Jon Snow

Bear Island, 294 AC.

Jon Snow woke to warmth, soft breathing, and the scent of sweat and pine in the furs beside him. Dacey Mormont lay sprawled across his chest, her dark curls a wild halo on his shoulder. One leg was tangled around his, strong and scarred like the rest of her. Her calloused fingers still rested on his stomach, possessive even in sleep.

He smirked.

So much for his promise to his Uncle.

The old warnings echoed faintly in his mind — to keep his sword sheathed and his trousers laced, especially around the daughters of Bear Island. But the Mormonts were not like other Northern houses. They didn't shy from their desires, nor did they pretend to be chaste as septas. Last night had proven that well enough.

Dacey stirred, mumbling something incoherent before settling back against him.

They had Moon Tea, of course. Lady Maege herself had mentioned it with a shrug and a grin the day Jon arrived. "Our house is filled with strong women," she had said. "And bastards sired by bears." If he did leave a child behind, they'd claim it as they always had — that a bear got her with cub, though there was a chance it would be a silver haired, violet eye'd bear at that.

Jon wasn't sure if he liked that idea though. The thought of a child growing up not knowing him stirred something deeper than he'd expected. If he did have a bastard child, he would raise it with him, not hide it away on an island with few visitors other than wildlings and Ironborn.

Loud footsteps approaching his room had his smirk fade, and him scrambling to get under the covers.

The door flew open, too late to hide anything. Jon blinked as Maege Mormont stomped in, fur-lined cloak flaring around her. Her eyes fell on the naked tangle of limbs in the bed, and her expression curdled like spoiled milk, an icy glare from her brown eyes burning a hole in his head.

"Boy," she growled, "if I catch you rutting with my daughter again under my roof, I'll cut off your cock and feed it to the ravens."

Breakfast that morning was tense—at least, it was for him. For the rest of the Mormonts, it was as if nothing had happened.

Arthur sat with the guards, occasionally glancing his way with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His expression said it all: I told you laying with her would be a bad idea.

But how was Jon supposed to resist her? Dacey was wild, untamed—just like him. And her body… her body was a northerners dream. Full, generous breasts he longed to bury his face in, a round, muscular ass that fit perfectly in his calloused hands. The way she swayed her hips when she walked ahead of him was no accident; each step seemed to invite his gaze, to dare him to look, to want.

They both knew it wasn't serious. Dacey, her mother's heir, was expected to marry to remain on Bear Island. Jon, likewise, had his own obligations—an alliance marriage likely waiting for him at Moat Cailin. But that didn't mean they couldn't enjoy themselves in the meantime.

Later, in the sparring yard, Jon could've sworn Lady Maege had told the men to give him a little extra today. Not that he minded. If anything, it only roused his blood.

He gave as good as he got.

Next up was a greybeard Jon vaguely recalled—Torrhen, he believed. The old man had once boasted of fighting in the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion, even claiming to have lived through the Peake Uprising—if he was to be believed.

Despite his age—he had to be pushing seventy—Torrhen moved like a younger man, his steps sure, his swings precise. Experience made him dangerous.

But Jon had trained with worse. For the past three moons, he'd honed his craft daily with Ser Arthur Dayne—one of the finest swordsmen to ever live.

Torrhen came at him with a flurry of quick strikes, and Jon parried or dodged each one. A thrust toward his midsection was batted aside with ease, Jon's strength nearly knocking the blade from the old man's grip.

He followed up with an overhead strike—fast and hard—but Torrhen danced to the side, surprisingly nimble. Still, age had its limits. The man was getting winded, and Jon saw the opening.

He pressed the attack—a strike to the right shoulder, another to the ribs, a sudden feint to the left. Torrhen's sword flailed as he struggled to keep up, parrying where he could, but too many blows slipped through.

Jon ended it with a savage downward blow that cracked against the greybeard's sparring sword, nearly cleaving it in two. The metal chipped and bent beneath the weight of Jon's Greatsword.

With a quick step, Jon kicked the man in the stomach. Torrhen crumpled, wheezing, his sword clattering to the ground as he dry-heaved.

Taking pity on him, Jon stepped forward, resting the tip of his blade under the man's chin.

"Yield," he said.

A rasped, breathless voice replied, "Yield."

Cheers erupted around the yard. The men-at-arms were grinning, eager to be the next to test themselves against him.

The cheers had barely reached their peak when silence fell across the yard.

Lady Maege Mormont had entered, her heavy mace resting on her shoulder as she strode toward Jon with the presence of a storm on the horizon.

"You fared well against my men, Snow," she said, voice thick with challenge. "Let's see how you do against me."

She didn't wait for a reply. Her mace came swinging without warning, and Jon barely ducked in time, air hissing past his ear.

By the gods, this woman wants to kill me, he thought, eyes wide as he sprang back.

From the corner of his vision, he spotted Arthur standing beside Dacey. The former Kingsguard had his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. Dacey, however, looked alarmed—clearly worried her mother was about to murder her latest lover.

But Jon Snow was not one to be cowed.

He recovered quickly, raising his greatsword to intercept the next crushing blow. The spiked head of Maege's mace clanged off his blade, the force reverberating down his arms—but he held firm.

A wolfish grin spread across his face. And for a split second, he saw it—Maege's eyes widened just enough to betray a flicker of surprise.

He pressed his advantage.

With a powerful sweep, he batted her mace aside and brought his sword down toward her shoulder. She blocked it with her shield, the impact ringing out like a drumbeat.

Snarling, she retaliated—swinging her mace in a wide arc meant to crush bones. Jon bent backward, fluid and swift despite his size, the spiked weapon whistling harmlessly past his chest.

He moved in, quick as a striking wolf, sending a few probing strikes at her shield, testing her defenses. She didn't bite. Experienced and measured, Maege waited him out, refusing to overextend.

Jon pivoted, parrying a blow aimed at his shoulder, then brought his greatsword crashing down from above. The blade embedded itself in her battered shield. With a grunt, Jon kicked the shield with all his might. The force ripped his sword free and sent Maege stumbling back.

She growled, flinging the shield aside—it was a blow away from breaking anway—and gripped her mace with both hands.

Then she charged.

Mace raised high, she brought it down like a hammer from the heavens. Jon rolled to the side just in time, the ground shuddering where he'd stood. He sprang up and struck her back with the flat of his blade, staggering her.

Before she could fully recover, he lunged—batting the mace aside and driving the pommel of his greatsword toward her face. He expected the crunch of breaking bone—

—but at the last second, she tilted her head.

Then her leg swept out.

Jon's feet were gone from under him. He hit the ground with a grunt, his grip loosening just enough for Maege to kick his sword aside. She straddled him a heartbeat later, a dagger drawn and pressed to his throat.

"Yield, pretty boy," Maege growled, eyes blazing as she glared down at him.

Jon knew he was beaten. But that didn't mean he couldn't get the last word.

"One would think you were jealous of your daughter, with how quickly you jumped at the chance to mount me, my lady."

Laughter erupted around the yard. Even Arthur chuckled.

Maege smirked—just for a moment—before rising and offering him a hand.

Jon took it, grinning up at her as he was pulled to his feet.

"You fight well, Snow. If my Dacey didn't need to stay on Bear Island, I'd send her off to Moat Cailin with you," Lady Maege said, as they made their way toward the woman in question.

Dacey's eyes widened at her mother's words.

"Aye, and I'd gladly take her with me," Jon replied smoothly, his gaze locking onto Dacey. "But we all have our duties, my lady."

A faint dusting of pink colored Dacey's cheeks.

"You fought well, Jon," Arthur added, pride touching his voice. "Though you overextended yourself at the end. Stay grounded next time."

The knight's instructive tone crept in, as it often did whenever he watched him fight.

"Aye, the boy fought like a true Northman," Maege said with a grin. "Reminded me of his aunt and uncle with that ferocity."

Jon's eyes flicked to her sharply. She definitely knows something. Arthur, standing just behind him, looked equally thoughtful.

"Well, I'm off to freshen up," Maege continued, rolling her shoulders. "Haven't had a fight like that since the Rebellion. My bones will be screaming by morning."

She clapped Jon hard on the back and strode toward the wooden keep, mace resting against her shoulder once again.

Jon followed, sweat-drenched and satisfied, Arthur falling in beside him without a word.

Later that evening, after dinner, Jon made his way to the godswood.

The aged weirwood of Bear Island loomed before him, gnarled and ancient—one of the oldest in the North. He sat down with his back pressed to its trunk, the bark cool against his spine.

A rustle overhead drew his gaze upward. The three-eyed raven landed on a low branch, tilting its head. Jon met its gaze—and in the blink of an eye, his consciousness shifted.

When next he opened his eyes, he stood in a familiar cave far beyond the Wall, where his teacher had first brought him after his first kill. White weirwood roots snaked across the floor, forming a throne of tangled bone-white limbs.

Seated within them was an albino man with skin like parchment, a red birthmark sprawled across one cheek, and a single crimson eye that gleamed with warmth.

"Gaemon," the old man rasped.

He never called him Jon. Only Gaemon. It was a name Jon had long made peace with—one he had grown to embrace. The warrior he was named for had been fierce, free, and unyielding. In many ways, he was everything Jon hoped to become.

"Uncle," Jon said. "What's the lesson today?"

Brynden Rivers—better known as Bloodraven—raised a single, withered hand. The cave dissolved.

The world around them shifted into an open field of green, wind stirring long grass like waves upon the sea. They stood atop a hill, looking down at a battlefield smeared with blood and chaos.

Banners flapped wildly below. Among them, two stood out—twin dragons, both three-headed. One red on black. The other black on red.

House Targaryen... and House Blackfyre.

Jon's breath caught.

Brynden nodded, sensing his thoughts. "Can you name the battle, nephew?"

Jon scanned the field, searching. His eyes landed on a warrior in crimson armor, his black dragon-winged helm unmistakable, locked in deadly combat with a man clad in white, their blades flashing with Valyrian steel.

Then he knew.

"Redgrass Field," Jon murmured. "The First Blackfyre Rebellion."

Brynden's gaze turned distant. "Aye."

Jon fell silent, waiting.

"Some days," Brynden said at last, "I wonder what might have been—if things had gone differently."

Jon turned to him. "Do you regret it? Killing Daemon?"

Brynden's good eye remained fixed on the two dueling warriors below.

"I do," he said, softly. "There was a time I looked up to him. Daemon was everything the 'Great Bastards' aspired to be—noble, strong, beloved. If not for Aegor and the whispers of grasping lords… perhaps it would never have come to this."

Jon watched as a unit of archers crested the hill beside them. At their head stood a younger version of Brynden, both eyes intact, weirwood bow in hand.

Below, Ser Gwayne Corbray faltered, falling to a deep wound in the leg. Daemon, instead of finishing him, called for him to be taken from the field.

Mercy... Jon thought. Honor.

And it proved his undoing.

A moment later, the arrows rained down.

Jon watched as Daemon's firstborn son fell, pierced through the chest. A scream tore from Daemon's throat—raw and soul-deep—just before another volley struck him down.

The King Who Bore the Sword, gone in a hail of arrows.

The scene dissolved, returning them to the shadowed cave. Silence clung to the air like mist.

"I still don't know if it was my arrow that felled my brother," Brynden whispered, eyes locked on the weirwood bow propped against the cave wall, wrapped in roots like an offering—or a curse. "Or one of my men's. But the fault was mine. All the same."

Jon remained quiet, letting the weight of it settle.

Usually, his uncle's lessons were practical. Lessons from Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Daeron the Good on statecraft. Swordplay from Cregan Stark and Aemon the Dragonknight. Tactics from Artys Arryn and Tristifer IV Mudd.

But tonight's lesson was different—darker. Not a lesson in strategy, but sacrifice.

Then, as if reading his thoughts, Brynden turned to face him.

Jon was surprised to see a single tear slip down the old man's cheek.

"Sometimes," Brynden said, "you must choose the hard path over the easy one, no matter how deeply it wounds you."

He paused, then added, "And sometimes, you must set aside your honor. Had Daemon struck down Gwayne Corbray when he had the chance, the outcome may have been very different."

He waved a hand—and Jon found himself back beneath the weirwood tree, the raven gone, wings carrying it northward toward the Wall.

Jon sat in silence, the cold bark pressing into his back.

He thought of Daemon. Of Bloodraven. Of choices made and paid for in blood. His family—his father's kin—were far from divine. The wars they waged, the grief they caused, the legends they became… all of it was soaked in flawed, painful humanity.

They were not gods, Jon realized. Just men.

The flutter of wings pulled Jon from his thoughts.

Looking up, he smiled as a familiar shape landed on the branches of the old weirwood.

Aegarax—the golden eagle. Named after the Valyrian god of creatures. He had been Jon's first true companion, the first animal he had ever formed a proper skinchanging bond with.

When Brynden had first begun his training all those years back, Jon had started small—inhabiting rats and mice in the cellars of Winterfell, then cats and dogs as his skill grew. But it was a fortnight into his stay on Bear Island, during a routine hunt, that he had come across the injured eagle.

Aegarax had broken a wing. Jon had remembered something he had read in the Winterfell library, about forging a bond with a creature before skin-changing into it, and began coaxing the wounded bird into his care. He mended the wing himself, using the knowledge passed down from Bloodraven. Over time, a bond began to form—not the typical domination of beast by warg, but something gentler. Mutual.

Eventually, Jon no longer had to force himself into the eagle's mind. Aegarax simply let him in.

And in doing so, Jon discovered unexpected gifts. His vision had sharpened beyond what most men could dream of—Brynden called it Eagle Eyes, saying it was common when forming a bond with a creature to gain some of their characteristics. It gave Jon an uncanny advantage while hunting: spotting the smallest movement in the brush, judging the exact place to strike.

At night, he often joined Aegarax in the skies, soaring far above the treetops in his companion's mind. He relished the freedom of flight—but he knew not to get too used to the feeling, Brynden's warnings that many humans get lost in their creatures mind when learning to fly.

"How are you, my friend?" he murmured, as the bird swooped down and settled on his shoulder, nuzzling against his fingers with a low, contented trill.

The moment of peace was broken by a familiar voice.

"Jon, are you in there?"

Arthur Dayne's voice rang out through the trees, and a moment later the knight stepped into view. He paused at the sight before him—Jon sitting beneath the weirwood, an eagle perched comfortably on his shoulder.

Jon simply smiled.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Crazy princes," he muttered under his breath.

"As you can see, my knightly friend," Jon said with a smirk, rising to his feet, "I'm quite alright. I was just preparing to turn in."

Aegarax let out a piercing cry, then launched into the air, wings cutting through the moonlight as he vanished into the night sky.

Jon watched him go, then turned and followed Arthur back toward the keep.

When he reached his chambers, a small frown tugged at his lips. The bed felt colder than usual.

He'd grown used to the warmth of another body beside him. And tonight, that absence lingered more than he cared to admit.

Jon spent a few quiet minutes writing in his journal, his thoughts still lingering on the lesson with Brynden.

The old man had never explicitly said it, but Jon knew. Brynden wanted him to claim his familys throne. Arthur did too—though the knight had only brought it up once, and hadn't mentioned it since.

If he was honest with himself, Jon did want to be king.

Not to rule over others. Not to wear a crown or sit in a gilded chair.

But to redeem his family's name.

And yet, what right did he have to plunge the Seven Kingdoms into another bloody war for the sake of his ambition?

No, justice.

He wouldn't pretend otherwise. There were days he dreamed of carving through Tywin Lannister and his pack of dogs, avenging what they had done to his brother, his sister, and his stepmother. But desire alone wouldn't win him a kingdom.

He had little support—at least, for now.

Some loyalist houses might rally to him. The Reach, perhaps, if he made the right offer to the Queen of Thorns. That would be a dangerous alliance, but a powerful one. He was not sure if he wanted to reward them with a Queen after Mace Tyrell had sat outside Storm's End with his entire army, instead of sending men to aid his father on the Trident.

His uncle would back him, reluctantly—more out of blood than belief. And with the North, he might sway the Riverlands too. A tenuous connection, but there was always hope. Still, Jon doubted old Hoster Tully would leap at the chance to support the grandson of the man they had once helped overthrow.

He could sail to Essos, raise an army of sellswords. But doing so would brand him a foreign invader—a second Blackfyre in the eyes of the realm.

No, rushing into a claim would only end in failure. He knew that.

The smart thing—the right thing—was to wait. To build.

He would strengthen his position as Lord of the Moat, expand his influence under the guise of exile. Tour the North, win hearts and minds, and when the time came, the Northern lords would be his.

Afterward, he could turn his gaze southward. A second tour, a new set of alliances. His knighthood under Arthur's guidance would lend him legitimacy in the eyes of southern lords who still clung to pageantry and pedigree.

There was a long game to be played.

But that was for another day.

With a sigh, he set aside his journal, stripped off his clothes, and crawled beneath his furs. Exhaustion hit him like a hammer, the weight of the day—of the sparring, the godswood, the visions—pulling him swiftly into sleep.

He soared over the icy waters, moonlight reflecting across the waves. Below, his sharp eyes caught the silvery flicker of fish swimming in tight colonies.

Wings folding, he dove—silent and swift—claws snapping up a fish that leapt from the water. With a beat of his wings, he climbed skyward once more.

He tossed the fish into the air and caught it in his beak, the rich flavor sliding down his gullet.

Yet he was still hungry.

Climbing higher, Aegarax scanned the sea, talons ready for another strike—until something else caught his attention. A cluster of wooden shapes gliding across the waves, headed straight for the island where his two-foot was resting.

Curious, he dipped lower.

Wooden ships—five in total—sliced through the fog, sails billowing. Each bore a different sigil. One had a black horn on a field of red. Another, a scythe on pale blue.

Ironborn.

When the men aboard spotted him, they loosed arrows. Aegarax screeched and veered away, bolts whistling past his feathers. His cry wasn't of fear—but a warning.

Jon bolted upright in bed, gasping.

Ironborn. He scowled.

He threw on his boiled leathers and cloak over his shirt, grabbed his greatsword, and stormed out into the hall, feet pounding stone as he sprinted toward Lady Maege's solar.

The guards let him through without hesitation, catching the urgency in his stride.

Maege looked up from her desk, brow furrowed at the intrusion. But when she saw his attire and the fire in his eyes, she rose sharply.

"Ironborn," Jon said, catching his breath. "At least five ships."

Without another word, she crossed to the window and peered out over the dark sea. Sure enough, five shapes emerged from the fog—just as he'd said. Five Ironborn warships, coasting ominously toward Bear Island's rocky shore.

She reached for her mace, threw on her leathers, and stormed out of her solar, Jon at her heels.

"Wake the men-at-arms," Maege barked to a passing guard. "Ironborn are on our coasts."

The keep came alive in moments.

Warriors—men and women both—rushed to gear up. Some emerged in full armor, others barefoot and half-dressed, but all armed and ready.

Jon spotted Arthur among the crowd, fully armored. The pearly white of the Kingsguard was long gone, replaced by the pale greys and wolf sigil of the North.

Together, they followed Lady Maege outside, where she ordered the warriors into hiding—along the tree line, behind brush, even among the branches. Silent. Waiting.

The Ironborn ships had anchored offshore. Rowboats filled with raiders began pushing toward land—ten men apiece.

They landed on the island with little discipline, trudging up the shore in loose formation, headed toward the nearest village.

Rogues, Jon realized. No official raid. Just scum looking for plunder.

As the last boat docked, the Bear Islanders struck.

They sprang from cover like wolves from the mist. Riders thundered through the first line of raiders, cutting them down in a blur of hooves and steel. The infantry surged in behind, overwhelming the disorganized Ironborn with a savage precision.

Jon plunged into the chaos, his greatsword cleaving wide arcs of steel and death.

A stout raider came screaming at him, axe raised high. Jon batted the weapon aside and split the man's head from his shoulders in two swift strikes.

Another charged—a fat brute with a scraggly beard and a rusty mace. He swung wildly. Jon ducked, sidestepped, then slashed across the man's belly. His guts spilled out like a torn sack of grain.

Jon kept moving, carving a path of death through the enemy ranks. Blood coated him from head to toe—his armor, his hands, even his hair. Only his eyes remained untouched.

And those who saw them swore they glowed—one bright green, the other pale violet. A phantom in the mist. A storm in the shape of a man.

A piercing screech from Aegarax split the dawn air, signaling for Jon to look in his familiar's direction.

Jon's head snapped up just in time to see the eagle circling above, talons poised. His eyes followed the bird's warning—and locked on the mountain of a man carving his way through the battlefield.

He was enormous. Hulking, with arms like tree trunks and shoulders broad enough to block out the sky. He wore a perpetual scowl under his long beard, as if the world had personally wronged him, and iron rings glinted on every finger. In his hands, he wielded a massive double-bladed axe that cleaved men like wheat.

"Little Wolf!" the brute bellowed, voice like a war drum. "The Crow's Eye will pay me a fortune for bringing you in!"

Jon's blood ran cold.

Tightening his grip on his greatsword, Jon squared his stance as the giant charged. The ground trembled beneath the man's weight, each step thunderous. At the last second, Jon dove to the side, rolling smoothly and rising behind him. He slashed at the man's exposed back—

—but the brute spun with unnatural speed, parrying Jon's blade with a grunt and countering with a slash aimed straight at his heart.

Jon barely had time to angle his blade, deflecting the blow upward with a shower of sparks. The impact jarred his arms to the bone.

He heard Arthur shouting his name somewhere behind him—but the rest of the world had vanished. There was only the monster in front of him.

Steel rang against steel as the two clashed in a flurry of vicious blows. Jon was strong for his age—tall, hardened, trained by Ser Arthur Dayne himself—but this man was a monster. Bigger, heavier, more experienced. Each swing of his axe forced Jon back a step. Each blocked strike sent shocks through his arms. His breath came faster. His muscles screamed with effort.

And then he slipped.

The brute seized the opening, slamming a boot into Jon's midsection with bone-jarring force. The world tilted. Jon hit the ground hard, his greatsword sliding from his grip.

Though the man didn't try to finish him.

He reached down, clearly intending to drag Jon away like a prize boar—alive.

But that was his mistake.

A golden blur fell from the sky with a shriek like thunder.

Aegarax hit the man's face with savage precision. Talons tore into flesh. The eagle's beak ripped downward, gouging into one of the man's eyes with a wet, horrible pop. Blood sprayed in arcs, and the man's scream was loud enough to silence even the chaos of battle.

He thrashed wildly, staggering back as he clutched at his ruined eye. Aegarax was flung to the side, wings snapping open at the last moment to regain balance before the eagle soared high again.

That was all Jon needed.

With a roar, he surged to his feet and snatched up his greatsword.

The blade swept in a clean, brutal arc—steel met flesh with a hiss and crunch. The giant's head flew free from his shoulders, the body collapsing like a toppled tree a heartbeat later.

For a second, everything was still.

Then the Ironborn saw their champion fall.

Panic spread like fire through their ranks. Discipline, already thin, shattered entirely. They turned to flee—only to find no escape. The Bear Islanders descended on them in a frenzy of steel and fury, cutting down every last raider who dared try to run.

The beach turned red with blood.

Jon dropped to his knees, breath coming in ragged gasps. The adrenaline drained from his body all at once, leaving him dizzy and trembling.

Around him, the sounds of battle faded to groans and ragged cheers. Smoke curled toward the sky. Bodies littered the sand.

He looked up, and there it was—the sun, just cresting the horizon.

The battle had lasted longer than he'd thought.

Arthur was the first to reach him, armor smeared with blood and grime, his blade still slick. Dacey followed close behind, a shallow cut on her cheek bleeding freely.

"Jon! Jon, are you alright?" she asked, dropping to her knees beside him. Arthur stood over them, eyes scanning the shoreline for any remaining threats.

"Aye, I'm fine," Jon said through a grimace, wiping the blood from his face. "That last one was a tough fucker."

"He sure was." The voice came from behind.

They turned to see Lady Maege striding toward them, her mace resting casually on her shoulder, hair matted and damp with sweat. Her eyes sparkled with a rare look of pride.

"You know who that was, boy?"

Jon shook his head. But beside him, Arthur's gaze had settled on the severed head still lying in the sand. His expression shifted—recognition dawning.

Maege nodded. "Andrik the Unsmiling. One of the deadliest warriors in the Iron Islands. And you killed him. At three-and-ten."

Jon pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth as pain flared in his ribs. He was sure something cracked when Andrik kicked him, but he refused to look weak now.

Maege stepped closer, grabbed his arm, and yanked it into the air. Jon winced, but she didn't care.

"To the Bloody Wolf!" she roared.

"BLOODY WOLF!"

"WHITE WOLF!"

"SCOURGE OF THE IRONBORN!"

The warriors of Bear Island bellowed the chant, their voices echoing across the blood-soaked shore.

Jon stood tall, a huge grin spreading across his face. Blood clung to his skin, and his eyes gleamed with the feral thrill of battle. He basked in their cheers—not out of arrogance, but satisfaction.

Arthur watched from nearby, pride swelling in his chest. The prince's son was carving out a legacy of his own. He'd have to write to Lord Eddard soon—he deserved to hear what his nephew had done.

Later that night, Jon lay in bed, midsection tightly wrapped in bandages coated in bruise paste. The pain lingered, but the victory had numbed most of it.

The door creaked open.

Dacey stepped inside, bathed in the glow of the firelight. She crossed the room slowly, hips swaying with intent. Her nightgown slipped from her shoulders and pooled silently at her feet.

Jon's breath hitched at the sight of her.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling him carefully. Her fingers brushed his chest, tracing a line over his bandages.

Jon grinned.

Worth it, he thought, as Dacey leaned down and claimed his lips—igniting a fire that burned well into the night.