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.

31. All Must Choose

Benjen

Benjen lay on the frozen earth, his blood staining the snow black beneath him, though he could barely feel it. The cold that once bit through every bone was now merely a distant hum, as faint and unreachable as the warmth he'd long left behind. Around him lay the remnants of battle—dead wolves with frosted fur, felled giants, their limbs twisted in final agony, and wights scattered like broken dolls, their vacant eyes staring into the void.

A shadow moved, and Benjen's gaze fixed upon the figure standing over him: a White Walker, its ice-blue eyes gleaming with a light both ancient and unnatural. It tilted its head, a strange curiosity in its gaze, like a beast observing a creature it had never seen before. Benjen struggled to understand, to make sense of why he was still aware, still conscious, though he knew he was dead.

Why am I still here?The thought echoed in the silence of his mind, untouched by breath or heartbeat. The White Walker's gaze seemed to pierce into him, as though reading his silent question.

"The magic in your blood," it said, its voice like the cracking of ice over a deep lake. "It binds you to awareness."

Benjen felt a surge of dread, though his heart lay still in his chest. The Walker's gaze shifted to the object lying near his limp hand—the Horn of Winter. Reverently, the creature bent and lifted it, the edges of its frozen fingers skimming over the ancient markings as if it could feel the power embedded there. It regarded the horn with something akin to admiration, a spark of dark intent flickering in its icy eyes.

"With this horn," it murmured, "the fire will never hurt us again."

Benjen felt a shiver that was not his own, an instinctive terror, even as his body refused to move. He wanted to reach for the horn, to pull it away, to do anything to stop this creature. But his hands lay cold and obedient at his sides, awaiting another's will.

The White Walker straightened, turning northward, the horn cradled in its hands as if it held a promise. Then, with a motion more command than request, it moved forward, and Benjen's body rose and followed, every muscle and limb no longer his own but responding to some distant, foreign pull. He walked alongside the Walker, his mind screaming within the prison of his dead flesh. Every step he took into the endless night was a reminder of his helplessness—a shadow of a man, bound to the will of a creature colder than death itself.

Days blurred into an endless night, with Benjen stumbling forward beside the White Walker, trapped within the dead shell of his body. Time became meaningless; there was only the relentless forward march, an unyielding journey through the frozen wilderness. Each day, the biting cold should have penetrated his bones, should have gnawed at his skin, but he felt nothing. Only the empty numbness of death.

Around them moved a silent horde of wights, their decayed eyes fixed forward, a lifeless march toward an unknown end. Benjen's mind roamed where his body could not, his thoughts flickering like embers in a long-dead hearth. Sometimes he imagined he could feel, in some distant way, the cold air brushing over his skin, but it was only memory, a ghostly echo.

The White Walker rarely spoke, striding forward with its glacial gaze fixed northward. Benjen watched as they passed countless abandoned villages, hearths cold and lifeless, homes empty and barren. He saw signs of hurried flight—scattered belongings, half-eaten meals left frozen in the snow. Hunts had been abandoned, nets and traps left uncollected, the prey half-buried in the snow. Among the trees, in the darkened shadows of cliffs, Benjen glimpsed enormous ice spiders lurking in wait, their glistening legs curled as they watched the road. Only a fool would stray into their paths, and yet he felt no fear. He was beyond it now.

Then, one day, after countless days in silence, the White Walker finally spoke.

"I killed you not from cruelty," it said, its voice carrying the sound of cracking ice, an ancient voice that reverberated through Benjen's very bones. "I killed you so you could escape the fire. The fire from the south which seeks to consume us all."

Benjen would have laughed if he could, his disbelief simmering in the hollow of his mind.Escape the fire?He wanted to demand what fire this creature feared, what terror lay in the south that could drive such coldness to desperation. But he was as voiceless as the dead around him, and the White Walker offered no more answers.

They marched on, crossing into a world that grew colder, and harsher with each step. Soon, Benjen felt something new in the air—an energy he could neither see nor touch yet felt thrumming through the icy winds. It tingled in the deadened edges of his senses, a primal force woven through every gust. They were in the lands of always winter, where magic bled from the very earth and sky.

The icy tundras stretched before them, desolate yet alive with an ancient power. The sky above was painted in rivers of color: waves of red and green that shimmered and twisted in an endless dance, an aurora that cast ghostly hues over the snow-covered plains. The air was alive with the crackling sound of frost forming and fracturing, resonating with an eerie beauty that seemed to vibrate through Benjen's very bones.

And then he saw it—a sight that would have made his blood run cold, had it still flowed.

Before him, rising against the frozen horizon, was a city, a fortress, unlike anything he had ever imagined. Vast, ice-encrusted walls towered in jagged heights, translucent and shimmering with ancient symbols etched in frost. Ghostly figures moved upon those walls, clad in armor that glistened like polished ice, their eyes glowing with a cold, otherworldly light. A face flashed in his mind, a figure more terrible than anything in Benjen's deepest nightmares.

He wanted to scream, to turn and run, but his dead legs carried him onward, step by step, as the White Walker led him into the heart of the lands of always winter, where the very air pulsed with an ancient, unforgiving magic.

Bran

In the depths of his dream, Bran drifted like a leaf on a frozen river, images flickering past him in half-formed shadows. He could feel the Three-Eyed Raven perched on his shoulder, its talons digging into him just enough to ground him in the nightmare. Bran watched, helpless, as Benjen Stark—the uncle he had once loved and admired—walked through a wasteland of ice and death. Corpses with bright blue eyes shuffled beside him, and there, at his side, strode a beautiful creature with cold, calculating eyes. The walls of an impossible city rose before them, dark figures moving like shadows upon its battlements.

"No," Bran whispered, his voice thick with horror, tears filling his eyes. "No, this can't be real."

Beside him, the Three-Eyed Raven tilted its head, its voice echoing in Bran's mind."You must open your third eye, Bran."

Bran's vision blurred, his heart pounding in his chest, but he could not look away.

Amid swirling smoke and the crackle of fire, he saw a shadow moving through ash and flame. The figure walked slowly, purposefully, as though drawn to something far beyond the smoke. Their face was blurred, hidden by the thick haze, yet there was a haunting familiarity about them. Bran heard the angles from the heavens herald his coming.

The Three-Eyed Raven's voice came once more, softer but urgent."You must do what you must to save us all."

The dream dissolved, the images breaking apart like shattered ice, and he felt himself rising, slipping out of that world and back into his body.

He woke with a scream, bolting upright in his bed, his skin cold with fear. The noise startled Summer, who rose from where he had been curled at Bran's side, his golden eyes darting around the room protectively. In the dim glow of early dawn, Bran heard Rickon grumble from across the tent, his voice groggy and irritated.

"Shut up, Bran!" Rickon mumbled, rolling over and pulling the blankets over his head.

Bran sat there, breathing hard, his heart still racing as the remnants of the nightmare clung to him.

Jon

In the morning, Jon and Rhaegar walked to the library escorted by Arthur Dayne and a handful of Targaryen men-at-arms. Ghost prowled next to Jon like a shadow. Daenerys and Rhaenys flanked them. Jon can feel both of their gazes.

"Have you and Arthur rekindled?" Rhaegar asked, a small smile on his face.

"I'm afraid Maegor is as much of a sore loser as his father," Arthur said.

"You fought very well, my son. The last person to make Arthur sweat was me, frankly." Rhaegar coughed.

"You, Your Grace?" Jon asked.

Both Arthur and Rhaegar chuckled. "Don't let my harp lead you astray. Arthur had been my sparring partner for many years. I would not have defeated Robert Baratheon if that was not true."

Lord Stark said Robert Baratheon was six feet and six inches tall and wielded a massive war hammer in one hand Lord Stark could scarcely lift with both, Jon thought.

"The joust begins today. No doubt you will ride well. Which lady at this tourney will be lucky to have her favor wrapped around your arm?" Rhaegar asked. Which two wives will you have, his purple eyes asked. Jon knew he had to have it announced at the end of the tourney.

"Why would the favor have to be wrapped around his arm when it's wrapped around his neck?" Rhaenys chose to saunter over to Jon. Her hand slipped inside his doublet and pulled out the pendant for everyone to see. Her slender fingers then caressed his face, softly gripping his cheeks, and turned it to face the king. "Doesn't it make him look dashing, father?" The king nodded, lip twitching. Jon felt Daenerys's eyes pierce the back of his head.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open, revealing the vast expanse of the Great Library of Harrenhal. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light streaming through the high, arched windows, illuminating the towering shelves lined with ancient tomes and scrolls. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, a testament to the knowledge and secrets held within these walls.

As Jon, Rhaegar, Ghost, Arthur Dayne, Rhaenys, and a contingent of Targaryen guards stepped inside, a hush fell over the room. Scholars and scribes, peasants and common folk, deep in their studies, paused and then instinctively knelt before the Targaryen bloodline, their reverence palpable.

Rhaegar, regal and composed, turned towards Daenerys, his silver hair catching the light. "Introduce those you have gathered, sister," he said, his voice steady but warm.

Daenerys looked to Jon, who gave her a small nod, and she stepped forward. "We have called upon a number of skilled hands to aid us, each chosen for their loyalty and expertise. Some," she glanced at Jon, "come at special request."

Domeric Bolton, standing tall with a calm, measured confidence, stepped forward. His pale blue eyes were steady as they met Jon's, giving a respectful nod. "My prince," he began, "at your request, I have come to serve. And if it pleases you, I have brought my best hunter."

He gestured to the man beside him—a rugged, wiry figure with sharp, calculating eyes. "This is Locke. He's skilled in tracking and hunting and knows the forests as well as any beast."

Jon returned the nod, his expression approving as he took in Locke's assessing gaze. "Thank you, Domeric," Jon replied. "Both of you are welcome here."

Domeric stepped back, and a tall man with a commanding presence moved forward. "Beric Dondarrion, at your service, my prince," he said, his voice respectful. "I've fought in many battles, and I pledge my sword to you."

Before Jon could respond, another figure approached, his face alight with fervor. This one was shorter, dressed in faded robes, with a shaved head and a foreign gleam in his eye. "Thoros of Myr," he said, bowing low, his gaze intense as he looked upon Jon with something akin to awe. "I have heard tales of you, my prince. The Lord of Light has guided me here, I am sure of it."

He's a follower of R'hllor. I've paid the price of crossing paths with many of them. I can't say I'm a big fan.

Jon inclined his head, meeting Thoros' gaze, which burned with a fanatic devotion that was almost unsettling. "Welcome, Thoros," he said simply, his voice steady.

Next came a young man with striking features and an air of challenge in his expression. Harry Hardying—known to some as Harry the Heir—approached, sizing him up as if appraising an opponent. He inclined his head.

"Harry Hardying," he said. "I come as a humble servant of House Targaryen" His eyes flickered up to meet Jon's. "I look forward to seeing what awaits."

Jon held his gaze with a steady confidence, allowing the faintest hint of a smile to cross his lips. "As do I," he replied coolly, as Harry took his place among the others.

Then came a figure, trembling slightly as he stepped forward. Samwell Tarly, round-faced and wide-eyed, looked as though he wished to be anywhere else as every gaze in the room fell on him. He managed a tentative bow. "Samwell Tarly, my lords and lady. I—I'm honored to serve at Harrenhal, truly."

Jon gave Sam a reassuring nod, sensing the younger man's nervousness. "Your knowledge is valued here, Samwell," he said, and Sam's face flushed with a mixture of relief and pride.

Daenerys gestured to the remaining recruits—some stood proud, others fidgeting nervously under so many eyes. "We also have many common folk, but they are as willing and able as any," she said.

She pointed out a tall, wiry man with a rough demeanor. "This is Green. He's a farmhand but knows his way around a blade." Another, a young man with a mischievous glint in his eye, grinned as she gestured toward him. "Pyp—our resident jester, but quick on his feet and reliable."

There was Dolorous Edd, who wore a perpetually dour expression. "Edd here could talk you into the grave with his humor," Daenerys said with a smirk, and Edd gave a faint nod, his gaze skeptical.

Then there was Halder, a broad-shouldered man who looked unsure of himself; Toad, a scrappy youth who couldn't seem to stand still; and Rast, who eyed the room with the cold, calculating gaze of a survivor.

Rhaegar looked upon them all with a quiet respect, acknowledging their purpose here. "You are all here for a purpose greater than yourselves," he said, his voice carrying through the chamber. "Together, we shall protect House Targaryen's legacy, and ensure the strength of the realm against whatever darkness may come."

Jon saw the confusion through the library at the king's words and wanted to sigh. Every eye snapped to him when he stepped forward. "Cannibal is unlike any dragon we have ever seen.

As the king and Jon trickled through the room and chatted with some, Jon saw the table he had used with Daenerys. Flashbacks entered his mind undeterred. Daenerys saw the table and threw him a glance, a light blush on her cheeks.

After that, Conveniently, after Rhaegar stopped by to chat with the bookkeeper, Rhaenys clung to Jon's side closely as he wandered the library, chatting with those who wished to work for Cannibal.

"Samwell Tarly?" Jon's voice was mild and polite, and yet the man squealed all the same, making Rhaenys hide her giggle behind her hand. The man was one of the fattest Jon had ever seen. Sam was round like the moon and not nearly as pretty.

"M-I-J-My...My prince," Samwell stuttered.

"Cake got your tongue?" Rhaenys asked. Sam reddened. Jon's glare silenced the princess's giggling.

The next was Harry Hardying, who struggled to keep his eyes off Rhaenys.

"I didn't see you in the melee," Jon said.

Harry took his eyes off Rhaenys's breasts and met Jon's eyes. "I didn't make it far. Lyn Corbay made sure it didn't happen – he cut through the field like a force just to get to me. I didn't think anyone would stop him until you did. Thank you for avenging me. The man almost seemed like he was trying to kill me." His voice was bitter.

"Strange. I had the same thought, my lord," Jon said, which made Harry frown.

Jon made sure to have everyone aware of the different sections of books, where to find them, and what to look for within the texts. As some of the common folk recited the lines for his approval, Jon noticed the faint look of boredom on Rhaenys's face. "You rather read something else?"

Rhaenys was in the middle of shaking her head before a spark ignited in her dark eyes. "Yes. There was a section that caught my eye."

Jon followed Rhaenys to the far side of the library, glancing around the deserted shelves where dust had settled, and no one lingered. As they rounded a corner, Rhaenys surprised him, pressing him firmly against the wall of books, her lips capturing his in a fierce kiss.

"I thought you'd seen a book you wanted," Jon murmured, pulling back just enough to speak.

"I lied. I only wanted to be alone with you." Rhaenys eased herself onto a sturdy table and tugged him between her legs, her fingers toying with the pendant that hung around his neck. "You slipped away after Arthur bested you."

"Are you disappointed that I lost while wearing your favor?"

In response, her hand moved swiftly to his jaw, her fingers tightening just enough to command his attention. She tilted his face to look at her, and for the first time, Jon noticed subtle flecks of purple in her dark eyes, catching the low light.

"Jon… it was blissful watching you put everyone in the fucking dirt wearing my pendant," she breathed, her voice low and unsteady as her hand came to rest on his chest. Her fingers traced idle patterns over his heart, feeling the warmth through his tunic. "It did something to me."

Jon's heart thundered under her touch, and he felt her words echo within him. "Something like what?"

She held his gaze, eyes bright with a dangerous thrill. "Something reckless," she whispered, her fingers pressing against his chest as if to feel the strength beneath. Her breath was shallow, her words soft but laced with intensity. "Watching you fight for me… gods, Jon, it made me want to claim you right then and there."

Her hand slipped down, curling around his pendant again, almost possessive. "I want you to fight like that for me always."

"You pulled me to an isolated part of the library to tell me you're proud of me?"

"I also want you to come to luncheon with me and Aegon."

I never want to breathe in the same air as him, but I'll be damned to be scared off by that dickhead.

And the way Rhaenys was staring at him... A quiet intensity held between them, and in that moment, the whispers of duty and rivalry faded into silence.

"That's it?"

A wicked smile flashed across her beautiful face. Rhaenys pulled him closer. "I want you to take me right on this table." Her breath was heavy by his ear.

The King. Arthur. Daenerys. These people. Here? Jon wanted to ask but knew she wouldn't care. "You can't be quiet to save a soul."

"You have another battle on your hands then." Rhaenys dragged her tongue up Jon's ear.

Jon smashed his lips against hers. Their hands hastily fumbled at their underclothes. Rhaenys's cunt was bare, and Jon's breeches were pooled around his feet. His cock plunged into her cunt with a wet plop. Jon kept his mouth on hers to stifle her moans. The table creaked as Jon moved his hips as fast as he could without making a sound. It was hard to do with Rhaenys's sweet mouth moaning into his, with her hand on the nape of his neck, and with her long legs tightly trapping him from ever escaping.

Soon he was lost in the bliss.

Myrcella

Myrcella stood beneath the shadowy walls of Harrenhal, her mouth slightly open in disbelief as she watched Bran scurry down from the towering stone heights. The sight was unbelievable—he had just climbed the largest, most treacherous castle in the land as though it were a mere tree.

Bran, beaming and breathless, landed lightly before her. "Did you see that?"

Myrcella finally found her voice. "How did you climb like that?" she asked, astonished.

Bran shrugged with a snort. "Whoever rebuilt Harrenhal made it easier to climb than Winterfell, that's for sure." He grinned, his eyes glinting with excitement. "I even found an opening in the library. I saw everyone down below—Jon, the king, the princesses. And Ser Arthur Dayne was with them!"

Myrcella saw Bran's eyes light up. "Do you think Ser Arthur would take me as his squire?"

She smiled, seeing how much it meant to him. "Yes, easily."

Bran's grin grew even wider. "That's good! Maybe Jon could ask Arthur for me…" He hesitated, his expression turning curious. "Though… Jon and the princess were doing something… weird."

Myrcella's smile wavered. "What do you mean?"

"They went to the far end of the library," he said, frowning as he tried to describe it. "They started… wrestling, I think, and made these strange, wet noises."

They were fucking, Myrcella thought numbly. They were fucking in the library under the king's nose. They are fucking under everyone's nose.

Myrcella's face was stony as Bran looked at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. But she could only stand there, silent. Something twisted in her chest.

Myrcella's thoughts twisted in fury and disbelief.Why is he sleeping with the enemy?The realization that her biggest hope—Jon, the only person who had looked beyond the rumors, who had been good to her—was lying with Rhaenys felt like a dagger in her chest. Her jaw clenched as her mind spiraled, and she bit down on her tongue, tasting blood.

Did Jon not understand? Aegon was Rhaenys's brother. Elia Martell was her Rhaenys's. Didn't he see the danger in drawing close to them?Is he asking to be stabbed in the back?The anger burned deeper.Do I not look good enough? At Kingslanding, Dragonstone, and Casterly Rock, the knights swore up and down her golden beauty was undying. But here at Harrenhal, everyone avoided her as if her skin held the plague. Meanwhile, every lord and knight hovered around Rhaenys as if her skin held a cure.

Unconscionably, Myrcella twisted one of her curly golden strands just like how Rhaenys would before calling her 'little cub'.

Is Rhaenys whispering her filthy lies about my parentage into his ear?

It was a betrayal she hadn't expected. If he slept with Rhaenys, it meant only one thing—she'd likely become his wife. And then Rhaenys would be even more untouchable, free to carry on unpunished, Tommen's murder left unavenged.And then,Myrcella thought bitterly,she'll finish the job by killing me.

Myrcella struggled to hold in a scream, her heart thudding with helpless rage. Then, slowly, she forced herself to breathe, piecing her thoughts back together with a hard-won calm. Rhaenys and Aegon loved visiting their cousins in Dorne. They hid their indulgences well, but Myrcella knew from her mother's spies that those indulgences were far from respectable.

"How heartbroken poor Rhaegar would be if he ever realized Rhaenys isn't the perfect picture of virtue she pretends to be," her mother had once told her, that dangerous gleam in her emerald eyes. "She's a whore, just like her mother and her filthy cousins." Cersei had leaned in close, voice a low whisper. "My little dragon, what if I told you that the crown prince and the princess are true manifestations of Targaryen siblings?"

The words had unsettled her, and now, thinking back, Myrcella began to wonder. Rhaenys and Aegon's bond had always been oddly close, filled with lingering looks and quiet exchanges only they seemed to understand. Jon was no fool, and his hate for the Dornish was no secret.

And who does Jon hate the most?

Heart thumping, Myrcella forced herself to smile. "Well, let those two play their games. We'll play ours," she said softly. "Where would you like to climb next?"

Bran's eyes gleamed with excitement again, his thoughts quickly shifting back. "I think I'll start my next climb from the stables!"

Together, they headed toward the stable yard, where Bran eagerly prepared for his next ascent. Myrcella watched him, still deep in thought until she noticed Lyn Corbray striding down a nearby corridor, a heavy cloak pulled close around him as he struggled to keep something concealed beneath it.

"What are you doing, Ser Lyn?" she called out, a wary edge to her voice.

Corbray's lips curled in a sneer. "Nothing of your concern, my princess."

But Myrcella's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a small, terrified face beneath the folds of his cloak—a young boy's face. She straightened, her voice hardening. "What are you doing with that boy?"

Corbray let out a harsh laugh. "This peasant tried to run off with Lady Forlorn," he said with a derisive sneer. "I'm merely seeing that he's… punished properly."

Myrcella felt a surge of anger as she met the boy's frightened eyes, reminding her of Tommen. She clenched her fists. "Release him. Now." It came out as a snarl. Her blood rose, and fire wreathed in her heart.

Lyn smirked, sliding his cloak open just enough to reveal the glinting pommel of his Valyrian sword, Lady Forlorn. The sight of it sent a chill through her. He is too bold to flash a sword before a princess. He believes that, with my status so uncertain, he can pass off with these actions. And he could be right, Myrcella thought. However, Lyn didn't know she had a Jaime.

Suddenly, a calm yet steely voice spoke from nearby. "Let go of the boy, Ser Lyn."

Arys Oakheart had arrived, his hand resting tightly on the hilt of his own sword. Lyn's sneer deepened, and he brandished Lady Forlorn with his free hand. "I bested you in the melee, Ser Arys. Are you looking for another taste of Lady Forlorn?"

Arys held his ground. Myrcella noticed the knight's hand was trembling. Yet he remained resolute. "Release the boy, or I'll take this to Prince Maegor."

The name alone—Maegor, not the king—made something flicker in Corbray's gaze. He hesitated, remembering his defeat by Jon, and then spat on the ground in disgust. "Letting peasants escape punishment…" He threw the boy to the ground with contempt and stalked off.

The boy stammered a quick, breathless "Thank you!" before running off down the hall. Myrcella turned to Arys, gratitude and relief in her eyes. "Thank you, Ser Arys."

Arys gave a slight bow, his voice firm. "A true knight defends the innocent against vile men, and Lyn Corbray's reputation is viler than most."

Myrcella was struck by the warmth in his gaze, a new admiration lighting his face. "Not many men—let alone princesses—would stand up to Lyn Corbray unarmed," he said. "You are a true princess, a golden princess who defends the innocent."

Then, to her surprise, Arys went down on one knee. "It would be an honor to pledge my sword to you, Princess Myrcella."

Jon

It was time for the 'Cultural Celebration'.

The Great Hall of Harrenhal was a tapestry of colors and sounds, filled with nobles, soldiers, and common folk, each adding a unique element from the land they hailed. House banners lined the stone walls, woven into tapestries and draped across grand pillars. The flicker of torches cast a rich amber light, illuminating the assembled crowd as they bustled with excitement, awaiting the grand cultural display. This event, conceived by King Rhaegar, aimed to celebrate the diversity of the realm, inviting participants from all corners to showcase the unique beauty, heritage, and traditions of their homes.

Jon stood at the front of the hall beside Rhaegar, his gaze sweeping across the hall's vast expanse.

"Tonight," Rhaegar began, his voice commanding the attention of all, "we gather not only as loyal subjects but as one people, each bringing forth a piece of our history, culture, and spirit. May this night remind us of what unites us, for the kingdom's strength lies in its diversity."

The hall erupted in cheers, filling the air with thunderous applause and lively conversation. Jon smiled faintly as he scanned the faces, nodding in gratitude as the crowd cheered with fervor.

One by one, representatives from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond approached the front, offering displays of their own. A singer from Braavos began the evening, standing proudly before the crowd with a small lyre in hand, her melodic voice filling the hall. She sang a haunting ballad about the Sea of Sighs, her voice lilting and expressive, painting images of mist and longing. As her final note faded, the hall broke into applause, though many appeared moved into reflective silence.

Following her performance, the hall bustled with excitement as a large, muscular man approached the center with an armful of ingredients. He was from the Stormlands and had brought with him the makings of the famous storm pie—a rich pastry filled with fresh game, herbs, and vegetables. As he worked with practiced hands to assemble the dish, its savory aroma wafted through the hall, enticing murmurs of hunger and appreciation. The pie was eventually sliced and shared among a few fortunate guests, earning hearty applause and nods of approval.

Then came a group of Dornish dancers, dressed in vibrant colors of red, gold, and orange, mimicking the hues of their hot desert sands. Their steps were quick and intricate, a fiery display of movement that seemed to heat the hall itself. Each turn, each sway, was a testament to the passion and resilience of their land, and the audience found themselves swept up in the rhythm, clapping along as the dancers whirled in dazzling circles.

Jon took a moment to speak, holding up an intricately carved silver object from Old Valyria. "Tonight," he said, voice steady "I bring back a couple of memories from the north..."

He twisted a part of the object, and from within it, a thick plume of silver smoke unfurled, filling the hall with a strange, otherworldly mist. Within seconds, the smoke twisted and turned, taking on ghostly shapes—flashes of icy landscapes, towering shadows, and figures moving in the mist. The images hinted at the Others, with eyes like blue stars and the frozen wastelands beyond the Wall.

Some in the audience gasped, a chill running through the hall. But one lord clapped his hands loudly, laughing. "Now that was an impressive trick!" he boomed, his voice cutting through the silence. "My lord Jon, I didn't take you for a conjurer!"

His laughter set off a ripple of applause, and soon the hall was filled with cheers and whistles. Jon's face darkened slightly. Fuck.

Before he could dwell on it further, a red woman entered the hall. Melisandre, her name was. A hush fell over the crowd as the Red Priestess glided forward, her presence radiant and commanding. She was wrapped in scarlet, her ruby necklace glimmering with an almost unnatural light. Her unsettling red gaze swept over the hall, and men stared, captivated by her beauty and intensity.

With a quiet word, Melisandre's followers, clad in dark robes, moved to the four corners of the hall, placing braziers filled with hot coals at each point. They cut their palms, letting droplets of blood fall into the coals, which hissed and popped as the flames flared higher, filling the hall with an acrid scent.

The crowd gasped, a mix of horror and fascination.

Melisandre's voice rang clear and haunting through the hall. "From the city of Asshai, behold the truth of the Long Night." She raised her arms, and the flames flickered, casting shadows that twisted into nightmarish forms. The temperature in the room plummeted, and a vision unfolded before their eyes: a desolate, frozen wasteland with skeletal trees and endless snow.

Men and women clad in ancient armor fought in the vision, screaming as they clashed with the Others—white figures with glistening blue eyes. Children of the Forest appeared beside them, their magic lighting up the scene with greenish glows, while arrows flew and swords flashed. Shadows of castles crumbled under snow and ice, and monstrous shapes—ice spiders the size of hounds—skittered across the fields, adding to the horror of the scene.

Mothers wept as their children were taken, their tears freezing on their faces, their cries echoing in the hall. Many in the audience clutched each other in terror, their eyes wide as they took in the harrowing scenes.

"This was our fate," Melisandre said, her voice carrying both sadness and warning. "Until Azor Ahai was born and drove back the darkness, casting the Great Other beyond the Wall."

"Azor Ahai is needed yet again."

The last thing they saw were blue eyes as bright as stars.

The visions faded, and the braziers returned to a low burn, the hall left in breathless silence, every face frozen in shock. Jon scanned the room. The fanatics did the job better than I ever did. He saw how Melisandre eyed him.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Daenerys. She was inching toward one of the braziers, her eyes transfixed, her hand stretching out toward the flames as if in a trance. Jon reached out quickly, gripping her arm and breaking her from the spell.

"What—" Daenerys blinked, disoriented, before turning to the Red Priestess. "Tell me, do we have an Azor Ahai?" She asked, very much the same person who scoffed at Jon earlier about the same topic.

A murmur swept through the hall, with lords and ladies exchanging puzzled glances. Some laughed. Some scoffed. Aegon's expression shifted to one of expectation, his gaze on Melisandre, but she didn't look his way. Rhaegar remained impassive, his face betraying nothing, though his eyes seemed to glint with an understanding that went beyond the rest of the hall.

Melisandre turned slowly and raised her hand, her gaze falling upon Jon. "Maegor Targaryen is the prince that was promised! I have seen him in the flames! He will be reborn among salt and ash! He will wield Lightbringer, a sword so bright that the dead shall run from his light! Maegor Targaryen will chase the darkness away!"

Excuse me?

The room fell into a stunned silence, every eye turning toward Jon, some with admiration, others with shock, others with curiosity, and most with skepticism. Jon saw Aegon and the Tyrells frown deeply. Rhaegar's face was indecipherable.

Me? The prince that was fucking promised?

A low murmur rose from the crowd as Jon shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. He felt the weight of their gazes, the questions in their eyes.

From the back of the room, a small voice broke the silence. It was Sam Tarly, who had been quiet the entire evening, captivated by each display. His voice shook slightly, but he spoke up, addressing Jon directly.

"Do you believe it, my prince?" Sam asked, his eyes wide with reverence. "Do you believe that you are Azor Ahai?" This man was the very same man who couldn't meet Jon's eyes without pissing himself.

Jon looked at Sam, the honest, almost childlike sincerity in his eyes cutting through the noise around him

"I believe…" Jon paused, his voice low. "I believe we all have a part to play."

A faint smile crossed Rhaegar's face, his expression one of quiet approval, and even Daenerys, who still seemed shaken, nodded in agreement.

"He is the one..." Thoros, who stood next to Beric, fell to his knees.

Melisandre tilted her head, studying Jon with an intensity that bordered on reverence. "Then play your part well, my prince," she said softly, almost as if it were a personal benediction.

The crowd remained silent, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the hall. Gradually, the quiet murmur of voices resumed, each conversation punctuated by glances toward Jon, Daenerys, and Rhaegar.

Olenna snorted and waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, enough of this nonsense! The red woman's display was pretty enough, I'll grant, and the fire did wonders to warm these old bones of mine. But let's not be fooled. Grumpkins and Snarks—meant to scare children, not sensible men and women!"

A ripple of laughter echoed through the hall, joined by approving murmurs from those who shared her skepticism. Jon's gaze swept across the room, noting the uncertain glances exchanged by a few who hadn't laughed. He saw how their gazes lingered on the braziers. It wasn't much, but he marked it as a step in the right direction.

Myrcella

The torches lining Harrenhal's courtyard cast flickering shadows on the ancient stones as Myrcella moved through the empty space, feeling a rare mix of anticipation and dread. She would usually look forward to seeing Jon, to his steady presence and those rare moments he set aside for her. But knowing he had been spending his nights with Rhaenys gnawed at her, filling her with a quiet fury that left her hands cold. She told herself to be calm, but the anger simmered just beneath the surface.

She heard footsteps and turned, catching sight of Jon approaching, his expression tinged with a touch of frustration. As he reached her, he let out a breath. "It was hard enough sneaking out here," he said with a rueful smile, "with those R'hllor fanatics hounding me at every turn."

His voice held a hint of jest, and he waited, clearly expecting her to laugh. Myrcella tried to force a smile, but her heart wasn't in it, and she knew it showed. Jon's smile faded, his brow creasing slightly.

"I didn't expect you'd agree to this," he murmured. "Training sessions with me, I mean."

She shrugged, feigning indifference. "Why not?" she replied, her tone cool.

Jon's frown deepened, but he didn't press her further. Instead, he guided her through the steps of swordplay with quiet patience, demonstrating each stance and grip. His hands would occasionally settle on her shoulders or elbows as he adjusted her posture, the firm warmth of his touch igniting a flutter in her chest she wished she could ignore. Occasionally, his fingers deliberately brushed her hips. Jon knew she was very ticklish. Myrcella had to summon all her willpower to ignore it.

For the first few rounds, Myrcella forced herself to focus, giving only perfunctory responses, letting Jon's instructions flow over her. She felt the clash of their tourney swords vibrate through her arms as he corrected her swings, moving with a focus that was impossible not to admire. Slowly, though, her defenses began to melt under his steady insistence, and, after a few clumsy strikes, she found herself laughing as he dodged her swing with exaggerated agility.

"Better, but not quite sharp enough," he teased, dodging another blow. "You'll need more than that if you hope to land a hit on me."

The challenge in his voice sparked something in her, and she laughed, striking back with more conviction, the tension between them easing for the first time since she'd arrived. They traded mock blows, Jon occasionally letting her sword touch his to give her a small victory, though he made a show of wincing every time. Despite her earlier anger, she couldn't help smiling, feeling the tension between them slip away with each swing and parry.

When they finally sat down to rest, the air was thick with silence, punctuated only by their labored breathing. Myrcella leaned against the cold stones of the courtyard, a strange fear flickering in her chest as she looked at him. How could she enjoy his company this much, even with all her reservations? The feeling unsettled her.

Breaking the quiet, Jon turned to her, his gaze intent. "Why are you angry with me?" His voice was low, but the question struck her like a blade.

Caught off guard, she quickly masked her surprise, scrambling for an excuse. "It's… nothing," she said, feigning casualness. "It's just the things people say."

He looked at her, not letting her deflection slide. "Things?"

Myrcella bit her lip, then forced herself to speak. "The rumors, Jon. About me—not being a true princess, that I'm nothing more than a… Lannister bastard."

Jon's face softened, and he shook his head. "Myrcella, I told you not to let the words of others trouble you. They don't know you."

"It's easier said than done," she replied, managing a bitter laugh. "And besides… well, if I really were a bastard, perhaps it would be easier to believe if Jaime and Cersei were Targaryen siblings and not Lannisters siblings..."

Jon chuckled at that, the warmth of his laughter briefly easing the bitterness inside her. They shared a moment, a small reprieve from the weight of court rumors, until she continued, her voice dropping.

"Targaryen siblings…... like Aegon and Rhaenys." She let the words linger in the air, her voice light.

The laughter on Jon's face drained instantly, replaced by a cold, unreadable mask. Myrcella felt her pulse quicken, her fingers trembling as she pretended not to notice his reaction. She kept her gaze straight ahead as she tried to keep her voice steady.

"My relationship with Tommen," she said softly, "was never like… like what Aegon and Rhaenys share. Is your relationship with Arya Stark like that?"

The silence between them was absolute, every unspoken word heavy in the chill of the courtyard. She risked a glance at him, and his expression was blank, but she knew he had understood the message. She sensed the unspoken thoughts behind his silence, felt the weight of his realization settle in the space between them.

Jon said nothing. Instead, he simply looked ahead, and Myrcella was left to wonder if her words had pierced through his loyalty to Rhaenys. In that moment, she found herself caught in a fierce, conflicting storm—feeling both a painful satisfaction at planting the seed of doubt, and a gnawing ache at the reality that Rhaenys's hold over him might be far too deep.

Jon turned back to her, his face impassive. "No. It is not."

Aegon

Aegon leaned back, tossing another scrap of meat to his dragon, Mystic, who caught it mid-air with a snap of his jaws. He's growing so fast. Soon he won't be able to be in the Castle anymore. The little hall felt colder, less alive without a full table of voices. His gaze drifted to the empty plate before turning back to Rhaenys, who sat across from him, her expression composed but growing visibly tense.

They spoke of trivial matters at first—news from the Vale, the antics of the Dornish lords—but Aegon couldn't ignore the edge in her voice or the quick glances she shot at the unoccupied seat. With every passing minute, Rhaenys's responses grew more clipped, her eyes narrowing as her knuckles whitened around her fork. Aegon wondered who the missing person could be to unsettle his sister this way.

When her tension became too sharp to ignore, he reached out, intending to cup her face. But Rhaenys tilted her head away, pointedly avoiding his hand. Aegon blinked, surprised. She'd never done that before. She'd always accepted his touch with easy familiarity, even with a closeness few would dare guess.

"Who were you expecting?" he finally asked, masking his curiosity with a nonchalant smirk.

She didn't answer, but her silence said enough. Aegon snorted, filling the space with his idle words. "The red woman called Jon the savior, that damned prince who's supposed to save us from darkness, remember? I don't think he can even save himself, let alone the rest of us. Maegor," he scoffed, "what a joke."

"I don't want to hear about Jon," Rhaenys said sharply, her voice ringing against the stone walls. "Or Maegor."

Aegon's smirk widened. So,Jonwas the one putting her in this mood. He'd suspected as much, but seeing her reaction confirmed it, and satisfaction flared in his chest. If Rhaenys had invited Jon and he hadn't shown, then clearly Jon wasn't man enough to even sit in the same room as him. Still, the thought of Jon's absence irked him, almost as if Jon had slighted him as well.

"He's probably off somewhere with Myrcella," Aegon said offhandedly, lifting his cup to his lips. "Someone mentioned they've been meeting up. Doing gods know what." He cast a sly look at his sister over the rim of his cup. "Maybe that's why he couldn't make it."

At this, Rhaenys's eyes blazed, and for a fleeting moment, her usual calm facade cracked, allowing fury to surface in her gaze.

Myrcella

The godswood of Harrenhal was silent as Myrcella paced, the conversation with her uncle Jaime still echoing in her mind. His voice, light and mocking, had told her of Jon's rising influence, of how the hall had buzzed with whispers after the red woman's fiery display. Worshippers of R'hllor were multiplying, and those devoted to the Faith grew uncomfortable. The tension was thick enough to slice through, and it left Myrcella uneasy, her thoughts swirling as she wandered alone.

Then, a rustling sound made her stop. Footsteps. Myrcella turned, her heart lurching as she saw Rhaenys striding into the godswood, backed by the elder Sand Snakes—Nymeria, Obara, Tyene, and Sarella. A flash of silver glinted in Obara's hand as she dragged someone along roughly. Myrcella's heart sank when she recognized Joy, who stumbled painfully, her face twisted in discomfort as Obara gripped her ear cruelly. The Sand Snakes laughed as Joy staggered, their mirth sharp and unforgiving.

Red-hot anger surged through Myrcella. She stepped forward, voice quaking with fury. "Let her go, Rhaenys!"

Rhaenys merely tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips, which only stoked Myrcella's anger further. Without thinking, Myrcella lunged at her, intent on wrenching Joy free. But before she could get close, a stinging, biting sensation coiled around her throat as Nymeria's whip wrapped tightly, yanking her to the ground. She choked, clawing at the whip as it cut into her skin, and her vision swam. Nymeria only tightened her hold, pressing Myrcella into submission.

Sarella's mocking laughter cut through the godswood. "You dare lay your dirty hands on the princess of the Iron Throne?"

Joy, desperate, pleaded from where she was held. "Don't, Myrcella! Just—just don't!"

Obara's expression darkened as she shoved Joy's head against the ground, making her yelp in pain. Myrcella thrashed, but the whip tightened even more, and she stopped, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she glared up at Rhaenys.

Rhaenys regarded her with cold amusement. "Tell me, Myrcella," she said smoothly, "what did you say to Jon? He's avoiding me, refusing to speak with me."

Myrcella's rage flared. "Maybe Jon finally realized what a terrible sister you are."

Maybe he realized what kind of bitch you are!

A laugh escaped Rhaenys's lips, venomous. It was a sound that would have weakened the knees of men, but to Myrcella, it only deepened her hatred. Rhaenys tilted her head, a glint in her eyes as she knelt down to Myrcella's level, her smile sharp.

"Much as I'd love to put you in your place for that remark," she murmured, "I'd hate for word to reach Tywin that we were mistreating his...bastardgranddaughter." Her gaze flickered over to Joy, who lay trembling on the ground. "But your cousin here isn't quite so fortunate."

Obara didn't wait for further instruction, her fists slamming into Joy with relentless force. Joy whimpered and gasped, the sound tearing at Myrcella's heart as she tried to twist free of Nymeria's whip.

"Please!" Myrcella cried out, desperation clear in her voice. "Rhaenys, stop! Please, stop!"

Rhaenys's gaze shifted back to Myrcella, eyes cold and unforgiving. "It'sPrincessRhaenys."

Myrcella clenched her jaw, swallowing the bile in her throat. "Please… Princess Rhaenys, I'm sorry."

After a long, simmering silence, Rhaenys gave a small, satisfied nod. She motioned to Obara, who stopped her assault on Joy, stepping back with a smirk. Rhaenys leaned down, meeting Myrcella's defiant gaze up close. Her fingers twisted around one of Myrcella's golden curls, tugging it gently yet meaningfully.

"Iamthe best big sister," she whispered, her voice like ice. Her grip tightened on Myrcella's curl for a moment before she let it slip from her fingers. "Stay away from what's mine, little cub."

With that, she rose, her gaze hard and unyielding as she turned her back on Myrcella. Nymeria released her whip, and Myrcella fell forward, gasping as she rubbed her sore throat, her eyes watering with a mix of pain and fury. The Sand Snakes followed Rhaenys, giggling among themselves as they disappeared from the Godswood.

The second they were gone, Myrcella crawled over to Joy, who lay limp and bruised, barely conscious. "Joy," Myrcella whispered, cradling her cousin. "I'm here. I'm here."

Joy looked at her with open eye. "...I told you Jon was nothing good." Despite her beating, her cousin still had something negative to say about the prince.

Myrcella laughed weakly.

The summons to the king's solar felt like a noose tightening around Myrcella's neck. She entered the room with as much calm as she could muster, her pulse racing as her gaze met Rhaegar's icy stare. The king sat with his back straight and his gaze cutting, and behind him, Rhaenys loomed over his shoulder, watching with a satisfied gleam in her eye. Myrcella didn't miss the scornful look from Queen Rhaella, seated quietly in the corner, yet radiating an air of displeasure that filled the room like smoke.

Rhaegar's voice was cold, steady. "My daughter and her cousins have brought to my attention that you and Joy attempted to attack Rhaenys."

The accusation hit like a slap. Myrcella wanted to protest, to cry out against the lie, but she saw Rhaenys's smirk, the self-satisfied glint in her eyes, and knew the truth would have no place here. Rhaenys had clearly spun her story well, and there was no unraveling it now.

She spun her tale for the king, which would trickle to Jon, Myrcella realized. Even if I told Jon what happened, he would never believe me, no matter how angry he is that Rhaenys had laid with Aegon.

Myrcella bowed her head, forcing herself to remain calm, though her hands trembled at her sides. She couldn't afford any sign of weakness here, not with Rhaenys's eyes tracking her every move.

Rhaegar's gaze grew even colder as he continued. "I took you on as a ward to make peace with Tywin Lannister. That is all. I have been… merciful in allowing you free rein within this castle, allowing you to sit with my family. But I will not allow you to harm my daughter—Tywin be damned."

The truth settled like Ice In her chest: he didn't see her as his niece, only a pawn, a piece in a game to keep Tywin placated. The realization hurt, twisting inside her, but she stifled the emotions rising within. This was exactly what Rhaenys wanted her to feel.

Biting back the bitterness, Myrcella kept her head low, her voice subdued. "Yes, Your Grace."

Rhaegar barely acknowledged her, and Rhaella's stare was like a dagger in her back. Rhaenys, meanwhile, smiled a thin, triumphant smile, her gaze filled with contemptuous satisfaction.

Myrcella held her bow, fighting down the anger burning in her veins. She couldn't give Rhaenys the satisfaction of seeing her break. Bowing her head even lower, she murmured, "Thank you, Your Grace," before straightening, her face carefully blank, and backing out of the solar without another word.

Jon

The Cultural Celebration lasted three weeks.

Jon watched from the balcony as the courtyard bustled with activity, the lingering traces of the three-week cultural celebration evident in every corner. The event had gone beyond his and Rhaegar's expectations. People poured in from distant lands, each group eager to showcase their customs and traditions. It was as if all of Westeros had gathered under one roof. The atmosphere had been vibrant, filled with song, dance, and exotic foods, stretching on longer than anyone could have imagined.

But among the excitement and color, Jon noticed a shift, a rising tide that left many lords uneasy. R'hllor's followers were no longer a handful. Smallfolk, captivated by the Red Woman's words and visions, had taken up the fiery faith, seeking to serve him as if he were their chosen leader. It was unsettling, their unwavering devotion.

Even Daenerys, usually so headstrong, followed the Red Woman around, staring into the flames as though they held answers. It hadn't changed her demeanor—she was still fiery, curious, and sharp—but there was something disquieting about the way she spoke of the White Walkers, her tone casual and eager, as if discussing a summer's hunt. Together, Daenerys and the Red Woman had led Jon to the fires, insisting he stare into their depths for hours. He'd seen… flashes, visions that slipped away as quickly as they came, leaving him restless and wary. Yet not all was ominous.

Robb's suggestion for the "Dragonguard" had taken root, its members proving invaluable. Sam Tarly, hopeless with a sword yet brilliant with a book, was the quiet leader of their research, discovering much about Cannibal and even unearthing stories from Yi Ti of dragons as ancient as Westeros itself. Their late-night discussions had grown to be some of Jon's favorites, building a bond he hadn't expected. Beric Dondarrion had taken up the mantle of R'hllor's fervent disciple, but despite the intensity of his beliefs, Jon found him a solid, reliable head of his household guard. Thoros, equally devout, was a second Jon trusted at his back. And his other companions—Pyp, Edd, Halder, Satin, Grenn—made the days lighter, grounding him in camaraderie and familiarity. They weren't only guards; they were friends he could count on.

Out in the field, Domeric and Locke had proven adept at locating suitable game for Cannibal. Jon's warg abilities allowed him to monitor the dragon during feeding experiments, a necessary precaution. Domeric's insight into hunting, paired with Locke's stealth, made them invaluable. Still, Jon grew close with the sometimes crass Harry Hardying and had the heir report any suspicious behavior to Jon directly. Lord Arryn, too, had summoned Jon several times to supper, always to discuss Ned. Those dinners were bittersweet, each one a reminder of the family he'd left behind yet a new understanding of the complexities that had shaped them.

When Cannibal found a new favorite food, Jon ordered shipments of it; when he rejected something, it was crossed off the list. The trial-and-error approach had kept the dragon calm, and Jon's connection to him was...quiet. Lately, Cannibal had been unusually restful. Days passed when Jon would feel no movement from Cannibal.

I guess dragons move less when they are well-fed, Jon thought with a smile.

Yet there were shadows in his heart. Aegon's claim over Rhaenys was an unyielding ache that he kept buried, his anger barely contained. He found himself avoiding her, pouring himself into holding court during the day and surrounding himself with guards at night—Ghost and Beric close by, Thoros stationed down the corridor, a wall between him and temptation.

Then there was Myrcella. Their sparring sessions had ended abruptly after Rhaegar's accusations. Jon doubted Myrcella was foolish enough to attack Rhaenys, but the rumors left him uncertain. He hadn't spoken to her in nearly a month, catching only glimpses of her at court. Sometimes he would see Bran trailing at her heels. Jon asked Robb about that to which the Stark only shrugged Myrcella's absence felt heavier than he cared to admit. He missed her smile.

Especially when she avoids me, Jon knew and wondered how to fix that.

Jon rekindled with the Starks by teaching them how to warg in the Godswood. Sansa had been tentative about learning to warg, but when he gifted her a Valyrian necklace, she'd squealed with delight, embracing him tightly and planting a kiss on his cheek. Her words still echoed in his mind: "You're a very good brother."

Jon's thoughts drifted to young Edric Dayne, a boy who had already shown a remarkable spirit. He had taken Edric as his squire almost on impulse, a decision made the moment he witnessed him defending a peasant from the sneering cruelty of the Redwyne twins. The memory of Edric standing firm, undeterred by their taunts and their noble status, had struck a chord in Jon. The boy had not faltered even as the twins pushed and mocked, driven by nothing but his own sense of honor.

Edric's loyalty to his principles reminded Jon of what he hoped for in his own allies—a kind of silent, steadfast courage. Edric's resilience promised loyalty and strength, and Jon knew the boy's heart was in the right place. Since then, Edric had followed him closely, attentive and eager to learn. Already, he had proven himself a quick study, his swordwork sharpened under Jon's guidance.

Jon remembered how grateful Ashara was, how her lips pressed against Jon's own.

And now the joust will begin, four weeks after the melee ended.

In the dim light of the tent, Edric moved with a calm precision, securing the final straps of Jon's black Valyrian armor. It was a sight to behold—glimmering darkly with an aura that seemed to swallow the light, formidable yet elegant. Edric had grown far more adept since his first attempt at strapping the armor, his fingers sure and practiced now as he worked the leather and metal into place.

Mya Stone entered with a heavy pitcher of water in her arms, her brow damp from the heat outside. She was prepared to pour a cup for Jon, but he shook his head.

"Not for me," he said, glancing at Edric with a faint smirk. "Edric will need it more."

Mya blinked in surprise but, with a slight shrug, poured a cup and handed it to Edric, who took it with a questioning look.

Jon chuckled. "You'll be running a fair bit today, especially when I break lances. Better to be prepared."

Edric nodded, catching on, and drank deeply, though he kept his expression serious as he continued helping Jon with his armor. Mya watched the exchange, her lips quirking in amusement.

At that moment, the clear, resounding note of a horn echoed through the tourney grounds, signaling the next match. Jon's gaze sharpened, his anticipation hardening into a quiet intensity. He lowered his helm over his head, the metal obscuring his expression but not the resolute set of his shoulders. With a final glance toward Edric, he nodded, and then strode purposefully out of the tent, the weight of the armor a familiar strength as he moved toward the awaiting field.

Myrcella

Myrcella sat tensely in the royal box, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as the joust preparations unfolded before her. On one side, Daenerys sat and said nothing to her, her gaze fixed on the field, while on the other, Quentyn Martell sat quietly, clearly too shy to speak. Myrcella's eyes drifted to Rhaenys, seated proudly next to Aegon, and felt a bitter surge of resentment. It was infuriating, watching Rhaenys bask in the attention, her confidence exuding a sense of ownership over the tournament itself.

As the riders prepared, a murmur of awe rippled through the crowd, and Myrcella followed their gazes. There was Jon, astride his horse, clad in a magnificent suit of black Valyrian steel armor bearing the Targaryen sigil. He looked like vengeance incarnate—a dark, foreboding figure among the bright banners and armor of the other knights. Myrcella's heart clenched at the sight, and she was hit with a pang of sadness. She missed the days when Jon's stoic exterior would crack, when he'd smile at her or make her laugh. Those days felt so far away now, swallowed by politics.

The first few rounds of the joust began, each rider taking their place, tilting lances, and charging down the lists. Knight after knight rode, some unhorsed in spectacular displays that left the crowd roaring, others only jostling their opponent's shields. When Jon's turn came, Myrcella leaned forward, her heart racing.

Edric Dayne, Jon's new squire, appeared at his side, offering a fresh lance, and Jon accepted it with a nod. He took his place and fixed his lance on his opponent, the knight from House Buckler. The clash was quick—Jon's lance struck clean and hard, shattering against his opponent's shield and sending him tumbling from the saddle. Edric handed him a fresh lance for the next round, and Jon accepted it without hesitation.

Opponent after opponent fell to Jon. House Beasebury, then House Manderly, and then House Stokeworth—each knight who stood against him found themselves dismounted with skillful precision. Edric worked tirelessly, rushing to Jon's side with new lances as each shattered upon impact. The crowd's excitement grew with each victory, but there was a tension in the air. The lords and ladies of the Faith looked on with thinly veiled disapproval as the smallfolk, fervent in their worship of R'hllor, cheered for Jon with growing intensity.

When Lyn Corbray took his place as Jon's final opponent, a hush fell over the crowd. Myrcella knew of Corbray's reputation—he was fierce, disdainful, and not known for graciousness in defeat. The two riders lowered their visors, and the herald's horn sounded. They charged, and their lances met with explosive force, both splintering on impact.

Knock him off his ass, Jon, Myrcella thought viciously.

They returned to the lists, each knight taking another lance. The crowd held its breath as they charged again—another shattered lance, neither knight giving an inch. Five rounds, then six, then seven. Myrcella watched, breathless, silently cheering for Jon, her heart racing as they broke lances with each pass.

At the tenth pass, the crowd was in a frenzy, shouting and cheering for their chosen champion. Jon's lance struck true, slamming into Corbray's breastplate and sending him crashing from his saddle. The smallfolk erupted into thunderous roars, their adoration palpable as they chanted for their champion, their prince.

Lyn Corbray stormed off the field, fuming, while the herald proclaimed Jon—no,Maegor Targaryen—the victor of the joust. With deft hands, Edric placed a crown of roses onto the tip of Jon's lance, and the northern lords and smallfolk cheered wildly. Next to her, Daenerys rose to her feet, clapping enthusiastically, her smile bright. Myrcella, however, felt her hands still in her lap, too caught up in her thoughts to join in. She couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like if Jon turned to her and crowned her as his queen of love and beauty. But she knew better. She knew that daydream was just that—a dream.

She looked on as Jon guided his horse past the royal box, and, unexpectedly, he did not slow by Rhaenys. Myrcella's heart skipped, puzzled by his direction. The cheers around her dimmed to a low murmur, and suddenly she felt something soft land on her lap.

That was when all the cheers died.

Blinking, she looked down to see the crown of flowers Jon had just won. The delicate blooms rested in her lap, stark against the fabric of her dress. She reached out, fingers trembling, and slowly lifted the crown, aware of the eyes on her from all sides.

He...crowned me?

The hush was absolute. Myrcella could feel the weight of every stare, every murmur in the royal box. Daenerys was looking at her with her lips curled in disgust. She looked up, and through his black helm, Jon's gaze met hers. Without a word, she rose from her seat, slipping the crown onto her head. A fierce thrill raced through her as she glanced at Rhaenys, who was glaring daggers. Myrcella allowed herself a smile—small, triumphant.

He crowned me over you. The words echoed in Myrcella's mind, her joy bursting forth as a smile that stretched across her whole face, reaching Jon—hewas the one who deserved it.

The rest of the day became a blissful blur. Myrcella felt as if she were walking on clouds, buoyed by the looks and cheers from those around her. Joy, who had recovered well after her ordeal, stood silently at her side, her support unspoken yet deeply felt. Tyrek, still smoldering with anger over the attack on Joy—a story Myrcella hadn't fully shared with him—was ecstatic for her. He had shouted for all to hear, "The Queen of Love and Beauty, Myrcella Targaryen!"

In that moment, Myrcella felt as though she were at the heart of the world. Aegon and Rhaenys's sycophants could whisper all they wanted; it hardly mattered.The dragon prince had chosen her.For once, she wasn't afraid—not of Rhaenys, not of the king or queen.

When the sun began to dip below the horizon, Myrcella slipped away, making her way to the secluded courtyard where she'd first hoped to see Jon again. She waited, heart racing with anticipation, until at last, he appeared. His black doublet fit him perfectly, his striking purple eyes flecked with hints of gray, glowing softly in the moonlight. It lent him an almost ethereal look, making her breath catch.

"Hey," he greeted her quietly.

"Hey," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken words.I avoided you for weeks because I was afraid,she thought, searching for the courage to say it aloud.How can I tell you that without you looking at me differently?

She managed, "You…chose me as your Queen of Love and Beauty."

Jon's gaze drifted to the crown of roses resting on her head, his eyes softening. "It suits you," he murmured.

A delighted warmth spread through her chest, and she couldn't help but smile. "Are you calling me beautiful?"

Jon's lips twitched into a small smile. "I knew crowning you would make you smile," he said gently. "I haven't spoken to you for weeks, not since…what happened with Rhaenys."

Her expression faltered. "Do you believe what the king said?"

He shook his head firmly. "No," he said, his voice steady. "That's why I chose to crown you."

Overcome, Myrcella surged forward, wrapping her arms around him, feeling his surprise in the way he stiffened before his hands settled on her back. "Thank you," she whispered, holding him tightly.

After a moment, she felt his arms fold around her, solid and warm. She melted into his embrace, savoring the safety she felt, wondering if maybe, just maybe, this was where she was always meant to be.

Jon

"You crowned Myrcella as the Queen of Love and Beauty?" Sam's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared across the table at Jon.

Jon merely shrugged, unfazed. "What about it?"

They were alone in the vast, dimly lit library, where scattered tomes and dusty lanterns dotted the long tables. Jon had given his men the day to rest and enjoy the tourney, but the thought of the choice he'd made had left him restless, seeking the solace of the library and Sam's counsel.

Sam shook his head, flustered. "N-nothing. She's… very beautiful, and… she seems kind. It's just—well, with all the rumors going around, it was bold. Very bold." His voice wavered, as though he feared Jon's reaction.

Jon softened his expression to put him at ease. "I think that title belongs to Barristan. And I'd rather judge people by who they are, not by rumors."

The memory of the joust was vivid in Jon's mind. He could still feel the thundering excitement of the match, how alive he felt as he shattered lance after lance against the realm's finest knights. Lyn Corbray had been a formidable opponent, his skill as deadly as his sword arm, but Jon had finally unseated him to win the day. Cheers had roared from the stands, echoing through his helmet as Edric had approached with the crown of roses.

Jon remembered how he wheeled his horse. He had seen the King and queen watching him. He had seen the gleams in Dany, Rhaenys, Arianne, and even Ashara's eyes.

And amidst the shouting crowd, Jon had spotted Myrcella, sitting quietly, her gaze locked on him even as others cheered around her. She'd looked so out of place, alone in the midst of the revelry, her emerald eyes almost… distant. Before he could think, he'd urged his horse forward, riding past lords and ladies, past the King and Queen, and placed the roses in her lap.

He hadn't anticipated how the crowd would fall silent, nor how Myrcella's surprised smile would feel brighter than any cheer. That image still lingered with him, along with the memory of their quiet meeting in the courtyard, the unexpected hug that left him feeling warmer than the sun's rays.

Still, Jon went to the library right after. He knew he caused a spectacle. He felt the glares, the whispers, the shocked glances. He heard from Edric that the royal family had gathered in the King's solar in a meeting Jon desperately didn't want to be a part of.

"Enough of that," Jon said, shaking off the memories and fixing his attention back on Sam. "Tell me what you've found."

Sam's face lit up, the unease fading as he launched into his findings. "There's so much," he said, voice rising in excitement. "I found a book about the dragons of Yi Ti. Their loyalty is… well, it's very different from Valyrian dragons. Their bond with a rider depends entirely on the rider's skill in combat. If they find their rider unworthy in battle, they'll break the bond and seek another!"

Jon listened, intrigued.Of course,he thought. The emperors of Dawn, always at war, would need dragons that craved bloodshed more than companionship.

"Apparently, when these dragons clash," Sam continued breathlessly, "they're so consumed by the fight that they often throw their riders off mid-battle. The fights become so intense that riders either continue fighting on the ground or… fall to their deaths."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Fitting for such a bloodthirsty people."

"They are your people too..."

Sam flipped a few pages in his notes, his voice full of wonder. "And there's more. If a rider is skilled enough, a special bond can be formed where they can hear each other's thoughts! Jon, can you… can you speak with Cannibal?"

Jon chuckled. "Not quite like that. I can warg into him, feel his emotions, steer him—if he allows it. But I've never heard his voice."

"Why does that sound so normal to you?" Sam asked, his face a mix of awe and exasperation.

Jon's laughter faded, and he gave Sam an approving look. "You've done good work, Sam."

Sam ducked his head, looking a bit bashful. "It's just reading. You could've done it yourself."

Jon shook his head, his smile sheepish. "I'm not exactly the studious type. After a few hours, the words start to blur together."

Sam looked at Jon as though he were some kind of anomaly. "I could read all day!" He looked around at the towering shelves of the library with a glint of awe. "I could stay here forever and never leave."

"Sam… you already do that," Jon replied, grinning, and they both laughed. When the laughter died down, Jon noticed the wistful look in Sam's eyes, a longing that ran deeper than Jon had realized.

"You love this place."

Sam nodded, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. "They say Harrenhal's cursed. Then tell me, my prince, why I feel more at home here than I ever did at Horn Hill?"

The question hung in the air, both of them falling silent. After a moment, Jon's fingers drummed against the table thoughtfully. "You want to stay."

Sam's face fell, his voice thick with resignation. "I can't. I swore to my father I'd go to the Night's Watch. I've already stayed longer than I should."

"He's forcing you to go."

"I swore," Sam repeated, his voice trembling, unshed tears glistening in his eyes.

"Get a scrap of parchment and some ink. Write everything down."

Sam blinked away his tears, confused but obediently pulling a sheet toward him.

Jon took a steadying breath, struggling with the words. "I… Prince Maegor Targaryen, Lord Protector of the Realm, hereby strip Samwell Tarly of all rights to Horn Hill, its lands, and incomes, effective immediately."

Sam's jaw dropped. He stared at Jon, speechless. "Sh-shouldn't...shouldn't the ki-"

"Write it down, Sam."

As Jon walked toward the great hall, the weight of a thousand eyes pressed down on him. Conversations stilled to whispers, fragments reaching his ears like the hush of waves pulling back from shore.

"The Black Prince crowned the golden princess."
"Brazen, even for him."
"Did you see Myrcella Targaryen? Smiling like she won the Iron Throne itself. She is lucky to still have her head."

Each word added to the tension in Jon's stride, though he kept his face as impassive as ever. His eyes flicked to the Stark table, and a slight frown crossed his brow—Sansa wasn't there. A curious absence, one that gnawed at him even as he pushed it aside for the moment.

The royal table loomed before him, and the stares were more pointed, more damning. Rhaegar's gaze held a sliver of disappointment, a subtle but sharp hurt that stung Jon somewhere deep. Next to him, Rhaella wore a look of quiet disapproval. Across the table, Elia and Aegon's disdainful expressions struck with more force, as though he had sullied something precious to them. Oberyn, always unpredictable, held only a hint of amusement, his gaze filled with dark mischief. Rhaenys, Arianne, and Daenerys sat as still as statues, their eyes narrowed in judgment, their usual warmth gone like a flame snuffed out. Only Myrcella, sitting at the far end, gave him a small, gentle smile—a fragile light in the cold expanse of the table.

With no welcome from the others, Jon slid into an empty seat beside Rhaella. The atmosphere around the royal table was muted, heavy with unspoken accusations as the guests ate in tense silence, glancing occasionally in Jon's direction. He felt their eyes linger on him, his every move weighed and dissected. He took a sip of wine, trying to shake off the tightness coiling around his chest.

"Jon," Rhaella's whisper cut through the stillness, leaning toward him with a seriousness he couldn't ignore. "You've played a very dangerous game."

Jon's brow furrowed as he looked at her, trying to mask his confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Crowning Myrcella," Rhaella murmured, her voice low. "Considering the liberties you've taken with Rhaenys, Daenerys, and Arianne, do you not realize what you've set in motion?"

Jon blinked, taken aback, though he schooled his features into a neutral mask under Rhaella's intense gaze. He forced himself to ask casually, "What liberties do you speak of?"

Rhaella's lips curved into a wry smile, though it held no humor. "After you crowned Myrcella, both Rhaenys and Arianne went to the king individually, confessing the things you did together. I was there." She gave a weary sigh. "I hurried to Daenerys after and forced the truth from her. She, too, had her moments with you, though I doubt she would have shared if I hadn't insisted. I sent her to Rhaegar to confess herself, hoping to dull the damage."

Her eyes glistened with a motherly sorrow. "What were you thinking, grandson?"

Jon held her gaze, though his silence was his only reply. The weight of her words hung between them like an unsheathed blade. He kept his face unreadable, though the quiet thrum of tension in his chest intensified.

Fuck.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Suddenly, the murmurs in the hall hushed as Rhaegar rose to his feet, coughing lightly to command the room's attention. All eyes shifted to the king, the hall expectant and tense.

Jon knew what was coming.

Rhaegar's voice was calm yet resonant as he began, "This tourney at Harrenhal was created to heal old wounds, to unite our realm and bring Westeros toward a brighter future. It is the longest-lasting tourney in history, one graced by champions, and even more by the discovery of my son, Maegor Targaryen." He paused, letting the declaration sink in. "It is only fitting to conclude the tourney with the announcement of his betrothals."

Jon's heart stilled, his face kept meticulously blank, though he felt his pulse quicken. Whispers rippled through the hall, the wordbetrothalssnaking its way through the crowd. Even at the royal table, eyes turned to him, a heavy burden of expectation that made his hand tremble slightly under the table.

Rhaegar continued, his tone solemn. "To unify and heal Westeros, Maegor will take two wives."

A wave of shocked gasps and murmurs filled the hall, especially among those faithful to the Seven, their faces twisted in dismay. Rhaegar ignored the mutterings as he announced, "The first wife will be Princess Rhaenys."

Scattered applause rose, though it sounded strained, as if the weight of the arrangement was already dawning on the crowd. Beside him, Rhaella leaned close, her whisper barely audible, "I did what I could, grandson."

Jon gave a slight nod, but his gaze remained straight ahead, his expression impassive.

Rhaegar's voice echoed again. "His second wife shall be Daenerys Targaryen!"

The applause was muted, stiff. Jon kept his face blank, yet his thoughts churned, echoing with Rhaella's words. Before he could fully process the announcement, the hall's doors burst open, and a bloodied guard stumbled inside, panic etched into his face.

"We were attacked!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "They came from the trees with arrows and swords! Willas Tyrell and Lady Sansa—attacked! The Kingslayer—the Golden Lion pounced!"

SANSA?! Jon shared an angry gaze with Robb and both of them stood.

The hall erupted into chaos, nobles leaping from their seats, shouts and frantic questions filling the air as the weight of the news sank in. The announcement of Jon's marriages faded as the hall turned into a storm of voices, fear, and confusion.

The din in the hall rose to a fever pitch, nobles shouting questions, voices tangling with fear and disbelief. But then, Rhaegar raised his hand, commanding silence. Slowly, the hall quieted, and all eyes turned to the king, his expression a mask of cold fury.

"We will come together," Rhaegar began, his voice resolute, "to bring Jaime Lannister to justice. This attack on the royal family will not go unpunished."

There was a murmur of approval, though it was tainted by unease. Rhaegar tried to continue, but his words caught as he coughed, the sound breaking the silence sharply. He cleared his throat, pressing on, yet another harsh cough racked his body, doubling him over. The severity of it silenced the hall entirely, leaving everyone staring at the king with mounting concern.

Jon's brow furrowed as he watched, noting the paleness in Rhaegar's face, the way the cough refused to subside. Arthur Dayne and the other Kingsguard were at Rhaegar's side in an instant. Arthur rested a steadying hand on Rhaegar's shoulder, his voice quiet but urgent, "Your Grace, are you alright?"

With a weak wave, Rhaegar pushed him away. "I… I'm fine," he rasped, though his face remained ghostly pale. He raised his goblet in a trembling hand, his eyes sweeping over the hall.

"Maegor Targaryen and I will bring…" he began, but his voice faltered. Then, as he raised the cup to his lips, his eyes suddenly rolled back, and his grip on the goblet loosened, sending it clattering to the floor. His body went limp as he fell backward, collapsing in an ungainly heap, his crown tilting askew.

The crown rolled on its side and idly tapped against Jon's foot.

A scream pierced the air.