30.A Promising Page

259 AC The Crownlands

The Pale Knight

Jon had always known the reign of the Unlikely was far from smooth, but witnessing the trouble and woe of the land with his own eyes was far different from reading lifeless words inked down on a page. Even the North in his day was never completely worry-free with its vast territory, the wildling raids, and the danger of Ironmen threatening the western shores and pirates plaguing the eastern shores, but the situation left him feeling aghast. 

The Riverlands had its own share of issues gleaned from his short travel, but never quite as great as here. While times of war like these allowed all sorts of wicked blackguards to crawl out of their dens, this was the Crownlands, the seat of royal power!

“Fifteen!” Daeron’s frustrated hand tugged on his tangled beard as the priest sat atop the robber knight’s plump corpse as if it were a throne. “This was the fifteenth band of brigands we dealt with. As if the king’s peace and justice mean nothing outside the walls of King’s Landing.”

Tormund let out a low laugh, but he didn’t stop stripping the boots and the byrnie off a bandit’s corpse. “More for us, I say, har!” The bandit in question had died by his hand, though with no small help from Shadow.

In contrast, the young Arthur Dayne had not seen fighting, as Jon deemed him too young to enter battle. While his swordwork was as solid as any veteran squire’s, he was too young and lacking in strength and size to leverage that skill into something deadly. He and the other squires dutifully retrieved the arrows from the corpses and the ground and helped strip along Shadow’s kill. The direwolf himself was feasting on one of the palfreys without a care in the world, and even their own horses had gotten used to his presence, no longer frozen stiff in fear.

“This is nothing new,” said Arlen, nodding along as he inspected a fancy belt of elk leather with silver strappings and a buckle that most definitely didn’t end up on the bandit by legitimate means. “Been this way since the king fancied himself the second coming of the Conciliator and fiddled with the laws.”

“It’s the right of pit and gallows,” Dick Fletcher said, lifting his gaze to stare somewhere at the far distance. “Ever since our great king passed his lofty laws, no lord has the right to judge another man in the name of the king. It addressed the miscarriage of justice the king so much feared, aye, but it also left that justice forgotten in the smaller corners of the realm, where the king’s men rarely go—if ever. It is the same everywhere you go around here. The royal bailiffs and reeves aren’t enough to deal with half the trouble, and the lords refuse to offer them succour or assistance. If a place is of no great import, it will be years before the plight even reaches the royal ear.”

Jon’s hand ruffled through his bone-white hair again. They were not wrong. He glanced at the royal scribe, but the gaunt figure seemed unruffled by the words as if they were a matter of fact. 

As appalling as the situation around the kingsroad was, it only grew worse the further into the hinterlands they ventured. Two of the bandit groups he had swept away had been at this trade for over a decade, though quite clever and cautious at it. 

The first would rob some rich passing merchant naked once in a few moons, indulge in their ill-gotten gains, then retreat to their village, returning to the honest life of tilling the land. But the slow, hardy life relying on a plough to make ends meet did not satisfy them for long, and they oft returned to making a living with more unsavoury means. The second outright killed and looted rich-looking travellers, though rarer and never at the same location to avoid attracting attention, then moved away to a different part of the realm and then sold the looted goods while posing as merchants themselves. With the local lords restricted by the king’s law, nobody cared as long as their domains or properties were not the ones to suffer. 

Jon’s swift and ruthless sweep did not remain unnoticed for long by the bandits. Most quickly scattered, trying to avoid him or lie low until he gave up—a useless endeavour when facing a skinchanger. The group they had just killed was different. Instead of running away or hiding, they had tried to ambush him, though that was just as useless when facing a prepared skinchanger. 

Three hedge knights and their squires had gathered, also mustering some other riff-raff they had recruited. Instead of joining the royal host for gold and glory, these curs had turned their sights on a softer target, intent on gorging themselves on the smallfolk and merchants.

Fighting a band of two dozen in ambush could have been devastating if Shadow hadn’t noticed them first. More than half had fallen to the volley of arrows, before their charge faltered at the direwolf’s presence, with many of the horses refusing to go any further. Out of the score of riders, just six reached the group, fighting tooth and nail for their lives, but with their momentum halted, they were easy pickings, and the fight ended swiftly. 

Many of his men were bruised. Ulmer lost an ear to a sharp sword, and his whole face was slick with blood; Jeff, one of Arlen’s men, had lost three of his fingers trying to block an axe. 

Even Jon was not unscathed. He ran a finger through the cut on his cheek, courtesy of a hedge knight’s spear. It didn’t sting, nor was it particularly deep, but this was the first wound he earned on this side of the Wall, though bruises he had aplenty. A marksman did not get close and personal with an enemy if he could help it, after all. In the cases he fought up close, it was he doing the ambushing, and he had shield and armour, where his foes were groggy from food, drink, or sleep, and only had time to pick up some sword or spear—if anything at all. 

And yet, he could feel his own blood through his senses the moment it touched the air. It was pulsing softly, barely perceptible if not for the rush of battle that had sharpened his mind to the limit. As his men were busy picking the bandits clean, Jon flicked a few crimson droplets into a small puddle nearby.

They fell seamlessly, and then a soft hissing echoed as water formed a translucent layer of ice that swiftly melted in the sun’s warmth. Jon’s throat tightened, and he pulled his hood on, jerking away. His hair stood on end, but it had nothing to do with any chill—the cold did not affect him. This… hasn’t happened before, not that Jon knew of. What had changed?

Dragons.

The word came unbidden to his mind, but it explained it all. Bloodraven had mentioned them. ‘Ever since the dragons were gone, magic dwindled, like a fading ember, so you’ll rarely meet any sorcery of note or danger.’

Now that the dragons had once again returned to the world…

It didn’t matter that they were hatchlings the size of a household cat or even smaller if the rumours were true. Jon could feel that the change they ushered in ran deep; it altered something in the world’s fabric.

Skinchanging was easier, swifter since. Bending a beast to his will was near effortless, and he could command a full score with some effort, compared to the dozen that had left him all drained when hunting for Bolton. His mind could stretch further, too, without growing too weary. His heart was thundering with fright, though as he glanced at his men, not one of them seemed to notice—any trace of the cold was gone. Only Daeron lifted his head then, meeting his gaze with a gentle nod. 

Before long, the men finished stripping everything of value and prepared ropes. Once they were as bare as the day they had been born, they hung the corpses from the tree, while the squires set a fire to heat up the brand of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. No bandit was left unmarked. Bandits and brigands did not deserve any mercy or any dignity in death. 

The men worked with practised grace, now all skilled at the process. As usual, Daeron remained to say a few words to help their sinful souls find repentance in death. He no longer received frowns at the odd prayers, but the rest of the Westerosi still kept away from the starry priest as if he were a leper, though it didn’t seem to bother the man at all.

Jon still remembered after the first fight. 

“What do we do with the corpses this time?” Arlen had asked absentmindedly, holding up a silver star-shaped earring taken from the ear of the bandit he pinned to a tree stump with his crossbow bolt. “Bury them?” 

Tormund’s response was as brash as always. “Leave them for the vultures and wolves and bears to feast on.”

“We are the king’s justice here,” had said Brynden, “not hedge-knights doing some task for coin. Even if these scum did nothing to earn a proper funeral rite, certain appearances must be met.” And the proper funeral rite for bandits was the noose and the gallows, where they’d be left as a reminder of the king’s justice.

The skilled auburn-haired squire still kept mum about his origins, and Jon didn’t press him after sensing no malice, but his skills could not be denied. He was solemn and so taciturn and serious in all things that it reminded the bastard of himself, even though Brynden was not quite a man just yet, but no longer a boy.

The more Jon observed, the more familiar the squire looked. With Riverlander’s unique drawl and the sole ‘I am a second son’ Brynden had squeezed out once, he was convinced this was someone from House Tully. Ser Brynden Tully, the infamous Blackfish. Not a ser yet, and not that famous either. But Jon had no doubt he would once rise to fame as he had in his time, for his effort was no less than the young Arthur Dayne, and his talent wasn’t too behind, though Brynden seemed to favour an axe and a war-pick over the sword. 

The next four days passed uneventfully, and neither Ulmer nor Arlen nor Shadow had found any trace of further bandits or outlaws near any roads or even in the hilly woodlands. Sadly, the eagle still circled above his group, killing any bird Jon tried to control and preventing him from scouting even further. It vexed Jon to no end, but there was no great need for more. They had already cleared the lands around the Antlers, Brindlewood, Hayford, and the Gods Eye River, killing all the outlaws and bandits on sight. 

“Did we sweep away all of these wretches?” Tormund muttered on the fifth morning, thick brows furrowed in confusion. 

The night attack that Jon expected did not come, and the men in Sow’s Horn slumbered in their fortified tower-keep. Nor did any men ride out to meet them despite bearing the royal banner, though that was not much of a surprise—castellans and stewards regarded Jon as a leper to be avoided unless he arrived on their very doorsteps, offering no succour or assistance.

“Far from it.” One of the Westerlander men by the name of Old Nate let out a low laugh. “They must’ve all scattered, fleeing away from the princess’s hounds.”

Jon’s jaw tightened despite himself. He had been called Usurper’s dog for his lineage on the Wall more than once when men had been deep into their cups, and there was a strange sense of irony that a similar title fell to him again. But there was nothing wrong with being a hound. A hound was a hunter, true enough, and he was in royal service.

“There are still old rumours of dead merchants near Sow’s Horn,” Dick said as he was strapping on his brigandine. It was half a size too big for his frame, but with an additional arming doublet underneath, it fit well enough.

On this task, his men had plundered plenty of arms and armament from the slain brigands and robber knights. This was not the far North, where raiders and bandits were some half-starving wildling or deserters of the Night’s Watch with a single bronze or iron spear and furs and wool on their backs. Leather-bound shields with dark iron rimming, half-helmets, byrnies and hauberks were all quite common. Arlen even picked up a battered cuirass, though it was made of shoddy steel; better than iron, but not half as good as castle-forged make. At some point, Jon felt that this was not a task to deal with bandits but to plunder. Five of the swords were of good make, and judging by their maker’s mark, three of them were made in the Street of Steel by a smith of some repute.

“The bandits of Sow’s Horn stopped their attacks about thirty-five days past,” Daeron said, staring at the cloudy sky. “About a day or two before we ventured out of the city.”

“What are you trying to say, priest?” Jarod Snow gruffed, face dark. The Liddle Bastard was now no worse off than any hedge knight when armament was concerned, with a half plate with lobstered pauldrons and good ringmail—though half of his armament was procured from some smith in King’s Landing.

Daeron shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just noting the coincidence.”

Ulmer let out a snort. “Coincidence? It won’t be the first time some lord or petty knight shed his blazons and went to raid his neighbour’s fields and pastures or squeeze some passing merchant who is not pleasing to their noble eye. Nobody seems to care.”

Jon looked back on the three-headed dragon banner snapping in the wind above them. 

Do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children?

Worthless words. How many murderers and robber knights and outlaws had the king and his princes knighted? Was there any true meaning left to these solemn oaths when most knights broke them without batting an eye? Even Princess Elia and her son had been killed by the Mountain, the very same man knighted by her husband. A sworn kingsguard bared his sword to kill his king, and then cuckolded the next. That was the worth of knighthood.

Yet these vows still weighed on his mind.

His eyes found the royal scribe, a scrawny, balding man in his late thirties, who rarely spoke and had his robes stained with ink all over.

“What do you think, Damon?” The man had dutifully inked down their routine each day, scribbling down every bandit killed and their location and number in great detail on his long rolls of parchment before sending them with his ravens to King’s Landing. No doubt much of what they said here would end up in the king’s ears one way or the other.

“Neither a lord nor a landed knight can be easily accused of such a heavy crime without any proof,” he squeezed out in the end. “Since the bandits are long gone, it’s time for us to return and report to the Red Keep.”

There was no need to give a king who was already displeased with him further cause for displeasure. 

‘This was not how my father taught me,’ he thought bitterly.  

“Returning now is good.” Arlen let out a boisterous laugh. “We’ll even get to see the royal wedding and fill our bellies with royal fare. The king usually feasts the whole city on such a grand occasion.”

Jon didn’t feel half as much anticipation and instead threw one last glance at Sow’s Horn as they packed camp and all mounted up. He had not forgotten the first time he rode down this road and the well-armed men lying in ambush on his way to King’s Landing, just a two-hour ride from this place. Men wearing castle-forged steel, clad like professional soldiers, not some bandit riff-raff. 

Perhaps it was not the men of House Hogg who had turned to robbery to line their pockets, but some enemy or a retainer. Jon would mark this in his mind. Justice could be delayed, but it could not be absent. 

---

King’s Landing

Shadow retreated back into a nearby woodland, refusing to enter the city and endure the thick stench of hundreds of thousands of people crammed together. The group disbanded the moment they rode past the city gates, though not before saying farewell.

“Be cautious,” Jon uttered, tone turning grim as he gazed solemnly at his companions. “I have enemies lurking in the dark inside the city walls. Having served by my side might implicate or put you in danger—I myself was ambushed the night I first entered the city. If you can, avoid mentioning my name or our service together.”

It was as if his warning had fallen on deaf ears—none of them seemed worried. Perhaps he was being paranoid? He had spread out his senses upon entering the city, though he did not find that feeling of being watched from the shadows. The gold cloaks at the gates stared at him with wide eyes, though, as did some passersby who avoided him from afar, as if he were a snark in the flesh, about to pounce on some hapless soul.

Ulmer even scoffed, waving dismissively. “This big pigsty of a city has never quite been safe anyway.”

“Pleasure working with you, Ser Jon.” Arlen gave him an honest smile full of yellow teeth. “You’re a good man—hard, aye, but better than most I’ve seen. As for trouble… we, the men of the Westerlands, fear no foe.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, the greying Westerlander squire and his three crossbowmen left without turning back.

“There’s something familiar to you,” Jarod Snow said, no longer eyeing him with wariness but no small hint of respect. The suspicion in his grey eyes was still there, albeit less than before. “You are indeed a Northman to the bone, that much I can tell.”

Dick, Ulmer and the rest of the men lingered for a few moments longer. 

“Our bows are yours to command, Ser Jon,” Dick Fletcher said, voice solemn. “If you need us, we’ll be in the Broken Anvil inn by the Gate of the Gods.”

“They don’t seem to be heading to the other gate,” said Tormund, eyeing the archers and squires as they disappeared into the crowd.

Daeron clicked his tongue. “That’s the direction of the Street of Silk, boy. They’re going to spend their share of the spoils on whores and wine first.” 

They had already sold much of the excess loot and divided up the plunder as promised around Hayford, each man who followed Jon walking away with three, even four pieces of armament and a full purse of silver and even a handful of golden dragons. More than enough to see each man set for some years; Dick being the deadliest, having more kills after Jon had his purse bursting with more than fifty dragons. The bandits here were not nearly as poor as he thought—not after robbing merchants and smallfolk—and the sheer number Jon and his men had killed easily topped over two hundred, and their possessions had piled up. The horses alone were worth a small fortune, three of them being proper chargers bred for war, and even a mighty destrier, fit for a high lord though a tad on the older side.

“What about you, old thing?” Tormund muttered, throwing a few more envious glances in the direction Dick and his men had gone. “What will you spend your coin on?”

“Give it to the orphanages,” Daeron said lightly. “The children need it more than I. Gold held in the hand is a devil in the heart of the faithful. If you doubt my word, look no further than that grand sept on Visenya’s Hill and its corrupt fat septons.”

“Coulda at least bought a pair of good boots.” The boy pointedly looked at the patches adorning the priest’s roughspun robe. “Or proper garments.”

The priest snorted. “Brat, you need your ears cuffed good.” Shaking his head, his face turned solemn as he bowed to Jon. “It’s time this one deals with his own matters and visits my fellow clergymen. Lord Snow, if you find yourself in need of this one, just send word at the third warehouse of the old docks.” 

Turning his spotted donkey around, the priest left towards Fleabottom. 

Only Brynden still lingered behind, face looking all reluctant.

“How did I fare, Ser Jon?”

“Very steady, both in deed and sword,” Jon said, reaching out to give Brynden’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re better at fighting than I was your age.” The boy was three years or so younger than Jon, but it felt as if a whole eternity had passed since he had been five and ten.

“Do you think…” The boy grimaced, fingers curling anxiously around the rein of his horse. 

The bastard let out a sigh. “You’re not ready for knighthood, that much I can tell. Your basics are as solid as they can be, but you need more time and more experience. Six months, perhaps a year. I can knight you right away, but an empty title does not make a knight, nor does it make you a man grown.” 

His blue eyes dimmed. “I see.”

“Eagerness for quick success and swift glory will only earn you a quicker grave,” Jon said. “I know not what has you so hurried, but ask yourself this one thing. Is it worth risking your life?”

Brynden wheeled his steed around, leaving without another word, his back looking desolate.

Jon turned his gaze to the youngest boy, who still lingered behind him on a brown pony. “What about you?”

“I’m your page now,” Arthur Dayne said with his boyish voice. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go, either.”

It was a lie. The Sword of the Morning had only pushed him for the bandit subjugation, and now that the task was over, it would be proper for him to return. There was also a Dornish retinue inside the city that probably wouldn’t turn away the son of Lord Dayne, but considering his own uncle was petty and could try to kill him—if indirectly—Jon couldn’t in good conscience send such a talented boy to danger. In his time, Arthur Dayne lived long enough to grow, aye, but things had changed too much to believe in a future that might never happen blindly. 

“I don’t remember ever taking a page,” Jon said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You have better prospects than a shady Northern bastard like myself. Few knights in court would refuse the son of Lord Dayne as their page. The kingsguard might even be interested. Though you’re a bit too young, you can pass for a squire with your sword skill, too.”

“I’m your page,” the boy repeated, stubbornness written all over his face.

Jon rubbed his brow, refusal stuck on the tip of his tongue. 

“So be it,” he said at last. Perhaps it was not a bad bargain. It might even get Tormund to train harder.

As if sensing something, his squire warily looked around, much to Jon’s amusement. 

The city felt near empty compared to before, the great war camp outside the walls nowhere to be seen and the array of ships blotting out of the bay now departed. War had started for true now, and that opportunity for a swift rise with war merit had slipped through his fingers for good.

Next, Jon, Tormund, and the scribe turned to the Red Keep. The gaunt man disappeared into the throne room to do his own report, while Jon met with the royal treasurer to hand over the king’s portion of the spoils and was then invited to one of the side towers by the master of laws.

Jon left his squire, page, and arms in a small waiting hall under the watchful eye of two knights and through a lacquered oaken door into an audience chamber, a flush room with a Myrish rug on the floor, furniture of Summer Island’s mahogany, and walls draped with the banners of black and red, blue and white, and white and black and red, depicting the three-headed dragon of Targaryen, the flying falcon of Arryn, and the three ravens holding hearts of Corbray.

Ser Gawen Corbray stood behind the desk dominating the chamber, his chin resting on his clasped hands.

“Ser Jon Snow,” he spoke with a surprisingly soft tone for his stern amber eyes. His gaze studied Jon with a desire to see through him, but the bastard merely gave him a polite half-bow. “You did well in your task. Better than any of us expected.”

“Lord Gawen.” Jon kept his voice deep and respectful, and the man across from him puffed up his chest ever so slightly. Proud and vain. “It was my duty. The bandits marauding around Sow’s Horn fled like startled rats, still remaining at large.”

The master of laws gave a dismissive wave with his hand. “A few escaping is to be expected. If outlaws and brigands were so swiftly dealt with, they wouldn’t be half the trouble they are. Sit, make yourself comfortable, ser.”

Jon eased into the chair across the man and glanced at the man leaning on the far wall. Blonde and blue-eyed with a blue falcon blazoned on his padded surcoat. An Arryn.

Gawen Corbray took out a pitcher from his cabinet, and a young page poured Jon and his master what looked to be some golden vintage into two silvery cups. “Here. Let’s have a toast.”

Jon eyed the pale amber liquid, tinged golden, and took a sip. Sweet and mellow. Arbour gold. Although the men of the North and House Stark preferred ale, he was not unfamiliar with this drink. His father had him and Robb sample a cup of the famed golden vintage once and had taught them how to drink and appreciate good wine. He had also instructed them how to recognise most wines of Westeros and the better-known of Essos.  

Jon raised his silver cup to clink with the master of laws. “To the peace and prosperity of the realm.” 

“To law and order!”

As courtesy dictated, he took slow, shallow sips, swirling the wine around his tongue and matching the pace of Ser Gawen, albeit half a beat slower. ‘Any sweeter and it would feel as if I am drinking a ripened grape,’ Jon thought, keeping his face expressionless. 

They drank in silence for a while, and Jon was in no hurry to speak. He glanced to the side. The man leaning on the wall remained still, standing like a statue as if nothing concerned him. Quiet and solitude were old friends of his, and if the Valeman before him wanted something, he had to speak it aloud.

Gawen Corbray was just as stubborn, remaining silent, and once the cups were empty, the boy kept coming to refill once, twice, thrice until the pitcher was empty and Jon’s head had begun to buzz. But it was fainter than it ought to have been, and he easily ignored the feeling. If the Valeman wanted to loosen his tongue so easily, he was greatly mistaken.

“You hold your wine well,” said Ser Gawen, nodding in approval. His tone was even, unaffected by the wine, but his face—especially his aquiline nose—had a new, reddish hue. “Courtesy as good as any lord, and the skills in bow and command to match. Nobody expected Bloodraven to leave any legacy, truth be told. Nobody expected him to return Dark Sister, even.” 

‘Neither did Brynden.’

Jon inclined his head. “The old man was full of surprises, even to his dying breath.”

“I shall be frank with you.” Ser Gawen regretfully glanced at the empty pitcher but did not wave over his page to fetch another. “There are some pesky but very concerning rumours, claiming the old bastard sired you after giving the Night’s Watch vows. Others claim you gave succour to a deserter. Unfortunately, your age seems to fit the bill, and then, the matter of Brynden Rivers’s disgraceful desertion…” 

Bastards were a product of sin and lust, and ones sired over shattered vows were twice as sinful.

Jon could explain that he was not truly Bloodraven’s son, speaking at great length until he talked himself hoarse, but he knew they would not believe him. He did not have proof, nor any good explanation of his origins, anyway. They did not seek the truth; they merely indulged in the tragedy or misery of others out of petty pleasure.  

But these rumours were more than simple slander. Each one was aimed at a place that would hurt or paint his very existence as wrong and dangerous, or even on the wrong side of the law, more than most bastards already were.

“Very unfortunate indeed.” Jon spread out his hands. “Alas, it’s all true, though there’s hardly anything I can do about being born when I was. As for Bloodraven, the old man died before I could report him to the Watch. And after he died… heh. But the realm is not without justice—the king’s laws do not condemn swaddling babes for the circumstance of their birth.” 

The Corbray knight looked startled, clearly not expecting such a frank confession, opening his mouth but struggling to get words out.

Bloodraven and the Imp were right. Although some of the words had burned on his tongue, a strange sense of satisfaction arose in Jon at the sight before him. 

‘When your foes cannot harm you with steel,’ his mentor had taught him, ‘they will wield sharp words, prodding for a different weakness. To those without scruples, nothing will be sacred. They will attack your prestige, your character, your good name, or anything you might care about or take pride in. But you, as a bastard, shouldn’t shy away from the darkness that comes with it, but wear it like armour.’

“Indeed,” Ser Gawen cleared his throat. “This is somewhat troublesome.”

Was the man before him an enemy, or just another attack using a borrowed knife by that scoundrel hiding in the shadows? 

The edges of Jon’s mouth curved. “If you require, I can give you Brynden Rivers’s final resting place. It’s a bit deep into the haunted forest, but the location is quite vivid in my mind. I’ll even draw a map for you.”

The master of laws hastily waved his hand. “There’s no need to go to such great lengths. Now that I’ve seen you in person, I trust in your word.” Ser Gawen stared at his cup for a moment. “There’s another matter I wish to discuss. Though you might not know, I am new to this post, and find myself struggling to find enough capable men to fulfil my duties or handle the many troubles arising in the city—and the Crownlands. The gold cloaks are poorly trained riff-raff that can only deter petty thieves and catch a slow smuggler or two, and the good swords already all serve the king or are gone with the royal host to fight the Blackfyres. The Great Tragedy left the city with many scars, some not visible but no less deep.”

“I am content with my service to the princess,” Jon lied. It was only a half-lie, for he wanted more. He yearned for more, especially now that he had again tasted the power of authority when dispensing the king’s justice. Princess Rhaella had been good to him, aye, but her position was ultimately… limited, as was her power and influence. Her own standing as a woman who was bound to be wedded off eventually was even more uncertain.

But as a man, he could not—and should not—turn his cloak or betray the one he served. This was twice as true for a knight. There were ways to amiably leave the service of others, and the easiest one was to be wronged by one’s liege or master, or request to be released from any previous vows, should they not have been too stringent. Furthermore, Jon was not yet twenty, still young, with time to grow his skills and his wealth, and, if the gods were generous, his own influence and position would rise alongside them. To a point, of course. 

“Don’t be so hasty to refuse,” the master of laws said, motioning to the man who stood by the wall. “Ser Ronnel Arryn here has joined me as the lord commander of the city watch. I need a personal knight captain under my command, my right hand in all but name. There’s also a vacancy in the city watch that needs to be filled—a captain for the Mud Gate, if you desire to join the gold cloaks instead.”

He glanced at Ser Ronnel Arryn. Not just any Arryn, but Lord Jon Arryn’s younger brother. Jon knew of him, but he was supposed to be dying by burst belly; looking at him now, he showed no signs of it. Another change?

“I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” said Jon with a slight bow and rose from his seat. “Princess Rhaella has been very good to me, and I cannot let her down.”

“A pity.” The master of laws let out a long sigh. “I hope we can still work together in the future. This city stinks in more ways than one.”

Jon left without looking back.

Captain of a gate… a good position in the city, and even a better one for a rootless bastard like him. Under different circumstances, Jon wouldn’t hesitate to take it. But right now, a gate captain had no chance of further rise. With Lady Alys Arryn about to wed the widowed king, her brother’s position was unshakeable. Even if he rose further, the next lord commander of the city watch would be granted to someone close and loyal—and there were too many Valemen close and loyal to House Arryn. If not, it would be given by the king’s pleasure. And the king did not seem to hold Jon in high esteem. A dead end. 

Being a personal knight captain was even worse. Wasn’t this just being a blade in someone else’s hand to be used until it blunted or broke? That much was to be expected, but Jon dreaded the fact that he might be outright discarded once he was no longer useful.  

Even going back to the village Aegon had awarded him had better prospects.

It seemed that House Arryn was already looking to spread its influence through the city even before the king had wedded the falcon maid.

“You spent a lot of time there,” said Tormund after they returned to the courtyard and Jon relieved the pressure on his bladder. The shadows had already lengthened, and the gloomy sky was choked with clouds. It would rain tonight. “Was it any good?”

“It was not without use.” At least he got a feeling of the pulse in court. Ser Gawen Corbray was neither a foe nor a friend. If anything, his loyalty lay with Arryn, which was far from surprising.

“So…” Arthur Dayne spoke up, looking around warily. “Where are we going to spend the night? Some small guest room? An inn?”

“As a sword not sworn directly to the Iron Throne, there is no guaranteed accommodation for you or for me in the Red Keep. An inn should do just fine for tonight,” Jon said, his hand finding the heavy pouch on his belt. Coupled with the coin he had yet to redeem from the royal reward, he had enough to purchase a house with a small courtyard in the city and have some to spare.

No, he needed to think bigger. Dick Fletcher, Ulmer, Ben, and the other Raven Teeth descendants were all good men, loyal and capable. He had seen the worth of their character and skills during the bandit subjugation. Having six more trusted retainers of his own… was acceptable, considering he was a landed knight. No, it was necessary, especially in King’s Landing.

Perhaps the houses purchased needed to be bigger, with a good courtyard to match. 

Just as they picked their steeds from the stable, a slender, cloaked figure waylaid them. 

“Ser Jon, a word,” it was a young woman’s soft voice. 

She pulled down her hood, revealing a painfully familiar, long face half-hidden beneath a silver mask. 

‘Arya,’ Jon wanted to say. He wanted to reach out and tousle her brown curls. But Arya had yet to be born, and this woman was older than his sister, taller too, with her hair meticulously combed and her grey gown peeking underneath the cloak, far too immaculate to belong to his younger sister. 

He swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue and pushed down his bubbling emotions. “How may I be of service, Lady…?”

“Lady Branda of House Stark.” Her grey eyes narrowed at him, cold and judgmental. “I am here to invite you for dinner with Princess Rhaella tonight at the Sleepy Spearman’s Inn by the Sour Belly Row.”

Branda Stark. Lyarra Stark’s sister and Jon’s grand aunt. But the coldness in her gaze still stabbed deeper than it should have, even though she knew nothing of their kinship.

He dipped his head, tone even more respectful. “Very well. Forgive me for asking, but I can’t help noticing enmity in your tone. I don’t believe we’ve met for me to have offended you.”

Branda’s lips thinned. “You have given no offence, indeed. But my sworn shield said you have a living direwolf under your command.”

This was why he had avoided displaying Shadow in the North. The bond between a Stark and their sigil’s beast went far deeper than just paint on a coat of arms. And yet, he did not expect to see a Stark here—Jarod Snow had kept his lips completely sealed about her presence. No wonder. 

“Merely a companion I saved beyond the Wall as a pup,” Jon said softly, unable to stop himself, having someone looking so much like Arya staring at him so coldly hurt. “He was abandoned by his pack, left to starve after losing an eye. If he whelps some bitch… I can gift the pups to you.”

The harshness on Branda’s face faded by a notch, but it did not fully disappear. “I will hold you to that promise.”

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Author’s Endnote: A bit of an interlude chapter.

The bandit clean-up finishes without much surprise. Finally back into the city proper. It’s not easy to write scheming and plotting from scratch, but I’ll do my best. Pacing is also a small challenge, as I have plenty of room to add details, but I don’t want to overextend in that regard.