The canvas walls of the healing tent rustled softly in the dawn wind. A maester bent over the pale-haired woman, carefully stitching the ragged wound along her back. The lantern light revealed flame-like tattoos etched across her skin—patterns curling across her shoulders and arms, and one in particular that resembled wings spread wide.Jon Snow, standing nearby, committed the design to memory. Such markings were no mere ornament. They spoke of mystery, of some forgotten lore that might one day prove useful.He turned his gaze to Kuno, the mountain tribeswoman who had begged him to save the girl. "You spoke of a treasure," Jon said quietly. "What did you mean?"Kuno's eyes darted nervously. "It's… it's warriors, my lord. An army." She stumbled over the words, sweat glistening on her brow. "Yes, an army."Jon did not miss the hesitation. He remembered clearly the strange phrase she had let slip earlier—the whole world has already vanished. There was more here than she wished to admit. Still, he did not press. Instead, he followed her lead."An army, you say? And what sort of army?"Kuno exhaled, relieved that he had not challenged her lie. "The clans Tyrion Lannister carried away were only half of our people. Many tribes of the Moon Mountains did not follow. If you wish it, I can speak to them, win them to your side. They could be your warriors.""Of course, such men would expect reward," she added quickly.Jon studied her. She spoke with the eagerness of one who thought herself clever, yet her eyes betrayed half-truths. Still, even a half-truth had weight. Another army could tip the balance of wars to come.The Moon Mountains were not far from their present camp. It might be worth the journey."Very well," Jon said at last. "She will be watched closely. And when the time comes, we may speak again of these warriors."Kuno bowed low, relief plain in her face.Jon turned away, already thinking of the days ahead. If there was a true treasure hidden among the mountains, his strange gift—his "God's-eye view"—would uncover it in time.---The next morning, a messenger came with word from Lord Roose Bolton: Tywin Lannister had agreed to a parley.Jon narrowed his eyes. So quickly?Bolton summoned him to his tent. When Jon entered, Bolton was as composed as ever, his pale face unreadable."Tywin has agreed to meet us," Bolton said. "You will go."Jon's brows lifted, and inwardly he scoffed. "My lord jests," he said aloud, though his tone was polite. "You are commander of this host. I am but a bastard. Would you truly have a bastard stand before the Lord of Casterly Rock in the North's name? It would bring ridicule upon us all."What he did not voice was his mistrust. To walk alone into the lion's den with Roose Bolton at his back would be folly.Bolton merely inclined his head, unreadable. "Then we go together."He suggested bringing only his personal Dreadfort men as escort, but Haliang Karstark stepped forward at once. "Then you'll have ours as well," he said firmly. "For safety's sake."And so it was decided. A party of Northern lords rode with them, flanked by Bolton's pale-eyed soldiers, Karstark riders, and Jon's own white wolf banner snapping in the wind.Across the field, the Westerlands host awaited, their crimson lion banner towering above all.---The two groups rode slowly toward each other, halting on the open ground between the armies.Jon's eyes swept the enemy ranks. He saw at once the short, stocky figure of Tyrion Lannister perched on a pony. Though on horseback, the dwarf still seemed smaller than all around him, yet his sharp gaze roamed with restless curiosity.Beside him loomed Tywin himself, bald scalp gleaming in the sun, posture ramrod straight. The Lord of Casterly Rock radiated authority with every measured breath, every glance. Behind him, the Mountain rode like a shadow of doom, so vast that even Tywin seemed shrunken beside him.As the distance closed, Tyrion lifted a spyglass, peering at Jon. His brows knitted, then lifted in disbelief. He had known the boy in Winterfell—quiet, reserved, dogged by inferiority. But this man who now rode to meet them? His back straight, his gaze unwavering, his presence commanding even among nobles?"Is that… really him?" Tyrion murmured under his breath.---Both sides left their escorts behind. Tywin advanced with Tyrion, while Bolton rode forward with Jon.The air between them was taut with silence.Jon broke it first. His voice was firm, carrying across the field. "Duke Tywin, I am Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark, though a bastard. I am here to speak of terms."Tywin's sharp green eyes measured him coldly. Then he spoke, his words laced with disdain. "I had thought your commander was Roose Bolton. Has Robb Stark sent his bastard to parley for him? Tell me, Ser Bolton—do you calmly accept such an insult?"It was a ploy, Jon knew at once. The old fox was trying to drive a wedge, to test the cracks between them.Jon's lips curved faintly. An old trick. A common one."My lord Tywin," Jon said smoothly, "that is no more shameful than your own history—your wife's honor taken, and you silent."The words struck like a blade."Jon!" Tyrion hissed sharply, color draining from his face. He knew at once what Jon spoke of—Joanna Lannister, Tywin's wife and his own mother.Tywin's face hardened into stone. For years, Joanna had been untouchable, a name none dared besmirch. The boy's insolence was shocking."Did Eddard never teach you respect?" Tywin asked icily.Jon shrugged, indifferent. "I am only a bastard. Ill-mannered, untaught. If I offend, forgive me."Tyrion's eyes widened as memory struck—his own words, spoken years ago in Winterfell: Wear your weakness as armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.And here Jon was, wielding that very lesson like a sword.---Tyrion cleared his throat, stepping into the breach before Tywin's wrath boiled over. "We are here to resolve matters," he said. "I was seized by Lady Catelyn without cause. Had Ser Bronn not aided me, I would be dead in the Eyrie. My father seeks only justice for such wrong."Jon snorted. "Justice? Is it justice to butcher the Riverlands in search of one man? That is not justice—it is preying upon the weak. When Robert Baratheon spread his bastards like seed across the realm, did Lord Tywin march on the Stormlands to demand justice for Cersei?"Tyrion's tongue faltered. For once, his wit failed him. The boy was sharper than he remembered."Enough, Jon," he muttered, but the damage was done.---Finally, the true matter was laid bare.Tywin spoke first, his voice heavy with authority. "I will release Eddard Stark. He was misled, used by others. But his crime cannot be erased. He will take the black, join the Night's Watch. That is my condition."Jon's jaw tightened. He understood at once: Tywin sought to remove Ned Stark from the game without bloodshed, to strip him of power yet keep his head intact. A tidy solution—no war of annihilation, but no return to Winterfell's halls either.Jon's eyes narrowed. Then he gave his own terms."You will release my father. His honor restored. He remains Hand of the King."Tywin's gaze sharpened, but Jon pressed on, voice unyielding."The City Watch of King's Landing shall be commanded by Northern men. The posts of Master of Laws, Master of Coin, and Grand Maester on the Small Council shall all be chosen by Winterfell. And—" Jon's voice cut like a knife "—the next king must have Stark blood. My sister Sansa shall be queen, and her son shall inherit the throne..Should she die—by illness, by accident, by treachery, or by lightning from the heavens—the blame will fall on House Lannister."The field fell silent.It was not a demand. It was a thunderclap, a gauntlet hurled into the dust.-
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