25.A Den of Vipers

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Wandering Bastard

 “This is bloody slow,” Tormund groaned, looking at the winding queue that disappeared into the gatehouse before them. 

They had barely moved ten yards in the last half an hour, and his squire had begun to grow impatient. 

“Patience is a virtue,” Daeron chided, as he petted his donkey without a care in the world. 

Tormund scowled, and while he ceased his complaints, he dismounted and kept shuffling, quite unable to keep still.

As they waited for their turn to enter, Jon studied the gatehouse and the city’s curtain wall, hewn out of child-sized sandstone blocks mortared together. Without even a dry moat, the defences weren’t as formidable as Winterfell’s ramparts, but he estimated they were at least fifty feet high, with the wide gatehouse tower nearing eighty—more than enough to halt an army. More than enough to stump most forces attempting to take the city by storm, too.

It was said that the city had seven gates. The seven gates were both the city’s weakness and its strength. In the event of a siege, it left a chance to resupply through the gates facing the sea and the river, and it would force any enemy to spread their forces to surround the city and blockade it by both land and sea, lest they risk being flanked in every assault or starved out by the defenders. At the same time, seven gates meant seven entrances in the curtain walls that absolutely had to be defended, and if the defenders lacked a sufficient number…

The Conqueror had not put much thought into this matter, nor did he have to. With a curtain wall in place to pin down and slow the enemy, any dragonrider could just fly out, crushing any host daring enough to seize the city. But that era had long since come to an end; more than a century had passed since the last dragon perished, and the era where a dragonlord could dominate the realm was long gone.  

Jon remembered those rumours from back then about Daenerys hatching three dragons; they were just that—rumours. In this different time, it meant even less for Jon… or so he thought until he heard the hushed chatter from the two cabbage peddlers before him.

“…Heard the princess and the king appeared with dragons in court.”

His companion was aghast.

“Did you drink too much Dornish red, Meryn? You can’t fool me this time. I heard these beasts were the size of a tower-house. How can they ever appear in court?”

“Pah! I haven’t a lick. Naturally, they didn’t show off a fully grown dragon but a new hatchling—”

“What does that have to do with us? You should worry about the sales permit. Old Anton said that it’s even harder to get one now, and the gold cloaks loom over every stall, as if expecting it would explode in green fire!”

They turned to whispers then, and Jon could only share a bewildered look with Daeron, who had also been listening with great interest. 

“What do you think, benefactor?” he asked with an odd expression on his face. “Do you think the king truly managed to bring back dragons in the world?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Jon said. “But even if they did, it’d be years before they’re grown enough to be dangerous and decades until they can turn armies into a charred graveyard. Perhaps it’s just some wild rumour.”

He still remembered those fools at the watch claiming he had become a beast in a man’s skin, being controlled by his own wolf, and clamouring for his death. Whether this was malicious slander, a baseless rumour, or the truth, it didn’t really matter. It was yet another change, but he had grown numb to it. The future as he knew it was gone.

“A wild rumour?” Daeron cocked his head. “It doesn’t feel so simple. I have already felt a profound change ripple through the world. But benefactor is right. Rushing to conclusions is ill-advised.”

Tormund nudged his horse closer. “Are these dragons truly that impressive?”

“Very,” said Jon. He had briefly mentioned dragons to his squire in his history lessons, but Tormund had been struggling to stay awake at the time, just after a full day of travel and a laborious evening of training. “They never stop growing, can live over two hundred years, and can fly and breathe magical fire. Their scales harden with time, turning them impervious to spears and arrows.”

“I want one,” the boy said without hesitation.  

It was the priest who responded, “Many dream of the very same thing, but their wishes matter little in this. Dragons are dangerous beasts, only mastered by the Forty of Valyria. After the Doom, only House Targaryen remained to soar the skies, and since the Conquest, dragons have been a symbol of royal power and prestige, and you must be born into it.”  

Tormund huffed, looking rather unconvinced. 

Daeron wasn’t quite right in this, though it wasn’t quite false either. To master a dragon, one didn’t need to be born into the royal family; only to have enough dragonblood to approach a dragon without being killed—the Red Sowing showed as much. But even that chance to approach was granted with royal permission, only due to the inevitable Dance looming over the realm.

That had nothing to do with his squire, though.

“Daeron is not wrong,” Jon said, giving the boy a solemn look. “Even if you do find a dragon, chances are it’s going to eat you or roast you alive the moment you dare to approach.”

“Forget about it, then,” Tormund muttered sourly.  

Jon further explained what he knew about dragons, with Daeron chiming in, surprisingly knowledgeable in matters of history, but in hindsight, it shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. Daeron was a classical Valyrian name, and those purple eyes spoke of a lineage to match, and most clergymen weren’t much worse than scholars in knowledge and learning.

This time, his squire was listening with rapt attention. ‘It’s no easy thing to teach someone,’ Jon thought ruefully. At least Tormund showed some interest in the things that would interest most boys.

Before long, they finally reached the gate.

Ten gold cloaks in ringmail barred the way, with a man clad in half-plate and a bored expression standing at the front. “A silver stag to enter the city mounted,” he said slowly. His eyes lingered on Jon’s bony-white hair, then flicked between the wrapped bows on his back and Dark Sister’s hilt poking out of his swordbelt. “Three for an armed man.”

Daeron frowned. “It was just two copper stars before.”

“You must’ve been on foot back then.” The guard shot the priest a sharp look. “The king declared war on Blackfyre and the Band of Nine, so in times of war, the price is naturally higher. Hurry now, pay for the entry or get lost.”

Jon wordlessly fished out five coins from his purse and handed them over. One of the guards guided them through the gate into the city.

The streets in King’s Landing were overflowing, and even Wintertown in his memory hadn’t been half as full during winter. Just in a scant few minutes, Jon had seen more souls in the square past the gate than all his life. 

The stench inside King’s Landing was even stronger, overwhelming to the point that even Tormund’s eyes began to water. Jon suppressed the wave of nausea that bubbled in his chest and envied Shadow, who had chosen to stay in a small woodland nearby, lying down in a bed of wildflowers.

“Benefactor,” Daeron called out, seemingly unaffected by the choking stink. “What is the plan now?”

The priest had followed him honestly, without any impatience, taking joy in the sights and relishing each small matter from the simplest grilling of fish to the talks with Tormund, not asking of Jon’s goals even once. This had worn down much of Jon’s initial wariness and suspicion, and more than a fortnight later, this was the first time Daeron had asked about his goals.

Jon deliberately reached out to pat his sword’s hilt. “I have to return this sword to its rightful owner,” he said in a low voice. ‘Dark Sister,’ he mouthed silently, observing the priest’s expression for any hint of greed or scheming. Here, in the bustling street of King’s Landing, even if the priest wanted to try some trickery, it would be hard to pull off in front of so many eyes.

Daeron’s eyes widened by a fraction, but he quickly recovered.

“I already suspected, benefactor.” The priest inclined his head, mirth glimmering in his purple eyes. “The bow, the skills to go with it, and the hair are quite the conspicuous combination, achieved by only one man. Now two, I suppose.”

Jon stifled a grimace. It was true: with his colouring and archery, no matter how hard he explained, and even if his tongue were made of silver, many would draw the same conclusion. Even now, many passersby threw him looks of curiosity, mixed with caution and wariness, their eyes lingering on his bone-white hair.

“I’m far from achieving the heights Lord Bloodraven had climbed,” Jon said weakly.

Daeron laughed boisterously. “You sell yourself short. I doubt Brynden Rivers was half as good as you are at the same age. A young man in his twenties still has plenty of room to grow.”

Jon decided to keep silent about his true age. Though his nameday no longer quite mattered, and his exact age was rather confusing, he estimated he had spent a little more than a year since he came to this time, and thus his age ought to be about eight and ten. Though with his lean stature, height just over six feet, and scarred face, it was no big surprise to be confused for someone older. 

They took one of the bustling streets, slowly making their way deeper into the city. Tormund finally recovered, gawking at the sheer prosperity of the city and for good reason. It was little wonder—this city alone probably held as many souls as the territory beyond the Wall could muster, if not more. Jon felt a surging sense of awe that wasn’t much different from his squire, though he could control his emotions better.

Even wooden buildings were layered with white plaster, and many houses and manses were hewn out of sandstone, with slate or clay-tiled roofs. Two hills loomed on both sides of the street, Jon barely glanced at the great building of white marble to the right—neither the Great Sept of Baelor nor the Faith interested him much. To his left was a slightly larger hill with an even greater castle-like structure, its walls blackened, and its huge dome collapsed in ruins. The Dragonpit.

Beyond them, on the far end of the city, lay Aegon’s High Hill, the tallest of the three, crowned by the Red Keep overlooking everything.

Most men, women, and children wore bright, colourful garments, turning into a feast of colours Jon had never seen before. In the squares, peddlers had set up stalls, displayed trinkets, food, and even exotic items from Essos that Jon had only heard of, never seen in Winterfell. The war had yet to affect them all, but that was no surprise; the fighting had yet to begin, and even though the king had called the banners, mustering a great host was no small feat and took months.

Here, in the surging crowd, very few spared a glance at his hair; instead, they went about their day.

“So this is a city,” Tormund murmured, eyes drinking in everything.

Daeron chuckled. “It only looks impressive because you have yet to see better. King’s Landing is a fledgling compared to the behemoths that are the Free Cities. It pales before Qarth, the Queen of Cities, and the Bright Capital of Yin.”

“I don’t believe it,” the boy said, glancing at the priest with naked suspicion. “Tell him, master.”

“He’s not wrong,” Jon said softly. “King’s Landing is impressive, yes, but it’s but a mere babe compared to the cities Daeron listed. They all have a few millennia of heritage. Qarth and Yin are said to be as old as the Wall itself. Maybe even older than Oldtown and Storm’s End.”

Tormund opened his mouth and closed it a few times, but no words ever came out. His eyes were clouded with confusion and disbelief. They rode through the crowd in silence, passing betwixt the two great hills and slowly nearing Aegon’s High Hill.

“Entering the Red Keep is no easy feat, benefactor,” Daeron spoke. “The king has lost a wife and three children in the Green Calamity and will have grown wary even without this war. The guard will have doubled or tripled, and even rats won’t be able to go in without royal permission.”

Daeron’s words soon proved prophetic. 

The great bronze gate of the Red Keep was even more guarded than the city gate; while it was still open, three dozen men stood in a wall of steel and flesh, blocking all those who wished to enter. 

A knight, clad in a lobstered plate polished so finely it glimmered like silver, stood in front. His surcoat was plain, blazoned with a small red three-headed dragon on the left—livery for men sworn to service to a house. With his face hidden beneath a visored helmet, it was hard to read the man.

“Halt!” His voice boomed across the air, and all of the men-at-arms stirred, either with spears hefted, ready to strike, or with their mailed fists resting on their sword hilts. “If you wish to fight in the war, you must go to the war camp outside the city to enlist. They recruit sellswords and volunteers alike, and if your skills are decent enough, you won’t go without coin.”

Jon flexed his right hand, instinctively reaching for his sword hilt.

“I’m not here for the fighting, ser,” Join said coolly, fingers passing over Dark Sister and pulling out the scroll tucked beside it instead. “I have come here with an important message for the king’s eyes only—”

The knight snorted. 

“And I’m Serwyn of the Mirror Shield.” His voice thickened with disdain. “I’ve seen plenty of you cunning lot, wishing to get the king’s ear and curry royal favour. If you truly wish to see the king, you must petition the court.”

Daeron cleared his throat, nudging his donkey forward. “And when will court be held next?”

The knight studied the priest with a heavy frown. “In ten days.”

Jon wheeled his steed around and left. His squire and the priest were quick to follow. 

“What a cunt,” Tormund exclaimed, voice dripping with indignation. “I bet he’s as ugly as a turd squeezed from a goat’s arse underneath that helmet.”

Daeron roared in laughter, and even Jon allowed himself a rare chuckle. 

After cursing for a whole minute, Tormund had vented enough and twisted around, throwing one last glance at the pink-red walls looming in the distance. “We’re no longer returning the sword?”

“The blade must still be returned,” Jon said. “I gave my word, and I will not break it. Besides, it’d be wise to purchase a new sword first. I heard the smiths here are the realm’s finest.”  

He wondered if Aemon had even sent a raven. Even if he did, it would be a long, perilous flight from Castle Black to King’s Landing. But Jon was inclined to think no raven had been sent at all. The old maester had been content to keep himself completely removed from the affairs of the realm, and the letter in Jon’s belt was probably the limit of his aid.

“You want more,” Daeron said with an amused smile.  

“Oh?”  

“If you merely wished to return the sword, you’d draw the blade, state its name openly, and with
dragonsteel in the open and royal heirloom as the stakes, even the guards would have to report directly to the king, no matter how strict their orders.” 

Truth be told, Jon had thought things would be simpler. In Winterfell, even if the most common of men wished to petition Lord Stark, the procedure was simple—first, they brought their petition to the local steward, and if the issue could not be solved, a meeting was arranged at the pleasure of Lord Stark. And the lords of Winterfell knew their duties and never let any issues linger for long. If lucky, a petitioner could meet the Stark on the same day.  

In Castle Black, it was even simpler to meet the Lord Commander. Newcomers were rare, and those who came on their own volition were even rarer. 

But it seemed matters were different in King’s Landing. Brynden could have taught him such matters and much more, but Jon had focused more on martial pursuits and sorcery.

He gave the priest a sheepish smile. “In truth, I didn’t think of that. But while returning the blade that way will certainly be simple, delivering my letter, let alone seeing the king, would still be quite hard. Perhaps by the time the sword reaches the royal hands, my name will have long since been omitted. You are quite right. I want more. While returning the heirloom is the righteous thing to do, why can’t I leverage a good deed to make something more out of myself?” 

“That’s right,” Daeron nodded solemnly. “If a good deed brings no fortune, who would dare walk the righteous path? But if you wish to meet the king and make the return in person, it won’t be so simple.”

“Indeed. But there is no need for haste. A misstep might invite unwanted scrutiny or even greed. Dragonsteel is priceless beyond measure.” Jon hesitated for a short moment. “Do you have a way to get an audience with the king? Preferably one that doesn’t wait ten days for the king to hold court.”

The priest scratched his brow. “I’m just a barefoot priest,” he said with a wry smile. “My connections on this side of the Narrow Sea are no better than any pauper on the street. But there are some fellow star-seekers like me in the city. I can try my luck with them. You can attend to your other matters in the meanwhile.”

“Good. Suppose I’ll have to look for a place to spend the night, while at it. Let us reconvene again on the steps of the Dragonpit at twilight.”

---

Getting a new sword was easy enough in the Street of Steel, and Jon left with a new bastard sword on his hip and a good poplar shield on his back, rimmed in iron and covered with tanned hide on both sides. Jon had gone to the ‘third-best’ smithy; the quality of the armament was no worse than what Mikken could forge, and even slightly better. As for why he did not go to the best or second-best smithy?

Qeyn’s Divine Armaments was not only gaudy in appearance, but the queue in front of it stretched for a full third of the street of steel, and Arold’s Crimson Forge was only slightly less crowded. With war declared, good armament was in high demand, and even the most niggardly knight would loosen their purse to purchase a better sword or piece of armour if they could afford it. 

Predictably, the sheer number of smithies in the Street of Steel had awed his squire, and even Jon found himself quite impressed. Winterfell had one smithy, with a single master smith (up to two or three in the past) and a handful of apprentices. Though the surrounding holdfasts had their small smithies, it could hardly compare to the sheer number present in a single street. With sufficient iron, hundreds of swords could be forged each day with ease. If they worked hard, two, maybe three hundred sets of brigandine would definitely be possible. 

In a year, a host could be clad from head to toe in steel, and in half a decade, a whole army could have arms and armament. 

This was the power of the royal seat. A mere possibility did not seem impressive at first, nor could it quite compare to the Reach’s sheer numerical might or the wealth of the Westerlands, but it was no less dangerous. With the kingswood nearby, the forges would never lack for charcoal, and with abundant raw iron from Massey’s Hook, steel armament could be forged with no end.

Tormund, with a silly smile plastered all over his face, was gently patting the short arming sword held in his free hand. From time to time, he would draw the live steel and admire it.

“Stop it,” Jon said coldly. “A sword is no child’s toy to be played around with. Worse—you’re scaring the crowd. Even the gold cloaks are watching you with caution.”

Surely enough, a pair of city watchmen at the end of the street observed Tormund with narrowed eyes.

His squire had the decency to blush and return his blade to the swordbelt. 

The purchase of arms had gone smoothly enough, and just as Jon thought fortune was finally smiling upon him, disappointment struck back. The next few hours were spent going from inn to inn, visiting every tavern in search of a place to stay. But each was full of patrons, and every proprietor said the same thing, “All rooms are taken. Business is booming with so many knights and sellswords in the city.”

Jon roamed through the city from wall to wall, but all the inns were overflowing, even the lowliest of holes.

As the sun tumbled west and the shadows lengthened, Jon had a prickling feeling at his neck, as if someone was watching him. But the moment he glanced about with suspicion, the feeling disappeared, only to return a few moments later. Whoever was observing him was very cautious. More and more of the passersby threw him glances, and more than one looked at him with no small amount of fright. 

Jon frowned. 

It could only be his colouring that made him appear like Bloodraven writ young.

Since he felt no malice, he tried to ignore the stares and, to some extent, succeeded, but he kept his vigilance up. 

As darkness began to gather, they made their way up Rhaenys’s Hill, stopping near the entrance of the looming Dragonpit. The place was now guarded by a handful of royal men-at-arms, standing watch, the clangour of hammers and chisels and work echoing from behind the ajar doors even in the dim light of the sunset.

With such urgent repairs… perhaps there was some truth to the hatching of dragons. 

Just as the last light of the sun vanished to the west, a cloaked figure atop a donkey rode up the winding path. 

Daeron dismounted, face filled with regret. “I’m afraid my fellow star-seekers were not of much help, benefactor. Under the Faith’s choking presence, they barely get by in the city, with no time to forge any connections in the royal court. But I did find that the king no longer holds court; his new Darklyn Hand presides over it. And…” The priest hesitated for a long moment. 

“And what?” Tormund prompted impatiently. 

“Even if we go to court, we’d have to wait far more than ten days. The number of waiting petitioners has swelled, and even if we go to a steward to log out our name for petitions, without connections, we might have to wait for moons before we even see the insides of the Red Keep.”

“Pah. Months of waiting? I’d rather go and enlist at the war camp.”

For a moment, Jon found himself tempted. With the king retreating from court, winning royal favour would be harder than ever. But simply joining the king’s host with no backing meant he’d be a rootless duckweed, with no connections and under the command of someone unknown, who wouldn’t hesitate to throw him into a bloody slog.

“Let us not act with haste just yet,” Jon said, voice tight. “I believe there will surely be other ways to catch the royal eye, if even for a moment. But first, we have a greater problem to solve: room and board. All the inns and taverns are full to the brim, and I can’t even purchase a night of sleep in the stables—those are full, too. Besides, even if you wish to enlist in the army, they’d not care to take a short, half-trained squire such as you.”

“Ha! Their loss, then.” Despite his bluster, Tormund’s shoulders sagged. “If not a tavern… are we going to spend the night outside in some hedge? It’s dry enough, so perhaps even a good patch of grass would do.”

“There’s no need to leave the city and waste more coin on entry the day after. The Church of Starry Wisdom owns an old warehouse we can use to spend the night.”

Tormund’s belly growled loudly. “Err… what of food?”

“We’ll make do with the hardtack we have for now,” Jon decided. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure something else out. Perhaps purchase a few fish from some fishmonger—the price ought to be cheap with the river and the sea right beside the city. As for the warehouse… it’ll do for the night.”

Daeron wheeled the monkey and led them through the maze of streets while Tormund grumbled under his breath. 

Once they descended from the hill, Daeron took a left turn, moving into a now half-empty street. Then, he took another turn into a small, twisted alleyway. The cobblestones beneath soon gave way to packed dirt and refuse, and the stench in the air thickened. Stench of refuse now mixed with pigsties, tanneries, and sour wine. Houses were smaller here, most either leaning perilously as if about to fall, dilapidated, or both. 

Many wary gazes pierced into his back like daggers, some filled with fear, but there was some greed and malice. Jon’s hand released the saddle and rested on Dark Sister’s hilt instead, throwing a cold glance at the half-open shutter where the greed was oozing for.  

The gaze immediately shrank away.

“This is Fleabottom,” the priest said, stopping before a small, windowless shack with a roof that looked about to collapse. A rather new fence separated a small yard filled with weeds from the front. “And this humble shack shall serve as our refuge.”

“You call this an old shack, old man?” Tormund grunted, staring at a hole in the roof. “I’ve seen better-looking ruins.” 

Jon’s mouth twitched. “Are you sure this was used for a warehouse?” 

The priest shrugged. “Maybe a century past. It was abandoned for a reason, you see—Fleabottom tends to grow and shrink by the decade. But it does have a small pen for horses.”

The pen in question had lost its roof some decades ago, reduced to old, half-rotten stalls. Dismounting, he gave a sign to Tormund, who led the horses away.  

Jon pushed through the weeds, approaching the shack’s entrance and pushed open the worn-down slab of wood that served as a door. The rusty creak revealed a stench of rot and mould—the flooring was long gone, exposing sand, debris, and dirt beneath.

“I’m more surprised some band of street rats hasn’t taken this place over,” Jon said, sitting next to a solid wooden beam to lay his back upon.

“Some of my fellow priests… aren’t as kind as me,” Daeron said quietly, settling in a corner. “The gods amongst the stars have infinite wisdom, but they can be cold and cruel. Those foolish enough to think they can steal from the Church never end well. Anyway, this place is still Fleabottom and not quite safe. I’ll stay watch tonight.”

Jon nodded, but that did not stop him from unwrapping his weirwood bow and slotting one string. He lay down, shuffling until he found the most comfortable position facing the entrance, and then placed his hand on his sword-hilt. While his newly purchased steel blade was placed aside, he kept the shield within reach.

Tormund came twice, hauling over the reins and saddles in turn, and on the third time, he lay down on a patch of rotten wood, wrapping himself with his thick travel cloak. Daeron rose, locking the old door with the iron latch.

Jon cast out his senses by habit, but the cacophony of lives and thoughts lingering in the air almost overwhelmed him. Thousands of souls were easily within a hundred yards reach, many crammed by three or four into the small cell-sized rooms in the shacks. Some warehouses had dozens sleeping inside—nothing like the wilderness or Last Hearth, but more akin to a human ant hive.

Suppressing a groan, he retracted his senses after giving the throbbing ache in his temples a few minutes to settle. The wind howled in the gap of the roof like a tortured beast, keeping him wide awake. Sleep would not come easily tonight, he knew. ‘I might as well do something.’ Sighing, he dove his mind into Bark. The simplest way to meet the king would be to deliver a letter to him in person, and for that, he needed to find a way to his exact location and scout out a way to approach him in an opportune moment.

The owl stirred from the tree it had been resting on, and flew over the city walls and headed directly into Aegon’s High Hill. It was a dark, gloomy night—the clouds veiled the stars, and the waning moon had hidden beyond the horizon. Thankfully, the owl’s vision was much sharper at night than any man’s.

He dived towards the squat fortress at the depth of the Red Keep, circling around and committing everything to memory. Just as he turned to leave, a feathery blur descended from above, talons and a razor-sharp beak sinking into flesh.

Jon immediately returned to his body, but the phantom pain ached across his back and neck. His heart was thundering, blood roared in his ears, as if he had just fought a battle. Bark was dead. 

This was no accident, nor sudden misfortune. To kill an owl so easily, so swiftly in the dark, it had to be either an eagle or some large hawk… but those would not freely roam above the Red Keep lest the messenger ravens were affected. Any bird of prey would be chased away for the same reason, or kept caged by the falconer. Unless… unless there was a skinchanger inside the Red Keep.

Fuck. 

Not only did he lose his owl, but the easiest plan to contact the king was thwarted. Since an owl was killed so easily, a raven or a pigeon stood even less of a chance. 

Gods, he was reluctant. The feeling of powerlessness made him choke with rage, but it was an old friend, albeit an unwelcome one. 

He was almost tempted to march to the Red Keep next morning, draw Dark Sister before the crowd, and hope for the best. 

But Jon knew better than anyone that hopes alone did not get you far. They did not get you anywhere at all. Bastards were easy to sideline, and rootless ones with no backing like himself were even easier to ignore. He needed someone trustworthy, someone who could introduce him directly to the king, or return Dark Sister without claiming the deed as their own. 

Gods.

This was far harder than he thought. Slowly, his racing heart began to calm, and the phantom pain receded. Fretting over things now achieved nothing.

Feeling exhausted by the long day and string of disappointments, Jon allowed himself to drift into sleep.

He was woken up by the tension in the air. A donkey’s loud bray tore through the quiet. 

Daeron was already up, gnarly staff in his hand. 

“Someone is here,” his whisper was so quiet even Jon’s sharp senses struggled to catch it.   

‘I felt it,’ he mouthed back in the dimness of the night, and the priest nodded solemnly. There was malice coiling just outside, like a beast ready to strike.

Jon, slowly and gently, reached out with his mind into the immediate surroundings. Seven foes, slowly positioning just outside the door. Another one was at the stables, frantically trying to calm the uneasy donkey.

They were here for robbery or murder; there could be no other reason.

He glanced at the snoring Tormund, still hugging his new arming sword tight, but made no move to wake him. The boy was too young, and waking him up might startle him, alerting the foes outside that their ambush had been discovered. 

Damn it. He quickly stretched his joints to chase away some of the stiffness from the sleep. His heart began to beat faster and faster, but there was no fear of being outnumbered. No, it was all excitement that crept into his veins, the anticipation of dancing on the razor’s edge.

Jon slowly freed Dark Sister from its sheath and rose, picking up his shield on his left. He prowled to the entrance, each step slow, deliberate and silent. He could feel the heavy breathing from outside and the soft rustling of ringmail. A thin dagger slid between the gap in the door, trying to lift the latch. 

To his surprise, Daeron joined him to his left with his staff poised to strike, his steps just as silent. Jon tensed, Dark Sister’s tip ready to strike.

The moment the door was pushed open, he exploded into motion. 

The sword lunged like a viper, piercing through ringmail and slipping between the ribs of a cloaked man. 

Giving it a twist for good measure, Jon yanked the blade out and immediately retreated as his foe tumbled down with a pained grunt.

“They’re awake,” one yelled. “Charge in, quickly, get rid of Bloodraven’s spawn!”

‘I’m not Bloodraven’s son!’ he wanted to roar, but there was no time for such foolishness.

Another cloaked figure marched inside, a heavy, towering shield raised, poking at him with a spear. 

Jon’s heart skipped a beat as he jerked aside. They had truly prepared to kill him tonight. 

But before another foe could slip, Daeron had already moved to the oppsite side, his staff sweeping down ruthlessly, landing in the back of the shield-bearer’s helm with a deep resounding clang. He crumpled to the ground. 

The next one to enter tried to retreat, but the priest struck him in the knee, buying just enough time for Dark Sister to slice through his bare throat. 

“Run!” someone yelled.

Jon rushed out to chase, but his eyes immediately widened when he saw two crossbows pointing his way. 

Twang!

He barely managed to lift his shield in time; the recoil rattled his arm completely. 

Jon parried a bludgeon aimed at his side, and another foe tried to flank him with a spear as the crossbowmen had already discarded their used crossbows, lifting another pair of already-loaded ones. Without hesitation, Jon tugged his mind, and the donkey and horses charged out, slamming into the crossbowmen.

Twack.

The shield caught the bludgeon, and Dark Sister struck down at the spearman. At the same time, Jon slammed his mind into the man, not enough to harm or stun, but just enough that his shield faltered before it could raise to block. His head was split in twain, gore squelching everywhere. 

Daeron had already charged out, his staff striking between the last warrior’s legs with such a force that even Jon felt his spine tingle. The man grasped his crotch, falling on the ground and wailing with pain. Without hesitation, Jon leapt amidst the fallen foes, Dark Sister lashing out to relieve them of their heads before they could get up and muster any further resistance. 

The fight had ended as abruptly as it had begun, and a handful of moments had passed since the first drop of blood had been shed. To his surprise, nobody had stirred awake, and only a single shutter had opened nearby, as if the folk living in Fleabottom had no curiosity.

Then, with a swipe, he struck off the bolts embedded deep into his shield. If he hadn’t bought it today, he would have been heavily wounded, quite possibly dead. Jon gave a glance at the old priest, who gave him a harmless smile in return. Daeron’s breathing was even, as if he hadn’t been in a life-and-death struggle!

“You’re quite ruthless with that staff, old man,” Jon muttered, releasing the breath he had been holding. 

The staff motioned towards the severed heads. “Not as ruthless as you, benefactor. But we’ve done a great deed tonight, removing scourges and vile men from the world.”

Tormund stumbled out of the door, waving about his arming sword.

“Huh?” he blinked blearily at the headless corpses. “It’s over?”

“I’m afraid not,” Jon managed as he tried to regulate his breathing. Ignoring the dull ache in his skull, he could feel more ill intent approaching rapidly. “Someone is trying quite hard to kill me.”

Tormund immediately moved to his right, while the priest stood to his left, gnarly staff ready for battle.

“That someone must have quite the pull,” the priest said with a hum. “They even have the city watch in their pocket.”

A band of warriors clad in golden cloaks marched over, each one carrying a spear. They were flanked by a pair of men, wearing a shield in their left hand and a torch in their right, each step casting a flickering reddish light across the narrow street. At the front was a tall man clad in a half-plate with a long mane of dirty blonde hair—probably a captain. A lofty, arrogant voice tore through the darkness of the night. “Lay down your sword, murderer.”

“There is no murder, my good man.” Jon’s voice came out raspy, taking deep, slow breaths to regain his strength to the fullest. “These men tried to ambush us, and we merely defended ourselves.”

The captain sized them all up for a moment, without bothering to respond. His eyes lit up when they landed on Dark Sister’s bloodied blade, glistening in the ruddy torchlight. 

“Not just murderers, but thieves too.” His tone was filled with barely contained greed. “Get into position. Fan out and slay these vile men!”

Jon cursed under his breath as the gold cloaks arranged themselves in a semi-circle with the discipline that came of years of training, their motions well-practised without any haste or hesitation. Someone really wanted him dead and was borrowing quite a sharp knife for it. A full twelve of them, very well-trained. While he could… maybe risk his life and kill these gold cloaks and possibly succeed, killing them was not a good option.

Surrendering was even less of an option, lest they strike him down on the spot. The man leading them was not just greedy, but proud with mannerisms that reminded him of Theon Greyjoy. He looked important, too—his armour alone was polished like a silver mirror and looked of a make better than what most Northern lords wore. If he were killed, it might even spell endless trouble.

Gods, it felt as if an invisible foe had pushed him into a corner, leaving him no way out. 

Jon needed a way to break the situation. A provocation?

A bait?

A thousand thoughts passed through his mind in a moment, but Jon had no great solution to this dire situation. But this captain was proud and arrogant… perhaps there was a way.

He took a deep breath and roared on top of his lungs. “MURDER, MURDER. THE GOLD CLOAKS ARE COMMITTING THEFT AND MURDER!”

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Author’s Endnote: My plans for this chapter changed like five, maybe six times in the process of writing, and I rewrote things once. The next one shouldn’t be as big a struggle.