38.Remembrance

My uncle once told me that reputation, no matter how resounding or reliable, is never ironclad, and the young, foolish me didn’t believe him. Today, I was proven wrong. 

A kindly-looking man was invited to the meeting by a dark-faced Veasyr Valaeno.

“Respected Magisters,” the man said with a sad, apologetic smile. “The coin paid for the Unlikely’s name shall be returned in full by the end of the moon. The House of Black and White is unable to fulfil this contract.” 

As pious and polite as it appeared, it was all a mask. When asked why, he spoke of a powerful seer and a fire-mage standing by Aegon’s side. The sunset king wasn’t unkillable; they just couldn’t do it without first removing those tricky practitioners of the arcane. In other terms, they just wanted more coin.  

My eyes were open for good—even the infamous Faceless Men had a day when they failed a kill and shamelessly haggled for more coin, as if this were some fish market. It was not a simple increase, either. 

The quoted price swelled threefold, and we could not afford it even if we wished to. That was without the hefty cost of the head of his sorcerous protector, too.

The issue was that their spies had yet to identify anyone remotely sorcerous-looking near the king, save for some white-haired heir of Lord Bloodraven, who was too young to have grown dangerous enough. By all accounts, the bastard knight was not close to the king and even slept outside the Red Keep.

The war, at least, was going in favour of the Blackfyre Brute, soothing some of our worry. But his victory was far from decisive; the great hosts of the Seven Kingdoms remained intact, and the great houses stayed strong.

Some proposed pouring the gold into the Red Jesters of Tyrosh or the Sorrowful Men of Qarth, both ancient and reliable guilds. The sum mustered for Aegon’s head was enough to hire a handful of assassins from each guild. But after a long debate, that idea was rejected. The Sunset King was better guarded than even the Sealord himself, and that was before they had made the attempt. Now that the Faceless Men had failed, the others would fare no better, especially as the Unlikely’s vigilance would grow tighter.  

Still, an agreement was eventually reached, and the goal shifted from assassination to bribery and coercion. 

Once I returned home, I found my new pleasure slave had drowned in the bath. At dinner, my wife couldn’t hold it any longer and looked at me with a face full of gloating, and I never wished to kill another as I did then—

Memoirs of Lano Rogare

---

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Dreaming Princess

A great thrill fluttered through her mind as she beheld the new visage unfolding before her. “Yes,” she uttered, voice thick with delight. “This is it!”

A great curtain of smoke rose above the city, and ash fell from the sky in ribbons. A panicked crowd fluttered around her, not even a single soul sparing her a glance. Some even rushed through her form, passing without a hitch. They could not see or feel her, Rhaella knew. Her translucent body floated up, giving her a better view. Oldtown was under attack, but it was not the big, proud city with towering curtain walls that dominated the mouth of the Honeywine, but a rustic settlement akin to a large trading town with brick-and-mortar ramparts, no more imposing than Duskendale at its heyday. Men in bronze and iron flooded through the streets, dragging out women and children from each building, ruthlessly slaughtering all who resisted as if they were no better than cattle.

Rhaella did not flinch; she did not blink, drinking in all the mayhem. 

The main host gathered at the shores of the Honeywine, taking boats to the island set in the middle, where a great white tower rose high. Myriad banners rose above the army, but the biggest of them was the green hand on white.  

Gardener. 

Rhaella’s gaze did not linger on the Battle Isle. The Hightower would not fall here. It had never fallen, and some said the world would end before it would.

She turned her attention to the cruel, tragic fate of those dwelling in the city. A boy tried to run away, only to be speared through the leg, crumbling on the cobblestones. A young maiden hid in the pantry, only to be dragged out and despoiled by Tarly’s men. An old greybeard tried to defend his home, fortifying the door and shutters, only for the invaders to put his house to the torch, slowly roasting him until he choked to death from the smoke. 

It was vile and cruel, but she took it all in. 

The books were right—over two-thirds of the city were sold like cattle. Rhaella pushed with her mind, and the vision rushed forward. The Hightower stormed thrice with no success. Once the cruel spectacle came to an end and the city was sacked into a smoking ruin, the army slowly withdrew, not bothering to waste its time starving Hightower out.  

Exhaustion seeped into her mind, but she steeled herself and dove out. The world before her ripped and shifted, turning into a sprawling woodland she did not recognise. 

Disappointment washed over her. It was an ordinary forest with birds and beasts and an old dirt road cleaving through its outskirts. The most interesting thing was an old man with an axe, huffing and puffing as he felled a great oak tree. She watched for a long moment, then lost interest. 

Rhaella dove again, this time finding a wrecked caravan in a winding mountain valley. The Mountains of the Moon. Corpses lay on both sides of the road, stripped bare and left for the vultures and wolves to feast. The carts were all overturned, with empty boxes and barrels cast aside, their contents already looted or tossed out. She crouched by the body of what looked to be a young boy, inspecting the wounds. Head caved in, throat sliced clean, and a bloody cut where his ears should have been.

Curious, she tried to twist time backwards to observe the ambush, but all she felt was a dull, throbbing pain ringing through her skull. ‘Still not good enough,’ she thought, irritation seeping through her mind. Another failure.

Whitedream had finally taught her the basics of Greensight and how to peer into the river of time, but her control was at best abysmal. Still, it let her dive into the past, but she had little control over what she saw or when, drifting from one moment to the next. Sometimes she would chance upon a great battle, an interesting matter, or an important event, but those were rare. More often than not, Rhaella met the mundane and the tedious.

She rested for a while, and once the tension in her mind eased, she gathered her focus and dove again. 

There was a thrill in exploring the unknown. Each new vision could be something exciting or something dull and ordinary.

This time, it was a small village celebrating a harvest feast. Rhaella shook herself, inspecting her surroundings for something of interest, uncertain whether to be happy or disappointed. 

Young men and women danced around the bonfire, but another figure caught her gaze. She followed the blacksmith’s wife, a matronly-looking woman with a buxom chest, but it was her eyes, darting around cautiously, that drew Rhaella’s attention. The smith in question was so deep in his cups that he swaggered with every step, and once she dutifully dragged him back to the smithy, she hurried up to the nearby sept. Just as Rhaella thought she was there for a prayer, the woman threw herself into the embrace of the septon, who was quick to hike up her skirt. Before long, moans and grunts mixed together between the stone walls.

Ignoring the heat rushing to her face, Rhaella lingered to watch the sordid act—just as the statues of the Seven watched from the walls, expressions carved in stone particularly stony. It was not the first time she had watched a coupling in a dream (or such bold infidelity), and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

After a while, she lost interest. The sounds were dull and distant, as everything was behind the veil of time and memory; there was no sense of touch or smell. Neither the septon nor the blacksmith’s wife looked particularly pleasing to the eye.

She dove twice more, finding nothing of interest before exhaustion seeped into her mind and forced her back to her room.

Rhaella opened her eyes and took a deep breath, taking in the faint scent of lavender incense still lingering in the air, her fingers still curled tight around the warm weirwood comb. Her grandmother’s gift. Her real grandmother, not that ambitious harpy that clung to the king’s side. Her numb fingers had grown stiff, and when she tried to tuck the comb away, it tumbled to the floor instead. Leaning down, she plucked it from the ground and set it aside on the nightstand.

It was an important memento and a thread to tap into the roots from a distance. 

As Rhaella rose, her joints shrieked in protest, and exhaustion struck her as she collapsed into the nearby chair. Her limbs were numb, and her body felt weak, as if her strength had drained away. In a sense, it had.

Magic like this took a toll on both body and mind, and she was only a novice. She was far from mastering the weirwood or shifting through the roots as easily as her master. It had sounded simple at first, but Rhaella hadn’t expected it to be… skinchanging. Unlike with other trees, one could slip one’s mind into the weirwood and bear witness to what it had seen, as if the eerie trees were alive. And the weirwoods had witnessed many, many things and remembered every single one. They were all interconnected, roots slowly linking together underground as if they were one enormous spiderweb, though only in Westeros. 

It was entirely different from controlling an animal of flesh and blood.

“To master the Greensight is no simple matter,” her master had told her, “You can slip your mind into the weirwood easily enough for those with the talent for it, but to truly see into their memory is no mean feat. The roots grow deeper than most imagine and have been here long before men walked the land. Long before the giants and the singers, though it was the singers who first drew on the weirwood, and in turn, fed their own power back to it.”

“I fear no hardship, master.” 

Whitedream’s mouth had curled into a mocking smile.“So you say. You have lived for thirteen, nearly fourteen cycles now. But what happens if you dive into the past and blur the endless matters of what had happened? You can keep your sense of self after a hundred, a thousand, or even a million experiences. But slowly, little by little, it will not erode, but dilute everything that made you until you yourself cannot recognise what you’ve become.”

“Then…” Rhaella had hesitated. She still hesitated, looking back on that lesson. “Should I give it up?”

“No. Change is the truth of the world and is inevitable, even if you do nothing. And your mind is already open wide, and it has been wedded to the roots. Even if you stop now, the Dream and the whispers of the past will haunt you until you’re driven mad. Closing your eyes to the danger won’t make it go away—it’s better to learn to master it now, while you still can. I’ve taught you how, so now go, take a taste of the past.”

And take a taste, she had. It was… liberating. In the Red Keep and the dirty city, she was free to wander as she pleased—under guard. The city walls were the farthest she could go without royal permission.

In the memory of what had come to pass, there were no such restrictions. Rhaella could experience a hundred different matters, be it battle or festivals, feasts or funerals. Or just wander through some old woodland, watch the smallfolk toil over golden fields of wheat, look through towns and castles of old. Matters mundane or interesting, sordid or ugly, she could watch them all come alive before her eyes, unlike the flat words inked in those old books.

It was different from the freedom skinchanging granted her. She could wander through another’s eyes when awake, yes, but the beast could not evade others’ notice, nor could it stray too far from her. Not for too long, not without straining her mind. It was a life without worry, too, allowing her a glimpse of things otherwise not available to her. She ventured into the lives of kings and paupers, singers and lords, knights and whores, stealing a glimpse or two, sometimes even more. Some of it was dull, dreadfully slow and even more ungainly than the mess at the Red Keep. But some of it was exciting, blood-pumping, and she yearned for more.

Rhaella had been cautious at first, but once she realised this was unlike the Dream and that no true danger lurked in the echoes of the past, she grew bolder. 

Control still evaded her months later, and that vexed her. She had wished to uncover the vile scoundrel that had killed her parents, but the echoes of the past always came without rhyme or reason and rarely showed her recent events. Out of thousands of times she dove into the past, she had witnessed an event that happened after the Conquest only twice—a dreadfully boring wedding at Strongsong, and a small, dismally dull tourney at Crakehall that didn’t even have a single Lannister attending. Leaving the vicinity of a memory cast her into a different point in time, and pushing time forward beyond a week wrung her mind dry.

Rhaella had been fretting at first, yearning for the truth of the Green Tourney. But her skills were meagre. At some point, she let the weirwood take her where it would, and the urgency receded from her thoughts. Once her powers grew and her control sharpened, the truth would naturally unveil itself.

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. The guards had not turned away this visitor, so it had to be of some import. Her sleep would be delayed, as would the next dive into the past.

“Enter,” she said loudly, swallowing her irritation.

A homely-looking maid slipped in warily; she was one of the new serving girls the new queen had brought from the Vale.

Rhaella stared blankly at the intruder until she squirmed and spoke on her own. “Her Grace wished to invite you to join her and the king for dinner, princess.”

“Perhaps another time,” Rhaella said firmly, reining her emotions in tight. The thought of seeing her grandfather with his younger wife made her sick, but courtesies had to be kept. Pitting herself against the new queen was unwise, but she could avoid Alys Arryn. “I feel unwell.” 

The maid shifted nervously. “Should I fetch for the Grand Master?”

The princess waved her away. “There’s no need—it’ll be gone after some bedrest.” 

Once she left, Ser Gerold entered, his enamelled visor lifted to reveal a stern face full of concern. He stood in the doorway, his mouth opening and closing a few times as if hesitating to speak. 

“Is there anything, ser?”

“Lady Joanna and Lady Branda expressed strong concerns about your well-being,” he said quietly. 

“I am well enough,” Rhaella offered. “Tell them not to worry.” 

Her meditations on the past were all performed in her quarters rather than in the godswood for safety. To avoid the deepening autumn chill and the court’s scrutiny, too. She had given orders not to be interrupted, and Joanna and Branda hadn’t visited for… Rhaella couldn’t remember. How many days had passed again? 

Time in the dream and in the echo of memory both felt fleeting.  

Rhaella shook herself, glancing at the knight still lingering by the door, reluctant to leave. “What is it?”

“It’s been two days since you last had a meal.” 

She froze on the spot. Had it been two days really?

No pang of hunger stirred in her belly; she only felt tired and weak.

“I’m not…” The excuse was on the tip of her tongue, but the words struggled to come out. Not eating for two days was not normal. Having no appetite at her age doubly so. “I’ll get to the kitchens.”

In the small bed at the side, Thyssaria stirred from sleep and let out a loud, adorable sound halfway between a yowl and a shriek.

Something wasn’t quite right, but Rhaella couldn’t pinpoint what. She needed a quick meal, a short sleep, and then to return to her practice. 

Whitedream rarely guided her anymore. ‘I’ve taught you everything I could without a true weirwood grove,’ he told her in their last lesson a fortnight ago. ‘The rest depends on you to slowly practice and explore. Unless, of course, you’re willing to finish your tutoring on the Isle of Faces, where you’ll achieve twice the results with half the effort and go further than you otherwise could.’

Did she really have to leave the city?

---

The Pale Knight

It was an odd thing to pause his usual routine. But Jon merely traded archery and swordsmanship for skinchanging and meditation. And a vague attempt to better sense and control his other powers.

A month later, the bruises had faded, and the flesh was mended, so he removed the final bandage from his side. The Farrington knight had been the better warrior that day, but not the better killer. In the wrestling, Ser Alton’s dagger had slipped beneath his rondel and pierced his mail first. A heartbeat later, and the victor would be different. But Jon bludgeoned the man’s thoughts with his mind, stunning the enemy for a heartbeat. A heartbeat that saw his own rondel drive deep into the enemy’s loins.

That wound was a painful lesson to never underestimate any foe. If Jon had been less aggressive and more patient, the victory would have been his regardless, though not as memorable. 

Jon almost respected the man and almost regretted killing him. Almost. He could not let slights like these pass, for his own peace of mind, for the man who had raised him. The duel had achieved everything he wished and then some. 

Word had spread of his explosive temper in the city (and his willingness to kill at the drop of a coin). Few ever dared to bar his way or throw him looks of contempt and mistrust, and even the young Darklyn knight avoided him as if he were a leper. The wariness and fear in others’ eyes remained, but now they were tinged with a pinch of admiration and caution, and everything inside the city—and the Red Keep—ran smoother for it. Guards and sentries respectfully called him ser, instead of muttering bastard under their breath. Some maidens even called him a gallant knight, a rightful guardian of all ladies.

Jon most certainly was no such thing. Bastards could only be sinful, never gallant, not as much as any trueborn men. He told them as much often, though phrased far more politely, but it did little to dissuade their interest. “He’s humble, too,” he heard them say, “how chivalrous!”

Gods, he couldn’t deal with it.

“I appreciate the invitation, Lady Elayn,” he said when waylaid after his morning training. “But I’m afraid I’m otherwise occupied tonight.”

“A pity.” The Staunton widow tittered from behind her fan. “I’ve always admired gallant knights such as you. The gates of House Staunton will be forever open to you, I assure you, dear ser.”

As would her bed and knees, judging by the bold way she undressed him with her gaze. 

Even this petite lady in her late forties had dolled up in a fine silk-and-fur gown, looking dignified and beautiful, no worse than others two decades younger, and even Jon felt his breeches tighten as she left with a sway of her shapely hips. The gown had to be a size smaller to hug her body like that.  

Damn it. 

“Another one,” Tormund said from the side, admiration plain on his face. “If I were in your boots, I would’ve accepted.” 

“And that’s why you are a squire, and Ser Jon is a knight,” Arthur said, his childish voice cold. “A knight thinks with his head, not his loins.” 

“She was plotting something,” Brynden muttered to the side. “My grandfather always told me ladies who thrived in court for decades are more dangerous than most knights, and you wouldn’t even see the danger coming.”

Jon shook his head and urged them back. 

This wasn’t the first sordid invitation he had received. Chances were, it would not be the last one either. The bolder ones invited him just like the Staunton widow, while the less courageous ones slipped a perfumed letter to servants that still ended up in his hands, inviting him to dinner all the same. Jon struggled to understand this. Ladies of high birth were supposed to be born pure, free of worldly sin, faithful wives and dignified mothers, not… this. Not just young, inexperienced maidens and widows approached him, but the wives of knights and even lords, mothers of many children who were even older than Jon.

It had been easier to ignore the temptations of the fairer sex before he had gotten a taste of a woman’s warmth. Now he knew he missed out on a world of pleasure and passion with each rebuffed invitation, and it gnawed at him at night. Jon was especially tempted by Lady Alysanne Thorne’s offer, the mother of Alliser Thorne. Although this Alliser was only a squire the same age as Tormund and yet to grow into the bitter old knight, the idea of bedding the mother of a man who had once made his life particularly difficult felt sweeter than the finest Arbour vintage. It helped that she had a gentle smile and a comely face to match.

Jon might have even given in to that particular invitation if not for the ability to draw on the cold and plunge his thoughts and desires into a glacial chill. 

But on some nights, he gave the matter serious thought. He had outgrown the fear of siring another bastard; moon tea was easy to get in this city. 

Despoiling a maiden for the sole purpose of satisfying baser desires was too sinful, too cruel an act, no matter how willing she was in the heat of the moment. He had taken three maidenheads and had sworn that there would be only one more at most—the maidenhead of his future wife. Bedding a woman already wedded was twice as debaucherous and far more sinful, even without considering the danger of an angry husband finding out. Bastard Jon might be, but he would not fall so low as Jaime Lannister, nor was he bold enough to cuckold the king.

Bedding a widow was the smallest sin, and they were the boldest to approach him. While frowned upon, it wasn’t considered taboo for either side. Jon had yet to find a widow he truly liked. Brynden Tully was not wrong. Widows without ambition didn’t stay in court; they lived in the keeps of their sons and husbands, raising their children and grandchildren and managing the household.

Things were going well for Jon right now, but one misstep could cost him everything, including his life. He hadn’t forgotten the mysterious foe lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. Even if such a foe didn’t exist, he still yearned to be more than a simple knight in the royal household.

Another change that happened was Branda. She came by his manse often and no longer looked at him like he had stolen her favourite puppy. Instead, she was eager to share every interesting rumour she had gathered throughout the city as Rhaella’s spymistress, and just seemed… happy to see him. Jon found this friendly side of his grand-aunt far more pleasant.

“I still have nothing on those new killings,” she said one day during a visit. “I have a feeling that whoever did it stopped long ago and has probably long since left the city.”

No wonder he had found nothing with Vhagar or the orphans. Jon had looked into it, thinking he might find clues if it was connected to the mastermind. It wasn’t. As Corbray had told him, there was no rhyme or reason to the murders and no obvious purpose, just some product of vile sorcery. It was just another danger lurking in the city, just a few more lost souls that died without seeing any justice. That more than anything chilled Jon’s heart.

“But would trouble like that leave King’s Landing so simply?” he asked, ushering her into the audience room. Her presence here was common enough that Anella quickly brought over cold meats, pickles, and freshly baked bread, which made his mouth water even though he had eaten an hour earlier. “It’s just as likely that this sorcerer has achieved whatever goal they had set out to and are now lying low instead.”

Branda did not look worried at all. But there was no cause for her to worry—whoever sucked the life out of those poor wretches targeted only the destitute and the forgotten, no doubt knowing their passing was easily overlooked. Their demise was not worth too great a risk either. Even the master of laws had given up on investigating after releasing Jon.

Justice was not supposed to be like this.

“You all look disappointed,” Branda whispered softly.

“Because it’s disappointing,” Brynden was the one to answer, stabbing fiercely at his slice of venison as if it were a foe to be killed. “The chivalry of the Vale only amounts to this much. Corbray might be lauded as one of the finest knights across the Mountains of the Moon, but all I see in court is a petty, calculating man.”

Jon was just as disappointed. “The whole city is like that.”

“It’s the stench of shit and piss, I tell you,” Tormund said with a chortle, but his hands moved quickly, stuffing slices of meat into his mouth with gusto. “My ma used to say that if you stay in a pigsty for too long, you become a pig. I would’ve forgotten what fresh air smells like if we didn’t practice archery outside.”

As crude as they sounded, the words weren’t without wisdom. Even Arthur’s ears were perked up.

“We can always go for a hunt or a tourney,” the boy offered. “I hear there’ll be one by Tumbleton. Lord Footly’s third daughter is coming of age, and he’s holding games in her honour.”

Brynden snorted. “Leave it to a Reachman to host a tourney during war.”

Jon took a closer look at his squires. Tormund had gotten better, spurred on by his fellow squires. Arthur, however, was too young. At nine, most squires were twice his age and size. Brynden, who had dragged himself out of the sway of wine, had a good chance of winning a squire’s melee, but he didn’t seem eager for the tourney at all. That urgency had drained away with his brother’s marriage. He had picked up the sword again, yes, but Jon suspected it was only because it was the only thing he knew. 

Ignoring his squires’ expectant gazes, Jon cleared his throat. “Now is not the time for a tourney.”

Branda gave him an odd look. “Don’t you wish to enter the lists?” 

“Jousting does not interest me,” he said blandly. He could probably win every tilt with skinchanging, but it would feel as meaningful as stealing a toy from a toddler, and that possibility alone made it all feel dull. The melee would be a proper challenge, but Jon had nothing to prove, nor any desire to display his skills for his enemies to study. As for fleeting fame and meagre fortune that came with the victor’s purse?

Perhaps if Robert Baratheon were king and the realm were at peace, then he would join. As disappointing as he was in person, his generosity was well known throughout the land.

Jon shook his head. “The archery rounds, on the other hand… forget it. I’d rather go for a proper hunt and teach you a thing or two.”

Tormund grinned widely, Brynden straightened up in his seat, and even Arthur perked up.

Branda clapped her hands. “I’ll get a royal permit from the master of the hunt, then. Though it might take a while—Ser Jasen Largent is quite the obstinate man.” 

“Why permit?” Tormund scratched his head. “Didn’t the king give you a stretch of forest of your own?”

“A landed knight is merely a step above a steward, with permission to hunt small game at best,” Jon said patiently. “The lands remain a royal estate and therefore require approval for any serious hunting.”

Tormund made a childish face while Branda chuckled.

“The permit shouldn’t be too hard to get for us,” she said, a strange glint in her eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve tasted the joys of a forest.”

“You… want to come with us?” Brynden was aghast.

“I’m no soft southron flower like most ladies in court!” She glared at the Tully squire, her silver half-mask looking particularly ferocious, then turned to face Jon, her face far kinder. “My Mother taught me how to use a hunting bow, and my father taught me woodcraft and riding, so I can join you, if it doesn’t displease you.”

The hint of pleading in her voice reminded him of Arya when she asked to join them in the yard. 

Jon nodded softly. One more or one less person didn’t matter, and it wouldn’t hurt to indulge his grandaunt this once, now that she no longer clung to her stubborn animosity. 

“But there’s still some work to be done before we get to entertain the idea of a hunt,” he said. “Branda, inquire with Princess Rhaella if she has any new orders or ideas about that quartermaster.” It had been nearly three moons now, and she still hadn’t decided what to do with Septon Ambrose.

Rhaella, it seemed, had no further orders, as if she had lost all interest in pursuing the mysterious plotter. Or perhaps the Faith made her cautious. She sent no letter, leaving Branda only with an “I’ll consider it”. A deflection. The princess had turned four and ten three days past, but he only found out when Branda mentioned it. There was no royal feast, nor had she held a dinner or a ball to celebrate, as was proper.

Was it sorcery that had absorbed her so?

It didn’t matter.

Jon was tempted to leave the city’s stink and go inspect the village the king had begrudgingly granted him. He would, if the plotter had not tried to kill him.

If the princess did not wish to give the order, perhaps he ought to investigate further himself. But without Rhaella’s orders, it became an utterly unlawful private grudge. More than it already was.

‘Then I’ll be more cautious.’

Septon Ambrose seemed particularly busy with war and the Faith’s ledgers, toiling diligently over sums and numbers, receiving merchants and stewards every day as the harvest neared. The last harvest before winter, as the days grew shorter still and the nightly chill turned morning dew into hoarfrost, coating puddles in ice by morning.

He needed a trap. Something subtle to draw the cautious septon out of his routine without arousing suspicion. Approaching the Faith as Bloodraven’s apprentice or bastard would never work. His mind drifted back to the courtesans. Did he have to rely on Madam Floris to get things done? 

Could he, in good faith, trust a whore who sold vice and pleasure for a living… including her own daughter?

With each passing day, Jon warmed to the idea of leaving the city behind, whether for a hunt or to check on his village and the meagre lands that came with it. 

Four days later, his guard came over, bringing a scroll tied with a string. “Another letter, Ser Jon. It was a servant clad in fine silk who left it, saying it’s for your eyes only.”

Dinner again?

But Jon took a closer look and dispelled the notion. It had no seal, merely tied together with a string, though this one was not perfumed silk but ordinary hemp. Jon absentmindedly slipped his knife under and cut it apart.

I’ve heard much about you, Ser Jon Snow of the North and I am greatly impressed by your resounding deeds. I invite you to a private chat in the godswood tomorrow at noon, should you be free.

Prince Aerys Targaryen

Jon re-read the inked words twice before it sank in. The Mad King had finally returned to court. The words were polite to a fault, too soft-spoken, without the domineering manner one would expect of a prince. Not the Mad King, but… Prince Aerys Targaryen. A crippled boy of five and ten who could never stand up, and perhaps would never sit on the Iron Throne, for he had fallen from grace. Jon had heard rumours of his decadence, how he refused to leave his quarters after the Green Tourney, and that all his former supporters and friends had abandoned him. With the king having remarried at nearly sixty, everyone at court could tell he had given up on Aerys as an heir.

Private chat at the godswood. Aerys did not wish the court to know of their meeting.

Why now, of all times?

Was this a trap?

---

The next day, Jon slipped into the godswood unseen. It was a gloomy day, with a cold wind blowing from the north, chasing smallfolk and highborn alike into the shelter of their homes. Perhaps it was paranoia, but he first scouted the grove from above with Vhagar. 

‘No ambush.’ That did little to soothe Jon’s unease. The prince came with a guard and a pair of servants carrying a wooden litter, crowned by a chair painted red and black. Unlike Rhaella, who preferred the heart tree, the prince waited by the small orchard at the southern end of the grove. During Daeron the Good’s reign, they planted them to supply the Red Keep with fresh fruit, but they had long since been half-abandoned, with servants pruning it once a year and passing occasionally to collect fruit for desserts.

Jon carefully approached.

‘No white cloaks,’ he noted. Yet another confirmation that the king had abandoned Aerys.

There he was, seated on that wooden chair. The sleeves of his leggings were hollow from the thigh down.

Aerys Targaryen looked like a ghost. His padded sleeves hung loosely over his thin, bony hands, and his body was gaunter than most wildlings Jon had seen beyond the Wall. His pale face was shaven clean, his hair trimmed short, and his purple eyes too sharp to belong to someone who had given up on light. Too sharp to belong to a madman.

“Ser Jon Snow,” he spoke. “You look… just like I imagined you.”

Jon bowed deeply. “Prince Aerys. You wished to see me.”

“You’re quite impressive.”

“I’m just an ordinary young knight,” he shot back. “Perhaps with some talent for archery.”

“I watched your duel.” The prince’s thin fingers patted a bronze tube lying on his lap, capped with glass on both ends. A Myrish far-eye. “I’ve had a lot of time to think as of late. All the time in the world. Most knights are brutes, content to only go where their masters point them. But you, ser, are not one of them.”

Aerys leaned closer. “Ser Alton Farrington was not the first knight who slighted Lady Branda, though he was indeed one of the loudest. He was also among the least important, with the fewest allies inside the Red Keep, among those who profess loyalty only to the king. You picked your prey deliberately and went for the kill in a memorable way that left you untouched after the deed was done. Now, those who dislike you are wary of making trouble for you, and many a knight and lady admire you for defending a maiden’s honour. Two birds with one arrow. I really don’t know how my little sister managed to recruit someone like you.”

“She did me a great favour once,” Jon said. It was true—Rhaella got him out of that chaotic, quite dangerous mess in Fleabottom. “So she won my sword. Those of the North remember. They remember those who were good to them, and those who did them ill.”

“Very Northern and straightforward.” A raspy chuckle tore from the prince’s chest. “Then, remember this.” 

At the prince’s signal, a servant walked to Jon and presented him with a polished silver token. The three-headed dragon was etched on the face, and the back bore a spear with the letters HUNT carved below and Ser Jon Snow in smaller golden letters above.

“I heard you were looking to go on a hunt,” said Aerys. “This token is for life. With it, as long as you still breathe, you can hunt across the kingswood to your heart’s content, and none shall bar your way.”

Considering his own notoriety in court and Branda’s failure to procure even a single hunting permit, this was a great favour.

Jon did not reach out to take the token. “And what must I give in return?”

A faint smile tugged at the prince’s face. “Nothing. I will not ask for any favour, extract a promise in return, or make any demands of you. You said it yourself. You Northmen remember. You’ll remember this little bit of help from me one day and find a way to repay it on your own. Calculated as your duel to defend Branda Stark’s honour might have been, it happened, even though, by all accounts, you two were at odds beforehand. Whether it was done out of loyalty to the Stark name or my sister, it matters little, for deeds speak louder than words.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Jon demanded. “Bastards like me are creatures born of sin, and few would be surprised if they break an oath or do some other sordid deed. What if I’m some thankless cur who spits on those who have helped him once they are no longer of use?”

“Then I learned a lesson and lost a mere hunting token for it.” Aerys’s smile sharpened. “But history itself shows that bastards can be as loyal and as honourable as any other knight, Bloodraven being the finest example. Am I wrong, ser?”

A crippled Aerys Targaryen was no mad king, but he was no less dangerous. Tragedy could change a man. The abandonment of the court and allies was no doubt another heavy blow. If the young prince had harboured any delusions before, they were now all irreversibly torn apart. Any pretences and false pleasantries have been discarded, perhaps only for this meeting, but… Jon preferred it this way.

He reached out, plucked the silver token, and weighed it in his palm. It was smooth and cool to the touch. “I will remember this,” Jon said solemnly. 

“A pity I can no longer ride.” Aerys let out a derisive laugh. “Otherwise I’d be eager to join you on the hunt.” 

Perhaps Aerys would still grow bitter and paranoid, as he would in a future that would not come to pass. But Jon would deal with such woes as they came. When a prince, even a crippled and discarded one, wished to befriend you, it was hard to decline. It helped that… Jon felt no ill will from Aerys, only a raw curiosity, and perhaps a sliver of warm amity.

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The arrival of the Vale and Riverlands joint fleet did nothing to shift the balance of power. Greenstone’s deepwater harbour could host and supply only so many warships at a time, forcing the Valemen and the Riverlords to moor at Tarth, lest they wish to go thirsty and hungry.

After months of skirmishes, the Nine controlled most of the Sea of Dorne, slowly pushing the royal fleet’s control back to Greenstone. Spotted Tom and the Proud Butchers stormed Stonehelm once, but were repelled, though they put the surrounding town and the harbour to the torch.

On the twenty-first day of the tenth moon of the twenty-sixth year of Aegon V’s rule, the Nine pushed for a great battle on Greenstone while the Vale’s fleet was skirmishing across the shores of Tyrosh. The battle lasted a full day and night until Samarro Saan himself was said to have rammed into Lord Donnel Darry’s ship and slain the fleet commander in a fierce duel. Maelys the Monstrous is said to have killed Lord Valarr Velaryon and Ser Dunstan Prior of the kingsguard. Though the Nine won, many suffered heavy wounds.

The westerosi fleet scattered, and the Essosi gave fierce chase, eager for plunder and ships…

Excerpt from Archmaester Mollos’s The Great Turmoil

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Author’s Endnote: Starring: A 14-year-old princess exploring the joys of unsupervised magic-VR^ft weirwood. The KL arc is ending soon.