Jon
Sweat beaded on Jon's forehead, and with an exasperated scowl, he wiped it away for what felt like the hundredth time. He took a long swing from his flask, the cool liquid offering little relief from the sweltering heat. His tunic clung to his skin, and his pants were quickly becoming unbearable. The humidity was suffocating, far more oppressive than anything the men of the North were used to. His armpits began to dampen as the thick air hung heavy over the camp. Jon steadied his horse, glancing behind him to see the Northern men struggling—huffing and wheezing in discomfort—while the Riverlanders seemed unaffected, their breathing calm and even. It was clear what the problem was. The Riverlanders hailed from warmer lands, and the heat was more familiar to them. Jon, on the other hand, had adapted to the harsh, unforgiving climate of Valyria.
When the Riverlanders noticed him looking, they shot him sharp glares. Jon responded with a cool nod, then turned his attention back to the road ahead. After passing through the Twins, Lady Stark had insisted on regrouping at her home and marching to Harrenhal as one united force. As expected, Jon was met with a sea of disapproving stares the entire journey, none more intense than those from the Blackfish. If they didn't say anything, then they knew better.
The landscape stretched green before him, an endless sea of leaves, bushes, and vibrant grass. It almost hurt his eyes. This is the greenest land I've ever seen in my life, Jon thought to himself. Still, it was undeniably beautiful. He could understand why the southerners adored these lands—they were rich, fertile, and brimming with life. As the company moved onward, Jon noticed the shimmering blue of ponds dotting the land, a rare sight back home.
"This is the greenest land I've ever seen," Robb remarked, squinting at the overwhelming vibrancy.
"Me and you both."
"Don't worry, young lads!" Lord Umber bellowed from Robb's right, riding up beside them. "You'll get used to this heat soon enough!"
"I hope so, my lord," Jon replied dryly. He wasn't sure he ever would, though the ponds certainly made the scenery more bearable.
"I, for one, like it here," Domeric said, much to Jon's displeasure, as the lord rode up to his side. "Feels different, doesn't it?" He extended his hand to Jon, and Jon raised an eyebrow. "Hello again, Snow. I know we left things on unpleasant terms, but let me make it up."
Robb and Lord Umber exchanged curious glances as Jon stared at Domeric's outstretched hand, silently considering. After a beat, Jon smiled thinly and shook it. "No hard feelings on my part." If the lord was genuine, Jon saw no reason to be rude—though he wasn't in a hurry to call him a friend.
The tension lifted from the group, and Robb's face brightened. "Lord Bolton! Glad to see you're enjoying the surroundings," he said with a grin. "Though I can't say I feel the same. It's bloody hot."
Domeric chuckled. "I find the weather taxing too, but the trees and ponds make up for it."
Jon nodded in agreement. "It's nice. I look forward to seeing the God's Eye."
Robb clapped a hand on his shoulder. "If we have the time, we can go together."
"Me too," Lord Umber added, his voice filled with enthusiasm.
"Me third," Domeric chimed in.
"And me fourth!" Arya shouted from her carriage, her head popping out of the opening. She pointed ahead, excitement in her voice. "Look! We're here!"
The party, both Northern and Riverlander, stopped in their tracks, eyes widening at the sight before them. Jon barely registered the sound of whistles and gasps before he too was staring in awe. In front of them stood Harrenhal—rebuilt, and more magnificent than any of them had imagined. Gone were the charred remnants of the past; in their place, towering stone walls rose in impressive symmetry. The castle seemed to dwarf Winterfell in size. Five massive towers reached toward the sky, and thick, imposing gates stood guard at the entrance. The banners of great houses flapped in the wind, adding to the spectacle.
Jon noted with some apprehension that a few houses were already stationed there. Interesting, he thought. Some families are already here. The reunion with my family is coming sooner than I expected.
Robb turned his horse around, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement. "We have arrived, my lords. Let's ride!" he called out, his voice full of enthusiasm.
The group responded with cheers and shouts, picking up the pace as they neared the castle.
A soft breeze ruffled Jon's curls, and he sighed in contentment as the cool air passed through his thick hair and neatly trimmed beard. This feels nice, he thought, a rare moment of peace in a world that seemed to be constantly in motion.
"Behave, Jon," Robb said, slowing his pace to ride alongside him.
Jon snorted, glancing sideways at his cousin. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means don't go crazy on these ladies," Robb teased with a smirk.
"I'll try," Jon said cheekily, playing along.
They exchanged a knowing look, and before long, they both burst into laughter. The rest of the group, unsure of what had prompted their sudden outburst, soon joined in, laughter echoing through the camp. The mood lightened, and for a few moments, the worries of the journey seemed far away.
The laughter eventually subsided as they drew closer to the castle. Jon's gaze shifted forward, and he could see the camps of the Vale and the Stormlands taking shape ahead. He noted that other camps were still hidden from view, their locations waiting to be explored.
As they neared the castle gates, the rich scent of cooking food wafted through the air, making Jon's stomach rumble. Before he could react, curses rang out from nearby men. His heart skipped a beat as horses shrieked in panic, and the familiar sound of barking filled the air. He saw the large shapes of direwolves racing toward them, their noses already catching the scent of the food.
"They smell the food!" Jon cursed under his breath as he quickly dismounted, the sounds of chaos rising around him.
"Jon! Don't!" Robb shouted, panic rising in his voice.
"I'll handle them," Jon called back, pushing through the frantic men as the direwolves closed in. He planted his feet firmly and faced the approaching animals, his gaze hardening.
"Down!" Jon commanded, his voice sharp and unwavering.
To his dismay, the direwolves did not stop. The next moment, a heavy body slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs as he was trampled by pure muscle. The world spun into darkness as he crumpled to the ground, struggling to regain control.
Robb
Robb's gaze hardened as he looked down at the direwolves gathered around Jon, their large bodies forming a protective circle. The wolves nudged Jon gently with their snouts, as if trying to coax him back to consciousness. Jon stirred, his body shifting slightly before stilling again. A long, crimson trail marked the side of his head, the blood staining his lips.
The camp began to stir as more people climbed down from their horses, gathering to observe the scene. Robb's siblings spilled out from the carriage—Arya, with her usual speed and worry, Sansa, her face full of concern, and Alys, eyes wide in shock. Catelyn swept past them, her eyes scanning the scene with sharp composure. Rickon and Bran hurried to join the group, their curiosity overwhelming their caution.
"Bad, Lady!" Sansa exclaimed, smacking Lady on the head. "That's not good! Look what you've done!"
Robb's lips pressed into a thin line as his siblings chastised their direwolves. He looked at Greywind, who sat quietly behind the silent Ghost, as though hiding from the impending scolding. Ghost, unfazed, lazily rose to his feet and sat by his master, his amber eyes never leaving the scene. Greywind growled softly, his eyes flickering uneasily between his master and his brother.
Robb watched the wolves, a flicker of guilt crossing his mind. Later. Jon's condition was more urgent.
"Jory!" Robb's voice cut through the tense air.
Jory shoved his way through the gathering crowd and approached, bowing low. "Yes, my lord?"
"Go to the castle and fetch a maester—quickly." Robb's voice was firm, efficient. His father had always emphasized that words should be sharp and decisive. Robb had taken that lesson to heart.
"At once, my lord," Jory replied, his face grim, before darting off in search of help.
Robb turned to Lord Umber, his eyes filled with quiet thanks. "I'll set up camp," Umber grumbled, clearly aware of Robb's intentions without needing to be told. "I'll take care of your brother and his wolf."
"Good," Robb said, relief flooding through him. "Let's move. The royal family is waiting."
The journey to Harrenhal was swift, and before Robb realized it, they stood outside the great hall, awaiting their announcement. The noise from within was deafening, an overwhelming clash of voices and clinking goblets.
Robb's heart pounded harder than it should have, but none of his family noticed. Bran, Rickon, and Arya fidgeted impatiently, while Sansa, with her usual composure, stood still but her eyes were glued to the doors, waiting. Alys placed a warm hand on his arm, and Robb smiled gratefully at her, his own anxiety momentarily eased. He met Catelyn's eyes and saw the faint worry there. This tourney had the potential to cause more strife than they could afford.
I'm ready, he thought, steeling himself for what lay ahead.
The doors swung open.
"Welcome, House Stark!" the herald's voice boomed, his staff striking the stone floor with force. The revelry inside faltered, and Robb felt the weight of a hundred gazes land on him and his family as they made their way down the hall.
The hall was grand, filled with long tables piled high with food. The flickering torchlight cast an orange glow over the vast space. Robb couldn't help but marvel at the sheer scale of the gathering. It was the largest crowd he had ever seen.
His eyes instinctively sought the different houses represented. The Westerlands sat to the left, their banners proudly bearing the lion sigil. Robb's thoughts immediately turned to Tywin Lannister. Is he here?
And there, at the center of the table, was the imp himself—Tyrion Lannister. Robb caught his eye, and Tyrion raised an eyebrow, sipping his drink with casual ease. Robb quickly looked away, feeling his pulse quicken under the intensity of that gaze.
The distance between houses was telling. The Stormlands and the Vale kept to themselves, their faces marked with suspicion and distrust. Robb had heard rumors of old grudges and now saw the evidence in the form of narrowed eyes and cold shoulders. He wasn't surprised; history often left deep scars.
The Reach and Dorne, to his surprise, sat next to each other. Robb quickly pieced together that the animosity between them must have been palpable since the fateful day when Lord Oberyn had maimed Willas Tyrell. It was a reminder of how blood feuds could echo through generations.
His eyes moved to the high table, where the Targaryens sat, their aura unmistakable. They were the epitome of what others aspired to be—and what they couldn't be. The sight of them stirred something deep within Robb.
At the far left sat a broad-shouldered man, his silver-gold hair cascading down to his shoulders, a neatly trimmed beard framing his sharp features. His lilac eyes glinted with authority and strength. Next to him, a woman with golden hair and icy green eyes stared blankly at the gathering, her expression unreadable.
In the center of the table was a younger man—prince of the Targaryens—whose youthful features bore a striking resemblance to Jon. Robb found himself comparing their faces, noting the shared jawline, nose, and cheekbones, even the same eyes. The only difference was the color of their hair. If only the hair were the same, Robb mused, a painful realization creeping over him. That's why Jon loves his hair now.
To the prince's right was a stunning woman with a heart-shaped face, her brown hair cascading in soft waves. Robb recognized her immediately as Margaery Tyrell, her arm intimately draped around the prince. Her face wore a pleasant smile, but her eyes… her eyes were smug.
Next to her was Lady Whent, an older, round woman with a face full of wrinkles and sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing. At the far end of the table, a young woman with deep brown skin and dark curls sat, her head resting on one hand, eyes sharp but disengaged. The woman was incredibly beautiful and incredibly bored.
Robb's eyes lingered on the empty seats around the high table. Where are the king and queen? he wondered, and noticed the distinct absence of the queen dowager and her daughter. Only two Kingsguard were present, standing watch over the royal family, their vigilant eyes scanning the room.
Aegon stood, his eyes landing on Robb with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Robb Stark, it's good to see you here. I thought you might not make it."
"We ran into some trouble on the road, but nothing serious, my prince," Robb replied smoothly, keeping his voice neutral.
Aegon's smile remained, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "And where is Lord Stark? He's not with you?"
Robb felt a flicker of irritation, but his face remained calm. "No, my father is not here. He sent me in his stead. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
A hushed murmur ran through the hall. Robb kept his expression neutral, but he felt the weight of every eye on him. Aegon's face flickered with mild surprise, but he quickly recovered, his grin widening.
"This is quite the dilemma, it seems," Aegon said, his voice smooth. "Your father has done this before, hasn't he?"
Robb's blood rushed to his ears, but he held his ground. The room had gone deathly silent, waiting for the prince's next words.
Aegon's grin returned, this time with a touch of mischief. "Well, if it's any consolation, Tywin Lannister is also absent. No harm done, my friend. Old Lion, Old wolf - what's the difference?"
The room erupted in laughter, but Robb noticed the scowl on the Westerlands table. The golden-haired woman next to the other silver-haired leaned over and whispered sharply into his ear, making him shift uncomfortably.
Aegon turned his attention back to Robb. "I hear your brother has returned. Congratulations are in order."
Robb couldn't hide his smile. "I'm glad he's back with us," he said, his voice softening with warmth. "He feels like part of me."
Aegon chuckled, but Robb caught the glint of something more calculating behind his eyes. "I hope to see him in the melee and the joust," Aegon said. "I've heard much about him from the tales in Essos."
"You will see him, my prince," Robb replied firmly, his voice steady.
Aegon flashed his teeth, the smile turning sharp. "I expect him to live up to the stories. It would be a disappointment if the 'White Wolf' couldn't handle himself. Let's hope none of his fangs fall off."
The crowd laughed, some mimicking the howl of a wolf. Robb's eyes narrowed. Mocking Jon? Does he have any idea what Jon is capable of?
"Don't worry, my prince," Robb said, his voice low but sure. "A wolf can chew a lot, and still have an appetite for more."
The laughter died down. Aegon raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Big words, Stark. I hope you can back them up."
"I will," Robb said, his voice steady, as he turned to leave. "We will."
Jon
Jon's mind was foggy as he slowly regained consciousness, his senses confused by unfamiliar surroundings. He was propped up in a bed, his head wrapped in thick, uncomfortable bandages. The faint sounds of voices and bustling from outside the tent told him he was somewhere in a camp, though the noise was muffled and distant. Beside him, Ghost sat perched on the edge of the bed, eagerly licking Jon's face with unrestrained joy.
"Ghost, stop!" Jon groaned, pushing the wolf away in an attempt to clear his head. "This is your fault," he muttered, giving the wolf a pointed glare.
Ghost tilted his head, his tongue hanging out in an innocent display, and Jon's frustration melted into fondness. He scratched the wolf behind the ears, sighing. "Alright, alright, I guess it's fine, pal."
The bandages around his head felt sticky, pressing uncomfortably against his skin. Without much thought, Jon yanked them off, tossing them onto the floor with a grunt of relief. "That's better," he muttered to himself as he ran a hand over his forehead, searching for any signs of injury. Finding none, he laid back into the pillows, his voice tinged with dry humor. "Note to self: never stand in the way of hungry direwolves."
Ghost gave him a look that Jon could only interpret as approval before curling up on the floor beside him. At that moment, the tent flap opened, and Robb entered, his expression unreadable.
"You shouldn't have done that," Robb said, glancing at the discarded bandages on the floor with an unamused frown.
Jon raised an eyebrow, unconcerned. "My head's fine, see?" he said, tapping the side of his skull. "It hurts a little, but it's nothing."
"Your head was already frighteningly empty before this." Robb sighed and seated himself in one of the nearby chairs. "You should've moved out of the way," he said with a shake of his head.
Jon shrugged, nonchalant. "Someone had to stop them. They were about to make a scene."
Robb's eyes narrowed slightly. "How does it feel to be run over by six direwolves?"
Jon grimaced, his face twisting in mock disgust. "Unpleasant."
"I bet it was," Robb muttered with a faint smile. "By the way, I met the Royal family."
Jon's expression darkened slightly. "Aye, you. Did you… did you notice anything?"
Robb hesitated before answering, his voice a little too casual. "Your sister's a fine woman."
Before Robb could react, a pillow smacked Robb square in the face, thrown with expert aim. "That's not what I meant, you horny wolf," Jon grumbled, unable to suppress a smirk.
Robb wiped his face, laughing sheepishly. "Alright, alright, I'm just saying," he said, placing the pillow back behind Jon's head as Jon settled in again.
"I'm loyal to my wife," Robb continued, raising an eyebrow in mock innocence.
Jon raised an eyebrow back. "If you were loyal, you wouldn't be ogling the Crowned Princess."
Robb groaned, crossing his arms. "I can look, Jon," he said slowly, as if explaining it to a child. "Looking doesn't mean I'm not loyal."
Jon shot him a wry grin. "Alright, next time I see your wife, you'll feel what I feel."
Robb blinked, confused. "What?"
Jon merely chuckled. "Nothing, don't worry about it."
Robb seemed to be piecing it together, but he decided not to press it. "Alright, fine," he said with a shrug.
Jon shifted the topic. "How long was I out?"
"Not too long," Robb answered. "A couple of hours. Just enough time for the welcome feast."
Jon's stomach growled at the thought. "Did you see the King.?"
Robb's face fell slightly as he shook his head. "No. He and the queen are off doing… whatever it is they do. I don't know where the queen dowager is either."
Jon's heart sank, but he nodded. "Hmm…"
Robb stood, cracking his knuckles. "Get up and get dressed. The feast is about to start."
Jon nodded and began searching through his bag for something to wear. After a moment's deliberation, he pulled out a simple black tunic and trousers. He gave the outfit a nod of approval. Black was always his color.
No sooner had he left the tent than the Starks descended upon him.
"Are you alright, Jon?" Bran asked, concern written across his face.
Jon smiled, though it was strained. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me."
Rickon, ever the impulsive one, added, "I won't let Shaggydog get near you again."
Jon let out a tired laugh, though he knew it wasn't right. His family was worried about him, and here he was finding it funny. "Don't go that far, Rickon. Just give him a good kick up the arse, and I'll be happy."
Sansa and Catelyn both frowned at his blunt words, but Arya and Robb snickered. Rickon, however, looked thoughtfully at Jon's suggestion, his face scrunching up in consideration.
"Shaggy!" Rickon called out to his wolf, but before the direwolf could react, Jon and Robb placed their hands on his shoulders.
"It was a joke, Rickon," Robb explained, his tone reassuring.
Rickon's face turned a deep shade of red, and he stammered an apology. "Oh—sorry."
Arya, always quick with the jabs, teased, "You dummy."
Catelyn stepped in to save her youngest son from further embarrassment. "Enough, children," she said firmly.
The group walked towards the castle, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the scene. As they approached the towering gates, Jon couldn't help but be struck by the sheer size of the place. The walls and towers of the castle dwarfed Winterfell threefold. His thoughts were interrupted by Robb nudging him forward.
Inside the great hall, Jon marveled at the open space and the noise of merrymaking that filled the air. The feast had already begun, and the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread wafted through the air, causing his stomach to growl.
The Starks guided Jon to the northern tables, where Jon sat between Robb and Arya, the tension still palpable. Jon tried to glance at the high table, but Robb's easy chatter distracted him. He only managed to look up when the room fell into a sudden hush. The royal family had entered, and they looked every bit the part, regal and commanding. From their flowing robes to their polished presence, they seemed almost untouchable.
Jon felt a bitter pang in his chest. That could have been me, he thought bitterly. Lord Stark's choices had left him stranded in the shadows.
Without realizing it, Jon's fists clenched. His thoughts boiled, and he became aware of the sharp eyes watching him. Robb's hand landed gently on his shoulder, and Jon felt the sympathy in his cousin's touch, though he didn't want it.
"I don't need your pity," Jon hissed, standing abruptly, the room falling into silence as all eyes turned to him.
He stalked out of the hall, the murmurs of the crowd following him like a shadow. "That's Jon Snow!" someone whispered. "The bloody white wolf!"
Jon's pace quickened, his heart racing as he made his way toward the doors, but something stopped him. His gaze flicked back to the high table, and for a moment, his eyes locked with Princess Rhaenys. Her gaze was piercing, curious, and Jon felt a strange pull in his chest, a heat rising in his held her stare, which made her raise an eyebrow in surprise, before he left the hall.
Not long after Jon stormed out, he found himself aimlessly wandering the halls, quickly realizing he was thoroughly lost.
Damn it, I should've stayed in the hall. Jon cursed inwardly as he turned down yet another unfamiliar corridor.
Suddenly, a familiar voice echoed through the stone walls, mocking yet friendly.
"The bastard of Winterfell!"
Jon's lips curved into a smirk, and he turned to face the source. "Well, if it isn't the Imp of Casterly Rock. Fancy running into you here."
He strode over to Tyrion, who stood leaning casually against the wall, and extended his hand with a playful grin. "Now, where's that fortune you promised me, hmm?"