Disclaimer: Not mine as usual.

Winterfell 297 AC. Catelyn.

Catelyn Tully was a very happy woman, had been for some time actually. Seventeen wonderful years she'd had with her beloved Ned and life almost couldn't have been better. She had a wonderful husband who respected her opinions, treasured her, had given her five wonderful children, and was very satisfactory in bed.

When she first arrived in the North and Winterfell she had been afraid, uncertain and lastly furious at Ned for returning home with a bastard (even though it wasn't his). With the exception of a few maids she brought with her she was all alone in the cold North it appeared, though Ned having a sept built for her, as well as the arrival of a septa had gone a long way to improving her life.

Still, even if the northerners had some reservations about her for being a southerner (like she held for them for being northerners) they (and she) kept their reservations silent, and slowly but gradually she earned the respect of the northerners, especially after the birth of Arya who had all the Stark traits like her (at the time) bastard brother. Bran and Rickon being born fully cemented her place as the Lady of Winterfell as she had given Ned both an heir and two spares, and a pair of daughters to wed away one day.

Truly the only point of contention between her and Ned had been Jon Snow, now Stark. She still shook her head at how long it had taken her to realize that the boy was Brandon's get, but then again, she was not the only one to have fallen to the lie, although it must be said that most of the northern Lords had figured it out long before her. Ever since she had laid eyes on the dark haired and grey eyed boy she had feared that Ned would one day set all her children aside and raise the bastard as his heir and next Lord of Winterfell, fears that had only grown as the boy got older.

If she was honest with herself, Ned letting Jon partake in Robb's lessons had not eased her worries, and as she saw how skilled the boy was becoming with a blade she became even more worried. Of course, eventually after the boy was caught dishonouring Rodrik Cassel's youngest daughter, she had finally thought that she had her victory as Ned finally agreed to send the boy away for fostering, only for it to backfire somewhat spectacularly.

The incident at Castle Cerwyn wasn't too damaging (for either of them) but his time with the Mormonts and the small raid he led, and continuous actions against wildlings or ironborn raiders afterward had cemented his reputation and growing legend, even people in the south were beginning to take notice of him.

Learning the truth after all that had been a relief in all honestly. She knew that Ned would never put his brother's children before their own, and with the King himself formally acknowledging the boy as Lord of Moat Cailin the succession for Winterfell was as secure as could be. While she did somewhat resent that Jon was given Moat Cailin over one of her own sons, she saw the wisdom in having a warrior of Jon's calibre guarding the entrance to the North, another thing that was comforting to her was that he was far enough away now and with a wife and children of his own that he was not likely to visit Winterfell at any given opportunity (like he did when he stayed with the Cerwyns).

Truly the weeks since he had left to attend Prince Joffrey's nameday tourney had been some of the most soothing she had ever experienced since coming North. She and Ned also found more time to spend with another (that did not involve arguing about Jon), and with the exception of Arya, Bran and Rickon (and to some extent Robb and Sansa) asking for news or sometimes mentioning how they missed him (not an altogether unfamiliar activity) things were good. The bastard was gone, her children were safe and learning, her relationship with Ned was excellent, and Jon was far to the south where he couldn't trouble her family any longer.

Praising Sansa for the wonderful embroidery she had done on her newest dress, the calm of the sewing room was shattered as Ned's voice roared in fury (or resignation) and she felt a pit of ice settle in her stomach, that particular shout was reserved for one person, and one person only. Steeling herself for yet another long evening of arguing over her nephew's latest foolish stunt she hurried through the corridors of Winterfell until finally entering her husband's solar.

The first one she spotted was Maester Luwin who sat pale and shivering on a chair, clearly shocked. Ser's Rodrik and Jory looked impressed, worried, amused and resigned all at once, while her beloved Ned was striding back and forth like a caged animal, pinching the bridge of his nose while muttering obscenities under his breath that would probably shock even someone of King Robert's calibre.

"Ned?" she asked slowly, causing Ned to turn his gaze upon hers. "What's the boy done now?" she asked, finally causing Jory and soon after Rodrik to crack up, both of them shaking with laughter.

"When I get my hands on that boy," Ned muttered, "should have been drowned at birth the bloody menace."

That statement got her attention. Raising an eyebrow she looked at Maester Luwin. "I know it must seem strange for me of all people to defend the boy, but surely he can't have gotten into that much trouble?"

Luwin opened and closed his mouth for a few moments, obviously at a loss for words, while Jory and Rodrik just laughed harder.

With a shaking hand Ned handed her a letter that she saw held the seal of the Hand of the King, and already at the second line she felt her knees go faint. By the time she was finished with the letter she agreed wholeheartedly. The blasted menace should have been drowned at birth, or put out north of the Wall if she wasn't certain that he would still have been a menace if they had done that.

Three weeks earlier:

The trip to King's Landing had been most exciting Jon thought. Used to the cold north where civilization was, perhaps not as sparse as most would think, it was however spread out much more, as the kingdom was almost as large as the rest of Westeros combined. Whereas in the North you could travel for days without coming across a single inn or town it seemed to be the mirror opposite in the Riverlands.

Every few hours they came across a small village or town. The Kingsroad itself was far busier than he'd thought it would be (despite its poor condition) as smallfolk and even the occasional Knight was encountered, and most of them appeared to be going in the same direction. King's Landing, Prince Joffrey's nameday shaped up to be perhaps the grandest event in years, and Knights, Lords and poor fellows alike all seemed intent to get there in search of riches and glory or to haggle their wares.

What had started out as a relatively small company of Jon, Harrion Karstark, Daryn Hornwood, Gawen and his father Robett Glover, Wendel Manderly (keeping a very watchful eye on his niece Wynafryd), Smalljon Umber, Ben, Hugo and Theon Norrey and a pair of guards from each house, eventually turned into a company of nearly three hundred mounted men (and Jon thanked his lucky stars that old Walter Frey was riding in a wheelhouse and refusing his sons who accompanied him to ride ahead).

Jon had barely woken up the first morning after he moved to Moat Cailin, when Maester Rolland came to him swearing up a storm about how the Late Lord Frey had sent no less than a dozen riders to ask for Jon to take in half a dozen of his sons to squire as well as mentioning none to courteously that Walder had more than enough children, grandchildren and so on and so forth, both young and old who were in need of wives or husbands and were not insulted at marrying someone who came from bastard background.

While Jon had come this close to throwing the bloody weasels into the dungeons, he had wizened up as he spotted the cold look of absolute fury at Alys' face and left the entire affair to her. He had stayed long enough to confirm his goodbrother Eddard as the new Master of Arms, eat a hearty breakfast, say goodbye to his children and fuck Alys up against the wall in their chambers and then left.

His party had encountered Walder Frey's wheelhouse perhaps a good five or so hours ride south of the Twins and sped by as fast as they could (dutifully ignoring their rather repeated hails and offer of sharing the road) the Smalljon who himself had received more than one offer for a 'fair' Frey bride over the years had stopped just long enough to fell one of the large trees at the side of the Kingsroad, and once Jon and the rest of them realized what he was doing they all merrily joined in, not only to spare some time but also to further the inconvenience of Walder Frey, and they had more than one good laugh as they imagined old Walder's furious face while his sons tried to remove the trees.

Every night they'd stop at an inn for a meal and drink, though after trying the ale and beer from the Riverlands they all thanked the Old Gods that they had with them enough supply of northern mead to last them for the journey, and Jon swore if he ever had to see or more importantly taste fish again in his life it would be too soon. Of course not everything was perfect.

They had been offered hearth at Castle Darry, and had it not been for the respect Jon had for Guaest Right he would probably have attempted to cut Lord Ryman Darry down in his own hall after listening to the fucker wax poetically about the Targaryen's (and well as spotting the Targaryen banners still hanging on his walls) for over an hour. As it was Jon confined himself to coldly mentioning how the Targaryens had been kind and wise enough to considerately burn his grandfather alive, kidnap and rape his aunt (probably to death) and force his own father to strangle himself as he was forced to watch his father die. He then tipped over the table he was seated by (with the help of the other Northmen who weren't exactly pleased either), spat on Lord Darry's plate and marched out with a flagon of dornish red in his arm to sleep underneath the stars instead.

But finally they came to King's landing (though they smelt it long before they laid eyes on it) a huge city that stretched for miles across. Their company was headed directly for the Dragon Gate. The city itself was protected by tall walls, towers and on each of the three hills named after the conqueror and his sister wives Jon could spot the impressive buildings that called the hilltops home. The closest was the massive Dragon Pit, that while ruined still dwarfed any structure around it and still managed to inspire some feeling of majesty or power, and Jon felt a curious calmness, or sense of belonging and entitlement as he laid eyes on the ruined dragon palace, even more so as he laid eyes on the Red Keep that was situated on the southeast corner of the city, perched on the outcropping cliffs, with separate level of defences (he spotted no less than three gates that one would have to pass to reach the throne room or Maegor's holdfast. For any army at least it was assailable only from within the city itself, though as he laid eyes on the steep cliffs that led up to the walls, he conceded that a man with big enough balls could probably try to sneak his way in if he had some rope and a pair of good climbing spikes, though he pitied the fool who would entertain such a notion.

As soon as they passed the Dragon Gate the company split up until it was only Jon and the northmen (and Robar Royce and his father Yohn and half a dozen guards who had joined them just hours earlier) left.

"I suppose you know where to go Lord Royce," Jon asked the elder Lord (a good friend of his fa-uncle).

"Hmm, we shall have to find ourselves an inn, though considering the lateness of the day, not to mention that the Tourney starts on the morrow we'll have to resign ourselves to the inns close to Fleabottom.

Grimacing slightly, Jon nodded. He and everyone else had heard of the biggest slum in Westeros. A large shantytown of rickety degraded houses all stacked so close (often on top of each other) that most smallfolk would rather live outdoors, sadly there was little that could be done about it, and the law of the King held little sway there, and on the rare occasions the goldcloaks entered Fleabottom they did so in force.

Finally after encountering one full inn after the other they found a few that were not full very close to Fleabottom, though they would have to spread themselves out between them as none had enough room for all of them.

As was his duty, Jon handed over six silver stags to each of his own men. "These are to last for room and board for the entirety of our stay here," he told them as he handed out the coins. "So I will not be pleased if any of you come begging me for more coin because you spent them on whores is that understood?"

"Yes m'lord," they answered in unison as they scattered to the winds, and Jon just knew that by the time they would leave his men would most likely not only be hungry, but also dirty after having spent days sleeping outside, at least it should serve as a lesson.

Spreading out, Jon, Smalljon, Harrion, Torrhen and Daryn found rooms at the same inn, and if it wasn't for the fact that there was quite literally no where else to sleep Jon would have refused. Eight copper stars per night for a room that was smaller than a cupboard, with filthy sheets stuffed with hay and one meal which consisted of a bowl of brown (a dish he had been warned to stay away from) Jon considered it to be comparable to highway robbery. Refusing to sleep in the nasty bed Jon had simply stacked it up against a wall and unfurled his sleeproll (a large bearpelt) and decided to sleep in his armour with his traveling cloak over himself as a blanket.

That would all come later of course, as they still had a good few hours before it was time to sleep, so Jon and his friend had instead decided to sample the various taprooms in their street. And while the alcohol was atrocious it did get the job done as they (and the rest of the city) got increasingly drunk. Though of course when you have quite literally thousands of extra Knights, Lords and their guards/servants/squires in the same city (which is already overcrowded), mix in large quantities of alcohol, fragile egos and the odd semi serious bloodfeud. Mix in Jon and a bunch of drunken northmen whose distaste for the southerners could easily be misconstrued as arrogance and you have a recipe for disaster.

It had all started in the eleventh taproom (and sixteenth ale or so) Harrion had made a rather tasteless joke concerning the Smalljon's…smalljon. A tall drunken whose only words Jon had understood was that this was his first time getting truly drunk, that and he despised his brother, at least Jon thought he meant brother. It was hard to tell due to how the man was slurring his words. He knew the man was a Lord or highly paid Knight from the Stormlands as he was escorted by a pair of guards in stormlander gear, that and he looked close enough to the King (who was a Stormlander himself) though far less fat and more handsome, proving to Jon that men from the Stormlands had their own distinct 'features' just as many northerners did.

Anyhow, the man had become curious at the mention of the Smalljon's reputed small (or big) jon and had shoved his hand into the trousers of the heir of Last Hearth and given a good fondle. For a moment Jon looked around to find the woman who shrieked only to realize that it was the Smalljon himself who had roared out the most feminine shriek Jon had heard this side of Catelyn Tully, and dutifully kicked the stormlander in the stones, followed up with a headbutt and finally grabbing the insensate drunken stormlander and physically tossed him over the bar and into the kegs of ale (shattering both) and dousing the man in sticky ale, at least the man didn't feel the pain in his wedding tackle as the Smalljon's headbutt had sent him to bed early.

Of course, seeing one of their Knights (or Lords) get the 'Umber Treatment' as it was known in the North were insensate with rage and threw themselves towards the Smalljon. That would have been it had it not been for the fact that one of them tripped and crashed onto a table of westermen (the Lannister cloaks gave them away) and spilled their drinks.

Outraged the redcloaks had beaten upon the stormlander with their goblets, fists (one even tried to bite his ear off), and the man in a panic drew his dagger and opened the throat of one of them. From then on it was complete chaos as everyone got involved in the fight, alliances forming and breaking within minutes as men from all over Westeros as well as local inhabitants reduced the taphouse to a wreck in minutes before spilling out into the streets.

Jon himself gave as good as he got, He and his fellow northmen all collecting a fine collection of bruises, black eyes, bloody fists and in the Smalljon's case a busted lip. Harrion who was the most sober of them managed to convince them of the need to escape and dutifully led them to where a score of horses stamped nervously tied up outside another tavern, naturally things turned out for the worse then.

What started off as five northmen 'borrowing' five horses turned into a drunken horserace through the winding maze that was King's landing that lasted for hours and sparked more than one brawl as people were pushed aside (and into others who took personal insult at being showed by unsuspecting bystanders). It took them nearly three hours before they made it back to their inn, that was thankfully spared the majority of the brawls as Goldcloaks were already moving towards fleabottom where the hardest of the brawling was happening.

As soon as the last goldcloak disappeared the northmen chuckled nervously. "What are the chances that my uncle won't hear about this and suspect me you think?" Jon asked Harrion who looked at him for a second as if he had gone mad before snorting contemptuously.

"I thought so," Jon said with a sigh as he hung his head.

Dismounting they sent their horses away and walked into the now almost dark inn, a five candles still burning but most of the people asleep, only to be met with a sight that sent Jon's blood roaring in fury.

At the bar stood the innkeeper, tears flowing down his face as he begged and pleaded while a knife was held at his throat. The man holding the knife was a heavyset older man with grey hair and beard and a sick grin on his face.

The reason for the innkeeper's pleading was clear as in the centre of the room a young girl who could only be his daughter was being violently fucked by a tall man with a scraggly black beard and almost bald head. The raper was laughing and grunting as his pushed himself in and out of the struggling and sobbing girl, almost strangling her as he had his left hand clenched around her throat. From the partially undressed state of four other men who stood laughing and jeering, Jon concluded that the girl had probably been at their mercy for some time already.

Without even thinking Jon had drawn Red Rain, and the blade lived up to its name as it carved straight through the neck of the man raping the young girl, separating the head from the neck in a shower of blood. Before the men could even fathom what had happened, Daryn who appeared to be of a like mind as Jon had surged forward and planted his own sword through the neck of the man holding the innkeeper hostage, causing him to fall to the ground with a panicked gurgle as he tried to stem the flow of blood.

"Oi, o' the fuck you think you are?" a reedy dark haired man said as he fumbled for the dagger on his waist.

Stepping over the corpse of the man he beheaded Jon held out his sword towards the remaining four. "I am Jon Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin, now I'd like to know the names of the men who are about to lose their cocks or their heads," Jon stated.

"Ser won't like this, fuck me bloody with a fucking spear, Ser won't fucking like this at all," another one of them muttered, this one with greying hair and ill kept beard.

"We the Mountain's men," the reedy fellow said as he jutted out his chest as if that was supposed to impress. "Ser's gonna carve you bloody 'e is."

Jon blanched slightly at that, Gregor Clegane, The Mountain Who Rides was the only one he knew of who was called the Mountain, and he had a rather fearsome reputation. Still, alcohol can make even the wisest of men into complete witless scoundrels. "Then I suppose the Mountain can explain himself in person to the King as to why I had to kill or unman four of his men."

The four rapers shared a glance before they all broke out in full sprint. The one with the foul mouth was cleaved from stem to stern when he tried to jump Jon with a single slice. The reedy looking fellow who had tried to threaten Jon wisely jumped through the window and disappeared into the night. The last two men sobbed, begged and pleaded as they were grabbed and held immobile by Daryn, Torrhen, Harrion and the Smalljon, while Jon sliced off their trousers and then their manhoods.

"Throw this filth out into the streets," he growled, and watched in satisfaction as the four furious northmen threw the wailing scum out the door before closing it. "For you," Jon said as he fished out a pair of gold dragons from his pouch and handed it to the innkeeper who was rocking his daughter back and forth, trying to comfort her. "I am sorry I couldn't do more," he said. This wasn't exactly true of course, a pair of gold dragons was probably almost as much as the man made in a year.

"Th-thank you m'lord Stark," he said as he and his daughter stared at the pair of gold coins with awe.

"I'll see you on the morrow my friends," Jon said as he walked to his room and fell asleep as soon as his back hit the pelt he used as a sleeproll.

He felt as if he hadn't gotten any sleep at all before the door to his room was smashed open by a pair of goldcloaks. "Get up Lord Stark, you've wanted in the throne room."

Shaking the cobwebs out of his mind Jon followed the two goldcloaks out of the tavern and into the street where the rest of his fellow northmen waited, and from the looks of them they too had not been spared last night's scuffle, with the exception of Lady Wynafryd, though from how her uncle Wendel looked, he had apparently taken the blows meant for her, not that he seemed to mind too much as he gave Jon a grin (that lacked several teeth) as soon as he spotted him.

"What a night eh Jon?" he asked with a laugh.

"Could have been worse," Jon replied with a grin, "Though I doubt the Norrey's agrees with us," and from the muttered curses the three mountain clansmen exclaimed Jon knew he had hit the nail on the head with that statement, as the three Norrey's looked to have spared their bodies from injury by using their faces as shields, with Ben Norrey the one who looked fittest of them with a broken nose and both eyes almost swollen shut.

As they were lead through the streets of King's Landing towards the Red Keep Jon swallowed nervously as he got a much better look at the devastation of the night. Everywhere he turned his head he could spot smashed doors or market stalls, several buildings had burnt completely down and various debris cluttered the streets, with a large part of it being what looked suspiciously like chair or table legs and the odd lamppost that had no doubt been used as temporary clubs. Eventually they were lead into the Red Keep, all the way up to the massive hall that contained the throne room.

The room itself was massive, and filled almost to capacity by various Knights and Lords, many of them rather dishevelled, and many of them glaring balefully at the northmen. At the end of the room on a raised dais stood the monstrosity known as the Iron Throne, upon which sat King Robert who tried his best to look grim and serious, though with how his beard was twitching Jon had a feeling the King was somewhat amused. Seated daintily on a small chair beside the Iron Throne sat a woman who could only be the Queen. Had it not been for how her face was red and twisted in rage (a look was all too familiar with from Lady Catelyn) he might have considered her to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, such as it was though she looked more constipated than beautiful.

All seven of the Kingsguard were present, two of them supporting a rather beat up man wearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon, come to think of it he looked remarkably like the man the Smalljon beat black and blue for fondling his cock. Stopping a good twenty feet from the throne, Jon and his compatriots all fell to one knee with bowed heads.

"Your Grace," they spoke in unison.

The King held his tongue for a moment before gesturing them to stand. "I've called you here to answer for a rather grievous list of crimes Lord Stark," King Robert said as he accepted a sheet of parchment from Jon Arryn. "It says here that you and your companions assaulted my brother Renly last night, assaulted two Knights in his service, started a riot that swept through half the city and organized a drunken horserace, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Jon swallowed for a moment as his mind worked a mile a minute before he had an epiphany. "I was just following your example Your Grace," Jon said humbly, causing Jon Arryn, Yohn Royce and Robett Glover to each smack their foreheads in resignation, while a large amount of the others in court gasped in shock.

"What in the seven hells are you talking about?" the King asked with narrowed eyes.

"We were all drunk, your brother Lord Renly even more so as barely one word in ten was legible, when he suddenly shoved his hand down the Smalljon's breeches and fondled his cock," Jon ignored the gasps and vehement denials before throwing Lord Renly an olive branch. "Surely Lord Renly di so on accident, but the fact remains that he did do so. Now I don't know about anyone else here, but I am pretty sure you as well as myself would clobber any man who did such an act."

There was general murmuring of agreement as most men saw the point. "Now when Lord Renly's guards went to help him one of them stumbled into a table of Lannister soldiers who tried to beat the man to death before he opened the throat of one of them…by that time it was too late to stop anything as everything descended into chaos. A misunderstanding Your Grace, one taken much farther than it should have."

The King glared at his brother who was trying (and failing) at keeping his gaze at the floor. "Is this true Renly?" he asked

Lord Renly flinched, causing Robert to swear loudly. "Seeing as my own brother was the one who set the whole thing in motion I have no choice but to…" was as far as he got before the door to the throne room slammed open and in walked a monster of a man. Near eight feet tall, clad from head to toe in thick steel plate and a sword almost as long as Jon was tall was held in one hand, and behind the mountain that was Gregor Clegane walked a familiar looking reedy dark haired man.

"You the cunt who killed my men!" Clegane snarled as he advanced towards Jon.

"He's a murderer, guards arrest him!"

The Queen shouted before Robert screamed "ENOUGH!" fortunately the mountain stopped while Queen Cersei glared angrily at her husband.

"Robert," she started but her husband silenced her with a furious look.

"I said enough woman, I'll find out the truth of these accusations before doing anything."

"That won't be necessary," Jon said as he glared at the Queen and Clegane in turn.

"I heard how the Queen reacted last time someone threw accusations at me, so seeing as how there is such a bias towards me, and particularly since she is defending her father's pet monster I have no choice but to let the Gods decide my fate," grinning slightly as he saw the shocked or even worried or encouraging looks on the faces around him Jon turned his gaze back on the Queen and gave a grin that was anything but humorous. "I demand a Trial by Combat!"

You could have heard a pin drop so silent it was, before Clegane shouted. "I ACCEPT!"

"You sure about this lad?" the King asked. "You wanna fight the Mountain?"

"I'm not gonna fight him," Jon said, causing the King to let out a relieved sigh at Jon choosing a champion. "I'm gonna kill him, and when I am done, the whole of Westeros will know that false Knights like Clegane here will get what's coming to them, even if the fucking Seven and their corrupt Septons are unwilling to do anything."

The King looked pleadingly with Jon for a moment, no doubt he had no desire to send Ned Stark a letter informing him of Jon's debt, but seeing as both Jon had challenged, and Clegane accepted he had little choice but to agree. "Very well, the trial will take place at midday in the tourney grounds."

Receiving permission to leave Jon hurried out of the keep while his fellow northmen tried to dissuade him. "You've fucking lost your mind Jon," Daryn said after everyone else had tried (and failed) to get Jon to renege on the duel, flee or pick a champion. Jon himself didn't say a word until they made it to the tourney grounds, stopping only briefly to purchase a bag of salt.

"What are you doing?" Torrhen asked as Jon put a glass bottle on a metal plate and started to smash and grind it up with a rock.

"Getting an advantage," Jon answered as he continued to grind the glass shards until it was little more than dusty flakes comparable to loose snow, that he then poured gently into another empty bottle.

"Ingenious," Yohn Royce said as he realized what Jon was up to.

"Jon," Harrion said worriedly. "Please rethink this, it's the fucking Mountain, I don't want to inform Alys that she is a widower."

"She won't be, not today at any rate," Jon said as he started to examine his armour, making sure that everything was fastened properly. "Tell me Harr, what is it that makes the Mountain so fearsome."

"Well there is his strength," Harrion said.

"Yes, he is tremendously strong, and that is what is gonna get him killed today." His friends all looked sceptical, Lord Royce too seemed to find fault at his statement, causing Jon to sigh. "Hold this," he said as he shoved a blunted tourney sword into the Smalljon's hand. As soon as the Umber held the blade in a tight grip Jon drew Red Rain and in one fast and hard strike cut straight through the piece of steel, leaving the Smalljon with a sword hilt and three inches of unsharpened blade above the crossguard.

"Fuck me," he said as he stared at what used to be a wholly usable tourney blade.

"Now that was with you just holding the blade still, imagine the bloody Mountain swinging his own sword, which is also far thinner than what you held at me."

"Bloody troll is gonna find himself without a weapon," Yohn Royce muttered approvingly.

"Exactly," Jon said as he finished his gear by sheathing a dagger and also placing a small bearded axe into his belt.

"I assume you won't be bothering with a shield," Yohn's son Robar asked as he went over the straps and latches on Jon's armour to check that Jon hadn't missed anything.

"No need," Jon said. "All it would give me would be a broken arm."

The stands were starting to fill up rapidly now and at the other end of the tourney field Jon could see Clegane pacing angrily, and eight feet tall mountain of steel and muscle who was itching to start the fight early.

"I still think this is a bad idea Jon," Harrion said in one last attempt to dissuade him.

"Clegane is far more infamous than he has any right to be, sure he is strong," Jon said quickly to cut off any retort. "But the only kills he has confirmed to his name is a babe still at the breast, the babe's heartbroken and defenceless mother, and a few ironborn raiders on their last legs on Pyke."

"That may be Jon, but he is still dangerous." Harrion said.

Jon looked into his goodbrother's eyes for a moment. "So am I brother, so am I."

"CHAMPIONS TAKE YOUR PLACES," the High Septon himself had apparently decided to officiate, and Jon and Clegane both stepped forward until the stood twenty feet apart.

"Lord Stark, stand ye ready?" he asked Jon, who grabbed Red Rain with both hands and nodded while giving his much larger opponent a stony glare, while focusing on his breathing, in and out, until he could feel his senses heighten, could almost hear every individual heartbeat and barely noticed the High Septon asking Clegane the same question.

Clegane looked at the High Septon a brief moment before angrily throwing off his helmet, causing Jon to grin. Jon had deliberately chosen his position as he had the sun at his back, forcing Clegane to either fight blind as the sun would obscure what little vision he had in his narrow slit helmet, or fight without its protection. Jon himself was wearing his wolf head helmet and as soon as the High Septon yelled "BEGIN" he surged forward only to swiftly recoil as Clegane lashed out with his sword, much swifter than a man his size had any right to. Almost immediately afterward another swing came whistling just over Jon's head as he ducked just in time while withdrawing further backwards in order to keep distance between himself and the Mountain. Jon diverted another three strikes before he was sure of Clegane's method. Stepping inside Clegane's next swing Jon lashed out with all his might. It worked better than he had expected as Clegane tried to block at the last minute and Red Rain cut through the blade at an angle, straight through the crossguard and on, carving through Clegane's hand and removing three of his fingers.

The inhumanly loud scream of pain almost deafened Jon who ducked low to avoid the instinctual lash out that he knew was coming and sure enough Clegane's left fist moved through the space that Jon's head had occupied just moments before. Without breaking stride Jon grabbed the bottle at his waist and smashed it at Clegane's face while closing his eyes. As soon as he heard the bottle break he ducked low and rolled to the right before standing up ready to defend himself, an action that proved unnecessary as Clegane screamed in pain and fury as he clawed at his face. The tiny glass shard in the bottle hat gotten into his eyes and he doubted the giant warrior could even see. Feeling a bloodthirsty grin creep over his face Jon stepped slowly behind Clegane who was lashing out blindly and swing with all his might, sending the massive warrior to the ground as the ensorcelled Valyrian blade in his hand carved through both legs above the knee.

While Clegane writhed on the ground, trying to turn himself over onto his back Jon stepped closer and drove his sword through first the right, and them the left shoulder blade. He had intended to end it there and then, but then he spotted the young woman who had been raped by Clagane's men, and wondered how amny others had faced the same fate, either at the hand of Clegane himself or his men, and just like the Red Keep, the Dragonpit or the Iron Throne sent his blood racing, so did the name and form of Clegane send his temper into overdrive, and as his mind went over the many creative ways to end the monster it finally settled on a suitable punishment, and he now understood why he had purchased salt just earlier that day. Some fancy sword work (that left a few more injuries) let Jon rip off the plates and mail protecting Clegane's back. Removing his own helmet Jon let everyone see the humourless grin on his face as he seated himself on Clegane's lower back, and with his dagger in hand he slowly went to work.

They said the best of the Boltons could flay a man alive in less than five minutes, and while Jon respected his uncle enough to not flay a man it did not mean there were no other almost as terrible punishments. Taking his sweet time, Jon enjoyed how Clegane writhed and screamed in agony as Jon carved into his back, until he swapped out his knife with the short axe he always carried with him. Seizing the uppermost rib on Clegane's left side, Jon let the axe swing down, the sound of bone snapping barely audible as Clegane tried in vain to shake Jon off. Three and twenty times more Jon's axe rose and fell, each fall accompanied shortly after with the sound of another rib breaking until all of them had snapped. Sheathing his weapons Jon pulled the ribs outwards and then pulled the lungs out of the body and laid them to rest on top of the splayed ribs and flesh in a gory rendition of a pair of wings, and finally he opened the pouch of salt at his waist and smeared the salt over Clegane's lungs and open wounds.

Standing up, Jon who was drenched in blood let his gaze wander, as far as he could see men and women stared in horrified shock at what had happened. A fair few seemed to have lost their meal or even fainted and Jon almost spat in disgust. At the beginning of the fight (and before it) people had talked or cheered in anticipation and now that they had the blood they had been clamouring for they were in shock. "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?" Jon roared as he spread his arms and paced around Clegane who had stopped screaming, his breath coming in short gasps as his lungs rapidly expanded and reduced. "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?" He yelled again as he threw the severed right foot of Clegane into the crowd, and suddenly the stands exploded in cheers as people jumped up and down, some even cried in relief, while a great deal of others, laughed, jeered or threw insult at the queen and the Kingslayer.

The Queen herself, Jon had never seen anyone so furious before, while her brother looked distinctly uncomfortable, the gloating superior look he had given Jon earlier was gone now. King Robert was laughing as if he had seen the most amusing thing in his life, continually saying "Balls of fucking steel eh Barristan?" before collapsing in laughter again. Ser Barristan of the Kingsguard was also highly impressed and gave Jon a thankful nod.

"THE GODS HAVE MADE THEIR WILL CLEAR," the High Septon's voice boomed. "HE IS HEREBY DECLARED INNOCENT OF THE CHARGES AGAINST HIM."

Then King Robert stood up. "While I am sure you would have won it, I can safely say there will be nothing even close to this in the melee so I am hereby proclaiming you as the Champion of the Melee and granting you the winnings from it, report back at the Royal Pavilion for your price Lord Stark."

Looking behind him Jon saw Clegane give out a last shuddering breath before his form lay still, walking over to his friends who all stared at him dumbfounded Jon let out a bark of laughter. "I bloody well told you I would kill him didn't I?"

They all blinked for a moment before they laughed and swarmed him, either pulling him into a hug or slapping his back.

"So what now?" the Smalljon asked.

Jon led them over to the corpse of Clegane and with a swing of his sword removed the head from the neck. "Bag the head, I've got a great spike for it back home."

The northmen grinned only to suddenly kneel, "Your Grace," they said and Jon turned, and swiftly repeated the gesture as the King stood before him, along with two Baratheon men who guarded a big chest on a cart.

"Rise Lord Stark," he said and then pulled Jon into a hug. "Fuck me bloody boy, I haven't seen anything like that all my life, what do you call it?" he asked as he gestured to the macabre sight of Clegane's gory back.

"It's called the Blood Eagle, Your Grace, an ancient punishment in the North, though it has long since fallen into disuse. I figured it was time that someone beside the North Remembers, and whenever they hear the name Stark from now on, they'll remember that Lions are not the only ones whose fangs or claws are long and sharp."

Robert laughed as he slapped Jon on the back. "I'd love for you to stay until the end of the tourney lad, but given the state of things it would probably be best for you to head back to the North, Cersei is furious beyond belief, Twyin is gonna want your head until he cools down some, hell even Baelish is fucking angry at you."

"Baelish Your Grace?" Jon questioned.

"Never mind him, he's just pissed that half a dozen of his whorehouses were ruined or even burnt down, that and he lost a thousand dragons on you today."

Jon grinned. "So, I never got to ask, how much was my winnings?"

"Twenty thousand dragons for winning the melee," Robert said, causing Jon to stumble at the obscene amount, he doubted even Lord Wyman Manderly who was the richest man in the North had ever had that much at once before.

"Th-thank you, Your Grace," Jon stammed before suddenly remembering, "What about Edric Your Grace?"

Robert swore. "I'll have him take a ship up to the North, no doubt Lord Manderly will welcome him and provide an escort to your home from there, Now if you follow my men here they'll take you down to the port so you can take a ship to the North today…and stay there for a few years before you decide to come south again," the King finished with a laugh before stumbling away, shouting for wine.

"Well," Jon said. "I think we can safely say that it's not just the North that Remembers now eh?"

Present time:

"You mean to tell me that this letter speaks the truth Ned?" Cat asked.

"I swear Cat, if it didn't bear the seal and signature of both Robert and Jon Arryn I wouldn't believe it myself.

Cat swallowed as she gathered her thoughts. "What in the name of the seven made the boy decide to go up against Gregor Clegane, and to kill him in such a brutish method, no wonder that Tywin Lannister is demanding reparations."

Ned growled angrily. "He can demand as much as he like, it was a perfectly legal trial of combat, and if anyone deserved the Blood Eagle it was Clegane."

"And what about this I read that he started a riot in King's Landing?"

Ned sighed. "For once it wasn't Jon who actually started it, though he was certainly a participant in it. And can you honestly say you are surprised?"

Catelyn let out a long suffering sigh as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I'll never understand that boy, I mean does trouble go looking for him or does he actively seek it out as a way to spite us?"

Ned shrugged helplessly. "It certainly seems to know where he is most of the time, though with his parents I cannot say I am surprised either."

Cat nodded sadly, even now, months after she had learnt the truth she still felt flashes of outright dislike if not even hatred towards the boy, her own nephew that she had blamed for being born. "I suppose we'll just have to wait until he gets back, and then we can box his ears in."

Ned chuckled, as he closed his eyes, relishing the idea of letting Jon feel the back of his hand for some payback for the amount of grey in his hair. "I have no doubt his wife will do it for him," Ned said.

"Or fuck his brains out," Jory muttered under his breath, wincing slightly as he met the furious gaze of Lady Stark.

"That may be so," Ned said. "But today I learned that my nephew Gregor Clegane in single combat, that calls for a celebration I think," and with that the word went out and Winterfell prepared for yet another large feast…