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The candlelight danced across the iridescent surface of the eggs, casting mesmerizing patterns on Arya's chamber walls. The black egg with its crimson swirls seemed to pulse with an inner fire, while its companion gleamed a deep purple shot through with silvery veins like frozen lightning. Jon's fingers traced their scaled surfaces, marveling at how the shells felt warm - almost alive - beneath his touch.
A persistent scratching at the door finally broke through his reverie. "Seven hells," he muttered, suddenly realizing how long he'd left Ghost waiting. When he opened the door, the direwolf fixed him with reproachful red eyes that clearly said, 'Really?'
"I'm sorry, boy," Jon said softly, running his fingers through Ghost's thick white fur. "I got... distracted."
Ghost padded silently into the room, his nose twitching as he caught the eggs' scent. The direwolf approached them cautiously, head tilted in curiosity. His behavior was strange - usually Ghost showed little interest in inanimate objects, but now he seemed almost transfixed.
"Do you know what they are?" Jon asked with a slight smile, not really expecting a response. To his surprise, Ghost let out a low sound - not quite a whine, not quite a growl - before settling down beside the eggs, his red eyes fixed upon them intently.
Jon sat back down, his mind racing. The eggs' heat seemed to call to him, like a hearth fire on a cold night. He'd always run warmer than his siblings - even during the harshest winters, he'd never needed as many furs as the others. More than once, he'd grabbed hot pottery from the kitchens without thinking, only to have the serving girls gasp at his apparent immunity to the heat.
"But Arya felt it too," he murmured, remembering his sister's wide-eyed wonder as she'd shown him her discovery. "She said they were warm to her touch as well." His fingers drummed thoughtfully against his thigh. "Why do they feel... alive?"
Ghost's ears perked up at that last word, and he gave a soft "woof" of agreement.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Jon asked his companion. The direwolf's red eyes met his, full of wisdom that sometimes made Jon wonder just how much Ghost truly understood.
Staring at the eggs wouldn't yield any answers, though. Jon needed information, and he knew just where to start looking. Maester Luwin had always shown him particular kindness, treating the bastard of Winterfell with the same patient attention he gave to Robb or any of the trueborn Stark children.
"Watch them for me?" Jon asked Ghost as he stood. The direwolf settled more firmly in place, clearly taking his guard duty seriously.
The walk to the Maester's turret gave Jon time to plan his approach. He couldn't simply burst in asking about dragon eggs - that would raise far too many questions. No, he'd need to be clever about this.
He found Maester Luwin at his desk, surrounded by scrolls and ravens' feathers. The old man looked up with a warm smile. "Ah, Jon. What brings you to my tower today?"
Jon affected a casual air as he browsed the nearby shelves. "I was reading about the Targaryen conquest," he said carefully. "About Aegon and his sisters, and their dragons. I was wondering..."
"Yes?" Luwin prompted, setting aside his quill.
"Well, what happened to all the dragons? I know the last ones were small and sickly, but surely there must have been eggs left? The books don't say much about what became of them."
The Maester's eyes lit up with scholarly enthusiasm. "Ah, an excellent question! The last known dragon eggs were indeed quite valuable. Some say the Targaryens kept them long after their dragons died out, hoping they might hatch someday. There were rumors of eggs being hidden throughout the realm during Robert's Rebellion, though none were ever found."
Jon's heart quickened. "Hidden? Why would they hide them?"
"Dragon eggs were more than just symbols of power," Luwin explained, reaching for a heavy tome. "They were said to contain magic - old magic, from the days of Valyria. Some believed they could only be hatched by those with the right bloodline, under the right circumstances."
"What circumstances?" Jon asked, trying not to sound too eager.
Luwin chuckled. "The accounts vary wildly. Some speak of blood sacrifices, others of fire rituals. But these are likely just tales, Jon. Real dragon eggs, if any still exist, would be nothing more than beautiful stone by now, very valuable, but still just stone. The magic - if it ever existed - would have died with the last dragons."
Jon thought of the warm pulse beneath his fingers and wasn't so sure. "But how would you know if an egg was... I mean, how could you tell if it was real? If you found one?"
The Maester gave him a curious look. "They were said to be warm to the touch, even after centuries. The shells would be made of what appeared to be stone, but far stronger - impossible to break by normal means. The colors would be vibrant, with patterns that seemed to shift in the light." He paused. "Why such specific interest, Jon?"
Jon shrugged, forcing himself to meet the Maester's eyes naturally. "Just curious. The stories always mentioned dragon eggs as treasures, but never really described them properly. I wanted to know what made them so special."
"Well, you've always been one of my most inquisitive students," Luwin said warmly. "Here - let me show you some illustrations." He began pulling out more books, and Jon settled in to learn everything he could.
Hours later, he returned to his chamber with his mind swimming with information. Ghost hadn't moved from his post, though his tail thumped briefly in greeting.
Jon sat beside his direwolf, staring at the eggs with new understanding. Everything the Maester had described matched perfectly - the warmth, the patterns, the unnatural strength of the shells. These weren't just preserved relics; somehow, against all logic, they were still alive.
"What does all this mean?"
The direwolf's red eyes held no answers, but as Jon's fingers brushed against the eggs once more, he felt their warmth surge in response.
For now, though, he carefully wrapped the eggs in thick velvet and hid them in a chest beneath his bed. With Ghost standing guard, they would be safe until he could learn more.
Later
Jon's chest heaved with exertion as he lowered his practice sword, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips. Theon and Robb lay sprawled in the mud of the training yard, both looking thoroughly defeated.
"It's these Northern boots," Theon grumbled, struggling to his feet. "They're too heavy for proper footwork. And the sun was in my eyes-"
"The sun's behind the clouds, Greyjoy," Jon cut in, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should blame the air next? Or maybe it was Ghost's fearsome presence that made you trip over your own feet?" His direwolf's red eyes gleamed as if sharing in the jest.
"I'd have had you if-" Theon started again.
"If what? If you actually knew which end of the sword to hold?" Jon's unexpected sharp wit drew laughs from the gathered crowd. "I suppose that's hard to learn when you spend more time polishing your 'sword' in the brothel than in the training yard."
Theon's mouth gaped like a fish out of water, for once completely speechless.
"Who knew the bastard could have such a sharp tongue?"
Jon spun around to find Tyrion Lannister approaching, his mismatched eyes studying Jon with keen interest. For a moment, Jon found himself startled by the Imp's appearance - the twisted limbs, the oversized head - but then he met those intelligent eyes.
"Lord Tyrion," Jon inclined his head respectfully. Ghost padded closer, head tilted curiously as he examined the small man. Tyrion eyed the direwolf warily.
"Your wolf seems unsure whether I'm a person or a snack," Tyrion observed dryly.
"Ghost, to me," Jon commanded softly, and the white wolf obediently sat beside him. "He's just curious. He's never seen anyone quite like you before."
"Few have," Tyrion agreed with a self-deprecating smile before turning to Robb and Theon. "This bastard here fought my brother to a standstill. What made you two think you stood a chance?"
Robb's face flushed red as autumn leaves. "I am the heir to Winterfell-"
"And I'm the heir to the Iron Islands!" Theon cut in hotly.
"And I'm the Lord of Casterly Rock - oh wait, no I'm not," Tyrion replied with mock surprise. "Titles mean precious little in the training yard, boys. Skill speaks louder than names there."
Jon stepped forward before tempers could flare further. "My lord, did you come here solely to stir trouble? Or was there another purpose to your visit?"
Tyrion's laugh was surprisingly warm. "Sharp tongue indeed! No, I came to meet the young man everyone's comparing to Ser Arthur Dayne."
"It's ridiculous," Jon said firmly, though pleasure at the comparison warmed his chest. "Ser Arthur was the Sword of the Morning, the greatest knight who ever lived. I'm just..." he trailed off, not wanting to say 'a bastard.'
"Just a naturally gifted swordsman who fights with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a master?" Tyrion supplied. "My brother says the same thing whenever people compare him to great knights of old. False modesty doesn't become either of you."
Jon shifted uncomfortably under the dwarf's knowing gaze. "Your brother is the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms."
"And yet you matched him," Tyrion pointed out. "Tell me, Jon Snow, what do you plan to do with such talent? Surely not waste it at the Wall?"
"Actually," Jon said, wiping sweat from his brow, "I'll be riding South with my father when the king's party leaves."
"Ah, a wise choice," Tyrion's mismatched eyes twinkled. "My brother will be pleased to have a worthy sparring partner. He gets terribly bored beating the same knights day after day."
"What of Ser Barristan?" Jon asked, unable to hide his eagerness at the prospect of meeting the legendary knight. "Surely he provides good competition?"
Tyrion's mouth twisted wryly. "The Bold One isn't exactly... fond of Jaime. Something about kingslaying being dishonorable. He's civil enough, but they rarely cross swords except when duty demands it."
Jon shifted his practice sword to his other hand, curiosity getting the better of him. "What's King's Landing like, my lord?"
"Oh, it's a magnificent sight," Tyrion replied with theatrical flourish. "The Red Keep rising above Aegon's Hill, the Great Sept of Baelor gleaming in the sun. And when the wind blows from the right direction, the smell is... almost tolerable."
"And when it blows from the wrong direction?"
"Then you'll have the pleasure of tasting shit in your wine," Tyrion said cheerfully. "But you get used to it. Eventually. Maybe."
Robb approached them, having finally regained his dignity. "Next time, brother," he said with a competitive grin. "I'll be ready for that trick with the blade." Behind him, Theon stormed off toward the castle, still nursing his wounded pride.
"I thought you were bound for the Wall," Tyrion observed shrewdly. "The servants were all aflutter about the bastard of Winterfell taking the black. What changed your mind?"
Jon's thoughts flashed to Cersei's whispered promises, her heated kisses, the way she'd painted such a vivid picture of his potential future in King's Landing. But he couldn't exactly share that. "Decided I'd rather not freeze my balls off after all," he said with a casual shrug.
Tyrion's eyes narrowed slightly, clearly not entirely convinced, but he let it pass. "Well, the journey there would have been frightfully dull anyway."
"You're not thinking of joining the Watch yourself, are you?" Jon asked, perplexed.
The dwarf threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Gods, no! But I do want to see this Wall of yours. Stand at the top of the world and piss off the edge of it." He grinned wickedly. "A man has to have dreams, after all, even small ones."
Ghost chose that moment to pad closer, examining Tyrion with those unsettling red eyes. The dwarf held his ground admirably, though Jon noticed his hand tighten slightly on his wine skin.
"Your wolf seems to have better manners than most of the lords I know," Tyrion observed. "Though that's not saying much."
"He knows who his friends are," Jon replied with a slight smile. "And who might have interesting stories to share."
"Ahh, well, if he wants to hear stories, then I got plenty of them." Jon smiled. Lord Tyrion was much different than Cersei had described him.
Later
The evening sun cast long shadows through Arya's chamber windows as she and Jon sat cross-legged on her bed, the two dragon eggs nestled between them in a nest of furs.
"What if we just... you know, burn something?" Arya suggested, poking the black egg gently. "Maybe they need fire to wake up."
Jon shook his head, his expression grim. "That's been tried before, little sister. Ever heard of Summerhall?"
"The old palace that burned?"
"Aye. King Aegon V tried to hatch dragon eggs there. Instead of dragons, he got a castle full of ghosts and a family funeral pyre." Jon's fingers traced the warm surface of the purple egg. "Fire alone isn't the answer."
Arya's face lit up with another idea. "What about a sacrifice? We could use Joffrey! No one would miss him anyway."
"Seven hells, Arya!" Jon couldn't help but laugh despite himself. "Even if blood sacrifice worked - which I doubt - have you forgotten who's currently sleeping under our roof? King Robert isn't exactly fond of dragons. He killed the last one at the Trident."
"Rhaegar wasn't really a dragon," Arya pointed out. "He just called himself one."
Something twisted in Jon's chest at those words, though he couldn't say why. "Still. The king wouldn't be pleased to see living dragons in Winterfell."
Arya flopped back on her bed with an exaggerated groan. "Then what are we supposed to do with them? Just keep them as very expensive paperweights?"
"According to Maester Luwin, even one dragon egg could buy a castle," Jon mused. "The Targaryens used to give them as wedding gifts to their allies."
Arya sat up so fast she nearly knocked the eggs over. "We are NOT selling them! They're ours. I found them on Aunt Lyanna's tomb!"
"Wait! You found them behind her tomb?" Jon looked perplexed after hearing this.
"Yes, I was...playing around with Nymeria when she ran into the crypts and I found them when I noticed something odd behind her tomb. Why are you asking?" Arya asked. She could see from his face that Jon was in deep thought.
Jon's brow furrowed. "That... doesn't make sense. Why would there be dragon eggs hidden behind her tomb? She was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen. He..." Jon trailed off, uncomfortable with speaking of rape in front of his little sister.
"Maybe Father doesn't know they're there?" Arya suggested.
Jon scoffed. "Father knows everything that happens in Winterfell, especially in the crypts. The Lords of Winterfell have guarded those tombs for thousands of years. Hiding something there without his knowledge would be treason."
"But then..." Arya's eyes widened. "If Father knows about them, why did he leave them there? Why didn't he tell anyone?"
"And why behind Aunt Lyanna's tomb specifically?" Jon added softly. "Of all the places in Winterfell..."
They sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, the eggs pulsing warmly between them like twin hearts.
Jon wondered why behind her tomb of all places. It didn't make any sense. Why would his father put those dragon eggs behind her tomb? He knew enough about the crypts to know that her tomb was built after her body was brought to Winterfell. That means his father was already in Winterfell when her statue was built, so he found it unlikely that someone could put those eggs there without his father ever noticing or anyone from the castle. So, that left only his father, but why?
Why would his father place those eggs there? And why did he have them in the first place? House Targaryen had never married to House Stark in the history of the last 300 years in Westeros, so it was impossible that a Targaryen Prince or Princess had gifted them to House Stark because of a marriage.
Jon didn't have any answers to these questions, and as he looked at the dragon eggs, he could see his own purple eyes looking back at him before he looked back at Arya.
"We need to be very careful with this, Arya," he said finally. "These eggs... if anyone finds out about them..."
"I know," she nodded solemnly. "But we can't just leave them here when you go South."
"No," Jon agreed. "They'll have to come with me. But we need to figure out how to transport them safely." He picked up the black egg, its surface almost burning against his palm.
Jon wondered if there was anything he was missing here. He knew the only people who could have handed those dragon eggs were those from House Targaryen, but the Mad King was too busy being mad and burning people. Prince Viserys was only four at the time, leaving only Prince Rhaegar.
Jon wondered if there was something the books were not telling him about Prince Rhaegar, but if he could not trust the books, who could he? He knew he could not ask his father for answers. His father would not take it kindly to be asked about the man who raped his sister. That left no one...Wait, Jon thought with a realization. There was someone else who could have known Prince Rhaegar before his death and maybe be able to answer his questions.
Ser Jaime Lannister. Jon knew he might be able to answer the questions, as he had been the Kingsguard for two years before Prince Rhaegar was defeated in the Trident. Jon looked at Arya and continued.
"We need to make sure these stay hidden. The last thing we need is Theon or one of the servants stumbling across them."
"Ghost can guard them," Arya suggested. "No one would dare go through your things with him around."
"Good thinking." Jon stood, tucking the wrapped bundle carefully under his arm. "And Arya? Not a word of this to anyone. Not even Father. Not until we know more."
She nodded, her face serious beyond her years. "I promise. But Jon?"
"Yes?"
"If they do hatch... I get to ride one."
Despite the situation, Jon couldn't help but laugh. "Tell you what - if we somehow manage to hatch actual living dragons, you can have first pick."
One Week Later
The past week had been an exercise in frustration for Jon. Every time he saw Ser Jaime Lannister, the questions burned on his tongue, but caution stayed his voice. How exactly does one casually ask the Kingslayer about Prince Rhaegar? The risks were too great - one wrong word to Robert Baratheon about the bastard of Winterfell asking suspicious questions about Rhaegar Targaryen, and Jon might find himself shorter by a head.
The morning of their departure dawned cold and grey, typical of the North, even in autumn. The courtyard bustled with activity as servants loaded wagons and prepared horses. Jon stood with Robb near the stables, both trying to delay their inevitable farewell.
"You know what you need?" Robb said, trying to keep his tone light despite the sadness in his eyes. "A proper southron knight's sigil. Perhaps a pretty flower for your shield?"
Jon chuckled, grateful for his brother's attempt at humor. "A flower? I think you're confused about which of us is the heir to Winterfell. You're the one who'll need to look pretty for all those highborn ladies your mother keeps talking about."
"Gods, don't remind me," Robb groaned. "Every time Mother mentions eligible daughters, I suddenly develop an urgent need to be somewhere else." His expression grew more serious. "You'll write, won't you?"
"Of course," Jon promised. "Someone needs to keep you informed about all the foolish southron knights I'll be defeating."
"Careful," Robb warned with a grin. "I hear they don't take kindly to northern bastards showing them up."
"Then they'd better get used to disappointment."
They embraced tightly, neither wanting to be the first to let go. "Take care of yourself, brother," Robb whispered.
"And you. Try not to burn down Winterfell while Father's away."
With a final clasp of arms, Jon turned toward the Great Keep. He had one more goodbye to make, and it would be the hardest of all.
Bran's chamber was quiet save for the crackling hearth and Lady Catelyn's soft prayers. She sat beside the bed as she had for days, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. When Jon entered, those eyes fixed on him with such venom that he nearly stepped back.
The hatred there was familiar - he'd seen it all his life - but there was something new in it now, something sharper. Was it because he was leaving for King's Landing instead of the Wall? Or was it simply that Bran's fall had stripped away what little tolerance she'd maintained all these years?
Jon approached the bed slowly, like a man nearing a wounded direwolf. Bran lay still and pale, looking smaller than his eight years. The furs were drawn up to his chest, hiding the twisted wreck of his legs.
"I've come to say goodbye, Bran," Jon said softly.
"You've said it. Now get out." Lady Catelyn's voice could have frozen the summer sea.
Jon pressed on, speaking to his unconscious brother. "I know you'll wake up. You're too stubborn not to. And when you do..." he swallowed hard. "When you do, I'll show you King's Landing. All the places you wanted to see."
"How dare you make him promises you won't keep?" Catelyn's voice shook with fury. "Haven't you brought enough shame to this family? Or did you think parading yourself at court would somehow make you less of a stain on my husband's honor?"
Jon flinched as if struck. "My lady, I only meant-"
"Get out!" She stood suddenly, tears streaming down her face. "Get out! You should never have been here! Any of it! All of it! If he dies, it should have been you!"
The words felt like a slap in the face, but Jon forced himself to bow stiffly. "Goodbye, Bran," he whispered, then turned and fled the room.
He made it halfway down the corridor before his legs gave out, and he sagged against the cold stone wall. Ghost appeared silently beside him, pressing close in comfort. Jon buried his fingers in the direwolf's white fur, trying to steady his breathing.
"Jon?" Arya's voice was small and worried. She must have heard the shouting. "Are you alright?"
He quickly wiped his eyes and forced a smile. "Of course. Just saying my goodbyes."
Arya wasn't fooled. She wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him fiercely. "She's wrong. About everything. You're my brother, and you belong with us."
Jon hugged her back, grateful for her unwavering loyalty. "Thank you, little sister." He pulled back, tapping her nose playfully. "Now, shouldn't you be getting ready? The king's party won't wait forever."
"Let them wait," she grumbled, but started walking with him toward the courtyard. "Jon? You still have the... you know?" She glanced meaningfully at his saddlebags.
"Safe and sound," he assured her quietly. The dragon eggs were carefully wrapped and hidden among his belongings, their warmth a constant reminder of the mysteries yet to be solved.
As they emerged into the morning air, Jon saw the Lannisters mounting up - Cersei atop her elegant palfrey, Jaime in his golden armor, Tyrion on his specially-made saddle. Soon, they would all be heading south, except for Tyrion, who was heading North with Uncle Benjen.
Lady Catelyn's words still echoed in his mind, but Jon straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. Let her hate him. He had dragons' eggs in his saddlebags and a queen in his bed.
The bastard of Winterfell was riding south, but Jon Snow was beginning to wonder if that was truly all he was.
Two Weeks Later
Jon Snow's eyes widened as Queen Cersei sank down onto his throbbing manhood. Her tight, wet cunt enveloped him completely, squeezing his thick 9-inch shaft. "Gods, you feel incredible," he groaned, gripping her hips tightly.
Cersei threw her head back, golden hair cascading down her back as she began to ride him with abandon. "Mmm, yes...fuck me, bastard," she moaned wantonly. Her large, perfect breasts bounced enticingly with each roll of her hips.
Jon thrust up to meet her movements, driving himself deeper inside her slick heat. The lewd sounds of flesh slapping against flesh filled the place. Cersei's pussy clenched around him rhythmically as she neared her peak.
"That's it...take my royal cunt," she purred, green eyes blazing with lust as she gazed down at him. For a moment, Jon thought he saw a flash of something else in her expression - longing, perhaps? - but it was gone in an instant.
Wanting to assert more control, Jon suddenly flipped them over so Cersei was on her back. Before she could protest, he slammed back into her dripping cunt, earning a cry of pleasure.
"Fuck! Yes, just like that," Cersei gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him even deeper.
Jon set a brutal pace, pounding into her with all his strength. He captured her lips in a searing kiss, muffling her increasingly loud moans. The headboard slammed against the wall with each powerful thrust.
Cersei's nails raked down Jon's back, leaving angry red welts in their wake. Her inner walls fluttered and clenched around his cock as her climax approached.
"I'm going to cum," Jon grunted against her lips, feeling his own release building.
"Inside me," Cersei commanded breathlessly. "Fill me with your seed."
With a final deep thrust, Jon exploded inside her. Thick ropes of cum painted her inner walls as Cersei's own orgasm crashed over her. She cried out in ecstasy, her entire body shuddering with pleasure.
Jon collapsed on top of her, both of them panting heavily. After a moment, he carefully withdrew his softening cock and rolled to the side.
Cersei's eyes fluttered open, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "Not bad for a bastard," she purred. "But don't forget - I am still your Queen."
Jon furrowed his brow, unsure why she felt the need to remind him of her status after what they'd just shared. But he held his tongue, he knew when to speak with her. He was trying to learn.
Eventually, Cersei stretched languidly and turned to face him. "Ready for another round?" she asked with a predatory grin.
Jon's cock twitched in response.
This time, their coupling was slower, more sensual. Jon took his time exploring every inch of Cersei's exquisite body with his hands and mouth. He lavished attention on her full breasts, sucking and nibbling at her sensitive nipples until she was writhing beneath him.
Cersei gave as good as she got, leaving a trail of love bites along Jon's neck and chest. Her skilled hands stroked his length, bringing him to full hardness once more.
When Jon finally entered her again, they both groaned in unison. He set a steady rhythm, savoring the feeling of her wet heat engulfing him. Cersei met him thrust for thrust, her hips rising to take him deeper.
"Gods, you feel amazing," Jon breathed, nuzzling her neck.
Cersei hummed in agreement, running her fingers through his dark curls. "You're not so bad yourself," she murmured.
As their pleasure built, Jon increased his pace. He angled his hips to hit that spot deep inside that made Cersei see stars. Her moans grew louder, echoing off the stone walls.
"Yes, right there! Don't stop," she cried out, digging her heels into his lower back.
Jon gritted his teeth, fighting to hold back his release until Cersei found her pleasure. He reached between them to rub tight circles around her swollen clit.
That was all it took to send Cersei over the edge. She came with a keening wail, her pussy clamping down on Jon's cock like a vice. The added friction triggered his own orgasm, and he spilled himself inside her once more with a guttural groan.
They lay tangled together afterwards, basking in the afterglow. Jon absently traced patterns on Cersei's smooth skin, marveling at how soft it was.
After a while, Cersei propped herself up on one elbow and regarded him with an appraising look. "You were wonderful," she purred, trailing a finger down his chest.
Jon flushed at the praise. "Thank you, Your Grace," he mumbled, suddenly feeling awkward.
Cersei chuckled. "No need to be so formal now, Jon. We're well past that, I'd say."
Jon nodded, gathering his courage. He knew this was a good chance to gain valuable information. "May I ask you something?" he ventured cautiously.
Cersei raised an eyebrow. "You may ask. I may not answer."
Jon took a deep breath. "I was wondering about the Small Council. Who should I be wary of?"
Cersei's eyes narrowed slightly, but her expression remained neutral. "Clever boy," she murmured. "Very well, I'll indulge your curiosity. But remember - Lannisters are above everyone else. We always come first."
Jon nodded, filing that information away.
"Be careful around Varys," Cersei continued, her tone turning contemptuous. "That simpering eunuch has spies everywhere. Trust nothing he says."
She paused, a look of disgust crossing her face. "And then there's Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish. A loathsome, ambitious little worm who thinks he's cleverer than everyone else. He's dangerous in his own way."
Jon listened intently, committing every word to memory.
Cersei's lip curled as she went on. "Grand Maester Pycelle is a doddering old fool, but he's loyal to House Lannister. He'll do as he's told."
She fell silent for a moment, a distant look in her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice dripped with disdain. "And then there's my dear brother-in-law, Stannis Baratheon. The man's practically a living statue - no sense of humor, no joy. Just duty and grinding teeth."
Jon absorbed all this information, grateful for the insight into the complex world of King's Landing politics.
Tomorrow
The southern air was different - sweeter, warmer, filled with scents Jon had never known existed in the North. Two weeks on the Kingsroad had shown him more of the realm than he'd seen in all his previous years combined. Each day brought new sights: rolling hills covered in wildflowers, forests that weren't thick with snow, streams that didn't carry ice in their currents.
"Keep your guard up, Mycah!" Jon called out, watching as Arya and the butcher's boy circled each other with wooden swords. They were near the Trident, far enough from the main camp to avoid drawing attention. "Arya, stop telegraphing your moves. You're letting him see what you're planning."
"I am not!" she protested, right before Mycah caught her with a light tap on the ribs.
Jon chuckled. "You were saying?"
The past fortnight had been... interesting. Every night, soldiers from the king's party would challenge him, eager to test themselves against the warrior who'd matched the Kingslayer. Every night, they'd end up in the dirt, their pride more wounded than their bodies. Jon had developed quite a reputation - "the Wolf Knight," some called him, though he wasn't actually a knight.
"Your footwork's improving," he told Mycah, who beamed at the praise. The boy was raw but eager to learn, and he had good instincts. "Remember what I said about keeping your weight balanced?"
"Yes, m'lord," Mycah nodded enthusiastically.
"I'm no lord," Jon corrected automatically, though the words felt different now. Everything felt different since leaving Winterfell.
Especially Ser Jaime's behavior. The Kingslayer had been... odd. Jon would catch him staring sometimes, those green eyes fixed on Jon's face. It was always his eyes that Jaime seemed most interested in - the unusual purple that had started to draw more and more attention.
Last night, after yet another sparring match that ended in a draw, Jaime had muttered something that sounded like "just like him" before walking away. When Jon had asked Cersei about it later, as they lay tangled in her sheets...
"My brother is a fool who sees ghosts where there are none," she'd said dismissively, but her fingers had tightened possessively on his arm. "Pay him no mind."
But Jon couldn't help paying mind. Not when he could feel the weight of secrets pressing in from all sides. His father still avoided any mention of his mother, changing the subject whenever Jon tried to bring it up. Cersei clearly knew something - he could see it in the calculating way she watched him sometimes, like a player positioning pieces on a cyvasse board.
And then there were the dragon eggs, carefully wrapped and hidden in his belongings. They seemed to grow warmer with each league they traveled south.
"Jon!" Arya's shout snapped him from his reverie. "Watch this move!"
She executed a perfect water dancer's spin, catching Mycah off guard and tapping his shoulder with her wooden sword.
"Well done!" Jon applauded. "Though remember what I said about showing off - in a real fight, fancy moves can get you killed."
"Says the man who did that spinning leap thing against Ser Meryn," Arya retorted with a grin.
"That was different. I knew he couldn't counter it because his armor restricts his movement." Jon demonstrated the proper stance. "Now, try it again, but this time-"
A commotion from the nearby trees interrupted him. Ghost, who had been lounging in the shade, suddenly stood alert, his red eyes fixed on something Jon couldn't see.
"What is it, boy?" Jon asked, but then he heard it too - the sound of approaching horses.
"Nymeria!" Arya called to her own direwolf, who had been splashing in the shallows of the river.
Both wolves came to their masters' sides as Prince Joffrey emerged from the trees, leading Sansa by the hand. The prince's sworn shield, Sandor Clegane, followed close behind.
"Well, well," Joffrey's voice dripped with contempt. "What do we have here? The bastard teaching peasants to play at knights?"
Jon stepped forward, positioning himself between the prince and the children. "We're just practicing, my prince. No harm in it."
"No harm?" Joffrey's hand went to the lion's head pommel of his sword - his real sword, Jon noted with concern. "A butcher's boy presuming to raise arms in the presence of his betters? That seems like harm to me."
"Joff, please," Sansa tugged at his arm. "They're just playing..."
"Playing?" Joffrey yanked his arm free. "Then let's play." He drew his sword, the steel singing in the afternoon air. "You there, butcher's boy. Let's see how well the bastard has taught you."
Mycah went pale. "M-my prince, I..."
"Draw your sword," Joffrey commanded, advancing. "Oh wait, you don't have a real one, do you? Just a stick, like the peasant you are."
"That's enough," Jon's voice was quiet but firm. Ghost's hackles rose, matching his master's tension.
"You dare give orders to your prince?" Joffrey's face flushed red. "Dog, teach the bastard some manners."
The Hound stepped forward, hand on his sword hilt, but Jon didn't back down. "We both know how that ended last time, Clegane."
"Last time was practice," the Hound growled. "This time won't be."
"As was for me, Clegane." Jon challenged with no fear in his eyes, and he could tell Clegane was concerned.
"Stop it, all of you!" Sansa cried, but Joffrey cut Mycah's cheek, it was very deep.
What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Arya, quick as a cat, darted forward and struck Joffrey's sword arm with her wooden blade. The prince howled in pain and rage, turning his steel toward her instead. Jon moved to intervene, but Nymeria was faster. The direwolf launched herself at Joffrey, clamping her jaws around his sword arm.
The prince's scream echoed across the river. The Hound drew his sword, but Ghost was there, silent and deadly, forcing him to divide his attention. Jon used the moment to grab the sword from Joffrey's hand and throw it away into a lake.
"Nymeria, to me!" Arya called, and her wolf released Joffrey, who collapsed clutching his bleeding arm.
"You'll die for this!" he shrieked. "I'll have all your heads! The wolves too!"
"Arya, run," Jon commanded, keeping himself between the Hound and his sister. "Now!"
She hesitated for just a moment before grabbing Mycah's hand and fleeing into the woods, both direwolves following close behind.
"You'll pay for this, bastard," Joffrey spat through his tears. "When my father hears-"
"When your father hears what?" Jon cut him off coldly. "That you threatened an unarmed boy with live steel? That you swung a sword at my sister?"
"He attacked me! They all attacked me!"
But Jon knew it wouldn't matter. The prince's word against a bastard's, a butcher's boy's, and a little girl's? There would be consequences for this, and they wouldn't fall on Joffrey's golden head.
As if confirming his thoughts, he could already hear more horses approaching - drawn by the prince's screams, no doubt.
Jon knew how this would end.
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