33. Falling Leaves

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Scarred Maiden

Rick is rather eager to go to war, now that Father has agreed to sit as castellan in Winterfell. They say that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell—as if I’m not one!

Still, I can’t help but be a bit worried, even if the Starks of Winterfell boast a full suit of tailored plate, not inferior to the finest southron knights. The Old Gods know that war is never safe, and fighting at sea has never been House Stark’s strength. Even Father wished to go to war to avenge you, but Mother said the omens all pointed to a black death, and barely managed to dissuade him by swearing that if he died, she’d climb the tallest peak of the mountains and jump off to her death.

Truth be told, Lord Edwyle received a bad omen himself, but he says he only believes in a strong sword arm and a good sword, not “this old wives’ nonsense”. I think that even if it were certain death, he would still go, for his duty compels him. Rick outright refused a reading, saying his fate is in his own hands.

I don’t like this.

With war underway, it’s too dangerous in the south. Even if the fighting doesn’t reach the city, all the schemers in that adder’s den are no less dangerous, and there’s still that Green Tourney matter that reeks. Mother says it doesn’t seem like something a Blackfyre would do, even if it’s someone deformed like Maelys the Monstrous. 

Apparently, Father saw him once during his time in the Second Sons, and while not a man of great honour and chivalry, he is a warrior to the bone, disdainful of petty tricks, and it’s quite possible some other scheme is afoot.

I don’t know whether it was Blackfyre’s doing or someone else’s vile plot, but I agree with them—the southron lands are too dangerous.

Please come home to Winterfell. Even Mother has come to keep me company, and only you are missing here. I know you are still wroth with me, but the wedding has passed, and now is not the time for childish tantrums.

With love,

Lya 

Branda’s eyes went through the inked words again and again. Sighing in frustration, her hands had already torn the letter in two before she could stop herself. After hesitating for a heartbeat, she tossed the remains into the crackling hearth.

“What was that?” Joanna asked, startled by her sudden actions.

Branda’s voice came out hoarse, conflicted despite herself. “A letter from my younger sister.” 

“Then, why—” the golden-haired girl motioned towards the fire, where the two pieces of parchment were already reduced to embers and ash.

“The letter started kindly enough,” Branda said with a sneer. “But my proud little sister couldn’t help but mock me again.”

Joanna blinked her big green eyes, looking completely lost. “But—you’re sisters. There’s no bond closer than this, and…” Struggling to find the words, she looked at the princess, whose face was an unreadable mask as always.

Rhaella Targaryen had always felt like half an enigma, even before the revelation of Green Dreams. Or was it dragon dreams? Regardless of which one it was, it only made her more dangerous. Magic was not a force Branda understood. Even the haughty and all-knowing archmaesters in the Citadel did not claim to understand the arcane. If her mother was to be believed, they avoided it like a doe sensing a pack of wolves.

“The bond of kinship does not necessarily mean affection,” Rhaella uttered, something dark passing through her eyes, as the hand stroking Thyssaria’s pink scales came to a halt. “Otherwise, there’d be no kinslaying. It is a sin, yes, but it has not stopped brother from drawing sword against brothers… or even sisters. The House of the Dragon is no exception to this; the bigger the family, the greater the conflict.”

Joanna wilted at the words, no doubt remembering her history all too well. When the dragons dance, the realm weeps.

“Indeed,” Branda said, voice colder than she intended. “When my parents brought my sister and me to Winterfell for our last visit, we saw our cousin Rickard had grown into a dashing young man. Rugged, as most Northmen are, but not without his own charm, and his courtesies were no lesser than any other knight. I found myself liking him more and more by the day, and even my parents seemed to support such a union. But Lyarra told me that it’s not proper. She put on a great mask of piousness and told me how, while allowed, wedding a close cousin is considered half a sin. Aunt had married a nephew and niece to her uncle before in House Stark, and unions between cousins were rare, but not uncommon. Yet they rarely end well. I know my history well, so I agreed to let the matter drop.”

A sharp stinging pain came from her palms, jolting her from her state. Her nails had already dug into her skin, drawing blood. Slowly, she unclenched her fingers, but did not feel any better for it.  

Branda let out a cold, joyless laugh. “I was a fool to believe her. My sister’s words were righteous enough, but her deeds were not. A month later, just as it was time to depart from Winterfell, Lord Edwyle announced the betrothal between Rickard and Lyarra. That day, she did not meet my eyes, nor did she have to, as she was set to remain in Winterfell. My own sister behaved like some common harlot. Now that she’s wedded and bedded, set to be the future Lady of Winterfell, she even has the gall to gloat to me, taunt me, and mock me—”

Her words came to a halt as her eyes found the polished silver mirror hung on the wall. The silver mask covered half her face well enough, and to those not in the know, Branda almost looked mysterious and charming. But the silver mask could not make the ugly, burned flesh underneath mend itself back, no matter how hard Branda wished otherwise.

“Forget it,” she rasped out, sagging back on her chair.

Joanna looked horrified, the kind girl no doubt feeling guilty again. She hastily rose from her seat and came over, pulling her into a tight hug. 

Branda stiffened for a moment, but the warmth of the gesture eased the tightness in her chest somewhat. Rhaella looked at her, not with the pity or dark amusement most of the ladies in court did, but with something akin to… understanding and concern.

“You still ought to write her back,” the princess said, tone wavering for a moment. “Even if you don’t see eye to eye anymore, she’s your blood, and… the future Lady of Winterfell besides. I’m not saying you ought to forgive or forget her deception, but the courtesy must be maintained, for what it’s worth. A lady with no courtesy—”

“Is like a knight without armour,” Branda finished, mouth twitching. “Yes, I know. I shall send a raven… once I can make peace with my anger. There’s no hurry or anything urgent going on in Winterfell, for that matter. The whole North itself is like an old man, sluggish, content in its place, and distrustful of anything strange or new.”

She felt a tad better, even though nothing had truly changed. Though it could be Joanna’s soft and warm embrace, as the girl was nearly draped over her. Some might claim the younger maiden was clingy, but that desire for closeness made Branda still feel… important. Face ruined, and future dark and uncertain, she still had close companions who cherished her.  

“Branda,” Rhaella spoke softly. “I’ll trouble you to see Ser Jon and how his investigation is going. I hear he’s been distracted as of late, dealing with street rats and the like. And send my agreement to the jeweller’s guild once you leave” 

This was the first time in a fortnight the princess had mentioned the bragging bastard. Her earlier subtle enthusiasm was replaced by reluctance and something else Branda couldn’t quite pin down. As if… she was afraid to see the bastard?

Branda shook her head inwardly. ‘I’m overthinking it.’ There was no reason for a princess to fear in King’s Landing. “I’ll find him by the morrow.”

She woke up before dawn, all stiff and with pain jolting through her burned side again, lancing all the way up her shoulder and into her head. Burns from that evil green fire went deeper than those of normal flames, and if the Grand Maester was not lying, the pain would dwindle in time, but never truly go away. 

“The flesh can mend… somewhat,” he told her, “but the spells the alchemists weave into the green piss are another matter entirely. They leave an invisible mark on you, and no maester has ever found a solution, and even time cannot fully cure it. The pyromancers themselves are helpless before their grand creation, the blind fools. The gods have granted you good fortune, Lady Branda—few ever survive wildfire.”

Branda did not feel fortunate at all. Some nights, she woke up in cold sweat, writhing in pain for hours before she could fall asleep. Sometimes, the diluted cup of poppy wine soothed her, but not always, and she was wary of the numbness that came along with it. It was too easy to get lost in it, and her thoughts always returned to that day, deep down wishing she had not survived to suffer like this. She never voiced such things, lest they became real.

Her breathing slowed down, and the pain receded, allowing Branda to rise and shed her nightshift. The cold morning air rose gooseflesh along her skin, but she stood there, basking in the feeling. The cold reminded her of her childhood, of Breakstone Hill. She then reached for the drawer, fishing out a sandalwood box and pushing the lid open, revealing a greenish-purple paste that filled the room with a sour herbal scent. Her fingers carefully dabbed the stinging liquid over her uneven marks, and a soft sigh escaped from her throat.

Relief flooded her like a wave, and Branda wished to bathe in the remedy if it wasn’t so expensive or poisonous in large amounts, as Pycelle had cautioned her greatly, saying that applying it more than thrice a sennight would have adverse effects.

Next came her morning struggle, where she spent half an hour binding her burn scars with fresh linen bandage and strapped on her silver mask with silken cords. Joanna had offered to help her more than once, but Branda refused to be treated like something broken and useless, preferring to keep this last shred of dignity.

By the time she had donned her garments and made her way to the training yard, daybreak had passed, the sun already peeking through the clouded sky to the east. 

The clangour of steel and the grunting of men grew louder as she neared, and surely enough, she found them. His squire and page were dutifully drilling forms, while the bragging bastard was diligently sparring against a Farring knight. The match was intense, their strikes quick and ferocious, with neither side gaining an advantage. Whether the opponent was a new knight or an old veteran man-at-arms, he did not turn them away, fighting each bout seriously.

This dogged diligence was perhaps Jon Snow’s only redeeming quality. His skill with the sword was solid for his age, and his archery was no lesser. If the rumours were to be believed, Snow poured in two more hours each day into his war bow, as if more practice would turn his bragging into something real. 

Still, Rhaella would not have taken Snow under her command if he were without skill. Begrudgingly, Branda admitted to herself that no ordinary man would go through thousands of miles of forests and mountains and rivers to return a famed family sword, especially one of old Valyrian make. She had seen through the facade of those haughty knights, who treated their vows as nothing more than boots to be changed when the old ones were no longer convenient.

Branda’s gaze lingered for a while even after Snow changed his sparring partner into a Sunglass knight, but he never even looked her way.

Suppressing the tinge of annoyance, she waved over the young Dayne page. “Go call your master.” After a moment of thought, she tapped the young boy as he turned. “No. I changed my mind. Tell him we’ll meet for a talk in the inn after he’s done.”

If Branda had learned one thing, it was that being conspicuous in the Red Keep was never good. Should she be seen talking alone, the rumours about the scarred wolf maiden and Bloodraven’s bastard would spread across the whole city before sunset, ruining what little was left of her reputation.

But even without those rumours, the knights who previously gave her courteous bows and eager smiles now avoided her as if she were a leper, and the ladies tittered behind her back every time she passed. “Scarface,” they called her when Branda was not looking. The bolder ones called her so to her face.

Mere words shouldn’t have stung so deep, but they did. Worse still, Branda could not find any rebuff, for it was true. Her face was scarred, ruined by the wildfire, and the whole realm knew it. 

She first ventured into the jeweller’s guild in the street of silver and was warmly received by the old master Astor, who glanced at the mask with appreciation. “Ah, one of my finest creations. What brings you here, Lady Branda?”

“A letter from the princess.”

Half an hour later, she was waiting in the private room of Sleeping Spearman’s Inn. The young Dayne squire was the first to arrive, hair still dripping wet from the cleaning most squires and knights did after training. It was no true bath, just a bucket of cold water drawn from the well to wash off sweat and grime.

He remained silent as he took the smallest chair, but his purple eyes narrowed at her ever so slightly.

“Why glare at me, Dayne boy?”

“My name is Arthur,” the boy said, meeting her gaze without faltering. “You look at my master differently. Some regard him with caution, or even fright. Others with disdain, or they prefer to pretend he’s not even there. Not you, though.”

Branda let out a cold snort. “I don’t put any stock in the ludicrous hearsay cloaking Jon Snow’s name. But there’s something about him that is vexing. Deeply unsettling beyond that bone-white hair of his, the eerie red eyes, and his bragging. I will admit I am jealous of his good fortune to find and tame a direwolf… but there’s something wrong, something evil in him.”

The young page did not blink, nor did he offer any rebuff, merely lowering his head and ignoring her completely, as if she were not worth the effort to reply.

It angered Branda, but she would not stoop so low as to argue with a child. Even if he told the bastard everything word for word, she did not care. She had made no secret of her dislike for Jon Snow, and he knew it, too.

A few minutes later, Snow marched in with his auburn-haired squire, and he took the chair at the head of the table without ceremony. Up close, the usually lively squire looked terrible. His confident smile was nowhere to be seen, and his face was swollen black and purple and his nose was smashed—something that was not a result of some spar in the training yard, but a brutal beating.

His master’s pale face was like a cold, unreadable mask, and something in his red eyes made her shudder. She would have mistaken him for an evil ghost if not for the tankard of ale in his hand.

Branda swallowed her complaint. “Princess Rhaella wishes to know if you’ve made any progress with the investigation.”  

“We found clues near the River Row,” said Jon. “The ingredients all end up there through various channels and after passing hands a couple of times. It’s just a matter of time until we find the alchemist—or whoever is cooking up that Touch of Pleasure.” 

The accusation of sloth and incompetence never left the tip of her tongue. How could the bastard so easily find something that had stumped her for moons?

“Are you certain?” 

Those crimson eyes regarded her with indifference. “Aye. Some of the dockmasters make a profit under the table, allowing a quarter of the carts carrying ingredients to pass through the gate without paying a toll. The deputy of the herbalist guild is also growing and providing rare and controlled substances such as poppy flowers, devil’s trumpet, mandrake, and purple juniper, which are normally reserved for maesters. I can give you their names if you wish, but going after them now might startle the mastermind.” 

Purple juniper? Was some witch brewing this dangerous peer to the moon tea?

“This is not for us to decide,” she said after a moment of thought. “I’ll pass it on to the princess. What happened to the little braggart?”

The squire lowered his swollen head even further. 

Snow’s face turned even colder—something she thought impossible before. “Got too handsy with some important courtesan after throwing a handful of silver at her.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t investigate the brothels yourselves,” she said, quirking a brow. 

“No man of good repute would be seen setting foot in such a place.”  

Branda snorted. “How convenient that you are not such a man.” 

“If you have something else to say, speak,” Snow growled at her. “I did not come here to trade petty insults with you, nor have I ever slighted you or yours to deserve such. But if you wish to make an enemy out of me, I’ll be glad to oblige you.”  

Those red eyes almost glowed in the gloom of the room. She froze. What was she even doing? Insulting a knight—a bastard or not—was not something a lady should do. It was folly, too, creating an enemy where there was none. Snow had a sharp tongue and a vivid imagination, yes, but he was far from the only one who spoke nonsense or gilded his deeds.

Yet there was something about him that just drove her mad.

“Apologies,” she rasped out, dipping her head. His icy face softened ever so slightly, and Branda let out a sigh of relief despite herself. “I don’t know what came over me. But there is something else, too. Certain rumours have reached the princess’s ear, different from the usual nonsense. Word is you’re kidnapping children from the streets.”  

Jon Snow choked on the gulp of ale.

“I have done no such thing,” he coughed, hastily waving his hand. “It’s the gutter rats who tried to steal from me. I gave the younger ones a chance to work for me as ears or eyes, or labour in my little village in exchange for a roof over their heads. I sent the older ones who were too deft in theft or too set on the unlawful path to the city watch or the black brothers to deal with. If some do exceptionally well, I promised to find them an apprenticeship… should their skills be up to par.”

Branda was stunned for a long moment. “You’re surprisingly fair,” she said begrudgingly. This was indeed generous and just, a better outcome than most street orphans would have found at the hands of other knights or lords. Nobody cared for lowborn orphans, save for the orphan matron, but even that was not always the case. Not all orphans went to the usually poor orphanages, preferring to eke out a living with their wits or begging. 

The rumours were especially cruel this time, turning something good and decent into a vile accusation. If he were not bragging or lying again, that was. But this was something she could easily check for herself—and she would.  

Her musings were soon interrupted.

Uneven, tumbling footsteps grew louder, and the door suddenly swung open. The heavy reek of wine assaulted her senses as a young man stumbled inside. 

His red hair looked like a bird’s nest, his nose was reddened, his eyes were bloodshot, and his otherwise fine garments were covered with grease and wine stains. 

“Wine,” he slurred out. 

The bastard rose from his chair and quickly caught the swaying young man before he could fall. “You ran out of coin yesterday, remember?”

“Don’t care,” the drunkard groaned. “I want to drink—ah—drink until I forget it all.”  

“Sleep first.” Snow patted his shoulder. “Once you wake up, I’ll find you more drink.” 

The bloodshot eyes lit up. “Really?” 

“Really.” Jon Snow shot his squire a look. “Go help Brynden into his bed.”

The bruised Tormund jumped to his feet and led the so-called Brynden away.

“Are you truly going to give this drunkard more wine?” Branda asked once the door was closed and their footsteps had dwindled. “Giving him coin is no different than pouring wine into the Blackwater Rush—the wine is gone, and the river is unchanged.”

A slight smile tugged at Snow’s mouth. “By the time he’s awake, his head will pulse with pain, and the last thing he’d want to see is wine. That’s what he deserves for drinking away for four full days.”

Indeed, the bastard knight was far more cunning than he displayed.

“Why even care for this… dirty sot?”

“He’s one of the squires that volunteered to join me on the earlier bandit subjugation,” he said, closing his eyes. “And the second son of Lord Tully besides.”

“Brynden Tully?” Branda’s voice faltered. Indeed, this was a classical Riverlander name; a southron version of Brandon. “Why is he here, alone and so deep into his cups he might as well drown, instead of joining his father’s host, training with his knightly master, or sitting in Riverrun?” 

“Why indeed?” Jon Snow took a deep swig of ale and sighed. “Truth be told, from what I gathered, he was supposed to either return to Riverrun or serve as a cup-bearer in the Red Keep until the war is done. But he is a fool in love, and chose to love the wrong woman—his elder brother’s betrothed.”

Branda gasped, but couldn’t find the words to speak. What was there to say to such a dramatic matter? But she could still not reconcile the image of a love-struck young man with… the swaying drunk that had entered earlier. “But… how?”

“He thought he could earn his spurs and prove himself, hoping to change his father’s mind before the wedding took place.” Snow shook his head. “But the war had Lord Tully act quickly and push the wedding before the Riverlander host departed, before Brynden was ready for knighthood—not that it would have done him much good even if he had succeeded. A highlord’s mind is not so easily changed, especially when alliances are concerned, and which lord would suffer the insult of getting a second son after he bargained for a first?

Now, Brynden is a spare with no wife, no future, and not even a chance of glory on the battlefield, for the Lord of Riverrun is a cautious man and would never allow both his spare and heir into danger. In the future, he’d have to serve his brother in all things as second sons do, and watch helplessly as the woman he loves is in another man’s arms.”

Deep down, Branda couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the drunken boy. His prospects were bleak, just as hers were.

“Surely, you can help him?” she blurted out. A moment later, heat crept up her good cheek when she realised what she had said. 

“Help him?” Snow’s mouth twisted. “As he is right now, only he can help himself. A small bastard like myself cannot change a lofty lord’s mind, let alone contend with them in anything. But aye, I’ll pull him out of his rut and make a proper warrior out of him. Knight him, once he’s worthy of it. That much, I can easily do, but the rest? That’ll depend on his own will.”

---

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Bastard Knight 

The first rays of the sun cloaked the cloudy sky in crimson. An ill omen. Cold, salty wind whistled from the Narrow Sea in rushes, streaking through the streets and alleyways and lifting up cloaks and skirts with relentless insistence. 

The last breath of summer was dwindling, and garments of linen and cotton were no longer as common as wool and fur and leather.

He pawed through the tiles of red clay that dominated the roofs of the city, even in the poorest corners. Though Fleabottom was mostly shacks and hovels, it still had more clay roofs than thatch, albeit far cruder in their make.

A cat had no issue moving from one roof to the other, especially when most houses were joined together by the side. Nobody paid any attention to a common sight like a cat prowling on the roof—not that many could even notice him.

He was shadowing the cart loaded with boxes of mandrake and devil’s trumpet. This one had already gone to the herbalist guild, then passed through three different apothecaries in the last two days, and the goods had been split into five. Jon had tracked the previous shipment, but it was later passed on to another peddler with a different cart—by the time he realised the ruse, the man was gone. The shipment of poppy before that ended up in the Red Keep and the Street of Silver. Other smuggled goods went to a multitude of destinations, each at a different time of day—the demand for rare or regulated herbs was not small.  

There was no set time or place for any of the shipments or guild-to-guild deliveries, demanding his full vigilance for the investigation. Although his mind was sharper and more durable than most, it required rest, especially since hours of continuous skinchanging were very taxing. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have taken him nearly a full month to track down the alchemist.  

Whoever had organised this has been very cautious, going to great lengths to keep the matter hidden.

Jon could control about two dozen of the smaller animals with some effort now, but the moment his attention was elsewhere, the critters would scatter or do their own thing. Complex behaviours such as tracking, searching, and following objects that were not their prey required intelligence and comprehension that most beasts were incapable of.

The cart came to a halt after the intersection with Pig Alley, entering the small courtyard of an unassuming two-floor stone-and-timber house with a chipping slate roof and outer wall of clay bricks, a head taller than the average man. Jon followed from across the street, the cat leaping over the Pig Alley from the edge of the tilted, nearly touching roofs to the other. The squeals of pigs and the stench of refuse grew particularly thick here, and even the cat was overwhelmed for a moment.

Once he settled on a better vantage point, he gave the house a closer look. There was nothing special about this particular building; its style, structure, and size were rare but not uncommon in the city itself. Jon knew it all too well because he himself had sought to purchase one, though that desire turned out to be wishful thinking—the cheapest such little manse cost twelve thousand dragons. 

The two servants at the double door drew his gaze.

‘I finally caught you.’

Although garbed in common wool and linen tunics and bearing no armour or armament, their posture was too straight. Their backs were upright, their gaze was sharp and vigilant, and the cold glint in their eyes as they regarded the street before them spoke of experience ordinary servants shouldn’t have had. These were clearly warriors, not even ordinary guards but men well-versed in violence, and baptised by bloodshed. The unassuming wooden staves in their hands looked like herding sticks, but Jon knew better. He was too intimately familiar with all things wood after Bloodraven’s training, and these staves were about seven and a half feet long and carved from the heart of an ash tree, solid yet flexible—perfect for combat.

He’d bet his bow that the cloths covering the ends hid a socket to attach a spearhead.

Another servant, this one a hunchback with balding grey hair, rushed out of the doorway to receive the goods.

Jon weighed his options. There were a pair of guard hounds inside the courtyard, barking up a storm at the cart drive—until the hunchback hissed a command, and they obediently lay down. But he had no doubt that once the cat grew near, it would be torn apart in a heartbeat. Entry by wall it was, then. This building, like many others, had its back directly built against the city wall, each building and courtyard strung up one after another. The whole southern side of the River Row was like this, and the only way up the city wall was at the King’s Gate and River Gate. Foolish, but not fatal—with the Blackwater Bay just a stone’s throw away below, this wall was hard to siege. Towers rose from the fortifications every a hundred and twenty yards, but Jon could spot gaps and rectangular cuts in the masonry where the stone had a slightly different colour. 

Did the fools demolish the stairway to make more room for buildings?

Jon didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, and an exasperated chaff tore from the cat’s throat. 

He still had to cross the River Row to reach the house. Once the stream of flowing men and women and horse-drawn carts lessened for a moment, he loosened his control over the cat, allowing it to regain most of its body, and only guiding its instincts.

He leapt down, darted between the gap in the passing carriages, narrowly avoiding a boy trying to kick him. Then, with a leap, he jumped, bounced off midway with his hind legs and barely reached the top of the manse’s wall with his front paws, nails digging into the tiles and the rest of his body dangling perilously. After hanging precariously for a moment, the cat managed to climb over.

A very faint scent, different from the stench of Pig Alley or the usual stink of the city, caught his attention.

Pawing across the length of the brick wall, he observed the building from every angle. The shutters were sealed tight, the walls were covered with plaster, and the door was naturally closed. Even the soot-covered chimney poking out of the roof looked to be covered with some sort of metal, as if to prevent things sneaking in.

There was no way in, or at least not one he could find.

For a full hour, he observed, still not daring to cross the yard and brave the guard hounds, patrolling across the grounds. One of them sensed him, lifting its meaty head and growling his way. If he were here in person, he could bend their minds to his will, but it was only the cat here, and he could do nothing more than the cat itself could.

The more he entertained the thought of investigating using the skin, the greater the sense of looming danger grew. Although such vague premonitions were not always reliable, a skinchanger was naturally sensitive to this, and most cats themselves were creatures with sharp senses. Jon could not ignore this feeling.

There was nothing wrong, outstanding, or odd about this manse, but that, by itself, was damning.

Nevertheless, there was no need to get to the bottom of things right away.  

Over the next five days, he split most of his attention and kept observing through the cat’s eyes. By the third day, his suspicions were confirmed. Two more cartloads of herbs were delivered by different people at different times, mixed in with other goods and supplies, and the strange smell grew thicker. On the fourth day, boxes and chests were loaded into an empty cart inside the courtyard for a change, and it was headed straight back to the apothecary, but not without making a full circle around the city. 

On the sixth day, he was still looking for a way to enter the house and scout, but the sense of danger only grew. Then, he felt a sharp but inexplicable change. A female cat in heat rushed after him, and when he tried to avoid the eager beast, he jumped into a secluded part of the courtyard and died. 

Jon gasped for air; the feeling of cold steel piercing through his neck lingered on. As phantom pain lanced through his body, his heart raced like a frightened doe. 

“Fuck,” he croaked out, his fingers reaching for the warmth of the weirwood beads around his neck. The suddenness of it all had him reeling.

Dying in the skin of another was never pleasant. But it was nothing compared to dying on his own. He had died twice now and was all too familiar with the feeling. Although neither had been a complete death, he knew in his heart that he should have perished twice then. One time by the daggers of his own brothers, and one time by the relentless chill in the heart of always winter.

Bloodraven had taken him to experience it once to help him adjust to the feeling, so he knew how to handle it. Although painful, it was not without benefit. Once the echo of death faded and his mind calmed, his thoughts grew a fraction clearer and faster. “To you,” his mentor has told him, “experiencing death in another’s skin is both a good and a bad thing. Your affinity for it is unmatched in the world, but you ought to avoid it, lest you awaken powers beyond mortal comprehension. The domain of death was dangerous to tread even for the most powerful sorcerer princess of the Freehold.”

Furthermore, in the moment of death, the mind of the cat itself seemed to have instinctively escaped into his body. The desire to stretch and scratch his ear with his leg or chase after a bird or rat still lingered in the back of his mind, though somewhat faded. Snorting, he connected to the other street cat he was bound to and unceremoniously shoved the lingering feline mind into it. The process was rather slow, but surprisingly easy—a disembodied spirit was a rootless thing, and his mind was his own, making it simple to remove.

Jon rose from his bed—he was in his room in the inn—and stretched slowly, chasing away the stiffness clinging to his body and warming up every limb until the odd sensations and desire were no more.

A sharp rap on the door had him reaching for his sword. “Ser Snow.” It was Tormund’s muffled voice. “Got another message for you.”

“Come in,” Jon said, exhaling slowly, fingers reaching for the sword already curled around the hilt.

In great contrast to his usual demeanour, Tormund inched in cautiously, his head lowered. 

“It’s—uh—Madam Floris again,” he stammered, handing over a perfumed scroll tied with a conspicuous crimson ribbon. 

The bastard let out a long sigh. “I shouldn’t have allowed you to go to the brothels. But at least you’ve learned your lesson after a sound beating.”

Not only had Tormund been beaten up for getting handsy, but he had also caught the attention of the richest and most influential pleasure peddler in the city. Although Jon had never met her in person, he had observed her through a stray dog’s eyes. Madam Floris was now old, past her childbearing years, but more beautiful than most women even ten years younger with her meticulously powdered face, purple eyes, and pale silver hair. Although she was merely a brothel madame and a former courtesan, Jon did not dare underestimate her.

Countless lords and knights had vied for her affection, and it was said that even princes and kings had found release between her legs. Although such work was merely a transaction, even if all of her customers left her half a sentence, she alone would know more secrets than most. And that was without mentioning the three brothels she owned and her daughter and heir, the Silver Rose—the most desired courtesan in the city.

Shaking his head, Jon unfurled the message.

Greetings, Ser Jon Snow of the North

I am greatly intrigued by your actions in the city, and I desire to meet such an outstanding young knight in person. Seven above, I still miss old Brynden, and I will be very thankful if you can grant me a tale or two. Furthermore, I have certain concerns and thoughts that might be of great interest to you.

I give you my solemn promise that our meeting shall be discreet, not tarnishing your good name or reputation.

With love, 

Madam Floris Waters

Looking at the crimson lip-shaped imprint used as a seal at the end, Jon felt his scalp tingle. Another bastard, and judging by her Valyrian looks, a dragonseed. Or perhaps some unacknowledged remnant from the lineage of Velaryon. But there was no special camaraderie amongst bastards.

‘Old man, what the hell did you do all those years in the city?’ Alas, as much as he wanted to ask Brynden more, his mentor was long since gone.

At least this invitation was more polite than the first, which had expressed a desire to discuss Tormund’s mishap in the brothel. This one had to be the old madam’s real thoughts.

But would Jon agree to meet a brothel Madam he did not know on her terms?

No.

Women could kill, and women of the night could be even more dangerous. He had not forgotten the schemer who aimed for his life. Perhaps Madam Floris had to be met, but such a thing would happen on his own terms, once he was sufficiently prepared.

Jon glanced at Tormund again and frowned. 

“Stop looking as if you’ll get beaten again,” he said darkly. “Aye, you made a foolish mistake, but I warned you against growing arrogant or acting in haste in situations beyond your control. Learn from it. Next time, you’ll know better than to be led around by your cock instead of thinking with your head.”

“…Yes, Ser Jon.”

The weak and subdued reply was a far cry from the boisterous and reckless boy Jon was used to. It was important for Tormund to experience how things differed here from the wilderness he had grown up in, rather than just hearing about it.

“Go now and get busy if you want to ever turn into a proper knight, let alone a lord. I expect you to do one extra drill than Arthur in everything for the next week. You won’t get anywhere by always losing to a page four years younger than you.”

Tormund’s face turned bitter, but he nodded obediently and slunk away. The bastard had no time to play a wet nurse for his wildling squire right now, as many things demanded his attention. He had already taught Tormund well enough and couldn’t keep holding his hand forever. Some mistakes and failures needed to be experienced instead of avoided, and in the end, only he could walk the road forward, with Jon merely offering directions.

Within an hour, Jon made his way to the Red Keep’s godswood after notifying a servant to pass on the message to the princess. The initial suppression of his senses had already waned greatly, allowing him a tad more certainty in the royal seat. The weather had turned stormy today, the skies darkened with black clouds, and lightning flashed across the east. To his surprise, he found Rhaella already there, clad in a pink gown, kneeling before the heart tree in prayer. A heavy crimson cloak hung over her shoulders, providing some protection from the autumn chill.

The big wedge-tailed eagle descended from above, letting out a keening cry as it landed on Jon’s shoulder. Its razor-sharp talons were surprisingly gentle, not even tearing through his travel cloak, and it gently nuzzled its head to Jon’s own, as if greeting an old friend.

For a moment, Jon was puzzled as he sensed that the bird’s actions were its own—nothing to do with its skinchanging master. But the princess was not unaware of it, being startled by the earlier eagle cry and turning to face him. 

The tips of her ears grew red, but she quickly resumed a stern, dignified demeanour that would have looked far more impressive if she were not still a young maiden. It seemed she would indeed not pursue the previous offence.

This time, a white cloak was by her side, watching Jon like a hawk. Even with closed eyes, the bastard could feel the man’s wariness, and the prickling sense of danger coming off him. A master swordsman, but this much was expected of a kingsguard.

“I’ve fulfilled my task, princess,” Jon said, bowing deeply. Courtesies had to be observed, if nothing else.

Rhaella raised a silver brow, but he merely glanced at the kingsguard by her side. Some things were not suitable for the king’s ears, as Jon knew better than to trust a white cloak, especially sworn to a king who seemed to dislike him.

“Very well,” she murmured. “Follow me.”

The sky split open for a heartbeat and lightning flashed yet again, this time closer, and a deep thunderclap rumbled. The courtyard was empty, and many of the courtiers and guards huddled in the safety of one building or another to weather the coming storm, sparing Jon and Rhaella from the scrutiny. Especially the Darklyn cronies who oft watched Jon like a hawk both in the city and the Red Keep, never approaching, but not disguising their ill intent. 

Once he had realised they had no connection to the mysterious plotter and only aimed to find faults with Jon’s conduct and deeds, avoiding and ignoring them had become simple. The young Darklyn captain might be brash, but his uncle certainly didn’t become Hand of the King without caution and sharpness of wit. Or perhaps he had grown wary of the rapidly expanding Arryn influence in the city.  

With dragons hatched and the position of royal heir uncertain and war hanging over them all, all sorts of ambitious souls had grown restless and eager to climb higher and grasp the smallest opportunity.

As they crossed halfway into the yard, a small, cloaked figure rushed to join them. “Princess, Ser Jon.” Joanna’s face bloomed into a smile before shivering when a gust of cold wind whistled past, sending her golden hair fluttering. “You’ve already uh—forget it.”

Rhaella gave her a nod. “Join us. It can help you broaden your horizons.”

The princess gracefully led him to an unused audience chamber in one of the towers in the courtyard. The kingsguard’s eyes grew colder when Rhaella stood at the doorway, barring his entry.

“Thank you, Ser Gerold. I must ask you to guard the door.”

“But, the king’s orders—”

“Surely you do not think my own sworn sword will harm me?” she quirked a brow. “Of course, I can allow you to stay with us inside and act as a chaperone… if you swear yourself to silence. Both on your own honour and family name. Make no mistake, if you break such a promise, I’ll do everything in my power to make your life miserable and tarnish your name.”

The oddly familiar sound of grinding teeth echoed, and Jon wouldn’t have noticed it had he not been familiar with Stannis. He knew the House of the Dragon was not without its own struggles and often lacked the close bonds of kinship and trust he had come to expect from family, but seeing it up close from a princess and her royal grandfather was surprising.

Just as he thought the white cloak would obediently go guard outside the door, the knight bowed his head.

“I, Ser Gerold of Hightower,” his deep voice wavered for a second, but then he stood straighter, “solemnly vow to keep Princess Rhaella’s secrets as long as they do not endanger the king’s person or go against the Iron Throne in the eyes of the gods.”

The oath was not exactly as the princess had wished, but this much caution was expected from a loyal kingsguard. But that was not what startled Jon. Was this the infamous White Bull, who had fallen at his Father’s hand at the Tower of Joy and was no lesser than the Sword of the Morning or Ser Barristan the Bold in his youth?

No wonder he felt so dangerous. 

“Very well,” Rhaella allowed. “Join us inside, then.” The door sealed shut, and the Hightower knight stood guard by the entrance again, still like a statue. 

The princess then turned to him. “Ser Jon. Speak frankly, then.”

It seemed Rhaella was dead-set on placing the white cloak’s vows to the test today.

Jon’s mouth twitched, but he had no reason to refuse—some things were better cleared up sooner rather than later.

“I found the alchemist,” he spoke cryptically. “Or at least one of his haunts—an old manse by the River Row.”

“Great.” Joanna cheerfully clapped. “Then this vile person can be arrested and put to trial.” 

“Let us not get hasty,” said Jon, glancing at the princess whose face was pointedly blank. “He has not broken any law, so there is no reason to arrest, apprehend, or question him—nor do we have the authority to conduct such. While certain guilds and supplies involved in the procurement of ingredients are skirting on the wrong side of the law, it’s nothing more than the corruption most engage in.”

Joanna was aghast.

“Ser Jon is right,” the princess said coldly. “Even if grandfather knows about this, he will close his eyes when convenient. If their crimes are particularly heavy, the king will at most fine those at fault or exile them from the city, lest he wishes to dismiss half the guilds and a third of the gold cloaks. He could not afford to do so before in peace, nor can he afford to do it now, when Blackfyre is breathing down our necks. Most of these guilds are his greatest supporters, donating sizeable sums to the royal treasury since the war started.”

So this was indeed a muddy pit not worth venturing into. Where gold was involved, the hearts of men could not be trusted. Even Ser Gerold Hightower looked particularly stiff at the door, but the white cloak was as powerless as Jon was about this.

If he were not here, Jon would offer Rhaella to quietly dispose of the alchemist, though not before interrogating him. Judging from the stuff he brewed, he was not a good or an honest person, taking advantage of the desperation of young women, so Jon did not feel he truly deserved the protection of the king’s law. Kings could be as flawed as any man, and he knew that better than most. Otherwise, Aerys the Mad and Robert the Fat wouldn’t have made such a mess of the realm. And if Aegon the Unlikely struggled to protect his own subjects in exchange for some meagre coin, he was not worthy of the crown.

Jon did not fear the unknown danger, either. A skinchanger was never alone, nor was he as helpless as a street cat caught unawares.

As he predicted, the princess expressed no stance and soon dismissed him.

Some things were better left unsaid, at least in the open. 

But she did send Joanna to escort him out of the Red Keep. At the great bronze gate, Jon leaned over to the girl, whose face turned beet red. “Tell the princess tonight to send me a letter via her eagle if she wishes to have the alchemist removed and interrogated. I’ll make sure the deed is seamless.”

Joanna Lannister nodded shyly and darted back into the Red Keep.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and cold air once again rushed from the Narrow Sea in swift gusts. Lightning split the sky again and again, and halfway to the Inn, Jon felt it first. 

A moment later, the first droplet fell on his brow, followed by a second, and a third.

Unbidden memories rushed into his mind, making him feel joy and sorrow.

How long had it been since he had been baptised by the rain?

The rain began pelting fiercely, pattering against the rooftops and the pavement as if eager to wash away the city’s dirt. The streets grew even more deserted as hawkers, smallfolk, and workers hastily rushed through the streets, looking for shelter. His footsteps turned northeast toward the dragon gate, and the gold cloaks stationed under the gatehouse gave him an odd look but wordlessly let him pass.

Jon walked onto the stretch of desolate tourney grounds that slowly turned into a muddy field under the relentless rain. Spotting a small rocky valley by the shore that would not be visible from the gatehouse, he descended, shedding his garments one by one. First went his boots, then his sword, belt, and breeches, followed by smallclothes and tunic, and finally the cloak shrouding them to keep it all dry.

For the first time in months, he was as bare as the day he had been born, and he sat cross-legged on a rock and eased his mind completely.

He allowed his senses to spread out on their own, surrendering complete control as he delved deeper and deeper into his inner self. He felt it, then. What had been a breath of cold white wind before now felt like a chunk of glacial blue-white frost. The power was undoubtedly greater and more solid, but it did not affect the warmth of his own flesh, nor did it chill his mind or body. It felt… cool and intimate and familiar, as if it were a part of him. Perhaps it was.

The downpour did not feel as close and welcoming as it had been beyond the Wall, but it left him feeling invigorated and full of power. It washed away a sense of cloying decay that clung to his self that Jon had not even felt being formed.

It seemed that the stink of the city was more than just a bad smell. 

Before long, Shadow pawed through the muddy terrain, its shaggy mane hanging low from the rain, and quietly lay on the ground by his side, guarding him.

Thunder kept roaring and rumbling like an angry giant, most of it far away, but some quite close and Jon could feel the slithering veins of molten white cleaving through the dark sky even with his mind. The storm continued relentlessly with no signs of abating, the fierce winds raising waves fifteen feet tall to crash upon the shore no more than a dozen yards away from him, but Jon did not move. His mind never felt so clear. He never felt so alive, as if every inch of his being rejoiced. The experience was cathartic. A woman’s touch was sweet for a time, but it paled before the embrace of nature itself.

He heard the rhythmic sound of bare feet slowly squelching through the mud.

A cold shiver went down his spine. Someone had approached him without him noticing when his senses were at their sharpest.

He opened his eyes, reaching for the sword. His hands clenched around the hilt but did not lift the sword as he beheld the newcomer with surprise.

“Daeron?” he asked tightly, not caring about his bare form. 

The priest did not care about his nakedness; he appeared like a drowned rat in his roughspun robes, looking pitiful in the rain.

“Benefactor,” the man gave him a simple smile through his wet tangle of a beard. “Enjoying the ancient blessing of the Storm God, are you?”

Another riddle, or was there truthfulness to it? He did not know. He did not particularly care, either.

“Just had the urge for some calm outside of the city stench,” Jon said, voice hoarse. “Have you come to join me?”

“Of sorts,” Daeron said, leaning his staff on some rocks. “The city has grown too restless as of late, and I have come to warn you. In my most recent meditations and prayers, I sensed the stench of a cunning otherworldly heavenly demon, a powerful fire priestess that seems to have been lurking in the shadows for a long time. An old one, and a faceless servant of the many-faced fool, and half of them have their sights set on you, wishing you gone.”

Somehow, Jon did not doubt it. Under the rain, where most deceptions were washed away, he could feel the genuine truthfulness and sincerity of those words that transcended normal speech. Instinctively, he knew that doing such a trick to lie was impossible. The priest was dabbling in sorcery, albeit subtly, and was not nearly as harmless as he appeared.

The bastard dipped his head in gratitude and rose. The rain kept petering, and he felt unburdened, unfettered for the first time in a while, as if all of his worries and qualms had been washed away.

“Thank you, old man. As for those foes wishing me dead?” He snorted, brandishing his sword. “Let them come and may the better man win.”

---

Author’s Endnote: This chapter was incredibly hard and simple to write. Once I managed to sneak away enough time and nerves to sit down, I couldn’t stop writing, and it’s far bigger than I first thought it would be. Still, I like what I wrote a great deal, and the interlude of time allowed me to better plan the remainder of the KL arc (which won’t be too lengthy). I sort of wished to rush the Alchemist issue and get into the meat of it, but I realised I was being needlessly hasty. Still, I’ll do my best not to drag it on any longer. 

I also deliberated on using time skips and chronicle excerpts (which should start appearing starting with the next chapter). 

Branda’s PoV was surprisingly interesting to write, and I deliberated between her, Arthur, Joanna, and Tormund and chose her. There are so many delightful things happening in her head/background, and tragedy is always a way to turn one bitter.