Jon
The humid air clung to them like a second skin, but it did little to hinder the disciplined rhythm of their march. The earth beneath trembled as steel-plated war elephants lumbered at the forefront of their ranks. Their sheer presence was enough to instill fear—an unstoppable force that rendered cavalry unnecessary. No horse could rival the devastating might of the elephants.
Among the spearmen, Jon trudged forward, clad in heavy golden plate armor that gleamed dully under the clouded sun. His helm concealed his face, the cold steel a mask for the doubts swirling within him. In his right hand, he gripped a spear, its sharp tip reflecting the light, while his left arm supported a sturdy golden shield. The weight of the armor was oppressive, but he bore it like the others, silent and resolute.
Behind him, the swordsmen marched with steady hands resting on the pommels of their blades, their faces shadowed by their helms. Further back, the archers kept pace, their lighter armor allowing for nimbleness while still offering protection. Every unit moved with precision, a testament to the Golden Company's discipline.
Jon stole a glance at the soldiers beside him, their faces set like stone. Fear and doubt had no place here, yet they churned within him. Could he ever possess their calm, their unshakable focus? His dark brows furrowed beneath his helm.
For a year, Jon had served the Golden Company, but never on the front lines. His assignments had been... simpler. Assassinations. At first, each kill left him hollow, guilt gnawing at his resolve. Once, he even let a target escape, a mistake that earned him the scorn of his commander and the mocking jeers of his comrades. Green boy, they called him, unfit for war.
Determined to prove them wrong, Jon hardened himself. The act of taking a life grew easier—though never easy. And now, he stood here, spear in hand, thrust into a battle far beyond anything he had known.
This contract was unlike any other. The city of Qohor had hired the Golden Company for a monumental task: to crush the Dothraki horde that had besieged them. The horde, forty thousand strong under Khal Drogo's banner, was a tidal wave of destruction. In comparison, the Golden Company numbered only twenty thousand. Yet they were no ordinary force—they were the most renowned sellswords in Essos, veterans of countless campaigns, armed with elephants and superior armor. Still, Jon knew the truth: death would claim many today. Perhaps even him.
His hand trembled, causing his spear to wobble slightly. The motion didn't go unnoticed.
"Snow's about to piss himself!" a voice jeered.
Laughter rippled through the ranks, breaking the tense silence. Jon scowled beneath his helm as even the men flanking him chuckled.
A lone rider broke from the front, his horse galloping to a halt before the formation. Captain-General Harry Strickland's voice boomed across the assembled soldiers.
"Enough!" he bellowed. His piercing gaze swept over the men. "You laugh on the eve of battle? Do you think Bittersteel founded this company for cowards and fools?"
The men straightened under his scrutiny.
"No!" they roared.
"Then prove it!" Harry shouted. "Focus! Hold your line! We fight not just for gold, but for our honor. For Bittersteel!"
The rallying cry silenced the jeers, but the tension lingered.
Then came the sound. A low rumble, growing steadily louder, making the earth tremble beneath their feet. It was an eerie noise, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.
It's screams, Jon realized, tightening his grip on his spear. The Dothraki were near.
On the horizon, dark shapes appeared, backlit by the harsh sun. Mounted Dothraki warriors surged forward, their cries piercing the air. Arakhs gleamed as they waved their curved blades, their bloodlust palpable even from a distance.
"Hold the line!" Harry commanded, his voice cutting through the rising panic.
The spearmen formed a wall, shields braced and spears angled forward. Behind them, swordsmen drew their blades, their faces set in grim determination. The archers stood ready, arrows nocked, awaiting the signal.
The war elephants trumpeted, a deafening sound that sent shivers down Jon's spine. Then they charged, breaking from the formation to crash into the oncoming horde. Dothraki riders were hurled from their saddles, trampled beneath the massive beasts.
"Loose!" came the command, and a hail of arrows arced through the sky, striking down many of the riders. Yet the horde pressed on, undeterred.
Jon braced himself as the first Dothraki rider bore down on him. His spear struck true, toppling the horse and its rider. Blood spattered his shield as he thrust the spear into the fallen man's skull.
There was no time to think. Another Dothraki charged, slashing wildly. Jon raised his shield, blocking the blows, but the force drove him to his knees. Summoning his strength, he lunged upward, driving his spear into the man's gut.
The battle raged around him, a maelstrom of blood and chaos. Elephants tore through the horde, while men screamed and fell on both sides. The air was thick with the stench of death and the iron tang of blood.
Jon's heart pounded as he parried another strike, his arms aching under the relentless assault. He stumbled, his shield wrenched from his grasp. Panic surged, but before his assailant could land the killing blow, another soldier intervened, cutting the Dothraki down.
Jon's savior turned to speak, but an arakh cleaved his head from his shoulders before the words could form. Blood sprayed, and Jon staggered back, horror-stricken.
The carnage was unending. Bodies piled high, their lifeless eyes staring into nothing. The screams were deafening, the chaos overwhelming. Jon's grip faltered, his spear slipping from his sweaty palms.
I can't be here, he thought, the world spinning around him. He turned and ran, his breath ragged, desperation driving him forward.
A shadow loomed in his peripheral vision—a horse's black leg. The impact came swift and brutal, and darkness enveloped him.
…
Jon groaned softly, his head pounding like a drum. He pushed himself upright, his limbs cracking as he stretched. The ache in his legs didn't bother him as much as the dull throb behind his eyes. After a few more stretches, he sank back onto the edge of his bed, letting out a long yawn.
Last night had been a disaster—or so he'd been told. Robb had carried him back to his tent after he'd apparently passed out on the grass outside the gates. According to Robb, a few curious passersby had tried to nudge him awake, only for Ghost to scare them off.
What a fool I am, Jon thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He'd been so sure he could make it back to the tent on his own. So much for that confidence.
Before he could dwell further, Robb burst into the tent, his smile far too bright for Jon's throbbing head.
"Morning! Feeling better?" Robb's voice was annoyingly cheerful, like nails on ice.
Jon flinched, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Don't shout."
"Shout? Like this?!" Robb's volume rose even higher.
Jon sighed. "For the love of—"
"I still can't hear you!" Robb cut him off, practically yelling.
"SHU—!" Jon's attempt to retaliate died mid-sentence as his head pulsed with renewed agony. Groaning, he collapsed back onto the bed, cradling his temples as if Sansa herself were threading needles into his skull.
Robb smirked, sitting down beside him. "I had to do it. Couldn't resist."
"Of course, you couldn't," Jon muttered, rolling onto his side and wishing for Ghost to chase Robb out.
But Robb, as always, ignored the obvious. He dragged a chair closer to the bed, his grin intact. "So…are we not going to talk about what happened last night?"
"What are you on about?" Jon asked, voice muffled against his pillow. From what he recalled, he'd drunk a bit too much and passed out. Nothing noteworthy.
"You know what I'm talking about."
"I don't. Enlighten me."
Robb's grin widened. "Everyone in the great hall was talking about it."
"Talking about me sleeping?" Jon scoffed. "Truly, they must be bored out of their minds."
"No, Jon." Robb leaned forward, delight clear in his voice. "They were talking about the bastard who had the fortune to dance with the dragon princess."
Jon froze. "What?"
Robb's grin turned wolfish. "You heard me."
"I did no such thing," Jon said slowly, glaring at his cousin. But even as the denial left his lips, fragments of memory surged forward.
He had danced with Rhaenys. He could recall the feel of her small hands in his, the warmth of her hips beneath his palms, and the way her grip had tightened around him. His hands had lingered where they shouldn't have, and he'd known it was wrong. She was his sister, for the gods' sake. And yet…those deep brown eyes of hers still lingered in his mind.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"You remember now?" Robb teased. "Didn't think you'd hear me and Theon calling your name. Guess you were too…preoccupied."
Jon clenched his jaw. "Did you make a scene?"
"Of course. Theon and I thought it'd be fun. You two were getting…very close."
Jon groaned again, dragging a hand over his face. "Why must you embarrass me at every turn?"
"Because it's fun." Robb's grin didn't falter. "Though, to be fair, you gave us plenty to work with. You didn't exactly hold her like a sister last night."
"That's incest, Robb," Jon hissed.
Robb shrugged, unbothered. "And Targaryens are known for it. It's practically their tradition."
"I'm no dragon," Jon shot back. "I was raised a wolf, and I'll die a wolf. I don't condone their ways."
Robb raised a brow. "Maybe you don't, but does she? Do you think Rhaenys cares about traditions when she's already claimed your attention?"
Jon had no answer for that. He barely knew her.
"I've heard the princess is stubborn," Robb continued. "And possessive of what she wants. Doesn't seem like the type to let you go easily."
"She can want whatever she likes," Jon muttered. "She won't have me." He had to be strong. He would be strong.
Robb didn't look convinced. "You say that, but I saw the way you looked at her. Jon, if you aren't careful, you'll be the one left hurting."
Jon swallowed hard, unable to argue. He breathed deeply, steadying himself as Robb placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. For once, his cousin's presence was more comforting than irritating.
After a long moment, Jon finally spoke. "Why are you telling me this now?"
Robb's expression softened. "Because tonight, there's a feast around the Gods Eye. If there's a chance for her to corner you again, it's this one."
Jon laughed bitterly. Of course, there would be. He didn't trust himself around her, and yet he'd have no choice but to endure.
Robb rose from the bed, rolling his shoulders before glancing back at Jon. "I'll leave you to rest. You'll need it for the feast ahead, brother." With that, he strode out of the tent, his steps fading into the quiet.
The silence that followed was unsettling—too quiet, too still.
Jon's thoughts turned sharply to Cannibal. Closing his eyes, he drew a steady breath, focusing inward. He exhaled slowly as his senses locked onto the dragon's presence. His heart sank.
Cannibal was in Winterfell.
Dread coiled tightly in Jon's chest. No. No, no.
Reaching out through their bond, Jon touched the dragon's mind with careful deliberation—a gentle nudge, not a demand. Even so, Cannibal recoiled, his displeasure crashing back through the connection like a thunderclap. A fierce roar echoed through their link, wild and defiant.
Leave, Jon commanded firmly, his mental voice unwavering.
Cannibal resisted, his anger simmering, sharp as fire. Jon dug deeper, his will steeling. Leave.
The standoff lingered for what felt like an eternity, the dragon's defiance battering at Jon's resolve. But then, grudgingly, Cannibal relented. A shiver of reluctant compliance rippled through the bond before Jon severed it.
He blinked, his breath uneven, only now realizing his arms were trembling. Anxiety gnawed at him, its teeth sharp and relentless.
How long had he been at Winterfell? The question clawed at Jon, but the answer was maddeningly out of reach. There'd been no reports—no cries of alarm, no news of smoldering ruins or a dragon darkening the northern skies. That, at least, was a sliver of solace.
If Winterfell stood untouched, Jon reasoned, Cannibal's visit must have been an anomaly. The dragon tolerated no one's presence but Jon's and had little patience for anything else. His temper was as volatile as wildfire, and those who ventured too close rarely lived to tell of it.
To ensure no further trouble, Jon issued a final mental command. Stay near Harrenhal. Close enough for Jon to monitor, but far enough from prying eyes. He could still feel the faint tremor of Cannibal's displeasure, but the dragon obeyed.
Releasing a weary sigh, Jon collapsed onto his pillow. Wrestling Cannibal's will always drained him, leaving him physically and emotionally spent.
As he lay still, trying to calm his racing heart, another growl—this one from his stomach—shattered the quiet.
"Well," Jon muttered, glancing down at his abdomen with a faint smirk, "it seems you're as demanding as Cannibal."
He swung his legs off the bed, shrugging on a cloak and pulling the hood over his head. Perhaps Tyrion's awake by now. Breaking my fast with him might be a welcome distraction.
With that, Jon stepped out of his tent, leaving the unease behind him—for now.
When Jon entered Tyrion's tent, the trio of Tyrion, Bronn, and Sandor were already seated around the table, sharing food and conversation.
Tyrion was the first to notice him, raising his cup with a grin. "Jon! How was your sleep?"
"Pitiful," Jon replied, pulling out a chair. Their laughter followed as he joined them at the table.
"You want wine?" Tyrion offered, his grin widening.
"No, water will do," Jon replied curtly, pouring himself a cup and taking a measured sip. He was done indulging Tyrion's teasing games.
Bronn watched him, his brow lifting in curiosity. Jon returned the gaze evenly.
"What?" Jon finally asked, his voice calm but firm. He could sense Bronn's unspoken thoughts, but he wasn't about to fill the silence. He'd learned that some things were better left unsaid.
"You're not going to say anything?" Bronn pressed, his tone half-mocking, half-serious. Tyrion and Sandor stopped eating, their attention shifting to the exchange.
"There's nothing to say," Jon replied evenly. He had learned enough to let the past die. He wasn't the naïve boy he once was.
Bronn smirked. "Was I right, then?"
Jon hesitated briefly, his eyes hardening. "Yes."
"And what did it cost you?"
"Everything," Jon said, his voice quiet but resolute. "You were right, but I survived." The words hung heavy in the air. He'd lost his innocence and gained scars—some visible, others etched into his soul. Surviving the Dothraki Sea alone had forged him anew.
Bronn nodded approvingly. "You're alive, and you've made a name for yourself. I respect that. Turns out you've got some balls after all."
"What's all this about?" Sandor asked, his gruff voice cutting through the moment.
Bronn leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "People say Snow here is one of the coldest killers alive. But I met him before that—on a ship to Essos. Back then, he was just a naïve boy."
Tyrion's eyes widened in mock disbelief. "You? Naïve? I always imagined you swinging a Valyrian sword as you burst out of the womb, cursing at the maester who dared slap you."
The table erupted in laughter, though Sandor's gaze remained fixed on Jon's hilt. "Valyrian steel, is it?" the Hound asked gruffly.
"Aye," Jon said tersely. "And don't ask where I got it, because I'm not telling."
"Let us see it, then," Bronn pressed.
Jon shook his head. "You'll see it when—"
"When you win the bloody tourney," Tyrion interrupted, waving dismissively. "Spare us the suspense and show us the sword now, you stubborn bastard."
Jon considered for a moment, then stood and unsheathed the blade. Gasps filled the tent as the smoky ripples of Valyrian steel shimmered in the light.
Tyrion's eyes widened with awe. "Is that... Blackfyre?"
"Aye, it is," Jon replied, passing the sword to Sandor, who examined it like a prized possession.
"Shit…" Bronn muttered, tilting his head as he took the sword next. He studied it with reverence before locking eyes with Jon. "You took this from the Golden Company, didn't you?"
Jon shrugged. "It wasn't theirs to begin with."
Bronn's grin widened. "They say you failed to retrieve it, and the Company's been hunting you ever since. How'd you pull it off?"
"I found a way," Jon said simply.
Sandor, still eyeing the sword, grunted. "That's a Targaryen blade. Shouldn't you give it back to them?"
Bronn scoffed, throwing his feet onto the table. "Why should he? He fought for it. The Targaryens did nothing—they don't deserve it."
"I am giving it back," Jon said firmly. His words silenced the room.
"Why the hell would you do that?" Bronn asked, incredulous.
"Because it's theirs," Jon replied. "The sword belongs to them, not me."
Sandor snorted. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Bronn hissed, "You're giving away a Valyrian steel sword? Do you know how rare that is?"
Jon met his gaze unwaveringly. "Yes."
Tyrion leaned back, observing the exchange with a knowing smile. "And yet, Valyrian steel isn't so rare to me. I might even have a collection stashed away somewhere."
Sandor snorted again. "Not that you'd use them."
Tyrion grinned. "True, but I was considering giving Valyrian steel to both you and Bronn. That decision, however, is dwindling rapidly."
Silence fell over the table. Jon sheathed the sword, his voice cutting through the tension. "I'll present it to the crown prince tonight at the feast. Your opinions won't change my mind."
Later, as they walked toward the feast under the moonlit sky, Tyrion fell into step beside Jon.
"It's a noble thing, giving the sword back to them," Tyrion said.
"I know," Jon replied.
Tyrion chuckled. "You don't boast, do you?"
Jon smirked. "I act. That should be enough."
Tyrion nodded, his tone turning sincere. "You're a good man, Jon. Flawed, yes, but good. People misunderstand you. Underneath all that stoicism is someone worth admiring."
Jon looked ahead, silent but thoughtful.
"Even Princess Rhaenys sees it," Tyrion added, his tone sly.
Jon clenched his jaw but kept his face neutral. "Drop it," he said firmly.
Tyrion's knowing smirk lingered, but he said no more.
When they arrived at the feast, the tables were elegantly set, and the torches burned brightly, casting a warm glow over the gathering. Blankets had been spread across the soft grass for those who preferred the intimacy of sitting under the open sky rather than at the long, formal tables. Everywhere, people laughed and chatted with a cheerful ease, whether seated or standing.
The feast's location offered an unobstructed view of the largest lake in the Seven Kingdoms, a breathtaking sight for those who chose to take it in. The creamy-white moon hung high above, its light cascading down and illuminating the lake's surface, which sparkled like scattered diamonds. A sizable group had gathered at the shoreline, captivated by the ethereal beauty of the shimmering waters.
And there she was—Rhaenys.
The princess stood by the lake, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, their laughter drifting through the cool evening air. The moonlight caressed her as it did the waters, highlighting the elegant knot of her dark hair, with loose strands framing her striking face. She wore an orange gown that clung perfectly to her figure, emphasizing the graceful maturity of a grown woman. In that moment, Jon thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Rhaenys smiled as though someone had shared an amusing jest, but then her gaze slid to him. Her eyes swept over him slowly, and her smile deepened, undeniably confident. To her side, the Sand Snakes stopped their conversation to glance his way. One, the least comely of the trio, scowled openly at him, while the other two regarded him with keen curiosity.
Despite himself, Jon found a small smile tugging at his lips. The way Rhaenys' own smile turned sultry in response was the last thing he saw before he forced himself to turn away.
"There is the crown prince, Jon," Tyrion murmured, gesturing toward a grand table where Aegon sat alongside his wife and uncle. Two Kingsguard stood watch behind them, their expressions stern and vigilant. Aegon, however, looked thoroughly uninterested, sitting stiffly in his chair and saying little, his gaze flickering over the festivities without care.
Jon took a step toward the table but paused when his eyes fell on Mya. She sat alone beneath a nearby tree, her back resting against its trunk, watching the revelry from afar.
I made her a promise, he reminded himself.
"I'll go to the prince later," Jon said to Tyrion, breaking away from the group. He moved toward Mya, weaving through the crowd with ease as people instinctively stepped aside.
A small chuckle escaped him as he imagined Rhaenys narrowing her eyes in disapproval. When he reached Mya, he lowered himself onto the grass beside her, taking in the grand scale of the feast as it sprawled before them.
His gaze caught on Darkstar, who sat alone, his wounds hidden beneath his dark clothing. The man glowered at anyone who dared look his way for too long, his air as sharp and hostile as ever. When his eyes met Jon's, Darkstar's scowl faltered, though it didn't vanish entirely. Jon stared him down briefly before turning his attention elsewhere, uninterested in provoking one of Darkstar's infamous tirades.
"Snow," Mya greeted him, her voice soft but warm.
"Call me Jon."
"You actually came to talk to me," Mya said, her voice laced with mild surprise.
"Did you expect any less?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.
Mya glanced down at her hands, a small, hesitant smile playing at her lips. "No, I suppose not. It's just... surprising. There are others who would kill for your attention right now."
"And who might those people be?"
Mya inclined her head slightly. "Judging by the way she's staring at you, Princess Rhaenys is one of them."
Jon didn't turn to look, though he could feel the weight of a burning gaze boring into the back of his head. "Oh? And how is she staring?"
Mya tilted her head in thought, her serious expression softening into a mischievous smile. "Like if she had a dragon, she'd command it to burn you to ash and bones." She picked up a small stick and tossed it over her shoulder casually.
Jon suppressed a shiver that threatened to crawl down his spine. Mya wasn't one to exaggerate, and her words unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
"You could look for yourself," she continued, her tone playful yet cautionary. "But do it carefully. Turn slowly. If she catches you, I genuinely fear for your well-being."
Jon nodded, his mouth twitching in reluctant agreement. I fear for it too.
He cracked his neck and began to shift his gaze, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He was a patient man, and he'd mastered the art of subtlety in moments like these. It took what felt like an eternity, but eventually, he angled himself just enough to glance at Rhaenys from the corner of his eye.
The sight was terrifying.
Jon had faced horrors that defied nature—creatures of darkness and death—and none of them had ever scared him quite like this. Rhaenys was livid. The goblet in her hand looked as if it might shatter under her grip. Her lips were pressed into a razor-sharp line, and her piercing gaze was locked onto him, unrelenting. Even as she nodded along to someone speaking beside her, her focus never wavered.
Her anger was a storm, veiled to everyone but him and Mya. Jon could see through her carefully composed mask. Jon exhaled sharply and turned back to Mya. "Damn. You're right."
Mya smirked, leaning back against the tree. "She always gets what she wants, you know."
Jon frowned, whipping his head toward her. "What?" He hadn't expected that.
Mya's expression turned curious as she studied him. "The only time the princess stares like that is when she wants something. And Rhaenys always gets what interests her."
She leaned closer, her blue eyes narrowing as if she were trying to uncover a secret. "Tell me, Jon Snow, what is it about you that's caught her attention?"
Hell, I don't even know.
Jon shrugged nonchalantly. "You tell me."
Mya's gaze roamed over him, slow and deliberate. She nodded as if coming to a conclusion and looked away. "You're handsome. With those striking eyes, I'd wager anyone would want you. But..." She paused, her tone turning matter-of-fact. "You're still a bastard. Your looks don't change that. How you carry yourself, though—that's something people notice."
Jon sighed. "I never asked for this." He glanced back at the revelry, his mind drifting to his first meeting with Rhaenys. Whatever had drawn her to him seemed beyond his understanding.
"I don't think you can avoid it," Mya replied, her tone amused yet sympathetic. "She's not just interested, Jon. She's lusting after you. No man's ever held her attention like this before."
"Then maybe you should tell her it's a terrible idea," Jon said dryly. "Nothing good will come of it."
Mya chuckled, shaking her head. "I'm not suggesting a long-term romance. I'm talking about pleasure—short and sweet."
Jon laughed suddenly, the sound loud and startling. Heads turned, including those of the Northerners nearby. Even Robb was watching him with a raised eyebrow. From the corner of his eye, Jon could see Rhaenys whispering sharply to her cousins, her irritation clearly growing.
When his laughter subsided, Jon leaned closer to Mya, lowering his voice. "Me? Bed the princess?" He shook his head, the humor still lingering in his tone. "I don't think you fully grasp the absurdity of a bastard lying with a Targaryen."
He smirked, imagining the scandal, and resisted the urge to laugh again. "It'd be ridiculous."
Mya's expression was unreadable as she replied, "Perhaps. But ridiculous or not, you've already caught her eye. The only question now is what you're going to do about it."
Mya adopted a smile of her own and whispered, "The picture is extreme indeed." He and she chuckled.
"Ok, Mya." Jon stood up and wiped his knees. "We've had…a pleasant talk, but I need to leave because…"
Mya looked behind him to Rhaenys and said, "I understand fully. I will keep what we said in silence. To the next time we talk, Jon."
Jon nodded and turned to leave, only to be grabbed by Robb and a few other Northern men.
Robb shook him with exaggerated vigor, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Are you ready to sing, brother?" His grin spread to the others around him, who nodded enthusiastically.
Jon blinked. What?
"What are you about to do, Robb?" he asked cautiously. If Robb had an idea that involved him, it was something to be wary of. His brother caused far too much mischief for his own good.
"We're about to sing!" boomed Lord Umber. His voice echoed across the gathering, making a few people wince and others glance over with curiosity.
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Well, good luck. I wish you fortune in the horrible singing to come."
"Horrible singing?" Theon scoffed, as if Jon had insulted his entire lineage. "You've got a sharp tongue, Snow. Domeric, do you think this man can even recognize good singing?"
Domeric Bolton smirked. "I'm not sure. What's the North's standard for 'good,' again?"
"I wasn't insulting Domeric," Jon clarified. "Just… the rest of you." He smiled as he swept his gaze over the circle of Northerners. "You do know your singing sounds like dying horses, don't lie to me."
Laughter erupted from the group, drawing more attention from other houses.
"That's fair," Lord Umber chuckled. "I sound like a dying ox, myself. But what about you, Snow? Got lungs to match that sharp tongue of yours?"
Jon snorted. "No, I bloody don't."
Theon grinned slyly. "Oh, we know better. You've got a golden voice, Jon. I've heard you sing before—Winterfell still talks about it. The ladies? They'll be fainting in their seats."
Jon rolled his eyes. Yes, the memory of him singing at Winterfell had spread far and wide, to his chagrin. Lords had offered him gold to sing more, which he had declined. He already had enough wealth from his time with the Golden Company.
"Why should I sing now?" Jon asked flatly.
"Why not?" Robb countered, his grin widening.
Strangely, the group around him tensed, as if preparing for action. Their eyes gleamed with an eagerness Jon did not trust.
"What if I'm not in the mood to sing?"
"THEN FUCK YOU!" they shouted in unison, loud enough to turn even more heads.
Before Jon could react, strong hands grabbed him, hoisting him up. They carried him through the crowd, laughter and cheers trailing in their wake. He didn't bother struggling—there was no point. Instead, he stared up at the night sky, counting the stars and admiring the white glow of the moon.
The group finally came to a stop in front of the Targaryens' table. They unceremoniously set Jon on his feet and pushed him forward.
Cersei and Joffrey watched him with thinly veiled amusement, while Aegon, Margaery, Viserys, Tyrion, and Tommen observed with curiosity. Oberyn's expression was unreadable, but Jon's gaze caught on the woman beside him.
She was dark-skinned, clearly Dornish, and undeniably striking. Her long hair framed a pretty face, and her short stature only emphasized her curves. Her large bosom and thick legs didn't go unnoticed, and when she slowly licked her lips, Jon felt heat rise to his face.
Jon tore his gaze away, only to find Rhaenys watching him with a frown.
"What do you need to say?" Aegon asked, his tone polite but laced with disbelief.
Robb stepped forward, clapping Jon's shoulder. "My brother has graciously offered to sing for us, my prince."
"Forced, you mean" Jon muttered.
The crowd murmured, intrigued.
"You want to sing, Snow?" Aegon asked, though his raised brow betrayed skepticism.
Jon paused, considering. Maybe it was the disbelief in Aegon's voice or the way his companions doubted him, but now Jon wanted to sing—if only to prove them wrong.
"I do," he said finally.
The Northerners behind him cheered, their boisterous enthusiasm silencing the murmurs.
"I've heard him sing before," Tyrion chimed in. "His voice rivals King Rhaegar's."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"That's a bold claim," Aegon said, his disbelief deepening. "He doesn't exactly look the part of a singer."
Rhaenys interrupted, her tone calm but commanding. "We shall hear him sing, brother."
Aegon hesitated, his violet eyes burning with an intensity that made even the most confident uneasy. Yet Rhaenys remained unfazed, sipping her wine as though nothing had happened.
"Fine," Aegon said, finally breaking eye contact with his sister. He turned to Jon, a thin smile on his lips. "I'll be happy to hear you sing."
Jon nodded, stepping back as Robb, Theon, and Domeric grabbed instruments and began to play. The soft, haunting melody filled the air, a stark contrast to the raucous laughter from moments before.
Jon closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. The song he chose was one he had written while a prisoner of Euron Greyjoy. It was his lifeline, his anchor during endless weeks of torture. Now, it was his turn to share it.
As he opened his mouth, the words poured out, rich and deep, like the rivers flowing around Riverrun. Silence blanketed the gathering, the power of his voice holding everyone in its grasp.
"Through Westeros over fen and field
"Where the long grass grows
"The west wind comes walking,
"And about the walls, it goes
"What news from the west, O wandering wind
"Do you bring to me tonight?
"Have you seen Boromir of the north
"By moon or by starlight?
"I saw him ride over the seven kingdoms,
"Over waters wide and grey,
"I saw him walk in empty lands
"Until he passed away
"Into the shadows of the north
"I saw him then no more.
"The north wind may have heard the horn
"Of the son of the old gods
"O Boromir! From the north
"Westward I looked afar,
"But you came not from the empty lands
"Where no men are
"From the mouths of the sea
"The south wind flies,
"From the south and the Stepstones;
"The welling of the creatures it bears,
"And in the waters, it moans
"What news from the south, O sighing wind,
"Do you bring to me at eve?
"Where now is Boromir of the north?
"He tarries and I grieve
"He went back beyond the wall,
"And I saw him no more
Jon stopped and so did the others. It was silent.
Jon halted, and so did everyone else. The air was heavy with silence.
His eyes instinctively sought the princess first. Rhaenys stood still, her expression raw. Tears glimmered in her eyes, which she tried to blink away. She sniffled and smiled at him—a tender smile instead of the almost predatory smile she usually gives him.
Most of the ladies dabbed at their eyes discreetly, while the men struggled to maintain stoic faces, failing miserably. Margaery used her hand as a fan, tears streaking her cheeks. Aegon sat slack-jawed, the perpetual boredom in his features replaced by something new. Awe.
The prince blinked, shook his head, and then stood. He clapped—loud and deliberate. For a fleeting moment, his applause was the only sound until his table followed suit. Soon, the entire gathering erupted. Cheers and clapping reverberated through the courtyard, drowning all other noise.
The North was loudest. Robb grinned as he slapped Jon's shoulder, his cheers ringing above the rest. The northern men grabbed and shook Jon in jubilation, shouting so loudly that Jon thought he might go deaf. At one point, the exuberance knocked him off balance, but Robb caught him, hauling him upright again.
Then Arya, Rickon, and Bran rushed forward, throwing their small arms around his waist. Sansa followed, moving quickly but with her usual grace, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
When the clamor finally subsided, Jon's chest heaved as he caught his breath. His back throbbed from the congratulatory blows, but the wide grin on his face was unstoppable. With Robb's arm draped around him and the Stark children clinging to him, Jon felt an unshakable contentment. Nothing could ruin this moment. Nothing would.
"Who is Boromir?" someone suddenly called out.
Jon turned to the voice. "He is no one," he replied calmly. "The song was mine."
From across the table, Tyrion leaned forward with a knowing smirk. "Was I right, my prince?"
"Yes," Aegon said, his voice tinged with reverence. "Very right." The prince's gaze remained fixed on Jon, a newfound admiration lighting his features.
Rhaenys clapped lightly, her smirk playful. "Do you see now, little brother? I am quite the help."
Arianne chuckled, placing a hand on Rhaenys' arm. But Aegon ignored her, stepping closer to Jon. "Snow, that was… beautiful. I never thought anyone could rival my father. I thank you."
"Thank you, my prince," Jon replied, inclining his head. "The compliments are kind, but I am not done yet."
Aegon's eyebrows rose. "Oh? Then, by all means, continue. I wouldn't mind hearing more."
"Thank you, my prince," Jon said, his tone respectful yet firm. "The compliments are appreciated, but I am not done."
Aegon's eyes sparkled with admiration. "I would not mind listening to you again," he said. The faces around them nodded in agreement, some even urging Jon to perform more.
"It's not a song," Jon replied, touching his scabbard thoughtfully. "It's a sword."
He slowly unsheathed Blackfyre, allowing the sheathed blade to catch the torchlight, its intricate black and silver design gleaming ominously. The crowd gasped in unison, their eyes fixed on the legendary Valyrian steel.
Jon held the sword steadily, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the gathered nobles. "I have brought Blackfyre back to House Targaryen," he declared, his voice steady and commanding. The significance of his words hung heavy in the air, though no one suspected his true lineage.
Aegon stepped forward, his eyes wide with astonishment. "Blackfyre..." he whispered, awe and envy mingling in his tone.
Aegon grasped the hilt and turned the sword upright, the moonlight reflecting off the blade's edge. His smile grew wide, awe lighting up his violet eyes.
"It's marvelous," Viserys exclaimed, stepping closer to examine the weapon. He turned to Jon. "Where did you get this?"
"I stole it from the Golden Company," Jon said plainly.
"Liar!" Cersei's sharp voice cut through the night as she marched forward, dragging Joffrey by the hand. She shoved past Viserys, planting herself in front of Jon with a scowl.
"Why are you lying, bastard?" she hissed, her tone dripping with venom. "We all know you failed to retrieve the sword. This could very well be a fake!"
Joffrey nodded, glaring at Jon with exaggerated disdain. The tension thickened as everyone watched, their gazes shifting between Jon and Cersei, waiting for his reaction.
As she spoke, spit flew from her mouth, landing squarely on Jon's cheek. His expression didn't change as he slowly wiped the warm saliva away with the back of his hand. Suppressed snickers rippled through the crowd.
Jon's lips twitched into a faint smile as he looked at her. "First of all, you don't know me well enough to talk to me like that."
"How dar—"
"Secondly," he continued, cutting her off, "you're going to find out real quick that I don't quit."
"Shut—"
"Thirdly, I always find a way."
"Say one more—"
"And lastly," Jon leaned closer, his voice cold and deliberate, "do you even know who I am?"
Cersei scoffed, her laugh sharp and dismissive. "That's easy. You're a Snow. Nothing more."
Jon's eyes swept over the gathered faces before locking back onto hers. "No," he said quietly, his voice laced with steel. "I'm Jon Snow, the finest blade the East has seen since Bittersteel. Remember that, your grace." His last words dripped with mockery as he gave her a slight bow.
The silence was deafening. The rustling leaves and the distant lapping of the Gods Eye's waters were the only sounds in the still air. A gust of wind swept through, stirring Jon's hair across his face.
"And the sword," he said, turning back to the crowd, "is not fake."
Jon walked past Cersei, taking the Valyrian blade from Aegon's hands. Without hesitation, he approached a nearby tree and swung the sword with precision and force. The blade sliced clean through the trunk, leaving it leaning slightly. Gasps and murmurs broke the stillness as a few clapped in admiration.
He returned the sword to Aegon with a smirk, his gaze lingering on Cersei. He considered saying something more but decided against it.
Viserys, however, wasn't as restrained. "Snow is right," he said dryly. "You should stop talking, Cersei."
Cersei huffed, grabbing Joffrey's hand and retreating in a storm of indignation.
Aegon sat back down, still marveling at the sword. "You got this from the Golden Company?"
"He already said yes," Rhaenys interjected, her tone sharp.
Jon nodded before Aegon could respond. "Aye, I did."
"Is this the only reason they've put a bounty on your head?" Aegon asked, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "There are so many stories about you, Jon. It's like trying to follow a spider's web."
"You have a bounty on your head?!" Robb interrupted, his voice rising in disbelief. The northern lords around him looked equally shocked, and Jon noticed Arya, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon exchanging worried glances.
"You didn't know?" Jon asked with mild amusement. "Old news."
"Old news?! You didn't tell Father or me?" Robb's tone was low, but the anger simmered beneath the surface.
"Or me?" Arya chimed in.
"Or me!" Bran added.
"You could have told all of us," Sansa said, her voice soft but reproachful.
"You should have told me too!" Rickon shouted, his voice cracking slightly. A ripple of suppressed laughter moved through the crowd.
Jon blinked, taken aback by the sheer volume of disapproving Stark faces. He stepped back to create some space. "I thought you all knew."
"The North doesn't receive as much news as the South," Aegon said in Jon's defense. "You can hardly blame him. Well, except for earning the bounty in the first place." The prince laughed.
"Explain why," Robb demanded, his arms crossed, joined by the rest of the Stark siblings.
Jon's easy smile faded. The weight of the memory pressed down on him.
"He doesn't have to tell you anything if he doesn't want to," Rhaenys said, glaring at Robb, making the Stark blink.
Jon's jaw tightened. "It's fine."
"No, stealing the sword wasn't the only reason for the bounty," Jon said at last. He drew a deep breath, his voice quieter now. "I have a bounty because I killed their leader—and their secret Blackfyre."
The night shattered with exclamations of shock. The Targaryens stared at Jon, their expressions ranging from disbelief to awe.
Aegon stood abruptly. "Silence!" he commanded. Slowly, the noise subsided.
Jon closed his eyes as the memory resurfaced. The betrayal in Olly's eyes as Jon drove his sword through his chest haunted him still. He hadn't mourned Olly as a traitor but as a friend—one he'd had to kill to prevent war.
Aegon leaned forward. "If this is true, Snow, you're a hero."
"Why should we trust the word of a bastard?" Joffrey sneered.
"Because this bastard has no reason to lie," Viserys snapped. "Joffrey, to bed. Now."
"But I'm not tired!"
"I don't care. Go."
Joffrey glared but relented as Cersei dragged him away, seething.
"You brought this sword back to our family," Aegon said, his voice filled with respect. "You killed a Blackfyre. You stopped a war before it started. That is nothing short of legendary, Snow."
"He did say he's the finest blade in the East," Rhaenys added, her smile seemingly proud.
Aegon laughed, raising his goblet. "To Jon Snow!"
The crowd echoed his toast, and for the first time, Jon saw nods of approval and smiles that hadn't been there before. Even Robb's earlier anger had softened, replaced by pride.
That night, Jon laughed and talked with the others as the firelight danced around them. For once, he felt the warmth of acceptance—and it wasn't something he'd soon forget.
….
The feast was long over. Robb and the others had already left, but Jon lingered. He had no desire to join the noise and chatter. Instead, he sought out Ghost. The direwolf wasn't far—Jon found him by the riverbank, stretched out lazily, licking his snowy fur.
Ghost lifted his head briefly as Jon approached but didn't rise. His red eyes gleamed in the moonlight, calm and watchful.
Jon crouched beside him, running his hand over Ghost's belly. "You didn't even come to see me," he murmured with a grin. "Were you hiding this whole time?"
Ghost didn't dignify the question with a response. His eyes slid closed, and his tongue lolled out, a picture of canine indifference. Jon laughed softly, rubbing harder.
"You always talk to him like that?"
The voice startled him. Jon's head snapped up to see Rhaenys standing a few paces away, a sly smile on her lips. Her violet eyes seemed to glow in the twilight.
Jon shot to his feet, rubbing his hands on his tunic out of habit. Ghost, meanwhile, remained unbothered, his gaze flicking to the princess before settling again, unimpressed.
"He's not just an animal to me," Jon said, his voice firm. He glanced over her shoulder, but the riverbank was deserted. No servants, no guards. Just the two of them and the quiet ripple of the water. He turned back to Rhaenys, adding, "He's my partner."
"Partner, is it?" She moved closer, crouching to scratch Ghost behind his ear. The direwolf tilted his head into her touch, eyes drifting shut again. Rhaenys laughed, a sound like bells on the breeze. "What's his name?"
"Ghost, your highness."
Rhaenys stopped scratching, her gaze sharpening as it fixed on him. "Are you forgetting something already, Jon?" Her tone was light, but her frown was not. She rose, hands on her hips, and Jon couldn't help but notice the way the moonlight caught the sharp angles of her face. His heart stuttered, and for a moment, he was lost.
"I'm sorry… Rhaenys," he corrected quickly, heat creeping up his neck. Her frown softened into something more amused. Too late, Jon realized his eyes had drifted lower—to the swell of her chest, barely hidden by her gown. When he looked up again, her smile had turned knowing.
"What are you staring at, Jon?" she asked, voice honeyed and teasing.
"The sky," he blurted, painfully aware of how unconvincing he sounded.
Rhaenys stepped closer, her movements deliberate. She reached up, her fingers brushing his cheek, and Jon froze. Her breath was warm against his face, her voice a whisper. "Why don't you tell me the truth?"
"T-Tell you what?" Jon's words stumbled, his resolve weakening with every inch she closed between them.
"That you want me."
She pressed against him, her hands sliding around his neck. Jon's breath hitched as her body molded to his, her lips hovering just above his. He felt her every movement, the rise and fall of her chest, the heat of her skin. It was overwhelming.
"I…" Jon's voice failed him. His mind screamed at him to stop this madness, but his body betrayed him, his hands settling at her waist, drawing her closer.
"I know you do," Rhaenys murmured, her lips brushing his jaw. "But I want to hear you say it."
Jon clenched his fists, fighting a war he was destined to lose. His heart pounded, each beat urging him to surrender. "I want you," he admitted at last, the words leaving him in a rush.
Her smile was triumphant, her eyes dancing as she tilted her head. "Good," she whispered, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Because I want you too."
The kiss was inevitable. Jon closed the distance, claiming her lips with a hunger that surprised even him. Rhaenys responded eagerly, her hands pulling him closer as their bodies pressed together. The world around them faded—the river, the trees, even Ghost's lazy presence. There was only her, her warmth, her taste, the intoxicating reality of her in his arms.
Jon didn't know when his hands wandered under her gown, but the discovery shocked him. She wore nothing beneath. Her skin was soft, her warmth undeniable. When his fingers brushed her slick heat, Rhaenys moaned softly into his mouth, her head falling back.
That sound—it broke something in him. Or maybe it forged something new. He wasn't sure anymore.
But he stopped. He had to. Pulling away was agony, every instinct screaming at him to continue. Yet he forced himself to let go, stepping back. His breath was ragged, his hands trembling. "We can't…" he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
Rhaenys stared at him, her chest heaving, her lips swollen from their kiss. Slowly, she smiled—a knowing, dangerous smile. "You're mine, Jon," she said softly, her fingers trailing over his chest. "You can fight it all you want, but it won't change the truth."
Before he could respond, she kissed him again, quick and deliberate, then turned and walked away. Jon watched her go, every step a reminder of what had just happened. When she disappeared into the trees, he fell to his knees, his head in his hands.
What have I done?
Ghost padded over, licking his face as if sensing his turmoil. Jon let out a shaky laugh, rubbing the direwolf's fur. "What a mess," he whispered.
But the truth lingered, unspoken. Nothing would ever be the same.
Rhaenys
"Did you enjoy the lake, my princess?" Jaime asked as soon as Rhaenys came into view.
Rhaenys suppressed the smirk tugging at her lips. She had enjoyed the lake, though not for its scenery. Her pleasure had come from someone else entirely. Everyone knew she was crafty, a manipulative player in this game of thrones, and tonight was no exception.
It was her suggestion to host the feast outside—a calculated move. She hadn't cared whether it was inside or under the stars; all she wanted was a moment alone with Jon Snow. The earlier hours of the feast had frustrated her. The blabbering fools clung to her side, leaving her no chance to speak with him. Only her cousins offered a momentary reprieve.
But in the end, she got what she came for. Persuading Jaime to leave her at the lake with the excuse of solitude was child's play. The result? A kiss that had left her breathless. To her surprise, Jon hadn't resisted. At first, she'd expected him to pull away, to hide behind that stoic reserve of his. But instead, he'd matched her intensity, his lips and tongue moving with a skill that no other man could rival.
It had been perfect—until he retreated. She could still feel the ghost of his lips on hers, though she was left wanting. A part of her had been tempted to go further, but something held her back. It would have been too crude, too basic, for their first time to be against a tree.
No. It has to be right, she thought. When she first saw him, she'd only craved a fleeting night of passion. That changed when they danced. And when he sang with the moon at his back, she realized she wanted more than just his body. Jon Snow had ensnared her heart.
"Yes, it was most impressive," Rhaenys finally replied to Jaime. Her smile must have been too genuine because his brows knit together in suspicion. Rhaenys wasn't known for her smiles; those were Aegon's trademark. She saved hers for moments that mattered. And so far, Jon Snow had earned more of her smiles than anyone else.
"What's with that look?" she asked coolly, brushing past him. "Let us leave. I am ready to retire."
Jaime inclined his head. "As you command, my princess."
When Rhaenys opened the door to her chambers, her mood darkened instantly. Arianne sat perched on her bed, smiling as though she belonged there. Instead of her usual fondness for her cousin, Rhaenys felt a simmering anger. She knew why Arianne was here, and she didn't like it.
"Rhae," Arianne greeted, her tone as sweet as wine. "How did you enjoy the feast?"
"It was enjoyable," Rhaenys replied curtly. I couldn't care less about the damn feast. I care about Jon.
Arianne's coy smile deepened. "The feast would've been much duller without Jon Snow, wouldn't you agree?"
Her voice dripped with interest—too much interest. Rhaenys's eyes narrowed. She was no fool; her cousin was lusting after Jon.
"It certainly would," Rhaenys said, her tone icy despite her measured words. She knew everyone's opinion of Jon had shifted after tonight. Once dismissed as a failed thief, he now commanded respect. She'd have to thank Aegon later for giving him the stage he deserved.
Arianne chuckled, seemingly unfazed by Rhaenys's sharp demeanor. "Why are you giving me the stink eye, cousin?"
Because you're looking at my man, Rhaenys thought, her patience thinning.
"You're displeasing me," she replied bluntly.
Arianne tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Whatever could I have done to upset you?"
Rhaenys's temper flared. "Don't play dumb with me. This is about Snow."
"Ah, Snow." Arianne's lips curved into a lusty grin. "What a fine man he is."
The expression only stoked Rhaenys's irritation. She stepped closer, towering over her shorter cousin. "I saw how you were watching him tonight—like he was a piece of spiced meat from Dorne."
Arianne shrugged, unbothered. "And what of it?"
Rhaenys clenched her fists. "I want you to leave him alone," she said sharply.
Arianne's playful demeanor faded, replaced by a spark of defiance. She stood, meeting Rhaenys's gaze head-on. "No one tells me who I can or can't want. Not even you."
"I am the crown princess," Rhaenys countered with a low laugh.
"Yet you can't order me to stop," Arianne shot back, her grin returning. "Besides, wouldn't it look strange for you to be so possessive? It might ruin your precious image."
"I don't give a damn about appearances," Rhaenys growled. "Jon is mine."
Arianne chuckled mockingly. "Yours? You've just met him, and already you're acting territorial."
"Does that matter?" Rhaenys snapped. It was true—she barely knew Jon, but she knew he was special. She wasn't going to let anyone, not even her cousin, take him from her.
Arianne's smile turned wicked. "Sorry, Rhae, but I won't stop. Who knows? Jon might enjoy a little attention from me."
Rhaenys's restraint snapped. She grabbed Arianne's arm, her grip firm. "You don't listen, do you? I'm warning you—Jon is mine. If you so much as look at him again, you'll regret it."
Arianne wrenched her arm free, her expression smug. "If you want him so badly, cousin," she said, her voice dripping with challenge, "earn him."
With that, Arianne sauntered out of the room, leaving Rhaenys seething.
"Are you all right, your highness?" Jaime asked from the doorway.
Rhaenys exhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling. "Yes," she said, though it was a lie. Nothing was all right. Her cousin was a threat, and Rhaenys would stop her. Jon Snow belonged to her, and she'd ensure everyone knew it. She was a dragon, and dragons always claimed what was theirs.
I saw episode 3 "The long night"...And I am disappointed. The strategy was awful, and the plot armor is even worse! The Feared Dothraki is defeated in thirty seconds, but the main characters survived at the front lines? There are so many things I can point out but I'm not going to. All I can say is that Jon and bran are now useless and the Night king's arc is destroyed. The long night should be named the short night. Game of Thrones is not the same...
But let's go to the more cheery stuff! Yup, I used the song "Lament for Boromir" I thought it would fit well in this chapter. Let me know what you think!