Jon Snow still wasn't accustomed to being called Ser.
For most of his life, he had been nothing more than a bastard—a boy known simply as Jon Snow of Winterfell. Now people addressed him as Ser Jon, and sometimes even with a certain respect that made him feel strangely uncomfortable.
The title still felt foreign to him.
Even the clothing he wore felt unfamiliar.
The finely woven silk garments favored by southern nobles clung to his body, making him feel restricted and uneasy. The fabric was far too delicate compared to the rough wool and leather he had worn all his life in the North.
Jon shifted slightly in the saddle of his warhorse.
At his waist hung Pale Justice, the sword that had accompanied him through several battles. Though it had been damaged during the fighting, a blacksmith in King's Landing had carefully repaired it.
The blade now rested securely in its scabbard.
Jon reached down and pressed his hand against the hilt, adjusting the weapon slightly before smoothing the neck of the horse beneath him.
Behind his saddle hung a wooden chest.
The box was painted black and about the size of a man's embrace. It dangled heavily from the saddle straps, swaying gently as the horse moved.
Whatever lay inside it was clearly not light.
"Ser Jon," a voice called beside him.
"Have you thought about your family surname yet?"
The speaker was Bronn, who rode his horse lazily at Jon's side.
Since leaving Summerhall, the journey along the Boneway had been long and uneventful. The road cut through dry hills and barren land, and the endless scenery had grown dull after several days of travel.
Perhaps because of the boredom, Bronn had become unusually talkative.
The sellsword leaned crookedly in his saddle as he spoke.
Jon glanced toward him.
It had only been a few days since they had left King's Landing.
After capturing the city alongside Karl Stone, they had remained there for merely three days before Karl ordered Jon to depart.
Karl had assigned fifty warriors to escort Jon on this journey.
They were men from the High Mountain clans, fierce fighters who had once lived among the rugged peaks of the Bright Moon Mountains before following Karl south.
Several other individuals traveled with them as well.
A scholar.
Two Lannister soldiers.
And two members of the City Watch, the Gold Cloaks.
Their presence served as witnesses to the events that would soon unfold.
Karl had little concern that the tribal warriors might disobey Jon.
After fighting alongside Karl and witnessing his overwhelming strength in several battles, the mountain warriors had become fiercely loyal.
They had once been wildlings who lived by strength alone.
Now they worshiped strength even more.
Karl's victories had filled them with near-religious admiration.
To carry out Karl's orders had become an honor in their eyes.
Still, the mountain clans were unpredictable by nature.
So Karl had sent Bronn along as well.
The sellsword would ensure that nothing went wrong.
When Bronn asked his question again, Jon shifted slightly in his saddle.
He adjusted the collar of his silk tunic, feeling sweat trickle down his back.
The southern heat was unbearable.
The silk clung to his body, soaked with sweat under the blazing sun.
Ever since they passed Riverrun, the air had grown warmer with every mile.
Now they had reached the lands near Dorne, where the heat felt suffocating.
Jon had never experienced such a climate before.
Just as he had not yet grown used to becoming a knight.
"I haven't thought about it yet," Jon replied.
"Perhaps after I see my father, I'll seriously consider it."
Becoming a knight—or even a lord—had changed everything.
As a bastard, Jon had never possessed the right to establish his own noble house.
Now he did.
He could abandon the surname Snow and create a new family name.
He could design his own sigil.
He could even create a house motto that would carry his bloodline into the future.
Just as House Stark bore the famous words:
Winter Is Coming.
But unlike Karl Stone, who seemed perfectly comfortable with power and status, Jon still felt uncertain.
He was only fourteen years old.
Perhaps fifteen soon.
Everything had changed too quickly.
More than anything else, Jon wanted to see his father.
Eddard Stark.
Before the war began, Ned had promised him something.
He said that when Jon became a knight…
He would finally reveal the truth about Jon's mother.
The thought lingered in Jon's mind.
His gaze drifted toward the distant horizon as his thoughts wandered.
Some people believed his mother had been Ashara Dayne, the sister of the legendary knight Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
Lady Catelyn Stark had once confronted Ned about this rumor.
Jon remembered hearing the story.
Catelyn had asked Ned directly whether Ashara Dayne was Jon's mother.
Ned had refused to answer.
His voice had been colder than winter itself.
"Never ask me about Jon's parentage," he said.
"He is my blood. That is all you need to know."
Then he asked her where she had heard the name Ashara Dayne.
Catelyn told him the truth.
After that day, the rumors vanished.
No one in Winterfell ever spoke Ashara Dayne's name again.
Jon knew the reason.
After that incident, he never dared to ask his father about his mother again.
Now, however, things had changed.
House Dayne was rumored to be marching alongside the Martell forces.
Jon might soon encounter them.
The thought filled him with unease.
His hand instinctively touched the hilt of his sword again.
Bronn suddenly snorted beside him.
"How boring."
"If I were you," the sellsword continued, "I'd pick a new surname immediately."
He grinned.
"Then I'd have everyone call me by that name, adding 'Ser' or 'Lord' in front of it."
Jon glanced at him and shrugged.
Bronn was not like other sellswords.
Most mercenaries lived day by day.
They drank, gambled, and slept with whatever prostitute they could afford.
They rarely cared about tomorrow.
But Bronn was different.
He had ambition.
He wanted to climb the ladder of society.
Karl Stone had once told Jon exactly that.
Bronn despised sleeping in dirty stables.
He hated waking up to the smell of horses and sweat.
And he certainly didn't want to spend the rest of his life wandering from battlefield to battlefield.
Jon remembered a joke Karl had made before they left King's Landing.
Karl told Bronn that if he worked hard enough, he might introduce him to a noblewoman someday.
Perhaps even one who owned a castle.
That single sentence had filled Bronn with incredible enthusiasm.
"If I ever gain land of my own," Jon said slowly, "then I'll think about such things."
Bronn tilted his head thoughtfully.
"That actually makes sense."
If Jon remained a landless knight, there would be little point in worrying about family inheritance.
But Bronn's eyes suddenly sparkled again.
"Isn't that easy for you?"
He smiled mockingly.
"Your father is the King's Hand."
"And the man who knighted you is the King's son."
Bronn leaned closer.
"Even a blind beggar on Silk Street knows that Karl Stone will probably become a prince soon."
He chuckled.
"So the real question isn't whether you'll get land."
"It's where you'll build your castle."
"The North, perhaps?"
Bronn gestured vaguely toward the distant north.
"Your father would probably be happy to carve out a huge chunk of land for you."
"That frozen wasteland has room for plenty of castles."
Jon remained silent for a moment.
Then he smiled faintly.
"If that happens…"
"Perhaps I'll become Robb's right-hand man."
"Father always believed that would be my path."
His quiet laughter disappeared beneath the thunder of hooves.
Ahead of them, the fortress of Blackhaven finally came into view.
The stronghold of House Dondarrion stood near the border of Dorne, guarding the northern entrance to the Boneway.
It was not a grand castle compared to the great fortresses of Westeros.
But its black basalt walls and deep dry moat made it a formidable defensive position.
The Stormlands army had gathered there.
Their purpose was clear.
To block the Dornish forces marching north.
And waiting within the castle was Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End.
It was also said that Ser Loras Tyrell, the famous Knight of Flowers, had joined him there.
Soon after Jon's group approached, rangers from Storm's End stopped them.
After verifying their identities and purpose, they were escorted inside the castle.
The great hall of Blackhaven was modest but orderly.
As Jon entered, Bronn whispered under his breath while holding the black wooden box.
"Oh gods…"
"He's beautiful."
Jon nodded instinctively.
Standing near the long table inside the hall was a knight wearing armor decorated with colorful gems and elegant flower patterns.
His long brown hair flowed freely around his shoulders.
His golden eyes shone brilliantly.
Jon recognized him instantly.
Ser Loras Tyrell.
The Knight of Flowers.
Realizing he had been staring too long, Jon quickly looked away.
His gaze shifted toward the man seated at the end of the table.
The man wore a green silk robe and a short golden cloak.
His black hair reached his shoulders.
He had been eating when Jon entered.
Now he calmly placed his utensils aside.
He wiped his mouth with a silk napkin and smiled.
"Ser Jon Snow?"
His bright blue eyes examined Jon curiously.
Jon felt a strange chill run down his spine.
Something about Renly's gaze made him uncomfortable.
Still, Jon stepped forward and bowed.
"Greetings, Lord Renly Baratheon."
"I am Ser Jon Snow, squire to Lord Karl Stone."
Renly smiled warmly.
"You are already a knight, Ser Jon."
He gestured behind him.
"This is Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers."
"He was once my squire."
"Perhaps the two of you should become acquainted."
Loras greeted Jon politely.
Renly then leaned back in his chair.
"So…"
"You have come to solve our current problem?"
"Oh—but first things first!"
Renly clapped his hands lightly.
"Today's lunch is charcoal-grilled sturgeon with lemon and bread."
"You must sit and eat with us."
Servants hurried to prepare food for Jon and his companions.
But Renly's eyes soon drifted toward the black wooden box Bronn carried.
His smile widened slightly.
"Is that…"
"The head of Gregor Clegane?"
"I heard Karl Stone cut it off personally."
At those words, Loras Tyrell's gaze also turned toward the box.
Inside it was the gift Karl had sent.
A gift meant to solve the current political crisis.
A gift intended for House Martell.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)