There was no way to avoid it; they had to stop at Highgarden on their way to Oldtown.
Originally, the plan was to cross the Cockleswhent in Appleton outside Cider Hall and bypass all holdfasts until they hit the Rose Road, making transit easier until they reached Oldtown. While the Starks were not avoiding people, per se, they were doing their best to limit their interactions with the nobility of Westeros wherever possible.
There were several reasons: the first being that, coming from another timeline, they had future knowledge and none of them wanted to tip their hands at what was coming unless they were the ones influencing things. Further, only Sansa and Arya were anywhere near capable of doublespeak, the language of the Westerosi courts, and while Robb and Jon were somewhat capable in the game of thrones, neither succeeded well, historically.
Secondly, as far as Westeros was concerned, they were merely Northern rumours. Despite their
father's best efforts – and that of Jeor Mormont at the Wall – the existence of "older versions of the current Stark children" had made their way across Westeros in the past half-year. While the North would take that knowledge with a pinch of salt – after confirming with their liege lord, who, by reputation's standard, was honourable and incapable of lying, as truth – the rest of Westeros seemed to range between utter denial up with snarks and grumpkins to deifying them in the houses of the First Men.
The fewer people knew about them, the more surprise Jon would have on his side when it came to consolidating a Targaryen restoration, was Robb's firm stance on the topic. It would mean people underestimated them and they could move their pieces in position without anyone realizing ("what pieces?" asked a confused Arya, her face scrunched up. "We've got nothing yet!").
But while the Fossoways were accommodating, the Starks failed to realize that they had a connection to Highgarden and the Tyrells in the form of the youngest and only daughter of the family: Leonette, who was just recently betrothed to Garlan Tyrell, and whose siblings had dutifully sent her a letter detailing their arrival, as she was visiting her betrothed's family in Highgarden.
And, in which the Tyrells extended an invitation for them to visit on their journey south to Oldtown.
"We have to accept," said Sansa grimly. "We have no choice. Mace Tyrell is a Lord Paramount and Warden of the South, as well as one of the richest men in Westeros, with access to food and goods. If we slight them, he and Olenna could spite father and the North with a trade embargo. We can't have that."
"We've enough coin that Father and the North could trade instead with Braavos and the other Free Cities," countered Arya sharply. "We can help the Manderlys increase their port, too—"
"Father would not accept increase trade from some of the Free Cities," argued back Sansa, sending Arya a sharp look. "He doesn't tolerate slavery—"
"But he'll have Myrish glass in Winterfell's gardens," snorted Jon, who then looked chastised when Sansa turned her sharp look on him. He held his hands up, placatingly.
"Tyrells do things in excess," mused Robb, carefully thinking of what his mother had spoken of when she had visited Renly's war camp once upon a time. "He'll want to show off his wealth. We can stay, but everyone knows Northmen are frugal and not extravagant; we can use that to limit our time in Highgarden."
With the plan sorted, Robb, Sansa, and Jon went to Lord Fossoway to thank him for his hospitality and indicate that they were going to leave on the morrow to take up Lord Tyrell's offer to visit Highgarden on their way to Oldtown. Unfortunately, the man shot the plan to hell.
"How splendid!" the man cried at the feast that evening, at the high table with his wife, sons, and the Starks, including Jon. "You will thoroughly enjoy Lord Tyrell's hospitality. In fact, I miss it myself! I shall join you."
Robb choked on his drink, turning to face the man. He sputtered, "I beg your pardon, my Lord?"
"I wish to see my daughter, Lord Robb," explained Lord Fossoway, cheeks red from wine - although his eyes were suspiciously clear and sober. "And my sons should accompany us, of course. Owen and Mathias are close with Leonette, but she and Symon were inseparable as children."
Symon appeared to disagree, with the heavy scowl on his face, but Owen turned a sunny face on Sansa and loudly enthused, "Our little sister is the darling apple of our father's eye, my Lords, Ladies! Little Leo is a sweetheart, with the voice of a nightingale and the very image of the Maiden herself!"
Mathias – as well as Arya and Rickon – groaned at the terrible pun.
There was nothing Robb could say to that – was he supposed to tell the man don't inconvenience yourself by coming with us to the location where your daughter is? Instead, he gave Lord Fossoway a tight smile and said, "Thank you, my Lord. That sounds like a plan. We will leave at your leisure."
Lord Fossoway seemed to sense their haste in going to Oldtown, as he and his sons were ready to depart an hour past dawn the following morning, with all the Starks bright-eyed after their sleep, eager to be off.
Rickon and Arya bounded off ahead of the group, with Symon on their heels as the youngest and closest in age to Rickon, also eager for a horse race; Owen remained at his father's right-hand side, with Robb, Jon, and of course, Sansa, whom he kept trying to engage in conversation, puffing his chest out as he extolled on his accomplishments and abilities; Bran and Mathias, who was interested in joining the Citadel, ended up in conversation, surrounded by the few knights and household guards Fossoway had joining them.
It severely strained Jon's drive forward, taking what could have been a short, four-day horse ride into a weeklong experience. As the days passed, Jon's jaw tightened and his mouth turned downward, and he often found himself slipping into his Winterfell habits of keeping to himself and growing quiet around others.
One evening, two days out from Highgarden, Lord Fossoway sat heavily next to Jon, as the young man threw bits of wood that he found around him into a fire, brooding. Jon glanced at him and then back to the fire.
"Had you visited any others on your journey south?" Fossoway asked, holding out a wineskin at Jon.
Jon hesitated a moment but then took the offered drink, took a sip, and answered, "No; we left Winterfell to the White Harbour and didn't stay long – only enough to board a ship to Braavos. From there, we made our way south, never remaining overnight in a town unless we had to, and that was few and far in between."
He passed the skin back.
"I see," said Fossoway, looking rather pleased. He then grew contemplative. "Why Summerhall, then?"
Shoulders tense, Jon attempted nonchalance and shrugged. "Seemed a good enough place to stop than any."
"And yet, somehow, you travelled through time once more," mused Fossoway, a far-away look in his eyes when Jon turned to look at him. "And many of those with First Men blood saw you." Fossoway turned back to Jon, catching him. "You'll have to be careful."
"Careful?" echoed Jon, wetting his lips nervously. "About what, my Lord?"
Fossoway stared at Jon, a soft, nostalgia-tinged smile on his lips. "I doubt I was the only one to see
the resemblance – Your Grace."
Jon froze, feeling as though he had taken a hit to his chest. It was hard to breathe, and his hands
began to shake as his vision went fuzzy around the edges. He wheezed, trying to take in a breath.
"How – how did you—?" he gasped out, a hand reaching for his chest, instinctively landing over the final dagger mark over his heart.
Fossoway's mouth twisted wryly, although his eyes were filled with concern when he passed the wineskin back to Jon, who drank greedily from it.
"I was a young man, I remember telling you that when you arrived at Cider Hall," he began, watching Jon. His eyes moved all over the younger man's face, taking in his dark hair, his brow, his eyes, the slope of his nose, mouth, and jaw. "I found it curious that Prince Duncan would spend so much time around three strangers, as he did when he had eschewed the companionship of others those few weeks the court had been at Summerhall. So, I was watching him, and then you, when the king approached."
"And as you said, you saw the resemblance," finished Jon, a bit bitterly. The laugh he gave when he ran a hand over his pulled-back hair was a tad hysterical. "You know, most say I have the Stark look."
Fossoway snorted. "Oh, you do, Your Grace. You do; I can see the Blackwood in you, as well. But you favour your great-great-grandfather more than them, but I expect most would not have seen it unless they saw you both side-by-side, as I did. Certainly, there aren't many alive from Summerhall or those who remember Aegon well enough to have noticed." He paused. "And I doubt any would see it in your younger self, especially if you're raised as Lord Stark's get."
"Father would be pleased to know his cover story worked as well as it did, then," replied Jon, fighting the urge to bury his face in his hands or look for Sansa in clear need of help.
The two fell silent for a moment, letting the crackle of the flames in front of them fill the air between them. Then Fossoway spoke again. "We never met in the future?"
Jon shook his head, throwing a piece of wood into the firepit. "If we did, we were never introduced."
"You didn't push for...?" Fossoway trailed off.
Jon's mouth was a twisted, bitter smile. "I was at the Wall for years, my Lord; and then named King in the North after my brother's death. Then Daenerys was in Westeros and there were other things to worry about."
"Other things?"
"The dead," replied Jon, voice now creeping into bitterness. "It's how I died – how my siblings died. Fighting the Others and their wights and trying to stop them from marching south." Jon glanced at Fossoway, chuckling at his face. "You don't believe me?"
The man wiped the disbelief from his face. "Well..."
Jon grinned. "I died and returned to the living in front of a heart tree north of the Wall, and you seem to accept that Robb, Sansa, and I were in Summerhall years past but have not aged – and yet the thought of Others and the undead seems ridiculous?"
"When you put it that way," muttered Fossoway, wryly. "It does seem silly to think one is true and the other is not."
"It is hard to believe until you see the dead rise," admitted Jon. He then placed his hands on his thighs and turned to face Fossoway fully. "So, now that you know my secret – what will you do, my Lord?"
"What can I do, Your Grace?" replied Fossoway easily, although the title made Jon's heart race and his palms sweat. "I could tell the stag king, of course; I'm sure he still dreams of killing dragonspawn and I could earn a reward – but what use do I have of rewards when I am already rich enough and tied to the most powerful man in the Reach through my daughter's marriage? No – during the war I fought for the Targaryens and only bent the knee when Lord Stark demanded it after Aerys and Rhaegar's deaths. I didn't care for Aerys, but I liked Rhaegar well enough, and for that, as his son, you have my silence."
Thoughts raced through Jon's mind, dismissing some and turning others over, until he asked, carefully, "And one day, should Westeros know the truth?"
Fossoway's bushy eyebrows popped up, and a tiny smirk slipped onto his lips. "Well, then one day you'll have my sword."
The older man then groaned and stretched. "These old joints don't weather travel as well as they'd used to, my Lord. Please excuse me – but it's time I retire."
Habit wanted Jon to say he wasn't a lord – but there was no other way Fossoway would address him except by his name, and that would be too informal given the conversation they just had. Instead, Jon nodded and muttered his own goodnights, watching the man stumble from their seats and to the tents pitched nearby.
Rickon took Fossoway's seat immediately, brows furrowed when he muttered in the Old Tongue, "What was that about? You looked like you were about to kill him at one point."
"I was ready to," replied Jon in the same language, glancing at Rickon, who was watching him solemnly. "He knows who I am, because of Summerhall."
Immediately, something dark and ugly passed over Rickon's face as he glanced toward where Fossoway disappeared. "Want me to take care of it?"
Jon shook his head. "We've reached an agreement, I think." "You think?" echoed Rickon, scowling.
"He'll declare for me when the time comes," explained Jon softly, voice low, despite the only people nearby who would understand their conversation was Starks.
Rickon's eyes narrowed. "Can we trust him?"
The inclusive 'we' warmed Jon's heart. "We'll have to see."
Rickon sniffed, unhappy with the decision. "Are you sure though, Jon? Really? I could make it look like he was savaged by a wild beast, Sigeric taught me how—"
Jon laughed, reaching over and ruffling Rickon's curls and worsening the unruly mop. Switching to the Common Tongue, Jon shook his head and said, "I'll remember that for the future, if I need it, little brother."
It was clear Rickon had managed to spread the tale of Jon and Fossoway's conversation over the course of the next travel day and into the evening before they reached Highgarden because, on the last half-day leg, Sansa had urged her horse ahead of the group to trot abreast Fossoway's at the head of the procession. Robb engaged Owen and Symon in conversation, allowing a sizable gap between their horses and Sansa's so that their conversation was private.
It was well planned out, Jon thought, eyeing the maneuvering with a tinge of pride. Ayra and Rickon took up point beside Jon on their horses, and Bran had a knowing glint in his eyes every time he twisted his head around to glance over his shoulder at them, allowing Mathias' nattering to distract the man from realizing what was going on around him.
Eventually, Sansa nodded and wheeled her horse around, coming at a slow pace next to Arya's. "Did you threaten the poor man, Sansa?" asked Arya with a grin.
Sansa demurely looked askance. "Arya, sweetling, I never threaten."
Rickon guffawed, loudly. "What did you do, then?"
"We discussed the situation, and he clarified some things that needed to be said," explained Sansa unhelpfully, eyes forward. At one point, the sweeping branches of willow trees that lined the Rose Road moved in the mid-morning breeze and parted, revealing the sight of Highgarden.
Arya blinked, drawing back a little in awe.
"It's beautiful," breathed Jon, looking up at the long, squarish castle on top of a hill, spreading from one edge of the mount to the next, leaving sheer walls against steep inclines for a defensive position. Highgarden was not a castle with tall corner towers, like Winterfell; it was more in style to Cider Hall with its pale colour, made more jarring by the bright reds, yellows, pinks, and
purples of the roses and other flowers that crept like vines along the curtainwalls.
There were taller sections to the castle, square blocks that jutted from the middle of the castle, not touching the curtainwalls for added protection and overlooked the Mander and the Rose Road; vines covered those buildings as well, giving the whole of Highgarden a mysterious and ethereal feel of merging with nature, full of hidden pockets and shadowy canopies as treetops peaked over the curtainwalls at different heights, indicating various levels of courtyards and gardens within the castle property.
"And to think," murmured Sansa, "I was to be Lady of all this, once."
Jon glanced sharply at her. When was that? he wondered, brow furrowed. Had Sansa not told him everything of before, or what this one of those small moments that slipped her mind because it was inconsequential to her?
"Looks a bit frilly," commented Rickon, wrinkling his nose, even as his eyes darted all over the curtainwall and then lower, at the base of the hill, by the gatehouse, moat, and drawbridge. "Probably stinks too, from all the flowers."
Arya, Sansa, and Jon turned to look at their youngest sibling, who caught their gazes and said, defensively, "What?"
"Erm, nothing," replied Jon, clicking his tongue, and moving his horse forward.
The procession made their way to the guardhouse without fuss, but even as they passed through
and rode their horses up the hill, privately Jon had to agree with Rickon; everything in Highgarden was a bit frilly – from the excessive cloaks and ornaments on the Tyrell guards, the gold-flaked and tipped spears they carried; the prettily trimmed topiary that lined the inner courtyard... it was a mix of decadent and ostentatious, all made to show how many coins the Tyrells had to spend on frivolous items.
Neither Arya nor Rickon could quite manage to conceal their thoughts on their faces as they brought their horses to rest inside the courtyard, where the Tyrells would greet them; both wore an interesting mix of disgust and astonishment at what they saw. Both Bran and Sansa had the blankest and most serene masks of the group, while Robb – and Jon – struggled into something polite if not mildly impressed.
The Tyrell family was waiting, on a patio of laid brick that turned into a winding path, angled off toward various side buildings in the courtyard and lined with short, squared greenery. The path also widened to accommodate those who entered through the drawbridge gate – particularly with horses, as Jon spotted a few quick and nimble stableboys sweep and collect horse droppings from the brick, whisking the smelly pieces away before they could stink up the warm air.
Mace Tyrell stood on a low stone deck, protected from the elements – in this case, a warm mid- morning sun – by an arching, stone balcony that was as wide as it was tall, and bracketed by two columns with vines that twisted up and around them. He had a belly that stretched the green of his tunic, trimmed with gold, indicating he ate well and joyfully. He had all his hair in comparison to Fossoway – closer to a blond than brown –, and a rather open expression on his face as his brown eyes darted from one Stark to the next, as well as Fossoway and his sons.
At his left, stood his wife, Alerie Hightower – a beautiful, thin woman that bordered on willowy with long brown hair in a half-bun (something strangely uncomplicated for a Southern woman), and a pretty silk dress with cutouts at the shoulders that revealed her décolletage that was matronly but still stylish.
At Mace Tyrell's right was a young man near twenty who inherited his mother's height – tall and thin – with thick, wavy brown hair and a smartly trimmed anchor beard and disconnected mustache. He leaned heavily on a light wood cane, which complemented his deeper green tunic and honey-coloured doublet.
Beside him was a shorter man with light, curly brown hair streaked with gold, muscled and strong, eyeing them with curiosity and lingering on the men's waists where Robb and Jon had their swords. A woman that shared Owen Fossoway's looks, with long, loose strawberry blonde hair, stood at the man's right, her hand resting on his inner elbow.
The last two figures next to Fossoway's daughter were opposite in colour as well as significantly younger than the other two men by at least a decade: the boy had blond curls and was all elbows and knobby knees but a solid frame and the girl, willowy for her age with long, curly brown hair. At her side, finishing the line of Tyrells, stooped an older woman with a cane and wimple: the infamous Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell.
Greetings were made toward Fossoway first, as the two families were soon to be united in marriage, and then Mace Tyrell turned to the Starks once they dismounted their horses and were lined up, with Bran already in his wheelchair – something that had all the Tyrells pause and stare at.
"Erm, greetings," began Mace, stumbling a bit. "Welcome to – er, Highgarden – erm, my Lords and Ladies...?"
Robb bowed shallowly. "Robb Stark, Lord Tyrell."
Olenna's eyes narrowed on him, raking up and down. "Robb Stark is a boy of merely ten namedays."
"That is true, my Lady," said Robb as he rose, glancing at her. "And yet, I am who I say I am. I have a letter from my father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, to confirm such."
He passed another sealed letter – as their father had written about a dozen for them to use – to Lord Tyrell. The man unsealed the letter and read it quickly as well as expressively, absently handing it to his eldest son to read, who then quickly passed it down to Olenna, who huffed at being last.
"Well," she said finally. She looked Robb up and down. "If you weren't before me, I wouldn't believe it." She eyed him a bit longer, looking like she was about to reach out and poke him.
Robb tentatively shifted away, then cleared his throat. "May I introduce my siblings? Erm, in order of age: Jon Snow—"
Jon gave a quick, sharp nod from where he lingered behind Bran. "Sansa Stark—" Sansa curtseyed prettily and deeply.
"Arya Stark, and Bran Stark."
"My apologies for interrupting, my Lord, but – Lord Bran – your chair—" Willas gestured with his free hand, sending a longing look at it even as his own hand tightened painfully on the top of his cane.
"I'm unable to walk," explained Bran, his voice and tone stoic. "There was an... accident when I was younger."
"And finally, Rickon Stark," finished Robb, turning to the youngest of them all. Rickon bared his teeth in a parody of a smile.
Bread and salt were offered, as well as explanations that the Starks only were to stay a few days before continuing to Oldtown.
"Nonsense!" cried Fossoway, a glint in his eyes that made all of the Starks wary. "My Lord Tyrell – surely the Starks should stay and experience all the hospitality Highgarden has to offer?"
Excited at the prospect of showing off, Mace nodded. "Yes, yes! I insist!"
Jon shot Lord Fossoway a quick, dirty look that the man ignored, forcing Sansa and Robb to confer quietly. It was Sansa who turned back to the Tyrells and accepted the lengthened offer.
"I hope we won't be here too long," muttered Arya to her when they were shown inside the cool castle. "It feels like we're prisoners."
"This is no different than when we went south the first time," murmured back Sansa, eyes looking around, despite her pleasant mask. "Just a different shade of it."
"Wonderful," Arya grunted, unhappily. "And I don't even have a dancing master here to entertain me."
"No," answered Rickon cheerfully, slinging an arm across her shoulders, given they were the same height. Arya scowled at him, shoving his arm off. "But there's us. If we're to be here for longer
than expected, why not show these Southrons what we Northern savages can do?"
Then, Arya grinned, a slow widening of her mouth until it turned as predatory as their direwolf
sigil was known for. "Oh... this is going to be much better than I thought!"
"Just... don't be too obvious, Arya," said Sansa worriedly. "At least, not until we all agree on it
going forward."
"Fine," the younger female Stark agreed, although it was given so blithely that Sansa didn't have much hope of reigning her in, not with Rickon egging her on.
For the first few days, Jon had begged his family to keep their heads down and not make any scenes, something Sansa agreed, given she had the most experience with the Tyrells. They were to observe and be polite, only.
Mace Tyrell had been a wonderful host; generous with his feasts and banquets, encouraging activities with hawking and falconry, opening his library for Bran, inviting Sansa to join the ladies for their embroidery (Arya was given one look by the perfumed ladies of Olenna, Alerie, and Margaery's court and decided instead to explore Highgarden's many mazes and walking paths with Rickon). Robb and Jon joined the Fossoways by default of their lord (knowing who Jon was and was not dismissive of the bastard in the group as some of Highgarden were), and they often spent time doing minor stretches or spars and helping the Fossoway sons.
Then, later, they converged in Jon's given rooms (much further away near the servants, which had very much angered Robb, Arya, and Rickon), as his would be least likely for Tyrell spies to listen in, to discuss their plans forward.
"We can't tiptoe around the people of Westeros forever," argued Robb, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. "Fossoway already knows – although I doubt he's spoken to his sons—" Both Sansa and Arya shook their heads to indicate their agreement with Robb's statement. "—and eventually," continued Robb then, "others will need to know if we're to put Jon on the throne."
"Maintaining the status quo is the best option right now," refuted Jon quietly, from where he sat on his narrow bed, Sansa pressed shoulder-to-shoulder next to him. "As much as I might dislike it, doing as Varys does by keeping the peace and serving the realm is the best option. Gathering followers just means that sooner or later someone will slip up and endanger our plans, as well as my younger self. And we most certainly cannot have that happen while Robert sits on the throne."
"He's bloody rarely on it," muttered Arya with an eye roll. "Too busy elsewhere."
"You need allies," Sansa pointed out. "The Tyrells were Targaryen loyalists—"
"They had the easiest position during the Rebellion," interrupted Rickon, brows furrowed. "Didn't they? They didn't support Rhaegar at the Trident – they just had to siege Storm's End, for months. They missed most of the action and immediately surrendered when father appeared."
That stopped most of the discussion as they all contemplated Rickon's point. Then, Robb offered, "Wouldn't that almost be better? We want to proceed slowly – the goal might be Jon on the throne so that he can bring Westeros together to fight the Long Night – but having a strong ally like the Tyrells and the rest of the Reach who didn't necessarily participate in the Rebellion would benefit us."
"How so?" asked Jon from the bed. He was frowning, trying to work out the politics.
"Well, they didn't engage the North and its allies at the Trident, so there won't be any bad blood," offered Robb slowly.
"And they weren't affected too badly after the fact by reparations," added Arya, tugging at a lock of her hair. "So, they maintained their riches and can help support you financially."
"Which we don't really need since Bran found us our account in Braavos," countered Jon wryly, "But good attempt."
Arya stuck her tongue out at him.
"Under Mace Tyrell, they didn't make the best military moves," began Sansa, gaze inward. "He doesn't quite have a head for it – he's much more interested in appearances than action. As your ally now, he wouldn't do anything that would be a political or military blunder in accidentally revealing you."
"Alternatively, because he's not a successful military leader, he just might," countered Jon tartly. "And as much as Sam went off about his father, Randyll Tarly is a military genius, and if Mace Tyrell tells his bannermen..."
"Which he won't," said Bran firmly.
All eyes swung to him, as he had been sitting quietly in his chair, listening to their debates. "What did you see?" asked Robb carefully, still wrapping his head around Bran's abilities.
"Nothing," huffed Bran, rolling his eyes, "As I've said before – I can't see the future with any certainty. But like Dorne, the Tyrells would seek out a Targaryen alliance. Oberyn already left for Braavos to find Viserys and Daenerys—"
"A marriage between Viserys and Arianne, then?" mused aloud Sansa.
Bran dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "And if the Tyrells had the means and knowledge, they would have done the same. They lack the connections Oberyn Martell has in Essos. It is only for that reason that they haven't proceeded further with any plans—"
"And that Olenna will probably turn her eyes toward King's Landing," finished Sansa with a sigh. "Like originally."
"But they married Margaery to Renly?" asked Arya in confusion. "Why do that if being the queen of the seven kingdoms is the goal?"
"He was apparently good-looking?" offered Rickon wryly from his spot against the wall next to Robb. "Strong? Strapping? All I remember about Joffrey was... wormy."
Arya snorted.
"Renly had the charisma and the Reach through his, uh, friendship with Loras," explained Sansa, "And quite a few of the Stormlords, too. He had a larger army and likely a higher chance of success compared to Stannis."
"He and mother didn't quite get around to speaking about an alliance," offered Robb, looking down as he tried to remember those chaotic early days in the Riverlands. "I think he died when they were to speak of it. I would have welcomed his help, and alliance, if he agreed, so long as he recognized the North as independent."
Slyly, Sansa shot him a long look and asked, "Not the Riverlands?" Robb made a face. "They were more work than what was worth."
"And you want to saddle me with them and everyone else?" Jon affected a hurt tone. "My thanks, brother."
Robb grinned at him.
"To return to the point," bit Arya, "Do we continue as we were or... relax enough to show them who we are rather than what people expect?" She glanced at Sansa. "It would mean acknowledging our talents just as much as our..." she paused, swallowing thickly, "scars."
Robb rubbed nervously at his throat while Sansa looked down at the floor. They had the most obvious marks – Robb's neck and Sansa's back – but Jon and Rickon's chest wounds would be clear if they sparred without their shirts. It was one thing to say with their father's letter that they were from the future and have people vaguely acknowledge it and another for them to see the visual effects of that future in mortal wounds.
"I spent a long time pretending to be someone I wasn't," murmured Sansa. "And I don't want to go back on that, to forget what I went through and survived."
Jon reached out and took Sansa's hand in his, tightly lacing their fingers together. She offered him a weak, but grateful smile.
"I want to learn from my mistakes and grow," admitted Robb, hunching over a bit. "I want a second chance to do better."
"I want to be worth more than my gender," added Arya fiercely. "That I can fight just as well as anyone else and ensure that the other Aryas out there – daughters like me, like Brienne – can have opportunities."
Bran looked around at his siblings and offered, quietly, "I just want to win. The Night King took everything from us – and I want to take everything from him. Whatever it takes."
"I just want to live," said Rickon quietly. "I died so young... I had so many dreams..." Robb reached out and tugged Rickon against him in a side-hug.
Jon let out a gusty breath, looking around the room. "I was hidden, first purposefully, and then by design to avoid upsetting our already tenuous position before the Long Night. Hiding didn't help us any, and it certainly didn't help me. So..."
He gave one last look at Robb, Sansa, Arya, Rickon and Bran, pressing his lips tightly together and clenching his jaw.
"We need to be careful. The Gods know, we need to be so very careful," he stressed, looking longest at Rickon and Arya. "But... no more hiding. What I will do – I do for the living. For Westeros. And..." he trailed off, voice dropping as he finished quietly, "For me. To be the person my parents wanted me to be."
Sansa tugged on their joined hands. "No more hiding." "Whatever it takes," agreed Robb, a twist to his lips.
"To live," added Rickon with a grin.
"For everyone," finished Arya, eyes alight with inner motivation.
The change was immediate and noticed the next day, when Robb, Jon, Arya, and Rickon appeared on the training grounds. While Bran was in the library preparing for Oldtown and Sansa was with Olenna and Margaery, the others joined the Fossoways and Garlan and Loras Tyrell. Initially, none had participated much beyond helpful pointers and being observers, but that day, they did.
Robb forwent his fashionable neck scarf that hid the lurid scar from his beheading, making Loras take a second glance at him when he entered the courtyard and caused him to walk into Highgarden's Master of Arms in shock.
The Starks had commandeered a corner of the yard, a smaller training ring separate from the area where the Tyrells would practice. Robb's lack of fashion choice had caught Lord Fossoway's attention, as well as his sons' and Mace's, especially as the Starks warmed up and prepared for a free-for-all four-way spar.
Initially, it was slow: the four tested each other's defences and methods. Robb and Jon were familiar enough with each other from having grown up and trained together, but Arya's water dance was unique to them, and Rickon didn't know what the word 'finesse' meant.
Then, once they were warmed under the morning sun, Rickon widely grinned at them and suggested, "First blood?"
The other three paused and glanced at each other, Robb's chest heaving as he panted. "Aye, I'll take that."
Jon nodded his agreement, moving to a corner to shuck off his shirt, which already had a line of sweat around the neck and down the back. Robb did the same; Rickon left his shirt on but removed the doublet and untucked it.
Their scars were visible to everyone who cared to look.
"Gods," someone muttered, their voice catching on the wind, even though the four ignored it.
Robb swung his sword in a loose circle as he rotated his wrist, then stood side-faced and ready, eyes darting to each of his siblings, while Jon went for a much more Northern approach and squared his frame, both hands on his hilt with the sword parallel to the ground in front of him.
Rickon copied Jon, while Arya turned sideways to mimic Robb. There was silence between them, the air ripe with eager anticipation—
Rickon let out a loud cry and twisted on his heel, turning to swing his sword at Arya, who grinned and dodged the blade, weaving and ducking under and parrying it with a slash of her own blade.
Robb, who had never seen Arya fight, brought his own sword down, the two of them attacking their sister; she twisted, caught Robb's blade, and deflected it, sending Robb's swing into Rickon, who swore in the Old Tongue and batted it away with a glare.
Jon laughed and threw himself forward into the fray, beating down at Rickon who spat a slew of insults at Jon, each more descriptive than the last as Jon kept hammering at Rickon with his sword, forcing the teenager on defence.
"You're strong, Rickon, but you're like a rabid dog," he panted, even as he parried Rickon's latest attempt and turned to shove at Arya when she got too close to him during her fight with Robb.
"Jon!" she wailed, rolling forward in a tumble to avoid a hit and popping up behind Robb instead, who spun in surprise.
"All's fair, little sister!" cheerfully called Jon, disarming Rickon with a fancy riposte that was more distraction by the way Rickon first blocked the sword aimed for his side, only for Jon to use the hilt to bash his nose in, gaining first blood with a broken nose.
"Dat wadn'th nice, Don," mulishly stated Rickon thickly, balefully staring at him with blood dripping over his mouth and down his chin. He morosely picked his sword up and walked to the edge of the training pit, arms crossed as he settled in to watch Arya, Robb, and Jon. He did nothing to wipe the blood from his face, instead letting it pool in his mouth to spit out to the side, ignoring Loras' wide-eyed stare as he did so.
Robb was sweating furiously, a red flush not just across his face but also across his chest due to his Tully colouring, which turned the arrow scars on his pectorals silver and his neck scar a deeper colour, closer to purple. Both Jon and Arya had ganged up on him, Jon maintaining some distance with his bastard sword, moving through a series of smashes against Robb's sword as the Stark heir struggled against Jon's painfully thorough hits and Arya's lightning-quick darts under and around him as she distracted and annoyed him.
Eventually, Arya knicked Robb's sword arm, and he dropped his sword immediately, glaring at the thin red line from her first blood. He strode off to the side, muttering under his breath, and joined Rickon who had the Fossoway brothers clustered around him, their eyes on those in the ring.
"Just me and you now," grinned Arya, keeping light on her feet, her hair in disarray and sweaty. Jon nodded back. "Aye, looks like."
The two eyed each other for a moment, and then Arya dashed forward, sword parallel to the ground in a forward jab as she used her momentum to dart to the side with her sword going the other way.
Jon easily blocked it, a quick parry with the flat of his blade. A twist of his wrist had it swing toward her, and Arya blocked the move by twisting on her heel and digging in, her sword clanging against Jon's as it ran down the sharp edge to the hilt.
Now facing the opposite way from when she started, Arya forced Jon to turn and hold his ground, using his height and weight to swing hard and down, forcefully pushing her back step by step, gaining ground on her as she let him move her back.
There was a tiny furrow between her eyebrows as she fought with him; she was giving too much ground – but they had never fought against each other before, she had only fought with Brienne when she returned to Winterfell. Seeking an opening, Arya let Jon push her back; he wasn't using his full force on her, and while a part of her was annoyed, another was grateful as she would've been black and blue or utterly dead.
Finally, Arya spotted a way in – Jon would raise his sword a smidge too high when bringing the bastard blade on the downstroke, and so she snuck under his defences and jabbed upward, catching his wrist; but at the same time, his sword hit her outer thigh and drew blood, bringing them to a draw.
Around them, spectators erupted into cheers. The two stepped back from one another, alike grins
on their faces.
"Good show," commented Jon. "I see training with Brienne did help, some."
"It's always fun to spar against bigger opponents," agreed Arya. She brought a hand up and wiped at a collection of sweat against her brow. "I'd best take a bath before Sansa sees me, though."
"Too late," replied Jon, eyes over Arya and beyond, a slight flush on his face as he realized the size of the crowd.
Arya turned; her mouth parted in surprise. Sansa with Bran by her side, a placid look on his face, stood with Willas, Margaery, Olenna and a few of their Tyrell cousins, clapping with a pleased look on her face – and one of equal shock on the Tyrells'. The shock from the Tyrell's matched the look on the others in the yard: Mace Tyrell, Garlan, their guards.
Loras had been hounding Rickon by the looks of things, talking his ear off and, upon the conclusion of their spar, hauled himself up and over the training fence to skid to a stop before Jon.
"That was amazing," he gushed, his voice cracking. His green eyes were wide and – Arya snorted – filled with longing and awe. "That final move – the twist you did—"
Jon ducked his head and rubbed at the back of his neck, bashfully. "Ah, thank you, my Lord—"
"Can you show me that?" interrupted Loras, and then he turned to Arya and bowed. "And my Lady – I had never thought to see a woman fight as you did! Please excuse my ignorance. Your skills are superb. What is the name of the master swordsman who taught you?"
The two youngest Fossoways leaned in as well, eager to hear her answer.
Arya's proud grin faded somewhat when she faced Loras. "I was taught for several moons by a Braavosi, who taught me their waterdancing. After that..." She trailed off and shrugged. "A few years on the run, being hunted hones your survival skills quickly until I found myself in Braavos, where I had the opportunity to continue my training."
Jon exhaled quietly; glad Arya did not admit she had Faceless Man training; that would have been much harder to explain away. Yet, her words had some murmuring, discussing the topic of the other Starks, of what caused her to be on the run – and their gruesome scars.
"Jon, Arya," said Sansa, catching their attention. "I've told Rickon and Robb, but Bran is ready to leave tomorrow for Oldtown at the Citadel. Willas kindly sent a raven to his grandfather Hightower for assistance, should Bran require it."
Oh, Willas, is it now, Sansa? thought Jon, a smirk driving one corner of his mouth up as he held her eyes.
She refused to blush, arching instead one thin eyebrow in response, which made Jon laugh softly.
"Very well—" he began when Lord Fossoway approached the small group and spoke over him.
"My apologies," he said, sidling up to them and sending a very beseeching and apologetic look toward Jon, "But should Lord Bran be off to the Citadel on his own? It is still a sennight's journey."
Sansa sent the man an evaluating look, from his boots to his bald head and gave a slow nod. "'Tis true, my Lord."
"We've already journeyed with you this distance, my Lady, and my boy, Mathias, has proclaimed an interest in joining the ranks of the Maesters," continued Fossoway. "Mayhaps he, and his brothers, can join Lord Bran? As an escort?"
Jon shot Fossoway an unimpressed look. The man was clearly trying to curry favour with him by focusing on Bran's protection, and as one of the first to know Jon's secret heritage, he was trying to integrate himself.
Bran was also not favourable to this, but for other reasons. "I can handle myself on the trip," he said, indignant. His eyebrows met above his nose, and he looked between Jon and Sansa with a minor scowl on his face. "You know this. I don't need babysitters, Sansa."
"Just how are you planning on getting off your horse, Bran?" called Rickon from where he sat on the dividing wooden fence between the training yard and the smaller one. Loras was leaning against the fence as well, on an even height with Rickon. "Are you going to throw yourself over its flank? Dangle from the mane?"
Bran shot Rickon a nasty look.
"You need someone to attend you, Bran," said Sansa softly, imploringly.
"I don't need them," hissed Bran in the Old Tongue, the guttural language forcing Fossoway, as well as Willas and Olenna who stood with Sansa, blink in surprise. Margaery looked back and forth between the Starks in surprise and calculation, but mostly amusement.
"You do need them," countered Sansa in the same language, although slightly tripping over the pronunciation. She switched to the Common Tongue next. "And that's why Jon will be going with you."
"Wait, what?" Jon's head swivelled to face Sansa, and Arya hooted loudly, slapping a hand against her thigh.
"Lord Fossoway's sons certainly wouldn't be there for you," continued Sansa, "Not entirely. The Old Gods know what Jon could get up to left on his own."
"True," laughed Robb as he strode up to them, a towel around his neck and hiding his scar, despite all knowing it was there. Sweat still glistened off him, though – it was as though he hadn't used the towel properly. "Last time Jon went off on his own, ended up joining a bunch of wildlings and then dealing with a revolt at Castle Black, did you not?"
Garlan's mouth dropped open. "You spent time beyond the wall?"
Jon ignored Garlan and stared at Robb. "Aye, thank you for the reminder, brother. How could I vividly forget my time? Or that my actions led to my first death?"
"First death?" muttered Garlan to Willas.
"Please Jon?" begged Sansa, widening her blue eyes larger as she clasped her hands before her, just
under her chin.
He scowled. "I know what you're doing." She pushed out her lower lip, and it trembled. "Damnit, Sansa, stop that."
She blinked and batted her eyelashes. "Please?"
He sighed, a long and loud sound that signalled he gave in to her demands. "Fine."
"Oh, thank you, Jon!" she enthused, throwing her arms around his neck, and hugging him, hanging heavily off him.
Jon grumbled under his breath but hugged her back and then peeled her off, fighting a smile.
"Well, I suppose we must have provisions set aside for you, my Lord," said Willas happily, cocking out an elbow toward Sansa. "Shall we, my Lady? You can tell the kitchen what your brothers require for the journey."
Sansa slipped her hand in the crook of Willas' elbow and wandered off with him, leaving Olenna to snort once they were barely out of earshot. "Twitterpated, that boy is."
"Grandmama!" twittered Margaery, a hand brought up to cover her mouth in mock shock.
"At least it's mutual," replied Arya with an eye roll. She then turned to Robb. "What do you say? Rematch?"
"Very well, little sister," agreed Robb with a sharp grin, "And now that I know your style, prepare to be trounced."
"Ha!"
Jon stood at the side of the training yard, slightly bemused at his siblings' antics. Looking at Bran, he said, "Just us, then, Bran? Anything to worry about for the journey ahead?"
"No," answered Bran, his eyes lightening the dark colour to something warm. "I do believe that you'll find exactly what you're looking for."
TBC...