[The King's Arrival]

(A/n - Sorry for the delay. Had Covid and couldn't bear to write anything until yesterday.)

Jon still couldn't believe they'd found Direwolf corpse and it's pups. It hadn't just been five of them but six, and after convincing his father to keep them for the rest of his children, he'd found the sixth not too far away from it's mother's corpse. Cast away by it's bigger siblings. The runt of the litter.

It was stark white, like snow, with eyes like that of rubies. It was his, and not only that, it was like him. The bastard of the pack.

He'd smirk if he didn't have such an odd feeling about it all.

A deserter talking about the White Walkers and then they found Direwolves - creatures that hadn't been seen south of the Wall in centuries. Not only that, there were exactly six of them for all of Lord Stark's children. Jon couldn't help but see it as a sign and the same urge to go beyond the wall began to pound in his head - the same urge he'd had for years now. He could usually ignore it, which is what he did day in and day out, but right now it was blaring in his head like a horn.

Gathering what remained of his mental fortitude, he tore the thoughts away from the forefront of his mind and put them aside for later - later when he had a jug of wine next to him and a good book to read. Right now, however, he had things to do.

He placed the white Direwolf down, it barely made a sound the whole ride over. It was either mute or much more intelligent than most gave it credit for. Jon was thinking it was the latter. The way it's eyes looked up at him felt oddly human. He placed a bowl of milk down next to it and after a few sniffs, it began to greedily lap up the sustenance.

With that done, Jon made his way toward the kitchens where they'd all be getting the same treatment as the animals there - sheared of fur and prepared for the feast.

Touching at the beginnings of a beard on his jawline, Jon felt like he'd be having a shave soon enough anyway, so he'd rather take the offer of having someone else do it for him when most of the time he had to do it for himself. Arriving in the kitchens, he saw Robb sitting down on a stool, barechested and the castle's stable master giving him a shave. He was just finishing up as Jon arrived in fact.

"Finally here, Snow," Theon spoke up, the ever-present smirk on his face still there, "Ready to say goodbye to your precious hair, I take it?"

Jon ignored the squid like always and took off his tunic - he didn't want to get it all covered in hair and shaving cream. Not when he was the one who'd have to clean it all off, anyway. Robb stood up from the stool and slapped Jon on the shoulder as he turned to the stable master turned shaver, "Go on, Tommy, shear him good. He's never met a girl he likes better than his own hair," he joked and Jon gave a smirk at the joke as he sat down on the stool.

Robb and Theon thought that Jon loved his hair just because he took care of it and cleaned it right; when the reality was that he just didn't like being dirty. He couldn't give a rat's arse about his hair. As he sat, Robb and Theon got to talking, "I hear the Prince is a right royal prick," Robb started and Jon cocked an eyebrow at him as he replied.

"What happened to minding our tongues, Stark?" he asked with a sarcastic tone while Theon gave Robb the same look, for once agreeing with Jon on a subject.

"I'm the Heir to House Stark, Snow," Robb joked in a mock mighty tone, "Besides, they can't have me killed for speaking the truth, can they?" he challenged before the three of them chuckled. "Heard he's a sadistic twat, actually," Robb continued, leaning against a wooden post behind him, "Gets whores in his room not to fuck 'em but to torture them instead. The freak better stay away from Sansa and Arya otherwise I'll slice his little royal prick off."

Jon mirrored the statement, knowing if what Robb had heard was right and true, then having the Prince anywhere near Sansa could spell disaster.

"You can tell Sansa to stay away from him but I doubt she will. He's gonna be waltzing in here on a fancy horse, in fancy silk and with his princely looks--she'll be smitten before he gets the chance to speak," Jon joked, to Theon and Robb's agreement. The three of them all knew how Sansa operated.

Theon nodded, "Aye, young Sansa is a dreamer. Head full of stories about knights, princes and princesses," he said before a smirk came across his face, "Though the Prince better watch out for Arya. She'll eat him alive, little she-wolf that she is, if he tried anything with her."

The Heir and the ward laughed, while Jon gave an uneasy smirk - he knew he'd most likely have to keep Arya away from the Prince. The last thing they all needed was her making trouble for their father. Something she was quite adept at. The shaving and grooming went on for a few minutes before it was over and Theon was up next. Once over, Jon's shoulder-length hair was cropped much shorter and in a more slicked back style while his face was clean-shaven and as smooth as it was when he was born.

After standing up and pulling his tunic back on, he said his goodbyes and went back off to his room. He needed to see how his Direwolf pup was doing, after all.

. . .

Watching the royals arrive was quite the ordeal. Dozens and dozens of men poured into the courtyard with half a hundred more behind them. Guards with high quality armor, donning the crown's colours and sigils, ridding in on steeds of a higher quality than most armies/guard regiments. Then came the Kingsguard dressed in their fancy golden armor and their white cloaks.

They were once a place where every great swordsman found themselves. Now they're an order of lackluster men with fancy armor and swords, if the word around Winterfell was to be trusted. Save for a few specific members, anyway.

Jon couldn't connect the images in front of him; the King Robert, known for his prowess in battle. A giant among princes, said to wield a massive warhammer with a single hand. The Demon of the Trident. But what Jon saw in front of him now...was a fat man, red-faced under his beard, sweating through his silks. He seemed like a man half in his cups already and he hadn't even gotten off his horse. He didn't seem like he'd able to pick up a sword, let alone a warhammer of prodigious size.

Though Jon knew that to be a judgemental conclusion. Even despite his weight, King Robert still carried himself like a strong man - and there seemed to be no doubt that under all that fat, there was still some muscle leftover from his prime as a fearsome warrior.

Despite this, Jon felt a twinge of frustration at having to kneel to such a man. He didn't look like a King and neither did he carry himself like one - a strong man, yes, but not a royal - and the thought of kneeling to him sent a wave of something uncomfortable through Jon's chest. Still, he kneeled with the rest of his family, the only other alternative being to stay standing and draw attention to himself. And as a bastard, drawing a King's ire would do Jon Snow no favours.

The King struggled to get off his horse - the poor thing - and fell to the muddy ground with a dull and wet thud as the mud splashed up at the impact. He paced over to Lord Stark with a purpose, carrying his weight surprisingly well. He stood in front of the Lord of Winterfell and motioned with his hand for him to stand.

He did so, and so Jon and everyone else followed.

Jon understood how Westeros worked - better than his half-siblings at least - but he'd never be one for kneeling. Even for a King. It irked him in a way he didn't understand.

"Your Grace," Ned Stark bowed his head with a polite, if not neutral, tone to his voice. A tense silence flooded the courtyard before the King's next words made it even worse.

"You've got fat," he said in a matter-of-fact way and with little to no shame for his hypocrisy. Though, Jon admitted, he had little use for shame as King of Westeros. Not like anyone would call him out on it--or so Jon thought. Ned grinned ever so slight at what the King said and gestured to the King's own girth with his eyes and just when people began to think the King would get offended, he laughed. A deep, booming thing that came from his chest and caused his fat to ripple underneath his fancy silks. It spread throughout the yard as he brought Ned, his old friend by all accounts, into a bear hug.

When he pulled back, he greeted Catelyn Stark in a friendly manner before he ruffled Rickon's hair.

"Nine years--" he started as he turned back to Ned, "Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been? I've sent invites for you to come down to the Capitol, Ned."

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. As is my duty as Lord of House Stark," Ned replied with a grin before he gestured to the surrounding courtyard and castle, "Winterfell is yours for as long as you're here."

King Robert smiled at that, his already red cheeks seeming to redden even further in his merriment as he turned to Robb and spoke to him before moving onto Sansa, and then Arya and then Bran. He spared Jon a look, obviously curious about Ned's bastard but after looking him in the eyes for a paused moment, he went on about his greetings.

Behind him, Queen Cersei got out of the carriage they'd been travelling in. Jon had to admit - she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her hair was perfectly styled and without a speck of dirt, shining like gold under the sun above them all. The only thing that detracted from her beauty was the way her green eyes seemed to look down her nose at everything around her, her face seemingly only a muscle twitch away from a sneer.

She, the Queen, approached Lord Stark and he greeted her with a kiss to the hand and a short bow. While Lady Catelyn only curtsied her with a polite smile across her face.

After that, King Robert seemed intent on visiting the crypts and having Ned come with him.

Jon watched as the King and his father went on their way for a moment before his eyes caught one of the Kingsguard taking off their helmet, followed by another. He knew these two - if only from books and the stories sung about them by bards in Winter Town.

One of them had blonde hair and green eyes just like the Queen, sharing her striking good-looks except with a masculine look. Jaime Lannister, brother to the Queen, son of Tywin Lannister and known throughout the Realm as Kingslayer for his act in killing his previous king, King Aerys Targaryen. It was a dishonourable title...but Jon couldn't find fault with the man just for that. From what he'd read, Aerys Targaryen was a madman among madmen.

Westeros was better off without him. Killed by his Kingsguard or not. Alas, Westeros was a place ruled by honour - at least on the surface, anyway - so Ser Jaime's actions can only be seen as sinful. He can only be seen as an oathbreaker.

Either way, it was the other man who caught Jon's eye. He was old but he sat tall on his horse and looked robust for his age, with a clean-shaven face and shoulder length white hair that he had swept back and out of the way. His eyes were blue and looked oddly sad while the aged lines to his face spoke many stories - most of them sad as well. He didn't look like a man who laughed often either.

Barristan Selmy. Barristan the Bold. Someone who's seen as the best swordsman throughout all seven of the Kingdoms. A man with a glittering career in combat and tourneys but one not so glittering in terms of Kings he's served.

Jon respected the man but pitied his luck. It would take some truly bad luck to serve a king like Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King.

Looking to ground-level, Jon saw the Prince. He looked nothing like the King. He was tall, yes, but his form was lithe and slender, his hands smooth and without callouses showing his lack of any hard work. Jon ran his thumb across his own calloused palms as he looked at the Prince arrogantly resting his hand on the pommel of his gaudy sword, his green eyes scanning over the crowd not stopping on anyone for any longer than a second or two as if the sight was somehow dirty.

Seeing the Queen pull away and toward her brother with a scowl across her face after Arya mentioned her younger brother, the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, Jon felt like the feast was going to be a rather odd one.

...Seeing how Cersei looked after Tyrion was mentioned, Jon didn't think Lady Catelyn's treatment or attitude regarding him was that bad anymore. He'd take indifference over what looked like hatred.

. . .

The sounds of music pervaded throughout the Hall of Winterfell, the cheers and chatter of the guests only being slightly less loud than it. People were dancing, singing and letting out all the merriment brought to them by the wine, ale and food they'd partook in.

Jon found himself in the hall on the same table as Ser Rodrik. The older man had taken to Jon after the young Snow had shown his talent for fighting and warfare, and after the multitude of bandit/false Knight subjugations they'd been on together it'd be odd if they hadn't become somewhat close. Men who've shed blood in battle with one another can be considered friends, if anything.

Which is how Jon had found his cup constantly being filled by Ser Rodrik whenever it was empty as the man spoke about their battles together.

"I swear on the Old Gods; Snow is more a warrior than most the guards in this castle! His first battle and he takes down seven men with a broken shield and a chipped sword! He was like an animal in the field, in his element and attuned to everything," Rodrik took a deep gulp of his ale, slamming the tankard back down after doing so, "There's no one I'd rather have at my back, defending me, than this boy right here," he said with a smile, his face red from the drink and a hand clasping Jon by the shoulder.

Usually, Jon would take the praise with an easy smile and a grateful look in his eye. It wasn't everyday he was praised so highly. But right now, it was a different case - sitting across from the King of Westeros and Barristan the Bold, he couldn't help but act his age and feel somewhat embarrassed by the other man's boasts.

Hearing the Ser's words, the King looked over at Jon and gave a wide grin, "Seven men? How old were you, lad?"

"Ten-and-three, Your Grace," Jon answered in a voice loud and clear enough to cut through the surrounding sound. He'd once been told he had the perfect voice for a battlefield, a voice everyone could hear regardless of what was going on around them.

"Bloody hell, lad!" King Robert burst into laughter, "Ten-and-three? You must've inherited all the wolfblood your father didn't! Don't you say, Ser Barristan?" he turned to the older man sipping at his ale. He'd barely even had a cup of ale or a plate of food, instead choosing to stay vigilant over any possible threat to the King.

Ser Barristan put his cup down and sent a measuring look at Jon, looking him up and down, before he smiled, "You seem a born warrior, boy. Built like an Aurochs. It's an achievement to vanquish a single man so young yet you took down seven."

Jon felt somewhat flustered at the compliments he was receiving but most of all, he felt pride fell up within his chest. To have Ser Barristan the Bold complimenting his prowess...it felt like a dream come true. How many days of training had he questioned if it was all worth it? How many times did he, in the midst of battle, doubt his efforts? But now, having this affirmation from such a well-renowned swordsman and knight, it made all those doubts and questions disappear.

"Thank you for the compliments, Your Grace, Ser Barristan," Jon lifted his own tankard of ale up to them in thanks before knocking it back and downing the thing. He felt happier than he had in years.

The King laughed and followed suit, raising his tankard to Jon before downing it himself as well.

Ser Barristan just watched on with a grandfatherly smile. Soon, the King looked to Jon and began speaking once more, "What are you plans, lad? I doubt it's to stay here in Winterfell. You and me both know that'd be wasting your talent."

"Tis true, Your Grace," Jon nodded with a slight sigh, "I plan to travel to Essos to see it's sights and see where the Gods take me from there."

"Ahh, Essos," King Robert let out a nostalgic laugh, "Me and yer father were gonna travel across Essos when we were younger. Before all that Mad King business, anyway," the King's blue eyes took on a stormy look before he turned and shouted across the hall at the nearest cup filler, "Wench! Your King demands wine!" he roared and made the poor thing nearly just out of her skin as she hurried over. He turned back to Jon, his stormy eyes still there but slightly more subdued with his cup slowly filling with wine, "You should come South with your father when it's time to leave, lad. There's to be a massive tourney - mayhaps you could show the South how a proper Northern warrior fights!"

The idea did appeal to him. A grand tourney to start off his journey to Essos. Jon liked the sound of that, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't also like the sound of spreading his name throughout the Seven Kingdoms through his results in the tourney.

His confidence to win was quite high. He had a decent amount of experience when it came to fighting but what gave him his confidence was his exceptional physical prowess - he was stronger than most - if not all - men, faster too, with enough stamina to run a horse ragged in a race of endurance. Not to mention his swift reflexes which make sword fighting somewhat easier.

"If you think so, Your Grace, who am I to deny your idea?" Jon replied with a joyful smile, "It would be a good starting point for my trip to Essos."