Did some research. Turns out full plate is better than plate mail. Oh well. You know what that means… ;)

King's Landing

294 AC

"And here we are!"

Tobho Mott held the thick steel blade out before Jon. It had no crossguard or actual grip. The hilt was one flat branch of steel.

The blade itself was quite long, about the same length as Longclaw. There was a small fuller that ran in between the two edges, leading up to the sharp pointed end. The finely layered steel had a sort of gleaming white color to it.

Mormont watched his nephew look at the light-tinted blade in awe. As if the boy could already imagine wielding the mighty blade against Arthur, or even as he charged into battle against the wildlings.

Jon looked almost ready to touch the sharp edge with his fingers. "It's wonderful," he said as he hovered a hand over the blade. "When will it be ready?"

"Well," Mott gave Jon an amused grin. "That entirely depends on what you want to be done." There was a brief flash of mirth in the older man's yellow-gold eyes. "You're from the North, right? I could put some wolves' heads on either side of the crossguard. Perhaps even a wolf's head pommel almost like your uncle's sword. Maybe even a boiled leather grip. Or perhaps wire."

Mormont didn't blame his nephew for frowning in stark confusion at the flush of materials flooding into his mind. Jon gave Starag a momentary glance, his grey eyes were searching for hope.

Starag shook his head plainly. "This is your sword, lad. Not mine." He said with a slight smile. "Do you know rule number two?"

His squire gave him a knowing grin. "What's rule number two?" Jon asked.

"Use your imagination," Mormont answered. He almost laughed when he saw his nephew frown again. The dark grey eyes narrowed at him in veiled frustration, almost like Ashara's would whenever she'd get angry at his antics.

While the surprisingly simple concept had been lost on the vast majority of people he'd seen, Mormont knew that Jon would at least be able to grasp it. He'd prod the process along if he had to. "If stories were going to be told about this sword, its legend carved into history… Ask yourself: What would you want it to look like?"

Mormont felt the instant and fulfilling flush of pride as he saw Jon raise his thin black eyebrows in realization. He understands. Jon looked back to the blade in Tobho Mott's patiently waiting hands.

Starag watched as the boy's mind get set to work, his eyes scanning the blade up and down, and then looking to the thin slit of steel where the hilt was. In less than a minute, he'd looked back up at Mott, there was a definite and satisfied smile on his face.

When Jon had finished telling Tobho Mott his vision of the completed sword, the master armorer had stood up fully. His eyes crinkled and he smiled warmly in clear approval. "Excellent choices, lad. Very practical, too. I'll have it ready in a few days."

"That sounds good to me, Lord Mott." Jon nodded his head in agreement. "I can't wait."

Mormont grinned at the childish excitement swirling in the dark grey orbs. Just like Lyanna before a morning ride.

Tobho Mott had put the blade aside on his desk and picked up his quill. He wrote something down on a parchment that was also on the furnished mahogany desk. Then he looked back to Mormont. "Let's say, hmmm… three days. The rainguard will take some precision and a good bit of time. As for the cost-"

Mormont had already withdrawn a solid gold bar from his coat pocket. He held it out to the stunned master armorer.

"I-I was going to say there wasn't one…" Tobho Mott had glanced at the gleaming bar warily, then had looked back up at Starag. "It's a gift-"

"Take the fucking gold," Starag ordered with a slight smile. "Better be a damn good sword."

Reluctantly, Mott took the gold bar into his hands. He hefted it up and down, trying its weight and he gave it a satisfactory nod right before he stuffed it into a nearby chest.

The master armorer turned around, now his expression was stern, his yellow-gold eyes were hard. "Still, that's far too much for a sword alone. How about…" he trailed off as he looked Starag up and down. Slowly, a sinister-looking grin spread across Mott's thin lips. "Yes… That would work."

Mormont frowned as he realized that his friend was staring at the plate mail on his chest. "What are you thinking, Tobho?" he asked.

"I made that coat for you… But who in the Seven Hells gave you that armor?" Tobho crossed his arms and stared Mormont down as if he was disciplining a child. "Plate mail? Are you looking to get skewered one of these days?"

Starag felt a rush of blood go to his cheeks. It got even worse when he heard Jon give out a mirthful snort to his side. "Hasn't let me down yet. I don't see what this-"

Mott shook his head disappointedly. "Plate mail won't do you any favors if you face up against Jamie Lannister, or even Barristen the Bold. It's slow and has poor protection from arrows and swords compared to full plate." He looked to the blotchy purple rash on Mormont's left arm. "It didn't protect your arm so well, now did it?"

He'd only been married to the glittering steel plates and chain for several years now. By this point, he was more than accustomed to it's decently heavy weight and dull grey color.

Mormont idly rubbed the area where he'd taken the brutal impact of Horace Blount's lance. It still stung just a little bit. Mott's observation had stung far more at the current moment. He's right…

"So…" Mormont began slowly, letting out a deep sigh of resignation. Judge the situation dispassionately. "What do you suggest?" he asked with gritted teeth.

Tobho Mott nodded his appreciation. "How about this… I'll put together your squire's sword AND I'll design a suit of full plate armor for you. Perhaps a gambeson to go under it, too. That should offer far more protection and mobility than…" he curled his lip in disgust as he waved at Mormont's plate mail. "That," he said with a look that sneered.

Were the man lecturing him but a simple blacksmith in a small village, Mormont would've been far more likely to laugh in the man's face, or perhaps even to throttle him.

But Tobho Mott, one of Starag's closest friends and the best armorer in the Seven Kingdoms… No, Starag would bite the bullet on this one. This grey-bearded man with yellow-gold eyes knew what he was talking about.

"Alright." Mormont sighed wearily. "As long as I can get in and out of it rather quickly."

Mott's pale golden eyes had lit up in the excitement with the challenge. "Done."

"He's magnificent!"

Jon Stark was watching his uncle in the training yard of the Tyrells' manse. Standing across from his uncle was a sweating and dead-tired Garlan Tyrell, who still managed to lift his sword up every time Uncle Starag had said, "Again!"

And sitting next to him- "I've never seen Garlan this tired before." Margaery Tyrell had said with her usual lopsided grin. "He's usually always fighting three or four men-at-arms at a time without breaking a sweat."

He was used to speaking with girls, he did talk a bit with the servants at Winterfell. And then there was Dyanna, Arya, even Aunt Allyria, and Mother.

Yet Jon Stark had been completely surprised upon seeing Margaery for the first time. He hadn't thought much of girls up until then, he was always too busy training with Robb and Uncle Arthur.

When he saw the short girl standing next to Ser Garlan, with her golden-brown curls and large brown eyes, Jon had felt that same embarrassed warmth that he felt whenever Uncle Arthur or Uncle Starag would tease him about girls. He was frustrated that he didn't know why.

He broke himself out of his musing and continued watching the sparring match below. Uncle Starag had lost his nearly permanent mirthful grin. Right now, he looked every bit as stern as Uncle Arthur or Father would when he or his siblings would get into trouble.

Jon glanced over at his new companion. He'd only met her just the evening before, yet it seemed like they'd known each other for years. "Why is that?" He asked. "Is Ser Garlan an excellent swordsman?"

Margaery leaned in closer like she was divulging a massive secret or the like. "Only the best in Highgarden." she giggled conspiratorially. "Don't tell anyone I said that, though. Garlan doesn't like showing off or bragging about it."

He smiled warmly, and nearly chuckled as he cross-examined the two men in the courtyard below. Uncle Starag was definitely fine with showing off. He was the stark opposite of humble. It was almost strange how he and Garlan got along so well.

Clang! Garlan had made an overhead strike aiming for Uncle Starag's neck. Jon's uncle batted the blade away effortlessly. "Sloppy." The Bear Lord's voice cracked like thunder in the small courtyard.

"I don't think I've ever seen Garlan so happy in the training yard, though," Margaery commented.

Sure enough, Jon squinted his eyes to see the expression on the bearded face of Garlan Tyrell. His brown curls were tied to the back of his head, and his brown eyes and beaming smile were laughing. Despite the beads of sweat running down his face, he looked about as happy as Uncle Starag did upon waking up to a large breakfast.

Margaery twisted in her seat to face Jon. "Did Uncle Starag teach you how to play Whist, yet?"

It felt weird hearing someone else call The Bear Lord "Uncle Starag" beside himself and his siblings. Especially a girl who he hadn't known to exist until yesterday.

Jon frowned and shook his head. What the hell is a… whist. "No, he hasn't. What's that?"

Margaery's grin had widened into the same wicked smile that Arya would wear if she'd been caught in the mud outside or if one of her plans had been foiled. "You don't know? Come on!"

He did nothing to stop the enthusiastic girl from grabbing his slightly bigger hand and pulling him from his seat and into the manse. Jon decided to just go along with what she had to show him. It couldn't be all that bad, now could it?

They passed by numerous servants and men-at-arms who had only given the two polite glances or laughing smiles. All the way to the library where they'd be alone.

Margaery sat him down on a chair seated across from hers. In between the two of them was a small square table. Wide enough for Jon to extend his elbows right to the edge. She went to a nearby box and opened it, producing a carton about the size of Jon's hand.

"I can't believe he hasn't taught you, yet," Margaery said with a shake of her pretty golden curls. "This game is a lot of fun, you see. Really easy to understand once you get the hang of it."

Jon sat back awkwardly in his chair. "I take it that Uncle Starag taught you how to play?" He asked.

"A few years back, of course." Margaery nodded eagerly as she sat down across from him. She dumped out the contents of the carton into her hand. It was… a bunch of cards. Thin, yet surprisingly sturdy paper cards. He felt his mind going into overload when he saw four distinct colors on the white cards. Some of them had letters, and others had numbers and strange symbols on them.

Margaery must've spotted his confused frustration upon seeing the playing cards. "There are fifty-two cards in each deck with thirteen ranked cards for each of the four suits. The ones with faces are the 'court' cards." She explained. "The cards with numbers go from 2 to 10, while the court cards are the following; Knight, Queen, King, and Dragon."

Jon looked over the splayed-out collection of cards. He picked up one that had a red dragon with a long flowing tail and wide jagged wings. In its hand was a red tile. "So this is a dragon card?" he asked. He hoped he didn't sound dumb to this girl.

"Precisely! That's the Dragon of Diamonds." She smiled warmly at him. He felt the brief flush of red blood go to his cheeks. She continued. "The four suits are Hearts, Diamonds, Clubs, and Spades. Does that make sense?"

Jon's brain had already been beset from how fast the new information had invaded his mind. Something was telling him to go back to the courtyard, but he ignored that voice. "Yes, it does. So what's this game, then?"

Margaery flashed him another lop-sided grin and immediately began piling up the cards into her hand and shuffling them. Jon raised an eyebrow as he saw her folding them, then cutting the deck in half, and then lastly, flipping all the cards together again like pages in a book. Fwwoooop!

Jon watched as she began dealing out the cards between him and herself, giving them both thirteen cards faced down. There was a pattern of white, red, and black symbols on the back. It reminded Jon of a spider's web. Intricate and delicately woven with sufficient expertise.

The rest of the deck lay in between the two small piles of cards. Margaery carefully flipped the first card up. Eight red hearts were plain as day on the paper card.

"So, with Whist, we each get thirteen cards." Margaery began to explain the rules. "This card here," she tapped the eight of hearts with her index finger. "Is the trump suit for this round."

Jon slowly lifted up his hand and inspected his cards. He only had the two and five of hearts. Those are the low ones, aren't they? The rest of his hand was a jumbled assortment of the other three suits.

He looked up at the patiently waiting girl across from him. She was younger than him by a few moons, but Jon could tell that Margaery Tyrell was smart beyond her years. Perhaps even smarter than him. "And what do we do?" he asked.

Margaery picked up her own hand and filed it neatly into her dainty palms. Jon mirrored the movement, finding it far better than holding his cards in a small stack. "Well, for this part of the game, you're supposed to win the cards you want from the rest of the deck."

"And what cards should I want?" Jon had asked again. He didn't even know what they were playing for.

"Ah, right. Silly me." Margaery shook her head. "The Dragon cards are the best cards you could have. Then the King, Queen, and Knight."

Jon nodded his head in understanding. He'd already assumed how the numbered cards worked. And it did make sense to him why a Dragon would be greater than a King. Dragons could breathe fire.

Margaery continued. "And you have to play a card that matches the suit of this card if you want to win." She tapped the eight of hearts again. "Or a card that you think will get you a victory."

Jon Stark was usually the kind of person who'd dive head-first into something before he figured out how it worked. That was how it had gone with swordplay and that's exactly how he preferred it with anything else.

He put down his five of hearts. The eight in the middle was higher, after all. Why not go for it.

His hopes were dashed away when Margaery put down the seven of hearts over top of his measly five.

She slid the two cards to the side of the table and scooped up the eight, putting it into her hand. "Now you pick up the next card." she gestured to the deck between them.

Jon picked up the next card. It was a Queen of Spades. A higher card. Much better than his five. It might come in handy if the trump was Spades. As soon as he put it in his hand, Margaery flipped the next card. It was a four of clubs.

He didn't want the four, so he put down his lowest card. The two of hearts.

But Margaery didn't want it either. She put down a four of spades. "That's yours," she said with that damned playful and lop-sided grin. She slid the two cards to the side while Jon reluctantly picked up the five.

The rest of the game had flowed quite easily to Jon Stark as he got the hang of using these strange cards. Soon enough he did feel the sheer excitement rush through him as he flipped card after card from the main deck, hoping to see something that he'd want to take.

Margaery had obviously played this game far longer than he had, however. She won more cards than not. By the time the deck in the middle had been finished off, Jon could only count four or five cards in his hand that he'd won.

But the game wasn't over yet, apparently. "So now, we play until one of us wins the most tricks. Since I won the last card, I get to go first." Said Margaery.

She laid down the Dragon of Spades, something which Jon absolutely had no counter for. There was no trump suit, and Jon only had his Queen of Spades to play. He lay it down over the Dragon with a resigned snarl.

Next, Margaery had put down the King of Hearts. He had no hearts to play, so Jon put down his five of spades.

Jon had begun to wonder if the girl sitting across from him had tampered with the cards, or if he was just too inexperienced with them in the first place. As Margaery began winning trick after trick, he figured it must be the latter.

Margaery held ten tricks to his three by the time they were done. "And that's how you play Whist." She said as she folded her arms over the table and leaned forward. "What about Bridge? Want to learn that?"

Uncle Starag's words from yesterday had wormed their way into his thoughts. Just because we're not good at something right away, doesn't mean we don't have a talent for it.

"No." Jon shook his head with a deep frown. Even though she was a girl, there was no chance he was going to let her get away with her easy victory. "I want a rematch." He said sternly. He mirrored his Father's icy glare from when he and Robb had been caught riding alone into the Wolfswood one evening.

It worked like a charm on Margaery Tyrell. She'd been taken aback as her doe-like brown eyes widened in surprise. "O-okay." She picked up the cards again and reshuffled them. Neither of them said anything as she dealt out the cards again.

Margaery won that game, the next, and the one after. It wasn't until their fifth game that Jon Stark had finally gotten the swing of Whist. He watched his cards with careful focus as he saw Margaery put down her Queen of Clubs.

He kept his face a stony mask as he slammed down his Dragon of Clubs and took the two cards, letting them sit on the right corner of the table.

Jon followed up with the King of Clubs. He almost smiled when he saw the veiled frustration on his opponent's face. Reluctantly, Margaery placed down her ten of clubs.

He kept putting down card after card until finally, he'd glanced at his stack of eleven tricks to Margaery's two. He'd won the game.

Satisfied with how fast he'd been able to pick up the game and win, and impressed at his own discipline and tenacity, Jon began to stand up from his chair. He halted when he heard the half-growl from the other side of the table. "Where do you think you're going?"

Jon looked down at the childish, pouting face of Margaery Tyrell. Immediately, he knew she was trying to reproduce the same icy glare he'd given her just minutes earlier. It had failed completely. It was the same look Dyanna would give Mother when something didn't go her way. Margaery, he realized, was a spoilt brat.

He laughed heartily as he resumed his seat. Now, she definitely wanted to continue playing. Her pride had been wounded, by a boy from the North, no less. This was no longer a simple game between children. This was War.

"Want to play for something?" Margaery asked with a slight upward curve of her thin lips.

Jon shrugged. He didn't particularly care at this point. He'd realized it was just a game of cards, and he could see why Uncle Starag had liked them so much. "Why not? What are the stakes?" he asked.

Margaery already seemed triumphant as she crossed her arms over the table again. "I've won five games. That's five points to your one point." She said with a knowing grin. "The first one of us to make it to ten points wins. The loser has to do everything the winner commands for one day."

One day? Jon had been doing that for the last two moons. Always washing his uncle's armor and tending to both of their horses along with the packhorse. One day was nothing.

But as he looked across the table and saw the ominous gleam in Margaery's large brown eyes, he immediately realized the true consequences of losing to this astoundingly creative and intelligent girl in front of him. No doubt, she'd make him perform all kinds of foolish acts or something. He'd be absolutely humiliated.

And yet, there was an inkling scratching around in the back of his mind. What would he gain if he won? He could make Lady Margaery order him drinks for both him and his uncle. He could pass off his squirely duties to her and take a day for himself.

The sheer risk behind the wager had already intoxicated his mind. That, and Margaery's impish and charming smile had disarmed him completely from saying "No."

What would Uncle Starag do? He asked himself. The answer came back to him in an instant.

His uncle would take those odds. No matter what. What's the worst that could happen? Jon had finally come to his decision.

He smiled at the pretty girl sitting patiently across from him. The sun had beamed into the library through the square paned windows just a few meters away from them. All was silent in the room.

"Alright," Jon said. "You're on."