Chapter 3
That night, Jon dreamt. He dreamt of a dragon and a pack of wolves, howling at the moon. He dreamt of a fire in the dark, with pale blue eyes luminescent in the dark. He dreamt of a wedding, with a crowd around something, with the cries of a woman in the background. But most of all, he dreamt of the crypts of Winterfell, though he had left Winterfell five moons before.
When Jon awoke, it was shortly after dawn. He got up groggily and donned his armor, preparing for a few practices runs with his horse before the match. It was in the midst of this when the crowd began to gather at the tourney field, and when Jon made his way to the tourney grounds. He was called against a lord this time. Jon prepared his horse for the tilt.
Jon made sure his breathing was steady. The tilt began, and Jon spurred his destrier quickly. Time slowed, and Jon's instincts kicked in, guiding his lance with precision to the lord's breastplate while nimbly dodging the incoming lance. The lord went flying cleanly from his saddle, landing on the ground with an audible grunt. That was not normal; I've barely practiced jousting and I already hit him like a master.
The crowd cheered loudly, and the herald bellowed out the next list. Jon decided to pay attention to the other lords from now on, as there were like to be some important lords here. But he could barely recall the banners of most of the houses, his adrenaline still pumping. He spotted a Fossoway banner and a Florent banner, but he stopped paying attention to that when the list ended with one of the men being caught underneath his horse, crippling him.
After what seemed like an hour, the blood had been cleaned and the man carried off to be tended to by a maester. In the meantime, Jon had tilted against four other lords, though the same thing happened each time, his instincts kicking in and guiding him to do things. He had at least earned the adoration of quite a few of the maidens and ladies in the crowds, as he had not been hit once.
Jon was quite glad to lay himself once more beneath the great oaken tree he had slept under the night before. The thing had to have been at least a hundred years old, and the roots created a divet in the ground where he could lay his blankets and sling his gear from a branch in the tree. Jon laid himself to rest that night, only the sound of an owl's hoot to accompany his breathing.