The Three Houses of Westeros: Prologue-2 (Patreon)

Prologue-2:

Tywin:

“The Seven who are one, teach us that we who die in their light and faith, rise forevermore to the seven heavens. Bound in joyous love, free of the troubles and tribulations of this- our cruel world-”

The septon droned on. His voice was static in the mind of Tywin Lannister as he stared at the body of his beloved Joana.

Cold and dead as the stone that would entomb her.

Tyrion had ravaged her womb, torn her apart from within. The Maester had warned them that she must never bear another child.

And yet when she unexpectedly fell pregnant one last time, she would hear nothing of eliminating the child.

No matter how much he raged, and demanded and cajoled and threatened, and… begged. He, the mighty Tywin Lannister had fallen on bent knees, in tears before his beloved Joana.

But she would not do it.

He could reshape the whole of the seven Kingdoms at his word, but his wife would not be moved.

“All things die, Tywin, I love you dearly, but our children, I love more than life itself even this little unborn light. My life is for them to have and if it means they live.”

He had tried to trick her into drinking moon tea. He’d tried every manner of manipulation even called in her own family to plead with her on his behalf but she knew his tricks and her answer for all had been the same.

Even their children. Cersei, Jamie. He had used them to try and sway her. But she’d merely spoken to them, eased their fears and made them promise that they would take care of their littlest sibling no matter what happened to her.

Shame and guilt gnawed at Tywin’s insides. Anger and bitterness clouded his heart and mind during those final days. He refused to see her. Refused to help her throw her life away. If she was so determined to leave him, he had no time for her.

He’d left. A tour of the Westerlands to make certain his vassals were paying their dues and properly in line.

Unnecessary.

Stupid.

A rider had ridden, day and night from Casterly Rock near the border of the riverlands to find him. His horse falling dead- with word that Joanna had gone into Labor.

And he knew. He knew… he would never see her again.

He’d ridden for Casterly Rock as fast as his steed would carry him. He’d ridden for three days straight, stopping only to swap horses as he passed noble houses, his guard barely able to keep up with him.

But he’d been too late.

Joana. His beloved Joana… was dead.

Kevin had been with him, Genna in her own home with her Frey husband and Gerion off on another of his misadventures.

She didn’t die alone… by the kindness of the most unlikely of sources.

Tywin let his eyes drift, down down towards his charge, the boy he was fostering on what had been almost a whim or a threat. A way to keep the mad dog in line.

“Clegane.” He said, the large boy’s tearful eyes rising to find him.

“Come here boy.” He demanded. The young man’s larger than normal frame made him seem twice his age, but he was still nothing but a boy. A boy that had brought his ailing wife sweet milks and cakes from the kitchen. Kept her company so she would not cry, and held her hand as the pain took her and the Maester struggled to deliver the child he warned long ago would take her life.

Raphael came closer, head bowed low.

Tywin wasn’t used to gratitude. He wasn’t used to children either.

Still… he made the effort here. Good service merited it where he as a husband had failed.

“You’re a good lad.” His voice choked, his hand rising, and falling over a head of blonde curls that made so many think he was a Lannister and not a Clegane.

Raphael smiled up at him with a teary smile. “C-can I see Ingrid soon M’lord?” He asked shily. “I promised ya see. Promised Miss Joanna I’d  take care of her. It's right I do it.”

“...You’re right.” He nodded, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him as he turned his eyes away from the boy at his side to the babe wrapped in swaddling cloths and being rocked even now by a Wetnurse.

Ingrid Lannister.

“Girl.” He barked, the tears of Jamie, and Cersei ceased for a moment as his voice carried to the wetnurse at their side. “Bring her here.”

The Wetnurse bowed quickly, hastily moving to carry the tiny child closer.

He’d never laid eyes on his daughter until that very moment.

He wondered, briefly, if the same deformities that had destroyed Tyrion in the womb would plague her.

But they hadn’t.

…

She was perfect….

Perfect in every way. Green eyes, the mirror of Joanna’s stared up at him, a tiny mouth yawning sleepily with no teeth, a blond tuft of perfect hair showing on her little head.

Tywin felt his heart soften. What affection he held for his wife, transferring over to this, her last gift to the world.

He could not fail her as egregiously as he’d failed her mother in her final moments.

Raphael leaned up on his tip toes, just tall enough to see the girl in Tywin’s arms as he smiled, guileless and happy at the sight of her.

All the while, the septon droned on.

(X)(X)(X)

Jon Arryn

“You have no right to demand this of me!”

“I AM YOUR BLOODY KING, I HAVE EVERY RIGHT!”

“He is my firstborn!” Stannis snarled. “If you want peace with the bloody flowers, send your own their way!”

Jon Arryn winced as Robert’s response, predictably, was a roaring reprimand that bellowed through the halls. Fiery fury smashing against icy, cold rage.

Two brothers couldn’t be more different; and while Jon knew that eventually Robert would either wear down his younger brother, or Stannis’ personal sense of duty would win out if he just stayed out of it; he’d rather the… chasm between the two Baratheons not get worse.

Robert might not know it, but his position as King was far far more fragile than he thought- a rift between the Baratheon brothers might just be the end of this short lived dynasty.

“My lord Baratheon-” He ventured, almost cringing as both brothers turned their wrathful gazes his way. “The realm needs to heal these wounds caused by the rebellion. Sending your son to foster with the Tyrells would be a step to healing those rifts.”

“Send me one of theirs then.” Stannis barked. “None of the flowers will come to harm under my roof if I give my word. But I trust the fat flower as far as I can throw him, and his mother even less so.”

His mind, rather unhelpfully conjured the rather absurd image of Stannis heaving Mace Tyrell over the walls of Storms-End and he had to fight down a chuckle at the mental image.

“Bloody hell” Robert grumbled. “You already named your boy after your bloody Florent in laws… Lorenz Baratheon-” He snorted. “What a fuckin name. He’s already a half Flower from that alone.”

Stannis shot his brother a heated glare and Jon had to keep himself from sighing at Robert making this all the harder rather than easier.

“Wylas Tyrell is already fostering as is Garlan Tyrell, a third son in Loras is not the same as a first son like your Lorenz.” Stannis, in spite of his truthful and unbending nature did like having his ego stroked regardless of what he said. The man had pride. More than either of his brothers really.

“I don’t see you volunteering Prince Dimitri or even your girl Bernadetta, Arynn.”

It was a grumbling biting remark but Jon could see the manipulation had softened him a bit. Of course the crown prince couldn’t be so carelessly traded towards a house that might still be an enemy. He was too valuable. And a marriage between him and Arianne Martell might be enough to truly begin mending things with Dorne, so that door had to remain open and viable.

And Bernadetta, his squirming little baby girl, however much he loved her, was no great political prize to be fostering in the court of Highgarden to mend relationships. Let her mother dote and coddle her. She’d be more useful when she flowered.

“My lord please-” He chided gently. “You know that your son is the best option for this. At the very least, consider it would you.”

“What the hell is there to consider?” Robert grumbled, nursing his wine. Almost pouting at the fact that his brother wasn’t doing as he was told. “I told him to, he should just do it.”

Before another argument could break out, or Stannis could grind his teeth down to powder Jon cut in again. “It's no easy thing to ask a man to send away his firstborn son to be raised by others. What if we demanded you send Prince Dimitri away, Robert?”

The King’s eyes flashed, a roiling blackness in his gaze. “No… No, I don't think I’d like that.” He grudgingly admitted. He looked to Stannis, as if only just realizing what he was asking.

“Sorry… Stannis.” Robert said, almost mulishly at having to say it.

It did much, however, to soften the King's taciturn brother.

The King stood from his desk, chugging down the last of his wine. “Speaking of which, I promised the little prince he’d get to see me spar today. With Barristan no less. Best not keep them waiting eh?” He began to march out the door, and Jon was glad his son had reignited Robert’s interest in staying in top form, physically at least. For a short while there he was afraid his foster son would grow out like a rotund jelly roll, with how much he was drinking and how little he was actually doing beyond drinking.

As Robert began to march out, Stannis grunted and it was as much of a tacit “I’ll think about it” as Jon was going to get. Or at least, as much as he was willing to push through without Robert here to back him up.

Baratheon brothers… so different yet so eerily similar it hurt to look at sometimes really.

—

Oberyn Martell:

“He’s growing into a fine boy.” He said, smiling slightly. “A tad dour tho… does he get that from his father?”

Ashara offered him an annoyed look at his prodding- taking a sip of her wine “You are my welcome and beloved guest dear Oberyn. If you’d like to remain welcome and beloved for your visit- watch your words.”

Ahh. Still a sore subject then.

“I could head north and kill him for you.” He smirked.

What met him this time was a glare and her anger was hot and palpable.

He’d pushed too much it seems.

Hastily he held up his hands. “I apologize. I will never mention it again, I promise.” He very honestly had to resist the urge to amend the statement with a ‘Unless you do want me to kill him of course’

Ashara offered him a suspicious side eye, as though she could read his thoughts, looking straight past that impish smile of his as she turned back towards the water gardens where all the children played so very happily and carefree.

“Hmm. Makes you wish sometimes we could go back to being so simple.” He reminisced with genuine nostalgia.

“Sometimes.” She conceded before taking a deep breath. “But then you realize if we were to go back… it would still fall to them to correct all our mistakes… To right all our wrongs.”

“Hmmm, true enough.”

“Doran still will not commit?”

He snorted. “I love my brother dear- but you know the answer to that.”

“Every day that passes, Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister consolidate more firmly.” She noted. “Their hold is still tenuous for now, but for how long? Does he expect the fruit to fall perfectly ripe from the tree without him ever needing to reach out and pluck it for himself?”

He took a long long swig of his drink. “I am not the one you must convince.” He said. “I’d ride right now and challenge the Mountain myself if my brother hadn’t made it abundantly clear he’d see me executed for going against his wishes.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“No.” Oberyn sighed. “He wouldn’t. But it would certainly shatter this image of appeasement he’s trying to give the rest of the seven Kingdoms so he can move to aid the Targaryen’s across the sea.”

“So he is moving to help them?”

He took another large gulp…

Ashara made a noise of disgust before turning and marching away, well- storming away really. Off to no doubt argue with his brother, trusting Elarria to watch the children.

It spoke to how close the two women had grown that she trusted his paramour with her precious Dedue.

He turned to follow, no doubt it would be entertaining at the very least to have someone else point out the fallacy of simply waiting on your laurels for the universe to send good fortune your way.

—

“So what? Are we to just sit here and do nothing? No protection? No aid? Not even a stipend of coin spirited to them every few months? How exactly do you expect this will turn out?”

Watching Ashara argue with his brother did indeed make for some delightful entertainment. And a remarkably refreshing change of pace really.

Doran for his part rubbed at his forehead, almost curling around the armrest of his chair as he fought to stave off the headache.

This was an old argument between them- but now, a new challenger had entered the arena and she was fresh and ready to hammer away at his brother’s sense of caution and patience for him.

Standing behind his brother, the ever loyal and ever faithful Aero Hotah looked as stone faced as ever, but if Doran wished to read the lines of his face at all he’d like to imagine he was enjoying this just as much as Oberyn was.

“We cannot risk the crown discovering our efforts before we are ready-”

“Why Doran?” She asked. “Why? Dragons with Dragonfire couldn’t conquer Dorne, why do you believe Staggs with swords and spears will do any better.”

“We must save our strength for when they return, and they will return.”

“With apparently no help from you.” She sneered. “How exactly do you think that will go? Will they flock to you or the Tyrells who have more men, and more food and a daughter of equally biddable age and active alliances with all the other houses-”

Doran looked almost sullen as Ashara pointed out the fallacies in his utter lack of any action to speak of. She was much better at this than Oberyn himself was. He tended to get angry, go on tangents. Eventually it would devolve into rage when he remembered Elia. His brother could wait him out most days; He knew that. So did Oberyn.

Ashara though, flying straight as an arrow right now..

“Who even agreed to this plan of yours? Rhaella before she died? Jeritza? Viserys?”

Oberyn remained… suspiciously quiet.

Ashara’s face slackened, becoming gradually more incredulous. “Have you not even told them of this plan?”

Another suspicious bout of silence.

…Oh was he getting his money’s worth today.

(X)(X)(X)

Davos:

Sand crunched under his toes, the kiss of the ocean breeze, tinged with salt and brine brushed against his cheek, little booted feet clutched in his hands as the last tufts of his hair fought valiantly to stay on his scalp as tiny fists clutched at them, his passenger squealing and shrieking in joy and delight as the waves smacked against his chest almost but not quite reaching her.

“Deeper papa!” His little Dorothea demanded.

“As my princess commands.” Davos smiled, wading a bit further into the tide, his three older boys already swimming and playing in the deeper tides. He kept an eye on them of course, but each of his boys knew how to swim almost better than they knew how to walk.

Another wave came in and another squeal and tightened fists clutched over his struggling hair.

Davos laughed.

As he danced and bobbed along with the ocean he found himself turning towards his home, a freshly built cottage along the sea shore. No great house of stone and mighty timbers, but small thing compared to the castles of the lords of greater Westeros. It suited him and Marya just fine.

The surrounding lands were his, and what few neighbors he had were nominally his subjects but he’d never had a mind for ruling.

Didn’t even know how to read.

The beginnings of a hold were here, but if things stayed just as is, he would not mind. He’d already climbed so far for a lowly smuggler that he couldn’t help being grateful for even this.

Turning away from a particularly high wave and riding it back to shallower waters, Davos turned towards the house again, this time finding Marya rushing to the shore, skirts in her hands, and eyes wide as dinner plates.

Immediately, he knew something was amiss.

“Boys.” He called, beginning to wade to the shore. “Out of the water boys.”

A chorus of aww’s and protests met his ears.

“Do as I say or you’ll all be feelin’ the back of my hand!” He demanded. He rarely disciplined his boys as such but he couldn’t leave them here and Marya was clearly  distressed by something.

As he drew close, Dorothea finally caught sight of her mother. “Mama!” She squealed, hands abandoning Davos hair to reach for the mother the girl still hadn’t noticed was very frightened.

“What’s wrong love?’ He called, as he finally made it to the shore

“I-it’s-” His wife never got the chance to warn him.

With the rolling rumble of hooves on dirt and sand a contingent of men circled round the house towards them- at the head of them-

Davos immediately straightened. “Mi-lord!”

Stannis stared down at him, features carved out of stone as usual, Davos considered himself a humble man, but right now, standing in little more than his skivvies, dripping water with a toddler sitting curled around his head he felt… very humble indeed.

Dorothea giggled, pointing very dramatically and very clearly over Davos’ head-

“You have a funny face.”

Oh… if the sea would be kind enough to rise up and swallow him whole right now that would be fantastic.

“Apologies milord!” He hastened to say, plucking the squirming Dorothea off his shoulders and handing her over towards Marya who grabbed her and just as hastily stepped aside.

“Ser Davos.” His liege lord said. “I’d have your council.”

Davos bowed at the waist. “As Milord demands.”

A beat of silence.

“Get dressed ser Davos”

Another very quick bow, the smuggler could feel the flush to his cheeks.

“As milord demands.”

He turned and marched quickly back towards the house.

—

A handful of minutes later he was seated in his dining room (And who’d have imagined that, a room specifically for dining) Stannis sitting across from him.

Marya served them up some hot soup, the broth still steaming and she ushered the children upstairs to their rooms (multiple rooms for his children to not need to share) giving them some peace and quiet

Stannis offered a nod, the closest thing to an outright thanks he knew his lord was capable of giving.

As Marya ascended the stairs and Stannis took his spoon to eat, his lord spoke. “Did I not give you enough wealth to afford a greater home?”

Davos blinked, flummoxed by the statement. “My lord was most generous.” He wasn’t sure if he was stating or protesting.

Stannis grunted. “Few lords live in a cottage Davos.”

Understanding dawned on the smuggler.

“Well…” He cleared his throat. “There are greater things to spend my coin on Milord.”

Stannis stared at him, demanding an answer without words.

“There will be a pier built soon.” Davos said, gesturing towards a corner of the house. “Past that wall, by the salt rocks on the shore. They’re actually markers for when the builders come.” A pier was important. When that’s done- a motte and Bailey, to defend ourselves once we’ve grown a bit more.”

Stannis took in his words, practically chewing them along with his chicken and potatoes.

Davos smiled.  “And my children.” He nodded firmly.  “Fresh clothes, warm food for the whole of their lives if I can. No nights going hungry. Perhaps enough to help them build their own homes one day.” He affirmed. “A little home is good enough for me and my Marya.” He didn’t quite shrug, but his hands moved in a loose approximation of such. “I have no need for a grand castle or a mighty keep. My ship, my children safe and good, and this little wooden house. That is enough milord.”

Stannis made a sound. “Hmm…” Then took another bite from his broth.

“We do a great deal of things… for our children.” The man said slowly.

Davos offered a careful nod.

Stannis stayed quiet, staring into his soup, even as he ate mechanically.

Finally- “I have a request of you Davos.”

“What is it Milord?” The smuggler asked.

Stannis took a breath, the muscle of his jaw jumped, telling Davos his liege was now grinding his teeth as per usual.

“The King has demanded I send my son, Lorenz to foster with the Tyrells. To… encourage peace and a mending of our relations.” If the words were any more ‘bitten out’ they’d have gotten stuck between the man’s teeth.

Davos took a deep breath. “I… can’t imagine that pleases you, Milord.”

“It doesn’t matter what pleases me.” He snarled. “Lorenz will go.” He said. “But I need someone there I can trust. Someone who will speak to me of my son honestly.”

“You don’t trust the Tyrells.” He realized. ‘And you wish for me to follow Lorenz.”

Stannis opened his mouth, and then, uncharacteristically, hesitated.

“You cannot abandon your holdings anymore than I can abandon mine.” He bit out “But you are closer than Dragonstone. Visit him at the least. As unannounced as you can.”

Davos nodded. “No one expects a smuggler to know his courtesies.” He smiled, making certain that his lord knew he was making light, rather than taking it as an insult.

Stannis snorted. “Quite.”

“It will be easy enough to do.” He said. “Though, I imagine when I become a regular visitor they’ll see right through me… if they don’t immediately.”

“I don’t care.” Stannis snarled. “If the blasted flowers don’t let you in their castle I’ll go there myself and see how Mace Tyrell enjoys having me under his bloody perfumed roof.”

Davos nodded. “Understood Milord.”

—

Varys

It was very rare that he was able to escape his duties long enough to make the journey.

Especially now that it was no longer a madman upon the throne.

True; a foolish drunk was hardly more attentive- but his rather dutiful Hand certainly was.

Even so, he was here now a few honeyed words about searching for the vanished Targaryen heirs, and Robert had given his leave.

Not even a lie… per se.

Illyrio’s manse hadn’t changed. A few more baubles, perhaps, but still as ostentatious and garishly expensive as ever.

The doors opened and Varys turned, finding the master of the house entering with all his girth and bombast.

“Varys.” Illirio cried, arms spread high and wide. “My old friend.”

Varys allowed himself to smile, even as he knew the words to be a half truth at best

They were useful to one another.

That’s as far as their friendship proceeded.

“What news do you bring me?” Illirio asked as he drew close, his hands grasping firmly around Varys’ own soft, powdered ones.

“Quite a bit of it in fact.” The Eunuch said with a smile. “Shall we walk and talk.”

Illirio’s answering smile was all teeth, inviting him forward into the gardens with a wave of his hands. “Please.

And so they walked.

He spoke of Westeros of course, that place where so many ambitions and destinies seemed to converge. Of how the political landscape was finally settling now that the Rebellion was over. The heirs and lords of the houses. Their likely plans and ambitions.

Most importantly about all of their plans. Whispered and shouted.

His little birds had so very much to share after all.

“You are certain of these things?” Illirio asked when his story neared its end.

“As certain as I can be.” He answered easily. “Dorne supports the Targaryens, hates the crown. As much as Doran feigns obeisance he would very much wish for the death of Robert, Tywin and their entire lines for what occurred to his sister.”

“And they will not send support to the Targaryens?”

“There are rumblings, many who know of Oberyn’s plan disagree with such… idleness- if he caves to that prodding that might change, but as of yet. No. They have no intention of sending tangible help, or even informing the Targaryens of their support at all.”

“And Rhaella Targaryen is dead.” Illirio smiled. “All they have left is the Knight. Easily cast aside.”

“I would not be so certain of that.” He hastened to caution. “Jeritza Velaryon or Emile Velaryon as he was born; was known as the second coming of ser Arthur Dayne. The greatest warrior in Westeros by far.”

“Bribed then.”

“His integrity is legendary.” Varys warned with a giggle.

“Poison?”

“Perhaps” He answered carefully. “Though rumors say he’s died before and cannot remain dead.” A smirk tugged at his lips. The fanciful tale.

The last of the Kingsguard, run through by sword and spear, crawled through the sands of the desert, refusing to die so long as his charges needed him.

Oh the Bards had sung of the man.

Illirio rolled his eyes, dismissing the story with a wave of his hand.

A servant misinterpreted the sign and hastened over to offer a goblet of honeyed wine.

Illirio looked as though he would dismiss him before he reconsidered, shrugged and took the goblet anyway.

Varys took a breath as they continued along the path. “If you intend to still go through with your plans… I might have found a suitable possibility we could follow..”

Now, Illirio’s eyes gleamed, dagger-like and hungry. “Oh?”

Varys nodded. “Your plan to pass off young Aneryon and little Lysithea as Viserys and one of his sisters has many issues as we’ve discussed. Many live who will remember Vyserys’ face and not see it in Aneryon.”

Illirio frowned. ‘Aye, we discussed this. Those voices can always be silenced, I said.”

Varys shrugged. It was an old argument and more trouble than it was worth both the argument and the plan’s feasibility; especially with his alternative.

“Perhaps” he allowed with an easy shrug. “But there are none alive who will contest- if we claim him to be Aegon.”

Illirio frowned in thought, trying to think.

“The one Clegane smote against the wall?”

“The very same.” Varys smiled. It was a clever plan if he said so himself. “I was present, I can claim to have spirited him away and replaced him with a silver haired babe. Pity we could not save little Rhaenys but, rejoice-” He chuckled. “The true heir lives.”

Illirio’s eyes gleamed. But then he frowned. “And my Lysithea?”

“Will need to remain in hiding, I’m afraid.” Varys answered. “As I said, it is known Rhaenys favored her dornish mother and though her body was little more than meat after Lorch was done with his deed, her face did remain largely intact. Many can confirm she is dead.”

The cheesemonger frowned, rubbing at one of the pointed tips of his beard.

“I would wish them to rise together.” He answered. “Serra would have wished for such.”

Varys valiantly beat back the urge to roll his eyes. I have secured the means of confirming Aegon’s identity quite easily to the lords of Westeros.” He added as a way to… sweeten the pot so to speak.

“Oh?”

“Connington.” He said. “I do not expect you to recognize the name. A minor house, a minor lord. Now disgraced and bitter.”

“A loyalist?”

“Quite. In fact, one might say the loyalist. Fiercely… loving of Rhaegar. If he arrives besides your boy claiming him to be Aegon returned and rescued, none–if any--would contest such a thing.” He laughed-

People were so very very easy sometimes.

Illirio, it seemed, was becoming more and more intrigued by the idea.

“The state of his house?”

“In all but name the lord Connington has abandoned his duties.” Varys said. “Gripped by Melancholy. His cousin Ronald Connington acts in his stead. Jon has no heirs while Ronald has three sons and what is likely a legitimized baseborn from a Dornish girl.” He answered with a shrug.

It was not concern that made Illirio ask, he wanted context. Leverage points to twist in case Lord Connington proved… uncooperative.

Understandable.

Still, the house wasn’t one of them in Varys’ opinion.

Barring disease few things could wipe out a house with a hale and hearty lord two male- well… four male heirs.

There weren’t even any reports that Jon Connington was particularly close with any of them, not Ronald, Raymund, Alyne or the baseborne, Claude.

No, House Connington wasn’t the way to manipulate the Griffin..

Just his love and devotion to a dead fool and rapist.

—

Ned

Ned Stark loved all of his children. Of that he had no  doubt.

But the truth of things was that he recognized that so few of his children actually had his traits.

Even Jon, whom so many believed was his, Ned knew to have shades of… Rhaegar. The solemnity, the quiet nature. Little beyond Lyanna’s coloring was borne by the boy.

Robb reminded Ned too much of Brandon by half. Stubborn, proud. A strong lad. A bit calmer than Brandon too, not as much wolfsblood. But Ned did see more of his brother there than himself. The heir his Brother would have had with Caitlyn. Yet another sign that the gods had never intended for Ned to be lord of Winterfell.

Sansa was all her mother. Red of hair, pale of skin, pious in the faith of the seven rather than the old gods. His perfect Southern Lady.

Arya, just born, was still too young to know. But from what Old Nan said, she was Lyanna born again.

And then. There was his third son.

Here, Ned could see glimpses of himself. Bits and pieces of his own temperament but something else too, a fire that was Brandon and an iron that was his own father Rickard.

The shout cut through the courtyard, steel ringing against steel and a sword was battered out of a grip to thump against the ground.

“Well done Felix.” Roderick commended with a smile, Ned’s youngest son staring down at the discarded blade as Jon backed away, guardsmen and others clapping politely at the boy’s victory.

“Good Job Little Brother.” Robb smiled before turning to look at Jon. “And you, losing your grip so soon!? You sure you’re not losing your edge, Snow?”

“Just a bit of ice on the hilt is all Stark.” Jon smiled good naturedly, though Ned noticed even from here, it did not fully reach his son’s eyes. How he hated the name Snow. And how Ned hated he couldn’t take it from him and give him a proper name.

“No.”

The words came not from Robb, or Jon, or any of the others, but rather the boy still standing in the middle of the Courtyard.

Felix Stark, who should have been overjoyed at defeating his elder brother in one of his very first spars with live steel, stared at Jon with the most heated expression Ned could fathom on a boy’s face.

His third son leaned down, plucking the blade from the ground and hurling it at Jon, who barely managed to catch it without hurting himself.

“Felix!” Roderick barked. “That’s live steel boy!”

“And he caught it!” Felix barked out still glaring at Jon, his grip white knuckled on the hilt of his sword.

Ned took a breath ready to shout down and discipline his son himself when his next words made the Lord of Winterfell pause.

“Stop holding back!”

Jon went still.

“The hell’s gotten into you lad-” Roderick demanded.

Felix paid the master at arms no mind. “You’re always holding back, always letting Robb win. I don’t want you to let me win, I want to win! So stop holding back, you coward!”

“You won fair and square-”

“Jon doesn’t let me win Felix”

Both his sons protested.

But Felix was undeterred.

“Jon beats Theon.” Felix observed. “Every single time. Robb doesn’t do that and yet Robb beats Jon damn near every time too.” Steel gray eyes narrowed.

“Jon doesn’t always beat Theon-” Robb dismissed.

“When was the last time you remember Theon knocking Jon on his ass? Or disarming him?” Felix challenged.

Robb opened his mouth, then paused, his features scrunching up before he turned to Jon in askance, his expression demanding an answer now that the discrepancy was pointed out.

Jon’s eyes shifted between his brothers then he turned his back, moving to mount the sword on the racks.

“You won fair and square.” He repeated.

“I want you to fight me!” Felix demanded, his voice cracking with the shrill notes of the boy he still was.

“Jon.” Robb called, features clearly scrunched up in confusion at the possibility that Jon had been letting him win. “Roderick, tell him this is foolish!”

Ned racked his own memory and realized that… no. He couldn’t recall Theon ever beating Jon. Regardless of the fact that the boy was older, stronger, larger… Theon had never beaten Jon once they began training with live steel.

Roderick remained damningly silent.

“Jon.”

The Courtyard went still, before all eyes turned, staring up at him on the balcony.

Ned stared at his second son, who held an expression of an animal just stumbling upon a wolf in the night.

Ned’s expression turned grim. None of his children should ever look at him like that.

“Pick up your sword.” He demanded. “And let me see you fight.”

For a moment longer, Jon hesitated, clearly contemplating whether he should do as asked, or stick with the assertion that Felix had won legitimately.

Then, bringing his eyes up to Ned again, he stared at the Lord of Winterfell a moment longer before he took firm hold of his steel, and marched back into the arena.

For the first time in a long time, Felix smiled.

It was a very different fight to the first.

If Ned didn’t know them to be boys he’d swear the two were Knights of Old from the stories come alive again.

Pure speed and flashing steel, Felix was smaller, true, but his talent with a sword made him seem as though he were born with one in his hand, techniques and stances adopted on the fly that Ned knew Roderick could never have taught.

Jon by contrast was limited to Rodericks teachings, but his foundation was rock solid, with a grasp of basics and Fundamentals that let him counter and adapt fluidly to Felix’s alien style and lightning fast swordplay.

In the end, the fight was decided not by swordplay-

But by a fist.

Felix’s blade locked with Jon’s, letting the older boy grab a firm hold of the crossguard in one hand and then drive forward to slam an elbow into the side of Felix’s cheek.

Felix stumbled back, losing his grip on the blade before Jon tripped him, the two swords coming down to rest near the panting Felix’s neck

An undeniable victory.

Felix stared up at the sky, panting as he desperately tried to get air back into his lungs, both boys had their hair matted with sweat and Robb stared stunned at both his brothers.

Jon stepped back from his fallen younger brother, eyes casting up towards Ned in worry.

Again, none of his children should ever look upon him with eyes like that.

He stared down at the yard, features expressionless and solemn as he usually was.

“You do your brothers a disservice by lying to them.” Was his answer. “I will never hear of you holding back in the yard against either of your siblings again. Am I understood Jon?”

“Yes Father.”

Felix began to laugh, joyous and uproaring. It seemed as though his strange third son was more pleased at his defeat than his victory.

Ned offered a nod.

After that day- the only one in the Yard that could beat Jon… was Felix.