Book II – Chapter 4: What Dreams are Made of

Nothin' Like You

Five Years Ago, in Highgarden…

The first time Jon saw her, he was lost.

Highgarden was just… just so massive. Hallways winding everywhere, gardens in the last places you would expect to find them, and nothing was where it should be. In Winterfell, the more important something was, the deeper within the castle complex it usually was. But in Highgarden, Jon couldn't find any rhyme or reason for the location of things. The lord and lady's apartments were on the second level, looking out over a mossy garden? Jon was confident he could climb up and break into their window. Bran could do it in less than a minute. And the Kitchens! It had taken him two entire days to find them!

He'd been searching for the palace library (it did have a library, right?) for over an hour now, starting on the ground level and moving up. The library had to be one of the most visited places in a palace; surely it would be on the ground floor? No such luck. The only thing he'd been able to find on his first try so far had been the training yard that morning. At least that was where it should be. Outside!

As it turned out, the library was deep within the heart of the castle, on the third level, Tyrell guards standing at the doors. They bowed to him as he passed, and Jon nodded back with a smile. He was still getting used to the respect all the guards showed him here. The same deference that Robb should and would have received if he had come on his father's excursion to the Reach. These men, they didn't know Jon was a bastard – at least, not yet. His father hadn't identified him as one before the court, and for the first time in his life, he was genuinely experiencing what it was like to live like Robb. As a trueborn son.

It was exhilarating, phenomenal, magnificent, incredible.

A sharp reminder of what Jon could never really have.

But he was tired of being upset about it. So, since he'd arrived in Highgarden, he had decided to push all those thoughts to the back of his brain and just enjoy himself for the first time in his life. And, incredibly, it seemed to be working? Arya and Bran were constantly happy and pulling him along to see things they'd found or seen – usually statues or tapestries. His session with Ser Garlan Tyrell (holy hells!) had gone near perfectly. Even Jon hadn't realised just how good he'd gotten with a sword until Ser Garlan congratulated and praised his abilities. That moment would live on in his memory forever, easily one of the best of his life so far. He was even getting along with Sansa.

He'd sought out the library in an effort to continue that streak. He'd thought to borrow a book on the tales of Garth Greenhand, so he could read it to his siblings tonight before they went to sleep. Yet another incredulity of the South, Sansa was as fascinated by Garth the Greenhand as Arya and Bran were, though for very different reasons. Arya cared about the mythical man for his supposed magical powers and fighting prowess, Bran for his status as the first King of the Reach. But Sansa's fixture on the man revolved more around his famous exploits relating to protecting and marrying fair maidens. Jon wouldn't judge. Anything that could get Arya and Sansa on the same page was a miracle.

The library was an enormous room, bookshelves towering near three stories high to the roof. Ladders on wheels leaned against the shelves for pages and the Maester to move so they could reach the various rows, and an enormous wooden table dominated the space, smaller ones nestled in the corners. Only one of them was occupied.

A girl – a young and very pretty girl no older than Jon himself – was leaning over the desk with a quill in hand, inkpot beside her, scribbling on a piece of paper. Her left hand was twirled in hair, a shade of golden-brown like a painter's rendering of sunlight bathing the earth. A stack of books sat on the floor beside her, tall enough that it reached nearly as high as the table, and she could easily reach the small cup of tea resting atop the pile.

He couldn't help it. He just sort of froze in the middle of the room and stared for a minute or two.

Perhaps it was only a few seconds later, or maybe it was entire hours, but the girl reached out for her cup of tea without looking up from her work. But instead of grabbing the cup, she knocked the stack with her elbow instead. A small 'eep' sound escaped her lips as she reached for the cup, barely catching it before the entire pile collapsed to the ground, books scattering across the floor.

"Ah fuck," she muttered, shaking her head before shrugging and taking a sip of her tea. Then, in what had to be the best spit take Jon had ever seen, the girl gagged and spat the drink back into the cup.

Jon couldn't help it. He burst out laughing before he could stop himself. A deep-chested bark of mirth. The girl's gaze snapped towards him, eyes wide in an expression of horror. Her face flushed bright red, from her cheeks to her nose and all the way down her neck. With a glance back to the teacup and the scattered books, she started giggling as well, and she shot Jon this beautiful smile. A smile he'd never forget.

"Sorry," she said, putting the cup down and pushing the lock of hair she'd been twirling back behind her ear. "I was in my own little world there."

"I guessed," Jon said, unable to resist smiling himself. "Where were you?"

The girl frowned. "Where?"

"In your little world," Jon clarified. "What are you reading about?"

"Oh! I don't think you'd be interested, really," she said, reaching down to grab her books and pull them back together. Jon hurried over to her and helped, picking up the titles which fell the furthest.

'Traditions and Old Laws of the Seven Kingdoms: A Time Before Dragons. By Maester Grimm.'

Each book had a similar title, all concerning pre-conquest laws of the kingdoms of Westeros and how they differed from one another.

"You're a scholar?" Jon asked, sitting on his knees to help rebuild her stack.

The girl shrugged.

"I don't know about that. This is just a bit of light reading for a personal project I've been working on in my spare time."

Jon counted the books in the girl's stack. Thirteen texts, all but three thicker than Jon's hand.

"This is light?" Jon asked, jaw falling open slightly.

The girl chuckled. "For me, it is." She paused, brow furrowing. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

"Um, I, I'm sorry, my lady…."

The girl broke into hysterical laughter, and this time it was Jon's turn to turn as red as Sansa's hair. Her entire body exploded in a fit of shakes, head thrown back, cackles echoing around the room. Jon tried to backpedal but forgot he was still on his knees, so fell over, landing square on his ass.

"I'm really sorry, I don't know everyone yet; I've only been here for two days…." He tried, heart-pounding, sweat breaking out on his forehead, the warmth of the room suddenly becoming quite apparent.

"It's… It's o… okay," the girl tried to say between her fits of giggles as she watched Jon as he attempted to flee. She took a deep breath, trying to contain herself, then stood up, took the hems of her dress in hand, and presented Jon a curtsey better even than Sansa's. Her hair, falling in waves down to her shoulders, actually seemed to bounce in time with her curtsey, long lashes fluttering as she dipped and rose. Oh, he was so fucked. Who was this girl?

"May I present, myself," she said with a wink, that smile clear as daylight. "The Lady Margaery of the House Tyrell, only daughter of Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South."

He may not have lost consciousness, but he definitely saw black spots flit across his vision as deep-rooted terror settled in his soul. Oh, he was so fucking dead. He had seen her that first day when they arrived, dressed in finery. How had he not recognised her?! He was going to be executed and, and, and… and what was worse than execution?

"Well, this is new," she muttered. Then Margaery's face was right in front of Jon's, and she snapped her fingers between his eyes.

"Lord Stark? Are you alright?"

Lord Stark.

That did it.

"I'm not a Stark," Jon said, coming back to reality. Thankfully, he didn't notice the two guards at the entrance spin around at the words or spot Margaery wave them away with her hand. If he had, he certainly would have fainted.

"You're the son of the Warden of the North. That makes you a Stark, even if you wear the name Snow instead," Margaery said, offering Jon her hand. He took it, and showing far more strength than he would have assumed, she pulled him back to his feet.

"I'm so sorry, my lady, I was looking for the library. I didn't mean to intrude…."

"Oh, don't worry. I was just having fun. I should be apologising, really."

She was still smiling at him, and now that he knew, he could see she was royalty. Ordinary people weren't as gorgeous as this girl was. They didn't hold themselves like she did.

"I'm Jon," he said awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say, heart still threatening to explode out of his chest.

"I know," she said softly, eyes flicking up and down as if scanning every inch of him and committing him to memory. "I saw you in the training yard. You're incredibly talented."

Jon swallowed, redness creeping into his cheeks for an entirely different reason now.

"Uh, thanks. I've never trained with someone as good as your brother before."

"Well, of course not," Margaery said, "But I've seen few full knights go toe to toe with Garlan. What you did was something else, and you should certainly be proud of your skill."

Jon's entire body started tingling with an odd feeling he couldn't quite describe, stomach twisting around itself.

Margaery bit her lip, then glanced back to her pages.

"Do you follow the Old Gods, Jon?"

"Yes," he said, confused by the sudden change of topic.

"Would you be willing to sit and speak to me then? I'm trying to piece together the connections between cultural and legal traditions of the Seven Kingdoms from the time before the Targaryen Conquest, and I could use someone familiar with the Old Gods. Reading from books is all well and good, but it's rare to find anyone alive who doesn't follow the Seven down here, I'd appreciate a different perspective if you're willing, and I'm not overstepping."

"Of course, I'd love to," Jon answered, without a second of hesitation.

"Excellent." Then she took Jon's arm and led him back to her desk. Neither of them noticed a figure standing in the shadows, a self-satisfied smirk on her face at a plan falling nicely into place.

Later that night, when the sun had vanished far below the horizon, and the two children were working only by candlelight, Margaery's mother would discover and usher them both to bed. And she would watch them go in different directions with a smile and a wave goodbye and know in her heart that the bastard boy with black curls would be her daughter's first love.

Dancing in the Dark

Today, Bronzegate…

Jon wrapped a ribbon of green and gold around his wrist and, with one final glance towards the full moon gleaming down on them from on high, he ducked into the secret tunnel that led under Bronzegate's formidable defence. Edric and Beric both held flickering torches in the dark, waiting just ahead. The Tyrell men guarding the way outside closed the metal grate protecting the passage, hidden in a mountain cave, and saluted.

"Good fortune, Sers," they said before vanishing back to their posts at the cave entrance.

The second they were gone, Obella ripped off her helmet, shaking out her brown curls.

"Thank fuck, I thought they'd never leave."

"Seven bloody hells! You're a girl!"

That comment had come from one of Beric's companions. True to his word, the Lightning Lord had brought two men with him. An archer named Anguy – a commoner, to Jon's surprise – and a red priest from Myr named Thoros. Though, calling him a priest might be a bit generous, as Jon had yet to see the man preach anything unless the 'Red God' was a fancy euphemism for red wine. It had been Anguy who'd commented, and he was now staring slack-jawed at Jon's 'Kingsguard', appointed long before he ever knew he was a King. Not that he would change that for anything. Obella was near as much a sister to him now as Arya and Sansa.

"And you're an idiot," she said flatly before snatching the torch from Edric's hand and proceeding down the tunnel.

"How old are you?!" Anguy shouted, rushing after her as Jon, Edric, Beric and Thoros trotted behind, suppressing their laughter.

"Fifteen!" Obella snapped, "and I'll bet I've killed at least twice as many people you have."

The poor archer looked quite affronted at that statement. Beric leaned over to Jon and asked in a faux whisper. "One of the Red Viper's kit?"

"Yep," Jon answered, shrugging.

"Bloody hells," Thoros muttered. "Remind me never to piss that man off."

Edric snorted. "And she's one of the nicer ones."

"I heard that sundried dumbass!"

Edric's face turned pale in the light of Beric's torch, and Jon chuckled to himself.

"I can't believe you remembered that. It was, what, four years ago now?" Jon asked.

"Something like that," Obella said. "But it was a good insult."

Jon shook his head as Edric muttered under his breath about mean girls. Good to know Arya's threats had such strong staying power.

Beric whistled softly, before slapping Edric on the back and proceeding after the archer to tell him to shut up. Jon ended up at the back of the group of six with Thoros of Myr. The man unhooked a wineskin from his belt and offered some to Jon, but he turned him down, instead producing a small flask of metal from a pouch at his belt.

"Dornish whiskey. My sister introduced me. Haven't been able to shake it since."

Thoros barked a laugh, then apologised in a whisper as Beric shot him a look.

"That I understand, mate. That I understand. But tell me, what's a Northman doing in the Tyrell army, fighting for a Lannister princess?"

"What brings a red priest into the company of a Lord of the Marches?" Jon countered. The tunnel began to dip, and the group started descending sideways, careful to avoid dislodging any earth, or worse, trip themselves.

"Touché," Thoros muttered. "I lost a bet to Dondarrion here in the last tourney up at Kings Landing, ended up following him to Storm's End. When the place blew up, I booked it out of the Storm's End when Renly demanded they bend the knee to him. Beric was the only person I knew also leaving, so I followed him. And now, I'm here. You?"

"Eddard Stark is my father," Jon said proudly and without hesitation. "I accompanied him on a trip to Highgarden when I was a boy, and Ser Garlan took a liking to me. I became his squire, and the rest was history."

It said quite a lot about how Jon's state of mind had changed that he no longer thought of himself as a bastard. In fact, he didn't even bother introducing himself as one anymore. Thoros frowned, looking at Jon with a strange expression, before he shook himself and offered a grin that seemed genuine.

"And that ribbon around your wrist? Got a lovely lady to head home too?" he asked, giving Jon a good-natured elbow to the ribs. Jon smiled softly.

"Yeah, something like that."

Anguy snorted, looking back at Jon and lifting his chin at the same time he pursed his lips and turned them down, nodding softly in respect. Ah crap, not this again…

"Something like that? Something like that? Seven Hells, if I had your luck, Snow, I'd be shouting it to the rooftops! She's one fine lady that one."

Now it was Obella's turn to chuckle while Jon fought the urge to knock the archer into the wall.

Thoros smirked, then punched Jon in the shoulder.

"Haha! Snagged a looker then 'av you bastard?"

"A looker?" Anguy exclaimed. "Why, you're looking at Ser Jon of Highgarden, sworn sword and not so secret lover of the Lady Margaery Tyrell."

Jon groaned, while Beric stared at him with newfound respect, and Thoros jaw fell slack.

"Where did you hear that?" Jon admonished.

Anguy shrugged. "On the march from Summerhall. Bunch of the soldiers were talking about you and the stuff you and her Ladyship did for the folks in the outer ring and down in the Warrens. You've got my respect – the pair of yeh for that matter, which is saying something."

"The Warrens?" Thoros asked, that same expression from earlier returning to his face. A troubled look, as if he were trying to think of something he'd forgotten.

"Highgarden's slum district," Jon explained. "Except the Tyrells don't advertise it. Think Fleebottom, but cleaner, and outside the walls instead of inside."

A deep shiver ran through the Red Priest's body, face slackening as he looked at Jon with something akin to awe. Jon didn't like it one bit.

"I heard about that," Beric said, scratching his beard. "You wrote up that new tax plan?"

"Margaery and I did, yeah."

"I implemented it in Blackhaven, a few moons before the Burn and all this started. Seemed to be working well when I left. So, thank you for that."

Jon blinked, then Thoros was wholly forgotten as he stepped up to Dondarion's side and started pestering him with questions about equity distribution and how inflation had been affected in the city. But Beric was no economist (though Jon wasn't either, he had picked up more than just the basics from his wife), so he couldn't answer in complexity, to Jon's disappointment.

"Maybe I should talk to Aunt Allyria about doing something like that in Starfall then," Edric said. "We've been having problems with crime in the dockside region that our policing efforts haven't been working very well to stop…."

Obella, still at the head of the group, raised her hand, and everyone fell silent.

There was a light in the distance.

End of the line.

Beric and Obella extinguished their lights, and the six of them started unpacking their gear. Obella tied up her curls, shoving them down the back of her boiled leather armour, then donning her helmet once more and taking up her spear and shield. Beric drew two dirks from his belt and passed one to Jon – their longswords both unsuited to the constricted space. Edric had forgone his customary purple cloak (thank gods) though he still wore purple and the starburst of House Dayne on his gambeson, mail beneath.

Jon, like Obella, wore mostly hard leather armour, though not for the same reasons or of the same type. His leather had steel plates beneath it and at the joints to catch slashing blades, and his grieves and bracers were reinforced steel, with the leather beneath instead. He wore a light black cloak with a white Direwolf's head stitched on the collar, and beneath, pressed against his chest, was an amulet shaped like the Targaryen sigil of old. Identical to two he'd given to Rhaenys. Hopefully, she'd given her second to Daenerys Targaryen by now, their aunt. Jon preferred leather to plate or mail, it offered more protection, true, but Jon's greatest strength was his speed, for he knew his strength – though far greater than most men – didn't compare to the majority of knights or warriors. His stature was just too small. Garlan had taught him long ago to use it as an advantage, and so he did.

The group advanced down the tunnel in utter silence, each step delicate and careful. Jon and Beric took the lead, dirks in hand, inching closer and closer to the tunnel's end, and came face to face with a wooden door, latched on the other side, a metal grate embedded in the frame. Two men stood beyond, torches in hand, unaware of the danger approaching.

Jon and Beric backed up, preparing to raise legs to bash the door down – it would make noise, but it was the best chance they had. Fortunately, Tyrion's notes said the passage was in an out of the way storeroom, so hopefully, nobody would hear the commotion. But before they could try, Thoros grabbed and pulled them back. He shook his head and produced one of his iron swords, a potion bottle, and a flint. Jon gestured him forward, and he drizzled green oil across the blade.

The priest ignited the wildfire on his blade in one fluid motion and pressed the tip against the wooden door. Vivid emerald fire flared along the edge, a foul smell instantly filling the tunnel, and the door sprang alight in seconds.

This substance had destroyed Kings Landing.

Wildfire had killed Jon's father.

The guards on the other side cried out in shock and fear, staring in horror at the door, which, to them, had just burst alight of its own accord. Jon and the others pressed up against the wall so the men wouldn't be able to see them through the metal grate and the haze of the fire.

"What do we do?!" one of the guards yelled.

"I don't fucking know! This is like, witchcraft or…."

The hinges melted, and the door collapsed into the tunnel, crashing to the ground. The dirt extinguished most of the fire, while the rest continued eating the wood, acrid smoke wafting into the tiny space.

Now, Jon and Beric flung themselves through the open doorway, and their dirks found the guards' throats, silencing them in gurgled coughs of blood. Jon and Beric grabbed their corpses, lowering them to the ground so they wouldn't make too much noise, then retrieved their weapons. Jon cleaned his dirk off on the guard's cloak, then handed it back to Beric, who nodded his thanks while Jon drew his bastard sword, relaxing into the familiar grip. Garlan had gifted him this sword years ago now. Jon had killed his first man with this sword, protecting Margaery and Rhaenys on the Kingsroad. Tonight, with any luck, it would make him a hero.

Obella, Thoros, Anguy and Edric followed Beric and Jon into the storeroom, barrels of wine stashed atop one another around the stone walls. Edric drew a folded map from his belt, unfolding it and holding the page out for the others to see. Their route was clearly marked. The doorway to their left should let them out on the south-eastern side of Bronzegate's enormous wall, on the bottom floor of the watchtower closest to the hill upon which Bronzegate's squat castle sat. The escape tunnel, it seemed, had been built on the cheap, taking the shortest route to freedom possible.

From here, they would need to climb four levels to the watchtower's summit. The closest gate was a half-league around the wall, which was heavily fortified. Fortunately, Jon had come up with a rather brilliant way of thinning the numbers somewhat and had explained as such to the group before they left the encampment.

With Anguy in the lead, arrow notched to his recurve bow, they left the storeroom and made their way down a torchlit stone passage towards the nearest stairwell. Their first obstacle would be passing the barracks without detection, located on this and the next level up. Edging through the corridor as slowly and quietly as possible, booted feet treaded light on the stone floor, and six pairs of eyes locked on the wooden door – much like the one they'd just burned down – with beds for a dozen sleeping enemies beyond. Jon's heart was hammering in his chest, blood rushing all through his body, but he kept his mind narrow and focussed only on his goal. There was no room for fear or remorse or mistakes, so he left himself none.

They reached the stairwell and began to climb. One flight up, another empty hallway, another silent barracks beyond. A second flight and they reached the top of the stairs, level with the wall. The design was more or less the same as the previous floors. A long hallway bisected the tower itself, but this floor had two open archways at either end and rows of very awake, though not overly alert, guards standing post with their shields raised and weapons at the ready. The room occupying the tower itself on this level was a kitchen. According to Tyrion's notes, the watchtowers alternated in sequence. Kitchen, armoury, medical, repeat. A smart system, and one used by most defensive structures in the Stormlands. To reach the roof of the watchtower, they would need to enter the kitchen and climb to the summit via a ladder and trapdoor. Clever.

One by one, they darted across the hallway, pressing themselves against the wall and keeping to a crouch. The guards outside had no need to look down the hallway – the threat was lay camped beyond, not behind their own fortifications.

Obella grabbed the door handle while Anguy prepared his first shot. He nodded to her, and she eased it open nice and slowly. Anguy ducked inside, Jon straight behind him.

Two cook staff were tending an oven, and both spun around as they entered, freezing in place. Jon raised a finger to his lips, beckoning for quiet. There was no need for innocents to die. Obella, Thoros and Beric slipped inside behind, moving to close the door. One of the women, who held a metal pan in her hand, opened her mouth to scream. Anguy's arrow lodged in her throat, and she dropped to the ground, metal banging on stone, the sound echoing through the tower. The second woman raised her hands in the air, tears springing to her eyes, her mouth squeezed tight shut. Anguy drew another arrow.

"Everything alright down there?" Came a gruff voice from above. The trapdoor and ladder was just a metre from where Jon stood, Obella slipping behind him with the speed of her namesake.

"Oh yes," Obella called in her best meek voice – a good estimation by any measure. "I just dropped a pan, so sorry, ser."

"Just so long as you're not hurt," the voice replied.

"No. All's well. Thank you, ser."

The voice fell silent, and Obella winked at Jon, eyes just visible beneath her eye slits. Then she started up the ladder while Beric and Thoros stood by the door, Anguy kept his bow trained on the woman, as Edric took Jon's place at the bottom of the ladder, and Jon began to climb after his Kingsguard. With her spear in her right hand, Obella lifted the latch on the trap door and eased it open with her left. Only her legs held her to the ladder. The door creaked, hinges deliberately unoiled, and a man standing right above the hatch spun around, just in time to get Obella's spear beneath his armpit. Obella leapt up the final ladder rungs, Jon right behind her, pulling her spear free and swinging it over her head to rip out the throat of a second man before he could so much as yell in surprise at his companion's wound. Then Jon was on the deck, sword flashing, and the first man was just as dead as the second. Obella caught the second man, Jon caught the first, and they lowered them to the roof, the only sound the soft clinking of their mail. Edric's head appeared through the trapdoor, nodding, then he climbed up as well, keeping in a crouch. Only then did Jon set eyes on the prize. A fully functioning scorpion, a rack of barbed metal bolts beside it.

"You know how to use it?" Jon asked Edric, and the boy nodded. He grabbed a bolt from the rack, fitted it into the central mechanism of the weapon – which Jon could best describe as an enormous and overpowered crossbow – and began to crank a lever on its side. Three rotations, and the bolt clicked into place. That done, he shoved the machine into position. It sat on a revolving platform of wood that spun a full rotation, alleviating the contraption's excessive weight.

"Ready?" Edric asked, hands trembling on what Jon assumed was the trigger.

"Do it."

Edric pulled a metal switch beneath the scorpion, and the bolt leapt away, a massive thwack thrumming through the air and pounding at Jon's ears as the metal and skeins grated on one another and snapped back into place.

A moment later, the bolt slammed through one, two, three, six of the soldiers standing on the wall. Their armour? Useless. The bolt ripped the first two men in half, speared through the backs of the following three, before finally impaling the sixth man into a crenelation. And so the screaming began.

"Keep going, Edric. You do your job; we'll do ours," Jon said, rushing back to the ladder, Obella on his heels.

"Yes, your Grace!" Edric barked, and Jon had no time or thought to waste on the Lord of Starfall's words.

They jumped back down the ladder, where Thoros and Beric were waiting. They'd upended all the furniture in the room, ready to barricade the door, and Thoros had his swords prepared to set alight. Anguy had grabbed three cloaks emblazoned with Buckler colours, having dressed in one already, and tossed the remaining two to Obella and Jon. Another thwack! More screams. And now the bells were ringing. They clasped the cloaks over their shoulders, then Anguy grabbed the cook and shoved her out the door, Jon and Obella chasing behind. The second they were out, Beric slammed the door closed and pushed the furniture into the way to block it from any attempted ramming. Jon, Anguy and Obella didn't wait around. Instead, they grabbed the maid between their arms and ran in the opposite direction to Edric's shots.

They emerged from the tower and onto the top of the wall as the first soldiers approached in a panic.

"The rebels!" Jon exclaimed, breathless. "They're in the tower! Barricaded themselves in the kitchens! They have one of the scorpions!"

The row of soldiers continued running, while a man in an open visored helmet shouted at them from behind. Clearly their captain.

"Quick, men! Into the tower!"

Another thwack!

But this time, it wasn't just bells answering.

Horns calls. From beyond the walls. Jon, Obella, Anguy, the maid, the captain and most of his men looked out across the plain. And found themselves staring at rank upon rank of marching Dornish and Marcher infantry, while the Tyrell cavalry thundered ahead of them, shields at the ready.

"To arms! To arms!"

Jon, Anguy and Obella didn't wait for another opportunity. They started bolting along the wall as more and more soldiers emerged from the next watchtower along the line or the staircases built along the inner wall. Edric continued firing his scorpion, but the sound was obscured by metal boots on stone, war horns and bells clanging by the time they reached the next watchtower. They shoved their captive into the medical room as they passed, then continued running, weapons at the ready for the moment they were discovered. But they weren't, as Jon had known they wouldn't be.

Chaos was a thief's best friend, Rhaenys had once told him. A lesson she had learned from Oberyn Martell, and one Jon used to significant effect. For soldiers in a panic – most fresh from sleep and many no doubt disorientated – cared little beyond themselves and the men barking orders at them. And as the sun started to rise, the glare did just as much to hide the three of them as the Buckler cloaks did.

They crossed a second watchtower, and then the northern gatehouse was ahead of them. Garlan's cavalry was circling around to the western gate, preparing to make a fake pass – a great chariot equipped with a heavy ram nestled amongst their ranks a clear and easy target for the ballistae the second it came into range. They had maybe five minutes before the rouse was exposed, and they rode hard towards the northern gate, where the actual attack would come.

The trio hurried into the gatehouse, dry heaving but weapons still in their hands.

"Soldiers! What's going on!"

Jon looked up, then jerked himself to attention as he came face to face with a man in plate, helmet and mail beneath a surcoat of brown and white of House Penrose. Fuck. Jon knew who this man was. Ser Cortnay Penrose, the Castellan of Storm's End, and close personal friend of Renly Baratheon.

What was he doing here?

"Ser! The rebels have taken one of the watchtowers and are firing on our own men! They've scattered the defences atop the northern walls!"

"Damn! Ronnel, get some climbing gear and retake the tower from the outside! Go, man!" Another knight with fancy armour saluted and ducked out onto the wall, and the next second, Ser Penrose was charging after him.

Taking most of the men inside the guardhouse with him.

Jon glanced towards the enormous winch and the chain wrapped around it. Six men stood between him and it. If he waited, it would undoubtedly be a hell of a lot more. One of the men moved to slap Jon on the shoulder and congratulate him. He got Jon's sword through his throat for his efforts. Sorry.

Obella's spear flew across the room, slamming into the neck of the man closest to the winch, and Anguy loosed two arrows in quick succession. The first hit its mark; the second scraped off a man's breastplate as he dodged. Jon yanked his sword back, then lunged beneath an overhead sweep. He sliced through the man's exposed shoulder, then bashed his helm with the pommel of his sword. Obella slid beneath a man's outstretched legs and stabbed the man's groin with her dagger, then rolled to her feet, pulled her spear free from the wall, and ran the poor man through. He died cradling his bloody balls. Anguy shot the final man attempting to flee out the door, and he plummeted to his death, corpses turning to paste as he fell from the wall.

Jon dropped his sword and grabbed the winch, shoving his bodyweight against the handles to get the chain turning. Anguy stood at the ready, bow trained on the door while Obella looked out the window to the gate and the plain beyond.

The war horns sounded once more, the thundering of hooves coming nearer.

"Hurry!" Obella yelled.

All Jon's strength was shoving against the winch, and fortunately, the more he turned, the more momentum he gained, the faster the winch moved.

"It's moving!" Obella shouted before jumping from the window and added her weight to the mechanism. The grinding of metal met Jon's ears and the twang of Anguy's bowstring. One dead guard. Two dead guards…

The war horns blasted again, so close they nearly vibrated the air, and Jon threw every last surge of energy he had into the gate. He shoved the winch so hard he not only spun the mechanism but lifted Obella off the ground too.

Then the rushing of cavalry, men hollering at the top of their lungs, the very stone shaking beneath them as a thousand mounted warriors raced beneath the raised gate into the city beyond.

"Jon!"

He didn't think, just ducked. A greatsword swung into the space his head had occupied a second before, and Jon dove for his sword. He grabbed it from the ground and swung it wildly, steel clanging on steel as the plated commander, Ser Penrose, took another swing. Their blades bounced apart, and Jon staggered to his feet, his boot squelching on the stone.

Anguy lay dead at Jon's feet, his head near sliced in half. Obella pulled herself off the ground, surrounded by three opponents of her own.

"Who the fuck are you?!" Penrose demanded, sword held tight in gauntleted fists.

Jon didn't answer. Instead, he backed away from Anguy's body to give him more room to breathe. Outside, the war horns continued to clash against the ringing bells, and more horses raced through the open gate and into the city proper. Jon's mission was done. Now, he just needed to survive long enough to celebrate it.

This man would not take him from Margaery. Jon would not leave his child as a bastard with no father. And he would not let their dream die in a gatehouse in Bronzegate.

Jon took a deep breath, lifted his sword, all his training and skill bleeding to the front of his mind. Jon was sore, tired, and flooded with tension. Penrose was fresh and angry. Jon needed to make this a battle of skill, not strength.

Penrose snarled, then swung an overhead blow aimed to cleave Jon in half. He swayed out of the way, wrist propelling his sword to parry. The greatsword arced into a side cut, and Jon just stepped clear once more, steel singing through the air. And Jon moved. As the greatsword swung clear, he darted forward with a careful thrust of his own, sheering links of Penrose's chainmail on his right side. Then he was dancing back as the greatsword came around again.

The dance continued, Jon parrying and swaying clear of the blade, then taking his brief opportunities to dart in with surgical strikes. Twice he sent mail rings flying, then he caught the razor-sharp edge of his sword against Penrose's bracer off a wild and fury driven underhand, and sliced the leather straps clean through.

Penrose' gauntlet came loose, and the grip on his sword loosened for the briefest of moments as he corrected. Jon ducked beneath the enormous weapon, grabbed his sword with both hands, and ripped through the mail on Penrose right side, sheering the rings to shreds, then shoving the point deep through one of the openings he'd already made. Jon buried his blade deep in Penrose's chest, then kicked the big man free. He collapsed to the floor, heaving, squirming, weapon clattering uselessly to the stone.

And stopped.

Jon, sucking in desperate breaths, arms like jelly, turned around to face the next foe.

Instead, he found a troop of Tyrell men, all staring at him in awe. Obella leaned against the wall behind them, helmet spattered with blood but still very much alive.

"Did we win?" He asked, dropping his sword tip to the ground.

"Aye, ser. The wall is ours."

Then the applause began.

Authors Notes: Credit to the Dan + Shay song Nothin' Like You for inspiring Jon and Margaery's meet-cute and getting me out of the month-long case of writer's block I had writing this chapter. Honestly, Jon and Margaery are the poster couple for relationship goals. They're just gorgeous. Also, in case anyone hasn't figured it out yet, I really dislike wine. Which is why I'm slowly converting like all the main characters to drinking Rhaenys' Dornish Whiskey. You should just be glad I couldn't come up with a plausible explanation for Westeros having coffee.