13

Summary:

The tourney begins! Jon meets an interesting group of fighters and decided to stop by the library. Arya struggles to keep herself under control in King's Landing and so makes a deal. Jon's reason for coming to the Capital is revealed!

Notes:

1) Alright, so this took longer to get out than I wanted it too. But...I do have a good reason, several reasons: a death in the family, the possibility of another surgery, I managed to somehow lose the outline I made for this chapter, and a real heartbreaker/headache of a case at work. If its any consolation, this is the longest chapter so far.

2) Out of curiosity, what is your guys' favorite chapter so far? I admit to having a certain fondness for chapters 6 and 8 (mostly because I really like my Catelyn POV) but what about you all? If you could let me know down in the comments which chapter and maybe why, I'd be very appreciative.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Timeline

283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal part(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing. (three days later) the Tourney of the Hand begins.

Jon XIII

"I can't wait until I'm old enough to compete," Arya sighed as she stared enviously at the women lined up to participate in the archery portion of the tourney. There weren't all that many overall, only about a dozen, but it was enough to catch Arya's interest.

Jon chuckled even as Sansa paused her attempts to speak with Myrcella to look at her sister incredulously, "Why would you want to do that?"

Arya's eyebrows shot up, "Why wouldn't you? You get to test your skills against others and just think about the prize money! The things you could do with ten thousand gold dragons…"

Sansa gave a quite unladylike snort, "What? Get a suit of armor made?"

The younger Stark daughter rolled her eyes, "No, armor would be far too heavy for me to use." She then paused for a moment, cocking her head to the side, "I'd use it to explore the world, maybe travel to Skyrim just like Jon."

"But-"

"I wouldn't mind trying my hand with a bow," Myrcella cut in, causing Sansa to fall into an awkward silence that Jon felt the need to break.

"The bow is perhaps not the best weapon for a lady, though it does allow for one to attack from a distance rather than up close, but I can say that the two best archers I know are women," he offered, leading to both Arya and Myrcella beaming at him.

King Robert also gave a laugh, turning to Arya, "Your aunt also fancied herself the archer, would have probably competed in the Tourney of Harrenhal if she'd been a bit older. Maybe in a few years, you can follow in her footsteps and give it a go? What do you think, Ned?"

Jon's uncle didn't answer immediately, taking his time to think but eventually giving a slow nod, "I suppose it is possible."

"My sister, Margaery, also enjoy archery; while I wouldn't describe her as being particularly avid at the craft, she does know her way around the butts," one of the newcomers, a young and extremely handsome knight, supplied with what seemed to be an odd amount of enthusiasm.

"Oh, is that right?" King Robert asked with no true interested. That didn't deter the knight though and he continued to attempt to pull the king into a conversation. Jon tuned the chatter out and instead choosing to survey the tourney grounds from his high vantage point in the King's box.

The King's box was a large, made from sturdy, polished wood, and covered in his crowned stag banners; erected in the best position to see the competitors clash, it stood taller than anything else on the tourney grounds. The inside of the box was designed with the utmost comfort of the users in mind with many comfortably padded armchairs arranged in such a way that the occupancy could see each other while speaking without losing visual of the field and tables stocked with refreshments by scampering servants.

The other noble houses had their own boxes too, of course, that surrounded the tourney ring, each with grandeur in accordance with the houses they represented. In between the noble house box were the open stands filled to the brim with smallfolk, all of whom seemed to be brimming with excitement. The enthusiasm held true with the inn owners, entertainers, and the merchants who ran the many stalls that dotted the tourney grounds, each selling food, drinks, and little trinkets to travels, spectators, and competitors.

It was probably a good thing the King's box was so large because it was packed full with the royal family, the Starks, Renly Baratheon, Lady Shireen, her mother, Jon Arryn, Baelish, and Jon himself in addition to a few of the kingsguard members that were always nearby. That was to say nothing of the many visitors that stopped by to pay their respects to the king, some stayed only for a few moments while others stayed for a while; the latest of these visitors was Ser Loras Tyrell, whom Jon gathered was the youngest of Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden three sons and the former squire of Lord Renly.

The young knight arrived at the box to offer his family's proper greetings to King Robert and stayed to chat with the Lord of Storm's End, planting himself firmly in the seat beside the young lord and stealing Sansa's attention, for once, away from Prince Joffrey. The auburn-haired girl kept stealing glances his way but would snap her head back towards Myrcella if he so much as looked her way. Honestly, Jon didn't blame his cousin in the slightest; Ser Loras was stunningly attractive with a mass of lazy brown curls that tumbled over his eyes and flowed down his shoulders. His eyes, a lovely liquid bronze, shown with intelligence and his perfectly white smile gleamed in the morning sun.

"So how are you finding the capital, Jon? Is it everything you'd imagined it would be?" Baelish asked, clapping him on the shoulder with what Jon thought to be an inappropriate amount of familiarity given their short acquaintanceship.

He fought the urge to squirm out from under the man's grip; he didn't like the Master of Coin -it was petty, but the man reminded him way too much of Erikur- but his gut told him that making an enemy of the man was unwise. So he just smiled and kept his voice light, "It is certainly interesting, Lord Baelish. I've only ever seen depictions of King's Landing in books so I didn't know what to expect; it is nothing like any other of the cities I've been to, I will admit. I won't be here much longer, but I hope to be able to explore it a bit."

"As well you should," Baelish replied. "You must be careful though; glorious as this city is, even it has an underbelly of pickpockets and ruffians. A wealthy young man like yourself would be an ideal target; perhaps you should leave some of your in the Red Keep or maybe even set up your own account at the royal bank."

"Ha, this boy is in no danger from some common thug," the king exclaimed. "I saw him cross swords with Lannister, gave the Kingslayer a right run for his money."

"Truly?" Ser Loras asked, peering at Jon curiously now. "Perhaps you and I should have ourselves a little match then. Are you going to be participating in the tourney?"

Jon nodded, "Aye, I'll be competing tomorrow in the melee. I already put my name in."

"That's too bad then, I'm just here for the joust."

"You could join the melee as well, Loras," Lord Renly interject, giving his former squire a soft smiled.

"Oh, but that would be unfair. I've got to give others a chance at glory," Ser Loras replied, send a joking grin in Jon's direction.

The young Dragonborn returned the smile, "Well, I thank you for the opportunity." Then he turned back to Baelish, "I appreciate your concern, my lord, but I'm more than capable of looking after myself. I'll also have Enzo by my side and he is usually quite the deterrent for troublemakers."

"I believe that," the Master of Coin muttered under his breath before continuing more clearly. "But your companion seems to have abandoned you today, I do hope that doesn't become a habit."

"Where is that giant of yours, Boy?" The king questioned, looking around the box as if to assure himself that Enzo wasn't hiding anywhere.

"Oh, off somewhere; he's not much for watching archery and decided to go wander the city. If I had to guess where I'd probably say the Street of Steel, he's very interested in the arms and armor of Westeros," Jon answered, hoping that was, in fact, what Enzo was doing because gods knew what the man could get up to if he got bored.

The conversation quieted down, though it didn't die completely, after that as the archery tournament officially started with the first round of shooting at 20 paces. It wasn't exactly a fast-paced show, but Jon could admire good technique where he saw it and, when his attention began to stray, he still could enjoy watching the many people in the crowd or speaking quietly with those around him.

Myrcella was telling Arya about the birds kept in the royal aviary, including the new pair of falcons that Lord Renly gifted Tommen for his last name day; Sansa kept trying to cut in to pull the princess' attention to herself but stopped once the girls' conversation turned to sailing and the tale of Elissa Farman with her legendary ship, the Sun Chaser. Sansa returned her attention to the very bored looking Prince Joffrey who just grunted every once in a while as a response. The look on the prat's face was actually quite amusing because it was nearly identical to the look of utter apathy that the queen wore as Tommen chattered at her about his kittens. 'Like mother, like son, I suppose.'

In the center of the box, it appeared that Uncle Ned and Lord Arryn were attempting to talk King Robert, who was already fairly intoxicated despite the relatively early hour, out of participating in the melee alongside Jon. The winner of that debate had yet to be determined. Furthest away from Jon was Lord Renly and Ser Loras, who were talking quietly with their heads bent towards one another; he watched as the dark-haired lord reached out to adjust the collar of the younger man's cloak, to which the blond knight responded by running his thumb over the back of man's hand. Jon felt his eyebrow quirk up at the interaction, 'More than just friends perhaps?'

He also noticed that Lord Baelish was talking quietly with Lady Selyse about something that Jon couldn't hear, though it appeared to be a somewhat unwilling discussion on the widow's side, judging by the look on her face. Her daughter, the new Lady of Dragonstone, Shireen, seemed to be uninterested in the tourney as she had her scarred little face buried in a book. She must have sensed him watching her though, as her striking blue eyes flicked up to meet his, startled. Hoping to assuage her discomfort, he gave her his most calming smile, "May I inquire as to what are you reading, Lady Shireen?"

The girl shifted in her chair nervously, gripping her book with white knuckles, but was still able to force her shoulders back and reply, "A book about mermaid sightings, Ser Jon."

"Mermaids?"

The girl gave a quick nod, "Patches often sings about them, Ser; I find the topic fascinating so my father was able to find this book for me before...before he passed."

"Patches is what she calls Patchface, the fool of Dragonstone. He is always filling her head with nonsense; in my husband's dying days he even indulged some of it. Shireen, I've told you that if you have time for such rubbish then you should be more focused on your studies and prayers," Lady Selyse scowled, her voice so sharp that it caused her daughter to shrink back into her seat as Prince Prat snorted with laughter.

Jon frowned, "Mermaids are nonsense? Oh, I'm not so sure about that."

Shireen perked up at his words but her mother just frowned deeper, "Are you in the habit of listening to fools, Ser Jon?"

He gave a shrug, "I don't have much experience with fools, to be honest; I did meet one in High Rock that I considered hiring, but I ultimately found him to be too unnerving and he stank like a sewer. I have also never seen a mermaid in person, but tales of them are told even in Tamriel. If tales of such creatures exist in lands so far apart, isn't it possible that there is some truth to them?"

Lady Selyse wasn't happy with his back talk but did at least seem to give Jon's words some thought, "Possible? Perhaps, but you yourself admitted that you've never seen such things."

"No, but all over Tamriel, there are these large creatures known as lamias who are quite similar to mermaids. They are beasts with a serpentine appearance, having the torso of a woman and the tail of a snake. The creatures even spend most of their time in the water, like mermaids supposedly do, making their homes among the ruins of destroyed structs as they do not erect permanent structures or cities of their own," Jon explained as both Arya and Lady Shireen's eyes went wide.

"I want to meet one!" bellowed his beloved younger sister, to which the young Lady Baratheon nodded.

Jon laughed, "Pray you don't, Little Sister, for lamias are dangerously vicious beasts and would sooner drown you to feast on your flesh than sit to have a chat. They're supposedly quite intelligent though, I'd love a chance to study them."

He said that last part mostly to himself, trailing off in his thoughts as Arya, Shireen, and even the princess attacked him with wave after wave of questions as the morning ticked on.

The sun was beaming high in the sky, covered only by the occasional brief appearance of fluffy white clouds when the time for luncheon came around. Only six of the original thirty-five competitors were left in the archery tournament, most having been eliminated before the recently finished fifty paces challenge, and Jon was ready to stretch his legs.

"Where are you off to, Boy?" the King barked.

"In search of something tasty to eat," he responded, rolling his shoulders to work the stiffness out of them.

King Robert chuckled, "There is no need for that! When you're the guest of the king, people bring your food to you."

A shrug, "Perhaps, but I'd rather go for a bit of a walk."

Without waiting for a response or to be dismissed Jon left the box and disappeared into the sea of booths and tents, pausing only for a moment to give a wave of acknowledgment when his uncle called for him to be safe.

He wound his way between the other patrons of the tourney, enjoying the sights of dozens of different street performers -tight rope walkers, jugglers, minstrels, dancers, fire-breathers, men on stilts- entertaining the masses in exchange for the hope spectators would be generous to drop a coin or two. They were in luck too, because, as it turned out, Jon had a full purse of money dangling from his belt and a perhaps overly generous disposition. The smile and flirty wink the attractive redheaded scarf dancer sent his when he dropped four silver stags into the small box in front of her showed was returned with a smile of his own before he slipped back into the crowd.

Many of the stands and tents that dotted the fairgrounds were home to ventures selling every type of food under the Westerosi sun; bubbling pots of rich stew, monstrous turkey legs, sizzling skewers with fish and vegetables, slabs of steaming spiced meats, rolls of freshly baked bread, miniature pies of every type, baskets of brightly colored fruits, and a dizzying ara of cheeses filled the air with an interact tapestry of aromas strong enough to mask the stink of the unwashed masses and the general stench the seeped over the walls of King's Landing. Alcohol was also flowing freely and for practically nothing; beer, wine, and mead were all sold by the mug full out of wooden barrels for anything ranging from a halfpenny to a halfgrount -Jon didn't know what halfpenny alcohol tasted like, nor did he have any desire to- while flagons of hippocras, mulled spirits, and ciders were a bit more expensive and mostly sold out off green tents with painted golden roses.

After some time spent pursuing the different options, Jon eventually took a gamble on a stall that seemed fairly clean; from the Dornish woman running it he purchased a large sliced roll, the inside coated with a smooth layer of honey butter and stuffed with a juicy chunk of fiery, grilled chicken. The combination of sweet and spicy made his mouth water and burn in a delightful manner. He settled on to an empty bench to enjoy it and a flagon of drink made from a chilled, strong tea mixed with rum and lemon juice he bought from a different stand. Bite by bite, sip by sip, Jon studied the crowd for a moment before closing his eyes and letting the sounds of merriment fade.

It was almost time.

'I have to plan this perfectly. I don't know how many chances I'll get to do this; hells, I'll probably need to make my own luck this time. Lady Nocturne, if you can hear me and care to assist one of your humble Nightingales in the slightest, please send some luck my way. Everything must go down flawlessly; if I mess it up then I'll never forgive myself. I also can't do anything that might place fault on Uncle Ned and the rest of the Stark; if anything ever happened to him or Arya or Robb or Bran or little Rickon or Uncle Benjen… No, can't think about that. This is the responsibility I've inherited and I intended to see it through to the end.'

A smile creeping onto his face, the Slayer of Alduin allowed himself to relax if only for this moment, content with the knowledge that the Soul Cairn might soon have itself a new resident.

"It's good to see I made it back in time," Jon commented as he awkwardly attempted to set the half-dozen small packages he had tucked under his left arm down next to his chair without losing his grip on the paper cone of candied almonds he had clutched in his right hand.

"Aye, the second half of the competition will begin momentarily." Uncle Ned glanced his way, eyes flicking towards Jon's purchases, "I see you did some shopping."

"Oh, yes, so many different craftspeople in one place. I couldn't help myself," Jon chuckled, taking his seat and jokingly slapping Arya's hand away when she went for his almonds before wiggling his eyebrows at her. "What do we say?"

Arya rolled her eyes, "Oh please, big brother, can't I have some almonds?"

Jon mockingly copied her eye roll but held out the paper cone, "Well, since you asked so sweetly."

Over the top of his little sister's head, he could see Uncle Ned grinning at their antics only for the smile to fall from the man's face as his eyes caught a figure nearly the box.

There was a palpable shift in the air when the man approached. He was a tall, slender, broad-shouldered man in his fifties, maybe even approaching his sixties; on the top of his head was meticulously groomed white hair and walked with an elaborately carved wooden cane. With every step the man took, he leaned onto his walking stick...and yet not once did he every appear frail or even that old. No, every movement was deliberate, purposeful, and it put the hairs on the back of Jon's neck on end, maybe even more so than the golden lion embroidered on the man's doublet.

"Father, so good to see you," the Queen rose to feet, taking the man's hands in her and kissing the back of one.

"Cersei," the man acknowledged with a nod before turning to the king and giving a bow that was just low enough to be appropriate. "Your Grace, this is a quite the tourney; I can think of nothing more appropriate to represent Lord Arryn's many years of tireless service."

That wasn't exactly a compliment, Jon noted, but the king just nodded, "Lannister, good of you to make it. I hope you brought along some good fighters, no use in throwing a tourney if there isn't going to be a good show."

"Indeed, Your Grace; I'm sure you will undoubtedly be...entertained by the ensuing events, whatever they may be," Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, said in a voice that suggested he didn't find anything all that entertaining.

The expected greetings for one of the Great Lords of Westeros were offered by all those in the King's box, Uncle Ned even rising from his seat to shake the man's hand; however, Jon couldn't help but note that his words, though technically polite, were as cold as the bitter winter wind. The Lord of Winterfell had never exactly spoken poorly of the Warden of the West -indeed, it was rare for him to outwardly speak poorly of anyone- but had certainly never spoken of him warmly either and if Jon had witnessed this exchanged at any point during the past, it would have alarmed him.

Now, though, knowing what he did, Jon understood.

It had been a long time since the young Dragonborn felt anything resembling true fear; oh, he knew concern for those unable the vulnerable masses unable to protect themselves and worry for the safety of those he loved. But fear for his own safety? It had been a lifetime since he felt that.

So why, when the Lion of Lannister's piercing gaze settled on him for the briefest of moments as he scanned the occupancy of the box with gold-flecked green eyes that missed nothing, did a shiver run up Jon's spine? Why did his fingers clench around the armrest of the chair? Why did he have to fight the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat?

Was it anger? Was it fear? Was it some unholy mixture of both?

'You could kill him, Little Brother. You could burn his skin or crush his bones or freeze the breath from his lungs, maybe all three. It would be easy, like snapping a twig; he's just an old man, after all. You know you want to, so why don't you do it? Is it because you worry what could befall the kin of your flesh? Or is it because you prefer to pretend you still possess some sort of morality even as you plot to-'

'Be silent you loathsome ghost! You may haunt the shadows of my mind but you know nothing of who I am!' Jon shut his eyes tight as the pressure in his head began to build and covered them with his hand, squeezing his temples as if he had a headache, praying no one noticed his discomfort.

The First Dragonborn chuckled, the dark sound echoing throughout Jon's mind, 'Oh, I know you better than anyone ever could, Little Brother, never forget that.'

Yet, despite his mocking, the presence faded, leaving only a sheen of cold sweat across Jon's forehead and the now familiar feeling of blood dripping from his nose which he attempted to hurriedly wipe away with a handkerchief, wincing and hoping no one else would see it.

"Ser Jon? Ser Jon, are you hurt?" A soft voice calling his name jolted him to awareness. He looked to Myrcella whose lovely emerald eyes widened at the traces of blood that were still smeared around his mouth.

"Are you well, Boy?" The king barked, head tilted to the side as he looked towards Jon with what might have been confusion and what might have been concern.

Jon felt a flush with embarrassment when he realized that, despite his prayers, he'd drawn the attention of quite a few of those around him. Still, he forced a smile, "Aye, just a nosebleed; the change of climate has been harder on my body than I'd care to admit, I'm afraid."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Uncle Ned commented. "Gods know how anyone can stand this heat, it's given me plenty of headaches."

It actually wasn't all that hot, but Jon appreciated the words none-the-less, "Anyhow, was there something you needed, Your Grace?"

King Robert gave a brief chuckle, "You Northerners aren't as hardy as you'd like the rest of us to believe, huh? I was just asking what tourneys were like in that strange land of yours."

"Oh, well, there is no jousting in Skyrim but there are plenty of festivals and competitions; archery contests are very popular, as are melee tournaments. In the months leading up to the coldest part of the year most cities will have hunting festivals where competitors will have from sunup to sundown to hunt as much game as possible with the winner being whoever brings in the biggest haul; they get quite a prize but the condition of participating is that all kills must be turned over to be added to the cities winter stores. Overall, Nords just seem to love a good fight, even if it is just for fun, so they'll make a competition out of just about everything: fishing, singing, axe throwing, bear wrestling-"

"Bear wrestling?" the king guffawed. "How does that usually end?"

"Entertainingly, Your Grace."

The Stag King roared in laughter but Lord Tywin frowned thoughtfully, turning his penetrating gaze onto Jon, "Skyrim, you say? That is a country to the far west, I believe. I've heard of it, though I confess to knowing less of it than I'd like too. How'd you come to be familiar with such a place, young man?"

Jon kept his face carefully blank and his voice carefully calm, "I've been living there for the past few years, my Lord, it and its greater continent of Tamriel have many marvels that I've been privileged to enjoy. I originally only came back for a brief visit to celebrate my brother Robb's nameday but then King Robert invited me to see the splendor of King's Landing for myself and I could hardly refuse, so here I am; I will be leaving after the tourney, however."

"Yes, it seems young Ser Snow here has done quite well for himself in that far off land of his. He has gotten himself a title and a fortune of his own in just five years, you must be quite proud of him, Lord Stark," Baelish cut in, voice dripping in what Jon was sure was hollow chipperness.

"I have always been proud of Jon," his uncle replied, long face characteristically stern, "but I doubt he appreciates being spoken of as if he wasn't present; I also believe he prefers to be addressed as Jon Whitewolf now."

Another bright smile, "Of course. I merely wished to say how impressed I am about his accomplishments, in addition to my own curiosity about how he achieved such a thing. Would you care to share the tale with us, Ser Whitewolf?"

'Would you care to share why you make my skin crawl, Baelish?' Jon growled inwardly. Outwardly though, he just shrugged, "The way most do, I suppose; to be completely honest, it was a bit of an accident really. Soon after I arrived in Skyrim I ended up doing a favor for a very important man; he was grateful, rewarding me, and then asked me to do another, which I did. After a while of doing this for various important men and women throughout the country, I found that I too had become an important man. As for the wealth? Well, the dangers of hard work often reaped great rewards."

The king's face split into a broad grin under his bushy beard, "A strong constitution on this one, eh-"

"What does it even matter?" Joffrey sneered, anger coloring his eyes and disdain twisting his face. "It's not like he's real nobility; he's still just a bastard, even if he is a rich one."

The Queen's lips twitched upward and she reached out to stroke the back of her son's neck as she began to say something before being cut off her Lord Tywin's cold voice, "A self-made man is not something to sneer at, Joffrey. I find men who work to build their own legacy or improve on the ones their father's leave behind are typically far more reliable than those who merely sit and profit from the work done by their forefathers."

The Prat Prince eyes went wide and surprised shot across his face which quickly turned to anger. Jon was willing to bet he'd only rarely been spoken to in such a way only a few times in his life, if ever. Fury sparked in the crown prince's eyes but it was nothing compared to the chilling emerald gaze of his grandfather, so the boy was forced to bite his tongue and slump down in his seat, defeated.

"The father builds, the son improves, and then grandson destroys," Jon commented, being reminded of a saying he had come across in the past, and, to his surprise, the Old Lion nodded in agreement.

The queen, however, would not be silent on such a matter; her beautiful face twisting out of its usual perfect porcelain masked as she lowered her wine glass from painted red lips, "Father, surely-"

"There is a matter that must be discussed immediately, Cersei; come to my chambers after the feast tonight so that we may go over it," the Lion of Lannister was curt and concise in his words, they left no room for an argument or refusal. He clearly thought nothing of commanding his daughter, even if she was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

As for the queen? Well, it seemed that even the crown she wore upon her brow didn't grant her the power to disobey her father because she did not attempt to speak again; instead draining her wine glass in one long swallow before waving for it to be refilled while her eyes remind coldly fixed on the archers as the sun inched across the sky.

The Lord of Casterly Rock went quiet as well, a silence of choice instead of deferment, and he did not speak to Jon again, didn't even look at or acknowledge him for the rest of the day. It was appreciated really, and Jon could only hope it would continue for the rest of his time in King's Landing. For now, though, he merely listened in as Baelish explained who the remaining contestants were.

In the end, it was a surprisingly young man -skinny with freckles and a messy thicket of red hair- from the Dornish Marches by the name of Anguy who won the day, outshooting both Ser Balon Swann, a big knight from House Swann and the second son of Lord Gulian Swann of Stonehelm, and Prince Jalabhar Xho, an exiled prince from the Summer Isles who had been residing in the Red Keep for the past few years, at a hundred paces.

A thunder of applause rang out from the stands and boxes when the arena judge officially declared the winner, raising the arm of the red-haired archer high above his head and allowing the young man to bask in the glory of the moment. The King rose to his feet and lumbered to the front of the box to bellow across, "Take pride in your victory and approach now so that I may grant you the prize you have earned!"

He then turned to Lord Arryn, "That is one of Dondarrion's lot, isn't he?"

The old man nodded, "Aye, he's one of them. I still don't know why you allowed them to enter the capital, let alone the tournament though."

King Robert shrugged, "They're good fighters and Thoros is always good for a laugh; I didn't see any harm in it."

The queen scoffed before mumbling under her breath, "Of course you didn't."

At the end of the tourney, there would be a small ceremony were the winners of the three events -the archery contest, the melee, and joust- will be presented with medals by the king, but for now, the victors were acknowledged to the crowds and the prize money was handed out. The young victorious archer was escorted into the royal box, flanked by two guards, and gave an awkward bow. With grandiosity befitting his large size, King Robert presented the man with an ornate cherry wood box filled with bags of coins, "That's ten thousand gold dragons, young man; spend it wisely! Now, I hope to see many of you for the feast tonight and, of course, for the melee tomorrow!"

And, with that, a wave of applause and gleeful hoots filled the air, signaling the tourney had ended for the day.

Jon liked large parties.

He liked the way the bodies of faceless men and women seemed to flow from one into another, the fabric of their clothing melting together into a living quilt. He liked the way dozens, maybe even hundreds, of different conversations overlapped into until they sounded like the buzzing of a thousand bees. He liked watching the body language of the attendants; the women who would laugh a little to hard at something her male companion said whilst fiddling with a low hanging amulet in order to draw his attention to her bosom, the men who puffed out their chests and strut around like roosters in front of both their peers and pretty young maids, the old husbands with much younger wives whose eyes strayed to long on either the serving girls or young knights, and the little children, some of which took the opportunity to play amongst themselves, happy to meet new friends, and some of which had been trained to sit silently, like perfect little dolls whose only purpose was to be seen and never heard.

But most of all, Jon liked the namelessness of large parties; he liked that he could sit in the background, just watching.

That wasn't to say he particularly enjoyed large parties exactly though, they certainly had their drawbacks; large groups of people made him uncomfortable as a general rule, as did the constant noise, and by this point in his life the possibility that he could be attacked at any moment always lurked at the back of his mind so being surrounded by so many was difficult because an attack could come from so many different directions.

Smaller social gatherings came with their own trades offs, of course. They were...intimate, for lack of a better word; people could watch you more closely -scrutinize you without the impairment of the crowd- and there tended to be a good deal more forced social interaction; you also couldn't as easily slip away if need be.

That being said, it wasn't as if Jon never enjoyed social gatherings; he just preferred them private and with people he actually likes being around. Suppers at Jorrvaskr with all the Companions eating, drinking, belting out bawdy tavern songs were wonderful, even if they often included at least one fistfight and almost inevitably resulting in no one actually getting to sleep until the early hours of the morning. He fondly remembered the long nights at the College of Winterhold when he, J'zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund would all crowd into one of their dormitory rooms, studying late into the night or -if an important test had recently been passed- celebrating by eating too many sweets and draining too many bottles of wine while using one of the empty ones to play childish kissing games.

Then there were the days in the Ragged Flagon were there was nothing to be done so the hours were whittled away playing cards. For a while he was content to just watch the antics of his fellow guild members but when Brynjolf had invited him to join the game, Jon was forced to admit he was unfamiliar with most of their games and the ones he did recognize, he was unskilled in; Ned Stark did not approve of gambling, so what little he knew came from Theon, who'd taught him and Robb a bit over the years. His lack of knowledge in such an apparently vital art had been horrifying to Vekel and Delvin who'd taken upon themselves to tutor him both in the rules and how to successfully break the rules.

Thieves guild members took their card games very serious, betting small mountains of coins, fist fulls of gemstones, and, most importantly, favors. Needless to say, Jon suffered quite a bit during those early lessons. It didn't help that he wasn't a good liar by nature and, therefore, was a poor bluffer; he did one advantage though, a face that gave away nothing, and, after several months of rigorous training, Jon's skill grew and he began winning. It was fun.

"Be careful with that wine, you will want to be in top form tomorrow." Enzo stood above him, dark eyes catching the light and a plate piled high with food balanced in hand.

"No need to worry, this is the stuff they reserved for young maids and old women; it's just enough to wet the throat. Now, you want to tell me where you've been?"

The giant Redguard shrugged, settling down on the bench beside Jon and offering him an apple pastry from his plate, "Oh, here and there; this is an interesting place. I will be there tomorrow though, I am looking forward to watching you win. Any plans on what you plan to do with the prize money?"

Jon chewed slowly, savoring the tart apple filling, "There is no point in dragging it all back to Skyrim; I've got a few ideas with what to do with the money when I win. If I win, that is."

"You will, I have no doubt. Then we can prepare to leave this country behind, perhaps permanently, correct?" The eyebrow cocked in his direction spoke volumes to Jon.

"Aye, once I figure up the last of my business," Jon answered smoothly.

A huff, half of amusement and half of exasperation, "Do you plan on informing what that business is?"

"I will, soon enough," risking his friend's ire with a cheeky grin.

This time he was met with a groan and a light-hearted swat to the back of the head, "You are insufferable at times, you know? Still, it is nice to see you in better spirits; you have been so pensive lately. Perhaps after tomorrow's festivities, it is time for you to seek out some companionship for the evening?"

"Oh gods, you're really doing this here? Now?" Jon groaned.

"All I am saying is that it has been a while for you, has it not? Three months, I believe. That last time with Gi-"

His head dropped into his hands, "Do you seriously keep track of when I have sex?"

Another shrug, "I swore to always look out for you, that includes your happiness and company always makes you happy. It is also an excellent stress reliever and you cannot deny the pressure you have been under."

Jon couldn't help but cringe, "You make it sound so...clinical; I have sex with people I find attractive because I like to have sex with people I'm attracted it to, it's not like I'm addicted to it or anything. Besides, things work differently here than they do back home; outside of Dorne, you can't really have casual sexual encounters outside of brothels. I have no interest in risk ruining some poor girl's reputation and future for a bit of fun and I'm not about to help anyone here cheat on their spouse."

Enzo's eyes twinkled with a bit of mirth, "Well you could always find a couple and make an arrangement to-"

"How goes things with Rayya, Enzo? Are you still convinced she is madly in love with you?"

*

*

*

"Excellent retort."

"Jon, you look like you've been enjoying yourself. Have you have enough to eat?"

Lord Arryn hobbled over to him, leaning heavily on his cane but, despite his frail appearance, his handshake was strong and firm. "Lord Arryn, it's nice to officially meet you. Yes, the food was excellent, as are the festivities. But I'm trying to find my Father, have you seen him?"

The old man nodded, "Oh, he left to escort your sisters to their quarters for the night."

"Yes, it is getting to be about that time," Jon agreed. It wasn't that it was particularly late, but the sun was all but set and the air had noticeably cooled; both a sure sign the winter was on the horizon.

"If you wish to speak to him than I believe he may be coming back afterward but I cannot be sure; Ned has never been one for parties."

"Oh no, it's fine; I was actually thinking that it was about retiring myself, want to be well-rested for tomorrow," Jon assured. Enzo had disappeared once again after Jon turned his back for a moment -it was unnerving how stealthy the giant Redguard could be at times- and there was really no reason to stick around for any longer.

"Excellent plan; from the behavior I've seen tonight, it looks like tomorrow's melee seems like it will be composed mostly of ill, half-drunk warriors. It may be an easy victory for you if have of what I've heard about your skills with a blade is true," the old Hand commented, looking around with a cocked eyebrow and an expression that showed he was deeply unimpressed by what he saw.

Jon gave a snort, "Not too easy, I hope; it wouldn't be any fun without a challenge."

The old man stared at him for a moment before laughing, "Oh, you are a young man no doubt!"

Jon cocked his head to the side, "What does that mean, Lord Hand?"

"Nothing, nothing," Lord Arryn waved him off. "If you were planning on leave than would you mind helping an old man back to his room?"

"Certainly not, anything I can do to help," Jon replied, already reaching for the Warden of the East's elbow to steady him; he'd never really gotten over his desire to help anyone he could.

"There you go, my lord. Is there anything else I can help you with?" Jon asked as he helped his uncle's foster father settle onto a plush sky-blue couch.

"A glass of water would be wonderful so long as it's not a bother."

"No, of course not." He went to retrieve the requested beverage for the old man, "Are you enjoying the tourney, Lord Arryn; the king must think quite highly of you to such a grand event in your honor."

The old Hand gave a low chuckle, "Robert means well but, to tell you the truth, I am far past the age where I can enjoy tourney, they are a young people's event. You and your sisters are enjoying it though, aren't you?"

"Aye," Jon hummed. "Sansa loves the romanticism of it all, Arya favors the adventure, and me? I like the challenge. Here is your water, my lord."

"Thank you, dear boy. You're such a good lad," Lord Arryn said, taking the cup and giving Jon a brief pat on the cheek as if he were the man's grandson. "You remind me so much of Ned."

Jon smiled, "I've been told I resemble him."

"You two are alike in spirit, at least," the Hand muttered softly, mostly to himself. "I offered to foster you at the Eyrie, you know? I offered almost as soon as I found out about you, before you even left the cradle. I thought Ned would agree without question given how many fond memories he had of the place and how many opportunities you could have had there. But he refused, forcefully I might add. I offered a second time a few years later yet was once again refused; Ned was quite cross with me that time, told me to never bring up the subject again. So that was the end of it."

Jon didn't like where he suspected the older man was attempting to steer the conversation, so he decided to nip it in the bud; with a carefully blank face he merely gave a shrug, "That is the first I've ever heard of it, Lord Arryn, but I like to think its for the best that Father turned down the offer. I wouldn't trade my childhood at Winterfell for anything; I love my siblings too much for such a thing."

"I imagine," the old man said, growing so quiet that his voice almost vanished into the crackling of the fire. Even then though, his stirring blue eyes locking Jon in place as he reached up and gripped the back of the young Dragonborn's neck, "Ned loves you too, dearly, so, please, be careful."

'What do you know?' Jon's brow furrowed, "Of course, my lord, of course."

Lord Arryn stared deep into his eyes for a long while, as if he was attempting to read Jon's mind, before giving the back of his neck one last squeeze and sending him on his way with a soft, 'goodnight.'

Jon left the Tower of the Hand shaking his head, trying to get rid of the creeping suspicion that his uncle's former foster father knew things he shouldn't. 'Uncle Ned wouldn't have told him, would he? No, of course not! Not after all the pain he went through trying to keep it a secret.'

He wound his way through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, heading towards his own assigned quarters while trying to decide which set of armor he should wear to the melee tomorrow. The steel-plated set he brought with him was sturdy, not overly heavy, and would provide good protection against injury while having the benefit of locking common enough that it wouldn't draw unwanted attention. However, his black-and-red set of leather armor complimented his agility and speed, his greatest assets in battle, without sacrificing much durability; he'd personally made the armor out of dyed mammoth hide, rendering it far tougher than if it had been crafted out of cow or deer hide, with Elder Dragon scales sewn in both to provide extra protection to vital areas of the body and because Jon liked the way it looked.

He was turning a corner when something interesting caught his eye, a door opened slightly opened to reveal shelves of books. Ser Barristian had told Jon that the Red Keep was home to several libraries of various sizes, but had yet to have the chance to visit any of them. Putting aside his intention to get to bed, he ducked inside to find a small library of about ten semi-dusty shelves, several worn armchairs, and a table at the center of the room which was currently scattered with open books that were being pored over by a large figure.

He cleared his throat to make himself known, causing the unknown man to jump to his feet, almost falling over in the process. Jon raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture, "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

The man was young, about Jon's age or a little older, but much larger. He was very fat -not as fat as the king, but close to twenty stones certainly- with dark hair, pale eyes, a large moon-shaped face, and was dressed in fine green garments with red accents. "N-no, think n-nothing of it; I just wasn't sure if I was allowed to be in here, thought you might be a servant telling me to leave."

Jon chuckled, "Don't need to worry about that, I'm just a visitor hoping to poke around too. Besides, from the looks of things, I don't think this library seems all that many visitors."

"Well someone was here recently," the man commented. "I found a crate of empty wine bottles under the table."

"Who'd store wine in a library?" Jon wondered aloud. "The name is Jon Whitewolf, by the way."

The other man returned his handshake, doughy palm damp with perspiration, "Samwell Tarly." After offering his name, Sam seemed to stiff as if he was expecting Jon to have some sort of outburst at his name. Instead, Jon just dug into his memory to try and figure out why that name sounded familiar.

"Tarly...Tarly...that is one of the houses in the Reach, correct?"

"Yes," Sam nodded, his chins wobbling. "My father is Randall Tarly."

That explained why the name was familiar, "Now that is a name I recognize."

A weak laugh, "Most do, I suppose. My family is here for the tourney. Oh, I guess that is pretty obvious, huh? And because my father wants to see how my brother fairs against fighters from across the realm; he is going to be in the melee and then the joust after that."

"Oh, is that so? We might be facing each other then; I'll be competing tomorrow as well. I don't suppose you could tell me if you're brother any good?" Jon asked with a grin to show he was joking.

Sam shakily returned the smile, "Oh, yes, he's quite good; my father is very proud."

"And you?"

"Me?" Sam's voice jumped a few octaves and his eyes went wide, "No, no, no, I'm no warrior; I prefer books to swords, if you get my meaning."

He flushed red when he admitted this and averted his eyes, clearly embarrassed. Feeling a rush of fondness and sympathy, Jon just shrugged and replied in the most nonchalant voice possible, "A learned man isn't necessarily a bad thing; the world has plenty of fighters and relatively few scholars. I try to keep one foot in each world; I find that keeping my mind strong also keeps my sword sharp and my bows quick. The idea that you can only be one or the other is shit."

Sam looked at him as if he had been speaking complete gibberish, "It is kind of you to say such a thing, though my father would certainly disagree. He believes-"

"Have you found anything interesting?" Jon interrupted, gesturing to the books.

His interest and the change of subject causing Sam to perk up, "Oh, yes! This room seems to be where old journals from the Targaryen dynasty are kept; most of them seem to be official records -work orders, kitchen budgets, payroll, things of that nature- but I believe there may also be some private diaries buried somewhere in the shelves. Probably not all that many, but still... absolutely fascinating."

"That is amazing," Jon replied, flipping through the pages of a book Sam handed to him. Diaries from long-dead family members, you know what secrets they could hold? "I would have thought the king would have ordered those burned."

"Does the king strike you as the kind of man who spends a lot of time in libraries?" Sam commented absent-mindedly as he examined a column of sums in a different book.

His words caused Jon's head to snap up, astonished by the boldness of what he said before he couldn't help himself and burst out laughing.

The day of the tourney was as perfect as it could be, weather-wise; sunny with minimal wind but just a hint of a chill in the air to keep it for being too hot. Similarly, it also kept Jon from being overheated in his leather armor; he'd decided to go with his leather armor because of his comfort with it and, considering he couldn't use one of his own swords and instead had to have Ser Jaime help him find a suitable blunted sword from the royal armory, that familiarity would be vital.

"Alright, everyone gather around so I can tell you what is going to be happening! Every one of you sorry lot better be paying attention, because I'm not going to repeat myself!" The head officiator bellowed to the crowd of sixty hopeful fighters gathered in the preparation tent.

The man continued, "There is going to be three rounds of this melee and the first two are going to be one-on-one battles while the last will be a royale of everyone left. As for the rules? It's all the basics: tourney weapons only and seriously injuring your opponent will result in your sorry ass being removed from the competition. If you decide at any point to drop out, just let me know so I can strike your name from the records. Got it? Good! Now, I'm going to read off the first ten matches of the day so listen for your name!"

Jon wasn't part of the first batch of competitors so he merely settled back against a table and scanned the other competitors, taking in the amusing mishmash of men. Some were clearly just farmboys or the sons of city guards wearing armor belonging to their fathers or older brother with hopes of winning a little coin or catching the eye of a knight who could take them on. Some were squires, half-grown with faces still ridden with spots. Some were proper knights, or at least rich men, with carefully crafted, elaborate suits of armor that gleamed even in the dim light of the tent.

None of them looked like they'd be particularly difficult opponents, but experience had taught Jon better than to judge a man's strength by his appearance

Time crawled by without Jon truly paying attention, it's passing only noting when sets of competitors would return to the tent to talk with the officiator. The winners strutted about like roosters and found their friends to crow about their victory while the losers either pitifully limped their way out of sight or angrily stomped away, likely in search of something to drink the memory of their defeat away with.

Eventually, all the matches of that set were complete and those who had yet to go gathered once again to find out who would go next. Jon perked up when his name was called; he was to face someone called Merkus of Duskhall. After the names of this set were announced, all the fighters were herded out into the ring to take their places. He glanced to the King's Box to see Enzo sitting in the same seat Jon had been occupying yesterday and at his side was Arya, on her feet and waving her arms wildly as she tried to catch his attention; Jon grinned under his helmet as his heart flushed warm with affection and raised one hand in a short wave of acknowledgment. When he did so, his uncle, Tommen, Myrcella, and even Lady Shireen all waved back, though not nearly as...enthusiastically as Arya.

Jon gave a soft chuckle as he turned to face his opponent, Merkus; he was a ruddy-faced man dressed in mix-matched iron armor with dirty blond hair a large nose that looked like it had been broken more than once in the past and bow legs. Jon smiled in a friendly way at him only to get a scowl in return, which told him how this was likely to go.

When all the fighters were in place a horn was sounded to signal the beginning of the matches and Merkus immediately lunged forward, stabbed at him with his blunted sword. Jon dogged easily and smoothly moved until he was behind the man; he had a plan, end his battles quickly but not too much so, he would draw them out until at least one other match finished.

His opponent wasn't that nimble of a man and it was no great challenge for Jon to lead him a dance, tiring him out and throwing his balance off, and trading sword strikes just enough for it to technically still count as a battle. A wave of groans came from the crowd and, out of the corner of his eye, Jon spotted a man flat on his back with his sword lying on the ground, defeated. 'That's my cue.'

Sidestepping yet another lunge, Jon used the opportunity to get in close and elbow the man swiftly in the chin. The impact causing Merkus to stumble and loosen his grip his weapon, making it all the more easy for Jon to knock it down with a quick slash of his own sword; it felt to the dirt and Jon quickly kicked it away, signaling his victory. Ignoring the dumbfounded look on his opponent -former opponent's- face, he looked to one of the men assigned to watch for cheating and decide if a victory was legitimate who gave him a nod and gestured in the direction of the main tent.

So off he went, waving at the crowd who applauded his victory and pulling off his helmet, thinking he'd try to get a bit of a rest in before his next fight. The light in the tent was dim and it smelled like hay mixed with sweat, but he'd slept in worst.

"Get back here you little bitch!" A hand seized his shoulder and spun him around; Merkus glared down at him with hate fuming in his eyes. "You made me look like a fool in front of everyone!"

"That was hardly a challenge," Jon answered with infuriating calm. "You know, you should really work on your footwork."

"WHY YOU-"

"Get the fuck off!" Seemingly out of nowhere stepped the Hound, huge and looming; he grabbed Merkus by the back of armor and violently yanked him away. "If you're so fat and slow that a tiny little brat can best you than you deserve to be humiliated! Now get out of here!"

He shoved the man away, sending him stumbling, and when he steadied himself he must have decided that dealing with the Hound was more than cared to handle because he left without another word.

"Quite a charmer, that one," Jon commented wryly, to which the Hound only grunted; Jon had come to the conclusion that grunts and growls were the scarred man's primary means of communication. "In any case, thank you for your assistant, Ser."

"Piss off."

Jon's second match of the day was a bit more difficult than the first; it was against a young Dornishman who fought with a spear, which allowed him a greater reach than a sword or mace would. Therefore, it was more difficult for Jon to get in close and disarm the man. He managed it, of course, but it was still more of a challenge than he'd been expecting. Surprisingly, the Dornishman had been a good sport about it and invited Jon to drink with him that night at his inn.

After the second round of matches there was an hour break for midday meals and to give competitors a chance to get any minor wounds they'd acquired tended to. Jon had no injuries aside from some minor bruises, so he went off to grab some tasty chicken, pepper, and onion kabobs with a miniature apple pie.

Once the break concluded the remaining competitors gathered back in the tent to await the final round of the melee. Jon glanced around at the men around him; including him, there were only a dozen left, there should have been fifteen but two men had been too hurt to continue and one was disqualified after it was discovered he hadn't properly blunted his blade. So twelve were all that remained, tension radiating from their bodies and filling the air, tension, excitement, and exhilaration.

Cheers greeted them when they filed out into the right, the crowds eager to see who would be the winner. All the competitors scattered around the ring, each surely sizing up who would be the easiest target and who would be the hardest; Jon wondered what they thought of him, he was the youngest of those that remained and the smallest. Did they think he'd be easy prey? If so they'd be mistaken. The horn sounded yet again and it began.

Time faded away, turning into water that slipped through Jon's fingers as he lost himself in the shouts, the clashing of weapons, the flashes of pain when one of his opinions landed a hit, the taste of dirt in his mouth, and the smell of sweat. There was a pureness to combat; no right or wrong, no complex variables to weigh, just survival. In combat Jon only had to think about survival and victory; he liked that, it was peaceful.

He was dealing with a knight for the Reach -a large slack-jawed man with a longsword and a truly impressive amount of body hair- who wasn't a particularly savvy fighter but was big and sturdy enough to none were able to knock him down so far when he saw the Hound doing battle with a tall, older bald man whose heavy-set frame -Jon could not, in good faith, describe him as fat because that wouldn't be exactly true; his new friend, Sam Tarly, was fat, but this man looked like the older Nord warriors he knew, legs and arms thick with muscles, backs strong and straight, but with a belly that grew heavy with mead in their later years- was covered not by armor but with flapping red robes. It was hard to pay attention to any of that though because most of Jon's attention was locked on the man's sword which was alight with flickering green flames.

The Hound, despite his superior height, strength, and younger age, was having a harder time with the red-clad man than Jon thought he should. He seemed deeply reluctant to get anywhere close to the man and though his dog-shaped helm covered his face, the young Dovahkiin was sure that it was twisted with a panic that the Hound would never want the world to see. The man's strategy looked to be to drive the large man further and further backward until he was pressed against the edge of the ring. It was working. He slashed a hair's width from the Hound's face, causing him to stumble, the small of back pressed against the railing that encircled the ring. The flaming sword pointed at his face was the last straw for the Hound, he signaled at one of the officiators that he was out before hopping over the railing and slinking away.

Jon's inattention almost cost him; he nearly missed the broadsword that was swung downward, aimed at his shoulder. He dodged it, twisting close enough to land a hit on the man's inner left thigh that was hard enough to force his opponent to take a knee. Jon followed that up with a blow across the chest, knocking the man onto his back. Before he could enjoy his victory, movement at the corner of his eye caused him to jump back.

The red-clad man pointed his flaming sword in Jon's direction and smiled amiably, "It looks like you and I are the only ones left, young man. I don't suppose you'd like to surrender?"

"No," the Legendary Dragonborn replied. "That isn't in my nature."

The man gave a hearty, full-bodied laugh before nodded and lunging forward. Their swords sang when they clashed, embers flying from the sword and blowing across Jon's face. Back and forth they went, Jon's greater speed and agility kept the man from pinning him down or boxing him in like he did the Hound but he couldn't get too close, less the fire get him.

It felt like their dance went on forever before-

"Umphf!"

For just a moment, there was an opening. Jon took it and swung his sword upward, hitting the tender underside of the man's upper arm. Perhaps more from shock than real pain, the man dropped his sword. Their eyes met and Jon smiled, he had won, but then the man's eyes snapped to the side and, as Jon became aware of the screams coming from the stands, he followed his gaze down to his sleeve.

'Fuck!'

Green flames flicker on his arm, the odd flames eating away at the thick scale-covered leather. Jon darted inside the tent towards a trough of water he'd seen earlier, plunging his whole arm inside when he found it. But the water barely caused the flames to dim, instead, it caused the water to begin to quiver. 'Fuck,' he thought again, the hand not underwater already beginning to case a frost spell when-

"Don't move!"

It was the red-clad man, now carrying a large bucket. He knelt by Jon's side and emptied the bucket into trough straight over Jon's arm, dumping dirt and sand into the water which turned it into thick mud. Jon watched in relief as the flames finally died, letting out the breath he'd been holding.

"There we go, it's over now," the man said, his voice soft and gentle. "Now, let's see the damage."

He pulled Jon's arm from the trough, wiping away the mud with a rag. The flames had burned away a section of the arm of his leather armor -which was disappointing, Jon really loved this set- but underneath, where one would expect to find black and dead skin, was...just a stretch of slightly reddened flesh with all the hair burnt off.

The man stared in...amazment? Confusion? He ran a thumb over the what should have been a horrible burn -ouch, that did actually hurt- before raising his eyes to slowly meet Jon's. He attempted to pull away, but the man's grip tightened and he began to speak.

"What-"

"Thoros, I ought to have your head for this!"

The head officiator bellowed, shoving his way between Jon and the man, Thoros. "You bloody lunatic, it was only a matter of time before your ruined so poor sod's arm. If you've crippled the king's personal guest on my watch than I'll-"

"No, no, I-I'm fine," Jon cut in, holding up his arm with a shaky smile. "My armor protected me; y-you can't beat nice, thick leather, I guess."

The officiator blinked wildly at him, as if he was surprised to see Jon on his feet. "Well, alright then. If you're good to go then I guess I have a winner to announce. C'mon!"

Refusing to look back at the strange man, this...Thoros, he followed the officiator out of the tent into the right and the cheering adoration of the smallfolk and nobles alike.

The feast was even grander than the one last night; suckling pigs, fish pies the size of wagon wheels, and every type of poultry imaginable filled the tables of the ballroom in addition of at least a dozen more delicacies. The extra food was needed because even more people had crammed themselves into the castle so that they might catch the attention of those richer and more powerful than themselves.

Tonight was also different in that the partiers weren't content to let Jon watch the goings-on quietly from the sidelines. Instead, he spent the night being pulling to conversation after conversation, debate after debate, and business proposition after business proposition with people he either vaguely knew, barely recognized, and had no idea existed before that very moment. He was polite during these discussions, but guarded, and escaped as soon as he was able.

He was also pulled into many dances: three with Arya, one with Lady Shireen, and even one with Myrcella. He was worried about the potential scandal that could be caused by such an act but the fact that King Robert himself encouraged him to do so calmed his concern. After that he was approached for dances by several young ladies or their male relatives on their behalf; he obliged, even if he sussed out what was going on almost immediately.

These girls were the daughters or sisters of either wealthy merchants or the heads of minor noble houses. Jon was, as far the majority of Westeros was concerned, the only bastard son of the Warden of the North but he was also an independently wealthy man, tonight twenty thousand gold dragons richer than he had been this morning, and that, along with the King's obvious favor -seriously, the man actually hugged him when he went up to receive his prize money- was more important. His last name meant little to wealthy merchants and traders the occupied King's Landing, they wanted his gold and his relationship with the King. As for the nobles? Well, even the stain of perceived illegitimacy could be ignored if he allowed for good enough opportunities.

He was able to pull himself out of a conversation with a trader from Lys when Prince Joffrey smack a tray out of a serving girl's hands, sending glasses crashing to the ground and drawing everyone's attention. He made his way through the corridors, aimlessly exploring, until he eventually found himself in the dark cellar of the Red Keep and in the gloom he saw a most magnificent sight.

Dragon skulls, nearly twenty of them. Some no larger than the skull of a large hound and others were...simply massive. One bigger than all the rest, the skull of the legendary Balerion the Black Dread.

'Alduin was enormous, bigger and taller than a mammoth by thrice, and Balerion's head is bigger than his head was by more than half, if Alduin had been this big than...I don't even want to imagine it.'

The dim torchlight flicker and even though Jon knew the skull was just bone -felt it under his palm- for a moment it almost looked as if the dragon was smiling at him.

Meow

Jon spun around, heart nearly leaping out of his chest. A filthy old tomcat sat in front of him, matted black fur streaked with silver. He took in the scars that dotted its body and the mangled ear. He knelt down and held out a hand, "Life hasn't been easy for you, has it? Come here, boy, let's get you a bath and something to eat."

The cat took a hesitant step forward before turning tail and disappearing into the gloom. After it vanished, another figure emerged. The man King Robert referred to as the Spider and others referred to as Lord Varys.

"I do hope you're not lost down here, young man. It's so easy to get lost in these dark passages." The man's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and yet the pleasant tone set the hairs on the back of Jon's neck on end.

"I'm not lost," he answered, eyeing the man suspiciously. "I just decided to do a bit of exploring and I happened to find these."

"Aye, yes," the Spider nodded, coming to stand by Jon in front of Balerion's skull. "Glorious relics for an era now long past. Though, perhaps not as far in the past as some would like to believe."

That last part was phrased like a question, a question Jon ignored. "I wouldn't know anything about that. But I do have a question for you, Lord Varys-"

"Just Varys, please. I am no lord, just a man looking to serve the realm."

Jon cocked an eyebrow, "Then why does everyone refer to you as such?"

A shrug, "Civility, I suppose."

'Civility? Why do I doubt that?' Jon pondered. "Well, anyway, I was wondering if you could direct me to place I could purchase foodstuffs in bulk? I'm not interested in anything fancy, just the basics will do."

Varys cocked his head to the side, "Don't you think that is a question best directed to the Master of Coin?"

Jon snorted, "Baelish? No, I don't trust him."

"Oh? You trust me then?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Jon's lips, "I'm not enough of a fool to trust the Master of Whisperers...but I trust you more than him in this matter. Baelish wants to know about my finances, how much I have and what I plan to do with it. But you? You know I have money, plenty of it, and I believe you're smart enough to guess what I plan to do with it. So, to answer your question, it's not so much that I trust you it's just that the relevant information isn't all that important to you."

The Spider studied with the blankest expression Jon had ever seen before nodding, "I would recommend stopping the storehouse the Tyrell's maintain in the city. I'll send a servant to you will directions on how to get there tomorrow morning. Pleasant dreams."

And, with that, he turned and was swallowed up by the darkness.

Arya II

'If the gods existed, they must be very cruel,' the littlest she-wolf though as she stared down at the handkerchief she was attempting to embroider with little red wolves. Instead, they looked like spots of blood on the white cloth. 'I'd be watching the joust right now if not for this damn rain.'

She cast a glare out window of the lounge where the gray sky dripped fat raindrops onto the land. When King Landing had awoken that day to the dreary weather, it was decided that the joust would be postponed until it cleared up. Arya was worried that it would storm for days on end but Jon had assured her both that it would probably only last the day and that it wasn't raining hard enough to ruin the tourney ground for the foreseeable future so chances are the joust would only be pushed back a day or two. That was good news but it didn't change the fact the for today Arya was forced to 'enjoy' the honor of the queen's company for the day.

"I heard you turned down Lancel's invitation for a dance last night at the feast, Shireen. Would you care to explain why? He is my cousin, you know, and a very handsome young man; you should have been flattered by his offer." The queen's voice was that tone she usually used when pretending to be friendly, patient but filled with false cheer.

Lady Shireen was the queen's niece by marriage but she looked at the older woman as if she was one of the terrible monster's from Old Nan's stories. She shifted awkwardly in her armchair, the scarf she'd been working on ringing in her hands, "I'm not much of a dancer, Your Majesty, and I was quite tired after yesterday's festivities."

The younger girl smiled meekly then, causing the scar that stretched across her face to pull at the healthy skin awkwardly. Arya knew she shouldn't stare, but couldn't help but find the cracked and flaking dark skin fascinating; she wanted to touch it, imagined it would feel like a warm, rough stone, but suspected it would be impolite to ask.

The queen's lips pursed slightly but she simply continued, "I suppose it's been quite lonely for you and your mother since your father died. Dragonstone quite a bleak place, isn't it? Granted, I only visited once when I was younger but I couldn't imagine living in such a place. Perhaps you should come to stay at Casterly Rock for a while, wouldn't that be nice?"

The girl looked around the room, trying to find a way to escape the conversation, "Oh...that is a lovely offer, Your Majesty, but I'll have to talk to my mother and Ser Davos before I can promise anything."

A sneer crossed Queen Cersei face for the briefest moment, "I can't believe your father left you in the care of that man; he's not even a proper noble."

That actually made Lady Shireen sit up straighter, eyes harder than they'd been before, "My father trusted Ser Davos Seaworth with his life, that's why he chose to appoint him to act as the guardian of my best interests until I come of age. I see no reason to believe this decision was incorrect."

The room when silent and the air filled with a palpable tension; torchlight flickered in the cold green depths of the Queen's eyes which were as hard as the emeralds they resembled. The only one who didn't seem to notice an uncomfortable mood was Sansa, who was still happily working away at a pair of satin gloves.

"What do you think, Your Majesty?" she asked, holding out the gloves.

Queen Cersei's eyes tore away from her niece and shifted to Sansa, morphing her expression into one of motherly warmth. "Oh, my! Those look lovely, Little Dove; I especially love the designs of the flowers around the cuffs. You have quite the eye for quality taste."

Sansa nodded proudly, "Coming from the most beautiful and fashionable woman in Westeros, that is quite a compliment; thank you, Your Majesty."

Arya gagged at the display, causing Myrcella to giggle; Sansa's deep desire for the Queen approval confused her because it was so obviously a facade. But she hadn't said anything last night though, when in the cover of darkness, Sansa gleeful stated her belief that Queen Cersei liked her because, while it was a little eye-rolling, Arya was happy that Sansa had finally begun cheering up a little after Lady's death.

Yet, she couldn't understand why her sister didn't see that the Queen wasn't her friend; that she didn't like Sansa anymore than she liked Arya, or Father, or the King. Honestly, Arya doubted the Queen liked anyone except for her oldest son, the Prat Prince; him she seemed to like too much, always holding him close and stroking his hair. It was weird.

'Well, if I'm stuck here than I might as well get some practice in.' With a sigh, Arya crumpled the ruined handkerchief in a ball and tossed it aside before sliding her hands under the table to begin practicing the hand motions for the basic flame spell that Jon had shown her, careful mouthing the special words.

Magic was hard! You had to say the right things and make the right motions perfectly while focusing hard or else it either wouldn't work or would backfire something awful. Not to mention that even if you did manage to properly cast a spell, you'd feel tired and sluggish afterward. Jon and Mister Enzo both assured her the more she practiced, the better she'd get, and eventually, the tiredness would fade. But that didn't change the fact that in the three weeks since her lessons had started, Arya only had a comprehensive grasp of three spells.

It frustrated her to no end, especially since visions of herself shooting bolts of lightning from her fingertips just like Jon danced in her head. They were so prevalent that they almost kept Arya from noticing that she'd actually managed to conjure a small flame in her left palm. This would have filled her with joy and satisfaction if not for the fact that she'd unknowing managed to catch the lacy end of the tablecloth of fire.

Biting back a scream, Arya snatched up her cup of tea and dumped it one the flames, extinguishing them. The splashing caused Sansa, Mycella, Lady Shireen, and the Queen the look her way; they hadn't noticed the flames, thankfully, so it must have looked as if she slept tea across the table and the lap of her dress. She forced a smile, "The cup slipped, excuse me."

Before anyone could say anything she bolted from the room with a pace just shy of running, heading straight for Jon's room. The castle was big, like Winterfell, but Arya knew that layout of her home like she did the back of her own hand whereas the hallways and staircases of the Red Keep were completely foreign. It took a long time before she recognized where she was and, in her hurry, turned a corner too fast and nearly crashed into someone, just barely able to twist out of the way and avoid hitting the other person.

"Watch where you're going," the man barked, shooting her a dirty look.

It was the big man who was always following Joffrey around, the one with the scarred, mean face. What was his name? The Dog or something like that? The tone of his voice and the dirty look made Arya want to stick her tongue out at him, "It's not like I hit you or anything!"

The Dog froze mid-step, turning back to face her, "Be careful with that tone of yours, Girly. You shouldn't sass people bigger than you."

"Then I wouldn't be able to sass anyone."

That actually got a chuckle out of the man, "No, probably not. That might be for the best though, you never know when someone will take what you say too personally and decides to take it out of your hide."

Arya lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, "They'd have to catch me first."

The Dog seemed to find her bravado funny; he shot an arm out to grab her but missed when she danced backward, out of his reach. He didn't say anything after that, just cocked the eyebrow he still had and Arya met his stare with her own steely determination. "Alright," he growled. "You're quick, I'll give you that. But one good hit and that'll be the end of you, Girly."

"Then I won't get hit," she sneered back, only to be met with an amused snort as the man turned around and walked off.

Jon wasn't there when Arya knocked on the door to his room, instead, Mister Enzo opened the door. He blinked at her, quizzically, "Is something wrong, Little One?"

Her shoulders slumped, "I set a table on fire."

The man just stared for a moment before silently waving her into the room. Arya plopped down heavily on the couch, reaching out to scratch Jon's shadowcat under the chin, while Mister Enzo took a seat in the armchair across from her, "Tell me what happened."

Embarrassment colored her cheeks as Arya retold her earlier mishap; the events of which caused Mister Enzo to devolve into a loud fit of laughter. "Oh, Little One, you are not the first to catch something one fire whilst trying to learn Destruction Magic; just be thankful no one saw or got hurt."

"But I don't understand why it's taking me so long to learn a few basic spells!" Frustration colored her voice, "Was it this hard for you when you started learning?"

"No," Mister Enzo replied, his deep voice was soothing to her ears. "But Destruction Magic was something I had a natural predilection for and it is entirely possible you do not."

That confused Arya, she tilted her head to the side, "What do you mean?"

"There are several different schools of magic -Alteration, Conjuration, Destruction, Illusion, and Restoration- and some people do not have to disposition needed for one or more of them. You may not be suited for Destruction Magic. I wonder… Watch my hands, Little One, and try to cast this spell."

Arya did as he instructed and, while it took a few tries, eventually- "I got it!" she exclaimed, watching in amazement as webs of bluish-green light flowed across her skin.

SLAP

Arya's head jerked to the side from the impact of Mister Enzo's slap. When she got over her shock, she snapped back to look in his direction. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?"

The man didn't apologize or even change his calm expression, "Did it hurt?"

"OF COURSE IT-" Then she paused, raising a hand to brush her fingertips against her cheek. There was no pain, just a slight tingling.

"Oakflesh," Mister Enzo informed. "The weakest of the Mage Armor spells and part of the Alteration school of magic. It turns your skin into armor for a period of time, good for emergencies."

The door opened and Jon entered, "What is going on here?"

Mister Enzo smiled, "I think Little Arya here has a talent for Alteration magic."

"Oh," Jon raised an eyebrow, "And how did you figure this out?"

"She nearly burned down the castle."

Arya gasped in indignation but Jon just shook his head and groaned, "Enzo, would you mind waiting outside while I talk to Arya for a minute?"

The man left with just a chuckle and Jon came to sit next to Arya; after a long moment of quiet he asked, "Please tell me you didn't do that to get out of having to spend time with the Queen."

"What? NO! Though that isn't a bad idea..."

"Arya..."

"I know, I know. It was just a mistake, I promise," she sighed, slumping against Jon's side.

"You've got to be careful, Arya! Magic isn't a tool and it isn't a game to play with for your own amusement. "

"I understand that! I was just trying to practice and… and… I don't like it here. I mean, the tourney has been fun but the way everyone looks at you in this city… it's like you are food," she admitted, snuggling deeper into her brother's warm.

Jon let out a deep breath and wrapped an arm around her, hugging her closer. "You're a smart girl, Arya. We've got to look after each other and not cause any trouble for everyone's safety, which means playing along with the royal family for now. Within reason, that is."

"The Queen scares me," she admitted softly. "I don't like being around her."

"You're a smart girl, Arya," Jon repeated. "I'll tell you what, if you can manage to put up with being a proper lady for just a little bit longer than I buy you a present before I leave."

That perked Arya up, "What will you get me?"

Jon chuckled, "Just about anything you want. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal!"

Enzo II

The giant Redguard was amused when he watched little Arya scamper away, a smile on her face. "You are too indulgent with her," he told his companion who just shrugged.

"I won't deny that, but don't think I haven't noticed you being a bit gentler with her during lessons either."

Now it was Enzo's turn to shrug, "What can I say? She is quite adorable; precocious too, something that is both a helpful and a dangerous trait. "

Jon chuckled, "That she is. I worry about her, worry about how she'll cope when she is older; she's got the inner strength of a thousand men and that scares people."

Enzo didn't say anything to that, instead simply allowing a moment of silence before nodding to white bandage Jon had wrapped around his forearm, "How is your arm?"

He'd been horrified when he saw the flames clinging to Jon's arm and nearly leapt from the King's Box to chase him into the tournament tent; the only reason he didn't was that his companion soon emerged looking none the worse for wear. Later that night, Jon had shown him how bizarrely little damage there actually was; the patch of skin that should have been black and dead instead just looked as if it was sunburnt.

"It's fine," he answered. "Still red and a little sore but…"

Jon trailed off and Enzo decided to divert the conversation, "So I suppose we will not be telling Lady Serana about this incident?"

His companion's eyes went comically wide, "No. No! Not in a million years! She'd never let me live it down!"

The pair then shared a chuckle before Jon's face went solemn again, "Follow me, there is something I need to show you."

Enzo cocked an eyebrow, "Where are we going?"

A small, dark smile slid across Jon's face, "Well, you want to know why we came to this city, don't you?"

The city stank of filth, disease, and despair; it smelt like blood was soaked into every inch of it. Enzo hated it, hated every inch of it, and couldn't help but wonder why the whole place hadn't been burned to the ground yet. Mud splashed across his black leather boots and rain dripped down the back of his neck as he followed his companion through the city and to the now mostly abandoned tourney grounds, 'I miss the desert.'

They stopped at the outskirts of one of the practice rings and Jon pointed to one of the few fighters. He was absolutely massive in a ridiculously heavy set of armor and was absolutely obliterating a set on wooden practice dummies, smashing them with one swing of a giant sword.

"Do you see him?"

'It would be difficult to miss that man.' He nodded, "Yes, he is a big one."

Jon turned to face him then with a completely blank face; he was wearing a wine-colored tunic and between that and the dim light, his nearly black eyes could almost be dark violet. "Do you want to help me kill him?"

Next Chapter: The tourney continues, this time with the joust! Jon manages to endear himself to yet more people but unfortunately finds himself pulled into a meeting with the Lion of Lannister. Ned and Jon talk about issues on the horizon. 

Notes:

1) Well, there you go. Definitely a dialogue-heavy chapter, which I don't think is a bad thing but I know some find it tedious.

2) Fight scenes are a bitch to write, that is all.

3) You should all go to see Spiderman: Far From Home. I think it may be the best live-action Spidey film to date.