A Song of Three - Chapter 17 - NotMexicanSven - A Song of Ice and Fire (2024)

Chapter Text

A BASTARD THROUGH AND THROUGH

Sometimes, Jon would dream of his mother.

Not her face but her eyes, and not of their color or shape, but that they were kind.

That night Jon fell asleep beside Sansa, the afterglow of her touch soothing his beaten body to rest, and somehow he already knew what would come. In his dream, he was back in Winterfell, a light snow fell from the grey sky, the air cool and crisp once again.

Jon walked down the steps and found his mother, smiling as she always was. Her voice was a call of warmth and he fell to his knees before her, “I’m sorry, mother.” He said, “I don’t think I can go back.”

His mother did not reply, she never did. Other voices growled all around him, shunning him out of the castle. You do not belong here. This is not your place, they all clamored. Then the snow around him turned to sand and long blades of green grass sprouted from nothingness. A figure started taking shape, violet eyes and pale skin.

A sweet scent roused him as the dream faded. Jon rested amidst silk and cotton sheets, dawn light peeking through the window.

His arm was numb, and Sansa was lying over it. So close that he could just lean forward and kiss her anew, her auburn hair sprawled all over, her green dress tousled around her.

The stupor cleared for the memories hidden behind. He felt his manhood stiffen again, remindful of the way she had kissed him, the velvet of her skin, her hand enwrapping him, the small sounds she’d made when he’d touched her in turn, felt her. It was as if Sansa had acted out of his most debauched fantasies, never would have Jon expected what happened, whatever their game had been, it died the night past, something else flowering instead. Something that burned and scorched and would surely be his end.

Jon would have done much more, By the gods, I would’ve done much more. But she’d fallen asleep soon after crying out his name (never before had Jon heard a sweeter sound), and his own release had also pushed him to a satisfied slumber, there by her side.

Father, forgive me. He could almost feel himself under Lord Stark’s piercing gaze, full of disgust and rage as he brought down Ice and separated his head from shoulders. Jon had once again proven his worth; a wicked, ill-born creature, thrice unworthy of his father’s name.

All my life I’ve tried to be like Ser Ryam Redwyne, happens I’ve become Lucamore the Lusty instead.

Not only was Sansa his sister ꟷhalf-sister, his conscience whispered, as it always didꟷ but also the crown prince’s betrothed. The daughter of the King’s Hand and Warden of the North. Jon had already vexed the royal House twice and again, if someone ever found out what he’d done to Sansa...

The shame was too much, the dangers too great. He could feel his heart breaking at the truth of it. Should Jon continue down this path then he would live the rest of his life unable to look into his father’s eyes, however long it lasts. He could long for his sister but his senses knew it for a mistake.

It’s impossible, she cannot feel as I do.

Jon knew he had to extinguish that flame, smother it. Otherwise, Lady Stark was right to fear and loathe what the bastard could fester inside her castle walls, he could become the bane of his family.

And yet…

Jon reached with his hand and moved a fiery lock away from her face, Sansa’s nose twitched and she sank into her pillow. He would never forget the things she had said to him during the night, “You are a true knight to me”, no words had ever brought him such joy before, yet Jon knew he was furthest away from knightly deeds as one can be.

I have no name nor heritage, all I ever had is my honor. It was his one value, the one thing he’d never meant to tarnish whilst serving the Starks. A bastard’s honor perhaps, yet it was everything to him nonetheless.

Despite it all, Jon knew that his honor meant little against what Sansa offered. It was a sickness inside him.

I will not sully her, Jon promised even while he wavered. Another part of him questioned if he had not already done just that.

That moment, he remembered. The tourney, I forgot about the tourney.

Jon meant to move yet the instant he tried to sidle away she did so towards him, burying her face in his chest and enfolding him with her arms. Gods, why must this be so wrong? “Sansa,” Jon whispered just loud enough for her to listen. “Sansa, I must leave.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered back, her hold tightening. “No one can know…”

His chest clenched.

“Sansa,” Even her name was lovely, and he was as powerless to stop repeating it as he was to her affections. Jon struggled with the rest of the words, “If you wish for us to stop, if you ever wish to go back to the way we were…” Though I’m not sure I can.

“I know this is wrong.” She admitted, and then the silence stretched until broken. “…What if I don’t wish for us to stop?”

Her words made him soar, though he forced himself to reply, “I don’t want to bring you shame.”

Sansa looked up to him. She was conflicted, he could see it on her face, in the way her eyes darkened while she anxiously bit her lip. But her hold did not loosen, instead, her cool hands snaked under his shirt and traced the shapes of his scars, prying goosebumps out of his skin. “You have these because of me,” she said.

“Not because of you,” he tried to reassure her, as he had done many times before.

“But it was,” Sansa insisted, “I know Lady’s alive, I know, Jon. I dreamt of it and it’s because of you and I…I should have known then, but it took me so long to realize,”

Jon held his tongue. He looked at her and wondered when he’d stop seeing her as his blood, as Lady Stark’s daughter and Arya’s sister. Somewhere along the way, she became just Sansa. Delicate, precious Sansa.

She continued, “All this time, since Darry, perhaps since always…you’ve been the one protecting me all along, isn’t that so?” Her voice grew fainter as she spoke, like a shy maiden, even after everything.

He knew not how to respond, Sansa was wont to leave him speechless. What was it again, that thing Egg had said? In all men doth dwell desire. And how could Jon reject hers, when he was not strong enough to fight against his?

She lifted her gaze and Jon locked with her eyes, he was not so surprised to find them flooded with tears. “But that is not all…Jon you…I know what we are, w-what this is, I don’t know why I can’t seem to stop us and…and still, I don’t…Arya would kill me!” She finished, half a sob and half a laugh, all panic.

Wondering about Arya, whether she would ever find the truth, was something he’d dreaded thinking since the beginning. But having Sansa cry because of him almost crippled him with guilt, so Jon leaned forward and tried to kiss her tears away. “I’m sorry,” he said every time, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Jon…are we sick?”

He could not lie to her, only hold her tighter. “I don’t know.”

Somehow, Sansa nodded, “But you make me feel safe, and…and good,” Her nails ran patterns across his skin. “better than the songs.”

Jon was sure she could feel his heart galloping inside his chest. He looked for the words, remembering all the times Sansa had told him how ladies should be treated, and finding a possessive appeal in the fact that, in some way, he’d always meant them for her.

They spilt out of his mouth, “You are the reason I wanted to come here,” he confessed, “It has always been you…” You make me forget I’m a bastard. You make me feel as if I could be more.

The rest, Jon knew, they were too afraid to say. To bring it into words was to acknowledge it even more. It meant to give shape and name to a feeling so brazing, painful and raw...and real. As real as Ghost’s white fur. As real as the cold embrace of the north. As real as the cold blade that hung over his head, awaiting.

Leaving Sansa’s arms was a challenge of its own, Jon waited until her sobbing receded, and he did so without saying a single word. Jon’s ears burned red as he fixed his clothes as much as he could and walked for the door, now self-conscious, yet as he did so, the sudden tapping of Sansa’s bare feet over the tiles bid him to stay himself.

He turned to her, her hair a beautiful mess. Her cheeks blushed pink. She stood before him on the tip of her toes and gave him a small kiss on the lips, almost chaste.

“I will look for you in the tourney,” Sansa told him, opening the door for him, her smile not as sad. Jon did not notice the one dancing on his lips until long after he had left her room.

She cannot possibly know, Jon thought, yet he wondered nonetheless.

The red hallway was empty, the torches had burned away. Dawn was apparent outside.

Jon rushed down the stairs and into the Small Hall, where only a handful of his father’s men were eating at first light. He ignored them and entered the guardsmen’s cells, he found his own and quickly shut the door behind him. He took off his shirt and breaches, they still had her smell. Then Jon changed his clothes and felt a new type of dismay at the mess in his smallclothes, so he changed those too. The vivid memories set him alight again, and he kneeled in front of the travel chest where he kept his belongings.

Inside, it was depressingly empty. A spare cloak and a few clothes that he liked the most, a thin silver chain that someone had gifted him once. A chalk drawing Arya had given him when she was but a little child (that made him feel guilty as well, so he put it back to the bottom of the coffer) a small brush he once used on Ghost’s fur, a whetstone, a dagger, a spare ringmail, some books and little else.

But underneath it all were his treasures: Jon’s and no one else’s.

He kept the cloth folded close to Dark Sister as she slumbered. The sword could be the true entirety of his arm, but Sansa’s favor had, almost at once, grown to become a slice of his heart. Jon spread out the silky fabric to watch the picture she’d sewn so long ago; a pale wolf, running wild amidst a northern plain, little snowflakes falling from the sky.

Perhaps a bit crooked at places, but they had been just kids when she gave it to him that night in Winterfell’s Godswood.

That night panic had clasped its jaw around Jon’s throat, and she’d come out of nowhere. Innocent and bright, to temper him.

She had given him hope in the shape of silk, and he’d only given her back a flower, one she still kept with herself. If only Sansa knew the truth of it, for she’d driven him all along, giving him strength since, even when he hadn’t realized. He could see it now.

A queer impulse impelled him to pull Dark Sister out of the chest. He slid out the blade from the black scabbard just slightly. Just so he could see her.

The valyrian steel had a unique sharpness and Jon could feel it within himself as he held her in his hands. He knew the shape of the winding dark-tint patterns as he knew the lines on his hand.

He was truly one with her weight and balance. The usual confidence and hunger seeped into him, and that was enough for Jon to make a choice. He unclipped Claw from his waist and dropped it down by his bed. Then he took Sansa’s favor and wrapped it around his wrist (he thought to lace it around his sword, but the idea of it perturbed him.) it made Jon feel hopeful as never before. I’m no knight, he thought, but maybe I can be one for today.

Jon had come to believe himself of some worth beyond bastardy, after all. Otherwise, Sansa would have never returned my kiss. The tourney’s glory was nothing against the happiness she’d already given him…was it so foul that he craved for more?

He dressed for riding but chose not to don the Stark cloak, leaving his cell with Dark Sister at his back, pressing against his scars.

Jon was walking to the steep steps out of the barracks when a shadow descended from them, blocking his way, “Jon, hold.” It was Desmond coming towards him, his expression indiscernible. Jon was a deer under a hunter’s gaze. Almost panicked, he took a step back.

But then, he heard the steps approaching from behind. Jon spun to see Harwin hindering the hallway path. Jon almost went for his sword, but stayed his hand as soon as he realized it, he could not bring himself to it.

“Good morning,” he greeted instead, calming himself.

“Is it true?” Harwin asked brusquely.

“What is?”

“Harwin, we said we’d hear him out first,” Desmond intervened.

“Bugger that, is it true, Jon?”

Jon’s heart dropped to his boots. They know, this is how I end.

There was a hollow space left in his belly. You could cut them down, it’d be easy, Dark Sister whispered. It took everything of him to drown those manic thoughts.

“It is,” Jon admitted after swallowing the lump in his throat, committing his voice to remain steady even if his legs could not. “She didn’t know any better, everything was my fault. I-If you take me to Lord Stark I’d…”

Desmond crossed his arms and Harwin's hand went to rest over his sword’s pommel. Jon was sure they were going to strike him down.

Instead, the men shared a look, then Desmond chuckled while Harwin bristled. “See? I told you Arya Underfoot put him up to it.”

“Arya?” Jon blurted, suddenly thrown off. “Whatꟷ”

Harwin came from behind and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, laughing.

“Ah! Bugger it all! How was I supposed to know that was you, with that doughty little name you chose?”

Jon was completely lost, at least until Desmond set forth, “Harwin here lost a fortnight’s wages betting for Lord Beric, oh Knight of Tears.” He smirked.

“Along with half the people!” said Harwin. “If you had told us your father let you joust, I would’ve put my coin on you.”

The relief was so great it finally allowed Jon to breathe again, thank the gods. Then their words sank in, “You know? You know.” He stammered with uncertainty, moving past them both. “How do you know?”

“Jory said the mystery knight rode like a northman,” Desmond explained.

“But I know better,” Harwin put it. “You remember I taught you how to tilt at quintain when you were but a gloomy brat, aye? Now you are a gloomy man who still leans too much on his right.”

Jon frowned, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you thrust like Lyanna and gallop like Brandon,” Harwin finished. “You ride like a Stark.”

THE KING’S HONORED.

“You. Yes, both of you. You heard the Hand. The king is too fat for his armor. Go find Ser Aron Santagar. Tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now! What are you waiting for? Winter? Go!”

The Lannister boys tripped over each other in their haste to leave the tent. Robert barely managed to keep a stern face until they were gone. Then he dropped back into a chair, shaking with laughter.

Ser Barristan Selmy chuckled with him and even Ned managed a smile, though not without taking notice of the squires.

“I wish I could be there to see Santagar’s face,” Robert said. “I hope he’ll have the wit to send them to someone else. We ought to keep them running all day!”

“Those boys,” Ned commented. “Lannisters.” It was not a question.

Robert nodded, wiping tears from his eyes. “Cousins. Sons of Lord Tywin’s brother. One of the dead ones. Or perhaps the live one, I don’t care to recall. My wife’s family is terribly ample.” Ample and ambitious, Ned thought somberly. It troubled him to see his friend surrounded by the queen’s kin, waking and sleeping.

Robert took a bloody orange from the nearest silver plate and started peeling the skin, Ned was about to bring up the matter of the tourney’s melee when the king started laughing again, suddenly.

“Ah, Ned, those boys, the tall one is Lancel, I swear I’ve seen wenches with a thicker moustache.” The king quipped once he’d finished. “Can you believe our Barristan here thought him to be the mystery knight? I’d eat my crown!”

Ned looked at Ser Barristan, who smiled demurely. “Surely he must be someone older,” Ned Stark found himself interested in the matter as well. He had attended few tourneys during his lifetime. Winter was always looming, and so the North seldom entertained such southern affairs, rather settling on melees or festivals when such a repose was needed.

Yet he could not remember ever watching a match such as the one that Ser Barristan had against the knight in black. Even Ned had been caught in the emotion of it…but something else was there, something bothering him all along.

And no matter how much he tried, he could not place that discomfort. Perhaps the mysterious knight’s black steel quickened some sleeping nostalgia, taking him back to the fields by the shadow of the melted towers of Harrenhal…

It doesn’t matter, Ned decided, putting such thoughts aside. Whoever the mystery knight was, whether should he lose or triumph, by the time the day was done he would be unmasked.

“I believe otherwise,” said Ser Barristan. “But I understand where you come from, my lord. The knight certainly rode as someone with years on the saddle.”

“Years enough to knock some out of you, Barristan.” The king chuckled. “You saw it too, Ned. Now that gets my blood pumping! I cannot wait to fight. Some of those court toadies have been begging for a bashing since the day I got named king.”

“You mean in the melee,” Ned took the chance. “Talk is your queen already had words with you about it.”

The king’s joy extinguished at the mention of his wife. “Can you believe she forbade me to join the fighting? She’s sulking in the castle now, I say let her stay there. Your sister would never have shamed me like that.”

“She would have done much more,” Ned said before he could stop himself, more rudely than he meant to, as well. Perhaps he had not yet forgiven Robert for Darry’s folly. “If you’d told Lyanna that you wanted to fight in this tourney, she would not have hesitated to punch you in front of the entire court.”

The king frowned, displeased. “You don’t know that.”

“I knew my sister,” Ned argued. “You knew her beauty, not the iron she truly was. Leave this matter be, Robert.”

“And that’s what you think as well?” Robert stood up. “Of course you would, you are a sour, cold man, Ned. All the juices have frozen inside you. Well, mine are still running. Which of those limps could stand against me?”

“None. You are the king,” Ned reminded him.

“I sit the damn chair when I must. Does that mean I don’t have the same hungers as other men? A bit of wine now and again, a girl squealing in bed, the feel of a horse between my legs? Seven hells, Ned, I want to punch someone. Or for someone to punch me for once, I’ve grown numb in that damned red castle, I’d rather take to the field again.”

Ser Barristan Selmy spoke up. “Your Grace, it is not seemly that the king should ride into the melee. It would not be a fair contest. Who would dare strike you?”

Robert was taken aback. “All of them. Anyone who can! By the time the dust clears the last man standing…”

“…will be none but you.” Ned finished, having caught what the Kingsguard meant. The dangers of a melee were seasoning for Robert’s taste, but cowardice struck his pride. “Ser Barristan speaks true, your grace. No man in the realm would dare risk to hurt you.”

The king’s face turned red. “You mean those cravens will let me win.”

Ned nodded. “Do you honestly believe otherwise?”

Robert strode across the tent, planted himself in front of Ser Barristan, then strode back to the other end, took the unstretched breastplate up from the ground and threw it at his sworn knight in a wordless fury.

“Get out. Get out before I kill you. No, not you, Ned. You will sit.” Once Ser Barristan left, Ned sat in the chair the king had been using. Robert filled his horn again from a huge barrel in the corner and thrust it at Ned. “Drink, I said. And you must finish it, that’s your king’s command.”

Ned obeyed his king and drank. The beer was black and strong. Robert kept walking around the tent a few times, collecting his wits, before coming to a halt.

“I am sorry about your boy, Ned.” He said first, to Ned’s enormous surprise. Robert's eyes turned sad and droopy, as if his vigor had drained out of him in a moment’s notice.

“Your grace…”

“No. You will drink and I shall talk. You made me this, so you best as well let me apologize, damn you. Look at me, Ned. The great king. The only great thing about me is my gut. Gods, too fat for my armor, when did it ever come to this?”

“We’ve all grown old,” Ned put it.

“You were old even when you were young, Ned. And I told you to drink, not to argue. There we go…Ah, Ned. You should have taken that iron chair, kinging is not for me. It never was. And Cersei Lannister,” Robert almost spat the words. “Jon Arryn was a great man, a good man and I loved him like a father, but he was a fool as well. The idea of marriage after Lyanna was taken from me, it sickened me. But the realm needs an heir, Jon told me, Cersei would be a good match. She would bind us to Lord Tywin should that dragonspawn rise for the throne again…if I could make the choice again, I’d rather risk war than take her for a wife. Oh, she is beautiful, that much is true, but cold. Colder than Lannister’s gold, and none the pleasing.”

“Ned, your bastard, your Jon…I shouldn't have punished him. I shouldn’t have, it was…it was not kingly. He’s your son, gods be damned, how did I let Cersei move me to strike Lyanna’s nephew?”

The same moment he decided not to correct Robert, Ned Stark felt a pang of shame. He knew that Jon had his own share of fault over what went on that night, as in a way, he’d forced the king’s hand as well. But he won’t hear it from me.

“Tell me, Ned,” his friend continued. "Would Lyanna have forgiven me for what I did?"

She would have clawed your eyes out, Ned thought. “Lyanna would have told you it is not her who you should seek forgiveness from,” Ned told him, realizing his mistake as he spoke.

The king nodded, looking sad still. “I envy you, Ned. I truly do. I see now how much I failed in raising my son. Even your bastard has more grit and honor than him, did you know that?”

Ned was struck dumb by the king’s confession. His mouth opened but no words came out, Robert took that as leave to continue. “Back in Darry…Joffrey was lying, I’d stake my soul on it…you love your children, don’t you?

This time the words came easy, “With all my heart.”

“Even your bastard?”

Yes, but he’s not mine. “Of course.”

“And how could you not? I’d be proud too. I was also fifteen when I first socked the teeth out of a man. Back at the Eyrie, some Hardyng knight was molesting this girl I liked, next thing I knew he was cursing me from the ground, do you remember?” Robert smiled with fondness at the memory.

Your bastard girl’s mother, the one named Stone. “I recall,” Ned told him.

“I didn’t get punished then, because I knew I was doing right…is this what I became king for? To do Cersei’s bidding? Did you know she ordered me to send your boy away? After what I did to him! The gall of that woman! Here, give me that horn if you’re not going to drink.” Ned gave him the beer back and the king took an ample gulp.

“Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with only my horse and my hammer, spend whatever time I have left warring and whoring, as the Gods intended…Only the thought of Joffrey on the throne stops me, with Cersei whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have fathered a son like that, Ned?” The king despaired.

The pain in his friend’s voice bid him to speak out in the prince’s defence, even though the words felt hollow and meaningless. “He’s but a boy,” he said awkwardly. “You were much more wild at his age.”

“Oh, no, Ned. Your son is wild, Joffrey is…Joffrey is something else. You don’t know him as I do. There was this…this cat…” He trailed off, looking away. Ned barely spoke up to ask what he meant when the king scowled and shook his head. As if to clear everything away. “Ah, perhaps it is not too late, the Gods know Jon despaired of me often enough, yet I grew into a good king regardless.”

When Ned did not reply, the king scowled. “You might want to agree now, Ned.”

“Robert…”

Robert slapped Ned on the back. “Bah! Just say I’m better than Aerys and be done with it. Lying is not one of your strengths, my friend. I’m still young, and now that you’re here with me we can righten this reign back into fashion, and damn the Lannisters to the seven hells.” The king’s somber mood melted away with the morning dew. “I had hoped to see your bastard riding today, too bad. Who do you think our champion will be today? The mystery knight rode well, that young hedge knight did too, but I’d still put my gold on Mace Tyrell’s boy. The Knight of Flowers, they call him. Now there’s a son any man would be proud of, I’d bet he could go toe toe-to-toe against yours, Ned. Back in Lannisport some moons ago, he dumped the Kingslayer on his golden ass, you ought to have seen the look in Cersei’s face. I laughed till the wine sprayed from my nose! And you’ve seen his sister, the girl truly is lovely as a dawn. Renly told me she’s quite fond of hawking, I have half a mind to bring her with me the next time I go….”

They broke their fast on thick slices of bacon and roasted fowl. Before long Robert finally finished peeling the orange’s skin off, reminiscing about simpler times at the Eyrie as he ate. Ned enjoyed hearing the king as the boy he remembered. The one he had grown up with. Robert Baratheon as he’d know and loved.

Yet, not for the first time, Ned Stark found himself preoccupied with the king’s interest in Jon Snow. It took a dumb man not to see how much Robert had mentioned his baseborn nephew's name during their talk, and Ned was not a dumb man. Putting him to guard Sansa’s door was the right choice. I don’t want Jon prowling around the castle anymore, let him be distracted and far from this people.

Robert finished his story, “… and before Jon could so much as fart, there were oranges flying across the High Hall in every direction,” he laughed, and Ned joined him.

If he could just quickly prove that the Lannisters were behind the attack on Bran, prove that they had murdered Jon Arryn, then his friend would listen.

Then Cersei would fall, and the Kingslayer with her, and if Lord Tywin dares to rouse the west, Robert will smash him as he smashed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He could see it all so clearly. The breakfast tasted better than anything Eddard Stark had eaten in a long time.

Soon it came the time for the tourney to resume.

Ned walked with the king to the jousting field. They had brought out the egg again, now it rested atop a blackwood foundation by the top of the tilting barrier, crowning the tourney as a champion’s prize.

“WHO OF THESE MEN SHALL WIN THE LAST TREASURE OF VANQUISHED VALYRIA?” The herald roused the crowds.

“I swear, Ned. I should have thrown that thing to the sea. Even its aura seems to mock me.” Robert complained with bitterness.

Ned had promised to watch the final tilts with his daughter, as Septa Mordane was feeling ill today, and Sansa was determined not to miss the end of the jousting. As he saw Robert to his place, he noted that the seat beside the king was empty. That pleased Ned.

He shouldered his way to his daughter’s seat at the front of the dais, Sansa was so engrossed that she barely acknowledged his arrival, Ned found her as eight men took to the field and halted their mounts in front of the king’s box.

Each one was of a different color. At one end was Lord Renly, looking mighty, Loras Tyrell at his side in shining silver plate. Then the youth who had come down from the mountains of the moon, Harry Hardyng. The Kingslayer had won a place in the finals as well, he was wearing his white cloak over gilded steel, much like the image Ned Stark had once found when riding into the throne room expecting a crazed king, only to find a cold corpse instead.

Then the Clegane Brothers gave way for a hedge knight. A really young one, at that. But for his gear alone Ned Stark could have considered him a scion from a wealthy House.

Lastly again was that mystery knight, who had bewitched the people in a few tilts. The day before he had been all in black, now it was the same but for a grey favor wrapped around his mailed wrist. Some woman’s, surely.

Sansa gasped and when Ned turned to her, he found himself bewildered.

For a passing light, Ned saw his daughter's beauty shining as bright as Cat’s own. Her blue eyes were wide open, her cheeks blushed. She brought her fingers to cover her mouth, which was slightly open in amazement. “Sansa,” he said, alarmed. “Is all well?”

Sansa hummed, “Yes, father. I’m sorry, I…the Hound scared me, that is all.”

“Which is understandable,” agreed a voice behind them. Littlefinger. “Only a fool would not be scared of such a man, but then again you Starks are the furthest from fools as one can be.”

“You would know of foolishness, Lord Baelish.” Ned had not bothered to hide his dislike for the man, though he had to admit that he remained one of his unlikely allies.

“And so we agree, my Lord Hand.” Littlefinger smiled. In the tilting field, the formalities were done and two riders rode for the first bout. “Now this is an interesting match,” Baelish continued once they had taken their places. “A hundred dragons on Harry Hardyng.” He announced.

“You should not, my lord,” Sansa warned, her voice soft.

Littlefinger looked at her intently but nonetheless, the offer was taken by none other than the Bronze Royce himself. “I’ll see those odds,” he shouted from his place at the back. Ned vowed to call for the Lord of Runestone when he had the chance, if only so he could tell him more about his younger’s son demise.

A squire tied an iron-banded shield with his House arms over the lordling's arm, and another boy placed a black lance on the hand of the Knight of Tears. When it came time for both men to take position, Ned felt Sansa's hand holding his arm. He turned to look at his daughter and noticed her biting his lips, her eyes fixed on the jousting.

Sansa was acting strangely, and something about her seemed different. Entirely too different. For once she was avoiding his eyes as she had never done before. Ned frowned as the herald blew his horn and the men spurred their horses.

A silver-grey stallion rode into a midnight warmblood. Ned distinctly heard Lord Baelish exhale through his teeth, cursing. He could see why.

While it was true that Harry Hardyng knew his horse, the mystery knight stirred his with the highest of confidence, even an untrained eye could see it and once again Ned was struck with a queer feeling of familiarity.

At the last second, the lordling hesitated to meet his foe, and so the Knight of Tears struck Harry Hardying off his horse with the racketing crash of wood against shield. The quartered arms of the Hardyings were pierced through the middle, there where the four shapes meet.

The crowd's ragged cheer went about when the riders clashed amidst the grounds … and Sansa’s grip turned to iron, for a moment she’d held her father’s arm with enough strength to worry him.

“f*ck!” young Hardyng shouted from the soil, struggling to get up. “f*ck! f*ck! f*ck!”

For a moment Ned was sure the boy was going to scream for a sword, but the Mystery Knight still loomed above him, on his horse yet. After a dangerous silence, Harry Hardyng limped back to his tent, defeated.

The people welcomed the mystery knight’s victory, as did Robert. But of all, Sansa was first to stand from her place and clap for everyone to hear. The Knight of Tears pointed his lance to the dais by his daughter’s place, and Ned Stark's unfounded worries increased.

SANSA STARK

The Knight of Tears lauded her way, Sansa could only think about his touch. His long fingers and callused palms. It was fresh in her mind and body, enough for goosebumps to still cover her pale skin.

Her heart sang with relief as Jon won the tilt and kept himself untouched. A new feeling of possessive pride swelled within her chest, and even if she felt wicked whilst thinking about him, Sansa did not stop the smile that graced her face.

Sansa had almost cried out when she first saw Jon wearing her favor, the one she had given him so long ago she’d forgotten it was hers, the gesture had touched her deeply. And her illborn affection once again threatened to burst. Now that she knew the mystery knight was Jon for a certainty, she could not help but wonder how no one could see it. From his somber humility to his graceful disposition, he could be no one but Jon Snow.

Maybe her Jon Snow? Oh, such a thought would end her.

But with the realization came the talon-like grip of fear, knowing that every match brought him closer to the likes of the Mountain and the Hound.

He’d defeat them, too. Sansa thought with restrained worry…but the Cleganes appeared undefeatable, and she knew Jon was not. Sansa had already seen the purple and green bruises covering his lean body, a testament to yesterday’s struggle.

She sat down beside her father, who was rubbing his forearm, the one she’d almost accidentally crushed in her distress. “I’m sorry, father.” She apologized, though she still not dared look into her lord father’s eyes. It was despairing.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Do you have a favorite for today, child?”

She nodded, looking away from him. She knew she could not answer, at least not truthfully. Sansa could not help but blush.

“Sansa?” He worried. “You look somewhat flushed, are you sure you are not sick?”

I might be, Sansa thought with a shame that grew more distant with each sunrise.

Luckily she was saved by the herald’s horn blowing thrice, announcing the next match. The troupe of musicians loudly played their instruments as another set of men rode forward. Amongst the royal seats, the king was calling for someone to finally unmask the mystery knight, but the games continued nonetheless.

Once again she thought about Jon. She wanted to feel regret, but she couldn’t. Sansa no longer wished to stop feeling. Perhaps Mother would hate her for what she’d become…but Mother was away, very far away.

“I knew he would win,” Sansa whispered with a smile.

“Well, you could have warned me before I made such bet, dear lady, ”Lord Baelish overheard her. “If you know who’s winning this match, please do tell me before I become an ever poorer man.” Somewhere above her, Lord Royce was laughing.

The Hound rode his heavy courser down the tilting line and dipped his lance for King Robert Baratheon, at his side Jaime Lannister did the same, though his visor was lifted and a smug smile graced his handsome face.

The barrier trembled as the horses broke into a rush. The Hound leaned like a hawk diving to his prey as he rode, but it was Ser Jaime who shifted his weight at the last possible moment, just as his lance point struck against a dog-marked shield, the gilded knight kept his posture and his lance as Sandor Clegane almost tumbled off his saddle.

Sansa wanted to see him fall. He threatened Jon, she remembered with loathing.

Still, the man managed to keep himself riding his beast of a horse, jerking it around for another pass. Ser Jaime threw his shattered lance and his squire handed him a new one, the wood was as golden as his hair as he jested with his squire. They broke into a gallop anew, Sansa could almost smell the anger coming from the Hound, it almost made her gag.

But such anger was what drove him to victory, it seemed. Both men aimed true, but it was Jaime Lannister who fell. The dust cleared and a riderless blood bay trotted away while its rider rolled in the dirt, all golden and dented. His white cloak the brown of soil. His lion’s helm was battered and now the knight could not get it off. The lords and ladies tried and failed to stifle their chuckles, but the commons were hooting and pointing, their laughs only overtaken by the king’s, who guffawed so loud he almost dropped his drink. They had to lead the golden man off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling.

Sansa, who already had great dislike for the king’s laugh, could not help but feel sorry for Ser Jaime, such a pity that he shamed himself after getting so far.

The herald announced the names for the next tilt, at the jousters viewing place, Sansa saw how Lord Renly and Loras Tyrell hugged each other as brothers. Before long they were going to ride against the other.

They took to their horses and the horn blared again. Both men were the picture of gallantry, yet before long Sansa had surrendered herself and looked for Jon amongst all else. Truly, she just wanted to see him.

You are the reason I wanted to come here, it has always been you. Sansa trembled at the memory. His voice had been so coarse and genuine, breathless against her ear. Seven be good, when had Sansa become such a wanton woman? How could something so wrong ever feel so right?

Sansa Stark couldn’t wait for night to come again.

The match went on for seven lances, all of them breaking but neither man lost his seat. Sansa felt herself under the impression that beautiful Ser Loras could have defeated Lord Renly much earlier but had chosen not to. When the king realized such a thing as well, he gave the game to the Knight of Flowers while his own brother playfully jested his decision.

The Knight of Flowers looped around the field and waved at the commonfolk, much to their delight. He halted his horse by the Highgarden bleachers and both the man and his mare vowed down for the Lady Margaery, he was like a man out of a song.

As the people roared for another pass, a bank of grey clouds veiled above the tourney, the sudden onset got some of the most superstitious amongst the gallery to start muttering their worries.

“If it starts raining surely the archery competition will be postponed.” Her father commented.

“Hopefully not the melee,” A new voice said, taking a seat behind them. Lord Renly had changed out of his armor and surcoat and was now wearing his usual refined clothes. Sansa caught a whiff of his perfume as well; the scent of roses. “I’m counting on fattening my purse on your behalf, Lord Bealish.”

“You are always so fond of putting your stock in the Tyrell,” Lord Baelish replied, his eye had a devious gleam to it. “Ser Garlan is an able man, but hearsay is Thoros of Myr is fighting. He wields a burning sword, you know?”

“Ser Garlan oft trains against four men at once,” Lord Renly frowned, no longer amused. “He’ll do quick work of a drunken priest from across the sea.”

“Ser Gregor of House Clegane,” the herald interrupted. “Ser Eggsy of the Red Fiddle. Ride forth and meet your fate.”

Sansa clutched her skirts. Somehow she feared for this knight who had taken her first kiss, she knew him to be brazen and brash, assuming her for something she wasn’t…and still, she could not bring herself to hate him the same way she hated the Hound.

And if he beats the Mountain, then Jon won't have to fight him.

The Mountain rode as silently as always, meanwhile, Ser Eggsy eagerly roused his horse and rode towards his place without even dipping his lance for the king. There was a dangerous feeling to his movement, Sansa was not sure how she could recognize it, but she did. And the very distinct scent of bloodlust once again rose to her nose.

Sansa shook her head to clear such fantasies. I’m imagining this again, she thought. And then she noticed; he’s wearing a sword.

Ser Eggsy pointed his lance to the dragon’s egg, then to Ser Gregor’s shape at the other side of the tiltyard, his intent clear. A single drop of rain fell upon Sansa’s cheek, a trumpet broke a revelry.

The Mountain thundered down, a landslide in man-shape. Ser Eggsy’s cloak swirled behind him, the fine silk whisked past with shades of fire and coal. The hedge knight swung his lance across his horse’s head to bear more clearly upon Ser Gregor's head.

Sansa couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes.

A man screamed, steel plate crashed against the ground. Crack.

Sansa Stark opened her eyes.

Ser Eggsy fell close by the spot where Ser Hugh of the Vale had died. Ser Gregor’s blow had landed first upon the younger knight’s shield, hurtling him from his horse, perhaps higher in the air than most, enough for his plate to dent and writhe.

“No,” Sansa heard Ser Eggsy’s painful laments. As if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. “No, it can’t be like this, not him. Not like this,” he moaned, and then he screamed his rage to the heavens.

Sansa gasped. The Fiddler stood up, ripped his cloak off his shoulders and bellowed, “Fight me! Fight me!” his right hand went for his sword.

And so the knight finally realized his wound. Both hand and forearm dangled from his elbow. The fall had dislocated and twisted his limb unnaturally upon itself.

The Mountain lifted his visor at the sight, snorted and rode off. Ser Eggsy fell to his knees. This time his scream was one of pain.

JON SNOW.

Jon jumped the wooden fence and ran for his friend, “Ser! Ser!” Duck frighteningly screamed at his back.

They reached him as the people applauded. “Egg,” Jon said with concern. “Stand up, Egg. Stand up and let’s get you out of here.” He kneeled with him and took his good arm, wrapping it around his shoulders and forcing him to stand. Duck had brought with him a skin for Egg to drink of, but the Fiddler knight shook his head at it.

“This was not how it went…” Egg mumbled as if in a trace. “Duck, Jon. This is not right. What happened? This was not…this was not…the egg…”

Jon knew that Sansa was watching him. He wondered if she knew it was him who hid under the cowl. But he had no time to dwell on their relationship now, he had to get Egg to a healer.

“I was to win,” Egg kept saying, his walk was limped. “I was to win…Jon…” His eyes bloodshot eyes were suddenly covered with tears of anger.

Duck took Egg’s arm away from Jon, “Leave already,” he said, the tone of his voice surprising Jon. “You’ve done enough.” The old squire led his defeated master back to his vulture velvet tent. a raindrop fell upon Jon’s forehead, he numbly walked back towards the tourney.

“The Ser should not have aimed for the Mountain’s head,” Podrick said sadly.

“He shouldn’t have,” Jon agreed.

“Duck took my wineskin,” Gendry lamented. Earning a scolding look from Jon.

The tourney continued as it was under the grey sky, but Egg’s defeat had left a bitter taste in Jon’s mouth. Egg left himself open, that much he wanted to pierce down the Mountain.

The Mountain was not done nor tired, and so he took the following match as well, demanding such a thing did not go over well with the commonfolk. “Ser Loras of House Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers,” sang the herald. “Ser Gregor of House Clegane. Ride forth and meet your fate.”

Ser Loras urged his mare, Jon noted with curiosity that he had changed horses from the day before, from a stronger steed to a nimble mare. He thought that if it came to it, Ser Loras Tyrell could perhaps be the most skilled foe within the tourney. If he can fight with that huge flower cloak over his shoulders, he might as well be.

But when he saw Ser Gregor’s enormous stallion neigh and groan, Jon realized he might actually be the shrewdest.

“Look,” Jon told Gendry, his voice muffled by the helm. “Ser Loras mare is in heat.”

“So?”

Lances were handed and dipped, the herald started the pass, and the knights galloped. Contrary to Egg’s last match, Jon could see the outcome long fore it happened. Ser Gregor’s horse gave him trouble all the way down the yard, stomping off and veering away. Meanwhile, Ser Loras’ mare was arrow straight.

Ser Loras sped up and fast as lighting, the Knight of Flowers toppled the Mountain. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh. Loras’ armor winked in the sun as he raised his visor, smiling at the crowds where Sansa sat.

Jon pondered on those familiar feelings of jealousy, when the Mountain shouted out loud, silencing the people’s cheers. “My sword!”

A boy ran it to him carrying a sword bigger than himself. Everyone could do nothing but watch as the Mountain drew his steel and with one strong swing, halved his horse’s head.

Blood sprayed away, the gallery screamed in terror as the beast bled and died and Ser Gregor strode towards the Knight of Flowers.

“Nooo! Help him!” a girl begged—Ser Loras’ sister.

“Stop him!” Lord Stark shouted, his voice barely a whisper under the clamor, it was enough to rouse Jon.

“Pod, my sword.” Podrick nodded and ran off for his steel.

It all went down within moments. Ser Loras was shouting for his own sword when Ser Gregor came upon him, swinging his two-handed greatsword against his chest. The sword crunched and bit down the metal, prying loss only as he fell to the ground.

The mare ran away in panic as Ser Loras fondled the riven chestpiece of his armor, as if to ensure he was still alive. The Mountain lifted his sword high over his head, a killing blow if he had ever seen one. By then Podrick Payne had returned with Jon’s sword. He was halfway up the fence and certain that he was not going to make to Loras it in time when another voice rasped succor, “Leave him be.”

Sandor Clegane’s fist cuffed his older brother’s jaw. The Mountain stumbled and scowled, then spat and swirled his greatsword in wordless fury against his own brother’s head. Gendry put a hand over Jon’s shoulder and brought him down the fence.

They’re brothers, Jon thought with horror. Unable to comprehend how it was that such hatred had festered between them.

The Hound caught the attack, turned it and cleaved back. Ser Loras was taken to safety, dirtied and with a huge gash opened up in his chestplace, but unhurt otherwise. Three times Ser Gregor aimed his sword at the younger Clegane’s skull, and three times he was deflected. He fights like a possessed man, Jon saw as the Hound moved laps around his much bigger foe.

Yet every blow the Mountain brandished and the Hound parried seemed to shake his entire body. Jon’s blood pumped within his veins as he saw how the Hound’s sword threatened to chip away.

A king’s voice boomed, “STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!”

The Hound went to one knee, Ser Gregor cut air, and at last, regained his wits. He dropped his sword and glared at King Robert with hatred, but surrounded by his Kingsguard and a dozen other knights, he was untouchable. Wordlessly, the Mountain that Rides turned and left the day.

“Let him go,” the king ordered, and as it had begun, it ended.

Smallfolk and noble alike were left astounded by the swordfight, Jon among them. Lady Margaery ran from her seat, most likely looking for her brother’s side. The musicians played a merry song in an attempt to brighten the grey mood, but it did little for it.

After mere minutes, the steward came out of the highdais and announced that Ser Loras Tyrell’s armor had been hacked in the attack, and though he was hale, he would be forfeiting the tourney and settling for the third champion’s prize. A group of youths was dragging the corpse of a horse away from the field when it hit Jon like the crack of a whip.

“Jon,” gaped Gendry. “Jon, you’ll be fighting the crown’s Hound. For the dragon’s egg!”

Jon swallowed. “I know,” he said.

“Are you shaking?”

“I am,” Jon admitted. His fingers were numb too. But was it fear he felt? No, not truly.

At the distance, lighting struck earth once more. Not a moment later came the thunder. “IN CELEBRATION OF LORD EDDARD OF HOUSE STARK, NAMED THE HAND OF THE KING. MAKE HASTE FOR THE DRAGON’S EGG; SANDOR CLEGANE COME FORTH, KNIGHT OF TEARS COME FORTH.”

Podrick was pale as he tied his shield around his arm. Jon could not share the feeling.

It was elation once again. Jon had come so far, now was so close, he could almost sate that thirst he’d been denied all his life. All that stood against Jon and glory was Sandor Clegane. Jon patted his Midnight’s head, knowing this might be the last time he would ride it.

“Please don’t die, ser.” Podrick told him.

“I won’t,” Jon answered.

He clutched the silk and lace handkerchief around his wrist and thought about Sansa to give him strength.

Pod gave him the lance and Jon took it. “Give us a good end, men.” The king decreed when they halted before him. The clouds flocked darker, threatening to burst. A lone raven flew down and rested itself atop a pole near the dragon’s red egg, cawing for grain.

He risked a look at the Hound. His warhorse was much bigger than Jon’s warmblood, and the man himself too. Twice his age and thrice the swordhand, his marred facescars were hidden only by the snarling dog helmet, as if jumping out of steel to bite Jon’s throat. Sandor Clegane was the Lannisters’ sworn sword, the deadliest man Jon had ever seen.

And what was Jon but a bastard?

Today I’m no bastard, today I’m Aemon Targaryen, Jon reminded himself. He could blame the circ*mstances all his life…or he could make them.

Jon inhaled and flexed his forehand. His palm felt sweaty with anticipation, yearning and fright all at once. He looked at the dais for Sansa’s red hair, only then did he allow himself to exhale.

“HOOOOOOOOOOOO!” The horn blasted away.

My shield is strong, my armor is strong, my horse is swift, a maiden’s favor blesses me. Jon spurred his midnight, the Hound did the same. Jon aimed for his chest, the Hound did the same.

Time moved to a halt. Three painted dogs grew bigger with every heavy heartbeat, but Jon Snow would not tear eye nor lance from his foe. A raven was ca*wking voices. A dragon’s egg drummed and pulsed.

Crack! Grey sky...

Jon’s hand had gone numb, he felt the hollow point connect with the core of his chestplate, so near his heart. All breath left his lungs as he was flung backwards. His rayon cloak tangled with the Hound’s lance, ripping to shreds.

Thud.

Jon looked up to the heavens, but the heavens would bid no reply, from underneath his cowl he could see no more than a grey slit. His mouth was full with the sour taste of blood and the sourest defeat. Even the crowd had not dared to utter a sound. He tried to breathe, but it hurt too much. I’ve lost.

But then he heard her, “Jon! Get up!”

Sansa, Jon propped himself from the dust to see Sandor Clegane doing so as well, struggling to get up from the muddy ground and throwing aside his dented doghelm.

Their thrusts had connected at the same time, Jon realized, and the Hound had also fallen. “Sword!” the Dog barked, and then he was striding towards Jon, his mouth twisted, his burned eye white with rage.

Time marched again, far too quickly. Jon clambered to his feet. The jousting had turned to a melee. Sword, he tried to shout, but no words came out.

“f*cking bastard,” the Dog cursed, baring his steel.

But where Jon’s lungs had failed him, his squire did not. Suddenly Pod had climbed the fence with Dark Sister in his hands. “Ser!” he shouted, throwing the long blade at him.

Jon caught her and freed her from rest. The entirety of the gallery gasped as one when valyrian steel cut through the day, the storm clouds broke apart, and sunlight shone under the tourney’s field. Then the commotion started.

Dark Sister clashed against the Hound’s inferior steel, the smite was loud and mystical like a song of war. Finally, after so long, she was wielded for a battle’s fragor. The court was up on their feet, the smallfolk as well, but suddenly they existed no longer.

His father and the king, the dragon’s egg…even Sansa. Suddenly the world had melted away, and none remained but Jon Snow and his one true sister in his hands…and the enemy before him.

Jon stepped back and then forward. He howled or perhaps laughed as he swung against the Hound’s head. He jumped away in time, losing only a few locks of thin hair.

The Dog grunted and cleaved, Dark Sister took the blow, and for half a blink, both weapons were locked in a strife. “Let’s dance,” A voice mocked, one that Jon could hardly recognize as his own. But it is, this is who I am.

The Dog’s elbow flew out, catching Jon in the head and making him stumble, the man did not waste any time, and he barely had a moment to react before Clegane hacked him to death, he managed to avoid it by instinct alone.

He’s stronger than you, give no ground, his sword whispered, and Jon listened, swinging away.

The Hound answered in turn, showing the reason why he was tasked a royal shield. Twice did his blade scratch Jon’s middle, and ten more times did death come incredibly close. He’ll kill me, Jon could see it. It could happen at any moment now.

If he was to die, it would be fighting. Clegane guarded, Jon screamed like a madman and brought Dark Sister down with any strength he could still muster andꟷ

The Dog easily parried Jon’s blade with his own, but the tempered iron had been beaten and cracked enough and it finally gave away. With a resounding clash, it shattered by the middle, dozens of sharp shards flying everywhere. Glittering in the air before coming down to the soil like tears of defeat.

Dumbfounded, Sandor Clegane held his broken sword in his hand. Jon saw the opportunity, he could slay him right there.

But the piercing sound had returned him to the moment, instead, he kicked at the Hound’s chest, just as Ser Garlan had once done to him. The man fell, it was not fear that Jon Snow saw when he rested Dark Sister’s swordtip over his unburned check, only muted rage.

It did not matter, for Jon had won. He was left weak and bruised, but he won. “Yield,” he panted.

Before any reply could be given, the crowds erupted in celebration. Jon looked around him in sudden confusion, the musicians started playing a victory tune, and golden leaves fell upon him from the bleachers above. The sky had split open, and louder than all others was the king’s voice as he slowly walked the wooden steps down the royal stands. “The match is over!” He roared, shocking him still. “It is over! The mystery knight has won the tourney!”

I tried to kill him, Jon thought as he offered the Hound a hand. The man slapped it and strode away in a fury. A song was playing all around him, but with the fighting over and the blood still boiling in his veins, he wasn’t quite sure what to do but stand there, confused.

He said I won…did the king say I won?

Then Robert Baratheon was there, with the Kingsguard behind him. Jon looked for his father amongst the rest, he could not find him. “Hail the Knight of Tears!” King Robert said, lifting his gold-banded horn. “Get rid of that helm, ser! Let us see who has won the day,”

My face? Jon thought. Panic biting at his throat. But the king had come down from the gallery for this, and he could only obey him.

He looked for his father one last time before undoing the clasps of his neckpiece and removing the helm from his head, but he could not see him anywhere.

The steel slid off, the sunlight almost blinded him. King Robert dropped his horn and the ground drank the arbor red.

Almost immediately, the crowd started gasping and whispering. The king’s face was a mask of confusion. Right, Jon remembered. I’m a bastard, I’m no Aemon Targaryen.

“Jon Snow?” The king asked. Jon tightened his grip, he could only look away. Even the music had receded to a distant hum. “That’s valyrian steel.”

Jon looked down at Dark Sister.

“Give it here,” he commanded, his voice queerly serious.

“Your grace I…”

“I said give it here, now.” The king said, and his white-cloaked shadows behind him took a step forward, their hands on the pommels of their swords. Guardsmen and knights were all around him, too. And no ally whatsoever.

Jon handed Dark Sister to the king, hilt first. The king took her and examined the steel with interest, turning the blade in his hand and watching as it swallowed the light. “This is a dragonsword,” he decided. “Kneel, bastard.”

Jon took a step away, suddenly he was surrounded. “My fatherꟷ”

“Your father is wont to make me repeat myself, too. Kneel, bastard. Your king commands it.”

Jon brought himself to one knee before the king, wondering if this was the craven’s death he had feared all along, given to him as his triumph was denied. “Robert!” he heard Lord Stark screaming, then saw him coming by the sidelines, Harwin and Jory and a dozen other Stark guardsmen at his back, until Ser Barristan stopped him by the shoulder and urgently whispered something in his ear.

A crow cawed in the distance. Jon willed for his last thought to belong to Sansa.

Instead, he felt Dark Sister gently placed on his right shoulder. “Jon Snow,” the king said. “Ned’s bastard…I’ve been wrong about a whole lot of things in my time, I’m certain this is not one of them.”

Not understanding, he looked up. The king’s eyes were glassy, “Jon Snow,” he said once more. “I charge you to be brave and just. I charge you to defend the young and innocent. I charge you to protect all women from foul deed...”

Jon regained his breath, his eyes opening wide as plates, It cannot be…

“I charge you never to look away from task needed, however hard or humble or dangerous might be, and I charge you to live by the principles that brought you here. Before the eyes of gods and men, this I do.”

The king moved the sword to his left shoulder, lightly tapping, “You kneeled another bastard,” he proclaimed. “Arise, Ser Jon.”

He rose on shaky legs and the king returned Dark Sister. The song came back to life at once. All of the common people cheered and hooted, so loud it was deafening, and a good portion of the court seats imitated them. Then heroes of the Kingsguard were patting his back, calling him “fellow knight,” and smiling.

Jon Snow saw it happen, but it did not feel real. He kept waiting for those feelings of happiness to sink in, but they did not come to him. He turned his head to look for his father, for Sansa, for anyone…but the king spoke up again.

“Ride, son!” He laughed. “Ride and take that bloody thing away from me already!”

Lord Renly himself handed him back the reins of his black horse, smiling and saying some jest that Jon barely understood. Then Barristan the Bold was helping him up. Still, I didn’t feel real.

But it could only be, the music in his ears. The clamor of “Wolfknight! Wolfknight!”, was almost a chant. It was drowning.

Jon did not hurry his horse, but the beast moved by itself, a long and slow pass across the tiltyard until they reached the wooden stand by which the dragon’s egg rested. He caught a glimpse of that annoying raven again, its red eyes watching intently.

He reached with both hands and took it. It was the first time he had seen it so closely, the red scales shone with otherworldly beauty, and tendrils of smoke hugged it as they did Dark Sister’s magicked blade, this was a treasure of legends…and it was warm, too. And heavier than it looked. How many kings had it gone through?

And now it’s mine? But to Jon, the notion alone seemed…wrong.

As he swirled his horse, numbly riding back to his place, a shape of red caught his eye.

Sansa had moved to the front of the seats, her blue eyes moist and a genuine smile on her face. Her small hands were clasped together, as if she’d been praying. Jon’s heart stirred again, and a sweet feeling was born from there.

Ah, The warmth enveloped him. It was happiness. Jon had to finally accept it. I’m in love with her.

Jon halted in front of her, doing that teasing voice he always did, “My lady,” he said.

“Ser,” Sansa named him for the first time. The same smile on her face, a wild lock of fire fell down her forehead. She should never stop smiling, Jon thought.

When she said it…only then did he feel like a true knight. He could be one, for her.

Jon took the egg with his right hand and presented it to her, her favor around his wrist. “There’s no treasure such as you,” He told her in whisper, not having realized when he also started smiling. By the way that her cheeks turned alight, Jon could only hope she’d heard him.