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When his father, Lord Eddard, had informed his family that the King was travelling towards Winterfell with a royal retinue he was more than content with ailing in the background while going unnoticed.

However, he had ended up catching the eye of the king. The round man laughed boisterously when he’d laid eyes upon him swinging his sword in the courtyard and had asked for the boy’s name. When Jon had revealed his surname, the king acknowledged him as Lord Stark’s bastard son.

His lord father had a queer expression when he walked on the two conversing in the courtyard, and the fear was evident when the talk had shifted from Jon’s skill with a sword to his aspirations in life. Robert felt it a waste to have him rot at the Wall.

Jon frowned, and felt himself agreeing with his father when Eddard Stark informed the king that there was great honor in serving at the wall; and that the Starks had manned the Wall for thousands of years.

Robert would not hear it. Instead, the king had said that he would much rather the company of another one of Eddard’s sons than be surrounded with another Lannister. Eddard replied that the queen would take it as a great insult.

King Robert responded that a king did not listen to the wails and complaints of his queen, else the continent would be named a queendom rather than a kingdom.

Jon had watched their verbal spar with pursed lips; he’d never experienced being wanted before. He preferred to take the black but understood that the black would await him once he had claimed a knighthood. However, at four and ten, he also understood that perhaps he was quite a tad too old to squire for a knight.

When he voiced his concerns, the king had waived him off and said that any knight would take him as a squire, so long as he gave the command.

For the first time in a long time, Jon had felt happiness.

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The happiness did not last, however. When Jon had been summoned to face the king, he wondered if perhaps the queen or Lord Stark’s wife had gotten to the man’s ear and had convinced him to rescind the offer. He was prepared for the humiliation; it was not unknown to him.

It was far worse.

Robert Baratheon had informed him that he would squire for none other than the queen’s brother, Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer.

Eddard was furious when he’d heard the news, rallying a strong argument with the king himself. Any man would be insane to risk their heads to argue against the king’s word. However, Eddard Stark was not just any man.

In the end, after a torpid and virulent argument, the king’s word had been upheld and Jon was left in the care of the golden knight before their departure for King’s Landing. Before his brother’s fall.

He should not have accepted the Kingslayer’s offer of proxy on the King’s Hunt. Jon should have stayed in Winterfell. Then, his brother may have still walked.

When the king had made it clear that Brandon Stark’s fall would not put an end to their journey south, Jon had whispered his goodbyes to the unconscious boy, ignoring Lady Stark’s jeering and hurtful words, before following the king’s caravan.

He had first intended to return to Winterfell one day, garbed in all black. However, now it seemed that he would return to Winterfell in plated armor. Perhaps he would keep to the black clothing and don a white direwolf on his plate. For his status and for his faithful companion, Ghost.

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The moment they’d passed the gates into the fabled city, Jon had decided that he hated the place. It stunk, it was crowded, and the heat was unkind to him. He was not the only one that had such feelings, his direwolf showing the symptoms much more subtle than he but showing them, nonetheless.

Looking at the symbol of the house denied to him, Jon’s thoughts wandered to his family and how they fared in the city. How he wished he could be with his lord father and his sisters, yes, even Sansa, but the Kingslayer had deemed to keep a close watch on him.

Jon hated the man, hated his taunts and japes. How he lorded his noble blood over Jon like others before him. Ser Jaime taunted him when they sparred and taunted him when they broke their fast. Jon was taunted when he oiled Ser Jaime’s blade and shoed Ser Jaime’s horse.

Once, while on the kingsroad, Jon had heard nothing but noise in his ears after having enough of Ser Jaime’s taunts during one of their spars. He snapped at the golden knight with a loud snarl, “A bastard I am but an oathbreaker I am yet to be, ser. Your relation as the queen’s brother has saved you from taking the black, or perhaps even death.”

He knew it was a mistake the moment he’d said it, perhaps even before, but no apologies would save him from the thrashing he had been victim to at Ser Jaime’s onslaught. The swords may have been blunted, but that only attested to the force he’d been victim to; cuts and bruises on his face and body.

When his youngest sister had cried out at the state of him, he’d assured her that it was only for the best; the newfound intensity would improve his skills with a blade tenfold.

Arya had backed down with a withheld tongue, while his father eyed the cuts and bruises with disapproving grey eyes.

However, the city had its perks as well. There, he meets Ser Barristan the Bold; the only knight, in Jon’s opinion, that is deserving of the white cloak in Robert Baratheon’s guard. The man treats him kindly and offers him pointers after Jaime is done battering him in the courtyard; the man hadn’t let go of his grudge against the words from the Bastard of Winterfell.

When news of the Hand’s tourney had reached the Red Keep, that was when he had first met the queen.

He had heard tales of the woman’s pride, but he found that they sorely paled once he had been in her presence.

Her disapproval at his appointment as her brother’s squire was clear and evident, the argument being heard within the walls of Winterfell for all to hear. She roared, and howled, and spat, and fucked; and all to no avail.

The queen glared at him with emerald eyes before ignoring him as she conversed with her brother. When she gestured to wish to speak privately, Ser Jaime gave her a knowing look and released his shadow for the rest of the day.

Jon sought out his lord father at first, but instead chose the company of Arya when he realized that his father would no doubt be occupied with his duties as Hand. However, his sister had also been occupied with duties of her own, practicing with an instructor from Braavos, teaching the young girl to water dance with the sword Jon had gifted her weeks past.

He could spend time with his other sister but found himself preferring to seek out the bold knight when he found him unencumbered in the training yard. It wasn’t as if he and Sansa were close, anyhow.

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How soon had things turned unpleasant. How queer had events unfolded in Jon’s eyes.

One day, Jon was squiring for Jaime Lannister; weeks later Ser Jaime had attacked his lord father outside Lord Baelish’s brothel. How he wished he could cry it false, but the witnesses were too great and the body of Jory Cassel outside the brothel was undeniable.

He waited outside his father’s chambers when the queen came barging out, pure fury in her steps before her emerald eyes landed upon him.

She enquired his presence with a snarl, and he responded that he awaited to see his lord father. She mocked his bastardy and implied that Lord Eddard had no use of him though they both knew that her words were false.

She walked away in a dress of spun red, and Jon found himself glaring at her figure with pure inner loathing.

His loathing would only increase when his father was arrested, and the Lannisters hunted his sisters within the city. Guards of the city watch cornered him on his way to see Septa Mordane and Sansa, unaware to the current events, and he was left with no choice but to fend for himself when they bared their steel against him.

He sliced gold cloaks left and right, thankful that they were merely few, before he found himself running to where he knew his sister to be. He desperately wished to see if Arya was alright, but he knew that she was currently with Syrio Forel and his location was far closer to that of his eldest sister. He tapped into the connection he held with his direwolf and sent him to his sister for assurance. He only hoped that Ghost would make it in time.

When he came across the corpse of Septa Mordane he soon found himself crossing swords with the gold cloaks once more. However, this time the numbers proved overwhelming and he was captured when many of them piled onto him to keep him steady.

They should have killed him. He would have preferred if they’d killed him. It would have saved him moons of heartache.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

The guards kept close watch on him. First through the bars of the black cells and later during his release when he was witness to his father’s execution. He could hear Sansa’s shrieks as she begged them to spare their father’s life, and they stopped once Eddard Stark’s head rolled down the steps of the great Sept of Baelor.

He turned his head slightly to where his sister’s unconscious form lay, and briefly met the smug look of the queen as she kept her eyes trained upon him.

He was escorted, in chains, to a room without windows and was kept there until Lord Tyrion’s arrival. The new king summoned him and interrogated Jon for the entire court to bear witness.

How he wanted to desperately run up the steps and run the king and his queen mother through with his sword, but he knew he could not reach them in time should Ser Barristan and the king’s dog intervene. So, he bit his tongue and instead plead with the king to spare his sister’s life, Arya having disappeared from the city without trace.

The king laughed at him and mocked his pleas, “the traitor’s bastard pleads with the king to spare his traitor sister.”

He argued her innocence, shamefully lying on his father’s name as clutched at anything to save Sansa from the crown’s wrath, “my sister is but a mere child of thirteen, Your Grace. Our father has acted shamefully but he would not divulge his plan to his children. He would have believed it to be a burden for he himself to shoulder alone.”

The king heard his words with an unimpressed gaze before coolly asking if Jon would have the crown believe that Eddard Stark truly acted alone (without Jon’s knowledge), to which Jon nodded his confirmation.

The queen mother then took her turn to speak, advising her son that it would be in best interest to still wed the young Stark girl; turning to Jon with a smirk as he felt sweat bead on his forehead and his blood run cold. Her smile only widened when Joffrey agreed to her suggestion.

He cursed inwardly but kept a passive face, especially when Joffrey asked if Jon would pledge his sword to the crown and House Lannister.

Jon replied that he would swear fealty to the crown but could not comprehend as to why he would need to pledge himself to House Lannister. Cersei Lannister narrowed her eyes but did not make a biting remark. Instead, Joffrey said to him that he deemed House Lannister to be as worthy of the crown as House Baratheon, to the grumbles of a few lords in the court; and then the king had made it known that his options were to pledge himself or to take the black.

He was ready to pledge the latter but soon remembered the fate of the last man that had accepted the king’s offer at the black. He swallowed his pride, and honor, and knelt before the crown as he swore his sword to them. The king gave an air of arrogance, but none could say that was a face more pleased than that of Cersei Lannister’s.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

He’d been assigned to Lord Tyrion, the acting Hand of the King. The imp had remarked that the last time he’d seen him was when they’d exchanged words outside the feast at Winterfell. Jon told him that he wielded a sword far better than last time.

“Did my brother pass on his skills and knowledge with a blade, then?” The dwarf had asked.

Aye, along with the need to break my oaths my lord, he’d wanted to reply with, but instead settled with a simply, “Aye.”

Though, in truth Ser Barristan Selmy had had a hand in his teaching when Ser Jaime neglected him every once in a while, in the city. He felt sadness when he’d learned of the old guard’s dismissal by the boy king.

“That makes you a valuable asset, then, Ser Jon,” Tyrion responded.

Jon responded that he was nothing more than a mere squire, and the small lord nodded before telling him that he had work to do. Jon shadowed the small man for the better part of a year until Stannis had invaded by the Blackwater.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

The times leading up the battle of the Blackwater were the most inducing to what had transpired between him and the queen. Or so many would say when they heard the tales.

Jon shadowed the small lord, along with Podrick Payne and the sellsword Bronn. He’d soon found himself teaching the small Payne boy swordsmanship from time to time as he found squiring for Tyrion Lannister sorely lacking most times.

However, it was the run ins between the queen mother and the Hand that were most interesting. They would spar words with one another, but the lioness would always find time to taunt the bastard squire with insulting words of his brother’s rebellion against the crown. When one time he’d chosen to keep his silence at one of her jeering questions, she’d slapped him across the face and ordered him to answer her always.

Tyrion had stepped in with fury and informed her that Jon was his squire and under his care. Cersei proclaimed that she was the queen and a Lannister as well; meaning that Jon was sworn to her as well.

The night before the battle of the Blackwater, she had summoned him to her chambers; the Kingsguard at her door eyeing him with suspicion before they allowed him to proceed through.

She sipped voraciously at a cup of wine, very obvious at not being her first, when she saw him approach. She gave a wide, bright, smirk with her red stained lips, and greeted him pleasantly.

It was a queer greeting, one without mocking as she’d always done. She asked with a slurred voice if he would like to take a seat across from her, but he responded that he would much rather stand.

She gave a lighthearted laugh, one that scratched eerily at Jon’s core, before she sipped at her cup once more.

She asked if he knew of Stannis’ whereabouts and as to when he would attack, and Jon had responded that Lord Tyrion believed that the stoic lord would land on the morrow.

When she asked him if he planned on partaking in the battle, he responded with a nod and claimed that they would need every abled man to take up arms against Stannis’ forces.

Then, the conversation had shifted awkwardly, and Jon grew uncomfortable in the queen’s presence; more so than when she taunted him about his heritage and about his brother’s supposed upcoming death.

She asked him if he’d ever been inside of a woman before, sipping as she awaited his answer with interest.

His face grew hot and he muttered a weak “no”. She searched his face for any hints of dishonesty but then remembered that she was speaking to Eddard Stark’s son.

“Have you ever dreamed of being between a woman’s legs? To have a queen wrap herself around you?” she asked, sipping at the last of her wine.

He looked away from her and shifted on his feet, ignoring the image that the queen had put inside his head.

She told him that she’d never been with a bastard before, that she’d never had one between her legs or sucking at her breasts.

The queen was beyond drunk, he’d decided. He asked for her leave, but she denied his request and had practically order him to step closer to her. When he did, she reached for the waistline of his trousers and began to pull at the strings. He tried to push her away, but she gave him a warning emerald glare.

His cock sprang out from his breeches, and she gave it a pleased look before taking it within a stroking hand. He bit his lip at her touch but could not deny the soft waves of pleasure that filled him as she pumped her hand along his length.

Her touch was different than when he’d done it. Not better, just different. He frowned to himself as he began to wonder if this was what the man around him hyped up when they spoke of sex. If it was then Jon found that it was quite possibly the most disappointing expectation he’d experienced thus far.

Those thoughts did not last long; his musings distracting and not noticing until he felt the warmth of her mouth around the head of his shaft. His fist and toes tightened at the new sensation, green eyes looking into his grey as the queen bobbed her head upon him. He fell back against the table she was sat at and placed his hands at his side as Cersei Lannister worked his cock with her mouth.

It was horrid and pleasurable. Stomach churning and uplifting. His green boyhood began to show when he felt his climax bubbling early and he climaxed into the lioness’ mouth. She gave him a look of annoyance but paused halfway around his cock, nonetheless. When it seemed that he would overfill her, she began to push more of his length down the cavern of her throat as he spurted every possible drop into her.

The queen released him with a wet pop and dismissed him with a hand. He pulled his breeches back up and made a haste exit, shame and regret filling his body with each step.

Cersei Lannister grabbed a flagon and washed his seed with a cup of Arbor Red.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

After the battle of the Blackwater, Lord Tyrion had been left comatose with a horrid scar upon his face that had taken half his nose.

Jon had felt his responsibility to visit the man every day, to inform the man of the happy and forlorn news. Jon had been knighted, along with Bronn, for his valiant efforts against Stannis’ forces and in a successful defense of the city.

Pycelle, the blubbering Grand Maester, had informed him that the small lord would most likely not wake for many days, but Jon took to waiting outside his door all the same.

Towards the end of the second day of Tyrion’s coma, the queen had come with confident approach.

He bowed his head in respect and acknowledgement and had politely informed her that her brother was still very much out of it. The queen gave a momentary sneer before she smiled at him with red lips. She asked him to follow her and it was then that Jon realized the queen was not shadowed by a Kingsguard, let alone two.

He followed her until she stopped in front of a door to an empty room. He took it as a cue to go inside and inspect that it was safe, but the queen made way immediately after him and bolted the door behind her.

She grabbed at his head forcefully and brought his mouth down to her, attacking him viciously with that sinful tongue of hers.

He was stunned momentarily before his body reacted naturally to her, feeling at her curves and pawing at her round arse, and at her breasts.

It was all a blur but somehow, he’d found himself kneeling between the queen’s legs and causing loud moans and purrs to escape her mouth. When he entered her for the first time, she wrapped a single leg around him and spread her other as he pierced her cunt with his sword. He was still a green boy, but a green boy with determination.

Then, she had pushed him onto his back, after he’d spent himself for the first time, and took him within her mouth like she’d done the first time. When he stiffened once more, she straddled him and positioned her entrance above the blunt head of his cock.

He thought she could very well be a knight with how well she rode him.

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She soon grew to taunting him once more, using his surname against him and gloating at his brother’s mistakes in the war.

He thought of the shame his father and his ancestors would feel if they could see him now. He thought of what the Old Gods would say if they could see him forsaking his honor in the dead of night. However, he also thought that their disgust could wait as he was too enraptured in muffling the queen’s noises by mushing her face against a pillow when he took her from behind.

It was all procedure.

The harder and better he fucked her, the better she would treat him throughout the day. The worse she treated him at night, the harder and better he fucked her.

She had told him one night that he wasn’t made to love, but rather to fuck. “Let other men woo and serenade their women in the confines of their bedroom. You only need aim to break me in two.”

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

His newfound freedom had allowed him to finally spend time with his sister. He and Sansa had always been forced apart during their captivity in the city, but that had all changed when he’d finally been knighted by the boy king.

She was always under watchful eyes, but they’d soon found peace and solitude whenever they walked through the Godswood of the Red Keep. She flung herself into his arms and wept the first time they’d been alone. He wrapped his arms around her and gently shushed her sobs away, wiping her tears with a thumb. She’d begged for his forgiveness for her foolishness and for how she’d treated him when they were younger. He simply responded that she was crying over a changing season.

From that day forward, they’d spent much more time together and he’d become acquainted with the Lady Tyrell that was soon to be married and become the new queen of the seven kingdoms. She spoke of the wedding and how joyous it would be, food for all the people of the city, nobles and common folk alike. Sansa smiled at the visualization of the wedding and informed the young lady that she waited for her wedding with much anticipation.

However, it would seem that it was not to be when Sansa informed him of the Tyrell plot to remove Sansa from the city and to betroth her to the heir of Highgarden, Willas Tyrell. It was tremendous news, in his eyes. If Sansa could escape the den of vipers, Robb could resume his campaign without hinderance.

Those plans almost came crashing to a halt when he overheard Sansa divulging the Tyrell’s plot in a fit of frustration to a fool she had saved, Dontos Hollard. He could see the fear in the man’s eyes when he heard of the plot, the way he moved quickly from the Godswood and to a destination that only the God’s knew.

Whomever the man sought out would forever remain a mystery to him, as Jon intercepted the man in the woods and placed a muffling hand over the fool’s mouth; before taking a dagger that he’d kept at his hip to plunge into the man’s neck.

It was a shameful and dishonorable kill. Jon kept a steady hand in support as he saw the life fade from the man’s eyes.

He was a knight full of dishonor. He had made sure of that when he bent his knee to the bastard king, Joffrey Waters.

However, it seemed that it wasn’t only him that the south was getting to. On the night before the Tyrells would sneak Sansa out of the city, they had met in the Godswood one last time. She sat atop the bench by the heart tree and the moonlight lit her hair like fire.

He had given her words of encouragement and told her that she needed to be strong. For Robb, her mother and herself. He gave her one last brotherly hug, but when he moved to give her a chaste kiss upon her forehead, she tilted her head upwards and captured his lips with her own.

Unlike with the queen, he recoiled away from her almost immediately.

When she pressed forward once more, he placed a warning hand on her shoulder and spoke to her with his eyes alone. She looked away from him, bridling tears in her eyes and he stayed with her until it was time to escort her to her chambers. She was picked up halfway by a Lannister guard and Jon saw his sister for the last time during his tenure in the Westerosi capitol.

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Sunspear was sweltering and unfavorable to him. Even during his years in the south, he much preferred when the times became cooler and much more amiable to his northern roots. Lately, the cool winds had started to reach the city of King’s Landing, but it seemed those winds died before they crossed the Sea of Dorne.

He’d been sent here, assigned by the queen mother to retrieve her daughter after the recent happenings that surrounded the lioness of Lannister.

King Joffrey “Baratheon”, first of his name, had been murdered at his own wedding, his cup poisoned and the cupbearer being the obvious suspect. Tyrion Lannister had the misfortune of being the late king’s cupbearer.

The poor Lord’s trial was a sham, rigged against him from the moment the date for his hearing had been announced. The crown had falsified and bribed witnesses to stand against the small lord; Jon knew as he’d been the victim of an attempted bribery.

The queen had tried to convince him one night when she visited him in his quarters; that was how it worked now after all, she sought him. Cersei had pleaded with him to notify her of any evidence that the imp had sowed against her son, and to “think” if he couldn’t recall.

He was honest in his response; Lord Tyrion had not conspired against the king, nor did Jon have any intentions of falsely selling his former lord’s innocence.

She had hissed at him in anger, vitriol in those emerald pools of hers, but she joined his bed all the same; initiating their coupling like she always did ever since the death of his brother at the Twins.

He had avoided her, when he’d heard of the news of the Red Wedding; cursing and spitting at the Lannisters, Boltons and Freys. Cursing and spitting at himself, for not leaving the city with Sansa, and breaking off to travel north in order to meet his brother with haste.  

She no longer jeered him of his brother, knowing that it would end any hope of feeling his tongue at the wetness of her core, or the feeling of his thrusts against her skin. She would never admit it, but she loved the feeling of the bastard’s hands snaked through her golden tresses and pulling at her scalp as the flesh of his pelvis smacked against the slope of her rear.

In truth, the knowledge of the Red Wedding should have been enough for Jon to end any nighttime relations he’d had with the lioness, but the south had changed him for the worse and he found himself craving her in the end. He may have finished in answering her summons, but he may as well have done so; the Old Gods knew his will was glass when she walked through the doors to his quarters with a lustful and hungry look in her gaze.

When he’d heard news that the Kingslayer had returned to the capitol, Jon had truly thought that his nights with the queen had finally come to an end. He sat in the courtyard, the keep in a frenzy as the king’s wedding neared, polishing his steel sword and awaiting news from a courier to retrieve the set of armor he’d commissioned from Tobho Mott, when he’d seen the golden knight looking not so golden.

Ser Jaime’s hair was greasy and matted, his beard overgrown and unkempt, and his skin hanging off of his bones. However, it was the stump on his right arm where his right hand should have been that caught Jon’s attention. Somewhere along the way, the Kingslayer had lost his fighting hand and the effects had left the proud knight a pathetic shell of himself.

Jon saw him disappear into the Red Keep, and he continued stared at the spot he’d last seen the man walk; even when Ser Jaime was no longer in view.

When the courier eventually came to him with news of his armor’s completion, Jon took Pod with him and travelled down to the Qohorik blacksmith’s shop. The Payne boy was not his official squire, but Jon had taken a liking to him during their shared tenure as squires for Lord Tyrion.

The armor was a beautiful steel, shining under any source of light, the pauldrons and breastplate etched with the designs of a weirwood, chainmail resting under the heavy plate and reaching down to his groin. The helm was a simple rounded design, painted in stripes of blue at the eye openings and traversing the entire steel.

He had wanted to don the inverted colors of his lord father’s house, but the queen had forbidden it when she’d visited him once. Perhaps it was for the best; he had shamed the memory of his deceased father and brothers by laying with the woman responsible for their downfall.

So, he’d chosen the colors of the man responsible for his namesake; the paint on his helm a deep blue as well as the color of his silk cloak. He wore a silver weirwood brooch to keep his cloak in place.

Donned in his armor was how the queen found him later that night. He had been in the process of removing his plate when she had barged into his room, her eyes filled with the familiar look of hunger he’d grown accustomed to.

He wondered why she was there, and she responded that it should have been obvious.

The bastard of Winterfell had tested his boundaries then and there, asking her why she was taking him to bed when her brother had finally returned. The queen reeled away from him with anger and cursed that she should have his tongue ripped out for repeating slanderous lies.

He responded that he was not a fool and understood why his father, and the Hand before him, had been killed; the proof on her children plain for the world to see. However, he abated her when he informed her that he had no intentions of pressing what he’d known to anyone around him. His family was dead, his only living sister gone and betrothed to the brother of the future queen. He had no horse to stake on.

Searching his face with scrutiny, she was eventually assuaged and admitted to him that Ser Jaime had sought her out earlier that day. He asked her why she had refused him, and she responded that she had no need for a broken man.

“I have no need for a golden lion maimed. I long traded my golden knight for one guised as a wolf in white,” she’d said to him, tugging at the buckles of his plate and helping him undress.

Then, the wedding had happened, and her son murdered. Cersei accused her youngest brother without question and had begun to play her game of a sham trial. He’d refused her pleas, even when she had promised him with a legitimization, putting him in contention to become the lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

However, his refusal would not change much, the bought witnesses were too much and the final nail was when the whore that Tyrion had fallen in love with testified against him. Enraged, the young lord spat and cursed the citizens of King’s Landing before demanding a trial by combat.

It had come as a great surprise to the many lords and ladies present but all that Jon could think of was how he’d volunteer to champion on the accused lord’s behalf. During his time as the imp’s squire, Jon had learned the man to be intelligent and somewhat trustworthy. He wasn’t perfect, but Jon doubted that the small lord would be stupid enough to assassinate his nephew in public while the means of death would put him in obvious question.

No, Lord Tyrion was far too wise for such a move and Jon felt compelled to stand on his behalf. However, Jon was also no fool; he understood that the queen would most likely call upon the Mountain to fight on the crown’s behalf. Jon steeled his nerves and shook his fears away. He could not be afraid of any foe. He was a knight, squire to Ser Jaime Lannister and even Barristan the Bold by technicality. He was a hero of the Blackwater. And, he was sworn to Lord Tyrion by Jon’s vows to House Lannister.

But Cersei Lannister was also a Lannister, and a queen at that. The night before Jon’s scheduled visit with the lord, the queen had come to his quarters with determination in her eyes. She told him that she was sending him to Dorne, due to leave a night before her brother’s fated trial by combat, assigned to retrieve her daughter and bring her safely back to her. He wanted to deny her request and inform her that he intended to fight on Lord Tyrion’s behalf, but he knew she’d see it as treason against her. And Cersei did not so easily forget a slight.

He arrived at the docks of Sunspear, clad in his armor and a round blue shield that housed a white weirwood tree. Though, the deadliest sight to those around the knight was the Valyrian steel blade that hung from his shoulder.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Ser Jaime had visited him the night before his departure, enquiring why Cersei had hired a ship for him to sail.

Jon answered truthfully, informing him of the mission that the queen had entrusted him with.

When the Kingsguard had asked him how it was that his sister trusted him so, Jon replied that he was sworn to House Baratheon and House Lannister. Jon also truthfully told Ser Jaime that he’d intended on representing his brother in his trial, but the queen’s request overrode his wishes.

The Kingslayer had then looked him in the eyes, searching for something before being seemingly satisfied in the end. Ser Jaime had then unsheathed his blade, the smoky ripples of the Valyrian blade mottled with red, and presented the sword to Jon.

“Why are you gifting me with Valyrian steel,” he asked.

Jaime had answered that it would be of far more use to him. And as long as he served House Lannister, he had no uncertainties in allowing him the blade. Then, his face grew grim and informed him of the origins of the blade.

Jon had suspected as much, wondering where the Lannisters had gotten Valyrian steel to present to the king, but it did not help lessen the blow when it was confirmed to his face. To know that the cherished sword of his lord father’s house had been desecrated for the benefit of their killers.

Jaime had told him he could replace the pommel if he so wished.

Jon had replied that he didn’t need be offered twice.

Jon could replace the pommel later when he arrived in Sunspear; he had more pressing matters.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

He was met at the docks by the Princess Myrcella herself, her sworn shield Arys Oakheart faithfully at her side; along with a beautiful woman with olive skin, her black hair fell down to her back in curls. He soon learned that she was the Princess Arianne, daughter of Doran Martell and heir to Sunspear.

“Ser Jon,” the small princess had questioned with a tentative voice.

It had been moons since she’d seen him last, since she’d seen him play with her younger brother with wooden swords during his spare time.

Jon dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

“Princess,” he acknowledged, his gruff voice reverberating through the plate of his helm.

That was when he piqued the curiosity of the Sunspear Lord’s daughter.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

When they reached the Old Palace’s throne room, Jon had brought the terms to the Dornish Princess bluntly. Cersei wished for her daughter to return to King Tommen’s court.

Arianne frowned at the request and enquired what would become of the princess’ betrothal to her youngest brother. Jon responded truthfully that he’d no idea of the queen’s intentions to the betrothal. Arianne had then replied that she would gladly return the princess to Dorne if there were assurances to the future matrimony between Myrcella and Trystane, but Jon had his doubts that the princess’ words were true.

Jon nodded in understanding and gave her his guarantee that he would write to the queen as soon as he could.

Arianne had then stared at him, as if trying to picture what he looked like behind his helm and asked if he had known her uncle. Jon said, “I did not speak to the man during my time in the capital, princess.”

Satisfied, Arianne had asked a servant to show Jon to his quarters in the Tower of the Sun.

A level beneath Princess Myrcella’s chamber, the windows of his own chamber overlooked the narrow sea, the twilit sky turned the water pink and purple. He placed his sword against the wall and began to undress himself, wondering if he should have offered to bring Podrick along. It wasn’t as if the task was impossible or too difficult, it was just tedious having to perform this action every day.

Jon sorely wished he had help with undressing.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

The following morning, he broke his fast before the princesses, or any other individual of note, rose. He stood ready in the corner as the members of the palace began to fill the feast house.

Jon acknowledged the princess when she passed him by, earning a small smile as she sat down with Arys Oakheart at her shadow.

Arianne had soon joined them, the Princess of Dorne taking a seat at the head of the table. They all ate in silence, Jon leaning against the wall with his arms crossed while oblivious to the constant glances the Dornish princess sent his way.

When she asked if he would not break his fast, he turned to her and answered that he had already broken it before the house arose. She gave him a nod in response, but the disappointment was evident in her eyes.

Arianne had no need to call for him until later that day, when the news of the death of Prince Oberyn Martell had finally reached the Dornish capitol.

Jon felt sadness when he’d heard the news. Not at the prince’s unfortunate, and gruesome, death but at the impending fate that awaited Lord Tyrion now that he’d officially lost. For a moment he was glad when he’d read that the Red Viper had offered to champion the small lord of Lannister, but he’d only needed to read a mere line down to know the outcome of the match.

The ramifications were readily apparent a few days later; the Sand Snakes, Oberyn Martell’s bastard daughters, had all arrived at the Water Gardens with venom in their fangs and demanding justice for their father’s death.

Doran had announced that Tywin Lannister promised to send the head of Ser Gregor Clegane, but it was not enough to satiate the deadliest of Oberyn’s daughters.

The tall, willowy beauty known by Nymeria wanted to assassinate the entire Lannister line; excluding the princess that was already making her way back to Sunspear with Ser Arys as her guard.

When they made their way back to the palace, they found another one of the Red Viper’s daughters awaiting in the throne room. Tyene Sand.

Tyene was a seemingly young and innocent girl, with her gold like hair and pious blue eyes. However, the bastard knight had spent much time in the den of vipers and knew her smiles to be false and hold treachery.

When the paramour of Oberyn had arrived in Sunspear, Doran had ordered the arrests of the eldest Sand Snakes to confine the lot in the Spear Tower of Old Palace. Ellaria Sand, along with her daughters, were confined to the Water Gardens of Dorne.

Hostages but hostages in comfort, he’d thought. Hostages, nonetheless.

Jon later took to spending as much time as he could near the Princess Myrcella, fearing her safety to the nest of snakes around them. He shadowed her as much he could, his hand upon the black pommel of his blade as he awaited any foolish challenger.

He’d forsaken the golden hilt of his blade finally, commissioning a black hilt with a sapphire encrusted at the pommel. He’d wanted weirwood branches etched into the handle and the hilt, but the blacksmiths in Sunspear were unfamiliar to the tree, or unskilled in etch work.

Also spending time around them was the Princess Arianne herself, speaking with the Kingsguard and his ward as if long friends.

Eddard Stark’s bastard son would be a fool if he hadn’t noticed the looks the Dornishwoman exchanged with the knight of Oakheart. He had once seen those same looks exchanged between Ser Jaime and his sister and had dismissed them as those of sibling affection.

He shook his head at the knight’s seemingly broken vows, and though Jon had lain with a lioness many a times; he was not of a white cloak.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Arianne Martell’s interest in him had taken an intense turn. What was once piqued curiosity was now blown into a determination to see him for herself.

“Why do you hide your face, weirwood knight?” She had asked him once.

He told her that he simply preferred to keep to himself and found no reason to show his appearance. The people around him could hear him clearly through his helm the same as if he were without it.

She would then invite him to dine with her, in her personal chambers, but he’d refused many a times.

If she were offended, she did not show it. No, it was not offense she had felt, he thought. It was more a challenge in her large and dark eyes.

She asked him of his family, and how he’d felt knowing he was possibly the last living heir of Eddard Stark.

“My sister yet lives and is planned to marry the heir of Highgarden,” he’d responded.

“A woman, alas,” she responded simply. “Her teats will be sucked by her husband and then by her babes. The kingdom is not all Dorne. They will find a man with a working cock to replace her as heir.”

He responded that he was a bastard and that the north was currently controlled by the Boltons. As far as he was concerned, House Stark was dead.

Questions of his feelings had then turned to enquires about what his family had looked like.

He responded that Lord Stark was a tall man of dark hair and even darker grey eyes. Though, the majority of his litter took after his lady wife; fair skinned, with auburn hair and Tully blue eyes.

Arianne had then wondered if that meant he felt an outcast when compared to his siblings. Jon responded with a shake of his head, stating that he felt at home with his youngest sister. They both favored their father’s coloring.

That had certainly brought a smile upon her beautiful features.

“So, you are tall and dark. Would be dangerous and handsome as well, perhaps?” she’d said.

He refused to answer her, instead waiting for Myrcella to arrive and ask him if he could accompany her around the city of Sunspear.

He gave a respectful bow to the princess of Dorne and followed after the one with hair spun of gold.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Arianne had been joined by her closest friends, Andrey Dalt, Garin and Sylva Santagar, and they spent most of the time locked in her chambers.

On one hand, it had stopped the princess’ constant pestering of him; while on the other, Jon had felt a foreboding feeling at what could possibly be whispered behind her doors.

Arys Oakheart also became more nervous and tittering, Jon wondering what could possibly have made the man lose his senses. He received his answer when Ser Arys had informed him one night that he would be taking the Myrcella to the Greenblood.

Jon had asked him if he were insane but Arys was stout in his decision. He had planned on informing the man’s plan to Doran Martell, but Arys also informed him that he was setting to leave immediately; essentially forcing his hand and making Jon join their band, or risk forever lose the princess.

Gods knew what the lioness queen would do to him if that were to happen.

They traversed the deserts of Dorne, walking towards the Greenblood and Jon cursed the Dornish sun once more. He had been suggested by Ser Arys that the sun would beat his helmet ragged and cause him headaches if he did not take care. So, he’d donned his cloak with a hood for protection, but it did not ease the feeling of being cooked within his armor.

Arianne was pleased to see him, asking if temptation had brought him to her. He responded that Myrcella’s safety was his priority and that he would soon leave for the capitol when Doran confirmed Myrcella’s release.

A ghost of a smirk appeared on Arianne’s full lips, and she responded that she would see his finally and, perhaps, have him in her bed at least once before he made his departure.

A silver haired man, with a streak of black, approached the princess and attempted to convince the woman that their plan was shoddily thought up at best. While the princess narrowed her eyes in suspicion at the man, Jon narrowed his eyes when he saw the man’s own flit to Myrcella every once in a while.

However, their musings were cut short when a poleboat emitted commotion, and Areo Hotah emerged with a dozen guardsmen. Realizing there was no possible escape, Arianne had agreed to yield but Ser Arys charged the men atop his horse.

Jon soon unsheathed his sword and pulled at the reins of Myrcella’s horse. When the silver haired man swiped at the princess with his sword, Jon saw it in time and pulled the princess to him, barely meeting the strike with his own blade.

The man cursed as he turned his horse to make way, narrowly avoiding Jon’s follow up slash. Keeping his eye as long as he safely could, the bastard knight turned his attention to the fallen Kingsguard, heaped on the ground after his horse was slain. Ser Arys struggled to lift his sword in defense and paid the price, a swift decapitation from Hotah’s axe and the knight of Oakheart was no more.

With a defeated sigh, Arianne and her band had all yielded to the guardsmen, but the remaining knight kept his blade poised as the Princess Myrcella cowered behind him.

Doran’s household guard captain gave him assurances that they had no intention of harming the young princess, but Jon was wary of the man, nonetheless. If Doran had known of Arianne’s plan beforehand, he should have put a stop to it before they’d left the city. It was possible that he learned of it late, but Jon was not in the mind of taking that risk.

It took Myrcella’s pleas to make him comply and stand down.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Arianne had been kept in the Spear Tower, isolated in her room and under the care of her father’s seneschal, Ricasso, and his castellan, Manfrey Martell.

Her co-conspirators, save for Sylva Santagar, were taken to the Ghaston Grey prison of House Martell and left to await their punishment for attempting treason. And though she was shown mercy by Prince Doran, Sylva was punished by her own father and married off to an aged knight of House Estermont.

The weirwood knight was questioned on his participation in the attempted coup but was stubborn in his stance that he was unaware until the last moment. The Prince was skeptical at his words but found no choice to believe them when Princess Myrcella vouched his loyalty.

Thus, he was allowed to roam free and act as the young princess’ loyal guard until they could find a suitable replacement. Jon brought the issue of Myrcella returning to King’s Landing once more, but Doran waived those words away and had claimed that the queen had accepted to keep her daughter as his ward.

The weirwood knight would not be summoned by the Dornish Prince until news from King’s Landing reached Sunspear once more.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

He was approached by a servant of the Old Palace, word that he’d been called upon by Manfrey Martell. Jon escorted the princess to her chambers first before he made his way to the Spear Tower.

The house castellan awaited him just by the steps that led up, arms behind his back as the knight approached him.

“Must you always wear your armor during your tenure here in Dorne?” The castellan asked.

“No, I’m allowed to walk freely if I so wish,” Jon answered with a simple tone.

The castellan clicked his tongue before he informed him that the princess had called for his company.

When Jon asked if Doran had allowed the visit, Ser Manfrey replied that it had been cleared with the prince.

Jon gave the man a slight nod and made his way up the tower and to where Arianne Martell was confined to. The moment he’d knocked on her door and was given entry, Jon found that the word “prisoner” was not an apt description of the princess’ current situation.

Arianne’s “cell” was housed with books, maps, colorful furnishing and a balcony that overlooked the narrow sea. In the corner of the room was a cyvasse table that looked as if it had not been touched.

Arianne currently sat at a table set for two, platters of spiced food served alongside Dornish Red; she looked at him as he stepped through her door and greeted him with a sultry smile.

He bowed his head in respect before taking his place to stand across from her. She beckoned him to take a seat and dine with her, but the knight had informed her that he’d already dined with Myrcella.

She gave a disappointed sigh, but later said he should refrain from eating on the morrow when she summoned him once more.

“On the morrow?” he questioned.

She gave him another smirk.

“I did tell you I would see your face before you left,” she had replied.

He frowned behind his helm but said nothing. When she asked him to join her at the cyvasse table, he quickly made an excuse that he did not know the game. She replied that she didn’t know it well either but had heard the general rules in passing once. She offered to teach him.

With a metallic sigh, he joined her at the table and was subject to an absolute thrashing as his ignorance of the game was shown.

“This is ridiculous,” he’d told her. “I don’t wish to play.”

“You mean you don’t wish to lose,” she teased.

He had grumbled in annoyance but continued to play, nonetheless. By the end of the night he’d still been defeated but he’d manage to blunt Arianne’s ease with each game played.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

“Remove your helm,” she’d ordered two days after their newfound routine, moving one of her pieces to avoid impending defeat.

“No,” he breathed raggedly.

She was employing dirty tricks. Arianne had lit the room with many candles, placing a censer to release an intense and warm scent within her room. The heat sweltered around him and he felt a pounding in his head when the scented fog invaded his helm and surrounded him.

She was wearing close to nothing, the orange and red silk she wore clung tightly onto her skin as if it were liquid and flowing off her body.

She merely smirked and waited for his turn.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

He had improved vastly in the short days they’d spent with one another. No more was he susceptible to her prowess, learning to utilize his pieces smartly while she attempted to down him with her dragon. How long before she realized the dragon was not the only weapon she had on her side?

He learned of her life growing up. The princess had told him of how awkward she’d been when she was younger and old enough to finally gather the interest of men; her body pudgy and flat chested. She recounted of the times she’d prayed to the seven, hoping she would grow enticing and beautiful.

Then, she’d asked him if he thought the seven had answered her prayers.

Jon replied that they’d had.

With a coquettish smirk, she asked him how beautiful he found her to be.

He merely moved his trebuchets to take her dragon on the board.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

After a fortnight, he found her to be less open than she’d usually been. Reserved and silent as they ate, only asking him if anything of interest had happened lately. He replied that the world was as boring as it ever was.

When they moved on to cyvasse, her moves were clumsy and sloppy; she’d lost her dragon within three turns.

He excused himself, her big brown eyes going up to the holes of his helm and pressing him as to why he was leaving so soon. The knight responded that he noticed she was not feeling at her usual self and felt she could do with some rest.

He made it halfway towards her door when he heard her voice bid him to stop. He turned to her and noticed a forlorn look upon her features before he walked back to take his seat across from her.

Arianne divulged to him that she’d been having nightmares the previous knights, ever since her father had imprisoned her in the secluded tower. He asked her if she had notified her father of it, but she quickly shook her head and claimed she would not like her father to ever know of her state.

He nodded her request and prodded her to at least let him know of what ailed her in the knight.

“In my dreams, a knight comes to my tower and shoves me on my bed to take me. I can tell that he’s tall and dark and mysterious, and the tone of his voice surely proves that he’s dangerous. However, he never takes me and simply leaves me wanting,” she joked.

He frowned and asked her to be truthful, to leave the games behind her and speak serious. But she would not; instead asking him with a husky voice, “how beautiful do you think me to be?”

“Enough to tempt a knight of the white cloak,” he responded.

Her false playfulness died in that very moment and she sat back with a dumbfounded look. She asked him what he knew, of course, but Jon replied that he was no fool and was witness to the looks they’d exchanged when they thought no one to be watching.

She gave a deep sigh before her body curled within itself, almost as if she were trying to be swallowed whole by her soul.

Arianne told him of how she’d seduced the knight of Oakheart, finding him strong and attractive but also driven purely by motivation. She’d lied to him at every turn, letting him bed her as she gave false promises. All her lies and deceptions for a plan that had been thwarted by one the closest people that she’d cherished.

That stung the most, she told him.

Then her divulged thoughts had drifted to the man that had tried to slay Myrcella. Gerold Dayne she called him. Darkstar.

She told him how much of a fool she’d felt, trusting the dangerous man and ignoring the warnings around her. She’d said they’d need his skills with a blade and his castle, but in truth she’d been enamored with his looks. She admitted that Gerold was a man she had considered heavily as her future consort. She had made many excuses and mental plans as to how he could fit by her side.

The weirwood knight took in all her spoken thoughts with full attention.

Finally, when she asked of his opinion, she answered for him; claiming he must think her to be a horrid individual.

When he assured her that he didn’t think her to be a horrid person, her head rose sharply in disbelief. Despite everything she’d told him, he still claimed to believe her to be a good person.

He responded that he did not think her to be a good person as he did not truly know her, but he did know that she wasn’t a horrid one either. She did not aim to murder innocents, nor plan to have a death within her band. And though she may have deceived a man through false hopes and promises, that said man was a knight of the white cloak and his will had been tested to be proven brittle.

She stared at him with through thick lashes, her chest rising and falling in the candle lit room of her cell.

Then, the princess had remarked that he was surely a dangerous individual. He must have been, to be able to fend off the Darkstar while occupied with prioritizing Myrcella’s safety.

He responded that he was only performing his duty, and that his own safety was second to his oath. She quipped that that had made him even more dangerous than she’d previously thought.

She then proclaimed that he must also be handsome; to be the son of the man that had once tempted the haunting beauty of Starfall.

He’d disagreed with her but did not have the energy to argue.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Arianne had returned to her usual self once more, but this time with more determination than before. She’d offered him the strongest wine they’d had on hand, placing a soft hand upon his plated thigh, asking for kisses on her knuckles as chivalry demanded, and, at times, pressing her body against his own as she feigned insobriety.

He fended her off expertly and without much trouble, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought what it would be like to sink into her Dornish heat. To hear her husking voice whisper, or scream, his name as their cores came in contact with one another.

His honor was already broken, why should he deny the woman who wished to advance him?

However, those thoughts were the last on his mind when he appeared before her one night with the knowledge of a letter he’d received from the queen.

She asked him to divulge to her the contents of his letter, and he answered that Ser Balon Swann travelled to Sunspear after news of Ser Arys’ death reached the capitol.

Arianne then wondered if that meant he was to return to the city of King’s Landing, and Jon nodded his head in response.

She closed her eyes in a weary sadness before finishing the night with a game of cyvasse.

She did not flirt with him for the remainder of their time.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

The following night was the same as when she’d revealed her nightmares to him. Arianne spoke rarely when they ate and even less when they played one another at the cyvasse table, the only noise being the movements of their pieces and the reset of their boards after a finished game.

The end to their night approached, the chilled winds of the north had finally reached the southernmost country. Arianne shivered with a cool breeze, and her nipples hardened against the thin material of her blue dress.

However, Jon’s eyes were not distracted by full lips, he did not wander on her beautiful features, he was not enraptured by her olive skin, nor lustful at her round and ripe breasts.

In that moment, he was simply a man with the intentions of comforting a friend. He had grown fond of the princess during his time in Sunspear and did not wish to be the cause of her sadness before they said their goodbyes.

When he rose to his feet to depart for the knight, he moved his hands to his helm and began to unfasten its straps. Arianne looked at him with wide eyes, disbelief that he was finally revealing his face to her after moons under the Dornish sun.

“You once said you would see my face before I made my leave back to King’s Landing,” he said to her, his voice resonating like his first words that had piqued her interest.

She kept her eyes trained to him, never wavering as he pulled the helm off from his head.

When his features came into view, she simply stared. She studied the way his face stretched into a long shape, his lips full and his nose sharp and elegant. His hair fell down to his shoulders, in brown waves that framed perfectly against pale skin. His jaw was squared and sharp, his cheekbones high.

But it was his eyes that had bewitched her so. She’d seen them from time to time, his only features that she’d been witness to during his time with her. She’d thought that it was the shadows that made them look as dark as the sword he wielded, but they still reflected little color except for that of dark iron when under the light.

Arianne stood from her seat and made her way to him; no purposeful sway to her hips like she’d done for men she’d wished to entice.

She raised a hand to his clean-shaven cheek to speak softly. “Tall, and dark, and dangerous,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes when she stroked his face.

“Tall, dark, dangerous, and handsome,” she clarified.

He opened his eyes to meet her dark pools, bending his head slightly. He towered over her, not by the same margin as the Oakheart, but by a considerable margin, nonetheless.

“I said I would see your face before you left.”

“Aye, you did, princess.”

“I also said I might have you in my bed.”

When she traced her thumb at his bottom lip, he thought that she must have asked him to kiss her. If she hadn’t, then there were no complaints from her when he did.

The weirwood knight lifted the princess by her legs and led her to her bed.

The tower heard the songs of her voice when they made love in the cool night of her cell.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Arianne had been released a short few days after he’d received word that Ser Balon Swann was due for Sunspear. In that time, their couplings had gone from her luxurious cells to her luxurious chambers.

She refused to call their nights as mere trysts; she’d told him so one night when she traced her finger through the grooves of his chest, asking him to tell her of what it was like growing up in the North. He had told her few things of his past before, but she wanted to know every hidden detail of him that he’d withheld.

She proclaimed her hatred for the Lady Catelyn at her treatment of him, assured him of his connection with his siblings and comparing them to the bond she’d shared with her cousins, and wondered deeply of the white beast that he’d lost when his father was later arrested.

Jon replied that he hoped that Ghost was alive and well, wherever he was. He hadn’t dreamt of him in many moons.

Arianne frowned when she’d heard of his initial aspirations to take the black, and said it was for the best that he be ordered a squire by the king. If Jon had taken the black, then they would never have felt each other’s embrace as they loved away to beat the cold.

He’d tried many things with the princess, performing positions and acts he’d never knew when with the queen. He remembered the night when Arianne had procured a bottle of oil for him to use, spreading the liquid around his cock and to the opening of her arse. She’d wobbled like a faun the first few times after he’d taken her tight entrance, but soon she’d grown accustomed and made sure he took her arse at least once every night, along with her cunt.

She competed with him, boasting that she could please him with her mouth far better than he could to her with his own.

They didn’t keep score, but Arianne liked to believe she was ahead a few; or that they were even at the least.

On his last night in the city, Arianne had ordered the servants to pack his belongings in advance, ordering food to her room in advance as she took every moment to ride her northern knight.

By the end, her loins ached of fire and her body screamed for halt. They’d been screaming for hours, but that did not deter her from taking him into her wet heat or reveling in the sweet pain of his dry thrusts in her arse. Even the most promiscuous of women would run in horror if they barged in on her, each hole leaking with seed as if she’d be taken by many of men.

She’d asked him to remember her, at the last moment; to never forget the nights they’d shared as she never would.

Her northern knight responded that he would remember her always, before rolling atop her and taking her cunt one final time.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

She asked him to stay with her.

Pleaded with him, to stay with her.

But he had his oaths, and he would keep to them and board the ship back to the city.

She tugged at his helm desperately and told him that his oaths were meaningless. They were a dry and cold wench, that held no love for him. He had already broken his oath by laying with her, what stopped him for completing the task.

He took his blue cape and wrapped its tattered ends around her hands as he held them.

“My oaths do not withhold me from loving or worshipping your beauty, my princess. They do not stop me from shielding you from the cold that threats to bite at your bones in the night. All because my cloak is blue, my princess, not white. I am not of the Kingsguard.”

And so, with a defeated nod, she saw him off as he boarded the ship back to the cursed city that seemed to take from her. When the ship disappeared into the horizon, Arianne clutched at her belly and wondered if she should have used her final weapon to convince her northern knight to stay.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Nymeria Sand had been released by her uncle, tasked with taking the seat at the small council, and joined the weirwood knight on his voyage north.

She’d been curt with him at first, sneering at him and calling him a Lannister dog with every able chance she got. He frowned at her with dark grey eyes and wished he could wear his plated armor atop the ship; but knew it would be the death of him should the ship sink or someone push him over. When she wondered aloud as to why her cousin had the most awful tastes and judgements, Jon had wondered aloud as to how her free cousin could be so loving to a frigid cunt.

The curse had flown from his lips before he could stop them, and he would be left wincing at himself for his stupidity. However, in the moment he held to his words and met her murderous glare with a sharp gaze of his own. She was taller than her cousin, standing nearly at Jon’s height; her teeth bared behind her wine-red lips and her large eyes full of venom.

The rest of the trip consisted of the two ignoring each other as much as they were possibly able, exchanged short glares as when the two were forced to be in each other’s presence.

It wasn’t until a week from their due arrival that the sailors of the ship all drank loudly and wildly; convincing Jon to participate in the activities and be graced in the Sand Snake’s presence.

When she’d sat in a sailorman’s lap, flirting unabashedly, to plant a small kiss upon the man’s nose, she’d met eyes with the knight of the weirwood tree and seen him scoff and roll his eyes before making his departure.

The festivities were coming to a close and Jon wished desperately to reach his quarters and sleep, making him unaware to the following figure behind him.

When he crossed his threshold, he felt a rough shove and he stumbled haggardly to his bed, balancing himself on the mattress before turning around to reach for his sword. He paused when he came face to face with the willowy woman of Dorne, her eyes locking onto him with displeasure.

He asked if she’d lost her mind, but she ignored his question to ask one of her own. Did he have a problem with the men she freely chose to bed, she asked. He gave her a disbelieving look and wondered if his disapproval really bothered her that much.

“I am not in require of your approval,” she snarled.

“Then go and spread your legs like a whore for the man. Perhaps he shall pleasure your cunt with his mouth if you please him enough. As long as it gets you out of my sight,” he retorted.

He hadn’t meant to call her a whore, his ire was just provoked to its maximum. He more than likely deserved the slap he soon received and the threat of disembowelment as she reached for a dagger.

Someone should have stopped the two from quarreling, so that they would have never drawn steel against one another.

He remembered overpowering her and piercing her with his blade many of times, regret filling his body when he awoke the morning after with her arm draped over his chest.

He’d blamed it on his drunken stupor, not letting him think clearly when her lips crashed against his own. Or was it his lips that crashed on hers? No, it was probably both of them attacking at the other. They hadn’t bothered undressing; their fuck was only once but long that night, the wine not letting either of them reach an early climax to end things quicker. When he awoke in his bed, he’d noticed her dress pulled at the neckline to the bottom of her breasts; Nymeria’s tits sticky from his saliva. Her leg was draped over him as she snored softly and faint images of his snaps against her body ran through his mind.

She’d awoken moments later and groaned at the ache between her legs. When the revelation had come crashing on her, she sat up quickly before quickly moving to cover her chest with her dress.

She’d quickly disappeared from his chambers and Jon was left staring at his door with empty thoughts. She’d avoided him then for the morning, but the two eventually came face with one another at around noon. He’d told her that what had happened was an accident and neither was at fault. He vowed to keep his distance and told her to keep hers. Nymeria gave him a tense nod and the two went their separate ways.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

When they’d reached the city, the council member and knight went their separate paths. They did not interact with one another during the bulk of his time in the capitol.

However, his thoughts were focused on the queen, news of her imprisonment spreading like wildfire and reaching him before he’d even settled in his chambers. He wondered if he should take the time to visit Cersei, but soon felt strongly against it when he’d learned that anyone involved with the lioness were soon taken into custody by the faith militant.

Unfortunately, they sought him out all the same. Jon had been making his way through the corridors of the keep, memories of finding Septa Mordane’s corpse flooding him like a roaring river, when he was stopped by seven men in lustrous plated armor. The plate was polished spectacularly and adorned by the seven colors of the faith; their greatswords boasted a large crystal pommel while their great helms boasted seven. Each man carried a shield with a rainbow sword emblazoned on the metal, and each man looked at the weirwood knight with pure unbridled disgust.

The seven rainbow warriors called for the northern knight’s surrender but were only met by the challenge of a Valyrian steel sword drawn from its scabbard and the face of a white weirwood being shown to them as it defended its wielder. They were taken aback by the knight’s bravado but met the challenge, nonetheless, drawing weapons of their own and taunting his gall.

“Lay down your arms or we shall judge you in the name of the seven with our steel, Ser,” one of them said.

“I will not stand defenseless as I’m threated into custody without reason,” Jon replied.

“Do not attempt deny or feign ignorance at the charges against you, ser. The queen mother has already laid bare her crimes and her wicked nature. We know she’s taken abed many men after the death of King Robert, and your name has arisen among the charged.”

It was certainly a surprise that the faith would attempt to come for him with that knowledge, though not a surprise that the queen had revealed that information in an attempt to wrench free from her cell.

“I was not aware it was a crime to share beds with a widow,” he said, tightening his defense when they began to stalk towards him.

“Adultery shall always be a sin, ser,” the one at the forefront said. “You stain the name of knighthood and soil your cloak with your nature. A bastard should have never been raised to this postage.”

“I do not follow the seven, you pompous wretch.”

“Ser!” the warrior cried out. “I am a ser, knighted by the good Lord Mace of Tyrell after my valiant efforts. You will address me by my due title. I am a beacon to my peers whereas you are the mud of the squalor.”

“Then be a martyr for them as well, for I shall lay you to rest if you take one step closer,” Jon spat back through gritted teeth, his voice rattling on the metal of his helm.

“I do not fear the threats of a soiled knight that does not offer his life and honor to the seven.”

“I offer my life’s honor to my family and to the gods of old.”

“Blasphemy!” A rainbow knight cried out.

“There not need be a trial, brothers. We shall cut down this heathen here and now!”

“All I hear are words and empty threats as of yet. Not a single one of you cravens has crossed his sword with me as of yet,” Jon mocked.

“Enough,” the forefront knight growled out. “I tire of your words, and your sight is unbecoming to my eyes. I am the sword of the faith, and the high sparrow has deemed you guilty. The bards will sing of me slaying a nonbeliever and silencing his false idols.”

Light refracted off his armor, turning the walls vibrant with colors as he stepped toward the knight of weathered plate and cloth of blue. The rainbow knight’s brothers followed after him with anticipation, but the narrow walls took away the advantage of their numbers and their leader was forced to meet Jon in a dance that tested their skills with direct confrontation.

“Then let me defend my sullied honor through my sword, and let the old gods use me as their champion.”

Glinted metal flashed high as the militant knight swung at him, meeting Jon’s round shield. When the knight attempted to defend his own against Jon’s lunge, the latter simply sidestepped and stabbed at the knight’s throat. The sharp metal of his blade sliced through mail as if it were paper, and the sword was a deeper crimson than before.

The knights gaped as their brother slumped to the floor in a gurgled and bloodied breath, stepping back in a slight daze. Jon wondered if they had begun to reassess the situation at hand; but a cry of anger later, and he was dueling once more. He parried, blocked and swung with each challenger, falling each one as he dwindled them. Their sharp steel bounced off his plate with each swipe and strike, while his cut through theirs with ease. The weirwood knight pushed each fresh corpse against the next challenger, halting their range and attacks, before using the openings to strike at them. Before long, the warrior sons of the faith lay dead on the floors of the red keep, and the weirwood knight stood tall and proudly with his steel dripping red.

The weirwood tree that adorned his shield wept blood onto the marbled floor.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Few were witness to the carnage within the Red Keep, but the stories were told and passed from ear to ear. By the end of the week, the encounter had been dubbed ‘The Slaughter of the Colors’, and the bards begun singing the tale within a moon’s time. And while the tale was accurate for the most part, a few details were certainly embellished or made up.

The holy knights in plate, seven swords of faith
   Challenged a warrior- a demon, a wraith
He confessed his sins, he laid them on the marble
   Baring his fangs, the weirwood knight did snarl

They came after him, armor polished like sin
   They slashed at his figure, but oh did they miss
The weirwood knight wielded his blade, crimson red and hazed
   The champion of olden gods, a demon that slays

He cut through them like cake, carving them like cattle
   The blood flowed like water, it was truly no battle
And so with a red face, the faith was left agape
   The demon of olden gods, the victory was great

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

After three moons in the Red Keep the tale was well known and Jon learned the ramifications of his actions. The people eyed him with fear and distrust, avoiding him when he walked their way. Other knights eyed him with a challenging hunger; sizing and studying him and trying to piece if Jon was truly a warrior worthy of the songs. It seemed that only the young boys that aspired to be knights idolized him when he passed. The maidens around the keep theorized about the monstrosity that hid underneath the helm; as if he hadn’t walked among them before.

A fortnight after his newfound infamy he was approached by a member of the Kingsguard and told to report to the council chamber. When he’d arrived, he was met by none other than the king and the acting regent, Ser Kevan Lannister.

He had knelt in respect, removed his helm, and kept his head bowed as he heard his king’s complaints. Tommen had spoken about the upcoming trial of his mother and his wife and grieved about the corner he was backed into with the faith officially armed. When Jon asked him as to why he didn’t meet their insurrection with the might of the crown, Ser Kevan informed him that many highborn children comprised the faith militant’s warriors and the crown would rather avoid conflict with slaying them.

Jon felt it a weak approach but did not voice his thoughts.

Then Ser Kevan had said that Cersei had denied her walk of atonement, thus leaving her in her cell but the lioness would stake her innocence in a trial by combat. Margaery, however, would choose to prove her innocence through a trial by the faith. That was when Tommen gave an outburst from his seat on the iron throne.

He was angry that his wife was being put on trial and had asked why she was denied a trial by combat. Ser Kevan explained to the boy that she’d asked for her brother Garlan to represent her in a trial by combat, but only a Kingsguard could represent a member of the crown. Tommen had then puffed out his cherub cheeks and asked if he had the power to allow her a champion of her choosing, since he was king.

Ser Kevan replied that it would be an insult to the faith, but Tommen insisted that a king had the final say. With a heavy sigh, Kevan then replied that there was not sufficient time for Margaery’s preferred champion to arrive to the capitol in haste.

With pursed lips, Tommen sat back in frustration before a light flashed behind his scheming eyes. He turned to the kneeling knight at the foot of the throne and asked if the tales of the ‘Slaughter of the Colors’ were true, and Jon responded bluntly that a few details were purely imagination. However, the fact that he had slain seven Warrior’s Sons. Tommen smiled brightly at him and asked if he were willing to represent his wife and defend her honor for the kingdom to witness.

Ser Kevan sucked in a sharp breath but held his tongue, only frowning when Jon nodded at his king’s request. He would have to smooth many things over at the scandal it would cause, naming a common knight as champion of the crown.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Within the fortnight of the date of the great trial, the king’s regent had been found dead within his chambers; murdered brutally and viciously as if he were an animal. However, his death had not come in time for his assassins, the threads being spun and sealed as Ser Jon Snow of the Weirwood, or the “Demon of Weirwood” as some would call him, was given clearance to represent Queen Margaery in a trial by combat. It had taken oft pleading from her husband, but eventually she had acquiesced and proclaimed her challenge against the faith.

The High Sparrow was none too pleased when Mace Tyrell had announced with a booming voice for the great hall to hear, that the crown would call upon Ser Jon to represent them. Loud protests were thrown and shouted but the Fat Flower had remained firm and strong. “The king’s word is final,” he proclaimed for all ears to hear.

To further amplify the drama that surrounded the city, murmurs of the supposed Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar, began to circulate. Jon had then missed the city of Sunspear, annoyed at the gossip that flew through the keep like a raven without rest.

On the night before the trial, Jon was busy polishing his blade before bed, when the doors to his chambers were flung open and a familiar willowy figure walked through.

He acknowledged Nymeria with a nod before he returned to polishing his blade. She paced around the space, hands on her hips, and an endless tirade from her lips at his foolishness in representing the Lannisters.

When he retorted that he was sworn to their house, she replied that they had murdered his family. When he said his honor bound him to them, she said that his honor was tainted and a lie upon itself. He replied that perhaps she was right, and she simply stared at him with blinking eyes.

He hadn’t been paying attention to her, if he had been then he would have noticed her swaying hips as she stalked towards him. Perhaps he even could have stopped her in her tracks before she made her forwardness known, but he found himself pushed onto his bedding and his lips captured as she straddled him. He wished that he had drunken wine so as to use it as an excuse for his actions, but instead there was nothing that could justify his efforts as he took Arianne Martell’s cousin to bed throughout the night.

He arose the following morning with the feeling of her succulent lips wrapped around his cock, milking him of his seed into her mouth.

When she was finished, she planted a small kiss upon his cheek and wished him luck with his fight and deigning him to not die; else he would break her dear cousin’s heart.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Cersei was finally released from her cell, dressed in fine silks of the colors of her house. And though her appearance was as sophisticated as it could possibly be, he was not unaware to the bags under her eyes or the way her skin clung to her bones due to her noticeable drop in weight.

Her eyes landed on him for but a moment before she turned away, softness and anger on her features as she did so. However, Jon chose not to dwell to decipher the meaning behind her emotions; instead watching the ensuing battle that would determine her innocence.

Ser Robert Strong was her champion, a man of at least eight feet with a sword as tall as Jon himself.

The battle was quick and bloodied, Strong’s opponent’s shield was shattered by the swing of the greatsword as if it were a hammer, damaging the knight and leaving him open to a strong swing that would cleave him in half.

A few seconds was all it took; for the kingdom to bear witness and for the seven to make known their will: Cersei Lannister was innocent.

She stood proudly where she was placed, a smug look upon her face as she gazed down upon the High Sparrow and she sipped a goblet of Arbor Red.

Jon waited for the Warrior Son’s corpse to be removed from the arena before making his own way. Queen Margaery had gifted him with her favor, a desperate plea in her eyes as she wished him the best in his upcoming duel with the faith’s own champion.

It was Ser Theodan Wells, another knight from the north. Whereas Jon kept to the old gods of the first men, Ser Theodan had given himself fully to the faith and proudly wielded his sword and shield as he approached the center of the arena.

Jon heard varying insults hurled at him as he approached the arena, the carmine steel of his blade glinting scarlet within the light. It would have been a proud moment for the original sword, glinting gold and true with the colors of House Lannister; but the sword looked both ugly and beautiful with the black hilt of his sword- the blue sapphire pommel shining lustrously in the sunlight. The blade was bewitching and baleful to the crowd.

“Whoreson!”

“Bastard!”

“Heathen!”

“Vulgarian!”

He simply ignored the jeers and taunts as he met his opponent in the middle of the arena.

“How uncouth for the queen to name a pagan follower as her champion. It’s blasphemous,” Theodan said to him.

Jon did not respond, silence being his answer as the circled one another. They exchanged a few soft blows with one another but did not engage fully as they tested the other’s defenses. Ser Theodan soon grew tired at the lack of action and took the initiative.

The point from their focused exchange was as nearly as short as the trial before them; a crimson blade flashing through the air and slicing through plate.

Twice had the faith challenged a champion of the gods of old, and twice a weirwood shield had wept tears of blood as his wielder stood victorious.

The second trial was concluded, and the gods had made their will once more. As to which gods had decided, that would be for the people at witness to decide, but the answer was clear to the realm once more: Queen Margaery was innocent of all charges, as well.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Near a year had passed since the great trial and terror and anxiety had begun to build in the capitol. The faith militant had kept and spread its influence over the smallfolk, inciting small rebellions here and there. However, the greatest threat was perhaps Aegon Targaryen’s march and eventual siege on the great capitol.

The self-proclaimed king had defeated and conquered the Stormlands within a few moons after his landing. When he’d successfully sieged the Storm Seat, and with Stannis’ impending defeat in the north, the lords of the land had soon dipped their banners and bent their knees. Mace Tyrell had rallied a force and attempted to meet and extinguish the usurper at the Kingswood, but he had moved too late; preoccupied with his daughter’s trial, he was subsequently defeated by the combined forces of the Golden Company and the lords of the Stormlands.

In the Red Keep itself, Cersei Lannister had found her power had become all but extinguished; her son wrapped around his queen’s finger and his goodfather offering his council with a brown nose. Tommen was easy to placate and quick to forgive, unaware to the peril that Lord Mace’s blunder had put the city in. The queen had wanted to tear her golden locks from their roots, angered at the state of both her power and situation. She had cursed herself for not swallowing her pride and making the walk of atonement when she was offered the chance.

However, she had refrained from doing such a horrid thing when she was informed of Jon Snow’s return to the capitol. When Cersei had heard of his arrival in the capitol, she had felt a small emotion within her but not enough to trust her son in the clutches of the fools that surrounded him. They could not keep him safe. That is when she’d heard word from Qyburn, of the duel within the Red Keep. She’d confessed that she’d taken Jon Snow into her bed in an attempt to barter her freedom, not knowing it would not be enough, and the High Sparrow had called for the bastard knight’s arrest.

When the weaselly man had mentioned the confrontation, she’d genuinely thought that it had meant the end for her white wolven knight and steeled her heart for the grief she would feel at losing him; but then the ex-maester had spoken of Jon Snow’s triumph against the seven Warrior Sons that had challenged him and suddenly she felt a foreign ease course through her.

Thus, she had kept her pride and upturned her nose when the walk of atonement was brought before her, slapping the offer away and biding her time for the trial instead. It was grueling in the cell, but she was a lioness of The Rock. She would endure and survive. And when the time came, she would show how sharp her claws were to all those responsible.

Cersei had not called for Jon Snow after her release, a deep anger pooling in her when she witnessed him raise his blade, a Lannister blade, in honor of that smirking whore from Highgarden. She looked on with pure venom when she lay witness to the ‘Duel of the Faiths’, the worthless Ser Theodan lying dead in a pool of his own blood as her wolven knight stood triumphant over his corpse.

It only made her hate the Tyrell bitch even more.

‘Queen Margaery’ had managed to pry her precious son away from her and whispered her treasonous words in his ear, and her son had the naivete to approach her with an offer to return to The Rock. However, Cersei had managed to sly her way from leaving but her words held no weight over Tommen. Her son would hear her advice and then filter it through his wife.

How Cersei wished she could rid the stupid girl.

So, with anger and frustration at all the events surrounding her, Cersei Lannister called for Jon Snow for the first time since he’d left for Dorne.

And he had come willing.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Aegon and his retinue had been camped outside the city of King’s Landing and the Red Keep was in disarray. Banners were erected for the wall men to bear witness and siege engines were placed strategically for the onslaught that would ensue on the morrow’s dawn; as threatened in the usurper’s letter.

Jon had stood atop the battlements of the city, a frown underneath his helm as he viewed the large encampment. Aegon had few ships but few were better than none, the crown having lost its fleet when the bastard of Driftmark fled with them a few moons past.

Lannister soldiers scrambled to prepare pitch, defensive catapults and arrows for archers to fire upon the attackers. Jon sighed and made his way to the Red Keep, wondering if perhaps the morrow would be the day he would finally join his late father and brothers. He thought of Arya, wondering if she was with the rest of her family or if she were struggling to survive. Was Ghost even alive?

His thoughts then went to his sister Sansa. He hoped that she was safe and would live a happy life as the lady of Highgarden. Sansa Tyrell, he mused to himself. It suited her.

Servants and maidens and knights moved from his path when they saw him approach, the fear from the tales not dying after time had passed. Ignoring most of their frightened looks, his mind wandered to the Queen mother; images of her golden hair tangled in his fist, her round breasts bouncing wildly as he rutted against her the previous night. She had called for him for the first time only a week past and had kept him close during that time. The first night that they’d shared was one of pure unadulterated lust. There was no softness or sweet caresses as he took her. He only used power in his thrusts as he entered her wet heat.

However, that night before the battle was different; from the moment he entered her chamber to the moment she began to help him undress. She did not move at him with immediacy like all the nights before. She did not attack at his mouth purely for her own pleasure. She did not let him fuck her without care or ride him like a knight rode his horse at a tourney.

She was soft with her kisses, reminding him of soft plump lips shared under the Dornish sun, slow with her hands to unbuckle his armor and sensual with her hips as she rode him agonizingly slow. It was maddening at how she could grip him with her body alone, rubbing her breasts against his chest as she worshiped his lips with her mouth. He lost track at how many times he must have spent himself inside her womb.

Though, the sweetness in their shared night had left him when she spoke into his hear, “Patrol the Red Keep but do not leave. Do not approach the city close.”

The words were chilling and ominous and he could not find sleep easily as she drifted into his chest.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

“They say you are a demon that calls upon the power of the old gods to aid him in battle.”

…

“They also say that you swallow the souls of your foes and drink their blood as an offering of power to the weirwood trees.”

…

“Will you answer if it’s true or will you hold your silence in this small lodging?”

“I am no monster,” a rasped voice responded.

The owner of said voice was seated in a chair, his head bowed as the winds howling outside his small cottage as his interrogator watched him with deciphering eyes.

“I am aware,” the interrogator responded.

She was young but strong. He could tell from the tone in her voice.

“However, I also find it hard to believe that you could be the warrior that I have heard in song.”

“It would depend of the warrior you’ve heard in song,” he muttered.

Silence.

“Are you truly Jon Snow of the Weirwood,” the woman asked.

“Ser,” he corrected. “Ser Jon Snow of the Weirwood. And aye… I am.”

“Ser, then,” she said. “Have you retired your blade, ser?”

“Perhaps.”

“Such a shame. I’d heard you wielded beautiful Lannister steel.”

Jon shook his head firmly.

“It is Stark steel. The Lannisters defiled my father’s sword after they plotted my brother’s downfall at the Twins.”

The woman looked down at the man with an aloof expression. She could hardly believe that such a sad man could be the demon that she’d heard many whispers of. Even with his armor on his chest and his helm on his head, she could feel the moroseness that exuded from him.

“May I see the blade?”

He gestured his head to a corner outside her view, so that she may inspect the sword for herself. When she moved into his room, a loud chorus of movement signified her to raise a hand to make her company stand down. The woman continued into the room and gazed at the longsword in its burnt leather scabbard. She admired the black hilt, running her thumb over the lusty sapphire at the pommel. However, it was the steel that made her gasp; the cool metal a hazed crimson, glinting maliciously in the pale moonlight that shone through.

“It’s a beautiful sword,” the woman murmured.

He did not respond.

“Are you still able to wield it?”

“I have not grown maimed if that is what you ask.”

“It is what I ask.”

“I am not,” he insisted.

“Then why have you secluded yourself to this small cottage, out in The Reach, Ser Snow?”

She was curious to know.

“A man has his secrets. A man has his past. I’d ask that you respect that of mine.”

She pursed her lips but nodded, nonetheless. If he would rather be privy to his own, then who was she to demand it of him? The gods knew she had a past of her own as well.

“Would you wield it once more. If I were to ask it of you?”

He shook his head and gave a dark chuckle.

“Wield it for you? You are all the same,” he muttered, and she frowned. “Wield it for me. Swing it in my honor. Fight for me. Protect my own. You are a warrior of legend, still waking and living amongst us. Let us bask in your glory, and taste battle once more.”

“You are a knight, are you not? Is it not your duty and your only task to use it to fight? Did you not devote your life to the blade and its honor?”

“Aye,” he smiled. “That I did. However, I also do not follow the seven. I am a pagan knight, amongst the ones your surround yourself with.”

“I have a pagan knight in my service already,” she said to him. “I would not bat an eye at another.”

“You certainly are persistent,” he noted.

“I am drawn to those in need.”

“You think I am in need of saving?”

Pause.

And even more silence.

“I do,” she said.

“By all means, explain to me how it is you plan to save me.”

“You’re a knight,” she answered. “Sworn to a house that wronged you. A house that brought naught but ruin to this country and to these lands. You have swung your blade proudly and the tales sing that you swung it well; but not once have you felt pride or happiness when you swung your blade. You have never known what it’s felt like to believe in your cause as you took on the role of a knight. Swing your sword for me, and you will taste that feeling.”

Silence.

“How did you find me,” he wondered aloud.

“Lady Tyrell.”

“My sister?”

“Yes. She said that you’d settled here.”

He nodded.

“She worries for you,” she said to him. “Worries for your health and you mental wellbeing.”

“She worries too much.”

“Does she? She’s faced just as many losses as yourself, and lives with anxiety. One brother lives in seclusion at the edge of her power, and the other is warded far from her with the safety of his life threatened every day.”

He tilted his head slightly upward, not enough to meet her eyes, and spoke in confusion. “Other?”

“Yes. Were you unaware that your youngest was found only a few moons past and was currently warded with House Manderly of White Harbor?”

“Youngest,” he muttered in disbelief. “Rickon,” he continued. “He’s alive?”

“Yes. And the Boltons grow closer to him with each passing second. Should they take him hostage, I fear it would take liberating the north much the more difficult.”

Rickon was alive, he thought to himself. He couldn’t believe it. His brother was alive and was currently with Lord Manderly, the Boltons hot after him and their treacherous knives reaching him closer every day. And what was he doing? Sitting in a small cottage by a stream, wallowing in self-pity as his brother’s safety was called to question.

“What will it be, Ser Jon? Will you stay and mope about in this comely home, or will you wield your sword once more? If not for me, or for the people; for your brother.”

The answer was quick and easy to him, his mind made when he’d heard the flooring news.

“Aye.”

She nodded her head, satisfied with his answer before she began to turn on her heel. However, she paused half turn and asked if he knew of whom he fought for. If he felt comfortable hoisting the new colors than that of his previous masters.

When he responded with another nod, she demanded him to look her in her eye and proclaim his knowledge.

“Speak it to me, Ser Jon. Who is it that you raise your blade in honor to?”

He rose his head and met violet eyes through the darkened pitch of his helm.

“Daenerys Targaryen.”

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

When he’d secluded himself to the edge of the Reach, close to the Stormlands, he’d lost all communication with the rest of the world.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d chosen to forget the rest of the world. Chosen to let the world pass by him as he spent his days just living as a shell. It was his sister that had provided him with the cottage, just after he’d contacted her. And she was the only one that continued to attempt to keep contact with him, send raven after raven. However, eventually he’d turned his back on her as well and stopped responded to her letters. Stopped reading them, even. She’d sent him another one only moons past, perhaps about Rickon (the timeline fit after all), but he’d ignored that letter as well.

Now, he found himself catching up with the ways of the world and was aware that Daenerys Targaryen currently found herself at war against King Aegon Targaryen VI, her nephew. The king had the power of the Golden Company, The Stormlands and Dorne at his disposal. Daenerys had her Unsullied, her Dothraki and the power of the Reach on her side.

Roose Bolton ruled the North as lord but was an obvious threat that Daenerys would have to deal with in eventuality and was allied with the Riverlands under House Frey and the frayed power of the Westerlands. The Vale of Arryn was neutral in the fight and the Iron Islands were ruled by Euron Greyjoy; and though the Crow’s Eye had the smallest number, he also boasted a dragon in his fold.

The man was mad and dangerous; and his madness had somehow given him the ability to tame a dragon that Daenerys had birthed. He’d heard tales of some sort of horn, but the details were unsure and muddled to him.

Word came of the Wall as well. Jon felt momentary surprise and happiness when he’d heard that his uncle had been chosen as Lord Commander of the Wall, but it soon turned to bitter anger when he’d learned of his assassination at the hands of his supposed black brothers.

He gained one member of his family back, and then lost another.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

He hated the queen’s Dothraki screamers. They were loud, brash and obnoxious. And most of all, they annoyed him; challenging him to duels with every passing day, each day a seemingly new challenger.

It was why he much preferred the company of the Unsullied; their quiet obedience a solitude to his being.

He was successful at first, in refusing their challenges; they would come to him with a drawn arakh and he used the language barrier as an excuse to not rise to them. When the ones with broken common approached him, he merely turned on his heel and ignored their words. The challenges were with less intent but still there all the same. Then, the dragon queen had arrived one particular time, witness to the challenges, and enquired why he walked away with his tail between his legs.

He told her he was no craven, but he was also no warrior that lusted for battle at any opportunity. He preferred peace and dared for the men to leave him be; he would prove himself on the battlefield and not against them.

She shook her head with a slight laugh and informed him that if he truly wanted to be left alone, then it would be in his best interest to accept their challenges and prove himself their superior. If his skills were vast, then her screamers would bow away and avoid his steel. Jon had made the mistake in heeding her advice.

He finally accepted one of their challenges and dueled the man into submission. It was quick yet satisfying, his skill with a blade shown to all those in witness.

His vast skills did not deter his challengers, instead spurring them on even more. If anything, his challengers grew emboldened and challenged him with even greater intensity. Jon thought that even the young ones looked at him with a hunger to fight.

He complained of his newfound predicament to the queen, and she’d laughed once more before admitting that she had lied due to wanting to see his skill with a blade for herself. He glowered at her through his helm and he thought she could feel it when she placated him with a hand upon his forearm, assuring him that she would tell her Khalasar to avoid annoying him.

He gave her a satisfied nod in response.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Her commands hadn’t worked entirely, but he’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t an improvement. The younger and less proven Dothraki no longer challenged him, but the ones at the top of the pecking order still approached him from time to time. As much as he would rather not duel them, he eventually consented with an annoyed breath and defeated every single one that drew their steel at him.

‘The man of blue face’, is what they called him. He’d heard them repeat a familiar phrase, when they saw him, in their tongue and he’d asked a fluent to translate for him when his curiosity got the best of him.

 They were in the Westerlands, only a march away from sieging Casterly Rock, when Daenerys had invited him to her tent one night. An Unsullied had approached him, just before he’d retired for the night, and escorted him through the queen’s encampment. When they arrived, he took note that the rest of her council was present. He stood in the far back of the tent, letting the Unsullied announce his arrival, and stay back as Daenerys stood by a map with the layout of the Rock.

They’d come up with a rather cunning plan, he had to admit; the queen’s army would siege Lannisport and gain access to the city before making their way to The Rock. Taking the castle would be nigh impossible, the imp of Lannister assured them that the city was well defended and well provisioned. However, a generous squad of the queen’s most trusted men would navigate the sewers and attack from within, before making their way to the front cavern and opening the gates to allow the queen’s men entry.

Jon admitted that it was a great plan but could not fathom as to why he was summoned. He received his answer moments later, when the queen turned to him and called his attention.

The entire tent turned to him, Ser Barristan the only one looking at him with a fond smile. Daenerys asked what he thought of the plan and he replied truthfully, that it was a good plan. Then, she’d asked him if he had any input to relay to her, to which he answered no. A man close to the front, with an absurd appearance, laughed and she frowned at his answer. He hadn’t known what she’d expected of him. He was a soldier, not a leader. He was proficient at killing and not much else.

She didn’t ask him anything else the rest of the night, and the meeting was concluded. They would not speak again until before the siege of Casterly Rock.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Jon sat on a sawed log, polishing his steel blade after a round of sparring with Ser Barristan the Bold. He had bested the man, nine times out of ten, and the older and wiser swordsman claimed that the cold was aching his joints and that his age slowed his senses. Jon remarked that it would be best if he laid down his arms and retired to comfortable cottage by the sea.

The man boomed out a joyous laughter before they went their separate ways. Jon wanted to thank the man for the valuable skillset he’d imparted to him during their time in the capitol, but he couldn’t find the words and settled for a simple nod of his head and a wave.

In the middle of his thoughts was when he felt a thunderous clap on the pauldrons of his armor, the metal rattling the chain underneath and causing him to upturn his head with an annoyed glance.

It was the man with the absurd look appearance from the days before, grinning at him a rogue smile, a golden tooth gleaming in his mouth, with the queen at his side.

Daenerys scolded the man with a huff, but the anger did not reach her eyes- amusement hidden in her violet depths. Jon, on the other hand, hid no amusement in his dark steel pools.

The man had told him he’d watched his duel with the old man and complimented him at defeating the aged opponent. Jon frowned at his words and retorted that Ser Barristan’s steel was truer than any man he’d faced thus far. The annoyance must have been evident in his metaled voice, as the man threw his head back in laughter and Daenerys assured him that it was simply Daario’s nature.

“Do not be offended, blue face,” Daario said to him in a suave voice, “I understand the old man’s skill is still advanced to the others here.”

“You should address him by his proper title,” Jon frowned. “He’s more than earned it.”

Daario rose a finger to his golden mustache and twirled the hairs between his thumb and finger.

“I would not think him to be too cross with my words. I’ve called him it many of times to his face and he’s yet to voice his displeasure.”

“I’m voicing my displeasure right now,” Jon retorted.

The chuckle died on Daario lips and Daenerys frowned when she looked down at him.

“Has Daario Naharis offended you, my good man?” Daario asked.

“Aye,” Jon confirmed with a blunt honesty, “he has.”

Daenerys stepped in and played mediator between the two, attempting to stop the escalation of a fight before a battle.

Daario smirked down at her, assuring her that he would heed her words. After all, how could he refuse such a beautiful woman’s pleas? She returned his words with a smile before turning her attention to Jon. He simply grunted his acknowledgment and went back to polishing the silver steel he used to practice with.

If she was offended, she did not voice it.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Jon sat in his tent, eating a plate of spiced chicken and washing it down with a strong ale.

The battle had lasted a day but a day only. Once the siege on Lannisport was successful, the march to the walls of Casterly Rock were unimpeded. The moment they’d arrived, the doors were exposed open for them and the Lannister army had dropped their swords, spears and shield the moment the army had breached the cavernous entrance at the foot of her gates.

He silently grieved for the soldiers at Lannisport whom were unaware at the ease that the castle would be taken. Perhaps they wouldn’t have fought to the last breath if they knew the battle had been lost the moment Daenerys’ armies had breached their city’s walls. Jon slashed one, and then two, and then three soldiers; the featherlight metal sliced through their armor like butter. Daario Naharis skillfully parried a swipe of spear with his arakh before digging his stiletto deep into the socket of the guard with flare. He turned to him with a boastful smirk, and Jon could only give him a dumbly encouraging thumb for his effort. One of the men that led a unit snickered at the blue haired Tyroshi when Jon walked off to continue his carnage within the city.

All that bloodshed and carnage, he thought to himself in his tent. And for what? He downed the rest of his ale and grabbed at a flagon on a table when a servant girl barged into his tent. She gasped when he turned to her, her cheeks burning red at his uncovered face, before stuttering that the queen had asked for his presence.

Jon was in half a mind to reject the offer, thinking up an excuse to give to the servant girl, but he didn’t want to offend the queen with his rudeness, so he instead nodded his head and grabbed his helm.

He followed from his tent and into the castle, which was only a few paces away, the laughter of drunk men and drunk songs filling the air. Daario Naharis caught sight of him and quickly made his way to him, attempting to stop him in his tracks when he noticed as to where he was headed.

“And where might you be headed to, white one?” the sellsword asked.

Jon answered him briskly without stopping in his step, the servant girl turning slightly before walking once more when it was clear he was not stopping. “The queen has summoned me.”

Daario frowned at him and reached to grab at him, but a festive knight had bumped into the man and Jon was unimpeded the rest of the way. The servant girl led him to the doors of the king’s chambers within the castle and announced him to the queen when she’d gone through the doors. She bowed her head to him and left.

The dragon queen had been seated with a cup of wine in her hand, an open book before her when he stepped into the room. She turned to him with striking, violet eyes, and smiled. She gestured for him to take a seat, and he could only comply with his queen’s request.

“Are you always garbed in your plate?” she asked him when she noticed he hadn’t changed attire like the rest of the knights within her camp.

“The snows and winds of winter are upon us, Your Grace,” he replied.

“Scurry that,” she said, her win sloshing in her cup, “remove your helm and have a bite to eat. The lamb is honeyed, and the potatoes are buttered; please, help yourself.”

“I have already eaten,” he informed her.

“When,” she frowned.

“Just before you summoned me, Your Grace.”

She sighed at his answer and looked down at her plate of food.

“Then may I at least indulge you with wine, Ser Jon?”

He looked at her with narrow eyes, though it wasn’t as if she could tell- even if she’d been looking at him through his helm.

“Are you being truly hospitable, or is there an ulterior motive?”

She looked back at him with a mirthful expression, a frisky nature in her eyes as she smiled.

“Were my intentions obvious?”

“Your persistence,” he answered.

“Yes,” she said, “I must admit that my hospitality is not without a devious scheme. I’ve been bothered with it since, we’d met.”

“Bothered?” he questioned. “With what, might I ask.”

“Your face,” she answered bluntly.

“My face?”

She nodded. “I have yet to see it.”

“My face,” he repeated dumbly.

“Yes, your face. It’s been a root of my curiosity.”

He blinked behind his helm, once and then twice.

“Will you show it to me?” she asked.

“If it is your command. I cannot refuse my queen’s wishes.”

She closed her eyes and sighed once more.

“No, I do not wish to see it by command. I want to see it on your own volition.”

“You attempted to see it through trickery but few moments ago,” he quipped back.

“That was different,” she assured. “It’s one thing to deceive you as ultimately you make the choice on your own; whereas it would feel wrong to force you to unmask.”

“You are a queen. It would be within your rights to demand it of me.”

“I do not wish to be a tyrant,” she huffed.

“You cannot afford to be perceived as weak, either.”

She cocked a brow at him.

“You take me to be weak?”

“One could easily mistake it,” he answered.

“It would be an unwise mistake,” she retorted.

“Not with your nature,” he said.

“Oh? Please, indulge me with what you believe my nature to be.”

“You’re too kind,” he answered her with honesty.

She gave him a surprised look.

“You find my kindness to be a flaw as ruler?”

He nodded. “Too much of it, that is.”

“I thought kindness to be a virtue,” she said with narrowed eyes.

“Aye, it is. But kindness is also a frailty.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

“Be firm.”

“Firm?”

“Aye.”

“So, forego kindness for firmness?”

“No,” he shook his head, “be both.”

“Both?”

“Aye.”

“Explain it to me.”

“A good ruler is kind but firm, Your Grace. A great ruler is wise and receptive.”

She stared at him with her violet eyes, as if enchanted or fascinated by his words.

“The lady Olenna once told me to be a dragon,” she said to him. “What do you make of those words?”

“I suspect she wanted you to lay waste and fire to your enemies, who are in turn her enemies as well.”

“Was it advice that was spurred by her feelings?”

“I believe so.”

“Then you think I should not unleash my children upon the seven kingdoms?”

“I believe the power you wield must be used with temperament.”

“Perhaps the south has frayed at the Stark bluntness your sister spoke to me about. Speak clearly,” she commanded.

He gave a small smile behind his helm.

“Your dragons are wonderous beasts, terrors that were unleashed by your ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror.”

She nodded.

“However, those very beasts also avoided further bloodshed when they brought the realms to heel. It is no crime to use them to end lives to save lives. So long as you don’t end lives to end further lives.”

“I see…”

They sat in silence for seconds before she spoke up once more.

“Then, you are saying I should have a kind heart but be ready to meet impertinence with an iron fist.”

“Aye, that’s a way to put it,” he nodded.

She sipped at her wine, deciphering his words before setting her cup on the table.

“Then, tell me, Ser Snow. Would you consider your refusal as impertinent?”

“Would you?” he questioned.

“I dare say it to be.”

He nodded.

“Then is it your command for me to remove my helm?” he asked.

She sat back, staring at him with a sly smile before she shook her head.

“No,” she breathed out, “I don’t believe I will.”

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

With the Rock taken, Tyrion Lannister now commanded the troops of the Westerlands, adding them to Daenerys’ forces. Cersei Lannister was nowhere to be found when the castle was taken, somehow having fled and taken refuge in her home after Aegon had taken King’s Landing. It was to the lament of Tyrion, regretting in having to wait before he “raped his sister and wrung his hands round her neck”. Jon merely looked at the dwarf intently when he’d heard his proclamation.

The queen had ignored the fight in the Riverlands, only sending terms of surrender; in which they had until she took King’s Landing to accept. They marched hard for the capitol, reaching the city within two months. During the tenure of their march, Jon had been encamped just by the queen’s tent; she enjoyed his company and summoned him to her tent so as to spend time with him. They talked long into the night, longer than two people on a war campaign should, and quarreled over cyvasse. Or rather, she quarreled over cyvasse; Jon took his defeats, which were few and there, with grace.

She’d asked him how he learned to be so adept at the game, and he brushed her off with a lackluster answer. “Should I survive the siege of the capitol, I shall tell you. Not a moment before, and not a moment after.”

She frowned at his answer but accepted it; fury in her eyes when he felled her dragon once more with one of his trebuchets. She reminded him so much of the princess of the sun.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

The day of the siege was a bloodied and dark day indeed. It reminded him of the battle all those moons past, only this time he was on the other side of the walls of King’s Landing.

They took the city with ease, no siege engines used as Daenerys blew the Old Gate wide open with the hell fires of her black mount. They penetrated the city with ease, and Jon was sure that the soldiers would lay down their arms after the blow they’d been dealt so easily. However, they’d surprisingly fought to the last man, desperation in their eyes as they slashed at Daenerys’ forces. The Stormlands-Dorne-Crownland alliance did not fare well against the combined forces of Daenerys’ Unsullied, Dothraki and Westerlands-Tyrell alliance. Soldiers fell on both sides, but there was no question as to whom had the advantage.

However, no one could predict how much bloodshed would be spilled when the black and yellow sails of Euron Greyjoy appeared on the Blackwater; nor the deafening cry from the white and gold dragon he’d somehow managed to tame. The men looked up in despair, running back through the gates of the city when the cream dragon began to raze them with its dragonfire. Daenerys changed her objective from the Red Keep to her stolen son, steeling her heart as she met Viserion in an aerial battle.

Euron controlled the dragon with absolute power, but, unlike Daenerys, he did not soar the skies on the back of his tamed dragon. The lack of a rider gave Daenerys the advantage, and her mount bit and clawed at its brother with tooth and claw, but the time under his new master had turned the white one volatile and dangerous; it did not make it an easy challenge for its mother.

Preoccupied with one another, Jon led a small group of men to the walls of the Red Keep once more, when the worst had fallen upon them. The green dragon flew towards them, close to the city before landing at the steps of the Red Keep. Jon watched as the gates opened, and Aegon Targaryen walked the steps towards the jade beast.

Daenerys saw the scene too late, not even able to stop the impending bond if she so willed it; Viserion snapping its jaw around the neck of his largest brother.

Aegon placed a caressing hand on Rhaegal’s snout, and proceeded to mount the beast. His inexperience showed, but he took to the skies, nonetheless. He had no saddle, but the young king proved his intelligence as he commanded the green dragon to blow its flames from a distance.

Jon stood rooted to his place, watching the dance in the air with awe on his face. A dragon of black, of cream and of green dueling in the twilit sky and showering the city with light from their dragonfire. He could have watched the scene for hours, if it weren’t for the cry of his men from the ensuing group that came at them. Jon had taken view of the burly men charging at them but noting the warrior in smoky plate.

The warrior wielded two blades, the metals menacing and proud as he slashed a knight that had dared go first. Jon settled for another Iron Islander, slightly dodging and slightly parrying a battle axe with his shield before sticking at the man with his unforgiving steel. Jon and the knights around him met the raiders with their might, even casualties until it was time for men to meet the respective warriors of each side.

Jon and the warrior in smoked armor were pushed to the center, and the men around them stopped in their fights to witness the confrontation between demons.

He noticed the black and red steel in each hand of the warrior, also seeing the familiar smoked ripples along the metal. Jon had spent his attention attentive during Maester Luwin’s lessons, so he knew that the blades wielded were Nightfall and Red Rain; the two Valyrian steel swords that the Iron Islands claimed. The metals were precious, a ransom far greater than that of a king. So, Jon knew that the only man that he could be dueling was Euron Greyjoy himself.

The blades in his hand would be a problem, but it was the armor that had Jon on edge. He’d parried a strike with shield, barely sidestepping Euron’s follow up lunge, when he swung his blade like he’d done so many times before.

And his blade bounced off the plate of Euron Greyjoy, confirming Jon’s inner fears that the man had donned an armor made of Valyrian steel.

He stepped back in wariness, lifting his shield in defense as the Iron King mocked him. There exchange had been brief but the tells were obvious to Jon: Euron wielded two blades out of unrivaled arrogance and pride and was not accustomed with his left as his right. It did not mean that it would be an easy pick, however; the king’s armor made sure of it.

They circled one another once more before they clashed swords once more. Jon managed to block Euron’s strong strike once more, but the latter had used his left blade to parry, rather than strike, the second time around.

And on, and on it went.

However, Euron began to gain the advantage when Jon had overswung and exposed his back to a left-handed slash from Euron. Jon hissed in pain as he stepped away with haste, turning on his heel to raise his shield once more. Euron’s men clapped and cheered at the break.

The weirwood knight gritted his teeth in pain and frustration, an unwelcome warmth at his back. The wound he’d received from Euron’s strike would be the most generous of their duel. They met blades once more but Euron proved to be quicker on their next exchange; and when Jon’s sword bounced off the metal of the king’s armor, Euron slashed deeply with his strong arm at Jon’s face.

Pure pain coursed through his body from his head, the feeling of his flesh sheared off ass the Valyrian blade took his helm with it. Jon fell down on a knee and rose a hand to his left eye and rubbing furiously to no avail; the wound must have been deep as blood poured continuously into his eye and robbing him of his sight.

His ears pounded, and he felt his hands grow clammy and cold. He looked up at the man, only able to see the blue eyes through the helm, and he gritted his teeth in anger at the mocking he saw behind those cruel blue depths. Taking the entire company by surprise, Euron’s men and his own, he lunged at the man using his shield as a bashing agent against the Crow’s Eye’s helm; he surely must’ve rattled the man like a bell.

Flinging his shield onto the floor, Jon ripped the smoky helm off the Iron King’s head and plunged the crimson hazed sword through his Crow’s Eye and out his skull.

What transpired next was a blur, Jon lost consciousness and felt into a deep slumber. Or perhaps into his death.

All he saw were eyes full of baled venom, with the color to match.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

He’d lapses from consciousness to unconsciousness during his recovery. He remembered his head pounding at the loud voices he’d heard one particular time.

When he’d finally regained his bearings, he’d heard the voice of the Grand Maester acknowledging that he’d finally awoken. He notified him that the queen would want to know with immediacy and left the room shortly after.

After the maester’s departure, Jon noticed three things. The first thing that Jon noticed was that his head throbbed as if he’d spent the night drinking; the second that the Grand Maester was not Pycelle; the third was his inability to see from his left eye, even when he’d ripped the bandage off with haste. Possibly against better judgement, he rose from the bed and made his way to a vanity in the room, taking in his appearance in the mirror. An unmistakable gift from Euron’s blade decorated his face, and the dark grey of his pupil had gone a milky white.

He touched his eye in disbelief, not wanting the truth to be so; but he knew that there was no use in arguing with the reality of it and he’d gone back to collapse onto the bedding of his room.

Daenerys came shortly after, huffing breath from her immediacy, but Jon did not hear her words as he sat despondent.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

He’d been compensated generously for his effort in battle, the spoils of Euron’s defeat going to him.

Daenerys had asked if he would be greedy with his spoils or if he’d be generous with them. He’d asked if there were any members left of the proper owners of the blades. She responded that there were still Harlaws breathing, but House Drumm had been put to the sword by Euron. The appropriate response would have been to return Nightfall to House Harlaw, and keep Red Rain for his own, but he’d done the opposite; Jon claimed Nightfall for his own and gifted Red Rain to House Harlaw. Daenerys asked why he’d felt the need to keep their sword, and he’d responded that it would make a nice gift for when they rescued his brother.

She nodded at his words and offered the blade Widow’s Wail to him instead, as it’d been forged from his lord father’s ancestral sword, Ice. He shook his head, however, claiming that the sword had been tainted of its honor and it had no place in Winterfell. Jon told her to keep the blade, as the smoky red hue suited the banner of House Targaryen rather than that of House Stark.

She nodded asked what he would do with the smoky armor; he told her that he would have it fashioned just like his old armor of plate, claiming to be in need of as much help as he could muster with the loss of his left eye. She smiled at his banter and assured him that she would have the blacksmith in the city get to work with immediacy.

Then, he’d asked of her what had become of her dragons and her mood had turned morose. She told him of the injuries her son, Drogon, had sustained but that the bond with her other dragons were shattered. The cream one had flown off to the East after Jon had slain the Iron King, and the other was fatally put down along with its rider. She wept for them at night, she told him.

When he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, she dove into his arms and her composure broke; her tears flowing freely as she sobbed into his chest. He had no soothing words for ear or whispers of endearment. He only stroked her hair with as much comfort as he could muster and holding her tightly as she let her emotions run freely.

But then she’d turned her head up towards him, and he found that he had been entranced in her glassy violet eyes, her nose slightly pink and her lips puffed and plump. He brought his lips down to hers and the situation was too lost to be stopped. He’d made love to her right then and there; and had officially taken her to bed for the first time.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

He found that she loved to lay her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. One time he’d heard her gasp and claim that their beats were one in the same. They continued their lately talks, but their routine had changed to only speaking after a night full of passion. Sometimes it would be slow and sweet, and other would be full of lust and steam. Daenerys still spoke of how she loved it when he pleasured her with his tongue.

He promised that he would please her as much as she liked, so long as she continued to wrap her tongue around his cock just like how he’d liked. She had finished him in mere minutes once when she’d done that.

They had just finished a night full of steamy lust, her hair tousled and a dazed look on her face as she hugged a pillow to her chest, when he’d finally come clean to her and divulged his relationship with Cersei Lannister. She stayed on his chest and listen with rapt attention, at his tale from Queen’s most loathsome individual to lover. Then he’d spoke of his time in Dorne, and of the nights he’d shared with the princess, before he’d returned to King’s Landing.

He felt her fist tighten against him when he spoke of the night before Aegon’s siege, and how the royals had gathered in the sept for a final prayer before the battle began. No one knew that they would never leave again, the Sept of Baelor engulfed in wildfire in mere moments. Though it was an obvious ploy to blame the boy king, Jon suspected that the queen mother had a hand in the plot. The result was disastrous for the woman, her son jumping from the balcony of his tower while her daughter was slaughtered after news of Nymeria Sand’s death reached the sunny country.

She asked him if he loved the lioness.

He responded truthfully that he loved their night together, but not the woman herself.

Daenerys nodded against his chest and refrained from asking the same of his lover in Dorne.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

The North was relieved of the Bolton’s clutches, Daenerys making short work of their army when her mount had finally recovered from his wounds. House Frey had surrendered after King’s Landing was taken, and Edmure Tully was reinstated as Lord Paramount. The Vale of Arryn had no choice but to bow, not wanting to risk the wrath of dragonfire.

Jon reunited with his brother and embraced him the longer than he’d ever embraced anyone before. He presented the sword of House Drumm, the pommel replaced with a black direwolf with emeralds for eyes, to his brother and claimed that it would serve him well, along with his children after.

When Jon asked if Rickon had a name worthy of the blade he’d received, his brother simply shook his head and claimed that its name suited it just fine.

“Shaggydog’s fur is a dark as night, and this blade will slay many foes in the years to come. Nightfall is a good name.”

Jon stayed in Winterfell with his brother as much as he could, and Daenerys stayed with Jon- the two sharing their heat every night and possibly waking their chamber neighbors. She was the first to fall asleep in his arms, and the last to wake in the morning.

It was as if they lived in a blissful peace, the snows of winter painting the country beautiful, and the hot springs that ran through the walls kept them warm as they made love in the bathhouses of Winterfell.

However, it was not meant to last. Bran Stark had returned to Winterfell with perilous news to boot. It had been hard to believe him at first, but when his brother had recounted his life story perfectly and word for word, Jon had no choice but to become a believer.

After his brother’s return, Jon dreamt of the baleful green eyes once more, salt and smoke surrounding and island in his dreams at night.

He wondered what it could possibly have meant.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

The Others had broken through The Wall and began to terrorize the seven kingdoms, but not before Jon had completed his pilgrimage to the island of Skagos, where his brother had remained hidden for years.

Daenerys had offered to accompany him, but he remarked to her that the kingdoms needed her, and that it was her duty to rally the armies north. She nodded with reluctance, and they’d parted on the Kingsroad.

He spent his time confused and dazed, but the dream burning with greater intensity than ever before. A day before the Others would break through the wall, Jon’s mind was plagued with the baleful green eyes and, oddly enough, the tales of Daenerys and how she’d birthed her dragons.

So, Jon travelled to a cracked cavern that emitted steam. It was a natural landmark, according to the natives on the island, but many claimed it to have appeared within two centuries. Jon reached a crack in the floor; the steam beginning to burn and blister his skin from his proximity and drew his steel. He removed his armored glove and sliced at his hand to allow his blood to seep into the ground.

At first, nothing had happened, his blood merely staining the earthy floor; but eventually the floor beneath him began to rumble and the stone erupted from their positions in the dirt. Jon fell when he stepped back, his hand on his blade. It was foolish of him to do so; he stood no chance against the foe that appeared before him.

Brown dust fell to the floor as a black wyrm was born from the earth, its serpentine body contorting as it erected itself to its full height. The beast stretched its wings and the sun shone on its coal black scales. When the beast opened its eyes, Jon felt his breath and soul leave his body; baleful green eyes staring menacingly at him like the nightmares that plagued his nights.

The beast opened its mouth, its teeth sharp and polished like black diamond, and roared at him. Jon was sure that he would be in a puddle of his own making if he hadn’t spent much time around Daenerys’ children or relieved himself earlier that day. However, it was also notable that the beast before him was much larger than the mount that Daenerys rode.

The dragon turned its head upward and blew a hot breath into the air, emerald flames erupting from its mouth.

When the flames had died down in the air, the beast approached him once more with its teeth bared in a snarl. Jon reached out a tentative and shaking hand and pressed it on the beast’s snout. The dragon closed its eyes and allowed the touch; it was then that Jon began to recall Luwin’s lessons and realized as to which dragon he had been caressing.

The Cannibal.

Jon stared at the beast in awe.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

The Long Night had been won, a grueling and effortful endeavor. The Others had managed to push the living all the way to The Neck, when the combined forces had banded together to launch an all or nothing attack against the dead. Jon and Daenerys flew atop their mounts, and Jon joined the ground to face foes with his blade. He was blind, but his armor made up for his maimed eye; blocking every single stab that the Others attempted at him.

The battles began to turn, and the living had begun to push the dead back towards the wall- slaughtering their numbers and leaving few survivors; mercy and quarter were not an option.

However, the war wasn’t without casualties. Many houses had gone extinct and most of all, Jon had lost his companion. Cannibal had been a willful dragon, quick to anger and near impossible to placate; but its age had caught up with it and it wasn’t the strong dragon it’d one been during the dance. Through attrition, the great beast was finally felled by the magic of the ice wraiths.

Jon slaughtered every Other he could find.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Daenerys had asked him to stay with her.

The offer was tempting and difficult to reject, but he’d rejected it all the same.

She frowned at him with tearful eyes but did not argue with his decision. She was a queen, and a queen did not beg. He took her hands within his own and gave them a soft kiss before he bid his farewell.

Daenerys saw him ride away from the gates of King’s Landing, his blue cape billowing against the smoked metal of his armor.

She gave a rueful smile and clutched at her stomach, where she knew a babe had begun to take root.

Jon Snow would forever be the love of her life, her demon knight. Cersei Lannister and Arianne Martell may have claimed him first, but his heart belonged to her all the same. However, the life of a king or king consort was not who he was. Jon Snow was not a man that bowed and bent to the whims of beautiful women.

He was a knight.

And a knight travelled the lands like in song, helping those in need.

~|~|      ~|~       |~|~

Ser Jon spent the remaining years of his life traversing the kingdom atop an armored horse, his cloak floating behind him as he met bandit or brigand; or whomever was foolish enough to cross swords with him.

And in the end, the weirwood knight had ended his life alone and in solitude as he’d initially planned from the very beginning; but it could not be claimed that he would depart the world without legacy.

A natural-born daughter with golden tresses and eyes that shone like silver in the Westerlands, ward to the Imp Lord of Casterly Rock after her mother had been discovered in hiding. Cersei Lannister was put to death of course, but not before her babe had been saved through the mercy of the brother she detested.

A natural-born son with olive skin, hair black like pitch, and grey eyes that swam dark like the Blackwater. Arianne Martell had many regrets in her life, and not being more firm with the man she loved would always be one of them.

Two natural-born children in the capitol of the kingdoms. Twins. A boy and a girl, both with hair that shone silver-gold, with violet hued eyes. Daenerys Targaryen ruled the country with kindness but firmness, just as the love of her life had taught her. She raised her children in the ancient Valyrian way and had raised her fallen house back from the ashes. They called her ‘Queen Alysanne With the King’s Crown’.

All of them born of the same seed and destined for greatness. All four children legitimized on the day of their fourteenth nameday and becoming heirs to the castles they had been reared in, or eligible for a lucrative betrothal.

When these children asked their respective guardians as to whom their father was, the answer received had been the same for all four.

A knight of the seven kingdoms.

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FIN