Chapter 1187 - 14

Timeline

283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing. (three days later) the Tourney of the Hand begins.

 Jon XIII

"You look like a child," Enzo commented, half a statement of amusement and half a statement of exasperation. 

"That's the point," Jon replied as he whipped the last of the soap suds from his freshly shaven face. "People are more likely to trust, or at least be less suspicious of, those who are young and pretty."

"You do realize that you just referred to yourself pretty, correct?"

"Well, I don't exactly hear you denying it."

Enzo chuckled, "I am not one to lie needlessly, you know this."

Jon glanced over his shoulder to grin widely at his friend before turning back to the mirror and examining his own reflection. His lack of beard exposed a thin, silver scar that ran along the left line of his jaw he got from a near-miss with a war axe and still-pink mark on his under his right ear that was leftover from bar brawl that got out of hand. It also made him look younger by at least a year and highlighted the sharp, slenderness of his features.

The same features had garnered him much attention throughout his life, both positive and negative. Before he'd grown into the length of his features, Jon often thought he looked odd and misshapen, a belief that was not helped by Theon's teasing. When he was young, the apparent 'Stark-ness' of his features were a near-constant source of amazement to visiting Northern lords and ladies, would comment on it loudly whenever they saw him. Jon liked this, it made him feel like he truly belonged at Winterfell; what he didn't like was the displeasure it brought to Lady Stark and the scrutinization it then brought onto him by her. 

As he aged and grew to fit his face, his features garnered more and more positive attention, eventually even admiration, from those who'd met him. Sometimes this was flattering, sometimes this was embarrassing, and sometimes this was discomforting. There were still jokes about his 'feminine' features, of course, from the older, gruffer men he was friends with; these were often completely harmless jest without any maliciousness, something Jon knew and understood, even if he still didn't enjoy them. Less harmless were the leering jeers from the many mean drunks he encountered -Rolff Stone-Fist being the worst of the lot by far- which made him feel young and small and vulnerable, especially when he'd first arrived in Skyrim. 

Growing a beard had been a way to appear older, to make him feel stronger and safer. 

But Jon no longer needed that illusion of strength, not since he'd learned who he was and the power that lurked in his very soul. So, while part of him would miss it, shaving his beard away caused no crisis of self. 

"So, tell me about the 'business' you have dragged us both to the City of Stink to deal with," Enzo commanded, leading back into an armchair with Spector balanced on one knee and Phantasm on the other. 

"His name is Gregor Clegane, but from what little I've learned from other tourney goers he is more commonly as 'the Mountain That Rides' or simply 'the Mountain'; he is the Knight of Clegane's Keep as well as the head of House Clegane, a landed knight and a bannerman to House Lannister. I want him dead.

Ideally, I want him dead in a bloody, drawn-out, painful, public way. I want him to suffer before he dies, wracked with agony and fear. But that is wishful thinking. 

More realistically, it should be done in such a way that no one will question it or look to deeply into the cause. Not that I think anyone will; I've asked around and it seems that the list of people who prefer the man living is far shorter than the list of those who'd prefer him dead and rotting. Lady Luck has cast some favor on me in that regard, I suppose."

Enzo was quiet and Jon, perhaps afraid his dear friend was judging him, walked to the window to stare out at the city. Thin beams of sunlight were fighting through the clouds and the rain had stopped for now; in light of the weather, the joust had been rescheduled until tomorrow, provided the tourney fields had dried enough. Despite Arya's displeasure, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing, as it gave Jon time to go to the Tyrell warehouse the Spider had specified, as well do some general exploration of the city and shopping. He also really wanted to tour the Street of Steel.

Eventually, the Ebony Warrior spoke, "And what has this man done to earn your ire?"

Fire tickled Jon's tongue and he clenched his jaw against the rush of anger, "It's personal."

There was another moment of silence before- "Ouch!"

Jon rubbed the back of his head, turning to stare at Enzo incredulously, the metal goblet the man had thrown at him now rolling on the floor, "What was that for?"

"You are a fool!" Enzo, despite his fearsome appearance, was rarely moved to anger. So it shook Jon deeply to see the cold fury burning in the man's dark eyes, "Jon, you are the only son I have, so anything personal to you is personal to me. I have followed you all across Skyrim, from country to country in Tamriel, halfway across the world to this miserable kingdom, and then to this filthy city so you will tell me why you want to kill this man and you will tell me now!"

Jon couldn't think of anything to say, instead only able to stare at the giant knight owlishly before his mouth fell open into a stupid grin, "Septa Mordane has nothing on you; have you ever considered being a nanny?"

The glare Enzo sent his way told Jon that he wasn't in the mood for jokes. Jon sighed, collapsing down on the couch and rubbing a hand through his curls, "He murdered my older half-brother, Aegon, and my step-mother, Elia Martell. He killed her, but not before he… No, I'm not going to dignify what he did to her with words; there are not any monstrous enough. He killed them both and I want him dead for it."

Enzo cocked his head to the side, fury gone from his body, "How do you know it was him?"

His jaw clenched again, "Elia and her children, my siblings, were all murdered during the Sack of King's Landing. The killers' identity was never publicly spoken off, not in Winterfell, at least; I'm sure in other parts of the Kingdom it is a public secret. Logic stands to reason that they were underlings of Lord Tywin, he led the sack after all. Dorne, where Princess Elia was from, demanded retribution and vowed to keep fighting until they got it, only agreeing to stop when Lord Arryn, in one of his first acts as Robert's Hand, went to Sunspear and personally delivered the Princess' and her children's remains. But the murderers still went unpunished and their identities undeclared. 

That night after I read those letters from Elia and my parents, I dreamed of her and my siblings' deaths. There were two killers, the Mountain killed my brother -just a babe in the cradle- by bashing his head against a wall before turning his… attentions to Elia while another man killed my sister, Rhaenys, stabbing her in the stomach just over and over again… 

...In my dream, I could hear their screams, Enzo! Their cries of pain and fear, I heard Elia begging for them to show mercy towards her children!" Jon raised a shaking hand to touch his own face, which had broken out in a cold sweat, "I felt their blood...splatter across my face! It was just a dream, I know, but I felt it all the same..."

Jon hugged his arms close and closed his eyes against the memories of viscera and gore that invaded his dreams more often than not these past weeks. "They wanted me, you know? Rhaegar and Lyanna...my parents...even Princess Elia; they wanted me and look at what it cost them! A brother and sister I never got to meet, a step-mother murdered by a man dripping with her son's blood, a father killed before I drew my first breath, a mother dead from the strain of bringing me into this world, and the thousands of lives lost in the war that followed, all so I could be born. I've got to wonder if it was all that misery."

"Yes." Jon's eyes snapped to Enzo, surprised both by the speed that he answered and the flat, definite tone of his voice. The man continued, "You defeated Alduin, save this world and all its inhabitants. So, yes, those few thousand deaths were worth it. It sounds dismissive and cold of me to say, I know but I never want you to think you are unworthy of the life you live. That guilt is not yours to bear and, though it hurts, I hope one day you will be able to move past it."

Tears were welling in Jon's eyes but he blinked them away before rubbing a hand over his face and ducking his head to hide a watery smile. "So, does that mean you'll help me kill the Mountain?"

"Oh, of course," Enzo shrugged, tossing Jon a flask of brandy before pulling out his own. "But it seems unfair to just go after Clegane. You said there was another man, the one who killed your sister, should we not be going after him as well? Lord Tywin too, if you wish."

Jon shook his head, "Clegane is a minor lord and a hated one at that; no one will think too much of it when he dies. But Tywin Lannister? He's the richest man in Westeros and the queen's father; people will care if something happens to him, even if it's just an unfortunate trip down the stairs, they'll look into it. If people start throwing around accusations, even false one, well... I can't risk anything happening to the Starks. I swore that I'd get revenge for the family I lost but not at the cost of the family I have." 

Enzo nodded, "The other man then, can we kill him?"

"I'd like to kill him," Jon admitted, "but we'd need to find him first. Lorch is his name, or, at least, that is what Clegane called him. They referred to each other by their family names, actually joked around, while they were killing my family. I bet they never imagined it would come back to bite them in the ass. Anyway, after I had that dream for the first time, I looked up those families in the library back at Winterfell and they both serve the Lannisters."

"Clegane...Clegane...why does that name ring a bell?" Enzo questioned, his brow furrowing.

"The Hound's real name is Sandor Clegane, they're brothers. In fact, I think they're the only two members of their House, only living members anyway."

Enzo's eyebrows shot up, "Truly?"

"Aye, I was surprised too; it's hard to believe the Hound is the friendly one. Anyway, when I learned that the names matched but not the faces it was just some deductive reasoning. As for Lorch, his house is small and unimportant so I doubt there'd be much attention paid to his death; But while I know what his face looks like, without a given name it'll be hard to hunt him down, especially in the short amount of time we have. I'll draw out his face for you though and if we happen to bump into him...well, feel free to get imaginative." 

The Ebony Warrior gave a slow nod, "There is one man you have not mentioned yet."

"Really?" Jon asked, surprised. "Who?"

"King Sload, of course." Enzo's face was blank but his eyes burned with a dark intensity as they seized Jon's gaze and refused to let go, "He killed your father, do you not wish to kill him too?"

Jon bit the inside of his cheek, "That is more...complicated. He's the king, like you said, and you can't just kill a king without there being a fuss. Not to mention, he is my uncle's oldest friend and, if nothing else, King Robert's death would break Uncle Ned's heart. But...I hate the man, don't get me wrong, he caved my father's chest in and all but laughed over the dead bodies of my siblings, but...my hatred for him is different than it is for the Mountain and for Lorch."

He paused then, bringing his flask up for a shaky sip of deliciously burning brandy, and Enzo merely sat still, not interrupting despite Jon's hope he would. So the young Dragonborn forced himself to continue, "King Robert...well, he wasn't king yet, obviously...he killed father, aye, but he killed him in battle. Two grown men fought each other on the battlefield clad in armor and wielding weapons; they were both fine warriors and both had a chance to win. He didn't kill a frail woman or a tiny babe or a little girl, none of whom with any way to defend themselves. Yes, maybe he approved of it and maybe he took some...glee in it, but he didn't do it himself or even order it. So...while I'll always hate him, I can't...hate him as much. Does that make sense?"

His friend -who enjoyed being enematic- did not give him a straightforward answer on this matter, instead just rising to his feet and reaching for his light fur cloak. "I will go do some reconnaissance on our target, see what I can learn about him that might aid us in our endeavor. Perhaps I will try asking around for information on this Lorch fellow."

"Alright," Jon nodded. "I have a meeting at the Tyrell warehouse to purchase foodstuffs and then I'm going to see what I can learn about the city."

"Be safe then, don't you dare come back with a single new scratch or I will have your hide."

"I will. Oh, and, before you go, one more thing."

"What is-umphf!"

Jon popped up from his seat on the couch, throwing himself at his dear friend and wrapping his arms around the man's torso in a fierce hug. "Thank you," he said, voice muffled in the strong, warm muscles of Enzo's chest.

'How many roses can you put in one place?' Jon wondered as he sipped his tea, eyes scanning the well-furnished interior of the Tyrell warehouse's inner office. The building itself was located off the Street of Flour, where the majority of the city's bakers set up shop to fill the air with the perfume of fresh bread and sweet treats. The warehouse was a large, rectangular, one-story building made from tan sandstone bricks and was patrolled by a platoon of over a dozen guards. The interior, however, was lined with polished wooden floors, ornate furniture, embroidered wall tapestries, deep green velvet drapes, and more gold roses than he could count. 

Well, that was actually a lie, Jon had been counting them since he got here; he found thirty-one so far. Clearly, the Tyrells' didn't want anyone to forget who owned the building. 

"Thank you for your patience, Ser Whitewolf; the tourney has kept us quite busy trying to keep up with all it demands, can't afford to spare a single employee for even just one moment." 

Jon rose to shake hands with the warehouse manager, an older, paunchy yet well-dressed gentleman with neatly combed brunet graying hair, matching mustache, and a golden rose stitched onto the breast of his doublet. "It was no trouble at all, thank you for making time to meet with me."

The manager smiled, taking his own seat and gesturing for Jon to do the same. "Oh, it is no trouble at all. Lord Varys himself sent word that you'd be stopping by and we're always happy to do business with people from the Red Keep. Now, how can we help you?"

'I was right, The Spider isn't content with just giving me directions. I wonder which of the workers here is also on his payroll? I suppose it doesn't matter, he'll still know all the details before I get back to the castle regardless,' Jon noted. "Well, you see, I've recently come into quite a bit of money recently, money that I have no real use for and don't want to drag back to the country where I live, so I was hoping to use some of it to purchase a supply of foodstuffs."

The man's pale brown eyes lit up with glee and Jon wondered if he got commissions from the business deals he made."An excellent idea, Ser! It may be unseemly to brag, but my warehouse does boast the highest quality products around. Now, if you don't mind me asking, how much coin are we talking about?"

"Twenty-thousand gold dragons."

The manager choked on the tea he was sipping, spilling some over his hands and the desktop, "You clearly are quite the fortunate young man, Ser, but, while we'll be more than happy to assist you in such a matter, it will take us some time to gather-"

"No, no, you misunderstand," Jon interrupted. "I will only be purchasing ten thousand gold dragons worth of foodstuff and I don't need it all at once but rather at monthly increments, if at all possible."

"Oh, yes, that we can do quite easily," the manager replied, relief evident in his voice. "What do you plan on doing with the rest then?" 

Jon cocked an eyebrow at the personal nature of the question, causing the man to backpedal, "Forgive me, Ser, that was incredibly inappropriate of me to ask. It was incredibly unprofessional of me to forget myself in such-" 

"I'm gifting the rest to my family in the North so they can use it to prepare for the coming winter. The supplies I'm buying from you I want to be distributed freely in Flea Bottom, as well as those who are just generally in need, with priority given to the young, elderly, sick, crippled, and single mothers." Jon kept his voice calm but stern, leaving little room for argument even as confusion played across the man's face. "I trust that will not be a problem?"

"No...no, of course not. It is a little unusual, I'll admit… Typically, only the Faith engages in that kind of charity and never on such a grand or prolonged scale. But we'd be honored to perform this service on your behalf. What kind of foodstuffs were you looking to have delivered?"

Jon smiled brightly, "Nothing fancy; just the basics, as much non-perishables as possible: bread, dried fruits, salted meats, smoked fish, light beer, preserved vegetables...oh, and milk for the children."

"That is easy enough to arrange, I suppose. If you'd like, we can even start working out the contract immediately."

"Yes, that'd be ideal."

It took nearly two hours to get the finer details of the contract hammered out but by midday Jon was satisfied that all the most exploitative loopholes had been written out -Tonilia, of all people, once spent an entire week teaching how to properly negotiate a contract and he refused to let her lessons go to waste- and, with a subtle warning that he'd have someone keeping an eye on the warehouse to ensure they didn't skimp on their end of the deal, signed the paper with great flourish. 

"It will take us a few days to gather the first batch of supplies; we'll send a message to you up at the Red Keep so you can come by and inspect it before we ship it out for delivery," the manager explained as he saw Jon out.

"Excellent," Jon replied, shaking the man's hand once more. "It was a pleasure doing business with you." 

"And you as well, Ser." The manager paused then, brow furrowing. "But, if you don't mind me asking, why are you doing this? Why concern yourself with those you've never met? Those so far beneath you?"

Jon gave the man a long, blank look, "Because I can."

"Jon? Jon!"

The young Dragonborn blinked when a voice called his name, looking around the bustling street until he spotted a familiar strongly-built white-haired man. "Ser Barristan! I didn't recognize you at first, not without your Kingsguard armor."

The old warrior had traded in the white plated armor and enameled scales with silver chasings and clasps for simple tan trousers with sturdy leather boots and a brown jerkin under a wheat yellow tunic. He'd also forgone the longsword he usually carried, but there was a long dagger strapped to his belt -not all that dissimilar to the one at Jon's own waist- and the slight bulging of the man's jerkin made Jon suspect he was wearing a light armor underneath. The famed knight smiled warmly, "Nor did I you, young man; the lack of a beard threw me off at first."

"Do I really look all that different with it?" Jon asked with a laugh. 

Ser Barristain gave his own chuckle, "No, not truly. It took me a moment to recognize you but your features shine through, with or without the beard. Anyhow, I stopped you because I was wondering what are doing out and about in the city, Jon? I assumed you'd still be resting after your impressive victory. How is the arm? That close call of yours scared us all, we feared you may have ended up losing your arm."

Jon doubted very much that the Queen or the Crown Prince would have cared in the least if he perished in the depths of a smoldering volcano, let alone suffered a bad burn to the arm, but it warmed him deeply to know that one of the heroes of his childhood worried for his safety. "Still a bit sore, I'm afraid, but none the worse for wear overall. As for what I'm doing, I was hoping to tour the Street of Steel, but I'm afraid I've gotten turned around."

"I suppose King's Landing can be a bit complicated to navigate if you're unfamiliar with it, but you're in luck, young man, I was also looking to visit the Street of Steel today! Would you care to join me for a luncheon and then we can walk there together?" the old knight offered.

"I'd be honored, Ser."

"You never told me what you were doing walking the city in plainclothes, Ser Barristan. Could it be that you did not want to be recognized?" Jon asked nonchalantly, cutting the honeyed mutton he'd been served by the pretty tavern girl along with roasted potatoes, boiled vegetables, and a light ale. 

The famed knight's lined face pulled into a small smile, "I am allowed time to myself, you know? I could very well just be out on a pleasant stroll."

Jon matched the man's smile with one of his own, "Why do I find it hard to believe that you are a man who takes much personal time, Ser Barristan?" 

A huff of laughter escaped the man, "You are a sharp one, Jon. I don't want to say much on the subject, but I will tell that I am investigating a particular matter that has been gnawing at the back of my mind for some time now. Perhaps it is nothing, but I cannot help-"

"The bandit attack right? You find the whole situation odd too?" Jon interrupted, causing Ser Barristan's eyebrows to shoot up in surprise.

He eyed Jon carefully, "Odd? What do you mean by that?"

"I noticed something strange about the ones I fought and killed, they were too clean. I've dealt with many bandits, Ser Barristan, and personal grooming is rarely all that high on their lists of priorities. Yet, for the most part, these bandits looked healthy with freshly washed skin and hair that was neatly brushed. Yes, they were wearing ragged, dirty clothes and worn armor, but they looked like...dressings." Jon explained, letting out all the thoughts that had been nagging him since the attacks. 

Barristan the Bold gave a small, slow nod, "I suppose you also must have thought how odd it was for a group of bandits, even a rather large one, to attack such a heavily guarded party instead of waiting for a more vulnerable target?"

"Yes! It's all too odd, too coincidental for my comfort… It was all like a-"

"Like a mummer's play?"

"Exactly...like it was all staged, but why? The most obvious answer would be to remove a specific target, but..."

Ser Barristain let out a deep breathe, "But there were many possible targets within the royal party, so who was the mark?"

Jon sighed, "And that assumes that the 'bandits' goals really were to kill someone. So many questions... Where does that leave us?"

"In the dark, I'm afraid," Selmy replied solemnly. "Still in the dark."

 "You know, you could have just taken one of the carriages at the Red Keep that is reserved to ferrying guests around the city."

"I did actually," Jon said as he and the elderly knight hiked the hill that was the Street of Steel. "I just had the driver drop me off at the main Tyrell warehouse; I had business there."

"Really, what kind of business?"

"I was arranging for regular shipments of foodstuffs delivered to Flea Bottom," Jon explained; there was no need to lie to the famed knight, who would he tell? "The account I set up with part of the money I won will see to it that those most in need should at least have food in their bellies when they go to sleep at night; for about a year, that is. The rest is going to my family."

Ser Barristan gave Jon a long, silent look before his face split into a wide, warm grin and reached out to give Jon's hair a brief ruffle.

The Street of Steel began at the southwest corner of the Fishmonger's Square and climbed up Visenya's Hill until reaching the Great Sept of Baelor. The street housed most smiths of the city and was designed in such a way that the higher up one goes, the more expensive the shops. As they perused the various establishments, Ser Barristan gave him advice on which of the smiths could be trusted to sell quality goods and which peddled the prettiest of scrap metal as Valyrian steel. 

The knight stayed with him for a good long while as Jon wandered from vendor to vendor, buying different odds and ends that caught his eye. Some he bought for his own private collection and others he bought for friends or their children: a hand mirror for Lydia, a bookmark made of color-stained metal for Onmund, a corkscrew with the decorative topping of a naked woman for Sofia, who'd find it amusing. He explained all of this to Ser Barristan, who listened attentively and asked many questions about the life Jon lived in Skyrim; unlike most others, Jon felt no apprehension about telling the old knight his stories -the simplified versions anyway- and in general, felt quite relaxed in the man's presence. 

Eventually, though, Ser Barristan needed to depart to complete his own business, leaving Jon with a pat on the shoulder and the urge to pay for cart ride back to the Red Keep. Jon just gave a nod and wave, a rush of loneliness coming over him as he watched the man's back until it was swallowed up by the crowd. With a small sigh, Jon turned on his heel and continued up the hill, adjusting his knapsack full of purchases into a more comfortable position on his back. 

At the very top of the hill was a towering building made from timber and plaster that stood taller and more ornate than any of the others on the street. Fitting with the luxury of the building, there was a pair of stone knights armored in red suits of armor, one in the shape of a griffin and the other in the shape of a unicorn, that stood guard on either side of the double door entrance. The doors themselves made from solid ebony and pale weirwood that had the inlay carving of a hunting scene and when Jon knocked on the door, a slim serving girl answered, took one look at the subtle bits of finery that adorned his body, and ushered him inside. 

The owner of the shop was an older man who had the heavily muscled arms and torso of a lifelong blacksmith with the worn, leather skin to match. He wore a black velvet coat embroidered with silver hammers on the sleeves and a large sapphire hanging from a heavy silver chain around his neck. He squinted at Jon and snorted dismissively, "So, another young man with a bit of coin and too much confidence has come to the master armorer, Tobho Mott? Let me guess, you want some fancy, gleaming sword of gold and emeralds?"

Jon did not react to the scorn, he was used to people doubting and judging him on the most superficial of reasons, so instead he just shrugged, "Well, I was hoping to get a sword made, two actually; they'd be exotic swords, not standard Westerosi weaponry, but they don't need them to be fancy, just sturdy and reliable. But if you are unable to fulfill such a request, I am happy to go elsewhere."

He turned to leave, only for the man to, predictably, snort again and call him back, "If you want something sturdy and reliable, I'm the best there is; you'll find no better than what is made at my shop and if you find somewhere that claims to than you've found yourself a den of liars and cheats."

Mott then turned and called over his shoulder, "Gendry! Gendry, get out of here!"

A young man, Jon's age or maybe a little younger, emerged from the depths of the shop, "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

"Mind your mouth, Gendry, and take this customer's order. I have more important matters to see too," Mott huffed before disappearing through a doorway.

"Yes Ser," the boy, Gendry, grumbled before turning to Jon. "What do you- Is everything alright, m'lord?"

Jon forced himself to unfreeze, blinking his eyes hard a few times and giving his head a quick shake. "Aye, I'm fine. Apologies, you look...similar someone I know; it caught me off guard."

'Similar' was putting it mildly; the young smith looked exactly like Lord Renly. 'No,' Jon realized, allowing his dark eyes to scan the boy's face, 'not exactly alike. He has a stronger jaw and thicker eyebrows, he's more muscular too.' 

"You know? You're actually the second person to say along those lines, m'lord. I suppose I just have one of those faces," Gendry shrugged. "Now, what can I help you with?"

"Oh, yes," Jon gave himself one final shake. "I was hoping to get two swords made in the same style; one for myself and one for someone else. I've never seen this style of blade in Westeros before; they're lightweight with a slender blade and-"

He trailed off then as he watched Gendry grab a scrap of parchment and piece of charcoal, quickly sketching something. When he finished, the young smith pushed it towards Jon, "Is this what you're talking about?"

"Yes, you must have a good mind for details."

"That is a Braavosi blade designed for waterdancing, m'lord; they don't show up much in Westeros, you're right about that, but some Dornish like them. We can make them, m'lord, and we can even start right away, just have to get your measurements," Gendry explained, seeming proud of his own knowledge.

Jon smiled, "Wonderful, let's get started."

The young smith grabbed a measuring tape and had Jon stand still while he got to work. "You'll have to bring the person the second sword is made for here so we can get their measurements too, don't want to make it too small. Can you do that soon?"

"Aye, in a few days at the most," Jon answered before an amusing thought caused a broad smile to stretch across his face. "Though you shouldn't worry about making the sword too small, quite the opposite actually; she's awfully short."

Gendry paused to look up a Jon, brow furrowed, "She?"

"My sister, that is who the sword is for." He carefully studied the young smith's face, "Is that a problem?" 

For a moment, the apprentice seemed lost in deep thought, but eventually, he just shrugged, "It's not to judge such things, m'lord; I'm just a smith after all."

'Oh, I like you,' Jon grinned. "That is not a bad thing to be, and I'm not a lord. Just call me Jon, please."

Surprise flickered across Gendry's face; he scanned Jon's face, probably looking for any traces or mockery and when he found none, he gave a smile of his own, a dimple on his cheek. "Well then, it's nice to meet you, Jon."

His apartment showed signs of tampering: the furniture he'd move to hide the peepholes was returned to their original positions, the clothes in his dresser drawers had been gone through, as had his desk, and Jon was pretty sure his someone to read his journal. Or tried too, at least, he wasn't stupid enough to write in Common Tounge.

That being said, the attempted spying was getting on his fucking nerves.

"I change my mind," he told Ghost as he re-covered the peepholes, "next time someone comes in here and tries to mess with my things you can bite them, just so long as there is no blood."

Ghost yawned as a response, flashing his rows of knife-like teeth to Jon. "Right, good to know we agree. Now, how do you feel about a walk in the Godswood?"

The godswood at the Red Keep was an acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood that overlooked the Blackwater Rush and, like most, had its own heart tree. But, unlike the older godswoods, the Red Keep's heart tree was a great oak covered in smokeberry vines with a thick carpet of red dragon's breath growing around its base. The brush was inhabited by small game, mostly squirrels, rabbits, and both birds and various Galliformes that had apparently escaped the coops to make a home for themselves among the trees- which Ghost took great delight in tormenting. 

Jon chuckled from his position on a wooden bench as he watched the giant white-furred direwolf tear after a terrified pheasant, leaves, and twigs crunching under Ghost's massive paws and catching in his coat as he chased the fowl through the bushes. 

"I suppose all that white fur proves to be a hindrance when hunting somewhere that isn't covered in snow."

He glanced up to see Ser Jaime approaching, armor gleaming in the afternoon light. Jon gave the older man a smile and slid over to make room on the bench, "It's true, Ghost is built for a colder environment; on a snowy day, you'd never be able to see him coming. Don't be fooled though, he just playing now; if he was actually hunting, you'd hear nothing."

"He's a magnificent beast," the knight commented as he settled on the bench, "and fierce too, I imagine. A good thing to have by your side in battle."

Jon nodded, "Aye, as good as any sword. Speaking of that, I wanted to thank you for lending me find that tourney sword for the melee."

Ser Jaime waved him off, "Think nothing of it, watching your performance was thanks enough. You're truly gifted with a sword, you know? Though I suppose it's no surprise, given who you're uncle is."

"Yes, I've heard that Uncle Brandon was quite the warrior."

"Him? Oh, he was talented, certainly, but that was not who I was referring to."

Jon's brow furrowed, "Uncle Benjen?"

The golden knight shook his head, a small smirk playing on his lips, and Jon's confusion only grew, 'I know Rhaegar had, or perhaps still has a younger brother; I really should look into if he and his sister are still alive. But he was just a child when Ser Jaime knew him so why-'

His thoughts were interrupted when the older man laughed and slapped his shoulder, "Come now, there is no need to coy with me. I'm sure Stark told you to lie about it, but I'd know that skill anyway; your uncle is, or rather was, Arthur Dayne, the great Sword of the Morning, and the older brother of the lovely Lady Ashara Dayne."

Relieved, if still somewhat confused, Jon gave a shaky smile, "I...can't speak much on the subject of the Daynes, Ser, as my father never wanted them spoken of at Winterfell, but I'll take your word on the matter."

Ser Jaime gave a snort, "Stark probably didn't want to risk you running off to live with them in Dorne...though, you did still end up running off so, how'd that plan go? Still, you should go visit Starfall at some point."

"It'd nice and warm, I imagine," Jon hummed in agreement, tilting his head back to savor the warm rays of afternoon sunlight as a chill began to nip at his fingers and nose. "I doubt I'll have the chance however, my companion and I will be heading out sooner rather than later. Thank you for the suggestion though."

"Again with the gratitudes, you do that too much," the knight mused. "If you really want to thank me then you'll convince Tommen to take his marital training more seriously. The boy is timid and soft, he's made almost no progress since he's started and it doesn't seem like he has any desire too. He admires you though and will probably listen to you if you talk to him about why his training is important."

A stab of fondness for the younger prince hit square in the heart and spread warmth throughout his body. "A man's worth shouldn't be defined purely by how well he can swing a sword around...but you're right, Tommen should know how to defend himself should the need ever arise, especially against… Wait, what about Prince Joffrey?"

The older man made a face like he was smelling something rancid, "I...wouldn't worry much about him. We have a deal then?"

Ser Jaime gave him a smile again, that cocky, playful one, and held out a hand, which Jon took with a smile, "Deal."

The older man stood then, "Well, I've got to be going then; my sister will be looking for me and I don't want to keep her waiting. Oh, and, before you go anywhere, my father wants to speak with you."

"What?" Jon all but yelped, eyes going wide, "Why?"

The Great Lion of Casterly Rock approached him slowly, undoubtedly confident Jon wasn't going to go anywhere. He was right, of course, the young Dragonborn had full intention of remaining firmly in place until he learned what the Old Lion wanted, even as his fingers itched for the dagger on his belt. So, instead of unsheathing Frostbite and plunging it into the Lannister's heart, Jon rose to his feet and gave a bow of the exactly appropriate depth, "Lord Tywin, you son said you wished to speak with me."

The old lord was close enough now that Jon could see the green of his eyes; eyes which were fixed firmly to Jon's left, where Ghost had silently emerged from the brush to stand beside him. The direwolf tilted his massive head to the side as he studied the old Lannister lord back with his blood-red gaze; Jon settled a hand on the back of Ghost's neck, a smile tugging at his lips before turning back to the Old Lion and guesting to the bench, "Would you care to sit, my lord?"

The man adjusted his grip on his carved lion's head walking stick and shook his head, "No, this shouldn't take too long. I wanted to congratulate you on your victory at the melee, it was quite...impressive. As are your winnings, I do hope you're a smart enough young man to handle that money wisely and not waste it like so many would-be tempted too."

'This again?' Jon internally sighed. "I've made plans for it, yes; none of it will be coming with me back to Skyrim."

Lord Tywin cocked an eyebrow, "Really, you won't be keeping any of it for yourself?"

Jon shrugged, "No, I don't need it, and besides, I didn't enter the tournament because I wanted the money."

The Warden of the West stepped closer, cutting a dark silhouette about the setting sun, "And what is it that you do want, Jon Whitewolf?"

Jon started to respond before… That question was more difficult to answer than it should be. What did he want? Well, right now he wanted out of his conversation but more predominantly he wanted revenge for the brutal murders of his older siblings and their mother but he also wanted to protect his family, the blood relatives he had here in Westeros and the family of his heart back in Skyrim. He wanted Serana to write back to him and say she wasn't angry, that she understood. Part of him also wanted to eventually meet what remained of his Targaryen family, should any still live.

He wanted to go back to Skyrim, wanted it badly, and wanted to keep it safe for those who had already lost too much and those who were still so innocent. He wanted to rid the Tamriel of the Thalmor, for the good of all men, mir, and beastfolk. Then, once some level of peace had been achieved, Jon wanted to hone his legacy; he wanted his legacy to be remembered for generations to come and not just as the Legendary Dragonborn, Slayer of Alduin, or the Black Legate of the Imperial Army or the Harbinger of the Companions or a Nightingale or the Head of the Thieves Guild, but as Jon Whitewolf. He wanted to expand his businesses and set up new ones that he could pass down to his children.

Children.

Aye, he wanted children. He wanted sons and daughters to care for and love and pass on all he learned to. He wanted to marry a woman who was strong of mind and body and spirit. He wanted…

"A family," Jon answered. "I suppose I want a family of my own."

Lord Tywin gave a nodded, "A common enough desire. You want children then?"

Jon gave a huff of laughter, "Aye, I'd like a small army of children; three of each, preferably. Growing up with so many siblings, I can't imagine it any other way."

"Nor could I," the Old Lion admitted. "Do you have any children yet?"

Anger rushed over Jon and he gritted his teeth against the urge to lash out at the very insinuation he'd ever father a bastard. He always swore that would never do such a thing! He and his partners were always careful to avoid such a situation. "No," he growled out in as pleasant as a voice as possible. "I'm not married yet. However, I suppose you could say I've fostered the children of friends before. Skyrim was, until quite recently, a dangerous place to live, especially for those who didn't live in one of the walled cities."

So some of my friends would ask if their children could live in one of my homes for their own safety; I always agreed, of course, and, even if my duties kept me from actually being there to physically care for them, I always made sure they were safe and set them up with schooling or an apprenticeship or employment that would suit them."

It was true, Jon had temporarily taken in the children and younger siblings of many of the friends he'd made in Skyrim, often for their own safety. After things had calmed down across the country most returned to their homes and families, but not all. He gave a warm smile when he thought of tough little Erith, whose mother, Daighre, had sent alongside the girl's beloved dog, Torom, to live with Jon at Proudspire Manor after a close call with some Forsaken at Left Hand Mine. 

The perceived abandonment nearly wrecked the little girl, but Jon managed to get Erith to agree to attend lessons at the nicest schoolhouse in Solitude. There it was discovered that she had quite the head for sums and now, three years later, Erith was seven-and-ten and still living in the city with a nice ground-floor apartment of her own that had plenty of room Torom, a well-paying bookkeeping job at the East Empire Company, engaged to a wealthy banker, and only a few paydays away from being able to afford to bring Daighre up from the Reach.

Jon felt a little bit of pride in all that.

Then there was the four children of his friend, Ysabelle Lexal; a captivating Imperial trader in her thirties who operated under somewhat...flexible legality. They met through dealings with the Thieves Guild and grew close, not only as business partners but also as friends and occasional lovers. Ysabelle had once described herself as an 'admirer of great beauty' and took partners wherever she event and, while she always took preventative measures, the woman now how four children with the oldest, Odvane, being two-and-ten and the youngest, Netlie, being only two. For the past year, the four children had been staying at his house in Hjaalmarch, Windstad Manor, after their mother decided it was no longer safe for them to travel on her ship during her runs. Jon was rarely able to give them as much time as he'd like, but he made sure they were protected and hired a tutor for them as well as spoiling them with toys so that they could live in as much comfort as possible. 

"Well," Lord Tywin interrupted Jon's thoughts, "logic stands that if you want to start growing your family, you'll need a wife. It is honestly quite surprising that a handsome, wealthy young man such as yourself doesn't already have on. But perhaps it is for the best."

Jon gave the older man an odd look, "And what do you mean by that, my lord?"

"My niece, Joy Hill, is on the cusp of turning five-and-ten and now of appropriate marrying age. Her father, my younger brother, Gerion, is dead, so it falls to me to find her an appropriate match. I'd planned on wedding her to a younger son of one of my minor lords or perhaps a high ranking guard at Casterly Rock, but I believe you'd be an suitable match."

On the list of possible topics that crossed Jon's mind when Ser Jaime had told him that Lord Tywin wished to speak with him, this was honestly not even on the list. "Oh...well, I'm flattered and...surprised by the offer, Lord Tywim, but I'm not sure the match would-"

"Is it her baseborn status that deters you?" There was, interestingly enough, not even a hint of mocking in Lord Tywin's voice -though there was a touch of what Jon thought might be surprise- and instead, his voice was calm, business-like even. "I assure you that her dowry is generous. She is quite beautiful and would make a good wife; I've ensured that she has been well-educated and knows how to run a household."

"No, no," Jon shook his head. "That isn't the issue, I swear. It is just that… well, she is still fairly young."

"Not so much so," the Warden of the West countered, "plenty of girls her age have already been married off. But, I suppose, a betrothal could be put in place now and the actual marriage can occur at a later date. A year or two would likely give her beauty a chance to ripen."

Jon fought the urge to cringe at such a comment. "Actually, I am already engaged!"

A brief scowl flashed across Lord Tywin's face, "To whom?"

'Serana is going to kill me for this,' Jon groaned internally. "Lady Serana of House Volkihar in Skyrim; we've been friends for quite some time now and recently decided to marry. My trip back to Westeros pushed back the wedding somewhat, but once I return it will become my great priority."

There was then a short lapse of silence while the Lord of Casterly Rock study Jon carefully and with a clear measure of doubt. The man didn't believe him. "Well, then it is a shame you didn't bring your lovely lady with you."

Jon forced a smile, "Aye, my father said the same thing."

Lord Tywin gave a huff of what might have been amusement, if the man what capable of feeling such a thing. "Ah, the honorable Lord Stark. A man who manages to be loved by most and yet still manages to be an efficient leader… My own father could have done to be more like him."

The words were said more to himself than Jon, but the young Dovahkiin couldn't help but respond. "Your father, my lord?"

The corner of Lord Tywin's mouth gave the slightest twitch, "Tytos Lannister. He was a kind man, loving and as good of a father as he could be, but a poor lord. He worried more about being liked by those around him than ensuring they respected him."

"It is not a bad thing to be liked by your subjects," Jon commented, only to be met with a sneer.

"The favor of others will only last until they get a chance to benefit from betraying you,' the Old Lion retorted curtly. "It is always better for those under you to know what could befall them should they forget where their loyalties should lie."

In a bid to keep the debate from getting too heated, Jon gave a shrug, "There should be a balance, I feel. After all, ruling through fear works well...up until one falters, even for the briefest moment. The enemies and rivals and those slighted will descend like sharks who smell blood in the water. But if you've made your subjects love you or, better yet, make them feel like they need you, than they'll be more willing to stand with you in times of weakness."

Lord Tywin gave Jon a long, calculating look, "I suppose that is one way to see things.."

"What has you so amused?"

Ned Stark was not a man prone to great bouts of joyous laughter, tending to keep most emotions close to the chest, so it was unusual to see him openly chuckling at something. The man gave a small, amused smile and leaned in closer, "Lord Renly, he just showed a locket with a painting of Lady Margaery Tyrell."

"What is so comical about that?"

Another chuckle, "He asked me if she resembled Lyanna; apparently, others stated that there is a similarity between the two in appearance?"

"Is there?" If so than Jon would be interested in seeing the portrait as he'd never seen a painting of his mother and the only reference available was her statue in the crypts. 

But, alas, his uncle shook his head, "No, not truly; they both have dark hair, but that is where any similarities end. Still, I find it humorous that Renly is enamored with a girl he thinks looks like Lyanna when he could be a twin to Robert when he was younger."

'Huh, I guess Lord Renly likes both then too.' Jon paused then, thinking back the blacksmith's apprentice, Gendry, and how strongly he resembled the Lord of Storm's End. Yet, he couldn't possibly be the smith's father as Jon and Gendry were close in age while Lord Renly wasn't even a decade older. So that meant… "Do they really resemble each other that greatly? I mean, do they share dimples?"

Uncle Ned gave him an odd look, "That is an..oddly specific question, but yes, I suppose they do. Robert's are hard to see because of his beard, but he does have them. Why?"

Jon forced a nonchalant shrug, "Just curious; I've noticed that such features tend to run in family and wanted to see if that held true among the Baratheons."

His uncle didn't seem entirely convinced but chose not to pursue the matter, instead just settling back into his armchair and returning to his attention to the joust. Jon mirrored the action but let his thoughts return to Gendry. It did not surprise him that King Robert had a bastard -most noblemen did, after all- and considering the...habits of the king that Jon had so far observed, it would be astonishing if the man only had one. 

Jon felt a flash of worry for these potential children creep over him; he allowed himself to hope they lived in relative safety and comfort, Gendry certainly seemed content and well-cared for so it was possible…

"It's quite chilly today," Sansa commented, tugging her shawl closer as she fought a shiver. 

"I told you to dress warmer," Uncle Ned gently scowled, even as he beckoned for a servant to bring a blanket. 

The weather today was only just good enough for the joust to take place. Dark gray storm clouds hung low and heavy in the sky, threatening to burst at any moment. There was also a steady breeze of cold air across the tourney field, chilling bodies and spirits alike. The smallfolk's stands were emptier today, but those who remained pressed closer together to fend off the chill. In the King's Box, large stone braziers had been lite to provide some warmth and servants brought out hot drinks; if one took the precaution of wearing thick clothes, it was almost cozy. 

Needless to say, Sansa -who'd decided to ignore her father's advice- and was quite miserable in her silk gown of lavender and gold with only a light shawl for warmth. This was in contrast to Arya, whose royal blue velvet dress and woolen rabbit's fur-lined shawl left her warm enough to fixate her entire attention on the joust taking place. 

Jory had been doing quite well, only recently losing to Lorthor Brune after three consecutive tilts. Any members of the Kingsguard were also competing; Ser Meryn Trant -who Jon found to be deeply unpleasant if a decent fighter- and Ser Balon Swann -who'd Jon actually manage to get along quite well within the few conversations they'd shared- had managed to defeat Harwin, son of Winterfell's stablemaster, and Alyn, one of Uncle Ned's guardsmen respectively. There was Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan too, both of whom fell many riders. Thoros of Myr made a reappearance, even beating his friend, Lord Beric Dondarrion. Lord Renly even road...once. He was swiftly unseated by the Hound. His evident lack of skills made it even more surprising that his former squire, Ser Loras, was doing so well. 

The comely young knight defeated rider after rider, felling Robar Royce, Meryn Trant, and two more members of the Kingsguard after that. This was all to Sansa great delight because, after every win, Ser Loras presented her with a single white rose until a small pile had gathered in her lap. Jon watched as she ran her fingers over the delicate petals of her newest flower as she beamed at Ser Loras, thoughts of being crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty undoubtedly dancing in her head. She would not be a bad choice, the pretty young daughter of a High Lord who wasn't betrothed -officially, at least- to anyone that might take offense. Still, Jon couldn't help but feel a touch of bemusement over the whole situation; if the looks that the comely young knight kept sending Lord Renly's way were any indication, it wasn't Sansa who was on Ser Loras' mind. 

Yes, they had finally made it to the semi-finals with the Hound unseating Ser Jaime for a spot in the finals. This left only two matches between Ser Loras and victory; the young knight had a good shot at winning, even if there was one final obstacle in his path; a very large, very vicious obstacle. 

Jon's fingernails dug into his callous palm, deep enough to nearly draw blood, as his eyes fixed hard on the massive frame of Gregor Clegane. The Mountain That Rides' pure strength allowed him to all but plow through his opponents; unhorsing not only Ser Balon but also nearly killing Lord Arryn's former squire, Hugh of the Vale. The newly-knighted young man would survive the lance that sliced through the muscle of where his shoulder met his neck, but only just and he would likely he'd have mobility trouble with that arm for a long time to come. The sight of the blood that sprayed from Ser Hugh's neck has sent both Myrcella and Tommen into near hysterics, causing them to be ushered away by their septa while Joffrey sneered at their tears. 

"Try to relax," Enzo whispered, wrapping a large hand around on of Jon's wrists and rubbing a thumb across the back of his hand so Jon would stop clenching his fist. "I know you hate that man, but take this opportunity to learn how he moves and how he fights."

As he watched Ser Loras and the Mountain prepare to ride against one another and forced himself to release the breathe he'd been holding through gritted teeth. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work the tension built up there; unclenching his fists he gave Enzo a small smiled and lightly bumped his forehead against the man's shoulder in thanks. 

"The Mountain's horse is acting weird," Arya commented, knocking Jon out of his headspace. He glanced to the horse and found his sister was right, the creature was fidgeting and seemed distracted by something. 

"One hundred gold dragons on the Mountain!" Littlefinger called, sounding as giddy as a child on his nameday. 

"I'll take that bet," Lord Renly piped up, a bruise already forming on his left cheekbone from where he'd landed after being knocked off his horse earlier in the day. 

Baelish gave a snort, "Now what will I buy with one hundred gold dragons? Perhaps a dozen barrels of Dornish wine? Or maybe a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?"

"Or you could even buy a friend, someone to spend time with you willing," Lord Renly sneered.

The trumpet sounded and both men kicked their horses forward, thundering towards one another while the crowd watched with bated breath. Sansa grabbed her father's arm, "Don't let Ser Gregor hurt him, Father!"

"He'll be alright, Sansa," Uncle Ned patted her hand comfortingly, even if he didn't sound all the sure himself. "Ser Loras rides very well."

"This is going to be bloody," Arya commented. 

Sansa whimpered, covering her face with her hands, "Oh, I can't watch this!"

Like thundering cracking across the sky, Ser Loras' lance met and then broke upon Claegane's shield, splintering into what could have been a thousand pieces. Time seemed to stand still, but with a massive roar, the Mountain That Rides was knocked down from his horse and to the ground, landing with a thud that Jon could have sworn echoed across the tourney field. 

There was a moment of collected stillness in the spectators before everyone burst into a fury of cheers and applause. Lord Renly jumped to his feet, laughing and clapping with joy written clear on his face. The Lord of Storm's End didn't even bother disguising his smugness when he turned the Master of Coin. "Such a shame, Littlefinger! It would have been so nice for you to have a friend!"

"And tell me, Lord Renly, when will you be having your friend?" Baelish replied with a smarmy grin, gesturing to Ser Loras. 

Jon may not have had any fond feelings towards the Master of Coin but he admittedly did have to smother a snort of amusement at that comment, much to the confusion of Arya. 

Baelish, satisfied he'd won his own little verbal joust, returned to his seat and leaned forward to speak to Uncle Ned, "Ser Loras knew his mare was in heat. Quite crafty, really; it threw off his opponents' horses, hard to steer a stallion who has something else on its mind. 

Uncle Ned didn't reply but Sansa was quick to defend the knight; frowning, she turned to face her mother's old friend, " Ser Loras would never do that! There's no honor in tricks."

With a patient smile, like one would wear while attempting to teach a confused child, Baelish gave a nod, "No honor, perhaps, but quite a bit of gold."

"And a far better chance at victory," Jon was forced to agree, to which Enzo nodded. 

Uncle Ned cast a disapproving glance his way, "That doesn't mean it wasn't a dishonest act, even if it wasn't technically cheating it still-"

"What's the Mountain doing?" Arya piped up, brow furrowed in confusion.

Clegane had drug himself up, mud dripping from his armor, and stormed to his squire, who looked like a cowering child in the face of his master's fury. The Mountain ripped his helmet off, throwing it to the ground, and grabbed his sword, a blade easily as long as some women were tall, and with one fierce stroke, severed his horse's head. Blood and gore sprayed the ground and painted the front of the Mountain's face dark red. There were shrieks and cries from the audience, but it mostly it was just stunned horrified silence. 

It wasn't over yet though. Clegane rushed Ser Loras, scaring his horse into rearing up and throwing its ride. The Mountain's furious attention was fixed firmly on the young knight who was now lying prone and still on the ground and charged at him, bloody sword still tight in hand.

"He's mad!" Jon was on his feet before he could even think to do anything else. He leapt from the King's Box and into the ring, racing forward he just to grab ahold of Ser Loras by the stupidly elaborate breastplate of his arm and all but tackle him out of the way of the Mountain's sword. 

In many ways, the Mountain was like a bull -faster than you'd expect but not especially good at changing directions when a full charge, especially once enraged. A furious bellow tore from the horrid beast when he noticed his prey had escaped. That didn't discourage the man though; he started straight for Ser Loras once again, only this time he had Jon in his sights too.

The mud made both easier and harder to tug Ser Loras out of the way of their attacker, easier in that the deadweight of his body and armor wasn't as difficult to move but harder in that Jon knew he could only do it so many times before he stumbled or misstepped or just plain made a mistake. 'I could just kill him now...'

"Leave them be!"

Jon hadn't noticed it, but the Hound had followed him with Enzo close behind; the Hound wasn't as large as his brother, but he was quicker and more agile. He got in front of Jon and Ser Loras, clashing his sword into the Mountain's, "LEAVE THEM FUCKING BE, I SAID!"

Enzo was on the Mountain quickly, a look of coldness on his face that Jon has seen many times before. He was out for blood. The giant Redguard wrapped an arm around the Mountain's neck, getting into a chokehold, and then pulled his dagger, reaching around to hold it to one of the brute's eyes. "I wonder," Enzo hissed, "do you feel so brave facing someone your own size?"

The Mountain roared once more and started to thrash, causing the Hound to push in harder with his sword and Enzo to tighten his grip. Jon's eyes met his friend's and there was a question there, one Jon answered with the slightest shake of his head. 'No, he's mine.'

"THAT'S ENOUGH! Stop this madness in the name of your King!" The voice of the King bellowed across the tourney field, strong and clear. Jon's eyes flicked to him and, for a moment, he didn't see the fat and lascivious man whose company he'd been sharing for over two months now but rather the confident and powerful man who overthrew a dynasty. So powerful it was, that the Hound immediately stepped back and drop to his knee in a bow, a wild swing of his brother's sword arching just above his head. Enzo had released his grip on the Mountain as well, though with far more hesitation and he did not bow. The brute's sweaty red face, twisted with anger, turned to Jon and Ser Loras, Enzo, King Robert, and then finally to his brother before whatever intelligence he possessed told him not to press this further. He threw his sword to the ground and stormed off, cursing and growling blood-thirsty threats all the way. 

Enzo watched him go before turning to Jon, ignoring the commotion coming from the stands, and started to help him get Ser Loras to his feet; pulling off the man's helmet -revealing hair that was still somehow looked perfect, which was a bit annoying- and patting the young knight on the cheek to bring him around. 

"What happened?" Ser Loras muttered, blinking hard as he stared confused at Jon, Enzo, and the Hound.

"A mountain almost fell on you," Enzo said in his usual curtly ambiguous matter while, at the same time, the Hound growled, "You almost got yourself killed with that fucking stunt of yours. If not for the little wolf boy here, then you'd be nothing more than a bloody pile of meat in pretty armor."

"Oh," Ser Loras said, voice still somewhat slurred. Still, he turned to Jon and gave him a smile, "Thank you, Jon, you saved me"

Jon returned the smile but gave a shrug, "Think nothing of it, you should really be thanking the Hound; he stopped the both of us from being carved up like a turkey. Though, if you're feeling in a generous mood, I wouldn't mind something to replace these clothes."

He jokingly gestured to his now mud-covered outfit, causing the other young man to laugh before turning to the Hound and Enzo, "I must thank you too, Ser Enzo, and as well, Ser Hound. I owe you my life and if there any way I can ever repay that debt than please let me know."

Enzo gave a small nod of acknowledgment but the Hound just grunted, "Don't call me Ser; I am no knight."

"Be that as it may-" Loras grabbed the Hound's left hand and raised it into the air causing a wall of cheers as the remain spectators to rose to their feet to applaud the scarred man's actions. When a look of confusion flashed across the man's face, Jon realized as Enzo began to pull him out of sight from the crowds that this was likely the first time he'd ever experienced such a thing.

It was a sad thought.

"Jon!"

Something collided into him with such force that Jon almost doubled over, stopped only by Enzo grabbing his shoulders to steady him. He glanced to see Arya had wrapped her arms tight around his middle and buried her face in his chest, uncaring about the mud that was now smeared over her dress. "Don't do that again, you giant ass," she commanded wetly as she squeezed him even tighter.

"Sorry, Little Sister; I didn't mean to worry you," Jon hummed in as comforting a voice as possible, rubbing her back. Arya, tough as she acted, was still just a young girl and sometimes he forgot that.

"Well, you did." Uncle Ned had joined the small group, face wrought with concern but with a wolf's anger burning in his eyes. Sansa was by his side, eyes wide like she'd just seen a ghost. Lord Renly had come down from the King's Box as well, shooting straight towards his former squire. "You need to start thinking before you act, Jon."

Jon frowned, "I will never apologize for helping someone who needs it, Father, and besides, would you have done any different? The Mountain-"

"He was just horrid, Father!" Sansa exclaimed, face pale against her auburn hair and voice full of dismay. "How could a knight be so awful?"

"Knights are men, Sansa; no more and no less," Jon explained gently, still working to sooth Arya. Sansa looked uneasy at his words but said nothing, only looking towards Ser Loras and the Hound with disconcertment. 

"That is no man," Enzo growled. "That is a mad beast, one who needs to be put down."

Uncle Ned said nothing, only clenched his jaw tighter and glaring toward the Lannister's box. After what seemed like forever, Arya finally released Jon and stepped back, giving him a careful once over with her damp, red eyes. Jon hoped this meant he'd finally be able to slip away and calm down after his encounter with the Mountain. But it was not to be...

Lord Renly all but shoved past Uncle Ned to get to Jon; without saying a word, the dark-haired lord grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. "Thank you," he breathed softly. "Thank you."

He released Jon from the embrace, stepping back to look him in the face while still maintaining a tight grip on his shoulder. "You must join Loras and I for a drink! Two hours from now? In the sunroom?"

The sudden invitation surprised Jon, "Oh…"

"That sounds like a good idea," Enzo said, voice as calm and smooth as ever. "I have...business to attend to before the feast tonight." 

Jon understood the unspoken message of his friend's words and glanced at Uncle Ned, who just gave a small, sharp nod. He turned to Lord Renly and smiled, "Alright, I would be honored to join you both. I just have to get cleaned up."

With another smile and a slap the shoulder, the King's brother left, presumably to head back up to the Red Keep. Soon after the sky finally burst open, spilling a carpet of fat, heavy raindrops and causing everyone, high-born and low-born alike, to scatter, leaving the tourney grounds empty and quiet. 

"Are all tourneys so eventful?" Jon asked, reclining in one of the padded lounge chairs that decorated the Red Keep's sunroom. Not that there was much sun to be found that afternoon, but with the heat emanating from the large stone braziers, thick woven blankets spread, a few glasses of mulled wine, and a delightful assortment of bread, cheeses, meats, sliced fruits, and little cakes made even the gray skies and falling rain pounding against the glass of the sunroom's ceiling and walls seem cozy. 

Ser Loras gave a laugh, "No, not usually. I mean, whenever you've got large crowds and abundant booze in one place things are bound to get a little wild but I bet this one will stick out in people's minds for a while. Why, I'll even dare to say that this has been the wildest tourney since the one at Harren-"

Lord Renly let out a loud, obviously fake, cough that cut off the young knight, who looked confused for a moment before going wide-eyed when he realized who he was talking to. "Oh...sorry, that was inappropriate of me to say."

Jon gave a sad smile, "Where either of you there, at the tourney, when…"

"Not me," Ser Loras shook his head. "I was too young, mother would have never let me travel that distance."

"I was there," Lord Renly mused, "with both of my brothers. I remember how grand and exciting it all seemed, but then how angry Robert was. I didn't understand much of what was going on, of course; I was young too, only seven years old. Still, the happy moments I had at the tourney were some of the last I had before the war, before everything seemed to change."

They lapped into silence then, just listening to the rain hitting the glass, before Lord Renly took another swallow of wine and perked back up. With a smile, he reached over to pat Ser Loras' hand before giving it a squeeze, "Thankfully, though, I lived to have more happy moments."

"You two have been close for a long then?" Jon asked, tilting his goblet to swirl the deep red wine as he allowed the men to consider the obvious double-meaning of his question. 

"Loras was my squire," Lord Renly explained, eyes hard with his jaw set in a matter that just dared Jon to comment, "but then he became my...friend."

Jon gave an unconcerned shrug, "It is good to have...friends; I have plenty of...friends, both men and women, back in Skyrim."

Ser Loras looked to Jon in shook, perhaps amazed he'd admit such a thing; his golden-brown eyes scanning Jon's face, almost certainly looking for signs of mockery. "And you've never faced scorn for...having such friends."

Another shrug, "Some, people will always be asses, but Nords are, by in large, a practical lot and generally unconcerned about such things. The only time it becomes an issue if a family only has one child to carry on the family name and they have no desire to do so, but other than that…"

Another moment of silence, this one slightly more awkward for Jon as Ser Loras and Lord Renly seemed to be having an entire conversation with just a series of silent glances. This one was interrupted when the young knight changed the subject. "Jon, I was wondering if perhaps your...mother was related to my house?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Jon asked, choking on a swallow of wine at the unexpected question. "What could have possibly made you think that?"

A red flush dusted the young knight's face, "The tattoo on your hand, its a rose. I thought that maybe it was a memento of your mother."

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Jon corrected. "I never met my mother; this is just a reminder of one of my past adventures."

"What kind of adventure?" 

"Well," Jon said, glancing down at the rose that encircled his wrist, "it was certainly a night to remember."

"I have done some investigating and found out something interesting about Clegane; would you like to hear it?" Enzo's voice was quiet, but there was a hint of smugness in it that made it clear he was proud of something. 

Jon's eyes flickered around, scanning the crowd of partier to make sure no one was trying to listen in, before nodding his head to a corner. "I would have thought that this wouldn't be something we'd been discussing in the middle of a feast."

"Oh, so you do not want to know then?" Enzo teased, which made Jon roll his eyes.

"You're an ass."

Enzo chuckled, "So, it turns out that the Mountainous Beast has quite the problem with headaches and self-treats them with some called Milk of the-"

"Milk of the Poppy," Jon nodded. "It's a medicine used in small doses to treat pain and in larger ones to render unconsciousness, though too large a dose can kill a man. Maester Luwin would give it to us whenever we had a fever, a sprained wrist, or the like; I remember that when I was eight, I got sick constantly and he worried about how much I was drinking as one can become dependant on it and too much can also make it hard for the body to fight infection."

"Yes, well Clegane apparently drinks it like most men do ale and I was thinking that if you gained access to his supply and happened to...tamper with it then-"

"I can bring down the Mountain from the inside without anyone suspecting anything; people will just think that his body just couldn't take any more of the drug," Jon finished. "Not a bad thought, though I'll need a lot of poison for a job that size or, at least, a particularly potent one."

The young Dragonborn thought for a moment, trying to remember what he'd brought from his alchemical stockpile. A certain blue bottle popped into his mind and a wild, wolfish grin flashed across his face, "Oh, have something in mind."

Enzo matched the grin with one of his own, "Good, now I think your adoring public wants some attention."

The giant Redguard nodded to a group of giggling young ladies who kept throwing glances Jon's way in-between exchanging excited whispers. "Gods, why me?"

"Oh, you poor baby," his friend mocked. "Now, go be the belle of the ball; I am going to go find some fun of my own."

"No, wait! Enzo, don't leave me alone with-" With not even a wave, the Ebony Warrior waltzed off to go amuse himself and left Jon to the mercy of partygoers. Jon risked another glance in the direction of the giggling gaggle of young ladies to see them all looking at him expectantly. He gave them a nod of acknowledgment before turning on his heel and heading in the opposite direction.

"Tommen? What are you doing under there?"

The younger prince peered up at Jon from under a table, having been hidden from view by the tablecloth until Jon had dropped a spoon and noticed him when bending down to retrieve it. With a small pout on his face, the boy crawled out and plopped down in the chair next to him. "Joff was being mean again."

"Ah, that makes sense," Jon nodded. "What did he say?"

"That I was weak and useless, that someone was going to kill me one day and the realm would be better off because of it since no one wanted a useless prince," the boy mumbled, green eyes downcast.

There was a rush a fiery heat and Jon was forced to bite back his any before responding. He tilted Tommen's chin up to meet his eyes, "Your brother is a battle-hardened warrior then? Well, I certainly didn't see him proving his skill out there on the tourney fields, did you?"

The boy perked up at Jon's words "No. He spent the whole time sitting on his butt, didn't he? But even if he did compete, you would have beaten him," Tommen giggled, looking at the medal of victory King Robert had hung from Jon's neck.

"You got that right," Jon smiled, giving the boy's hair a ruffle. "Still," he added, remembering his talk with Ser Jaime, "your uncle tells me that you haven't been taking your martial training seriously. Do you want to explain that?"

The young prince frowned again, giving a shrug, "I just don't want to hurt anybody."

Jon felt a rush of warmth, "That is a very good thing, Tommen, and don't ever let anyone tell you differently. But, eventually, there will be someone who wants to hurt you or someone you care about and I want you to be able to protect yourself. So, if only for my peace of mind, will you try a little harder in your lessons?"

There was a moment of hesitation, but the young prince gave Jon a quick, sharp nod, his little shoulders set with a newfound determination. "I'll train harder than Joff ever has, I swear it!

"Good to hear it!" Jon gave the boy's hair another ruffled, "Now-"

"Jon!" Arya skidded up to him. Spotting Tommen, she dropped into a brief, but graceful curtsy, "Good evening, Prince Tommen. Jon, come dance with me!"

"You want to dance? What is the world ending?" Jon teased. Arya rolled her eyes, grabbing Jon by the arm and started to drag him in the direction of the dance floor. 

"Alright, alright! I'm coming," Jon chuckled, waving goodnight to Tommen and following his sister into the throng of dancers. Giving her a twirl, he cocked his eyebrow, "Now, what is this about?"

"Magic," Arya said, dropping her voice low and serious. "I was talking to Mister Enzo and he suggested that I try my hand at Illusion Magic, said that it can make you invisible and really quiet."

"Aye, that branch of magic is ideal for stealthy fighters."

"So, can you teach me some?" Gods, his one true weakness! Ayra's puppy eyes!

"I'll try," Jon agreed, somewhat reluctantly. "Just remember, magic is a secret between you, Enzo, and I. So don't go practicing it in front of anyone."

"I know, I know!"

"Jon!"

For what felt like the hundredth time that evening, Jon looked up to see who wanted his attention. This time it was Ser Loras, rarely not in the company of Lord Renly. "Ser Loras, what can I do for you?"

"I think you've earned the right to just call me Loras, Jon, and I was sent to get you by my grandmother; my family wants to meet you!" The young knight replied cheerfully, not really giving Jon a chance to decline as he was already directing him to a table covered by a green and gold tablecloth and occupied by four unfamiliar figures. 

"Jon, let me introduce you to my family; My father, Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden. My beloved mother, Lady Alerie Hightower. My wonderful grandmother, Lady Olenna Tyrell, and, of course, my sweet and lovely sister, Margaery." Loras indicated to each member of his family as he introduced them before gesturing to Jon, "Everyone, this is Jon Whitewolf; the man who saved my life."

Before Jon could say anything, Lady Alerie shot forward and wrapped him in a warm embrace. "You sweet boy, you saved my son! How can we ever repay you?"

Startled by the sudden show of physical affection, he could only stutter, "Think nothing of it, my lady; anyone would have done the same thing."

The woman pulled back, her damp eyes tracing his face and she reached up to cup her face in one of her hand. She was a handsome woman, tall and dignified with long silver hair and a comforting demeanor; if her son was what a knight from Sansa's song looked like, then Lady Alerie was what Jon had always imaged a wise queen should look like. She looked warm but intelligent, dignified but approachable. She looked like he always imagined a mother would. 

"Such a good boy you are," she said, patting his cheek. "Such a good, kind boy; your parents must be so proud."

"Well-"

"Alerie, dear, you're embarrassing the poor lad," Lord Tyrell boomed. He was a..big man, big and jovial; the kind of person who was unfailingly confident in themselves...even if their actual skill didn't always back up that mindset. "Now, I've heard-"

"So you're the one who wiped out our warehouse's stores for the foreseeable future," demanded the old woman, Lady Olenna. "I must say, I was expecting someone larger." She was small and looked even smaller wrapped in heavy green clothing with white hard and gaunt, thin hands. That being said, her frail frame did nothing to disguise the cunning wit in her eyes and voice; the picking on the back of Jon's neck told him that she was likely the most dangerous member of her family. 

Jon shifted slightly so he was standing slightly taller, "Sorry to disappoint you, my lady. But, yes, it was me. Is that an issue?"

The woman snorted, "No, not so long as your coin is good. What I can't believe is that you're just giving all that foodstuff away. What is it you want, boy? You've endeared yourself to the king, gained the admiration of the smallfolk, and saved my grandson, all for what? Do you want a title? Lands of your own? Is there some maiden that has your interest?"

"I want nothing, my lady," Jon replied, face carefully blank. "I have all I need in life, anything the king offered me would be turned down."

Lady Olenna scanned him with brutal intensity and, for a brief moment, Jon worried that she could read his mind. "I never trust a man who has no ambitions."

"Then it is a good thing I never asked you to trust me, my lady," Jon shot back.

His words, surprisingly, got a bark of laughter from the woman, "I like this one; he isn't a simpering fool. Dance with him, Margaery; I want to see how he moves."

"Grandmother," the lovely Lady Margaery gasped, "you shouldn't go putting Ser Jon on the spot like that."

Lady Margaery was as beautiful as Jon had heard. Long, curling brunette hair framed a beautiful face that was not unlike her brother's with big golden-brown eyes that somehow seemed sweet yet sly at the same time. But she did not look Lyanna Stark and he found that somewhat saddening. Still...

"I admit to not being much of a dance, especially in front of a large crowd, but for a lady as glorious as you, Lady Margaery, I'd put aside my inhibitions. So, if you'll have me, would you care to dance?"

Jon held out his hand and, with a small, surprised smile, Lady Margaery took it.

"You are far too hard on yourself, Ser Jon; you're a fine dancer," Lady Margaery complimented as he escorted her back to her family's table. 

"Thank you for the compliment, my lady. Honestly, I prefer small-town festivals to the more formal balls, fewer eyes on you, but I have been enjoying myself these past few days." Jon admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, I think-"

BANG!

The large, ornate doors of the main hall of the Red Keep were thrown open with a massive bang, startling the few dozen partygoers that were still present. Jon turned in the direction of the noise and froze in shock when he saw that standing in the doorway, rain dripping from her red and black leather armor, was Serana. 

Next Chapter: You know? Jon may be the hero of our story, but there is a lot of other players involved too. I think we should see what they've been thinking about....

Notes:

1) BAM! Serana is back baby! And you can bet she'll be shaking things up!

2) This chapter focused more on Jon's relationship with Enzo than I originally imagined, but I'm happy the way it turned out.

3) Chapter 15 will be a little different. I'll be touching base with a lot of different characters instead of just 1-3.