A/N: This has got to be my longest chapter yet though with everything happening, I guess it had to be. Enjoy! :D
------------------------------
Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Highgarden, The Reach
The tent smelled of oiled leather and horse sweat. Jon paced the narrow space between the armor stand and the cot, each step a measured beat of frustration. The plate felt wrong on him—too ornate, too southern, the engraved roses on the pauldrons mocking him with their delicate beauty. This was not armor meant for war. It was costume.
"This is a fool's game." Jon stopped mid-stride, turning to face Master Luke. "Robb should be here. Better yet, you should be wearing this steel. I should have been in the melee. A melee, I understand. This..." He gestured at himself, at the ridiculous pageantry of it all. "This is just peacocking."
Luke sat cross-legged on a supply chest, his expression calm as still water. "I've never jousted, Jon. I'm not sure I'd be any better."
Jon gave him a long, flat look. The kind of look that said he knew exactly what Luke could do with a lance if he chose to. Luke's mouth twitched to almost a smile.
Jon sighed, the fight draining out of him. Duty settled on his shoulders like the weight of the plate itself. "It does not matter." His voice came out quieter, harder. "We need to go home, we have the information we need. But… the entire realm has to be warned too. The Long Night is coming for all of us."
"And you think they'll listen?" Luke's tone remained gentle, but his words cut clean. "We have no physical proof. Brandon Stark's holocron speaks in a language only I understand and Sam's translations are fragmentary. This is a political fight, Jon. Lord Eddard should be the one to handle it."
Jon opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, a timid voice filtered through the canvas.
"My lord? Lord Snow?"
Jon closed his eyes briefly. Of course.
The tent flap pulled back, and a guard's weathered face appeared. Behind him, barely visible in the afternoon light, stood Lady Desmera Redwyne. Her friends clustered at her shoulders, giggling nervously. Elinor Tyrell covered her mouth with one hand. Alla whispered something that made the others titter.
Desmera held a silk sash of crimson and indigo, the colors rich enough to buy a Northern farmer's harvest. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with something Jon couldn't quite name. Determination, perhaps. Or the thrill of a dare accepted.
"My lord!" She stepped forward before the guard could stop her. "I saw you from the stands. You... you have no favor!"
Jon's face went carefully blank. "I do not need one, my lady."
"But you can't ride!" Desmera's blush deepened, but she pushed forward anyway. "It's terrible luck. Please, my lord." She extended the sash, the silk catching the light like water. "I would be honored if you would carry my favor."
Jon looked from the sash to Luke. His teacher's expression was perfectly neutral, save for the faint amusement dancing in his eyes. A slight shrug moved Luke's shoulders. Your choice, it said. But you know what the courteous answer is.
Trapped. Jon could see no way to refuse without cruelty. Desmera was earnest, and caught up in the romance of tourneys and knights. To reject her publicly would wound her before her friends, make her the subject of whispers and pity.
He was many things. Cruel was not one of them.
"I am honored, Lady Desmera." Jon took the sash with a curt nod, his movements stiff.
He tied it to his the arm guard where it would be out of the way, practical and not draped across his chest like some lovesick fool.
But Desmera's face lit up like dawn breaking over Winterfell. She took it as victory anyway, as a sign of favor returned. Her friends erupted in fresh giggles, curtseying in a flurry of skirts before hurrying away. Desmera lingered a moment longer, her smile radiant, before following.
The tent flap fell closed.
Jon stared at the crimson and indigo silk wrapped around his arm. The colors were beautiful. The gesture was kind. And he felt nothing but the weight of expectation he hadn't asked for.
"Peacocking," he said flatly to Luke.
The tent flap rustled again.
Jon's face darkened. "Seven hells," he muttered, turning. "Has she come back for—"
The words died on his tongue. Not Lady Desmera's giggling face, but a single serving woman. She wore a simple grey dress, plain as porridge, without any house sigil or colored trim. The kind of servant who moved through castles like smoke, noticed by no one.
She curtsied low, eyes fixed on the floor.
Jon's anger faded, replaced by confusion. "Can I help you?"
"Lord Snow." Her voice was a low, flat monotone that sent a prickle down Jon's spine. Too controlled. Too practiced. "My lady apologizes for the intrusion."
Luke's eyes narrowed from his perch on the supply chest. "Which lady would that be?"
The woman didn't look at Luke. Didn't acknowledge his question at all. Her focus remained fixed on Jon with an intensity that felt wrong coming from someone pretending to be invisible.
"My lady offers you her favor."
She opened her hand.
On her palm lay a small square of midnight-blue velvet, folded once. The fabric was rich, expensive as she unfolded it with practiced care.
A single winter rose, embroidered in pale grey silk thread against the dark velvet. The petals were rendered with such delicate precision that Jon could see individual stitches forming each fragile curve. Someone had spent hours on this.
Jon stared at it. His eyes moved to Desmera's crimson and indigo sash wrapped around his arm, then back to this elegant, dangerous token. The comparison was brutal. A girl's romantic gesture versus a queen's political move.
"I thank your lady for the honor." Jon's voice came out cold as winter wind, each word deliberate. "But I have already accepted a favor. I will not ride into the lists looking like a mummer's fool, weighed down with trinkets. I ride for the North."
The maid's expression didn't change. Not a flicker of surprise or disappointment crossed those unremarkable features.
"I see, my lord. Good fortune in the lists."
She curtsied again and was gone as quickly and quietly as she'd appeared, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of roses.
This time Luke did smile, brief and genuine. "I don't know Jon, you shy away from the dramatics but they still seem to find it's way to you."
Jon resumed pacing, but now the armor felt heavier. The sash caught his eye every time he moved his arm, a splash of color against the dull steel.
"I should tell her," Jon said suddenly. "After the joust. That I can't... that there's nothing..."
"You don't owe her anything beyond courtesy." Luke stood, moving to help Jon with the final buckles. "She gave you a favor freely. You accepted it with grace. That's the end of the transaction in her world."
"In her world." Jon's laugh was bitter. "What about mine?"
Luke's hands stilled on the gorget strap. "Your world is bigger than hers, Jon. You know what's coming. You carry the weight of two ancient bloodlines and a war most of these people don't believe exists." He pulled the strap tight, checking the fit. "Let her have her romance. Let her tell her friends she gave her favor to the mysterious Northern bastard. It costs you nothing, and it might be the last moment of innocence she has before the world changes."
Jon let himself be lost in the Force for a moment and felt how it sang through him like a second heartbeat, how it let him feel the frost forming on stone before dawn and the warmth of a candle three rooms away. How it had shown him glimpses of futures that might never come, visions of ice and fire that left him gasping in the dark.
"The world's already changed," Jon said quietly. "They just don't know it yet."
Jon took the helm, feeling its weight. The visor was shaped like a snarling wolf, another touch of southern fancy. Through the Force, he could sense the crowd outside, thousands of presences pressing against his awareness. Excitement. Anticipation. Bloodlust dressed up in silk and flowers.
And underneath it all, the faint chill of something else. Something watching from the North, patient and cold.
"I hate this," Jon admitted.
"I know." Luke's voice held understanding. "But you'll do it anyway. Because that's who you are."
Jon settled the helm under his arm and moved toward the tent flap. Outside, a squire waited with his horse, a massive destrier borrowed from the Tyrell stables. The crowd's roar filtered through the canvas, a wall of sound that made his teeth ache.
He paused at the entrance, looking back at Luke, nodded once, then pushed through the tent flap into the blinding southern sun.
The noise hit him like a physical force. Thousands of voices, cheering and calling. Banners snapped in the wind, a riot of colors that hurt his eyes after the tent's dimness. The destrier stamped and snorted, its breath hot against Jon's neck as the squire helped him mount.
His gaze lifted toward the royal stand. The sea of faces blurred—lords, ladies, servants jostling for a better view. He found her without meaning to. Margaery sat next to King Renly, green silk pooling around her, hands folded in her lap. Her expression was smooth as polished stone, but her eyes tracked the crimson-and-indigo sash tied around his arm.
Not hers.
Her mouth tightened at the corners. Just a fraction. Enough.
He exhaled through his nose, long and slow. One more thing I've done wrong.
The destrier's muscles bunched beneath Jon as the squire finished adjusting his stirrups. The animal was a monster, easily seventeen hands, bred for power rather than speed. Its nostrils flared wide, breath steaming in the afternoon heat. Jon could feel its eagerness through the Force, a simple desire to run, to charge, to do what it had been trained for.
At least one of us knows what we're doing.
Jon settled his helm over his head, and the world narrowed to what he could see through the wolf-shaped visor. His breathing echoed loud in the enclosed space, mixing with the distant roar of the crowd. He flexed his fingers in their gauntlets, testing his grip on the reins.
The herald's voice boomed across the field, announcing the first pairing. Jon's stomach clenched as he heard his own name.
"The Bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow, representing the North!"
The crowd's response was mixed. Cheers from some quarters, curious murmurs from others. Jon caught fragments through his enhanced hearing.
"A bastard in the lists?"
"Lord Eddard Stark's boy, I heard he refused Ser Barristan..."
"Northern brute, probably doesn't even know how to hold a lance properly..."
Jon's jaw tightened, but he pushed the words away. Let them think what they will.
"Facing Ser Bryce Caron of the Stormlands, member of King Renly's Rainbow Guard!"
A knight emerged from the pavilions opposite, his armor enameled a brilliant orange that hurt to look at in the sunlight. He rode a grey courser, handling the reins with easy confidence. As he passed the royal box, he raised his lance in salute. The crowd roared approval.
Jon guided his destrier toward the lists, feeling the animal's power in every stride. A squire handed him a lance, the wood smooth and perfectly balanced. Heavier than a sword, longer than any weapon he'd trained with.
Just a longer spear, he told himself. Point it at the target and hold on.
They took their positions at opposite ends of the lists. Through the Force, Jon could feel Ser Bryce's confidence, the man's certainty that this would be an easy victory. A Northern boy, probably never even seen a proper joust before. Two passes, maybe three, and he'd be picking splinters from the dirt.
The herald raised his flag.
Jon lowered his visor completely, the world reducing to a narrow slit of vision. He couched the lance, feeling the weight settle against his armor's rest. The destrier shifted beneath him, sensing the coming charge.
The flag dropped.
Jon dug his heels in, and the destrier exploded forward. The thunder of hooves filled his ears, drowning out the crowd, the herald, everything but the approaching knight. The lists blurred past on either side. Ser Bryce grew larger in his vision, orange armor bright as flame.
Aim for the shield. Let the horse do the work.
The impact came like a lightning strike. Jon's lance hit Ser Bryce's shield and shattered, the shock traveling up his arm and into his shoulder. At the same moment, Bryce's lance caught Jon's shield, the blow driving him back in his saddle. Only his legs, clamped tight around the destrier's barrel, kept him mounted.
They thundered past each other, and Jon gasped for breath. His shoulder throbbed where the lance's force had transferred through the armor. The squire handed him a fresh lance as he turned the destrier for the second pass.
Seven hells, and that was just the first.
Ser Bryce saluted him with his new lance, the gesture carrying grudging respect. The easy victory he'd expected hadn't materialized. Good.
The second pass was harder. Both knights knew each other's measure now. Jon felt Ser Bryce's increased caution through the Force, the man's tactical mind adjusting his approach. This time when they met, Bryce aimed lower, trying to catch Jon's shield at an angle that would twist him from his saddle.
Jon's lance found Bryce's shoulder, the impact solid but not clean. Bryce's struck Jon's shield dead center, and Jon felt himself lifted from the saddle. For a heartbeat, he was airborne, the ground rushing up to meet him.
No.
The Force flowed through him instinctively. Jon's body twisted in midair, his free hand grabbing the saddle's high back. He pulled himself down hard, boots finding stirrups just as the destrier's momentum carried them past the impact point. He stayed mounted, barely.
The crowd erupted in shocked cheers. Jon heard fragments through the ringing in his ears.
"Did you see that?"
"How did he—"
"The Northern boy has balance like a cat!"
Jon's hands shook as he took the third lance. His shoulder screamed protest, and he could feel bruises forming beneath the armor. But he'd stayed mounted. That was what mattered.
Ser Bryce's confidence had cracked. Jon felt it through the Force, saw it in the way the knight's lance wavered slightly as he prepared for the final pass. The man had expected an easy win. Instead, he'd found someone who wouldn't go down.
The third pass was Jon's. He centered himself in the Force and the world slowed, details sharpening. He could see the exact angle of Bryce's approach, could feel where the knight would aim before the lance even lowered.
Jon adjusted his own aim fractionally. Not for the shield this time. For the man.
They charged.
The impact was tremendous. Jon's lance caught Ser Bryce square in the chest, the force of it lifting the knight from his saddle. The lance shattered, splinters flying in all directions. Bryce hit the ground hard, his orange armor throwing up a cloud of dust.
Jon's own shield took a glancing blow, Bryce's lance scraping across its surface without finding purchase. He thundered past, pulling his destrier to a halt at the end of the lists.
Behind him, Ser Bryce struggled to his feet, squires rushing to help. The knight raised his hand, signaling yield.
The herald's voice cut through the crowd's roar. "Victory to The Bastard of Winterfell!"
Jon removed his helm, gulping fresh air. Sweat plastered his hair to his skull, and his shoulder felt like someone had taken a hammer to it. But he'd won. His first joust, and he'd defeated a member of the Rainbow Guard.
As servants led his destrier away, Jon caught sight of the royal box. Margaery leaned forward slightly, her expression unreadable. Lady Olenna sat beside her, those sharp eyes missing nothing.
And in the crowd below, Sam was jumping up and down, his round face split in a grin. Falia clapped her hands, while Marwyn stroked his beard thoughtfully. Even Sarella looked impressed.
Jon allowed himself a small smile as he walked back toward the pavilions. One victory down. However many more to go before he could leave this place and return to matters that actually mattered.
The squire met him with water and a fresh lance. "Well fought, my lord. Your next opponent will be announced shortly."
Jon drank deeply, the cool water cutting through the metallic tang that coated his tongue—part exertion, part the phantom taste of adrenaline. His shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse, each beat a reminder of where Ser Bryce's lance had connected. He flexed his fingers, working feeling back into them.
The afternoon wore on. Three more jousts passed before his eyes—a Tyrell cousin unhorsing a hedge knight, a clash between two lesser lords that ended with both men tumbling into the dirt to the crowd's raucous laughter, and Loras Tyrell unhorsing a Stormland knight in one pass.
Jon accepted another skin of water from his squire, forcing himself to drink slowly this time. The sun beat down mercilessly on the field, turning armor into ovens and the packed earth into something that shimmered with heat. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath the padded gambeson.
The herald's voice rang out again. "Next pairing! Lord Jon Snow of Winterfell against Ser Hyle Hunt of Horn Hill!"
Jon's blood went cold. Horn Hill. House Tarly.
The knight who emerged wore armor bearing the striding huntsman, Lord Randyll's personal sigil. Ser Hyle was younger than Bryce had been, perhaps five and twenty, with the lean build of a man who spent more time in the saddle than the feast hall. But it was his eyes that caught Jon's attention. Hard eyes. The eyes of a man with something to prove.
Through the Force, Jon felt the knight's intentions like a blade pressed to skin. This wasn't about points or victory. This was about hurting him. About teaching the Northern bastard who'd dared confront Lord Randyll a lesson in pain.
Jon's hands tightened on his lance. The wood creaked under the pressure.
So that's how it is.
He mounted his destrier, feeling the animal's nervousness. It sensed the shift in mood, the predatory intent radiating from the other knight. Jon stroked its neck, sending calming thoughts through the Force.
"Easy, boy. We have faced worse than this."
They took their positions. Ser Hyle's lance dipped in a mocking salute, the gesture carrying pure contempt. In the stands, Jon caught a glimpse of Lord Randyll watching with satisfaction. Sam had disappeared, probably unable to watch what was coming.
The flag dropped.
Ser Hyle charged like a man possessed, his lance aimed not for Jon's shield but for his helm. The intent was clear. He wanted to hurt, to maim, to put Jon in the dirt and keep him there.
Jon met the charge head-on, his own lance steady despite the fury building in his chest. The Force whispered warnings, showing him the trajectory of Hyle's attack. At the last moment, Jon shifted his shield up, protecting his head.
The impact was savage. Hyle's lance caught the shield's upper edge and glanced off, but the force of it nearly tore Jon's arm from its socket. Pain exploded through his shoulder, white-hot and blinding. Jon's own lance struck true, catching Hyle's shield and shattering against it.
They passed each other, and Jon bit back a scream. Through the Force, he felt Luke's concern spike, his teacher half-rising from his seat in the stands.
I'm fine, Jon sent back, though he wasn't sure that was true. Stay there.
The squire rushed to him as he turned the destrier. "My lord, your arm—"
"Fresh lance," Jon ground out through clenched teeth.
"But—"
"Now."
The boy obeyed, though his face was pale with worry. Jon took the lance in his right hand, letting his left arm hang. He couldn't lift the shield anymore. The pain was too great.
Ser Hyle had noticed. The knight's posture radiated satisfaction as he prepared for the second pass. Without a shield, Jon was defenseless. One clean hit, and this would be over.
The crowd had gone quiet, sensing something wrong. Jon heard whispers, concern mixed with anticipation of violence.
He centered himself in the Force, pushing the pain away. His vision sharpened, the world crystallizing into perfect clarity.
You want to hurt me? Jon thought, his gaze fixed on the approaching knight. Let's see who bleeds first.
The second charge was pure fury. Ser Hyle came in fast and low, aiming for Jon's exposed side. But Jon had learned something in his months of training. The Force could show you where to be, where not to be, if you trusted it completely.
At the last possible moment, Jon twisted in his saddle. Hyle's lance passed so close Jon felt the wind of its passage. His own lance, guided by the Force and driven by cold rage, struck Hyle's shield with enough force to crack the wood.
The knight rocked back in his saddle but stayed mounted. They passed each other, and Jon heard Hyle's snarl of frustration.
The third pass would decide it. Jon's left arm was useless, his shoulder screaming with every breath. But Ser Hyle's confidence had cracked. The man had expected an easy victim. Instead, he'd found a wolf who bit back.
Jon took the fresh lance, his grip so tight the leather creaked. He felt the darkness calling, the same cold fury that had manifested as frost in the feast hall, the same fire that had danced in the godswood. It wanted to be used. Wanted to punish this knight who thought he could break a Stark with impunity.
Channel it, Luke's voice whispered in memory. Don't let it control you.
Jon exhaled slowly, letting the rage flow through him and into the lance. Not wild, not uncontrolled. Focused. Directed. Pure Northern winter given purpose.
The flag dropped.
Jon didn't charge. He attacked. The destrier felt his intent and responded with explosive power, hooves tearing up the packed earth. Ser Hyle came to meet him, lance aimed to finish what he'd started.
Jon could see the exact angle of Hyle's approach, the fractional lean that telegraphed his aim. The moment when the knight committed to his strike and couldn't adjust.
Jon's lance met Hyle dead center, right where the breastplate's curves met. The impact was so solid that Jon felt it through his entire body, felt the lance punch through Hyle's defense and lift the knight clean from his saddle. The wood shattered, and Ser Hyle flew backward like a child's discarded toy.
He hit the ground with a crash that echoed across the field. Didn't move.
Jon thundered past, pulling his destrier to a halt. He turned to see squires and maesters rushing to Hyle's aid. The knight was alive, Jon could feel that through the Force, but he wouldn't be riding again today.
The herald's voice rang out across the tiltyard, no longer tinged with condescension but with genuine awe.
"Victory to Lord Jon Snow of Winterfell!"
The crowd erupted. Not polite applause or scattered cheers, but a roar that seemed to shake the very stones of Highgarden. Smallfolk and nobles alike surged to their feet, voices blending into a single thunderous acclaim.
"The day's tilts are concluded!" the herald continued, having to shout to be heard over the din. "The semifinals shall commence on the morrow!"
The crowd's roar washed over him, but Jon barely heard it. He dismounted carefully, his left arm still useless. A maester approached, an older man with a chain of many metals.
"Let me see that shoulder, my lord."
Jon allowed himself to be led to a tent, where the maester stripped off his pauldron with practiced efficiency. Fingers probed the injury, and Jon hissed through his teeth.
"Nothing broken," the maester pronounced. "Badly bruised, though. You're fortunate. Another inch and that lance would have shattered your collarbone." He produced a clay pot of foul-smelling ointment. "This will help with the swelling."
The cold paste burned against Jon's skin, but the pain began to recede almost immediately. Whatever was in that ointment, it worked.
The tent flap burst open.
Sam tumbled through first, his round face flushed and panicked. "Jon! Gods, your arm! We saw Ser Hyle... he was trying to kill you!"
Behind him came Jory, his weathered face grim, and Master Luke, moving with that preternatural calm that never quite left him.
Jon waved them off with his good hand, keeping his expression flat. "It's a bruise, Sam. I'm fine."
His shoulder did no care for his lie as it felt like someone had driven a hot iron through the joint, and every breath pulled at muscles that screamed protest. But Sam didn't need to see weakness. None of them did.
"Are you well?" Jory's tone was more professional, but tension threaded through each word. "That was a foul blow, my lord."
The maester pulled the final knot tight, and Jon couldn't stop the hiss that escaped through his teeth.
"You're fortunate, Lord Snow." The maester stepped back, examining his work with satisfaction. "I'd advise milk of the poppy for the pain."
"No." Jon's voice came out harder than he intended. "I need my wits."
The maester shrugged, gathering his clay pots and bloodied cloths with the resigned air of a man who'd heard that answer before. He nodded to the others and ducked through the tent flap, leaving them alone.
Master Luke waited until the old man's footsteps faded into the tournament's distant roar. Then he moved forward, placing one hand on Jon's bandaged shoulder. The gesture looked casual, concerned. Nothing more.
"Jory is right." Luke's voice was quiet. "It was a blow of malice. Do not let your anger at the man's intent cloud your mind for tomorrow."
Jon opened his mouth to respond, but the words died unspoken.
Warmth spread through his shoulder. Not the cold burn of the ointment, but something deeper, something that sank into muscle and bone like sunlight melting winter snow. The sharp, blinding pain that had been his constant companion since the third pass receded. Not gone, but manageable. The stiffness eased, his shoulder loosening as if he'd spent an hour in a hot bath rather than seconds under Luke's hand.
Jon's eyes snapped to his teacher's face. Luke met his gaze and gave the smallest nod, his expression utterly calm.
Force healing. Master Luke had spoken about it briefly, but seeing it demonstrated was something else entirely. The ability to mend flesh and bone through will alone.
Jory was watching them both, his brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Sam had moved to the tent's edge, peering out at the crowds beyond.
The tent flap rustled again.
"Seven hells," Jon muttered, turning.
Lady Desmera Redwyne burst through the entrance, alone and breathless. Her carefully arranged hair had come loose from its pins, and her face was pale with genuine fear. She rushed past the others, stopping just short of touching Jon's bare shoulder.
"Lord Snow! I... I saw." Her voice trembled. "That was dreadful! Are you... are you badly hurt?"
Jory and Sam exchanged glances, caught between a high-born lady's concern and Jon's dignity. Jon felt their discomfort through the Force, a prickling awareness of how this must look.
Thanks to Luke's healing, the pain was now a dull ache rather than the screaming agony it had been moments before. Jon kept his tone softer than it might have been otherwise.
"Lady Desmera. I am well, I assure you. Just a bruise."
"You were magnificent!" The words tumbled out of her, relief making her bold. "When you struck him... it was the most terrifying, bravest thing I've ever seen!"
Then her expression shifted, worry creeping back into those wide eyes. "But you have to ride again tomorrow. You've made it to the semi-finals! Oh, goodness... you... you might have to face my brother Horas."
Jon felt Sam flinch through the Force before he saw it. The bigger boy took a step back, his face going pale.
Desmera noticed. "Oh! Samwell, you know Horas, don't you?"
Sam's voice came out small, miserable. "I... yes, my lady. I know him."
The subtext hung in the air but Jon had heard enough of Sam's stories to understand. Horas Redwyne had been one of the boys who made Sam's life at court a special kind of torment. Not as cruel as Lord Randyll, perhaps, but cruel enough.
Jon looked from Sam's pained face to Desmera's worried one. When he spoke, his voice was cold as winter wind, flat and final.
"Your brother rides tomorrow?"
"Yes, against Ser Ronnet Connington. If you both win..."
"Then I will face him." Jon held her gaze. "And he will lose."
It wasn't a boast. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same certainty he might use to say the sun would rise or winter would come. Horas Redwyne would fall.
Desmera stared at him, her mouth slightly open. She'd expected knightly courtesy, perhaps. Some platitude about letting the best man win, about honor and fair contests. Instead, she'd received cold Northern certainty, delivered without hesitation or doubt.
Her cheeks flushed crimson. The fear in her eyes transformed into something that made Jon deeply uncomfortable. She found his confidence attractive, he realized. The raw certainty of his words had struck something in her that all the flowery speeches and courtly gestures never could.
Before she could respond, a new shadow fell across the tent's entrance.
Queen Margaery stood framed in the opening, flanked by two of her ladies. Alla and Elinor, Jon remembered. She did not step inside.
The tent went silent.
Desmera's curtsy was low but not submissive. Sam and Jory bowed, their movements stiff with surprise. Jon forced himself to stand, ignoring the pull in his shoulder, and bowed from the waist.
"Lord Snow." Margaery's voice was silk over steel, cool and smooth. "A remarkable day for the North. The entire court is... impressed."
Her eyes moved across the tent with deliberate precision. Jon's bare shoulder, bandaged but no longer screaming with pain. The worried faces of his men. And finally, Desmera Redwyne, looking guilty and out of place.
"We heard you took a hard blow. I came to ensure you were being... attended."
"Your Grace is kind." Jon kept his voice neutral. "The maesters of Highgarden are very skilled."
Margaery's gaze flicked to the table where his armor lay discarded. The crimson and indigo sash tied to his vambrace stood out like a wound against the dull steel.
Her smile remained perfect, but her eyes went cold as green ice.
"I see you are very well-attended." The words carried a razor's edge. You refused my token, but you're entertaining my cousin in your tent.
She turned her attention to Desmera, who flinched as if struck. "Cousin, your brother won his match, did he not? How wonderful. I am sure your family is looking for you."
It was a royal command dressed in courtesy's clothing. Desmera understood. She curtsied to Jon, then to the Queen, her face burning crimson, and fled the tent.
Margaery's attention returned to him, and the warmth that had graced her features moments before had vanished completely.
"A lord may, of course, choose his own companions." Her voice remained light, musical even, but something brittle ran beneath it. "And accept whatever tokens please him."
Her gaze drifted to the crimson and indigo silk knotted around his armor. She studied it the way one might examine a particularly interesting insect with detached curiosity that somehow felt worse than outright anger.
The corner of her mouth curved upward, but the expression held no humor. "How charming that my cousin's colors suit you so well, Lord Snow. I do hope your fortune continues when you ride tomorrow."
The words themselves sounded pleasant. But Jon heard the frost beneath them, the deliberate weight behind each carefully chosen syllable. This was southern courtesy at its deadliest: all gracious smiles and sweet wishes while the blade found its mark between your ribs.
Even through the sting of it, he couldn't help but notice the way candlelight caught in her brown curls, the elegant line of her throat as she lifted her chin. She was beautiful when pleased. She was somehow more beautiful now, anger sharpening her features into something fierce and regal.
Her smile never wavered. That was what made it worse—the perfect mask held in place while her eyes promised consequences he didn't fully understand.
"I'm certain," she continued, her voice honey-sweet, "that the Seven will smile upon such a... gallant champion. One who knows precisely which tokens to treasure."
The pause before 'gallant' landed like a slap.
She swept away, her ladies following like shadows. The tent flap fell closed behind them.
The silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush stone.
Sam's voice came out small and frightened. "Gods, Jon. Why did the Queen seem upset?"
Jon stared at the empty entrance, finally understanding the game he'd stumbled into. He'd thought the joust was about proving Northern strength, about representing his people in this southern tournament. But that was only part of it.
The real joust had nothing to do with lances and armor. It was fought with favors and slights, with tokens accepted and refused. And he'd just made a move without understanding the board.
"I know," Jon said quietly.
Luke moved to stand beside him, his expression thoughtful. "It's almost impressive how drama seems to find you even when you're actively trying to be boring."
Jon's jaw tightened. "I didn't—"
"I know." Luke's voice gentled, though amusement still flickered in his eyes. "You didn't mean to insult the Queen." The words felt inadequate even as Jon spoke them. "Lady Desmera was just..."
"Being kind?" Jory's voice held a hint of sympathy. "Aye, my lord. But kindness in the South is rarely simple. Every gesture has weight. Every favor carries meaning."
Jon looked down at the crimson and indigo sash tied to his armor. Such a small thing. A girl's romantic gesture, offered with genuine concern and admiration. But in accepting it, he'd made a statement. He'd chosen Desmera Redwyne over Margaery Tyrell.
Except he hadn't chosen anyone. He'd simply tried to avoid cruelty.
"What should I have done?" The question came out sharper than he intended. "Refused her? Made her look a fool in front of her friends?"
"No." Luke's voice was gentle. "You did what your heart told you was right. That's not weakness, Jon. But you need to understand that in this court, kindness can be weaponized."
Jon pulled the shirt over his head, wincing slightly as the fabric settled over his bandaged shoulder. The pain was manageable now, thanks to Luke's healing, but the bruise would still be there tomorrow. A reminder.
Sam shifted near the tent's edge, his round face flushed with something that wasn't quite embarrassment. "Jon." He cleared his throat. "About Horas... if it comes to that tomorrow—and it might—you should know that..." He paused, then squared his shoulders in a way that reminded Jon of the man Sam was becoming, not the boy he'd been. "You'll beat him. I know you will."
Jon looked up from where he sat, one hand pressed against his bandaged shoulder. The certainty in Sam's voice caught him off guard.
"He's good with a lance," Sam continued, warming to his subject. "Better than people give him credit for. But he's reckless. He commits too early to his strike, and if you can read the tell, you can catch him off-balance." A pause. "I've watched him joust before. At Highgarden. He relies on strength and speed, but there's no... no thought behind it."
"I meant what I said, Sam." His voice came out flat, final. "If I face him tomorrow, he'll lose."
Sam nodded once, sharp and decisive. Then his expression shifted, uncertainty creeping back in. "Just... be careful. Please."
"Get some rest," Luke said, his hand briefly touching Jon's good shoulder. "Tomorrow will be harder than today. And not just because of the joust."
They filed out of the tent, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts and the distant roar of the crowd. He looked down at Desmera's favor, at the careful stitching and bright colors.
Then his eyes moved to his pack, where the midnight-blue velvet with its embroidered winter rose lay hidden.
Two favors. Two choices. Two paths forward in a game he was only beginning to understand.
------------------------------
If you want to read up to 10 chapters ahead and support me, here is my patreon: https://www.patreon.com/FullHorizon