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Jaime Lannister
Through the haze of exertion, Jaime Lannister's gilded armor caught the morning sun, drops of sweat falling from his golden hair onto the crimson leather padding beneath his breastplate. The white cloak of the Kingsguard swirled around him as he moved, pristine despite the dust kicked up from the training yard.
Five knights lay scattered in various states of defeat around him, their practice swords abandoned in the dirt. His own blade, even though blunted for training, had found every weakness in their guard, every hesitation in their stance. Some nursed bruised ribs, others wounded pride, but all bore the marks of facing the Kingslayer.
"No one else?" Jaime called out, spreading his arms wide, his voice carrying that familiar mocking lilt. The remaining knights shifted uncomfortably, their armor creaking as they looked anywhere but at him. Some wore the red of House Lannister, others the gold of the City Watch, all equally reluctant. "Come now, surely someone wants to try their luck against an oathbreaker?"
He could see them all thinking it - Kingslayer. The word hung in the air like a curse, though none dared speak it. None except-
"Kingslayer!"
Jaime's shoulders tensed at the booming voice, though his face remained fixed in its arrogant smile as he turned. Robert Baratheon stood at the edge of the yard, his massive frame wrapped in black and gold silks that strained slightly at the middle. The stag of House Baratheon was emblazoned across his chest in golden thread, and his beard was neatly trimmed - someone had clearly dressed him for court today.
"Your Grace," Jaime gave a slight bow, just deep enough to avoid insult but shallow enough to make his disdain clear. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in our humble training yard?"
Robert's blue eyes narrowed, though his mouth twisted in what might have been amusement. "Well, the only thing you're good at is flashing that smile and killing old mad people," he said, scratching his beard. "And I'm neither mad nor old."
"Yet," Jaime muttered under his breath, before adding more loudly, "Was there something specific you needed, Your Grace? Or did you just come to admire my swordplay?"
"Your father's here," Robert announced, ignoring the jab. "And he's brought the Imp with him."
Jaime frowned, lowering his practice sword. The arrival of his father was expected - with Balon Greyjoy declaring himself king. But Tyrion... "My brother's presence is unexpected," he said carefully. "I wasn't aware he'd be joining us."
"Neither was anyone else," Robert laughed, a sound like rolling thunder. "But there he sits in the Tower of the Hand, drinking your father's wine and making the servants uncomfortable with his clever little jests." The king adjusted his belt, which Jaime noticed had recently been let out a notch. "Speaking of wine, I need a drink. Come on, Kingslayer, let's see what your father wants with us all."
As they walked, the king continued, "You know, he's cleverer than you."
"Who, my father or my brother?"
"The Imp," Robert said, his boots heavy on the stone steps. "Though I suppose your father's no fool either. But your little brother - he has a mind like a blade. Sharp. Dangerous, maybe."
Jaime's hand instinctively went to where his real sword would normally hang. "Tyrion's only dangerous to wine merchants and whores, Your Grace."
Robert's laugh echoed off the castle walls. "We'll see, Kingslayer. We'll see."
As they approached the Tower of the Hand, Jaime could already hear his brother's distinct laughter floating down from above. He straightened his white cloak, checking that the golden fastenings were secure. Father would notice if they weren't.
The door to the Hand's solar opened to reveal Tywin Lannister standing by the window, his crimson doublet immaculate, golden chains glinting across his chest. His close-cropped beard was more grey than golden now, but his green eyes were as sharp as ever as they fixed on his eldest son.
Tyrion sat sprawled in a chair clearly too large for him, dressed in fine red and black silks that had been expertly tailored to his small frame. A goblet of wine dangled from his fingers, and his mismatched eyes sparkled with amusement as he took in Jaime's sweaty appearance.
"Brother!" Tyrion called out cheerfully. "You look like you've been busy teaching our noble knights the meaning of humility."
"Five of them," Jaime replied with a grin, though it faded slightly under his father's stern gaze.
"Sit down, all of you," Tywin commanded, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "We have matters to discuss concerning this... Greyjoy situation."
As Robert dropped heavily into the Hand's chair, earning a slight tightening of Tywin's jaw, Jaime noted the maps spread across the table. The Iron Islands featured prominently, along with detailed naval charts of the western coastline.
"Before we begin," Tyrion interjected, raising his cup, "perhaps some wine for our warriors? They look parched from all their... exertions."
Tywin's glare could have frozen the Sunset Sea, but Robert laughed again. "Now there's a clever imp! Bring the good stuff, not that swill they serve at council meetings."
As servants scrambled to fulfill the king's demands, Jaime settled into a chair, his armor creaking slightly. Whatever was coming, at least it promised to be more interesting than beating green boys in the training yard. Though as he caught his father's eye, he wondered if perhaps he'd prefer the simple clarity of swordplay to whatever game was about to unfold in this room.
"Now then," Tywin began, his voice cold and precise as Valyrian steel, "The Iron Fleet's success at Lannisport was... unfortunate," Tywin began, his fingers drumming once on the mahogany table before going still. "But it has revealed their weaknesses as much as their strengths."
Jaime watched his father move markers across the detailed map, each piece carved from precious materials - golden krakens for the Greyjoys, crimson lions for the Lannisters, and black stags for the Baratheons.
"Their attack was bold but predictable," Tywin continued. "They struck at night, using the cover of darkness to mask their approach. We can expect similar tactics at their other targets."
Robert snorted, already on his second cup of Arbor gold. "Fuck their tactics. We have more ships, more men, more everything. We crush them, end of story."
Jaime noticed his father's subtle tell - the slight tightening around his eyes that betrayed his frustration. The solar itself seemed to grow colder, despite the warmth of the day outside.
"More ships will mean nothing if they're burned in harbor, Your Grace," Tywin replied. "I propose we-"
"Split our forces," Tyrion interrupted, earning a sharp look from their father. He sat forward in his oversized chair, his mismatched eyes bright with intelligence. "But not how you're thinking, Father."
"Instead of dividing our naval strength between Lannisport and King's Landing," Tyrion continued, "we make them think that's what we're doing. In truth, we gather our full strength at Seagard, hidden in the cape's shadow. When they come for what they think is a weakened Lannisport..."
"We trap them between hammer and anvil," Jaime finished, seeing the elegance of it. "They'll be caught between our fleet and the shore."
Robert leaned forward, wine forgotten for a moment. "Go on, Imp."
Tyrion stood - as much as he could - and moved some of the markers around. "The Iron Islands have never faced a unified continent. They survive by striking fast and retreating faster. But if we can trap their main fleet..." He smiled, a cruel expression that reminded Jaime uncomfortably of their father. "Well, islands aren't very useful without ships, are they?"
Before anyone could respond, the heavy oak door swung open. Stannis Baratheon strode in, his black leather boots striking the stone floor with military precision. He wore a simple black doublet with gold trim, the crowned stag of House Baratheon embroidered over his heart. His jaw was clenched so tight Jaime wondered if he ever got headaches.
"Your Grace," Stannis said, bowing precisely to his brother. "My lords." His eyes swept over the Lannisters, lingering particularly on Tyrion, who raised his wine glass in mocking salute.
"Stannis!" Robert boomed. "Come look what the Imp's planned. Might actually be better than your plan."
If possible, Stannis's jaw clenched even tighter. "I wasn't aware Lord Tyrion was a military strategist."
"I'm not," Tyrion replied cheerfully. "I just enjoy reading about historical battles. Did you know that during the Century of Blood, the Volantene fleet tried a similar tactic against Pentos? Though they used elephants, which I admit might be difficult to source on short notice."
Stannis ignored him, moving to study the map. His fingers traced the coastline, lingering on various points. "Your plan has merit," he finally admitted, sounding as if the words physically pained him. "But you've overlooked the currents around the Shield Islands. They'll complicate any naval maneuvers in that area."
"That's why we won't be going anywhere near the Shield Islands," Tyrion said, his voice taking on that particular tone that Jaime knew meant trouble. "Unless you're suggesting we take the scenic route?"
"Before this descends into pointless bickering," Tywin cut in, his voice sharp enough to cut steel, "perhaps we should discuss the actual implementation of these strategies? Your Grace, the crown's ships will need to-"
"Gods, not more talk of ships," Robert groaned. "That's what I have you lot for. Stannis, you're my Master of Ships. Work it out with them." He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm going to find something to hit."
"Perhaps," Stannis said into the silence after Robert left, "we should discuss the role of the Royal Fleet in more detail."
"Of course," Tyrion replied, refilling his cup. "Though first, I'm curious about these currents you mentioned. You see, I have this fascinating book from the Citadel about tidal patterns..."
Jaime settled back in his chair, his armor creaking slightly. The real battle, he realized, wasn't going to be fought on the seas at all. It would be right here, in this room, between these men who wielded words as skillfully as he wielded a sword.
"If we're discussing naval tactics," Tywin said, his voice carrying that dangerous calm Jaime knew so well, "perhaps we should start with the inadequate patrols that allowed the Iron Fleet to approach Lannisport undetected in the first place?"
Stannis's face darkened. "Are you suggesting, Lord Tywin, that the Royal Fleet-"
"I suggest nothing," Tywin cut in. "I merely state facts. Facts that cost the Westerlands considerably in both gold and pride."
"The Royal Fleet's primary duty is to protect King's Landing," Stannis ground out. "Not to compensate for local inadequacies in coastal defense."
Jaime watched his father's face carefully. To most, it would appear unchanged, but he could see the slight tightening around his eyes, the barely perceptible straightening of his spine.
"Local inadequacies?" Tywin's voice could have frozen the Sunset Sea. "Interesting choice of words from a man whose own naval experience consists primarily of losing half of the fleed to a wildfire explosion in Dragonstone."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Tyrion quickly took a large swallow of wine.
"I think," Jaime interjected, surprising himself as much as anyone, "what my father means is that we should focus on preventing future attacks rather than assigning blame for past ones."
Both men turned to look at him, and Jaime was reminded of being a child at Casterly Rock, caught between his father's expectations and his own desires. He pressed on anyway.
"The Iron Fleet will be expecting us to be divided, arguing amongst ourselves about past failures. Perhaps we should prove them wrong?"
A long moment of silence followed, broken only by the distant sounds of the city filtering through the windows. Finally, Tyrion raised his cup.
"Well said, brother. Now, about those tidal patterns..."
Stannis moved across the solar with measured steps, his shadow falling across the map like an advancing storm.
"Your plans have merit," Stannis said, grinding his teeth slightly. "But you're both thinking like landsmen." He picked up several markers. "The Ironborn expect us to think like mainlanders because that's what we are. So let's think like them instead."
Jaime noticed his father's subtle shift in posture - the barely perceptible straightening that indicated genuine interest. Tyrion had stopped drinking, his mismatched eyes fixed intently on Stannis's hands as they moved across the map.
"The Iron Fleet's strength isn't in its numbers," Stannis continued, placing markers in seemingly random positions around the Iron Islands. "It's in their knowledge of the waters, the currents, the hidden channels between their islands. We've been planning to attack them head-on because that's what mainland lords do. But that's exactly why they've survived for thousands of years."
He traced a finger along the coastline of Great Wyk. "They expect us to mass our forces, to come at them with overwhelming numbers. They'll see that coming from leagues away. Their longships will scatter like fish before a shark, and we'll spend months chasing shadows across the Sunset Sea."
"What do you propose instead?" Tywin asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Stannis's thin lips curved in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "We give them exactly what they expect - at first." He positioned the bulk of their fleet markers near Seagard and Lannisport. "They'll see our main force gathering, exactly as they anticipate. But here..." He placed several smaller markers in positions that seemed, to Jaime's eye, completely random.
"The shallow channels north of Old Wyk," Tyrion breathed, leaning forward. "Gods be good."
"Precisely," Stannis nodded. "While they watch our main fleet, smaller groups of our fastest ships will slip through these channels during the dark of the moon. The Ironborn know these waters so well they've grown complacent. They don't guard them because mainlanders never use them."
"The risk of running aground-" Tywin began.
"Is significant," Stannis cut him off. "Which is why I've spent the last five years having these waters carefully sounded and mapped." He pulled a rolled parchment from his doublet and spread it across the table. The detail was extraordinary - depth measurements, current patterns, even underwater rock formations were marked with precision.
Jaime saw his father's eyes widen fractionally - the closest thing to surprise he'd shown in years. "You've been preparing for this."
"Since the day Robert took the throne," Stannis confirmed. "The Greyjoys were always going to rebel. It was just a matter of when."
He continued moving markers, his explanation becoming more detailed. "We'll split our forces into seven groups - the main fleet they can see, and six they can't. Each hidden group will carry a small force of soldiers. While the Iron Fleet engages what they think is our main attack, these smaller groups will slip through the channels under cover of darkness. By dawn, we'll have men on every major island in the chain."
"They'll be trapped," Tyrion said softly. "Their ships drawn out to face our main fleet, while their homes burn behind them."
"The Ironborn pride themselves on being unpredictable raiders," Stannis continued, his voice as sharp as Valyrian steel. "Let's see how they handle being raided themselves."
Jaime watched his father studying Stannis with new intensity. This wasn't just a battle plan - it was a demonstration of patience, foresight, and ruthless efficiency that rivaled Tywin's own.
"The cost in ships will be high," Tywin observed. "Running those channels at night..."
"Lower than the cost of a prolonged campaign," Stannis countered. "And I'll lead the most difficult approach myself, through the channel north of Pyke. I've memorized every shoal and reef."
"You'd risk yourself?" Jaime asked, surprised.
Stannis fixed him with a hard stare. "I don't ask my men to take risks I won't take myself, Kingslayer. Perhaps that's something the Kingsguard might consider."
Before Jaime could respond, Tyrion cleared his throat. "There's another advantage to this plan. The Ironborn follow strength. When they see their supposedly secret channels being used against them..."
"Their entire mythology of superiority at sea crumbles," Tywin finished. "Well considered, Lord Stannis."
Coming from Tywin Lannister, it was high praise indeed. Jaime watched as his father and Stannis began discussing specific deployments, their earlier antagonism set aside in favor of martial efficiency.
This was why his father considered Stannis dangerous, Jaime realized. Robert might wear the crown, but Stannis had the same ruthless competence as Tywin himself. Jaime remembered his father once saying that Robert wore the crown, Jon Arry wore the hand, and Stannis Baratheon wore the steel.
"Brother," Tyrion murmured, refilling his cup, "I do believe we've just witnessed something unique - a plan that's impressed both our lord father and the most rigid man in the Seven Kingdoms."
"More than impressed," Jaime replied quietly. "Look at Father's face. He's already thinking about how to use this to House Lannister's advantage."
"Naturally," Tyrion smirked. "Though I suspect Lord Stannis has already considered that and has plans of his own."
The last rays of sunlight had long since faded from the windows when Tywin finally gave his assent to Stannis's strategy. The Lord of Storm's End acknowledged this with nothing more than a curt nod before turning on his heel and marching out.
"Well," Tyrion drawled into the silence that followed, swirling the dregs of his wine, "now I understand his crusade against the brothels. Clearly, the man has been too busy mapping every pebble in the Sunset Sea to discover the pleasures of the flesh." He paused thoughtfully. "Though perhaps if he did, he might actually crack a smile. I'm beginning to think his face would shatter if he tried."
Jaime couldn't help but snort at that, though he quickly schooled his features when his father's sharp glance cut across the room. The solar felt different now, more intimate but somehow more dangerous with just the three Lannisters remaining.
"Speaking of unexpected appearances," Jaime said, turning to his brother, "what brings you to King's Landing, dear brother? Surely the books at Casterly Rock haven't all been read yet?"
"Miss me already?" Tyrion grinned, but there was something forced about it. "And here I thought you'd be glad to see your favorite brother."
"You're my only brother."
"Ah, but that makes me your favorite by default, doesn't it?"
Jaime gave him a look that clearly said 'enough games.' The smile slipped from Tyrion's face like water off a stone.
"Your brother," Tywin said, his voice cutting through their banter like a blade, "will be joining the Westerlands forces in the campaign against the Greyjoys."
The words hit Jaime like a punch. He felt the blood drain from his face as he looked at his father, then at his brother. Tyrion's expression was carefully neutral, but Jaime could see the understanding in those mismatched eyes - the same horrible understanding that was dawning in his own mind.
"Father," Jaime began carefully, "surely Tyrion would be more valuable planning strategy. His mind-"
"Is sharp enough to understand battle commands," Tywin cut him off. "He will serve in the front lines with the other nobles of the Westerlands, he is old enough to fight."
"Not tall enough," Tyrion muttered into his cup, just loud enough to be heard.
"What was that?" Tywin's voice could have frozen flame.
"I said," Tyrion replied, raising his voice and meeting his father's gaze, "that I'm not tall enough. Though I suppose that will make me a smaller target for the Ironborn arrows. How thoughtful of you, Father, to consider my safety in such a way."
Jaime winced at the acid in his brother's tone. "Tyrion..."
"No, no, it's quite alright, brother," Tyrion waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sixteen now, after all. Quite old enough to die gloriously for the family honor. Though I do hope someone tells the Ironborn to aim high - it would be terribly embarrassing to survive simply because they couldn't be bothered to lower their bows."
"If you're quite finished," Tywin said coldly, "we have arrangements to discuss."
"Oh, I doubt I'll ever be finished," Tyrion replied cheerfully, though his eyes were hard as flint. "But please, do tell me more about these arrangements. Will I be leading the vanguard? Perhaps you could find me a particularly tall horse - though I suppose that would just make me an easier target. Decisions, decisions."
Jaime fought the urge to groan. When Tyrion got like this, his tongue became sharper than Valyrian steel and twice as dangerous.
"You will serve under Lord Kevan," Tywin continued as if Tyrion hadn't spoken. "He will ensure you conduct yourself appropriately."
"Ah, Uncle Kevan. At least someone in the family might mourn if I fall. Though I suppose that would depend on whether he could find all the pieces to bury."
"Tyrion," Jaime warned, seeing the dangerous glint in their father's eye.
"What's wrong, brother? I'm merely discussing the practical aspects of warfare. Perhaps we should talk about funeral arrangements while we're at it? I've always thought the Stranger had a sense of humor - why else would he make me this size? Maybe he'll appreciate my jests more than Father does."
Tywin stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "You will report to Lord Kevan tomorrow morning. He will see you properly equipped." Without another word, he strode from the room, leaving his sons alone in the flickering candlelight.
As soon as the door closed, Tyrion's facade cracked. He reached for the wine pitcher with hands that trembled slightly. "Well, that was bracing. Nothing quite like a family meeting to remind you of your place in the world."
"Tyrion, I'll speak to him-"
"Don't," Tyrion cut him off sharply. "Don't make promises you can't keep, brother. We both know what this is."
"He can't-"
"He can and he has," Tyrion laughed bitterly. "Though I must admire the efficiency of it. Why hire an assassin when you can let the Ironborn do your dirty work for free? And if I somehow survive, well, perhaps I'll even prove useful. A win-win situation, wouldn't you say?"
Jaime felt sick. "I'll find a way to protect you."
"You can't," Tyrion said softly, all pretense of humor gone. "You're Kingsguard now, remember? Your place is here, protecting our dear king while he drinks and whores his way through the rebellion." He emptied his cup in one long swallow. "Besides, what would people say if the mighty Jaime Lannister was seen protecting his dwarf brother? Can't have that, can we?"
"Fuck what people say."
"If only it were that simple." Tyrion slid down from his chair, swaying slightly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have an appointment with every whore in King's Landing. If I'm to die in this war, I intend to do so with very happy memories."
"Tyrion-"
"Don't," his brother said again, holding up a hand. "Just... Save your protection for those who need it. I've survived being Tywin Lannister's greatest disappointment for sixteen years. What's a few more months between family?"
As Tyrion waddled toward the door, he paused and looked back. "Though if you really want to help, you could tell me where to find the best brothel in King's Landing. Preferably one with beautiful girls that know what they are doing."
"The Street of Silk," Jaime replied automatically. "Third building past the silversmith's. Ask for Alayaya."
Tyrion grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "See? This is why you're my favorite brother." He opened the door, then added quietly, "Take care of yourself, Jaime. Someone has to survive to tell tales of my heroic death."
Before Jaime could respond, Tyrion was gone, leaving him alone in the solar with nothing but shadows and the weight of what he couldn't prevent. He looked at the map still spread across the table, at the wooden pieces representing thousands of men who would die in the coming months.
One of those pieces, he knew, was meant to represent his brother. But Tyrion had always defied expectations, had always found a way to survive despite everything. Jaime had to believe he would do so again.
Jaime's hand clenched around the wine cup until his knuckles turned white. Tysha. The name echoed in his mind like an accusation.
He couldn't remember her face clearly anymore - just flashes of dark hair and gentle eyes, and the way she had looked at his brother as if his size didn't matter at all. As if Tyrion was the knight from every song she'd ever heard. And Tyrion... gods, Tyrion had smiled then. Really smiled, not the bitter, sardonic thing that passed for amusement these days.
"She wasn't a whore," he whispered to the empty room, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. The lie had come so easily then, prompted by his father's cold command. 'Tell him the truth,' Tywin had said, though it had been anything but truth. 'Tell him what she really was.'
And Jaime had done it. Had looked his brother in the eye and told him that the girl he loved, the girl who had loved him back, had been nothing but a hired whore. A cruel joke orchestrated by Jaime himself, to give his brother the experience of a woman.
The cup shattered in his grip, sending shards of crystal and droplets of wine across the expensive Myrish carpet. Jaime barely noticed the blood welling from his cut palm.
What had come after... His stomach churned at the memory. The guards. The barracks. Tywin forcing Tyrion to watch as each man tossed her a silver coin. 'A silver for a whore,' his father had said. And then making Tyrion go last, making him pay her a gold coin, because 'Lannisters are worth more.'
Jaime surged to his feet, needing to move, to do something to quiet the roaring in his ears. His brother had been thirteen. Thirteen, and in love, and Jaime had helped destroy that with a simple lie.
And now Tyrion sought out whores, paid them well, jested about it constantly - as if trying to convince himself that love was nothing but a transaction, that his first experience had taught him all he needed to know about how the world worked.
"Fuck," Jaime snarled, slamming his fist into the wall. The pain helped, gave him something to focus on besides the memories. Besides the knowledge that his brother might die in this war never knowing the truth.
He could tell him now. Could find him in the brothel he'd disappeared to and confess everything. But what good would that do? The damage was done. The truth now would only add another betrayal to the pile, would only give Tyrion one more reason to hate the world before his father sent him to die.
No. What Tyrion needed wasn't truth - he needed to survive. And Jaime would make sure that happened, regardless of what it took.
He began to pace, his mind racing through possibilities. The Kingsguard vows kept him in King's Landing, but there were other ways to protect someone. Men could be paid, arrangements could be made. Uncle Kevan wasn't as hard as Tywin - perhaps he could be persuaded to keep Tyrion away from the worst of the fighting.
"I won't let him die," Jaime promised the empty room, his voice hard with determination. "Not like this. Not for Father's convenience."
He owed Tyrion that much at least. Owed it to the bright-eyed boy who had once believed in love, before Jaime's lie had helped tear that belief away. Before their father had turned that love into something ugly and painful.
"You'll survive this, little brother," he murmured. "Even if I have to kill every fucking Ironborn myself to make it happen."
Jon Snow
Jon's boots slapped against the mud as he raced through Winterfell's courtyard, dodging between servants and soldiers preparing for war. His destination was clear - the smithy, where smoke already rose from the chimney despite the early hour.
"Mikken! Mikken!" Jon burst through the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his excitement. "Did you look at my drawing?"
The blacksmith was already at his forge, his massive arms crossed over his chest as he regarded the small boy before him. A hint of amusement played at the corners of his mouth.
"Aye, I did, young Lord Flint," Mikken said, emphasizing Jon's new surname with a slight smile. "Clever work for a boy of seven. But it's missing a few vital pieces to make it actually work."
Jon's face fell slightly, but his eyes remained eager. "What's missing? I tried to make everything fit together properly."
Mikken retrieved the parchment from his workbench, spreading it out carefully. "See here? The mechanism needs a proper spring system, or it'll either not deploy at all or shoot out with enough force to take your finger clean off."
"Take my finger off?" Jon's eyes widened.
"Aye, the ring finger specifically." Mikken tapped the drawing. "The blade would need to pass right through where it sits."
Rather than being horrified, Jon looked fascinated. "But if we adjusted the angle here..." He reached for the drawing, his small finger tracing along the lines.
Mikken shook his head. "Even if you got it to work, lad, it wouldn't hold up in a real fight. The blade's too thin to stand against a sword."
"It's not for fighting," Jon said quickly, then bit his lip as if he'd said too much.
Mikken's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Ah. A surprise then. Like a snake in the grass." He studied Jon's face more carefully. "Dangerous thoughts for one so young."
Jon met his gaze steadily. "Sometimes snakes are necessary."
"Gods, you sound like your great-grandfather," Mikken muttered. "I can adjust some of these measurements, make it more practical-"
"No," Jon snatched the drawing back, clutching it to his chest. "I'll fix it myself. Thank you, Mikken."
Later
Jon stood beside Robb, watching as their father mounted his destrier. The yard was chaos - horses nickering, steel clanking, men shouting orders. The air smelled of leather and horse and fear.
Jon could see his grandmother, Lady Lyarra, speaking quietly with Lord Anden near the gates. His great-grandfather's massive frame towered over everyone else in the yard, and his great axe strapped across his back. His horse was a powerful black horse of the North. The horse was taller than all the men in the courtyard except Lord Anden.
Jon stood beside Robb, watching as their father mounted his destrier. Through the chaos, he spotted Lady Dustin nearby wearing all black as if she was mourning someone. She stood rigid as stone while her husband, Benjen Stark, knelt before their son.
"Listen well, William," Benjen said softly, adjusting the fur collar of his five-year-old son's cloak. "You're the man of Barrowton while I'm gone."
"Yes, Father," William replied, his small voice trembling slightly. Despite his youth, the boy carried himself with the same quiet dignity as his father and mother.
Lady Barbrey's sharp tongue, usually quick with cutting remarks, seemed tempered by the moment. "Try not to die foolishly," she said to Benjen, though her usual bitterness was softened by something that might have been fear. "I've no wish to bury another husband in the south."
Benjen rose and touched her cheek gently. "I will return, my lady. The gods gave me a second chance at happiness with you and William. I don't intend to waste it."
"The gods," Barbrey scoffed, but her hand caught his and held tight. "Just remember your promise, Benjen Stark."
"Promise you'll write, Father?" Robb called out, his voice carrying over the din.
Ned Stark looked down at his sons - trueborn and legitimized Flint both - with a solemn expression. "I promise. Both of you look after your sisters while I'm gone."
"We will," Jon said firmly, his hand unconsciously touching the Kukri knife at his belt - Derek's parting gift before he left Breakstone Hill.
"And Jon," Ned's voice softened slightly. "Your grandmother tells me you've been excelling at your training. Keep at it."
Jon straightened, pride warming his chest. "Yes, Father."
A horn blew somewhere in the distance, and the yard erupted into even more activity. Jon watched as his father rode out through the gates, followed by what seemed like an endless stream of mounted knights and men-at-arms.
"Do you think they'll win?" Robb asked quietly, only for Jon's ears.
Jon thought of his hidden blade drawings, of Lady Bella's death, of the lessons Lord Anden had taught him about survival. "They'll win," he said with certainty. "But winning isn't always the most important thing."
"What is?"
"Coming home."
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