31. Petulance and Peaches

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

“Thank you, Jasen,” she said, nodding to the innkeeper as he personally brought over the trays laden with a hearty fare. 

He gave her a bright smile. “It’s my honour, m’lady princess. Fret not, I won’t tell a single word.”

After bowing so deeply that his jowls jiggled vigorously, the plump man retreated, leaving behind a table groaning under the weight of the feast. He had even brought over proper first-course meals—honey-glazed figs stuffed with goat cheese and crushed walnuts, and little pies of pigeon and mushrooms, their crusts brushed with butter and sprinkled with herbs. 

“This looks quite delicious,” Joanna said, eyeing the brown capon broth with barley, leeks, and carrots, simmering slowly until rich and golden. 

With the grilled fish from the Blackwater, dipped in lemon, dill, and olive oil, and a roast swan—though it could be a particularly plump goose—glistening with honey and spices, this was a small feast trying to imitate noble fare. While not nearly as good as what the royal cooks could manage, it was no worse than what most nobles ate at feasts. Even the wine was some pale green vintage from Myr, a bitter-sweet exotic drink that was rather uncommon on this side of the Narrow Sea, but not inferior to its Dornish counterparts, though many said it wasn’t as good as Arbour wines. 

Even Jarod Snow at the far end of the table was dazed at the sight. As a bastard of the Northern mountain clans, the best he had ever seen was the lower table of some harvest feast in the cold and dreary North, where exotic fruits and luxuries were rarer than gemstones, and lords poured in their coin to prepare for winter, not empty displays of vanity.

Such things would not be so easily available in an inn, but this was her inn; a single word from her got Jasen to toil for hours and for no profit. And she had only told him, “I want a calm, quiet dinner for six tonight.”

Rhaella thought she’d get a simple dinner and get a taste of how the smallfolk and the merchants ate… not this. But perhaps it was a matter of prestige for Jasen. Serving a member of the royal family was no small boast for any innkeeper, and he indeed had the skills to do it. Or perhaps his wife did, seeing how she was the one toiling in the kitchen. Rhaella saw the honeyed peach cake topped with cinnamon and swallowed her complaints. Eating simpler meals was not at all urgent.

Joanna coughed lightly, grabbing her attention. “Isn’t this a bit… inappropriate? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to hold such a meeting in the safety of the Red Keep with some chaperone?”  

Perhaps it was prudent, but Rhaella felt the Red Keep was all too stuffy and full of blue and white banners and falcons. 

“It’s not appropriate right now,” she said instead, her voice colder than she intended. “Private celebrations in the king’s halls show a lack of tact and can be taken as a slight with the royal wedding so close.”

The sight of it all just made her insides twist themselves into a knot, and she couldn’t bear to look at that unflinchingly courteous maiden who was not much older than Rhaella and would soon become her new grandmother. She knew why such a thing was needed, but accepting it was easier said than done. Aerys had still yet to leave his room—much to Genna’s dismay and worry. At the mention of her brother, many courtiers just shook their heads with pity, but made no mention of seeing him, let alone arranging a meeting. 

Joanna obediently nodded, the young, sweet maiden that she was, but she kept fidgeting in her seat, and her green eyes kept sliding towards the door with no small amount of nervousness.

“He’ll be here, soon, won’t he?” she blurted out, as if unable to sit quietly.

“As soon as Branda brings him over,” Rhaella said. “Why so excited?”

“They say he’s like a ghost, coming and going without being seen. And,” Joanna lowered her head, looking like a child who had been caught in the midst of mischief, “they also claim he’s very handsome, brave, and charming. A perfect knight.”

Jarod Snow snorted from the other end of the table, while Rhaella almost choked on the gulp of wine. 

“Who told you that?” she managed, coughing to clear her throat.

“It’s what the ladies in court say,” she whispered. “I first heard it from Jeyne Darry and Lynelle Lefford.”

No wonder. “I wouldn’t trust Genna’s ladies,” Rhaella said with forced calm. “They haven’t even seen Ser Jon and are both new to court and incorrigible in their prattle and change their tune every second day.” All too giggly and frivolous for her taste, too. 

Joanna nodded shyly but motioned to Branda’s sworn sword. “But Jarod here has seen him. They fought side by side. Do you think he’s handsome and gallant?”

The clansman bastard cocked his head. “I wouldn’t use those words to describe him, my lady. I don’t much understand what noble ladies like you like, but if you ask me, I’d say he’s dangerous, decisive, and ruthless more than anything else.”

The Lannister maiden fell silent, while Rhaella shook her head in exasperation. Why choose those rumours to believe, rather than the thousand other ones that claim Ser Jon was a demon with three heads and six arms?

Before they could speak further, the faint thumping of footsteps approached, growing louder, and soon the door slid open, and Branda marched in, leading in Ser Jon, his red-headed squire by the name of Tormund, both dressed in simple linen and wool tunics and breeches. Their hair was still damp from the quick bath the Stark maiden had arranged in the servants’ quarters to wash the road off them.

And then, Rhaella saw a smaller figure peeking at her from behind Ser Jon’s cloak with purple eyes, and she froze for a heartbeat.

Arthur Dayne. Had her sworn knight already recruited the future swordmaster?

“This is my page,” Ser Jon said after both sides exchanged a round of appropriate courtesies. “A young but very stubborn boy from House Dayne.”

Arthur’s small face was as solemn as the princess remembered from her dreams as he bowed deeply. “It’s an honour to see the princess Rhaella.”

‘The honour is all mine,’ she was tempted to say. But it was not a bad thing if Jon Snow had recruited this future Sword of the Morning—it meant he had already fallen into her lap.

Instead, she nodded and motioned to the golden-haired maiden. “And this is Joanna of House Lannister, a close friend and confidante of mine.”

The golden-haired girl was gazing wide-eyed at the bastard knight, drinking in every detail. When his crimson eyes fell onto her, her cheeks reddened like ripe apples. “P-Pleasure to meet you, Ser Jon. I’ve heard many good things about you.”

Even the bastard paused for a moment of surprise, but he quickly recovered, giving her a nod and a slight smile before joining them at the table, seating himself just across from Rhaella, to the right of the empty head seat. His squire’s eyes lit up at the sight of the generous fare, all but drooling as he sat down.

“A toast,” she said, lifting her cup once Branda sat next to Joanna, “to our brave knight who returned victorious from his great quest.” 

Everyone raised their cups, and even Jon hesitantly followed, mouth twitching. “As if I’ve won a great battle, not slain a bunch of hapless brigands,” she heard him murmur so faintly she almost missed it. Still, Ser Jon downed his cup of wine in one go, and then they dove into the small feast before them. The bastard knight and the young Dayne ate slowly and with the poise expected of those of noble birth, while the auburn-haired squire was in great hurry to stuff his mouth with as much food as possible, eating no differently than a pig. Thankfully, he was the furthest away from her, and the princess could pretend he was not there.

As if sensing her discomfort, Ser Jon reached out and cuffed him by the ear, and after giving him a warning glance, Tormund—a particularly odd name she had never heard of before—began to eat more slowly and with slightly more grace. As much as a wild boar could have any grace, that was.

The meals tasted as good as they looked, but before long, Joanna, who had regained her composure and confidence, broke the silence.

“They say Ser Dunstan of the kingsguard barely caught two dozen bandits,” she chirped between a spoonful of soup, “with near nothing to show for after a month of patrolling. The young Darklyn knight fares even worse, rumours claiming he put some unfortunate vagrants to the noose to make up the numbers.” 

“I wouldn’t be quick to believe hearsay, my lady,” Jon Snow said, voice soft but firm—as if speaking to a younger sister. “Perhaps their venture has been far more successful than mine, or perhaps it has met with certain setbacks, which would not be far-fetched. Word of mouth is at best unreliable and tends to distort the truth quickly. And it’s ill thought to speak behind a man’s back.”

Joanna puffed up her cheeks while Rhaella swallowed her laughter.

“I’m more surprised to see a Dornish page by your side,” Branda said, glancing at the young Dayne.

“Is there some issue with Arthur?”

The Stark maiden gave Jon a look. “No, the king confined the Martell retinue and Ser Daren Ladybright in the Maidenvault as honoured guests the moment they arrived, forbidding them leave. They weren’t even given bread or salt as is proper.”

“…Ser Daren Ladybright?”

“The late Princess Loreza Martell’s consort,” Rhaella offered, “And the father of Prince Doran Martell. My grandfather holds him hostage to ensure Sunspear’s compliance—or at least neutrality. Should House Martell set one foot out of line, Ser Daren’s head will roll, along with all the Dornish that came with him, and not many in court would speak against it.” 

Her grandsire had also invited the Lord of Yronwood and his sons to foster in King’s Landing as a further warning to Sunspear. As proper wards, not hostages, of course, with many honours in court as a promise. House Martell had done something to greatly anger the king, but Rhaella couldn’t find herself feeling saddened; she had seen the fickleness of the line of Nymeria.

Jon Snow looked unruffled. “Well, it’s good that Arthur only arrived with his drunken uncle, who disappeared somewhere into the city a moon past. Even if he has turned traitor, it won’t implicate my page.”

“Indeed,” the princess said, glancing at the future Sword of the Morning. “I’ll vouch for him myself, if it comes to it.”

Arthur bowed his head. “Thank you for the graciousness, princess.”

The talk turned to lighter matters like the weather or harmless gossip, like which knight slept with the miller’s wife. At some point, the northern knight even asked about the price of property in the city.

“Even the smallest shacks outside Fleabottom start at over five hundred dragons,” Branda told him, adjusting the straps of her silver half-mask. “Anything remotely respectable is in the thousands, and any good manse is near ten thousand gold, and the price grows the bigger it is—only a well-off lord or a rich merchant can afford those. I can aid you with the purchase if you have an eye on some building or another.”

“No need,” Jon said with a grimace. “It’s just my idle curiosity.”

The stiffness in his hands in the next minute spoke otherwise. Rhaella chose not to pry and motioned for Branda to refill her cup. Her tongue was growing fond of the pale Myrish wine, so there was no harm in indulging once in a while. Quiet settled over the parlour, the air now filled with the clanking of forks and meat knives.

“Where in the North were you raised, Ser Jon?” Branda said subtly, breaking the silence once they moved onto the desserts. “You are quite the mystery in the Red Keep, the thought of which keeps many awake late into the night and beyond.”

Joanna perked up, and even Rhaella found herself leaning forward ever so slightly to hear better. Tormund and Arthur Dayne also slowed down, curiosity written all over their faces. Jon Snow was a complete and utter mystery. Aside from vague rumours, Rhaella only knew he apprenticed under Bloodraven and ventured to King’s Landing after, and that was already more than the rest could ever find. 

“There’s not much to me,” Jon said quietly after wiping his mouth with a grey napkin. “I don’t know my place of birth. I don’t know my mother, either—not even a name or a face.” 

“That’s terrible!” Joanna exclaimed. 

Jon gave her a wan smile. “You get used to it. When I was younger, I fretted over it a lot to the point they even called me broody for it, but it’s no longer important. Back to it…” His impassive face broke into a wistful, nostalgic expression. “A man called Eddard raised me. A great man through and through. He taught me almost everything I knew, even when he didn’t have to raise me himself—much to the chagrin of his wife. I consider him my father in every way that matters.”

Rhaella was fascinated, and even Branda looked enthralled for a long moment.

“Weren’t you Bloodraven’s son?” the golden-haired girl asked with sparkling eyes.

“I would have known if I were,” he said flatly. “I know my colouring is damning, but I can swear on my bow for this.”

“But if you don’t know who your mother is, then how can you be so certain who your father is?” Then, Joanna paled, hands flying to cover her mouth. “Pardon, I did not mean to insult, ser.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, but then he let out a long, weary sigh. “Forget about it. I don’t know anymore, not even for myself—you can think what you wish.”

“I haven’t heard of a nobleman in the North named Eddard in this generation,” Branda chimed in, eyes narrowing. “Nor any children with crimson eyes or bone-white hair. Where were you raised, if it’s not a secret?”

“Nowhere important, you wouldn’t have heard of it,” he said, meeting her gaze without flinching. There was something sharp and dangerous in those red eyes that made the Stark maiden avert her eyes. “As for my colouring… it only changed after a magical mishap. I looked like any other Northman before that. Been a little over a year since I was cursed by the ice.”

“Cursed by the ice?” Joanna wrung her slender fingers. “What’s that?”

“Do you truly wish to know?” he asked, voice lowering to a whisper. 

The golden-haired maiden then nodded after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Far, far beyond the Wall, beyond the haunted forest and the frozen rivers and lakes of the Far North, past the great white plains where nothing lives, where the night never ends, lies a great curtain of light. Beyond it, in the heart of winter itself, exists an ice so cold, so fierce, that it can freeze you in a heartbeat, sinking through the thickest of furs as if they aren’t there. You can drop a boiling-hot cup of wine, and it will be frozen solid before it hits the ground.”

Branda scoffed, glaring back at the bastard. “No mortal has ever been to the heart of winter. Methinks it’s just a children’s tale, a made-up place to scare disobedient young boys. Curtains of light? Night that never ends? What’s next, telling us that you saw the Others and killed them all? Stop filling poor Joanna’s pretty little head with lies.” Her sneer looked particularly ferocious with half her face covered in a silver mask.

Jon merely shrugged. “Believe what you will, Lady Branda. You asked, and this is the only answer I have to give.”

“What a sham,” the Stark maiden huffed, but dared not to meet those crimson eyes of his again. “I thought you were a humble man, but now I see you are a braggart. Mummery suits you better than knighthood. I suggest you give it a try.”

Jon Snow’s face turned back into his expressionless mask of ice, no longer even looking at Branda Stark.

Rhaella then remembered and shuddered, shaking from head to toe. Her hands rubbed her shoulders, and she pulled on her cloak, but the memory of that dire, impossible chill that had even followed her out of the Dream. But where she had merely just stepped into that cold place with her dreaming mind, the drake—no, Jon Snow himself had walked there into the flesh and only survived that with the help of her weirwood cloak. It was no wonder that powers so potent had left their mark on him in some way.

If this had been the heart of winter itself… it all made sense.

“I believe Ser Jon,” Rhaella said firmly. Jon shot her an unreadable glance, though his icy mask thawed ever so slightly.

Branda gaped at her as if she had grown a second head. “Princess?”

“I dreamt of it.” Her voice came out hoarse. “I dreamed of Ser Jon falling into a pool of liquid ice at the end of the world, though I didn’t recognise him at the time. I slept for ten days then, and they told me my bed and covers were covered in a fierce frost in the midst of the sweltering summer heat—you can ask Ser Gerold, or the rest of the household, if you don’t believe me. I dreamt of it just as I dreamt that a disaster would strike before the Green Tourney.” 

Branda said nothing more, but she still stubbornly refrained from looking at the bastard knight again.

Jon threw her an intense look. “You… have dragon dreams?”

“Maybe?” She shook her head, feigning uncertainty. “My grandmother was a Blackwood. It could be the Green Dream of yore, but they’re often murky, unclear, and very hard to make heads or tails of—otherwise I would have seen the Green Tourney, not merely felt a sense of looming danger.”

“I give my word to keep it a secret,” the bastard knight said, pointedly looking at his squire and page. Tormund and Arthur also recited a simple vow of silence, and Jarod Snow was quick to follow. Branda and Joanna hesitantly uttered words of secrecy.

“Isn’t having one more skill like this good, though?” Tormund spoke up for the first time tonight, his voice rather rough. “Why keep it such a secret?”

“Aside from hiding your abilities from foes that might learn how to counter or use them against you?” Jon was the one to respond. “Some hate any form of sorcery in here. Many more fear it, and scant few understand any of it. And it’s easy to fear that which you don’t understand, and magic itself is inherently dangerous—even without the trouble the Faith might give you for it. For a good reason, too. They are all right to be afraid, for most sorcery is dangerous beyond belief.”

Tormund muttered something under his nose while Rhaella gave Jon a grateful nod, and then she froze inwardly. Wait! 

‘How did he know so much about magic and sorcery?’

Never mind. Bloodraven had taught him for a time. It wouldn’t be strange if he taught him a spell or two, or at least how to deal with such. Jon Snow certainly had little talent for it—he couldn’t even see or feel her presence in the Dream.

Still, the table had already turned all gloomy, the easy, cosy mood from before nowhere to be seen. But she did not regret revealing her ability to Dream, allowing her to explain certain matters she shouldn’t have been privy to. It allowed her to keep her skinchanging a secret, too. And even though Branda and Jon would no longer get along after her insult, at least she got to know a part of his past. 

Eddard. What a peculiar name. But it shouldn’t be that rare in the North, not after even Lord Stark would name a future son of his Eddard. It was that very same Eddard Stark who would have given Aerys so much grief in the future, along with Steffon’s eldest boy. But Steffon was gone now, and even Robert Baratheon would never be born for it. Perhaps his good Stark friend would follow suit.

Rhaella drained her cup of wine and delved into the matters she was investigating, including the Touch of Pleasure and the connection with the Faith quartermaster—Branda had yet to find more, especially where the dangerous substance was concocted or who made it.

“I’ll look into it,” Jon promised solemnly.

“Truly?” Rhaella couldn’t help but blink in surprise. Nobody had cared about a few dead whores. Not her grandfather, not her late uncle, not her father. Their lives were unimportant compared to everything else, their deaths were of no consequence, and even Branda was only researching this because she had requested it. “It might not have anything to do with the other plotters and murderers…”

Jon didn’t as much as blink. “Even if it doesn’t, I’ll do it since you commanded it, no matter how much time it takes. Furthermore, these women deserve justice.”

“Even though they’re just… common whores? Women of no consequence? Even if the Faith is involved?”

“Whores or not, the law of the land should protect them all the same,” he said firmly. “From the common pauper to the richest merchants, all who are not outside the law have the right to justice, and all it entails. As for the Faith?” His voice thickened with disdain. “If a septon kills a man with no due cause, he ought to be shortened a head as any other, and this is no different.” 

Rhaella stood there stunned, while his words sank in. Then, she looked at the bastard, really looked at him for the first time. His cold, pale face was even more solemn than before; his whole being gave off the same feeling, and those eerie crimson eyes were full of conviction. He meant every word he had said, and he believed it deeply. She had no doubt that even if the High Septon came before him, if he were a murderer, Jon would drag him himself to the block and swing the sword if he could.

Then she shook her head. Words were easy, and they were cheap—she had heard a thousand great claims in court, seen countless knights and lords tap their chest and promise grand things to the king, to her father, and even to herself, but their deeds always came short. Only time would tell if this was another boast or his true heart, no matter how much she wished it were true deep down.

Still, the daring to speak this, and to speak it so boldly and openly, was no small thing.

“It might take some time to get to the bottom of it all,” he offered, quieter this time. “Even if it has no connection to the plotter.”

Rhaella smiled despite herself for the first time in quite a while. “I’ll wait for your good news, then.”

The dinner ended soon after, leaving her with even more questions than before, but Jon Snow was a taciturn man, guarding his words as if they were worth more than gold—especially after Branda’s jeers.

When she rose, her world swayed ever so slightly, and walking in a straight line seemed to be half a challenge. Though a glance through Thyssaria’s eyes sent a wave of heat through her mind, sobering her up quickly. The faint pulsing in her skull grew a tad stronger, and her body still felt sluggish—as did her thoughts, but it wasn’t as bad as before.

After Jon and his retainers sought the innkeeper for room and board, she and her ladies retired for the night, each sneaking back into their quarters. It was already dark outside, the cold autumn air biting through her cloak, but their return was without issue. That night, it was Joanna’s turn to accompany Rhaella for the night. As the two slipped under the warmth of the covers after changing into their nightshift, Rhaella turned to face her companion.

“You ought to be careful with Ser Jon,” she whispered.

“Why?” Joanna yawned, her eyes already drooping. “Didn’t you say you’d find some great knight or lord for me?”

The princess suppressed the pang of irritation that rose within her. 

“A knight Jon Snow might be, but he’s a bastard.” Her words grew serious. “I won’t speak of his prowess with a lance or a sword, as he hasn’t been a knight for long, and the circumstances of his birth do not speak ill of his character or ability. But they cannot be ignored either—he has no good name to give you as a trueborn man could, nor any lands or castle. Do you want your children to inherit nothing but a small village by the forest? Furthermore, the danger and trouble he’s involved with are not small at all.”

“Oh,” she said airily. “I just… wanted to see how he was in person after all those rumours. Let’s sleep.”

Even though her mouth said one thing, Rhaella could feel Joanna’s interest hadn’t lessened in the slightest.

Her sleep was dreamless and uneasy again.

---

Five days passed in the blink of an eye. Even after a month’s preparation, her grandfather’s wedding felt no less rushed than her brother’s. The proud and delicate Alys Arryn, now a queen after giving her vows, looked completely out of place beside the king’s wizened-by-age visage. On the wall behind them hung two great banners, the white and blue of Arryn and the red and black of House Targaryen, looking completely jarring next to each other, even though this was far from the first union between their houses.

The ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor hadn’t been anything special, nor were there any surprises or mishaps, though deep down Rhaella hoped some sudden event could halt it. To her great dismay, such a moment never came.  

Evening rolled over, and the tiresome ceremonies gave way to the wedding feast. The singing of bards, the sound of lutes and pipers, and the laughter and the hundred drunken conversations in the Great Hall all failed to bring out any joy from her breast. A marriage was supposed to be a happy occasion, but to her, it felt no different from celebrating the death of her parents and grandmother. They never quite had a proper funeral, and this was how they were forgotten. With wine and song and dance and smiles.   

After having enough time to think it over, she couldn’t even blame her grandfather for it, no matter how much she misliked it all. After all, he had no good choice left to make, and she herself had shirked the royal mantle—out of fear of clashing with her kin. She regretted it a little, but all the blame for these woes lay at the feet of that vile schemer plotting in the dark. It shouldn’t have come to a little princess to ever sit on the Iron Throne, not after the Dance.

Rhaella kept sipping on a cup of bitter Dornish Red. Occasionally, she allowed herself a glance at the head table. Her grandsire was smiling—albeit stiffly—and his new young wife was glowing to his left, the epitome of courtesy and womanly grace. She had been glowing all day today, and Rhaella’s ears had grown calloused from hearing the other ladies gush about how “radiant” Alys Arryn truly was.

Thankfully, the long tables were far from full with most lords and heirs of the Crownlands gone off to fight at the Stepstones and the noblemen of the rest of the kingdoms mustering with their own host. Aside from maidens, mothers, and crones, most here were greybeards and green boys from the Vale, an audience completely lacking for a royal wedding.

Next to her sat Genna, the only other maid looking as miserable as Rhaella felt. Whereas many ignored the young princess, Lord Lannister’s daughter was on the receiving end of many amusing gazes. Her golden locks were tucked around her head in a young mother’s style braid, her pale face had turned into an unreadable, cold mask, and the bulge in her belly couldn’t be hidden by her crimson dress. Aerys had not deigned to leave his quarters to join the celebration, as she suspected, leaving his young golden wife all alone to bear the pressure.

“A toast to our new queen.” Rhaella lifted her gilded cup after a servant refilled it.

“May she live long,” Genna uttered tonelessly, clinking her goblet with her own. She was as happy as Rhaella was with that marriage, and even more powerless to do anything about it. Whereas Betha Blackwood was Aerys’s own grandmother and way past her childbearing years, Alys Arryn was young and fertile, and any children from her womb would compete with Genna’s future get for the crown.

And unlike her childless brother, Rhaella remembered Alys Arryn bringing forth a brood of children from her womb. The crimson-haired Arwenna Belmore and slightly plump Jeyne Darry from across the table raised their cups too, though not before giving Rhaella a glance laden with suspicion.

“This wedding is duller than the last,” said Branda with her characteristic Northern bluntness, though that didn’t stop her from wolfing down the glistening aurochs steak before her.

“War has made the royal treasury tight on coin,” Genna uttered coldly. 

It was not tight on coin; it was outright empty, Rhaella knew. Though not for long. Aside from the donations of the city guilds and the four hundred thousand gold that came with Alys’s dowry, Lord Lannister had agreed to loan the Iron Throne three million dragons, a loan only in name. The Laughing Lion would probably pardon the debt before long. Still, that new influx of gold would keep Genna’s position in the Red Keep unshakeable for quite some time, and when the young lion took the reins of power from his useless sire, it would no doubt be insurmountable. 

Rhaella shook her head, uncertain whether she ought to be amused or exasperated at this.

Joanna, as usual, was her bright self, smiling joyfully and chatting happily with Lynelle Lefford. Rhaella couldn’t begrudge her for it—she suspected the naive young maiden was just happy to take part in the celebration.

The one thing that had changed greatly with this wedding was the presence of ladies in court. Genna and Alys Arryn had attracted a colourful retinue of maidens in their own right, pulling them from every corner of the kingdoms. Except for Dorne, of course. Now that the king was at odds with House Martell, even the disgruntled lords were hesitant to reach out to other Dornish lords, no doubt remembering some old generational feud. And there was no lack of feuds with the Dornish after the Conquest of Dorne. Many remembered the Young Dragon’s undignified death, but he was far from the only man to die unjustly by some sinister means there.

The songs turned upbeat, and men rose, clamouring the maidens to dance. 

When Ser Jason Connington boldly approached her, Rhaella merely glared at him, allowing Thyssaria and Vhagar’s minds to leak into her eyes, drawing out as much of their bestial nature as she could. She did not know what he saw, but his steps faltered, and he turned to invite a Selmy maiden down the table instead.

A few more knights and lordlings tested their courage, but Rhaella managed to avoid dancing and glare them all down, though the rest of the ladies around her soon rose, invited one by one, even the young Joanna. All but Branda, who watched on enviously as Genna danced along one of the white cloaks in some slow rhythm.

Rhaella took another deep swallow of wine.

“Should I try to find some dashing young knight for you?” she leaned in to whisper.

“There’s no need,” Branda sneered. “Even if you coax some lordling into doing so, their heart will never be in it. A disfigured face like mine will only offend them all, and I have no desire to hear false praise or thinly veiled insults. In this lifetime, I’m bound to remain an old maid.”

The bitterness in her voice was not hidden at all. If the princess were in her boots, she would be no less bitter—a pretty face was a maiden’s pride, and no proud lord would ever wed someone scarred and ugly. ‘At least you’ll accompany me for this lifetime, then.’

Rhaella found the world no longer half as gloomy as before, though she continued sipping from her cup. Her gaze soon slid to the lower tables. Jon Snow was there with the rest of the knights in attendance, though his seat was at the lonely end of the table, and the rest of the men seemed to avoid him. Rumours of the king’s dislike must have spread through the court—and along with Jon’s sinister appearance and cold, pale face that made him look like a ghastly spectre, he looked even more lonely than Rhaella felt.

She wouldn’t mind dancing with the bastard knight. 

As soon as that thought appeared, Rhaella couldn’t help but glance at her royal grandfather, who was now dancing slowly with Alys Arryn in the centre of the Great Hall. Doing so might even infuriate him. ‘All the better for it, too.’

But to her great dismay, she couldn’t muster the courage. As a princess, how could she ever lower herself to approach another like that?

In contrast, more than one bold lady—though mostly from the Riverlands and the Westerlands—approached Jon Snow for a dance, crowding around him in a band of silks and smiles. He merely raised a toast to them, refusing them with a cup of ale.

With such swift refusals, the rest of his admirers lost their courage. But they were far from the only ones to approach him.

Under her stunned gaze, Rhaella saw Maegor’s figure sway under the weight of a barrel as he walked to Jon Snow’s side, and slammed it down on the table, challenging the bastard knight to a drinking contest. In his wake followed a band of Frey sons and unimportant knights with faces all flushed red by the wine.

‘Always the drunkard mingling with bastards and narrow-minded fools like the Freys.’

Some said Maegor mourned his own Tanner wife, though their words were often laced with mocking. It wasn’t much of a surprise, since her cousin was rarely sober these days, always seen swaying or with wine or some strong Essosi drink clutched in his hands. 

With his usually brash actions, Rhaella half-expected Maegor to ask for her hand after leering at her for so long. He continued leering in the rare moments they crossed paths, but the proposal never quite came. Though he had asked for a dragon of his own instead, his grandfather had coldly told him he might be allowed to claim one once he became a great knight.

Even if the clumsy and decadent Maegor ever managed to train his skills to such great height—which was highly unlikely—it would take him decades of effort, and just for a single vague chance. No wonder he was so deep in his cups and often spent his nights in the Street of Silk. He was a prisoner in a gilded cage of his own, though different from hers or the ones around the Dornish delegation.

Rhaella emptied her cup again and waved for the servant to refill.

Soon, her curiosity got the better of her, and she set her sights on the small dogs weaving around the tables. These were no hunting hounds or the fierce guard dogs some lords loved to train, but little harmless things that scarcely grew larger than a cat and pets of certain ladies, being nothing more than another decoration, no different from a silken gown or rare jewellery. This particular trend was strong in the Stormlands and the Vale, and with Lady Arryn bringing a fluffy white creature with a sky-blue ribbon tied around its neck, many a courtier’s daughter had followed in her footsteps. 

Some were even said to breed the little beasts to be smaller and cuter—even more useless. A dignified noblewoman ought to have a swift mare for a pet, or perhaps a hunting falcon or an eagle. She remembered that one-eyed shaggy beast nearing the size of a horse. Hunting hounds were barely acceptable. 

Still, no matter how lowly, the token dogs were not without their use. Rhaella slipped into the mind of one, slunk away from her owner’s chair and steered her short legs to the lower tables. It was not the first time she had slipped into the mind of one, as it allowed her to listen in on ladies’ gossip—though there was hardly anything worth hearing from most tittering chits in court. 

She reached the knight’s table, but the riveting talk she expected was nowhere to be heard, just the drunken ramblings of men boasting who slept with a prettier woman or conquered some baker’s wife. The rest had crowded around Maegor and Jon Snow, shouting, “Drink! Drink!” 

“This one goes to Lord Darry and his success on the battlefield!” Jon lifted a tankard of strong ale and downed it all in one go, an achievement met with eager applause and stomping of feet. Next was Maegor’s turn, who drained a tankard of his own, raising clamour again. 

His face reddened even further, and he glared back at the Northern Bastard.

“This is the fifth round,” rang out the voice of the excited Crakehall knight refilling their drink from the barrel Maegor had brought.

“One toast for Ser Gawen Corbray, working tirelessly for the peace of the realm!”

Rhaella couldn’t even take a good look, with her short legs and small stature denying her the sight of the table itself. A drunken knight even glanced her way, tore a leg off a roast hen and generously cast it her way, and it took all of her self-control to rein in the beast’s appetite.

Swallowing her irritation, she pawed over to the far end of the Great Hall, where the young squires gathered. The boys and young men here were no less drunk than their knightly masters, and their boasts weren’t much different, though the object of their bragging was some inn-keeper’s daughters, scullery maids, and serving wenches, each trying to outboast the other.

“Pah, this is nothing!” Tormund slammed his own cup on the table, glaring at the older squires.

“Yet to feel a woman’s warmth, little boy?” a Staunton squire jeered.

“My master—” Jon’s squire burped loudly, earning himself mocking laughs. The auburn-haired boy merely lifted his head higher. “My master’s very slick with the ladies. He saved a lord’s daughter, and she gave him her maidenhead in return, I tell you.”

“Pah.” A pockmarked boy spat. “As if any lord’s daughter would so easily surrender her maidenhead. I’d believe it more if her lord father had chased to put a noose on Snow’s neck.”

Tormund’s face grew as red as his hair. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Our Lord Snow is as handsome as he is sinister, but what does it have to do with a dullard like you?” 

Was it another drunken boast? Or did it have some truth to it, as some boasts did?

She did not think Ser Jon was a bastard to steal a maiden’s heart and her purity and then run. Another, quiet and far more sinister voice that suspiciously sounded like her mother whispered in thoughts that he was a bastard, and all bastards are born sinful.

Rhaella returned to her body and drained another cup of wine. Someone soon roared out, “Bedding!” 

The crowd instantly rippled with excitement. “Bedding!” they clamoured, rising from their seats and rushing towards the head table.  

The bards turned to bawdier songs, and a wave of ribald jests and laughter rose as the king and his new queen were lifted by the crowd, carried on their hands towards the specially prepared bridal chambers.

Rhaella had no desire to see her grandsire naked—or to hear him bed his new wife, so she remained glued to her seat, waving to the serving girl to bring over a pitcher of stronger wine.  

“It’s unwise to drink this much,” Genna said softly, nudging her elbow. Her pregnant good-sister had also remained here, after refusing further offers to dance or to join the bedding in favour of nibbling on some honeyed cakes.

“It’s a wedding,” Rhaella muttered sourly. “One is supposed to drink to celebrate it.”

She drank and drank until her head began to pulse and the Great Hall began to swim in her vision.

It was her bladder that throbbed and felt as if it would burst that got her to stop, sending her to the privy. The hallway swayed with each step, but she somewhat managed to reach her destination and relieve herself without any mishap.

She attempted to clear the haze from her mind by drawing onto Thyssaria again, but it only made her skull ache. There was no kingsguard shadowing her tonight, not that there was any need for their protection in the Red Keep.  

Two of the white cloaks had departed with Darry to lead the royal host. Another pair was always with the king, one was by Aerys’s side, another protected the pregnant Genna and the last one… 

‘He is guarding the new queen instead,’ Rhaella thought sourly. A princess like herself no longer warranted urgent protection from the kingsguard.

Stumbling into the courtyard outside, she couldn’t quite remember which direction led to Maegor’s Holdfast and allowed her feet to lead her. The bite of the cold air outside was strangely invigorating, and the pale full moon hanging above her brought her a strange sense of comfort. It also conveniently lit up the way.

A few drunken courtiers gathered outside leered at her, but the royal men-at-arms arrived in their half-plate helmets, gleaming coldly in the moonlight and hands resting on their swords.

“Disperse, you sods!” barked out a gruff greybeard captain. The drunken men quickly muttered some apologies and fled as if on fire. His harsh eyes softened with pity when they turned to her. “Do you want us to escort you back to your quarters, princess?”

“No,” she slurred out, pouting at the captain. ‘I don’t need your pity!’

She kept those words in her mind. It was not ladylike to throw tantrums. It was not ladylike to get pissed drunk, but here she was. Something told her she’d regret it the next day, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care right now.

“You!” she glared at the greybeard. “It’s the—uh—king’s wedding! Why aren’t you drinking and dancing?”

The greybeard coughed, looking abashed. “My duty, princess—” 

“Go, drink some wine!” she commanded. “Everyone must drink a toast tonight. And—” her voice faltered. What did she want again? “Bring me some honeyed peach!”

The men obediently dispersed, and she nodded to herself. Huffing, she swayed away, wandering aimlessly. Did she forget something? Before long, she found herself past a stone arch and in a beautiful grove. The air here was cleaner, and it made her feel stronger.

“What a magnifishent place,” she mumbled, nodding to herself. This was far better than the stuffy Great Hall. There were no tittering maidens or drunken men laughing and trading ribald jests, just the calming swaying of the trees in the wind and the scent of pine and oak that made the throb in her temples soften ever so slightly.

She looked at her pink gown. It was a good gown, better than many others. Certainly better than gowns in blue and white!

But it was a bit stuffy. A part of her wondered how the nightly wind would feel against her bare skin. 

It was not proper. But… why wasn’t it proper again?

Vhagar and Thyssaria had no problem going around naked.

Her fingers tumbled as she tried to reach the strings and straps on her back. Rhaella was irritated.

She reached for the dagger on her hip to tear it off, but then the blade paused just an inch from the pink fabric. Ah, it would be a pity. A groggy groan slipped from her lips. “Forget it—hic!”

Rhaella’s feet took her deeper into the grove, before a small tree with bone-white bark and crimson leaves. It looked somewhat familiar.

The lean figure with white hair and crimson eyes beneath looked almost carved from the same mould as the tree, kneeling in prayer. A small, solemn face stared at her from the slender tree trunk. ‘Huh, that was new.’

The man, as if sensing her presence, rose slowly and turned around, sheathing his dagger and greeting her with a deep bow.  

She glared at him, not quite certain if she found him pleasing to the eye or more irritating than a blue falcon. Desire and hesitation and anger warred in her chest. “You!” 

“Princess.” Jon Snow dipped his head. “You’re drunk.”

There was no pity in his eyes or voice, nor any hesitation or lust. He was just stating a fact.

That angered her more for some reason.

“Why aren’t you drunk?” she demanded. 

He gave her a slight shrug. “I’m not quite certain. Maegor certainly tried, but the ale didn’t seem to take. Perhaps it’s another aspect of my curse.”

The princess smacked her lips and looked the bastard knight up and down. Yes, he was certainly handsome and sinister and dangerous—otherwise he wouldn’t have drawn the eyes of so many ladies. 

“Kiss me.” 

Those crimson eyes narrowed at her, and his reply came out slightly colder than before. “I am your sworn sword, princess. It’s not appropriate. No sworn sword’s affair with a princess ever came to a good end.”

“Didn’t stop you from despoiling some Northern Lord’s daughter, did it?”

Jon Snow’s face became colder than ice, and something dangerous flickered in his eyes. Rhaella couldn’t help but take one step back.

“You ought to be better than believing hearsay, princess.” His voice was laden with disappointment, and stung deeper than it should have. “I did not seduce any lord’s daughter, nor have I ever done anything to seduce any woman. I saved a lady ruling in her own name from a bear on a hunt by chance, and she sought to make me her consort. You can say she was very aggressive in her approach, but the negotiations fell through.”

Rhaella blinked at him. She understood each word that came from his mouth, but strung together, their meaning eluded her. Was he looking down on her?

“You’re a fool,” she muttered sourly. “Just come kiss me.”

It would make the king angry if he found out, and the thought of it excited her all the more.

Jon Snow reached out to ruffle her hair as if she were some petulant child. “Go to sleep, Rhaella. There’s no fate between a princess of the blood and a nameless bastard. I could kiss you, aye, and even take your maidenhead here, perhaps even become your lover, but I swore to protect all maidens, not despoil them, especially you.”

“Are you looking down on me?” She glared at the bastard. “Am I not as good as some wild Northern woman?”

Shaking his head, Jon Snow let out a heavy sigh laden with resignation.

Moving like a viper, he reached out and effortlessly pulled her over his knee as he sat down on a mossy rock. A stinging pain exploded on her arse.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked.

“Disciplining an errant child who ought to know better,” was the flat reply. “Your father is gone, as is your mother, and your grandsire’s not here to teach you any better, so this heavy task falls to me. Forgive me for being presumptuous.” Another slap landed, and she cried out in pain. “You can shriek louder if you wish to draw the guard and see you humiliated all like that.”

Gritting her teeth, the princess endured. Five, six, he stopped at seven. “Forget it,” he said. “This ought to be lesson enough. Hate me for it, if you must. I’ll bring you over to a discreet guard.” 

Before long, she found herself hoisted over his shoulder and soon passed out. 

The next morning, Rhaella awoke in her bed with her head and backside both pulsing with pain, completely and utterly mortified. A platter sat by the table, with slices of peach glazed in honey arranged in a flowery pattern, but she felt no desire at all to eat them.

---

Author’s Endnote: Another scene I planned to write. Writing a young, drunken and somewhat lonely princess was more amusing than I thought it would be. No matter how mature she tries to be, Rhaella is still 13 (nearing 14), so her attempts at a drunken seduction fall through. She’s at an age when she has all too many errant thoughts, even if she tries not to show most of them because of her upbringing and the responsibility she feels she carries. Some might be surprised by Jon’s blunt refusal, but it’s one he makes precisely because of his previous romantic mistakes. After all, Jon is a quick learner. Also, Jon bickers with his great-aunt.