A/N: The tourney finale is here! Hope you enjoy the chapter :D
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
The flag dropped.
The world dissolved into a tunnel of blurring color and thundering noise. Jon dug his spurs into the destrier's flanks, feeling the massive animal surge forward beneath him. The ground shook. Dust rose in choking clouds. Through the narrow slit of his visor, the lists stretched out like a long, earthen scar, at the end of which rode Ser Horas Redwyne.
Pain lanced through Jon's left shoulder—a deep, grinding ache that pulsed in time with the destrier's thundering gallop. The bruise from Ser Robar Royce's morning tilt had spread beneath the padded gambeson like spilled ink, each jolt of the horse's stride sending fresh sparks of agony down his arm. Luke had eased the worst of yesterday's damage from Ser Hyle Hunt, but there was only so much even a Jedi could mend in a day of continuous jousting.
Jon's teeth ground together. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth where he'd bitten his cheek.
Focus.
He fed the pain into the cold fire coiling in his chest. Yesterday's anger against Ser Hyle had been clean righteous fury at a knight who'd tried to cripple him. This felt different. Sharper. Robar had been honorable even in defeat, offering a respectful nod before riding from the lists. But Horas Redwyne...
He saw Ser Horas's lance tip dip, then rise.
High.
The Redwyne knight was aiming for the helm. It was a legal strike, technically, but dangerous and desperate. A tactic meant to ring a man's head like a bell, to stun him or unseat him through sheer concussive force rather than skill. It was the tactic of a bully who knew he could not win on merit.
Jon remembered Sam's face throughout their say at Highgarden. The way he had flinched when Horas's name was mentioned. The years of torment Sam had endured at the hands of boys like this, boys who mistook cruelty for strength and birthright for worth.
No.
The Force swelled within Jon, responding to his fury. It was not the calm river of Soresu that Luke spoke of. It was a flood. It was the breaking of the dam.
Time seemed to slow. The roar of the crowd deepened into a low, guttural drone. Jon could see the individual splinters on Horas's lance, the sweat glistening on the horse's neck, the malicious intent radiating from the knight in orange and blue.
Jon did not just ride. He pushed.
He extended his will forward, wrapping it around his own lance, guiding the tip with a precision that belonged to no mortal hand. He felt the point of impact before it happened. He saw the line of force that would shatter Horas's defense.
For Sam.
They met with a crash that sounded like the world cracking open.
Horas's lance glanced harmlessly off the upper rim of Jon's shield, deflected by a subtle, Force-aided shift of Jon's shoulder. But Jon's lance struck true. It did not hit the shield. It hit the breastplate, dead center, right over the heart.
The wood did not shatter immediately. For a fraction of a second, it held, transferring the entire momentum of Jon's charging destrier into Horas's chest.
The Redwyne knight was lifted clean out of his saddle.
He flew backward, arms windmilling, legs kicking at empty air. He traveled five yards before the ground claimed him, slamming him into the mud with a wet, heavy thud that shook the ground. His armor crumpled. His helm flew off, rolling away to reveal a face slack with shock and pain.
Jon thundered past, reining his horse in at the end of the lists. He wheeled the destrier around, chest heaving, the broken stump of his lance clutched in his hand.
The crowd erupted. It was a roar of bloodlust satisfied, of shock at the violence of the unhorsing.
Jon flipped his visor up. He looked toward the fallen knight, where squires were already rushing to drag Horas from the mud. The man was moving, groaning, alive but humiliated.
Jon's gaze drifted to the stands. He found the cluster of his companions easily.
Samwell Tarly stood gripping the rail, his knuckles white. But on his round, pale face, there was no fear. There was a smile. A wide, beaming, incredulous smile. He looked at Horas in the mud, then up at Jon, and for the first time since Jon had met him, Sam looked vindicated.
A dark, cold satisfaction coiled in Jon's belly. It felt good. It felt right. To see the bully broken. To use his power to crush those who deserved it.
This is what power is for, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. To set things right.
He shook his head, physically dislodging the thought. The memory of Luke's warnings in the crypts came back to him. It feeds on our pain, our fear, our anger.
Jon dropped the broken lance. He did not salute the royal box. He simply turned his horse and rode for the exit, the cheers of the crowd fading into a dull buzz behind him.
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The air inside the tent was heavy and still, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the lists. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the canvas roof.
Jon sat on a low stool, wincing as Jory peeled the heavy pauldrons from his shoulders. His tunic was soaked through with sweat, sticking to his skin. The bruise on his shoulder had bloomed into a magnificent tapestry of purple and black, hot to the touch.
"Easy," Jon hissed as the leather strap tugged against the swollen flesh.
"Almost done," Jory muttered, his hands efficient and gentle. "You hit him hard enough to rattle his ancestors, Jon. I doubt Ser Horas will be sitting a horse for a week."
"He aimed for my head," Jon said flatly.
"Aye. And you aimed for his soul." Jory tossed the pauldron onto the table. "Here. Drink."
He handed Jon a skin of water. Jon drank greedily, the cool liquid washing away the dust in his throat.
Across the tent, Sam was polishing Jon's breastplate with a rag. His hands were shaking slightly, but he worked with a fierce dedication.
"You should have seen his face," Sam said, his voice bubbling with a nervous energy. "When he landed. He looked... he looked small. I never thought Horas Redwyne could look small."
"He is small," Luke said from the corner. He sat cross-legged on a chest, eyes closed in meditation, though he opened one now to look at Sam. "Men who build themselves up by tearing others down are always small, Sam. They just cast long shadows."
Sam beamed at the praise, attacking a spot of rust on the steel with renewed vigor. He moved to pick up the gorget, but his fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar southern buckles. The metal slipped, clattering against the table.
Sam flinched, looking terrified, as if expecting a blow.
Jory stepped in before Jon could speak. He didn't take the armor from Sam. He didn't scold him. He simply reached out and steadied the piece.
"It's the clasp, lad," Jory said softly. "These Tyrell smiths like their fancy catches. You have to slide it sideways before it snaps. Like this."
He guided Sam's hands, showing him the mechanism.
"Tighten the gorget strap first," Jory instructed, his voice patient, the way Ser Rodrik used to speak to Bran when he was learning the bow. "If he can't breathe, he can't fight. But not so tight he chokes when he tucks his chin."
Sam nodded, his tongue protruding slightly between his lips in concentration. He tried again. The clasp clicked into place with a satisfying snap.
"I did it," Sam whispered.
"Aye," Jory said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You did. Good work."
Sam stood a little straighter. He brought the armor to Jon, moving with a new confidence. As he began to fasten the straps, Jon caught Jory watching them, a thoughtful expression on his weathered face.
"You know," Jory said, leaning against the tent pole, "I've been watching the lists. Horas Redwyne... the boy can barely stay in the saddle. He rides like a sack of grain."
Jon grunted as Sam tightened the breastplate. "He seemed eager enough to charge."
"Eager, aye. Skilled? No." Jory shook his head. "How does a clumsy jouster like that make the semi-finals in a tourney like this?"
Jon frowned. He hadn't thought about it. He had been too focused on his own fights.
"Luck of the draw?" Jon suggested.
"It smells of roses," Jory said, spitting onto the dirt floor. "Tyrell politics. I watched his matches yesterday. His opponents... they barely tried. One pulled his horse. Another yielded after a broken lance that wouldn't have unseated a child."
Luke unfolded his legs and stood, the movement fluid. "They yielded to curry favor," he said, nodding in agreement. "Lady Olenna. Horas is her grandson, correct? To defeat him is to embarrass her family. To let him win is to gain a favor."
"Exactly," Jory said. "They wanted an easy win for the Queen's cousin. They paved the road for him to reach the semi-finals, thinking he'd face another sycophant."
"Instead," Jon said, looking down at his bruised knuckles, "he faced a wolf."
"And got eaten," Jory finished with a grim smile. "It explains why he was so confident. He's never had to fight for his place. Until today."
The tent flap rustled.
Jon tensed, half-expecting Margaery to sweep in again with her silk and her veiled threats. Or perhaps Desmera, flushed with his victory.
But it was neither.
A plain-faced maid slipped through the opening. It was the same woman who had brought Margaery's rejected favor yesterday.
She did not curtsy this time. She walked directly to Jon, her eyes fixed on his face with an intensity that was unsettling.
"My lord," she said, her voice devoid of inflection.
She held out a hand. In her palm lay a small scroll of parchment, sealed with green wax. There was no sigil impressed into the seal. Just a smooth drop of emerald.
Jon took it. He broke the wax with his thumb and unrolled the paper.
The message was brief, written in a neat, elegant hand that spoke of expensive tutors.
Loras honors skill, but he does not know how to lose. Do not let him break you.
There was no signature, but Jon didn't need one. He recognized the handwriting from the previous favor, and the faint scent of roses clinging to the parchment was answer enough.
He handed the scroll to Luke.
The Jedi scanned it, a small, crooked smile appearing on his face. "You know, back home, usually people just shot at me when they wanted my attention. I think I prefer this method, though the perfume is a bit much."
Jon huffed a laugh, picturing archers loosing shafts at his teacher in some distant desert. "I didn't ask for it."
"Admirers rarely wait for permission," Luke said, handing the note back. His expression sobered, though the warmth remained in his eyes. "But the advice is sound. You fought Horas with anger, and it worked because he was afraid of you. Loras won't be afraid."
"He's the Knight of Flowers," Jon said, tucking the note into his belt. "They say he's never lost a joust."
"He fights with perfection," Luke agreed. "If you fight him with anger, if you let your emotions cloud your vision, he will use that against you. Anger makes you strong, Jon, but it also makes you predictable."
"So how do I fight him?"
"With clarity," Luke said. "See him. See the moment. And when the time comes... trust your instincts, not your temper."
The sun had begun its descent, casting long, golden shadows across the tourney field. The air was cooling, but the heat of the crowd had only intensified. They were screaming. A wall of sound that battered against Jon's helm, vibrating in his teeth.
The Grand Final.
At the far end of the lists sat Ser Loras Tyrell.
He was a vision of knightly perfection. His armor was intricate silver plate, chased with gold filigree in the shape of vines and roses. His cloak was a cascade of real flowers, woven together into a heavy, fragrant tapestry that trailed over his horse's rump. He sat his white stallion with the easy grace of a centaur, helmet off, waving to the crowd with a smile that was both dazzling and arrogant.
He looked like a song come to life.
Jon sat his own horse, a dark, brooding figure in comparison. His armor was plain steel, dented from the day's fighting. The crimson and indigo sash Desmera had given him was dusty and frayed at the edges. He kept his visor down, a wolf of iron staring out at the rose of gold.
The herald's voice boomed, announcing the champions, but Jon barely heard it. He was breathing in a slow, measured rhythm.
In. Out. Clear the mind.
He reached for the Force. He felt the crowd—a chaotic ocean of excitement and expectation. He felt Loras—a bright, burning point of confidence and pride. And he felt the eyes boring down from the Royal Box.
The trumpet sounded.
Loras lowered his helm. The crowd hushed.
Pass one.
They charged. Loras rode beautifully. He didn't bounce; he flowed. His lance was perfectly level, aimed with geometric precision at the center of Jon's shield.
Jon met him. He used the Force to steady his own aim, to lock his body into the saddle. He pulled on the principles of Soresu—defense, deflection, survival.
Crack.
Both lances shattered. Splinters rained down like confetti. Jon rocked back, his shoulder screaming, but he held his seat. Loras barely moved.
They wheeled their horses. Fresh lances.
Pass two.
Loras adjusted. He came in faster this time, leaning into the charge. He was testing Jon, probing for weakness.
Jon felt the impact rattle his bones. His shield arm went numb. But again, he broke his lance against Loras's shield.
A deadlock.
Jon turned his horse for the third charge. His chest heaved, the air hot and stale inside his helm. The pain in his shoulder was a blinding white noise that threatened to drown out his thoughts.
He looked up at the stands as he waited for Sam to bring him his lance.
He saw Desmera Redwyne. She was clutching her hands to her chest, her face pale with hope. She was looking at him as if he were a hero from a storybook. If he won, he would have to name a Queen of Love and Beauty. Honor demanded he name her.
Finally, he looked up at the Royal Box.
He saw Margaery Tyrell. She was not smiling. She was watching him intently, her body still, her hands resting on the arms of her chair. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of porcelain.
And suddenly, Jon saw the web.
If he won, he shamed the Tyrells in their own home. He defeated their golden son. But he also elevated their cousin, Desmera. He became a player and his past more scrutinized.
He looked at Loras. The Knight of Flowers was taking a fresh lance, laughing at something his squire said. He was enjoying this. This was his world.
I don't belong here, Jon thought. I am not a knight. I am not a lord. I am a son of the North.
Jon felt a strange calm settle over him. It was not the cold fury of the dark side. It was the quiet resignation of the light. It was the clarity Luke had spoken of.
He took the fresh lance. He tightened his grip, not with aggression, but with purpose.
The flag dropped.
They charged.
The world slowed down. The Force flowed through Jon, heightening his senses to a razor's edge. He saw the sweat flying from the horses' flanks. He saw the dust motes suspended in the air.
He saw the line.
Loras had left a small opening. A tiny flaw in his guard, born of arrogance. He had dropped his shield a fraction of an inch too low, expecting Jon to aim for the center again.
Jon could hit it. He could strike Loras in the gorget, lift him from the saddle, and send the Knight of Flowers tumbling into the dirt. He could win. He could claim the glory.
And then what?
Jon lined up the shot. He let the lance track the target. He rode with perfect form.
Then, at the last fraction of a second—too fast for the crowd to see, but slow enough for a master to notice—Jon shifted his wrist.
He lifted his lance tip two inches.
It was a subtle movement. A mistake. A failure of nerve. Or a choice.
Jon's lance sailed harmlessly over Loras's left shoulder, cutting through the empty air.
Loras's lance did not miss.
It struck Jon square in the chest.
The impact was like being kicked by a giant. The breath was driven from Jon's lungs in a violent whoosh. The world spun. He felt himself lifted from the saddle, weightless for a terrifying heartbeat.
Then the ground rushed up to meet him.
He landed hard on his back. The air was knocked out of him completely. Darkness fringed his vision. He lay in the dirt, staring up at the blue sky, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The crowd roared. It was a wild, frenzied sound.
"Tyrell! Tyrell! Tyrell!"
To the common eye, it was a clean victory. The Knight of Flowers had triumphed. The Northern upstart had fallen. Order was restored.
Jon closed his eyes and let the darkness wash over him for a moment. It was done. He had lost.
He was free.
The heavy thud of boots approached.
"Snow, not a time to be resting."
A hand grasped Jon's arm.
Jon opened his eyes. Loras Tyrell stood over him, his helmet removed, his hair a halo of brown curls against the sun. He wasn't gloating. He wasn't smiling. His brow was furrowed in confusion.
Loras pulled Jon up to a sitting position. The world tilted, then steadied.
Loras leaned in close, his voice low, pitched so only Jon could hear over the screaming crowd.
"You had the line," Loras whispered. His eyes searched Jon's face, bewildered. "I saw it. You had me dead to rights. You pulled your lance."
Jon coughed, dust coating his tongue. He winced as his shoulder protested the movement. He began to dust himself off, the motion slow and deliberate.
"Why?" Loras demanded, urgency in his voice. "You could have won."
Jon looked at the golden knight. He saw the hunger for glory in Loras's eyes, the need to be the best, the inability to understand why anyone would reject victory.
"You are the champion they wanted, Ser Loras," Jon rasped. "I just want to go home."
Loras stared at him, mouth slightly open. He looked as if Jon had spoken in a foreign tongue.
Jon turned away from him. He looked up at the Royal Box.
King Renly was on his feet. He was clapping thunderously, beaming with delight, his handsome face flushed with joy. He was pointing at Loras, shouting something to the lords around him. He was entirely oblivious. He saw only the result he desired: his favorite had won.
Beside him, Lady Olenna was not clapping.
The Queen of Thorns sat very still in her high chair. Her hands rested on her cane as one of the a knight whispered in her ear. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, fixed on Jon with a terrifying intelligence. She wasn't looking at Loras. She was looking at the boy who had just thrown the biggest match of his life.
And Margaery.
She was not cheering. She sat frozen, her hands gripping the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles were white. She wasn't looking at Loras either. She was looking at Jon.
Her expression was not one of triumph. It was concern. Almost fear. Her eyes were wide, dark pools in her pale face.
Jon could feel her confusion rippling through the Force, a discordant note in the symphony of the crowd's adoration.
Jon turned back to Sam, who was rushing forward with a look of devastation.
"I'm fine," Jon said, waving him off.
He began the long walk back to his tent, limping slightly. He didn't look back at the glory he had left in the dirt. He looked toward the north, toward the road that would take him away from roses and schemes.
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The High Hall of Highgarden was a spectacle of sound and color that overwhelmed the senses. It was as if a rainbow had shattered within the stone walls, painting every surface in shades of emerald, gold, and rose. Musicians played from the gallery, their lutes and fiddles weaving a frantic, joyous melody that fought to be heard over the roar of a thousand conversations. Acrobats in motley tumbled between the long trestle tables, while servants navigated the chaos with platters of roasted swan, honeyed ham, and tarts filled with summer berries.
Jon Snow stood at the edge of the dais, the noise washing over him. His shoulder throbbed a dull, rhythmic ache beneath his doublet, even with Master Luke's healing. He felt out of place here, a splash of Northern grey in a sea of Southern brilliance.
Jon waited for King Renly's attention. The self-proclaimed monarch sat at the center of the High Table, a golden crown resting on his dark curls. He was laughing, a goblet of wine in one hand, his face flushed with the heady intoxication of glory. Loras Tyrell sat beside him, the Knight of Flowers still wearing his armor, though he had removed his helm to reveal his handsome, unmarred face. They looked like figures from a tapestry, young and golden and untouchable.
As Jon began the long walk toward the High Table, his gaze drifted over the revelry, seeking something real to ground him.
He found it near the musicians' gallery. Falia was dancing with Alyn, the man's usually stoic face was broken by a rare grin as he spun her, and Falia's head was thrown back, laughing at something he had said. She looked radiant, her face flushed with the joy of freedom she had never known before.
Further onto the floor, Luke had been pulled into the dance by a bold Tyrell cousin. The Jedi moved through the complex steps with a surprising, fluid grace that drew admiring glances from the court. Another noble girl waited nearby, fanning herself, clearly hoping for the next turn with the mysterious champion of the Melee.
But the most surprising sight was in a quiet corner near the kitchens. Sarella Sand, her acolyte's collar loosened, was dancing with Samwell Tarly. Sam was blushing furiously, his feet tangling occasionally, but Sarella guided him with a grin that was both sharp and fond. She wasn't mocking him; she was teaching him. And Sam, despite his terror, was smiling—a small, shy expression of disbelief that he was part of such a moment.
Jon felt a warmth spread through his chest. His strange, mismatched pack had found a moment of peace in the eye of the storm. For tonight, they were safe. They were happy. He would protect that, even if it meant marching into the shadow.
He caught the eye of a steward, who whispered to the King. Renly turned, his smile widening as he spotted the Northern bastard.
"Lord Snow!" Renly's voice boomed, cutting through the immediate chatter. He waved a hand, beckoning Jon closer. "Come, come! Your performance in the joust was quite admirable. Drink with us!"
Jon approached, bowing stiffly. He had hoped for a private audience, a quiet word in a solar away from prying eyes. But Renly Baratheon lived his life on a stage, and he seemingly intended for this conversation to be part of the performance.
"Your Grace," Jon said, his voice cutting through the revelry with the flat, hard cadence of the North. "I come to ask a boon."
Renly leaned back, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Ask, and it is yours. Within reason, of course. I cannot give you Highgarden, much as my good-father might protest."
Laughter rippled along the High Table. Mace Tyrell puffed up like a toad, chuckling nervously.
"My service to the Reach is done," Jon said. He felt the weight of a hundred eyes on him. Lady Olenna, watching from her high seat like a hawk. Margaery, her expression unreadable. "I have fought in your lists. I have honored your summons. But my father expects me in the North. Winter is coming, Your Grace, and my place is at Winterfell. I ask leave to depart tomorrow."
The laughter at the table died away. Renly's smile faltered, just for a moment, before returning with a tighter edge.
"Depart?" Renly raised an eyebrow. "The festivities haven't even ended, Snow. And Loras here would like to cross swords with you after exchanging lances with you. Surely you would not deny him that, nor deny the court the chance to see you fight?"
"I am not a tourney knight, Your Grace."
"No," Renly agreed, his eyes flicking to Loras. "You are certainly not that."
Before Renly could dismiss him, Margaery leaned forward. The torchlight caught the gold thread in her gown, making her shimmer. She placed a hand on Renly's arm, a touch light as a feather but heavy with intent.
"So soon, Lord Snow?" Her voice was sweet, carrying the scent of roses and summer rain, but beneath it, Jon heard the steel. "Highgarden has many pleasures you have yet to taste. The gardens are in full bloom, and the singers have prepared new songs in honor of the King. Surely a few days more would not anger Lord Stark. He would want his son to forge bonds with the crown."
She was looking at him, her brown eyes wide and imploring, but Jon sensed the complicated feelings rolling off her in waves. She did not want him to leave. Not yet. She had not figured him out, and Margaery Tyrell did not like puzzles she could not solve.
Renly laughed, the sound dismissive. He patted Margaery's hand. "Let him go, my sweet. The North calls to its own. A bastard's duty is to obey his father, even if that father is a grim northern wolf who prefers ice to wine. You have our leave, Snow. Go back to your snowdrifts."
Jon felt a surge of relief. He bowed again. "I thank you, Your Grace."
He turned to leave, signaling Luke with a thought. They were free. They could leave this place of perfume and poison and return to the clarity of their mission.
The heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall banged open.
The sound was like a thunderclap, silencing the musicians instantly. A hush fell over the hall, starting at the doors and sweeping forward like a tide.
A man in the grey robes of a maester stumbled into the room. He was breathless, his face pale and slick with sweat, clutching a scroll in a shaking hand. He ran toward the dais, ignoring the gasps of the courtiers, his chains rattling with every step.
"Your Grace!" the maester wheezed, falling to his knees before the High Table. "A raven. From Storm's End."
Renly stood, the humor vanishing from his face. He snatched the parchment from the maester's hand. He broke the seal and unrolled it.
Jon watched Renly's eyes scan the words. He saw the king's face harden, the easy charm replaced by a flush of dark, dangerous anger. Renly crumpled the parchment in his fist.
"Stannis," Renly spat the name like a curse.
A murmur ran through the hall. Stannis. The name was a shadow that had hung over the feast, unspoken but present.
"He has broken his silence," Renly announced, his voice ringing off the stone walls. "My brother has sailed from Dragonstone. He has landed in the Stormlands." Renly looked up, his eyes sweeping the hall, wild and furious. "He is besieging Storm's End."
The hall erupted. Knights shouted in outrage. Ladies gasped. Mace Tyrell knocked over his wine goblet, the red liquid spreading across the white tablecloth like a bloodstain.
"He means to take my seat," Renly roared, stepping over the table and descending the dais. "He means to test me. He thinks because I am loved and he is not, that he can take what is mine by force!"
The music was forgotten. The acrobats froze mid-tumble. The feast had turned into a war council in the span of a heartbeat.
Renly paced the floor, his cloak swirling around him. "Ser Cortnay Penrose writes that Stannis demands the castle's surrender. He brings sellswords and pirates."
Renly stopped pacing. He turned slowly, his gaze locking onto Jon. The dismissal from moments ago was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory calculation. The King saw not a bastard boy, but a sword. A symbol.
"You represent the North here, Snow," Renly said, his voice dropping, becoming intimate despite the size of the room. "Your father has been accused of treason by the Lannisters."
Jon stiffened. "My father's honor is beyond question."
"Not to Joffrey," Renly corrected, stepping closer. "The boy king calls for his head. He claims Lord Stark plotted against Robert. The Lannisters hold the Iron Throne, and they have named your father a traitor to the realm."
Renly placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. The grip was firm, heavy with expectation.
"The North is strong. If you ride with me to Storm's End—if you stand with me against Stannis—I will see to it that the might of Highgarden and the Stormlands supports your father's cause. When I take King's Landing, I will clear his name. I will ensure the Lannister lies are exposed and House Stark is honored."
The trap snapped shut.
Jon saw it clearly. It was a bribe and a threat wrapped in silk. If Jon refused, he walked away from the only army capable of challenging the Lannisters in the south. He would lose Renly's support. Renly might even see his departure as an insult, a sign that the North stood apart, or worse, stood with Stannis.
But if he accepted...
If he accepted, he was marching to war. Not against the dead, but against living men. He would be delayed for weeks, perhaps months. The mission to the Citadel, the search for knowledge to defeat the Others—all of it would be put on hold for a squabble between brothers over a chair.
Jon looked at Luke.
Luke stood perfectly still, his hands loose at his sides. He did not speak, but his presence in the Force was a steady guide. He nodded, a movement so slight it was almost imperceptible.
Jon looked back at Renly. He saw the arrogance in the King's eyes, but also the power. A hundred thousand swords. The might of Highgarden and the Stormlands.
"I am yours, Your Grace," Jon said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "Until Storm's End."
Renly beamed, clapping Jon on the back with enough force to stagger him. "Excellent! A wolf in our vanguard! Let Stannis rot in the rain as we shall teach Stannis a lesson he will not forget." Renly shouted, his voice cutting through the din of mobilization. He stood on the table, wine goblet raised high, manic energy radiating from him like heat from a furnace. "We march at dawn, but we celebrate tonight! Music! More wine! Let the Storm Lords hear us from across the bay!"
The musicians, terrified of disobeying, struck up a lively reel. The hall, which had been teetering on the edge of panic, swung back toward revelry with a desperate, frantic energy. It was a dance on the edge of a knife.
Jon turned to leave the dais, intending to slip away to the quiet of the gardens. He needed air. He needed to think.
A hand caught his arm.
"A finalist must dance, my lord."
Jon stopped. Lady Desmera Redwyne stood before him. She was emboldened by the favor he still wore on his arm, by the victory he had won, by the wine she had likely consumed. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes shining with adoration.
"My lady," Jon said, trying to gently disengage. "I am not much of a dancer. And my shoulder..."
"Oh, we shall be gentle," Desmera insisted, pulling him toward the floor. "A slow dance. Please, my lord. Everyone is watching."
Jon glanced around. She was right. People were watching. To refuse her now, after accepting her favor, after winning the joust, would be a slight she might never recover from. It would be cruel.
He sighed, the sound lost in the music. "One dance."
He allowed her to lead him into the press of dancers. The music was a slow, courtly pavane, requiring formal steps and measured turns. Jon moved stiffly, his body aching, his mind miles away. He felt like a fraud in his borrowed armor and stolen name.
Desmera didn't seem to notice his distance. She rested her head near his shoulder, daringly close.
"You were so brave," she whispered, her breath smelling of sweet pears. "When you unhorsed Ser Hyle... I thought my heart would stop. And then to face the Ser Loras... you are like a knight from the songs, Lord Snow."
"I am no knight," Jon said, his voice mechanical. "I did what was necessary."
"That is what knights do," she sighed dreamily.
Jon looked over her head, scanning the High Table.
Renly was laughing with Loras, their heads bent close together, oblivious to the room.
Lady Olenna sat in her high chair, a small, withered figure amidst the grandeur. But her eyes were open, and they were fixed on Jon. She watched him dance with her other granddaughter, her expression calculating.
I need to find out what she knows.
And Margaery.
Margaery Tyrell was not laughing. She was not smiling. She sat perfectly still, watching Desmera cling to him, and her expression was one of cold, focused fury.
Margaery stood abruptly. The movement was sharp, violent in its suddenness. She signaled to the tall, armored woman standing behind her chair—Brienne of Tarth. Then she gestured to Falia, who was still breathless from her dance with Alyn.
The three women slipped out of a side entrance, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
Jon felt a prickle of unease that rippled down his spine.
"Forgive me, my lady," Jon said, pulling away from Desmera.
She blinked, confused. "My lord? The song isn't finished."
"My shoulder," Jon lied smoothly. "It... the pain is returning. I need air."
"Oh! Shall I fetch a maester?"
"No," Jon said, backing away. "Just air. Please, enjoy the feast."
He left her standing on the dance floor, looking lost and a little hurt, and headed for the side door Margaery had used. He moved quickly, until he burst out into the cool, quiet corridor.
He didn't stop. He followed the lingering scent of roses and the faint, fading ripples of frustration in the Force.
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The center of the Highgarden maze was a place of unearthly beauty. High hedges of meticulously trimmed boxwood formed walls that blocked out the world, leaving only the sky above. Moonlight spilled into the clearing, turning the white stone of the central fountain to silver. The air was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, a sweet, heady perfume that clung to the skin.
The sounds of the feast drifted over the hedges—laughter, music, the clatter of cups—but they sounded distant, like memories of another life. Here, in the heart of the maze, there was only silence and shadows.
Falia and Brienne stood guard at the entrance to the clearing. Brienne looked uncomfortable, her hand resting on her sword hilt, while Falia watched Jon approach with a knowing, slightly worried expression. Falia whispers something to Brienne and they wordlessly gives him passage.
Jon stepped into the clearing.
Margaery Tyrell was pacing by the fountain. She moved with the restless energy of a caged cat, her silk skirts swishing against the stone. She stopped when she saw him, turning sharply.
The moonlight stripped away the warmth of the court. It washed out the color of her gown and left her face pale and stark. She didn't look like a queen in that moment. She looked like a young woman who had suddenly realized the summer was ending.
"You threw the match," she said. There was no preamble, no courtly greeting. Her voice was low, trembling with suppressed emotion. "My grandmother saw it. Loras knows it. He told me you pulled your lance."
Jon stopped near the fountain, the water bubbling softly between them. "I did."
"Why?" She took a step toward him, her hands clenched at her sides. "You could have won. You could have named Desmera the Queen of Love and Beauty. You could have had the glory."
"I am not a lord, Your Grace," Jon said quietly. "I had no desire to stand before the court and choose a queen when I have no love for this game. I did not come here for glory."
"You came because you were commanded." she corrected sharply.
She was frustrated, he could feel it through the Force. Frustrated by his refusal to fit into the box she had built for him.
"Renly has one hundred thousand swords," she said, gesturing toward the castle, toward the army gathering in the fields. "The Stormlands and the Reach are united. This war will be over before it begins. Why do you look as if we are marching to our graves?"
Jon looked at her. Really looked at her. Beneath the anger, beneath the political maneuvering, he sensed a deep, gnawing anxiety. She was smart enough to know that numbers weren't everything, but she needed someone to tell her she was wrong.
"Because numbers don't win wars," Jon said. "Will does."
Margaery scoffed, a harsh sound in the quiet garden. "Stannis has a few thousand men on a rock. We have the chivalry of the South. We have food, gold, steel. He cannot win."
"My father told me stories of the Rebellion," Jon said, his voice steady. "He told me Stannis Baratheon held Storm's End for a year. He held it against the full might of the Reach. Against your father."
Margaery went still.
"They ate rats," Jon continued, relentless. "They ate boot leather. They ate the glue from the book bindings. Your father feasted outside the walls, playing music and mocking them with the smell of roasting meat. And Stannis watched. He starved, but he did not break. He held that castle until the war was won."
Jon stepped closer, the moonlight reflecting in his dark eyes. "He didn't break then. He won't break now just because you have more banners. Stannis Baratheon is iron. He will break before he bends, but he will break you first if he can."
The impact of his words hit her visibly. Her shoulders sagged slightly. She realized he wasn't being pessimistic for the sake of it. He was quoting history—a history her family was on the wrong side of. A history that proved Tyrell power had limits.
Margaery stepped into his path. She dropped the mask completely then. The political calculator vanished, leaving only a frightened young woman who knew her husband was overconfident, who knew her family was gambling everything on a summer king.
"Renly laughs at him," she whispered. "He calls him a maester without a chain. He says Stannis lectures the tide to stop turning. He thinks it's a game." She looked up at Jon, her eyes searching his face. "But you... you sound like my grandmother."
She paused, looking at him with a new kind of respect. "You are the only one here who is afraid, Jon Snow. That makes you the only one with sense."
The distance between "Queen" and "Bastard" evaporated in the moonlight. They were just two people standing in the dark, waiting for the storm.
"You refused my favor in the lists because you are honorable," she said softly. "You threw the match because you are wise. You are the only man here not trying to win a prize, Jon."
"I am just a bastard trying to get home," Jon said, his voice rough.
Margaery stepped closer. Her hand reached out, touching the front of his doublet. "Then take this with you."
She kissed him.
It wasn't a courtly peck on the cheek. It wasn't a calculated seduction for power or influence. It was an impulsive, desperate reach for something solid in a world that suddenly feels fragile. Her lips were soft, tasting of wine and fear.
Jon froze. His eyes widened in shock. His hands hovered for a split second, uncertain. Duty warred with desire. For a heartbeat, the war was forgotten. He leaned into the warmth, his guard dropping as he tasted the desperate honesty in her kiss.
Then reality crashed back in.
She was a queen. He was a bastard. And even if he wasn't a bastard, he was a secret that could get them both killed.
He wrenched himself away, stumbling back as if burned. The scent of jasmine suddenly felt suffocating.
"No," he gasped, his chest heaving. "Your Grace... we cannot."
Margaery reached for him, her eyes dark and pleading. "Don't call me that. Not here. Not in the dark."
"You are Renly's wife," Jon said, his voice rough. He forced himself to look at her, to see the crown that wasn't there but weighed on her all the same. "This isn't possible."
"My husband's heart belongs to his reflection," she whispered, stepping closer, "and his bed is cold even when we share it. Why should we deny—"
"I have to go," Jon interrupted, backing away before she could finish, before she could make it any harder. "I... I have a raven to send. To my father."
"Jon—"
But he was already turning, fleeing the garden and the queen who offered him the one thing he couldn't take. His mind was a storm of guilt and desire, the Force roiling around him in chaotic waves that drowned out his senses.
In his haste, he never noticed the figure standing in the deep shadows of the terrace above. A pair of sharp, unblinking eyes watched him flee into the night, lingering on his retreating form before shifting back to the weeping queen by the fountain.
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