Boiling Blood

Boiling Blood

Old Town

The city was as populated as Kings' Landing, and thus, it's residents did maintain quite the exact same daily routines. City guards, employed by the House Hightower, roamed the streets, they could be not as corrupted as those men in Gold Cloaks, but corrupted nonetheless. People knew not to cross their path when they were out to quench their thirst for a mug of ale or sate their hunger of flesh. What little coins they had managed to hide from the lures of taverns and whorehouses, would find their way into the guards' purses, the beatings they would receive were a different matter entirely. After all, the city guards were employed to maintain the peace, and if they were a bit heavy handed to deal with the drunkards and disobedient, who could blame them.

A shadow moved quickly and quietly through the darkness of the city's alleyways. Jon Snow came out alone in that night. He needed to clear his head, and since the White Wolf couldn't go for a joyride on his horse without raising questions, he had to venture out in the darkness. He could have asked his brothers to accompany him, but he didn't. They had ridden hard for the last leg of their journey because it had taken them quite a long time to travel to Old Town. Even old Maester Luwin urged them to hurry. He didn't want to deprive Robb and the others from their well-earned rest.

Robb, thinking about his cousin brought a smirk on Jon's face. He was truly smitten by that Dornish woman. Jon was certain that she was one of Prince Oberyn's daughters, one of the infamous Sand Snakes. Asher and Torrhen, much to Robb's dismay, had taken this news with an unholy glee. They almost managed to egg the poor sod to ride out and declare his undying love by shouting before the manse the Martells were residing in. Robb had left the room fuming and cursing his two friends when he realized they were simply making fun of him.

Jon had made his way towards the Citadel under the cover of the darkness by then. Since he was out for a nightly run, he thought he would see if he could find anything to advance the quests he was given. He had no real plan as to how he would find the corpse of the late Champion, Lady Mary Reed. He tried to match the city at its present state with the memories he had from the dream. But the city, like its inhabitants, seemed to have changed in the five decades when Lady Reed was here. The centuries-old structures were there, standing as sentinels of the time past, watching over their charges. But the other, smaller constructs, they were like a living being, always changing.

Jon came to stop near the island called Battle Island upon which the High Tower stood, the sentries on the wall of the black fortress at the foot of the tower were keeping a watch. But none was familiar about Jon's unique talent, the talent to scale the seemingly tall walls without ropes or other equipment. His strong fingers always found the smallest gaps in between the stone slabs to hang from, his feet were always finding enough space to brace against and push upwards. The sentries atop the wall never looked down, if they did, they would have found a human shadow scaling the steep wall with an ease of a lizard.

It was a game for Jon. As he kept climbing higher and higher, he came to understand Bran's elation whenever he climbed the walls of Winterfell. The thrill, the sense of accomplishment, and above all, the feeling of freedom, same as Gale, with nothing but the sky as his companion. He decided that he would try and scale the High Tower given the chance. But it would have to be done by his lonesome. None of his friends would risk it and they would most certainly stop him from doing so.

Jon found a small crevice only wide enough for a single man to stand. Carefully, he lowered himself and sat down, with his feet dangling in the air. Above his head was a structure which he reckoned to be a guard house, because nowhere in a noble's house would there be so many men sleeping together, if the combined noise of their snoring was of any indication. Jon sighed as he leaned back and looked out towards the Whispering Sound, watching the waves breaking against the island.

Jon lowered his hood and ran a hand through his hair. His mind wandered back to the quests he received by literally taking the fast step in this city. The 'unsung song' of Lady Mary? He wondered what it could be. And where should he look to find the mortal remains of the lady. It had been fifty years since the night she took the leap of death. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he began to reminisce his dream. A girl, not even as old as he was, left her home, her family behind, only to fulfil the Gods' desires. She thought that she had found love, and an end in her sight. But it turned out to be a trap set for her. The very man she thought to have a life, a family with, was the one to cause her demise. And she was carrying his child. Jon wondered where the man – Haytham – was now. Did he forge his chains and became a Maester as his reward to end the assassinations? Or mayhaps the Maesters of the Citadel thought him to be useless after they got rid of the assassin and discarded him. He would need to venture into the Citadel, and retrace the steps of Lady Reed if he wanted to find the answers to his questions.

Then there was the quest about the 'Raven's Chick'. Bloodraven talked about his disciples, as in more than one individual with the apparent amazing ability to assume control of an animal – Greenseer or warg. He never mentioned that Jon would have to find one of the said people. Where would he look for someone like that, he didn't even know what to think of that. With a grunt, he heaved himself up from his perch, he needed to return back to the manse before daybreak. It wouldn't be favourable for the guards or people of Old Town to see a man scaling the outer walls of the castle in bright daylight.

[CotW]

It was a couple of days later that the Stark men once more greeted with the presence of Maester Luwin. The old man had, once again, commandeered a mule and rode to the manse. The Wolf Pack had finished their morning training and were taking a breather. Lady Madelyne had pounced on the chance to corner Ser Jon once more and quite literally, dragged the man for a walk through the garden. Ser Hugh was having a conversation, rather a planning session, with the three about the ways they could incorporate Gendry's strength and experience of a blacksmith into his training with a Warhammer. Robb hurried towards the gates the moment his eyes fell upon the old Maester.

"Maester Luwin, good morning." He greeted.

"Good morning to you as well, My Lord," the Maester greeted the heir of the North as he got down from the mule's back. "Where is your brother, Lord Robb?"

Robb cast a glance at the back of the manse and stammered, "Uh…he is…um…taking a walk with Lady Pryor."

"Would you mind sending someone to fetch him? He will have plenty of chance to court later."

Robb almost gleefully sent for Jon. It had been hard for him to endure the japes from the Pack due to his declaration of love. He was salivating for the chance to pay Jon back for every barb and taunts that he received the moment Lady Madelyne asked him to join her for a walk. It would be priceless to rub Maester Luwin's comment about his courting on his face.

Robb led the Maester towards the seats they placed at the side of the yard as Jon came around the house in hurried steps.

"Good Morning, Maester." He didn't want to look at Robb's smug face.

"Morning, lad. Come, take a seat. We have much to discuss."

"Aye, Maester."

They all sat down to listen to the Maester. Lady Madelyne slowly made her way to the gathering, from her visage, it was quite clear that she was unamused to have her time with the White Wolf cut short due to the Maester's demand.

"The Seneschal has decided," Maester Luwin began, "the court will convene this afternoon. Normally, it wouldn't be as quickly, but I have been informed that Lords Tyrell and Hightower have personally messaged the Archmaesters in this regard. They requested the Citadel to either prepone or postpone the Court, for they want to have the White Wolf free to participate in Lord Tyrell's tourney. Moreover, Lord Leyton Hightower has expressed his desire to be present at the Court. Naturally, the Citadel worked with a haste to satisfy their patron lord's wishes, and thus, we are having the Court convene this afternoon.

The members of the Court will test you." He spoke directly to Jon, "They may ask you many questions, as well as asking for demonstrations of your skills in arms. I hope that you have heed my requests and not injured yourself?" He asked with narrowed eyes, "Any of you?"

The stark boys cringed under the stare, they were very familiar with it.

"Aye, Maester, we have been careful." Jon replied with Robb nodding along. Asher tried to hide behind Torrhen as he was sporting a bruise at the side of his face which he acquired just that morning.

"I can still see your face, Lord Asher." Maester Luwin said exasperatedly, making Asher cringe and mumble an apology to the old man.

"I will treat that bruise before I depart. Now," He turned to face Jon once more, "do you need to ask me of anything before the Court convenes, lad? I will be busy preparing for it myself, so if you have any query, now is the time to say it."

"What sort of questions should I expect to be asked, Maester?" Jon asked, rubbing his chin in thought.

"Questions regarding your lessons, mostly. Your study patterns with my method, any complications or difficulties you may have felt at that time. Weapons may be provided to you if you are to demonstrate your skills, but to be safe, you should bring your weapons along. Oh, and do take a care to groom yourselves." He glared at the youths, "I do not want the North and your houses to be discriminated because you don't think the occasion is important enough to not appear in your best. And most importantly, take a care of how you speak and with whom you speak, I cannot stress enough on that subject." His glare was now directed at Jon and Asher, mainly. Both squirmed in their seats, not at all did they appreciate to be chastised like insolent children.

Maester Luwin got up and from his ever present satchel at his side, he brought forth a salve few other medicines and applied them on Asher's bruised skin with a lot of mutterings about foolish youth who never knew well enough to stay safe. After he patched the, in his eyes – rather childish, lord, he shoved everything back in his satchel to get back at the Citadel.

"Jon, take a walk with me, lad." He called for the young boy as he approached the gates. Lord Robb Stark had, just as before, called his men to prepare a cart for the Maester to take him back, along with two guards.

"Aye, Maester?"

"You are not feeling apprehensive, are you?"

Jon shook his head to let the Maester know.

"Good, good. You have nothing to worry about. Be at ease and be clear in your diction, you shouldn't feel fear to appear before a crowd. You have done so before, what with you being a renowned warrior and a knight of the realms."

Jon understood that the old man was trying to relieve some of his own fears by speaking the way he was. He stopped him and engulfed him within his arms. Maester Luwin, who had not expected his embrace, sputtered at first, but slowly, he raised his hand and patted the young man on the back.

"You have nothing to fear, Maester Luwin. You have taught me well. I promise to you that I will make you proud."

Maester Luwin gave him a watery smile, "You have already made me proud, lad."

[CotW]

"I am leaving Frost and Rose behind. I will be needing Freedom if situation calls for it, Asher."

"Freedom is always with me, Jon. Just give me the signal."

"It is mayhaps the best, we do not want to let the other nobles know that the Starks have two more Valyrian Steel weapons."

"Aye, that is the main reason. Also, even with its pommel changed, Frost is well known amongst the Seven Kingdoms. Who is to say that a houseful of scholars won't have a hard time to make the connection."

"What to do with your bow then?"

"I am leaving it behind. Just take a longbow along."

"Very well."

[CotW]

The square in front of the Citadel was built to serve quite a few purposes. When an acolyte finished forging his link, the Citadel, granted them their title in front of their friends, families and others. When an Archmaester gained ascended to his position, they were lauded by everyone in a joyous ceremony, held right at the square. During the years, acolytes and scholars used the square as a meeting point to have a friendly debate or comparisons between their shared lessons. In the middle of the square, was a raised platform, or stage about fifty paces in length and width. Surrounding that, permanent tiers of seats, made of granite rose in the three sides, facing the stage. Sets of stairs intercepted the tiers for the people to reach their seats with the entrance to the square laid directly in front of the stage.

When the Wolf Pack entered the square, they were surprised for a moment to see the sheer number of people that had gathered in the square for Maester Luwin's presentation. It wasn't lost to them that news had leaked to all that the White Wolf would be present during the Maester's demonstration and also, would be helping the Maester. Thus, not only people from the Citadel were there, but all the nobles who had travelled to Old Town for Lord Tyrell's tourney, were also there. Any merchant or trader, or similarly wealthy people who could afford to be seen amongst the nobles, didn't want to let the opportunity to see the White Wolf in action go. Although, they had to occupy the tallest and farthest seats from the stage, as the best seats were saved for the Seneschal; the Hightowers; the Tyrells; and other nobles.

"It appears that Prince Oberyn has arrived. He couldn't have chosen a better moment for his arrival." Torrhen stated his observation.

Jon too, had seen the Martell Prince sitting beside Lord Leyton Hightower. He was lazily leaning in his seat and was having a deep conversation with Willas Tyrell. Lord Mace, from the other side of Lord Leyton, was sending poisonous glares at the Red Viper. It wasn't a secret that the Tyrell lord wanted to see the Red Viper dead, because in his mind, Prince Oberyn was the reason why his eldest son and heir, Lord Willas was forever reduced to favour a cane to walk.

In the next tier, sat the families of the lords and Prince Oberyn's paramour and daughters. There was a clear divide between the Tyrells and Martells, in forms of the Hightower Family members. At the front most tier sat Archmaester Norren, the Seneschal of the Citadel, right at the centre. Archmaesters, whom Jon had no idea about their identities, sat at either sides of the Seneschal. Each old man had look of utmost curiosity on their faces as the four young Northerners entered the square. The lords too straightened a bit. Jon frowned at the almost hungry gaze of Prince Oberyn. The man was looking down at him as if he possessed every answer to his problems. He wondered where Ser Eric might have gone to as half of the Northmen from their party were there and the rest remained back at the manse to serve as guards.

"Look, Robb, there sits your paramour," Asher crowed, "but I don't think she noticed you. It seems she too, has eyes only for the White Wolf."

"Fuck you, Forrester!" Robb growled low in his throat.

"Hey, I am only stating the facts here. Be mad at Jon, it is because of him all the ladies ignore us."

"Please, Asher, not now. Maester Luwin looks agitated enough. We don't need you adding to that."

Truly, they could see the old Maester was sweating and fidgeting at where he stood. Jon made a final check for his weapons before he gave a nod to his friends and strode towards the stage.

"Maester Luwin." Jon gave him a bow.

"Welcome to the Seneschal Court, Jon." Luwin gave him a nervous smile.

"I didn't know that Prince Oberyn will be present."

"Ah, yes. The Prince has arrived just this morning, and as a former student of the Citadel, he expressed his desire to be present at the Court which the Seneschal accepted."

Jon nodded, "When will it start?"

"Any moment now." Maester Luwin's voice wavered a bit.

True to his words, Archmaester Norren stood up from his seat. All conversations came to a stop seeing the Seneschal standing.

"The Seneschal Court convenes in the twelfth month of the year 297 AC, by request of Maester Luwin, the Maester of House Stark, of Winterfell, in the realm of the North. Maester Luwin has claimed to discover a unique way of combining lessons in language and art of swordplay. If his findings proved to be paving a new way for both the scholars and the warriors among men, Maester Luwin will earn the rare privilege to forge his second Iron Link, as a mark of his mastery over the study of Warcraft. Maester Luwin, you may proceed." Archmaester Norren sat down.

Maester Luwin visibly trembled a little before straightening up, a wave of calmness passed his features and he wiped off the sweat that had accumulated on his brow due to his frayed nerves. He walked forward with assured steps to reach the front of the stage, Jon only a step behind him.

"Seneschal," Maester Luwin spoke in a tremulous voice, "you have my gratitude for granting me the chance to present my findings before your venerated selves. I hope that through this finding of mine, generations after generations of warriors and scholars, will benefit both in their lessons of language and prowess in the training yard."

As Maester Luwin started with his speech, Jon stood behind and to a side, dutifully and silent. He had his head slightly turned towards the Maester to portray that he was listening to him, but he was listening the speech with half an ear. He was quite busy looking at the people in attendance. Most of the lordlings, lesser lords and knights he had seen back at Kings' Landing. They too, travelled just like the Northmen, but to attend the tourney of Lord Tyrell. Most of them, Jon had seen or met with at the Capital, but his eyes were trained at the relatively newer players of the Game of Thrones that he had come to know in Old Town.

Lord Leyton Hightower – the apparent reclusive lord of Hightower had chosen to not only come out of his self-imposed confinement when the Northerners were welcomed at his home, he then broke the social norms and had Jon, the bastard of Lord Stark join him on the high table, something that didn't sit right with his liege lord, the lord of Highgarden, Lord Mace Tyrell. Then he had asked the Citadel for permission to attend the Seneschal Court during Maester Luwin's presentation. Jon wondered what was it that the old lord Hightower had been planning.

Then there was the Lady Olenna Tyrell, who was known throughout the kingdoms for being the true power behind the lord of Reach. Lord Mace Tyrell was nothing but a pompous braggart, but Lady Olenna had the shrewdness to cover for her son's ineptitude. It was not Mace Tyrell, but Olenna Tyrell who was grooming the heir, Willas Tyrell to take after his father. The little time Jon had spent with the Tyrell heir, had helped him learn about the man. Willas Tyrell was ambitious, like every other member of his family. He was well learnt with politics and well versed with the inner workings of the noble houses. His grandmother had taught him well. Amongst his siblings, only the Golden Rose of Highgarden, Lady Margaery Tyrell stood out, only for her insightful comments during the memorable meal at Hightower keep. Lord Mace's other two sons – Garlan and Loras, didn't appear to be that much interested in the politics of the realms as their sister was. Both the brothers, if Jon had surmised them correctly, wanted to live by their swords. Whereas, Garlan was of the opinion to judge a person by their mettle, Loras seemed to put too much import in the station one held.

Jon came back to the reality when the Seneschal, Maester Norren asked him a question. In the time Jon had spent mulling things over, Maester Luwin had completed his speech.

"Ser Jon, from Maester Luwin's account, it appears that you were a mere child of eight or nine namedays when you approached the Maester in search for help with your dual wielding." Jon nodded his head in assent, "however, have you already mastered the art of swordplay with your right hand by then that you went looking for help to dual wield?"

"No Seneschal, I was, as you have just said, only a mere child who was yet to become proficient with a wooden sword, much less mastering the art in its whole. I didn't go to Maester Luwin for help in dual wielding, I went to him for help with left hand sword or weapon wielding. Because I had hurt my sword arm in the yard during that week and it was painful for me to wield swords with my injured arm. I tried to do my stances and movements with the left hand, but it always felt off. I asked Maester Luwin if there was any method in his limitless collection of tomes that would help me with my problem.

That was when the wise Maester had the thought to have me practice my Valyrian letters with my left hand. If I recall correctly, he said to me that 'the letters are intricate enough that for an individual to write them in the proper way will need to have a sturdy yet comfortable grip of their quills.' Following the Maester's instruction, I found that my writing with my left hand, and a language as complex as the Old Valyrian, indeed helped me to gain limber wrist and fingers on my left hand."

After Jon's speech, the Archmaester who sat on the immediate left of the Seneschal, leaned over and spoke something in the man's ear. To which the Seneschal nodded his head, indicating that he had agreed with whatever the Archmaester had proposed to him. Standing on his feet, the old man spoke directly to Jon –

"Aōha lessons dohaertan ao rūsīr aōha abilities isse se yard, ser jon, yn gōntan ziry dohaeragon ao isse learning se udrir?" (Your lessons helped you with your abilities in the yard, Ser Jon, but did it help you in learning the language?)

Jon smiled at the old man, "Iā student kostagon mērī prosper lo se teacher iksis able se wise. Naejot ñuha immense biarves, īlen blessed naejot emagon se wise Giēñatī luwin hae ñuha teacher. Ziry kustittan nyke naejot daor neglect mēre aspect hen ñuha lessons isse favour hen tolie. However, kesan henujagon se judgement hen ñuha achievement isse aōha gūrēntan se able ondos." (A student can only prosper if the teacher is able and wise. To my immense fortune, I was blessed to have the wise Maester Luwin as my teacher. He encouraged me to not neglect one aspect of my lessons in favour of the others. However, I will leave the judgement of my achievement in your learned and able hands.)

The Archmaester had a smile on his face, Jon took a sideways glance at Maester Luwin to see the old man was beaming at him, pride was evident in his features.

Afterwards, time passed at a fast pace. Jon was asked to demonstrate his prowess, and he did so by displaying in a unique way that he had planned with the Maester beforehand. He used a large block of wood to carve in his name – White Wolf – in Valyrian letters, using a sword in his left hand. It was such a powerful display that none present could deny the effectiveness of Maester Luwin's now highly acclaimed process. Jon didn't even have to perform any other manoeuvre with weapons as he previously thought that he would be asked to. The old Maester had tears rolling down his cheeks when he was presented with a second Iron Link for his studies in Warcraft. He reverently attached the link with the existing one in his chain which he had forged himself when he was an acolyte here at the Citadel.

The Seneschal ended the court by praising Maester Luwin once more, and asked the Maester for his permission to have his studies to be added to the compendium to the lessons of Warcraft. Maester Luwin was speechless to learn that his studies would have their own separate chapter within the tome for generations of acolytes to learn from in the coming years.

Jon was trying to make way towards his friends when the Archmaester who spoke earlier during the presentation, came to have a word with him.

"Good afternoon, Ser Jon."

"Good afternoon, Maester." Jon bowed to him, "Forgive me, but I haven't had the pleasure to know your name."

"Of course, Ser Jon, forgive an old man for his feeble mind. I am Merwin and am an Archmaester of the Citadel."

Jon, in turn, introduced his friends to the Archmaester. Merwin inquired about Jon's now famous finding of dragon eggs underneath the rubbles of Dragon Pit. It seemed the Citadel was very curious to know what the duo of Jon and Lord Tyrion did to unearth such seemingly lost artefacts of the time long past. The old man seemed to be quite impressed with Jon's knowledge of history.

"I wish to have an in-depth discussion with some of the theories we have in our past histories, Ser Jon, but I am afraid we wouldn't be able to find the time during your visit."

Jon smiled at the eager old man, "I am sure we could make it work, Archmaester."

Archmaester Merwin chuckled and put a hand on Jon's shoulder, "Þat munu eigi munu sem easy sem þú eru thinking, ungr warrior. Fyrir þinn path munu leggjquiter distancer miðli oss, jafnvel inn þessi present. Vér munu meet again, en ek em hræddr, þat won't munu quite brátt." (It will not be as easy as you are thinking, young warrior. For your path will put quite a distance between us, even in this present. We will meet again, but I am afraid, it won't be quite soon.)

Merwin bade them all farewell and walked towards the exit, leaving the four stunned on their feet by his ability to speak the Old Tongue.

[CotW]

Jon was worried about Arthur Dayne. He hadn't seen him at the Court, yet Prince Oberyn was present. He walked out of the Court along with his friends with his head hung low, his brows creased in deep thought.

"Jon." Robb's call brought him out of his thoughts. He looked up with a question in his lips that died down as his eyes fell onto the approaching figure.

"Uncle Eric. I was getting worried about you when I didn't see you earlier."

The Dornish man in Stark livery smiled from behind his rather weak but still effective mask of full beard and half helm.

"I couldn't just walk in beside the Prince now, could I?"

Jon pulled the man into an embrace, "It is good to see you again, Uncle."

"Yes, Jon, it is good to be back for me too. But now is not the time for exchanging travel stories. I am afraid you are needed to be elsewhere." Arthur gave a pointed look.

Jon nodded his head, "I have assumed as much. Does he have a place for us to meet?"

"The same manor that was granted to his family by the lord of Old Town."

Jon sighed, "The manor is a way ahead from where the Pack is settled. Fortunately, it will give me the chance to grab the chest."

Arthur knew of the chest Jon mentioned, he too gave his assent, "Then I will await your arrival."

"We will see you soon, Uncle," Jon gave the man a heartfelt embrace before turning to his friends, "let's go, lads. The Viper is not known for his patience."

[CotW]

They found the younger Prince of Dorne sitting with his paramour, Ellaria Sand. Well, the lady was sitting, the man, the known lecher to all of the Seven Kingdoms, was draped over the chair. The young women, whom the Northmen saw previously and assumed their identities as the daughters of Prince Oberyn Martell, were either standing or sitting around their parents. Jon felt Robb's apparent unease when his eyes fell upon the black-haired beauty from the day before – the one with the purple eyes.

"My Prince," Jon had almost forgotten Arthur's presence, "allow me to introduce you to the eldest son and heir of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North – Lord Robb Stark."

Robb gave a courteous bow, "My Prince." After the slightest pause, he repeated his action to the other occupants of the room, much to their surprise of being acknowledged thusly, "My Ladies."

Arthur continued to introduce Asher and Torrhen. Jon kept his eyes on the Martell Prince, and he was not surprised to see the man doing the same.

"… and of course, Ser Jon, the White Wolf." Arthur Dayne didn't elaborate any further, certainly not towards the well-worn lines about 'son of Lord Eddard Stark'. It was not needed.

Oberyn Martell rose from his seat with an ease. He approached them with a smirk on his face.

"My lords, please, be seated and allow me to shower you with Dornish hospitality… far away from Dorne itself." He laughed at his own jape. The Northerners graced him with forced chuckles of their own. Oberyn, who hadn't taken his eyes off of Jon, finally stepped in front of him. "And then, there is you, Ser Jon, the White Wolf. You have made quite a name for yourself, no? At such a young age too." He nodded his head thoughtfully, "Blood will always tell the tale. He would've been much greater had he lived."

"My Prince?" Jon knew what the man, who was already drunk if the smell of strong wine wafting from him was of any indication, was saying. Still, he needed more confirmation before he wanted to come out and have the conversation he had come to the manse for. When did he get the time for the drinks, Jon wondered. He was present there at the Court. And Jon didn't take more than an hour to reach his manse to get the chest. Is Oberyn still drunk from the night before?

Oberyne waved his hand impatiently, "Piss on that, boy, let me have a look of your hands."

Jon looked at Arthur askance, similar to him, the Dornish knight too didn't understand Oberyn's thought process. Jon pushed the small chest he was holding towards Robb and reluctantly thrusted his hands forward. Prince Oberyn latched onto them like a dying man would to his last hope. He lifted them up to his eyes and examined only Lady Minerva knew what.

"Huh!" He barked out a laugh, "They are not at all like a maid's hands. He had them, you know. You remember that too, Arthur, no?"

Arthur could only nod.

"He was very wroth with me because of them. I teased him mercilessly for having those hands, told him to stick with his harp, and let us worry about the swords." He shook his head in amusement, "Proved us wrong when he disarmed me in a spar. You are fortunate to have your mother's features, boy."

"Aye, My Prince," Jon smirked at the man, even while he was soaking up the nuance of information about his father. A drunk man's prattling was very amusing, something he had learned from having Lord Tyrion Lannister as a friend. Specifically, when they were trying to remember the fond memories of the cheerful days of past.

Unlike Tyrion though, the levity didn't last for long. Oberyn's eyes took the features of cold, hard steel as he grabbed Jon's hands in a tight, quite painful grip.

"You avenged her." It was not a question.

"Aye. I have." Jon returned the stare.

However, Jon wasn't prepared for the man's following action. The Martell Prince literally pounced on Jon and had him in an embrace so tight it would put the elder Karstark brothers to shame, for even they couldn't hope to get out of that predicament.

Jon, while he had an overly emotional man sobbing on his shoulder, manoeuvred his arms with difficulty and awkwardly patted him in order to console the crying Prince of Dorne.

"You proved your blood, lad. You proved that you are a son of Dorne, for you were born on her soil. You quenched your thirst for vengeance with the blood of the one who wronged you. You have avenged your family… nephew."

None of the occupants present in the room had the heart to interrupt the moment, save for one.

"Is that all you are to say to him?" The accusing voice rang throughout the room.

Jon, released from the Dornish Prince's embrace, looked around to see who had spoken, with such venom dripping from the words.

It was the same young woman Robb had declared his eternal love for. The Dornish beauty with purple eyes the same as Jon's own was looking at him with hatred evident in her narrowed eyes.

"Rhae -" The lady who was sitting beside the Prince of Dorne, presumably his paramour – Ellaria Sand, tried to deter her from saying anything further, but the young woman was adamant. She forcefully got out of the restriction created by her sisters – Prince Oberyn's other daughters, and came striding forward.

"Is that all there was for him to say that you take him in an embrace, Father? Is this the famed Dornish pride? Did you forget what his family has done to us? Did you forget how much pain his whore of a mother has caused to us?"

A raging inferno lit inside of Jon's head. Since childhood, it had been insinuated to him that his mother was nothing more than a whore who had warmed Lord Eddard's bed in a moment of his weakness. He had years of scorns to develop a confusing feeling towards his unnamed mother. On the one hand, he wanted to know about her, on the other, he wanted to blame her for his life. It had been further confusing for the then young lad when he found out that his mother was none other than Lady Lyanna Stark, and his father, the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Rhaeger Targaryen. At first, he raged for his misfortune to be born of rape. But, when after everything was clear to him, when he read the missives between his parents – his father and two mothers, for Elia was his mother in all but blood, because she had accepted him as her own, and in turn, so did he. Thus, in the core of his being, he was finally at peace to know that he was not the result of a night of drunkenness and broken oaths. Or a consequence of rape as the entirety of Westeros believed – but a mark of love that bound his parents together. Finally, he took pride of his entire being. He was the blood of two ancient lines – Stark and Targaryen. And woe to them who would dare to disrespect his blood.

"My Lady," Jon growled, the Dornish part of the room's occupants could swear that they heard a snarling beast, "I do not know who you are, but where I come from, we are taught to respect every woman, from every part of our world – be they of noble birth or the lowliest whore. I would request you to kindly grant my still unnamed mother the same courtesy."

Even did the lady cower at first by the twin flaming purple orbs that were Jon's eyes, she soon composed herself and burst out in a shrill laughter, quite a fake one.

"Oh, that is priceless, Bastard! You do not even know the womb that birthed you?"

Jon, in response, measured the woman in front of him before summarily dismissing him and turning his back towards her to once again project his entire focus on the Dornish Prince. The said man, by then, seemed to sober up from whatever influence he was under and had a regretful look upon his face. The lady Ellaria came forward to put a hand on her paramour's shoulder, while the other three, the still unnamed eldest daughters of Prince Oberyn, seemed to be preparing themselves as their stances depicted their intentions. Jon knew not from whom or what they were expecting an attack, but his instinct screamed at him to take out Winter Rose from her resting place and deflect the preventative strike towards their directions. He felt his brothers also prepared themselves for the same – for they were not the members of the Wolf Pack just in name, each of them were veterans of war. Jon didn't know what Arthur Dayne was doing without turning his head, but he was sure the loyal Kingsguard was also prepared to deflect any incoming strike on the person of his King.

"How dare you turn your back to me, Bastard? Do you know who I am?" The woman grabbed Jon's arm and forcefully turned him to face her.

Jon spoke through gritted teeth, "By your addressing of the Prince, I would think you are one of his daughters, one of the infamous Sand Snakes. Aye, tales of your exploits have reached the far ends of the Seven Kingdoms. She is the eldest of the Snakes," Jon pointed towards the one who stood the farthest in a corner of the room. "Obara Sand, eldest daughter of Prince Oberyn, fierce warrior who prefers to wield a spear like her father and also has a fondness of wine just the same, as evident from the stains of her clothes.

Next to her, the second oldest, Nymeria Sand. Tales of her beauty are as far reaching as her prowess with blades, daggers mostly. She would deny but one can easily spot the daggers hidden within the folds of her clothes if they know where to look.

After her, is Tyene Sand. One would be a fool to discount her by her appearance. For she is as deadly as Lady Obara and with a penchant for poisons, again, the same as her father, the Prince.

That brings us to you," Jon took a step forward, daring the woman to take a step backwards lest she felt his breath on his face, "Sarella Sand. Tales of your intellect and thirst for knowledge are as far reaching as your sister's battle prowess. But I am unable to find that vaunted intelligence. For the lack of better words, it leaves me dissatisfied to make your acquaintance. As to the answer to your previous question, you are a natural born daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell. On the scale of the societal value, both of us stand at the same place, being the bastards of our fathers."

A ringing, mirthless laughter from the woman who was named Sarella Sand, cut off Jon's rambling.

"And you are as much of a fool as your forefathers, Bastard. I know who you are, I know of the deception your 'father' has enacted to save your life, son of Lyanna Stark."

Jon could feel the call of bloodlust, the red haze he was so familiar with was back, tinting everything and everyone in a scarlet hue. He was begging inside of his head to Lady Minerva for his Champion's Mind to take effect.

"Yes, I know about your mother, Bastard. Don't tell me you haven't found out about her earlier. I will lose what little respect I have for your intellect that I have after hearing about how your discovered the clutch of dragon eggs." Sarella smirked at him viciously before continuing, "And for us to be on the same societal place, Bastard, I think you are misinformed. My father, granted me the same illusionary protection as your own. My proper name is Rhaenys Targaryen, true born daughter and heir of Prince Rhaeger and Princess Elia, unlike your bastard blood by your mongrel of a mother."

Jon almost reeled off his feet at that declaration. Two opposing emotions were warring inside of him. His blood was boiling, urging him to unleash his fury upon the one who dared disrespect his mother. The same blood was also singing in a melancholic tune in an inkling of hope of reuniting with one of the same blood. Jon turned his gaze towards Arthur, the man's stoic, stone-hewn features didn't betray what he was thinking, but a subtle nod of head let Jon know about the truthfulness of the words the woman – his supposed sister just uttered. Prince Oberyn had donned the visage of an utterly defeated man as his paramour had him in her arms, soothingly rubbing her hands through the Prince's hair.

"I don't know about you being a hidden princess holds even a pinch of truth in it or not, but I must remind you that it is my beloved aunt you are disrespecting." Robb had moved past Jon and stood with his back straight, raring to rip into anyone who dared to disparage his family, even if the person haunted in his dreams just the night before.

"Robb -" Jon tried to pull him back but Robb shook his hand off.

"No, brother. Her Grace" he spat the words as if they were curses, "needs to learn what happens when one dares to play against a direwolf."

"And what can you do, you filthy savage?" Rhaenys' sneer was back on her face, "For all of your boasting, you are yet to be blooded against a trained warrior. All you have handled is some stick wilding savages like you yourself are."

Robb snarled as his hand flew towards the sheath at his waist, which hid his dagger.

Jon clamped hard on that hand, "Robb! Take a deep breath and stand down, brother." His cold voice didn't leave room for Robb to protest. "Asher, accompany him, Lord Robb is yearning for a stroll in the open air."

"Aye, My King." Asher's addressing him thus sent a clear indication of where the Pack stood. It made Rhaenys' sneer mar her beautiful face even further.

Jon waited till Asher and Torrhen dragged a clearly resisting Robb out of the room. But even with their departure, the heavy air within the room hadn't dissipated.

"Prove it." Jon hissed.

"What?"

"You claim to be a dragonborn. Prove it."

"And how do I do that, Bastard?"

"A true dragonborn is unburnt." Jon strode towards the wall and yanked down a burning torch from its bracket, by grabbing the burning end. He returned to his stunned audience and held his hand high with the burning torch in it, his hand remained unblemished.

"The blood of the dragons is magic. And as another dragonborn taught me – magic is balance, it requires a certain sacrifice to become potent. For a dragonborn to become truly unburnt, they have to forgo their false pride. You claim yourself as a true dragonborn, prove it. Grab the torch!" Jon almost yelled out the last sentence.

Rhaenys didn't dare to move from her place. Her eyes were glued at Jon's hand holding the burning end of a lit torch, she couldn't deny the cold, hard truth which stared back at her. Jon Snow was unburnt, just as it was said about the old dragon lords of Valyria. Just as it was said about the founders of their house – Aegon Targaryen.

"Dragonborns are charged by the Gods to be just. They are to be caregiver and lawmaker. They are to be the shield to protect those who cannot protect themselves. They are to become the sword to avenge the loss of innocent blood, the injustice. But with time, they have grown to overestimate their self-worth. They made magic to become unbalanced and paid the price with in the shape of the Doom of Valyria. The Targaryens were given a second chance. But they too become complacent. It resulted in with magic disappearing from our lands, and with it, the greatest gifts the Gods gave them – the dragons. The histories of old warned us, but we interpreted them to fit with our views."

Jon sighed as he threw the torch in the unlit fireplace.

"I came here with no expectation, save for soothing the troubled mind of a brother who has lost his sister. I know how he feels, for I am a brother of an adorable little sister. If anything happens to her, I will not rest till I burn everyone who is responsible for her hurts to the very grounds of their forefathers.

I didn't even dream of finding another of my blood here. A blood relation that I thought I have lost even before I was able to protect her. I have slain a man in her memory, in our mother's memory. I don't know what I have done to earn your disdain, Princess, or what you have been told about the days past, but I am family. I have the same blood flowing through my veins that flows in yours. But you are not ready to accept that. So I will not force you. However, know this, Princess, if you crave to have a family, I am it. Just not myself, but I can give you information of two yet unknown blood relations, from whom I have learned what it means to be a Targaryen at their feet."

Jon shook his head to get rid of the overwhelming sense of loss. He could feel that the Princess, his sister, was not ready to accept his words. Yet, a small flame of hope burned in his chest.

"As for my being a bastard. I can show you the documents which proves the legality of the marriage of Prince Rhaeger and Princess Lyanna. A marriage instigated by Princess Elia herself. A man who stood witness of the marriage is present in this very room." Jon swallowed hard and stood tall once more, "I am Prince Aemon Targaryen, son and heir of Prince Rhaeger Targaryen and Princess Lyanna of Houses Targaryen and Stark. Adopted son of Princess Elia of Houses Targaryen and Martell. I am their Song of Ice and Fire, and I am charged with the duties to bring my House back to its former glory. If you want to belittle me, denigrate my birth, you are welcome to do so. But if you become an obstacle to hinder me from reaching my goals, I will not think twice to bring you down with extreme prejudice. You will only get one chance, Princess, now it is your decision what you will do with it."

"Obara," Prince Oberyn called out in a raspy voice, he had been led to a seat by Lady Ellaria, where he sat, depicting an image of a truly broken man. "Take her back to her rooms."

Obara nodded, "Yes, Father." She inclined her head and looked towards her sisters. Nymeria and Tyene also moved from their places and the three almost dragged the younger woman out of the room.

"Arthur…" Oberyn called the Kingsguard to him.

"My Prince."

"Do you now see the issues I have been fighting against for the past decade, my friend? With a few notable differences aside, this is exactly what I would expect Princess Arianne to appear. I have been trying to make her see reasons. Curse my own idiotic temper, for it has been a hindrance to me. I don't know who poisoned her mind so, but she despises everything to do with her father. And in my quest to do what is right for her and my family, I have forgotten to properly look after Rhaenys. She is my daughter in all but blood, but I have failed her. I have failed Elia also, Arthur."

"Pardon me, My Prince, but may I say something?"

"Of course, Your Grace. Do forgive me for not greeting you as I should, but you saw it for yourself, the situation went out of my control."

"There is nothing to forgive you for, My Prince, as for the time being, I am a mere bastard. I do not expect pomp. But I must say, you haven't failed Mother Elia. You have taken her daughter and raised her as your own. You have shown her the love and care as she deserved and let her flourish in the true Dornish way. However, you are not to be blamed for her opinions, for they are her own. You have given her the tools, how she uses them is solely upon her."

Oberyn could only give him a wan smile, "Thank you, Prince Aemon."

"No, My Prince, I am still Jon Snow. I am yet to earn that name." Jon smiled back at the older man. He looked down for a moment and let out a tired sigh before straightening his shoulders.

"Prince Oberyn, I cannot let her endanger my plans. I hope you understand that." Oberyn nodded, "I didn't lie when I said that I learned at the feet from Targaryens of old. I personally met with two long forgotten Targaryen blood. I cannot tell you what I have been charged to do yet, for you will simply not believe me. If you want to know, you can ask Uncle Arthur in your leisure. But I need time to make my move for the throne. I need to be prepared. Your daughter… my sister, will become an obstacle if she carries on as she did just now. The game I am playing is much greater than the petty Game of Thrones, My Prince. I can only give her another chance before I utterly destroy her. I won't ask what are the issues about Princess Arianne you are concerned about, it is not my place to do so. But if it can affect the man who is famously known as the Red Viper, one of the most formidable men in the Seven Kingdoms to appear as a broken weakling, then it is indeed quite severe. I sincerely hope that you and Uncle Doran are able to overcome your troubles. If you need my help, you have only to command me so. But please be aware, if it affects the Targaryens, then I beg you, Uncle, do try your best to prevent another Dance of the Dragons."

Jon stood up and took the small chest from Arthur's hands, "This chest contains Mother Lyanna's share of the three's correspondence. It paints a picture about what they dreamt together. What they wished for their families. I think you will find a little solace in those parchments. But I must get them back. Because you have seen them, you can recall their faces. But these are all I have of them." Jon turned towards Ellaria, "Forgive me, My Lady, for I shouldn't have ignored you as I did. But it couldn't be helped. I only wish we had met in a much better circumstance. I only hope for us to meet once again, when cooler heads prevail."

"I must take my leave now, My Prince, My Lady. I need to check with my brother."

Jon strode out of the doors without a backward glance. Oberyn reached out and brushed a finger on the lid of the small chest he left behind.

"He…" He faltered to say anything more.

"I know, My Prince," Arthur tried to help his friend, "He has that effect on people."

Oberyn nodded as he dragged the chest near him.

"I didn't even have the chance to tell him about Ashara."

"Fucking dragonblood. And fuck those who riled them so."