The Gathering Storm
Jon II:
They were thirty men for the final leg of their journey. Lord Umber had taken leave of them for the coming fortnight, he and his men splitting off a day or two prior, the Greatjon ordering his household in preparation for the great ranging that would need to take place.
Officially, Jon was merely an observer; one meant to stay at Castle Black while the other men of the North learned what it was that drove the Wildlings south.
Snarks and grumpkins, he thought. Or something darker.
He had heard tell of the King’s audience with his lord father’s bannermen. Robb has insisted something needed to be done, scowling in the privacy of his rooms as Father told them he was to go south. Their journey North has been slightly unpleasant; the Greatjon had not liked having to bend to a six and ten year old green boy - even if he were his liege’s heir - and Richard Karstark had pestered Lord Tyrion over their intentions.
A good thing that the dwarf was able to speak on his nephew’s plans. Jon did not know Prince Steffon as well as he did Prince Joffrey, but the younger boy had insisted his brother would do what was needed to ensure the North was not overrun with Wildling hordes.
That they were free to farm The Gift had been enough to stave off Northern anger. Lord Umber had turned to immediately planning for a portion of his men to take part. But the North Remembers, Jon knew, and if the King refused to send the promised army North, he could not say what would happen.
It were the dragons we married, he remembered. And they rewarded near three hundred years of loyalty with dishonour.
Should the crown prince do as he promised, Jon was certain the Northerners would remain loyal.
“Have you ever been to the Wall, Lord Snow?” Lord Tyrion asked.
“No, my lord,” he answered stiffly.
“Ah,” the man said, cantering his pony closer to Jon. “You dislike when I call you Snow.”
“It is my name,” Jon answered in a flat tone.
“Just as Lannister is mine,” he grinned. Tyrion’s mismatched eyes looked darker in the light, something haunting the man. “Though of course, it is not the same as a bastard name. For all that my name is Lannister, it does not change the fact that I am but a dwarf in their eyes.”
Frowning, Jon moved forward slowly, watching for any cracks in the floor. They were further into the gift, and he had been spending the past days ride looking over the land with his uncle and Lord Tyrion. The other lords would do the same, he knew, but Tyrion Lannister had insisted on his presence so he may report the Crown’s findings to his brother.
“You know nothing of being a bastard,” Jon said hotly, a flush creeping on his face. He had thought himself immune to the taunts, but a prince telling him his worth was meaningless in the face of thousands of years of mistrust.
“All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes,” Tyrion quipped darkly.
“And yet you have the protection of the Lannister name,” Jon retorted.
“Just as you have the protection of the Stark looks,” Tyrion countered.
Jon felt his lips twist. A curse, more like, he thought. Jon was proud of having the Stark look, would have been gladder still but that it marked him differently. A shame that the stain on Lord Eddard’s honour should look so like him, so very much of the North when his trueborn heir had the Southron colouring of his mother.
“Listen closely, Snow. You are a bastard, there is no escaping that truth. When a man hears your name, he’ll look to you with suspicion, as all our septons have been telling us of the greed of bastards since we were old enough to understand. Wear it as armour, and none can harm you with their words.”
"Just as you wear yours?" he retorted.
"Exactly," Tyrion said, a bitter twist to his lips. "People see a dwarf and assume him to be a lecherous mummer with a fondness for drinks."
“Prince Joffrey thinks differently,” Jon pointed out.
“That is because I happen to be my nephews’ favoured uncle,” Tyrion laughed. “With competition such as my brother and Stannis and Renly, I dare say that’s quite the achievement.”
Glancing up, Jon could vaguely make out the top of the Wall. He had thought to see it earlier, but as far north as they were the trees covered it still.
“Come along, Snow,” Tyrion said, nudging his pony forwards. “I’d like your opinion on this excellent piece of land.”
A more sneeringly sarcastic individual Jon has never met, but he appreciated the man’s at times harsh honesty. Nevertheless, he knew his uncle could barely tolerate the Lannister man, so Jon followed after to keep him busy.
Once, the lands of Brandon’s Gift had been divvied up between the various holdfasts along the Wall. With winters and the dwindling number of men joining the Night’s Watch, Alysanne’s Gift has been the first bits of land deserted by the black brothers. That the land was better than the old gift was not in question; countless lords had petitioned to have parts of the New Gift repatriated to the North, each man wanting Queenscrown granted to their second sons as thanks for years of loyalty, but the dragons had been smart to tie it to the Watch, and no Lord Commander wanted to be known as the man who lost The Gift.
It will serve as Bran’s keep once he earns his spurs, he thought. Or Rickon, if Lord Stark wished. A part of Jon twisted at the refusal he had given. Knighthood would grant him another name - one he could use to remove the taint of bastardy. But it was one name he wanted above all, and Jon knew his father would not grant it to him. Not when the King had come to Winterfell and he had not been legitimized. A bastard could have honour at the Watch, and Jon would make it so once he had completed the task Lord Stark had set him.
It was his northern blood that had convinced Lord Commander Mormont. A Stark requesting the Watch to grant use of the lands to their benefit meant more than the words of a King that knew nothing of the North. That Robert Baratheon had, from what Jon could tell, been pressured to give these concessions by his heir cemented Jon’s disappointment in the Demon of the Trident.
He did not see a King when he had looked at him, no matter the crown on his head. Prince Steffon was the ruling power in the South, it had been whispered, and Jon was inclined to agree once he had seen the prince.
They were welcomed into Queenscrown by a small garrison of brothers. No more than ten, from what he could tell.
“Who’s on watch?” Uncle Benjen asked the leader. The man wore the black uniform of the brotherhood, with a long thin scar that cut across his face. A sword had nearly taken his eye out, from the looks of it, and the man had been lucky to come away with both eyes intact.
“Tarly,” the man spat. “We’ve given him a bow. Let’s hope the boy remembers how to use it,” he laughed.
“And the rookery? Maester Aemon sent the boy to take care of the ravens,” Benjen frowned.
“Aren’t any ravens come this way in some time,” the man answered. “They’ve been held at the Fist, from what we here. No raiding parties in a week.”
Frowning, Jon exchanged an uneasy glance with his uncle.
They had expected raiders to cross paths with them, knowing that they had been active for the weeks the King had spent in Winterfell. The Watch has been on high alert, the garrison at Queenscrown tripled during the royal visit and a rook master installed to send word swiftly to the closest castles. Had they ventured past Queenscrown, Jon knew the Umber men could have lost them in the Wolfswood, and his father would have been forced to show the King.
“No matter,” Benjen said. “We’ve brought farmers with us. Men from Wintertown and Long Lake to help start the harvest. The rest of us ride for Castle Black at first light.”
“First light?” Tyrion said, slightly aghast. “Surely there’s no need for such haste.”
“Perhaps for you, Lord Tyrion,” Benjen responded, eyes cold with slight disdain. “I am First Ranger. There are other things to do than sleep in a featherbed.”
“Ha! Ain’t got nun of ‘em ‘ere,” another man laughed. “This ‘ere is Watch territory. Not a bloody inn.”
“Where is your rookery?” Jon asked.
“Come,” Benjen said. “I’ll take you.”
He left Tyrion with a short nod, the man moving closer to the hearth with a wineskin. Where he had got it from, Jon knew not, but the man appeared well-stocked with wine. They cut across a small drawbridge, the tower connected to the main keep. It was less a singular tower; the rookery looked well-kept, a single door the only entry to this part of the tower. There were rooms downstairs, a long stair leading into darkness where Jon assumed the maester’s rooms were.
“You are close with Lord Tyrion,” his uncle said, climbing the steps two at a time.
“He can send us the men we need,” Jon answered.
Sighing, Uncle Benjen pointed to the desk. Scrolls littered the top, mixing with books that had been left open. There was a library here, he knew. One filled with books in the Old Tongue and High Valyrian, though Jon had no knowledge of either language.
“Your Father is bow Hand of the King,” Uncle Benjen reminded him.
“Aye, and you’ve seen the King,” Jon countered.
“Careful lad,” he warned. “You’ve not sworn any vows.”
Jon nodded in chagrin. They might be alone, but he knew any whispers could be carried south. “Lord Tyrion holds the ear of the Crown Prince.”
“Aye, and you’ve grown close to his other nephew,” Benjen replied.
Pursing his lips, Jon let his eyes fall across the wide expanse of land that he could see. This far north, he had expected it to be filled with snow, but other than a light dusting from the previous snowfall the land was relatively green. Winter was coming; they could tell from the change in the air, but the gods must favour them for the raven had not come yet. Summer was waning rapidly, yet he expected they could make a proper harvest until winter came in full.
“Prince Joffrey was being kind,” Jon answered quietly. “I’ve not the sort of influence his uncle would have, and the princes spoke highly of him.”
“Lannisters,” he said with a slight grimace. “I like it not - Ned even less - but if we are to stand a chance, let us hope your prince is more honourable than his kin.”
Frowning, Jon stared blankly at the book in front of him. He had spent less than a moon in the prince’s company, sparring against him every morning before their families stirred from slumber. He could only pray that he had taken the measure of him, lest the North find themselves threatened from both sides.
“We have no other choice,” he said after some time.
Clattering from the stairs reached them, and Benjen clapped a hand on Jon’s shoulder in farewell.
“Oh,” said a young man in surprise. “I did not expect anyone to be here.”
“Just heading out, Sam,” Uncle Benjen said. “Best send that raven, Jon. Let Robb know you’re almost safely to the Wall.”
“Aye,” Jon replied.
With a short nod to the boy, Jon was left alone to scrawl a short message to his brother, his uncle making his way to the commons to speak with his men.
“You’re Lord Stark’s son,” he said. “I’m Samwell Tarly, but everybody calls me Sam.”
“Jon Snow,” Jon introduced, finishing the scroll and wrapping it tightly. The boy, Sam, was watching Jon with brown eyes. He was larger than most men he had seen in his life- though not half as large as Lord Manderly - with floppy brown hair and the air of a person uncomfortable in his skin.
“Do you mind sending the raven?” Jon asked, gesturing to the scroll in hand.
“Oh, right,” Sam mumbled, flushing as he made his way forward. “To Winterfell, then.”
“Aye. Winterfell,” Jon confirmed. There were only three ravens in the rookery; a pittance, compared to most holdfasts that had a tower, but the Night’s Watch could not spare the men or the ravens to man a castle as large as this.
“Will you be long up at the Wall?” Sam asked. “Only, the brothers made mention that you were going beyond to see what caused the Free Folk to come south.”
“Free Folk?” Jon questioned, a curious look on his face.
“T-th-the Wildlings,” he stammered. “I’ve heard they call themselves Free Folk, since they don’t bend the knee.”
He chuckled lightly, and Jon watched with furrowed brows as Sam avoided his gaze, attaching the scroll to the raven and sending it off.
“You’ve met them,” Jon said. “These Wildlings; you’ve spoken to them.”
Sam stammered, mumbling his words as Jon watched impassively. “There’s a Wildling man, Crastor. He helps the Watch from time to time. He’s the one who told me.”
He was lying, Jon knew. Sam was busying himself with the scrolls on the table, placing what books he had in their proper place, but Jon had the sense that the Tarly knew more than he was willing to say.
“Have the books helped any?” He tried.
“Y-yes,” Sam answered, a bit startled. “Well, no, no n-not really. You see these ones,” he said, pointing to a stack to his left, “they’re in High Valyrian. Maester Aemon will be translating them, see what it can tell us of the Wall. Those ones,” he pointed at the older books that looked like journals, the binding bold and tough, “those are in the Old Tongue.”
From before the Targaryens, was the unspoken addition. They had banned use of the language of the First Men, but Jon knew there were those in the North who still spoke and understood the language. The Mountains Clans, the Skagosi, and small pockets of villages that held tightly to the old stories. Old Nan had told them of places in the North where it was still understood; near three centuries had passed and the old tales were passed down by mouth, none in the North daring to continue writing the runes in fear of the dragons.
“The runes are useless,” Jon told him. “The North no longer writes in the Old Tongue.”
Sam looked as if he wanted to add something, but Jon eventually let off once it was clear the boy would speak no longer.
“Why learn of the Wall?” Jon asked in confusion. “What’s the point?”
“Because,” Samwell spoke, a grim undertone in his voice. “Because Night gathers, and that Wall is a shield for something.”
A cold draft blew through the open window; despite having lived in the North his entire life, Jon felt a chill in his spine.
Castle Black held none of the glory its name might suggest, and Jon had smothered his disappointment at the sight of the place.
The Wall by comparison was far more majestic, high enough that it disappeared into the clouds, the top not visible from where he stood. Jon found himself agreeing with Daryn Hornwood’s words; whoever had built the wall meant to keep more than simple men out. Samwell had warned him, even when the boy had only picked several books for them to take to the maester at the Wall and refused to speak more. There was more going on here, something Jon feared they were perhaps not prepared to handle.
It had been the night he arrived at Castle Black that the dreams began. Not of the crypts; those had lessened in urgency, though the unending fear when he reached the bowels had never left him.
These dreams were entirely different.
Always, there was a raven on the lowest branch of a weirwood, one with three eyes that left Jon unnerved. “North!” it would caw; always North, always within the grove of weirwoods. It was a call for something, but Jon was wary of unknown dreams leading him on a chase. Dark things were stirring in the North, and as Jon woke from his dreams with his heart racing, he saw the odd unease mirrored in Ghost.
The meeting with the Lord Commander and the highest ranking officers of the Night’s Watch was today, and Jon swallowed his nerves as he was led to the Lord Commander’s solar.
“Can’t keep your wolf with you,” the man leading him, Edd - though his brother’s called him Dolorous Edd - insisted.
“Ghost is safe,” Jon said, but Edd remained firm, eyes wide and cautious as he warily eyed the large direwolf.
“Go on boy,” Jon said, eyes locked with Ghost’s. It was but a moment before the great white wolf trotted forward, giving Jon’s hand a rough kick before taking off to hunt.
“He’ll be fine,” Edd assured, though Jon was less worried for Ghost. They had bonded for near two years, and Jon oft felt as if the wolf was an extension of himself.
Warg, a dark voice whispered, and Jon ruthlessly pushed aside the dangerous thought.
“He’s a good hunter,” was all he said.
“Let’s hope he can keep his hunts dead,” Edd chuckled.
The man led him further into the keep, climbing the stairs of the Lord Commander’s Tower even as Jon puzzled over his words. It was beginning to take hold, a thought from the old stories,; they were myths, stories his lord father insisted were merely tall tales to scare children. A part of Jon argued against the thought, but fear and uncertainty held his tongue.
There were no guards outside Jeor Mormont’s door, and after a sharp knock Edd let him in.
There were seven men in the solar: the Lord Commander, Uncle Benjen, and old man Jon assumed was Maester Aemon - frail looking, as if a strong gust could knock him over, with a thin filmy look in his eyes that suggested blindness - and three others he had never met before. Lord Tyrion was already within, a cup of ale in his hands.
“This the boy Lord Stark sends?” An unfamiliar man sneered. “A bastard.” The disgust was oozing out of his tone, and Jon stiffened, clenching his hand slightly as he tried not to glower at him.
“Watch your mouth, Thorne,” Uncle Benjen snapped. “The boy is not one of your recruits to beat down.”
“Aye, not now I suppose, not yet. Seems Lord Stark’s found some use for him,” Thorne said. His dark eyes glittered with something dark - almost like hatred - and Jon knew this one would not take him seriously.
And I’m to make a brother of him, he thought sourly. Thoughts of joining this glorious brotherhood were no longer as pressing the more Jon saw of the Watch, but he knew they needed men.
“Lord Commander,” he greeted, ignoring the other man.
“Jon Snow,” Jeor said. “Aye, you’ve the look of your father. Sit.”
Jon took the open seat next to Tyrion Lannister, igniting the dwarfs raised cup. Piss and ale, he’d called it, but still the man drank.
“This is Maester Aemon,” Jeor pointed out. “That there is Bowen Marsh, Alliser Thorne, and Othell Yarwyck; First Steward, Master-at-arms and First Builder.”
He had barely greeted the others before Tyrion was opening his mouth. “They want us to believe their stories of snarks and grumpkins,” he quipped.
“Not so much stories,” the strong voice of the maester cut in. “Certainly none of ours. These are tales as old as Westeros.”
“Aye, and still tales,” Jon pointed out. “I was sent here by my lord father to assess the threat of the Wildlings, in preparation for armed assistance from the North and the Crown.”
“Wildlings,” Thorne scoffed. “Don’t need much of an army for them lot.”
“Aren’t there a hundred thousand of them gathering?” Tyrion asked.
“Aye, and if we wait for the king to send assistance we might find ourselves overrun,” the Lord Commander answered. “This isn’t the same as a rebellion on the mainland, though we’ll have to fight them all the same.”
“The king will be sending men to the Wall soon enough,” Tyrion stated, a careless grin on his face.
“To take the black or help hold the Wall?” Marsh asked sceptically.
“Both, I would presume,” Tyrion quipped. “Don’t worry your heads over it. They won’t come without their own supply cart.”
“We’ve The Gift,” Marsh retorted.
“And the men to till the lands are not entirely settled,” Ion reminded him. “The other lords will be here within a moon turn,” Jon said. “Less, if they round up their farmers quick enough.”
The brothers exchanged looks, a stiff nod coming from the Steward and First Builder.
“Aye, sounds well enough I suppose,” Jeor said. “The men from Winterfell?”
“Will be coming after I’ve proven the need for swift action,” Jon said, determinedly ignoring the dark stare his uncle sent him. Benjen didn’t know what he was planning, and with Father in King’s Landing and Robb as acting lord, Jon knew he would not send a raven to confirm his words.
“Proven?” Thorne echoed.
“Aye. I’ll need to know exact numbers to report back, both from the Wall and those of the Wildlinrgs. Their locations, the last points of attack for raid parties.”
“And give them all to a bastard?” Thorne sneered.
“Give then to the brother of the Stark in Winterfell,” Jon replied coolly. “You are free to do those things yourself.”
There was a grin on Tyrion’s face, and Jon refused to be the one to break his stare. Let him see I’m not one to be pushed around, he thought.
“A sennight,” Jeor offered. “That gives us time to send the ravens between here, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower. Will that be enough for your brother?”
“That should give him enough time to come north with the rest of the lords,” Jon agreed.
“Lord Tyrion?”
“A fortnight, at the least. The royal party requires some time to make it to King’s Landing, my lords,” he said. “It’s quite the journey from Winterfell.”
They broke soon after, the brothers returning to their duties.
“I know what you’re doing,” Uncle Benjen told him as they made their way to Jon’s quarters. “A fool’s errand.”
“An order by the acting lord,” Jon countered. “I’ve guards with me from Winterfell; six men that Father has insisted I take.”
“This isn’t a hunt for glory, Jon,” Benjen pressed, a hand holding tightly to Jon’s arm. “You would need a ranger to go with you, and we’ve not had any rankings in the last five moons. Not further than the Skirling Pass.”
“That’s why I must do it, Uncle,” Jon insisted. “What lord would take the Watch seriously unless they know what they are fighting against? Robb has given me his orders,” he fibbed, knowing his brother would see the wisdom behind it. “I am not here as a brother of the Watch but as a man of Winterfell.”
He waited quietly for Uncle Benjen to say something, though the silence was assuring. He’d not go against him - angry as he would be - and Jon needed to see what it was that brought fear into the eyes of men who had fought Wildlings near continuously for nigh on a year.
“You’ll not go with just your guards,” he finally said, hand raises to stop any protest from Jon. “They will not be enough; not for the dangers of a ranging, nor to convince the other men of the North. I am First Ranger, Jon. I know these lands better than most, you'll not gainsay me on this. They have to see it themselves. Who can we expect first?”
“Lords Umber and Karstark,” Jon answered. “Manderly, if he takes a crown ship to Eastwatch. Lord Bolton and Lord Glover both looked keen to have their men come early to The Gift.”
“Good. That’s good. Five lords who don’t always agree might be enough to convince the others,” Benjen nodded.
Joffrey I:
“Tuck your elbow closer,” he instructed, eyes watching his brother’s form.
Steffon had insisted on running his squire through his paces, his brother wanting to gauge just how well the boy learned, and they had put Tommen with him. The boys were close enough in age, and their skill sets were similar, though Tommen proved the better archer.
“Widen your step,” he barked at Bran, nudging Tommen’s feet closer together. “You’re not wielding a bloody sword, Tommen. You have to be able to shoot an arrow from any stance. Use your back.”
“I think you’ve scared the crows off Joff,” Steffon quipped.
Hiding his pleasure at Steffon’s words, he retorted, “I’ve seen birds shit with better accuracy.”
“No need to be so foul, brother,” Steff chided. “There are delicate ears about.”
At the twang of the bow, Joffrey nodded in satisfaction, seeing both arrows land just off centre.
“Well done,” Steffon praised. “Now give me ten more like that and you can go for the day.”
Ignoring the groans from the two, Joffrey pondered over the oddness of their journey south.
Steffon had been visibly relieved when they had left the North; his face, though impassive to those who did not know him, had shown a hint of unease, one that kept Joffrey up in worry. Steffon rarely looked as terrible as he did, the dark circles a mark of the lack of sleep his brother had. Mother had noticed, and Joff knew it was only by the skin of his teeth that Steff managed to avoid the interrogation the queen would no doubt put him under.
Had the unease been the only thing, Joffrey would have written it off as concern over the reports from the Northerners. But Steff has looked so utterly relieved once they had crossed into the Riverlands. Even now, where they stood in the yard at Castle Darry, Joff had noticed a burden fall away from his brother, the prince more eager to interact with the rest of their party.
“I can practically hear your thoughts, Joff,” Steffon murmured, eyes focused on the two boys. “What ails you, brother?”
“You’ve not been yourself,” he said lowly, wary of listening ears. “Even Father has noticed, and the man has looked at little else besides his friend since we left Winterfell.”
“Even before that,” Steff quipped, a dark grin on his face.
"Nor have you been attentive to your betrothed, much as you might wish it had not been promised," Joff continued.
"I'm fine," Steff told him. "Glad to finally be somewhere more warm."
Scowling, Joff turned his attention to the two boys, each attempting to beat their last arrow.
It was an inconvenience that they did not need - this thing that was bothering Steffon. Joff had spent his entire life in his brother’s shadow; less the servant and more Stef’s willing accomplice. That someone had managed to kill Jon Arryn was worrying enough. That the Lord Hand had been looking into Father’s bastards was alarming. That Steffon insisted on keeping his worries to himself when there was a sword hanging over their necks was leaving him in knots.
“Joff,” Steffon called lowly. “Joffrey.”
Pursing his lips in dissatisfaction - Hods, Arya can shoot better than them, he thought - Joff replied with a curt, “I need to lie down for a bit.”
Without waiting for an answer, Joffrey strode to the inside of the castle, Ser Arys falling into step beside him as he made his way to the rooms he had been given.
To his surprise, Steffon had come to his rooms an hour later, though all Joff had done was work himself up into a fury. A part of him had hoped Steffon would wait longer, that he might have time to cool his anger as Ser Barristan had drilled him, but Joffrey was well over his limit.
His brother must have seen the dark look in his eyes for he stuck his head out, ordering the Kingsguard to remain at the entrance to their hall.
"Joffrey," Steffon began, though Joff ignored him as he paced the length of his room, trying and failing to calm himself.
A Lannister bastard with the fury of a Baratheon. The irony might have made him laugh on any other day, but all it did now was fuel his emotions.
“Talk to me Joff,” he pleaded.
“Like you talk to me?” Joffrey scoffed, resisting the urge to kick something.
“Is that what this is about?” Steffon demanded. "That I haven't told you I am fine for the last fortnight?"
“Yes,” he hissed, conscious of the need to keep quiet. “Yes that’s what this is about.”
“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” Steffon said coolly. “I did not think you my minder to be made aware of every change in habits.”
“Don’t pin this on me,” Joff warned. “Don’t you dare.”
“If my silence is botheri—”
“Your silence can get us killed,” he nearly shouted. A vicious feel of pleasure shot through him at the shocked look on his brother’s face. “Did you perhaps forget, while you were stuck in your head for the last moon, that there are countless people who wish us dead? That we do not know what has been happening while we were busy playing at knights? That every single day you allow yourself to drift off into your mind is a day lost preparing for any threats.”
“I’ve never forgotten the dangers of our position,” Steff retorted.
“No. Mayhaps, you’ve merely underestimated it because it’s not your head on the line,” Joff snapped, his heart racing in fear and panic and a surge of rage at his brother, at his oblivious father, at the entire mess their mother had brought them because she had to cuckhold the bloody king. “It’s my life in danger; mine and Cella’s and Tom. You’re safe as Father’s heir.”
“Do you think I would ever let anyone harm you?” Steffon demanded. “That it would be safe for me to keep such a secret? I’d drag the entire kingdoms into war if they thought to harm you three.”
“How am I to know what you think? You never speak anymore,” Joffrey sneered.
“Because I’m bloody scared,” Steffon hissed, eyes wild and vulnerable. Joff felt his eyes widen in surprise, the admission entirely unexpected. “Because I’m the damned heir to a throne people would gladly murder me for. That I’ve to worry about who wants to harm you enough that they’ve killed Jon Arryn and now the entire North is in danger and Father pushes them to the edge of revolt. That there is something calling me North that I must consider when we've a war brewing in the South. Forgive me if I’ve had a little too much on my mind and thought not to burden you.”
Steffon turned abruptly to the hearth, stepping away from Joff as he struggled to compose himself.
In all his life, Joffrey had never thought to see his brother admit to fear. Steffon had been the perfect heir; older, smarter, a fierce warrior and someone who did what their father refused to do. He had moulded himself after him, admiring the calm manner with which he handled any bits of chaos, whether from the council or their parent’s disastrous decisions. That Steffon so openly feared the situation they found themselves in shot a lance of terror through him.
“Dragons to the east; Wildlings to the north; Uncle Stannis has been gone since before we returned and an enemy somewhere in our house holding a knife to our balls,” Steff said quietly. “Who do we face when we don’t know where the next strike comes from?”
“Father is focusing on the Targaryens,” Joff said.
“Father is focusing on what father wants,” Steff scoffed. “He’s always been like that, and like to get worse with Ned Stark with him. Send too many men north and we offer the Targaryens an advantage. Send too little and either the North revolts or is overrun.”
“Steffon,” he said. “You can't do this alone. You've never done this alone. Let me help you brother.”
“You’ve already done enough,” Steff said, though there was a sense of hesitation that Joffrey pounced on.
“Not nearly. We swore there would be no secrets between us,” he reminded him.
Joff waited with bated breath as his brother struggled to come to a decision. It was doing little to lessen his alarm, and he had to hide his expression of relief as Steff finally beckoned him closer.
“I’ve been having dreams,” Steffon started, a slightly odd note in his tone. “Since my fifth nameday. Dreams of a creature of ice and his soldiers, an army of dead gathered behind them.”
He would have scoffed at the notion, claiming the Northerners had managed to frighten his brother; but Joff has seen Steff wake at odd hours during their childhood, remembered days when he looked as if he had slept little, saw the slight sheen of terror lurking in his eyes.
“Do you remember, the comet?”
“Rather hard to forget as it's currently above our heads,” he said lightly, something like dread churning in his stomach.
Steffon had a tired smile on his face, his right hand outstretched toward the fire as his left shot forward to cover Joff’s mouth; a good precaution, as he almost failed to clamp down on the scream that nearly escaped him, staring at Steffon in horrified wonder.
“Y-yo-you...Father will kill you,” he whispered, knowing his words to be true.
There was a small flame resting in the palm of Steffon’s hand, the light casting shadows on his face. There was no expression of pain, nothing to suggest that his brother felt something. Suddenly, Joff was reminded of the stories Uncle Tyrion would tell them when they visited the Rock, late at night when the rest of the household was asleep and his father not around to see his sons learn of his most hated relations.
“They say the comet means dragons,” he recalled. “That dragons could only exist in a world—”
“—of magic,” they finished.
“A Valyrian trait,” Steff laughed, a dark cast to his features. "A Valyrian talent from the Targaryen grandmother to his heir."
Something he would be killed for, they both knew. Robert Baratheon might love his sons, but his hatred of his Valyrian ancestors was all that kept the man breathing on some days - reminding him of one of the few victories he seemed to gain.
"The Others," Steff whispered. "That's what I've been dreaming of. Others, and a raven calling me North, and the wars to come that tear Westeros apart."
He looked utterly exhausted, the fire no longer burning above his hand. When he glanced at it, Joff saw smooth unblemished skin. Steffon threw himself onto Joff's desk chair, a deep look thought etched onto his face, green eyes glittering with untold emotions.
“Steffon?”
“The last thing we need is an army of dead coming south - not when we don’t know the danger we’re walking into,” Steffon said quietly. “No harbringers of doom and magic at a time like this.”
“Let the Wall keep them,” Joffrey said. He couldn’t fathom the idea of the Others. Not when they had been mythical tales for so long. But dragons had been spoken of as if myth, and Joff knew his brother’s new abilities were the stuff of legends. Things that had only been seen in the age of heroes.
“I intend to send men to man it, at least until we know the whereabouts of the Targaryens.”
A small part of Joffrey wanted to disbelieve the idea of the Long Night returning; they were stories of an age of darkness, an entire generation born in darkness from what he had been told. But Steffon had never lied to him, and Joff had every faith in his brother.
“We’ve a game to play,” he grimaced, the look on his face echoed on Steffon’s.
Their world had just become more dangerous; but Joffrey too had sworn an oath to protect his family at all costs, something he was to know he was not alone in.
He wheeled his horse closer to his brother’s betrothed, a charming smile plastered on his face as he made to ride next to her.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Joff told her. “It seems my brother has gone ahead to greet Ser Barristan. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Prince Joffrey,” she said, every inch the courteous lady. “I’m certain Prince Steffon is rather busy.”
Smiling, Joffrey tilted his head to the path that lay ahead of them. “Would you care to join me in surprising them?” He asked with a mischievous grin. “Ser Barristan was my knightly master, and I’d be glad to see him.”
She flushed slightly, whispering from her friend encouraging her before she nodded, a smile on her face.
A small bit of disgust crawled through him; Sansa Stark was a sweet girl and would have made a good lady for some lucky lord. But Steffon was his brother; was the heir in a time when it was dangerous to be such, and the last thing the heir to the Iron Throne needed was a sweetly naive girl as his queen.
That she would instead be saddled with a bastard masquerading as a prince - and not the prince who would make her a queen at that - was something he found difficut to swallow.
“I’ve heard there’s to be a tourney in honour of your knighting,” she said.
“A tourney to celebrate many things, I’d imagine,” Joff chuckled, “though Father insists on glorying in martial accomplishments.”
“The King must be very proud, to have his sons knighted so young,” she stated.
“He was,” Joff told her.
It was odd; Father was mostly absent for many things, but the man had taken Joff aside before their departure to congratulate him. He had not expected it, what with the death of Lord Arryn, but Joffrey has been pleasantly surprised to hear how very proud Robert Baratheon was of his accomplishments.
“Will this be your first tourney?” He asked, steering them along the Kingsroad. They were near Stokeworth, where Steffon had ridden ahead to greet Ser Barristan and the honour guard he brought with him.
“It is,” she told him, her eyes showing pleasure at the thought. “We don’t have tourneys in the North.”
His horse grew skittish, his hand shooting out to soothe it as Joff saw Lady bound closer to them. The three direwolves had grown slightly bigger during their travels. Mother had wanted them chained, he knew, but they were more than mindless beasts. That they approved of his children had endeared them to Father, even if he thought the Starks mad to keep them as pets.
“It’s fine,” he said, seeing her open her mouth to most likely apologize. “Padfoot's spent enough time around Ghost to know better.”
There was a slight twitch in Sansa’s features, a flash of discomfort that she quickly hid.
He felt his mood plummeting at the sight of that look, a feeling of loathing nearly overwhelming him as he recognized her feelings regarding her brother.
He had mistakenly thought the Northerners to be different, but their upbringing with a Septa had made Sansa into a perfect Southron lady, disdain for bastards and all.
They rode in silence to Stokeworth, Joff stewing in his anger and loathing.
“Have I said something to upset you, my prince?” She asked tentatively.
Swallowing his anger, Joff stiffly replied, “Not at all, Lady Sansa.”
Her wolf eyed him warily, perhaps sending the upset he had caused her mistress, and Joff breathed deeply to calm himself. “Forgive me, my lady. I’ve been on the road away from home for many moons. It wears on the mind after so long.”
“Of course, Prince Joffrey,” she smiled. “Perhaps we should join the others? The Queen has invited me to join her in her wheelhouse.”
“There’s no need for that, Lady Sansa,” he said hurriedly, knowing what his Mother might be up to. The woman had made her displeasure with the betrothal known, though how she expected Steffon to remain unmarried he had no idea. Nor why she thinks to hold such sway over him. “We are near enough to Stokeworth. It is just around the bend.”
He was right, of course; Joff had travelled these very lands with Steffon years ago in a bid to secure their hold of the Crownlands. Castle Stokeworth came into view, the large holdfast strong as a diverting point for the royal family should King’s Landing find itself under threat. Outside were countless guards, each calling out their greetings as Joffrey made his way into the courtyard.
To his relief, Steffon was just inside, stood next to Ser Barristan as the two spoke. From the corner of his eye he saw Renly, his former squire hovering in his shadow as the man spoke at length with the castellan.
“Joff!” called Steff, a slightly raised brow showing his surprise at Sansa’s presence.
Joffrey let a groom take the reins from him, shooting forward to help Lady Sansa down from her palfrey.
“Nephew,” Renly spoke, a slight grin on his handsome face as he made his way to them. “And who is this lovely lady?”
“Uncle Renly, might I introduce the Lady Sansa Stark. Lady Sansa, my uncle, Renly Baratheon.”
“Well met, my lord,” she curtsied, and Joff hid a scowl as he saw her dart a glance to Ser Loras, pink staining her cheeks as the handsome Reachman bowed gallantly as Renly introduced them.
Renly’s ever present teasing grin was on his face as he glanced between them, noting where Steffon was currently making his way over. Plans were being reconfigured in Renly’s mind, he knew, and Joff made note to keep an eye on Renly and his ambitious friends, knowing Loras would report to his family.
The things we do for love, he thought darkly.
“Lady Sansa,” Steffon greeted, a light kiss pressed to her knuckles as he spoke quietly to her.
“Prince Joffrey,” Barristan greeted, and Joff had a sincere smile as he clasped hands with the older knight.
“Ser Barristan,” Joff greeted. “I’ve come to see your squire returned to you.”
“In good shape, I hope?”
“No less than he was when we made for the North,” Joff chuckled.
Steffon was bringing Sansa forward to introduce her to Barristan, and Joff swept his eyes across his uncle once more.
Father would be here soon, he knew, and they would continue to ride to King’s Landing. Renly was here; Stannis was not. It was all beginning to converge together, and now Joff had the additional worry of an army of dead headed straight to the Wall.
I need to find a way to warn Jon, he thought, worry churning his gut at the thought of what possibly awaited him at the Wall, though how he would manage to do that without revealing Steffon’s dreams and new abilities was beyond him.
For now, they would work on King’s Landing, and the games of people hoping to topple them for a taste of power.
It’s so wonderful to be home.