Uprising

by litwater44

A blue rose, surrounded by fire and ash. Rhaegar Targaryen's triumph at the Trident was bittersweet, shrouded in the mystery of Lyanna Stark's death and her stillborn child. Years later, the bastard of Winterfell returns to Westeros astride a fierce black dragon whose flames will reignite the whispers of war.

30. The Black Prince and The Star

Jon

"The Son of a bitch should not be breathing come the morn," Euron said. "A reminiscent of what happened to Maegor's older brother."

Jon saw the faces of horror throughout the hall, heard the harsh whispers, and wanted to scream. Aegon's pleased smile only increased his fury.

"Make them pay. One by one…"

"That is a very distinctive choice for a Targaryen name, Your Grace," Margaery said.

"You mean a very audacious one," Olenna quipped. Her shrewd eyes turned to Jon. "Although, the name might be fitting for this type of Targaryen."

"I agree good mother," Aegon said, purple eyes gleaming. "It's the name his mother gave to him."

"And Maegor is very much his mother's son," Elia chimed in, dark eyes gleaming. It was made worse by the whispers.

"…...His name is Maegor?"

"…...He is cursed…"

"…Heart as black as his predecessor…..."

"…The cruel Black Prince…"

"…Maegor the Cruel is reborn…"

The worst was the fear he saw in the Stark's eyes. He saw Sansa trembling and Arya gaping.

Jon saw Daenerys's eyes and saw the expectation for him to retaliate.

Every noise in the hall died when Jon started to rise to his feet. He felt a hand on his arm and turned to meet Myrcella's green eyes. Her narrowed eyes reminded him of a cat. "…Don't meet mockery with violence. That's what Maegor did. Don't prove them right about you," she whispered.

What's so bad about that? Jon snatched his hand away.

"Kill Aegon, kill that bitch, kill the sword swallower."

I can shove this sword through his head before anyone can stop me. Jon's grip on Bastard's Breach tightened as he gauged the distance of everyone at the dais. Arthur is too far away to get in my way. The Red Viper is closer, but I bet I'm quicker than he is. By the time he reacts, Aegon would already be falling, and I would have this sword in his belly if he dares raise up.

Jon blinked and remembered where he was at. He raised his goblet. He can feel the weight of everyone's eyes on him, hundreds of baited breaths, and many more eager eyes. Instead, he met Aegon's purple eyes and said, "First, congrats to you, lady Margaery for your pregnancy…..." The Tyrells looked suspicious when Margaery nodded slowly. "And congrats to you Aegon for now being a father. Your relationship with your wife is worthy of bringing forth a child into this world who we expect to rule after you ..."

"…. And thank you for declaring my official Targaryen name to our great lords and ladies. You beat the King to do it. Not many people can do that. Good job. That's surely a telling that you will be a formidable, worthy, king in your own right someday…" Let's hope you never get the chance you piece of shit.

Arya hid her snort behind his cough. Jon heard a few distant chuckles, but the air was still tense, everyone leaning forward to hear what he has to say.

"…. Worthy of putting the Conqueror's Crown upon your silver brow..."

"...Worthy of sitting your silver arse in the Conqueror's seat..."

"...But never worthy of wielding the Conqueror's sword..."

There were sharp exhales throughout the room, and the Kingsguard sprang into action when Blackfyre sliced through the air. Jon saw Daenerys and Myrcella jolt in their seats. Jon saw Rhaella, Elia, Arianne, and Rhaenys lurch forward in panic. Jon saw Oberyn and the Sand Snakes leap from their seats. Jon saw Aegon flinch.

Jon saw Rhaegar stay still.

The sword flashed in front of Aegon, cutting deep into the table. Everyone looked to the table, saw how Blackfyre chipped chunks of the table, saw how it cleaved Bastard's Breach in half.

"...Be careful of not watching your step or else the lords would call you Aegon the unworthy," Jon said. "My word of advice to the King to be."

"Excellent. Excellent. EXCELLENT!"

"Wise words, my son," Rhaegar said in the still silence, sipping his goblet. "Please sheathe the sword."

Jon did so in silence. He wasn't done yet. He looked at the hall. "Jaime Lannister is still a free man running from Justice. I intend to rectify that. I intend to gather men to hunt him down." Myrcella's face was blank. Jon looked to Rhaegar. "With Your Grace's leave."

"Given."

Those at the lower tables whispered excitedly.

"I think it's time for dancing, Your Grace," Jon said. With a hand motion from the King, the tables were pushed further from the center, and the bards played their tunes louder. However, Jon still felt every eye on him. Aegon's eyes were the most piercing.

"May I have this dance?" Jon offered his hand to Daenerys while the table watched silently. He heard someone whistle.

A slight blush appeared on her cheeks. "Of course, nephew."

"Don't let me step on your toes."

Jon took her hand and guided her down from the dais past Aegon. They took to the middle of the hall. Jon held her hips while she gripped his arms.

"All eyes on us," Daenerys remarked with a smile that no doubt made a lot of men fall to their knees.

"They want to watch the new Maegor."

Jon saw how Daenerys instinctually flinched.

The next woman he danced with was Myranda Royce, who clung to him a bit too close to Jon's standards. "Mya Stone has told me how you hold Honor to your chest like you do your Valyrian Swords." She pressed her big blossom against his chest. "Can my Prince enlighten me on that?"

"Prince Maegor would be happy to assist you in any way he can."

Myranda laughed nervously.

The next was Allyria Dayne, who batted her lashes at him. Ashara is the prettier sister I see.

"I have heard my nephew wishes to be your squire, Your Grace. House Dayne would be very pleased with this appointment." She squeezed his arms suggestively.

Jon nodded. "I, Prince Maegor, strive to acquire the best talents available."

Allyria flinched.

The next was Delena Florent who did not make things subtle when she laid her hand on his chest. She was pretty despite her large ears. "You have very pretty eyes, Your Grace," she murmured. "Your eyes are a lovely shade of purple, yet I see flecks of grey in them, a lovely combination.

"Thank you, my lady. Do you like my name as well? Maegor doesn't get used quite like Aegon, don't it?"

Delena averted her eyes.

At that point, Jon was in a dark mood. Aegon was dancing with Margaery on the other side of the room. When their eyes met, Jon could see the glint in his eyes. He saw groups of people whisper behind their hands while throwing him glances. Damn you!

"Fuck his rose over his corpse. No one will miss him."

He noticed Rhaenys still seated at the dais. Hordes of knights and lords approached the table to ask the princess for a dance. She rejected every single one in favor of talking with the king. Her eyes snapped to him when he approached.

Myrcella also stayed at the table, but she had no one to conversate with, and no lord approached her for a dance. Her stony face cracked when Jon stood in front of her with his hand raised. "Can the princess grace me with this dance?" Jon asked solemnly.

"If she does, would you avoid stomping on her feet?"

"Ask me nicely."

Myrcella rose gracefully and placed her slender hand in Jon's bigger one. He felt the gaze of both the King and Rhaenys when he guided the golden princess to the press of moving bodies.

"You did not like your brother's gift, I assume," Myrcella said.

"I much prefer yours, Princess. I think it's sturdier than the sword he gave me."

Myrcella shook her head in amusement. "You didn't give me a chance to test it."

Jon looked her in the eye. "Fair to say your gift to Maegor would have held up better than Aegon's?"

Myrcella did not flinch nor stray her eyes away from Jon's. "Fair to say it is hardly difficult to accomplish."

"Should fuck her next. Her eyes are pretty."

The final woman was Arianne, who simply laughed. "You used my information to get the hunt Aegon wanted – to make yourself look good to the lords instead of him. He won't be happy about that. Well, done, Your Grace."

"Not Maegor?"

Arianne coughed.

Later in the night Jon went to the library of the castle. The hallways of Harrenhal were quiet, shadows stretching long and dark under the soft, flickering torchlight. Only the faint sound of Jon's boots against the stone floor broke the silence as he moved purposefully, Ghost padding silently at his side. The direwolf's ruby-red eyes glowed ominously, a constant reminder of their shared blood and the fierce loyalty that connected them. Every so often, Ghost's eyes swept over the dim corners, watching as vigilantly as a sentry as Jon made his way toward the rebuilt library.

Since Harrenhal's restoration, the library had become one of its grandest chambers. Shelves soared from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes the king had supplied and the ancient tomes Jon had collected himself. Books from all across the known world filled the shelves, the scent of old parchment and leather binding blending with the cool air. There were books in Valyrian, histories from Old Ghis, and scrolls from the far-off east. Some of these, Jon had personally sought in Essos, and others were relics from his perilous journey to Old Valyria, where even the words seemed ghostly on the brittle pages.

Jon made his way to a long table near the center of the room, the solitary candle casting a warm glow. He drew out a leather-bound tome, the cover decorated with faded engravings hinting at something ancient.

As he read, a soft noise broke the silence—a familiar, light laughter echoing from the doorway. He looked up to find Daenerys, her silver hair shimmering in the torchlight, with Ser Barristan trailing behind her, his hand instinctively at his sword's pommel.

"Ser Barristan, you may wait outside," Daenerys said with a slight wave of her hand, her eyes on Jon. The old knight gave her a nod, sparing Jon a respectful look before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

Daenerys stepped further into the library, her gaze sweeping over the towering shelves. "In the library at this hour, Jon?" she teased, her voice soft but bright with curiosity.

A faint smile pulled at the corner of Jon's mouth. "I could ask you the same question. Not many would leave the warmth of their chambers for old books on a night like this."

Daenerys chuckled, moving closer to where he sat, her fingers tracing the edge of the table. "And yet, here we both are. I never took you for someone who would seek out… legends."

Jon's gaze returned to the book, fingers idly tapping on the page. "Legends… or warnings."

She tilted her head, studying him for a moment before drawing up a chair beside him. Her gaze drifted to Ghost, who was watching her quietly, ever protective. "And what does this book say? About warnings from the past?"

Jon exhaled softly, tracing the page with his finger. "It speaks of a night that lasted generations when creatures from beyond the Wall nearly destroyed everything. Before it ended, there was a pact… or so the stories go."

She was silent for a moment, her expression shifting as she studied the tome with him. "Sometimes in Kingslanding, I read tomes with Rhaegar. He read me things, spoke of things I still don't understand."

"You don't believe the Others, but I do. I...I have dreams of them."

Her purple eyes widened. "Rhaegar said he had dreams."

Jon flipped a page in the book. "...There came a night when darkness and death descended upon man and The Children of the Forest. From the far north came beautiful creatures made of ice who hate the fire in our blood..."

When he was done retelling the story of the long Night, Daenerys looked at the book curiously. She's not there yet.

"And their weakness is dragon glass and Valyrian steel?"

"Yes. It is mentioned they hate iron."

"Your ice demons do sound fearsome, nephew." A faint smile played on her lips.

Outside, the night draped Harrenhal in thick darkness, a stillness that seemed to press against the walls.

Then, faintly, drifting in like a distant echo, they heard it—a low, muted hum, so soft that Jon almost missed it. He paused, tilting his head, and Daenerys glanced up, noticing his stillness.

"Do you hear that?" Daenerys whispered, her voice barely carrying.

Daenerys furrowed her brow and listened, the two of them frozen, straining to hear. The sound came again, a barely-there rhythm, as if carried on the wind, winding its way through the ancient stones of Harrenhal.

"It's Cannibal, isn't it?" she whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and awe.

Jon nodded slowly. The song was so quiet, so elusive, it was almost like a memory, slipping in and out of reach. Each note was like a distant drumbeat, low and steady, resonating with a hidden power that seemed to pulse just below the surface. They had to lean closer to catch it, almost holding their breath as if any movement would scatter the sound.

The song held none of the harshness or aggression of a dragon's roar. Instead, it was strangely serene, a rhythm so ancient it felt like the land itself was singing. Harrenhal seemed to breathe with the notes, the stones carrying the sound softly as if they, too, remembered something primal and unspoken.

The air seemed to shimmer as if the world around them were holding its breath, listening. The sound was mesmerizing, a low, rhythmic call with layers that seemed to resonate somewhere deep within them. The walls of the library blurred at the edges, and the soft light of the candles seemed to grow dim.

Daenerys gasped, clutching Jon's hand. "Do you feel that?"

His chest was tight, an unfamiliar warmth stirring deep within him. Each note of the dragon's song reverberated through his body, stirring something ancient, something he couldn't quite grasp. It felt like he was listening to a heartbeat as old as the world itself. The air around them was alive with an unseen force, charged and shimmering, as though it carried forgotten secrets.

And then, images began to play across Jon's mind, unbidden and yet deeply familiar, as if the song itself were a bridge to another time. Flashes of soaring dragons, their scales glinting like gemstones under a foreign sun, flickered before him—ruby, emerald, sapphire, and citrine-colored dragons filled the skies above a city of shimmering towers and golden domes. The sight was breathtaking, vibrant with colors that seemed impossible, yet he saw it as clearly as if he stood there.

The song pulsed again, deeper, and Jon's vision shifted. He saw a small, childlike creature with large, glowing eyes. It was delicate and otherworldly, its gaze steady and wise beyond comprehension. It lifted its face, its lips parting, and began to sing a soft, haunting tune that melded with Cannibal's song. The song was different, yet it was familiar, harmonizing with the dragons as if they were pieces of the same melody.

Jon's heart pounded as he listened, unable to move, entranced by her song. The childlike creature was staring directly at him, her voice weaving into the dragon's song with a strange, fragile beauty. The air around him seemed to hum with power, and he could feel her voice beckoning, calling to him across centuries. The song spoke of magic woven into the bones of the earth, of pacts and promises, of flames and shadows born of an age before memory.

Jon blinked, the vision slowly fading, leaving him disoriented, as if he had woken from a dream. He felt Daenerys's fingers tighten around his, her eyes wide and luminous as she looked at him.

Daenerys

Daenerys felt something shift within her, a pull toward the past that she couldn't resist. She closed her eyes, and images exploded behind her eyelids, vivid and powerful. She saw a man, emerging from the searing ashes of a volcano, surrounded by swirling flames and thick black smoke. The heat was intense, the glow of fire illuminating his form, but his face was obscured, hidden behind the billowing darkness.

Yet, she could feel his power radiating outward, a force that seemed to shake the very ground beneath her. The air crackled with energy, and she instinctively knew that this man was forged from the flames themselves, a being of immense strength and purpose. A primal instinct tugged at her, a connection that went beyond time and space.

As she gazed into the vision, a chorus of voices broke through the air, ethereal and celestial, like angels singing from the heavens. Their harmonies intertwined with Cannibal's haunting melody, echoing around her, filling her with a sense of awe and longing. The song of the angels spoke of destiny and fate, of a power that transcended the mortal realm.

Jon

"Did you…feel that too?" she whispered.

I felt it. I saw it. Jon's voice was hoarse to his ears. "When Cannibal sings it is truly inspiring. There's power in it. But it's never like this. Never."

"You don't know your own dragon?" Daenerys sounded out of breath but there was an awe in her eyes.

"Not nearly enough. I've always had an inkling Cannibal is a different sort of dragon." Tyrion did more research on it than I did, Jon thought with a sting of shame. He looked at the walls of books around them. "I've brought books from my voyage from Valyria that can hopefully tell us more about him. And those who wish to help with Cannibal shall be required to read as well."

Dany raised an eyebrow. "For their benefit or ours?"

"Do you want the sons of great lords to be sun-kissed?"

Daenerys giggled. "Some of them would look better. Have you seen the Redwyne twins?" Jon grabbed another tomb and placed it on the table.

"I can find those who can be our diligent scholars."

"Anyone can join. I don't care if they are lowborn or highborn."

Daenerys nodded eagerly. "I can even teach some to read even." Jon liked the passion he heard in her voice.

As they poured over some text, Jon found something interesting in the elegant writing in High Valyria. Our best efforts in our experiments still can't replicate the magical properties the Gemstone Emperors produced. The lives we sacrificed to bleed the magic from them were insignificant. Jon read mentally.

"They could have natural aggression toward other dragons, seeing them as threats to their territory or as prey," Dany recited softly. I could have told you that.

And then Daenerys grabbed the tomb she was reading and shot to her feet. She hurried and jumped into Jon's lap, pushing the book into his chest and making the chair rock back. Daenerys eagerly pointed to a line of text. "Jon – look at this!" She then proceeded to recite the words in a rush. "These dragons might produce a distinctive, almost captivating song that differs from the roars of our respective Valyrian dragons. This "song" might carry for miles and can be unsettling, drawing a fearful silence across those who hear it, especially at night. It also holds the power to sometimes morph the land."

Jon sat up quickly. Their foreheads touched when Jon looked over to see the text himself. "Is this at will?" Jon asked excitedly.

Daenerys eagerly skimmed the lines. Her eyes dimmed slightly. "It doesn't say. But Jon, this power sounds sim-"

"To the Children of the Forest," Jon said. But how? Jon thought heavily.

"Not everything is as it seems," Euron's voice whispered.

They read in silence as they attempted to find the connection. Jon was painfully aware of Daenerys's extraordinary beauty as his auntie did not seek to remove herself from his lap. Her legs straddled him as she quietly flipped through her book, using his chest as a book rest.

Knowing what was coming, Jon attempted to read some texts to distract himself. It was in vain as he felt his cock twitch. Gods...

The seconds ticked by with Daenerys being completely oblivious to his current dilemma. "...Their fire might have a unique hue like gemstones—perhaps blue or green—and could burn at a different temperature," she muttered softly. The dim torchlight did little to hide her heart-shaped lips.

Daenerys shifted. Jon could feel the shape of her bottom.

His erection solidified and throbbed. Jon sighed and closed his eyes.

"Their bones ca-" Jon heard her abruptly pause. He kept his eyes firmly shut.

The silence stretched in the massive library. Jon wanted to hide in a hole and never crawl back out.

I'm not even thinking with my cock. My cock is thinking without me.

Great. Now she's going to think I'm a perverted nephew – can't even read with my auntie without getting hard.

Jon opened his eyes to see Daenerys looking at him, a little smile playing on her lips. "I think," Daenerys said, closing the book, "the study session is over."

Damn you Jon.

Daenerys twisted her torso to place the book back on the table. Jon opened his mouth to apologize profusely for his behavior. That was before Daenerys placed a kiss on his cheek. It was the sweet feel of her lips that made him still.

Daenerys placed a couple of kisses on his cheek, soft and teasing. She slowly worked her way to his lips. She placed a longer kiss on the corner of his mouth that curled Jon's hand. When she kissed him again, it was full on his lips – deep and heated.

I should stop this.

"But you don't want to."

Jon wrapped his arms around Daenerys's slim waist and forced her closer to him. Her lips tasted as good as they looked. And then the heat rose when their tongues got involved. His cock throbbed painfully.

Daenerys pulled away, cheeks flushed. She was smiling. They both looked down at his twitching breeches. "Auntie can help with that." Daenerys got up from the chair and got on her knees between his legs.

Jon. Stop her.

There was a glint in her purple eyes as she reached for his breeches.

Stop her.

"Why bother at swords, bastard? It's not like it would make any of the princesses waste their time giving you a glance," Theon had said one time after Jon defeated him in the yard. Robb had laughed nervously.

Stop her.

Her fingers unwrapped the strings. His cock came free. Daenerys grabbed it with a pleased smile. She eyed thoughtfully it as she slowly stroked it. Jon bit his tongue to keep in his moan.

"You would never think something like this was hidden away." Daenerys giggled.

She brought it to her mouth and licked the fluids from his head. Her tongue slid down the side of his length and slid back up to the top before she put the whole head in his mouth.

She looks so fucking pretty. Jon growled as he grabbed a handful of her silver hair and pushed her head down to take more of him. It was halfway when Daenerys choked. Jon moaned at the feeling of her throat. She came back up, leaving saliva on his cock, more of it sliding down her mouth. Daenerys placed the cock back in her mouth and sucked him at a steady pace.

And then came the sound of heavy footsteps. Jon quickly laced up his breeches while Daenerys flew back in her chair, almost knocking it over, hurrying to fix her hair and reopening her book.

The library keeper came around the corner with a lantern. "Oh! Oh m- Your graces!" The old man hastily bowed. "I did not mean to intrude. I heard some noises and wondered who could be here at this hour. I did not think it would be the Lord Protector himself!"

Very conscious of his erection and Daenerys's blush, Jon said, "Thank you for keeping the library organized. I know with my additions it was difficult to rearrange some sections."

"It does not matter, Your Grace. The library and I are humbly proud to host your presence." The old man bowed again. Though, Jon noticed his eyes wandering to Daenerys's lips. In the torchlight, a trail of saliva could be seen from her lips to her chin.

"You have something on your chin, Princess," Jon said. He wanted to hide somewhere far away again.

Daenerys looked at him in confusion before realization seeped in. Her blush worsened. She hastily wiped at her mouth with a handkerchief from her dress. "The hour is late clearly."

When Jon arrived at his chambers, Rhaenys was sitting on his bed with her long legs crossed, her face blank. She had taken down her hair, and it flowed down her back in curly ringlets. Jon noticed the half-empty flagon of wine on the table.

"Hello, Jon."

"Jon, not Maegor?" Jon toyed with the gift Rhaenys gave him at the feast.

It was a pendant. On one side, a fierce, coiled dragon is etched in fine detail, its wings outstretched, and scales subtly highlighted with a dark red enamel. The dragon's eye, a small ruby, gleams with a fiery intensity. This half represents his Targaryen blood and the legacy of dragons. The other half of the pendant bears the image of a Direwolf in mid-howl, its fur etched in deep lines that catch the light. Small traces of blackened silver are inlaid around the wolf to suggest winter's frost. The Direwolf's eye is a tiny shard of smoky quartz, capturing the resilience and endurance of House Stark. Where the dragon and wolf meet at the center, their heads are angled slightly toward one another, their eyes locked as if in silent understanding.

"Whatever you wish to be called doesn't concern me." Her face was still blank, her voice even. It made Jon eye her carefully. "Do you like what I gave you? You are not wearing it."

"I liked your gift." Jon meant it too.

Rhaenys took his response in silence. She uncrossed her legs, got up, and walked towards Jon. She didn't care about Ghost's silent snarl as she jabbed Jon's chest with her finger.

Rhaenys's face suddenly morphed into that of deep anger. "Then why the fuck would you dance with every bitch at the tourney but me? You walked right past me to dance with the little club," she said with clear disgust, jabbing his chest.

"...And I've heard it from someone you had a walk with Arianne! And just now I heard you were at the library with Daenerys – at this time of fucking night? I was waiting for you! What were you two doing?" Rhaenys looked like she was breathing flame, getting right up to Jon's face.

Jab.

"Reading," Jon said and felt a twinge of shame. Not honorable...

"...Just because we had a little spat doesn't mean you go ahead and entertain other fucking twats who don't give a fuck about you!

Jab.

Rhaenys stared at him fuming, face very close to his, waiting for his response.

Jon chose his next words carefully. "I am sorry for making you feel this way."

It seemed to only make Rhaenys angrier. She placed her hand around his throat and crashed her lips against his deeply. Her grip was deathly tight.

When she pulled away, she said, "Tell Ghost to go outside."

"Why should I do that? He sees your hand around my throat and thinks my life is in danger. And I have told you what we did was a mistake, not honorable. You can't stay."

In the end, Ghost stood watch outside, and Jon had Rhaenys flat on her stomach moaning noisily into the pillow as he drilled her from above. Jon wondered when the consequences would catch up to the pleasures.

Bran

In the stillness of Bran's dream, the heart tree at Harrenhal shifted and twisted before his eyes, as if alive, morphing into something otherworldly. The branches bent low, curling and unfurling, whispering secrets in a language he couldn't understand. Shadows gathered, dense and oppressive, obscuring his view until the weirwood was little more than a hazy silhouette. And then, as if pulled by some unseen force, Bran's sight drifted away from Harrenhal entirely.

He found himself gazing upon a city shrouded in ash, where jagged towers clawed at a sky so dark it seemed to swallow all light. The air itself felt charged with an ancient power, a mix of ruin and grandeur, echoing with whispers of things that had once lived here—and things that still might. Spires of black stone loomed like twisted fingers reaching out of the earth, their surfaces scarred and fractured. Flames flickered within cracks in the ground, as though the city's very veins flowed with fire. Shadows moved within the ruins, twisting into monstrous shapes, half-seen but filled with malice, their forms grotesque and unnatural. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and decay, heavy and unyielding, and Bran felt a strange chill even as he saw flames flickering around him.

At the heart of it all, a lone figure moved through the ashes. It walked with purpose, its shape blurred by the heat and haze, but Bran could feel an unsettling power radiating from it, like a storm held in human form. The figure paused, tilting its head as though aware of his gaze, and for a split second, Bran felt it look back at him through the dream—a gaze like the fires of the earth itself.

But before he could understand what he was seeing, the vision shifted, and the flames gave way to something colder, more terrifying.

An expanse of ice stretched out before him, endless and ancient, reflecting a pale, eerie light. It was so pure, so cold, that it felt like it could freeze the entire world. Bran could almost feel it, an all-consuming chill that reached into the marrow of his bones. The ice was alive with a dark glimmer, and Bran had the sense that if he looked too deeply into it, he would see things that should never be seen—secrets older than the oldest trees, promises made long ago, and broken.

The heart tree's face appeared again, its carved eyes seeming to bleed in the frigid darkness, and the raven's voice returned, quiet but powerful. "The hour is late," it whispered, the words rippling through the frozen air. "The dark one is coming."

Bran felt the dread of those words seep into him, mingling with the cold and the ash, the fire and ice, until they felt like one and the same. The raven perched on a branch beside him, its three eyes trained on him, and its voice grew louder, insistent. "The hour is late."

The chant filled his head, rising until the dark one, the figure, the flames, and the ice all blurred into one. "The hour is late. The hour is late."

With a start, Bran jolted awake in his tent, gasping for air, his skin clammy with sweat despite the morning's chill. The echoes of fire, ice, and darkness lingered in his mind, wrapping around him like a cloak.

Bran shook his head. No. I don't want to dream about stupid ravens and trees. I rather dream about Myrcella Targaryen.

Thinking about the princess cheered him up instantly, and the dream slowly faded out of his mind.

How can a lady be that beautiful – even a princess? Bran feels giddy even just thinking about her. Bran swore Myrcella was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, even more beautiful than the crown princess.

Bran loved her golden hair that catches in the sun. Bran loved her green eyes. It looked like Cannibal's eyes, but ten times more pleasing to look at – you can't die when you look into Myrcella's eyes. When she turned those eyes at him yesterday, Bran's knees almost buckled from how wobbly they were.

"Our pup thinks he's sinking his fangs into the golden lioness! That's one animal you wolves can't catch!" Theon had jested, making Robb roar with laughter.

Bran had given them both shoves which only raised their laughter. "I don't want to eat her. I want to protect her as a knight! And she's not a lioness – she's a golden dragon!" At that, both Robb and Theon had grown silent.

Bran noticed Myrcella didn't smile much. She's even more breathtaking when she dies. Jon somehow had her smiling when they came back to the picnic from whatever they were doing. The smile made her face brighter than the sun. It made Bran envious that it was Jon that made her smile and not him. In Winterfell, no girl even looked Jon's way.

"Good morning." Rickon yawned from the other side of the tent and rubbed his eye. Shaggydog and Summer were already awake, curled up in the corner and watching the opening of the tent.

"Good morning, Rickon." Bran got ready. He was excited to watch the tourney and the second chance to see his golden princess.

Jon

The soft murmur of the tourney grounds hummed through the pavilion walls, and beyond, the clang of steel rang out as knights warmed up for the joust. Inside the tent, Edric Dayne's hands shook ever so slightly as he fastened the vambrace around Jon's forearm. The young knight's concentration was intense, though his fingers fumbled a little at the clasps. He glanced up with an apologetic smile, cheeks reddening.

"Sorry, my lord," Edric muttered, tightening the strap. "It's… a bit more difficult than I thought. I never touched Valyrian armor before." Jon heard the awe in his voice.

Arya, watching from a short distance, snorted and leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You're making him look like he's got two left hands!" She grinned, stifling a laugh as Edric fumbled once more, almost dropping one of the armor's straps. Jon let out a soft sigh, though there was no edge to it.

"It's all right," Jon said, giving Edric a reassuring look. "Armor's tricky when you're nervous. You should've seen me my first time—no better than you, I promise."

Edric laughed, his blush deepening, but he seemed to relax at Jon's words. He managed to secure the strap correctly, then looked Jon up and down with a nod of approval. "All done," he said proudly, stepping back.

Jon took a moment to adjust the weight on his shoulders. The Valyrian steel armor was a dark, shadowed purple, like the color of a stormy dusk, with subtle veins of black running through it that caught the light when he moved. The color matched his helm, which Edric handed him carefully, awestruck by the craftsmanship. Beneath the armor, around his neck, the pendant from Rhaenys rested against his chest, its warmth comforting him in an unexplainable way.

Arya's gaze caught on the pendant. "That's from Princess Rhaenys," she observed, tilting her head.

Jon's mouth curved into a faint smile, his fingers brushing over the pendant. "A gift for my name day," he replied, glancing at her. "She said it would bring me luck." The princess hadn't actually said that. Rhaenys had put the pendant around Jon's neck herself and said, "Bring me the crown of love and beauty, and I shall make you howl louder than this wolf I'm placing around your neck," before she smiled and kissed him on the cheek. She had seemed to be In a much better mood than last night.

Arya raised her brows, looking doubtful but intrigued. "You might need it if this one is putting your armor on."

This time, Edric joined in with a laugh. "I suppose I'm better with a sword than with buckles," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Not everyone has the hands of a blacksmith," Jon said, chuckling. He glanced to the tent's entrance, where the sounds of the crowd outside grew louder. The time for the melee was drawing near. Taking up Blackfyre, he gave Edric and Arya a look of quiet determination.

"Thank you both," he said, his tone softer. He settled the dark purple helm over his head, leaving only his piercing gaze visible as he prepared to step out.

Arya flashed him a proud smile, her teasing tone softening into admiration. "Win it for the North, Jon." She hugged him carefully, aware of his armor's scales.

Jon gave a final nod. They both left his tent. Mya Stone came in with a pitcher of water and bowed. "Your Grace. Princess Rhaenys wanted me to make sure you were properly hydrated before the melee started."

She thinks I need assistance drinking water? Jon thought in amusement. He accepted the offer anyway and poured himself a cup which made Mya give him a stare. "What? Your Rhaenys's handmaiden, not mine."

"If Rhaenys finds out that you poured yourself the cup and not me, I fear I wouldn't be able to be a handmaiden to anybody." Mya laughed softly. "Whatever you did, you put her in a much better mood."

The melee field stretched before Jon like a living, shifting sea of steel and leather, every man around him bristling with armor, sharpened steel, and an eagerness to prove themselves. The crowd roared as fighters tightened their grips on swords, axes, and maces, their voices a cacophony that matched the anticipation brewing in Jon's own chest.

He took in a breath, grounding himself as he adjusted his stance in the deep purple armor that marked him distinctly from the other combatants. A hushed murmur from nearby caught his attention:

"Aegon's not fighting," someone muttered. "Wanted to be with his wife, now that she's expecting."

Jon's gaze instinctively shifted to the royal box. There, Aegon sat beside his pregnant wife, Margaery, his eyes fixed on Jon with an intense, unreadable expression. His dragon Mystic circled in the air in the distance. But Jon barely lingered on his half-brother; his eyes traveled to Daenerys, who gave him a look filled with quiet pride, a glimmer of encouragement in her violet eyes. Rhaenys beside her leaned forward, her expression more fierce, as if silently willing him to victory. Arianne's gaze held an amused, daring smile, one that Jon felt was daring him to win as much as it was challenging him to impress her. And, seated with calm authority, Rhaegar caught Jon's eye and nodded—silent approval from the king himself.

Jon's gaze wandered to the Dornish section, where Ashara Dayne offered him a warm smile, her calm presence a quiet reminder of the support he had from Dorne, despite the tensions in the field. In the Stark section, Arya's wild cheering reached him, her voice nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd, but her encouragement unmistakable. Bran and Rickon echoed her, chanting his name with infectious enthusiasm, while Robb's voice cut through with the proud call, "For the North, Jon!"

Sansa and Catelyn, further back, clapped politely—cautious yet watchful, like specters from his past offering distant, formal approval.

Across the field, Jon spotted the glinting white of Kingsguard armor. His gaze locked onto Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, whose very presence seemed to draw wary looks from other fighters nearby. The men around Arthur shifted with unease, his reputation as formidable as his legendary sword, Dawn. Jon could feel his own tension building; no opponent here would be a simple match, and Arthur stood as a reminder of just how skilled the melee's participants were.

Further across the field, Jon's eyes fell on Oberyn Martell, his stance relaxed yet coiled, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. A silent, mutual acknowledgment passed between them; Oberyn's gaze seemed to promise both challenge and danger, and Jon knew to be on his guard.

There was another man that caught Jon's attention. The man wore a full armored plate with no ornament and held a golden sword that shivered in the golden sun's rays. His visor turned to Jon.

By his side, familiar faces gathered—the Greatjon and his son, the sons of the Karstarks, and Dacey Mormont, her stance as fierce as any man's. The Greatjon leaned in, grinning widely as he clapped a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder. "Let's crack some skulls for the North!" he bellowed, his voice rough and booming with the strength of their homeland. The other Northerners echoed his words with eager, determined nods.

In the royal box, Rhaegar stood, his voice carrying across the field, quieting the spectators as he raised his hand. "Lords and knights, fighters of the realm," he proclaimed, his voice steady and commanding. "Show your strength and valor, for today, you fight in honor of Westeros."

He held his gaze over the field for a moment, looking each competitor over before his gaze landed once more on Jon. With a slight nod, he raised his hand higher and let it fall, his voice clear.

"Begin!"

The sound of steel clashing against steel erupted in an instant, and Jon launched himself forward as the melee surged around him like a storm.

As the melee raged on, Jon moved like a shadow through the field, Blackfyre flashing in his grip with deadly precision. His stance was unyielding, his strikes calculated, and each opponent he met felt the crushing weight of his blows. As he fought, Blackfyre felt like a seamless extension of himself, its cold, dark Valyrian steel merging with his every instinct. His blood pulsed hotly, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he cut through the chaos of battle, his senses honed.

Jon's instincts would never lie to him, and yet he sensed something unusual happening. Be a gust of wind, the subtle sound of armor, he would turn on his heel, preparing to parry and retaliate. And yet every time he did so, he would see his potential opponent on the ground already yielded, glaring at him. Jon shook off and continued his rampage.

First came Cletus Ironwood, a sturdy Dornishman with a reputation for his fierce loyalty and iron will. But he fell quickly to Jon's skill. Every time Jon spun to block an attack from behind, he would see his next opponent already lying on the ground, staring up at him with disbelief. As Cletus glared, Jon gave him a nod of acknowledgment before moving forward, knowing that he couldn't afford to dwell on each victory.

Willam Wells met him next, his stance steady but ultimately predictable. Jon took him down with a swift combination, disarming him and leaving him on the ground with his pride wounded. Then came Gerris Drinkwater, whose agile strikes and quick footwork made him a challenging opponent. But Blackfyre was faster, and Jon's honed instincts were sharper; he bested Gerris with a sharp parry and a spinning strike that sent him sprawling. By the time Jon reached Archibald Yronwood, he felt almost unstoppable. Archibald's brute strength was formidable, but Jon's precision cut through it, forcing him to yield.

As the hours passed, Jon's mind sharpened with each engagement, his focus never wavering. His senses were so attuned to the rhythm of battle that he could feel a subtle shift in the air just before he noticed the glint of a flaming sword. It was Thoros of Myr, the Red Priest, his blade blazing with a fiery enchantment. Thoros advanced, the flames casting a hypnotic glow across the battlefield, but Jon felt no hesitation. You merely wield fire – I lived in it. Jon sidestepped deftly as Thoros's flaming blade sliced past him, the heat licking at his face. With a swift, powerful strike, Jon brought Blackfyre down and cleaved the sword in two, severing the flames in one clean cut. Thoros stared at his broken sword in shock, then gave a small, respectful bow before yielding.

One by one, other worthy adversaries fell to Jon's blade—Robar Royce, Tyrek Lannister, and finally, Beric Dondarrion. Beric fought with a grim determination, his strikes precise and fierce, but Jon parried each with ease, disarming him after a hard-fought duel. Jon noticed as he fought that most of the Northerners had been bested early on, save for the Greatjon, who remained a force to be reckoned with.

A brief respite came, but it was soon broken when Lyn Corbray stepped forward. Lyn's eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity, and his strikes felt different, almost too vicious for a melee. He wielded Lady Forlorn with deadly intent, his blows hammering against Jon's defenses with a fierce, deadly rhythm. He's good, Jon grunted as he turned a blow to the side. Each clash of their Valyrian steel swords sent a musical, haunting echo through the crowd, which sent the small folks into a frenzy as they yelled their hearts out. As Jon parried a particularly forceful strike, he noticed Lyn's gaze—cold, calculated, and almost predatory.

Jon's movements grew sharper, his counters more assertive, until he finally managed to sweep Lyn's legs from under him in a blur of motion, ending the fight. "If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you were trying to kill me," Jon said idly. Lyn smiled at him.

Then, the field went still as the final six fighters remained: Jon, Greatjon, Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, Oberyn Martell, and a knight cloaked in full, unmarked armor, carrying a gleaming golden sword. This mystery knight had been a shadow throughout the melee. Jon gathered his breath and gripped Blackfyre tighter, eyeing his next target. As a child, he dreamed of this moment – to face against the likes of the greatest warriors known to man and be recognized for his prowess with a sword. I will do more of that. I will win.

Greatjon Umber, roaring with the thrill of battle, charged at Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. It was foolish, but Jon admired the man's bravery. And it also gave Jon the opportunity to focus on the other combatants without having to watch his shoulder for the legendary Dayne. Jon, meanwhile, turned to face Oswell Whent. Jon can still see the disdain the knight has for him. Their clash was brief but intense. Oswell moved with seasoned confidence, his strikes precise, but Jon countered each one, finally disarming Oswell with a strong parry that sent his sword clattering to the ground. "Black Prince," Oswell muttered bitterly, retreating from the field.

Suddenly, Jon felt an instinctive urge to turn, and this time he knew something dangerous was behind him. Whoever sought to attack him must be strikingly fast because, based on the wind whipping he will be too late to block the attack. He spun around, only to see Oberyn Martell sprawled on the ground, muttering curses under his breath as the mysterious knight stood over him. Oberyn looked up at Jon and smirked. "Good instincts, Black Prince, but today, luck favors you."

To Jon's left, he could see Arthur Dayne besting the Greatjon. Greatjon let out a booming laugh, clapping Arthur on the back, bellowing, "The Sword of the Morning is indeed as good as they say!" The crowd joined in with good-natured laughter, the tension easing slightly as the last duel loomed.

As Jon prepared to face the anonymous knight—who stood tall and imposing, clad head to toe in plain, unornamented armor—he sensed something unusual about his opponent. This knight bore no sigils, no marks of allegiance. His sword, however, gleamed with an unmistakable golden hue. Jon's instincts stirred with both caution and intrigue, his gaze lingering on the knight's visor that kept his face hidden. The crowd watched in hushed expectation, unsure of what to make of this unknown challenger.

The man's voice echoed slightly through his helm as he spoke, low and taunting, "Let's see what you're made of, Bastard prince."

Jon squared his shoulders and readied his stance, Blackfyre held firm and steady. They began to circle each other, every step slow, deliberate. Jon noted the controlled power in the man's movements; this was no amateur.

The mystery knight struck first, a probing thrust meant to test Jon's reflexes. Jon met the blade with a swift parry, redirecting it away from his body, and responded with a quick riposte—a calculated slice aimed at the knight's shoulder. The knight sidestepped it easily, twisting to deflect Blackfyre in a movement so fluid it seemed almost instinctive.

Jon adjusted, taking a defensive stance as the knight pressed forward, his golden sword flashing in a series of quick, precise strikes. Jon blocked each one, feeling the strength behind the knight's thrusts and noting the speed with which he recovered. Jon attempted a counter-attack, lunging forward with Blackfyre aimed low, intending to draw Jaime's defense down. But the man anticipated it, sweeping his golden blade in a low arc that deflected Jon's strike and almost caught Jon off balance.

The two disengaged, assessing each other. Jon could feel his blood rushing, his mind racing to keep up with the relentless pace of the duel. The knight advanced again, his strikes faster, bolder. He came at Jon with a flurry of feints, interweaving high and low strikes in a deceptive pattern. Jon saw through some of them, managing to deflect or evade, but the knight's speed forced Jon onto the back foot, and soon, he was parrying at a rate that left his muscles aching.

Realizing he couldn't keep playing the knight's game, Jon shifted tactics. As the knight came in with another diagonal cut, Jon sidestepped, letting the man's momentum carry him forward. Jon struck back with Blackfyre in a swift, angled jab, aiming for the opening in the knight's armor at his elbow. His adversary twisted at the last second, deflecting Jon's blade with an upward block and countering with a sweeping backhanded slash. Jon barely ducked under it, feeling the wind of the blade pass just above his head.

They circled each other again, and the knight's tone was almost mocking. "You're not half bad. Maybe even good enough to give a toddler some trouble," he sneered.

Jon responded with action rather than words, launching into a series of sharp, precise strikes, forcing Jaime to fall back slightly. He aimed high, then low, then to the side, each movement smooth and controlled, designed to wear the knight down. For a moment, Jon saw his opening and thrust forward with Blackfyre, putting all his strength into the strike aimed at the knight's midsection.

But the knight was quick; he turned his body and met Blackfyre with a powerful block, using the flat of his blade to knock Jon's sword slightly off course. The knight's free hand suddenly came up, a gauntleted fist slamming into Jon's shoulder, sending him stumbling back. The crowd gasped as Jon regained his footing.

"Better keep your guard up, Bastard Prince," the knight quipped, voice laced with a smirk.

Jon gritted his teeth and came forward again, switching to a defensive style, letting the man come to him this time. The knight obliged, pressing the attack with a series of high, rapid strikes that seemed to come from every angle, forcing Jon to twist and parry in a complex dance of steel. Jon blocked a high strike, sidestepped a low one, and finally saw an opening as the knight overextended on a thrust. Jon drove Blackfyre forward in a brutal counter, forcing Jaime to leap back to avoid the strike.

Breathing hard, Jon realized that this knight was indeed one of the best fighters he'd ever encountered. His strikes were not just powerful but precise, his footwork flawless, his intuition uncanny. It was as if he could sense Jon's movements before Jon made them. For the first time, Jon felt as if he was facing someone who could truly match him blow for blow.

Slowly, a smile crept to Jon's face. He was enjoying this.

As they clashed again, Jon tried to switch up his rhythm, throwing the knight off with an unexpected feint high, then dropping low with a sweeping slice at the knight's legs. The knight barely avoided it, twisting and bringing his blade down in a quick cut toward Jon's shoulder. Jon blocked just in time, and their swords locked, each straining against the other.

"You fight well, Ser Knight," Jon grunted, feeling his muscles strain.

The knight, modulated by his visor, was almost amused. "And you think you are going to win, do you?"

They broke apart, only to re-engage with renewed intensity. The sound of their swords clashing filled the air, each blow seeming to grow louder, more powerful. The knight suddenly dropped into a crouch and swept his golden sword low, aiming to catch Jon off-guard, but Jon leapt over it, bringing Blackfyre down in a powerful downward slash that the knight barely managed to deflect. The impact echoed, reverberating through their swords, and Jon felt the shock run up his arm. The knight's back slash, Jon parried hard and swiped upward with quickness. Blackfyre connected with the Vambrace, shattering it easily. A gasp went through the crowd. Jon ducked under a swing as the Knight cursed. Blood seeped from the broken vambrace.

"Can you still keep up with me, ser?" Jon asked.

"Of course I fucking can," the man snapped. The knight pointed his sword at him. "You won't get another lucky hit like that, I swear to you."

Then, from the sidelines, a voice shouted, "Enough!" The distinctive voice somehow got the knight's attention.

For a split second, the knight hesitated, his focus broken. That was all Jon needed. Seizing the opportunity, he surged forward, catching the knight off guard and knocking his golden sword from his grip. The blade clattered to the ground, and the knight staggered back, muttering a curse under his breath.

The mystery knight straightened, recovering his composure. Through his visor, he shot Jon a look of grudging admiration, his tone no longer mocking. "Maybe we'll fight again someday… without distractions, Black Prince," he said before turning and striding from the field, the crowd watching his retreat in a mix of confusion and awe.

Jon stood in the center of the field, panting, his heart still racing from the duel. His eyes followed the knight's retreating form, a mixture of admiration and curiosity in his gaze. Whoever this knight was, Jon knew he had just faced the best fighter he ever fought against. Whoever he was, I have to find him and offer him a position within my Household guards.

And then, it was just Jon and Arthur Dayne. And just like that, Jon was going to fight the next best swordsmen he crossed paths with.

"Took you long enough," Arthur said, his arms crossed. Dawn rested in the dirt tip first. Sun rays glimmered beautifully down the milky blade.

Jon tried not to show how hard he breathed. "I had to let you recover."

The Northern crowd erupted, chanting Jon's name with fervor. The rest of the crowd stomped their feet slowly, a beat that had Jon's hear beat quicker.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I'm crossing swords with the Sword of The Morning. Jon almost couldn't believe it.

Jon felt his heart swell with pride, a smile ghosting over his lips as he faced the legendary Sword of the Morning. Arthur smirked, his calm gaze unwavering. "The Starks cheer as if you stand a chance today."

Jon shrugged. "Maybe they're smart enough not to bet against the odds." That forced a snort from Arthur.

Jon and Arthur locked eyes as they began to circle each other, each movement deliberate, measured, their bodies coiled and ready to strike. The air around them was taut with anticipation, the crowd hushed in reverence, and the only sounds were the faint rustling of armor and the steady breaths of the two combatants. Arthur's gaze was calm, a faint smile on his lips, as though he were merely indulging in a friendly spar. But Jon saw the spark of challenge in his eyes, the hidden promise that he would not hold back. For Jon, the duel wasn't merely a contest—it was his opportunity to test himself against a legend.

The first move came from Jon. He feinted a lunge to Arthur's left side, drawing the Sword of the Morning into a defensive stance, then swept Blackfyre in an upward arc, aiming for a quick slash toward Arthur's unguarded shoulder. But Arthur was quicker than Jon anticipated. He pivoted on his back foot, parrying the slash with a deft movement of Dawn that sent a subtle vibration up Jon's arms.

Undeterred, Jon recovered and launched another feint, this time dropping his shoulder to suggest a low strike aimed at Arthur's legs. As Arthur adjusted his stance, Jon flicked Blackfyre upward, aiming for a cut to Arthur's neck. Arthur parried the strike again, his grip on Dawn steady, and immediately countered with a swift, angled thrust toward Jon's midsection. Jon spun to the side, narrowly avoiding the lethal point of Arthur's blade, feeling the rush of air as it passed.

They broke apart, each reassessing the other. Jon noticed Arthur's eyes watching him intently, analyzing his movements, looking for any sign of weakness.

Arthur struck next, a sudden lunge with astonishing speed, aiming a powerful downward slash toward Jon's right shoulder. Jon lifted Blackfyre to block, and their swords met in a ringing clash of Valyrian steel on steel from the falling star. The impact reverberated through Jon's arms, but he held steady, gritting his teeth as he pushed back against Arthur's strength. With a grunt, Jon disengaged, swinging Blackfyre down in a rapid counter, aiming to catch Arthur off guard with a sharp diagonal cut.

Arthur twisted his body, evading Jon's strike by inches. He spun his sword in a feint, the blade flashing toward Jon's left side, only to reverse direction at the last second in a smooth, deceptive arc aimed at Jon's ribs. Jon saw the trick just in time, sidestepping the blade, then lunged forward with a quick jab, hoping to catch Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur anticipated the move and deflected the jab with a precise, almost casual flick of Dawn. Not missing a beat, he transitioned into a fluid counterattack, aiming three quick, controlled strikes toward Jon's torso, his movements a dance of deadly grace. Jon blocked the first two, their swords ringing in quick succession, but the third slipped through his guard, grazing the upper piece of his armor. Dawn left a mark.

Jon's grip on Blackfyre tightened as he absorbed the sting of the near miss. He adjusted his stance, dropping lower, and surged forward in a flurry of quick, aggressive strikes. He aimed for Arthur's shoulder, then his thigh, then his head, each attack flowing into the next. Arthur parried each with impressive speed, his movements graceful yet unyielding, his eyes never leaving Jon's.

They exchanged a rapid succession of blows—thrust, parry, feint, block—each maneuver precise, each clash of their swords a testament to their skill and determination. Jon tried a risky maneuver, attempting to use Blackfyre's blade to hook onto Arthur's wrist guard and disarm him, but Arthur slipped free, using Jon's own momentum against him to twist Dawn in a swift, upward arc.

Jon ducked just in time, feeling the air shift as Dawn passed above his head. He retaliated with a spinning slash aimed at Arthur's side, but Arthur sidestepped, swinging Dawn horizontally in an attempt to catch Jon across the chest. Jon dropped to one knee, dodging the strike, and used his lowered position to drive Blackfyre in an upward stab toward Arthur's torso.

Arthur jumped back, narrowly evading Jon's blade, then brought Dawn down in a sweeping motion. Jon raised Blackfyre to meet the attack, their blades connecting with a ringing clash that echoed across the field. The impact pushed Jon back, but he quickly steadied himself, eyes narrowed with fierce concentration.

Arthur pressed his advantage, launching a relentless series of attacks, his swordsmanship flawless. Jon blocked a downward slash, sidestepped a quick jab, and parried a thrust aimed at his shoulder. Sweat beaded on his brow as he struggled to keep up with Arthur's speed and precision. In a desperate attempt to regain control, Jon spun to his left, sweeping Blackfyre low in an attempt to force Arthur off balance.

Arthur anticipated the move, leaping over Blackfyre's blade with astonishing agility. As he landed, he twisted and brought Dawn down in a powerful strike, forcing Jon to block again. The force of the blow jarred Jon's arm, and he felt the strain in his muscles as he pushed back against Arthur's strength.

Seeing an opening, Jon tried a feint, shifting his weight as if to strike high, then abruptly shifting low, aiming a powerful stab at Arthur's knee. But Arthur saw through the deception, pivoting smoothly to avoid the strike and bringing Dawn around in a sweeping horizontal arc. Jon barely managed to duck, feeling the rush of air as the blade passed over him. He retaliated with a quick upward slash, aiming for Arthur's exposed side.

For the first time, Jon's blade met its mark, grazing the side of Arthur's armor with a sharp, metallic sound. Arthur's gaze flickered with surprise, but he merely smiled, giving Jon a small nod of acknowledgment.

But the reprieve was short-lived. Arthur's smile vanished as he moved in, his strikes coming faster and with more intensity. Jon felt himself being pushed to his limits as he parried a brutal downward slash, dodged a quick thrust, and blocked a sweeping strike aimed at his side. His arms burned with the effort, his grip on Blackfyre slick with sweat.

Jon growled, parrying with all his strength, which took Arthur off guard. His blow was blocked, But Jon used that to get in close and slice upwards. Arthur dodged in time, But Jon followed closely. Blackfyre sliced in wide arcs, keeping Arthur on the backfoot. Dawn came shrieking to his midsection, but Jon's instincts had his body flowing in an entirely different direction. Blackfyre landed squarely against Arthur's breastplate which immediately carved through, chips of white flew. Arthur's retaliation came quickly, but not as quickly as before, Jon parried strongly. Arthur stumbled.

Jon smelled blood in the water.

He saw the opening.

I will win!

Jon sensed his chance and pressed forward with a cry. He went on the offensive, his strikes coming hard and fast, forcing Arthur to backpedal. The crowd held its breath, the tension reaching a fever pitch. Blackfyre flickered out, deadly quick, aiming for Arthur's exposed side. Jon heard the gasps as everyone sucked in their breath. Jon smiled, finally achieving one of his childhood fantasies.

But then, Arthur made his move—a maneuver so swift it was nearly imperceptible, his hands shifting in a blur. In one fluid motion, Blackfyre was wrenched from Jon's grip, sent spiraling into the air before landing in Arthur's own hand. Arthur leveled Blackfyre at Jon's throat.

What the...what the hell? Jon couldn't process what just happened. All he knew was that his own sword, Blackfyre, was no longer in his hands and it was in the hands of his opponent aimed directly at Jon's apple in his throat.

"You fought well, Your Grace," Arthur said quietly, a hint of respect in his voice. His voice was taut. His breathing came very heavy. "Now yield."

"I...I yield."

A stunned silence settled over the crowd, only to erupt moments later in the loudest cheer of the day. The ground seemed to shake as everyone leaped to their feet and clapped or roared. Guards had to reinforce the fences as the smallfolk surged forward screaming to their heart's content. The herald's voice boomed, "Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, is the victor of the melee!"

Did I just lose? Jon thought numbly.

In the royal box, Aegon cheered the loudest with the Queen smiling brightly. The crown prince threw golden coins to the common folk's section, driving them even more wild. "The Black Prince met the Star!" He yelled. "The Black Prince met the Star!" Soon more common folk people picked up the chant.

"The Black Prince met the Star!"

"The Black Prince met the Star!"

"The Black Prince met the Star!"

"Call Cannibal and roast everyone here. Let them meet their gods..."

Jon's hands curled. He couldn't swallow.

Arthur handed him back Blackfyre grimly. A sheen of heavy sweat covered his brow. "Block out the noise. It could have easily been you today."

But it isn't.

Jon sheathed Blackfyre. Without a word, he started out of the field. A quick mental command had Ghost trotting at his side to deter those who wished to bother him.

Back in his tent, Jon sat on a stool, Blackfyre laid across his lap as he glared at a spot in the pavilion wall. He didn't attempt to remove his armor. He just sat there.

I lost...

How? I had a good grip on Blackfyre. My stance was perfect. He wasn't even set. I had him dead to rights. And yet I was disarmed...

Jon could still see Blackfyre spinning in the air free as a bird. It gnawed at him.

At Winterfell, I listened to everything Rodrik Cassel explained to us better than Robb ever did. I practiced the sword when everyone slept. They called me the best sword in Winterfell... It was all I had.

After I defeated Khal Drogo, they soon called me the best sword in Essos...

In the South, they will only call me the second best...

Jon's fist tightened.

He didn't know which was worse – losing or being ignorant of what the hell Arthur did to disarm him so easily.

The tent flap opened, and Jon looked up to see the Starks entering, with Theon and Edric Dayne following behind. The wolves entered the pavilion sniffing Ghost who nipped back at them. All of them just stood there, gapping at him. Even Catelyn stared at him in a new light – almost as if she was afraid.

It made Jon mad. "If you are here to gloat in my face, I do not want it."

Edric finally found his feet and went to undo the straps on his armor. The young lord snuck a couple of glances out the corner of his eye.

Robb almost found his voice. "Jon..."

Arya was stuck as well. "That...You...I..."

Sansa and Catelyn just stared at him.

Theon just openly gapped at him.

Are they all that ashamed of me for losing? Jon's nose flared.

Bran attempted. "That...was..."

"AMAZING!" Arya shouted, eyes bright.

Robb nodded. "Jon...you were incredible."

"I'm incredible for losing?" Jon snorted.

They all stared at him as if he had grown two more heads. Edric stopped momentarily to glance at him with wide eyes. Even the wolves perked their ears.

"It would have been amazing if I won. But I didn't," Jon muttered.

"...Did you get hit in the head too many times?" Theon said.

Jon glared at him. "What are you getting at, Greyjoy?"

Robb stepped forward, breathless. "Jon...You fought Arthur fucking Dayne to a standstill!"

"And lost."

"Do you know how long you two were fighting?" Theon asked abruptly.

Jon frowned and then shrugged. "I guess for a couple of minutes."

Everyone's eyes grew larger. "He really said for a couple of minutes." Theon shook his head and laughed.

Just as Jon was about to lose his temper, Catelyn said, "It was not for a handful of minutes like you think. You fought Arthur Dayne for twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes? Jon blinked.

Robb stepped forward, his blue eyes bright. "I never saw a duel like that – none of the lords did either. Your swords were so fast...so many counterattacks...Jon, they are calling it the best duel of the century!"

I'd rather be remembered for winning that duel.

Edric spoke up then. "I have never seen my uncle fight seriously. You fight him to a standstill. No other person alive can say that. If you accept, I would be honored to be your squire and learn from you." Jon saw the awe in his gaze. He can see the awe in all their gazes. Arya was practically jumping from foot to foot.

Still Jon said, "The crown prince clearly doesn't think much of it."

Robb's eyes sharpened. "Fuck Aegon!" Sansa looked appalled.

"Robb!" Catelyn hissed, sneaking a glance at Edric who pretended he didn't hear a word. Jon looked at him appraisingly.

"The prince didn't participate because he knew Jon was going to put him in the dirt!" Arya said with a smile. Her energy was so infectious that Jon had to smile.

"Yes!" Rickon cried.

"Yes!" Bran cried.

Then the wolves howled in cohesion.

Catelyn looked like she had given up.

"There's another matter of note." Jon sighed when Edric finally finished stripping off the armor. He looked directly at Sansa. "You must stay away from Willas Tyrell."

"What?" Sansa gasped.

"Sansa, mind your manners," Catelyn said.

"Nothing good will come out of it, Sansa." Jon looked away from the dismayed Stark to Lady Stark. "I suppose the flower with barbs approached you about the match."

Catelyn hesitated. "Yes." Robb looked at her with a frown.

He didn't know either.

Jon narrowed his eyes. "You didn't think to inform me?

"I thought it would be a good match."

"Any match with the Tyrells would directly be used against me."

"It doesn't have to be this way, Your Grace. This brewing conflict with your brother...it can be healed."

"Nothing can be healed," Jon snapped. Arya, Bran, and Rickon looked very unsure. Robb glanced between the two of them.

Sansa looked almost on the verge of tears. "Please, J-M-Your Grace. Willas is so kind and thoughtful. He talks about knights, castles, and flowery things..."

Can she not fucking see anything she doesn't want to see?

"Shut her the fuck up."

"He's a cripple," Jon said shortly. Sansa cried in dismay.

Catelyn straightened her back. "Your Grace, you do not have to resort to such words. This ma-"

"There is no match. How many times do I have to explain it to you two," Jon snarled.

This time, Robb intervened. "Alright, Jon. You don't have to speak to my mother and sister that way." His voice was hard.

"Who in the fuck is he talking to?"

Jon laughed. "Oh, Sansa is not my sister anymore?"

Sansa whipped up her head, her eyes red. "I would never be siblings with a man called Maegor!" Instantly everyone in the room flinched.

"Show them what they should really be afraid of."

Everyone jumped when Jon stood up and knocked the stool over. "Don't ever call me by that name again!" He snarled to the cowering Sansa. Catelyn stepped over to shield her, slightly trembling.

Jon smelled the fear in the room and only got more frustrated. "Edric, I will see you tomorrow for the Joust." Jon stalked away from the tent.

Myrcella

"The lion had more than what he could chew, uncle?"

It was once again deep in the Godswood that Myrcella convened with her outlaw uncle. Jaime finished wrapping the coverings on the wound on his arm and glared. "The bastard prince is better than his idiot brother for sure. But I would have won if you didn't distract me."

Was that before or after he nearly severed your arm? But Myrcella didn't voice it out loud as it was never wise to anger Jaime. And clearly, the golden lion is still licking his wounded pride. Her uncle had proudly declared to her that not only would he protect the Black Prince from those who wished to kill him in the melee but he would also give him a nice beating as well. Now Jaime was muttering before her, smarting about, "Bastard boy got a lucky hit in."

"I told you to stop because it looked like both of you were able to kill each other. And stop calling my cousin a bastard. He is a trueborn prince of noble blood."

Jaime shrugged. "That's what the Red Viper and his little serpents are calling him."

"That's what they are calling me as well. That doesn't make it true, does it?"

Jaime switched the subject. "They were definitely trying to kill Maegor – why the hell would they give him that name by the way? A couple of sellswords tried to sneak him from behind."

"You didn't let them touch him," Myrcella said. "I'm surprised you didn't kill them"

Jaime snorted. "Of course I didn't. Do you think I am an amateur? If I killed anyone who was hired by Aegon and the queen, they would raise up. Maegor was oblivious. They would know someone knows their scheme."

They have to be caught red-handed for Jon and the King to put them under, Myrcella thought.

"Oberyn attempted to attack him from behind as well before I stopped the sword swallower in his tracks. It wouldn't raise too many eyebrows. There are no rules stating honor is a requirement. But I know the Red Viper likes to coat his spear with special types of poison that could've had your bastard cousin crying for his dragon."

Myrcella frowned. "Wouldn't it be obvious if Jon had been poisoned by him?"

Jaime laughed. "No, sweetling. There are different types of poisons and they all have different ways to make a sorry bloke suffer. Oberyn could've used poison on his blade which has a delayed effect."

"I need a food taster."

"I'm already protecting your precious prince. I'm not protecting your stomach either."

"Princess!" a childish voice called out.

"Hide!" Myrcella hissed. Jaime rolled behind a bush just as Brandon Stark appeared with his massive Direwolf.

Not the damned wolf! Her eyes saw the wolf sniffing around curiously.

Heart beating in her chest, Myrcella forced a smile on her face. "Hello, Brandon."

A big goofy smile appeared on his face. "You can call me Bran!"

"Only if you can call me Myrcella. How can I help you, Bran?" From the corner of her eyes, she saw the Direwolf sniffing closer to the spot Jaime was at curiously.

Myrcella swallowed.

Bran looked crestfallen.

"Mae-" Bran flinched. "Well, Jon got angry at me."

What does Jon have to be angry about? All over the castle, they talk about his prowess with the sword and that he will be the greatest swordsman when Arthur departs this world.

"Why is he angry with you, Bran?" Myrcella asked, genially curious. Bran was adorable. She found it hard to believe anyone would be mad at him.

Bran kicked a rock. "Well, he's not mad at just me. He's angry at all of us. He's mad because my mother talked with Lady Margaery's mother about a match between Sansa and Willas Tyrell and didn't inform him."

Of course, Jon would be angry. This is an obvious power play to drive a wedge in his biggest supporter – the Starks. He saw it a mile away. First, they attempt to kill him during the melee, and now they want to divide and conquer his family. They are moving fast. Well, the Tyrells often go out for riding...Myrcella wondered if Jaime could be used.

"Summer! What are you doing?"

Dread dropped to the pit of her stomach as Myrcella whipped her head to where the wolf was. The wolf pushed his nozzle into the bushes Jaime disappeared into. Oh no... Knowing her uncle, he would be foolish enough to pull out his golden sword and try to gut the wolf that was the size of a war horse. Whether he lived or not, it would be revealed that Myrcella was hosting a man who was wanted by the crown. From how easily Bran talks about his family's problems to Myrcella, no doubt Bran would run to Jon. Then both her and her uncle's head would be mounted on the gates of Harrenhall.

Her heart stopped when the wolf pushed himself fully into the bushes, sniffing Jaime's scent. However, the wolf pulled back out looking somewhat disappointed. Myrcella frowned, but then something shifted. Her eyes slowly rose to see Jaime hanging on for dear life on one of the tree branches. Myrcella wanted to laugh if not for the fact Bran would say, "Do you want to see me climb?!"

"No!" Myrcella said. Seeing Bran's sad look, she hurried to say, "Climbing is very dangerous for a boy your age."

"I have seen eleven name days! I'm almost a man grown." I can climb anything!" Bran puffed out his chest. It reminded her so much of Tommen that a laugh escaped her lips. Bran's big smile at her reaction made her tilt her head, considering.

"You said you can climb anything?"

"Yes!" Bran eagerly said. Then he looked down at his feet. "But my mother made me promise to her to not climb while we are here."

Myrcella brushed a strand of auburn hair from Bran's face. She noted how he almost looked on the verge of collapsing from her touch. "You won't help a princess in need?"

"Yes, I will!" His hesitation completely disappeared.

Myrcella kneeled to look him in the eye. "It's a game you see. There are bad guys and good guys in the castle. What are you, Bran?"

"I'm a knight!"

Myrcella nodded slowly. "You will be my knight. The bad guys wish for me to be removed from the game. The bad guys talk in this very castle. Since you can climb anything, well, it would be hard for them to remove me from the board, wouldn't it?"

Jon

The courtyard lay empty, cloaked in the stillness of the night, its silence broken only by the soft rustle of wind weaving through abandoned stone walls. Shadows stretched long across the ground, and a sliver of moonlight spilled through a gap in the clouds, illuminating the space with a faint, silvery glow. Jon stood alone in the middle of the courtyard, Blackfyre resting in his hand, its blade catching the moonlight and glinting along its length. Beside him, Ghost sat in quiet vigil, his red eyes gleaming in the dark.

Jon's mind was not in the courtyard, though, but back in that brutal, breathless clash with Ser Arthur Dayne. Every strike, every parry, every movement—it played over in his head like a song he couldn't forget. He could still feel the hum of Arthur's sword meeting Blackfyre, the power of each blow, and that moment when he'd thought he might finally have him—only to see Arthur slip past his guard with a move so unexpected that Jon hadn't been able to counter it. He replayed the duel again, searching for something he'd missed, some flaw in his own form, some advantage he could have taken.Where did I go wrong?he asked himself, frustration tightening his grip on Blackfyre.

A shadow moved in his periphery. Jon looked up to see Arthur himself striding into the courtyard, his face softened by the night but his eyes as piercing as ever. Arthur stopped a few paces away, his expression calm, almost understanding. "You did everything right," he said, his voice low but clear in the quiet.

"Everything but win."

Arthur tilted his head, studying Jon with an unreadable expression. "Don't let this loss eat away at you," he said gently. "I had to use a trick on you, one that's been passed down to every Sword of the Morning. It's something I alone have perfected, something I never use unless I must."

Jon turned his gaze to Arthur, his curiosity tempered with the bitter sting of defeat. "Show me," he said, and Arthur nodded, stepping back to demonstrate. With fluid precision, Arthur moved through the trick—the subtle shift in stance, the faint misdirection, and then the speed with which he slipped past Jon's imaginary defense. Jon watched every motion, his jaw tightening further as he recognized how expertly Arthur had used the technique against him.

"It's impressive," Jon admitted, though bitterness laced his tone. He could see the perfection in the movement now, but it grated at him all the same. I could have seen that.

Arthur stepped closer, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Why does this trouble you so much?" he asked softly, a tone of genuine concern in his voice.

Jon's shoulders slumped slightly, his grip on Blackfyre loosening. He looked away, but the words came of their own accord. "All my life… skill with a sword was the one thing I had. My name, my place… none of it meant anything. But I could always fight." He met Arthur's gaze, his own eyes fierce with remembered pride and frustration. "I've hardly ever been defeated. Not until now."

Arthur nodded, his expression sympathetic but unwavering. "It's no small thing to lose," he said, "but consider this: you could have seen the trick sooner, had you not been so… confident."

Jon blinked, surprised. His initial shock hardened into something sharper, like the edge of his own blade. "I wasn't cocky," he retorted, a tinge of anger flaring in his voice.

Arthur's eyes held a knowing glint as he shook his head. "I've watched you, Jon ever since I rode through these gates. You walk as though no one in this world could touch you." He paused, letting that sink in. "I saw your duel with the mystery knight," he continued, his tone even. "He's a very good swordsman – he reminded me of someone else who had potential. But you made it harder on yourself by letting your confidence blind you. You could have had an easier time, but it was fortunate that your mystery knight was even more arrogant than you were."

Jon felt a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his earlier irritation melting away as Arthur's words settled in. He glanced down, letting out a soft chuckle. "So, it was a battle of the dickheads, then."

Arthur laughed too, a deep, genuine sound that echoed through the empty courtyard. When their laughter faded, Arthur turned serious again, his gaze steady and intent. "It pained me to have seen you so let down. Jon, you are the best swordsman I have ever faced. And I had to resort to a move passed down for generations to disarm you." He paused, his eyes taking on a look of admiration. "You are gifted. Special. And the thought of how skilled you will be at my age…" He trailed off, shaking his head, as if the thought itself gave him pause.

Jon's heart hammered with a complex mix of emotions. Gratitude, determination, and a resolve to learn, to grow past this loss, to become better than he'd been even an hour ago. "Thank you," he said, meeting Arthur's gaze and feeling, for the first time since the duel, that he could truly accept this defeat.

Jon watched as Arthur left the courtyard, fading into the shadows, leaving him alone once more. The faint glimmer of moonlight was all that remained, casting silvery streaks across the ground. He took a deep breath, clearing his mind as he began to move through the motions he'd used in the melee, repeating the parries, blocks, and strikes that had brought him so close to victory. Each move was sharper than the last, his body seeking the precision and fluidity he had seen in Arthur's demonstration.

I shall never be defeated again.

He attempted the trick Arthur had shown him, feeling the subtle shift of weight, the turn of his wrist just so. Blackfyre felt heavier in his hands tonight, but he kept practicing, slipping through the movement over and over, until—

Ghost's ears perked, his sharp gaze darting toward the far end of the courtyard. Jon paused, listening as the faint sound of footsteps drifted through the night air. He turned, finding Myrcella standing there, watching him with a small, knowing smile. Jon noticed she never looked at anyone else that friendly other than her cousins.

"I knew you would be here," she said, her voice warm and soft in the cool night.

Jon raised an eyebrow, his tone dry as he replied, "And how, exactly, would you know that?"

She shrugged, her smile widening with a hint of mischief. "A woman has her ways."

Jon couldn't help but huff a short laugh, and she continued, "You fought very well in the tourney, you know. My cousin Tyrek wouldn't stop blabbering about how you disarmed him in one move. And then my other cousins blabbered about Thoros… they're all in awe that you sliced through his flaming sword as if fire itself couldn't touch you."

Jon shrugged, gesturing around the courtyard, as if his being here, practicing, was the most natural thing in the world. Myrcella's eyes sparkled with amusement as she stepped fully into the courtyard, glancing around before looking back at him.

"What did Joy say?"

"She said she's happy you didn't win."

"Nice."

"If I thought I'd ever see anyone fight Ser Arthur Dayne for twenty minutes, I would have thought it'd be my uncle Jaime," she said with a smile.

Jon's gaze sharpened, his tone careful. "You're speaking rather fondly of the man I announced I would bring to justice. My bout with Arthur was, you might say, a way of honing my skills… for the hunt." He left the words hanging, the implication clear.

Myrcella hummed, folding her arms as she studied him. "How long have you been fighting, Jon?"

His gaze drifted, thoughtful, as he answered, "All my life." He paused, thinking not just of swordplay but of the lifelong battle against his status as a bastard, the struggles that came with it. "I fought because I had no choice but to fight."

Myrcella's expression softened, and Jon noticed how her eyes fell to Blackfyre, resting in his grip. She seemed to absorb his words, a glimmer of understanding there.

"Has anyone ever taught you the sword?" Jon asked.

Myrcella blinked, the question catching her off guard, and she let out a soft, lilting laugh. "Don't be silly, cousin. I'm meant to be in skirts, not chainmail."

Jon couldn't help but smile, noticing how beautiful she looked in the moonlight, especially when she laughed. "Still, you'd look better than Obara in chainmail," he said with a wry grin, and Myrcella's laughter bubbled up again, warm and genuine.

On impulse, he held Blackfyre out to her. "Come here," he said. "Take it. Feel the weight of it."

Myrcella hesitated, glancing around as if some unseen rule might stop her, yet the glint of excitement in her eyes betrayed her interest. She whispered, almost to herself, "Oh, fuck decorum," and stepped forward. Giggling softly, she reached for Blackfyre, and Jon carefully placed the hilt in her hands.

"Be careful," he warned lightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The mystery knight found out how sharp it was."

She giggled again, the blade gleaming in her delicate hands as she held it aloft, her eyes shining as she studied the ancient Valyrian steel. Jon saw the fire in her gaze. It intrigued him.

"Here, I'll show you the proper form," Jon said, moving behind her and guiding her hands to position them correctly. His hands found her arms, steadying her as he showed her how to shift her weight, angle her wrists, and swing the blade with purpose. She followed his guidance, and they moved in sync as she swung Blackfyre in a smooth arc, slicing cleanly through the straw dummy in front of them. The dummy's head tumbled off, bouncing once on the ground and right into Ghost, who glared at them, his red eyes narrowing in exaggerated irritation.

Both Jon and Myrcella burst into laughter, Jon stepping back slightly as Myrcella struggled to hold back her giggles. She looked up at him, her smile wide and her eyes bright.

---

Arthur: It is confirmed. Joy and Aegon are Jon's biggest haters, and yet Jon is still a lucky man all things considered. Arthur may have defeated Jon, but our boy will always have the last laugh ;' This was mostly a filter chapter to set up the next chapter which should be the biggest yet. leave your thoughts in the reviews. Have a good day!