Chapter Text
“You handled yourself well,” Laenor said soothingly as he tended to Ser Qarl’s aching shoulder.
“Not well enough,” Ser Qarl sulked, his eyes flickering to feet for a moment before returning to Laenor. “Thank you.”
“Laenor, join us,” Corlys called out and Laenor blanched before muttering a quiet apology to his lover and joining his father in the next room of the chambers his family had been given.
Rhaenyra already awaited him with his parents, and he forced himself not to flinch at the glare his father gave him, knowing the reason for it. He had insisted on bringing Ser Qarl back with him, and his presence wasn’t out of the question, given that he served House Velaryon, but he knew that his father wouldn’t appreciate him being so open with his affections, even if it was behind closed doors.
“Now, what news do you have regarding the canal project, Princess?” Corlys asked.
“You did speak with Beesbury, yes?” Rhaenys asked.
“I did, and it was a most enlightening conversation,” Rhaenyra replied. “He was quite excited about it for numerous reasons and even gave me advice on how to handle Lord Matthos.”
“Oh?” Rhaenys asked.
“Apparently he recently wed a friend of his daughter’s,” Rhaenyra replied, not managing to keep the grimace off of her face at that, and Corlys just chuckled.
“You can’t blame a man for appreciating the beauty of a younger woman,” he murmured, smiling at Rhaenys, who returned the look.
“Must make family gatherings awkward,” Laenor chuckled, imagining his mother wedding Jon or someone else around that age.
“Apparently not,” Rhaenyra replied. “Lord Lyman claims that they both have considerable influence on him and that they might be able to help me convince him about the merits of our canal idea.”
“I’d expect him to know better than us,” Rhaenys admitted. “Not only is he a Reachman, but his wife is a notorious busybody. I doubt there’s a single noble in the entire kingdom that she doesn’t know everything there is to know about.”
“It turns out that Lady Beony is a great source of information, yes,” Rhaenyra replied diplomatically, and her goodmother just rolled her eyes. “I was going to go call on Lady Annara and see how responsive she is. She’s worn only blue or white since I arrived, never green, and according to Lord Lyman, the Tyrells and the Hightowers aren’t on the friendliest of terms.”
“They wouldn’t be,” Corlys mused. “The Hightowers will always bristle at the fact that they weren’t elevated in the Reach the way that the Lannisters were allowed to retain control of the Westerlands. They were the Gardeners natural successors, but the Conqueror and his wives seemed to realize that they’d be too powerful in the role.”
“They tried to overstep once before when the High Septon at the time convinced Aegon I to wed Maegor to a Hightower,” Rhaenys continued.
“Needless to say, that ended poorly,” Laenor chuckled.
“It did, and yet here they are again, attached to the Targaryen family like a malignant growth,” Rhaenys scowled, “and growing still. The canal project could help divide the Reach in two, which would benefit our cause greatly.”
“I know,” Rhaenyra replied, “which is why I need to get a foothold in House Tyrell. I’ll try to speak with Lady Annara after the feast. I would during, but…”
“That would signal things we’re not ready for yet,” Corlys replied, “though I hope you realize that the moment word of this project starts to spread, the Hightowers will intensify their plotting against us. Lord Hobert will recognize what we’re doing, and Ser Otto definitely will.”
“Let them,” Rhaenyra scowled. “Shall we get going?”
“I suppose we’ve waited long enough,” Rhaenys sighed.
Rhaenyra nodded and stood up, giving Laenor her arm as they left their chambers and made their way down for the feast. Her father planned to throw one every night of the tourney, as he usually did, which meant that she needed to be prepared to deal with the nobility nightly for a while.
“Princess, do you know what made his grace change his mind about when the archery contest was going to happen?” Ser Qarl asked, and Rhaenyra giggled.
“Some drunken fool knocked over a lantern that set half the targets on fire, and they needed to make new ones,” Rhaenyra replied, shaking her head at the memory of how irritated her father had been when he learned of it.
“At least it wasn’t one of the dragons,” Laenor chuckled.
*****
“Good show out there, old boy,” some drunk noble that Jon took a moment to realize was from House Tully slurred. “Tis a pity the round ended before you and Ser Criston could fight. That would have been a sight.”
“I agree,” Jon replied, sipping at the lemon water he’d insisted on sticking to since the feast began. It was largely done by now, and for the most part, the various nobles were mingling, crowding around the great hall of the Red Keep, and he wished that he could just go, but that would have been an insult to the king, technically.
As a man fighting in the melee who made it to the duels, Jon had been invited to the feast, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable there. He’d always been kept at a distance in Winterfell at Lady Catelyn’s insistence and wasn’t even allowed in the room when Robert Baratheon and his family were there. His life after he took the black hadn’t exactly prepared him for feasting with nobles either, and he was almost glad that most of them regarded him with almost open disdain, as it meant that they didn’t try to engage him in conversation.
He looked around and forced himself not to let his gaze linger on Rhaenyra, though the gods knew he wanted little more in that moment than to just look at her. She was dressed in a dark blue gown that showed her curvaceous figure off beautifully, its silver-lined bodice tighter around her round belly than most of the gowns she chose to wear those days. She was either choosing to highlight her pregnancy or wanted to wear blue and didn’t have anything more flowing, and he hated that he couldn’t ask her which it was.
“I’m looking forward to testing my blade against yours tomorrow,” a voice behind him said, and Jon was surprised for a moment that someone there hadn’t called him Snow until he realized who it was.
“Ser Raylon,” he regarded the other man neutrally. “We’re going second, yes?”
“After Lord Borros and Ser Criston, yes,” Ser Raylon nodded. Leaning in, he whispered, “I don’t think you realized what you were doing when you inserted yourself into our families’ affairs, but I will warn you once: stay out of it.”
“If I hadn’t, your brother would have ended up tried for murder, you do realize that, right?” Jon asked quietly.
“Jon,” Laenor said tensely as he approached. Looking at the other knight, he murmured, “You’re Ser Raylon Rivers, yes?”
“I am, Lord Laenor,” Raylon nodded. “Excuse me.”
“Thank you for that, but it wasn’t strictly needed,” Jon smiled at the other man.
“Oh, I didn’t think it was, but Ser Qarl’s gone to bed early to sleep off his shoulder injury, and I’m bored,” Laenor complained.
“He landed on it, right?” Jon asked.
“He did,” Laenor replied. “It wasn’t too bad, but he landed awkwardly, and it smarts something fierce. He’ll likely need a couple days to recover.”
“My sympathies,” Jon murmured as Laenor led him around the hall.
Various nobles were scattered about chatting, most looking pretty clearly drunk. The king was still seated, chatting animatedly with Lord Lyonel and a couple other men that he didn’t recognize, while the queen had turned in early, citing her pregnancy and wanting to escort the children to their chambers. Rhaenyra was by the nearest balcony, having needed some air, and as she returned inside, a visibly drunk Borros Baratheon stumbled towards her, coming to a halt as he spotted her.
“By the gods, they’ve gotten even bigger,” he slurred, staring down at her, and Rhaenyra bristled.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” the princess glared.
“He meant the twins, Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys cut in, grabbing her cousin’s arm and glaring up at him. “Isn’t that right, cousin?”
“Huh?” Borros asked, blinking at her. “Oh, right, the twins. They’ll be big and strong like any babes with Baratheon blood in them. Congratulations again, Princess Rhaenyra.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Rhaenyra replied, still tense and irritated.
“You’re fighting Cole tomorrow, Borros,” Rhaenys reminded him. “Perhaps you should get some sleep.”
“You’ve a point,” Borros slurred, slinking off.
“I do apologize for him, Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys sighed. “The drink has a way of robbing my cousin of his wits.”
“What a paltry haul that must be,” Rhaenyra muttered under her breath, and Rhaenys coughed, covering her mouth to hide the slight smile she couldn’t quite suppress.
“Poor cousin Borros,” Laenor sighed quietly. “You wouldn’t think a man with feet that big would manage to fit them into his mouth as well as he does.”
Jon didn’t even try to hide his laughter at that, though he quieted down as he noticed Carellen Strong make a beeline for Rhaenyra and subtly place something in her hand. She excused herself from Rhaenys, who went off in search of Corlys, and went to speak to her father before approaching them.
“Is something wrong, darling?” Laenor asked as she drew close.
“Laenor, the hour grows late, and I’m going to turn in,” Rhaenyra replied. “Would you care to accompany me?”
“Of course,” Laenor nodded, more than ready to leave already. “I don’t see Ser Harwin, though.”
“I gave him the night off,” Rhaenyra replied. “Jon can guard us, I’m sure.”
“Aye, Princess,” Jon nodded, curious as to just what was going on.
The three of them left the hall, and Jon noticed the lingering tension in Rhaenyra’s shoulders as she walked briskly, wishing that he could comfort her in some way, but he knew very well that touching her in private was risky enough in the Red Keep, much less in public. Acting as their apparent guard, he led them to their joint chambers, and Rhaenyra quickly ushered them both inside.
“The nerve of that man,” she muttered, twisting the ring on one of her slender fingers. “Did you see that?”
“Cousin Borros has always been a bit of a boor, especially with some wine in him,” Laenor winced.
“He stared right at my teats and...ugh,” Rhaenyra groaned, sitting down. “I am so glad he was already wed before Father started looking around for potential matches for me.”
“I’m surprised Princess Rhaenys spoke up for him,” Jon commented. “I mean no offense, Laenor, but she doesn’t strike me as the warmest woman in the world.”
“She isn’t,” Laenor chuckled. “She was very fond of my great-uncle, though. He was her strongest supporter in the Great Council and was a mentor and most steadfast friend to her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her weep as she did when word came of his death.”
“So she retains a fondness for his son,” Jon surmised, and Laenor just snorted.
“She thinks he’s a blithering idiot and has lamented numerous times that he isn’t more like his father,” Laenor replied. “Her lingering fondness for Great-Uncle Boremund is sufficient for her to defend him, though, at least to an extent.”
“Fascinating as this is, I will have to ask you two to excuse me,” Rhaenyra piped up. “In truth, I only asked you to accompany me because Ser Harwin was busy and I didn’t feel like taking anyone else. Lady Annara should be coming by.”
“Really?” Jon asked, intrigued.
“I had one of my ladies carefully convey to her that I wished to speak in private,” Rhaenyra replied, pulling out the note she’d stuffed between her breasts. “She understands the need for discretion, lest word reach Alicent, and plans to come by disguised as a servant. Jon, I’ll need you to guard my door for the next little while.”
“Is that level of subterfuge truly needed?” Laenor asked.
“The Hightowers believe that every lord in the Reach would support Aegon over me if it came to another great council,” Rhaenyra replied. “If they learned that I was meeting with a daughter of the most powerful house in the region, it would push them to make inquiries, and I don’t want them trying to make trouble until I’ve already got the project set in stone.”
“Well, I leave you to it,” Laenor murmured, eyeing the door connecting their chambers. “It’s been a long day, and I could use some rest. Don’t keep poor Jon here up too long; he’ll need his rest too for the Battle of the Bastards.”
“That what now?” Jon asked.
“It’s what some of the other nobles are calling your upcoming fight,” Laenor replied, “since your opponent is a Rivers. They’re not the most creative bunch when they’re in their cups.”
“Of course,” Jon muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Night, you two,” Laenor drawled before leaving.
“He didn’t mean any insult there,” Rhaenyra commented, and Jon nodded.
“Oh, I know,” he replied. “I’ve been a Snow all my life, Nyra. I had to stop letting that bother me along the lines, lest I go mad. I’ll go guard your door.”
“Thank you,” Rhaenyra replied. “One of the Kingsguard will relieve you in a couple hours. Lady Annara should have come and gone by then. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Good luck tonight,” Jon smiled, and she returned the look before kissing him softly. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Rhaenyra sighed, smiling as she watched him leave.
*****
“Oh gods!” Jeyne whimpered, clasping a hand over her mouth to quiet herself as Annara sucked on her throbbing little nub.
“Careful now, dearest,” Annara smirked wickedly. “We wouldn’t want my father to hear us.”
“A second Doom wouldn’t wake your father, drunk as he is right now,” Jeyne replied. “Please, I’m so close.”
“You are, aren’t you?” Annara purred, feeling her lover’s hot, silky inner walls flutter around four of her fingers. “You’re positively drenched, my love.”
“Please, Anna,” Jeyne begged. “Please, make me cum.”
“Well, when you ask that nicely,” Annara giggled, pumping her fingers in and out of the other girl again as she swirled her tongue around her clit.
Jeyne grabbed a pillow and pressed it over her face as she came, screaming into it. Annara giggled, watching her oldest friend, first lover, and stepmother writhe in pleasure, and pulled her fingers out of her still spasming cunt as she went still, panting for breath and grinning widely.
“Going to...fucking...worship you for that,” she panted, and Annara just grinned.
“Alas, we don’t have time tonight,” she replied, and Jeyne immediately sat up, looking at her in confusion.
“Huh?” she asked, still trying to catch her breath.
“I’m afraid I have to go meet with another woman,” Annara replied, and Jeyne’s confusion only grew.
“Should I be worried?” she asked, not quite sounding serious.
“Doubtful,” Annara drawled. “For one thing, I’m fairly sure she’s nothing like us, and for another, she’s quite heavily pregnant.”
“The princess?” Jeyne asked, her eyebrows shooting towards her hairline. “Anna…”
“Relax, Jeyne,” Annara cut her off. “I’m going to be discreet, but she wishes to meet, and I want to know what she wants.”
“Matthos doesn’t want trouble with the Hightowers, Anna,” Jeyne replied. “You know that.”
“You’re finally calling him by his name,” Annara giggled, and Jeyne’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s my husband,” she muttered. “I had to start eventually.”
“My father is cautious, but he’s no fonder of them than I am,” Annara muttered. “The princess has been the talk of the land for moons now, ever since word started to spread of the Grand Sept and how it came to be financed. She’s intriguing, and I want to know why she’s seen fit to reach out to me.”
“You want to know if she’s learned about Vic,” Jeyne mused, and Annara’s face fell.
“I want to know why a woman so infamously at odds with House Hightower would reach out to a daughter of House Tyrell,” Annara replied quietly. “I was friendly to her when she first arrived here the other day…”
“And you weren’t wearing green,” Jeyne pointed out.
“I don’t look good in green,’ Annara said peevishly, and Jeyne laughed.
“You look good in everything, Anna,” the brunette purred, cupping her cheek, “but you look best in nothing at all.”
“Well, just now, I’m going to have to make do with brown and grey,” Annara sighed, reaching into her trunk and pulling out the drab dress she’d had a servant acquire for her.
“You’re going to make yourself look like a servant?” Jeyne asked.
“Like I said, I’m going to be subtle,” Annara replied. “Help me into this, would you?”
“Like you even need to ask,” Jeyne chuckled. “I’ve always been more than willing to help you in and out of your gowns.”
Annara smiled at that as her lover got to work. The daughter of one of her father’s bannermen, Jeyne Oakheart had become a lady-in-waiting to her when they were both children, and they’d become fast friends, becoming even more than that when they began to flower. Years of experience helping her dress meant that Jeyne quickly got her into the itchy, uncomfortable wool gown she’d decided to wear and get her hair covered by a shawl that smelled clean enough that she hoped she’d not need to worry about it.
“Be careful,” Jeyne whispered as she watched her leave.
“You of all people know how careful I can be,” Annara smirked before taking off in search of the princess’ chambers.
The best quarters in Maegor’s Holdfast were reserved for the royal family, for obvious reasons, but there were plenty of other rooms in the large keep. The families of the Houses Paramount were generally kept close to the royals, as befit their station, and the Tyrells were no different, no matter what some of their bannermen said behind closed doors. She smiled when she spotted Jon Snow, the princess’ champion in the melee, guarding a door, and he nodded to her when their eyes met. As she reached him, he let her in without a word, and she was quickly greeted by Princess Rhaenyra.
“Good evening,” the Valyrian beauty smiled as she went to stand up.
“Oh, please don’t stand on my account,” Annara begged her, and the princess sighed and smiled gratefully. “How far along are you?”
“My maester thinks I have a couple moons left to go,” Rhaenyra replied, gesturing for her to sit down. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d come so readily.”
“When a Targaryen summons you, you go to them,” Annara replied, and Rhaenyra chuckled.
“I didn’t formally summon you and you know it,” she replied.
“Well, I was curious as to why you wished to meet,” Annara replied.
“I have a proposal for your family that I think could be quite mutually beneficial,” Rhaenyra replied, “and I’ve heard that you hold great influence over Lord Matthos.”
“Father loves his children dearly and has never been one to outright ignore us when we go to him,” Annara replied diplomatically. “What sort of proposal did you have in mind?”
“A construction project,” Rhaenyra replied, and Annara furrowed her brow at her.
“We already have a most beautiful sept in Highgarden, Princess,” she replied, and Rhaenyra laughed.
“It isn’t a sept, I assure you,” the princess murmured, reaching into a satchel lying by her chair and pulling out a substantial-looking scroll, which she handed to her. “Look it over.”
Annara, still confused, unfurled the scroll, and her breath hitched when she realized what she was looking at. As a chill went down her spine, she looked up and went to ask, “This…”
“Would be quite the boon for the Reach and for Highgarden in particular,” Rhaenyra finished for her, and Annara chuckled.
“You’re really nothing like what the Hightowers think you are, are you?” she asked, and Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the princess muttered, and Annara just smirked as she looked back down and started reading.
“My family is quite wealthy, but we can’t afford this, Princess,” she said.
“I’m aware,” Rhaenyra replied. “My proposal would be for your house, the crown, and House Velaryon to split the costs three ways. We would then split the profits from the venture, after it was completed, for a period of thirty years, after which point, full control of it would be turned over to House Targaryen, who would get to reap the benefits thereafter in perpetuity, given that the canal itself is going to be almost entirely in the Crownlands, while Highgarden would continue to profit immensely from the increased traffic through their territories. What do you think your father will think of this?”
“I think if he sees the projected cost of it, his heart might stop,” Annara replied, “but if he were carefully made aware of the vast potential benefits first, I think he might be amenable.”
“And do you think you could pull that off?” Rhaenyra asked, “Or you and his young wife?”
Annara smirked and sat back, regarding the other woman carefully. Rhaenyra Targaryen was nearly of an age with her, and all her life she’d thought that there were certain similarities between them. Like the princess, Annara was also her father’s eldest child and had been his only one for years. Also like her, she had a significantly younger brother, though there was no question about whether or not he would inherit their lands after their father died.
“When we first met, you referred to me as ‘Lord Matthos’ eldest daughter,” the brunette said after a moment, and Rhaenyra cocked an eyebrow at her.
“You are, are you not?” she asked. “I was led to believe that you were the eldest of three siblings.”
“I am,” Annara nodded, “but most tend only to think of my brother and me. Leo is the heir of Highgarden, I’m the flower in bloom, and our sister, Victaria, is often forgotten.”
“I hadn’t heard her name before,” Rhaenyra admitted. “To be honest, I think I only know that there are three of you because the queen mentioned it once, and the fact stuck in my mind.”
“She would know,” Annara scowled, and Rhaenyra looked at her curiously. “I am inclined to help you with this, but I would ask that you answer one question honestly: why do you want the canal built?”
“It would tip the balance of power in the Reach firmly towards Highgarden,” Rhaenyra replied, and Annara smiled. “That would have numerous benefits, both personal and political.”
“When I was a girl, before Leo was born, my family visited Oldtown,” the brunette said. “Victaria and I were thrilled by the large, bustling city and begged our parents to let us go see all the ships up close. My mother didn’t like the idea, but Father agreed and bade the guards to take us. It was just as exciting as we thought it would be, but within days we both ended up wishing that we’d listened to our mother.”
“What happened?” Rhaenyra asked.
“One of the ships carried a man who was hiding a terrible secret,” Annara replied. “The ship had sailed through the Rhoyne, and one among its crew had become infected with Greyscale.”
“Greyscale in Oldtown?” Rhaenyra asked, instantly concerned. “I never heard of this.”
“It ended up being a very limited outbreak,” Annara spat, “and the Hightowers managed to keep it quiet. Three people died, including the fool who had hidden his own infection, and one more was infected.”
“Your sister,” Rhaenyra guessed, and Annara let out a shaky breath.
“She nearly died,” she replied. “My parents were horrified, my mother furious that we were allowed near something so dangerous when Lord Hobert had assured us that the ships that passed through were thoroughly inspected, and it was all my fault. It had been my idea…”
“You were quite young, by the sound of it,” Rhaenyra cut her off, and Annara just scowled at the floor.
“She lived thanks to the quick work of the Citadel,” the brunette continued. “It was actually your great-uncle who managed to stop the infection from spreading, but it had already done so, and the patch of scaled skin couldn’t be cured.”
“She bears its scars to this day,” Rhaenyra said sadly. “I’m so sorry, my lady.”
“It cuts right across her face,” Annara muttered. “Her nose, her cheeks; it’s a wonder it didn’t get to her eyes. She wears a veil and refuses to even consider potential matches, believing that no man could want her.”
“If you wish me to help her find a husband, I might…” Rhaenyra went to offer.
“I want you to take her on as one of your ladies,” Annara replied. “Vic has expressed interest in seeing more of the world than Highgarden, but she’ll never take the initiative and actually ask to be escorted anywhere else. If you inquired with our father about adding to your household, though…”
“Would he not suggest you instead?” Rhaenyra asked, and Annara just smiled.
“He might, but Jeyne and I could talk him into presenting Victaria instead,” she replied, “and at any rate, I’m to wed soon. Traveling to Dragonstone would be too disruptive.”
“Oh, congratulations,” Rhaenyra smiled. “Who will be your husband?”
“Ryam Oakheart, Jeyne’s twin,” Annara replied, smiling slightly.
“He is Lord Alester’s second son, is he not?” Rhaenyra asked, recalling that Ryam had tried to woo her a few years ago. His older brother, Olyver, had already wed a Tarly woman, if she recalled correctly.
“He is,” Annara replied. “I wish to remain at Highgarden, and Ryam is already a knight in my father’s service. He’d be fighting in the tourney, but the poor dear twisted his ankle a few weeks ago.”
“Oh,” Rhaenyra winced. “You must truly love him to wed a man with no lands to inherit.”
“Well, as I said, I wished to remain in Highgarden,” Annara smirked, “and Jeyne and I managed to convince Father to agree to the union.”
Rhaenyra couldn’t help but think that there was more to that but figured that it probably wasn’t relevant to the matter at hand.
“So if I agree to take your younger sister on as my handmaiden, will you help convince your father to agree to the canal project?” she asked and Annara smiled, her slightly crooked mouth making her look almost devious in a way.
“I will convince him,” the brunette replied confidently, and Rhaenyra smiled.
“Then I think we have a deal,” the princess grinned. “I will, of course, be expecting your continuing discretion in this matter, at least until things are formalized and announced.”
“You needn’t worry about me with regard to your...extended family,” Annara replied. “I personally think this canal would do wonderful things for Oldtown.”
Rhaenyra didn’t let herself react to that, save to wish the noblewoman a good night and see her off, thinking to herself that it was quite remarkably good fortune to find a potential ally in the Reach who also wasn’t fond of the Hightowers. Time would tell if anything that she’d just said was true and genuine or not, but as Rhaenyra climbed into bed for the night and closed her eyes, one thought occurred to her more than anything.
“If her sister truly does bear scars from Greyscale, could flesh magic be used to remove them?”
That would be quite the feat and would, perhaps more than anything, help make allies of the Tyrells, but it would likely be years before she was ever in a position to even attempt that, and it was hardly something worth pondering for the time being. She put it out of her mind and happily let sleep claim her.
*****
“I didn’t say earlier, because I was nursing a bit of a headache and didn’t notice, but you look quite chipper this morning, Rhaenyra,” Viserys smiled at her as she sat down next to him.
“Maester Gerardys insists that I shouldn’t drink while carrying the babes, which has turned out to have its own benefits,” Rhaenyra replied, and her father chuckled. “It’s Lord Borros and Cole up first, right?”
“That’s right,” Viserys replied. “Then Snow and Rivers, then it’s Ser Ormund and Ser Erryk, and finally we have Willam Royce and Merlon Crakehall.”
“I am so proud of Ormund,” Alicent smiled, and Hobert beamed next to her.
Rhaenyra fought the urge to roll her eyes and looked over at Rhaenys, who hadn’t bothered. Peering down at the carefully cleared fighting pit, she spotted Jon and felt her heart flutter. She was both looking forward to seeing him fight again and fretting over it. The first match held little of interest for her and she honestly wished they could both lose.
“My lords and ladies, we return today to watch the glorious victors of the qualifying round of the melee yesterday duel each other,” Viserys called out, smiling widely as he looked around at the crowd. “The rules for these duels are less strict than they were yesterday, and though I still strongly discourage our competitors from killing each other, I recognize that in fights like this, accidents can happen.”
That drew a flurry of excited chatter from the crowd, eager for the spectacle to come, and Rhaenyra turned the rings on her fingers nervously.
“Our competitors names were drawn at random, and up first we have Lord Borros Baratheon facing off against our own Ser Criston Cole,” Viserys continued, and the two of them walked into the ring.
“For the love of the gods,” Rhaenys muttered under her breath when she saw just how visibly staggered Borros was, and Rhaenyra saw Corlys struggling to keep himself from smiling in amusement.
Borros was a taller, broader, and stronger man than Cole, but Rhaenyra knew all too well just how skilled a combatant her former sworn shield was, and she had learned the hard way with Ser Harwin that size alone couldn’t win fights. The crowd started snickering as they realized just how hungover the Lord of Storm’s End was, but Viserys at least pretended not to notice.
“May the Warrior guide both of you today,” he called out. “Fight!”
Borros charged, his warhammer raised high, and he sought to bring it down hard on Cole’s shield. His brute strength was his greatest asset, and battering his opponent until his shield arm went numb would have potentially helped neutralize the sheer advantage that the famous knight’s greater skill gave him if he was at his best. He was slow, though, and sluggish, and Cole simply sidestepped him and struck his antlered helmet with his shield. Borros staggered back, and Cole swung his morningstar outward, striking him clean in the chest hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. The Baratheon lord stumbled backward and fell on his arse, earning a round of laughter from the crowd.
“And that is why you don’t get blind drunk the night before a fight,” Laenor sighed as Corlys coughed to hide his chuckles, and Rhaenys glared venomously down at her cousin.
The crowd’s laughter turned to cheers as Viserys announced that Cole was the victor, and he graciously helped his opponent back up. Borros marched off, undoubtedly embarrassed after that showing, though Rhaenyra wondered if he wasn’t actually rushing off to puke somewhere.
“Give another round of applause for our Kingsguard,” Viserys called out, and Rhaenyra scowled as Cole soaked up the praise and returned to stand with the other remaining combatants. “Now, we have a most unlikely match. Tourneys like this are for knights and generally trueborn ones, but there have been famous baseborn or even lowborn warriors in history, and if one wishes to test their mettle against the most capable knights in the realm and one has a noble sponsor, it is possible for nearly any man to join the fray. In this case, two such men not only entered but advanced, and, against all odds, they were selected at random to face each other in this round of fighting. Please join me in welcoming Ser Raylon Rivers and his opponent, Jon Snow.”
Rhaenyra and Laenor cheered, as did the Brackens, but most others remained quiet, and the princess scowled peevishly at the crowd, earning a smirk from Alicent, who regarded both competitors with interest.
“I saw him at the feast last night, but he practically looked like a ghost there,” she thought to herself. “Here, in that armor Rhaenyra undoubtedly paid for, he does, at least, look imposing.”
He was taller and broader than his opponent, that was for sure, but the other bastard had distinguished himself as a capable fighter the previous afternoon, and Alicent was sure that this would be a more thrilling fight than what the boorish idiot had managed against Ser Criston.
“Take your places,” Viserys called out. “May the Warrior guide both of you today. Fight!”
Unlike in the first match, neither man sought to rush out towards the other, and instead, both approached almost cautiously, circling the other as they studied their opponents. Ser Raylon struck first, feinting towards Jon’s head and slicing across his chest. Jon deflected the blow with his shield and thrust towards Raylon’s chest, pulling back a second later when he saw his opponent twist out of the way and riposte towards his right shoulder. He batted the blow aside with ease and stepped back. If he was trying to lure his opponent in, Ser Raylon didn’t take the bait, choosing instead to step aside.
“The sword of his,” Alicent commented, startling Rhaenyra, who was utterly focused as the pair of them started trading blows back and forth, each trying to find an opening in the other’s guard, “you said that you found it with the Dothraki’s possessions.”
“That’s right,” Rhaenyra lied. “The savages didn’t seem to know what a treasure they’d stolen.”
“Giving it to a random bastard, though, it seems strange,” Alicent continued, her blue eyes boring into hers.
“Well, you’ve seen how he is with it,” Laenor replied, pointing to the pair of them as Jon effortlessly parried Raylon’s downward slash and riposted towards his groin, forcing him to leap back. “It was my decision, my queen. House Targaryen hardly needs a third Valyrian steel sword, and he’s a much better fighter than I am, so I figured he could wield it in my name.”
“So generous,” Alicent said, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she turned back to the fight.
Raylon feinted low and swung at Jon’s shoulder, aiming for the joint in his armor. Seeing what he was doing, Jon parried it in a way that left him open to thrust towards his opponent’s shoulder and grinned as he felt the blade graze across the joint, slicing through it and finding flesh. Raylon grunted and raised his shield, slamming it into Jon’s to try and force him back as pain flared in his sword arm, but Jon sidestepped him and slammed his own shield into his wounded shoulder, making him cry out in pain and stagger back. Rushing forward, he unleashed a flurry of blows on the riverman, who was forced to frantically defend himself until finally he managed to twist Raylon’s blade out of his hand and pressed the tip of his own against the man’s throat.
“I yield,” Raylon gasped, though he didn’t need to, as the crowd erupted in cheers, most of them sounding surprised.
Rhaenyra hazarded a glance at Alicent, figuring that she’d be annoyed at how well the man wearing her colors had done, but the queen looked oddly pleased, and she grew immediately suspicious.
“Laenor,” Rhaenyra whispered in his ear as Jon and Raylon both left the makeshift arena, “go warn Jon that Alicent’s plotting something.”
Over the cheering crowd, even Laenor only barely heard that, and he nodded before excusing himself, claiming that he needed the privy.
*****
“Well done,” Willas grinned, and Jon looked at him in surprise.
“My lord?” he asked, noticing that the man was holding his right arm stiffly.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on beating that Bracken swine’s bastard, Jon,” Willas clarified. “It was a good fight.”
“He was good, but I was a shade more skillful,” Jon replied humbly, and the Lord of Raventree Hill just chuckled as the king called out for Ormund Hightower and Erryk Cargyll to begin their fight. “How’s the arm?”
“Oh, it will bother me for a few more days, I’m sure,” Willas grimaced. “I’m not as young as I once was. It’ll be fine, though.”
“Jon?” Laenor asked as he made his way towards them.
“Lord Laenor?” Jon asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.
“I’d like a word in private,” Laenor said. Looking at Willas, he nodded and added, “My lord.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” Willas replied, watching as Ser Erryk practically danced around his Hightower opponent, who grew quickly frustrated as none of his slashes and thrusts came anywhere close to hitting him.
Laenor led him away from the crowd towards a large tree, which provided quite a bit of welcome shade on the warm, sunny day. Most people’s attention was on the melee itself, so few made any note of the two of them, and none were within earshot as the heir of Driftmark halted and turned to Jon.
“Nyra thinks that Alicent might be plotting something,” he said as quietly as he could, and Jon just chuckled.
“Isn’t she always?” he asked before looking more serious. “What made her worry?”
“For the most part, the babes, I imagine,” Laenor sighed as the crowd erupted in applause, announcing what Jon could only assume was Ser Erryk’s victory, “but she did look oddly pleased to see you beat Ser Raylon.”
“She’s probably hoping that Cole will kill or maim me,” Jon shrugged, and Laenor’s eyes widened. “It’s become pretty clear to everyone by now that I’m close to you, and the way that I beat Ser Raylon so thoroughly suggests that I’ll probably make it far in these fights. To face Cole, he and I would have to win the next matches, and she was probably pleased because she figures that I will based on my first fight.”
“And you’re not concerned about this?” Laenor asked, and Jon shrugged.
“I’ve fought worse,” he replied, “and I figured it was a possibility when I entered this thing.”
“Gods, you remind me of Joffrey,” Laenor sighed, and Jon looked at him in surprise.
“May the Warrior guide you both,” the king called out, his voice reaching the pair of them. “Fight!”
“This is the first time I’ve heard you mention him,” Jon commented, and Laenor looked down, appearing pained.
“He was so brave and so strong,” he whispered, his voice slightly shaky. “In his gleaming armor, he was like the Warrior himself. Out of it…”
Jon cleared his throat and looked around meaningfully.
“Just be careful, Jon,” Laenor sighed. “Cole is a monster and a terrible foe to face.”
“I will,” Jon assured him. “Relay that message where it needs to go, would you?”
“Of course,” Laenor nodded before turning and leaving.
Jon returned to his spot in time to see that he’d missed the beginning of one hell of a fight. Willam Royce was a tall, lean man, standing in gleaming bronze armor, but he looked positively small next to his foe. Merlon Crakehall stood a head and some taller than the Royce knight and probably weighed a good five stone more. His bulk, of which Jon assumed most was muscle, made him appear even huger, and his mighty greatsword gave him a terrifying reach with his great height.
“That is one big cunt,” he murmured as he spotted Willas Blackwood still standing there, and the lord laughed.
“The Crakehalls are all huge,” he replied. “The men are towering behemoths, not unlike the Strongs, and their women are all, well...let’s say gifted.”
“Buxom, are they?” Jon chuckled as Ser Willam continued to lead his foe around the arena, parrying his blows as needed, but mostly dodging as he clearly tried to let Ser Merlon tire himself out.
“I met one of Ser Merlon’s sisters once,” Willas replied quietly. “The woman was as tall as I am, and I swear her breasts were both bigger than my head.”
“They sound like the Umbers,” Jon commented.
“They’re the ones from the Dreadfort, right?” Willas asked, and Jon’s face fell.
“Last Hearth,” he corrected him. “House Bolton rules the Dreadfort.”
“Right, right,” Willas muttered. “I don’t think Royce’s strategy is working.”
“It’s not,” Jon thought to himself as he saw the bronze-clad knight seem to realize the same thing.
Merlon Crakehall’s size didn’t mean that he lacked speed, and it didn’t seem to mean that he lacked stamina either. The pair had been fighting for a few minutes by then, with Ser Merlon maintaining quite the blistering pace as he tried to keep his foe permanently on the defensive, and yet he didn’t appear tired at all. Ser Willam feinted towards his groin and swung downward towards his head, clearly hoping that the other knight would block it with his greatsword. The dark blade of his sword, Lamentation, made it clear what it was, and there was a good chance that it would break any sword it clashed with directly. Ser Merlon knew he was facing a foe with Valyrian steel, though, and sidestepped the blow, driving his shoulder into the smaller man and sending him back.
Ser Willam stayed on his feet and redirected Ser Merlon’s follow-up slash harmlessly away, bashing his shield against his shoulder, though the Crakehall knight didn’t even seem to feel it. The two of them circled each other, swinging and thrusting as they went and tried to find an opening, when Ser Merlon seemed to make a mistake. Ser Willam kicked his left knee, hitting the poleyn and making him grunt. Enraged, Ser Merlon limped back and swung his blade in a wide arc, a move he would have made against any foe to try to force them to move backward and give him a little space, but Ser Willam didn’t. He caught the blow on his blade, undoubtedly grinning inside his helmet as he figured that he was about to win the fight, only for his sword to get knocked out of his hand and sent flying towards the crowd, causing screams as it nearly skewered a man. The two swords had struck each other so hard that Jon swore he saw a spark, but Ser Merlon was just that much stronger than his foe, who swiftly surrendered.
“Fuck me,” Willas chuckled. “I don’t envy you that fight.”
Jon didn’t reply, his focus entirely on Ser Merlon’s sword as the man sheathed it and limped off. Lamentation hadn’t gone through it, but it had undoubtedly damaged it, and while he was sure that Ser Merlon’s knee would recover somewhat as the next fight happened, the sword couldn’t be repaired. He grinned as he realized that Cole was about to face Ser Erryk, and whoever won that fight would likely end up more winded than he would after facing the Crakehall knight afterward.
*****
“It just goes to show that Valyrian steel isn’t everything,” Viserys chuckled as he sat back down, still applauding what had been the most exciting match that day. “Two fights in a row where the winner was the man with simple castle-forged steel.”
“Indeed,” Hobert grumbled, still annoyed that his son had lost, though pleased to see that Ser Willam lost. The man was of the Vale and thus a supporter of the princess, which would have been enough for him to hope he’d lost even if he wasn’t irritated about Ormund’s failure.
“Cousin Ormund fought well, Uncle,” Gwayne said reassuringly. “Didn’t he, Alicent?”
“Quite right,” Alicent replied, not even looking at him as Ser Criston and Ser Erryk took their places.
She liked Ser Erryk well enough, though she preferred his brother, Ser Arryk, but he wasn’t who she was hoping would win this fight. The winner of this fight would go on to fight Jon Snow, of that she was sure, given how badly Ser Merlon was limping by the end of his fight, and there were some tasks that she was only willing to trust to him.
“He might be the one I can trust most,” she thought to herself bitterly. “Viserys’ obsession with Rhaenyra will likely always be a weakness of his; my father turned out to not be as smart as he thought he was, my uncle is less than him, and the less said about Gwayne and Ormund, the better. Ser Criston, though, I can trust and rely on him.”
“And so we come to the second semi-final round of our melee,” Viserys announced, standing up. “Up first, we have a genuine treat: a duel between two members of the Kingsguard, including its Lord Commander. Give a rousing welcome back to Ser Criston Cole and Ser Erryk Cargyll.”
He trailed off and let them applaud the splendid knights, each standing there in their gleaming white armor. The two of them spared the crowd a couple glances each before focusing on each other. This would likely be the most honorable duel of the day, given that neither of them had any cause to seek to harm the other. Ser Erryk held his blade at his side, his white shield strapped to his other arm, and lowered his visor as the king stood back up.
“May the Warrior guide both of you,” he called out. “Fight!”
Ser Criston moved first, swinging his morningstar high and smiling grimly when Ser Erryk blocked his shield and it cracked. The other kingsguard would feel that in the morning, but they were both seasoned warriors and used to dealing with pain. Ser Erryk countered with a thrust towards Ser Criston’s hip and sidestepped it, only to catch the pommel of his foe’s blade against his helmet, making his ears ring. Grunting, he stepped back, and Ser Erryk pursued, feinting towards his head and trying to bash his shield against his left shoulder. Ser Criston deftly leapt aside and swung his morningstar upward, catching Ser Erryk right in the pauldron.
“Gods be good,” Viserys fretted as he heard the thunderous crack that resulted from that blow.
Ser Criston’s morningstar caught the pauldron at an odd angle and actually managed to crack it, knocking part of the metal off.
“I hope those two realize that I don’t want to have to replace either of them,” the king chuckled nervously, and Corlys just laughed.
“I think if either of them were trying to kill the other, we’d know,” he commented.
Rhaenyra barely heard either of them, remembering the last couple times she’s watched Ser Criston fight. It had been blows like those that had killed Ser Joffrey and broken Ser Harwin’s collarbone, and she felt her heart race in her chest at the thought of Jon facing him.
Ser Erryk put up a good fight, slashing and thrusting away at Ser Criston, but the other knight dodged or parried his every blow, responding with devastating force whenever he saw an opening, and when one swing of his morningstar knocked Ser Erryk’s sword away, that was that. The other Kingsguard surrendered and clasped Ser Criston’s arm, congratulating him on a fight well won before returning to the stands. Rhaenyra swallowed thickly as she heard her father call out Jon and Ser Merlon, hating that even a small part of her kind of hoped that the Westerman would win.
*****
“May the Warrior guide you both,” The king called out. “Fight.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Ser Merlon asked as the two of them circled each other. “You fought well against Ser Raylon.”
“Just a Northerner with a talent for violence,” Jon replied, slashing low towards his right side to begin the fight and grinning when the man moved awkwardly to block with his shield instead of using his sword. “You sound like you know Ser Raylon.”
“I beat his father in the qualifying round, and his brother,” Ser Merlon replied, riposting with a thrust towards his right shoulder that Jon easily parried. “Both said that he was better and suggested that I go face him, but I didn’t find him before it ended.”
“He was good,” Jon commented. “I hope you will be.”
Unlike Ser Willam, Jon wasn’t much shorter or lighter than Ser Merlon and couldn’t be simply overpowered, but beyond that, he was just clearly less wounded. Ser Merlon was trying to hide how much he was favoring his right leg, but he wasn’t nearly a good enough actor, and beyond that, it didn’t take Jon long to realize that Lamentation had damaged the man’s sword as he’d hoped. It wasn’t critical, and he didn’t blame him for not trying to replace it on such little notice. If he wasn’t facing yet another man with a Valyrian steel sword, it probably wouldn’t have been a problem, but he was.
Ser Merlon tried to force him backward, swinging for his head, his neck, and his groin in hopes that he’d make some kind of mistake that he could capitalize on, but Jon realized what he was doing and simply led him backward, parrying what he couldn’t dodge, until his foe finally overextended on a thrust. Sidestepping it, he brought his blade up in a swift, heavy arc and struck the chipped spot perfectly, slicing clean through the blade.
“Fuck,” Ser Merlon grumbled, hanging his head as he sheathed what was left of his sword and picked up the other pieces.
“We should spar before you leave,” Jon commented. “I’d like to see how we each fare fresher and with more similar weapons.”
“If I have time,” Ser Merlon grunted before limping off.
“And so we come to our final fight,” Viserys called out as Jon took a deep breath and craned his head from side to side, stretching the muscles of his neck. “The qualifying round of the melee yesterday was every bit as exciting as I had hoped it would be, unusual format that it was, and the duels today have been just as enjoyable. Alas, all good things must come to an end. Neither of our final combatants needs any introduction at this point, one of whom because he’s one of the most renowned knights of the realm, and the other because he had distinguished himself far beyond what any of us would have expected, had we just heard his name.”
Jon rolled his eyes at that, though only because he still had his helmet on. Cole approached him as the king was speaking, his own visor already down, and Jon’s grip on his blade tightened.
“Ser Criston, Jon Snow, one of you will emerge from this fight, having won ten thousand gold dragons and the admiration of us all,” Viserys continued. “May the Warrior guide you both. Fight!”
Cole lunged at Jon at full speed the moment the last word left the king’s lips, swinging his morningstar with all his might and sending it hurtling towards Jon’s chest. Jon sidestepped the blow and thrust his blade towards the man’s throat, forcing him to block with his shield, which it chipped. Cole swung at his head, and Jon knew that would have killed him if it struck, but he ducked under it and drove his shoulder into him, sending him stumbling back, though he quickly righted himself.
“If he hits me in the head, throat, or chest, I’m dead,” Jon thought to himself as he caught the man’s next attack on his shield, making it crack, and felt the titanic blow reverberate up his arm. “If he manages to wrap the chain on that fucking thing around my sword and yank it away, I’m dead.”
Every other fight he’d been in since this started was only potentially fatal, but this was different. This foe wanted to kill him with every fiber of his being, and he fought with a palpable rage, raining blow after blow on him. He twisted out of the way of most of them, sidestepping what he couldn’t and only blocking if he had no choice, knowing that his shield wasn’t going to last long against such a foe. He could feel the fear that came with being in a fight to the death; only a fool wouldn’t have, but he’d long since mastered it, and compared to the living embodiments of death itself, Criston Cole wasn’t all that scary.
“Careful now,” he chuckled as he managed to deftly bat the metal ball aside with the flat of his blade and riposte towards Cole’s helmet, actually slicing through the faint space between Cole’s visor and the rest of his helmet, nicking his chin, “or I might think you actually mean to kill me.”
“You don’t belong here, Snow,” Cole hissed, kicking at his hip and forcing him to jump back.
“I made it to the final fight, so clearly I’m not terrible,” Jon replied, grunting as he blocked another strike with his shield and heard it splinter.
“You are a heathen in a tourney for the gods and in thrall of a witch besides,” Cole spat as he ducked under Jon’s responding slash and tried to swing his morningstar upward at his chin, only to go slightly wide as Jon’s thrust at his leg forcing him to jump. “Your death will be a mercy, trust me.”
“Gods, do you actually hear yourself speak?” Jon scoffed. “I don’t think any man in history has ever taken rejection as hard as you. A beautiful woman who doesn’t want to fuck you isn’t a witch, you lunatic.”
“Ahh!” Cole shouted as he swung his morningstar at Jon’s groin, forcing him to jump aside.
Around the crowd were nearly silent, practically on the edge of their seats as they watched what was easily the most hard-fought match yet. He didn’t dare glance at Rhaenyra as he circled around the arena, leading Cole onward in the hopes that the knight would make some sort of mistake he could capitalize on, knowing that if he saw her white with fright and looking like she was about to be ill, it would probably distract him enough to get him killed. He had been on the defensive almost constantly from the start, kept there by Cole’s relentless, furious assault. He’d seen men fight angry before, and they were usually made worse by it, but Ser Criston fought with such a black rage that you’d have thought he saw Rhaenyra herself before him, and he was not noticeably weakened by his fury.
“Did the queen put you up to this, or are you just this murderous naturally?” Jon asked as he sidestepped yet another blow aimed square at his chest.
“The Hightowers and her grace know that you’re the one helping the princess strengthen her position to subvert our laws,” Cole replied, grunting as Jon slashed low and actually managed to slice through the joint between his left poleyn and greave, though it was sadly not a terribly deep blow.
It did slow him a little, which made Jon grin, though his face swiftly fell when Cole swung wide in response and managed to hit the edge of his shield, shattering it. The knight took advantage of his momentary disorientation at the loss of the shield, pressing forward and raining a flurry of blows on him that Jon was forced to dodge, knowing that if he was hit directly, it would mean broken bones likely followed closely by death. Batting the last swing aside, he stepped in close and bashed his helmeted head against Cole’s, stunning him for a moment, and he swung upward, hoping Bloodletter would be able to slice through the man’s armor, but he jumped back and swung wide just as Jon’s blade came up.
He wasn’t close enough to hit Jon, having moved back a few paces, but he wasn’t aiming for him, and the man laughed as he saw his morningstar wrap around Jon’s blade, locking in place. Gasps sounded in the crowd, and a strangled cry emitted from the royal section as the white-clad knight tried to tug the sword out of Jon’s hand, but he paid it no mind, holding onto his blade with all his might. He was larger and stronger than Cole, but he knew that wouldn’t matter if he didn’t find a way out of this quickly, and so, rather than try to free himself from the bind he was in, he lunged forward. He crashed into his foe with all his might, using his greater weight to his advantage, and hoped that he’d be able to wrestle the other man to submission when he noticed the slight glimmer of something made of metal half buried in the dry dirt right under them.
Ser Criston’s pained scream echoed through the grounds as they landed heavily and his shoulder made contact with the bit of metal. It wasn’t sharp and didn’t pierce him, but instead it was dull, and he felt sharp, intense pain in his shoulder as something inside him seemed to be yanked out of place. He tried to roll them over, hoping to rip Jon’s helmet off and beat him to death with his gauntleted fists, only to realize, to his horror, that he couldn’t move his right arm.
Jon pulled Bloodletter and Cole’s morningstar from the man’s slack hand and scrambled to his feet, holding them both up together in triumph as the crowd erupted in cheers. He stepped away from Cole, not trusting the clearly wounded man not to lash out, only to still as he caught sight of Rhaenyra. She was sitting next to her father, who was ordering men to check on Cole, and one look at her face was enough to make the rest of the world seem to disappear. Her face was flushed, her large breasts heaving with her every heavy breath, and her eyes were practically black, radiating such naked desire that he’d have feared her giving him such a look in public if not for how focused everyone was on either himself or Cole.
“The second I can, I’m going to fuck you until neither of us can move a muscle,” her eyes seemed to say, and he had to force himself to look away, lest his cock swell and strain painfully against his codpiece.
Turning back to Cole, Jon saw the man sit up and try desperately to get his arm to work, and he grinned before unwrapping his morningstar from Bloodletter.
“A...a most surprising conclusion to our melee,” Viserys stammered, looking visibly concerned as the twins rushed in and helped Ser Criston to his feet. “Jon Snow, that was a most extraordinary duel, and I am pleased to declare you the victor. The prize of ten thousand gold dragons is yours; may it serve you well.”
“Actually, Father, I think that a showing like that deserves more of a reward than that,” Rhaenyra piped up, grinning wickedly as she glanced over at an openly furious Alicent. “You’ve said yourself that Jon Snow was unique in this tourney insofar as that he isn’t a knight. I know that Northerners tend not to care as much about such things as we do, but that was a performance absolutely worthy of a knighthood.”
“Hmm, I daresay you’re right,” Viserys replied, earning a truly venomous look from his wife for a moment before she managed to school her features. “We’ll be moving onto the archery contest next, but once it’s concluded, Jon, I think my daughter’s right and you’ve more than earned the honor of a knighthood.”
Jon blinked up at them in surprise for a moment before chuckling. It wasn’t something that he’d ever considered before, but if his princess wanted him to be her knight, he wasn’t about to deny her, especially given the circumstances by which he earned it.