2. Lost in Time

Year 129 After Aegon’s Conquest

A part of him wanted to deny it, but the scaly black dragon overhead convinced him far easier than any words ever could. Jon could feel it in his bones.

Somehow, he was in the wrong time.

Year 129 after Aegon’s Conquest. Jon knew of the year–every man, woman, and child in the Seven Kingdoms knew of it, from the highest of lords to the poorest of paupers from the Wall all the way to Sunspear. They knew of it just as they knew the year the Conqueror folded the kingdoms together, forging the realms into one. This was the year King Viserys Targaryen perished, and his children fought that bloody, devastating war in the skies over the Iron Throne atop their dragons. The very war that saw the decline and eventual death of the dragons two decades later.

Soon, Rhaenyra–Maegor with Teats–would fight her brother, Aegon the Elder, who was scarcely any better than his elder sister. They would fight over the crown, and they would both lose terribly, for the Dance of Dragons had no winners, only those who were left to weep and pick up the pieces in the end.

None of this was any of Jon Snow’s concern, though.

“Don’t call me a lord, Aethan,” he decided.

“M’lord-” the old fisherman shrunk under his gaze and bowed his head. “Er–Ser?”

“Not a knight either. I’m a Northern bastard.” Jon chuckled, amused at the situation. “Name’s Jon Snow, so call me Jon or Snow.”

Once a bastard, always a bastard. It was a familiar thing, and it ironically brought him a sense of comfort. He was tempted to offer up some lie or another, but knights needed a master or someone else to vouch for their knighthood. The births of lords and noblemen were well-recorded by maesters of the keep and were known amongst the nobility of their kingdom, so even posing as a destitute nobleman was a risk. Being a Snow was an old, familiar thing. After all, he had been one his whole life, so why change it? The birth of Snows was rarely inked down, and they didn’t invite as much attention unless they achieved some great feat or service or were fathered by a lord of import. A Northern knight or lord would attract much attention so deep in the South, at the seat of the Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. Some nameless nobleman’s byblow, however, would merely raise an eyebrow or two.

Last but not least, lies easily crumbled under scrutiny, and Jon would rather employ deception as little as possible.

“Lord Snow.” Aethan bowed so deeply that Jon almost thought he would kneel to grovel, making him sigh.

So this was how Maegor With Teats ruled her Island. Why was he not surprised? Or perhaps it was her husband, the Rogue Prince, infamously uninterested in matters of administration. Maybe her skills of discernment and delegation were poor – whoever oversaw her lands was either grossly incompetent or corrupt or both, yet it did not matter; the responsibility would fall on Rhaenyra’s shoulders no matter what.

Jon Snow wasn’t bothered by it. This was not his time. His parents, his family and kinsmen had yet to be born, and neither were their parents. It would be a century until anyone he knew would be born.

Only… what was Jon supposed to do now?

The next few days were spent in recuperation and contemplation.

He couldn’t go back. How did one return to the future? It was folly. Madness. Magic. Even if he could go back, the world was to perish by that falling star the size of a mountain. Men, children, beasts–all would meet their end. Even the Others and their shambling thralls couldn’t possibly survive such a catastrophy.

A part of Jon was tempted to try and meddle in the Dance. War was a time when even peasants, let alone bastards, could rise high. Where lordships, honours, titles, and coin were doled out generously in exchange for service. Rhaegar was his sire, so Jon could even try his hand at claiming a dragon at the Red Sowing.

This would require him to serve Aegon the Elder or Rhaenyra. Both unworthy. Both were arrogant, short-tempered, and cruel, according to the chronicles. In hindsight, even claiming a dragon at the Sowing was dangerous, for he knew the fate of the Dragonseeds. Jon could read between the lines – Rhaenyra intended to squeeze them for all they were worth during the war and then discard them. Only Addam and Alyn Waters had a future because they had backing from the Velaryons–it didn’t matter if they were the sons of Corlys or Laenor the Sword Swallower.

Of course, Jon could offer his skills in service of some lord or another or sell his sword for coin, but his pride would not allow such a thing. If one would bend his knee, bow his head, and serve a master, it had to be a worthy master. But he was tired of fighting. Eight years. Ever since he had turned five and ten, he had been fighting or leading or scheming. And the war had never ended–there was always another fight to be fought, another battle or skirmish to be commanded, and no peace in sight. He was tired of it.

Perhaps it was time to put down his sword–especially since he had no idea where Longclaw was. He was tired of fighting, and fishing was a peaceful endeavour. Jon decided to stay on the island until he figured out what to do, for Dragonstone saw no battles during the Dance. Merely a betrayal and a minor skirmish that didn’t affect anyone but the castle’s residents. In the end, nothing he possibly did would matter. Nothing anyone did mattered. Dance? Long Night? Others? Wars for a throne? The world would end in fire in less than two centuries.

“A fishing permit?” Aethan scratched his head when Jon inquired. “You ought to visit the steward of Ashcove for that, m’lord. But it’s expensive. It’s hard to earn a living with fishing unless you have a raft, and the yearly boat toll is heavy.”

Aethan’s house was a few hundred yards from the village itself. Ashcove was a small destitute settlement nestled on the western side of Dragonstone. A quarter of the houses looked abandoned, and the rest were dilapidated at best, a dreary sight of mud bricks and weather-worn logs. Ignoring the obscene amount of silver and blonde-haired folk, over half of them had purple or blue eyes, but nearly all looked exhausted. Their gazes were dull or tired; their bodies were dangerously thin despite the warm summer and the bounty it should have offered; their clothes were worn out, patched up, dull shades of grey and brown.

Even the smallfolk around Mole’s Town didn’t look so… worn out.

This was not merely the result of negligence. Dragonstone scarcely had anything but dragonglass and fish to offer, and the centre of trade in the Blackwater Bay at this time was Spicetown and King’s Landing. Rarely anyone stopped at Rhaenyra’s seat for trade.

The headman of Ashcove was an old man called Silver Denys. Old, and unlike the rest of the villagers, garbed with bright yellow silks that did nothing to hide his meaty body while also bearing the purple eyes of Valyria and silvery hair, but with a face far more refined than Aethan’s. It was a man who hadn’t toiled much in life, living at the centre of the village in the sole two-story house atop the highest hill nearby, its walls plastered with white. It was the sole building with tiles for roofing; the rest of the shacks had timber, slate, and even straw.

The insides of the house reminded Jon of the home of a well-off merchant as Silver Denys led him to a small meeting chamber.

The two men measured each other warily. The name was familiar to Jon from history, but a few words on parchment could hardly do the man justice.

“Seven stags a year for a fishing permit.” The man slapped on the plaque on which was written ‘three silver’ in High Valyrian. His words were dismissive, probably because of the roughspun tunic Jon had borrowed from Aethan–all of his garments were too thick to wear in the sweltering heat of the south.

Jon’s lips curled with amusement. All the hours spent toiling on the study of the language of the Freehold due to Princess Shireen’s pestering were finally paying out.

“How about you give me the permit for free, and I won’t tell the villagers you’re cheating them, pocketing more than half of what they pay for?” Jon countered. “And don’t think of reaching for that sword in the corner unless you want to have your throat sliced open.”

Silver Denys glared at Jon, who patted the dagger hilt on his hip.

“Fine.” He tossed a round iron token depicting a twisting salmon on the backdrop of a wave. Then, the anger drained from the old dragonseed’s face, quickly replaced by a sly smile. “It’s a rare thing to see someone so young skilled in reading and High Valyrian at that. Those who know High Valyrian here surely know the Common Tongue as well–and I take it you can write, too. How about you work as a scribe for me, good man?”

Jon suppressed a laugh and shook his head. “I am grateful for the offer, but I’m afraid I must decline, Steward Denys. Nothing personal, but I have been rebellious since I was a wee lad, and following orders never came easy to me, let alone sitting behind a desk for days on end counting coppers and writing numbers. But I would rent some land if there is one for sale. Preferably something on the outskirts of the village that can get me a roof over my head.”

Land in the Seven Kingdoms was rented to smallfolk. Only lords, knights, and masters of the North could truly own it.

While Aethan probably didn’t mind his presence, his small cottage was cramped. Not nearly as cramped as the small cell Jon slept in as a steward in the Watch, but why would he suffer such discomforts when he could avoid them?

“You want to live here, my good man?”

“Aye, headsman.”

“I got just the one,” Denys said, rubbing his chin. His voice was even, but the glint in his eyes betrayed his greed. “It even has a three-room house in superb condition. Arlyn and his sons moved to Driftmark just last year, you see, and nobody has purchased it. It costs three dragons upfront, and the rent is quite hefty–a hundred silver stags a year.”

“Quite expensive for a house,” Jon clicked his tongue.

The headsman waved his hand.

“I’m offering you a sweet deal, lad. While young, I see you’re a learned man.” Silver Denys leaned in. “You look like a Northman, and you sound like one too. You walk like a warrior, and you carry yourself like one of those powerful knights. But Northmen disdain the title. Two inches over six feet–too tall to be a lowborn who has grown on bread and porridge. Perhaps a minor nobleman or a distant cousin of a lord?”

“A Snow,” Jon offered. “Name’s Jon Snow.”

“A bastard, a highborn one even. A noble’s bastard is a powerful thing,” the headman considered. “I should know. My grandsire is the Cruel himself, and even if Maegor is greatly disliked, the blood of nobility lets you rise above the chaff. How about this? You’ll wed my daughter Jeyne, and as a dowry, I’ll gift you the deed for the house and the lands. It even has a small pasture and a well–a great deal. I’ll help you buy some grazing sheep–no, goats, and you can make a small fortune.”

Jon was aghast.

“You would sell off your daughter to a man you just met?”

“Pah, Jeyne is nearly twenty–nearly an old maid. She’s pretty enough, but her dreams of knights…” Denys shook his head. “Forget it. I have a good eye for men, Jon Snow, and I see plenty of potential in you.”

Jon Snow slapped four golden dragons on the desk. “No need to sell me your daughter,” he said.

Silver Denys looked disappointed for a moment until his eyes glowed with excitement at the coins. He took them and frowned. “Coin from the tide of the Old King. But it has been clipped three–no, four times and shaved at least twice.”

“That’s why I’m giving you four.”

“Fine, let me get the deed for the land,” Denys murmured and moved to the backroom before throwing Jon one final, appraising look.

The next day, a thin line of smoke twisted above the Dragonmont as if to herald the tumultuous fate looming over the realm. Two draconic shapes soared in the sky side by side, bronze and silver glistening in the sky. Seeing dragons in broad daylight still gave Jon pause. But the so-called kings of the sky were a common sight here, and smallfolk knew to stay away from them or risk being devoured. According to Aethan, most dragons avoided menfolk on their own, as they did not enjoy the taste of manflesh. Save perhaps for Cannibal and the Blood Wyrm.

In truth, Jon was tempted to go to the Summer Islands. Leave Westeros and all it entailed behind–it was not his Westeros, after all. It was not his time nor his home. But if he struggled in the heat of Dragonstone, how could he survive on the Summer Islands, which were said to be twice as hot?

It was so hot that Jon had yet to see mud. Everything away from the shore was dry, and bare ground was compacted and dusty. He did not know if it was the last vestiges of the summer sun blazing its eulogy before the coming five-year winter or if the Dragonmont and its scaly tenants somehow made the island hotter. And these were supposed to be colder moons of the year even!

Perhaps once he got used to it here, he would reconsider his options. There was no rush. For once, there was no Long Night hanging over his head. There was no war to fight, no House to defend. All the strings that had propped up Jon Snow high in life, all the connections that had later become the shackles of his duty, were gone.

House Stark would never acknowledge him here, for he had not been born and raised in Winterfell. His paternal kin, the House of the Dragon, had bastards and dragonseeds aplenty; just one look around Dragonstone, and you would get an eyeful of them. Jon Snow was nobody here. It was as scary a thought as it was liberating. The thought of returning North was promptly dismissed as soon as it appeared. There was nobody for him in the North, merely ghosts and memories that had not yet passed.

In the end, Jon Snow decided to embrace it. A fisherman. Lowly fishermen were beneath the notice of knights, lords, and kings. Lowly fishermen didn’t have any duty beyond paying their dues. A slow life of quiet, solitude, and contemplation. It also gave him time to consider other options, especially since Aethan had kept quiet about his presence. To get a feel for the situation in Dragonstone and the Seven Kingdoms. Reading about the Dance of Dragons and the cruel aftermath was one thing, but living it was an entirely different matter.

Arlyn’s house–now Jon’s house, was as good as Silver Denys had promised. The previous owner had taken everything when he had left. The insides were empty, aside from a cot too large to move, a few chairs, and a crude table in the room that doubled as a kitchen and dining room.

A fence, a grazing pasture, a small cottage that could double as a shed, and a dozen acres of farmland. The well was in good condition, too, deep yet full, allowing Jon to draw fresh water. There was even a worn-down water wheel attached to pump water to the irrigation ditches, though he would need a mule or a bull to operate it.

Aethan came the next day to show him the place where he had fished him out, half a mile from his house.

“It was here.” The fisherman waved at a small crescent area of the rocky shore, nestled between a dark ridge on one side and a large boulder on the other. Seaweeds could be glimpsed between the bubbly waves as the dark waters rhythmically battered at the coast. “Saw you washed out there, just by that crevice.”

“Thank you, Aethan,” Jon patted the man’s shoulder.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Dive to look for my sword,” he offered. Hopefully, it was here with him, and the currents had not washed it away. “Or fish. There’s no rush.”

Aethan next helped him get his armour and other effects carried over to Jon’s house.

“I have never seen a breastplate of such fine make,” the fisherman noted tightly as Jon arranged his armour on the floor. It was a suit of half-plate. Greaves, bracers, ringmail, arming doublet, and a breastplate–all the finest make gold could buy from that Qorohik master smith in King’s Landing. It was the only thing Jon ever spent his coin on.

“You did a great work shining it,” Jon said.

“I was a squire for a hedge knight for three years,” Aethan explained, his gaze glazing over. “Ser Jasen of Sherford. Always said I lacked talent at arms but kept me ’cause I shined his armour good. And then he died at some small tourney at Harrenhal, and I went back home.”

This explained why such a lowly fisherman was so sensible; most smallfolk were narrowminded, slow, or stubbornly superstitious. He had gone out and seen the world–the ugliest of it as an errand boy, even if he did not make any mention. Jon knew that where bastards struggled to rise and received much scorn, smallfolk were disdained, dismissed, and distrusted – often seen as worth less than the animals they cared for their lieges.

“How about you work for me?” Jon offered.

“Work for you?”

“I need a… servant.” Clever and loyal aides were hard to find. “I plan to get some cattle and poultry. You can sleep in the small cottage here and look after them for me. I saw the back-breaking dues a fisherman with a boat has to pay.”

Aethan looked at his gnarled hands. It was the sort of hands worn down from decades of hard work as blisters and wounds layered over each other, making his palms rougher than sandstone.

“What of my pay, Lord Snow?” he asked. “Whether I toil for you or myself, I would still need to eat.”

“Three stars a moon,” Jon offered. “A roof over your head. Or we can eat together, but you’ll get one copper star from me.”

It was an extremely paltry offer made on a whim. A younger man with a family to feed would never accept it. But Aethan was old, and according to Silver Denys, his wife had died two decades ago, as did his two sons. As much as Jon liked solitude, a manservant to take the burden of mundane chores that he was used to delegating to his squires, stewards, and other servants was preferable. Besides, with food and shelter provided, Aethan would have no need for coin other than to purchase something he fancied.

“I’ll serve you, Jon Snow,” Aethan decided, a heavy sigh rolling off his lips. “But I’m growing old. I can’t work as hard as before–Arlyn used his three sons to help him plant cabbage, garlic, and leek here and look after sheep, but I’m a single pair of hands. In fact–don’t get sheep. That brown fiend, Sheepstealer, ate half of Arlyn’s sheep, but he couldn’t get any restitution because it was a wild drake. That was what made him move to Driftmark. That and the heavy dues Princess Rhaenyra demands.”

And the corruption and negligence along the way. For every silver stag that reached the Princess of Dragonstone, how many fell into the stewards, headsmen, and bailiffs’ hands? Two? Five? Ten? Fifteen?

It didn’t matter. Such problems could be used to his advantage if he decided to stay here long enough. And Rhaenyra wouldn’t be around for long.

“Very well. I’m only planning on purchasing a cow and some chickens, not a whole farm.”

Aethan tilted his head. “Nobody sells milking cows or breeding bulls here. They’re too valuable.”

“Gold won’t be an issue,” Jon said. Someone had to be willing to sell a cow. He would not last in the South without some good Northern cheese. When can you start?”

“I’ll come over after the new year festivities,” the fisherman said. “I have to sell my fishing raft, pay my dues in fish to the headman, and sell the surplus.”

“Didn’t it pass already?”

“Nay, it’s tomorrow.”

“I thought it was on the first day of the new year, not the seventh,” Jon said, scratching his brow with confusion.

“Perhaps in the North,” Aethan chuckled hoarsely. “In the South, we always celebrated it on the seventh day, Master Snow.”

The festivities were… pitiful. Even Wintertown looked brighter and cheery on an average summer day. The deluge of grey and brown, patched-up clothing only made the event look gloomier. The village looked lively enough, but there were only two merchants–one Pentoshi and one Valeman–and a tanned puppeteer from the marches named Ilyn who could pass for a Dornishman. A bard was singing in the square, but judging by his lack of enthusiasm, he regretted coming here.

After all, the village by Dragonstone’s docks was far livelier.

The crowd clustered around drunken men who looked like sellswords–part of the group that had arrived with the bard.

“I will slay the Cannibal!” A man with beady eyes and a waxen complexion loudly boasted. “I will bathe in his blood and become an invincible knight like Galladon of Morne!”

“Peh!” His companion spat, a broad-shouldered man with a thick neck. “I will slay the Cannibal, I say, and eat his heart and become as strong as Davos the Dragonslayer–and the king himself will knight me!”

The smallfolk didn’t seem very excited about the prospect. It was no wonder–how many such boasts had they heard, yet the winged kin-eater still lived? Even more laughable was the idea that a king from the House of the Dragon would knight a dragonslayer. But one thing gave him pause.

“What are they talking about?” Jon pulled Aethan aside. “Bathing in dragon blood? Eating a dragon heart?”

“‘S the old tales.” The fisherman shrugged. “Ser Galladon of Morne became impervious to blades after bathing in the blood of the dragon he slew with the Just Maid. Davos the Dragonslayer and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield are said to have the strength to wrestle with a giant after devouring the heart of the dragon they fell.”

“That’s just old wives’ tales,” Silver Denys said, coming over to pat Jon’s shoulder.

“They tell such tales differently in the North,” Jon murmured. “It was the ‘Just Maid’ that gave Galladon his skill.”

“Aye, it’s different in every corner of the realm. I was in Tarth when I was young, and it was said the Maiden’s love was the one that made Galladon invincible.”

Jon scoffed inwardly. A knight with valour so great even the Maiden would fall in love with him? It was a load of horseshit, especially considering Luwin’s long-winded lecture on how Galladon of Morne had lived long before the Coming of the Andals. Thinking of Luwin and his childhood made his mood sour, and Jon shook his head.

They were all gone–not even born yet. Not to be born for long, long until Jon passed away.

“It makes for a good song, but nothing more.” Silver Denys chuckled heartily. “You should laugh more, Snow. A young man like you should make merry and live to his fullest. Here, you should meet my daughter–she’s over there by the bonfire.”

Jon’s gaze followed his hand, and he groaned inwardly as soon as he saw the maiden in question. Jeyne. Pale wavy hair, dark blue eyes, large puffy lips, and a dress of pink cotton slashed with silver and silk. She stood out like a sore thumb among the other villagers. Only then did Jon finally realise why she was unwed at over twenty years old with such a wealthy father. She was fat–her waist was over thrice as wide as Jon’s own. And despite approaching the girth of the infamous Lord-too-fat-to-ride-a-horse and his sons, she was half their age. And while she dreamt of knights, they would only think of her in their nightmares.

Jon schooled his face and sighed regretfully. “Your daughter is… quite the maiden.”

“I know, right? No one here can handle her!” Denys took a heavy swig from his flask of wine and laughed loudly. “Do you got the stones to do it, boy?”

“I’m afraid matters of my marriage are in the hands of my sire,” Jon shook his head. “I will write to him at once–but it will take some time before word reaches him.” About a hundred and fifty years, if ever.

“Understandable,” the headman said, sighing regretfully. “A wedding must be done properly. Oh, the dance is starting. You ought to join–at least a dance with my Jeyne wouldn’t hurt.”

“It would hurt my toes, though,” Jon murmured as Silver Denys headed towards the bonfire. The younger folk gathered together and started singing and dancing. Even an old Septon who could barely walk was there, watching everything with a forlorn smile.

As the merriment clustered towards the centre clearing of the village, Jon headed to the pavilion of the Pentoshi merchant instead.

Most of his coins bore the faces and names of kings who had yet to be born or sit on the Iron Throne. Using one or two could be overlooked, but the more appeared, the more questions could be raised. Some might even pin him with the ludicrous crime of illegal minting or the like.

Of course, there were ways to deal with such matters. Pentoshi merchants were famous for not shying away from any trade on both sides of the law, at least in Jon’s time. He just hoped it was still the same way here.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the plump blonde man rubbed his hands after cautiously checking if anyone was near enough to hear their talk. “But only if your coins are made from real gold and silver.”

Jon offered him a golden dragon with the image of Aerys the First, and the Pentoshi bit it.

“It’s gold indeed,” he mused. “Not as pure as proper golden dragons, I’d reckon. Let me get my scales. Colen, don’t let anyone near–I’m taking a break.”

His guardsman grunted out an agreement as the merchant closed the curtains of his pavilion, and Jon had to sit through the tedium as the Pentoshi carefully measured, weighed, inspected, and even licked every coin.

“Twenty dragons,” he announced after he was done.

“Even considering the clipping and the shaving and the mixed-in silver, I gave you over thirty coins,” Jon clicked his tongue. “Twenty-nine dragons.”

“My dear friend, I am taking the risk here–these coins have to be remelted at a specific mint, and bribe specific craftsmen to do it with none the wiser. I can’t just go in like I’m buying wine to have it done! Twenty dragons and five silver stags!”

Jon scoffed. “You can recast them in Pentos, and nobody will blink an eye. Of course, I don’t mind paying for your discretion, my good man, but I won’t be cheated. Twenty-seven dragons and a hundred silver stags-“

Fifteen minutes of haggling later, Jon left with twenty-three dragons, thirty-one silver stags, twenty stars, fifty groats, a comfortable pair of linen trousers, a tunic, and a Myrish far-eye of useable quality. Lugging two hefty, overfilled pouches was cumbersome, but the tension left Jon’s shoulders as each coin on his person now bore the image and the name of kings everyone knew of.

He next headed to get some utensils from the smith. The smith was a wiry old man called Hoth, with a bent nose that looked like it had been broken a couple of times and crooked yellow teeth half a head shorter than Jon. This was nothing like the infamous Hugh the Hammer, who probably served as the smith near the village by the docks or Dragonstone itself. In total, Dragonstone had three villages, dozens of hamlets dotted across the island, and the fortress of Dragonstone itself, the citadel of unbreakable black stone.

Cooking and eating utensils, bowls, a fishing harpoon, a hammer, some nails, and an additional dagger saw him four silver stags lighter.

In the end, Jon would rather not return to the village anytime soon if he could help him.

As he was leaving the smithy, a small figure brushed across him and quickly darted away, but Jon hastily grabbed the offending limb and squeezed.

“Ow–it hurts, you fucker!” It was a small and skinny brown thing that barely reached Jon’s chest, with chipped teeth and dark eyes glaring at him, but Jon only squeezed her wrist harder, and a single silver stag fell on the ground as she twisted in pain. Her nose was slit–probably as a punishment for theft. “Let me go!”

The kick to his shin only made her whine pitifully as she heaved over, hanging from Jon’s grip.

“Not only a thief but picking a fight, too?” Jon mused. “The gutter rats of Dragonstone seem to be quite daring.”

“Still up to no good, Nettles,” Hoth’s voice echoed from the smithy’s doorway. “Careful touching her, Ser. She be flea ridden with the pox for all you know. Her ma was a dockside whore from Driftmark, pa was some smuggler Summer Islander who never returned after leaving for a sourleaf run. Little shit stowed away on a fishing boat a few moons ago after getting caught stealing in Spice Town. I thought you learned your lesson, girl.”

Another dragonseed? The gods had to be laughing at him.

“Apparently not,” Jon said, earning himself a watery glare from Nettles. She stank enough to suggest she hadn’t taken a wash in over a year, too. “You know what the punishment for theft is, girl?”

“M’sorry,” she mumbled out with the same tone one would say ‘screw you’. Then, a pair of big brown eyes teared up as she blinked at him in an attempt to garner his pity. “Let me go?”

It worked.

“Next time I catch you, I’ll break your fingers,” Jon sighed, letting her go. It didn’t matter. This was nothing to him in the end. “You should start some honest trade, girl. Living like a vagrant will see you end up in some ditch sooner rather than later.” And nothing good awaited her in the Dance or after.

“An honest trade? Fuck that, I ain’t got time for that shite.” She scoffed, swearing like a seasoned sailor. “Someone like me can only sell my cunt or my body, and nobody would pay well for either!”

Jon wanted to retort, but words died on his tongue. It was true in the end, for the world wasn’t fair. She had no dowry to help her get married either, and she was… well, far from pretty. With no mother to teach her how to run a house and raise children, her prospects were poor. Whoring or a life of exile as a hunted dragonrider that nobody would accept. And Jon thought the gods had given him a bad hand.

“I need a pair of hands to clean my house, cook my food and tend to my field,” Jon said, lamenting at his softness.

“Not to clean your cock?” Nettles tilted her head, sounding all too serious. “Yer quite the pretty face. Prettier than mine.”

Jon scoffed. “I have standards, brat, and you fail each and every one of them. If I take you in, I will work you to the bone. But you’ll get a roof over your head and food in your belly.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” she huffed, squinting at him with suspicion.

“Too good? You’re going to work until your hands and feet blister with pain. From dawn till dusk. And if you steal from me, I’m going to hunt you down and break all of your bones,” Jon said with the same tone he used when commanding an army. Nettles shrunk under his harsh gaze but, to her credit, didn’t run away.

“F-Fine.”

And so Jon recruited himself yet another servant–this one far greener than the first and of far lesser quality.

Just as he headed back to his new house with Nettles in tow, a commotion echoed over near the stand of the Gulltown merchant.

“I want my change, you damned swindler. Two hundred silver stags!” It was the brattiest voice Jon had the displeasure of hearing. A small crowd gathered up to watch, and even Nettles looked on curiously, but he shook his head and walked away. “Pay up now, or I’ll report you to the knights for stealing!”

“You can’t purchase a bloody flute out of weirwood for ten silver stags, young lady!”

“Nuh-uh, I know what weirwood looks like. This is just dyed yew, you swindler. Ten silver stags and not a penny more! And don’t call me lady. I’m a boy!”

It was a young man–or a young maiden causing the commotion. A sea-green doublet of what looked to be fine cotton breeches, but the voice was too girly, even if the silver-gold hair was cut to shoulder length. Judging by the lack of guards, this was probably some steward’s daughter or some haughty little thing from Rhaenyra’s household.

“He looks loaded,” Nettles noted, tilting her head. “I bet he won’t notice if he loses a coin or two, especially after he gets that bag of silver.”

Jon lightly smacked the back of her head. “Good servants don’t steal. And it’s a girl.”

“Ugh…”

This whole thing sounded exactly like the kind of troublesome mess he had to stay out of, so Jon promptly turned around and walked away, dragging the reluctant Nettles along.

“Oy, we know a Northman here. He can judge if this is proper weirwood, I say!” Silver Denys’ cry reached his ears, making Jon swear inwardly.

The headman was looking at him with a shit-eating grin–probably his petty revenge for not ‘courting’ his leviathan of a daughter. Worse, at Silver Denys’ sign, the crowd quickly parted.

Too late to leave, Jon sighed and made his way to the crowd, where the young troublemaker tapped her foot impatiently and hastily shoved a white flute nearly up his nose–precocious little thing, wasn’t she? Her short hair framed a heart-shaped face with bright amethysts for eyes that would look adorable if not for the arrogant twist of her lips–like she was smelling something rotten. Judging by the company around them, Jon would not blame her overtly. Focusing on the flute, it lacked the bone white colour of the wood he had got so accustomed to, though it had falcons and seagulls elegantly crafted along its length.

“This isn’t weirwood,” he declared through gritted teeth.

The merchant scoffed. “You didn’t even touch it!”

“There’s no need. I’ve seen weirwood my whole life, and it’s a different shade. Smells different even,” Jon said, glaring at the merchant. “Still quite a good flute, near masterful make. Good fortunes with the haggling, good man–I have errands to run.”

With a jaunty wave, Jon quickly excused himself and finally left the village. Fishing awaited him. And perhaps a good swim. Perhaps if he dived enough times, he would find Longclaw? Truthfully, Jon felt naked without his trusty sword at his hip.