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The dawn air bit at Jon's skin as he moved through the forms, his breath forming small clouds that dissipated in the early morning light. Six days since the Trident. Six days since he'd stood before the king and chosen Arya over Cersei's threats. Six days of waiting for the blade to fall.
Jon lunged forward, thrusting his blunted practice sword at an imaginary opponent. His muscles responded eagerly despite the early hour, his body finding comfort in the familiar dance when his mind found none.
Ghost watched silently from the edge of the makeshift training yard, red eyes tracking Jon's movements.
She hasn't spoken a word to me since that day, Jon thought, sidestepping and parrying an invisible attack. Not a glance, not a summons, nothing. The queen's silence troubled him more than her rage would have. Cersei Lannister was not a woman who forgave slights easily.
Jon had considered running. Each night as he lay awake, listening to the sounds of the camp, he imagined slipping away under cover of darkness. He could take Ghost, a horse, and enough provisions to reach Winterfell. Two weeks hard riding would see him home, where Robb would welcome him, where Bran was recovering, where the stone walls offered some protection from southern schemes.
But that would mean abandoning Father to the vipers' nest of King's Landing. It would mean leaving Arya and Sansa unprotected. And it would mean giving Cersei Lannister free rein to extract her vengeance on those he loved.
No, Jon decided, executing a swift riposte that whistled through the air. I won't run. Whatever comes, I'll face it.
"You are very good for a bastard," a voice called from behind him, shattering the morning's quiet. "But your guard drops every time you extend."
Jon spun, lowering his sword as Ser Jaime Lannister stepped into the training yard. The Kingslayer was already dressed in his golden armor, his white cloak conspicuously absent. The sun had barely crested the horizon, yet Jaime looked as though he'd been awake for hours, his golden hair perfectly arranged, his handsome face unmarred by fatigue.
But his eyes... Jon had never seen such cold fury in the Kingslayer's emerald gaze.
"Ser Jaime," Jon acknowledged with a short nod, keeping his tone neutral. "You're up early."
"As are you." Jaime's smile didn't reach his eyes as he drew his sword—not the ceremonial blade he wore at court, but a practical, well-used weapon. "Preparing for life in the capital, I imagine? A wise precaution."
Jon felt his pulse quicken. Was this it? Had Cersei finally sent her twin to silence him permanently?
No, too public, Jon reasoned, even as his grip tightened on his practice sword. Even the Kingslayer wouldn't murder Lord Stark's son in the middle of the king's camp.
"Just keeping my skills sharp," Jon replied, watching Jaime's movements carefully. Even standing still, the man radiated lethal competence. "Was there something you needed, Ser Jaime?"
"I thought we might have another round," Jaime gestured at Jon's practice sword with his own gleaming blade. "You acquitted yourself well enough at Winterfell. I wonder if that was luck or skill."
Jon hesitated. The Kingslayer was offering a spar with live steel against Jon's blunted practice sword.
"Perhaps we should find you proper armor first," Jaime added with a smirk. "Oh wait, that's right—bastards don't get fitted for armor, do they? Never mind then. I'll be gentle. Mostly."
Jon felt heat rising in his chest. He wants me angry. Wants me sloppy.
"I would be honored to spar with you, Ser Jaime," Jon replied evenly, moving to the weapons rack and selecting a proper sword—not live steel, but a heavier blunted blade that would better match the weight of Jaime's weapon. "I can only improve by facing the best."
Something flickered across Jaime's face—anger, perhaps, or disappointment that his barb hadn't found its mark.
"Let's see what you've learned since Winterfell, Snow," Jaime said, settling into a fighting stance.
Jon circled cautiously, sword held before him. He had faced Jaime once before in the Winterfell yard, fighting to a surprising draw that had raised eyebrows throughout the castle. But something told Jon this would be different. The Kingslayer wasn't here to train or impress. There was an intensity to his gaze that promised real danger.
Jaime moved first, closing the distance with frightening speed. His opening attack was a probing thrust aimed at Jon's shoulder—not particularly complex, but executed with such precision that Jon barely had time to parry. The force of the blow sent a shock through Jon's arm.
He's not holding back, Jon realized, retreating a step to recover. This isn't practice for him.
Jon deflected Jaime's next two attacks—a high cut followed by a diagonal slash—before attempting a counterattack. He feinted low, then pivoted on his back foot to deliver a strike at Jaime's exposed side.
Jaime caught the blow easily, his sword meeting Jon's with a ringing clash. "Predictable," he taunted. "Ned Stark teaches all his boys the same tricks."
Jon didn't rise to the bait, focusing instead on the rhythm of the fight. Jaime was good—better than good. There was none of the showmanship the Kingslayer often displayed in public matches. This was the real Jaime Lannister, the man who had earned his white cloak at fifteen, the swordsman whispered about throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Jon found himself giving ground, forced onto the defensive by Jaime's relentless assault. The Lannister employed a dazzling array of techniques: a Braavosi lunge that nearly caught Jon's thigh, a Dornish flurry that left his sword arm burning with exertion, a Northern hammer strike that Jon recognized from Ser Rodrik's teachings.
"What did Cersei tell you about me?" Jon asked between exchanged blows, hoping to distract the Kingslayer.
Jaime's eyes narrowed. "My sister doesn't confide in me about northern bastards," he replied, punctuating his words with a vicious cut that Jon barely deflected. "Though she has been rather distracted lately."
Jon seized a brief opening, stepping inside Jaime's guard to land a glancing blow on the knight's armored shoulder. The strike lacked power, but it was the first clean hit Jon had scored.
Jaime's response was immediate and overwhelming. He unleashed a series of attacks that drove Jon backward, each blow harder than the last. There was no technique now, only raw fury. Jon's arms burned with the effort of defending himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"You're quick," Jaime acknowledged grudgingly as Jon managed to evade a particularly deadly slash. "But speed only carries you so far."
Jon knew he was right. Against a knight of Jaime's caliber, his advantages were limited. Jon lacked Jaime's decades of experience, his strength, his formal training. All Jon had was his quickness and his eye for weaknesses.
Use what you have, not what you wish you had, Jon could almost hear Ser Rodrik counseling him. Make him work for every inch.
Jon changed tactics, deliberately giving ground, inviting Jaime to overextend himself. The Kingslayer pressed his advantage, growing more aggressive with each step Jon yielded. Sweat beaded on Jon's brow despite the morning chill, threatening to run into his eyes.
"Is this all the famous Snow can offer?" Jaime taunted, advancing with cruel confidence. "I expected more from someone who impressed my sister."
The comment caught Jon off guard, making him wonder just how much Jaime knew. That momentary distraction was all Jaime needed. The Kingslayer lunged forward, and Jon's parry came a heartbeat too late.
Instead of the blade, it was the heavy golden guard of Jaime's sword that connected with Jon's forehead, just above his right eyebrow. Pain exploded across Jon's skull, and he felt warm blood beginning to flow from the gash. The force of the blow sent him staggering backward, his vision swimming.
Jon fought to keep his sword up, blinking blood from his eyes. Jaime didn't hesitate, pressing his advantage. A powerful blow knocked Jon's sword from his numbed fingers, sending it spinning across the dirt yard.
Jon dropped to one knee, defenseless now, his head throbbing from the wound. He looked up to see Jaime standing over him, sword pointed at Jon's throat, chest heaving from exertion.
"I win," Jaime declared, but there was no triumph in his voice, only cold satisfaction. For an unsettling moment, Jon thought the Kingslayer might drive the blade home.
A low, threatening growl broke the tension. Ghost had silently approached, his red eyes fixed on Jaime, lips pulled back to reveal gleaming white teeth. The direwolf positioned himself between Jon and the Kingslayer, hackles raised, his message unmistakable.
Jaime took a step back, his sword still extended. "Call off your beast, Snow."
"Ghost," Jon said quietly. "To me."
The direwolf backed away, still watching Jaime warily, until he stood at Jon's side. Jon placed a steadying hand on Ghost's fur as he rose to his feet, trying to ignore the warm blood trickling down his face.
Jaime sheathed his sword. He stepped closer to Jon, close enough that only Jon could hear his next words.
"This isn't over," he whispered, his green eyes burning with something beyond mere dislike. "You're nothing like him."
Before Jon could respond, Jaime turned and strode away, leaving Jon standing in the center of the yard, blood seeping between his fingers as he pressed his hand to his wound.
Nothing like who? Jon wondered, the cryptic statement echoing in his mind.
The sun had fully risen now, casting long shadows across the training yard. Soon, the camp would be stirring, preparing for another day of travel toward King's Landing. Jon knew he should find someone to tend to his cut—it would likely leave a scar—but he remained rooted in place, Ghost a warm presence against his leg.
Jaime's parting words troubled him more than the wound. You're nothing like him. Who was "him"? Lord Stark? Or someone else entirely?
"When you are ready, we will talk about your mother." Lord Stark's words echoed in his ears like bells.
Focus on surviving long enough to hear that truth, Jon told himself, finally turning to leave the yard. One enemy at a time is more than enough.
As he walked away, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that in King's Landing, old secrets would prove as dangerous as new enemies. And he was headed straight for both.
Two Days Later
The wound above Jon's right eyebrow had closed, but it still throbbed occasionally as a reminder of Jaime Lannister's blade. Jon touched it absently as the royal procession approached King's Landing, the massive city walls looming larger with each passing moment.
The King's Road had grown more crowded as they neared the capital—merchants with loaded carts, farmers bringing produce to market, pilgrims headed for the Great Sept of Baelor. All moved aside as the royal banners came into view, pressing themselves to the edge of the road and dropping to their knees as King Robert passed.
Jon had never seen so many people in one place before. Winterfell on a market day was nothing compared to this churning sea of humanity.
"Seven hells," he muttered, as they finally came within sight of the great bronze gates.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Lord Stark pulled his horse alongside Jon's. His father looked weary.
"It's... enormous," Jon replied, feeling the inadequacy of the word as soon as he spoke it.
The gates of King's Landing towered above them, manned by gold-cloaked city watchmen who stood at rigid attention as the king's party approached. Beyond the gates, Jon could see buildings stretching in every direction, climbing the hills like moss on stones. The whole scene was crowned by the Red Keep—a sprawling castle of pale red stone perched atop Aegon's High Hill, its towers and battlements silhouetted against the clear southern sky.
As the procession passed through the gates, the sound hit Jon first—thousands of voices, the rumble of cart wheels on cobblestones, hammers ringing on anvils, merchants hawking their wares. Then came the smell. Jon's nose wrinkled involuntarily.
Is that... shit?
He'd expected grandeur, cleanliness—a city beyond his northern dreams. Instead, the air was thick with the stench of human waste, rotting food, and unwashed bodies, all baking in the southern sun. Jon fought to keep his expression neutral as disappointment settled in his stomach.
"Not quite what you imagined?" Lord Stark asked, noticing Jon's reaction.
"No," Jon admitted. "I thought the capital would smell better."
His father's laugh was short and without humor. "Robert always says the same. But half a million people living atop one another will never smell like roses, no matter how many perfumes the court ladies douse themselves with."
They moved deeper into the city, following the broad avenue that led from the gates toward the Red Keep. The streets were lined with people shouting and waving as the king passed. Robert acknowledged them with raised hands and booming laughter, clearly in his element.
"KING ROBERT!" they shouted. "GODS BLESS THE KING!"
Robert tossed coins into the crowd, prompting mad scrambles and delighted shrieks. The smallfolk adored him, Jon realized. Or at least they adored the spectacle of him.
When Queen Cersei's wheelhouse rolled past, however, the crowd fell oddly quiet. They bowed and curtsied as protocol demanded, but the enthusiastic cheers died away, replaced by watchful silence. Some women held up their children to see the beautiful queen, but no one called her name.
"Jon! Jon, look!" Arya appeared suddenly at his side, her pony darting through the procession with reckless speed. Lady Stark would have been scandalized by her daughter's disheveled appearance—her hair had escaped its braids and her dress was smudged with dirt from the road. "Did you see the Street of Steel? All those swordsmiths! And the ships in the harbor! There must be hundreds!"
Jon couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "I saw them. Impressive, aren't they?"
"Can we go to the harbor later? And the Street of Steel? Mycah told me they have Valyrian steel daggers there—well, not real Valyrian steel, but good copies." Her words tumbled out in excited bursts.
The mention of Mycah dimmed Arya's brightness for a moment. The butcher's boy had disappeared after the incident at the Trident. Some said he'd run away, but Jon had his suspicions about what had truly happened. He'd kept those thoughts from Arya, not wanting to add to her guilt.
"We'll see," Jon replied, ruffling her hair. "Once we're settled."
"I miss Nymeria," she said suddenly, her voice dropping. "She'd love it here—so many new smells, so many rats to chase."
"I know." Jon squeezed her shoulder. Arya had done the right thing, sending Nymeria away after the wolf had bitten Joffrey. The direwolf was safer in the wild than in the queen's clutches. "She's free in the woods. That's better than being a pelt."
Ghost padded silently beside Jon's horse, his red eyes taking in everything. The white direwolf drew stares from the crowd, people scrambling to get out of his path despite the fact that he wasn't even looking their way. Unlike Grey Wind's occasional growls or Summer's playful barks, Ghost's silence unnerved people most of all.
Good, Jon thought. Let them keep their distance.
The procession wound its way through the city streets, climbing steadily toward the Red Keep. As they crested Aegon's High Hill, Jon was granted a sweeping view of the city below—the sprawl of buildings, the glittering waters of Blackwater Bay, distant ships with colorful sails.
For all its smells and crush of humanity, King's Landing possessed an undeniable grandeur. But Jon felt no joy at the sight, only a creeping wariness. This place would never be home.
"The Tower of the Hand is there," Lord Stark pointed out a tall, slender tower rising from the heart of the Red Keep. "That's where we'll be staying."
As the group approached the main gates of the castle, Jon noticed a small welcoming party waiting in the courtyard. His eyes were drawn immediately to the queen, who had somehow arrived ahead of them. She stood resplendent in crimson and gold, looking every inch a Lannister rather than a Baratheon. Ser Jaime was helping her from her wheelhouse, his golden armor gleaming in the sunlight.
As if sensing his gaze, Cersei looked up. Her eyes locked with Jon's across the courtyard, her expression impenetrable. There was no trace of the passion they had shared, nor of the fury at his betrayal—only a cold assessment that made Jon's skin crawl. Then she turned away, her golden hair catching the light as she swept toward the castle, Jaime at her side.
"Jon." Lord Stark's voice pulled him back to the moment. His father had dismounted and was gesturing for Jon to do the same. Servants rushed forward to take their horses.
Jon swung down from his saddle, Ghost immediately pressing against his leg. The courtyard bustled with activity as the royal household dispersed to their quarters after the long journey.
Lord Stark drew Jon aside, his hand firm on Jon's shoulder as he guided him away from listening ears. "Remember what I told you on the road," he said quietly. "This is not Winterfell. Trust no one completely. The walls here have ears, and words spoken in confidence have a way of becoming weapons."
Jon nodded, the scar above his eyebrow throbbing again as if in agreement. "I understand."
"Good." Lord Stark's eyes softened slightly. "We'll speak soon. But first, I must attend the king." He hesitated, then added, "Stay close to Arya and Sansa when you can. They may need your protection more than they know."
With that, Lord Stark strode away, leaving Jon standing in the shadow of the Red Keep.
This is where dragons once lived, Jon thought, remembering Old Nan's stories of the Targaryens and their fiery mounts. And where they died.
Ghost pressed closer, sensing Jon's disquiet. Together, they followed the stream of servants and retainers into the keep, leaving the sunlight behind. Jon couldn't shake the feeling that once he crossed that threshold, nothing would ever be the same.
Night had fallen by the time Jon made his way to his new chambers. He'd spent the day with Arya, exploring the safer parts of the Red Keep—the stables, the outer courtyards, the less frequented corridors where they could speak freely. It had been good to see her smile again, even if only fleetingly.
The Tower of the Hand was surprisingly quiet after the day's chaos. Servants had unpacked what little Jon had brought with him from Winterfell, and a fire had been lit in the hearth, warding off the unexpected chill that had descended with nightfall.
Jon stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the chamber that would be his home for... however long they remained in this viper's nest. It was larger than his room at Winterfell, with a proper bed rather than the narrow cot he'd grown used to.
This is a lord's chamber, Jon thought, running his hand over the polished oak of a writing desk. Not a bastard's quarters.
Jon closed the door behind him, sliding the bolt into place. Ghost padded silently around the perimeter of the room, red eyes alert, nose twitching as he took in the unfamiliar scents.
"What do you think, boy?" Jon asked. "Too fancy for the likes of us?"
Ghost didn't respond, busy investigating a corner where the stone flooring met the wall.
Something about the room didn't feel right to Jon. It wasn't the luxury—though that was discomfiting enough—but something more instinctive. He'd never set foot in the Red Keep before, yet he felt a strange wariness, as if his body remembered dangers his mind did not.
Jon began a methodical examination of the chamber, checking for anything amiss. He ran his fingers along the underside of the desk, finding nothing. He peered behind the tapestries, discovering only stone walls. He tested the floorboards, listening for hollow sounds that might indicate hidden compartments.
"Father would say I'm being paranoid," Jon muttered to himself, though he couldn't shake the feeling that caution was warranted.
His attention turned to the hearth, where flames danced merrily over seasoned logs. Jon knelt beside it, examining the stonework. Most of it was solid, ancient—but as his fingers traced the edge where the hearth met the floor, he noticed one stone that shifted slightly beneath his touch.
With careful pressure, Jon worked the stone free, revealing a small hollow space beneath, just large enough to hide something valuable. A previous occupant's secret hiding place, perhaps.
Perfect.
Jon crossed to his belongings and retrieved a large, bulky bundle wrapped in layers of thick wool. His hands moved with reverent care as he unwrapped it, revealing two dragon eggs nestled within the fabric. Even in the firelight, their colors seemed unnaturally vibrant. Their surfaces were covered in scales that resembled stone but somehow felt alive beneath his fingertips.
Jon had kept them hidden throughout the journey, checking on them obsessively whenever he had a private moment. Jon did not know yet who had placed them there. How long had they been hidden? And most troublingly, why did Jon feel such a profound connection to them?
As his fingers traced the contours of the black egg, he felt a subtle warmth emanating from within—warmer than it should be after being wrapped in wool all day.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Jon whispered to Ghost, who had approached silently and was watching the eggs.
Carefully, Jon placed the eggs in the hidden hollow beneath the hearthstone, ensuring they were secure before replacing the stone. It wasn't an ideal hiding place—anyone who searched thoroughly might find them—but it would do until he could arrange something more permanent.
Jon completed his inspection of the chamber, finding no other hidden spaces or entrances. Satisfied that he was as secure as possible in this place of secrets, he prepared for bed, washing the day's travel dust from his face in the basin provided.
As he caught his reflection in the polished metal mirror, Jon paused. The scar above his right eyebrow was still red and fresh, a reminder of Jaime Lannister's fury. But it was his eyes that held his attention—deep purple in the firelight, so unlike the Stark gray of his father or the blue of Lady Catelyn and her children.
My mother's eyes, Jon had always assumed. Lord Stark had never confirmed this, never spoken of the woman who had given Jon his unusual features.
Jon turned away from his reflection, suddenly weary. He checked the door one last time before extinguishing all but one candle. "Guard, Ghost," he said softly as he climbed into bed. "Wake me if anyone tries to enter."
The direwolf settled himself before the door, a silent sentinel with gleaming red eyes. Jon's last thought before sleep claimed him was that he was a northerner in a southern castle, as out of place as snow in summer.
Heat surrounded him, comforting rather than oppressive. Jon was enveloped in darkness, but it wasn't frightening—it felt protective, like a mother's embrace. He couldn't move, contained within curved walls that pressed against him from all sides. Yet rather than feeling trapped, he felt secure.
Safe. Growing. Waiting.
He became aware of a heartbeat that wasn't his own, slow and powerful, resonating through his entire being. Then another sensation—a voice, or something like it, though not in any language Jon knew. It called to him without words.
Fire and blood. Blood of my blood. Wake.
The darkness around him took on texture—scaled walls that reflected hints of red when light touched them. Jon realized he was inside the egg, seeing through the eyes of the creature it contained. Not dead or petrified as he'd been told all dragon eggs were, but alive. Dormant. Dreaming.
The membrane surrounding him thinned, becoming translucent. Through it, Jon could see flames—not the modest hearth fire of his chamber, but a massive conflagration that reached toward the heavens. Within those flames stood a figure, untouched by the inferno, silver hair streaming like liquid metal.
Mother of Dragons, something whispered within Jon's mind. But you are the blood of the dragon.
The world shifted, and Jon was suddenly soaring above a landscape. Jon could feel the cold wind against his scales, the heat building in his chest, ready to be unleashed.
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
The scene changed again. Jon stood before a great weirwood tree, its face carved with ancient sorrow. From its blood-red leaves, liquid dripped like tears—or blood—falling onto a sword plunged into the earth before it. As Jon watched, the droplets ran down the blade, and where they touched, the steel awakened, beginning to glow with inner fire.
The prince that was promised, whispered the leaves. The song of ice and fire.
Jon reached for the sword, his hand passing through the vision like smoke. As his fingers neared the hilt, the weirwood's face changed, becoming the face of Lord Stark.
"Promise me," the tree-Ned whispered. "Promise me, Jon."
Jon woke with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat despite the cool night air. Ghost was at his side instantly, nudging Jon's hand with his muzzle. The chamber was dark, the fire having died down to embers that cast faint red light across the floor.
His heart pounded as fragments of the dream slipped away.
Jon slid from the bed and crossed to the hearth, kneeling to touch the stone that concealed the dragon eggs. It was warm—warmer than it should be with the fire nearly out.
He pulled the stone free and withdrew the eggs. They pulsed with heat in his hands, as if they had absorbed the fire's warmth and multiplied it. The scales seemed to shimmer in the dim light, no longer stone-like but vital, alive.
"What are you?" Jon whispered, cradling the black egg against his chest. "And what do you want from me?"
No answer came, but as the first light of dawn filtered through the shuttered window, Jon knew one thing with certainty: these eggs were more than beautiful rocks.
A Month Later
A month in King's Landing had taught Jon Snow more about politics than sixteen years in Winterfell. The capital was a living creature, its veins the whispered conversations that flowed through corridors, its heart the Iron Throne where Robert Baratheon sat with increasing disinterest while others governed in his name.
Jon had established a careful routine. Mornings in the training yard, where the clash of steel drowned out the clash of ambitions. Afternoons with Arya, teaching her the water dancing forms that Syrio Forel, her "dancing master," had begun instructing her in. Evenings in the godswood or his chambers, away from prying eyes.
And always, always, he watched for Cersei Lannister.
Jon had become adept at avoiding the queen. He learned her habits—which parts of the keep she frequented, the hours she took her meals, when she held court. He varied his own patterns to ensure their paths wouldn't cross. Once, he'd spotted her golden hair at the end of a corridor and ducked into an alcove, heart hammering, as she passed with her ladies-in-waiting.
She hasn't forgotten, Jon thought as he worked through sword forms in the yard, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cool morning air. She's just waiting.
"Again!" called Ser Barristan Selmy, his voice carrying across the yard. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had taken an interest in Jon's training, occasionally offering guidance when his duties allowed. "Mind your footwork, Snow!"
Jon nodded and reset his stance, focusing on the sequence Ser Barristan had demonstrated. His opponent, a young knight from the Stormlands, circled warily. Three bouts they'd fought this morning, and Jon had won them all—not through superior strength, but through speed and an almost preternatural ability to read his opponent's intentions.
"He's good," someone murmured from the gallery where a small crowd had gathered to watch. "For a bastard."
Jon didn't react to the comment. He'd heard worse, and besides, his reputation in the yard had grown steadily.
The knight lunged, a predictable thrust that Jon sidestepped easily. He countered with a swift strike that connected firmly with the man's shoulder, sending him staggering backward.
"Match!" called the master-at-arms. "Snow wins again."
Jon helped his opponent to his feet, offering a courteous nod before turning away. As he gathered his training gear, he noticed a slender man watching from the shadows—bald, powdered, and perfumed, with soft hands clasped before him.
Lord Varys, the Spider. Master of Whispers.
Jon had seen him before, always observing from a distance. Now the eunuch approached, his steps silent despite his bulk.
"Impressive swordplay, young Snow," Varys said, his voice melodious and precise. "You remind me of another young man I once watched train. He too had a... natural gift."
Jon tensed, uncertain how to respond. "Thank you, Lord Varys."
"Tell me," Varys continued, his head tilting slightly, "do you find King's Landing to your liking?"
"It's very different from Winterfell."
"Indeed." Varys smiled, though the expression never reached his eyes. "The North breeds straightforward men. But here... here we value adaptability above all." He studied Jon's face, lingering on his eyes. "Purple is such an unusual color, particularly in a Northerner. Your mother must have had quite remarkable eyes."
The mention of his mother sent a familiar pang through Jon's chest. "I wouldn't know, my lord."
"No?" Varys raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "How curious that Lord Stark has never shared that detail. Still, blood tells, doesn't it? Even when we try to hide it."
Before Jon could respond, Varys smiled again and glided away, leaving Jon with the distinct impression that the Spider had been testing him. For what purpose, he couldn't guess.
The godswood of the Red Keep was nothing like the one at Winterfell. It lacked the ancient power Jon had felt beneath the heart tree in the North, the sense of the old gods watching. Still, it offered solitude, and Jon had taken to spending time there when the suffocating atmosphere of the castle became too much.
He sat with his back against the weirwood, its trunk pale as bone in the late afternoon light. Ghost lay nearby, head on paws, eyes closed but ears alert. Jon hummed softly, an old Northern tune about Brandon the Builder and the raising of the Wall. The melody was melancholy, speaking of ice and sacrifice and long winters.
"That's beautiful," a voice said, startling Jon from his reverie. "I've never heard it before."
Princess Myrcella stood a few paces away, her golden curls framing a face that resembled her mother's in its beauty but, thankfully, not in its coldness. At thirteen, she was blossoming into a beauty that would one day rival Cersei's, though there was a softness to her features that the queen lacked.
Jon scrambled to his feet, bowing hastily. "Princess Myrcella."
Ghost rose as well, regarding the princess with curious red eyes. Myrcella watched the direwolf warily, and the Kingsguard behind her placed his hand on his sword.
"Is he dangerous?" she asked, stepping closer despite her apparent concern.
"Ghost? Not unless I tell him to be," Jon replied, then quickly added, "Which I wouldn't, of course, Princess."
She smiled at that, a genuine expression that reached her green eyes. "May I?" she asked, gesturing toward Ghost.
Jon nodded, and she extended a tentative hand. Ghost sniffed it once, then allowed her to stroke his white fur. Myrcella's face lit with delight.
"He's magnificent," she said. "Much more impressive than Lady, though don't tell Sansa I said that." She looked up at Jon. "What was that song you were singing?"
"Just an old Northern tune, Princess. Nothing that would interest the court."
"I'm not asking for the court," she replied, a hint of her mother's sharpness in her tone. "I'm asking for myself." She seated herself on a stone bench and gestured for Jon to join her.
Jon hesitated. The princess was young, but she was still a Baratheon and a Lannister—and Cersei's daughter. Any interaction with her carried risk.
But refusing her would be a greater risk, Jon realized. An insult to the princess wasn't something he could afford.
"It's called 'The Wall's Lament,'" Jon explained as he sat with what he thought was enough distance. "It tells the story of Brandon the Builder raising the Wall after the Long Night."
"Will you teach it to me?" Myrcella asked, her eyes bright with interest. "I'm tired of the same songs the court musicians always play."
"I'm not much of a singer, Princess."
"You sounded fine to me," she insisted. "Please? No one ever teaches me anything interesting. It's all proper southron songs about knights and maidens."
There was a loneliness in her voice that Jon recognized all too well.
"Very well," Jon conceded.
For the next hour, Jon taught her the ancient melody, line by line. She was a quick study, her voice clear and sweet where his was rough-edged. By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the godswood, Myrcella could sing the first verse without hesitation.
"My septa would be scandalized," she said with a mischievous grin. "She says Northern songs are barbaric."
"Compared to 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'?" Jon asked dryly.
Myrcella laughed, the sound bright in the quiet godswood. "Fair point."
"Princess," the knight suddenly called. "Your mother is asking for you."
Myrcella sighed, her brief moment of freedom clearly at an end. "Thank you for the lesson, Lord Snow," she said, rising gracefully. "Perhaps we could continue tomorrow?"
"If you wish, Princess," Jon replied, standing and bowing again.
"I do wish it," she said firmly. As she turned to leave, she added, "And I shall convince you to enter the tourney, Jon Snow. Father would be delighted to see the man who bested Uncle Jaime compete."
Jon watched her go, Ghost pressed against his leg.
Wonderful, he thought. Another Lannister taking an interest in me. Just what I needed.
"A tourney?" Jon echoed, watching his father's face darken as they dined in the Hand's private chambers that evening. "In your honor?"
Lord Stark looked more tired than Jon had ever seen him. A month in King's Landing had aged him visibly, new lines etched around his eyes and mouth.
"Robert insists," he said wearily. "No matter that the crown can't afford it."
"Is it that bad?" Jon asked quietly.
His father glanced toward the door, ensuring no servants lingered nearby. "The crown is six million gold dragons in debt, primarily to the Lannisters." He sighed heavily. "And still Robert spends as if the treasury were bottomless."
Jon absorbed this information silently. Financial matters had never been his concern at Winterfell, but he understood that six million gold dragons was a lot.
"You look like you haven't slept," Jon observed, concerned.
"Sleep is a luxury for a Hand," Lord Stark replied with a grim smile. "There's too much to do..." He seemed about to say more, then stopped himself. "But that's not your burden."
No, I have my own secrets and burdens now, Jon thought.
"Will you enter?" his father asked, changing the subject. "The tourney?"
Jon hesitated. "I've been considering it."
"The Kingslayer will compete," Lord Stark warned. "As will the Mountain, the Hound, and every ambitious knight in the realm."
"I know." Jon met his father's concerned gaze. "But it's an opportunity to be seen as more than Ned Stark's bastard."
"You've always been more than that, Jon."
"Not to the world." Jon's voice was steady, without self-pity. "A victory in the tourney could change that."
His father studied him for a long moment. "You remind me of someone," he said finally. "Someone who shone brightly in tournaments."
"Who?" Jon asked, curious.
Lord Stark seemed to catch himself. "It doesn't matter." He reached for his wine. "If you compete, be careful. Tournaments may seem like games, but men die in them all the same."
Later that night, Jon unwrapped the dragon eggs from their hiding place. In the flickering candlelight, their surfaces gleamed with hypnotic beauty.
Over the past month, he'd developed a ritual, holding each egg in turn, feeling their warmth against his palms. Tonight, they seemed especially hot.
Jon had begun keeping a small brazier lit in his chamber, claiming the southern nights were too cold for his northern blood. In truth, he'd been experimenting—placing the eggs near the flames to see how they reacted.
The results were unmistakable. The eggs absorbed heat, growing warmer with exposure to fire.
Living stone, Jon thought, running his fingers over the scales. Or stone that remembers life.
He'd searched the castle library for information about dragon eggs, finding little beyond vague descriptions and mythical accounts. One text claimed dragon eggs would never hatch without dragon blood to wake them—a detail that had lingered in Jon's mind.
As he held the black egg to his ear, Jon could almost imagine he heard something stirring within—a faint scratching, perhaps, or the ghost of a heartbeat. The same connection he'd felt in his dreams persisted in his waking hours, growing stronger each day.
Tomorrow - Night
Torches flickered along the corridor as Jon made his way back to his chambers, muscles aching from a particularly grueling session in the training yard. The upcoming tourney had intensified the competition among knights and warriors eager to prove themselves, and Jon had spent hours sparring with increasingly skilled opponents.
Ghost padded silently beside him, occasionally brushing against Jon's leg as they navigated the labyrinthine passages of the Red Keep. The hour was late; most of the castle had retired for the night, leaving the corridors eerily quiet save for the distant calls of sentries and the soft rustle of Jon's leather boots against stone.
As they rounded the final corner leading to his chambers, Jon froze. A hooded figure stood beside his door, slender and still as a statue in the dim torchlight. Jon's hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt, though he hadn't expected trouble so deep within the Hand's Tower.
Ghost tensed beside him but made no sound—unusual for the direwolf when confronted with a potential threat.
"Who's there?" Jon called, his voice echoing slightly in the empty corridor.
The figure turned slowly, hands rising to lower the hood. Jon's breath caught in his throat.
She stood revealed in the flickering light—a woman of extraordinary beauty, with features that seemed to belong in a dream. High cheekbones framed a face of perfect proportions, her olive skin glowing warmly even in the dim torchlight. Dark hair cascaded around her shoulders in waves that shone with hints of midnight blue.
But it was her eyes that held Jon transfixed—deep purple, exactly like his own, luminous and haunting in the shadowed corridor.
"Jon Snow," she said, her voice carrying a subtle accent that Jon couldn't quite place—something southern, perhaps Dornish. "Or should I call you by another name?"
Jon found himself momentarily speechless, unable to reconcile the woman's sudden appearance with any rational explanation. She wore a simple but elegant gown of deep blue, and around her neck...
Around her neck hung a silver pendant in the shape of a falling star.
The woman from his dream—the one who had called him "Daemon," who had touched him with such intimacy, who had looked at him with those same purple eyes.
"You," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're real."
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