JON III

Jon awoke with a groan, and a pounding pain behind his eyes, and moved his pillow from beneath his head to cover his face, blocking out the light.

"Only one cup." Father always said. Now I see why.

He sat up, swinging his legs down to the floor. He rubbed the scum from his eyes, stifling another groan. My fucking head is killing me. He opened his eyes slowly, letting them get accustomed to the light pouring in from the window of the Highgarden guest room.

There was a flagon and cup on the small desk across the room. Jon suddenly became very aware of how dry his throat was. Water sounds very nice, right about now. He filled the glass near to the brim, before chugging it down quickly, the excess dripping down his chin.

The Arbor Gold had been flowing, the previous night. Jon had sat amongst the other squires, near the back of the hall, and had been the youngest among them. Thank the gods for Lorence's lessons on the houses of the Reach. I'd be completely lost. When the one of oldest, a Woodwright lad of around five-and-ten, discovered that Jon had never been drunk, he aimed to put an end to his sobriety. Portifer, I think his name was? I'm not sure how well my memory of last night's events can be trusted.

The squires cheered him on for every cup of wine he knocked back. They told tales of cunt and combat, of battles and beddings, and Jon listened to them all with rapt attention. They were fine company. It had been the most fun he'd had since leaving Winterfell.

He'd expected to be called upon to present himself to the Tyrell family, as he had at Castle Darry, but no such invitation came. I'm glad of it. I've already given one lord a mental breakdown. No need to repeat that with my future liege lord. And so, any impression he received of the members of House Tyrell were second-hand.

A Conklyn boy made it known that he felt Ser Garlan was the finest blade in the Reach, claiming to have witnessed him sparring against four men at once. That then prompted a debate, with some vouching for Ser Emmon Cuy, some for Baelor Brightsmile, and even one for Ser Tanton Fossoway.

"What about Ser Lorence Roxton?" Jon put in. He knew nothing of the talents possessed by the knights put forward by the others, but he'd witnessed Lorence's skill first hand, multiple times. There's no way all these others are better.

"I've never seen Ser Lorence spar." Woodwright responded. "And he never competes in any melees, either. He can't be that good, if he's too scared to test his mettle against the Reach's finest."

"He beat my father quite handily." Jon argued. "And my father was the one who slew Ser Arthur Dayne."

"That was two-and-ten years past, though." A Cobb bastard put in. "Now, I'll wager your father's joints sing louder than his steel does."

That drew a laugh from the squires, as Jon scoffed, but made no further reply. Somewhere in his drink-addled mind he knew he should be defending his father more strongly, but he couldn't bring himself to care all that much. In fact, he then surprised himself by laughing along with the jest. Two months ago, I'd have scowled and fled the hall.

The Woodwright squire then claimed that Lady Margaery was the comliest maiden in the Seven Kingdoms, which prompted a series of agreements from the rest of the table.

"Once I'm knighted, I'm going to swear myself to Highgarden." Woodwright told the table, before continuing with a smirk. "Do you think your father will assign me to be her personal guard, Vyrwel? I might even let her see my sword, if you catch my meaning" That drew another laugh from the table, and Jon joined uncomfortably. I'm not exactly a paragon of knowledge when it comes to this subject.

"I wouldn't press your luck, Woodwright." The Vyrwel boy, who's father was the Highgarden captain of guards, Jon learned, said reproachfully. "Heard Lord Puff Fish is saving his precious little rose for the crown prince."

"Do you know how busy a crown prince can be?" Woodwright shot back, still smirking. "Why, I've heard that their duties can leave them busy all day. I'd be more than willing to help Lady Margaery pass the time. Wouldn't want such a pretty little thing getting lonely, would we?" Laughter arose once again, Jon joining in gladly. Even I caught the innuendo there.

"Like she'd bed a man with a name like Portifer." The Cobb bastard snorted into his cup, and laughter erupted from the table, Jon howling along with them.

The night carried on for a few more hours, mock calls of Oh, Portifer! and Portifer, yes! ringing about the hall, until Lord Tyrell took his leave. Jon had stumbled up to his guest chambers, hastily undressed, yanked out his hair tie, and threw himself face first onto the featherbed.

. . .

The sun had come up all too soon.

And now I pay the price for my carelessness.

He took advantage of the basin of water attached to his chamber wall, scrubbing off any grime from the night before. He was expected outside his knight's chambers by sunrise, and was already late.

He prepared himself hastily, and made sure he had all of his belongings from the room on his person, before setting out to find Lorence's chambers.

He knocked once he got there, and the door opened to find a fully dressed Lorence staring down at him.

"Finally got your lazy arse out of bed, did you?" Lorence asked with a smirk.

"I'm sorry, ser." Jon rushed to apologize, head still pounding. "It won't happen again, I swear it."

Lorence chuckled, and gave Jon's hair a ruffle, before narrowing his eyes at him.

"It better not!" Lorence said, voice much louder than before. Jon winced at the volume, as it made his head start to pound all the more painfully. Lorence laughed openly at Jon's reaction.

"Had a bit too much wine last night, did we?" Lorence asked with a knowing smile, emerging from his chamber, and began the trek down to the stables.

"I'm sorry." Jon repeated, his hand holding his head. I'm never drinking again.

"That's quite the vow." Lorence snarked. I said that out loud, didn't I? "Perhaps wait until you get a bit older, and start gallivanting about with the fairer sex, before swearing off the drink. A little bit of summerwine goes a long way, in that regard."

"What would I do without your wisdom?" Jon grumbled back at him. They turned a corner, and Jon groaned when the sunlight hit his eyes.

"My wisdom, is it?" Lorence drawled in amusement. "There's a first time for everything I suppose."

"Really?" Jon drawled back, playing along. "I'd say you've wisdom spewing out your ears. I almost mistook you for a maester."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended by the comparison." Lorence responded with a chuckle. Jon laughed back, as they came upon the stables.

"What's got you lot all giggly?"

Jon and Lorence turned to see Ser Humfrey saddling his own horse, fixing them with a tired smile.

"My valiant squire here reckons I could be a maester." Lorence responded.

"Almost became one myself." Ser Humfrey responded, stifling a yawn. "Most maesters see more of the cunt of their Lady than her husband does." Lorence erupted in laughter, that Jon joined in with, but stopped with another groan, and a hand to his eyes. It's so loud. And bright. And everything hurts. Wine is the worst.

"Sorry to put that image in your head, lad." Ser Humfrey said with a chuckle, likely misinterpreting the reason for Jon's reaction. "Though, Lady Stark isn't your mother, is she? Free game, I say…"

Jon groaned.

"I mean, she's in her prime…"

"Stop. Please."

Ser Humfrey exploded in laughter, and only laughed louder once receiving a clout on the head from Lorence.

"Are you ready, you insufferable arse?" Lorence asked after Ser Humfrey's laughter ceased.

"Not everyone has such a dutiful squire, Roxton." Ser Humfrey droned back.

"I've lucked out in that department, haven't I?" Lorence answered, but not before giving Jon a pointed look. Jon understood the meaning immediately.

While he might've brushed off my being late this morning, he won't tolerate it again.

. . .

They were three days off from Bandallon, and an anxiety that Jon had not expected had overcome him. This will be my home for the foreseeable future. Lorence and Ser Humfrey like me, but what about everyone else? What if they hate me for what I am?

He then realized that this anxiety was not new, in any sense. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Whenever his old insecurities reared their ugly heads, Jon repeated the words of Warron Tallflowers in his head.

Words are wind. They only hurt you if you let them.

A few of the squires at Highgarden had tried to rib Jon on his bastard status, but Jon had acted indifferent to their teasing, and they ceased quite quickly. He compared this in his head to when Theon would tease him at Winterfell, and Jon would react by sulking, or lashing out. Reacting would only make the teasing worse. It's the reaction that they want. Give them nothing to be entertained by, and they lose interest pretty quickly.

"What are we brooding about today, hmm?"

Jon turned his head, seeing Lorence pull his horse up next to Jon's, the two riding side by side.

"Nothing important." Jon deflected. Lorence clearly didn't believe him.

"Do you think you could beat Ser Emmon Cuy in a spar?" Jon blurted out, hoping to stop an inquiry before it began.

"Ser Emmon Cuy?" Lorence asked, clearly taken aback by the abrupt change in topic. "I've beaten him in the past. We've only sparred a few times, but I've won more than I've lost."

"Ser Tanton Fossoway?"

"I've never sparred with Ser Tanton." Lorence answered slowly, his eyes narrowing towards Jon now. "But Ser Emmon has beaten Ser Tanton in every melee I've seen them in. They often find themselves fighting one another. Some sort of friendly rivalry, I presume. Why are you asking?"

"What about Ser Baelor Hightower?" Jon asked, ignoring Lorence's inquiry.

"I've sparred with him more than a few times, and I've won more than I've lost." Lorence answered, getting a little frustrated. "Where's this coming from?" I'd better come clean.

"Just a conversation, at Highgarden." Jon answered. "The squires I was sitting with were debating the best swords in the Reach, and I'd vouched for you, remembering how easily you beat my father."

"Kind of you." Lorence snarked, but Jon noticed the surprised, and almost touched smile he tried to suppress.

"But they said that you've never even competed in a melee." Jon said, before continuing hesitantly, not wanting to offend. "Someone even said that you can't be that good, because you're too scared to test your mettle against the Reach's finest."

Jon wasn't sure what kind of reaction he expected. An offended scoff, perhaps, or demanding Jon tell him who spoke such vile lies. But Lorence throwing his head back and laughing loudly was not one of them.

"If only that were the truth." Lorence said with another small chuckle. "The real truth far less interesting. I've no desire for the glory that comes with being a famed tourney knight, and so I've never tried."

"Never once?"

"I won a few squire's melees in Old Oak, before the Greyjoy Rebellion." Lorence said. "But in King's Landing, I always found an excuse to not enter in one of the King's many tourneys. I was never a great jouster, and the men who would fight in the melees were always much larger than I was in my younger days. And the type of attention the winners would receive always looked overwhelming. It never interested me. I'd much rather watch Humfrey lose, than participate myself."

"Oh." Jon said, a little disappointed. "Could you beat Ser Garlan Tyrell?"

"Back to this, are we?" Lorence asked with a smirk. "Ser Garlan is the only man in the Reach I believe I would lose to more often than not. I consider Ser Garlan a friend, and I would name him the best blade in the Reach, without a doubt. He shares my opinion on glory, as well. You'll find him competing in as many tourneys as I do."

"How does everyone know how good Ser Garlan is, but not how good you are?" Jon asked, genuinely curious. Lorence smirked in response.

"I'm sure the Tyrell family has methods of ensuring that word of his prowess gets out." Lorence said vaguely. Jon felt no small amount of confusion at Lorence's vagueness, but decided to let it go. There was one thing he couldn't quite understand, however.

"You've truly never wanted to try your hand at a tourney?" Jon asked incredulously, again. "Never once?"

"I've pondered it, a few times." Lorence responded with an amused huff. "But not enough to actually go through with it."

"First chance I get, I'm entering a melee." Jon professed. "The North has no tourneys. I've always wanted to compete in one."

"You'll get your chance, lad." Lorence chuckled, clearly amused at Jon's zeal. "Perhaps wait a few years before you go challenging grown men. The glory will still be there when you're a few years older. Wait until you've grown a few hairs on your chest."

"You mentioned a squire's melee, though?"

"Those are rare." Lorence admitted, and Jon's face fell, but Lorence continued. "Don't get all sulky on me, lad. You didn't let me finish. Lord Tyrell's youngest is a squire himself, to the Lord of Storm's End. You can bet your purse that Mace will give his boy every opportunity to earn fame and fortune. If Highgarden's next tourney doesn't have a squire's melee, I'd be astonished."

Jon was in a much better mood after that.

Glory doesn't sound so bad, Lorence, Jon thought with a hopeful smile. It would be nice to be known for something other than who your mother isn't.

. . .

The Reach had a fresh, almost perfumed scent that Jon was finding he didn't mind. He supposed it couldn't be helped, what with the endless fields of roses, tulips, and countless other flowers that he couldn't name, in a vast assortment of colours.

It could get a tad stifling at times, and he often found himself yearning for the fresh, almost untainted air of the North. A deep breath of Northern air would chill your insides in the most refreshing way, leaving you comfortable and alert. Though that may just be the homesickness speaking. I'm sure the Reachmen feel the same about their home.

But Jon wasn't one to wax poetic about what different scents meant to different people, and so he kept his thoughts to himself.

But it was his acuteness to the Reach's own signature ambience that made the subtle change in scent all the more apparent, the closer they got to their destination.

If salt had a smell, I would swear upon a weirwood that I smell it now.

No one was paying him any attention at the moment, which he was glad for. I probably look like a fool, sniffing the air. The men are like to mistake me for a mutt.

Jon was rooted out of his thoughts by Lorence's loud call.

"Can you smell it, lads?" Lorence called from the front of the order, where he was riding with Ser Humfrey and Warron Tallflowers. "Bandallon calls! I reckon we'll be in our beds by nightfall!"

A chorus of happy agreements arose from the men, and Jon's anxiety returned.

My new home. By nightfall.

He rode up along Lorence's right side, doing his best to look as inconspicuous as possible.

But, as usual, Lorence saw straight through him.

"No need to be nervous, Jon. They'll all love you." Lorence told him warmly, before smirking. "You'll be a ray of sulky darkness to their sunshine." His tension dissipated a bit, and he cracked a smile at Lorence's teasing.

"They." Jon muttered, before turning to Lorence. "Could you tell me a bit about the household? You haven't mentioned any besides your brother and father."

Lorence gave him a smile. "I'd wanted you to make your own impressions, before listening to my opinions. It would be good practice for when you meet other nobles."

"Even still?"

"I'll tell you their names, and their titles." Lorence allowed. "But I want you to be your own judge of character, alright? It's a good skill to possess. Trust me."

Jon nodded, and Lorence began.

"You have my father, Lord Moryn Roxton; the lord of Bandallon. My brother Luthor, who you know of already. My mother is Lady Clarice Roxton, née Osgrey; the Lady of Bandallon. Her uncle, Ser Unwin Osgrey, is our master of arms, and stand-by castellan, if need be. Our steward is Eddison Fessett. His younger brother Hosman is our kennelmaster. Our captain of the guards is Warron's father, Ser Wilbur Tallflowers. Warron's younger brother Aubrey is a guard as well. Our blacksmith is a Qohorik man by the name of Valko. He's also our tanner, cobbler, saddlesmith, our goldsmith and our silversmith. A real factotum, that one. Our maester's name is Toman, and our Septon's name is Lorean. They all have their respective families and what not, as well."

Wow.

Jon knew he shouldn't be overwhelmed by all the information, seeing as Winterfell had it's own equivalents to all of the positions Lorence described. But Jon had known Winterfell's workers all his life, and had come to see them as synonymous with the positions they held. He had no doubt that he would slip up, and accidentally call the kennelmaster Farlen, or the blacksmith Mikken. Though, Bandallon's blacksmith does a lot more than Mikken ever did.

"Are there any more?" Jon asked, feigning exasperation.

"Oh! I almost forgot." Lorence exclaimed. Even more names to remember. Lucky me. "Humf's squire's name is Rickard Tyrell. He left him behind when we went North. Rick's a few years older than you."

"Ser Humfrey's squire is a Tyrell?" Jon asked incredulously. The only Tyrell squire I know is in service to the Lord of Storm's End. How did a fourth son like Ser Humfrey end up with a Tyrell?

"Not that kind of Tyrell, lad." Ser Humfrey chimed in from Lorence's left. "He's a rose from lower on the bush, if you take my meaning. Fifty Tyrells would have to die before Rick would get his hands on Highgarden. You'd think that'd temper his ego, but alas…"

"Did you not hear me when I said I was going to let Jon make his own judgements?" Lorence asked in exasperation.

"I might've, but I'd never miss an opportunity to slander my squire's good name." Humfrey returned with a smirk. "Besides, his hands quiver something fierce when you remind him of that. Don't keep him in check and he'll have you thinking he's the heir to bloody Highgarden."

Lorence let out a breath, that was some queer combination of a huff, a sigh, and a laugh. I have no idea what that was, but I agree with the sentiment. Lorence gave Ser Humfrey a soft punch on the arm, and a comfortable silence took hold.

A gust of wind picked up, bringing with it the queer salty scent Jon had noticed earlier. As it began to fade once more, Jon began sniffing the air again, trying to catch it again.

"You smell it?" Lorence asked him. "The smell of home is always a bit intoxicating."

"What is it?" Jon asked, thoroughly perplexed. "It smells almost… salty. But salt doesn't have a smell." Lorence and Humfrey shared a look, and then a laugh, and Jon's face heated in embarrassment.

"It's the smell of the sea, lad." Lorence told him. "Bandallon is on a cliff, and overlooks the Sunset Sea. To Roxtons, the smell of the sea is important. It means home. It means safety. It means family. The smell of the sea is a good omen. When I was a boy, my father used to tell me that if I woke up and smelt the sea, life was as good as can be." he finished, in a little sing-song voice, like a handmaiden might use in a nursery.

"Are you good sailors, then?" Jon asked, genuinely curious. "Since you're so close to the sea, and all."

"Gods, no." Lorence huffed. "We have a small port that sticks out into the sea, for trade and all, but that's it. Roxtons have always been best a-horse and on foot. I know my way around a ship enough not to get seasick, but I'd be hopeless at sailing one. We haven't even got a fleet."

"What if pirates attack from the sea?" Jon asked, aghast. "Or Ironborn?"

"Ironborn don't come this far south." Lorence said, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. "And pirates that aren't Ironborn are few and far between on the Sunset Sea. If they do exist at all, they'd be much wiser to assault one of the richer ports along the Westerlands, or even Seagard. More value for the risk, I'd wager. There's never been a single raid in my lifetime on our port."

Jon nodded, doing his best to digest all the new information. The retinue rode on, and came over a tall hill. In the distance, Jon could make out a castle, with a few tall towers, and light grey walls. Beyond that, the sun could be seen in the sky, a few hours from setting beyond the endless blue water.

Lorence gave a content sigh from Jon's left, likely feeling relief. Jon wasn't sure what to think.

Bandallon awaits.

. . .

The sky was aflame with the colours of susnset when they entered through the main gates, and the walls cast long shadows across the courtyard. Not a peasants keep, per se. The walls rose to about half the height on Winterfell's inner wall, perhaps fifty feet high if Jon had to guess. Only one layer, as well. The size of the castle was also incomparable, as well. While Winterfell spanned several acres all in all, based on what Jon's seen, Bandallon couldn't be more than a few acres in total.

The men around him dismounting from their horses snapped Jon out of his perusal, and he followed their example. The reigns were immediately taken out of his hands by an eager stable boy, who thanked him with a milord. Jon immediately went to correct him, but the boy had already taken off, horse in tow.

The guards began dispersing, and Jon took his place behind and to the side of Lorence. He sized up the group lined up to meet them. There were three people waiting. He took them in right to left, moving from least intimidating to most.

First was a boy Jon's age, who was smiling widely. He was of a height with Jon, but much stockier. He was blonde of hair, and brown of eye, just like the woman next to him. Jon noticed other things as well, of course. The boy had slanted eyes, a short neck, and a flat nose. If Jon hadn't known better, he'd have thought the boy related to Hodor. Luthor Roxton. Lorence's brother.

Next was the woman. She was slight of build, and shared her hair and eyes with Luthor. She had a soft smile on her face, as she took in their group. It was a look Jon had seen many a time on Lady Stark, when she watched her children. It was the look of a loving mother. Jon felt a small pang in his chest when he made the comparison. Lady Clarice Roxton. Lorence's lady mother.

Last was a large man, not quite as tall as Lorence, but more stout. He had a body shape not unlike Ser Rodrik. A warrior of yesterday, Ser Rodrik would've said. He had greying brown hair, and Lorence's blue eyes. But, most strikingly, he was without a right arm from the elbow down. Lord Moryn Roxton. Lorence's lord father, and lord of the castle.

And, while all in the courtyard looked to their returning heir, Lord Moryn's eyes had not left Jon's. He was staring at Jon intently, as though searching for something in his face.

Jon shifted uncomfortably at the attention. He must be looking for my father in my face, Jon surmised. Father did mention something about them being old friends.

Jon looked to his knight, who had the largest smile on his face. He'd knelt down, and opened his arms, and Luthor wrenched free of his mother's hold, and barrelled into Lorence's arms, giving his older brother a fierce embrace. Lorence returned it just as fiercely.

The two brothers spoke in hushed tones to each other, and then Lorence threw his head back and laughed at something Luthor had said. He got up, and gave Luthor's blonde hair a ruffle. Luthor then made his way over to Ser Humfrey, and gave him a hug of his own. Ser Humfrey gave a surprised oof, but returned the boy's hug, a tad awkwardly. Luthor then made his way over to Jon and gave him a questioning look.

"Are you the squire, from the North?" Luthor asked, big eyes all curiosity.

"Aye." Jon answered. There was a short awkward pause, and Jon offered his hand. "Jon Snow, my lord."

Luthor suddenly adopted a very serious look, and shook Jon' s hand gravely. "Luthor of the House Roxton. I am pleased to make your ac— acqu—, acqua—" He turned to his older brother, "What's the word, Lor?"

"Acquaintance." Lorence told him with an indulgent smile, sounding out each syllable. "You've been practicing your courtesies, I see."

"I sure have!" Luthor exclaimed, smiling once more, completely forgetting about Jon. "Maester Toman says I'm doing better!"

"That you are, little brother." Lorence agreed, ruffling his hair once more. "Come, let's greet mother and father." Luthor eagerly led them the twenty remaining feet to the where Lord and Lady of Bandallon stood.

"Mother." Lorence greeted, giving his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Lady Clarice gave her son a pat on the cheek as he released her. That pang in Jon's chest returned. Get it together, Jon chastised himself. You're nearly a man grown. The time to cry over a mother you've never met was years ago.

Lorence then made his way over to his father. He put his right hand out for a handshake, and laughed when his father shot him a mock glare. Lord Moryn pulled his son into an quick embrace, and gave him a once-over after releasing him. Ser Humfrey then greeted the two warmly, and it was finally Jon's turn.

Lorence motioned for Jon to approach. Lord Moryn had resumed his intense perusal of Jon's face, causing him to hesitate slightly, in his approach. Lord Moryn clearly noticed Jon's discomfort, and halted his scrutiny, offering him a small smile of encouragement.

"Father, mother," Lorence said, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I present my squire. Jon Snow of Winterfell."

"My lord, my lady." Jon greeted with a bow to both. "I thank you for your hospitality."

"Well met, Jon Snow." Lord Moryn greeted warmly. "You look so much like your father, lad."

"Thank you, my lord." Jon said, ducking his head, faced flushed from embarrassment, as was his usual response when such a compliment was given.

"We are delighted to have you in our home." Lady Clarice said, all courtesy, before waving a slender, middle aged man foreward. "Eddison here will show you to your chambers, and we shall commence supper in a half an hour. Do inform him if your furnishings are not suitable."

"Thank you, my lady." Jon responded. Lady Clarice gave him a nod, and turned back towards what Jon assumed was the Great Keep. Luthor followed, all but dragging Lorence along with him. Lorence looked back to Jon with an apologetic smile.

"Follow me, young man." Jon's escort, Eddison, I think, said before stalking off in another direction.

Jon jogged to catch up, flipping through the mental catalogue he had tried to make when Lorence had fired off the household. Eddison… Eddison… the steward, Eddison? Eddison Fessett?

"You're Eddison Fessett, right?" Jon asked as he caught up the man. "Bandallon's steward?"

"Quite right." Fessett responded, sounding amused. "I manage the household staff, ensuring that each and every servant and maid knows exactly where to be, and at what time, among other things. Ser Lorence has spoken of me?"

"Only your name and title." Jon responded. "I asked about the household on the ride south." And I know what a bloody steward does. I was raised in a castle five times the size of this one. Git.

"Your preparation is commendable." Fessett drawled condescendingly, and silence reigned.

Lorence wanted me to make my own opinions? Okay. The steward is a prick.

They arrived at Jon's chambers, but Fessett stopped Jon before opening the door.

"A servant will be by at midday to change sheets, and collect clothing to be laundered." Fessett said, patronizing smile still in place. "However, it is not a servant's job to clean up your mess. Do try not to make their jobs too difficult, hmm?"

He was walking away before Jon had a chance to respond. Jon rolled his eyes, and entered his chamber.

All for me?

It was at least three times bigger than his chamber at Winterfell. At Winterfell, Jon's chambers were among some of the higher paid servants. They were by no means a broom cupboard, but he knew very well how much smaller they were compared to his siblings'.

In Bandallon, he was housed in the Guest Keep. "For people of prominence," Ser Humfrey had told him on the ride. "My rooms will be a floor above your own."

The room was spacious, with a large bed dividing the east wall. There was a desk along the north wall, and a large closet, dresser, and bookshelf along the south. The west wall had four decorative windows, which overlooked what looked like a training yard, with racks of swords and lances bordering a tiltyard and a melee field. Beyond the castle walls, Jon could see the sun set over the Sunset sea.

The bed frame and furniture were all well aged, but well crafted out of mahogany. Jon almost chuckled to himself as he traced the intricate designs of the headboard with his finger. These were bought to satisfy guests with a much finer taste than mine own. There were even fresh candles on the bedside tables and desk, should Jon desire any late night reading or writing. And they thought I might disapprove? Or find it bloody lacking? Not in a thousand years.

Jon figured he'd have another quarter hour before he would be expected in the Great Hall. He decided to use the time to freshen up as much as possible. There was no time for a bath to be requested, and so he used the water basin beside his bed to scrub off as much of the grime and sweat he'd accumulated on the day's ride as he could. With his hands busy, but mind idle, he decided to ponder over the people of the castle that he'd met so far.

Eddison Fessett was clearly a proud, preening man who thought far too much of himself, and of his position. Someone used to looking down on those around him.

Lady Clarice Roxton had shown him a mask of decorum. Jon knew not what to think of her yet. She'd said all the proper things, then took off. Father is Lord Moryn's old friend, not hers. It is entirely possible she does not approve of me.

Luthor Roxton was a sweet boy. He may share Jon's age, and height, but his mind was that of a small child. Bran is likely farther along mentally than Luthor. But he's hard not to like. A fellow misfit.

Lord Moryn Roxton was an enigma. One moment, he was staring at Jon like he was trying to memorize his features down to the nostril, and the next he was speaking to him with warmth and familiarity. He radiates strength, and commands respect. I understand why Father is so fond of him. But he confuses me.

A knock on the door broke him out of his contemplations. Jon threw his washcloth into the laundry basket, dried off, and tugged on his tunic.

It was time for the feast.

. . .

Jon was seated amongst the squires, once more. There were far less than Highgarden however. The only other occupant of the squire's table was a squire perhaps two or three years older than Jon. He was thin, with a handsome face, ash-blonde hair, and hazel eyes. He seemed to startle as Jon sat, as he was too engrossed in something off in the distance.

"Jon Snow." Jon introduced himself, offering his hand. The squire stared at Jon, for just a second, before shaking the offered hand. "Ser Lorence's squire."

"Rickard Tyrell." The squire introduced, clearly preening at his own family name. Ser Humfrey's infamous squire. "I squire for Ser Humfrey."

"Well met." Jon said with a smile, purposely leaving out the typical my lord that those of lesser status were supposed to use when addressing highborn. It doesn't matter whether they're actually a lord, or not. It's a term of deferment. We're both squires. There's no need for deferment.

Rickard's smile twitched a bit, but he continued on as if naught was amiss. Smooth.

"It's good to finally have a fellow squire 'round here." Rickard proclaimed, giving what Jon supposed was his attempt at a winning smile. "I'm sure that we shall become great friends, Jon Snow."

"We've only just met." Jon responded playfully, unsure what to say. His words scream kindness and friendship, but there's something off about it.

"Our knights are the best of friends." Rickard proclaimed with another smile. "Why shouldn't we be the same?"

This does not match at all with the Rickard Tyrell I know by reputation. Let's see where he's going with this.

"I see no reason why not, either." Jon asked, giving Rickard a smile. "Tell me about your family, Rickard. Despite stopping at Highgarden, I've never spoken to a Tyrell."

"My family?" Rickard asked, seeming surprised, but only for a moment. "Oh yes, of course."

He launched into a whole soliloquy, about the honour and valour of House Tyrell, speaking of all manor of past achievements and glories, and of the beauty and splendour of Highgarden. Jon was barely paying attention.

"I was speaking with some of Highgarden's squires when we stopped there." Jon began conversationally, once Rickard had finished waxing poetic about Highgarden's cisterns, or stables, or something along those lines. "They spoke much of the beauty and grace of Lady Margaery." If speaking of cuckolding the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms is synonymous with her "beauty and grace."

"Lady Margaery is the fairest maiden in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms." Rickard informed him, proudly. I have yet to see him not do something proudly.

"What's she like?"

That faltered him a bit. Show me your true colours.

"I'm sorry?"

"What's she like?" Jon asked again. "You're her family, aren't you? Do you not know her?"

Rickard's smile was gone, now. There was a tick in his jaw that hadn't been present before. Jon felt a bit bad about what he was about to do. I've been teased about my place in my family since before I can remember. Oh, well. Time to go in for the kill.

"Oh, forgive me." Jon said, chuckling. "I remember something Ser Humfrey told me. He called you a rose from lower on the bush, or something like that. My mistake."

"And what would you know about it, bastard?" Rickard spat, all previous pretence gone, and clearly without thinking, because once he realized what he'd said, he got up, and strode from the feast. There you are. I didn't listen to Lorence and Humfrey complain about you for all those weeks on the road, to suddenly ignore what I'd been told and become friends.

As if summoned from his thoughts, Ser Humfrey came strolling down to the table, brow furrowed.

"Where's Rick?" Ser Humfrey asked.

"He left." Jon said through a mouthful of glazed duck. Ser Humfrey gave him a pointed look. Jon rolled his eyes back at the Hightower knight. "I was only taking your advice."

They shared a laugh together, and Ser Humfrey went off in search of his squire.

. . .

Jon was outside his knight's door, ready for his first day in the castle, come sunrise. I've got to prove my punctuality, after Highgarden. When Lorence opened his door, ready for the day, he gave Jon a smile.

"I thought we'd start today by getting to know the castle a bit." Lorence told him as they walked down the corridor. "I'll give you a brief tour, and introduce you to some of the household."

"Do I have to see the steward again?" Jon asked without thinking. It's the first day, and you're already insulting people. Get it together, Snow.

"No." Lorence assured around a laugh. "At least, I bloody hope not. Bit of a git, isn't he?"

Jon and Lorence exited the Great Keep chuckling, and came upon the tilt yards. Ser Humfrey was laughing with a shorter, muscular, grey haired, bearded man with a greatsword strapped to his back on the sidelines, while Rickard rode a lance against a quintain. When the two noticed their presence, the older man grinned at them.

"Look at the swagger he walks with!" The man shouted in his hoarse voice. "When was the last time you were properly thrashed, nephew? I could beat you into the ground any day!"

Lorence laughed from beside Jon, and they approached the two men. "I doubt that, nuncle." Lorence shot back. "Are you going to fight me with a sword in one hand, and a walking stick in the other?" The older man let out a deep belly chuckle.

"Ah, but the cane is the most dangerous of my weapons, my young lord." The older knight intoned. "It is because it is unexpected. And what did I always tell you?"

"Never do what your opponent expects you to do." Lorence and Humfrey parroted.

"Quite right." The old knight agreed, before shifting his gaze to Jon. "Is this the fresh meat, then?"

"Jon Snow, ser." Jon introduced quickly, intimidated by the old knight's gaze, voice cracking embarrassingly. The old man held his stare for a few seconds, before breaking into an amused smile.

"I'm only messin' with you, lad." The old knight assured him with a pat on his back. "I'm Ser Unwin Osgrey, grand-uncle to your poor excuse of a knight." Jon laughed at the jest, but noticed that, while Lorence had also laughed, he had stiffened considerably. Odd.

"I'm also the master-at-arms of this castle." Ser Unwin proclaimed. "Since Lorence can't joust worth a damn, I'll be takin' over those lessons."

"And I'll finally have someone to ride against." Rickard Tyrell said, approaching on his horse.

"Rick!" Lorence said, sounding overjoyed to see him. "I didn't catch you last night. Heard you'd stormed off early."

"I shouldn't be surprised at your squire's lack of manners, Roxton." Rickard spat, after glaring at Lorence for a few seconds. "You've none of your own to begin with."

"Oh, off with you, for fucks sake. Keep practicing." Humfrey huffed, shooing the horse away. "Maybe one day you'll grow up to be four-and-fortieth in line for Highgarden, instead of six-and-fortieth. Go grow strong, and all that. Shoo."

"Prick." Rickard sneered under his breath, and rode back the tiltyard.

"Don't mind the Tyrell." Ser Unwin told Jon with a smile. "I'm sure you just forgot to offer him the last sweetroll, which he deserves like the royal highness he is."

"I just forgot to call him my lord." Jon said, indifferent. A half-truth.

"He's not a lord, though." Ser Humfrey pointed out, confused.

"I know." Jon responded. "Not sure he does, though."

That got a laugh out of the men. Ser Unwin gave him a pat on the back, but gave him a curious look after.

"You've come to train with no armour?" Ser Unwin asked, incredulous, before turning on Lorence. "You let your squire come to train with no armour? Do you remember my punishment for that?"

"No need to grab your hairbrush, nuncle. I'm sure the cisterns can wait." Lorence said with a chuckle. "I'm taking him on a tour of the castle. No training today." No, not today. But I'm sneaking down tonight, for sure.

"Don't forget your armour, lad." Ser Unwin told him in a grave voice. "Cisterns never run so well as they do the day after a good scrubbin'."

"Stop threatening my squire, you old whoreson." Lorence said, giving his uncle a friendly shove. "Come on, Jon. I don't even think you have any armour anyway, do you?"

"A good excuse to go see Valko, then." Lorence said, at Jon's head shake.

Lorence lead Jon through the castle, but Jon stopped him at the gate to the godswood.

"Is there a heart tree?" Jon asked.

"Of course there's a heart tree." Lorence answered, before giving him an apologetic glance. "We were an Andal house, so we've never had a weirwood, but we do have a bloody massive oak about three hundred feet in."

"That's alright." Jon assured him, resuming their trek. The old gods hold no power in the South, anyhow. It would've been nice to see a piece of home, is all.

The hammers were heard before the smithy was seen. They were approaching a corner of the castle, and came upon a massive sprawl of tools an equipment. It looked like an unorganized mess of tanning racks, workbenches, tool racks, and grindstones, all centred by a large forge.

At the forge was a large, white haired, olive skinned man in naught but britches and a leather apron, hammering away at what looked to be a waraxe-in-progress.

"Valko!" Lorence yelled, before having to do so a few more times to get the massive blacksmith's attention. He looked up, immediately abandoning his work to a tub of water when he realized who was approaching.

"The mighty heir!" Valko boomed, his voice holding a faint, foreign accent. "To what to I owe my services today?"

"A few things, actually." Lorence told him, before patting a hand on Jon's back. "My new squire here needs a set of leather armour, for training. He'll be graduating to steel soon, I'm sure, but we'll start with leather to get him used to the extra weight." Valko nodded, opening his mouth to add something else before being interrupted. "—training armour, Valko. No decorations, or adornments." Valko conceded, though somewhat hesitantly, it seemed.

"What else?" "My saddle is beginning to feel like stone." Lorence drawled. "I have to commission another one, I'm afraid."

"This is a personal saddle to the heir of a noble house." Valko said in his deep voice, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Would it not be practical to give it your own touch of originality?"

Lorence merely sighed. "Fine." Lorence acquiesced. "Embroider it with the interlocking rings, like my chestplate. Let it not be said that I do not take pride in my house." He finished with a sarcastic drawl, before catching Valko's eye. "No colour. Black thread."

"Fine, fine, fine." Valko said, before turning to Jon. "Come, boy. I shall measure you."

Jon obeyed instantly, walking up to the massive smithy, who had taken out a thin roll of parchment, with equally spaced lines on it. Inch marks, likely.

"Where are you from, boy?" Valko asked as he measured Jon's shoulders.

"Winterfell. The North."

"Cold place."

"Aye." Jon agreed. "But we don't mind."

"You know nothing else," Valko corrected, directing him to raise his arms so that he might measure Jon's chest. "Now you are South, in the warmth. Won't ever be able to go back."

"Will to!" Jon insisted indignantly.

"If you say so, little lord." Valko said with a chuckle, before moving down to measure his thighs.

"I'm not a lord." Jon corrected, mostly out of habit. "Just a bastard."

"I forget how strange Westerosi laws are, sometimes." Valko said with a chuckle. "But then I remember that Westerosi would think Qohor even stranger, and so I shut my mouth."

"Qohor?" Jon asked, curious. "Is that where your from."

"Correct." Valko confirmed, moving down to Jon's calves. "I have not been back there in forty years, though I do not miss it."

"Why not?"

"We Qohorik are a bloody people. Fond of sacrifices. Blood magic." Valko said, face dead serious. Which can't be right. Blood magic? He has to be jesting. "Guard our secrets closely, too. That's the main reason why I'm here."

"My grand-uncle Eon saved Valko's life a long time back." Lorence chimed in. "The Qohorik take their life debts very seriously, right Valko?"

"Quite right, mighty heir." Valko agreed. "Ser Eon, kostagon se zōbrie hubre mīsagon zirȳla, saved me from my countrymen, while I was hiding in the Stormlands. The master smiths of my homeland do not take kindly to those who wish to share their secrets, and so they sent some men after me. Ser Eon prevented me from greeting the zōbrie hubre, and so I pledged my service and my life to him and his family, until the day came where the zōbrie hubre would claim my soul once more."

"The… uhh… zoh-bree… oo-bray?" Jon sounded out, sending Lorence a questioning look.

"The Black Goat." Lorence informed him. "The religion practiced in Qohor." Jon mouthed an understanding oh, just as Valko finished with the measurements.

"These will be ready on the morrow, boy." Valko announced. "Your saddle may take a little longer, mighty heir."

"And Oldtown wasn't built in a day." Lorence said with a fond smile. "Take your time, Valko. How much?"

"Altogether? Fifty five stags."

Lorence fished around in his purse, and handed over the appropriate amount, before turning to Jon.

"Come along, squire. The tour isn't over, yet."

. . .

Jon had entered the Great Hall for supper not two minutes past when the guard burst through the door.

"My lord!" The guard called. "A rider!"

"My thanks." Lord Moryn responded, rising immediately, and leaving out the door the guard left open.

They all gathered in the courtyard, ready to meet the visitor. Not twenty four hours past, I was on the opposite side of this greeting.

One single man ahorse entered through the gate, swiftly dismounting.

"I bring a letter for Ser Humfrey Hightower!" The man called out, a foreign accent coating his words.

"Here!" Humfrey called, joining the grumbling of the rest of the household. All this presentation for a letter? Who sends letters via courier when you could just send a raven?

Someone important, apparently.

Because as soon as Humfrey saw the seal, he snatched the letter from the courier's hand, tearing it open.

"I was promised three gold dragons for my services by the sender." The man proclaimed. Jon swore he could hear Lord Moryn's eye roll, as the man fished around in his purse.

"Here." Lord Moryn said, slapping the coins into the courier's outstretched hand. The courier took each coin, and bit them. At Lord Moryn's indignant expression, the courier put his hands up in a placating manner.

"A man from Lys sees many coins, my lord." He said. "One can never be too careful."

"Of course." Lord Moryn said, irritation coming through. "Will you have need of our hospitality tonight?" "No thank you, my lord." The courier said. "I ride through the night."

"Off with you, then." Lord Moryn said, growing exasperated. The Lyseni courier gave a deep bow, before mounting his horse and cantering through the open gate. The castle seemingly heaved an annoyed sigh, and the household all went back to their respective duties.

"Who is it, then?" Lorence asked Humfrey, as they walked back to the Great Hall.

"My sister." Humfrey said, voice frantic. "This is the first I've heard from her since…" he trailed off, but both Jon and Lorence heard what remained unsaid: Since Jorah Mormont fled punishment.

"And?" Lorence asked.

"Hold on, hold on."

"What's she got to say?"

"Let me read the damn— what?!"

"What?"

"She fucking didn't!"

"She didn't what, Humf?"

"How bloody stupid—"

"Humf."

"—bring shame upon our house—"

"Humf."

"—She's a glorified whore. Hightowers don't produce fucking whores—"

"Humf!"

"—Father will be fucking livid—"

"HUMF!"

Ser Humfrey blinked, stopping his ranting and raving.

"What did she say?" Lorence asked. Ser Humfrey clenched his jaw, and shoved the letter at Lorence, who began to read aloud.

"Dear Humf,

I've finally left him. You were right. I'm so sorry. I should've listened to you. But it's done, now.
Jorah is on some sellsword mission, bringing back stones and gravel for his pay, the stupid oaf. I've moved into the manse of a merchant prince, named Tregar Ormollen.
Tregar gets me, Humf. I don't know how to explain it. I feel so alive with him. He showers me in gifts, and my lessons from home make me so powerful in his court. I've never felt so alive.
I know you want me to come home, but what I hope you understand is that I am home. I will be Tregar's chief concubine, and have all I could ever want. Even his wife is afraid of me, Humf. I would never be this powerful in Westeros.
I know you probably aren't pleased, but please know that I am happy, now. I'm almost glad I married Jorah, because without him and his peasant's pile of rocks that he calls an island, I would never have met Tregar.
I won't be able to visit, due to Jorah's stupidity, so if you ever feel like gallivanting across Essos, know that you are always welcome to visit.

All my love,

Lynesse"

"That stupid bear of a husband treated her so poorly, that she'd rather be a MERCHANT'S WHORE than continue to be married to him!" Humfrey screamed. "I will kill him, if I ever see him again. He's dead! Fucking dead!"

"Let's get you inside, oh gallant protector." Lorence drawled, clearly still in shock from the situation, and grabbed Humfrey by his arm. "You can threaten your candles, instead of the castle stones. People live here, you know. Not very kind."

"Shut. It."

"You'll be able to tell your candles all about it in a few minutes." Lorence continued, unfazed.

Jon watched the two of them walk away, bickering all the while with a fond smile on his face.

This is beginning to feel like home.