24.Interlude-A Master Marksman

259 AC, The Trident

The Wandering Bastard

“Greetings. I am Jon Snow of the North.” He motioned towards Tormund, who obediently remained silent. “And this is my squire.”

It was not a lie, but it was far from the whole truth. But the truth would do him no good and beggar belief. Jon had contemplated offering up a lie, building up some ambiguous background of a noble scion from a decaying but prestigious house, but had quickly thought the better of it. After all, he had already introduced himself in Castle Black to Maester Aemon, and many of the Northern nobility had seen him at Last Hearth, including the Stark of Winterfell. That, and the fact that all noble houses recorded the births of all their trueborn members.

It had been tempting to forego the bastardry that had clung to him like a cloak since his birth, but with lies came no small measure of danger. Even a lie could be honourable, as his father had taught him, but no deception could last forever.

Jon had put a lot of thought into the matter and, in the end, decided to keep things simple. His hair and eyes were too unique, a colouring unique to Brynden Rivers in the whole realm, and the two bows on his back had once belonged to Bloodraven himself, but he felt no guilt for that confusion, nor did he intend to leverage it into something he was not.

He was a bastard, he was of the North, and Bloodraven had taught him like a master. The rest… it didn’t matter. War was a disaster, but with it came great opportunity, and right now, Maelys the Monstrous had turned his sights on the Iron Throne with the support of the Nine and the Golden Company. Conflict was inevitable, and it was merely a question of sooner or later, no matter how minor matters had changed. Jon was confident enough in his own skills to make a name for himself in it.  

He studied the men before him. Four bore the nine black bats of Whent on their plain surcoats, and two sported the frog of Vypren, mail peeking underneath and coating their sleeves all the way to the elbow. Combined with their half-helmets, short swords on their belts, a spear, and an iron-rimmed shield on their backs, it made for the standard garb for men-at-arms.  

The men themselves were vigilant, their posture straight, and mouths sealed shut even though quite a few eyes had narrowed at the mention of his bastardry. A disciplined lot. 

These men could only be from Whent’s and Vypren’s personal household guard. Jon glanced at the two nearby wheelhouses, their shutters draped with fine silk.  

It was not the men-at-arms or the other knight who stepped forth to greet him, but another cloaked figure standing to the side.

“Ser Jonos of Hagsford.” It was a man in his late forties with an old, tattered brigandine peeking from his travel cloak and an unassuming, weather-worn face that Jon had taken for another man-at-arms at first. By his side, a scrawny boy no older than three and ten bowed his head. 

A hedge knight with his squire.

The other knight was clad in a darker suit of steel, though dented in places. His face was tired, and his dirty blonde hair was streaked with grey. Probably over fifty, Jon decided. But his blue eyes were still as sharp as a spear, and he studied Jon for a long moment with vigilance. 

“Ser Colmar of Sallydance,” he said at last, voice dispassionate. “And you have quite the peculiar colouring and the look of a marksman. Bloodraven’s get?”

“I’ve trained under the old bastard for a few months,” Jon said flatly, subtly avoiding the question.

The knight merely shrugged, not pressing further.

“For now, we must wait for three, perhaps four more warriors to join us,” Ser Aren explained with a solemn face. “Once we have the numbers advanced, we can bargain our way through. At most, we’ll pay a paltry sum for passage.”

Jon glanced at the far side of the river. He struggled to make out the details from this distance, but his owl had no such problem. The Darry men stood almost lazily in their makeshift camp, chatting happily without a care in the world, with only one man standing watch. 

“They don’t seem like much of a challenge,” Jon voiced his thoughts. “Only that burly knight in a suit of plate seems dangerous. Why not challenge them to a single combat instead of waiting for more men?”

“Challenge Ser Loran Darry?” Ser Colmar scoffed. “That man is one of the finest swords in the realm. His brother is the royal master-at-arms, and Ser Loran’s skill is even greater. He has duelled white cloaks before and won. The only reason he has yet to don the white is the love of his pretty Rosby wife.”

Jon frowned. He had not heard of Ser Loran Darry before, and he knew most of the famous knights in the past hundred years. This only meant the Darry knight in question had perished before he could truly perform some worthy deed that would make his name resound far and wide and long after his death. Perhaps, he had perished in the War of the Nine Penny Kings.

“Perhaps none here can best Ser Loran with a sword,” Jon said with a nod. “But how is his skill with a bow and arrow?” 

The two knights looked at him with no small amount of incomprehension and confusion.

On the other hand, Ser Jonos’s eyes lit up. 

“How interesting,” he let out a low laugh. “You mean to challenge him to a match of archery?”  

“Aye. Since the passage requires a contest of arms, courtesy dictates that the choice of weapon lies in the hands of the challenged.” 

“A clever idea,” Ser Colmar said, throwing him another wary glance. “But not necessarily a good one. Ser Loran has won over a dozen melees and killed three knights in duels. He is not one to be underestimated, and probably is no slouch with the bow. Aren?”  

Ser Aren rubbed his chin. “I had the pleasure of visiting Darry once and saw Ser Loran train in person. He is a man of staunch discipline and dedication, whose martial pursuits have long transcended the sword. While I cannot say for certain how good his archery is, his skills with the bow will not be too inferior. Even if they are, one of his armed retinue will be a marksman—otherwise they wouldn’t dare bar this ford so brazenly.”

“I wish to issue the challenge, sers,” Jon pressed firmly. 

Colmar clicked his tongue. “Such confidence! Bloodraven must have taught you well.”  

Jon nodded sharply. 

“Go ahead, then,” Ser Aren muttered. “But do not expect any aid if you lose and your bows, boots, purse, and garments are forfeit.”

As Jon spurred his steed towards the ford, he found that the hedge knight had followed after him along with Tormund. 

“What an arrogant lot,” he cursed, though not loudly enough for the knights to hear. “If you win, they will pass along with you, but if you lose, you’re on your own. They call themselves knights, but they lack courage in the face of adversity.” 

“It matters little,” Jon said calmly. “I won’t lose.”

Ser Jonos’s brows furrowed, glancing at his back.

“How good are you with those bows, truly?”

“Good enough.” In truth, he was confident enough to best anyone who was not a master marksman. Skinchanging and his other abilities gave him a slight edge, but he would not dare claim invincibility with the bow. Even now, half a year after Bloodraven had perished, he had no confidence in outdoing the old man with a bow and an arrow after time had whittled away his strength and vigour.  

But for good or ill, master marksmen were a rare breed, and one would be hard-pressed to find even a handful after combing any kingdom.

Jon tugged the reins, his horse halting just before the ford, where the sound of the river threatened to drown out all else.   

The hedge knight was still half a step behind with his palfrey, face placid. Jon felt no malice from him, nor any ill intent, but that did not put him at ease. Those who lived in the wild and survived for so long were never simple. His presence here meant he had greater confidence in Jon than in the household knights and their retinue.

“Ser Jonos,” he called out, voice carrying over the rushing water. “I would ask you a favour.” The hedge knight nodded. “Go forth and issue a challenge of archery in my name. Standard rules, fifty paces each from the centre of the ford.”

The knight hummed, glancing at the far side of the river at the Darry men who had clustered underneath the fluttering banner of the black ploughman. “And who will arbitrate?” 

“Since I’m picking the weapon, let that Darry knight choose the arbiter. As for the challenge itself… let’s take turns—they can have the first arrow, too.”

“Quite confident for someone with no shield and armour, just a quilted jack for protection. You truly are Bloodraven’s disciple, aren’t ya?”

Jon merely inclined his head. He had the byrnie from the ranger he had killed beyond the Wall, but mail would only weigh him down and offer little protection against arrows, so it remained packed with the other baggage.

As the knight spurred his steed into the ford, and a rider from the far side rode out to meet him, Jon already dismounted, unwrapping his weirwood recurve.

Just as he strung it up, Tormund trotted over.

“What if these… ploughmen decide to rush over while mounted, running you through?”

Jon snorted. “I’ll nail down two or three of their horses and just jump into the river. Once I’m out, I’ll rush my way to King’s Landing, demanding justice from the king, but not before spreading the tale of the lawless Darry men in every inn and every village along the way.”

Worry flashed through Tormund’s face.

“What if—”

“Take this.” Jon shoved the wrapped dragonbone bow into his hand. “Now is no time for dawdling. Go now, join Daeron and observe carefully.”

Words said, Jon shrugged off his boots and socks and rolled up his trousers above his knees. Weirwood recurve clenched in his right hand, he stepped into the pleasantly cool water. It neither granted him strength as snow did, nor did it sap his vigour or suck away the heat from his feet. It only made him feel refreshed, and the smooth river stones underneath were not half as slippery as he expected.

The hedge knight had finished the talk, and his horse was already trotting back through the shallows.

“No boots?” he called out loudly, his voice mingling with the tinkling waters of the Trident.

“No need.”

There was no point in getting his boots or socks wet. With both marksmen walking fifty paces from the centre, each would still be standing in the water. For Jon, it would be no issue, but his foe would suffer the chill of the cold water. It was a small advantage, but one that could make a great difference if his challenger was skilled.

“Ser Loran will serve as the arbiter.” Ser Jonos’s voice was half-swallowed by the slow song of the Trident. “They’re willing to start the fight now.”

So eager?

But perhaps it was better this way. The sun was already kissing the western horizon, and any further delay would see them spend the night this side of the Trident. In fact, they ought to have found a place to camp and rest for the night already, but Jon’s mind was dead set on crossing today. They had delayed long enough as it was.

The Darry men wasted no time, and the knight and one man-at-arms dismounted and were swift to get to the middle of the ford.

Jon did not hesitate and marched forward, bare feet gliding through the lazy waters. The ford grew deeper the further he went, nearly reaching his knees.

Two pairs of wary eyes studied him from beneath a greathelm and a barbute, but Jon approached undaunted, though his shoulders remained tense. Ser Loran Darry was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with an imposing presence that only seasoned warriors possessed. Even standing here, amidst the slow waters of the Trident, the man showed no opening. Dangerous. Definitely more skilled than Jon with a sword.

The knight stood in the very centre, the position of the arbiter. The man-at-arms was the one facing Jon. 

He was unassuming, with a tangle of beard peeking from beneath his half helm; his peculiar posture and the slight slope of his shoulders betrayed years of archery training. The yew warbow in his fist looked well-kept. His chest was puffed up like a peacock, though the battered coat of plates tinged with rust at the rims made him look more amusing than imposing.

“Sers,” Jon said with a polite dip of his head. 

“Bastard.” The Darry knight’s gaze lingered on his ghostly white hair, then inspected the weirwood bow in his grasp and finally settled on his bare feet. “Are you certain you wish to invoke a challenge of archery, loosening arrows in turns until one is knocked out, dead, or yields?”

“Aye. You may have the first draw.”

“Very well.” Ser Loran looked rather vexed for a long moment. He pulled out a quiver and handed it to Jon. “Use these.”

Jon plucked out an arrow, revealing a flattened iron tip. Still quite dangerous, but far less deadly than a steel-tip bodkin. Humming, he carefully checked every arrow, ensuring there was nothing wrong with the weight, tips, fletching, or balance, before strapping the quiver to his belt. 

“Try not to die, bastard,” the archer said with a nasal voice, his eyes burning with challenge. 

For a heartbeat, Jon contemplated killing him. Dull-tipped arrow or not, it would kill a man on the spot if it struck in the eye. 

He quickly shook his head, pushing away his bubbling irritation. Killing would serve no purpose here, other than to complicate things, and perhaps make enemies when there were none. 

Something was wrong. Where did this bloodlust come from?

Jon emptied his mind instantly, but found nothing.

“Go now, fifty paces,” Ser Loran’s rumbling voice carried over the water, startling Jon out of his thoughts. “Once you’re in position, Pate has the first move on my mark.”

Pate. A most ordinary name, one that no noble ever used, coming from the legendary folk hero, Spotted Pate. But unlike the hero of tales, this Pate looked anything but good-hearted. Still, Jon would not underestimate his foe just because of it. If anything, those of humbler origins were willing to do things most men of noble blood would never think of, and were just as capable of great cruelties.

He turned around, counting his steps. Bark circled above, keeping an eye on the Darry men for any trickery. The knight remained in the middle, unmoving like a steel-clad statue amidst the waters of the trident, while the archer honestly counted his footsteps. But his gait was already uneasy and stiff, with no sign of the confidence he had displayed earlier: the chill of the water was already taking its toll, where Jon merely felt refreshed, invigorated even, by the caress of the Trident.  

On his side of the riverbanks, Daeron, Tormund, and the two knights had gathered to watch with great interest. Even a pair of ladies had come out of the wheelhouses, though Jon couldn’t make out their features from behind their veils. No wonder the knights dared not risk any fighting.

At the fiftieth step, Jon turned around. 

His foe, Pate, was still waddling through the waters, each step stiffer than the last. His lips curved in amusement.

Half a minute later, he was in position too, and Ser Loran Darry stepped aside, his armoured hand raised skyward, polished gauntlet gleaming under the sunset. His foe took an arrow, nocking it and drawing. The moment the knight’s hand fell, the arrow was let loose, but Jon remained still as it flew half a hand from his head.

Pate even turned to face him sideways, giving Jon less to aim at.

How dull. He had been worried for nothing. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise—master marksmen were not common weeds to be found lying in ambush by every river ford, big or small. Jon let his mind drift into Bark, feeling the wind’s direction. 

With a single, smooth motion, he plucked an arrow and let it loose. 

It struck Pate straight in the head, bouncing off his barbute. 

The dazed archer shook his head and turned to face him, reaching for another arrow. His eyes were still dazed, and this one flew a whole yard off. 

Jon reached for his quiver again. His arrow struck Pate straight on the helmet again. 

The man floundered for a moment, hands flailing in the air, but he quickly regained his footing. His next arrow stabbed into the waters a handful of yards to Jon’s left. 

His fingers found the fletching again, and Jon drew his weirwood bow all the way.

Twang.

It struck right into the barbute again, and this time, Pate faltered, crumpling into the water. 

---

Tormund, Daeron, and the hedge knight had already crossed, looking for a spot to spend the night downstream. True to their word, Ser Loran Darry allowed everyone to pass.

Jon watched with no small amusement as the first wheelhouse cluttered into the ford, and a few moments later, one of its wheels got stuck. The Vypren men-at-arms crowded around the wheelhouse, horses neighed loudly as they tried to drag it out, but to no avail.

As twilight set in, they surrendered, abandoning the wheelhouse. The two knights and four men-at-arms and a squire escorted the two ladies, while the remaining men busied themselves around the two wheelhouses, probably intent on returning them from whence they came.

“Poor Pate almost drowned,” Ser Loran Darry said, but there was no heat in his voice. He had shed his helm now, revealing a sharp face with short-cropped dark hair. “Weirwood recurve is no ordinary bow—even his helmet is dented, nearly caved in.”

“I could have gone for the knee,” Jon mused darkly. “But Lame Pate doesn’t have a good ring to it.” 

A slight smile tugged at the knight’s mouth. “I must give my thanks for the mercy, Master Snow.”

No longer ‘bastard’. Skills with the sword and the title of Lord Commander had not won him such respect. And here he was, three arrows later, being treated as an equal by a knight of skill and renown. Jon didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Though it was because archery was still held in high regard in the Riverlands and the Marches—if this were the Vale or the Reach, his marksmanship would be looked upon with suspicion and disdain.

Still, Jon couldn’t bring himself to feel pride. ‘Pride is the ruin of men.’ 

“I’m no master.”  

“I have seen three master marksmen, and each one was no less dangerous than any skilled knight and just as worthy of respect.” Ser Loran Darry gave him a sharp look. “And today, I met a fourth.”

“As gladdened I am to hear that, you are mistaken, ser. I am good with the bow, aye, but I come a little short of proper mastery.” 

A master marksman can loosen four arrows within two heartbeats and have them all strike true, Jon, no matter the bow.

His limit was still three arrows, and Jon dared not claim he could perform the feat of striking true with every arrow and every bow. And he lacked the strength to pull the great dragonbone warbow all the way without relying on anger.

“Then, I dare say it is just a matter of time. You look to be a decade or two younger than the youngest master marksman I saw.” The Darry knight leaned in. “I wish to invite you to a certain venture.”

“I’m afraid I must refuse, ser.” Jon gave him a slight bow. “I have a task I have sworn to fulfil, and it’s not something I wish to delay.”

Ser Loran did not look too surprised. “Very well. The offer remains. House Darry is glad to welcome a talent such as yours. But know this—the king has called the banners and the realm is going to war. No better time than to win honour, fortune, and glory.”

“Only to those fated.” Jon inclined his head, handing over the quiver with dull-tipped arrows. “Here, your arrows.” 

“Keep it.”

Clapping his shoulder, the knight turned away to join his retinue. ‘He’s not wrong,’ Jon thought. War came with great opportunity, aye, but you needed more than fortune and skill to grasp it. Joining the Darry men as an outrider or a scout would, at most, grant him a small title and a village worth of land, no matter how well he performed or what grand deeds he achieved. When fighting under the ploughman’s banner, the lion’s share of the glory would belong to House Darry. 

It would be far more fitting to seek his fortune under the three-headed dragon, so his destination remained unchanged. The knight doubtlessly knew all of this and thus did not insist. 

It was a year too early for the War of the Ninepenny Kings. But perhaps the Green Tourney and the loss of the two princes and a queen must have forced the king’s hand. Or was it some other foe that had risen?

Jon would find out soon enough. But no wonder the Darry knight was so unflinchingly polite. With the prospect of war looming over the realm, master marksmen were sought more than a knight. After all, knights were nine a penny in the south, a single call could summon dozens in any corner of the realm, while good marksmen were as rare as a white hart.

He wheeled his steed around and found his companions setting up tents at the edge of a small grove, joined by Ser Jonos, their movements rushed to catch the last vestiges of light. The hedge knight was lighting up a cluster of dried twigs that his squire had gathered. 

Tormund lifted his head, glancing at the small Whent and Vypren retinue that was already coming this way, and his mouth twisted.  

“Why’d you agree to let those stick-in-the-arse cravens pass?” he muttered sourly.

“Why do you think I did it?” Jon shot back. 

Tormund’s bushy brows knotted together, and he scratched his nose. “I don’t know. Some lordly courtesy?” 

Even Daeron, the hedge-knight and his squire, stopped their tasks, perked up their ears, no doubt just as curious as Tormund.

“That’s part of it.” Jon’s voice grew solemn. “Courtesy is easy, remember this, Tormund. If a few kind words and a simple gesture can solve or avoid a problem, there is no harm in it. Friend or foe, courtesy never hurts. Furthermore, the Darry men might not have allowed me to dictate the terms of the passage of arms if it were just the three of us, and even issuing a challenge might have been ignored. It is no loss for me to let the Whent and Vypren men cross the ford with my victory.”  

That answer satisfied his squire, and even the priest nodded with approval, while Ser Jonos gave him a surprised look.

Soon, the last glow of orange faded to the west, and darkness gathered, and everyone prepared to sleep. Even the Darry men returned to their tents at the mouth of the ford once they made certain no one else would attempt to pass. Shadow chose that moment to cross through, his black paws rushing through the shallows unnoticed. Before long, he slid into the grove, curling in the shrubbery nearby. After flying in a wide, sweeping circle to inspect the surroundings for any dangers, Bark perched on an ash tree’s branch just above their camp.

Daeron’s donkey and the hedge knight’s palfreys all started neighing uneasily once the wind turned, forcing him to extend his mind and soothe them. 

Ser Jonos and his squire shared a small, dilapidated tent, while Jon and his companions had no such luxury. Tormund curled by the horse’s side, sharing warmth. The ground here was hard and dry, and it was half a luxury for someone who had spent his life struggling in the snowy hills and forests beyond the Wall. Daeron was even more direct, settling on a clump of dry grass and wrapping himself in a thick woollen cloak.

“Do you want to join us two, master septon?” Ser Jonos asked, motioning to their worn tent. 

“There’s no need, ser.” Daeron’s head popped out of the cloak. “I’m a godly man, but not of the Seven, ser. For a priest like me, the starry sky is my blanket, and the whole world is my bed.”

“What a braggart,” Tormund muttered. “You must teach me some of your tricks, old man.”

The priest coughed abashedly, wrapping himself deeper into the folds of his cloak. “Just sleep, boy.”

Meanwhile, the hedge knight had stirred from his place and came over to Jon with a friendly face. 

“Let me stand watch,” he said eagerly.

There was no ill intent in the words, and even Shadow’s sharp senses could not catch anything. And yet, a hedge knight would not approach him without cause.

“There’s no need,” said Jon, voice calm. “We’re not close enough for such trust. Tonight, fate brought us together, and we may camp together, but tomorrow we shall part ways.”

The man opened his mouth, but Jon’s chilling gaze halted whatever words rested on his tongue. He weaved some of his power into his eyes as Bloodraven had taught him, not enough to attack his mind, but just enough to put tangible pressure.

He held Ser Jonos’s gaze without blinking until the hedge knight faltered, averting his eyes. Eventually, he turned back to his tent, his steps stiff.

Whether the man was interested in his bow, or desired to follow in his company or had some other plan, Jon cared little. That, which was easily gained, could be just as easily lost. Daeron, as odd and unsettling as he was, was a pious man and would remember the grace of saving his life. Ser Jonos of Hagsford was a stranger, and they owed each other nothing. He openly spoke ill of the Whent and Vypren knights, even though he intended to hitch on their group to cross the ford. 

Such a man was not worthy of trust, nor could he be truly relied upon.

He did not spare the hedge knight another glance, though he kept observing through his owl’s eyes. His own gaze was settled a few hundred yards to the south, where the Whent and Vypren group had chosen to camp. From a distance, he could barely make out the details when he squinted. In the darkness, the knights stood guard and chatted; two men-at-arms hastily raised three tents, while a plainly garbed woman with her greying hair tied in a bun attended the two ladies. They looked rather young; older than Tormund, but not yet Jon’s age, doubtlessly maidens on the cusp of womanhood, judging by their willowy figures and body language, though he could not tell for certain—veils still obscured their faces. 

Once he was certain they were set to sleep and would not do anything unsavoury, Jon’s attention returned to the hedge knight and his squire. Nearly another hour passed until their breathing grew even, and their movements stilled completely; only then did Jon lower his vigilance. 

With a sigh, he lay on the ground, sprawling out his limbs as he allowed his eyes to wander across the sky. Tonight was cloudless, and the moon had waned, presenting a carpet of stars stretching to the beyond. 

The starry sky is my blanket, and the whole earth is my bed.

Bold, almost arrogant in its claim, spoken with the courage of a man who did not fear the wrath of nature. No matter how hardy a Northman or a wildling, they would avoid the bite of snow and the chill of winter, seeking shelter in huts and caves. And yet deep down, Jon understood it. He, who had been touched by the heart of winter, had no fear of the elements and had even less need for shelter or comfort.

And yet… Jon longed to return home. 

But where was home?

This Winterfell was a cold, distant place that would never recognise him, not in this lifetime. It would not be home without his father, Arya, Robb, Rickon, Bran, and Sansa. If only he could go back to those carefree days. Gods, he even missed Lady Catelyn’s frosty gaze and Theon’s snide remarks. But Theon had turned traitor. He had not been born yet, nor had the others. Perhaps they would never be, at the rate things were changing.

Once, he would have called Castle Black and the Watch his home. The scars on his chest and back ached at the thought. What a fool he had been.

Here, in this era, he was destined to be a stranger, a drifter. Aye, he had undertaken the solemn task of returning the heirloom blade of House Targaryen, but once that was done… only the gods knew what truly awaited him. Perhaps honours and glory for a time, and even royal service. But Jon knew that might not last—if it came at all. Once the old king perished and the new one came, everything might be lost. That was the fate of those without roots, easily removed at the first storm. He did not belong, and his presence here was wrong. And yet, he couldn’t help but long for home… or at least the memory of warmth.

He felt Shadow stir from the nearby grove, and the direwolf softly padded over, gave Jon’s face an encouraging lick and lay down beside him.

Jon absently reached out, his fingers burying into the shaggy black fur of his neck.

His mood turned for the better. “Sorry, boy,” he whispered. He felt a pang of guilt for always sending the loyal direwolf to hide, as if he were ashamed. Aye, it was wiser not to display the symbol of House Stark in the open, but this was no longer the North, and thus no longer as big an issue. “I shall not hide you any further.”

A happy whine was his answer, and a single blue eye full of trust stared at him.

Perhaps wandering was not so bad, after all. A drifter he might be, but he was not alone. Shadow would never leave him, and Tormund, for all of his empty bluster, had his own sort of honour and would not abandon him either.

The Starry sky is my blanket, and the whole earth is my bed.

Perhaps he was a stranger here, but now the whole world was his home. That thought eased the tightness in his chest and soothed the restlessness in his mind.

With Shadow by his side, he closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into sleep. 

The next dawn saw him completely refreshed, with the morning sun softly caressing his face. Sighing, he pulled on his hood and rose. Tormund was stoking a fire, while Daeron was using worms to fish by the riverbank. Ser Jonos was eyeing Shadow warily, fist coiled over the sword hilt on his belt. In turn, the direwolf rose to its full height, tall enough to loom over most common men, shaking its fur and giving the hedge knight a look full of disdain.

“Where’d this giant beast come from?”

“I found him in the wild as a pup,” Jon said with a yawn as he stretched out the stiffness of sleep. “It’s my pet dog.”

Ser Jonos stiffly stood up, finding himself slightly shorter than the standing wolf. “This is no mere dog.” His voice grew strained. “I’ve seen smaller bears, Snow.”

Jon gave him a lazy shrug, reaching out to scratch behind Shadow’s ear. “The dogs in the North are built different.”

The knight’s face alternated between fear and disbelief, until it finally settled on resolve.

Within five minutes, Ser Jonos and his scrawny squire had packed their belongings and fled like frightened rabbits.

Daeron soon returned with five fish skewered on a stick. He glanced at the figures in the distance and shrugged. “More for us, then.”

“Not surprised at the wolf, priest?” Tormund prodded, eyes narrowed. 

Dareon glanced at Shadow, whose tail was lazily swaying, and tilted his head. “This is clearly a big dog. His snout is a bit too big, as is his head, but otherwise, he just looks a bit playful and shaggy. I’ve seen trained hounds more cruel than this.”

As if to back his words, he fearlessly reached out an empty hand to the direwolf, and Shadow leaned in to sniff his fingers. Jon’s mouth twitched as the direwolf gave a single, low bark of approval and quickly lost interest. 

The three of them clustered around the campfire as the priest skilfully held the skewered fish over the flames, turning it every now and then. 

“I thought most priests from the far east swear off meat,” Jon noted.

“They do,” said Daeron, his gaze not moving from the sizzling fish. “But I saw these five drowning, so it was my solemn duty to save them.” 

Tormund, who had lifted a flask of springwater, choked, wheezing and hacking heavily. 

Even Jon was startled at the sheer shamelessness of the reply. But he didn’t think much of it—Daeron himself claimed to be a poor priest.

Shadow’s head whipped to the south, where one of the Whent men-at-arms slowly approached. With a thought, the direwolf retreated into the grove behind them, lest he scare the rider and his steed.

“Good morning. The Lady Minisa invites Lord Snow for a talk.” 

Jon swallowed. “Minisa Whent?”

“Yes.”

“Leave,” he said flatly.

The man’s face contorted. “But—”

“Leave,” Jon repeated. He cared little about Robb’s grandmother or whatever schemes she might be planning. 

The man wheeled around his horse and rode away. 

“This wasn’t very courteous,” Tormund said, scratching his nose as his eyes flicked from the rider’s figure back to Jon. 

It was Daeron who responded. “While Master Snow was a bit sharp in his refusal, he was not wrong. It’s improper for a Lady to invite a bastard for anything, especially if there is no blood kinship between them. There are only a few reasons why a noblewoman might ever issue such an invitation. She either wishes to recruit you as a sworn shield, or on her husband’s or father’s behalf. Perhaps she seeks to match you to a sister, half-sister, or a handmaiden.”

Tormund’s face was filled with disappointment. “How dull.”

“Indeed,” Daeron nodded. “But if it were an invitation for a clandestine affair, it would be issued in secret, not in the open, where a lady’s reputation could be put to question. And the boons received in service to House Tully are not necessarily any better than what benefactor could have received from Darry.”

For good or ill, the group did not approach them again. Bark flew over their camp, and Jon almost faltered when he saw one of the maidens, having discarded her veil to eat. Crimson locks that flowed like a waterfall of blood over her shoulders, the woman looked like a younger version of Lady Stark. Only, her face was a tad rounder and softer, and her pale, hazel eyes lacked the iciness of Catelyn Tully.

Jon would never admit it aloud, but she was gorgeous. It was clear from where Robb’s mother got those large—

Swallowing hard, he pushed those thoughts away from his mind. He needed no further romantic entanglements—the sour memory of Sygra Bolton was all too fresh in his mind.

After a hearty meal, they packed their meagre belongings and took the road. The next three days went without a hitch, though the further south they travelled, the fewer villagers and merchants graced the way, and whatever travellers they saw were in a great hurry. The inns were half-empty too, and the only thing that remained unchanged was the flutter of crofters and farmers tending to vast fields of wheat. 

It was no wonder. This was the far end of the Riverlands, and the muster would gather either at Riverrun and Harrenhal before making way to join the royal host at King’s Landing—or wherever they were needed.

On the fourth day, they crossed into the Crownlands, and the roads turned even more desolate, smallfolk all hurried and the scant few merchants moving cautiously, as if bandits could jump out of the nearby bushes.  

Later that noon, a few hours after they had passed Sow’s Horn, he bid his companions to halt just before a small stretch of woodland flanking the road on both sides.

“What is it?” Tormund asked, eyes darting around warily.

“Seven men lay waiting in ambush ahead,” Jon said with an odd look on his face. “They bear no heraldry, though they wear halfplate and brigandine of castle-forged steel.”

“A robber lord or a knight, then,” Daeron mused. “Under the king’s nose, too—King’s Landing is no more than three days’ ride from here.”

Jon rubbed his brow. “Brigandry is common at times of war.”

“The fighting is yet to start,” the priest shot back. “It seems His Grace has a poor grasp of his principal bannermen.”

Jon weighed his options for a long moment. An ambush could be reversed, but fighting here served him little purpose. “We’ll go around.”

“Huh?” Tormund studied the forest. “What’s the difference between them and the Darry men blocking the ford?”

“While somehow unsavoury, Darry barred the Trident crossings openly,” Jon said patiently. “These men? They are scum. Murder and plunder without due cause and a noble name to shield them make them no different from brigands. Perhaps they act like ones, too. We can slay them as they stand, and no laws would be broken, but it’s not worth the trouble.”

They went around, and the rest of their journey to King’s Landing went without a hitch, save for a heavy downpour that delayed them for another full day. 

On the eighth evening after the crossing, they first smelled it. Shadow grew unsettled, rushing into a small grove and howling loudly, startling the nearby birds. They smelled it next, a faint stench borne on the wind that made one gag. 

“Stinks like rotten fish and shit mixed with piss and sweat,” Tormund groaned out.

Daeron was completely unaffected. “Most cities have that reek. It’s the smell of hundreds of thousands of poor souls crammed between the city walls. Add in some dogs, cattle, and horses. It doesn’t make much of an impression once you get used to it.”

Tormund was aghast and quickly pinched his nose. “Don’t they fear disease with such foulness?”

“Few care if the smallfolk fall ill in droves,” the priest said with a long sigh. “And many are willing to brave the risk of disease for the ripe opportunities that the heart of the realm offers. Breathe in with your mouth and breathe out with your nose.”

Jon followed the advice and found the stink more bearable, but not by much. Shadow, on the other hand, refused to approach further. Perhaps it was for the better—a great city was no place for a wild beast like a direwolf. 

Soon, they saw a blotch of grey and white in the distance—the city was finally in sight. It grew larger and larger as they rode on. They saw a forest of tents sprawled beneath the western city wall, with myriad colourful banners snapping in the wind above. 

‘This is it. King’s Landing,’ Jon thought, shoulders tensing. ‘The crown jewel of the Seven Kingdoms, the seat of royal power and the city where I lost two sisters, a father, an uncle, and a grandfather.’

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Author’s Endnote: A small interlude of a chapter. And now, it’s almost time for the swirling mess that is King’s Landing.