Aegon
"Are you having second thoughts, nephew?" Viserys asked, a barely concealed smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he took a slow sip from his goblet. "I warned you that taking on a foe you don't understand could end badly." He leaned back, arms resting on the chair's armrests, letting out a sigh. "It's like fighting a shadow, you know."
He and Aegon sat in one of Lady Whent's guest rooms, the quiet of the space contrasting with the raucous chatter down the hall. Rhaenys, Margaery, Cersei, and their cousins were likely gossiping about the melee, much like everyone else in the castle.
Aegon tapped the side of his goblet with his finger, the sharp ticking sound cutting through the silence. "Have you ever fought a shadow, uncle?"
Viserys lowered his arms, his gaze heavy with annoyance as his eyes narrowed over the rim of his goblet. "Don't be ridiculous. It's a comparison, nothing more."
Aegon gave his reflection in the goblet a hard look, the purple eyes staring back at him—too cold, too sharp. He drained the contents in one swift motion. "You think I would've lost?"
Viserys set down his goblet with a deliberate clink and rubbed his hands across his thighs in a slow, agitated motion. "Let me put it plainly: if you'd faced Snow, you'd be on the floor, shaking like Darkstar."
Aegon clenched his jaw, his gaze hardening. "That won't happen. I won't let myself fall like that. I've been trained by the best."
Arthur and Barristan would never forgive him if his training went to waste. He couldn't afford to look weak, not now, not after everything.
"Yes, you have that going for you," Viserys agreed with a slight tilt of his head. "But Darkstar was supposed to be the best swordsman in Dorne. Oberyn's probably claiming the title now, but the whole of Dorne is embarrassed."
Aegon could feel the truth of it—the mockery that had followed Gerold's defeat. The northerners and others had wasted no time in ridiculing the Dornish pride. He felt it too, the sting of being tied to Dorne by his mother's blood, yet it didn't seem to bother Rhaenys. She had a smile on her face as they left the hall, as if something had amused her. Something Aegon didn't understand.
"Gerold was talented," Aegon replied slowly, choosing his words carefully. "But he was too impatient. He thought he could break Snow's defense by brute force."
Viserys nodded. "And you think you can do better? Best the bastard?"
Aegon's mind flickered with doubt for the first time in a long while. It was strange, unsettling. Normally, he would have answered with unshakable confidence. But not now. Not with Snow. Not when he still wasn't sure if he could stand his ground. "I don't know."
Viserys smiled, a strange satisfaction in his eyes. "Good. You should be afraid. Fighting someone who wields two swords is no simple task."
"I'm not afraid," Aegon retorted, his pride flaring.
Viserys stared at him for a long moment, before giving a slow, reluctant nod. "Alright, I'll believe you." He lifted a finger, his eyes gleaming with a wicked hint of amusement. "But don't think I'm putting any gold on you in the melee."
Aegon's lips twitched in a wry smile. Typical uncle.
The room fell into a comfortable silence, save for the occasional clink of goblets. After a while, Viserys broke the quiet with a more personal question. "How is Margaery?"
Aegon blinked, shaken from his thoughts. Margaery—she wasn't as dreadful as he'd once imagined. A little smug, perhaps, but her sharp mind and quick tongue made her interesting. Yet, despite all that, she wasn't the woman he desired. It was clear to him now. She wanted his attention, and when she didn't get it, Aegon could see the hurt in her eyes, though she never spoke of it. They'd only shared one night, the wedding night. That was it.
"She's fine," Aegon murmured, running a hand through his hair, feeling an unfamiliar tightness in his chest.
Viserys arched an eyebrow. "Is that all?"
Aegon rubbed his temples, trying to clear his thoughts. "Yes, fine."
Viserys wasn't convinced but didn't press further.
"What about Cersei?"
Aegon's lips curled into a smirk. He knew what was coming. His uncle's rants about his wife were always an entertainment.
Viserys grunted, frustration evident in his voice. "She's a miserable bitch, that one. Constantly complaining. Every damn day she finds something to whine about—'Why is it so dark in here? The smell, the sheets aren't warm enough. Why can't you be more like Rhaegar?'"
Aegon burst into laughter, barely managing to keep his wine from spilling. "Sounds like a very loving couple you two make."
Viserys scowled, his handsome face twisting with disgust. "No. Rhaegar should never have made that betrothal. I didn't want her, but it's too late now."
Aegon sensed the bitterness in his uncle's words, the history of the argument with Rhaegar hanging heavy between them. Their relationship had never been the same after that, and Viserys had distanced himself, leaving for Dragonstone, never to return.
Aegon shifted in his seat, eager to change the subject. "How's Tommen?"
The mention of his son made Viserys' face soften instantly, the harsh lines of frustration disappearing. "He's everything I could've asked for. A bright boy, learning quickly. He's already picking up his sums like he's been doing it for years, and his swordplay is improving every day."
Aegon nodded in approval. "That's good to hear."
Viserys' expression darkened as the name Joffrey hung in the air. "And Joffrey?" Aegon asked, his voice cautious.
Viserys' jaw tightened, and he drained his goblet in one gulp. "I should have never sent him to foster with Tywin. Cersei was insistent, saying that Joffrey would never become a man without Tywin's influence." Viserys' voice became venomous. "The boy turned into a little shit. And it's all my fault. I should've sent him to Ned Stark."
Aegon straightened in his chair, a sharp look crossing his face. "I don't think that would have been the best move, uncle. The North still resents us."
"Ned Stark is honorable," Viserys retorted. "He wouldn't harm a child. Besides, it might've mended things between us and them. At least, I'd like to think so."
Aegon considered his uncle's words, feeling a flicker of admiration for the older man's wisdom. His uncle was right about some things.
"What do you think we should do to fix things then?" Aegon asked, offering more wine to his uncle. Viserys took it without hesitation.
"Marriage," Viserys said, with a calculating glint in his eye.
Aegon frowned. "More marriage?" His fists clenched unconsciously. "What's left to do with that?"
Viserys took a sip from his goblet, savoring the taste before replying, "Rhaenys is unmarried. There are plenty of suitors from the North. Most notably, Domeric Bolton."
Aegon scoffed, shaking his head. "Rhaenys is never going to like that. She wants a man who 'matches her,' whatever that means."
Viserys raised an eyebrow. "How long is that going to take? Her time is running out."
Aegon's tone darkened. "Her time is never going to run out. She's not the crown prince, is she? Father is giving her all the time she wants without saying a word, but I know."
Viserys said nothing. The silence between them grew heavy with unspoken truths.
Aegon leaned back, lost in thought. Perhaps this was the reason he and his uncle had always found a certain camaraderie in their shared grievances. The betrothal that neither of them wanted had brought them closer, had made them allies in their mutual sense of being wronged.
As the conversation slowed, Aegon found himself sinking deeper into his thoughts. He poured another drink, watching as the wine swirled in the goblet. The alcohol blurred the edges of his mind, and soon, his reflection in the gold became a hazy blur.
He sank deeper into his chair, losing himself to the numbing sensation, the only company his uncle's distant figure and the weight of unspoken emotions.
At some point, Viserys stood, unsteady on his feet. "Good talk," he mumbled, his voice slurring as he left the room.
Aegon didn't move. He stayed in his seat, staring at his distorted reflection, the quiet room pressing in around him. Alone, in the silence, he could finally be just Aegon.
And in that moment, for the first time in a long while, Aegon allowed himself to wonder if this fight, this journey, was worth the cost.
Rhaenys
From the very first glance, her world had been turned upside down. His lean, muscular frame caught her eye immediately, his body moving with a grace that belied its strength. His brown hair, almost black, curled in wild tendrils as if the wind itself had shaped them. His beard was neatly trimmed, defining his jaw in a way that was both striking and deliberate. But it was his eyes, those lilac orbs—darker than anyone's in her family—that made her breath catch whenever they locked with hers. There was an intensity in his gaze that few could match, a quiet power that sent a thrill through her.
When he held her stare across the hall, amidst the bustle of the feast, Rhaenys had to steady herself, forcing her hand to stay on the table when all she wanted was to touch the warmth pooling in her chest. She couldn't look away. She shouldn't, but she couldn't stop.
Her heart hammered again when he faced down Gerold with a cold, unreadable expression, his presence like a silent storm. Even as a bastard, he had a way of defying the expectations of those around him—particularly the people from Dorne. It was refreshing to watch, and Rhaenys found herself replaying that moment over and over in her mind. His calm, unwavering defiance was mesmerizing. She almost lost control of herself when he donned the armor that had been handed to him and proceeded to obliterate Darkstar with effortless skill. The entire hall had been in awe, and even her brother, though reluctant, couldn't hide the respect in his eyes.
Egg would struggle against him, though his pride would never let him admit it.
Rhaenys knew she shouldn't feel this way. He was a bastard, born in the North, a place she had no particular affection for. But when she looked at him, her heart beat too fast to ignore. It was insane. She had suitors aplenty, men who would have gladly claimed her hand, yet none had ever made her feel the way he did.
A sharp snap of fingers near her ear jolted her from her thoughts. Arianne giggled at the annoyed look she shot her and nodded toward Margaery, who watched the exchange with a knowing smile. "I asked you a question, princess. You seemed lost in your thoughts."
The group of ladies in the room giggled, and Rhaenys gave them a small smile. "My apologies. What were you saying?"
Margaery's eyes gleamed with interest. "I asked what you thought of the spar tonight, princess."
Rhaenys wanted to say it was thrilling, that it had stirred something deep within her, something long dormant. But instead, she composed herself, drawing a deep breath before answering, "It was a good spar."
"How could he learn to swing a sword like that?" Nymeria's voice was sharp, laced with both curiosity and envy. There was no judgment in her words; none of the Dornish women in the room cared that a bastard was part of the conversation. Rhaenys could feel the tension rising as the Sand Snakes joined in, discussing his skills with admiration. Obara, the eldest, had a particular understanding of combat, trained by the Red Viper himself. She was not a woman to be underestimated, and her praise of Jon Snow was more than just idle chatter.
The other ladies in the room stayed silent, not daring to contradict the Sand Snakes. They were all aware of Rhaenys' power and influence, and no one wanted to risk offending her cousins in her presence. The Sand Snakes, it seemed, were growing bolder in their confidence, taking liberties that others might have avoided.
"Lady Dayne won't be pleased about tonight," Margaery said, her gaze flicking toward Rhaenys.
"No," Rhaenys agreed, her tone carefully neutral. "She won't." Ashara would be pleased, of course. Gerold was a figure of disdain in Dorne, even his own family had little affection for him. The only reason their faction had supported him was due to political rivalries with the North. The King's affair with Lyanna Stark had made things… complicated for Dorne.
"The poor Darkstar won't be the same after this," Arianne mused. "I expect another clash between him and Snow. His pride demands it."
Rhaenys knew Arianne was speaking from experience. She had been with Gerold for some time, and the Sand Snakes were the only ones who knew. But Rhaenys could tell it was over—Arianne's scowl spoke volumes. The beating Darkstar had received tonight would be the final nail in that particular coffin.
"Let's talk about this Snow," Arianne said with a sly smile, clearly enjoying the topic. "There's much to admire about him."
"For a bastard, he's very handsome," a lady from Margaery's side commented, her voice tinted with admiration.
"Not just handsome, I would even say he's beautiful," another added, her gaze lingering a little too long on the idea.
A sudden flare of jealousy shot through Rhaenys' chest, hot and uninvited, and she had the urge to slap the lady across the mouth. She shouldn't feel this way. She was a princess, not some little girl swooning over a man. Yet, the feeling gnawed at her.
"What do you all think?" Arianne asked, eyes glinting mischievously. "He's not what we expected, is he?"
The ladies all nodded, murmuring their agreement. Rhaenys had to admit, if someone had mentioned Jon Snow's name before tonight, she would have pictured a scruffy man with a hard, unattractive face and eyes that spoke only of hardship. But when he entered the hall, she saw him differently. His height, his presence—everything about him had turned her expectations on their head. And when their gazes met for the first time, it was like a jolt of lightning.
"Handsome or no, he's going nowhere," Cersei sneered, the disdain clear in her voice. "After all, he's a bastard."
The room fell silent, but Rhaenys barely acknowledged Cersei's words. The Queen's bitterness was obvious, but it didn't hold the same weight in her mind.
"If only he weren't a bastard," Arianne mused aloud, a touch of longing in her voice. Rhaenys could see the game she was playing. Status meant little to Arianne or the Sand Snakes; they would bed whomever they wished. Rhaenys herself had indulged in a few affairs in Dorne, but this felt… different.
As the conversation shifted, Rhaenys quietly reflected on the strange sense of unease that seemed to grow inside her the more they discussed Jon Snow. He was a bastard, yes. From the North, yes. But something about him—a part of him—was drawing her in. She could no longer deny it.
The conversation drifted to other topics—who would win the joust, the melee, and so on—but Rhaenys found herself withdrawing from the chatter, content to sit back and observe. The night had turned out to be more interesting than she had anticipated.
As the room began to empty, Rhaenys rose, announcing that the night had come to a close. Everyone filtered out except for her cousins, who had plans to share the night with her. It was normal among them, though others might find it odd.
She slipped from her gown into a simple sleep dress, and soon enough, Arianne and Tyene were in her bed, while Obara and Nymeria took the other. As Rhaenys lay in the quiet of the room, her thoughts drifted back to Jon Snow. She closed her eyes, but his image lingered behind her eyelids, haunting her dreams as purple eyes filled her thoughts.
Aegon
The soft creak of the door interrupted his daze, not loud enough to startle him but enough for him to glance up. Margaery stood in the doorway, a faint smile playing on her lips, her eyes expectant—though for what, Aegon wasn't sure. Her presence offered no distraction as he turned back to the goblet in his hand, staring at his reflection in the dim light.
He heard her sigh as she began to remove her dress, the rustle of fabric against her skin pulling his attention briefly. He swallowed another mouthful of wine and kept his gaze fixed on the glass. The night was his—a rare opportunity to shed the crown and the expectations that came with it. He didn't often drink this much, but tonight felt different, a moment to be just Aegon and not the prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Please, stop drinking," Margaery's voice broke through, her tone tinged with concern. She placed her necklace gently on the side table, watching him carefully.
"Go to bed, my lady," Aegon muttered, his words slurring slightly. The wine was heavy in his chest, but the weight of his thoughts was heavier. He needed this release.
"Drinking this much isn't like you," Margaery said, her voice firm now, no longer a request but a command.
"People can't be themselves all the time," Aegon replied, his voice dry and biting. "The prince of the Seven Kingdoms can relax once in a while."
Margaery didn't respond immediately, but when she did, it was with quiet authority. "Come to bed. A husband should sleep beside his wife."
Aegon took his time before responding, his mind slow and sluggish. "Don't worry...I'll be there."
"No, you won't," Margaery's words were sharp, biting. "When was the last time you slept beside me? Our wedding night?"
Aegon stayed silent, his focus still on the goblet, the world tilting just slightly in his mind. He could feel the warmth spreading through him, both from the wine and from something deeper, something more painful. He wanted to say something—anything—but his tongue felt heavy.
Margaery sighed again, a soft, defeated sound, and continued with her preparations for bed. Aegon turned in his seat, watching her, his eyes following her every movement. For a moment, the room seemed to spin, and he rubbed his forehead, trying to clear the fog from his mind.
A soft whimper slipped from his lips before he could stop it, and Margaery paused, glancing over at him. "Are you alright?"
He nodded, but it was a weak, unconvincing gesture. Margaery turned away, her back to him as she slipped into her nightgown. But Aegon couldn't tear his eyes away from her, his vision blurred with the remnants of his drunken haze.
And then, something strange happened. For a brief moment, her hair shimmered, turning silver-blond, like the color of moonlight. He blinked, and it was gone, replaced by her familiar brown locks. He chuckled under his breath, unsure whether it was the wine playing tricks on him or something more.
But then the vision changed again.
This time, the figure standing before him was not Margaery, but Daenerys. Her pale hair, her sharp features, the dress she wore when she left him... It was as if she had returned, alive and breathing in his arms.
"Aegon?" Daenerys's voice called to him, her lips moving in the same way they had all those nights ago. He could feel the pull of her, the temptation to make everything right, to make her stay.
Aegon couldn't resist. He drained the last of his wine and slammed the goblet down, stumbling to his feet. His body moved before his mind caught up. He took Daenerys by the waist, pulling her to him, and crushed his lips against hers. She gasped into the kiss, but soon she returned it, her passion matching his. He led her to the bed, clothes discarded carelessly in the frenzy of his desire.
...
Aegon awoke, gasping for breath, his chest slick with sweat. He rolled to the side, his arm draped over the woman beside him, but it wasn't Daenerys. It was Margaery. Her back was turned, her body stiff with anger, the soft sounds of her breath betraying the tension between them.
Aegon blinked, his vision still clouded by the remnants of his intoxication. What had he done?
Without a word, Margaery rolled away from him, pulling the blanket over her body as if to shield herself from his gaze. The hurt in her eyes was unmistakable, and Aegon felt a sharp pang of guilt slice through him.
He closed his eyes, the weight of the world pressing down on him. Daenerys had been here, in his arms... but now, it was Margaery who lay beside him, her warmth distant, her silence louder than any words she could have spoken.
The drunken haze began to lift, and clarity hit him like a wave. His stomach turned as the realization sank in: he had betrayed her, in more ways than one. He reached out, placing a hand on Margaery's shoulder, shaking her gently.
"Margaery," he called, but she didn't respond. She lay still, her back to him, perhaps asleep, perhaps choosing to ignore him. He couldn't blame her either way.
Aegon stared at the ceiling, guilt and self-loathing gnawing at him. He had failed her. How could he be a good king if he couldn't even be a good husband?
His father's own mistakes were not his to follow, but Aegon couldn't help the thought that slipped into his mind. His father had disrespected his mother, yet he was still a king. But that wasn't the path Aegon wanted to walk. He needed to be better, for Margaery, for the kingdom.
He touched her shoulder once more before sinking back into the pillows. The weight of his choices pressed on him as sleep finally claimed him, though it offered no comfort.
Jon
…
It was far too early for Jon to be aimlessly wandering through the castle. He had awoken in his tent with an empty stomach, the gnawing hunger urging him to find food. He avoided the great hall for breakfast, remembering last night's events all too well. The way the eyes of the court had followed him with an intensity that made his skin crawl was not something he cared to revisit. The last thing he needed now was another fit of nervous trembling from someone who couldn't bear his presence.
His stomach growled, making him more irritable, pushing him to quicken his pace down the hallway. As he moved, more people stirred from their slumber, giving him the occasional fleeting glance as they passed by, but none dared to stop and speak.
Lost in his thoughts, Jon nearly collided with a woman struggling to carry several trays of food. She wobbled slightly under the weight, but before she could lose her balance, Jon stepped forward to help, taking one tray from her left hand. As he did, he caught a glimpse of her—short raven-black hair, eyes like the lake near the castle, and a face set in a seriousness that belied her undeniable beauty.
"Thank you, ser," she said with a small smile, her tone polite but guarded.
Jon shifted the tray to his dominant hand and began walking alongside her. "I'm no ser," he replied, his voice gruff.
She seemed unperturbed by his bluntness. "My apologies," she said. "You carry yourself like one. I didn't catch your name."
"Jon Snow," he said simply, his gaze steady.
"Ah, Ned Stark's bastard," she remarked, her tone neutral, as though it were a mere fact rather than an insult.
"Aye, that's me," Jon said, his words edged with a hint of bitterness. Even a bastard could be well-known, it seemed.
The woman offered a slight smile. "I'm Mya Stone. Robbert Baratheon's bastard." She spoke it plainly, as if such things no longer bothered her. "I would shake your hand, but—"
"No harm done," Jon interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "What brings you here?"
"I'm Rhaenys Targaryen's handmaid," Mya replied, unaware of the way Jon's body stiffened at the name.
"Are the trays for her?" Jon asked, his grip on the trays tightening slightly, an unease creeping over him at the thought of encountering the princess again.
"No," Mya answered, unfazed. "They're for Robb Stark and his friends around the God's Eye."
Jon's tension relaxed a little, though he still felt a gnawing discomfort. "Let me take these for you," he said, his voice more gentle than before. "I was going to find him anyway."
Mya raised an eyebrow, her gaze assessing him. "I don't think you can—"
Before she could finish, Jon took the other two trays from her, balancing them with ease. He flashed her a quick grin, the strain of his earlier discomfort momentarily forgotten. "Don't worry. I'm stronger than I look, my lady."
She stared at him for a moment, clearly taken aback, but her expression softened. "I didn't doubt your strength," she said after a pause. "I've seen your spar with Gerold Dayne."
Jon gave a small shrug, then glanced toward the distant trees. "This is where we part ways, my lady." He said the words with politeness, his gaze sincere but distant. It wasn't mockery—he called everyone "my lady" or "my lord," as a small act of respect. "If you find yourself free from your duties, come find me."
Mya looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Bastards, both of them, they had learned the art of silent communication early. She gave a small nod, her lips pressing into a firm line. "I will if I can. Farewell, Jon Snow."
As she walked away, Jon swore he caught the hint of a smile on her lips. A small, fleeting thing, but it was there, and it stayed with him long after she was out of sight. Only a handful of people spoke to him, and Mya was among the few who had, though she, too, was marked by the same isolation that he had endured. There was no harm in talking to her, at least not to Jon. If anything, it was a welcome change.
Jon continued through the castle, the weight of the trays growing heavier in his arms. He kept his pace steady, unwilling to let the food slow him down. He was used to being tasked with bringing food to others, even back with the head of the company. At least here, his delivery would be less confusing than it had been when he started carrying food for Harry, who liked to hear his own voice more than anything. Jon had no idea why Harry spoke to him, but he had become patient with it, knowing it was better to stay silent.
Outside, the air was warm, and the sky was dotted with white, puffy clouds. Sunlight bathed the green plains, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. For a brief moment, Jon allowed himself to appreciate the beauty of the world around him before his focus returned to his task.
He scanned the area for Robb but couldn't spot him right away. All he saw were unfamiliar faces, faces that didn't recognize him.
"Jon!"
He turned to his right to see Robb, Theon, Domeric, and a few other northern young men sitting beneath the shade of a large tree. Jon approached, setting the trays down in front of them.
"Damn, Jon," Robb said with a grin. "With that hair and the way you carry those trays, some bloke might mistake you for a maid."
The group laughed, and Jon quirked a smile before responding, "And some bloke might mistake you for a babe in swaddling with that face of yours."
Robb froze, one hand flying to his face in mock horror as the group burst into laughter. The teasing died down, and Robb gave a wry smile. "Alright, enough of that. The time for laughter is over, my lords. Let us eat!"
They whooped, eagerly reaching for the food. Jon grabbed a piece of bacon, but before he could take a bite, Domeric leaned in, speaking softly. "Snow, eat all you want."
The group nodded in agreement, and Theon added, "He should. What he gave Darkstar last night must have left him hungry!"
They cheered, and a few men got up to clap Jon on the back, surprising a few of the nearby men. Jon cast a glance at Theon, wondering why he had chosen to bring that up.
Theon met his gaze and gave a slight nod, as if acknowledging something unspoken. Maybe he wanted to put the past behind them.
Theon broke the silence with his usual mischievous grin. "Alright, my lords. Let's talk about something interesting!"
Domeric raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"
"The gorgeous ladies at this tourney, of course," Theon said, a gleam in his eye. "There are a lot of them."
Robb sighed. "What about them, Theon?"
Theon's eyes practically sparkled. "They're amazing!"
"If they're so amazing, why don't you try talking to them?" Domeric suggested, his voice dry.
Theon hesitated. "I don't know how these southern girls act."
"When has that stopped you, Theon?" Robb teased.
Theon shrugged. "Obviously now. But I've got a list in my head."
"A list?" Jon asked, intrigued.
"The list of the most beautiful women," Theon said, looking around with a satisfied grin.
The group stared at him in shock. Domeric was the first to recover. "A list? That's a tough one with the women here."
"That's what makes it fun," Theon replied, his grin widening.
"Who's on your list, then?" Jon asked.
"The maximum is three," Theon said, scanning the crowd. "Margaery Tyrell, Arianne Martell, and the princess."
"Good choices," Jon admitted. The three women had been the subject of many whispers since the opening feast.
"What about you, Dom?" Robb asked, leaning back against the tree.
Domeric smiled, clearly playing his cards close to his chest. "I'll keep my list to myself until everyone else arrives. Daenerys Targaryen and Ashara Dayne are rumored to be beauties as well."
"I see," Theon said with a laugh. "Playing it safe, eh?"
"Call me smart," Domeric replied coolly.
Robb turned to Jon. "And you, Jon? Wait, I shouldn't have asked. You've only got one on your list."
The group erupted into laughter, and Jon felt his face flush. Robb knows she's my half-sister.
Theon paused mid-laugh. "Does that mean he's…?"
"Aye, he is!" Robb confirmed, still laughing as he fell back into the grass.
Jon stood, the weight of his embarrassment palpable. "Alright, I'm done here."
Robb stopped laughing long enough to say, "Aw, come on, Jon! Don't be like that."
Jon just shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. He walked away, his laughter ringing in the air as he went.
The smile faded as he spotted another group lounging on the grass not far away. The crown prince, the princess, the man with the beard, and Mya were gathered, enjoying their breakfast. Jon had no interest in them, especially with the thought of facing Rhaenys and Aegon. He wasn't ready yet for any of that.
"They don't see me," Jon reassured himself, turning on his heel to leave. But before he could take another step, a voice halted him in his tracks.
"Where are you going, Snow?" It was Aegon, the crown prince, no doubt having spotted him from afar. Jon closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again, bracing for the inevitable.
Jon turned, calling back, "Back to the castle, my prince." If this back-and-forth kept up, it would almost be humorous.
Aegon waved him over, and Jon had little choice but to comply. As he walked forward, he noticed Rhaenys's slight gasp at his approach. He ignored it, keeping his pace steady until he was standing before them.
"Do you wish to eat with us?" Aegon asked, offering a smile. The prince liked to smile a lot.
"I must refuse, my prince," Jon replied, his gaze shifting momentarily as Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. "I shared my meal with my brother," he added, keeping his focus on Aegon and avoiding the princess's gaze.
Aegon nodded, unfazed. "Very well—"
"Surely there's room for more," Rhaenys interrupted, her voice smooth as she reached for a sausage. "Sit, Snow."
Jon hesitated, but the command in her tone left no room for argument. He glanced at the others—Viserys and Mya—who remained silent. With a reluctant nod, Jon sat.
His eyes flitted over the trays of food, but he settled for an apple, taking a bite.
"There's no need to be hesitant about eating with us," Rhaenys said, her eyes watching him intently as she took a bite of her sausage. "You can have more than an apple."
Jon met her gaze evenly. "I'm not hesitant, Your Highness," he said, the words escaping before he could stop them. "I just like to savor the things I want." The moment he spoke, he cursed himself internally—had he just flirted? And had Rhaenys picked up on it?
The princess's eyes widened slightly, but to Jon's relief, the others were too engrossed in their conversation to notice the subtle tension in the air. Mya, as always, remained silent and composed, her duty clear.
Rhaenys's lips curled into a small smile, and Jon felt his breath hitch. "I like to savor my food as well. We have something in common, then."
Jon's heart skipped. There were blunt women, and then there were those who spoke with intent, weaving their words like a master. He wasn't a fool.
"That's good to know," Jon replied, keeping his voice steady.
"Your spar with Gerold Dayne was impressive," Rhaenys continued, her gaze lingering on him. "Your sword certainly charms the eye."
Jon wasn't sure whether she referred to the weapon on his hip or the one she undoubtedly meant—him. But he was too well-mannered to call her out on it. "Thank you, my princess."
Before their quiet exchange could go any further, Viserys interjected, his voice amused. "You have my congratulations, Snow, though you were a bit too harsh on Gerold."
Jon was about to reply when Rhaenys cut in, her tone sharp. "There's no such thing as too harsh when you're wearing armor and wielding a sword."
"It was only a spar," Viserys said with a slight shrug, trying to ease the tension.
"It was a spar that Gerold asked for—and got," Rhaenys snapped, her wit quick and biting. Jon couldn't help but feel a little thrill at her fire.
Viserys, more entertained than offended, smiled faintly. "As you wish, my niece. I was merely pointing something out."
Rhaenys wasn't finished, though. "And your point was wrong. As someone who spars, I expected better."
Aegon, grinning, leaned in. "Enough scolding, sister. Isn't that right, Snow?"
"Aye," Jon said, his gaze flickering between them. The princess met his eyes, her expression a little sheepish.
"Tell me, Snow," Aegon said, his grin widening. "Who taught you to wield a sword in both hands?"
"I taught myself, my prince," Jon replied, steady as ever.
"That's extraordinary," Rhaenys commented, her voice low, admiring.
Jon met her gaze for a beat, but then turned his attention to the eggs before him. A part of him was distracted, but he knew where this conversation was headed.
"Am I beautiful to you, Snow?" Rhaenys asked, her voice suddenly softer, more provocative.
Jon froze for a moment, his mind racing. "Yes, Your Highness," he said quietly, but with sincerity. No one could deny the princess's beauty—she was a vision, a striking contrast to her brother's fair, pale skin. Rhaenys was olive-skinned, with dark brown hair that framed her sharp features.
"Why did you look away from me?" she pressed, her gaze unwavering.
Jon felt a strange twist in his chest, his breath hitching at the question. "I am a bastard," he replied, the words coming easily. "It would be rude if I was caught staring."
Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, as if this answer didn't satisfy her. "That didn't stop you before," she observed, her eyes glinting with something mischievous.
Jon fell silent, weighing his words. His uncle had always said it was best to remain silent when uncertain. And he was uncertain. The proximity of Rhaenys, her attention focused on him, made him feel like he was standing too close to a flame.
"Well?" she asked again, her tone insistent.
Jon was about to respond when a new group approached—two golden-haired boys and the woman from last night who had been sitting at the high table. The woman looked at them with a sneer, as though she were dragged here against her will.
"Hello, Father," the younger boy greeted Viserys.
Viserys stood to embrace him. "Hello, Tommen." His mood shifted when he turned to the other boy. "Hello, Joffrey."
Joffrey barely glanced at his father, his response a terse, "Hello."
"Come, sit," Viserys said, gesturing to the chairs. The haughty woman remained standing, looking down her nose at everyone in the room.
"What is she doing here?" Cersei snapped, her gaze cutting to Mya. "A bastard shouldn't be among us."
Mya, unperturbed, held Cersei's gaze in silence, not rising to the challenge.
"That 'bastard,' as you call her, is my handmaid," Rhaenys said coolly. "And she is staying."
Cersei huffed, her eyes flickering to Jon. "And him?" she sneered. "A bastard is no fit company for royalty."
Jon stood, not hiding the sarcasm in his voice. "Of course, my lady. I am but an upstart bastard. I'll leave. I am unworthy of your presence." His words dripped with disdain, and Viserys chuckled quietly, unnoticed by the others.
Jon turned to leave, but as he did, he heard Rhaenys protest for him to stay. He ignored her, walking swiftly. Perhaps he would regret his rudeness later, but for now, he needed space from the princess's overwhelming presence.
As he exited the hall, Jon remembered the gold he was supposed to collect. "I completely forgot about that," he muttered to himself.
He made his way toward the northern camp, his mind distracted by the conversation, until he spotted his tent in the distance. A tall man stood next to it, his face badly burned, his grin twisted. His massive form made Jon feel small in comparison.
"You're Snow?" the Hound's gravelly voice asked, his breath reeking of wine.
"Aye," Jon replied, nodding.
"Your payment's there." Sandor gestured to the four bags next to him. "The big wolf in your tent started growling when I tried bringing them inside."
Jon fought back a laugh at the thought of the Hound frightened by Ghost. He didn't want to show amusement, but the image was too good to ignore.
Sandor scowled, sensing Jon's amusement. "What?"
"Nothing," Jon said with a smirk. "I wouldn't want to mess with my wolf, either."
"I'm done here." The Hound turned, his armor clinking with each step. "Farewell, bastard."
Jon watched him leave, surprised by the abruptness of his departure. The man hadn't mentioned anything about the deal with Tyrion, just left without a word.
Chuckling, Jon picked up one of the coins from a bag and bit it. "Eh."
Have a good day!