Jon
Jon gripped the crown, feeling its weight pressing into his hands, cold and heavy with duty.
"The crown is yours, Jon," the voice murmured, dark and relentless. "It has always been yours. Kill them all."
A piercing shout shattered the silence.
"Where is SANSA?!" Robb roared, fists tight around the shoulders of a guard smeared in blood. He shook him hard, but the guard only sputtered, unable to answer. Catelyn stood nearby, silent tears streaking her cheeks.
"Willas Tyrell… he's in the infirmary–"
"Damn it, where is SANSA?!" Robb's voice grew raw, desperation clawing through him.
"It's a trap… they've taken her to use her against you."
In the great hall, chaos reigned. The royal family and Kingsguard had gathered in a frantic circle around Rhaegar, his coughing tearing through the room. Arthur knelt beside him, face pale with dread, helplessly clutching his king. Rhaella's scream cut through the air, while Rhaenys and Daenerys wept, their sobs mingling with the anguish around them.
"FOOLS!" came a shout. "Help your king!"
"They poisoned him…" the voice hissed again, insidious and unyielding. "The serpents have poisoned your king, poisoned your father. Kill them all…"
Jon stared into the polished surface of the crown, his own reflection gazing back at him with a cold, unfamiliar intensity. Around him, the uproar faded to nothing, the frantic sounds hollow, as if he stood in a different world.
Silently, he turned and left. Ghost trailed him.
His footsteps led him, unbidden, to the Godswood. Under the ancient boughs of the Weirwood, Jon stopped, the crown dangling loosely in his hand, as he stared into the heart of the tree's knowing face.
A chill breeze stirred the leaves overhead.
The winds whispered of winter.
The winds whispered of blood.
The winds whispered the death of the king.
Myrcella appeared at Jon's side, her steps soft as snowfall. Together, they stood before the Heart Tree, saying nothing, feeling the ancient stillness in the air.
"Is the king dead?" Jon asked, his voice edged with hollowness.
"No… not yet." Myrcella's answer was calm, almost detached. "The maesters say the king's cough worsened after his battle with Robert Baratheon. They blame the blow from the war hammer, saying it bruised his lungs. But… the years have only made his cough more deadly."
"That's what they want me to believe." Jon let out a dark, humorless laugh.
Myrcella didn't argue. "The maester says he won't last much longer," she said quietly, glancing at Jon, her green eyes lacking any sadness.
Jon looked away, saying nothing, a storm brewing within him.
He will die—the man who is my true father—before I ever truly know him.
The wind sighed around them, whispering of vengeance.
"Jon…" Myrcella breathed, her voice tight. "They'll come for you when he's gone. They'll move against you."
Jon kept his gaze fixed on the Heart Tree, listening to the wind as it murmured warnings of war. Myrcella took a step closer, a flash of urgency in her eyes.
"Cousin, they will destroy you and your family as they did mine. They feared Tywin Lannister and tried to erase any ties he had to the royal family. Aegon… Rhaenys… the queen... they murdered my mother and my siblings and blamed it all on my father…"
Her voice grew stronger, fire sparking in her emerald gaze. "They'll seek the same end for you, Jon. They've taken your sister, they've poisoned your father." She took a steadying breath. "We must strike first."
"We?"
Myrcella's lips tightened. She hesitated, then spoke with steel in her voice. "Jaime Lannister is innocent of this. He's been here, right under their noses, and I told no one…"
Jon let out a humorless chuckle. "And yet you defend the Kingslayer with more lies and empty promises. I'll find Sansa myself, Myrcella—and if Jaime's in my way, his head will fall too."
Myrcella narrowed her eyes, her gaze very cat-like.
"I don't think so. I rather like my head where it is," a mocking voice replied.
Out of the shadows, a figure stepped forward, Ghost's silent snarl warning of his approach. The knight removed his helm, revealing a mane of golden hair and a smirk of white teeth—Jaime Lannister. Myrcella moved to his side, both of them meeting Jon's gaze with twin green eyes.
Jon's expression hardened. "What a pair of traitors you make. Do you think this changes anything, Myrcella? The Kingslayer might not have harmed Sansa, but he's still wanted by the Throne. Perhaps I should have both of your heads."
A flash of hurt flickered across Myrcella's face. "I'm only trying to do what's best for us."
Jaime laughed, cold and sharp. "Perhaps the Black Prince isn't as clever as you thought, Myrcella."
Jon turned back to the Heart Tree, the crown feeling heavier in his grip. I want it. I want to be King. But I never wanted bloodshed to mark my rise.
...But do I have a choice?
To seize power now, with the king's body still warm, would confirm Aegon's worst accusations. What would Lord Stark think?
...But I'm going to do it anyway, Jon realized with a heavy swallow.
He had come to the Godswood for a reason.
To ask the Gods for forgiveness.
Jon stood in silence, his gaze locked on the crown, fingers tense around its cold metal.
"I've tried to be like Lord Stark my entire life," he said quietly. "To live by his values, to see honor as he did. They'd look at me and say I was the Stark that looked most like him." A bitter smile crossed his lips. "But they never knew—I was the least like him. I lied. I killed. And now I'll take my brother's Throne."
Myrcella's gaze fell to the crown in his hand, her voice unwavering. "Westeros doesn't need a Rhaegar. Nor a Lord Stark. It needs a Maegor Targaryen."
Beric arrived shortly after with a message: the King had summoned him. Jon followed him to the dimly lit chambers, finding only Arthur Dayne and Rhaegar inside. Arthur's face was grave; Rhaegar lay propped up on his bed, pale and gaunt, his once-vivid purple eyes now dulled and hollowed by sickness.
"The maesters tell me this cough will be the end of me," Rhaegar said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jon stepped forward, setting the crown at the foot of the bed. "Did they also say they'd never seen a cough like this before?"
Rhaegar's lips curved faintly, though even that seemed to bring him pain. "Something like that. Rhaenys told me you vanished."
"The Godswood offered clarity I couldn't find elsewhere," Jon replied.
Rhaegar's gaze shifted knowingly. "You're going to search for Sansa Stark," he said. Jon only nodded. "When you return, I may already be gone."
The king's calm acceptance of his own death lingered in the room, thickening the silence. Jon noticed Arthur clench his eyes shut, the pain in his face unguarded. He'd been Rhaegar's closest friend for years, and now he was being forced to witness his last moments.
"The realm will tear itself apart with your death," Jon said quietly.
Rhaegar didn't seem surprised, nor did Arthur.
"Then it falls to you to keep Westeros from sinking," Rhaegar rasped, his body wracked with a sudden, violent cough. "I may not have been a terrible king, but I was an indifferent one. Perhaps there's little difference between mediocrity and failure." He paused, his breathing shallow. "Let my final act be my best one, witnessed by the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne. Jon—fetch some parchment and ink."
Jon's thoughts drifted to Sam and the way his friend would have approached this moment—solemn, meticulous. He forced his own hands to stay steady as he wrote down his father's final words.
"I, Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, hereby declare that Maegor Targaryen shall ascend the Iron Throne effective immediately upon my death."
Jon felt the weight of his father's words settle on his shoulders like armor—cold, unyielding, and impossibly heavy.
"You're giving me the Throne over Aegon," he murmured, almost to himself. It was a truth as heavy as the crown he'd carried from the Godswood.
Rhaegar's eyes, dimmed but fierce, met his. "Aegon is not strong enough to face what's coming. You are the Prince That Was Promised…Lyanna's son. If anyone can turn back The Long Night, it is you."
A violent cough seized Rhaegar, leaving him breathless and trembling. "My son…I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I missed most of your years. Now I will miss the rest of them. I'm sorry I won't be there to stand beside you, to face the darkness that waits for us all. You'll have to fight against the cold and lead a kingdom through it. The road will be filled with betrayal and loss, and you…you will have to walk it alone."
A tear slipped down Rhaegar's cheek, a final testament to the regrets he could no longer bury. "I've watched you, Lyanna's son, grow into a man. I'm proud…and yet my heart aches. You still carry the shadow of a bastard, even here. I saw you at feasts, lingering near the lower tables, as though you belonged among the squires and pages. And I saw how it pained you to lose the melee…to crumble after the clash with one of Westeros's finest knights."
Rhaegar's gaze softened, but his tone remained sharp. "And this affair with Rhaenys, Daenerys, and Arianne… If it were Aegon, it would be no more than recklessness and lust. But with you, it runs deeper. You still don't believe you deserve the admiration of princesses, let alone their affection. You dishonored them—not out of malice, but because some part of you is still that lost boy, uncertain and unworthy. That is not the mind of a prince, my son. It is not the heart of a king."
Rhaegar's voice grew softer yet more powerful. "My son…there will come a time when you must choose between what is right and what is easy. Your choices will shape the fate of Westeros. But you mustn't let the bastard make those choices."
Rhaegar's hand trembled as he reached out, gripping Jon's arm. "Kill the bastard, my son... Kill the bastard…so that a king may be born."
The courtyard of Harrenhal gleamed under the sun as Jon approached the magnificent black stallion Lady Rhaella had gifted him. The horse, dark as midnight, stood still, almost seeming to draw in the sunlight that bathed the castle grounds. Jon's Valyrian steel armor absorbed the light just the same, each scale shimmering as if forged from the very shadow of night.
Beside him, his squire Edric Dayne sat astride his own steed, the boy's youthful face marred with tension. To Edric's right was Jaime Lannister, unrecognizable in darkened armor, his face hidden behind a mystery knight's helm. No one spared Jaime a glance as everyone thought Jon recruited him into his House guard.
Robb was on Jon's left, his arm newly freed from its cast, looking determined and ready to ride. His wolf, Greywind, prowled at his side, muscles rippling under his pelt, while Ghost stalked beside Jon, his red eyes glowing fiercely. Their presence made the horses skittish, stamping and shifting as the wolves circled.
Behind Jon, his household guard assembled in a steel wall: Beric with his eyepatch glinting, Thoros muttering prayers, Pyp and Grenn armed and focused, and Edd looking dour as always. The Blackfish stood nearby, his expression hard and sharp, while Jon Arryn, Harry Hardyng, and Yohn Royce from the Vale rode beside a host of northern, riverland, and vale men. They were ready to retrieve Sansa, ready to bring her home.
Jon turned to Robb. "Lady Stark disobeyed my orders. She allowed Willas Tyrell near Sansa again…and now this." His words were cold as steel. He had to swallow the rage in his throat.
Robb's face fell, a flash of shame darkening his eyes. Before he could respond, the Blackfish cut in, his voice rough. "What Catelyn did was unwise, aye. But our task now is clear. We must find Sansa."
Jon nodded, his gaze hard. He lifted his helm, the voice that rang from it hollowed by the black steel, deeper and more commanding. "Forward!"
"For Winterfell! For SANSA!" Robb shouted, and he was echoed all along the line.
The horses surged ahead at his command, the thunder of hooves rolling across the ground. They rode hard and fast for two hours, following rumors and tracks until the wreckage appeared. They came upon the broken remains of Willas Tyrell's retinue—shattered wagons and smashed carriages, bodies littered in the dirt, blood pooling under torn banners. Horses lay slain in twisted shapes, and armor was shredded, still glistening with fresh gore.
Jon dismounted and closed his eyes, sinking his mind into Ghost. Through his direwolf's sharp senses, he saw Lady's paw prints leading from the wreckage into the trees—massive, desperate strides that showed where Sansa had fled on her back. He opened his eyes and pulled his mind from Ghost, reaching instead for the ravens that roosted in the surrounding trees. He warged into them, spreading his mind wide, sending his senses soaring as they circled above. From their vantage, he found what he sought—a large band of enemies closing in, tracking Lady's path through the woods.
Lady is injured, Jon thought with a growl.
The air grew tense as Jon swung back into the saddle. "They're close," he said. "We ride to intercept."
As they pushed forward, the clash came suddenly, the thick woods erupting into a chaotic melee as sellswords poured from the shadows, shouting and charging. Steel met steel, flesh met flesh, and the world dissolved into chaos.
Blackfyre flashed like dark lightning, his movements swift and calculated. A sellsword lunged at him, only for Jon's sword to cut through the man's throat in a single, fluid arc, blood spraying across the foliage. Another came from his side, and Jon pivoted, his blade slicing across the man's abdomen, spilling his innards onto the ground.
Greywind and Ghost were horrors unleashed, tearing through the ranks with savage ferocity. Greywind ripped a man's arm clean off, his jaws dripping with blood as he barreled into the next opponent. Ghost, silent and deadly, sank his fangs into a soldier's leg and yanked him down, his maw crimson as he tore at the man's throat. The horses reeled and whinnied, panicking as the wolves wreaked their havoc.
Amid the din, Jon caught a glimpse of Robb slashing his sword through a sellsword, screaming, "For Winterfell!" And further off, the booming voice of the Greatjon echoed as he hacked down enemies with a brutal, ferocious joy.
Jaime fought with lethal grace beside Jon, his mystery knight's armor battered but still imposing. His golden sword carved a red path through the sellswords. Together, they carved a bloody path through the throng. Jon felt a sharp pain as a blade nicked his shoulder, but he shoved it aside, delivering a brutal blow that shattered his attacker's knee before driving his sword into the man's heart.
As Jon and Jaime tore through the dense woods, they could see the clearing ahead where Sansa was supposed to be. The sunlight streamed through the leaves, casting sharp shadows across the path, but something felt wrong. An eerie silence settled over the trees.
Jon's gaze narrowed, his senses sharp. He slowed, putting a hand on Jaime's arm, signaling for caution. "It's a trap," he murmured, his voice a low growl.
Jaime frowned. "What are you babbling about?"
Just then, a rustle in the branches above them gave away the presence of archers, their crossbows trained on Jon. A shout echoed from the treetops, "Aim! Loose!"
But before the arrows could fly, Jon closed his eyes, reaching deep within himself, feeling the familiar, primal connection to the creatures around him. His spirit surged, finding a flock of ravens perched nearby. He felt himself slip into their sharp eyes, the cold sensation of feathers and wings taking over.
Suddenly, the ravens burst from the branches with a furious cawing, diving at the hidden archers. They pecked and clawed with ruthless precision, throwing the men off balance. Some archers, panicking under the onslaught of black wings and talons, stumbled from their perches and fell with sickening crunches as they hit the ground, their necks snapping like brittle twigs.
Jaime watched in awe and horror as the scene unfolded. "What in the seven hells…"
Jon's eyes snapped open, his face grim. He drew Blackfyre and approached the archers who had survived the fall, still dazed and groaning on the forest floor. With cold efficiency, he dispatched each one, putting them out of their misery with a silent, brutal finality.
"Let's go," Jon said, his voice hard as steel. They didn't have time to waste. The trap had been sprung, but Sansa was still out there, and they wouldn't leave until she was safe
At last, they broke through to a clearing, and there, at the center, Sansa knelt by a tree, her face pale and eyes wide with terror. Lady lay before her, still and massive, her body riddled with arrows.
"Sansa!" Jon's voice tore from his throat, rage boiling beneath his words as he saw the Direwolf's lifeless form. He and Jaime moved in tandem, dispatching the last of the sellswords with ruthless efficiency. Blood spattered across Jon's black armor, streaking down in red rivulets, as he cut down the final foe.
As the last man fell, Jon turned—and froze. Behind him, Jaime drove his sword through Ser Mandon Moore, a knight notorious for his loyalty to the queen. Jon's mind raced with implications, but his focus sharpened as he looked to Sansa, who was trembling on her knees, her back pressed tight against the rough bark of the tree. She was alive, but Lady was gone, her body a silent sentinel of her last act of loyalty.
Jon moved to her side, his voice softened as he knelt, reaching for her hand. "You're safe now, Sansa."
But as he saw her tear-streaked face, her body shaking with grief and shock, he felt the ache of a new wound, deep and unyielding.
"They… killed Lady," Sansa whispered, her voice trembling as violently as her hands. She sat against the tree, her face pale and hollowed with shock, her eyes glassy and far away.
Jaime glanced at her, his hair matted with blood and dirt, his helm lost somewhere in the chaos. "The girl's in shock," he murmured, casting a weary look at Jon. "Barely knows who she's looking at. But what's important is that they tried to take her. Someone's plans have just been spoiled."
A sudden voice shattered the quiet. "Jon! Did you find S—" Robb skidded to a halt at the edge of the clearing, his blue eyes taking in the carnage around him: the broken bodies of men, the fallen trees, Sansa trembling against the bark, and… Jaime Lannister, standing too close.
"Kingslayer!" Robb snarled, hatred flashing in his gaze. He drew his sword and pointed it directly at Jaime. "I'll gut you myself!"
"Put that sword down, pup. You barely know what to do with it," Jaime replied, utterly unbothered, cleaning his golden blade with a strip of cloth torn from a fallen cloak.
Robb whipped his head toward Jon, disbelief and betrayal mingling in his expression. "Jon! The Kingslayer is right there! He's right there, and you're just… standing!"
"Robb, sheathe your sword," Jon commanded, his voice low. "Jaime is not our enemy here."
"Not our—what?" Robb's voice broke, his face a portrait of confusion and barely restrained rage. But his anger faltered as more figures emerged from the trees, swords still wet with blood. Kevan Lannister approached, nodding once at Jon before leaning in to mutter something to Jaime. But it was the towering figure who followed that made Robb's mouth fall open in shock.
The Mountain stepped forward, his armor splattered with fresh blood, his greatsword still dripping. "They all screamed," he growled, his deep voice thick with satisfaction. "Every last one of them."
Robb's hand tightened on his sword hilt, and his eyes darted to Jon, a storm of emotions clear on his face. "Jon," he said slowly, still refusing to lower his blade, his voice thick with accusation.
Jon placed a steadying hand on Robb's shoulder, his grip firm. "Stand down, Robb," he said, his voice low and unyielding. "Jaime Lannister may not be a friend, but he is here under truce. Today, he fought beside us."
Robb's face twisted with disbelief. "You expect me to believe that? The Kingslayer, fighting with us? And now this," he spat, nodding toward the Mountain, who loomed like a nightmare among the fallen bodies. "Jon, this… this is madness!"
Jaime chuckled dryly, though there was no warmth in his gaze as he wiped the blood from his sword with calm, practiced movements. "Believe it or not, pup, but we had more pressing matters than family feuds. Your sister's life was at stake. And like it or not, it took all of us."
Robb's gaze shifted, haunted, from the blood-streaked Lannisters to Sansa, still trembling by the tree, her eyes wide and lost. "They killed Lady," she whispered again, her voice barely more than a broken murmur. The sound seemed to cut through Robb's anger, his hand loosening on his sword as he took a step toward her.
Kevan Lannister stepped forward, his face grim. "We came to retrieve my nephew and to settle a debt owed to the queen," he said quietly. "The queen has enemies in the shadows, and it seems they found Sansa Stark an easier target. Whatever differences lie between us, we fought to bring her back safely."
Jon could see the distrust warring with disbelief in Robb's eyes, but Robb finally sheathed his sword with a frustrated growl. He turned to Jon, his voice quieter but no less tense. "Is this what you meant by alliances, Jon? Letting monsters into our ranks?"
Jon's gaze didn't waver. "The alliances we need aren't always the ones we want, Robb. This was about keeping Sansa alive—and we did that."
He looked over his shoulder at Sansa, pale and haunted against the tree. "That's all that matters right now."
Robb exhaled, some of the fight draining from his face. "But first we must talk. Alone."
Myrcella
Arys Oakheart leaned in close to Myrcella, his voice low and urgent. "As the king's health fades, tension brews at Harrenhal. Fights have been breaking out between Aegon's supporters and those who favor Jon. The lords are muttering in the halls, wondering what will come of the succession once His Grace departs… and when Prince Maegor returns from hunting down the Kingslayer."
Myrcella nodded, her face calm but thoughtful. "We must be ready, Arys. I want you to help my head guard in making preparations for anything that may happen here at Harrenhal. If things turn… volatile, I don't want us caught unprepared."
Ward or not, I will not be here if things don't go in our favor.
Arys bowed his head, acknowledging her command just as a small figure came running toward them, face flushed with frustration. Bran stopped in front of Myrcella, his expression set in a scowl.
"Robb and Jon wouldn't let me join the hunt for the Kingslayer!" he said, looking down as he scuffed his boot against the ground.
Myrcella smiled, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. "They only want to keep you safe, Bran. They're doing this to protect you."
Bran's mouth tightened, defiant. "But I want to rescue Sansa too! She's my sister—I want to fight for her like they are."
Myrcella looked into his stormy blue eyes, understanding his frustration. Then she tilted her head, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Would it make you feel a little better if you went climbing?"
A flicker of excitement brightened Bran's face as he nodded eagerly. Myrcella laughed, her heart lightening as she watched his spirit lift. Arys dipped his head and left.
Bran
The ancient stones of Harrenhal loomed large as Bran Stark scaled its crumbling walls, his fingers curling around rough edges, his feet finding holds as easily as if he had been born to climb. His heart beat with the thrill of ascent, and a hint of rebellion surged through him at the thought of Robb and Jon insisting he stay safe. The sky stretched wide above him, the clouds drifting lazily under the high sun. He felt powerful here, above everyone else, hidden in the castle's shadows.
Halfway up, he heard voices floating from an open window. He paused, listening, straining to catch every word.
"…only agreed to take out Maegor," one voice said, deep and accusatory.
Bran stilled, his breath held as he listened, recognizing that tone. It was Lord Jon Connington, who was known for his loyalty to the king—and for his deep distrust of anyone who crossed Rhaegar.
Another voice, softer but filled with regal authority, answered. Bran recognized Queen Elia's voice, cool and composed, as if she had calculated every word. "I had no hand in Rhaegar's poisoning, Lord Connington. We only discussed Maegor's removal. That was all."
A third voice, quick and edged like a blade, cut In. "Nevertheless, the pieces are in place," the speaker said. Bran's mind raced as he realized it was Prince Oberyn. "With Maegor gone, perhaps the king will recover."
A beat of silence, and then Jon Connington's voice, furious, shook the air. "You don't understand—the maesters say he'll die, Oberyn! Rhaegar will die! You will all pay for this!" His voice fell silent as a door slammed shut, echoing through the room and into the stillness of the tower. Bran stayed motionless, heart pounding, as Connington's angry footsteps receded.
Steeling himself, he climbed higher, the chill of fear crawling up his spine. He scaled the stones past another narrow window, just as a gruff voice, low and filled with scorn, rose from within.
"Every lord and lady in this castle is as easy to fool as sheep to slaughter," the man said, his voice laden with disdain. "So ready to point the finger at the Kingslayer. Ha!" Bran edged closer to the window, his breath shallow as he listened. He didn't recognize the voice.
A second voice replied, one that stirred an uneasy familiarity in Bran. "Maegor's hasty crowning of Myrcella only hastened the king's death," the voice continued, low and dry. Bran frowned, a flash of memory bringing him back to a dinner at Winterfell—yes, he had heard this man's voice before. "Someone doesn't want the Black Prince with the lions."
"That may be so," the gruff voice replied, "but Rhaegar will die soon, and so will Aegon and Maegor. I hope you're right about your sellswords' ability to kill Maegor. They failed in the melee. Even so, the princess will tear each other apart." The man's tone was filled with grim certainty.
The chill that had crept up Bran's spine turned into dread. He couldn't let Jon be in danger. Gritting his teeth, he leaned over the window, desperate to see who was plotting in the shadows below. He stretched, his fingers clinging to the window's rough stone ledge, until his gaze caught sight of two figures standing close to each other. One was wrapped in a nondescript cloak, the other, a figure of some stature, draped in finer but dark clothing. Just as Bran tried to focus, the cloaked figure's head snapped up, sharp eyes locking onto Bran.
"Did you hear that?" the cloaked man whispered sharply.
The second figure turned, squinting up into the narrow light, his eyes narrowing.
Bran froze, his heart hammering as he realized he'd been seen. Before he could pull back, his fingers slipped, his balance tipping forward into empty air. The world spun as he plummeted, the wind rushing past his face as he flailed, his vision blurring—
But just as his fall began, he felt rough hands seize him mid-air, pulling him back with a powerful grip. Bran gasped, looking up into the face of a man cloaked in simple garb, with an oddly kind but unsettling expression. Bran stared in confusion, his heart racing as he took in the stranger's disguised face.
"How old are you, child?" the man asked, his voice quiet and gentle but laced with something Bran couldn't quite place.
Bran's voice came out shaky. "Eleven… I'm eleven."
The man sighed deeply, an expression of regret flickering in his eyes as he muttered, "You remind me of my little birds… And though this ill-fits my heart, I must do what is good for the realm."
Before Bran could process his words, the man's hands pushed, firm but somehow graceful, sending Bran tumbling backward. He fell again, the world a blur of gray and blue sky, stone walls and rushing air—
Then everything went dark as he struck an outcropping. The impact slowed his fall, but the pain exploded in his side as he rebounded, spinning into the branches of an old tree that grew twisted near the tower walls. Branches and limbs snapped as he crashed through, each branch catching him, slowing his descent, until he finally landed in the dirt with a heavy thud. The last thing he heard was Summer's howl and a raven's cork.
Robb
Robb stared at the bodies littering the forest floor, disbelief and anger flashing across his face. "This was a trap?" he asked, fury in his voice. "They've taken Sansa just to lure you here—to kill you?"
She's not just bait! Robb growled.
Jon's eyes darkened, and he spoke in a low, measured tone. "First, they poison the king. Then, they try to kill me, the last threat standing in Aegon's way. They dangled Jaime as the lure, expecting me to chase him alone. They never saw this alliance coming."
Jaime Lannister killed his king, killed Edric Baratheon, and it is said he slept with his sister and cuckolded Viserys. A vile man. My father would never stand working with him.
Robb's gaze flicked toward Jaime, who stood a few paces away. "Teaming up with the Kingslayer? It's not honorable, Jon."
Jon looked down, fists clenched, as if drawing strength from the earth itself. When he looked back up, his violet eyes were sharp, steely with purpose. "I wanted his head when Myrcella dragged him before me," Jon admitted. "Lord Stark taught us never to spare those who broke their oaths, to bring justice to those who deserve it. Do you remember?"
"To dispense justice to those who wronged it," Robb echoed.
Jon glanced up at the sky, where a cloud of ravens circled, dark wings blotting out the light. "But Lord Stark isn't here," he said, voice hard. "It's just you and me now. Will you stand by my side, Robb?"
The question caught Robb off-guard, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "I don't like this alliance any more than you do," he said, shaking his head, "but I'll stand with you, brother. Always."
A faint smile played at Jon's lips as he reached into his cloak and pulled out a rolled parchment. "The king's last decree," he said quietly. "He named me his heir."
The news hit Robb like a blow. "You... you're to be king? Not Aegon?" He laughed, weak and hollow. "So, you're not coming back to the North, then."
Jon shook his head. "No. Not this time. Will you miss me, Stark?"
Robb thought back to when they were boys, playing in the snow outside Winterfell. "Maybe. Maybe not."
Jon's gaze grew darker. "Aegon and the queen will never allow this. Nor will the Tyrells. I'll have to take the throne by force if need be."
"Then we'll need Harrenhal," Robb said grimly. "And blood will spill."
Robb saw Jon's jaw clenched. "Aegon's allies may outnumber mine, but Cannibal will be enough to keep them in line. Mystic is puny compared to Cannibal. Cannibal won't need to destroy the keep—he's well-fed enough, for now." He paused, his eyes widening as if struck by an unseen blow. "But I... I can't feel him. The connection is murky." His face grew taut with worry. "We need to ride out to him. Now."
At that moment, Beric Dondarrion stumbled into the clearing, his face flushed and his eyes wide with alarm. "Your Grace! There's urgent news from the castle! Your cousin, Brandon Stark—he was climbing the walls and... he fell."
"What?" Robb's voice broke with horror and rage. He turned to Jon, voice shaking. "They did this! Bran's more surefooted than anyone! He was pushed—like Sansa was taken. They won't stop until they have us all!" His shout echoed through the trees.
I will never stand for this. NEVER! Robb wanted to plunge his sword into Aegon's eye, the man who first broke his arm and now threatened the lives of his siblings.
"They killed Lady... did they kill Summer too?" Sansa's quiet voice broke through the tension, her eyes unfocused, haunted.
Robb's hand went to his sword, fury writhing within him. "We ride to Harrenhal, now. We'll bring these bastards to justice."
Jon looked at him and nodded. Robb saw something dark in his eyes.
Jon
Bran was pushed.
The words ran like venom through his veins. They attacked Sansa, his sister. They pushed Bran, his brother. A cold fury surged within him, a rage so fierce it felt otherworldly.
"Kill them all..."
Ghost prowled beside him, eyes blazing red, echoing Jon's own rage. Jon clenched his fists, feeling something raw and untamed stirring within him, fighting to break free.
"Kill them all..." he whispered, the words spilling from his lips like a dark incantation. He saw the ravens gathering above, the black sky thickening with them, their cries harsh and angry.
Robb's voice was faint, concerned. "Jon?"
"Gather Greatjon, Domeric and the others," Jon said, his voice low and deadly. "We shall make proper preparations to attack. No doubt Aegon is readying for battle himself. Tell the others Jaime Lannister is our ally, and that we strike at Harrenhal. If any refuse, I will cut them down myself."
Robb gave a grim nod, gathering Sansa carefully before stalking off to rally their forces.
Jon felt the rage pulsing, an energy swelling inside his chest, begging to be unleashed. Overhead, the ravens cawed, shadows sweeping across the forest floor as they grew thicker, a shroud of darkness blotting out the sun.
"Kill them all..."
His hand tightened around Blackfyre's hilt, the sword seeming to pulse with the same bloodthirsty hunger.
It was when Jon Connington came to him when Jon's forces reached the gate, saying, "They did it, Your Grace. Aegon, the queen, Oberyn – they attempted to kill you many times and they poisoned the king," that Blackfyre finally swung.
Myrcella
Myrcella entered the dim pavilion with trepidation, her steps soft as if she feared disturbing even the air around her. The heavy scent of herbs and candles clung to the tent's walls, mingling with the faint aroma of pine. On the narrow cot lay Bran, his small body eerily still, his face as pale as the linen sheet drawn up to his chest. Beside him, Lady Catelyn sat, her face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling with quiet sobs.
Bran's Direwolf, Summer, lay at the foot of the cot, his golden eyes fixed on Myrcella with an intensity that made her stomach twist. She couldn't shake the feeling that those amber eyes held an accusation, as if Summer could see the guilt that weighed on her.
Catelyn's head lifted, her eyes red-rimmed and lost. "I told him to stop," she whispered, voice thick with grief. "I told him to stop climbing, over and over. But he never listened."
Myrcella swallowed hard, feeling her heart hammering painfully against her ribs. She doesn't know, she reminded herself, but the thought did nothing to lessen the guilt gnawing at her. It had been her whispers, her encouragement that had pushed Bran to scale the walls of Harrenhal, to act as her eyes and ears. And now he lay here, still and silent.
It is my fault...
She moved closer, hesitating a moment before she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Recover, my knight," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Come back to us."
With a final glance at Catelyn and Summer, Myrcella withdrew from the pavilion, her footsteps soundless against the cool earth. The air outside was crisp, a faint chill brushing her skin as she made her way back to her chambers within Harrenhal's dark walls.
Once inside, she sank down onto her bed, the silence pressing in around her. She sat there for a long time, hands folded in her lap, replaying Bran's fall in her mind, his broken form lying in the grass. What have I done? she thought, feeling a hollowness settle in her chest. Am I a monster, too?
But her thoughts soon drifted to Jon, to the news of his betrothal to Rhaenys and Daenerys. A surge of bitterness rose within her, compounding her guilt and misery. He would never be hers, not with alliances woven tighter than any simple feelings. The ache in her chest grew sharper, her thoughts tangled and dark.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook her, and she lay back, allowing sleep to pull her under.
The harsh clanging of steel against steel jolted her awake. She sat up, disoriented, heart pounding as she listened to the unmistakable sounds of battle echoing through the stone corridors.
Her door flew open, and Tyrek and Joy burst in, their faces pale, eyes wide with alarm.
"They're fighting!" Tyrek panted, looking wild-eyed. "Maegor and Aegon—they're fighting!" Myrcella can see Tyrek's arm trembling.
As Myrcella listened to the clash of steel and the distant roar of battle, she felt a strange, unshakable calm settle over her. So, it has begun, she thought, watching the torchlight flicker against the darkened walls.
A loud bang broke her trance as Arys and her captain of the guards, Vylarr, burst through the doors. "Your Grace," Vylarr said, catching his breath, "your orders?"
Myrcella's voice was steady, almost unnervingly so. "Assemble all of our guards. Gather my cousins here and post guards at both ends of the corridor. No one is to enter or leave this room without my leave."
Vylarr nodded, and within minutes her cousins, Lancel, Willem, Martyn, and Janei, were huddled together, pale and wide-eyed as they took seats on the couches. The air was thick with tension, punctuated by the cries of the dying beyond the walls. Tyrek flinched as another scream echoed from the courtyard, raw and fading. From her vantage by the window, Myrcella could see the chaos unfolding: smallfolk fleeing, pavilions blazing in the smoke, shadows of armored men locked in deadly combat.
She turned to her cousins, trying to offer a reassuring smile, though her own heart was heavy. "Do not fret, cousins. Prince Maegor will keep us safe, and this fighting will cease soon."
Lancel's eyes narrowed, suspicion and worry etched into his face. "You think Maegor is going to win," he said, half accusing, half pleading.
Myrcella met his gaze without flinching. "He will." She can see the skepticism in Joy's eyes.
Janei, who had been silent until now, spoke in a small, trembling voice, her eyes wet with tears. "But… why? How can you be so sure?"
Jon
"Kill them all..."
The voice in Jon's mind was relentless, a whisper that was almost a roar, a command he could no longer ignore.
"MAKE THEM SUFFER!"
Blackfyre gleamed in his hand, the Valyrian steel singing with dark purpose as he swung it with deadly precision. The blade flashed through the air, a blur too quick for Lord Darry's brothers to track. One stumbled, wide-eyed, as Jon drove Blackfyre deep into his chest. The man stood there, frozen, blood pouring from his mouth before collapsing.
His brother let out a howl of grief, charging at Jon with desperation, but Blackfyre flicked again, slicing through his belly, and his guts spilled to the ground as he fell.
All around him, chaos reigned. Men shouted, steel clashed, and the coppery scent of blood filled the air. Ghost was a pale shadow in the fray, leaping from one man to the next, teeth bared and eyes blazing red, leaving only death in his wake. The wolf tore through armor and flesh alike, his fury mirroring Jon's own.
Jon moved like a specter, swift and unyielding, Blackfyre an extension of his wrath.
Myrcella
"You don't understand who Maegor is, what he's made of," she said, her voice low, each word sinking into the silence like a stone into dark waters. "Aegon thinks he knows him, but he doesn't—not truly. And neither does the queen, or any of the fools who think they will be better off standing behind Aegon."
The youngest of her cousins, shy and barely more than a girl, spoke up, her voice quivering. "But Aegon has Mystic," she said, as if the dragon alone could shield her from the truth. "A dragon, the crown prince. He will be king."
Myrcella gave her a somber smile. "You think that makes him a match for Maegor? That a dragon and a crown can make a boy a warrior? No, Aegon was given everything he has, handed it all from the day he was born. He grew up in palaces, on soft beds, and drank wine from gold cups. The nobles worship him, the queen and her council dote on him. But tell me—what did Aegon ever fight for?"
Jon
Blackfyre flickered through the air, a streak of dark steel too swift for Ser Hobber's eyes to follow. The blade cleaved through his shoulder, severing it clean from the bone, and Hobber let out a bloodcurdling scream that echoed across the battlefield. Blood sprayed across Ser Horas's face, and he froze, staring in horror as his brother crumpled to the ground.
Horas stood trembling, his sword raised yet useless in his shaking grip. His eyes met Jon's for a brief, terror-filled moment before Blackfyre descended again, cutting down with ruthless precision. The blow was brutal, slicing through Horas as if his armor were nothing. Blood sprayed, warm and thick, splattering across Jon's face, but he hardly blinked. In the midst of the chaos, his expression was unyielding, Blackfyre eager for the next life it would claim.
Myrcella
Her cousins shifted, glancing between each other, unsure of what to say. Myrcella continued, her words gaining a fierce edge as she spoke. "Aegon knows nothing of battle, of true suffering. He's been coddled, treated as if he were already a king before he ever earned it. He is the prince born in a world that bowed to him from the cradle. But Maegor?" She gave a cold smile, letting the name linger like a blade. "Maegor was born in the midst of strife. His first memories were of hardship, of clawing and fighting just to survive. Every inch of respect, every shred of recognition he earned—he fought for it. Jon had to kill to prove himself. He killed and bled for everything he has..."
"...Maegor may have been raised by Lord Stark, the most honorable man in Westeros. But think on this—Maegor was raised among wolves. Do you know what that does to a man? When you're brought up by creatures who live and die by loyalty, who protect what's theirs with tooth and claw?" She shook her head. "Aegon thinks he's a dragon, that Mystic's fire can burn anything that stands against him. But he's never had to guard his own, to fight tooth and nail just to keep his family alive. Maegor has. Aegon and the queen—they've made the gravest mistake of all..."
Jon
The press of bodies surging toward him was nothing more than noise and shadow. Blackfyre was like an extension of his arm, a living blade that breathed in blood and death. One by one, they fell.
Osfryd Kettleblack lunged, his blow deflected with a flick of Jon's wrist. Osfryd stumbled, eyes wide with the dawning horror of his own defeat. In one swift movement, Blackfyre flashed upward, catching Osfryd from below, sending him reeling to his knees. Jon tore off Osfryd's helm, seized a handful of his hair, and drove Blackfyre deep into his throat.
Around him, his enemies froze, their eyes widening in horror.
They faltered, taking a step back.
They began to cry out in terror before Ghost silenced them.
Myrcella
"...They've attacked his pack," Myrcella said, her voice soft but cutting through the silence like steel. "Maegor isn't like Aegon, who's been kept safe his entire life, treated like a jewel to be polished. Maegor has known hardship, known what it is to lose, and now he's come back to reclaim what's his. A dragon who's been raised among wolves doesn't burn his enemies from afar. He tears them apart with his teeth. He makes them suffer."
Her cousins exchanged uneasy looks, some of them glancing toward the stone walls as if they could feel the weight of Maegor's presence pressing down on them. Myrcella leaned in, her voice a quiet, deadly whisper. "Aegon and the queen thought they were awaking something fierce, but they didn't understand. They thought they could control him, shape him into what they wanted him to be. But Maegor was never theirs to command. And now they've roused something beyond them—something terrible..."
Jon
"PROTECT THE PRINCE AND THE QUEEN!"
The cry echoed through the chaos, but Jon barely registered it. Above him, the flock of ravens thickened, doubling, then tripling, swirling in a frenzied black cloud. Their death rattles filled the air, and Jon caught a glimpse of Aegon's panicked commands as Mystic, the purple dragon, unleashed fire from the skies. Many burned. But even Mystic couldn't withstand the swarm; the ravens dove, dark wings clawing at scales, overwhelming the dragon in a storm of feathers and talons. Soon, Mystic's furious roars faltered, and the beast was lost in the chaos.
Jon's senses sharpened, attuned to something deeper than sight or sound. He could smell the fear.
Oswell Whent stepped forward, his hand quivering as he drew his sword. "You shall not pass me, Black Prince. Is your heart so black you would usurp your brother's throne?"
Jon's answer was swift and merciless. Blackfyre moved like it had a mind of its own, the ancient steel tearing through Oswell's defense, each strike unyielding. The Kingsguard stumbled back, unable to mount an offense, until Jon seized an opening. In a blur, he slapped Oswell aside with his lobstered hand, leaving the knight vulnerable. Jon drove Blackfyre into Oswell's armpit, pushing it so deeply it emerged on the opposite side, piercing armor and flesh alike.
Screams erupted around him.
"He's a monster!" "We can't kill him!" "RUN! FLEE!"
"THE BLACK PRINCE APPROACHES!"
"MAEGOR IS COMING!"
"FALL BACK! FALL BACK!"
The fear was palpable, rippling through his enemies like wildfire. To them, he was not a man but something darker, unstoppable. Blackfyre gleamed with the blood of the fallen, and the ravens above shrieked in concert with the dying below.
Myrcella
"Aegon may wear the crown, and Mystic may circle the skies," Myrcella continued, her tone softening. "But Maegor has the fire of something no one can douse. He knows pain in a way Aegon never has. He knows loyalty, and he knows wrath. He's spent his life on the outside, clawing his way up, with the shadow of wolves over his shoulder, and now he's here to claim what's his."
One of her cousins tried to protest, tried to summon words of loyalty for Aegon, but Myrcella cut him off, her voice unwavering. "Think of who Maegor is. He was raised by a man who knew duty, who knew loyalty, who taught him honor. And yet he was surrounded by wolves, by creatures who know the true meaning of survival, who protect what is theirs with a fierceness no crown or castle could ever hope to match."
Her voice dropped to a near whisper, as if confiding a dangerous truth. "This battle isn't just about a throne. It's about something far more ancient and powerful. It's about loyalty, about blood, about the things that drive men to do terrible things in the name of family. And Aegon and the queen have made the mistake of underestimating the wrath of a man who has been denied all of it."
Jon
Jon's steps echoed through the great hall, the fear thickening as he entered. All around him, the clash of steel and the cries of battle rose to a fevered pitch, but his focus remained unbroken.
Lewyn Martell stood in his path, his face marked by grim determination. Their swords met in a brutal dance, each strike carrying weight, but Lewyn's movements slowed as fatigue seeped into him. Jon's relentless blows grazed the Kingsguard's white armor, leaving trails of crimson across it. With a gasp, Lewyn sank to one knee, defeated but defiant.
"Maegor, enough!" Elia's voice rang out, trembling with fear. She had placed herself in front of Aegon, who stood bloodied and shaken. Behind her, Rhaenys cried out, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Jon, STOP!"
Arianne's voice cracked, her eyes wide with horror. "Quentyn, NO!"
Her brother rushed forward, spear aimed and screaming with fury. Jon sidestepped, sweeping Blackfyre across the spear's shaft, shattering it in a single stroke. Quentyn barely had time to gasp before the blade tore through half his face. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, leaving anguished cries hanging in the air.
Ignoring the sorrow around him, Jon turned his attention back to Lewyn, who struggled to his feet, his breaths ragged and labored. Lewyn swung once more, desperation fueling his strike, but Jon slipped past the sluggish blow and stepped behind him. Lewyn's gaze darted to Aegon, filled with regret and apology.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, staggering forward.
Jon drove Blackfyre through Lewyn's back, slicing through bone and sinew until the blade severed his spine. Lewyn gasped, a strangled sound that froze the hall. All eyes turned to the scene unfolding before them.
Keeping a firm grip on Blackfyre, Jon twisted the sword, wrenching Lewyn's body so that every witness could see the devastation. He lifted his gaze to Aegon, his voice steady and cold.
"You attack my family…" he paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd.
"…I kill yours."
With a brutal pull, Jon wrenched Blackfyre free, then brought it down in one swift, merciless stroke. Lewyn's head tumbled across the floor, rolling to a stop at Elia's feet. Her scream pierced the silence, raw and filled with grief.
A hush fell over the hall, the horror settling deep into the hearts of those watching. Faces drained of color, and one by one, they dropped their swords, stepping back as if to shrink from Jon's path. The surviving Osmund brothers stepped away from Jon's path. It was a trail that led directly to Aegon, who stared at him with terror in his eyes—a nightmare brought to life.
Jon's gaze didn't waver as he approached, Blackfyre dripping with the blood of those who had stood against him. Rhaenys stumbled forward, collapsing to her knees before him, her beautiful face streaked with tears.
"Please, show mercy!" the princess sobbed, clinging to his bloodied hand as if it were her last hope. The woman who had been sharing Jon's bed for many nights was now crying before him.
Elia cradled Lewyn's severed head, her own voice breaking under the weight of her loss. "We yield!"
"For the love we both share, please don't kill my brother," Rhaenys pleaded, desperation lending strength to her grip.
Jon's eyes flicked down to her and then to Blackfyre.
Myrcella
As the door creaked open, every head in the room turned, faces pale with dread. Myrcella, seated calmly but tense, held her breath as two familiar figures strode in—her uncle Jaime and Lord Kevan. Both men were splattered with blood. Jaime had his usual grin, but there was something heavy in his eyes.
Kevan's voice broke the silence, trembling. "The battle," he said, the words slow and deliberate, "has been won."
A muted gasp went through the room. Relief mixed with an uneasy dread as the realization of what that victory entailed began to sink in. Myrcella felt her own heart steady, her composure unfaltering, but a chill ran through her. There were always costs to victory, especially in battles as vicious as this one.
It was only later, as the news began to seep through the castle, that she learned the final twist in the day's tragedy: the king had died amid the chaos of the fighting, Arthur Dayne standing vigil. His last words, spoken in a faint whisper, had been a single name— "Lyanna."
Arthur: This chapter honestly hit me right in the chest writing it. Myrcella, feeling so much guilt, reminded me of the guilt I had when I visited someone close to the hospital. He was there because of my mistake. Rhaegar's last talk with Jon reminded me of the last talk I had with someone I looked to as a father. What he said to me I still carry with me to this day. Jon needed that talk by, with enemies all around him, someone who had made his own mistakes and genuinely wants to see Jon succeed where he failed.
Anyways...this chapter...awesome? It might look like Jon has won...but it is not over, not even close.