35.Tides of Darkness

With the arrival of the royal fleet commanded by Lord Donnel Darry and Ser Roland Darklyn of the Kingsguard on Greenstone, the Band of the Nine and their four fleets found themselves pincered. Maelys Blackfyre was now facing the royal forces from the north, and the constant raids of the Iron Fleet led by Quellon Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper of Pyke, with Plankytown as their base. 

For a moment, the war reached a stalemate. The Iron Throne had a smaller fleet, but a larger share of it was warships decked with trained mariners, and where many called the Ironborn simple pirates, they were all clad in ringmail or better, eager for blood and plunder, making both sides about equal at sea, content to probe each other with skirmishes and the occasional raid.

Lord Darry was an unhurried, steadfast man, planning his every move cautiously. With the Stepstones under Blackfyre’s control, a full-scale assault was too dangerous without having an absolute advantage in numbers. His plan was simple and straightforward—wait for the arrival of the Northern force led by Manderly, the Vale fleet that would also ferry the Riverlands muster and the Reach-Westerlands fleets. With the full naval might of Westeros assembled, they would crush the motley collection of fleets gathered by the Nine and pry the Stepstones out of Blackfyre’s greedy grasp, island by island.

It was a prudent plan, and one that not even the Archmaester of War could find great fault with. The Lord Reaper of Pyke was no less prudent than Donnel Darry in character, but he was still young at three and twenty, with no great victory or feats to his name and thus yet to win the full respect of his bannermen. The imminent arrival of the Reach and Lannister fleets rippled through the proud and plunder-thirsty Ironmen. More allies meant greater safety but also a smaller share of the spoils. Many a captain and lord grew more reckless, sailing deeper into the Stepstones, plundering for too long, and according to rumours, even selling the defeated foes and the plundered smallfolk to Lys and Volantis. 

Lords Orkwood, Volmark, and Codd grew particularly bold in their raids on Torturer’s Deep and were eventually caught by the Pirate Prince Samarro Saan and the Tyroshi fleet, suffering a devastating defeat in battle. The Nine mustered the rest of their fleets and struck fast and hard at Plankytown. It was said that the battle lasted day and night, and by the end, Quellon Greyjoy, his uncle and brother were all slain by Maelys the Monstrous himself, with the rest of the Ironmen scattering…

Excerpt from Archmaester Mollos’s The Great Turmoil

---

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

The word of the Ironmen’s defeat swept through the Red Keep and soon even the lowliest washerwoman knew of it. Rhaella paid close attention, even listening to the small council meetings with a cat. Few cared about the death of so many reaver lords, but Maelys the Monstrous had gained glory and prestige from the victory, and had ended the dream of seeing the war to a swift end. Not only did the morale of the Seven Kingdoms take a hit, but now, without the Ironmen, the Iron Throne’s remaining fleets only had a slight numerical advantage even when not scattered. And that advantage apparently was far from enough to assault islands now controlled and fortified by the Nine.

Worse still, the next Lord Reaper of Pyke was a babe in swaddling clothes, unable to unite or command the remaining Ironmen. Even the question of Pyke’s regency would probably plunge the Iron Islands into a bloody struggle.

The last consequences were by far the thorniest. The Blackfyre fleets had not sacked the defenceless Plankytown. Perhaps it was a ruse, a scheme, but the small council and her grandfather had both lost whatever little trust they had in Dorne and House Martell. The Martell hostages in the Maidenvault were left untouched, perhaps to deter the young Prince of Dorne from openly supporting House Blackfyre. And with Sunspear and Dorne’s allegiances put in doubt, neither the combined Reach fleets nor the Lannister fleet could deploy reliably into the Stepstones, not without supplies. Or so the small council had discussed.

Rhaella’s heart sank. This was… it wouldn’t be won as easily as it had been in her memory. Things had changed too much, and her meagre training in the Greensight was far from enough to even steal a small glimpse of the future.

In contrast to the war, the princess was having quite the success. Although the mastermind remained elusive, the Touch of Pleasure had all but disappeared from the city in the last fortnight; her share of the spoils had allowed her to acquire three more inns and two warehouses, earning her coin and allowing her to glimpse the rumours and mood of the city. What she needed now was to grow her faction more to be taken seriously in court. A few young maidens and a single knight, no matter how capable, were far from enough. She needed more knights, but too many eager for glory and success had departed with the royal fleet, and those lingering in court were hard to trust. Perhaps she could recruit a handful, but their true loyalties might lie elsewhere, and that was not a risk she was willing to take. 

She needed more ladies, too, but with Genna and the new queen, her chances of attracting another were even slimmer. No lord or knight of import would send their daughter to the princess at the bottom of the royal succession and an uncertain future. Perhaps that might change once her dragon had grown.

“You could recruit from the city,” Joanna said lightly. Rhaella had once again gathered her humble faction in the Sleeping Spearman’s Inn, for five heads were better than one. “Many a knight would love to serve a princess of the blood.”

Branda snorted from behind a tankard of ale. “Of your ideas, this one has to be the worst. Only greedy cutthroats, sellswords, and tired greybeards linger in court after the muster. And cravens. Anyone with a shred of honour and decency is already fighting under the king’s banner or staying far, far away from this city.”

“Or have already sworn their sword to a master,” Ser Jon added absentmindedly, the skewered chicken roast before him still untouched. The dark gloom still clung to him to this day, refusing to leave. He had yet to investigate the new clues, spending his days training with sword and bow, and Rhaella had no desire to push him. “There’s a good reason why most retainers are raised inside a lord’s household while young. Things of import can rarely be rushed.”

Rhaella was not too surprised, just disappointed. “You’re both right. For now, keep your eyes peeled for promising young knights, but only those of known lineage and honourable character. Brynden?”

The fifth and newest addition to her faction shrugged his shoulders. “When the time is right, and your cause is virtuous enough, the gods themselves will aid you, and all of your endeavours will run smoothly.”

So not now, then. Was her cause virtuous enough? Rhaella knew the answer all too well. She had no great cause to speak of, merely trying to recruit capable aides out of self-interest.

Still, there was some wisdom in Brynden Tully’s words. The young Riverrun spare had expressed an almost eager desire to join even without Rhaella making any promises. Perhaps it was his own way of escaping from home, and she couldn’t fault him for it, doubly so when she was the one to benefit. Still, he had thrown himself into martial training the day he joined, proclaiming he would become a great knight within the year.

Once she returned to the Red Keep later that day, Rhaella once again saw Queen Alys attempt to approach her. Looking away, she flicked through the minds of the ravens she controlled until she found suitable ones and dove. A shriek tore through the courtyard when the queen found hair stained by faeces. She quickly retreated, but not before being hit twice more. 

“That is unwise, princess,” Ser Gerold murmured from her side. “Holding such grudges might only sour things further.”

“What is unwise, ser?” Rhaella said, barely swallowing her chuckles. “What does it have to do with me if our most gracious queen has displeased a few wild birds? Ravens are known to be petty creatures, after all.”

The white cloak gave her a deadpan look, but she remained undaunted. Was it petty of her? Yes. Did she care? Not in the slightest.

As for the knight guessing she controlled the birds? It didn’t matter, nor was there any proof. Many rumours were swirling about her dangerous venture into dark magic, making the truth impossible to distinguish from hearsay.

“You still ought to be careful,” the knight said, voice lowered as he leaned in. “They found poison in the king’s meals last eve.”

Rhaella’s chest tightened. “Poison?”

“Nothing lethal. According to Grand Maester Pycelle, it’s some sort of mixed formula, each substance harmless on its own, and deadly only after being combined and ingested over some moons. The king had immediately demanded a full investigation after feeling inexplicably weak for three days.”

She had not heard even an echo of a whisper of such a happenstance. This was not something a kingsguard was supposed to tell her, either. But the Hightower knight was softer than his stony face could ever suggest, and she was glad for it.  

“So that’s why guards are loitering around the kitchens,” Rhaella said to herself. “I hope grandfather is well. What about the assassin?”

“The king is convinced a Faceless Man is after his life,” the knight uttered, and that was all she could extract from him on the matter. 

Later that night, Rhaella slipped into the skin of a cat, attempting to watch over her grandfather, but all of her instincts screamed for her to flee the moment she snuck into the royal apartments. She jerked out from the feline’s mind, only to completely lose the thread linking them together. The next morning, a charred servant’s corpse was carried out of Maegor’s Holdfast. 

Rumours spread like plague that dragons had grown bloodthirsty and murderous, but Rhaella knew better. The little hatchlings had yet to grow to the point where their flames could roast someone to the point of looking like they had fallen headfirst into a bonfire. Was it possible that this was indeed a Faceless Man?

If so, why was he burned so badly?

---

Once asleep, the princess found herself on a steep cliff of pale, pink rock facing the sea, a faintly familiar place. Massey’s Hook, Stonedance. But the Massey Seat was nowhere to be seen, as if it had never been built. 

At the very edge, a figure clad in unadorned green garments of fine make stood ramrod straight, facing the roiling waves below. This time, he had chosen to wear a younger form, looking no older than she. 

“Master?”

The sky above had darkened with thick, stormy clouds in every direction, and cold, vicious gusts of wind battered at her, sending her silver-gold hair aflutter like some old banner. Salt stung at her throat with every breath, as if she had thrown herself deep into the sea.

“The Drowned God is furious,” he said without turning. He made an odd gesture with his hand, and the wind around them faded in an instant, though she could still see it rustling a nearby pine. “But he is powerless and impotent with his champions suffering a great defeat, whereas the Storm God celebrates. The Essosi victory goes much deeper than you’d think.” 

Rhaella swallowed. “It can affect the Dream?”

“Everything can affect the Dream, especially battles where so much blood is spilt. It’s not just mere legitimacy and morale that the mortal lords fret over. Each battle won can win a claimant a great deal of fate and momentum, and even affect the fortune of the Crown. Magic and sorcery are no different. And your bastard dragonlord has a great witch by his side that will grow stronger and more dangerous with each victory. When a ruler loses all momentum and fate, his reign shall come to an end, and when all legitimacy has been squandered, their line will wither.”

So just like her brother would have in the future, which would never come to be. Concerning, but it was far beyond Rhaella’s abilities to change. Matters of warfare were far removed from the hands of a princess, at least until her dragon grew. 

“Let us begin the lesson, then,” she said calmly. 

“Knowledge sharpens your wits and bolsters your mind. Understanding of the world and the elements is a necessary foundation for every sorcerer and, most important of all, makes the Dream easier to navigate and allows you to recognise the threads of fate and the law of causality—” He kept teaching her of esoteric matters for what felt like forever in a rare bout of wordiness, a rare divergence from their usual lessons. 

Rhaella even caught him smiling twice, which was quite the surprise, considering she had only seen his smile a single time before.

Once the lesson ended, she curtsied as she always did. “Master. Can we… resume Skinchanging training soon? I find my mood takes sharp, inexplicable turns when I do not pay attention. Thyssaria will soon begin to affect me—”

“Even I cannot sever such a deep bloodline thread,” Whitedream said flatly. “Not without maiming your mind beyond repair or outright killing you. It’s much the same if you do it yourself. The greater the boon, the greater the cost, and there is no greater one than mastering a dragon. Another reason to read more, learn more, fortify your mind and master yourself, and—oh.” 

His usually calm demeanour crumbled, face growing grim. “They’re here. You should leave. Now.”

Suddenly, the world began to twist and fracture, but Rhaella did not wake up as she usually did. Instead, she found herself back in the godswood.

The clouds above scattered in an instant, revealing an inky black sky dotted with countless cold stars. She shuddered. 

A great giant, hewn from fire and shadow, rose from the east. Each lumbering step it took made the ground beneath her feet quake. A great cloak of pale flame fluttered over its shoulders, licking at the sea, as the air around it shimmered and the water hissed, raising ribbons of steam. “Stop hiding, you vile creatures!”

A chunk of the starry sky fell off, twitching and twisting until it turned into a terrible, misshapen monster with ten wiggling arms and countless starry tentacles, half of it pale and translucent, as if made of starlight, and the rest was cold and dark. Its head kept shifting, taking the form of a man in one moment and a terrible beast in the next. But in the end, it was barely half the size of the giant. 

Rhaella felt so small, so insignificant, no different than an ant facing a giant. Her limbs were frozen stiff with fear, the air around her thickened, and even breathing became a challenge.

A terrible, rumbling roar split the silence.

“Starry fiend!” The giant of fire and shadow slammed its staff into the ground, and the Dream itself shook. “Damned agents of the Great Other. Come out, faceless skinwalker!”

Come out, come out, come out…

The words kept ringing in her mind; so loud was the roar that she felt like her head would split open. 

A wave of fire and shadow struck at the starry fiend, but the monster waved its hand. A pulse of pure, unadulterated darkness snuffed out the fire and swallowed the shadow. All of its limbs and tentacles then made a grasping motion, and a creature of vines and bark and old leaves was pulled out of the earth, much like a farmer would pull out an onion from his garden.

Rhaella’s veins turned to ice. Even though it was all vines and leaves, she recognised that face. Whitedream.

But the vines that served for his hair broke off as he slipped away, merging back into the ground. The twisted abomination wiggled and, with a flick of its tentacles, launched a volley of what looked to be like falling stars.

The fiery giant swung his staff to meet them, and the world exploded.

The last thing she heard was another voice coming from the starry abomination, deeper, impossibly ancient.

“Your. Struggle. Is. Futile.”

Rhaella woke up swimming in cold sweat, her heart thundering in her ears. 

Your struggle is futile. Your struggle is futile. Your struggle is futile.

The words still echoed deep inside her skull as she wheezed for breath, finding each gulp of air impossibly sweet. Next to her, Branda’s scarred face was twisted into a heavy frown, as if she was having a terrible night terror of her own.

---

The Pale Knight

Jon sat as the darkness of the night slowly faded. To the east, a hint of purple cloaked the horizon, getting brighter with each breath. For a change, he had slept soundly for the first time since that night.

‘You can’t escape forever, Jon,’ he chided himself, fingers brushing over the lukewarm weirwood beads around his neck.

Pushing away his apprehension, he closed his eyes and let go. His thoughts were as clear as a mountain stream, and emptying his mind came effortlessly. He looked deep down, deeper than the threads and skinchanging, diving underneath his subconscious thoughts. He had tried a hundred times before to no avail, but today everything happened naturally, like a gushing spring flowing through a streambed carved smooth by the ages.

There it was. In the very nethers of his being, a cold crystalline orb hewn from ice hovered, slowly spinning as it cloaked the surrounding darkness with hoarfrost. It was the very same shade of glacial blue as that cold pool of water that had almost drowned him in the heart of winter. 

Jon was not surprised, yet when he looked around for more, he found nothing but ice and coldness. ‘Where is it?’

Finding nothing, he tried delving deeper, but there was nowhere else to delve. Jon cleared his thoughts and stretched out his senses. No, there were no powers to raise the dead here, just the faintest sense of death that inevitably came with the cold. Jon reached out with his mind, slow and cautious, and drew on it. 

As his eyes opened, he exhaled a gust of frigid air that misted in the lukewarm autumn morning. He did it again, this time trying to focus on his boots. The soles soon whitened as a faint layer of frost grew. Jon pushed harder, and the ice thickened. The ice powers… could be controlled. 

Only his breathing was now ragged, and his mind felt all exhausted, as if he had done sums and ledgers for hours to no end with Maester Luwin. As for necromancy… Jon didn’t dare even try. Disturbing the dead was beyond heinous, a sacrilege no lesser than kinslaying, and controlling them was even worse.

His eyes fluttered open just in time for the first rays of sunlight to seep across the horizon, heralding dawn and banishing the morning fog rising from the Blackwater. The warmth was pleasant on his face for a fleeting moment. Jon pulled down his hood.

He was sitting on the rooftop of a two-floor stone and timber manse near the Dragon Gate. His very own manse, purchased from the spoils of the wicked alchemist. It had a decent courtyard with its own stable, garden, and well. At the gate stood a small cottage, huddled beneath the stone wall crowned with sharp iron spikes along its length. 

The construction was all recent, less than a decade old, and everything was in good shape when Jon purchased it. Eighteen thousand golden dragons gone just like that. Enough to purchase a holdfast and clad a wing of heavy lances in castle-forged steel from head to toe and put each one on a well-bred warhorse with coin to spare. 

Signing the ownership deed would have pained him greatly if the manse wasn’t like a small fortress, giving him a small sense of safety in this treacherous city. On the slopes of Rhaenys’s Hill, the rooftop allowed him a view of the Narrow Sea and the rising sun, and the sea breeze made the stench of half a million souls somewhat bearable. With a place to call his own in the city, he had immediately gone to meet Dick, Ulmer, and the rest, and they had sworn themselves in his service without hesitation.

“My very own manse,” he whispered in the wind, tasting the words on his tongue. It was neither great nor special, but he owned it. This first piece of land he could truly call his own. He had that meagre village the king had granted as a reward, but it could be taken away just as easily as it had been given. Castle Black and the castles along the Wall never belonged to Jon, but to the Lord Commander. 

It didn’t quite feel real. Jon had no qualms about taking the spoils from an evildoer like that alchemist, and taking it for himself was far better than leaving the gold for the corrupt city watch to squander and steal. But it just felt wrong to see murder and arson so profitable. One night and some killing had turned him into a wealthy knight with more coin to his name than most small lords could ever muster. Thankfully, very few merchants or craftsmen could ever grow as wealthy as the alchemist, and those who did made certain their wealth was well-defended. 

Jon’s hand trailed to his pocket, where a small iron tablet hid in his pouch: a certificate from the Iron Bank. Half of the coin Jon had earned was shipped to Braavos’s legendary bank for safekeeping after negotiating with one of the bankers who had come for some deal with the jeweller’s guild. If anything happened in court and his standing with the Iron Throne worsened, he could always flee to Essos and live out the rest of his life in luxury. Dealing with a representative of the bank was not as easy as it was when he was Lord Commander, but opening an account was far simpler once he rattled a few pouches of gold.

Descending from the slate roof, he was met with the already prepared Tormund and Arthur. Just as they were about to venture to the Red Keep, someone knocked on the gate. Jon slipped his mind into Vhagar and saw a willowy, cloaked figure guarded by two sellswords. It was an ordinary travel cloak in unassuming mossy green, albeit one made of fine cotton, with its cowl completely covering the face. With the slender shoulder, thin waist, and buxom chest, this could only be a woman, but Jon expected no visitors or guests.

The man whispered something to the guardsman, half-asleep at the gate, and Damen hurriedly shook himself awake and ran over.

“It’s Madam Floris, Ser Jon. She requests an audience.”

Jon frowned. He had avoided consorting with prostitutes and the purveyors of pleasure for a good reason. But the gods loved their ironies, and now, it was they who sought him out. He had researched the woman in question after her previous invitations. Suspected to be a Velaryon bastard, though unacknowledged, and owner of three pleasure houses, one of which was the most luxurious in the city, another that was common and affordable, and the third one in between. The women serving under her were treated with care and even enjoyed the services of a half-maester well-versed in healing. 

“Invite her in,” he decided after a moment of thought. “Offer her bread and salt, but her guards stay outside.” 

‘I might as well see what you so eagerly desire from me.’ There was no reason to make enemies where there were none, especially for the richest and most influential brothel owner in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Jon observed from above through Vhagar’s eyes. The woman did not hesitate to leave her guards outside, dipped the offered piece of bread in salt, and took a generous bite. Good. It wasn’t enough to trust her, but she couldn’t be half as bad as a Frey.

A few minutes later, Arthur accompanied the cloaked figure into the rather plain audience room—there was nothing here aside from an oaken table with a chair on each side. A slender hand pulled away her travel cloak, revealing a gorgeous heart-shaped face and a silky mane of molten silver. A true Valyrian beauty. Her lips were the same crimson as an overripe apple, but the small wrinkles and the faint sagging of her skin hinted at her true age. 

“Ser Jon,” she said, gathering her skirts for a curtsy no less graceful than any highborn lady. Only the deep cut of her red gown allowed him a generous view of her impressive chest. “You’re quite the hard man to get a word with.”

Her beauty was no less than that of any noblewoman, and even Cersei Lannister barely compared, even though she was about two decades younger in his memory. Only, the madam’s garments were all thin and revealing to the point of impropriety, revealing a lean, willowy body that had yet to sag with age and drawing his gaze like a moth to flame. This was no common whore, but a master of seduction who had made countless powerful lords and influential knights find release beneath her. From what Jon knew, elite courtesans didn’t just offer sex but gentle companionship in all aspects. Each of her gestures carried a subtle suggestiveness that made his breeches tighten. 

“The same could be said for you, Lady Floris. Many yearn for your company, never to enjoy it,” he shot back as he eased himself on a painted chair, clearing his mind in an instant. “Come now, let us sit. You must excuse my poor hospitality. I wasn’t expecting any guests.”

With a coquettish titter, she sat across from him, leaning in over the table. A faint but arousing scent of lavender and something he couldn’t quite catch tickled his nose. “Just to meet you like this is a pleasure enough, ser. You have the same silver tongue he does.” Her tone grew as soft as silk. “Gods, you look just like him. Did Brynden often speak of me?”

Jon was stunned speechless for a long moment. “I fear my time with Bloodraven was quite short,” he lied without batting an eye. “I only ventured beyond the Wall to retrieve Dark Sister on the behest of the Iron Throne and did not linger much.”

Her purple eyes studied him closely, searching for something. He did not falter, holding her gaze without blinking. A subtle silence took hold of the room. She was the one who came here eager to see him, and Jon only needed to wait, and she would spill the beans. He knew all too well how unsettling his face could be, and that was even without the danger of looking a skinchanger in the eye. Slipping into the mind of another human was one of the great taboos, but voluntarily staring at a skinchanger was no different from facing off with a shadowcat. The shadowcat might not necessarily attack, but all of your instincts are bound to scream of danger.

Surely enough, she began to shift in her seat as the silence stretched, though subtly, Jon noticed. After another minute, she averted her eyes.

Madam Floris threw him a pouty, pitiful look that made his insides twitch. Still, he kept staring blankly at her, content to let her fill the silence. He could not falter before this old woman’s admittedly great charm. 

In the end, she let out a long, weary sigh. “You’re made of the same stern stuff he is. Call me Floris, ser.” 

Jon quirked a brow. “Surely someone as famous as Lady Floris did not come to see a humble knight like me just to reminisce?”

“Humble?” She shook her head. “Perhaps. But it’s not every day a young knight with little backing can purchase a well-off manse like this. A poor old woman like me has to be cautious.” 

‘If you are poor, then I’m a pauper,’ he thought with some amusement. “Indeed, prudence is never wrong.” 

They traded a few more pleasantries, but Jon remained polite and unruffled, not giving her a handle on his emotions. Her words were all soft and melodic, with a nearly intimate tone that tugged on his heartstrings. For good or ill, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of closeness to the old whore, though that was far from enough to allow her an advantage. The woman was no less dangerous than the scheming and plotting vipers hiding in court. If Jon didn’t know better, he would think she was trying to seduce him, no doubt claiming the son the same way she had claimed the father.

For a moment, he was tempted, oh so tempted. Madam Floris was more than three decades older than he, but she was still more beautiful than most and no doubt knew all there was to know about carnal pleasure. He shook his head, steadying his mind. Those ruled by lust instead of reason rarely, if ever, had a good ending—one needed to look no further than the Unworthy. Or Robert Baratheon. Or the mess he had made with the young Lady Bolton.

Worse, judging by the coy smile tugging on her lips, Floris was taking great pleasure from this game. Jon sank most of his awareness into Vhagar, flying up high, and the magnificent, vast expanse of the sky soon overwhelmed all other emotion.

Floris noticed, almost immediately and straightened up. “Oh my, time sure passes quickly.” Her face grew solemn. “In truth, there is another reason why I was so eager to see you, Ser Jon. Recent events have stirred great undercurrents inside the city, and many suspicious matters have happened far too quickly, even affecting my own establishments.”

“War affects us all,” Jon said softly. “Its crooked fingers reach every corner of the realm.”

“I’m not speaking of war.” She leaned in, voice lowering. “In the last half year, certain individuals aggressively acquired brothels in the city, sparing no expense to purchase, and even the lowest shack full of old whores by the docks was no exception. By now, over half are owned by Sandarro of Lys.”

He cocked his head. “While odd, I am quite certain this is far from the first time some Essosi owned some brothels inside the city, especially one hailing from the City of Pleasure.”

“It is indeed not uncommon, but the scale and speed of it alarmed me,” she whispered. “His steward even approached me, eager to purchase the Silver Rose, the Jade Beauty, and the Velvet Veil. The offer was generous, and even tempted me for a long moment, but I had to refuse, for this is my life’s work. Then the next week, someone attacked the guards at the Velvet Veil at night, beating them senseless.”  

Her voice turned cold. “Three good men in my employ are crippled, and my girls are all frightened. I know that was a warning to me, meant to intimidate me into obedience.”  

“Quite the tale, but what does it have to do with me?” Jon gave her an apologetic smile. “I am but a young bastard that many find an eyesore. Matters of crime should be handled by the city watch. Perhaps you can catch the ear of the master of laws or even petition the royal court.”

“Justice for a whore?” Floris let out a cold, raspy laugh. “I went to the gold cloaks, of course. They said they’re looking into it, only to return a week later with nothing to show for it, claiming it was just a drunken brawl. Perhaps they didn’t wish to try too hard for a whore, or perhaps Sandarro of Lys bribed them to look the other way. Either way, I knew I would not get any true justice from the city watch. As for proud men like Ser Gawen Corbray or our pious Hand? They’ll patronise brothels at discretion, but never associate with a whore openly, no matter how rich or glamorous she is. I know men of their ilk—they all value their reputation too much for it.”

Her eyes were full of grievance and resentment, making her look pitiful, but Jon wasn’t buying it. Not quite. He was quite certain her three pleasure houses were still unaffected and not lacking for coin nor patrons. No doubt Floris had used her connections to ensure the safety of her establishments. Perhaps some old knight, a lord’s brother, or one of the Gold Cloak captains. Whereas investigating her enemies was hard and dangerous, protecting her establishments was easy.

But why was she so confident that Jon would ever care to help her?

Why did she even believe he could help her at all?

Did she trust Bloodraven so much?

Jon sighed inwardly. ‘I should have just headed to the Red Keep for my morning training.’

“What do you want from me?” he demanded. “And don’t play coy, lest you wish to be sent out.”

“Things are not as they seem on the surface,” Floris said calmly, her entire demeanour turning cold and dignified. “I looked into the so-called Sandarro of Lys. None of the Essosi traders passing through the docks has ever heard of such a magister, even those I sent to investigate in Lys returned empty-handed. Few inside the city have ever met him, and he always kept his face behind a mask. A false name is not rare, but it’s very troublesome. Furthermore, most of the brothels were purchased after their girls got all weaned on that terrible concoction.”

His irritation evaporated immediately.

“The Touch of Pleasure?” he murmured. 

“The very same vile draught,” she spat the word like a curse. “They wean the girls on it, and raise the price until they can’t afford it and fall sick without it, losing clientele. From there, purchasing the brothel becomes easy, for the owner is already looking to get rid of a losing venture. Then, the girls are only paid in food, lodging, and it, becoming slaves unable to leave. But now, something has changed. Someone has cut off the supply of the concoction, and many of the girls are falling sick again, and a handful have already perished.”

That one was on him. He had perhaps caused their deaths with his actions, aye, but so what? Jon knew the full story, the free samples of the Touch of Pleasure and the eager descent into intoxication, voluntarily putting a shackle on their own lives. Instead of living like cattle, perhaps it was better to find freedom in the Stranger’s embrace. 

He squashed the sliver of guilt wiggling in his chest. Jon was not responsible for others’ decisions, and his conscience was clear.  

Furthermore, this was a lead he could not ignore. Jon almost regretted not agreeing to meet the old courtesan earlier.

“There is a dangerous plot afoot, I suspect,” her voice rang out, tearing him away from his thoughts.   

Floris watched him like a hawk, as if trying to glean through his thoughts. The edge of Jon’s lips curved as he gave her a harmless smile.

“And you believe that I can solve it?” He waved his hand helplessly. “Or that I can be of aid to you?” 

“You give me the same feeling as your father,” she said. “Guarded against all, yes, but sharp and dangerous like a sheathed blade eager for blood. Besides, a man without skill or cunning wouldn’t acquire such a manse so swiftly.”

“Just the spoils I plundered from bandits and a little help from the Iron Bank,” he offered lightly, ignoring the mention of his father. His tongue has long since grown weary of refuting it, and nobody seemed to believe him. “I will look into this, Lady Floris, but I cannot promise you anything.” 

She gave him a warm smile. “Just your word is enough for me, Ser Jon. I know the hearts of men better than most. Few would cross hundreds of leagues to return the most precious royal heirloom instead of selling it for a fortune and living like a prince in Essos. You could have rightfully claimed it as your own, and there would be little our old king would do to object. Some might call you foolish for it, others might believe it was the little princess’s doing, but I admire you greatly for it.”

She rose, a sly glint appearing in her eyes. When she gracefully circled the table. Jon’s hand slid to his belt, fingers coiling tight around the hilt of his dagger.  

“You’re too tense,” she whispered in his ear, her warm breath ghosting over his skin. Slender fingers sank into his shoulders, gently pressing with just the right strength to relieve the tension from his body. 

A sigh escaped his lips despite himself, and he could just feel the amusement oozing from the woman behind him. 

“I can soothe your body and mind.” The sultry voice made his breeches tighten again. “You will find none as skilled as me in the ancient art of Anatripsis beyond New Ghis; to rub the bad humours out of your muscles and bones with my bare hands. Or, if you desire something more, I have mastered the Seven Pleasures; I can make you feel like you’re in heaven with just a touch and a whisper…if you would allow me.” 

He swallowed, voice coming out hoarse. His hand had withdrawn from the dagger. “I cannot afford your services, Lady Floris.” 

She gently bit his ear, and his whole body jolted. “My companionship has not been for sale for years, ser. But for you, it’s all free.” 

“Then I cannot afford it even more,” he said, mind clearing up. Without a transaction, this became a favour, or even… something more. Working with a whore or even trading favours was one thing, but to be intimate and do so repeatedly? That was no different than jumping into a pit. Intimacy bred feelings, and if he dared take this offer, he could not say for certain his heart would remain unmoved. By then, their relationship would be no different than an alliance, and that was not something Jon wanted to see.

She went around to face him, a sad pout marring her face. “If an old woman like me displeases you, Rosalyna can be the one to serve you. Perhaps you’d prefer it that way—those of your lineage do find their sisters more attractive. She already expressed quite an interest in her half-brother.”

A sultry laugh escaped from her crimson lips as Jon stood there, completely dumbfounded.

As he stood there stunned, she leaned in, stealing a deep kiss and quickly fleeing towards the door. “We’ll keep in touch, ser,” Floris gave him a suggestive wink and an all-too-cheerful wave. “I will have my guard bring you all of my findings later today. And don’t be shy to visit, my doors will be forever open to you. I will serve at your pleasure, and sharing a bed together with my daughter is not impossible if it’s you.”

By the time Jon gathered his wits, the woman had already left. Revulsion and desire battled in his mind for a long moment, and then he pushed it all to the corner of his mind, preferring not to think of it. 

This woman was no doubt dangerous in a way he was ill-prepared to handle. Jon couldn’t tell if she had been lying or telling the truth, but he had no doubt that she would have welcomed his advances—that part was not fake. 

He let out a shuddering breath. Arthur soon slid into the room, small face apprehensive as he glanced about the room. 

“Master?” His voice was faint. “Shall we go training today?” 

“No,” Jon said hoarsely after a moment of thought. “Perhaps it’s time for a day of rest and quiet contemplation. Come, accompany me to the godswood. We shall visit the royal sept after.”  

The need to calm his mind and heart was real, and solitude would help him plan his next steps, for he had sat idle long enough. The Touch of Pleasure and the alchemist of the far east. Brothels and the elusive Lyseni magister. The Faith and the Tailors and Tanners’ Guilds. All seemingly unrelated, yet a part of something hidden, something bigger.

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Author’s Endnote: Here it is. A bit late, but better than never. I’ll be starting the next one right away.