The Northerners held guest right in the highest regard. To them, it was more than just a courtesy—it was a sacred bond, an unspoken vow that bound host and guest in mutual respect. The Tyrells, as their guests, were not only welcomed to partake in the Northern Harvest Festival, but they were also invited to immerse themselves fully in all aspects of Northern life. This meant that even the younger generations of the Reach, like Garlan and Loras Tyrell, were expected to join in the festivities and, more importantly, the sparring in Winterfell's training yard.

Garlan Tyrell, known as one of the finest swordsmen in the Reach, took the invitation seriously. Loras, though more famous for his beauty and jousting skills, also accepted the challenge. They had come to the North expecting to show off their skill, certain that their prowess would impress the rough Northerners. After all, in the Reach, Garlan had sparred against three men at a time and emerged victorious. Loras, the famed Knight of Flowers, had never faced serious defeat in tourneys.

But the North was different.

The sparring yard was filled with battle-hardened men and women, many of whom had grown up fighting wildlings, bandits, and the unforgiving elements. They were not tournament knights. They were warriors who fought for survival, and that difference quickly became apparent to the Reachmen. Garlan and Loras, despite their talents, struggled against the Northern fighters, many of whom were commoners. Garlan, who had once been unbeatable in the Reach, found himself humbled when a group of Northern peasants fought him to a standstill. Loras, too, realized the gap between tournament glory and real battle. He had never faced opponents who fought with such raw ferocity and cunning.

But the most humbling moment came when Samwell Tarly, once considered weak and useless in the eyes of everyone, stepped into the sparring yard. Sam had spent years in the North, training with the Mountain clans and learning from the harsh landscape. Sam entered the yard, he proved to be a surprisingly competent fighter. He didn't possess the grace or speed of Garlan or Loras, but he fought with great fury and strength, his bulk making him hard to push back. To the shock of many, Sam defeated several Northerners before only losing to Robb Stark, who was a skilled warrior in his own right.

Mace Tyrell, watching from the sidelines, grew visibly angry. To see his sons, the pride of the Reach, struggling against Northerners—commoners, no less—was a blow to his pride. He muttered bitterly, but Olenna Tyrell kept him in check, reminding him that it was an honor to be accepted into the North's traditions. Still, Mace couldn't hide his frustration, especially as Samwell outperformed many of the Reach's best.

But the most awe-inspiring display came when Jon Snow, known now as Jon Frost, stepped into the yard. He was accompanied by Ghost, his massive black direwolf, and Shadow, the smaller white direwolf. The crowd quieted as Jon entered, for they had heard the stories of his skill in battle. His reputation preceded him, and the Northerners watched with anticipation, knowing what was to come.

Jon didn't fight one man or even two. He fought eight.

The scene was a whirlwind of blades and raw power. Jon moved with a fluid grace that belied his size, his two swords—Frostfang, a Valyrian steel blade, and Dawn, the legendary sword of House Dayne—dancing in his hands. The onlookers, especially those from the Reach, watched in awe as Jon dispatched his opponents with deadly precision. His dual-wielding technique was flawless, a blend of strength and speed that left no openings for his opponents.

By the end of the sparring match, Jon stood victorious, his breath steady, his clothes barely ruffled. The eight men he had fought lay on the ground, exhausted and defeated. The lords of the Reach exchanged uneasy glances. Many of them had heard tales of Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and as they watched Jon fight, they couldn't help but wonder if some part of Dayne's blood flowed through him. How else could one man wield two swords so expertly?

Mace Tyrell, who had been seething moments before, was now quiet. Even he had to acknowledge Jon's skill. Olenna Tyrell, ever shrewd, watched with narrowed eyes, calculating how this Northern bastard—now a legend in his own right—might fit into her future plans. The Reachmen, especially the younger ones like Garlan and Loras, could only watch in stunned silence, their pride bruised but their admiration for Jon undeniable.

As the sparring ended and the crowd dispersed, Jon Frost stood tall, the twin swords in his hands gleaming in the afternoon light. The Northerners cheered, while the men from the Reach, now fully aware of the North's strength, could only bow their heads in respect. Jon had not just proven his strength—he had shown them the true spirit of the North, a land where honor, grit, and skill mattered far more than titles or lineage.

The Northern Harvest Festival spanned five long, eventful days, each one filled with feasts, revelry, and traditions that kept both Northerners and their southern guests thoroughly entertained. While the lords of the Reach and other wealthy southern houses had initially found the customs of the North to be a bit too rough for their refined tastes, the warmth of Northern hospitality and the festival's vibrancy slowly won them over.

Food, which was more abundant than anyone could have expected, was a major draw. The lords from the Reach, especially those unaccustomed to the harsher life in the North, marveled at the variety of meats—venison, boar, and even bear—that had been hunted and prepared with an impressive array of Northern spices. There were hearty stews and pies, roasted fowl, and ale that flowed freely, all of which kept their bellies full and their spirits high. Despite the colder climate and the harsher conditions, the Northerners knew how to feast like kings, and the southerners found themselves eagerly partaking.

Every night after the grand feasts during the Harvest Festival, the atmosphere in Wintertown took on a new life. The fires burned brighter in the camps that dotted the outskirts of the town, where nobles and commoners alike gathered to share tales of battle, adventure, and accomplishments. The air was filled with laughter, the sound of tankards clashing together, and the distant echoes of bards playing their instruments. It was a time when the boundaries between highborn and lowborn blurred, at least for a few days.

The camps that had formed around Wintertown were as varied as the people who occupied them. Some were filled with Northern clansmen, fierce and proud, telling tales of ancient battles with giants and wolves. Others were occupied by southerners, less familiar with the wildness of the North, sharing stories of chivalry, tournaments, and courtly intrigue. Merchants, soldiers, and common folk alike roamed freely between the camps, swapping stories and experiences as they went.

The noble lords and guests of House Stark, particularly the wealthy and powerful lords from the Reach, were hosted within Winterfell's walls. There, Mace Tyrell, his sons, and other rich lords spent their evenings in more refined company, dining with the Starks and discussing matters of trade and politics. Yet even among these lords, the stories of war and valor had their place. Though their lives were often shielded from the harsher realities of battle, they couldn't escape the lure of war stories, and many of them listened intently when veterans shared their experiences. The most talked-about figure at these gatherings, however, was not a southern lord or even a Stark, but Jon Frost.

Jon's reputation as a war hero had spread far and wide, and his stories quickly became the highlight of the festival. Commoners and lords alike gravitated to him, eager to hear the details of his legendary campaigns beyond the Wall. Jon had led a successful conquest of the wildlings, claiming vast territories that had once been ruled by savage tribes. His creation of Coldfrontier, the network of fortresses he had built beyond the Wall, stood as a testament to his military genius and determination to protect the North from future threats.

When Jon recounted his battles against the wildlings, the listeners hung on his every word. He told of his encounters with the infamous Ice Viper Clans, cannibalistic savages known for their cruelty and cunning. His battles with them had been brutal, fought in the freezing cold of the Far North, where even the most seasoned warriors struggled to survive. Yet Jon had led his men to victory, breaking the Ice Viper Clans and driving them deep into the frozen wastes.

Jon's tales of the Lord of Bones, a wildling warlord who commanded legions of marauders, were equally enthralling. The Lord of Bones had been a fearsome adversary, known for his brutal raids and his strange, bone-covered armor that struck terror into the hearts of those who faced him. Yet even he had fallen to Jon's might, his forces shattered and scattered across the North. These victories solidified Jon's reputation as a hero, not only to the nobles but to the common folk who looked to him as a protector of the realm.

The people marveled at Jon's ability to not only fight but to lead. His campaigns beyond the Wall had brought peace to the North, securing its borders against the wildlings who had once been a constant threat. The fortresses he had built—Coldfrontier and others—became symbols of Northern strength and resilience. In a land where the dangers of winter and wildlings were ever-present, Jon Frost was seen as a living embodiment of Northern endurance.

As Jon told his stories, the firelight flickering against his face, those gathered around could almost picture the harsh, frozen wilderness of the Far North. They could see the ice-encrusted armor, hear the howling winds of the wilderness, and feel the tension of battle. Jon's ability to bring his experiences to life made him an instant favorite among the people, and his name was spoken with reverence throughout the camps.

Even among the highborn, Jon's stories found eager listeners. Though they may not have experienced the brutal, frontline battles that Jon described, the lords of the Reach and other southern houses couldn't help but be drawn to the raw, unfiltered reality of his campaigns. They had spent their lives fighting in tournaments or leading armies from behind the safety of their banners, but Jon's stories brought them face-to-face with the brutal nature of true war.

As the festival continued, Jon's legend only grew. The tales of his battles against the cannibalistic wildlings, his leadership in building Coldfrontier, and his unyielding spirit resonated with the Northerners, who valued strength and resilience above all else. Even the guests from the Reach, who had initially felt out of place, began to appreciate the sheer determination and grit that defined the North.

As the festival continued and more war stories were exchanged, Mace Tyrell found himself increasingly overshadowed by the countless tales of Northern valor and grit. The warriors of the North, from the commoners to the great lords, shared stories of harrowing battles, unyielding endurance, and campaigns fought in the brutal wilderness. It became clear that the Northerners valued deeds, not titles, and this left Mace feeling inadequate.

Determined to reclaim some dignity, Mace Tyrell decided to tell his "famous" war story, the one he had recited countless times in the courts of the Reach: his "victory" over Robert Baratheon at the Battle of Ashford during Robert's Rebellion. He recounted the tale with grandiose flair, painting himself as the hero who led the Tyrell forces to a decisive victory over Robert's forces. He claimed that his strategy, courage, and leadership had turned the tide against the mighty Baratheon.

In the Reach, Mace's version of the story was well-known, and few dared to contradict him, despite the fact that everyone knew it was Lord Randyll Tarly who had truly won the battle. Tarly's forces had struck the decisive blow, arriving before Mace's men even reached the field. However, Mace had told the story so many times, with such confidence, that it had become part of his identity as Lord of Highgarden. The southern lords, who owed their allegiances to House Tyrell, had never dared to challenge his narrative.

But the North was not the Reach.

As Mace Tyrell spun his tale of triumph, the Northerners around him grew increasingly unimpressed. They had heard far greater stories of true hardship and war from Jon Frost and other seasoned Northern veterans. Among them was Jon Frost himself, who had fought battles beyond the Wall that were far more harrowing than Mace's embellished account.

Finally, Jon could take no more. His cold blue eyes narrowed as he listened to Mace's inflated ego distort the truth. When the lord finished his tale, Jon stood, his presence commanding attention.

"I've heard many stories of the Battle of Ashford," Jon began, his voice low and measured. "But funny, Lord Tyrell, none of those versions match what you just told us."

The Northerners looked at Jon, sensing something was about to erupt. Mace Tyrell, on the other hand, puffed up with indignation.

"And what, pray tell, do you know of Ashford, bastard?" Mace sneered. "Your blood may run through Winterfell, but it's thin. You're a baseborn son, no better than the dirt beneath our feet. And you speak as if you know the valor of that battle!"

Jon's face remained calm, though the fury in his eyes burned brighter. "I know that Randyll Tarly won that battle. The Reach won because of his strength, his leadership. Not because you arrived late to the field."

There was a deadly silence. The Northerners exchanged glances, some stifling smirks, while the Tyrell party grew tense. Everyone knew the truth, but no one had ever dared say it out loud in Mace's presence. Jon Frost had just shattered the illusion that Mace Tyrell had built around himself, and everyone felt the weight of the insult.

Mace's face turned red with fury, his voice shaking with indignation. "How dare you! A mere bastard presumes to speak to me in such a manner?" He glared at Jon, his pride deeply wounded. "You only hold your title because your father befriended the Usurper! Without Lord Stark's bloodline to prop you up, you'd be nothing—nothing but a footnote in history, born from the shame of some nameless whore!"

Olenna Tyrell, Mace's sharp-witted mother, tried to intervene, placing a hand on her son's arm. "Mace, that's quite enough," she warned, her eyes scanning the tense crowd. She knew that insulting a man's mother, especially in the North, was dangerous territory. But Mace was too far gone in his rage.

"Yes, your mother was nothing more than a common tramp Lord Stark dallied with during his wars," Mace spat, glaring at Jon. "That's the only reason you stand here today, with your bastard name and false honor. Don't pretend you're anything more than a mistake—"

That was as far as he got.

Jon Frost's fists clenched, his fury reaching a boiling point. His calm demeanor shattered as he surged forward, eyes blazing with the wrath of a Northerner insulted to his core. The room tensed, the lords and ladies going silent, as they watched Jon stride toward Mace Tyrell with murder in his eyes. The insult against his mother—a woman who could no longer defend herself—was a blow too far.

For a brief moment, it seemed as though Jon might strike the Warden of the Reach where he stood. The North was a land of harsh justice, where a man's honor was defended by steel. And Jon Frost, with his dual Valyrian swords Frostfang and Dawn hanging at his side, was the embodiment of that Northern code.

Before anyone could react, Jon stopped just a hair's breadth away from Mace. His voice, though low, was filled with an icy venom that made even the bravest men shiver. "Say another word about my mother," Jon growled, his voice barely above a whisper, "and I'll forget that you are a guest here."

Mace Tyrell, suddenly realizing the danger he was in, took an involuntary step back. He was not a man of war, not like Jon, not like Randyll Tarly. He knew that he had gone too far, and the cold, murderous look in Jon's eyes made him keenly aware that in the North, guest rights or not, he could lose his life for such an insult.

Olenna Tyrell stepped forward swiftly, cutting in with a sharp, "That's enough from both of you." Her eyes flicked to Jon. "My son sometimes forgets his manners. Let us not turn this celebration into a scene of bloodshed, shall we?"

Jon's gaze remained locked on Mace for a long, tense moment, before he finally stepped back, his muscles taut with restrained fury. "You're lucky your mother has sense," Jon said coldly. "But remember this, Tyrell—honor is earned, not inherited. And here, in the North, we respect deeds, not titles."

Author's Note:

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