Jon
The trumpets sounded, and the herald's voice rang across the arena like a hammer on an anvil.
"Ser Andar Algood of House Algood! Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of House Martell!"
Jon straightened in his seat. The crowd murmured at the pairing, and he understood why before the riders even appeared. A Westerlander against a Dornishman. The realm's wound, opened fresh for spectacle.
Arya leaned forward. "That's the Red Viper."
Jon nodded. Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, brother to the ruling prince, and a man whose hatred for House Lannister was as famous as his skill with a spear. Jon had seen him briefly before the melee, standing in the pavilion shadows with those dark eyes that seemed to see through skin.
The two riders appeared at opposite ends of the tilt. Ser Andar wore plate and mail under a surcoat of purple and bronze, the sigil of House Algood displayed proudly. His horse was a destrier, massive and steady. Oberyn wore lighter armor, boiled leather and chainmail, a flowing red cloak snapping behind him. His horse was smaller, quicker, a sand steed from Dorne.
The first lance shattered against Ser Andar's shield with a crack that echoed across the stands. The Westerlander rocked in his saddle but held. The crowd cheered. Oberyn wheeled his horse around with grace, tossing the broken lance to a squire and taking a fresh one without looking.
The second pass. Another impact. This time Oberyn's lance caught the upper edge of the Algood knight's shield and skipped upward, striking his shoulder. Ser Andar swayed but kept his seat. The crowd's noise rose, half cheering for the Westerman's resilience, half roaring for Oberyn's precision.
Jon didn't care who won. He watched because he was supposed to watch, because sitting in the Stark section and staring at the Martell seats would draw attention. His ribs ached. His shoulder throbbed. He wanted to be anywhere but here.
The third pass began.
The horses charged. Hooves pounded the packed dirt. Lances leveled. Oberyn's lance shattered, and the splintered end drove through the gap between Ser Andar's breastplate and fauld, punching into his stomach.
The crowd gasped. Ser Andar's lance fell from his hand. He swayed, then toppled from his saddle and hit the ground like a sack of meat and bone.
Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading fast.
Squires ran onto the field. They grabbed the fallen knight by the arms and dragged him toward the edge of the arena, his heels carving lines in the dirt. His helmet had come off during the fall. His face was pale, mouth open, eyes wide and unseeing. Blood poured from the wound, soaking his surcoat, trailing behind him like a banner. The man seemed like he didn't understand where he was and was shouting a word, but Jon could not hear through the noise of the crowd.
Jon knew that amount of blood. Ser Andar Algood would die. Maybe in an hour, maybe in ten minutes, but he would die.
He glanced at Arya.
She'd gone pale. Her hands gripped the edge of the bench, knuckles white. Her mouth was slightly open, and her grey eyes were fixed on the place where the blood trail disappeared behind the stands.
"Arya," Jon said quietly.
She didn't respond.
"Arya," he said again, louder.
She blinked and turned to him. Her face looked younger than it had a moment ago. "I'm fine."
"Are you?"
She swallowed. "I... I don't know."
Jon shifted on the bench, ignoring the pull in his ribs. "What is it?"
"The sound," Arya said. Her voice was thin. "I heard it. When the lance went in. And the screaming. I didn't think it would sound like that."
"Like what?"
"Like... like an animal. And the blood." She looked down at her hands. "I've seen blood before. I once hit my head against a wall while playing mud fighting, there was blood and Maester Luwin had to stitch my forehead. But I have never seen this... There was so much of it. And it kept coming."
Jon let the noise of the crowd wash over them for a moment. The stands had erupted in argument. Some shouted for Oberyn's disqualification, others claimed it was a fair strike in a joust. The heralds were trying to restore order, their voices drowned in the chaos.
"That's what it looks like," Jon said. "When you wound someone. When you fight someone. Blood. Bone. Guts, if the blade goes deep enough. And the sounds they make." He met her eyes. "If you ever have to defend yourself, if you ever have to draw steel against someone who means to hurt you, that's what you'll see. That's what you'll hear. And you need to be ready for it, or you'll freeze, and freezing will get you killed."
Arya nodded slowly. The color was coming back to her face, but she still looked shaken.
The heralds had restored enough order to announce the next pairing. The crowd settled. Arya started looking around, and away from the arena, Jon figured she wanted to see something else. She kept on looking and looking, eventually her gaze drifting upward toward the royal box.
"I don't understand her," Arya said suddenly.
Jon followed her gaze. Sansa sat beside Joffrey, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She was smiling at something the prince had said.
"Understand who?"
"Sansa." Arya's lip curled. "How can she sit there with that golden cunt and smile like he's a hero from a song? He tried to kill Mycah. He drew steel on a butcher's boy and would've killed him if I hadn't stopped it. And because of him, I had to make Nymeria run. Because of him, the Queen wanted Lady dead. She would have killed Lady if you hadn't told the truth."
Jon said nothing. He watched his sister lean closer to Joffrey and laugh at something he said. Sansa didn't see the monster. She saw the golden prince, the boy from the songs, the future king who would sit the Iron Throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms with her as his queen.
She would learn. Eventually, she would see what Joffrey was beneath the crown and the golden hair. But by then, it might be too late.
Jon thought about their departure. Two days. Two days, and Lord Stark would resign as Hand, and they would board a ship for White Harbor. Sansa would be devastated. She would beg to stay, to remain betrothed to Joffrey, to live her dream of being queen. And Ned would refuse, because staying in King's Landing meant staying in reach of the people who wanted Jon dead.
Sansa would hate Jon for it. She would hate him for ruining her dream, even if she never learned the real reason why they had to leave.
"Jon?"
He blinked. Arya was watching him.
"Why is the Queen looking at you like that?"
Jon's chest tightened. He kept his eyes on the arena, where two new riders were taking their positions. "Like what?"
"Like..." Arya paused, searching for the words. "Like the way Sansa looks at Joffrey. All soft and hungry at the same time."
Jon forced his voice to stay even. "You're imagining things."
"I'm not." Arya's voice sharpened. "She's been staring at you since we sat down. I saw it."
"She's looking in this direction. That's all. The Stark seats are near the royal box. She's probably looking at the bannermen behind us."
Arya crossed her arms. "I know what I saw."
Jon turned to her and gave her the look he'd perfected over years of dealing with his youngest sister's stubbornness. "Drop it, Arya."
She held his gaze for a moment, then huffed and looked away. "Fine."
The crowd roared. Jon had missed the announcement, but two riders were charging now, lances leveled. He watched the impact without really seeing it. His mind drifted.
RedHeart. He could feel her, faintly, like a distant fire burning in the dark. She was restless. Hungry, maybe, or bored. Ghost was with her, keeping her calm, but Jon wanted to be there. Wanted to feel her heat against his chest, hear her purr vibrate through his bones. Wanted to speak to her.
The stolen egg haunted him. Somewhere in this city, someone held the second dragon egg. Someone with Valyrian blood, or someone who knew what it was and planned to sell it, or someone who wanted to destroy it. The possibilities spiraled through his mind like smoke.
His eyes drifted to the Martell seats.
Rhaenys was looking at him.
She sat in the second row, her crimson gown vivid against the burnt orange and red of the other Dornish silks.
The woman beside her leaned close and whispered something. Rhaenys smiled faintly and nodded.
The woman was beautiful. Jon had noticed that before, but now, in the full sunlight, the word felt inadequate. She was perhaps twenty, with black curls that tumbled past her shoulders and skin the color of polished bronze. Her gown was burnt orange silk, and it clung to her body in a way that left very little to the imagination. Full breasts pressed against the fabric, and the curve of her hips seemed designed to draw the eye and hold it there.
Jon looked away. He didn't know who she was. A Martell, probably. Or one of the Sand Snakes he'd heard whispers about, Oberyn's bastard daughters who were said to be as dangerous as their father.
It didn't matter. What mattered was Rhaenys, and the fact that she was here, alive, when she should have been dead fourteen years ago.
The first and second rounds of jousting ended. Loras Tyrell had advanced, as had Jaime Lannister. Oberyn Martell remained, and so did a handful of others whose names Jon hadn't bothered to remember. The heralds announced an hour's rest before the next round.
The crowd began to rise, stretching and talking and drifting toward the food stalls. Jon stayed in his seat. His ribs protested the idea of standing, and he had no desire to wade through the press of bodies.
Arya stood and announced she was going to find something to eat. Jeyne Poole followed her, and the two girls disappeared into the crowd with Lady padding silently behind them.
Jon sat alone. The stands emptied around him, leaving only a few scattered groups of lords and ladies who preferred shade and rest to food and gossip.
A shadow fell across him.
He looked up.
Jaime Lannister stood beside the bench, dressed in white armor that gleamed even in the shade of the stands. His golden hair was swept back, his green eyes looking bright like wildfire. He looked like something out of a song, the perfect image of a knight.
"Jon Snow," Jaime said quietly.
"Ser Jaime."
Jaime glanced around, confirming they were alone, then leaned closer. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
"The Queen wants to see you. In her tent. Now."
Jon was sure he was showing no emotions. "Why?"
"She didn't share her reasons with me." Jaime's expression gave nothing away. "But when the Queen summons you, you go."
"I'm injured," Jon said. "I can barely walk."
"Then you'll walk slowly." Jaime straightened. "She's waiting."
Jon pushed himself to his feet, biting down on the pain that shot through his ribs and shoulder. He reached for the crutches leaning against the bench.
Jaime's hand caught his wrist.
Jon grabbed the crutches and settled them under his arms.
Jaime stepped back. "Follow me."
They descended the stands together, Jon moving carefully on the crutches, each step a negotiation with pain. The crowd parted for the Kingslayer without question, and Jon followed in his wake like a shadow.
He didn't look back at the Martell seats. He didn't look at the royal box. He kept his eyes forward and his breathing steady.
The tourney grounds sprawled before them, a maze of pavilions and rope lines and clusters of spectators. Jaime led him through the chaos without speaking, his white cloak snapping behind him. They passed arming tents where squires worked on dented armor, food stalls where vendors shouted prices for roasted meat and honeyed wine, and groups of knights drinking and laughing while they waited for their turn in the lists.
The Queen's pavilion stood apart from the others, larger and draped in crimson silk. Gold lions adorned every surface, embroidered on the fabric, stamped into the poles, hanging from the ropes in gilded carvings. Two Lannister guards flanked the entrance, their hands resting on sword hilts.
Jaime stopped at the entrance and pulled the silk flap aside. "Go in."
Jon was a bit surprised...with himself, he had expected to feel afraid of facing her, she was the Queen after all, but he was not just a bastard anymore, he was no bastard at all. He was...someone else...he was the son of Lyanna Stark, a trueborn son. Jon remembered Lord Stark's words about his mother. She was a brave soul; some had called her half a horse, saying she was the best rider in the North.
I will be brave like her, Jon thought with a glint in his purple eyes. I have no reason to fear the Queen.
Jon pulled up the flap of the tent. The interior was dim after the brightness of the sun. Carpets covered the ground, thick and soft beneath his feet. Braziers burned in the corners, filling the air with the scent of perfumed oil. A table sat against one wall, laden with wine and fruit and bread that no one had touched.
Cersei sat in a high-backed chair at the center of the pavilion, a goblet of wine in her hand. She wore a gown of deep crimson that matched the tent's silk, cut low enough to display the pale curve of her breasts. Her golden hair fell loose past her shoulders. Her green eyes locked onto Jon the moment he entered.
She smiled.
"Jon Snow," she said, her voice warm and soft. "Sit down."
Jon glanced around. A second chair sat across from hers, positioned close enough that their knees would almost touch.
Behind him, Jaime's voice came through the tent flap. "Your Grace—"
"Wait outside, Ser Jaime," Cersei said without looking away from Jon. "I wish to speak with Lord Snow privately."
A pause. Then Jaime's footsteps retreated, and the tent flap fell closed.
They were alone.
Cersei's smile widened. "I said sit down, Jon. Or do I need to help you?"
"No, I don't need your help, Cersei." Jon said, not looking away from her eyes, he sat down, and placed the crutches against the chair.
Cersei took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving his face. She set the goblet on the small table beside her chair and leaned back, one hand resting on the armrest, the other smoothing a fold in her gown.
"You've been avoiding me," she said.
"I've been recovering."
"From the Mountain." Her smile thinned. "A terrible accident. Melees can be so unpredictable."
"What do you want from me?" Jon could not believe she attempted to make such a foolish lie.
The warmth bled out of her eyes, replaced by ice. She leaned forward slightly, and her voice dropped to a whisper that somehow felt louder than a shout.
"The only reason you're sitting here right now, and not freezing your balls off at the Wall, is because of me." Her green eyes bored into him. "I whispered in Robert's ear. I convinced him to bring you south. I gave you the chance to be something more than a motherless bastard rotting in the snow."
Jon held her gaze. "I know. And I'm grateful for it."
Cersei's lips curved into a smile.
"But that debt was paid," Jon continued, "when you sent the Mountain to kill me."
The smile vanished.
"I did no such thing."
"The Mountain is a mad dog," Jon said evenly. "Everyone knows it. He burns farms. He kills smallfolk. He takes what he wants and destroys what he can't have."
"Exactly." Cersei's voice sharpened. "A mad dog. Wild. Unpredictable."
"Even mad dogs need an owner to point them in the right direction." Jon leaned forward slightly, ignoring the pull in his ribs. "Otherwise, they bite anyone nearby. And I was not nearby during the melee. The Mountain carved through half the field to reach me. It takes an order to do that."
Cersei studied him for a long moment. Then she smiled, sweet as poisoned honey.
"What do you plan to do now, Jon?"
He said nothing.
"My father wants your head," Cersei continued. She lifted her goblet and took another sip, her eyes watching him over the rim. "For what you did to the Mountain. For taking one of his eyes. Gregor Clegane is one of my father's most valuable bannermen, and you've crippled him. My father doesn't forgive slights like that."
"I've heard the stories about your father."
"Have you?" Cersei set the goblet down. "Then you know he destroyed House Reyne when they rebelled. And House Tarbeck. Root and stem. Every man, woman, and child. He had their halls torn down, their lands seized, their names erased. That's the man who wants you dead, Jon. That's the man whose bannerman you maimed in front of thousands."
Jon nodded slowly. "Tywin Lannister has earned his fearsome reputation."
Cersei smiled.
"But during Robert's Rebellion," Jon continued, "Lord Eddard Stark fought and risked his life to win the war. He bled for it. He lost his father and his brother and his sister. He didn't wait until it was all said and done to come out of hiding and attack a defenseless city." Jon held her gaze. "It doesn't take a strategic genius to kill women and children. It takes a coward."
Cersei's face went white, then red. She leaned forward, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair.
"You dare—"
"Why am I here?" Jon interrupted. His voice didn't rise, but the steel in it cut through her anger. "If you want me dead, you should have tried a more subtle approach. A cup of poisoned wine. A knife in the dark. Not a public summons to your tent in the middle of a tourney."
Cersei stared at him. Her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair. The fury in her eyes banked to embers.
"I don't want you dead," she said quietly.
"Then what do you want?"
"What do you expect to do with your life?" Cersei tilted her head, studying him the way a cat studies a mouse. "Go back to Winterfell and be a nobody again? Train in the yard, eat at the bastard's table, watch your brothers inherit everything while you inherit nothing?" She paused. "Or take the black and freeze at the Wall, protecting the realm from wildlings and snow."
Jon said nothing.
"I can give you more than that." Cersei's voice softened, turned almost gentle. "I can make sure your life is not wasted protecting a wall of ice from savages. You could protect the future King and Queen. You could have a place at court. You could have land, a title, a wife of noble birth. You could have a life full of pleasure, Jon. All you have to do is say yes."
"I have no reason to trust you."
"Don't you?"
"You tried to have Lady killed." Jon's voice hardened. "My sister's direwolf. You wanted her dead because your son thought it was funny to cut down a butcher's boy and attack the daughter of an important house. You would have killed Lady if I hadn't told the truth."
Cersei's expression flickered. "Joffrey can be difficult."
"Difficult."
"He's young. He'll learn."
"Will he?" Jon leaned forward. "Or will he grow into a king who thinks it's funny to hurt people weaker than him? Who draws steel on children and calls it sport? Your son should pick up a history book once in a while; he will find out that it often doesn't end well for the likes of him...if he knows how to read that is."
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "You should be careful, Jon. I know things about you. Things that, if the King knew them, his love for Lord Stark wouldn't matter. You and your entire family would die. It doesn't matter where you hide."
Jon's chest tightened.
Cersei's smile returned. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Your eyes," she said. "They didn't come from Ashara Dayne."
Jon stared at her. His pulse hammered in his ears.
"You knew." His voice came out flat. "All this time. You knew."
Cersei looked surprised for just a moment. Then she laughed. It didn't sound pretty.
"I shouldn't be surprised that you know. Someone told you, didn't they? Lord Stark, perhaps?" She tilted her head. "I am surprised Robert hasn't put two and two together. But Robert is a drunk. I shouldn't expect too much from him."
Jon's hands clenched into fists on his thighs.
"If I tell the King the truth," Cersei continued, "Robert will go mad. He'll demand your head. And he won't let Lord Stark keep his, either. You know this. Robert hates House Targaryen more than he hates anything in this world. He'd kill you just for existing and your sisters...this time the children will be covered in bloody Baratheon cloaks."
Jon said nothing, but he was glaring at her, and he knew she was right.
"Even if you and your entire family were behind the safety of Winterfell's walls," Cersei added, "Robert would make war on the North to get to you. And House Stark cannot defend itself against the might of the Seven Kingdoms. You know that too."
The tent felt smaller. The air thicker.
"What do you want?" Jon asked again.
Cersei stood. She moved toward him, her gown whispering against the carpets. She stopped in front of his chair, close enough that he could smell the perfume in her hair, the wine on her breath.
She leaned down and cupped his face in her hands. Her palms were warm, soft. Her green eyes held his purple ones.
Then she kissed him.
Her lips were soft, insistent. She tasted like wine and something sweeter beneath it. Her fingers slid into his hair, tilting his head back, deepening the kiss.
Jon's body responded before his mind could catch up. Heat stirred low in his belly. His pulse quickened. His hands moved to her waist, feeling the curve of her body through the silk.
Cersei broke the kiss and pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing his.
"I want you in my bed," she whispered.