37. At the Point of a Sword

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Scarred Maiden

“Did you hear? Weeping Town has been sacked!”

“Weeping Town? How’d that even get attacked? Isn’t that over in the Reach?”

“It’s in the Stormlands, Marge, south of the Rainwood and facing the Sea of Dorne.”

Branda perked up as she wolfed down the last of her venison pie, listening closer to the talk in the kitchens. Hearsay in the kitchen was faster than most—Anne the Stewmistress was the wife of Hayford’s captain of the guard and had a loose tongue and loved the sound of her own voice. She was clever about it, too, only gossiping between official meals, where only scullions and a scant few other cooks gathered inside the kitchens.

The war was not going well.

Word of skirmishes across the Dornish Sea came more often by the day. The Nine had been raiding from Cape Wrath to the Slayne delta with dogged persistence. The aim was to drag the royal fleet into a decisive battle, if the rumours were to be believed. Thrice had Lord Darry clashed with the Blackfyre and his ilk at sea without any result, many cursing him a weakling and a craven for it.

This was no mere Blackfyre Rebellion that could be quelled with a single battle like the previous ones. 

Branda didn’t think of it much, though. Even if the Nine won all the battles in the Narrow Sea and took full control of the Stepstones, that would be the extent of it. A fleet would not help them hold any land, no matter how great. Any host landing on Westeros would have to face the full might of the Seven Kingdoms while facing the burden of no heavy cavalry and limited supplies. 

After polishing her plate clean, she carefully wiped her lips with a napkin, strapped the mask back onto her face, and rose. Fall saw many of the servants don heavier garments and even some guards accustomed to the sudden cold shivering under cloaks of thick wool, but for Branda, it almost felt like home. She wandered aimlessly across the Red Keep, not paying much attention to the chilly autumn wind whipping at her cloak. 

Her silver mask grew colder and colder for it, but the coolness was more soothing to her scar than anything else. Whispers, eyes of pity, and dark amusement followed her as she wandered, but Branda had gotten good at ignoring them by now.

These days, her duties to the princess had thinned, leaving Branda idle. Jon Snow brought in all sorts of rumours and hearsay gathered from his street urchins, and Rhaella had recruited a skilled quartermaster from Red Lake who looked after the inns and warehouses. The princess seemed content to play with Thyssaria (though she called it training) and spend the rest of her time in the godswood. Joanna fluttered between the ladies in court effortlessly, her unblemished face and golden hair inviting her to places Branda could never enter.  

Without any new arrangements from Rhaella, she was now free of obligations, and she hated it. It made her feel useless and unwanted.  

At some point, Joanna must’ve seen her and eagerly ran to join her, rushing over like a golden blur. Not lady-like at all. 

“Branda!” Her smile was as pure as a ray of sunshine, dispelling some of Branda’s gloom and bitter thoughts. “Let’s go join the rest at the training yard!” 

Face too numb from the cold to speak, Branda allowed herself to be pulled by the overly enthusiastic girl. It was hard to refuse Joanna when she looked at her with those big, glistening eyes.  

At least the bastard knight and his squires were never dull or boring, though she would never admit it outloud. 

The training yard was nearly empty at this hour, the overcast sky and the cold wind sapping the enthusiasm of most knights and men-at-arms. Branda’s eyes immediately spotted her targets. It wasn’t hard—the bastard and the young Dayne were always at the same spot facing the royal sept. Their discipline stood out, too, each swing of the sword and movement sharp and fierce. Brynden Tully had dragged himself out of his drunken stupor and was training himself ragged, but his blue eyes were completely devoid of warmth, like two orbs of ice.

He kept challenging the other squires, each older and bigger than himself, regardless of wins and losses. 

Meanwhile, Joanna only had eyes for Jon Snow, not blinking as if afraid she’d miss a moment. Her gaze was glued to his pale face as if it were the most gorgeous thing in the world. Branda could reluctantly admit that Snow was more handsome than most with that sharp, rugged jaw of his and the pale scar over his eye, though he definitely looked more sinister than charismatic.

For good or for ill, Snow completely ignored her affections. ‘Definitely for the better,’ she mused. Snow was many things, but a lusty sot was not one of them.

Branda cleared her throat loudly, and Joanna jolted on the spot, immediately looking away.

“They’ll be training for a while,” she said pointedly. “Waiting for them here is of no use. I’d rather go to the parlour and practise embroidery instead of waiting here for the rain.”

As if to confirm her words, a flash of light split the sky from the north, and a distant rumble followed.

Joanna stole another reluctant look towards the Northern bastard. “Let’s go, then.”

Embroidery soothed her mind for a time, but did not bring her much happiness.

A few hours later, Branda’s gaze slid towards the scarf of fine red wool embroidered with a golden roaring lion. The stitches were perfect, with not a single thread out of line; the depiction and arrangement of gilded flowers at the corners were intricate and threaded with great detail. In Branda’s hands was a piece of white cloth with a crude, slightly plump direwolf stitched in grey that could barely pass for a favour if one squinted hard enough. Not that she’d need a favour again. Not with her face.

Joanna, being the gentle soul that she was, smiled and hung the scarf over Branda’s shoulders. “For you.”

“I… It’d look terrible on me,” the Stark maiden muttered. It was too perfect, too bright for her plain features, even before her face got ruined. 

“Then I’ll make you one in silver and white, too,” the golden-haired maiden said, words soft. “But keep this one. My grandmother always tells me how one can’t have enough thick garments once the cold sets in.”

The refusal failed to leave her throat. She wanted to feel jealous or angry at Joanna Lannister. She was younger, more beautiful by far and graceful in all womanly skills, whereas Branda felt clumsy and stiff. Perhaps… perhaps if Branda had not moved that day, it would be Joanna with the ruined face now, not her. Perhaps the knights and lordlings and courtiers would vie for her attention, or at least look her way with anything other than disgust or cold indifference.

And yet there was not even a trace of disgust or annoyance or pity in Joanna’s bright-green eyes, and that made the tightness in her chest ease. Those dark, ugly thoughts melted away like thin summer snow at the first touch of sunlight.

“Aye,” Branda’s voice came out raw. “Your grandmother is a woman wiser than most. Winter is coming, and one can never be too prepared.”

---

The next day, she woke up feeling rested for once. Her burns hurt less and less, though a dull ache clung to her side like a maggot to a rotting corpse, and even Pycelle’s balms couldn’t make it fully go away. 

She slipped into the Princess’s quarters to join her for the day, but found the princess sitting on a cushion on the ground, her feet crossed together. In her lap lay the curled form of Thyssaria, pink scales shimmering in the ruddy light from the hearth. 

Rhaella cracked her eyes open, shining brightly like two lanterns, but when Branda blinked, they were pale purple. ‘I must be imagining things,’ she thought. 

“I’ll be meditating and contemplating today.” Rhaella’s voice was so soft, so silky, but something in it made her shiver, gooseflesh covering her arms and legs. “There will be no need to accompany me. Go take some rest of your own.”

Branda swallowed her words and bowed, retreating out of the room under the stern gaze of Ser Gerold Hightower. This was not the first time Rhaella had chosen to spend the day in her quarters. The princess was growing more and more mysterious with each passing week, and she wasn’t certain it was for the better. But Branda knew better than to question a princess of the blood, especially one she would probably serve and accompany for the rest of her life.

Besides, this was far from the oddest thing happening inside the Red Keep. Half the courtiers were plotting one thing or another, and then there was that rumour of an assassination attempt on the king and the charred corpse…

Venturing outside, she found the weather colder still, and even her garments felt too thin. She pulled the bright red scarf around her neck and buried her hands in the seams of her woollen cloak. ‘I ought to get a soft, fluffy ermine cloak,’ Branda thought. If nothing else, almost everything could be purchased in the city if you had the coin. And she had plenty of coin to spare—Rhaella had grown increasingly generous, tripling her allowance. 

After a rainy night, the air felt a tad cleaner, washing away the city’s stink—at least from the Red Keep. Her stomach grumbled, turning her footsteps to the kitchens. But just as he stepped into the outer courtyard, she was met with a most unpleasant face.

“If it isn’t the scarred wolf bitch,” said Ser Alton Farrington in an equally unpleasant voice. His face was narrow and sharp like a vulture, capped by a crop of brittle blonde hair that looked like a straw nest more than anything else. “I don’t know why the princess bothers keeping an ugly thing like you around. It’s bad enough you’re a heathen savage, but now looking at you makes my stomach hurl. My sister would have been a far better option as handmaiden for Princess Rhaella.”

Branda clenched her jaw tight. A small crowd of servants and courtiers was already gathering, watching on with great interest, but she knew this was not just some petty jape, but a far crueller and pointed insult meant to hurt her. It was not just a desire to see his sister as a royal handmaiden. The Farrington knight was one of Rhaella’s many admirers, and Branda had bluntly refused to pass along his repeated, eager invitations to dine with the princess (mostly because Rhaella had told her to).

She knew what he wished to do—mock her to stroke his vengeful ego.

Although bubbling hot anger roared in her chest, she refused to pay the petty provocation any heed. It wasn’t the first time vicious words or snide remarks had been aimed at her, and most probably wouldn’t be the last. Such was the fate of a ruined face. Swallowing her indignation, she stiffly walked around him. He meant no move to stop her or bar her way.

“Just like that,” his nasal voice echoed behind her. “Run away like a dog with your tail between your legs, slut.” 

The crowd tittered, and many pointed at her.

Her fingers dug into her palms, drawing blood. But she did not stop. She could not afford to stop. ‘This is slander!’ Branda wanted to scream, but they would only mock her more for it. She was ugly now, face scarred, Rhaella herself had no allies, and no knight would ever help—

Smack.

The crisp smack rang out in the cold air, followed by a deathly silence. Even Branda froze for a long moment before stiffly turning around.

Alton Farrington’s cheek was reddened, but his eyes were not on her. No, he was glaring at the pale, sinister face of Jon Snow. 

“You dare slander a maiden’s honour?” Snow demanded, voice chilling. The Northern bastard was flanked by his three squires, no doubt just having finished his morning drills.

“This is no slander, bastard,” Ser Alton spat. “I’ve seen the bitch slink out of the Red Keep late at night unaccompanied. This is no proper behaviour for a noblewoman. The gods are my witness, her virtue is under question.”

Branda felt a hundred pairs of eyes stab into her, scrutinising, as if they could glean the truthfulness of those words. Yet Jon Snow did not glance at her, did not even blink once, his eyes fixed on Ser Alton.

“So say you,” Jon Snow said flatly. “Lady Branda, is there merit to his words?”

“I… I do go down into the city often,” Branda croaked out. “But never without guard.”

Ser Alton snarled, “Lies. This woman and her false tree gods have bewitched the princess to turn against the Seven!”

Whispers rippled through the now sizeable crowd, and the gazes looking at her turned from indifference to coldness and even malice. Branda felt a cold knot tighten in her belly. 

“Very good,” Jon Snow spat. “I demand satisfaction.”

“You?” Alton sneered. “On what grounds?”

“You insulted her honour, questioned her virtue, insulted our gods, and slandered her good name before the realm.” Jon Snow’s tone rang out loud and clear through the courtyard. “And I shall defend it. Sword or lance, bow or spear, axe or hammer, make your choice and let the gods judge the truthfulness of your claims.”

The proud Farrington knight didn’t back down, merely studied the Northern bastard closer, face turning solemn. 

“Greatswords only, then,” he said. “Pick your time and place.”

One of the white cloaks had joined the crowd along with the master of laws, but they made no move to stop it. They had no right to interfere, not after a formal duel had been issued and accepted.  

Greatsword. Branda rolled over the word in her head and immediately realised what the man was planning. She had oft seen Ser Alton practice with one in the training yard, whereas Snow preferred an arming sword and a shield or a bastard sword.

Without a sword and shield, Ser Alton would have the advantage of armour too, having trained in plate since childhood. Perhaps he thought a Northern bastard would be unused to fighting in full plate or unable to afford a custom-fitted suit. A vicious calculation, but one done in vain—Branda knew Snow was wealthy; he just disdained opulence, never quite displaying the full extent of his means in public. Brynden had once told her the bastard knight had love for armament and more than just the padded jack and training brigandine he now wore. 

And indeed, Ser Jon flicked the cloak over his shoulder, looking completely unruffled. “Sunset. On the morrow in the training yard. To the death.”

The clamour grew louder, but Ser Alton nodded, an amused smile tugging at his confident face. “So be it. The Warrior is with me today, giving me a chance to rid the Red Keep of a fiend like you.”

Branda let out a breath she did not know she was holding. The crowd slowly thinned as Ser Alton marched away, face eager, no doubt going to prepare himself for the duel. No doubt the whole of the Red Keep would know of this within the hour. Her gaze was set on Jon Snow, though. He had not looked her way even once.

Her thoughts were jumbled like a fallen yarn, and a thousand questions ran through her head. Things had happened too swiftly today.

Before she gathered her wits to ask, Jon Snow had already left.

She only found him at his manse in the city an hour later, looking completely unruffled as he sat at the roots of an apple tree, unhurriedly running a whetstone along the length of his bastard sword. 

“Why?” she croaked out. “Why go that far, when I…” provoked and slighted you more than once.

His hand paused as he lifted his head, his crimson eyes surrendering no emotion. “Because you’re a Stark, and I am of the North.”

The words were as blunt as a bludgeon and painfully honest, spoken in the manner that reminded her of the mountain clansmen and Branda couldn’t help but believe them. She wanted to believe them even if they were false. Which maiden did not want a gallant knight to defend her honour?

Bastard he might be, and cold as the Wall itself, but Snow was never cruel or unkind, not to her, not to even the lowliest servants, and that alone made him better than most southron knights. Her heart warmed, and even Ser Jon no longer looked half as sinister upon a closer look. 

It was dangerous, she wanted to say. That it was not worth the risk to fight a man to the death and make a foe out of his kinsmen. Yet the words never left her tongue. Jon Snow’s face was cold, as if carved of frost, with the same look on his face her own father had once had when he set his mind on something. She recognised it—the infamous Northern stubbornness.

No words would undo the challenge now. But she was not opposed to it. No woman would stand to be pointed at and slighted. Then she remembered what her father once told her. Sometimes dignity can only be found at the point of a sword.

She gathered her skirts and dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, ser. Is there anything I can do to aid you?”

“Are you any good with a brush and paint?” When Branda nodded. “Then I have a small request to ask of you. Help me draw my sigil. Now that I fight for satisfaction, I can no longer ignore matters of heraldry.”

It was preposterous for a knight to go without a sigil for months, but Branda knew that Jon Snow was a pragmatic man who did not put much stock in knightly pomp. But now, in an official duel, a coat of arms was not something he could do without.

“What do you wish me to draw?”

A faint, almost wistful smile tugged at Jon’s face. “Tormund, fetch me my breastplate and shield.”

---

The next morning, stormy clouds blotted out the sky, and the cold eastern winds rushed through the city as rain began to patter. It started slowly at first, slowly gaining strength, and by the time the Red Keep had stirred from its sleep, it had turned into a fierce downpour. 

‘As if the gods disdained the petty mortal affairs,’ Branda thought sluggishly as she pulled on the waxed leather cape and a pair of pattens and ventured out of Maegor’s Holdfast. No matter how much she hated rain, she had to witness the fight with her own eyes. A duel was rare, and one to the death was rarer still; this one was the first in half a century, and it was to be fought over her own honour.

It made her both gladdened and anxious in equal measure. Branda had spun in her bed all night, barely catching a wink of sleep. Ser Jon had not displayed a single shred of hesitation or fear, but she still felt so nervous, as if her innards had twisted into a ball. 

By the time Branda waddled into the training yard, her limbs felt like lead. Her burns ached with a dull pain that she knew wouldn’t dwindle until proper sleep. She badly wished to rest, but she knew she could not. The surroundings were already half full, the buzzing of whispers mixing with the pittering of the rain. It seemed that even the storm did not dampen the court’s desire for spectacle and violence; everyone braved the rain under the cover of cloaks of wool or waxed leather. Servants were huddled underneath the trees and peeking from the stables, the kitchens, and the windows of the nearby towers. 

She spotted Jon Snow immediately. He stood waiting in the middle of the training yard like a statue, completely unbothered by the rain as if the wet chill had nothing to do with him, with a castle-forged steel greatsword resting over his shoulder. Clad in a plain suit of lobstered plate, he looked no different from any other knight, with only a black direwolf head snarling from his breastplate at the world as the only distinguishable trait.  

Snow was a cunning man, requesting her to draw a direwolf sigil. Even if it was just a head, this was an honour only reserved for a single House. It was an acknowledgement of his Stark lineage. Perhaps it was just a sliver, a distant connection, but the direwolf could not be faked, no matter how jealous she was of the shaggy beast. Branda had given him her favour too, the plain strip of white cloth tied over his left wrist. There was a crimson favour half-tucked into the right gauntlet with a gilded lion and a red and black one around his neck from Rhaella. One favour could be a token of affection, but two or more were different. No proper lady could don an armour to fight, but they could choose a champion willing to fight for them. 

Neither the princess nor Joanna had said a thing about the matter, but they did not need to. Just these two strips of cloth were a bold, loud declaration of their support, and almost made her want to cry. 

The crowd quickly thickened, more and more courtiers streaming in to watch. None approached her at first, the courtiers avoiding her as if she were a leper, but still studying her from afar. Just as she felt stifled, three figures joined her, one tall and bulky from the armour, shadowing after two slender ones, one cloaked in bright pink and the other in gold rimmed with crimson.

“Branda,” Rhaella greeted softly. “You don’t look too well.”

“Just nerves,” she said. “This… this whole matter came like a thunder from a blue sky.”

Joanna was all huddled in her cloak, looking particularly miserable in the rain. “Do you think Jon will win? I heard Ser Alton is a powerful warrior, and…”

“Ser Jon will win.” There was not a shred of doubt in the princess’s voice. “He does not move to strike without confidence, and his cause is righteous.” 

“Pah.” It was Tormund and his fellow squire, making their way over to their side, each step squelching in the mud. “If this peacock knew what Ser Jon could do, he’d scurry away like a rat.” 

“Ser Alton is no slouch with the sword,” Brynden’s hoarse voice came from beneath his hood. “He twice won a melee—one at Maidenpool three years past and another at Duskendale a year later.” 

The young Dayne, in a rare bout of wordiness, said, “Winning a melee is different from fighting a duel to the death. And the rain will soak the inner garments and chill the joints and the limbs and sap a man’s strength, making fighting on the wet training sand even more unpredictable.” 

Neither of them looked particularly worried, discussing the upcoming duel to the death with interest and even eagerness. It sounded crude, perhaps insensitive, but it eased Branda’s nerves by a fraction. 

For good or ill, the king did not make an appearance, but the queen did. Alys Arryn came with a retinue of ladies of her own, shadowed by a white cloak and a band of Vale knights. A few servants hurriedly ran over with bundles and ropes and, within minutes, raised a sprawling pavilion of blue canvas over the paved walkways and generously invited the crowd to join her. Over two-thirds hurried to take cover from the rain.

Rhaella made no move, looking particularly miserable as she glanced at the pavilion, just as the Arryn queen seated herself on a wooden throne brought by the next wave of servants. Another group braved the rain, clustered around Lady Genna, no bigger than a dozen strong. 

Tormund spat in the mud and murmured a disdainful southron trickery under his breath. 

“I’ve arranged for Anella to draw a hot bath for us,” Rhaella said weakly. “We can have a warm soak together once the duel is finished.”

The master of law joined Jon in the training yard, flanked by two knights and looking particularly grim-faced. A young septon followed in his wake, looking no different from a wet rat in his soaked robes. The whispers grew louder as a knight marched over, wearing a blue suit of plate and a purple cloak, a feathered greathelm tucked underneath his elbow. Ser Alton Farrington. 

Jon wordlessly moved to face him, with the master of laws standing in the centre as arbitrator.

“We have gathered today,” Gawen Corbray began, voice drifting through the rain, “to witness the challenge issued by Ser Jon Snow in defence of Lady Branda Stark’s honour. Here, before the eyes of gods and men, I grant you the chance to withdraw the challenge, satisfy your besmirched honour in other ways and reconcile this conflict.” 

The Farrington knight clasped his helmet on and shrugged off his cloak, handing it over to his squire. Jon unsheathed his sword, holding the hilt with two hands as the tip pointed straight at his foe.

“There are foes bearing down on the realm,” the Septon spoke next, voice shaky. “We ought to unite now, for the Seven-Pointed Star has taught us that unity and harmony are amongst the greatest of virtues. A duel is your right, but it would be for the best if no blood is shed this day.” 

“It’s a godly thing to slay heathens and unbelievers, reveal harlots and whores for who they are, and we’ll have harmony then,” Ser Alton’s amused voice echoed from his helmet. “The Warrior is with me today.”

The Northerner remained silent, his visored barbute hiding his expression. Branda could guess what went on Ser Jon’s mind—he disdained wasting breath on an enemy he was already prepared to fight.

“Very well, then.” The master of laws looked as if he had swallowed a fly. Slowly, he withdrew to the edge of the sanded ground and lifted his hand. “Let the duel begin.”

The two knights stepped forth, slowly moving in a circle. In contrast to his foe, Ser Alton switched his hold to a half-sword grip, his left hand gripping the middle of the bared edge. For a brief moment, the murmurs of the crowd died out, and the only thing that could be heard was the endless pittering of the rain and the dull clinking of the hauberk and plate jostling with each step. 

Ser Jon was the first to attack, lunging like a viper. His greatsword struck low, its edge landing on the side of Ser Alton’s knee with a resounding clang. Farrington’s counterattack came quickly enough, but his choice of grip had shortened his range, barely reaching Ser Jon’s outstretched hands.

From then on, the two fell into a struggle. Ser Farrington tried to close the gap and kept thrusting at his foe’s rondels, while Jon danced at the very edge of his range, raining merciless strikes upon the poleyn protecting Ser Alton’s knee. Despite the suit of full plate, each of his steps was as agile as a shadowcat, swift and precise as if he were fighting on a paved ground instead of wet, unsteady sand.

His sword kept chasing Farrington’s knee, no matter how he shifted his footwork, mercilessly striking again and again. The clangour rang out loud, but Branda knew it was far from enough to break through the plate armour, but it didn’t need to.

It appeared Jon had a slight advantage, but the minutes dragged on as neither side showed signs of faltering. Farrington’s movements grew stiffer, and his footwork seemed to grow sluggish. He gripped the great sword with both hands, mirroring his foe as he struck away all attacks aimed at his knees.

They fought bitterly for another minute, exchanging fierce blows until the tip of Ser Jon’s sword snapped with a clink. For a moment, both knights stood stunned, or perhaps they wished to catch their breath. Then, Ser Jon rushed in, swatting Ser Alton’s stab with the broken blade and tackling him into the sand. They tumbled down for a long moment in a tangle of limbs and steel and sand, where Branda struggled to tell where one man ended, and the other began. Then, a terrible, pained shriek tore through the rain. 

Her heart jumped in her throat, but the one to rise was Ser Jon, stepping away from the wailing figure on the ground. Brynden and even Arthur sucked in a sharp breath, whereas Tormund squeezed his knees together. “That’s a terrible way to go,” the ruddy-haired boy managed, voice tight. 

Ser Alton Farrington spasmed on the ground, his sword cast aside as his screams were reduced to feeble moans. Then, as he twisted, Branda finally saw where the wound was. Beneath the skirt of his hauberk, a dagger’s hilt poked out from below his codpiece.

Jon did not hesitate, reaching down to pick Farrington’s sword. Then, he pressed down on the fallen knight with a knee, pinned down his helmet with an elbow, and drove down the tip of the sword through the visor’s slit. Ser Alton stilled, and cheers erupted in the rain.

“A quick and merciful end,” Brynden muttered. “More than the cur deserved.”

Branda was just glad the northern knight was alive and well.

“Ser Jon Snow has won,” Corbray’s voice rang out over the commotion, “proving Lady Branda innocent of all slander before the eyes of gods and men.”

Branda felt lighter now, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Something had changed that very instance. Many of the gathered courtiers kept glancing her way. Some still looked at her with disdain, but it was no longer open. Branda suspected she would now be met with courtesy in deed and word because one man did not hesitate to draw his sword in her name.

Did Ser Jon… take a liking to her?

To her great surprise, she did not find the idea terrible. Ser Jon Snow was cold, but far from ugly, and… he was kinder than most. A bastard knight, perhaps, was a fitting match for a ruined woman like her. She did not hold any foolish notions of some great tale or bard’s song of true love that those southron maidens often dreamed of. A man who would cherish, protect, and respect her was enough, and love… it could come in time. It was fine if it did not. 

She shook her head quickly. No, that was not it. He had defended her honour, yes, but his eyes were clear as a mountain lake and never on her. His goal was elsewhere. But Branda would remember that favour.

---

The Crippled Prince

His days passed in a dull haze of wine and sleep and despair. The king never came to visit, but Aerys did not care to request an audience either. It wouldn’t restore his legs. He couldn’t walk anymore, and that alone was more devastating than it sounded. 

Fighting, riding, racing, and hunting were now far beyond his reach, and Aerys would trade anything in the world for the simple joy of walking on his own two feet again.

Was there a greater humiliation for a pair of serving women to help a prince of the blood to the privy every time he needed to relieve himself?

He always told himself that he would refuse their help next time, but the alternative of soiling the bed like a swaddling babe or an old crone frightened him more. 

He was angry at first. If only he had not gone to the tourney that day. Or perhaps even joined the squire’s melee. If only…

Yet the anger and regret did not make his feet grow back. The dull, phantom feeling of his toes haunted him every time he woke up. Terrors and visions of waves of green fire haunted his dreams too; he often found himself waking up soaked in cold sweat.

His sister showed her face only once, and no more. Tywin came over every second day, until he had to go to fight in the Stepstones, to bring glory and valour to his house. It was dangerous, no doubt, but Aerys envied him. 

His golden-haired wife kept coming to visit each day. She did not speak, nor offer any empty platitudes, nor look at him with pity, instead content to just sit by his bed and stitch quietly until a small blanket took shape underneath her slender fingers. Aerys was angry at first, telling her to leave. She always obeyed, only to come back the next day, and at some point, he no longer felt chasing her out was worth the effort. He dulled his mind with wine for a time, but it lost its sweetness quickly, and Aerys lost interest in it, only taking the occasional sip to wet his throat before a meal.

Genna slowly grew rounder before his eyes as the months passed in a blur. He was to be a father, but what father could a legless cripple be?

He felt no desire to speak anymore, until one day, his wife came in pale. She sat on the chair by the bed to stitch as usual.

“Are you well?” he blurted out. His words came out jagged, grating on his throat like a rusty shard of broken steel.

“Just a bit of morning weakness,” she told him softly. “It will pass.”

Speaking came easier then. Though Aerys still struggled to speak for long, he still made the effort, and that made him feel alive again. Genna kept talking about everything and nothing. What some servant said or did, what were the new rumours, of the budding war or the gossip in court. Aerys didn’t care about the details, just allowing himself to enjoy the sound of that gentle voice.

War had set in quickly, with skirmishes and raids common occurrences, and the Iron Throne suffering some defeats at sea. He had a new grandmother, about his age now, and that angered him for a few moments before he shook his head and let it go. 

Slowly, he found himself listening on with interest. One day, he even had the servants fix him up a high chair to watch through the shutter—though he needed a guard to carry him up to it and back to bed. He glanced about through the Red Keep’s courtyards, but most of that time was spent staring at the clouds. It was soothing.

Genna, always thoughtful, had brought him over a Myrish far-eye, allowing him to see further and even peer down into the far edges of the city visible over the Red Keep’s curtain walls.

The despair in his heart melted away little by little, and before he knew it, Genna’s belly was almost as round as a ripe pumpkin set out for harvest. The babe was due soon, or so Pycelle claimed. 

He turned five and ten and had a small celebration with Genna and her ladies-in-waiting, and that somehow made him happier than all of the big feasts they had thrown in his name the years before. Aerys felt a sense of restlessness take hold of him. It was a worry for his future child, yes, but not just that. His thoughts drifted to the future that he had so desperately tried to avoid.

A cripple who could not stand up could not rule the realm unless every other claimant perished. His grandfather had yet to appoint him a crown prince and had remarried, with the Arryn woman now pregnant. The Iron Throne was out of his reach, and Aerys no longer felt eager to rule over the realm, nor did he even think of it. But his child… his child would have a claim.

It would be fine if he had a son and the Arryn woman had a daughter. The reverse would be acceptable, too. But what happened when more children came?

Aerys could not tell for certain, but even if his children did not press their claim to the Throne, the succession would be a mess. The return of the dragons made it more dangerous still. The issue would be smaller if his grandfather had declared an heir, but he hadn’t. No doubt disappointed with his legless ruin of a grandson and ignoring Rhaella, who had grown wilfulwillful and mysterious. The king was waiting to see the birth of new offspring, perhaps. And who would grow past the cradle and into adulthood. A cruel thought, but a pragmatic one.

There was not much he could do in court, nor did he have any desire to win those lickspittles who had scattered the moment he was crippled and ignored by his grandsire. Genna had drawn some support from the Westerlands, and even a Hightower granddaughter as a handmaid, and that was sufficient for now.

Regardless, Aerys had to secure a dragon. Not for himself—a cripple with a dragon was worthless, no matter how badly he wished he could soar in the sky. But a young prince… or a princess with a dragon could not be ignored. 

“Do you think… I should return to court?” he asked Genna one day.

“Only if you wish to,” she said. “Your grandsire… he rarely shows his face in court, and when he does, he’s always by his young queen. Most of the matters are handled by the small council and the Lord Hand.”

He ran his mind through the factions in court. 

Darklyn and a loose alliance of Crownlords. Arryn, who had the whole of the Vale behind her, and even some Reachmen. The royal faction consisted of those who obeyed only the king and cared about nothing else. Genna and some loyal Westerlanders… but not all Westerlanders were particularly loyal to the Laughing Lion. His own sister, with a dragon and a single bastard knight to her name.

Aerys had no desire to show his face in court and face the mockery, pity, and whispers that would no doubt come his way. Something dark and fierce churned in his chest when he thought of all those squires and knights who had professed staunch loyalty to his face, only to disappear the moment his legs were gone. 

But no. He still needed to go out and at least show his face. Gauge the courtiers’ attitudes in person. See that new grandmother the king had found him, too.

There was one small but insurmountable issue. He couldn’t walk or ride a horse. He looked at his hands and his thighs. Thin as a twig, and just as weak, with very little meat left on them. 

And then, he woke up early to watch that duel to the death in the rain through his Myrish far-eye. A northern bastard against a Farrington knight. Aerys knew of Ser Alton Farrington. One of the better knights in the Red Keep, skilled with both sword and lance and very proud.

What was his sister scheming this time?

To his great surprise, Farrington died so miserably that even a chill shot all the way down to his groin.

He pulled the silken string, ringing the bell, and within moments, the servants came rushing. “Prince Aerys?”

“I need a litter,” he told them. “A fitting chair, too. And some strong servants to lift and carry me through the hallways.” 

---

Author’s Endnote: 

Open bullying in court is dangerous. Sometimes lethal, especially when you can get dragged into a duel over it. Slander is a grey area in a medieval setting, and there is historical precedent in resolving such disputes where honour and reputation are concerned.

That Branda PoV fought me for more than four days. I can’t even begin to describe it. I eventually pushed through, but I think I’m cutting down on the female PoVs. There are plot bunnies in other fandoms that are dragging my thoughts out, too, and I’ll probably be writing out a short one-shot (plot bunny) in the coming weeks. 

Jon doesn’t know his lineage, so his sigil was no brainer. Also, with gold in hand, there’s no reason for him not to have a proper collection of armaments—noblemen did have different armour for different occasions. One set for jousting, one for war, one for practice, etc.