298 AC
Jon Snow POV
The forest floor was soft beneath the hooves of Jon Snow's gelding, and the smell of pine and wet earth clung to every breath he drew. Ghost trotted at his side like a white shadow, paws silent on the leaf-littered trail. Ahead of him, just out of reach, Robb and Artys Arryn laughed together at some jape made by Artys . Grey wind trotted ahead of the hunting party occasionally stopping to sniff the air .
Jon found himself smiling too—though it was a small, private thing—but the smile faded almost as quickly as it came. This… all of this… would soon be gone.
Winterfell had been his whole world. Its ancient granite walls , its glass gardens , the clamor of Winterton before harvest festival , the sounds of training in the yard were Jon and Robb learnt how to swing swords , Everything Jon knew . To leave it now felt like tearing away a piece of himself. He had told no one, but last night, lying in his bed beneath the familiar rafters, a sadness had gripped him so tightly he could scarcely breathe.
I'm going… and I may never truly come home again.
He thought of the Kingsguard then—the white cloaks, the shining armor, the songs of Aemon the Dragonknight saving his brother's life despite being humiliated by said brother his whole life of Ryam Redwyne and Ser Arthur Dayne the sword of the morning . Jon had dreamt of that since he could hold a wooden sword. A place where birth meant nothing. A place built on honor were even a bastard could rise and prove his worth.
What lad wouldn't dream of such glory?
But becoming Artys Arryn's squire felt like something better than Jon could have hoped for . He was on the cusp of an adeventure , he would go south to The Vale , serving as the squire of the liege lord of rank with his father. Jon had seen Artys skill with a blade first hand , despite being but a few moons older than Jon himself . Jon could learn a lot from Artys Arryn and he had been promised honor and glory and maybe a chance of donning a white cloak. Something told Jon Lord Arryn was not one for empty promises.
Artys had chosen him. Him. Jon Snow.Even now, Jon could hardly believe it.
The other squires—Olyvar Frey and Hoster Blackwood—were pleasant enough, if a bit green. Jon liked them well enough, especially Hoster, who was book-minded and earnest. But Jon was better with sword and lance than either of squires. Olyvar was quick; Hoster had a scholar's patience; but Jon was the one Artys corrected least, praised most. And Jon understood why the other two were there.
Their fathers now owed Artys favors now. Debts disguised as honors.
Jon didn't resent them for it. But he understood that these were ways in which high lords built alliances. It was one such alliance between the Vale , The Stormlands and The North that brought down the Targeryans.
Robb shouted back at him, waving for him to ride closer. Jon nudged his gelding forward, but before he reached them, the feeling returned—that tightness in his chest whenever he looked at Robb laughing beside Artys.
It will be years before I see him again. If ever but Jon tried not to dwell on melocholy today was to beautiful a day for such morose thoughts.
Robb Stark was the brother he grew up with , fought with envied and loved . By the time Jon returned to Winterfell Robb might be Lord in his own right with a highborn wife and true born children named Stark . Jon would have to find his own way in the world that is what as bastards are meant to do.
Ghost brushed his knee, sensing the shift in his mood. Jon reached down and ruffled the wolf's fur.
"Good boy," he whispered.
At least he wouldn't go alone not truly. Bran would join him to serve as a page at the Eyrie. Bran adored Artys already—always asking him for stories of battles, of mountains, of shadow cat that preyed on men and children alike . Jon smiled. Bran would thrive in the Eyrie if it was as high and mountainous as it was claimed bran would never have want of things to climb.
And Jon… Jon would not have to face the wide world with no Stark beside him.
That was worth more than he could say.
The wolves ear twitched and Greywind growled while Ghost merely bared it fangs. "Someone is coming " said The lord of The Eyrie.
A rider burst through the trees, nearly trampling over Theon. Leaves and mud clung to his white cloak, and his horse lathered with foam. Jon recognized him instantly.
Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard rode in looking terrified .H
e hauled his mount to a stumbling stop before Artys, chest heaving, face ghost-pale.
"Lord Arryn!" Boros shouted. His voice cracked. "By command of the King—you are to come at once!"
Robb stiffened. Theon swore under his breath. Jon felt Ghost press close to his boot, tense as a drawn bowstring.
Artys nudged his horse forward, unshaken. "What has happened?"
Boros looked from Artys to Robb, then Jon, then back again, as if searching for someone to blame.
"The Prince," Boros gasped. "Prince Joffrey… he is—wounded."
Robb sucked in a sharp breath. Even Theon went still.
"How?" Artys asked, voice calm in a way that made Jon's stomach twist.
"The horses went mad, my lord!" Boros sputtered. "All at once. Yelping, screaming, biting—gods help me, they turned on each other! The prince's mount reared and threw him. One of the mounts bit through his shoulder. When the prince fell, he loosed a bolt from his crossbow—struck the Hound in the thigh and sent him from his horse."
The tale spilled out in disordered panic.
"His jaw," Boros whispered. "Broken. His chest is collapsing. His back… gods… his back is twisted. The boy bleeds from the ears. He is… he is barely breathing."
Robb looked horrified. Even Theon seemed to be at a loss for words.
Jon felt something cold creep into his bones.
Ghost looked at him silent as ever .
Lord Arryn face was stone Jon could see no sadness or joy or surprise...
"Where is he?" Artys asked.
"Two leagues north," Boros choked. "The King commands you join him there with all haste. A tent is raised. The barber is at work, but…" He swallowed. "He fears the prince will not last the hour."
Robb looked to Artys at once, awaiting direction.
Artys only nodded once. "We ride at once."
For a heartbeat Jon saw a smile pass his Knight master's face. But Jon was sure he was mistaken.
Ned Stark POV
The camp had gone quiet by the time Ned reached the king's pavilion. The men kept their distance. No one spoke above a murmur. Ned pushed past the tent flaps.
Joffrey lay on a litter. His face was swollen. His jaw hung at an angle no man should survive. A bite mark showed on his shoulder. One leg was twisted beneath him. His breath came thin and uneven. There was no milk of the poppy—only wine.
Robert knelt beside him. His hands shook. When he spoke, the sound barely rose above the crackle of the brazier.
"Joff…"
Ned stood beside him. There was nothing he could offer.
Hoofbeats sounded outside. Artys Arryn entered with Robb, Jon Snow, and Theon at his back. The boys froze at the sight. Artys did not. He stepped to Robert's side and bent over the prince.
"Do something, boy!" Robert barked, gripping Artys's sleeve. "All those tomes you've read—my son is hurt!"
"Moving him would be unwise, sire," Artys said evenly. "His back may be broken. It is safer to keep him still until we can brace him."
He called for his strongwine. Olyvar Frey hurried forward. Artys let a small measure touch the prince's lips. Joffrey swallowed with effort. His breathing eased by a hair.
"That is all I can give him for the pain," Artys said.
He drew a Valyrian steel dagger and cut open the prince's doublet. The fabric parted like wet parchment. Beneath it, the skin was dark and bruised.
"His ribs have pierced his lung," Artys said quietly. Even Ned could see where the hoof had struck. "Forgive me, Your Grace. There is naught we can do but ease his passing."
Robert sagged. His grip on Artys's doublet slackened. For a heartbeat Ned feared he might strike the young lord, but the king only sank back to the ground, hollow with grief.
Ned watched Artys. His voice had not wavered. His hands had not shaken. There was something of Jon Arryn in him at that moment—steady when others were not.
Artys rose and turned to Ned.
"Walk with me, my lord."
Ned followed him a short distance from the tent. Two dead horses lay near the tree line. The ground around them was churned as if from a hard struggle. Foam streaked their mouths. Their eyes bulged.
Artys crouched beside one and lifted its jaw.
"I saw their corpses as I rode in," he said. "I suspected something amiss. Look here."
He pointed at the animal's mouth. Ned leaned closer. The tongue was blue. He had seen many horses die in war. None looked like this.
"What does that mean?" Ned asked.
"They were poisoned," Artys replied.
Ned stared. "Poisoned? Are you certain?"
Artys nodded. "Their muscles seized. Their hearts raced. Then they went mad and attacked anything near them."
Ned looked again at the discoloration and felt a slow heaviness settle in his chest.
"What poison does this?"
"Basilisk venom. It drives warm-blooded beasts to panic and rage."
Ned absorbed that in silence. "Why would anyone poison the prince's horse?"
"They did not aim for the horse," Artys said. "They aimed for the rider."
Ned drew a quiet breath. "You believe someone meant to kill the crown prince."
Artys did not answer at once. He rose and brushed the dirt from his glove.
"The signs point that way," he said. "Two animals do not fall to such madness by happenstance. And the hound is known for riding ill-tempered stallions. Both Cleganes favor such beasts. Stranger, he calls his own."
Ned frowned. "How do you know that?"
"I've ridden against him in tourney," Artys said. "He ransomed his horse back from me once. Whoever planned this counted on that temper. They meant to make the prince's death look like a mishap."
Artys studied the bodies again. "We should send the heads to your maester. Luwin may confirm it."
Ned nodded. He already believed it.
It was a clever thing—poison the horse, not the boy. Let the beast do the killing. Make it look like chance. A hunting accident. No dagger, no witness, no proof.
Ned's blood chilled.
"Whoever did this knew the prince," Artys said as they walked back toward camp. "And his sworn men. The venom acts fast. Minutes, at most. The catspaw may still be here."
Ned looked at the ground. Poison was the weapon of cravens. Cowards. And it had no place in the North.
"Do you know who did this?" he asked.
"No," Artys answered. "I have my suspicions , someone with a grudge against Robert. And against Tywin Lannister. Someone known for using poison."
Ned felt his throat go dry. Dry as the deserts of Dorne.