PART I: Curious

The Gift

300 AC

The warming glow of the afternoon sun felt like a blessing upon Jon Stark's skin.

As he leaned back in the comfortable leather saddle atop his horse, Bella, he gazed out coolly at the vibrant blue sky above him. He carefully avoided the ever-present glare of the radiating orange ball of fire and looked calmly at the large cluster of dark grey clouds coming down from the North. They would come later in the evening, and so would a mighty snowstorm.

It was often enough that they received fresh layers of snow in Brandon's Gift. With its proximity to the Wall and the Lands of Always Winter, they went more days with snow than without. It wasn't at all like Winterfell, where the summer snows would occasionally melt to reveal the verdant green grass underneath.

But Jon Stark was perfectly fine with the slight change in weather. He had grown accustomed to it in the last few years.

Not unlike the eight-thousand or so people who lived in the large town perhaps thirty miles from his exact position. The people of Queenscrown had also gotten used to the harsh northern winds, especially those who came from the South.

It was strange how quiet the rugged countryside was. Jon glanced down from the sky and over the long stretches of snow-covered hills and slush-ridden fields. He recalled Margaery's comment about how perfect it was for riding and her comparison to the fields of multi-colored flowers back in Highgarden. He smirked as he thought of the splotches of gold, red, and purple in contrast to the endless river of white snow that was his land.

Jon almost laughed with gladness. This place was his. His home. It didn't belong to his father or his brothers. Not to Starag or Robert Baratheon. Jon Stark was the Lord of Queenscrown and the New Gift. Nobody else.

But what of Jaehaerys Targaryen? The other part of him that yearned for another place far away from here. A place much warmer and less isolated. Where his family had ruled for generations before he had ever existed.

Jon shook his head. He had far too much time on his hands if he were contemplating little thoughts like that one. Perhaps I ought to get those walls built faster or take on another project. We could do with some docks. It would encourage the fishermen in the Northern Mountains to trade with us more.

For the last year, there were many such moments like this where Jon Stark was constantly thinking of fresh ideas to improve the quality of life for his people and emphasize the efficiency with which he carried out projects and justice. It was a lesson he'd learned from Starag Mormont; one must get things done fast and thoroughly. That way, it was easier for one to move on to the next task.

And sometimes it was easier for these ideas to come to mind out in the hills around the Gift than when he was inside his office. Could set up a settlement on the other side of the Lake of Gales. A mining town perhaps? Fjalar mentioned there being good iron deposits in the mountains.

Jon Stark smiled at the idea. He made a mental note of it in his head and decided he would send over some boats within the next few days. They could have a shelter built within two days and have the men looking for iron in one.

That's the way to play the hand. He thought. There might even be gold or silver deposits in the Northern Mountains as well. At worst he'd just have more iron in supply, at best he'd increase the economic value of his household and holdings.

Perhaps thirty feet behind him, he heard the sound of hooves crunching softly against the fresh snow. Jon turned slowly in his saddle and smiled as he saw the approaching rider trot up beside him.

Her back-length golden brown curls were done up in a fresh northern braid. She was not wearing a dress but she was wearing a snow-fox pelt coat with sturdy leather trousers underneath that hugged her long-toned legs. She also wore a pair of knee-high leather boots that seemed to be at home on the soft pale feet underneath.

Margaery Tyrell was a beautiful young woman. She'd known this fact her whole life and was reminded practically every day. Though she never did seem to hear such a compliment when it came from the lips of some lusty knight or ambitious lordling, she always managed open her ears when it came from those close to her heart. And most of all, from the man she loved.

Jon Stark knew full well he was that man. Not only because of the kisses and husky words shared between them as they fucked like rabbits throughout the night, but also because by the time Margaery had come to a halt beside him, she leaned over in her saddle and placed a long tender kiss on his lips.

"About time you caught up," Jon smirked as his woman leaned back in her saddle.

"Good afternoon to you as well, my love." Margaery gave him a half-pout. But soon enough her lips quirked up into an impish grin. "I don't quite have the same luxury as you. The people must see that I am a respectable southern lady, after all."

"Excuses," Jon snickered playfully. "You admit defeat, then?"

Margaery huffed and crossed her arms. "I'll have you know Lord Stark, that there's no honor in beating helpless maidens in a race."

"You'd be right," Jon said. "If you hadn't been riding horses since you were eight years old." He couldn't hold back his grin then. "And if you were a maiden."

"And who exactly do I have to blame for that, Lord Stark?" She asked, giving him a knowing smirk.

They had first coupled upon his return from Valyria a year prior. When Margaery had come back to Queenscrown, she had wept in his arms and declared her love for him. Margaery was beside herself with worry and grief during Jon's absence as he was off in distant lands beyond the Narrow Sea, attempting to save Westeros by bringing ancient magic back from the Valyrian Freehold.

Jon Stark himself had only bedded one other girl in his life until then. A serving girl who Robb had introduced him to during a visit to Wintertown. But he supposed that it was comforting for Margaery with him guiding her through the experience of lovemaking. Their first time was slightly awkward and uncomfortable for her. Margaery had even cried briefly as he took her maidenhead, though she assured him that she was fine and that she wanted to continue.

After that, they couldn't seem to get enough of one another. Whether it was in the Lord's Chambers, or with Jon bending Margaery over his desk in his office. One time they'd even done it in the rookery at night.

Margaery's visits to Queenscrown seemed to get longer. She began running the household with an iron fist. The servants (especially the kitchen staff) had begun calling her "The Iron Rose" Though it was more a term of endearment and respect than fear. Margaery was lavish when it came to praising the staff and their work. She even remembered all of their given names, something which they all appreciated deeply.

"I suppose I could take the fall for that one." He admitted. "You're almost as stubborn with horses as you are with cards."

"I could say the same about you, my love," Margaery said. "But now that we're alone, I suppose we could do with a rematch."

Jon smirked. "I'll take you up on that." He nodded to the line of trees perhaps one hundred feet away from them both. It was just along the northern edge of the Lake of Gales. "Race you to the trees."

"Winner's prize?" Margaery asked with pursed lips. Her brown eyes were filled with mirth.

Jon Stark grinned. "It's a secret."

Margaery had batted her eyelashes playfully at him. "I do hope it isn't anything naughty, Lord Stark. My septa would weep at the things you've done to me." She said with a deep blush.

He stopped himself from grinning and held up his right hand. "Three… Two… One!"

With that, they both set off down the hill for the trees below them.

Jon had been the first one to make it to the clearing. Margaery was only a few seconds behind him.

Through the trees, there was a small trail that led right to this place. It would've been a remote area of the woods if there wasn't a small fifteen-foot wide beachhead that opened up into the Lake of Gales. During the summer, this place might've been a good spot for fishing, or if one wanted to get away from the hustle and bustle of Queenscrown.

It was this place that Jon Stark had gotten accustomed to ever since he'd returned from Valyria. It reminded him of the Godswood in Winterfell and how his father would always go there after executing a deserter of the Night's Watch or some wildling who had come south of the Wall.

Jon slung off his saddle and felt his feet press into the hard ground beneath him. He turned and saw the visible pout on Margaery's face as he approached her and offered a hand. She accepted and got off her mare and into his arms.

They shared another long hot kiss in the cold clearing, both of them feeling the heat and warmth of the other's body.

Suddenly, a sharp pressure knocked both of them off their feet. Jon twisted himself as they fell so that he would hit the ground and not Margaery. He felt his back meet the snow while she was cushioned by his chest.

Jon Stark hadn't even felt the electric shock of danger, however. And neither was he surprised as he soon glanced up at the blood-red eyes and mound of snow-white fur that towered above the both of them.

Ghost was almost larger than his own horse by this point. It was impressive to think that only just a few years prior, he'd been just a tiny pup in Jon's arms.

"Hello boy." Jon patted the long white snout. Always have to make an entrance.

Naturally. Those two ruby eyes had said back to him.

Beside him, Margaery had giggled and also reached up to stroke Ghost's nose. "Have you come to save me, Ghost? Did you come to rescue the damsel in distress?"

Ghost had stepped away from the two of them, his paws not even making a sound. He quirked his head at Margaery's words, almost as if he were questioning them. You didn't really seem all that eager to be rescued… He seemed to say.

Jon got to his feet and helped up Margaery. He then walked over to Bella and untied the large bag that smelled of fish from his saddle. It was amazing how cool the horses were in Ghost's presence by now. Either they were completely fine with him, or they were so scared that they decided to stay still and not move a muscle.

Jon held the bag containing freshly caught black cod at his side. Ghost sniffed eagerly at the bag but refrained from biting it. He knew it was feeding time and not just for him.

Margaery had slipped her palm into his free hand as they walked to the beachhead and out onto the snow-covered sand. The Lake of Gales had yawned at them with its frozen pastures, and on the other side of the lake, Jon could see the stone-walled town of Queenscrown. His town.

The ice on this side was thick enough for one to go skating. One could stand on it and even go ice-fishing if one wanted to.

But as Jon walked out further along the beach, the ice had exploded upward and out into the trees behind them. Jon covered Margaery's head as chunks of ice flew past them.

Rising gently out of the freezing cold water was a long serpentine neck lined with thick white scales that were as hard as iron. Jon knew that the rest of the gargantuan body was underwater, connected to the field-wide blue sapphire blue wings and the long spiky tail that dangled playfully under the ice. The head was long and sharp, with massive gaping jaws that held teeth as sharp as swords, and a large powerful snout that breathed in the fresh cool air of the North.

Slowly, two narrow-slitted blue-grey eyes greeted Jon tenderly.

Snowfyre had shaken his mane. Loose chunks of ice and water had poured off and onto the snow at Jon's feet. Jon knew immediately that the white dragon had gotten much larger since the last time he'd seen him.

He took the bag and cut it open. He tossed one of the large black fish to Ghost and the rest to Snowfyre. Respectively, the dragon and the direwolf had eagerly begun eating their meals.

"He's gotten… larger." Margaery had noted.

"He has," Jon said. "I'll find somewhere else to keep him. Perhaps in the mountains."

He'd been told by Fjalar, the Maester who served him in Queenscrown, that there were rumors of "great winged beasts" flying over the Gift or beyond the Wall. Jon knew that either Snowfyre or his sister Bronzie was the base of these rumors. Jon himself would take the blame too, as he was unable to resist flying on dragonback every once in a while.

But if they weren't careful, it was quite possible that these rumors would one day reach the ears of Robert Baratheon in King's Landing. Of course, it would've been difficult to believe that dragons were roaming the North. Especially after the last Targaryen dragons had died out over a hundred years ago. At the same time, Jon knew that Robert wasn't merciful when it came to "dragonspawn"

He knew that Starag and Rhaenys had already taken precautions on Bear Island. Bronzie rested atop one of the twin mountain peaks and was well out of sight. But soon enough, Jon would have to develop some kind of cover for Snowfyre as well.

Jon looked down into Margaery's eyes. "I'll figure that out later, though." He grinned. "I won the race."

Margaery's cheeks had suddenly blushed a deep red. "You did…" She admitted, drawing closer to him. "I appear to be at your mercy, Lord Stark."

"Mmhmmm," Jon growled as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. He glanced up at Snowfyre's neck and smiled.

"Oh no." Margaery blushed. "We nearly fell off last time."

Jon shook his head. "We'll be fine, love." He said. "Just hold on tight and you'll be safe."

Margaery bit her lip and glanced up at him with her damnable doe-like eyes. After a momentary pause, she smiled. "Alright. Let's do it."

Jon Stark pulled his woman in close and kissed her gently on the forehead. "You're a brave woman, you know that."

She sunk her head into his chest and sighed dreamily. "I always love it when you compliment me, even if you're a brash, northern savage." She said.

He smirked and held her close. They both watched as Snowfyre finished eating his fish and slunk his head closer to Ghost's portion. The direwolf ripped a strip of white flesh from the corpse and gnawed on it. But once Snowfyre had begun sniffing the dead fish, Ghost lifted up his paw and smacked the large serpentine snout away with a loud thwack! That's mine.

Instead of getting angry, Snowfyre backed away and let out a loud snort as he glared down at Ghost. I was just sniffing it. Those blue-grey eyes had claimed.

Bullshit. Ghost had growled back.

The effect worked and Snowfyre shook his head letting the issue die.

Margaery laughed in his arms. The sight of a great white dragon cowing before a direwolf was quite extraordinary - and strangely hilarious.

Jon grinned. It was odd how a sort of brotherly relationship had spawned between the two creatures of legend. And how Snowfyre had recognized Ghost as his elder and superior in a way. Even though the dragon was clearly ten times larger than the direwolf.

He pressed Margaery to him and smiled down at her. "Now." he began. She glanced up at him with her own impish grin.

"How about a ride?"

"-And we've made significant progress on the northeastern gate." Gerold Hightower said from the other side of Jon's pinewood desk. "We should have it finished in perhaps two or three weeks if the weather is kind to us."

Jon sat back in his chair. "Why three weeks? Is Rothar having trouble with the forges?"

"Quite, as a matter of fact." Gerold nodded. "Says the steel and iron supply is running low. We've already sent for more from Westhelm and Winterfell, but the Night's Watch is also bearing down on him, too. Brought some wildlings to our side of the wall and they need to be properly trained and well-equipped."

Lucky I had that idea early. Sometimes, life was rather… efficient in that regard. "Fjalar told me there are some good iron deposits in the Northern Mountains," Jon said, running a hand through the beard that was growing on his face. "How many men can we spare for a mining operation?"

Gerold grinned. "We've got over three thousand able-bodied men. I'm sure we could spare a few hundred. Probably get some sort of outpost set up in a few days. I know a reliable man who can get them working."

"Sounds like an excellent idea," Jon said. "If he performs well, he can have command of that outpost."

It had been like this for the last hour or so. After dinner, Jon would usually go upstairs to his office and make the rounds with both Fjalar and Gerold on the progress of Queenscrown. Public morale. The household. Were the men properly trained? Then once they were finished, they would go over what needed to be done tomorrow and make longer-term plans for the weeks and months ahead.

Over by the fireplace, Margaery sat quietly in a large armchair. Not that she would stay completely quiet during these routine meetings. More often than not she added her own voice and reports to the table. Talking of the goings-on with the staff, if someone needed to be replaced, or even if Snowgate Keep needed to be expanded.

And laying comfortably on the stone floor by her feet was the large white mound of fur. Ghost was snoring softly, though not that anyone present could hear him.

"And what about the men?" Jon asked. "Are the recruits doing better than last week?"

Gerold nodded again. It was something of a sore spot. Gerold was the master-of-arms in Snowgate Keep and he worked the men to the bone, giving them the same training regiment that the Kingsguard would practice every single day to stay in top shape.

With exercise, there had obviously come fatigue. And while Jon's more experienced men-at-arms had gotten used to the harsh training circuits, the newcomers were more or less wiped out halfway through a single training hour. Jon himself also trained with this same circuit every morning, so he knew just how bad the ache could be with firsthand experience.

"They've improved," Gerold said. "And I believe we've instilled a firm sense of competition in that lot, too. Those who were lagging behind last week were performing the best this time around. I'll have them whipped into shape soon enough. And I-"

Thud! Thud! Thud! The sharp cracking of knuckles against wood had sounded throughout the office. Everyone inside looked to the tall pinewood door.

"It's Maester Fjalar, my lord." The guard outside- his name was Rowen- had said.

Jon smiled. Must've gotten back from the rookery. "Let him in."

The pinewood door had yawned open, and in walked a man only eleven years younger than Gerold. Fjalar was Maester who came from the Rills prior to going to the Citadel. He had a long yellow beard and a full head of hair that was riddled with silver streaks. He smiled apologetically at Jon Stark and bowed. "Apologies, my lord. A white raven had come in from Winterfell and a few others from Castle Black and Last Hearth." He said, putting the thin stack of letters on Jon's desk.

Jon waved his hand aside and gestured to the seat next to Gerold. "It's alright. We were starting to wrap things up anyways." He took the letters and brought them close. He took the scroll with the dark red seal of a howling direwolf first and opened it. If it was from Winterfell, it must've been important.

Jon unfurled the letter and put it in the candlelight. What it said was this:

Son,

I'm sending you this letter because there are few others I can trust, and you deserve to know.

Jon Arryn passed recently, and Robert has commanded me to ride south to take up the position of Hand of the King.

Your mother and I suspect that something else is afoot. Lord Arryn was as healthy as can be last I heard of him. And that was only two weeks ago.

There may be treachery involved, but we don't know for sure. Before this, the Lannisters and the Tullys seemed to have made peace. But now they're back at each other's throats. Civil War is all but certain if I don't go down to King's Landing.

I'm aware that Lady Tyrell is staying with you in Queenscrown. It may be a better idea to send her to Oldtown by ship. The Kingsroad is not as safe as it once was south of the Neck.

Your brothers and your sisters will need you when I'm in the South. And so will your mother. I'll need you to help guard the North against the Others while I'm away.

Your father,

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell

Jon Stark had put the letter back on his desk and stared up at the tall ceiling, resting his hands on the back of his head. He was well aware of the four pairs of eyes that looked at him, waiting to share the contents of the letter itself.

Lord Jon Arryn-Jon's own namesake- had died. Though his mother and father suspected treachery. It was possible, but who exactly would dare to poison the Hand of the King? If it had happened that way, of course.

Perhaps his counsel would know more. He let his hands fall to the armrests of his chair. He looked directly at Gerold. "Jon Arryn is dead."

Everyone's eyes widened at the four words that came out of his mouth. Gerold leaned forward and took the letter, reading it carefully. Once he finished, he handed it off to Fjalar. "He was a good man. About eighty years old or so, but quite spry for his age." He said. "This business with the Lannisters and Tullys, though…" He tapped his finger against the wooden desk. "I'll bet someone wanted that to continue."

Margaery stood up from her chair and walked over to Jon's desk. She picked up the note and read it too. "Who could it be?" She asked. "It couldn't be the Lannisters. They've held a strong grip over the Crown until now."

Jon supposed he was thankful for his woman's political savvy. She'd definitely inherited that from her grandmother.

"Lysa Tully could be a guess," Jon said. "But perhaps that's too easy. And I don't think she'd have her sister's husband poisoned."

"There was no lost love between her and Lord Arryn," Margaery said. "Couldn't stand each other unless Lady Catelyn was in the same room."

Gerold folded his arms and sat back. There was a strange gleam in his eyes. "Perhaps…" He shook his head. "I don't know why, but if Lord Arryn was poisoned, I think it might've been someone on the Small Council."

"How so?" Jon asked.

The older man pursed his lips. "Running under the assumption that he was poisoned, then it had to have been someone who knew about the talks he was having with both Lord Tywin and Lord Hoster. And they would've known about the progress he was making with both of them."

"There's only one person who should know everything that's going on in the Seven Kingdoms," Margaery said. "But could it be that simple?"

Jon knew who they were talking about. Or more accurately, the position itself. The Master of Whispers was the Royal Spymaster. He would know the goings-on in Fleabottom if he did his job right.

But Jon also knew that there were plenty of others in King's Landing who knew the right secrets, who had their own networks of spies. Singling out the Master of Whispers would be too easy. Far too easy.

"Gerold…" Jon had begun. "I recall you saying something about the current Master of Whispers… This eunuch, Lord Varys?"

Gerold nodded. "Yes… Aerys summoned him to King's Landing. That was when your grandfather's reign began to rot." He shook his head with a look of disgust. "Aerys said that 'someone with no competing loyalties in Westeros could be trusted' but he never asked himself whether the man was actually loyal to the Crown itself. He inflamed Aerys' paranoia against Rhaegar and Tywin and did nothing to stop him from burning prisoners with wildfire." He said. "I never trusted him, and I still wouldn't. If anyone was behind Jon Arryn's death, I'd have to say it was the Spider."

"But why?" Margaery asked again. "What reason would the Spider want to kill Lord Arryn?"

Gerold had shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Margaery. But whatever it might be, I don't think it bodes well for the rest of Westeros."

Jon processed all the information in his mind again, and then one more time. He needed to know more. If what Gerold said was true, then his father was walking right into a trap.

He looked to Fjalar. "Send a reply to my father. Tell him I'll be coming to Winterfell as soon as I can."

The Maester smiled grimly and stood up from his seat. He bowed again. "At once, my lord."

Once Fjalar had left, Jon sat back in his chair once again. He felt Margaery's hand wrap around his own. He squeezed back.

Looking from both Gerold to Margaery, he spoke. "We'll go down to Winterfell. I'm not about to let my father walk in blind. Especially if Lord Arryn was poisoned. Whoever did it-Spider or not-they'll go for him next."