Ser Arthur Dayne,

Winterfell, 293 AC.

"Watch your footwork, my lord!" Ser Rodrik's voice echoed across the yard as Robb Stark adjusted his stance just in time to block an overhead strike.

The boy had potential, Arthur mused, watching from the shadow of the training yard's stone wall. Robb moved with that wolfish strength the North was famed for, his blunted greatsword carving the air in heavy, cleaving arcs as he pressed the attack.

Theon Greyjoy danced back with the swagger of a boy who hadn't earned his confidence, but wore it like armor all the same. "That the best you can do?" he jeered, smirking.

Robb grit his teeth and shifted his stance again—too wide, Arthur noted—and drove forward. But he was breathing hard now. The greatsword, a weapon that required not just power but discipline and endurance, was draining him.

"I'm just getting started," Robb said, chest heaving.

No, you're not, Arthur thought. And your opponent knows it.

Theon darted in, a quick thrust toward Robb's chest. Robb backstepped—poorly. He gave too much ground, gave up his balance, and Arthur's eyes narrowed. Theon's follow-up slash came fast, low and to Robb's side. The boy barely got his blade down in time.

You parried too late. Your weight's off your heels, and now—

Theon's next strike caught Robb in the ribs with a loud thump. Robb grunted, his guard faltering. The sword slipped in his grip. A moment later, Theon's blade was at his throat.

"Yield," Theon panted, sweat sticking his hair to his brow.

Robb did, his frustration plain as he dropped the sword and let out a long breath.

Arthur stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Better."

Both boys turned toward him, their expressions sobering.

"You're learning," Arthur said, "but you're still fighting like boys trying to win, not warriors trying to survive."

He turned to Robb first. "Strength is a gift, my lord, but it is not an answer to every problem. You favor your power too heavily. Your footwork is too wide. When you strike, you overcommit. That greatsword is a fine weapon—but only if you wield it with balance and control. You must learn to move with it, not fight against its weight."

Robb gave a small nod, his jaw tight.

Then to Theon. "And you—your speed serves you well. But you play too much. That flourish you threw when you dodged? If your opponent had pressed you, you'd have no time to recover. Confidence is a blade that cuts both ways. When you fight, fight. Save the smirking for after the steel is sheathed."

Theon's grin faltered, replaced with a sheepish shrug.

Arthur stepped closer and placed a hand briefly on each of their shoulders. "You have potential, both of you. What you lack is discipline. But that can be taught."

Jon strode into the yard next, grabbing the Greatsword Robb had been using, carrying it in one hand as if it weighed nothing and getting in his stance against one of the younger guardsmen.

Theon scoffed from where he was sitting next to Robb, "Look, the bastard thinks he could wield a Greatsword like you, don't you think the bastard sword would be more fitting." Theon taunted.

Jon and the guard circled each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. The decided to strike first, over confident against his younger opponent.

The match was over in less than a minute. Jon danced around the guardsman like a storm wind, striking with precision and restraint—until the man yielded, panting and overwhelmed, but nodding in respect towards Jon, who held out an arm to help him up.

Theon's voice rang again. "He beats on pups, and you all act like he's the next Ser Duncan."

Arthur watched Jon closely now. There was a flicker—something dark and dangerous—in his eyes. The boy's jaw tightened.

He decided to put a stop to this before it escalated further.

"Theon," Arthur called. "Care to prove your point? Spar with Snow."

Theon looked up, startled. "Me? Against him?"

Arthur nodded once, voice cool. "You talk enough. Let's see what your sword says."

Robb looked uneasy. "Ser Alaric—maybe this isn't—"

But it was already too late. Jon stepped forward, blade in hand, eyes fixed on Theon.

Theon just looked at Jon with that same cocky smile on his face.

"You going to cry when I beat you?" Theon mocked again. "Or run to your mother?"

Arthur sighed, knowing that Theon was in for it now.

"Now you've done it." Ser Rodrik murmured from beside him, not bothering to put a stop to what was about to occur.

That was the last straw.

They clashed.

Jon didn't attack—not right away. He let Theon make the first move, parried it easily, and stepped aside. Again. And again. Theon grew frustrated, swinging harder, faster, but Jon was always a step ahead, his footwork surgical, his grip precise.

Then Jon struck like a demon.

A sweeping feint, a pivot, and then a brutal strike to the gut that knocked the air from Theon's lungs. A second blow sent him crashing to the ground, and a final strike with the pommel of the Greatsword towards Theon's nose had a sickly crack ring out throughout the yard, followed by blood spouting out from the broken appendage.

Silence fell between the people watching, the only noise being the groans of pain coming from the downed Ironborn on the dirt.

The guards watched with a mix of amusement and awe. A few nodded, barely hiding their approval. Rodrik looked torn between reprimand and understanding.

Robb sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He asked for it," he muttered.

Arthur raised a brow at Jon. The boy just shrugged, his Greatsword leaned against his shoulder as he turned towards Robb with a raised eyebrow.

"Your turn?"

Robb nodded, squaring up for his next bout. "I'll try not to end up like Theon."

Their bout was longer, fiercer. Robb was good—very good—but Jon had something else. Something instinctual. Robb landed blows, but Jon adapted, adjusted, and overcame.

When Robb finally yielded, panting and smiling despite himself, Arthur stepped forward.

Arthur pulled Jon aside as the others resumed their bouts in the training yard.

"You're becoming arrogant," he whispered into his charge's ear.

Jon didn't miss a beat. "It's not arrogance if I can back it up."

Arthur rolled his eyes. Gods, it was like staring into the past—Jaime Lannister had said the same thing to him once, years ago, wearing the same infuriating smirk that now tugged at Jon's lips.

With a sigh, Arthur grabbed a training sword from the rack and turned, strolling toward the godswood. He paused just before disappearing into the trees, glancing back over his shoulder with one brow raised.

"You coming? Let's see how well you really back it up."

Jon's grin widened. He snatched his own practice sword and jogged to catch up, the two slipping into the cool shade of the godswood, where the air was still and expectant.

They found a clearing, the red leaves of the heart tree rustling gently overhead. Arthur took his stance—calm, composed, the stillness of a lake before a storm.

He said nothing. Just waited.

Jon struck first.

Arthur didn't need to counter. He let the boy come at him, reading each movement like a book with pages too easily turned. Jon was fast, strong, but his attacks were wild, telegraphed.

With a simple twist and step, Arthur disarmed him in two fluid motions, sending Jon's practice blade skittering across the grass.

But instead of frustration, Arthur saw fire ignite behind those mismatched eyes—one green, one amethyst. It was a fire he recognized all too well. The same fire that had driven him to claim the title of Sword of the Morning. The same fire that had pushed him beyond his limits, again and again.

They went again.

And again.

With each bout, Jon lasted longer. He adapted, moved quicker, struck smarter. Arthur began to try—just a little at first. Then more.

By the time the sun was a sliver above the horizon, casting the godswood in golden light, Jon was soaked in sweat, gasping for air, nearly retching from the strain. His legs trembled beneath him, but he stayed standing.

Arthur wiped a bead of sweat from his brow—the only visible sign of his own exertion.

He stepped closer, voice firm but not unkind. "Every day, after your normal lessons, we'll meet here. You'll train with me until you land a hit."

Jon straightened, still catching his breath, and nodded. Then, with a wolfish grin, he turned and began walking back toward the keep.

Arthur watched him go, shaking his head with a faint smile.

"That boy," he muttered, "is going to be the death of me."

He had to admit it—the boy had talent.

Jon was shaping up to be something exceptional. It wasn't just the way he fought, though that alone was enough to turn heads. It was the way he moved, the quiet focus in his eyes, the calculated wildness in every strike. And combined with his build—broad-shouldered and tall, with the powerful frame of a warrior already in the making—Arthur couldn't help but be reminded of men like King Maekar… or Maegor the Cruel.

There was something distinctly Valyrian in his bearing. Not just in his striking features, but in the way he carried himself. Ethereal, almost regal. Yet woven through that princely poise was something else—wildness. The kind that could only come from his mother's blood. Lyanna Stark's fire burned in him, and if tales were true, Brandon's recklessness did too.

Arthur had caught the boy's wandering eyes more than once—usually when a pretty serving girl passed by. The looks weren't one-sided either. The girls were watching him right back, their shy smiles poorly hiding their interest. Jon had the makings of a heartbreaker, and Arthur gave it another year—two at most—before the boy would be sneaking into brothels in Wintertown and tumbling every willing maid under Winterfell's roof.

He'll be a menace, Arthur thought dryly. A charming, dark haired menace.

That was a problem.

Arthur would need to be cautious—very cautious. The last thing they needed were silver-haired bastards running around the North. Sooner or later, someone would ask the wrong question. And questions, when asked in the wrong ears, had a way of traveling South.

Still… all of that aside, Jon was becoming the finest swordsman Arthur had ever trained. Better, even, than Jaime had been at his age.

Arthur's expression darkened at the thought of his former squire.

Jaime Lannister. The golden lion. The Kingslayer.

He could still remember the hope he'd once placed in the boy—the belief that Jaime would be the future of the Kingsguard, perhaps even its greatest.

And now?

Arthur didn't blame him for slaying Aerys. Not truly. He had considered it himself more times than he cared to admit. But it wasn't the killing that earned his scorn.

It was what came after.

The boy sat on the Iron Throne like it was his by right, while Rhaegar's children were butchered. While Princess Elia screamed for help no one came to give. While his fathers bannermen turned Maegor's Holdfast into a tomb.

Arthur could never forgive that.

He turned his gaze toward the heart tree in the godswood, bowing his head ever so slightly. "May the Princess and her children find peace," he murmured. "Wherever they are."

With that, he turned and made his way back to his chambers, intending to freshen up before the evening meal.

He sat, as always, at the guards' table—far from Jon, hidden in plain sight. Yet his eyes never strayed far. From across the hall, he watched as Jon entertained his younger cousins, arms flailing with exaggerated gestures, laughter erupting around him like sparks from a fire.

He was a fine lad. Wild, yes. Reckless, at times. But he had a good heart. His mother's fire, tempered by a strange, quiet ruthlessness—one Arthur had noticed in the boy's eyes during sparring, or when he thought no one was watching.

He had charm, too. Dangerous charm. He could talk circles around the other boys, even the adults if he put his mind to it. Most of that silver tongue, of course, was reserved for blushing maidens and giggling daughters of the keep.

But under the charm and wildness, Jon was sharp. Razor-sharp.

According to Lord Stark, who had spoken to Maester Luwin, the boy was ahead of his peers in nearly every lesson. His grasp of ruling, tactics, and even history was far beyond what they expected of a twelve-year-old.

He spoke three languages—High Valyrian, the Old Tongue, and even a bit of Braavosi. And ever since learning that he would inherit Moat Cailin, Jon had begun drafting ideas for its restoration: stronger walls, deeper wells, new roads, even a port.

Arthur watched him laugh with Rickon and Arya and felt that familiar pang in his chest.

The boy would make a fine king.

He scowled, pushing the thought aside. He had no right to think of thrones, not when bound by that damned oath Ned Stark had wrung from him beneath the heart tree.

An oath that kept the truth locked behind clenched teeth.

An oath that kept a son from knowing his father.

Arthur drank deeply from his cup, never taking his eyes off the boy.

It was later that night when Arthur found himself following Jon once more into the godswood. Quietly. Subtly. The boy had made a habit of slipping away in the dark hours, and Arthur, ever the guardian, had grown uneasy with it.

He passed beneath ancient boughs and red leaves, following faint footprints in the soft earth until he reached the heart tree.

There, under the watchful gaze of the old gods, Jon sat with his back against the weirwood, his eyes rolled back into his head—completely white. Above him perched a raven, but not just any raven. This one had three eyes.

Arthur's blood ran cold.

"Jon?" he called sharply, rushing forward. The boy didn't respond. Panic surged through him as he dropped to one knee and grabbed Jon by the shoulders, giving him a firm shake.

Jon gasped, eyes snapping open, chest rising in a sharp inhale.

Arthur exhaled in relief. "Gods… I thought something was wrong."

Jon blinked at him, unfazed. "Why'd you do that, Arthur?"

Arthur froze.

It took a second before he spoke. "Your eyes were all white. I thought—"

"I meant to do that, silly," Jon interrupted, chuckling and shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Arthur stared at him, confusion rising—until something else clicked.

"Did you… call me Arthur?"

Jon tilted his head, one corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. "That's your name, isn't it? Arthur Dayne. Sword of the Morning." He said the title in a deliberately dramatic tone, mimicking a bard's tale.

Arthur went still.

"You… know?"

"Of course I do," Jon said, as if discussing the weather. "You and Uncle aren't exactly subtle when you talk in the solar."

Arthur felt his heart stutter. Uncle.

"You—You know Lord Stark isn't your father?"

Jon nodded, still calm. Amused, even. "I know I wasn't born here. I know I was born in a tower… in Dorne. And I know I belong to a family that's no longer on the throne."

Arthur stood in stunned silence, his thoughts racing.

"So…" he said at last, his voice quiet, almost hopeful, "you know of your claim to the Iron Throne?"

Jon's smirk faded, his eyes drifting toward the darkened trees.

"I do," he said softly. Then, after a pause: "But I don't think I want it."

Arthur's brows furrowed.

Jon continued, his voice steady. "The South is a snake pit. I've no desire to start a war over a crown. I'd rather stay here. Rule Moat Cailin. Start a family. Let the game of thrones play itself out without me."

Arthur frowned, visibly disappointed, but he didn't argue. After all the blood that had been spilled—Robert's Rebellion, the Greyjoy Uprising—it was hard to fault the boy for wanting peace.

Jon stood, brushing dirt from his breeches.

From the branch above, the three-eyed raven let out a sharp caw.

Jon turned his head, glanced at the bird, and rolled his eyes like he'd heard that noise a thousand times before.

"Brynden, you old codger," he muttered as he walked away, leaving Arthur alone beneath the heart tree.

Arthur looked up at the raven, still seated on its crimson perch. Its third eye stared straight at him, unblinking.

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

What in the Seven Hells is going on with this boy?