32.Big Woes, Little Woes

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Weary King

He was a man twice wed now, now to a younger, more beautiful wife than Betha, but it did not make him feel any better. Even though he knew the necessity of the act, guilt coiled in his belly like a cold, serpentine knot that left him feeling restless all over. Worse, he had found some joy in the young woman in his bed, and it felt like the greatest betrayal.

When the door slid open, the red, slender figure marched into his solar, finding him pacing across the dark Myrish rug.

He paused, glancing at the intruder. “How is she?”

“Her maidenhead is intact, but her buttocks are a tad tender,” Melisandre said. “Far from harmful, but ample proof that he laid a hand on the princess, even though she claims not to remember a thing after drinking too much. While undignified, this is the perfect opportunity to act—you can get rid of this scourge for good, and none shall gainsay it.”

“Such an accusation is not done lightly,” Aegon muttered, stretching the stiffness from his body. He had done his duty with the bedding and then some, but he felt wrung out for it even after a night of sleep. Weakness clung to his bones like a twisted shadow, making him curse his old age yet again.  

He stepped towards the shutter and pushed it open, allowing the cool autumn breeze to wash over his face. The faint clangour of steel drew his gaze down to the training yard, and he could see a sinister white-haired figure, one of the most energetic amongst the scant few knights and lordlings who had risen early after last night’s revelry. “What if he calls for a trial by combat?”

The red-haired priestess followed half a heartbeat later, a sly smile tugging at her pale face. “Then, your kingsguard shall kill him before the eyes of gods and men.”

“My elder brothers thought much the same when they accused Ser Duncan at Ashford all those years ago, eager to take that offending limb that had struck a prince of the blood.” A bitter chuckle tore from his throat. “The realm lost its greatest prince that day, and Dunk often wonders if his limbs were worth the bitter price. I find myself wondering too, sometimes.”

Shaking his head, he continued, “Now is not the time to test the caprice of the gods, since Snow did not cross the line, and as a knight of the realm, he has every right to trial, giving him the ability to turn a trivial matter into a great scandal. An old man like me has lost his taste for such risks in these trying times, be it Single Combat or Trial of the Seven. You may say it’s no great risk, for a king could command the finest swordsmen of the realm, but even the smallest chance is too great in this.” 

Worse still, Jon Snow was a man of no small skill and talent, able to fulfil tasks where others were wanting, whether it was dealing with bandits or retrieving Dark Sister. 

The red priestess knew better than to gainsay a king. She was much like the cleverer courtiers, always obedient in word, but always prodding for a way to fulfil her goals without earning royal displeasure. It was an old courtly game, though some took to calling it the Great Game when they thought he wasn’t looking.

“As you command, Your Grace.” Melisandre’s deep curtsy was expected, as was giving him a full view of her pale and bountiful chest. 

The cut on her dress was lower today than it had been last week, and any further, the teats would spill out. Of all the women he had seen, she had the least qualms about using her natural charm to achieve her goals and employed it both openly and in every small and subtle gesture. Such tricks only worked on the young and the inherently lusty.

He waved his hand stiffly. “You ought to meet Alys instead of hiding in the shadows all day.” 

“All in good time,” she said. “Let your little falcon wife get a taste of life in the Red Keep first.” 

“If the gods are good, she might soon carry my heir, the future king of the realm. What does your fire tell you?”

Melisandre paused for a long moment, the look on her face growing distant. “Alys’s belly will soon swell with a babe and carry it to term well enough. But that’s the furthest I could see last night—everything else is veiled by a crimson shroud and darkness.” 

The tightness in his chest only grew. “Another ill omen, then,” he whispered. Once, he was swift to dismiss such things, thinking them mere superstitions that could only fool smallfolk and tittering ladies. But when both Rhaella and Melisandre sensed a foreboding of doom before the Green Tourney… 

Ah, if only he had listened and done more. Something more. But how could one defend from a faceless foe lurking in the shadows? It was no easy feat to guard against an attack in the dark. Could anyone keep their vigilance forever? Perhaps they could, but a single moment of weakness was enough to suffer. And suffer he had.

Forgive me, Betha.

“The distant future is murky and shrouded.” Melisandre’s slender hand reached out to touch his heart. “It might not necessarily be a bad thing for a kingdom at war. A man forewarned is a man forearmed—the God of the Light will show us the way forth.”  

A snort tore from his throat, pushing her daring hand away. “I might just believe it if he shows something more than vague omens and portents.” Melisandre opened her mouth to no doubt give a clever objection, but Aegon quickly silenced her with a stern look. “Don’t. I have no doubt of your prowess in your arts. But your mastery is a credit to you, not your red god, especially since there are records of others wielding such sorcery without sharing the same belief.” 

This left her silent, her brow knotting heavy in thought. It was a weakness in her pious armour that Melisandre had no way of mending, and prodding that sore spot was a swift way to halt her attempts at preaching. She had rebuffed him the first time, claiming it was R’hllor’s blessing that had helped her gain mastery, but Aegon merely asked if any common man could learn much the same by merely worshipping the Red God with the same zeal. Her silence had been answer enough.

Perhaps Melisandre had other clever words to argue further, but she deemed the inflexible mind of an old, weary king like him not worth the effort. It was no wonder she had set her sights on his descendants. Her words and deeds lacked the zeal she had displayed earlier, refraining from any acts save for convincing three men of his household guard to abandon the Seven for the Lord of the Light. They were neither too few, nor too many, and none of those converted were of any import or noble birth, just descendants of loyal men-at-arms, serving House Targaryen for a second generation. Aegon was not worried that a shift in their belief would compromise their loyalty and duties, for if it did, it would only give him all the more reason to replace them—something that would be a blow to Melisandre.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he dismissed her with a wave and summoned a servant. “Summon my courtiers to my audience chamber.”

He put the red priestess and the bastard knight out of his thoughts as he turned his footsteps to the first floor. They were both unique, both useful in their own right, but they did not worry Aegon, no matter how mysterious they appeared to be. Men and women of great ambition were never lacking in the Red Keep, no matter how exceptional they appeared at first glance. And Father above, he could tell that ambition burned hot and bright in both, though they hid it better than most. A king had to find a balance in most matters—especially where court was concerned—not showing excessive favour or dislike, even for those of great capability and ambition. Especially those of great ambition. 

But ultimately, such things mattered little in the face of the looming war about to engulf the Iron Throne. War was never a small matter, let alone a conflict that was not just the Golden Company, but a dangerous alliance of pirate lords, sellsword kings, backed by the manpower of Tyrosh and the Disputed Lands.

Inside the audience chamber, a great map depicting the Narrow Sea in great detail already lay spread across the table, a token from the previous gathering. The room usually used to entertain his personal guests had become a gloomy war council. He glanced at the wall and froze. Betha was gazing down on him from the portrait he had placed there himself, face full of disappointment and sorrow.

A moment later, he gathered himself, not daring to look that way. She had been a woman of great cunning and intellect, so she ought to understand his choice. But the thought did not make him feel any better.

Before long, his councillors streamed in one after another, their eyes still bleary and their garments crumpled as if hastily donned. Ser Gawen Corbray’s face was particularly red, his expression haggard, and his gaze murky and still unfocused, which was little wonder considering the sheer amount of wine he had poured in his gullet last night. He wouldn’t be of much help today.

“Hubart, report,” Aegon commanded once the men settled on the painted chairs around the table. 

Lord Hayford cleared his throat as he plucked a few scrolls from his belt and spread them open. “Braavos remains impartial on the side, content to keep to trade with everyone.” 

“As expected of those greedy bankers,” Ser Gawen mumbled, no doubt forgetting that his own Lord Arryn was playing the banker and doling out loans for the Iron Throne. 

After shooting him a vexed glance, the spymaster continued, voice growing wary, “What is more concerning is that Myr and Lys show signs of reconciliation with the Nine, resuming trade, and even supporting them with grain, steel, and men.” 

Aegon felt his throat tighten. This was what he had feared the most. And yet… 

“How can the magisters even trust Maelys and his ilk after the fall of Tyrosh?” he all but demanded. “How can the Conclave of Lys and its First Magister be so blind to tolerate any alliance involving the Last Valyrian who is greedily eyeing their city?!”

His agitation only rose when he saw his councillors’ sluggish response.

Pycelle cleared his throat loudly. “No matter how many ships and corsairs he commands, Samarro Saan is a pirate to the bone, Your Grace,” he said, voice servile and full of caution. “He has kinsmen in Lys, so it would not be odd for them to come to some arrangement or another. But the reason… it must be no ordinary thing to overcome the Lyseni’s caution and drop a wicked man’s ambition. A danger to them greater than a pirate prince could bring.”

The glum reply came from Hayford. “It’s the dragons. Word has spread out that His Grace has hatched dragons once more, and intends to rule the skies as the dragonlords of yore did.”

“Vile slander!” Daren Darklyn exploded. “These slaving, silk and flesh-peddling scum mean to paint His Grace an ambitious tyrant.”

Aegon exhaled slowly, silencing his Hand with a glance. “Slander or not, the Triarchy, even broken, has not forgotten the damage a single dragonlord can inflict. Whether it was the tyrannical rule of the Freehold in its later years or the Rogue Prince and his erratic deeds in the Stepstones, Essos can only be wary.” Whether Aegon was a danger was of no true consequence, but they feared what new Targaryen kings with both ambition and dragons could do, especially now that Dorne had bent its knee to the Iron Throne; a dragon could only look across the Narrow Sea for further glory or conquests.

None was foolish enough to say that newly hatched dragons were no threat. Indeed, they weren’t right now, but cat-sized whelps would grow into behemoths of fire and death, capable of crushing armies and burning fleets to crisp in just a scant few decades… if nothing went wrong.

His councillors were fully awake now, all wearing grim, foreboding expressions. “We must double the guard around the dragons,” Pycelle said, a nervous hand tugging at the chain on his neck.

Ser Duncan’s lined face settled into a heavy frown. “We already doubled them last month.”

The king waved his hand. “Then double them again. The dragons can’t be too safe.”

But keeping the hatched drakes penned into a chamber in Maegor’s Holdfast was no true solution. Aegon already feared that chaining and restraining them might stunt their growth, and such a chamber was merely a slightly bigger cage. As rulers of the sky, the dragons needed to spread their wings and soar in the sky… but they were too young, too vulnerable for him to allow it so.

Worse still, the Red Sowing allowed a precedent, and some daring fool with dragon blood might just be able to tame a young and curious drake if it flew away from royal protection. That disastrous thought alone made his heart jump in his throat.

Such a thing could never be allowed to pass.

And when the dragons inevitably grew in size, a chamber would no longer do. He needed to repair the Dragonpit, and perhaps even restructure it in its entirety. But such a thing took time and coin, both of which he lacked right now, even with the generous loan Tytos had given him. No war could ever proceed smoothly without gold, and warships with trained crews were even more expensive than training and employing a wing of fully armoured knights.

“Continue,” he motioned to the master of whispers. “Anything else that requires my attention in Essos?”

A trace of hesitation flashed through Hubart’s round face, but he soon steeled himself. “My informants have caught wind that even the Masters of Slaver’s Bay have moved—though it’s unclear if they want to stand against House Targaryen or merely promote their slave-eunuch soldiers.”

Aegon’s face darkened further. With grain and ships and supplies by the Three Daughters and the Disputed Lands, Maelys could deploy far greater numbers on the Stepstones than the Iron Throne could. And with control of the Stepstones, he could restrict half the trade in the Narrow Sea and earn coin that would only fuel his ambitions further.

This Blackfyre threat was far greater than the previous ones. 

“We have nothing to fear,” his Hand said, puffing up his chest. “Even if this Maelys has the numbers, it doesn’t change the fact that these are men patched together, no true host. Can corsairs of the Basilisk Isles work together with a Tyroshi pirate when they don’t even speak the same tongue? Such conflicts and inconsistencies in any army would be enough to drive even the most experienced commander to madness. Infighting would be the smallest issue between those not of the same mind—I say that the Nine have grown far beyond the size of their own boots, and it shall prove their undoing.”

The king couldn’t help but furrow his brow. There was some truth to Daren’s words, but too much exaggeration and bluster to be taken too seriously. The outcome of a battle was never certain until it was fought.  

“We can approach the Triarchs of Volantis,” Aegon muttered, more to himself than to his councillors. “They are old foes of the Lyseni and the Ghiscari, both in trade and matters of heritage and influence.”

“It’s certainly worth a try,” Pycelle said, eyes lighting up, fingers tumbling in his robes for quill and parchment. “I’ll ink down an appropriate message to the Trirachs at once. Even the peace-loving Elephants ought to be startled by the sudden shift of power under their noses, especially when their trade routes are directly disrupted.” 

Whether words could awaken the sleeping ambition of the Old Blood in Volantis after two centuries of peace and prosperity was another matter entirely, but the attempt had to be made regardless. 

“Now,” he turned to his master of whispers, “It’s time we take stock of the movements of my great bannermen.”

“House Lannister’s fleet has already departed, ferrying two thousand knights and five times the men-at-arms…” The king listened on patiently, and for good or ill, there were no great upsets in this. Ships limited the number of troops each great lord could send, especially since an attack was always the more dangerous role, even at battles at sea. Especially at sea. Aside from the Iron Islands, where each lord had his own fleet, the rest of the kingdoms merely sent half or two-thirds of what Casterly Rock had mustered. Even House Stark scrounged up three dozen repurposed trade cogs and warships between its Houses on the eastern shore, promising to send four thousand heavy foot and marksmen to fight and die for the Iron Throne.  

The smallest fleet came from the Stormlands, barely twenty ships and fifteen hundred men. Any less and it would be considered treason, even if the Stormlords never kept great fleets. Yet Aegon couldn’t bring himself to offer any rebuke or pursue something skirting dangerously close to dereliction of duty, not against his daughter. Not when he had failed her too, and failed his own grandson—even though he bore the stag’s colours.

It was not all woes and gloom. With an Arryn for a queen, the falcon lord had swelled the number of men and ships he would send, scraping the Vale lords clean and not even sparing any ship bigger than a skiff. But what Aegon valued the most was the stability and support the name Arryn could provide to the Iron Throne and the royal court. As high as Honour. Loyal and reliable—as much as a bannerman could ever be.

Only Sunspear was stubborn and obstinate in the way only House Martell could be, claiming it had no fleet and could be of no help aside from supply and safe harbour, despite the sizeable trade or fishing fleets certain Dornish lords employed. Aegon’s lips curled at the thought of House Martell. Always troublesome, always a thorn in the side of House Targaryen in big matters. If the boy-prince wished to orphan himself and his siblings entirely, he wouldn’t mind shortening his father a head. 

The council meeting left Aegon feeling bone-weary exhaustion. He had made great preparations, yes, but this Blackfyre was the greatest challenge his reign had faced. 

Was it enough? 

Aegon kept an impassive mask and displayed confidence in court for all to see, but empty confidence did not win wars. Deep inside, uncertainty gnawed at his thoughts like a starving mutt at an old bone.

The next few days passed in a blur as he busied himself with his kingly and husbandly duties, leaving him little time to spend with Ghostflame and the other hatchlings. 

It was a week later when two ravens arrived from the south, souring his mood further. “Big trouble, Your Grace,” Pycelle said, dabbing the sweat from his face with his sleeve.

He said no further, offering the two scrolls quickly, as if holding them burned his hands.

Black wings, black words. One stated that Lords Drumm, Ironmaker, and their sons perished in a skirmish against the Old Mother, venturing too close to the Disputed Lands. The pirate queen was old but notorious, and her crew did not shy from using poison on their spears and arrows, making even the smallest wound fatal. The Ironborn had not suffered a great defeat, but the loss of these powerful reaver lords was no small matter. Aegon knew a thing or two about the Ironborn and how they dealt with succession. With the lordships of Ironmaker and Drumm empty, their captains and distant kinsmen would return home, weakening the Ironborn strength by a sixth.

The second raven had come with a strongly worded letter of protest by Lord Estermont, stating that Greenstone was a poor, small island, and could not afford to supply the might of the royal fleet, vaguely speaking of honours and solid rewards and ways to recoup House Estermont’s impeding losses. Estermont was by no means a powerful lord, barely of any importance even amongst the Stormlords, but the Iron Throne could not ignore him, not when his close position to the Stepstones could serve as a springboard to his campaign against Blackfyre. 

Was this a subtle test from Storm’s End?

No, it couldn’t be. But they would not stop a vassal from acting out like this either, for Lord Estermont’s daughter had been set to be the future Lady of Storm’s End. Were they eyeing his granddaughter now, or was it something else?

The tragedy was once again coming to stab him when he least expected it.

“Parchment,” Aegon commanded coldly, and the Grand Maester scrambled over to the nearest desk. “Write to Lord Estermont that his nephews and bastard sons will have a good place in my court, should he supply the royal fleet with all of his might. He had an older sister… a widow?”

Pycelle bobbed his head nervously. “Yes, Your Grace. Lady Floris, once wedded to Cafferen’s spare. But he perished three years ago, mangled to death by a shadowcat in the western rainwood during a hunt. She’s a mother of three, a dignified widow of eight and thirty, and the Cafferens do not mistreat her.”

At the end of her twilight years?

“Perfect.” A smile tugged at the king’s lips despite himself. “Tell him I’ll bestow a royal marriage upon his sister.”

“But Your Grace,” the Grand Maeaster hesitated for a long moment, his inked quill hovering over the strip of parchment. “There is no good fit for a grieving widow like Lady Floris in the royal family.”

Aegon poured himself a cup of Arbour gold and took a deep sip. “We have a grieving widower of our own. Maegor can now fulfil his duty to the family in these trying times, a good fit for a dignified widow like Lady Floris.”

---

The Bastard Knight

The first two days after the royal wedding saw Jon all tense, but the comeuppance for spanking the drunken sorcerer-princess in the Red Keep never came. Rhaella did not demand that he explain himself, nor did any of the king’s men descend to arrest him. She did not demand anything; instead, she pretended as if nothing had ever happened, or almost nothing, in the rare cases she did not avoid him. His time in the Red Keep was short: merely an hour in the morning to hone his sword skills against other knights, but the princess still did not come to see him. Neither did she sneak a peek from her eagle or ravens for the rest of the day, as if afraid he would know.

That was for the better.

He almost regretted the act, risking heavy royal sanction that could lead him to exile from King’s Landing, and that was if the king was feeling generous. If not, he would have to risk combat to defend his freedom, but indulging a princess in her drunken folly was an even worse outcome. A night of awkward pleasure would only result in a loss. Jon’s sins were heavy enough without deflowering a princess of the blood, ruining her good future. A thorny mess, even without looking into troublesome entanglements that would arise from such a deed. It helped that Rhaella was still a child, awkward and blooming, but not quite yet a woman grown. He wasn’t quite certain that he could so coldly rebuff a Valyrian beauty in her height, throwing herself into his arms, no matter the consequences. There was something ethereal, something magical and undeniably enchanting to the combination of luscious, silver-gold hair and those innocent lilac eyes that made normal women look pale in comparison. 

Jon shook his head, casting off such thoughts—not that he didn’t forget to cuff Tormund’s ears for getting too drunk and sprouting nonsense and empty bragging. 

The mistake he had made with Sygra had haunted him enough on its own without spreading the tale of it through the Red Keep, even if he had not gone into much detail and mentioned no direct names. Still, a ruling lady of Bolton ought not to care much about her good name, for the flayed man had no good name to speak of. Finding some eager knight or distant kinsman of some lord for a consort ought to be no issue for a woman in power, easily allowing her to dictate the terms of the arrangement. After all, the laws of succession in the North had the iron-clad guarantee of the Starks of Winterfell, ensuring no mishaps or upsets could occur. There was no one to contest the Dreadfort from Sygra, for the Bolton line was always thin, as if that monster who wore the Bolton skin had deliberately restrained himself or silently disposed of troublesome kinsmen… just like most of his predecessors. 

Such thoughts quickly left him, as Jon had to focus on the task at hand. Whores… and mind-addling draughts. ‘Great,’ he thought with no small reluctance. ‘A fitting venture for a no-name bastard like myself.’

He had given his word, and now he could only follow through.

The truth of the matter was that Jon Snow did not understand whores—he had avoided them as one would avoid lepers, even when Theon had taunted him for being a sullen virgin boy…

After giving it ample thought, he did not venture into the city’s brothels right away, not in person. It was not just reluctance, but his presence alone drew eyes a tad too much—something he wished to avoid on an unsavoury task such as this. He met Daeron, who promised to get to the bottom of the Touch of Pleasure, which only left the follow-up issue of whores.

Despite his hesitation, he sent the over-eager Tormund first instead, to get a feel of the Street of Silk and other whores. “And be careful,” he told him. “And I’m not speaking of whatever ailment you might catch from some pox-ridden woman. A true knight does not brag, nor does he sully the reputations of others behind their backs and most certainly doesn’t have his tongue loosened by a few cups of wine.”

Watching the spring in his squire’s step as he swaggered into a brothel by the name of the Red Lady, Jon felt his face contort.

Arthur looked up to face him, purple eyes laden with doubt. “Are you certain this is a good idea, Ser Jon?”

“Not at all,” he muttered, allowing his mind to settle over one of the kittens lounging on the elegant red windowsill. “But it certainly won’t hurt to have Tormund scout the way in this. If he is going to indulge in whores, it’s better to do it under my supervision, where I can at least drag him out of any trouble he inevitably finds.”

“You have much experience with whores, then?”

Even though the question was innocent enough, Jon felt his face darken all over.

“Not at all,” he said, sharper than he intended, then quickly schooled his expression. “Whores, whether they have fallen into their trade by ill-fate or their own choice, could be dangerous, and no true knight ought to consort with them. One of the highest virtues a man can achieve is marriage, and a man wedded ought not to ever entertain such practises or places.” There was no small irony to that, considering he himself was a product of broken vows.

He almost believed the words coming out of his mouth. The shining title of knighthood and the lofty ideal of a true knight were shields too useful to discard against ill deeds and lowly vices such as these. Perhaps it was his upbringing, but Jon looked down on the act of selling one’s body for pleasure, finding it degrading for both sides involved in the act. For men especially, it was the surrender to baser urges that could lower anyone to a beast, and Jon was just as guilty in this, having deflowered… three maidens himself, even though all three had chosen him for it.

Tormund would not finish soon; Jon had told him he would come back to check in on him on the morrow, so they didn’t linger in the Street of Silk. Next to it was the Street of Silver, where gamblers gathered for an entirely different sort of vice. Looking at the paved walkways just as lively as the ones where brothels gathered, Jon felt a wave of disbelief wash over him—these two streets were far more vibrant and more active than any other place in the city, including the Great Sept of Baelor. Men and women were both dressed in fine cotton and even silk and walked on unhurriedly, with their heads lifted high, though that could be because of the heavy scent of perfume and exotic scents that clung over the place like a hazy veil.

Next was the Street of Flour, full of bakeries and stalls and stands, where men in white and grey aprons shouted, extolling the virtue of their fresh cakes, glazed pastries, and hot, crusty breads.

As he was looking around, a scrawny figure even shorter than Arthur darted from the small maze of twisting alleys and crossed streets below, crashing into Jon’s side as if by mistake. 

The bastard scoffed, reaching out his hand to pick up the street rat by the scruff just before it fled, and was greeted by a small face caked by dirt, capped by a fistful of mousy-brown hair. His garments were barely any better than his face: an old, rough-spun tunic too large for him, its colour faded and strewn with dozens of mismatched patches.

“Lemme go, ser,” he whined, pale blue eyes widening in fear. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

Scoffing, Jon plucked his pouch squeezed between his bony fingers. “Stealing from a knight can get your digits chopped off, boy.” 

“I ain’t no boy,” growled the street rat. “I’m Asa… and uh—please, ser—don’t take me fingers. I was just… hungry.”

Looking at the thin figure that looked like it would topple over by the first strong gust of wind, Jon couldn’t help but believe those claims of hunger, though he saw nothing remotely girlish. Another look in those big, pale eyes so full of fright had the anger drain out of him. 

“Forget it.” He gently placed her back on the ground with a sigh, unable to bring himself to maim a young child, no matter its guilt. “You ought to take on some better trade than thievery—if others catch you stealing, they might not be half as merciful as I.” 

“I’m too young to join a brothel,” Asa muttered, making his blood freeze.

This was the fate of many orphans or unwanted children, wasn’t it? Without parents to teach them how to deal with the challenges of life, procure a good dowry or tutoring in some trade, a proper marriage was out of the question, and only drudgery in the muck awaited them for life. 

It was none of his concern; darkness was a part of the world just as light was. But these poor, downtrodden souls were the ones that the Faith was supposed to help the most, yet he had not seen a single septon venture into Fleabottom or the surrounding streets, and when they met some beggar or street rat, they smacked them away with their staves and sticks more often than not. Even the begging brothers had their own place and rules in the city, though he cared little to learn them. 

Jon didn’t know what overcame him, but he begrudgingly took out a handful of copper stars and shoved them into Asa’s small hand. “Here.”

“What’s this for?” she asked suspiciously, looking at him with no small wariness. 

“I want you to work for me from now on—consider this the price of your fingers and the wage you’ll earn. Watch the streets carefully, observe who comes and goes and where. Lend your ears to rumours that pass through the gutters.”

Her dirty face scrunched up with hesitation, eyes lingering on the bone-white hair slipping through his hood, though she did not dare hold his gaze for long. When she next spoke, the fear in her tone was replaced by a sliver of respect. “Where do I find you, m’lord?”

“You don’t,” he said, reaching down to ruffle the dirty bird’s nest she had for hair. “When needed, I’ll find you.”

In a moment, the scrawny figure disappeared into the twisted alleyways just as quickly as she had appeared.

“Was this… appropriate, ser?” Arthur asked, face all troubled.

“Perhaps not,” Jon allowed tightly. “But all knights swear a solemn vow to protect those who cannot defend themselves, and defend the innocent, women, and children.”

The confusion on his page’s face only grew. “But while this girl was a child, she was not innocent. She broke the most common of laws, dabbling with thievery.”

“Any law is only as good as the man who enforces it,” the bastard whispered. “It’s easy to decide some poor sod’s fate from afar, and easier still to doom someone to be a cripple for life. There is an old saying in the North—the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. I couldn’t bring myself to take her fingers or judge a soul for the sin of being born in the gutters, so I let her go.”

“What if she steals from you again, or turns her fingers to some unfortunate merchant’s purse?” Arthur pressed, his brow scrunched up in a stubborn line. “What if theft emboldens her into deeper and more dangerous crime?” 

Jon let out a long, heavy sigh. “Then her hand is forfeit.” 

Down the next street, he tossed a few pennies into the bowls set before a few begging children. He even stopped before another scrawny child. Brown hair and eyes, a completely ordinary face, there was nothing exceptional about him. And yet, something felt familiar. 

No skinchanger ever ignored his hunches. 

“Your name, boy?”

“Davos of Fleabottom, m’lord,” came the hoarse reply.

Could it be?

That smuggler ought to be about this age.

“How were you orphaned?”

The boy lowered his head. “My da was a cook in an inn by the docks. But he’s gone now. Got struck by a flying splinter when the royal box blew up and bled out before me eyes, and I was kicked out on the streets since.”

---

“Why’d you help the little beggar apprentice on a ship?” Arthur asked the moment they returned to the Sleepy Spearman’s Inn two hours later. “While pitiful, giving him a few coins to buy some bread and gruel would’ve been more than enough. It’d certainly be more than others would do for some poor soul they don’t know.”

“Why would I measure my deeds against those of others?” Jon shot back. “So long as I feel fulfilled and my conscience is clear, it is enough. Good deeds are not about valour or glory; helping others ought to be reward enough.”

Perhaps this was not the Onion Knight, that brave smuggler who earned his spurs with a ship of salted fish and onions, despite the niggling feeling of familiarity. Even if he were, there was no great fate or complex emotion involved, especially now that the line of Robert and his brothers had been cut short. But Jon had feasted his eyes on misery in the city, and it made him all the more restless. Sending Davos to sea made the tense knot in his belly loosen ever so slightly, and that alone was worth it.

When the sun was about to set, Daeron slipped through the front door, joining their table for dinner. “Old man, give me a bowl of hot stew!”

“Coming in a moment!” Jasen yelled from behind the bar.

His younger son came in a moment later with a wooden platter with sliced bread and the promised bowl.

“How’s it?” Jon asked quietly after a bite of his own serving of roast cod—this one was as large as his forearm and rather tasty. 

The Essosi priest had a way of avoiding attention, and the usual patrons had gotten used to Jon’s own presence, but that didn’t mean he would lose caution.

Daeron placed an unassuming leather flask on the table before them, face growing solemn. “This Touch of Pleasure is no simple thing, benefactor,” he said, something dangerous flashing through his purple eyes. “Its potency is definitely diluted compared to Lady Branda’s first accounts or the samples I got from two months back, making it less lethal but even more sinister for it—it no longer kills so quickly, but strings the poor soul trapped in its clutches for longer. Furthermore, I’m quite certain that whoever cooks this does so inside the city proper.”

Jon paused, swallowed the mouthful of piping hot fish and quirked a brow. “How can you tell?”

The priest stroked his tangle of a beard. “This one has seen similar draughts and potions that make one dependent during my time in Yi Ti. The alchemists of the Far East can be far more sinister than their counterparts here and are even more secretive, not even appearing before outsiders, let alone allowing them a glimpse of their secrets. Whoever invented this draught must no doubt be preparing it all himself, and coincidentally, my fellow priests have some dealings with the herbalist guild here and helped me track certain ingredients. Yellow-cap shroom has certain intoxicating elements when refined, and the influx of orders for it began half a moon earlier than the draught’s first appearance.”

Truth be told, he was taken aback, even if he schooled his face. When he had sent Daeron, he did not expect much of anything, really, not when the priest himself had vaguely said how he knew a thing or two about the matter. Daeron had claimed much the same, where almost every topic was concerned, from fighting, to babe delivery and rearing, raising animals, there was nothing the priest couldn’t speak of. It sounded more like empty boasting than real skill, but he was now pleasantly surprised. Jon himself could no doubt uncover so much in due time if he focused solely on the matter, but there was no small value in uncovering the truth earlier. 

This was the power of having capable aides by your side.

The more he could rely on others for these matters, the more time he had to hone his own body and sharpen his skills in bow and sword and skinchanging or build up his name in the city and make friends of a similar mind or at least connections with the many factions, small or big, entrenched in King’s Landing and the Red Keep.

Jon grew more and more satisfied as he looked at the messy priest across the table. He might have been a bit… odd, perhaps a bit dangerous and mysterious, and held odd beliefs, but other than that, he was a man more decent and capable than most.

“Try to find the alchemist in question if you can,” the bastard said. “Be mindful of yourself—whoever dabbles with such dangerous draughts won’t be easy to deal with. Just the location will do, and I shall do the rest.”

“Leave it to this one, benefactor.” Daeron patted his stout chest. “Only, I think I saw an acquaintance sleeping in a ditch near the docks that might need my help first.”

“Help him.” Jon gave a generous wave. “And let me know if you need any help in such matters.”

Any man, great or small, could not only take without end; they had to give back, and Jon was no different in this.

---

Author’s Endnote: Whew. That was somewhat tricky, and Aegon’s PoV went on far longer than I intended. In hindsight, that shouldn’t have come as a great surprise, considering I’m not going to open any Essos PoVs, and the fighting at the Stepstones can only be told by second-hand unreliable narrators (I’m also considering historical chronicles every here and then). 

Jon himself is in no great hurry to begin his dealings with the world of whores, which shouldn’t be a big surprise to anyone. 

In the end, I’m rather satisfied with the chapter, delay aside.