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Loras Tyrell
The practice dummy took the blow poorly. Straw exploded from the split seam, scattering across the grass of the Red Keep's eastern garden like the guts of some sad, inanimate beast. Loras Tyrell pulled his sword back, reset his stance, and struck again.
Wrong angle. Too much shoulder, not enough hip rotation. Ser Garlan would have cuffed him on the ear for such sloppy form.
He reset. Struck again. The blade bit into wood with a dull thunk that vibrated up his arm, jarring his teeth.
Wrong again.
"Seven hells," Loras muttered, lowering his sword. Sweat dripped from his brow despite the cool morning air. He'd been at this for an hour, and all he had to show for it was a ruined dummy and a growing sense of his own uselessness.
His mind wasn't on the practice. It hadn't been for over a week.
Instead, he kept seeing the tourney grounds. The melee. The Mountain carving through men like a farmer reaping wheat, and Jon Snow standing in his path. Small, broken, bleeding Jon Snow, who should have yielded but didn't.
Loras had been ten feet away. Maybe less. He'd seen Jon's face, pale as milk, lips pressed thin against the pain. He'd seen the dagger flash. He'd seen the Mountain scream.
And he'd seen nothing because Garlan's hand had been an iron shackle on his arm.
"Don't be a fool, Loras." His brother had said in his ear. "You'll die for nothing. Stay back."
Loras had tried to pull free. Gods, he'd tried. But Garlan was stronger, always had been, and by the time the officials swarmed the field, it was over. Jon Snow was broken but alive. The Mountain was blinded. And Loras was standing on the sidelines like a coward.
He swung at the dummy again. This time, the blade stuck in the wood. He had to wrench it free.
"If you're trying to kill that thing," a woman's voice said from behind him, "I believe you've succeeded."
Loras turned. His sister stood at the edge of the garden path, her hands folded neatly before her, her expression one of polite amusement. Margaery Tyrell was dressed in a gown of pale green silk. Her brown hair was pinned with golden roses, and her smile was the same one she wore at court, pleasant and utterly unreadable.
"Marg," Loras said, sheathing his sword. "I didn't hear you approach."
"Clearly." She walked closer, her skirts whispering over the grass. Her eyes flicked to the ruined dummy, then back to his face. "You've been distracted lately. Grandmother noticed. She asked if you were ill."
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar, Loras." Margaery stopped a few feet away, tilting her head. "What's troubling you?"
He wanted to deflect. To make some joke about the heat or the wine or the dullness of King's Landing. But this was Margaery, and she would see through it in an instant.
"I want to visit Jon Snow," Loras said. "But I haven't. I've been too much of a coward."
Margaery's face showed pity.
"The Stark boy," she said softly. "The one who fought the Mountain."
"Yes."
"Why haven't you gone?"
Loras looked away, jaw tight. "Because I stood there and did nothing while he nearly died. Garlan held me back. Said it would be suicide to interfere, that we'd make enemies of the Lannisters." He let out a bitter laugh. "He was right, of course. He's always right. But Jon doesn't know that. He probably thinks I abandoned him."
"Did you?" Margaery asked.
"What?"
"Abandon him." she said gently. "If you had broken free of Garlan, run onto that field... what would have happened?"
Loras clenched his fists. "I would have helped him."
"You would have died," Margaery corrected. "The Mountain would have killed you both. And House Tyrell would have been dragged into a conflict with House Clegane and, by extension, House Lannister. Over a bastard."
"He's not just a bastard," Loras snapped. "He's... he's Jon. He's my friend."
Margaery's expression softened. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. "I know. And I understand why you care. The two of you spent nearly every morning in the training yard before the tourney. I've seen how he fights, how he carries himself. He's not like the other knights here."
"No," Loras said quietly. "He's not."
There was a pause.
"Loras, you're aware that Jon Snow is... that his interests lie elsewhere, yes?"
Loras blinked. "What?"
"With women," Margaery said, her tone delicate. "I've seen the way he looks at them. Or rather, the way he doesn't look at men. Not in that way."
Heat flooded Loras's face. "I know that," he said, too quickly. "I'm not— Margaery, I'm not blind. I know he's not... I just meant he's a good man. A good fighter. A friend."
"Of course." Margaery's smile was kind, but there was a knowing glint in her eyes. "I only mention it because I care about you, brother. I don't want you to get hurt."
"I won't."
"Good." She squeezed his arm once, then let go. "Then go visit him. You've been punishing yourself for over a week. If he truly is your friend, he'll understand why you didn't help."
Loras exhaled, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "You think so?"
"I do." Margaery paused, her expression growing more serious. "But Loras, there's something you need to understand."
"What?"
"Jon Snow's days are numbered."
The words hit like a fist to the gut.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "He survived the melee. He's healing. Lord Stark would not-"
"And Lord Tywin will never let it stand," Margaery interrupted, her voice cold and matter-of-fact. "Loras, Jon Snow didn't just defeat Ser Gregor Clegane. He maimed him. Half-blinded him. In front of thousands."
"The Mountain tried to kill him!"
"And Jon defended himself brilliantly," Margaery agreed. "But that doesn't change the reality. Ser Gregor is one of House Lannister's most powerful bannermen. A bastard boy humiliating him sets a dangerous precedent. Do you think Lord Tywin will allow that insult to stand? Do you think he'll let every hedge knight and minor lord in the realm believe they can strike down a Lannister man without consequence?"
Loras shook his head. "King Robert sided with Jon. The King himself declared the matter closed."
"The King won't always be there to protect the boy. Kings die, Loras. They fall from horses, choke on food, drink themselves into early graves. And when Robert is gone, who will stand between Jon Snow and the Lannisters?"
"Lord Stark—"
"Is one man, his army is in the North," Margaery said. "One man against the richest, most powerful house in Westeros. Loras, I know you care about Jon. But you need to accept the truth. He's living on borrowed time."
Loras felt something cold and hard settle in his chest. "You're wrong."
"I'm not."
"You are!" His voice rose, echoing across the garden. "Jon is strong. He's a fighter. He survived the Mountain, and he'll survive whatever else they throw at him. He's not going to die."
Margaery regarded him with sad, knowing eyes. "I hope you're right, brother. Truly, I do. But hope isn't armor. And it won't stop a Lannister blade."
Loras turned away. "I'm going to visit him. Today. This afternoon."
"Loras—"
"I don't care what you say, Margaery. I need to see him. I need to apologize." He looked back at her, his jaw set. "He's my friend. I won't abandon him again."
For a long moment, Margaery said nothing. Then she sighed, a soft, resigned sound.
"Very well," she said. "Go. But Loras... be careful."
"Careful of what?"
"Of making promises you can't keep." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "Don't swear to protect him if you can't. Don't offer him hope if there is none. And for the gods' sake, don't do anything stupid that will drag our house into this mess."
Loras met her gaze. "I'll be careful."
"Good." Margaery reached up and straightened his collar, her touch gentle. "And Loras? When you see him... tell him the truth. Tell him Garlan held you back. Jon Snow strikes me as the sort of man who values honesty."
"I will."
She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Then go. And may the Seven watch over you both."
Loras nodded and turned to leave. As he walked away, he felt Margaery's gaze on his back, heavy with worry.
He didn't look back.
Jon Snow
Jon sat on the edge of his bed, watching RedHeart demolish what remained of the wooden bedpost.
Two days since the woman in the shadows had visited him. Two days since she'd called him little brother and refused to explain. Two days, and the dragon had grown.
Not much. But enough.
She was the size of a large cat now, maybe a small dog. Her scales had darkened, the black deeper and richer, the red veins along her wings pulsing like molten metal beneath glass. When she moved, there was weight to her. She was no longer a hatchling that could be hidden in a chest.
She was becoming a problem.
"Look at this," Jon muttered, running his finger along the bedpost. Deep gouges scarred the wood, each one the width of a talon. "How am I supposed to explain this?"
RedHeart paused in her assault on the post and tilted her head at him, golden eyes blinking slowly. Then she chirped, pleased with herself, and went back to sharpening her claws.
Jon sighed and stood, testing his weight. His ribs protested, a dull ache rather than the sharp agony of a week ago. His shoulder was stiff, the joint grinding like a rusty hinge, but he could lift his arm above his head now without wanting to scream.
Progress. Maester Pycelle had seemed almost surprised yesterday when he'd examined Jon, muttering something about youth and strong constitutions. The old man had no idea the real reason Jon was healing so quickly.
Jon looked at the dragon. She looked back, smoke curling lazily from her nostrils.
"You're making me stronger," Jon said quietly. "Aren't you?"
RedHeart chirped and returned to her destructive work.
The door creaked open, and Arya slipped inside, a cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. She closed the door quickly, locked it, and turned to Jon with a grin.
"Breakfast," she announced, crossing the room. "For the beast."
"How much did you get?"
"Enough." Arya unwrapped the cloth, revealing chunks of raw beef glistening red in the morning light. "Cook's starting to ask questions, though. She says Ghost is eating more than a bear."
"What did you tell her?"
"That he's growing." Arya shrugged. "Which is true. Just not about Ghost."
RedHeart's head snapped up. She smelled the blood. Her pupils dilated, the golden slits widening into hungry circles, and she launched herself off the bedpost.
Jon winced as she landed on the stone floor with a heavy thud, her claws scrabbling for purchase. She bounded toward Arya, wings half-spread for balance, and let out a demanding hiss.
"Greedy thing," Arya said, but she was smiling. She tossed a chunk of meat into the air.
RedHeart caught it mid-flight, jaws snapping shut with a sound like a steel trap. She landed, swallowed the meat whole, and immediately looked up for more.
"She's eating six times what she used to," Jon observed, watching the dragon devour another piece. "We can't keep this up, Arya. Someone's going to notice."
"They already have," Arya said grimly. She tossed another chunk. "The guards were talking this morning. They said your room is warmer than the rest of the tower. One of them asked if you'd gotten sick with a fever."
Jon looked around the chamber. The evidence was everywhere. The bedframe was darkening where RedHeart slept, the wood slowly charring from the constant heat. The wool blankets were covered in scorch marks and small holes where embers had fallen. The window stayed open day and night now, and even then, the room smelled of sulfur and smoke.
"We can't hide this," Jon said quietly. "Not much longer."
A low chuff came from under the bed. Ghost emerged, his white fur dusty, his red eyes narrowed in what could only be described as profound irritation. He padded over to Jon and sat at his feet, pointedly ignoring the dragon.
"She's been tormenting him," Arya said, trying not to laugh. "I saw her riding on his back earlier."
Jon looked down at Ghost. The direwolf looked up at him with an expression of pure betrayal.
"I'm sorry," Jon told the wolf. "But she's staying."
Ghost huffed and lay down, resting his massive head on Jon's foot. A moment later, RedHeart finished her meal and scurried over, climbing onto Ghost's back. The wolf's ears flattened, but he didn't move.
"He protects her," Arya observed. "When he hears footsteps in the hall, he covers her with his body. Yesterday, when that servant knocked, Ghost literally sat on her."
"Ice and fire," Jon murmured.
"What?"
"Nothing." Jon said quickly. RedHeart scrambled off Ghost and climbed up Jon's leg, her claws pricking through his breeches. She reached his shoulder and curled around his neck like a scarf, purring.
Heat radiated from her small body, intense and dry. Jon felt it sinking into his bones, easing the ache in his ribs, loosening the stiffness in his shoulder.
"Can you?" Arya asked. "Move, I mean. Without screaming."
Jon tested his shoulder, rotating it carefully. Pain, yes, but manageable. "Almost."
"Maybe we should—"
Footsteps in the corridor. Heavy, booted feet. Multiple guards.
Jon's hand shot out, signaling Arya. She grabbed RedHeart off his shoulder, the dragon protesting with a sharp hiss, and shoved her under the bed. Ghost was already moving, positioning himself in front of the space, his white bulk blocking the view.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
Jon and Arya froze.
A knock. "Lord Snow?"
Jon recognized the voice. One of his father's guards. "Yes?"
"Ser Loras Tyrell is here, my lord. Requests to see you."
Jon blinked. Loras? They hadn't spoken since before the melee. Since before everything had gone to hell.
He looked at Arya. She shrugged, mouthing, Why not?
Under the bed, RedHeart let out a soft, annoyed chirp. Ghost shifted his weight, covering the sound.
"Let him in," Jon called.
The door opened.
Loras Tyrell entered empty-handed.
He stopped just inside the doorway, his hand resting on his sword belt, and he seemed quite nervous.
"Jon," Loras said. "I... I hope I'm not intruding."
"Not at all." Jon gestured to the chair by the bed. "I'm glad to see you."
It was the truth. They hadn't spoken since before the melee.
Loras crossed the room. His eyes swept over Jon, taking in the bandages visible beneath the loose shirt, the way Jon held himself stiff and guarded.
"You look better than I expected," Loras said, sitting down. "When they carried you off the field... gods, Jon, I thought you were dead."
"So did I," Jon admitted. "For a moment."
Under the bed, there was a soft scraping sound. Jon's eyes flicked down, then back to Loras's face. The knight hadn't noticed. Yet.
Arya stood by the window, her arms crossed, watching Loras suspiciously. Ghost lay near the foot of the bed, his white bulk positioned carefully to block the view beneath.
Loras leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and his expression crumbled. "Jon, I need to say something. I need to apologize."
"Apologize?" Jon frowned. "For what?"
"For not helping you." The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. "In the melee. When the Mountain came for you. I was right there, Jon. I saw what was happening. I wanted to help, I swear I did, but Garlan—" He stopped, swallowed. "My brother held me back. He said I'd die for nothing. That interfering would make enemies of the Lannisters."
Loras's hands clenched into fists on his knees. "I let him stop me. I stood there and watched you nearly get killed, and I did nothing. I've been a coward."
"Loras," Jon said quietly. "There's nothing to forgive."
"But—"
"Your brother was right." Jon met Loras's eyes. "If you'd run onto that field, the Mountain would have killed you. And then he would have killed me anyway. You would have died for nothing."
"But you needed help—"
"And you couldn't give it." Jon leaned forward slightly, ignoring the protest from his ribs. "Loras, you're not a coward. You're smart. You stayed alive. That matters more than some grand, stupid gesture that would have gotten us both killed."
Loras looked at him, searching his face for any sign of anger or resentment. There was none.
"You really mean that," Loras said softly.
"I do." Jon managed a small smile. "Besides, knowing that you wanted to help? That someone gave a damn? That means something, Loras. More than you know."
Relief washed over Loras's face, and he exhaled a shaky breath. "Thank you. Gods, Jon, I've been tearing myself apart over this for days."
"Well, stop." Jon settled back against the pillows. "We're still friends. Nothing's changed."
From under the bed came a distinct scratching sound, like claws on stone.
Jon and Arya both froze.
Loras's head turned toward the noise. "What was that?"
"Ghost," Jon said quickly. "He's sleeping under there. Dreams, you know. Chasing rabbits or... something."
Loras glanced at Ghost, who was lying perfectly still near the foot of the bed, his red eyes open and alert. "He's right there, though."
"I meant—" Jon fumbled for an explanation. "Earlier. He was under there earlier. Must be the floorboards settling."
Loras didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. "How's the recovery going?"
"Better than expected," Jon said, grateful for the change of subject. "I can sit up without wanting to scream now. I can even stand, for a little while."
"That's good. That's... really good." Loras smiled. "The tourney's still going on, you know. The joust started yesterday. I competed, but I lost in the second round to some hedge knight with a bent lance and more luck than skill."
"You'll have other chances."
"I suppose." Loras leaned back in the chair. "Do you wish you could compete? I know you were looking forward to it."
"Every day," Jon admitted. "I miss the training yard. Miss moving without feeling like I'm made of glass."
"Well, when you're healed, we'll spar again." Loras's voice warmed. "Those sessions before the tourney... they were the best part of being here, honestly. You made it fun. Made it feel like training wasn't just preparation for violence, but something... I don't know. Something more."
"I'm glad. I enjoyed them too."
Loras's gaze lingered on Jon's face, and his voice dropped. "You fight like you're dancing, you know. Like there's music in every movement. It's beautiful to watch. And your eyes—when the sun hits them just right during a strike, they're like... like amethysts catching fire."
Arya made a small, strangled noise from the window.
Jon's discomfort spiked. "That's... uh. Thank you? I suppose?"
"I just mean—" Loras started.
A loud hiss erupted from under the bed, followed by Ghost's warning chuff. There was a sound of struggle, something small and angry fighting against something large and patient.
Loras leaned forward, frowning. "Is Ghost alright? Does he have something under there?"
"Probably a rat," Jon said, his voice a touch too loud. "He's been hunting them. The tower's full of them."
"That didn't sound like a rat."
"Big rat," Arya offered weakly.
Jon could almost see the glare RedHeart was sending Arya, as if telling her, 'Who are you calling a Rat!? You are lucky you feed me. Now get out of the way, big white rat!!
Loras stood, stretching, and his eyes swept the room. He walked to the bedpost and ran his finger along the deep gouges marring the wood.
"Seven hells," he murmured. "These are deep. What happened here?"
He moved to the table next, examining the scratches on the legs. Then to the wardrobe. Then to the window frame, where faint char marks darkened the wood.
Loras turned back to Jon, his expression caught between amusement and confusion. "Jon... do you have a lizard now? Along with the wolf?"
Jon's mind went blank. "A... what?"
"A lizard." Loras gestured to the claw marks. "These look like something with talons has been climbing all over your furniture. A large something."
"I—" Jon started, but Arya cut in.
"That was me!" she said brightly. "Well, not me. I mean, I brought it. The lizard."
Loras blinked. "You brought Jon a lizard?"
"Yesterday," Arya said, warming to the lie. "I found it in the gardens. Huge thing, biggest I've ever seen. Green and scaly. I thought it might cheer Jon up, so I caught it and brought it here in a box."
"And it made all these marks?"
"It got loose," Arya said with a shrug. "Climbed everywhere. We finally caught it this morning and let it go outside."
Loras looked skeptical. "A lizard? Large enough to gouge wood this deeply?"
"It was very strong," Arya insisted.
Loras walked to the window, running his hand over the char marks on the frame. "And what made these burn marks?"
"I knocked over a candle," Jon said quickly. "Last night. When I was trying to reach the water pitcher."
"A candle."
"Yes."
Loras turned to look at him, and Jon could see the doubt written plainly on his face. But before Loras could press further, there was a loud THUMP from under the bed.
Everyone froze.
Ghost's growl was low and threatening. There was a high-pitched chirping sound, distinctly not-rat-like, and then another thump.
Loras's eyes widened. "What in the Seven Kingdoms—"
He started toward the bed.
Jon tried to stand, panic flooding his veins. "Loras, wait—"
Pain lanced through his ribs, and he stumbled. Loras immediately turned back, catching Jon's arm.
"Careful!" Loras said, steadying him. "You're still healing. Don't push yourself."
Jon used the moment to keep Loras facing away from the bed, his hand gripping Loras's shoulder. Behind them, Arya moved quickly, positioning herself between Loras and the dangerous space under the bed.
"I'm fine," Jon gasped. "Just moved too fast."
"You need to rest more," Loras said, guiding Jon back to sit on the edge of the bed. "The maesters said—"
A sharp knock at the door interrupted him.
Before Jon could answer, the door swung open. Ned Stark stood in the doorway, his grey eyes sweeping the room and taking in the scene: Jon sitting on the bed, Loras hovering nearby, Arya standing guard, and Ghost positioned like a sentinel.
"Ser Loras," Ned said, his tone carefully neutral. "Your brother Garlan is at the entrance. He requests you attend him immediately."
Loras's face fell. "Now? I only just arrived."
"Your brother seemed quite insistent," Ned said, and there was steel beneath the courtesy. "He said the matter was urgent."
Loras looked between Jon and Ned, frustration clear in his expression. But he was a knight of the Reach, and he knew when he was being dismissed.
"Very well," Loras said. He turned to Jon. "I'll visit again soon. And Jon? We'll continue this conversation."
His eyes flicked to the space under the bed one more time, lingering with suspicion.
"I'd like that," Jon said, hoping his relief didn't show.
Loras nodded to Arya, then to Ned, and left the room. His footsteps faded down the corridor.
Jon and Arya both exhaled at the same time.
Under the bed, RedHeart chirped victoriously.
The door clicked shut behind Loras, and for a moment, the only sound was the echo of the knight's footsteps fading down the corridor.
Ned didn't move.
He stood with his back to the door, his hand still on the latch, his grey eyes fixed on the space beneath Jon's bed. His expression was unreadable, carved from the same stone as the tower around them.
Jon's heart hammered against his bruised ribs.
"Father—" he started.
Ned held up a hand, silencing him. Then he moved, crossing to the outer door of Jon's chamber—the one that led to the main room of the Tower of the Hand. He pulled it open, checked the corridor beyond, and closed it firmly. The heavy oak thudded into place.
He turned the lock.
Then he walked back through the main room and closed the door to Jon's bedchamber as well, sealing them in.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Arya shifted by the window, her hands clasped behind her back. She looked at Jon, her eyes wide and worried. Jon gave her a slight shake of his head. Not yet.
Ned turned to face them.
"Jon," Ned said quietly. "What was that sound?"
Jon opened his mouth. His mind raced through excuses, through lies that might buy them time. "It was just Ghost. He—"
"Don't." Ned's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Don't lie to me."
Jon's throat tightened. He looked at his father—at the man who had raised him, protected him, kept secrets for him his entire life—and saw the fear beneath the steel.
"Father," Jon said softly. "I can explain."
"Then explain." Ned took a step closer. "What was that noise? And why does your room smell of sulfur? Why are there claw marks on every surface? Why have the guards reported heat coming from this chamber that has nothing to do with the hearth?"
Jon closed his eyes. There was no way out. No clever excuse. The woman in the shadows had warned him this would happen.
He opened his eyes and met his father's gaze.
"Ghost," Jon said quietly. "Move."
The direwolf's ears flicked back. He looked at Jon with those red eyes, then Ghost huffed, stood, and padded away from the bed.
The space beneath was suddenly, terribly visible.
Two golden eyes gleamed in the darkness.
There was a scraping sound, then a soft chirp. A small black shape emerged from the shadows, crawling out into the light. RedHeart shook herself and turned to look at Ghost with an expression that could only be described as annoyed.
Finally, you moved, that look said. You stand in one place quite long for a direwolf.
Ghost ignored her, settling near the window with a long-suffering sigh.
RedHeart turned her attention to the room. Her gaze swept over Arya, over Jon, and finally landed on the tall figure standing near the door.
Ned Stark stared at the dragon.
His face had gone pale, bloodless as fresh snow. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out.
RedHeart tilted her head, studying this new human. Her nostrils flared, tasting the air. Smoke curled from them in lazy ribbons.
"Father," Jon said, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is RedHeart."
The dragon let out a sound that seemed almost like a greeting. Her tail swished across the floor.
Ned didn't move. Didn't blink. He stood frozen, staring at the creature before him as if she were a ghost made flesh.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, broken.
"She needs to leave...Now!!"
If you want to Read 9 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch