His hair is unbrushed, and sandy yellow in place of regal Lannister gold. Mud and sweat are matted in every lock but even without his armour, none would mistake him for pauper instead of prince. And with his plate, of its roaring lion and crowned stag atop gilded steel, he is glorious. Clenched in a gauntlet stained with the viscera of lesser men, his lance runs red with the blood of foemen. But for all that joy ought to overcome him at their great victory, the King can taste naught but fear on his lips as he beholds the sight of his brother astride the charger rearing on its hind legs. And as the cry of, Prince! rolls across the windswept plains of Storm's End, King Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name, knows a great threat has been born on this day.
Sansa I
The banners hung limp in the grim sky as though the Gods had decreed a great cessation of the winds in the North. The breeze of a Northern summer carried with it an unmistakable whisper of winter that cut deep into her skin. Sansa shivered, casting a prayer for the sun to reveal itself. The thick cover of clouds did not inspire much hope, and tense nerves shattered her idle wanderings as the rhythmic beat of horse hooves grew ever nearer, the crowned stag drooping sadly against its standard despite the exhortations of the King's men.
Looking around as Mother hissed a whispered admonition to a strangely helmeted Arya, Sansa suppressed a smile that disappeared as swiftly as it had come when Father turned his stern gaze on her, grey eyes boring deep into those hidden recesses of a girl's mind. But then he turned away and the rising pressure abated, if only for a moment.
For as she had been smirking at Arya's deserved rebuke, the procession had passed under the thick walls of Winterfell and entered the yard, the roaring Lion of Lannister imposing as ever despite the still wind. At Father's lead, the yard knelt as one before the King, eyes fixed firmly to the hard-packed earth that threatened to stain her wonderfully blue Myrish dress Mother had lain out the night before. Heavy boots and a heavy man drenched in perfume stomped across the yard and halted before Father, who rose at the command of an errant flick of a wrist. The other man, presumably His Grace, spoke first and spoke cuttingly.
"You've got fat."
Shocked whispers did not quite fill the yard, but the affront was certainly felt. For a long moment, Sansa's heart leapt into her throat and seized her breath, so shocked was she at the insult. King or not, it simply was not done to mock a Lord in his Holdfast, not least because Father was Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. Her fears grew wildly out of control and struck at her vert depths where she began to worry of what would come next and Father seemed to nod and the King was moving and-
"Ah, Ned! I have missed that Stark look." The King was heaving in mirth and his hands were clasped on Father's shoulders. "You've aged but mere weeks."
The yard rose as they had knelt, as one. The King, a large man who Lord Manderly would easily have been mistaken for, embraced Mother as a long-lost sister and smiled widely as she brought forward Sansa and her siblings. She had expected some weight to his gaze but it was a strangely dispassionate thing, very much unlike Father's. The King had murmured some polite words when she returned his look and she thanked him without prompt, earning a nod of Mother's approval. Arya had merely nodded like a mute and little Rickon had reached out to tug at the King's coarse black mane. They all laughed at that, following His Grace's lead.
Father knelt to kiss the Queen's ring, who effortlessly glowed with a majesty entirely absent from her husband. As he and Father made for the crypt for some business or other, Sansa's gaze turned to the remaining Royals in the yard.
The Queen's beautiful wheelhouse had proved too large to fit through the gate, so the Royals had entered on horse and foot. Yet mounted, a man in gleaming white plate shed his helm and ran a gloved hand through luxurious locks of the burnished gold. A set of memorable emerald orbs peered over a long aquiline nose, and corded muscle flashed behind the locks around his shoulders. Arya cried out the man's title just as his eyes fell upon them. The Kingslayer studied the two but for a passing moment before his look passed onto the others just as Mother, fortunately, hurried Arya into the Keep proper, scolding her all the way.
Some distance behind him, the Crown Prince followed on his mare. She stared absently at that. The Prince wore gloves, but that was where the similarities ended with his uncle. While the Kingslayer's cheeks were high and pronounced against his pale skin, the Prince's aspect was more rounded, gentler. His eyes were kind, and they further softened as he bent over the mare's neck to whisper into her ear, rubbing soothingly all the while as his thick tangle of blond curls fluttered in the slow breeze. For a moment, an ugly, bewildered envy rose in Sansa's chest. The Prince's beauty almost surpassed hers!
While the Kingslayer had been all lean strength and sinew, the Prince was merely thin. Not awfully so like the greybeards in Wintertown, but thin all the same. He slipped from his horse with some discomfort and leant against it as though out of breath, which gave the lie to her assumption. As the horse was led away and Joffrey Baratheon approached his mother while escorted by a man wearing a helm shaped like a dog's head, her look turned to another pair riding side-by-side.
To the right of the pair, a boy about the Prince's age rode astride a blood bay courser, seeming for all the world to be in a state of perfect contentment. A hand loosely grasped the reigns while the other lay wrapped around the pommel of a sheathed blade. The boy wore no helm, and suspicious eyes flitted about the yard with the haste of a cornered mouse. His gold hair lay shorn close to the skull and remained perfectly still in the growing breeze. As they neared, she was able to better make out his look, and a frown of shock tugged at her lips at his long-broken nose and thin, reddened lips. His ears and chin were nicked with the self-same marks Robb and Theon earned in the yard, and a sudden vision of the three clashing blades swum before her eyes. Unlike the Prince who possessed a large measure of his mother's beauty, that same beauty must have been lost by the time of the boy's birth for he held but a shade of it. All that remained were his eyes, pea-green and clear. If not for his plate, with its crowned stag and rondels enamelled red-and-gold in the lion of Lannister, he could have been mistaken for lesser lord or gentry. In all, the Prince Cerion was exceedingly regular and certainly unworthy of her attention.
To his side, the Princess Myrcella entered perched atop a stopped gelding, her familiar locks and eyes giving the truth of her identity. The two were engaged in light conversation, the boy's attention shifting from interest to interest. Even as he vaulted off the back of his horse to offer a hand to his sister, the lesser Prince's curiosity forced his scrutiny to roam the walls of Winterfell. The two shared a smile as the Princess tugged them away to their Lady Mother and Sansa found herself sharing in the distant mirth. It was a pretty thing, their smiles, and she had always loved pretty things.
Jon I
His eyes stung with smoke and tears as he ran, half-blind, for the door. Loyal Ghost followed closely into the bitter night. The cutting sound of mocking laughter and singing bards gave way to silence as Jon slammed shut the door behind him. Pressing the pads of his palms to the eyes, he leant against the cold stone and sighed, summerwine rising to the lips.
The night was young and quiet, a reprieve from the madness of the crowded hall. His head spun with the evening's festivities, such as they were, and he steadied himself against the wall. As the swell of agony receded and Ghost nuzzled at his knees, Jon resolved to exact vengeance for his anger on the straw dummies in the yard. The lone sentry high on the castle walls was likely asleep and besides, there was hardly a decree barring one from departing early from a feast.
His initially unsteady feet found their balance quickly enough and he limped over to the strawmen on the other side of the yard, the honeyed chicken rebelling in his throat. With Ghost trotting alongside, he neared the yard while rubbing soothing circles in his temples.
Only Ghost's sudden stop alarmed him to the sound of a familiar rhythmic thump of steel against straw. Shock filled his frame. It was a bitterly cold night, and few guardsmen were stubborn enough to train amidst a feast. In truth, no man in the employ of Winterfell would be found dead in the yard while wine flowed freely in his Liege Lord's hall. Too drunk to suppress his curiosity and summon a guard, Jon sunk low and crept around the large rack of weapons obstructing his view of the strawmen. As his head swung around the corner, he saw an unfamiliar man wielding a bastard sword against an opponent dead several times over. Low grunts and huffs of breath frosted in the cold air and the sword still sang, cutting first into a thigh and then again into the neck.
Jon and Ghost came around the corner, the former confident enough in his inebriation to shun the prospect of retreat. Still, the wine was not nearly fortified enough to bid him interrupt the boy he now recognised as the second-born Prince. Almost absently, Jon found himself analysing the boy's motions. They were clean and efficient, evidently the product of much work. In truth, they were perfectly competent and without the wasted motion that Greyjoy and, at times, Robb found themselves applying to their bladework.
But competent as it was, it was perfectly uninspired. The strokes were well timed but simply a matter of routine, not instinct. Every imagined parry and counter-riposte was form perfect, but utterly predictable in a way that left no doubt in Jon's mind as to the result of a contest between himself and the Prince.
Finally, his strokes slowed and he came to a halt, leaning the blade's blunted tip against the hard earth. His breaths came slow and steady, crystallising in the stinging cold. The wind picked up, then, and Jon resolved to leave with Ghost. 'Twas not a bastard's place to meddle with royalty.
"Does your father make mock of his Lady Wife before his bannermen and children?"
Jon froze and only the bitter chill roused him to answer. The Prince had turned to face him planting the blade against the earth, and the dark of the night shaded his aspect from the light. Only his eyes remained visible in the dark, almost luminous in their emerald glow. When Jon did not answer, he continued.
"I thought not, my Lord Robb. I thought not." His voice was youthful but hinted at hidden weights and regrets. The Prince was angry, and no fool would mistake him otherwise. A note of fear crept up Jon's spine and Ghost seemed to tense in response. Any response would require careful treading, but all misconceptions would have to be laid bare. It would not do for Lady Catelyn to learn that he had masqueraded as Lord Stark's heir.
"You mistake me, my Prince," Jon's voice vibrated with an unfamiliar fear, but he had long committed to his role. "I am Jon Snow, Lord Stark's natural-born issue."
He had expected a response, anything. Perhaps a round of oaths loud enough to awake the sentry, or a cutting remark at his Lord Father's expense. An attack with the blade was also not entirely implausible and Jon readied himself to flee. But nothing came, and those eyes of pea-green continued to hold him enthralled in their power.
"I did not see you at the feast, Jon Snow." His voice was sullen and slow, almost drawling in its speed. It was not a question, but Jon took it for one all the same. An honest response begot an honest answer, and besides, the drink had long since suppressed any mote of caution.
"Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them."
The Prince considered that a moment, and he hummed as he answered, "She thought correct. By what right do you approach me here, bastard?"
And there it was. Jon quashed that lingering note of shame that hung in the air everytime that ugly title was invoked and raised his chin. To be born of Lord Stark was no thing to be ashamed of, and nothing the boy could say would be new. The wound of bastardy was long healed.
"My apologies, Prince. I did not intend to-"
The boy spoke roughshod over him, his sullen voice silencing Jon's own, "Your intentions are not my concern, bastard, but your conduct is. Leave me, and be sure that we do not have occasion to meet for the remainder of the King's visit." He jerked the sword from the earth and levelled the blunted tip at Jon's throat. "Else let us settle this like men and have it out."
He stopped himself from smiling contemptuously, but it was a close enough thing. For all the Prince's gilded plate and apparent martial vigour, here was a boy who Jon could have beaten most days in a week, blunted steel or not. And for a not inconsiderable moment, the flame of youth burned him to damn the consequences and beat the boy into the ground.
But long-won caution prevailed, and the image of Lady Catelyn's glee stayed his hand. Bastards did not duel princes, and his Lord Father would expel him from the walls of Winterfell were he to hear of it. And so, as he had done for all his life, Jon Snow strangled his pride, muttered his obsequence and turned on his heel to leave. Behind him, the sound of steel against straw set his bones aflame.