There were two options for going forward.
One: journey southward into Dorne proper, make their way to any of the port cities like Starfall, or Hellholt, or even the Salt Shore, the Tor, or brave Sunspear, which was the height of stupidity given that they were Starks, and it was Lyanna Stark that Rhaegar had run away with, throwing over Elia Martell.
Or, two: go back north, stay a tense but polite night at Nightsong, and then hightail it back to Highgarden for the generosity of the Tyrells and the remaining Fossoways who were probably still lingering there, to Olenna Tyrell's annoyance, and then make their way to Oldtown en mass so they could charter a ship and head to Essos.
"Highgarden," said Sansa firmly.
"Because you want to see Willas—" Arya mocked in a singsong voice, finishing with kissy noises. Sansa took one look at her sister, and then said, deadpan, "I hate you."
"Jon coughed into his fist, hiding a smile.
"No, it's because Jon needs allies. The Tyrells have a lot of coin, and we don't like the Lannisters, who are the other option," explained Sansa patiently, rolling her eyes upward. "They were also Targaryens supporters until the end, so we can trust them to throw their weight behind a Targaryen again – especially one with the proof we have."
It's enough that the other Starks all looked at each other warily, eyeing up which of them would crack first and either argue with Sansa, or agree with her (they all agreed with her, but no one wanted to speak first). Finally, Jon inclined his head.
"North it is."
It was always North – back North – only it would be in a roundabout manner, and it would be years before they were truly back North where the real fight would be. They all knew it, so the words were bittersweet.
Robb smiled, although it was grim and he looked so much like their father, right then. "North it is."
Out of all the Tyrells, Loras was the most excited that they had returned, followed – probably – by Willas and Margaery, and then Mace who loved the idea of boasting to his lords and neighbours that the Starks – yes, the ones that are said to have returned from the dead! Those Starks! – were staying with them.
Loras' enthusiasm died quickly when Robb explained that they would merely stay the night and then begin to make their way to Oldtown to charter a ship for the next leg of their journey.
"But you can't!" Loras cried, voice breaking.
Alerie went to shush her youngest son, and Mace flushed red in embarrassment. "Loras..."
"They can't! It's my nameday next month and Father is hosting a tournament!" the young teen pouted. "Lord Robb and Lord Jon and Lady Arya are some of the finest swordsmen I've seen! I wish to learn from them to becomes the best!"
Arya preened at the compliment.
The remaining siblings then shared looks between one another, with eyebrows lifted or pulled mouths – a wordless discussion that ended up Jon giving a shrug.
Robb turned back to face the Tyrells, who had been watching the conversation with fascination. "We wouldn't want to disappoint Lord Loras on his nameday. We will stay until the tournaments' end and then we will leave."
"Splendid!" cried Mace, face lighting up. He beamed at them, at Loras (who beamed back, just as happy), at his two, amused, elder sons, and then finally at his wife. "Absolutely splendid! And you will compete, of course!"
Mace didn't give them a chance to answer; Robb turned, wide-eyed, to Jon and Arya. "I've never been in a tourney."
Arya snorted. "You've commanded an entire army; trust me, it's much less work. Just remember not to kill anyone, brother."
"And if you do kill someone," muttered Jon, eyeing the retreating Tyrells, Sansa and Rickon already following them into the castle proper, "I'll help you hide the body."
Robb clapped Jon on the shoulder with a grin. "I always knew you were a solid sort, brother." "It's because black is my colour, Robb," replied Jon with an eye roll. "It hides the blood better." Robb laughed.
The tournament was, from the Northerner's eyes, impressive, although Garlan had told them it was one of the smaller ones Highgarden threw. The tournament grounds were outside of the castle, down along the bank of the Mander and in a cleared field with hastily erected stands and rings for the joust and mêlée on either side of the road leading up to Highgarden.
The prize money was a generous sum, but there was an undercurrent of another prize to be had: Loras, turning three-and-ten, had finished his page duties, and graduated to that of a squire – and he needed a knight to squire for. Men from all over the realm were invading the Reach, hoping that their talents would catch Loras' eyes and that they would be the honoured one in teaching the Lord Paramount's son how to become a knight.
None of the Stark children needed the coin – Jon's ancestor's bank accounts were very healthy and before they had left Braavos, Bran and Sansa had sat the Iron Bank representatives down for further investments to keep the coin growing – and further, none of the Starks were anointed knights of the realm, so they didn't have to worry about being flashy or impressive when participating in the tournament.
"We could always throw it," suggested Arya lightly, from inside the tent the Tyrell family had given them for the duration. While they slept, ate, and socialized intimately with the Tyrell family inside Highgarden, for the mêlée and joust, they were given their own tent to represent the Starks and the North as a space to change and prepare.
Mace Tyrell had changed the order of the tournament around: instead of the joust first and mêlée second, the mêlée was first, as that would decide who Loras would eventually squire for, and the joust would be the finishing event.
Sansa and Bran were already in the stands the morning of the mêlée, leaving Robb and Jon to help dress each other into their armour and leathers; Arya needed no help, but Rickon was clueless when it came to Southron fashion and protection, so Jon was crouched at Rickon's side, tightening the straps on his shin plates while Robb adjusted the ill-fitting chest plate.
And he was whining. "I don't see why I need to wear this, Robb! It's so heavy and restricting—"
"Well, unless you want to be cut in half when a knight twice your height and three times your weight slashes at you, I'd suggest you shut up," said Robb cheerfully. "They need the armour to protect them, and so do you, Rickon."
Rickon looked dubiously down at the shiny metal, poking at the chest plate. Jon had his head turned away and he couldn't see the grin that was on his face from that angle. "If you say so..."
Soon a trumpet blared throughout the grounds, just as the male Starks finished with Rickon. Jon gave him a good, solid thump on the chest, sending Rickon rocking back and forth, glaring up at Jon.
"Mêlée first," offered Arya, swaggering out of the tent with her brothers behind. "This ought to be
good."
"Stick by my side," murmured Jon to Rickon. "You're not used to fighting these sorts of men – this
is very different from the north, alright?"
Arya turned and walked backward, facing them, and looking at Robb. "Still planning on entering
the joust later this week, Robb?"
He nodded. "I never had the opportunity before, but I figured I might as well try it while we're here."
"Hmm," replied his sister, rolling her neck. Jon winced, hearing the crack. "So long as we survive this."
"Look at all the people!" breathed Rickon, eyes wide as they entered the mêlée stadium, furthest from the Mander and along the Rose Road. There were several knights milling around, joking and laughing with their liege lords; some stood by themselves, being fitted for final touches on their armour by their squires; two were swaying, already drunk – one of whom Arya recognized as a young Thoros of Myr – and another, pimply and weedy young knight was green in the face. He promptly turned and threw up, nerves getting the best of him.
Rickon wrinkled his nose.
All four were using castle-forged steel – Arya had spent the better part of twenty minutes lamenting that Jon wasn't going to use Valyrian steel, which would cut through the men easily during the mêlée until she was reminded that Dark Sister was too well known and then Jon's secret would be out – and Arya had a few extra blunted daggers she was bringing in since, out of all her siblings, she preferred close-quarter fighting.
They lined up by the officiant, stated their names to the man's goggled gaze, and then stepped aside, inside the ring but well enough away from the other knights as they entered.
"Rules?" muttered Rickon, eyes darting everywhere and taking in some of the flashy armour and proud faces.
"The mêlée is a free-for-all fight," began Robb in an undertone, watching the men around them. "The purpose is to either capture or render unconscious as many knights and lords as possible to ransom them back to their lands."
"Do we really need to ransom anyone? We've enough coin," asked Rickon, a frown on his face. "The ransom is symbolic," piped up Arya, eyeing a knight with a vicious look on her face. "First
blood works as well, but most knights won't leave unless they can't or are unconscious."
"The purpose is to showcase your skills and single out a knight at the end as the one who lasts the longest," continued Robb quietly. "So, conserve your energy and fight smart. Stick by us – we'll work together to thin the ranks."
Rickon swallowed nervously, his grip tightening on his hilt.
Another trumpet blared, and suddenly the air was tense. Anticipation hung in the air as the knights around them readier their swords, eyed their opponents and waited impatiently for the next signal.
Bracketing Rickon and Arya into the middle between him and Robb, Jon sighed, "Here we go again," just as the trumpet sang out another note.
Then, it was chaos.
The Starks did not rush into battle like many of the others around them. Instead, they stuck to the edges of the field, cutting down anyone who got close to them. They were also not the only ones sticking to the edges, carefully watching what was happened – although those soldiers and knights were often a bit older than the ones in the thick of it. The initial attacks were bloody and ferocious, but Rickon could see that the knights who leapt into the fray began to lag, panting heavily with sloppy thrusts or swings of their swords, and most began to drop from exhaustion or were knocked out.
What had begun with two hundred knights was down to less than half in barely forty minutes, the muddy space cleared of unconscious bodies or any severed fingers, but still bloody and uneven.
"Recognize anyone?" muttered Jon to Robb.
"I do," hissed Arya, eyes down the furthest end and locked on a collection of proud-looking knights. "Lannister men – and the ones in the grey, by the Riverlands stand? Freys."
Instantly, Robb's attention was captured. "Freys, you say?" "Aye."
Their bloodthirsty eyes found their targets, and Jon sighed, a hand gripping Rickon's shoulder. His mouth found his little brother's ear and he whispered to them, "Try to keep up – we're going to be moving very quickly across the field, now."
"What–?"
But Arya and Robb launched forward, leaving Jon and Rickon to scramble after them. Neither was too concerned about injuries or whom they were fighting – both Starks, invested in their target of the Freys, were shoving their way through anyone who stood between them and the expansive Frey family.
They passed a pileup of knights from the Stormlands, the large group attacking three figures buried beneath them, the sound of clangs reverberating as each sword strike hit the battered armour beneath it.
Robb roared, his sword cutting into one knight who lingered at the edges of the pileup, hitting hard against his armour, and sending the man to the mud. He cried out in pain, the hit from the sword strong enough to bruise the man's side; his face was pale from the ringing blow as he collapsed. Jon surged past Arya and Rickon, matching Robb's speed as they progressed across the muddy field.
Arya just leaped over the fallen Stormlander, dodging under the retaliated swing of his companion's sword, twisting in the mud to bring her sword up from underneath and cutting through the straps holding his armour in place, and sending the heavy pieces to the ground.
The knight cursed, but without protection, he wasn't participating further. He turned back to shout at Arya, but she had already moved on.
Jon and Robb were shoulder-to-shoulder, taking on five knights ahead of Arya and Rickon. When Jon would go low with a parry, Robb was high with a downward swing; when Jon swung his sword up and over, sending sparks spitting down on him and his opponent, Robb was in defence, blocking the others as he moved fluidly from left to right.
Arya engaged one, overwhelming the knight as he was surprised to see a woman fighting; it left Rickon with an opponent, a weaselly-looking man with prominent front teeth and two towers etched on his chest place.
"They lettin' little boys into tournaments now?" sneered the man, eyes narrowed. "S'almost not even a challenge!"
Rickon vaguely remembered the Frey boys who had come to Winterfell. He didn't like them much and had little interaction with them when they were in Winterfell, although they were innocent of their family's crimes. But he did know what the Freys had done to Robb, Mother, and Robb's new wife. Who they allied with and what the Boltons had done to Winterfell – what Ramsay had done to Osha, Shaggy, and himself.
Rage overtook Rickon, and he screamed, raising his sword into the position Jon and Robb had drilled into him and then he attacked.
Rickon swung his sword, parallel with the ground and dropped his shoulder as the Frey's sword missed him, leaving his side open for Rickon's sword to continue through, unhindered. It wasn't the flat of Rickon's sword that caught the man's side, but the sharp edge, finding leather, cloth, and skin in the small space between the chest and back plates.
The Frey shouted in pain. Rickon grinned.
But the man rallied. The hand not holding his sword swept up and the heavy gauntlet caught Rickon in the nose. There was a crunch and pain spread across his face even as he tasted blood. This was the second time his nose had been broken in so many months! He was getting tired of that, actually...
Growling, Rickon let out a savage yell and leaned down, catching the knight in the knees, and sending him flying back into the mud. Rickon overbalanced and found himself face-down in the mud, the Frey groaning beside him. But then he rose, covered in thick, brown sludge, and sat on the man's chest, his fist flying.
The first knock sent the man's head to the side; the second dislodged his helm, and the third knocked it off completely. There were weak attempts to swat Rickon away, but he placed his hand over the Frey's face, grinning, blood, and mud mixed, and with his other hand searched for the discarded helmet. Once he grabbed it, he took both hands, swung the helmet up over his head and brought it down on the Frey's nose.
And then he did it again. And again.
And again.
He was vaguely aware of Jon hauling him off the bloodied and unconscious knight, saying something to him, but all Rickon could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears, chest panting and the feeling of elation radiating out.
"Calm down, Rickon, you're coming down from the bloodlust," he heard Jon say – had he spoken out loud? "That's all this is."
He looked down at his mud-covered hands. They were shaking.
When he looked up, the mêlée was winding down. Hours had passed from when they started, not that he had noticed, and the sun was in an entirely different spot, much further across the horizon. Both he and Jon were the dirtiest, covering in mud or splattered a mix of it and blood. Robb had a slightly crazed glint to his eyes, joined by the manic smile that stretched from one ear to the other. He was surrounded by four unconscious bodies, chest heaving.
Arya seemed to be the cleanest of them, calmly wiping her blade from debris with the tail of a Frey's tunic, her eyes calm as she stood and surveyed those who remained on the field.
"Most of the Lannisters are out," she commented idly. "Shame. I'd have loved to go at them."
"Wait a few years and you can kill them instead of knocking them unconscious," offered Robb, dark glee coating his voice.
"Thoros of Myr is doing well," said Jon, watching the younger man than he remembered swinging the flaming sword. "He's holding up against a Tarly man."
"And those Stormlords – one of them looks like Beric Dondarrion," offered Arya with a squint of her eyes. "Up against Fossoway's eldest – the one that's sweet on Sansa."
The four Starks looked at each other.
"I'll take Thoros," offered Jon.
"I'll take the Tarly," said Robb, grin still on his face.
Arya glowered. "Dondarrion is mine – he was part of the Brotherhood Without Banners, especially if you're taking Thoros, Jon."
They looked at Rickon.
His shaking had subsided. "What?"
"Think you can take the Fossoway heir?" asked Jon with a frown. "Without trying to kill him? His father knows who I am and has pledged to me. It would be awkward if you did something."
Affronted, Rickon said, "He's not a Frey or Bolton, Jon, Gods. I can be polite."
Three looks of disbelief met that statement, and feeling his ire grow, Rickon turned on his heel and strode toward Fossoway, grumbling the entire way.
Determined to prove his siblings wrong, Rickon approached Fossoway ahead of Arya, joining Fossoway first in distracting and working against Dondarrion until Arya practically pounced on the man. She hung off his arm and swung her weight around his back, throwing off the young knight's balance and sending them both to the mud.
He then turned to Fossoway, said, "Sorry about this," and then walloped the flat of his sword against the man's helmet as hard as he could.
"What do you – arrrgghh!" Fossoway's heir dropped to his knees and dropped his sword, armoured hands clutching at his head as the ringing in his ears made him dizzy, pitching him forward with a groan. The man groaned again, "I think I'm going to be sick."
Rickon grimaced. "I did say sorry, and Arya wanted to fight Dondarrion." He groaned again.
Rickon turned away, knowing that he wasn't getting back up, and then watched the most intense fights he had ever seen: Robb against Randyll Tarly – not just one of his knights – and then Jon against Thoros and his flaming sword.
Robb and Tarly were evenly matched it seemed, although Robb seemed to be fighting with inner rage. The blood splatter across his cheek and forehead, messy auburn hair, and wide blue eyes certainly gave him a deranged look, each swing of his sword practically a hack or slash meant to maim or slice. Tarly was giving equally back, but both men were sliding in the displaced and slippery mud, panting, and sometimes completely missing their swings.
Robb got close to Tarly, grabbing his forearm and headbutting the man; but Tarly didn't' stumble back, instead hauling Robb to him and overbalancing, sending the two into a tight embrace where they began to grapple. Rickon saw an elbow fly and then pound against someone's back, but they were slowing down, both exhausted, their hits barely glancing off the armour now.
Rickon's eyes turned to Jon, moving like fluid around Thoros, dodging and ducking the trail of fire from his sword although he never flinched when it came near. Thoros himself seem impressed with Jon, and when their swords met, there was a loud crackle and clang, embers and sparks showering the two men and creating a spectacle that the audience had never seen before. They were cheering, their cries echoing and shaking the grounds.
Rickon had never seen Jon fight – he died before the battle that Ramsay had wanted – but he could see now why Ramsay was, in some ways, scared of Jon. Jon's fighting style was economic, a slash-and-hack, with each hit meant to dismember or incapacitate. It was a style meant to fight Wildlings or the dead, and against a knight and soldier, it was brutal.
Thoros was on the defence, the one being chased around the grounds with Jon systematically going after him, each landed hit in the same place, making Thoros grimace and then wince, and then hold back cries of pain as the bruises grew. Then Thoros was cornered, penned it underneath the Tyrell banner in the stands. At one point, Jon ducked under the flaming sword and then hit and hit and hit—
He threw his sword down and that was it – people were erupting into louder cheers; some women throwing their handkerchiefs and favours down into the mêlée pit.
"Is it over?" he asked.
Arya, a few feet over from him, glanced his way. "It is. Jon won."
Rickon let out a giant breath of air, and, knees wobbling, landed on his rear in the mud.
Robb placed well in the joust but didn't win; he shrugged and wasn't worried about it, having clearly enjoyed the experience despite his bruises and the black eye he sported, courtesy of Randyll Tarly.
Mace planned on hosting a closing feast, giving the knights, lords, and everyone else at the Highgarden court a chance to mingle and for Loras to make his decision about whom he would like to squire for. His answer threw everyone, though.
"I wish to train under Jon Snow," he announced to his parents and siblings before the start of the feast, in their private rooms.
"But he's not a knight," was the first protest that emerged from Mace's mouth, utterly confused.
"He's a Snow; he won't amount to anything," continued Olenna, lips tightly pursed. "My boy, there are so many others – why, why not Prince Renly, the king's brother?"
And that's grandmother, always thinking about how we can "grow strong", thought Willas with a mental eye roll. Anyone with eyes could see that Loras was enamoured with Jon Snow and his swordsmanship, particularly after that rather brutal and effective tournament win; and anyone with eyes and half a brain could see the stars in Loras' eyes whenever he saw the youngest, curly-haired Stark.
"He came to see Margaery earlier and brought up the idea," the Tyrell matriarch continued. "He would be an excellent choice to squire for, sweetling."
Loras, however, was not dissuaded. "Jon Snow might be a bastard, but his siblings don't care. And he's the best swordsman I've ever seen. I daresay even Garlan would have trouble fighting him, and he fights three men at once with two swords!"
All eyes turned to Garlan, who shrugged. "We've only had friendly spars, so I couldn't say for sure."
"But?" prompted Mace, wringing his hands.
Garlan grimaced. "Snow fights like every battle is his last; he goes into each fight with the expectation to survive. You don't lose against a man like that."
Olenna harrumphed, dismissive and cutting. "Mace, don't be an idiot. You can't send your youngest son – one of the most talented of the boys, as well – to squire for a Northern bastard! If he had to choose one of the Starks, he should at least pick the redhead boy—"
"Robb's good," interrupted Loras, chin tilted up in defiance, "But he's not as good as Jon. And I want to be the best swordsman in Westeros. So, I need to train with Jon Snow."
Olenna sputtered.
"Besides, if I squire for Jon, then I can still learn from Lord Robb and Lady Arya—"
"Another thing – whoever heard of a woman fighting as she does!" barked Olenna, shaking her head.
"The Mormonts in the North, I'd imagine," answered Willas dryly, who had read most of the North in his family since the Starks arrival, "And even Oberyn's daughters fight grown men."
Mace shifted, uncomfortable with the mention of the man who had indirectly ended Willas' knighthood and crippled him, despite the strong friendship the two men had.
"I don't care – squiring for the Starks doesn't do our family any good," continued Olenna. "They might be curiosities, but they're Northern and they don't even follow our Gods."
"Grandmother, you don't even follow the Seven," sighed Garlan. "That's not the point, boy," snapped Olenna.
"Let's put this conversation to hold," suggested Alerie, the family's peacekeeper. "We can revisit it after the feast."
"But I was to announce Loras' choice at the feast," whined Mace, looking put out at the idea of
being robbed of the pageantry.
"It'll hold, Mace," soothed Alerie.
"Yes, and hopefully Loras will change his mind," added Olenna, grumpy.
Willas shot a look at his youngest brother, taking in the mulish, downturn of his brow and mouth, the stubborn tilt to his chin and the clenching of his hands.
Mmm, he thought, a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach, I think grandmother is going to be disappointed.
Loras did not change his mind, just like Willas thought. In fact, he kept to his decision, digging in his heels so staunchly that Garlan joked he was growing roots to grow strong in his opinions. That didn't endear Olenna to Garlan, who found himself dismissed from her sight whenever they crossed paths for a sennight afterward.
The Starks had been asked to remain in Highgarden, despite their plans to leave immediately following the tournament, much to their confusion. Other lords lingered, so it didn't look so strange, as each privately dined with the Tyrells until it was their turn, ahead of the promised, if not slightly delayed, closing feast.
Dinner began with polite conversation, as none of the Tyrells had seen much of the Starks since. Both Garlan and Loras congratulated Jon on winning the mêlée and then passing on the tournament win to give it to Thoros instead. Sansa was enthusiastically speaking with Margaery and Alerie while Olenna kept a keen eye on those at the table. The conversation turned to the other
contestants and their prowess in the mêlée; Loras' recount of Rickon's aggressive attack on the Frey was done with relish.
By the time dessert was served, Mace had several cups of Arbor Gold and had lamented, loudly, "If only Loras would make his mind up!"
Attention piqued, Robb turned to the Lord Paramount. "His mind up about what, my Lord?"
The Tyrells at the table shifted uncomfortably but Olenna had no compunctions about hiding her opinions. "He wants to squire for your brother."
Loras flushed red at his end of the table.
"Anyway! Mother," chastised Mace loudly, a panicked look on his face, "Do tell us, Lord Robb, where are you planning on going next?"
"Uh, Essos, my Lord," answered Robb hesitantly, glancing at Jon, and wondering if it was supposed to be a secret or not. "We have plans to visit the Free Cities."
"What's in the Free Cities?" asked Garlan curiously. "Are you thinking of Myr, or further afield to Volantis or Astapor?"
"Volantis," answered Robb quietly, looking down at his plate. "I have someone I must apologize to."
Garlan's brown furrowed in confusion.
"Aren't the exiled Targaryens somewhere in Essos?" asked Mace, trying to change the melancholic
atmosphere to something a bit gossipier. "You'd best steer clear of them, my Lords, Ladies, given your family's histories!"
It was an attempt, but it only highlighted the awkward turn the evening had made. It also brought up the point that Sansa wanted them to focus on: the Tyrells had supported the Targaryens before, and they would need that support again in the future. Jon eyed Olenna, for a long moment. The only way for them to succeed was to get her on their side... His eyes trailed from the Tyrell family matriarch to Bran, seated beside him at the table, who gave him the tiniest nod – telling him to use the information he gave him earlier that evening before dinner.
He mentally sighed.
"Lady Tyrell," he began, catching the group's attention. He carefully put his utensils down so he could focus on the older woman.
"Snow," she said, voice a bit raspy but mostly dismissive and bored. She idly stirred her teaspoon in a tea she hadn't deigned to take a sip from.
Across from him, Robb griped his dessert fork tighter.
"There is a matter of which I – along with my siblings – would like to discuss with you, in private," he began.
Loras, at the other end of the table, perked up, face full of hope. However, Rickon, on his other side in a place of honour (which had certainly annoyed a few of the visiting Reachlords and Renly Baratheon, none of whom had been invited to the private family dinner that evening), knew Jon's tone of voice and kept a grim countenance, even as he began to aggressively chew to mash the decadent cake on his plate.
Olenna's eyes did not narrow, but it certainly seemed so when she replied, "Is that right?" Mace glanced between the two. "What matter would you like to discuss Snow?"
"It's a... delicate matter," answered Jon carefully, eyes darting toward Sansa, as though for reassurance, except she didn't notice. "And one I would prefer to speak to you, your Lady wife, and heir alone about."
Willas frowned, green eyes moving away from Jon to search out Sansa, who, next to Robb, was delicately cutting her lemon cake into tiny pieces with a vacant smile on her face. Why had Jon looked at her?
Olenna snorted.
"Mother!" bit Mace, going red in the face from embarrassment. For all that Jon was a Snow, a bastard in the Reach's eyes, he was connected to the Starks and was one of the Starks who mysteriously returned – making him an interesting dinner commodity. Upsetting him, and by extension, his siblings, would be a horrible blunder that Mace did not want to make, and his mother was doing an excellent job being herself.
"Bastards don't bring up important matters," replied Olenna, eyes focused on Jon, who met her stare face-on. "They have an inflated sense of self-importance when they are nothing but reminders of someone's lust and wandering gaze."
"Lady Olenna!" barked Robb, rising to his feet in protest, Arya a second behind him.
"Mother!" wailed Mace, aghast alongside Garlan's shocked rebuke, "Grandmother!"
But Olenna continued to stir her tea, watching Jon – and how he didn't react. Her eyes did narrow
the tiniest then.
"You are, of course, welcome to your opinions," he said dryly, "But the matter must still be discussed. If this is your attitude, however, I would ask only to speak to your son and wife."
"Yes, yes, of course," blustered Mace, eyes darting between the two, sweat beading on his temples.
"You're not taking my grandson," said Olenna. "He wants to be a knight of the realm, the best swordsman since Arthur Dayne. He's impressive at only three-and-ten, and he won't learn more from you – you might be a Lord's get, boy, but you're no knight."
Jon raised his eyebrows. "Noted, Lady Olenna. And while that is something that Lord Tyrell will decide – that is not the matter I wish to speak of."
He took a deep breath, recalled Bran's nod, and pointedly asked, "Have you always been so opinionated, Lady Olenna? I'd imagine your parents must have been quite shocked when you informed them that you wouldn't marry Prince Daeron."
"He broke the betrothal, boy, not me," replied Olenna sharply, arching her eyebrows. Jon pressed his lips together, and thought, sorry, grandfather, Duncan—and then spoke.
"And finding him and Ser Jeremy Norridge together certainly had nothing to do with it," continued Jon, eyeing her. "Especially not when you threatened to tell the King and Queen about them when you knew Aegon had already had to manage three broken betrothals from Daeron's older siblings, and he was scrambling to keep some alliances."
Olenna stilled, but it was so carefully done that unless someone was watching her, looking for a sign, it would have been missed.
"And when Daeron threatened you back, about keeping quiet, you laughed." Jon took a deep breath. "Because you didn't give one whit about the Targaryens if they were going to be oathbreakers, and you were going to do everything you could to hold them in contempt and make them need you. So, you married Shaera's betrothed – another spurned house – in Luthor Tyrell, bringing wealth and power to Highgarden from the Redwyne family."
Mace's mouth had dropped open. "Mother? Is that true?"
Olenna's face was pinched, but she didn't confirm or deny anything.
"Aegon knew his children had upset several Lord Paramounts – Tully, Tyrell, Baratheon – and amends were needed," continued Jon, striving for nonchalance despite sweating buckets. His heart pounded; everything hinged on what Bran had told him, about convincing Olenna that they were worth speaking to because they had information no one else had, making them irreplaceable. "House Tyrell received tax breaks and the ability to set purchase price on their goods, and you took advantage of that. It's because of your spite that House Tyrell is so rich and affluent, controlling Westeros' food supply – and that made House Tyrell nigh untouchable by Aerys and his madness, keeping your family safe. He may have been stupid enough to burn lords alive, but he was smart enough to keep the smallfolk fed."
He reached for his ale and toasted her with it. "Well done, my Lady."
There was a terse silence around the table, eyes bouncing between Jon, who was calmly watching Olenna, and Olenna who was staring back at Jon with dark, shrouded eyes. Finally, something in her face shifted. While still looking at Jon, she demanded, "Clear the room."
Garlan practically leapt to his feet, pulling back Margaery's chair as well so she could rise; he then hauled Loras, sputtering, out of his chair. "Time to go, little brother."
"B-But--!"
Rickon smoothly rose, turning to Loras. "Come; show me that move you did the other day – in the square? The one where you put your weight on your back foot?"
Robb and Arya, their faces tense, glanced at Jon, who nodded at them. Olenna's sharp eyes did not miss this, and something speculative rippled over her face before she smoothed it out, finally taking a sip of her lukewarm tea.
Then, when only Jon, Sansa, and Bran sat at the table with Olenna, Mace, Alerie, and Willas, leaving several empty spots and discarded, half-finished desserts around them, did Olenna speak next. "Well, Snow? The table is yours."
"Actually, my Lady," piped up Sansa, her pleasant, absent-minded façade drifting away to reveal the stoic and hard visage of the Queen in the North. "The table is really ours for what we wish to speak to you about."
Willas blinked, the equivalent of a loud gasp and dropped mouth from shock.
Olenna cackled. "Well, girl, you certainly played a good game if you're finally showing your teeth. Very well."
Jon gave the matriarch a terse smile, even as Bran took the bundled package from his lap, passing it over to his older brother. "We have a story to tell you, my Lords, my Ladies. It will sound strange, but the longer I speak... the more it will make sense."
Mace blustered, a bit red and confused, but Alerie, brow furrowed, placed a hand over Mace's on the table to calm him. "Then speak, my Lord."
So, Jon did.
Much, much later, Willas walked calmly and slowly through Highgarden's many tiered gardens, lost in his thoughts of the revelations from dinner that evening. Despite the lingering pain in his leg from where it shattered and healed improperly, going for walks always helped clear his mind and there was a lot to sort through with what Sansa, Bran, and Jon – a hidden Targaryen king – revealed.
His head remained bowed, floppy hair a curtain obscuring his vision, and his walking stick kept a rhythmic tap tap tap as he wandered, his feet automatically taking him to one of two of his favourite places: the kennels, where he bred his hounds. His hawks and horses would not give him comfort while he unpacked his thoughts.
Lanterns created a cozy, warm and intimate atmosphere, the scent of hay, wool, and dog as comforting as a warm drink on a cold night. But the kennel was occupied when he stepped inside, stopping just over the threshold.
Willas kept the sires and dams separate, to avoid any unplanned litters and to keep his breeding
lines, but when he entered the kennel, all the crates were open, letting the dogs mingle – but there wasn't a single sound of aggression, even though he knew at least two of the bitches were in heat. Instead, Willas blinked as he took in the mutual grooming, the lazy sprawl of a few others, the excited yips of two litters of pups, playing with one another, and the three dogs from different breeds that were clamouring for attention, whining, and pawing at the figure crouched over Brenna, his favourite wolfhound from the north. Brenna was belly-up, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she panted happily and the figure gave her friendly scritches and belly pats, cooing.
Sansa looked different from the stoic woman at dinner, a smile on her face and a lightness to her eyes, kneeling on the wooden floor of the kennel and uncaring of the dirt or dirty pawprints that appeared on her skirts.
When Sansa and her siblings had first appeared at Highgarden, led in by Lord Fossoway, Willas would have been blind instead of lame to not recognize her beauty. Taller than considered fashionable for a woman, Sansa had high cheekbones and wide blue eyes; she drew attention for those attributes, but kept the attention on her with her long, bright red hair – and when the sun hit her just the right way, she looked like her hair was on fire. It was glorious.
He had seen the looks Fossoway's eldest had sent the girl, and while his heart had skipped a tiny beat when introduced, intrigued, and charmed by the woman near to his age (despite all the strangeness surrounding her and the other Starks), Willas had thought: what if?
Of course, he had shaken it off, his grandmother's training reigning in any further butterflies in his stomach and he had stepped back, content to observe. And for the fortnight she had spent in Highgarden gave him ample time to learn about her: she was charming, kind; she giggled airily instead of laughed, reminding him of his dear, sweet little sister; her wide blue eyes were innocent and full of appreciation and awe when they went for strolls around Highgarden, and she had blushed a beautiful pink that matched the rose he presented to her one day.
Willas thought her sweet; they could hold conversations, although none of them were deep or controversial. Garlan thought she was a bit empty-headed and Loras had no thoughts at all, eyes instead on the other Starks when they were in the training ring, lingering longer and longer on one in particular...
Margaery thought Sansa was wonderful, and the two found much in common: embroidery, singing, dancing. Sansa fit in with the rest of their Tyrell cousins who lived at Highgarden with them and attended their father's court, and all sung her praises well enough. His father liked her well enough, and his mother found another highborn girl to cosset. His grandmother ignored the Starks altogether, which, clearly, had been a poor decision after that evening's meeting.
Unbidden, the words emerged, slightly bitter, from Willas' mouth. "Was everything a lie?"
Sansa stilled, cocking her head, and letting her long, loose red hair drape over her shoulder as she peered at him. She slowly rose to her feet, ignoring the loud whine that Marigold, his terrier, made.
"Is everything about you a lie, my Lord?" she asked, voice calm if not cool, eye pointedly lingering on his cane.
Willas winced. Reflexively, he tightened his grip around the handle, and leaned heavier on it, despite not needing to. Oh, his leg was bad – he couldn't ride or lead men in battle from the frontlines – but he often exaggerated his limp to make people underestimate him.
"I feel as though I no longer know you," he continued, stepping into the kennel. Marigold's sister and littermate Blossom gave him a high woof, and he smiled down at her, although it fled quickly.
Her eyes were no longer wide or innocent; rather, they were slightly narrowed with shrewd intelligence, her chin imperiously tilted. The overall image was one of a confident woman, still and sure in herself. "I never lied when we spoke, my Lord."
"Your body lied," he replied, eyes also narrowing.
She rolled those blue eyes. "You saw a silly, little girl because that's what I wanted you to see. But every discussion we had, that I had with your brothers and sister, your parents, and cousins, they were real." She paused. "Surely, you understand what it means to hide a part of yourself to protect your family? That's what I did – who I became was to ensure no one looked closely at Jon."
"I do understand," said Willas, annoyed, but mostly at himself. He glared at the floor, twisting the end of his cane back and forth and grinding it a bit. Because he made himself look weaker than his siblings, to play up his limp so that people didn't see the spark of cunning in his eyes instead. How had he missed it in her? Was she that good that even grandmother had no idea?
"I didn't wish for us to meet this way," offered Sansa quietly. He paused, eyes darting up. "Had we met before, in your past?"
It was still strange, the idea that there were two sets of Starks now, one younger and the other older: the older from a different time with different experiences and knowledge. It certainly did explain how Jon knew things about his grandmother, though. They must have learned that knowledge through remaining Targaryen loyalists.
"No," answered Sansa, quietly. "No, we never had the pleasure. I knew Margaery and Loras, and your grandmother, when we were all in King's Landing together... but I never had the pleasure of meeting you or Lord Garlan or seeing the majesty of Highgarden."
"But you knew of me, through Margie and Loras," sighed Willas. "And you used that to disarm me, my family. To play up to our expectations and perceptions."
She gave him a tight-lipped smile, and then a tiny shrug.
Blast, thought Willas. They had been outplayed by their own hubris, even though Sansa certainly had a leg-up with her previous knowledge from the other timeline. He sighed and used his free hand to rub at his forehead.
"If it makes you feel any better," she began, softly, "Our original plan was to avoid Highgarden. You weren't supposed to be caught up in this." Her eyes dropped. "I do regret that you feel differently now."
"I'm not sure what I am supposed to feel," admitted Willas, watching Sansa carefully and noticing the pronounced differences, although, at heart, they were still the same quirks and gestures, just less flamboyant. "Admiring, I think I can admit."
Shyly, Sansa looked up at him from under her lashes. "Admiring, my Lord?"
"Well, it's not every day that the grandson of the Queen of Thorns is outplayed," sighed Willas mockingly, easing the sting with a bashful smile.
"I had some lessons at her hand," replied Sansa, eyes sparkling in the soft torchlight, "But much of my learned behaviour came elsewhere – from two who would have been delighted at my ability to fool Olenna Tyrell. For they never did, you see."
"Grandmother is one of the best," answered Willas proudly. He shuffled a step closer. "But you've tipped your hand, my Lady. What shall you do next?"
"I suppose I shall have to hope that the Queen of Thorns' grandson will forgive me and that he is still willing to spend time with me," hedged Sansa, trailing off at the end, "As I have grown fond of him and fear I would be a poorer person without him in my life."
Willas' traitorous heart began pounding against his chest and his mouth felt dry. He swallowed, very aware that the action gave his thoughts away. Huskily, he offered, "The Lady will be forgiven, if only she promises to be her true self furthermore."
Sansa – paused.
Willas' heart fell to somewhere around his knees in response.
"I don't think you'd like me very much if I were to show you all of myself, Willas," she finally said, something hard on her face. "There is..." she huffed a tiny, dark laugh, "Very much that you don't know about our pasts – about my past."
Willas took another step forward and then, shakily, extended his hand to her. "Will you not share it with me, Sansa?"
She eyed the appendage, something pained and yearning in her gaze, before raising her eyes to meet his face. "I can't always be my true self, Willas. I will have to play parts to protect Jon, and Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. If you can accept that..."
"I can," he answered easily. "My family comes first, too, Sansa. That is how one grows strong, after all; only when we work all together."
She hesitated again, licking her own lips nervously. "There is one last thing..."
"Oh?"
There was a hint of challenge in her eyes, but also resignation. She took a step back from him and then, slowly, extended her arm, palm cupped and faced up, in a rising motion it was parallel to the ground.
It took Willas far longer than he would admit, to realize how silent the kennel had become. There were no more whines, yips, or woofs. Upon hearing his own heart thudding loudly and the blood rushing in his ears, he realized that all the dogs had risen to their feet and were silently staring at him, watchful.
They were unnaturally still.
He swallowed again, mind making leaps and connections. Sansa swept her gaze over the dogs, and one by one, they turned and retreated, entering their proper kennels, and then sitting on their haunches, still silent.
She's controlling them, he thought. It was the only explanation – none of his dogs were that well trained, understood nonverbal commands or recognized the gesture she had made to return to their beds.
There's a word for someone like her, in the North, he realized, recalling the hours he spent, burning the midnight candles after the Starks arrived, reading up on the North. She's a warg.
"Can you accept that there are much greater things out there in the world that we know of, Willas Tyrell?"
The power – the control that resided in Sansa's blood. Her cunning, her intelligence. The blue eyes – the colour of winter roses – and the hard stare hidden behind façades of playful innocence. Each facet of her called to him, to the man he was that enjoyed mind games, making his blood sing.
She must have seen something shift on his face, because her thin lips began to curl up at the edges, turning into a wicked, sinful, and confident slip of a smile that made his knees weak, his blood turn molten hot, and his chest feel ten times its size.
He closed the distance between them, eyes locked on hers; he was taller than her by a mere smidge. His eyes bore down into hers as she regarded him steadily.
"I do believe," rasped Willas, his entire being focused on the northern woman before him, "That I find myself a believer, Sansa Stark."
And then he bent his head the tiniest and kissed her. It was everything he thought it would be. TBC...