14.Thunder-Struck

259 AC, Beyond the Wall

The Wandering Bastard

Jon awoke with a groan. His mouth was dry, and his head pulsed with pain; it was as if his brain pounded against his skull with the eager desire to escape. His limbs felt like they were made of lead, his joints were aching, and there was this irksome itch in his bones.

He cracked his eyes open to a ceiling of knapped bones, tied together by twisted reeds and sinew. Mammoth or giant bones, judging by their size. What looked like leather lay above, turning this into a hut. Savage as it was, it was spacious and surprisingly clean, with dry straw. He was wrapped up in surprisingly soft furs, the hallmark of master tanners.

Confusion settled in his aching skull as he blinked.

Where was this?

And why did he feel as if his head had been struck by a boulder?

He had leapt his way down, gliding through the snowy slopes with blinding speed even after he had retrieved his supplies.

Yet the lower he descended, the dizzier he became, forcing him to stop for a rest. And then the sky around him grew dark, the air began to crackle, and the last thing he felt was… a flash of light and white-hot pain. 

Lightning had struck him, like divine punishment for daring to ascend to the top of the world and live. No wonder his flesh felt so… raw. 

His hands flew to his neck, and he let out a sigh of relief once they found the weirwood beads. Good. The last thing he needed was the voice whispering again.

A figure slipped through the hide draped over the entrance.

Light filtered in, blinding Jon for a long moment as footsteps plodded closer and closer.

“You be awake, godling,” an old, hoary voice said. “I told ‘em, ha! I told ‘em you would survive the sky god’s wrath.”

Jon opened his mouth to ask, but only a hoarse rasp tore from his dry throat. 

“Aye, godling. You need to heal for the holy rite.”

Ceremony?

His mouth was pried open, and cool yet burning liquid was poured into his throat. It burned down his gullet, and then numbness and fire pooled into his belly. Everything began to blur, and his eyelids drooped, and Jon tried to cleanse his mind.  

“Don’t be stubborn,” the old hoary voice said, dripping more of the concoction into his mind.

The numbness overwhelmed him, and the world faded.

Time lost meaning, but Jon slowly regained awareness, but not of his body. He was not in his body, not in any body, but somewhere in between. A skinchanger’s mind was not so easily subdued, not when they could tap into a second one.

It was the nameless snow eagle that he had yet to cut loose. Jon dove into the beast’s skin without hesitation. 

He was perched in a high cleft on a rocky hill, overlooking a narrow valley spilling into the forest. 

The sun glistened in the cloudless sky, driving away the chill and slowly melting away the thick quilt of white. There, he could feel his body southward still.

With a leap, he struck his wings out and rushed towards the feeling. It was easy to let the eagle do the cumbersome task of flying—it came instinctively to the beast. He did not have to fly far. Beyond another valley and a sprawling arm of the Frostfangs, he finally arrived.

Up the mountain, nestled in a glade beside a forked stream, was a gathering of crude wooden and earthwork huts with a giant bonfire crackling in the middle. Some were draped with leather and moss, but all were swept clean of snow.

It was all ringed around with a palisade, lined with the skulls of snow bears, lesser giants, mammoths, and even men—a dire warning for anyone brave enough to attack.

The night was just settling, and a great crowd had gathered beside the bonfire. The scent of roasted meat mingled with burning oak, and even he felt the desire to eat rise in his body like a wave. Suppressing it, he slowly wheeled lower and lower until he landed on what looked to be a giant’s skull hanging from the roof’s ridge beam. No, not a hut, with walls hewn of long logs of undressed timber and a straw roof, it could pass for half a hall.

The wildlings here were of the clans better organised than most. Fur and leather were commonplace, and Jon spied the occasional bronze knife—though that seemed to hold a ceremonial purpose, judging by the reverent way it was used to cut the meat roasting over the bonfire. Tokens and necklaces of bone and fang hung from the necks of many.

A low, rhythmic drumbeat thrummed through the crowd, and many were dancing in a circle around the bonfire.

Was this the ceremony they wanted him for? 

Jon was confused more than anything else. Dancing… he had never been a great dancer, though he had been taught some in Winterfell.

With a flap of his wings, he flew down to a pole, closer to the wooden dais, where a greying old warrior built like a bull spoke to two maidens wrapped in white fox fur. One was plump—a sign of prestige and power in this cursed corner of the world—and the other slender but no less buxom. 

With pale blonde curls pooling down their shoulders, both could pass for a beauty in their own right, if not for the pale scars gracing their brow. The markings were too similar to be a coincidence, sharp lines breaking into the shape of a snowflake settled in a circle. The bear of a man besides them had it too, peeking behind a thin band of silver, inscribed with old runes. There was nothing romantic in the way he turned or regarded the twin-sisters, though.

The chieftain… and his daughters, both no older than Jon, he decided. Something dark stirred in his chest as he spotted Dark Sister’s hilt poking out of his cloak. Thief.

“…Is it really a godling, Pa?” the plump one asked with a surprisingly melodic voice. 

“Aye, Jela,” came the gruff reply. “He conquered the wrath of the sky ‘n wields a sorcery-wrought blade. The ice and snow do not drain his strength but feed it. I saw ‘im glide through the snow meself.”

“He looks like a man cursed by snow,” the slender one said, voice husky. “Cept fairer than us, and easier on the eyes.”

The chieftain patted her shoulder. “He’s the blood of the gods of ice ‘n snow. A great gift sent to our tribe.”

Jela nodded along, biting into a piece of steaming roast meat. “He’ll give us strong sons with godsblood when he wakes.”

“But when’ll that be?” the slender blonde murmured, grabbing a piece of steaming forearm with only the palm still attached.

“Wise man Jarn says a few days to a fortnight. Patience, Nala.” 

Jon’s feathers shivered. But it was not from being mistaken for a godling of ice and frost that unsettled him. It was not the plan to see him wed off to a pretty pair of twins that rankled him, but the meat they ate. It was a whole limb, cut at the elbow, but it was not a beast’s limb. Jala aggressively devoured the flesh of the index finger, taking relish in eating clean each digit before moving onto the palm and the forearm.

This was a man’s arm, scarcely any different from his own. Then, his eyes settled on the meat roasted over the bonfire and passed through the hands of the dancing tribemen. Feet, neck, and roast ribs too narrow to belong to an elk or a wild boar. 

These were cannibals, each and every single last of them. Even children as young as three or four were munching on crusty meat from what looked to be a man’s shin. 

Bones were tossed to what looked to be mutts, who were eager to eat what little was left clean.

Jon awoke on the next day, but his body was still numb, though he couldn’t say if it were from the concoction or the lightning strike. He cracked his eyes halfway, studying the tent. His bows and quivers were lying by a particularly thick mammoth bone; even his ringmail, belt, and supplies were there, but Dark Sister was not. It had to be with the chieftain still. 

His mind fled into the skin of the eagle, scouting across the glade and nearby woodland, waiting until darkness gathered. But by nightfall, exhaustion took hold of the eagle, forcing him to perch on a tree.

To his dismay, he awoke at noon again, feeling better than before. But the village was swarming with life, and he could hear the sounds of chatter and men and women going about their day.

Stifling a groan, he forced himself to sleep again. 

The next time he awoke, it was finally night. He could sense his eagle sleeping. 

But a newfound weight was draped over him, and his waist felt sorer than the rest of his body. The scent of pine and honey and something sweet mingled with the woodsmoke, teasing his nose. A curtain of golden curls greeted him as he opened his eyes. 

Fuck.

As he shuffled, a gasp echoed above him, and a pair of wide silvery eyes stared down at him.

It was the slender scar-faced twin… what was her name again? 

Nala.

“Husband,” she said, voice husky as she licked her lips. 

‘I do not remember wedding you,’ he wanted to bite out. 

“Snow,” he rasped out instead, swallowing his anger.

“I will bring the old man—”

“Wait,” Jon croaked. His voice sounded rusty and weak from months of disuse. “Bring me snow and tell no one.” 

She pouted, begging him with her silvery eyes, but he did not budge. At last, she nodded, rising from his furs very much naked. A stream of dried blood caked down her thick thighs… but the rest of her slender body was paler than her face and more shapely than Briar or Ygritte. Draping a bear fur over her shoulders, she disappeared behind the leather hanging over the entrance.

His hands flew to his pants, and he felt relief wash over him like a wave. He hadn’t been eaten. Not in the literal way, at least. 

Nala returned with a handful of snow in a leather wrap and a sleepy yet surprisingly innocent smile plastered on her face. “I serve to please you, husband.” 

Jon wordlessly accepted the leather wrap and poured the snow into his mouth. The numbness in his body receded immediately, but much of the weakness still lingered in his legs. 

Her eyes were filled with concern. “Should I bring ye some food? I still ‘ave some roast left—”

“No,” Jon spat sharply. Nala jerked away as if struck, eyes tearing up like a weaning pup. Swallowing the rising bile in his throat, he forced a smile to his face. “I’m not hungry.”

His belly chose that moment to groan in protest. Heat rushed to his face, but she only nodded, lowering her gaze. 

Jon studied his self-proclaimed wife, trying to shake the numbness in his mind. She looked half-wild, just as pretty as Val but far more obedient. Even now, she stood to attention, naked bar the bear fur draped over her shoulders, waiting for instructions as most wives would. For her looks alone, she rivalled Lady Stark and Cersei Lannister. Many would be eager to fight over such a beauty, eager to possess her and wed her, let alone take her maidenhead.

But Jon had not chosen Nala for a wife. He had not chosen the cannibal maiden for anything. Yet she was obedient… and he could use to his advantage.

“Dress yourself,” he said testily.

Nala did not hesitate to pull up leggings and layers of leather over her body, including a black calf-length tunic that was almost long enough to pass for a gown.

Why was she so obedient? Was it because she believed herself his wife for real? Even now, she would not meet his gaze.

Jon swallowed. “Clothe me.” 

Her fingers and palms were gentle and soft, almost without calluses. Not at all what he expected from a wildling, though she was a chieftain’s daughter. She was quick in this, though her hands lingered on his skin longer than needed. Jon had to force himself not to lean in to her touch… and hated himself for it.

“I… bring me my sword,” he rasped. She hesitated for a long moment, and Jon spoke firmer this time. “Bring me my sword. Quietly.”

Nala nodded, darting through the fur at the entrance.

Jon wasted no time and rushed to his supplies. His dagger was there, tucked in his boots. Great. He strapped a quiver to his belt and was quick to wrap up the rest of his supplies in the bag. He wasted no time, stretching his limbs and stiff back until his joints popped loose. His hand hovered between the two bows and reached for the pale wood. Within a moment, his weirwood recurve was strung, and an arrow was resting on the string.

For a long moment, he was tempted to just leave. It would be easy with the snow outside. They would never find any traces because there would be none, and in the snow, he could cover far more leagues in a day than they ever could.

But he could not abandon Dark Sister.

His mind was cast out like a net, feeling the snow outside. The eagle was of no help in the night.

His awareness stretched thin until it covered the whole village. A hundred and twenty-three souls. Over a dozen were hounds. Thirteen of them, and all had feasted on manflesh just like the cannibals. Jon forced his mind into theirs, robbing them of their will. They resisted at first, but not as hard as he had feared. Soon, he had eyes inside the great hall. Seven wildling man-eaters were asleep here, sprawled across furs on the floor, including Jala, the plumper twin, snoring up a storm near the far end of the hall.

Nala had just slipped into the hall, her movements slow and her mind full of… turmoil. 

He tensed as she slowly inched towards the chieftain, ready to set all the beasts to attack. Her father, the chieftain.

Yet Nala did not stir him awake. She slipped into a small room behind and emerged with Dark Sister’s sword belt, ruby hilt poking out of the sheath. Nala froze, eyes wide as she beheld the mutts all staring at her, but when they made no move, she slowly left. Jon could feel the drumming of her heart all the way from here, though.

Ten minutes later, she slipped into the tent, hands trembling as she offered up Dark Sister’s hilt to him. His bow finally lowered, and the arrow was returned to his quiver.

A shaky smile plastered on her face, she looked his way as if expecting praise. “Here, husband.”

“Thank you,” Jon said as he tied the swordbelt across his waist. “Now, I must leave. I do not belong here, Nala.”

Nala grabbed his hand, tears pooling into those silvery eyes as she beheld him. The fear was oozing from her mind. “Don’t leave Nala, husband. Take me with ye. I will give you strong sons—”

He placed a finger on her quivering mouth. The moment the thought entered his mind, he saw her again, sinking her teeth into a forearm with relish. 

“I… I’ll be back,” he lied, each word burning like hot coals on his tongue. “…But the gods demand I must go on a long, arduous journey you cannot survive.”

She nodded her head so quickly she looked like a squirrel.

“I will wait for you, husband,” she whispered obediently. “Kiss.”

Jon stiffly lowered himself, sealing her mouth with his. Her lips were too soft for something that had eagerly devoured manflesh. She was prettier than Briar, and far more eager and yet that kiss… it felt hollow. 

Turning away, he cursed himself for the moment of weakness. Bag tied over his shoulders, he slipped out of the entrance and into the snow. 

“Godling is fleein’!” a sleepy voice bellowed. The village stirred to life with curses and mutterings, but it was too late. Jon had already climbed over the makeshift southern gate, rushing southward through the snowy woodland as fast as his feet could carry him. 

A pang of guilt rose within, thinking of Nala. Would they blame her for his escape?

She had given herself to him, but he had no part of it. The wrongness of it lingered in his mind, as did the image of her devouring manflesh. Gods, he shouldn’t have cared, and yet… yet he did.

There was innocence in her, an innocence that should have found no purchase on this side of the Wall, completely ajar with the customs of her ilk. It reminded him of Sansa. Fuck.

Gods, his mind was a mess, and his heart was no better.

His feet refused to stop even when dawn broke, though the tension bled out of his body as exhaustion slowly crept into his flesh. He stripped naked and rushed into the gushing waters of a cool waterfall, his hands scrubbing over his skin. Yet he felt dirty no matter how hard he scrubbed—even with stone. 

It was only once his skin grew raw that he had the sense to halt. 

His limbs felt sore, his flesh ached—partly because of his own folly, and his belly grumbled with even more eagerness. He had checked his supplies, but what little remained of his cold meat was gone.

‘This is not far enough,’ Jon decided. Less than ten leagues was not enough distance between him and the cannibals.

He bent the mind of a snow hare as he slid through the snow. Within a minute, he was drinking its warm blood and tearing into its raw flesh, but his feet still carried him further south without stopping. He could have stopped to get a fire going and roast the beast, but that would leave a trace. It might allow them to catch up.

More. 

He needed to get further away.

Before long, even the snow on the ground thinned until it gave way to packed dirt, though patches of white still dotted the forest. Soon, the sun tore through the cloudy sky, but Jon pulled up his hood and continued.

Jon blinked awake, feeling his legs dreadfully sore. Had he walked himself to exhaustion?

The sound of crinkling water and wetness spreading through his boots chased away any drowsiness. He was on a rivershore. And then, there was a low, guttural growl coming from above him that drove him to alarm.

He blinked, only to see a shaggy black tail standing to attention. A wolf’s tail. 

Within a moment, Jon leapt to his feet, drawing Dark Sister. Yet the black, shaggy beast was not facing him but a snow bear twice the size of a destrier, grunting as it paced across the nearby treeline.

The wolf’s mind was… oddly familiar. Friendly, even. When the white bear stood up on its back feet and reared up with a roar, the wolf did not budge. Its growl only grew deeper. The snow bear let out a snort, lowering itself, pacing across the treeline, as if looking for a weakness.

Not taking eyes off the bear, Jon unstrapped his bag to the rocky rivershore. With slow, gradual motions, he picked the dragonbone bow out and strung it. His fingers found the arrows in the quiver, and with one practised motion, Jon moved. 

Twang.

Twang.

Twang.

A pained roar tore through the forest as the bear charged again. 

Twang

The beast’s charge lost strength, and its form crumbled with a thud ten yards from him.

Two feathered shafts were sticking out of its left eye and one in its right; grey and steaming blood dribbled down its snout. 

The direwolf turned around, jumping around Jon with a tail now wagging. One good blue eye, one blinded milky eye with a claw scar, and the tip of his left ear was missing. Probably bitten off. 

“It’s you again,” he said, exasperated. 

That only got him a happy bark in return.

But the direwolf was no longer a hapless pup but a lean beast that reached his navel on four feet, large enough to even give a newly awakened snow bear a pause. He would grow larger still, Jon knew.

He glanced at the arrows poking out of the bear but made no move to retrieve them. Instead, he nocked another on his string and turned to face the river.

“Show yourself,” Jon called out, steel arrow tip pointing at a shrubbery across the shallow creek, nestled across a pair of mossy rocks. “I know you’re there.”

The tinkling of water was his answer.

“Come out,” he yelled, drawing the string, “unless you want an arrow sticking out of your chest. My wolf here will chase you down if you try to run.”

As if understanding his words, the direwolf growled, baring his fangs.

“I’m comin’ out,” a youthful voice came through. 

Then, the shrubbery shuffled, and an auburn-haired boy rose from it, cursing under his breath something that sounded like damn snow-cursed.

Thickset, with broad shoulders and meaty arms peeking out of a striped boar-cloak, he would have looked formidable if he hadn’t been nearly a whole head shorter than Jon. Yet there… was something oddly familiar to him in that boyish face.

“How’d you know I was hiding there?” he asked with a frown as he hopped through the rocks sticking out of the creek. “I left no trace and stood against the wind.”

Jon slowly released the string, returning the arrow to his quiver. There was no animosity or ill intent in the boy before him, but one could never be too safe. His bow was set aside, his hand resting on Dark Sister’s hilt. “I’m asking the questions here. State your name and purpose.”

“Name’s Tormund.” The intruder awkwardly rubbed his neck, muttering something beneath his nose. 

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”  

“Said… I wanted to get your ringmail after the bear took a bite,” Tormund muttered, averting his gaze. “And the sword. But the bloody wolf kept it away.”

That was Tormund, alright. No longer an old bag full of wind, but a young bag… still full of wind. Still short and slightly more honest than he expected, too, but wildling to the bone.

…Why was he feeling so fond?

“Help me skin and gut the bear,” Jon said after a moment, thumb stabbing at the carcass behind him. “And I’ll let you have the pelt and half the meat.” 

The direwolf let out a piteous whine beside him. The bastard’s eyes settled over the shaggy beast, who looked like he had no intention of leaving. He couldn’t bring himself to chase the beast away either. He slowly reached out in his mind, then felt the thread come to life. 

Within a heartbeat, it was thicker, more solid and far stronger than any other he had established.

“A third of the meat,” the bastard amended. 

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

The air stank of sweat and wine and ale. From the far wall, a bawdy song carried from the half-drunken bard, muffled by the sound of a dozen conversations.

It was a novel experience… though not one Rhaella disliked. Men talked about everything and anything, boasted and laughed and argued… and there was more honesty in this brick lounge than in the whole of the Red Keep. 

Most importantly, she could hear some rather fascinating things.

“Elna is getting wedded in a sennight.” 

“Old Jack’s cabbages are cheapest in the whole city, I swear.”

“Another ship sent to Lys didn’t return. My brother bet all of his hard-earned coin on that venture!”

“Ser Addam Rosby is innocent,” some old man was saying, waving wildly with his hand. “He was a gentle soul. No way he coulda killed a Frey, I say.”

The sellsword groaned into his cup. “As innocent as a wolf in a sheep’s pen, Elrik. Everyone knew he was a jealous man and fancied Lady Emerald.”

“Aye, he wanted to buy her out as his mistress, not strangle her with some weasel’s son…”

“All knights are the same,” a thickset washerwoman spat to the side. “Ser Addam is innocent of that murder, aye, but only because he was fucking the miller’s wife—mark my words.”

A scar-faced man chuckled. “Aye, you have the right o’ it. Heard they can make anyone guilty in the Black Cells, and Ser Addam lingered there for over a moon.”

Fascinating. A few minutes in the inn was far more fruitful than anything courtiers whispered in the Red Keep, though the truthfulness of their words was dubious. 

“Two more whores were found dead last week,” the plump innkeeper leaned in, whispering to her. “Each one with doors locked from the inside and shutters closed. They’re saying a ghost did it.”

“Ghosts don’t exist, Jasen,” Rhaella said flatly. Not outside your dreams.

“Aye, but the city watch dropped the bodies. Said it’s suicide again, m’lady Lyanna.”

That made for eleven whores dead under mysterious circumstances.

Rhaella shuffled deeper into her cloak. Nobody had spoken of this in the Red Keep. But her unease barely showed, not beneath layers of linen and a deep cowl with a veil that would hide her face regardless. 

“Whores are rarely driven to suicide so young,” Branda muttered from her side. “They either die from some disease or grow ugly enough to be thrown out and starve.”

Jasen shrugged, wiping a tankard with his dirty rag that only made it dirtier. “Nobody asks many questions ‘bout dead whores. Want some Tyroshi pear mix, m’lady?”

“Give me something with peaches instead,” she said after a long moment of hesitation. 

“Here.” A small cup of foamy amber liquid was slapped before her. “Ripe peach liquor made by my Da. Distilled it himself.”

Pushing aside the veil, she took a brave swallow and almost choked. Her throat burned, and her eyes began to water. Warmth spread through her body like a forest wildfire.

“I-It’s strong,” she coughed out. Too strong.

Branda’s face remained hidden by the cloak, but Rhaella could feel the amusement radiating from her handmaiden. 

Half an hour later, the two of them shuffled through the streets, shadowed by Jarod Snow. A young bastard hailing from the Liddle clan of the North, one of the two sworn swords Branda’s father had left with her.

“I told you buying an inn would pay off,” Branda said, lifting her chin high.

Rhaella merely nodded. It had been a clever enough plan that allowed her a deeper insight into the city, and that alone opened new possibilities to her. It was not as good as skinchanging, but she had yet to master that. To her dismay, the previous crow she had tamed had been mauled to death by Vhagar. 

Before long, they slipped into the hubbub of the swarming streets. The king’s name-day approached, and the nearby lords were flocking into the city in anticipation of the coming tourney. 

Each lord brought at least three knights with two squires each, just as many cooks, a dozen men-at-arms and a small host of servants. Masterless hedge-knights came in droves from each corner of the realm, looking for a worthy master to seek the winner’s purse.

The rancid stench of fish struck her like a hammer the moment they approached Fishmonger’s Square. Fishes of all sizes and colours, and even sliced tentacles and opened clams, were put on a colourful display across the stands. Carts cracked in through the River Gate, groaning under the weight of rare goods from across the Narrow Sea, though not half as plentiful as they had been last year.

Her eyes studied every nook, every cranny, every face, but found a thousand men who looked the right size to hide under that black cloak. The plotter was probably not here. Then, there was the silver head standing out like a sore thumb amidst the crowd. 

It was Maegor, haggling over the price of what looked to be a sword from an Essosi man. Qohorik, most likely. Rhaella watched closely, seeking something… but failed to find it. Even most knights would deign to haggling beneath them, as it was a woman or a steward’s job…or worse, a merchant. Her cousin was being his usual eccentric self, and he often spent his days around the River Gate as the steward of the docks.

Branda followed her gaze and tilted her head. “Does the prince intend to take part in the melee?” 

“Woe to him if he did,” Rhaella snorted. “Or perhaps he might have a slight chance at the squire’s melee.”

“If all the older squires are half-drunk and fight with one hand, mayhaps.”

“The man besides him is dangerous,” Jarod said, eyes set on a warrior with a swarthier complexion and the pulled eyes of Yi Ti.

“How’d you know?” the princess asked.

The Northern bastard shrugged. “Just a feeling. Reminds me of that fucker Osric Wull—pardon me for the language—”

Rhaella cleared her throat loudly. “There’s nothing wrong with your language,” she said pointedly, tilting her head towards the surrounding crowd. 

“Right.” Jarod gave her a sheepish smile. “Osric Wull… he’s a man who never runs from a fight. A crotchety warrior who has widowed many an ironman and lopped off the heads of twice as many wildlings. He dares to fight anyone and everything and just refuses to die. Everyone in the Northern mountains avoids crossing his path. My uncle said he wrestled a cave-bear over a blueberry bush and won.”

The princess stifled a chuckle, but the bastard was dead serious. 

“I heard the same,” Branda added.

Slipping back inside the Red Keep was laughably easy once you knew the levers and where to go and what to push and press. There was a secret tunnel leading from the Tower of the Hand to the mouth of the Blackwater Rush that Rhaella had discovered last moon. It was the more pleasant option—the passageway she had found led to the entrance of the sewers and stank worse than death. 

It would have been handier if there had been tunnels in Maegor’s Holdfast, but if there were any, she had yet to find them. The three rats she had used to explore all the passageways had been eaten by one of the many cats prowling in the Red Keep.

Rhaella shrugged off her cloak and smoothed the skirts of her travel gown. Branda and the Northern bastard had remained behind. Their presence at the docks and the city streets would not invite any scrutiny, just like the entry in and out of the Red Keep. It was far harder to explain inviting a bastard into the lady’s parlour in the Tower of the Hand, too. 

“You were not inside earlier, princess,” Ser Gerold said coolly as she slipped out the parlour’s door. 

Her throat tightened. His pale eyes were sharp and full of judgment as they bore down on her, always making her feel small.

“You must have seen wrongly,” said Rhaella, voice tight.

The knight quirked a brow. “My eyes have yet to fail me. This is no laughing matter, princess—a maiden alone is vulnerable to all who wish her ill, let alone a princess of the blood.”

“That is true.” Rhaella let out a long sigh. “Yet your vows of loyalty and secrecy are only to the king, not to me. Guarding me is just another task of many that the king or the Lord Commander might grant you, not your most solemn duty. It is not that I do not trust you, Ser Gerold, but I cannot ask of you to sunder the oaths that you have given for my personal satisfaction.”

“Do you not trust your grandsire?”

Green, hungry flames rushing across the ballroom. Screams of pain and despair. Death, mingling with the cries of a baby.

Rhaella gave him a brittle smile. “I only trust myself. The king’s duty lies with the realm, not the meagre fate of a single princess.”

Ser Gerold inclined his helmet. “You speak wisely, princess. But it was not I who sought you out earlier.  The king invited you to witness the execution.”

“Do you think Ser Addam Rosby is guilty, ser?” Was this another farce to appease the Freys?

“The man confessed. That is enough.”

A non-answer. If the Hightower knight held any opinion in the matter, he held it hidden deep beneath his white armour. Rhaella knew better than to press.

A Frey’s demise got a royal investigation. Whores mysteriously dying didn’t even get a mention—unless the whore in question was stark naked and in the embrace of a dead lord’s son. ‘I want to make the lives of all my subjects better,’ Aegon had once told her.

Better. It sounded grand, noble… and only rang hollow in her ears now.

The lauded royal justice and fairness were no better than words in the wind.

There was no connection to the Red Keep’s murders, nothing that would put a confectioner, a sweeper, or a septon together with young prostitutes and yet… this had only started happening after the deaths in the Red Keep had halted. That alone made her unable to dismiss it so easily. The whole thing made her sad, too.

How hard was it for everyone to be dutiful and get along?

Rhaella let out a soft sigh, smoothing her skirt again. She wanted nothing more than to get to her bed and get some shut-eye, but instead said, “Lead the way, ser.”

Author’s Endnote: Whew. Jon has a wild, unexpected adventure. Rhaella’s dipping deeper into the cesspit that is King’s Landing.