27.Joining the Royal Court

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Wandering Bastard

Silver-gold hair that shone like molten silver in the torchlight, eyes of Valyrian purple, and a pale, delicate face that was ethereal, beautiful like no other. He had seen this eerie, almost inhuman charm only in the Others, and even their features slanted towards cold and sinister instead of beautiful. She did not announce her name, but she did not need to.

The kingsguard addressed her with respect that even a lady of a great house would not receive. The royal men fanned around her, ready to protect her from the first sign of danger—this maiden could only come from the House of the Dragon. And there was only one living princess left to the royal family. Rhaella Targaryen.

“This must be brought before the king.”

After those words, the tension here had all bled out, and even Jon felt his unease drain away, though he still remained alert. In Ser Gerold Hightower’s hands, Dark Sister’s hilt and pommel were quickly revealed, and the sharpness and never-dulling edge of Valyrian steel was confirmed to be true; much of the doubt and surprise in their eyes receded, replaced by contemplation. 

Jon, Tormund, and Daeron quickly found themselves escorted to the Red Keep, and the gold cloaks carried the knocked-out ponce—Ser Denys Darklyn along with them. Darklyn. Before the Defiance of Duskendale, this was still one of the most powerful Houses in the Crownlands. From what Jon gathered, even this knight he had held hostage had turned out to be the Hand’s own nephew, and Lord Darklyn’s eldest son and heir.

Upon entry past the great bronze gate, they had to surrender all weapons and were thoroughly checked from head to toe. Even Tormund’s cooking knife, the dagger in Jon’s boot, and Daeron’s gnarly staff were not spared. The guardsmen’s gaze lingered on Jon’s bows, but stared at his white hair and crimson eyes for longer. Though few dared hold his gaze for long, averting their eyes the moment he caught them staring. 

By the next day, Jon would wager the Red Keep would be overflowing with rumours of a Bloodraven lookalike, perhaps the more outrageous ones would claim the old man himself was back from the dead.

For good or ill, they hadn’t touched Aemon’s letter.

Jon felt naked, vulnerable without a single weapon, especially since everyone here was armoured and armed. If they decided to get rid of him, all they needed to do was draw a sword and run him through, and he’d be ill-equipped to resist. While he knew this king was not as vicious or unjust as his successors, that knowledge did not help his unease in the slightest. But while Jon was unarmed, he was not utterly defenceless. They had taken his steel, yes, but his mind, a skinchanger’s sharpest blade, remained—that one they couldn’t take away even if they wished.

The moment they entered the courtyard, a man in his forties shuffled over with the escort of a knight who had ridden ahead, his eyes still bleary. Five chains hung over his neck, long enough to reach his chest, gleaming links fashioned from brass, bronze, iron, copper, platinum, silver, steel, and tin, some dotted with amethysts, rubies, and garnets. This could only be the Grand Maester, though he had not an ounce of Maester Luwin or Aemon’s calm composure. He did not seem half as wise, nor was there any trace of a maester’s humility and modesty in those bright robes of purple silk—Jon doubted he had forged over a hundred links, either.

The Grand Maester had a stony face and an expression so dark one would think someone had killed his kin. He marched over to Ser Gerold Hightower, sourly muttering under his breath, but his pale eyes lit up the moment they found the sword. His hand patted the balding blond scalp before inspecting every detail of the blade and the hilt, and then nodded.  

“This is indeed the genuine sword.” He pointed towards a slight notch on the gilded guard. “This is the recorded mark left on the blade when the Dragonknight defended his royal brother against the evil Toyne outlaws. The blade is precisely of the recorded length and Valyrian steel pattern.”

The white cloak merely nodded, and the Grand Maester scurried away. Tormund and Daeron were escorted to the servants’ quarters, while Jon was led deeper into the Red Keep past a tall marble building, a lesser squat structure, and into a dark antechamber with decorative wooden panels.

“You’ll be summoned to see the king again at dawn,” said the knight who brought him here. Giving Jon one last deep look, he nodded curtly and left.  

It seemed that even the return of the priceless family heirloom sword was not important enough to disrupt the king’s sleep.  

And thus he was left alone with only a flickering brazier for lighting, not that the darkness bothered him. Dimness and darkness did not obstruct his eyes since he crawled out of the heart of winter.

Jon had no choice but to sit down in one of the many painted chairs. Comfortable enough to sleep in, though not as good as the soft Myrish rug on the floor. He had barely slept a wink so far, and his limbs felt heavy like lead now that the excitement of the fight had faded. Still, he couldn’t ease himself enough to drift into the dreamlands, and a few minutes later, he found himself staring blankly at the opposite panelled wall. It was pretty enough, the wood was painted to fashion a picture of rivers, hills, and valleys, with draconic shapes twisting amidst the clouds, colourful seven-pointed stars dotting the night sky, and with the occasional lion, wolf, stag, or falcon down on the ground.  

His thoughts, however, were churning furiously.

After the previous events, Jon was not sure if this meeting with the king was a good thing.

Royal guarantees given by the white cloak earlier assuaged neither his worries nor his suspicions, and even if Aegon the Unlikely promised him safety and justice in person, Jon would be a fool to believe it. Eddard Stark had all the royal guarantees and honours; he had become the Hand of the king, a man with the highest power in the realm beneath the Iron Throne. And it did him no good. It certainly didn’t save him from the vipers scheming in court and plotters hiding in the dark. His grandsire, Rickard Stark, only fared worse despite bringing two hundred of Winterfell’s finest warriors to redeem his son from the Mad King’s clutches.

Aegon the Unlikely didn’t have a particularly great or poor reputation, but the man had just lost his children and wife. Only the gods would know what really went on his head, and grief and anger could drive a man to madness. Or to darkness. 

Baratheon or Targaryen, the name that bore the crown did not matter; the city was a great pit of danger.

Jon didn’t think much of it when entering King’s Landing, but the night’s events had him reconsider. Not even a full day had passed, and someone had schemed against him, trying to use daggers in the dark and even the Hand’s own nephew as a borrowed blade to remove him. Or perhaps, it was Darklyn himself who desired his demise. He had sensed someone watching him during the day as he travelled around the city, but hadn’t thought much of it since his distinctive colouring stood out in the crowd like a sore thumb.

Even though Jon had entered the Red Keep and was soon to meet the king, his situation right now was not much better. He was still out in the open, pinned down in one location, while there was a foe in the shadows, waiting for opportunity to see to his untimely demise. 

That alone had Jon all uncomfortable, unable to relax enough for a nap in the rather cosy chair, and it was hard to sit in his seat without sending his mind into Shadow.

All of this made him regret coming to King’s Landing. 

In fact, he was tempted to leave first thing tomorrow, jumping out of this dangerous pit that had devoured so many of his family. 

It would certainly be a prudent decision after the night’s battle. The fighting had been quick and bloody, and even though Jon had won, it felt as if every moment had balanced on the razor’s edge, and all of his skills had been tested to the utmost. If he had been half a heartbeat slower or just a measure weaker, if he hadn’t had Dark Sister and with its peerlessly sharp edge, if Daeron didn’t fight as well as he had with that fierce staff… if Jon’s skinchanging skills weren’t good enough to control the horses to trample on the crossbowmen. If that Darklyn knight hadn’t been goaded to attack blindly… too many ifs, and just one lacking would have seen his life end tonight. 

Yet, as wise as leaving King’s Landing was, Jon was reluctant. It had taken months to travel here, and just the thought of walking away with nothing to show for it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Joining the army as an outrider or a scout would do him no good—fighting at sea was not his forte, and there was no guarantee that whoever schemed against him in the city couldn’t reach him while under the command of some lord or knight. 

In fact, it was even easier to kill with authority. Just as Jon had killed that wretch Janos Slynt with a single command, so he could be killed, whether by being ordered to his death in some risky mission, or by some other scheme. Once under the command of another, refusal was tantamount to desertion and would kill him just as surely.

Jon was not without recourse. As tenuous as his situation seemed, he had survived the night and that double-layered trap, and now knew that he had a new foe lurking in the dark, eager to see him dead.

Dark Sister was returned as was proper, but the lion’s share of the acclaim of this great deed would land on the shoulders of Rhaella Targaryen, leaving only a little for Jon. That was a decision made in haste, but not without its own merit—it was one thing to plot against a wandering bastard with no roots or backing, and another entirely to do the same against someone entrusted with a solemn quest by the royal family.

While this was a flimsy shield, it was better than nothing and only possible because the princess had claimed him as her own sworn man. Jon did not know why she had done it, but he had sensed no ill intent from Rhaella. Still, he was wary, and not simply because he had placed his own safety in the hands of a stranger, albeit one of noble blood.

He had sensed her presence on that eagle watching from the rooftops—she was a skinchanger. And he had the niggling suspicion that she had killed his owl earlier that evening, too. 

Was the princess a friend or foe? Had he unwittingly fallen into another invisible plot? Jon wasn’t sure. 

That’s why he dared not drop his vigilance even now. ‘If things are not looking good after meeting the king tomorrow, and they don’t make my service worthwhile, I’ll just leave.’

If he had known such trouble would beset him after a night in the city, Jon would have drawn the sword and loudly announced it in front of the Great Gate yesterday, saving him much of this hassle.

There was one issue, though. Princess Rhaella’s claim that he was one of her sworn swords was… far-fetched. Without preparation, such a blatant lie might lead to endless troubles in front of the king tomorrow, and all they would need to reveal is to question him and the princess separately.

Even now, Jon wasn’t sure why she had done it, nor could he think of any reason. He had never seen her before in either life—this was his first day in King’s Landing, after all.

He needed to speak with the princess first, whether to find out more or to take measure of her character. That was easier said than done; the royal family was well protected and couldn’t be met on a moment’s notice, and this was twice as true now, after the king had lost his wife and all of his children to wildfire. 

Still, he had to try. Clearing his mind, he spread out his awareness. To his great dismay, his senses here in the Red Keep felt odd. While it felt easier than ever to reach out, but the very walls and the air itself seemed to resist his attempts at feeling out his surroundings. This had to be an arcane ward of a similar sort that the Dreaming Eye’s cave held. 

This alone made him feel more helpless than the surrendering of his arms.

He barely sensed the sentry staying guard outside the door. His emotions and thoughts were muted, or perhaps he wasn’t feeling anything at all—night watch could be mind-numbing, as Jon knew all too well. He couldn’t feel far beyond the outside, but Jon had spotted more than one sentry on his way here. Leaving unnoticed was unlikely, sneaking aimlessly around the Red Keep at night was reckless and twice as foolish, leaving him only one option.

A simple query and he’d get to see the princess if the gods were merciful, and if not, he would gauge the royal men’s attitude.

Just as he stood up, stretching out his stiff joints and tired muscles, he heard soft, barely audible footsteps drawing nearer. 

A maiden’s voice called out in the darkness, soft and smooth like velvet. “I wish to meet him.” 

“But, princess, my orders were not to let him leave until—”

“It’s fine, then. He won’t leave here.” Her tone grew cold. “Or do you perhaps think my own sworn men will harm me?” 

The sound of shuffling footsteps echoed, the door creaked open, and a slender figure a head shorter than him slid in. 

The oil lamp in her hand cloaked the antechamber in a dull red, and crimson eyes met purple.  

Flustered, she hastily closed the door behind her and once again turned to face him, inspecting him with open interest. Her nose wrinkled and her slender brows furrowed as her gaze landed on his garments—all of it was travel-worn linen or leather, and the splatters of dried blood from earlier did not make him seem any cleaner. It had been three days since he had the chance to take a wash in a stream, and he probably reeked of horse and the road, but so what? A good portion of the city stank far worse than him. 

Jon stood straight to face her and studied her in kind, finally taking a better look at the king’s granddaughter. Willowy body, heart-shaped, pouty mouth, and long silvery hair that had a slight tint of pale gold, unlike his own. Older than Sansa had been when she left Winterfell by two, perhaps three years. In another two or three years, she would be a woman grown, her delicate Valyrian beauty would have no rival in the realm, and no doubt every unwed knight, lord, or prince from the four corners of the world would compete for her hand.

In another life, she ought to have been wedded to her brother and swollen with his child by now, live tragically and die pitifully, but Aerys was wedded to Genna Lannister instead. Rhaella, on the other hand, remained unwed still, and rumours were that she had claimed one of the newly hatched dragons.

Jon had met only two princesses in his life before, and this one was the third. She was nothing like Myrcella or Shireen had been in demeanour, and although her face still bore traces of youthful childishness, her eyes were too cold, too hard, nothing like a maiden on the cusp of womanhood. If anything, the sharpness in her gaze reminded him of Lady Catelyn, though it lacked Lady Stark’s frigidness.

He could feel it clearer now, that prickling feeling in the back of his mind. She was a skinchanger or a sorceress or both, and not nearly as harmless as she seemed. ‘Women and maidens are scarcely different from flowers. The prettier they are, the more poisonous and thornier they tend to be,’ Bloodraven had once said, and today Jon found himself agreeing with his master.

Still, he was no longer a child living under another’s roof and grace, nor was he at fault here, so he held her gaze without faltering. 

After another minute of staring, a hint of crimson rushed up Rhaella’s pale neck, and she averted her eyes, but still refused to be the first to speak. ‘Still half a child, after all.’

But it wouldn’t do if she were to flee out of embarrassment. Should he treat her like a young maiden, a princess, or… some cunning sorceress?

“Princess,” Jon broke the silence, dipping his head slightly. “While I’m most grateful for your aid, I’m more curious to know why you decided to aid a stranger like me.”

Rhaella Targaryen tilted her head and opened her mouth once, twice, and on the third time, soft words hesitantly slipped out. “Would you believe me if I told you it was fate?”

He narrowed his eyes. Fate and sorcery were a dangerous combination. “I would,” he said.

She blinked at him for a long moment. “Truly?”

Jon shrugged, the corner of his mouth curving. “I’ve no reason to lie. How may I serve you, mistress?”

“Err…” Rhaella’s pale cheeks reddened, and she lowered her voice. “You don’t have to play along with the ruse anymore.”

“On the contrary, I must,” Jon said back. “The white cloak and over two scores of royal men heard it, and the king would soon know of it. To the world, I must be one of your sworn men, and you must have ordered me to retrieve Dark Sister.”

The princess anxiously tugged on a lock of silver hair. “But… how could I have recruited you before? Why would I ever send anyone on such a distant quest?”

“The why and the how are not nearly as important as the fact that you did. The more you explain, the easier lies and deception will come to light. If you stay silent and firm about it, others will scramble to find one explanation or another for you.”

“Is that so?” Rhaella gave him a scrutinising look, searching for something. “Very well. I’ll do as you say in this. But if you are to be sworn to me, I must know more of you and your goals here.”

“Jon Snow,” he said with a deep bow. “You can say I’m… a wanderer and huntsman, born and bred in the North, taught by Lord Bloodraven. Once the old man died, I made my way through the Wall to return his sword where it belonged. I wished to pass it on to Maester Aemon, but he would not have it, sending me all the way to King’s Landing.”

He hesitated for a moment, fingers ghosting over Maester Aemon’s letter. Two brothers had not seen each other for decades, and it was a question whether the old man would trust a stranger like him. Jon knew not what was inked down in there, but one thing he knew for certain. While returning Dark Sister was a great merit, it was not great enough to warrant some great lordship as a reward, nor would any sane king entrust a strange Northern bastard with suspicious origins any great responsibility. 

In a sense, the letter was not nearly as important as the act of returning Dark Sister, and an estranged brother’s words might not be trusted. 

Risk giving the unknown letter to the king… or hand it over to this precocious princess as a show of trust? 

“Here, I suppose you ought to get this now.”

He palmed Aemon’s letter and placed it on the table before them.

For good or ill, Rhaella did not ask about Bloodraven and his desertion, but hesitantly walked over and broke the blackened wax. Her mouth twitched. 

“Read,” she said, shoving the thin roll of parchment back into his hands.

Egg, I’m sending you a skilled helper. Make good use of him if you have the need. 

-Your loving brother Aemon 

Jon had not expected much from the old maester who did not know him here, but the pang of disappointment stung regardless. Perhaps strangers and nameless bastards like him were indeed no better than disposable tools to be used and discarded at will. Judging by the sheer surprise Dark Sister brought to the white cloaks, Jon would wager Aemon had not even sent a raven to inform his royal brother of it all. 

His fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm, but his hand slackened, and he let out a long, weary sigh. ‘You aren’t even the bastard of Winterfell in here,’ he bitterly reminded himself, ‘nor the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I am just a nameless Snow.’

“What do you intend to do, now?” Rhaella asked. 

Her tone was nonchalant, her face betrayed no emotion, and her hands were hidden in the sleeves of her cloak, but the slight forward lean of her body betrayed her interest. Or was it urgency?  

Was that inexplicable fate so important, or had she made plans for his presence?   

‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ he wanted to tell her. Whoever wishes me dead with no grudge nor offence given should wash his neck for me.’ This was a truth older than the laws of men, but one acknowledged all the same.

Once, Jon might have been wary of such thoughts, but he no longer had kin to risk or familial reputation to uphold. Bastards were to be cunning, petty, cruel, and Jon no longer had any honour left to defend, either. With nothing left to lose, at most, he’d die. But death was an old, intimate friend of his, and he had no fear of it. 

He hesitated for a moment. Such vicious words could not be spoken aloud, and declaring such intent openly was dangerous in this city, where trust was a luxury that could get you killed. They were even more dangerous to utter in front of a sorceress of no small power like the princess. 

The evildoer who wished him dead could be found with time, but Jon did not have the confidence to search him without backing. In King’s Landing, the easiest and most direct way to power was to serve the king and the royal family.

But even if he wished to swear his bow in the service of House Targaryen, things freely given were rarely valued, if at all.

“My task here has been fulfilled,” Jon said testily, watching her expression like a hawk. “I had hoped to secure some position of power in court for my good deed, but this night’s events have shown me that I am not as welcome as I’d hoped. Perhaps it would be prudent to leave after meeting the king.”

Surely enough, Rhaella’s mask faltered, her face turning panicked. “No,” she exclaimed, voice urgent. “You should stay here instead.” 

He suppressed his smile. The princess needed him more than he needed her. The advantage finally lay with him.

“I should stay?” he echoed innocently. “But there is some great lord here plotting my demise.”  

Rhaella quickly calmed, the previous nonchalant mask returning to her face. “What makes you think so?”

He deliberately scratched his stubble, giving himself a moment to think. “The first time I have come on this side of the Neck was little more than a moon past. I’ve had no time to make foes in this short time, nor have I made great feuds in the North proper. Yet on my first night here, not only was I beset by hired blades eager for my head, but whoever wanted me dead dragged the city watch and the Hand’s nephew into this mess.” 

Spreading his hands helplessly, he gave her a wan smile. “Perhaps I was fortunate tonight, but the gods’ favour will not shield me forever, and the next plot might just see me perish. What can a hapless bastard like me do to resist some powerful hidden city lord?”

“A most interesting observation,” Rhaella hummed. “How can you be so certain it is you they targeted and not your priestly companion? Or perhaps the heirloom sword you bore?” 

“I have drawn Dark Sister once since crossing the Neck, and all those who saw it perished moments after, so I was not plotted against for the sword. Daeron is dangerous, yes, but those sellswords were all trying to kill me, not him. They wished Bloodraven’s spawn dead—their own words.”

“And are you?” she demanded. “Bloodraven’s son, that is.”

“Not that I know of,” he offered, his tone simple and honest. “Saw the old man a year ago for the first time, and he taught me for a few moons time before dying to save my skin. But I know my looks are damning regardless of what I say. Anyway, I’d better leave swiftly—the old bastard probably left dozens of grudges and gods know how many foes before his exile to the Wall. If they all come to settle Bloodraven’s many debts and grievances with me, I wouldn’t live long even if I had nine lives.”

“You’re mistaken, my good man,” she said smoothly. “You have done the royal family a great service, and your safety in the Red Keep will be guaranteed, this much I can promise. I can find a good position in court for my sworn sword, though you’d have to prove your skills. If you do well, I will find you a beautiful maiden for a wife.”

Quite generous for someone she had just met, and Jon doubted even the king would be so open-handed. Too generous, in fact, inexplicable fate or not, but still within her powers to fulfil. 

Jon narrowed his eyes, refusing to speak, and stubbornly looked at the princess.

She bit her lip and sighed. “You’ll have my full backing in all things, so long as you do not break laws,” she relented. “But you’ll answer to me first before all others.”

So that was her real goal. A princess, while enjoying prestige and wealth beyond all measure, had little power of her own. She wished for a good blade to wield against her foes, or perhaps a sturdy shield to protect her from those who wished her ill. Ambitious.

Being ambitious was good. It would give Jon a chance to rise further, especially if he proved himself skilled. Unlike the king, who would need to balance the factions in court, he would be perhaps one of the main pillars of the princess’s budding faction, and all the more valued for it. But when there was gain, there was loss, too—the prestige of serving a princess would be lesser, and the boons and protection she could grant him were ultimately limited, for all of her power and wealth were at the whims of the king.

“Quite generous,” said Jon, voice edged with indifference. “But to receive so much, merely returning a heirloom sword is far from enough. Assuming your promises hold weight, you must want something more from me.”

She puffed up her cheeks. “My word is my bond, Snow!” she bit back, agitated. Then, a moment later, she calmed. “But there is… something. You must help me pursue the mysterious schemer who wished you dead.”

Whoever had wished him dead had crossed the House of the Dragon, too. Perfect. Working against a common foe was a matter of interest, a reason far easier to trust than something fleeting like fate. 

He weighed his options one final time and found the princess to his liking. She had yet to tell a lie, or perhaps her lies were so good that even Jon couldn’t catch them. If it was the latter, he would stand no chance against her, and if it was the former, it was a display of sincerity and trust, and coupled with her earlier aid, Jon couldn’t find a strong reason to refuse. 

He dipped his head in respect. “You saved me once, so I shall trust you once more, princess. I will follow your orders so long as you do not betray me, but make no mistake, my true loyalty is not so easily won.”

Relief was visible on her pale face, and she gave him a tight nod.

Joining the great host or the fleet was an option, but no longer as appealing with some unknown foe lurking in the dark and desiring Jon’s head. The chance to gain merit during the war and use it to rise was now too much of a danger. His time in the Night’s Watch and that mutiny had taught him one thing.

Issues must not be left to fester, and foes were best dealt with in the open, finding a good reason to lop their head off.

“Tell me everything about this schemer,” he said, easing himself back into the painted chair. 

---

They had talked deep into the night before the princess finally retreated. 

It seemed that his foe was far trickier than he first expected, but that did not dampen his spirit. There was no joy nor any glory in striking down a weak foe or hunting down feeble prey. 

Jon barely had a short hour or two of rest before a small army of servants came, dragging him into a steaming bathtub and scrubbing him clean. To his great dismay, one of the younger maids was almost eager to join him in the tub—and she might as well have done it if not for the older stout woman. By the time Jon arrived in the king’s private audience chamber, his budding beard was sheared clean, his hair had been combed with great relish as if he were some dainty lady preparing for a ball and then washed with queer scented oils that still made his nose twitch, his blood-splattered garments were replaced by a soft tunic of red cotton with the sleeves embroidered with golden thread, comfortable woollen leggings that came with a silver-buckled belt, and buckskin boots. 

Rhaella, who had already waited in the chamber in a gown of bright pink that made her look more girly than Sansa could ever manage, gave him a once-over and nodded in satisfaction. “Now you look half-decent.”  

“I look like half a fop,” he said sourly, but that only made her smile widen.

“You’ll get used to it.” She gave him a dismissive wave. “Can’t have the hero who brought back the crown’s lost sword look like a vagrant or a particularly poor hedge-knight. Such holds twice as true for a sworn sword of mine.”

Before he could say anything, the door swung open, and two knights in enamelled suits of white plate and white cloaks marched in, and after them came a tired man with a crown and a chequered silken mantle of crimson and black.

This was the fourth king Jon had met. The first one had been fatter than a well-fed pig, bawdy, and as drunk as a man deep in his cups could be. The second one was no more than a bard and a deserter who led a band of wildlings to chase shadows, and the third wore no silks nor did he have a great royal retinue; his face was always set in a grim frown, but he acted and fought as a king ought to, if one overlooked the red priestess by his side.

Aegon the Unlikely was unlike Stannis, Mance, or Robert, and if Jon had to describe him with one word, he’d call him old. With a tired face beset by wrinkles, deep dark bags under his bleary eyes, and wizened white hair, he looked older than Jeor Mormont’s nearly seventy years despite being a full decade younger. Still, his stride was more vigorous than Jon expected, and his gaze was as sharp as a razor. His boots, pants, belt, and tunic were all dyed in pure black, and he could be mistaken for a man of the Night’s Watch if not for the slender golden band on his head.

The king was mourning the loss of his children.

Dark Sister had already found its way to the king, hanging from his belt.

His first words were not curiosity about Jon’s origin, nor Bloodraven, nor any questioning about the events of last night that he and the princess had prepared for. 

“Rhaella,” the king said, studying the princess for a long moment. Finally, he gave a nod, and his eyes turned to Jon. “You must be the hero of the hour, Ser Jon, then.” 

“I’m no knight, Your Grace.”

Aegon gave him a warm smile. “We can rectify that right away. Kneel.”

Jon opened his mouth to decline but struggled to find the words. Refusal here would be taken as half an insult… and could he cling to the olden Northern tradition now that he was no longer the bastard of Winterfell? 

Could he refuse the prestige and convenience that royal knighthood could bring him here, in the south?

‘Forgive me, father.’

But his father was not yet born.

Without hesitating further, Jon took a knee, lowering his head. Empty pride would not serve him in this treacherous city, he decided.

The king drew his sword, and Dark Sister’s cold tip rested on Jon’s right shoulder.

“Jon Snow of the North,” the king began, voice loud, resonant, and edged with authority. “Do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they might be?”

“I do swear,” Jon said, voice thick.

“Rise, Ser Jon Snow, a knight of the realm!”

He stood up somewhat dazed, but feeling no different from before. ‘Vows are no different than wind,’ Bloodraven had told him once, ‘especially the ones you give with half a heart.’

After obediently returning to Rhaella’s side, he remained silent. The less he spoke, the fewer lies he would utter here. Now that he was her sworn sword in the eyes of the court, prudence was his shield, and it was only right to let her be the one to speak. 

“Furthermore, you will be rewarded with one thousand golden dragons from my personal coffers and a small tract of land by the kingswood, facing the Blackwater Bay, and a dominion over a suitable village joining the ranks of the landed knights.”

Lands facing the forest were not as great or fertile as others, but he had no fear of the woodland. On the contrary, it was his domain where he would not fear even a great host.

The reward was more generous than Jon expected, but still within the acceptable norm. It also aimed to send him away from court, where he wouldn’t stir much trouble. Perhaps it was the prudence born from the tragedy that had killed much of the royal family, but it would cut his opportunity for further rise and the chance to find who wished him dead and take revenge. Next to him, Rhaella turned all stiff like a statue, not daring to glance his way. Did she think he’d abandon her now that the king had offered him some empty honours?

Jon lowered his head. “I am awed by your generosity, Your Grace, but I prefer to remain here to serve in my capacity for Princess Rhaella. My sword is already sworn to her and her alone.”

The king’s face turned a notch colder. “One does not conflict with the other,” he said flatly. “Any gift that I give cannot be returned. I shall consider this to be your boon, Rhaella, though you’d have to be the one to arrange a steward for Ser Jon’s village.”

The warmth in his gaze completely drained away, and Jon could even sense a faint hostility and distaste from the king.

Had he offended him with just those few words? Weren’t lords and kings supposed to value and further reward loyalty? Even though it was not much of a loss, he had done away with Rhaella’s share of the reward.

Still, Jon did not regret it much. If he had offended Aegon the Unlikely, so be it—this was far from the first king he had offended. Aegon was old and tired and would soon expire even without the Tragedy of Summerhall, making way for the next king.

The silence grew thick and heavy as Jon bore the full brunt of the king’s heavy gaze. Rhaella stirred from her place, stepping in front of Jon and clearing her throat loudly.

“What happened with Ser Denys, grandfather? Did you find the culprit?”

“No.” The king closed his eyes. “Ser Denys was tipped off by a passing merchant about a murderer carrying a Valyrian steel blade hiding in Fleabottom. Furthermore, the dead sellswords have been identified as Pentoshi who had arrived here three days earlier to offer their services for the war effort. I’ve also sent men to find this merchant, but there’s no trace of him just yet. But rest assured—he’ll surely be apprehended.”

Aiming to kill with a borrowed knife, indeed. 

Rhaella snorted. “Just as Septon Manton’s murderer was caught and brought to justice?”

The room froze. 

“Royal justice might be delayed, but it will never be absent,” the king said, tone frigid. Contrary to Jon’s expectations, the princess did not cower; she faced her grandsire with her back ramrod straight like a spear and a head held high as she faced the king. “But this is a matter left to Gawen Corbray, my new master of laws. But if you so eagerly desire to help, I shall give you the chance.”

“A chance?” the princess echoed cautiously.

The king’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. You would do well to remember that justice is something easier said than done. With the declaration of war and the royal host preparing to depart for the Stepstones, bandits and brigands have grown bolder, crawling out of their dens to beset the roads and villages in the Crownlands like locusts, killing passing merchants and looting their fares, swaggering into undefended villages, forcing smallfolk to part with their hard-earned goods. Ser Denys Darklyn will lead one band of gold cloaks to restore order and bring forth justice from Duskendale to Crackclaw Point and the Bay of Crabs.”

Jon stifled a snort. Sending the Darklyn heir to pacify the lands around Duskendale. The day after, Ser Denys would doubtlessly have the assistance of half the Darklyn men-at-arms, the full cooperation of the castellan, steward, and the smallfolk.

The king motioned towards the taller kingsguard to his left. “Ser Dunstan Pryor shall lead another group of the royal knights to sweep away the outlaws from the golden bridge to Massey’s Hook.” The king’s lips curved as he glanced at him. “Ser Jon Snow shall receive leave to pacify the roads from Hayford to the Antlers.”

Jon could only bow his head in acceptance. It seemed the king really desired to keep him away from the city.

“But grandfather—”

“Your sworn sword has received the royal boon, and now that he serves, he must do his duty,” the king cut in coldly. “He has two days to prepare before departing.”

Words said, he turned around with a flourish and left without looking back. 

Rhaella nervously wrung her hands, glancing at Jon with great guilt. 

“I shouldn’t have gainsaid him,” she all but wailed, her voice dripping with despair.

Jon quirked a brow. “Why the worry?” 

“Ser Denys and Ser Dunstan will all depart with a full warband. But you? In two days, you can’t recruit much, nor will the king allow you any men.” Her words thickened with anger. “My grandfather is setting you up to fail to punish me. Damn it. If you refuse the order, you’d be branded a craven for life. If you fail to fulfil it, you’d be considered incompetent, and if you go, you might even lose your life.”

Her worry was genuine. Perhaps serving this princess was not half as bad as he feared. Despite her youthful naivety, she had a righteous heart and a conscience, which was more than could be said for the king.

He no longer regretted giving Maester Aemon’s letter to the princess. With the seal broken, it could no longer be given to the king, nor was there any great need to. What warmth could there be between brothers who had not seen each other for three decades?

“Defying a king is never without a cost,” said Jon, shrugging. “At least he did not send me under the command of Ser Denys, where I’d suffer greatly or even lose my life. Besides, in matters of hunting, I have a small measure of confidence, even if I must go alone. Bandit or wild beast, it makes little difference to me, so there’s no need to shy away from this simple task. It’s a good thing to rid the realm of bandits and gain prestige for it.”

Dark Sister was now returned, but he did not regret it—his true skill lay with the bow rather than the blade.

“You… you think you can do it?” she asked, eyes wide. “You can hunt down bandits and robber knights?”

“Aye. With a thousand dragons, I can clad myself and my companions in proper steel from head to toe and have plenty left to spare.”

In other things, he might not hold great confidence, but a skinchanger on the hunt was unrivalled. Lords, knights, deserters, and outlaws—it made no difference to him. 

Rhaella looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“Very well,” she said solemnly. “I’ll see if I can recruit some trusty aides to join you.”

---

Author’s Endnote: Whew. I really, really wanted to get this meeting over with, but I realised there is too much nuance to half-ass it, and as a proper first entry into the Red Keep and a serious talk with Rhaella, the scene needs to be done properly, without cutting corners.

Jon, at this point, is naturally suspicious of all things, but Rhaella leverages her earlier aid to win him over. For now.

The king has plans of his own, and Ser Jon Snow is up for a rocky start at court.