Jon

"The gold should already be in my hands by now," Jon remarked, keeping his gaze fixed ahead as he held out his hand to Tyrion without a glance down.

Tyrion, ever unflappable, took a slow sip from his goblet, his eyes calm and patient.

Jon let out a frustrated sigh and dropped his hand. "I apologize for being blunt, but I'm really hoping this trip wasn't a mistake." A lot of his recent decisions had left him questioning their worth, and this one was no exception. If there was nothing to gain from it, the pain would be harder to bear. He absentmindedly scratched his back, fingers brushing over the scar etched into his skin.

"Don't worry," Tyrion reassured with a smirk. "Your payment is assured. Two bags, filled with more gold than you can count, are sitting in my tent as we speak."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Should be three."

Tyrion's smile didn't waver. "Done. One of my most trusted men will help you carry them. They're rather heavy."

"You trust this man?" Jon asked, eyeing him with some suspicion.

Tyrion took another sip, his cup swirling slowly. "I trust him, yes. Though he does have an interesting relationship with his brother. Apparently, he can't stop telling me he'll kill him one day."

"Is his brother here? In this castle?" Jon asked, his curiosity piqued. He knew there was bad blood between two brothers, but the thought of them both being in the same place made him wary.

Tyrion caught on to Jon's concern and nodded. "Yes, though he's under heavy supervision by my uncle Kevan and his men. Still, it doesn't feel like enough."

"You don't think it'll end well because of the melee," Jon said, piecing it together. "You're worried they'll face each other in battle, and one of them will kill the other."

Tyrion took a long pause before answering. "It's turning out that way," he said, a dark note in his voice. "It's curious, though—my father allowed the man to come to this tourney despite the hatred between the brothers. That's not like him."

Jon snorted. "Seems to me your father did it on purpose. You've told me before, he's an ass."

Tyrion gave a humorless chuckle, glancing at his empty goblet. "That he is. Very much so."

Jon raised a brow. "Who is this man you trust, anyway?"

Tyrion's lips twitched as he spoke, "Sandor Clegane. Or as some call him, 'The Hound.'"

Jon blinked in surprise. "The Hound?"

Tyrion smirked. "I always find it amusing that people call him 'The Hound' when his brother should be the one with that title. The Mountain can barely string a sentence together and is little more than a mindless beast, obsessed with violence. Sandor, at least, has a brain and knows how to use it."

Jon gave a small nod, the wheels turning in his head. "Alright. That's all I need to know."

Tyrion watched him carefully. "Does it interest you to know why they loathe each other?"

Jon frowned. "Not really," he said, but he couldn't hide the flicker of curiosity. "It's not my problem. I'm not about to get involved."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Ah, but you're intrigued, aren't you?"

Jon sighed, crossing his arms. "Fine. Go on. If it amuses you so much."

Tyrion gave him a mischievous grin, but his tone turned serious. "Don't let Sandor know about this."

Jon rolled his eyes. "I'm not afraid of him."

"I knew you'd say that," Tyrion said with a dry chuckle, clearing his throat before launching into the story.

Once the tale was finished, Jon's expression darkened. "Poor bastard," he muttered. "No wonder Sandor wants him dead." He glanced at Tyrion. "I wasn't planning on getting involved, but I can't blame him for wanting revenge. The Mountain deserves far worse than a swift death after what he did."

Tyrion nodded gravely. "Indeed. Which brings me to a request of my own."

Jon raised an eyebrow, half-amused. "A favor? You're the one asking me for favors?"

Tyrion's lips quirked. "This isn't for me, Jon. It's for Sandor. When he faces his brother, I need you to make sure no one intervenes."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "No one?"

Tyrion nodded. "Not even the Kingsguard."

Jon's lips quirked into a wry smile. "Well, if it's for gold, I suppose I can manage."

Tyrion's smile grew. "I knew I could count on you. And for the record, you'll get a fourth bag of gold for your trouble."

Jon shook his head, but he was smiling now. "The things I do for gold."

Tyrion chuckled. "I appreciate it, Jon. Sandor will be in your debt once this is over. He'll bring your gold to your tent in the morning."

Jon gave a short nod. "I'll be waiting."

Tyrion eyed the hall thoughtfully. "You know, if the people here knew what you're capable of, they'd fawn over you too."

Jon shrugged. "They certainly will."

Tyrion smirked. "And they'll believe you're not the monster they think you are."

Jon's eyes hardened slightly. "Sorry, Tyrion. I'm not in the business of pleasing these people. I don't owe them anything."

Tyrion chuckled. "No, I suppose not. They're bootlickers, all of them. Just don't let them get under your skin."

Jon's expression remained unreadable. "They won't."

Tyrion's tone grew more serious. "I'm just worried about you, Jon. All this pressure… it's wearing on you."

Jon's shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing.

Tyrion's gaze softened. "What happened? You stormed out of there like a man possessed."

Jon didn't want to think about it, so he kept silent.

Tyrion picked up on it, though. "The Targaryens, I assume?"

Jon's eyes flashed, but he said nothing at first. Finally, he straightened, his voice cold. "I can't change anything. Let's not waste any more time on it."

Tyrion looked like he might push further, but when he saw Jon's expression, his words died in his throat. He sighed. "Alright then."

He stood up, suddenly cheery again. "Well, I'm off to the feast. More wine, more merrymaking. I'll see you there."

Jon didn't respond, his thoughts swirling in a heavy storm as he turned back toward the feast. The doors stood wide open, the sounds of laughter and conversation spilling out into the corridor. He walked in, greeted by the clatter of plates and the noise of merriment. Robb and Arya jumped slightly when he flopped into his seat, piling food onto his plate without a care.

Robb raised an eyebrow. "You cooled off?"

Jon gave him a faint smile, though his mind was elsewhere. "Yeah. Kind of."

Jon barely made it two minutes into his meal when he felt that unmistakable sensation again—someone was watching him.

Frozen, he met the gaze of the princess. Her dark eyes locked onto his, unblinking. She was poised as she had been when he first noticed her, her eyes steady and unwavering. It wasn't the usual stares he was accustomed to—those filled with fear, disdain, or the weight of superiority. No, hers was different. It was unreadable, almost detached, and Jon struggled to decipher it.

"What are you staring at?" Arya asked, her voice muffled as she chewed, bits of chicken falling from her mouth.

The table next to them caught sight of the mess, and a few chuckled. Robb sighed in exasperation, wiping his fingers with a cloth. "Don't chew with your mouth open, Arya."

"Shut up," she snapped back, ignoring him and turning her attention back to Jon.

Robb glanced from Arya to Jon and then back to the princess, grinning. "Looks like the dragon princess has her sights set on our wolf, huh?"

"What!?" Arya shouted, a little too loudly, craning her neck to get a better look at the princess.

"Sit down," Jon said with a hand on her shoulder, pushing her back into her seat. Arya glared at him but continued to try to peer over his head.

Robb, clearly entertained, leaned in closer, his teasing smile never fading. Jon muttered, half-distracted by his cousin's antics, but focused on his meal. For the gods' sake, Robb, just shut up.

But Robb wasn't done. He slid closer and nudged Jon's shoulder, causing Arya to scoot closer as well. Just when Jon was about to explode, a voice cut through the noise.

"Robb Stark," came a smooth, commanding voice from across the table. A tall man approached them, oozing confidence. He wore a loose yellow garment, and his dark, sharp eyes seemed to assess the room with unsettling ease.

Jon felt the man's gaze sweep over him, though it never lingered—yet the weight of his presence made Jon instinctively tense. For now, the man hadn't acknowledged him, but how long would that last?

Robb, ever the social butterfly, grinned widely. "Good to meet you, my lord. It pleases me that you know my name, and I must say, it's only proper that I get to know yours as well."

The man smiled, his drawl unmistakably Dornish. "I am Oberyn Martell."

Jon's suspicion bloomed. The Red Viper of Dorne. He had heard enough tales of the infamous prince to recognize him instantly.

"What do you need?" Robb asked, his tone polite but sharp.

"I require something," Oberyn replied cryptically, his dark eyes flicking over to Jon with a knowing glint.

"And that is?" Robb pressed, clearly sensing the tension in the air.

"Not from you, but from him." Oberyn pointed directly at Jon. "I need something from you."

Of course, whether he was a bastard or not, someone always wanted something from him. The cycle never ends.

The room quieted, the conversations halting as all eyes turned to him. He felt a particular gaze sharpen and shifted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to look at the high table.

"And that is, my lord?" Jon asked, his voice calm, repeating Robb's earlier words.

"A duel," Oberyn stated, his eyes flashing with challenge.

Gasps rippled through the room, and Jon's stomach tightened. The murmurs began to swell, the weight of the declaration settling heavily on the hall.

"With you?" Robb asked, incredulous.

"No, with me." A voice called from one of the Dornish tables, drawing Jon's attention. A man stood, tall and proud, wearing dark clothing and a sneer that radiated arrogance. His silver hair was streaked with black, and his violet eyes gleamed dangerously.

Jon kept his face blank, masking his annoyance. "Who do I have the pleasure of meeting with, ser?"

The man's lips curled into a smug grin. "I am Ser Gerold Dayne. The Darkstar."

His lips trembled. "The Darkstar?" A roar of laughter erupted from the northern table.

"Show some respect, bastard!" someone from the Dornish table yelled, clearly irate.

Jon's anger flared, but instead of rising to the challenge, he let out a chuckle. The laughter started quietly but grew into full-on amusement. Confused eyes flicked between him and the Dornish, and Jon felt their wariness mount.

"Jon?" Arya whispered, nudging him as though he had gone mad. Robb looked just as bewildered.

Darkstar's face darkened with irritation, but he didn't wait to hear Jon's response. "What's so funny, bastard?"

Jon's smile faded, his voice now sharp with cold amusement. "Your name," he said simply, his voice low but cutting.

The Dornish's smug expressions twisted, and Darkstar's grin faltered as he tried to process Jon's words.

"My name?" Darkstar echoed, sneering as if he had discovered some hidden truth. "My name is perfectly fine, unlike yours. Oh, wait, I know... you're Snow."

Laughter erupted again, and the Dornish were back to their smug superiority. Robb's face darkened as he exchanged glances with Jon.

Jon's voice was ice-cold as he corrected him. "Darkstar," he said with disdain. "The stars aren't dark, you idiot."

The atmosphere shifted immediately. The Dornish stood in outrage, fists clenched, while the northern table responded in kind, ready to back Jon up. The murmurs turned to curses, and it seemed like an all-out brawl was about to break out.

Just as the situation seemed ready to escalate, Aegon stood, clapping his hands sharply. "Enough! There will be no fighting in this hall!" he commanded, his eyes locking onto the fuming tables.

The room fell silent under Aegon's gaze. He turned to Jon, his tone soft but firm. "You should know your place. You can't be arguing with highborn."

Jon nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yes, my prince."

Darkstar looked ready to spit venom, but Aegon turned his attention to him. "And you need to stop arguing with a lowborn," Aegon said, his voice cool and cutting, "and learn to act civilized."

The Dornishman's glare was a searing thing, but he didn't challenge the prince. Instead, he muttered under his breath, "Yes, my prince."

Aegon stood tall, a grin spreading across his face. He addressed the hall, his voice rising with excitement. "I won't tolerate a pointless squabble, but... I will allow a duel right here in the hall!"

The room buzzed with energy, excitement rippling through the crowd. Jon frowned, his mind racing. It was an intriguing proposal, but he couldn't help but wonder if this was all part of Aegon's plan.

Before he could say anything, Rhaenys's voice rang out sweetly, drawing all eyes to her. "Someone of his status," she said, eyes fixed on Jon, "cannot harm a lord unless it is in a tourney."

The crowd murmured in agreement, their enthusiasm deflating. Jon could feel their disappointment settle in the air.

Aegon, however, didn't falter. He waved his hand dismissively. "I lift the law," he said, his voice carrying authority. At a snap of his fingers, servants brought forth tourney swords and armor, setting them up at the edges of the hall.

Jon's suspicions flared. Had this been planned all along? If Darkstar hadn't challenged him, Aegon likely would have. The evidence was clear.

"Do you accept?" Aegon asked, his grin wide with boyish excitement.

Jon's gaze locked onto Darkstar's, cold and steady. "I do, my prince."

"Good man!" Aegon cheered.

The tables were quickly cleared, and the crowd formed a circle around Jon and Darkstar. Robb helped Jon strap on his armor, slapping his shoulder in a final show of support. "You better win this, Jon."

Arya's grin was fierce. "Of course he will, you idiot."

Robb's lips trembled. "But Darkstar said he's the most dangerous man in Dorne."

Jon's voice was calm as he finished adjusting his gear. "And I'm the most dangerous man in the North."

As he and Darkstar took their positions in the center of the circle, Jon felt his body come alive with the tension in the air. Aegon clapped his hands once more. "Begin!"

Darkstar moved first, aiming for Jon's neck with a swift strike. Jon's blade met his with a sharp clang, parrying the blow before landing a clean cut to Darkstar's left leg. The Dornishman growled, grimacing, and attacked again, his movements fluid and graceful. But Jon was ready. He countered each blow, parrying with precision, while focusing his strikes on Darkstar's left side, targeting his weakened leg.

The two clashed again and again, a dance of blades, with Jon taking the lead. More than once, he forced Darkstar onto the defensive, exploiting his blindside with quick, decisive strikes.

They spun, crashing swords together with a resounding clash. Eyes locked, both men silently challenged each other—testing who could endure the longest, who could break first. Jon, using his free leg, delivered a swift kick to Darkstar's left, forcing him back with a hiss. Darkstar quickly re-engaged.

Jon hesitated, missing a strike, and Darkstar took advantage, landing a blow to his chest, then his right arm, before elbowing him hard across the visor. Jon staggered back, shaking his head and silently berating himself for the mistake. The two circled each other again, their breaths heavy.

Jon feinted, then switched his sword to his left hand, slicing downward. Darkstar, caught off guard by the sudden change, barely managed to parry the blow, shifting on his feet. Jon, relentless, continued to switch arms with each move, throwing Darkstar off balance with every twist. It was an unorthodox, unpredictable style, and Darkstar was unprepared for it.

Jon's strategy was simple: wear Darkstar down. He danced around him, forcing the older knight into a defensive position, where his strikes became slower, less precise. Darkstar was drenched in sweat, his face streaked with it, eyes blinking as the sweat ran into them.

"You're just a bastard," Darkstar muttered, his voice strained as he tried to break Jon's defense, his focus faltering. "Just a bastard."

Jon didn't respond, his eyes locked on Darkstar's every move, parrying, redirecting, and striking. Darkstar's next attack was sluggish, and Jon seized the opportunity. He caught Darkstar's wrist mid-swing and drove his helmet into his face with a sickening thud. The sound echoed through the hall as Darkstar staggered back, struggling to stay on his feet.

Now Jon was in control. Darkstar, unaccustomed to defending, was no match for Jon's relentless onslaught. A barrage of quick, brutal blows slipped past his guard, each one landing harder than the last.

Jon pummeled him with merciless precision, Darkstar unable to raise his sword in defense. Every strike drove him back, each one punctuated by Jon's growing fury.

"You're just... a bastard..." Darkstar gasped, his voice faltering as Jon's blows continued to rain down. "Just... a bastard."

The words only fueled Jon's anger. He swung harder, each hit more punishing than the last. Darkstar's breath came in short, desperate gasps.

Jon finally dropped his sword, grabbing Darkstar's helmet. With brutal force, he slammed Darkstar's head into his knee before kicking him in the chest. Jon caught him before he could fall, then kneed him again—four times—before elbowing him in the face, sending him crashing to the ground.

Jon stood over him, his chest heaving, blood pumping through his veins, his arms trembling with the urge to finish it. But then Darkstar's desperate choking gasp snapped him from his fury.

"Just a bastard... just a bastard," Darkstar wheezed, his voice thick with struggle, his body convulsing for air.

"Enough!" Aegon's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Snow is the victor! Get a maester for the poor man!"

The hall remained frozen in silence, the weight of the moment heavy in the air. Aegon snapped again. "Someone move!"

A servant, dazed by the events, finally sprang into action, followed by others who rushed to help remove Darkstar's armor and tend to him.

The room remained eerily quiet as Jon stood, his chest still heaving. He was met with wide eyes—fear, amazement, and something else... respect.

Lord Umber rose, raising his cup. "That man is the white wolf!"

"The white wolf!" the Northern lords echoed in a booming chorus. But the other factions were silent, watching Jon with a mix of fear and awe as Darkstar struggled to breathe on the ground.

Jon breathed through his nose, his gaze falling to Rhaenys. She sat watching him, a soft smirk playing on her lips. This time, her eyes were open, unguarded. Jon saw it clearly now—lust.

Jon's heart skipped a beat, but he quickly shoved the thought away. What the hell are you thinking, Jon? She's your biological sister!

With a sharp exhale, Jon dropped his sword to the ground and turned, striding out of the hall. He was only half-aware that he was still clad in his armor, the weight of the fight still lingering in his bones.

Robb

"Oh, gods..." Robb muttered under his breath as Darkstar, fully stripped of his armor, was carried out of the hall. The table nodded in quiet agreement, their eyes following the trembling Dornishman until he disappeared from view. Darkstar could only manage a few incoherent words before he was taken away.

"The most dangerous man in Dorne," Arya snorted, her lips curling around the rim of her cup.

Robb shot her a warning glance, his voice low. "Shush, Arya. Don't let them hear you."

She raised an eyebrow, but Robb's gaze flickered toward the Dornish table, where angry eyes were already beginning to narrow in their direction.

"This... was unexpected," a woman said from the other side of the room. She was dark-skinned, her figure fuller with a confident presence, though her tone betrayed a hint of surprise.

Aegon leaned back, his hand resting on the table as he addressed the woman. "He agreed to the spar, cousin. Anything can happen."

The princess, who had been watching the exchange with an air of detached amusement, finally spoke. "Gerold got what was coming to him, cousin," she said, her cheek still resting in her palm. "Too much confidence for his own good. Just look at what Snow did to him. I wonder if he'll be traumatized for life after this."

The room erupted in chuckles, and Robb found himself laughing along with the others. It was cruel, yes, but it was hard to deny the satisfaction in seeing Darkstar humbled. The northern lords shared his sentiment, and soon the entire table was murmuring about the match.

Aegon stood, stretching his legs and walking down from the high table. "I think that's enough excitement for tonight, my friends," he announced. "Let us retire and save our energy for the morrow."

….

As the Starks made their way back to the camp, Bran spoke up with a quiet confidence. "Jon is going to win the tourney."

Catelyn glanced at him, her voice laced with doubt. "Nothing is certain, Bran," she said, still processing the events of the evening. "We don't know what will happen next."

"Did you not see what happened, Mother?" Arya asked, incredulous. "He defeated Darkstar in front of everyone. That was no ordinary fight."

"There are many knights with skills just as good as Jon's," Sansa countered, her voice steady, though the surprise lingered in her eyes.

Alys, walking alongside them, spoke softly, her voice thoughtful. "Moving one sword to the other hand back and forth like that—I've never seen it before. It means he could wield two swords at once."

Rickon, his eyes wide with awe, chimed in, "Two swords? That's amazing."

Arya muttered to herself, a flicker of recognition passing across her face. "Wielding two swords... just like the rider."

Robb's stomach twisted as the realization hit. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, then quickly tried to shift the conversation. "That's something I wish I could do."

He laughed awkwardly, but the underlying tension in the air wasn't lost on anyone. His family teased him about his inability to best Jon with a sword, but Catelyn remained silent, her face clouded with worry. She didn't speak a word as they made their way to the camp, her frown deepening with every passing step. Something about Jon's victory unsettled her more than she was willing to admit.

Ned

"This is a problem," Luwin whispered.

"Aye, it is," Ned replied, his voice low as the maesters and everybody else's as none made too much of a noise to disturb the sleeping creature.

In the Godswood, the humongous form of the dragon sleeps. It was lying on the now broken down trees. The beast snoozed and the snow and the leaves blew in the air. As it was now dark, the dragon was nearly invisible due to its ebony texture.

Heads snapped to one direction as a branch snapped.

The dragon's eyes opened and a chilly emerald color stared at them all and a deep growl vibrated the ground that made snow fly in the air. The folks slowly stepped backward. The growling, however, didn't waver.

Ned's stomach dropped. "God's help us all…"