Jon VI
The King's brother's tent was even more luxurious than his own, and Jon felt that the pure royalness and lavishness of the tent did not match the man sitting in front of him. The tent was surprisingly cool, yet Jon was not sure what had brought the slight cold. The late evening outside or the man in front of him. Stannis Baratheon was a large man—tall, broad-shouldered, and sinewy with stormy blue eyes that seemed to judge Jon's every move of a muscle. Stannis frowned as a servant filled both their cups with wine.
''I can pour my own wine; you're dismissed.'' Stannis Baratheon said firmly, and the servant bristly obeyed and was very quickly out of the tent.
It got unbelievably quiet inside the tent, so quiet that Jon was sure he could have heard Ghost's footsteps if he had brought the direwolf with him. The King's brother just stared at him; he seemed to study him, even as he grabbed the cup and took a calculated sip. He felt unnerved by the long, indifferent gaze Stannis gave him. Does he want me to speak first? Am I expected to do so? Jon had no true clue about the ways of court in the capital. Loras had told him that he was a very serious man and even more stubborn. He never told him that the new Lord of Storm's End was so towering.
''I would have half the sense of denying you this.'' Stannis eventually said, Jon was so relived by the broken silence that it took him a few seconds to realise just what he had said.
''My Lord?'' Jon asked carefully.
''Your lord father seems to fancy himself a master in the affairs of Dragonstone and all who owe it fealty,'' he continued, not hiding the bitterness in his tone. ''He offends me by thwarting a peaceful succession and insults me by denying me the honour of taking you on as my squire. Yet, I am bound by duty and will not stand idle and allow Blackwater Rush and my brother's reign to falter under the weight of Lord Eddard's pride.''
The insult to Jon's father had frozen his face into place as his hand clenched into a fist under the table. ''I cannot presume to speak for my lord father, nor can I think of the reasons behind his refusal.''
''No, you cannot. Yet I would hope you shall exhibit greater sense and heed the counsel I am about to impart. I shall not suffer a green boy to sow discord within the realm, you hear?''
''I am all ears.''
Stannis nodded. ''Ser Justin!'' He said loudly, and soon Jon heard footsteps and the tent entrance flapping from behind. The knight that took his place next to Stannis was another large man with pink cheeks, blue eyes, and a mop of thick straight hair, white and pale as the summer snows. The expression he bore was just as serious as Stannis'.
''Given that you are yet a year from reaching your majority, Ser Justin Massey shall assume the role of Regent of Dragonstone, in concert with Maester Cressen and Pylos.''
''Well met, young Jon,'' Ser Justin Massey said. ''I shall depart for Dragonstone at the tourney's end.''
Jon nodded towards the man, taking it all in. ''Two maesters?'' Jon eventually asked, one eyebrow raised.
''Maester Cressen has served me faithfully and provided wise counsel for nearly five and twenty years, yet his advanced age hinders him from fully carrying out his duties. I'd hoped he might be granted a few years of ease and comfort. He has earned that much.''
''I understand,'' Jon said, nodding.
Stannis Baratheon gave a quick nod back, and shifted his gaze to Ser Justin. ''That would be all, Ser Justin.''
Ser Justin rose from his seat gracefully. ''Lord Stannis left a garrison of approximately fifty men to hold the castle during your absence. I would counsel you to begin seeking replacements for those sworn to his service, or, should you prefer, you may entrust the task to me.''
Jon thought about it; he would not really know where to begin. Yet can I trust this knight I do not know to do this task? ''How many men would be required?'' Jon asked, giving him more time to think of a good answer.
To Ser Justin's credit, he seemed to truly consider the question. ''I would think some twenty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men at arms.''
''I shall think on it and return with my decision in due course.''
''Very well, my lord.'' Ser Justin bowed before leaving the tent.
Stannis opened his mouth to say something but waited for Massey to fully leave the tent before speaking. ''Ser Justin is a man of honour; he will do his duty faithfully. You need not worry.'' Stannis said, seeming to read his mind.
Jon sighed. ''Am I so easily read?''
Stannis blinked, though he thought he could detect just a tiny bit of amusement, yet it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared. ''You are still in your youth,'' Baratheon said before taking another sip of his cup. ''Now, to my understanding, you are scheduled to meet with your future bannermen on the morrow?''
''Indeed, though it is merely an introduction during which I shall outline the period between now and the time I attain my majority.'' Jon answered.
Stannis seemed to observe him for a little moment, taking him in once more. ''Is it true that you possess a direwolf?''
''Aye,'' Jon answered carefully; his lord Father had told him about the need to be careful with his direwolf here, and he had spotted the looks men gave Ghost more than once.
Yet, Stannis' next word had surprised him. ''Good,'' He said.
They spent time talking. Speaking about all matters, from tax policy and the very little resources the island had to offer as trade to all the different personalities of his new bannermen and how to handle them individually. Their strengths and weaknesses. Jon felt pretty confident heading to the meeting with the Valyrians tomorrow.
Yet, during the next day, as the numerous southern lords began to leave his own tent, he felt like throwing the table in front of him in pure frustration, but Ghost's low growling put a stop to that thought. He thought that Stannis had prepared him for the first meeting with his new bannermen, so much so that he had refused his father's help during that same day when he had left the former Lord of Dragonstone. Yet his new vassals were nothing but rude and did not even try to hide their feelings of their new liege lord.
The first impression had gone badly, with Lord Guncer Sunglass seeming offended by his personal sigil, a white, red-eyed direwolf's head contourny in Weirwood branches proper, all on a black background. ''A wierwood?'' He had asked, to the amusement of the other lords. Before he began to talk loudly and proudly about the seven-pointed star. Lord Monford Velaryon had brought his bastard brother to the meeting, even though he had specifically said that no one besides themselves is to be here.
He had been prepared for that eventuality, though.''Lord Velaryon is a man of great pride—some would say, overly so. He fancies his house to be as formidable as it was in the days of The Sea Snake. He will assuredly seek to undermine you at every turn. Your most prudent course is to confront this challenge directly. Stand firm and unwavering.'' Stannis had told him. So when Lord Monford introduced his brother as ''The Bastard of Driftmark'', Jon said nothing, letting the silence reign over the tent for a long while. The silence seemed to unnerve Bar Emmon and Massey; he put his 'lord's mask' into place, a face he had practiced with himself just the night before he went to bed, and ordered Waters out of the tent. The two Baratheon guards Stannis let him lend did so without question. Approaching Aurane Waters, their hands on their swordpommels. Aurane and Monford glared at him, and Jon met their gaze, ulyeilding.
Then Jon let out his wildcard, and Ghost's low growling could be heard as he walked on all fours very slowly and meanecly towards the Velaryons. It had done it, as both of the Valyrians went from determined to hesitant in a second after spotting his white, furry companion. Aurane eventually shifted his gaze to Jon himself and murmured something in High Valyrian before leaving the tent. Jon then offered Lord Velaryon a way out by suggesting that the runner must have gotten his orders wrong. He remembered Monford looking around the other lords before agreeing, saying that the runner did get the order wrong, although Jon noted that he did so quite begrudgingly.
The rest of the meeting went just as Jon expected it to go. Lord's Celtigar and Velaryon challenged and somewhat overwhelmed him by asking numerous irrelevant and sometimes trivial questions about Blackwater Rush and ships. Lord Sunglass spoke some more about the Faith and suggested he read ''The Seven-Pointed Star''. Massey seemed the only lord who was at worst indifferent and at best interested in what he had to say.
When the lords left him, and the meeting was over. Jon looked down at Ghost and ran his hand down his back. As the white wolf had grown, he had started to act more on Jon's inner feelings, like he could read them. It was a good thing in a situation like the one he faced with Monford Velaryon, yet he would sometimes need to not act on his temper. Would Ghost attack Velaryon or Celtigar when I feel like striking them in the face? Jon shuddered at the thought.
He was truly considering going to his father and telling him that he does not want the lordship. Jon did not doubt that Lord Eddard would be relivied; Jon was very eager to talk to his father about what he had seen beyond the wall, yet the first thing Lord Eddard wanted to talk about during his arrival was this very lordship. Jon had expected Lord Eddard to order him to refuse the King the lordship. Jon sighed.Yet he had not.Instead, he had offered him a choice, yet not without informing him of the dangers he would face as the Lord of Dragonstone.
''I shall not issue any commands to you." Eddard sighed deeply, rubbing his hand across his beard as if searching for the right words. ''Jon, you are someone. You have always been so, to me and to your siblings. Yet the title of Lord of Dragonstone bears burdens you cannot begin to understand. And it comes with risks.''
Jon's brow furrowed. ''This is a great honour, one far beyond what a bastard could ever aspire to attain.''
Eddard paused, shifting in his seat. ''King Robert's offer transcends mere honour, Jon. There are politics at play, and you would be placing yourself in the middle of a web far more dangerous than one we face in the North.''
Jon's face fell, disappointment turning to something deeper, something sharper. ''You don't believe in me,'' he said quietly, the hurt clear in his voice and painfully showing his young age. ''You think I'll fail.''
''I want you to be safe. I want you to live, Jon. And to live as you are—not as a mere piece in another's scheme. This isn't about denying you greatness; it's about keeping you from harm. There are other paths for you—paths that won't lead you into the fire of court politics, should you wish it.''
Jon shook his head and rose from his seat. ''What if I want the fire? What if I want to prove that I can withstand it, that I can be more than what the world expects of me?'' He cursed that his voice slightly broke.
Eddard rose slowly from his seat, and approached Jon slowly before putting an arm on his shoulder. ''I understand your desire, Jon. Perhaps, in time, a way will present itself for you to claim a seat of your own. I intend to speak with the King to request that he grant us the Gift. The North requires further protection now more than I had realised. You could assume the position of Lord of the Gift. Your appointment has already fostered enmity, Jon. I observe the way some noblemen regard you—they look at you as...'' His Lord Father hesitated, yet he did not need to say the next part. They look at me as the upjumped bastard usurper.
Jon stepped back from his father's touch. ''What are you suggesting?'' Jon asked again, more firmly this time.
''You once asked me what I had planned for you when I refused your request to join the Night's Watch.'' He paused as Jon avoided his gaze, thinking back to that day in Winterfell. Yet Eddard Stark reached for his chin softly, lifting Jon's head to properly meet his eyes. ''I faltered then, by virtue of not giving it any true thought. Yet you are soon an adult, a man grown, and I will now treat you as one. I've told you about the dangers, and I've offered you a choice. You need not answer today, yet I expect your answer before the conclusion of the tourney.''
Jon had not answered him, instead choosing to walk out of the tent and not bother to give him an answer nor talk about the clash at the Fist. Vowing silently to not make King Robert regret his decision, but all it took was one meeting for him to see the Lord of the Gift as much more tempting.
He grabbed the pitcher of water, poured himself a cup, and drank slowly, letting the cool and earthly liquid soothe his parched throat. His eyes wandered over the contents of his tent—his sword, Longclaw, resting beside his bed; his cloak hung neatly on a peg; and Ghost, lying silently right next to the entrance of his tent, his red eyes gleaming. The horseracing would start soon; it was the first major event that was going to take place in 'The Storm King's Tourney.' Yet Jon had no desire to watch horses galloping; he wanted to let out some steam, so he decided to head to the training grounds while the sun was still a bit early. But first, there was something he had to do.
''Stay, Ghost.'' If Ghost understood his command, he did not show it. Yet he felt very confident that the wolf acknowledged it. He grabbed Longclaw and the scabbard that held it from beside the bed before leaving the tent. He had still not gotten fully used to the spectacle outside of his tent, where men roared and steel clashed. Jon turned towards Olaf and asked him to assign a servant to prepare a bath for him as he was going to the training grounds. Olaf offered to come with him, but Jon denied him, preferring to be alone.
The path through the camp was dusty, the ground hardened by the passage of countless feet. He made his way past rows of tents, their sigils a colourful tapestry against the sky. But it was the bear of House Mormont he sought, a familiar emblem of home in this sea of banners. He passed many northerners who gave him nods of respect; he did not truly know what northerners said about him. Although Arya had mentioned 'The Wolf Who Endured' and 'Wildlingsbane', he found quickly that he did not like the names. He had done nothing to earn them. All I did was run, and left my uncle and Mormont behind. The thought of him failing the Lord Commander only strengthened his resolve, and he began to walk a little faster.
The black bear sigil of House Mormont could be spotted everywhere as he approached the tent's entrance. Two guards stood outside, their expressions impassive as they watched him approach. He stopped a few paces from them. ''I require an audience with Lady Maege Mormont.'' Jon said, his voice steady but respectful.
The guards exchanged a brief glance before one of them nodded. Without a word, the guard turned and disappeared inside the tent, leaving Jon standing alone under the perusal of the other. The moments stretched out, the sounds of the camp fading into the background as Jon waited. He glanced down at his left hand holding Longclaw inside its scabbard. When he had marched with some two hundred men beyond the wall, the Valyrian steel blade had been a gift, but someplace along the way it had become a burden instead, a reminder of the death and failure. 'It's King Aegon the Unworthy giving Daemon Waters the sword Blackfyre all over again; he means to groom you for command; I am certain of it.'' Qhorin Halfhand had told him during the march, and by keeping it with him and not joining the Night's Watch, he dishonoured him. He knew that for sure.
The tent flap rustled, drawing Jon's attention back to the present. The guard emerged, giving Jon a brief nod. ''You may enter,'' he said, before stepping aside to allow Jon passage.
Jon took a deep breath and stepped forward, ducking slightly as he entered the tent. The interior was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of leather. His eyes quickly adjusted, and he saw Lady Maege Mormont and her daughter, Lyra, seated near a simple wooden table. Both women looked up as he entered, their expressions warm yet somewhat unreadable.
''Stark,'' Lady Maege greeted him, her voice strong and direct. She was a formidable woman, as solid and unyielding as the North itself. ''What brings you here?''
Lyra, her third-born daughter, regarded him with curious eyes, her hand resting on the pommel of the sword at her hip. The resemblance between mother and daughter was striking—they shared the same fierce determination, the same strength that marked the women of House Mormont.
Jon hesitated for a heartbeat, then rose his left arm and held the weapon out, offering it to Lady Maege. ''I've come to return this,'' Jon said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. ''Longclaw belongs to House Mormont, and it's only right that it should be returned to its rightful owners.''
Lady Maege's eyes narrowed as she looked from the sword to Jon's face. ''Jeor gave you this sword,'' she said, her tone firm. ''He chose it so. It is yours now.''
''Aye,'' Lyra Mormont agreed. Do all Northerners have to be so stubborn?
Jon swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest. He had expected this to be easy, but the Mormont women's refusal made it even harder. ''I understand,'' he began slowly. ''But during our march, Jeor spoke to me. He told me that I could only keep it if I swore their vow, and I do not plan to do so now. If I would not swear their wows, he wished for the blade to be returned to House Mormont and his family.'' It was a lie, one that tasted bitter on his tongue, but Jon couldn't see another way. He had no claim to the sword, no right to keep it when it belonged to a noble house that had already lost a good man. A man I failed.
Maege's eyes bore into his. For a long moment, she was silent, weighing his declaration. Finally, she looked down at the sword, her expression unreadable. ''Very well. If he truly wanted the sword returned, then we will honour his wishes.''
Lyra's expression was conflicted, but after a brief pause, she nodded in agreement. He felt a wave of relief, though it was tempered by the guilt of the lie he had told. He placed Longclaw on the table before them and bowed before turning to leave the tent.
''House Mormont will not forget this,'' Jon halted and turned; Maege's expression was now softened, while Lyra was admiring the blade.
''I only did the right thing; you will need a new pommel.'' Jon replied firmly and nodded before leaving the tent.
The midday sun continued its relentless assault on the camp, but Jon hardly noticed the heat as he walked away from the Mormont tent. The weight of losing Longclaw pressed supringsily heavily on him, a strange mixture of relief and regret twisting in his gut. Valyrian steel was easy to love, even easier to get used to, and even though he had done the right thing, he could help but think what would have happened if he just walked back and took the sword for himself. The thought made him feel shameful.
As he walked, the camp shifted around him. The northmen he had passed earlier gave way to knights and retainers in shining armour of other houses, their bright colours and lively conversations familiar yet so different to the atmosphere of the northern camp. The sigils on the tents changed as well—apples to huntsmen, roses to lions, stallions to eagles—now surrounded him. He made his way through the winding paths of different camps, the hum of distant shouts from knights and steel armour rustling a constant backdrop. As he finally approached, the noise of the tourney faded, replaced by the softer sounds of clashing swords and the occasional grunt of pain. The training grounds stretched out before him, a wide field of trampled earth bordered by rows of blunted weapon racks and dummies. To Jon's surprise, the grounds were sparsely populated, not close to empty but far emptier than he had expected. Jon paused at the edge of the grounds, his grey eyes scanning the scene in search for a sparring partner, preferably Loras.
Jon could not find him, so he walked towards the rows of weapons and chose a blunted bastard sword. He immediately regretted his parting with Longclaw as his right arm felt the weight of a normal steel sword. Seven hells, do I have any chance at the melee now? Jon had considered competing; Robb had always been the better jouster, yet Jon had been the finer swordsman by far. He had Ser Arthur Dayne to thank for that. Uncle Arthur had drilled him hard during his years in Winterfell; he had hated him for it. Yet he could not deny the skill he had acquired because of it; he could never beat 'The Sword of the Morning' though. He would hopefully one day.Please be alive, Arthur and Benjen.
With a focused frown, Jon stepped forward towards a strawman, his movements precise and practiced. He slashed at a dummy, the blade denting the straw with a satisfying crunch. He twirled around, bringing the sword up in a defensive posture, anticipating an imaginary counterattack. One strawdummy turned into two—two eventually turned into three, and Jon could feel the sweat forming at his brow. Jon's breathing grew heavy, but he did not relent. He had learnt that hard lesson of battle. You cannot stop. He wanted to build some endurance, so he did not stop, and when his arm began to ache, he grabbed the hilt with both his arms and continued slashing, spinning, and parried. ''Right!'' He heard Uncle Arthur shout, so he guarded his right side after slashing one of the straw men.
''Move your feet, Jon!''He heard Ser Arthur say, so by instinct, he obeyed.
''Left!''
''Keep your balance.''
''Use your whole body, Jon! Not just your arms!''
''Lord Stark,''
''Anticipate my moves, Jon!''
''Keep your head cool, Jon.''
''Don't just swing—aim for openings!''
''Lord Jon,''
''You're just slashing widely, Jon. A well-placed strike is better than a wild swing!''
''Watch your footing!''
''Jon!'' Jon startled slightly. He turned around and found two familiar figures standing in front of him.
''Jojen, Meera.'' Jon acknowledged, panting. ''I apologise; I was lost in my own thoughts.''
''Clearly.'' Meera said, smirking.
''It is no matter, Jon.'' Jojen added softly.
Jon would smile, but was currently too focused on reliving his lungs from despair. Jojen wore deep green-coloured clothing; even his boots were green. While Meera wore a light-green tunic with a sleeveless jerkin with bronze scales, though her shoes were brown.
''Here, you appear to be in need of it.'' Jojen said, holding out a skin. Jon took it and drank deeply.
''Many thanks; what brings you here? I have not seen either of you since our arrival.'' Jon asked, panting just a little slower now.
''We were merely exploring when we discovered you engaging in such intense practice, as though your very life depended on it.'' Jojen said.
''I was in need of it. I find myself even now considerably less agitated than I was before.''
''That is likely due to fatigue. Will you be attending the horse races today?'' Meera asked.
''I have not decided. Why do you ask? Are you inclined to attend?''
''Very much so, but my brother claims to be 'too tired' to accompany me.'' Meera said somberly.
Jon took another deep drink of the skin. ''Very well. Allow me to conclude my business here, and I shall join you. Arya and Bran will likely wish to attend as well. My lord father would probably be quite content to avoid the event altogether.'' He had not seen Meera for a while; it would be good to catch up once more.
Meera blinked at him, not saying anything. Jon brow furrowed.Did I say anything wrong?A light push from Jojen seemed to snap her out of it. ''Certainly.'' She said stiffly.
Jon nodded before giving the skin back to Jojen. ''Thank you. I shall see you both soon.''
They both nodded back before walking away, and soon they were out of sight. Jon returned to his three enemies and frowned once more in focus. Time passed as Jon gave the strawmen no mercy, and soon enough he was sweating and panting once again. He was not going to improve his skill on unmoving targets, yet it did not matter. He felt calmer now, and he had tested his endurance for far longer than he usually did. He decided to call it a day and lay the blunted weapon back in the rows of weapons before trotting back towards his tent. He seemed to know the way in the back of his head now.
''The bath has been prepared inside your tent, m'lord.'' Olaf said when Jon got close enough within his proximity.
''Thank you, Olaf.'' Jon answered before entering his tent.
Jon stripped and cleaned himself, scrubbing the dead skin and dirt from his lean body. The water was warm and comfortable, so when he was done scrubbing, he decided to stay in the tub a little while longer, closing his eyes. The images had come unbidden; paintings of blood and gore flashed in his head, undead creatures with hands black and frostbitten. The wildlings he had slashed open with Longclaw during the ambush, their screams and gurgling. Jon rose from the tub, feeling poorly. He rushed bare towards the makeshift chamber pot inside his tent and let out the contents of his stomach. The sound was harsh, echoing in the quiet of the tent, and when it was over, he was left panting, his head spinning from the effort. He stood there for a moment, bent over the chamber pot, his hands trembling as he tried to steady himself. The images still lingered, refusing to leave him in peace—the ghosts of the men—the lives he had taken. With shaky breath, Jon rose, wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand. He walked towards the bathtub, and his backhand with the used water. Before trotting towards the bed and sank down onto the edge of the bed, both his hands on his head while hanging low.I need to tell him.Jon had the chance to do so, yet he had not, because of his own ambition of becoming a lord.I will tell him, the next good chance I get. He needs to know.Perhaps the Night's Watch already knew; after all, if Jon managed to get south, why shouldn't they?
A soft rustle caught his attention, and Jon looked up to see Ghost padding quietly towards him. The direwolf's red eyes seemed even more red, but there was a gentleness in them as he approached, sensing his master's distress. Ghost moved closer, pressing his great white head against Jon's knee. He reached down, finding comfort in the thick fur of Ghost's neck. The wolf didn't move, standing steadfast by Jon's side.
Jon let out a long breath. ''Thank you.'' he whispered as he dove his head into his direwolf's fur.
He got himself dressed; he decided to wear all black. He felt most comfortable in that colour. He was supposed to go with Ghost to the nearby woods instead of watching the horse race, but seeing as the gods had forged him onto another path, he decided to just walk Ghost there and let him hunt on his own. If Ghost had any objections to his thoughts, he did not show it.
''Come on, Ghost.'' Jon said as he walked outside, the command seemed to bring his direwolf some joy, as he was lighty panting with his tongue out. But just for a second before resorting to his usual quiet self.
He once more made his way through the maze of tents, yet this path was both short and familiar as he headed towards the area where his father and siblings were staying. The direwolf banners fluttered gently in the breeze. Ghost padded along at his side, a silent guardian as always. Jon reached his destination—a larger tent marked with the Stark heraldry, the flap open to allow the breeze to pass through. Alyn and Harwin stood besides the opening diligently, and nodded before stepping aside. He hesitated for a moment, then steeled himself and stepped inside, Ghost close behind him.
Ned Stark sat at a simple wooden table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he looked over a piece of parchment. A map of the North, focused on the lands surrounding the Wall, lay on the table. Bran and Arya were nearby, engaged in a quiet conversation. Father had no doubt told them to be more quiet numerous times, judging from the looks the bore. The moment Jon entered, they all looked up, and the mood in the tent shifted.
''Jon!'' Arya called, her face lighting up with a grin. Bran's eyes widened, before grinning as well.
Lord Eddard set the parchment aside, his stern expression softening ever so slightly as he met Jon's gaze. There was a trace of weariness in his eyes, though he hid it well.
''Father,'' Jon began, ''I was thinking... I could take Bran and Arya to watch the horse racing. If they wish to go, that is.''
Bran's face lit up. ''Truly?'' he asked, glancing at his father and then back to Jon.
Arya's enthusiasm was even more apparent. ''I want to go! I wish to see the fastest steeds! Please, Father... Please.'' she said, already on her feet. Bran joined her, and Jon had to suppress a chuckle.
Ned's gaze shifted between his children and Jon, and for a moment, there was a flicker of relief in his expression. ''That would be good,''
Jon nodded and shifted his gaze towards his siblings. ''Go on then; I have some things to take care of, and we don't want to arrive late.'' Bran and Arya quickly rushed outside, and Jon simply turned to walk out himself.
''Jon,'' He heard his father call, so he halted and looked towards him.
''Father?'' Jon said.
''Take Harwin with you, and thank you.'' Eddard said, his tone more personal. Jon nodded once more, the tension between them easing just a fraction, before he stepped out into the sunlight. Jon considered telling him right there and then, but decided against it.
Arya and Bran were bickering, on top of Ghost. Though his direwolf did not show it, Jon could feel Ghost's unease by the new weight he had to carry.
''I want to ride alone; you did so; why can't I?'' Bran said defiantly.
''Because you chose not to come with us, stupid.'' Arya said just as defiant. All the while, he felt Ghost's suffering.
''Arya, you had your turn atop Ghost when we went out to spar. Allow Bran to have his time now.''
Bran grinned in victory, while Arya sulked in defeat. ''Fine.'' she grumbled, before leaping off. Harwin snorted at her antics, then they began walking.
Jon had been to the outline of the camp near the woods before; as such, finding the way was easy. They walked briskly, Ghost and Bran to his left and Arya to his left. Harwin remained a quiet guardian from behind. Bran gripped the thick white fur with his small hands, his eyes wide with excitement. Arya, was practically bouncing with eagerness.
''Come on, Jon! We'll miss the racing!''
''We must make haste, then. We need to leave Ghost in the woods for his hunt. He'll fare better hunting than stirring up trouble and making southerners shit themselves.''
Arya and Bran giggled. They veered off towards the edge of the camp, where the trees of the nearby woods rose up. As they approached, Jon carried Bran of Ghost and began petting him on his side, murmuring a few words of encouragement. The direwolf made no sound, his red eyes gleaming, before darting off into the underbrush, disappearing into the depths of the forest.
''Can we go now?'' Arya asked impatiently.
Jon smiled. ''Almost, but we must first collect a lady.'' Arya blinked at him.
They continued their walk from the woods into the camp once again; Jon led the way, his grey eyes scanning the pavilions until he spotted the small grey-and-green banner of House Reed. Meera was already waiting, no spear in hand but a bright smile on her face.
''Arya, Bran, may I present Lady Meera of House Reed.'' Jon said, before shifting her gaze towards Meera. ''Meera, these are my sister and brother, Arya and Bran.''
''Lady Arya and Lord Bran. It's a pleasure to meet you.'' Meera said, curtsying.
''I'm not a lady.'' Arya said grimly, frowning.
''Arya...'' Jon said low, and Arya had the grace to look regretful.
''A pleasure, Lady Meera.'' Arya eventually said, bowing. Bran had said nothing during the exchange, yet he noticed his blue eyes widening the entire time, looking at Meera Reed.
They began walking, and as they closed in on the ringed arena, Jon could hear the roars from the assembled crowd.
''Ready for the races?'' Meera asked, falling into step beside Arya.
''Very,'' Arya replied, grinning. ''Ser Rodrik used to say that I am half a horse.''
Jon chuckled, while Meera smirked. ''Do you have a direwolf as well?''
''We all do,'' This time it was Bran who answered. ''Mines called Summer.'' Bran said, his tone full of pride.
''Mines called Nymeria, for the warrior queen. One day, I will lead an army just like her.''
Meera smiled. ''An ambitous dream; I'm more of a hunter. My lord father taught me to fight with a net and spear.''
Arya's eyes widened. ''Truly?''
Meera nodded. ''The Crannogmen have done so for generations.''
Meera continued to talk about Greywater Watch, all the while she had captured both Arya's and Bran's full attention. The path took them through the heart of the tourney camp, where activity grew louder with each step. The thrill of competition was in the air, and Jon could not stop the feel of it seeping inside him. He smiled. Finally, they reached the edge of the ringed racetrack. Multiple guards dressed in the colours of House Baratheon stood in the way towards the entrance proper, but the guards merely gave them a glance before letting them through. Inside, the grandstands were already filled with many spectators. They had come a little late, but Meera found a good spot, and they had to squeeze through some men in order to find the seats she had been pointing towards. Sounds of multiple conversations bellowed through the stands as they settled in. Then a trumpet blared, and the arena got quiet, not a single soul moving. Jon could feel the anticipation about to explode. He leaned forward, looking to see which horse and rider would get the best start.
Then the trumpet blared again, and the horses surged forward, and for a moment, the world was reduced to the thundering of hooves. Yet a moment later, all Jon could hear was himself, Arya, Bran, and Meera joining in with the wild, exhilarating roar of the crowd. The Storm King's Tourney had truly begun.