34. A Glimpse of Death

The presence of a common enemy, especially one so dangerous, opens doors that would have been otherwise forever closed. I never thought I would bear witness to such a historical moment, but few would ever know of it. After the Doom (and even before that), it would’ve been unthinkable for the magisters of Lys and Myr, the bearded priests of Norvos, the viziers of Qohor, or even two of the wayward masters of Slaver’s Bay to ever sit at one table, let alone agree on one thing.

The half-peasant king must be stopped.

Aside from the Old Blood of Volantis and the Forty of Pentos, the full legacy of the Freehold gathered in one underground chamber. They agreed upon a second thing, too, and I was there, casting my vote for House Rogare and the merchant princes of Lys.

Dragons had no place in this world. The world had endured through the dragon’s yoke before, yes, but in the hands of a peasant-lover with delusions of grandeur and most dangerous ideas, the danger turned unbearable. Consorting with unwashed peasants and lowborn scum and giving them rights as if they are equal?!

The folly.

Zafano of Myr claims the Unlikely has long since grown old and cautious and cowardly and would never live long enough to pose a danger to us. He argued fiercely that when another king comes, they will be no different from the previous fools who were content to sit on their Iron Chair or squabble amongst each other for power and influence, not trampling on his noble lords. Perhaps he is right.

But Maelan of Myr pointed out (and rightly so) that Dorne has been folded under the Iron Throne, and there is no guarantee that now that the dragons are back, an ambitious dragon king won’t set his hungry gaze across the Narrow Sea. Even if they set their mind upon the Stepstones alone (which was all too possible with the Rogue Prince’s precedent), that alone would pose an enormous threat towards the trade and prosperity of the Free Cities. With the power of dragons and the united might of the Sunset Lands, the barbaric ideals and crude, narrow-minded religion of the Andals could spread like wildfire across Essos. No sane man is willing to see or tolerate such a thing.

Maelan indeed has a tongue of silver, but I can only agree with him. Our traditions are not wrong. Whether it’s House Rogare or any other noble house that survived the Doom, our heritage is no less than the Targaryens, the once mighty house that has now become more Andal mongrel than Valyrian.

Even the prickly Veasyr Valaeno could not retort.

The meeting lasted for a sennight, and in the end, we agreed on the following:

Firstly, this great gathering shall be named the New Valyrians to honour our great heritage, and meetings would reconvene every eight turns of the moon in a different location, though I have my doubts about the feasibility of such travel, and I’m not the only one. Each member would be sworn to secrecy. Our sole purpose is shared prosperity, the binding of interests, and the destruction of our enemies and the prevention of the rise of dragonlords.

Secondly, an inquiry to the Temple of Black and White on the price of the Gift for each Targaryen. The Myrish had already asked the Faceless Priests for the Unlikely’s price, and our agreed-upon treasury is sufficient to grant him the Gift and have some to spare (mostly to support Blackfyre). A second Gift was ultimately deemed unneeded, as the fall of an heirless king would plunge the Sunset Lands into chaos. After all, the Andal Lords can bow their heads to House Targaryen, yes, but could they tolerate the dragons melting their castles? I think not, and I’m far from the only one.

Thirdly, outward support for the Monstrous and his ilk as a direct opposition to House Targaryen, in exchange for certain agreed-upon favours. To fight the peasant king in the open is unwise and costly, as this particular vicious band of corsairs and sellswords have proven skilful in their craft. But these are proud and greedy men, and once the right moment arrives and the coin is right, discord might see them turn their blades upon one another. It would be far from the first time, after all. If the Nine want our support to deal with the dragons, they have no choice but to drink this poisoned chalice and accept our supplies and men (and coin for those who are willing to spare more).

In return, we get a great bargain of valuable Sunset slaves, steel, a grand deal for Westerosi lumber and much more. I myself managed to secure a deal for honey and beeswax and purchase rare gemstones and jewellery.  

The bearded priests seem wary of Blackfyre, claiming that he will not kill the dragons upon a victory, but claim them as his own. The spread of the word of their return is merely a trick to muster support to defeat House Targaryen.

Even if true, I don’t think there’s anything to fear. That deformed brute has not been poisoned by the Andal ways, nor is he in possession of great cunning. He is nothing more than a blunt tool to be used to smash at House Targaryen and the Sunset Lords. Upon his victory, he will struggle for a lifetime to pacify the local lords, and his gaze will never look back to our side of the Narrow Sea.

House Rogare’s coffers will be significantly drained, but not as terribly as when our banking venture crumbled. That alone almost stayed my hand, but I cannot afford indecision, not when Danello Ormollen was right there with me, throwing out gold as if it were water. I know in my heart that crook was targeting me, just like his father targeted mine. But at least with the deal I secured, I should be able to recoup my losses, and if Ynanna smiles upon me, perhaps even turn this into a boon of fortune.

The meeting was long and arduous, and to my great dismay, upon my return to Lys, I found that my wife had sold all the maidservants again, after ordering Jyalla whipped to death for daring to touch her. On days like these, I regret agreeing to a union with the Old Blood, no matter how prestigious it sounded at the time…

Memoirs of Lano Rogare

---

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Pale Knight

He tried to scout the manse itself, bending rats to his will, but they were killed within a few moments of entry. There was a vicious fat cat patrolling inside the door and shutters, and the plaster on the walls was well maintained, leaving no gaps to slip through.

A fortnight later, just when Jon had thought that the princess had given up on his suggestion, the wedge-tailed eagle landed on his shoulder while praying in the godswood, sharp talons biting deep into his cloak. ‘That will leave a tear,’ he thought as he retrieved the thin roll of parchment strung to his talon. 

I must know more. Find a way to interrogate and then dispose of him. Do it all quietly.

There was no official seal, nor any name signed underneath, but there was no need for such when engaging in such an unlawful matter. The fewer traces left, the better, and a skinchanger’s eagle coming as a messenger was proof enough.

Was it ambition that drove Rhaella to this decision? Or pursuit of the truth?

Jon was not certain. In truth, it did not matter, so he focused on the challenge ahead. Unlike the bandit subjugation, this was his first task set by Rhaella, and thus his true test. Jon would give his all, not merely because a failure here would be a great setback to his ambitions, but because he also wished to know who this plotter was. He also wished to know who used sinister potions to corrupt women of the night and squeeze them for their coin, and if there was indeed a relation to the shadowy figure that had orchestrated the Green Tourney, as Rhaella suspected.

Tormund and Arthur would be of no use in this. Their skills in subterfuge were meagre, and this was not something befitting a knight. Daeron… Jon was reluctant to summon him for this, and Brynden had just torn himself away from his drunken haze, latching onto martial training with the same desperation that a drowning man clutches at a straw. 

Breaking the king’s peace and assassination were not done lightly. Even though the city watch was corrupt, they were numerous and well-equipped, and the raging war had made them vigilant against spies and mishaps. Even their training intensity had risen by a notch. This was Gawen Corbray’s order and the king’s will, and it made things harder for Jon. But not by much.

He had never assassinated anyone before, for his training was in warfare and battle, not in wretched deeds like skullduggery. But it was just killing, quietly and when the target least expected it, much like ambushing an enemy outrider or scout, only this ambush was carried out in the city, not in a forest or some valley. 

Do it all quietly.

The princess wanted no clues traced back to herself or him, then. Acting hastily was too risky as it was, and something had managed to kill a cat without the feline noticing any danger. The guard dogs were no challenge for a skinchanger, but those guards were not simple. Killing them would be easy enough for a marksman, but doing it unnoticed, without alerting the alchemist inside and the city watch? Now, that was another story.

He needed a distraction, an opportunity. 

A plan slowly took shape in Jon’s mind.

Five days later, a wedding took place in the Red Keep. It was another Targaryen wedding. Both the ceremony in the Sept of Baelor and the feast in the throne hall were far from the grandeur of the king’s, and even the guests were barely a quarter in comparison. Neither Maegor nor his newlywed wife, Floris Estermont, looked particularly happy. Probably because she looked old enough to be his mother. Maegor’s smile only returned to his face after the fifth goblet of wine. 

It seemed the king was wary of his nephew. First, a tanner’s daughter for a wife, and now an old widow at the twilight of her child-bearing years, and this union was bound to be as childless as the last. 

It was none of Jon’s business. He sat calmly at the knight’s table at the far end of the Great Hall, wolfing down the food. The courses were lesser in number but not in taste—the royal cook had put in the effort.

After sweeping through an auroch steak, Jon slipped away early. Men would be too deep into the revelry and their cups to care about the presence of an unimportant bastard like himself. He turned his steps towards the godswood, and lo and behold, the wedge-tailed eagle landed on his shoulders not even a moment later. A hint of impatience glimmered from those golden eyes.

The sting of pain over his shoulder told him that the cloak would need patching up again, along with the tunic beneath it.

Snorting, he reached out and ruffled the dark plumage. “Patience is a virtue, princess. I’ll move tonight.”

The eagle froze. Was she surprised? 

“I know a skinchanger when I see one,” Jon said flatly. “Though I have a small request, if it pleases Your Grace. I’d greatly appreciate it if you could rein in Vhagar before she kills my eyes in the sky. And it would be even better if she doesn’t tear through my garments every time she comes to deliver a message.”

Gently, he pried the eagle off his shoulder and placed her on a low branch nearby.

Without waiting for a reply from the stunned bird (not that she could give any), he descended into the city. The sun was just setting, cloaking the western horizon crimson. Cold wind was once again rushing from the east, as if to urge the last few scattered souls to flee from the streets. 

Thick dark clouds veiled the sky above. Another autumn storm was coming.

A perfect night for subterfuge and mayhem, as if the gods themselves wanted the alchemist dead tonight.

He returned to the Sleepy Spearman’s Inn and took a change of garments and an unassuming travel cloak with a larger hood. Ringmail would be too loud and cumbersome, but the padded jack, his steel bracelets, and his arms were not something he could do without. His bone-white hair was meticulously tied and wrapped around a bandanna. Only his red eyes could give him away, but to catch a glimpse of them, they needed to look under his hood. To avoid suspicion, the long and eye-catching dragonbone bow was left in his quarters, and only the weirwood recurve could fit underneath his cloak, barely hidden from sight.

Jon wouldn’t have brought that bow either, but he wasn’t certain he could deal with both guards at close quarters, not without them raising an alarm.

On the way out, he saw Daeron, who was sitting cross-legged by the fireplace, eyes closed and as still as a statue, with his staff lying upon his knees. The lotus position, as he called it. Old Jasen was still afraid of the barefoot priest, not daring to come near the man as long as he did not affect the patrons. And there weren’t many patrons tonight, just a few old drunkards gathered around two tables by the crackling hearth. 

“Not going to enjoy the feast more, benefactor?” Daeron asked without opening his eyes. 

Jon was not surprised that the priest had sensed him even without looking. 

“I filled my belly, and that is enough,” said Jon. “There’s not much joy in that wedding, and I have other matters to attend to tonight.”

Daeron hummed. “Do you require assistance?”

For a moment, the crackling hearth cast half his face in crimson, and the other part seemed shrouded in darkness, creating a demonic visage that made Jon take a step back.

“No need,” his voice came out hoarse. “It’s a small matter, and I alone am enough.”

“There are no small matters where you are involved, benefactor.” The priest lowered his head. “This one can feel that a great fate lies upon your shoulders.”

Jon’s mouth twisted. “A great fate? Come now, I’m just a lone bastard of no import, old man.”

Daeron opened his eyes, the two purple orbs staring at him without blinking. “A bastard you may be, but this one has seen your scars and the mark of greatness upon you. There’s an old saying in the lands of the Far East. Whenever Heaven intends to bestow a great responsibility upon a man, it will first test his will, exhaust his body, leave him destitute, and thwart his endeavours, so as to strengthen his resolve, temper his character, and increase his skill.”

Jon felt his hair stand on end. But the words… the words rang out in his ears like a drum. There was great wisdom to them, perhaps, but he remembered the Red Wedding. He remembered the sacking of Winterfell, the deaths of Rickon and Bran, and the execution of his father. And his sisters, who had gone missing in that city—having seen King’s Landing, Jon now had little doubt that they had perished. Why did they all die, only for Jon to survive? Were they all just lacking? Did the gods simply decide to discard them and keep him instead?

His fists balled tight, then loosened and balled again.

“So,” his voice came as sharp and as cold as steel, “if I survive some great upheaval, I’m meant for greatness, but if I perish, I lacked the fate?” 

Daeron gave him a wan smile. “Through adversity to the stars, benefactor. Greatness can only be grasped by the living and revealed by those who withstood the great challenges of life without breaking. The way you fight, the way you think, and the very way you conduct yourself bear all the marks of adversity. A great responsibility and thus fate awaits you, this one can tell, and my Church will be your closest ally.”

Jon wanted to curse, to deny those words, but he couldn’t. He had seen things, survived things others wouldn’t even believe. It was not once or twice that he had avoided death by a hair’s breadth, or suffered a great disaster or an impossible challenge. 

And yet, things had never been as impossible as they would appear. But as much as he trusted Daeron, he did not trust the elusive church behind him. Or anything or anyone he did not know himself, for that matter. 

A heavy rumble thundered in the distance, waking him up from his musings. 

“I appreciate the offer and the candidness, Daeron,” he said, nodding to the priest. “But your help is more than enough. As for your church, perhaps you can tell me more first. Not now, though—I ought to get my task complete first.” 

“This one is always at your service, benefactor,” the priest said, closing his eyes to meditate again. “You only need to say the word.”

The sun had long since set, and the sky was dark. Small, cold droplets pelted across his cloak. With each passing step, the rain grew stronger and stronger, and the last few souls left on the streets were swift to hide under one roof or another. Not even a single gold cloak was in sight, and the only sound heard was the petering of the rain, his own heartbeat, and the faint thumping of his boots through the wet cobblestones.

His travel cloak was soaked and soon grew heavy from the rain, weighing on his shoulders like a hauberk. The cold wetness seeped into his garments, but it only soothed his nerves and invigorated his limbs. 

He reached River Row without mishap and soon stopped a stone throw’s distance from the unassuming manse.

The heavy double door of thick oak was no different from a miniature gate, and with the brick wall, it turned the manse into a holdfast. Only good to stop petty thieves, and perhaps the gold cloaks for an hour or two.

His senses spread out, sweeping through the darkness. Good. Not a single pair of eyes was paying attention to the street, not even pigeons or street cats. Even the gold cloaks had foregone their patrols for the night, huddling inside the barracks and the gatehouses. He tried to feel the insides of the manse but failed.

Jon slid to the northern side of the brick wall. His fingers groped upwards, finding crevices in the masonry, and dug in. This was far easier than climbing the Frostfangs, even without the nigh-endless stamina the frost had granted him. The dampness that came with the rain saw his fingers slip twice, but the third time, he succeeded, climbing atop the brick wall.

The two guarding hounds warily peeked out of their doghouses. Two pairs of brown eyes met crimson and froze for half a heartbeat. That was all the time Jon needed. His mind already rushed forward, bending the beasts to his will instantly. It was always easy with canines, and easier still with dogs.

The pair of guards were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they believed the hounds were protection enough at night, raising an alarm the moment anyone approached. Maybe they thought nobody would dare attack in the rain.

Lips curling, Jon tightened his control of the two hounds as he balanced atop the brick wall, carefully positioning himself on the far side of the doghouse. He pulled out the weirwood bow from the leather wrapping, and after a moment of hesitation, he strung it up. The rain would do nothing to the weirwood, but the string itself would loosen after being soaked, even though he had dabbed it with wax. But strings were easy to procure.

A few heartbeats later, a pair of arrows was already notched on the string, and two more were clasped in his fist.

Jon took a deep breath and prodded the dogs. They started barking loudly at the empty gate, their howling and growling tearing through the rainy darkness.

Not even a minute later, the manse’s door slid open, and the sentries came out, facing the gate. 

The men cursed under their breath, leaving their backs completely exposed to Jon.

Twang.

Twang.

Twang.

The two arrows were launched in a heartbeat, striking the guardsmen at the same time, and the next two skewered through their windpipe from behind before they crumpled on the flagstone with a thud. A tug with his mind had the dogs calm down.

Jon watched the two die slowly, twitching in the mud, whilst slowly choking in their own blood. Once they grew still, he did not celebrate or rush forward. He waited another minute to see if some other guardsman would come out. The pittering of the rain continued without end, but the manse’s door remained halfway open with no sign of movement. 

He unstrung his bow and strapped it under his cloak, then leapt on the pavement below, pulling out a dagger from his belt.  

His feet slid towards the door, but then paused. Alchemists often dabbled in sorcery, and the arcane was not to be underestimated. His mind swept out, but the insides of the house were murky to his senses, as if a veil twice as thick as the morning fog from the Blackwater shrouded it. ‘Damn it.’ 

Did the alchemist have more servants or guards?

The unknown made this trickier and more dangerous, especially for a lone man. But a skinchanger was never truly alone.

He marched to the doghouses and ran his dagger through the leather leashes around the necks of the hounds, setting them free.

They cautiously pawed, as if getting used to the freedom. Two sets of brown eyes once again turned to face him, tails lowered, and heads bowed in submission. The already small strain of controlling them was halved. 

The hounds rushed into the door first, Jon peering through their eyes as he followed a few moments later.

A thick, heavy stench of herbs overwhelmed him and the dogs, rendering his plan to identify the number of foes inside by smell useless. The insides were dim, but Jon had no trouble seeing. Both the hallways and the antechamber were paved with Myrish rugs; the walls were plain but panelled with painted wood, depicting some naked women engaged in lewd acts. Intricate vases of red porcelain graced every corner, with black silken curtains hanging above each shutter. 

His senses still felt strangled here, but not to the extent they had been at Dreaming Eye’s cave. 

Inhale. Exhale. His mind loosened like a pile of dry sand cast asunder by the sea breeze.

There was something else in the air, something that prickled in the back of his skull. It was the herbs affecting him. But that sensation melted by the second, like a thin mound of snow touched by the scorching summer sun.

“A guest from afar?” a disembodied voice rang out. There was a strange, tingling accent to his tone that Jon had never heard before. “I did not expect you could pass through the Jin brothers so easily. Since you’re already here, come.”

At the side of the hallway, a door swung open with a creak, the opening cloaking the wall across with a flickering yellow light.

Jon paused for a long moment.

Was this a trap?

But no, the enemy had no way of knowing of his attack tonight. Even the princess did not know until a few hours earlier, and all of it had been set in his mind. Unless this alchemist could peer into the future. 

His left hand flew to his neck, his fingers finding the damp weirwood beads. They were cool and pleasant to the touch, and that alone soothed his nerves.

Very well. A talk wouldn’t hurt.

The hounds pawed in first, scouting with their eyes for danger, and Jon followed a heartbeat later.

It was a twisted oaken staircase leading underground, lit up by flickering light.

Jon descended, hand reaching for his belt. His fingers coiled around the hilt of his sword, but he thought better of it and reached for the dagger instead. 

This was already against his plan—not only had the ambush failed, but the foe now held the advantage. Jon could no longer turn and flee without consequence, without the alchemist simply hiding away or disappearing gods know where. He had to strike now, otherwise it would all be in vain. He hesitated for a moment, though not about turning around, but about the method of assault.

The guard hounds cautiously went in first, peeking through the already opened door. There was no foe waiting in ambush, so he steeled himself and pressed forward. 

Below was a large chamber with a timber ceiling and granite for walls and flooring. Rafters and cabinets were laden with vials and glass jars of all shapes and sizes filled with strange opaque liquids of all colours. Few skulls rimmed with silver hung from the rafters above, the light of candles flickering from their jaws. The further back, the more Jon saw tables cluttered with rolls of parchment and paper and strange instruments he had never seen before.

In the far end, beside a large cauldron set into the gigantic hearth, stood a figure cloaked in a cream-coloured robe stained by green and black and purple. The figure was hunched forward ever so slightly, shoulders narrow and limbs thin, with only a narrow face revealed. A square purple cap covered his head, and beneath it were almond-shaped eyes with a sinister squint, sharp cheeks, and a thin, black moustache that reminded Jon of a rat.

His black eyes darted to the hounds flanking Jon and then to the dagger in his hand.

“So you’re not here for business, I take it.” His voice was high-pitched, raspy and grated on Jon’s ears from up close.

“I can be,” Jon lied without batting an eye, straightening up as he tucked the dagger back into his belt. “Are you the man who makes the Touch of Pleasure?”

An amused smile tugged at his lips, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. “Ah, yes. My masterpiece. I suppose you wish to know more?”

“Indeed.” Jon tensed, then spread out his senses to the limit. “Who runs the distribution? Who hired you?”

“Septon Ambrose was the one to hire me,” the alchemist said, lowering his head. “Though he’s collaborating with two guild masters. I’m running a legal trade here, ser. So I suggest you leave before I call for the gold cloaks.”

Jon could sense no deception in those words. Was it truly the Faith behind all of this? Was it one corrupt septon’s doing and a few greedy guild masters, or someone else lurking in the back?

But a glance at the alchemist told him he never intended to cooperate and was merely speaking out of curiosity and buying time.

As Jon remained unmoving, the man let out a low, sinister laugh that sounded like the scraping of a rusty knife against stone. “It seems I’ll have to capture you, then.”

For a brief moment, Jon contemplated throwing his dagger at the man. He had practised that skill a hundred times and was reasonably certain he could nail the alchemist’s chest. The malice spilt from the man like ink through a cup of glass, but oddly enough, Jon couldn’t feel any sense of danger at all.

It felt no different from being attacked by an angry toddler, and that stayed his hand.

The alchemist tapped the cauldron behind him. A faint buzzing sound spread through the underground chamber, and he felt his own bones vibrate. Before Jon could move, the hounds collapsed, frothing green from their mouths. 

There was something in the air!

The slow pain of throat constricting and insides burning lashed at his mind. Jon felt his own limbs numb, but no pain beyond the echo of death. The uncomfortable sensation disappeared in a moment, and his heart began to throb instead. 

Thump.

Thump.

Thump!

It beat louder and louder, much like a war drum before a battle. But there was no trepidation, no apprehension or pain. It was not uncomfortable; instead, it felt as if his blood had begun to sing with each powerful beat, boiling with excitement, and power rushed into his limbs. For a moment, he contemplated collapsing on the floor to see what the alchemist would do, but quickly discarded the thought and drew his sword. 

Heat throbbed around his neck, but he paid it no heed.

“Impossible,” the alchemist shook, eyes wide as he glared at him. “How are you still standing?”

Jon quirked a brow. “Am I supposed to fall to this?” 

“This should’ve been enough to knock an elephant out for a sennight,” the man muttered, his moustache twitching in frustration. A hand disappeared underneath his robe and then flung out, throwing a black vial. 

The glass broke two feet from Jon, and a thick, dark ribbon of smoke rose. Jon felt no danger from it, and his free hand instinctively reached out, waving it away. For a moment, it was as if a hook had pulled behind his navel and his insides twisted. 

The black mist froze two feet from him, falling onto the floor in crystalline beads of ice the size of a grain.

How did he do this?

But before he had time to contemplate what had just happened, the man before him had gone as pale as if he had seen a ghost, his whole body shaking.

His quivering hand reached and pulled the empty sconce behind him. The ground beneath rumbled as two of the cabinets shifted, and two figures darted at Jon like lightning, with no hesitation, no warning. 

‘Not nearly as swift as the white cloaks or the senior knights.’

His sword fluttered almost lazily, slicing through the nearest enemy, stepping back to dodge the lunge of the second, and hacking down. Two small bodies thumped on the ground as a pair of daggers clattered on the flagstones. One girl, one boy watched him without blinking, without making a sound.

His body had reacted more on instinct than thought.

Two pairs of blue eyes were completely hollow, bereft of emotion, as if there was no bone-deep cut on their necks and their lifeblood was not spilling like a crimson flower on the cold stone beneath. His thoughts reached out as if to probe… and found nothing.

Their mind had long since been destroyed, leaving two husks that ran on habit.

Within a few heartbeats, their eyes grew dim, and their limbs grew slack, like puppets with their strings cut.

Jon saw red.

And then, his mind hovered over the fallen bodies, and his senses twisted and rippled as he felt the corpses as if they were another skin. There was no heartbeat; the warmth drained from them every moment, but just at the slightest tug of his mind, he saw a limb twitch. With the slightest push, they clumsily rose back up, necks still weeping red, dying their robes into dark crimson. The dead guarding hounds were even easier to control, jumping to their feet, albeit stiffly, as if the echo of their consciousness were still fresh. 

Bile rose in his throat. His veins turned to ice, his previous excitement draining away in a moment, but controlling the fallen only grew easier. His anger only grew like someone had poured oil into a roaring pyre.

“You—stay away, monster!” The alchemist crumbled on the floor, raising an odd medallion shaped like a broken cross and mumbling some chant under his nose as if it would make Jon disappear. 

Jon’s fingers clenched tight around the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward. Each step was slow and deliberate as blood dripped from the blade. 

The man pulled out another medallion, this one shaped like a moon, and the chant changed into something fervent and far more urgent. Jon drew nearer and nearer; the man’s voice grew hoarser and more desperate. Another step: the moon was replaced by a black star, then a laughing face, a naked woman, and, lastly, the seven-pointed star of the Faith.

“The gods won’t save you here,” Jon said darkly.

“I—don’t come closer!” The shriek was hysterical. “I have gold—you can have it all. I’ll tell you everything, just—”

Jon pushed down the urge to lop off the rat’s head. He had come here with a purpose other than murder. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he tried to calm himself, allowing all the emotions churning underneath to drain away.

The feeling of strength receded, leaving him hollow and disgusted. Pain jolted across his neck, just where the beads were sitting. His bare hand reached up, finding the weirwood unpleasantly hot to the touch.

Regret swept over him. He had relied too strongly on his instincts and senses tonight and pushed open a gate that should never have been opened.

“Speak,” he rasped out, pausing before the quivering lump of a man and then deliberately resting his sword on his shoulder. A single push and his jugular would be cut. “And I better hear no lies.”

---

The Young Princess

The godswood smelled earthly and impossibly fresh after a night full of rain. Everything was damp and muddy save for the stone paving, and the sky was overcast again, heavy with the promise of another storm. The cold air was more refreshing than biting, but her mind barely paid it any heed.

She studied Jon Snow, who looked paler than usual, almost like a ghost. Deep, dark circles hung beneath his crimson eyes, now unsettled and distant.

Something had drastically changed in him last night. The nonchalant confidence he wore like armour was gone, replaced by a sense of uncertainty and loss. Jon Snow looked as lonely and as confused as a child who had just lost his whole family. Something deep in Rhaella stirred, and she almost reached out to hug him.

Then she remembered that night in the godswood and the stinging pain in her backside and instead smoothed the skirts of her pink gown, even though they were perfectly straight.

“The quartermaster of the Faith, the guild mistress of the Tailor’s Guild and the deputy of the Tanners’ Guild,” she slowly repeated. “What an odd union.”

Jon Snow shrugged stiffly. “Even the oddest folks can get together when their interests align,” he murmured. “This particular lot made a great fortune. The alchemist alone possessed a full sixty thousand gold and another chest full of gemstones—a third of which is rightfully your spoils.”

“So you passed it off as robbery.” Rhaella couldn’t help but chuckle. “Quite clever.”

The bastard merely inclined his head. “The alchemist is as dead as a man can be, and he won’t need coin in the afterlife. I poured all the cooking oil, pitch, and wine on hand and set the house ablaze. The rain prevented it from spreading further, but any trace of my presence there was destroyed. Nobody but the two of us will know what truly happened.”

“You’re quite good at this,” she said, tone teasing. Even that failed to elicit any reaction from Jon Snow.

She frowned inwardly. What was wrong with him? 

“Wasn’t too hard,” he said at last, eyes still gazing somewhere in the distance. “There was a small cart, and I just had to load up the chests on it and ride out. The cart and the horse were both left in Fleabottom after the fact, and nobody saw me in the process since it was still raining.”

Fine. Strictly business, then.

Sixty thousand dragons and a chest laden with gems. How many had died? Hundreds? Perhaps over a thousand, if rounded up with the few other unfortunate victims of the Touch of Pleasure. Were all the lives of those unfortunate women worth only that much?

Some might even claim it was too much. But she felt that putting a price on the life of a woman, even if she was a whore, was cruel. It was wrong, ungodly, and incredibly ugly in a way that unsettled her deeply. And those collaborators had surely made a small fortune of their own…

“Keep the coin,” Rhaella said, voice colder than she intended. “I’ll send Branda to take all the gemstones. A simple case of greed and ambition that does not surprise me in the slightest—at least it was worth our while. As for the mastermind… I don’t think the guilds or the Faith are involved, not with plotting against the Iron Throne, at least.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so swift to judge. Allow me to look into those three in question, if it pleases you. Perhaps I can find more, and further investigation would not be amiss.”

The princess generously swept out her hand. “Do as you will and let me know if you find anything of substance. Be careful with the Faith, though. I heard that Grandfather is considering taking out a significant loan from them if the war drags on. Although that might merely be a rumour, I fear he’ll turn a blind eye to any misdeeds they might or might not have committed. They have already been the first to denounce Blackfyre and loudly proclaim their support for the war.”

Just as the bastard turned to leave, a shriek tore through the calm of the godswood. Thyssaria, who had been leisurely circling the grove until now, descended, looking like an oversized pink bat.

Rhaella was loath to keep the drake locked up, but letting a small and so vulnerable hatchling fly freely was too dangerous. Allowing her to roam around the godswood was a compromise she had reached, and one even the king could not gainsay. 

But Thyssaria did not lunge in her arms as she expected. Instead, with a squawk, she landed right atop Jon Snow’s snow-white mane.

The bastard knight froze in his footsteps, and to Rhaella’s surprise, the drakeling lifted her small scaly head proudly, showing none of the usual wariness and animosity with which the she-dragon treated all strangers. She settled on his head as if it were a throne.

Rhaella stood there stunned, her eyes still struggling to believe what they were seeing. Jon Snow regained his wits first and stiffly cleared his throat. “Could you please get it off my head, princess?”

Still somewhat dazed, the princess reached out, taking the squirming Thyssaria into her arms. She was heavier now, grown twice as large as Rhaella had first seen her. Reluctance blasted into her mind through their bond, and with it unhappiness and a feeling of familiarity and kinship when the drakeling glanced at Jon Snow.

Rhaella’s lips twitched.

And he still dared to claim he wasn’t Bloodraven’s bastard?

Jon Snow excused himself hurriedly once again, quickly fleeing from the grove.

“Wait,” she called out, and he halted in his tracks, turning around to face her with greater wariness. A mental tug summoned Vhagar half a minute later, and the eagle landed on a nearby branch. Rhaella slipped into Vhagar’s mind, only to be met with greater resistance and resentment than usual as the eagle glared at the pink drakeling in her hands. Sighing inwardly, she urged the bird to land on Jon Snow’s shoulder and decisively severed her connection. “Vhagar is yours now—consider it my reward. Can’t have a skinchanger like you without eyes in the sky. Just make sure she doesn’t kill messenger ravens.”

Jon Snow nodded and turned to leave.

It took Rhaella a few moments for the throbbing that came with the severing of an old thread to dwindle. It was easier this time as the severing was mutual; like two associates cordially ending their relationship.

Thunder split the sky again, and rain began to drizzle, sending her back to the safety of Maegor’s Holdfast. 

Joanna hesitantly slipped into her parlour, looking wary.

“What is it?” Rhaella prodded.

“Queen Alys invites you to her parlour,” the golden-haired maiden mumbled. “She invited me, too.”

Thyssaria let out a low, threatening hiss.

The princess scoffed. “Queen Alys can enjoy her parlour on her own. Anna, come and keep me company.”

Not even a full moon had passed since the wedding, and she was already spreading her falcon wings in court. But that was the privilege of a queen, and Rhaella could never match her, especially since Alys Arryn was backed by the full might and wealth of the Vale. She was not afraid, though. As a princess with a dragon, Rhaella could no longer be so easily controlled or commanded. Her grandsire had given his own guarantees of her future, and that alone was a shield greater than any other.

It was not only the new falcon queen who was eager to expand her power in court. Like a commander mustering a new host, Genna had recruited a third lady-in-waiting, somehow prying the infamous Mad Maid of the Hightower to her side. But Malora was not the Mad Maid of Rhaella’s memory, but a young girl of nine, shy and often seen sitting in front of a book in the royal library.

House Lannister was weak with Tytos at the helm, but the presence of the granddaughter of Lord Hightower had tangible weight.

Now, the factions in court had shifted to something completely unrecognisable a year ago. Those who had supported her brother were either dead or turned away, her uncle and father’s men much the same. The rising Darklyn Hand and his loose alliance with a few fellow Crownsland lords were the most numerous after the weakened royal faction. Next was Alys Arryn with the Valemen, Genna and her ladies, and Rhaella with her humble gathering that couldn’t pass for a faction. Not counting Branda’s sworn swords, the princess commanded a grand total of one bastard knight and his squires, two ladies, and a newly hatched dragon.

‘At least my bastard knight is very capable,’ she consoled herself, ‘and just as dangerous, and my ladies are as loyal as they could be.’

Capable was one way to put it. A chest full of gemstones could fetch tens of thousands of gold, and she already had a connection with the jeweller’s guild. That was a small fortune alone that would allow her to purchase numerous warehouses, inns, and taverns across the city. Or, if she wished, she could recruit retainers and arm two dozen knights of her own without any worry. 

Or maybe finally seeing to arming the pleasure ship her grandfather had promised her. 

There was no rush to make a decision, though. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur, and when evening came, Rhaella fell asleep quickly.

A familiar pair of green eyes was the first to greet her in the Dream.

“A dragon?” her master murmured, cocking his head. He was seated on a mossy rock at the very edge of the lake, the waves licking at its base. “I did not foresee it. The tides of fate have shifted once again. But perhaps this is for the better.”

They were on the sprawling lakeshore of the Gods’ Eye again. Whitedream had pulled her here. Rhaella studied him closely for a moment. He no longer looked like a young boy but as a man just past his age of majority. Not much taller than her, but with a sharp jaw that sported a short stubble and thin lips still pressed together into his usual frown.

“Master.” She curtsied. Even her gown here was pink, but its fabric was not the soft silk and cotton, but as if woven out of scale. The same scales Thyssaria had. “Shall we resume my lessons?”

“Yes.” The greenseer hummed. “That’s most important. First, sit down and meditate to clear your mind of all distractions. I might as well teach you how to sense other practitioners of the arcane, seeing quite a few are now lurking in the dragon city. Stretch out your senses—”

---

Author’s Endnote: I had a few options to go for the usual historical sources, and decided to go with a diary again instead of opening another PoV in Essos. My goal for this story is for all events in Essos to occur off-screen and be known only second-hand, so this fits neatly. It also allows me to glimpse a third great faction in the Game, albeit from a distance. The Rogare plotline will remain minor and entirely in the memoir entries, too.

Also starring: Cursed Jon Snow + magical poison = sinister fuckery. I planned to slowly unveil those powers in pivotal moments later, but the scene was too good to pass up. Anyway, the new particular set of powers is not something easily controlled (or something Jon would be eager to explore, for obvious reasons).