36. Bared Fangs

The captains of the gates all have developed the same distasteful habit of closing their eyes when a purse finds its way into their hands, regardless of the items smuggled into the city, whether openly or not. If the purse is heavy enough, they might even help instead. Even these old, seasoned knights like the Ser Banon Longwaters do the same, though the purse must be twice as hefty to close their eyes. Aside from that, not one of them seems to harbour any disloyalty towards the Iron Throne or the House of the Dragon, at most considering such less-than-legal means merely as a boon of their position rather than a crime.

Upon further investigation, the involvement of Madam Emelyn of the Tailor’s Guild goes no deeper than her thirst for coin. From what I can glean, it was that penchant for greed that Leatherwright Ronnal used to draw her in. 

I observed both for a full sennight. The seamstress merely seemed sorrowful for a time, at most feeling unreconciled about the loss of her ungainly source of coin. The leatherwright is far more suspicious. Ronnal has become jittery, his appetite has dwindled, and nights seem troubled. As the days passed, I caught him looking over his shoulder more often than not as if expecting someone to ambush him from behind. 

Yesterday morning, he disappeared from the guild, and I only found him with Vhagar, deep into the Blackwater Bay on a ship to Braavos. The rest of the Tanner’s Guild seems to be baffled by his sudden disappearance, and his wife and children are frightened—it seems he left after emptying his family’s stash of coin. 

Should I give pursuit across the Narrow Sea?

J

*

You are needed here, but pursuit must still be given. If you consider some of your men trustworthy enough, send them on the task.

As for Madam Emelyn, she should still be interrogated if there’s a chance.

R

*

Three of my men are on the task, though only time will tell whether they succeed. Essos is vast, and if a man wants to disappear, finding them will be neither simple nor quick. As for Madam Emelyn, I’ll try to approach her in person subtly. These last few weeks, the city has been growing tense. More often than not, folks avoid lingering on the streets for long, and it’s not the deepening autumn chill that they fear. Even the gold cloaks have taken to the streets with persistence they lacked before. 

Should you need to venture into the city, I advise you to do so with proper guard. There seems to be a surge of nightly violence and crime in the city, to the point that murder is no longer a rare occasion.

J

---

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Pale Knight

Using the excuse of a custom-made set of fine garments, I ventured into the tailor’s guild. Meeting the old seamstress wasn’t easy, but she was all chatty as she took my measurements. I only confirmed my previous conclusions. There’s only one avenue left to pursue now.

J

He tied the piece of parchment to Vhagar’s talons, and she rushed skyward like an arrow. In a few moments, nothing but a brown blur could be seen in the distance, as the bird circled high above the city. A few minutes and a dead dove later (one that Jon had used as eyes once), the eagle found the princess kneeling by the weirwood tree. She was there almost every day without fail, save for when the rain thickened too much.

Jon could visit the Red Keep in person, but preferred to limit his direct meeting with the princess. Not only was it inconvenient, but he had caught the looks the royal men-at-arms gave him in the Red Keep. Deep scrutiny, wariness, and suspicion.

The court itself gave him a feeling no less dangerous than a shadowcat’s den, and the Red Keep’s ability to suppress his powers made every visit all the more dangerous. Even his daily morning spars were kept to a minimum and in the outermost courtyard, devoting his time to archery in the fields outside the city. That allowed him to spend some time with Shadow and leave the stink of the city, although the gate toll had grown heavier. Not that he cared—he could easily afford it.

His thoughts drifted towards the final target—Septon Ambrose. Quartermaster of the Most Devout in King’s Landing and the man who controlled the coin of the Faith in this part of the Seven Kingdoms. No matter how corrupt, this city was the seat of power for the Faith, too, and their influence permeated every corner of the land. In this, Jon dared not tread anything but lightly. As a devout believer of the Old Gods, he was wholly unfamiliar with matters of the Seven save for what little he had gleaned from Lady Stark. She had been the perfect wife and mother, and perhaps precisely because of that, she had been cold and distant to a bastard like him. It didn’t help that the Seven openly and loudly condemned bastards in a way the Old Gods never did, which alone made him keep distance from Septon Chayle in Winterfell.

He had observed Septon Ambrose through the eyes of wild cats and doves for a time, but found little of substance. Each day was much the same. The man got up precisely at dawn, prayed, and buried himself in sums and ledgers. Aside from his lavish spread of food and soft feather-bed, he was no different from most septons. But Asa and his other eyes on the street had once spotted Ambrose sneak into the Street of Silk some months ago. Jon suspected that the quartermaster most definitely wasn’t there to read sermons to the whores, but he had yet to catch him doing anything wrong. While neither Asa nor the remainder of the former street rats had any reason to lie, Jon preferred to observe things for himself before rushing to a conclusion. 

Perhaps cracks would appear in the pious and devoted persona, but Jon had begun to grow impatient. How long would he have to wait and observe for a clue that might not even be there? Months? Years?

Worse, the Faith and the inner workings of the Seven were not things Jon understood well or deeply, which added to his wariness about acting.

For once, he felt genuinely wary and uncertain about how to proceed. But when the path forward was uncertain, he could always borrow the wisdom of those well-versed in such matters.

“Fetch me Daeron,” he told Tormund. “He ought to be near that shack in Fleabottom at this hour, collecting alms and treating the sick.”

The Essosi priest was not a believer of the Seven, but Bloodraven had once told him that most clergymen were well-versed in most theology for the sole reason of converting others and fiercely denouncing disbelievers and aggressive priests of other gods.

Within half an hour, Daeron arrived, limping into the audience room, his bare feet thumping loudly against the wooden floor. The limp was about a moon’s turn old, and when Tormund had carelessly asked, the priest had only said he had been beaten up by an old crone.

Jon’s nose twitched. The priest’s messy beard was still singed, and his hair was now shaved bald entirely, but other than that, Daeron looked no different. But there was now a faint, coppery scent mixed with a thicker herbal odour to him, though that was not much of a surprise, considering he was preaching and healing the sick.

The priest gave him an amiable nod and a benevolent smile as he eased himself into the chair, eagerly shoving his spoon into the thick duck stew before him as if he were at home. Jon didn’t mind—this much hospitality was expected for any guest, let alone a reliable friend like the priest. In fact, Jon had offered him room and board, but Daeron had firmly declined.

“Good food,” he said after swallowing a mouthful, face blooming with a smile as he reached for the freshly-baked crusty slice of bread. “This bread is better than most, good enough to be served at any lord’s table. Benefactor has found yourself a good cook.”

“I’ll pass on the compliments to Anella.” His cook was an old, widowed woman in her late fifties, with a stout character and equally stout body. Her husband—one of the Raven’s Teeth—had died from a bad fever, and out of her surviving children, one of her sons had become a maester, and her daughter had married a joiner in Rosby, leaving her to toil in an old bakery. She took on the role of a steward, too, ensuring the smooth running of his manse and arranging the procurement of supplies and the duties of the pair of orphans Jon had deemed trustworthy enough to recruit directly into his household as helping hands. 

Jon waited patiently, and once Daeron had his fill and the wooden bowl was swept clean, Daeron finally asked, “You wished to see this one, benefactor?” 

“I have my eyes on a septon.” Jon paused to weigh how much to reveal. Even his own men were told only what they needed to know; outside of himself, only the princess knew the full story. “He has done some deeds both ungodly and illegal, detrimental to Princess Rhaella, and I am seeking insight into the workings of the Faith.”

The priest cleaned his oily mouth with his sleeve. “Benefactor has come to the right person.” Daeron’s smile was so wide it threatened to split his face in two. “This one studied the workings of the Seven and the corruption of their order quite closely.”

“Their… corruption?”

Daeron nodded. “It’s important to know the weakness of your potential enemies, and corruption is inevitable where power or coin gather. As for the Faith, they’re exempt from all taxation since the time of the Conciliator. Their crooked order has long since grown rich on alms and their estate that, while scattered across the realm, rivals the size of a powerful lord in the Crownlands alone. If the Seven Kingdoms were considered, the Faith’s total lands would match those commanded by House Stark.”

“Impossible!” Jon blurted out. “House Stark’s direct lands are nearing half a smaller kingdom on their own.”

“Many small streams make up the sea,” the priest said calmly. “A sept or a vineyard here and there, a patch of land by every village to go with the local sept. Some dabble with breweries and even compete with the Brewers’ Guild. Lands owned by the Faith also enjoy the work of those devout smallfolk, which many consider honour and spiritual reward. The Faith collectively has great power, a wealth to rival Highgarden, and deep influence with the pious lords below the Neck. But most of this power and wealth are scattered across the land, only nominally commanded by the High Septon.”

Daeron’s smile turned sly. “If benefactor needs help with a certain septon, this one can be of assistance. Teacher always told this one he has a knack for dealing with corrupt priests.”

At this moment, Jon regretted completely ignoring the Faith and refusing the lessons Maester Luwin had once offered him. Their influence went far deeper than he expected, intertwined in the very fabric of the realm. Lands, wealth, connections with commoners and powerful pious lords… this was entirely different from the quiet solitude of the Old Gods, who had no custom, no priests, and no wealth to speak of.

He wasn’t in a hurry to agree with Daeron’s proposal either, knowing even less about the Church of Starry Wisdom and their ways. The priest before him might be friendly, but he wasn’t half as harmless as he liked to appear.

‘Why did the quartermaster of the Faith collude with a Yi-Tish alchemist to make a potion whores grow dependent on?’

Even the question alone made little sense… yet it was all Jon had placed together so far.

“If you wished to interrogate a septon of high standing,” Jon began cautiously, “how would you go about it?”

“Abduct him, of course,” Daeron chortled. “Spirit him away to some dark corner, and get the Starry Inquisitor to pry whatever sordid secrets he hides. These men and women are trained in the sacred art of truth, and can dig out the darkness hiding in the deepest corner of one’s soul.”

“Right,” Jon said flatly. “Never mind, I’ll handle it on my own. Thank you, Daeron.”

The unkempt priest rose with a deep bow. “You can rely on this one anytime, benefactor.”

Nodding amiably, the priest limped away, and soon the rhythmic clunking of his staff faded in the distance. Starry Inquisitors. They sounded dangerous and important… and most definitely weren’t something an ordinary wandering priest could command. Jon shook his head, turning his thoughts to the matter at hand.

Abduction and interrogation.

He rolled the idea in his mind. Risky, but certainly more reliable than the struggle of securing an audience only to ask dangerous questions that would implicate Jon as much as they’d implicate Septon Ambrose. Whether he would even receive an answer was another matter entirely, and there was a chance to startle the mastermind. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of training and contemplation, and Jon still had no better way of achieving his goal. There are subtler ways to extract secrets than force, but they weren’t necessarily more reliable or easier.

Accuse him of his crimes in court? The proof at hand was merely circumstantial, far from enough to pass muster for a proper trial, and even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t make a difference. The king had a war to fight, and couldn’t afford to push away the Faith. 

Even if such a trial succeeded, it might startle the mysterious plotter into hiding. Or action. Royal justice was rarely swift where the powerful were involved; a trial for a septon like Ambrose would drag on for quite a while. Whereas killing a septon languishing in the Dark Cells wasn’t nearly as hard as setting hundreds of wildfire pots underneath the royal box. The septon himself might simply take his own life to avoid the shame of the trial.

Jon did not like any of the options, but deep down, he knew abduction was the quickest and most likely to yield results.  

Still, forceful seizure interrogation was not something done lightly or easily, especially when the target was an affluent septon. The risk of such a venture was a thousand times higher than just ambushing some lone alchemist lurking in a house’s basement. 

But this was not a decision that lay with him. 

“Arthur,” he called out. “Fetch me another roll of parchment.”

‘Let Rhaella decide. In this, I’m merely the blade in her hand.’

And the subler ways… might require Madam Floris’s assistance. Regardless of whether it would work, the attempt needed to be made.

---

Apparently, the princess was in no hurry to reach a decision, for Jon received no reply over the next six days. On the other hand, Madam Floris was quite eager to help him, immediately professing how Ambrose was an old customer of her own establishment. But whether her girls could pry some secret out of his mouth was another matter entirely.

For good or for ill, Septon Ambrose had a measure of self-control over his lust and had yet to make a visit to the Street of Silk. This was not particularly odd, for his visits to the Silver Rose rarely exceeded thrice a year. But he rarely left the Great Sept of Baelor at all. Jon’s frustration slowly began to mount—the priest’s routine was extremely dull and cumbersome, with not one step out of the ordinary. If he didn’t know better, Jon would think the man was just an old, devout priest. 

Perhaps the sudden death of the alchemist had made those involved wary, even though he had done his best to pass the matter off as an accidental fire. But for those in the know, the missing wealth from the alchemist’s coffers would raise suspicions.

Could he wait for months on end for the septon to visit a brothel?

What if the visit itself failed to achieve the desired effect?

‘Forget it,’ Jon thought. ‘There is no haste here. The one who ought to be in a hurry is Princess Rhaella. Or perhaps the mastermind. All I can do is hone my skills and my body.’

His training had indeed paid off. He could draw the dragonbone warbow fully without leveraging his fury to fill the gap in strength, though three arrows exhausted him. Slipping into the minds of new, untamed beasts was faster and more seamless, and he could now control over two dozen beasts with some strain and at a further distance. As for the powers of the ice… his control grew, but that was it; any other improvement was so small, so subtle, that Jon barely noticed it. It could just be the shortening of the days and the onset of autumn…

The next morning, Jon decided to return to the Red Keep. Even though he had grown to dislike the place, his sword skills needed to be polished too, and there was no better whetstone than the knights in the royal household. This was twice as true for his squires, now that Arthur had officially become one. Despite his youthfulness, his sword skills were too good to remain a simple page.

Cold gusts of wind swept a ribbon of fallen leaves across the city streets. Each day was a bit shorter and each night—colder. Across the Blackwater Rush, the kingswood had changed its cloak from green to gold and crimson, the forest strewn with a carpet of brown and yellow.

Winter was coming. By this time next year, Jon wouldn’t be surprised to see snow. Perhaps even sooner.

As he rode through the River Row, a small, familiar figure hurriedly rushed over. 

“Asa?” he asked, reining in his steed. “What is it?”

“It’s the gold cloaks,” she said breathlessly, mousy brown hair once again caked with dirt. “They’re arresting Little Jeff and the rest. You must help them.”

Jon’s hand reached for his sword, fingers curling tight around the hilt. “Did they steal something again?” His voice came out sharper than he intended.

Asa took an uneasy step back, but her eyes did not falter. “No, ser. They’ve been obedient as you ordered, even working as scallions at the inns when they needed more coin. It’s the gold cloaks who rushed to take them.”

No matter how corrupt or petty the gold cloaks were, they wouldn’t just apprehend a bunch of children for no reason.

“Lead the way,” Jon said coldly. “I will be the judge of it.” He paused, looking at the exhausted girl. “On the other hand, ride with me.”

He reached down, grabbed the startled Asa by the scruff and placed her on the saddle before him. The girl stiffened in his arms for a moment, but Jon had no time to soothe her thoughts. “Tormund, Arthur, Brynden, back to the manor.”

“Perhaps we could be of help—”

“I’m not going there to fight,” Jon said patiently. “Even if I were, numbers would be of no help. Go back now obediently. Asa, just point the way for me.”

Brynden nodded without complaint. Only once Tormund and Arthur reluctantly turned around did he move. Following Asa’s directions, Jon passed through the Eel Alley and into the smaller streets until he crossed into the Muddy Way. The city streets were half empty, but charging on horseback through them was not just forbidden but dangerous, with all the carts, stalls, and slippery cobblestones, forcing Jon into a more moderate trot. Vhagar was streaking above, her sharp eagle eyes scouting the way for ambushes or other obstacles.

“Where next?” he demanded. 

“They—they were taken here,” Asa stammered out. “Did they… kill them?”

Jon glanced about, seeing no trace of the gold cloaks. Though it was not much of a surprise, what commotion could a bunch of underfed street rats raise against trained men?

“The city watch is probably bringing them to the barracks of the city dungeons,” he said, urging Vhagar to fly higher. “No matter how corrupt they are, they can only apprehend, but never mete out royal justice or pass judgment without trial.”

“Ser—”

Before she could speak further, Jon spurred his steed, taking the intersection to the Street of Seeds.

He saw them from above, seven golden cloaks slowly pacing to Cobbler’s Square with a few smaller figures tied behind them, just entering the city barracks. 

Within a handful of minutes, Jon arrived at the city watch barracks. It was a square three-floor building of brick and mortar the size of a small castle, overlooking the Gate of the Gods with a sprawling walled yard in the back where the gold cloaks would train. Though almost every time Jon had glanced from above with Vhagar’s eyes, the yard was nearly empty.

Jon did not attempt to enter the city watch barracks; he knew the two sentries at the entrance would bar him from entry. He wasn’t special in that regard—it wasn’t easy for outsiders to enter any of the city watch’s barracks. While anyone in the city could request a meeting with a gold cloak captain, meeting them was never easy and always involved waiting, and it wasn’t rare for the wait to last weeks unless there was some crime to report. 

Jon’s mind fanned out until he found a suitable skin inside the barracks. Bending a tabby cat’s mind to his will, he prowled through the hallways until he found four children being penned into an underground room. He also saw an all-too-familiar face oozing with confident amusement that he made his hands itch. 

Ser Denys Darklyn. 

“Captain,” one of his men called out. “Will these street rats even know a thing?”

“Perhaps,” was the amused response. “A few days without food will loosen their tongues.”

Jon slipped out of the cat’s skin. 

“We’re leaving,” he said coldly, wheeling his steed around.

“But—” Asa’s voice cracked. “Jeff and Lina and the others?”

“I cannot get them out of the golden cloak’s grasp by myself,” Jon said evenly, pushing the surge of cold anger that burned in his chest. “But I’ll see what I can do in court.”

A thousand thoughts rushed through his mind, but he still failed to see what Darklyn’s goal was here. 

If he knew he was the children’s patron, did he mean to provoke him?

If he didn’t know… was another plot afoot?

Jon’s fingers tensed around the reins and then loosened again. All the more reason not to rush blindly into what could be another trap.

---

“I am aware of that matter,” said the master of laws, fingers tapping on his desk. Today, he was harder to read, his brow knotted together. “I must admit, Ser Jon, I didn’t quite expect you to take a band of homeless orphans under your wing. Let us put aside whether those born in the muck can be of any use. Do you trust them?”

Gawen Corbray had welcomed Jon in his audience chamber without standing on ceremony. Jon had contemplated going to Princess Rhaella for help, but quickly discarded the notion. If the young princess had the influence to lend him a hand in this, her faction wouldn’t be just him and her ladies.

“Trust?” Jon chewed on the word for a moment. “It is of no matter to me. If they have indeed broken the law, I shall not speak in their favour but demand that they be judged fairly. Nothing less, nothing more.”

“A heart more honourable than most,” Ser Gawen said, pausing for a long moment. “The matter at hand is far from simple. I suppose… I can tell you. We’ve been finding a trail of dead corpses for the last month. One new body every morning, each perished the same way.”

The master of laws observed him like a hawk, his sharp eyes studying his face with scary intensity.

“A murderer lurking in the city?” Jon muttered to himself. “He must be brought to justice. I’d be glad to be of assistance—just say the word.”

“Of course.” The Valeman’s face was inscrutable. “Some of the bodies belong to children, others to greybeards and old crones and the rest to those in their twenties and thirties. Half appear near Fleabottom, and the rest are spread across the city with no visible pattern. They are all hard to recognise, appearing to be either people who have gone missing or who have left the city for one reason or another. The only common trait is the lack of kin that would look for them.” He paused for a moment. “The worst of all is that each corpse is dry and brittle.”

This whole story was utterly bizarre in a way that made Jon’s hair stand on end. He had not paid much attention to the workings of the city, and when Asa had mentioned murders near Fleabottom, he had not thought of it much. With war and autumn both underway, trade had lessened, and people were turning especially restless as taxation tightened to fill the royal coffers. Petty theft and robbery had grown common as of late, resulting in heavy injury and even death. Jon had knocked out two such thieves himself as they tried to force their way into a bakery, leaving them for the gold cloaks to deal with.

“…Dry and brittle?” he managed in the end, mind racing. 

“Yes. As if someone sucked out all the life juices from them, leaving merely a hollow husk behind. Skin that tears apart at the slightest touch, and even the bones crumple like rotten wood. Ser Denys only arrested these orphans because they flutter all around the city and could, perhaps, have witnessed the killer. That and some of the missing children hail from the same orphanage.”

Jon did not falter, looking back at Ser Gawen’s eyes. He looked deeper then, seeing scrutiny and wariness.

Did they suspect him? 

‘Of course they did.’ Jon knew all too well the rumours that clung to his name. Bloodraven the Second was the epitome of darkness and secrecy. Murder and sorcery fit the story seamlessly… and worse, he had done both. He had murdered that alchemist in cold blood, and he had not only used but knowingly practised dangerous sorcery.

But Jon would never stoop so low as to murder children—or anyone, for that matter. If he had to kill, to go beyond the law, it had to be for a good reason.

Still, the situation was ugly. It was dangerous. But the children he had chosen to take in, even as simple ears and eyes. A man who could not protect his own from harm would sooner or later lose the hearts of his men.

He exhaled slowly. “Then, surely you don’t believe these orphaned children are behind it all?”

“Of course not.” The master of laws cleared his throat. “I’ll look into it myself, I promise you this, Ser Jon. But I’ll have to ask you to remain in the Red Keep until tomorrow. Fret not, I’ll arrange guest quarters right next to my own apartments.”

This was a detention. Not a direct one, of course. 

Perhaps the plotter was once again trying to kill him with a borrowed knife. 

Perhaps it was just a coincidence, or some other plot—the city certainly did not lack for those.

But Jon was not afraid.

“Very well,” Jon said, his voice even as he dipped his head. “I shall remain here for the night to enjoy your hospitality, Lord Gawen. If you need my assistance for this matter, just say the word, and I’ll do my utmost to help. Perhaps it would be prudent to inform Princess Rhaella as well—she is still young, but not without means of her own.”

The master of laws nodded, face growing cautious as he heard the warning for what it was.

As a knight of the realm and a direct subordinate of a princess of the blood, even if he was schemed against, Jon had the right to a trial by battle. Even those lords who disliked him and knights who hated his guts would not deny him his right if it came to it. But even if his sword hand was far from good enough to best most veteran knights, cold steel was far from his only weapon.

A servant guided Jon into a room on the lower floor of the tower. It was a cosy guest room with fine painted furniture, far from the discomfort of a true dungeon cell. They asked for his sword, but not his daggers, but Jon did not lower his guard.

They offered him a scrumptious dinner. Jon hesitantly ate at first, stretching out his senses. It wasn’t poisoned as far as he could tell.

He lay down in the feathered bed, remaining tense and unable to fall asleep. Soon, his self drifted into the mind of Vhagar and the rest of his skins, restlessly prowling around the city. He was looking for something… anything, but all he saw was the cold autumn night and the deathly stillness that came with it. The only sign of movement was the occasional drunkard or the nightly gold cloak patrol. 

Just past the hour of the nightingale, lightning split the darkness in twain, and a deep, heavy rumble followed from the east. A cold rain began to drizzle, slowly gaining momentum into a proper storm, washing away the filth and the gold cloaks from the cobbled streets. Even Vhagar fled into the safety of the nest she had made in Jon’s manse, nestling in the rafters.

The rhythmic sound of rainfall finally lulled him to sleep.

A knock on the door had him leap on his feet, fingers reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. Jon rubbed his bleary eyes as a grim-faced Ser Gawen marched into his room.

“You’re free to go, Ser Jon,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Very well,” Jon muttered, trying to shake the sleep from his mind. A glimpse through Vhagar’s eyes told him it was past noon. “Did something happen?”

“The gold cloaks found another corpse by the docks.” He looked as if he had aged half a decade in a single night. “Same empty husk. I’ve talked to the children—they’ve been released, they obviously know nothing.”

No wonder. They could hardly suspect him of murder halfway across the city while being locked up in the guest room. Swallowing his irritation, he pulled on his boots.

Just as Jon donned his cloak, the Valeman called out after him, tone stern. “Ser Jon, have them all keep an ear for odd, inexplicable things inside the city and report them all to me.”

It was not a request, but an order.

Jon’s jaw tightened. ‘The gall!’ First, they suspected him; now they wished to use him. But he had offered his assistance.

“It’ll be done,” he said coldly as he snatched back his sword from the man-at-arms by the door. 

Outside in the training yard, three men blocked his way with Ser Denys Darklyn sauntering in front, clad in fine silk instead of the half-plate of the gold cloak captains. His blonde hair was meticulously combed and tied with a black ribbon behind his hair as if he were some sort of lady, and Jon could catch the thick scent of perfume from five yards away. With his blue eyes, the man could be considered charming if not for the sneer twisting his face.

“Look what we have here,” his voice was nasal and thick with mocking. “Our sinister bastard knight has shown his dastardly face amongst honest men and women. You ought to keep playing with street rats and beggars, Bastard. Only the gods know what ill-deeds you do in the dark. And don’t let me ever catch you breaking the king’s laws.”

His smile widened as he ran his finger across his throat.

It seems the fool had not forgotten that night. Even now, he could catch the irritation and poorly-concealed hostility coming from the man. Things suddenly made sense. The deaths must have indeed happened as Ser Gawen Corbray had described, and perhaps even his orphans were acquainted with some of the victims. But the idea to pin this on Jon came from Denys Darklyn; of this, Jon had no doubt. Being the nephew of the Hand and a captain of the gold cloaks only gave such accusations more weight.

But the scheme was poor as it was petty.

Jon snorted. “At least I’m not an incompetent fop dancing at the palm of others.” The ponce’s face began to redden as laughter rippled from the nearby servants and guards. “Surely the gold cloaks have their own duties, and the Darklyn heir has better things to do than waylay a small nameless bastard like me?”

“I-I’ve been summoned by the master of laws,” he said, and Jon might have believed it if his voice didn’t waver.

Jon’s eyes flicked across the gathering crowd. They were all watching with a mixture of interest and cold detachment, unwilling to get involved. Some even regarded him with pity.

In terms of influence and power, he was but an ant in front of the Darklyn heir. The accusation levied against his good name would have no consequence for Denys Darklyn, and if it could be so easily made once, it could be made a second and a third time. This could not be allowed to continue.

As the ponce tried to step aside and go around him to the master of law’s tower, Jon moved, blocking his way in turn.

“What are you doing?” Darklyn demanded. “Get lost, bastard. I have urgent matters to attend to.”

Jon drew the glove that was tucked into his belt and threw it at his feet. Everyone froze.

The silence was deafening.

“Today,” he began, not lowering his voice in the slightest, “you questioned my honour and my good name, levying a heavy insult. Let the souls here be my witness. Draw your blade and defend your words, or get lost, craven. Here, no armour, just a contest of swordskills. A proud knight like you ought to have at least this much courage, right?”

Denys Darklyn paled, taking a step back as he stared at the fallen glove. No doubt he knew that duelling with live steel and without armour was a most deadly affair, and even the victor could suffer grievous wounds. All knights trained in armour, and for a good reason. He could decline the offer of a duel because it skirted dangerously close to the wrong side of the law, but word would immediately spread of the Darklyn Heir’s cowardice, and it would be hard to wash off for life. 

“Craven,” someone jeered from the crowd, quickly spreading through the gathering like fire in a dry grassland.

“Craven!”

“Craven!”

Denys’s face turned from pale to dark and then to a deep shade of red. His hand reached for the sword hanging on his belt, but his fingers kept trembling.

Of course, Jon did not intend to kill the Darklyn Heir; that much was unwise. But he could kill his spirit, ruin his reputation, and expose his weakness. Perhaps ruin his face if he mustered the courage to fight. As for making an enemy of House Darklyn? They had already attempted to strike at him tonight and were thus already a foe to be guarded against.

A roar echoed from behind him. “What is this folly?” 

The commotion immediately quieted as Gawen Corbray rushed over like an enraged lion, accompanied by three knights and a dozen men-at-arms. “I will hear no more of this folly. Duels to the death?!”

“Any knight has the right to defend his honour and good name,” Jon said, not faltering under the man’s heavy gaze. “This is a god-given right that even the king cannot dispute.”

The master of laws looked at the red-faced Ser Denys Darklyn and then back to Jon.

“Ser Denys didn’t mean it, so don’t take it to heart,” he said at last. “Right, boy?”

“I indeed…I misspoke,” the Darkyln said through gritted teeth. “Apologies, Ser Jon.”

His tone was anything but apologetic.

“Very well. Young men cannot be without temper,” said Jon, the youngest of all the knights in the courtyard. “But my offer remains. If you wish to duel me, I am open to your challenge, Ser Denys. They say truth is often found at the edge of a sword, and there is nothing more thrilling than fighting to the death. Lance or sword, pike or mace, axe or bow, you can choose, any time, any place, and I shall oblige you.”

Jon gave a cold, glacial smile and drew deep into his mind as he stared at the blonde ponce. 

“There—there’s no need,” Darklyn eked out. “It was all just a misunderstanding.”

He watched as the nuisance walked away with his tail tucked between his feet and shook his head. Craven. The crowd was quick to disperse, but the eyes looking at Darklyn’s back were now filled with dark amusement and disdain. Today, Denys Darklyn had lacked the courage to draw his sword to defend his own words and had lost his reputation for it. In the future, his own subordinates would laugh at him deep in their cups, mocking him for his cravenry. Lords would think thrice to offer their daughter’s hands in marriage to any Darklyn, lest their grandsons grow up to be craven themselves. 

“The Hand will not forget this, boy,” the master of laws told him. “Being hot-headed in court will get you killed.”

“The Darklyn lot has not forgotten the previous slight either.” Jon’s voice was flat. “And I have not forgotten how they tried to get me killed and hold a grudge for failing.”

Ser Gawen Corbray gave him one last look and let out a sigh. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Jon turned his steps towards the edge of the yard, where his mistress was watching with an unreadable face. She had arrived halfway, but had no doubt seen the whole affair through the eyes of the ravens cluttering the battlements.

“That was dangerous,” Rhaella said, face unreadable.

“It was,” Jon said with a shrug, eyeing the silent knight looming behind her. “But any good warrior does not fear danger or death. This is twice as true for knights. And… since they think me a vicious dog, I might as well bare my fangs.”

The situation in the city and the Red Keep only grew more dangerous with these new, bizarre murders, but Jon realised he didn’t care.

Bloodraven’s words came back to him then. ‘A man must oft conceal his gifts,’ the old sorcerer had once said, ‘yet hide them too well, too long, and he may wake one day to find he has become a rat instead of a man.’

Perhaps baring his fangs was not enough to deter those who wished him ill. He needed to find an opportunity to take a good bite at someone.

---

Author’s Endnote: Starring: Another mysterious murder. A blonde ponce. A bastard with no fucks left to give.