28.The Witch’s Hounds

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

Even a day later, the merchant who had tipped off Ser Denys had yet to be found. Rhaella suspected that such would never come to pass, and even if by some stroke of fortune the king’s men arrested him, he would not know a thing himself. That did not particularly surprise her. Perhaps the master of laws and the master of whispers were working fervently on the matter and had found more, but those things would not reach her ears. 

On the contrary, rumours of Bloodraven the Second had spread through the Red Keep and even the city faster than a wildfire through dry summer grass. 

“They say he has sinister red eyes that can kill you with a single look.”

“I heard he drinks blood for sustenance.” 

“My mother says he consorts with dark sorcerers and worships queer foreign gods!” 

Those were merely the tamest of hearsay. Some even called Jon Snow an inhuman creature that walked in the skin of others, possessing none of the seven virtues nor any human kindness or warmth. 

It was unnatural. Not Jon, but the sheer speed of the rumours was unlike anything Rhaella had ever seen, as if they had taken a life of their own, and each rumour was more outlandish than the last. And that made it all sound too far-fetched even for the most gullible to believe. By evening, the newly anointed Northern knight was ten feet tall, had three heads and six arms, and could spew fire and fart thunder. For good or for ill, most who heard such could only laugh at that point, dismissing most of it as drunken ramblings. Outlandish claims were considered nothing more than idle curiosity or amusement.

Just as she woke up the next day, she froze the moment she walked down the hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast, and her eyes slid over the royal portraits hanging on the walls of the antechamber. 

The faded visage of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives did not surprise her, nor did famous figures like the Conciliator’s wizened figure, the Rogue Prince’s daring grin, the Young Dragon’s proud posture, or the scores of other Targaryens drawn in great detail by the royal painter of their time. No, there were three new additions at the very end, the sight of which had her feeling a bit numb on the inside. Her parents and Uncle Duncan were smiling at her from the canvas, looking far more joyful here than she remembered them in life. Her father looked better than ever, livelier as if his pains had forever gone away—and they had in a sense—and her mother was just as pious as Rhaella remembered, clad in modest silken robes and crimson hair scarf that made her look like half a septa.

It never quite felt real, for she never saw their corpses, and her grandsire had been quick with the funeral pyre, burning them all before she managed to wake. Sometimes, she caught herself wandering through the empty dining room, expecting her uncle or father to come in, deeply engrossed in talk about ruling and lords. But the royal dining room was empty and cold now, and even the king no longer ate in it, preferring his own quarters. 

Her heart clenched, but there was no profound sorrow that weighed down on her. For good or for ill, there was never much closeness in the royal family, and a princess was never held as dearly as a prince, nor doted upon half as much. She had tried not to think of them, but deep down, Rhaella knew she would never see her uncle’s smile again or hear her father’s wheezing but firm voice, and that made her sad. 

As for her distant mother… Rhaella couldn’t bring herself to feel even that much, and it shamed her more than anything. 

‘I will find out who did it,’ she swore in her mind, ‘I will make sure he is dead.’

But the words rang hollow. She was no closer to catching the true culprit today than she was ten days ago. This was not the first time Rhaella had vowed revenge, and it probably wouldn’t be the last either. But deep down, she knew that if the king and the small council had yet to find anything of substance, she wouldn’t fare much better.

Still, a great change had finally come.

Ser Jon Snow. A bastard, a newly anointed knight, a Northman with the eerie likeness of Brynden Rivers and quite possibly most of his cunning and skills. He was sharp of wit, quick on his feet and incredibly dangerous, as she had witnessed firsthand, and his presence alone had forced the schemer to act immediately. Just one talk with the red-eyed man had felt like a struggle against some clever old fox, and even though he became her sworn sword in name, she did not truly feel in control. 

Strangely enough, she found that deep down, she trusted him. It was not because he had saved her in the Dream, no, but the fact that he had been willing to return Dark Sister. Whatever words had left his mouth did not matter; his deeds spoke loudly enough. While the rewards the House of the Dragon could grant him were substantial, there was a limit to the grace and honours a king could bestow upon a stranger in one go. Rhaella was no longer young and ignorant, and knew that other options lay before him that were in no way inferior.

Such a cunning man could change the pommel and hilt and turn the sword into a family heirloom of his own. The blade could also be sold for some great fortune in Essos, easily allowing Jon Snow and three generations of his descendants to live like kings. With Brynden Rivers dead, nobody would have known any of it if it had come to pass, and Dark Sister’s fate would forever remain a mystery. 

The king had only given Ser Jon a knighthood, a paltry plot of land, and a mere thousand dragons, but he had not blinked for a moment, nor did he show any trace of anger or discontent, nor any great surprise, as if he never expected much from the king in the first place. Even though he was a man of stark ambition, he had not levied any further demands or rewards. 

As if returning Dark Sister was never about the reward, but personal honour, and any rewards were already considered a boon. 

Although his measured words about loyal service in her name were sweeter than any song she had ever heard, it was just that—words. And words were wind. She had heard countless grand vows and lofty promises uttered in the Red Keep, some meant for her own ears, but most to her royal grandfather and her late parents, and knew better than to believe bold boasting and empty flattery.  

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.

Wouldn’t that just mean he’d be forever loyal if she did not betray him first?

Rhaella’s lips curled despite herself. 

There was only one problem. Her royal grandfather seemed to dislike Jon Snow for some mysterious reason. There was no great hatred, nor any slight levied, just a firm and open distaste and distrust. Albeit normal when faced with such a stranger wishing to get so close to a princess of the blood and his granddaughter, Rhaella still felt stifled all over when her grandfather had issued a quest to send him away.

Perhaps it was done out of familial concern for her safety, or some other kingly considerations, but that did not make her feel any better.

Although Ser Jon Snow did not seem worried about his impending task, his companions were only a young squire and an unkempt priest. This was far from enough. It was not a matter of trust, but attitude. After all, this was the first true recruit in her faction, and his success in this bandit subjugation was a matter of prestige and honour not only for him, but for her. Should anything go awry, the stain of failure would forever cling to Rhaella’s name like a shadow, and any future recruitment would be far harder.  

To her great dismay, the handsome white-haired Northman had declined her offer for dinner in the Red Keep. “It would be my pleasure, but now is not the time,” Jon told her when they met at the inn. “Hunting brigands and outlaws requires thorough preparation.”

That didn’t ease her worries in the slightest. “Perhaps I can take you to the army camp and help you recruit some men before they enlist in the royal host.” 

Jon Snow shook his head. “Too dangerous. Even if the commander allowed it, recruiting men blindly is unreliable and might just come back to stab me when I least expect it. I have not forgotten that some hidden wretch is planning to see me dead. It’s better to go with a few men of trustworthy character than a great band of questionable discipline, skill, and most importantly—loyalty.”

She could only agree to such a reason if somewhat reluctantly

Naturally, Rhaella had already convinced Branda to part with Jarod Snow’s services and have him join Ser Jon on his task, and neither had disagreed. The two Northern bastards ought to get along well enough. 

It was still not enough.

Her footsteps turned to the training yard, where Tywin would dutifully appear every morning for his daily drills. He would have been accompanied by her brother and cousin once, but Aerys’s feet were now crippled, and walking was a dream, let alone fighting, and Steffon… was also gone, his bones long since sent to Storm’s End. If he had lived, getting generous support from him would be easy, for the young Baratheon heir had always been generous to his friends and family, and broad-minded.

Alas, for good or ill, he was gone, and with him, the future she knew was no more. Robert Baratheon would never quicken in Cassana Estermont’s womb, nor would he ever foster in the Eyrie and make bosom friends with the second Stark son. But no silver prince would come forth from her own womb to spirit away the wolf maid either. 

Emotion she couldn’t quite name welled up in her chest, but she pushed it all down. 

Soon, the clangour of steel clashing and the grunts of exertion reached her ears, and she finally arrived at the training yard. On the sanded training ground, knights, men-at-arms and squires were diligently sparring with each other or drilling forms against training dummies with greater fervour than usual, even though the sun had just risen. It surprised her, but not too much. With the muster called, many were eager to sharpen their skills and bodies to the utmost, as it might just save their lives or limbs on the battlefield.

Her eyes immediately found the lean, white-haired figure trading blows with a nimble knight clad in training plate and a woollen white cloak. A kingsguard, though not one she recognised. 

“Who is he?” she turned to ask her own white shadow. 

“Ser Malon Sunglass,” Ser Gerold said, “the newest and youngest of the kingsguard. The Northern bastard is decent with a sword.” 

The reluctantly squeezed out words were no different from great praise from the Hightower knight, and indeed, Jon Snow did not seem to be losing. He was not winning either, and the two looked evenly matched. It was no mean feat to fight so well against a kingsguard, even a new one. Even though the Sunglass knight was the newest and youngest of the white cloaks, her grandsire and Ser Duncan would have never allowed him to join if his skills were lacking. Though Rhaella barely understood fighting, Jon’s movements were all tight and sharp, albeit lacking in the flourish most knights had.

She knew the northern bastard was a great fighter—otherwise, he would not have survived that ambush, but seeing his skills laid out in a spar roused her interest. Rhaella watched on with attention, but couldn’t glean anything. After a hundred exchanges, the Northern bastard was on the back foot, and soon he lost.

“Malon is too green,” Ser Gerold grunted, voice thick with disapproval.

“But he won, though.”

The Hightower knight scoffed. “What good is winning in this spar? Malon is five years older, at the peak of youthful strength, with twice the experience of his foe, yet still eager to prove himself. The bastard is a clever one. Even now, he’s not dispirited or angry at the loss.” Surely enough, Jon Snow dipped his head in respect to the kingsguard and collected his sword from the ground as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “He knew winning did not matter here and used his foe’s desire for victory with the sole goal of honing his swordwork further. Clever. The essence of sparring has always been growth, where victory has never been the true aim. Your new retainer is quite dangerous, especially if he keeps such a cool head in the future.”

Jon Snow caught her gaze, gave her a curt nod, then turned to challenge another skilled knight.

At times like this, Rhaella had almost forgotten he was eight and ten. There was none of the youthful brashness or desire for glory that other lordlings, squires, and knights’ sons his age had. If anything, he reminded her more of Tywin’s unhurried demeanour and his unfailing discipline. 

The young lion was here, too, though far more eye-catching than Jon Snow. His training brigandine was unassuming enough, but his cloak of bright crimson and gold stood out like a sore thumb as he challenged the younger knights and older squires, winning more than he lost. She waved over one of the resting squires—a Crabb by the look of his padded jack—and sent him off to fetch Tywin. If it were any other young man, such a demand would send scandalous rumours all over the court before the next day came, but Tywin was her good brother and a man wedded, and already a father of a girl by the name of Ceryssa Lannister, if the latest rumours held any truth. Rhaella was inclined to believe them—a month earlier, Perriane had already been in the ninth moon of her pregnancy, according to Genna.

After winning a bout against a Rosby squire, Tywin unstrapped his helmet and came over, his golden hair slick with sweat. 

“Princess Rhaella,” he said, tone more formal than before. 

Her eyes narrowed. “Goodbrother Tywin,” she returned with a practised curtsy. “My apologies for interrupting your morning training.”

“It’s of no bother,” he said flatly. “I believe you have your reasons.”

As harsh and cruel as Tywin could grow to be, he valued bonds of kinship and never crossed the boundaries of his station or duty unless greatly slighted. And the current House of the Dragon had yet to issue any insult to the Lannisters; on the contrary, it had levied great honour and assistance onto them.

“Indeed, I do,” she gave him a warm smile. “I have found myself in a predicament these days, and I wish to ask a small favour of you.”

“A small favour,” Tywin echoed, his face still surrendering no emotion. “Very well. If it is within my strength, I shall lend a hand to a future dragonrider like you.”  

The edges of her lips rose. ‘Yes, that’s the Tywin I know.’

“And I shall remember it,” she nodded solemnly. “As you must have heard, the king intends to clear out the roads and sweep the Crownlands from petty brigands and outlaws. One of my own shall take part, leading a small band of his own, though he seems to be lacking in numbers.” 

Tywin had not brought a great retinue of his own as a royal cupbearer, but after his sister wedded Aerys, the Lannister swords in the city swelled to over fifty, a dozen of them knights.

A hint of cunning gleamed in those green eyes as he studied her. No doubt his mind furiously calculated the reason why a princess would participate in bandit clearing or why the king would not grant her men.  

In a moment, the indecision melted away from his face.

“I will see what I can do,” he said in the end, his gaze flickering to Jon Snow, who was now duelling Ser Jonnothor Darry. “But my support at this time can only be limited. Alas, if it were not for the war, I’d join in myself.” 

---

The Pale Knight  

With each next breath, the walls of King’s Landing shrank behind him. The last few days felt like half a dream. In scarce three days, Jon had managed to get ambushed, kidnap the Hand’s nephew, swear his sword to the princess, reluctantly get knighted by the king, somehow slight the same king and then sent off on a dangerous task. 

Jon did not know whether the king thought he would fail, give up, or perish in the attempt, nor did it matter. He had some measure of confidence in this. Besides, he had long since been sensitive to the malice of others, especially after the betrayal on the Wall and the heart of winter, and while the Unlikely distrusted him, there was no intent to kill. If such a thing came to pass, Jon would be the first to flee the city as swiftly as his feet could carry him—good reputation or not, with the Targaryens, madness was one coin flip away. Perhaps it was no small risk to stay in court, but this danger went hand in hand with opportunity.

His odds in this royal task were even better than he expected, as the princess had levied him no small aid.

Fifteen men. Sixteen, if Jon himself was counted, and seventeen if he included the royal scribe who had come to witness his work. It would do. More than he expected, even though a full quarter was young squires, not yet fully stepped into manhood.  

That didn’t matter half as much as the fact that they were reliable. As far as Jon could sense, there was no animosity nor any deception in them, though he vowed to himself to remain vigilant. Even the three Lannister crossbowmen led by an old, grey-haired squire by the name of Arlen of Fenshire. Old as he might be, he acted like a seasoned veteran and felt more dangerous than most knights. The men in service of Casterly Rock were skilled hands of staunch discipline, this much Jon could admit.

Jarod Snow’s presence was a surprise but a welcome one, though the mountain clansman was wary, watching his every move like a hawk. The reason was simple enough—Jon looked nothing like a Northman, and the Liddle bastard had not heard of him at all. Jarod must have thought him a mummer. Such suspicion was understandable—he himself would be much the same in his boots. But Jon did not need his understanding, only his obedience. He didn’t hesitate, nor did he waste any words, and directly challenged the Liddle bastard to a wrestling match. One bout and a bruised eye later, Jarod became obedient. A true clansman of the hills. 

Daeron had brought in a taciturn squire with curly auburn hair and deep-blue eyes, a fitting byrnie, a sword, a shield, and a courser of his own. The squire was older than Tormund by a year or two and nearly a full head taller, but not quite a man grown yet. “This young one wanted to join the bandit hunt.”

“Name’s Brynden.” The boy’s voice cracked. “I’m good with a sword, mace, lance, and passable with a bow and javelin. Promise I won’t drag you down.”

There was something familiar about his face, and by that lean, wiry build and his posture and the way he carried his sword, Jon could tell the boy had spent countless hours drilling with a master-at-arms. Why a squire would not stick to his knightly master, he did not know, nor did he care. Jon did not speak some nonsense about the danger of the task, even though there was a hint of anticipation in that childish face; most of it was overshadowed by solemness and trepidation. ‘Not a young fool eager for glory,’ Jon decided. His eyes slid towards the courser, a well-groomed steed with a lean frame bred for stamina and speed, but not one branded. This was not a horse just anyone could own. ‘He is not simple, either.’

He regarded him one last time, searching for any malice or ill-will, but found none. “Will there be any trouble coming for me if you join?”

The boy quickly dipped his head. “No, Ser Jon.”

Was it glory that he sought? Honour? Escape?

Could Jon even afford to turn him away?

“Come along if you wish,” he said after a moment of thought, “but know that I expect you to obey my every order when under my command or else…”

He left the threat hanging, and the boy had hastily nodded.

The six other men were recruited by Jon by chance, though he scarcely had to put in any effort. Usually, his colouring, deathly pale complexion, and his bows so closely reminiscent of Bloodraven were met with suspicion and wariness, but his mentor’s reputation was not nearly as black as Jon had first thought. Leading them was a grandson of a member of the disbanded Raven’s Teeth, going by the name of Dick Fletcher. His name was unknown now, just another bowman from the nearby woodland. But at Jon’s time, the realm knew him as one of the deadliest members of the Kingswood Brotherhood and a master archer.

For good or ill, he was not yet a bandit, but an honest man with clear yet sharp eyes. Jon had no reason to turn him away and even tested his marksmanship. Fletcher was good, better than most huntsmen Jon had seen, but still a little worse than himself.

“I thought all of the Raven’s Teeth accompanied Bloodraven to the Wall,” Jon noted after the friendly bout. 

“Not all,” Dick had said. “At least half a dozen were too young and did not wish to spend their lives freezing at the Wall. Some had perished or retired back to their birthplace before Bloodraven was arrested and left descendants.”

It made sense. 

As they rode off, Jon cast a brief look behind him. Fletcher and his lot all looked simple and honest, not a single sign that would make one think they would become hardened brigands who would give even the king a headache. 

Jon could tell their ilk easily enough—after all, the Wall was the greatest gathering of outlaws, thieves, and brigands. They all had shifty eyes and got a certain pride in their unsavoury deeds, and the men behind him had none yet. Even young Ulmer—who had been a crotchety greybeard with one foot in the grave in his own time—was an upright, bright-eyed young man about Jon’s age, now Dick Fletcher’s apprentice and a novice bowman. To his side was a younger, plump boy going by the name of Ben Two-Supper, who always wore a simple smile on his face and looked to be in a daze. Jon couldn’t tell for certain, but he suspected that boy would grow to be Big Belly Ben, another notorious member of the Kingswood Brotherhood.

What could drive them to banditry? 

It didn’t matter. For now, their loyalty to Bloodraven’s name was enough, and later he’d win it for himself.

Not even half an hour after they left the city, they were waylaid by a man so drunk he could barely walk straight. Face red and each step an uneven sway, he was as drunk as a man could ever be. His travel cloak was covered by wine stains and grease, but the polished plate glimmered from underneath, and a sword’s handle with a star-shaped pommel of white stone peeked out of his belt. 

The man was dangerous, even when drunk. All of Jon’s senses screamed in warning, and even his awareness struggled to perceive the man before him. He almost missed the small figure hiding behind him. 

Jon raised his left hand, and his men all came to a halt, their horses stamping on the ground, neighing with unease.

The stranger’s turbid blue eyes settled on the small red three-headed dragon on the makeshift banner Tormund carried. 

“Where did this drunkard come from?” Dick murmured, eyeing the man warily. 

“He’s no ordinary drunkard,” Daeron was the one to respond, face solemn.  

The man in question did not seem at all concerned about their words.

“You lot…” he burped loudly, his words slurring. “Out to hunt brigandsh?”

Jon inclined his head. “Aye, ser. I am Ser Jon Snow, leading one of the three royal parties tasked with sweeping the Crownlands of bandits and outlaws.”

The words felt foreign on his tongue, as did the knighthood, but they were not untrue.

“Take thish boy with you, then,” the drunkard slurred out, dragging the figure behind him. The boy in question resisted, digging his feet in, but it was in vain—he barely reached the man’s waist in height and was ruthlessly shoved to the front and then kicked over, falling down face-first. “Shtubborn little shit.”

Words said, the drunkard nodded to himself and swaggered towards King’s Landing, not even glancing back at the boy curled on the ground. 

“What a cunt,” Fletcher Dick spat. “Who does he think he is?” 

Jon studied the fallen boy who got up, forehead bleeding from where he had fallen. His hair was dark, his complexion sun-kissed, and he looked no older than ten. What struck him the most was the pair of deep purple eyes that were as harsh and cold as the heart of winter. 

Only three lineages in the realm had a known legacy of purple eyes. Star-shaped pommel of white stone narrowed that to one. 

“The Sword of the Morning,” said Jon, and the men all immediately turned back at the figure in the distance. “Is that right, boy?”

“Yes.” His tone was frigid, but the childishness of his voice made it sound more endearing than angry.

“Sword of the Morning?” Arlen of Fenshire scratched his nose. “Shouldn’t a great knight like that be in service of some great lord?”

Daeron chortled. “I’m afraid he has found a greater calling, my good man.” His voice thickened with mockery. “He serves the god of ale and wine. It won’t be the first nor the last time a great knight fell into his cups and remained there for life. I know his ilk—I bet he gambled his horse away.”

“Boy,” Jon called. “Do you wish to join us?”

Those purple eyes narrowed. “I don’t have much choice. And I’m no boy, but Arthur Dayne of Starfall.”

“Great,” Ulmer murmured from behind. “A pampered lord’s son. Any more brats, and we’ll have to hire a wetnurse to join us.”

Tormund scoffed. “You’re half a brat yourself, boy.”

“Stop squabbling,” Jon said sharply, evaluating the boy before him. Arthur Dayne. Could it really be him? The age certainly matched. Right now, that name meant nothing, but in the future… “You’ll be my page for now.”

Arthur nodded stiffly and was handed one of the spare horses. 

Tormund urged his horse forward and leaned in to whisper, “You’re gonna trust some stranger that easily?”

“The Dayne name holds weight,” Jon said lightly. “The men of that house never take their honour lightly.” Unless they’re ordered to guard a kidnapped noble lady from her own kin and stand watch as a prince dishonours her.

“The drunkard didn’t look very honourable to me,” Tormund clicked his tongue. 

Truth be told, Jon felt unworthy to take Arthur Dayne as a page. He himself was no great swordsman, nor a proper knight, save for the awkward title that cloaked his name for not even three days. What if he failed to usher in the Dayne’s monstrous potential? That alone would be a great pity, and a greater sin.

No, this was a chance he couldn’t just miss. 

He’d do his best for now, and then find him a proper knight to squire under later, once his current task was complete.

When the shadows lengthened, and they found a place to set up camp by the roadside, Arthur Dayne dutifully helped Tormund set up camp and wordlessly took out a weighted sword from his travel pack and started swinging.

Even the tired Tormund got shamed enough to pick his own training sword without Jon’s reminder. Under the urgings of the other men, his page and his squire stopped their drills and crossed swords instead. Despite being four years older, physically stronger, and a little taller, Tormund got the blade knocked out of his hand in less than two dozen exchanges. Even Ulmer’s boisterous laughter halted abruptly. Arthur next challenged the red-haired squire going by the name Brynden, and this time lost in two minutes, but was not disheartened and continued practising forms and drills on his own.

Even Jon, who prided himself on his diligence, hadn’t put nearly as much effort in at the same age, nor had his mindset been so steady. 

‘Arthur Dayne becoming a great swordsman had little to do with his knightly master,’ he realised.

“Ser Jon,” Dick called out once the men settled, “Shouldn’t we send scouts to find brigands and outlaws?” 

“There’s no need for that yet. Daeron?” 

The barefoot priest came over, smiling. “I heard tell of merchants getting robbed not two leagues to the northwest of here.”

The archer scratched his nose. “We still need to scout out the area to find them, don’t we?”

Jon’s lips curved as he stole a glance through Shadow’s good eye. “Fret not, my good man. Not only is my scout looking for them, but he has already found them.” He raised his voice, “Prepare to sleep early. Ulmer first watch, Daeron second, and I’ll take third. We’re getting up an hour before dawn to hunt.”

A wave of confused murmurs rippled through his men, but they obeyed well enough. Good. 

None would dare complain when the commander himself stood watch together with everyone, either. Jon observed closely for a while, his gaze flicking from one member to another as he cast out his senses. Eventually, he nodded inwardly, finally satisfied. Morale was good, the men listened to orders, and there were no problems aside from the occasional grumbling, but that much was normal. His fears were unfounded. There were certainly no spies that he could sense, nor did anyone harbour any malice or any ill thoughts towards him. 

The tightness in his chest finally eased. The group was small, but that was not without benefit—the wretched scoundrel who had wished Jon dead wasn’t as clever or as powerful as to insert a catspaw here. Even so, his sleep was bound to be light. 

Just as he lay on the cot, he cast out his mind to find some eyes in the sky and bend them to his will. But he only sensed a familiar presence that seemed to have scared off all other birds.

His gaze shot up, finding the feathery figure circling above the camp in the gloom of twilight.

Rhaella’s fierce eagle. 

Annoyance flared in his chest. While her curiosity was understandable, it undoubtedly chased away all other birds. Or killed them. Just an hour earlier, he had lost a small mockingbird that was supposed to serve as his eyes in the sky.

Was she doing it on purpose?

It took him some time to push down the bubbling vexation and drift into sleep, though not before bending one of the steeds to his will. If anyone made a move, the horses would sense it.

The night went smoothly, and Daeron handed him the hourglass that was supposed to signify two and a half hours of time. His watch passed in a blur as he scouted the bandit camp through Shadow’s eyes again. They were all asleep.

Perfect. 

Once less than a third of the sand in the hourglass was left, Jon rose. “Get up!”

The men stirred, slowly at first, confused in the dark, but he kept barking orders, rousing them quickly.

In a handful of minutes, all of the men were awake and clad in steel and ringmail, ready for battle. Good. 

“Calm now,” Jon said. “My hunting hound is coming.”

Shadow’s shaggy form emerged from the darkness, more than five feet high at the shoulders. 

The horses began weighing and stamping around nervously, and some of the men swore, fumbling for their bows. To their credit, the youngest ones were the fastest to move. Ben Two-Supper had taken out a big bludgeon, ready to fight. Arthur had a steel arming sword pointed at the wolf, his small face nervous, and Brynden was squeezing a javelin, ready to throw it.

“There’s no reason to fear,” Jon said as the direwolf padded over, affectionately rubbing his enormous head into his shoulder. “This is Shadow.”

“That’s a bloody wolf—no, a bear!”

A wide-eyed Jarod Snow stared at the wolf, then at Jon with confusion and surprise… no doubt recognising Shadow for what he was.

“Ser Jon,” Dick Fletcher’s voice quivered. “Are you sure he’s… safe?”

Shadow lazily lolled out his tongue, unbothered by the men’s fear.

“Aye,” Jon chortled, reaching out to scratch behind the direwolf’s ear. “Raised him since he was a pup, starving in the wild. Mount up and follow.”

“They’ll hear us comin’ like this,” the old Westerlander squire said blearily. “Shouldn’t we tie cloth around the steed’s hoofs?”

“No need this time. There are only six bandits.” And their sentry was soundly sleeping. 

They rode swiftly through the darkness, following in a stretched-out line after Jon. He could see easily enough, guiding the horse through a clear path in the dark grazing fields. 

Half a mile from the small gorge where the bandits hid, he commanded his men to light the torches. To the east, a hint of purple spilt over the horizon, casting away the darkness. 

There was no suspense in this fight. The bandits were woken by the approaching horses, but it was too late. Shadow tore into the first man as they rode into the camp, Jon nailed another with his javelin, ran down another with his sword, and the last three were slaughtered by his men. The wretches all died in confusion and fear.

His company cheered and laughed, their spirits soaring higher.

“Bah, I didn’t get to fight,” Tormund whinged, scratching his cheek with the pommel of his sword.

“How’ll we divide the spoils?” Ulmer asked.

Everyone quieted at once, and Jon felt his men’s gazes all fall onto him.

“Collect everything,” he said coldly. “Armour and arms are spoils to those who killed the men; the rest is split evenly, with squires counting as half a head. A tenth goes in the band’s purse for supplies, and another for the royal coffers.”

That calmed them swiftly; Jarod Snow, Arlen, and Dick Fletcher all nodded with approval. As they busied themselves to take stock of the camp, Tormund wheeled his horse over with a deep frown.

“You did the leading and most o’ the killing and scouting,” he said, wildling accent slipping through. “You should’a gotten more than the rest. This ain’t fair.”

Jon’s mouth twisted. “There’s no such thing as fair. In a battle won, there’s only gold and glory to be gained. A commander can only choose one, never both.”

He was getting Shadow’s share of the spoils anyway.

---

Author’s Endnote: I wanted to write more. Featuring Jon Snow’s School of Delinquent Youth ASOIAF version.