A firm, echoing knock reverberated through the air, announcing the young prince, now known to Ser Barristan as Jon. The seasoned knight rose from his seat, anticipation stirring within him. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a transformed figure. Jon, once a disheveled sight in the courtyard, had undergone a cleansing. The curls of his ebony hair were tamed, pulled back in the northern fashion, revealing a distinctive widow's peak on his forehead—reminiscent of the late Rhaegar Targaryen.
The unkempt beard had been given a semblance of order, though its length persisted. Ser Barristan observed with a slight disapproval; such wildling traits did not sit well with his refined sensibilities. Yet, a glimmer of hope lingered within him that this grooming oversight would be rectified in due time.
At Jon's side, a sword with a white wolf pommel hung, a symbol of his northern heritage. Behind him stood Ghost, an immense white wolf whose name was not unknown to Ser Barristan. The wolf's presence added an air of primal authority, a silent companion to the prince. As Ser Barristan welcomed Jon inside, the subtle echoes of Jon's transformation lingered, intertwined with the scent of newfound cleanliness.
"Enter, my lord," Ser Barristan gestured, allowing Jon to step inside before closing the door with a measured grace. Only then did the veteran knight bow, acknowledging the young prince. "Your grace," he uttered with the proper deference.
Seating Jon near the crackling fire, Ser Barristan offered hospitality. "Would you fancy some ale, your grace?" he inquired, a touch of formality lacing his words.
Ghost, the massive white wolf, trailed in behind Jon, conducting a swift olfactory inspection of Ser Barristan before finding his place by the hearth, mirroring the actions of Lady.
A spark of delight crossed Jon's features. "You cannot imagine how much I would love some ale," he confessed, a broad grin breaking across his face. "And please, Ser Barristan, in here, call me Jon. We'll leave the 'your grace' part until I've got that monstrous chair."
As the horn of ale exchanged hands, Ser Barristan noted the disinterest Jon held for the Iron Throne. Seating himself across from the young man, the seasoned knight tried to discern any traces of Rhaegar in Jon's countenance. Alas, the beard obscured too much.
"If you have no desire for the crown, why chase after that monstrous chair?" Ser Barristan posed the question, aiming to keep the atmosphere conversational. He was well aware of the looming threat from beyond the Wall, having heard accounts from Sansa, Sam, and Gilly about the encroaching White Walkers. Yet, the seasoned knight sought to hear Jon's perspective straight from the source.
Jon met Barristan's gaze, a weighty seriousness in his eyes. "Ser Barristan, the dead have risen. The Long Night is looming, and we need an army to stand against it. The entire realm must unite to face this threat. What choice do I have?" Jon proposed, a sense of responsibility in his words. "I doubt the bastard Joffrey would lift a finger. Stannis, well, the last I heard was of his defeat at the Blackwater. Maester Aemon mentioned a raven bringing that news. Besides, he's wrapped up with the red gods now." Jon shuddered at the thought, a tangible shiver coursing through him.
Jon, akin to Lady Sansa and Lady Arya, carried a burden of age that transcended the lines etched on his face. In the sanctum of trust, Lady Sansa had unravelled the enigma of their prolonged existence, a narrative of lives extending far beyond the numerical count of their years. To Ser Barristan's discerning eye, Jon seemed to bear the weight of six and twenty rather than the ten and nine winters he embodied. His eyes, upon closer inspection, held a haunting depth, an echo of a man wearied by experiences far beyond his apparent age. Barristan, privy to the tales of Jon's reign as a king and his battles of varied success, recognized the seasoned commander who had faced the crucible of leadership.
The revelation of Jon's resurrection under the auspices of the red god, R'hllor, cast a shadow of understanding over Barristan's perception. He empathized with Jon's hesitancy, knowing the complexities entwined with such a fate being harnessed for the cause.
"I'm not convinced Lord Stannis is the king which our realm needs to confront the northern threat," Ser Barristan asserted, his tone measured and thoughtful.
Curiosity flickered in Jon's eyes, prompting the inquiry, "How much has Sansa told you?"
"Everything she could. She described Tormund and Edd to perfection, though she claimed no prior acquaintance with Pyp, Grenn, Ygritte, nor Sigorn. Detailed the gathering of the army of the dead, brought across the Wall by Daenerys' dragons. Mentioned your ability to ride one of those beasts," Ser Barristan recounted, the grim recollection etched into his memory. Tormund and Edd's presence had solidified the once-inconceivable tale. "I must admit, when Arya recognized me in Gulltown, I found it odd, but now it seems plausible."
Jon, in the hushed confines of the room, expressed his gratitude, "First of all, I would like to thank you for guarding my wife. It means everything to me." A genuine smile played on Jon's lips.
"She very much cares for you, your grace," Ser Barristan remarked, drawing on conversations with Sansa. She a woman in the first throes of love, perhaps yet to come to terms with her feelings.
"You wouldn't have thought it out there," Jon said. "Ygritte was my lover, you know, before. But she died, and Sansa never met her."
Barristan nodded in understanding, sensing the weight of those unspoken histories. "Oh," he responded, recognizing the potential awkwardness of such revelations. "And now? Have you convinced her grace, she has nothing to worry about?" Genuine concern for Sansa lingered in Barristan's words; he had grown fond of the Lady of Winterfell.
"Sansa has nothing to worry about save the length of my beard," Jon assured him, a smile gracing his features. "But I'll sort that out later. That should make her happy. I wanted to meet with you first." Barristan observed a faint blush rise to Jon's cheeks, an unspoken acknowledgment of something more beneath the surface. While Jon remained silent, Barristan suspected that the night Jon and Sansa had planned might extend beyond a mere beard-trimming exercise.
Barristan found it curious that Jon would prioritize their meeting before reuniting with Sansa, but he understood the need for undisturbed moments, a hint of tender, loving intimacy between the couple.
"Has anyone ever told you anything of your parents?" Barristan inquired, delving into the depths of Jon's lineage.
"Uncle Ned told me some information about my mother. All I know about my sire is what the history books say, and they aren't flattering," Jon responded, the weight of his words hinting at the frustration that lay beneath.
"Most history books are unreliable. They are always written by the victor or for the records of the victor. Seldom do they hold any truth to them," Barristan offered, drawing from a lifetime of discerning fact from fiction.
"Regardless, he was a man grown, and she was a child," Jon's face contorted with anger. "Love or not, they were both reckless. Not telling anyone where they were going was idiotic."
Ser Barristan frowned, sensing a gap in Jon's knowledge. "I think you need to speak with Lady Sansa. She might have something to say on the matter. Fresh evidence has materialised. Let us say, communications were made and intercepted. It turns out Rhaegar was hiding her from his father. But, as I say, Sansa can tell you more about that situation. I can only tell you about the man himself."
Jon appeared uneasy, a sentiment Barristan could empathize with. "I'll speak with Sansa, but I suppose it would be nice to know what he was like," Jon conceded, his expression carrying a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. As Jon pulled a face, an uncanny resemblance to Rhaegar emerged, tugging at Barristan's memories and emotions, forming a lump in his throat.
"Other than the colouring and the beard, I suspect you look like him. You have the same widow's peak. And that face you just pulled, I could have been looking at a dark-haired Rhaegar," Barristan shared, a smile playing on his lips. A subtle grin crept up on Jon's face, and now the resemblance became more apparent. "How Ned kept you hidden is beyond me. But I'm glad he did. The way Sansa has described you gave me the impression you have many of his characteristics. She says you brood a lot."
Jon rolled his eyes. "Aye, a fact I am reminded of."
"Rhaegar was broody. He suffered from melancholy. However, Rhaegar had a fiery temper, although he kept it in check. He liked to read, he was an excellent singer, songwriter, and poet," Barristan shared, the memories of the late prince surfacing in his mind. Observing Jon raise an eyebrow, Barristan sensed the weight of newfound knowledge settling between them. "Sansa tells me you have not inherited Rhaegar's musical talents."
Jon shook his head. "Never learned how to. I did like history and the songs. I'm not much of a dancer. Although I'm sure Sansa will want to rectify that, now we have somewhere to practice. She tried to talk me into it before, but dancing is not such an important skill for a northern bastard."
"When he was young, he was bookish, no interest in swords. Then, one day, he decided he needed to become a warrior. Whatever Rhaegar put his hand to, he could make a success of it," Barristan revealed, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Jon reciprocated with a smile of his own. "Your father was also obsessed with a prophecy," Barristan continued. He knew Sansa had mentioned the Lady Melisandre had mentioned some prophecy, which she had imparted on Jon, but not what it was.
"Not another one." Jon exhaled, his weariness apparent. "Go on, what prophecy is this one?" He took a swig of his ale, seeking solace in the bitter taste.
"Rhaegar believed, first of all, in himself, then it would be his son, who would be someone called the Prince that was Promised," Barristan disclosed, the weight of prophecy heavy in the air. Jon, unprepared for the revelation, choked on his ale. "Are you alright?" Barristan inquired, genuine concern colouring his voice, but Jon had turned pale.
"That's what she called me," Jon croaked, his voice strained from the choking. "The red woman. She called me the Prince that was Promised."
"From my blood will come the Prince that was Promised, and his will be the song of Ice and Fire," Ser Barristan stated, the words carrying the weight of destiny. Jon frowned, seeking to make sense of the cryptic revelation.
"That is all I knew about the prophecy. Rhaegar never said more about it, well not to me. He might have spoken to Arthur and Elia. I couldn't say," Barristan shared, the mysteries of Rhaegar's actions and intentions still elusive.
"Why do you think he set Elia aside?" Jon searched, delving into the shadows of his family's history.
"Who knows what goes on behind closed doors in a marriage," Barristan remarked, his tone laden with the wisdom, despite his lack of marital experience.
Jon nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. "I suppose."
Ser Barristan, sensing the need for practicality, choosing to address the looming conflict. "When you go to war for the Iron Throne, because we both know it will be war, I think you ought to consider forming at least a temporary Kingsguard. Even if only to keep Princess Sansa safe." Barristan suspected Sansa would be Jon's weakness.
"You think she will be in danger?" Jon's expression shifted, sudden concern etching his features.
Barristan nodded. "If people believe you care for one another, then yes, very much so. She would be the greatest target to get to you." The room, adorned with the flickering glow of candles, seemed to tighten with the weight of strategic considerations. Barristan's mind, honed by years of service, anticipated the potential threats that loomed on the horizon.
Jon drew a deep breath. Barristan could hear the weight of past tribulations in his words. "When Sansa and I re-took Winterfell from Ramsay Bolton, he used Rickon to bait me. It worked. Gods, I don't know what I'd do if anyone took Sansa."
Barristan, recognizing the depth of Jon's concern, opting to delve into the practicalities. "Are there any men you might have in mind?" he inquired. "Lady Sansa believes The Hound may have absconded from the Kingsguard, and for some reason, she trusts him."
Jon furrowed his brow, contemplating the notion. "She's right. He would be one of my first choices. Sansa has more knowledge of the current affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, although I will be brought up to speed within the next couple of days. She plans on giving me a thorough rundown on everything I have missed." A subtle blush painted Jon's cheeks, hinting at the personal aspects of their upcoming discussions. Barristan, ever the seasoned observer, understood that the catching up would extend beyond the realm's affairs.
"Would you like me to draw up a list of men I believe might be suitable for the role, and you and Princess Sansa do the same? We could compare our findings. Though with Princess Sansa's extensive knowledge, I suspect I might learn a thing or two from her," Barristan proposed, a chuckle escaping his lips.
"Sansa is what will make sitting on the Iron Throne easier," Jon admitted. "But I think that is an excellent idea," he admitted. "I do not wish to exclude women from the choice. Arya would take down most men."
"Lady Arya is one of the most terrifying women I have ever encountered," Barristan said. Sansa had regaled him with tales of Arya's deeds in her previous life, emphasizing that she possessed the same capabilities. Some of Arya's methods had unsettled Ser Barristan.
"Aye, unless you fancy being baked into a pie. I believe she is looking to refine her baking skills. She was given a tip about browning butter for the pie crust," Jon remarked, the jest in his tone carrying a hint of truth. Knowing Lady Arya, it was plausible.
"Bran has made a request to be my squire," Barristan disclosed, deciding to share the news with Jon. The young man's eyes lit up at the suggestion.
"He has hero-worshipped you all his life. I couldn't think of any greater gift you could offer than letting him squire for you," Jon stated, as a radiant smile spreading across his face. In that moment, Barristan glimpsed Rhaegar reborn.
"Seven hells, you look like Rhaegar," Barristan exclaimed, the words escaping before he could restrain himself. "Forgive me, your grace."
"Ser Barristan, there is nothing to forgive," Jon assured, setting the horn of ale aside.
"Is that Longclaw?" Barristan inquired. "Sansa told me about it."
Jon rose, unsheathing the Valyrian steel sword, and placed it on the desk for Barristan's examination. Barristan joined Jon, drawn to the bastard sword. The white wolf-shaped pommel, adorned with garnets for eyes, and the exquisite dark grey blade, spoke volumes about the craftsmanship. The ripples of steel evidenced the blade's strength.
"May I?" Barristan requested, a rare glint of excitement in his eyes. Valyrian steel swords were a rare treasure, and finding one suitable for combat was even more exceptional.
"Go ahead," Jon granted permission, inviting Barristan to explore the unique and storied weapon.
Barristan took hold of the sword, appreciating the weight and balance. It was a perfect weapon, a fitting blade for a skilled warrior. He handed it back to Jon with a nod of approval. "What a beautiful sword. Lord Commander Mormont must think a lot of you to give you his house sword."
"Aye, I saved his life. He had no son to give it to as Ser Jorah has shamed his family and is now working for the court of Daenerys Targaryen."
"I believe he was spying for King Robert," Barristan remarked.
"Ser Jorah swapped sides. He fell in love with Daenerys, like many men do," Jon cast his eyes down.
"Did you fall in love with her?" Barristan inquired.
Jon nodded. "I thought I did. But after going north, I'm not so sure. I stopped missing Daenerys within a couple of months. I never stopped missing Sansa; in fact, life grew harder every day I was away from her. Have you ever been in love, Ser Barristan?"
Barristan's thoughts drifted to the past, recalling the beautiful Ashara Dayne and how she had stirred his heart at the tourney of Harrenhal. "Once, your grace. Ashara Dayne," he admitted, pondering how much Jon knew about the enigmatic woman.
"Rumours were she was my mother. Although we know those were false," Jon remarked.
"I think that was spread with intent. You see, there were rumours that Lord Eddard had deflowered her at the tourney of Harrenhal," Barristan revealed.
Jon met Barristan's gaze and let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. "I very much doubt that, Ser Barristan. I have reason to suspect my Uncle Brandon might have had a dalliance with her."
Barristan felt a shock at the revelation. He'd always suspected it was Ned who had been responsible for her pregnancy. "What makes you think that?"
"When King Robert came north, Lord Stark told the king I was Brandon's bastard with Lady Ashara, so that it would seem normal for me to marry Sansa. We were trying to avoid her marrying Joffrey. And the only way around it was if she were already wed," Jon explained. "Lady Stark wasn't exactly pleased with that suggestion, although Lady Stark does not want me wed to Sansa."
"Lady Stark was very much in love with Brandon, so I hear," Ser Barristan nodded.
"I discovered my uncle Brandon was cut from the same cloth as King Robert, when it comes to women. He had deflowered others," Jon confessed, a hint of embarrassment colouring his expression. "But I digress," he added, rising from his seat. "I hope you can gather that list for me. I might not be available or be around very much for the next day or so. There is much for me to catch up on."
"Spending time and catching up with your Lady wife would be my number one priority, if I were in your shoes. Although that is not for me to say," Barristan offered cautiously, aware of the delicate balance in advising Jon.
"I appreciate your advice, Ser Barristan. That was already my priority. I have missed her greatly, and now I wish I had an ounce of my sire's ability for poetry," Jon sighed. "I just never thought the skill would come in useful."
"I doubt you'll need poetry for your lady wife, Jon. I suspect she loves you dearly, even if she isn't entirely aware of it. She talked of you often, and she told me many times how much she was missing you," Barristan observed, offering a glimpse into Sansa's sentiments.
Jon blushed. "Is that so. I would like to thank you for your counsel, Ser Barristan," he expressed, extending his hand for a firm shake. Barristan noted the surprising strength in Jon's grip, realizing that appearances could be deceiving. "When I have caught up with stately matters, Ser Barristan, I would very much like to spar with you. It would fulfil a childhood dream."
"I would be most honoured, your grace," Barristan acknowledged, anticipating the symbolic clash that would inevitably be restrained.
"And fight your best, Ser Barristan. I don't like it when my opponent holds back. How am I supposed to get better if I am handed a fight? I prefer to be on my arse with a wounded pride, and learn something, other than throwing a match to please me," Jon asserted, earning Barristan's respect for his humility and commitment to improvement.
"I will do my best. Although I am afraid, I am not as good as I once was," Barristan admitted with a sigh, acknowledging the toll that age had taken on his once formidable skills.
"I still suspect you will give me a hard time," Jon replied, opening the door to leave. "I bid you goodnight, Ser Barristan."
"Enjoy your evening, my lord," Barristan reciprocated as Jon departed. Alone in his thoughts, Barristan returned to his chair in front of the fire, contemplating their conversation. He found himself impressed by the man he was now pledged to serve—a fitting son for the prince he had once failed. Determined not to repeat past mistakes, Barristan resolved that this time, he wouldn't fail Rhaegar's son as he did his father.