Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of A Hungry Dragon
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Chapter 12 (Little Birds, Little Whispers), Chapter 13 (Empty Graves and Winter Tales), Chapter 14 (The Kingslayer's Honor), Chapter 15 (Whispers in the Water Garden), Chapter 16 (For Elia's Shadow), Chapter 17 (A Knife in The Dark), and Chapter 18 (Crimson Cloaks, Crimson Lies) are already available for Patrons.
Jon's hands trembled as he stared at the parchment, the royal seal still visible despite his constant handling of the letter. The words seemed to dance before his eyes, refusing to settle into something that made sense. He blinked hard, then read it again.
"By decree of His Grace, Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm... Jon Snow is hereby legitimized as Jon Flint, great grandson and heir to Lord Anden Flint..."
"Seven hells, are you going to keep reading it until the ink wears off?" Derek's voice cut through Jon's daze as he peered at the letter over Jon's shoulder.
Jon swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "I... I just..." He looked up at his grandfather, Lord Anden Flint, who towered over everyone in the Training Yard. At three meters tall, the man was a giant among men.
"What's wrong, boy?" Lord Anden's deep voice rumbled through the air like distant thunder, but his eyes were kind as he looked down at his great-grandson. "Has the shock stolen your tongue?"
Derek laughed, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "I think it has! Look at him – white as a ghost's face, he is!"
Jon felt his cheeks flush. "I'm not... I just never thought..." He clutched the letter tighter, his purple eyes wide with disbelief. "Why would the King agree to this?"
Lord Anden's massive hand came down gently on Jon's head, ruffling his dark curls. "Because I asked him to, lad. Robert Baratheon might be king, but he still remembers who helped him win his crown. The Flints have always been loyal to the North, and when I told him I wanted to legitimize my great grandson, he could hardly refuse."
"But..." Jon's voice caught in his throat. "Lord Stark... my father... he didn't..."
"Eddard Stark had his chance," Lord Anden's voice hardened slightly. "Seven years he's had to give you his name, and seven years he's left you as Snow. Well, I say no great-grandson of mine will bear a bastard's name, not when I have a proud name to give."
Derek nudged Jon playfully. "Come on, Jon. Aren't you supposed to say something to your great-grandfather? Or are you going to stand there gaping like a fish all day?"
The teasing finally broke through Jon's shock. With a sudden burst of emotion, he lunged forward and threw his arms around Lord Anden's leg – which was about as high as he could reach. "Thank you," he managed to choke out, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, great grandfather."
The giant lord's face softened into a fond smile. He reached down and patted Jon's back with his massive hand. "You deserve it, lad. You've got the blood of the First Men in your veins, and now you've got a name worthy of it."
From across the training yard, a captain cleared his throat. "My lord, about the war preparations..."
Lord Anden nodded, his expression turning serious. "Aye, duty calls." He looked down at Jon again. "We'll talk more later, boy. I need to discuss the upcoming campaign with Lord Stark." His eyes twinkled. "Besides, I think Derek is about to burst if he doesn't get to celebrate with you properly."
Jon stepped back, wiping at his eyes quickly. "Thank you again, great grandfather. I... I won't disappoint you."
"You never could, boy." Lord Anden turned to his captains. "Now then, about those supply lines..."
As the adults moved away to discuss war preparations, Derek grabbed Jon's arm and pulled him away from the others. "Come on, we need to celebrate! And you need to practice your new signature – Jon Flint. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
Still clutching the letter, Jon allowed himself to be led outside into the courtyard. The spring air was crisp, and the sound of soldiers training filled the yard. "It doesn't feel real," he admitted. "I've dreamed of having a true name for so long..."
"Well, now you've got one!" Derek spun around to face him, walking backward. "And not just any name – you're a Flint! Do you know what that means?"
Jon nodded slowly, a smile finally spreading across his face. "It means I don't have to rely on the Wall anymore."
"And?"
"And... I'm great-grandfather's heir?"
"And?"
Jon's smile grew wider. "And I'm not a bastard anymore."
"AND?" Derek pressed, practically bouncing with excitement.
"And what?"
Derek rolled his eyes dramatically. "Gods, you're thick sometimes! It means you're getting the castle, you idiot! Lord Anden already said he's leaving you Breakstone Hill when you're grown. You're going to be a lord someday!"
The reality of it hit Jon like a physical blow. He stumbled slightly, and Derek caught his arm, laughing. "Don't you dare faint on me, Jon! What would people say about the future Lord Flint if he swooned like a maiden?"
"I'm not swooning!" Jon protested, but he couldn't stop grinning. "It's just... it's a lot to take in."
"Well, take it in quickly," Derek advised, nodding toward the training yard where several boys their age were practicing with wooden swords. "Because I guarantee you'll be getting challenged to quite a few matches today. Everyone's going to want to test themselves against the heir to Breakstone Hill."
Jon's hand instinctively went to the wooden sword at his hip. "Let them come," he said, his confidence growing with each passing moment. "I'll show them what a Flint can do."
"That's the spirit!" Derek's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh! We need to tell Robb! He's going to be so excited – well, after he gets over being jealous that you got legitimized."
Jon's smile faltered slightly. "Do you think... do you think Lord Stark will be angry?"
Derek considered this for a moment. "Nah, he's too honorable to be angry about something like this. Besides, what could he say? He's the one who wouldn't give you his name." He paused, then added more gently, "And anyway, you're still his son, even if you're a Flint now instead of a Snow."
Jon nodded, feeling something settle in his chest. Derek was right – this didn't change who his father was, it just gave him a new future, a better one. He carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his jerkin, right over his heart.
"Come on," he said, drawing his practice sword. "Let's see if being a Flint has improved my swordwork any."
Derek grinned, pulling out his own wooden sword. "Still not good enough to beat me, Jon!"
"We'll see about that!" Jon launched forward, and their wooden swords met with a satisfying crack.
As they sparred, Jon felt lighter than he had in years. The weight of his bastard name had been lifted, replaced by something solid and real. He was Jon Flint now, heir to Breakstone Hill.
But deep inside, he felt anger. Anger that despite already showing his worth, Lord Stark never thought that he deserved the name Stark. Jon didn't understand why his father didn't do it for him. Lord Flint gave him the name. Why couldn't his father do the same?
Jon wondered if he was a good man. Lord Flint, his great-grandfather, gave him something he had wanted for so long, yet here he was, wanting the Stark name. Did he not do enough to earn that name? Or maybe, a part that Jon refused to acknowledge, his father deep down fears that he could be a potential danger to Robb in the future, and the thought cut deeper than any sword ever could.
The wooden swords clashed in the courtyard, the sharp crack echoing off the stone walls. Jon darted forward, his purple eyes focused, and managed to land a quick hit on Derek's shoulder.
"Ha!" Jon exclaimed triumphantly.
Derek merely grinned. "Good hit, little Jon. Now let's see how you handle this!" With the fluid grace of an experienced swordsman, Derek spun away from Jon's next attack and tapped him lightly on the back with his practice sword.
"Too slow!" Derek called out cheerfully. "Come on, Lord Flint-to-be, surely you can do better than that?"
Jon gritted his teeth and pressed forward again, his wooden sword a blur as he attempted to break through Derek's defense. By some miracle, he managed another hit, this time catching Derek's knee.
"Two hits!" Jon crowed. "That's better than last time!"
"Indeed it is," Derek agreed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Shall we make it three?"
Before Jon could respond, Derek launched into a dizzying series of moves that left Jon spinning. Within moments, the boy found himself flat on his back, staring up at the sky with his wooden sword several feet away.
"And that, dear Jon," Derek announced with a flourish, "is why you shouldn't get cocky after two lucky hits."
Jon groaned but couldn't help laughing. "You're worse than Ser Rodrik when it comes to teaching humility."
"Ah, but I'm far more charming about it," Derek said, offering his hand to help Jon up. "Besides, you're improving.."
Jon accepted the hand up, dusting himself off. His eyes fell on the letter still safely tucked in his jerkin, and a dreamy expression crossed his face.
Derek watched him with knowing amusement. "Still thinking you're going to wake up and find it was all a dream?"
"Maybe," Jon admitted sheepishly. "It just seems too good to be true. Me, Jon Flint instead of Jon Snow..."
Quick as a snake, Derek reached out and pinched Jon's nose hard.
"Ow!" Jon yelped, batting his hand away. "What was that for?"
"Did that feel like a dream?" Derek asked innocently.
"No, it felt like my nose being crushed by an evil Master at Arms," Jon rubbed his nose, trying to glare but failing to suppress his grin.
"Evil? Me?" Derek pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'm wounded, Jon. Deeply wounded. Here I am, helping you verify your newly legitimate status through empirical evidence, and you accuse me of evil? I shall have to drown my sorrows in wine and women... well, wine at least. Your great grandfather would have my head if I brought women into this conversation."
Jon picked up his practice sword, fidgeting with it nervously. "Derek... do you think the servants at Breakstone Hill will accept me? As their future lord, I mean?"
Derek's expression softened. "Jon, you lived there for two years. I'm fairly certain the stable master would trade me for you in a heartbeat after you helped him deliver that difficult foal last summer."
"But that was when I was just a bastard visiting with grandmother," Jon protested. "Being their future lord is different."
"You're right, it is different," Derek agreed, sitting down on a nearby bench and patting the space beside him. "It's different because now they can openly show how much they already respect you without worrying about propriety."
Jon sat down beside him, still looking uncertain. "Really?"
"Really," Derek confirmed. "Besides, you don't have to worry about ruling anything for a good long while yet. Have you seen Lord Anden lately? The man's still strong enough to lift a horse."
"He can not lift a horse!" Jon protested, laughing.
"No? Last week I could have sworn I saw him using one as a practice sword," Derek said with a perfectly straight face. "Though it might have been the wine making me see things."
Jon doubled over laughing. "You're terrible!"
"I prefer the term 'creatively truthful,'" Derek corrected him. "But speaking of Lord Anden's strength, I heard him telling Lord Stark that he plans to lead the van himself when we march to deal with these uppity Greyjoys."
"He's really going to fight?" Jon sat up straighter, his eyes wide.
"Of course he is. The man's three meters tall - he probably thinks of the Iron Islands as stepping stones." Derek grinned. "Though between you and me, I think he's mainly going because he wants to show off his newly legitimized great grandson to all the lords of the North."
Jon felt his cheeks heat up. "He wouldn't..."
"Oh, he absolutely would," Derek assured him. "Lord Anden might not show it much, but he is proud of you."
Jon felt warmth spread through his chest at those words. He stood up suddenly, spreading his arms wide and spinning in a circle. "I feel like I could fly," he admitted. "Like everything's different now, but in a good way."
"Well, don't actually try to fly," Derek warned. "I don't fancy explaining to Lord Anden how his newly legitimized heir managed to break his neck trying to sprout wings." He paused thoughtfully. "Though given your height, it wouldn't be much of a fall anyway."
"I'm not that short!" Jon protested.
"Of course not," Derek agreed solemnly. "You're practically a giant. Why, you almost come up to Lord Anden's knee now."
Jon wondered if he should whack Derek with his sword when he heard the rapid approach of running feet. He looked up just in time to see Robb barreling toward him at full speed.
"Jon! Jon! Is it true?" Robb practically crashed into him, grabbing his shoulders. "I heard that you're legitimized now! You're a Flint!"
Jon couldn't help but grin at his brother's excitement. "It's true. Great Grandfather got the King's approval and everything. I have the letter right here." He patted his jerkin where the precious document was stored.
"That's amazing!" Robb exclaimed, then punched Jon's arm. "Though I can't believe you got legitimized before me. I'm the heir to Winterfell!"
"You don't need to be legitimized, stupid," Jon laughed. "You were born legitimate."
"Oh. Right." Robb grinned sheepishly. "Still, it's not fair that you get to be lord of a castle before I am."
"Brother?" a small voice piped up from behind Robb.
Jon looked past his brother to see Sansa standing there, her red hair neatly braided and her blue eyes uncertain. At four years old, she was the perfect picture of a little lady, even with her hands fidgeting with her dress.
"Sansa?" Jon couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.
"I... I wanted to congratulate you too," she said carefully as if rehearsing words she'd practiced. "On becoming a Flint."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "'Brother,' is it now? Not 'half-brother' anymore? Is it just because I'm no longer a bastard?"
Sansa's little face flushed red, and she looked down at her feet. Robb shifted uncomfortably beside them, looking between his siblings.
"No, I..." Sansa took a deep breath and looked up at Jon, her blue eyes swimming with tears. "I never thanked you properly. For saving me from that bad man. Even though it's been over a month now."
Jon's expression softened slightly as he remembered that day.
"You didn't have to save me," Sansa continued, her little voice trembling. "You could have just walked away, like I always did to you. But you didn't." She took a few steps closer to him. "I'm sorry, Jon. I'm sorry I acted like a brat and not like a sister. Mother always says a lady should admit when she's wrong, and... and I was wrong."
Jon stared at her, caught off guard by the sincere apology. His first instinct was to reject it – to make her feel as excluded as she'd made him feel. But then he remembered his grandmother Lyarra's words about politics and appearances.
' "Sometimes, sweetling," she'd told him, "it's better to appear forgiving, even when your heart isn't ready yet. It makes you look stronger, not weaker." '
Looking at Sansa's tearful face, Jon made his decision. "Thank you, Sansa. I accept your apology."
Sansa's face lit up, and before Jon could react, she threw her arms around his waist in a tight hug. "Thank you, brother! Real brother, not half anything!"
"Oh, now I'm a real brother?" Jon couldn't help but tease, even as he awkwardly patted her back.
"You were always a real brother," Sansa mumbled into his shirt. "I was just too stupid to see it."
"Careful now," Derek's voice called out as he approached. "Don't let your lady mother hear you calling yourself stupid, little lady. She might think we Flints are being a bad influence."
Sansa pulled back from Jon and turned to Derek with all the dignity a four-year-old could muster. "Mother says it's ladylike to admit when you're wrong."
"Ah, but there's a difference between being wrong and being stupid," Derek said, crouching down to her level. "You were wrong, yes, but now you're being very smart by fixing it. That's what clever ladies do."
Sansa beamed at him. "Really?"
"Would I lie to such a distinguished lady?" Derek pressed a hand to his heart. "Why, the very thought wounds me deeply!"
Sansa giggled, and even Jon couldn't help but laugh.
"Now then," Derek clapped his hands together. "I believe this calls for a celebration. What say you all to raiding the kitchen for those honey cakes I mentioned?"
"We can't steal food!" Sansa looked scandalized.
"Steal? My dear lady, I am wounded again! Who said anything about stealing?" Derek winked. "I simply thought we might conduct a thorough inspection of the kitchen's preparations for tonight's feast. It's practically our duty, really."
"How is it our duty?" Jon asked, amused.
"Well, you're the guest of honor, so naturally you need to ensure everything is up to standard. Robb here is the heir to Winterfell, so he needs to learn how to properly inspect feast preparations. Lady Sansa is our resident expert on proper behavior, so she must make sure everything is suitably elegant. And I," Derek drew himself up importantly, "am the responsible adult supervising this very important inspection."
Robb burst out laughing. "You? Responsible?"
"I am deeply responsible!" Derek protested. "Why, just yesterday I responsibly made sure all the wine in the cellar hadn't gone bad by testing every barrel."
"Is that why you were singing to the horses this morning?" Jon asked innocently.
"The horses appreciate fine music, thank you very much," Derek sniffed. "Now, are we conducting this inspection or not?"
Sansa looked uncertain. "Mother says ladies don't sneak food..."
"Ah, but ladies do conduct quality control," Derek said sagely. "It's very important to make sure the honey cakes are... properly honeyed."
"Well..." Sansa bit her lip, then smiled. "I suppose someone has to make sure they're doing it right."
"That's the spirit!" Derek grinned. "Come along, my fellow inspectors. Jon, lead the way – you're the man of the hour, after all."
Great Hall
The Great Hall of Winterfell slowly filled with the lords of the North, their voices echoing off the ancient stone walls. Ned Stark sat in his father's chair, watching them file in one by one, each face familiar yet somehow more serious than usual. The threat of Balon Greyjoy's rebellion had brought them all together, and the air was thick with anticipation.
Lady Dacey Mormont strode in, her bearing as proud as any male lord. At fifteen, she carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, and Ned knew she was every bit as fierce as her mother. She gave him a respectful nod as she took her place, her hand resting casually on the handle of her mace.
"My mother sends her regrets, Lord Stark," Dacey announced. "She thought it best to keep Bear Island well-defended, just in case the Ironborn get any ideas about our western shores."
"A wise precaution," Ned agreed. His eyes drifted to where Roose Bolton stood in the shadows, pale and still as death itself. The Lord of the Dreadfort seemed to absorb the light around him, his colorless eyes watching everything.
"My lord?" Maester Luwin appeared at Ned's elbow, his chain clinking softly.
"Yes, Maester?"
"The lords are almost all assembled, but young Lord Robb has yet to arrive."
Ned frowned slightly. "Where is he?"
"With young Jon Sn—" Luwin caught himself, a small smile crossing his weathered face. "With Jon Flint, my lord. They were heading towards the kitchen last I saw them."
Ned couldn't help but notice the pride in Luwin's voice when he spoke Jon's new name. The old maester had always had a soft spot for the boy, ever since he'd found Jon curled up in the library at age four, stubbornly trying to teach himself to read.
' "Jon's quite the scholar," Luwin added, almost wistfully. "Unlike his brother, who seems to think books are best used as pillows during lessons."
Ned suppressed a chuckle. "Robb has other strengths."
"Oh, indeed," Luwin agreed. "Though I must say, it's refreshing to have at least one student who doesn't groan when I mention the history of the First Men." '
The great doors creaked open again, and the hall fell silent as Lord Anden Flint ducked to enter. Ned felt his neck strain as he looked up at his old friend. Anden had always been enormous, but somehow he seemed to grow larger every time Ned saw him. The massive battle axe strapped to his back looked like it could split a horse in two.
"Lord Stark!" Anden's voice boomed through the hall like thunder. Several of the younger lords actually jumped. "Good to see you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances."
"Lord Flint," Ned rose to greet him, feeling rather like a child next to the giant of a man. "Welcome to Winterfell."
"HAR!" Anden's laugh shook the rafters. "No need for such formality, Ned. We have been family for a long time, haven't we?" His eyes twinkled. "Speaking of which, where's my great grandson? I heard he was giving Derek quite the workout in the training yard."
"I believe he's with Robb at the moment," Ned replied, noting how Roose Bolton's pale eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Jon's new status.
"Ah, good!" Anden clapped his hands together, causing another round of startled jumps among the assembly. "The boys should spend time together. Though I hope they're not too tired from training – I brought something for Jon that I think he'll like."
"Not another axe, I hope," Ned said dryly, remembering the last gift Anden had given Jon.
"No, no," Anden waved his hand dismissively. The gesture would have been more reassuring if his hand wasn't the size of a dinner plate. "This is much more practical. It's only a sword."
"Only a sword?" Roose Bolton's soft voice somehow carried across the hall. "How... conventional."
Anden turned to face Bolton, and Ned had to admit there was something darkly amusing about watching the pale lord crane his neck to look up at the Mountain Flint.
"Conventional, yes," Anden agreed cheerfully. "Much like your house's tradition of collecting human skin, Lord Bolton. Though I prefer my conventional practices to involve less flaying and more honest steel."
A few nervous titters echoed through the hall. Bolton's face remained expressionless, but his pale eyes seemed to grow even colder.
"Now then," Anden continued, apparently oblivious to the tension he'd created, "shall we discuss this Greyjoy business? The sooner we deal with these squid, the sooner I can get back to teaching my great grandson how to swing an axe properly."
"I thought you said you got him a sword," Maester Luwin pointed out.
"Oh, the sword's just for practice," Anden grinned. "No great-grandson of mine is growing up without learning how to use a Flint Weapon. Why, my own father took off three men's heads with one swing of his axe during the War of the Ninepenny Kings!"
"Was that before or after he used a ship as a toothpick?" Ned asked, unable to resist.
Anden roared with laughter. "Has Derek been telling tales again? HA! That boy has more imagination than sense sometimes. Though speaking of ships," his expression grew serious, "I've had my men reinforcing the defenses along the Bay of Ice. Those Ironborn want to reave and raid? Let them try their luck against the Flints. We'll give them such a greeting they'll think the Others themselves have come for them!"
Several lords cheered at this, and even Bolton's lips twitched slightly.
"My lord," Maester Luwin murmured to Ned, "perhaps we should send for Lord Robb now? The war council should begin soon."
"Yes, of course," Ned nodded. "Though I suspect we'll need to send someone tall enough to pry him and Jon away from whatever mischief Derek's got them involved in."
"I could go," Anden offered, his voice carrying despite his attempt at a whisper. "I'm rather good at prying things apart."
"The last time you tried to 'pry something apart,' you accidentally pulled a door off its hinges," Ned reminded him.
"The door was stuck!" Anden protested. "And I fixed it!"
"You nailed it back with your axe," Ned said dryly.
"And it hasn't stuck since, has it?"
Ned shook his head, fighting back a smile. "Maester Luwin, if you would be so kind as to fetch the boys? Preferably without destroying any doors in the process?"
Once the door was closed, he turned to talk with his Bannders. "My lords," Ned began, "Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands, independent of the Seven Kingdoms. King Robert calls for our aid, and the North will answer."
A moment of silence was broken by the Great Jon's thunderous laughter. "King?" he bellowed, slapping his massive thigh. "Did Balon Greyjoy drink all his salt water? The fool declares himself against all of Westeros?"
"Perhaps he thought the realm would kneel at the sight of his squids," someone called out, causing scattered laughter.
Lord Anden Flint's deep, gravelly voice cut through the mirth like an axe through wood. "House Martell will not send aid to the crown."
The hall fell silent again. Ned's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied his old friend. "You seem well-informed, Lord Flint."
Anden's face remained impassive, though there was a glint in his eye. "I have my ways, Ned." His massive shoulders rose in a slight shrug. "The vipers of Dorne hold no love for Robert, as we all know."
Ned filed away his curiosity about Anden's sources for later consideration. The Mountain Flint had always had an uncanny knack for knowing things he shouldn't, though he rarely shared how.
"My lord," Roose Bolton's soft voice somehow carried across the hall, though he barely seemed to move his lips. "Speaking of... information, there are certain rumors circulating in Wintertown that have caught my attention."
"What rumors?" Ned asked, though something in Bolton's pale eyes made him suspect he knew what was coming.
"They say your natural-born son – forgive me, Lord Flint's great-grandson – recently distinguished himself." Bolton's colorless eyes flickered to where Anden stood. "Something about Lady Sansa and a group of Ironborn raiders?"
Before Ned could respond, Anden's deep growl filled the hall. "If you have something to say about my great-grandson, Bolton, say it plainly. Or are you only comfortable being direct when you have someone strapped to a cross?"
Several lords shifted uncomfortably, but Bolton remained unperturbed. "Merely expressing interest in the boy's accomplishments. They say it was his plan that led to the capture of those raiders."
Ned nodded slowly. "Jon...he was able to locate the camp, and he came up with the plan to ambush them."
"HAR!" The Great Jon's laugh boomed again. "Those fish-lovers might know their ships, but they know nothing of forest warfare!"
"And Lady Sansa?" Bolton pressed, his voice still soft. "I heard she was in some danger."
Anden's hand tightened on his axe handle, but Ned spoke before his friend could respond. "The Ironborn send a man. He tried to grab Sansa after he set a tower in fire." His voice hardened. "Jon had seen the man, he had been there, and followed him, and used a crossbow to deal with him."
"Dealt with?" Bolton's eyebrow raised slightly. "How diplomatic of you, Lord Stark."
"Would you prefer the details, Bolton?" Anden growled. "How my great-grandson used his crossbow to break his legs like toothpicks? Or perhaps you'd like to know how many pieces were left when he was done?"
"Sister?" Bolton's voice carried a hint of challenge. "I thought the boy was Lord Flint's great-grandson now."
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees. Anden took a step forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over Bolton. "Choose your next words carefully, leech lord. They may be your last."
"My lords," Ned's voice cut through the tension. "We have more pressing matters than gossip about children. The Ironborn threat-"
"But it's such interesting gossip," Bolton interrupted, his pale eyes never leaving Anden's face. "A bastard boy who reads like a maester, fights like a warrior, and plans like a commander. One might wonder-"
His words were cut off as Anden's hand shot out, faster than seemed possible for a man his size, and lifted Bolton by his throat. The pale lord's feet dangled several inches off the ground as Anden brought him close to his face.
"One might wonder," Anden growled, his voice promising violence, "how many layers of skin a man can lose before he dies. I'm sure you are the expert, Bolton? So would you kindly tell me?"
"Anden." Ned's voice carried a warning.
For a moment, no one breathed. Then Anden released his grip, letting Bolton drop unceremoniously to the floor. The pale lord managed to land on his feet, though he stumbled slightly.
"My apologies, Lord Stark," Anden said, though his eyes never left Bolton. "My hand slipped. Must be all this talk of squids making my palm slick."
The Great Jon's laughter broke the tension. "Well, if we're done discussing children's tales, perhaps we could return to the matter of crushing these self-proclaimed kings? I've got a new sword that's hungry for squid blood!"
"Yes," Ned agreed, giving Anden a warning look. "Let's discuss strategy. The royal fleet will need support along the western coast..."
As the conversation turned to military matters, Bolton drifted back to his previous position, rubbing his throat discreetly. Anden remained where he was, his massive frame blocking Bolton's view of the head table.
Jon, Robb, Sansa and Derek
"This is not very ladylike," Sansa whispered, wringing her hands as they huddled behind the storage barrels near the kitchen. "What would Mother say?"
"She'd probably say it's all Jon's fault somehow," Robb grinned, earning an elbow from his brother.
"The plan is sound," Jon insisted, his unusual purple eyes twinkling with mischief. "You just need to keep them distracted for a few minutes while we sneak around back."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly is she supposed to do that?"
"Just be... Sansa," Jon suggested, earning a confused look from his sister. "You know, do that thing where you talk about knights and songs and make everyone want to listen to you."
"I do not make everyone want to..." Sansa paused, remembering how just yesterday she'd kept the kitchen staff entertained for nearly an hour with tales from her favorite songs. "Oh."
"See? Natural talent," Robb encouraged. "Besides, think of the rewards. Fresh honeycakes, still warm from the oven..."
"And cheesecakes," Jon added, knowing his sister's weakness.
Sansa bit her lip. "Three pieces of honeycake," she negotiated. "And one whole cheesecake."
"Done," both boys agreed immediately.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Sansa muttered, smoothing her dress. "If Septa Mordane finds out..."
"Septa Mordane also says Jon shouldn't be allowed to eat at the high table," Robb pointed out. "And we all know she's wrong about that."
Sansa's face hardened slightly. She'd been far less tolerant of the septa's comments about Jon since he'd saved her from those raiders. "You're right. Fine, I'll do it. But if we get caught..."
"We'll say it was all Robb's idea," Jon promised solemnly.
"Hey!"
"Quiet," Derek hushed them. "Someone's coming."
They pressed themselves against the barrels as a servant walked past. Once the coast was clear, Jon outlined the final details of their plan.
"Sansa goes in first," he whispered. "Once we hear her talking about... what was it you were telling them yesterday?"
"Florian and Jonquil," Sansa supplied.
"Right, that. Once she has their attention, we'll sneak in through the back door near the pantry. Derek, you're tallest, so you'll grab the honeycakes from the high shelf. Robb, you're on cheesecake duty. I'll keep watch."
"Why do you get the easy job?" Robb protested.
"Because I came up with the plan," Jon smirked. "And because I can run fastest if we need to escape."
"That's true," Derek admitted. "Remember when the kennelmaster caught us trying to ride the hounds?"
"Shhh!" Sansa hissed. "Are we doing this or not? The longer we wait, the more I think about what Mother would say."
"Go on then," Jon encouraged. "Just like we practiced."
Sansa took a deep breath, straightened her dress one final time, and walked into the kitchen with all the grace her septa had taught her. The boys pressed their ears to the wall to listen.
"Oh, good afternoon!" they heard Sansa's sweet voice ring out. "I was just thinking about the most wonderful story... You see, there was this knight..."
"Here we go," Jon grinned. They waited until they heard the kitchen staff's interested murmurs, then crept around to the back entrance.
The door creaked slightly as they opened it, but Sansa smoothly raised her voice to cover the sound. "...and then Florian said to Jonquil, 'Sweet lady, I am no knight. I am only a fool...'"
The three kitchen maids were completely engrossed, their backs to the boys as they worked on kneading dough. Even old Gage, the cook, had paused his stirring to listen.
Jon signaled silently, and they began their mission. Derek crept toward the cooling racks while Robb made his way to the pantry where the cheesecakes were kept. Jon stood watch, trying not to laugh as Sansa's performance grew more dramatic.
"'My fool,' Jonquil declared, 'you are worth a hundred knights!'" Sansa was saying, her voice trembling with emotion. "Isn't it romantic? Though personally, I think the version where they meet by the fountain is even better..."
Derek was stretching to reach the honeycakes when he accidentally knocked a spoon off the counter. Without missing a beat, Sansa gasped loudly. "Oh! Just like the spoon that dropped when Florian first saw Jonquil! What a wonderful coincidence!"
The kitchen maids sighed dreamily, completely missing Robb's mad dash across the kitchen with a cheesecake under each arm.
"Lady Sansa," one of the maids said, "you tell it so beautifully. Do you know the song about the bear and the maiden fair?"
Jon saw panic flash across Sansa's face – they hadn't planned for follow-up requests. But his sister rallied admirably.
"Oh, yes, but... but first, have you heard about the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved a princess from giants? It's ever so exciting..."
Derek finally managed to grab the honeycakes, stuffing them into the bag they'd brought. He was halfway to the door when Gage suddenly turned around.
Jon reacted instantly, diving behind a barrel. Derek froze mid-step, and Robb looked ready to bolt with his cheesecakes. But Sansa proved her worth as a conspirator.
"Master Gage!" she exclaimed. "You simply must tell them about the feast you prepared for King Robert's visit! Everyone says it was the finest meal ever served in the North!"
The old cook's chest puffed up with pride. "Well, my lady, since you asked..." He turned back around, launching into a detailed description of every dish he'd prepared.
The boys seized their chance, slipping out the door with their prizes. Sansa waited until they were safely away before making her exit.
"Oh! I just remembered Mother wanted me to... um... practice my needlework! Thank you all for listening. Perhaps tomorrow I can tell you about Aemon the Dragonknight..."
She hurried out to where the boys were waiting in their hiding spot, practically bouncing with excitement.
"I can't believe we did it!" she whispered, accepting her share of the spoils.
"You were amazing," Jon told her sincerely. "Even I almost believed you were just there to talk about stories."
"Well," Sansa said primly, taking a bite of honeycake, "some of us have actual talents beyond stealing sweets."
"Says the girl with honey on her chin," Robb teased.
They all laughed, then froze as they heard footsteps approaching. They pressed back into the shadows, holding their breath...
"What are you children doing?"
They looked up to see Lady Lyarra Stark standing over them, one eyebrow raised as she took in their guilty faces and stolen treats.
"Grandmother!" Jon squeaked. "We were just..."
"Practicing strategic planning?" Lyarra suggested dryly. "I see Sansa served as the distraction while you three conducted the raid." Her stern expression cracked slightly. "Your great grandfather would be proud, Jon. Though perhaps next time, don't leave such an obvious trail of crumbs."
They looked behind them to see the damning evidence of their escape route.
"Are you going to tell Mother?" Sansa asked anxiously.
Lyarra considered this. "I suppose not. After all, it's good to see you children working together." She reached down and broke off a piece of honeycake. "Though I expect a share of any future spoils for my silence."
"Yes, Grandmother," they chorused, relieved.
As Lyarra walked away, enjoying her stolen cake, Sansa turned to the others. "Next time," she declared, "we need to bring a brush to sweep away the crumbs."
"Next time?" Jon grinned.
"Well," Sansa sniffed, trying to maintain her dignity while licking honey from her fingers, "someone needs to make sure you don't get caught."
"And it has nothing to do with the cheesecake?" Robb asked innocently.
"A lady never reveals her true motives," Sansa replied, but she couldn't quite hide her smile. "Now, shall we eat these before they get cold?"
Later
The last rays of sunlight filtered through the narrow window of Jon's chamber. Jon and Robb sat cross-legged on Jon's bed, a half-eaten lemon cake between them – the last remnant of their afternoon raid on the kitchen stores.
"Lady Stark will have our heads for this," Jon said with a wry smile, breaking off a small piece.
Robb laughed, crumbs falling from his mouth. "Only if she catches us. Besides, Cook always makes too many when Father hosts guests." He reached for the final portion but paused as a gust of wind swept through the room, rustling several papers that had been poorly hidden beneath Jon's pillow.
"What's this?" Robb asked, his attention diverted from the cake as he pulled out the scattered parchments. Jon lunged forward, but Robb was quicker, already examining the detailed sketches with keen interest.
"These are..." Robb's voice trailed off as he studied the drawings. Each page contained meticulously drawn designs, with notes scribbled in Jon's neat hand along the margins. "Jon, these are incredible. I didn't know you could draw like this."
Jon's cheeks reddened slightly. "They're nothing, really. Just some ideas I've been working on."
"Nothing?" Robb shook his head in disbelief, leafing through the drawings. "These could rival the sketches Maester Luwin shows us of siege engines and..." He stopped at one particular drawing, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What's this one? These mechanisms here, and this bracer... is that a blade?"
Jon shifted uncomfortably but couldn't hide the gleam of pride in his eyes. "Yes. I've been speaking with Mikken about it. He says it might be possible to forge something like this, though the mechanisms would need to be precise."
"But why would anyone need a blade hidden beneath their sleeve?" Robb asked, turning the drawing this way and that, trying to understand the complex system of springs and catches detailed on the parchment.
A ghost of a smile played across Jon's lips. "I call it a Hidden Blade. And you'll understand its use when it's finished." He traced the drawing with his finger. "See here? The blade would extend and retract with just a flick of the wrist. Completely concealed until needed."
"Jon Flint, what are you planning?" Robb's voice carried equal parts concern and curiosity.
"Nothing dangerous," Jon assured him quickly, though his eyes held a mischievous glint. "Think of it as... an experiment. Something to keep my mind occupied during those long hours when you're training with Ser Rodrik and I'm..." He didn't finish the sentence, but Robb understood.
Robb studied his half-brother's face for a moment before breaking into a broad grin. "Well, whatever it is, I want one too when it's done." He handed the drawings back to Jon, who carefully tucked them away.
"We'll see," Jon replied, unable to suppress his own smile. "But first, I believe there's still some cake left."
"Gods, I'd nearly forgotten!" Robb exclaimed, reaching for the abandoned sweet. "Though I think you'll find this last piece belongs to me."
"Does it now?" Jon raised an eyebrow, his hand moving just as quickly toward the prized morsel.
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