Arthur's Guest Room, Winterfell, The North, 291AC

Arthur Dayne wakes with the sun though he cannot see it, an unfortunate remnant of his time as a Gold Cloak. He is too used to waking early and retiring late, though today the slight burning in his eyes tells him that he woke much earlier than usual. He stretches his whole body before slipping out of bed. He readies quickly; he knows there is no hope of falling back to sleep, not after the dream he had. Even after all these years, he is still haunted by Rhaegar's ghost; he still remembers the curve of his jaw, the slant of his lips, the way his hair glowed near blindingly in the light of day. The way his rare smiles burned as bright as the stars above. Arthur jerks his head, as if the action will rip all memories of the Silver Prince from his mind. He mentally braces himself and whispers a quick prayer, sure that he'll need the gods help to survive this day.

The only outward signs of his discomfort are the tightness in his chest and the deep, shuddering breath he takes to steady himself before leaving his room. He spies a few servants slipping through the castle on nearly silent feet.

He heads to the yard to begin his morning training, as he does every day. As he wanders down the halls, he winks at a guard who reddens and scowls in response. Arthur smirks to himself in amusement and continues on his way. He steals a roll from the kitchens with a quick smile of gratitude directed at the head cook, Gage. Gage swats at him halfheartedly, well used to Arthur's morning thievery by now. Arthur, despite being so obvious an outsider in the North, has nearly succeeded in befriending all the servants in the castle. Gage, at least, is the most tolerable of Arthur's antics. The guards, too, have grown used to his mild flirting, or at least have accepted that Arthur gains too much amusement from their reactions to ever change his ways.

As he continues towards the yard, Arthur's boots scrape softly on the stone path and he spies Septa Mordane ahead of him. She sneers as he passes and he purposefully leers at the woman. Her eyes grow wide and she hurries away from him as quickly as she can without actually running. The septa, of course, has stayed well away from him, most likely because stories of licentious Dornishmen. While he tries to at least keep up appearances, he prefers having the septa as far from himself, and Jon by extension, as possible. Septon Chayle sees the exchange just as he leaves the sept himself. Arthur smirks at the man, crumbs on his lips and cheeks plumped up from his stolen meal, and throws him a jaunty wave, which the septon returns happily.

He finishes the roll just as he ambles into the yard. "Ser Rodrick, the gods smile upon us both today, it seems!"

Rodrick Cassel, the Master-of-Arms, rolls his eyes and returns Arthur's greeting. "I've beaten you here today, Ser. The boy beat you as well." He cocks his head in the direction of Jon who is stoically working through his steps. The stubborn, too serious expression on Jon's face makes Arthur smile, a small bittersweet thing, and think of the She-Wolf. Jon's melancholic nature may remind Arthur of the boy's father, but his single-minded determination to master the blade is all his mother.

Arthur quickly rearranges his grin into something more cheerful before turning to Rodrick. Of all the people in Winterfell, he respects Rodrick the most, for he has never once referred to Jon as 'the bastard' in Arthur's presence. Nor in Jon's, he thinks, and the blatant kindness contradicting the Fish's silent expectations brings Arthur no small amount of smug satisfaction.

"How long has he been here?" Arthur asks as he watches Jon run through his stances; the boy's tongue is just starting to peak out of his mouth as he begins to move faster.

"Longer than I. He was here when I arrived." Well, Arthur muses, that can't be good.

Arthur grabs a practice sword, "I suppose I must perform my duties as uncle, then." And show him those openings, he thinks to himself. "We'll spar later, aye?"

Rodrick looks upward, a long-suffering expression on his face, though Arthur can see mirth dancing in the man's eyes. "Aye, I'll just put my affairs in order then, shall I?"

Arthur grins in response, a quick show of teeth that, had Rodrick not known the southren knight so well, would have sent the castellan running. As it is, he only half-heartedly waves Arthur away before returning to his duties.

Arthur twirls the wooden sword as he ambles over over to Jon and catches the boy's eye before lunging, sword held loosely in his hand and a wide grin on his face. A small smile blooms on Jon's face, Rhaenys' smile. Rhaegar's smile. A shadow crosses Arthur's face quickly, but he chases it away for Jon. He will not be haunted by ghosts today. He forces a reckless grin, but knows the emotion does not quite reach his eyes.

Jon notices, but does not comment. At least, Arthur muses dryly, he's learned feigned ignorance well enough. A few years more and he might even give those vultures in King's Landing a challenge.

"Uncle Art!" Jon says happily, arm dropping his arm to his side "Will we train together today? I've warmed up already, can we start right now?"

"Raise your sword, Jon." Arthur moves languidly, more intent on correcting Jon's movements than actually sparring. "Come on, sword up, just as I taught you."

As Jon begins to move, a look of fierce concentration on his face, Arthur responds just fast enough to push him, content with easing the boy into moving, thinking, and reacting faster. They have time still for Jon to grow, though Arthur knows he's been pushing Jon faster and farther than Ned would like. Jon, of course, readily soaks up whatever Arthur teaches him. Arthur realizes he's been gawking now, but Jon doesn't notice Arthur's staring, too focused on not getting hit. His tongue makes another appearance, his eyes focusing so intently on Arthur that he doesn't notice it peeking out of his mouth. The She-Wolf's obvious mannerisms appearing in her son helps to further loosen the knot in Arthur's chest.

"You're here earlier than usual, nephew." Arthur asks, intentionally trying not to sound too interested. Jon, he knows, is much like a cat; you need to let him come to you. Push him too hard and he will disappear, only to reappear at the most inconvenient of times. "But then, so am I. I slept poorly, you see. Night terrors."

Jon flinches and tries to quickly hide it. Arthur notes this and then pretends to have missed it; his eyes sweep over Jon, cataloguing his nephews movements and making note of what to discuss with him later.

"I went to sleep early yesterday," Jon replies, avoiding Arthur's probing eyes. Ah, Arthur thinks proudly, I've taught you too well, nephew, if you can see through me this easily. "And so I woke a little earlier than usual today, Uncle."

Another nightmare, Arthur thinks. "Hm, excited to train as well, I suppose."

Jon flashes that all too familiar smile, the one that always brings a quick, stabbing pain to Arthur's heart. "Of course, Uncle! A squire should be dedicated to their training!"

"You're right, of course. And I suppose I should make note of this dedication of yours, then? For the future, should I ever decide to take a squire." Arthur teases with a sly grin. "Come on then, I know you can do better than this."

Arthur pushes harder, moves faster, and Jon rises to meet him. A proud smile drifts lazily across Arthur's face. Jon's eyes brighten in return. He'll speak to me when he's ready, Arthur thinks, but until then I will do my best to wear him out. He smirks and darts toward Jon, tripping him up. As he helps Jon stand, he laughs at the look of contempt on the boy's face. The curve of the lip and the fire in his eyes are all the She-Wolf and such reminders of her always bring a genuine smile to Arthur's face. Jon, misinterpreting the laugh as a tease, rises quickly and readies himself for another bout. The She-Wolf's determined look is reflected on her son's face once again. The knot in his chest loosens just a little bit more.