Arthur: any advice is welcomed gladly.
Robb Stark
Robb gazed lovingly into a pair of soft blue-grey eyes. Alys Karstark, or rather Alys Stark, smiled shyly up at him, a rosy blush spreading across her pale cheeks. Her delicate beauty held him in a trance as he leaned forward, closing the space between them. Their lips met, chapped and warm, sealing the union as whistles and cheers erupted from those gathered.
The wedding had been held in the Godswood, with the ancient heart tree as witness. It was only fitting, Ned had said, for a Stark to wed beneath the weirwood, as tradition demanded. Snow fell gently through the branches, settling on the long tables arranged for the feast. Lords, ladies, and common folk alike gathered to celebrate the joyous occasion.
Robb held Alys by the waist, his hand steady and protective as they waved to the crowd. Joyful faces looked back at them, their cheers filling the air. Yet as the snowflakes danced around him, Robb's heart felt the ache of an absence. His eyes scanned the throng of familiar faces, searching. A certain brooding, wild-haired figure was nowhere to be seen. A pang of sadness struck him, but he swallowed it. If only he were here, Robb thought. Jon would want me to be happy, not mourn his absence.
From the high table, Greatjon Umber rose, his towering form unsteady but his voice booming over the festivities. "This is all well and good, my lords and ladies," he declared, raising his goblet, "but it's time to bed them!"
Laughter and shouts of approval rang out, the gathered men and women quick to cheer the traditional cry. A procession began to form, eager to usher the newlyweds to their chambers.
Before the crowd could surge forward, Eddard Stark rose to his feet. The Warden of the North let the moment stretch, his quiet authority settling the hall. All eyes turned to him, waiting respectfully.
"Do not be so hasty, Lord Umber," Ned said, a twinkle of humor in his usually solemn eyes. Greatjon lowered his gaze, flustered but grinning. Then Ned's mouth quirked into a rare, boyish smile. "I am your liege lord, after all. The honor is mine." He raised his voice, his tone uncharacteristically light. "Let us bed them!"
The hall erupted in laughter and cheers, the tension broken by Ned's surprising humor. Men and women surged forward, eager to lift the couple and escort them to their chambers.
Robb was hoisted into the air by a cluster of blushing women, their laughter ringing in his ears. Alys was similarly carried by a group of grinning men, her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and joy. As the two were paraded through the hall, Robb allowed himself a small smile. Jon would have laughed at this, he thought. He'd tease me endlessly, but he'd want me to enjoy this day.
The procession passed Ned and Catelyn, who stood side by side, watching with pride. Snow fell softly, covering the footprints left in their wake as the newlyweds were carried into the warmth of Winterfell's walls, leaving the celebrations to continue long into the night.
Aegon Targaryen
The prince of the Seven Kingdoms stood firm, sword in hand, facing Ser Arthur Dayne—the greatest knight the realm had seen in decades. Their blades clashed with a ringing fury, the duel drawing gasps and cheers from onlookers. Aegon's sisters leaned over the balcony, calling out encouragement as the prince's silver-blond hair whipped around his chiseled face.
Aegon lunged forward, his confidence swelling, but Ser Arthur feinted with deceptive ease. In the blink of an eye, the prince was on the ground, gasping for air. The cheers from the women of House Targaryen softened into groans of mild disappointment.
Ser Arthur approached with an outstretched hand, his expression kind. "Well fought, my prince," he said. Aegon clasped the hand, standing with a wince.
"I thought I had you this time," Aegon muttered, his tone edged with frustration.
Arthur chuckled warmly, clapping the young man on the shoulder. "When I'm old and gray, perhaps you'll stand a chance."
Aegon scowled, his pride wounded. Though he admired Arthur, it stung to know the streak of defeats would continue against the Sword of the Morning. Even the best lose, he reminded himself, but the thought offered little comfort.
From the balcony, Daenerys leaned over the rail, her lilac eyes sparkling with encouragement. "It's okay, Egg!" she called out brightly. "You'll beat him someday!"
Beside her, Rhaenys scoffed, her tone dripping with disbelief. "Not in a million years."
Aegon threw a half-hearted glare her way. "Thanks for the support, dear sister," he said dryly, taking a flask of water offered by a servant. He drank deeply, the sunlight catching on his silver-blond hair. At nine-and-ten, Aegon had grown tall and graceful, inheriting the elegance of his father, Rhaegar. His jawline was well-formed, and his skin bore a subtle tone from his mother, Elia Martell. Most striking of all were his indigo eyes, a hallmark of Valyrian nobility.
By contrast, Rhaenys took after the Dornish heritage of old. Her dark curls framed a face of a rich brown complexion, and her dark eyes mirrored her mother's warmth and strength.
A short man entered the training grounds and bowed low before Aegon. "Your Grace, the king has summoned you to the council chamber."
Aegon nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Thank you." He cast a glance at his family, their easy camaraderie momentarily replaced by knowing silence. They understood what the summons meant—it was routine by now.
The prince strode toward the council chamber, Arthur Dayne falling into step beside him.
The meeting was well underway when Aegon entered, taking his usual seat at the long table. King Rhaegar sat at its head, his serene yet commanding presence setting the tone. To his right was Jon Connington, the Hand of the King, who nodded curtly at Aegon. Varys, the spymaster, was seated in the middle, his ever-watchful eyes darting across the room. Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, leaned back lazily in his chair, while Grand Maester Pycelle appeared to be nodding off. Paxter Redwyne, Master of Ships, rounded out the council.
Varys spoke first, his soft voice drawing every ear. "The war across the Narrow Sea has ended. The city of Lys has reached a settlement with Tyrosh. They have agreed to an alliance and to share control of the disputed lands."
King Rhaegar inclined his head. "Good. What of Harrenhal?" he asked, turning to Jon Connington.
"The repairs have begun," Jon reported. "Thousands have volunteered to help restore the castle to its former glory."
Rhaegar nodded approvingly. "Excellent."
Aegon observed the meeting with a mixture of interest and detachment. For the past two years, his father had made it a priority to teach him the intricacies of ruling. He attended every council meeting, absorbing the art of governance like a sponge. Today, however, his focus waned. His gaze lingered on Rhaegar, whose expression, though calm, bore the faint shadow of melancholy.
The Red Keep whispered of Rhaegar's pensive nature, but his family knew the truth. It was grief—grief for the wolf he had loved and the stillborn child she had borne. Aegon's chest tightened at the thought of the sibling he could have had - a sibling he would have hated.
As the conversation carried on, Petyr Baelish prodded the dozing Pycelle with a smirk. The old man jolted awake, the cracking of a joint echoing through the chamber.
Rhaegar's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Perhaps it is time for you to retire, Grand Maester," he said, his tone mild but resolute.
Pycelle opened his mouth to protest but faltered under the king's steady gaze. Bowing his head, he murmured, "As you command, Your Grace." With a shuffle, he left the room.
Aegon returned his attention to the council, resolving to learn all he could. One day, the responsibility of the realm would rest on his shoulders. For now, he would watch, listen, and prepare.
Jon Snow
"Where did you hear this?" Jon asked, his tone sharp but calm.
The young man leaned back, grinning drunkenly. Rich wine stained his teeth as he slurred, "My father, of course! Wasn't supposed to tell, but... oops?" He burst into obnoxious laughter before tilting his goblet too far, spilling wine down his face. It was the same wine Jon had carefully offered him.
This young fool, James Strickland, was none other than the son of Harry Strickland, the leader of the Golden Company. It hadn't taken much—just a few rounds of well-placed drinks—to loosen James's tongue. Harry, trusting his buffoon of a son, had made a grave error in sharing secrets. An error Jon fully intended to exploit.
Jon's violet eyes gleamed with anticipation. "So... where is this Blackfyre?"
Jon woke to the warm, familiar weight of Ghost. The direwolf snored softly, his white fur rising and falling against Jon's side. Despite the comforting presence, Jon's hand drifted instinctively to his chest. His fingers brushed the brutal scar that stretched from his nipple to his waist—a cruel reminder of a betrayal that had almost cost him his life.
He pulled off his vest, exposing the map of scars across his muscular frame. The axe wound stood out most vividly, its darkened edges a testament to the near-fatal blow he'd suffered. It haunted him still, but in its own way, it also strengthened him. His failures had taught him to be smarter, stronger, and to trust no one.
The memory was vivid. He'd been preparing to leave the Golden Company when he overheard James boasting to a low-ranking officer about Blackfyre's hidden location. The temptation of such a legendary Valyrian sword had been too great. Jon had played the role of a comrade, plying James with wine and charm until the fool spilled every detail. But when Jon and his handpicked allies made their move, they were betrayed—someone had sold them out. The Golden Company struck at the hour of the wolf, slaughtering his men. Jon escaped, but not unscathed, and a bounty of 100,000 dragons now shadowed him wherever he went.
He traced the scar on his chest, then the smaller one by his eye—a memento from a fight with Khal Drogo. Not again .He would never let betrayal catch him off guard again.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts.
"Come in," Jon said, not bothering to cover himself. Ghost lifted his head, alert but silent, his crimson eyes fixed on the door.
A young man, no older than Jon, stepped in and froze, his gaze drawn to Jon's scarred chest.
Jon waited, unbothered by the stare. He no longer cared about the judgments of others—those days were long behind him.
The man finally collected himself, stammering, "Lord Tyrion wishes to speak with you... in his chambers."
Jon nodded, and the man retreated, closing the door behind him.
Jon walked the ship's narrow corridors, Ghost prowling at his side. Hardened mercenaries stepped aside, their eyes darting to the direwolf as they clutched their weapons. These men had faced death countless times, yet even they quailed at the sight of the beast.
Jon entered Tyrion's cabin without knocking. The dwarf merely raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Jon Snow," Tyrion greeted, gesturing to a chair. "Do sit."
Jon took the seat, his eyes scanning the room. Tyrion's desk was cluttered with old tomes and various flagons of wine. Ghost curled up in the corner, his red eyes weary from the ship's constant motion.
Jon smirked faintly. He's as sick of this as I am.
"Wine?" Tyrion offered, breaking Jon's thoughts.
Jon hesitated, then accepted the goblet. The golden liquid slid down his throat, smooth and unlike anything he'd tasted before. He glanced at Tyrion, intrigued. "What is this? It's not from Westeros."
"It's not," Tyrion confirmed, refilling his own goblet. "A dear friend sent it from across the Jade Sea. Vintage, rare, and worth every coin."
Jon grunted in approval but quickly shifted back to business. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes," Tyrion replied, a cryptic smile on his lips. "I thought it wise to get to know my... traveling companion. After all, we'll be spending quite some time together."
Jon's brow furrowed. "And what made you think I'd agree to this suicidal venture?"
Tyrion shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps I saw something in you. Or perhaps you're just mad enough to be useful."
Jon scowled, but his voice softened. "I gave my word to help you find your uncle. That's all."
Tyrion studied him for a moment, his mismatched eyes glinting with curiosity. "You're an enigma, Snow. A former commander of the Golden Company, feared across Essos, yet still... just a boy of sixteen. Westeros whispers of you as much as Essos does. Some call you a prodigy. Others, a madman."
He sipped his wine, smirking at Jon's silence. "The truth, I suspect, lies somewhere in between."
The stench of Volantis was overpowering. The streets were packed with slaves, their bodies marked by tattoos and brands. Elephants lumbered through the chaos, prodded with cruel whips as they hauled the lazy elite in ornate carriages. Jon's jaw clenched at the sight. They belong on the battlefield, not as beasts of burden.
He leaned down to whisper to Tyrion, his voice taut with anger. "I don't want to be here."
Tyrion didn't respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the massive bridge ahead, its arches adorned with the decaying heads of criminals. A stark warning to anyone who defied the Triarchs.
"Hmm," was all the dwarf finally said.
Jon growled under his breath. "Doesn't this—" he gestured to the suffering slaves—"bother you?"
Tyrion glanced up, unfazed by Jon's fury. "The crew needed to stretch their legs—and their appetites. Once they've had their fill, we'll move on."
Jon gritted his teeth but said nothing more. The foul air and the city's oppressive heat only stoked his irritation.
In the dim light of the brothel, Jon sat stiffly, a mug of ale in his hand. Tyrion, meanwhile, was engrossed in the attentions of a blonde, his laughter echoing above the noise of the room. Jon snorted in amusement but kept his gaze alert. He wasn't here for pleasure.
His sharp eyes caught movement—a group of four men watching him from the shadows. Their hands hovered near their weapons, feigning casualness, but Jon saw through the act.
The tallest of them approached, his voice loud enough to draw attention. "Well, well, if it isn't Jon Snow!"
Jon didn't bother looking at him. "That's me," he replied flatly.
Tyrion spoke up, his tone deceptively light. "Gentlemen, is there a problem?"
"Yes... we do," Jon murmured, his hand already moving to his sword. In one swift motion, he drew it and slashed the speaker's throat, silencing him mid-breath. Blood sprayed across the room as chaos erupted.
"Snow...Does trouble follow you everywhere you go?"
Let me know what you think! Good day!