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The spices burned pleasantly on Rhae's tongue as she pushed the food around her plate, lost in thought. The dining chamber in the Water Gardens was filled with the usual midday chatter, but she barely registered Arianne and Nymeria's gossip about the latest scandal involving some lord's son.
"Rhae?" Arianne's voice finally penetrated her thoughts. "You've been quiet all day. Usually, you'd be the first to mock Lord Yronwood's new beard."
"I heard it looks like he glued a dead rat to his chin," Nymeria added, grinning.
Rhae forced a smile. "I'm just tired. The heat, probably." She wasn't about to tell them she'd spent the morning wondering if a supposedly dead woman who appeared in her dreams was telling her crazy things about her family.
Ridiculous, she thought. *Uncle Oberyn and Uncle Doran would never lie to me. They're all I have left.*
"The heat never bothered you before," Arianne observed, her dark eyes shrewd. "In fact, you're the one who suggested you and Nymeria train in the middle of the day last week."
"Speaking of training," Nymeria interjected, "did you see Ser Daemon absolutely destroy-"
The doors swung open, cutting off Nymeria's words. Uncle Oberyn strode in, Ellaria Sand's hand tucked in his arm. As always, Rhae felt a surge of affection for her uncle, mixed with that familiar anger that burned in her chest whenever she thought about what the Usurper and his dogs had done to her real family.
"Uncle," Arianne called out. "Come tell Rhae to stop being so melancholy. She's ruining our meal with her brooding."
"I do not brood," Rhae protested, straightening her spine. A princess doesn't brood, even if she's pretending to be a bastard.
Oberyn's eyes glinted with amusement. "No? You look exactly like your fa-" He caught himself. "Like someone deep in thought about serious matters."
Rhae's heart skipped. She knew he'd been about to say 'father.' These little slips were rare, but they happened. Usually, they made her feel special, reminded of who she really was. Today, though, Shiera's words echoed in her mind: *Your family is deceiving you.*
"We're to have visitors," Oberyn continued smoothly, helping Ellaria into a chair. "Gerold Dayne rides from Starfall with twenty men."
"Darkstar?" Arianne practically purred the name. "I've heard he's quite handsome."
"And quite dangerous," Ellaria added softly.
"The same could be said of everyone in this room," Oberyn remarked, stealing a piece of spiced meat from Rhae's plate.
*Dayne*. The name brought back Shiera's words again. *Ashara Dayne didn't throw herself from that tower. She was pushed.*
"Why is he coming?" Rhae asked, keeping her voice casual.
"Business with your uncle Doran," Oberyn replied. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with."
There it was again. That subtle dismissal, the way they sometimes treated her like a child despite training her to be a warrior, teaching her politics, yet, sometimes, they were quite dismissive of her concerns.
*Stop it*, she chided herself. *This is what Shiera wanted, to make you doubt them.*
"Will he be staying long?" Arianne asked, trying and failing to sound uninterested.
Nymeria snorted. "Planning to add him to your collection, cousin?"
"I don't have a collection," Arianne protested. "I merely appreciate beauty in all its forms."
"Like you appreciated the beauty of Ser Deziel last month?" Rhae teased, grateful for the distraction. "And Ser Andrey the month before that?"
"And don't forget Ser Daemon," Nymeria added.
"You're one to talk," Arianne shot back at Nymeria. "What about those twins from Lys?"
"That was different," Nymeria said primly. "That was diplomacy."
"Ah yes, the diplomatic approach of the bedchamber," he replied with a knowing smirk.
The conversation devolved into laughter and more teasing, but Rhae found her thoughts drifting again. Not to Shiera this time, but to the boy with the haunting voice. Jon Snow. The bastard of Winterfell who sang like... like her father.
She'd been so angry when she learned he was Eddard Stark's son. The Starks were enemies, traitors who helped destroy her family. But that voice... she had hired other singers, hoping their voice would remind her of her father, hoping it was just her mind playing cruel games with her, but none of them reminded her of her father, not even close, yet, Jon Snow's voice, it was ringing in her mind like a bell, as if wanting to tell her something.
"Rhae?" Oberyn's voice was gentle. She realized everyone had left the table except her uncle.
"Just thinking," she said quickly.
"About what troubles you, little viper?"
The old nickname made her smile despite herself. "Nothing important. Just... dreams."
Oberyn's expression shifted slightly. "What kind of dreams?"
For a moment, she was tempted to tell him everything. About Jon Snow, about Shiera Seastar, about the questions burning in her mind. But something held her back.
"Just normal dreams," she lied. "About flying, mostly."
Oberyn relaxed. "Ah, the dragon dreams. Your father had those too."
"Tell me about him?" she asked, as she often did. "About my father?"
"Another time," he said, as he always did. "You should prepare for Darkstar's arrival. He'll want to see the famous Sand Snake who can best grown men with a spear."
Rhae nodded, used to these deflections when it came to her father. But she could not blame him, at least not much. Rhae remembered their words about her father. Lyanna Stark had seduced him, and in Dorne, it was even told that she used dark magic on her father. Rhaenys didn't believe that, but she believed that Lady Lyanna had done something to her father. She was responsible for this whole mess, if only she had kept her gaze on Robert Baratheon, instead of going after someone else.
*Your family is deceiving you.*
No. She pushed the thought away. Her family loved her. They protected her. They were all she had left in this world.
*Except for a bastard boy who sings like a prince*, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind.
"Rhae?" Oberyn was watching her carefully.
She smiled, the perfect mask sliding into place. "Race you to the training yard? Or are you getting too old?"
His laugh chased away the last of her dark thoughts. "Too old? I'll show you too old, little viper!"
As they raced through the corridors, Rhae pushed aside all thoughts of Shiera Seastar, of Ashara Dayne, of Jon Snow. She was Rhae Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell, one of the deadly Sand Snakes. Nothing else mattered. At least not right now.
But that night, as she lay in bed, she couldn't help wondering what might happen when the next full moon came. Would she meet Shiera again? Would she finally learn what really happened to Ashara Dayne?
More importantly, would she want to know the truth if she found it?
*Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken*, she reminded herself. Whatever came, she was a viper. And vipers didn't fear the truth.
But as sleep took her, she heard Jon Snow's voice singing, his purple eyes, so much like her father's eyes.
Tomorrow
The morning sun pierced through the orange silk curtains, casting a warm glow across Rhaenys' chambers. She blinked away the remnants of dreams - not the special ones that came with the full moon, those were two nights past. Now she'd have to wait another twenty-eight days to see if Shiera Seastar would appear again with her cryptic warnings.
Rolling onto her side, she traced the embroidered dragon on her pillowcase - a subtle detail her uncle Oberyn had gifted her on her tenth nameday. Most would see it as just another decorative pattern, but she knew better. Everything in her life was carefully calculated, down to the smallest detail.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. "Lady Rhae?" came a servant's voice. "Prince Doran requests your presence in the Sun Hall."
Rhaenys sat up, her long dark hair falling around her shoulders. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."
She dressed with care, choosing a light orange silk dress with black embroidery - Sand Snake colors, not Targaryen ones. Every choice was a message in Dorne, and she'd learned to play the game well.
The walk to the Sun Hall gave her time to prepare herself. Unlike her uncle Oberyn, who wore his emotions like his weapons - proudly displayed and ready for use - Doran was harder to read. He played the weak, sickly prince so well that sometimes even she forgot the sharp mind behind those tired eyes.
The Sun Hall lived up to its name this morning, with sunlight streaming through the high windows, making the polished marble floors gleam. The room was designed to intimidate, with its long approach to the raised dais where Doran sat. Columns of pale stone rose on either side, their shadows creating bars of darkness across the floor.
Doran watched her approach from his seat, his hands resting on his cane. The gout had gotten worse lately, but his eyes were as sharp as ever.
"Uncle," she greeted, dropping into a perfect curtsy. A bastard's curtsy, not a princess's - another part of the endless game they played.
"Rhae," he said warmly, though his eyes remained calculating. "You've been asking about Ser Gerold's arrival."
Not a question. Rhaenys kept her face carefully neutral. "I was curious. We don't often receive visitors from Starfall."
"Curious enough to ask three different servants about his expected arrival time?"
*He's testing me*, she realized. *But for what?*
"Can you blame a girl for being interested?" she replied with a laugh that would have made Arianne proud. "I've heard stories about the Darkstar."
Doran's fingers tapped his cane slowly. "Have you heard the story of why he earned that name?"
"They say he's dangerous."
"All Daynes are dangerous in their own way," Doran said quietly. "But you haven't answered my question. Why such interest in his arrival, especially now, when Balon Greyjoy has declared himself king?"
The sudden shift in topic caught her off guard, but she didn't let it show. This was how Doran worked - seemingly random questions that were all connected in ways you couldn't see until it was too late.
"I didn't realize the two were connected," she said carefully.
"Everything is connected, dear niece." His emphasis on 'niece' was subtle but present. "The Greyjoys rebel, the realm bleeds, and Ser Gerold chooses this moment to ride to Sunspear with twenty men."
Rhaenys felt the trap closing around her, though she couldn't see its shape yet. "Should I not have asked about him?"
"You should always ask questions," Doran replied. "But you should also ask yourself why you're asking them."
"Tell me, uncle," she said, taking a risk, "why did you call me here? Truly?"
A small smile touched Doran's lips. "To see if you would tell me the truth about your curiosity, or if you would play the game as we taught you."
"And which did I do?"
"Both," he said. "Which means you're learning. But remember, Rhae - in Dorne, even the shadows have eyes, and questions about House Dayne never go unnoticed."
The warning was clear, though its purpose wasn't. Rhaenys bowed her head in acknowledgment, but her mind was racing. Why would questions about House Dayne matter so much?
"May I go, uncle?" she asked, maintaining her mask of innocent curiosity.
Doran's dark eyes studied her for a long moment. "Since you're so interested in Ser Gerold's arrival, why don't you tell me why you think he's coming?"
Rhaenys straightened her spine, mind racing through possibilities. If she was right earlier about everything being connected - Greyjoy's Rebellion, the Daynes, the timing...
"The realm's attention will be focused on the Iron Islands," she said slowly. "Lord Stark will be calling his banners, marching south..." She let a small, vicious smile play on her lips. "It would be the perfect time for revenge."
"Go on."
"Ser Gerold could slip north while the realm's forces are occupied. With everyone focused on Pyke..."
Doran's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes made her pause. She was wrong, but he wanted her to work it out herself.
"No," she corrected herself. "That's too obvious. Ser Gerold is known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. If Lord Stark were to die during the rebellion, and anyone saw the Darkstar..." She shook her head. "The Lannisters would be the first suspects in most cases, but Ser Gerold is too distinctly Dornish. It would lead directly back to us."
Now there was definitely pride in Doran's slight smile. "Very good. You saw not just the immediate plan but its consequences. So, if not assassination, why is Ser Gerold riding to Sunspear with twenty men?"
Rhaenys frowned, trying to see the patterns. Twenty men was too many for stealth, too few for battle. Gerold Dayne was highborn, dangerous, but also... trustworthy enough to be given some important task. What required both status and security?
"I... I don't know," she admitted finally. The words tasted bitter on her tongue.
"There's no shame in not knowing," Doran said softly. "The shame would be in pretending you did. Ser Gerold rides to Sunspear to escort Quentyn to Yronwood, where he will be fostered for the next few years."
Rhaenys blinked in surprise. "That's all? But why the secrecy? Why twenty men for a fostering?"
"Because, my dear niece, information is the most precious currency in all the Seven Kingdoms." Doran leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, what happens when people don't know something?"
"They try to find out," she answered automatically.
"And in trying to find out?"
"They... they reveal what they know. And what they want to know."
"Exactly." Doran's fingers drummed on his cane. "By keeping Ser Gerold's purpose secret, we learned that you've been asking questions about House Dayne. We learned that your first thoughts turn to vengeance against the Starks. We learned that you understand the importance of appearance and consequence in plotting. And others will reveal their own interests and suspicions through their reactions."
He gestured to the hall around them. "Gold can buy swords. Silver can buy loyalty - for a time. But information? Information can topple kingdoms. It can turn enemies into allies and allies into enemies. It can make the weak seem strong and the strong seem weak."
Rhaenys absorbed this, thinking of how easily she'd revealed her own thoughts about the Starks. "And by fostering Quentyn at Yronwood?"
"We learn who watches the movements of House Martell closely enough to notice. We learn who cares about the future of Dorne's alliances. We learn who might try to use a young boy's journey for their own purposes." His eyes crinkled slightly. "And we learn which of our own family members asks the right questions."
"And did I? Ask the right questions?"
"You asked many questions," Doran replied. "But perhaps not the most important one."
"Which is?"
"Why am I telling you all this now?"
The question hung in the air between them, and Rhaenys felt a chill despite the warm sunlight streaming through the windows. Why indeed was Doran sharing these lessons about information and secrecy, right after she'd been asking questions about House Dayne?
She met his gaze and saw something there - not quite warning, not quite encouragement, but something in between. Like he was preparing her for something, but she couldn't see what.
"Think on it," he said finally. "And remember - in the game we play, knowing when to ask questions is just as important as knowing when to keep silent."
Rhaenys left the Sun Hall with more questions than answers, but one thing was certain - her uncle knew something about her recent interests, and this conversation had been both a lesson and a message. She just wasn't sure yet what that message was.
Later - Afternoon
Rhaenys adjusted the flowing silk dress she wore, its orange fabric adorned with tiny copper suns that caught the light as she moved. Her dark hair was partially braided in the Dornish style, with golden threads woven through the plaits, while the rest cascaded freely down her back. A thin chain of gold and rubies encircled her throat, matching the serpentine armband that coiled around her upper arm.
She found Arianne pacing in her private solar, her cousin's usual graceful movements replaced by sharp, angry steps. Arianne wore a revealing gown of purple samite, cut low and held together with tiny golden chains that clinked with each movement. Her black hair was wild and disheveled, as if she'd been running her hands through it repeatedly.
"I assume you've heard," Arianne snapped without preamble, her dark eyes flashing.
Rhaenys settled onto a cushioned bench, arranging her skirts with deliberate care. "About what?"
"Quentyn." The name came out like a curse. "They're sending him to Yronwood. Daemon told me this morning."
"Ah." Rhaenys kept her voice neutral, watching her cousin's agitation with calculated interest. "And this upsets you because...?"
Arianne whirled to face her. "Because it makes no sense! He's my younger brother. Second-born. What business does he have fostering at one of our most powerful bannermen's seats?"
"Many noble children foster away from home," Rhaenys said carefully, noting how Arianne's fingers kept twisting at her necklace. "I don't see why—"
"Don't play naive, Rhae. It doesn't suit you." Arianne stalked to a side table and poured herself wine with shaking hands. "My father is plotting something. He always is. Why else would he send Quentyn to Yronwood of all places?"
Rhaenys tilted her head. "You think he means to make Quentyn his heir instead of you."
"What else am I supposed to think?" The wine sloshed dangerously close to the rim of Arianne's cup. "First, he barely speaks to me about matters of state. Now he sends Quentyn to be fostered by Lord Anders Yronwood himself?"
"Just because he's fostering doesn't mean—"
"Of course it does!" Arianne's voice rose. "House Yronwood is the most powerful house in Dorne after us. They styled themselves Kings before Nymeria came. If Father wanted to replace me with Quentyn, he'd need their support."
Rhaenys watched her cousin pace, letting the silence stretch as Arianne's agitation grew. Finally, she spoke, her voice gentle with concern.
"I worry about you, sweet cousin. All these fears weighing on your mind..." She paused delicately. "Though I suppose with Ser Gerold Dayne coming to escort Quentyn, one can't help but wonder."
Arianne stopped mid-stride. "Darkstar? Why would father send him of all people for such a simple task?"
"Oh? I thought you knew." Rhaenys shifted in her seat, adjusting her skirts with careful nonchalance. "House Dayne has always held... interesting positions at court. Their words carry weight, especially with certain houses."
"What aren't you telling me?" Arianne's eyes narrowed.
Rhaenys met her gaze with innocent concern. "I only mention it because you're so clever with people, cousin. The way you understand them, see through their facades..." She smiled warmly. "If anyone could discern truth from lies, it would be you."
"You think he knows something."
"I think," Rhaenys said softly, "that you're the future Princess of Dorne. And a princess should always be... well-informed."
She rose gracefully, touching Arianne's shoulder as she passed. "Just remember what they say about you - how you can make any man feel like the most important person in the room. It's a rare gift."
Arianne's expression had shifted from frustration to thoughtful calculation. "You always know exactly what to say, cousin."
"I only want to see you shine as you deserve." Rhaenys smiled warmly. "After all, isn't that what family is for?"
Later, as she walked away from Arianne's chamber, she remembered her uncle's words about asking questions and information. But what if someone else asks the questions for me? she thought, knowing Arianne could still trace back to her. No. She needed someone else, someone who had no relation to her, someone who could give her information.
Night
Rhaenys moved like a shadow through the corridors of Sunspear, her dark blue dress chosen specifically for this night's excursion. The fabric was light enough for quick movement but sturdy enough to conceal the four throwing knives strapped to her thighs. Another blade was hidden in her right boot, and two more were secured beneath the elaborate bronze belt that cinched her waist.
Her hair was tightly braided and pinned close to her head – no loose strands to catch on anything or give her away. She'd forgone her usual jewelry, save for a simple bronze chain around her neck. Even her usual perfume had been left behind; scent could betray presence as surely as sound.
*Uncle Oberyn's first lesson: The eye is drawn to movement. Be still when guards look your way.*
She pressed herself against a column as two guards passed, their torch casting wild shadows. They never looked up to where she had wedged herself between the stone and a decorative tapestry. Once their footsteps faded, she continued her careful progress toward the lesser-used postern gate.
The moon cast enough light to navigate by, but not enough to expose her. As she waited for the perfect moment to cross the courtyard, her mind wandered to her dream. Jon Snow's face appeared in her thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome. Those eyes of his – purple, like twilight over the Summer Sea. Like her own.
*Why would a Stark bastard have Valyrian eyes?*
She shook the thought away, but Shiera Seastar's words echoed in her mind: "Your family is deceiving you." The mysterious woman's mismatched eyes – one blue, one green – had held such certainty when she spoke of secrets and lies.
*Focus,* she chided herself. *The guard rotation is about to change.*
She'd timed this perfectly. The guards at the postern gate would switch in exactly three minutes, leaving a brief window when both sets of guards would be distracted with their handover. She touched the rough stone wall, feeling for the handholds she'd memorized during daylight observations.
*Uncle Oberyn's second lesson: Height is your ally. Few look up.*
Rhaenys scaled the wall beside the gate with practiced ease, her soft leather boots finding purchase in the stonework. The guards below never noticed the shadow passing overhead as she crossed the wall using the decorative merlons as cover.
The descent on the other side was trickier, but she'd prepared for this too. A length of thin, dark rope was coiled at her hip, already secured to one of her throwing knives. With a practiced motion, she wedged the knife into a gap between stones and used the rope to slide down the outer wall.
The moon emerged from behind a cloud, its incomplete face reminding her again of Jon Snow. Why did thoughts of him keep intruding? He was nothing to her – just some Northern bastard who happened to share her dreams during full moons. And yet...
*Those eyes. That voice when he sings. So like Father's...*
Her feet touched the ground silently, and she quickly retrieved her rope and knife.
The Shadow City sprawled beneath Sunspear like a tangled web, its narrow streets still bustling despite the late hour. Desert folk knew the value of darkness – when the sun retreated, life emerged. Rhaenys pulled her sand-colored hood lower, casting her face in deeper shadow. The fabric was coarse, nothing like her usual silks, perfect for blending with the common folk.
The scents of spices, sweat, and desperation mingled in the air as she navigated the winding alleys. Soon enough, the streets grew narrower, the buildings more decrepit, and she found herself in the Street of Beggars. Here, the desert's cruel reality was laid bare.
Her heart clenched at the sight. People huddled in doorways, their faces gaunt and eyes hollow. A woman cradled an empty water skin like it was more precious than her infant. Children with cracked lips played in the dust, their laughter a harsh contrast to their circumstances.
Three such children caught her attention. The oldest couldn't have seen more than eight name-days; his face streaked with dirt and sweat. A girl of perhaps four clung to his arm while the youngest sat in the dust playing with a broken pot shard.
Rhaenys approached quietly, keeping her movements slow and unthreatening. "Would you like to earn something precious?" she whispered.
The oldest boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What kind of work?"
From beneath her cloak, Rhaenys produced three water skins. Then came the small pouch, its contents clinking softly. The children's eyes grew wide, hunger and hope warring with caution.
"What do you need us to do?" the boy asked, his voice barely a whisper.
---
Jon's boots echoed against the stone floor as he chased the raven through Winterfell's corridors. The black bird always seemed just out of reach, leading him deeper into the castle. Suddenly, the torches along the walls dimmed, and the familiar halls took on an eerie quality he'd never noticed before.
"Son, help me."
The voice froze him in place. He knew that voice – had heard it in his nightmares for months now. The great hall materialized around him, empty except for the crackling hearths and long shadows that danced across the walls.
The wildling woman emerged from behind a pillar, her matted hair hanging in dirty ropes around her face. One hand gripped Lady Bella's dark hair, yanking her head back at a painful angle. The other held a crude bone knife against her throat.
"My sweet boy," Lady Bella's voice trembled, tears streaming down her face. "Please... please help me."
The wildling giggled, the sound like breaking glass. "Look at him, pretending he can save you. Such a good little boy, isn't he? Thinks he can be a hero." She pressed the knife harder, drawing a thin line of red. "Tell him again how much you love him. Tell him how you're his mother. Let's hear those pretty lies one more time."
"I am your mother!" Lady Bella screamed. "Jon, please! My son, my beautiful son—"
*But she is already dead.*
The thought wasn't his own, but it rang through his mind with terrible clarity. Before he could move, the wildling drew the knife across Lady Bella's throat in one savage motion. Blood sprayed across the stone floor, black in the firelight.
"No!" Jon surged forward, his own knife appearing in his hand. He buried it in the wildling's chest, but she only laughed. Again and again, he stabbed her, each thrust more desperate than the last. Blood coated his hands, his arms, his face – but still she laughed.
"Poor little wolf," she mocked, even as his blade found her heart for the tenth time. "Couldn't save your 'mother' then, can't save her now. And you won't save your precious Dany either."
Jon froze mid-strike. "What? What do you mean? How do you know Dany?"
The wildling's laugh turned shrill, manic. "The dragon girl dreams of you too, doesn't she? But dreams won't be enough. When the time comes, you'll fail her just like you failed this one." She kicked Lady Bella's lifeless body.
"Tell me what you mean!" Jon demanded, but the wildling's laughter grew louder, drowning out his words, filling the hall until—
Jon bolted upright in his bed, gasping for air. His nightshirt clung to his skin, soaked with sweat.
The taste of blood lingered in his mouth, though he knew it wasn't real. His hands shook as he pushed his sweat-soaked hair back from his face. The wildling's words echoed in his mind: You won't save your precious Dany either.
Later
Jon's muscles burned as he moved through the forms Lord Anden had drilled into him. *Left foot forward, pivot, strike.* The morning air was crisp, and frost crunched beneath his boots in the training yard.
*"A warrior trains every day, boy,"* his great-grandfather's gravelly voice echoed in his mind. *"Even when your bones ache, even when your muscles scream. The day you stop is the day you die."*
The wildling woman's laughter from his dream haunted him, her words about Dany sending a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He cursed, striking the practice dummy harder.
"Seven hells," he muttered, his breath visible in the cold air. Twenty-one days until the next full moon. Twenty-one days until he could see Dany again, ask her what the dream meant, who she really was—
He heard a faint sound behind him. Jon spun, Kukri knife already in hand, only to find himself face-to-face with a girl about his age. She had long dark hair and intelligent eyes that widened slightly at the blade but showed no fear.
"My apologies, my lady," Jon said quickly, lowering the knife. "I... didn't hear you approach." *A lie – he'd heard her perfectly, which was why he'd reacted so quickly.*
"Jon Flint," he introduced himself, the new name still feeling strange on his tongue, but good. Like putting on a warm cloak after being in the cold.
The girl's eyes sparkled with interest. "Your footwork is excellent," she said, gesturing to the prints he'd left in the frost. "Most boys your age lumber about like drunken bears."
Jon felt his cheeks warm slightly at the praise. "Thank you, my lady."
"Alys Karstark," she replied with a small curtsy that somehow managed to look both proper and slightly mocking. "And I'm no lady. Well, I am, but not the kind that sits around embroidering handkerchiefs all day."
"You know something about fighting then?" Jon asked, curious despite himself.
Alys grinned. "My father says I'm a better shot with a bow than my brothers, though he'd never admit it to their faces." She nodded at his Kukri. "That's an unusual blade. I've never seen its like before."
"A gift from a friend at Breakstone Hill," Jon explained, demonstrating the grip. "Derek says it's from the far east, beyond the Jade Sea."
"May I?" Alys held out her hand. Jon hesitated only a moment before handing it over, pommel first. She tested its weight, making a few experimental cuts through the air. "I imagine Lady Stark would have quite a lot to say about you carrying such a thing."
Jon's face darkened. "Lady Stark has nothing to say about what I carry."
Alys caught his tone and handed the knife back. "No, I suppose she wouldn't. Not anymore." She cocked her head to the side. "Is it true what they say? That Lord Anden Flint himself trained you? That you killed a bear alone in the woods?"
"It wasn't alone," Jon corrected. "I had arrows. And fire."
"Ah yes, because that makes it so much less impressive," Alys rolled her eyes. "Just a six-year-old boy, some arrows, and a fire against a full-grown bear. Practically unfair to the bear, really."
Despite himself, Jon felt a smile tugging at his lips. "When you put it that way..."
"I hear you're to be Lord of Breakstone Hill someday," Alys continued. "Quite a change from..." she trailed off, apparently thinking better of mentioning his former status.
"From being a bastard?" Jon finished for her. "Aye, it is. Though I'd rather earn my place than have it given to me."
"Is that why you're out here training before the sun's properly up?"
Jon shrugged. "My great-grandfather says—"
"A warrior trains every day," Alys finished with him, grinning at his surprised look. "What? The whole North knows Lord Anden's sayings. 'Steel your heart, boy.' 'Strength comes from within.' 'A true warrior needs no—'"
"'—needs no glory, only victory,'" Jon completed, laughing despite himself. "You do know them."
"Of course I do. Though I've never heard him actually say them. Is he really as tall as they say? Three meters?"
"Close enough," Jon admitted. "And as wide as a bear. First time I saw him, I thought he was a giant from Old Nan's stories."
Alys's eyes lit up. "Could you show me that move you were doing earlier? The one with the pivot?"
Jon considered her for a moment, then nodded. "Stand like this," he demonstrated the stance. "Weight on your back foot..."
As he walked her through the form, Jon found himself relaxing for the first time since his dream. The wildling's words still echoed in his mind, but they seemed less threatening in the growing daylight, with Alys's determined attempts to master the move making him smile.
"You're dropping your guard on the turn," he pointed out.
"I am not!" Alys protested, then promptly lost her balance and stumbled. "Well, maybe a little."
"Here," Jon moved to correct her stance, when a familiar voice called across the yard.
"Jon! There you are!" Robb was jogging toward them, his auburn hair bright in the morning sun. "Father's looking for us. The lords are gathering in the Great Hall to discuss the Greyjoy situation and— oh, hello," he stopped short, noticing Alys.
"Lady Karstark," Jon introduced, "my brother, Robb Stark."
"Pleasure," Alys said with another of her almost-mocking curtsies. "Though you've interrupted my lesson."
"Lesson?" Robb's eyebrows rose as he looked between them.
"We'll continue another time," Jon told Alys. "If you'd like?"
She nodded, a slight smile playing at her lips. "I'd like that very much, Lord Flint."
As Jon followed Robb toward the Great Hall, his brother nudged him with an elbow. "I hope I didn't interrupt your time with your lover, ohhh, Lord Flint."
"Shut up," Jon muttered, but he was smiling too.
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