy's brown eyes darting slightly higher.

"Good luck," Jon said with a slight smirk.

"My opponent will need it," Laras snorted and grinned at Jon. "But thank you all the same, Jon."

The knight of flowers led his horse to the center of the lists.

"Good luck, the knight of flowers, will need it after all," Ned thought to himself as the boy's opponent rode out onto the restal.

 Ser Gregor Clegane, known as the Mountain Rider, sat atop his obsidian-black war mermen.It looked like a pony under Gregor.

Ned knew that this man had participated in the purge of the Targaryen children, and that it was Gregor who had smashed the infant Aegon Targaryen's head against the wall, and then raped his mother, the Dornish princess Elia, before slicing her in half.

The realization that little Aegon

was Jon's older brother made Ned's heart ache.

"Let Ser Gregor not hurt him," Sansa said, turning to him, her blue eyes filled with worry.

"These are tourney lances," he explained to his daughter. "They break when struck; they leave no wound."

However, Ned's memory flashed to the body of the young knight Hugh, lying on the table.

 "Don't worry, Sansa, you saw yesterday that Ser Laras is a fine rider," Jon told her soothingly.

Although Ned noticed Jon's gray eyes were fixed on a single point, when Ned followed his son's gaze, he cringed inwardly.

After all, Jon's gaze was fixed on Gregor, and Ned didn't like the way his son's eyes had darkened.

"A hundred golden dragons for the Mountain," Littlefinger announced loudly, addressing Renly as the competitors rode to the far ends of the arena to take their spears.

"Well, another hundred golden dragons certainly wouldn't hurt me." Renly laughed. "So it's a deal."

Yesterday, during the squire competition, the king's brother, to Ned's surprise, bet on his son to win.

The sound of horns rang out.

 And the rivals urged their horses toward each other. The Mountain's Horse broke into a heavy gallop, the Knight of Flowers' white mare flowing toward him like a stream of silk.

The Mountain thrust forward his massive shield and spear, simultaneously trying to rein in his unruly steed.

And at that moment, Loras Tyrell appeared beside him and, with a single blow from his tourney lance, knocked the Mountain from his saddle, his horse's weight collapsing as well.

Ned heard applause, cheers, whistles, exclamations, and excited whispers.

Renly laughed loudly. "Well, Littlefinger, I'm a hundred dragons richer today!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw Littlefinger's face twist as if he'd swallowed a lemon.

By then, Clegane had already clambered out from under his horse and, seething with rage, leaped to his feet.

 He tore off his helmet and slammed it on the ground.

His face darkened with anger, and his hair fell into his eyes.

"Sword!" he shouted furiously at his squire, and the boy ran up to him with the weapon.

The next moment, Gregor approached his horse and, with a single powerful blow, severed its head.

And at that moment, the heartbeat-inducing cries of joy turned to panicked shrieks.

The stallion's headless body fell to its knees and then sprawled across the restale.

And Gregor had already turned and stepped toward Ser Loras Tyrell, clutching his huge, bloody sword.

At that moment, Jon, who had been sitting next to him, climbed over the railing in the blink of an eye and headed toward the Mountain, already drawing his blade.

 At the last moment, he had to reach out and catch Arya before she ran after her foolish brother.

"Stop him! Stop him!" Ned shouted, unsure whether he was talking about Jon or Clegane.

Sansa was crying, Bran was paralyzed with fear, and Ned hugged his youngest daughter tightly, as she kicked, screamed, and cried.

Chapter Text

As the Mountain charged toward Loras with his enormous greatsword, Jon didn't know what was driving him at that moment, but in the blink of an eye, he vaulted over the railing of the stands and rushed forward, drawing his sword from its scabbard even before his lord father's voice called out behind him, ordering him to stop.

It all happened so quickly...

The Mountain had already unhorsed Loras and raised his bloodied sword for the killing blow.

Jon used all the strength he had to block the enraged Giant's blow with his blade.

Clegane took a half-step back and looked down at him.

Jon saw pure fury on his face, presumably because Jon's blade had prevented him from accomplishing what he had intended.

For a moment, Jon scolded himself for either stupidity or excessive bravery; he wasn't sure which of the two had led him to this situation.

 With a roar, Ser Gregor aimed his gigantic sword at him.

Jon moved automatically, dodging and parrying every blow, which only infuriated Gregor even more.

Now he understood why this man was called Tywin Lannister's mad dog behind his back.

If Jon hadn't blocked in time, the Mountain's enormous sword would have cut him in half.

"STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!" Robert thundered, striding onto the restale with three dozen Baratheon guards and four Kingsguard.

Jon stepped back and knelt, and Gregor's greatsword cut through the air a few dozen centimeters above his head.

Ser Gregor roared in anger, but looked at the king, surrounded by the Kingsguard and a dozen Baratheon knights and guards.

He threw his sword to the ground in rage and, without another word, growled as he stepped out of the restaleshche.

Pushing Ser Barristan out of the way.

"Let him go!" the king shouted to his men, and the crowd parted before the Mountain to make way for him.

Jon rose to his feet and watched him go when a hand fell on his shoulder.

"Thank you for saving my life, Jon!" said Loras.

Still breathing heavily, Jon simply nodded. "Anyone would have done the same in my place, so it's nothing."

"Of course it's not nothing!" Loras protested, then took Jon's hand and raised it into the air, declaring him the winner of the duel, causing the crowd in the stands to roar with applause.

"Jon," he heard Ser Barristan's familiar, firm voice.

 Jon looked up, his gray eyes meeting Barristan's blue.

Jon noticed a flicker of pride, mingled with something akin to worry, in the old knight's eyes.

"Kneel," Ser Barristan said, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

These words took Jon's breath away, his eyes widened, and he dropped to one knee.

"In the name of the Warrior, I call upon you to be brave." Barristan began, placing his sword on Jon's shoulder.

"In the name of the Father, I call upon you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I call upon you to defend the innocent."

"Rise, Ser Jon, knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon rose to his feet, dimly aware that he was now a knight.

He nodded to Barristan, who had been his mentor for three months.

"Ha! Ned, I told you your son has more than his share of wolf blood!" " Robert exclaimed, clapping his father on the back.

Lord Stark didn't even notice his friend; instead, his gray eyes stared unblinkingly at Jon.

And from the stony expression on his Lord Father's still pale face, Jon realized he was in for a serious conversation today.

"TELL ME, JON, IN THE NAME OF THE OLD AND NEW GODS, WHAT MADE YOU BEHAVE SO FOOLISHLY AND RECKLESSLY!?" Lord Stark asked, his tone cold and firm as they both sat in the Hand's solar.

Jon had never heard his lord father speak to him or any of his other children like that before.

"I don't know, frankly," Jon muttered, looking at his hands.

"I don't know? Is that your answer?" Lord Stark asked, leaning on his desk on Jon's other side. "Do you even realize how foolish that was?"

"I know, Father, perhaps it wasn't the wisest thing I did," Jon said. "I just... I just couldn't stand by and watch Ser Gregor kill Ser Loras just because he lost. It's ridiculous..."

"You know what else would be ridiculous, Jon?" Lord Stark interrupted. "If Gregor Clegane had cut you in half with his sword before my eyes and the eyes of your sisters and little brother!"

Jon looked up and glanced at his father's face.

And immediately, a pang of guilt struck him.

After all, Jon had never seen such shock and fear on the face of his father, the Lord of Winterfell, as was now present there.

"Please, Father, listen to me." Jon sighed. "I understand that perhaps I acted unwisely, going after Ser Gregor myself," he paused. "As I said, I simply couldn't stand by and watch the Mountain kill an unarmed man, and do nothing. You never taught me that, Father."

At Jon's last words, Lord Stark's gray eyes softened slightly, and he sighed heavily as he sat back down at his desk.

For a moment, silence fell between them. Jon looked at his lord father, who in turn stared at a single spot on the table.

"Forgive me if I disappointed you..." Jon said quietly.

"You did not disappoint me," Lord Stark interrupted, raising his gaze to him. "You... You frightened me, Jon."

"This morning I saw the body of that boy, Ser Hugh, who fought the Mountain yesterday," his father said sadly. "And a few hours later, what do I see? My son facing that raging beast without armor or even a shield."

"But I still stood," Jon retorted.

"And what if the king had not come out with his guards to stop the Mountain, or had slowed down?" Lord Stark asked him.

Jon winced at his father's words realizing that if King Robert hadn't stopped this madness, Jon would hardly have lasted long.

Their fight with Ser Gregor lasted a few minutes or less, but Jon felt his strength was already waning.

The Mountain was very fast for his gigantic size, impermissibly fast.

"I'd probably be dead by now," Jon said.

"I'm glad you at least understand that. You understand, Jon, that I promised your mother..." Lord Stark quickly fell silent.

And Jon looked at him intently.

His father had never mentioned his mother to him, though Jon had asked him more than once.

"My mother... who is she?" Jon asked Lord Stark in a hoarse voice expecting his father to at least say something about her now.

But unfortunately, the Lord of Winterfell, as usual, only shook his head. "Jon, when the time comes, I will definitely tell you about her, I promise."

And when will that time come? Jon thought angrily, but decided not to argue with his father again.

"Now go and prepare for tonight's feast," Lord Stark said, rising from his seat and walking to the window, letting Jon know that their conversation was over.

Jon also rose from his seat and headed for the door, his hand already touching the handle when he stopped and looked at his father again.

"My mother..."

"Jon, I already told you..."

"What did you promise her?" Jon asked him, "If you won't tell me where she is or who she is, then at least tell me you promised about me, please, Father."

"I promised her to protect you," Lord Stark said, looking over his shoulder.

Chapter Text

                            Margaery

Their wheelhouse moved painfully slowly through the city.

Margaery couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the smell wafting from the open windows.

"Must we keep the windows open?" she muttered.

Her older brother, Willas, sitting across from her, his eyes fixed on his book, answered.

"I'm afraid we have no choice, sister, unless you want to be baked in this wheelhouse like a pie in an oven, but I must admit the stench is truly unbearable."

Margaery didn't answer him, but she silently agreed that Willas was right. The city was terribly stuffy.

She could even say that King's Landing was much hotter than Highgardann, or at least that's what she felt.

Perhaps it was the smell? she suddenly thought.

 While her home smelled of roses and the various flowers that grew in the gardens of Highgarden, here in the capital, the stench of waste, rot, dirt, and even sewage permeated the air.

Actually, this wasn't her first visit here; Margaery had been to the capital several times before, accompanying her father and grandmother.

This was mainly due to the tourneys King Robert regularly held.

Her grandmother, and especially her father, hoped that she would gain Prince Joffrey's attention and become his future queen.

In fact, she was here, and right now, for precisely that reason.

Despite the fact that the betrothal between Prince Joffrey and Lady Sansa Stark, the daughter of the new Hand, had been publicly announced to the entire kingdom, her family still held out hope that she would marry Prince Joffrey and become the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

 That's why, a few weeks ago, a raven from Loras arrived in Highgardan with news that the new Hand wanted to learn more about the crown's debts to House Tyrell.

Her family saw this as their last chance for the prince to marry her instead of the Stark girl.

So they sent her here with Wylas, who would negotiate the crown's debts to Highgardan with the new Hand.

Meanwhile, Margaery herself would do everything possible to ingratiate herself with the prince.

Or at least try...

Frankly, she wasn't particularly pleased with being the wife of a man like the young prince.

After all, Margaery had already heard enough rumors about him, about his cruelty and sadism toward servants and animals.

But she couldn't deny the fact.

 What if she became a queen in the future, and her future children became princes and princesses, was slightly softened by the knowledge that her future husband would be like Joffrey in truth, only slightly.

When their wheelhouse finally entered the tall bronze gates of the Red Keep, she mentally breathed a sigh of relief, for their two-week journey had come to an end.

The wheelhouse stopped in the courtyard of the Red Keep. A few minutes later, the door to the wheelhouse opened, and Willas, slowly leaning on his cane and wincing slightly from the pain he was experiencing after the long journey , climbed out first, and Margaery followed.

Once in the courtyard, she quickly smoothed the skirts of her silk dress, then surveyed the courtyard, her eyes moving rapidly, not lingering in any one place for long.

She had to admit that the Red Keep was truly a castle worthy of a monarch.

 Then her gaze fell on a familiar figure at the foot of the steps, and a genuine smile appeared on Margaery's face.

"Welcome to the capital, dear family," Loras said to them, a broad smile on his face.

Margaery was the first to approach him and hug him tightly.

She loved all three of her brothers, but Loras was her closest brother, closest in age, in spirit, and even in appearance.

"We're glad to finally see you too, brother," she said, giggling.

"You look well, Loras," Willas said with a warm smile.

"As do you, Willas," Loras replied with a grin, hugging his eldest brother.

 "Frankly, I was surprised when I received the raven from my father with news that you both would be coming to the capital,"

"Loras, you yourself sent the raven with the message that the Lord Hand wished to learn more about the crown's debts to Highgardan," Willas said with a shrug, so that only she and Loras could hear.

"So, Grandmother decided it would be best for me to personally provide Lord Stark with receipts regarding this matter,"

Loras nodded understandingly.

"I hope the journey here wasn't too difficult?" he asked Willas.

"Tolerable," Willas replied curtly to his younger brother. "I'll rest, take a bath, and then be ready to meet the new Lord Hand."

"The servants have already prepared quarters for you in the guest wing, as have your escort. I'll show you." Loras invited them to follow him.

And so they did.

Walking along the castle corridor behind her brother, Margaery was noticeably oblivious to everything around her.

The Red Keep truly contrasted sharply with the city beyond its walls.

While King's Landing itself suffered from a strong stench, mostly poverty, overcrowding and, in the case of Flea Bottom, crime, the Red Keep was a paragon of luxury and wealth that could even eclipse Highgardan.

Although, in her opinion, her family's castle was far superior.

"Where is Lord Renly?" Willas asked, leaning on his cane. "I thought he would be greeting us with you."

"Lord Renly is currently in a Small Council meeting," Loras snorted. "Lord Stark is currently getting the hang of things, and that's why they have meetings almost every day now."

Willas chuckled and followed his brother silently for a while, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

"You've spoken with the new Hand, Loras?" he asked after a while.

"Aye," Loras nodded, looking at his brother.

"What can you say about him?" Willas inquired. "Are the rumors about him true? That he's a man of honor, loyal to duty, and very principled."

She listened to them with half an ear, still examining the castle's furnishings, hoping to spot Prince Joffrey.

Loras shrugged. "To be honest, I've only spoken with him once," his voice was barely above a whisper, "so I don't know him very well, though I must say the rumors are more than true."

"And Renly and Jon both confirm that the rumors about him are more than true."

"And who is Jon?" she asked, curious about the new name.

"Lord Eddard Stark's son. He's a bastard," Loras replied. "But he looks very much like his father, and he's already a knight."

"Oh. Wasn't he the one who saved you from the Mountain?" Willas asked.

Margaery froze for a moment.

Rumors of the incident with the Mountain and her brother reached her ears when she and Willas were already halfway to the capital.

Loras snorted. "If I had a sword..."

"Nothing would have changed, dear brother," she said in a sharp but gentle voice.

Margaery knew her brother was a truly fine fighter, but she had already seen Gregor Clegane a couple of times at tourneys in Oldtown and King's Landing.

And the realization that this monster was swinging his greatsword at her brother involuntarily sent a shudder through her.

She will need to express words of gratitude to this Sir John for standing up for her brother. She mentally noted to herself.

After Loras led her and Willas to their guest quarters,

The three of them talked for a while before Loras left, citing business, telling them to meet for a family dinner that evening.

Margaery assumed that this so-called business had more to do with Renly Baratheon than anything else.

Willas also told her he needed to rest and, leaning on his cane, walked to his room.

She, too, needed to rest from the journey and prepare herself properly, so she followed her brother's example.

She also entered her room and was overjoyed to see a bronze bathtub of warm water already standing in the middle of the room.

With the help of Bethany and Alyssa, two handmaidens who had come with her to King's Landing, she removed her green dress and lay down in the warm water.

 While Alyssa helped her wash her hair, another of her maids unpacked her things from the chests.

Only when the warm water in her bath had cooled sufficiently did Margaery climb out.

After drying herself with a towel and putting on her robe with Alyssa's help, she smiled warmly at the two girls and dismissed them.

Alone in her room, she sighed softly and walked to the mirror, carefully examining her reflection.

Margaery Tyrell knew perfectly well that she was very beautiful, and her reflection in the mirror confirmed it.

Thick, softly curling chestnut hair, even wet and slightly disheveled as it was now, looked quite beautiful, large brown eyes, flawless pale skin, and she slightly untied her robe, revealing her slender figure and small, shapely breasts.

She was certainly damn beautiful.

 But would her looks be enough to interest Prince Joffrey? And not just to interest him, but to persuade him to marry her? Instead of Sansa Stark, who was rumored to be quite beautiful and charming.

No, she was Margaery Tyrell, the only daughter of the Warden of the South, and her house was the second wealthiest in the Kingdom after House Lannister.

This fact alone made her the prime candidate for princess and future queen.

Knitting her robe again, she sat down at the small vanity table and picked up the comb that was already there. She began combing her chestnut locks to dry them faster.

About an hour later, when her hair was dry, she called her maids again to help her dress and get ready.

She donned a soft green dress that hugged her figure quite well, with a deep neckline and a slit in the back.

 Then she put on a necklace with a rose pendant the symbol of her house.

Looking in the mirror and remaining pleased with her appearance, she nodded slightly at her reflection.

Accompanied by Bethany, she set off for a walk through the Red Keep in hopes of seeing Prince Joffrey.

Margaery strolled leisurely through the castle corridors and emerged into the courtyard, intending to head to the gardens.

Especially since the sun's rays weren't baking the ground as fiercely as they had a couple of hours earlier.

As she passed the training yard, Margaery caught sight of her brother's familiar figure out of the corner of her eye.

She stopped and decided to watch her brother fight a young man about the same age as Loras, and perhaps even herself.

She knew well that her brother was very skilled with a sword, but the young man he was facing was no less skilled.

She caught herself staring at the young man, wondering if she'd seen him before.

The young man was thin but tall, with dark, curly hair and a long, handsome face.

 Perhaps he has the most beautiful face I've ever seen, she thought, and immediately felt her cheeks flush slightly.

What is this? Margaery thought, looking away from the sparring to the ground.

When she looked back at the fight, she saw her brother lunge, but the young man quickly turned to the right and dodged behind him. Loras, hoping to parry the young man's attack, swung his training sword sharply, but the young man deftly dodged the blow and slashed Loras across the side.

At this, her brother groaned in pain, and his training sword fell to the ground with a clatter.

Usually, on the rare occasions when her brother was defeated by someone, she felt nothing but irritation toward the person who dared to defeat her brother!

But now, to her great surprise, she felt nothing of the sort toward this particular young man.

 Even when he pressed the blunt edge of his blade to Loras's throat, demanding his surrender, with a slight smirk.

She felt no anger, not even the slightest irritation toward him.

Her first thought was only that the slight smirk made his face even more handsome.

Seven hells! She cursed silently What's wrong with me?

"I surrender," Loras said.

She detected a hint of irritation in Loras's voice, which, to her great surprise, quickly gave way to a smirk.

When he rose with the young man's help.

"A good fight," the dark-haired young man said to her brother.

"A good fight," Laras nodded in agreement. "So, it looks like we're at a draw today?"

"Yes, but what if you don't want to spar again?" the young man remarked.

 Loras clicked his tongue in response. "I already told you that my brother and sister have arrived in the capital, and I'll be dining with them tonight."

"It's still at least a few hours until evening," the young man remarked.

"Yes, but I still want to see someone," her brother said, clearly referring to the Lord of Storm's End.

Loras's head darted toward her, and he noticed her, a smile spreading across his face.

"Oh," Loras clapped the boy on the back. "Come, I want to introduce you to someone."

The dark-haired boy's head immediately darted toward her, and for the first time, she met his gaze.

Looking into the boy's dark gray eyes, she felt her face involuntarily begin to heat up.

"Have you been standing here long, sister?" Loras asked, stepping closer.

"Well, let's just say, dear brother, enough to see you lose," she replied with a carefree smile.

Loras only snorted and rolled his eyes, then glanced back.

"Jon, allow me to introduce you to my sister, the Rose of Highgardan, Margaery Tyrell."

"Sister," her brother addressed her. "And this is Jon... more precisely, Ser Jon, son of the new Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark."

 Margaery's breath caught slightly at the realization that it was this very young man who had stood up for her brother against that monster, Gregor Clegane.

"I'm glad to meet you, my lady. Your brother, Ser Loras, has spoken well of you," Jon said, a slight smile on his face.

Margaery's heart began to beat even faster, and the only thought in her head was that her face wouldn't be as red as she felt.

"Well, I hope my brother only spoke well of me, sir," she said, extending her hand.

Jon looked at her hand with some confusion for a moment before taking it in his own. "Don't worry about what your brother said about you, it was only good," he said, leaning down and lightly kissing her knuckles.

The touch of his lips on her skin made her breath catch even more, and when he released her hand, she felt a slight sadness.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?   she cursed silently once more, frankly still not understanding what was happening to her.

"I wanted to thank you for saving my brother's life, Ser Jon," Margaery said, trying to keep her voice as even as possible.

"There's nothing to it, my lady. Anyone would have done the same," he said, looking her in the eye.

"But it was your blade that prevented my brother from being cut in half."

"I merely held that monster until King Robert could stop the Mountain's madness," Jon shrugged slightly.

Although she didn't miss the flicker of something in his gray eyes at the mention of the knight, something dark, something akin to contempt.

"But House Tyrell remains deeply grateful to you, Ser Jon, and as a small reward, we would be delighted to invite you to dinner." The words flew out of her faster than she could process them.

Jon glanced at Loras.

"I don't mind, in principle." Her brother shrugged.

"Well... if that's the case," Jon began hesitantly, "then I'd be happy to dine with you, if Lord Willas doesn't mind, of course. Just tell me the day."

Chapter Text

                                Eddard

It was still early morning in King's Landing. But Ned was already awake. His thoughts were consumed by reflections on his failures.

He had been in King's Landing for a month and a half, and in all that time, he had found no evidence of the Lannisters' involvement in Jon Arryn's death.

 "Your predecessor, Lord Jon Arryn, was poisoned with a poison called Lysse's Tears."

The Spider told him this in his chambers, late in the evening on the last day of the tourney. Varys also said that Robert could face the same fate.

At that moment, Ned felt furious.

"I've been in King's Landing for a month now, and you're only telling me this now!"

"I honestly didn't know if I could trust you," the eunuch shrugged.

"Then we must warn Robert," Ned said, rising abruptly from his seat. "If you're telling the truth, even part of it, the king must know everything."

"And what evidence will we present to him, Lord Stark?" Varys spread his hands.

"Words alone won't suffice here; we need proof or witnesses. And the only witness who could have known anything was..."

"Sir Hugh," he muttered with irritation, realizing there was truth in Spider's words.

Almost two weeks have passed since that conversation.

And Ned truly didn't know what to do with the information Varys had given him.

Of course, he wanted to go straight to Robert and tell him everything he knew, tell him about Lysa's letter openly accusing the Lannisters of involvement in Jon's death, and tell him the information Spider had shared with him.

But Ned understood that the master of whispers was completely right.

Without evidence, his accusations were empty words; moreover, a false accusation against the queen was comparable to treason.

Especially since Spider had never directly told him that the Lannisters were to blame for Jon's poisoning, saying only that Lord Arryn had been killed by his enemies.

Although Ned was still certain that the Lannisters had killed Jon and wanted to kill Robert, he still didn't fully understand why they would do such a thing.

After all, the queen's family was already entrenched at court. Everywhere you looked in the Red Keep, Queen Cersei's golden-haired cousins strutted like peacocks, and there were as many lion banners as stag banners, not to mention the fact that the heir to the throne, Prince Joffrey, was more Lannister in appearance and character than Barathion.

Perhaps the Master of Ships could shed some light on Ned's investigation.

After all, Stannis was the one conducting some mysterious investigation with the late Lord Arryn just before his death.

But to Ned's great disappointment and annoyance, the Lord of Dragonstone decided not to appear in the capital. He even ignored his message to be there for the tourney.

Ned had always believed that Robert's middle brother was a diligent man.

With an irritated growl, he threw off the covers and sat down on the bed.

 As soon as he tried to push thoughts of Jon Arryn's murder and the Lannisters away, Ned's thoughts almost immediately turned to his son, and that was exactly how Ned saw Jon.

After Jon's foolish act, marching against the Mountain to defend the Knight of the Flowers.

Ser Barristan knighted Jon right there at the feast, and Ned was pleased.

Of course, he was angry at Jon for such a foolish act, to say the least, but still proud of him, because he was already a knight.

And when the initial shock wore off...

His first thought was that Jon could leave this snake pit called King's Landing and return to the North.

But then came the realization that Jon couldn't return to Winterfell while Ned himself was here.

He knew that Jon was willing to wear black, not least because of his relationship with Catelyn, who had made it clear she didn't want Jon in Winterfell after Ned's departure and believed the Wall would be a better place for him.

Even when she learned that Jon was leaving Winterfell after all, her joy quickly turned to anger when she learned that instead of the Wall, Jon was going south, as Ser Barristan's squire.

 "It should have been Bran. Our son, not your bastard." His wife lamented the night before his departure south.

Because of this, Ned even had a slight argument with her, saying that Jon was as much his son as Robb, Bran, and little Rickon.

Which, naturally, didn't please his wife.

"Perhaps if I'd told her about Jon's parentage, she wouldn't have been so harsh on him." Ned thought and immediately shook his head.

No, the secret of Jon's parentage was too dangerous to share, even with her.

But Ned still wanted Jon out of the capital, so much so that he even considered finding him a stronghold in the North, especially since Jon had a small fortune thanks to his victory in the squire competition. But in truth, Ned didn't yet know which stronghold would be suitable for Jon, and, more importantly, how to explain it to his wife.

 Then Ned thought about his other children, who were currently in the capital.

His eldest daughter was delighted with southern life, strolling in the gardens and mingling with other ladies at court, and even her style had changed. Sansa had begun wearing southern robes and braiding her hair like a southern woman.

And every time he saw Ned, he found time for dinner or lunch with his children.

All his eldest daughter's conversations centered on Prince Joffrey.

Yes, he understood that his eldest daughter was betrothed to the crown prince. But even so, Sansa's infatuation with the prince was more than necessary.

Which couldn't help but worry him.

Then he thought about his other daughter. Unlike Sansa, Arya was in no hurry to integrate into southern society.

 She spent most of her time with Bran and Jon, and her wolf, Nymeria, or with Syrio Forel, whom Ned hired to teach her the art of water dancing.

After all, his youngest daughter was determined to learn to wield Needle, the slender blade Jon not knowing it would be traveling south with them had given her as a parting gift.

When Ned accidentally saw this gift, his first thought was to forbid his daughter from practicing with it. But Ned knew his youngest daughter well; no amount of prohibition would stop her.

So he gave in and hired this instructor for her.

And then there was his son, Bran. He was spiritually closer to Arya than to Sansa, though everything about chivalry still impressed him, and he spent weeks begging Ned to give him as a squire to some knight.

 And after Jon's recent initiation, his son began mentioning it almost every day...

Ned exhaled and rose from his bed, walking across the cold floor to the bronze basin of water. After washing his face with cold water, he immediately went to his wardrobe to dress and begin a new day in this accursed city.

After a small breakfast of two fried eggs, a black pudding, and a slice of fresh, still-warm bread.

Ned Stark headed to his solar to begin his work of governing the kingdom.

Before the Small Council meeting today, he needed to meet with several lords, among whom he was most interested in the heir to Highgarden, who had arrived in the capital yesterday to present Ned with reports on the crown's debts to House Tyrell.

He stared at the ledger without blinking, or rather, at the numbers written there.

The crown's debt to House Tyrell was approximately nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons a huge amount of money.

Of course, the crown's debt to the Tyrells was nowhere near as large as the debt to House Lannister and the Iron Bank.

But still nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons was a huge amount of money.

Ned couldn't help but wonder if that money could have repaired all the keeps on the wall, and maybe even left over.

And where had Robert spent it? On feasts and tourneys, and even on whores.

Then it dawned on him that when he was reading the ledger Littlefinger had given him,

That the figures for the crown's debt to Highgardan were slightly different.

Ned couldn't remember the exact figures, but he believed the loan from House Tyrell was no more than nine hundred thousand gold dragons.

 He couldn't help but frown.

"Something wrong, Lord Stark?" Willas Tyrell asked him.

Ned shifted his gaze from the figures to the heir to Highgarden, who sat across the table.

Despite his previous assumptions, Ned was pleasantly surprised that Willas Tyrell, despite his culet (which he had received in an accident during his first tourney), seemed like a rather sensible young man, unlike his father.

 "It says here," Ned held up the ledger, "that the crown owes your house nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons."

Willas nodded slightly. "That's right, my lord. My family first loaned the crown three hundred thousand two years ago, then six months later, a second loan of two hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons. And the final third loan was made to the crown about seven months ago for four hundred thousand. The ledger you now hold in your hands clearly details this," he concluded.

Ned quickly scanned the figures on the sheet again and, seeing that the dates and loan amounts matched the words of the heir to Highgarden, he nodded slightly.

"That means the crown owes your house exactly nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons." After all, I don't see you lent the money at interest."

"So indeed, Lord Stark of House Tyrell lent the crown without any interest. We lent exactly nine hundred and fifty thousand, and the crown must repay us the same amount, no more," Lord Willas told him.

But so far, it looks like the crown is in no hurry to repay that amount. Ned thought to himself.

But he still wondered if this ledger stated that House Tyrell lent outnine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons, while the ledger the Master of Coin had given him listed exactly nine hundred thousand gold dragons. It seemed so, although Ned couldn't remember exactly, since he was paying more attention to the Lannister debt and the Iron Bank than to anything else.

And he regretted it now, because Littlefinger was currently holding Littlefinger's ledger.

"How long do you intend to stay in the capital, Lord Willas?" asked He.

"Well, to be honest, I was thinking of staying in King's Landing for a week or two, but if necessary, I can stay here longer, Lord Stark," the heir to Highgarden told him.

"Very well," Ned said, rising from his seat, "Then I think our meeting is over for today, especially since the Small Council meeting begins soon..."

"Yes, of course," Willas said, also rising from his seat. "Especially since I'm already a little late for dinner with my family and your... well, son, Ser Jon."

Ned froze for a moment at these words.

"Dinner?"

"Well, yes," Willas nodded slightly. "My sister, Lady Margaery, invited Ser Jon to dine with us yesterday as a small reward for what he did for our brother."

 Although, deep down, Ned wasn't particularly pleased with Jon's company with the Tyrells but it was just a simple dinner, that's all.

Especially since it was unlikely the younger Tyrells would recognize the Targaryen traits in Jon.

So Ned nodded slowly. "Then enjoy your dinner, Lord Willas."

Chapter Text

                                   Jon

After a chance encounter in the training yard with Loras's sister and her invitation to dine with their family, Jon hesitantly accepted.

The next day, he went to the chambers reserved for the Tyrell family at court.

To be honest, he was quite nervous about it. After all, this was the first time Jon had ever been invited anywhere in person.

Even though he had received the title of knight, in the eyes of most courtiers, he was still simply Eddard Stark's bastard.

He was quite close to Laras; one could say they had become friends. This was mainly due to their training together, which Jon spent almost every day with him.

Much to Jon's surprise, Laras's sister, Lady Margaery, didn't look down on him or treat him coldly, like the other southern ladies.

In fact, she had been quite sweet to him in their conversation yesterday.

 Although he supposed it was more likely because he'd helped Loras.

Their older brother, Willas Tyrell, was also supposed to be at today's meeting. Jon couldn't say anything about the heir to Highgardan, as he'd never seen him. But Laras had once mentioned him as an intelligent and educated man.

Perhaps Lord Willas wasn't too pleased by the thought of sitting at the same table with a bastard.

With such gloomy thoughts, Jon reached the Tyrells' chambers, where two House Tyrell guards stood. Upon seeing him, they immediately and wordlessly opened the door, ushering him in.

Loras saw him and greeted him with his usual smirk.

Also there was his sister, who also smiled sweetly at him.

 Though Jon tried to look her straight in the eye, his gaze involuntarily slid over everything else.

Jon couldn't, and frankly wouldn't, deny that Lady Margaery was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

And the outfit she was wearing now... Well, just like yesterday, when they first met, her dress was just as revealing.

Only instead of pale green, it was a soft blue and embroidered with golden roses.

I wonder if she always dresses like this? he thought involuntarily, kissing her hand.

"Where is Lord Willas?" Jon asked, taking his seat at the dinner table.

Although he wouldn't have been surprised if the heir to Highgarden hadn't been present.

"Our brother should be arriving soon," Lady Margaery replied, sitting across from him. "He's simply gone to meet your father."

Jon nodded slightly.

 And indeed, the aforementioned Willas Tyrell joined them just a few minutes later.

Despite his earlier misgivings, Willas Tyrell seemed quite polite to him.

He shook his hand and, just as Lady Margaery had done yesterday, thanked Jon for standing up for Loras before the Mountain.

And as soon as the heir to Highgarden sat down in his place opposite Loras, their dinner began.

                             Margaery

And the smile truly suits him, Margaery thought, glancing sideways at the young northerner sitting across from her.

He was discussing their sparring sessions with Loras in the Red Keep's training yard.

Her brother frowned slightly when the conversation turned to Jon's bestings, but immediately grinned like a child when talking about his own triumph over the northerner.

Margaery barely restrained herself from snorting as Loras began counting the times he had bested Jon on his fingers.

Men, isn't there anything else to discuss at the table? she thought.

But still, the longer Ser Jon sat at the table with them, the more relaxed he became.

 And the tense Jon Snow who had entered their guest quarters an hour ago seemed to have vanished, replaced by a different, more sociable young man.

In truth, unfortunately for her, he spent most of his time with her brothers, and exchanged only a few words with her.

Margaery was accustomed to the way, whenever she was in the company of the same sons of her father's lords, they all, without exception, glanced at her. She could clearly detect lust, or at least intense interest, in them.

And this was not surprising, given her own beauty and charm, as well as her family's wealth and status. She was, one might say, the most desirable bride on the continent, if you don't count Princess Myrcella.

So it had long since ceased to surprise her to see the glances of the lords' sons, and sometimes even the lords themselves, who were seeking a second wife. But they wisely hesitated to ask for her hand.

But Margaery was surprised that she saw nothing of the sort in the gaze of the young northerner who now sat across from her.

Even when his gaze briefly slid over her, so quickly it might have seemed as if nothing had happened.

And instead of the emotions she expected...

There was no lust, no desire, or even the slightest interest in his gray eyes.

Only a slight thoughtfulness.

Which, frankly, couldn't help but baffle her, considering she was currently wearing one of those revealing dresses which she'd taken with her to the capital to catch Prince Joffrey's eye.

But the man sitting across from her didn't seem to be paying much attention to her attire.

She felt a slight twinge of disappointment, though she didn't understand why.

He wasn't looking at her the way she wanted him to.

Perhaps he prefers men to women, like Laras the thought flashed through her mind, but Margaery immediately dismissed it.

"Most northerners are sullen and cold as ice." Margaery remembered something her grandmother had once said.

Margaery herself hadn't seen many northerners, so she was inclined to agree with her grandmother, as the Queen of Thorns was the most sensible and insightful person Margaery had ever known.

 But looking at the young man across from her, Margaery could tell her grandmother might be mistaken.

Thinking of her grandmother made her wonder what the Queen of Thorns would say if she knew what was going on in her head.

Although Margaery knew perfectly well what she'd said.

"Silly girl, you need to focus on becoming a future queen and elevating our family. So put that northern bastard out of your mind and focus on the prince." Something her grandmother would probably say.

Most of her agreed with that, but still...

"Ser Jon," she finally decided to speak to the man across from her. "Has my brother told you about Highgarden?"

"Yes, Lady Margaery," he nodded at her with a polite smile.

She smiled back, feeling her heart begin to beat slightly faster.

"Then please tell us about Winterfell," she said. "I think I read about it once, but I still want to hear about it, about the man who lived there."

For a moment, surprise flickered in his gray eyes, clearly in response to her interest. Even Loras, sitting next to Jon, also raised an eyebrow.

"Well... If you're truly interested, as you probably already know, Winterfell is quite an old castle," Ser Jon began. "It was built by the legendary Brandon the Builder, who, according to legend, was aided by giants."

"Giants?" Loras chuckled.

"Yes, yes, I know, frankly, it sounds ridiculous, and I can even repent that my brother Robb and I believed that as children," Jon replied with a laugh.

"Well, so..." His gaze darted to her again as he continued. "Winterfell is built on natural hot springs, which keeps the castle warm inside, even when a blizzard rages outside." Thanks to the same hot springs that also warm our greenhouses, fruits, vegetables, and flowers grow there all year round...

"What flowers?" she asked, now genuinely interested.

"My sister is very keen on gardening," Willas explained to Jon.

"She can spend hours in the garden, planting new seedlings," Laras added with a grin.

Margaery blushed slightly and glanced at her brother to silence him.

To be honest, she truly enjoyed spending time in the gardens of Highgardan. And in truth, she enjoyed helping tend the gardens. But Jon didn't need to know that.

"I see," Ser Jon said, and she didn't miss the surprise in his voice. "Well, there are all sorts of flowers there. Honestly, I'm not that interested in them. It's more my sister Sansa's thing; she loved spending time in the greenhouses. Although..."

Jon paused for a moment before continuing.

"Although, in my opinion, winter roses are the most beautiful flowers growing in the Winterfell greenhouses."

"Winter Roses?" she asked.

Jon nodded slightly. "Yes, it's a little smaller than the roses that grow here in the south, and it's blue in color. It also has a rather pleasant scent."

"What you described to me, sir, does sound quite wonderful," Margaery said with a warm smile.

"Indeed," Jon replied.

"Now let's return to Winterfell." I know from Loras that Highgarden is built of white marble, and Winterfell of gray stone..."

Margaery listened attentively as Jon described Winterfell, a warm smile playing on his lips as he did so.

A smile that made her heart flutter faster.

Chapter Text

                               Eddard

Lord Stark, I will be in the capital soon, and I have a very serious matter to discuss with you.

                                            Stannis Barathion.

Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships.

Ned's gray eyes scanned the scroll again, bearing the message from the king's middle brother, which had arrived the night before last.

Hurry up already, Ned thought, rising from his seat and walking to the window, clasping his hands behind his back.

Barathion had finally decided to appear in the capital after almost two moons.

And Ned guessed that this decision was probably more connected to the fact that Lord Dragonstone had probably heard rumors that Ned wanted to find another Master of Ships.

He had even already discussed this with the king, arguing that since Stannis didn't want to appear in the capital, the small council would need a new Master of Ships.

 And to Ned's great surprise, Robert didn't even argue with him about it, merely brushed it off.

"Ned Stark, I made you my Hand to rule in my name, so do it, do whatever you see fit."

Ned sighed wearily.

Robert really wasn't a very good king, to say the least.

Yes, he wasn't a bad man, and an excellent warrior and general, and Ned still considered him a friend, but he had to admit that Robert was simply a terrible ruler.

The king had no interest in ruling at all; as he'd learned, the work of governing the kingdom was largely carried out by the late Jon Arryn and his middle brother, the Lord of Dragonstone, while the rest of the Small Council, in Ned's view, were completely useless.

Varys, Pycelle, Littlefinger. He disliked those three the most.

 Although Ned had to admit that if, upon his arrival in King's Landing, he considered the eunuch the most unpleasant of the trio, now the Spider was third.

The second was Pycelle, and while he hadn't done anything personally to harm Ned, his loyalty to the queen, or rather her father, automatically made the Grand Maester less than pleasant at court.

And Ned still considered the master of coin the most unpleasant person on the small council.

And it wasn't even his caustic references to his childhood spent with his wife.

Ned wasn't as offended by this as he had been the first time, although it still bothered him.

No, the point was that Ned, though not entirely certain, was certain that Littlefinger was up to something with the royal treasury.

 After the heir to Highgardan provided him with a report on the loans, Ned the very next day demanded Littlefinger give him the crown's loan ledger again.

And he brought it to Ned that same day. But now the figures matched those in the ledger Tyrell had given him the day before.

While Ned was certain the figures differed, unfortunately, he wasn't so sure, as he was more concerned with the crown's debt to the lions and the Iron Bank.

Ned nevertheless pointed out the discrepancy in the figures to Littlefinger.

"It seems that when I last borrowed your ledger, Lord Baelish, the figures for the crown's debt to House Tyrell were slightly different from what's listed now," Ned said dryly, looking at the Master of Coin sitting across from him.

"Stark, I believe?" Littlefinger narrowed his eyes slightly, but then grinned. "So what figures did you think they listed last time? After all, as the Master of Coin, the man who oversees all the crown's finances, I can tell you with certainty that the figure listed was nine hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons," he concluded.

Although Ned could have sworn that, despite his casual tone, he heard a hint of tension in Littlefinger's voice.

But unfortunately, he truly had no retort to the Master of Coin, so he simply pursed his lips in displeasure.

"Lord Baelish, I want all the documentation and reports on the treasury and its debts on my desk by the end of the week," Ned said. letting him go.

"It will be done,  Right Hand," Littlefinger replied with a grin, standing up and leaving his solarium.

He had had this conversation with Littlefinger a week ago, and Littlefinger still wasn't in a hurry to give him the report.

"Enter," he called out, hearing a knock on the door.

"Lord Stark, Lord Baelish, wishes to see you," Harven, one of his guards, told him.

Ned raised an eyebrow in surprise, still looking out the window.

"Let him in," Ned said, taking one last look at the city spread out below, the stench of which reached his nose.

How I miss the northern air, he thought, sitting down at his desk.

Littlefinger stepped into his solar with an irritating smirk on his face.

"Lord Baelish, I hope the reason for your visit is to deliver the account books, which I've been waiting for almost a week," Ned said coldly.

Littlefinger's smile only widened, oblivious to his tone.

"Oh, yes, don't worry, Lord Stark, as you requested, I've compiled the entire accounting and am ready to hand it over to you."

"So where is it all?" Ned raised an eyebrow. "I don't see any books in your hands, Lord Baelish."

"You are quite an astute man," Littlefinger quipped. "All the documentation has been compiled and is in my solarium at one of my establishments."

Ned couldn't help but wince at the master's words over the coin.

"If I remember correctly, I told you to bring the reports to my desk by the end of the week, not store them in your brothels," Ned muttered through clenched teeth.

Littlefinger merely clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes slightly.

Which made Ned's fists involuntarily press against the arms of his chair.

 Littlefinger is thinking of playing with me? He thought irritably, glaring at the master of the coin.

The master of the coin, for his part, remained unperturbed.

"So they will," Littlefinger replied casually. "It's just that, as you understand, there's quite a lot of paper there, so if you want, you can go and get it right now."

"Lord Baelish, I think you're forgetting yourself..." He began, irritation already evident in his voice.

But Littlefinger interrupted him.

"And you'll meet just the one man there who greatly interested the late Jon Arryn right before his death."

Ned looked at him, dumbfounded.

Does Littlefinger really know something? How?

As if reading his thoughts, the master of the coin chuckled.

"I believe I've told you at least several times that I grew up with your beautiful wife and her younger brother and sister in the same castle, Lord Stark." 

Then Baelish immediately grew serious.

"So I was quite friendly with the widow Arryn, and before leaving for the Vale, Lysa told me that her husband had been murdered at the instigation of a very influential house, and that before that, he had been conducting some kind of investigation with Stannism Baratheon."

Ned looked at Baelish, dumbfounded.

"And what kind of investigation was Jon conducting?"

"I can't know, Lord Stark, since Lady Lysa didn't tell me anything, because it seems she didn't know herself." Baelish shrugged. "But I can say with certainty that on the day of his death, Jon Arryn met with a certain person, and they had a long conversation. I thought perhaps you wanted to know what they discussed in person?"

"I've been in the capital for two months, and you're only telling me this now!" Ned hissed through his teeth, feeling rage flaring within him.

 "Yes, because I didn't trust you before," Littlefinger answered curtly.

Then he clicked his tongue, and that infuriating grin returned to his face. "After all, you know as well as I do that the capital is full of liars and hypocrites."

"Then why should I believe you?" Ned asked.

"I'm not asking you to believe me, Stark. I simply shared information with you that might interest you. It's up to you to decide whether to believe me or not. Honestly, it doesn't matter," Littlefinger said, rising from his seat.

He rode silently on his horse through the city streets, back to the Red Keep.

Jory and four of his guardsmen followed close behind.

Ned pondered what he had learned.

The person Littlefinger said Jon Arryn had met not long before his death, much to Ned's surprise, turned out to be one of Baelish's maids.

A young, pretty blonde, but Jon Arryn was interested not in her but in her child.

"Does she look like him, my Lord?" the girl asked him, cradling the baby in her arms. "His dark hair, his nose, his blue eyes."

"Yes," Ned said, looking at the baby.

Mentally agreeing that the girl in the young mother's arms did indeed have distinctly Barathion features.

"Please tell him, my Lord," the girl turned her gaze from her child to Ned, "if it pleases you, my Lord, how beautiful she is."

"Good."

"And tell him I haven't been with anyone, I swear, my Lord, and I don't need any adornment, only him, the King, has always been kind to me."

"When Jon Arryn visited you, what did he want?" Ned asked.

"He came to see that the baby was healthy and happy," the blonde quickly said, looking at her child.

"Well, I think she's quite healthy," Ned replied, looking at the black-haired, blue-eyed girl. "And not in "Whatever he won't need," he promised.

Ned still couldn't understand why Jon Arryn was interested in Robert's bastard.

And that the girl was indeed the king's child, Ned himself had no doubt.

Barra—that was the girl's name—looked very much like another baby, Maia, another of Robert's illegitimate daughters, whom he had fathered in the Vale before the rebellion.

Ned remembered visiting her with Robert a couple of times before his friend had tired of fatherhood.

But that still didn't explain Jon Arryn's interest in the baby.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Ned rode through the gates of the Red Keep.

Dismounting from his horse and handing the reins to the groom, Ned turned to his guards.

"Jory, see that all the documents Lord Baelish gave us are moved to my office," Ned said, glancing quickly at the four rather large travel bags strapped to the horse.

And he sighed mentally, because he would need to study all of this.

"Don't worry, my Lord, everything will be taken care of," the captain of his guard replied.

Ned nodded and headed for the Tower of the Hand, but was stopped on the way by the royal steward.

"Lord Stark, His Grace, wishes to see you urgently," the steward said, bowing slightly.

Ned raised an eyebrow.

"Something urgent, probably—Robert never calls me without reason," he thought, apparently out loud.

Because the steward, slightly embarrassed, immediately said,

"Something like that, Lord Stark, the wreckage of Lord Stannis's ship Fury has washed ashore not far from the capital."

Ned looked at him in surprise.

Chapter Text

                            Barristan

Almost two weeks had passed since Barristan heard the shocking news that the wreckage of Lord Stannis's ship had washed ashore near the capital's walls.

And if at first anyone had harbored any hope that Stannis might be alive, then a raven flew from Dragonstone and confirmed that King Robert's middle brother was indeed on his ship, which had set sail from his island port the day before the wreckage washed ashore near the city walls.

The only thing that could be said was that Lord Stannis was dead, as were his lady wife and their daughter, whom the Lord of Dragonstone had apparently decided to take with him.

And with the news that the king's brother, his wife, and their daughter had perished, various theories began to form at court about what could have happened.

Some said it was simply an accident and Stannis's ship had sunk somehow.

 Others, however, said that the king's middle brother's ship had been helped to sink.

Barristan himself initially favored the second theory.

After all, on the day the wreckage was found, or the day before, there had been no storm, let alone anything resembling one; the sea had been completely calm.

And after the wreckage of the Wrath was found a few days later, the body of a Baratheon soldier washed up on the shore not far from there.

And the arrow in his throat only confirmed that the king's brother's ship had been helped to sink.

As soon as this fact became clear, the question immediately arose: who exactly had decided to commit such a crime?

After all, Stannis Barathion was the king's brother and master of ships.

Barristan had already heard rumors that perhaps these were some desperate pirates who decided to try their luck in the hope that the ship might contain something valuable. 

But he found it hard to believe, because the Fury was no ordinary caravel, but a true war galley.

Barristan himself had seen this ship at anchor in King's Landing many times.

An impressive three-decked galley, with three hundred oars and a rather powerful armament consisting of several scorpions mounted on the bow and stern.

So even if we were to assume that some pirate vessel had somehow managed to come so close to the shores of King's Landing and Dragonstone, where the royal fleet—the largest navy in Westeros—was based,

Which was highly unlikely and illogical.

Then his crew and captain would think twice before robbing a ship like the  Fury.

And it seemed that King Robert and his Hand, Lord Stark, were of the same opinion.

Robert even attended the Small Council meeting where the death of Lord Dragonstone was discussed, the first since the death of the previous Hand, Jon Arryn.

And judging by the fury that burned in Robert's blue eyes at that moment,

She spoke only of how desperately he wanted to know, find, and punish those responsible for Stannis's death.

Although it was no secret that there was no great brotherly love between Robert and Stannis.

But the fact that someone dared to attack and kill the king's brother, as well as his daughter and wife, who were on a ship under the king's sails...

Could indicate that someone had decided to challenge the authority of House Baratheon.

And that is precisely why His Grace initially believed that it was the fault of those damned dragon lovers, as Robert constantly called the Lords of the Narrow Sea.

But Lord Stark managed to convince the king that the involvement of the vassal lords of Dragonstone was unlikely.

 The point was, what was the point of doing this now, especially knowing the potential retribution?

Although Robert was clearly unconvinced, he nevertheless decided to listen to his Hand's advice.

The Grand Maester suggested that the ironborn might have had a hand in this.

But Lord Stark and Lord Varys also said that was unlikely.

After all, even if Balon Greyjoy hadn't accepted his defeat in the rebellion, he was unlikely to risk the life of his only son and heir, who was now Lord Stark's prisoner. Not to mention that Varys's birds would certainly have reported to him if even a single ship with a golden kraken on its sails had been spotted.

Also, at that meeting, there was speculation that it might have been pirates from the Steps or even the Three Sisters.

 After half an hour of discussing who might have had a hand in the death of the king's middle brother, the king himself drank an entire crystal decanter of Dornish red and addressed the Spider.

"Varys, I don't give a damn, but I want your birds to find those damned bastards for me! And the sooner the better, you understand me, Spider!"

"My birds will do everything to find those responsible for the death of Lord Stannis and his family as soon as possible, my king." The eunuch replied in a velvety voice.

Hearing this answer, Robert nodded and rose from his seat, leaving the Small Council meeting, muttering angrily under his breath.

Almost a week had passed since that meeting, and as Barristan himself knew, the Spider had still not managed to find anything significant on the matter.

Ser Barristan emerged from White Sword Tower and headed for Maegor's Holdfast, where the royal family's chambers were located. His time had come to replace Ser Boros Blount as guard outside the royal chambers.

As he passed through the courtyard of the Red Keep, past the Tower of the Hand, Barristan caught a glimpse of two female figures emerging from it. He recognized one as Lady Sansa Stark and the other as Lady Margaery Tyrell. The two young ladies were increasingly seen in each other's company.

Approaching the king's chambers, Barristan was surprised to discover that Jaime Lannister was standing guard outside the door instead of Ser Boros Blount.

As he approached, Barristan heard the sound of groans coming from behind the massive oak doors of the royal chambers.

 He couldn't help but frown slightly.

Jaime's green eyes met Barristan's blue ones, and the younger manstraightened and nodded slightly.

"Ser Barristan," Lannister greeted him lightly. "Come to relieve me as our king's guard."

Barristan nodded slightly.

"I didn't know you, Ser Jaime, were on duty outside the king's chambers today. I thought only I and Ser Boros were guarding His Grace today."

"The king was very insistent that I relieve Ser Boros today," Jaime replied with a slight smirk that, by the way, didn't reach his eyes.

Barristan's expression remained completely unperturbed as he replied, "Understood."

Just then, the doors to the king's chambers opened, and three half-dressed women ran out, giggling and smiling.

This made Lannister roll his eyes.

He reached for the doorknob to close the door when King Robert's voice was heard from within the chambers.

"Barristan, come in here!" the king thundered, noticing him in the doorway. 

Barristan glanced quickly at Ser Jaime. "Stay on guard for now," he said, and entered the royal chambers.

The air inside was thick with wine and the scent of recent sex.

"Your Grace," Barristan bowed.

"Well, did the Spider find anything? Any news on who dared kill my brother?" Robert asked impatiently, pulling up his breeches and sitting down at his massive oak desk.

"None, unfortunately, Your Grace," Barristan replied.

"That damned eunuch is absolutely useless!" Robert roared and slammed his massive fist down on the table.

"I want that eunuch to move! I want the bastards who dared attack my brother's ship found and punished!" the king continued loudly. "I want Varys to do his job quickly! Tell him that, Barristan! That his king commands him to move!"

The king's face was flushed with a mixture of anger and melancholy as he reached up and poured himself a goblet of wine before draining it completely and slamming it down on the table next to him.

 "Very well, Your Grace," Barristan finally replied, fixing his gaze on the king.

"Aye," Robert muttered and poured himself another cup of wine.

Silence fell over the room for a moment.

"We never got along," Robert finally spoke in a calmer tone. "And no wonder, for we were so different, but he was still my brother..."

Barristan nodded silently, unsure of what to say.

"And when I gave Storm's End to Renly instead of him, our relationship became even worse than before." Robert continued. "You see, he considered it an insult," Robert chuckled.

In principle, that's what it was, Barristan thought, but didn't say it out loud. Instead, he answered.

"Your late brother was a stern man, but completely loyal to you, Your Grace."

"I know," Robert waved his hand dismissively and took a long sip of wine.

For a moment, silence fell over the chambers.

Barristan stood before the king, who sat and looked at the goblet of wine in his hands.

"Those weren't insults, they were punishments," Robert muttered quietly under his breath, so quietly that Barristan could barely hear him.

"Your Grace?"

Robert's blue eyes fixed on him.

"Those were not insults, but punishments," Robert said louder. "When I heard that the Mad King's children had escaped from under Stannis's nose to the Free Cities, I was so angry with him for it that I gave the title of Storm's End to Renly instead of him."

Robert took another long sip from his goblet, draining it completely, and continued.

 "And I gave him Dragonstone because he let those damned Targaryens slip away, and so he could personally keep an eye on those dragon-loving Velaryons, Bar-Emmons and Celtigars, an. After all, I'm sure those houses will want to support the Targaryens as soon as they have the chance, and Stannis, because of his misdeed, had to keep them in check." Robert finished and reached over to pour himself another goblet.

"You were right, Barristan, about Stannis being loyal to me. He was a damned hypocrite who even proposed closing all the brothels in the capital! But he was still completely loyal to me, and now he's gone," the king said with melancholy in his voice. His shoulders slumped slightly.

"Your Grace, as I told you before, I'm so sorry for your loss," Barristan said.

 "Aha," Robert nodded. "Yes, I know."

For a moment, Barristan shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, bracing himself to ask the king a question that couldn't help but interest him.

"Your Grace, I understand that the Lord Hand has already found a man for the post of Master of Ships," Barristan said, referring to Lord Wyman Manderly, for whom Stark himself had vouched.

"But if I may inquire, what are your plans for Dragonstone? After all, with the death of Lord Stannis and his only daughter, the castle is essentially lordless, Your Grace," Barristan said, trying to keep his voice even.

"Yes, my trembling wife, Queen Cersei, damn her! has already come to me with an offer to give the castle to one of her many cousins," Robert snorted and looked at Barristan. "And what?"

Barristan straightened up before saying what he wanted to say.

 "Your Grace, as you know, Dragonstone is a strategic stronghold. Whoever controls the island and the fortress on it controls the sea routes to the capital, so the new lord must be a man loyal to House Baratheon."

Robert nodded slightly, clearly agreeing.

"And if you allow me, I can suggest a possible candidate for the castle," Barristan said, not taking his eyes off Robert.

"So who is this?" the king asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Ser Jon Snow, Your Grace," Barristan replied, and continued, "As you know, he is the son, the nephew, of your most trusted friend and Hand of the Lords, Eddard. He may be a bastard, but he has as much honor and loyalty as Lord Stark himself..."

Barristan wanted to continue, but to his great surprise, the king cut him off.

"Exactly!" A smile appeared on Robert's face. "Why didn't I think of this before? Ned's son will surely be loyal to me!"

"Kingslayer!" Robert shouted.

The door opened slightly, and Ser Jaime's figure appeared in the doorway.

"Your..."

"Go to the Tower of the Hand immediately and call Lord Stark for me. Tell him I have urgent business with him!"

Chapter Text

                                 Eddard

"Robert, I don't think that's a good idea," Ned said after hearing the king's proposal.

Honestly, when the Kingslayer came to him in the solar and told him Robert had urgent business, Ned couldn't even imagine what it was.

"And why?" the king asked him, raising one eyebrow slightly. "After my brother's murder, Dragonstone needs a new lord, and your bastard son would suit me just fine."

"But Jon isn't ready to rule a stronghold, especially one like Dragonstone, he doesn't even know anything about the sea," Ned said, frowning.

Frankly, he wasn't particularly fond of the king's idea.

"No problem, I think he'll learn. You, remember, weren't ready to accept the responsibilities of Warden of the North either."

Ned winced at Robert's words.

 Yes, it's true that at first Ned wasn't ready to accept the title of Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, as that was supposed to be Brandon's, his older brother's apprenticeship while Ned himself was being raised in the Vale.

 But Aerys killed Brandon and their father on the same day, and Ned was forced to assume the reins of power in the North and lead the Northern army to avenge the death of his older brother and father and reclaim his sister whom he believed to have been kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar until the end of the war.

"Ned, please forgive me... Rhaegar and I didn't know things would turn out this way, I didn't want this to happen to Father and Brandon..." Tears of guilt streamed from Lyanna's gray eyes as she tried to explain to him in her voice, weakened by childbirth.

"Hush, hush, Lyya, calm down," Ned said to her then, feeling tears welling up in his eyes at the sight before him.

Lyanna, his sister, whom Ned always remembered as an energetic and cheerful girl, lay on a bloody bed, her skin glistening with sweat.

And the room The room they were in was permeated with the iron scent of blood and the sweet scent of roses.

Robert's voice pulled him out of the sudden flood of dark memories.

"I don't understand what's the problem, Ned? You love this boy just like all your other lawful children," Robert asked him, looking at him questioningly.

Ned met Robert's gaze.

And Robert, in turn, continued:"I will legitimize him and make him Lord of my own holdings, which, mind you, are not in the North, so I don't think Cat will be too worried about that. And in return, I will gain a loyal Lord in your son." the king finished.

Ned sighed heavily. He'd thought about it himself more than once, especially recently.

To give Jon a fortress so he could leave this snake pit. But Ned wanted the fortress in the north, away from prying eyes, and not here in the south, half a day's boat ride from the capital.

Too far from the North and too close to Robert and the Lannisters and, more importantly, Jon would be among people who remembered Prince Rhaegar, people who might recognize his features in Jon.

"I think the vassal lords of Dragonstone, like the Celtigars and the Velaryons, won't be too pleased that their new lord is a man from the North, and not even a legitimate one," Ned said, trying to dissuade Robert.

Robert snorted, "Those damned dragon lovers should actually be thanking me for not taking everything from them for their damned loyalty to these things Targaryen."

Ned Stark saw the determination reflected in Robert's blue eyes.

And so he realized with bitterness that no matter what arguments he offered Robert about the folly of this undertaking, it would all be completely in vain.

Ned sighed heavily, "I'll think about it well..." Before he could finish, the large oak doors of the royal chambers opened and the steward entered.

"Ser Jon Snow is waiting outside, Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly.

"Let him in," Robert waved, completely ignoring Ned's frown.

Damn you, Robert Baratheon, Ned cursed silently, realizing his friend was once again confronting him with a fait accompli.

                                    Jon

Jon was sitting in the dining hall of the Tower of the Hand, breaking his fast and conversing with Dean and Eric, two of his lord father's guards, when the royal steward found him and told him that His Grace King Robert urgently desired to see him.

Which, of course, surprised him and even worried him a little.

Why would a king want to see me? Jon thought all the way from the Tower of the Hand to Maegor's Holdfast.

Approaching the large oak doors of the royal chambers with the royal steward, Jon saw Ser Barristan standing guard.

He nodded slightly to the knight who had been his mentor for several months before entering the chambers.

Jon's anxiety eased momentarily, before rising again when he saw his father inside the royal chambers, frowning at the king seated at his table.

 "Your Grace," Jon said, bowing.

"Come closer, boy," the king said.

Jon moved closer to the table and stood next to his father, who cast him a worried glance.

This made Jon frown slightly.

"You know my brother is dead," Robert began. "Killed by some beasts, he and his wife and daughter."

Of course Jon knew this, as the entire court had been buzzing about the tragic death of the king's middle brother for weeks.

"Yes, Your Grace, accept my condolences," Jon replied sincerely, as he himself hadn't even wanted to imagine something like this happening to his brothers.

The king nodded and continued. "After his death and the death of his daughter, Shireen, Dragonstone was left without a lord, and I have decided that you will receive this castle," said Robert Baratheon.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but... but I don't understand?" Jon said, feeling a twinge in his voice. The king's words took his breath away.

"What's so unclear about that, boy? I'm making you a Lord of Dragonstone." The king grinned at him, picked up a scroll of parchment from the table, and handed it to him.

Chapter Text

                               Jon

As Jon stepped out the door of the royal chambers, leaving his father and the king alone, he felt his heart pounding in his chest. The scroll trembled in his hands; his fingers barely obeyed.

                   By royal decree.

Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, is appointed the new Lord of Dragonstone, a title that will belong to his descendants.

The new Lord Jon may, with his father's permission, bear his surname—or choose a new one.

Signed:

Robert of House Barathion,

King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men,

Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.)

Jon stared at the lines written on the parchment, at the heavy seal of the king.

He was in shock.

 In his wildest childhood dreams—at Bran's age, or even younger—he'd imagined a castle, a title, honor... but then he realized the place bastards had in this world.

And now—here he was. Lord of his own castle.

He even wanted to pinch himself, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

A hand touched his shoulder. Jon flinched, turned, and saw Ser Barristan's blue eyes.

"Are you all right, Jon?" the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard asked.

"Uh... yes. I'm fine, ser," he managed, his throat dry.

"Really?" Barristan narrowed his eyes. "You look like something's wrong, lad."

Jon took a deep breath, decided against explaining, and simply handed him the scroll.

Ser Barristan read the decree carefully, then looked up at him.

 "Well… congratulations, Lord Jon," he said with a small, warm smile.

Lord Jon…

To be honest, he still hadn't gotten used to the title of knight, and now he had a new one. A much greater one.

"Thank you, ser," Jon said, taking the decree back. It seemed incredible that a simple piece of parchment had changed his entire life.

"I'm sure you'll make a worthy Lord of Dragonstone," Barristan said, lightly patting him on the shoulder.

"The old and new gods help me, Ser Barristan," Jon tried to answer confidently.

"And what is Dragonstone like?" he asked after a pause. Jon knew Ser Barristan had been there.

The knight chuckled and paused.

"The castle is majestic. Dark, but beautiful in its own way. Built of dark Valyrian stone…" he began. "Though I haven't been there in a long time. Not since the Targ…" Barristan faltered.

Since the Targaryens. Jon understood and was about to ask another question, but the doors of the royal chambers swung open.

His father stood in the threshold.

Eddard Stark's face was calm, but worry was evident in his eyes.

"Lord Stark," Ser Barristan greeted him.

"Lord Commander," Ned nodded and turned to his son. "We need to talk. Now. In my solar."

"Good," Jon replied.

He nodded to Barristan and followed his father.

All the way from Maegor's stronghold to the Tower of the Hand, his father walked silently, without looking back.

Only when the solar door closed behind them did Ned Stark allow himself to exhale as he took his place at the table.

 Jon took the seat opposite him,

still clutching the scroll with the royal seal so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Finally, after a brief silence, his father spoke.

"Do you understand what this means?" his father asked in a quiet but even voice that Jon knew all too well.

A voice he spoke not as a lord, but as a father, deeply troubled.

Jon swallowed.

 "The King wishes me to become Lord of Dragonstone..." he lifted the scroll slightly, "and that means I have a title, a castle, responsibilities."

Lord Stark exhaled and nodded at him."And that's dangerous."

Jon frowned at his father's words.

"Dangerous?" he asked, looking at his lord father.

Lord Stark closed his eyes and exhaled. "King Robert rarely considers the consequences when he makes decisions," he said quietly. "But the consequences fall on those he touches."

"What do you mean..." Jon began cautiously. "Why is it dangerous, Father?" he asked, still not understanding the source of his concern.

Before an unpleasant realization struck him.

"Are you afraid I can't handle this?" he asked slowly, still staring intently at his father.

"No," Ned replied, so sharply that Jon was surprised. "I'm sure you can handle it, Jon. I never doubted that. It's just..."

He paused before continuing.

"Dragonstone isn't just a holding. It's a symbol, Jon. The symbol of House Targaryen. Their ancient stronghold. Their legacy. Their memory," Lord Stark said in a quiet voice."And the vassals of Dragonstone may not be too pleased that..."

"That their new lord will be... a Northerner. A bastard, and not just a bastard, but the bastard of the man who helped overthrow the Targaryen dynasty," Jon said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.

Though he felt something inside him grow cold.

 His father looked away briefly before answering.

"In any case, even if some don't like it, His Grace Robert has already decided. You are now the new Lord of Dragonstone, and lords like the Velaryons and the Celtigars will have to accept you as their liege lord, even if they don't want to."

There was a moment of silence between them.

A minute. Or two.

Jon stared at the scroll, clutching it in his hands. Then he looked up—hard as northern ice.

"Father... do you want me to refuse?" Jon asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

 "I want…" Lord Stark paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Frankly, I wanted you to have a stronghold in the North, to live a long, peaceful, and honorable life there, as a vassal of Winterfell. Far from the intrigues of the South." Ned smiled bitterly. "But as I said, the king has already made his decision, and it's unlikely that it can be challenged. For example, I, or even you."

Ned's gray eyes met Jon's.

And Jon clearly saw a worry in his father's eyes that he hadn't seen before.

Silence fell again, but this time it was different. Filled with something heavy, final.

But this time, Lord Stark broke the silence that hung in the room.

"Alright, Jon, you need to prepare yourself. King Robert wants you to take up your post as soon as possible, so we have much more to discuss."

Jon nodded slowly. "How quickly?" "You will be leaving for Dragonstone within a week or two," Lord Stark began. "Frankly, that's not much time, and you will have much to do."

Jon inhaled sharply. A week or two. It sounded… unreal. Too fast. Too sudden.

"I… must leave so soon?" he asked quietly, though he knew his father didn't joke about such things.

Ned nodded.

"The king believes the appointment should be immediate. He wants to show the entire court—and the entire kingdom—that his decisions are final. That he rewards loyalty. And that he keeps his word to the Starks." Lord Stark snorted slightly.

Jon pressed his lips together slightly.

Loyalty… word… yes. That sounded STARK-like.

But you're not a Stark, by name. Jon thought as usual, but realized he might be.

But a lump still clung to his chest, heavy and sharp as ice. 

"I don't know where to begin," he admitted. And he was honest. "I don't know… anything about castle management, taxes, ships, lords…"

He paused, meeting his father's gaze.

"I don't even know how to treat vassals."

Ned smiled softly, barely perceptibly—sadly, but sincerely.

"No one is born ready for this, Jon. Even Robb is learning. And I have. And your grandfather before me."

His father leaned back in his chair—something he rarely did, only when he was bone-tired.

"Listen to me." His voice deepened, calmer. "Being a lord isn't just a title and power, but also a great responsibility, first and foremost for the people. Those who rely on you, those who await your decisions, those you must protect."

Lord Stark spoke slowly, as if every word was important.

"There aren't many lands on Dragonstone. But there are fleets. There are fishermen. There are soldiers, families, old men, children. And you look upon each of them now."

Jon looked down at the table.

The realization settled on his shoulders like a weight that made him want to bend.

He had become a lord. A real one. Not in dreams, not in fairy tales.

And this honor—it wasn't easy.

"I... will try to be worthy," he finally exhaled.

Ned leaned forward and spoke more firmly, but not without his father's warmth. 

"I know you will."

Chapter Text

                            Margaery

The morning in King's Landing seemed unusually quiet. The gardens of the Red Keep hadn't yet warmed up, and the damp, cool air felt pleasant on her skin—a rare relief from the stifling heat of the capital.

Sansa Stark walked with her today—light and quiet, as if she herself were afraid to breathe loudly. Her face glowed with its familiar dreamy softness.

"How beautiful…" Sansa touched the white rose petals with her fingers. "There are none like them in Winterfell."

Margaery smiled politely at her.

She had already learned to understand Sansa; the girl lived in fairy tales, dreaming of a prince, completely oblivious to the lions' teeth around her.

To be honest, when Margaery first met the Stark girl, she thought her naivety and carefree manner were just a facade, but the more she talked to her and spent time with her, the more Margaery realized that the young Lady Stark was truly like that.

If only I had her naivety, she thought, but Margaery knew the world too well.

Sansa was saying something about roses and the gardener promising new blooms by autumn, but Margaery barely listened.

They walked on, hidden under the shade of a tall ivy arch. And then Margaery asked, casually:

"Sansa, my dear," she began softly, "Loras mentioned yesterday that he was going to an evening sparring match. But Jon… he didn't show up. Do you happen to know why?"

Sansa blinked, as if not expecting such a question.

 "Oh, yes! Jon was in the solar with our father all day yesterday, discussing the king's decision about Jon," Sansa said.

Margaery paused.

"The king? What happened?"

Sansa looked around, as if Littlefinger or Varys himself might be sitting behind the nearest bush. Then, a little more quietly, she said,

"Jon has been appointed the new Lord of Dragonstone."

Margaery blinked, taking a moment to process the words. Her breath hitched.

"Lord?... Of Dragonstone."

"Yes!" Sansa smiled faintly at her. "Can you imagine? Yesterday, King Robert summoned my lord father and then Jon and bestowed upon him the title."

Margaery couldn't help but feel something warm and strangely painful tightening beneath her ribs.

 She remembered the day Jon had sat with her and her brothers at dinner—calm, modest, and polite in his words. And his smile, too, made Margaery's heart beat faster. Almost three weeks had passed since that dinner, but it seemed like yesterday.

And now Jon was not just a knight, but the Lord of one of the most powerful and mighty strongholds on the continent.

And he hadn't said a word to her!

Although, of course... he couldn't.

Who would have thought to share the king's secrets with a girl he'd seen only a few times?

"What do you think, Sansa? He... your brother, will he be a good lord?" Margaery asked softly, though in her heart she already knew the answer.

The northerner shrugged slightly.

"I think so. Jon is very honest. And he always protects the weak. After all, our father raised him that way."

Margaery's heart pounded, she too had thought Jon would make a wonderful ruler of his lands.

After all, he's so honest, so noble, like a true knight from a fairy tale. she thought, then stopped herself.

You should listen less to that Stark girl.

But now Ser Jon isn't just a knight or a bastard in the Stark shadow. He's a true lord, albeit not with the largest holdings, but still...

Now he has a title and lands, his own vassals, and he'll probably have a fleet.

They continued their stroll through the gardens. Sansa quickly changed the subject from Jon's appointment to other topics. About her new dress. About how her clumsy sister Arya always came home from her dancing lessons with bruises and scrapes. Then, as usual, she turned the conversation to Prince Joffrey. But Margaery was barely listening, deep in thought.

Now that Ser Jon was already a lord, she could be more assertive and communicate more openly with him. After all, he was already a young lord and she a lady and also his sister's friend. she thought.

Sansa continued:

Still talking about Joffrey—how handsome, sweet, kind, and brave he was, how he gave her the lion brooch.

Margaery barely restrained herself from smiling wryly as she looked at the golden brooch, shaped like a roaring lion.

Prince Joffrey was exactly what she'd expected from the rumors. A handsome face, golden curls, the manners of a young king from songs...

And emptiness. An evil, dangerous emptiness behind his eyes.

Her family wanted Margaery to seduce him, win his favor, and become queen, which was precisely why she'd come here to the capital for this very purpose.

And Margaery knew she could do it. She knew how to smile, she knew how to charm, she knew how to lie softly, pleasantly.

All she had to do was take one step—and she would become what her father and grandmother wanted her to be.

But every time she looked at the young prince, gazing into those green eyes that never touched the smiles on his face,

Something inside her grew cold. And the rumors about the young prince that her handmaidens brought didn't paint a pretty picture of the crown prince.

"For the Tyrells, Joffrey is the best chance. A prince. A throne. A future kingdom." Her grandmother had told her before her departure from Highgardan, and Margaery herself, at the time, was inclined to agree.

But after seeing Joffrey just a couple of times, Margaery realized he wasn't the prince Sansa thought he was, a delusion.

That's why Margaery decided to herself that she wouldn't be the woman who seduced the cruel boy prince.

Of course, her family wouldn't be very happy about it, but Margaery knew: there would be no future with Joffrey. Neither good nor safe.

Not for herself, not for her family.

She glanced at the girl out of the corner of her eye—bright, dreaming of a prince, fervently believing that Joffrey was her destiny.

And something inside her stabbed her, something like guilt.

Poor girl, she thought with unexpected pain. If only you knew the truth…

But she wouldn't tell her. At least not now.

"Lady Margaery?" Sansa bowed her head. "You're very quiet today. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm all right, dear. I was just lost in my own thoughts," Margaery replied with a smile and paused.

"Lady Sansa," Margaery said unexpectedly softly. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course!"

"You... do love Prince Joffrey, don't you?"

Sansa blushed, smiling shyly and so sincerely, so childishly, that Margaery felt a pang in her heart.

"Yes. He's simply beautiful, isn't he? Like a real prince from a fairy tale."

Margaery looked away.

A real monster, she thought.

But instead she said, "I'm so happy for you."

Sansa didn't notice—her glow only deepened.

They continued down the alley, and Margaery's thoughts turned again to the dark-haired, gray-eyed youth who was now lord of his keep.

"I'll have to meet him and congratulate him on his new title," she thought to herself.

                                Jon

The Red Keep Library had always seemed like a quiet refuge to Jon—vast, majestic, yet strangely empty, as if it held not only scrolls but also the forgotten shadows of all who had once sat there alone.

He never thought he'd spend so much time here. But now—now it seemed as if only among the books could he breathe.

The doors closed softly behind him.

The silence was almost deafening.

He sat down at one of the tables, unfolded the royal decree, and read it again. For the tenth time? For the twentieth? He no longer knew.

His fingers trembled.

Lord of Dragonstone.

It didn't sound like his name. Not like "Jon Snow."

As if it belonged to someone else—older, wiser, more experienced. To someone who knows how to govern lands, how to command a fleet, how to accept oaths.

He tried to imagine standing before the Velaryons or the Celtigars...

And a crushing feeling gripped him.

I'm not ready.

I know nothing.

He closed his eyes, clasped his head in his hands, and took a deep breath.

The North had taught him self-control. His father, even more so.

But now he felt like a boy given a sword that was too big.

Footsteps.

Quiet, cautious—almost inaudible.

Jon raised his head.

Margaery Tyrell stood at the entrance. She wore a light green dress with a rather low neckline. Her head was slightly bowed, a polite smile on her face, but her eyes... attentive. As always, too attentive.

He jumped up, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.

"Lady Margaery," he said, his heart beating wildly, without understanding why. "I… didn't expect to see anyone here."

His voice sounded hoarse, and he cursed silently. Excellent. A knight and a young lord, and you can't speak properly!

Margaery approached, slowly, softly, as if afraid to startle him.

"Forgive me for disturbing you, Ser Jon… or," her lips twitched in a slight smile, "Lord Jon."

He felt his ears flare with heat.

"I… thank you, my lady," he said quietly. "But to be honest, I'm not used to it yet."

"It will pass." She bowed her head slightly. "But the rank suits you."

He found himself at a loss for words.

 Margaery stopped next to the table, her gaze sliding over the parchment still lying before him.

"I heard the news," she said softly. "From Sansa. Allow me to say: congratulations, Lord of Dragonstone."

He could tell from her tone that, unlike the court, she wasn't flattering.

She was genuine.

Jon felt his chest lighten slightly.

"Well, thank you again, Lady Margaery," he nodded. "But I'm not sure I deserve congratulations."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Why not?"

He inhaled, looking at the lines of the decree.

"I'm not ready. There's too much I don't know. The king believes... and I..." He paused, then finished, "I'm afraid I'll fail."

Margaery looked at him as if trying to read something between his words that he couldn't see. Then she said quietly,

"Jon… if the king had offered that title to someone timid, cruel, or greedy, it would have been dangerous. But he gave it to a man who doubts. And therefore thinks. And therefore will be fair."

He blinked. He hadn't expected that answer.

She smiled softly. "Doubt isn't a weakness. It makes us better. It keeps us from making mistakes. You can do it."

Her words sounded so confident that it even surprised him slightly.

Jon looked away.

"I still feel like I'm not the right man for that title."

Margaery stepped closer. Too close—he felt her warmth.

"And I think you're the most suitable," she said quietly, almost a whisper. "And perhaps… the best."

He looked up and met her brown gaze.

As always, warm, deep. Not like the other courtiers. She looked at him, not as if he were a bastard who had risen high and earned a title.

She looked at him differently, somehow, Jon couldn't explain it.

"I…" he tried to say something, but his tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Margaery's smile widened a little.

"I would very much like…" she hesitated slightly. "To see you again. And talk. Perhaps when you can break free from all these… duties."

She said it as if she wasn't sure he would agree.

But Jon felt something warm in his chest, suddenly flaring.

"I… I would like that too, Lady Margaery." Jon said, unexpectedly, even to himself.

A warm, sincere smile appeared on her face.

"Then I will wait, Lord John."

She curtsied slightly, turned, and quietly left the library.

The doors closed.

Silence returned.

John sat up slowly, looking again at the table where the stacks of books lay, about governance, the history of his new holding, and also about the navy. Looking at them, he muttered quietly under his breath, "And why did I say that?"

Chapter Text

                          Davos

Ser Davos Seaworth stood on the deck of the Black Beta, breathing in the salty morning air. The outline of King's Landing slowly emerged on the horizon. The sun was just rising from the sea, its first rays softly painting the city in peachy-gold hues—as if the capital were awakening from a long, heavy slumber.

Almost a moon had passed since the black bird had flown to Dragonstone with the news: the wreckage of the Wrath had washed ashore not far from the capital's walls. Almost a moon since the death of Lord Stannis... and little Lady Shireen.

Davos refused to believe it until the very end. It was hard to accept that the man who had elevated him, given him a knighthood, a title, a castle, an education for his sons... was now dead. As was his wife. As was their daughter.

He wouldn't lie: he didn't miss Lady Selyse. She never hid her contempt for him—for a smuggler, for a man of low birth.

But Shireen… kind, gentle, pure—she didn't deserve to die at the bottom of the Blackwater. Neither did Lord Stannis himself.

Yes, many considered Stannis overly grim, stern, and relentlessly direct—almost cruelly so. His reputation preceded him. But Davos saw something else: justice, a lack of hypocrisy, a rare candor.

Even back then, during Robert's Rebellion, when he led a ship through the Tyrell siege and saved the garrison of Storm's End from starvation, Stannis knighted him—and on the same day ordered his fingertips to be chopped off for his past crimes.

"You deserved your reward... but also your punishment."

For Davos, this was proof: before him stood a man stern, yet honest. And everything he had now—his family, his standing—he owed it all to Stannis Baratheon.

His death was a wound, deep and slowly aching. A wound that would not heal for a long time.

Davos looked down and clenched his fingers around the small pouch hanging around his neck. His knuckles. His punishment. His reminder.

"I should have been there... on the Wrath. I should have protected them. Or at least tried..."But deep down, he knew that even if he had been there, little would have changed. He was a poor fighter, an old sailor, not a steel blade in the hands of fate. And yet—at least he would have tried. He wouldn't have been sitting on Dragonstone.

He remembered that last conversation.

 "I need you here, Ser Davos. You're one of the few I can trust. The Royal Navy is under your command, keep the ships ready," Stannis said on the day of departure.

Davos noticed then what others would not have seen. A subtle tension in his voice. A slightly clenched jaw. Stannis expected trouble.

Even stranger was that he'd taken his wife and daughter with him, though he'd intended to send them to Brightwater Keep, to the Florents. As if he were in a hurry... as if he wanted to get them out of the capital in time—but only after they arrived there.

Thoughts about it still plagued Davos.

He wanted to ask then. He wanted to.

"My lord…" the words rose to his tongue, but remained unspoken.

Stannis turned his back on him—abruptly, almost irritated, but Davos knew the irritation wasn't directed at him. Or even at his lord's orders. The Hand of the King arrives in the capital.

Davos noticed this behavior in Lord Stannis even after he left the capital following Jon Arryn's death.

Footsteps behind him brought him out of his heavy thoughts. Davos opened his eyes and turned.

"Father, we'll be docking soon. Another hour," said Matthos, one of his eldest sons and first mate aboard the Black Beta, quietly.

"Good," Davos nodded and looked back at the capital.

The city grew clearer: the majestic towers of the Great Sept of Baelor on Rhaenys' Hill, and the crenellated walls and red stones of the castle on Aegon's Hill—he was destined for it.

A few days ago, a raven bearing the mark of a gray direwolf had landed on Dragonstone. The Hand had requested the arrival of "someone knowledgeable in the affairs of Dragonstone." Such people were few.

Everyone said the matter had to do with the appointment of the Northern bastard as the new Lord of Dragonstone, replacing the deceased Stannis.

Surely, that was a matter for the castellan of the keep to decide. But Ser Axell Florent, the late Lady Selyse's uncle, only muttered under his breath about "a northern bastard in his niece's house," and the next day he completely resigned from his duties and left the island.

With him went half the household guard, who had served House Baratheon under Stannis for many years.

And so, Davos was here to answer questions about the keep, and if he was lucky... he might learn more about Lord Stannis's death.

When the Black Beta gently bumped into the dock, the port had already fully awakened. Between the rows of warehouses, taverns, and fishing stalls, the familiar morning hum drifted: the shouts of stevedores, the cursing of fishermen, the clanking of metal, the whistles of overseers. The smells of salt water, tar, rotten fish, and fresh bread mingled in the same cacophony Davos had known since his youth.

 But now it all seemed quieter, calmer. Or maybe it was just him growing older.

A tall man dressed in a brown leather brigantine walked up the gangplank toward the ship.

He stopped before Davos and bowed his head.

"Ser Davos Seaworth?" His voice was even, stern, but without hostility.

"The very same," Davos nodded.

"I am Captain of the House Stark Guard, Jory Casell. The Hand has ordered you escorted to the Red Keep immediately."

Davos's brow furrowed in surprise but he nodded his agreement.

"Good," Davos replied, glancing quickly at Matthos before following the northerner through the bustling port to the horses waiting at the gate.

 As Dovos rode through the stone streets of King's Landing, he couldn't help but glance around him — and with each block, images of his own youth came flooding back.

He remembered these streets, these smells, this hectic pace: when he was a boy, running between the fish stalls, arguing with dice players, carrying crates for a copper... and sometimes hiding small wares under his shirt, hoping no one would notice.

So many years had passed, and King's Landing had hardly changed.

"How long have you been here, ser?" the captain glanced, noticing Davos peering around the streets.

"Too long," he answered honestly.

As they passed the fish market, Davos couldn't help but chuckle: it was there, among the merchants, that he'd once stolen his first fish, and for a week afterward, he'd been afraid to set foot near the port. Then, past the Three Pearls tavern, where he'd first gambled away all his coppers, trying to look older and more confident.

And then, past the small sept. He remembered how he'd once hidden inside from the guards, and how an old servant had given him a piece of bread, then whispered that stealing was like getting into a bottomless boat.

He'd laughed then. He wouldn't laugh now.

Their group climbed higher and higher, negotiating the curves of Aegon's Hill. The city was already fully awakening: the streets were filled with people, the ringing of bells, the smell of baking, the hum of conversation. Above it all, as always, loomed the walls of the Red Keep—impenetrable, heavy, blood-red in the morning sun. 

Davos didn't like this castle. It held too much power and too little mercy. But right now, he didn't care: he wasn't riding for himself.

He was riding for the memory of the man to whom he owed everything.

As the gates of the Red Keep slowly swung open before them, Davos felt his heart clench.

Stannis had once stood here. Shireen had passed through these same vaults. Now—neither of them were alive.

"Lord Stark is already waiting for you, Ser Dovos," Captain Casell told him as he dismounted and handed the horse to a groom.

"Aha…" Davos breathed. Though, in truth, he was surprised.

After all, why such a rush? He thought about it, but remained silent, and silently followed the captain of the guard to the Tower of the Hand.

The corridors inside the Tower of the Hand were cool and narrow, absorbing his footsteps. Davos felt as if the walls were listening—too intently, as if they themselves held the memory of everything they had witnessed: intrigues, secret meetings, executions, oaths.

Jory Casell walked ahead with a confident, even gait, never looking back. Only once, at a turn, did he call over his shoulder:

"The Lord Hand commanded that you be brought directly to him. He said it was urgent."

Davos nodded, though the "urgency" troubled him more and more.

His fingers instinctively clutched the pouch of phalanges at his throat—an old pain, an old reminder of the man he had lost.

They climbed a spiral staircase, narrow as a needle's eye. At the top, Jory stopped at a heavy dark oak door and knocked.

 A calm voice, with a distinct northern accent, called from within:

"Enter."

Jory swung the door open.

"Ser Davos Seaworth, my Lord Hand," he announced, stepping aside to let him in.

The solar was spacious but almost empty—no frills, none of the gilded decorations with which southern lords so loved to decorate their chambers. Just a table piled high with various books and scrolls, and a tall man by the window.

What caught Davos's eye.

Ned Stark stood with his back to the door, looking out at the city through the barred window, as if trying to discern answers to certain questions in the streets.

The morning sun fell on his dark gray robes, and in this silence, he seemed less like a Lord Hand than a stone statue—stern, stubborn, motionless.

 When the door closed, he turned.

His gray eyes—intelligent, a little tired—settled on Davos. And Davos suddenly understood why Stark had been talked about so much. His gaze was as direct as a sword, and honest—like a man who never hid his thoughts.

"Ser Davos Seaworth," he said quietly, without unnecessary greetings, but with respect. "Thank you for arriving so quickly."

Davos bowed his head respectfully.

"My lord. I arrived as soon as I received your letter. What happened? Dragonstone... ships... or..."

He paused—though Stannis's name never came, it hung in the air, heavy and inescapable.

Ned nodded briefly, as if acknowledging that silent name.

 "You'd better discuss the matter of Dragonstone with my son; he should be arriving soon. But—I need to ask you something about the late Lord Stannis."

He stepped toward the table and gestured to a chair. "Sit down. We have a conversation that cannot wait."

Davos sat down. Stark sat across from him. They were silent for a few moments. Ned shuffled through parchments until he pulled a small scroll from a stack of papers.

"Ser Davos, I know you were a confidant of the late Lord Stannis." The Lord of Winterfell spoke.

"Ser Davos, I know you were the late Lord Stannis's confidant." The Lord of Winterfell said.

"Yes, my lord," Davos replied, trying to keep his back straight and his hands still. "I served him as long as he drew breath."

Ned Stark nodded, his gaze fixed on him. The light from the wide window fell on his shoulders, highlighting the weariness that had long since settled on his face—the weariness of a man overwhelmed by too much power.

 "That's why I was glad when I learned that someone Lord Stannis trusted would be coming to the capital," he continued, handing a piece of parchment to Davos. "I received this from Lord Stannis before he left for the capital."

Lord Stark, I will be in the capital soon, and I need to discuss a very important matter with you.

Stannis Baratheon.

Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships.

Dovos looked at the lines written on the piece of parchment; the handwriting clearly belonged to Lord Stannis.

"You've probably heard," Stark said, "that before his death, Lord Stannis conducted a joint investigation with the late Jon Arryn."

"I have," Davos nodded. "In general terms."

"I believe that's exactly what Lord Stannis wanted to talk to me about."

Ned continued.

His voice hardened.

"Lord Arryn is dead." Now Lord Stannis is dead too. And I need to know… what exactly they were trying to achieve.

Davos couldn't help but look out the window. The sun had risen higher, illuminating the city with golden light. So quiet… and yet, inside, everything was unsettled.

"Forgive me, my lord…" he finally spoke. "But I'm afraid I can't help you with that. Lord Stannis was… secretive. He rarely shared his thoughts unless he considered it absolutely necessary."

"But you must have noticed something," Ned said quietly. "Changes in his demeanor. His mood. Hints. Irritability. Unusual orders."

Davos considered. A sharp pang tugged at his chest—the memory of that last conversation, the tension he'd felt in Stannis, what he'd wanted to ask… but hadn't dared.

"Yes," he said slowly. "He was tense… even before we set sail. He always had anger—but this time it wasn't rage, but anxiety. He spoke little, but I sensed something was weighing on him. Something serious."

Ned didn't interrupt.

"He was in a hurry," Davos continued. "Very. He even took Lady Selyse and Shireen with him… though he'd planned to send them to Brightwater Keep later. That wasn't typical of him. He always acted… judiciously."

"Do you know what their investigation consisted of?" Stark asked, quietly, as if afraid to hear the answer.

Davos spread his hands.

"No, my lord. He didn't tell me a word. Lord Stannis kept his secrets as if they were part of his armor."

Stark pressed his lips together. His gaze grew heavy, cold as northern ice.

"But you're sure," he said slowly, "that he was looking for something."

Davos nodded.

 "I'm sure, my lord. And whatever he found... it forced him to act. Quickly. Without looking back."

Ned remained silent for a long moment, staring at Davos without blinking. Then he rose and walked to the window. His silhouette against the light seemed almost sad.

A knock on the door pierced the silence in the room.

"Enter," the Hand called out without turning.

"Father, did you call for me?" said a young man who entered the solarium, looking like a replica of Lord Stark, only much younger.

Looking at the young man, Davos realized that this was surely the new Lord of Dragonstone.

Chapter Text

                                Jon

Jon stood on the deck of the North Wind, the ship transferred from the Royal Navy to his personal use, and silently watched as the sailors hoisted the repainted sails, the colors of his new coat of arms, to the masts. The fabric flapped heavily in the wind, still smelling of paint and sea salt. The head of a white, snarling direwolf with red eyes stood out against the dark blue canvas.

Familiar sounds of King's Landing drifted from the port, and the smell of the sea was mixed with... the smell of tar, fish, and human sweat—thick, heavy, ingrained in the very air of the harbor. King's Landing never pretended to be clean, and Jon had long since stopped wincing. Now all these smells seemed merely background, irrelevant.

His gaze was fixed on the sails.

 The white direwolf against the dark blue background looked unfamiliar—not the stern northern symbol it had been on the gray banners of Winterfell, but something new. At once alien and familiar. The beast's red eyes on the fabric seemed to watch the port, the city towers, the thousands of people...as if assessing them as silently as Jon himself.

He caught himself gripping the railing tighter than necessary. The wood was warm from the sun, rough, alive—real.

Unlike everything else that had happened to him in recent months. A new name. A new coat of arms. A new ship. A new role, into which he was thrust as inexorably as these sails had been raised to the sky.

"Northwind."

The name came to him of its own accord—without hesitation or searching. As soon as he boarded the two-hundred-oared galley, Jon realized: the old name no longer suited it. This is his ship, and it deserves a name to match.

In three days, the Northwind will set course for Dragonstone, bearing Jon to his new lands and his new life.

Almost two weeks had passed since King Robert Baratheon appointed him the new Lord of Dragonstone. And all that time, Jon spent hours in the library, reading books about governance, finance, ships, and the history of Dragonstone... and also listening to Arya's pleas to take her with him.

She caught him in the corridors of the Red Keep, in the armory, at the library doors, even at the entrance to the godswood, as if she hoped he wouldn't refuse her in that holy place. Arya spoke quickly, heatedly, haltingly, rattling off arguments that were one more absurd than the next: that Dragonstone would be good for her, that she wouldn't be a hindrance, that she could climb rocks and wasn't afraid of the sea, that dragons lived there, after all, and she could look for their eggs—which meant it was the place for her.

Jon answered the same thing every time. Calmly, with a firm, "If Father allows it, then fine..." but he knew full well that their father would hardly allow it.

The thought flashed quickly, without bitterness—more like a dry recognition of fact. Eddard Stark was a man of duty, and for him, Dragonstone remained more than just an island, but a dangerous place, steeped in the memory of the Targaryens, storms, and intrigue.

Letting Arya go there—until Jon himself had firmly established himself there as Lord. Lord Stark certainly wouldn't do that.

 John exhaled slowly and unclenched his fingers, leaving barely visible nail marks on the railing. The bosun's command rang out over the deck, and the sailors heaved in unison on the rigging. The sail finally rose, catching the wind, and the ship shuddered slightly, like a living creature testing its strength.

"A fair wind, my lord," someone said behind him.

Jon nodded without turning.

"A most fitting one for the North Wind," he replied quietly.

He looked at the direwolf again. The beast was no longer just a reminder of Winterfell and his childhood. Now it was as much a symbol of him and his future descendants. The symbol of the Starks of Dragonstone.

Behind him lay the city—noisy, stinking, filled with strangers' glances and strangers' expectations. In the Red Keep, they still called him "my lord" with a barely perceptible pause, as if their tongues weren't quite accustomed to the word next to his name. Here, on the ship, there was no pause. Here were the wind, the trees, the sails, and the course.

Jon couldn't help but think of another girl—Margaery Tyrell. Lately, he had indeed been spending far more time with Loras's sister than he was willing to admit, even to himself.

 When they could find time between their grueling studies, they strolled through the gardens of the Red Keep, and sometimes met in the library, where they could talk at length about everything under the sun—books, people, things they were supposed to keep to themselves.

It was surprisingly easy with Margaery. The awkwardness he'd felt at first faded almost imperceptibly, dissolved in her calm smile and attentive gaze. With her, Jon forgot the wariness he'd grown accustomed to since childhood—and it frightened him almost as much as it attracted him.

Sometimes Jon even found himself looking forward to meeting her. With Margaery, time flowed differently—not in fits and starts between duties, but smoothly, calmly. She spoke of books intelligently, with unexpected depth; of gardens—as if each flower were a living being with its own character; about the people at court—carefully but precisely, like a man accustomed to seeing more than his face revealed.

Sometimes he noticed the way she looked at him when she thought he couldn't see. Not with curiosity or pity—but with attention. That rare, almost dangerous attention that makes you straighten your back and remember every word.

He didn't allow himself to think beyond that.

Dragonstone awaited. New responsibilities, new people, a new home that he had yet to make his own. Jon knew all too well how easy it was to become attached to something bright before a journey—and how painful it was to carry it away with you, never having the right to look back.

The wind picked up. The North Wind creaked softly, straining its rigging, as if impatiently demanding to leave the harbor.

Soon Jon thought very soon.

He glanced at the sail one last time before disembarking.

The gangway planks echoed dully under his footsteps. John stepped onto the stone pier and paused for a moment, as if checking to see if the ship was being pulled back, just as the sea pulls back everything that had once accepted its call.

The North Wind was left behind: its high hull, its fresh rigging, its sails already accustomed to the new sign. The ship looked ready. Almost impatient.

People were already waiting for him at the pier. At its head stood the captain of his guard, Adam.

A burly fellow of about twenty-five. Jory Cassel had recommended him without hesitation—and that was enough. John recognized him immediately.

Adam stood slightly ahead of the others—not ostentatiously or by order, but as a man accustomed to taking a blow first. Tall, broad-shouldered, in simple armor without unnecessary embellishment. A dark blue cloak, identical to the rest of his men, draped his shoulders.

After speaking with Ser Davos, from whom Jon learned that a significant portion of the Baratheon household guard had left the island, he had another opportunity to bolster his ranks.

His father immediately offered to take several men from his guards stationed in the capital. Of the two hundred guards of House Stark, about thirty had transferred to Jon's permanent service.

Furthermore, his father promised to speak with the commander of the city guard—perhaps he could recruit another two or three dozen reliable men there.

Jon approached Adam.

"My lord," he said, bowing his head slightly.

Jon nodded briefly in response.

Lady Margaery was indeed right: he was gradually becoming accustomed to his new title. Now, when people addressed him as "my lord," it no longer caused the awkwardness and internal resistance it had in the first few days. He approached his horse—the same one he'd ridden to the capital from Winterfell—patted its muzzle and slid easily into the saddle, accepting the reins from one of the guards.

"We're returning to the Red Keep," Jon said, turning to Adam, who was already mounted.

Adam nodded briefly, accepting the order without further ado.

"Yes, my lord."

Jon cast a last glance toward the harbor where the North Wind was moored, then gently nudged his horse. The company moved along the docks and up the narrow streets, where the smells of the port gradually gave way to dust, bread, and smoke from fireplaces.

King's Landing went about its business as usual: merchants shouted to one another, boys scurried between the horses' legs, some looked at the company with curiosity, others with indifference. Some recognized him—by his cloaks, his bearing, the way others parted to make way.

Jon remembered his first day in this city. Back then, he'd ridden along these same stone streets, secretly holding his nose, trying not to empty his stomach: King's Landing had seemed unbearably foul. And the noise and din of the great city had long haunted a man raised amid the winds and silence of the North.

Only four moons had passed since that day.

Then he'd been Ser Barristan's squire. And now... now he was a knight. Lord of Dragonstone.

The thought still sounded strange—as if it belonged not to him, but to someone else. Someone who walked beside his name, but lived a separate, alien life.