XIII.

Mace's feast for Loras' thirteenth birthday was extravagant and decadent, far more than what was needed or expected for what Garlan had told them was a "minor" tournament held by the Tyrells in the past – and for something that had been delayed by a week while Olenna attempted to convince Loras to squire for Renly instead.

But after Jon told them – convinced them – of his parentage, and Bran and Sansa backed him up and he explained how he was going to, eventually, fight to claim back the iron throne for House Targaryen again, not only had Mace fully capitulated (and eagerly, Jon admitted to himself), but Olenna had seen the benefits of being the first second House at his side (at least the one with the most money and men, not that they needed the coin); only Willas had seemed a bit put out, but Jon

was sure that had more to do with being outsmarted by Sansa.

He seemed in a much better mood the next morning when Jon and his siblings appeared in the great hall to break their fast along with the other Lords and Ladies who remained for the feast (which was nearly all of them). Fossoway was immediately at Jon's side, his eldest Owen a bit despondent over his easy exit from the melee by Rickon's young hands.

He perked up when Sansa floated by and sat on Jon's other side. "Good morning, Lady Sansa."

"Good morning, Lord Owen," she greeted back, and Jon watched her from the corner of his eyes as she ducked her head and began to butter a roll. Owen turned back to his meal, thinking of something to say with his ears red, when—

There! thought Jon, catching Sansa's eyes dart up at the head table, locked on Willas. She sent him a sultry look, a bit of an eyelash flutter, and was back down, buttering her roll when Owen looked up and began speaking about the weather outside, missing the entire exchange.

He rolled his eyes. Sansa could certainly be malicious and petty – even as a child – but he was also certain that she wouldn't be playing with the heir of Highgarden's heart after pushing Jon so strongly into an alliance with the Reach. She may have learned to use her body as a weapon, from Cersei and Baelish's tutelage, but her past marriages would have made her wary of lingering touches. That she was mooning over Willas Tyrell was at least a sign of her pushing her comfort zones and slowly moving past one of her traumas.

"Do be careful with him, sister," muttered Jon as he stood from the table, leaning down to breath his words against Sansa's ear.

She blinked up at him, all innocent and sweet when she replied, "Whatever do you mean, Jon?"

Jon said his goodbyes to the Fossoway boys and left the hall for the training yard, knowing Arya and Rickon would already be there; Robb was, no doubt, caught by some of the Reachlords, many of whom had interrogated Robb as the heir of Winterfell – or, well, once the heir of Winterfell.

To others, the line of succession was muddled but the Starks knew differently: their younger selves were the true Starks in this timeline, not them. They were interlopers, aberrations, freaks of nature. Bran's powerful greensight was developed beyond the vaguest notions his younger self in Winterfell could dream up; Arya's magic was learned when she trained under the Faceless Men, and none of them – including Arya herself – would want the younger version of the girl to experience the things she did when on the run after their father's beheading.

Even the warging abilities Robb, Jon, Sansa, and Rickon had – they were far more developed and for Jon and Rickon, instinctual to their nature from their bonds with Ghost and Shaggydog. Their younger selves had no idea of warging and now could never do so with their bonds broken to save their lives (perhaps, thought Jon, that was something they could revisit in the future if Bran's abilities manifested strongly enough for them to fix their mistakes. He couldn't imagine life without Ghost in it, and his heart clenched at the idea of his younger self not having that bond with his wolf, or, even, if those dragon eggs would ever hatch...).

They were true representatives of what Southerners thought the North was like: savage, cruel, uncivilized. Oh, they could play nice with their courtesies and chivalry, but at heart, the Starks were wild, untamed, and despite what they showed everyone, very, very broken on the inside.

Perhaps it was good that they were leaving in a few days, thought Jon, slipping past Tyrell men-at- arms and guards as he wandered through the many wide, light-filtered hallways that overlooked

green gardens. A light breeze swept the scent of roses and other sweet-smelling flowers throughout the entire castle. The Starks were just too dark and dirty for such a place.

But first – they had to put up with one more night of being a spectacle for the Southern Lords and Ladies at Loras' nameday feast.

The Starks were dressed befitting their station when they arrived for the feast later that evening: Robb, Bran, and Rickon were wearing fine doublets (Robb wearing grey, with white threads; Bran in grey with black threading, and Rickon – all the while protesting – in a doublet with a darker grey with silver threading) along with trousers tucked into polished boots that matched their belts.

Jon, who always preferred dour black, wore a fancy doublet made of the darkest fabric with faint brocade patterns that Sansa had stitched in for him in the deepest, darkest red she could find. Unless someone was specifically looking at Jon and thinking "Targaryen," would they see the colours as a true representation of Jon's heritage.

Arya was not in a dress, but a compromise: she wore tight trousers in black with the same polished boots as her brothers, and a thin linen shirt that was covered by a silver gambeson that split in an upside-down v-shaper just under the cinching belt, with a tiny bustle at the back for the skirt. It hugged her thin waist and emphasized Arya's feminine attributes but remained unique that she could still fight in it.

Sansa dressed as though she were still Queen in the North, but used fabric suitable for Highgarden in layered, silver silks and thicker braided fabric to hold the front halter up and twist in crisscrossing lines and diamond patterns along her back, mimicking the silvery scars from her time in the Red Keep and Ramsay. She wore a shawl overtop though, keeping the scars hidden for the time being. The train of her dress draped heavily and spanned out, achieving the look of her floating across the floor.

They made a hell of an entrance, though.

As Loras had won over his family's acceptance in squiring for Jon, and Jon, Sansa, and Bran had won over the Tyrells in their bid to help put Jon on the throne (eventually), the Starks were given the honour seating for the feast, at a table closest to the Tyrell family's seat.

They ended up sharing the table with the Redwynes from Olenna's side of the family, and the Hightowers from Alerie's side – although, both families had intertwined with the Tyrells before in their ancestry.

"My dear Lady Sansa," began Mina Tyrell, eyeing the sparkles of silver that flashed when Sansa cut into her meal. "Wherever did you get such a dress? Your seamstress should be commended."

Politely, Sansa smiled. "Oh, I made it myself." Alysanne Hightower made a noise of appreciation.

People made small talk as the courses were served – an excessive ten-course meal that was nothing compared to the fifty that was Joffrey's wedding in another time and feast Sansa had attended – stretching the emptiness of their stomachs with wine and ale, soft murmurs of conversation against the soft playing of the minstrels in the room.

Eventually, Mace stood, drawing attention to not just the movement but also his excessive girth. "My Lords and Ladies, many thanks in your attendance of my son, Loras', three-and-ten nameday celebrations!"

A massive cheer rose from the crowd in the hall, many raising their drinks to toast the young Tyrell son, who flushed red at the high table, but grinned ear to ear in praise.

"Yes, yes," soothed Mace, playing to the crowd and smiling broadly himself. "There were many great displays of swordsmanship and horsemanship had."

Eyes darted to where the Starks sat; Sansa could see a few strain their necks to find them over the heads of others. Robb and Jon both kept their gazes forward, while Rickon squirmed in his seat. Bran was, as usual, unruffled.

"I'm sure many of you are also aware that Loras has also completed his page duties," continued Mace, eyes moving around the hall. "Usually, a Lord picks the knight which whom their son will squire with, but—" here, he sent a besotted look at his son, denoting how much he placed importance on their happiness "—I gave Loras the opportunity to choose the man he wishes to squire for from amongst you."

The crowd hushed, and men leaned forward to strain to hear Loras' answer from Mace's mouth.

"Loras has chosen the man whom he thinks he can learn the most from, in teaching him to be the best knight he could be," continued Mace, drawing it out. "And for that, Loras chose..."

The hall held its breath.

"Jon Snow, from House Stark, in the North!"

There was the tiniest scattering of confused applause, but most of the hall was struck silent, mouths open and eyes wide, dancing between the beaming Loras at the high table, with his siblings and family loudly applauding and cheering, to where the Starks sat, backs rigid.

Whispers floated across the room to where Jon sat, blithely ignoring them.

"Jon Snow? Isn't he a bastard?"

"I'm sure he's a sellsword, did you see what he did during the melee?"

"Someone from House Stark, of all places! Why not a fellow Reachlord?"

"I heard Prince Renly offered to squire Lord Loras... why would he choose someone so much

less?"

Mace had turned to Jon, facing him and the other Starks at where they sat nearby with the Redwynes and Hightowers who had visited Highgarden for the tournament and Loras' nameday celebrations. "Any words, my Lord?"

Jon sighed, long having given up any of them not addressing him as such. He stood, turning to face Loras. The teenager was beaming at him, his smile stretching from ear to ear.

Something in Jon softened at the sight. He could barely remember his teenage years – fraught with tension in Winterfell, and later, tension at Castle Black and then focusing on survival – but he remembered enough of the idea of becoming a great knight, doing wonderful things for the realm, and making a name for himself.

"My Lord Loras," began Jon. He was never one for speeches, but this was important. He could come up with something for the boy who was to join them. "I've made it no secret that I do believe I am one of the worst people to guide you on this journey of being a knight. I am no anointed

knight, a follower of the Seven; nor am I a Lord. There are a great many other men – in this very room – who I am sure would teach you all kinds of things about chivalry, about courtly manners."

"However..." He paused, looking down at the floor. "Since arriving in Highgarden, I've had the opportunity to watch you; to spend time with you in a training ring, crossing our swords and watching you spar with others. I've seen you with your family, with servants, and the guests that have visited your room for your nameday celebrations. You do not need to be taught chivalry – as you already embody the beliefs and courtesies, seeking to protect women and children, treating others with respect. You do not need to be taught courtly manners, as you live and breathe them, here in the South.

"But what I can teach you is how to survive. You do not know my story; you do not know my pain and trials, although you've seen evidence of them. The world is not a kind place, my young friend. The world is not a song," he said, eyes fixed on Loras, who was looking back at him, not smiling as widely now, but still focused, taking in every word Jon spoke. "We have but one life to live, and that life is a storm. You will bask in the sunlight one moment be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man, a true knight of a realm, is what you do when that storm comes."

Jon took a deep breath, picking up his drink from the table. "I will give you the knowledge to face your enemies and survive. When facing odds that are stacked against you, when cornered and surrounded, bereft of all help – I will teach you to stand in that storm: strong, proud, and capable. I will help you Grow Strong, Loras, for when you look into the storm, I will have you shout, do your worst, for I shall do mine! And then, the Old Gods and the New will know you as we know you: as Loras Tyrell, the man, the knight, the best of us."

He raised his drink to Loras. Sansa was the first to copy him, with his sibling's quick behind, followed by the others at the table, and then the rest of the hall.

"To Loras!" shouted Garlan, standing and toasting his brother as his side, dropping bits of wine on his curls.

"TO LORAS!" chorused back the hall, chairs and benches scraping as others stood. Mace was clapping so hard that he nearly hit his wife in the face when his hands bounced back. "TO LORAS!"

Jon caught Loras' eyes amidst the crowd. They were teary, and the young Tyrell mouthed, "Thank you," to him. Jon nodded, taking a sip, and then sitting back down, the mood of the hall significantly warmer than it was before when Mace made his announcement.

The minstrels began plucking their instruments and music spread throughout the hall once more; this time, people stood from their seats and took to the middle of the hall, where a space had been cleared for dancing.

People began shuffling around, sitting in different seats as old friends from different houses got together, or rivalries were reinstated through insult, and two drinking challenges were given from opposite ends of the room.

"I'm going to go speak to a few of the other Reach lords," said Sansa in an undertone to Jon. "I wish to hear how aggrieved they are with Loras' decision."

"Have fun," murmured back Jon, watching as Sansa left her shift on the seat, floating away and causing double-takes and spit-ups as she moved past men and women alike.

Bran ended up near Willas, sitting at the head table and discussing something with the studious

Tyrell heir, while Arya shocked everyone by accepting Garlan's hand for the second dance.

With Garlan leading Arya, Jon offered a hand to Leonette, making Lord Fossoway smile; he danced with Margaery next.

"You've caused quite a stir, my Lord," the young Tyrell girl said, a gleam in her eyes.

"I tend to do that," he replied, looking down at the girl who, in her dress and hair, looked older than twelve.

She smiled prettily at him, turning away as the dance required. When she returned to his side, there was something different in her eyes. "Thank you, for Loras' toast. That was kindly done."

"He's a good boy," answered Jon. "I fear that he'll be disappointed in me soon enough."

"I doubt that," she said, shaking her head. "You've already done more for him and his happiness than others would."

She curtseyed then, as the song came to an end. Jon returned her to her seat at the head table; Robb had joined Bran and Willas, but was standing behind Bran's wheelchair, leaning a bit on it with a drink in his other hand.

"Had fun there, Snow?" sniggered Robb. "Reminding you of days back when we were in Winterfell and little Beth asked you to dance?"

"If I remember correctly, brother, you were asked far more than I was," replied Jon dryly. "And it seems like that will be the case here, as well."

That shut Robb up, his mouth snapping shut even as he replied, "what?" despite the gaggle of young women in the room who were sending sultry looks at him – one, a Hightower cousin, was even bold enough to make an approach.

Sputtering, Robb was resigned and led off to the dance floor, leaving Bran and Jon to share smirks.

This dance involved more twirls and twists, and the three watched from a position where they could see everyone dancing on the floor. Sansa's silver dress was slowly progressing from the far end of the room where she danced with a Storm lord, the two moving down the line until they ended up near the front, by the head table.

Willas' eyes had been following her, equally soppy and heated. "She's magnificent, isn't she?"

Jon smiled indulgently, a tiny press of his lips together, as he ducked his head. When he glanced up, Sansa and her partner were finally at the front of the line procession, finishing their partnered dance. Sansa was twirled around, bringing her hands up for a finishing clap, when she twisted just so, and her back was visible to the head table.

Willas stilled; somewhere, a few seats down, Alerie gasped.

Jon had an eye on Willas, as did Bran, although Jon could only tell Bran was watching through long-term exposure to his younger brother's newest habits. Mostly though, Jon wanted to know how Willas was going to handle Sansa's scars and her past.

Willas' hand had tightened on his cane, his knuckles white from tension. His eyes bore into Sansa's back, his eyes tracing the silvery lines that matched the silver of her dress. There was a splotch of red, high on his cheekbones one of the few outward signs of his anger, except for the

stillness to his body and the cold fury in his eyes.

"Who?" he rasped, finally turning those cold eyes at Jon and Bran.

Bran answered, his own voice significantly cooler than normal, "Her second husband."

"I see." Willas' hand trembled the slightest, even as Sansa detached from her dancing partner with a curtsey of thanks and breathlessly approached the high table. Her face was flushed from the dancing and there was the faintest sheen of sweat on her brow, but her happy smile faltered at the stoic expressions on the three men's faces.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, first at Jon, and then Willas, looking at both before finally turning to Bran with a quizzical brow lifted.

"Excuse me, my Lords, my Lady," said Willas abruptly, standing quickly. His breathing was slightly elevated, his nostrils flaring. "I find myself no longer in the mood for this feast."

"Willas – I—" Sansa stuttered in confusion.

His eyes softened. "Nothing to do with you, sweetling."

Jon gave a tiny cough, pointedly turning his gaze away to give the two of them some semblance of privacy, sharing an awkward look with Alerie, whose eyes were darting between her eldest son and Sansa with wide-eyed wonder.

Bran didn't, though. "He saw your scars, San."

"Oh." Sansa's voice was small.

"Sansa," murmured Willas, "Not you, remember?"

She made an unsure noise, but then straightened her back as something on her face shuttered, causing her to hide her emotions. "I remember, my Lord."

Jon winced. Sansa had fallen back on her courtesies as armour, and Willas, unused to her whiplash change, had opened his mouth, bewildered by her change.

Clearing his throat again, Jon suggested, "Why don't you and Willas go for a walk in one of the gardens, Sansa? And you can tell him – if you want – about the Battle of the Bastards?"

Bran scoffed, even as Alerie leaned forward a bit more.

Unsure, Sansa glanced at Willas, even as she addressed Jon. "Are you sure?"

Jon affectionately cuffed Sansa's chin, and she gave him a smile in return. She then turned to Willas, extending her hand to him. "My Lord?"

Confused, but willing to follow, Willas nodded, and the two turned to leave the hall, his limp much less pronounced than normal. The two had their heads closely pressed, whispering to one another, red and blond mingling. Then, something must have been said that eased the tension in Willas' shoulders because his free hand daringly skimmed down her back as they reached a carefully hidden passage behind a lattice panel in the hall, landing on the topmost swell of Sansa's rear.

Jon's eyes quickly tore back toward the hall, while Bran chuckled knowingly under his breath. "Will she be well, my Lords?" asked Alerie, slipping across from her seat to Willas' abandoned

one.

Jon nodded. "Sansa can take care of herself." "And..." Alerie trailed off. "Her... the scars?"

"Oh," began Bran, vaguely cheerful, "He's still alive in this time. I'm sure once Sansa tells Lord Willas about it, he'll be happily planning the man's death in no time if he's anything like his grandmother."

Jon rolled his eyes, knowing there was a good chance Bran had used his greensight to keep an eye on people like Ramsay, Baelish, and Cersei, among others.

Alerie looked vaguely sick, even as Rickon, Loras, and Garlan swung down from their head of the table to approach, Rickon leading the way.

"Jon, Loras wants to know what he's going to be doing for you," announced Rickon, throwing himself down in a seat near Bran, arms crossed. "I don't know what squires do, so I can't answer him!"

Loras, confused, whined, "But, Rickon, you've three elder brothers, didn't you squire for one of them, in your pasts?"

Rickon rolled his blue eyes. "No. They teach me, of course, but I wasn't raised or trained to do anything regarding knights. This is my first time in the South."

Alerie asked, "Where did you learn to fight then, my Lord, if you didn't squire with your brothers? Were you fostered out from Winterfell to another Northern house?"

"Yes, Rickon, please, tell us!" begged Loras. "I've seen some moves that you do are Robb's or Jon's—"

"Oh!" Rickon uncrossed his arms, leaning forward. Enthusiastically, he said, "After Winterfell was taken, I escaped with my Wildling caretaker and we were on Skagos for years, you'd love it Loras, really—"

Garlan spat out the drink he was sipping. Jon groaned.

Not quite bleary-eyed from the late-night feast two days ago – but with Highgarden much quieter now that people were leaving, with the Fossoways as an exception – Jon joined Mace and Olenna in Mace's solar to discuss Loras' squiring and Jon's plans.

Bran had paused when Jon asked if he was joining, his eyes going white for the briefest moment before he shrugged and said Jon would be fine, and that he was going to the Three Singers and to not be interrupted, a gaggle of wary-eyed Tyrell guards following him. Sansa also would not be joining him, instead preferring their last few days of quiet to be spent in Willas' company and Jon knew better than to ask what his twice-wedded sister was up to.

Arya and Rickon chaffed under the new guards that Olenna and Mace had assigned them ("For your protection, Your Grace," Mace had blustered; Jon replied, incredulously, "In your own castle?") but Rickon only noticed them when he wasn't in the training yard or with Loras, which was most of the time. Arya and Robb were paired by default then when Jon was locked away

making plans and spent their time in the training yard. Robb hadn't had much interaction with Arya one-on-one since their return, so both were benefiting from it.

"Loras' role of my squire won't be conventional," began Jon as they sat for a light lunch to discuss the future. "We already know I'm not a knight, anointed by the Seven, nor do I have any plans to become a ser, either."

"But he'll still have the same duties, will he not?" asked Mace, a frown on his face.

"Aye – he'll learn about our armour and care and take care of any horses we have when we travel," agreed Jon easily. "That's no different between the North and South. I'll not be attending any tournaments for the foreseeable future, so his experience will come from training sessions with myself, or my brothers and sister."

"And where will you be, if there are no tournaments?" asked Olenna sharply.

"Essos," answered Jon promptly.

Both choked a bit.

"Essos?" rasped Mace, eyes wide as he struggled to gain air. "What is there to do or see in Esoss, Your Grace? Surely, remaining in Westeros..."

Jon looked down at the table, contemplative. "My siblings were kind to indulge me in learning the path my parents took that led to my birth. Robb has... unfinished business in Essos, and after the love he has shown me, I shall return it. Besides... Rhaegar had, well, strange ideas. And I believe Essos might answer some of the questions he's left behind."

"Is Essos safe?" demanded Mace, a hitch to his voice. "Your Grace – Loras, he's... he's my youngest son—"

"He will be as protected and cared for as my own siblings are to me, Lord Tyrell," said Jon quietly, holding the man's worried gaze. "When I take him with us, he's as good as a Stark to me – he'll be family. One of us. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. None of us will let harm come to him without us dying first."

Mace, soothed by the promise, deflated back into his seat, boneless. Olenna, on the other hand, peered at Jon with an inscrutable look.

"You can't promise that," she finally said. "You can't promise that Loras will come back."

"No. I can't promise," he said, but then paused. "But I can promise that, if he does return, he'll be a changed man – and that he'll have a story to tell for the ages."

Olenna humphed. "Now, what's this about Rhaegar chasing things? What answers was he seeking, and how do you know?"

"Maester Aemon at the Wall told me they wrote, often," replied Jon, and the three resumed eating with Loras' squiring talk complete. "It seems that Rhaegar believed in a prophecy and was searching for information on it."

"Prophecy! Ha!" scoffed Olenna, rolling her eyes. "What utter shit." "Mother," groaned Mace.

Jon grinned. "I agree, and I know what the prophecy is." Intrigue had Olenna leaning forward in her seat. "Oh?"

"The Prince Who Was Promised," said Jon, with a tiny sigh. "Someone who would fight a great evil invading the world and deliver everyone to safety by vanquishing the great evil."

"What a nice tale," drawled Olenna.

"And the Prince thought he was such a man?" asked Mace, curiosity dripping from every word that fell from his mouth. "Where did he first learn of such a thing?"

"Somewhere," shrugged Jon. "The origins, I'm not sure of, which is something I wish to rectify in my travels to Essos, as I only ever heard of the prophecy from a Priestess of Asshai. But in terms of the Promised Prince, Rhaegar initially thought he was the prophesized one, but then decided differently and that it was my half-brother, Aegon."

"The boy is dead and therefore, so is the prophecy," declared Olenna, tactless.

Jon mentally rolled his eyes, but verbally agreed. "Aye... And then I came along."

Olenna paused, then narrowed her eyes. "Surely, you're not as mad as the other Targaryens, Your Grace, to believe in such nonsense?"

"Not particularly," agreed Jon, hedgingly. "But I've also seen strange things that I can't explain – like being resurrected by a Priestess of Asshai, after being stabbed a dozen times. Like the dead walking and killing and fighting Others north of the Wall."

Olenna stared.

Jon smiled, but it was done so humourlessly. "Hard to believe, is it not? That the stories, all those myths and legends of White Walkers and the wights can be true."

Dubiously, Mace asked, "Are you... uh, sure, Your Grace?"

"An Other killed me the second time, the time that brought me here," clarified Jon, something hard

on his face. "I'm very sure."

Both Olenna and Mace stared at Jon; Mace's face held a slightly green hue while Olenna looked mildly disturbed, already mentally redoing her plans. Carefully, the matriarch asked, "Are you saying that fantastical nonsense is real? That the Long Night will return?"

"It's already begun," answered Jon solemnly. "Sansa, Bran, Arya and I were fighting at Winterfell when we died. Already, entire villages of Free Folk have been wiped out. Craster sacrifices his newborn sons to them, as men for their army."

Mace shuddered.

"Why do you think I'm pushing to be king?" asked Jon quietly, looking at them both with a steady gaze. "We fought alone last time – no one came to our call – the other kingdoms had been destroyed by wars in the years before, after Robert's death."

Olenna's face shifted with the knowledge that Robert Baratheon was going to die at some point in the near future, but there was a pinched look on her face, too.

Finally, it was Mace, who, far from the jovial man Jon had come to know him as, said, "You can

count on House Tyrell, Your Grace. Whatever you need from us, we are happy to provide."

The tiniest weight on Jon's shoulders lifted and he gave a soundless sigh, sinking into his chair with a small smile on his face. "I do appreciate that, my Lord. Perhaps reaching out to the North – to Lord Stark – would be a good first move."

"Your brother, the younger one, Robb," began Olenna, eyes narrowed. "He's the eldest of the younger set, is he not? What was he like as a young man unburdened as he is now?"

Jon sent Olenna a grin, one that transformed his face into a bit of a rakish, charming look. "I can hear your mind working, my Lady."

She hmphed, and muttered, "Cheeky boy," making his grin widen.

"Robb... he's a good man, always was," replied Jon, thinking back to a different time. "Eager to do his duty; cares about the family – all of us – and is a strategic genius. Not so good with politics, though, unfortunately. He's raised to rule the North, not anywhere else."

Eyeing Olenna and Mace, Jon continued, adding observations of the man who raised him, the North in general. He gave sparingly information about Lady Catelyn, honest that they didn't spend much time together, and Olenna gave him a rather pointed look in response, knowing what he wasn't saying.

It was Mace, of all people, who asked, "Your younger self, Your Grace. Does he know the truth of his parentage? You call Lord Stark your father instead of uncle, and I wondered of it..."

Jon swallowed. "I never knew. I was never told. Bran was the one who told me, years later. Sam and Gilly confirmed it, but it was... it was poorly timed. Daenerys wasn't happy to learn I existed."

"Oh, I'd say so," muttered Olenna with a tiny cackle.

"I... I spoke with Father. We discussed the situation, and while I am still not happy with how it turned out, he did everything to protect me," explained Jon, with a tiny sigh. He brought a hand up to rub at his forehead. "I understand doing whatever is necessary to protect one's family – especially when there aren't many left. Sansa strongly stressed that Jon – my younger self, that is – be properly educated as a lord, at minimum. He probably still has not been told the truth – even though Lady Stark knows now – but I won't overstep Lord Stark on this... not yet at least."

Olenna's peered at him. "You plan to, at some point?"

Jon's returning look was grim. "Let's just say, from my previous experiences, I don't imagine I'll survive the wars to come. But if I can make sure that there is an easier path for my younger self – that King's Landing will be safe for him? Then I'll rest happily."

Mace, flustered, attempted to give some reassurances that the king he was throwing his support behind wasn't planning to gruesomely die at some point, but Olenna and Jon kept quiet – both were aware, if not considering – the possibility of those who were Baratheon or Lannister supporters who would attempt to assassinate him, or dying in battle, or dying fighting against wights and Others, again.

"Well," began Olenna, voice thin but sharp, "I do believe I've heard what I need, Your Grace."

It was the first time she addressed him as such and having the head of the family – the power behind the family – do so, warmed Jon in a way no fire could do. He had done it – the Tyrells were his.

Mace grinned, offering a hand to Jon to shake, which they did. He began speaking, almost absently, of things to be done. "Loras will be told, of course; he'll need to pack. But then you can leave – perhaps a day or so longer? A raven to my goodbrother Hightower will ensure you have somewhere to stay – or they can charter a ship for you, already! The Free Cities, is that right?"

"Aye, Essos," agreed Jon, nodding, and standing. "But I am not quite sure yet if it's to Pentos or Volantis, just yet."

Olenna remained quiet, lost in her own thoughts. The age difference between this Jon before her and her granddaughter was over twelve years – a large gap she wasn't too fond of; but the idea that this king would ensure a path for his younger self to take the Iron Throne? Oh, she could have laughed herself sick at the idea. He was practically handing her the boy, and with the knowing look he sent her as he turned to leave, she knew he knew what she was planning.

"I must let Willas know," mumbled Mace, looking around the solar. He turned back to Jon. "Your Grace, you saw Willas earlier this morn, did you not? He seemed much happier than he usually is."

Jon froze. "Erm, aye. I did."

"Did he say anything to you? Has his new bitch whelped? Or has he broken in a new colt?"

Jon's ears went red, easily seen with his pulled-back hair. "Ah, no... no, I believe it was for another reason."

"Oh?" Mace's eyes were wide and innocent of the knowledge when he looked at him.

Jon squirmed. "I do believe Willas, and my sister Sansa, have entered into an... an arrangement."

Olenna stilled, her hands tightening around her cane even as Mace, in confusion, sputtered, "I beg your pardon, Your Grace...?"

"Erm." Jon's eyes darted around, looking for a way out of the conversation. "Aye. They... they appear to be happy together?"

Mace's eyes lit up, and Jon saw the moment he put two and two together and began thinking of royal weddings – for all that they were cousins, Jon considered the other Starks his siblings, and that translated to everyone else seeing them as princes and princesses of the realm, once Jon became king.

"We must begin preparations!" blustered Mace, a bit flustered. "A wedding to plan—"

"No, I'm sorry," interrupted Jon, "But there won't be a wedding."

Mace sputtered to a halt.

"What of your sister's virtue, Your Grace?" asked Olenna, eyes staring down at him, something hard on her face.

Jon sighed. "After what Sansa has experienced, I won't ever presume to marry her without her knowledge. And as she's coming with us... best speak to your son. If, when we return, they'd like to make it official, and she's happy, then that's all I care about."

Silence filled the room after that.

Finally, Mace sighed and muttered, "Of course, Your Grace. That's... that's admirable and very

kind toward Lady Sansa."

Jon gave him a tight-lipped smile in return and turned to leave. He was almost at the door when

Olenna murmured, "Just what have you all experienced in your lives, Your Grace?"

With his hand at the doorknob, without turning, Jon answered, grimly. "Much, my Lady. Much –

and most of it was not good."

It took them a bit longer than they wanted, but nearly a moon's turn later, they were finally onboard Tide of the Rhoyne, their trunks and rucksacks in their assigned rooms and Jon's dragon eggs carefully hidden and protected, still intact after all their journey.

Arya had already made friends with the ship hands, speaking to them in their local dialects and delighting them despite barely casting off, and finally trailed back to the group that stood at the bow, looking out toward the shining horizon in front of them.

Loras, torn between utter delight at having got his way – now, officially, Jon's squire – and terror at the unknown ahead of them, asked with his voice cracking halfway through, "Where are we of to, my Lord?"

"That's a good question," answered Jon, eyeing Loras and then turning to the solemn Northerner at his side, shy of matching his height. "Robb?"

Robb took his time in replying. He was staring out at the water, something pained in his gaze. There was a tightness around his mouth, and the hands that gripped the edge of the rail at the bow were tight and the knuckles were white as the skin strained against the bone.

"Robb?" prompted Jon again, voice gentle.

Finally, Robb inhaled sharply and looked up, facing his brother. His eyes were glassy, and his face was etched in grief.

"Volantis, Jon," he choked out, voice tight with emotion. "Please. To Volantis." TBC