293 AC — the tenth year of King Robert Baratheon’s reign.
Winterfell.
The ancient, unyielding seat of House Stark.
Steel rang against steel in the snowy training yard.
“Clang! Clang! Clang!”
Two ten-year-old boys moved across the hard-packed ground, blunted longswords flashing in the cold northern light.
Every strike carried real weight and speed.
Sparks flew each time the blades met.
Robb Stark gritted his teeth, arms burning, sweat stinging his eyes.
His bright blue gaze stayed locked on his half-brother.
No matter what feint or combination Robb tried, Jon read it before it happened.
Every time.
It felt like fighting a ghost that already knew every move he would make.
Jon Snow was simply better.
With a sharp twist and a brutal follow-through, Jon knocked Robb’s sword spinning from his hands.
Before Robb could recover, the flat of Jon’s blade pressed cold and hard against his throat.
“I yield,” Robb said, raising both hands.
He hated sparring with Jon.
It was humiliating.
Yet after the first few brutal months, the jealousy had burned itself out.
Ned had sat him down and spoken plainly: every man has strengths and weaknesses.
Jon was a prodigy with a sword.
On horseback with a lance, however, Jon had never beaten Robb once.
That single fact had saved Robb’s pride.
“Just wait until the joust,” Robb said, rubbing his sore wrist and grinning.
“I’m putting you in the mud.”
“You only win at the pretty tournament games,” Jon replied, sheathing his sword with a mocking smile.
“Still counts as a win,” Robb shot back, laughing despite himself.
The easy moment between brothers shattered at the sound of arrogant boots crunching across the snow.
Theon Greyjoy strode toward them, fifteen years old, chest puffed out in his fine brown leather tunic embroidered with the golden kraken of the Iron Islands.
“Robb,” Robb greeted him politely, even though he privately despised the cocky, lecherous hostage. Get faster updates on g.com.
Theon ignored him completely.
His eyes slid to Jon with open contempt.
“You’re wasting time training with this lowborn bastard again?”
Robb’s jaw tightened, but he remembered his father’s lessons.
Never show your real feelings in front of others.
They will use it against you.
Besides, Jon didn’t need anyone to fight his battles.
Jon didn’t even look up at first.
When he spoke, his voice was calm and cutting.
“Better to be a bastard than the son of a traitor and a rapist. You smell like dead squid, Greyjoy.”
Theon’s face went purple with rage.
“You filthy bastard—how dare you insult my house!”
He ripped his sword from its sheath and lunged.
Jon moved like he had all the time in the world.
A simple trip, a hard shove, and Theon hit the frozen ground with a heavy thud.
Before the older boy could rise, Jon’s blunted blade was resting against the pulsing artery in his throat.
“Watch your mouth, Theon Greyjoy,” Jon said softly.
Those deep purple eyes looked down at him like he was already dead.
“I hate being insulted. Especially by the useless son of a coward like Balon Greyjoy.”
He pressed the blade down until the metal bit into skin.
“Remember this: you’re not some honored ward. You’re a hostage. A dog on a chain to keep your father loyal. Be grateful King Robert gave you to Eddard Stark. Any other lord would have arranged a convenient accident by now.”
Theon’s eyes were wide with fear and hatred.
He said nothing.
He couldn’t.
Jon stepped back and sheathed his sword.
“You could have been kinder,” Robb said quietly once Theon was out of earshot.
“Making an enemy of the future Lord of the Iron Islands isn’t wise.”
Jon’s smile was cold and beautiful.
“If he ever grows a spine, he can face me on a battlefield. I’ll cut off his head and send it to Balon so he can complete his collection of dead sons.”
Robb stared at him, then sighed.
“And sometimes you’re too soft, Robb. Northern lords don’t respect mercy. And I have no pity in my dictionary.”
Robb groaned.
He knew Jon was right.
Ruling the North would be hard enough without that ruthless streak at his side.
“Father wants to see you in his solar after training,” Robb said, turning toward the castle.
“I’m going to bathe.”
“Rest well,” Jon called after him.
“You got beaten like a helpless girl today.”
Robb’s shoulders hunched and he walked faster.
Jon returned the training swords to the rack and headed inside, boots echoing through the ancient stone corridors of Winterfell.
Four years had changed everything.
Catelyn Stark had proven fertile.
In that time she had given Ned five children and was carrying a sixth.
Arya had been born in 289 AC, Bran in 290, Rickon in 292.
Jon genuinely loved the younger ones, especially Arya and Bran, who both adored him and followed him everywhere.
Catelyn’s hatred had only grown, but Ned’s protection kept her silent.
She could do nothing but seethe.
The real work, however, was happening across the Narrow Sea.
Through the red priestess Melina, still hidden in Wintertown, Jon received regular reports.
His Holy Scripture, written four years ago, had worked better than even he had dared hope.
The Red Faith had doubled its followers in just four years—an explosion on a continent where the religion already dominated.
The Hands of the Sacred Fire, once a thousand strong, now numbered twenty thousand elite fanatics and grew every day.
Jon’s strict orders on recruitment had kept quality high despite the flood of zealots.
The old, stubborn priests who resisted the reforms had been quietly executed by Kinvara.
In their place stood a new generation of younger, more fanatical priests loyal only to the “Light’s Chosen.”
The entire power structure of the Red Temple had been rewritten.
The supreme leader now bore the title High Mother—only the purest and most devoted women could hold it.
Kinvara had been crowned the first High Mother.
She now wielded absolute religious authority over Essos.
Jon’s purple eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction as he walked the shadowed halls.
Everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned.
In a few more years, when the crimson storm he had seeded across the Narrow Sea was fully formed, the world would learn what it meant to face Dragon King Aenar Targaryen.